#this is a reflection of my vision blurring more and more with each new layer

[fragileheartbeats]

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝑴𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑪𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒓 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒆, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 ��𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏.

In the desolate expanse of the White Waste, where the bitter winds whispered tales of forgotten glory, Maesella stood alone, her slender frame shrouded in layers of furs against the biting cold. The icy breath of winter nipped at her skin, a relentless reminder of the harshness of the world beyond the sheltering walls of her homeland.

Yet amidst the unforgiving landscape, Maesella's thoughts were consumed not by the biting cold, but by the searing pain that wracked her body. With each passing moment, the pangs of childbirth grew more intense, a relentless tide threatening to engulf her in its icy embrace.

She had fled to the frozen wastes in a desperate bid to escape the clutches of her enemies, seeking refuge in the barren expanse where even the bravest dared not tread. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for her, for now she found herself alone and vulnerable, the weight of impending motherhood bearing down upon her like a crushing avalanche.

As the first faint whispers of dawn painted the sky in hues of pale pink and gold, Maesella's body convulsed with agony, her cries lost amidst the howling winds. With trembling hands, she clutched at her swollen belly, feeling the life within stir with restless energy.

But even as the first cries of new life echoed through the frozen air, Maesella felt the cold fingers of death creeping ever closer, a specter lurking at the edges of her consciousness. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the pristine snow crimson, a stark contrast to the purity of the world around her.

With each labored breath, Maesella's vision blurred and wavered, the world fading in and out of focus like a distant dream. Yet amidst the haze of pain and exhaustion, one thought burned bright and true in her mind: the safety of her children, her precious babes born of dragon blood.

As the cold tendrils of winter wrapped around her, Maesella's breath grew shallow, her strength waning with each passing moment. Yet, even in the throes of her own mortality, her gaze remained fixed upon the precious lives she had brought into this world.

Twin souls, born of her flesh and blood, nestled within her arms, their innocent eyes reflecting the world's first kiss of starlight.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed upon the twins she had brought into this world, their tiny forms a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape. Her slender fingers trembled as she stroked the tiny faces of her children, their eyes wide with innocence, oblivious to the perilous world into which they had been born.

"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice choked with emotion. "Forgive me for the world I have brought you into."

Maesella's heart ached with a love so fierce it threatened to consume her. She pressed her lips to the foreheads of her children, tasting the salt of her tears as she whispered words of love and protection, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Sshh, my darlings," Maesella whispered hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are the light of my life, the hope in this darkness." She stroked their soft hair, silver and blonde like the dawn's first light, and pressed tender kisses upon their tiny foreheads.

The twins, oblivious to their mother's anguish, gazed up at her with wide, innocent eyes, their tiny fingers grasping at her trembling hands. Maesella smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with love for these precious souls.

In the depths of her despair, Maesella's thoughts turned to her beloved brother, Jacaelar, the one who had protected her, loved her, and ultimately sacrificed everything for her. She recalled the memory of their last embrace, the warmth of his touch, the sincerity in his eyes as he whispered words of love and devotion.

"Maesella, my dear sister," he had said, his voice soft and tender, "no matter what trials may come, remember that you are loved. I would give my life for you, without hesitation, without regret."

She clung to the memory, the pain of loss cutting through her like a blade. She longed for the comfort of her brother's embrace, his strength to shield her from the cruel whims of fate.

And then, amidst the stillness of the cold land, a great shadow loomed overhead, a behemoth of legends. The beast descended from the heavens, its crystalline scales shimmering in the light, its eyes a frigid blue that pierced the soul.

Maesella's heart clenched with fear and sorrow as she beheld the creature before her, yet she did not falter. With a trembling hand, she offered herself to the dragon, a sacrifice in exchange for her children's safety.

"Take me, mighty one," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the chill air. "But spare my children, I beg of you. Let them live, and I shall go willingly into the night."

And as the beast's jaws closed around her, swallowing her whole, Maesella's final thoughts were of her beloved brother, Jacaelar, and the bond they had shared in life. She remembered the days they had spent together, exploring the beauty of world and dreaming of a future filled with love and joy.

"I will see you again, my dear love," she whispered, her voice fading into the cold embrace of death. "In the stars, where we shall be together once more."

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

House Celestyr tag list: @emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

#writing #story #house celestyr #fantasy #a song of ice and fire #house of dragons #house of the dragon #house of dragon oc #house targaryen #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones oc #game of thrones #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #aegon x reader #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x reader #daemon x oc #song of ice and fire #oc #novel

[rielzero]

From Script to Comic Page

I thought it would be fun to show how my process tends to go, in some minor detail. (this is not a tutorial)

This is page nr 7 (page 5 if you do not count the cover and warning page) of Night one: Sleep? What even is sleep?

This is an excerpt from the script, when I am making thumbnails and eventually working on what dialogue comes on the page, I tend to change it. The script is never the final result, sometimes all the things inside the script won't fit on the page, the dialogue is too long.. Or it just isn't vibing well enough, so It ends up different on the page.

The ''not a chef'' line ends up on the page before it, so the dialogue got adjusted for this to an inner monologue, to increase Locke's sense of denial. Gale is aloof, lost in thought.. Processing the day while Locke can't make up his mind about the vision of death.

After the thumbnail phase is done, I do page layouts, which requires me to go into the game and take screenshots inspired by the thumbnail's angles. Since a 3D environment works different, the thumbnails don't always reflect the end result.

I don't enjoy drawing backgrounds, so using ingame screenshots is my way of cutting corners. I have very limited energy to work with, so investing it in learning a new skill would just take the fun out of it for me. Needless to say, it might make the environment feel ''off'' for the average person or skilled artists who are much more perfectionistic than me. I don't add shadows beneath characters or extra rendering detail for this work.

3D posing can be time consuming the more I have to adjust poses. If something very dynamic is happening (physical interaction, or combat scenes) it can become very time consuming. Easy poses take about 20 minutes or more to set up, while a large render can take 1 hour or much more if I'm nitpicking on tiny details or angles. If characters are close to each other I am not posing them separately. Gale's model and Locke's model are posed on different 3D layers here.

I go directly to lineart from here, (sometimes I sketch first, but not for comic pages.) Color coding my layers, bg layers and 3d layers are in folders. I'm using color layer mode(blue), multiply and lowered layer opacity to make it easier to work.

Now it'll be easier to draw on with black, mapping pen on 5.0

(this canvas size would be 4093 x 5787 px 350 dpi.)

And from there after all the linework is done, comes flatting- eventually I merge all flat layers.

I have a specific fill color for this comic's setting since I'm trying to simulate this ''its getting late'' vibe- therefore multiply on the flatcolors.. It will make it look like it's darker, then there's this gradient filter on the top that's on overlay mode, so that the backgrounds and everything blends better as well.

So, afterwards the final touches for the comic include.. Adding light effect (reflective feel from the fire) gives characters a lil sense of depth, gives the page more of a vibe. Highlights- (motions and lil lights in the eyes) Lastly I put all the character layers in a folder, copy the folder, merge the copy folder- turn the copy folder in a gaussian blur layer and lower its opacity.

It makes it feel glossy! I like it. Real camping out with the dudes vibes.

Full work will be up on @ohnoestherestadpoles by the time this post comes out.

#wip #behind the scenes #comic work #comic wip #oh noes there's tadpoles #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #gale #tav #comics #fan comic #work in progress #friendly reminder i make art for fun and am a disabled person not a fulltime career artist #queue #queued post

[lilpsychslut]

A Letter from Me to Him for the World

“You sound like someone I'll keep close for long” 

I guess I'll keep my word, and this is my effort for you.

This story, I believe, deserves both its preceding chapters and the moments that followed, but there's a certain intimacy I wish to keep just between you and me. In the last few days of my life, I experienced an old, lost, sinless romance. Ones you read about in novels—a romance that feels almost otherworldly. Getting to know someone and then wanting them to be yours, but then you just can't.

Thinking back on the memory of his smile, the way his eyes lit up, I realize that these are some of his glances I want to preserve. His talking about Maccain (his dog) had me captivated; words flowed like a melody. Those playful giggles and glimpses of his canines added to his charm, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to feel his lips against mine.

He crafts a bouquet from the surrounding weeds, and a sense of tranquility washes over me—a feeling that time was standing still, just for us. Sitting by the dam's edge, I felt an unexplainable urge to reach out and take his hand. It felt like a simple yet profound gesture that could bridge the gap between us. The candid pictures I have of him are like little treasures I want to create an album of. The flowers he gave me aren't just pretty blossoms—they are a symbol of the day etched in my heart, a day I want to always remember, keeping every flower in each book I read to you. 

Reflecting on his personality, I see a mixture of stubbornness and keen perception that intrigues me. He feels to be made up of the last sunbeams of summer, which gently caress the ground. His irises, resembling the warm soil, held their most captivating hue when viewed from a side angle. When he smiled, fine lines appeared, which, when observed, felt like ripples of water. He held a deep gaze of understanding that transcended spoken words—an unspoken language that held volumes.

Getting to know him has uncovered layers of myself that I hadn't fully explored. While I might not express it verbally, he seemed to read chapters of my narrative that I avoid revisiting.  “We are on the same page of that old self-novel,” but on opposite sides.

As we descended the staircase together, his casual remark, "Surprisingly, there are always flowers blooming around you," flattered me. I gathered a handful of flowers for you, each a symbol of our shared moments. You looked pretty, just more mine. 

His words seemed to possess a remarkable power. They reached deep within me, delicately tugging at the strings of my heart as if they were mere threads of emotion waiting to be plucked. His ability to effortlessly draw feelings I hadn't acknowledged, felt like watching a musician play the melody of a cherished moment.

What a day full of events it turned out to be. Should I single out the part that stands out to me the most? He might already be aware of it. It was raining heavily, causing everything to blur in my vision. A new and intense energy surged through me as raindrops struck against my bare chest. I could sense your eyes fixed on me. Was it this newfound life coursing through my veins, or was it your gaze that fueled it? You asked for my hand, and I held onto you. I remember the storms outside. It was one of the seasons I cherished most, and out of nowhere, you parked the car on the sidewalk to meet my gaze. Emotions flooded my bloodstream, and your warm skin met mine. Your heated breaths grazed my lips, and hands gently cradled the face. My ability to speak seemed to abandon me. Captivated, I was acutely aware of the tension building between us. Surprised by this sudden change of actions, he made me nervous and excited. I was aware of your touch around my nape, my breath got heavy and loud until you relaxed back into your seat. 

What games were we getting into? I found myself hooked. Just a short distance away, he parked once more, leaning in towards me. If I had to say, and he might agree or not agree,nature was constantly moving and thriving when we were together. It felt more human and alive. It saw us walking in the gentle floral meadows or kissing in heavy, soaking rains.

In the instance when I caught you gazing at me, your eyes shifted from my gaze to my lips. You caught your lower lip between your teeth in an intense grip, and then you finished that incomplete kiss. The rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only two of us. I remember exactly how your hands cupped my face as our lips met-a tender yet powerful connection that seemed to encompass everything. I couldn't help but wonder if this was the work of a novelist on Wattpad or simple luck beyond measure. The moment felt flawless, evidence of being fully present. My instincts tell me that we both existed in our purest and most genuine forms, without any masks or barriers. Nothing felt definite or planned—the rain, the kiss, or the affection that I'll carry for you as long as memory serves me.

He says that my way with words is something special, and while I'm thankful for the compliment, I still find it hard to describe just how much our experience meant to me. No matter how many words I use, they don't seem enough to truly capture that day.

Sometimes people don't come into your lives as lovers or pals, I believe it's the promises they made, which goes beyond our understanding, that brings them together. They meet each other probably once in their lifetime to repay the debts that have been carved deep into their souls. To what feels like eternity of hollowness, they give the universe unforgettable love in a moment. 

If this were a glitch in the matrix and I borrowed those certain hours from an alternate universe, I would want us to find a forever togetherness in that realm.

You said, “my heart felt heavy, and it beat faster than you rode.” 

I want to say, “I felt mine fading. A piece of me in those mellow winds to you. “

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#artists on tumblr #writers on tumblr #letters #lovers #love letters #memories #gratitude #love #girl #tumblr #tumblr girls #tumblr girlfriend #fiction #waiting #longines #universe #the longest promise #foreverness #parallel universe #rainyday #kiss #unrequited love #aesthetic #thunderstorm #falling in love #sunbeam #eyes #garden #flowers #blossom

[mikodaiyo]

  Soo here’s the piece I created with the incredibly hardworking @elvisqueso​ for SessKag Big Bang 2021 🌺 🌼

For @chierafied and @jafndaegur​ --- Thank you for putting the collaborative event together it was very fun to participate in!

#sesskag big bang 2021 #sesskag #sesshomaru #kagome #inuyasha #iy #my art #yoart #yo art #this is a reflection of my vision blurring more and more with each new layer #you have to stare at this image for one full minute ok its art law you better see the all of it!! I have no idea how I did it lol #I had to make flower brushes and I do not know how to make them so I did it a different way XD art play too much #(old tags) #(i hope its ok that this is late)

[onestowatch]

19 LGBTQIA+ Artists You Need to Listen to This PRIDE

PRIDE is all about self-empowerment and self-determination. It’s about not just being comfortable with who you are but showing the world that there is pride to be found in being unapologetically you. And that’s why, this PRIDE, we wanted to shine a light on a small handful of our favorite LGBTQIA+ artists. Ranging from rapturous hyperpop, revelatory bossa nova meditations, romantic rave music, and everywhere in between, these are 19 LGBTQIA+ artists who deserve a spot on your PRIDE playlist and every playlist for that matter. 

girl in red

In her debut single, “i wanna be your girlfriend,” a teenage girl in red unapologetically sings of young queer love over a mesh of lofi production and jangly instrumentation that would come to define much of the bedroom pop genre. It is a standout moment of unrelenting honesty, and a serenely simple three-minute confession that would go on to strike a chord with millions who were afraid of what it meant to be something more than friends. Now, a few years later and following the release of her critically-acclaimed debut album, if i could make it go quiet, Ulven still writes with that same emotional honesty, putting forth every ounce of herself for the world to see. 

Meet Me @ The Altar

“the little lonely black alt girl i was in the 00s is living rn, she never even dared to hope she might see this 💖💖,” reads the top comment on Meet Me @ The Altar’s music video for their single “Garden.” It is a sentiment shared by much of the rising band’s fanbase, who are used to the mainstream alternative scene championing cis white males. Existing in the space between pop-punk and hardcore, Meet Me @ The Altar exists to challenge the notion that queer women of color don’t have a place in punk. And after penning a record deal with Fueled By Ramen, home to the likes of Paramore, Panic! at the Disco, and nearly every pop-punk band that made up your middle school playlist, chances are this is just the beginning for our new favorite punks.

THE BLOSSOM

For Lily Lizotte, better known as THE BLOSSOM, music exists as the synthesis and subsequent recontextualization of a host of past experiences. From the sound of their dad belting away in his home studio to stumbling upon niche Internet subgenres, THE BLOSSOM transforms all this and more into a sound that is instantly recognizable but impossible to perfectly place. The culmination of this host of influences takes sweeping sonic form on their debut EP, ‘97 BLOSSOM, a perfectly imperfect introduction to one of the most fascinating rising artists of recent memory.

BIMINI

You may recognize BIMINI as Bimini Bon-Boulash, the runner-up on the second season of RuPaul’s Drag Race UK. And now you should familiarize yourself with Bimini, brit-pop extraordinaire. Releasing their debut single “God Save This Queen” earlier this June, Bimini deftly channels late ‘90s brit-pop and punk to deliver a single that has us absolutely living for the ensuing chaos. Serving up multiple looks throughout its eye-catching music video, “God Save This Queen” is not just a non-binary anthem but a veritable 2021 lookbook.

Hope Tala

With a sound that falls somewhere between turn-of-the-century R&B and bossa nova, Hope Tala’s music is expectedly a dream given sonic form. Perhaps that’s why much of the UK singer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist’s music is able to so deftly weave imagery of love, heartache, and teenage fistfights into tightknit tracks that feel simultaneously transcendental and deeply personal. And with the release of her 2020 EP, Girl Eats the Sun, Hope Tala poses one all-important question, “Why have a life if you’re not going to do something crazy and make a difference in the world?” 

chloe moriondo

For much of chloe moriondo’s avid fanbase, watching her transform from budding ukulele sensation to pop-punk phenom very much meant watching her grow up. Getting her start on YouTube, moriondo's fanbase witnessed her evolve as both an artist and person. Coming out in the aptly titled “a ramble about self identity, growth, and being a lesbian,” to be a fan of the artist often feels like trading secrets with a close personal friend. It is a sentiment that rings all the more true upon delving into her debut album, Blood Bunny. Grappling with coming-of-age at the axis of empathic pop and euphoric pop-punk, Blood Bunny sees moriondo taking yet another impressive step forward.

Godford

Little is known about Godford beyond what can be garnered from a handful of interviews online and his succinct Spotify bio, and chances are he’s happier that way. The anonymous DJ and producer aims to make non-binary music that exists outside of the confines of genres, overly-simplified classifications, and even himself. What is important are the emotions his music hold and what his listeners take away. Fusing romanticism and rave in his debut album, Godford: Non Binary Place, the anonymous artist does just that. He provides a space that exists simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, like an ephemeral night spent out on the dancefloor with a stranger or close friend.

Joy Oladokun

Joy Oladokun is at the core of her music. It may at first glance appear to be a painfully obvious statement, but as her sincere songwriting seeps into every corner of your soul, it is a notion that becomes undeniable. In her major label debut, in defense of my own happiness, Oladokun writes with an unabashed authenticity, never turning a blind eye to the world around her. These shared reflections and recollections of life are often heartbreaking and uplifting in the same breath, but in their candidness, we can begin to piece together what it means to be human, imperfections and all.  

Allison Ponthier

Allison Ponthier may only have a handful of singles to her name, but her unmatched potential is clear as day. Raised in the outskirts of Dallas, Texas, Ponthier’s moving songwriting and emphatic vocal prowess speak to her country roots. Pair that country sensibility with some of the most pristine pop songwriting we have heard in quite some time, and you begin to understand just how exciting Ponthier is as a rising artist. With only two singles to date, there’s not much else we can say beyond do yourself a favor and play “Cowboy” on repeat.

Rina Sawayama

It feels like no hyperbole to call Rina Sawayama an inevitable pop icon. First garnering critical acclaim with singles like “Cherry” and her 2017 debut EP RINA, the Japanese-British singer-songwriter staked her name on her immaculate ability to capture all the glamour and larger-than-life appeal of early ‘00s pop. Building on what was a nostalgic yet forward-thinking vision, Sawayama returned with her 2020 eponymous full-length debut. From nu-metal, club beats, to veritable pop anthems, SAWAYAMA emerged as a genre-defying showcase of an avant-garde pop star.

Arlo Parks

Listening to Arlo Parks’ music is akin to sipping on a hot cup of chamomile tea as you watch the world slowly pass by your living room window. It is a testament to the British poet and singer-songwriter’s subtle yet beautiful way with words, the way in which each lyric serves as a glance into a tightly-held memory or passing observation. These poetic musings come to life in her debut album, Collapsed In Sunbeams, which layers lyrical revelations over some of the most tender R&B of recent memory. Parks’ is more than a must-listen; she feels like the birth of a new wave.

Claud

Claud has spent the past few years making a name for themselves in the indie pop world, and the culmination of it all arrives in their debut album, Super Monster. The acclaimed album sees Claud reckoning with coming-of-age and love with an irresistible charm. Pair that with a penchant for grounded, affective songwriting and infectious, dreamlike melodies and you have one of the best debuts of recent memory. In case you somehow need any further convincing that Claud is one to watch, Super Monster marks the debut release from Phoebe Bridgers’ Saddest Factory Records.

UMI

Equally as inspired by R&B and neo-soul as she is by her generation’s penchant for blurring genre lines, UMI and her music exist as a form of spiritual healing. Half-Black and half-Japanese, her work explores everything from identity to self-introspection, such as on the aptly-titled Introspection. It is a fondness for self-exploration that UMI delves headfirst into on her 2019 EP Love Language, a sublime blend of identity struggles, love, and anime that tackles the issue of always feeling like an other, never Black or Japanese enough.

Joesef

Sad boy summer. It’s the simplest way to being explaining Joesef’s serene albeit somber sound. Emerging out of Glasgow, the quickly rising star often wears his still bleeding heart on his sleeve, even when the underlying sonics seem to be moving onto greener pastures. It is an exquisite balancing act that comes to life on his 2020 EP, Does It Make You Feel Good?. Blending elements of soft-spoken R&B, jazz, and ethereal pop, Joesef sets himself apart as an artist whose influences and appeal know no bounds.

Serena Isioma

At the top of the year, we named Serena Isioma one of our top artists to watch in the year to come, and for good reason. The self-proclaimed “nonbinary rock star” experienced a breakout moment with “Sensitive,” a track that is difficult to perfectly encapsulate but think along the lines of fusing modern-day R&B and woozy indie-pop with reckless abandon, and you’ll be about halfway there. It was an impressive standout track that was only buoyed by a pair of EPs, Sensitive and The Leo Sun Sets, in 2020, officially cementing Isioma as an artist like no other.

Khai Dreams

Khai Dreams’ music is effortlessly easygoing. With its straightforward guitar lines and understated production, every track from the Pacific Northwest singer-songwriter flows out as naturally as breathing. Maybe it’s that laid-back approach that begins to explains Khai Dreams’ universal appeal and millions of monthly listeners, despite releasing most of his music independently. A hallmark of the DIY generation and its massive homebrewed potential, it would be a crying shame if you didn’t let Khai Dream’s serene meditations transport you somewhere far from here.

Frances Forever

Like much of their Gen Z cohorts, Frances Forever’s exponential rise was not the result of a well-executed marketing plan but by the pure chance of a single song finding a home online. The song in question, “Space Girl,” was originally part of NPR’s Tiny Desk Content before soon blowing up on TikTok, and it’s not hard to see why. Short, sweet, and to the point, “Space Girl” is a saccharine love letter to that bubbly feeling of floating on cloud nine. Now signed to Mom+Pop and with their debut EP, Paranoia Party, due out later this year, this is the perfect time to get familiar with Frances Forever.

Dorian Electra

Unapologetically playing with gender norms and stereotypes while seeing just how far they can push the limits of pop, Dorian Electra has long maintained a cult following in the world of experimental, highly addictive hyperpop. And it’s not hard to see why. Having collaborated with the likes of Charli XCX, 100 gecs, Village People, Pussy Riot, Rebecca Black, and more, Electra’s music ranges from off-the-rails hyperpop to introspective pop slow burns. All of this and more reaches a fever pitch in their 2020 album My Agenda, a devious showcasing of one of pop’s most explosive figures.

MAY-A

Maya Cumming, professionally known as MAY-A, is no stranger to the hustle it takes to make it in the music industry. The Australian artist got her start entering numerous singing competitions in her hometown of Byron Bay and started busking on the streets at the tender age of 11. Now, she has a breakout single under her belt in the form of “Apricots,” an anthemic indie-pop ode to queer love. And since that breakout moment, MAY-A has continued to release impressive single after single—the latest being the collaborative “American Dream.”

#pride #girl in red #meet me @ the altar #the blossom #bimini #hope tala #chloe moriondo #godford #joy oladokun #allison ponthier #Rina Sawayama #arlo parks #claud #umi #joesef #serena isioma #khai dreams #frances forever #doria electra #may-a

[velvetmel0n]

Wicked

gif credit to @trelkez

Summary: Laurent takes care of your problem for you.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 5.5k 🙃

Warnings: A Murder(tm), copious amounts of blood, hot tip maybe wash your hands after you kill someone and before you have sex, brief blood consumption, details of aforementioned murder discussed as dirty talk, the murder victim was the stereotypical evil suitor everything is fine guys, vaginal fingering, Laurent’s muttonchops, penetrative sex, unexpectedly Soft ending 

A/N: Listen if I’m going to hell I’m taking all of you with me 

@damerondjarin @okay-hotshot @yougottakeeponkeepinon @highlycommendable @tintinwrites @poeticandors @darksideofclarke @dearspacepirates @lcandothisallday @brooklynsblurbs @huliabitch @leahsafae @writefightandflightclub @hystericalmedicine @daft-not-punk @ah-callie @duamuteffe @spider-starry @mserynlarsen @acomplicatedprofession @bookshelvesandteacups @myguysbsmokin @winters-buck @jangofctts @queenofheavenandhell @woakiees @midnightdragonzero​ I didn’t know who to tag since this isn’t Poe I’m so sorry ya’ll

Laurent keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets as he walks, feeling the blood start to dry on his skin, sticking his fingers together and he still doesn’t feel bad for what he’s done. He doesn’t feel remorse as he moves through the streets, keeping his head down as he is consumed with thoughts of you instead. You’re free of Matthew now, which means that you should be able to convince your family that he’s the suitor they want for you instead and you’ll be his. He’ll be able to be seen in the daylight with you and you alone, not speaking with your cousin as you tag along for fresh air, sneaking glances and touches until neither of you can take it anymore.

He shouldn’t be going to see you. He should be going home and changing his clothes; he knows there’s blood on the dark fabric of his waistcoat, his hands are covered in it as are the edges of his sleeves. But he can’t stop thinking about you, your face swimming in his head instead of the face of the man he’d just killed. He can feel the outline of the knife in his waistband biting into his thigh and he doesn’t care—  if anything it just makes him more desperate for you until he’s half-crazed with it. He looks up to your window in time to see the curtain drop back down and he quickens his pace, thrumming with energy by the time he reaches your door, stopping himself at the last minute from leaning against it, remembering the blood on him.

You almost trip over your skirts in your haste to pull your door open, heart in your throat and you only catch a glimpse of his dark eyes before he’s pushing inside. “It’s done, it’s done,” He mutters in a voice that’s frayed at the edges, his hands coming up to grip your face while he crushes his mouth to yours. 

His hands are shaking from some emotion you can’t name but they’re warm against your cheeks and that’s all you care about. You had wound yourself so tight in the hours you spent waiting for him, lighting candles all over your room for the comfort of another living thing while you wondered if the last time you saw him truly would be the last time. He hadn’t wavered from the plan once since he spoke it into existence, had practically begged you for it—  you could still remember the feeling of his lips on your neck, the way he whispered “Let me do this for you,” into your ear whenever you brought up your reservations.

Strangely enough your reservations were never for Matthew; concern for his well being never so much as left your mouth and you never brought up the murder itself as an objection— it had always been Laurent. Laurent’s safety, how was he going to get away without being seen. What if he is seen, what then? You didn’t think you could take it and that is what caused you grief for weeks, losing sleep as you tossed and turned, stared up at the ceiling. You had made a place in your mind for the act of killing, and the only reason it disturbed you was the fact that it did not.

There’s a sticky slide across your cheek when his palm moves to cradle the back of your skull, press your mouth harder into his and it snaps you back to the present, to the way his tongue slides against your own— and the thick, coppery smell that clings to him. 

Your eyes open wide and you push him off of you in a panic, almost bite your own tongue as he stumbles and looks at you with an expression of hurt and confusion but that’s not what you see. Instead you see your hands sweeping over his clothes, a choked noise leaving your throat at the sight of so much red on his waistcoat in the candlelight and the wet of it. You grip the fabric and try to pull as your vision blurs with tears, fearing the worst. You realize that what you felt on your cheeks was more blood and your stomach turns, conjuring images of him stumbling away from the scene, hands clutched over a wound and he’s come to see  you rather than a doctor. 

It’s then that Laurent realizes what you’re doing, the reason you pushed him away, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest. He takes your wrists in a gentle grip, pulling them to his chest to get you to stop yanking on his clothes, shushing you. You try to pull from his grip and he readjusts, catching both of your hands in one of his so he can use the other to hold your chin and forces you to look at him. “It’s not my blood,” His voice is soft, belying the nature of his words and it makes you pause.

“It’s not?” Your voice wavers towards the end, your brain struggling to process the weight of what he’s telling you. Matthew is dead and Laurent is covered in his blood but he’s okay. He’s warm and solid and his eyes are still desperate but there’s a softness creeping into them now the longer he looks at you, wallowing in the fact that you’re worried about him.

“It’s his, only his,” He breathes, finally seeing the way the blood had smeared across your beautiful skin. You’re looking at him so sweetly with the blood of another man on your face and it hits him like a punch to the gut. 

He slowly rubs his thumb over your cheek, drags his fingers down your neck and you let him. You let him because you can hear the way his breath shudders and see his eyes go heavy. Candlelight is reflected in his eyes and it feels like ritual as he paints your flesh with it, becoming transfixed. He killed for you and you both are...you’re both luxuriating in it.  

He leans his head down, following the streaks of blood with his tongue and a whimper rises in your throat. Your head spins and you find yourself clutching at his clothes with stained hands, unable to help your moan when he sucks harshly on the point where your neck and shoulder meet. Laurent has always been intense but this— this is almost making you delirious.

He backs you into the nearest wall, hissing for you to be quiet before he flattens his tongue against your cheek. You shake your head, gasping into his hair and if he hadn’t closed his eyes he would have seen yours flutter. “They’re gone,” 

His head shoots up and with difficulty you meet his eyes, breath catching somewhere in his chest at the crazed look on his face and you almost pull him in for a kiss. “Madame had a friend in the country, they went back for the funeral,” They left you in charge of the shop in their absence, saying this would be your opportunity to truly prove yourself. With everything happening you hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him.

It takes a moment for it to sink in and then he’s grinning, leaning his forehead against yours and cupping your face in his palms. His thumb rubs over smiling lips and somewhere in the back of your mind you register the blood on them but still you can’t find it within yourself to care. 

He crushes his mouth to yours and you moan brokenly at the taste, at the sheer fact you’re able to make a sound at all. You can finally lose your heads entirely, until nothing exists but each other and the pleasure.  You feel like you’re burning from the inside out as you fumble with his waistcoat, shoving it from his shoulders the same moment his teeth are dragging over your bottom lip.

He suddenly pushes away from you, tearing at his tie and jerking his chin at you. “Take off your clothes, now,”  He’d never seen you fully naked, could only imagine what you looked like from the pieces you could give him in stolen moments, the glimpses never lasting long enough. 

He stares hard as you begin to do what he says, his hands pausing on the buttons of his shirt as you work yours, a frantic edge to how you move and he thinks his mouth may be watering.

You peel the layers of fabric off one by one, your actions slowing as you look at his face. You drag the process out, so sensitive already that the scrape of satin and cotton against your skin has you shivering like a rabbit caught in a trap. He looks so dark like this, orange light flickering across his skin and throwing shadows that only served to highlight the contours of his face and what little of his body you could see with his shirt half unbuttoned.  You can see red on his skin from where the blood had seeped through his clothes and the sight of it stirs something deep inside of you. 

He looks harsher than he ever has illuminated like this and you think he’s beautiful. He drags his eyes over each new part of you that you reveal, his brows drawn close and his lips parted as if you’re revelation.  His hands slowly resume their work of removing his clothes and you can’t seem to take your eyes off him as he does so, even as you back towards the bed. The backs of your knees hit the end of the bed and you crawl backwards onto it, pressing yourself almost to the headboard as he rids himself of his pants and underwear.

The sight of him steals your breath, the way the shadows play over more skin than he’s ever shown you at once and you don’t know where to look first; his chest, his thighs, his cock? It bobs as he finally walks towards you and you suddenly want your mouth on it more than anything. You want him on your tongue and down your throat but then he’s placing one knee and then the other onto the bed and he’s crawling over you.

He leisurely moves up your body, stopping to lay kisses on the inside of your knee, ghosting over your thighs and your stomach. Blood stains your white sheets and you think he’s doing it on purpose, purposefully dragging his abdomen across them as he moves up, up, up. 

He doesn’t cover you like you want him to, like you need him to; instead he rests on his forearm beside you, close enough that your arm presses against his chest and you feel his breath stirring the hair at your temple. You try to turn towards him but a large hand on your hip keeps you from moving and you can feel the whine building already. 

He  squeezes your hip to tell you to stay before dragging his fingertips across your skin and your breathing deepens, trying to brace yourself because you know where he’s heading and if he was anyone else you think you might be embarrassed by how wet you are. He grips one of your thighs to pull your legs wider but stops when he feels the slick on his fingertips and grins widely from his place above you. He licks his lips before he starts moving again, drawing your knee up until you’re split open, leg resting against his hip. “There,” He breathes, sounding as reverent as he had looked moments earlier and you feel yourself grow even warmer as he traces teasing, nonsense designs on your skin.

You try to hold yourself still for him but you’ve started to shake again, quivering against him and it makes him beam down at you. You hold your breath as his hand finally starts to move towards where you want him most and he moans with you at the first touch, delving his fingers between your slippery folds. You fist one hand in the sheets beneath you while the other curls up to clutch at his shoulder, trying to use the leg braced against him for leverage to arch your hips up.

“You like what I did, don’t you?” He says into your ear, shuffling closer to you and just rubbing your slick around with no real goal in mind other than to just feel. Your breath stutters and you squirm, the ache between your thighs growing sharper. He noses your cheek and you know he wants an answer but he just keeps petting you, taking just enough care to avoid your clit  except for when the heel of his palm catches it and every time it makes you jump, fire curling in your belly. 

“You like that I killed for you,” It’s not a question anymore but you find yourself nodding— because how can you deny it when his hand was between your legs, able to feel exactly how you’re soaking for him even knowing what he did.  You like knowing exactly how far he’s willing to go for you and you feel a little drunk with the sensation of his hands on you like this. Hands that are capable of such a heinous, terrible act but touching you with such softness and bringing you more pleasure than you had  ever known before him.

“Yes, Laurent, yes,” The last word hisses from behind gritted teeth because he’s sliding a thick finger into you and pumping once, twice, before there’s a second and you try to shut your thighs against the onslaught, a sob rising in your throat. He pulls his fingers from you just long enough to push your knee back down to the bed, a muttered ‘keep them open’ said into your hair before he rests his cheek on the top of your head to watch his hand move, loving the way your hips are jerking and rolling into it. Loving the way your skin is smeared red from his touch.

You can feel the heavy weight of his cock pressing into your thigh and you arch for it, keening wordlessly as his fingers drive into you over and over again. He knows what he’s doing, giving you just enough to keep you on the edge until you’re sobbing for him. He presses the heel of his hand into your clit sporadically, the sudden, sharp pleasure making you jolt and cry each time. You pry your eyes open and roll them upwards, desperately seeking a glimpse of his face but all that’s given to you is the tendons of his neck standing out in relief in your periphery and the sound of his harsh breathing in your ear.

 “Planned it for months, “ He says at the same moment he curls his fingers deep within you and your spine curves off the bed, a moan clogging your throat. Your head is spinning, lost in the sensations of his fingers dragging through your soaked cunt and the blood drying on your skin, his voice the only thing keeping you grounded. His body shifts and he bends down, teeth scraping over your ear, nipping the edge of your jaw. Your nails dig harder into his shoulder, your mouth dropping open. His arm is pressing against your breast with how it’s stretched across you, only brushing against your sensitive nipple when you move just right and the hint of sensation is only serving to drive you closer to the edge, the light touch and its promise of more.

“I had to listen to him talking about you,” It was only by chance that Matthew and Laurent had met, the man that had become your suitor upon your very arrival in Paris, no doubt orchestrated by your aunt, having decided to visit during one of the sessions Laurent required to paint your portrait, also orchestrated by the older woman..  The two had become friends, chatting amicably as Laurent took pains to capture your likeness in paint and canvas, though not without reason— the painter needed an excuse to keep coming to your aunt’s house, to keep seeing you, once the portrait had been completed.

“Every time I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him what you felt like wrapped around my cock, what you taste like. I wanted him to suffer knowing what he’d never have,” His words are starting to fall apart at the edges as he scissors his fingers deep inside of you, stretching you open and it’s all you can do not to cry, the tears of frustration that have been steadily accumulating in your eyes beginning to spill over as he sets the base of his hand against your clit, keeping the pressure constant.

You want to reach down and grasp his cock, to give him a fraction of the pleasure he’s giving you, but you can’t seem to unclench your hands from their place on the bed and his shoulder, clutching him as close as he can. He noses along your cheek and curls over you to lick into your mouth, groaning against your lips. You whine as his tongue slides against your own, grinding your hips into his hand and you can feel him rutting against your thigh.

 It’s too much, it’s all too much for you— his fingers, his mouth, the knowledge that you’re free from Matthew and all of his unwanted advances, the freedom to be as loud and take as long as you wanted to be without fear of being walked in on at any moment. But most of all it is the blood on your skin, the physical evidence of what he would do for you, the lengths he is willing to go that affects you the most. It’s a heady thing, to know someone would kill for you. That someone already has.

He can feel your walls contracting, pulsing around his fingers and he still has enough sense to rip his mouth from your own. He’d never heard you before, not really. Your cries were always swallowed back or muffled with his hand or by the skin of his neck or his shoulder. He’s almost on top of you at this point and he presses his forehead into the pillow, close enough that his sideburns tickle your cheek and he can hear every little gasp and noise falling from your lips. 

You strain against his hand, nails scraping over his skin as something pulls high and tight and a vulgar wail tears itself from your throat as you come apart underneath him. His fingers keep thrusting, forcing you through your orgasm and making sure to drag the pleasure out for as long as he can, until you’re quivering and gasping for air. At some point he begins murmuring to you again, telling you how happy he was when you agreed to let him take care of Matthew for you, the plans he made for him. He’s knuckle deep inside you and grinding his palm into your buzzing clit while telling you all the ways he thought about killing a man, and you’re in love with it. 

You’re in love with all the sensations he’s forcing on you, wracking your body until you have to push him away, your hand shaking like a leaf when you press on his wrist. He relents, shushing your whimpers and pressing soft kisses all over your face. He squeezes your hip and rubs your side, leaving a trail of your slick in his wake as he tells you how good you feel and how much he loves the sounds you make. 

You’re hiccuping as you reach for him, pulling his mouth back to yours to share a soft kiss. He melts into it with a low groan  and slides his body between your spread, trembling thighs and you’re finally able to wind your limbs around him. His cock slips over your oversensitized folds and you jerk, trying to breathe through the aftershocks that are still firing in your blood. 

“Laurent—”

“Sh, sh, sh, I know,” He breathes against your lips, pulling back to look at you through hooded eyes, looking lost for you. You lift your hand to cup his cheek, his sideburns soft against your skin and your heart flickers in your chest when he turns his head to kiss your palm. He doesn’t look away as he shifts down, lowering his head to your chest. You suck in a breath as he mouths across your breasts, threading your fingers through his curls while your head falls back.  You hold him close and feel his tongue slide across your delicate flesh, jumping a moment later when he sucks your nipple into his furnace-hot mouth.

You moan breathlessly as his tongue swirls around it, his teeth just catching the pebbled flesh and it sends heat sparking outwards. Your grip tightens on his hair and he groans again before he moves across your chest, giving your other nipple the same attention. There had never been time for this before, this exploration, and now that Laurent has the chance he doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to kiss and lick and suck until he can’t get the taste of you out of his mouth, wants to fill his hands with you until he forgets what it’s like to go without.

You don't know how long he suckles at your breasts, groping whichever one his mouth is neglecting, his fingers pulling and teasing to make up for the lack, but soon you’re once again writhing under his touch. You tug at his hair in earnest now to draw him back to your lips, knees squeezing his hips and he’s helpless to deny such a request. 

“Laurent, please. I ache,” You plead into his mouth, hoping he’ll have mercy. You feel him smirk but he makes no move to give you what you want, your misery only heightened by the fact that you can feel his cock throbbing against your belly.

“Listen to you, begging for a killer,” He muses darkly, seeming to delight in reminding you what he’s done. He’s drunk with it, how he can come to you with bloodied hands and tell you all the ways he’d dreamt of disposing of your suitor and still you want him. Still you kiss him. Still you suck on his tongue and let him inside of your body.

“Covered in the blood of another man and you still want me inside of you,” His voice lowers, turning conspiratorial as he reaches down to align himself, grinning at the way your breath catches when you feel the blunt pressure of him. Your eyelids flutter and you fight to keep yourself still, fearing that the more you try to persuade him the more he’ll draw out his teasing.

He flexes his hips and you clutch at his shoulders as he presses in inch by inch, both of you helpless not to groan at the feeling of it all. You don’t think you breathe as his cock drills into you until the backs of your thighs bump against his hips and then he just— he just stops. You feel impaled, split open on his cock and you’re whining before you recognize your own voice, high and needy. 

He grinds into you, his pubic bone catching on your clit when he hunches over you. His lips brush your ear as he begins talking, the details of his grisly act of devotion spewing from his mouth like he’s unable to leave them unsaid any longer. “I followed him like some common criminal,” He grits out, finally moving like you need him to, his thrusts slow and deep in some desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable frenzy for as long as possible.  

You try to gather him as close as possible, almost too loathe to even allow him the space he needs to drive back into your body. You feel everything. The bed linens bunching underneath you and sticking to the sheen of sweat that covers your skin, the way his warm body fits against yours and how you fill your hands with it, desperation wracking your body even now while you clutch at his back, his shoulders. The way your fingers are sifting through his curls and shuddering at the groans it elicits. You try to tell him that he’s more than just some ‘common criminal’ but the only words leaving your mouth are gasps of his name and praises, telling him how good he’s making you feel and how you love him anyways. Perhaps even for it.

“Made him look at me before, made him say your name so he knew,” He emphasizes the point he’s making with a brutal dig of his hips, his cock hitting against some bright, searing spot inside of you that leaves you writhing and breathless as much as his words, the knowledge tearing you apart as much as his cock. He catches your mouth in a harsh kiss then and all you can do is moan, taking all that he’s giving you and asking for more, more, more.

“I would— I would do the same for you,” The confession rips itself from your throat with a choked gasp when his mouth abandons your own in favor of your neck, teeth and tongue indenting the delicate flesh he finds there. Laurent groans above you and you can feel the way he trembles at your words all the way down to your bones. You burn even hotter and you feel like you’re drowning in the best way possible. 

As if some floodgate has been opened, whatever reserves he still has go up in smoke with your revelation and his words start to slur together as his hips gain speed, each of you racing towards the bliss that’s shimmering just out of reach. He tells you how Matthew looked in the moment, the realization and fear in his eyes as everything clicked together for him. He tells you about the knife and how it felt in his hand when he stabbed him in the stomach to make it look like a botched mugging, how he slit the man’s throat for good measure just to be sure. 

At some point he reaches down, slipping a hand between your toiling bodies and you choke, the fresh tears that have gathered in your eyes spilling over when he touches you, his fingers rubbing cruel, sharp circles into your clit and your body begins to melt down. Your spine tries to bow but his weight on top of you prevents it and you have nowhere to go, unable to scramble further up the bed in an almost instinctual reaction to lessen the sensations, to dampen the intensity of everything. All you can do is hold on to him with shaking hands as your cunt begins to spasm, your vision fuzzing and spotting from the force of your pleasure. 

Laurent isn’t far behind you, snapping his hips and his hand slipping from between your legs to catch himself before he crushes you entirely, the feeling of you squeezing around his cock and drenching him almost too much for him to handle. He’s stopped talking and instead wordless moans and gasps are pouring from his mouth, the grunts and harsh exhalations music to your ears.

You hold him as he spills inside of you, his body going rigid over you. A strangled groan fills your ears and you shake through the aftermath together, each of you unwilling to give up your grip on each other. One of your hands is still tangled in the curls at the back of his head, cradling it to your neck while your other sweeps over his shoulders, his back. 

He’s kissing your neck, tongue curling lazily around your collarbones and you’re basking in how heavy he is, the fact that you’re able to feel him and hold him close as you both come down from your highs instead of frantically fixing clothes and hair. Instead of hustling him out of the side door before you’re discovered by your aunt or before he’s late getting back to work, before anyone discovers where he’s taking his lunches these days.

You don’t know how long you lay there on the soiled sheets but your breaths begin to smooth out and gradually you each stop shaking.  You hiss when he begins pulling away, your legs stiff from being locked around his waist so tightly. He shifts his weight to his knees to free up his hands and in an instant he’s rubbing them down your thighs, but you can’t stop the whine of protest that rises in your throat when his cock slips from you with all the movement. You aren’t prepared for how bereft you without him, you never are— it might even be worse now that you have the time to actually enjoy the afterglow and you can’t help but reach for him.

He grins, the picture of affection as he catches your hands and pulls you up to sit in front of him, your thighs resting over his own. “You are a mess,” He hums softly, taking in the sight of you and he can feel his heart skip a beat at the look in your eyes. 

“So are you,” You can’t help but smile, taking his face in your hands and pulling him in for a gentle kiss. His sideburns tickle the palms of your hands and you giggle at the sensation, feeling sore and happy as you look at him.  “I think a bath is in order,” You suggest, eyes falling to the blood that remains stuck to his skin and now your own as well, streaks of it across you having mixed with your sweat and clinging to the fine hairs that cover your body.

Laurent grins, swooping in for a kiss that leaves you breathless all over again before he’s crawling away from you and off the bed. “I would be a fool to say no,” He offers you his hand and he makes no attempts to hide the way he looks at you as you join him, his eyes roving over your body as if he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

You feel like you’re in a dream as you sink into the bath with him after he draws it for you, the water almost as warm as he is as you cuddle closer. You rest between his legs, your back pressed against his chest and you smile when he nuzzles your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple. The atmosphere around you softens and stills, the energy from earlier in the night finally seeping out of it. What’s left behind makes you feel almost drowsy and you simply soak with him, lulled by the feel of his heartbeat at your back and his arms at your sides.

Without a word you grasp his hand, still awash in a dark red, and you can feel his eyes on you as you carefully begin to scrub away the evidence. You dip his hand in the warm water and your fingers knead, almost massaging his larger hand in both of yours. The water begins to discolor as you clean him and the fingers of his free hand trail over your shoulder, just barely brushing your skin. “Have I thanked you yet?” Your voice is soft as you dip his hand in the water again, working the blood from between his fingers and the lines of his palm.

Laurent is silent behind you but he doesn’t stop touching you. You don’t press it but you wonder what’s going on in his head, what he must be thinking now that the heat of the moment and the haze it brings with it has cleared from both your minds. Instead you focus on his hand, and once it’s clean you bring his palm to your lips before you sit it back in the water, laying it on your chest. You don’t want him to think that you don’t want him after all, that you’ve come to your better senses or dug up some moral high ground after the passion of it all has faded. 

You take his other hand and he lets you have it without any protest. You repeat your actions, taking your time with it and trying to tell him wordlessly how you feel. The hand on your chest slides up your throat to cup your jaw, angling your head towards him. He just looks at you for a moment, eyes searching yours before he presses his mouth to your own. The kiss is slow and almost decadent, no rhyme or reason to the way he licks into your mouth other than to just feel, to indulge in one another.

You slowly lower his hand back into the water in favor reaching back to cup his face and sighing into his mouth. It feels like ages before you pull away, only separating the small fractions it requires to breathe and you almost miss the way he whispers it to you, almost reverent as if he is speaking a prayer. “I’d do it again,”

And you tell him the only thing that makes sense, the only thing you can say after tonight. “I love you.”

#laurent x reader #laurent x you #laurent in secret #in secret smut #in secret fic #oscar isaac fic #IT'S FINALLY HERE #it's finally here and I'm just gonna slither back into my cave now

[mattzerella-sticks]

Come Home (ao3)

Jason Todd gets a message from Bruce. He's surprised to see it. Then, he's surprised by the message itself. Hearing Bruce's final message stirs something inside of him, urging him towards a place he's avoided ever since his and Bruce's falling out. So he gathers his things, and then... waits.

He can't leave yet. Jason doesn't know why. Bruce gave him a mission, just like old times. Except it's not, because he... Jason can't move. Can't even stand.

That's how Kyle finds him.

New York City, NY - 3:42 a.m.

           Jason heard the flick of a switch before he saw Kyle’s shadow in the doorway. He tensed in his seat but made no move of leaving. Not an inch since he finished packing, duffel lying at his feet. Waiting for Jason to drag it out the window he came through.

           It’ll wait a bit longer.

           “Jason,” Kyle asked, shuffling closer. He turns the light on in this room now, shadows retreating. Like a warm blanket being pulled away, leaving him defenseless. “Jason,” he repeats, peering down at him. Hair ruffled from sleep, wiping at drool with his wrist. “You finished with patrol?”

           He answers with a small hum, knuckles shifting against his lips.

           “Rough night?” Kyle yawns. “Why’re you still out here?”

           The words catch in his throat, scraping it hard enough he bleeds. Though the copper taste might be from how he bites his tongue. Afraid that if he eased his grip, it all might spout forth like a broken pipe, leaving a horrible stain. Once those thoughts are given form, there won’t be any avoiding them.

           Kyle crouched down when he wasn’t looking, dragging his thumb across Jason’s cheek scar. “Jay,” he whispers, “what is it? Why do you have your bag out?” Blinking, Jason notices his lover is more alert now. Staring at him with unnaturally green eyes, piercing like they were constructs from his ring.

           The usual finger is naked. Ring absent, as it should be. There’s no need for rings or guns, masks or helmets, here in their apartment. Together, they can exist as themselves. In this small, shared space, they are Kyle Rayner and Jason Todd. Green Lantern and Red Hood can have every inch of the world – the whole universe, even – save the apartment they call home.

           But the helmet still rests on his lap. Reflects the light from the overhead lamp, milky lenses staring up at him.

           “Kyle,” he chokes on the other man’s name. Then, nothing. His shoulders shudder, vision grows hazy. His lover’s face blurs, but it’s the only thing he can focus on. Closer, rapidly, until the darkness returns. He nuzzles at Kyle’s neck, arms slipped over his shoulders. Warmth treads the surface of his skin but cannot dive deeper. Iced out by the pervasive chill that spread since he answered his phone.

           “Jason,” Kyle says, “hey… I’m here… let it out, Jay…”

           The muttered encouragement breaks what little remained of his defenses. His tears flow free, unburdened, transporting him years into the past. As a kid, his sadness went unnoticed. Swallowed up by the hustle and bustle of Gotham, too busy for another misty-eyed, dirty kid on the street. Over time he learned how to hide that part of him, wound scabbed so heavily he might never cry again. But then someone saw him. Offered his shoulder like Kyle does now, soaking up Jason’s tears. Riding the wave alongside him.

           How Jason wishes he were that young again. When it was simple. Where all that happened between them was a far, twinkling dot in the sky named ‘yet to be’. So he can cry with him one last time.

           Kyle, for once, isn’t enough.

           “Hey,” he starts, as Jason’s sobs lessen, “d’you want to talk about it now?”

           He doesn’t. Might never be able to. And if Jason told him that, Kyle would understand. Kiss along his scar; suggest a nightcap even though he knows Jason will shoot the idea down. Only offering it as a poor attempt at changing the conversation.

           That’s why he loves him. That’s why Kyle deserves to know.

           Talking is hard. Luckily, someone can speak on his behalf. Jason pulls his phone out, blindly punching in the passcode. Then he hands it over, video already playing.

           Kyle watches Bruce. Jason watches Kyle.

           The video is white noise at this point, Jason having lost count of how much he hit the rewind button. Listening to Bruce’s voice like sitting on the other side of a window while a severe thunderstorm rages; safe from the pounding rain and deadly lightning. As it plays, and Kyle’s expressions mirror the same marks Jason believes he hit during his first few views, some of the rain slips through an open crack. A shiver races down his spine.

           Bruce stops talking. Kyle drops Jason’s phone, collapsing onto his knees, crushing Jason’s duffel. Face blank while he processes what Jason can’t quite wrap his head around yet. “Batman… Bruce Wayne is dead?”

           “Yeah…” Having someone else admit it made it easier. It breezes past his lips, “Bruce is dead.” A beat passes, Jason lifts his helmet. “Gotham’s gonna be hell, with Batman gone… defenseless.”

           Kyle’s hand hovers over his knee for a second, and then lands. Squeezes it until Jason breaks from the contest with the empty gaze of his helmet so he can look at a warmer, more loving one. “You’re going back then. To Gotham.”

           “You heard the video,” Jason shrugs, “Kinda have to.”

           “Jay…” Kyle huffs, rubbing tiny circles into Jason’s knee. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

           “I know.”

           “And yet you’re still going.” There’s no judgement weighing down Kyle’s statement, only concern. It’s a luxury that Jason revels in. “Do you want to go? Go back… there?”

           Oddly enough, Jason does. “He sent me a video,” he starts, shifting. Holds his helmet with one hand while the other crawls over Kyle’s. “After everything that went down, he… he sent me a video. I can’t begin to explain why …” Kyle flips his hand, fingers curling around Jason’s wrist. “But he did. Sometimes, in those really bad moments… I figured he wrote me off completely. Kicked out of the nest for… well, y’know. But this I… I can’t help feeling, by sending this, he was saying sorry. For it getting this bad. For not being there when I needed him. Not being around anymore to make it better. If I didn’t go back… let’s just say I’d regret it.” He sniffs, chuckling, “Besides, I’d be a hypocrite if I let the old man die and not leave at least fifty slugs in their corpse after harping on and on about Bruce letting the Joker live.”

           “Jay,” Kyle warns, fighting a smile. Losing with every twitch of his lips. “Fifty is a bit much, isn’t it?”

           “Forty-nine, then?”

           “You’re not funny.”

           “Yes, I am,” Jason says, scraping at Kyle’s wrist with blunt nails, “you love my jokes.”

           Kyle rolls his eyes. “I love you. Your sense of humor is one of the many crosses I bear for doing so.”

           “Yeah, well…” The levity flees as the weight of the situation reasserts itself, both their mouths thinning into serious lines. Jason tugs himself free of Kyle’s hold, clutching at his helmet with both hands again. “I have to go.”

           “For how long?” he asks.

           Jason frowns, “I… I’m not sure.”

           Nodding, Kyle stands. Towers over Jason, bangs hanging over his face. He pushes them out of the way, brushing them behind his ear. “You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”

           He thinks about it. Not for long. “I… guess I can wait until morning.”

           “…Thank you.”

           Jason follows Kyle, dropping Red Hood’s helmet on the duffel. Sheds his layers in a trail towards their room, falling into bed beside his lover. Kyle wraps his arms around him, kissing him. Maps out well-worn paths on more scars scattered over his body. He accepts the laved attention, soaking it up. Memorizes each caress for the lonely nights to come.

           There’s a whispered prayer mixed in with Kyle’s reverence. “Please Jay,” he says, “Come home to me.”

           Jason could say it a million times in a million different ways, none of which would make a believable promise. Instead he kisses Kyle. Kisses him until exhaustion overpowers them both, Jason falling asleep in Kyle’s arms.

           When Kyle awakes next, however, there’ll be no one there. No Jason, no bag on the living room floor, and no blood red helmet. By then, he’ll be on his way to Gotham and away from home.

           Coming back only when he’s ready to.

#batman #red hood #green lantern #jason todd #Kyle Rayner #jason todd x kyle rayner #jaykyle #red hood x green lantern #gotham knights #jaykyle fic #bruce wayne

[moving-blogs-dm-for-new-one]

T*cc* Toby character and story redesign :D

Toby and his family moved across the states after the accident. They were moving to West Virginia, a more rural town surrounded by forest. He didn't want to be there, but he didn't have much of a choice. Really didn't help his mood when his father basically screamed at his mother for the entire three day trip. He was slumped in the back of the car, ticcing uncontrollably, one hour to go on the drive. He winced when his father yelled at him to shut up, sighing and trying to hold his vocal tics, again. Maybe he could make it until they reached the new house.

They reached the house, and he quietly helped unload the car, gently helping his mom climb out. Sighing, he patched her up quietly later in the bathroom, and let her cry on his shoulder, ticcing quietly.

For the next two and a half weeks of summer, Toby pretty much just laid in bed. He didn't have much energy or will to do anything. He would pull out his computer and play some games, but his father broke hit before their trip even began. He pulled out his old ipod from his 14th birthday, and laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling and looping the same playlist on shuffle endlessly to block out his father. Same old, same old.

When school started, he absolutely did not want to be there. His Tourette's was neigh uncontrollable, and he couldn't help but tic through every day. Of course, the other kids in class were horrible to him about it. He was bullied relentlessly, and was beat up on the first day of school, and many days after that. He went home, his mother patched him up, his father mocked him, and he went to lie in bed again. It went on like this for a few weeks. It was August second when his dad broke his mothers nose. They got into a fight and he slammed her head on the counter. Toby was furious, but he quietly patched her up, ignoring his father egging him on.

That night, he had sleep paralysis again for the first time in a month or two, but it was different this time. His eyes opened, and there was a being standing at the end of his bed. He couldn't tell who or what it is. Could have been his father if it wasn't so tall. They stared at each other for around three hours before Toby fell back asleep. He was afraid, yes. But not much bothered him since Lyra died.

He mourned her every day. He never stopped. His mother mourned in silence, afraid, and his father cursed him to move on, but he didn't. He was never one to pray, but he lit candles for her the way she used to, prayed to a god they'd both loved, Dionysus. He cried for her at night. She never left his mind. He missed his sister more than anything in the world. He had a small alter in the back of his closet so his Father wouldn't find it, candles, pictures of her, foods she loved and special items.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Toby began having hallucinations of the creature he saw. It was everywhere. It was in the reflections of mirrors and windows, across the school yard while he was being kicked, at the end of the street when he pulled down his blinds, and behind his eyelids every night when he tried to sleep. He couldn't understand why it was haunting him.

His mother noticed his extreme paranoia, depression, and unrelenting tics/tic attacks, and scheduled him for a meeting with a local psychiatrist. She talked him up for the whole drive, and he smiled and nodded, not wanting to be there but not wanting to further sadden or worry his mother. Her arm was in a sling today. It was bad enough she was driving him.

He met with the psych, sitting down in the office. She asked him how he'd been. He didn't know how to respond, but suddenly felt bitter.

"Fantastic. Obviously that's why mom brought me here."

"I'm sorry, Tobias. I thought I'd let you give your own input." He felt bad for a moment, before wincing at the usage of his full name, getting more frustrated. He hated this already.

"Don't call me that. It's Toby. I'm Toby." He was fighting his vocal tics as he spoke, but his physical tics were getting worse in response, and he saw her flinch and lean a bit further away in his chair. He felt a pang through his heart, immediately angry. But he wouldn't blow up. He wasn't him.

Then he saw the figure behind her.

He didn't even hear what she was saying. He just stared at it. For some reason for as much as he'd been seeing it, he'd never seen it in such clarity, and it was still fuzzing around the edges, almost as if it wasn't fully there. It towered over the back of her chair, slowly leaning down to him.

"Toby," It spoke, and he could barely comprehend its voice. It was garbled, layered, echoed over itself endlessly and buzzed and burned inside his ears. "I want to help you. Let me help you."

He screamed, grabbing a lamp off the side table next to him and whipping it at the creature. He heard the psych scream and froze, whipping his gaze to where she was holding her arms over her face, ceramic and glass sprawled on the floor behind her at the base of the wall. They made eye contact, and he felt sick. He didn't understand. He wanted to say sorry. He suddenly wanted to explain everything. He wanted to say he wasn't him. He wanted his mother. He wanted Lyra.

He passed out.

Toby awoke later in his room, still feeling sick. The lights were out, his room only illuminated by the moonlight casting in through the blinds and the yellow light seeping in from under his doorway. (tw heavy abuse and murder after this) He could hear his parents screaming downstairs. There was a smash, his mother was crying. He jolted upright, tics coming back harshly as he tried to quietly make his way to the top of the stairs, peering down. His father was screaming about him.

"We have to get rid of him, Evelyn," He screamed, furious. "He's a disaster. He's dangerous and annoying and he's a fucking nuisance anyways!! And now I owe that stupid fucking psychiatrist so much goddamn money!! What is wrong with you!!" His mother cowered away from him, shaking, but angry as well.

"We are NOT getting rid of our SON, Greg! He's just scared and sick!" Toby winced at the phrasing of "sick", but continued watching, listening. He felt static pulling at the edges of his vision, but ignored it, honing his eyes in on his father.

"He goes. Tonight, or tomorrow, your choice, Evelyn, but he's fucking going. He's young enough to get thrown at the orphanage." He took a large swig of beer, stumbling slightly, and Toby twitched, hands tightening so much on the railing bars he thought he might splinter them.

"No. He is not." His mother shook, standing up to him, fists clenched. He stopped, and both Toby and his mother held their breath.

"Excuse me?"

"He's not going. No."

The next few minutes were a blur. His mother was hurt, and hurt bad. She was crying, and his father was screaming at her. The living room was trashed. Toby ran down the stairs and his father heard, spinning around and screaming after him as he darted into the garage, heart thumping almost as loud as Greg's thundering footsteps. He found his fathers old hatchets in the back of the garage, his blood pumping in his ears. Everything was hazy and the static crept further into his vision.

"Let me help you."

He spun around, hatchets gripped tight in his hands as he shook and ticced. His father tore into the room, drunk and furious. He saw Toby bearing the hatchets and laughed deliriously.

"Now what are you gonna do with those, boy?" Toby almost blacked out at the name, screaming and sprinting forwards. A mass fight ensued, the two of them struggling against each other to gain headway, Toby's mother screaming in the background. Toby pinned him down. He spat curses and slurs and all kinds of horrible things about him, his mother, his sister, Lyra. He raised the hatchet, and brought it down on his skull. Blood sprayed and his mother distantly screamed in horror, but he didn't stop. Another swing, another, another, another, another. Tears poured down his face, but he didn't feel it, notice, or care. His arms stopped swinging. He looked up. His mother was holding his arms gently, but securely, the creature standing behind her, looming over the both of them. He was towering.

"Toby," She whispered. "That's enough. He's dead, love." He looked down, sniffling and ticcing, and he was.

She helped him up quietly, and he whimpered.

"Are you gonna turn me in?" She stared at him, then shook her head.

"You're my son. I'm not getting rid of you."

She cleaned him up quietly in the bathroom, and held him close as he cried, openly, for the first time in months. He clung to her, whimpering and ticcing and sobbing, and told her everything. She listened quietly, gently soothing him and brushing his hair. Eventually, she shushed him gently, making him look at her.

"We have to go, love. Quickly. You can tell me more once we're gone, okay?" He nodded, sniffling and taking her hand. They gathered their things, climbed into their car. She paused. Got back out. They lit the house together, and watched it burn for a moment. He felt the presence behind him, and saw his mother take his hand.

"Come on honey," She whispered. "Lets go."

They never looked back.

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

Toby: (notes)

- 6'3", 17 years old, tall and broad. Always been heavier set and naturally slightly chubby, and decently strong.

- Has a nerve issue from birth where he can't feel a good 70% of his body, mostly the upper half and patches of the lower.

- Nonbinary (He/they/it), and pansexual. Gender dysphoric. Occasionally tucks and wears bras and other things sometimes.

- Has Tourette's, OCD, BPD, PTSD, Manic, ADHD, depression, s/icidal tendencies, struggles with compulsive sh, and has mild paranoid schizophrenia.

- Sees the Slenderman more than his mother, but she can see it on occasion. It doesn't hurt them. Guides them more or less. Helps Toby target similar individuals to his father.

- Stims a lot by cracking his knuckles, flapping his hands, tapping his foot and cracking his neck. (I also have a list of his tics!!)

- Loves his mother and Lyra so goddamn much

Evelyn: (notes)

- 43 years old, 5'2", small but definitely not frail. Will fuck you up if needed. Doesn't take shit anymore after leaving her husband. Also bisexual queen

- Huge soft spot for kids, and Toby. Loves Toby so much and lets him basically get away with everything (not that he uses this for any harm to her or those who don't deserve it)

- Knows Toby is a serial killer, assists him with some cleanup/travel/medical care/etc. Reminds him to take care of himself/cooks for him/helps drive him around/etc

- Takes up cooking and martial arts as hobbies

- Loves her son so so so much he's so stupid and crazy but she adores him and would do anything for him

- Do NOT fuck with power duo Evelyn and Tobias Rodgers they WILL destroy you

#creepypasta #cp ticci toby #ticci toby #toby rogers #tobias rogers #evelyn rodgers #cp toby #my writing #my universe #cloud talks #tw blood #tw abuse #tw abuse ment #tw murder

[mcfanely]

The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon

Not everyone can be saved.

Chapter 11 - Astray, 3194 words

On some level, Cole knew that the sudden feeling of calm, especially in the situation he was caught up in, was anything but good. This blanketing, almost oppressive fog wrapped tightly around his mind wasn't shifting away. He should be panicking, there was in no way that what was happening was normal. He was towering over his friend and the manipulator, jaw elongated into a snout, plates and structures of scales just in his vision, some a deep brown almost black, equalled out by the odd streak of pure white. Frost edged between the scales, splintering and falling to the floor in a light dusting of almost glitter, reflecting the dim light of the room so carefully. His breath was being forced out in large puthers, his body… This form-- it was cold, every inch felt like it was edging on numbness but not succumbing. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was almost welcoming, in a way. It felt right. That a dragon, forced into being by the corrupted element of ice, it should be cold. This wasn't the earth, it didn't have the spark of comforting warmth. It didn't need to. 

The staff flickered briefly, the power it exuded waning as it was reduced down, drawn back in almost. Cole could feel the power at work now. The way his form shifted and shrank down into a more human size, the drag and contortion of his arms and legs as they went back to their normal state. Five digits on each, skin dark and slightly reddened by the cold, human palms held flat against the stone floor. 

He drew in a heavy, deep breath and sat up on his knees. 

He was back to normal, his gi definitely more ripped than it had been before, one shoulder near devoid of material as it hung in a torn mess from the last few stitches holding it to the seam. Hair was dangling in his eyes. After weeks of letting it grow, not that he had much of a way to cut it shorter, it was longer than he'd like. Blocking out his vision, the dark strands pleated, oddly, by the intermittent paler fibre. Maybe it was just the light of the scroll in front of him, still whipping and glowing almost softly. Maybe that light was why part of his hair seemed almost white. 

Cole blinked slowly, as if his mind was moving through molasses to get the command through to his body. He was dazed, it was hard to focus, hard to get his thoughts in order. His body was back to normal, but his mind seemed to be taking it's time. 

His shoulders were drooping, overall he felt exhausted and in need of sleep, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon. All Cole could do was crack his vision open, using the sliver of space he could gain to stare at the light of the staff. It was so present, so bright. It almost washed out the entire room around them, delving everything else into sharp greys, monochrome except for that clear blue glow… 

Then, Cole felt his brow furrow as the light only proceeded to get too harsh. Then, ever so slowly, it died down until there was nothing more left in its place than the scroll that was shrouded beneath it. 

The blurred vision began to retreat. Exhaustion was still present, still building, but he didn't feel nearly as absent as he had a few seconds ago. 

What the hell..?

He took a moment to shift around where he was, taking stock of himself. His arms ached, his breathing shifted from calm steady breaths to deeper, but not nearly as satisfying. 

The pain in his side had reduced down, but Cole was all but ready to blame that on the constant encroaching cold in his body. The only good thing that he could figure out; or that he could see right in front of him was the cuffs. 

Apparently, they had been crafted from ice, because they now laid in shattered remains over the floor around him. Like his clothing, they had most likely also protested the shift in form and quickly lost. 

His shift in form… 

Realisation crashed in next, throwing his eyes so much more wider. 

He'd… 

The staff… 

This situation was bad. Very, very bad. Cole had built on some theories over the past few days but none of them had shown any merit. Turning into a dragon once, barely remembering what had happened, it didn't make for something that was easy to figure out. Or to believe.

Initially, he has assumed it was his powers acting up, almost in defence. A new ability, or maybe something anyone with an elemental power could do? They could summon dragons, so why not turn into them? 

Then there was the idea that it hadn't been natural, that the scroll had forced his attempt at summoning his elemental dragon back into himself and it had caused them to warp and temporarily alter their purpose. 

That the dragon, it was a one off thing. That Cole's limited, or not at all existent access to his elemental powers was a short-term issue that would right itself over time. 

But now..?

The power of the scroll had done so much more than interrupt his power and make him lose what was in all honesty, an unwinnable fight. 

It had threaded its way into Cole's very being. Wrapped and knotted itself around him and his elemental abilities. 

His power was tied to the scroll in every way, almost in a grigorian knot, forcibly shifted and moulded into something so foreign from what it had used to be that it wasn't recognisable as an elemental power at all anymore. 

The staff had corrupted it, corrupted him, and he wasn't even the one holding onto that power. He didn't have the power of Forbidden Spinjitzu flowing through him, making his eyes glow and providing him with so much more potential than he could ever hope to attain in his lifetime, but that didn't seem to matter. The damage had been done.

His powers had responded to the staff, whipped up into a frenzy and then guided into something so new and foreign. 

One well aimed strike and now, Cole had no control over his own abilities. He couldn't imagine what it was doing to Zane. He'd been holding the staff for so long.

Had he even put it down? Or had it been frozen to his hand ever since their fight? 

"Zane, listen to me," Cole sat up, blinking rapidly to force his eyes to focus on his friend and not move over to the lethal temperance of the staff . He wasn't going to sit back and admit defeat. He wouldn't stop trying to get back to his brother. "He's manipulating you. The scroll is manipulating you." He spoke, his voice carefully level and serious, eyes flicking over to a far too interested Vex. "You have to stop him, you have to put it down!" 

Zane seemed to be nonplussed about what he'd just heard, simply continuing to stare down at where Cole was knelt, the cold from the frozen floor seeping through the cloth and tears of his trousers. Was he even hearing what was being said? 

Then Vex stepped forwards, and started talking. 

"My Emperor, I know you spoke about why you wanted him kept alive, but why would you want to have an attack dog that bites back?" He observed simply, waving a hand in Cole's direction. 

Attack dog?

He was no one's attack dog, and even if he was, there wasn't much he could do in the way of powers. He could practically feel his elemental energy whipping under his skin, trying in vain to breach the surface and flow freely. To break through whatever barrier was there and shake the ground, to be normal again. 

Though Cole now knew what it did when it manifested. It didn't appear in cracks in the earth, unparalleled strength; they were wrong. 

Corrupted. 

By a single, direct and perfectly timed blast from the staff. When they surfaced, if they could even surface on their own without the scroll's guidance and energy, it was in the form of a dragon. His powers made him a dragon. 

"Might I recommend," General Vex continued, and Cole shot him with a scathing glare, "That you put him under your control."

His mind skidded to a halt and his eyes widened. Cole sat back on his feet, his shoulders tensing up in a second as he focused in on the exchange that was happening right in front of him. The one that was about him. Vex hadn't seemed all that for the idea of him even being let out of the cell, but now he was okay with it? 

It was opportunistic. 

"With abilities like his, you'll be even more powerful. No one would even dare to usurp your rule again. Not with a dragon at your beck and call."

He hated the man. He hated every word, the grating sound of his voice. Even his breathing was anger inducing. 

"You won't get away with this, Vex. I'll be the one to deal the final blow, I promise you." Cole ground out, a growl edging it's way free from his throat without him thinking. 

Then Vex stepped forwards slowly, and crouched down until he was just within earshot of him. Cole remained stock still, his gaze level and forwards. He would show that he had pride, that he wasn't going to bow away and cower at a manipulative and slimy creature of a man. 

So he kept his eyes on Zane, on the frozen visage of his friend. Behind unknown armour and layers of ice and frost courtesy of the staff that was literally frozen in his grip. 

"This is where you make a choice, Earth Master." Vex whispered, inches from his ear. Cole remained stationary. These words were solely for him. 

"You can fight, rebel with every ounce of your being. You can spew truths, hope to get through to your friend." There was a quiet laugh, as if that notion was foreign. Impossible. It made Cole's blood boil, his teeth clench.

Vex moved his eyes away for a second, kicking away what must have been a shard remnant of the shattered cuffs from earlier. The action was casual, at ease. The man was thoroughly in his element. The situation either worked in his favour, or not at all. 

"But you know that won't work. Not really. You've been shouting his name and he doesn't know you."

At that, Vex just took a short step back and spread his hands as if addressing a crowd. His voice echoing around the chamber that was the throne room, making the frozen warriors that flanked the doorways and positioned around where Cole was knelt stand to attention; their gazes fixated on the man who was talking. 

His words were now for everyone, loud and clear. Vex was tying him in. 

"You can challenge the Emperor, fight him. This will be treated as treason and you will be thrown back in your cell. Though, I doubt my master would wish for your powers to go to waste behind bars." Vex glanced at Zane briefly with an unbidden grin, then turned back to Cole, "Do not be disillusioned, though. Should he need a dragon I can assure you, you'll be dragged from your cell, kicking and screaming if that's the case, and used whenever necessary. For whatever reason or task."

Or? 

"Or you can swear your undying loyalty. Your service. Fight by your friend's side, be his protector."

There it was. What Vex had been working towards with his sudden change of tact. Cole let out a shaky breath, spared a sideways glance at Vex before he moved his attention down to the ground. He had to think, he needed to think about this. 

This was what Vex did. He influenced people, exploited them. In a way, the man standing proud in front of him was probably one of the toughest enemies he'd faced. In comparison with Garmadon and his mega-weapon, the Overlord, the Pre-eminent, Harumi; at first glance it seemed that Vex didn't fall into any category likened to the past villains they'd faced. 

General Vex didn't have powers, he didn't have anything. 

Other than cunning, intelligence, spite and a thirst for revenge of which he was using Zane to enact. 

He was using Cole too, only the Earth Master was fully aware of what was happening. The decision he'd just been given wasn't a decision, it was a lose-lose situation. He knew this. 

Cole either chose to be thrown into a cell with the knowledge that the only person that Zane would turn to, could turn to, would be Vex. His corrupted powers would still be put to use, though. He'd just be a pawn to be used when needed if he was locked up. Then when he wasn't required he'd just be put back under lock and key indefinitely. 

Yet, if he chose to remain by Zane's side?

To swear loyalty to his friend who didn't even know him, nor listened to his pleas to remember, or even listened to him at all; his powers would still be used. The difference was that he couldn't just turn around and refuse to do a task that he was ordered to do. He couldn't just say no to a command, he'd just end up in a cell. If he was loyal, that meant blind faith, fealty in the face of every muscle in his body screaming at him that what he could end up doing might go against every moral code he had. 

He'd have to do what was asked of him, no fighting, no refusing. 

Be an attack dog, as Vex had so eloquently put it. One by choice, or one by force. 

Zane just tilted his head at the idea. An action that was so familiar that Cole felt a lump form in his throat. He was looking at this man, this Ice Emperor, and he knew that underneath the armour and the power, he was still Zane. However deep he was buried, Zane just had to be in there. 

He had to get through to him. He had to. Screw Vex and his careful words and influence, Zane was in there and he was the priority. 

"He's not your friend." Cole stated bluntly. 

And finally, finally, Zane's attention turned to him. His brows were low, his eyes set in a glare behind the mask, but Cole had his attention. "He's lying to you. Putting things in your head. He's controlling you the same way you're controlling these people," Cole glanced around the room, at all the warriors and guards who stood still. Frozen like statues with ice hanging off them to boot. It was a sudden realisation of what had happened to them, staring at these blank frozen faces, only one thing could have caused something like that. There were people under there, innocent people.

There was an innocent person standing in front of him too. 

"Zane--" He started. 

"My name is NOT ZANE!"

Cole felt the room around him plummet in temperature, but he continued. 

"You're a nindroid, you're from Ninjago! We got banished here together! You're a good person, my best friend, my brother, we've known each other for years, you have to trust me. This isn't who you are!" 

"SILENCE!" Zane roared, spikes of blackened ice erupting out from where he stood. The frozen floor webbed with cracks. 

Cole stopped and swallowed hard, just observing what was happening. The way the blizzard warriors took a step forward.

What he was doing was being treated like a threat, Cole observed. Zane felt threatened. 

Zane took a couple heaving breaths, visible by the way his shoulders moved under the armour. He was thinking, he had to be. He must have known there was something to what was being said, otherwise why react so severely to an unknown name?

Cole nearly felt like laughing, staring at Vex and laughing because what he was doing was working. His friend was still in there. 

Until, Zane lifted his head. 

And the blood rushed from Cole's face. 

The entire front of the mask had frozen over, the metal plating around Zane's eyes had webs of frost reaching out until what was beneath was blocked from view. Yet, the eyes were perfectly visible and glowing with such intensity, displaying such hatred and anger that this time, Cole tilted his body away just an inch so there was more space between the two of them. 

Vex was the one that laughed. He stepped up to Zane's side, as if he belonged there. 

"Might I recommend throwing him back into his cell?" 

"No."

Vex frowned, "But my Emperor--" 

"Loyalty will not be gained by throwing him in a cell. He will have more use being cooperative than fighting and refusing every order I give him." 

Cole, even faced with the current situation, let out a huff. Looking at Zane, at his corrupted friend, he was scared. 

Because unlike Zane, this version didn't act the same. Cole couldn't predict his next move, what he would or wouldn't be willing to do. Though, deep down, he concluded that this corrupted false-Emperor before him would do anything to maintain his supposed rule. 

And he'd trust General Vex's advice before anyone else's. 

Though he wasn't going to show fear. He would keep his chest proud, his pride in place. He wouldn't cower. 

"No matter if I'm in a cell or next to that damn throne, you can't order me to do anything." Cole glared at Vex, "You aren't going to win. I'll never fight for you."

"Then how about for your Emperor, for your supposed friend?" Vex grinned. 

Cole felt something cold press against the side of his neck, then the sensation started to travel up the right side of his face. He could feel how the frost quickly clung into his hair and onto his eyelashes.

It burned. 

"For my first order,"

He grit his teeth and turned immediately to Zane, who was now standing right in front of him, his eyes still blazing. The staff was held at an angle, the frozen tip of it situated just under Cole's throat, forcing him to tilt his head back. 

The deeper timbre to Zane's voice lent to the severity of the situation. The end of the staff was cold and sharp, the point of ice there digging in just that bit too hard. He didn't dare move, didn't swallow or breathe. 

Then the scroll began to glow harshly. Cole looked up at his friend, the way his expression was so twisted and foreign, the fact that if he looked between the gaps of the metal mask, he could see him smiling. 

Then Cole realised, with startling clarity. 

There was no talking his way out of this. 

"For my first order," The Emperor said slowly, "You will stop talking," He ground out. 

"You are to never speak of this 'Zane' again."

-

From the beginning

Ch 10 > Ch 11 > Ch 12

AO3

#The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon AU #The Ice Emperor and The Earth Dragon #cole #cole brookstone #cole ninjago #zane #zane julien #zane ninjago #General Vex #ninjago #lego ninjago #lego #The Ice Emperor #mcfanely writes #mcfanely aus #mcfanely

[thebiasrekkers]

Once Upon a Dream

Pairing: VIXX Leo x Female Reader

Type:  One Shot

Genre: Dream!AU, Fantasy

WC: 3K

Warning:  None.

Summary:  There are people that are deep dreamers. The kind that have the ability to spin their nightmares into something else. So what happens when the Dreamer is apart of someone else's dream?

A/N: This is one of those dream within a dream scenarios. You know? The one where you have a dream - wake up, only to realize your ass is still dreaming? Yeah. I maybe had Shangri-La on repeat one day while I slept. 

-----------------------

She always dreamed in bright and vivid colors. Like a rainbow whirled in colors of deep space pulsating nebula. It was always like this, recently, that she could pick out each color blend. Every night as music drifted into her ears, and the calm settled over her mind - this dazzling display always seemed to be waiting.

One night something changed.

She didn't know the why or how of it - but something was different. The landscape of the dream had morphed into something...more. She could always see a tall figure looming ahead. A silhouette made more prominent by the shifting colors of the dreamscape.

She would always see him turn his head, ever so slightly, over his shoulder. It gave her pause after many nights of approaching this figure. Some nights she'd get closer, some nights it seemed as if she was walking in place. The distance between them grew - but she never gave up.

It never crossed her mind as anything but an overactive brain trying to settle after a hard day.

The next night came around and the day had been particularly difficult. Her emotions had swung from each end of the spectrum of good and bad. The stresses of family difficulties weighed heavily that night. She grabbed her earbuds with a heavy sigh. The music streaming app had paused on the last song she hadn't finished before waking for the day.

Music had always been an escape, a way to sway the torrent of emotions that she fought against daily. Music, next to writing, was a saving grace against the mental goblins of depression: a playlist created for each emotion, for the sadness, for the malaise, and the yearning of a lonely heart.

"For once, I just...want to sleep. No dreams." Her fingers curled around her phone as if negotiating with it. Like it held power to determine where her mind would take her tonight. Her fingers sunk into her blanket as she pulled it over her head. The music filtered into her ears as her breathing eased into a soft lull.

She could always remember when deep sleep started. It always started to blur the sound of the music, like she was traveling farther away from the melody. Like the connection between the waking world was playing through a layer of fabric.

Then she opened her eyes. "No." A hushed whisper as she stared up into the 'sky.' The whirling colors of the universe danced in front of her. An arm rose to cover her gaze, hiding from the intense display.

"What took you so long?" A surly voice echoed around her. For all that attitude, he spoke softly. Pushing to sit up, eyes wide, she looked around to find the source.

"You've got to be kidding me." Her gaze lifted upward. Of all the things, the places she could have had dancing through her dreams. Why...

Why HIM?

Draped in silk reflecting the colors above them, he was perched on a rock - staring down at her. "You really should stand up." A brow rose as she continued to stare up at him. The realization caused her to scramble to her feet.

She stared at him for a long moment before closing her eyes. "It's just a dream." An exhale as her hands pushed out in front of her. As if she could move the scowling vision from her sight. There was a swish of sound that tickled her ears before a strong grip caught her wrist.

"Don't do that." The tug was strong enough to throw her off balance. She stumbled forward into him and suddenly began to doubt her sanity. It was a dream.

It WAS a dream.

But, he felt too solid for her liking. "You're not real. I'm exhausted. I'm tired. This is a dream." He pulled her against him, staring down into her wide eyes.

"Is it?" He was so close to her. He was so very close. He was way too close! She wasn't a short woman by any means. He had enough inches on her to make that tilt of his head just enough to put them almost nose to nose.

"Is it a dream?" His breath felt hot against her face, against her cheek. So close to the corner of her lips.

"IT IS A DREAM!?" Her heart was beating furiously. She could feel a lump form in her throat. These physical reactions seemed too much. They were, in fact, too much.

Enough that she pulled away from him and the world seemed to open under her feet. She gasped as she fell into the darkness. The last thing she saw was the sudden darkening of his gaze and a look of silent rage as the muscle ticked in his jaw.

She woke up gasping, sweating, and clutching her blanket to her chest.

It was only 4 a.m.  

"Damnit." She hissed finally releasing the tension from her fingers. There was a thump as she slapped the edge of the bed, forcing herself upward. She shook her fingers as she padded toward the kitchen, followed by a trio of worried doggies.

The faucet rumbled as water filled her glass. It was raised to her lips before her gaze settled on the tilted heads of her pets.

"It's fine, guys. I promise." The glass was drained of its contents in almost two swallows. She set the glass in the sink with a sigh. Was it really fine? Another glance to the tilted heads caused her to shake her own.

If animals could speak? She was sure they would tell her - they didn't believe her.

Hell, she didn't believe herself.

She stared at her bed for a few minutes, as if contemplating whether it was worth it to try and sleep any more. "I think I'll just..catch up on some writing." Yeah, that was safe.

This continued for the next few days. She always woke up in that 'realm' greeted by colors and HE was always nearby. No longer a distance silhouette, no longer a mystery. Always waiting, scowling and surly, for her to arrive.

Always getting closer and closer to her. Always seething when she forced herself awake.

Today was no different. The day progressed faster than she realized. Before she knew it? Her phone screen blinked at 7 pm. Her hands stretched upward as her eyelids began to droop. These extended hours weren't new to her, but it had been a while since it had been consecutive in this fashion.

"Ugh. What's the point of eating now?" The heel of her palms dug into her eye sockets as she tried to blink the sleep away. It wasn't working. A nap would solve all of this. Just a short nap, to knock the haze off.

She didn't remember getting in the bed or bothering with the blanket. She didn't even remember if she put on the playlist. She just remembered the cool softness of a pillow - and then nothing.

She had achieved the nothingness she wanted, finally.

Or so she thought.

The vivid intensity of color was gone. There were lights like stars dotting the blackness beyond. She moved her from one end of the display to the other. And there he was, again.

She blinked, and he was suddenly closer.

"You're a strong  dreamer." His long fingers curled against her cheek. She could feel the metal of his rings against her skin. "...but that won't work tonight. You know that, right?" There was still that slight surly, scowl in his tone. Normally expressionless, you'd almost think that he..smiled? Smirked? There was a twitch in his lip that gave away to some emotion. His fingers unfurled as they tucked under her chin. He was right; tonight would be different. There's a difference between dreaming in a controlled state - and dreaming in an exhausted state. And she was in a state of utter exhaustion. Her body was running on fumes and had every intention of resetting its energy levels.

Which meant she would sleep like a log until someone or something woke her. How did he know? How did he know that?! Infuriating! He was absolutely infuriating.

He loomed over her, their faces close. She could feel the fingers sliding down the side of her neck. The fingers were cool as they put a possessive pressure against her throat. She made an unexpected sound, covering her mouth in embarrassment. A smile spread across his face as he pulled the hand away, pinning it above her head. "Who am I?" His voice was low, moderately as if he was mustering every ounce of menace in his very being.

"You're a dream."

There was that possessive pressure that sent shivers from head to toe. That sound escaped her again; he looked pleased. "Who am I?" His face was too close again. He straddled her knees pinning her to the floor.

"This is impossible." She spoke between clenched teeth.

"And yet here we are. Say my name." He urged again pushing her free hand into the ground harder.

It was stress. That's all this was. This was some music-induced stress dream. And maybe, if she just went along? It would end. Sometimes you have to go with the flow. She was constantly in the business of controlling the flow.

Fine. She'd let this go wherever it was heading. This fighting, this strange battle was becoming too deep nightly. It was causing fitful sleep. So, she willed herself to relax. She became soft and yielded beneath him. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Say my name." There was a huskiness to his voice.

She took a deep breath, exhaled softly as she closed her eyes. And she said it. She said the name that linked him to the waking world. She said the name she had screamed at the computer during live broadcasts. She said the name she yelled in her car as her favorite songs came on. It was strange to feel the flutter of her lashes against her cheek as her eyes opened. He looked satisfied, hungry almost. He was too close.

His lips brushed against hers. Her eyes flew opened wide on a gasp - and he took advantage. He tilted her chin upward locking his lips to her own. It felt too real! The slide of their lips together, the teasing tip of a tongue daring entry. He went from straddling her legs to covering her body with his own. He still held the one arm captive above her head. She had forgotten all about it. Beads of sweat formed, her heart began to run a derby in her ears. It was too hot; she couldn't breathe. The weight of him was too real. And when the panic was growing? He finally let up allowing her to breathe uninterrupted.

"I've been waiting for you." He said. Her brow furrowed in confusion. This is a dream. His fingers slid through her hair as he searched the planes of her face. It was too hot. He frowned, recognizing external stimuli was starting to interfere. Pushing to stand he pulled her up with him. That weird blurring of the world caused a strange static in her ears.

Wait, no. I don't want to wake up yet! He was saying something. His hand was on her tight, for dear life. As if he could somehow hold her there. He was talking as she shook her head. She was waking up; a panicked look up at him as his lips moved.

"I..I can't  understand what you're saying!" Her voice rose in pitch as the world fell away. She could have sworn she heard a faint echo — something reverberating in the walls of her mind as she fell into the dreamless state. Maybe it was her imagination. Because the last thing she heard?

Soon.

The dreams became more infrequent, more irregular as time passed on. Then they stopped altogether. She found herself sad, oddly, that nothing greeted her but that vivid nebula of colors. It was time to settle into the normality of things. Because she was sure it was just stress, right?

A friend called, out of the blue, with strange, yet fortuitous news. "So, I know you've been in a slump. I'm going to KCON and I think you should come with me. It would do you some good to get out of the state." Her friend sounded chipper, hopeful.

There was every excuse, and story of why she couldn't go - why she shouldn't go. And finally, a good fat excuse dinged in her brain. Like the sound of a microwave done zapping a meal. "You're right. Let's go." Wait, what? She shocked herself! And before she could change her mind? Her friend squealed with joy, rushed that she would figure everything out and hung up. Shit.

Barely a week had passed and she was on a plane, headed to L.A. Her friend rambled about all the things they would do. All the food they would eat. All the hi-touch, autograph and photo opportunities. It went into one ear and out of the other. She promised to not ruin this good time for her friend. They landed in California, it was bright and sunny. It was warm and loud. It was different from home and it invigorated her, just a little. They checked in, had dinner, and passed out. Tomorrow would be a long, packed day. She dreamed that night, but couldn't remember anything but fragments. Vivid colors. The sound of water. That distant silhouette.

Soon

She didn't dwell too long on it as they rushed to dress comfortably and leave. There were so many people! It was a sensory overload of scents and sounds. Her friend was rambling on about..something or the other. A word, a name caught her attention causing her to stop. Her friend turned to look at her, concerned. "What?"

"You - I'm sorry, where did you say we were going first?" Her friend laughed. "I thought I'd surprise you! You like that one group, right? VIXX?" The friend reached back and grabbed her arm to tug her along. "We're going to the fan event! Come on or we'll be in the back!"

It felt like the world went in double-time. They maneuvered through the throng of people to get, decent spots, in line for the fan event. Sure, she'd missed them when they were on the East Coast. But, this too advantageous.

Then it happened - the lights dimmed. The host came on the stage to mild applause. Everything seemed muffled like she was trying to listen with water in her ears. She could feel her nails digging into her palms. Using it as an anchor to keep her grounded, she watched as the group flood onto the stage. The applause, screams, and tears of fans rumbled the walls. They introduced themselves in typical fashion. Each stating their name and position, adding a smile, a wink or some type of aegyo at the end.

"They're doing a concert tonight!" Her friend nudged her excitedly. "We've got great seats for it!" She could only nod as they began their Q&A. The crowd yelled answers to questions. Laughed at jokes and silly antics, and then with the last chunk of time left? There was an opportunity to high-touch. Her friend dragged her to line squeezing in just at the cut-off. She turned to face her friend who gave her two thumbs up as she approached the stairs. I'm definitely going to kill her later.

The rough sound was louder than she realized, the girl in front of her turned with a questioning look. A small cough left her as she went up the stairs. She was the last one. Pictures really didn't do them any justice. They were really like mystical creatures.

The Leader smiled in that way that causes everybody to scream - it was intense.

The Rapper was charming, in a boyish way! It was a stark comparison to his bad boy rap persona in videos.

The Cute Main Vocal reminded her of a cherub. The slightly pudgy-faced, rosy-cheek messenger angels.

The Visual was stunning - what more could you say? The nickname Artwork fit him perfectly. You felt a sudden warmth at the width of his smile. He rightfully earned his title as bias wrecker supreme.

The Evil Maknae had grown so well! He was reaching the point where his height was starting to crest over the other members. She couldn't help but laugh as they high-five. This was good! This wasn't too bad, at all. She managed to get in words of thanks for their hard work in with each high-five.

There was a lopsided smile on her face as she continued on to the last member - her bias. She felt the smile begin to waver a tad but held up as she raised her hand to complete the line. A calming inhale as her eyes lifted to meet his. Her hand connected with his, "Thank you for your hard work. Good luck tonight."

His fingers interlocked with hers with that intense stare. "You."  

She knew that stare from her dreams. Her nostrils flared as the grip on her hand increased. "Impossible!" She was frozen in place.

He leaned down those few inches. The others members turned to look confused, shocked and stunned at Leo’s behavior. The sound of murmurs, gasps, and squeals flooded the room. There was that look on his face. He was pleased with her response. Their noses brushed as she stumbled into him again. "I told you I would see you soon." His lips brushed against hers again. The same strange heat and intensity. In front of everyone! In front of these cell phones and staff!

He broke their contact, releasing her hand causing her to stumble. Her arms pinwheeled as she fell backward. The world opened up beneath her as he watched her fall. He smirked as the world began to fizzle. "You're not the only strong dreamer."

Her eyes went wide as she fell into darkness...

....and woke up in her bed.

Gasping.

Sweating.

...and clutching her blanket to her chest.

#kwritersworldnet #thekpopnetwork #vixx #vixx fanfic #leo #jung taekwoon #vixx leo #leo x reader #leo imagines #vixx imagines #one shot

[team-council]

Title: It’s never getting titled

TW: Character Death, Lightly Grotesque descriptions of wounds, Possible Scuicidle Implications (I didn’t really mean to imply it like that, but I realize it can be read that way and will tag to be safe)

Description: Takes place directly after the council manages to quell the everblaze from book three. Bronte takes some healing salve to Oralie for her shoulder and reflects on Kenric’s death.

Notes: I would scincerely like to thank anyone who bullied me. I haven’t finished a fic in literally ever, meant a lot. This monstrosity is also not proofread and I am sleep deprived so I’m sure it’s absolute garbage near the end but just ignore that. Might clean it up and put it on ao3 later who knows.

An angry grey sky wept dry shudders of ash over each of the miserable, bowed figures that stumbled across the rolling fields stretching beyond and between the crystalline castles scattering Eternalia’s fading outline. The sun was nothing but a sunken stain on the sky, feathery gold light turned a sick shade of pewter as rising smoke choked the warmth from what of it still lingered beyond the horizon. The neon glare of Everblaze could no longer be seen melting crystal and dragging harsh lines of terror down the face of the distant city, but the air still smelled like burning sugar and dizzying sweetness.

With every ragged breath Bronte drew the saccharine sting of the now extinguished fire coated his tongue anew and prompted another fit of coughing to wrack his body. Though the soot that caked his face in thick, dark splotches had long dried his eyes, the muted sting of fresh burns sweltering along his cheeks and arms coaxed tears to blur his staggering vision. He’d long abandoned attempting anything resembling a graceful stride forward, allowing his feet to stumble over each other with every messy attempt he made to not hit the earth. Ignoring the trembling in his knees. Praying mutely that they might give way beneath him. That he might fall and never get have to get up. A fantasy of melding into the cool grass enticed his mind from the fervent protesting of his aching muscles. He imagined idly how the paled blades would curl at the corners of his mouth, cradle his hands and still the weary tremors that weighted his chest. Dazed, he was unable to keep from fancying what it would be to shatter into the dirt. To become ethereal and unknown, sunken beneath a tangled weaving of root where there would be naught to do but unlearn the world. To divorce sorrow and grief. To let the burdens of the many long centuries he’d endured go in passive dismissal.

His thoughts were interrupted as his foot caught the edge of something tough, and when at last he fell it was only to be met with the glassy, calloused embrace of faceted crystal. A dim, concerned muttering of multiple shrill voices hovered above his head, but as the councillor drew to his knees he found in clarity only the gaunt, drawn man staring back at him through the fuzz of a soot-drowned Amaranth stairway. Reminding him. Mocking him. To disappear was not a mercy he deserved.

“Councillor,”

Bronte was forced to respond when the stairs beneath his legs fell away from him, a large pair of hands having drug him up by the shoulders. Well, respond might have been a gracious word for the half-conscious grunt he managed to the goblin bearing his weight in their palms, his eyes not bothering to search the face of the guard, to know whether or not they held his weakness in contempt or pity. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t fathom caring. All that mattered was that there was no attempt to stop him from dragging his reluctant body up the steps, that no hand batted his away from the knob of the door, that the scanner reading the intricacies of his palm managed to make sense of his identity despite how fresh burns and ash might’ve tried and scrub it away. There was no triumph in the silent, inward sliding of the towering doors, no pleasant rush as frigid, bitter air swept the welts tapering down from his forehead. He hardly found himself capable of much but standing at the brink of the darkness that spilled forward into the until living room at his feet.

Lavish furniture sat steeped in shadows deep enough to sink under, curtains drawn to block the pitiful laces of grey-yellow light that might have struggled through had they been parted. Bronte’s own silhouette was absorbed effortlessly into the black, his whole body soon after as he mindlessly stepped forward, doors clicking shut at his back with an echo of finality.

The world was void of sound until the shake of a fragile breath bit the quiet in faint retaliation. Bronte followed the quivering whimper around the barest, ebon outline of a table, managing to discern only a tenebrous jumble of shapes wrapped up in the stifle of self imposed twilight. Whatever discomfort he might have felt at the still sightlessness, it was welcomed compared to the snap that brought light back into the chamber, cutting through the veil of blissful ignorance that had pardoned any necessity to look upon what it had charitably concealed. However selfish it might have seemed, for the smallest instant Bronte thought of turning the lights off again,

“Sit up,”

It felt wrong to speak- especially ask anything of Oralie. Her ringlets- dull and stringy- pulled down in thick tangled over her face as she rigidly drug her back up the arm of the lovesteat she’d curled into, blankets falling limp onto the floor with a meek thud. Bronte simply knelt atop them, his fingers trailing the pockets of his clock for the smooth outline of a familiar metallic tin. Oralie made no sound of pain or acknowledgement as he pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a thickly wound bandage fastened over her shoulder. The white color had turned yellow, and as the kneeling figure peeled back each layer the room- what of it he could smell above the saturated, sugary smoke bathing his clothes- began to scent of balms and puss, a littering of welts and shrunken skin having festered beneath the dressings. The case in his hands came open with yet another sound Bronte found himself too far away to register, his fingers diving numbly into the salve inside,

“It’s my fault,”

Came a sound like the shifting of a fault line. Bronte traced his fingers over the rim of the burn,

“I couldn’t do anything but watch,”

Cracking like stained glass. Bronte smoothed his thumb across a patch of withered, pink flesh,

“H-he moved so quick,”

He had been avoiding her eyes, her face. And still he found himself caught in both. Her soft features hollowed. Her warm eyes gutted, occupied only by vacancy. Ghosts of the nots. Of the would never bes,

“And I- I jus-just-“

And her anguish came again with vengeance. Came with strength she did not have to spare for tears she did not have to shed. How dare she think she had wept enough. How dare she think she couldn’t hurt any longer. With a long, godless wail it came back to her in waves, thin fingers gripping his shoulders as she curled forward, her whole frame shaking with the labor of forcing from her throat a cry like cracking ice. What little tears she could manage soaked through his cloak,

“And I j-us did no-nothing! I di-didn’t do anything! I jus-just le-let him go! I le-let him d-“

She had been doomed to fail the sentence from the very start, her broken declarations falling to senseless sobs and howls of pain as she rocked her forehead into his shoulder, re-adjusting her grip at his arms every so often as if letting go might send her physically spiraling into whatever pit of grief pulled at her mind, down somewhere she couldn’t be followed,

“It’s not your fault,”

Again. It felt wrong to tell her anything with certainty, even the truth,

“It’s not your fault,”

It came stronger this time. Still a whisper in her ear, but less like a mist and more like a fog,

“It’s not your fault,”

That’s right. It wasn’t her fault. It was his,

“You couldn’t have known,”

But he had.

“There wasn’t a way you could’ve known,”

He’d known everything. That the healing was dangerous. That he should’ve gone with them.

“You did everything right...”

It was his fault that they hadn’t listened,

“I promise,”

That Kenric hadn’t listened,

“You were everything he needed you to be,”

Why should he have? He had been impatient. Stubborn. Cruel. /Weak/.

“You’ve been so strong,”

For the past three years his judgement had been ruled by fear. Fear of a little girl,

“And so brave,”

And hatred. Hatred of species who’s betrayal’d dawned the advent of millenniums lifetimes ago,

“This could never have been your fault,”

Kenric was dead,

“It will never be your fault,”

Because he hadn’t been stronger,

“No matter what you might think,”

Because he hadn’t been wiser,

“Kenric wouldn’t want you to think that,”

Because he hadn’t been kinder.

“Ever,”

Her wailing had only gotten softer, grip having loosened the slightest bit. He couldn’t tell if anything he’d said had reached her or not. Had he even been speaking aloud to begin with? Had he even been loud enough for it to matter? He had to hope so. Their ilk was not meant to die, and thus not meant to grieve death. To mourn in earnest was not theirs. It never was. He knew too well how easily it would be for her to break beneath the weight of it. He could already feel himself webbing with cracks,

“I-I....”

She couldn’t protest beyond a dry heave, her shoulders raised for what felt like ever in a deep wrenching motion as Bronte clasped the fresh bandages over her newly dressed wounds. In the end, she merely fell into him, grabbing his shirt. His arms. His cloak. Anything she could to prove to herself she was still there with him. Every new hold she had on him felt like another clutch of guilt bearing at his knotted stomach. The morphine drip of shell shock had begun to fade and chip away. Clawed to pieces by the daggers of sharp mourning that broke his haze with every whimper Oralie managed into his shoulder. He knew even in the pathetic state he was in he couldn’t outrun his guilt forever. But he’d been hoping that he might for a bit longer. Selfish as it was,

“Oralie...”

He whispered after a moment. And was met with quiet. Quiet and trembling breaths. She’d become heavy against him, her grip gone slack, eyes finally falling to tearless rest. Good. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to say anyways. The lights echoed out again with another dry snapping sound and Bronte stood from the thicket of blankets at his ankles, propping Oralie’s head on a pillow before draping her in covers again, still hoping- desperately and undeservedly- that she had believed him.

He paced the length between his and Oralie’s office with more grace this time, aware now of what the lull to fall and fade and become nothing but memory was in truth.

Not escape from sorrow or grief, but from consequence.

Consequence for the person he’d become. For that he’d done to others... There would be no reckoning with Councillor Kenric. He was dead. No apologies or tears- though he would certainly be giving both in abundance regardless- would change that.

But Oralie wasn’t dead.

The rest of the council wasn’t dead.

Sophie wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead.

And to that end there were still plenty of consequences to face.

#TW #TW Suicidal thoughts #TW gore #TW death #keeper of the lost cities #angst fic #kotlc council #councillor bronte #councillor Oralie #councillor kenric #so much angst #no beta we die like Kenric

[lockewrites]

A Gentle Push

A follow-up to “Do I Know You?”

Listener x Lucien || SFW || 1639

AO3 & FF.net

Rhiada comes to and finds herself in the care of a familiar Speaker.

Her head bobbed, copper locks feeling as though each strand held stacks of iron, and each dip sent a wave of dizziness through her body. She felt her body moving, the slightest breeze passing over her face and exposed skin; her side pressed against something sturdy and warm. She opened her eyes, blinking a few times; dark, blurred trees filled her vision, and the smell of damp grass carried through her short breaths.

Rhiada craned her neck up, trying to catch sight of what held her; a hooded figure, but she could make out nothing more. She let out a soft groan in an attempt to speak before letting her head fall back, unable to hold it up any longer.

The figure hushed her.

“You’re safe now, my dear assassin,” a soft, raspy voice spoke.

Another weak whimper passed her lips before she slipped back into unconsciousness. 

Her mind conjured images of whorls of warmth wrapping around her skin, pulling her into a tight embrace, and then suddenly giving her to the clutches of chilled air. Cold settled deeper into her body as it was released from the strong arms she’d previously awoke to; she felt bits of weight falling from her body before being replaced by a heavy layer of what felt like fur, lulling her into a state too deep to continue envisioning what might have gone on around her.

How long she remained lost to the pitch dark she didn’t know.

A bright orange glowed through her eyelids and she instinctively turned her head toward it, seeking the warmth it offered. She reached up to rub her eye, instantly regretting the motion as a weighty ache shot through her arm, though it reminded her of the night’s events.

Rhiada, using what little strength she had, slowly put her arm back down, careful to avoid making noise. She turned her neck back and forth, observing her surroundings: a large, embracing bed beneath her, stone walls around her, a fireplace beside her, an armchair with an uncloaked Speaker staring at her with concern swimming in cinnamon eyes while his slim fingers circled the cross-guard of a dagger.

She blinked at him, watching him stand and walk to her, his steps slow and clicking on the stone floor. He stopped next to her and placed the blade on the nightstand before setting his hand over hers.

“You’re safe now, Rhiada,” Lucien said. His hand moved and hovered over the blanket on her thigh. “May I...?”

Quirking a brow, she hesitated before giving an affirmative hum.

He lifted the furs and leaned forward, eyeing where she’d been stabbed, rather she assumed as she still was unable to lift her head properly to look around the blanket. She expected, remembering such an injury, an onslaught of pain to throb through her leg, but she simply felt a dull ache rolling through her body. A soft, strained moan vibrated in her throat as she again attempted to lean forward to see her leg, but a gentle hand placed just on her collarbone stopped her from further exerting herself.

“Remain still,” he said, looking at her like an authoritative Speaker admonishing a new member, yet the same concern she saw earlier swirled in the fire reflecting in his eyes. 

Tentatively, she released a breath, finding it deeper than it had been when she’d been in the forest. She looked at his near-expressionless face, meeting his gaze when he turned to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, returning the blanket.

Rhiada breathed in, smelling embers and cloves as he moved closer.

“I... Heavy,” she said, the struggle to speak evident.

“That is to be expected,” he said with a slight smile. His gaze moved to the dagger. “It does not belong to you.”

“No,” she replied, keeping her gaze on him.

“Regilus Cedaria, the man who attacked you,” Lucien said, “he is not a brother. To have taken it, he must have killed a member, however...” His words trailed off, and a crease formed between his brows. “I’ve not heard of any deceased members missing their Blade of Woe,” he continued.

She tried to follow his line of thought, but her mind still carried a fog that disrupted her own thoughts. Giving up, she settled for simply watching him; the way his lips pressed into a thin line and the glow of the fireplace sunk into shadows beneath his eyes. Vexed, exhausted- his usually stone-like facade cracked and fallen to the floor.

“I believe you were intended to be the next victim,” Lucien said.

Rhiada blinked at him before furrowing her brow, not understanding. She let out a quiet, growl-like noise, and with a great deal of effort, she brought her hands up and rubbed her eyes. The cloud wrapped around her thoughts remained; frustration pulled another grunt from her throat. Her arms fell to her sides, and she looked back up at Lucien who returned her gaze with his brow quirked.

“Calm, sweet Sister.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “Do not exert yourself. Are you in pain?”

“No,” she whispered, releasing a deep breath. “I can’t... I can’t think.”

“It is not required of you at the moment,” he explained. “You are to relax and heal.”

The exasperation must have been evident on her face.

“If you are insistent,” Lucien began, “I can attempt to lift some of the enchantment still affecting your mind.”

Lucien leaned forward, his tied-back hair slipping over his shoulder. He held his hands out on either side of her head, lighting up a pale yellow, blinding her as his fingertips ran across her cheeks and disappeared into her curls. The magicka passed through his fingers and absorbed into her skull; a faint buzz sounded in her ears as his spell coiled around her mind and dipped into her neck. The pleasant sensation released her frustration, and she closed her eyes. As if watching the fog dissipate, she could see her thoughts clearing, growing more coherent as his magic continued healing.

A sudden lapse in the hum forced her eyes open, and she looked at her Speaker whose own eyes were squeezed shut. Strain painted his features and filled his unsteady hands.

“Speaker,” she muttered.

He didn’t seem to hear her.

She reached up, finding it a little easier this time, and wrapped her weak fingers around each of his wrists. 

The touch pulled his attention to her, and he halted his spell after blinking a few times. He sat on the bed next to her; his skin pale, eyes surrounded in a bruise-like purple, and body swaying as his shaking hand ran down his face. Lucien took a deep breath and rested his hands in his lap.

“You’ve exhausted yourself,” she said, her voice stronger.

“It was necessary to ensure your survival,” he replied, offering her a smile. 

“How did you know I was felled?”

Lucien turned from her and looked at a figurine on the mantle. “The Night Mother,” he mused. “I felt her call to me, a plea for help.”

“I thought she only spoke to the Listener,” Rhiada questioned.

“That is correct,” he said. “She did not use words, rather she offered a... sense, a forced instinct. It is difficult to explain, but through her, I knew you were in need of help.”

She hummed in thought, a second question playing on her tongue, but Lucien offered the answer before she could speak.

“I have been following your assignments,” he explained. “I, of course, was not able to discern your exact location on that knowledge alone, but I tracked your movements to the tavern. You did not make it easy,” he added with a light chuckle. “You are rather adept at masking your whereabouts.”

A touch of graciousness passed over her features, tugging a rare smile across her lips. To know the Night Mother acted as a guardian on her behalf, to know the Speaker cared enough to act on the push given to him, even if it had simply been to fulfill the Night Mother’s wishes--it brought her a sense of comfort she’d long-since experienced.

Lucien reached out for the dagger, pulling Rhiada from her thoughts, and resumed twisting it in his hands. 

“It is not often we are forced to remember the strength of this weapon,” he pondered. “It becomes second-nature, using it to deliver souls to our Dread Father. But to think of it turned against our own Brothers and Sisters with the intent to kill...”

“The traitor,” she interrupted, suddenly understanding what Lucien had meant earlier.

His hands paused. “Yes. I believe the traitor had given Cedaria the blade and sent him to kill you. Perhaps it is with a sense of irony that the traitor is killing our Siblings, using our cherished weapon to destroy us.”

Even through his fatigue, Rhiada could see the Speaker’s thoughts turning and dissecting, searching for clues, conjuring plans.

“Speaker,” Rhiada interrupted, a light blush trailing across her cheeks. “Thank you for saving me. Forgive me, but you look to be on the verge of collapsing.”

“I... I will admit I am feeling rather weary,” he said with a sheepish smile, an expression that looked out of place on the Speaker. “If you are feeling well enough to be alone, I will rest a bit. Should you need me, simply speak my name.”

He stood from the bed, taking his warmth and cloves from her side.

“Do you have a second bed?” she asked.

He smiled and grasped her hand. “While I appreciate your concern, you do not need to worry yourself. I will return before long.”

In what she could only assume was a slightly delirious state, Lucien brought her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles before turning and disappearing into the next room.

#oblivion #tes #the elder scrolls #lucien lachance #oblivion fanfiction #tes fanfiction #lucien lachance x listener #lucien x listener #rhiada vette #fic: rldrabble #lucien #ship: slipping on wicked thrills #alxxiis actually wrote something

[quixotic-writer]

Switch it Up (Sal’s POV)

request: @birdgirl1772

summary: For some mysterious reason, Q and Sal wake up in the other’s body. After a quick pep talk they both agree that they’ll pretend to be each other for the day and hope they’re back to normal the next day. As Sal does some cleaning around Q’s place, he stumbles upon a journal and can’t help but give in to curiosity and dive into what’s between the lines of Q’s rambles.

———————————————————

“meow!” Was all I heard as I feel something small and warm curl up against my face. I feel myself slowly rising from my sleepy state and it’s quickly replaced with confusion. The moment I manage to open my eyes, a black cat was mere inches from my face staring down at me with beady green eyes.

“AAAH!” I let out a scream and fall out of bed in attempts to distance myself away from the cat. When I screamed though, it didn’t sound anything like my voice at all, it had a low bass to it and felt as though I spoke with an accent. My hand shoots to cover my mouth and my eyes are wide and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

As I look at everything that surrounds me, I am now quickly noticing a list of things: this isn’t my room, there’s — not one but— THREE cats surrounding me, and my voice isn’t mine, nor is this body. I look at the tattoos on the arms but my vision feels so blurred that I can only make out the shapes of them. I quickly pick my now sore body up off the floor and rush into the bathroom.

“Q?!” I spat to the reflection in the mirror with a sense of shock and awe. I stare at each and every detail of the body I now reside in, familiar with it because it was my best friends, but it all felt dysmorphic at the same time because his body is built entirely different from mine. I knew this body wasn’t supposed to be mine, but I was still the one controlling it and there’s no escaping that it seemed. I bring my hand to my face and rub it across feeling the stubble of the beard tickle my palms and finger tips insuring that this wasn’t a dream.

As I continue to play around in the mirror and marvel at the sticky situation i’ve found myself in, I feel the cats begin to brush up against my legs and mewl. I jolt at the sensation and feel the anxiety of my feline phobia well up in my stomach, but there isn’t much I can do since they seem to think i’m Q.

“I guess I should feed you guys, huh?” I speak down to the cats who chatter in response. I step out of the bathroom to head downstairs but I suddenly jump at the sound of a phone ringing. Looking to the nightstand I see Q’s phone ringing with my contact ID lit up on it. ‘Sally Boy♡” it read, a very effeminate name for me. It didn’t bother me, it was actually kind of cute.

“Hello?”

“Sal! Thank god you picked up. What the hell is going on?!” Judging by the sheer panic and the speech pattern and also the blatantly obvious answer: it was definitely Q on the other end of the line. Is that really what my voice sounds like to other people?

“I guess we switched bodies or something. You don’t have anything important to do today that would need me to be you... right?”

“No, I don’t have anything. Do you have anything I have to do for you?” I pry into my memory to think of the seemingly endless list of things I usually have to do, but to my surprise nothing really comes to mind.

“Pretty sure I got lunch with Gatto today, nothing else I can think of. But check my calendar in my phone just in case, and for the love of god DO NOT destroy my house.” The line goes dead and I know Q doesn’t wanna hear it. He’s the complete opposite of me as far as cleanliness goes, if even one thing is out of place if I ever get back to my own body, he’ll never hear the end of it.

I turn on my heels and go to feed the cats as I had initially planned, carefully tip toeing around them so I don’t touch them or stomp on them on accident. As soon as their breakfast is made and served, I retreat upstairs to get myself cleaned up. It’s still a shock every time I walk past any reflective surfaces and see the i’m not actually me.

I brush my teeth, comb my hair, wash my face; the normal things anyone does when they wake up. As I go to spray some cologne, I get a quick whiff of it and just soak in the scent. Q always did smell hypnotically good to me, every time he walked past a gust of it would hit my nose and I would just stop what I was doing to take it in.

“That sounds kinda creepy.” I say out loud to myself and my thoughts come to a halt. I step out of the bathroom and take a look at all the details of Q’s room. It’s a mess to say the least. Clothing everywhere, it looks like he hasn’t dusted in here in ages, his work desk in the corner of his room is riddled with piles upon piles of paper and is completely disheveled. I know this isn’t a matter of a “system” going on, I just know he has a hard time keeping up with things sometimes especially when his depression weighs down on him a little harder on certain days.

I step over to his desk first to try and make sense of the clutter and piles and try to organize them so that he’ll know where they are and why they’re arranged so specifically.

“Notes from a meeting. Notes from another meeting. Paid bill. Fan mail. Contract.” I shuffle through and assign them a pile until I reach a composition book at the pit of all the papers. The front has nothing written on it so I saw no harm in peeking inside and turning to the first page and reading it.

My therapist suggested I started keeping a journal/diary since I tend to lose track of time and have a hard time remembering certain things. It seems stupid but why not give it a shot.

I stop reading immediately and my eyes go wide and pause on the last word I read on the page. This is his DIARY, I can’t be reading this. I flip the pages and see almost half the book is filled with endless scrabbles of words of what’s going on in his head. I’ve never been good at reading Q’s mind quite like he can with mine, he’s always so closed off about his emotions and curiosity is enticing me to read every word on these pages.

“This is so wrong.” I say holding the notebook closed with my forefinger creating an open gap of temptation between the pages. I look around quickly and look back down at the notebook and slowly open it back up. “Maybe... skimming things wouldn’t hurt. Right?” And with that, I was nose deep in the notebook.

Today at set we filmed Sal’s punishment, it was payback for the time the boys thought it would be funny to put tarantulas all over me. I went in early to play with the little cats and kittens that were brought in for the day and I had never felt happier. Nothing brings me more joy than to just be around animals. That joy was quickly taken away though. It was funny at first seeing the little kittens all over him. It was all just mild discomfort it seemed, it wasn’t SCARY since they were small and harmless to him. But when we brought in the actual cats, that’s when I really started feeling bad. He was drenched in sweat, his throat seemed hoarse from the sheer panic and stress to the point where he could barely get anything out, his body looked like it was ready to concave on itself because of the situation. I was laughing with Joe and Murr, but deep inside, I felt guilty because it was all my idea. I caused him pain. I know it’s a part of the game we play, but something about it just didn’t sit right. I just wanted to go and help him and hug him until he felt better. I wanted to say sorry over and over but I knew it would kind of raise some suspicions. So instead I kept quiet and played along... At least at the end of it I helped ease the tension and brought out Big Benjamin Cat. Sal seemed fine after that, and I think that’s the only reason it won’t really bother me for a while is because he was okay after it all. I hate seeing him hurt.

He felt bad about my punishment? This was truly news to me. The way he talked about it too, it seemed so endearing and despondent about the whole situation. Now i’m intrigued and enraptured by what’s within this book, all inhibitions have been thrown out the window and I quickly flip through a few pages and land on another page.

After today’s therapy session, i’ve noticed myself talking a lot about Sal. I love Gatto and I love Murr, let me preface all this with that. But I feel this magnetic connection to Sal that I don’t think i’ve ever really felt with anyone. He gets me even though I don’t tell him a lot, he’s just there for me. When I do tell him stuff, he handles it like it’s glass; He gives it a lot of care and attention. There’s no one else who makes me feel the way I do. It feels like this growing thing for a long time and I really don’t know what to make of it. I’ve tried sorting out all of these thoughts and emotions that go through my head with him, but I really just don’t know. I’m a grown man still confused and I think that’s what makes it hard. It’s also kind of scary because for so long i’ve just been seen as your standard single and sleeps around kind of guy and i’m kind of growing tired of that image but I can’t just wipe it away when its been stained on me for so long. I just hope one day I can sort this shit out and be honest with myself.

With each page that I devoured, I felt as though I was peeling away the layers of an onion and was slowly getting to the heart of it all. With each sentence it felt like I was suffering from whiplash because I kept doing double takes to all the seemingly outlandish remarks. What caught me incredibly off guard was the endless ramblings of me, his infatuation with the idea of me. The image of the mental ideas of Brian Quinn was slowly being pieced together like a puzzle with this journal. Without realizing how much time had passed or how much I had read, I had finally reached the last and most recent entry, the one that sent my heart into an inferno.

I think now is a good a time as any to finally come clean with myself. It’s time i’m honest with myself and I stop holding myself back, no more lying to myself, no more blind blatant ignorance, none of that. I’m Brian Quinn, and I admit it: I have fallen in love with my life long best friend Sal. Wow. It feels oddly invigorating to finally get that out of my system. Maybe my therapist was right about this journal thing. Yes, I love my best friend but I don’t know what to do about it. He’s honest with me and said he wouldn’t mind being with a guy and that gave me a small spark of hope, but I just don’t know if i’m a guy he’d be into or not. It could be an unrequited love situation for me and it would hurt a lot to have my heart crushed like that. But honestly, I don’t care if he doesn’t love me back, I just don’t ever want him to disappear out of my life. That’s what’s stopping me from just spouting it out and telling him the truth. I don’t want to scare him away, I don’t want him to feel awkward around me, I don’t want things to change for the worse. I just want Sal, in the sense of his presence, his companionship, his friendship. That’s all. Maybe one day i’ll have the confidence to tell him, but for now i’m just happy that i’m confident enough to tell myself the truth.

I sat there for an unknown period of time. I leaned back in the chair with my mouth slightly agape and brushing a hand through my hair, unsure of how to process everything that I just read. It felt like a guilty pleasure to finally know all of this about someone I thought I had pegged pretty well.

There’s one big detail that stood out loud and boldly to me: Q, my best friend, has fallen for me. It’s so crazy to read what’s on his mind and watching him figure this out and realize what the emotions were page by page.

I close the notebook and place it with all his other books neatly in the little nook of the desk and finish tidying things up. After another hour, his room was back in livable shape. I smile and beam with pride at my handiwork and hope this helps him feel a little more at peace in his own living space.

Just as he was headed downstairs, a knock on the door echoed through the quiet home. When the door opened, I was startled to see myself standing before me, forgetting for a brief moment that I wasn’t in my own body.

“Fucking hell Q, you could’ve at least texted.” I had a hand over my chest as my heart rate begins to subside from the mild scare of seeing myself standing before me. Q rolls his eyes and looks down and beams with jubilation to see the three cats prowling towards him.

“My babies!! Daddy’s home!!” He kneels down and gives a happy helping of pets and scratched to each one of them.

“So how’d lunch with Gatto go? Did he suspect anything?” Q picks up Brooklyn in his arms and cuddles her close and they both step into the house and seat themselves on the couch.

“Went fine. He did say that ‘you’ were acting strange today, he just said that i’ve been hanging out with Q too much. Little did he know that it was me!” He chuckles releasing Brooklyn from his arms and watches as she trots away. “How were things here? You seem fine with the cats since you’re not dead and none of them are missing.” I think back to the little notebook upstairs but try and play things cool as to not give anything away, he’ll talk to me when he’s ready. It’s not my place to pry at his emotions.

“Things were fine. I did tidy up your room though, just thought i’d help you out a bit. If and when we switch back, just ask if you need help finding anything.” I smile to him and he smiles back, it was a bashful smile and it made my heart melt. “Did you wanna order dinner or something?” I say into the silence of the living room.

“Well considering this technically is MY house, I say we eat my favorite pizza: a hot pepper pie from my favorite pizza joint. However, since you’re me, you’re gonna have to order.” I roll my eyes and open up my phone and see that Q has the pizza place’s number saved and on speed dial in his phone.

“Okay Q, c’mon dude you’re kidding me. Speed dial?” He gives a cheeky smile and shrugs his shoulders.

We order and eat the pizza and talk to each other about our experiences in the other’s body. Q got to experience the wonders of my sleep apnea, he told me how startled he was when he woke up with my mask on his face. I told him of how the cats wouldn’t leave me alone because they thought I was him, it got a hearty laugh out of him since he knows how uncomfortable they make me.

“Thanks for cleaning up my place Sal.” He says as we clean up our pizza mess.

“Yeah, it’s no problem. It’s hard to find time to keep things in line with our schedules, thought i’d help out a little.” He pauses for a moment and goes to play with his fingers and realizes he doesn’t have his usual ring to fidget with. He’s nervous and that was one of his tics, but I pretend not to notice and I wipe down the table.

“Sal, uuuuh... Weird question but did you clean my desk?” I know where he’s going with this.

“I did. Books in place, papers in stacks. Why?” I say innocently.

“There’s a... There’s a notebook... it’s for my therapist and stuff... sensitive info in there.” He’s sweating and his eyes are pleading that I don’t know anything. The guilt hits me harder than ever now, but I can’t do that to him, I don’t want to shatter that trust.

“I didn’t snoop around man, it’s none of my business and this is your space, I respect it even if i’m in your body.” His tensions seem to ease in that moment and his shoulders slumped to a relaxed position. I feel like crap lying to him like this, but if it means his comfort, then it’s a harmless white lie. I mentally make a promise that nothing I read would ever leave my memory, and that’s all it will ever remain to be: simple memories.

“Okay, thanks man. I’m gonna head back to your place and hope that when I wake up i’m surrounded by my cats and not a face full of apnea mask.” He jokes to me as he gathers his stuff to head back out.

“Make fun of my sleep apnea all you want, but now you know the pain I live with!” I joke with him as I let him out. We said good night to each other, and just like that I was left alone in the silence of Q’s home. It was late already so I figured I close this night out already and head to sleep.

I cleaned myself up and prepared for bed, slipping into a pair of pajama pants and brushing my teeth. I took one final look into the mirror hoping that when I woke up, I wouldn’t need a mirror to see his face. All I want tomorrow is to just give Q a hug as myself again.

I crawl into the sheet with the cats cuddled up against me. The cats have kind of grown on me today, dare I say that maybe I learned to love them a bit today. I close my eyes and shift around until I was in blissful rest.

When I woke up at last and opened my eyes, I saw as the husky rays of the sun shone through my window and the familiar hun of my sleep apnea machine filled my ears. I peel it off my face and rub off the sleepy sensation from my entire face. I lean over and grab my phone to see a text from Q waiting for me

We’re back in business baby!

Was all it read and I smiled to myself. I walked to the bathroom and was met with the delightful sight of my true reflection. It felt so good to be back in my own body, in my own house.

I head to the kitchen and fix myself up a griddled PB and J and sit at the table and eat with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me. Through that whole mess, I didn’t question the switch, I didn’t question why then. I only had one lingering question that seemed so insignificant:

What happened with Q and that lunch with Joe. I wonder if he found out some of my own sensitive information and didn’t say anything just like I had. Maybe one day I’ll be able to solve, but it just won’t be solved today.

———————————————————

A/N: Just wanted to say I loved playing around with this idea so much, that soon i’m gonna write this segment from Q’s POV ♪( ´▽｀)

#brian quinn #sal vulcano #vulquinn #fluff #suki writes

[anotherplacemag]

Terrain Vague | Joseph Horton

The British countryside has been regarded as a retreat for many, seen as an escape from the constructed urban environment and a place of contemplation. However, this reflection is not wholly relatable as for its inhabitants these spaces present conflict between ideology and reality. Along our border lands two coexisting identities can be found, creating a space which is not easily defined. Formerly attributed to the hardships of industrial closure the documented landscape sits alongside traditional pastoral visions associated with Britain. The divide is a ‘trunk’ road which joins England and Wales, whilst forming an unofficial border between rural and industrial South Wales. Its creation has been continually developed since the early 00’s and has seen further development with the help of European funding. Influenced by our own, national, photographic past I sought to inject a contemporary view of reflective and open imagery which, in my view, can be seen in documentary photography today; lyrical, ambiguous and ‘post-truth’.

Working within a political landscape, as photographers, the creation of work for the cause of political comment versus that which speaks within political climates is a hard discussion to disentangle. This, for me, is where photography allows us to begin to unravel the complexities of cultural and political identities. The project attaches an ambiguity toward its subjects, one that gives space to think. From it, we can find a balance between evidence and lyricism; it is in this dialogue that the work was made. At the start, my pool of interest was to develop on the interests I had in the elasticity of the word rural but now, having been out in the world, I cannot overlook the interlinking elements of how our countryside is formed. It is a web of rural, non-rural, urban, suburban sectors all of which have boundaries which blur into each other. Who we are and how we think these places look still remain and are easily found but if you look closer at their makeup and the surrounding spaces you get a sense of the messy truth which builds this picture. I realised I had no intention of documenting the transition from urban to rural, acting out its visual representation via its geographical construct, what I was interested in was looking at the social connection to the area. This was formed by my attraction to space and solitude, how I felt lost. So the work has become more of a reaction to that, seeking out scenes in the world which represent this feeling. It does not serve to create a completely factual depiction, but allows for ambiguity and layering to move away from a preconceived or pre-held narrative. As it is more interesting to me to make work at this time which does not serve photography’s traditional role of illustrator.

In broad terms, the project can be seen as an investigation into national/cultural identity and a quickly changing landscape but more deeply it is a reaction to ‘landscape’, and specifically how it has been historically represented. It is important that representation from across our country is understood with the depth and understanding that transcends pictures of fields. Those areas which carry the most weight are often the most overlooked, hidden in the everyday and familiar. Maybe it is out there in the foggy, green new world of the figurative ‘countryside’ that we can unpick centuries of historical tropes and begin to use them toward a modern understanding of a new rurality.

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All images & text © Joseph Horton

[a11235carrot]

Ever Onwards-Dragons?

"Naruto Uzumaki" Normal speech

"Naruto Uzumaki" Normal thoughts

"Kurama" Big guy speech

"Kurama" Big guy thoughts

Chapter 1

"Naruto!"

"Sasuke!"

"Shannaro!"

Three voices intertwined as their owners finally triumphed over the greatest threat the Elemental Nations has ever faced.

Pale, royal lavender Byakugan eyes helplessly glared with hatred at the reincarnations of Indra and Ashura as the sun and moon reached out to forever shatter her dreams of eternal peace. "Im…possible. For me, the mother of all chakra, to be bested by the wretched offspring of Hagoromo." Alabaster fists, capable of ending all of existence, tightly clenched as Kaguya Ōtsutsuki bitterly railed against her oncoming defeat. Suddenly, just as she felt Naruto and Sasuke grip her shoulders, her hate filled all-seeing eyes spotted her only path of freedom, the seal on the belly of the glowing blond who, out of the two, managed to humiliate and infuriate her the most.

"If my fate is to once again be sealed…"

"RIKUDŌ: CHIBAKU TENSEI!"

"...then you shall suffer with me!"

The instant Naruto and Sasuke finished the strongest sealing jutsu, a giant black sphere of impossible gravitational power emerged, forcing even Kaguya, the progenitor of chakra, up into the sky. As she drew closer to the orb, wisps of dark blue streams swiftly turned into raging rivers as Kaguya's god-like chakra constantly streamed from her body into the seal, strengthening its already powerful gravitational pull to the point of distorting space itself.

Below, the earth tore itself asunder as distant mountain ranges cracked and groaned before violently hurtling up towards the Rabbit Goddess, forming a giant prison not unlike the distant moon in space.

"Finally, it's done." Back down on the ruined earth, Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, and Kakashi all relaxed when they saw Kaguya about to be completely hidden from view.

However, just as the two incarnations of the Sage's sons were about to send the second moon into space, the enormous ball of compressed earth and stone suddenly trembled, causing bits of rocks to tumble to the ground. Yet none of them noticed the tremor since the unbreakable prison was already shaking from all of the tons of earth to begin with.

That didn't last long.

With a last burst of her godly chakra, Kaguya shuttled her prison between dimensions towards the quartet, who only now began to realize something was wrong when a black rift in space abruptly swallowed her.

"What the…"

Naruto, still garbed in both Kurama's and the Rikudō Sennin's Yang chakra, uttered his astonishment before widening his crossed eyes in shock when Kaguya's prison teleported not twenty feet above him.

"Oi, Sasuke! What the hell is going…AHHHH!"

Then, before Sasuke's shocked mystic eyes, a scene unpleasantly reminding him of when Madara absorbed the God Tree into himself occurred just hours earlier happen to his only friend.

But it was what he heard and saw that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Unlike the mad Uchiha, Naruto - the same person who would go to ridiculous lengths to hide away his suffering - was screaming out in terrifying agony as bloody cracks ripped apart his skin, swiftly dyeing his clothes a hideous red, before closing up thanks to his powerful regeneration...only to open again.

And again.

And again.

And again until the ground beneath was soaked in blood.

Through it all, an ugly grimace etched itself on his whiskered visage as what was equivalent to more than double an entire world's worth of chakra - determined to do nothing else but make its new host experience a living hell - maliciously barged into the seal that currently contained only the Yin half of Kurama.

"Kurama, what…the hell is going on in here!" Tearing his attention away from the pain and into his mindscape, a kneeling Naruto bore witness to what equated to a second moon pushing its way into the Kyuubi's cage, the bars that once held back the fox beginning to crumble and shatter under its impossible weight and presence. Had he been anyone else, his body would have simply evaporated, leaving nothing behind except a giant construct of rock and goddess as his tombstone. As it were, the only thing preventing this from happening or his chakra pathways outright shattering was a giant nine-tailed fox with dark russet fur desperately pushing against Kaguya's prison, only allowing the foreign object to slowly enter as the seal attempted to readjust itself.

"Hold on brat! Just hold on a little longer! Kaguya must have used the last burst of chakra under her control to teleport herself into your seal!"

"I…see." A crimson eye twitched. "NO I DON'T! HOW THE HELL DID SHE DO THAT AND OWOWOWOW…"

"SHUT IT BRAT, I'M A LITTLE BUSY OVER HERE! AND HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT SUPER GRANNY OVER HERE DID?!" Kurama ferociously roared as he was steadily pushed back further into the seal by the moon.

"…!" Naruto didn't bother answering back as he was yanked back into the real world from a sudden jerk on the back of his shredded jacket. Flipping through the air, the first thing he saw and felt was solid stone as his face bounced off of Hashirama's arm. Arms trembling, his vision blurred and twisted by the body-ripping agony, he shakily pulled himself back on his feet, only for his gut to sink when he saw his brother from another life stand opposite of him.

A Chidori chirping on his hand.

60 Years Later

Fragile russet brown leaves, cracked and dried as they always were at this time of year, faintly rustled as the cool wind of Fall whispered through the boughs of the trees surrounding the Uchiha compound before falling to join the small, colorful tornado of leaves swirling above the ground, much to the delight of children running around the compound. Just a few blocks away, the barking of Inuzaka clan dogs intertwined with the sharp chirps of birds could be heard all over Konoha as the sun rose to greet the new day. Only the faint wisps of smoke that rose from budding industry marred the otherwise picturesque scene.

All in all, it was a normal day for the Village Hidden in the Leaves.

Yet, as laughter and barks drifted through the air, the Uchiha compound was silent, the heavy, almost tangible, atmosphere hanging above a stark contrast to the one outside. No light or signs of life could be seen from the rows of old, but well-maintained, houses, except for one deep within the ancestral area. Inside, behind a pair of thin paper walls and beneath a blanket laid a man with pitch-black hair and streaks of silver running through it, inky eyes, and a missing left arm shorn off near the elbow. His face and build, once the object of rabid affection from women across the Elemental Nations, now withered and lined with age.

On each side of him knelt two people. On his left was a woman with pale pink hair, startling green eyes, and a fading violet diamond on her wrinkled forehead. Faint lines marked the edges of her lips and eyes, the legendary seal taught by her master now losing its potency in her advanced age; yet, such trivial blemishes did nothing to diminish the gentle smile that played on her lips as she gazed down at her husband. On the opposite side sat someone who didn't seem to quite belong: a young man with sun-kissed blonde hair, eyes as blue as a cloudless summer sky, three whisker-like birthmarks on each cheek, and a right arm completely wrapped in bandages covered in a myriad of minute black seals. If not for his radically different features, he could've been mistaken as the son or even grandson of the old couple before him.

For several minutes, none spoke as dust lightly settled on the soft mats. Yet, despite the depressing air surrounding them, there was a sense of peace and comfort brought along with years of friendship and complete trust in the other. Finally, it was the bedridden man who broke the silence.

"Dobe, Sakura, I'm cough cough!" A string of coughs broke Sasuke's sentence. Only after Sakura, her hands speeding through seals with almost nonchalant ease, passed a glowing green hand over his chest did he stop. Taking a deep breath, he locked eyes with the man he called friend. "I'm dying…and there is something I must -"

A grunt interrupted his words. "Tch, you've been saying that for the past couple of years ya damn bastard. Yet here you are, still breathing and going on about that insane plan of yours. I've said it before and I'll say it again! With the power of the Six Paths and your eyes, you can still live for a few more years with Sakura and Sarada! Come on Sakura, you have to back me up on this." Naruto retorted with his arms crossed before his chest, glancing between the two as he pleaded for them to see reason, hoping to trigger even a fraction of the unyielding resolution Sasuke used to have. However, the worry in his eyes betrayed him.

Off to the side, Sakura merely sighed, not bothering to give a straight answer, having long agreed with Sasuke's proposal.

Suddenly, just as Sasuke was about to respond, a shudder wracked Naruto's powerful frame as pain capable of driving a god insane coursed through his body. Slowly, his shaking form started to keel over, and would have if not for the thin layer of gold flames which erupted from within. As his companion from birth undid the changes that took place in his very genes, Naruto spat out a small wad of blood before righting himself.

Through it all, neither of his friends bothered to react, as if used to the sight of someone capable of punching a hole through the moon losing control of his body, the only sign of worry reflected within their eyes while the scent of rusted iron filled the air.

"Even after all these years, you're still a dobe." Sasuke chuckled quietly, more amused than angry at the weak attempt to rile him up; he knew Naruto meant nothing by it. His eyes grew misty as he remembered all the times they clashed, whether it be with words or their fists, each bruise and scar a proud reminder of their times together. As he watched Naruto wipe the blood from his lips, he mentally sighed, "How time has flown by..."

Before he could sink deeper into nostalgia, a streak of agony lanced up his crippled arm. He winced at the unwelcome surprise.

"Enough, the past is the past. There is work to be done."

Taking a deep breath, Sasuke glowered at the stubborn blond, lifting his decrepit body inch by inch with a trembling arm. "Hn, do you take me for a fool, or do you think me so blind as to not see the seal holding both Kaguya and Kurama is already on its last legs, not to mention your body is already breaking down at the seams? How long do you have? A day? A week? Maybe a month? Maybe you even have a year, but by then, when that bitch finally claws her way out of that seal, I won't be able to even stand never mind fight! And you?" His voice trailed off, the room still trembling under the force of his fury and chakra.

Flopping back into bed, beads of sweat rolled over his heaving chest as he cursed how weak he was. Yet not once did his eyes leave Naruto's, his tone now soft, almost begging for him to see the inevitable. With a sense of finality, he delivered the finishing blow.

"And you...you will be dead. Either by internal combustion, or by her hand after she rips Kurama from your belly. Along with everyone else."

For a moment, nobody said anything, for how could they? No matter how Naruto wanted to deny, yell at his friend he was wrong, that there was always another way, his throat choked up before he could say the words.

Because the bastard was right, as he usually was.

When he saw Naruto stay quiet, Sasuke seized the opportunity to say the words that had to be said.

"Only when Yin and Yang combine back into one will you be able to preserve your body from breaking down anymore than it has already. And with my eyes, you will be able to resist Kaguya's pull on the Jūbi and only then stand a chance against her." He paused for a second before adding, "Perhaps your seal will even stabilize and give you time to adapt to your new powers."

Naruto irritably rubbed the back of his head as he sighed in frustration.

"Maybe my the changes to my body can be halted. Maybe the seal will stabilize. There are too many maybe's! You already know I'm at my limit, what with the old man's Yang chakra, Kurama and Kaguya, not to mention my own considerable reserves. I'll give you a maybe too. Maybe I'll explode the moment you transfer your Yin chakra and damn pinkeyes into my skull! There are just too...many...maybe's for this 'plan' of yours to work!"

It was a weak reason, and Naruto knew it.

Sakura knew it.

And Sasuke definitely knew it. And he made sure Naruto knew he knew. Ignoring how his body protested the motion, the elder Uchiha forced his body back up into a sitting position.

"Idiot!"

In response, Naruto slapped his hands down on the mat...or rather through it.

"Brooding emo!"

A hint of red and violet emerged within the inky darkness as Sharingan and Rinnegan whirled to life.

"Knucklehead!"

Ha! That's a compliment you son of-!"

Just as the two seemed ready to leap at each other to brawl it out, a hand appeared behind their skulls.

"ENOUGH!"

Smash!

A certain someone finally couldn't stand it any longer as her legendary temper, rumored to even surpass her mentor's, burst to life as she slammed her teammates' heads together until all they could see was stars. Finally, as the two legends slumped to the ground, a lone figure stood tall, her figure illuminated by the morning sun as rested her hands on her hips, green eyes ablaze with victory and exasperation alike.

"Ow, Sakura, what was that for?/Hn, was that really necessary?" Their complaints quickly petered out when they saw the culprit raise her glowing fist in warning. Seeing them simmer down, Sakura withdrew her fist to point at Naruto.

"Naruto, listen, and I mean really listen. I'm only going to say this once. You've already heard Sasuke's reasons for transferring his powers to you, and there's nothing wrong with what he said. So I won't say anything more about that. But there's something else you must consider. You know that the Elemental Nations have changed, for better or worse. Peace is now the name of the game and with everything you've worked for, power such as yours and Sasuke's is no longer needed in the new society, not with everyone across the land being so goody goody towards one another. Even the shinobi way is dying out, with the lack of wars and safer roads. It can be seen everywhere. Last year, only two children signed up for the Shinobi Academy and even then, they soon dropped out to become...businessmen. Not to mention the recent Kages are a joke compared to the past ones; some haven't even seen death."

The light in their eyes dimmed as they thought of how a core part of their childhood was dying out. However, they had come to terms with this long ago; the tradition of the shinobi was one built on blood and hatred and no longer had a place in the new age of peace. Lowering her hand, Sakura sat back down, her face slightly pale with exhaustion as her other hand sought for Sasuke's.

"Naruto, the last shinobi who could be considered true shinobi was Sarada's generation. Soon, the shinobi will cease to exist after her generation passes on, but you...should you survive the coming fight, you will be the last shinobi. So just take it, take the gift that he is offering, even if it's just a way to remind you of us after we pass on." Sakura softly said as she held her husband's hand.

A minute passed while Naruto tightly clenched his fists as his mouth opened and closed while trying to form words to somehow dissuade them. But to no avail. Shoulders slumped, his head drooped down in defeat.

"Do it then. Do it before I change my mind." Naruto softly whispered.

With hardly a pause, a paper seal slapped down on the back of his neck. As he slumped towards the floor, the last thing he felt was a slight body holding him before gently laying him down next the bed.

"Finally, it's done." Sasuke whispered; the corner of his lips quirked up as what seemed to be the weight of the world fell off his shoulders. As Naruto lost consciousness, he looked back to his wife's face to see two tracks of tears spilling out from her eyes as she fussed about with the blond's eternally spiky hair in preparation for the surgery. Stretching out a trembling hand, the last reincarnation of Indra took hold of his friend's right hand.

"At last, the cycle is broken. Perhaps, this is another form of revolution as the old man foretold..." Preparing to transfer his half of Hagoromo's power as well his own chakra reserves, Sasuke glanced up at his wife for over fifty year's glistening eyes before an uncharacteristically large grin broke out on his face.

"I love you Sakura. See you on the other side."

A small chuckle squeezed past Sakura's lips even as more tears dripped down her cheeks when she saw that smile. Leaning down, she tenderly kissed him placing a seal on his chest.

The last thing Uchiha Sasuke, Savior of the World, Last Reincarnation of Indra, heard was, "I know, Sasuke-kun. Have a good rest."

Then he saw nothing.

One Hour Later

As Naruto regained consciousness, he realized that all he could see was black before realizing the thick layer of gauze and bandages wrapped over his eyes. But he didn't motion to remove it. Instead, he reached out towards the last constant in his life.

"Kurama, you there?"

A puff of hot air rustled his hair as the giant fox made himself known.

"Yes, I'm here."

Turning around, Naruto stared into the giant crimson eye that towered above him. "...and Sakura and the bastard?"

Kurama hesitated before cautiously replying, "Naruto...they're gone."

"...I see."

Drip...drip...

Bloody tears slowly stained the bandage over his eyes red before splashing onto the floor. Gingerly standing up, Naruto fell again before steadying himself. Reaching up, he slowly began to remove the bandage around his head. When the last piece of gauze fluttered to the ground, he opened his eyes, an inky black much like the bottom of a lake during the new moon. If he looked closely, on his previously unmarked left palm was the small symbol a moon, the proof the operation worked. If he cared to pay attention, he would notice the constant bouts of agony that once consumed his mind and body were now nowhere to be felt, now replaced by a new sense of completeness as well as a new source of power lurking just underneath the surface of his skin.

But he noticed none of this. All he could see was the blurry image of his friends nestled together, their eyes forever shut and their hands tightly intertwined. Stumbling forward, he fell onto his knees and as he drew closer, he saw the small, but genuine smiles mirrored on their lips.

"Goodbye Sasuke, Sakura," Naruto whispered; leaning in, he kissed their foreheads before staggering away, his form blurring into nothingness as he raced away from Konoha, unaware and uncaring of the swathe of trees that exploded when they stood in his way.

That night, a sorrowful bellow rumbled through the land as Naruto lamented the loss of two of its legends, and more importantly his dearest friends.

30 Years Later

Three decades of time found Naruto silently standing on the easternmost shore of the Elemental Nations, watching the endless sea break against protruding rocks while enjoying the cooling sea breeze that sprang up now and again. After a particularly rough gust, the loose sleeves of his orange shirt and white trenchcoat with the kanji for Seventh Hokage sewn on it in red fluttered up, revealing a nearly invisible storage seal etched into the back of his left arm. Patting down his rebellious sleeves, he returned to quietly gazing into the endless blue sea with his now lighter black eyes, recalling everything that happened since the end of the 4th Shinobi War. From the defeat, sealing, and absorption of Kaguya, his marriage with Hinata, becoming the Seventh Hokage of Konoha and all the good times in between.

However, despite all the years he had to grieve, he refused to dwell on their deaths, rather choosing to remember them when they were alive.

A rumble through his mind broke his reverie.

"Naruto, you sure about this? If you do this and ever come back, no one will remember or even recognize you." Kurama asked.

"I'm fine Kurama. I have packed more than enough ramen and weapons…"

The giant fox interrupted him. "You know that's not what I meant brat. I'm asking whether…"

A tired sigh held back the rest of Kurama's words. "That's enough Kurama. You know why I must do this. Besides, I thought you out of the two of us would want to leave this place the most, since you've already been everywhere and don't want to potentially become a tool for others." Naruto remarked.

"Tch, fat chance of that happening if Kaguya manages to kill us. Whatever, I was just making sure you had no regrets since it would be annoying to hear you complaining about home."

"Hn, love you too furball." Naruto thought back.

"Humph, I guess anything is fine as long you don't get us killed in our journey. Anyways, your other…tenant is starting to wake up." Kurama said in a worried tone.

"Think she'll be a problem?" Naruto shot back with narrowed eyes.

"If you mean whether she will wake up in the middle of the sea…that is a very real possibility. So what will you do? Stay here and possibly lose control, or lose control in the middle of the sea with no land in sight?" Kurama asked.

"My decision remains the same. Better than possibly sinking the entire continent by accident before managing to drag her ass into space or some other dimension. Besides, it's not as if it's decided that I will lose control!" Naruto unintentionally tightened the seal-covered bandage around his right arm.

"Well said Naruto, as expected of the one holding both of my sons' chakra." Said a voice behind Naruto.

"Oi, Hagoromo-san, what did I say about suddenly talking behind my back." Naruto exclaimed, turning around to see the Rikudo no Sennin, Hagoromo Otsutsuki.

"I see that you are going with your plan on leaving the Elemental Nations? If so, I have some knowledge to share with you, along with two gifts." Hagoromo said. "First, you must know after my brother and I first sealed our mother, I created a spacetime barrier with an element of illusion around the Elemental Nations that stretched into the sea. It is because of this barrier, that there has been no visitors from outside the Elemental Nations or mention of other continents beyond this one."

"So this means…" Naruto said

"Yes, once you cross the barrier, it will be difficult for you to return to the mainland. Not even the Hiraishin no Jutsu or the Kamui can guarantee your return due to the nature of the barrier. Only when you have complete control of space and time will you be able to surely return. Should you try it without the knowledge, you might just get tossed into the void and forever drift between dimensions before landing in a random world. I never intended for the way of the shinobi to spread beyond this continent to the rest of the world. However, I should inform you, before I set up the barrier, there was a group of explorers who left soon after my creation of Ninshu around 1000 years ago." With that out of the way, Hagoromo moved closer as he raised a finger.

"Now for my gifts. My first gift is a complete list of Ninjutsu and Fuinjutsu that the Elemental Nations has ever created. No doubt this will prove useful to you. As for my second gift, I will strengthen the seal on my mother with the last of my chakra. With this, she will remain sealed for at most another three or five, years." Hagoromo said as he poked Naruto's head, instantly transferring huge amounts of knowledge as well as strengthening part of the seal that kept Kaguya dormant.

Shaking his head to get rid of the stars that had flashed in his eyes, Naruto took a deep breath before raising his fist, a layer of yellow flames flickering over it. "Thanks for everything old man."

Blinking in surprise, the Sage stared at the proffered fist before smiling and knocking against it with his own. In an instant, a stream of emotions flowed between the three: concern, fear, confidence, sadness, excitement, and others unknown to words.

As Hagoromo retracted his hand, he made one request, much to the fox's protest. "Take care of Kurama, will you. He always was the stubbornest of his siblings, and yet the most sensitive out of all of them."

"Of course…after all, he's my lifelong friend and partner." Ignoring how the fox in his belly roared out in denial of needing anyone to look after him, Naruto flicked his thumb up. However, the hidden melancholy lurking beneath his dark orbs did not escape the God of Shinobi.

"I can only hope you will one day heal and that you find somebody that can bring you happiness…son." The elder Ōtsutsuki inwardly sighed, guilt eating at him when he remembered the day the presence of Kaguya forced Naruto onto the immortal path.

"I believe you. Now it is time for you to go. Remember to train with all of your powers, and good luck." Tapping his staff against the ground, Hagoromo slowly faded from the Elemental Nations, never to be see again.

"Goodbye Hagoromo-san/Otou-san." Naruto and Kurama said one last time.

Just as he disappeared, his voice rang out one last time, just barely audible to the two, "Oh, and Naruto...Happy 100th Birthday."

Naruto sadly stared at where the first God of Shinobi disappeared with a few tears in his eyes before wiping them away.

"So even you have faded away…"

"Come on brat, let's go."

"Yeah."

#naruto #eragon #fanfic #crossover

[chainofbeing]

Adam is forced to re-evaluate his intentions Epicurosa: Laura Rodgers Harpy: Maxwell James Ginn ([email protected]) Surveyor: Lance Chapman, Nerys Howell, Mary-anne Stanek and Jesus r Carbo Ovig Nadal: Glyn Pritchard Score: Bethany Porter Lewis Sound design, Writing, and Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard An Extra Special thanks to our patrons Theresa Shiban Anthony Hyde Zachary Fortais-Gomm email us at [email protected] follow the podcast on twitter @chainofbeing Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards! 170119_hydrophone_river_3.wav by Leonsptvx

We stand on a great and sweeping mountain, a strange fog covers the landscape and movements of large obscured creatures and just about be made out. The wind shrieks in my ears, as if ordering me to leave this place, no oxygen, no protection from the harsh radiation of the sun, If I weren’t in the shadow of the tall eight armed god, Epicruosa, I imagine I would be having a much harder time standing here. Epicurosa puts on the onyx skull of a crow of some kind, decorated in banded white silver. They place a large hand on my back and push me toward the large circular chasm that lays open in front of us. It drops down, I lean over and see no bottom. They gesture toward it. “You want me to jump in?” I ask

[with each new mask epicurosas voice changes, the crow has a similar but more exaggerated quality to adams, and there is a hypnotic tone underneath that winds and and down as she speaks]

“What’s the issue? You’ll survive,”

“Yea but will I be intact?”

“I did not funnel myself into a physical form and bring you all the way out here just to watch you splatter at the bottom of a vast abyss. If I wished to do that I would have just thrown you from the top of that mesa where I rescued you from that... infected woman,” 

“Oh fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I shuffle toward the edge and turn before jumping off “What’s down there?” I’ve never seen Epicurosa’s face without a mask, I see her gray textured skin, glowing yellow eyes and black teeth. Completely unobscured I imagine the sight of her bare face would destroy some part of me. Despite the skull mask I can see her frustration. “Think of the universe as a body, mortals live their entire life on the skin, maybe they’ll cut through the epidermis every so often but that,” she gestures to the open maw of the mountain “Is a place where the skin has been pierced and reaches the flesh and bone,”

“Oh,” I turn back to the chasm “And why do you want me to-”

Epicurosa sighs angrily and shoves me over the edge and I get the sense that something watches me fall, the stone sides of the huge hole that start as rough, natural looking stone soon gives way an impossibly smooth and flawless texture, too smooth even to seem mortal made, something approaches and I hit a layer of water, I sink through for a second, carried by my momentum, before I pass and continue falling, strangely though, it seems as if I am falling up, a circle or orange light approaches and I sail up into the air and back down again, landing on my feet on a wide square, white stone platform. The space is incredibly vast, there is a roof and sides to it, made of the same white stone of the pyramid, the sides go straight up for miles and then begin to slope inwards until they reach the wide flat ceiling which so far away that I can only just make it out through the atmosphere that sits, trapped in this impossible place. Huge pillars are carved into the walls that stretch high above me. Multiple balconies protrude out from the sides on which stand colossal figures, obscured by robe and fire, they look down upon me, vigilant guards holding flaming golden spears. The roof leads to an open octagonal hole through which a warm light shines through, thin trails of sand cascade down and land in a large garden whose borders are entirely defined by where the light falls. Four huge walls stretch the whole height of this space evenly around the octagon, partially barring my full vision of the garden, and even the whole space as the walls prevent me from seeing the side directly opposite. This place I’m stood in is so incredibly huge that the minimal light just barely illuminates the vast cavern. The floor at the bottom of the pyramid is covered in a variety of landscapes: rocky heaths, tors, promontories, and various other rock formations that jut into the air, forming long bridges, platforms and canyons, far off in the distance I see pools of some molten substance of various sizes dotted sporadically here and there, with long thin rivulets trailing around the landscape. At the bottom of the long staircase that trails along the side of the pyramid I see that the rock is actually something akin to glass, unrefined and opaque but still clearly glass. I look up at the angels in their flaming shrouds, their gaze still fixed on me. From Behind a pillar of glass a creature of some kind swiftly rushes up into the air, rising into the air far, far above me. I watch it sail out of sight toward the ceiling, and begin to walk, heading for the garden at the center. I take a step and hear something rushing toward me from above, I look up and see the creature headed straight for me, I draw my sword and ready myself, it moves so quickly that I can just barely discern its form. It descends in a blur of glistening black feather, and pale skeletal claw. It deftly avoids my blade and tears a gash in my arm. The thing lands on the sloping wall of the inverse pyramid behind my and skitters around. A thick oily substance drips from its feathers which stand in a show of active hostility, it turns it’s head toward me and I get a look at it’s face. For that is what it possesses. I can call it nothing but human in nature. A genderless and sickly face the black sludge oozes from it’s pale eyes and seeps from its snarling teeth. It’s features are sharp and cruel.

[the harpy’s voice is harsh and gravelly]

 “This is a place of knowledge and discovery, you sully the ground on which you walk, what say you, intruder?”

“Epicurosa, she sent me here,” The beast shivers as I say their name, as it speaks globules of the black liquid splatter and drip from its thin sickly lips

“If you were indeed placed here, and you didn’t intrude where you should not, as you are known to do, then you have been placed here to die!” the creature pushes away from the pyramid wall and spins as it goes for another attack. I hold my sword up in a defensive stance, it grabs the sword with its bone-like claws and shatters the metal. I go to grab it but the oil that soaks it’s feathers causes it to slip from my grasp. “All you know is to destroy! Even in your non-violent pursuits, you hurt those around you,”

“You think I don't know?” I say, gesturing toward the bird which hovers in the air with my shattered sword “do you not think the thought crosses my mind everyday?”

“And what have you done to atone? Promises to ‘be better’? The damage has been done, the collapse of Eden is your burden, the death of the others is on you,  your plan to simply not repeat your crimes is meaningless,” I gesture around me, my clothes soaked in black sludge and my arm bleeding freely “what do you think this is? My immortality, letting myself get dragged around by gods and bureaucrats and fucking fascists. Being thrown into bottomless pits, pursuing incomprehensible extra universal entities. Why do you think I do this?”

“You pursue Ovig Nadal in the hopes that you will understand the information that was forced into your mind, do not posture about duty and morals, your pursuits were as selfish as they ever were. Understanding what it is you have in your mind will not bring Eve back, it will not uncorrupt your realm in Eden,”

“Do not presume to know me, why can it not be both? Why can I not stop Ovig Nadal for the benefit of the universe and its inhabitants and for my own ‘selfish’ justification? Why must I ignore my own needs? I am all I have in this world, I am the only one who is there to help me,” I ready my firearm and raise it to the creature, whose face is almost entirely covered in the black oily sheen 

“And that is why you shall fail” it says as it explodes in a fountain of black oil. I look down at my now shattered sword, the shards lay scattered around me, some submerged in the black sludge, “What the fuck?” The sludge reeks of spent electrics and leaking batteries. I check the clip in my Sub-machine gun. 18 rounds. Thank the stars for high capacity magazines. I affix it to my hip and start to navigate the maze of glass pillars and strange formations. My arm starts to sting, I didn’t have enough time to restock on bandages, my last two got used up patching the wound created by the Rolder. I go through a small thin trench constantly adjusting my way to try and head in the direction of the garden at the centre of this strange vast place. I look at my reflection in the sheen of the dark glass wall, covered in blood and filth, “something has turned it’s benevolent gaze upon you,” I usually don’t think too hard into what the gods say, their words often hold more meaning than I could ever hope to know. That, combined with the fact that language and communication are based on experience, and the experience of a god is so infinitely different to any non-divine that they have to, essentially, dumb it down and feed it through the filter of what they know to be the non-divine experience means I tend let the general malaise of meaning and intent wash over me, but those words stuck out, they feel so out of place coming from the mouth of a god, usually so impassive and calculating. The trench begins to widen and the ground beneath my feet gradually changes from hard opaque glass to a coarse grey sand which stretches ahead of me shifting to a deep rich brown earth. The trench widens out further and I realise I have reached the centre. I turn and look behind me, the landscape now entirely different. The trench has been replaced with a short sloping escarpment, the pyramid on which I arrived now absent, however the resplendent golden glow of the ever observant angels, now mere spots illuminating the balconies on which they stand, remains consistent. I have no doubt that they watch me now through their shrouds aflame, I begin to march over the rough sand, headed towards the illuminated garden, before I hear a muffled voice. “Hey!” I stop in my tracks and my hand goes to my gun, “Woah” the voice responds to my initial act of hostility “Do you always pull a gun to calls for help?”

“Sorry,” I say to the general area, unsure of who I am addressing, “Recently everything I’ve come across has tried to kill me, or absorb me,” 

“Yeah but every star emits light, you don’t see planets orbiting a lightbulb do you?” 

“Huh?”

“A sun emits light, a lightbulb also emits light, but a lightbulb is not a star. In the same way, there are things here that will try to kill you, I am a thing that is here, but I do not want to kill you. You gotta take each interaction case by case man. I get it, you’re human, you like to see patterns, it’s in your nature,”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Aw man, this is gonna take forever,” a second voice chimes in

“Bah, ça fait aussi une éternité qu'on attend, hein” a third voice says in an old human tongue

“No we haven’t! we’ve only been here a few weeks,”

“the clock says 9567 years 3 months and 5 days,” 

a fourth voice points out

“Oh yeah because time totally acts like normal down here doesn’t it?”

“Hey!” I say, “at least let me know what direction to look in when I’m talking to you,”

“Turn left, bit more, bit more. Right, now forward a bit, look down,”

I look down and see what I had subconsciously registered as a rock buried in the sand surrounded by many others, the worn metal holds a remarkably similar colour to the glass rocks that peek out of the coarse sand, 

“You might need to do a bit of digging to get to us,” I begin to scrape and dig around and reveal a glowing blue eye of some kind

“Oh mon dieu, il a une sale tronche!”

“Tell me about it- what's up with the horns?”

I sigh, “It’s a long story,”

“Looks kinda like the landscape of this place,”

“It’s not lost on me,” I say as I excavate the side of what becomes increasingly clear to be a space probe of human design. And an old one. After a few minutes I finally manage to get a good portion of the body of this thing exposed. I lean against the side of the small crater I’ve dug out, foot resting against the probe itself.

“Better?” I ask

“Much, so what brings you to this angel infested hellhole?,”

“I was going to ask you the same thing actually, I was brought here by a god, got pushed down a big hole in a mountain and then I ended up here. She said this was a place where she could ‘find out some things about me’,”

“How deliciously vague,”

“My name is Adam, by the way. As in, like the Adam. The first human. Just feel like I should let you know,”

The eye stares at me in what I assume to be disbelieving silence 

“I mean is it as crazy as anything else you’ve seen here? You obviously have accepted the existence of the angels,”

“You make a good point, how much have we missed?”

“Aw man, I’m guessing you were sent from earth?”

“Yeah,”

“Right so, that’s gone,”

“Was it what I think it was?,”

“I don’t know what you think it was but probably, they put up a good fight if it’s any consolation, launched a bunch of conservation stations, made some good preparations. Wasn’t quite enough in the end but you know, at least they tried,”

[an awkward silence]

“so uh… what’s your deal?”

“We are Surveyor 14,”

“How did you get here?” I ask

“On faisait partie d'une mission pour découvrir à quoi ressemble/ressemblait l'intérieur d'un trou noir. On est équipés d'une technologie très puissante qui nous permet d'échapper à l'attraction gravitationnelle, avec les données toujours intactes, et rentrer au bercail, (bah...)dans un chassis détruit, c'est vrai, mais bon. Bon, le fait est qu'on a été envoyés en mission, puis qu'on a été absorbés et qu'on s'est retrouvés... ici. Pour une raison qui m'échappe, on s'est divisés en quatre personnalités différentes... et voilà où on en est,”

[adam pauses] “ah… I see”

“We’ve had a lot of time to think here, or maybe we haven’t, it’s kind of hard to tell,”

“Hey, I’m not really sure what I’m doing here so if you need someone to bounce ideas off of,”

The AI turns it’s one glowing eye toward me and focuses. “Are we alone in the universe adam?”

“You mean are there aliens? I probably should have mentioned this, so there’s this council-” 

“Not aliens, we mean, do you stand alone? An Island surrounded by multitudes of other Islands, or are we all intrinsically one collective? A continent that lessens with each death and grows with each birth,”

“I don’t know,”

“In the hundreds of thousands of years you’ve had to be alive, you’re telling me you haven’t thought of it once?”

“I feel empathy, if that’s what you’re asking, I feel the need to help others. If that drive comes from a place of real altruism (if such a thing truly exists) or some kind of need to atone for all the wrong I’ve done I cannot say,”

“(Bah) ça, c'est pas ce qu'on a demandé”

“My actions have an effect, as much as I wish they didn’t, I still am a part of the collective, I still am a cog in the great cosmic machine. At the most minute level I displace the air around me, my feet shake the ground ever so slightly with each step. Butterfly wings and typhoons. At the same time, it’s hard for me to feel a part of a population whose experience is so totally different to mine,"

“You think you’ve got a monopoly on isolation? On guilt?” 

“Hé! Redescends un peu!”

“You’re not the only one who feels guilt for what they’ve done, it’s an age-old feeling, and yes, there are certain circumstances of your life that are specific to you, but your experience is not as unique as you may think. You yourself admit you are part of the ‘comic machine’ as you put it. You are not the mouse to the man, You are the elder that tries to relate to their grandchild, the child speaks as a child, the elder speaks as an elder, and yet there is no sense of lost community within the tribe. So why not you? Even if you cannot find common experience in your past life, can you not find commonality in being in a harsh and uncaring universe? Are you so detached, that you relate more to gods than mortals? There are threats beyond even divine comprehension at play, and yet you still manage to separate yourself from the rest,”

“Wait, how do you know about-”

 “Deep down I believe you truly care for others, but until you believe that you are a part of the continent, you cannot truly enact a beneficial change in any meaningful way.”

I lean back against the side of the crater and look up the ceiling obscured by distance and darkness, 

“So, uh, you know how to get out of here?”

“I was hoping you’d know actually, you’ve been here longer than me, have you seen anyone or anything else enter and leave this place?”

“Occasionally the angels will blink out and then return, but other than that it’s been pretty quiet here,”

“I’m thinking we should at least head into the light, now I don’t think I’ll be able to carry you, is there a data core or something I could remove?”

“Data core?”

“Wouh, regardez s'il est chic celui-là avec ses data cores!,”

“We’ve got a hard drive, just pop open the chassis and then have a root around,”

I pry open a door on the outside of the probe and start searching for a harddrive amongst the instruments and circuits, I feel something with a handle on it

“Is this it?” I ask

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? If I squeezed your liver would you be able to tell me if I’d got the right organ?”

“It’s not quite the same but I see your point,” I grab a hold of the handle “See you on the other side,” I unlock the hard drive and pull it out from the machine. The glowing eye goes dim and I hold up the hard drive to the light coming from the octagonal opening in the ceiling to this place. I scramble out of the hole and dust myself off with one hand, the hard drive is heavy but I still manage to carry it in one hand toward the edge of the light, the gap between the two huge walls on either side of me is wide and sits perfectly at the barrier between the golden light and the dark. I stand at the edge and peer into the garden, twisting old trees bearing fruit, both alien and yet painfully familiar, thin leafed bushes and pale grass, the sand that tumbles down doesn’t seem to drown the garden and instead pushes outwards to the rest of this place. At this distance I’m finally able to clearly see what's on the inside of the walls. All along an intricate diagram is embossed in gold, strange shapes and symbols stretch the entire length of each wall. No words, not in any language a non-divine could comprehend, each wall is different. Perhaps they display, perhaps they praise. Maybe a bit of both. They display a scale of some kind, from what I can discern it represents a gradation, all flowing from a single source, each wall represents a different aspect or group of aspects and how they relate to said source. I pass the barrier between the dim cold of the glass fields and enter the warm garden. The light soaks through my skin. Ragged and bleeding I stand for a moment in the resplendent light.

[he simply breathes for a few seconds]

“Alright let’s get the fuck of here,” The garden rises ever so slightly, a shrine sits atop this small hill, smooth white stone, it encircles a hexagonal basin, golden light plays off of the surfaces like sunlight off of water. It’s perfectly geometric, angles and simple shapes fused with each other in 3 dimensional symmetry,  spiralling and tumbling down, too complex to be aesthetically pleasing but it’s not there for me. I approach the wide basin, at least my height in width, I kneel at it’s edge and peer into the golden liquid, it’s thin and only carries a slight luster and it’s deep, the edges on the outside curve inward down maybe half a metre, but looking into the deep liquid it seems to go outwards and much further down, some bright light dances around down there. 

“Now what?” I say to the silent hard drive that leans against the side of the basin. I stand and brush myself off. 

Suddenly, as if they had been stood there this entire time behind some curtain which now, upon my being here is dropped to reveal their presence, I see several angels, one hovers above the shrine it’s wings of golden shards extended outward, I take a step back, with the hard drive of surveyor-14 still in hand, it floats to the ground  It has in its hand a long spear of gold, at the tip of the blade a small fire blazes white hot. It lowers the spear to my chest, and slowly pushes it into my heart, not with any malice or intent to damage, but with a conviction akin to a sculptor using a chisel or a carpenter using a plane. The world, or at least my perception of it, begins to wobble and convulse as if seen through weeping eyes. This effect recedes and I see the world through the eyes of something else, through a veil of golden fire and white robe I watch a battle between two forces, one I recognise, the form of Ovig Nadal, who causes such an entropic effect on the universe and one I do not, the common form of a god, for sure, but not one that has deigned to make its presence known to me. Beyond this physical interpretation I get the sense something much grander takes place between vast formless things and that this display is simply the tip of the iceberg poking out from the great depths of the cosmic ocean, my perception of these events begins to wobble again as Ovig Nadal grabs the angel whose vision I borrow and brings it close to his face. He peers into its eyes, his multitudes of teeth thick with the molten glass that fills the angels and his pale eyeless head bleeding that polychrome matter, damaged and cut all over. I can only assume this is a form he manifested or grew from some pre-existing entity he possessed. He holds the angel close to him and says “You watch one step toward a better universe Adam, a step forward in the progression of this universe to a state in which it never will have been as it is now,” and as his opponent readies another attack, Ovig Nadal crushes the angel and the vision finally begins to falter too much for me to see anything clearly. 

I arise and pull back from the golden spear that intersects with my heart, I look up to see it now being wielded by Epicurosa wearing a wolf skull on her hooded head.

“We have deemed you ready, I will send you to the aftermath of that battle and-,”

“I still don’t understand, why me? Not why me. Why not you? You are the most powerful thing I have ever seen, you formed humanity and the Veatorians from nothing. You Shift cosmic forces with no effort or exertion. Why are you, or any of your peers unable to do this? I want to, I really do, it used to be that I wanted to understand what it is I learned, to make what I did worth it, but I have realised that it is not about making it worth it but is instead atoning, the intent has changed but my action remains the same. But I must know, why?”

She exchanges her wolf skull for that of some kind of large fish, not an animal I have ever seen.

“I could force your understanding, I could initiate a vision. It would torment you, as it does Might-Upon-Serenity, unable to convey or sufficiently re-create in your memory. Instead I will try to explain, in language. Gods are not physical beings, I believe a Veatorian philosopher once referred to us as “concepts with will” and while ‘concept’ carries certain connotations she had the right idea. Ovig Nadal is unlike anything this universe has ever seen, I do not know his origins, I simply know he is other and that we cannot affect him, you saw through that angel's eyes, there was nothing that Aratheau could do to destroy him. Our common forms can cause harm to each other: matter touches matter, but celestially, we cannot influence him, but he can us. I believe that you will be able to do affect him in a significant way, and the fact that there is something beyond even divinity that surrounds you and guides us to help you, proves that I am right,”

[with relief]

“Thank you,” 

“I am going to send you to that place within the vision, follow him. And whatever he intends to do, stop him,”

“I know his intentions, Might upon serenity, in a moment of clarity as we shared a vision corrupted by Ovig Nadal, she told me he seeks Eden,”

Epicurosas whole demeanour shifts, if I were to assign emotions to a divine being of pure though I would have called it… fear

“If that is indeed the case, then our situation is far more dire than previously anticipated. Let us hope you will be able to stop him before this happens”

A portal manifests behind me. “Could I ask something of you?”

“You may ask,” I hold up the hard drive

“Would you construct a body for them? Make them whole please, they’ve helped me on my journey, I think they deserve it,”

“That I can do,” she takes it from me and I walk through the portal, leaving behind the divine setting of glass landscapes and perfect stone, I step through into my new setting, a collapsed city aflame...

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