#cw drowning imagery

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - Parasite Nightmare

1 | 2 | 3

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

Kris tries to stay on task, but they've clearly got some traumas and worries about their situation weighing on their mind. Still, they at least eventually find what they're looking for!

Still working away on the final part for this too...gotta finish in time, aaaaah!

#lynx art #eldritchrune #deltarune au #cw: digestion #cw: drowning imagery #kris dreemurr #toriel #although it should be noted this isn't an accurate representation of how Toriel feels #just Kris's anxieties in nightmare form #also the parasite is a particular Deltarune NPC (actually two) #guess who! #they're a very minor one tho

[sonicexelle-junkary]

CW: images of waterboarding

That’s not supposed to happen

I think someone is upset with you

(Yeah I know that y’all wanted more Exelle, but that shit is gonna take a hot minuet with multiple parts to explain… also I know I said this was gonna be Starline, but I think Miles fits better given the context, that I sure am not gonna tell you)

#art #fanart #sketch #comic #sonic.exe #ProjectFreedom #CW: drowning #CW: waterboarding #CW: disturbing imagery #miles prower #chaos the living wave #GET HIS ASS

[stylusinsidemspaint]

i love the idea of ppl turning lost ep creepypasta characters into sexymen like how ppl did with jeff the killer or ben drowned

like imagine ppl seeing this and being like "hear me out rq 🙏🙏🥵"

#creepypasta #bootleg spongebob #jeff the killer #ben drowned #tw disturbing imagery #cw disturbing imagery #tw scary #cw scary

[charliemwrites]

Yes yes, I know. Part 9 for Charmed Slasher is coming out soon, I promise.

BUT! I had this Thought and just had to do it real quick!

(CW for violent imagery and actual violence)

Simon's been watching you for weeks.

You're such a sweet, quiet thing. Shy. Happy to let your coworkers lead conversations, chiming in only when directly addressed. You smile like sun peeking through clouds, slow and beaming, prying through darkness.

And they way you peer up through your eyelashes, the corners of your mouth tipping up. Oh, oh... he wants to ruin you.

Thinks of you while he strokes himself in bed, looking up at him through those thick lashes. Sticking together with unshed tears as you choke on his cock. That quietly pleased smile when he purrs that you're doing so well, almost halfway there...

It's becoming a distraction, this preoccupation with you. So many others just let their eyes slide over you, but not Simon. No, he sees you.

That you shred your bottom lip bloody when you're deep in thought. You wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when you're trying not to sneeze. Always burn your mouth on your first sip of coffee.

He watches you in your home. The way you curl up with your favorite blanket, leaned up against the arm of the couch. A perfect open space for him to share with you. He memorizes your routines and imagines slotting himself into your life.

He shouldn't. That's not going to stop him.

Price has been staring at him hard when he thinks Simon won't notice. Gaz has been jumpier; the recruits whispering more fervently. They can sense him slipping; too many missions. Too much bloodshed. It's soaked past clothes and skin, muscle and marrow. His soul, if he has one, must be drenched crimson.

He needs an anchor to keep him from floating adrift in this sea of blood.

He's found you. So precious. So delicate. He couldn't let himself be too rough with you; you'd break so easily. Oh, his hands itch to break you down piece by piece like his favorite gun. Gut you and clean you out, only to put you back together again with his own hands, his initials stamped into you.

There's no salvation for someone like him, but you're all the Paradise he needs.

And then you go and do such a stupid, silly thing.

You go on a date. Look like something he wants to stain in your clingy jeans and low-cut top. Hair done just so. He wants to see it sweaty and tangled after burying his fingers in it; his vision goes red at the thought of anyone else getting that honor.

But no... no. It's not your fault, really. You don't know any better. But you will. You will very, very soon.

Simon watches your date greet you outside, slip an arm around your waist like it belongs there. Like you belong to anyone but Simon. The only things that saves the man from a bloody end right there is that you gently extricate yourself to go inside.

He seethes on the sidewalk across the street, fingers twitching for his Ka-Bar. The images of his initials on your perfect skin is burned behind his eyelids, and afterimage superimposing itself over his vision.

It's time you knew who you belong to.

--

Your father always said you have a temper like the Devil. Didn’t understand what he meant as a sunshine six-year-old, giggling after butterflies and munching on cheese sticks. Your parents’ pride and joy, their first and only babygirl.

You understood later, though, standing at the broken window and watching a pool of blood spread and spread and spread….. like leaving a marker tip on the page too long.

You’re Old Testament wrathful, fire and brimstone, churning beneath a lake of oil and ink. Pitch black, iridescent rainbow on the surface, too thick to realize what roils beneath until one misstep breaks that molecular tension—

Rage will boil up in your stomach, scorch your chest. Burns acidic in your throat and stains your teeth on venom. You don’t drown in anger, you wade into it until you float.

Not to say that you’re an angry person. You’re not. Not much to bother being angry about, by your estimate. Disappointed, resigned, annoyed, exasperated - sure. But the raw fury that sharpens your teeth and claws? It’s an energy expenditure your mind hardly ever feels the need to spark.

But there are some things…

“C’mon don’t be a fucking prude.” He’s drunk. He’s drunk and pushy and you feel your ribs expand, expand, expand…

“You fuckin’ owe me something.”

You show a little too much canine as you reply. “Because you bought me a couple drinks I didn’t ask for?”

“Fuckin’ spoiled bitch. Wha’ else d’you want, huh? Fuckin’ money?”

He pushes you. Your shoulders bump the alley wall behind you. The sky is so so dark above, no clouds, no moon. Even next to trash, the stink of that awful whiskey burns your nose.

You think of broken windows and blooms of blood.

“Just fuckin’ get on your knees.”

“No.”

“The fuck do you jus’ - it wasn’t a fuckin’—”

“No.”

His face twists, ugly and red (not the right shade of red) puffing up like a particularly loud bird.

“C’mere, you little—“

It’s nothing, nothing at all. A sidestep and a full-body shove. Your timing is perfect. You didn’t touch your second drink when your nail polish turned black.

Your “date” however, is wobbly and uncoordinated, you lean forwards on the balls of your feet in anticipation. Watch him bounce off the brick, stumble over a couple overfilled bags, and crack his temple on the metal corner of the dumpster.

You tilt your head as he collapses in a pathetic heap, barely conscious. Make a point to roll him over onto his back. The last sky he’ll ever see with any luck. You lean your foot into his stomach, watch him turn pale and then green. He’s not going to be able to roll over before all that drink comes up.

Satisfied, you step back as you brush brick dust and dirt from your pants and sleeves. Movement at the head of the alley catches your attention, but by the time you look, the disturbance is gone. Likely someone just passing by. You don’t care if you're wrong.

Below you, the man - you never bothered to actually remember his name - gurgles and starts to rasp wetly. The fury ebbs, a tide dragging out with bloody foam at the edge. You let out a slow, satisfied sigh and navigate to the alley's entrance.

You've barely stepped from the shadows of the buildings when there's a sharp pinch in your neck. The world goes black in seconds.

#thoughts™️ #cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #kidnapper ghost

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 12 part 1 | part 11 | ao3

ha haaaa, i lied about waiting until monday. cw: angst, gory imagery, implied prescription drug abuse

In his dream it’s raining pills.

Steve is crying in his car as rainbow pellets rain from the sky, and then he’s pounding on the Munson’s door while the pills burst into fine powder against his hair, his skin, his clothes. Eddie doesn’t come to the door but suddenly he’s there, teleported outside of it, apologizing right away when Steve demands to know what’s wrong.

“I don’t understand what happened.”

A flash of eyes, of lips; his face doesn’t fully form, but he sweeps one of those perusing looks all over Steve, sees his frayed edges and invites him in to stitch them up.

They talk and laugh for hours — dream logic where the seconds are minutes are years — letting their knees knock together, letting their pinky fingers brush. All the while little pills plink plink against the siding, pharmaceutical hail storm, and suddenly it's morning; Steve has drifted off; Steve has never slept so well. There’s a throw blanket made of cat fur and the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs, Wayne humming sleepily to himself at the stove, waving a spatula in greeting when he spots Steve getting up.

“Mornin'!” he grins. “Ed’s still sleepin’, but feel free to stick around.”

Outside the rain comes harder, heavy knocks against the roof, and when Steve peers into the pan he sees that Wayne’s frying up dead birds. "Just about ready."

He spears a fork into a wing. The feathers start to smoke. “You take your coffee black?”

—

“Ma, you gotta get a job.”

“Hmm?”

She’s watching I Love Lucy.

Steve's head is in his hands.

His elbows are going numb where they’re propped on the breakfast table, and his temples throb, a steady band of pressure like a giant's palm around the sides and back of his skull, pulsing down his aching neck. He’s been staring at next month’s budget for so long it looks like hyro…hiero—?

Whatever. Egyptian shit.

He can’t tell if he’s shit at math or if the math just doesn’t work, but either way it’s not working, and neither is his fucking mom, and he finds himself thinking about this one time in middle school when they took a field trip to a factory with a big hydraulic press. Got to tour the control room; got to pick which fruits to crush.

He remembers the watermelon most vividly of all: the way the rind groaned under the machine’s steady weight, splintering slivers snaked over striped flesh; slowly, slowly, then suddenly, boom!!

Watermelon guts on the concrete floor.

(That was also the first time he got to touch a girl's butt; all the girl's squealed and jumped back from the explosion, and one of them backed herself right into his hand. It was Liz Collins, and it was one hundred percent an accident, because, like, gross, Liz Collins, but still.

Memorable day for two reasons.

God, he needs a nap.)

“A job, ma,” he sighs, a little louder this time. “I can... I don’t know, I can maybe ask around, see if anybody’s hiring? Or- talk to Claudia. Or Karen,” he snaps his fingers by his ear, “or Joyce! She might— yeah. Yeah, she might be able to call and put in a good word at Melvalds...”

She might also be busy being far the fuck away from here. He taps his pencil against his cheek as envy crashes over him. He should be in California. Should spend his time hitting on beach babes and surfing sunny waves instead of drowning in debt and wondering why he’s on a first-name basis with so many random moms.

His mom still hasn’t acknowledged a single word he's said. "Hello? Ma? What d'you think?"

She turns to look at him finally. Gives him a dreamy, lovely smile.

She always was so pretty. “…I’m sorry; what were you saying?”

—

Steve flushes his mom’s pills.

—

part 13

tagging whoever commented recently if your settings will let me @acedorerryn @ahsokatanoss @annabanannabeth @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awolfstudio @bananahoneycomb @bronwenmarie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @cuips-not-cute @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @evillittleguy @fandomfix8 @grtwdsmwhr @hellion-child @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @lololol-1234 @messrs-weasley @nburkhardt @noodle-shenaniganery @ppunkpuppyy @rani-mayida @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutforcoffein @space-invading-pigeon @spookednsaucy @steddieas-shegoes @stevesbipanic @steves-strapcollection @teatimeeverybody @th30ra3k3n @thealwithnoname @thestarslittleking @thesuninyaface @trensu @vacantwatchers @violetsteve @wormdebut @yourmom-isgay @zoeweee @zombiecreatures

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #steve harrington's parents #st fic #my writing #my fic

[diejager]

Hi! I got the notification that your requests are open skjsjsjs so exciting, can you do something about the noodle dragon with Monster!Task Force 141 please? That would be all, thank you and have a nice day! ❤️✨

Cw: canon-typical violence, weird water magic, weird dragon/monster shit and lore, death, crash, tell me if I missed any.

They’d gotten used to you over the month, watching you prance around them like a graceful panther in hunt, stalking around them with that cheeky smile of yours and a clawed hand always ready to patch someone up. You were a might dragon, a warm to some classifications and an Asian one to others, but the consensus was that you weren’t one to be trifled with —as most dragons were, but if anything, you were so a feline in a body of a dragon than the ferocious monster you were. Always prowling and on guard, watchful and observant, aware of the events transpiring around you like a protective cat.

They took well to you, forgoing the paranoia and apprehension at your eagerness to help them and you openness, your long tail, hard scales protecting the thick cords of sinewy muscles curled ever so softly around them, and the tuff of fur tickling any naked piece of skin. And however tender and soft-hearted you were, they’d seen the dangerous part of you, the draconic one with a strange affinity to water rather than the destructive fire they were so familiar with. Whereas Price was a chaotic force, burning everything on his path and leaving nothing but cinder and ash, you were an unmoving force of water, a typhoon and cyclone that would crash the land and leave broken pieces of what remained, cold and drowned —the calm before the storm as people said, a perfect imagery of you.

Yet there was a lingering suspicion that it was all, that there was a more monstrous part of you hidden away from their eyes. Horangi had shared such thoughts - another mythical creature of sacredness and nobility - and showed them what hehad heard of eastern dragons: giant snake-like creatures with the faces of lions and crowns of graceful antlers, born with lustrous manes and hard but flexible scales that let them dance and twirl as they wished it. Destructive beauty, Horangihad mumbled, a creature who’s image is drawn to represent beauty and nobility. 

They knew, they were fully aware, that you had more to show, yet they couldn’t hold back the awe and amazement that followed the gut-deep fear and worry after they saw you fall, your figure shrinking as you plummeted into the dark and silent ocean, gone into the wide, open sea. Rather than seeing your head pop out, gasping for air while they clung to their straps and helicopter, Nikolai screaming through the comma about holding onto something, swirling left and right to avoid being hit a second time by the war ship, it was calm, a smooth plain growing in darkness, a shape forming beneath the veil of a blue ocean. 

Then, before they knew it, a majestic serpent erupted from the sea, wet scales gleaming under the sun while you rose into the sky in a spiral, white fur floating like you hadn’t just come out of water. You were swift, curling in the air, your magicworking it’s wonder when you flew, stubby arms and legs moving as if you were swimming, looping around them to shield them from being narrowly hit. It was as Horangi gushed, water rose and fell with you, tendrils of salty water reaching out to curl around you, rising high to swarm the enemy ship the same way you did, circling around it until it was left submerged, swallowed up by your hydromancy. You had drowned warship in the depth of the abyss, a dark and cold pit that promised a lonely death, forgotten and painful. You had caused the deaths of hundreds with a twirling dance, an alluring, yet deadly show, like an oleander.

You made no show of joining them in the aircraft, keeping your distance from them, adequate enough to protect them from further damage without becoming a danger to them. They - especially Price, since he had never seen an eastern dragon, only from files and catalogues - gawked, gazing at your head-sized eye, blinking owlishly at them with a narrowed eyes, slitted pupil gleaming with glee at their admiration. You purred, a growling rumble that shook your gills, a deep sound shuddering through them like thunder, low and booming, but it was a happy sound, meant to comfort them from the near sinking that you’d saved them from.

Even in this situation, where they’d been saved by you, you were still trying to comfort them and reassure them despite having taken a hit or two. They were glad Laswell found you.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird-kamakse @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #ghost mw2 #konig x reader #konig mw2 #mw2 ghost x reader #captain price #price x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #soap mw2 #soap x reader #rudy x reader #rudy parra #alejandro x reader #alejandro vargas #horangi #horangi x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #poly relationship #polyamory #monster 141 #monster cod au #monster 141 au #Chinese dragon!reader

[ddejavvu]

idgaf about eddie but i’ve wanted venom since i was a wee lad. venom who’s all big and mean and manhandles you because you’re nothing. talks about how he could squash you like a bug between his fingers yet here you are letting him fuck your interesting little human pleasure hole

FUCK indy i've had this brewing in my inbox and now i've finally got the time to give it the attention it deserves <3

this post is 18+, minors dni. cw for mentions/'threats' of extreme violence/death, don't like don't read.

"I could kill you," Venom grunts, not a threat but an observation, "I kill lots of people."

Your face pinches down into a grimace but the waver in your voice isn't from the imagery, "Venom, no, don't- don't say that! I don't want to know."

His viscous appendages, more tentacle than hand, edge deeper into your hole, filling in every inch of space and unconstrained by defined mortal flesh. A web of the black goopy substance holds you against an empty wall in Eddie's apartment, pinning your back to the brick and scraping your skin.

"But you liked hearing me tell you," The symbiote practically purrs, his voice gravelly and miles away from the safety of human baritone, "Your hole got tighter around me when I said it."

"No, it- I don't like- no!" You gush, unable to defend yourself but desperate to save face, "That's not true."

"It is," Venom presses, another stray tendril suctioning to the curve of your ass and leaving burning skin in its wake, "I will do it again. I am stronger than you."

As a testament to his statement, he expands the web of black fluid that's holding you against the wall, forcing it around your neck like a snug sleeve. He's right; you can't move. Of course you'd known it since the first time you laid eyes on the alien, but the effortless proof he offers you has your hole fluttering around his tendril once more.

"I could smother you," Venom continues, and you feel a distinct throb between your legs, his makeshift dick only seeping further into you, "I could flood your lungs and drown you," He threatens, the slime crawling up around your chin and mouth, hovering teasingly over your nose as you frantically gasp through it, "I could squeeze you until each of your bones break and you are helpless."

You do more than clench around him. The acrid stab of fear in your chest couples with the rising swell of bliss below it, and you wriggle your hips pathetically in his strong grip as you ride out your orgasm on his tentacle.

"I was right," Venom concludes, far from human niceties, though he still suspends you against the wall as your limbs sag with exhaustion, "You want me to kill you."

"No, Venom," You swear, though you don't have the energy to be as alarmed as you should be, "I- I don't want you to kill me. It's just- sometimes I think it's hot to remember that you could."

Milky white eyes blink at you, once, twice, and Venom decides, "I do not understand humans."

But you're saved the effort of explaining yourself when he draws his tendril out of your sensitive hole, letting his obscenely long tongue draw your wetness into his mouth, "But if you think it is hot, I will not let you forget that I could crush you."

#indy <3 #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock imagine #eddie brock scenario #eddie brock oneshot #eddie brock one-shot #eddie brock one shot #eddie brock headcanon #eddie brock headcanons #eddie brock hc #eddie brock hcs #eddie brock fanfiction #eddie brock fanfic #eddie brock fic #eddie brock x you #eddie brock x y/n #eddie brock x reader fanfiction #eddie brock blurb #eddie brock drabble #eddie brock dialogue #venom x reader #venom x you #venom x y/n #venom fanfiction #venom oneshot #venom imagine #venom drabble #venom blurb

[rijinks]

Flowers of Two Thousand Years (Part 1)

Marius-centric comic. The following 9+ pages are closely based on Prince Lestat and The Vampire Lestat. (CW for violent imagery including a vampire turning)

to be continued

I initially didn't plan to spend THIS much time on this part of Marius' Story in TVL; the concept of this comic is to show some parts of Marius' life with the connecting theme of flowers, in quick succession. I don't know if one even notices most of the flowers, that scene is just so horrifically over the top. SO much is going on. If you remember the book there's yet more grisly details (like simultaneous drownings. And skulls!!). I restructured this scene 3 times just because the pages were too crowded.

Not sure how many pages the rest of the comic will have since I keep adding stuff.............. will probably take awhile.

#the vampire chronicles #marius de romanus #the vampire lestat #teskhamen #queen akasha #cw angst #comic #long post #horror #ii listened to the entirety of the dracula and carmilla audiobooks while working on these #happy halloween #flowers of two thousand years

[dotster001]

Elder God; Part Three

Summary: Idia x gn! Reader. Idia asks one last person for help saving you, while at the same time, you feel like you are on the brink of losing your sanity.

CW: drowning imagery

A/N:Kay! Thank you for your patience! I'm gonna try for Monday updates on this story! Also, keep an eye out for the lore chapter!

Chapters: One Two Lore Four

Idia had visited every God he could. They'd all said similar things. They loved the dimension where earth resided, but they weren't strong enough to stop Azul.

He had one God left to visit, and he didn't want to do it. 

The God of Time's domain was silent. It was dark, except for the swirling green mists that glowed faintly, and the stars and galaxies blinking as they floated merrily through time.

His servants were almost as frightening as the God of Time himself.

“It's so wonderful for you to come visit us! He gets so few visitors, so it's nice to see that his friends still care!” 

Idia followed the oldest servant, Lilia, trying not to let on how much he wanted to flee. 

“See, I think he's lonely, sometimes. Sure, we are with him all the time, but he watches all of you, and all of creation without being able to interact with it, so it can be hard for him. But don't tell him I said that, he'll get pouty,” Lilia giggled at the end of that.

It was at that moment, your cat released a meow. Idia paused, reaching his fingers into the carrier to soothe it. It had been in there for a little bit, but it would not be smart to release it in any domain. 

“Is that a cat?” He heard a voice next to him. Startled, he turned to see Silver, another one of the attendants. Idia nodded dumbly. He hadn't ever heard this one speak.

“May I?” He asked, holding out his arms. Idia nodded, handing him the crate. Silver quietly removed the cat from the crate. It snuggled close to him, resting peacefully in his arms.

“Come, come, slow pokes!” Lilia giggled, having just noticed the delay of the two of them.

At last, they arrived before him. He was just as terrifying as Idia remembered. He floated in midair, palms extended, legs crossed, his eyes closed in meditation. The green fog swirled more densely around him. 

Idia’s mouth went dry. Lilia gave him a gentle nudge, and he snapped out of his reverie.

“Lord Malleus, I require assistance.”

The Lord of Time’s eyes opened, his glowing green gaze focusing immediately on Idia.

"Hello, Death.”

….

“Aw, c'mon Shrimpy! You can't hide in there forever!”

It had taken about an hour for Azul's spell on you to wear off, and for your still mostly human brain to process what exactly you'd seen in that throne room. Once you'd realized you'd stared in the face of a gigantic creature who had the power to crush you in his grasp, you had bolted into a nearby room, locking the door behind you.

The twins hadn't expected you to bolt, which gave you the element of surprise. They'd been banging on the door for a while, and Floyd was starting to sound angry.

You didn't know what you would do once they got in. You couldn't run. You'd used the last bit of strength and energy in your weak new tail to make it in the door.  You certainly couldn't fight them. They had magic, and a giant god, at their fingertips.

“Y/N~” Jade sang. “The more time you spend in there, the less patience Floyd is going to have with you.”

You weren't sure which of the two of them you were more scared of facing.

“Shrimpy,” you heard a warning growl.

“Floyd, you have to remember what it's like to be so helpless and weak. They can't help it.”

Really, which was worse?

The door heaved a little on the next bang against it. Bubbles rose in the wake of that heave, and you fought back your resurfacing panic.

“If…if I let you in, will you explain everything that's going on?” You muttered. The silence was deafening, for a moment. Then, as though their faces were pressed right up against the door, you heard two voices in unison.

“Of course.”

You opened the door, and were greeted with a matching pair of pleasant smiling faces. As if they hadn't been trying to bust the door down.

“Why was he so big?” You whimpered. “And why couldn't I think clearly around him?”

The twins grinned.

“His true form is way scarier,” Floyd said with a cackle.

“Azul has many skills. But, I will say,  the legends of sirens all came from someone,” Jade hummed. “Or something.”

“Why am I here?” You didn't feel like your question was answered, but they seemed willing to chat.

“He told ya! You're gonna help us destroy your universe,” Floyd said with a roll of his eyes.

“I would never do that!”

“Weren't you just talking about how you couldn't control yourself in the wake of Azul's powers?”

The twins snickered together.

“Besides, I think there's a bigger reason that Azul wants you here. One he won't even tell us about,” Jade leaned in and took a long inhale through his nose. “You smell of death,” He said with a grin.

….

“My interference would have catastrophic effects on everything we've built,” Malleus sighed. He closed his eyes again, seemingly intent to go back to his meditation.

“Please, I have no one left to ask-”

"Why do we have time? Why are our rules in place?”

Idia froze, staring at his feet.

"Because without time, death has no control,” he whispered.

“You wish to help your little human, yes? You want them to return to you, safe and sound?” Malleus reopened his eyes, gazing at Idia almost sympathetically. “If I help you, time will pause, and you will be unable to protect them from yourself.”

Idia felt his stomach churn. Without time, he couldn't be near life. Without time, he'd be alone again.

“What should I do then?” He whispered, feeling tears in the back of his eyes.

“For God's sakes!” He heard a booming voice. His eyes flickered to the most recent of the God of Time's servants, thoroughly startled.

“You're Death! You gave them your protection! Didn't that used to mean something?”

“Sebek-” Silver warned.

“No, he's correct,” Malleus said with a smirk. “And I believe the God of Life told you the exact same thing.”

Idia mumbled under his breath.

“For too long, you have run from what your abilities mean. It's time to face what you are truly capable of.”

And with a snap of his fingers, Idia was returned to his domain.

“Fuck, could've warned me,” he muttered. For a second, he panicked, then he noticed that the crate, and your cat, had been returned to his shoulder.

“Brother!” He watched Ortho race towards him, not bothering to hold a human form now that they were home.

“Hey, what'd Azul say?” He asked. If no one was going to help him, his last hope was that Azul would be reasonable for once.

“He said you have to come talk to him yourself,” Ortho said bitterly. “What'd Riddle say?”

“I spoke to everyone, not just him. No one is going to help. They just are going to let earth die!”

Ortho tilted his head in thought, before saying, softly, “But it's not really earth that's the problem for you.”

“No,” he muttered, settling into his cold throne, burying his face in his hands. “I mean, yeah, it's cool and all, but they've always kinda hated me there.”

“Y/N doesn't hate you though.”

“Y/N doesn't know what I am! They don't know that I'm cursed with abilities I never asked for, that I'm the only reason they can't live in eternal paradise!”

He leaned back in his throne, his eyes closed, as though he was in pain.

“What if, in the end, I can't save them? What if all I'm good for is unhappy endings?”

“If that was true, you wouldn't have been capable of making me,” Ortho smiled sweetly. “You wouldn't have made friends with Y/N. You wouldn't be a cat parent!”

“It's not my cat-”

“Still! You're parenting it!”

Idia rolled his eyes. “But-”

“No buts! It's like all those games you play, right? The tortured hero has to save an innocent?” Ortho grabbed one of Idia's hands, yanking him from his seat. “Azul is nothing compared to your raw power! So, show him who the real final boss is!”

Ortho extended his palm, creating a portal to the only realm Idia hadn't visited today.

Idia looked at Ortho fondly, before walking though the portal.

“Ah! Idia! I've been expecting you!” Azul grinned, leaving his throne, and bowing deeply before him. Idia sighed, allowing his human form to vanish as he chose another.

“Azul, you know why I'm here,” the room flickered with blue flames that shouldn't be burning under the water.

“Yes!” A golden scroll appeared in Azul's hands. “Care to make a deal?”

….

The twins had been trying to convince you to practice more with your tail, but you'd refused. So, instead, they seemed intent on breaking your mind.

“And once the waters have completely flooded everything, we'll all watch as existence itself slowly drowns!” Floyd said as though reading a bedtime story.

“If it makes you feel better, there are  many other dimensions. We aren't destroying everything.”

“Wow, thanks Jade. That makes me feel so much better,” you sighed.

“And the best part is, you're gonna help us!”

“Not gonna happen!” You snapped.

“Do you really think you have a choice?” Jade said with a sharp grin. “Azul-” He was cut off by a loud boom. The room shook, leaving even the twins looking confused.

“Floyd?”

“Yeah.”

Floyd grabbed you around the middle, dragging you from the room. You struggled in his grip, shouting obscenities as he dragged you down the hall, until you arrived in front of a familiar door. You froze.

“I don't wanna see him again,” you whispered, not ready for a second chat with the God of the Sea.

“I wouldn't be too worried about that,” Jade said with a smile as the world shuddered again. “We're just here to observe a historical moment.”

Jade pushed open the door, allowing the three of you to see inside…

Not that you could be entirely sure what you were seeing.

Blue flames, and ink. Those were the only clear images that you could process. But the longer you stared, the more you could almost make out two distinct forms. And those forms were having a heated battle.

When one slammed against the wall of the throne room, that's when the world would shake as though it were experiencing a catastrophic earthquake.

You clutched onto Floyd's arm, which was still wrapped around your middle, as though it would protect you.

“Aw, Shrimpy's shivering,” Floyd giggled, holding no regard for your terror. Instead, he released you, and shoved you towards the room.

Jade swam up behind you, and placed his hands on your shoulders. He leaned in close, pressing his lips directly against the shell of your ear, as he whispered,in complete awe,

“This is a rare opportunity, so watch close. This is what it looks like when the gods go to war.”

....

Tag list- @i-stirred @hoboyherewego @mysticcyan

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #elder god au #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #azul ashengrotto

[joshusten]

love the sinner (albus york/faith koria, bastard warrior || good boy audios)

Albus York takes a bath and Faithful washes his hair. (angst, slight argument, hurt/comfort)

2.2k+ words [ao3 link] [masterlist] [CW/notes: religious imagery ofc (this fic was basically an excuse to write that), typical albus york language, lots of self-loathing and some suicidal thoughts. albus is just having a bad time but hes also so whipped for faithful. speaking of her, i didnt make faith's physical descriptions vague or made it so that she's a "listener" but rather a character of her own! and i based it off of gba's description of her + my own interpretation hehe.]

once again THANK YOU SO SO MUCH to @slushiepizza for all the AMAZING suggestions and support like omfg i SWEAR i keep on saying this but this fic rlly wouldnt be finished without them!! i appreciate it sm!! and im shaking and kissing my irls that ive also bothered with this fic that will probably not see this THANK U SM!! edit: I FORGOT THE FUCKING READ MORE LMFAO

—

Albus York steadily sank into the half-filled tub of one of the ship’s quarters—stripped of his clothes, and left bare to no witness.

Gentle waves of the bathwater rippled against hardened, battle-torn skin. He dementedly mused that if he could go down further, he might finally drown. 

He chuckled at the thought, shifted his position, and got to work. It's been a while since he last had an actual bath—way before he even agreed to this suicide mission of an adventure—with warm soapy water and scented products.

The constant near-death experiences and whatnot had interrupted the trio to get any time for themselves, much less to do any sort of basic hygiene. Since the route Devlin had charted for the ship to follow allowed for ample downtime, the Forgemaster had practically shoved his younger half-brother into the common bathroom and forced him to take a much-needed bath (Of course, not without a snobby comment about how his stench matched his personality perfectly well.)

Albus’ inexperience was made clearer with the stiff, awkward motion of his large, calloused hands as he attempted to wash himself. The unpracticed movement made the unfamiliarity of it all fully realized. How long has it been since he felt this safe? Does he even remember how to take care of himself?

Does someone like him even deserve this luxury?

The warrior submerged himself lower, down until his eyes were right above water level. He was thinking again. It was all that he had been doing for the past hour. If the gods wouldn't allow him to drown, then he hoped that the water would at least cleanse the grime and sin embedded into his flesh.

But he knew that filth clung to his skin like how a believer clings to the idea of repentance. No matter how hard—how desperately—he scrubbed (until pale skin turned into blood red, until rough turned rougher), it was all pointless. He had learned long ago that a bastard's prayers were never left answered. 

The mark on his chest was a bleak reminder of that reality. Damnation was basically his birthright. Albus York was dead the moment he came out of his mother’s womb—dead to his family, dead to society. 

Cursed to hell for being sin itself.

Life had a funny way to remind him—that goodness is something he can be in the presence of but never be a part of it.

"Albus?"

Speak of the devil, his ever-so-naive angel had arrived.

“Albus? Hello?”

Tender, serene, heavenly.

The voice was melodic—like the somber hymns he used to hear in his youth when his mother would take him into the temple and meet with her fellow brothers and sisters. At that time, he always felt drawn to the choir’s performance, despite not being old enough to understand the words (not that he was any more literate in the present). Back then, he was just a kid, blissfully unaware of the blasphemy he had committed for existing. 

He had grown since then—in every aspect of the word.

"Albus! Are you still in there?"

A deep grunt, muffled slosh of water, and the pitter-patter of droplets on the tiled surface were all that Faith Koria had heard from the other side of the metal door before a familiar, gruff voice answered back.

"Calm ya tits, woman. I knew you were eager to see my dick but I never knew you were this eager!" 

The outside replied with an annoyed groan, a sound Albus was all too familiar with, especially when it came from her. That being said, he couldn't fight the smile forming on his lips as he hastily dried himself up with a nearby towel.

"You've been using the bathroom for more than an hour, just what are you doing in there? Some people want to get cleaned up too, you know!”

The metal door swiftly slid open with a sudden 'woosh!', hot steam dissipating before the runaway nun to reveal Albus’ tall stature, half-naked and slightly dripping wet. Faith frantically averted her eyes on instinct, ears immediately burning with embarrassment. It wasn’t like it was her first time seeing him undressed—for gods’ sake, she treated his wounds like this when they first met! But to have him fresh out of a bath with his toned body exposed and his dampened long hair was—Wait! His hair!

"Alright, alright! I’m out, ya happy? I’m decent too so you don’t have to be a prude about it,” The bastard huffed, a little irritated with how his peaceful bath (or at least, as peaceful as it could be) was abruptly cut short.  

“Albus, your hair!”

The man scrunched up his face in confusion.  He gathered one of his dark locks and examined it with an intense focus. “Huh? Looks fine to me. What, you're not expecting me to be all prim and proper now, are you?”

“No, no, no! It's all matted and uneven!” The woman replied with a horrified concern in her voice that was rare for the warrior to hear directed at him.“It’s probably from all those monster attacks. Some of them must’ve managed to get to your hair! How long has it been like this? Does it hurt? Do you even have shampoo?”

“Uh…what’s that?”

“Ugh, never mind. Just—” Before Albus could process what was happening, Faith grabbed his arm with a surprisingly strong grip for a nun. She dragged him down near the bathtub he just got out of. He can even hear the water still slowly swirling down the drain. 

“Faithful, what are you—” 

“Stay right here. You got that, York? I’m just going to get something and I don't want you to move a muscle.”

A deep chuckle resonated within the man’s scarred chest—he always enjoyed it when she got this bossy. He gave her a mock salute and answered with a hearty “Yes, ma’am!”

The sister paladin made a face, letting out a flustered huff before hurrying to wherever she needed to be. So cute.

Albus had put on his clothes at this point while he waited (lest he risked Faithful suffering from a heart attack). A few minutes had passed by when she returned with a rather large pouch that Albus recognized was packed with the rest of her belongings. He deduced it must've been from her childhood with how worn down the embroidery was. Once vibrant floral patterns dulled from years of usage.

“Lean back by the bathtub,” Faith instructed. “I’m going to start detangling your hair. I might cut off some of the more unsalvageable parts too. If anything hurts or if I snagged on it too hard just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” The man repeated simply, not really knowing how to react to all of the amount of consideration he was receiving. Abrasiveness was what he was more used to responding to, not the care that she unabashedly gave him.

She beamed brightly at his compliance (and no, his heart did not just skip a beat), soft hands found their way to his head and started brushing away the more manageable tangles before using a wide-tooth comb for the bigger ones. Despite the numerous warnings, her fingers were nowhere near to being rough. She was as gentle as a lamb—her slow brushstrokes eventually formed a rhythm that filled in the silence of the room. Albus decided to break the comfortable atmosphere.

“How are you so good with this shit?” He mumbled, voice heavy with drowsiness. Fuck, he felt like he could sleep until his next life. “Never knew sisters of Cindergorn get to be part-time hairdressers too.”

Even with his sluggish state, Albus could almost sense the nun’s eyes rolling above him, brushing out his hair with a slightly more forceful than usual tug.

“I'm the one usually taking care of the children at the temple. I’m used to seeing this kind of stuff whenever they play too hard. Obviously not on this level but you get the gist.” Faith snipped off the last of a particularly challenging knot. 

“I've also been doing my own hair ever since I was a kid, so really, it's like second nature to me at this point,” she followed up, running her fingers through his hair with a satisfied nod.

Now that Albus thought about it, he had seen Faithful braiding herself earlier on their journey when they had just…tastefully borrowed the flagship meant for his father. He remembered swift, practiced hands twisting sections after sections of dark, coiled hair and had mentioned in passing how it was a hairstyle she often did to withstand the Eastern Faithlands' harsher seasons (Fortunately, it also turned out to be great for going-on-a-quest-to-kill-your-priest-brother-and-save-a-child seasons too.)

Faith’s hands suddenly paused. Before the man could ask if something was wrong, she signaled him to stay still while she rummaged through the pouch to get a small bottle. She squeezed a moderate amount of product into her palm and spread it evenly. As she was about to apply the substance to his head, Albus jerked away, quickly stopping her hand with his own as a furrow formed on his thick brows.

“Faithful,” He chuckled. “Please, I’m a warrior. You don’t need to waste your fancy shit on me. My hair’s going to get fucked up again eventually so what’s the point?” 

Faith struggled to wriggle herself out of his grasp. “Wha–Albus, it’s fine!” 

“No, Faithful, I’m serious. It’s just hair. Hell, it’s my hair. Relax.” The man sat up straighter at this point, the water from his long, damp hair trickling down along the scarred tissue of his back but it was the intensity in those familiar brown eyes that made him feel a chill.

“And I told you it’s fine just let me—”

“Why are you making it a big fuckin’ deal? What do you want from me?” 

“What?” Faith’s voice cracked, appalled and confused. “Albus, what are you even talking about? I’m not asking for anything—”

“I’m just a bastard you hired to kill your brother! I was paid to do the dirty work for you, not to be your fucking toy—”

“Albus, wha—Y–You’re not a toy! Why do you—”

“If I’m not then why are you being like this to me? There’s a catch—there’s always a fucking catch. So what the fuck do you want from me?”

The nun managed to finally yank her hand away from his harsh grip and angrily slammed at the smooth surface of the tub.

“I just want you to stop being stubborn for once and let me do this for you!” 

The silence that followed between them felt suffocating.

Faith’s breath hitched, shocked by her outburst. She immediately straightened up her posture only to look down shamefully at the tiled floor. A shaky sigh left her lips, and Albus was doing everything in his power to stop himself from reaching out to her, seeking salvation he knew she shouldn’t give him because he was not sorry that he was like this. He wasn’t afraid to show his filth to the world because it was all he knew to do—all he was taught to do. There’s no excuse, no justification, no escape. She’s everything good and he’s just scum or worse yet—he’s a bastard. 

Because she’s an angel and he’s far worse than the devil.

“This isn't anything all that fancy…just something to keep it healthy and less stressful on your scalp. I just want you to feel okay. So please…” She trailed off. “Let me.”

“It’s…It’s just hair, Faithful. I’ll be okay, I’m a big boy,” Albus joked, but his words were sincere. He almost found the whole thing amusing—having the ever-so-snappy sister paladin fuss over him—if he didn’t get a feel for how much…his comfort seemed to mean a lot to her.

Faith pursed her lips, her gaze still fixed downward. “I just think…you deserve at least one good hair day.”

It's that word again. Deserve. Does she really think that? That he's worthy of all of this?

The man cleared his throat with a curt nod. Hesitantly, the nun's fingers slowly found their way back to the crown of his head, resuming whatever she was supposed to do. Steady, rhythmic brushstrokes filled the quiet once again. 

After what felt like hours of stillness, the bastard dared himself to shift his head and face her timidly—as if he was afraid he could melt under her piercing gaze.

"Thank you, for…for this," Albus grunted. He hadn't only meant for his hair.

Faith graced him with a dimpled smile—the one that made her eyes squint and showed the tiniest bit of the gap between her front teeth. She proceeded to tuck away a stray lock behind his ear, trailing down to hover over his cheek. Albus can practically feel the nervous tremble on her fingers as if she were hesitating on something. It all came to nothing in the end, closing her hands in a fist before withdrawing to her pouch to start cleaning up.

“Anytime, Albus. Besides, with how you always manage to find yourself in trouble,” the sister murmured, her voice playful (it never failed to leave Albus’ mind racing). Her eyes glinted as they locked into his almost like clockwork. “How can I not?”

Albus York sat by the empty bathtub of the ship’s quarters—fully clothed yet he had felt the most bare that he had ever been in front of someone. 

Faith smiled at him again and he swore he could make out the faintest halo crowning her head under the fluorescent bathroom light. ---- a/n: this is probably my most favorite fic that i wrote and i hope you enjoyed! lemme tell u this fic took way to long and got me so stressed for no reason idk ! i was worrying abt how this would happen in the timeline and all the lil details and then !! its a fic!! and im suppose to be having fun!! i am being self-indulgent!! (although i hope was able to characterize them well) again, feedback and comments r highly appreciated!! :DD have a good day/night and thank you for reading!!

#good boy audios #gba albus #albus york #gba bastard warrior #gba faithful #gba fanfic #THIS TOOK WAY TOO LOOOOOONG BUT ITS FINISHED see you guys next year /j

[gerrydelano]

SKINDEEP

Rating: M Words: 13.3k Characters: Jon Sims, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Danny Stoker, Sasha James, Melanie King, Caroline Brodie, Callum Brodie, Gerry Keay (in memorium)

Relationships: Gerry/Tim, Martin/Danny, Sasha & Tim, Melanie & Caroline Brodie, Danny & Tim

Synopsis: Alternate ending for Pharos by Right (inspired by this anon) where Tim doesn't manage to stop Danny from swinging the hammer while Gerry read the incantation to start the Change — i.e., Gerry is killed to save the world, and then the world goes quiet.

(Actual ending of PBR will commence after posting this because I needed to get it out of my system. Got possessed.)

To those unfamiliar, PBR is my massive Archivist!Gerry series, and this requires the context of most of it, but especially my most recent chapter. If this intrigues you at all, there's 430k more words where this came from!

CWs: Character death; Head trauma; Severe injury; Grief; An intense breakdown ft. drowning imagery; Mention of drug use

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Jon opens his eyes to the sound of screaming, burning, and a loud ringing in his ears. He coughs against the ash in his mouth, halting in his attempt to roll onto his side as his ribs clip a hard object underneath him. He must have been thrown backwards into something when the—

When the bombs went off. The bombs went off. It’s must be over.

But the screaming. Oh, the screaming, it’s louder than the ringing and the burning and the voice that he can almost hear saying shhh, it’s alright, I’m right here! Oh, G-d, somebody help! The voice calls his name. His name is Jon. His name is his name again.

Stiffly, he rises to his elbow and coughs again, his chest sore and his legs weak and oh, G-d, his leg— there’s a gash in his leg, a large one, and he can feel the blood running down into his sock.

His name is called again, and he’s almost afraid to rub soot into his remaining eye even on the off chance that he might clear it and find the source of the sounds, the screaming, the voice. Bleary, he stumbles forward onto his less-injured leg, peering around in the smoke for a shape he might recognize.

There is a shape, tall and upright, but it’s silent. A spire in the fog. Not the source of his name.

He keeps looking. He keeps listening. He crawls.

“Jon, where are you! Judith? Tim! I need help, somebody help me!”

Martin? That’s Martin’s voice, high and desperate and rough with smoke, too, there’s smoke everywhere, they need to get out of here. They need to leave, before the police arrive, before the structure collapses, before—

The screaming has transitioned into bawling, deeply pained cries for help, and only when he finally sees Martin’s shape hunkered over a spasmodic, outstretched body does it click. Danny is hurt. He was hurt in the explosion, and Martin needs help with him. Jon drags himself over to Danny’s other side and reaches out for his arm to find his sleeve wet with blood, but not torn. Danny screams again at the contact of his hand, startling Jon into letting go.

“How—” Jon coughs again. “Where is he hurt, what—”

“I-I don’t— Everywhere!” Martin panics, his hands on Danny’s chest like he’s about to start compressions. He doesn’t, of course, because Danny is horrifically alive, and there is blood seeping through his ringmaster’s jacket like the fabric has just been lain upon a dark puddle.

Jon reaches out for his hem to lift it, earning a smack from Danny’s frantic, bloody hand. He persists. He gasps.

The open wound is a perfect split down the middle of his stomach, disappearing at his groin, and most certainly extending up his chest into a V. He’d heard about the autopsy seams. He could never have imagined they would split open again.

Quickly, Jon lowers the shirt again and presses down on the wound, earning another guttural sound of agony. Martin is weeping but trying not to let it slow him down, trying to pin Danny’s arm to his side with his knees. Jon tries to do the same, but then who will get his legs? They surely go down his legs, too.

“Tim?” he hears himself croak out. “Tim, where are you?”

No answer. He could assume the worst, but he remembers that tall shape and turns around. It’s still there, standing a distance away in utter stillness, like another wax statue that hasn’t been taken down in the blast or a troupe member that refused to be exterminated, but Jon knows that sound. The sound of phantom water.

“Tim!” he shouts. “Tim, come over here and help your brother!”

No answer.

Jon turns around again and waves a hand through the smoke. There is daylight shining through a busted out window, casting beams onto the filthy, ruined floor. Tim is hovering a few yards away, staring down at the ground and soaked to the bone as water pours from the top of his head all the way down his body. He doesn’t look injured — why would he? He’s still clenching his fist around what Jon can only assume is the detonator.

“Tim!” he shouts again. “Tim, we need you to— oh.”

At Tim’s feet, there is a dark pool. It creeps slowly across the floor towards Jon’s own extended shoe, glinting red in the dusty daylight. Jon traces the seeping to its source, and meets Gerry’s open eyes.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.”

The blood is pouring fast from his head, spreading out from under the mess of his hair. His mouth is parted almost in surprise, frozen around an unspoken word, like he’s been interrupted from a dream.

This has to be a dream.

“Jon, could you please focus!”

Jon realizes he’s let go of Danny entirely. Jon stutters back around, stutters his next half-words. Nothing comes of his violent nausea. He almost wishes it would. Maybe it would wake him up.

“I— Martin, Gerry is—”

“I know!” Martin snipes, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. I know, and I can’t think about that right now, not when— Danny is still alive, please, help me keep him that way!”

“We need… We need an ambulance, we need… Where’s my phone…?”

Jon pats at himself, feeling the tack of bloody handprints on his clothes as he goes. When he finds his phone, he finds the screen cracked, but it still works when he presses his sticky thumb to the sensor. His free hand moves back to Danny’s arm, squeezing his bicep hard.

“Y-Yes, hello? We’re at the House of Wax. Yes, that one, in— in Great Yarmouth. There’s been— There’s been an explosion, people are hurt, we need… please, send an ambulance. Send two. Send all of them! I don’t care, please, just— please, help.”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until he’s bowed forward enough over Danny that the next time his arm flails, it clips him on the face. He recoils and nearly drops his phone, barely catching it to put it back into his pocket before he secures his hands around Danny’s arm again and holds tight. He dreads turning his head again, but he has to.

“Tim,” he says more carefully this time. “Tim, you need to move. You need to do something.”

No answer.

“Either help us, o-or go find Judith, or the Hunters, or see if any of the troupe are still alive.”

No answer.

“Anything, Tim! Can you hear me?”

No answer.

“He can’t hear you,” Martin sniffs. “I don’t— I don’t think he can hear anything.”

The water in his ears may be too much. He may be frozen in his avatar state, consumed by repulsive satiation. He may be lost, too.

When Danny’s screaming dies down into whimpers, his thrashing into mere twitches, Jon finds himself just as worried as Martin. He lets Martin take up the mantle of trying to keep his attention — Danny? Angel, can you hear me? Stay with me, stay awake! I can’t lose you here, not like this! — because what could Jon possibly say? What could he offer to either of the Stoker brothers now?

A clattering sounds from afar. Jon snaps his head up to look for the source of it, spying Judith stumbling over a pile of rubble to reach them. She’s covered in soot, clutching her arm and limping. When she reaches their pocket of the room, her eyes go to Gerry first.

“Oh, G-d.”

Jon swallows hard. “Where are the other Hunters?”

“Dead. Think they fragged each other.”

Her voice is dreamy and distant. She crosses over to Tim, and bends down to pick something up off the floor. Gerry’s walking stick, forgotten in between the two scenes. She doesn’t wipe the blood off of the handle, inspecting the head of the hammer in the light for something Jon can’t see. He watches her study Tim like a marble statue in a museum, until his eyes drop once again to meet Gerry’s.

This has got to be a dream.

“What happened to him?” Judith asks of Danny.

“I— I don’t know,” Martin struggles. “I think a lot of his old wounds opened up, but I don’t know how, I don’t see why they— Jon, how long until the ambulance gets here?”

Jon blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

Martin doesn’t chastise him, instead nodding with a tearful sound. He’s come to lean his forearm across Danny’s collarbones, his other bent to cover as much of the vertical line down his chest as he can. Like he’s holding together some little paper art project, waiting for the glue to dry. His wrist is angled strangely, and for the first time, Jon notices his gritting teeth. He’s hurt, too, and he’s fighting through it.

“I’ll go wave them down,” Judith says, starting to step over the growing lake of Gerry’s blood. A thin branch of it is close to touching the edge of Danny’s.

“What’s our plan?”

“Plan?” Jon almost mocks. “What can— What can we even do now?”

“You were all about contingency plans before,” she says dryly. “You didn’t plan for something like this?”

“Well, obviously not, Judith! Of course I didn’t think—”

Didn’t think… what? That only some of them might die? That the rest of them would have to live with it? Of course he didn’t plan for that.

“I say… let it get sectioned.” She shakes her head at the scene. “Let it all get put away.”

“How do we do that?”

“Tell them that something unbelievable happened, that they got caught in the crossfire, that you don’t know what happened to them because something was happening to you, too. Isn’t that the truth?”

It sounds too easy. “Won’t we be detained anyway until they decide we’re not lying?”

“We all need a hospital. I have a feeling we’ll be fine, when they see the rest of the scene. The choir’s dead, too.” Judith turns to Tim once more. “…I’ll put this in my car before they get here.”

She leaves with the help of the walking staff, calm and direct, and Jon doesn’t think he has it in him to be a Hunter, after all.

Tim pays her no mind, still staring stone still at Gerry’s body. He’d landed on his back, mostly, one leg tipped to the side and his hand delicately curled in the puddle. The other is resting serenely on his hip, almost like he’d been posed that way. One of his eyes is severely bloodshot, grey shining up through the darkness of it like a coin. The longer Jon looks at him, the clearer the sunlight is through the window. It’s a beautiful day outside. It’s the middle of summer. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“How did— How did this happen?”

“There was an explosion, Jon,” Martin mutters.

“No, I know, but— but the rest of us… We’re fine, we’re… Why him?”

“I don’t have an answer for you. I didn’t see what happened.” Martin lifts an arm for a split second to wipe his nose, leaving a smudge of red on his face. He stares down at Danny’s face, paler than fear has ever left it, one-track minded as ever. It’s not as if Jon can blame him. What else in this room is worth worrying about now? It’s all over. They were just in time, and they were too late.

Jon forgets until the sound of sirens. He spins around to face Tim again, to tell him that he needs to control his leaking before someone sees, but the only evidence that Tim was ever standing there in the first place is a small disturbance in the blood where it has been thinned and expanded with water.

Firefighters first, police, and then the paramedics with their stretchers and their questions and their back away, let us take over. Martin tries his best to explain the extent of Danny’s wounds, launching into the true lie that Judith encouraged without rehearsal.

“We were just walking around, and something weird started happening, there— there was music, and dancing? But it was terrible dancing, not bad to look at but bad to be a part of, we couldn’t stop, there are— there are more people lost in here somewhere, I just know it, but I don’t know where they are. There was—” A sob. “There were people without skin.”

Danny can pass very well as a mere victim of whatever supernatural nonsense had taken place, certainly. His wounds are too severe and his clothes too close to pristine over them to make any sense to the ordinary eye.

Jon is asked about Gerry.

“I—” His throat stops up with a cry. “I didn’t see. I think… I think the blast must have… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Should he mention the Magnus Institute? Will that hurry up the Section Eight process? He doesn’t know what to do. When a paramedic asks to see his leg, he’s powerless to do anything but obey, limping out of the building with the help of a firefighter.

Martin isn’t permitted into Danny’s ambulance, the paramedics too frantic to stabilize him. Jon catches one of them noting the texture and colour of his blood in confusion, in distress, and looks down at his hands to find them more maroon than crimson in the sunlight. He sways.

While he’s being bandaged on the back of an ambulance, a stretcher carrying a body bag is rolled by and loaded into another. He watches as a series of dark, wet spots form on the ground leading up to the step into the back before the doors close.

Good. Someone should stay with him until the end. Jon only knows Jewish funerals, the strict customs that being sectioned might not care to honour. Perhaps Gerry wouldn’t care one way or another if someone were to guard his body, but he still shouldn’t be alone.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

They bring him straight to the morgue.

Tim follows behind the man with the stretcher in silence, in absence, and cares nothing for the mess his footsteps leave behind. When the swinging door shuts in his face, he steps right through it. He watches the man handle his lover with ambivalence, with some anxiety, and waits as long as it takes for him to leave. He is going to be alone with Gerry if it kills someone else.

When there’s no one left in the room, he releases his grip on disappearance and watches the perfect stillness of the black bag. He doesn’t feel that old sense of being observed anymore. It’s his turn to stare.

He reaches for the zipper.

Pulling it down takes an eternity, his hands numb with hate. When he’s peeled back the sides to free Gerry’s face, to let his body breathe, he takes in the sight without so much as a shaken gasp. Gerry’s eyes are still open, the one damaged with the impact to his skull, the other clear as day, but catching no light. Not anymore.

Tim reaches out to shut them with his fingertips. To wipe a speck of blood from his forehead. To stroke dust from his cheek.

Gerry’s head lolls with the touch, no control left to be had. The fluorescent lights cast a shine on the blood-matted depression in his skull.

Tim’s eyes catch on the purple bruise on the side of her neck, nestled sweetly just above her collar. His fingertips drift down to touch it, to beg for a pulse. He remembers why he never bothered with prayer.

Gerry never bothered with it, either. What would he want to happen next? It’s up to Tim now. One decision he never wanted to make for her.

Tim remains by his side until the morgue doors open again, at which point he makes eye contact with a startled hospital employee. Water pours from his head and shoulders to spread across the tile floor at his feet, his hand still resting on Gerry’s lifeless breastbone. The worker doesn’t scream, staring back and breathing hard, until Tim forces two words past the outpouring of water from his mouth.

“Get— out.”

Now, they scramble to run, and he turns back to his love for one last, long glance. The next time someone interrupts him, he’ll have to leave. He can’t keep Gerry like this forever. It wouldn’t be fair.

He needs to be out in the waiting room as family when someone finally comes looking for some. He needs to be composed. He needs to be human. To handle this like a husband.

Tim reaches for Gerry’s chin to straighten his head again. Dignity.

Gently, he reaches his hands behind her neck to feel for the clasp of her collar first, and then the chain that holds her padlock. He can get the rest of his jewelry and his jacket back when they strip him for cremation. No one else should get to touch these. Not for anything.

Gerry would choose cremation. He wouldn’t want to be locked in a pine box, slow to decompose. He wouldn’t choose to leave remnants for desecration should someone feel like fucking with the Archivist just a little more. He feared the sink even more than he feared burning. He wouldn’t choose to be Buried.

That doesn’t mean it sits right with Tim. For there to be nothing left of her, just like that. Like she was never here.

He knows what Gerry wanted. He knows exactly what happened.

Tim tucks the collar and padlock into his pocket, no regard for the blood on them, and looks down at Gerry’s bloodless, peaceful face. Carefully, he bends down to place his lips over hers one last time, as if he had a final breath to give her. All he’s ever had was a kiss. He’s still colder than she is.

He zips the bag shut, but lingers just that moment longer.

When the doors open again ��� the same worker, this time with reinforcements and a right there, see! — Tim lets himself be seen before he revokes the privilege, disappearing with all that he can take with him. He walks past them as any live man ordinarily would, sure to brush shoulders with the one that he knows now will never forget his face. The shudder makes him stronger, and he needs it. There is nothing else left in him.

He walks back into the world in an empty hallway, and keeps going until he finds Jon and Martin in the waiting room. Jon shoots upright when he sees him, stumbling on his new injury. Tim takes a seat beside him. Jon’s questions are a blur of sound and disinterest, until a long silence passes and Tim hears him say:

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the bomb, Jon,” Martin tries. “Something must have hit him when it went off.”

“No,” Tim says, his voice foreign in his throat and his own ears. They need the truth. “It was Danny.”

Martin recoils with a curled lip, disgusted by the notion. “No, that’s not true. You don’t know that.”

“I do know,” Tim refutes. “They had an arrangement.”

“An arrange— what?” Jon shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“You knew about this?” Martin demands. “You knew and you just—?”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Martin.”

Martin shuts his mouth. Jon’s better leg bounces with tension. He breaks the next silence with a question that Tim wishes he couldn’t hear.

“What do we tell the others? When, h-how?”

Tim stares at the floor. “In person, when we get back. I’ll do it.”

“We have no idea how long we’re going to be here,” Martin tells him. “Danny’s in bad shape. He might be stuck here for a long time.”

“If you want to stay with him, you should. I won’t.”

Martin almost looks offended, hurt, before he reins himself back in with a cleared throat. “They won’t let me see him yet.”

“It takes a long time to suture the entire body,” Jon contributes. “Those wounds went down to the muscle.”

Tim would wince if he could. Martin does, leaning forward to scrub at his face with the one hand not in a sling. He’s washed the blood off of his hands, but his clothes are still soaked in it. Jon’s are, too. Tim doesn’t feel the need to tell them that their bags are in the trunk of the car they drove here. They’ll change when they remember.

“It feels wrong to be so calm,” Jon says suddenly. “I feel like I should be throwing the biggest conniption of my life.”

“That’d be a pretty big conniption,” Martin mutters.

“It would be, yes. But I can’t seem to… access it.” His brow creases, as if in confusion. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s real,” Tim says simply. “Gerry’s dead.”

Jon’s face scrunches up in refusal as he turns away to lean into his hand. Martin stares at the floor at Tim’s feet for a while before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim has nothing else to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Martin bolts out of his chair when Danny stirs, fingertips to the edge of his bed.

“Danny?” he asks, tentative. “Danny, can you hear me? It’s Martin, I’m right here.”

Danny whines in protest. His arm shifts barely a centimeter before he seizes up with pain again, eyes flying open as he gasps. Martin freezes; he learned from the sore spot on his cheek. Don’t get too close.

“Look at me, over here. That’s right, right over here. See? It’s only me.”

At first, Danny says nothing. His eyes are bleary with the frankly lethal amount of sedatives they’d given him after the last time he’d lashed out at an orderly when she tried to change his bandages, his mouth slack and weak. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, but he looks at Martin and keeps his eyes locked on him. Martin will take that.

He sits back down in his chair, pulling out the magazine he’d gotten from the waiting room. It’s hard to turn the pages one-handed, his left arm still in the sling. “I was just reading this trashy thing here, but none of the gossip is all that good.”

Not that he expects a response or anything. He just wants Danny to get used to the sound of his voice again, to his presence in the room. Eventually, it feels stupid to make this kind of small talk, though. He tosses the magazine down at the very foot of the bed and leans forward on his knees.

“Can I… get you anything? Water?”

Danny licks his lips, but says nothing. Martin can hear his breath trembling.

“Okay… when you change your mind, you let me know. The doctor said we might try to sit you up a little bit today, if you’re up for it? Just a little bit, not too far. Only until you’ve had enough. I… I think it’s a good idea to try.”

It’s difficult to look Danny in the eye when he’s still so drugged out, so silent. Martin regrets looking away, though, because then all he can see are his heavily bandaged limbs. The padded cuffs around his wrists.

“I wish I could just take these off of you, but… but you hit an orderly, so—” Martin lets out a curt breath. “It’s for your own protection, too. So you don’t rip your stitches. It’s been a few days, though, and you’re doing a little better, so maybe they can start weaning you off the morphine, a-and if you’re more alert, you won’t get so scared anymore when somebody comes by to help.”

“Tim.”

Danny’s voice is wrecked from screaming, reduced to a small, thin whisper. Martin looks down at his laced hands. “Tim isn’t here.”

He takes a long moment to form a second word, licking his dry lips again. “Where?”

“He’s— Jon is… teaching him how to sit shiva.” If Martin could lower his head any more, he would. “They’re about halfway through.”

Danny’s eyes glaze over as they drift up to the ceiling. Martin gives him a moment; that might have been a confusing thing to say while he’s still only partially in his head. It was devoid of context, it was a stupid way to answer that question, dammit, he’s going to need to start over.

“What, um… What do you remember?”

There is another stretch of quiet while Danny seems to think. The sound of hospital machines chews on Martin’s bones. In the end, Danny only comes up with one murmured, deadened word.

“Crack.”

Martin’s stomach solidifies into a brick inside him. He fights the way his leg wants to shake, running his hands over his thighs and pressing down hard. “You remember that?”

Danny nods minutely. “The dancer… thanked me.”

“…But you didn’t do it for her,” Martin suggests. “You did it for Pharos. Right?”

“Right.”

An empty little echo, barely an exhale. Danny’s eyes slip shut, finally, and in the bright light from the window, Martin can see the faintest glint of a tear stuck in the corner of just one. It doesn’t dislodge to fall when he looks up again, clinging instead to his lashes. Martin aches for him in a way that perhaps no one else has it in them to ache.

“I won’t… claim to know what sort of ‘arrangement’ you and Pharos had, or why, but… I know you. I know you wouldn’t have done it without an honest reason.”

“Honest,” Danny huffs.

“I know you,” Martin says again. “I know you’d never—”

“Stop. Stop it.” Danny shifts and shock-stops again, a pained sound caught in his throat. He keeps his eyes screwed shut tight. “Please, don’t. Just stop. Stop.”

“Okay,” Martin murmurs. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He sits in helplessness as Danny fights the pain of trying to turn away and hide, as he struggles against the wave of grief and regret that Martin can see written plain across his face. Tears build up in Martin’s throat, too; he’s only cried in private since that day, too set on being strong for Danny. No one else could stay in Great Yarmouth just to wait around for Danny to wake up or become a more cooperative patient or explain himself. Tim couldn’t stay in the city that rushed to burn Gerry’s bones.

To be so absent from the mourning process back in London makes Martin feel like a terrible friend. He can’t cite feeling less than close to Gerry as a reason for it; of course his death makes Martin want to curl up into a hole and stay there, but there’s— there’s another factor in the situation, and if no one else can stomach it, then he will. Why stop now?

“Can I hold your hand?”

Danny makes a disagreeable noise. Martin accepts the rejection as gracefully as he can, sitting back in his chair to diminish the temptation to reach out anyway.

“Maybe I could get you that water—?”

“Leave,” Danny spits out on the tail ends of a sharp breath. “Just… please, go. Go home.”

“Well, no, I won’t be doing that much. I can leave the room for a while, I’ll go down to the waiting room again, but… No, Danny, there’s no way I’m just leaving you here. It’s a three hour drive, and you’re in no shape to be by yourself. You need someone to bring you home when you’re ready.”

It must hurt like hell to cry. Martin can see the tendons in Danny’s neck standing out with how harshly he’s turned his head away, his body jolting painfully as he tries to keep himself quiet. How could anyone possibly be expected to hold all this in? Martin isn’t judging him. He wants to cry, too.

“I love you,” he says, even knowing it might even make things worse. Just on the off chance that it doesn’t. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He stands up without waiting for a response, grabbing up the magazine from the foot of the bed. The waiting room is a better place to check his texts.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Every desk in the bullpen filled, but an empty Head Archivist’s office. Sasha glances towards it every now and again, still half-expecting it to creak open and to see Gerry yawning in the doorway. They haven’t erased the nap counter from the white board. They haven’t been touching the calendar, the last blue dot left behind on the day before they all left for Great Yarmouth. It’ll simply gather dust, she suspects, because what function does it serve now? No more estrogen. No more joy.

There is no joy left in Tim. It’s been wrung out of him in a way that Sasha has never seen before. Never in his wildest depressions or losses has he ever looked this grim. His eyes sink into shadows when he turns his head the right way in the light. The wet spots on his shirt could almost be mistaken for sweat if he didn’t radiate such a coldness that sitting across from him makes her want to tighten her cardigan around herself. She hasn’t seen him smile since their meeting in the safehouse, when the corners of his mouth turned up in a halfhearted attempt at saying I’ll see you soon before she hugged him goodbye the second time.

She joined in on Jon’s attempted shiva. They all had, except for Martin. Jon explained the rules; only some of the restrictions, as Gerry was not a Jew, but he said that for the time being, they were to see themselves as Gerry’s immediate family. Who else would mourn him properly? It not being his custom hardly mattered in this case; it was something where he would otherwise have nothing. According to Jon, shiva was meant to contain the grieving process into something manageable. To allow for the full depth of it to sink its teeth in, to truly sit in it, and then when the time came, face the world again with renewed strength. It was the only way he knew how to grieve, and so it was all he could do to share it.

Tim had followed the rules in silence. Sasha watched him from her low cushion and waited for an opportunity to touch him, to console him, but he never gave her one. On the morning of the seventh day, Jon took it upon himself to say play the visitor and recited a blessing in front of Tim, bidding G-d to comfort him among all the mourners in Jerusalem, and reached to help him up off the floor. “Arise,” he’d said, and Tim had.

It just wasn’t Tim’s custom, either. It’s been a week since they returned to work, and he’s still a stone gargoyle in his desk chair, empty of light and effort. Jon told her that for spouses, the mourning period will be considerably intense for at least a year.

A year. Two years. Three years, four. Eventually, the years without Gerry will outnumber the ones they had with him, and Tim will feel it like no one else. Sasha looks at him, and she feels moths crawling underneath her clothes, trapped there in her own grief.

Sasha has lost enough sisters. This one is especially cruel.

“So…” Martin begins, breaking the long silence. “What exactly are we going to… do now? Here, I mean, at the Institute.”

“The same thing we’ve been doing, I presume.” Jon sets a pile of papers off to the side. “The Unknowing was only one ritual of many potential rituals. I think it’s only natural that we should keep trying to stop as many as we can.”

“But—” Martin bites his tongue for a moment. “I mean… sure. But something has to happen next, right? I mean, Elias—”

“Elias is mine.”

Tim’s voice doesn’t even sound like his voice anymore. Sasha shifts in her seat.

They’ve talked about this already. Judith went back into the rubble to find Begging the King and bring it to her father, who studied page 77 with a thoughtful face. There was only so much he could speculate about the incantation, but the long string of words at the end made him surmise that it was an attempt to bring forth all of Smirke’s Fourteen at once, and that the results could have been catastrophic. None of them knew how far Gerry must have read, or if he’d even been reading it at all by the time Danny swung the hammer, and so it’s difficult to say that the sacrifice was worth it.

But it looks like they wiped the chessboard entirely. Elias can’t come back to the Institute and reinstate himself as Head, he can’t ‘promote’ anyone to the Archivist position and start over whatever the hell he’d been doing with Gerry the whole time, he can’t show his face while it’s still Faraday’s. Whatever game he was playing, he’s lost.

Sasha doesn’t know if she’s allowed to feel triumphant or if she should just settle for being afraid of the retaliation that could creep up on them should he switch bodies again, or send something after them, or pull another gun. She wants to believe he won’t risk it; not with Tim still around to want revenge. She’s willing to bet he’s more afraid of Tim than he ever was before.

“…Okay, but, after that.” Martin’s skepticism is hesitant, but reasonable. “I just feel—”

“Lost,” Jon suggests, sounding far away.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasha repeats, too. Tim has the right idea, in his almost-vow-of-silence. There’s not a whole lot else to say.

Another length of quiet sweeps through the Archives. Sasha can’t bring herself to touch her laptop, or get up for a box of folders. She can’t imagine recording statements onto her phone. She can’t imagine moving, paralyzed into her chair by the crawling sensation at the small of her back, the bend of her knees, in her sleeves.

“Hellooo?”

Sasha, Jon and Martin all jump in their seats as Divshah elbows her way into the Archives. She’s carrying a tray of coffee cups with both hands. Dread drops into Sasha’s stomach like a cement block.

“Oh, um—” Jon swallows. “H-Hello, Divshah.”

“Hi!” she chirps. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while, so I thought I’d bring something by! Scoot, scoot!”

She hops over to the bullpen and sets the tray down in front of Sasha and Tim. Sasha numbly accepts the biscotti as Divshah passes it to her, watching the cups as she distributes them by memory until there’s only one left in the very middle. Divshah takes it into her hands and straightens up to look around the room with a smile.

“Where’s Gerry?” She gasps gently. “Is he asleep?”

Sasha looks up at Tim to find him entirely unmoved. There is a droplet forming at his hairline. One glance at Jon and Martin tells her that she’s going to have to get up from her chair after all, because this conversation can’t happen in here.

“Um… Divshah, come with me really quick.”

Confused, Divshah places the last cup down on Sasha’s desk. “What’s going on?”

Sasha doesn’t respond just yet, shaking out her clothes a bit as she stands. If she doesn’t look down and around for the moths, they may just fade away.

Divshah follows her to Basira’s old room down the hall, her cheerful smile traded for something more apprehensive. Sasha shuts the door and sighs, catching her own face in both hands for a moment before she bites the bullet.

“You don’t have to bring cocoa for Gerry anymore,” she begins.

Divshah wilts. “Oh, no! Does he not work here anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t. Because, um.” Sasha swallows roughly. “Because— he died, Divshah. About two weeks ago.”

For a moment, Divshah just stares at her. She’s not like them, though, and she’s quick to blink. “What?”

“There was an accident. He… took a bad blow to the head. It happened really fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Instant are the tears. Divshah covers her mouth with both hands, shaking her head. “No, that’s— How could that happen? That’s not right, I don’t— He couldn’t—”

“I know,” Sasha interrupts, her own throat stopping up again. “I know, come here.”

Divshah slips into her arms like a river, clinging tight to the back of her cardigan. If there are moths around, she doesn’t seem to notice them, or care. Why would she? She’s been touched by the Corruption, too, and nothing seems to faze her. This is the first time Sasha has seen her look anything less than simply happy to be alive.

It takes a while for her to stop crying, pulling back to sniff so hard it must hurt. “How’s Tim doing?”

“Not well,” Sasha admits. “He’s really not himself right now.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine,” Divshah says nauseously. “I’m so— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse with the— with the cocoa, I just wanted to—”

“I know, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Sasha pets her hair; her dark roots have grown out past her ears, the bleach-fried ends freshly lopped off. “Just… He needs some space. They all do, they were all there for it.”

“Oh, G-d.” Divshah hides her face again, letting out another round of tears. “That’s— That’s awful.”

“Yeah, from what I gather, it… it was.”

She could be more comforting, probably. She could be better. Or she could be honest, and cry a little bit, too. Divshah hugs her one more time, and Sasha plucks off her glasses to bend and bury her face in her shoulder. She hasn’t done this with Tim yet. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.

“I’ll, um… I’ll go.” Divshah wipes her face, stepping away and towards the door. “Enjoy your biscotti.”

Sasha steps out after her, watching as she pauses in front of the Archives doors and looks in through the window with a tearful face before she carries on towards the stairs at a brisk walk. Good that she didn’t go back in. She has some tact after all.

That was mean to think. Sasha taps her own cheek in reprimand, to shock the tears back inside, before she goes back into the Archives with a straight face. Tim is still sitting with his back to the door, the cocoa still sitting in front of him. Jon meets her eyes with concern, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. His kurta today is pink.

“She’s gone,” Sasha tells them, sitting down.

“What did you tell her?” Martin asks.

“What else? I told her the truth.” Sasha stares down at the cocoa cooling in front of her. “She didn’t take it very well. Cried a lot.”

Jon and Martin both nod, but only Jon voices his opinion. “Good. Someone ought to. S-Someone other than us, I mean. Anyone, really.” And then he gasps. “Oh, G-d, someone has to tell Tazia.”

Sasha winces. “You do it. I can’t. Not after Divshah just now, I— I can’t.”

He pulls out his phone to scroll through his messages for the large group chat they’d made back in Venice. The only way that anyone would even have her number. The only other person that Sasha can think of that knew Gerry, really knew him, and will care that he’s gone.

Tim moves, suddenly, to take the cocoa from the desk and swipe it into the bin.

The remainder of the day moves like molasses. The moment the clock strikes 5:00, Sasha stands up and requests that Tim follow her. He rises and does, and the drive home is silent. He waits on the doorstep for her to find her key and use it, perhaps consciously stopping himself from walking straight through. Without another word, he retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Sasha doesn’t know what to do with the rest of her evening. She spends most of it on the couch, texting Melanie. Danny got home yesterday, having left the hospital against medical advice, and is largely immobile in bed. He still won’t speak much, either, apparently. Sasha can’t wrap her mind around the fact that she currently lives in a world where the Stoker boys — of all people — have gone speechless.

It’s half past midnight when she hears the crash. It jolts her out of bed and into the hallway, towards Tim’s room, before an even scarier noise halts her worried footsteps entirely. A garbled wail, like a scream underwater, interspersed with loud, hacking sobs. She looks down at her feet; there’s water seeping out from under his door. When she knocks, the only response is another item shattering — the bedside lamp? A picture frame? Sasha reaches for the doorknob to find it locked.

“Tim?” she calls out against the door. “Tim, can you hear me?”

The drowning noises don’t stop for her. Every image her mind conjures up of what he might look like right now only serves to split her heart further apart. She almost doesn’t want to see, but it feels like she needs to know. She needs to know in order to fix it. She needs to be able to hold him, to shush him, to simply be with him until the pain eases. She needs him to want her to.

“Tim,” she repeats, pleading. “Open the door, let me help you.”

“No!” comes the shout, hysterical. It’s barely intelligible as a word through the slosh of water that must have spewed from his mouth alongside it. “Go— away!”

Fine, then. If he wants her to do this the hard way, then she will. Sasha leaves the hall to dig through her room for the new lock-picking kit Melanie got her for her most recent birthday. The lock on his door is simple and plain like all the others in the house’s interior, so it barely resists when she fits the tool inside it. The phantom water is cold under her bare feet as she stands in the growing puddle, until the lock pops open and she ventures inside.

The floor is almost entirely flooded, and there’s a large wet spot on the center of the bed. She was right, the bedside lamp had been thrown to the ground, pieces of glass scattered in the water. She can’t see yet what else had been broken in the dark, but she can see Tim’s shape in the moonlight through the window, curled up between his side table and the edge of his mattress on the floor. He grasps at his chest like he’s suffocating all over again, water cascading down his body at an almost threatening speed. It’s a wonder there’s any room for him to cry through the outpouring.

There is no splashing sound when she walks through the flood to reach him, the water only as real as they believe it to be. Sasha chooses to believe he could breathe through it if he wanted to. That he will, eventually, when this has run its course. It’s been such a long time coming.

She sits down on the floor under the window, her dressing gown skimming the top of the puddle. Tim jolts like he’s in the tank again, his head banging against the side table, and Sasha lets herself wince because he’s not even looking at her. He can’t yet. He’s not ready.

So, she waits. She watches as it all comes rushing out of him at once, until he’s reduced to trickles and trembling and softer cries that finally sound more like weeping than a waterfall. He leans against the mattress and she finally sees what he’s been clutching in his fist; Gerry’s padlock on its chain.

There’s still nothing to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Melanie zips up her backpack with a sigh. “Martin, come on! You’re coming with me!”

“No the hell I’m not.”

“You have to! I’m down an assistant, and you know Callum. You went to his birthday party this year!”

Martin slams his mug down on the counter hard enough that she sees some of his tea splash out of it. “I’m not going to be a part of this video, Melanie. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

Melanie crosses her arms. “You’re really not even going to give me a statement for it, either? You don’t have anything to say about our dead friend?”

He whirls around with a vengeance. “What do you want me to talk about, Melanie! The time I stole his keys and went behind his back and got Leitner all NotThem’d, so he compelled me and made it really clear that he’d never trust me? Or the time I nearly strangled him to death and proved him right? Or maybe for something lighter, how about the time we went to a flesh witch’s house and he hacked up his tonsils in front of me, that was a blast!”

“Okay, I get it!” Melanie cuts him off. “Fuck you.”

“Just— go do your thing, and don’t bring this up around me ever again.”

With a scowl, she turns around to snatch up her bag and storm out of the house. She hates this Martin. He’s worse than punctuation-user Martin, because now he uses punctuation all the time and he’s mean in person. Even when he had that bullet inside of him, he wasn’t quite so cutting.

She knows it’s because of Danny leaving, but it’s been three bloody months. He should be starting to level out again. He should be starting to— well, to get over it would be unrealistic to expect of him. How are any of them supposed to get over any of this?

Maybe she’s faring better because she’s the one Danny said goodbye to. The only one, because she was the only one he could trust not to beg him to stay. She’s the one who gets pulse check texts now and then, and sometimes the name of whatever continent he’s made it to. When he said he was in South America last weekend, she almost called him a liar.

Melanie doesn’t want to be angry at Martin, but it’s hard when he’s angry at her. For harboring something that he’s been deprived of. For persisting in the face of the paralysis that’s taken over the entire Archives, still, to this day. For being almost relieved by it, because Danny’s absence gave her enough space to breathe to decide on her next, long overdue project. One that he could never have helped her with.

It starts snowing halfway through her bus ride, speckling against the windows to dissolve into droplets. Melanie watches them trickle away, going over the intro to her video in her head again and again and again.

This is a video I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but it’s also one I never wanted to have to make at all. I’m going to start this by asking for some basic courtesy, because while I know this is the internet and I’m broadcasting from a channel about supernatural crap that a lot of skeptics like to make fun of, I’m going to be telling you about that close friend of mine that passed and I will not tolerate disrespect towards his memory. There will be times where I can only give so much proof, because some of the events I’m going to outline are from a long time ago, and yeah, have to do with supernatural crap that didn’t exactly leave behind a lot of clues. Long time viewers will know that the real stuff can’t always be captured digitally, and I want to finally tell you who opened my eyes and changed my entire career path with that knowledge: his name was Gerard Keay.

It was hard to deliver the lines into the camera when she first started recording. Took way too many takes, and she’s still not sure about the script. She might have to rewrite it a third time, maybe a fourth before this is over. This is going to be a big project. It’s going to be all the more difficult without Danny’s help.

One thing that makes it easier are the number of witnesses willing to appear on camera and speak on it.

Divshah wanted to tell her story the very day that Melanie asked her if she would, eager to tell the world the truth about how Gerry saved her from an abusive relationship without even knowing her name, and how he was never unkind to her, or dismissive of her disposition. She knows she’s a lot to handle, but Gerry never put out the idea that she was too much. He was accepting, and friendly, and he always put something in the tip jar.

Melanie sent Timothy Hodge an email. She plans to put a screenshot of his reply in the video, too, with his permission; he wants to put Jane Prentiss behind him, but he will admit with no hesitation that the only reason he’s alive today is because of Gerry. Gerry noticed, Gerry saw the signs, and Gerry personally saw to it that he was brought to a hospital. Gerry did that.

Next on her list is Caroline Brodie.

The snow is sticking to the grass a little bit as she walks up to the door and knocks. Caroline answers quickly, expecting her at this time. She ushers her inside and to the living room, where she sits on the couch to wring her hands in anxious hesitation.

“Thank you for doing this,” Melanie says after she’s taken out her camera and tripod. “I know it’s… out of the blue, after all this time.”

“No one could have predicted that this would have happened.”

“Still, it’s been… what, a little over a year? Since—”

Since Basira took the umbra from Callum. Since Gerry scared him to save him. Since the worst time of this family’s lives finally came to a tentative end.

Caroline nods. “Just about, yes. It feels like so much longer ago, but… also like it was only yesterday. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“All the time.”

Melanie offers a small smile, and then turns on her camera. Caroline shifts to sit up straighter, presentable, nervous.

“So, you’re making this video as… a memorial?”

“Sort of. But also… there’s a lot of people out there who have some really wrong beliefs about who he was. And people who did know him only got him in passing, he was like some… mythic figure, even to me at first. So, now that he’s not here to have his privacy invaded more, I figured it’s finally time to shed some light on the situation and kind of… clear his name.”

Tim had granted his assent, though not in so many words. He knew she wouldn’t be exploitative about it, but the real root of his reason was clear: everything is pointless now, so it didn’t matter what she did. Jon and Sasha had already given a few accounts each, full of stories and love. They’ll surely think of more to add as time continues to pass, in the absence of any contribution from Tim. Melanie won’t press him the way she pressed Martin earlier. It’s different.

Caroline wraps her mind around it, and doesn’t pry about what his name needs clearing from. “What is it you want me to say?”

“Just… the truth of your experience, I suppose? This video is about Gerry, about the person he really was, everything he did to help people… So, whatever you remember about him, I’d really like to hear it.”

Caroline nods again, clearing her throat. Melanie gives her a thumbs up when the camera starts recording, gesturing for Caroline to look at her while she speaks. It takes a long moment and a deep breath, but she does.

“I didn’t know Gerry very well. I only met him a few times, and the most prominent of those memories was the scariest moment of my life. Even scarier than losing my child was watching him— tied to a chair, and afraid. It worked, is the thing; the scary thing worked. I-I couldn’t even begin to recount it for you, what the process of… freeing him, was like, but it saved his life. It gave me my baby back.

“And just before the scary part began, I remember Gerry… sitting in front of him, just talking to him. He showed him a scar that I can still see in my mind if I think back on it — a big, black handprint on his leg — and told him that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through. That letting people notice that he’s hurt and letting them help him was the only way to heal. I remember him pulling his rucksack into his lap and showing him all these little trinkets he’d gotten from people over time, and one of them was—” She laughs wetly. “One of them was from Callum. They’d met before on a bus one day, and my son flicked a paper ninja star at him. Something I might’ve scolded him for had I been there, but then… maybe Gerry wouldn’t have flung it back. Maybe they wouldn’t have had their fun, and my son would have one less fond memory of a kind stranger who paid attention to him. Gerry kept that ninja star pinned to his bag that whole time, because he must have been short on fond memories, too. I didn’t know him well, but I know that’s the kind of person he was. The fond sort.

“And Callum listened to him. He has friends, now. Good friends who come over and stay the night sometimes, and lightbulbs don’t break in our house anymore. He’s happy. He’s healthy. He’s safe. And we’re closer than ever, we’re in a good place. That whole time was… very dark for us, so dark, and if you’re asking me about Gerry… I’d say he did his best to shine just a little bit of light on the future he wanted for my son. No one made him do that, no one made him care. He just… did. And I wish I had taken the chance to thank him for that.”

After a hesitant hand motion from Caroline, Melanie shuts off the camera and dabs at the corner of her eye. She hadn’t been there for Callum’s rescue, or his second saving, but she’d heard the stories of their respective horrors. She didn’t know about the sentimental part of it, but she believes it. She knows it.

“Thank you, Caroline,” Melanie says again, and she’s taken off guard by the swelling of pain in her throat that comes with the words. She turns her face away to roll her eyes up to the ceiling, bouncing a hand on her leg. She’s not supposed to cry, not here.

Caroline gets up and rushes back with a box of tissues, handing the whole thing to her. Melanie laughs, and accepts it, letting herself let just a bit of it out before she forces it all back inside. Another mumbled thanks, and an equally quiet you’re welcome.

“Are you done already?”

Melanie jumps, snapping her head back around to see Callum standing at the foot of the stairs. His hair is in need of a trim, his shirt baggy around his arms and hanging low past his waist. He stares at her sullenly, one hand on the banister as he sways with the clear desire to enter the room.

“I don’t know,” Caroline says to him, and turns to Melanie. “Are we?”

“I, um— I think that’s just about all I needed, yes. We can watch it over and you can tell me if you want to do another take, but I think… I always think interviews are best kept organic, you know? We never recall things the same way twice, and we can’t… replicate the same emotion.”

Caroline agrees, looking down at her folded hands before she glances back up at her son. “Were you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to come and talk with us?”

He gives Melanie a wary look before he slumps over to the couch to sit beside his mother. He doesn’t react much when she runs a hand through his hair and rubs his back once, his eyes tracing the camera and Melanie’s belongings.

“Why can’t I do one, too?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Caroline says. “We’d be telling the same story, wouldn’t we? I don’t want your face on any more… computers, or televisions, or any of that.”

“But he died.” He says it so plainly. “Shouldn’t I say something?”

“What would you say that she didn’t say already?” Melanie prompts.

He looks at the camera again. “Turn that on.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have to say it twice, I’ll get it wrong.”

Melanie looks at Caroline for permission. Caroline hesitates a moment longer, petting Callum’s hair again.

“Are you sure, honey?”

He nods. “A lot of people… have died, for me. And maybe he didn’t die for me, but he died, and I knew him. I want to do this.”

Caroline’s eyes well up again, and after another beat, she relents. She scoots over to the other side of the couch to let Callum take her seat in front of the camera, and Melanie starts to fiddle with her equipment again. Before she hits record, Callum asks her a difficult question.

“When’s Danny coming back?”

Melanie swallows. “I don’t know yet, kiddo. But I’m still in touch with him, so when I know, you’ll know.”

“Okay.”

She readjusts in her seat and angles the camera a little lower to focus on his face, and starts recording.

“Whenever you’re ready, go ahead.”

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

He listens to the rumble of the train around him in place of any sort of music, no headphones on his person since he left. Self-deprivation, perhaps, but that was almost the point. Instead he’s filled his life with the sounds of the world around him, voices to mimic and borrow, the machinery of travel and distance. No nice little daydream to get lost in. He hasn’t earned that.

His bag is light on his lap. He’d only brought enough with him that he could carry on his person at all times, replacing things when he needed to the same way he’d swindled his way onto planes, boats, trains like this one, when he wanted to take his time instead of traveling through mirrors. Excuse me, that’s my seat. Oh, you already punched my ticket. The same way he’d grifted their way to Greece the first time he left home with Martin and—

Home. What a lost notion.

It’d be a lie to say he didn’t still daydream. His dreams are different now; no longer limited to the Circus the second time, no longer Watched by that haunting pair of silver eyes. They’re broader again, now with new hammersplat sounds and Tim is there, turning away from him. Sometimes they’re not about anything at all, ordinary dreams that he didn’t realize he could still have. Ones that leave him emptier than the ones that wake him up with chills or a shout, because he hasn’t earned those, either.

But some mornings, he would wake up in a motel without arms around him and sincerely wonder where they went. Had Martin gotten up to get them coffee? Was he showering, or off finding a vending machine? Will he be back soon?

The illusion never lasted very long. It was always a source of stinging while the rest of him stayed numb and distant, removed from the experiences he could be having in Zimbabwe and Costa Maya and Sydney if this were a vacation. If this were anything but a chance to think. Mostly, he wandered.

He’s finished, now.

The train comes to a screeching halt, and he rises with his bag to exit. His legs have had eleven months to heal, nearly ten of them spent walking, and still they ache with each step. He doesn’t need a taxi for the rest of the way, or a bus. He’ll bide his time now that there’s so little of it left.

It’s the first of July. The crickets are loud in patches of grass when he reaches the start of the lawns, and the sun warms the back of his neck. He doesn’t count the minutes on a watch, or pull his phone from his pocket. He wouldn’t search for a mirror to jump through even if he thought he could land right inside the house. He still doesn’t even know if he’ll be welcome there.

Try as he might to stay numb, his stomach twirls up into tighter and tighter knots the closer he gets to the street. The more his legs ache for him to stop and rest, just for a little bit more time. The more he wants to turn around and go back to somewhere, anywhere, that no one could ever have the chance to know him.

He can’t, though. It’s been long enough. He can’t let the world creep into August; hah. August. The worst time of Tim’s life, and death. He must have replaced the losses in his heart by now. Danny keeps coming back, against all odds. Gerry never will.

Danny stops walking to breathe against the memory, the knowledge. The shame that builds and builds heavier and heavier with every day that passes, no matter how long he’s taken to deconstruct it. Maybe that was another one of Gerry’s gifts; all that Weight. Reva told him all about the sink. Whenever they were out instead of him, that’s where he would be, without fail. That was his home in their head.

So maybe that’s Danny’s punishment, too. Every morning, he is lowered back into that tank, and he thrashes all day until someone has their twisted idea of mercy and pulls him out to let him sleep, only to start all over again tomorrow. He never drowns like Tim did. His fault, too.

It doesn’t feel like punishment enough.

He leaps away from a speeding car before it has the chance to honk at him for drifting into the road. Adrenaline tingles in his limbs, his lungs, just the barest little taste of something alive. He looks ahead at the street signs and knows he has to keep going, he has to turn left, and to do that, he needs to forget how to feel again. Just until he gets onto the doorstep.

When he does reach it, he stands there for a while. He hasn’t earned the right to knock on the door and say hello, certainly not to smile and wish for one back. But he’ll be standing here all day if he doesn’t, and he can’t waste any more time. It feels like taking, but he does it.

Melanie answers the door. Her face falls in an instant, her eyes wide and skipping over his body as if in search of wounds or changes or evidence that he’s only a mirage. He lets her process his presence in silence until she finally finds it in her to speak.

“Holy shit.”

“Hi.”

“Hi!” She laughs, backing up to usher him inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s— Well, I won’t say anything is fine, but I’m just… really glad to see you. You haven’t been texting.”

“Sorry.”

She makes a piteous face, pausing on her way to the kitchen. He knows she’s going to offer him tea in the mug with the holographic telly on it and he’ll accept it to be gracious, not because he thinks it’s fair. For a moment, they hover in place at a distance from each other, equally at a loss for words, or affection, or mending.

“Um…” she recovers, pointing towards the hallway. “I’m… going to go get Mar—”

Again, she pauses, this time in a cold startle. Danny turns his head to face the music; Martin is already standing in the mouth of the hallway, staring at the pathetic scene with the flattest expression Danny has ever seen on him. Danny keeps his own face just as empty, careful not to betray the depth of how that expression makes him feel. It wouldn’t be fair. He has no right to beg.

“…Ah.” Melanie clears her throat. “You know what? I’m gonna— I’m actually going to head to the store, we don’t have… milk. I’m going to go get some milk.”

“Sure, Melanie.” Martin doesn’t bother to look at her. “Go get some milk.”

His voice is different. Not in tone, but in quality. His hair is different; shorter, in an unfamiliar stage of hopefully-growing back out. It was only a matter of time before Martin cut his hair. Danny remembers stopping him the first time he held scissors down to the scalp, convincing him it wouldn’t be worth it to cut it out of anger. He’s been angry, and Danny wasn’t here to stop him.

Of course he’s been angry. That is something Danny deserves.

As Melanie grabs her keys and leaves the house, Danny turns his body to face Martin fully, his bag still on his shoulder — he can’t set it down yet, he can’t make himself at home. He braces himself for the tirade, the accusation, the hatred. All things he’s earned.

Martin takes a step forward. Danny doesn’t realize he’s taken a step back until the look on Martin’s face is more hurt than hollow. This conversation will be held across the room.

“Happy Birthday,” Danny tries.

“What were you thinking?” Martin says instead of ‘thanks.’ “You disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop— saying you’re sorry, and tell me what was running through your head!”

“I couldn’t be here, Martin!” The confession leaps forth without another hesitation, prompted forward by Martin’s demand. “I couldn’t just— exist here, waiting for Tim to be able to look at me again! I couldn’t just wait around for him to feel obligated enough to forgive me, and you know my being here would have put that pressure on him. I couldn’t— I couldn’t think here!”

“So you went to Tanzania?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, and I went just about everywhere else, too, and did almost every drug known to man, and I didn’t have a lick of fun because I was running! You have to know Elias is probably after me, too, after I fucked up his plans. I couldn’t stay anywhere for more than a few days, I had to just keep moving, I barely— I barely processed any of what I was seeing, I just needed to think.”

“About what?”

“About why I did it!” The bag slips from his shoulder, and he hardly notices the sound of it hitting the ground past the blood in his ears. “You said in the hospital that I did it for Pharos and I agreed with you, but was I just agreeing because you said it? Or did I do it because I knew it’d be the best thing for Nikola?”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“But what if I did!” He can’t fight the smile as it pulls at his mouth. “What if I did, Martin?”

Martin stops arguing. Danny battles to neutralize his face again, and fails. The best he can do is continue to explain himself.

“I had to figure it out on my own, I couldn’t just— let your belief in me influence how I remembered things.”

“No one really— remembers the whole Unknowing, I mean. It was the Unknowing. You can’t try and force yourself to recall every single detail of an event like that, the whole point was to confuse us.”

Danny scoffs. “Don’t you think I know that? I soaked in that for years before you people dragged me out of it by the hair. I learned to navigate it, I learned to cause it, and you think I wouldn’t have been able to coast on that during the ritual? You think it’s that impossible that I could have just slipped back into my old role? Seriously, Martin? You still love me enough to lie to yourself like that?”

You still love me at all? Danny can’t take the words back. Martin crosses his arms, leaning against the wall to look down at the floor.

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“A different one every day.”

He sees the minute shake of Martin’s head, the disbelieving desire to scoff as he turns his eyes back up to the ceiling. “So, what you’re saying is that this was pointless. You didn’t come back with some big epiphany, you didn’t have your come to Jesus moment in Cambodia, it was all just— a waste of time.”

“No,” Danny says firmly. “I still couldn’t just be here. I need you to understand that.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tell me.”

“Because you would have tried to stop me, or asked to come with me, and I wouldn’t have been able to say no to you! I needed to be alone, Martin.”

“Since when has ‘alone’ gotten anyone anywhere good? You said before you did every drug known to man, h-how is that a good thing? How did that help you?”

“It helped me forget sometimes.” Danny curls and unfurls his fists. “You don’t know how hard it was to look any of you in the eye before I left. Any of you, even you.”

“I never blamed you for—”

“Maybe you should have. Maybe I wanted you to! Maybe I needed someone to blame me, because it can’t just be me blaming myself! I can’t trust myself, you know that.”

“But if no one blames you, then isn’t that a signal that it wasn’t your fault?”

“I swung the hammer, Martin! I did that. And I still don’t know for certain if I did it for Pharos or not, so no, it’s not a signal that it isn’t my fault. It just tells me that no one takes my actions seriously, even when they’re catastrophic.”

“You saved the world, technically.”

“Don’t.”

“You did, though,” Martin insists. “Adelard said that incantation could have been the end of everything—”

Danny shakes his head. “We have no idea how accurate that is.”

“And we’ll never know! Because it’s over, and because Pharos saw it coming. He trusted you.”

“And what about Gerry, then, huh? What about the one all of you actually miss? The one I took away from Tim without a second of hesitation because Pharos decided that the collateral would be worth it?”

“That sounds like a Pharos problem. And it sure sounds like you put a lot more thought into what Pharos was asking of you than you were probably thinking of Nikola in the moment.”

“G-d, you’re not even listening!” Danny can’t control his gestures, arms frenetic and jerking to grab for his own head. “Martin, I murdered the love of my brother’s life! I killed him, he’s dead because of me! No amount of justification is going to change the result! I don’t care about the incantation, I don’t care about the end of the world, I care about the world I have to live in now! I always have, that’s all that matters to me! There needs to be a consequence for what I did!”

“Is that another reason why you left without so much as a note?” Martin asks. “Inviting some kind of consequence?”

“Maybe it is! Now, are you going to deliver one or are you just going to— forgive me?”

For a long time, the adrenaline of raising his voice had kept the tears at bay. He doesn’t know precisely when they started to burn in his throat, but all at once, the notion of forgiveness creates such a deep longing in him that he can’t help the way it jumps out. He can’t retract the way it sounded; like a lie, like bait, like pleading. Danny does his best not to drop his head, muscling through as his eyes water, looking Martin in the face as if he stands a chance of challenging him. He feels like the frenzied bull in the arena, while Martin stands calm and resolute in the distance, daring him to come closer.

It’s Martin who steps forward again. Danny backs up one more step, instinct over impulse, but there’s only so far he can go before his back hits the wall. Martin is slow in his approach, reaching out with his hands first to show that they’re empty, they’re open, they’re safe. Danny is powerless to him, then, when Martin pulls him down into his arms.

“I’m going to forgive you, Danny.”

Danny sobs into his shoulder. “Why?”

“I don’t— I don’t like being angry, it makes me mean. Just ask Melanie, I’ve— I’ve been awful to her this whole time. I don’t see the point in holding a grudge against you for… for what happened to Gerry, or for you leaving to sort out your thoughts. I can’t punish you any more than you’ve punished yourself. I refuse to even try.”

“Why?”

Martin cradles the back of his head as he shakes. “It wouldn’t do any good. Not like… actually trying to fix things might.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You’re home. That’s a start.” Martin kisses the spot behind his ear. “And don’t get me wrong, I’d love to keep you all to myself as long as I can, but Melanie’s going to be back with that milk we don’t need, and… I think the person you really need to talk to is Tim.”

For a while, the most Danny can do is weep. He hasn’t cried much since he left, if at all — hell if he remembers anymore. The wall behind him and Martin’s sturdy frame in front are the only things keeping his legs from giving out underneath him, the Weight still there and still suffocating and still too oppressive to dig himself out from. He lets Martin hold him until it makes more sense to let him lead him to the couch, and then time distorts until he’s lying with his head in Martin’s lap, breathing slower.

He hasn’t earned this, but he’s selfish. He needs it.

They decide to text Sasha, not Tim, just to make sure he’s home, and leave it at that. Danny takes a shower before anything else and changes into a fresh set of clothes from his dresser, still full of his things. He looks at himself in the mirror and wills it not to crack. The scar on his forehead. The scar on his lip. His identity in seams. He can’t face his collarbones, or his wrists.

Martin offers to go with him, and he finds the strength to say no. The most he can give is leaving his bag in the house, a promise to come back. Today, he thinks he keeps his promises.

Tim’s house is too far to walk to, so he takes the bus as close as it’ll bring him. He hopes that Sasha doesn’t answer the door, too tired for another round of what happened with Melanie and Martin. He wonders if he’s earned the right to want this to be direct. To the point. Not painless, but bearable. He can bear quite a lot before it breaks him. He could take any comeuppance Tim has to offer as long as it isn’t forgiveness, too.

It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Not this time.

With hands unfeeling, he knocks. He listens for the heaviness of the footsteps that approach the door, for a moment forgetting if Tim’s are still audible at all. When he doesn’t hear anything, he figures that no, they aren’t, and why would they be? Tim is more of a ghost than ever. Danny doesn’t know how to prepare himself for what he’ll see when the door opens.

Tim is dry, at least. His hair is down, no longer or shorter since the last time Danny saw him. They’re the same, in that regard; Danny’s hair still hasn’t grown a centimeter since he first encountered the troupe. Tim can’t cut his for anything now because there’s every chance it’ll never grow back.

His eyes are vacant, empty black holes in his head. Frightening to passersby, no doubt, but to Danny, it’s something else. Something words can’t describe, so he doesn’t try.

“Hey,” he starts, because Tim doesn’t say it first.

For a long moment, Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move to let Danny into the house, or step onto the porch to join him. Simply stands in the doorway like a statue, studying him for change the way that Melanie and Martin had. Studying his eyes for traces of… what, guilt? Shame? He’ll find it in abundance.

“I just came by to tell you… I’m done running, now.”

The calm question comes up from inside a deep well. “Where were you?”

“Um… around.” Danny looks down at Tim’s shirt and shrugs. “All over.”

Tim hums, and still he doesn’t move. “Have fun?”

“Not especially.”

“Alright.”

Danny thought he could handle the comeuppance. “I just didn’t… think it’d be right to tell you over the phone.”

“When you left, or when you got back?”

“Either.” Danny tucks his hand behind his hip to fidget in private. “…Tim, I’m sor—”

Tim holds up a hand.

“What’s done is done.”

“Which part of it?”

“All of it. You can’t take it back. I don’t want you to try just to be disappointed that I can’t forgive you yet.”

“I don’t want you to forgive me yet,” Danny admits. “…Or at all, if you really can’t. I know Pharos said that I’m the only one you might be able to—”

“Might.”

“Exactly. And I left because… I didn’t want you to feel obligated to honour that just because he said it. I left so you could have some time to yourself, without me… pressuring you to move on.”

“You left for yourself.”

“That, too. I needed time, I thought… I thought we could both use the time. I didn’t expect to walk back into welcoming arms.”

Tim doesn’t need to say good for the sentiment to come across. He’s silent for another long while, unmoving in the doorway. A barricade between the outside world and his private space, so empty now with his loss.

“What’s done is done,” Tim repeats. “And I don’t forgive you yet. But… you’re back now. Which means we can start to try and get there someday.”

Danny’s throat closes up. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. And you didn’t have to come back, but you did.” Finally, Tim’s eyes shift to look over Danny’s shoulder at the street. “You did the one thing I couldn’t do for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny rushes out before Tim can stop him again. “If I could go back—”

“You can’t. He wouldn’t even want you to. What’s done is done.”

Danny drops his head. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” Tim turns his eyes back to Danny’s face, his stare so deadened that Danny can feel the blood on his hands. “We can talk about this some other time.”

“Okay.”

There is a beat of quiet before the door is shut in front of him. Danny swallows the rejection and forces his eyes to stay dry, forces himself to turn around and step off the porch and head for the bus stop. One step at a time, one speculation after another; when will some other time be? What will tomorrow look like?

There’s so much left to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

#r.txt #r.writes #pbr tag #bad end tag #gerard keay #gerry keay #archivist!gerry #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #danny stoker #sasha james #melanie king #tma fanfic #tma #magpod #au of an au #if this makes even one person mildly tear up i'll consider it a success #i took like One big liberty and i expect no complaints #also melanie's video makes me cry.

[moibakadesu]

Haruka’s victim of his “murder” was he himself (The suicide theory)

This is a theory that I had since t1 there have been even more points for me to work with (I just never had time/peace of mind to do so), so let’s get into it, shall we?

First of all, as should be obvious from the title, there is a cw for suicide and also one for child abuse and neglect, as well as dead animals because we can’t talk about Haruka without going into these topics.

So what we are going to talk about today is:

Haruka’s victim of his “murder” was he himself

You might wonder now: But how is he walking around in Milgram then? We are looking at a magical song prison that bends the fabric of reality, I don’t think being a sort of purgatory is that much out of the question. I am not one to think that ALL of our current prisoners are dead, but for some it seems like an option. Note Yuno asking so pointedly in her t2 VD “Am I really still alive?” which seemed like a big hint. And also (MILGRAM NOVEL 2 SPOILER) in the second novel there is a part where literally falls the statement of “of course there are people who are already dead, it would be more strange if we wouldn’t have these”. As well as there being a suicide case.

And even if we would not go into that direction, we would still have the option of a failed suicide attempt which resulted in a temporary stopped heart = on paper you can be declared dead. With Milgram’s very loose definition of “being responsible for the loss of a human life” this seems very much like it could qualify as well.

So what gave me the idea that this could be the case for Haruka? The first thing that made my interest perk up was this screen here from Undercover:

In these shots with the silhouettes from the prisoners we presumably have a location where their murder happened or is heavily connected to it. And in some cases we even have the victims present in the shots.

What differentiates the prisoners from their victims is that all prisoner silhouettes have this gray hatching on them while their victims are a solid black color (it’s a bit unclear with Kazui, because he and Hinako are pretty small in his scene).

So with that in mind what falls to attention in Haruka’s shot? Yes, he is a solid black.

And that sprung the idea of: what if Haruka is the victim?

Well, he is, in more sense than one, but we are only concentrating on his “murder” for now.

Let’s now go through his first MV Weakness with this in mind, because it is already ripe with a lot of possible suicidal imagery. We won’t go over his first VD, because … well, there are simply no real hints in that one yet.

Weakness analysis

Right away at 0:08 we start with a scene transition of Haruka sinking into water. As you are probably all aware water is a big recurring theme with him, it draws itself through his MVs as well as being present in image material and merchandise related to him. Prior to ending up in Milgram he was also living in the city Niigata, which is literally called “the city of water”. So we can assume that it is of pretty big significance to his character.

The overall imagery of drowning and suffocating also appears repeatedly with him, so my assumptions of how he might have taken his life are either by, well, drowning or by hanging himself (due to imagery we will later get to in AKAA).

At 0:41 we have Haruka pushing his younger self into a “scribble-puddle”, leading us to another transition of Haruka once again sinking into the watery depths.

I think this is both a representation of Haruka’s loathing and jealousy of his younger self which still was somewhat loved by his mother until his disabilities became too noticeable to be ignored as well as an actual stand-in for killing yourself.

At this point let’s talk a little bit about the little girl that is assumed to be Haruka’s victim, shall we?

Well, in a broad sense we can say: yes, she is his victim. But the twist is this, recently I saw a theory that made a big amount of sense to me, especially taken in account with the suicide theory. Basically, I think the little girl never existed in reality. She was just a figment of Haruka's imagination, a sort of “Imaginary friend”, his idealized version of what “Haruka” should have been. We know from his t2 interrogation questions that his mother always wanted a girl instead of a boy, going so far as to picking the name beforehand and not changing it even after she knew she was expecting a boy.

I could even imagine that his mother might have tried to raise him as a girl up to a certain age, her terrible overall parenting surely gives me the impression that she would do something that twisted.

So Haruka’s delusion of “his perfect loveable self” might have intermingled with himself taking his life. Because something that always threw me off was that in the end of AKAA when we get the split second of him strangling the girl it is clearly a grown up Haruka putting his hands on her neck. But in Weakness they are around the same age apparently. Why is this? Well, of course the “perfect little girl his mother wanted” would stay a little girl forever in his mind.

So he is fully convinced that he killed that girl, in his mind she was real after all.

This might be completely off the mark, but even if it is, I still could imagine Haruka taking his life after having committed the murder of the girl. Going over his second VD again personally I am leaning more towards the option that the girl was his little sister, with how much attention he puts on it having been a murder out of jealousy.

But the lyrics going along with him pushing the girl in Weakness could also allude to the possibility of that “imaginary girl” theory.

And right here at 1:20 down in the water we go again, directly after the scene above.

And at 2:05 we are at the well known stone smashing scene. The action in the screen is not the main point in this case though, here we have the first appearance of the lyrics of:

Haruka usually doesn’t consider the abuse received by his mother as bad, any attention received from her is good attention in his eyes, so he wouldn’t see himself as a victim for that, right?

So what could it imply?

Maybe becoming your own victim?

Because a lot more importantly, these lyrics make another reappearance right away. When?

When Haruka strangles his younger self. (Right after another “falling in water” scene at that.)

And at the end we literally have Haruka kneeling over his dead self, admitting that “it was me”.

It is also important to note that this is the only instance in the MV where he is not waking up in his bed again.

So that is all already plenty to go from, isn’t it? But don’t worry, there will be plenty more. (Or do worry, my heart cries daily for poor Haruka.)

To go chronologically let us look at his second VD:

Metamorphosis of the Weak

This will be quick, we only have to take a look at the very end here where Haruka comes up with his suicide threat. It’s his first instinct after threatening to kill Es and becoming aware again that he can’t do that. He is making that statement with astounding ease, almost as if … he went through with it before. He knows he is capable of doing it, so he is certain and confident of himself.

On that note, I am like 99,9% certain that he won’t be successful with whatever attempt he might be starting, there will be an intervention or a reason why it’s not possible of some sort. It will most likely go against Milgram’s purpose of judging these prisoners, so it won’t be allowed that somebody escapes proper judgment by putting an end to themselves. (MILGRAM NOVEL 2 SPOILERS: Jackalope in the novel also makes a point of this, saying that the prisoners there are disposable only after they have been judged.)

But I wrote a whole post about all the reason I am certain they won't kill him off in the middle of the trials, if you want feel free to read up on that as well!

So without further ado let us go to Haruka’s second MV:

All knowing and all Agony analysis

We start at 0:12 with Haruka in his solitary confinement, the room getting flooded with water.

Here we are again with the theme of him getting submerged in water.

And the next scene of him submerged in water right here at 0:35 in the mirror (btw. I love the direction of this MV, the blurred writing appearing in the mirror like it is getting drifted ashore by the water being one of the parts of this).

Now here at 1:29 we have a very interesting scene.

Sadly AKAA is riddled with a very spotty translation of the lyrics that doesn’t convey the meaning a lot of times or even leaves out some things.

This part here is the perfect example, the more fitting translation here would be: “if with the push of one button I could be reborn”

The translation exchanges the reborn with reset which doesn’t really carry the same meaning in this context, being reborn is something that you get after dying. I don’t think this is a coincidence at all. Also important detail here is that we have the frames with the butterfly specimens on the wall. The butterfly is a symbol of death and rebirth as well. This goes well with the name of Haruka’s second VD, because “metamorphosis” is the term for the transformation that a butterfly undergoes in the cocoon.

And here another important part that gets lost in translation:

In Japanese it would more correctly translate to “I don't want to die, I don’t want to die”.

Because, yes, I do think that Haruka committed suicide. Do I think that he did it because he wanted to die? No, that was not the main objective for him. In my opinion it was either, like before mentioned, to be reborn so that he can be a more loveable self in the next life or it was the last final desperate cry for attention from his mother after even killing the target of his jealousy didn't give the desired results.

It probably also ties in with his situation in Milgram, he does not want to die, to get wiped out, but his death is once again the only means to an end that he can see in this situation, in this case forcing an innocent vote for Muu with his life as the bargaining chip. (And well, we all know how well that gamble turned out for him ...)

And then at 2:09 we have the scene of Haruka standing on the chair.

You know what people often stand on chairs for? Hanging themselves. Doesn’t help that the barred up window in the back sort of alludes to the rope of a noose the way one of the bars is placed directly behind of him.

And here once more, with the infamous “dreaMu” line.

As I mentioned before, I suspect his pre-Milgram suicide was by drowning, but these images could very well allude to his threat spoken in the prison to secure Muu’s innocent vote. I personally wonder how Haruka could even be aware of this option to take his own life, because I can hardly imagine him having knowledge about this with his “sheltered” lifestyle, but who knows. 

Good luck attempting that in the prison though, as far as I am aware there are no fixtures there that would allow for it, and we are talking about a person that can’t even tie his own shoes, let alone tie a noose that would hold up his whole body weight.

Here we also have another very bad translation choice, and I’m not talking about the “dreaMu”. No, the problem is that they just didn’t include the whole second part of that line which would be “and spread my wings wide”, perfectly going along with Haruka spreading his arms like wings.

As if to take flight. This could be calling back to the butterfly symbolism as well as jumping, “taking flight”, from the chair …

And at 3:00 we reach another part of the MV where Haruka gets submerged in fluid. But this time it’s not water.

We have seen this fluid before in the MV, notably when the preserved animals started “melting”.

Preservation is the important word here, because this fluid is most likely formaldehyde (or formalin), used to preserve dead bodies. Fun fact, this is technically not the first time we see it, it might be present in Weakness as well.

This bottle here right at the beginning looks a lot like bottles that get used to store it. It is also a clear fluid before it comes into contact with what gets preserved.

As to why Haruka has knowledge about this sort of thing is, that I could imagine that his mother had to do with animal specimen preservation, either as a hobby or for work, so he is familiar with the function of it. On that note, he might even have started killing animals to bring his mother more bodies for her hobby/work and to be praised for it.

So we are closing the MV with Haruka sitting and swaying in his “formaldehyde tank”, the very substance in which dead things are preserved, repeating the lines of wanting to be reborn to be the favorite next time, in his next life basically.

(Oh my sweet boy, you don’t have to try so hard, you are already my favorite.)

And this is it, my theory that Haruka is literally a dead boy walking in this prison.

My heart bleeds for him, because for him it’s absolutely impossible to get any sort of happy end at the finale of Milgram and I think he would have deserved the world. Just a family that would have supported and understood him properly, a way more normal life, how his biggest wish is.

#milgram #haruka sakurai #sakurai haruka #milgram theory #Moi rambles on for hours #I am rotating Haruka in my head daily

[steddiemicrofic]

Steddie Microfic July 1st-8th Masterlist

As we've quickly found, original plans don't always work out. Our plan was to have one masterlist at the end of every month, but this has already been more popular than we maybe expected (or maybe @wynnyfryd knew this would happen and I'm just generally in awe of the fandom). Since tumblr has tag limits on posts (c'mon tumblr get it together pls), I am going to plan on posting one masterlist a week, then combining the links for them into one post at the end of the month.

I will also do a masterlist of the bonus round for any who participate at the end of the month, but it will just hyperlink to the post since you would have already been tagged with your original post.

This could change in the future depending on the amount of submissions, but I will let you know if/when that happens!

-Mickala ❤

Please check under the cut for the masterlist of posts from July 1st-8th:

Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water by @marvel-ous-m | Rated G | cw: implied Steve Harrington has bad parents, mentions of canon character death | tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort

my heart won't start anymore by @sourw0lfs | Rated G | cw: no happy ending

That can't be right by anonymous | Rated T | cw: periods, blood, gender dysphoria | tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, trans Eddie Munson

Steve 'No Fun' Harrington by @wormdebut | Rated T | no cw

untitled by @steventhusiast | Rated G | no cw | tags: established relationship, fluff

untitled by @estrellami-1 | Rated G | no cw

breaking the ice by @xenon-demon | Rated T | cw: swearing, alcohol mention (they're in a bar), suggestive flirting but nothing explicit, background Rockie (Robin and Vickie)

drowning in the water, living in the blood by @steddieas-shegoes | Rated M | cw: blood, blood drinking, nightmares (not detailed but mentions of drowning in nightmare), semi-subspace | tags: vampire Eddie Munson, established relationship, hurt/comfort

untitled by @mixsethaddams | Rated G | no cw

i belong to all of your mysteries by @gerrystamour | Rated E | cw: semi-public oral sex, snowballing, transmasc Steve Harrington

sparked by @vecnuthy | Rated T | cw: some swearing

Take Your Shot by @rindecisions | Rated T | no cw

untitled by @shares-a-vest | Rated T | cw: mild suggestive language, flirtatious banter

give in by @starryeyedjanai | Rated T | no cw

Okay, so I'm the dragon. Big deal. by @sidekick-hero | Rated G | no cw

untitled by @onirislanding | Rated G | cw: temporary character death, pre-slash

here we go again by @fastcardotmp3 | Rated T | no cw

center stage by @stobinesque | Rated E | cw: kink, d/s dynamics, public sex, bondage, chastity device, boot kink, degradation/humiliation

untitled by @bifuriouswaterbender | Rated T | no cw

untitled by @spinmewriteround | Rated G | cw: drug use mention

untitled by @asongbirdandanoldhat | Rated G | no cw

The Hustler by @soaringornithopter | Rated G | cw: gambling

Let them fall by @steddieas-shegoes | Rated E | cw: body fluids, messy sex | tags: love confessions, open ended (heavily implied getting together)

Until the storm comes by @just-my-latest-hyperfixation | Rated E | cw: D/S dynamics, Eddie is a bit mean (but they're both really into it) | tags: sub!Steve, dom!Eddie

Everything, All the time by @pearynice | Rated G | no cw

I am a river / I am your river by @thefreakandthehair | Rated M | cw: fake drowning (for training purposes)

At The Water's Edge by @songonthewind | Rated G | cw: mention of Barb's death, mention of scars

sink and swim by @cheatghost | Rated T | cw: weed

untitled by @steddieasitgoes | Rated T | no cw

"Hey There, Dio" by @thegoblinboy | Rated G | cw: alcohol

at the bottom you'll find all our friends by @wynnyfryd | Rated M | cw: canonical MCD, ambiguous ending, angst, isolation, violent imagery, dark themes

break free by @cranberrymoons | Rated T | cw: smoking

Slipping Through The Trees by @the-redcrate | Rated T | tags: monster Eddie

Forever's Gonna Start Tonight by @thruheavenandhighwater | Rated T | cw: implied drinking

untitled by @call-me-eds | Rated G | no cw

untitled by @hellfireloserclub | Rated G | no cw

change by @hawkinslocal | Rated G | no cw

i was afraid to follow by @artaxlivs | Rated M | no cw

When my heart stops beating by @kissaphobic-kas | Rated M | cw: canonical MCD, angst, isolation, dark themes, violent imagery

Even Then by @atmilliways | Rated M | cw: they absolutely just had sex

untitled by @emofratboy | Rated G | cw: weed, nightmares

A professional by @zombiethingy | Rated E | cw: light bdsm | tags: sexual frustration, pining

new memories by @steddieas-shegoes | Rated G | cw: mention of canonical character death

And I left you alone in a house, not a home by @medusapelagia | Rated M | no cw

I try to clear my mind but the memory of you lingers like an old perfume by @hbyrde36 | Rated G | no cw | tags: pre-Steddie, post-season 4

You, Like Me by @aidaronan | Rated M | cw: blood, internalized homophobia, vampires

#steddie #steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficjuly #masterlist #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #writing challenge

[solarisgod]

Updated guideline from the Starwake System's wip Notion. Please read if you can.

GENERAL.

Extreme selective and private, as we rarely follow first.

Having a busy life and being easy to be exhausted, we often do not have the time and energy to socialize or write, so please be considerate of our pace.

Due to our age and blog's contents, we generally interact with those who are over 21 while rarely are we mutuals with those from 20 - 19. We do not engage in having romantic ships and writing sexual contents with those under 21.

Do not imitate and steal anything off of our blog.

If we’re not close, please like / reblog what we share on dash from any blogs but ours.

While we have animated and live action faceclaims for Astereus, they have endless verses and their versions. If there's any you'd like to explore, feel free to request, otherwise we will write them in your main verse, if not our own instead.

Most verses will have a storyline that corresponds to our series’ current canon arc.

We mirror-format our writing partners and match the point of view they write with.

This blog is a single driven story based roleplay, so new interactions are to be set in the blog's current canon arc unless plotted / tag-stated otherwise.

CONTENT.

☇ This blog with the original series the Starwake System is from contains the following sensitive contents, but not limited to : Cannibalism, general forms of death, derealization and depersonalization; drowning, experiments, existentialism, eye themes ( horror, gore, scopophobia ); fourth wall breaking / metaness, general horror ( body, gore, psychological, etcetera ); grief and guilt, *mentions of abuse ( physical, emotional, sexual, child, etcetera ), religious themes and imageries; mental illnesses, murders, nihilism; paranoia inducement, repetitions, sexual themes; *mentions of self-harm, *suicides, and suicidal ideations; traumas, unreality, violence; and world endings.

* These triggers will never be written explicitly as a premise of a plot or thread, though, they will be covered over in metas while they are only referenced in replies.

Proceed carefully or do not follow if uncomfortable with any triggers listed above.

We tag everything as accordingly while we use #trigger cw, #nsft cw for sexual themes with interaction, and #ask to tag cw for potential sensitive contents.

We are sensitive to visual and written subjects of abandonment, child abuse + distress, manipulation, and stalking. We are okay to read and talk about them, but we need warnings so we can give ourselves the mental preparation to process them.

We do explicit threads with those we're close to, although explicit prompt are okay to send to explore romantic centric chemistry or non-romantic sexual dynamics.

Our body experiences hypersexuality, so sexual contents are heavily present with the lack of under read, though, are always tagged.

To avoid plagiarism, we do not share much details of our original work on here and instead in dms if close, but, essentially, it touches upon the existing generations of beings known as Antigods, having meta awareness as a knowledge that they are a character in a fictional universe, and most Antigods are known to protect the Mundane and Miraculous from malicious spiritual entities called the Metaeide that are created after their own fears and traumas and negative emotions.

Our original lore prominently explores the meta genre as they are intertwined with all of Astereus’ verses and their versions. They can not be reduced or removed for any reasons and under any circumstances. If you do not have the energy or interest to work your muse into our lore, then please refrain from following us.

DNI CRITERIA.

☇ We do not interact with those who writes or have interest in the following characters and medias ( includes having verses for these medias regardless of being anti respective creator ) with *exceptions to close friends or us following first, but not limited to : Billy Hargrove, Endeavour, Makima, Helmut Zemo, Homelander, Jason Carver, John Winchester, Kilgrave, Soldier Boy, Stormfront, Negan Smith, William Afton, whitewashed MCU characters, and those affiliated with Hydra and First Order; medias of 13 Reasons Why, Attack on Titan, *Creepypasta, *Five Nights At Freddy's, *Game of Thrones + House of the Dragon, Hazbin Hotel + Helluva Boss, Hetalia, Killing Stalking, *The Boys + Gen V, The Mandela Catalogue, The Wizarding World ( i.e. Harry Potter ), Saltburn, *Succession, *Until Dawn + The Quarry.

Do not interact with us if you are a minor, fall under these criteria ( 1 + 2 ), use problematic faceclaims, support AI works, fetishize Asian individuals / are associated with the krpc, and interact with characters who are genuinely problematic ( racist, -phobe, N***, etcetera ) even when you say you do not condone or support a character.

Please let us know non-anonymously if we interact with someone who poses a community-wide threat, or if we’ve been doing or saying what is concerning to you.

If you infantilize Astereus or send most prompts that involve your muse giving them aid or comfort, it's a hardblock. Even though they are childish at times, don't treat or view them as a child in dialogues or descriptions if we don't know each other well.

Please get our side of the story before ushering judgement if heard anything about us. We’re always open to provide explanations and discuss as mature adults. Any anonymous asks about any issues we may be involved in or other parties in any shape or form, even if said with good intentions, will be blocked.

BLOG SYSTEM.

We often clean our Tumblr and Discord lists to avoid overwhelming atmospheres.

Hardblocks is always done to show it is our doing instead of Tumblr’s unless stated a softblock spree is done. We hardblock mainly if we sense that another have strict interaction expectations that we feel we can not fulfill or we lose a connection with them; it is usually not anything personal or because we expect anything out of them. If softblocked, we’ll hardblock to avoid confusion if it's Tumblr's doing or otherwise.

We break ties if we see vague / psa posts that we feel are targeted towards us.

We do not enjoy ghost mutuals as we tend to feel that we’re being used as a number, so we’d appreciate that our posts can be liked / commented at times for our comfort.

We usually do not follow our mutuals’ non-main blogs to keep a small dash, but you’re welcome to follow if so wish, though we will softblock while keeping your main if falling inactive or no interactions are done there.

INTERACTIONS.

Platonic, familial, and other such dynamics are okay to plot and develop, but romantic dynamics must be slow burn as it is built with the closeness between muses and muns.

Astereus is polygamous as every interactions per muse is set in a single storyline, so the interested muse will learn about this fact before they enter a relationship together.

If your muse can detect presences in Astereus’ body via heightened / supernatural senses, ask us if they can be aware their body is inhabited by multiple individuals first. Those with telepathic abilities, do not read their mind without asking us for consent.

We’re not comfortable with exploring toxic romantic dynamics along with plots involving amnesia and cheating. We are extremely selective with muses who have history of stalking and / or manipulation due to personal experiences with these matters.

We do not engage with angst focused plots and threads often. We will approach if anything becomes overwhelming, but keep this in mind when interacting with us.

While we will specify a Starwaker, you do not have to as we can decide who can correlate best with the context and character.

Interactions with children Starwakers are reserved with closest writing partners only. Unless we’ve done excessive plotting and you have our direct consent, do not request for any younger Starwakers under any circumstances or you will be hardblocked.

Astereus have the Awareness, a special ability of awareness in the future while they and everyone else they interact with are a character in a continuous storyline, essentially treating Astereus’ Awareness as themself being omniscient, so they will learn certain things about your muse over time, but we will never take advantages out of this fact. Astereus will only know the basic details of your muse unless given consent to have them learn in-depth details.

OOC IMPORTANCE

Having emotional detachment as a defence mechanism that was developed over time, it is difficult for us to create and maintain personal connections, hence, we may often have trouble initiating conversations and replying consistently, but we try our best as we do want to interact in some ways. We may also appear as fleeting with us frequently cleaning our following + friends list as our ongoing amnesia and emotional detachment are major influences, but anything we do to curate our space is never meant to be a personal malicious intent.

We have ongoing amnesia, meaning we forget newly gained events over time, so please gently remind us if we forget anything important, in or out of character related. We will find out if you lie to or manipulate us with our amnesia taken to your advantage. Don't try.

As the alters of the Starwake System and DID are often referenced in and out of character, we also have DID. We are highly passionate of OSDDID while we wish there are more characters with either conditions accurately portrayed to raise awareness and have systems, including us, feel seen and validated. We are always welcome to answer questions regarding OSDDID out of curiosity or for characters + writings related. Any hate on OSDDID or judgment towards our plurality will never be tolerated. We've received hate many times for this and none of it had affected us, so just leave us be.

#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ OOC . › #𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ PSA . ›

[joyflameball]

WHITE DIAMOND AU STEVEN IS GOING TO FUCKING DROWN/ALMOST DROWN AND I'M NOT SURE IF I'M EXCITED OR TERRIFIED (theory post)

(cw drowning and stuff ofc)

Okay so in the past few days I read the entirety of Chekhov's White Diamond Steven AU, which is very good and everyone should read. And while reading it, I noticed something... interesting.

There are numerous instances where Steven will come close to drowning, and usually, someone will mention something along the lines of "Steven's a gem, he doesn't need to breathe." I looked through the comic to find instances, or references to Steven and drowning, or just how often Steven will go into deep water, and there are a lot. Some of my evidence could be reaching, but I have a somewhat coherent internal logic for why everything is here.

I apologize for the low image quality in places. The 30 image limit is kicking my ass.

In Seasons 1 and 2 there aren't that many instances. Steven goes underwater and comes out a soggy beast once in Season One, but that doesn't really count. In Season 2, while controlling Earl through dreams, he mentions "the water creeping higher and higher."

And in the Season 2 finale, right before it's revealed that Steven is White Diamond, Steven goes into the water to save Earl, and emerges from the water with Earl, which is followed by Rose's realization and revealing that he's White Diamond. i'm gonna bring this up again later remember this

In S3E27, Amethyst tells Steven to stop bleeding, moments before they go underwater and it's highlighted that Steven needs to breathe.

In S3E31, Steven mentions he wishes he could breathe underwater, is moments later dragged underwater by Lapis, and at the end there's a panel of bubbles floating upwards.

In S3E32, the Crystal Gems are discussing while Steven is zoning out, and Pearl(?) brings up how he shouldn't need to breathe underwater (implying they pulled him out of the water after nearly drowning). In S3E34, Lapis plunges Steven underwater, and parts the sea to let Steven find her (to reveal the full truth of who she is). S3E36, Lapis almost drowns Steven (after he reveals that he's white diamond, might i add. i'm going somewhere with this).

In S3E46, Ruby and Steven go underwater, and after Steven comes up for air, he says he felt like his lungs weren't gonna take it, and Ruby points out that gems don't have lungs.

In S4E1, Adventurine plunges Coral underwater, Steven's realization that it's just him and not him and Earl is paired with water and reflection imagery, and after they unfuse, there are a good few moments where they're underwater, and in shock.

In S4E8, Stevonnie brings up how Steven doesn't need to breathe, but Connie does.

S4E17 opens with Steven underwater and coming up for air.

S5E1, Steven and Connie have a conversation in Rose's healing fountain, and they talk an awful lot about how Steven's very much alive, and very unlike the rest of the gems. And hints started being dropped that it's gonna be revealed soon that Steven's human.

And oh yeah- in almost every single White Diamond Steven dream sequence, there is heavy use of water and reflection imagery.

Okay. So there's all my evidence. I think it's undeniable that this is, at the very least, a pattern. Steven's been associated with drowning and water and all that jazz for a WHILE. So where am I going with this?

Well, to lead into my answer, I'd like to draw your attention to another pattern: truth being revealed, or starting to be revealed, or revelations being had, around water. With Steven realizing Earl's nowhere to be found in Coral, with Connie starting to realize Steven's human in Rose's fountain, and most notably, with everyone realizing Steven is White Diamond, after they wade out of the ocean.

People have had the feeling for a little while that the reveal that Steven is human is coming up. Four seasons of believing Steven is a gem merely having deceived himself into believing he's human- that cannot continue forever. That bubble needs to pop one of these days. And with Connie having one of Steven's hairs, it's 100% coming up.

So here's my theory: part of the reveal that Steven is human is going to involve drowning somehow.

Because think about it: the gems currently believe Steven fully convinced himself he was human growing up, and as such, has conditioned himself to bleed, to want food, to get tired, and yes, to feel like being underwater for too long will cause him to drown. And so far, any instances to the contrary have been able to be brushed off with the belief Steven conditioned himself into seeing himself as human! Steven's hungry? He grew up believing he needed to eat. Tired? He grew up believing he needed sleep. Etc, etc, etc. Steven just needs to shake off that (if you will) programming, and once he does, he's home free.

But of course, that's wrong. He is human. He doesn't need food or sleep or air because he's conditioned himself into believing he needs them. He needs food and sleep and air because he is human. And the "he's conditioned himself into thinking he needs these" excuse works for a while. But there's a limit to that.

And I really think that limit would be "Steven almost/actually briefly dying." His heart stopping for a few moments. Programming can only go so far, and I don't think anyone could fully believe he's a gem after his heart stops.

And with how often Steven has gone underwater, I fully believe the reveal that he's human will come with Steven almost drowning- especially considering the water imagery in his White Diamond dreams, and ESPECIALLY considering the White Diamond reveal in Season 2 came directly after Steven waded into deep water. So it'd be a neat parallel- his Diamond status and human-ness are both revealed after going into deep water.

I also think Lapis COULD be involved with that somehow but I'm not completely sure how. Like she's gonna be FURIOUS if/when she's freed from the bubble- she got trapped AGAIN. So if and when she is released? She's gonna be pissed. And I don't think it'll go well for Steven.

@ask-whitepearl-and-steven DON'T TELL ME IF I'M RIGHT I JUST NEED TO GET THIS OUT THERE BEFORE MY BRAIN DISSOLVES IF I'M RIGHT THEN I'M GOING TO FUCKING EXPLODE AND IT'LL BE PANDEMONIUM

#cassie rambles #white diamond steven au #wdau #wd!steven #wd!steven au #white diamond au #white diamond steven #steven universe au #su au #ask white pearl and steven

[diejager]

Soooo, i have been thinking~~~ recall the stepdad!konig and dbf!horangi where they got reader pregnant and horangi took the responsibility for it? While i do know that they are tight knit buddy buddies and probably lives sharing reader with each other, what if horangi manages to trap reader into moving in with him and having a shotgun wedding? And because i’m a bit of a slut for angst - What if he becomes more possessive and decides that only he should have reader?. After all, konig already has his wife yet is still so greedy and going mad with jealousy

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, STEPCEST, forced marriage, panic, possessive behaviour, implied kidnapping, marriage tradition, tell me if I missed any.

König drowned in anger, letting his vitriol consume him whole at the sheer audacity his best friend showed. How dare Horangi take and keep you for himself? Had he grown so comfortable that he could discard König like an old and rusted toy? He was a bumbling and raging mess throwing a tantrum in his office, ripping into the paperwork on his desk and throwing things around the room, screaming and physically pained. His heart throbbed at the betrayal, the agony Horangicaused him for taking your hand in marriage when he was left with a whore, unlovable and discardable —though you wouldn’t know, you didn’t know how little he felt for your mother. She was nothing but a stepping stone for him and Horangi to approach you without any suspicion. 

He attended the wedding, a traditional one, it would’ve been so beautiful if he wasn’t burning with envy. You were draped in silken cloths and fabrics, the bright and passionate red of your hanbok, sewn with flowery details and white and golden accents and Horangi’s navy blue, accentuated with golden strands and a impressive imagery at his front. Every part of it screamed traditional with it’s matching bride’s maids in white and lilac dresses, the tea table, the Jeonanyrye (a duck your mother received from Horangi), and the acts of Gyobaerye and Hapgeunrye that had bile rising in König’s throat. 

Truly, it was amazing to see you being wedded, dressed in beautiful garments, face powdered and cheeks flushed, you were angelic to look at, dripping allure and innocence that he wanted to corrupt and devour. He cornered Horangi after the first night, confronting him about his sudden act and decision to marry you. König wanted to know if this was Horangi’sfirst act of separation, to take things within his own hands to keep you to himself, but Horangi had reassured him that it was simply the first step to trap you for themselves. König wouldn’t believe it, his mind running miles and miles, without a single though in his mind that would help his or Horangi’s case. 

He knew he was increasingly more possessive than he used to, like the hold he had on Horangi when he tried making other friends, or the grip on you that he couldn’t let go. It was a monster that grew and grew in his body the longer he left it unattended, a vile creature with an insatiable thirst for things that he made his —his friend, his items, his mask and his little pet. Both he and Horangi were victims to it, their bloods running green and their eyes seeing red whenever another approached you, but König suffered much, much more than Horangi did. He felt like ripping into Horangi for binding you to him, but he’d regret it, killing off the sole being that understood him on a fundamental way.

“She’s ours, König,” Horangi promised, his course pads holding König’s face, the cool ring searing his cheek while he made König look into his dark eyes, “This is just to bind her to us, when her mother is gone, we can take her elsewhere, hmm?”

König blinked owlishly, his mind moving at a snail’s pace in this moment of frenzied fear, his breath caught the back of his throat when the vision of you in a white dress at his wedding with Horangi bringing you to the podium to marry him. It would seal your fate with them; albeit slowly.

“Ja,” König nodded, gazing into Horangi’s mesmerising browns, “Ja, you are right, Mein freund.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @lucienbarkbark @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @223princess @maylovesyousomuch @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #konig x reader #konig mw2 #horangi #horangi mw2 #horangi x reader #stepdad!konig #Stepdad!könig #Dbf!horangi #dark cod #tw: dark content #dark content #dead dove do not eat #tw: dub con #tw noncon #forced marriage #tw: stepcest #possessive behavior