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bubonickitten · 3 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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uwua3 · 4 years

Note

helloo! i was lurking through ur blog and ur writing is so good??? ur angst fic for tsumu was so painful and now i'm 😭😭 so can i pls request for hcs for tsumugi with an affectionate s/o? thank youuu 😭😭😭💖

i promise you i have 5 drafts right now but the moment i thought about this prompt, it wouldn’t leave my mind and i knew i had to write it! also, i’m so happy you liked my tsumu angst 🥺 it’s my least popular writing so i didn’t know if it was just awfully written or T___T but yes! angel deserves love ♡

summary: when all else failed, flower language was there to win over your crush

author’s note: this might be a bit different from what you were expecting, anon! the affection so much isn’t... obvious? well, you’ll have to read it and tell me if you think flower language is affection ♡

i absolutely adore flowers, so i was so thankful to put this romantic knowledge to use! if you are looking to be timeless, woo your crush with flowers please~

word count: 2,992

music: dream – suzy & baekhyun, love is the way – red velvet

yellow tulips means there’s sunshine in your smile.

❄️📚 tsukioka tsumugi

tsumugi loved flowers

it all started when he worked as a florist. the store was the same as always, even after he came back. it was overgrown, with decades of flora & fauna taking over the storefront as there wasn’t a single dead leaf in sight. greenery gave the usual urban, grey road life as the sunshine felt warmer in the makeshift forest. displays of annual flowers made tsumugi smell the roses, and he came by daily ever since he was a teenager

tsumugi liked to check out the produce and greet his favorite little old lady nicknamed “ma” that ran the small store. she always coddled him, pinching his cheeks and affectionately saying he grew up handsome as he blushed under the praise. she liked retelling stories she remembered of his young self working in her shop, laughing at his low stamina but unbreakable will

she reminded him of his own grandmother, and often arrived after work with new flowers he had harvested from the mankai courtyard to impress her

it was a particularly lucky day. one of tsumugi’s blooms came earlier than expected, and the moment he noticed it whilst gardening and whistling a tune, he took one as he left the dorms in his gear. when tsumugi arrived nearly out of breath for attempting to run the entire length, he was about to call the grandmother’s name but noticed someone else was tending the plants

(strange, ma never needed help, tsumugi thought before he glanced at your smile and was blinded. you were the sun)

when you bloomed into his life like the most beautiful flower, tsumugi swore he nearly dropped his pot when he saw you the first time. you saw him in gardening overalls stained by dirt and his rural appearance, and he admired you like you were at full bloom

tsumugi wasn’t good with words, in fact, he couldn’t even speak when he saw you. he just nodded quickly, gesturing to the random new arrivals he was pretending to be interested in. as you went further into the store, tsumugi sighed and could feel the vines within his lungs crawl and tighten around his chest

he wanted to talk to you, but he was afraid you’d be a cherry blossom that lasted for two weeks before fluttering away

so tsumugi approached you the only way he knew how: with flowers

it was your first week working as ma’s apprentince florist, but you had found a minature flower bouquet by your door. it was tarragon, a herb with tiny green & yellow flowers, gently wrapped with a delicate pastel yellow ribbon

tarragon: lasting interest

when ma came upon the boquet, she smiled knowingly, as if she had some dirt on the secret giver. however, you couldn’t get ma to budge (that woman was incredibly stubborn and had seen too many things to yield to a young adult!)

you decided to keep the herbs, pressing the flowers so they’d dry and twirled the ribbon around your finger as the empty lackluster hours expectedly came and went throughout the day. you wondered if the person who brought you such a beautiful present knew of flower language?

tsumugi did

tsumugi was a hopeless romantic at heart despite living in a world of fleeting love. he remembered learning flower language for situations like this, though, this was the first time he ever had to (or wanted to) use it

he still came to the shop every other day to be the victim of ma’s endless teasing, her short frame not stopping her from jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. but this time, with a knowing smile. nothing ever escaped ma, she was too observant for her own good

(tsumugi was the only person she knew who tied his ribbons that way)

(she only knew because every mother’s day, tsumugi liked giving her the best assortment of flowers she had ever seen ever since he worked for her)

as the days went by, you had begun to notice the quiet, timid boy with the shyest smile and brightest eyes always standing near the front in the sun as you hid away inside wherever the fan was

(perhaps you regretted that, when you heard his gentle laugh twinkle across the shop like wind chimes, you thought of tarragon)

one day, when you decided to look up after intensely reading a library book on botany behind the register, you saw him immediately avert his eyes and awkwardly laugh at something ma said. she glanced back at you, gesturing you over with a flick of her hand. you didn’t even bother arguing against it, closing your book and heading out front

(no one fought ma and won)

“this is my newest employee, tsumugi! they’re such a green thumb, it’s like they bring my flowers back to life.” ma bragged, laying a hand on your arm and pushing you forward so you were even closer to the boy you’ve been noticing out of the corner of your eye. he couldn’t look you in the eye, he was staring at everything but your eyes

(tsumugi couldn’t look at you because you shined so bright, he almost had to cover his eyes)

you introduced yourself properly, and as tsumugi finally tore his sight away from the new red roses in season, his eyes widened at something around your neck. you subconsciously lifted your hand to it and—oh

it was the yellow ribbon you had been gifted last week

ma grinned, feigning shock at your new acessory around the collar of your uniform. “my dear, i never noticed such a pretty little thing! haven’t you been wearing it everyday?” ma pretended to reach out for it but you leaned back, protectively putting your hand over the bow

(for some reason, you had become oddly attached to the ribbon)

“i... i have. just thought it was lovely, that’s all.” you justified, seeing tsumugi’s shoulders drop when he exhaled with... relief? tsumugi complimented the shade of yellow, saying it often fit the summer season and compared it to a dahlia

so, when it was the next day and you saw ma waiting for you with another knowing smile and a single yellow dahlia in her hands, you remembered tsumugi

the dahlia was pastel yellow, just like the ribbon you had on today. when you took it, you turned it over and watched the petals rustle in the summer wind

dahlia (single): good taste

“you know who it is, don’t you?” you interrogated ma, holding the dahlia close to your chest. it was clearly grown with care, in fact, it almost saddened you to see such a beautiful flower given to you when it could’ve kept on growing

ma just shrugged, doing her morning round of watering as she slipped on her gloves and got to work. you were about to do the same before something caught your eye

blue salvias

you didn’t even need to ask ma before she passed you a pen and floral tag you could attach

you bundled up blue salvias, tying a navy blue ribbon (you thought of tsumugi’s eyes and hair that glistened in the sunlight) with a note attached

“thank you, may all your flowers bloom during this summer season!”

you finished it off by signing your name, and left it in ma’s very capable hands. she complimented your ribbon choice with a snicker, but you didn’t question it. ma knew way too much neighbourhood gossip from being the local cupid with her flowers

(you were out back on break, taking notes from a herbs textbook you borrowed. while you were dutifully learning, you never noticed ma pass tsumugi a bouquet of blue salvias and his shocked, flustered blush as he accepted the flowers graciously)

blue salvias: i think of you

(“next time, my boy, just give the flowers to me. you’re much too obvious for your own good.” ma patted tsumugi’s cheek with her wrinkled hand, an aged look to her as if she knew it all)

(when tsumugi went home, he tied the dark blue ribbon around his watering can and put the salvias in a vase)

it didn’t take long before ma whacked a bouquet of flowers over your head, reprimanding you for slouching while reading

you took the gift, noticing a note but before you could read, you smelled the white camelias. but when you realized what it meant, you turned as red as the carnations beside you

white camelias: you’re adorable

“if only you were the sun, then all my flowers would be happy. though, they could never be as bright as you.”

as you unlooped the white ribbon this time, you put aside the note as you tied the ribbon around your neck. now, you had two equally cute ribbons that had you thinking of this secret admirer all day

as the fan blew towards you, the note floated to the floor as you leaned down from your stool to catch it mid–air. you checked the back of the tag, there was a name you would’ve missed: tulip

did they want you to address them as tulip? without a second thought, you had an assortment of red carnations held by a red ribbon and another note

“tulip? why is that?”

(you signed the back with “sunflower”)

red carnations: alas for my poor heart

next day, you received a dwarf sunflower with a bright yellow ribbon and a note you held closest to your heart

“perhaps, i just wanted to make you smile. — forever thinking of you, too, tulip”

dwarf sunflower: adoration

for the next month, you slowly forgot about the shy boy with the blue. tsumugi stopped by less, or at least he came during your break time. you wondered why, since he refused to look into your eyes and hid his face during the rare chances you did get to see him

(tsumugi always gave ma the flowers when it was break, he didn’t want you to find out)

you and your secret admirer kept exchanging flowers like it was mail. by this time, you had so many ribbons and you always received questions on why you wore them all

(“no reason.” you’d lie, and gently ran your fingers over the thread)

(tsumugi began tying the ribbons you gifted him everywhere just so he’d remember you. sometimes even around his pinky when he wanted to feel connected to you like soulmates would. he’d lay his head on his desk, pretending he was pulling on your string of fate and watched the ribbon flow elegantly around his hand with a small smile)

you had grown fond of tulip. his handwriting was delicate and light, you could tell he didn’t push down hard on his pen even when he doodled the flowers he was giving you that day. he had such a unique style, it was comforting to write to someone so genuinely kind and pure–hearted

although your affections to tulip were unparalleled, you often smelled the flowers he gave you and stared out at the horizon, wondering who this person was. you wanted a real name to connect to a face

(maybe, you were scared that whatever you were feeling was too much for a nameless unknown)

you knew it might have been too soon to demand answers, but your actions were readily supported by ma as she took the bouquet without letting you think it over

a purple bittersweet, also known as nightshade, with a deep violet ribbon and short note this time

“i must ask you, tulip, is it truly too much trouble for you to share your name? — best, sunflower”

(when tsumugi received these flowers with an impatient look from ma, he faltered, looking into the store but seeing you were no where in sight. ma jabbed him again, frustrated with his fear. “tell her!” ma insisted, but tsumugi shook his head and left)

(ma sighed, rubbing her temples as she shut her eyes. “kids, these days.”)

bittersweet: truth

“i am afraid, once you know the real me, you won’t want me anymore. i know it is selfish of me, but i just want to have you, just for a little longer. — always yours, tulip”

you read the next day and twirled the red columbine with a sigh. maybe you were afraid, this love would only bloom in the summer and tulip thought the same thing

red columbine: anxious, trembling

(you didn’t respond for a few days. you couldn’t, you were just as scared of what you felt for them)

you had started your day off bright and early, arriving at the local library to continue your research into flower language. you had chosen a book after becoming interested by its familiar drawings on the cover and took it to the shop, waving to ma as you rested in the back moss garden

you wanted to find the perfect flower to comfort tulip. even though your curiousity was overwhelming, you couldn’t help but understand where they were coming from. the relationship you guys had built was so nice, it would be a shame to question it

you turned the page but furrowed your eyebrows, automatically opening to a bookmark. it was custom, with dried flowers and a ribbon at the end through a hole. you noticed two initials at the bottom in light handwriting

T.T.

you were about to take it out to return it before the wind made you lose your place, going to the back of the book where the card pocket was. you put the bookmark at the back and found the letters aligned to a name that borrowed the book most recently

T.T. tsukioka tsumugi

tsumugi... that must’ve been the full name of the blue boy who came by so much. then, you noticed it

the handwriting was familiar, for a good reason. tsumugi crossed his t’s the same way as tulip, the ends of the t’s were curved in a similar fashion, too

you remembered the first time you met tsumugi

(“yellow, like a dahlia.” tsumugi hummed, reaching out to fix the way it was uneven. he almost didn’t notice it, until he looked up at your eyes. he moved back, made some excuse of how busy he was, and disappeared)

(you had touched the ribbon, wondering why you didn’t stop him)

you quickly moved to the front desk, shuffling through the countless stacks of paper and decorations until you reached the drawer where you kept all the notes. you took a random sample, realizing it was one of the more recent ones before you had asked their name

it had been stained with dirt. they must’ve wrote it in a hurry, like they just had to say it

“would it be too soon to say i want to see you, even though i know i can’t? — i miss you, tulip”

(you remembered this. pink camellia, pastel pink ribbon)

pink camellia: longing for you

you put the scrap of paper side by side with tsumugi’s name, tracing the letters with a shaky hand. how had you not realized it, was the boy you had become fascinated with the one you actually liked? sure, you thought the silent affection for the client was temporary, like a cherry blossom

turns out, he had survived the summer and would stay with you even until winter

was tsumugi tulip?

you had closed the book, attempting to process the revelation. all those things you said, all the secrets you exposed to the world, and he felt the same. sure, it was silly to think you could fall in love with the way someone wrote

but then, you thought about when you saw him the first time under the sun. he was glittering and sparkling like a streaming river, blue and beautiful. you wanted to see tsumugi again, you had to know

you didn’t usually send bouquets first, so when you handed one to ma, her face hardened and she seemed to know

“you know who it is, now? are you ready?” ma asked, placing the flowers down to envelop you in a motherly hug. you hugged back, nodding with resolve as you placed your chin on her head

“i... i need to know,” you chose your words carefully, but you glanced up and saw all the floral ornaments you had made from their gifts. their sweet, well–meaning flowers that brightened your day. then, your gaze fell upon the red columbine

“i need to know if this is real love.” you finished, ma patting you on your back comfortingly as she listened

“he loves you, little sprout.” ma simply said, but it meant everything when you waited until the next day with the flowers yourself

it was your break time. tsumugi came in with a bouquet just like you, but his steps stuttered when he saw you standing out front with flowers at your chest

you looked at him and softly smiled, the admiration and affection you had for a mysterious boy flourishing out of you. you took a small step forward, but tsumugi took two steps back. he hid the flowers behind his back

tsumugi was about to apologize, beg for your forgiveness before you smiled, your neck decorated with the tens of ribbons he had gifted you

“i love you, tulip.” you confessed, needing no note to hide behind when you held the bouquet out to tsumugi

red tulips, red ribbon

red tulips: passion, a declaration of love

tsumugi took a moment to admire you, the way you stood tall just like a sunflower. maybe it was too fast and he was being impulsive, but he felt it. he felt love, he wanted you to feel it, too

tsumugi offered you a bouquet in return as you laughed at the situation, pulling him into a close hug and taking in his warmth

yellow tulips, yellow ribbon

yellow tulips: there is sunshine in your smile

“i love you, too, sunflower.”

#tsukioka tsumugi #tsumugi tsukioka #a3! act! addict! actors!#a3!#act! addict! actors!#a3! actor training game #a3! headcanons #act! addict! actors! headcanons #mankai a3!#mankai company #a3! x reader #a3 x reader #tsumugi x reader #a3! tsumugi #a3 tsumugi

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missingartist · 4 years

Text

The Witcher’s MateChapter 15

Gin was following like water as was male attention. Jaskier had placed her in front of him as he pranced around the stage he had made in front of the fire. It allowed him to serenade her with sweet song and have an overexcited member of the audience to crowd cheering. The soft siren-like voice eased her into a good mood.

Adva had to admit the bard was very good, there was a clumsy awkwardness to his lyrics, but they words fitted well in the theme of the song and with Jaskier overall character which made him a sensation. It was nice to be able to listen to him properly on the stage where he seems most at ease and confident. Adva had to admit it, she like Jaskier, his eternal boyishness was endearing, and his company was easy and fun, and he had a very good eye for fashion. Looking down, Adva was beginning to enjoy the dress she wore, the colour was very much suited to her, and despite her lack of confidence in her body, the dress emphasised her curves and softness. Many men and women had complimented her on her fashion, and she let herself be cheered by it. For once it was nice to be the centre of attention, and after all, it was only for one night to help Jaskier and to get away from Geralt.

Adva’s mind was distracted from the hulking Witcher when sauve and polished man approached. With all the civility of a knight honouring a fair maiden the man begged to keep her company. He introduced himself as Earl Crispin Troyden, leaning against the chair with an easy smile. The Earl wore a silk doublet of a quilted design of a rich purple his jewelry dazzled in the firelight. The richest opals she had ever seen, so blue she could almost see the deep of the sea in them and hear the soft roar of the waves. Brown eyes radiated out from a chiselled face with a disarming smile that warmed the room as he observed her gaze with interest. With a soft giggle she forced her gaze away from the beautiful gems and on the bard instead.

‘Your friend, the bard, is very talented.... What brings you to the quiet hamlet?’ Crispin asked gently as he poured her some water, and called a serving boy to bring them some food and drinks. The smell of strawberry and rhubarb made her heady, and all shyness had melted away.

‘I am…taking instruction from a master, yourself? Adva answered she didn’t know why but wasn’t really comfortable discussing her training with the Mage to a stranger. There was something unsettling about the man, not in his manner or actions but in his eyes. They where bottomless, and of a captivating intensity that gave her an immense feeling of comfort. Yet they made her uncomfortable and wish she was staring into golden orbs instead.

‘Education is important. So many young women don’t care about such things; they keep their knowledge based solely on the home and fashion when there is so much more to try. I am here to browse some more books to add to my library collection’ the man smoothly added as he lifted his goblet to his lips. Breathing the smell of books and candle wax deeply invaded her senses, it was oddly comforting within soft undertones of musk and sea salt. The smell remaindered of the gentle ocean breeze that would roll off the dock on a sunny day. Despite its soothing nature, it didn’t very little compared to the of the spiced scent of Geralt, who smell she could drink in for days upon end.

‘You have a library? Tell me about it’ Adva gasped, the gin still flowing through her head.

Over dinner, the man regaled her about his library, the titles the authors. They discussed the finer points of several novelists and books on nature that Adva herself was aware of, it was nice to chat to someone who seemed genuinely interested in her for her not what she could do for them. Crispin even invited her to visit and use his collection to further her studies.

‘And you have no formal education; I find that hard to believe’ Crispin smiled as he poured her another cup of gin.

‘Never, I would just pick up anything and read.’ Adva laughed as she took another sip of gin. Was this her sixth or seventh cup or was it her tenth, she had lost count seven songs ago.

‘So your patron is very lucky to have awarded with such diligence. He must be very proud.’ Crispin causal commented, leaning back in his seat to fully observe her, something glistening darkly in his eyes.

‘It is hard to tell he is very…steely faced. Most of the time I think he helped me find Triss because he took pity on me’ Adva confessed, taking another sin of the fizzy gin.

‘Your Triss’s new student…then you must be very bright. I have known her for many years; the first time I have ever heard her take on a student. Don’t sell yourself short.’ The man cooed.

A small blush crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. When the meal was done, Crispin excused himself reluctantly to attend to business but not before he paid and left a generous tip for the meal; and gave a generous handful to the singing bard and shooting her a dazzling smile. The Earl didn’t go far; his meeting was only across the room with two older gentlemen in fine clothing. Now and then he would cast her a smothering look that made her turn a look away; he was very captivating. Intelligent and kind.

‘Seems you had found a suitable beau’ Jaskier purred and he slipped into the seat opposite that was vacate and pour the Earls handful of gold coin into his purse till it was ready to split at the seams. ‘If he attends all of my performance, I will be able to return to a little city holding and start publishing my collection of poems.’ Jaskier ordered his meal and paid with a flourish as he sank a tankard of ale.

‘If it isn’t my little brie lover’ The Cheesemonger mocked as he sauntered to the table. ‘I thought we were supposed to meet?’ the Cheesemonger was not bad looking but had a thin hooked nose from which he seemed to look down on everyone. It gave him a proud and arrogant appearance which he seems to like to live up to.

Rolling her eyes, she took another swig of gin; this on was mixed with rhubarb cordial and something fizzy that cause little bubbles to explode against her throat as she swallowed. Settling her cup in front of her she squared her shoulders as she turned to him.‘Look Smiggle; I have no idea what you are talking about…I don’t want to talk right now…I am enjoying an evening with someone.’ Adva smiled.

‘No-no-no. The Mage told me you desperately wanted to meet me in the tavern.’

Jaskier smiled into his cup. It was working; all he needed to was to keep a straight face and wait. Casting his eyes across him, Adva stared confused up at the rat-faced man and did her best to ignore it. The gin was giving her the confidence to try and ignore his constant demands; it seemed with gin all manners went out the window, replacing the quiet girl with a bemused woman. Jaskier watch with a masterful nonchalantness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar figure lurking in a dark corner. Triss was right, after all, a surge of triumph roared within him, and he readied himself to fulfil his part.

‘Must be some confusion good cheese seller’ Jaskier sung. ‘She is already married to a lovely kind man who provides her with an excellent education and has a very with a large sword’ he winked at her ‘so she is good.’ Jaskier beamed up at him, shooing him away with his hand.

‘Married? Bah! Do you expect me to believe it is to you! For the past few weeks, I have only seen her with that Mage and some one-hit Jester who I very much doubt has a ‘large sword’, but I am sure he provides her with more than an education’ The man snarled haughtily, and he bent down to glare into Jaskier face. From the other side of the table, Adva could smell the stale smell of brandy, and the fistful of betting slips tucked into his pockets, all torn and rip, properly from a very unsuccessful night betting with some high rollers. Misery and self-pity fuel the man blindly as he started to jab Jaskier doublet hard with his slimy finger. Casting her eye about she saw Crispin stare amusingly at Jaskier with a hint curiosity.

‘Firstly, it is pronounced Jaskier, Sir. And secondly, I never said I was her husband that is her husband.’ The bard cheekily declared, winking at her.

‘Jaskier stops it; enough I am not married. He is just drunk he’ll….’ Adva groaned in annoyance but stopped as a deadly hush fell over the tavern.

A large black shadow fell over the two men, and Jaskier looked over the other man shoulder smugly. Geralt stood in his undershirt with his sword in hand as he glared down. Adva gasped, she couldn’t help it. Geralt eyes were almost all black like a man possessed. Stood to his full height, the cheese seller barely came to mid chest.

‘See even the lady denies it…just because…’ The cheesemonger breath caught in his throat as he turned and cranked his neck as far back as he could to see the ominous Witcher hunching over him. ‘Are you propositioning my wife?’ Geralt low grunt trickled down the man's neck as he towered over the scrawny man.

Turning around sharply, the small man jumped back in fear, ‘Your…your Geralt of Rivia…. The Witcher…Butcher of Blaviken…I am sorry…I didn’t. I didn’t know that Witcher could get married. She said she…She led me on…’ The man's petty excuses died on his lip, as the Witcher stared unwaveringly at the man.

‘Get up we are leaving’ Geralt growled his eyes following the man who back out the room.

Adva made no move to leave. Instead, she folded her arms and scooted herself around the table. ‘No thank you Geralt I am spending the evening in the tavern.’

Geralt eyes slowly trailed down to her face, letting his dark eyes drink in her defiant feature. Adva stared up at him for what seemed like an age; she was taken about how feral he looked still. Hair wild and menacing sword glistening sincerely in his hand. The Witcher said nothing but his malted golden eye swirled with angry, body tense, a wave of power rippled from him.

‘Adva, are you okay? Is this man causing a problem?’Crispin cut in, eyeing the bard and the Witcher respectively.

‘Who the fuck is this?’Geralt glanced back over at the woman and did a double-take final taking in her form. Her breasts were pushed high up and spilt over the top of the bust, with her breath they flutter gently. Tight and fitted cut left nothing to the imagination ‘and what the fuck are you wearing?’ Geralt snapped and pulled a cloak from the back of Jaskier chair and flung it around her.

‘Geralt stop’ Adva stood and pushed the cloak off her.

‘I think you are making the lady uncomfortable, how a respectable lady dresses has nothing to do with you and I would appreciate it if you didn’t swear when a lady was present. Respectable men don’t.’ The Earl bite out, taking a step closer.

‘Or what’ The white wolf goaded as he advanced on the man.

‘Geralt….Stop it’ Adva push between the men, lips pressed into a tight line.

‘I said we are leaving,’ Geralt growled not taking his eyes off the other man, but a hand curled around her arm and pulled her behind him.

‘Or I will be a force to place the lady under my protection.’ Crispin stood toe to toe as they stared off at each other.

Even at full height, Crispin was still barley 6ft to Geratl massive 6ft 5. Jaskier was scribbling furiously into his journal and gazed a shrug as Adva glared desperately at him for help. She had seen the Witcher in action, and even without a sword, he could easily thrash Crispin without blinking.

‘Adva is under my protection, and if you so much as look at her again, I am going to cut you in two.’ Geralt spoke in deadly calm.

‘My duty is to keep defenceless women safe…I; therefore, place Lady Adva….’ Crispin fell to the floor mid-sentence. Geralt gave a growl in approval pulling back his fist before slinging her over his shoulder and matched from the tavern, ignoring the burst of chatter bubbled as he slammed the door behind him.

So what do you think? Thank you so much for all the pet name ideas! I have a very good idea what is going to happen next. But some of the characters are refusing to cooperate *face palms* But I have up to chapter 22 all planned out.

If you wished to be tagged please message me :) Please leave a comment.

@broco8 @introvertedmouse @threepupsinapuddle @shesthelastjedi @luxyash @wonderlandfandomkingdom @crazynocturnalkiki @ayamenimthiriel @whitespring21

#witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia #Geralt #witcher geralt #witcher netflix #netflix the witcher #thewitcher #geralt smut

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morning-thunderstorm · 5 years

Text

Ridiculous thing about MDZS and level of danger from people (also - wasted potential) : Nie brothers

You know what is one of the most awesome but at the same time also one of the most rueful things about the Nie brothers?

They could have been unstoppable if together.

Nie Mingjue is one of the strongest cultivators of his time, fierce, brave, able to hold his ground against both monsters and humans. His power, battle-wise, is undeniable and acknowledged. He is a good sect leader: sctrict, demanding, pushing limits of his people, but also taking care of their wellbeing and safety. I don't know if he was the one to make QingHe Nie one of five great sects, but he maintained this position and proved his people to be strong in battles against The Wens.

He has strong morals and beliefs he follows, he keeps himself in order and doesn't wander in thoughts and decisions from his rules of life.

His power is the brute force of the clan, a whip, always on the belt of the owner. Threat without open display, force put forth for everyone to see and fear.

~~~

Nie Huaisang, though, is a different book altogether.

He is intelligent, cunning, shrewd, his ways are those of a poisonous snake, or a spider: prepare, wait for a suitable moment and strike - one blow for an inevitable death. All time long patient, ready to change plans and go for the prey and kill it, nonetheless.

He doesn't like nor want authority, more comfortable with helping from behind, but still is a good sect leader, in a way not everyone understands. His job isn't just leading his people headon in nighthunts, more than that it includes ensuring their safety and well-being, teaching and guiding them.

He could not maintain the same position his brother did without putting the clan in danger: if you're too strong, you're a possible threat to Jin Guangyao, and he knows how it ends. He put their safety and well-being first, ensuring none of Jin Guangyao and his associates consider them a threat.

He has his morals, knows where the line lays, but still is ready to cross it for a good reason and has the will to pull himself back.

He is in shadows, lurking behind, weaving a thick fabric of knowledge, people, their actions and circumstances, the lace maker.

His power is poisoned knife in a sleave, weapon known but not talked about, last resort to ensure the victory.

~~~

What is making me sad, though, is that all this potential power, the duo able of turning the whole cultivation world upside down, didn't have a chance to try to be it.

Despite his enormous potential, Nie Huaisang needed a push for it to blossom, and his brother's death is what made it shine. Under the wing of Nie Mingjue he wouldn't have thrived so far.

Despite loving his little brother, Nie Mingjue didn't trust him to be his best self without his constant pushing.

~~~

Funny thing:

When I showed this picture to my mum: credit goes to the author, I found it on Pinterest, and asked her who of the two is more dangerous, she pointed at Nie Mingjue. After that I explained her the story. She shook her head and pointed at Nie Huaisang then.

"His kind is unstoppable when they have a goal in mind. His brother will punch or slice with a saber if angered, and then forget. This guy smiles, laughs and remembers and then he strikes back so hard you don't get back up. Better not deal with him at all", she said when asked why.

#nie mingjue #mdzs #nie huaisang #mo dao su zhi #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #nie brothers #nie bros #headcanon #deep thoughts at 1 am #I want world for them #They deserve it #they deserved better #they deserved to be happy

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mediaeval-muse · 4 years

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Book Review

A Touch of Stone and Snow. By Milla Vane. New York: Jove, 2020.

Rating: 2.5/5 stars

Genre: fantasy romance

Part of a Series? Yes, A Gathering of Dragons #2

Summary: Danger lurks in the western realms. The Destroyer’s imminent return has sent the realms into turmoil as desperate citizens seek refuge—but there’s no safety to be found when demons and wraiths crawl out from the shadows. Even Koth, a northern island kingdom left untouched by the Destroyer a generation past, is besieged by terrors spawned from corrupt magics.

When Lizzan leads the Kothan army against these terrors, only to see her soldiers massacred and to emerge as the only survivor, she is called a coward and a deserter. Shunned from her home, Lizzan now wanders in solitude as a mercenary for hire, until she encounters a group of warriors seeking new alliances with the northern kingdoms—a group that includes Aerax, the bastard prince of Koth, and the man who sent her into exile. Though they were childhood friends, Aerax cannot allow himself to be close to the only woman who might thwart his treacherous plan to save their island realm. But when a goddess's demand binds them together, Lizzan and Aerax must find a way to overcome their painful pasts. Or there will be no future for the western realms.

***Full review under the cut.***

Trigger Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood, references to rape

Overview: I learned of this book while I was browsing Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. I’m usually hesitant to pick up dark fantasy novels, but the site gave this one a positive review, so I took a chance on it. Overall, I was pleasantly surprised by some aspects of this book: the worldbuilding was way more involved than I thought it would be, and the author made her world dark and violent without relying on brutalizing women. However, I didn’t rate this book higher because I did feel overwhelmed by all the information I had to keep track of. Moreover, I felt that there was a lot of information, but very little actual plot, so I had a hard time being invested in the story. Maybe that’s because I started with the second book in this series, rather than the first (but then again, it’s romance, which usually doesn’t require you to read a series in order). I will be writing this review as someone who didn’t read book one, so perhaps my evaluations would have been different if I had started with A Heart of Blood and Ashes, but it is what it is.

Writing: Vane’s prose is somewhat odd. On the one hand, I thought it did a good job evoking the grim setting. On the other hand, Vane uses some archaic constructions, which tended to sound formal and frequently pulled me out of the story. Not only would characters generally avoid contractions, end their phrases with a verb (like Yoda’s speech), and use constructions like “I know not” or “I thank you,” but the narration/omniscient narrator would use the same linguistic patterns to describe events and character emotions. This got especially awkward during more intimate scenes, when the formal quality of the prose didn’t seem to jive with the passionate romance.

Vane also has the tendency to throw a lot of worldbuilding at the reader without much scaffolding. Names of characters and places are mentioned that don’t have much relevance to the events at hand, so I often felt like a lot of things were being dumped onto me in order to give the impression that Vane had put a lot of work into creating her world (which I don’t doubt she did - it just wasn’t communicated in a way I found helpful). There were also awkwardly placed chapters where characters would communicate lore or backstory through lengthy conversations, rather than through something more engaging, like a flashback. It made for a lot of infodumping, which I didn’t find to be a particularly enjoyable reading experience.

Plot: I don’t know how to describe the plot of this book other than too much and not enough happens at the same time. In terms of all the non-romantic threads, there is a lot at stake: the book begins with the need for a number of kingdoms needing to make alliances - a figure called the Destroyer is rumored to be returning to the area, which threatens the lives of everyone in these kingdoms. While negotiations take place, representatives from the kingdom of Koth plead for aid - a few years ago, their army battled some bandits led by a sorcerer called Goranik (who has significant history with the princess/heir apparent of one of the kingdoms negotiating the alliance). This battle resulted in the total slaughter of most of the Kothian troops, save for one survivor (Lizzan - our heroine). The Kothans point out that last time the Destroyer was in the area, he never conquered Koth, and it is suspected this is because Koth is protected by divine magic. So, it is argued that Koth could be a refuge for people fleeing the Destroyer, but they need aid to fend off the remaining bandits, who have stayed in the area surrounding the kingdom. Lizzan reveals that her troops were killed because the bandits were accompanied by wraiths, and she alone was spared because of a mysterious magical amulet, which could be the key to protecting everyone from the Destroyer. Aerax, our hero, supports an alliance, but also does not believe that Koth is protected by divine magic (to say the least). As a result, he is contemplating a full scale evacuation of Koth, and toys with the idea of letting the entire kingdom sink into the lake that surrounds it - for secret reasons (you’ll have to read to find out). Lizzan - who has been exiled because the Kothans don’t believe she encountered wraiths at all, but was a coward and hid in battle - takes a divine quest in order to restore honor to her family’s name, and this quest involves being close to Aerax, with whom she has a complicated history. They were once childhood friends, and later lovers, but haven’t seen each other since Lizzan was exiled. There are a lot of bitter feelings between them, as Aerax didn’t speak up for her at Lizzan’s trial, nor did he follow her into exile. Moreover, Aerax is now the heir apparent to Koth, and is duty-bound to return, but Lizzan can’t, because of her exile.

It’s a lot.

I’m not against a complex fantasy plot, but where this book went wrong for me was the lack of events that actually built on one another. Most of the book is spent travelling and talking - people talk at the alliance negotiation, they talk on the road and unload a bunch of lore and worldbuilding, they talk about their pasts and how they got where they are. In terms of things that actually happen, the plot is rather sparse. The only events that held my attention were when the party arrives at a monastery that’s filled with spooky things, and the ending. Other than that, there wasn’t really a sense of suspense. We also never really got scenes of characters investigating magical knowledge or engaging in political intrigue, things that show them piecing together the puzzle to defeat the big bad in a way that was compelling, so those storylines felt less like a part of a narrative and more like an infodump.

I personally would have liked to see the story be a bit more limited in scope. I think the Destroyer stuff detracted from the narrative; just focusing on the plot that concerns the wraiths and the gods would have been sufficient. Most of what happens in this book could have been the same - Aerax is named heir and goes in search of help because bandits are surrounding his kingdom. He finds Lizzan, and so on and so on.

Characters: Lizzan, our heroine, is an exiled mercenary with survivor’s guilt. I took an instant liking to her because she fits an archetype that we usually only see in male characters: she’s a gruff loner who drinks heavily, bouncing from job to job to make enough money to drink some more. Unlike some male counterparts, Lizzan isn’t a jerk - though she could be rough, Lizzan always seemed to care about the people around her, and part of what I liked most was that she decided to be a warrior in order to protect people, not because she wanted honor or rejected more “feminine” roles.

Aerax, our hero, likewise surprised me in that he’s got plenty of angst himself, but never takes it out on other people. He does that thing where he’ll only answer people with a grunt, but he never seemed prone to nonsensical violence and often acted selflessly. I appreciated that he never crossed any boundaries that Lizzan set, nor did he act possessive. The main thing I found strange about him, however, was the sense that he was holding something back. The story would constantly say things like how he was putting up a calm facade to hide how dangerous he really was, or that he had to restrain himself during intimate scenes. I was therefore constantly questioning whether Aerax possessed some kind of magical power that made him threatening, or if this was just a way to make him seem more masculine and thrilling.

Aerax has an animal companion named Caeb. Caeb is a saber-toothed snow lion, who mainly acts like a huge housecat who can understand human speech. Caeb was responsible for some of the sweeter moments in this book, as he would occasionally butt up against Lizzan and purr or push Lizzan and Aerax together.

Supporting characters were numerous, and in general, I think they were varied and interesting. My favorite was Sari, a young warrior who wants to prove herself. She’s pretty adorable in the process. However, I also think that because of the complex plot, there wasn’t room for them to shine.

Other:

Worldbuilding: Despite not having a pleasant experience with infodumping, I do think Vane’s worldbuilding is intriguing. I liked that the world was filled with jungles and animals that seemed to be out of the prehistoric period, rather than being set in the fake European Middle Ages. I also really liked the mythological stories that characters told about their gods, which reminded me of a lot of folklore, and that women were present in every sector of society (in other words, they weren’t confined to the household or the church/temple). Vane also didn’t rely on misogynistic violence to make her world seem “gritty,” so that was also a big plus.

I mostly wish that Vane had reigned in her worldbuilding a bit more. Despite being an interesting world, Vane had the tendency to overdo it by giving the reader info that wasn’t relevant. I also got the feeling that the rules of the world weren’t well-established. By that I mean that once I thought I’d gotten a handle on what the world was like, Vane would introduce another bit of lore that would throw me for a loop (for example: surprise! there are dragons!).

Romance: I’m usually all about a story about rekindling a relationship, but I don’t quite think this romance resonated with me. On the surface, I do think the stakes were sufficiently high: Aerax had to return to Koth, but Lizzan couldn’t accompany him due to their exile. I also thought the childhood friends to lovers background, as well as the sense of betrayal resulting from Aerax’s failure to speak up for Lizzan and follow her into exile, built some sufficient angst.

However, I also think that Aerax and Lizzan got intimate a little too quickly, and tended to participate in sexual activities at fairly inappropriate moments. Although they were lovers before Lizzan’s exile, Lizzan makes a good point that the two of them barely know each other anymore. I’m not shaming anyone for having sex with a stranger (that’s a personal decision, and I’m not here to judge), but I do think the process of re-falling in love before becoming intimate could have been a nice arc.

I did, however, like the angle that Vane took about the two of them challenging each other emotionally - as people. Lizzan insists that she doesn’t want other people to make decisions for her, yet Aerax points out that Lizzan has a tendency to make decisions for other people, even though it comes from the genuine desire to protect others. For example, Lizzan is angry that Aerax withheld information from her to protect her, yet Lizzan herself does the same thing to others. I liked that Vane handled this without suggesting that Lizzan was a hypocrite, and that her relationship with Aerax set her on a path to self-improvement.

Overall, my first foray into the fantasy romance genre was up and down. While I liked the ideas that Vane featured in her book, I wish the narrative had been tighter and the language more updated.

#book reviews

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miraworos · 4 years

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Azira Fell and the Apocalypse Scroll (T)

SUMMARY: The hunt is on for a mysterious and deadly scroll with the power to topple the world into chaos. Will Dr. Azira Fell, professor of Egyptology, find it in time to prevent the impending apocalypse? Or will an evil organization bent on destroying civilization find it first? To have even a chance at saving the world, he'll need to rely on the wily Anthony J. Crowley, professional guide and adventurer. But can Azira trust the inscrutable explorer, or will he lose his heart along with his life?

Or: A Good Omens Indiana Jones AU, because why not?

Ashmolean Museum, Oxford - 1935

Doctor Azira Fell hummed a few bars of Davies’ Op. 51 as he selected a couple of works from the Ashmolean library’s collection. Sunlight streaming through the clerestory window above ignited the gold-embossed lettering on the cover of a book chronicling the Ptolemaic dynasty near the end of the Hellenistic period. To Azira, who practiced knowledge the way others practiced religion, the glow seemed an omen of the treasure within.

Descending the step stool, he carried the volumes to a nearby table. He laid them as softly as possible on the polished oak and tugged the lamp chain. Then he sat in the high-backed chair, wiggling ever so slightly with the anticipation of the chase.

The passages for which he was searching would likely be buried in the usual drivel of martial accounts, rankings, and supply inventories. The Romans really were such tiresome windbags about conquest. Very few saw the forest through the trees with all their facts and figures and mind-numbing reports. Thus, it was up to Egyptologists like Dr. Azira Fell, associate faculty of Oriental Studies at the University of Oxford, thank you very much, to find the occasional tree that hinted at the actual forest.

Azira took out his small, leather-bound journal, opened it to where the stub of a pencil was wedged into its pages, and began to record the call numbers of the volumes he’d selected. With any luck, he’d have a few hours uninterrupted by students to collect a handful of tidbits meriting further investigation.

“Dr. Fell!”

Azira’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. So much for uninterrupted hours. He hadn’t even made it five minutes.

“Dr. Fell, you have to see this.”

Anathema Device, Azira’s research assistant and the first American woman to study Oriental Studies at Oxford, popped out from behind a set of nearby stacks, breathless with excitement.

“There you are,” she said. “I knew you’d be prowling around the 932s. Look at this.”

She hurried forward, holding a hardcover book open toward him. He recognized it at once as her mother’s account of her expedition to Nubia at the turn of the century, before Anathema was born. Her mother’s obsession with Egyptology inspired Anathema’s own passion for the profession.

“What is it, dear?” he said, as he took the book from her hands.

“I’ve read this entire thing cover to cover so many times, but I never noticed this before,” she said, her face alight like it always was when she made a new conceptual connection or discovery in her research.

Azira looked at the place on the page to which she was pointing, but didn’t immediately see the source of her excitement.

“I don’t understand,” he said apologetically.

She took the book back and read aloud. “In late 34 BC, authorities on behalf of Emperor Octavian claimed that Mark Antony had stolen a sacred scroll from the Library of Pergamum and gifted it to Cleopatra of Egypt as recompense for the burning of the Alexandrian scroll collection during Caesar’s Civil War.”

“Yes, but that was a false account to discredit Antony. Your mother knew that. We all know that.”

“That’s not the interesting part,” Anathema said, grinning wider. “It says a sacred scroll as in one—not many. Scholars generally accept that the rumor stated Antony gave Cleopatra something like 20,000 Pergamum scrolls. Not one sacred one.”

Azira stood up. “You think she means the scroll? The scroll about th-the—Macedonian, er—”

“The Macedonian spice route,” she finished for him with a significant look. “Yes. I think she could have meant that. Hiding an indicator in plain sight is just like her.”

He took the book from her again and traced the spidery writing with excitement. Anathema’s mother was considered the preeminent authority on all things occult during the Ptolemaic Dynasty. That’s how Anathema had come to learn of the sacred scroll in the first place, through bedtime stories her mother had told her. Azira had learned of the scroll through other means, naturally, but when each had discovered the other knew of it, they instantly formed a bond that, over the last two years, had led to a close and trusted friendship.

“There’s more,” Anathema said, eyes dancing. “I looked up sacred scroll in her index, and the page it has listed is a separate page entirely, with no mention of a sacred scroll at all.”

“Which page?”

Anathema flipped the pages while Azira held the book for her. She stopped a third of the way further forward in the book, and pointed at a sketch of statue.

“I’m betting it’s some kind of coded location. But I haven’t worked out if it’s the picture or the words or both.”

“Good lord, Anathema. Are you sure it isn’t just a misprint?”

Anathema arched a cool eyebrow at him. “My mother never made mistakes. Not when it came to her study of Egypt. Never once.”

And, of course, she was right. Azira suggesting that the book was flawed was ludicrous. He had found firsthand accounts with less historical accuracy than the meticulously researched analysis he was now holding.

“Agnes Nutter, you sly devil,” Azira said, scanning the page Anathema had indicated. “You realize this means that not only did she know where the scroll was, or at least what happened to it—“

“—she also knew it was too dange—er, valuable, I mean—historically speaking—to let fall into the wrong hands.”

Azira was too lost in thought to chastise her near slip, though heaven knew what spies lurked in the stacks, just waiting for a crumb of information to fall.

“So it does exist,” he muttered to himself. “It does exist, and its location is knowable. It has been found at least once, and if it could be found by her…”

“It can be found by people other than us. Which could be bad.”

Azira tapped his lips, turning the puzzle over in his mind as he gazed at the page. “But where to start? We can’t go haring off into the desert without a proper destination in mind, my dear. We simply can’t afford it.”

“We could ask the Egypt Exploration Fund for an investment.”

“An investment for what? We’d need to tell them what we were looking for—”

“—the Macedonian spice route—”

“—as well as actually produce something of value upon our return. We can’t excavate a ghost, Anathema. No one would subsidize that.”

“On the contrary, brother,” boomed a voice from near the staircase about ten feet away from Azira and Anathema. “We may be able to come to some arrangement.”

Gabriel, patriarch of Azira’s extended family and, regrettably, Azira’s half-brother, approached their table with a jackal’s smile.

“What kind of arrangement?” Azira said with trepidation. He didn’t trust Gabriel any farther than he could throw him, family or no.

“Well, it just so happens Mother has a keen interest in the Byzantium-antiquities trade gaining momentum in the Mediterranean region.”

“What do tourist trinkets have to do with my research on the, er, the evolution of the gastronomical trade in the early Roman Empire?”

“I think your interests overlap quite nicely with the Foundation’s objectives in this case.”

The Foundation was the philanthropic arm of the White Dove evangelical organization Azira’s extended family had founded generations ago. It used monetary inducements to attract vulnerable populations into the fold, often at the price of sacrificing their cultural identity and heritage. That’s what had pushed Azira toward Egyptology and the study of antiquities in the first place. He wanted to protect the cultures and histories and identities of the people that White Dove’s Foundation tended to erase.

“What are the Foundation’s objectives, if I may?”

“Profit, of course. Profit that can then be turned to…charitable causes.”

“And by charitable, you mean missionary, I presume?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Don’t forget that a sizable donation from the Foundation helps maintain this academic institution you love so much.”

“You still haven’t said what it is you want me to do,” Azira reminded Gabriel as Anathema slowly closed her mother’s journal and eased backward to be half-hidden behind Azira. Smart girl.

“We need you to travel to Cairo and make inroads with the traders in antiquities. You have an eye for these things. You can tell when something is worth procuring.”

“And what do you intend to do with any relics I obtain?”

“Why, resell them, of course, at a price more fair for the discerning market,” Gabriel said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the mysteries of the pharaohs have caught the imagination of others in the empire, others who happen to have the benefit of deep pockets. And why not indulge their petty interests if it encourages them to give generously to God’s chosen causes? In exchange, you could mount your expedition for your gastronomical …. whatever ... in your spare time, with our resources and our blessing.”

Azira pursed his lips, on the verge of refusing Gabriel’s request, no matter the familial consequence to himself. He didn’t need Gabriel’s blessing to go about his life, nor did he want it. If he was ever given it, he’d have to immediately examine at length whether he wanted to continue doing whatever it was that Gabriel approved of. Azira wouldn’t go so far as to classify Gabriel as evil—he was Azira’s brother after all—but if not outright malicious, then he was something just this side of it.

The refusal hovered on Azira’s tongue, despite the small nudge of a pointy elbow in his back. Anathema clearly wanted him to take the deal. But it was hardly worth the burden of being under Gabriel’s thumb again. The last time Azira had been in a similar position, it had not gone well.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about setting up an antiquities trade, Gabriel. How would I even find these so-called traders? How would I know I could trust them to deliver a bona fide artefact?”

“No worries on that score,” he said with false amiability. He took a black card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Azira. It simply read “Crowley,” with no address or number, only a snake sigil curled along the left-hand side. “This man is affiliated with a trusted business associate of mine. He’ll see to you, help you set up when you arrive.”

“And how do I find him, then?” Azira asked, agitated. “There are no details on this card.”

“Oh, he’ll find you,” Gabriel assured him. “Your accounts have been furnished with whatever funds you might need for travel and expenses.”

Guide or not, funding or not, Azira simply didn’t have the wherewithal to do what Gabriel was asking.

“Gabriel, I don’t think—“

Gabriel took that moment to lean into Azira’s personal space, looming over the shorter man with a deceptively mild expression.

“Listen, Sunshine. I may have understated things when I posed this as a request. You will do as I say, or I will be forced to withdraw my protection from you and my financial support from this fine academy. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Azira swallowed. Much as he’d regret the loss of the funds to the university, the larger threat lay in the euphemistic “withdraw my protection from you,” which meant far more sinister things than the words themselves invoked.

“I look forward to monitoring your progress,” Gabriel said with barely concealed contempt as he shook Azira’s hand and tipped his hat to Anathema. “And, as always, Godspeed.”

Then with a dramatic swirl of his argent coat, he took his leave.

Azira stared speechless after his brother. He hadn’t even agreed to go. But that was how White Dove, and its founding family, operated. No one was permitted to say no. Questions were forbidden unless strictly necessary. Only the most powerful family members were chosen to lead, and if those leaders dictated that something be done, it was done—end of conversation.

Azira had thought he’d escaped it by becoming an academic. For the last fifteen years, he’d managed to skirt most family engagements and nod politely at the ones he couldn’t avoid, until almost no one in the family even remembered he existed, but for the annual expense in the ledger with Oxford as the payee. Or so he’d thought. It appeared he was still very much on Gabriel’s mind, in the event that he might prove useful.

“Well, that was…something,” Anathema said, returning to her position by his side. “Is he always that pushy?”

“Most times, he’s worse,” Azira admitted glumly. Then he looked at the card in his hand, the snake sigil sending a thrill of foreboding down his spine. “Cairo.”

“Don’t look so downtrodden. This is exactly what we wanted,” Anathema said, laying a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’s not the expedition that worries me,” Azira answered softly, tucking the card in his coat pocket. “It’s the demons we will owe when we return.”

Read Chapter 2 on AO3

Start at Chapter 1

#for the morning crowd #good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens human au #Indiana Jones AU #ineffable husbands #my GO fic #slow burn #mild hurt/comfort #see ao3 tags for more details

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flopgoblins · 5 years

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Ocelot Emperor

We emerge from the mists of Ireland - where we’re on retreat with next to no internet - to lay this offering at the feet of one of our favorite people and wish her a very happy birthday! @brazenbells we love you, thank you for two consecutive years of helping us write our boys, and for letting us throw them at your own.

Without further ado, the crossover smash the fans (us, mostly) have been clamoring for! Thanks, Ted.

King Abran's throne was as vast and glorious as his kingdom. Made of teak, varnished until the wood seemed to glow with an inner fire, inlaid with gold and etched with scenes from myth and legend and the founding of his dynasty.

And upon it, his wrists heavy with bangles, his fingers dripping rings, his eyes dark with kohl, lounged the crown prince, golden and glorious as a lion at rest. His eyes were lion-tawny too, and his neck was straight and proud, easily bearing the weight of the shining crown that rested upon his brow.

“See,” said Matt, angling his phone so Nico could get a better look at himself. “You look way better in all this sparkly shit than I do.”

Nico slid off the throne with a gentle chinking and untangled the gold-ish polymer crown from his hair. Beneath the gilt, it was dark brown, but for the stark white streak Makeup had sprayed there two hours ago. “Yeah, the casting choices feel a little strange. I can see why everyone on Twitter was pulling up those fanart comps to complain about it. Still not as bad as the, uh - ”

“I know,” Matt said morosely, taking the crown back and putting it on wonky. “I don’t even tan.” They’d dyed his hair again but thankfully drawn the line at trying to make him any less pasty. Manufacturing sexual tension with someone who looks like a stretched out Oompa Loompa might be beyond even Nico’s prodigious talents.

“I’m billed above you though. That’s progress.” Nico tried to get the crown to sit right but succeeded in tilting it drunkenly to the other side. “And, hey, it’s not every day you get a big-budget fantasy epic with a queer romance.”

“They cut out the incest. And most of the sex.” Around them, the studio walls yawned tall and green; the only solid things onset were them and the throne, and the throne was mostly resin.

“There wasn’t that much sex in the book,” said Nico, who’d picked up the novel as soon as the casting call went out and gone through making characterization notes on every page.

Matt, who’d read the first draft as it was posted on AO3, complete with thirteen chapters of kink that hadn’t made it into the published version, sniffed and forbore from commenting. Some hauteur was probably in keeping with playing Gael anyway. More in keeping with Tigris, though, which was further evidence Ted Nord couldn’t cast to save his life.

“I mean, I love it, it’s a really interesting role, but I’m finding it hard to get to grips with,” Nico had said, on the first day of shooting. “Spending your whole life pretending to be being vain and shallow, because it’s not safe to be anything else. Wearing a mask so long you must start to wonder whether you’ve become it. What does that do to a person?”

“Dunno,” Matt had said. “Did you see Ray Lelacheur’s Vogue cover yet? Terrible shoes.”

Now that Nico had abandoned the regal warmth that had settled on him as if it was second nature while draped over the throne, he was stirring the pages of the script again, frowning at his lines. Tigris had been the most he’d had to stretch for a character to date, he’d told Matt, though he’d earnestly added he liked the character’s ‘chewiness.’

Matt, who’d struggled equally hard to locate the generosity of spirit and ease of power that was Gael, continued to think that Ted was just as bad at casting to type as he was to aesthetic.

Nico tossed his white-streaked hair back from his forehead and dragged on his black velvet cloak. “Will you run this scene again with me? I keep not getting the timbre of his ambition right.” He mouthed a few lines, twisted a green gemstone on his finger, and cast an agonized, kohl-rimmed look at Matt. “How do I channel the appropriate volume of petulance, the feeling of a man deprived what by all rights should be his?”

Matt draped himself over his rightful throne, trying to arrange his limbs with the same boneless grace Nico had achieved so easily. “Remember when we were at that falafel truck last week and it took twenty minutes for your order to come and you started cursing god?”

“Suck my dick, Rose,” said Nico reflexively, but looked thoughtful.

“Later,” murmured Matt, and closed his eyes to wait.

“Spy,” snarled the prince, rounding on his cousin. Tigris stood his ground, jaw set against the taller man’s fury, lip curling with defiant derision. “You intrude here, in my father’s house, not content to be left to your life of indulgent luxury, so desperate for attention -”

Tigris’s eyes flashed, enraged despite himself. “Attention? You think that is what I crave? Heavens forbid I seek a world beyond the gilded cage my uncle keeps me in, indulging me like a spoilt puppy and giving me just as much freedom. Attention? I would give my eyeteeth for less! If one could trade condescending oversight for actual knowledge of how our kingdom is run-”

“Our kingdom,” repeated Gael. He cocked his head to the side, curiosity warring with the outrage in his noble features. “You truly think it so, do you? But our father-”

“Uncle,” said Tigris, under his breath.

“Our uncle -”

“My uncle,” said Tigris helpfully. “Your father.”

“My - okay, your -” Matt stopped. “Gawd. This doesn’t work at all.”

“See? It doesn’t work half as well without the incest.” Nico flicked a gem-encrusted finger at Matt’s nose.

Matt wrinkled it and adjusted the hang of gold chains over his collarbones. “You say this like I’m the one who made the script changes. And for the record, Cindy was as cut up about it as you are.” Cindy, script doctor extraordinaire, had also lurked the story on AO3 as it sailed up the ‘Original Fiction’ rankings, and was as distressed as he was about the loss of the throne sex scene. “It’s not my fault transgressive familial kink hasn’t crossed over from the hets yet.”

“Kink shmink, it totally shifts the dynamic.” Nico flapped his cloak emphatically. “Adopted cousins isn’t close to the same sort of layers of resentment and entitlement being a bastard half-brother would be.”

“Right,” said Matt, who’d definitely only re-read chapter 12 seven times for the entitlement, and not the way Tigris hissed ‘brother’ while bound to a bedpost. “The morality groups would lose their shit, though. Probably it was the right call.” It was impressive enough his agency had let him sign the role at all; he’d already rocked the boat enough asking if his casting was whitewashing.

“The morality groups are gonna lose their shit over the gay factor anyway,” said Nico stubbornly. “In for a penny...”

“What about the negative associations of homosexuality with sexual taboos?”

“What about double standards?”

“Sure, it’s a double standard and it sucks, but you gotta start somewhere. It’s a story about being an outcast and fighting for scraps of dignity, fighting to be seen as human by people who want you to be less than that, and that’s gonna resonate with a lot of kids. You gotta lay the groundwork then fuck your brother.”

Nico raised an eyebrow and Matt shut up quickly; he, or rather his agency, had made a point of never letting him be drawn into these kinds of debates. “And I think compromise robs art of its power. What does the author think?” They both glanced across the set to where a woman in a peacock-print dress watched as Ted struggled to coral the child actors for the carnival scene. Her expression, behind her glasses, was unreadable.

“Dunno.” Matt ran his hand through his hair. The dye had dried it out and he winced at the brittle, dead-grass feel of it. “Only time we spoke, we both tried to get each other’s autographs and it was really awkward. Bet she’d have some notes for you, though.”

“D’you know, Rose, that’s not a bad idea.” Once resolved, Nico was all action and he stood, script pages fluttering to the floor, velvet cloak swirling around his ankles. The jut of his jaw said that nothing short of poor falafel truck service would defeat him.

“Ask her to show you the predicament bondage scene,” Matt told him helpfully. “There were some really important character beats in that, I thought.”

“You think you’re too good for me, don’t you?”

“What?” Matt looked up, taken completely off guard. He was stretched out in Nico’s window seat, deeply absorbed in a thinkpiece on why Kai Bourke would have been a better casting choice for Gael, and thoroughly agreeing with it. Seeing his boyfriend prowling towards him with a look of cold fury and a bare chest was enough to stop him mid-anonymous comment.

Nico stalked across the room towards him, the taut anger etched in every muscle creating a frayed grace that was almost violence. “That’s the worst of you, your highness. It’s not that you hate me. It’s not that you think less of me. It’s that you think nothing of me at all!”

Finally cottoning on, Matt swung his legs around and tried to remember his lines; it was hard, he truly couldn’t remember what part of the script this was. That in itself was unusual. Matt would hardly claim himself a natural thespian or even a diligent professional, but memorizing lines had been a skill drilled into him since he was eight years old and it was a tough habit to shake. Still, while Nico’s words - Tigris’s words - sounded vaguely familiar, he couldn’t for the life of him place them in Ted and Cindy’s script.

“But I’m going to make certain you don’t forget me, brother,” whispered Nico, and that was just it, Matt realized. It wasn’t the script at all. It wasn’t even the book. It was the original.

“You read it?” he mouthed, as Nico’s hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Shocked to learn I’m literate?” spat Nico, but favored him with the shadow of a wink. No shadow around his eyes this time, no gold woven into his hair, but he was more Tigris than he’d been on the soundstage.

It was, simultaneously, extremely Nico.

Matt tried, experimentally, to free his wrist and found he couldn’t. He shivered, feeling his pulse jump, knowing Nico could feel it too. “Was that an attempt to dig deeper into the artistic truth of the work, or to mine it for weird, kinky shit?”

“Yes,” said Nico, bearing him down onto the cushions, beautiful and vengeful and careful not to knock Matt’s laptop off the seat.

One of the advantages of shooting a gay film with your boyfriend - one Arose had certainly never intended - was that when Nico turned, grabbed Matt by the lapels, and kissed him on the red carpet, everyone laughed and smiled and Matt knew the gossip mag headlines would be jokes about dedication to the craft and not shock sexuality scandals. His father probably wouldn’t- okay he’d definitely mind but it’d probably be a side note in a meeting about how to capitalize on the film’s success.

And it was a success; some desperately hot sex aside, reading the story - the real story - had apparently been what Nico had needed to pull it together. All the pride and fear and desperate clawing longing of a tiger caged that had risen like a heat haze from Tigris’s story, and Nico had captured it, had reveled in it, and put it on the screen for all to see.

Matt straightened his tie and winked to the paps - just a joke between bros, nothing queer here - and resolved to fuck Nico senseless in the restrooms after the premier. Nico laughed and stuck his tongue out. He’d left the white streak in his hair for the red carpet, as stark as the collar of his suit, and Matt had to say, it was growing on him.

#tiger prince #brazenbells #star boys #incest mention #HAPPY BIRTHDAY KELSI WE LOVE YOU

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felixoffelicis · 5 years

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Intro to Bite (HPfic)<pending>

A/N Im posting this here cause its not letting me send it to my friend through PM. This is just the intro of what im currently working on, and if I end up posting it ill do so on my wp account @Falling_Snow.

The event that changed everything for me had been simple and unimportant, something that I'd forgotten about a couple days after it happened. It wasn't violent or fear-inducing. There was no struggle or cry for help, and the act itself had only taken a split-second of my time when it happened. However, that one event would create a personalised hell that I'd never be able to escape no matter how hard I tried or how hard I tried to kill myself. An innocent action that spawned the blessing I considered to be the curse of Death himself.

Looking at the beetle that was the size of my closed fist, it was hard to think that the thing could ever hurt me, despite my father's strong statement that I shouldn't play with anything he brought home from his work at the Ministry. Not heeding his warnings, I had done so anyway. I was only ten, and of all the things my father brought home to work on, a beetle seemed like an innocent thing to inspect.

I'd been naive when I'd thought that the beetle was completely harmless, and when it had bitten my arm I had simply been annoyed rather than in pain or anything of the sort. I'd just put the beetle back in its cage as retaliation and gone on with my life, forgetting it had ever even happened.

There'd been no sudden fever or burst of unimaginable pain, no superpowers like the muggle comics, no evidence that anything had changed. It left no mark to my skin despite breaking the surface, and my child-self was content with putting a plaster over it and forgetting the whole thing.

I grew up.

I finished my magical education at Durmstrang and made lots of friends before my family decided it was best to move to Muggle London for my father's job at the Department of Mysteries. I met a muggle girl there named Kristen and pretty soon I found myself telling her about the magic world, asking her to marry me only a few days later when she accepted me wholeheartedly.

I became an Auror at the Ministry of Magic and after finding a natural talent for the detective work behind Magical crime I was promoted to Detective, and soon after that, Head Detective. All the while, Kristen cared for our two children, Rosealine May Skokvist and William Quinn Skokvist, one of muggle blood and one of wizard blood, both loved dearly despite their differences.

I solved crimes at the Ministry and watched my children grow into kind and talented adults. I walked my daughter down the aisle when she married a muggle tailor in London, and I was there when my son became a Potions Master and received his certification at the Ministry. I was infinitely proud of them both and cried when I held my grandson for the first time in a muggle hospital room.

However, it wasn't long after that I returned to that same hospital with Kristen, where a doctor told us she was very sick and wouldn't last for much longer.

I took her to every Healer at St. Mungos I could, but they could do nothing for her. I was holding her hand firmly in my grasp when she passed, becoming numb to my surroundings as the funeral was planned by my son and daughter, both of which who constantly were at my side through everything.

I buried myself in my work then, choosing to be productive rather than wallow in my sorrow. Kristen wouldn't have wanted me to stop my life just because she was gone and I was determined to live the best life I could for her until I could see her again in the afterlife.

Yet, I became reckless and flippant with my life after that, taking on more dangerous cases that my coworkers advised me not to pursue. Which is how I ended up in a duel in an alleyway in Manchester, swapping spells with a much younger and stronger wizard than myself. No matter how much I trained to become an Auror, there was still nothing I could do when I saw a green spell flying towards me in what felt like slow motion.

I thought of my kids and how they were going to take the news of my death. I thought of my 6-year-old grandson whose birthday was coming up in 3 months. I thought of Kristen holding my hand that night she left. I thought of all the things I'd never gotten to do and the people I'd never made amends with. I thought of how incomplete I was leaving things.

But that killing curse never hit me.

Instead, time itself seemed to stop completely and I was left staring at the curse that was inches from my chest.

Then, slowly, time resumed, but it didn't resume forwards. As images flashed in front of my face at a speed that I couldn't even register, I began to realise that this was it, this was what death was like.

This was my life flashing before my eyes, and soon there'd be a white light that would lead to the afterlife or maybe even just a void of nothing, whatever was there I was about to find out.

The white light came soon enough, exactly as how it was described in books and muggle films, blinding me to a point where I had to blink a few times to adjust my eyes. But when I opened my eyes and registered the image I was seeing, I couldn't quite comprehend what was in front of me. It seemed completely impossible.

I was on the back porch of my childhood home in Sweden, with a light summer breeze gently brushing my semi-long hair away from my face in a way that baffled me even further. I hadn't had my hair this long since I was a child, and with my current surroundings, I wasn't sure what to expect next.

Was this the afterlife?

As I took in my surroundings once more and registered what was in front of me, I felt my breath catch in my throat, because there, on my hand, it's tiny little fangs having just left my skin, was that beetle that had bitten me so many years ago.

The golden pattern on it's back shimmered in the sunlight of the early afternoon, exactly the way I remembered it to when I'd been a kid.

I sat there for a moment, not noticing or caring as the beetle scuttled off beneath the old boards of the porch, leaving me in stunned silence.

Here I was, a ten-year-old boy again and there were no signs of Death lurking around the corner, come to take me to the afterlife I was supposed to be at right now. Was this really the afterlife? Was I dead? It all felt real, and as my mother called me to come inside for lunch I wasn't sure what my next step should be.

The beetle I'd been bitten by was a scarabaeus tempus, a beetle used in the creation of time turners once they were crushed up, and a beetle I knew shouldn't have done anything to me with a bite. I'd heard my father talk about the beetles countless times for his work, and never once had he mentioned the possibility of what I was currently experiencing; albeit, nobody would know until it came to their death. But even then-- I should have died, there should've been-- Why was I here? Why--? None of this made any sense.

I looked down at the small barely visible mark that the beetle had caused, the wound hardly bleeding at all and easily explained as a simple bug bite once I'd wiped away the blood. I knew I still had to be in some form of shock, wondering if this was Death's idea of a joke, and if it was then I wanted him to know I didn't find it funny.

Somehow, I was stuck in a giant time loop.

I'd lost my life, my kids were gone, my job was probably still occupied by that bigot Riley Morris who had it before me, and there was the possibility that even if I killed myself right now I'd just return right back to the moment after I'd been bitten by that beetle.

After a few minutes of truly processing this, I realised I was crying, and even when I noticed it I didn't stop. I had just lost and gained my entire world, and now I didn't know what to do with it.

It was all gone.

My life had completely been swept clean and given back to me anew.

My parents were alive here, my wife was out there somewhere, and I was easily the most skilled Detective the Ministry had ever had and it would be easy to retake my position.

But did I want to?

Kristen wouldn't know who I was, I'd already solved every case that would now be presented to me, and the children I might have with Kristen in this life might be completely different than Rosaline and William. Could I live with myself, knowing that I knew everything about them and they knew nothing of me? If I went to go find my wife 10 years from now would she call me a stalker for knowing so much?

What was I supposed to do now?

Did I continue living what I had before all over again, or did I live something else?

I hadn't even gotten my Durmstrang letter yet, and I wasn't even entirely sure I wanted to receive it after already knowing so much magic. I'd be light years ahead of any first-year student.

My second run through the loop, I disappeared.

Using ageing potions to make myself appear older than I was, I immigrated to France, working small jobs and reading up on anything and everything to do with time magic. Eventually, I became well-known in my field under a pen name where I published much of my research, still not coming close to the reason why I was here.

I still mourned the children that were never born in this time loop, but I stayed away from Kristen, only ever finding her a year before I knew her cancer would grow worse and giving her a letter stripped of anything that authorities could trace back to me. I knew I wouldn't have the strength to face her myself. After all, in a life where she never met me, she already had another at her side when I set the letter on her doorstep.

At first, it hurt to know that the Kristen of this time had someone else, but I had to remind myself that this wouldn't be my Kristen, and she never would be. It was lonely, but I spent that time doing things I'd always wanted to do instead of wallowing in self-pity for myself.

I invested in muggle products I knew would get big in the future thanks to my knowledge of it and spent a lot of my time in muggle casinos and fancy hotels, not ever truly enjoying the cash when I knew all it took was one trip down the stairs to take it away and set me back to where I was on that porch. Yet, there was still that conflicted hopefulness in whether or not I'd die or not.

As the years dragged on and my 77th birthday passed by without a killing curse aimed at my chest, I began to seek more purpose, investing myself to politics and working my way through position after position until I was elected into being France's Minister of Magic at 79.

I carried the position with pride and found real purpose in it, doing everything in my power to bring the French magical community times of peace and valuable change for the better. I tore down prejudiced laws and allowed my people more freedom, doing my best to form a personal connection with those who I led.

However, I retired soon after my 90th birthday, spending the rest of my life in a forest cottage in the French hills, taking up a hobby for woodcraft and constructing furniture before I "died" at 128, my body going through the reversal process again as my second life in the time loop flashed before my eyes.

Once again I was on that back porch.

The third life I knew what I was doing and didn't waste time. I went directly to my father and told him what had happened to me, forcing him to understand just how dire this situation was, and he listened, even though his ten-year-old son seemed to have just lost his mind.

We worked day and night on trying to understand what was wrong with me, the prior knowledge I had from my second run through the loop still cemented in my brain even though I hadn't been able to take it with me. I didn't have any of my notes or research, but I still had enough new information for my father to patch together things in his own research at the Department of Mysteries.

But no answer made itself known.

I began to study genetic magic, making groundbreaking discoveries at the age of 14 that I kept to myself to avoid major outrage. The Muggles were close enough to making designer babies, I didn't need witches and wizards getting their hands on the same ideas.

The only answers I could find in my new field of study led to more and more questions, seeing as whatever the beetle had done to me must've changed not my magic, but the codons of my DNA in a way that I wasn't even sure was fixable.

I experimented on mice, and other creatures before trying to remove the gene from my body and was met with excruciating pain that felt like how I'd imagine a crucio felt, my hearting feeling as though it stopped in my chest.

And then time reversed itself and I was opening my eyes to the view from my back porch, the distant lake and trees of the Swedish landscape greeting me back from my 4-year trip.

I tried again.

And again.

I tried so many times I lost count, restarting over and over again until I eventually threw a bombarda directly beneath my feet, effectively blowing everything up for about half a second before I was once again reversed in the loop, staring at the beetle there with frustrated tears in my eyes.

It was difficult, and I spent a long time lying on that porch trying to accept the situation I was in, but I told myself I was okay with this, and that I could make this a gift.

It was only a curse if I let it be.

Life after life I kept pushing through, knowing I'd only end up back on the back porch if I gave up, and I was really starting to hate that place despite its beautiful scenery.

I avoided those I met in past lives.

I set goals for myself at the beginning of each life.

I experimented in blood magic and made myself a time-free home inside a trunk, similar to that of Newt Scamander's briefcase. Although, mine was a bit bigger.

I ruled countries, magic and muggle.

I raced cars on Japan's mountain roads.

I owned all of Canada at one point.

I invented an unimaginable amount of useless kitchen tools.

I invented spells people couldn't even dream of.

I trained dragons in Romania.

But I still couldn't escape.

However, the 12th loop through time I found myself attending a magic school in Africa as a transfer student, revelling in the home away from home feeling that these old buildings seemed to give off. I became the Headmaster by 43 and started my new quest of wanting to be the Headmaster of every magic school, with my eyes set on Hogwarts the next time the time loop reversed itself and deposited me on the back porch once more.

Little did I know that the 13th loop in time was where my story would truly begin anew.

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theother-timelesschild · 3 years

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Behind the scenes

The Other's first direct appearance was in Ben Aaronovitch's Target Books Remembrance of the Daleks, in a brief flashback to the time of Rassilon.

The Cartmel Masterplan allegedly included a revelation that the Other was an incarnation of the Doctor. Following the show's cancellation in 1989, these plans were continued in the New Adventures novel line. (DWM 341) However, the guidelines given to the Virgin writers stated that the Other was not the Doctor. (REF: A History of the Universe) According to Ben Aaronovitch in DWM 147, Platt, Cartmel and himself "all [had] similar, but slightly different, views of who [the Doctor] really is".

In the afterword to the digital edition of Lungbarrow, Marc Platt identified Guiseppi Verdi's opera Rigoletto as an influence on his portrayal of the Other's relationship with Susan: "This other grandfather keeps Susan hidden away, just as the Duke of Mantua's hunch-backed jester, who was party to all sorts of his master's debaucheries, hid his own innocent daughter from reality – with particularly blood-curdling results."

Platt cast doubt on the Other's planet of origin, saying: "This shady figure, whoever he is, has obviously been on Gallifrey long enough to become a grandparent, although we don't know to which of Susan's parents he is the father. He may not even be Gallifreyan himself. Who knows?"

Platt described the Other and his final confrontation with Rassilon in terms of British politics: "He is an eminence grise; the power lurking behind the throne, like a skulking, limelight-shunning version of Alastair Campbell or Peter Mandelson, who manipulates the emergence of Gallifrey as one of the supreme seats of power in the Universe. But Blair and Campbell/Mandelson are puny substitutes for Rassilon and the Other. Only Thatcher (all squawks and eyepatch), from whose evil Pythian empire a new world is being built, is worthy of comparison."

Platt intended the Other's rose garden to recall the one in which the First Doctor is seen in both The Three Doctors and The Five Doctors, and said that it reappeared as the Doctor's imaginary rose garden in his Unbound audio Auld Mortality.

According to PROSE: The Scrolls of Rassilon, the Stranger had a detailed knowledge of Gallifreyan history and imparted some of that knowledge to Rassilon. The Stranger first became known to Rassilon in the weeks before Omega destroyed the star Qqaba to bring Gallifrey its power over time. The clear implication was that the Stranger was the Doctor, gone back in time in an attempt to make Gallifrey more open-minded.

In Lungbarrow, the Other states that he came to Rassilon "on approval". Platt has elaborated that this meant Rassilon had "acquired" the Other "in some sort of pact with God knows what". (DWM 305)

Platt confirmed that he intended to imply that Leela and Andred's child would go on to become the Other, explaining the Doctor's half-human heritage in the 1996 TV film. (DWM 305)

In 2013, when asked how he would respond if presented with a theory that the Other was Nyarlathotep, Andrew Cartmel said, "I would respond, "Who is Nyarlathotep?" while scratching my head."[1]

When asked if Kopyion Liall a Mahajetsu from The Pit was intended to be the Other, author Neil Penswick stated that he was not.[2]

John Smith's account of the "Old Man" somewhat resembles the story of Dr. Who from the Dalek movies, the most significant difference being that Dr. Who, despite dressing in approximately Victorian garb, came from the 1960s. In the acknowledgements, Paul Cornell states that this section of Human Nature was plotted by Steven Moffat.

In the scene corresponding to the point in The Timeless Children where Tecteun's male incarnation stands alongside two other Time Lords in full high-collared regalia, the Timeless Children script release mentions that "we can assume [the other two] are Rassilon and Omega".[3] This suggests that Chris Chibnall intended for Tecteun to be the Other.

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The Secrets That Lurk in The Last House on Needless Street

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This article is sponsored by

Catriona Ward’s latest novel, The Last House on Needless Street, is the sort of book that defies easy description and categorization. Part horror story, part mystery thriller, and part tragedy, the book subverts a lot of expectations about what a genre story should be and do, unpacking a complex emotional narrative in the midst of a menacing tale of fear, uncertainty, and constantly escalating dread.

“I’m not sure where it sits,” Ward admits with a laugh during a lengthy conversation with Den of Geek. “It’s a bit un-shelvable.”

To be fair, it was probably always going to be difficult to know precisely how to classify a story that heavily features a very religious talking gay cat, and that’s before you get to the potential kidnappings and possible serial murder of it all.

“The cat is a litmus test, isn’t it?” Ward laughs. “If you get parts of the talking cat in the second chapter, you’re probably going to enjoy the book. If you don’t, you may not.”

Especially since The Last House on Needless Street isn’t the sort of horror story (or even quasi-horror story) that relies on gore or jump scares to terrify its readers. Instead, its darkness is primarily rooted in more mental frights: Unreliable narrators, oppressively narrow points of view, and an almost unbearable tension lace through even the most basic scenes. Readers are left unbalanced by sequences they don’t entirely understand and can’t completely trust, armed only with “partial and imperfect knowledge.”

“One of my great loves is the Gothic, the fragmented narrative. The reader plays detective the whole time trying to piece together what is reliable and what is not,” Ward says. “There are all these oppositions in place. I think that’s something that horror and the darker side of fiction do very naturally anyway. I felt that this was just perhaps pushing the envelope a little bit further.”

Ward refers to her previous novels as Gothic-style stories of “distressed girls wandering about on moors,” and says that part of her drive to write Needless Street came from an “urge to do something completely different” and to “write something as mad as I liked.”

It’s safe to say that she has achieved that goal.

In the most basic sense, The Last House on Needless Street follows the story of Ted, a lonely man who lives in a boarded up house (on Needless Street, naturally) with his 12 year old daughter, Lauren, and his cat, Olivia. Children have been going missing at a nearby lake for some time and a woman named Dee, whose sister disappeared there some years prior, has convinced herself that Ted had something to do with it.

Whether he did or not, as well as the mystery of what happened to the “Girl with Popsicle” who vanished back then, are just two of the story threads this ambitious narrative attempts to balance as it juggles three different perspectives—one of whom is the aforementioned cat— and asks readers to question what they believe to be true and why.

“First person narrators for me are a much more realistic way of presenting the world than an omniscient, Godlike creator. You don’t get to know everything about everyone. You just don’t,” Ward says. “Your perceptions change every instant and quite often no two people remember the same event the same way. To me, that unreliability is incredibly lifelike, but I think it’s unnerving to people. I think it’s unnerving to the reader because fiction is supposed to be more organized than that. I think what I wanted to do with this [story] was destabilize that a little bit.”

The book embraces many of the most familiar aspects of the horror genre, but it also counts on its readers to possess a shared understanding of its common tropes and signifiers, and uses those assumptions to subvert many of their preexisting expectations.

“That was a decision,” Ward says. “To play [not just ] with the expectations of horror… but also with the snap conclusions people might come to about certain kinds of behavior or mental health conditions [or socio-economic indicators].”

The book’s narrative counts on its readers to feel as though they know what’s happening, that they’ve already guessed the twists ahead of them. And, as the story progresses, certain moments reinforce those assumptions. We’re afraid of Ted, because context clues say we should be, because our own knowledge of the world has shown us it’s often right to be suspicious of loner men who live in shabby, boarded up houses at the end of the lane.

And according to Ward, that unease is absolutely something she counted on her audience feeling. Because, although Needless Street has “no real factual content in the plot at all,” there are “echoes” of a real-life tragedy built into its bones, the kind that could certainly encourage readers to draw specific conclusions about the things they’re watching unfold.

“There are some deliberate reverberations that I set up with Ted in the beginning,” Ward explains.“He’s called Ted, and he lives in Washington state, near a lake where there had been a disappearance. I’m fascinated by the lake. Fascinated is the wrong word—I’m terrified, and the event that has quite a power over me is the Lake Sammamish Murders committed by Ted Bundy.”

In July of 1974, Bundy abducted and murdered two different women—Janice Ott and Denise Naslund—over the course of an afternoon at Lake Sammamish State Park. Despite the fact that thousands of people were at the lake that day, he walked up to each woman while they were with friends and introduced himself using his real name. Wearing a cast on his arm, Bundy asked the women for help. Each one walked away with him and was never seen again. Their remains were found on a neighboring hillside two months later, in such a state of decay that the local forensics team were driven to test the feces of local animals to help identify them.

“This is something that has made its way into my psychology and my imagination,” Ward says. “It’s an echo [in this story] because it’s such a landmark in my landscape of fear.”

The worst kinds of monsters, after all, are those that we can find evidence for in the real world.

“This absolutely horrifies me because what kind of world do we live in where someone can walk up to a woman in a group of friends, introduce himself by his name, and take her away and kill her in broad daylight?” she continues. “Twice in the same day. What kind of overpowering greed leads someone to need to do it twice in one day?”

For Ward, part of writing Needless Street necessarily involved processing “heartbreaking and often quite upsetting” things.

“It would be a bad book if I wasn’t afraid of it,” she says, explaining that there’s actually an important emotional element involved in telling and reading stories about our fears, of both the real and the fictional variety.

“I think horror doesn’t get enough credit as well for its redemptive qualities,” Ward continues. “The only reason I can write this stuff is because I’m afraid of it. And [there’s] actually a huge quality of empathy [involved] because what you’re saying to the reader is, ‘Here are my vulnerabilities. Here is what I’m afraid of. Are you afraid of it too?’ Then you’re forming this bond where you travel through the fear together.”

But, then again, by the time they reach the final page of Needless Street, readers’ ideas of what constitutes a horror story—and where precisely Ward’s book falls within the genre—may have changed. (And the author herself is well aware of that fact.)

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“It’s a very strange genre, horror. Again, I don’t even know if this book is horror,” Ward admits ruefully. “This book is wearing the disguise of horror. I hope it’s [really] about survival and hope as much as it is about suffering. I thought that was really important to make sure that [those things] come out, [that[ it has the light shining through the dark branches as it were.”

The Last House on Needless Street is out September 28th. Find out more here.

The post The Secrets That Lurk in The Last House on Needless Street appeared first on Den of Geek.

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fictionfromafar · 3 years

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The Foreign Girls

By Sergio Olguín

Translated by Miranda France Bitter Lemon Press

Random Things Tours – The Foreign Girls Blog Tour

My exploration of translated fiction has led me to some wonderful discoveries and Bitter Lemon Press’ series of Latin American crime fiction have certainly been a major part of this. I have thoroughly enjoyed publications from Cuba’s Leonardo Padura, Mexico’s Rolo Diez, Patricia Melo from Brazil and more recently Mercedes Rosende from Uruguay. There publications in my opinion are as accessible as Nordic Noir fiction to English language readers. Argentina in particular has some superb translations into English, such as Claudia Pineiro’s novels translated by Miranda France. Likewise Sergio Olguín’s “The Fragility of Bodies” released in 2019, also translated by France is as good a Latin American novel as I have read.

The latter introduced Buenos Aires based investigative journalist Veronica Rosenthal to English language readers with a very compelling and multilayered story focused on child exploitation. Thirty-year-old Rosenthal who is Jewish, proved herself to be feisty and headstrong with a determination to protect the vulnerable. Indeed, towards the novel’s climax she single-handedly saves her informant from four contracted assassins. With the story leaving a possible opening remaining to investigate the criminal connections to Argentine high society – perhaps even links to her father’s legal firm - I suspected this would be a theme of the subsequent novel. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised that Olguín took such a very different approach.

“Foreign Girls” sees a worn out and haunted Rosenthal taking a break from her job, friends and life in Buenos Aires as she flies out to San Miguel de Tucuman. Her destination is the unoccupied home of her cousin on the Cerro San Javier mountain. She relaxes for a week before planning to explore other areas within north west Argentina. For readers this should ordinarily provide us with an unexpected opportunity to get a taste of luxury and tranquility in a picturesque region of the country; had we not already have seen the foreboding prologue of emails between Rosenthal and her best friend back in the city. She encounters two European backpackers Frida from Norway and Petra from Italy. As they get along well together, they agree to spend some further time at her cousin’s cottage. Rosenthal is comfortable with their company but a little perplexed by the relationship between the two girls. Later to her surprise she has a romantic encounter with one of them; and to her further surprise, fully enjoys the experience. Her confused feelings eventually persuade her to take some distance from them.

In a separate parallel story, we also see trouble brewing for the journalist as the surviving hitman from the previous novel is assisted in escaping prison and is determined to extract vengeance upon her. Hearing of the man’s escape Rosenthal’s father dispatches Federico, a trusted junior member of his law firm who also happens to be in love with Rosenthal, to retrieve her in order to enable her personal safety.

In the meanwhile, Rosenthal and the girls travel to the nearby historic town of Yacanto del Valle where they meet up the cousin of her own cousin’s wife. Ramiro invites them to the party of a local landowner. She departs the party with him, leaving the girls there. The following morning, Rosenthal decides to continue her travels on her own. A few days later, the bodies of the two foreign girls are found in undergrowth with sacrificial offerings suggesting a Macumbra rite killing.

The deaths attract nationwide attention with the provincial prosecutor keen to secure a quick arrest. Dissatisfied with the lacklustre investigations of the police, and the competing rivalries between the prosecutor and judiciary; the grieving and guilt ridden Rosenthal vows to secure justice for her friends. Yet while unwittingly already in danger, her actions drive her into further trouble from vested interests within the local region.

Inspired by real events, Olguín explores the tragic theme of femicide in a country where one woman is killed on average every 32 hours. Through Rosenthal’s investigations we hear about other murders of young females, some aged as young as 15, from the Yacanto del Valle area. We meet a local girl from a humble background who lost her own sister in similar circumstances. The authorities lack of prioritisation of the investigation into these crimes is shown while we also learn that many of the victims were in the proximity of men from higher social classes. In the case of Rosenthal’s friends, Federico warns her that it would be much harder for her to get a conviction should wealthier culprits appear responsible of their murder. Therefore, the inequalities of the justice system, as well as corruption and protection of businesses interests and friendships are also displayed in a novel high on pertinent social issues. Femicide aside, these are also themes that are explored in “The Fragility of Bodies”, and this is more than a worth follow up exploring new territory.

“The Foreign Girls” can be read as a standalone novel. The required backstory on Rosenthal and Federico is provided through the prose. There is very little interaction with the other surviving characters of the first novel due to the countryside setting in this sequel. So you should not be deterred from reading this novel first. Despite some of the heavy subject nature, the story is for the most part action packed thriller as the key protagonist delves into her investigations never quite sure of where danger lurks or who shares her same intentions for justice. With great credit to translator Miranda France the words flow just as fluently as Jim Beam does for Veronica Rosenthal. Reading this book felt like being acquainted with an old friend. For myself as a male reader, I feel that Olguín through France’s translation captures the thought processes of his female lead protagonist in what I feel is a very realistic way. I feel it’s a novel that could have been as convincingly written by a female author as a male one.

Perhaps the one aspect lacking from “The Foreign Girls” is that there are less interweaving and concurrent stories in comparison to “The Fragility Of Bodies”. This is understandable for the second novel in a series when the key character has been established and uprouted to a different location. Olguín should be praised for a dramatic change of setting and tackling some social issues that are of prominent importance to his country. Aside from being entertained, a key purpose of international fiction is to learn about life in different cultures and there is much knowledge to be acquired in this series.

Overall “The Foreign Girls” is a very intelligent, compelling and socially conscious thriller set in provincial Argentina which will leave you longing for more stories of Veronica Rosenthal.

As the novel concludes, we leave her on route back to Buenos Aires. With one concluding novel left to be translated “No Hay Amores Felices” I am anticipating one final enthralling quest for justice on her return to the capital.

Preorder now:

Read my review of The Fragility of Bodies by Sergio Olguín here:

#crimeintranslation #crime fiction #latinamericancrimefiction #argentinefiction

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the-last-rat-standing · 7 years

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“What have you, Jane?”

(Sorry. Little inside joke there.)

I’m about 20,000 words into a story I have no idea who will read. LOL! It’s my AU of Jane and Maura in the Old West, crossed over with William Murdoch and Julia Ogden of ‘Murdoch Mysteries’. I think this might appeal to an audience of 3 people, with my wife being one of the 3. It has no title yet (I generally don’t come up with one until I’m finished), but I thought I’d post the first chapter for fun.

The cabin was quiet as dawn inched its way through the window. By noon, the Wyoming sun would force hats to be pushed back and handkerchiefs to mop brows, but for now, the night chill tried in vain to hold off the heat. It was doing a good enough job that Jane burrowed deeper under the covers to shield against the breeze blowing against her-

She bolted upright, and her hair and countenance were rewarded by a laugh from across the room. Scowling at both the response and the source of her unwarranted alarm, she said, “Why is the door open? What time is it?”

“Patches wanted out,” Maura replied. “And it’s-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jane flopped back into her pillow and pulled the blanket over her head. “Why are you up so early?” came the muffled question. “Come back to bed and warm me up.”

The combination of pitiful request and forceful demand drew out another laugh. “The Dromans are coming by this morning to get their teeth checked.” While her qualifications and her interests lay in medicine, as the town’s only doctor, the degree was often seen as a general knowledge in everything from dentistry to general health to autopsies. It had taken her some time to get used to the expectations, but after 6 years in Beybeck, it had become just another facet of the job. She dropped the egg in the pan and added, “And you told Barry you’d help him move his horses to Canyon Pass.”

Another groan from the bed. “I forgot.”

“Then, dinner with the Blacks.”

The groan slid into a whine. “How can I be so busy? The place has 1000 people.”

Maura laughed. “You have two things to do today. I think you’ll manage.”

Jane folded the edge of the blanket back so her eyes were showing. “I can think of one thing I’d like to do today.”

Tending to the egg, Maura didn’t notice the suggestive eyebrow. “Oh? What would that be?” When she received no response, she turned to the bed. “I see,” she said, her poorly veiled smirk undermining her stern tone. “You’re incorrigible. And your egg is ready.”

…..

They rode together until the fork in the road led Maura to go south towards Beybeck and Jane north to Barry Frost’s ranch. She enjoyed the ride in silence until the familiar house appeared in the distance. Her arrival caught the attention of a ranch hand who tipped his hat to her and shouted over his shoulder. Barry’s affable face appeared from behind him.

“Jane,” he said with a grin. “Only 20 minutes late. Everything okay between you and Dr. Isles?”

The ranch hand snickered and Jane glowered under the red blush that rose to her cheeks. “Frost, it’s been five years. You’re never not going to poke me about her, are you?”

He beamed. “Nope. She’s the only thing that makes your face turn that colour. I gotta play that card every chance I get.”

“Whatever,” she replied, though secretly, she was always grateful for his acceptance. Not all the townsfolk embraced her relationship with Maura as willingly, though most seemed to find a tolerable middle ground. Jane knew she’d never win over everyone, so she only focused on those who mattered most. Barry Frost was one of them. “We’re 20 minutes behind. Let’s go.”

…..

She had been sheriff for over 15 years, but sometimes. she wondered how things would be if she had gone a different route. Out in the open air, the sounds of animals and riders working in tandem, the gentle sway of the horse under her, broken every so often by a trot or short gallop. The trip had only taken a few hours there and back, and now she rested with her foot on the fence and her arms hanging over the top beam.

“You’d hate it.”

Jane spun at the voice. Frost sauntered up to the rail and mirrored her pose.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “The great outdoors, wind through your hair.” They both laughed, knowing his short cropped cut enjoyed none of that wind. “It’s not you, Jane. You were always cut out for something more than just this.” Seeing her frown, he quickly said, “I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with this; it’s an honest living and I love it. But you’ve got the law in your blood. You wouldn’t be you.”

They were silent for a brief moment before Jane blew out a snort. “Sakes alive, Frost, did Maura give you one of her philosophy books?”

“I’m just sayin’. Besides, you think it’s tough being a woman sheriff? Woman ranch owner is 10 times tougher.”

“Tougher than a black man being a ranch owner?”

A short laugh conceded her point. “I pay them well.”

“Speaking of payment,” she said, “I believe you told me you’d give me some of that whiskey you got sent in from Tennessee.”

He grinned. “That I did. Not too early?”

She tipped her hat back and looked into the sky. “It’s past noon. Just don’t tell Maura.”

…..

Her first stop back into Beybeck was the doctor’s small building that was nestled just off main street. After a stern word to her horse, Jane swung to the ground and gave a short rap on the door before walking in. The place hadn’t changed much since Maura had become the town doctor, though she had finally moved Phineas’ old desk, a year after he passed. She’d kept his chair though; she seemed to take comfort in having it close, as if he was still watching over her. As she always did, Jane touched her hat in the chair’s direction before turning to Maura. The doctor was holding up a glass tube.

“Is that… a tooth?” Jane grimaced.

“Yes,” Maura smiled. “The Dromans’ dog had a toothache. Fortunately, the rest of the family was fine.”

“That’s the dog’s tooth?”

“Yes. You never know when I might need to reference one.”

“I guess.” Jane stepped around the desk and lightly kissed Maura on the lips. “How was your morning? I mean, besides pulling a dog’s tooth?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Maura replied. “How was your whiskey?” She laughed at Jane’s expression at being caught out. “I might have to order some in. It’s sweeter than I thought.” She swayed and wiped her lips with her index finger.

“You’re a tease, Dr. Isles.” She kissed her again. “I’m on my way to the saloon to catch up on the gossip. Would you like to come with me?”

Maura shook her head. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Besides, everyone knows the best gossip is found at the general store.”

Jane bobbed her head in agreement. “That’s true. But all the new faces are at the saloon.” With faster migration to the west coast, trains came through Beybeck twice as often as they did 10 years ago. Some were just visiting, but many added to the town’s population over the years.

“You just want to assert your authority,” Maura teased.

Jane’s fingers found their way to Maura’s hips. “Work seems to be the only place I have authority these days.”

Outlining the silver star on Jane’s vest, Maura replied innocently, “I didn’t realize that was a problem… elsewhere.”

Jane’s cheeks burned and she looked away first, like she always did. “Not fair.”

Maura’s chuckle was seductive and free. “Go on,” she said with a kiss. “But no more whiskey.”

…..

Despite the swinging door, the saloon was cool, and Jane welcomed the change in temperature. She pulled the fabric away from her body as her eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. As she expected, there were a few unfamiliar faces at the bar, but for the most part, everything seemed in its right place, including the three at the corner table.

“Zeke, why do I always find you here?”

Ezekiel Black’s transition from a boy to a teen to a young man seemed to happen much quicker than the 22 years Jane had known him. She took some measure of pride in that development as well as his growth as a law man.

“This is where you find the best gossip, Sheriff,” he replied, much to the chagrin of the two men sitting with him.

Stubby Thompson grunted. “I take offense to that.”

An elegantly dressed man across the table said, “I believe the best gossip is at Matt Cooper’s.”

Jane grinned. “You’ll be happy to know Dr. Isles feels the same, Edward.”

The tailor bowed his head at winning the point.

“Sit for a few hands, Sheriff?” Stubby asked. “3-hand poker ain’t much of a game.”

Pulling up a chair, she said, “I think I can spare a few, at least until Frost shows up.”

Ten hands and a dollar down later, Jane flicked her eyes towards the door. “Zeke. Is that Mrs. Murphy?”

The entire table turned to look. The very idea of Ruth Murphy, Beybeck’s moral arbitrator, lurking near the saloon was enough to stop the game in mid-deal.

“That’s her hat,” Edward noted. “I made a dress to match.”

“She’s gone by three times,” Jane said.

“What the devil for?” Zeke asked.

Stubby opened his mouth to throw in a retort, but the sound of the swinging doors snapped his jaw shut. Every local in the room quickly turned and pulled their hats down. If she’d had any hesitation about coming into the saloon, the 50 year old didn’t show it once she stepped in. Her march was assured and her path was direct. In five short strides, she stood in front of Jane’s table.

“Sheriff.” It was a greeting, a statement and an admonishment all rolled into one.

Jane’s attempt to cover the cards and the whiskey was for naught. “Mrs. Murphy. What are you doing here?”

“I would ask the same, but that’s fairly obvious. Mr. Harrington,” she admonished.

The tailor had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Your visit, Mrs. Murphy?” Jane prompted.

“Yes, well, it’s something of a personal nature.”

A thought suddenly came to her. “Is Mr. Murphy okay?”

The older woman blinked. “What? Oh, yes. I realize my appearance here might evoke that kind of alarm, but he’s well.”

Jane blew out a sigh of relief. “Good. Would you like to go somewhere private?”

She looked around the room with a wrinkled nose. “As much as I object to this establishment, I suppose there’s no sense pretending news wouldn’t get out by morning regardless of where I share it.”

“End of day if you go to Cooper’s,” Stubby muttered, but was quickly stifled by Mrs. Murphy’s glare and a kick under the table from Jane.

“Mrs. Murphy,” Jane encouraged.

She took a deep breath. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a telegram and handed it to Jane. “My niece has gone missing. We’ve contacted the local authorities, but they’ve chosen to ignore our pleas.”

“Niece?” Zeke repeated. “We haven’t been told of any missing person, Mrs. Murphy.”

“Not in Beybeck, Zeke,” Jane said, scanning the telegram. “Toronto.”

Stubby frowned. “Toronto? Where’s that?”

“I think it’s that new settlement in Utah,” Zeke said.

Edward shook his head. “No. It’s a city in Canada.” All eyes turned to him. “I often get fabric sent from Chicago. News is, some of the best designs are coming from Toronto.”

“The secret lives of tailors,” Jane mused.

Zeke’s eyes grew wide. “Canada,” he whispered.

“Based on this, she hasn’t been heard from in over a week,” Jane said. “How do you know she’s missing?”

Mrs. Murphy scoffed. “She’s a devout young woman who is very dedicated to her studies. She would never just up and leave. She’s never once been in any sort of trouble.”

Not wanting to remind the woman that image didn’t always reflect in action, particularly with young people, Jane tried a different tact. “No boyfriends?”

“No.” She firmly shook her head. “I told you, she’s not that type of girl.”

“Is your sister in Toronto?” Zeke asked.

“Etobicoke.” Before anyone could ask, she said, “A short train from Toronto.”

Jane took in the information. “So what was-” she glanced at the paper, “Virginia doing there?”

Ruth sighed. “My sister allowed her to accept a placement in one of the Toronto hospitals. Against my better judgement, I might add.”

“Of course,” Jane replied. “So she wanted to be a nurse.”

“Yes.”

Jane was silent for a moment. “I don’t know how I can help you, Mrs. Murphy. I mean, I can contact the Toronto police, but I don’t know if they’ll listen to me any more than they did you.”

“I don’t want you to contact them.”

Jane’s eyes went from Zeke to Stubby to Edward then to Ruth. “I’m not sure what-”

“I want you to go to Toronto,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pardon?”

“It’s apparent they’ve simply ignored my telegrams, assuming I would just leave them alone, no doubt. You can force them to do something.”

“I can’t just-”

“I will pay all expenses, of course.” She clutched her purse. “I don’t have much, but I do have savings. Joseph has agreed.”

Jane waved her hands. “I’m not taking your money, Mrs. Murphy.”

“But you will take the case. Thank you, Sheriff.” She moved forward and lightly touched Jane’s shoulder, a rare display of affection. “Thank you, Jane.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open to object, but by the time the words came to her, Mrs. Murphy was gone, leaving a handful of admonishments and embarrassed men in her wake.

……

“Toronto!” Zeke said in amazement. “It’ll be like when you went to Paris! Maybe even better! Do you think it’s like Paris, Mr. Harrington?”

“I don’t know, Ezekiel,” Edward said. “I’ve never been to either.”

“Don’t know why anyone would want to leave Beybeck,” Stubby groused.

“Listen,” Jane said, finding her voice at last, “I’m not going to Toronto. I don’t even know where that is.”

“Canada,” Zeke supplied with youthful innocence.

She clenched her jaw and glowered. “I got that part, Zeke.” Deflated, she sat back in her seat. “How did this happen? I didn’t even agree to go, and now she thinks I’m going.”

Stubby barked out a laugh. “She doesn’t think you’re going, Sheriff. She’s making you go.”

“You’ll have to take the train to Chicago and switch from there,” Edward said. “Do you think you could pick up some fabric on the way back?”

Seeing his poorly concealed smirk, she humourlessly replied, “Ha ha. I’m not going.”

“I’ll bet today’s winnings that you are, Sheriff,” Stubby wagered.

She stood and adjusted her hat. “The only place I’m going is to your house,” she said, directing her comment at Zeke. “Your mother invited me and Maura. Don’t you say a word about this. To either of them. Though knowing these two,” she wagged her finger at Stubby and Edward, “you won’t have to.”

The two men claimed their innocence, but neither could disguise their laughter as Jane stomped out of the saloon.

.....

#possum #rizzles #rizzoli and isles #murdoch mysteries #fan fiction #au fanfiction

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goldenscript · 7 years

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sad machines.

pairing: jung hoseok | reader genre: fluff, angst word count: 4,977 description: it’s the late night conversations that capture you. the enigmatic jung hoseok, rumored troublemaker and across the street neighbor, doesn’t depend on anyone else to lay waste his heartaches to but you. author’s note: based on didrick’s cover of the song, ”sad machines” by porter robinson. you can listen to it here! and this unwavering idea based on my neighbors who are nocturnal creatures that stay up into late, ungodly hours like myself.

“I don’t know much about your life beyond these walls The fleeting sense of love within these God-forsaken halls”

Jung Hoseok and the rest of his family took occupancy in the house across from yours after the previous owners decided it was time for a new venue. You didn’t complain considering they were always loud, annoying prepubescent kids blasting music and disrupting everyone else with songs and dances that seemed way too simple to you and complex for them to figure out. But within moments, you found that you were not particularly fond of the aforementioned either.

He’s loud, obnoxious, and very like the previous neighbors, who blasted their music from their garage a few million times for god only knows why, does exactly that until it’s late into the night and everyone else is supposed to be fast asleep. He often revs his engine with a wicked grin plastered on his features like an award-winning medal, especially when others voiced their complaints about it like it’s enjoyable to cause others frustration.

Of course, you’re among the few, growing the most flustered as you study up on formulas and vocabulary words meant to solidify your ticket out of a place that was far enough from this cursed place and close enough to be on call as per usual. It’s the life of the family person.

If there was someone your friend, mother, younger sibling could depend on, it’s you. You’re the one who will answer the call or the text, acquiesce, and do what you can to help at the best of your abilities, often doing your damn hard to make it possible because that’s just how you are. You can’t ever remember a time before this, and maybe this is how life has always been. Just a helping hand for those who need it.

You’ve daydreamed countless scenarios in which you go to a university nearby, finding your own little niche and acquiring more knowledge about your field with an open mind and heart until you’re able to work a normal job, send money to the family, and finally live for yourself. That’s all you want. To be free of this incessant need to be the one dependable so maybe you can sustain yourself for once. It’s weird to think that you can’t do this, but you know all too well that you’ve lived in a comfortable bubble for far too long, too wordless to free yourself because you’re not ready.

All you can think about that day is the fact that there’s a head throbbing mix of an engine and hip-hop music you can’t find yourself wrapping your head around because goddammit you want to get through this stupid book so you won’t fail and become your worst fear.

That day you storm over to his garage, fingers curled into fists at either sides of you, lurking at the sidewalk for a moment until you’re at the entrance of the open garage where you’re greeted with loud rap music, a running engine, and now a pair of dark eyes from the very perpetrator enacting all these noisy distractions, you’re almost struck by how attractive he is at first glance.

With a dark mop of locks that are brushed away from his forehead, slick with perspiration, high cheekbones flushed from the mild heat and the increasing humidity of the garage, and in merely a tank-top and a pair of basketball shorts, showing off his lean-built body, you’re most surprised when you don’t see the traces of malicious contempt that others in the neighbor have place upon him. The only thing you see is a boy that’s being way too loud while you’re doing important things, and an unnerving stare he’s aiming in your exact direction. All the while a smirk curves on his godforsaken pink lips that have a biting remark waiting to get released, you just know it.

“Do you mind keeping it down?” You ask, raising a brow at him while your hands remain firmly planted on the swells of your hips.

He respond with a shrug, “I dunno, princess. It kind of messes with the ambiance if I try to accommodate for just you.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, growing more irritated at the nickname than anything else, “Really now?”

He grabs a towel off to the side, wrapping it around his neck to collect the droplets already meeting the collar of his top.

“Yes,” He nodded, gesturing to the stereo that blares some Chance the Rapper song, “This is to motivate me to keep going, and this,” He moves to his running engine, “tells me if I’m fixing up my baby correctly.”

He lets out a deep sigh, “As you can see these things are very key components in getting in fulfilling this project you see? I’ll stop when I’m done. I promise.”

You want to open your mouth with some kind of biting retort, much like the one he gave you, but you fall short. All you can do is shut your mouth and find that the blood boiling beneath your skin has become stagnant. Like many times before this, when you’ve confronted others for their mistakes, you can’t bring yourself to further the confrontation.

After all, you couldn’t really argue with that response considering he just said he’d lower it when he was done (whenever that was), and although you want to do so just out of the current state of irritation you’re in, it really isn’t part of your nature to have a full blown argument over something as trivial as this. It obviously wouldn’t stop him whether you continued to complain so you let out a deep sigh, nodding before turning to leave.

As you make your way back to your home that’s merely a few meters away in the mild mid-August heat, you can hear a set of sharp-toned yells emitting from within the Jung’s home that was met only with an increased volume of the stereo.

You turn to look over your shoulder without really thinking until you lock eyes with Hoseok, who was sporting a thin line on his lips until he caught you. He suddenly waves, sending a wink in your direction before turning his back to you in favor his car and you return back to your house where calculus homework and William Shakespeare’s Hamlet awaits you.

Though you can’t seem to get that dark-haired boy out of your mind or the brief yells that came from his house.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that the houses within the neighborhood are cursed with close-knit spaces and thin walls, means hearing what Mr. Sanchez playing his trombone or Miss Lee shouting at her kids to hurry up from down the street wasn’t the most uncommon sound to wake up to everyday. However, it also means hearing the arguments from the Jung’s.

At first, you paid no mind to the dull hum of shouts emitting from the thin walls, but it became more apparent to you that it was not going to cease and that it was, in fact, coming from Hoseok’s home.

It felt weird to hear another argue from so far away. You’ve suffered through your fair share between your mother and her boyfriend whenever bills came into question, but you never thought of others and if they were arguing. Your only fear was them hearing your house’s shrill quips and shouts that seemed to last ages until they were calm enough to resolve through stresses. Perhaps that’s why you stared at the Jung’s from your front side window, watching as the lights were still on even at 1 AM.

It’s a Sunday night, and everyone else in your house is fast asleep as you lie awake with brows knitted and taut high upon your forehead.

You don’t want to admit you’re concerned for the irksome boy, but you feel pity for his younger sister, who took a liking to you soon after they moved in during the hot, late July. She’s a sweetheart you’ve tutored at the local middle school for your school’s community service requirement, and you adore her for trying so damn hard at math. She doesn’t talk much with the other peer tutors, but you seem to offer her a genuine comfort among the superficial smiles that are only there to get hours. At least with you she knows you care.

Because you do.

Despite needing it only to graduate, you enjoy your time with the middle schoolers, finding most of them pretty endearing whenever they chat away about their excitement of next weekend’s hangouts and gossiping about school life. There’s an innocence to them that reminds you of your own childhood albeit yours was not quite as exciting as theirs- you just love to see them smile without the stresses you faced as a kid transitioning from one city to this one without any familiar face.

You were lonely as kid, but nowadays you enjoy the solitude. Jiwoo often chats with you about feeling the same way whenever you’re both at a standstill in mathematics. She has a way of conveying her emotions through words, especially the small tangents she gets into that you find yourself sucked into until it’s time to move onto another subject or it’s break time. For a girl who’s barely going through puberty, she’s had to grow up awfully quick just for the sake of her family, and as you listen to her talk about how she feels and how lonely life gets, you can’t help but empathize with her better than most people you know in your high school. Maybe that’s why you’ve grown attached to her.

Sometimes you walk her home or invite her over, and she’s happy to have a surrogate older sister which warms your heart.

Of course, you’re always glad to help.

With a resigned sigh, you’re about to fall asleep with these floats about Jiwoo and Hoseok floating around your mind when you remember your mom asked you to take out the garbage before the following day when the collectors come by for its contents. It’s surely less than sixty degrees out, but you’d rather not stress your mother out on the trash when she’s been going on about the utilities. So you quickly shove off the warmth of your comforter, shrugging on a nearby sweatshirt and your shoes when your downstairs for the biting cold. It meets you as soon as the sliding door’s open, eliciting a momentary chill to invade your system until you’ve settled your limbs and made moves toward the dark green bin, grabbing hold of it whilst lugging it toward the now-open fence and settling it by the curb.

It’s somewhat still on the street until you find your eyes wandering across the street at the still-lit house where faint shouts intermingle with the chilled air. You stay there for a moment, zoning out in fatigue and thought when there’s a slam of a door that jolts you onto the street.

You shake your head, seeing a faint, familiar outline of Hoseok as he slams the door behind him and settles onto the curb without having noticing you standing less than three meters away.

You debate on going inside and leaving him alone, but the nurturing side of yours that wins out against all arguments -you have school tomorrow, he probably wants to be left alone, etc…- renders any niggle of a doubt moot.

All by a simple, So what?

“You okay?” You ask, cupping around your sweater-covered palms.

Your eyes squint against the orange-tinged street lights as he looks up at you in surprise. His eyes are wide and his lips parted in a small ‘o’ before he shakes his head.

You don’t hide your surprise that he admits to his emotions as you drop your hands to your sides, but you can’t blame him considering it’s one in the morning. This is the time in which emotions run high and the fatigue that runs through your bones break down the guards that protect inner desires and emotions. Sometimes you wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that since we’re like the stars, we’re ourselves in the night when everything down below stills.

Whatever the reason is, you ask, “You wanna talk about it?”

It’s a silly question, but you’ve found that many people tend to forget that asking still helps. You’re not nosy about what went on and what was said in the Jung residence. No, you just want him to be okay. For Jiwoo to be okay too.

He blinks at you, eyes narrowing into a squint for a split second until he turns back to his house with an expression you can’t read from where you are. You wait anyway.

Until he meets your eyes once more and replies, “I wanna get away from here first.”

When you ask if he knows where he wants to go, he shrugs so you say, “Well, I think I know a place. Lemme grab my house key and we can go.”

He nods, watching as you go and return through the front door, walking over to you as you both make a trek toward a nearby park. It’s not too far but it’s far enough to both your likings when you’re settled on the swing set, stuck in a still silence that settled between the two of you since the start of the journey.

You open your mouth to speak again but he beats you to the punch, glancing at the wood chips that cover the ground: “I want to get away from here. This town… It’s stupid, moving places after so damn long and for what? For a new town, a new school, a new job? I hate it here. I hate feeling stuck in a place where I know I don’t belong with people that don’t understand me just because I’m either ‘too troublesome’ or ‘too sensitive.’ It’s bullshit. I- I-”

He releases a sigh and grows silent soon afterwards. His eyes now turning to you.

“I’m sorry to dump this on you. I’m sorry you had to hear my parents argue. Shit, I’m just sorry and I don’t even know why exactly. I just am.”

You shake your head and reply, “It’s fine. Really, I think it’s okay to just let everything out. Just let it out with me. I can’t offer you a ticket out of here, I’m working on that one for myself, but I can I offer a great listener- any time of the night, you name it, Hoseok.”

He raises a brow at you, his lips curving into a small smile, “Really? You mean that, princess?”

“Yes,” You roll your eyes, “Talk my ear off, Jung. Might as well. What’s there to lose anyway?”

“You could tell other people at school that I’m a basketcase,” He shoots with a meager glare that fall shorts with the twitch of his lips beginning to widen.

You retort, “That requires knowing people enough to actually talk to them.”

He lets out a laugh, nodding as he continues, “Alright, alright. No need to diss yourself, princess. But y’know what? Fuck it, here it goes-”

Jung Hoseok, rumored bad boy, has a tale that surpasses frivolity. He aches for a calling in life that goes beyond academics. He knows all too well that his passions lie with the rhythmic beats of music that awaken his joints and fire up a passion that’s more than just a side hobby. It’s more than just something done in passing, and no matter how much he wants to break free from the comfort of his life now… he’s scared.

He fears the worst of what may come because dreams are in places where the unknown surrounds it in heavily veiled fog, cloaked with a spell to seem unattainable and damn near impossible without a semblance of knowing what may come. He doesn’t know what may happen for his future and graduation will come in a few months. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when the time comes to collect his diploma. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it up to his dreams if he tries to follow his parents. He just… he doesn’t know, and that’s the scariest part of it all.

And among the problems that seem to stand hand in hand with home, you listen diligently, watching as he goes on and nod in times where he stops short just to check if you’re not zoning out on him though you’re sure he would’ve just pushed you over if you were falling asleep.

You watch as his chest heaves after a long pause between his huge tangent that never seemed to cease until he admits his fears, one you can relate to from your many encounters of existential crises that liked to pop in and say hello once in awhile. You tilt your head at him, “Better?”

He nods, “Much. Thanks, princess.”

A half-smile curves on your lips, “Good, I’m glad.”

The first night becomes a second and then a third and then a fourth then a fifth, sixth, seventh…

“I don’t belong here. I want to leave.”

“I just wanna get away. Find my place somewhere nice.”

There are nights where it’s below thirty degrees, and although you’re wondering why you both don’t ever opt for a warmer option, he comes prepared with an extra blanket to share as he goes on one of his tangents about family life.

“How do you feel about the future, princess?”

“The future itself is never certain. When you’re a high school senior, it feels as though the world’s against you when the only thing you know how and what to do seems to be your only option. It feels suffocating to imagine a life that is only limited to the choices you see in front of you, but it’s nice to have a friend that’s right by your side to listen to those heartaches.” Maybe suffer through a few of their own. I’ll be there, you can depend on me.”

It’s a night where the air bites at your nose, leaving you with an array of chills to decorate the skin with gooseflesh. You feel it seep through the sweater and jacket you’ve thrown on. While a shiver racks your body, you begin to wonder why you let the meeting place be outside. There’s a coffee house not that far off or even the comfort of your garage. All a symbol of security and warmth- both of which you’re lacking as you sit on the foreboding swingset at two in the morning.

And somehow you became exactly that for Jung Hoseok.

He never admits it, but you know that you’re a beacon of light in the darkness that is his life. He calls you at unforgivable hours with apologies on his tongue and hushed laughter when you whine in response to being woken up, but nevertheless, you are there for him when he needs someone the most.

He’s never had someone so willing to help him, and you’ve always been that person to many people. It’s him who is a particular case that you can never seem to rid your mind of. Sometimes you’ll ask him how he is on a random day, watch his window from yours, waiting to see a flash of light as he responds to your message; other times you like to call him, hearing his husky voice try to remain quiet as best as it can despite how easily a small joke can tip him over into fits of laughters that are sometimes halted by Jiwoo and her adamants pleas for her older brother to shut his trap.

You’ll laugh at his expense, only feigning innocence when he accuses you of getting him into trouble. You’ll apologize if he gets pouty with you.

It’s odd how easily a few nights of late night talks about the world and all its follies can turn two strangers into remnants of what could be considered best friends.

But you have no qualms to the comfort that Hoseok offers you.

In fact, you relish in his warmth and security, because unwittingly, he has become your own beacon of light.

He distracts you from home life and all its taxing responsibilities, giving you a sense of motivation that keeps you going without wearing you down like many day have once felt before. You feel like you’ll survive another day in this godforsaken town, and that’s more than enough to make you see him as more than just a person, more than just a guy.

He’s Hoseok.

Your rock.

“What’s goin’ on you with, princess? Any stresses to let loose on me?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Positive… I’m good. Now what’s up with you?” Boy do I wish I could tell you…

Not that you’d admit it.

Time is slipping away.

You can feel it, because before you can blink it’s January.

That means a few more months until it’s time for exam season, then graduation. You won’t have plans with friends for the summer, only plans to babysit and take care of the responsibilities at home that your mother often needs a helping hand in. It’s your calling, your duty, and even though you can’t seem to breathe knowing that as soon as you return back to school, you’ll be piled with more assignments and projects about frivolous subjects that can’t seem to matter outside of academic walls (seriously William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar - you’re drowning with this guy; et tu?) you’re still sneaking away from your house to meet up with Hoseok.

It’s only 1:31 AM, but you can see your breath in billowing clouds as you exhale, waiting for the dark-haired boy to make his way back to you.

He peeks from the door, slowly closing it behind him before he jogs over to you with a smile curving on his lips.

His eyes are bright even under the orange streetlights, simulating the sun’s bright rays rising from the dark grounds to illuminate the rest of the world. You feel warm though the slight shiver that wracks your forearms might say otherwise.

“What has you so smiley?” You ask with a tilt of your head.

He winks, “I’ll tell you at the swings. Let’s go!”

You two rush toward the swings, your limbs carrying you to the cool, plastic material. A squeal elicits your lips as soon as Hoseok’s hands make contact with your hips, moving you from your target to the opposite side of the swing. His touch lingers on one hip while the other hand is on your lips.

“Shush! You’re gonna wake the whole neighborhood, princess.” He plots down on the seat. “I win.”

You scowl, slapping his hand away before trudging toward the other swing. “Cheater.”

“All’s fair in love and war~” He replies in a singsongy voice which you cringe in response.

“You’re gonna kill birds with that singing voice, Hobie.” You deadpan, only dropping the resolve to snicker at the feigned hurt on his features. “Kidding~”

“Whatever, maybe I shouldn’t tell you my good news then.” He huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. He looks like a child, but you can’t help but pout, grabbing hold of his firm arm.

“Tell me! I wanna know what’s got you so happy.”

“Do you really wanna know?” He says, raising a brow at you from his position.

“Yes, Hobie. I do!”

“Well… remember how I said I wanted to get away?”

You nod, feeling an odd sensation build up in your gut. It’s happiness, uncertainty, and sadness mixed around.

“Well, my friend Yoongi said he could take me in. We’d be able to work on our music together. Can you believe it?” He’s grinning like he’s won the lottery, but you’re sure that this is the closest feeling to winning the lottery that he’s ever felt, and you feel your own bout of happiness and another indiscernible emotion intermingle.

But of course, you plaster a huge smile on your lips and respond, “That’s great! I’m so happy for you, holy shit…”

You blink for a second and ask, “Wait, when are you leaving?”

“In a few weeks…”

“What about Jiwoo?”

He scratches the back of his head, his lips fading into a slight line before he finds enough courage to meet your eyes. “About that…” He sighs, “I know it’s selfish to leave, but I talked to her about it. She knows how much it means to me, how much I need to get away, because unlike her, at least our parents don’t hate her. They don’t stress over her. They don’t scold her or get on her ass for not being on honor roll and pursuing ‘some stupid music thing…’ I-”

There’s a pause, and although the hand you held on his arm hasn’t left, you give him a squeeze and nod on for him to continue, muttering an “It’s okay… keep going.”

He continues, “I need this, princess. I need it so goddamn bad.”

“Do it.” You say immediately.

His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Well, I can’t stop you even if I tried. And I’m just happy to see you happy.”

His ear-splitting grin splays on his lips and his arm grasps the arm you’ve had on him, giving you a tug and bringing your body against his. He squeezes your torso tightly, resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s so gloriously warm now. Not the fake warmth that spread inside, but now it’s travelled between the outside and in, filling you to the brim with emotions you want to stave off more than ever.

“I was actually a lil’ nervous to tell you, princess.” His voice is low.

“Scared I’d try to tell you to stay?”

“No…” You feel him shake his head. “Was scared to see your reaction. I didn’t wanna see you cry or somethin’.”

“Pfft, you’ll cry after you leave me. Watch.”

You can feel him grinning, squeezing you a little tighter. “If I do, promise it’ll be our little secret alright?”

Squeezing him back, you nod, “Whatever you say, Hobie.”

When he leaves, no one else really bats an eyelash.

But you know he’s gone.

You know it so damn well, you can feel the emptiness without him or his stupid revved engine or his too-loud music blasting from his garage stereo. You know it in the way he would leave his blinds open just for you to see if he was up. You know it in the way he would call you out at 1 AM just to talk about anything and everything. But most of all, you know it in the way your heart feels like it’s missing a piece.

You push on. Only because you have to.

School doesn’t wait for those who aren’t part of it. Nor does life. You can’t say your life stopped when he left, but you can certainly say that your life is back to the ways before he was in it, back when you’re stuck in the monotonous bubbles of school, homework, house chores, and the other wonders that are meant to build your character a s young adult.

You’re back to a life where the only joy you get is listening to your middle schoolers talk about their social lives. It’s that life. That life in which everyone else runs you dry of your assistance and still expects more.

One would think that maybe Hoseok did the same before he left you, but it’s not like that at all. You never thought you could depend on another person; after all, you’re self-reliant, responsible, and perfectly capable, but with so much time spent with a boy who was considered a rebel, a delinquent, and a bad boy, you see more than meets the eye.

You see him for a boy who needed someone when he was alone. Someone who needed a pillar, a support, a rock.

You see him as someone you could depend on because even in the worst of days, he could pull your mood back to top order with a mere carefree grin, a tug of your wrist, and a destination neither of you could pinpoint until you were right there venturing and forgetting what had you so fucked over.

The tears that slip past the corner of your eyes feel all too sudden, but you feel the onslaught of overwhelming thoughts. They do not relent.

SAT scores, college applications, jobs, future, projects, assignments, adulthood, responsibilities, repeat. Hoseok. Where are you? God, I miss you.

It’s lunchtime now. Just midday.

You suppose it can’t be helped when it’s been like this for as long as you could remember that late January day. That was at least two months ago. Now it’s almost May.

God, you can’t breathe.

Without thinking, your own limbs act on their own accord. You don’t remember getting into your car, but you do and you’re driving away, ignoring the stares sent your way as you fly out of the parking lot and into a secluded parking lot in juncture between the town and the city. Your fingers tap on your plastic cellphone- a number you’ve memorized without meaning to.

You take a leap of faith in that moment, not thinking about whether he answers or not, but you hope to God he will.

Please please please. You beg until there’s no longer the monotonous rhythm of the dial tone and instead it’s the sound of his voice laced with its usual roughness-

“Princess, this is a first. What’s up?”

You can’t tell if the traces of huskiness are from just waking and you’re convinced that you don’t care anymore. You just want to see him.

You need to.

“There’s a first for everything… Can we meet?”

“I’ll depend on you”

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