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blossom-hwa · 3 years

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Light the Pyres |Rise| - SUNGYOON

Sungyoon + mc finally start getting their shit together I'm gonna scream

Pairing: Sungyoon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, bits of fluff, apocalypse!au

Triggers: cursing, implied death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 4.6k

As the world burns its last goodbyes, you find a jewel amidst the ashes.

Previous: Light >> Rise >> Next: Burn

Golden Child Masterlist

Walking with Sungyoon is slow.

It isn’t like you expected anything more, considering the injured leg and all. Still, as you start off down the highway, you can’t help but feel like he was walking faster yesterday when you two came back to find his family.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Worry. Fear for loved ones can give you a lot of strength.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

You try not to show it. You’re the one who offered to let Sungyoon come, after all. He even raised the issue of his leg before agreeing. But impatience rears its ugly little head every time Sungyoon falls behind, forcing you to slow your steps down never-ending streets and highways until he ultimately needs a break and you sit in what miniscule shade you can find.

If it wasn’t so silent, you might be able to stomach the walk better. Maybe if you and Sungyoon were on good enough terms to have a conversation, walking wouldn’t feel so endless and slow. But after you gave each other your names that night in the house, there hasn’t been much conversation other than “break?” and “let’s go.”

Daeyeol was quiet, but in a comfortable way, in a way you’d known for two decades. Sungyoon has a reserved quietude about him. Definitely not comfortable.

Though given the circumstances under which you met, that isn’t surprising.

Which is why you don’t expect Sungyoon to bring up the issue and not you. You always figured at some point you’d explode from keeping quiet too much and say things you couldn’t take back, but one week after you leave, Sungyoon opens his mouth and starts talking instead of eating the granola bar you put in his hand.

“Are you tired of walking with me?”

You blink once. Twice. You still have the presence of mind to be thankful you just took a mouthful of granola bar and have to chew and swallow before you say a thing.

“No,” you reply, lying through bits of granola stuck in your teeth.

Sungyoon raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Really.”

Indignation rises in your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say?” you snap. “Why are you even asking? What does it matter?”

He looks down. Shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, voice smaller and suddenly very tired. “I would’ve gotten tired in your position. I’m sorry.”

That just ups the guilt you feel for having those stupid thoughts. “Why are you sorry?” you say harshly, trying to disguise the emotion threatening to spill out of your mouth. “Last time I checked, doing whatever you did to your leg wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t land properly.”

“I was the one who told you to jump.” You grimace at the memory. “So unless you had practice in jumping off fucking buses before this all happened, I don’t see how that’s supposed to change the fact that you couldn’t control your jump from a bus taller than you.”

“I’m still slowing you down,” Sungyoon argues.

“What is this, a competition of who’s done worse?” You scoff. “In that case, if you didn’t remember, I forced you to choose between leaving your family or me killing them.”

Your words are acerbic. Grating. They burn guilty on your lips and tongue and you’re surprised Sungyoon doesn’t do anything more than swallow and look away, teeth worrying his lips. “They were already dead.”

Bitterness. Resentment. Not a lot, but just enough to tinge his words with a sickly venom that eats into your skin, filling your throat with bile. He doesn’t believe that, not yet, which you can’t even blame because you’re still trying to convince yourself it isn’t his fault that Daeyeol is dead.

Oh, God. Daeyeol.

Two bites of granola bar churn in your stomach. “I killed them anyway,” you manage, trying not to hurl.

“But I got Daeyeol killed.” Sungyoon turns, his eyes burning into yours.

Your fingers crush the remains of the granola bar still in your hand. Bits fall onto the ground, but you’re too busy focusing on a point in the distance to care, avoiding Sungyoon’s gaze for fear that you’ll launch yourself at him, claw his eyes out, throw him against the tree he’s sitting under –

Oh.

You stop throttling the granola bar.

This must be how he feels about you, too.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe it.” Sungyoon’s voice, oblivious to your whirlwind of thoughts, is soft, bitter, but understanding. “Remember? The only reason I’m still here is because I’m living on his time.”

Bile stings in your throat, but you force yourself to lock eyes with him once more. “Yeah,” you croak. “Yeah. I do kind of believe it. But you also believe I killed your sister and her boyfriend, even if you keep saying they were already dead before I did it.”

His jaw tightens. Gaze shifts. But Sungyoon doesn’t argue.

You sigh. “I know the facts and I know it isn’t your fault, Sungyoon.” His name sounds weird on your tongue, but you push away the strange feeling and continue. “My brain just doesn’t want to believe it. Yet.” You swallow, hard. These next words better convey sincerity. “I don’t mean to act like your life only matters because Daeyeol sacrificed himself for us. It doesn’t. I do want you to stay alive if only for you to keep living. It’s just…” Another sigh. “I’m sorry.”

The truth doesn’t fall too flat, at least.

“Mine doesn’t either.” Sungyoon doesn’t raise his head, but one hand goes up to rub his downcast eyes. You fight the urge to tell him not to, that the dirt from his skin might cause an infection. “I would’ve had to kill them, one way or another. You just did it for me. Inevitable.” He looks up. “I shouldn’t blame you. I’m trying not to. Maybe I shouldn’t even have brought it up, I just didn’t want this to keep… festering.” He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies.” You wrap up the remains of your granola bar, too drained to contemplate another bite even though you probably need it. “No more guilt. I think we’ve both done enough shit to each other to cancel most of it out.” And it feels weird. “Also, just because I’m impatient about you walking slowly doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you behind. I asked you to come. I’m not an absolute shithead. When you walk it off, you’ll be fine. Maybe we can find some bikes or something in the next city. I don’t know.”

Sungyoon blinks, then nods. Silence falls, a little less tension-filled than before. Then –

“I used to run track.”

You blink, trying to register his five word statement. It feels so out of place, but then you remember you were talking about going faster. “Were you any good?”

A brief glint of pride flashes in Sungyoon’s eyes. “One of the best.”

“Well, track boy, I guess we’ll have to wait until a horde finds us to verify that statement.” Your lips almost curve, and you feel a small bit of satisfaction as Sungyoon’s mouth twitches similarly. Morbid humor. Maybe that’s something you, him and Daeyeol have in common. “Go to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

He sleeps, then, more quietly than you’ve ever seen him. And as his breaths begin to even, there’s a hint of the peace you used to feel when it was just you and Daeyeol instead.

It lets you pretend that things aren’t really as bad as they seem.

. . . . .

And things aren’t too bad, at least not for a while. Limping along, you and Sungyoon make it through a second week and then a third without ripping out each other’s throats. There are still infuriating flashes of fury and anger when Sungyoon does or says something that reminds you a little too much of Daeyeol, and sometimes you catch him glancing over with lips pressed together, eyes torn in grief. But it lessens. A little. Two weeks after that initial conversation, you find Sungyoon almost pleasant company. On some days, you even consider taking out the almost.

Until the horde attacks.

You and Sungyoon manage to run fast, to lose most of the zombies in a maze of abandoned buildings in a dusty city. The last few you shoot dead. When that’s over, you both breathe a sigh of relief.

Then Sungyoon faints, of all things, and when you finally drag him into one of the empty houses nearby and get him to come to, he can’t put weight on his leg without collapsing on the floor. The skin is tight, the limb swollen. Running that fast on whatever injury he had made it much worse.

Fuck.

Your hands aren’t those of a doctor, not even those of a biology major. All you can do is manipulate machines, not blood flow or heartbeats. Yours is dangerously high as you step close enough to touch his leg with trembling fingers, feeling the swelling flesh beneath your skin.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Sungyoon says when you remain silent, dropping your hands from his prone body. His voice is weak with pain but strong in anger, though whether it’s anger at you or something else you aren’t sure. “Maybe a bigger fracture.”

“How do you know?”

“Got a few injuries running track.”

You swallow. “How… how long?”

“Probably a few weeks.” He looks down.

Weeks. Several weeks. It took around two months for you and Daeyeol to make it two thirds across the country, and part of the way you were driving. On Sungyoon’s leg, you’ve only gone a third of the remaining third, if you’re being generous. Probably more like a quarter.

Three quarters of a third left. You may not have been in a math class in months, but you can still calculate that you have a quarter of the whole way to go.

A quarter. A whole damn quarter. Two or three weeks would cut that down at least by a third. A half if you moved fast enough. But now you’re stuck here for that amount of time, waiting for Sungyoon’s leg to heal.

He doesn’t say anything when you walk out of the room, doesn’t call you back when you disappear into the hall and close the door and put your head against the wall and scream, silent, as pressure builds behind your eyes to signal tears you won’t let fall.

Sungyoon definitely hears when you kick the wall. He also definitely hears your muffled grunt of pain, judging by the look he gives your foot when you walk back into the room, trying to keep the emotions off your face.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, putting your bag down with as little force as you can in the corner. “Need anything?”

He shakes his head. Swallows around what looks like a dry throat. You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and take a half empty bottle of water out of the bag, tossing it over. He catches it easily. “Don’t lie to me,” you say, successfully keeping a bite out of your tone. “If you’re thirsty, you’re thirsty. No sense in hiding it.”

Behind the bottle, Sungyoon nods. The plastic crinkles slightly in the silence as you turn back to the bag, staring at the dwindling mess left inside. Some more granola bars, two full bottles of water, a few empty bottles, clothes and a couple sheets. Sungyoon’s pack probably doesn’t have much more.

You sigh. One of you is going to have to go out and hunt for supplies and with Sungyoon’s fractured leg, it’s clear which one has to go.

There are zombies lurking everywhere. The bullets in your gun are the only ones you have left. You need ammunition, food, and water, and you have no idea where to find it.

Great.

The sun is still in the sky when you look out the window. There are three, maybe four hours left before sundown, which gives you a little time to at least scope out the neighborhood you’ve ended up in. “I’m going out,” you say, standing up. “If I’m not back in three hours, assume I’m fucked. Stay here.”

“And if you are fucked?”

The way Sungyoon says it simultaneously makes want to smile but also want to punch him in the face. Humor. It always seems to come back when you’re at your lowest points. “Then you’re fucked,” you say as flippantly as possible. “At least you have one water bottle and a granola bar to see you through a day or two.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d say you hear Sungyoon snort as you leave the room. Though it was probably just the creaking door.

. . . . .

According to your watch, you come back two hours later with several bottles of water, a scraped leg, and two less bullets in your gun. “No food or ammunition, though there’s a cafeteria where I found some water,” you announce, wincing as you sit on the floor. “And zombies are still everywhere.”

“How do you think they find us?” Sungyoon asks, disconcertedly looking at the blood you’ve started dabbing off your leg. “And how did you get that?”

You pause, a strip of sheet pressed to your skin. “I… don’t know,” you admit. “I feel like they probably can’t see very well given their weird eyes and the fact that they still bump into buildings when trying to get at us. Hearing or smell?” You shrug, pouring a tiny bit of water onto the sheet. “And I got this running away from a group. Lucky they don’t move too fast or I wouldn’t have gotten back.”

“How many bullets left?”

“Ten.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath.

“Yeah.” You glare at your gun, as though staring will somehow bring the two bullets back. “Might need to find some other sort of weapon.”

And transport. Like a bike or a car that miraculously still has enough fuel for you to hotwire. Though that’s secondary, considering you’re stuck here until further notice.

Silence falls as you finish cleaning your wound, wrapping it behind a strip of sheet with a sigh. “Hungry?”

He doesn’t answer. You frown. “Sungyoon?”

“You could go on. Alone.”

Your lips thin. Plastic crinkles in your grip. Just in time, you drop the water bottle in your hand before it explodes over the ground. “Hungry?” you ask again, voice choking.

Sungyoon doesn’t answer.

“Okay.” It takes all of your effort not to scream or shout or shake as you place a granola bar on the floor within his reach, along with a new bottle of water to replace the empty one sitting by his feet. “I’m going to take a nap. Say something if you need anything.”

He doesn’t say anything as you curl up on the floor, resting your head on your backpack. He doesn’t say anything as you turn around to face the wall.

He doesn’t say anything as you drift into an uneasy sleep.

. . . . .

Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun. Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun or bullets and the only other weapon you have is the blunt knife hidden in your backpack and you are thankful for this, because the next few days are unnerving.

He’s silent. Barely moves, never talks. He only ever eats when you threaten to shove food down his throat and doesn’t even half-smile the way he used to when you crack a sarcastic or morbid joke.

His words don’t leave you, either. You could go on. Alone.

It isn’t as though the thought hasn’t come to mind, you’ll admit, but every time it does, you brush it away. While you might have actually considered it when you first met, Sungyoon has grown on you (even in his silence) that you don’t feel comfortable with the idea of leaving him behind, even if he’s the one who brings it up.

You saw the loneliness and fear in his eyes that day you buried the bodies. You heard the emptiness in his voice when he said he didn’t have anywhere to go. You offered to let him come. You held out that offer even when he reminded you about his leg. Even a few weeks ago, when you were still restraining yourself from ripping out his throat every time he did something that reminded you too much of Daeyeol, you wouldn’t have rescinded your offer and left him alone unless he’d done something absolutely unforgivable. Which he never did.

So you won’t consider it. Even if it means taking longer to get to your mom. Beyond the fact that it just isn’t right, what would she say if she knew you abandoned someone you offered to take along?

But Sungyoon only ever speaks to bring it up, and every time, you pretend he never said anything. If you actually respond, you’re pretty sure it’ll deteriorate into either a yelling match or one of you just leaving the room. And considering Sungyoon can’t move, the one who leaves will be you.

The mental energy required for this conversation is too much for you to deal with right now.

But then you come back from a trip outside, limping on a re-bloodied leg and clutching a sheet to your bleeding arm an hour later than you told Sungyoon you’d be back. It’s dark when you enter the room, but the faint moonlight is just bright enough for you to see that the bed is empty and that the lump of Sungyoon is now on the floor.

The sheet drops from your hand.

“Sungyoon!”

A cracked cough sounds from the ground and you rush forward, ignoring the pain in your own limbs to lift him back up onto the bed. “What happened?” you ask, squinting into the darkness at where you think his leg is. “Did you make your leg worse?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon wheezes.

Frustration rises in your chest when he doesn’t answer the question, but you only nod tersely. “I had to hide for a while,” you say, trying to check his leg in the dark. “I’m sorry. But what were you doing?”

He still doesn’t answer. “Are you bleeding?”

“Sungyoon!” you snap, straightening. Your drop your bleeding arm and put weight on your injured leg, ignoring the resulting pain. “Answer me!”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Sungyoon half yells, burying his face in his hands. “Why are you injuring yourself because of me? I’m a nobody, I got your literal best friend killed, and now I’m preventing you from finding your mom –”

“SHUT UP!”

Sungyoon snaps his mouth shut. Swallowing hard, you do too, waiting for deadened groans to surround the house. Stupid, stupid, why did you yell? Keep your goddamn temper, will you?

One minute. Two. Five.

You finally let yourself breathe. “Are you done?” you snarl in a hushed whisper. “Are you fucking done?”

“Not until you either leave me here or give me a reasonable explanation as to why you still keep me around!”

“Do you think I’m heartless?” Your bag lands on the ground with a thud and you sit heavily beside it, giving in to the stinging of scrapes on your skin. “Do you seriously still think –”

“No, I think you’re stupid,” Sungyoon snaps.

“Stupid for what? Keeping you around when I’m the one who asked if you wanted to come along?” you retort. “It’s called basic human decency, Sungyoon!”

“And leaving me behind would be called the basic right decision for you!”

You scoff. “The right decision? Trading a human life for a week or two of time is the right decision?”

“You want to go and find your mom!” Sungyoon yells. “I’m only keeping you behind! We don’t even know each other – what even makes sense here?”

Everything in you wants to scream again that it’s not right, it’s not fucking right until you get it through Sungyoon’s thick skull, but just enough sense remains in your brain to force you to shut up and think.

Think. Why is he so set on this? And why are you so set on the opposite?

Guilt. He feels guilty that he’s keeping you behind. Which – understandable, if you calm down enough to think about it.

But how would you feel if you left him behind?

Unpleasant emotion rises in your chest. Guilt, horror, even pain at the thought of leaving Sungyoon. It’s alien – you’ve only felt this way about Daeyeol before he died, and certainly not around the few other travelers you met for brief moments on the way home, but somewhere along the way, Sungyoon has become a semblance of a companion.

A lump fills your throat. You think you know how Daeyeol felt, now, every time he heard or saw someone in need.

“You feel guilty,” you say slowly, leaning back against the wall. “Which I get. I think.”

“How –”

“Let me talk,” you interrupt, glaring. He probably can’t see it very clearly in the dark, but at least he shuts up. “You feel guilty for keeping me behind. Which I get, because a month ago I would barely have had second thoughts about moving on without you.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “As you should.”

“Will you quit it?” you snap. “If you feel guilty, think about how I would feel if I left you behind! You think I wouldn’t feel guilty? Instead of wallowing in your fucking guilt, try and think of me!”

And miraculously, Sungyoon falls silent.

“If you were in my position,” you continue, more softly, “what do you think you’d feel? If I asked you to leave me behind? Maybe I wouldn’t grudge you for it, but would you grudge yourself?”

Sungyoon remains quiet.

“It’s humanity,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. Daeyeol, I understand now. “It’s part of being human. I couldn’t leave you behind, not at this point when you can still be helped.” You swallow, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m not selfish enough to do otherwise.”

And as the silence continues, stretching as light fades in the window, you relax against the wall even with blood still trickling down your skin and onto the forgotten sheet. The last of your frustration sloughs away, the bitterness of blame and guilt gone from your throat.

Because you understand. You understand why Daeyeol tried to save everyone he could. You understand why he would risk his life to save a boy whose name he didn’t even know. You understand the guilt he would’ve felt if he didn’t try, didn’t lift a single finger to help, even if it meant possibly losing his life in the process.

You aren’t at that level. You may never be. You probably never will reach Daeyeol’s heights of selflessness, the quality you always admired him for. But you can understand this much.

It isn’t Sungyoon’s fault. It never was. As much as your brain wanted to believe it, it was no one’s fault – not Daeyeol’s for being selfless, not yours for failing to notice the zombie, not Sungyoon’s for being in trouble and needing help.

Not his fault. Not his fault. Not his fault. With every repetition, the three words grow clearer in your mind, a clear truth rather than a blurry mess you have to force yourself to decipher through gritted teeth every time they play in your head. It isn’t his fault.

It never was.

You blink a few tears away from your eyes, lowering your head to stare at Sungyoon’s dark body on the bed. “Let me see your leg,” you say softly, tongue free of the taste of blame. “You probably hurt it, falling off the bed.”

Sungyoon doesn’t protest, just lets you make your way over to the bed. Pale moonlight guides your hands as they skim over the swollen flesh. “It doesn’t hurt more,” he says, voice small.

“Doesn’t seem that much worse than yesterday,” you agree, pulling back. “You’re lucky. I didn’t run track, but I’m pretty sure falling isn’t supposed to do wonders for a fracture.” You frown. “What were you even doing when I got back, anyway?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon says. “By over an hour. I tried to see if I could find you.”

Something in your heart cracks at the tinge of fear in his words. He hides it well, but you can still detect the terror that frays his voice. It was in yours every time Daeyeol came back so much as a minute later than he told you, and in his every time you returned with a single scrape or cut on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, sitting on the floor. Your back presses against the bed. If you looked up, you could probably meet Sungyoon’s eyes, but exhaustion weighs your head and limbs. “I got chased by a few zombies and had to barricade myself in a building before they finally left. When I decided it was safe to go, they apparently hadn’t left, and I fell a few times trying to escape.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath. “Didn’t you have your gun?”

“Too close quarters.” You shudder at the memory. “I didn’t have enough space to pull it out. Easier to just outrun them.”

Silence falls as you try to shake off the feeling of cold, dead hands trying to grab at your arm. Then Sungyoon sighs. “I’m sorry for pressing you,” he whispers, so soft you almost don’t hear him. “I just don’t like being useless. Or when I’m holding people back.”

You purse your lips. You can commiserate. But how do you make Sungyoon understand that he isn’t useless, even if his leg is costing you time?

“Think about it like this,” you finally say. “If it wasn’t for you, I might’ve gone insane by now. Might not even be alive. I don’t do well when I’m completely alone in my thoughts, especially not when I’m stressed.”

“Extroverted?”

“Not exactly.” You sigh. “Just… I sometimes spiral. And if I don’t have someone nearby me in those moments, I don’t make the best decisions.”

“… We never exactly talked much.”

“Just a presence helps,” you clarify. “Knowing someone’s there is enough. And…” Might as well be out with it. “I was scared of being alone. Terrified. Still am.” You swallow. “Even if it’s silent company, it means a lot to me.”

Sungyoon remains silent for a moment. You almost think you’ve said too much before he speaks. “Me too,” he mumbles. “I was scared, too. Of being alone.”

A pang of guilt resonates in your chest. “I’m sorry –”

“No apologies, right?” Sungyoon breaks in, reminding you of the conversation from just weeks ago. “It’s not your fault. I know that now.”

He does. A sharp certainty edges his words, still inlaid with sadness but free of bitter blame and anger. He has finally reconciled your actions with reality, the same way you’ve reconciled him and Daeyeol, too. And even if you still feel the weight of two murders on your hands, the knowledge that he doesn’t blame you anymore lifts your heart, just slightly.

“I guess I was afraid you would leave on your own terms, once you realized how much I was holding you back,” Sungyoon mumbles. “So I tried to make you go first. I thought if I was the one who made you leave…”

“Well, you can’t get rid of me now.” You lift your head to give him a lopsided smile. “I’m still here, Sungyoon. Doesn’t matter how bad your leg is, I’ll be with you until it heals and then some. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sungyoon breathes. Then – “Thank you for staying. And forgiving me.”

A small, genuine smile replaces the lopsided expression you wore before. “Thank you for forgiving me too.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for enduring forgiveness :))

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bubonickitten · 3 years

Link

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

Chapter summary: An examination of endings and how to realize them.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 24: brief claustrophobia; some RSD/fear of abandonment stuff; extensive discussion of death (this chapter’s all about Terminus, babey); allusions to past suicidal ideation on Jon’s part; mentions of eye gouging/blinding (not graphic); some internalized victim blaming; anxiety symptoms; spider mentions; swears. Let me know if I missed anything!

Chronic fear has been Jon’s baseline for so long, it’s difficult for him to conceptualize what he would be were it to abandon him. In some ways, he’s become acclimated to it. On the other hand, fear is a volatile, prolific thing, its many shades relentlessly coalescing and mutating to form new strains. It all but guarantees that the Eye will never truly be sated: there will always be some heretofore unknown species of terror to discover, experience, and add to its collection.

Sprinkled in amongst the more noteworthy moments of abject terror and the constant background pressure of existential dread, there are smaller fears: everyday anxieties; pervasive insecurities; acute spikes of panic and adrenaline. Each discrete instance may pale in comparison to life-threatening peril, but muddled together and given time to ferment, they compound. They feed into one another. Sometimes, they come to attract the attention of larger, far more forbidding monsters.

In this way, Jon is no different from the average person – and one of the oldest, most deep-rooted of those comparatively banal fears is his fear of rejection, of disappointing, of being seen and found lacking. It guided his path long before his first supernatural encounter, and in many ways, it still does. His self-awareness of that fact does little to dampen its influence.

So it’s vexing, but not surprising, that the foremost concern vying for his attention right now is whether this might be that final straw that chases Georgie away for good. She sits with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, eyes closed and brow furrowed as she gathers her thoughts. The longer she remains silent, the more time Jon has to run through all the worst-case scenarios.

It’s already difficult for him to capture a full breath under the crushing weight of anticipation. It doesn’t help that his intermittent claustrophobia has decided that right now is the perfect time to manifest. A tunnel collapse would probably damage the Archives above it, though, and there’s no way Jon would be so lucky. He isn’t sure whether to consider that a consolation or not.

Finally, Georgie takes a breath, opens her eyes, and leans forward.

“Okay.” She tilts her folded hands towards him in an indicative gesture. “Explain, please.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing one arm nervously. “S-so, Oliver –”

“I knew his name wasn’t Antonio,” Georgie mutters.

“No. That was an alias he used when he first came to the Institute to give a statement, back in 2015.”

“The prediction about Gertrude’s death?” Martin asks.

“The same.”

“And what was a harbinger of death doing looming over you while you were in a coma?” Georgie presses.

“I don’t know that I’d call him a harbinger –” Jon’s mouth snaps shut immediately when Georgie shoots him an impatient glare. “He wasn’t – he wasn’t trying to – to reap my soul or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why was he there?”

“He was called there,” Jon says. “By the Web, according to him.”

“Oh, and you don’t think that makes him dangerous?” Martin says, throwing one arm out in a surge of exasperation.

“He isn’t allied with the Web,” Jon replies, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. “It just… got into his head, and it was easier for him to go along with it, rather than fight it indefinitely. Oliver tends to have a fatalistic outlook. If he sees something as inevitable, he’s not inclined to try to stop it.”

“So, what – he’s serving an evil power not because he’s sadistic but because he’s just apathetic?” Georgie couldn’t sound any more unimpressed if she tried. “How is that any better?”

“It’s, ah… it’s really not that simplistic,” Jon says, adopting a delicate tone. “And I don’t think I’d call it apathy so much as…”

“Acceptance,” Georgie says stiffly. “Everything has an ending.”

“Yes. Oliver is an Avatar of the End, and the End is characterized by its certainty–” Jon pauses when he catches a glimpse of Georgie’s hands, fastened to her knees and trembling with tension. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No, I –” Georgie sighs, relaxes her grip, and flexes her fingers. “Just – tell me why you invited him here.”

“It’s like I said upstairs – there were things I couldn’t tell him about outside of here.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell him anything?” Martin asks.

“I just thought… he might be able to help us.”

“Why would he,” Georgie asks, “if he’s so fatalistic?”

“Because, he…” Jon hesitates, biting his lip. “I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe he’s like me.”

“He’s nothing like you,” Martin says vehemently.

A flicker of a smile crosses Jon’s face. “You don’t even know him.”

“What, and you do?”

“Not well,” Jon admits. “But I do think I understand him.”

Martin crosses his arms, transparently miffed. In an attempt to suppress his amusement, Jon presses his lips tightly together. It doesn’t work, evidently.

“What?” There’s a flat, defensive edge to the demand, highlighted by a suspicious scowl. “What’s with the smirk?”

Jon already knows the answer to the question he wants to ask, but he can’t help himself: “Are you jealous?”

“No!” Martin yelps. “Why would I be jealous?”

Jon shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Well, you don’t need to be.”

“I’m not!”

“If you say so,” Jon says with a shrug and a sly grin.

“I am not jealous,” Martin insists – and now Georgie is snickering, one hand clamped over her mouth to (unsuccessfully) stifle the sound. Martin glowers at her, betrayed.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Just – didn’t realize you were quite so jealous.”

“I’m not,” Martin says for a third time. “But – but even if I was, I would be completely justified.”

“Because he woke me up,” Jon says, toning down the smugness now.

There is an uneasy boundary between affectionate teasing and perceived mockery, and here in the past, he hasn’t quite mapped the shape of that line. Between seeing one another in the Lonely and anchoring each other through the apocalypse, he and Martin had been forced to confront long-held insecurities about themselves, both as individuals and as a unit. That shared history no longer applies. While Jon has no desire to repeat that chain of events – there are happier, healthier pathways to a relationship than bonding via trauma, or so he’s heard – it does mean that this version of Martin hasn’t yet had the same epiphanies.

Much like Jon, Martin struggles to take a declaration of love at its word. People lie; they mislead; they say what they think others want to hear – whether out of self-interest, sympathy, or simple social ineptitude, the results are the same. Sometimes they start out sincere, but little by little, their tolerance dwindles and they recognize their mistake: what they thought was genuine affection was at best a passing fancy for someone who turned out to be far more trouble than they were ever worth. Or worse: a caring façade born of pity or guilt or obligation, only to turn rotten and toxic when the burden grows too tiresome.

Add all of those deep-seated convictions to the lasting influence of the Lonely, and Martin needed proof before he could entertain the possibility of being loved. Following him into and then leading him out of the Lonely was a fairly convincing statement. Absent another life-or-death gesture to act as a catalyst, Jon suspects that this time around, building that confidence will come down to time, practice, and repetition.

“Okay, yeah, about that – what does that – what does that mean, he woke you up?” Before Jon can get a word out, Martin barrels on: “I mean, what makes him so special? I spent weeks – weeks – begging you to come back, and nothing. He visits you once and suddenly you’re fine?”

“I really did try to come back on my own,” Jon says – not accusing, not pleading, not even self-flagellating. Just plain, sincere assuredness. “I heard you calling me. Not at first, but – the last time you visited. It was the first time I’d heard your voice in… in so long, I – I never thought I’d hear it again, and then you were there, and I was – I was so relieved, so… so elated.”

Martin sulks quietly, glaring at the floor, but there’s a noticeable flush staining his cheeks now.

“And then – and then I heard you on the phone with Peter, and…” Jon swallows hard, the despair he felt in that moment still stark in his mind. “I tried to call out to you, but you couldn’t hear me. The Lonely was drawing you in, just like before, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to wake up more than anything, but I just… couldn’t figure out how. I still don’t know why – I don’t know the exact mechanics of it all – but for whatever reason, I wasn’t able to wake up until Oliver’s visit. Same as the first time.”

At that, Martin seems to deflate somewhat, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“If I could have come back sooner,” Jon continues, smiling sadly, “I would have. In a heartbeat.”

Martin pouts for a moment longer before surrendering, his rigid posture slackening as the rancor drains out of him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you think you owe him,” Georgie guesses. “For waking you up.”

“Partially,” Jon admits. “But that’s not why I invited him, really. He just seems… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess?” Georgie rolls her eyes. “He never – he never asked to be a death prophet. No more than I wanted to be a – a trauma leech. And arguably – arguably he was even less to blame for what happened to him than I am for what I’ve become –”

“Jon,” Martin says warningly.

“No, just – just listen.” Jon takes a measured breath as he puts his thoughts in order. “Oliver started having prophetic dreams several years ago. Just – out of the blue. As far as I know, he did nothing to tempt fate. Eventually, those dreams carried over into the waking world. Everywhere he went, every single day, he could see the evidence of imminent death. There was no escaping it.

“In the beginning, he tried to help people. But it never worked. When he was unable to save his own father, he stopped trying to change fate, for the most part. I think the last time he tried was when he dreamed of Gertrude. He saw how far-reaching her death would ultimately be, and he tried to warn her, even though he didn’t have much hope that it would make a difference. And he was right, in the end. He couldn’t save her, and he couldn’t prevent what came after.”

“So he just… gave up,” Martin says flatly.

“When you fail over and over again to do good in the world, when you witness horror after horror with no recourse to stop it, when you try again and again and again to escape and never even come close… at some point, you burn out,” Jon murmurs. “Lose all hope. It becomes your new normal. Exist like that long enough and you start to become numb to it all.”

“You lived through an apocalypse and you didn’t give up,” Martin counters.

“I did, though,” Jon says quietly.

Martin frowns. “What?”

“After I lost you.” Jon averts his eyes and folds his arms tight against his middle, holding his elbows. “I was lost. I couldn’t save anyone, I couldn’t change anything, I couldn’t even look away. I wasn’t allowed to sleep. I wasn’t allowed to die. So I just… survived, even though I wanted anything but.” When he glances up, he sees that Martin’s expression has softened. “You were my reason. Then you were gone, and I was alone.”

Jon hadn’t known that the world could end a second time, but there it was. With Martin gone, what little that remained of Jon’s own microcosm shattered. Yet the Ceaseless Watcher’s world dared to continue turning, to go on churning out horror after horror as if nothing at all had changed. And Jon was just another cog in that machine, going through the motions and fulfilling the purpose for which he was cultivated.

It wasn’t truly ceaseless, of course. Everything has an ending. But it felt like an eternity – and for Jon, indefinite waiting has always been a special kind of torture.

“So what changed?” Georgie asks, her tone gentler than before.

“For a while, nothing,” Jon says. “I sort of… drifted. Wandered aimlessly through the domains for… I don’t really know. When nothing ever changes, keeping track of time becomes pointless. The Panopticon kept trying to draw me in, of course, but I – I suppose there was still enough spite left in me to make a show of ignoring it.

“At some point, I got lost in a Lonely domain. Which was fine, really. Or – it would have been fine, had I been allowed to succumb to it. I wanted to just – fade into it, let it in, but” – Jon breathes a bitter laugh – “it wouldn’t take me. Wouldn’t let me go numb, wouldn’t let me forget – didn’t have the decency to let me disappear, no matter how long I stayed.”

No one got what they deserved in that future, but this was a rare exception to that rule: to be allowed to simply forget his role in creating that nightmare world, to sink into blissful ignorance, would have been a miscarriage of justice. Not that the Eye cared about what was just or fair, of course. No, it simply would not – perhaps could not – deign to relinquish its hold on its Archive.

“But the longer I stayed,” he continues, looking at Martin now, “the more I thought about you. In retrospect, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to leave. And maybe that’s part of why it wouldn’t have me – I couldn’t let you go. But being there, it kept reminding me of the first Lonely domain we came across after the change. We were separated, and I was – I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back to me. But you did.” Jon smiles to himself, remembering the relief and gratitude and awe he felt in that moment. “You rejected the Lonely all on your own. Found your own way out – found me, and… every time I thought about that, I imagined your voice in my head. Telling me off for wallowing. For giving up.”

“Sounds like I would have been justified,” Martin says delicately.

“You would have,” Jon confesses with a contrite half-smile. “I was in peak brooding condition. Eventually I wore myself out wallowing there, though, so I left to go wallow somewhere else. I needed a change of scenery, and – well, I got one. Stumbled into a Spiral domain. Ran into Helen, and… funny enough, that was the last straw.”

Jon can still recall the encounter down to the smallest detail.

‘Still drifting aimless, are we?’ Helen bared an unsettling number of teeth as her grin stretched – literally – from ear to ear. ‘Exactly how long do you plan on moping about, Archivist?’

Jon did not answer; did not even meet her eyes, instead staring vacantly over her shoulder. The incessant reel of horror scenes playing in the back of his mind made it difficult to focus on any one thing at a time, and there was nothing he cared to see so much that it was worth the effort it would take to grant it his undivided attention.

‘You know,’ Helen said, tapping an elongated, crooked finger against her lips, ‘I wonder what he would say, if he could see you now.’

It didn’t matter. Martin was gone. Those parts of the world that hadn’t already been thoroughly razed were slowly but surely withering. There was nothing left to salvage.

‘Disappointed, I imagine,’ Helen continued, distant and muffled by the din of a splintering world. (Somewhere deep below their feet, a man was screaming himself hoarse in a labyrinth made of mirrors and fog.) ‘But not surprised. It’s not the first time you’ve let him down, is it?’

Jon gave a listless shrug. Her words stung, certainly, but they were a far cry from some of her more artful jabs. A pointed insinuation to send him spiraling into his own self-destructive conclusions would always be more corrosive than outright disparagement.

(The man in the maze gazed into mirror after mirror, hoping to find himself within. In every one, his reflection had no face.)

That said, Helen wasn’t wrong. Even as a child, Jon had always been a burden. He never did manage to prove himself worthy of all the many unwilling sacrifices made on his behalf. Never measured up; never put nearly enough good into the world to balance out the cost of having him in it.

(The man in the maze had misplaced his name. Did he drop it somewhere? He checked his pockets only to find holes. Yet another eyeless reflection stared back at him from beneath his feet.)

‘You were always headed here, weren’t you?’

Yes.

(The man in the maze tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same: an endless, recursive corridor of mirror images. He asked one of the doppelgängers for directions, only to realize that the man in the mirror had no mouth with which to answer.)

‘To think – all that time he spent coaxing you along, and you crumble the moment you don’t have a prop to coddle you.’ Helen cackles, high and cruel. ‘What a waste.’

She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know.

(The man in the maze was scouring the mirrored ground, searching for… something he’d lost; he couldn’t quite remember, but he knew that it was important. He checked his pockets, only to discover that he had no pockets.)

‘Although, I guess the blame doesn’t fall squarely on your shoulders. He was naïve. It isn’t your fault he was foolish enough to hope for–’

The words jolted Jon back to the present like an electric shock. Whatever else Helen had to say, he’d never know. He tuned her out, and he started walking.

“She was having a go at me – nothing new there – but then she brought you into it, and…” Jon shrugs. “I don’t think it was her intention, but it nudged me back on track. You and I had a plan, before, and… honestly, I didn’t have much hope that it would work, but you had. That made it worth trying.”

It wasn’t like Jon could break the world more by parleying with the Eye. At worst, it made no difference, but at least Jon did something to honor Martin’s memory; at best, it put Jon out of his misery, one way or another.

“I’m glad I did, because… well, it changed things, obviously. You were right.”

“Sorry,” Martin says with unmistakable self-satisfaction, “could you say that again?”

“You were right, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but the effect is undercut by an indulgent smile he can’t quite repress. “You often are. All of this is to say – I’m only here because you gave me a reason to be. If not for that, then… well, I meant what I’ve said before, about needing a lifeline in order to stand any chance against the Fears. I was – I am lucky enough to have one.”

More than one, he thinks with a sense of wonder. The support he has now is such a far cry from the ostracism he experienced the first time he was here. It still gives him pause every time he dwells on the contrast. Sometimes, it almost seems too good to be true.

“Oliver didn’t,” Jon continues. “It’s hard to begrudge him for resigning himself to fate, especially considering how the power that claimed him is defined by fatalism. He never asked to be chosen, he was given no hope of escape, and he had no one to reach out to, let alone anyone to reach back. It’s unsurprising that he would come to accept the inescapable when the only anchor he had was the certainty of oblivion.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Georgie says quietly.

Jon nods. “And without a dependable reason to see the moments in between as significant, it’s… well, it’s hard to see the point in anything. I’ve been there.”

As has Georgie, Jon knows. She exhales heavily, massaging her temples, visibly conflicted.

“I still don’t think you should trust him,” Martin says.

“I’m not suggesting we trust him wholesale,” Jon says, “but I’m certain that he isn’t an enemy. He might not resist the End, but he doesn’t work to end the world in its name, either. He’s… thoroughly neutral.”

“Then what makes you think he’ll lift a finger to help?” Martin asks.

“I doubt he’ll go out of his way to help,” Jon admits. “He might be willing to trade information, though. I just thought… Avatar of the End – he would have more insight into the limits of Jonah’s supposed ‘immortality’ than I do.”

“You think he can tell you something about the dead man’s switch,” Georgie guesses, rubbing at her forehead.

“That’s my hope, yes. He can see the route that a person will take to their end. Or, he can when their death is imminent, at least – I’m not sure how far into the future his foresight stretches these days.”

In the hospital, Oliver implied that he could see something in Jon’s vicinity. Whether that suggests Jon’s own end is near enough for Oliver to foresee it, Jon does not Know. Given his proven resilience, he suspects it’s just as likely to be a quirk of his strange existence. There’s no shortage of idiosyncrasies that may mark Jon as an outlier: he’s the Archivist; he’s traveled through a rift in time; he’s the primed and practiced focal point of the Watcher’s Crown, and the fate of the world hinges on his ability to keep that potential in check.

And if his situation is an exception to the rule, perhaps Jonah’s is as well.

“Maybe he’ll be able to see whether our routes flow into Jonah’s, so to speak,” Jon says. “When Oliver dreamed of Gertrude’s impending death, he saw how much of the world’s fate was intertwined with hers –”

“– the veins, whose domination of the dreamscape had only ever been partial before, had thickened and now seemed to cover almost the whole space of every street – the destination – into which all the veins flowed – The Magnus Institute – choked with that shadowed flesh – following that red light that would now pulse so bright that I knew were I to see it awake it would have blinded me – and every one of those veins – where they ended – a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into.”

“Gertrude,” Martin says.

Jon nods, then holds up one finger: Wait. The Archive has more to say; Jon can practically feel the words bubbling up his throat and crowding behind his teeth. As discomfiting as it is to have it hijack his voice, sometimes it’s easier to ride out that compulsion than to tamp it down.

“I have no responsibility to try and prevent whatever fate is coming for you – such a thing is likely impossible – but after what I saw I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try – there is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.”

Statement ends, Jon thinks, working his jaw to soothe the unnatural tension that has taken root there. Happy now? Anything else to add?

As expected, it doesn’t answer. He’s well aware that addressing the Archive essentially amounts to talking to himself, but carrying on an internal dialogue with the more frustrating aspects of himself was a habit long before he took on the mantle of Archivist.

After a few seconds, he feels the Archive’s imposing presence start to recede, releasing him from the compulsion. It’s still there, of course – it’s always there, looming over him like a vulture, as impossible to ignore as a knife to the throat – but for now it seems content to fall back and observe once more.

Georgie sighs. “That’s why you’re sympathetic to him.”

“He tried.” Jon shrugs. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s going to help this time,” Martin says.

“No, but he has no incentive to hurt us, either. There’s no harm in asking him questions. He’s not going to run to Jonah to inform on us. The worst that happens is he says ‘no’ and goes back to minding his own business. But if he agrees to talk… well, it might be our best chance to determine how much of what Jonah says is true.”

Georgie chews on her thumbnail for a few seconds before looking back up at Jon, a pensive frown on her face. “Why’d he go out of his way to come here at all, if he has no motivation one way or the other?”

“Honestly? Curiosity, I think. But… I suppose I’m also hoping that there’s a part of him that might sympathize.”

“Do you really think there is?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know. In my future, probably not. He wasn’t enjoying himself like some of the other Avatars – I mean, he was feeding on the fear produced by his domain, but even then, he didn’t strike me as cruel. It was just… acceptance in the face of a conclusion at ultimately stayed the same regardless of the path leading up to it, and…”

And maybe it speaks to Jon’s mental state at the time, but there were a few points in Oliver’s statement that struck him as almost merciful. After all, in the face of seemingly endless torment, death was a covetable escape.

“I have no power to stop it,” the Archive recites, “and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming – I fear the annihilation you would gift me as little as I desire it – perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned – I am now, as the thing I feed, a fixed point, that has neither the longing nor ability to change its state of existence – even you, with all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All things end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose, only brings you closer to it.”

“That Oliver again?” Martin mutters tetchily. “Doesn’t sound to me like he’ll be particularly inclined to help.”

“Well–” The word comes out as a rasp, and Jon has to pause to clear his throat before continuing. “That was – that was the Oliver of the future. After the change, he was too much of the End not to live its truth, just as I was too much of the Eye not to walk its path and archive its world. We were both conduits, inseparable from the powers that laid claim to us. Here and now, though, I’m hoping he might still be…”

“What, benevolent?” Martin says incredulously.

Jon is quiet for a long moment, trying to find the right words to explain.

“At my most hopeless,” he says slowly, “I still cared, even though there was no meaningful way for me to put it into practice. I don’t think I ever managed to reach the level of acceptance that Oliver did – and sometimes I envied him for that. But embracing the End as a foregone conclusion doesn’t necessarily mean he’s completely unmoved by what happens in the interim. Not yet, anyway. And as of right now, whether it’s out of curiosity or compassion, obviously he still interacts with the world from time to time, even if he prefers to exist in the background for the most part.”

Martin and Georgie both look unconvinced.

“I’m not asking him to help us change fate,” Jon goes on. “In his view, there is no obstructing fate – not in any way that genuinely matters to his patron. Oliver isn’t particularly concerned about when the End will come – he’s just secure in the knowledge that it will happen eventually, with or without the interference of any mortal actor. Passive or active, nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that. But I’m thinking it’s been a long time since someone has asked him for help that he actually has the power to provide, and… I know what that’s like.”

Despite the immense power that Jon could exercise after the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown, he was ultimately powerless to change things for the better. It’s why he leapt at the chance to help Naomi in her nightmare: even a small, low-effort act of kindness after so long without the opportunity was overwhelmingly liberating.

It was insignificant against the vast backdrop of the universe, perhaps, but it still left a mark. It prompted a cascade of little changes that completely rewrote their dynamic; it curtailed some of the suffering in which Jon had previously been so unwillingly complicit; it's even acted as an inoculation against the loneliness that had permeated both of their lives during this stretch of time when Jon was last here. Those little changes mattered to him, and they mattered to Naomi – not only in that first moment, but in all the time since.

All of that had to count for something, right? It took fourteen ill-fated marks to end the world, after all. With any one of them missing, the Ritual wouldn’t have worked and the world at large would never have noticed. But that didn’t make any one of those marks wholly insignificant on its own. They scarred him and the people around him; every encounter changed him, whittled away at his sense of self, left him progressively vulnerable and set him up for successive marks.

The repercussions still linger. They probably always will.

In his sporadic moments of cautious optimism, Jon cannot help but wonder: If a series of little cruelties can create such a perfect and terrible storm, is it really inconceivable that a pattern of little rebellions could keep it at bay? And Jon has long since come to the conclusion that compassion in the face of unimaginable cruelty is its own form of rebellion.

“As much as Oliver talks about fate and inevitability,” Jon says, “he still seems to believe in free will to an extent. That we all make choices. When he last spoke to me, he offered me a choice. Now I’m offering one to him.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” Georgie releases a weary exhale and tosses her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You’re sure this won’t come back to bite you?”

“We have nothing to lose by asking,” Jon says. “And he has nothing to lose regardless of what choice he makes, but… it feels right to at least give him the option. Whatever he decides, I won’t begrudge him for it.”

“Fine,” she says tersely. “Do what you want.”

Jon just barely suppresses a wince. “Georgie?”

“Sorry, that came off as –” Georgie heaves another sigh. “I’m not angry with you. I get it. It makes sense. I just don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“Just… be mindful, alright? You don’t owe him any answers you don’t want to give. And he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt just because you relate to him.”

“I know,” Jon says again.

“I mean it, Jon,” she says sharply. She takes a steadying breath before continuing, more diplomatically this time. “It’s… sweet, I guess, that you want to empathize with him, but you have a tendency to…” Georgie pauses, weighing her words. “I mean, I’ve seen you compare yourself to Helen, too. And Jonah.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone would deny that there are certain… similarities,” Jon says, not quite under his breath.

“Yeah, you’re always going to have something in common with other people if you look hard enough. But sometimes you see the worst in people and you fold it into how you see yourself. Like you’re looking into a funhouse mirror, but you can’t see how the reflection is distorted.” Jon avoids meeting her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you have a history of comparing yourself to your abusers. Sorry,” she adds when he flinches, “but it’s the truth, and you need to hear it. Just… think about it, okay? Ask yourself whether this is compassion or if it’s just another way to dehumanize yourself.”

“I –” Jon swallows around the lump in his throat, his mouth gone dry. “Okay, I – I get your point, but – I swear that’s not what this is. With Helen, and – and – and Jonah, it’s – they’ve actually gone out of their way to – to manipulate, to cause real harm. Oliver is different.”

“You were marked by the End,” Georgie says pointedly.

“Yes, but that wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He didn’t hurt me, never tried to trap me or trick me – never pressured me into making one choice over another, even at the end of the world. I really don’t think he’s evil, or sadistic, or – or scheming, weaving some grand web. He’s just watching things unfold, because he had a crash course in the stages of grief forced onto him and the end result was… well, acceptance. He doesn’t fear the End, but he doesn’t worship it, either. He just embodies it, openly and authentically.”

Georgie is silent for nearly a full minute, scrutinizing Jon intently, before she capitulates.

“Alright. I’ll… trust your judgment, I guess,” she says, but she shares a knowing glance with Martin – who looks just as leery as she does – when she says it. “Still, be careful.”

“I, uh… I imagine you don’t want to be here when I talk to him?” Jon ventures, though he’s certain he already knows the answer.

“No,” Georgie says summarily.

Jon releases a breathless chuckle. “Fair enough.”

“I really should be getting home to Melanie, anyway. It’s stay-home date night. Pizza and a movie.” Georgie offers a tentative grin, her shoulders relaxing minutely. “She hasn’t seen the new Ghostbusters yet, somehow – something about having been preoccupied with real paranormal bullshit for the last few years – but I checked and the DVD version has audio description, so I bought a copy. She’d be cross with me if I stood her up for the grim reaper.”

“I imagine so.” Jon tilts his head. “Although, Oliver isn’t actually the–”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs, “I was being facetious.”

When the three of them leave the tunnels, they find Oliver still waiting awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs out of the Archives, Basira standing sentinel nearby. Daisy leans against a far wall, eyeing him from a distance.

Georgie gives a long, doubtful look at Oliver before turning to Jon and offering a hug that he gladly accepts.

“Text me later tonight?” Georgie says. “And keep me updated on your travel plans.”

“Will do. Tell Melanie I said hello. And tell the Admiral he’s a national treasure.”

Georgie snorts at that, shaking her head in amusement before turning towards the stairs. Oliver nearly jumps out of the way as she strides in his direction, but she doesn’t stop to confront him beyond a glare as she passes. A prolonged, awkward minute of silence passes after she leaves, charged with suspicion and tension.

“Tunnels,” Basira says eventually, her tone and expression giving nothing away. She doesn’t wait for a response before stalking off down the hall, Daisy falling in line behind her.

Basira barely waits for the others to take their seats before she launches into her interrogation. Although her eyes remain fixed on Oliver, her first question isn’t directed at him.

“Why is he here, Jon?”

“Like I said, I invited him.” Jon glances at Oliver, apologetic. It feels odd to talk about him as if he isn’t present.

“Why?”

“Mutual curiosity, I expect,” Oliver cuts in, inclining his head towards Jon. “You have questions for me.”

Jon returns a nod. He has ulterior motives, and Oliver knows it. To pretend otherwise would be pointless, not to mention insulting.

“Oliver is an Avatar of the End,” Jon tells the others. “There might be a chance he could tell us how much of what Elias says is true.”

“And what’s the price tag?” Basira asks.

“He has questions of his own. He could tell in the hospital that there’s something… wrong about me. Obviously, I couldn’t talk about it where Elias could hear.”

“You shouldn’t disclose it at all,” Basira says. “If any of it gets back to him –”

“Oliver has no reason to betray our confidence.” Jon’s gaze flicks to Oliver. “Right?”

“Consider me a neutral party,” Oliver replies.

“You’re going to just… take him at his word,” Basira scoffs.

“The End has no Ritual,” Jon says, “and it has no reason to prevent any of the other Entities from successfully pulling off their own Rituals. No matter what happens to this world, the End will claim everything eventually. The when and how are irrelevant to it. In the meantime, the world as-is suits it just fine. It has no desire to postpone or hasten the end of all things.”

“Terminus is what it is,” Oliver agrees. “I have neither the power nor the desire to contradict it.”

“Then why would you help us?” Basira asks.

“I never said that I would.”

“I’m not asking you to actively intervene,” Jon says before Basira can offer a retort. “I just want to talk. That… is why you came here, isn’t it?”

Oliver hesitates for a moment before answering. “Your curiosity must have rubbed off on me.”

Unbidden, Oliver’s statement rushes to the forefront of Jon’s mind: I still remember the first time I tried to touch one…. I don’t know why I did it; I knew it was a stupid thing to do. But I just… maybe I wanted it this way.

“Don’t know about that,” Jon says quietly. “Curiosity is only human.”

And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it, the statement plays on. Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home.

“Perhaps,” Oliver says, noncommittal.

“So you’ll tell us what we want to know,” Daisy finally speaks up. Despite her veneer of calm – leaning back in her chair, arms crossed – her bouncing leg belies her agitation.

“It makes no difference to me.” Oliver shrugs. “Though I can’t promise my answers will be satisfying.”

“I still don’t like this,” Basira says, glaring askance at Oliver.

“Look,” Jon says, “this is the only way I can think of to figure out what stakes we’re working with. Jonah has been cheating death for centuries–”

“Jon!” Basira hisses.

“It’s important context,” Jon argues back. “And anyway, it’s going to come up when I tell him my story. It’s not exactly a detail I can gloss over; it’s central to the plot.” He sighs and looks at Oliver. “Elias is Jonah Magnus, the original founder of the Institute.”

Basira throws her hands up with a frustrated snarl. She turns to Daisy for support, but Daisy only offers a sympathetic grimace and a half-shrug.

“I thought there was something odd about him,” Oliver says blandly. “He’s long past his expiration date.”

Daisy snorts at that. Judging from the bemused, almost startled expression on Oliver’s face, he hadn’t expected to garner anything other than aggression from her.

“Whenever one of his vessels is… compromised,” Jon elaborates, “or nearing the end of its usefulness, he takes a new one.”

Recovering from his fleeting bewilderment, Oliver turns his attention back to Jon. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Maxwell Rayner and Simon Fairchild,” Basira says.

Oliver nods. “Among others.”

“Does that… I don’t know – offend the End?” Martin asks.

“No,” Oliver says. “They can’t outrun it forever, as so many have discovered firsthand.”

“Like Rayner,” Daisy says.

Once again, Oliver looks thrown off-kilter by Daisy’s diminishing hostility, but he does offer a wary nod in response to her contribution to the conversation. “And in the meantime, their fear of their own mortality ages like a fine wine.”

“Is an unnaturally long life somehow tastier for the End, then?” Martin asks. “I think most of the statements I’ve read about it involved somehow cheating death.”

“Perhaps. If my patron has a conscious mind, it has never spoken to me directly. Everything I know to be true is just… feeling.”

“So it’s as cagey as the other Powers, then,” Daisy says with a derisive chuckle. “Good to know.”

Oliver smooths his hands across his coat, draped across his lap, before glancing at Jon for guidance.

“I gave you a story,” he says reticently. “I would like to hear yours. Then I will answer your questions.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says – and abruptly realizes that he has no idea where to start. “You, uh… you don’t need to hear my whole life story, do you?”

“I did give you an outline of mine,” Oliver says with just a hint of amusement. “I admit I’m curious as to what led you here, but I imagine if you went into detail, we would be here for hours.”

“Much of it doesn’t bear repeating, anyway,” Jon says. “Just the highlights, then?”

“If you please.”

“Right,” Jon mumbles. He takes a deep breath. “Had my first supernatural encounter when I was eight, never got over it, and a combination of lifelong obsession and unchecked curiosity brought me to the Institute. After Gertrude died, Jonah chose me as her replacement because he knew I would be easily molded into the catalyst for his Ritual, and I was.” He looks up. “Is that enough?”

“Which of the Powers marked you first? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The Web.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you seemed… entangled.”

There’s something… off about you, Oliver had told him when they last spoke. The roots, they look… sick. Wrong. And the threads are – tangled.

It’s possible that Oliver was speaking in metaphor – alluding to the threads of fate, so to speak – but the question has been simmering in the back of Jon’s mind for months…

“When you visited me before,” he blurts out. “You said the Web sent you.”

“Yes,” Oliver says candidly. “Not an explicit command, of course. It was more a… well, a feeling. A tug. The Web usually prefers subtlety, but there are times when it wants its marks to know the hand that moves them.”

“S-so, when you said the threads around me were tangled, was that figurative, or could you… see the Web’s influence?”

“The Spider might make its presence known sometimes, but Terminus doesn’t give me the ability to see the shape of its web any more than the Eye does you.”

“Not unless the Web allows itself to be Seen,” Jon says absently.

Despite how much he could See in his future, the Web always remained something of an enigma. It wasn’t until after his standoff with the Eye that he was able to follow the Spider’s threads.

But then, the Eye hadn’t been the only watcher lurking in the Panopticon. The Web had woven itself into the foundation of that place from its conception, and the Spider made no effort to hide. More than once, it stationed itself where he was sure to notice it. The more he thinks on it, the more he suspects that the ensuing ability to See its threads, to Know where they converged, was as much an allowance by the Web as it was due to his communion with the Ceaseless Watcher.

“When I spoke of threads, I meant more…” Oliver opens and closes his mouth a few times as he struggles with his phrasing. “Well, I’ve not yet found a perfect description for it. Think of a life and fate as… a jumble of intersections. Some people feel like thread-and-nail art. Others feel like a snarled ball of yarn. You,” he adds, looking at Jon appraisingly, “are something of a Gordian knot.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Martin demands, a protective edge in his voice.

“It’s not a compliment or an insult,” Oliver says mildly. “Only an observation. Come to think of it, Gertrude was much the same way. The fates of many hinged on the routes she took. Less of a butterfly effect and more of a hurricane.”

“So you can see fate?” Basira asks. A genuine question, but the flat skepticism in her tone makes it sound rhetorical.

“To a limited extent,” Oliver says haltingly. “I see the near-future as it relates to death specifically. When people near the ends of their routes, I can make out the details of their–”

“Seeing those awful veins crawling into them, into wounds not yet open, or skulls not yet split – they sneak up and into throats about to choke on blood, or lurch into hearts about to convulse – webbed over the face of a drunk old man stumbling into his car – one snaking along the road, over towards the railing – I’ll never forget seeing a field of cows the week before they were sent to the abattoir…”

Jon trails off with a tired groan, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“You have a good memory,” Oliver says.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “Archivist thing. Can’t always control it.”

“S-so,” Martin redirects, “if any of us were about to die, you would be able to see it, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes,” Oliver clarifies before Martin can ask. “Knowing your end is coming does nothing to prevent it. It only ensures that you will live your final days in fear.”

“Wouldn’t your patron like that?” Daisy asks.

Basira immediately latches onto that thought. “We have a statement here about a book that tells you how and when you’ll die.”

“Case number 0030912,” Jon cites. “Statement of Masato Murray, regarding his inheritance of an untitled book with supernatural properties. Each time the reader rereads their entry, they’ll find that the recorded date of their future death draws closer and the cause more gruesome.”

“Thanks, spooky Google,” Basira says sardonically. “Who needs an indexing system when we have a walking, talking card catalogue on staff?”

“One of my predecessors in ancient times once filed a complaint with the Eye, aggrieved by all the terrible powers it foisted upon him,” Jon says matter-of-factly, not missing a beat. “Being a benevolent patron, it granted him and all future generations of Archivists a convenience feature as compensation.”

“Smartass,” Basira says, but it sounds almost amiable, and Jon allows himself a tentative smile.

His tolerance for making light of this part of himself tends to be variable. Unpredictable, even. On good days, shared gallows humor is a balm, bringing with it a sense of solidarity and camaraderie; on bad days, even the gentlest dig feels like a barb.

He also tends to be selective about whose teasing he can weather. Martin and Georgie are safe more often than not. Daisy can usually get away with it; she’s prompt to let him in on the joke whenever he doesn’t pick up on her sarcasm. Given how blunt Melanie can be, it at least tends to be obvious when her pointed comments are meant in jest or in umbrage; and anyway, he hasn’t yet spoken to her directly since she quit.

Basira, though – she’s always been difficult to read. They have a similar sense of humor, but part of his brain is still living in a time when she saw the worst in him. No matter how many times he tells himself that things are different now, he can’t quite shake that feeling of being on indefinite probation. Hostile attribution bias, he recognizes, but having a label for it doesn’t make it any easier to silence those perennial fears. It’s only recently that he’s been able to take such joking from her in stride. Not always, but sometimes.

“Anyway,” Basira says, looking back to Oliver, “I take it that book is affiliated with the End. It feeds on the reader’s fear of knowing the details of their death.”

“Almost everyone has some degree of fear regarding mortality – their own or that of others,” Oliver says. “For some, that primal fear permeates their entire lives. Others only spare it any thought when it closes in on them. Terminus feeds on all of it equally. I suspect that active encounters with it are more about…”

“Flavor?” Basira suggests.

“So to speak,” Oliver says. “Welcome variety in its diet, but not necessary to sate it.”

“Which is why its Avatars have such wildly different methodologies,” Jon says, nodding to himself. “Justin Gough was allowed to survive a near-death experience, but acquired a debt that had to be paid in the lives of others, killing them in their dreams. Tova McHugh was granted the ability to prolong her own life by passing each of her intended deaths onto others, adding their remaining lifespans to her own. Nathaniel Thorpe was cursed with immortality after trying to cheat his way out of death. He was only one of many gamblers who played such games of chance–”

“Jon,” Basira sighs, “you don’t have to go through the whole roster of personified death omens.”

“Sorry.”

“So what kind of Avatar are you?” Basira asks, looking Oliver up and down. “How do you feed your patron?”

“For me, Terminus has not been particularly demanding. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I never attempted to cheat my way out of death. It simply… chose me – or I wandered across its path – and it never left. Thus far, it seems content to have me play the observer.” He glances at Jon. “You can probably understand that.”

“The Beholding isn’t satisfied to have its Archivist simply observe. It wants its knowledge actively harvested, recorded, curated.” Jon huffs, not bothering to contain his disgust. “Processed.”

The conversation lapses into a tense silence for several seconds before Basira changes tack.

“About Gertrude,” she says. “You tried to warn her about her death.”

“Yes,” Oliver replies.

“Why?”

“The evidence of her death snaked its roots all across London – as far as I could see, and perhaps further. At the time, I’d never seen anything like it. Such a sprawling web of repercussions stemming from a single death – I felt like I had to say something. As I expected, it made no difference in the end.”

Jon worries his lower lip between his teeth. “You said the roots surrounding me seemed sick.”

“You saw roots around Jon?” Martin says urgently, jolting up ramrod-straight in his seat.

“They’re… different from the ones I’ve grown accustomed to,” Oliver says slowly. “There’s no light pulsing within them, no life flowing to or from them. And looking at them, it’s almost like…” He frowns, squinting down at the floor as if it might offer up the words he needs. “It’s like they’re there and not there simultaneously. Faded, like an afterimage – one that can only be seen from a certain angle.”

“Okay, and what does that – what does that mean?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I was hoping Jon could shed some light on it,” Oliver says, raising his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “I may not have the same drive to know that you and yours do, but I find myself returning to the question frequently over the past few months.”

“R-right,” Jon says. “Let me just, uh… where to start…”

Jon rubs at this throat with one hand, the other clenching into a fist where it rests on his knee.

“Jon,” Daisy says, “are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I just, uh –” Jon breathes a nervous laugh. “This never gets any easier.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Martin offers, schooling his tone into something approaching calm. His posture remains rigid, though, hands balled into white-knuckled fists in his lap.

“No, it’s fine.” Jon takes a few deep breaths and then looks Oliver in the eye. “In the future, I ended the world.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Beholding gave you any precognitive abilities.”

“It, uh – it doesn’t. I didn’t foresee the future, I lived it. For… for a long time, actually, so I –” Jon exhales a humorless chuckle. “I probably meet your definition of past my expiration date.”

Oliver tilts his head, considering.

“Hard to say,” he settles on. “You’re… a bit of a paradox. Feels as if you exist in multiple states at once, and it’s difficult for me to tell which one is true.”

“Maybe all of them are,” Jon says distractedly. “But, I, uh – I eventually found a way to come back to before the change – or, to send my consciousness back, anyway. But only as far back as the coma. I… I wish it had taken me back further – back to the very beginning, though I” – Jon huffs – “I suppose it’s hard to say what counts as the beginning.”

“It depends on how you want to define a beginning,” Oliver says. “In a way, the advent of existence marked the beginning of the end. Everything since then has been just another domino.”

“Well,” Jon begins, but Daisy cuts him off.

“Nope,” she says bluntly. “You go down that semantic rabbit hole and we’ll be here forever.”

“Fine,” Jon says with a petulant sigh. “Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to wake up on my own, so just like the first time I was here, I had to wait for you to come along and help.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Oliver says.

“Neither do I, I’m afraid.”

“Not to encroach on your sphere of influence, but I think in this case, not knowing the answer might bother me even more than it does you.” Oliver releases a quiet sigh. “So you came back to stop yourself from starting the apocalypse.”

“It’s not like he chose to end the world,” Martin says, immediately leaping to Jon’s defense once more.

“Apologies,” Oliver says with an earnest nod in Martin’s direction. “I didn’t intend to imply otherwise.” He glances at Jon. “I’ve known of many who seek to bring on the end in the hopes that they will be able to choose what shape it takes. You don’t strike me as the sort.”

“No. But Jonah is.” Jon ducks his head as he speaks, fingers twisting in his jumper. “He wanted – wants to rule over a world reshaped in the Beholding’s image. He needed an Archivist with particular qualities to serve as the linchpin of his Ritual. So he created one. By the time he showed his hand, it was too late. I was the key, and Jonah didn’t need my consent in order to open the door.”

“I imagine it didn’t go as he planned,” Oliver says.

“No,” Jon says with a grim laugh. “No, it didn’t. He suffered as much as anyone else did in that reality. It all started because he was afraid of his own mortality, and yet – in the end, he met a fate worse than death.”

“Whatever it was, he deserved it,” Martin mutters.

“Maybe so,” Jon says. “But it was never about deserving. There was some poetic justice there, seeing him brought down by his own hubris, but… at the end of the day, he got the same treatment as anyone else. Just – pointless suffering, utterly divorced from the concept of consequences. Had a way of… diluting the schadenfreude, honestly.”

Martin’s spark of vindication appears to fizzle out as Jon speaks, his shoulders slumping and his eyes softening.

“Regardless,” Jon continues, “Jonah wanted to be a god, but at his core, he was no different from any other human. Fodder for the Fears. And the one he feared the most – it was in no hurry to finish the meal. I imagine by the time Terminus finally came for him in earnest, he would have welcomed it.”

“Those who seek immortality always come to see it as a curse in time,” Oliver says sagely. “When they come to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as a truly immortal existence, it comes as a relief.”

“I walked through your domain once,” Jon says after a pause. “You gave me a statement about the End’s place in that world. The domains were reluctant to let their victims die – they’d bring them to the brink, then revive them and repeat the process – but the Fears are greedy. Eventually, they would suck their victims dry –”

“– bones – every one of them – picked clean and cracked open – desperately gnawing – trying to reach whatever scant marrow might have remained inside – sucked from them to leave nothing but dry, white fragments – the hunger he saw in their eyes–”

Jon bites down on his tongue. That’s quite enough of that.

“You alright?” Martin says, leaning over and putting a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Sorry,” Jon says gruffly. “That one was…”

“Grisly?” Daisy says.

“Yeah,” Jon huffs. “But – not necessarily inapt? That reality was a closed economy. No new people were being born. The ones who already existed were destined to die, no matter how unwilling the other Fears were to grant that release.”

“As has always been the order of things,” Oliver says.

“You predicted that eventually the Fears would start poaching victims from one another’s domains – and they did. There were…” Jon grimaces. “There were a lot of territorial disputes, towards the end there. Domains encroaching on one another, monsters fighting over scraps. The Eye got its fill Watching it all play out, of course, but given enough time, it would have starved, same as all the rest.”

“And once the world was rendered barren,” Oliver says, understanding, “Terminus itself would die.”

Jon nods. “And until that happened, both you and your patron were content to let things play out.”

“Terminus is patient.”

Too patient, Jon thought at the time.

“I don’t think it was your intention,” he says, “but your statement did come as a relief. I already expected as much – that eventually it would all end – but having it corroborated by an authority on the matter was… very welcome.”

“People may fear death,” Oliver says, “but anyone who outruns it long enough finds that there is a much deeper fear hiding underneath – that of having the release of death withheld from them.”

“We have a lot of statements to that tune,” Basira says.

“I imagine so.”

“So,” Daisy says brusquely, “is that enough of a story for you?”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. “Although it raises more questions than it grants answers.”

“Our turn for questions, then?” Basira asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “The… veins, or… roots you saw around Gertrude. You’re saying they didn’t just foretell her death, but showed how it would impact everything else. So, what about the ones you saw around Jon?”

“It’s difficult to observe them for any length of time, but they do seem… more sprawling.” Oliver studies Jon for a moment, considering. “Like you are the heart of a watershed moment destined to happen.”

“So that’s it, then,” Jon says dully. “I’m still the spark for it all.”

Pandora’s box with a ‘use by’ date, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

He already knew it to be true, but that doesn’t make the confirmation any less harrowing. Everything hinges on his ability to keep his head above water, but the fate of the world weighs ever more heavily on his shoulders, pressing down, down, down –

“Does that mean…” Jon hugs his middle, slowly curling in on himself. “Does that mean it’s going to happen again?”

“I cannot say.” If Jon’s not mistaken, Oliver sounds… almost sympathetic. “This is unprecedented. I can only theorize. It’s possible that you’re like Gertrude, and what I see is a premonition. Or maybe the reality you came from still exists, parallel to this one, and it still clings to you. Perhaps it’s a Schrödinger’s cat, and it both does and does not exist, right up until the point where you do or do not bring it into being. Or maybe it doesn't exist, and the roots I see are only… imprints, so to speak. Echoes of a time and place that this world will never overlap.”

“Like trace fossils,” Jon murmurs. “Ghosts.”

“If you like.”

“Could you – could you follow them?” Jon can feel his pulse quicken, his heart thrumming in his throat. “See where they originate?”

“They originate from you.”

“O-oh.” Jon’s gaze darts uncertainly around the area before fixing on Oliver again. “Then, uh – can you see where they end?”

“You have a suspicion,” Basira says, watching Jon carefully.

Jon swallows around the breath caught in his throat. “What if they go back to Hill Top Road?”

“As far as I can tell, they reach out in all directions,” Oliver says. “There may not be a single end point. Regardless, I have no desire to visit Hill Top Road.”

“Oh,” Jon says despondently. It’s not like he expected Oliver to go out of his way to help, but…

“Would it really tell you anything of value anyway?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, running a hand through his hair, one finger getting caught in a knot and pulling hard at his scalp. “But – but it feels like something I should at least check –”

“To what end?” Daisy asks. Jon looks at her blankly. “No offense, Sims, but the most likely outcome is you get no real answers, you lose yourself obsessing over theories, each more catastrophic than the last, and you spend the next few weeks compulsively checking yourself for spiders. Some things aren’t worth chasing after.”

“I just – I feel like I should know one way or the other –”

“Is that you or the Eye talking?” Martin asks.

“What’s the difference?” Jon says flatly. He immediately regrets it when he glimpses the expression on Martin’s face – a very familiar mixture of concern and frustration. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t know. I don’t Know.”

Jon tugs on his hair once more, focusing on the dull ache it produces. He’s always had trouble letting things go. Letting questions go unanswered; letting mysteries go unsolved. The Beholding just nurtured that obsessiveness, encouraged that impulse to proliferate in his head like a weed and choke out his inhibitions.

“You’re here now,” Martin says firmly. “You can’t go back, so you may as well go forward.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, guilt heavy and searing in his chest.

“Like I said,” Oliver says, rubbing the back of his neck, “my knowledge of the future is narrow. I can’t tell you anything about parallel universes, or branching timelines, or the ability to alter history. The only certainty is that anything that begins will have an end, one way or another. All the rest is just… details.”

Martin folds his arms across his chest, examining Oliver with narrowed eyes. “You say that like the details are irrelevant.”

“I wonder about that,” Oliver says softly.

“Well, I think our experiences matter,” Martin says. “The fact that we were here at all, it’s… it’s not nothing.”

“Even those who make the greatest impact are forgotten in time.”

“So what? It will always have happened, even if no one is alive to remember it. And – and you never know when something little will have an impact on someone, which contributes to them doing something that makes a greater impact – that changes history.”

“Even time itself will end eventually. History will be forgotten, and nothing will remain to register its loss.”

“And?” Martin persists. “We won’t be around to see it. In the meantime, we’re here. We’re alive. If we’re going to end no matter what, why not make it worthwhile? Sure, there are no equivalent powers of hope and love to counter the Fears, but – but who cares? That just means that we have to make up for that absence.” Jon smiles to himself as Martin builds momentum – shoulders pushed back, chest thrust out, head held higher, speech growing more impassioned as he argues his point. “If a few mistakes and some asshole with a god complex can end the world, who’s to say a few deliberate kindnesses can’t save it?”

“Am I the asshole with the god complex?” Jon says drily. Judging from Martin’s disapproving scowl, he is not in the mood for self-deprecating humor. “Sorry, sorry. But, uh – in all seriousness, I think it was more than a few mistakes on my part–”

“You know what I meant, Jon,” Martin snaps. “And – and fine, maybe a few kindnesses can’t save the whole world, but – but they can save someone’s world. They can save a person. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a small smile. “Yes, it does.”

“R-right.” Martin blinks several times, momentarily stunned by the lack of resistance. “It doesn’t change the world – except for how it does. Just – the universe might not care, but we can, and that’s exactly why we should. It’s… it’s what we owe to each other. That’s what I think, at least.”

Martin goes quiet then, arms still folded with a mixture of self-consciousness and sullen defiance.

“How long have you had that rant queued up?” Daisy teases.

“A while,” Martin says, rubbing his arm sheepishly.

“You’re quite the romantic,” Oliver says. He says it like a compliment, albeit somewhat wistful.

“Yeah, well.” Martin blushes at the praise in spite of himself. “Someone has to counter the fatalism around here.”

If you ask Jon, there are many reasons to love Martin Blackwood. This is doubtless one of them.

“Besides,” Martin recovers, apparently on a roll now, “it seems to me there’s as much evidence for fate being changeable as not. Yeah, sure, eventually everything dies, but who’s to say that the details are set in stone? Like – like that book, the one where the details of a person’s death change every time they read it.”

“But does their fate actually change, or is it just the book messing with their heads?” Basira says, tapping her fingers against her lips and looking down at the floor pensively. “If the End has foreknowledge of a person’s death, maybe the last entry a person reads before dying was always their fate, and all the previous accounts were just lies intended to seed fear.”

When Jon opens his mouth to chime in, the Archive seizes the initiative, unceremonious as ever.

"When did it change?” comes the cadence of Masato Murray. “Was it when I turned back to read it again? Or perhaps when I had made the decision to never visit Lancashire? If the book knew the future, then how much did it know me? My decisions and choices were my own, so was it responding to them or simply to the fact that I opened the book again? Perhaps it changed every time I opened it, even if I didn’t read the page, every interaction changing my fate…. When I close the book I wonder: are those same words still there, squatting and biding their time, or have they already changed into some new unknown terror that I can neither know nor avoid, waiting to spring on me.”

Jon holds his breath in anticipation. After a few seconds of suspense, the pressure recedes, the Archive having spoken its peace.

“Archive’s talkative today,” Basira observes.

“Apparently,” Jon grumbles. “What I originally meant to say was that I’ve wondered the same thing – whether the book was really telling the future or simply playing on the fears of the reader.”

“Maybe offering textual support is another convenience feature?” Daisy keeps her tone carefully neutral, gauging his mood.

“The Beholding is known for being exceedingly generous,” he retorts.

Basira ignores the banter and speaks directly to Oliver. “Do you know?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the book in question,” he replies. “All the deaths I’ve personally foreseen have come to pass so far. That says nothing about whether or not the End always reveals the truth to all who cross its path.”

“Right.” Basira shakes her head. “Not sure why I expected a straightforward answer.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Martin says. For a fraction of a second, Basira tenses. Jon suspects she’s just as repulsed by such a prospect as he is.

“Whatever,” she says curtly. “It isn’t important right now. What I want to know is how to deal with Jonah Magnus. So” – she pins Oliver in place with sharp, unblinking eyes – “what can you tell us about his mortality?”

“In short? He won’t live forever, regardless of how much he wants to deny that reality.”

“Yeah, you’ve said,” Daisy says, tossing her head back with an impatient groan. “Him dying eventually doesn’t help us now.”

“I’m not a mind-reader,” Oliver says. “If there’s more to your question, you’ll need to elaborate. What are you actually asking? How to kill him? For me to tell you whether his death is on the horizon?”

“Jonah claims that he’s the ‘beating heart of the Institute,’” Jon explains. “He says that if he dies, everyone else who works here dies as well. You were able to see the ripples created by Gertrude’s death. I suppose I thought – maybe you could tell us if there’s something similar with Jonah.”

“If his death was imminent, perhaps.” Oliver averts his eyes as he twists a ring around his finger, growing increasingly tense under such concentrated scrutiny. “But as I said before, I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Martin says.

“To be frank, this place is rife with potential.” Oliver casts his gaze around the area, as if seeing something the others cannot. “It would be… difficult to untangle it all.”

“Fine,” Basira says tartly. “Then can you tell us whether it’s possible for him to set up a dead man’s switch in the first place? Seems to me something like that would be the End’s domain, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Then would he be able to exercise any real power over it?” Basira persists. “There’s nothing inherent to the Eye that suggests its Avatars should be able to bind others’ lives to them. Even the Archivist doesn’t work like that – we’re linked to Jon as far as being unable to quit goes, but we won’t die if he does. I think it’s more likely that Jonah did something extra to bind the Institute to himself.”

“Assuming he’s even telling the truth,” Daisy says.

“So, is there an artefact that could let him do it?” Basira asks, still staring Oliver down. “A ritual? A favor from an affiliate of the End, maybe?”

“Terminus has a variety of ways in which it operates,” Oliver says cagily, “same as all the other Powers. I don’t seek out instances of those manifestations. Given the sheer number of statements collected here, it's likely you’re all more familiar with the breadth of its influence than I am.”

“You’re very helpful,” Daisy scoffs.

Oliver hunches his shoulders, chastised. It’s an odd sight – Jon wouldn’t have expected him to be particularly affected by such an accusation. Oliver never promised to be helpful; does not owe them his cooperation. Before Jon can pursue that thought any further, though, Oliver continues.

“I will say that Terminus is its own master. Those who believe they have tamed it are only fooling themselves. Orchestrating their own misery. The moment in which they finally realize that fact – that they have never had the upper hand, that the entire time they have never strayed from the route to which Terminus binds them…” Oliver chews the inside of his cheek, considering. “The existential terror that moment creates – I wonder sometimes whether it’s a delicacy to my patron.”

“Sounds a lot like the Web,” Basira says. The suggestion must pique his interest, because Oliver sits up straighter and leans forward ever so slightly.

“Except the Web reviles its extinction as much as the other powers, and as much as any mortal mind,” he says – not quite excited, but more engaged than before. “Terminus, on the other hand – its eventual oblivion is part and parcel of its existence. It does not fear the conclusion of its story. The Web will never surrender to such a fate. It will always seek an escape route, some way to appoint itself the weaver of its own ends. Its threads can never stray from the confines of the routes dictated by Terminus, but the concept that it may itself be under the guidance of another… such a thing is incompatible with its definition. Still, the shape of the Spider’s web will always mirror the blueprints of a greater architect.”

“And you think the same is true for Jonah,” Jon says.

“I know it is.”

“Okay, but – but Jon changed fate,” Martin protests. “In a million little ways – some we probably don’t even know about – and some big ones, too. So who’s to say that every step of the route is part of the End’s blueprints? What if – hold on.”

Martin stands and moves to Jon’s makeshift desk, rummaging around for a few seconds before coming up with a pen. He snatches one of Melanie’s therapy worksheets from the top of the pile and turns it over to the blank side.

“What if the only things set in stone are – are certain points along the route,” he says, scribbling a scattering of dots across the page, “but all that matters is that the route eventually intersects with those points?” Martin connects two points with a wavy, sine-like line. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter how convoluted” – he draws another line, this time with several loop-de-loops – “or long” – yet another line, this one traveling all the way up to the top of the page and making several winding turns before plunging back down to connect with the next dot – “the path is.” He holds up the finished product for everyone to see. “As long as the dots connect, the rest is free reign.”

“I like to think that choice plays a role,” Oliver says. “That fate is less of a track and more of a guideline. But honestly, there’s no way to know for certain. I only know the end point. The rest is speculation.”

“It’s also possible that the rift brought me to an alternate reality,” Jon says, eyes downcast. “If the reality of my original timeline still exists, I haven’t changed fate at all. I’ve just jumped to a different track.”

“Okay, and if that’s the case, and this is a different dimension,” Martin says heatedly, “then that means it has its own timeline and its own future, and whatever happened in your future has no bearing on ours.” Martin glares, daring Jon to argue. He doesn’t. “So it’s a moot point. If we can’t know one way or the other whether the future is already written, then let’s just act as if it isn’t. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. At least then it will feel meaningful.”

“The worst isn’t something you can prepare for,” Jon says darkly. “Trust me, I know.”

“If I want ominous proverbs, I’ll let you know,” Martin immediately counters – and Jon loves him for it. Daisy chokes on a startled laugh; Martin ignores her, instead pivoting to face Oliver. “We want to kill Jonah Magnus. Or, at least make it so he can’t perform his Ritual. But preferably kill.”

“Never realized you were so bloodthirsty, Blackwood,” Daisy says approvingly.

“The world will be a better place without him in it,” Martin says without a hint of indecision, not looking away from Oliver. “Jonah’s original body is in the center of the Panopticon. Except his eyes, because apparently transplanting them into innocent people is how he cheats death, because of course it is, why wouldn’t it be some messed up–”

“Martin,” Basira sighs.

“Okay, fine, moving on,” Martin sasses back. “It makes me wonder, would destroying his original body hurt him, or do we need to destroy his original eyes as well, or would destroying just his eyes be enough? And – and would it kill him, or just – blind him, disconnect him from the Beholding? Or – or would that kill him, because the Beholding is what’s keeping him alive?”

“Your guesses are as good as mine,” Oliver says. “Much of this really does come down to speculation and thought experiment, and it seems you’ve done plenty of that amongst yourselves already. I’m afraid that the only certainty I can offer is the certainty of an ending, and I don’t think that’s as much of a consolation to you as it is to me.”

“No, it’s not,” Martin says.

“But, uh – thank you for your honesty,” Jon jumps in. “For trying.”

“I really do wish I had better answers for you,” Oliver says, not quite meeting his eyes. “The End is… somewhat of an echo chamber at times. When you’re already on the inside looking out, it can be… difficult, to shift perspective.”

“I wouldn’t be able to offer many straightforward answers about my patron, either,” Jon admits.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Could you… could you at least tell us whether you can see anything about our deaths?”

Oliver draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “In my experience, there’s nothing to be gained from such knowledge.”

“Tell us anyway,” Basira says.

“Why?” Oliver says tiredly, his hands curling into loose fists. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because if you can see something, it could help us narrow down possibilities,” Basira replies. “If you see all of us dying in the same way, maybe it means we all die when Magnus does.”

“Or it just means you all die in the same freak accident.”

“Wait, do we?” Martin asks, his voice pitching higher in alarm.

“It was just an example,” Oliver says, scrubbing one hand down his face. “I’m just saying that this kind of knowledge doesn’t tend to give people the answers that they want.” Met with nothing but four determined stares, his shoulders sag in defeat. “Are you all certain you want to know?”

Everyone nods. Oliver equivocates for a full minute, rubbing at his forehead in complete silence. Eventually, he releases a long, low sigh.

“Right now,” he says, “I don’t see death closing in on any one of you.”

“Shit,” Martin says on a heavy exhale. “The way you were putting it off, I was sure you were going to predict a massacre.”

“Honestly,” Daisy mutters. “Bury the lead much?”

Jon ignores them, preoccupied with the implications of Oliver's revelation. If they were planning on killing Jonah tomorrow, it would say nothing about whether they were to succeed, but it would suggest they don’t die in the process, which would at least offer some reassurance going in. But Jon has no idea when they’ll be able to execute any sort of plan. This only confirms that none of them are likely to die in the next few weeks – and that’s assuming that Oliver’s premonition is accurate. Up until now, his predictions have come true, but there’s a first time for everything.

Judging from the contemplative frown on Basira’s face, she’s running through the same calculations.

“How far out can you see?” she asks.

“It varies,” Oliver says. “Weeks, usually. Sometimes months.”

“And it could change in a few weeks,” Daisy says.

“It could change tomorrow. It could change an hour from now.” Oliver looks between the four of them with a faint, melancholy smile. “I did warn you that it wouldn’t offer much sense of security. It only makes you want to know more.”

“Look where you are,” Basira scoffs.

“Point taken,” Oliver says with a startled laugh. “But honestly, ask yourself whether it’s all that different from Masato Murray and his book. If it’s worth living your life around the question of when and how – especially when the answer, should you receive one, will never put your mind at ease.”

“Just to be clear, ah – was I included in that prophecy? Or do you still see the veins around me?” Jon asks. Oliver raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know – the answer won’t satisfy me. Just – humor me?”

“Yes,” Oliver sighs, “I can still see them, if I look for them, but as we covered quite exhaustively, they look atypical and wrong and I don’t know what to make of them.” A tinge of indignation breaks through Oliver's characterisic mild manner – and then the moment passes. “I don’t think they indicate an imminent demise, but much about you is an enigma.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell us about Jonah Magnus?” Basira asks.

“It isn’t a matter of if he can be killed, but how. Unfortunately, you’ll have to figure that part out for yourselves. As for whether or to what extent he could bind his fate to the rest of the Institute… there are any number of strange phenomena and improbable feats in this world. I would never claim to be an authority on the scope of it all.” Oliver offers another wistful ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid you might just have to take a leap of faith.”

Again, Jon thinks with an inward sigh.

But at least he can say he’s had practice.

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 011; 011; 168; 121; 156; 070. The “I still remember the first time…” & “And the worst part was that…” Oliver quotes are from MAG 121.

Yes, “what we owe to each other” is a nod to The Good Place.

So. This… was a beast of a chapter, and the last half of it really kicked my ass, which is why it’s taken so long to finally finish it. Still not sure how I feel about it – it’s a bit of a digression, but I’m hoping it still fits in thematically. Either way, next chapter we’re moving on to Ny-Ålesund.

Hopefully it won’t take me an entire month this time to write the next chapter, but… we’re down to two episodes left, folks. Chances are, next time I update, we’ll have heard the series finale. Are you all ready? Because I categorically am NOT. aaaaaaaaa

(That said, I already have a handful of epilogue standalone fics planned for this AU once the main story is done. Because hurt/comfort and recovery fics are going to be at the top of my hierarchy of needs once Jonny Sims destroys me in two weeks, I s2g.)

Thanks for reading!

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

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sicjimin · 3 years

Note

love ur fics, they’re always amazing! could you write a namkook one with 6, 9, 16, 32, with joon as the sickie and jk as the caretaker? maybe make it rly awkward bc Namjoon is the hyung and doesn’t want jk to see him but jk is the only other one home and jk doesn’t like seeing his hyungs in pain and thinks he can’t comfort. it ends up fine and jungkook wants namjoon to sleep with him (just in case) and joon secretly does too? please only do this if u have time, thank you!

6. “Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

9. “I think it was something I ate.”

16. “I can’t throw up…”

32. “Your belly is really sick, isn’t it?”

A.N : AAHHH my first sick!namjoon !! thank u for requesting hehe i love this idea so much, its so adorable :( and i hope this does justice to your expectations? I'm sorry this took way too long T.T i hope you like this one :D

TW : emeto, graphic descriptions of vomiting

Jungkook perked up from his phone and slightly lift his head when he heard the door opened, followed by a tall figure walk in —a little bit too sluggish, Jungkook afraid that he might trip.

"Oh, Namjoon-hyung ! You're home already? i thought you said you were gonna stay up late with Yoongi-hyung?", Jungkook greeted the older happily, finally he's not the only one at this big dorm, he started to get bored. The older just hummed as the answer while putting on his winter coat on the hanger and slowly toss his shoes, " Yeah, it went faster than I thought too so I figured to catch some rest. Do you mind if I go to my room and clean myself a bit? I will join you here later"

"Sure hyung, do you want something?", Jungkook lifted himself to walk to their fridge, rummaging for some snacks and soju. He heard a loud " No" from upstairs, but he still decided to grab two can of soju and a big bag of chips. He sets himself back to the couch, when he heard his phone ding with notifications.

Yoongi-hyung : 2 New Messages

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows, all 7 of them were not too fond of texting if it's not for a really urgent matter. They preferred to talk in person or do it on the gc. That's why when someone is messaging him personally, his mind grows alerted.

Yoongi-hyung : Jungkook

Yoongi-hyung : Is Namjoon already get home?

Jungkook : Yes, he just arrived few minutes ago

Jungkook : Why hyung?

Jungkook already sees Yoongi typing, not even a minute after he pressed send. He once again feels a little bit surprised.

Yoongi-hyung : Watch him for me, he's sick. That's why he gets home earlier. I still need to finish this song, I will get home as soon as possible.

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows deeper. Hyung is .. sick? but he looks f—. Jungkook clicked his tongue, Jeon Jungkook you dumb. He steals a glance upstairs after replying to Yoongi . It's been 10 minutes and there's no sign the older gonna out soon. An ugly anxious feeling starts creeping up as his brain starts to make the worst scenario ever. What if Namjoon-hyung faints inside and he couldn't scream for help. What if hyung get dizzy and fall and—

"Earth to Jungkook, hello?"

Jungkook blinked and meet Namjoon's tired eyes waving his hand in front of him before plopped himself on the couch along with a sigh. Jungkook gulped, he's trying to act all cool and natural since he knows the older ones didn't like to be coddled too much but he just can't help to be worried. Damn, this gonna be hard for him.

They decided to watch some dramas that airing, but they know none of them paid attention to the storyline. One is too busy stealing glances to make sure the latter is fine and the other one is too busy calming down his stomach that has been rolling up and down since he stepped home. Jungkook takes notes on how Namjoon hands never leave his stomach, buried under the baggy sweater he wears— he always uses that when he's not feeling well— and how his other hands occasionally moved to stifled a quiet burp. Jungkook is itching to ask but he feels awkward too if he suddenly drops the question. He knows that the older gonna say that he's fine.

"Jungkook, I need to go to the bathroom, okay?", Namjoon says a little bit too quickly, not even waiting for Jungkook to mustered a response. Jungkook's train of thought got cut off as his eyes watches the older walk away until he hears the sound of the door closed and later, the water running. He diverts his eyes back to the TV, maybe Namjoon hyung is fine.

Jungkook has already finished his snack but Namjoon is still not back from the bathroom. It's been more than 5 minutes. The worries spiking inside him. He walks to the bathroom and knocks, "Hyung .. are you okay? You've been in there for a long time"

Silence.

"Yeah Kook, I'm fine", Namjoon answered from inside. He tried to sound convincing but his throat has another decision for him as a harsh and quite loud gag escaped. He squeezed his eyes shut because of the force even though nothing come out from the gag—just like how it goes the moment he kneeled there 5 minutes ago. He coughs, his throat feels itchy and it just triggering his gag reflex more. He keeps opened his mouth wide along with his tongue arched, touching his palate, delivering another series of gag. But still, nothing comes out except a trickle of thick saliva. Namjoon wants to cry, there's nothing worse than incredibly nauseous but you just can't throw up. He leaned back from the toilet, placing his back on the wall, and buried his head on his knees. Hands still aggressively rubbing and pressing his stomach, urging the rollercoaster of food inside it to just finish their business and out of his body. Namjoon lift his head when he hears the door opened and feels a hand awkwardly rubbing his shoulder

"Kook, what are you doing there"

"Um ..." the younger trailed off, it supposed to be an adorable sight for Namjoon on how Jungkook can't meet his eyes when he's talking nervously, if his mind isn't clouded with waves of nausea that keeps going on and off in his body. "I just want to check up on you hyung", he adds shyly. Namjoon mustered a strained smile, " I'm fine Kook-ah. Just feel a little bit sick, but I will be fine. Don't worry"

"A-ah, is that so? Um .. I-", Jungkook stuttered. Damn this situation is so awkward, Jeon Jungkook man up! Namjoon hyung need you, just offer something that could make him feel better maybe—

Jungkook's train of thought got cut off once again, changed with a spike of his heartbeat as he sees Namjoon scrambled to the toilet, the older body leaned forward followed by a series of empty gag. Jungkook stunned. His body finally managed to react when Namjoon's gagging stop, leaving the older cough and let out a pained hiss, "Fuck, it hurts"

Jungkook stands up silently and brings a glass of water, seated himself beside his hyung again, "Hyung, try to drink this. Your throat might hurt and maybe this could trigger your stomach"

Namjoon was too out of his mind, taking the glass with his shaky hands and gulped it quickly. His stomach starts to make loud rumbled noises, he's sure Jungkook could hear it, "I'm sorry. This is so gross", he mumbled shyly, gaining giggles from Jungkook, breaking the awkward air between them, " Woah, your belly must be really sick hyung"

"Mhm, it is. I've been so nauseous since lunch. That's why Yoongi-hyung sending me off because i keep dry heaving in the office too. I think it must be something i eat but i don't know what. God, Jungkook, i just want to throw up and get over this", Namjoon practically rambling now but he doesn't care. He's tired of holding himself back and maintaining the hyung image, his body is aching for comfort, and he gonna get it from Jungkook.

Jungkook shifted his body, hands moving to the older backs, giving a slight massage on shoulders and nape, "I'm sorry you're so sick hyung. Do you want me to rub your stomach, it might help"

Namjoon shakes his head. "It didn't work .. i still cant throw—", his words cut off as a sudden splash of liquid hitting the back of his throat and quickly rushing out of his mouth, making some of it spilled on his sweater as he didn't prepare with the commotion. His stomach clenched again as a stream of water he just takes earlier keep spilling from his mouth with such force. As he goes and goes, the clear liquid morphs into a pale-colored and thick liquid. He could feel the sashimi he eats earlier on his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut while his stomach and throat working on getting out everything in his body.

"That's it hyung, let it out all", Jungkook murmured beside him, hands never stop rubbing and massaging his back.

Namjoon finally managed to catch a breath when the heave tapered off. He flushed the almost full toilet and wipes his lips and nose.

"You're done hyung?"

He shakes his head, eyes trailed on the swirling of the murky liquid below him. He could see the remnants of whatever he took earlier and it's setting his stomach off again. His body bent forward as nausea dragged another stream out of his stomach. Namjoon coughs and winced few times when there's no more lingering taste of food— but a bitter one now. Oh, only bile left, he thoughts while his stomach keeps spasming.

"Hyung, you're empty", Jungkook speaks. Namjoon nods. It took him a few dry heaving and trickle of bile until he finally sagged his body back. Jungkook quickly flushes the toilet before Namjoon could open his eyes, not wanting the older to see the toilet again in case it might set the older off.

"Kook-ah, 'm exhausted", Namjoon hoarse voices trickling Jungkook's ears.

"I know hyung, let's get you to bed, okay? it's more comfortable there"

Namjoon let his body dragged by Jungkook to his room. He's practically half-conscious and moving like a robot right now as he just moves his body as Jungkook pleased. The younger managed to make Namjoon changed his wet sweater and tucked the older into bed. He's halfway to stand up and leave the room, figured that Namjoon wants to have time alone and rest, before a clammy hand grip his wrist, "Stay here"

"Huh?", Jungkook short-circuited.

"Stay .. until I fall asleep, please? I don't feel like being alone", Namjoon mumbled sleepily, but hands still tightly gripping Jungkook's wrist like he is afraid that Jungkook might suddenly disappear.

"Uhm ..", Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly. " Okay hyung .. rest well. I will stay here", he adds gaining a soft hum from Namjoon.

"Thankyou, i'm sorry you must take care of me like that", Namjoon says softly almost like whispers if Jungkook didn't manage to catch it well.

Jungkook could feel his cheeks heated before breaking into a smile, "that's my job too hyung, get well soon"

#bts sickfic #bts emeto #tw emeto #tw vomit #sick!namjoon #caretaker!jungkook

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sign-from-god-complex · 4 years

Text

Self-Control

Summary: The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and though Virgil has come all this way he’s suddenly struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other—so much can change in 15 years; so much has changed in 15 years.

Though, maybe things haven’t changed quite as much as Virgil thinks.

(AKA, a past-punk moxiety AU)

Pairing: Moxiety!

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, smoking, homophobia and nondescript injury. Vague allusions to past abuse (or at least mentions of terrible parental figures). Brief discussion of a parental figure having died.

AO3 Link

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It isn’t at all the place Virgil imagined for him. The flower pots all sit in a row on the steps, red ivy climbing up the fence like spider webs and a garden hose curled up on a perfectly manicured front lawn. Everything about it is picturesque—almost to the point of insanity—and as a butterfly floats by and lands delicately on a ladder leaning onto the fence from the backyard, Virgil wonders what in the world could have changed Patton so drastically to have led to this.

There’s an image, in his head, of teenage rebellion—of 2 am milkshakes and stolen bicycles, of broken glass and laughter, so much laughter, as they took advantage of what time they had left to live. It doesn’t fit in with this pastel blue sky in this pastel blue neighbourhood full of pastel blue people but he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew things would be different.

Though, that doesn’t make it all that much easier to comprehend.

Vaguely, Virgil hears the sound of excited squeals coming from the yard and he ducks his head over the fence just a bit, catching sight of a young girl flying off of a trampoline at a hundred miles an hour—hair a mess and grin bright.

The kid must be Patton’s—it’s unmistakable, that dark skin and reckless look, like she’s ready to take the world on at any moment—and Virgil can’t help but remember the nights the two of them spent drinking and talking and vowing to never tie themselves down to anyone or anything.

He supposes no one really does know what they want when they’re young.

It takes Virgil a while to gather up the courage to knock—he’s all too aware of his leather jacket and patches, his dyed hair and piercings. He couldn’t feel more out of place in this suburban neighbourhood and he hadn’t thought that around Patton he could ever feel out of place.

In the end, though, the choice is taken out of his hands. The young girl throws open the door, clearly looking to haul ass across the street to the park—the kind of place he and Pat would have smoked, once upon a time—but is stopped short as she notices Virgil standing in her way. There’s a moment where he’s afraid she’s going to scream or cry or something else he would have no clue how to deal with but instead, she just grins cheekily.

“Dad!” she yells, barely turning her head to face the soft white interior of the house, “There’s a man here for you!”

The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and for a moment Virgil is so afraid that he’s gotten the wrong house or that Patton won’t want to see him and though he’s come all this way he’s struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other; so much can change in 15 years.

“Riley, what do you mean? What ma-”

And then, there he is.

His face is void of any of the makeup he used to wear, his hair faded from turquoise to its natural black and left curly in a way he wouldn’t have been caught dead with once. And, over the top of a graphic t-shirt displaying some characters Virgil doesn’t recognise and unripped light-wash jeans, Patton had thrown a familiar blue flannel.

Virgil remembers that flannel, worn under heavy coats to help fight the evening windchill, tied around Patton’s waist as they scaled fences just to see if they could and left in a pile on the floor in his room as they finally escaped back to comfort and warmth. Honestly, he’s just surprised it still fits.

Patton does nothing but stare at him for a moment, his lips parted in shock and his eyes big and wide and god, looking at him now is like falling in love all over again.

“Virge?” he breathes, a melody of disbelief in his voice. Virgil can’t exactly blame him—it isn’t as if he’s someone Patton was expecting to see.

Virgil rubs over the fabric of his jacket, a nervous tick he’d had even back then. “Hey, uh… surprise?”

And in an instant, has Patton pitched forward right into his arms. Virgil catches him—of course, he catches him, he’ll always catch him—and Patton laughs, displaying some level of joy Virgil hadn’t known he’d needed to hear until now. He can feel Patton breathing against his neck as they hold each other and, distantly, the sound of light footsteps echoes away and up the stairs.

They pull apart, eventually, the separation like trying to peel a sticker off of a concrete wall—the easiest kind of graffiti to enact while still being tricky to remove. The distance Patton puts between them seems almost reluctant and Virgil wishes he had the courage to tell him to stay.

“What are you doing here?” Patton asks. It’s soft, like the white fuzzy carpet of his new home and Virgil realises suddenly he’d been so caught up in him that he’d forgotten that this him wasn’t the same.

Patton had always been soft but not soft like this. He’d been soft in redirected conversation and distractions, in Virgil’s favourite TV show on in the background and stolen chocolate bars in his pocket, guiding hands mimicking steady breathing. This Patton seems soft around the edges—worn down, almost—and Virgil feels those 15 years as more of a lifetime.

He doesn’t answer the question—truthfully because he’s not sure how, not sure where to start with the mess of events and near-misses and regrets that finally brought him here to Patton’s doorstep—and instead replies with one of his own.

“My mom died. Did you know that?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, they hadn’t spoken to each other in 15 years, there was no way he could have known. Virgil asks it all the same though. “I have her money now. Didn’t write me out of the will even after everything we went through. Guess she didn’t want how much she hated me and my “lifestyle” to come out even after she’d kicked it.”

Patton just looks at him. There’s something sad in his eyes, maybe, something regretful or sympathetic, something holding years worth of apologies and love confessions in not so many words that every night they'd pretended they hadn’t said.

Maybe not, he isn’t sure. He’s never been very good with stuff like that.

“You owe me a party,” Virgil continues impulsively. Patton grins and shakes his head and the urge to kiss him is so strong for a moment Virgil can’t breathe. “You promised me when she was dead and I didn’t have to worry about her anymore we’d have a party. With cheerio sausages and expensive liquor and-”

“Sparkling juice and bad karaoke,” Patton interrupts, “I remember.”

Nobody speaks. Patton doesn’t invite him in and Virgil doesn’t ask for fear of being turned away.

He knows there’s an element of worship in the way he looks at Patton. It’s worship like the way farmers pray for rain in a drought, worship like how sailors are drawn to the rough turn of the sea and worship like teens relishing in the night when they’re bored and alone and angry, yearning for freedom that only comes in years they feel they don’t have left.

But now, dark eyes gazing at him and breath catching in his throat, Virgil thinks maybe he isn’t the only one who feels it.

“I have a kid now, you know?” Patton asks and Virgil knows instantly that question isn’t about the party but everything that comes after it—all of the hundreds of possibilities that stem from this decision that neither of them can quite voice out loud, “Single parent. I made a lot of bad choices in those 15 years—gave myself away to a few people who didn’t deserve it, maybe—but she’s… helped. I want to be better for her.”

Virgil nods. It’s a little hard to reconcile teenage Patton with this one but he tries anyway. He has to; he owes him that much.

(In truth, he owes him so, so much more than that but right now this is all he feels he can give.)

“Yeah, uh, Riley, right? Seems like a sweet kid, if not a bit mischievous.” Virgil smirks slightly, somewhere between teasing and nostalgic. “Kind of like you were.”

At that, Patton grins and he laughs and it feels right—feels like early morning rainfall and crackling log fires, like the burning in your lungs as you run and the way your eyes slowly drift shut against your will when you’re up too late, like every ending and beginning in just a moment.

He shakes his head again, almost affectionately chastising and there’s a stuttering of Virgil’s hand as he goes to reach out, to brush a strand of hair away from Patton’s face but stops himself halfway through.

Patton doesn’t seem to notice. Virgil once thought Patton never noticed—never saw the longing in his eyes and the flushed red of his cheeks as they sat side-by-side on a park bench in the middle of winter, running from the heat of harsh words and high expectations.

He wonders if maybe that was naive.

“Well, I’ve gotta make sure to raise her right,” Patton jokes and his smile is amused—fond and familiar like the worn leather of Virgil’s jacket between his fingers, “If she’s not questioning authority and getting me called down to the office at least once a term then I’m doing something wrong.”

With that, there’s a flash—just a moment—of principal visits and angry rants, of cutting class to sit with the other in the silence of the school office and knowing, that outside of the two of them, there was no one else to come. And he thinks of Patton—this Patton, not his Patton—taking up the empty space of that office with kind reassurances and defensive words, protecting and protecting and protecting, fighting for Riley the way he had Virgil.

Parenthood suits Patton more than he’d first thought, perhaps.

“Ah, office visits.” Virgil nods sagely and can’t resist the quirk of his lips as Patton giggles. “A hallmark of a punk child. Next thing you know she’ll be dyeing her hair, running off to the park in the middle of the night to meet up with boys.”

It’s obviously a joke but still, Patton quietens, taking on a more contemplative look. It seems as if he’s remembering something and Virgil needs, all at once, to make sure he’s more to Patton than simply that expression on his face in the midst of just another day.

“Yeah,” Patton finally says, “Yeah, she was thinking purple actually.”

Virgil doesn’t reach up and drag a hand through his own purple hair but it’s a near thing. He hums—soft and low. “Good taste.”

A heavy silence rings in his ears—an echo of all the memories they share and all the memories they don’t, a collision of black and pastel blue on a canvas already painted with teenage angst and first love—and Virgil can't stand the way it feels like it may be too much to overcome. It isn't; he won't let it be.

He takes a step closer and Patton doesn’t move away, just lets Virgil crowd him against the doorframe till their chests are pressed together and each shuddering breath is a joint effort.

“I’d like to get to know her. If you’ll let me,” he murmurs and he’s so close that he can hear Patton’s heartbeat pick up as he slides a hand up to brush at the strands of hair against Virgil’s neck.

The air between them is tense and pulled tight—gazes tracing over freckles and foundation, their skin warm with each point of contact and the rushing of blood in Virgil’s ears drowning out the pounding of his heart. Each second that goes by without comment feels to Virgil like sinking into quicksand, like fingers losing their grip on the edge of a building and threatening to let him fall.

But, before he can draw away, throw up his walls and stumble his way through apologies like they’re nothing more than kids again, Patton tugs him forward and, softly, he brings their lips together.

The kiss is a teenage fantasy come true, the culmination of every moment—under streetlights or under blankets or under nothing more than the cover of night itself—where Virgil longed to reach out and tell Patton that he wanted to kiss him until the world faded away and all that he could focus on was the taste of cherry red lipstick and the joy and love pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat.

It's the comfort in late-night knocking, Patton taking Virgil in and patching him up and holding him as he cries because he has a mother that doesn’t love him and a father that’s always absent and a world that doesn’t care, muttered reassurances a quiet backdrop to his sobs.

It's the warmth in drinking their way through meagre retail paychecks, Patton’s soft touches like fire against his skin and the thread of restraint holding Virgil back from blurting out a love confession worn down to something as thin as a spiderweb and just as delicate.

It's the exhilaration in grocery store runs with no money and bags filled with spray paint cans, their gloved hands clasped tight as they race against the biting evening wind, giving in to the urge to let out a cry of victory that bounces off the empty alley walls.

So, yes, it’s the culmination of years of pining but it’s more than that too. It’s an apology, it’s acceptance and it’s an offer of a future, to stay here with them.

“I think I’d like that,” Patton gasps as he pulls away and Virgil’s so enamoured even after all these years that he barely knows what to say, “For you to know her, I mean. She’d like you. She’s like you, or at least the way you used to be—always a bit loose with self-control.”

Virgil doesn’t tell Patton that all his self-control had been going towards keeping himself from telling him he loved him. He doesn’t think he’d know how.

Slowly, Virgil blinks and he nods and it’s all he can do to keep himself standing as Patton beams up at him with a smile reminiscent of stars colliding—bright and beautiful enough to take his breath away. And suddenly Virgil feels like maybe he can fit in here, that maybe he can fit in anywhere he needs to if Patton keeps looking at him like that.

He smiles back, smaller than the one he’d received but the way Patton’s eyes light up makes Virgil feel like maybe that doesn’t really matter. “Okay, yeah. I want that; I want to stay.”

“Okay,” Patton parrots and he’s barely holding back giggles, Virgil can tell. It’s okay though because he feels it too—that sense of happiness and disbelief that has almost no other way to present itself—and giving in feels more like an inevitability.

So, laughing and hands joined together, Patton pulls Virgil inside to the soft white of his suburban home. And he closes the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun @teadays @sandersships @camcam774 @autism-goblin @deadlyhuggles6 @romanthestarstruckqueer @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear @rainboots-are-for-snobs @welpweregonnadie @spirits-in-my-thoughts @hold-my-hat @goodandbadisallmadeupnonsense @stop-it-anxiety @figurative-falsehood @jadedfantasies231 @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @poisonedapples @sanders-screams @another-sandersidesblog @do-not-just-see-observe @mychemicalpanicattheemo @harleyquinnamiright @localtransgrape @fandomsofrandom @gattonero17 @airiervessel @ollyollyoxinfree @tired-and-probably-crying .

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #moxiety #patton sanders #virgil sanders #lo can write #blease read this guys I worked really really hard on it #they're just. soft and in love #virgil has Many Feelings

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moon-rabbit-music · 4 years

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Y’all know that horrifically angsty fic that I’ve been talking about and preemptively apologizing for the last few days? I finished it

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965787/chapters/63401863

Content warnings: major character death, grieving, brief but somewhat graphic description of violence, blood.

___

At the end of the day, it’s just...bad luck.

Bad luck that Teba’s still unsteady on his horse, and the focus he has to devote to staying upright in the saddle takes away from the careful eye he’d typically have on their surroundings. Bad luck that the skies open up and send down upon them a light mist, urging their little party into a canter in a futile attempt to reach the nearest stable before they’re all soaked through. Bad luck that Revali and Link insist on bantering the whole time, because of course they do. Bad luck that thanks to this precise combination of factors, none of them hear the low thrum of galloping horses, off to the left side of the road, far away but approaching fast.

Bad luck that Link turns to face Teba at exactly the wrong moment, and the arrow that had been about to hit him in the shoulder instead lands square in the middle of his throat.

It’s over in less than a minute. Revali immediately leaps off of his horse, summons an updraft, soars into the air, and in one fluid movement takes his bow off his back, nocks an arrow, and shoots down the bokoblin as it waves its bow in the air in triumph. Teba is half a second behind him, taking a moment to assess the situation— two more bokoblin on horseback, one wielding a club and the other a spear— before springing into action, unslinging his own bow and knocking the club-wielder off its horse with an arrow to the chest. He turns his aim to the other just as Revali dives down upon it, talons digging into its shoulders, pulling it off of its horse and dragging it viciously across the ground until it goes still. Teba lands and does a quick once-over. As soon as he’s certain that they aren’t in any more immediate danger, he sprints back over to the horses, panic building rapidly in his chest.

Link lies sprawled out on the side of the road, eyes closed, and for one long, hysterical, hopeful second, Teba thinks he might sit up and cough and wipe the blood from his tunic and give him that ridiculous little grin he puts on every time Teba frets over one of his wounds. But he doesn’t move, and his face is so white, and there’s a ragged hole straight through the middle of his throat and so much blood and a horrible weight starts to settle itself in Teba’s stomach.

This can’t be his Link. His Link is always moving, fidgeting, full of nervous energy. His Link is rosy cheeks and a smile like the sun and only ever just enough blood to make him worry. His Link is alive, and this limp, pale thing lying in front of him is...not.

Behind him, Revali screams.

Teba knows he should feel...something. Shock. Anger. Grief. Guilt. But they don’t come. All he feels is the weight. In a daze, he stands and walks over to Link’s horse, which is tossing its head and shuffling about, clearly spooked. She quiets as he approaches, and he rifles through her saddlebag until he finds bandages and Link’s cloak.

He starts by dressing the wound, wiping away the blood as best he can and carefully wrapping bandages around Link’s neck. As he works, Revali collapses next to him, laying his head on Link’s chest as he weeps. Once Teba finishes and the ugly gash is hidden but for a small red spot in the front of the bandages, he takes Revali by the shoulders and pulls gently.

“Revali,” he says quietly, and his lover looks up at him, eyes desperate and deeply, impossibly sad. Teba tugs at him again, and this time he comes, wrapping his wings so tightly around Teba’s chest that it nearly knocks the wind out of him and letting out a ragged wail. Teba holds him close, awkwardly patting his back in some vague, wholly inadequate attempt at comfort, and Revali buries his head in the crook of Teba’s neck, breaking off into quiet, choked sobs.

They sit there, on the side of the road. Time passes. The rain passes. Travelers pass, too, but they pay them no mind, and the few that dare to approach wither rapidly under Teba’s glare. Revali clings to him, head tucked underneath Teba’s beak and eyes tightly shut, as if he could fight off the crushing reality simply by refusing to acknowledge it. Teba just stares. He stares for so long that he very nearly convinces himself that he’s used to it. As if he could ever accept this image of Link, pale as death and motionless in a puddle of his own blood.

Eventually, Revali opens his eyes and disentangles himself from Teba. He draws in a deep, rattling breath, leaning into Teba’s side for support.

“We should bury him,” he mutters, and Teba furrows his brow in confusion.

“What?”

Revali gestures toward Link. Towards Link’s body. “We should bury him,” he says again, louder this time, and he sounds as empty as Teba feels. “That’s what...that’s what Hylians do with their—”

He cuts himself off before the last word, and Teba puts a wing around his shoulder. With their dead, he thinks. Link is dead.

He doesn’t say that. Instead, he says “we don’t have a shovel,” because maybe focusing on these kinds of petty material concerns will help the both of them turn their minds away from the horrible pit of darkness rapidly opening up beneath their feet. Another thought occurs to him, and he grabs onto it with all the desperation of a drowning man to a rope. “Shouldn’t we bring him to the castle? We’re nearly at Tabantha Bridge, and it’s only a couple days’ travel from the stable there.”

Revali shakes his head, and Teba notes with relief that he seems grateful for the distraction. “He wouldn’t— I don’t think he’d want all the ceremony. I suppose we could bring him back to the village, but…” He trails off, sagging a little, and Teba tightens his grip on his shoulder. “I can’t bear it, Teba, the thought of...of fucking carting him around for a whole day, I just can’t.”

“Yeah.” The telltale sting of tears pricks hard behind Teba’s eyes all of a sudden, but some ridiculous urge to hold himself together, for Revali’s sake if nothing else, has him blinking them back. “I...I could fly over to the stable, see if I can get us a shovel.” He sees Revali’s eyes widen in alarm, and he quickly amends the statement. “Or you could, and I’ll wait here. You’re faster than me anyway.”

“OK.” Revali exhales shakily and bows his head. “OK. OK, I can do that,” he says quietly, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than anything. Teba squeezes his shoulder once more before letting go, and he reluctantly pulls himself away from Teba’s side and to his feet. He takes in a deep breath, crouches, summons another updraft, and spirals off into the sky.

Teba watches him glide away, until he’s nothing but a small speck on the horizon. Then he turns his attention back to Link. He carefully slides one wing underneath his neck and the other behind his knees, ignoring the sickening feeling of blood soaking into his feathers, and lifts him up, cradling the limp body to his chest. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to Link’s, gently rubbing his beak against Link’s nose as he had used to do every night as they settled into bed. The thought hits him like a ton of bricks. Had used to. He would never say goodnight to Link again.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers into Link’s ear, and the last of his composure crumbles. He dissolves into tears, clamping his beak shut and rocking back and forth, trying desperately to swallow his sobs until it’s too much and they burst out in short, painful gasps. The weight in his stomach vanishes, replaced by the awful, vertiginous feeling of free-fall, spiraling down and out and his wings are slick and wet and saturated with red and bile starts to rise in his throat and—

“Oh, Teba,” is all he hears Revali say, before the shovel clatters to the ground and the dead weight in his arms is carefully lifted away and placed gingerly on the ground. He collapses forward, into Revali’s wings, feels his lover rest his head on his shoulder and feels his tears fall softly onto his neck. Revali says something else, inaudible over the blood pounding in Teba’s ears. He just shakes his head, pressing his face into Revali’s chest and wills himself to find his composure again, to ground himself, to save this debilitating grief for nights back home.

They fall into autopilot, eventually. They take turns with the shovel to dig a shallow grave, and Teba wraps Link in his cloak before lowering him into the fresh, damp dirt. He watches numbly as Revali slowly covers him, staring at his face, trying to affix every last detail of it in his mind before it’s covered up as well. Gone forever. No sign left of him but a pathetic little mound of overturned earth.

At Tabantha Bridge Stable, Revali returns the shovel and turns in their horses. They rent a single bed, a good foot and a half too short for Teba, but he spends the night curled around Revali anyway because letting him out of his sight for even a moment is utterly unthinkable.

In the morning, there are no words, just despairing glances and blinked-back tears. They fly back to the village, and by some unspoken agreement land not there but at the Flight Range, which is mercifully empty. It’s saturated with Link’s absence, more than anywhere in the village proper, but it is their sanctuary and nothing, not even this calamitous emptiness, can take that away from them.

Teba cooks dinner. He burns the fish to hell, and neither of them have any appetite anyway, so he just throws it away. They sit and stare at the fire, Revali’s head in Teba’s lap. Link sits across from them, a ghost neither of them thinks the other can see, and his smile is worth all of the words he can no longer say.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Teba says quietly, and Revali sits up. He wraps a single wing around the back of Teba’s neck and pulls him in close, pressing their foreheads together, and gently rubs their beaks together.

“I know,” he responds. “Me neither.”

#breath of the wild #teba #revali #link #teba x link x revali #tevalink #teba x revali #tebali #my writing #i. yeah #idk what possessed me to write this but i'm honestly super fucking proud of it #probably my favorite oneshot i've done so far #it was originally gonna be way longer #but then i decided that all of the other plot points i had in mind could wait for a followup #and yes there will probably be a followup 😳#i pledge to finish the four remaining requests i have first though #four...so many #i'm sorry i'm so slow

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calamity-bean · 4 years

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16 new horror films i’ve watched at random lately just cause i’ve been in the mood for horror

Been thinking about horror today, and fun fact, I’ve actually been fairly DEVOURING horror films of late! Sixteen new ones in the past couple weeks, in fact, according to the little list I’ve been keeping! New to me, that is, though they do all happen to be very recent releases (2016 at earliest). Horror is a genre with which I often like to pull up Netflix or Hulu and just pick at random some film I’ve never heard of and don’t know the first thing about; I feel like it’s a genre that depends so much on personal taste and that encompasses such a wide variety of tropes and approaches that I never entirely know whether I’ll like a particular film until I try it. It’s a gamble, sure, and sometimes it’s a dull or infuriating couple hours... But I love horror in general, and I feel like it’s a genre in which even terrible films often stir my imagination with the potential of their premise if not the brilliance of their execution. And you do find those hidden gems.

Anyway, since I love to hear myself talk, I thought I’d share my quick impressions of the ones I’ve watched lately, in case any of you are also in the mood to stream something new! These are (almost) all currently on Netflix or Hulu, so have at it. No specific spoilers; mostly just whether I liked it or not and why. I added a few content warnings where I remembered any elements that, to me, went beyond genre-standard levels of content or involved specific common triggers, but, I mean, they’re all horror films, so do your due diligence if necessary and do expect some level of violent or disturbing content in all of them.

The sixteen films in question are: Sweetheart (2019); The Lodge (2019); Mercy Black (2019); What Keeps You Alive (2018); Cold Skin (2017); The Golem (2018); Rattlesnake (2019); We Summon the Darkness (2019); The Wretched (2019); They Come Knocking (2019); Pyewacket (2017); The Other Lamb (2019); The Silence (2019); Body at Brighton Rock (2019); Under the Shadow (2016); and Seven in Heaven (2018).

Brief descriptions and impressions and such under the cut!

Sweetheart: Survival/monster horror about a young woman who, after the boat she and her friends were on goes down in a storm, washes up alone on an uninhabited island… and then realizes she’s not entirely alone. Quite liked this one! Like almost any horror movie, it suffers from the fact that monsters are almost ALWAYS far scarier (and far less cheesy) before you actually see their CGI rendering chasing the protag, but that’s typical, we’re used to that. The protagonist is smart and capable, and the actress (Kiersey Clemons) has to carry so much of the film solo and often with very sparse dialogue. Warning for mutilated and decomposing corpses.

The Lodge: A woman who as a child was the only survivor of a cult winds up stranded with her new fiance’s two children in a remote, snowbound lodge. This one was pretty dark! I love themes of cold, isolation, and losing connection with reality, and I think the whole cast does a great job; the acting and production are overall high quality. Not sure it captured my imagination enough for a rewatch, but I did enjoy watching it. My fellow Barkskins fans will notice a few glimpses of our own Renardette. Warnings for onscreen suicide, pet death, and psychiatric/medical manipulation.

Mercy Black: A young woman returns home fifteen years after, in her childhood, being involved in a disturbing act of violence inspired by an urban legend called Mercy Black. I like the concept behind this one, in terms of the urban legend, the protagonist’s relationship with it; I liked the overall film okay, but I found certain aspects a bit cliche or thinly sketched. Standard supernatural horror levels of violence and spookiness, imo.

What Keeps You Alive: For their one-year anniversary, a young couple vacation to a remote house in the woods, where the protagonist begins to learn some strange things about her wife. I really enjoyed this one. It might be my favorite on this list, and certainly one of the ones I’m more likely to watch again. It’s well structured, well made, with a strong, compact cast, and it’s gotten the song “Bloodlet” stuck in my head for weeks. However, you will probably not enjoy this one if, as I know is the case for some people, you would rather not consume content that depicts LGBT relationships that are unhealthy or LGBT characters who are villainous. I get where you’re coming from, but it means this one probably isn’t for you. It also isn’t for you if you would rather not see some quite brutal injuries.

Cold Skin: Okay, this is the only one that wasn’t actually on streaming, I checked this out from my local library. Set in 1914, a young man takes a post as a meteorologist on a remote island in the South Atlantic, inhabited only by the unfriendly lighthouse keeper… and the creatures that crawl onto shore at night. Gosh… How do I feel about this one? There are aspects that are cheesy, effects that don’t entirely hold up. But I liked it. I like the idea of it, and I like the themes of isolation and connection, and I like the protagonist and overall I think it’s a solid and interesting narrative. Sort of… The Terror meets Lovecraft. Warning for offscreen (but audible, and almost visible) sexual assault.

The Golem: Set in the late 17th century in a rural Lithuanian shtetl, a woman creates a golem to protect her community from the threats of Christians who blame her people for the plague. Thematically, this one centers largely around motherhood, which I think makes sense with how it’s done here, and I always like the supernatural elements of a horror film to have a very strong, personal thematic link with the protagonist’s emotional character arc. Stars Maman Brigitte from American Gods! Warning for mentions of miscarriage and themes of child death.

Rattlesnake: After a mishap on a remote highway, a woman unknowingly makes a deal with the devil in order to save her young daughter’s life. I liked this one as well; I found the protagonist enjoyable, the overall concept straightforward but engaging, and the hot, arid, rural setting — I think it’s supposed to be around Palo Duro? — an effective backdrop. Not spooky-scary, but nice tension throughout.

We Summon the Darkness: Set in the 80s, three girls travel to a heavy metal concert despite the string of recent killings apparently committed by a Satanic cult. This one is basically a slasher flick — with a twist, yeah, but essentially the slasher model of teens plus extensive violence — and I think it’s a pretty decent one. And I liked the hair and costumes, ahaha.

The Wretched: A teenage boy becomes convinced that his new neighbor has been possessed by something evil. I like the narrative and the characters in this one okay, but where I really have to give it props is in the overall visual presentation of the supernatural threats; it’s able to lean into uncanniness and human body horror that work well on film rather than presenting a creature created wholecloth (which, as I mentioned earlier, often doesn’t work super well).

They Come Knocking: On a drive into the middle of nowhere, a father and his two daughters hear something knocking on their caravan at night, asking to be let in. Okay, so… this one is a black-eyed children story (with a setup reminiscent of ye olde Anansi’s Goatman, too, in a way), and I have to admit that black-eyed children are one of those tropes that doesn’t work for me even as a creepypasta, it just strikes me as lame and dumb. And I did find the actual children in this film to be, well, cheesy and dumb-looking. But the human side of the narrative — the characters and their relationships and emotional aspects — is actually pretty well done! So I found it engaging enough in that regard.

Pyewacket: A teenage girl who has a difficult relationship with her mother lashes out by trying to summon a demon to kill her, only to regret the ritual right away. I think this one was well done, too, pretty dark, with a spooky forest setting and some genuinely creepy glimpses of the supernatural threat. I am also delighted to discover that Pyewacket is actually the name of a familiar spirit according to the confession of an accused witch in the 17th century. (Not delighted by the fact that this poor 17th century woman was tortured for being an alleged witch, but delighted that there’s a little historical inspo here.) Warning for a fairly graphic death by burning.

The Other Lamb: This one is not horror as in “scary” but horror as in thematically disturbing and a little eerie. A young girl who’s been raised in a cult — all female except for their leader, to whom all the members are either wives or daughters — begins to question her faith. Slow, quiet, and a bit surreal, with some slightly feral-woman themes that are up my alley; I think I enjoyed it? The cast is quite good, especially the protagonist (Raffey Cassidy) and cult leader (Michiel Huisman with, I gotta say, some truly lovely hair). Warning for onscreen but nongraphic (as in, clothed and not showing anything below the neck) sexual assault of a minor.

The Silence: A deaf teenager and her family struggle to survive amidst an apocalypse of deadly monsters that attack based on sound. No, I’m not talking about A Quiet Place. I do feel a bit sorry for this film, because I know that it was conceived of and began production well before A Quiet Place came out, only to essentially be doomed by its striking similarity to such a successful film… And honestly, it’s not as good as A Quiet Place; it’s cheesier, there are more plot and character holes, the ultimate main threat feels disconnected from the premise, and the core theme/character arcs aren’t as cohesive. But it’s not TERRIBLE. It’s more of a B-movie-esque monster/disaster flick, is all. And I like Stanley Tucci, so at least he’s always fun to watch.

Body at Brighton Rock: An inexperienced parks employee gets lost in the backcountry and has to spend the night watching over a (possibly murdered) body she stumbles across while awaiting rescue. This one… hm. It’s like, I didn’t hate it? But it was frustrating. It reused the same scares / fake-outs multiple times, and even by horror movie standards the protagonist was maddeningly careless. I think it was all the more disappointing because I do like the setting and premise but felt it could’ve been better.

Under the Shadow: In 1980s Tehran, during the air raids and missile strikes of the War of the Cities, a woman begins to fear something evil is stalking her young daughter through their emptying apartment building. This is another top fave, and I think overall the most well constructed film on this list in an objective sense. Strong narrative, strong characters and acting, a really great atmosphere of claustrophobia and tension and dread, and an interesting and effective setting. Would absolutely watch again.

Seven in Heaven: At a house party, two teenagers enter a closet as part of a kissing game, and they exit into a parallel universe that is similar but different in striking ways. This one was, hm… okay? I felt like it could’ve gone so much farther with the potential of alternate universes, in terms of really making them weird and interesting, and although I don’t expect a film to spell out everything for me, I just thought that the whole underlying mechanism of what was happening was left too unexplained. Also, the background characters looked like they were played by actual high school-age teens while the main characters looked like your standard Hollywood 20-something “teens,” which created kind of a weird dissonance lmao. But it was okay.

Overall, I didn’t HAAATE any of these; most were fine, some I found less engaging or more frustrating than others, and some I really enjoyed. I did start and then not finish a few more as well... I watched about 20 minutes of Black Rock (2012) before deciding I wasn’t in the mood for where it was going, and I just barely started We Are What We Are (2010) but realized I was too tired and distracted by other things to pay enough attention to subtitles at the moment. On a not strictly horror note, but it’s still thriller so we’ll toss it in, I got a ways into The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017) because that’s a helluva title and I wanted to see Barry Keoghan’s work outside Dunkirk (the only film I’d seen him in), but man, that’s a weird one huh, very slow, very odd style of dialogue. I’ll still likely finish some or all of those at some point, but I just wasn’t in the right headspace when I first tried.

Anyway, this has been me telling you what movies I’ve been watching! I’m sure you’re enthralled. And please always feel free to talk horror movies to me or send me recs!

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headofhelios · 3 years

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OKAY HERE ARE MY THOUGHTS ON WHAT I LIKED & DISLIKED ABT MALIGNANT. under a cut bc of spoilers (im not like outright saying the twists or story beats or anything im just covering my bases or whatever)

OKAY SO!!! things i liked:

THE COLORS i really liked the colors. i am kindof a sucker for dark teal and red lol & i also liked the yellow in the scene in the hotel(?) the colors were good. ok occasionally they were bit TOO muted & gray but overall i liked them!!

SOUNDTRACK i did really enjoy the soundtrack. joseph bishara you madman you've done it again!!

GORE... VIOLENCE AND KILLING!!!!! the gore mostly looked really good and cool!!! like the vast majority of gore shots were very fun i enjoyed them.

YUCKINESS!!! this goes with the gore but i also liked the yucky bits. if you've seen the movie i think u know what im talking abt lol.

THA KILLAR DESIGN!!! KILLAR MOVEMENTS... loved loved how the killer Looked and also how the killer moved around, VERY fun imo. but also -2 just bc EVERY time the killer was onscreen i was like "man this looks like a dbd character" and idk i dont want that to be at the front of my mind when im watching a movie.

TWISTS! i thought they were fun! idk they weren't the ending of saw (2004) or anything but they were enjoyable. but also idk not particularly hard to figure out imo

ok ummm some specific scenes i liked. the uhhhh attic moment. that one Violence Moment that had a lot of fun gore bits if you know you know. im trying really hard to be vague here

AND NOW!!! things that make it lose points (sorry mr. wan):

THE ACTING WAS. WELL. IT WAS ACTING. there were some line deliveries that made me laugh and i dont think they were supposed to? and even when they didnt make me laugh, there were several Very Serious Scenes that i just was yanked out of bc like. CHRIST man that person sure is acting. this isnt the greatest sin a horror movie can commit or anything but i wasnt a fan of that

THE WRITING COULD ALSO BE. WELL. WRITING! it was hard to tell when line deliveries felt weird bc of the acting or when the line itself was just weird. like i could NOT get emotionally invested in this movie im sorry if that was the intent but i couldnt do that. the last "i will always love you" thing was like. ok. yeah man. idk

THE UH. EFFECTS I GUESS? okay i really liked the gore effects mostly but also some of the more action-y sequences... well ik someone (i think remy carouselcometh iirc) described them this exact same way but they're correct so. videogame graphics. at times the movie had that videogame graphics look which i Do Not Like, it always looks SO weird and its all i can focus on for the rest of the scene. if your movie looks like the new uncharted for ps6 im sorry but i can only very rarely forgive that

sometimes the killer did look a lil goofy i cannot lie. USUALLY IT WAS COOL but sometimes i did laugh

90% of the women in this movie i honestly could not tell apart im sorry. like all of the white women blended together but ESPECIALLY serena & dr. weaver & madison.....

OVERALL IT WAS LIKE. yeah that was a movie! i'd recommend it to someone for the gore & killer design maybe but im not like emotionally invested which is a Big thing for me & movies. its the kind of thing i recommend to my brother basically lol

#personal #malignant spoilers #<- i tried to be as vague as possible though but like. tread lightly #and maybe just dont read if u wanna go into it totally blind

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whumping-every-day · 4 years

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Vampire Whump 9: Healing

I still cannot believe the support this series has garnered. My deepest thanks to each and every one of you for your patience!

Content Warnings for this one: Questionable medical know-how, muzzles, reluctant caretaking, dehumanization, the briefest allusion to/mention of sexual assault. (nothing graphic, it’s a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of deal).

Masterlist

The water is warm, trickling down the vampire’s shoulders. Callum dunks the sponge back into the bucket, just like he’s been doing for the past fifteen minutes, but the vampire still flinches.

It’s on its knees, still naked, and the creature shivers as the water cools. It’s filthy, it knows; its skin is coated in a sticky layer of grime and sweat and blood. It smells, too, like piss and death and stale terror. It doesn’t understand why the hunter is touching it. It doesn’t understand why anyone would touch it.

At this point, the creature has begun to wonder if the hunter has well and truly lost his mind. It’s not supposed to wonder anything, it knows, and it tries not to. But sometimes, when the man does such strange things… sometimes it’s hard.

Only a madman would bring a vampire into the comfort of his home, leave it unrestrained, and then try to bathe it.

The vampire is shivering, but there’s a certain level of disconnection between the creature and its body. Compliance has earned it mercy until now, but punishment will come soon, and right now the hunter is touching it.

For the moment, though, it’s almost like the man isn’t trying to hurt it. But that is blasphemous. Every touch the vampire can remember has always brought it pain. It remembers Callum’s hands on it the day before, wrenching and pulling and shoving, and it feels sick.

“Hmm. We’re going to have to cut this, I think.” The hunter reaches up and slides his fingers into its hair, and it’s so sudden that the vampire cries out in blind panic and recoils. It’s been grabbed like this before – foreign hands gripping its hair, holding it down, pulling and wrenching and yanking. The vampire’s hair is matted and filthy, and when it shies away, Callum’s fingers get caught in the knots. Its scalp lights up with pain, and the far too familiar sensation hurtles the creature into a flashback.

The sense-memory floods its awareness without warning, and abruptly it’s held aloft, chains digging into every limb, agony eating into its face. In real time, the vampire gives a bitten-off cry and lurches forward on its knees. It doesn’t even notice as the hunter yanks his hand back, cursing colorfully, a few brown strands caught in his fingers. It’s quick; one moment the creature is tense but stationary, and the next all it can sense is the surrounding crowds, and the violent, unrelenting passage of day and night, and the burning— burning, burning, it would never stop burning, and the hands on it would never relent, not until they’d consumed every last part of it –

“Whoa, hey!” Callum’s heart has kicked into overdrive at the vampire’s sudden movement, but it doesn’t even seem like the creature is seeing him.

Instead it whimpers and gags on the next inhale, cowering in place, and its gasps for air are only getting thinner. It can feel the memory of the sun, burning its skin off layer by layer as the assembled humans watch, as they laugh. It can taste the blood from screaming too loud for too long, and it can taste the helplessness when the screaming stopped but the pain didn’t.

There’s a sudden, sharp blow to its cheek, and the vampire abruptly snaps back into the present. It’s wheezing on every inhale, head turned to the side. The hunter is crouched across from it, one hand extended. It shudders and gasps, feeling the echoing memory of being burned alive.

“Hey. Hey, yeah, there you go.” The hunter’s talking, but the vampire feels like it’s spinning in wild circles, nothing to hold it down. “Hey bud, try and focus on me, okay? You’re right here. They’re not… You’re not there anymore. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The air feels like sandpaper as the vampire cowers, and it whimpers a pathetic apology. Only some of the words make sense. It feels like it’s trembling from the inside out, like its core has decided to shake apart.

It registers only belatedly that the hunter has finally struck it, and of all the things, the vampire is grateful. It is used to much harsher correction than an open hand.

“You back with me, bud?” The man’s low baritone has the vampire shrinking inwards again. “Hey, little bat. I need to know if you’re hearing me. Nod yes if you are, okay?” It’s phrased strangely, but there’s an order cloaked within the words, and the creature quickly jerks its head in a nod. “Okay, good. That’s good.”

The vampire does not dare look any higher than the hunter’s knees, and when Callum crouches down it cringes away.

It knows its place, it does. It doesn’t need to be reminded.

“Easy,” the hunter murmurs. “I don’t know where you went, kid, but it’s over now.” There’s silence for a moment, and the vampire quivers and waits. “… I have to finish washing you,” the hunter says, apparently deciding that he’s waited long enough. “Nod if you understand.”

Sometimes, it’s easier to disappear into its own head. The vampire understands that the question isn’t really a question, and even if it was, there would only be one answer to give.

The human is careful with it, and the creature is grateful. But it still goes fuzzy and glassy-eyed as Callum returns to sponging the filth and dirt off its skin.

By the time Callum is finished, the vampire’s skin is three shades lighter, the water in the bucket is nearly black, and there are spots of fresh blood beading up around its neck and wrists. It’s not perfectly clean, but it’s clean enough that the abuse is starker, without the cover of filth. The hunter grimaces and gently dabs at its throat again, and the vampire trembles and endures it.

“Okay. That’s as good as it’s going to get, I think.”

Water still drips in rivets from the vampire’s bare skin, and it tracks the motion of Callum’s hands as the hunter drops the sponge into the bucket. Then the man stands up, and the creature flinches habitually.

“I’ll be right back,” the hunter mutters. “Stay.”

The vampire is unaccustomed to being spoken to – but whenever Callum gives an instruction it can understand, the creature latches onto it like a lifeline. The other hunters had not cared whether it obeyed or not; it would be hurt just the same either way. But this hunter gives commands, and he speaks to it, and he offers lenience in exchange for obedience.

It’s more mercy than the vampire deserves.

The door is not locked, but it stays where it was put, even as the hunter’s steps fade. In the man’s absence, the creature dares to glance around at its surroundings.

The walls are stone, and there’s a drain in the floor. There is a shelf on the opposite wall with soap and a second sponge, and a wooden stool tucked beneath it. Beyond that the room is bare, and the vampire wraps its good arm around its middle, trying uselessly to conserve warmth.

The door screeches back open, and the vampire’s back hits the far wall before Callum is even fully in the room.

“Hey,” the man says softly. “Easy, pointy. It’s just me.” The words aren’t reassuring, but the vampire only whimpers when the man takes a step closer. Callum hesitates at the sound, and after a moment he drops down into a crouch, holding up the bundle he’s holding.

“I brought towels,” he says. “There are clothes waiting in your room. Let’s get you dry. Then we can take another crack at fixing you up.”

It’s too much information all at once. Clothes and towels and fixing are not things meant for filthy, bloodsucking leeches. And why bother fixing it up, if the hunter would only break it apart again after? The creature trembles under the weight of its own confusion. This is a trick, certainly, a test.

Eventually, the hunter sighs.

“Alright. How about this? You, come here.” The hunter snaps his fingers and then taps the ground at his feet, and relief floods the creature like cool water, because that, at least, is a command it understands.

This man hasn’t punished it for obeying yet, but it still cowers low as it drags itself across the floor. The thought of walking is laughable; instead it moves in an awkward, dragging crawl, and after several moments it drops into a pile at the hunter’s feet. Crooked fingers tremble a mere few inches from the hunter’s boots.

“Okay, good,” the man murmurs. Something settles around bony shoulders, and the vampire shrinks away and whines piteously. It’s being still and obedient, but it doesn’t understand.

The hunter finishes wrapping the towel around its torso, and the vampire shivers and stays put.

“We’ll definitely need to cut your hair,” he muses absently. He’s got a second towel out, squeezing the worst of the moisture out of the creature’s matted hair. The towel comes back dirty, and the hunter tisks.

Callum had removed the belt holding the vampire’s left arm in place so that he can wash it, and the limb feels disconnected and heavy. There is a numbness extending down the vampire’s arm and into its fingers, but there are still enough other hurts that it hardly notices.

“Okay, easy does it. Now let me see your arm…” Callum takes its wrist, and the vampire gives a small, broken warble. It remembers the strength in those hands as the human had snapped its shoulder. It had been so easy, like the vampire was just a broken doll.

“Shh,” the hunter murmurs. “You’re doing fine, kid. I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to hurt you. The creature muffles another little whimper, because it knows that those words are a lie. “I have to see if your shoulder is healing properly,” comes next, and the vampire flinches, drops its eyes.

It doesn’t try to escape, but the vampire can’t help the way it cowers under the hunter’s shadow. Its wrist is still horribly swollen, even though the bone has been set, and the vampire whimpers softly as Callum carefully prods at it.

“Try moving your fingers for me.” The creature tries to twitch its fingers and is met with limited success. “Hmm,” the hunter muses, watching as the creature struggles to move its ring finger. The vampire gives a little whimper in response. This isn’t the result Callum wants, and the human has given it so few commands thus far; just stay and quiet and do as you’re told.

It remembers too late that the man wants it silent, and the creature sinks lower to the floor and bites its tongue to stop its whining. Its wrist is still awkwardly extended, held out for the hunter to examine, or to hurt. There is more light prodding, and the vampire swallows the urge to retch and squeezes its eyes shut.

Callum’s grip changes, then, and more pain flares up from its bad shoulder, and the vampire’s whole body crunches inwards with the effort of staying still and quiet. The pain rolls through it in sickening pulses, and there is more just around the corner, as soon as the man decides to pull or yank or squeeze. The creature can only tremble in place and wait.

“That’s got to hurt,” the hunter mutters. “Try moving your fingers again? One at a time, there you go.” The vampire is confused and terrified, but it marshals its energy and obeys.

Its left thumb and index finger move without issue; its middle finger is stiff, and it shakes with exertion. More than one of the digits is crooked, but those are old injuries, none of them fresh enough to hurt.

Its ring finger and pinky won’t move at all. The vampire tries, but that numbing sensation from earlier is back, shooting all the way from its brutalized shoulder down into its hand.

The vampire muffles a little whimper and tries to curl all its fingers into a fist, but only the first three respond.

“Alright, okay. That’s enough.” It’s such a small thing to do, but the vampire’s shoulders slump as it gives up. The weakness is like a living thing, weighing down its limbs. “So there’s some nerve damage. Interesting.”

The hunter seems neither pleased nor displeased, and the vampire hangs in limbo and waits for his mood to swing one way or the other. Instead, Callum bends to scoop up the discarded belt. “This has to go back on for at least another four days. There’s not much I can do about the nerve damage. We’ll just have to wait and see if your body can repair itself.”

The vampire isn’t listening. Of course, it tries at first – but the information is coming too quickly, and in too harsh a juxtaposition to what it’s used to.

It exists to be hurt, so that its betters can delight in its suffering. The creature knows this, and it does not understand why it hasn’t been beaten yet, or worse.

It is toweled dry gingerly, and then its bad arm is secured against its torso with the belt.

“I know you’re exhausted,” the man says. “I’m going to let you rest very soon. But I have to take a look at the rest of the damage first. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable…”

The vampire squeezes its eyes shut when the man reaches for it, but it doesn’t struggle when it’s picked up. The position puts its face right next to the hunter’s neck, and the creature smells flesh and veins and blood, and it whimpers and twists its face away.

So far, the hunter has been merciful and allowed it to remain unmuzzled. But in order to keep such a privilege, the creature must be absolutely harmless.

“Now, this is going to twinge, and I am not going to get bitten by accident.” The hunter is calm and assured as he nudges the cell open and deposits the vampire back on the thin cot. There are several somethings waiting on the stool; water, bandages, metal and leather – the muzzle.

Even knowing that the device isn’t made of iron, the vampire can’t help but whimper.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured,” Callum muses. “But I need to clean up your back. And your feet.” The hunter draws in another breath, like he’s about to add something else, then changes his mind, shakes his head. “We already know your ribs are a nightmare. But I don’t know how much I can do about that.”

The vampire isn’t sure if it’s meant to respond to the information. But it understands what bitten by accident means, and when Callum takes a step closer the vampire whimpers and shies away.

“Easy,” the hunter says. “Don’t go making this difficult, now.” It’s a reminder, of course; a reminder that there will be no escaping whatever the hunter has planned for it. It’s the gentlest of such reminders than the creature can remember, and it sinks lower on the cot in response and whines its obedience.

Callum knows he’s looming, but the vampire is shrinking away from him so hard that it’s impossible not to. “I thought we could do this a one-or-the-other type way… but it looks like you might not be up for choices, huh.” He’s not surprised, anymore, by the lack of response. The vampire is nearly bestial in the way it responds to him; as far as Callum can tell, beyond yes or no questions, it reacts more to his tone than to what he says.

It’s animalistic. And Callum would be tempted to keep thinking of the creature that way, except for the naked, human terror in its eyes whenever he moves too quickly or speaks too harshly.

“Same deal as last time,” he mutters. “You go where you’re put, and I’ll make this quick.” He picks up the muzzle and undoes the straps, and watches the vampire swallow a whimper.

He’s gentler, this time, when he puts the muzzle on, despite the danger of having his fingers so close to the creature’s teeth. He’d taken the bit out that morning, and Callum adjusts the smooth curve of leather to make sure nothing pinches before buckling it closed. The vampire is completely docile while he works.

“There we go, good,” he murmurs. It feels natural to talk to the creature, even if Callum is still unsure of how much it understands. But he is fairly certain that he hasn’t imagined the vampire’s response. Some of the constant, numbing terror seems to ease just a little when it knows that Callum is pleased.

Of course, he thinks bitterly, that makes sense. He wonders what a difference in treatment it would have made, before, if those other hunters had been pleased or not.

“Now down,” he murmurs, and he turns the creature and presses, and it folds under the direction like paper. There’s a nearly inaudible whine as the vampire settles belly-down on the cot, and Callum hushes it softly. He goes to pat the creature’s bare flank, like he would to calm his horse, but the skin there is concave, stretched too thin over pulped ribs. He grits his teeth, turns away.

“Stay,” he says, and all movement from the vampire immediately ceases.

The coming operation would be a lot easier in his lab, but Callum’s not sure he can handle the creature’s terrorized, hollow-eyed stare again so soon. And he’s sure the vampire appreciates being on the cot instead of the cold exam table.

There’s clean water, alcohol, and a cloth waiting, as well as bandages and an assortment of sutures and creams.

Callum has a wary alliance with the town’s doctor where Callum treats his own injuries, unless he’s been hurt badly enough that he physically can’t... and on those occasions when he shows up on the doc’s doorstep bleeding too heavily to staunch, he pays the doctor triple, and after he limps out the back door on his own power. But there’s no amount of gold that would convince a human doctor to see a vampire, even if the risk factor wasn’t so great. So Callum and this little vampire are on their own.

“Fuck, kid,” he mutters as he crouches down beside the cot. The creature’s rib cage is visibly misshapen, even (or especially) when seen from the back. The knobs of its spine protrude grotesquely from its body, like its skin has been suctioned right down to its bones. Some of the scars are old, raised and textured, and some aren’t scars at all, still open and oozing. Many are somewhere in between, but all dealt with the same casual cruelty that Callum has come to expect. There’s nothing deliberate about the injuries; this damage had been dealt carelessly, angrily. Hatefully.

The vampire is quivering as it waits, and when Callum carefully touches a patch of bruised skin, it twitches and lets out a muffled sob.

“C’mon, now,” Callum says. “I’m not hurting you.” Not yet, anyway. Not on purpose. “It won’t be like yesterday,” he murmurs. “I’m just cleaning out these open wounds, and I need to see what’s broken.” It’s not a question of if, just of what. “If you haven’t bled out already, I don’t think you need stitches.”

The vampire flinches minutely, and then there’s nothing left to say.

Most of the damage is visible to the naked eye, what with how gaunt the creature it, but Callum checks anyway. Its pelvis is in one piece, its hips are where they should be – although the vampire gasps and whines piteously as Callum tests the one on the left. He doesn’t like the way its ribs crunch and move with every inhale.

“Alright, it’s alright,” he murmurs as the examination goes lower. It turns his stomach, but Callum braces himself and checks for signs of a different kind of assault. There is nothing – or at least, there is no evidence present.

Below that, the vampire’s knees are swollen, and there’s a visible dent in the bone of its right shin. Callum frowns, then prods, very gently. There’s no reaction from the creature; an old break, then. Further examination reveals that it’s the vampire’s tibia bone, and it was caved inwards and then healed incorrectly.

The creature won’t be able to walk until it heals, but then, that also applies to its recently set hip joint. And, Callum discovers as he continues, it also applies to the soles of the vampire’s feet.

Tatters. That’s the only word Callum can think of describe the state they’re in. He takes one of the creature’s ankles, skinny and knobby, and the flesh there is still open and raw from the iron manacles. The vampire flinches at the contact, and its foot jerks, like it might pull away – but it quickly goes still again.

“That’s it, little bat,” Callum soothes as he looks over the damage. “You’re doing fine.” There’s still dirt caked in the open wounds, and Callum lets out a sigh, runs a hand down his face. He’ll need to clean its feet. But first he completes the rest of the exam. The creature’s cranium is intact, no dents or bumps, although there’s a nasty, crusted bruise on the back of its skull. His fingers come away bloody, and the vampire flinches and whines.

“This part is going to hurt,” he says when he’s done. There’s a delayed, wounded sort of whimper, but the creature only clenches its fingers in the blanket and squeezes its eyes shut.

Callum drags the water closer and wishes he was anywhere else.

The creature screams as he cleans its feet. There’s no way to make it painless; the flesh on the bottom of its feet isn’t burned, it’s sliced. Some skin comes away in a ribbon as Callum squeezes water out over it, and he forces down his gag reflex. There’s grit and dirt particles stuck in the cuts, and even though he had brought two extra pots of clean water, he goes through all of it.

The water is pink by the time he’s done, and the vampire is panting and sobbing into the lumpy mattress.

“I know,” Callum mutters. “I know, pointy, I’m sorry.”

Somehow, throughout all the pain, the vampire has managed to remain mostly still. But this time, when he catches one of those slender ankles, it cries out and twists. All it takes is a warning squeeze, and the creature sobs desperately but falls still and silent again.

It’s the cream next; if the creature were human, Callum would have to follow the water up with alcohol, and then bandage it. But the possibility of an infection has had a long head start – months of it. If infection could kill the creature, it would have done so already. So Callum dabs a cream made for soothing and pain-relief onto the cuts, and the creature twitches and flinches through it.

He makes sure to get the vampire’s raw ankles too, and then everything from the ankle down is wrapped in clean bandages.

“There we go,” Callum says as he sits back. The vampire is still shaking, hiding its face in its good arm. “Almost done,” he adds.

He cleans the open wounds on the vampire’s back, and the knot on the back of its skull, but he knows they aren’t the biggest threat.

The creature’s rib cage is in bad shape. Callum can see the way its ribs shift and move with each inhale, and there’s one doesn’t even seem to be attached to its sternum anymore. Some are crooked, and there’s one poking up against the skin – not piercing, but threatening to.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. If any internal organs had been punctured, the creature should be dead – but then, that assumes that vampires even have working organs. That assumes they can even die from things like internal bleeding or sepsis or a collapsed lung. “This would be a lot easier if I knew what I was dealing with,” he thinks out loud.

There’s a faint wheeze every time the vampire inhales, and Callum knows that it hasn’t just started. Injuries like this would kill a human, would have killed a human, probably a long time ago. And because it would have killed a human, Callum isn’t sure how to treat them. Support from the outside, certainly – but that won’t do much good, if the ribs are splintered inwards.

It’s too much, all of a sudden. Callum pushes to his feet and steps away, inhales sharply, clenches his teeth.

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

“We’re – hnnk.” His voice catches, and Callum coughs. “I’m going to wrap your ribs, and we’ll call that it for the day.” Because right now, that’s all he can do. None of these injuries can heal until all the misaligned bones are back where they should be.

He might have to cut it open, Callum thinks – and the thought horrifies him. He’s got nothing to put it under with, doesn’t even know what substances or chemical compounds might affect a vampire, aside from iron and silver. There would be nothing to dull the pain as he peeled it open and dug around for its misplaced ribs.

On the thin little cot, the vampire is huddled as small as it can go and still be flat on its stomach. The hunter had put it there, and the creature hasn’t dared to move. It hadn’t, not even when the man had poured what felt like boiling acid over its feet. Not when it stung and burned and made tears prick in its eyes.

“Alright, over you go.” Callum does not wait for it to obey; instead he helps it move, and the creature gasps as pain lances through it. There’s still so much of it, coming from so many different places. The hunter leans it against the cold wall, and mutters a quick, “Stay.”

The vampire stays, and Callum retrieves the largest two rolls of bandages and starts carefully winding them around its torso.

When it’s done, the creature looks almost human. The grit has been cleaned off its skin, the worst open wounds have been bandaged. Callum unbuckles the muzzle when it’s over, and he steadies the creature’s jaw as it comes free.

The vampire wets its lip habitually, but instead of charred flesh, all it tastes is the lingering tint of steel. It had forgotten that the hunter had muzzled it; after wearing one for so long, its bare face feels stranger than the leather and metal.

“Now let’s get you into some clothes.” There’s a pile waiting by the door, soft, earthy colors and stiff cotton. The vampire’s eyes skip over it uncomprehendingly, unable to even process the words.

The creature recoils when the hunter reaches for it. There is fabric looped carefully over its wrist, and the vampire swallows another whimper. Maybe it’s just cloth – or maybe he’ll hang it from its bad arm, make it whimper and scream. Maybe he’ll break the other one, so it matches, and the vampire knows that it deserves the pain, but it’s so tired of hurting.

Instead the fabric is pulled up, still careful, and then it’s being guided down over the creature’s head, and – a shift?

“Okay, good.” Callum is patient with the vampire’s confusion, and with its fumbling when it finally figures out what it’s supposed to do. The fabric is bundled up under its chin, but it’s clothing, not a rope or a restraint, or some kind of new torture implement.

The vampire lets out a shuddering breath as Callum tugs the garment into place. It’s not a shirt so much as a loose cotton drape, and the hunter ties it below its bad shoulder, and then the vampire is clothed for the first time in its memory.

The fabric feels too tight, too heavy against its skin.

Pants are next; the creature still cannot stand, so the hunter has to awkwardly hold it while they tug on a set of Callum’s old breeches. The vampire knows they are Callum’s, because the fabric is soft with use and mended in places, and it smells like sun and the desert.

Every little motion makes its injuries sing with pain, and every second the vampire expects the hunter to make it worse – dig his fingers into its side, maybe, or its back.

“That’s better,” the hunter says instead, and the vampire can only blink at his shoes in bewilderment. It does not understand the continued commentary. But better is a stepping-stone from bad to good, so the vampire clings to it and hopes.

“I’m going out for a little while.” The hunter’s voice comes again as he steps away, picks up the dirty water, gatherings up the other supplies. “I have someone to visit. When I get back I’ll have blood for you.”

Just the mention of blood makes the vampire’s gums prick, and it whines softly.

“Yeah,” the hunter agrees absently. “You need more than I can give you. So… hold tight. Just for a little longer.”

Callum takes the muzzle with him, and the creature watches with wide, baffled eyes as he goes.

The cell door closes, and once again the vampire is left bewildered, marooned, adrift in a sea of its own confusion. It understands, on some level, that this man has been nothing but careful with it. And yet pain and torment are the only things the creature understands, so it doesn’t understand this.

The lack of pain feels like a missing limb, for how used to it the creature has gotten. And in the absence of it, the vampire isn’t sure what’s left. It doesn’t know what it has left to offer, what it still has for the man to take from it or use it for.

But this hunter seems to have dedicated himself to finding out.

[END]

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@wildfaewhump @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty @scarheart @kyra-plays @lionhxartx @blue-flare10 @whumpywhumper @doityourselfbombs @pastry-case @maybeawhumpblog @httyd-chocolate @maqcyloup @yyyee-haw @to-hurt-and-comfort @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @manip-loki @dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump @ariirenn @poetofswords86 @whumpity--whump--whump @swagjudgehandsdragon @machimaquiaveli @theladyoffangorn @oracle-of-maybe @cuddlycryptid @the-potato-beeper @insanitycheshire @slam-whump @sweeterthanadonut @ffaerie-dustt @whump-in-the-night @elfo8792 @kinda-bad-poet @crackedskel @deluxewhump @this-zombie-will-eat-you @a-moment-to-write @stoic-whumpee @paradigmparadoxical @burtlederp

#whump #nonhuman whumpee #obedience #fear #muzzle #reluctant caretaker #vampire whump series #my writing #editing six months later for world building purposes #O.ooo

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harringroveficlibrary · 4 years

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Harringrove ABO Masterlist

someone asked for an abo masterlist, so here it is!

this list isn’t sorted in any particular order, other than by date posted, which is the default on ao3. (newest -> oldest) i also didnt include every single fic in the abo tag because this list was already going to be a large post. if there are any fics i missed that someone thinks should be included, feel free to send an ask or to just reply to this post! :^) ♥ -cade

updated: April 16th, 2020

Carnal by mrhiddles (1/1 | 4,001 | Explicit)

Steve goes into heat when Billy pulls up to school. Billy's the only one who can help him, or so Steve says.

The Case Where Billy Hargrove Turned Out To Be Not Your Average Alpha by Anonymous (1/1 | 3,249 | Teen+)

“I don’t spend heats with alphas.” Steve said, his gaze avoiding Billy’s.

Billy faltered at that, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I thought you’d spent your heats with people before?” Billy asked.

“Well yeah, but not with alphas.” Steve huffed.

“So— You’re a faggot?” Billy asked, his eyes widening.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Perfectly Unnatural by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 3,255 | Explicit)

‘You’re not an alpha in this house, boy. You’re not strong. You’re not even responsible with your sister. You don’t respect Susan. I thought I taught you enough in California.’

Neil’s words clang around Billy’s skull and burn the inside of his bones as he sits on the hood of his Camaro. The metal below his ass is warm from the engine just having been turned off, but the lights still spill out across the cliff. This place, nestled at the top and shrouded by trees, catches the wind just right. The wind bites through his jean jacket, settling close to his skin. The cherry red glow of his cigarette gives a false sense of warmth and puts Billy’s teeth on edge.

‘You’re unnatural.’

warnings: references to childhood abuse

Puppy Pile by Strawberry_Sweetheart (1/1 | 2,432 | Not Rated)

Steve forgets about his heat and thinks he has enough time to make a grocery run before it really hits.

He seems to have miscalculated.

Luckily, Billy is there’s to get him home safe.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

One Last Time by Strawberry_Sweetheart (1/1 | 3,157 | Not Rated)

It came with a phone call late at night, just past the witching hour. It was deathly quiet and dark, a new moon withholding any moonlight to chase the shadows away, and in that silence the piercing ring of the telephone downstairs cut through their dreams. A sleepy noise and wiggle came from the lump under Billy, shifting until it escaped Billy’s arms and legs that held it hostage.

this is a requested fic for Alpha El + Billy and Steve being good parental figure types and helping her figure things out

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

So messed up, I want you here by Boudoir_Writer (1/1 | 3,942 | Explicit)

“I turned you bitch, Harrington.” His voice is gravel and petrol, his limbs and heart lead. “We’re never going to be done.”

warnings: dubcon

Smoke by Carerra_os (1/1 | 468 | General)

Billy is ditching class for a smoke break when Steve comes along. -

Originally this was written for You're Extra Special, Something Else. However that story went in a different direction.

Black silk and wild flowers by Catharrington (1/1 | 3,015 | Explicit)

Steve’s birthday was really just another day. The only thing that made it special was his fathers insistence on going to a party thrown for just him, a party filled with starving alphas with fat wallets all rutting against themselves to buy their own little omega. Steve hates what his father makes him do. Steve hates his birthday. Until Billy Hargrove crawls through his window to remind him it’s not all bad, silver lining in the clouds and shit, and brings him a present.

Drop (The Game) by MissGillette (3/3 | 42,080 | Explicit)

Billy has wanted a piece of Steve since spotting him on the school parking lot his first day. So when Steve flees the bathroom at Tina's Halloween party, distressed and about to drop, Billy does the only logical thing: follow the scent.

The Lucky One by wingedbears (1/1 | 6,881 | Mature)

In a world where on one arm is your soulmate's name, and the other's is your enemy's, omega Billy has to learn to let shit go.

Princess of the apocalypse by Boozombie (2/2 | 15,034 | Explicit)

Steve just wanted to keep his kids safe, and Billy knows how to use that.

warnings: rape/non-con

Princess that runs his world by Boozombie (3/3 | 11,747 | Not Rated)

Billy takes Steve to wash up and plans to get him alone for a date. Steve wants to bring his pack along.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, rape/non-con elements

lately i feel like i've been losing (my mind) by ToAStranger (1/1 | 3,162 | Explicit)

Billy hasn't felt right since the summer straight out of a horror movie. His instincts are all off. And Steve Harrington keeps looking at him.

Pothos by moonflowers (1/1 | 6,714 | Explicit)

He felt like the rabbit and the fox all at once, the thrill of chasing and being chased, a circle, whole. He might’ve felt stupid about it, if it hadn’t been so intense. Robin always told him he fell for people too easy – and fine, she was right – but this was something else. Or maybe not yet, but oh man he was starting to think he wanted it to be. And it was probably idiotic of him to get his hopes up, but he couldn't help but think maybe Billy did too; watching Steve from behind a tired and quietly angry veneer, a little twist of hope just visible through the mask.

Dubious Hijinks by Corvin (1/1 | 3,998 | Teen+)

Steve needs a buffer between him and the alpha his dad picked for him. The best option he can think of is an uncooperative Billy Hargrove.

with them indiana boys (on them indiana nights) by ToAStranger (1/1 | 4,842 | Teen+)

The thing is, when Billy first saw Steve Harrington, he knew.

He grew up knowing. It was hard not to, with all of those hormones and instincts running through his fucking veins. He knew, one day, he’d run across someone that smelled so right, so fucking perfect that he’d want nothing more than to bury his face against their scent gland and breathe in until the smell becomes a taste becomes a sensation becomes--

Well. The thing is, he’s always known.

None Brighter Than Your Eyes by Doodsxd (1/1 | 9,991 | Explicit)

Sex Ed course came once again, and, for the first time, Billy listened.

He listened, because it started to match and make sense with what Max’s little troup told him over and over again.

Apparently, it was biology which dictated that omega jewelry wasn’t just a futility or decoration, or even a signal that the omega was taken. It wasn’t a trade, sex for jewelry, like Neil had taught him all his life. No: scientists had found back in the sixties that omega jewelry has a soothing effect, especially during heat, as a reminder of love and affection; something tangible and available at all times, even when no one is.

warnings: graphic depictions of violence

"is that what you want, princess?" by greeneyedsourwolf (1/1 | 4,008 | Explicit)

Steve asks Billy if he wants to spend their first heat together.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Pool Time Stress by AMemoryDelayed (1/1 | 2,610 | Explicit)

Steve's been visiting the pool pretty frequently. He can't help it when he'd been carted along that one time. He can't stand to watch Billy eye other women. It makes him regret it too, and yet. He's excited when Billy barely even moves his gaze over to him. He gives Steve the slightest of grins from where he's sat at. He doesn't make any other sign to warn him of what's to come beyond that. Steve knows though.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Thanks Phyllis by Corvin (1/1 | 11,764 | Explicit)

Steve wants to start a family and asks Billy for help. What was supposed to be a purely professional exchange turns a lot more intimate than he expected.

Everything falls back by Crowweb (1/1 | 1,302 | Teen+)

Billy isn't home like he's supposed to and Steve gets a bad feeling through their bond. The alpha turns up beaten up after a couple of hours.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, blood

push him down (spread him out) by tol_sirion (1/1 | 3,529 | Explicit)

“It’s embarrassing.” Steve whines and covers his face instead.

Billy tuts. “None of that, now,” he says, and Steve slowly looks up, hands falling to each side of his head instead. “Just one more picture. One more, and I’ll give you what you want.”

And maybe it’s cruel, holding it over Steve like that. Like only if Steve is good and does what Billy says, he’ll finally get dicked down the exact way he wants, and not a minute before.

Woke Up Thirsty by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 3,256 | Explicit)

Billy shows up at the Byers house looking for Maxine. Instead, he finds Steve Harrington and a kind of surprising proposition.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Grace Me With Nothing But Patience by itscrybabyharrington (icanspelliero) (1/1 | 6,587 | Explicit)

It started off as an itch beneath the surface of his skin, no matter how hard Steve pressed his nails could never dig through, could never scratch the discontent that simmered just beneath.

Tommy says it’s nothing, signs of an early rut approaching, meds wearing off after taking them for so long. Only Steve knows Tommy is full of shit and this doesn’t feel like a rut.

warnings: underage, offensive language used, homophobia

Buzzcut Season by Senowolf (1/1 | 6,332 | Teen+)

Steve always waits for Billy to come back to him.

I Wanna Be Loved by harringrovecryptid (13/13 | 51,993 | Explicit)

"Brenner Relations" was one of the most lucrative businesses in the modern age. But only its clients and staff actually knew how it made its money. Billy Hargrove found himself being one of those people. But the deeper he got involved with the shady industry, the more secrets he began to uncover regarding the omegas that are considered company property.

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, rape/non-con elements

Assigned Alpha by Kiram (2/2 | 3,415 | Explicit)

Steve used to just be an unknown secondary gender till Billy Hargrove rolled into town. Steve’s stuck in a rock and a hard place and is inevitable forced to fold and give into his nature. Billy likes bugging Steve while simultaneously protecting him.

war song by themundaneweirdo (1/1 | 1,789 | General)

Steve misses his soldier.

Don't Take Your Time With Me by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 6,864 | Explicit)

Billy is usually a light sleeper. But when he’s drunk, it’s a completely different story.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, rape fantasy, implied/referenced sexual assault, implied/referenced child abuse

I Can Do That by captainwingdings (1/1 | 1,971 | Explicit)

Billy wants to help out with Steve's heat, so he shows him a taste of what he can do.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Hot Blooded by captainwingdings (1/1 | 4,463 | Explicit)

The new guy from California catches Steve Harrington's attention for more than one reason. Not only was he hot as hell and didn't know how to button his shirts, but he was the strangest omega that Steve had ever seen.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Moaning Lisa Smile by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 3,735 | Explicit)

Billy maybe kind of hides the fact that he’s an Omega because he’s too queer, and too pretty, and would rather not deal with a bunch of idiot Alphas trying to screw the gay out of him. But Steve’s not an Alpha. Steve is also very pretty.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, consent issues

Sweet Dream (Saccharine) by Highsmith (1/1 | 16,039 | Explicit)

Billy and Steve aren't friends, until they are, and they're not more than that, because the world doesn't work that way.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, recreational drug use

Pressing the accelerator down by Etnoe (1/1 | 6,229 | Explicit)

Heat season takes a toll of two alphas who can't find anyone to share a rut with. Aside, of course, from each other.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Keeping a bit of you by peirypatt (1/1 | 697 | General)

Over the years Steve's room has had several changes and seen many trends and phases, but there was only one thing that didn't belong to Steve inside his bedroom. A denim blue jacket.

It came naturally to us by peirypatt (1/1 | 650 | General)

Saying that Steve and Billy held hands in 1999 for the first time would be wrong and right at the same time. It's complicated, and at the same time, it's not.

Don't Belong To Anyone (Else) by sparkleeye (2/2 | 31,145 | Explicit)

And he does, just Billy’s fucking luck, because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, fuck Hargrove, you’re in heat.”

He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the too far gone state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t leave.

Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy knows he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.

aka -- Billy is a stubborn idiot and goes to school during his heat.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Upside Down, You're Turning Me by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 7,885 | Explicit)

“Let me get this straight. You want me to go into the middle of the fucking woods in below zero temperatures to find someone who is probably high as a kite and just having the time of his damned life?”

“We’re worried--” Max starts and Billy sneers.

“That sounds like a personal problem, Maxine. Steve is a big boy, an alpha, and can handle--” Billy tears his gaze away from Max as Dustin climbs on top of his hood and sits there. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Not moving,” Dustin shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Doctor’s Visit by HalfNakedWriter (1/1 | 2,320 | Explicit)

Steve goes for his 38 week appointment.

'Cause We Feel Young and Wild by BeautyInChains (1/1 | 1,515 | Explicit)

Soon, is Steve’s best guess. Soon like the subtle itch beneath his skin that intensifies with each passing day. Soon like the voracity of his appetite as his body begins to prepare itself for the upcoming marathon. Soon like the aggression that continues to build and threaten to spill whenever another Alpha so much as glances Billy’s way. Soon like the way he’s been tenting his sheets, his slacks, his gym shorts at so much as a gentle breeze.

So when Billy texts him that morning, an eggplant emoji followed by the fire, peach, and splashing water emojis with not one but three question marks, Steve replies with Soon.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Lost My Mind by trimorning (1/1 | 1,564 | Teen+)

"I don't want to be dramatic."

He doesn’t know what Steve is going to say, which isn’t normal because he’s a predictable kind of mess, so it makes him feel vulnerable.

But its fine, its just Steve so it will undoubtedly be fine. Billy looks back at the other boy, “I can tell you right now, that you are physically incapable of not being dramatic, so continue.”

---- An a/b/o Harringrove one-shot that has little to do with a/b/o and more with Steve's flirty and messy ass. enjoy

Lavender by PoisonousFlower3 (1/1 | 756 | Mature)

"Billy hated being an alpha. He hated how it made his sense of smell stronger and smell the despair that always seemed to linger in this town. He hated how he was always so angry, though he knew that part of it was the abuse from his dad and his temper.

What he didn’t hate was how it let him get a good whiff of Steve whenever he was around."

In which case home starts to include Steve Harrington for Billy.

Red by PoisonousFlower3 (1/1 | 602 | Mature)

"Yeah, maybe things hadn’t started off the best for them but Billy was definitely in love." Another little drabble for two idiots in love

now I got you drunk, hot, and vulnerable (how do you like me now? do i turn you on?) by brawls (brawlite), ToAStranger (1/1 | 6,807 | Explicit)

The first thing Billy notices is the scent.

Heady, sweet, electric. It makes his mouth water, the second he walks in. Makes every bone in his body sing.

Heatstroke by HobbitSpaceCase (1/1 | 8,022 | Explicit)

Billy is out of suppressants and going into Heat. Steve finds him. It's too bad Billy can't have this every time.

warnings: dubcon, sad ending

Steve Forgets by femmesteve (1/1 | 1,242 | Explicit)

Steve forgets his heat and Billy is there to be a jerk and fuck him how he needs.

you scratch my back, i'll bite yours by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 2,363 | Explicit)

Billy rushes Steve's fraternity and gets in, which sucks, only when it doesn't. Drunk Steve has a hard time staying away from what isn't good for him.

bite me, but not too hard by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,854 | Explicit)

Steve debates whether or not he should spend his heat tranquilized.

your teeth go deep (it seems) by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,554 | Explicit)

Nothing about his life, or his love life, has been simple thus far. The trend continues.

eat me (let it run down your chin) by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 2,837 | Explicit)

Billy ends things with Steve. Sorta.

Nine to five. by Fanflick (9/9 | 34,301 | Explicit)

Steve knew that everything would ultimately come to this, working for his father at a boring office job. It wasn't easy being an omega in hiding, especially now since Steve's boss is the arrogant alpha Billy Hargrove. Now Steve has to work alongside his high school rival while also trying to save enough money to get away from his father. How hard can that be?

warnings: boss/employee relationship

Drunken Things by Rhiw (3/3 | 10,566 | Explicit)

Nancy and Steve break up before Tina's party. Steve finds himself on the rebound, damned and determined to have some fun. Billy just wants to get laid.

Aka: The ABO of Stranger Things no one asked for. Written while drunk, with drunk characters, and lots of angst and smut and shit. Enjoy.

warnings: underage

what a wicked game you played (to make me feel this way) by brawls (brawlite), ToAStranger (14/14 | 119,016 | Explicit)

Billy knew Steve Harrington would ruin him. Steve knew Billy Hargrove was nothing but trouble.

They never expected it to end up like this.

warnings: misogynistic language, ableist language, mentioned dubcon

turn me loose by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,321 | Explicit)

Billy is a dominant, powerful alpha with a slew of omegas dying to win his affection. He loves it, lives for it, except when he’s in rut. Steve is an omega and fights it every damn day. But when his body goes into heat, needs to breed, he can’t do anything to stop it. Billy is in rut and Steve is in heat when a freak heatwave knocks out the air conditioning in their shared apartment complex. Open windows and rampant hormones? What could go wrong?

Punch by hati_skoll (1/1 | 2,330 | Teen+)

Steve is dragged off by another alpha, Billy handles it.

A Start by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 5,574 | Explicit)

The quarry was always Steve’s go to when he needed a place to breathe, an area where the smells weren’t in his face and he could think straight. It was strange how one person’s heat could trigger another. Steve, a slightly cowed alpha after Hargrove rolled in, was done with the overpowering scents and the looks that were being thrown around.

He wasn’t interested in any of it. None.

So, when he pulled up onto the edge of the quarry and stepped out, he almost groaned at the smell that hit him. An omega. An omega in heat. Fuck. This is exactly what he had hoped to get away from. He was ready to slide back in and yank his car in reverse when he looked up and saw, exactly, what car was sitting to the side, shaded by an overcast of trees. If he hadn’t actually looked, it would have slipped away. He blamed his sharper senses, his need to search out the omega.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Slick by hati_skoll (1/1 | 2,028 | Teen+)

Steve gets wet for Billy.

(Less porn inside than implied.)

Hold Me Tight Or Don't by BTSBlossom (1/1 | 4,808 | General)

Billy has some news for Steve, he just doesn't know how to tell him. At least he knows he's got Ms. Byers on his side. She'll be there for Billy if Steve isn't.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, abortion discussion

Wrap Me Up (In Your Love) by LadyMoonveil (1/1 | 1,254 | Teen+)

In which Steve keeps stealing Billy's clothes, and Billy is terrified of the implications when he comes to the realization that Steve is nesting.

After everything that Steve has done for him, all Billy wants to do is be good to his mate. (Even if it means adding things to his wardrobe that sadly isn't denim or leather).

Make me feel special by pizzz_10 (1/1 | 1,577 | Explicit)

A short sweet omega fic where Billy is an omega and Steve is his alpha who loves to spoil him

bück dich by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 966 | Mature)

Billy Hargrove arrives in Hawkins, with Steve Harrington's name written on his neck.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, mild blood/slight gore

sandman by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 2,226 | Explicit)

Steve’s not a fighter. He sucks at it, actually. He’s a little soft, but he isn’t totally weak or awfully tiny. He’s a good Alpha in many of the ways that count! Just because he isn’t running around sleeping with anyone willing, picking fights, and beating people to death doesn’t mean he’s a bad Alpha. And though Billy might do all that, but he isn't a bad Omega.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Silk by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 3,393 | Mature)

In Indiana, Omega suppressants are banned. Billy runs out after a while.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

#stranger things #harringrove #billy hargrove #harringrove fanfiction #steve harrington #masterlist #abo #list

104 notes · View notes

joy1579 · 4 years

Text

the RFA reacting to MC listening to creepy pasta

I’ll admit its been a while since i listened to any new creepypasta so these are pretty old ones but i figured since they arent mine and i dont really name them in most cases i should like them jumin - russian sleep experiment yoosung - rapid blink (a my little pony grim dark fanfiction) saeyoung - the man who ate newborns zen - mr. widemouth and dear abbey jaehee - to be honest i cant remember this ones title it was really good and i cant find it anymore so if anyone knows it send it my way cuz i only heard it once at a live reading at sanjapan I’d love to hear it again though

Jumin

· You were listening while knitting in his home office

· He was working at his desk and paying no attention to the voice playing from your phone

· Absently he comments that the piano background music was pleasant

· You smile because of course that’s the part he notices.

· As the story goes on you two sit in amicable silence listening to the story

· Then a sickening crunch rings through the air and you see Jumin grimace out of the corner of your eye

· “darling? Was that your story?”

· “huh? Oh yes it was.”

· “that sounded sickening” and indeed he was a little pale though you may have missed it if you didn’t know him so well

· You tried to stifle your laugh “yeah I think it was supposed to be the character’s arm being crushed.”

· “what?”

· “you weren’t listening to the story were you?”

· “I listened to the music”

· “here you should listen to this next one it’s my favorite.” You said moving to sit in his lap as you began the next video

· “its about this scientific experiment, where they locked people up and didn’t let them sleep. Eventually they end up going crazy. They mutilate and cannibalize themselves, super creepy.” You explained excitedly

· He looked at you concerned for a moment before speaking

· “is this what you were discussing with my new assistant yesterday before we went to lunch”

· “yes! Actually she’s even more into it than I am she gave me some good suggestions.”

Yoosung

· “Puppy? I’m gonna run to the convenience store real quick okay?”

· He leaned back in his computer chair to look at you upside down as you stood behind him

· “okay MC! oh if they have honey”

· “I know yoosungie I’ll grab you some if they have them!” you said leaning over him to kiss his nose “love you. I’ll be back soon.”

· You grabbed your purse and headed out the door

· A few minutes after you had left Yoosung noticed you had left you phone

· Picking it up he noticed the quiet words that came from the headphones

· Curious he put on the headphones and began to listen

· It was a fanfiction. He recognized the characters from a show you watched every Saturday.

· A cute reboot of a cartoon from your childhood hi figured the story would follow the same plotlines of friendship and togetherness

· But as he listened it took a darker turn

· The main character was trapped, stuck with no resources aside from the occasional clone of herself that spawned into whatever hellscape she was trapped in

· Yoosung was horrified listening to the story describe how the broken and desperate character would slaughter her clone to build necessities in a hopeless search for escape.

· By the time you got back he was in tears hugging your plush version of the character

· You rushed to comfort him and saw what he had listened to

· “oh puppy I’m so sorry I didn’t think you’d listen to my grimdark fiction!

· “why do YOU listen to it?!? I thought you liked that show because it was cute!”

· “I do! It’s so cute. But I like the horror stories to. The contrast is, it’s fun.” You explained gently combing your fingers through his hair

· “it actually makes me think of you puppy” you say absently as you feel him starting to calm down

· “what?!?!?!” he cried shooting up from your arms in an instant

· “well your so cute and I love that your cute, but you can also be tough like when you went to the hacker’s headquarters for me. Your cute and manly, like that show is cute and can be scary. Your everything I love.” You explained

Saeyoung

- He knew you liked creepy pasta he had seen your YouTube history

- What he didn’t know was that you had it downloaded on your phone to listen to as you fell asleep

- So when the silence of Rikas apartment is broken by the squeal of car breaks and shattering glass he was justifiably terrified

- He was busting through the bedroom door to check on you

- But all he saw was you halfway off the bed mid lunge for your phone

- he watched you finish your tumble to the floor fumbling with your phone to stop the story that was playing

- You looked embarrassed and a little sleep addled

- “Sorry I thought I took that one out of my playlist”

- He stood stock still for a moment

- “I didn’t mean to scare you sorry! It should have been deleted its way to loud I think I did something wrong when I downloaded it.”

- “what? MC was that your phone?” he asked confused

- “yeah its um it’s the, the story where the guy tries to kidnap the new born but gets in a car crash, hence you know the um screech crash clang. Sorry”

- His back hit the wall and he slid to the floor wearily

- “MC you’re going to be the death of me”

- “um I, I got it off my playlist this time.” You offer “I think.” You add under your breath

- He held out his hand to you and you sheepishly placed you phone in his hands quickly he tapped away before handing your phone back to you

- “thanks” you say softly crawling to sit beside him on the floor

- “so living with a bomb, and being hunted by a hacker isn’t spooky enough for you? You’ve gotta listen to scary stories too?” he asked tiredly

- “well the bomb and the hacker, they aren’t scary if you’re here. I mean even if the worst happens I think it would be okay cuz I got to meet you”

- He groaned and let his head fall to his knees

- “you really are going to kill me aren’t you” he said as you saw his ears turn pink

Zen

- Zen thought You were adorable literally just the cutest thing possible

- That’s why he was shocked when one of his cast member who was a big horror fan mentioned a scary internet story and you immediately jumped into the conversation

- “mr. creepypasta? Or creepypasta jr. ?” you asked

- “Oh mr. creepypasta! I didn’t think you’d listen to creepypasta which ones your favorite?” the cast member asked

- “nothing beats “MR.Widemouth” for me gotta love a monster that tries to make you do his dirty work for him”

- “oh definitely but I like “dear Abby” myself that one is chilling

- You spent the rest of the shoot chatting with him quietly at the far side of the studio so you two didn’t disturb the shooting

- Zen had to admit it was getting to him

- You were HIS girlfriend why didn’t he know about this interest of yours.

- And why were you so happily chatting with another guy about it

- He confronts you on the way home

- “I knew you weren’t into it Zenny it’s not a big deal”

- “you talked to him all day MC. you know I’d listen to you right? Even if it’s not my thing why didn’t you tell me?”

- “here how about we do a spa night tonight and I’ll show you my favorite so you don’t feel left out next time”

- He chuckled and kissed your temple

- “well I can’t turn down my princess can I”

- So that night you ran a bath for the both of you

- You leaned against his chest and each did a facemask as you queued up the playlist on your phone

- You could feel him tense at every sound effect and could hear him grimace at the stories more gruesome details

- You chuckled a bit before saying “zenny you don’t have to listen to them you know”

- “just, why are they all so dark?”

- “because that’s the point their supposed to be spooky”

- He tried he really did. He listened until you two where drying off after the relaxing soak

- He sighed dejectedly “you were right jagi it really isn’t my thing” he said as he toweled your hair dry

- “but you tried and that means so much to me babe” you said leaning up to steal a kiss from him

Jaehee

- She knew about them but she wasn’t a fan of horror

- So she had never paid any attention to those videos as she browsed the internet

- And she certainly didn’t expect to walk into the café one morning before opening to you pulling a cake out of the oven and listening to a deep voice graphically describing a head wound

- “MC what on earth are you listening to?”

- “it’s a creepypasta!” you chirped brightly

- “those scary stories from youtube” she questioned further as she made her way around the counter

- “yeah in this one this guys tries to cure his depression but cutting out a chunk of his own brain”

- “that’s awfull” she exclaimed

- “well yeah. It doesn’t end to well for him either”

- “of course not!” She said shaking her head as she tied her apron on to help you prepare to open the café.

- The day went on fairly normally but as you closed she turned to you

- “that story, it’s not true.”

- You looked at her a little confused before nodding “of course not”

- “no one could survive that” she muttered to herself

- “no one” you agreed growing more puzzled by the second

- “how could people even come up with something so awful” she asked you setting a broom to the side

- “I don’t know? Jaehee are you okay?” you ask looking her in the eyes

- “I, yes MC I’m fine. The details in that story simply shook me up I suppose”

- You were careful from then on about listening to your stories only with headphones

- Jaehee wasn’t weak by any stretch of the imagination, but if something made her uncomfortable than you weren’t going to push it.

- You loved her after all

70 notes · View notes

chikkou · 4 years

Note

I'd ask this on your Lisa sideblog but you don't have anon on and I'm shy lol, but do you have any headcanons relating to Lisa the First? Like Lisa's views on religion, her relationship with her mother, if any of the various worlds we see mean anything?

hoh man i didnt even know anon wasnt on LMAO... ill turn it on after i post this!

also fuck YEAH i do holy shit i fucking LOVE lisa the first!! i know its sort of the black sheep of the lisa series, since it is a completely different type of game and was clearly austins first game, but i fucking ADORE it dude. the music - which he made ENTIRELY IN THE FREE TRIAL OF FL STUDIO BY THE WAY - is FANTASTIC, the art direction is actually pretty fucking incredible for an rpgmaker game that uses a good deal of basic assets, and the gameplay.... ok yeah that part is a bit lacking but its a yume nikki-style game be nice it was his first time LMAO

ANYWAY back to ur question. first and foremost, i think this is not even a headcanon so much as straight up canon, but lisa DESPISES christianity. marty is christian, probably catholic given the golden crosses everywhere, and he is a fucking scumbag hypocrite. lisa likely associates all of christianity with this line of thinking, as there is one room in the bile area where the melted martys (although i suppose we can just call them joy mutants now LMAO) simply stand in a circle surrounding one big cross. the role of the melted martys is up for interpretation of course, as is everything, but after playing the painful and seeing them described as “mindless sheep,” i think this is how lisa viewed them. so they likely represent other people that, to lisa, are probably just as sick and disgusting as marty

lisas relationship with her mother... i go back and forth on this one a lot. i can never decide if i prefer the headcanon that lisas mom died in childbirth, and so lisa never met her, or if i prefer that lisas mom was around for a very short time and then either left or died. the fact that she says “i didnt want to leave” at the end of the first leads me to believe that she most likely died. in either case, the memory of her mother was clearly important to lisa, as she wears her pendant through the entire game and its explicitly noted as being a gift from her. in either case, i think that the death/absence of the mother is heavily implied to be the primary cause behind martys descent into alcoholism and lisas abuse, since the white room strongly implies that marty did at one time sincerely love and care for her as a father properly should

as for the meaning of each of the rooms, i think most of them are fairly self explanatory, but some of them are a bit more vague, so ill break it down in terms of how i see it (and ill put them under the cut because its long as hell):

martys house - this is the most literal one. pretty self-explanatory. the dark, yet vibrant colors and the ear-bleedingly loud tv are pure sensory overload, something lisa probably deals with on a regular basis. when lisa goes outside and it turns into a sky of marty faces, i think this is the transition into the psychological part of the game

the lobby - this is honestly just pure yume nikki ripoff LMAO... but if i had to ascribe a symbolic meaning to it, i think its probably a quiet and safe area for lisa to retreat to in her mind when she needs it, but even that eventually gets sullied as tricky rick makes his way there, too (and tells her hes “just waiting” when she talks to him). the majority of gameplay is lisa searching for items with which to kill tricky rick, who always abuses and disparages her whenever she talks to him, telling her she’ll never forget. as for the reason why... well, take one look at him and its pretty clear whats going on there. (the name is also a reference to richard nixon, whose nickname was... well, you can figure it out!)

the town - the bar area is 100% my favorite from this world; lisa clearly hates alcohol and anyone who drinks it, associating them all with marty, and that music... all i can say is YUCK. the entire section also consists of lisa having to give up something in exchange for what she needs to move on, and usually getting the raw end of the deal out of it (she gives one marty a banana, he gives her a banana peel in return). she does all that while avoiding a marty following her outside who repeatedly tells her “you cant escape,” and upon reaching tricky rick (who is atop a narrow, columnar, PINK mountain), it becomes pretty clear whats happening to her.

the sea room - fucking marty spiders man. im assuming they represent the sickly feeling of crawling skin she gets when she looks at him or is anywhere near him, but holy GOD they are annoying to deal with. she kills tricky rick with pills here - we dont know what kind of pills these are, but i interpret them as sleeping pills, and given the rumbling music and the rapid cycling marty background, i wonder if he forced her to take these. marty is everywhere here, but the only one she can speak to is seen chilling on a raft of some kind. marty likely spent much of his time recreationally, i.e. drinking, so it makes sense why this would be here

the rope room - theres no symbolism here this is just pure comedy (LMAO). if i HAD to assign some meaning to this area, it would be that lisa likely is so despondent at this point that putting in effort to do anything feels utterly pointless, much like climbing this long-ass rope was

the white room - as i mentioned earlier, i personally believe that this area depicts the previous relationship between marty and lisa (and also has one of my favorite songs in the game). he is shown doing traditional fatherly things - he is no longer wearing sunglasses and is wearing a suit, meaning he was likely employed, and is actually smiling. he also spends time with her in a completely platonic, familial way. when she interacts with him, there is a little heart over his head. after lisa walks through the golden statues (which will reappear later), the entire world becomes filled with bile, and martys appearance returns to that of the other martys, but with an extremely warped, grotesque face. the item she needs in this area to kill tricky rick is found between two golden crosses.

notice that all of the items she kills tricky rick with - a razor, pills, and now a plastic bag - are things that a child could plausibly get their hands on; none of them are explicitly weapons. i think this shows both her age and how often she must have considered using those things against him.

the bile room - probably my favorite area in the game, and also features what i consider the quintessential lisa song. this area really drives home lisas disgust with marty and with christianity as a whole - it almost certainly has the highest concentration of crosses, and it is also quite literally covered in wall-to-wall bile, dirty water, and disgusting houses. a lot of the most graphic sights, like the melting martys and the pond martys (no idea what to call them LMAO) are here, so i think this is pretty much the lowest circle of hell for lisa. marty gives lisa a freshly cut finger in exchange for a napkin here; im not necessarily sure what that represents, but i think the napkin was used by marty to masturbate (as he says “i needed that” after he takes it), so perhaps the finger is martys?

lisa kills tricky rick here in a cave that is not-so-subtly shaped like a penis, and gets a vhs tape in which he pretty explicitly states what is going on in the game; he even pretends like he doesnt know who lisa is at first, which somehow makes it even more disgusting. the fact that vhs tapes play a role here sort of makes me wonder if marty really WAS filming some of what he was doing, and given that lisa the joyful confirms that brad was forced to somehow participate in lisas abuse, that is.... horrific to think about, honestly

the marty tape - this tape just has the player (as marty) walk up to lisa and suited marty, who are having a tea party with a plastic tea set. they both get hearts over their heads if you talk to them. i think this drives home that he and lisa did once have a normal relationship, and perhaps theres some part of marty who misses that? theres a LOT of ways you can interpret this; having the player become marty really calls a lot into question.

the mansion - the room leading here has a marty staring directly at the player who informs lisa that she needs a sword to progress. unsubtly, the sword must be placed into the crotch of a womans statue. the mansion inside is beautiful and ornate, and easily the most gorgeous area in the game - and it all leads to what appears to be a proto-joy mutant marty, sort of looking like jabba the hutt. i dont doubt that this is intentional, given that jabba the hutt is associated with slave leia, and its not at all a far leap to call lisa martys slave. the golden statues of women, as well as many golden crosses, are everywhere in this area. its actually quite a large space with a lot of thought put into it, so im really upset that i cant figure out more of what it represents LMAO

the final area - lisa seems to go back to her actual house, but upon leaving her room and entering whether the living room would be, the whole area changes. she encounters herself in a blood red room, but when she talks to the other lisa, she turns into marty. i think this represents a clear question - who is lisa without him? IS she anyone? or is she just a vessel for him to do with what he pleases? she encounters a naked marty telling her to give up shortly after, and flees from him, but is followed by voices repeatedly telling her that she must accept her fate. i think this clearly show the mental state of lisas last days. she was tormented, eternally. she truly felt there was no escape from marty. even the background becomes nothing but martys face, over and over again, as the end screen flashes.

at the end text, she finds a video tape, and in the tape sees someone who is ostensibly her mother from behind. she apologizes for not being there for her, but when that figure turns out, its martys face that she sees. the sky turns into marty. the music becomes corrupted and overrun with pretty fucked up laughter. she tries to run, but marty is already everywhere. theres nowhere for her to run. and then the game is over.

note that the video tape comes AFTER the games end screen, which stops not long after the appearance of the naked marty. so i personally believe that the “game over” represents her deciding to take her own life, rather than just give up and accept her fate. by running from him into the blackness, she got away from marty the only way she could have. it is sad and horrible, but that is honestly the best ending that she could have gotten in this game.

the first is definitely not as good as the painful in terms of gameplay, that much i can agree on, but i really think people miss out on a lot by not playing it. i think its really crucial to see lisas life from her own perspective before you can see it from brads - after all, brad may have known more than anyone else about what was going on, but he did not experience it like lisa did. for brad, lisa is a symbol of his own regrets and failures, but lisa was a PERSON (well, in-universe anyway LMAO). she suffered on her own, with pretty much no one to help her, and then she suffered so much that she couldnt take another second of it.

#anya's anons #long post #lisa the first #ok NOW im gonna open my anons on my sideblog LMAO #i got wayyyy too into this #and i had to put it under the cut bc its really hard to not be graphic about the first given the subject matter #rape mention #abuse mention #lisa

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evolsinner · 3 years

Text

⊱┊24

days go by, another one comes across. however, today is that day, and by ‘that day’ i mean, can we all please have a drumroll, it’s fucking parent~teacher interviews! aka an interrogation under the guise of pleasantries. i thought if i didn’t think about it, it’d just fucking disappear, but hey no, it’s still here.

but that’s okay, you see my parents don’t know a thing about it. i shredded all the notices they’ve sent us and made sure to cut the line every time my sneaky ass school called home. so when it came to my last class for the day, which is english lit obviously, i was quite happy that i didn’t have to stay behind like some students.

the class is empty, it’s almost 4 sharp.

“it’s only interviews,” i try to ease mr killian’s nerves. “just tell them what they wanna hear ~ easy peasy.”

“i wish, but it doesn’t work like that, luv. you know,” he looks up from his paper and removes his reading glasses to rub his weary eyes, “believe it or not, but we hate this day just as much as you kids do.”

“really?” i’m shooked. “thought you teachers just loved taking your sweet as revenge on students on this devilish day. it’s practically reverse halloween where the educators aren’t in costume for the first time, huh.”

mr killian places his pen behind his ear, entertained. “‘reverse halloween’, aye?” he leans back on his chair, arms folded and an ankle~on~knee. “you’re too funny.”

“‘funny’?” i walk over to him, admiring the tantalising dark circles underneath his scintillating eyes. “yeah? and what else?”

he possessively pulls me in between his legs, squeezing my booty in fistfuls. “and sexy and fierce and delicious.”

“do you want a bj?”

“oh, and very fucking naughty too!”

“what you gonna do about it?”

“gee, you’re tempting me.”

“mhm,” i bite my lip.

“you are in serious need of punishment, little girl,” he flicks an eyebrow up. “slide down your panties and lean over my desk.”

my eyes open wide, “no.”

“pardon?”

“i mean, there’s no space on y~y~your desk,” i glance at it. “there’s those booklets, essays, midterms, finals, your laptop...”

“i’ll make space.”

“uh, umm,” i step back.

“nuh~uh,” he pulls me in again so that i’m standing with my thighs directly opposite his thingy. “slide ‘em down right in front of me.”

“that’s too close,” i squeak, going red.

“what difference does it make? you a step back or not, i’ll still see it. c’mon,” he feathers a finger down my bare thigh, “you can’t still be shy? i’ve seen every part of you, every inch of you. the hills, the slopes, the blemishes... want me to go on?”

ok, imma prove him wrong. i undo the button and zipper on my shorts, exposing the bright red lacy panties i got just for him.

“you were hiding those from me?” he points to them, sounding offended.

slowly, i rub my hand over the skimpy fabric, sticking a finger behind the elastic.

“such a tease,” sir leans back. “congratulations, darling, you’ve earned yourself 5 more spanks.”

the thought of him spanking me…

“want me to go easy on you?” he asks, and i see rare mercy dancing around in his eyes.

i nod, prolly a goner if i were dumb enough to take my chances with this guy.

“then touch yourself, sweetheart,” the mercy evaporates from his eyes completely. he just went from a saint to a sinner in a millisecond. “mhm,” he nods to my hesitant expression, “slide your hand through your panties and touch yourself for me. if you don’t moan my name whilst finger~fucking your cunt, i’ll give you the belt.”

heck no, i don’t want to get spanked with a belt! that’ll hurt so much more!! i’ve seen it on 50sog!

“y~you w~want me to m~masturbate for you?”

“did i stutter?”

no, but i did.

shocked at how strangely turned on i’m feeling, i slide my fingertips under the double thin lines of the red covered elastic bands. tell me, why did i wear this again? i inch my fingers down further, my breath hitching up and pelvic muscles contracting.

sir slides his hand into his pants and gently strokes his cock, scarring me with imaginary ciggy burns from the way he’s staring at me doing me. “hurry it up, little one, time is of the essence.”

3 knocks on the door and it swings open with a, “hello?”

mr killian speedily sits up.

and i step back right away, pulling my hand out and tugging my shirt over the open zipper. “mum?”

“roséah,” she squints, “what on earth... dear lord, you have a lot of explaining to do!”

i refuse to blink. i think i’m having something like a heart attack. “w~what do you mean?”

“well, for starters,” she struts up to me, “you didn’t tell me that today was parent~teacher interview night.”

i exhale deeply, relief has never felt this good.

“mr killian, i presume?” mum says, holding her hand out.

i quickly fix myself up behind her.

“please,” he smiles, shaking her hand, “call me isaac.”

why the fuck would mum come here without informing me about it?!?

“apologies for not booking in a time slot and barging in like this. had i known,” mum gives me an irritated look, “i would have been more prepared.”

“it’s no worries, mrs blackburn,” sir tries to downplay it. “i reckon i can squeeze you in before my first interview. so please,” he motions to the two seats preplaced in front of the desk, “have a seat.”

“christella will do just fine,” and she takes no time in making herself comfortable.

i roll my eyes, so fucking annoyed and anxious at the same time.

“if you don’t mind my saying so,” sir gracefully says, “but now i know where your beautiful daughter gets her beautiful looks from.”

mum titters, tucking invisible strands of hair behind her ear and straightening out her pencil skirt.

tf.

sir glances at me and it’s so provocative in nature that i can’t look away, hence he does it for me. “do we have a common friend that can get both of us acquainted with one another?” he causally asks my mother with a chuckle.

aren’t they supposed to be talking about me?

“i don’t suppose so, isn’t that a shame?” mum smiles.

“‘shame’ would be an understatement, stella…can i call you stella?”

“you can call me whatever you want, isaac.”

“ahem!!” eww. ew. “mum,” i shake my head at her like ‘did you forget you have a husband?’, “you might wanna..”

“oh, yes, of course! silly me. so do tell, isaac? how has my daughter been doing?”

“well, to be candour, i’m rather impressed at how dedicated rosé is on learning.”

“hm, is that so?” she gives me a suspicious glance.

“indeed,” mr killian sends me a secret wink.

“does she slack off? because you’d tell me if she did, right?” mum asks.

“mum,” i grumble, she’s so embarrassing sometimes.

mr killian chuckles, “you’d be the first to know, stella. fortunately, that isn’t the case. rosé has quite the eye for accomplishing her goals.”

i’m getting lost in him again...

“gets all her work done on time, doesn’t send inappropriate text messages in class,” he proceeds professionally, kinda cocky, “nor does she ever has to stay back late.”

all of which i do the opposite of, i give him a guilty grin.

mum looks rather very taken aback, considering how i am at home. “seems like she’s quite the student?”

“you’d be surprised by what goes on in these walls.”

that not so hidden half~smile sir gives me pauses my mum in her tracks with her next question. i look at her sudden stiffness and notice how she’s surveying mr killian intently, her eyes narrowed into slits. oh crap.

“ahem!” i shift in my seat quickly.

sir coughs and swiftly brings in another topic.

mum gradually returns to her usual manner.

that was close.

when they finally say their farewells, i feel relieved as a fucking kite flying high up in a blue cloudless sky. mum did a few more interviews before she finally decided to go home. mr killian had given her false hope and high expectations, so it was funny when my other teachers informed her that my grades were declining from b’s and c’s to d’s and e’s.

oops, my bad.

-ˋˏ ༻🍷༺ ˎˊ-

it’s late, a major thunderstorm has hit and maxi being the scaredy~cat he is has crept into my room for the night. incoming call from isaac. i decline it. so he calls me again. and i decline it again. busy tryna shoot him a text which he keeps interrupting with phone calls.

daddy🔐 is my furry baby avoiding my calls?

tf he just called me??????

me im not avoiding ur calls jus ctrn cuz baby bro is sleeping in my bed thunder isnt his strong suit :/

daddy🔐 why am i jealous?

lol, seriously? i smile, rolling over to the edge of my bed.

daddy🔐 can’t stop thinking about you...

me jus stop its not dat hard

god, i suck at this.

daddy🔐 i really need to be fucking inside you right now!

uh, what the fuck do i text back?!

daddy🔐 would it be inappropriate of me to ask you what you are wearing since you’re with your kid brother?

haha.

me wow, ur quite the gentleman, arent ya ?

daddy🔐 i try my best.

feeling kinky, i silently remove my oversized graphic tee and take two pictures of myself. then i quickly pop my tee back on before curling up on the bed and hitting ‘send’.

daddy🔐 mmmm leopard panties and no bra, sexy. though i do wish you could move your arm out of the way so i could see my two girls?

no, my boobies are too small and i’m shy!

daddy🔐 such unspeakable things i could to your body right about now. would you like to know, baby?

i’m so tempted to text back ‘yes’, but that’d just get me too hot and bothered which is not a good idea when your lil brother is lying right next to you.

me behave (;

daddy🔐 how about we finish off what we started back in the classroom?

me we hv company rmbr ?

daddy🔐 right.

there’s a while with those 3 flashing dots before he texts back.

daddy🔐 considering we have an audience tonight, i’m willing to keep it pg. on the contrary, was nice talking to your mother today.

me were u flirting w her ?

daddy🔐 i don’t know. was i?

me u so were ! nd evry subtextual sentence u uttered !! she cud hv caught on yanno ?!

daddy🔐 that, i couldn’t help. the look on your face was hilarious. hers too.

i almost lol by just picturing my mum’s face, but i suppress it.

me jus bc u made me laugh dnt mean im not still mad !

daddy🔐 allow me to make it up to you?

me go on...

daddy🔐 there’s this soirée i’m holding with my crew for the long weekend. lakehouse, few beers, great view - thank kinda thing. i want you there.

me y do u want me der ? (;

daddy🔐 ‘cause i wanna fuck you hard on my mate’s couch whilst everyone else is out by the lake.

oh?

daddy🔐 and also because i want you to get to know my people more. (:

he used a smiley face! he never uses smiley faces!

me hmm, guess ill hv 2 think bout it

because i have to ask my mum first!!

daddy🔐 hope this helps?

he sends me a photo or two back, like it was a trade or something. but jesus christ, isaac killian! he was definitely not kidding about having me on his mind!

daddy🔐 don’t ponder too much. goodnight, love.

“rosé..?” maxi murmurs behind me, rolling around.

shit. i drop my phone in an instant and cringe for my luck. “yeah?”

“you’re taking all the blanket and i’m cold..”

“oh, right...” i exhale with relief, placing my phone on the bedside table. i turn around, shifting the blanket over him and putting my arms around him. phew.

i rest my eyes for a second when maxi is like, “what was that?”

“hm?” i smile as he snuggles between my arms.

“that big cucumber looking thing on your phone.”

i almost choke on my saliva. “t~t~that was...you’re dreaming, maxi. this is all nothing but a dream...” i add some whooo noise effect to make it more believable.

“no i am not!” he asserts.

“yes you are! now shut up or go back to your own room.”

thunder cracks intensely and he doesn’t say anything further. thank you, sweet jesus.

#daddy #story #teacher #student #teacher x student #words #quotes #thoughts #poetry #poems #love #relationship

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animerunner · 3 years

Text

A Raven's Time

Fandom: The Owl House

Summary: When the rebellion and attempt to overthrow Belos fails. The survivors concoct a new plan. Go back to before it all started and take Belos down before he can come to his full power.

It was supposed to be Eda. Maybe Luz if things didn't go as planned.

Lilith going back had never been in the plans. Yet fate had other plans.

And now Lilith is faced with the monumental task of saving two worlds from a threat they only marginally understand.

Lilith has to travel to the past and becomes saddled with the task of saving two realms. Warnings: Major character death (albeight temporarily) and occasional graphic depictions of violence (nothing too bad here but it will happen) Notes: So here we are with the fic I've been mentioning elsewhere. A poorly equipped Lilith time traveling to stop the apocalypse. This will be interesting and fun to write so I hope y'all enjoy.

Anti Lilith brigade will get blocked and deleted if need be. This is a Lilith centric fic and supposed to be a chance for Lilith to grow into an unexpected hero. Not much else to say.

Ao3 link is here

Otherwise the rest is under the read more. Pleas enjoy and let me know what you think!

Somewhere in Belos’ castle. Lilith shoots up in her bed. Seemingly having been awoken from a nightmare. To anyone that was but her.

Well maybe that wasn't entirely true. She arguably had been having a nightmare. It just had been one that had been her whole life for a while now.

It takes a few minutes for her to calm down and for her heart to stop racing. Though she doesn’t relax.

She’s not entirely sure if she’ll ever be able to relax in the castle again.

Not after everything that has happened.

Lilith looks around after a moment. It’s exactly how she remembered it back when she was in the Coven. It’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. A glance at the calendar backs up what she already knows and she breathes a sigh of relief that she didn't even know she was holding back.

It had worked.

// Four long years had come and gone since the conformutorium incident. Lilith had mostly settled into and accepted her new role as the unwilling wild witch over the years that past.

For a while things had been quiet.

Luz kept going to Hexside. Eda and her had tried to find a way to get the girl back home.

There were some murmurs of a possible rebellion against Belos starting to brew in the aftermath. But at the time that was all they were. Rumors.

Lilith still felt horrible for all of that wasted time. All that time they could have used building something up to stop Belos. All the things they should have done before the Day of Unity ever came knocking.

It's a question that will always haunt her she supposes. Why didn't any of them do anything sooner?

Even if they could never have known what was brewing. Even Belos had never fully explained his plans for his Day of Unity to her.

Possibly because if more people had known the truth. Most likely it would have gone off less smoothly

It was just another day on the Boiling Isles when it happened. By the end of it though no one would be forgetting it in a long time.

Bonesborough had been ground zero for all of it. So many deaths. Lilith felt a chill run down her spine.

Belos had always said he had stopped the savage ages. Lilith wonders just how what he accomplished in one day is any better than those years.

What wasn’t destroyed in the fighting wouldn’t see much occupation afterwards. As those who could, scattered to the wind.

Four years on the run. Fighting off whatever patrols they ran into. Trying to get close enough to take Belos down. Listening to the underground talk.

It was odd. A year before the start of this all Lilith would never have assumed she would be in this kind of position.

There were close calls on both sides. Rumors circulated that some had close to nearly finishing Belos off. But no one had been able to succeed.

And with their numbers dwindling Luz had suggested what seemed like a half baked plan at best. Stop this all before it could even begin.

Lilith thought it was absurd of course. Time travel was supposed to be a lost art. How in the world were they supposed to be able to stop the apocalypse with that of all things?

Yet Luz in a rare stroke of luck had found an old book. It had seemed absurd. Surely if this existed then Belos would have used it before now right? But then again this was glyph magic. And Belos’ own arrogance had kept him from ever studying it.

It was one way, once they got there was no coming back. Even if they did stop the end of the world they would never get to see it take effect in this timeline. There was the possibility that the spell might fail and they might die anyway. But as Lilith had stared at the partially burned out scape that was the Boiling Isles now. If they could stop it, then risks would be worth it.

Besides they were all dead witches walking at this point anyway.

It wouldn’t matter soon anyway.

If they pulled this off. Then this future would soon no longer exist. Soon enough if this worked the way it was supposed too none of them would know that they had ever lived through an apocalypse.

They were almost ready; they just had to wait a little while longer...and hope no one found them before they cast the spell.

It would take hours to reset up the circle. If they even could. They had to act here and within the next hour or two or else they would never get the chance.

It had taken weeks to get this spell ready. Not just because of the nature of it. But because they needed to be in the right time and place. They needed to be where the magic was at its wildest.

They also needed to take advantage of a naturally occurring event. Every several years there was a phenomenon referred to as ‘The Hidden Hour’. Where witches were at their strongest and most powerful.

It was perfect for this type of magic. Of course it also made them sitting ducks for Belos if he managed to find them. They weren’t the only ones at their most powerful after all.

Unfortunately just like everything else it seems. Plans were thrown to the wayside. An attack by a lucky patrol had thrown the whole thing into chaos.

They had managed to drive back Belos’ guard. Through a combination of the natural topography of the Isles where they were and quick thinking. However Luz hadn’t come out unscraped. Having quiet literally taken a boulder to the chest.

“That should buy us some time.” Lilith said as she came back from making sure nothing had gotten further damaged in the scuffle. “Though they’re bound to come back. We need to start casting. Edalyn is-”

Lilith cuts out as she gets a look at Luz. The girl’s awake by some minor miracle. However it’s obviously not good.

Eda still only gets really touchy when she’s worried. And with the way she was gripping Luz this was the equivalent of full on hugging her daughter in all but blood.

It was bad then.

Eda just shakes her head at the unasked question Lilith directs at her.

Lilith fights down the part of her that wants to panic. They need all three of them to activate the glyph. Even if only one of them actually goes back. Now is not the time. If Luz-“How long?”

Eda’s eyes shoot towards the boulder currently pressed into Luz. Lilith puts two and two together. As long as the boulder is there Luz is alive. But the minute they move it...

“We have to cast now.” Luz’s voice breaks into Lilith’s train of thought.

Eda starts to protest. “Kid maybe we should-”

Luz to her credit even in pain isn’t having any of it though. “I’m not a kid anymore Mom. I can tell this isn’t good. We need to cast now.”

Before it’s too late is left hanging in the air.

“I could never really fool you could I?”

“Nope.”

“Hey at least this way we can use Belos’ favorite trick against him.” Luz tries and fails to cheer both of them up. “That way we’re almost sure to work right?”

Eda chokes back a sob. Lilith is the one to answer instead. “Of course. But are you sure you want this?”

Blood magic was tricky but powerful. They hadn’t planned on using it. There should have been more than enough magic between the three of them to power the glyph. Admittedly the extra strength from it wouldn't do any harm admittedly. They just hadn't planned on using it. It could be dangerous to the user. It could kill them. Which Lilith guessed was why Luz was now suggesting it anyway. She was dying whether her or Eda wanted to admit.

It was useful. But at the same time...most likely if they started it...Lilith glanced at the girl's pale expression. They would be speeding up the inevitable.

“Yeah I’m sure. I want this. I want to make sure you make it back. If I'm going to go soon then might as well do one last thing to stick it to Belos."

“So I guess that means you’ll be going back Eda.”Who was going back had been undecided up until now. However Luz was clearly no longer the option.

“I can’t go back.” Lilith is stopped dead in her tracks at Eda’s statement. She opens her mouth to protest. Eda has to be the one to go back. Luz is dying and might not live to see the magic activate. And she is certainly not in a position to be starting a rebellion. However before she can start any of that Eda rolls up a sleeve.

And Lilith feels her stomach drop even further if possible. There sticking out of Eda’s skin is a familiar dark grey feather. “When did it-”

“After our last encounter with Bonehead.”

“Edalyn, that was weeks ago. Why didn’t you say anything?!”

"Because it didn’t seem to matter anymore.” Eda scratches slightly at the spot where one of the feathers is sticking up. “One of us had to go back from the beginning. Just when this started up again. I knew it had to be you or Luz.”

“It can’t be me though.” Lilith protests.

She would just mess everything they had been planning up.

Luz either is too tired or already knew since she barely reacts to it. “She’s right Tía. With the curse in effect and me-” Luz cuts off for a second. “Well anyway, point is your the most likely to succeed in the past.”

Lilith knows they are. That they can’t risk it. They can’t risk the possibility of no one making it back. They’ve put too much into it. She has to be the one to go back.

Yet still Lilith wants to protest. Part of her feels like if she’s the one in the past there is no way this will work. Four years ago she was still coven leader. Four years ago she had ostracized anyone who wasn’t in the coven.

It’s going to be a mountain to climb to convince anyone of her true intentions.

Regardless of her being the only one left who can. She still feels that she is the absolute worst candidate for this.

“I know.” Lilith resigns herself finally.

“Hey don’t be too worried I’m pretty sure you can convince my past self pretty quickly of you being a time traveler.”

“That’s what I’m maybe most concerned about.”

Her and Eda had spent years working through the issues that had been caused by the curse. It had taken a long time to get where they were now.

To go back to how it had been. To have to explain to Eda again what her young dumb teenage self had done. Was going to be difficult to say the least. She justs Eda can find it in herself to forgive her again when its all said and done.

“Hey I’m sure you’ll win her over just like we were able to. In the meantime don’t try to let past me get you down too much okay?”

“I’ll try.” Lilith glances at Luz who is starting to grow paler. They don’t have much time to waste and they’ve sat around talking for far too long really. “I should get going. It’s been a pleasure knowing you Luz, sister.”

There was no way back from this. And even if she did find a way back. Most likely people would still be dead. Luz would still be dead. Her sister would-no best not to think about that right now.

This was goodbye forever. To these versions anyway.

“Try not to be hard on my past self, okay? She’s got a lot to learn.”

Lilith chuckles. Remembering the rambunctious side of Luz that had been tamed over the years. But had been an ever present part of her life after leaving the coven initially.

One last squeeze of the girl’s hand and then Lilith rises. Heading towards the edge of the spell circle. Eda follows her for a moment.

“I still don’t know if I’m the right person for this.”

“Nah you’ll do just fine.” Eda says with a wink and a grin. Though it doesn’t meet her eyes. “I trust you. We’ve come too far to fail at this point.”

They really have come a far way haven’t they?

“What are you going to do after I’m gone.” After she’s gone Lilith silently adds. Neither of them are ready to admit that quiet yet.

“Going to burn this place to the ground. Can’t risk Bonehead finding it and following you.”

Lilith isn’t sure she likes the sound of that. “And what will that exactly entail?”

Eda’s refusal to answer that question is an answer in itself.

“Edalyn-”

“Don’t get started. Everything I care about is gone or soon to be gone. King’s gone, Amity’s gone, you’re about to be gone. Luz is-” Eda cuts herself off there. “And then there’s the curse. If I have to go out. I would rather stick it one last time to Bonehead.”

Lilith wants to argue. But she knows Eda’s right. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a lot of apologies laced in that statement. However the one that still lingers years on is maybe at the forefront. And Eda being Eda of course realizes it. “Hey like I’ve said before Bonehead’s invasion wasn’t your fault.”

“Still I feel like there must have been something I could have done differently.”

“Well now with you going back there you’ll know for sure.”

“That’s true I suppose.”

“Look I need to get back to Luz before-” Eda cuts off again. “I just need to get back. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”

“Of course.”

Eda leans forward slightly and Lilith takes the invite. Bumping heads against one another just like they did as children for one last time. They don’t say anything.

The silence is only finally cut by a strained whimper coming from Luz’s direction. That snaps the both of them out of it. Eda goes back to Luz and Lilith moves towards the large spell glyph.

They don’t say anything else and maybe that’s for the best.

As Lilith stepped into the center of the circle. She turned around to face where Eda and Luz were. Watching Eda place Luz’s hand onto the circle. They locked eyes for a moment.

For a brief moment Lilith was worried that it might not work. And then starting over where Eda and Luz she saw a bead of light in the spell circle. Growing and growing until finally it stopped and then started spreading across the outer edge of the circle.

Eda and Luz were pretty much oblivious to it from what Lilith can tell.

Lilith’s eyes keep following for a moment though she looks back at her sister and niece when Luz talks again. “Hey Mom can you sing again for me?”

“Of course kiddo.”

You are my sunshine

Lilith watched the first of the seven circles that made up the larger spell circle light up bright yellow. Before the light turned back to white and began to race towards the second circle.

My only sunshine

The second circle lit up more of an orange color. Before everything had gone to hell.

You make me happy

The third flashed black for a moment. Though it was gone almost as quickly it as came.

When skies are grey

The fourth lit up a bright green. Lilith wondered for a moment if there was some significance to the colors. Though so far it didn’t seem to have much rhyme or reason.

You’ll never know dear

The fifth lit up a blueish color. Though Lilith wasn’t paying much attention at that point.

She was a bit too entranced by her sister’s singing at this point.

How much I love you

The sixth one lit up a magenta color and this did grab her attention for a moment.

For the briefest of moments it made her think of Amity’s magic. But that wasn’t possible. Since Amity was...

Please don’t take my sunshine away

The final remaining conjoining circle flashed blue this time. There is something oddly familiar again but Lilith squashes it. She can’t be figuring out the spell intricacies at the moment. Now isn’t the time.

Lilith turns her attention for a moment back to Eda and Luz. Her sister’s cradling Luz as much as she can. They lock eyes for a moment. Eda just says one sentence.

“Give him hell for us Lily.”

Lilith nods not entirely sure if her own voice work if she tries speaking. Watching her sister and Luz for a moment more. She wants this image burned into her brain.

This is why she is going into the past. To stop all the unneeded pain and death. Even if she doubts how well she can do it. She has to try. For her, for them, and for everyone else that they lost in the years between.

The last thing she sees before the spell circle fully activates blinding her. Is Eda burying her face into Luz’s hair.

And now she was here. Deep in the lair of the beast that had caused so many problems. So much grief. She was back in the Castle that well the last time she was here had been unpleasant. It nearly has her jumping out of her skin wanting to get out.

However getting out is going to be complicated.

She was still head coven leader. She couldn't simply walk away from her position. Not without consequences at least.

Her, Luz, and Eda had made up a lot of plans about things they might do. To prevent their future. To prevent the decimation of two worlds.

So much of it had seemed to rely on Eda and Luz just being themselves.

Something that Lilith knew she couldn’t be. It simply wasn't her strength.

Not without pushing possible allies away at least.

She was going to have to find another way to do this.

At least some of the plans weren't entirely out the window. Some of that would still be useful. However there were going to be issues.

The question now became what was she going to do about the ones that she couldn’t so easily change?

#the owl house #lilith clawthorne #toh au #the owl house fanfiction #time travel fix it #this is set up mostly #pro lilith

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