#vit writes

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 26/40

Part 25

TWs for this chapter: Fire Grief Gore (implied) Insecurity/jealousy, but the second part is mostly lighthearted and discussed almost immediately

"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"

"If  we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.

"When  we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.

It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.

Oliver isn't home.

Of course he isn't, he left months ago after another row of fighting. It hadn't even been the worst by far, but they just- Graham was tired, and Oliver was always busy.

Graham looks at the table again, running a finger over one of the curved edges of the spiderweb.

Perhaps that's why he's thinking of Oliver after all this time.

Despite his collected, professional looks, Oliver's got a very endearing weakness for "the occult", as he likes to call it. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure, he often says.

Said.

Anyways, Oliver would've been all over the table, with its web design that if you look at juuuust close enough, turns out to have hundreds and hundreds of names written into the canal-like grooves, in a font so tiny it reminds Graham of that carved rice grain at the Ripley's museum.

Perhaps- perhaps he'll give him a call.

They didn't end in the best of terms but it doesn't mean they can't build a relationship again, right? Doesn't mean they can't be friends. He once loved Oliver, that can't be gone just because he's no longer in love with him, which is something Graham often tells himself despite being very much sure of the opposite.

Maybe just lunch, and then a visit to the flat so he can fawn over the table. Run a finger along the edge like Graham likes to do when things are overwhelming, only to look up and find it's been hours since the last time he did so.

Only if Oliver isn't busy, though.

"And you were," Sasha says. Her voice feels- it doesn't feel like her voice, and there's a pang of panic in her stomach. If it's not hers, whose is it then? "I- you never picked up the phone."

The man looks a bit pale still, looking at her like he's seen a ghost.

"I'm- no. I think I might have- Jon?" He turns to give him a questioning look, and Jon shrugs.

"Hm. I didn't think you'd recognize Graham's real appearance," Jon hums casually, almost to himself. "Maybe because you were dead when she was taken. Anyways, you were on the ship at the time. Bad reception, and then the satellite killed you."

"Excuse me, the what?" Sasha blinks. None of this makes any sense, why is Oliver here and why was he dead? Who is this Oliver person, what-

"Graham-"

"My name is Sasha," she shakes her head. That's the main thing she has to be sure of. She's Sasha. She may have been Graham once, but now Graham is Sasha and that's all there is to it. "Jon, care to explain what's going on?"

Jon gives her a worried look, the corner of his lips turned down in a concerned gesture.

"Back when you were only Graham," he starts slowly after a moment, "you knew Oliver. I think you were-"

"A couple," Sasha nods abruptly. She remembers, intimately. But this makes no sense... was- how did she never notice Oliver was an avatar? He was always a terrible liar, she would've- "How- how did you end up like this?"

Oliver's eyes -they're light gray now, she realizes, like the color has bled out from them- slide to Jon somewhat nervously, like this encounter isn't going as neatly as he wanted.

It's very Oliver of him to have planned the whole thing, Sasha thinks with a spark of fond amusement. They must cut an appalling picture smack in the middle of his no doubt carefully orchestrated dramatic encounter, the Distortion and the Them dogpiled up on the Archivist.

"Oliver," she says, her voice firm. "Jon is alright, with some luck he's not going anywhere while we talk. But now, I think you owe me an explanation."

"I owe- what happened to you?" Oliver asks back, still looking for all in the world like he did all those years ago when Sasha asked him what his plan was if Barclays didn't work out, bewilderment and confusion warring on his usually calm, handsome face. "You were safe! I- why are you not Graha-"

"Don't call me that," Sasha snaps. "Don't ever call me that."

Ollie's face clears up all of a sudden, the way Sasha remembers it doing whenever he caught onto the plot twist of a movie. His eyes soften, and he looks at her gently, sadly.

"Stranger?" Is all he asks. His voice is careful, almost apologetic, and it makes Sasha want to cry. It's- this new existence is confusing at the best of times, and there are so many things she didn't get to tell Oliver, so many things she only thought about after he left.

Is this the constant in all of her lives? Loved ones left behind none the wiser, unsaid words that weigh her tongue down?

"...There was a table," she says after a moment. A table, popping up in her life again and again, to rip her away and fill her absence with poison. To hurt those she loved wearing a face that isn't hers, killing her a little more every day. "I got it at an antiques sale, you know I liked- you would've liked it. It was black shiny wood with a spiderweb design. Very on-brand for your aesthetic," she adds with a wet-sounding snort.

"...That's why I couldn't see your root," Oliver says after a long, tired silence. "It wasn't you anymore."

"I'm going to pretend I know what that means."

"It's- Jon can explain later, I'm sure," Oliver sighs. "I- Jon? Was it because of me?"

Sasha feels Jon move under her, partly to shrug, partly because of the Web urging him to escape. She readjusts her position to hold him down, and he gives her ankle a grateful squeeze.

"At this point I'd say it's just as likely that it was because of her past association with you as it is that it was because of her future association with me," he says in the end. "I'm not too keen on figuring out the Mother's mess anymore."

"I'd say that's wise." Oliver runs a hand down his face, and Sasha's stomach contracts with a sudden, fierce rush of fondness, as she knows with unerring certainty what words will come out his mouth next. "This is not going how I expected."

"Always glad to rain down on your plans," she grins.

Oliver snorts at the familiar exchange, shaking his head softly as his lips stretch into a smile. The dimple forms on his left cheek still, Sasha notices with muted amusement.

She loved him so much. Those should've been her parting words, instead of a scathing remark and a sarcastic 'wish-you-well'. And now they're quite literally two different people -many different people, in her case-, and whatever bridge still connects them to the past is now weak and crumbling.

Will it feel this way with Tim too? With her daughter, her wife, her cousin? Though she's back after so long, she's not the person any of them lost, just enough of it to hurt them.

"Sasha..." She can hear Jon under her starting to speak, and she shakes her head.

"I'm fine. Just- I'm fine." She turns to Oliver again. He's still giving her that pained, sorrowful look, and Sasha looks away. "Tell him what you need to tell him."

Oliver sighs, and moves around them to crouch by Jon's head.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now, but-"

"Humans are dying here," Jon interrupts. "It makes sense, but it's still unexpected."

"Do you know what that means?"

She feels Jon nod.

"It's not a big leap," he says, and Helen snorts.

"You don't need to be Martin to figure it out?" She asks.

"Exactly," Jon says, and the smugness in his tone makes Sasha smile. "The Watcher isn't loving the revelation, I must say."

"I didn't think it would," Oliver agrees. "There's plenty still here, but mine isn't the only End domain."

"Not by a mile. And other avatars are not as into the passive observer style as you are," Jon says. "Which is a bit surprising from you, by the way."

"Is it really? t's not like trying to help ever did me or anyone any good." Oliver shrugs.

"It did me a lot of good, I'd say," Jon's voice has turned almost contemplative.

It feels like an eternity, before Oliver responds with another question.

"What about everyone else?" he asks in a careful, measured tone.

And then another one, before Jon speaks again.

"I... can't speak for anyone else, but- but Oliver, I'm grateful I woke up. For many reasons," he says thoughtfully. "Even if I shouldn't be."

Out the corner of her eye, Sasha sees Oliver nod slowly.

"What will you do about this?"

Jon sighs. "I don't really know. The Mother and the Watcher are both trying to take me to the panopticon, but I suspect they each have a different goal once they get me there, and I can't say I care much for either of their plans, whatever they are."

"That'll make them happy," Oliver observes. Then, after a moment, "you know what's funny?"

"Historically, I don't," Jon says in a dry, monotone voice that makes Sasha snort. "What is?"

"I could feel you, back at the hospital. You were halfway into my patron by the time I opened the door for you to leave if you wanted," Oliver says. "You weren't afraid of dying back then. You felt mostly... irritated."

Jon sighs. "I didn't want to- I couldn't stand not knowing what had happened with the others. Or why this had happened to me."

"I figured. But yes, you weren't afraid." Oliver shrugs. "You are now, though."

There is silence, as Jon contemplates how to respond to that.

"Didn't have much to leave behind back then," Jon shrugs. "Sasha? I think it's time we get going. Helen left."

"Oh?" Sasha turns around, only to find that Helen and the door are nowhere to be seen, and she's already halfway through getting off Jon. "Well, that sucks."

"It's okay, it worked for a lot longer than the last time," Jon smiles up at her as he gets up, his eyes already turning the poisonous neon green of the Beholding. "I'll see you soon, and... thank you, Oliver."

"It was nothing. Really," Oliver says quietly, watching Jon walk away. "So... so you cut him off from the Eye?"

"Both of us," Sasha corrects him. "One of us can weaken the call so he's conscious, but both of us can make him stop."

"That must be useful."

"It is." Sasha shrugs. She should say something else, but she can't for the life of her figure out what. She's no longer the Graham he knew and loved a lifetime ago. "I better get going. I have to keep up with him."

It's only about a dozen or so steps, that Oliver speaks again.

"Sasha?" He asks, and it's the same tone he used for her old name before, despite the word itself being different.

"Yes?" She half turns to look at him, keeping an eye on Jon even as her heart hammers in her chest.

"It was- it's nice to know you're back," he says. His lips are curled in the gentle smile that not once failed to make Sasha respond in kind, not even now.

"You too," she says. Then, because she has to, because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, "I'm different- I'm not the one you knew. Not really."

Oliver seems to mull this over for a couple seconds, before looking back up at her with those uncanny pale eyes.

"I'm not, either." He shrugs. "But... those two didn't end up well anyways, did they?"

Sasha snorts; it feels like a weight is dissolving off her stomach, and she gives him another smile before she goes to turn again.

"Don't be a stranger, Ollie."

------------------------

The Eye feasts and feasts and feasts, gorging gluttonously on its brethren themselves feeding.

The other entities have ever resented it for that, but there's little they can say when it was the Beholding and its avatars that brought for the world they've been crawling towards for millennia. Feeding it with the suffering they cause is the least they can do.

And still, the feeding isn't quite as satisfactory as it should, not after the Archive's continual revelations, which the Eye is increasingly peeved about, were overlooked by the Pupil in his search for triumph.

More humans have to be being created now, despite the world's new state. Even the Lonely bred its own stock. Surely they won't all end up waltzing into Terminus' cold, impassive embrace.

The eye feasts, but what before felt a scrumptious banquet tastes like ash, and scatters just as fast.

------------------------

"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"

"If  we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.

"When  we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.

It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.

"Hm. I don't know. Traveling, maybe. I liked that before. And now I don't have to stay at the Institute, so..." Tim shrugs brusquely. "You?"

"Well... we have to stay up north until Gerry's carrots are ready to harvest-"

"Stop that," Gerry smacks a hand against his thigh, his face coloring charmingly in the light of the fire.

"I'm serious! I've got plans for those carrots," Martin snorts. "But yeah, after that... I don't know? I don't want my flat back, and Jon probably lost his already..."

They- maybe the cottage? If they get Daisy back, they could purchase it from her. If they don't- well, she won't be asking for it back anyways.

The three months they spent there were nothing short of heavenly, and Martin remembers even the awkwardness of learning to move around each other with undeniable fondness, boundaries and tastes learned slow and carefully, like they had all the time in the world.

They'd been very naïve, in hindsight.

"The bookstore and my mother's house above it are still standing," Gerry pipes up. "We'd have to find out if Gertrude did something with the papers; hopefully it won't matter that the owner was dead for a while."

"It's still sad though," Martin boops him on the nose. It's hard to feel down when faced against Gerry's absurd sense of humour.

"Oh, tragic. I hear he left behind two grieving boyfriends, he was apparently supernaturally handsome and charismatic."

"Bit of a big head, though. But hey, there's no accounting for taste," Martin shrugs, then smiles when Gerry places a kiss on his shoulder. "But yeah... I guess it's an option. I just didn't expect you'd want to live th-"

"We can raze it to the ground, sell the plot and use the money to purchase something," Gerry cuts in, his voice casual and light.

Tim's eyes flash orange across the campfire though, so Martin guesses there's a lot more feeling in the remark than what Gerry meant to put into words.

They sit in silence for a moment, until Martin softly squeezes Gerry's shoulders.

"I wouldn't be opposed to a little flat, I suppose. Granted that there are no wet towels left on the bathroom floor."

"What kind of unconditional love is this?" Gerry laughs.

"If Jon loves us less because of improperly dusted surfaces, I can love you less for having to step on a towel at three in the morning." Marin smiles. This feels good. They will fix this. They will.

"I still can't believe you two tried cleaning in front of Jon," Tim snorts. "Did you learn nothing from the first three months down at the archives, Martin?"

Martin shrugs. "I learned he liked his tea with two sugars, he was less of an ass when I made it that way."

"Your taste in men sucks," Tim says for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes to the sound of Martin's laughter.

------------------------

"We'll need to stop him soon," the Dist- Helen says. Her voice reaches the Archive as if through water, the call of the Spider adding to the natural muddying of the Spiral.

"So soon?" Sasha- yes, it's Sasha, the real one. "He said we shouldn't do it too often, didn't he? Or they'd get impatient."

"It will be a short one," Helen reassures. Just like everything else Helen does, it's not too reassuring. "I've been keeping something for him, and he's going to need it before you go into that one."

"...You know? That was also very annoying back when you were Michael."

The Archive feels its lips curl into something resembling a smile. With all the overlap between Stranger and Spiral, it's not too surprising that they bounce off each other so easily.

"You still went to the cemetery, didn't you?"

"That says more about my lack of self preservation than it does about your powers of persuasion, if you ask me," Sasha says dryly. "Should I sit on him again?"

"Oh, for sure. She's not going to like it one bit." Helen's sharp, angled smile is all too easy to picture.

"Wonder why she hasn't stopped you yet, then."

"Can't reach me in here," Helen responds, and the Archive hears a loud creak, like old hinges and wood. "Dear Tim did quite an exhaustive cleaning last time he was in me."

"...You're just saying stuff to make me curious on purpose aren't you?"

Helen chuckles. "There's just enough Beholding in there."

"Real funny," Sasha says, and then there's a pair of slender arms wrapping themselves around its torso, and then a long hand does the same around its wrist, and the call fades off into the background.

Jon blinks owlishly up at the sky, a bit disoriented as he always is whenever Sasha and Helen call him back.

The sky blinks back, and Jon rolls his eyes before focusing on his captors.

Sasha's barely older than a teenager today, he realises with a pang of sadness. It's- not having known them personally, it's easy to ignore the many victims the Not Them took, the many lives it cut short far too early.

Young Lisbeth Ackerman had meant only to squeeze in a last minute rehearsal for their acting club's performance, even willing to ignore the prop table that had unnerved them so much the whole week.

Still, this body's strong and heavy enough that it will take Jon some effort to break free when he inevitably starts trying.

"Hi. Want me to sit on your stomach?" Sasha asks, leaning her head on his shoulder as she tangles her fingers behind his waist. "Your lap?

"Hi... My- my lap I think. I should be able to see- Helen said she had something for me?" He turns to look as they lower themselves to the ground, and finds that the hand on his wrist extends into a forearm and then an arm clad in a pristine purple suit jacket that disappears behind a bright yellow door.

'That doesn't bode too well for Martin,' says Helen's voice behind the wood, and Jon's heart skips a beat.

"H- Helen?" He asks, his voice hoarse with anticipation.

'-oesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me.'

"It's time," Helen says; Jon can only barely catch a glimpse of her mischievous grin through the cracked door.

And then a lone tape recorder pokes through the threshold.

'Is that what this is, then? Making amends?' A tired sigh. Has he always sounded this exhausted?

'Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it.' The sound of something being pushed across a flat surface, and Jon remembers the eerie stillness of the office, the hopelessness after Anabelle's revelation. 'I hear you collect them?'

'Only until it's time.'

'Time for what?'

'I don't know.' An amused huff that is echoed from behind the door, even as Helen's hand convulses around his wrist. 'Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?'

A little, choked up laugh that has Sasha giving him a little squeeze in her arms. 'You'll have to be a bit more specific.'

'All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?'

Helen's hand flinches and spasms, and Jon reaches out almost desperately to grab on to her jacket. There's- this feels like Eric Delano's tape, and even back then the Spider never did factor avatars helping each other into her plans. There's something here that he needs to hear, and she will not stop him.

'I think... Because I want to be contained.' Jon says so many months ago. A man not yet broken but starting to crack, held together only by the flimsy promise of hope. 'If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one on my own terms.'

Jon feels his breath catch on his throat, as the feelings that back then accompanied the words rush back into him.

'How noble of you.' Helen says, and Sasha snorts on his lap.

'Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left.'

'Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end? The grand scheme of things, and all that?'

'It matters to me.'

'So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?'

'If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon. I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me-'

"...It can't take who I am," Jon speaks over his own voice.

There's- Sasha's weighing him down, and Helen is still trying to cling to him, and the Eye and the Web are pulling him forward while his pained heart pulls him back, and it's just- it's just too much.

He earned his happy ending, and they tore it from him. Just like his life, his loved ones, his home, his hope for a future.

His hands clench -the burnt one with a spasm of mind-clearing pain- in Helen's jacket, in Sasha's sweater.

"Jon?" Sasha whispers against his shoulder, her breath hot through the fabric; a reminder that she's alive because of him. Because of his actions, not the Eye's, not the Spider's.

"Let me up," he says, and when Sasha leans back in surprise her face is illuminated in an eerie green glow that makes her skin look pale and greyish. "I need to be up."

Helen's hand spasms so violently it releases its hold on his wrist, and a moment later Jon feels the sharp sting of her knife-like fingers in the flesh of his forearm, trying to anchor herself by whatever means possible.

And Jon looks up.

At the panopticon so far away, at the empty expanse before them where he Knows the Mother of Puppets waits patiently for her little toys to return, dancing to the tune she plays so cheerfully.

The glow of his eyes Illuminates the way ahead, and for a moment Jon fancies himself a beacon, a lighthouse standing impassively while the storm rages around it.

The world around him trembles, rises up to meet the one who created it, who gave it a new purpose.

"I think," he says, his voice deep and laden with power, just like he remembers it being when he brought the world down. "I'm quite done being told what to do."

And the call breaks.

It feels like coming up from a deep dive and breaking the surface to take a deep breath, like he can see the world around him clearly for the first time since his time at the cottage.

The pain of Helen's fingers digging into his flesh is sharp in a way it wasn't before, like it's Jon who's feeling it rather than the Archives, which he guesses is just the thing.

"...Are you okay?" Sasha asks, and Jon nods a bit shakily, grateful for her arms around him as he doesn't feel too steady on his feet at the moment.

"I just- I'm going to need a moment," he says, squeezing back at Sasha's chubby frame.

And so they stand there, their silhouettes profiled by the bright, angry orange light of the burning city waiting ahead of them.

------------------------

This new domain feels... odd, is the best way Gerry can describe it.

Familiar but not quite right, like visiting your childhood home after a few decades, and finding you no longer fit in it, if you ever really did.

All around them hundreds, maybe thousands of people walk towards their own death, dragging their feet along the bright, pulsating red root that marks their individual ends.

"This one feels worse than the Stranger," Martin grumbles by his side.

"You think so?" Gerry hums absentmindedly.

There's something almost peaceful to the victims' journey, a sort of poetic acceptance to their long-awaited rest. Like-

"Gerry?" Martin's hand lands on his bicep, pulling him to a stop.

"Hm?" Gerry blinks, looking up at him with a lazy smile.

"...No." Martin frowns, snapping his fingers an inch from his eyes. "Cut it out, I'll pinch you."

"Cut what- oh, fuck!" Gerry flinches away at the sudden jab of pain, his mind coming back into focus. It feels a little like waking up from the dormant, pseudo-conscious state he remembers from the book and-

Ah. Of course.

"Are you with me?" Martin asks, his hand still heavy on his arm.

"Let's revisit that later, but yes," he blinks a couple more times, careful to keep his eyes on Martin instead of focusing on any of the victims. "Where's Tim?"

"We were having a conversation before you went Walking Dead on us," Tim's voice behind him sounds decidedly grumpy.

"What happened?" Martin's hand moves from his arm to cup his cheek, and Gerry feels his face warm up at the tenderness in the gesture. It's not- despite being so liberal with his own touch, he's not too used to others reciprocating in kind. "I thought the Eye-"

"The book," Gerry's voice sounds a bit hoarse when he forces it out again. "I'm- I did spend a good chunk of time wishing for an End of my own, I suppose."

"...Ah."

"I'm fine now, it's- it just felt familiar," Gerry says as reassuring as he can even as he still hears the siren call of Terminus all around him. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

It takes a few more moments, but Martin eventually huffs with what could pass as amusement. "Just warning you, if you do it again I'm just going to drag you out."

"You know what? That sounds perfectly fair, you deserve your own 'dragging a stubborn mule of a man away from a fear entity's grip' experience, it's life-changing." The smile comes to Gerry's lips a lot easier now, and he scrunches his nose at Martin just to make him snort and shake his head in fond exasperation.

"So funny, mister Keay..."

"This is very sweet and all," Tim grunts behind them, "but could we please get going? This place is not even scary, it's just depressing."

"I'm sorry it's not up to your standards," says a new voice, and Gerry whips around with Martin in tow.

The newcomer is a slender, young black man with short cropped dark hair, giving them an unimpressed stare with his eerie grey-white eyes.

"We don't want any trouble," Gerry says, slowly and carefully. There are three of them, but End avatars are different. He's not too sure any of them can even be killed anymore, but all they need is to pass through; better to do it without any fanfare. "We'll just be on our way."

"Everyone is, it seems," the man rolls his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, ignore that. Sorry, I'm not having a great time."

Gerry risks a look at the travelling corpses in lieu of voicing his retort, and the man shakes his head.

"Yes, I know. It's not like I can do anything about that, though, so-"

"It's- you're him," Tim's voice cuts through like a knife, and Gerry's surprised to see his brow furrowed in thought. He hasn't heard of this particular avatar, and he can't imagine why Tim would've either. "With the- Martin, the veins."

"The- what?" Martin scowls in confusion.

The newcomer seems collected and peaceful, but Gerry keeps his gaze trained on him; he's met kind monsters before.

"You came by the Archives to warn Gertrude she would die," Tim says, and Gerry has to rip his eyes from the man then. "Jon asked me to look for him," he says, and the tiniest pinprick of orange glow alights in the depths of his dark eyes when he turns to look at them. "He said the Web kept me from finding him. His name is Oliver Banks."

Gerry feels Martin's hand twitch in his arm, as the man nods in response to Tim's words.

"Apparently I’ve made of trying to help archivists somewhat of a hobby," Oliver shrugs, before his gaze settles on Gerry. "You feel like the End."

"Books fear me, the Entities want me," he says with a shrug as Martin's hand flinches on his arm again, and Tim snorts. "Are you going to let us through?"

"Ah. Gerard Keay, then." Oliver's gaze is a bit unnerving still, but Gerry holds it as steadily as he can, with the certainty that he's simply not going to die until- "You're going after Jon, aren't you?"

Huh.

"How'd you know?"

"Your root ends with him," Oliver half-shrugs, tilting his head to the side as his gaze intensifies. "Or... starts. I've never seen anything quite like you."

"He gets that a lot," Martin cuts in dryly. "Now if you excuse us, we ought to get going," he adds, when Oliver doesn't immediately look at him.

"Yes, I suppose you should," Oliver nods in the end. "They aren't too far ahead."

"Got it, thank you, bye."

Gerry arches an eyebrow as Martin marches on, pulling him along by his grip on his arm.

"They?" Tim asks behind them, but Martin is channelling a draft horse and they're out of earshot by the time Oliver responds, if he even does.

They stop when they reach the end of the territory, which is as any other liminal stretch between domains; just empty, barren land with little to no defining features other than a rock or two.

Martin very tellingly doesn't let go of his arm.

"So. Are we going to talk about that?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"About the dead people walking, or you wanting to join them?" Martin huffs, going to sit on a boulder a few feet away.

Gerry snorts fondly, walking calmly up to him.

"I told you why I wanted to walk with them," he shrugs. "Are you going to tell me why you were jealous of that man?"

Martin's head whips up to look at him like a deer in the headlights, and Gerry feels a burst of triumph in his chest. Getting one over Martin doesn't happen often, and he doesn't think he'll ever stop enjoying it.

"I wasn't- where on earth did you get the idea that I was jealous?!"

"Martin, not six months ago you were looking at me like that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "So either you're jealous, or you have a very curious way of showing me you don't like me."

"You know what, I'm starting to question it myself," Martin grumbles, his face colouring a little when Gerry laughs. "Stop that. Come here."

"Coming, coming," Gerry says consolingly, taking a seat next to Martin and throwing an arm over his hunched shoulders. "What is it?"

"...Jon was in a coma for about three months," he says in the end.

Gerry nods. "Melanie did mention something like that when I woke up and she was threatening him with a knife, yes."

Martin's lips twitch, but they don't quite smile, and his eyes are still downcast and, when Gerry leans in a bit closer, going somewhat grey.

"I went in to see him every day," Martin says, his voice not white sullen anymore, just... defeated. "Every day for three months. I talked to him, I asked him to come back, but- and this Oliver guy went in once, gave him a state- it wasn't even a statement, he just spoke to him! And-"

"And Jon woke up?" Gerry completes the thought when Martin abandons it. Then, after a weak nod from the man, he adds. "He's an avatar of the End, Martin."

"It doesn't matter," Martin remarks sullenly. "All I know is he pulled Jon back. I couldn't bring him back from the End, I couldn't bring him back from the Buried, and I wasn't even there when you called him out from the Dark. I keep failing him when he needs me the most and-"

"If it helps somewhat, you didn't even try to pull him out of the Buried, I'm still convinced you could've reached him."

"...Gerry, how on earth would that help?" Martin deadpans, and Gerry holds his hands up in surrender.

"I said if. All I'm saying is I just know you went straight for the tapes idea because of the Lonely. It worked just fine in the end, but if you'd called him, he would've heard."

"But then-"

"The End is different, Martin." Gerry's arm goes back to its place on Martin's shoulders, his free hand coming to tangle their fingers together. "Terminus doesn't give up its victims so easily. I doubt anyone but one of its avatars could've opened the way back for Jon, especially if the Web was involved."

"...It's very stupid, isn't it?" Martin mutters after a few minutes.

"You can't help how you feel." Gerry squeezes his hand. "As long as you understand it's not something you need to be worried about."

Martin snorts softly, before pressing a kiss to Gerry's cheek. "I should learn from you, then?"

"Oh no, I'm not possessive but I'm very jealous," Gerry shrugs with a sheepish smile, "I just dealt with it in a completely different way, apparently."

He squeezes Martin's hand again when he breaks down laughing, satisfied with his efforts. Gerard Keay, paragon of emotional maturity and healthy communication.

"Am I interrupting?" Tim's voice breaks him from his reverie, and Gerry looks up to find him standing a few feet away, arching an eyebrow at the tableau they cut.

"We were just done," Martin responds, somewhat breathless still. "Did he tell you who Jon was with?"

Tim shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "He just said some other avatars. Helen, I guess."

"Maybe he found Daisy?" Martin asks, his amusement fading into intrigue.

"Maybe..." Tim mutters.

Gerry arches an eyebrow. "You don't sound too happy about that."

Tim gives a half-hearted shrug, and a tired sigh.

"I saw her change, down at the tunnels. It was- I never said it because Basira had been running herself ragged, but... at this point, I wouldn't want anyone to find Daisy, not even him."

------------------------

All around her it smells like fire and burnt hair and cooked meat. The smoke tastes of salt, like evaporated tears, and she can hear anguished cries coming from countless ragged throats.

These aren't prey, she decides. The hunter feeds on panic and adrenaline fueled by the eons-old instinct to escape or be killed. She despises the taste of sorrow, of hopeless desolation. Of those that have given up and lost all the fight they could give.

The fire licks at her sides, at her paws. It singes off patches of raggedy sand-coloured fur, and makes every step on her already misshapen legs even more agonising. Her form, which is only suited for giving chase and taking prey down, is all but encumbering as she tries to make her way through the burning buildings.

What was she looking for here?

Was it- retribution?

She came here to settle debts, to pay harm with harm. To find-

"And to what do I owe the honour? The great and powerful Archivist, and his pet monsters?" says a voice, up, up, up in one of the burning buildings, and the hunter's chest swells with a snarl that crackles louder than the fire around her, before she jumps.

The building's wall cracks under her weight, her claws digging deep into crumbling concrete to pull the hunter up. The smoke chokes and blinds her, but the sting barely registers in her mind. All she has to do is go up, up, up.

"I'll be honest, we could've taken the long way. I was just curious," says another voice, and the hunter flinches, her torn, leathery ears perking up in recognition. Is this the prey she's looking for?

"-were already a little nosy prick back then. Sometimes I still regret not having killed you, your pain was so tasty," a voice says. It's hoarse, like the speaker has spent years inhaling smoke, and bitter. It sounds like mean laughter and pained cries, and the hunter's hackles raise.

"It's a very popular opinion, I've found," says the other voice, quieter, tired. Unamused.

The Hunter's brain flares up with alarm as recognition finally hits. This is the voice in the deep, the one that spoke of home, and he shouldn't be here- or- or should he?

The hunter stops her climb for a moment as her smoke-addled mind snaps and chases at itself. Which one has the blood that sings to her? Which is the one she's hunting?

"But then again, I wouldn't have this sweet, sweet little corner of hell to myself would I?"

"Ideally, no. I suppose you've enjoyed it so far?"

"Who was this again?" asks a third voice, one that sounds like confusion, like lies. It makes the Hunter angry, she doesn't like its kind. It was voices like it that took her into the deep and tight and crushing, where her will broke along with her mind and body.

"No one, really."

"Oh, is that so?" the first voice cackles. "Look at that, becomes an eminence and forgets about the ones who made him. You wouldn't be here without my mark, Archivist."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, though I can see why you would be under the impression that I ought to be grateful for that."

"Jon- the fire is-"

"Of course you'd be one of those," the voice laughs again, "all holier-than-thou and pretending you're above the rest of us. Pretending you're not the worst of us. Does it make it easier for you to sleep at night, after what you did?"

"I don't sleep much," says the voice. Then calmly, quietly. "I'm going to kill you, Jude."

"Jon?!" the lying voice asks. "You said-"

"You're bluffing," the first voice barks. "You're feeling their pain aren't you? Feeding off of it, like the parasite you are. Are you enjoying it?"

There's a pause, during which the hunter crawls higher up towards the smoking window the voices are coming from. She's so close, so close to being done.

"I am."

"Why would you shut down an easy meal?"

"That's just who I am, I suppose." The response doesn't wait this time, and the voice in the deep is firm and calm, before it adds almost sheepishly, "that, and I really don't like you."

The steel frame of the window is partially melted, soft and malleable under the hunter's claws, and she can finally see inside the room, preparing her hind legs for a jump. The woman reeks of wax and smoke, facing away from the hunter and towards-

The hunter freezes.

And she knows all of a sudden, with the sort of instinct all great predators are born with, that she's no longer the biggest danger in the room.

The creature on the woman's other side pulls at her as much as his presence terrifies her, soothes her and agitates her in equal measure.

Apex, whispers some tiny, primal voice at the back of her mind, and a low, anxious growl leaves her throat.

She should leave. She should turn tail and run and make sure to never again cross paths with this being, to never-

"You can't be angry at me still, Jon. You shook my hand didn't you? It was your fault, like everything else," the woman laughs, and the hunter sees red.

The woman crumbles like sand under her weight, and her claws dig into soft, pliant flesh that tears so easily, that bleeds out choking rivulets of thick black smoke that swirls up into the hunter's nose and eyes.

Boiling wax sticks to her teeth and sears her gums and tongue as the hunter bites and tears and chews. The woman is not so much afraid as she's shocked at the pain, at finding herself a victim. Prey.

Swallowing her bit by bit satisfies a deep, old hunger seated deep within the hunter's stomach, and she feels herself relax at last.

It took her a lifetime but she did right by her pack, which is what matters, she thinks as she plops down on the hot floor to lick the wax off her paws.

"Jon, what the hell is that thing?!" The hunter whips her face up at the voice. She's on the shorter side, plump-faced and with a large, soft belly, and she reeks of the Stranger.

The hunter hates her immediately.

She climbs to her feet again; her humped back bumps against the burning ceiling, searing some more fur off.

"Uh, you- you may want to go into Helen," the man says as the hunter takes the first step towards them. He's small in size, and were it nor for the power the hunter feels contained within his frame, she could swallow him in a single bite.

"I really don't," the stranger says. She takes a step back, and the man steps before her. "Jon-"

"It's- she can't hurt me," the man says, though he doesn't sound so sure. There is a certain hint of fear to his scent, a dubious, sad sort of terror. What scares this monster, the hunter realises, is not knowing if he should be afraid of her. "I- do you remember me?"

The hunter snarls.

He smells of old paper, of shiny plastic and blood. Of suffering, so much suffering that the hunter wonders for a moment how it is that he's still walking around.

He smells of- of everything.

Darkness, lies, pain, deep, fog and all the others, they swirl around inside him like he's containing them all, like he's made out of them all.

Another step. She cannot kill him, but she can kill the stranger.

"Y- you said you'd kill the other one, maybe you want to redirect that murderous energy?"

"I- no!" The man's face pales. He takes a step back as the hunter advances towards him. "No, she- Daisy?"

"This is the cop?!" The woman retreats all the way back to the crumbling, smoking door. "The one that tried to kill you?!'

"Daisy, can you hear me?" the man asks again, and the hunter responds with another snarl. She doesn't want to fight this being, but she will if he stands in the way of her prey. "We've- we were worried about you, all of us."

There's a thin, pale scar in the man's throat, and something aches in the hunter's chest.

"Please," says the man. His voice is soft, and it reaches the hunter as if through many miles of rock. "Please, Daisy. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't think she'll do you the same courtesy, Jon." The stranger has managed to open the door behind him. "Come on."

"Sasha, I can't- I need to at least try to-"

"She's clearly not recognizing you, let's get out of here!"

"We can't."

"What?!"

"Don't- Sasha, listen to me," the man gives the stranger a worried, anxious look that sends a pang of recognition through the hunter's mind. "Don't try to run, she wants to chase you."

"I- why me?!"

The man's eyes, large and dark and sad, turn towards the hunter again.

"She's not too fond of the Stranger."

"Well- well, that makes two of us," the woman stutters, but she lets go of the door. "Jon..."

"She's in there," Jon- the man says. "Daisy, I found you once-"

The hunter snarls, but he trudges on, unimpeded. He's always been so stubborn.

"No, listen! I've been looking for you! Basira's looking for you!"

The name feels like a whip across the face, and the hunter recoils. It's a name of- of coconut and yellow, a name whispered with a last, dying breath.

'Will you find me?'

It pulls at her like a hot-red hook through her entrails, the name, the man's voice.

'Always.'

There's dirt closing off all around her, sharp stones digging into her flesh, and try as she may she simply cannot draw a breath that doesn't smell of rotting old wood and rain. Her ears are ringing with thousands of agonised screams, and the hunter can't tell if it's the Desolation's prey or her own, or if there's any difference at all.

"Jon, I- fuck!"

"Daisy- !"

The man's blood on her tongue tastes familiar, and his fear is delicious and filling and wrong. It burns her tongue and makes her choke like she just bit into something foul, but her jaws are locked around him and she feels-

She feels defenseless.

She was so afraid of this, of losing control, of losing herself.

But she did it for him, for- for her. It was worth it, to give herself away one last time. Why does this hurt? What is she missing?!

"Daisy!" The man is screaming in pain, and it hurts, the word jabs at her blood-lusted mind like a knife, and the concern in the man's voice is the cruel hand twisting the weapon in the wound. "Daisy, please!"

"Daisy, the quiet!"

------------------------

"You know... I still stand by my opinion that the carousel was far too on the nose, but this isn't a much better look," Tim sighs.

The heat of the fire all around them feels like a pleasant, almost familiar warmth, and the victims' pained cries taste absolutely scrumptious with sorrow. It serves to remind him of what he is, and he hates it.

The flames nearby flare up, fed by his resignation.

"I don't know where you got the idea that these things know how to be subtle," Gerry says, pulling him out of his mind. When he looks over, the man is almost done putting his hair into a messy bun, which he ties with a hair tie Martin pulls from his own wrist before pulling the hood over his head and tug on the drawstrings, presumably to keep the ash out. "If it makes you feel better though, you're as far removed from an avatar of the Desolation as you could be. I think the reason it brought you back-"

"Was to make me miserable, I know," Tim grunts, as they resume their trip across the burning city. "I just- I hate it here."

Or more accurately, he hates that he doesn't hate it. That knowing everyone around him is for once in as much pain as he constantly is in gives him a sense of vindication he hasn't experienced in years.

He could stay here, he thinks.

They pass the remnants of a burning hospital, and Tim breathes in the hopeless cries of those who will just never find peace again, not in this place. He could make it so that each and every one of them suffers what he suffered- what's the saying?

Misery loves company.

"Are we going to run into someone here too?" he asks after a while. "I don't think I ever met anyone from the Desolation."

"I don't think so," Gerry says carefully. "This place is....recently unoccupied."

"What's that even mean?" Martin turns to look at them with an arched eyebrow. "How would you know?"

Gerry shoots a look at the infinite, unblinking eyes that cover the sky.

"Right-" Martin nods, "dumb question."

"Was it Jon? Like he did with the- with the thing that took Sasha?" Tim asks.

"I... Think? I only get vague knowledge, nothing too specific. Right now all I know is this place is looking for someone to sit on the big chair." Gerry looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Tim keeps his gaze fixed firmly on him. "How are you doing?"

"I don't like what you're implying," is all he says, sending the closest flames flaring up into the sky.

"That's good. I don't like it too much either." Gerry looks on ahead. "But here we are."

"Here we are? What- oh." Martin says before following Gerry's gaze. He seems to deflate, but his colour surprisingly doesn't wane when he turns to look at him. "Tim?"

"I'm not going to stay here," Tim says so shortly it sounds strained even to his ears, like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to reassure Martin. "I won't. I-"

"Tim," Martin repeats, gentler this time.

"What?" Tim clenches a fist in the fabric of his jacket.

"I'm- I know you wouldn't do this-"

"I wouldn't." But he would, wouldn't he? Hasn't his entire existence been about causing pain, ever since he woke up? To Jon, to Martin, to himself- hasn't he fed on it, fueling his fire with their loss? "Martin-"

"I know. But- but I think you need to look up," Martin's hand feels warm for once, the chill of the Lonely chased away by the fire's heat.

"I don't want to," Tim shakes his head. "Just- just guide me out."

"...I get the feeling that won't get us anywhere," Martin says gently. "Gerry? Am I wrong?"

"It would be too easy, I think. We've established the Desolation will gladly feed on him, and- and the Watcher wants to see him choose."

Tim shuts his eyes tight, resenting in a way he never did when he was human the bright orange spots that explode behind his eyelids as he does. He- he doesn't want it.

Not the pain blossoming at his chest, nor the power he can feel at his fingertips, or the voice -his own voice- that tells him this is justice, that he deserves this.

Who knows pain if not him? Who knows better how to rip these humans to pieces, how to show them just how insignificant and hopeless their lives are, until all they are is an agonising longing for that all that they have lost, all they have destroyed?

Who-

"Tim. You have to look." Martin's voice is still gentle, but firmer this time.

"I really don't want to," Tim says.

I really don't think I can.

"You're not alone this time." Martin's hand on his shoulder squeezes a little, and surprisingly doesn't flinch when Tim lets out a dry bark of laughter.

"That's rich, coming from you." There he goes again, striking where he knows it'll hurt the most, where-

"It is, isn't it?" Martin's voice sounds like- Tim opens his eyes to see the sad, gentle smile spread across his features. "I think it makes sense, though."

"It does."

"I would know."

"You would."

Martin doesn't react to the jabs, doesn't retaliate with the pointed, barbed remarks Tim knows he's capable of dealing.

"I don't think you want to be here anymore," he goes on casually, like they're talking about leaving the office early. "I don't care much for it either."

The crackling of the fire calls him, the screams of those that are like him, that decided to take out their hurt on the world, to strike first, lest it strikes them down.

"Martin-" it feels like the smoke is choking him, even though that shouldn't be possible anymore. "I don't think I can say no."

"I think you need to try." Martin squeezes his shoulder again, and his voice is so calm, so casual that Tim clings to it to try and anchor his own whirlwind of emotions, before looking up.

The House of Wax museum looks just like he remembers. Just like he dreamed it would look like burning to the ground.

It smells of burnt plastic and wax, and through the smoke-blackened windows he sees silhouettes, so many silhouettes. Some are human of course, clawing at the walls and at themselves and each other and screaming through tear-hoarse throats.

Some others move far more gracefully than they should, trapped in a haunting dance even wreathed in flames as they are.

He- this is for him.

This is the little tailor-made corner of hell afforded to him by the grief and the spite that simmer at his core.

In here, it doesn't matter how much he lost, how much he hurts, because he can make sure everyone else hurts more. Isn't this what the Desolation means for him, a way to pay back the world for how much it took from him?

"Tim?" Martin asks gently. "Are we going?"

Tim wants to say yes, he knows he should. He doesn't want to stay, he's relieved to realise; his feelings about that haven't changed and the burning wax museum is not as much a lure as it is a sad reminder.

Where is he going to go?

Walking away from this doesn't mean he doesn't take it with him everywhere he goes. Not contributing to torture the people trapped in this domain doesn't mean he will not do the same to the people out there, he doesn't think he knows how to do anything else anymore.

"I- Martin, what for?" They don't really need him, do they?

"What? We're looking for Jon-"

"Well, you can keep doing that. Gerry's the one that can find him, not me," Tim sighs. "Just... just fix this mess."

Make everything right so that Tim can go back to sitting in the dark in Martin's old flat thinking about everything he lost.

"That's exactly what we're doing," Martin says firmly. "All three of us. You said you didn't want to stay."

"I don't." Tim shrugs, his eyes still glued to the blazing building, and it almost hurts to tear them from it to look at the other two. "But Martin- this is what I am. It's always going to be what I am."

"Don't be-"

"Martin, just- stop," Tim interrupts, punctuated by a loud crack from one of the museum's windows. "I've tried to fix it. It doesn't work. Maybe it's time to accept that. Maybe there was something else in there at some point, but it's gone. This is all that's left."

Martin's face crumpling down just accentuates his point, he feels like. Dealing with Tim is like trying to handle broken glass, you're bound to slice your hand open at some point, no matter how careful you are.

"Tim-"

"Hey. I'll say something too," Gerry cuts in, leaning around Martin to look at him. His eyes are Watcher-green and he has no doubt the man is seeing more than what Tim means to let out. "First off, I think you're an asshole."

What.

"...This is your pep talk?" Martin gives his man a very unimpressed look, but Gerry merely shrugs.

"It's true. You get under my nerves, but they love you, so I'll deal with you," he goes on. "You hurt people when they try to help you, because you're hurt. It sucks, sometimes we get dealt a shitty hand."

The flames covering the building flare up in response to Tim's irritation, but he pays them no mind in favour of glaring back at the man. "You would-"

"I would know, that one's not going to stick with me." Gerry clicks his tongue. "But I digress. What I mean to say is I'm impartial here. You can't try to rationalise this as Martin being Martin and trying to cheer you up because he likes you, like you were doing just now."

"You're making a real good case to get me to come." Tim's eye twitches. He sees Martin's eyebrows raise, and his lips twitch like he's holding back a smile. "It's not like I think Martin's a doormat or-"

"Good! He isn't, but he and Jon are willing to let you get away with a lot of crap I don't particularly care about." His eyes are fixed on him with laser-like focus, yet he speaks casually enough that Tim gets the feeling he isn't even interested in the conversation, which is- Tim no longer feels too guilty about melting his hand by the carousel. "I only met you after the Desolation brought you back, so I have to imagine you weren't always an insufferable prick, just most of the time. But I did notice something about you."

"Oh?" Tim grunts, annoyed. "Really? Aside from that charming diagnosis of my psyche, you had time to notice something about me?"

"I'm observant like that," he says, and his neon-green eyes flare up a little. "I've only seen you use what the Desolation gave you one time, you know? Which is quite tame for avatars with your particular alignment, like I told you."

"I- what?"

"Come on, Tim." Gerry smirks. "I'm sure you remember lighting up Manuela Domínguez like a summer bonfire."

Tim clenches his fists by his sides. "Don't- it's not like I enjoyed it, I had to do that!"

"Oh you had to?" The asshole has the gall to fake shock. "Why?"

"Because-" Tim starts then stops, his indignant snarl stuck in his throat.

Because Jon was in danger.

Gerry's smirk grows more pronounced the longer he stays quiet, and Tim- Tim hates him for that-

"What about-"

"Stop."

"-the tunnels? With Julia and Trevor?" Gerry steamrolls over his objections, like he doesn't know the answer, like he doesn't know it's because he was trying to buy Jon time to get to Martin, to help.

"What's your point?!" he bites out. The asshole is still just standing there, looking like a particularly smug turtle with the hood of Martin's hoodie pulled tight around his face.

"My point is you're trying, Tim, whether you think it's enough or not." Gerry shrugs, and the animosity melts off of his face. "It's really the only thing we can do, any of us. It's what Martin and I will do. Now, are you coming with us, or not?"

Tim blinks. And then he blinks again. And then a third time.

The building still burns behind him -inside him-, but it's no longer the only thing in his mind. He saved Jon, that time up north. He helped save Martin, helped protect Basira. The Desolation never meant for him to do anything other than cause more pain either to himself or others, but he did it still.

He takes a step forward, and then another, and Martin and Gerry fall into step beside him, all three of them in silence.

He can only guess they did what they had to here, because they come to the end of the burning city not long after- or rather, the end of the burning city comes to them, marked by a tall, blackened building with claw marks up its side.

"Jon was here not too long ago," Gerry's eyes flare green again as he looks at the building. "We're closing the gap."

"Is that how he pulled you out of the Lonely?" Tim grunts as they watch him walk further on, looking at the ground like a hound sniffing for a trail.

"It's very frustrating, isn't it?" Martin snorts by his side. "But very effective, I'm afraid."

"I suppose," he says. Martin is smiling at him when he looks up. "What?"

"I knew you'd come."

"...I have to try, I guess," he sighs. "Is that a house up ahead?"

It looks far too normal than it has any right to be, just an old manor with a large garden, and moth-eaten curtains billowing out every open window.

"I... guess?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't look too bad compared to the others we've seen, does it?"

"It doesn't, and I don't like it," Tim scowls. It feels... familiar. Like it's sapping warmth away, like even the Watcher averts its gaze from it. "I think we'd better take the long-"

"We have to go through the house!" Gerry's faint voice reaches them, the man merely a point of bright green profiled against the building's silhouette, waving his arms at them.

Martin winces. "...Looks like we have to go through the house."

"We have to go through the house," Tim sighs.

------------------------

"Doesn't that feel weird?" Sasha asks, because she's mostly sure she's not in mortal danger anymore but also because that has historically never stopped her before anyways.

"I figure it feels better than going naked through the apocalypse," Helen says, sticking her head out her door a few steps away. "Besides, she's done worse."

The other woman doesn't answer.

She's clinging to Jon's hand like a kindergartner about to cross a busy street, and hasn't said a word other than his name from the moment she climbed out of the bloody, misshapen hide naked and covered in gore, and now she walks behind him in silence, dressed in the ill-fitting, torn garments of the woman she mauled to death.

She looks- frail, is the only word Sasha can think of.

Despite her lean frame being lined with muscle, despite her height and her teeth sharpened to a point, she seems lost and confused, like Jon is the only thing she's sure of anymore.

Bit of a surprising look, for someone who made him dig his own grave before she decided not to execute him.

A few steps ahead, Jon sighs.

"I- please don't bring that up. Out loud, I mean," he says.

Sasha arches an eyebrow. "First off, if you keep looking into my head, you'll see things you don't want to see-"

"That's very ironic, coming from you."

"-and second off, why? Is it a bit too R-rated for her?"

"Sasha," Jon sighs again, and she bristles.

It still irks her, to think of all that happened, all that she couldn't help with because of her stupid detour to Artifacts Storage.

"It wasn't your fault," Jon says, a lot more patiently than Sasha would've thought him capable of. "And Daisy- she's different than she was back then."

"Must've been one hell of an apology." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Not really..." Jon looks away, his gaze fixed at some point by Sasha's shoes. "... it's not like I can forgive her for that. She knows that."

"Then? What changed?"

"She did." Jon shrugs. "It's never going to make it right, but- but she's no longer the person that could justify those things. That would do them on the first place."

"Hm," she huffs, and Jon gives her a tired smile.

"We may not be humans anymore, but we're still just... people. It's always going to be messy." He looks forward then, before squeezing at Daisy's hand and gesturing at Sasha to keep moving. "We should go on; I'm getting cold."

[vitaecryptid]

I bet that Dr. Ratio is always operating on this fear he never voices that one day he won't be enough for Aventurine to keep on living. In a way he probably chases after Aventurine in the same way he chases after Nous' gaze. However Aventurine IS in reach, IS looking at him, and maybe if Ratio holds on just tight enough he won't slip away. In between times when they're together, does he quietly offer a prayer to the Amber Lord that Aventurine will come back to him safe and alive? Does he press his lips to Aventurine's forehead when he's asleep in his arms, wondering if it'll be the last time? Amongst all of his thoughts of a possible end to the man he adores, is there hope for the future, or is he forever trapped in the present, hoping his efforts are enough?

[leezuhh]

it's crazy to me that there are people out there who still think that media and fiction do not affect how people think at all

[gintrinsic-writing]

The brown paper bag was small and nondescript. It crinkled in Legend’s fist. 

“So?” Sky asked quietly. “What did the doctor say?”

“It’s not bad,” Legend answered with a shrug. He sounded calm despite the tension in his shoulders. Sky was immediately on edge. 

“Meaning?”

“I’m deficient in vitamin B.”

“And?”

“That’s it,” Legend assured him. “Everything else checked out.”

“Everything? Because Hyrule said—”

“I know what he said, I was there,” Legend muttered dryly. “It’s hard to forget words like ‘degenerative neuropathy’ when you’re falling asleep.”

Sky winced. “Sorry.”

Legend waved his apology aside. “Don’t be. The doctor mentioned similar possibilities, but no, it’s just a vitamin issue.”

It sounded almost too good to be true. “And that can cause…?”

“The tingling, numbness and tiredness?” Legend snorted. “Apparently.”

Sky slouched forward in relief. “Thank Hylia.” They’d been so worried the past few weeks. Legend already dealt with chronic pain issues, but lately he’d been having sensory problems even when sitting, standing, or holding a weapon. Sky had been the one to suggest that they stop in a city to find someone trained in modern medicine when potions hadn’t improved anything. “I take it there’s a medication?” he asked, nodding to the brown paper bag.

Some of the tension returned to Legend’s shoulders. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Legend.”

“Sky.” Legend mimicked his tone. 

“What’s the issue? Does it taste bad?”

Legend turned the bag over and dumped its contents on one of the inn’s beds. Sky spotted several small vials and syringes. “It’s a monthly injection, since my gut apparently isn’t absorbing vitamins properly.”

“Oh. Is that… bad?”

“Of course not,” Legend said quickly. “It’ll take two seconds. It’s more of a minor inconvenience than anything else.”

Sky pursed his lips. “Do you want me to give you the first one?”

This time, Legend blushed. “No. It’s just a needle. I’ve had much worse.”

“I know.”

“I know you know,” Legend griped, still blushing. He suddenly reached over to fill one of the syringes. The liquid was a pleasant cherry red. When he lifted one side of his tunic to expose his hip, Sky glanced away to be polite. Seconds passed, and Sky waited… 

And waited.

Legend abruptly giggled, and Sky glanced up just in time to see him slap his free hand over his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Don’t look!” Legend blurted. 

Sky immediately glanced away again. “Are you sure…?”

“I’m,” Legend stopped to giggle once more. “F-fine!” He cleared his throat, though his voice remained just shy of laughter. “I’m fine. It’s just a needle. I’m. fine.”

“You’re fine,” Sky repeated pleasantly. 

“It’s just a needle.”

“Right, you said that.”

Legend laughed. “In my leg.”

“Yes...”

“This is my leg.”

“Goddess, Legend, are you sure you don’t want me to do it?” Sky asked, finally looking over.

Legend’s cheeks were flushed pink, and his expression kept ping-ponging between a frown and a nervous grin. The needle hovered just millimeters over his skin. “No! I’m doing it!” 

Sky raised his hands slowly. “Okay, how about—Don’t do it blind!”

“Too late!” Legend exclaimed, staring at an ugly portrait on the wall as he jabbed the needle into his hip. He sighed in relief as soon as it was done, then calmly glanced down as he finished sliding the hub against his skin. After drawing back on the syringe to make sure he wasn’t in a vessel, he injected himself and withdrew the needle. “Din’s fiery balls,” he grumbled. “That sucked.”

Sky felt like he had whiplash. “She doesn't—You—”

“Glad that’s done with,” Legend said as if he hadn't made the entire experience as dramatic as possible. He capped the used needle and set it aside. “Where are the others? Is there a plan for dinner yet?”

Sky shook his head at him. “Why did you look away?”

“That was my leg.”

“Yes,” Sky groaned, “so you said.”

“I just can’t watch it go in. Gives me the heebs,” Legend told him seriously. “Once the needle’s broken through the skin, I’m good.”

“Just… let one of us inject you next month.”

“That sounds worse.”

“But then you don’t have to watch,” Sky pointed out. 

“Yeah, true…”

“You’re not going to let us, are you?”

“No chance in hell,” Legend confirmed with a nod. 

[dontwanderoff]

guys was anyone going to remind me my reports are due on the 5th of june or was i just meant to put myself in a panic on this sunday night when i realised??

[bells-of-black-sunday]

I also want to talk about the reasons why my Tarhos hates Vittorio. The knight is a man who has been faced with nothing, but violence his entire life, it's just the hand he was dealt being the only one who woke up when his mother tried to spare them all his fate. He's seen first hand the destruction petty squabbles between nobles and their egos cause, he's slaughtered hundreds of innocent civilians over a stolen loaf of bread.

He doesn't feel bad about it even if he knows it's incredibly stupid of course, but that's how he copes. He loves the silence after everything is settled and he can smell the blood in the air and feel his adrenaline wane... it makes him feel human and stay connected to what he knows. So when he's free and able to go work for other people, he started working for Vittorio, because it seemed easy. Just a simple escort. Keep the highwaymen away and kill the ones that are stupid enough to try their hand. However- Vittorio treats him like a person.

He treats him with the same respect and dignity he'd give anyone else while also boasting, in his eyes, about how the world would be better if everyone was a pacifist and how he would never harm a fly. Meanwhile his entire fortune is built on the blood of others, how many countless people have been killed just to put him in nice clothes and a warm castle. How a single thread in his brocades would pay for a families meal for a year. And that irritates him to no end.

Because on one hand, he doesn't like being touched by people that aren't his wife and on the other only him, Haru and the faithful three treated each other like people he's started to associate that kind of speak with knowing someone intimately. Tarhos just isn't used to it and it's a huge change to go from being treated like a work animal to being treated like fellow nobility. And of course Vittorio means nothing by it, he's just being friendly. He trusts Tarhos with his life and wants to make sure he's comfortable.

The knight hates nobility. He does. There's no changing his mind on that, so for a noble to not only treat him like a person, but also talk the way he does would really grind him down over the months they were together and Entity influence doesn't help in the slightest. It only feeds it.

[cyberkaban]

Finally,I've got time to tell you about THE LORE(wise and mystical)

So,in this AU Murkoff had a contract with Bremen army. However,it was unprofitable,due to how long the conflict was. They also had a contract with Eastern Union. The plan was to choose the most victorious side of conflict and stick to them.

The corporation was hired to increase the fighting capacity of the army, using not very humane, but effective methods. Nothing they weren't used to.

(Un)fortunately, by the end of conflict,the deal led to the organization's bankruptcy.

And all roads lead to Prehevil

Miles – Journalist(lol,who's surprised?). Went to Prehevil to uncover Bremen's(and Murkoff's ofc) crimes to the world. Currently unemployed,because of the latest leak. Mostly driven by enthusiasm. Can increase his mental health by writing his thoughts down. Also runs faster than others. Killing people goes against his morales. But: If there's no way of avoiding the fight – rest assured,he knows how to defend himself.

In his moonscorched form he's the one who initiates the fights.

Waylon – Ex-engenieer of Murkoff. His joy for them getting throwned over by life went down,when he realized he's unemployed. He needed money to provide for his family,so he went to Prehevil looking for a job. Physically strong and is not afraid of loosing limb or two. He'll still be able to work and think clearly. Will befriend Miles quickly. Waylon knew he had enough the moment he saw the consequances of his actions on other people's bodies and minds. His hands are stained in blood too. He'd rather flee from a fight,but he's not afraid to confront his ex-colleagues.

Might develop hemophobia(fear of blood) at the last days. His moonscorched form combines machinery and flesh.

Jeremy – ah,that poor bastard. Even with dark humor like his it's impossible to laugh it of. When the corporation bunkruped,he was the one in charge and lost even more than others. Went to Prehevil for 2 things. White Bunker,that was constructed by the Eastern Union to research and experiment with otherworldly powers. Guess whose idea that was? Rudolph Vernike's(ofc) Here comes the second things: Jeremy wants revenge. He's not the one to blame himself. Even though he's good at hand-to-hand combat,he'd rather flee. That's why he has higher chanses of leaving the fight when low on health(it's mostly 80%). He's not looking for a fight,but if someone tries to interfer with his plans – he'll gladly end them.

You know,it's very unlikely for a guy like him NOT TO participate in massacre(intentional,or not. mostly not). He's not immune to the curse,but you'd rather find him dead in his human form.

Chris – former soldier of Bremen. His sanity left him a long time ago. Went to Prehevil in order to interfer Murkoff's plans. He once saw their deus-ex-machina. Even if it might not be a God,it's better to have it contained,keep it from outer world. Chris is actually quite empathetic towards other partisipants of Festival,he can be recruited very fast(ofc he won't cooperate with Murkoff). Will befriend Miles. Pain is his source of power. When he's low on health/mind,his attacks are getting more aggressive and deal A LOT of damage. If his attacks are progressivly getting stronger – fight back,and pray that you won't miss.

Despite the hatred carved in his mind,he wants to protect others. That's why his moonscorched form brings so much pain and harm.

Richard – Occultist,part-time doctor and a huge disappointment to his family. He's not really a doctor, but there's nothing stopping him from being one! In his homeland,occultism was considered more of a hobby. But,since he wasn't allowed to become a doctor,he found interest in occult practices. "There's no way anyone interested in otherwordly powers wouldn't visit Prehevil,buddy." Rick wasn't very upset about losing his job,because he just wasn't interested. Men is chaotic neutral. He's quite expirienced at what he does,but the most unpleasant debuff is him gaining addictions. Smoked tobacco once? Already addicted to it. He'll become a burden very soon,because of his addictions. Will team up with Jeremy. Is actually driven by the possibility of killing other participants,can and will do it.

His moonscorched form doesn't seem to have changed his psyche. He might not instant-kill everyone in fight,but he deals more damage to the limbs and often leaves party-members helpless.

Pauline – former Murkoff employee. She was sent to Prehevil in order to pick up some important researches from White Bunker and leave no witnesses. Because,some things should stay dead,but they just can't. She's not alligned to anyone,even All-mer. In fact,she's a pure atheist ,if it can be worded that way. Her main skill is accuracy,be it a gun or a knife. Good at blinding opponents. In fact,Pauline's cold-blooded nature has benefits.

Her moonscorched form blinds people very easily,which is why it was named"The Silencer",referring to her nature.

Paul – former Murkoff employee. Went to Prehevil with Pauline to assist her. However,he has other motives to be there – his daughter. Paul was born in Prehevil and felt safe leaving Alice in Bohemia,rather than somewhere abroad. Besides,Murkoff were helpful about her desease,and Bremen's army had already occupied the city. However,things turned out to be not so optimistic. His main skill is botanism,but he seems to know a lot about ritual circles and occult practices. Paul wouldn't kill another human being,but he knows all too well about Rher's malicious nature.

(Fun fact,if niether of the Pauls-duo gets recruited on the day3 – they'll kill each other)

His moonscorched form seems rather pity. He's passive and blue about his fate. Ending him is not even a crime.

Blake – Detective. His wife went to Prehevil 5 days ago,and he hasn't heard from her till today. He doesn't seem to know anything about Murkoff,but he's smart enough to find out,who's who. Not only can he see weaknesses of his opponents,he's also able to "sence" the danger. His intuition and experience can "warn" if enemies detected. (Something sorta: "Fear of the future crawls inside you") Can find a way out,even when it seems impossible. Fear will guide him,playing on his gullible mind.

Blake's moonscorched form is painfully reminiscent of the very ghosts of his past,that brough him here.

[lost-girl-2021]

I just want to say it's great that you're striving to write and publish a book. I read the bit you posted for VIT and I like the writing style but sci-fi genre isn't my favorite. Nonetheless, I love the summary excerpt you got for written for it, definitely catches a reader's attention. Completing and publishing by 20 would be awesome if you could!

I aspired to write and finish a triology by the time I was 19 (I had completed the first book by the time I was 14) but sadly that never happened because of burnout from university and work and my creative well in terms of writing original content was dry. But also, looking back, it would still need a ton of editing. At 26 I've started to get the creative well filling up again and have started something but, it's a tedious process.

Anyway, I wish you all the best in your writing, editing and publishing journey! Hoping it all goes smoothly for you!

Thank you so much! Writing is definitely the thing I love to do most, the biggest problem I have is actually completing stuff before getting caught up in the next thing. VIT is going to be the first book I'll complete, since I've been working on it for so long, but I have so many different book ideas filling up my google drive, lol.

Thanks for reading! T.K.

[a-fuked-up-mess]

you stole something from me and it's a tragedy that i can't even complain 'cause it was never mine to begin with but know that when your crimes will be counted, nobody will forget about the theft

[autumnsorbet]

Thank u iv been saying this for a year or more oz and Oscar are different people even from the original oz or other Oz's but I think many fans and the characters in the show see ozpin like the original ozma but he was still his own person

This is a issue I think the writers have what Oscar too is that we haven't gotten to see his character and they kind of wasted time and volumes for five and six I believe in volume four they should have showed us Oscar's home life like family friends with his living situation was like with his family why his parents weren't there I wish they had showed us what Oscar would really be losing if he had to leave home and become the next oz, and it would hurt more cuz we saw how Happy Oscar is and how much he loves home and what he would be losing

Like image if like some people want it Ruby became the next Oz, we know what ruby would be losing Ruby already lost her mother but now she be losing her identity that we've all come to know and love she be losing her friends her sister her dad and even her weapon because even though Ruby uses crescent rose eventually if oz took over her life, her main weapon would be the long memory I don't even think oz will bother to even learn how crescent rose, he was stick to what he's familiar with and the thing that holds the most sentimental value to him his Cane and possibly just discard Ruby scythe and weapons fighting style all together for his own

And that is something I would like to see I would like to see what Oscar would have to give up like his favorite foods maybe due to his mannerism changing he doesn't like the same favorite foods he likes to eat he likes things that Oz throughout many lives have like to eat stuff like that and I wish they had maybe shown us that way

Ozpin as well, show us what type of friends he likes to make show us what type of movies and books and things he likes to read and how it's different from Oscar, or even show us small things like maybe how he cooks and how it's different from Oscar how maybe he'll use different seasonings from Oscar when they're making the same dish I don't think this was a lot to ask and this all could have been done in volume1-6 but I'm sorry I have to blame the writes here they kept doing off screen stuff with both oz and Oscar and I wish they had done a bit more they had the time for it,they just did execute this well

Ozpin is a wasted character. You can't have a theme that you are still Oscar, not One of Oz many lives. And then never go into Ozpin himself. Who is he? No one wonders the type of person he was. What did he want in life. Qrow knew him for so long and is quick to discard him as just Oz now. How does Oscar feel about that. How all the characters see Ozpin as Oz. It just sad. I love stories about identities, but the show writers refuse to go into it.

[seaslugandscylla]

Some notes under the snacking issue of Sebastian post caused my brain to weeoweeo it way too much than I expected, so well here are the continuing of topic xd

Sorry it's an essay because I can't write succinctly

1. How did the evil corporation(insert it’s name please) feed?

As far as I’m concerned, the shady corpo experimented on him to check/make people to able to breathe under water. Keeping him alive was quite crucial to success so I think they would provided him with proper amount of of food or at least the full nutrient content preparation. However, it changed when his body started to rapidly mutate, grow and evolve into what he’s now. The vast increase in his need of food and the fact that the gills didn’t develop very well, due to the scientists not very smart move - mixing his DNA with atmospheric oxygen snake and whale, caused the team to shrink his portion and gave him bare minimum in form of drip-feed… Auch

2. How didn’t he die from literally any nutrient deficiency sickness?

As I said it before I do not know the lore very much only basis. So forgive if I mess up some facts about the events. Going back to topic, after the event of beating the life out of his guards/special troops everyone left the lab immediately. Leaving everything behind including the rations, which were sent there for the staff to eat, all kind of medicine - pills, drops, syrups, injections etc. and whatever crops left( no idea if in the game is any „farm” but the transport would be extremely expensive so I think they would love to slash costs especially when there are vertical farms which are efficient, cheap and easy to maintain and during evacuation they could simply destroy it if nothing like this exists there). He simply gain most of crucial elements via all those supplements. Especially via drips which are the least painful without activating all digestive track. I like to think the reason why his extra arm is in the bandages is the fact that he often injects himself with various needles and his veins are in horrible state. At some point point all these supplements will end and it won’t end well for him, but not yet. That’s solves a bit the issue of lack of scurvy, nyctalopia and any other issues alike. Here’s the misery fish and his banana bag of lovely Zn and vit C

3. Another snacking issue

He is in constant state of hunger. No escape from it. The small human stomach ruthlessly dictates the size of his next snack and for how long he cannot eat, because it’s full, but it’s better to have at least one full than none. That could cause another big issue which is connected with the unconditional reflex - food in mouth equals activiting the synthesis of digestive enzymes and HCl in both tracks at the same time. Both are connected to one nervous system and the information goes to both, no matter if only one should start working. Not good situation, one belly is digesting itself,easy way to get ulcers or esophagitis, which not only are extremely painful but also deadly especially in his case with no health care or even chance to get any. He had to figure it out quite quickly how to make his eating as harmless as it’s possible. The easiest way I think would be simply some herby stomach drop, the one which highers the ph and stops HCl from being created. But I fear it works on human part- So he had to create strict timetable - when he eats, when he takes drops, when he can eat again. To keep the snake stomach in check and never letting it be fully empty and miraculously avoid the sinister autodigestive ideas of snake element. So his best friend is a tiny bottle of disgusting drops from a nurse office

4. How not to starve to death with body like that?

Dense soup. Maximum proteins in the smallest velocity and in easy to consume and digest way. It passes both stomachs faster because tough long chains are already broken into smaller ones so it can be faster absorbed and used. It’s also very easy to make and can contain many ingredients giving the biggest diversity in one sip. Still starves because it’s not enough, but there is no better way :”)

And no he wouldn't threaten anyone that he would add them to his soup. He was a human and he exactly knows there are too many weird fellas out there. No way he'll risk getting new traumatic event, he won't take it anymore-

The last thing is this two sentences:

Honestly I wasn't prepared to read something like this with straight face at 6AM. It wasn't in my weekly bingo card, but jup it made my day, thanks

[froggiewrites]

Possession

Pairing: Doflamingo x Reader

NSFW

Summary: Doflamingo wants you, and he has always been good at getting what he wants. Warnings: Smut, Possessiveness, Manipulation, Yandere (i think this counts?) Word Count: 1.8k Notes: This is pretty different in vibes from everything else I've posted here, but Doffy has bewitched me a little bit. I was trying to finish Dressrosa before writing about him but I just had to get this one out. Crossposted from Ao3

Doflamingo did not know exactly when you caught his eye.

It was small, at first, the instinct to seek you out. He didn’t indulge in it. He had far more important things to worry about. But as time went on, as you appeared again and again, he found himself more and more determined to have you.

You were a sweet thing, innocent and uncomplicated, ripe and ready for the taking. It took very little effort to endear himself to you. A few well timed words and well placed smiles and you were falling at his feet. It was adorable, really, the way you fell apart when he came around. He expected the passing fancy to end at that, a short dalliance that would end in you being thrown to the side as his ambitions led him somewhere far greater than here, somewhere you couldn’t and shouldn’t follow.

But he found himself enjoying you more and more. Your wide eyes and gentle smiles, your soft hands and thighs, your plush lips and warm mouth. You may not be an asset to the family, ignorant to his work and his purpose, but you were…useful, in your own way.

The nightmares didn't stop, but it was a little easier to come back to reality with someone beside him, not that he would admit that. And if some days he awoke with his hands primed around your throat, ready to squeeze, well. Nobody had to know. That was the risk you took, you naive little thing, when you followed him home. When you accepted his invitation into his bed, into his arms. If you noticed the bruises when you woke up, you never mentioned them. He doesn’t know if it’s ignorance or pity that keeps your mouth shut. He doesn’t know which is worse.

It turns his stomach to think you would pity him, dare to see him as small enough to deserve anything less than utter devotion, than worship. But the idea of you leaving if you truly knew him, knew better…it’s worse than revolting. It makes every one of his muscles tense, his chest tighten, his teeth clench. Every part of him primed to chase you down, hold you tight, ensure that you would not and cannot leave him.

Once he had a hold of the thought of you leaving, it stayed buried beneath his skin, a constant nagging feeling he couldn’t shake. He was haunted with the image of you sneaking away, catching a ride on a ship somewhere far out of his reach. In the days following, he holds you closer than ever before, grip strong enough to bruise. You cannot move an inch without his permission. As it should be.

He begins his careful construction of your cage soon after.

It begins slowly, with small gifts that earn him that soft smile. Then the next step, as you slowly start losing contact with old friends, start coming to him more and more as the only person in your life there and willing to listen. He keeps you coming back for companionship, for joy, for pleasure, ensuring that you can come to him and only him for such things.

When he takes you, he studies you, carefully plans each action to lead you further and further into this delusion you seem to have. That he loves you. That you’re safe in these arms. That you chose this. 

“Doffy!” You cry sweetly when his teeth find your neck, nipping at you gently, finding and latching onto your most sensitive parts. Tomorrow he will pretend the marks are an accident, that the small amount of blood he draws was simply due to an excess of enthusiasm, and not just him taking what he’s owed. Every part of you is his, including the blood in your veins. If he wants it, it is his to have. He savors the taste of iron on his tongue, the taste of your very life, your vital essence.

Doflamingo’s hands are calloused, and you gasp as you feel their roughness against your skin. He holds himself back, ensuring his touches are firm but not cruel, that his pace is steady but not brutal. His hands find your breasts first, pinching and prodding demandingly. He keeps his eyes on your face as his fingers find their place, teasing as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes on his, lashes fluttering. You keen sweetly as he rolls your chest in his hands, and he almost struggles to keep the smirk off of his face. You’re putty beneath him, ready for him to shape in whatever image he pleases.

His hand slips lower, fingers tracing slowly down to where he knows you want him. He carefully plans his steps in this dance, and he can see in your eyes that you’re following his lead without question. You shine with adoration, and when he intertwines his free hand with yours, you light up, a goofy, lovesick smile overtaking your lust for a moment. He grins, a sense of warmth blooming through him. Surely a sense of accomplishment, for continuing the charade successfully. For leading you further and further into your cage without a moment’s hesitation. You’re eating out of his hand, just as you were meant to.

His fingers push past your panties, and he begins by inserting only one, slowly sliding it into your hole as you moan. He keeps his pace slow even as you wiggle your hips in frustration, even as you begin to softly whine. He doesn’t give you what you want until you beg.

“Doflamingo, please, more!” Your voice is tinged with desperation, and he chuckles.

“I need you to be more specific, little bird.”

“Faster, please.”

He had planned to make you beg far more than that, until you were nearly crying for him, but the sweet little whimper in your voice makes it hard to deny you. “That’s all you had to say.”

He begins to thrust his finger at a significantly faster pace, then adds another, then another, prepping you well for the real show. As much as he would love to take you immediately, to take and take and take until you’re broken beneath him, he was sure you would leave for that. You wouldn’t look up at him with that sickening admiration in your doe eyes anymore, and he simply would not lose that. He attempts to take the hand intertwined with yours back, to rub at your clit as you clench around him, but you curl your fingers around him harder, and cry out, “No, stay, please!”

He allows you to keep the hand, for now.

He can feel you near your precipice, can see it in your eyes, and chooses the exact moment before you break to pull out his fingers. You sob as they leave, and he gives you a sympathetic smile, hoping you’re too far gone to realize it’s far closer to a predator’s smug grin. “I know, sweet thing, but you can’t have all the fun to yourself.”

He finally peels your panties off, leaving you bare and caged beneath him, where you belong. He lines himself up with your entrance, and he stares you dead in the eyes as he plunges his full length into you at once. You cry out, eyes closing, and he tuts quietly. “Eyes on me.”

You obey.

His pace is fast but not punishing, and he keeps his thrusts on the softer side of brutal. Another thing he will blame on his enthusiasm tomorrow, when you quietly whine that it hurts to walk and he shushes you and tells you you belong in his bed anyway. You’ll laugh like it’s a joke, and he’ll laugh at your ignorance. One day you’ll realize it was the truth, and you’ll willingly nest here at his side, ready and wanting whenever he asks. But that is the future, and right now he should be more focused on how deeply his cock is buried inside you, and how you cry and tighten around him, calling his name.

His teeth long for your neck again, but he can’t bring himself to break your intoxicating eye contact. He can see himself reflected in your eyes, looking a far more innocent and giving man than he is. Is this how you see him? His hand finds your clit, willing to continue the charade. You nearly scream as you feel his finger rub against the nub, and he almost laughs. How easy you are to unravel. A few more thrusts and a few well practiced movements of his fingers and you come undone, squeezing around him tightly, eyes falling shut, back arching off the bed and pressing your chests together. He keeps moving, allows you to keep riding it out, burying you in your pleasure. He cums a few moments later, burying up to the hilt in you, filling you, marking you as his. He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to bleed, and after his orgasm subsides he licks the wound, lavishing in the taste of you.

He falls on top of you, pinning you to the bed, and you don’t complain. You bring your arm up to run your hands through his hair affectionately. With the hand still held to the bed, you gently run your thumb over his knuckles, memorizing the feeling of it. You lay in silence as Doflamingo begins to slowly ponder the next stages of your entrapment. You’ll stay tonight, of course, but likely still go home tomorrow. Perhaps the next step should be ensuring you stay here every night. Accessible, willing, waiting for him. After that, he’ll find you work to do in the family, find some busywork that keeps you here. You can have everything you’ll ever need in these walls, if he so chooses. And choose you he does.

“Doffy?” Your sweet voice breaks him out of his pondering, and he looks down to see you staring up at him with something resembling worry.

“Yes, little bird?”

“Are you alright? You were frowning. Did I do something?” Your tone is filled with anxiety, your eyes searching his face for answers.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the pleasure he finds in you looking at him for comfort, for reassurance. You trust him. “No, of course not. I was just thinking about some plans for the future. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.” To ensure the matter is laid to rest, he kisses you on the forehead, watching as you flush red, as your lips twitch into a smile and you hide your face in his shoulder. So sweet. So simple.

You fall asleep crushed beneath him, dreaming of a life shared. He falls asleep holding you close, dreaming of the next step in making you well and truly his.

[vitaecryptid]

I don't think Alhaitham has one of the standard 'love languages'. When I look at him and see how he acts around Kaveh, I believe his love language consists of patience and compromise. With Kaveh he's willing to wait, willing to yield a bit, willing to meet him halfway.

However that wasn't always the case. He saw how being completely critical, uncompromising, and impatient ended. Alhaitham is all too familiar with the loneliness of going without Kaveh but also recognized that he was what he wanted, in the end, thus he put the work in.

I suppose if we were to apply a traditional love language label to it, his would be acts of service, considering all the work he's done on himself for Kaveh. It hasn't been easy of course. He had to go out of his way to reach out to him, to make room for him in his house and his life, disrupt his peace and quiet that he had found. He has had to deal with criticism of his habits and his way of thinking constantly. However, amongst all of that, they've made slow but steady progress. Kaveh likely didn't notice at first, the way that Alhaitham gradually adjusted the way he spoke after numerous fights. How each time something went poorly between them Alhaitham would step back, take time to process, and adjust his way of speaking to Kaveh specifically just a bit. It is likely that only after months after not bickering and peaceful cohabitation he would pause, suddenly, and realize that he's stopped thinking about leaving.

In that moment I think only Kaveh would really understand the gravity of that. For Alhaitham to make room for someone in his life they have to be important. He doesn't waste his time on those he doesn't see value in. Thus for Alhaitham to go out of way to adjust for Kaveh specifically means more than a confession ever could.

[vitensal]

[nsfw-ish] It was rough. Fangs had penetrated into Donnie's neck. It felt like a fog surrounded him. His neck ached, burned, and tingled where Raph's teeth had punctured it. Fire emanated from it directly into his veins, cutting a scorching sensation into the folds of Donnie's brain. His legs became numb as it hit him. His throat opened to let forth a strangled moan. In an effort to cradle Raph's body as closely as possible, his fingers clawed into his shoulders. Raph sucked harder into Donnie's neck while gripping his soft shell with one hand and cupping the back of his neck with the other. His body experienced a white, intense pleasure pulsation that rendered him insane. Without a voice, he found himself pleading. His hips rubbed up against the vampire as he attempted to stimulate his recently discovered need. He was warned. But Don didn't listen.

Have a vamp turtle as a treat! but it looks like someone else has taken an interest ;))

[mistydeyes]

pharmacist! hcs

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summary: ik some people put themselves in the role of the pharmacist but here are some headcanons i have for her if you consider her more of an oc :)

pairing: 141 x pharmacist!reader

see her here counseling the 141

her story if she likes price

her story if she likes ghost

PS. Another part of her story is coming soon! Look out for next Wednesday :)

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joined the British Army as a pharmacy captain after a two year pharmacy residency in a London hospital

she realized that working at a local chemists and in a hospital weren’t for her so she decided on the career change

speaking of her life before being a pharmacy captain, she was a good student — not at the bottom but not at the top

she primarily struggled with anything related to pharmacology but excelled with therapeutics and counseling

her blood type is O- (a universal blood donor)

before becoming a pharmacist, she had aspirations of becoming a linguist or historian

was amazing at picking up languages and learning them after some time

but she was drawn to pharmacy after seeing how it helped a close family friend who had an MRSA resistant infection

knows 10 different languages and counting (with varying speaking and writing fluency) - English obvi, Spanish, Mandarin, Greek, Latin, Russian, Arabic, Swedish, German, French, and is currently learning Portuguese

loves taking walks and runs at the base gym (she has to get in her recommended 150min of exercise a week)

if you think she’s listening to music while exercising you’re wrong, she’s listening to podcasts and always loves the medicine focused ones

always will show up to military balls or formal events and talk to you about anything under the sun

loves interacting with people 1 on 1 rather than behind a pharmacy counter

also keep in mind she’s not flirting, she just loves chatting with people and knowing how to make their day better

one time, she met a linguist and after the initial awkwardness (she thought the pharmacist was hitting on her), they had a whole conversation about the nuances of languages

if you know her well, you’ll notice how she deflects the conversation onto you and talking abt yourself as she loves observing

Gaz and Ghost frustrate her at times as she finds herself revealing things she normally won’t tell patients

despite the health risk, she loves caffeine and always has an energy drink or cup of coffee during the day

her diet is completely different, she prefers to prepare things in her room or look for the best things in the mess hall (she needs a balanced diet)

her bookshelves in her room are filled with books in a variety of languages and are often history books or classics

she also is currently reading a book that details the history of women in medicine

she has pictures in her room which show her happiest times aka being in pharmacy school

carries a large water bottle with her at all times and her tech’s have to remind her to stay hydrated during a shift

her techs are basically her siblings and she likes to take them off base occasionally to chat about something different than drugs and immunizations

her drink of choice is a tequila sunrise because tequila is the only alcohol that isn’t a depressant and also orange juice is a great source of Vit C!

her second drink of choice is a penicillin

wants to be a professor when she retires and dreams of teaching about self-care recommendations and emergency medicine

has a small tattoo of a mortar and pestle on her forearm, she got it with some of her friends when they all graduated

her tech joked that she should get a notepad tattooed on her wrist because she always writes reminders on her arms

primarily lives on base and occasionally visits her parents who live in Brighton

she updates them weekly but they know their daughter is in one of the safest places in the UK

her favorite drug to administer are any antimalarials, eye drops, nasal spray, and inhalers (she loves that she just has to count the boxes)

her least favorite is Metformin and thyroid drugs as they often are in counts of 90 or 180

constantly uses pink pen and colorful sticky notes (peep her little notes in the medical files)

the reason she hates doctors is not because of anything significant but because of an ex that told her that her degree was irrelevant because she didn’t go to med school

hates the stigma against pharmacists, in the US they’re literally considered doctors so why is there such disrespect?

she’ll never admit it but her favorite patients are the 141, they all have such unique personalities that she constantly looks for their scripts every morning

[thepersonperson]

Ngl your post summarises so well why i love sukugo and why im so insane about them

Like of fucking course those two would work together when Sukuna deeply does not care about any social rules to ever exist. Of course they do when Gojo is confronted with someone gay for him and not hiding behind anything. This is not survivable and i love them and care them. I even had written in the notes for my fic about Gojo being the person who generally prefers to keep things as they are but i couldnt actually formulate why i think that. You are so smart your analysis is so wonderful

This is also why I like Sukugo a lot. It's not just that Sukuna matches Gojo's freak, he enables it. Encourages it even. Makes it worse. Sukuna's existence is a twisted opposition to Jujutsu Society. It's very hedonistic, sadistic, and selfish but by golly it is rebellion.

The flattery is also appreciated, but please understand that I am very stupid and am capable of making mistakes. Alternate perspectives like yours are just as valuable. Which is why I'm shoehorning your tags on this post into this ask. (They are great tags and everyone should see them. Also I don't know how to respond to them otherwise.)

#yeah youre right # sorry i got time to think about it #and im kind of writing gojo rhe same but a vit more influenced by sukuna lmao #tbh as the person coming from a post soviet country #i honestly cant like #fully agree with everything due to just #like i understand that what people want from socialism isnt what was in soviet union #but its still very much hard to accept that anyone could want what we went through lol #when i tell you that socialism actually pitted everyone against each other isnt not a joke #but i understand what you lead into and yeah yeah true

#tbf to gojo he really tried even if his method ultimately failed #like he had genuinely tried to do better for the kids that came after him despite the desperate lack of empathy of understanding of others #and himself #like i can appreciate the desperate desire to make change for the better

#and yeah geto was so horribly jealous its insane #of anything really #i also kinda really think geto has the mentality that after toji gojo is different? #that the boy he knew died and this is someone else #and what he does it ultimately for the boy he loved and for the boy who survived through changing #it also may be a bit of a fucked up coping mechanism how to deal with it all and differentiate what gojo was to him and is

#but yeah i was thinkinf about it and talking a lot #they were so badly exploited as children #we know its better with gojo than it was before #but then also if gojo takes on the hardest missions for the students that means he’s not present to teach its a fucked up circle #he doesnt understand enough to be a full leader to make a rebellion but he is trying god damn #but yeah the only way he could articulate what he’s actually feeling is through battle which is sad

#i take the way he stopped looking for exciting battles growing up is him growing up #like sending yuuta for cursed tools. he made his peace that he cant just chase men while he needs to take care of the kids #idk its all deeplt fucked up and im very sad for them

That's a fair criticism and even better commentary. I understand the aversion to some of the words I'm using to describe this. It's just that I don't know how else to effectively communicate what I think is the main issue. I do appreciate you're willing to hear me out on this though! (You're applying Umineko's "Without love, it cannot be seen." which makes me very happy.)

I'm US based which is a hypercapitalist hellscape, so when I talk about socialism it doesn't mean "do exactly what the Soviet Union did" (that would be very bad) but instead some of the ideas behind workers rights are good and desperately needed to curb stomp the type of labor exploitation they're experiencing. (Like unions for better pay, hours, and working conditions.)

Theory is useful because it give you the words to describe exactly what's wrong and the ideas that can guide you towards productive solutions. I can say Jujutsu Society is bad because of labor exploitation from the higher ups and therefore unions would help mitigate their power because I learned about those things.

Gojo and Geto don't have those words or background so they see part of the problem but have no name for it. And because they don't understand why it's happening, their solutions are surface-level treatments that don't address the real source of their suffering.

Toji was a symptom of the problem. Geto saw Toji as the entire problem so he thinks eradicating anything like Toji is the solution. Gojo saw Toji as a symptom and a potential solution to the real problem—Jujutsu Society. He recognized that Toji being strong is what helped him escape this problem so he laser focused on it. If he and his students are strong, they can change things. What things exactly? Gojo doesn't have the knowledge or time to dwell deeper on it. To him strength=revolution. He neglects the need for mutual aid, addressing overwork, and limiting child labor because the words and framework to deal with that are missing.

Gojo can't really do anything other than keep things the sameish because he doesn't know how the better world he's seeking works. (Similar to how you recognized this flaw of his, but couldn't put it into words since you didn't have them.) He both does things better for his students and screws them up in whole new different ways as a result of this. It's very tragic.

And everything wrong with Jujutsu Society is still just a microcosm of Japanese work culture that leads to this exploitation in the first place. Nanami is the only character that makes this connection and he has no idea what to do about it other than work where he feels less bad about it.

It's kind of like knowing a grease fire is dangerous but not knowing how to put it out.

>Gojo throws water on the grease fire trying to put it out and makes it worse before he starts suffocating it with his body instead of a blanket.

>Geto tries to eradicate grease from existence not knowing that other types of fire exist.

>Nanami realizes oxygen and fuel are the source of fires but he has none of the tools to put them out or prevent them.

>Sukuna understands that letting the fire burn everything to ash means there will never be fire again. ...While ignoring this also means there will be nothing left in the aftermath.

If any of these people were taught fire safety (labor theory), their methods of dealing with the fire (labor exploitation) and preventing it in the future would be so much better.

Japan has some of the lowest union memberships and the worst working conditions amongst rich countries. JJK has a lot to say on the topic so I'm being very annoying about it because I don't see others talking about it this way.