#why does this accursed image exist

[estrellami-1]

Hi quick question

What the fuck

[liberty-or-death]

Shura Field, Red Lotus Waterside Pavilion - 2HA Chapter 8

但是红莲水榭是什么地方？是楚晚宁那孙子的居所，人称红莲地狱的修罗场。 But just what kind of place was the Red Lotus Pavilion? It was the residence of that bastard, Chu Wanning, the accursed den that everyone called Red Lotus Hell. - 2HA Translation Chapter 8: This Venerable One Gets Punished

Wow I was working on another meta, when I read this. AND LO AND BEHOLD MAJOR ERRORS LOL. (what's new lmao)

I just had to critique this translation because it’s just not accurate lol.   To be exact it should be “It is the residence of that bastard (那孙子 - a Beijing slang fyi) Chu Wanning, otherwise known as the Shura Field of the Red Lotus Hell”.  There’s no mention of it being an accursed den.  IMHO, the official translation does erase a whole meta without bothering to explain it, so I can't say I’m terribly impressed lol. 

So what exactly is a “Shura Field”?

Firstly, Shura, sometimes known as Asura, is a titan/demigod in Buddhism/Hinduism. The “Shura Fields” refers to the battlefield where the Emperor Shitian and Asura fought in Buddhist scriptures.  So this term refers to a bloody battlefield.  There’s also a second, more modern meaning, which refers to the complexity of interpersonal relationships (often used in a romantic sense in romantic novels or office politics lmao). It isn’t wrong to describe their romance as a “Shura Field”.  If anyone’s interested, there’s a whole thread on Reddit discussing how commonly used this phrase is. 

I do wonder if Meatbun used this term deliberately as a form of foreshadowing lol. Ranwan's romance IS a whole ass “Shura Field”.

They are depicted like this in ancient sculptures.

There are several reason why it’s wrong to term an Asura as a devil

Firstly, when translating a devil from CN>ENG, conventionally it would refer to the term 魔 Mo (ie. the same Mo in MDZS).  This term takes its roots from Mara, which is a different entity altogether. 

It does change the vibe of the sentence.  In the CN novel context, Asura’s usually refer to something akin to God of War as opposed to being entirely demonic and evil.  They’re more Ares than Hades to put it this way.   So the line isn't saying that Chu Wanning is evil per se.

It’s also disrespectful given that Buddhisim and Hinduism are active religions in Asia Pacific.  Hinduism is the largest religion in Asia FYI.  Rude af to change the terminology of other religions. 

It does have a pre-existing English term.  Use it lmao.  Even MTL gets it right.

There’s also an interesting meta around “Red Lotus Hell”.  In Buddhism, the Red Lotus Hell is described as one of the “Eight Cold Hells.” It was said that those who were born into this hell are severely cold, their bodies turn red and their skin is frozen and cracked.  (This does sound a little like Chu Wanning lmao). The idea of the Red Lotus Hell/Flame was also described in one of the scriptures of the Yehuo Sect “火焰化红莲，天罪自消衍 The flames turns into a red lotus, and the sins of Heaven fade on their own.”  The flames refer to the “fire of trouble” and the lotus “a comfortable state of mind”.  Hence, it means through (Buddhism) practice, karma can be eliminated, troubles can be relieved, and a state of freedom can be achieved.  

The beautiful flower looks like this.

I’m not a Buddhist expert so correct me if I’m wrong lol.  Anyway, if you combine the mental image of the Red Lotus Hall with that of Shura’s Field, you’d understand the vibe that Meatbun was going for.

On another note, 水榭 is quite specific to a type of Pavililon. It's not just any Pavillion, it's a pavillion that's beside a waterbody. There is another type of pavillion that's based on land, so if you want to be specific, this is how it probably looks like.

Additional links

More 2HA meta

[wordsofrowan]

The Shadow Court

Chapter 15 - Consumed by Shadows

Under the shimmering glow of the moon, Chat Noir stealthily made his way back to his, dimly lit room, his mind consumed not only by frustration but also by a seething anger that threatened to consume him. With a swift and forceful motion, he shed his heroic facade, he began pacing back and forth in his room. "Can you believe her, Plagg?" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with a volatile mixture of disbelief and rage. "I presented her with irrefutable evidence that Marinette is colluding with that wretched Shadow Moth, and yet she dares to treat me as if I am the villain in this twisted tale!"

Perched on Adrien's shoulder, Plagg trembled slightly, sensing the explosive energy radiating from his holder. Plagg couldn’t believe what he was hearing from Adrien. Plagg didn’t know when it happened but this definitely wasn’t his kitten anymore, "Ladybug does have a point, Adrien. What you offered her wasn't concrete proof. And you do tend to disappear frequently during those wretched Akuma attacks."

Adrien's frustration reached its boiling point, causing him to snap at Plagg with an intensity that sent a shiver down the kwami's tiny spine. "Yeah, that's because I am Chat Noir! I have every damn reason to not be present! I’m the one busting my ass to save Paris!" His words reverberated through the room, filling the air with a palpable tension.

Plagg, his eyes wide with fear, attempted to reason with his enraged holder. "Have you ever considered, Adrien, that Marinette, considering the countless times she has been targeted by those accursed Akumas, might be grappling with some deep-seated trauma?"

Adrien's anger surged like a raging inferno, and he lunged toward Plagg, his piercing gaze filled with a violent intensity. "Why are you defending her now?" he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with malice and venom as he punched the wall beside him, leaving a small dent in the wall. Plagg felt sick to his stomach.

Taken aback, Plagg cowered slightly, his voice trembling as he defended himself. "I'm not defending her, Adrien. I'm simply attempting to help you see reason!" His words were barely a whisper, barely audible amidst the tempest of Adrien's fury.

Adrien's voice turned icy and menacing as he silenced Plagg with a forceful wave of his hand. "Silence, Plagg," he growled, his tone laced with a chilling threat. In an instant, Plagg's mouth sealed shut, his frightened eyes widening in horror. Throughout his existence as a kwami, he had encountered holders who had misused his powers, but the terror he felt at that moment surpassed anything he had ever experienced. "I don't wish to hear your voice any longer. You are my kwami. I alone dictate what is right and wrong," Adrien declared, his words punctuated by a violent outburst that echoed in the room, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

"And just so we're clear," Adrien continued, his voice a volatile mix of command and menace, "you are forbidden from leaving my side in public, and you are forbidden from departing my room when we are here. Do you understand?" His words hung in the air, heavy with the threat of consequences.

Plagg, his trembling intensifying, could only nod, a deep sense of powerlessness washing over him. He yearned to warn Marinette or Tikki, but Adrien's explosive and violent nature left him utterly helpless, a captive within his own existence. He could only hope and pray that Marinette would unearth the truth before Adrien's inner darkness consumed him whole, for the storm that raged within Adrien threatened to consume everything in its path.

He paced back and forth, his steps echoing in the silence of his room. The image of Marinette, entangled with Jay and serving the nefarious Shadow Moth, haunted his thoughts. He couldn't bear to see her caught in the web of darkness any longer. He had to find a way to free her from the clutches of evil and bring her back into the light.

But it wasn't just Marinette who had fallen prey to the machinations of the darkness of this world. Ladybug, the hero he had admired and loved from afar, had also become entangled in this twisted game. Adrien couldn't fathom why she had turned her back on their shared duty, why she had forsaken the very essence of what it meant to be a hero.

His heart ached with longing and frustration. He yearned for the Ladybug he had once known, the one who embodied hope and unwavering determination. He needed her to see the truth, to understand the consequences of her actions. If only she would submit to him, to his guidance, then everything could be restored to the way it was supposed to be.

As Adrien stared at the photographs of Ladybug and Marinette on his desk, a flicker of determination ignited within him. He couldn't sit idly by while his loved ones succumbed to darkness. He had to find a way to break through the barriers that held them captive. They were his and he would not allow them to continue to disobey him and insult him in such a way.

His mind raced, searching for a plan, a strategy that would bring about the change he so desperately sought. But time was running out, and the stakes were higher than ever. Adrien knew he had to act swiftly and decisively.

Plagg hovered in the dimly lit room, his emerald eyes filled with regret. How had he failed to notice the darkness that had taken hold of Adrien's heart? As a kwami, it was his duty to guide and protect his chosen Miraculous holder, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for not intervening sooner. Was this because he was ill-suited for the Black Cat Miraculous, Plagg wondered was this darkness in Adrien his fault. 

He had always known that Adrien wasn't like Marinette, the true holder of the Ladybug Miraculous. But Plagg had never anticipated the depths to which Adrien would sink. The weight of his father's influence and the shadows that lurked within his own soul had consumed him, twisting him into something unrecognizable.

Plagg had tried his best to impart wisdom to Adrien, to teach him about boundaries and the importance of autonomy. But it had become painfully clear that Adrien had become entangled in a web of darkness that even Plagg couldn't fully comprehend.

The kwami sighed, his tiny form slumping with defeat. He had underestimated the power of the darkness that resided within Adrien. The allure of his father's teachings had clouded his judgment, leading him down a treacherous path.

Plagg's mind raced, searching for a solution, a way to break through the barriers that held Adrien captive. He knew he couldn't give up on his chosen holder, not when the fate of Paris hung in the balance. But the task ahead seemed insurmountable.

With a heavy heart, Plagg reflected on the lessons he had tried to teach Adrien, the moments they had shared. He wondered if he had failed him and if there was something more he could have done to prevent this descent into darkness.

The guilt gnawed at him, consuming his thoughts and filling him with a sense of failure. How had he let things escalate to this point? He couldn't help but feel that he had failed not only Adrien but also Marinette and Tikki.

As a kwami, Plagg had a unique perspective on the lives of his chosen holders. He had witnessed Adrien's reckless behavior and his disregard for the consequences of his actions. Plagg had tried to intervene, to guide him towards a path of responsibility, but his efforts had often fallen on deaf ears.

The memories flooded back, each one a painful reminder of missed opportunities. Adrien's blatant disregard for Akuma's attacks and leaving Ladybug to fight alone. His relentless pursuit of Ladybug, even as she repeatedly made it clear that she did not return his affections. And now, his misguided attempts to force his feelings onto Marinette.

Plagg couldn't shake the feeling that he should have done more, that he should have been more assertive in his guidance. He had seen the warning signs, the cracks in Adrien's façade, but he had allowed them to go unchecked, hoping that Adrien would find his own way.

Regret washed over Plagg, his head drooping with a sense of defeat. He should have protected Marinette from the pain she had endured. He should have shielded Marinette from the turmoil that Adrien's misguided affections had caused. For the first time in a long while Plagg cried. He wanted to run to flee to Tikki, but given Adrien's commands that was no longer an option. Plagg felt alone and lost. He figured this must be what Nooroo and Dusuu were feeling as well.

XoXo Rowan

[aureliacetinn]

#Pathfinder2e improvement towards disability inclusion has been great the best a big company has done 

And it’s interesting to look at pathfinder 1e in comparison.

And great showing of the difference is the fetishy (imo) like brawler archetype that was removed in 2e there are still very small issue I’m finding with a specific archetypes’ portrayal of a specific prosthesis and its trope (more on that later) . I feel changes like this matter a lot as fetishisation of prosthetics/amputee is rampant in ttrpgs (see dnd ebberon, cyberpunk & shadowrun) but even with what I’m talking about paizo have still made amazing strides to include us and I’m not taking that away. Just want to talk about a complex thing we all easily can fall into

So I want to start the talk about the brawler archetype Constructed pugilist

It was built for the laying waste as a way for mutants to survive very cyberpunk mad max like, which explains it.

Its initial sentence structure can easily be read as a positive like “whose mutations make using standard weapons or other gear difficult” but then the problem starts.

“Attach mechanical prostheses to their existing limbs.”- this here makes it a problem to me in this context alone this can be good as it is written in 2e “some characters might want to make use of a magical prosthesis but not actually be missing the associated body part.  In this case, a variant of the prosthesis is available that fits over the existing body part instead and uses the same statistics.”, similar idea but phrased in a way with inclusivity in mind. But how 1e phrases it. This is when then cybernetics problematic debate occurs, the fetishizing of able bodied people who have working limbs but graft more cuz they can cuz “its cool” well the big issue with that is that tends to be the only way prosthetics get to exist, as aesthetics, pathfinder 1e doesn’t have prosthetics limbs as just something someone may have without it been some super power or for a “mutant” it’s not inclusive and this is what creates the ableism in the community.

So let’s pick some of this apart:

Removing or reattaching the constructed limb takes 10 minutes. - really now? 10 minutes in game time so my problem with this though it does take a bit of time to put your prosthesis on in a game like pathfinder you are enforcing that it stay on 24/7 which is unrealistic but no player going to want to remove this and I remind that this is designed for non-amputees so this just agitates more and brings on negatives and blocks gm can use on players

“She treats attacks with this limb as unarmed strikes that gain all the benefits of the brawler’s unarmed strike class feature”.-this is actually good and rare form a game of this time I just want to give a positive here.

Grapnel Arm:  oh, yay some played bionic commando and ever cybernetic fake arm-this is annoying also this is such a trope as usual more and more preventing a prosthesis form getting to be a part of you not a weapon

Vicious Blades: bladed prosthesis did you know when the movie Kingsman the director tried to find a amputee actor to paly the assassin but were turned down due to them wanting to purpurate the stereotype of their limbs been weapons and that been all its their for, yeh so no

Vicious Spikes: I mean this is just impractical this will hurt you and where would you attach it how do u use this is if its above the knee trans humoral stab your balls or crouth off, this is just agitating me also.

To add to this, I just to post an image from a study FROM VILLAINS TO HEROES: A CONTENT ANALYSIS ON THE MEDIA PORTRAYAL OF PEOPLE WITH LIMB LOSS findings to help you understand why I want more work to be doe and why I see pugilist as a bad rep.

I’d like to say that a prostheses been a weapon is impossible hated least not 100% a bad thing the bad thing is as stated before this is an attached limb is very particular in its phrasing that this is a cybernetics style this is cool for coolness  over mainly function, the gun arm is a bad trope that needs to be altered, prosthesis ae parts of a person not a tool and to see the only disability item in pathfinder 1e be this that has potential but is only thinking of it for non-disabled people who  want samus cannon arm. Is the very typical even to this day.

Yes I am aware there’s utility and once again this would be better if it was just worded and thought for amputee players in mind like they later did in pathfinder 2e

And once again I want to remind that there are better ways this is done; having attaching limbs when you do not need them.

Just makes me sad this is an archetype that locks u out of others and traps u on a path so if u are amputee playing pathfinder 1e this is your only option unless your gm is understanding and even then the way this is written sets the rules that prosthesis are weapons and nothing else, this matters people.

Now onto pathfinder 2e

Overall, they have done amazing I hear they actually worked with sensitivity writers, and it shows in places, look at the official items as a wheelchair user I am very pleased by this, and the even have a prosthesis ruling which is great

But,

Besides not making a sight cane for visually impaired that’s  not a weapon because that t is a  issues for certain V.I/blind community members who do not wish for that stereotype to continue (which u can get the non weapon sight long cane on my ko-fi free) though they did make assistance animals to cover that end.

but

Like the cane there is a issue I have found that has gone under the radar and does fall into a big trope that permeates ttrpg scene

in pathfinder 2e its just one grafting archetype.

Now I get why it’s there and some of them are inclusive like the iron lung to a degree…. They aren’t negatives at least.. minus 1

 just one options but the THE ACCURSED CLAY FIST it doesn’t add mechanical negatives directly but, curses are afflictions in pathfinder seen as bad and my issue with this is I feel its falls into the losing humanity trope which is often with prosthesis.

now it is just 1, all the rest are overall good pathfinder 2e has prosthesis option when u don’t have to lose a limb u add it on top of yours for mainly able-bodied people or more complex issues with hands and its really good idea and fixes all the issues the constructed pugilist has!

 but so easily I feel this one archetype falling into fetishizing again and it bugs me I do think that if you have made a section that focus on prosthetics and give a really good explanation on how to use them but then,

you create grafting archetype  which is  similar to constructed pugilist of pathfinder 1e which is annoying you can be whatever you want in a ttrpg but if you are going to make as much an effort as making inclusive items for your game why then suddenly create a grafting thing that I feel feeds into fetishization and to me slightly undoes it a little because its sneakily in there and then to have one where you curse others with your golem hand that has replace your hand it’s really cool don’t get me wrong but this could easily be a spell or the wording be it a coating over arm you can remove but instead like all of golem grafting like Constructed pugilist 1e it’s a permeant change to be cool and that’s just a shame, now this does not remove from the amazing work paizo did they obviously hire sensitivity writers and groups and it shows I just see the disconnect that always occurs in ttrpgs where you add in different Colum and its put in disconnected from the sections that were worked on

I do not know this for sue but I know many places have loads of people working on a book and tend to direct sensitivity writers to sections. Is this really a big mark on stain on paizo.

Nope of course not its small when you see where they have improved and though this comes across judging or reprimanding I more just want to bring attention to how we still see prothesis character I as most artist are very guilty of such fetishizing and no that doesn’t mean we can create cool things like the golem graft but phrasing and intent are important and understanding tropes is too we don’t have to avoid them I have offered the alternative easily we just need to check more I want to prefix I’m and physically disabled have chronic illness finer motor cognitive issues and neurodivergent but I am not amputee I’m coming from a place of studying and my perspective so do not accept all as fact we can all get these things wrong.

I just want us to think of tropes and ways we can include things for are amputee brethren.

Like cane we please learn that most amputees do not keep their prosthesis on 24/7 and hook hands are just a hook there many diverse types please!

Rant over thank you happy disability pride.

.

[dreamsanddragons]

My S2 prediction is that Blood and Cheese is not going to happen the way we expect it to, as it did in the book. Obviously spoilers will be ahead if you aren’t already familiar with the events of the book.

(deleted my first version of this post because I forgot about Maelor not showing up in the show yet)

I’ve got a few theories as to how it will happen.

To start with some background, in Fire and Blood, when Luke’s death happens, Daemon is not at Dragonstone with Rhaenyra. At that point in time he is taking over Harrenhal and securing support for the Blacks in the Riverlands. He sends a raven to Rhaenyra saying “an eye for an eye, a son for a son”. It is from there he reaches out to Mysaria and arranges for the infamous Blood and Cheese incident.

Rhaenyra in the show, does not seem to be the type to just kill an innocent child. If it is anyone’s head she is after, it is going to be Aemond’s. And book wise, it isn’t ever mentioned if Rhaenyra approved of the Blood and Cheese plot. One of the sources mentioned that Rhaenyra had a horror of kinslaying, which was why she was delaying an attack on King’s Landing, though this was from a source writing years later; another source, the fool Mushroom, said that at the time she was too grief stricken over Luke’s death to take any action. Mushroom, while present at the time, is not considered to be the most reliable narrator, but honestly I think this is an instance where we can take his word for it. She had just lost her father, gave birth to a stillborn daughter, AND her other son was killed by his uncle while on an envoy mission where he was forbidden to take up arms. Kinslaying is also considered to be one of the worst crimes of the realm, and Maegor the Cruel was thought to have been cursed by his slaying of his nephew Aegon. Also in the book, before the “peace terms” were sent to Rhaenyra, she stated her half brothers and her “sweet sister” Helaena, were being led astray by evil men, and should they bend the knee to her and ask for forgiveness she would “take them back into my heart, for they are of my own blood, and no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer. I think these things will be all true for Rhaenyra in the show, at least as of where the show left off (though I don’t think we really know how Rhaenyra really feels about her siblings in the show).

At this time of where we are in the show, I don’t think Rhaenyra would approve of the Blood and Cheese plot (if she is asked for approval of the plot as it happens in the book; it is possible Daemon could either not ask for approval or just not give her the full details). It could change, in the book Aegon does throw a big party for his brother for killing Luke and that might just set her off, but even then I don’t think she would go for one of Helaena’s children. She did look out for blood in the last image we saw of her, but I’m still on the fence if she would go after one of the little children instead of one of her brothers.

Also, in the books, Helaena takes her children at dusk every day to see their grandmother who is living in a part of the Red Keep that is easier to get to than the rest of the Red Keep. This is how Blood and Cheese were able to get to the children. However, Helaena doesn’t actually seem to be that close to her mother in the show, as evidenced by how Helaena seems to hate it when Alicent tries to touch her.

Daemon does however seem to know a lot of the secret passages in the Red Keep so maybe that is how it goes down.

There is also the fact that Maelor has not been shown to exist in the show yet. And in the book, Haelena had chosen him to die as he was just an infant and would not know what is going on. They have played fast and loose with the timeline, i.e the fact that Aemond is apparently supposed to be 18/19 in the show when the time jumps we got only showed 16 years passing and they never showed us Aemond as a baby.

So my predictions:

Blood and Cheese aren’t even done by the Black faction. It is Larys Strong’s doing to make the Blacks look bad. I wouldn’t put it past him, he took Alicent’s “I wish my father were here” to mean “burn my brother and father to death in a brutal attack using murderers whose tongues I cut out? Say no more”.

Blood and Cheese are done by Daemon, but they were meant to go after Aemond or maybe Aegon and decided to go rogue for some reason, or were paid off by Larys to go after Jaehaerys instead.

Daemon could put out a general bounty on one of the Targaryen sons in King’s Landing and Blood and Cheese took whatever opportunity they could and went after the easiest target.

They decide to axe Maelor being involved at all or have him born after Blood and Cheese, so they make Haelena choose between the twins. Or they could have Alicent choose, or maybe even Aegon? Could be a weird twist and commentary on how male children are preferred over female children in terms of inheritance, especially if Alicent is made to choose.

And this is probably the most likely one, Blood and Cheese happens for the most part like it does in the book (they just brush over Maelor never even being mentioned to exist in S1 like how they have never mentioned Daeron existing), but it is Alicent who is forced to choose between her grandsons (or the twins). An added variation is that she could be forced to choose between one of her sons and one of her grandsons.

[misterfudgelord]

1 AM musings

Friend 1: <Grover's mad quest to kill God> Why does this go so fucking hard Friend 1: Like this shitpost where Grover steals a Glock to kill God is biblical levels of story telling and moral Me: i just about had it when they got to the "he saw the birth of the universe and the heat death and couldnt tell the difference" Friend 1: Right? That is a cold fucking line Me: adding it to my repertoire hey Friend 1 i just had a really dumb fucking idea if like i have a terminal illness or some shit eat a shit ton of explosive material and tell my family to cremate me Friend 1: That is certainly a way to go You can indeed eat and pass C4 plastic explosives Me: it'll be interesting if there is a hell and i get sent there i'm not about to face the devil without attemping to gain the upper hand and i think that tannerite might just level the playing field Friend 1: Does killing the devil in hell warrant an even greater punishment from the Almighty or is it worthy of reward? For the devil is one of God’s divine creations, one of his best at that; and the fact God himself has not smote him implies he wishes Lucifer to live Me: I killed the Devil; I usurped his throne. There is no punishment for such an act. No reward. For what has God to fear but that which would face the Devil and want for his place? True evil has limits. I've surpassed them. Friend 1: Jesus Christ dude Me: But realize, God has nothing to fear. I killed the Devil for the Devil's throne; for the Devil's post. I do not take up a quarrel with God so as to supplant him: I do not want his post, for all it entails is antithetical to what I've sought. I took up a path to the throne of fire and brimstone, and there I sit. Higher than God. Friend 1: I once read a Tumblr writing prompt where God is talking to people who are in heaven, and asks them to pick a seven deadly sin to enjoy for eternity. Protag picks pride, God sighs, and he is cursed with the power to create a universe Me: Oh I know that one Me: Know, ye faithful, that God is sinful. To sin is to be whole, and to be holy. Only a being which sees itself as perfect could decree such and find the pride within itself to believe itself. The Devil is the only one to cast a stone. For the Devil is the only one without sin; that is his post. To be accursed with imperfection. For humanity was made in God's image, and humanity is sinful; so too is God sinful. But the Devil shall never be the whole that is to be sinful, and so must punish humanity for its sin. It is a cruel mockery of holiness, and yet, is a seat above all else. But surely not one to be content with. Jesus may have died on the cross for our sins, but the Devil is only sated for so long. Friend 1: Mfw the Jew has a much cooler take on Christian mythology Me: It has 0 bearing on my life so I have an unmarred perspective If the Jews are right then there is no hell and I'm going right up to chill with God and Satan (Satan is just God's lawyer) If the Christians are right then I'm going to hell and I get to kill the devil Friend 2: What if Dante is right What if Dante’s 7 circles of hell exist Me: Then I'll bring a car.

[hieromonkcharbel]

"In the Deserts of the Heart, Let the Healing Fountain Start" - From the Desert Sands of Egypt to the Desert Within:

In one of the comments on a previous post, a reader asks: “How do you think those of us living in this world with our many and various responsibilities can access/simulate the experience of the hermits?” Certainly, the question can be approached in a number of ways and I tried to address it in some measure in my initial response to the comment. But I have continued to think about this question throughout the past few days and in my own studies I came across what I think is a good starting point for further discussion on the matter. I am currently reading John Chryssavgis’ book “In the Heart of the Desert”. The question he asks is “Why the desert?” Why did the elders choose to go there in the first place and what significance does it have in its own right and for those of us who live in the city?

Please forgive the long series of quotes, but in them Chryssavgis captures so beautifully how the desert suggests something both deeply spiritual and personal. Each paragraph is worthy of our reflection as we begin our approach to the Fathers. Chryssavgis writes:

“‘Desert’ (eremos) literally means ‘abandonment’; it is the term from which we derive ‘hermit’. The areas of desertedness were where the demons bred. . .There is no water in the desert, and in the mind of the Jews that was the ultimate curse. No water also meant no life. The desert signified death; nothing grows in the desert. Your very existence is, therefore, threatened. In the desert you will find no one and no thing. In the desert you can only face up to yourself and to every aspect of your self, to your temptations, and to your reality. You confront your own heart, and your heart’s deepest desires, without any scapegoat, without any hiding place.”

“Yet the desert was also endowed with sacred significance for Jews and Christians alike. The Israelites had wandered in the desert for forty years. It was there that Moses saw God. It was there that John the Baptist preached the coming of the Messiah. Indeed, it was in the desert that Jesus Himself began His ministry; it was in the wilderness that He was first tempted by the demons. . . .”

“So the desert, while accursed, was never seen as an empty region. It was a place that was full of action. It was a space that provided an opportunity, and even a calling, for divine vision. In the desert, you were invited to shake off all forms of idolatry, all kinds of earthly limitations, in order to behold - or rather, to be held before - an image of the heavenly God. There, you were confronted with another reality, with the presence of a boundless God, whose grace was without any limits at all.”

“The desert is an attraction beyond oneself; it is an invitation to transfiguration. It was neither a better way, nor an easier way. The desert elders were not out to prove a point; they were there to prove themselves. . . Nothing should be held back in this surrender. It is all or nothing. The abandonment to God is absolute.”

“The desert is a place of spiritual revolution, not of personal retreat. It is a place of inner protest, not outward peace. It is a place of deep encounter, not of superficial escape. It is a place of repentance, not recuperation. Living in the desert does not mean living without people; it means living for God. Anthony and the other desert dwellers never forgot this. They never sought to cut off their connections to other people instantly. They rather sought to refine these relationships increasingly.”

However, Chrssavgis is quick to point out that the meaning of the desert extends far beyond the sands of Egypt. It speaks of a personal way applicable to each of our lives. It is a “spiritual way that was present everywhere, including the large and busy cities. ‘It was revealed to Abba Anthony in his desert that there was someone who was his equal in the city. He was a doctor by profession. Whatever he had beyond his needs, he would give to the poor; and every day he sang hymns with the angels.’

“It is the clear understanding of these elders that one does not have to move to the geographical location of the wilderness in order to find God. Yet, if you do not have to go to the desert, you do have to go through the desert. . . Everyone does go through the desert in one shape or another. it may be in the form of suffering or emptiness, or breakdown or any other kind of trauma that occurs in our life. Dressing this desert up through our addictions or attachments . . . will delay the utter loneliness and inner fearfulness of the desert experience. If we go through this experience involuntarily, then it can be both overwhelming and crushing. If, however, we accept to undergo this experience voluntarily, then it can prove both constructive and liberating. The physical setting of the desert is a symbol, a powerful reminder of a spiritual space that is within us all.”

The deserts of Egypt and the experiences of the elders may seem far removed from those who live many centuries later, but in reality they speak of that which is closest to us - to the desert within the human heart, the place where we too must make the ultimate surrender to God and abandon ourselves to Him, the place where we must fight the good fight of faith, struggle with our own inner demons and wait for God in the silence of prayer.

[captainkurosolaire]

Red Ribbon of Declaration

  Within the confines of entrapment soul’s split in half waged to the results of their psyche realm shifting. Through dystopia shifts from self implanted specters, ferrymen, death riders, all projections that had to overcome the turning motions the Sun cycled through. Recently though, things were on the right track. Everything lively Captain absorbed began cultivating civilizations and thriving interactions with drifting spirits and soul’s passed by, memories, spirits of others. Each weighing importantly with a reminder of what Captain could have instead of taking in only the terrible, he foresaw a boundless well of beauty by reopening and becoming more accepting and freed from a captivity of his own making. Though under a projected image of his origin’s Ul’dah and before the Quicksands all the bustling halted as the denizens were frozen over. A crackling of the skies broke like a glacier of glass. The orbited stars of nebula carried all the shared wishes and dreams of others he held as a reminder, they began breaking from an inner cataclysm. The flooring under him rotating rumbled before reversing him upside down. All things that were natural, were being taken away…  He screamed as the frozen helpless people began plummeting while he couldn’t move, stuck in reverse watching them drop to a clouded sea with thick fog. This was like it was all the way back then, ‘Thus ends the Goldbrand’ what started and cultivated his beginnings, he survived, endured all this only for history to repeat as often it does. He generally thought became stronger and would never allow this to happen again. But here it went, a repeat.  ‘Damn it! Damn it! Why can’t I b’ worth a damn!’ Falling himself, his oxygen fading. His body planted with a hard thud into a soft patch of verdant grass, a small little garden. Where his other-half swelled in coexistence. Flowers began wilting only to turn into piles upon piles of twisted bones. His indomitable other counter half marched through, languidly, towering over him, but with an unusual presence, typically would’ve wrathfully shattered all those bones and crumble but purposefully tipped over them. Both sides went through their shares of the world, and saw or at least licked love, but all their failures were shared. Captain believed all-fully that his other half was here to consume him and he had given up the fight. It was a helpless case of repeating to bring them here at the world's end and brinks. Their encounters because of what overflowed throughout him. It was his fault this deranged realm even came into being. His bestially side with sharp talons and menacingly presence beckoned him to stand. Each of them, the crossroads with each other. One of them could possibly break out of this entrapment at the sacrifice of the other’s expense. Captain though already forfeited, his other counter was just nature that was abused primarily by him and the wrath invoked was all his doing.  However something transpired not preordained. ‘Can you win?’ Came back towards the sides humanely conscious. The beast’s stare foresaw the merit of man’s truest nature. An opportunity arose once in existence to change the clocks, it wasn’t too late for action. Where all the other-half once wanted to consume and devour the weaker part that made him in chained suffering now was also exhibiting new colors. Because of the likes of Ayla, Lyara, Pheli, A’yi, Layla. It got to learn and appreciate humanity’s weaknesses and frailty. A precious red-ribbon came packaged in a bundle as a solution to their flood with that slaughtering palm a bestiality presence clutching something so unlikely and offering it. The pirate seemed wary he was an accursed menace who failed this Trial so many times, but here, was it and still happening and not over yet. The realm of everything he had gathered would return for he held the side of his humaneness. Where he thought they would eventually confront in an epic selfish-battle for control, the beast selflessly casted itself away from sole preservation, identifying, it too would perish and succumb after being hunted and miserable because it’d be mindlessly only a savage that sought its fill by all desired means, like always. Overcoming Captain’s doubts for the sake of his Crew in the here and now and seeing the plan laid out to be what bearers-seed the nature of his other-half, it was his test, now his chance to be the carrier and alone for their survival. Bestially and humanity met in an exchange as the other soul-burned aflame in brilliance to break through the soul-ice. Determination wavered through as everything began forwarding and his mortal-shell encased, erupted with his sheer resolve. Last chance to fix it all.  To stand tall like his spirit shouted as a starry child in seas to skies. The dream’s and everything he rebuilt recently. That Warlock wasn’t done with him yet! A link-pearl instantaneously came to his visage, “Code: Gold. Aye, we need all hands on deck.” Exchanging to the gathering of his remaining Crew. This meant War. His feet ushered with swiftness of a leader and his entire presence consumed into an engulfing radiance of a leader tending to the wounded aside him with soft wrappings and bandages until their sage arrived. Nearly collapsing and becoming consumed by an emptiness when seeing the lifeness gone from Judas. However, it wasn’t over, a gambit was in Captain’s last secret possession a vaulted Eternal Sona Petal. It came with more danger than anything, but Judas wasn’t with the willpower of just one, it’d be more a fifty-fifty that he could battle against the Voidsent that’d search taking possession over. He couldn’t offer any other options as there was a timed window crunch. Instinct only wrote him as he punched through his painting and wall to bring it to usage. All that was left was checking below-decks. The treachery and grimness below wasn’t either going to be a sight expected. But Captain was overfilled, no other thought inhibited him then, ‘Not like this.’ Then a reassuring tide wept over that, ‘It all changes. I’ll prevail, we will...’ He brought all the resistance against the burial of his Crew like the other times, wallowing wouldn’t fix anything, only action.                                                                                           The Immortal Age                             (Previous) << (Voidal Relics) >> (Next)                                   =========Cast=========

[space-------kid]

My second request! Sorry this took a while, anon! And thank you so much! have a great day, too, and please stay safe~ 😄💕💕 

Ah, you’re in luck, anon! Akaza is the only demon I think I’ll be writing for

me: *looks at fic*: why must i be cruel--

A/N: Hanakotoba is briefly touched in this fic. It’s the Japanese form of the flower language.

[5 slots are still open for one-shot/headcanon requests:  ✎ ✎ ✎ ]

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺ 

𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓪𝓴 (𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓽𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯) 𝒜𝓀𝒶𝓏𝒶 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺   

               The command he receives is simple: travel to the south – where the land meets the sea – and kill the wealthy man who helps support the Demon Slayer corps. He knows how missions like this show how important his role as the third Upper Moon is, how he is always deployed for special cases such as this one. He mostly follows without question, and that is why that man lets him off scot free for refusing to kill and devour women.

               Akaza doesn’t understand it himself, why he insists on letting such delicate creatures exist. Something in his gut tells him that it’s wrong, though – he can kill all the men for all he cares, but he must leave the women alone.

               Douma teases him a lot for it, and Akaza’s hatred for his fellow demon grows ever stronger with each passing of the moon.

               The sand under his feet is pristinely white, soft and cold. Pale yellow eyes – marked with his status within Kibutsuji Muzan’s closest circle – take in the sight of a waxing moon, marvelling at how something unreachable and untouchable will remain forever unchanged for centuries to come.

               He stops pondering. You have a mission to complete. The reminder resounds strongly in his mind, in his own voice and not Kibutsuji’s. With his master and creator so far away – masquerading as a human somewhere in Tokyo – Akaza knows he is free to dilly-dally without compromising his mission and angering that man.

              The way the water glimmers in the moonlight reminds him of a pair of exquisite floral eyes that look up to him with kindness and adoration—

              Where did that come from? He asks himself, eyes wide with surprise. But the image – a memory or a delusion, he cannot decide which is which – leaves his mind just as quickly as it comes and Akaza is left gazing at the sea dispassionately.

              The sound of the sea is calming. Maybe he’ll decide later on if he likes it or not.

              Trivial. It doesn’t matter.

              And so Akaza turns his back on the sight of gentle waves and soft sand under his feet.

--

              The next command from his lordship brings him to a village located on the foot of a mountain, and it is where he finds himself facing a distraction.

              The heat of the day has been lulled down by the cool summer breeze the early evening has brought on, and Akaza’s sharp hearing picks up the sounds of a busy crowd amid the chirping of cicadas in the forest. He scales down the mountain and, hidden by the dark and the trees, witnesses the town brightly lit up with numerous lanterns and the cheer of the villagers.

              “It’s the summer festival,” his mind supplies him with the information in the voice of a soft-spoken female. A faint whiff of a battle spirit and the rustle of grass alert him of a sudden company he does not wish to have, and Akaza spots a human woman clad in a flowery kimono standing a few meters where he is hidden.

              Blessed (or is it cursed?) with supernaturally heightened vision, it doesn’t escape the demon’s notice how the woman’s shoulder shake every now and again in time with the wavering of her battle spirit. Luck seem to be on her side, for while Akaza hates being in the presence of weak people, he equally despises the thought of killing and eating women such as her.

              He must have looked away for a second because when he returns his gaze to her, she is already looking at him.

              “Hello.”

              He blinks at the sound of her voice. It resembles the voice in his head just now, and he realizes a little belatedly that it is the woman’s voice he’s heard earlier and not his thoughts.

              It catches Akaza off-guard that this pathetic, sickly, measly human woman has already known of his presence without his own knowledge. The fact irks him, but he reins in his annoyance in favour of stealth and his identity’s secrecy. He chooses to remain hidden in the shadows when she fully turns around to face him.

              Shadows are cast on her face as she stands against the light, but Akaza can easily make out a pair of intelligent [colour] eyes, a pallid complexion, and [colour, length] hair softly swaying with the breeze. The ends of her pale lips are curled up in a gentle, meek smile that sends a pang of unknown longing for someone in the past in the demon’s chest.

              He expects to see flowers in her eyes for reasons unknown—

              “Why do you hide like a thief in the shadows?” she asks him curiously, her eyes narrowing as she tries to peer at him through the darkness.

              Well, he is a thief, but not the kind that she expects. Akaza commands his body to turn back and leave, but he finds himself moving towards her instead when her frame is wracked by a series of hoarse, rattling coughs.

              He watches, fascinated, as the woman lifts both hands to her mouth to stifle her coughs. Her body shakes both with the effort to control her breathing and coughing. Before Akaza knows it, his tattooed hands are already placed solidly on her shoulders to help her steady herself.

              Under normal circumstances, Akaza will remain uncaring even if the woman before him coughs her brains and lungs out. It is her fault – and her parents – for having such a weak, sickly body. But something inside him, buried under a century’s worth of Muzan’s influence and killing, tries to claw its way out because he has to help her, she’s sick, and he has promised her that he will watch the fireworks with—

              Something hisses in the air and, seconds later, the sky is awash in dazzling multi-coloured lights. The woman shifts in his hold and cranes her neck to look up, the fireworks illuminated in her [colour] eyes. Akaza, on the other hand, stares mesmerized at the lights reflected in her eyes.

              They stand together in silence until the last of the fireworks has faded into nothingness. Again, Akaza realizes a little too late that his hands are still on her shoulders, and he frowns at the way he reluctantly lets her go. She, however, smiles up at him in return.

              “Thank you,” she softly tells him. “I should head back now, Grandfather must be worried about me – will you come, if it’s alright with you? You look like a traveller, and I can help you look for a place to stay for the meantime.”

              Akaza’s mind doesn’t register any of her words. Why is she not commenting on his appearance? Surely, she should’ve asked him about his complexion, the marks, and his strange eyes by now – their close proximity offers her every opportunity of taking in his physical appearance. Hasn’t she noticed anything, or has she been too engrossed with the fireworks to even care?

              He demands instead, “Give me your name.”

              Why is he asking her, she’s not strong, not even worth remembering--

              She is startled by his straightforwardness, but is quick to hide it. The woman takes a step back and bows her head in greeting.

              “I’m [full name].”

              The demon tests her name in his tongue and narrows his eyes when she smiles at him in confirmation.

              Akaza’s frown deepens and he turns his back to her wordlessly.

              “Go home,” he tells her. “You said there’s a man-eating demon in the mountain–“

              “What about you?”

              The demon stills in the gentle worry in her voice, the sound striking some sort of semblance of someone who has been buried in the deepest recesses of his unconscious. Akaza doesn’t understand the way [Name] seems to be reminding him of someone he has forgotten about, and it makes his throat hitch with a mixture of anger, despair, and helplessness. Akaza chooses anger for he is more familiar with it than the weakness entailed by the other two. He is strong, and he despises the weak—

              He disappears wordlessly in the blink of an eye, leaving [Name] alone to her devices.

--

              His target hides himself within walls of wisteria trees, and Akaza is forced to prolong the stakeout and to find ways on how to get the man out of the protection of the accursed blossoms.

              He sees [Name] during the day, frolicking in the forest in search of medicinal herbs with an old man (must be the grandfather she’s mentioned) while he hides in the shade where the sun cannot penetrate through the thick canopy of trees. Akaza studies her whenever he sees her. Her interaction with the elderly human shows kindness and gratitude, with tenderness seeping through whenever the old man fusses if she lets out a few coughs and draws short breaths. [Name] also displays the excitable vigour of someone who has finally been allowed to leave the sickbed after being bedridden for far too long.

              Just like Ko—

              The comparison with someone he cannot remember doesn’t know sends a wave of disconcerted nostalgia in Akaza’s veins.

              It grows ever stronger when, one day, [Name] notices him watching her from afar. Her grandfather’s presence is somewhere else in the forest, leaving the two of them unsupervised like a pair of spellbound children.

              “It’s you again!” [Name] exclaims with a wide smile and waves at him. “You left without saying a word that night during the summer festival – does that mean you’ve already found a place to stay in?”

              She is overwhelmingly loud for someone so sick, expending energy as if she has too much to spare. Akaza scoffs openly when, in her haste to reach him with a blinding smile on her face, [Name] hacks out a rather violent cough.

              Perhaps the gods have been feeling rather mischievous and in favour of him today, for the sky is overcast with thick, dark clouds that prevented even a thin line of sunlight to slip through. And just like the display in the summer festival, Akaza’s body moves in autopilot as his hand grasps her wrist and carefully tugs her under the cover of the trees (the demon doesn’t fully trust the gloomy weather – the gods have been proven to be traitorous when they’ve taken those people from him).

              “Be careful,” Akaza finds himself reprimanding [Name] as his free hand rubs comforting circles on her back to help her coughs to abate. She peers up at him through her eyelashes with watery eyes, embarrassed and apologetic, and the sight takes the breath out of the demon’s lungs.

              K…yu…i.

              “T-Thank you—“

              The emotions in her [colour] eyes turn into curiosity as she stares openly at his face. He doesn’t know if he should feel satisfied or not when recognition finally dawns on her face.

              Akaza decides on the latter when he sees the fear in [Name]’s eyes gets replaced with confusion.

              They pull away from each other, the demon ready to leave at the first sign of a distressed call and the human frantically wringing her hands the longer they stare at each other.

              “Y-You… um…” she starts, and Akaza hates the absence of terror in her soft voice. “You didn’t happen to… um… eat any of the villagers, did you?”

              “What if I ate one? Can you do anything about it?” Akaza asks back, frustration bubbling in his throat. What is wrong with this human woman?

              “I can’t, but…” A straightforward reply, uttered with the knowledge of her own capacity and limitations. [Name] meets his irate gaze and tilts her head to the side like a confused puppy. “You… um… didn’t answer my question…”

              Gods, he’s disliking her with every word that comes out of her mouth.

              There has been another demon in the mountain before Akaza arrived. It has been quick to depart from its hunting grounds for good upon seeing the words and number carved in his pale yellow eyes.

              “So what if I ate them?” he lies, just so he can get rid of her.

              [Name]’s searching eyes probe his, [colour] orbs deep in thought and Akaza feels as if she is picking him apart – from skin to muscle to bone and down, down to his very core. There’s something to her know, with the way her back straightens, her hands stilling their frantic movements, and the way a knowing smile lights up her face.

              “What’s your name?” she asks this time.

              “Why would I tell you?”

              [Name]’s smile softens and she turns her back to him, probably to go back to the task she’s left behind. Akaza watches as she picks up her basket and faces him once more.

              “So I can properly tell you that you’re lying,” [Name] responds. She bows at Akaza and leaves before he can muster another reply, and the demon forgoes threatening her.

              The weak cower at the sight of any demon, much less telling one that it lies.

              It’s not strength, whatever she has just displayed. Akaza tries to convince himself that as the sound of her footsteps finally disappear. It’s plain stupidity, the never-ending human folly her kind possesses, nothing more.

               (Strength, however, is not restricted to physical capabilities alone.)

--

              Akaza’s target makes the mistake of leaving the protection offered by the wisteria trees in the middle of the night.

              He shadows the human as the latter hurriedly makes his way past the village, the scent of crushed and powdered medicinal herbs strong and bitter in the demon’s sense of smell. The man seems to be on a mission himself, and Akaza decides on killing him after he has conducted whatever business he has to attend to in the middle of the night.

              Accompanying the target is another human, this one old and rather familiar.

              The pair arrive at a humble home near the mountain itself, with Akaza on their tail. After disappearing into the house, the demon perches himself on the nearest tree, his sharp hearing picking up the sounds of the old man’s frantic pleas to Akaza’s target and the familiar coughs and wheezes wracking a frail body.

              [Name].

              Akaza has to stop the confusing urge to come to her side and… what? Take care of her? Because she’s sick?

              Where is this coming from? There is nothing to remember anymore – may it be forgotten memories as a pathetic human or his centuries’ worth of life as a demon. So where…?

              “You didn’t happen to… um… eat any of the villagers, did you?”

              “What’s your name?”

              The complete lack of fear of someone who knows that their illness might take their life at any given moment.

              “So I can properly tell you that you’re lying.”

              (Bravery in the face of death is strength in and of itself—)

              Akaza returns to his hiding place in the mountain. He convinces himself that he doesn’t do it out of mercy for his target. [Name] is proving to be rather… interesting, and having her die from her illness sooner rather than later sends bitterness in the demon’s tongue.

              Tomorrow night, he tells himself. He won’t be so lenient any longer.

--

              With his target dead, Akaza finds himself being summoned back into the Dimensional Infinity Fortress. To his anger, Douma is also present when Muzan demands his presence.

              The second Upper Moon is quick to sling an arm around Akaza’s shoulders, rainbow eyes filled with interest. Akaza is quick to retaliate, swinging a fist to Douma’s face with the intent to kill, when he hears the latter sniff at him like a dog.

              Douma is quick to regenerate his smashed head, laughing at the short fuse Akaza always holds for him.

              “Why, hello to you, too, Akaza-dono!” Douma greets him in that annoying, gentle voice that reminds Akaza of [Name]’s in a twisted way. “I can’t help but notice that you smell faintly of a girl! Well, sort of…” Upper Moon Two lets out a delighted gasp, eyes wide with fake happiness as he gazes at Akaza from head to toe. “Does that mean you finally ate a girl?”

              “I should head back now, Grandfather must be worried about me – will you come, if it’s alright with you?”

              “You didn’t happen to… um… eat any of the villagers, did you?”

              “You didn’t—“

              “Speak again, and I’ll turn you to paste,” snarls Akaza at his fellow Demon Moon, absolute hatred flashing in his eyes at the insinuation, [Name]’s smiling face floating in the forefront of his mind. “I dare you.”

              “Ahahahaha! How harsh! And I thought you’re finally acknowledging me as your best friend by eating a girl—“

              Akaza is stopped short from making good of his word when the sound of Nakime’s biwa fill the atmosphere. The two Upper Moons are quick to fall on their knees when Muzan appears.

--

              It has been a month since he last saw [Name], and Akaza is genuinely surprised that he remembers a measly, sickly human girl when he only devotes himself to remembering the strong.

              Against his better judgement, the demon is back to walking the same trail he’s taken on the few times he has crossed paths with her on this particular mountain. Within the darkness offered by the trees, he is back to watching [Name] do her chores of gathering medicinal herbs. And against that same judgement, Akaza finds himself talking to her and (now) awkwardly rubbing her back whenever she is assaulted by the rasping coughs that shakes her fragile frame.

              He finds it both hilarious and unbelievable, the way he – a demon – freely talks to a human. Inconceivable, yes, but here they are. Talking quietly like lovers afraid to be found out by two disapproving sets of parents.

              Lovers?

              Akaza is stumped by the comparison he has just made.

              With the absence of her presence, Akaza thinks back to the times when his mind drifts back to [Name]. Is she getting enough rest? Is she overexerting herself? Has his previous target’s absence affected her well-being? Is she wandering in the forest, looking for him?

              He’s missed her voice and presence without him fully realizing it, with nothing to trigger his thoughts of her for him to remember.

              Perhaps, in some twisted, capricious way of the gods, he has taken a liking to her?

              “Akaza,” the demon tells [Name] amid the lull in their conversation. He feels her gaze on her so he averts his. “I am Akaza.”

              He risks a glance at her and secretly marvels at the way her smile shines brightly through the pallor of her sickness.

              “Thank you,” she says, and never has he heard his name uttered so sweetly, “Akaza.”

              She must be out of her mind, holding a polite conversation with a demon in the middle of the dark woods.

              No, he tells himself. They both are. And strangely enough, Akaza doesn’t find it as distasteful as he first thought it to be. He doesn’t find it strange anymore when he rubs her back or when he puts his hands on her shoulders to steady her when she coughs. It seems all natural to him now, a long-buried routine he has now come to master again.

              The time they spend together, no matter how brief, opens a new experience for the demon. All his life, he thinks that all he will ever care about is Muzan’s plan in annihilating any and all obstacles in his path.

              He has never anticipated that [Name] already acquires a position in Akaza’s list, quickly and dangerously coming close to getting the top spot.

              “You don’t have to do this for me, you know,” [Name] tells him kindly, and Akaza can tell that there is no unspoken accusation in her words such as you’re a demon, taking care of one sickly human won’t erase the deaths you have caused. He knows her by now, knows how straightforward and blunt she can be just like the day she’s told him that she might die anytime soon.

              Akaza scoffs at her and flicks her forehead, mindful of his strength and the fragility of her skull. [Name] yelps in pain and pouts at him while she rubs her abused forehead.

              “The weak doesn’t have the right to complain,” says Akaza with a scowl. “The only thing they are good for is to submit to the strong.”

              “And yet here you are – a demon looking after a human while she gathers herbs for herself and her grandfather,” she retorts back, her smile crooked with teasing that only serves to prompt a raised eyebrow from Akaza.

              Silence joins their company once more. The sun is sinking in the horizon. Beside him, [Name] looks up at the darkening sky and watches – amazed – as the stars finally appear one after another. He feels one of her warm hands on top of his and he looks at her, quickly captivated by the soft and grateful smile she is giving him.

              “Thank you, Akaza.”

              He goes away to complete another mission, a wordless promise of his return mirrored in the gentle way [Name]’s gaze follows his retreating form into the night.

--

              When Akaza returns to [Name]’s village, the place is busy once more for another festival.

              He seeks her in the place they first met but finds himself bereft of her company. The demon heads to her home to look for her there, but he only finds the old man – her grandfather – offering three sticks of incense to a picture of [Name] in the middle of a shrine filled with flowers. Despite his status as a demon, Akaza knows a little about Hanakotoba, and he is quick to determine her feelings as described to him by what is shown in her shrine.

              Cherry blossoms, reflecting [Name]’s kindness and gentle nature. Peonies for her bravery, in the face of her numbered days because of her illness. Anemone for sincerity.

              Yellow camellia for longing, red for love (and perishing with grace), and white for waiting – for Akaza?

              “You’re always waiting in the forest, day after day and night after night,” he hears her grandfather mutter in grief. “Always talking about an unusual friend who cares for you. And then our woodcutter neighbour finds you dead under the trees with a look of longing on your face. Oh, [Name]… his heart will surely break when he returns to find that you have already crossed the Sanzu Bridge…”

              (Just when he is almost ready to tell her that he cares for her.)

              A strong sense of déjà vu fills Akaza. Has this happened before, him leaving someone he cares about and returning only to find them taken by Death?

              The sight of a single red spider lily – what that lone flower speaks of – in front of [Name]’s portrait has Akaza’s confusion melt into violent rage.

              Never to meet again. Lost memory.

              Abandonment.

              Blood paints the shrine in a violent splatter, and Akaza flees back into his master’s fortress with a promise he intends to fill.

              [Name]’s kindness and soft smiles. Akaza cares for them – cares for her.

              Never again.

.

.

.

[courtorderedcake]

Majestically Too Far Beyond : CSSNS 2020

It’s finally here! Yaaaay! Here’s my @cssns​ for 2020, Majestically Too Far Beyond, title based on the Poem written by Komal Kapoor. You can read my explanation of how this mess all got started Here. Art is by @kmomof4​ and I threw in some too for fun. 

Summary :  Emma Swan has never been that type of girl, you know, the one that cries and sinks into a pint of ice cream after a break-up. She's never ever cared about anyone other than completely out of survival, but then came Neal, and then came the final big break up with someone maybe she sort of kind of loved. So now she is one of those girls who are homeless, living with her adopted brother and his wife at their farm in a long abandoned Victorian keeper's home, desperately trying to save to get her own place while working her difficult government job and as a merc witch on the side.  When a desperate Witch calls on her to do a spell, it's all bad news - but then said Witch revealed a mountain of gold coins, and whimpered that Emma is her only hope. How can she not be a bad ass magic savior for this poor soul? All seems to be well, until the consequences are suddenly very real.  Killian may be a Demon, a fallen Angel that now delights in the practice of revenge, but first and foremost he's a gentleman. Sort of.  Especially when his ruddy Angel brother is focused on bureaucracy and keeping mankind out of chaos, while Killian barely keeps his denizens as safe as he can in a world that wants Demons dead. Witches and Warlocks use them for parts, Werewolves see them as a threat, Angels mostly still hold on to the ancient feud regardless of their treatise, Fae stay chaotic neutral, Vampires don't care for others affairs - it's a perilous world where hate crimes happen without consequence. When Killian goes above to plead for more safety laws in the metropolis of Hyperion Hills, the city that lies over a major portal to hell, he does not expect to meet a council that the elemental five sit on. He especially doesn't expect that the council would ever take him seriously in his campaign for demon safety. Regina, Snow, Ariel, Elsa, and Belle seem dead set on making it their pet project - each for their own very different reasons. Especially when they bring up hiring a tempestuous security consultant, Emma Swan. When they adjourn, he can say that he is optimistically apprehensive. An optimistic Demon never leads to good things, unless by good things you mean throwing back rum while chasing a pretty woman for plundering. He's unsure of what to expect when challenged to do shot for shot by a mysterious blonde Witch, who didn't care who (or what) he is, but he does like a challenge. Too much in fact, the challenge raising the stakes, because from there on it becomes a blur, and yeah, he's bloody well in it now. The idea of a contract sounds fantastic when they stumbled into the strange tower, half naked and wanting. It's the ritual she does instead that he should have been paying attention to. So, maybe now he's missing a hand, and has only the vaguest idea of what happened from the mess of blood he's woken up to, his and someone else's, a mirror's accursed magic the only thing to tell him what took place: he's a prisoner until someone lets him free… And a woman that he’s positive did not exist in his life yesterday, who just happens to not only be a Witch but a complete stranger, is pregnant with his child. 

Rated E, but really falls in at more of a M. Fluffy angst with some adult themes and hinted undertones.  READ ON AO3 HERE.

Chapter 1 - Long ago, eclipses were feared as well:

To say that the Jones 'Brothers' had been fighting since time began, was not an understatement, but also not exactly truthful. They had actually been fighting before recorded time, and before there was even a concept of the perception of anything besides the aether or eternity.

That's why he'd fallen, actually. Loss was a powerful motivation, enough even to question the utmost Authority - and the Authority despised questioning. Fighting was in the nature of the divine Celestials, as it seemed, and in Her infinite curiosity that She defined as 'Wisdom', God had let Lucifer burn too brightly. Their war was a lover's jealous quarrel turned violent. 

Although Liam was created moments before Killian, they were brothers (as it were) even amongst a host of angels, and they were close regardless of their stubborn spats. They fought over the world and its workings, Liam given a flaming sword while Killian was given books. They fought over knowledge of the divine arts, arguing whether humans were worthy of the Arcane. They fought over Killian's love of a mortal woman, and his questioning of commandments. 

They fought over Killian standing behind Lucifer, and Liam fought Killian right before he fell. In some ways, it was Liam's own hand that pushed Killian, but in his last angelic act, Killian forgave his brother. 

While Earthborne and some remnant Angels believed Demons were not capable of love, they were of course wrong. Demons loved, lost, and forgave just as any others. Even after the schism, even after years of passive aggressive pettiness between both sides, Demons were still seen as wayward, dark, demented creatures. Angels had done little to fight this stereotype, instead reveling in their continued status as goodwill ambassadors. 

Even their name amongst mortals was a cosmic joke, the Creator and her lover-made-antagonist too long gone to bother with proper names. They were Angels or Demons to some cultures as humans grew on God's abandoned project, while others called them by their new names. 

The Angel Diana was called a Goddess alongside Hecate, Freya, Gabriel, Uriel, and many others. The Demons Zeus, Odin, Loki, Hades, and Poseidon happily took on roles that suited their carnal needs. Angels mixed with mortals along with Demons, God's secret seeds of elemental magics taking life along beside them as Druids, Fae, and Elementals.  Some of the Celestials even birthed life as their lost parents had, Demons begetting Demons, Angels begetting Angels, and everything or anything in between. 

Humans gained magical prowess as the world changed, Witches, Druids, Warlocks, Mortismals, and Mesmerels becoming the norm for human bloodlines. 

Still, Demons were given less, all because God had cursed them irrevocably before disappearing with Lucifer into the abyss. They were cellularly different now than any of the Angels they had once been, a yoke around their neck that they could be forced to obey. Like Angels, they could be worshipped, called, trapped, or contracted even as their powers and bodies twisted into the curse stained strangeness God graced them with. They were looked on with disgust, pity, horror, and anger for it despite their best attempts.

Which was why his sodding Ponce of a brother working as an Angel ambassador for a Prince of Hell was so important - and so bloody frustrating. 

It wasn't as if being a Prince of Hell wasn't stressful enough - his people always under siege or afraid of some Witch summoning them to place a brand, then using them as a charcuterie board - no. It was that his brother was a baked potato when it came to convincing the public they were not what millennia of ingrained hatred had established Demons as. 

Bosch had died before Killian could uppercut him, regardless of his depiction of Liam as a trumpeting ferret bird or the even less flattering version of Killian. Dante had been another great PR stunt his brother had botched miserably. The Rings of Hell weren't even used, Lucifer gone before he could put God's plans for punishment into place. Now as a museum and reenactment park, it was a popular attraction that helped generate funds for the denizens that lived in the spacial plane that surrounded it, but Dante's review had been swayed by Liam taking him into The Kingdom right after. How could Hell ever live up to the paradise God herself had planned for humans? Only Cedar Point, Busch Gardens, Disney, or Universal Studios could come close as far as themed parks. It was a complete disaster. 

This newest idea of Killian sitting on the board of Hyperion Heights to work with the world's premier intersectional coven, 'StoryBrooke', was another terrible idea in the making, and Killian had no qualms letting his brother know it.

"This is absolutely ridiculous Liam," Killian gritted out, itching under the glamor that made him look mortal. Being confined in a skin suit had his molecules vibrating so loudly he could hear his canines, starlight and cosmic fire sending pinpricks of goose flesh down the dark hairs of his arms and legs. Wearing this was torture enough without Liam staring at him in disdain, his own heavenly image unblemished. Even his halo was a polished gold around his fat head. "While I am a dashing rapscallion in my original skin, don't you think it's bad form for them to see me like this instead of how I actually look? Isn't the point of this to show that even if we're not as pretty as your lot, we're still beings that deserve respect?"

Liam grunted, rolling his eyes. Blue fire from explosions of stars and galaxies lit in mirrors of Killian's own, but framed by rosy cheeks and tawny curls instead of moving shadow, a ghoulish pallor, and dark hair the color of ink or raven's feather. The Angelic glamor contained the haze of darkness that moved like smoke around him, the length of his fingers and claws, and made his flesh look pale but not tinted the color of the universe's light. It did not hide his horns (remnants of shattered halo) or his twitching tail if someone chose to leave eyes on him too long, but that was another Demonic burden to bear. 

"First impressions, little brother. Even the most progressive Witch is still a Witch. I'd rather them see you like this instead of wondering if you truly need all your giblets."

Killian swallowed hard, nodding once before grumbling, "Younger brother. Younger."

"Go over your notes again. You'll need to be your nauseatingly charming self for this, especially if they bring the males in their midst," Liam asked of him, and Killian looked out the dark windows of the car as his tail moved in agitation. 

"Regina. Head of the Coven, Witch and Mortismal that inherited her throne from her mother. Began the integration method and broke away from the Misthaven Coven to create the StoryBrooke one," Killian intoned. 

"Right. She's a tough nut too, and her ghosts do the most of her dirty work. She's not someone to cross unless you want your chairs stacked to the ceiling every morning by some bloody poltergeist." 

"Aw, well, I'm unfortunately haunted by you already, I doubt a poltergeist could do more damage." Killian slanted a look at his brother, who gave an annoyed huff as his pure white feathers ruffled. Killian was thankful in part that he did not have wings at all times, even if the trade off was painful. "While Regina is the head of the Coven, the head of the Council is Elsa Frost of the Frost twins. She's a direct descendant of the Giant Ice Sorceresses with powerful magic, but her passion is creating legislation for Hyperion Heights. Her sister Anna is the family's public relations face, and runs their fashion empire, Arendelle Designs with her Druid husband."

"Good. Good, tell me about Ariel Poisson."

"Siren and Mermaid, with four years on the council. Made history as the first water Elemental to sit on the council, beating the long seated Witch, Ursula, by a large margin. Opponents argue that her father's position as King of the seas and his dominion over fair weather and fishing made voters nervous to not cast ballots for her. Her campaign slogan was 'Part of your World', which could be beneficial to my campaign." 

"Right. Snow Blanchard?" 

"Would-be heir to the Misthaven Coven who ended its elitist reign by breaking tradition and leaving, sending them into chaos." Killian smirked. "She sounds like someone who I could get along with."

"She gets along with everyone except her family, which is more than normal it would seem," Liam replied back, and Killian snorted out a chuckle. 

"Druid, Elf, and Green Witch. Runs a high profile herbal apothecary chain Enchanted Forest Supplies, focused on holistic medicinals, herbs, and spices. Nolan Farms is a subsidiary that sells produce to the Heights, which is her husband's 'pet' project."

"Watch yourself, brother," Liam warned. "While you might get away with that if it's just the Witches, if David and Ruby sit in today you'll find that will not stand."

"Ah, yes. Ruby Reddings and David 'Charming' Nolan. You only circled that they are Werewolves in red ink everywhere you could. David is Snow's husband, and her lead farm hand. Ruby is Snow's cousin who introduced the two. Ruby is currently in a high profile relationship with your colleague, Inspector Wolfe, and they both are very active in pack politics. Many are betting they will create their own pack if the current Alphas do not abandon some of the more ancient doctrines. Nothing new there."

"Don't forget Livre and Fa."

"Belle Livre, Witch turned Vampire, runs a community literacy foundation and bookstore chain. Known ally to Demon rights. Soft spoken but brutally intelligent. Introduced a synthetic blood that allows for daytime living via plant cells collaborating with Enchanted Forest, which made history 6 years ago," Killian listed. "Mulan Fa, Vampire. Cultural Development head of the Heights, and curator of The Hyperion Heights Museum of Art, History, Science, and Culture. Teaches part time at Hyperion Heights University as an adjunct professor. Fa is married to a Fae Elf, Merida Ursa."

"Good. That's as far as we know besides the whole Swan fiasco, which is not to be brought up."

"What Swan fiasco?" 

"Oh, little brother. If you had done your research outside of the profiles I gave you, you would know all about the criminal history of the black and heartless sheep within the Misthaven and StoryBrooke covens. It's better off that you don't know."

"Er. Well. Alright. I didn't look into them because I don't bloody well care about their lots as long as we get protection. There was another slaying this weekend. A Lower Demon."

"I'm aware. Did you know her?" 

"Not really, but that's not enough either. I owe my people more. The other Lords of Hell are fine telling Demons to stay below and never use their name, which is fine for the new blood. It's the old, the weak, and the abused that are at risk."

"Careful, Killian. Your lust for vengeance will never be welcomed by mortals."

"I'm well aware Liam. They like my kind for an entirely different kind of lust."

"Could you please not." Liam sighed, sitting back against the seat. After a moment, his brother spoke quietly. "There was another attack as well, this time in broad daylight in Camelot Town. The Anti-Integration Movement has claimed responsibility."

"Of bloody course they have!" Killian hissed, clenching his fists. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. "Brilliant. Just absolutely marvelous -" 

"They were going to run a story in the Times. I managed to block it for now, but we need a sympathetic writer on the inside, or we risk them running another story with their bias."

"I have a guy. I'll reach out, he's an old school Warlock who I've worked with in the past on push back. What's their excuse this time?" 

"They said that the Succubus was, quote, 'asking for it by the way she was dressed'."

Nausea rose in Killian's throat, and he swallowed it down with bitter practice. "I wasn't aware that how someone dressed meant their lives were not only void, but taking pieces of them was fine as well."

"We know they're being funded well, and we will get arrests as soon as possible. This won't be forever, Killian."

"That's easy for you to promise when this has been my - our forever." Killian bit out, glaring at his feet.

The car came to a stop, the driver opening the door to let them out. Killian moved briskly up the steps of the council building, as Liam followed behind. They moved through the lobby with an easy flash of Liam's ID that Killian scoffed at, moving into the elevator. 

"After that display, I'm going drinking after this," Killian gritted through his teeth. 

Liam blinked, straightening his tie in the door's polished reflection. "What display? They were nice."

"Exactly. If I came here alone, I would have been in that security line for an hour." 

Liam rolled his eyes, taking down his halo to polish the golden ring. "You absolutely exaggerate how you're treated. Not everyone is out to get you, especially when you look like this. Give others a break."

"I'll give myself a break after this with as much rum as I can safely consume, instead."

The doors pinged open to reveal a small atrium, dark wood flooring in stark contrast to the birch tree covered walls. A secretary stood behind a rounded desk against the far wall, motioning for them to sit. 

"They'll be with you in a moment," she offered, glancing at them with a thin smile. Killian could practically taste her distrust as he scratched behind his ear. Liam swatted at him lightly in a bid to get him to stop, both of them tense when the doors finally opened to reveal a petite woman dressed in a powder blue skirt and blazer. 

"Come in gentleman. The council will see you now." She smiled icily. His brother stood, his feathers slightly puffed in an indication of his own nervousness. 

Killian followed a second later, walking with them as they made forced, but pleasant conversation all the way into the boardroom. 

Women sat at a long table that curved slightly, facing their own small table similar to a courtroom. He was reminded of the tribunals in the old days when law had begun, but the courtiers were far different than the strange group of women scrutinizing them. 

To his surprise, the majority of them seemed actually curious instead of repulsed or bored. 

"The council recognizes Liam Jones and Killian… Jones. These are your chosen surnames, correct? And you identify as… brothers?" 

"Yes," Liam stated firmly with a curt nod. Killian watched from his peripheral as his shoulder muscles twitched, his wings held stiffly upright to keep them from the floor. 

Killian nodded, careful to keep his tail curled around his legs. The skin suit itched as it clung to him, not abated by his attempt to sit more casually. 

"Interesting," remarked the dark haired witch at the far right. A nameplate sat in front of her, marking her as Regina. He wondered idly if her stare was due to the blood on his hands only an eternal existence could bring. 

"You are here to ask for help in creating safety measures and a potential council commitment to Demon rights, correct?" Ariel, a fiery haired lass with a heart face, asked. 

"Our major point of concern is the influx of hate groups that seem to fall in line with smuggling operations and planned violence," Killian said slowly. Attention snapped to him, and he brought up the slide presentation he had prepared. "We have had some luck stopping shipments and arresting bit players, but we can't find the heads of these operations."

"You can't find them, or you are barred from digging deeper?" Mulan asked, and he chuckled darkly. 

"The latter, I'm afraid. We have consistently come to the same dead end again and again. I'm sure I don't have to explain to you ladies how difficult a foe powerful covens behind corporate entities are." He let a grimace creep onto his face, and saw the majority of the women nod in acknowledgement. 

"This could make many enemies for us, if approached in the wrong way." Belle stated quietly. "Specifically with our good friends in the Storybrooke Coven."

Snow nodded, exchanging a bitter look with her. "We may need a professional from our coven, but she's unable to get clearance without special notation."

"Oh? Who is this?" Liam asked. 

Elsa and the rest of the coven smiled in varying degrees of fondness. "The best in the business, and in my Coven. If you need to find someone, Emma Swan can always find them, and she's good at criminal magical activities. She knows the system, knows how and where to hide, and where to seek."

They'd found what the coven wanted, and their stake in the venture. Killian caught Liam's face falling, his eyes narrowing into slits. 

"You can't be serious. Involving Swan in this after -" 

"That was all a misunderstanding, and was blown completely out of proportion. We have long held up our end of the blame and accountability, while Misthaven has shirked theirs in the name of slandering her." Elsa steepled her fingers. "If you desire the best, which I assume is why you are here, you need to rehab not only Demons’ image, but hers as well. She should be sitting here with us."

Liam tried in vain to tip the scale back in their favor, his face going red. "We'll consider this as part of our negotiations."

"Negotiations? Liam, you are a detective. You should have deduced by now that you have no leverage. You have only decisions to make." Regina closed her planner, regarding them with her dark gaze. "So, make them quickly, before our patience wanes."

Killian bit back a laugh at Liam’s sudden blustered stuttering. These witches were good, and as the meeting ran on for hours he realized just how much liquor he would need to recover. 

 "Well that went well." 

Liam’s sour expression and slumped shoulders were just visible in his peripheral, even as his feathers were still quite literally ruffled. He huffed out a noise of disapproval, too vexed to even reply back. 

"Aye to that, brother." Licking his lips, they stepped into the cool dusk air. "I'm going for that drink, are you…?" Killian glanced at Liam, who shook his head with annoyance. 

"Seriously? You really -" 

"Really shouldn't what Liam?" Killian smiled, venom leaking into his tone. "Go get drunk in a town that would rather pretend I don't exist or sell me in a fine powder to the nearest bidder? I think I'll be okay, although the concern is duly noted."

He turned on his heel, his glamor falling away in a puff of smoke. The air hit his itchy, overheated skin, his tail whipping around in sharp, agitated flicks. 

"Take care of yourself, little brother! No need to be a self destructive bastard. We lost a battle, not the war!" Liam called after him, stepping into his sleek car. Killian snorted. 

Hailing a cab with some difficulty, the driver asked where he was headed with the same slight resignation he was used to for his kind. 

"A bar, Demon friendly please. Some place without swill."

The driver nodded, dropping him at a dimly lit corner of the city. A red neon sign spread crimson light along the sidewalk, soft light also spilling out the doors accompanied by loud guitar. Looking up, the looping, swirled lettering made him smirk. 'The Jealous Flask' was as good a place as any in his neck of the underworld woods. 

The inside was smoky, deep red damask wallpaper paired with dark, pitch stained wood panels, booths, and bartop. The liquor selection was displayed neatly, unlike the few early patrons sitting scattered around. The jukebox played warbly rock music, some punchy chords and an easy to memorize refrain. 

'one two three four, can I have a little more, five six seven eight nine ten, I love you' 

The bar stools were empty, and Killian slung himself onto one, the bartender nodding his head by way of a greeting. 

"Rum, neat," Killian stated, pointing to his preferred vice. The bartender did not stop polishing the glass in his hand, but the bottle floated down gently, pouring itself into a tumbler before the glass set itself down in front of Killian. "Thanks, mate."

The bartender nodded again, continuing his work with the aid of his magic. People began to trickle in as the time ticked forward, a witch or two eyeing him suspiciously, vampires playing pool in the front, a group of young werewolves forcing change into the jukebox to get edgier music playing through the speaker system. The Clash crooned out words against the Fae Queen ruling over greater Eld, the pack jumping around excitedly and thrashing their heads back and forth. By this time Killian had moved to the far curve of the bar, his glass refilled to the point of the bottle sitting next to him like a patient date. There were still no other Demons in his presence. It shouldn't have surprised him, shouldn't have even made him angry with the amount of violence they were privy to, but he burned away the emotions with the alcohol flowing down his throat. 

A soft touch on his shoulder caught his attention, and he turned with a growl. It died in his throat when large eyes met his, blonde curls falling in front of her eyes in loose tendrils. 

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bother you," she stammered, biting her lip. Pointing to a drink that was clearly not his, umbrella and all, she continued. "I was trying to reach my drink. It’s gotten crowded and I thought, I mean, I am sorry I wasn't trying to -" 

"Aye." He nodded, throwing back his drink. "S'alright lass. I'm sorry, I s'pose I'm just a bit out of place here."

She smiled, blushing. "Yeah, I uh, I get that. I haven't seen you around before."

"First time here. I was in the neighborhood for business." He poured himself more, and to his surprise she pushed and elbowed her way to sit next to him. 

"Business?" Her eyes were curious while her fingers toyed with the umbrella in her drink. "Should I be concerned?" 

It was clearly teasing, and Killian felt himself loosening up around her. She seemed to read him well, or at least the alcohol was working. "Not any of the good kind, I'm afraid." He grinned with a wink. 

"Ah, so we're just ships passing in the night?" She leaned in and he could smell the floral and herbal scent of her, her eyelashes batting coquettishly as she sipped her drink in his space. 

"Passing closely, I hope," he murmured. His heart raced; it had been ages since any mortal had shown interest in him that was mutual. 

His head spun as she met him drink for drink, hand unsubtly creeping higher up his hip. 

"Would you be opposed to… Maybe, I don't know… getting out of here?" 

"Are you saying you would fancy a nightcap, lass?" She smiled from under her lashes while biting her lip, and his heated blood grew hotter. 

"Perhaps." She stood with grace as she extended a hand to him. "My place is a quick and easy teleportation spell away from here, and my bed doesn't require any sort of magic outside of what I can do with my tongue." 

Killian hesitated, her golden hair in the glow of the lights making her seem to shimmer. "I don't even know your name -" 

"Eloise. It's Eloise." She pulled him up, letting him stumble into her body. Her lips met his, and soon he was pulling her closer as their mouths slanted across one another's in hunger. She bit his lip and he felt the tightness that had bloomed in his belly spread fire down his spine. 

"Lead the way, love," he whispered huskily, grinding into her. 

She smiled broadly, the world shifting until he was in her dimly lit home. A lone window twinkled starlight, moon huge outside as it hung in the sky. Her tongue slid past his lips, the bitter herbal taste overwhelming while the world shifted again, this time pulling him apart. 

 In a perfect world, Emma Swan would not be doing anything remotely close to what she was currently debating doing. It truly wasn't her fault; it fell on Neal and his stupid family if anyone was to blame, and his stupid coven with their stupid leader. She should have known back then it had been a set up, should have known that Neal was a fucking liar. How many times did the same drawn out plot have to play out? Apparently, too many, considering she had still warmed his bed until a week ago. 

This time it was final. Emma wouldn't accept him back when Neal slithered out from under the rock he had his affair in. She wouldn't be charmed by his smooth talking silver tongue, and if he so much as breathed near her, she would take another five years for breaking his smarmy Fae nose. Final. It had to be final. 

But finality meant certain conditions had to be met, especially if she was to ward him away. For one, the beautiful loft that belonged to Neal in the Heights downtown could definitely not be her base of operations any more. Neither could the various in between places she found where Emma could grieve until he took her back, damaged goods and all. No more hotel rooms, no more abandoned apartments, no more warehouses, vacation rentals, or quiet empty offices. She had to get her own place, and it had to be able to handle her particularly finicky magic. Neal's place wasn't great for her particular practice, but the view had been killer enough to ignore it. Neal's fortune had meant she didn't need to work, and with her record (or, as his coven would sneer, 'notoriety') that was just as well. 

Working added a wrinkle to her life; she would have to find somewhere that allowed her enough space for her magic to keep her employed. That would require a hefty chunk of gold - if she was lucky. The prices in the downtown area were steep, only high profile Witches, Warlocks, Fae, and Celestials could afford accommodation that close to the capitol buildings and Ley Lines. Initially when Emma had glanced through the apartment listings on the bulletin board, she had almost had a panic attack at the amount of gold they demanded. 

Her brother David, blessings be, had been her knight in shining armor. There was a large Victorian home that lay in shambles at the edge of their farm lands, its beautiful scalloped details in need of paint, and the gutters growing weeds as thick as her forearm. But, it was within her budget if she could get the down payment placed before the scheduled demolition. She put what she had down to stall as much as she could, but it was not enough in the least. 

One big job was all she needed. One big job that she could cash out on. A dip of her toes back into the waters of peddling illegal magic, just quickly in and out without a splash. 

She didn't need any more jail time, that was for certain. 

Putting out the word she was available in the whisper market was always dangerous, but listening in was free and without a snag if you were smart. 

Emma heard tell of a desperate woman willing to give a truckload full of gold to the right Witch who could perform delicate, esoteric, deeply Arcane and forbidden magics. Luckily for both of them, that's what Emma excelled at. 

She had always been good at her craft, and her magical workings were beyond powerful. She could do things that other practitioners only dared to dream of, if they could even conceive it. It was why Neal had kept her around, and why his coven's dislike would melt away if she said she would consider joining. 

(If she did that around Yulesmas for better gifts, was it really so bad?) 

The request itself was intriguing, the woman herself a Witch that could not do the spell alone. She wanted an equivalent exchange of unbreakable magical bonds, which while tricky, was not forbidden in most circumstances. The offer was too good to pass up on, but Emma didn't like leaving things to complete chance. 

Cue her sister-in-law, Snow. If anyone could throw runes, read the winds, divine from the mundane, and not keep any of it a fucking secret, it was Snow. 

Emma knocked on their cheery red door in the early morning, which must have been a surprise to Snow considering she was half dressed in business wear. She pulled up her stockings in a one footed hop, motioning for Emma to come in as she balanced the phone receiver against her neck. The coiled cord spun around her, and she groaned loudly. 

"Yes, Regina, I know. I'll be there, I'm literally - it's 2 hours away. I will be there in thirty minutes at latest, but - Well, yes, Emma just walked in." Snow gestured at a chair, and Emma sat, looking at her with an eyebrow raised. "Yes, I know it's early for her. I know. Uh huh. Yes. We will definitely put her on the table; it's absurd not to, considering - yes, I would love to talk to you about this in person as I've said - alright. Yes. Okay then, buh-bye." 

Sighing, Snow twirled, untwisting herself from the phone cord. She smoothed down her pencil skirt and blouse before looking straight at Emma with a curious stare. Her mouth twitched with annoyance as she spoke. 

"Now. To what do I owe the pleasure? I have a meeting with Celestials shortly, so." She waved a hand indicating the clock in the background. Turning to the counter, she opened up a cookie jar and removed a rolled cannabis cigarette, putting it between her lips and lighting it. 

Emma swallowed, watching the petite woman slide the purple lighter back in its space on their counter. "I just need you to divine something for me. A situation, with a woman who wants me to… to uh, do something."

Snow rolled her eyes, narrowing them to glare at Emma. "We are bringing you up as collateral in our meeting today, trying to get you a seat where you belong - on the council," Snow hissed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a breath. 

"Please?" Emma asked innocently, batting her eyelashes for good measure. 

Snow sighed. "Alright. Picture the situation and the woman."

Emma focused on the description, the spellwork requested, the woman's pleas. She could feel Snow's magic engulf her, and the fuzziness that came with it as she wove threads out into the natural universe, time and space sending her back answers. 

A moment passed, and the feeling abruptly stopped as Snow shook her head. 

"This doesn't feel right," Snow said, taking a drag of her blunt. She exhaled, the thick smoke swirling into the shape of birds that dove through the air. Emma coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. "That woman… I don't know. She feels off."

Emma frowned, petulant that the answer was negative. "She's a Witch, and in trouble." 

"Have you rolled your runes?" Snow began to pull on her loafers, gathering her things. 

Emma chewed her lip. She had divined, or tried to, but had not found a concrete result. "Yeah, and they said it's… Questionable, but the end result leaves all parties happy. Tarot said basically the same thing."

Snow let out a little twittering laugh, pulling her purse up on her shoulder. "And how does Neal feel about it?"

"Neal doesn't need to feel any way about it. I… We… I broke it off." Emma looked at her shoes, then idly inspected the counters formica. "Forever this time." 

"Oh. Is that why you're here so early?" Snow's eyes went wide, a hand covering her mouth. "Oh, Emma, honey. I'm so sorry, I've just been under so much stress with Regina and this council. Wait, where are you staying? Oh no - are you homeless!? You mean it, you're never going back to that creep?"

"Never," Emma said firmly, even as her voice caught. "I'll find a place though, Snow. Don't worry." 

"So you are homeless, oh Emma, if I wasn't late - no. No. You know, I'll call Regina and cancel it, you need me more than -" 

"No, well, I mean -" Emma shook her head. "No. I'll stay here tonight if I have to, but you need to get to your meeting. I don't need Regina's wrath on top of everything else."

"You know you can stay here with us as long as you need, oh, Emma, I wish you had told me -" 

"I don't want to stay here. I can't work here, and I love you guys but you both are gross with your lovey dovey hippie -" 

"I get it, I get it." Snow grimaced. 

"So yeah, I need the money. I can't stay here, I need my own place… I put a tiny deposit on that Victorian down the road, but I need the full down payment to keep it." Emma shrugged. 

"The house at the --- Emma, that place is a breeze away from being condemned!" 

"No it's not," Emma groaned, rubbing her temple. "It's got good bones, and character. It just needs some… help."

"Well. I mean…" Snow hesitated, heading towards the door, as Emma followed. "Alright then. I'm just warning you, I get a terrible vibe from that woman and I could cancel this today, we could work out a plan. We have the money from the harvest. You could work for us or with David and help us with the roll outs in exchange for a loan. I'm organized, but the help would be appreciated if you're living so close… especially since I'm making sure that house is safely remodeled for you. I don't want you to end up with the roof falling on you or some gas line exploding." 

"You worry way too much, Snow."

"I hear the future through nature, and it's generally terrifying. Nature is terrifying. Excuse me for being cautious, and wanting to help you out."

Emma laughed as they walked out the door together, Snow rummaging in her bag for lipstick which she quickly applied. "Yeah well, you're also smoking weed so potent it could put an elephant to sleep. I don't want a loan from you."

"I'm not an elephant, Em. I'm an Elf. It'll take more than this to knock me on my ass." She smiled, extending a hand to squeeze Emma's shoulder. "Be careful, okay? No repeats."

"That wasn't -" Emma protested, but Snow cut her off with a sharp look. "Yeah, alright. 

"Good. I'll see you tonight, you're coming for dinner. No buts." Snow grinned, before disappearing with a puff of periwinkle smoke. 

Emma groaned, kicking dirt as she stalked away towards her new potential home. 

 In the final days before moving from the small basement apartment Emma rented, the dingy, unused, bare studio finally found some decoration in chalk outlines, herbs, and a large bubbling cauldron. It hadn't ever been a home or remotely close to one when Neal presented a better option, the bed untouched and unmade. It reminded Emma more of her prison cell than anything else, which offered a strange duality of comfort mixed with dread. It was fitting that she would meet to do this ritual here. 

Gothel arrived promptly for their 10 am arranged meeting in a well worn taupe cloak. She looked as desperate as the correspondences between them indicated, but Emma resolved to get this over with as quickly as possible. They shared a nod in the form of hellos, then Emma pointed to the cauldron.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Emma asked, and Gothel drew back her cloak to reveal her tired and gaunt looking face. 

"Yes. Let's. Your payment, with more upon completion." Gothel dropped a large purse on the counter, Emma immediately grabbing it and checking the contents. It was real, her heart soaring as she shoved it in her bag. 

"So, you are to give me a token of your will, usually blood, an animal you raised, or something that's valuable to you . Something you care about, that you are tied to that a severing will make you -"

"I give you the life of my first child," Gothel interrupted. 

Emma's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh." Biting her lip, she brushed back her braid. "That's… That's super Illegal. I…" 

"You wanted something heavy, you got it. There's a reason why I came to you; you have a reputation for doing things quietly. The reason you chose me is because you need the coin. Now, my terms. I know you provide healing. I want to keep myself young and strong - youthful immortality. Grant me this." The grin on her face unsettled Emma, Snow's warning in her mind. Nevertheless, the satchel of gold meant a secured home.

"Um. Alright. Are you sure, the life of your firstborn? That's a ways off, and the strength won't happen until -" 

"Do it. Do it now, I know the spell will be enacted when payment is due. I'm well studied - Breaking a bond with a child, specifically your first, will grant me the power I need. I know that I can't do this spell myself either, so here I am."

Emma gulped. "Okay. Let me get the texts."

Emma returned with her copper cauldron, pile of books, and spell components. Gothel's grin grew wider, her eyes gleaming at the sight of the tongues, eyes, crushed butterflies, and other more macabre ingredients the spell required. 

Feeling a low tug in her gut that something was wrong, Emma backed away from the altar. The other Witch seemed to shimmer, slightly in alarm, a glamor of some sort possibly covering her skin. Feeling even more unsettled, Emma shook her head. 

"I can't do this, listen -" 

"Please. Please you must, I need this to escape a curse. It's blood magic, almost unbreakable and impossible to escape on my own. Please." Emma heard no lies in her speech. "I admit that I have not been entirely truthful. While I was able to send you the gold easily, I am trapped, held against my will. I can only project myself to you. I was afraid to tell you, because I am desperate to rid myself of this curse." When no lies continued to register, Emma felt a deep sense of pity for the other witch. A blood magic binding was no joke; someone truly must have hated the poor woman. 

"Fine," Emma said, throwing her hands up. Gothel perked up slightly, hope in her eyes. Throwing the ingredients in the cauldron, a shimmering mist roiled over the edge as she spoke ancient words and stirred in the shape of long unused runes. Adding bones that melted in soapy bubbles and stirring with a long Pegasus feather that gradually turned to ash, she looked up at Gothel, who was wringing her hands anxiously.

"Your tokens?" Emma asked. 

Gothel waved a hand over the stained cloth; several of the woman's teeth, a long braid of her hair, and a large chunk of skin fell into the cauldron. The cauldron's contents began to boil, smoke curling in darkened serpentine tangles. 

Emma began the words, Latin, Arameric, the old tongue of the Pagans, Celtic, remnants of Gaul, flowing them together until speaking plainly to her own magic. 

"Blood of one that is two, child, mother, 

Blood of my own, tear them asunder, 

Thicker than wine, thicker than water, 

Ties that bind, bound to another, 

The womb that grows life, 

Kin cared for in kind, 

A payment for power, 

Remake the ties, lift, and unbind."

Scraping her hand against a dagger, Emma let her blood drop slowly into the brew, the words flowing out in the crimson rivulets. As she pulled away the wound closed from her own healing energy. 

"Cradle of moon within flesh, 

Remake that which is to be made, 

Your reflection removed, 

Mine in its stead.

Your burden is mine, 

Carried and held as your first, 

Blood of the two, child, mother, 

As they are born, you are cursed."

She looked at Gothel, who was still wringing her hands, long nails cutting into her palms. This magic was hopefully worth the price the woman had so freely paid. Breaking an infant and mother's bond to give to another was a great sacrifice, the magic comparable to true love, if not greater. The power the Witch would receive would hopefully free her from the curse, but also give her the strength she desired.

"It's done. You must cast your brand over the cauldron, and when you, you know," Emma turned around, holding herself tightly. Caught up in the thought of what she, Emma Swan, would even do with a child, she was unaware of the other Witch behind her scrambling to the cauldron or her deep disregard for anything she was saying. "Get pregnant, let me know. I'll handle that - Wait, what are you -" 

Gothel chuckled lowly, her brand in its arcane circle around the cauldron, neon lines of electricity like power that sparked and crackled. Emma felt her hair stand on end, small pebbles lifting off the stone floor as the cauldron shook. Smoke rose in heavy plumes, purple and a noxious mauve that made the air feel sticky, her lungs not able to fill all the way. Gothel's chuckle had turned into a wild cackle, her braided and matted hair like vines or a visage of Medusa. 

Gothel's voice was crazed, shrill as she pointed a gnarled finger at Emma. "This is it. This is it! I've done it, I'm free! Oh, you silly, stupid girl. Now nothing will ever stop me again!" 

Her laugh grew into a shriek of triumph as magic swirled around them, Emma watching as the woman in front of her disappeared. Gaping at what happened, Emma checked herself for any signs of curses or hexes, unsure of what had just taken place. 

To her surprise, no sign of magic lay on her that she could see. She wasn't cursed, the room wasn't jinxed, and the second payment… Emma quickly checked her purse, finding the large satchel of gold easily. The second sat where Gothel had discarded it without looking twice, and she picked it up hesitantly. It was heavy in her hands as she checked it again and again, realizing that for once in her life, everything was going right. 

 Three hours later, she owned the Victorian home down the road from her brother's farm, the first home she had ever truly called hers. 

 Living near her brother's home had its perks, and disadvantages, as Snow had hinted. For one, Snow was cooking for her every day, and Emma was positive she was going to gain several dress sizes if she didn't stop gorging on various pasta dishes while pouring her magic into restoring the wooden floor. 

A major downside was having her brother constantly fixing her house without her being aware. She'd been woken by him cleaning the gutters, fixing her porch, and of all things, roofing. It had only been a few days, but between his insistence on the outside being presentable and her own work inside, the house was coming along faster than she ever dreamed. It was frightening, and David kept her on edge with his very obvious attempts at snooping around. 

"So, you're done with Neal for good," he said, startling her as she sat out on a newly hung porch swing. She wrinkled her nose at him in protest, and he grinned. "And… You're making doors again."

She froze, panic gripping her. 

"It's alright, I'm not mad. I'm just - just be careful. I trust you, but I know that before -" 

"I made a mistake. I know it, you know it, the Coven knows it, and so does everyone else in the Heights that saw me fall from grace." Emma curled her arms around her knees, bitterly forcing out words. "I won't make the same mistake again. I am on the straight and narrow; these doors are for commuting and hunting skips only." 

David laughed, poking her in the side. "Back to hunting skips, huh? Damn. Don't you ever settle down and enjoy the simple life?" 

Emma laughed, shaking her head. "What the hell is the simple life? Nothing is simple."

"Well, yeah, but… I mean the simple life." He brushed a hand through his hair, looking at her with a gentleness that she instantly felt uneasy with. "House, a pet maybe, hobbies, a partner, kids -" 

"If you are trying to set me up again -" 

"Not me," David raised his hands defensively. "No, I was just -" 

"I don't deserve that life," Emma stated, shrugging. The sun was sinking lower, crickets singing in the cool air. "That life isn't for me. That life is for people like you and Snow, people that are worth something."

"Oh, Emma. You know that's not -" 

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Emma snapped, standing with a start. David looked at her with a hurt expression, and she felt pure rage. "Goodnight."

She stepped back into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her. 

"Emma, come on," David called from the porch, but Emma wasn't listening to him as she fought the immediate urge to be ill. The sudden nausea ripped through her, and despite her attempts, vomit burst from her throat. 

She panted, holding on to the wall with one hand. The other hand gripped her side, fierce cramping making her double over in a scream of agony. She lurched forward, unable to breathe as pressure rose in her stomach. To her terror, her skin grew taut and she seemed to bloat, the pain of it ripping through her. 

David splintered the door, his arms around her as she lost consciousness. 

She woke in an ambulance, David holding her hand like he'd done when they were children. He was always the best big brother she could have asked for, always protective of her, and always pushing her to be better. He had convinced her to trust Ruth, convinced her to take a chance with the older woman who was willing to adopt both of them, and they had found another home together. When she was scared or sick, he was right there to hold her hand. Even now as pain ripped through her, he was there. She tried to understand, but her body burned until the flame became too much to bear. 

She woke again to the beeping of machines and David's yelling, her body aching but no longer in the same searing pain. Lifting herself up to try and hear what David was saying, she struggled to make out more than just fragments. 

"I'm not leaving, that's my sister ---- How did -- she wasn't, she --- I don't know, she never said anything ----- A WHAT? No! I'm --- not leaving!" 

Emma's stomach lurched, and she shifted to get out of bed. The sheets slid from her middle, and she gasped. Her middle was rounded, as if she was pregnant. But that was impossible, that was absolutely and completely impossible. 

A knock sounded, a petite woman entering. 

"I'm Doctor Mullins, Emma. I know that this may take some time to fully process, but… you're pregnant."

Emma hissed out a breath into a hysterical laugh. "What? No. No. This is not how babies work, or pregnancy, or even - I haven't even had sex since - "

"I know, and I understand that you must be frightened." The doctor attempted to console her, but Emma could not stop her rising panic. She touched the rounded skin of her stomach, the firm smoothness lined with stretch marks. Letting out a low wail, the doctor tried to speak over her still. "It's some ancient and dark magic, but it's very real. We have an inspector on the way to take your statement, and we performed a few tests -" 

"No. No, this is a bad dream, this isn't real, this isn't happening to me!" Emma closed her eyes, trying to focus. 

" - most concerning of which is the results on paternity, which indicate that the father has non-human presenting DNA. Normally that's not terribly unusual, but this is clearly not a planned pregnancy considering your… your conception being, well, this, and the genomic markers show that the parentage is half Celestial. I need to ask, have you had any relationships with an Angel?"

Emma shook her head, trying to understand what the doctor was asking. 

"Alright, what about anyone with proximity to dark, Arcane, or Demonic magics? Anyone who associates with Demons? Do you associate with them?" The doctor eyed her curiously, and Emma shook her head again. 

"I don't know any Demons, Angels, or Celestials." Emma bit her lip, frustrated at the question. Rolling it between her teeth, she murmured a thought out loud. "I did recently perform a ritual that was older. It didn't call for this though, I don't know anything about this…" 

"Well, it doesn't just happen." Emma looked at the doctor with enough venom in her stare to curdle milk. The doctor laughed nervously. "I mean, it did but -" 

"This cannot be happening," Emma moaned, throwing her head back against the hospital bed's pillow. "This has to be a bad dream."

"I'm afraid it is all very real. Considering the circumstances, an inspector of magical law will be assigned to question you regarding the situation. Because of the issues of legality, you may not leave or have visitors until then." The doctor stood, brushing her hands on her slacks. "Baby looks healthy despite wanting to grow at an accelerated rate, and we have slowed that as much as we can. Welcome to motherhood Miss Swan, and, er… Congratulations." Giving a last placid smile, she left the room, leaving Emma alone. 

Emma sat stunned, unable to do anything but focus on her steady breathing. 

(Fuck)

The single word came to mind again and again, escaping from her lips as her breath finally began to turn into sobs. 

"Fuck."

[mirahuyooo]

Nighthawk | ksj

Nighthawk

—No matter the effort, he always plagues your mind in nights like this one, reminding you of the feelings you let get out of hand.

Word Count: 1,638 Contents: AnGST, a smidgen of fluff and crack, jin and y/n are besties OwO Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader A/N: I noticed I haven’t written anything for jin in a long while (shame on me) so here’s this! I’m in mood for love—unrequited love. Hope you all enoyed! Today’s sad, sad piece is inspired by the word;

Nighthawk

n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.

P.S. I just wanna remind everyone that dYNAMITE IS COMING SOON oehgtiuabrgujbaufg prepare YOUR LoINS eveRYONE we’RE about tO gET deSTROYED ahksgabrigk

[masterlist]

A sigh leaves your lips as you close the door behind you, setting your bag down on the nearby kitchen counter. It was late—very late. Your face disappears behind the hand that you had brought forth to rub the furrowing of your eyebrows away. There was a damning silence that reigned over your empty Seoul city apartment, and you were attacked from it reflecting your current state, leaving you no choice but to throw yourself in bed.

The moonlight filters lightly through the curtains, casting over the lump of blankets you soon cocooned yourself in. Not even bothering to slip out of the clothes you’ve been wearing for the past twelve hours, you buried your face into one of the many spare pillows you had placed around you, hugging it closer to your chest as you dealt with the fissures seizing your heart. Alas, the frustration of not falling asleep adds to the weight you carry with you. At the very least, with the pillows surrounding you, whatever demons lurking in the dark won’t be able to add to the problems you were dealing with.

You knew it was a senseless and pathetic feat. All of this was practically your own fault. You were, after all, the architect of your own melancholy, and, for some unfortunate reason, you were exceptionally good at this particular skill.

Fuelling your despair, you deemed it befitting to punish yourself by reaching for your phone and further depriving yourself of much needed sleep. You’ve been lying around for what seemed like eternity—you weren’t quite sure. Your mind barely registers the numbers that the clock displayed before you, and in all honesty, you’ve lost the ability to care about it at all. You’ve stayed up well past the hours of 2 AM before, doing the same self-wallowing sessions you were doing right now. You had long been a seasoned connoisseur in ploughing through ungodly hours—something he’s always scolded you for.

As some sort of hilarious joke you couldn’t quite understand, fate throws something in your way as you scroll through Twitter—a picture of you and the very man who’s been plaguing your thoughts at 2:18 AM in the morning—Kim Seokjin. Even as your eyes start to blur with tears, they still drink his beauty in—his plump lips, his deep piercing eyes, and his confident gait. Combine those compelling factors with his welcoming persona, astounding cooking skills, and sheer talent, and you’ve got yourself one fine man that you’ve been simping over for the past decade or so. Oh, how blessed you’d be if he was yours.

Unfortunately, there also existed compelling factors that couldn’t make Kim Seokjin yours.

For instance, there was your remarkable trait of being a damn coward. Residing so long within the realm of the accursed Friend Zone had fashioned your fears into mighty beasts that bullied you into staying within the borders of the said zone, regardless of your countless attempts to escape it. Always at the last minute, your mind compels you to retreat at the nightmare of ruining the friendship you two had fostered over so many years—should he ever realize that you were a peasant compared to his princely attributes.

Speaking of being low beneath him, you very much were one. You’ve made peace with your inferiority to his beauty and lifestyle, so much that you could stomach sitting next to him in all of your bare-faced, broke glory. You were well aware that you were average—disagreeable next to him, but average nonetheless.

In other aspects, your mundane life also pales in contrast to his exhilarating endeavors. He’s a beloved icon—a passionate singer and graceful dancer who tours the world to meet the millions he’s touched with his words and his group’s songs. You, on the other hand, exist on the other side of the spectrum. You were no one special really, which you really didn’t mind since you weren’t keen on being in the spotlight. The closest shot to fame you ever had was when you were revealed to be Kim Seokjin’s non-showbiz best friend who once shamelessly dominated him on an episode of EatJin.

You weren’t even his type, which had greatly satiated the accusations of some fans—it’s still undecided if you should take full offense on that one. You weren’t the cutesy, feminine, soft girl that’s often alluded to be matched with him. You were capable of a meal or two, but you were no master chef. The only thing in the box that you know you fulfil very well is that you take care of him—and you’re enormously proud of that accomplishment of yours.  

As much as you mother him at times, there are still many a days where you wonder why on Earth he even remains as your best friend—what more if he was to be your boyfriend?

Another sigh leaves your lips once again, tearing your eyes away from the screen to stare up at the moon outside your window—the sole witness of the late night happenings that occur within the premises of your desolate life. Ah, but even the moon would remind you of him.

There was a sensation going abuzz within you—something you knew all too well. You’ve done your best to ignore the infestation of feelings that had apprehended your very being, even attempting to exterminate it by going on numerous blind dates. Unfortunately, the damn lovebug has always damned you, always surviving and multiplying with every sweet gesture, every dashing smile, and every uplifting heart-to-heart that he delivers to you.

All of a sudden, your phone rings. The screen reveals the face of the very man you’ve been having a debate with your mind about. Jin was calling you.

“Why does he have to be like this?” you whined to no one in particular, snivelling away as you were further left a mess. The moment your hand properly holds the device again, you glare at the image. “I hate him,” you grumble, but not really.

As soon as you answered, you weren’t given a chance to talk. “Why are you online?” he instantly asks you in that scolding tone you were so familiar with.

Your heart flutters, even you went to roll your eyes. “Why are you up?” you countered childishly, voice raspy from your recent breakdown.

Jin’s delectable chuckle makes you squeak into the plush of a nearby pillow. “Ya! I just woke up,” he defensively says, not seeming to take notice of your little stunt. “I’m just grabbing a little snack, and then I’ll go back to bed,” he informs you, “busy day tomorrow, after all.”  

You hum, as your insides continue with its attempts to betray you. “I couldn’t sleep,” you find yourself admitting to him in a weakened tone.

As you hear the slight ruckus in the background, Jin tsk-ed at your bad decisions. You prepared yourself to be told off. “Scrolling through social media won’t help, stupid,” he softly chastised, much to your surprise and damnation. “Drink the tea I got you from Japan,” he tells you, making you fluster. “You still have that right?”

You could only hum in response, as you further coiled into a fetal position—as if to say you were made as soft as a baby by this man. You held back a snivel, as your mess of emotions continued to make you cry over him.

“Good,” Jin says, still not aware of the true state of ruin you were in. “Go on and drink some, then. It’ll help you sleep.”

A sniff escapes you. “Okay,” you say with a whimper clinging onto the last syllable.

This time, your best friend doesn’t miss the sound. You could imagine him freezing, stopping whatever it was he was doing. “(Y/N), are you alright?” he asks, concern already pouring through in those few words alone.

Not wanting to conflict him, you went out of your way to fake a cough and a few more sniffles. “Yeah,” you said, in spite of your heart hammering against your chest. “I’m just tired from all the arranging earlier.”

The silence that followed was eventually broken by Jin clearing his throat. “Rest well then,” he tells you, before he goes to tease. “No one should look ugly at my wedding, and that includes you.”

Ah, there it was—the one last factor that cements you to the confines of your prison cell in the zone of unrequited love.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he says, voice gentle enough to destroy your heart.

In the silence that followed, Jin didn’t hang up. He never really does hang up first. You smile bitterly, tears silently flowing one after the other like a waterfall. “Goodbye, Jin,” you tell him, ending the call just as a sob wrecks through you. You put down your phone, and cry into your pillow.

Kim Seokjin—your best friend, your greatest regret—is getting married, and to a woman you knew would be perfect for him—a woman so graceful, beautiful, and skillful. After all, you were the one who had introduced the two of them together in the first place. You had no doubt that the two of them would be happily ever after.

You wonder then, if you hadn’t pushed your feelings aside so adamantly and went with the hell of it, would you have been the one in white to be waiting down the aisle? At any point in time, was there really a smidgen of a chance that Jin would’ve said that he liked you back?

You’ll never know.

Your puffy eyes wander towards the lone moon that shone brightly behind your sheer curtains. Your nightly companion was staring right back at you, but all you could hear were your thoughts.

It was all your fault.

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Rise Above

Soooo I’ve been OBSESSING over the Witcher series (and currently reading Book 2 in my off time). I can’t seem to get Geralt out of my head and I basically ran out of fics to read/ patiently awaiting updates, so I let my imagination flow with this one. 

It’s going to be a multi-fic with the first three chapters completed and too many ideas brewing. I’m thinking of posting weekly (every Sunday) if there is interest? Please let me know what you think! All feedback is greatly appreciated. I’m also finishing up some Mayan stories because the fandom needs some extra love. 

Masterlist

Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k 

Warnings: slight man bashing, language

****************************************************

Since early adolescence mother always cautioned of the intrepid bewilderments and betrayals men were guilty of alluding to. Their mortal trickeries and wickedness so elegantly aimed to prey upon their next doe-eyed victim patiently awaiting. Mother also taught her to never succumb to their predatorial tendencies without a fight. For this made Y/N swear to never become what others around her so willingly yielded to, and that was a promise she intended to uphold until her last untimely breath. Even against her worst nightmares, Y/N would willingly glower straight into death’s mischievously hollowed eyes than ever give a man a sliver of power over her very existence especially without her consent. Her mother made sure of that.

Y/N reigned from the bountiful lands of Temeria. Plentiful on unharvested acreages and majority of kind folk. Her livelihood rotated between feeding livestock, sharpening blades, tending to her colorful harvested gardens, and riding her beloved stallion, Mr. Darcy among many other hobbies that encapsulated her attention. Days blended into months as Y/N kept with her daily chores watching in discomfort as her mother pretended their lives weren’t about to be upended in numerous ways. Even the mere existence of magic couldn’t make undeniable ailments evaporate. Humans were a multifaceted bag of bones; mages were an untouchable species still yet to perfect their untapped capabilities. Y/N wasn’t too keen on categorizing herself hence her importance of isolation. Her once radiant mama rapidly dissolved into emaciation, staying presently beside Y/N for a moment’s more of honest love.

“Do not let fear grip its’ treacherous claws into you. For I know the searing pain of losing a beloved.” A ragged gasp slipped her lips as she ventured on, her words choppy. “I spent a good amounts time wallowing. Misery is an old friend. And its occasional deviousness ruses you sometimes into thinking that its constant companionship will remain and that one is unable to attain blissful happiness. But you can, you can walk away from pain. Never forget your choices, my love.”

“You have my word, forever and beyond. I will live in your image.”              

Her bones progressively weakened as many sleepless nights withered into dusk; her skin once glowed with the light of a thousand suns now had a clammy-cool manifestation.  Y/N refused to acknowledge the painful jab that infiltrated her deceitful senses, so she stayed the course and masked her outlandish emotions. Now wasn’t the time for pity. But her one solace and comfort were the freedom and exhilaration her morning rides brought to her burdened soul. It was in these hushed moments of tranquility she could actually feel the fresh air maneuver throughout the entirety of her body, engulfing her lungs in a welcoming burn.  He truly was a beauty to behold. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how the flitter of his silver mane reflected upon a summer’s day or the thickening of his luscious coats preparing for a long winter. When her loneliest moments fleetingly caught up to her, she was never sincerely lonesome.

Old wives’ tales voiced intricately woven fantasies of princesses awaiting their rescuers in decaying castles merely passing time as their hair grew longer in confinement. Y/N recollected eavesdropping upon the town baker’s inviting stories by the ages of nine, quests chockfull of bravery and resolution, doubt beginning to flood her veins. Another story, another vapid man to ‘save’ the day. She could barely hide the chuckle that fell off her lips when she dare glance at the girls lost in tragic intrigue. One tale in specific resided in her childish memory; painting a certain princess that captured the eye of a handsome knight all within the shadows of her forbidden fortress. His velvety voice promising her everything her heart was trained to desire, all she simply had to obey was his one command; to throw down her beautifully kept hair in order for her release to occur. Why were women forced to choose and best be timely in such a life altering circumstance? Y/N wondered if the Princess truly desired to be set free from her silent haven. 

Like clockwork, Y/N left the bakery in disarray all while quietly venting underneath her breath. The fable lived on for centuries later as all the women in her village maintained their perfectly kept long locks as long as the Gods allowed. From that moment on, Y/N kept her silky blue hair shoulder length and out of the way. Her mother should have named her rebellion by her mannerisms and ideals alone but deep inside her cavernous belly, she carried great pride of her kin, knowing she wasn’t graced with a foolish daughter as far back when she was safely in the warmth of her womb.

Y/N was brazenly gorgeous with a fierce lioness temperament that left men thirsting at her feet, but she merely wasn’t interested in what any suitor had to offer no matter the amount of gold, land, or riches. She was satisfied with little for her happiness to flourish. Her athletic build aided her in this strenuous life asking for no help and receiving none was her personal policy. Her lineage solidified their strength. Hushed whispers from townsfolk accursed them to witches but they had no humanly conception of the power that laid within their own bloodlines. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop men’s gazes upon the beautiful duo. 

Y/N had received no official training as mages were accustomed to but her mother put her faith wholly into her only living daughter. By five, Y/N was capable of complex charms and potions her mother had never laid witness to and for this simply delighted her. Y/N recognized that magic was a tedious give and take, an equal force of dynamics in order to maintain nature’s balance and in secret, she efficaciously thrived. Magic was an underlining necessity that Y/N made sure to never abuse in her favor no matter the situation. She was born and bred with a ferocious vigor and damned be the day she would allow her abilities to do her heavy lifting. Blood, sweat, and tears was her silver lining and Y/N be damned if that was ever taken away from her. She was always a compulsive pessimist, always looking for the soft brown spot in the fruit, pressing so hard she created it. She excelled in the art of secrecy always staying perfectly out of reach even to the woman who adored her completely.

Her mother’s passing hardened her seemingly aloof heart or so she was told.  Memories do not always soften with time; some grow vicious edges like knives. Some hearts will forever understand each other whether death’s door stand in their way or not. Curiously, she didn’t remember when she became exhausted. She didn’t remember when exhausted was no longer exhausted, it just was. The tiredness was in her hardened bones and she accepted this state of being bogged down in apathy. Though through her mountainous misery, goodness could often be found residing in the middle of hell.

Trapped in the comfortability of mundane routine, Y/N fantasized about a journey brimmed with mischief and riddled adventure, but little did she know the Gods were listening to her every whim. Fate and destiny happily intertwined. Over a period, her dreams grew consistently worrisome; haunted by an attractive man with hair the color of the moon, hypnotically golden orbs aside his more than chiseled features. If she were to extend her arm his way, he was just barely out of reach and oh, how she desired for a simple touch; to know what stood in front of her was reality or foolishness. 

What really unnerved her was the repeatedly jumbled words almost as if the man were submerged under harsh waters. His eyes relayed urgency that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher, not quite yet. With every vision entangling itself profoundly into the corridors of her singular subconscious, Y/N was further entranced by the strange gentleman she was graced with every night fall whether by coincidence or curse. And as he groggily faded into oblivion, Y/N had never slept so soundlessly in her entire existence.

[thehierophage]

April 9, 2021 æ.v. Dies Venii, 

☉︎ 20° ♈︎ : ☽︎ 27° ♓︎ : ♀︎ : Ⅴⅴⅰⅰ 

  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. 

  The Feast for the Second Day of the Writing of the Book of the Law, The Greater Feast of Saint Rabelais, The Greater Feast of Saint Francis Bacon Lord Verulam, The Day of Beth, The Day of the Magician 

Hebrew Letter: Beth 

Numerical Value as Letter: 2 

Numerical Value as Word: 412 (Beth+Yod+Tav) 

Meaning: House. 

  Thoth Card: The Magus (Atu I) 

Alternate Title: The Magus of Power. 

  Image: 

Correspondences: 

Tree of Life Path Association: Key 12 - Binah to Kether (from Sephira 3-1) 

Astrological Sign: Mercury 

Element: - 

Egyptian Godforms: Thoth, Seshat, Imhotep (deified) and Cynocephalus 

Geomantic Figure: Octagram 

Gemstones: Achates/Agate, Opal 

Perfumes: Mastic, Mace, Storax, Nutmeg, Euphorbium, Karaya and all fleeting odors 

Plants: Nutmeg, Vervain, Ash, Herb Mercury, Palm, Arnica, Mullein, Cinquefoil 

Animals: Dog, Mullet, Monkey, Jackal, Cynocephalus ape, Civet cat, Weasel, Bee, Hybrids, Fish 

Colors: 

King Scale – Yellow 

Queen Scale – Purple 

Prince Scale – Grey 

Princess Scale – Indigo, rayed violet 

The Secret Instruction of the Master:

The True Self is the meaning of the True Will: know Thyself through Thy Way! Calculate well the Formula of Thy Way! Create freely; absorb joyously; divide intently; consolidate completely. Work thou, Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, in and for Eternity.

Mnemonic:

The Word of Wisdom weaves the web of lies, Weds irreducible Infinities.

Recommended Text for Meditation:

Liber AL vel Legis sub figura CCXX, Cap. 2

The Book of the Law Liber AL vel Legis sub figura CCXX

as delivered by XCIII = 418 to DCLXVI

II

1. Nu! the hiding of Hadit.

2. Come! all ye, and learn the secret that hath not yet been revealed. I, Hadit, am the complement of Nu, my bride. I am not extended, and Khabs is the name of my House.

3. In the sphere I am everywhere the centre, as she, the circumference, is nowhere found.

4. Yet she shall be known & I never.

5. Behold! the rituals of the old time are black. Let the evil ones be cast away; let the good ones be purged by the prophet! Then shall this Knowledge go aright.

6. I am the flame that burns in every heart of man, and in the core of every star. I am Life, and the giver of Life, yet therefore is theknowledge of me the knowledge of death.

7. I am the Magician and the Exorcist. I am the axle of the wheel, and the cube in the circle. "Come unto me" is a foolish word: for it is I that go.

8. Who worshipped Heru-pa-kraath have worshipped me; ill, for I am the worshipper.

9. Remember all ye that existence is pure joy; that all the sorrows are but as shadows; they pass & are done; but there is that which remains.

10. O prophet! thou hast ill will to learn this writing.

11. I see thee hate the hand & the pen; but I am stronger.

12. Because of me in Thee which thou knewest not.

13. for why? Because thou wast the knower, and me.

14. Now let there be a veiling of this shrine: now let the light devour men and eat them up with blindness!

15. For I am perfect, being Not; and my number is nine by the fools; but with the just I am eight, and one in eight: Which is vital, for I am none indeed. The Empress and the King are not of me; for there is a further secret.

16. I am The Empress & the Hierophant. Thus eleven, as my bride is eleven.

17. Hear me, ye people of sighing!

The sorrows of pain and regret

Are left to the dead and the dying,

The folk that not know me as yet.

18. These are dead, these fellows; they feel not. We are not for the poor and sad: the lords of the earth are our kinsfolk.

19. Is a God to live in a dog? No! but the highest are of us. They shall rejoice, our chosen: who sorroweth is not of us.

20. Beauty and strength, leaping laughter and delicious languor, force and fire, are of us.

21. We have nothing with the outcast and the unfit: let them die in their misery. For they feel not. Compassion is the vice of kings: stamp down the wretched & the weak: this is the law of the strong: this is our law and the joy of the world. Think not, o king, upon that lie: That Thou Must Die: verily thou shalt not die, but live. Now let it be understood: If the body of the King dissolve, he shall remain in pure ecstasy for ever. Nuit! Hadit! Ra-Hoor-Khuit! The Sun, Strength & Sight, Light; these are for the servants of the Star & the Snake.

22. I am the Snake that giveth Knowledge & Delight and bright glory, and stir the hearts of men with drunkenness. To worship me take wine and strange drugs whereof I will tell my prophet, & be drunk thereof! They shall not harm ye at all. It is a lie, this folly against self. The exposure of innocence is a lie. Be strong, o man! lust, enjoy all things of sense and rapture: fear not that any God shall deny thee for this.

23. I am alone: there is no God where I am.

24. Behold! these be grave mysteries; for there are also of my friends who be hermits. Now think not to find them in the forest or on the mountain; but in beds of purple, caressed by magnificent beasts of women with large limbs, and fire and light in their eyes, and masses of flaming hair about them; there shall ye find them. Ye shall see them at rule, at victorious armies, at all the joy; and there shall be in them a joy a million times greater than this. Beware lest any force another, King against King! Love one another with burning hearts; on the low men trample in the fierce lust of your pride, in the day of your wrath.

25. Ye are against the people, O my chosen!

26. I am the secret Serpent coiled about to spring: in my coiling there is joy. If I lift up my head, I and my Nuit are one. If I droop down mine head, and shoot forth venom, then is rapture of the earth, and I and the earth are one.

27. There is great danger in me; for who doth not understand these runes shall make a great miss. He shall fall down into the pit called Because, and there he shall perish with the dogs of Reason.

28. Now a curse upon Because and his kin!

29. May Because be accursed for ever!

30. If Will stops and cries Why, invoking Because, then Will stops & does nought.

31. If Power asks why, then is Power weakness.

32. Also reason is a lie; for there is a factor infinite & unknown; & all their words are skew-wise.

33. Enough of Because! Be he damned for a dog!

34. But ye, o my people, rise up & awake!

35. Let the rituals be rightly performed with joy & beauty!

36. There are rituals of the elements and feasts of the times.

37. A feast for the first night of the Prophet and his Bride!

38. A feast for the three days of the writing of the Book of the Law.

39. A feast for Tahuti and the child of the Prophet--secret, O Prophet!

40. A feast for the Supreme Ritual, and a feast for the Equinox of the Gods.

41. A feast for fire and a feast for water; a feast for life and a greater feast for death!

42. A feast every day in your hearts in the joy of my rapture!

43. A feast every night unto Nu, and the pleasure of uttermost delight!

44. Aye! feast! rejoice! there is no dread hereafter. There is the dissolution, and eternal ecstasy in the kisses of Nu.

45. There is death for the dogs.

46. Dost thou fail? Art thou sorry? Is fear in thine heart?

47. Where I am these are not.

48. Pity not the fallen! I never knew them. I am not for them. I console not: I hate the consoled & the consoler.

49. I am unique & conqueror. I am not of the slaves that perish. Be they damned & dead! Amen. (This is of the 4: there is a fifth who is invisible, & therein am I as a babe in an egg. )

50. Blue am I and gold in the light of my bride: but the red gleam is in my eyes; & my spangles are purple & green.

51. Purple beyond purple: it is the light higher than eyesight.

52. There is a veil: that veil is black. It is the veil of the modest woman; it is the veil of sorrow, & the pall of death: this is none of me. Tear down that lying spectre of the centuries: veil not your vices in virtuous words: these vices are my service; ye do well, & I will reward you here and hereafter.

53. Fear not, o prophet, when these words are said, thou shalt not be sorry. Thou art emphatically my chosen; and blessed are the eyes that thou shalt look upon with gladness. But I will hide thee in a mask of sorrow: they that see thee shall fear thou art fallen: but I lift thee up.

54. Nor shall they who cry aloud their folly that thou meanest nought avail; thou shall reveal it: thou availest: they are the slaves of because: They are not of me. The stops as thou wilt; the letters? change them not in style or value!

55. Thou shalt obtain the order & value of the English Alphabet; thou shalt find new symbols to attribute them unto.

56. Begone! ye mockers; even though ye laugh in my honour ye shall laugh not long: then when ye are sad know that I have forsaken you.

57. He that is righteous shall be righteous still; he that is filthy shall be filthy still.

58. Yea! deem not of change: ye shall be as ye are, & not other. Therefore the kings of the earth shall be Kings for ever: the slaves shall serve. There is none that shall be cast down or lifted up: all is ever as it was. Yet there are masked ones my servants: it may be that yonder beggar is a King. A King may choose his garment as he will: there is no certain test: but a beggar cannot hide his poverty.

59. Beware therefore! Love all, lest perchance is a King concealed! Say you so? Fool! If he be a King, thou canst not hurt him.

60. Therefore strike hard & low, and to hell with them, master!

61. There is a light before thine eyes, o prophet, a light undesired, most desirable.

62. I am uplifted in thine heart; and the kisses of the stars rain hard upon thy body.

63. Thou art exhaust in the voluptuous fullness of the inspiration; the expiration is sweeter than death, more rapid and laughterful than a caress of Hell's own worm.

64. Oh! thou art overcome: we are upon thee; our delight is all over thee: hail! hail: prophet of Nu! prophet of Had! prophet of Ra-Hoor-Khu! Now rejoice! now come in our splendour & rapture! Come in our passionate peace, & write sweet words for the Kings.

65. I am the Master: thou art the Holy Chosen One.

66. Write, & find ecstasy in writing! Work, & be our bed in working! Thrill with the joy of life & death! Ah! thy death shall be lovely: whososeeth it shall be glad. Thy death shall be the seal of the promise of our age long love. Come! lift up thine heart & rejoice! We are one; we are none.

67. Hold! Hold! Bear up in thy rapture; fall not in swoon of the excellent kisses!

68. Harder! Hold up thyself! Lift thine head! breathe not so deep -- die!

69. Ah! Ah! What do I feel? Is the word exhausted?

70. There is help & hope in other spells. Wisdom says: be strong! Then canst thou bear more joy. Be not animal; refine thy rapture! If thou drink, drink by the eight and ninety rules of art: if thou love, exceed by delicacy; and if thou do aught joyous, let there be subtlety therein!

71. But exceed! exceed!

72. Strive ever to more! and if thou art truly mine -- and doubt it not, an if thou art ever joyous! -- death is the crown of all.

73. Ah! Ah! Death! Death! thou shalt long for death. Death is forbidden, o man, unto thee.

74. The length of thy longing shall be the strength of its glory. He that lives long & desires death much is ever the King among the Kings.

75. Aye! listen to the numbers & the words:

76. 4 6 3 8 A B K 2 4 A L G M O R 3 Y X 24 89 R P S T O V A L. What meaneth this, o prophet? Thou knowest not; nor shalt thou know ever. There cometh one to follow thee: he shall expound it. But remember, o chose none, to be me; to follow the love of Nu in the star-lit heaven; to look forth upon men, to tell them this glad word.

77. O be thou proud and mighty among men!

78. Lift up thyself! for there is none like unto thee among men or among Gods! Lift up thyself, o my prophet, thy stature shall surpass the stars. They shall worship thy name, foursquare, mystic, wonderful, the number of the man; and the name of thy house 418.

79. The end of the hiding of Hadit; and blessing & worship to the prophet of the lovely Star!

Love is the law, love under will.

[puttingfingerstokeys]

lightning rod

dedicated (as most of these really SHOULD be) to @sxvethelastdance​ 

Post-Aftermath

Ft. Lord Liu Kang and Raiden

Warring Exes (implied)

Broken Timeline leading to Restored Timeline

“Are you certain this must be done, Lord Raiden?” Liu Kang’s eyes, glowing with divinity, are even now filled with uncertainty and trepidation. The involvement of Shang Tsung in the Mortal Kombat tournaments—only recently established by the fire god himself, in absence of elder gods to oppose him—strikes Liu Kang as a foolhardy strategy and an unnecessary risk. Raiden raises a hand and then gestures to the hour glass. Within it, an image swirls of the well of souls—or the place where it might be, but is not yet—and then the face of the greedy sorcerer.

“Yes, I am, Lord Liu Kang,” responds the former thunder deity, an amused smile upon his worn but still handsome face. Warm, dark eyes observe his student of years past, watching the way he has begun to carry himself, with more sureness and authority as befits his position. Still, the mention of Shang Tsung brings a shudder to the man’s stout spine. “Shang Tsung is… a fulcrum in the multiverse. He must always host the tournament. I know of no other place in earthrealm that is more suited—the veil between realms is especially thin there—”

“Which is why he chose it in the first place, for his accursed well of souls!”

“In another time, yes,” responds Raiden, brows knitting, “but it appears that all the Shang Tsung of this timeline can sense is that there is power here. And he must compete in the first tournament. Doing so will cement his interest in the affairs of other realms.”

“And what is to stop him regaining his old ambitions?” Liu Kang’s mouth is drawn in a thin line as he, too, considers the hourglass. Raiden touches his chest where once Shinnok’s hateful amulet had been pinned, in a different life, though for a god it is all the same, even if his waking mind does not recall it.

“I will stop him,” Raiden says simply. Liu Kang stiffens.

“No,” he snaps, then softens almost instantly as he turns to face his old friend. “Raiden… you… you cannot leave me.”

“I ­must, Lord Liu Kang, if not now, to do this thing, then later, upon my death. I am mortal now.”

Liu Kang hates the way his title sounds coming from Raiden’s mouth—Raiden, the mighty god of thunder, protector of earthrealm, fatally fond of his mortal friends, who sacrificed his divinity to avert many crises, to save Liu Kang’s life, to save all of existence. He prefers the mask of aloof, duty-bound sternness. Now there is an open warmth in that face and the grim set of a man with but one task left.

“Why?”

The question rings between them in the roaring silence of the keep at the dawn of time, too full of meaning to fit in the single syllable it occupies, but doing so nevertheless, a super-dense piece of thought that is more akin to the fabled “god particle” of earthrealm physics than anything yet discovered.

“I must atone,” answers the former deity, his dark eyes once more watching the hourglass with interest. Liu Kang’s hand finds Raiden’s shoulder and he squeezes. The question is clear, though unspoken. ‘For what?’

“There is so much I have done… so many choices I have made,” begins Raiden, “the consequences of which no longer exist, but which I will remember for the rest of my days… and he is the greatest among those for which and, my extension, to whom I must make recompense…”

“Shang Tsung?” Liu Kang is shocked, feeling his core, even now, slamming with the anxiety that name naturally produces in anyone who has ever had the extreme misfortune of crossing paths with the snake-like sorcerer. “Surely you joke, Lor—Raiden.”

“Rarely have I been known to jest, Lord Liu Kang, least of all with regards to Shang Tsung,” replies Raiden, shaking his head. “You must know by now that the Great Kung Lao was not Earthrealm’s first champion.”

Liu Kang nods. “Yes, I know—Shang Tsung was the first and he won via deceit and treacherous sorcery.” The words are caustic as they leave the fire god’s lips, his eyes flashing. “And for that, the Elder Gods punished him—Raiden we all know that story. It is why we do not speak of him in the same breath as the Great Kung Lao.”

“And yet…” Raiden gestures in a ‘here we are’ manner and continues. “As protector of Earthrealm, it was my duty to choose the representative champions. That he occupied the mystical island and had made his fortress thereupon it was fortuitous, I thought, in my hubris—”

“A god cannot experience hubris, teacher.”

“You are yet young and you forget how many lifetimes I have not only lived, but also remember… A god can experience hubris, perhaps in more ways than even a mortal might do. But I digress… I chose Shang Tsung for his strength and cunning, knowing that allowing Outworld to gain even the semblance of a hold in Earthrealm would signal the death of peace in that realm. Edenia had already fallen and it was to prevent this happening to your home, Lord Liu Kang, that I made the decision I did.”

“Then it was no mistake for which you need atone!” Liu Kang’s mind, divine as it might now be, is racing about, grasping at anything that might keep the former god at his side. He cannot imagine eternity in this place, alone. He will, he is certain, be able to have congress of some sort with Raiden and his former friends—if they remember him—but in his mind, there is something awful and final about Raiden fully handing the “reins” of the universe over to him. I must consult a former god, he thinks to himself with mirthless humor.

“Shang Tsung did as any viper might do, that which is only in his nature to do… The Elder Gods were punishing me, not Shang Tsung. The irony of their manufacturing the ultimate end… ah, but perhaps they knew that, too.” Raiden’s tone is bitter, making it very clear that he had been privy to very little of the thoughts of those esteemed Elder Gods.

“Why…?” Again, that same question, softer this time. Liu Kang knows Raiden is allowing him much deeper into that old mind of his than anyone else has ever been, or perhaps will ever be.

“My second act of defiance against the Elder Gods,” said Raiden and, before Liu Kang could ask what the first was, he added, “in addition to the affront of refusing to become the Storm god.”

“Fujin,” whispered Liu Kang. “He… and you?” 

“We were to have been one—our offense was to be born twins; my act of rebellion was to fight for our autonomy, nothing more or less. This, they let slide, in their way, though I… sometimes believe they sought to overburden me, that I might see the error of my ways. I did not. I will not.” His laughter is low, like distant thunder, but somehow oddly uplifting in this empty space of pure creation.

“I’m sure Lord Fujin has no complaints about that decision,” Liu Kang supplied, a smile on his face as well. Raiden nods.

“He may have a few, but certainly not about that.”

“But what could you have done that might cause the Elder Gods to curse Shang Tsung, of all people! Surely they knew what would happen!”

“Perhaps they did,” Raiden admits, considering this possibility for the second time in their conversation. It is twice too many. “But my transgression was not so cosmic as refusing to take the autonomy of a fellow god… Or maybe it was more than that. Either way, it was deemed forbidden.”

The quietude is long between them as they both stand, contemplating the beginning of all things, and the end—all the ends—that they have seen. Raiden reaches out and grasps Liu Kang’s upper arm, squeezing it tightly a moment before retracting and folding both hands before him. 

“You… loved him,” guesses Liu Kang, without meeting Raiden’s eyes. The very idea of Lord Raiden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, feeling anything but disgust or contempt for the soul-thieving sorcerer, Shang Tsung, is beyond his comprehension, yet the pause before Raiden’s response tells him all and more.

“I did.” Raiden nods, solemnly. “But he… never knew.”

“And you think that by guiding him in this first tournament, as you chose and guided the Great Kung Lao, and myself, you will… ensure some more positive outcome?” Now Liu Kang is thinking like a god and Raiden cannot be more proud of him. But that is not… QUITE the solution Raiden has in mind.

“I have already done this. It was I, you recall, who chose him. As such, I was something of a… presence in his life, during the time leading up to the tournament.” Raiden pauses, thinking about how best to continue. “I influenced him, as one might expect, but I… it was forbidden, you understand.”

“What of the late Lord Argus of Edenia, and of Rain, his son with a mortal woman?” Liu Kang feels a pang of sadness on behalf of the old thunder god, and more than a bit of rage. The fire wreathing his body flares up. Raiden takes note. 

“Argus’s union was fruitful, Lord Liu Kang.” 

Once more, the silence stretches between them and the rest of eternity. Liu Kang flexes his fingers and balls powerful hands into destructive fists. He knows it is too late to take out his frustration upon the architects of their bereft sadness, but he thinks, perhaps, they are better off without the half-absent Elder Gods, who have never lived as mortals and do not understand how to love as mortals.

“You were always said to be… aloof, Raiden, and… preoccupied with cosmic matters,” says the new god of fire and thunder, turning toward Raiden and grasping his hands. In a flash, he transfers the former thunder god’s sparks back into him in a decision which surprises Raiden, something Liu Kang has not often seen, though it is always the result of an Earthrealmer’s actions.

“I know better,” Liu Kang continues, “and if you believe your returning to Shang Tsung is the proper course of action, you will do so as my emissary and not unarmed.”

“Lord Liu Kang, I cannot accept this gift.”

“It is no gift. This has always been yours and it will remain yours until your mortal life returns it to me.” To punctuate this finality, he pulls his hands away and crosses his arms over his chest to make the point. 

Raiden pauses, then puts one open palm over a closed fist and bows deeply, the hat obscuring his features and most of his upper body. Liu Kang has grown fond of this view, appreciating perhaps more than anyone else the humility it represents. 

“I will not fail.”

“I know you won’t. You never have.”

[anthony-juliet-crowley]

crowley, falling in love the instant he sees aziraphale rebel against his orders by giving away the sword (something he never thought angels could even do), not only because he’s enamored by this peppy, polite personification of a buttercup having a secret edgy side and going against the rules (which crowley oh SO loves to do out of spite for the world), but also because it makes him feel a little less alone, in not being what he’s supposed to be:

which is, about the nicest demon there is - shocked and offended by every accusation of being associated with humanity’s violence, terrified at the idea of child being killed (or worse, having to kill one himself), desperate to protect the world and the animals and beings living on it, almost definitely does not kill his plants, evilest thing he can muster is slightly inconvenient chaos like a goddamn cartoon villain - and until he met aziraphale he was convinced his existence was an accursed mistake of some kind.

aziraphale, slightly (read: terribly) put off by being in a demon’s presence the first few times but remaining friendly out of his infinite courtesy, eventually finding himself calm, then curious, then thrilled at his unexpected bump-into’s, visits and bailouts; crowley shakes things up for him, makes him question what the angels have told him about demons being heartless, cruel, snarling things, because as far as he’s concerned this snake eyed fiend has done nothing but lend him a patient helping hand at every turn. and he’s enamored by it.

it makes him question a lot of things: where he used to stand firm in his doctrine now held the seed of doubt. he can’t help but ask himself questions about the dubious methods of heaven, the deafening silence of god, the ever growing destruction of divine plan - after all, it’s all crowley ever does. but aziraphale’s always been too soft to live up to the expectations of his peers, too squeamish to follow through with their genocides, and too much of a pushover to even stand up for him when they belittle and demean him over the tiniest faults.

crowley was aggressively and unabashedly abused in hell, making it an easy task deciding to rebel against it and form his own side, but aziraphale was verbally and subtly abused; no less painful, but meaning that he himself, through the lenses of his purity, failed to see it. despite feeling deep down that his treatment was rather uncalled for and unfair, he ultimately concluded it was his own shortcomings as an angel that caused it, and that if he were to be worth anything in his life it would be by doing what he was made to: trusting the plan and following orders.

so while crowley fell deeper and deeper in love with every glowing smile, dainty mannerism and horrifically embarrassing blundering performance the angel flashed his way, and while it didn’t take too long for him to abandon his pride in his image and start expressing that love (through devoted acts of service, an eagerness to socialize and admittedly rather veiled proclamations of affection, aziraphale on the other hand clung to his loyalty in his duty with all the strength he could muster. it’s all he had.

he caught onto the demon’s intentions fairly early on down the road (his glowing beams of love and enlarged pupils aren’t exactly easy to ignore), and for the longest time he suppressed even the consideration of how he himself might feel in response. crowley was his enemy, he had to defeat him. it was as simple as that. because if he didn’t, what kind of an angel was he? what justified his existence? what would the others, what would god think of him if he committed a sin as ghastly as falling for a creature like him? 

but then, why would something like love be seen as a sin? if crowley made aziraphale feel this warm, this welcome, this weightless in his company, why should he pry himself away from it? he never understood the horrors other ethereals saw in sensuality, and much less could he understand why beings that supposedly stood for love and peace for all would be so vehemently opposed to it, let alone go smiting men and staring wars.

thoughts like this scare him, because he knows they’re not the kind of thoughts he should be having. they make him feel like even more of a defect than he already did. so while crowley’s proposals to collabroate on objectives turn into proposals to go drinking together, as his testing-the-waters flirtations grow bolder and more outright, as he grows surer than ever that being with aziraphale is what he wants more than anything, aziraphale draws ever further back, fighting not to let himself slip into the lull of the security he builds for him: the ever present assurance that “no one has to know.”

more than anything, though, he’s scared. scared of someone, in fact, knowing: hell finding out, and somewhen not too long from now having crowley’s soaking, divine flame-scorched corpse on his hands. safety is a priority over happiness for him, it has to be, and he won’t let the person he cares about most put his life in danger, for any reason at all. crowley is scared too, less so of what hell thinks of him or how he might be punished, but more of making himself vulnerable - he keeps up his act, spitting acid at the word ‘nice’ and telling children stories about stepping on snails, because he doesn’t know who he is without all the labels and ideals hell has pressed and scarred on him over the years

they’re both terrified. terrified of being anything beyond the groups they were born from. they don’t know how to exist outside them, but by god it’s all they want to do, and it gets harder and harder to resist it with every century that passes. after the church bombing, aziraphale can’t not at the very least let him know how much he cherishes him. the man (once again) shows up out of nowhere in his time of need, risks his safety by walking on holy grounds (ow!), and uses a demonic miracle to save him (and his books).

if they can’t be together, he’ll at least show his feelings from afar. to his distress, crowley takes it as a sign of confirmation, asking aziraphale on a drive, as gently, casually and comfortingly as his heart can manage through all the years of yearning. aziraphale says he goes too fast.

not because of time. not because how long they’ve been daydreaming about how the other’s hands might feel to hold, how their eyes would look staring back into their own in the first morning light, or how many millennia they’ve been biding their time until one of them snaps and smashes their lips together in an explosion of profession, being by any means ‘fast.’ but simply because it’s too fast for aziraphale to keep up with, too many confusing and downright unnerving thoughts for him to stomach on top of everything else. trying to do his job. trying to keep them both safe.

crowley is crushed, in more ways than one, but he won’t take it out on him. he loves his best friend too much for that. he’ll just wait and keep the offer open in case he changes his mind, in case he finds himself ready for that ritz date someday. his patience, which he was willing to stretch until forever if he had to, gets suddenly and intensely tested when it dawns on him that the apocalypse is coming; it could mean losing his angel, or worse, having to fight him. it could mean losing their chance at ever getting out of their decades of relationship limbo, which even then he’d take over nothing.

it could mean aziraphale losing his livelihood, all the homely restaurants and cozey bookstores and gorgeous views that made him light up with joy time and time again, a love of the earth and its hidden treasures even he and his many possessions couldn’t rival. even knowing that, he risked it all by taking the chance on aziraphale adoring him as much as he did aziraphale, and asked him to, as a last resort, leave this doomed earth behind and run away with him, just the two of them and the stars.

this is nothing short of sweet, beautiful music to aziraphale’s poor, longing ears, but as with any flicker of hope he’s had towards the prospect of them spending their lives together, he stifles it. “listen to yourself,” he says, but not to crowley. to himself, for being naive enough to get his spirits up about it, even if just for a second. 

“how long have we been friends? six thousand years!” when are we going to be honest with each other and take this to the next level?

“friends? we’re not friends. we are an angel and a demon. we have nothing whatsoever in common.” i’ve been dying for you to call me your friend since the day we met, but it’s not right. we can’t do this. “i don’t even like you.” 

“yes you do.” stop lying to yourself. “we’re on our side.” we’re a team. we always have been. we’re different to everyone else.

“there is no ‘our side,’ crowley.” we can’t keep going like this. “not any more.”

and even though crowley knows every word from his mouth is a lie, a strained, pleading attempt to keep his faith in his god sheltered from his own selfish desires, his heart still shatters in his coldblooded chest at the sound of them. knowing that aziraphale would rather stay in his self comforting delusions than leave them behind for what they both know they both need.

because as far as crowley is concerned, aziraphale is the kind of person to go against orders, rules and superiors, unafraid to take a stand for what he believes in his heart to be right. he knows that’s who he really is, deep down, and ever since he caught that slither of a glimpse of it on that day in eden they met, he’s been trying to coax it out of him, day by day, bit by bit, in the hopes that one day he might come into his truth, that he might find his bravery and finally fly the bird at the war, the antichrist and all the nonsensical bullshit that comes with it, for the greater good of the earth and all beings he loves so dearly.

that one day he might finally choose him. because as far as crowley is concerned, their life together is the greater good. and he doesn’t know what he has to do to make aziraphale see that.

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions chapter 13: ‘Charon and Sigma’

Synopsis: The penultimate chapter. The climactic battle to end all battles, as Harold, Sigma, Symmetra, and Winston face off Harold's mysterious imposter. But who's really behind the mask?

Read it here or find it on AO3. You can find me on twitter @alphawave13 or on my Sigrold discord server. 

If you like my stuff, please do support me by asking about my writing commissions, or by supporting me on ko-fi.

-

It’s almost like gazing into a phantom. For the longest time, his mind adrift in that accursed facility, he often wondered how Harold would look like if he were alive. That was long before he knew Harold was alive, of course, long before he had any control over his abilities and long before rescue would ever come for him. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, having someone on the other side to comfort him. He knew Harold’s mannerisms well enough. It was a simple thing of transplanting that to a new body. The Harold his mind concocted was not unlike the one that stood before him right now, a voice as soft as silk and eyes that perfectly reflected the stars in the sky.

It’s a stark contrast to the Harold by his side, scarred physically and mentally by the Earth and the Moon and the space in between. This Harold, who has lost the innocent naivete of his younger years, who dirtied his hands with blood in a moment of fury, who chose the moniker of Charon and has stuck by his side all this time. This Harold stares at his counterpart in absolute hatred.

“Don’t play games with us. Who are you really?”

“I think you’ve got other things to worry about other than my identity. Your reputation, for example, if you attack me. It won’t look good on Overwatch if you do anything. And that’s not to mention this.” He puts his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and reveals a small USB. Sigma is only able to catch its bright purple colour before the imposter pockets it once more. “You’ll be wanting this, won’t you? All the files have been backed up in here. And you know what, I’ll do you a favour. I’ll do what you want, and we can all leave here in peace.”

As he says that, there’s a large creak as metal breaks. Computer screens all around them begin to fizzle. The server is down. All communication systems are down. No one can contact Horizon ever again.

Winston’s brows wrinkle. “What do you want?”

The imposter smiles impishly. “What I just said. No one will ever know the truth about Harold Winston. The only remaining evidence of your existence and your research is on this USB. You have what you want. Let me have what I need.”

“You know we can’t allow you to do that. That research is important,” Winston says.

“You really want to stand in the way of science?” He shakes his head. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“You are not me,” Harold growls.

The imposter stares at Harold for a few seconds before chuckling softly. “No. I’m not. I am Harold, but you? You’re the Jade Hare, Specimen: 31. If you really are with Overwatch, I bet you’ve been given another codename on top of all that.”

Harold grits his teeth but says nothing. His cheeks are slightly pink in anger, or perhaps shame. Sigma glares at the imposter.

“The world wants me to return to Earth, I want to return to Earth. They don’t want this Jade Hare nonsense, and they certainly don’t want Overwatch because they are looking into the future. I can give them that future because I see it too. I share their vision. And I will do anything to make sure it comes true.”

Sigma wants to fight back, but his allies do not move and so he does not either, not even to protect Harold’s honour. Even if he was not part of Overwatch, he does not know if he has the strength to fight even a figure in Harold’s image. He wants to hate this man like Harold does, but he loves Harold too much, and that love extends to people that bear his appearance. He's not strong enough, of mind and spirit.

Beside him, Harold crouches down and drops the files on the ground. He holsters his jet injector and walks forward purposely. The other Harold quirks an eyebrow behind his rectangular frames.

“So, I’m not Harold then?” The real one asks.

“You don’t have to be. Not anymore,” the imposter says.

Harold’s lips pull up into a smirk. “Good.”

Suddenly, with ferocious speed he dashes forward and shoves his palm into the imposter’s frames, disintegrating before his very eyes. The imposter steps back, falling to the ground in surprise as Harold grapples him, punching once, twice, before the imposter disappears, leaving behind a robotic endoskeleton. The USB clatters harmlessly onto the ground. The imposter reaches for it but Harold is faster, hissing loudly as he shakes his hand, when suddenly Sigma hears a metallic whirr followed by the clang of metal against the hard floors. Sigma turns around, just barely avoiding a lunge from his imposter. With his powers, he breaks bits of the floor, smashing them together into a boulder before flinging it at his opponent. The imposter is smashed into smithereens, reverting back into its original robotic appearance. A third robot behind it takes his appearance.

“What are you?” Sigma growls.

There’s the puff of an explosion as Symmetra zaps another robot. “Cease your games this instant.”

The imposter laughs maliciously. Their voice has taken on a metallic tint. “Still haven’t figured it out, Satya? It’s a shame. I thought you were much better than that.”

“What…?”

The imposter laughs again, but not in Harold’s voice. The illusion flickers as their appearance morphs and warps. His hair turns into a lighter shade of brown while his skin turns dark as mocha. Their face twists and turns until it no longer resembles Harold, clothes transforming from a lab coat into a familiar looking uniform made of purples and whites.

“Sanjay Korpal?” Symmetra gasps.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Sanjay says. “You had so much potential. You could’ve grown to be a great agent for Vishkar, possibly even the best. We could’ve helped the world be reborn. Make sure no one ever has to suffer like we did.”

“You are not the real Sanjay.”

“Of course I’m not. I’m back down on Earth, but I’ve got my helpers up here.” Sanjay smiles. “Funny what a bit of connection can do for you. Hard light and space technology really do go hand in hand. Perhaps the next step for Vishkar is to collaborate with Lucheng Interstellar more in the future.”

Sigma stares at the robotic endoskeleton, vaguely human in shape, a camouflage device imprinted on their head. Beside the device was a flickering dot. All the other bodies have their own flickering light, beating to the same rhythm. A rhythm that does not repeat. Sigma’s seen this technology before, when Lucheng first tried to establish contact with Horizon shortly after the gorilla rebellion. The robots worked on the same neural network, not unlike a hive mind.

“We are meant to bring peace and order,” Symmetra says. An orb of hard light penetrates through a mob of robots, collapsing in a line like domino pieces. “This is not the way of Vishkar.”

“No, Satya. This is the way of Vishkar. You just never saw it for what it truly is.”

The other robots charge at Winston, who stands his ground, ready to fight, only for the robots to all run past him. They smash their heavy bodies to the glass. An alarm whines in the background, an automated voice calling throughout the speakers warning people to avoid damaging the glass. The robots ignore this, charging again and again, the voice repeating its warning again and again. Winston takes off his glasses, growling menacingly as his skin turns crimson, swiping the robots away with his arms, but it doesn’t work. There’s too many of them.

Sanjay smiles cruelly as he turns to Sigma, eyebrows raising as if daring him to attack. Sigma’s lips twist into a scowl as he hurls the hyperspheres at him, destroying the robot, but soon another robot takes his appearance, and then another. The laugh that Sanjay gives is cruel, almost mocking.

“He’s trying to trigger a lockdown!” Harold shouts. “Stop him from destroying the glass. If he breaks it, we won’t be able to get back to the spaceship.”

“You’ve got other things to worry about,” Sanjay says. “Did you really think that USB has what you’re looking for? I’ve got copies. All I need to do is get the encryption key and transmit it back down to Earth, and soon we will know all about your secrets.” His eyes flit to Harold. “You really want to risk that?”

Harold shoots electricity from his jet injector, frying Sanjay. The other robots all begin to take the appearance of the fake Harold as they continue to ram themselves into the glass. Sigma joins Harold, Satya, and Winston in destroying as many as they can, a mountain of bodies by their feet, but the robots still come. It feels endless. Tiring. Sigma can feel his grasp over his abilities slip in exhaustion.

“Please avoid damaging or tampering with the gla—please avoid damage—please avoi—please av—ple—ple—ple—”

The voice dies, and the alarm stops for a second. The lights power down, the only illumination coming from the glowing lunar surface outside and the brilliant blue Earth. Then a new sound echoes, and the world is bathed in blood red light.

“HORIZON LUNAR COLONY INTEGRITY BREACHED. INITIATING LOCKDOWN. INITIATING LOCKDOWN.”

The sounds of shutters rolling down masks the cruel laugh Sanjay gives. Winston is the first to act, leaping out of the way of the robots, glasses returning to his face. He grabs ahold of Satya, and leaps forward back to the observatory and the spaceship.

Sigma is about to follow them when he hears Harold yell. The robots, having completed their job in initiating the lockdown, are now mobbing him. With a wave of his hand, Sigma breaks the chains of gravity and lifts them above Harold. He rushes over, helping Harold stand.

“We have to get on the spaceship before the shutters close. We don’t have time,” Sigma orders.

“I can’t,” Harold says.

“Why not?!”

“The gorillas. They’ll die if we don’t stop the lockdown. The shutters will corner off each individual section of the colony. If they’re relying on the self-sufficiency stations, the farms, the medical stations, they'll all be locked off. No one else will be able to get back here to save them in time and if Sanjay has corrupted all the robots, they won’t be able to do any repairs. I have to help them.”

“Those damned apes have done nothing for you, there is no need to sacrifice yourself for that selfish lot.” Sigma gingerly cups Harold’s face. “Don’t do this. I’m not losing you again. Come back with us before it’s too late.”

Harold frowns. “Siebren,” he starts.

“D-don’t do this,” Sigma whispers. “I’m not as smart as you. Not as strong. I can’t do this.”

“Help me, Siebren. We can do this together.” He takes Sigma’s hand and grips it firmly. Amidst the red, Harold’s golden eyes are as warm as the sun. “My nanobots and your powers, we can be unstoppable.”

“Dr. Winston! Dr. de Kuiper!” Winston calls.

Sigma grits his teeth, tears beading from his eyes. He turns to Winston and Satya, a pained expression on his face, his throat impossibly tight.

Harold smiles bittersweetly. “Get to the spaceship and get out of here, sport. Before it’s too late.”

Winston’s eyes widen in understanding, then horror. “Dad!”

“I’m sorry, champ.”

Sigma opens his hand and uses the force of gravity to push Winston and Satya away, back towards the door to the observatory. Winston stares at Harold for a few seconds from the other side, just as the shutter closes over the door. Winston bangs frantically at the door but apart from some small dents, it does not budge. There is no noise for a minute or two, and then there is the sound of the spacecraft disembarking, blasting off into the cold regions of space.

By Sigma’s side, Harold gives a small smile. Sigma huffs. “I am going to regret this.”

“I know.” Quieter, he says, “Thank you.”

One side of Sigma’s lips quirks up as he brings the robots down to the ground, smashing them into bits. With his powers, he clumps them all up into a ball and hurls it at the shutter to the next sector of Horizon, cracking it open. They run through the wreckage and into the next section.

Harold runs forward, Sigma using his powers to destroy the shutters that block their way. He can see Harold’s eyes flit through the different sectors, mind racing.

“What do we have to do, Charon?”

“We’ve got two options: seal the glass or stop the emergency lockdown. Even if you destroy all the shutters and unlock all the different sections, the base will be losing oxygen. Depending on how much oxygen is leaking, we’ve got anywhere between minutes to weeks.”

“And how much oxygen is leaking?”

“I don’t know,” Harold says. “All I know is we need to head to maintenance. Sector 02. Best case scenario, one of the systems might be able to put an emergency seal in. Second best, there’s a kit for us to do it manually.”

“And if neither of those things are possible? If we can’t get there for whatever reason?”

Harold glances nervously at Sigma.

“Harold,” he utters slowly, “there is a way for us to get back down to Earth, is there?”

Harold doesn’t respond. He keeps his head straight as Sigma blasts down the next shutter doors.

As they race forward, Sigma sees glimpses of the other primates, staring curiously at them. He sees the different sectors, once built for human research and human needs, now repurposed to suit primate needs. Farms are at maximum capacity, growing a variety of fruits and vegetables, the auto-dispenser distributing the rare bit of meat. Clothes are ripped to make hammock nests. And there are so many more of them, so many young ones that can make even his heart melt at the sight. He has to admit, he’s worried that he may have to fight them off, but they’re all looking strangely at him.

No…not at him. At Harold. They’re looking at Harold like he’s a stranger.

Harold glances over his shoulder. “Keeping up?”

Sigma huffs. “May I be the first to say that Horizon was structured horrendously? Why have all your departments in specific sectors?”

“Blame Lucheng, not me,” Harold laughs.

When they finally get to the maintenance sector, Harold immediately dashes for the main office where the computers are. He fiddles with one of them for a minute, his face lighting up.

“The system is still in place," Harold says excitedly. "And not just the one to cease the lockdown, I can stop Sanjay too. All I need to do is—”

Sigma is about to join Harold at the computer when suddenly he feels a pair of strong arms shove him forcefully to the wall, one hand clamped tightly over his neck. His eyes widen as he takes in the massive gorilla holding him like he weighs nothing.

“Simon?!” Harold shouts.

“Why are you here?” Simon’s gorilla eyes narrow on Harold. “You,” he seethes.

“Let him go!”

Before Simon can respond, Sigma hears the distinct clank of metal on floor as multiple robots charge in, bearing the imposter Harold’s appearance. Harold tries to get his jet injector ready, but it’s swiped out of his hands. He’s shoved to the floor, fists desperately trying to get some damage on the metal surface underneath, only to return battered and bruised. Simon doesn’t react, just stares at the scene with mild confusion.

Sigma’s not sure if the oxygen rapidly escaping his body is from Simon’s grip or from the colony itself. He hears another siren, a different warning blaring over the speakers, which he assumes it about the oxygen levels. All he can concentrate on is the area where that little flickering dot would be behind the camouflage. He wants to fight back, but he can't. His powers are failing him with every breath he attempts. His body gets weaker with every second that passes.

“You want to be dead so bad, don’t you. You really have a death wish,” one of the imposter robots snarls.

Harold doesn’t look at the robots. He’s staring at Simon, making a complicated hand gesture. Simon’s grip weakens slightly. Harold’s doing his own plan, Sigma realizes, but is it the same as the one he’s thinking? What is Harold thinking? Why can’t he figure out what Harold is thinking?

“I should have done this earlier," the robots say simultaneously. "Back when you were in Oasis. I chose to keep you alive, because I thought you’d be more useful alive to us. But that’s my mistake, one that I shall rectify.”

“S-Simon,” Harold gasps. “A-air…lock.”

Simon’s lips twist into an unreadable expression, and then his skin turns crimson, letting go of Sigma to swipe at the imposters. Harold is able to scramble free, racing to the computer. His fingers dance on the keyboard while Sigma catches his breath, trying to make sense of this battle between robots and gorilla. Nothing makes any more sense. But then when did anything make sense in his life? Harold types away, “One moment, give me one moment…yes!”

With his words, the lights go out once again. When it returns, everything is the same clinical white. From Sigma’s angle, he can still see the shutter to the next section still firmly in place. Sanjay turns to Harold, shoving Simon away to race after Harold. He is fast, able to close the distance quickly, only for the robot to stop dead in its tracks mid-stride. It falls down with a heavy thud by Harold’s feet.

Sigma turns to Harold, not sure if the expression on his face is amazed or terrified. He assumes it’s the former when Harold chuckles quietly. “These robots are still the original service bots from decades ago. No matter how much Vishkar or Talon might have tampered with them, you can’t get rid of that killswitch. They won’t be moving or transmitting anything anytime soon.”

“You noticed the hive mind network too?” Sigma asks.

“You’re not the only smart guy here,” Harold chuckles.

Simon is still staring at Harold. His skin returns to a dull grey as he brushes himself off. There’s no more anger in his expression, but his face is not entirely kind. “I have built up my people here on this land. If you think we are giving it over to you—”

“I’m not here for you or the others,” Harold replies. “This is your home now. If you know how to get us back to Earth, I’ll make sure no human will ever disturb you.”

Simon gives a soul-piercing glare at Harold for a few seconds before retreating. His expression is stoic. “Fix the mess you made and get out of here. This is our territory now. The moon belongs to the animals.”

It’s not the peaceful conclusion Sigma hopes for, but considering this was the very gorilla that threw Harold out of the airlock the first time, he thinks it’s as much as he can hope for. He's not sure even he can win in a fight against gorillas, much less genetically-engineered ones with a vendetta against humans.

Sigma rounds up all of the robots into a pile near one of the airlocks while Harold undoes the lockdown and seals the crack in the glass. With Sigma’s abilities he forces the weight of gravity on the endoskeletons, crushing them beyond repair and recognition. All except one, that is. There is one endoskeleton that is still maintaining the Harold disguise. Using the pieces of the other endoskeletons, Sigma is able to take a rudimentary picture and send it back to Lucheng Interstellar. The assumption will be that Harold Winston is dead for real this time. Sanjay won’t be able to use Harold’s appearance for his own purposes anymore.

They have a small audience now comprised of the other test subjects, all bigger and older than when Sigma last remember seeing them, silently judging from a far distance. Sigma catches Harold gazing upon them sadly but it is clear there is no love lost between the animals. Though Harold loved them like family, they only saw Harold as the torturer who got away. One wrong move and the animals will attack again. Sigma would comfort Harold, but he knows it's not necessary. This life is no longer his. In more ways than one, the Harold Winston that Siebren de Kuiper fell in love with did die on the moon.

The glass sealed, a warning sign of common lexigrams placed next to the crack, Harold helps Sigma push the robot pieces into the airlock. Harold puts in his code, and the pieces fly off into the moon, scattering across the crater. Not the most environmentally friendly way of disposing the robots, but the safest given the circumstances.

“There is one escape pod in the Hangar,” Simon says. “I do not know if it is functional. You will have to repair it yourself.”

“And if it can’t be repaired? If it doesn’t work?”

“Then we’ll throw you out the airlock just like last time.” His voice is neutral but the way his brows lower make it clear he will make good on his promise.

Slowly they make their way to the Hangar. The escape pod in question is in fact an old satellite. There is no propulsion system, and very little in the ways of comfort and safety, but it can be repurposed to be habitable and be directed to Earth. With the combined efforts of their powers there is a possibility they may be able to survive the impact. It’s far from ideal, and the chance of death is high, but Simon’s threat still hangs in the air. There is no way that Overwatch will be able to requisition another spacecraft in the near future.

“It’s funny, being up here, fixing this up. Wouldn’t have considered doing this the last time I was up in space,” Sigma says.

“How so?” Harold asks.

“The last time I was away from Earth, I was trying to harness a black hole. It was all to do with space travel, actually. Considering what I know now, I probably harnessed something more akin to a wormhole than an actual black hole. I saw it both in reality and in my mind’s eye. If I try, I can almost hear its melody.”

“You think you could do that? Make a wormhole to get us back home?”

Sigma frowns. “You don’t know what it was like when I had my accident. Everything happened all too fast and then far too slow. I felt like I spent a second and a million years trapped in that moment,. I don’t know what will happen if I try to summon it again. I have to get the math right, I need to make sure all the equations are correct.” Sigma gazes at the floor. “Truth is, I am afraid of that thing. Have been ever since.”

Harold puts a hand on Sigma’s shoulder. “Let’s get this thing done then. We’ll keep it as a last resort.”

Sigma smiles. “Sure.”

They continue working side by side on the old satellite. Sigma doesn’t know how much time has passed, just that his body is slow to respond when he hears the ringing alarms of the hangar doors open. Outside is a construction robot, designed for the continued repair of Horizon Lunar Colony, but it’s long since been dormant since the rebellion.

Or at least it should. But all too fast and all too slow Sigma realises that it's moving. And it's charging at them.

Harold whips his head around, readying his jet injector, but he’s too slow to react. He’s pinned to the ground, heavy metal trapping his leg with an audible crack, making his shriek in guttural pain. The gorillas hoot and screech in anger, going red in rage as they try to attack this new intruder, but the construction robot swipes them away with ease. Sigma fires a volley of hyperspheres at the robot, but he’s also shoved to the ground. The voices in his head are drowned out by the alarms blaring above his body and the weak groans that escape his lips.

The construction robot picks the two of them up like they weigh nothing, rapidly moving to the hangar doors. Air is rapidly escaping from them, gravity threatening to pull them out into the moon’s atmosphere. Sigma needs to concentrate to use his powers, but he needs one look of Harold, blood oozing out of his leg, and his breathing gets heavier and quicker. Gravity is fluctuating, but it doesn’t affect the massive construction robot, built specifically for use in multiple different gravity conditions.

The voice that comes out of its voice box is filled with static, crackling noisily, and barely audible. “You make my work worthless. You ruined months of work and years worth of research, and for what? To hide your precious little nanobots for a little bit longer?”

Harold punches until his knuckles are bleeding. “Siebren!”

"If you want to be dead, Harold Winston—"

Sigma desperately flings whatever piece of equipment his powers can raise at the robot, but it only dents it slightly. The construction robot is still functioning.

“—then I’ll make your wish come true.”

“Siebren, make the wormh—”

The construction robot throws them out into the cold reaches of the moon and shuts the door. Even if the door wasn’t locked, they’re floating uncontrollably, the low gravity propelling them far away, too far away to get back in time. They make no sound when their bodies finally hit the coarse surface of the moon. No sound can be transmitted from this world without air. The only thing Sigma can hear is not the universe’s whisperings, not the incessant voices in his head, but his own thoughts, as clear as crystal.

We’re going to die.

Harold stares at Sigma with golden eyes as he tries to crawl to him. It’s not easy in the microgravity, but he floats over, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Sigma feels the soft glow of the nanobots surround his body and enter his bloodstream. Suddenly his one breath feels like it can last so much longer, but it will only buy him seconds. It’s lunar day on the moon, and the temperature is so hot it feels like he’s melting. His skin is sticking to his armour. He's burning alive from the intense heat.

Harold is mouthing some words at him. The same thing he was trying to say before they got sucked out. In this moment, time all too fast and all too slow, he’d tell Harold his greatest fears if he could. He’d tell Harold that the only reason he’s never tried to summon the black hole is because he’s afraid. He’d tell Harold the only reason he never tried to summon a worm hole is because he’s afraid. So much of his life after that tragic accident has been dictated by fear, both the ones he acknowledged and the ones he didn’t.

He almost expects the universe to whisper its dark magic at him and tell him to give up his mind once again, but it remains silent this time. It’s his decision, the universe says in its silence, to die on the moon by the side of his beloved or risk his mind once again and open up the wormhole and take them back to Earth. He wants to give up. He wants to be weak by Harold’s side one final time. He wants to, because he is a villain who has done nothing good in his life, regardless of his intentions. Villains deserve to die at the edge of space, boiled and frozen alive.

But he’s not a villain anymore. He has people who love him. People who care for him and about him. People who look up to Overwatch and its members as a symbol of hope. If he inspires just a little bit of heroism, just enough of a spark to incite curiosity in just one person out there in the world, he can’t be a villain.

He wraps his arms around Harold, humming a noiseless tune that no wind can carry. A wormhole appears, growing between their chests, threatening to consume them. In that wormhole he sees the bridge between time and space. He sees the infinite realities and the infinite version of himself warped and changed through the efforts of infinite realities. Except it’s not just infinite versions of him, but also infinite versions of Harold and Overwatch, all smiling brightly. He thinks of Watchpoint: Gibraltar and the medical wing with Mercy and the training areas with the practice robots and that comfortable king-sized bed and the glimmering waters of the sea, the moon high above their head.

In a flash, they are gone, disappearing from the universe for a moment.

-

When Sigma wakes up, he thinks he might have died for real. All he can see is blinding white surrounding his vision. He sits up, wincing as pain shoots up his back and all throughout his skin. He glances down, his body wrapped in bandages like a mummy, drips attached at his forearm. Slowly he peaks under the bandages. His skin is noticeably burned, but in the final stages of healing. In days, maybe a week, it'll look like normal flesh once more.

He's alive, he realises slowly. He's alive and breathing and safe.

“Dr. de Kuiper,” a voice sighs. “We were so worried about you.”

Sigma blinks as the light fades into acceptable levels. He’s in a hospital bed, surrounded by many of the members of Overwatch. Mercy is there, as is Tracer, Symmetra, Genji, Sojourn, and many others. He's almost certain the entirety of the reformed Overwatch team is there in this room, except there are some noticeable exceptions. Winston is not here. Neither is Harold.

“Where…?” He coughs loudly, his throat impossibly parched. On instinct, Mercy hands him a glass of water with some kind of tablet fizzing inside.

“Drink,” she says.

He nods slowly, being careful to down it all. He wipes his mouth, relieved that the skin on his face feels relatively normal.

“We found you both on the cliffside here on Gibraltar, unconscious. A gust of wind could have blown you off the cliff altogether if we didn’t catch you as soon as we did. You had severe burns on your skin and a few of your internal organs. I had to work day and night to save you both.”

“He’s…he’s alive, isn’t he?”

Mercy’s face falls for just a second. The rest of the crowd glance nervously at each other.

Suddenly there’s the sound of the door opening loudly, crashing into the wall. Mercy glares at the intruder.

“S-sorry about that,” Winston smiles nervously.

Sigma turns his head slowly to see Harold himself, scarred but smiling, tears beading in his eyes. With Winston's help, he slowly approaches Sigma’s bed, putting a hand on his leg.

“Thank god you’re OK," Harold says.

He can’t stop himself. He turns his body and pulls Harold into a crushing hug. Harold’s laugh turns into a groan as he pats Sigma incessantly. “O-OK, big guy, let me down.”

There’s a few quiet chuckles from the others as Sigma hesitantly lets go of Harold. When Harold relaxes, Sigma punches him lightly on the arm. Harold yelps, more in surprise than pain.

His gaze sweeps over Harold, from the nasal catheter and his grey hair down to his casual clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes settles on the newest addition on Harold’s person. One of his legs is in a cast, messages written out on blue and green marker on the bandages. The wheelchair he’s sitting on is old and decrepit but usable. “Turns out nanobots can’t do much about broken bone,” Harold explains. “Compound fracture like you wouldn’t believe. I saw my leg in the x-ray and it was like a jigsaw puzzle. But I’ll be good to go in a month or two, depending on how fast the nanobots work.”

“That is if it sets in the correct position,” Mercy counters. “You must be very careful to ensure that the bone does not set in the incorrect position. If it does, you won't be able to walk or run properly ever again."

"I'll be fine," Harold insists. "I'm sure I will with your nanobiotics. I've been doing some reading on them, and I'm thinking it might be possible to combine them with my nanorobots. Nanobiotic nanobots. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

Mercy gives a hint of a smile before it gives way for professional stoicism. Sigma turns to Mercy slowly. "Is it possible I can talk to Harold? Alone?"

Mercy isn't even able to open her mouth before Tracer blinks forward, pushing Mercy towards the door with an overenthusiastic grin. "Not a problem, Doc, we'll get out of your hair. Come on, everybody. Hut two, hut two. Leave the space dads to do their space dad things."

On Tracer's orders and her incessant shoving, everybody crams themselves through the door and shut it behind them. Harold looks up at Sigma, his soft smile growing coquettish. "Guess we're alone now."

"Indeed," Sigma says softly.

There are a thousand different things Sigma can say to show his appreciation and his love and his relief and his hurt. There are so many things for him to say, but he doesn't say them. He just takes Harold's hand into his own, feels the warmth spread through his body, and knows deep in his soul that this is the man he loves, and whom he will love in return.

"Never make me do that again," Sigma whispers. "And never risk your life like that again."

Harold grips Sigma's hand tightly, his smile as bright as the light of a 1000 suns. "No promises, big guy. I'll always help the ones that I love and care about."

"Does that include me?"

"That will always include you," Harold says. He places a tender peck to the back of Sigma's hand. "From now till death do us part."

Sigma laughs weakly. "I don't think even death can tear us apart."

Harold stays for the rest of the day, chatting about everything and nothing. Sooner or later, the two of them fall asleep, Sigma in his bed, and Harold in his wheelchair, their heads leaning towards each other.