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“Here, that one,” Dominic points, and Axel pulls to a halt in front of a nicely-kept Victorian-style bungalow. He worries at the corner of his tablet case as Axel helps Ezra get Fern out of the car. “I’ll just,” he motions awkwardly at the house, then hurries in front of them up the path across the yard. He rings the doorbell, and shifts from foot to foot as they wait.

“Dom, who is this doctor?” Axel asks, watching him suspiciously. “He’s not gonna turn us in, is he?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dom says hastily.

The door opens, and a lean, older version of Dominic stares at the four Paths on his porch. His gaze trips over Fern, first, unconscious and bleeding in Ezra’s arms, then Axel, hovering protectively in front of them, and finally sputters to a halt on Dominic.

“No. No, no no no,” he starts to close the door. “Dom, I told you-”

“Please!” Dominic jumps forward, putting a hand across the door jamb. “Luis, please, I wouldn’t- not for me, you know I wouldn’t- they’re gonna die, please, we just need a little help, just a little, please.”

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What are your opinions on Sir Pentious? Have met him or any of the egg bois.

“He’s loud and screechy.” Dom said. “I’ve never met him or any of his humpty dumpties but they make me crave scrambled eggs.”

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Dom handed a Helena a picture he drew of them. Little Helena was a pretty princess with her knight older brother by her side, holding hands.

Helena giggles at the drawing, bouncing in her booster seat set on the chair so she couldn’t fall off. She holds onto the drawing with her little hands and smiles at Dom with her cute wagging deer tail.

“Dom! Dom! Dom!” The little chanted her older brother’s name a few times- limited to only a few words at age one, but was able to convey how thankful she was of the brightly colored gift from just how excited she was with it.

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Hey al and Charlie how is the little one birthday party so far?

The birthday girl had already finished “blowing” out her birthday candle (with thr help from her older brother Dominic) and was currently stuffing her cute little face with cake. Although most of the chocolate cake with sweet, pink, strawberry filling was mostly all over the fawns face instead of in her mouth. It was a bit of a mess for Al and Charlie, but a manageable mess. And little Helena Magne was very happy. So everything was well.

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Whelp! Today’s the day! Helena’s now offical birthday (according to me), March 26th! I wanted to give my gal a March/April birthday and I decided today was a good day.

And instead of drawing “regular” Helena, I thought since I’ve had her for roughly a year I drew little baby Helena on her first birthday with her family~ Having both her mom and dad, and her older brother @dominicmagne Dominic.

Feel free to send asks and interact with the birthday girl~

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The Knife is everything. It saws at the edges of the world, tests and then snaps each stand of consciousness tethering them to reality, and Fern hurts.

They hurt in their hands, tied behind their back, burned palms raw and open to the dirty air. They hurt in their arms, pinched and bruised from being dragged around, shoved and pulled and pinned by Jeremiah’s erratic rage. They hurt in their back, where the Knife dug into them, deep and straight, then deep and straight and curved, then deep and straight and straight and straight. They hurt in their legs, in their right thigh where the Knife stabbed in and in and in, and in their knees and ankles, lashed so tightly they can’t feel their feet.

Most of all, though, they hurt in their stomach, where the Knife still sits, embedded hilt-deep in their abdomen. Every shuddery, labored breath taps the hilt against the floor, sending spasmodic shivers through the flesh around the Knife as it moves minutely.

Fern reads. They’ve been reading the Knife for hours, or maybe days, and they know, intimately, the details of everything it has done. Flickers, random by now, surface atop the well of cruelty and pain embedded in their side.

The Knife, skinning a trapped raccoon. Jeremiah’s hands, smaller, childishly inept.

The Knife, sliding flat across their own tongue, giving them an upside-down, backwards reflection of their own memory and terror.

The Knife, carving Jeremiah’s initials into the first Path he was given as a handler, a stiff, silently dying class-E.

The Knife, sinking into their stomach fast and sharp, punching the air out of them as Jeremiah rants against the pursuit that has made him move them quicker and quicker, take less time than he wanted on his revenge, on all the things he wanted to do to them with the Knife.

The clatter of the Knife against the floor as Jeremiah drops them, head whipping towards a distant sound that Fern can’t decipher. The vibration of its handle as his heavy boots tromp away from them.

The Knife, the Knife, the Knife– it’s everything, the Knife and the pain, the past and the present, and Fern falls.

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Can you maybe draw more SU art? I love you art btw -fellow follower

I don’t have any new art to share but i do have some old SU au refs I havent posted before. Im not in a SU hype currently so idk if im gonna be drawing any content for it in the near future. Eventually though, perhaps.


so sorry LMAO

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Picking up after the events of the rescue from the agency, and happening during the events of Jeremiah’s revenge.

He doesn’t realize at first, when they give his hearing back. His ears pop, but that’s happened before. The faint rattle of the ventilation system that filters in takes a while to register as more than a hallucination. But the light tapping on his cheek, that’s real, isn’t it? He twitches, turning his head away with a shudder.

“Ez. Ezra.” It’s whispered. It still scrapes against his ears like a file on a blackboard, but it’s sound, it’s his name.They don’t use his name. He’s a J, he’s a Path, he’s not Ezra.

He was. He is? He was. He wants to be. Gone, gone, nothing, alone, gone whispers in the back of his mind, latching thorny fingers into his thoughts.  He opens his mouth and exhales hoarsely. His voice is gone, lost to screams long ago.

“It’s Axel. We got you out, you’re safe. Gonna get this fucking thing off of you, okay?”

The fingers ghost across his blindfold. This is real, isn’t it? This is happening, it’s not a dream, not a hallucination. Right? Ezra shudders and presses his hands against the floor. Rough carpeting yields grudgingly under his fingers.

That’s not agency flooring. He slides one hand up, over the lightly pebbled wall of some cheap interior stucco. That’s not the padding of his cubby, nor the smooth industrial concrete of the rest of the facility. He’s been moved, while he was lost in the darkness and the silence. It’s happened before, but he always drifts back in to the same surroundings, padded cubby or cold concrete, dull cracking blows or sharp biting electricity. Not grainy fibers, not a faint smell of cigarettes and stale air freshener.

“Gonna take this off,” someone whispers again. “It’s glued, we’ll have to work at it.”

He nods, croaks faintly. This is… real. It’s real. His hand drifts up from the floor, and someone catches it, wrapping long, warm fingers around his own. Real. Real. That’s Axel, that’s her hand, her voice.

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