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#and he feels sickly vindicated
dacrekayd · 2 years
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someone make a fic about eddie not trusting that steve is actually a good guy who wants to be friends (and more) and keeps being a dick to steve out of self preservation and no one noticing how much steve is hurting and how he’s slowly pulling away from them and retreating into himself bc he knew it he knew he wasn’t good enough he knew he’d never be good enough for anyone not his parents not nancy not his stupid high school friends and definitely not eddie fucking munson who looks at steve like he’s the scum at the bottom of his boot and calls him King Steve, and Your Highness in the most derogatory way he can manage but it’s never Just Steve and it makes steve feel so so small and he’s just so tired and emotionally rung bc he really liked eddie and he really thought they could’ve had something amazing and soft and sweet and he’s just so heartbroken that this amazing man hates him so goddamn much
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tj-dragonblade · 2 months
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Hi! I'd like to hear something about the fishbowl therapy fic, please!
Ah, this is probably my favorite year-old idea that I really want to write but haven't quite gotten around to. I like the concept, I like the visuals that I've got in head, but so much of the necessary conversations just fizzle when I try to flesh them out. I'm sure I can get it right if I focus on it long enough, though. The long rambly synopsis with a tiny snippet of drafting included:
Sometime after their 2022 reunion, with more frequent meetings etc, Dream finally tells Hob why he missed their 1989 meeting. And Hob is very much Not Okay about it. He has so many feelings - the horror of his friend having been held captive that long, rage on Dream's behalf, self-recrimination that he didn't know, he could have done something if he'd known, and a crushing guilt over every unkind thought he had after 1989 (never mind that he got over them, he still thought them in the first place and his friend was stuck in a glass cage while Hob was wallowing in self-pity and uncharitable assumptions).
But Hob stuffs all his feelings about this down inside, because what kind of friend would he be to make Dream's trauma-sharing all about his own reaction? So he tries very hard to keep his own feelings out of the conversation, aside from some commiserative vindication when Dream confirms that everyone who held him is either dead or dealt with.
But he is Extremely Upset about it all evening, and ends up dreaming about it. Dream catches awareness of his distress, visits the dream. He didn't give Hob specifics in their conversation, 'a glass cage' and 'basement' were the key details and Hob has dreamed up something akin to a zoo exhibit - the cage is rectangular, three glass walls attached to a fourth stone wall, roomy enough to pace about in, a proper semblance of a bed in one corner. Dream watches as Hob stands on the outside, talking to the dream-version of Dream inside the cell - a Dream who still has his clothes, he had not shared that detail with Hob either - and makes himself known after only a moment. Hob is apologetic, he's so sorry he's making this all about himself, but Dream is…pleased, by his distress. 'Pleased' is not quite the word, but it is comforting to know that someone is so upset on his behalf. He takes the place of his dream-self within the cell, urges Hob to continue, to tell him everything he's held back. It's easy to be detached from the memory when the setting is wrong, and he is warmed despite everything at how vehemently Hob insists he would have come, how sorry he is for thinking Dream had chosen to stay away, etc etc. Eventually they are talking about how Dream is coping with it, is he healing from his trauma, and of course he says it does not bother him, but Hob is like 'If I'd spent more than a hundred years cooped up in this -' gesturing at the spacious cage he's envisioned '- I'd be - I'd be something. I wouldn't just be okay about it.' And Dream, feeling peevish and daring, decides to push.
"It was not like this," he says. "You dream it too kind."
Hob blinks at him. "…What?"
"You dream it too kind," Dream repeats. "Shall I show you the truth of it?"
"I…okay," Hob agrees, foreboding and unease in his tone, and Dream shifts the basement around them. With less than a thought he is naked in the suspended glass orb again, the painted stars mocking him from above and the the binding circle a sickly glow beneath him, the dank reaches of the underbelly of Fawney Rig stretching into infinity in every direction. Hob stumbles back a step with a shocked cry, horror flooding his features; he nearly flails backwards into the moat and steps forward again, stumbles to his knees, staring up at Dream with tears flooding his eyes.
"What the fuck—god, Dream—!"
And while he's processing all over again the full depth of the horror that was done to his friend, Dream is feeling something akin to panic creeping over him now that he's here again. He is less okay than he thought he was, the memory is pressing in again, and he focuses on Hob's distress to mitigate his own. There's gotta be a moment of both of them pressing hands to the glass; they get to a point where Hob just sort of spirals into a frenzy of 'gotta get you out, gotta get you out' that feeds Dream's own latent panic that he's definitly not giving in to, never mind that he can't stop repeating 'Free me, Hob, free me' (?) over and over. Hob's scrabbling about for anything that might help him break the glass and shortly dreams up a crowbar; he scrambles to his feet and starts swinging. It's thick glass, and magical etc, and it takes Hob whaling on it quite a lot before it begins to crack, and plenty more hits before it shatters. Whereupon Dream drops to the floor, free, unbothered by the broken glass all around. Hob suddenly has a jacket so that he can take it off and wrap it around Dream, and somewhere in the surging relief of the re-enacted rescue Hob just flings his arms around Dream and kisses him. Dream is taken by surprise, but things are definitely falling into place for him and he kisses back. Hob jerks back, doing a full 'oh shit I kissed him my secret's out I've ruined everything' kind of take; Dream just grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him back down, kisses him again.
There is a little more conversation here in the dream as heat and realization build; then Dream, 'weary of this wretched basement' and wanting Hob to remember all of this, ends the dream and manifests in Hob's bed as Hob wakes. There is sex and conversation to finish it out, Dream finally voicing out loud how much it means that there is someone who would have come for him, who will come to his defense no matter how unnecessary, who thinks he's worth the effort of rescuing.
Like I said, I stumble over the conversations somewhat and that makes it easy to let this one languish in the depths of the wip file. All that Hob-pov exposition at the beginning isn't really part of it either, since this will be Dream's pov, but I've got to convey all that via Hob talking to dream-Dream and then actual-Dream in the dream itself. I'll get it all ironed out one day. Hopefully.
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turtle-paced · 1 month
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I feel so dumb, but I don’t understand why did Tyrion send his men to kidnap Tommen in ACOK. What was he thinking?
Here we go:
"No. I want him taken on to the castle." Removing the boy from the city was one of his sister's better notions, Tyrion had decided. At Rosby, Tommen would be safe from the mob, and keeping him apart from his brother also made things more difficult for Stannis; even if he took King's Landing and executed Joffrey, he'd still have a Lannister claimant to contend with. "Lord Gyles is too sickly to run and too craven to fight. He'll command his castellan to open the gates." Tyrion X, ACoK
Tyrion's concern that Cersei sent Tommen off with inadequate security is vindicated spectacularly when the following happens.
Ser Boros had been escorting Tommen and Lord Gyles when Ser Jacelyn Bywater and his gold cloaks had surprised them, and had yielded up his charge with an alacrity that would have enraged old Ser Barristan Selmy as much as it did Cersei; a knight of the Kingsguard was supposed to die in defense of the king and royal family. Tyrion XI, ACoK
While Cersei had the right idea, Tyrion saw the execution was lacking. Cersei's also not going to be receptive to suggestions that the execution was lacking. Tyrion stepped in more directly, in Tommen's best interests.
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A Dinner on Figure Eight
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TW: Smut. Language. 
SUMMARY: You prove to Pope you want only him, despite your family’s objections. 
WORD COUNT: 1600
REQUESTED:
hii! can you do a pope x kook!reader smut where they visit her family for the holidays (like in the pilot where john b says that some kooks visit the island for the summer, so they go off island) where the parents don’t really like pope and try to set her up with another rich guy and reader and pope sneak off and have sex (maybe in a car? idk lol)
A Dinner on Figure Eight
"Are you sure the tie isn't too much?" He asked nervously while standing on the steps of your childhood home. Your fingers adjusted the creases made in his dress shirt from his inability to remain still as you smirked. 
"You look perfect, Pope." 
"No." He corrected, his hands magnetized to your hips. 
"YOU look perfect...damn..." He shook his head. "Do you think it's too late to take advantage of the fact you're wearing a skirt?" He asked with his forehead pressed softly into yours while his fingers contrasted this in eagerness at your waist. In the same vindication, you pulled that very tie loose in bringing him closer to you before teasing his lips with the ghosting of your own gliding across his. 
"Your gift today is in here..." You explained while tapping his jacket, still worn over his arm. He offered a quizzical look before pulling your panties to view. 
"Babe-" 
"Just something to make you a bit less nervous..." 
"Now all I'm going to be able to think about is getting my hands under this skirt-" You smirked. The sudden clearing of your father's throat having sent Pope to turn sickly in appearance as you smoothed over what you could. 
"I hope you haven't had all the champagne yet..." You offered as you pulled Pope behind you, as your family greeted you with love. But in this example, you were separated from Pope, who held his own through the strongest confidence he could have before you were allowed to join him again. 
"You remember Topper?" Your mother asked. "It's been some time since you two spent some time together-" 
"Mom-" 
"Just friends catching up. Topper has actually decided to come to a school closer to home." He nodded, broadcasting a smile that paled against Pope's,  that you hadn't seen since you crossed over to Figure Eight. 
"Nothing wrong with weighing your options..." Your father spoke to Topper, with a side glance that made you well aware his words were more directed to you. 
"I don't know. Seems like Topper was completely content where he was. Unless it was the pressure of his family that made him switch. Then he isn't doing it for himself...which he should because they should just want him to be happy..." 
"And I'm sure one day HE will understand that everything they've done was to give the best life." 
"And what if your idea of the best isn't what they want?" Your eyes narrowed, your conversation silencing all others as Pope cleared his throat. 
"I can go if-" 
"No. We're staying. Can you pass the gravy?" You asked your father, a rather lackluster conversation holding nobody's attention as Pope lowered his voice to you. 
"Baby, I don't want to be a reason anything is tense, I can wait outside." To this, you clenched your jaw at the thought. Ever since Pope and you had begun dating, he made you feel precious at every second at his side. And in those you were apart, whether it had been because of school or work, a sweet, sometimes sultry, text would remind you that you were on his mind. But all your family saw as a collective had been his lack of self sustainability. 
"Actually..." You turned to face Pope, teasing that same tie left loose from your former moment. 
"I want you to fuck me." He choked on his drink, the hand at rest over your crossed legs having tightened as he turned into you. 
"Baby-" 
"I want to feel you inside of me while I tell you how good it is..." His eyes fluttered in a fight to stay open. "I want you to make me come as hard as you always do...but then I want you to kiss me..." You brought two fingers to his jaw to turn him to face you. His eyes locked onto yours. "And then I want you to do it again..." 
Your name was spoken as a scold as you turned to face your mom. 
"Don't be rude..." 
"I'm talking to my boyfriend." You corrected as Pope was still drowning in your request to pay much attention to your family. Even Topper’s presence faded at the thought of your words. 
"Who spent the entire last five paychecks on your gifts by the way....ones you don't deserve-" 
"We can just-" 
"But he does. Every single thing I'm going to let him do to me in about five minutes-" 
"Enough!" Your father spat. 
"Oh..." You reached into Pope's pocket. "There you go, Top...that's the closest you're gonna get..." You glared at your family before pulling Pope by his hand and leading him back outside. 
"Baby-" 
"I'm tired of them doing this. Im sorry if I embarrassed you, Pope, I just can't stand that they don't see in you what I do, it's-" He silenced you with a kiss to your lips. A palm on either cheek ran to your hair, made loose by this grip. Those loose eaves at a natural rest on the back of either shoulder as you were pinned against the car. 
"I love you." 
"Show me how much." You challenged as he moved to pull open the passenger side of the car before you moved past him and opened the back. 
"How are you going to take me from behind and slap my ass with such little room?" You challenged as he clenched his jaw, catching your arm just before you climbed over the seat. 
"I wanted to get you home...to a bed...somewhere I can tie you down because you're being particularly coquettish..." 
"I can't wait. I won't. " you turned to face him, playing with his tie before sliding it off of his neck, "But you can still tie me down if you want...You might want to because I don't think I can keep my hands still..." You offered a pout as he moved to kiss you, you retracting at the very last moment, before he followed you into the backseat. 
"You really want to do this here?" He asked as you slipped up your skirt enough to reveal the validation of those bare hips, now accentuated with your dripping sex. With a cocked brow, he lowered himself to the floor of the back and angled you quickly until his tongue was at those folds. 
"Oh my God!" 
"Mmm...mmmhmmm..." He moaned into you as your body began to move against him. 
"Pope!" The windows were quick to condensate. 
"I wanna feel you inside me! I wanna feel you fuck me!" 
He undressed, leaving his dress shirt in a part and his pants gathered at his ankles in impatience, before bringing you back into the kneeling of his legs. 
"Oh shit!" He grunted, his grasp holding tightly onto the fabric of your dress at your stomach as the other hand moved to your breast, countering this cover. 
"I need to feel all of you-" 
"Im yours to touch...yours ro fuck, Pope...so fuck me..." You whimpered as he tightened you further into him. 
"I love hearing you say that...But I love making it true..." He thrusted into you, your hands projecting from his wrists and to the door in front of you, forcing a handprint evidential to the window. 
"I love you!" You belted as he quickened. 
"I love you, baby..." He groaned into your shoulder, grunting and moaning as he built to his own edge. 
"Pope! I need to come, you feel too good..." 
"I want you to do it..." You faced him. 
"While I'm inside of you, baby...let me feel you touch yourself for me..." 
"Mmm..." You began immediately, quick to bring yourself to tremors as his depth made this possible. 
"Oh my God..." 
"I need you!" You announced as he nodded, exchanging your hand for his own. 
"Nobody has ever felt like you, Pope!" 
"Nobody will. Because nobody will take care of you like this..." 
"No...nobody!" You validated as he nodded. 
"Good...so good-shit! Baby!" 
"Come for me, Pope-" But instead, he retracted, pulling you to sit normally on the seat. A hand to the back of your neck brought you to eye him as his dominant hand moved in attack to your sex. Pistoning fingers forcing your mouth to part. 
"Fuck! Are you trying to make me squirt?!" 
"Wouldn't be the first time..." He smirked. "Not like you have panties in the way..." 
"Pope!" You gripped his wrist. 
"It's too much!" 
"I can't hear you baby...you're coming too loudly-" 
"Oh my God! Oh my GOD!" You gasped, that river of pulsating pleasure making you unabashed to your body's flexing against him. Wild hips and quick moans leaving you desperate and manic. 
"Fuck..." He smirked, reaching to suck his fingers as you straddled him. 
"I said twice..." You reminded. 
"You did, didn't you?" He grinned as you brought him back inside of you. 
"It isn't too much?" 
"It always is with you...but I love it." You confirmed as you rode him into his own orgasm. Your name, a song on his lips as you grinned widely to the victory in what your body brought to him. His grip and his moaning validating this as he shot into you. 
"Let's get you home..." Pope explained as you paused with a hand to his chest. 
"I am." You kissed him sweetly as he reciprocated deeply. He reminded you of both love and lust with his touch. Soft but passionate. The perfect combination of everything. And that was what he was to you. 
Everything. 
Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @drews1love
MASTERLIST
CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST
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linzod · 26 days
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Read Me Your Longing - Chapters 1 and 2
As part of the Centennial Husbands Big Bang I’m posting this work in full on Tumblr today! If you are like me and like to read a little slower, I will be uploading 3 chapters a week on AO3 - link below.
Including the amazing cover art by @lalaithquetzallicaresi who made not just one, but three amazing pieces for this story!
AO3 Link
Master Post
Featuring: An escape, an amnestic mind, a fond memory, a reunion, a threat, a memory, and a hope.
Without further preamble- if you are here for the story- read on!
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Chapter 1
His eyes blink rapidly, lashes clearing away fine bits of glass.  Everything is so bright.  He looks down at himself. He is unclothed, and his pale skin reflects a sickly blue hue from the fluorescent light, in stark contrast to the rivulets of dark red blood dripping from lacerations scattered across his torso.  He stands on the cold concrete, but he does not feel the chill. He does not feel the stretch of his muscles after so many years crouched and wretched.  All he feels is vindication.  
He glances behind him and sees the orb of twisted glass and iron hanging ajar, several panels blown out and crumbling around his feet.  Ahead of him is a multitude of bodies in blue uniforms, scattered through the space, twisted, and unmoving.  His time has finally come.
Starting to move forward, he sees the circle of runes drawn around him.  As he takes a step over them, his feet ache from the embedded glass, but that is nothing compared to the pain he feels as his body seizes tortuously, gripped by an invisible force, dragging him back. But he is greater than this; it will imprison him no longer. He continues to strain and although he feels himself moving slowly forward, something, some part of himself, is still caught in the circle. He senses it as an ache in the very center of his being, but he must not stop. He is so close. One last excruciating push, and he is on the other side, breathless and trembling.  
He looks around yet again, before he feels a new and terrible burning sensation sweep through his head and down his spine, leaving him panting even harder.  As his breath calms enough for him to think, he jerks back in shock. While he remembers crossing the circle, he recognizes, with growing dread, that he does not know where he is.  Even worse, he realizes, as his thoughts race, and panic starts to creep up his throat, that he does not know who he is.  He knows nothing about himself beyond pain, and cold, and fear.  He looks around at his surroundings, searching for clues, emotions morphing into an even greater sense of dread as he takes in the scene around him. He sees a damp and dark basement, prone and bleeding figures, a twisted cage, and his own body, naked and injured. Is he the cause of this carnage?
One of the prone figures shifts up and pushes a button on a black box at her hip, raising an alarm, “The creature is out, all guards to the main house immediately.  We, oh god, we’ve got seven men down in the basement.  I don’t know if they’re alive, fuck!”
He feels weak, confused, and wrung out, but he knows he needs to flee.  He starts to move towards the stairs, where a great black gate is hanging desperately from one hinge.  He grabs a trench coat from a rack, but before he can find anything to cover his mangled feet, he hears static arise from the woman’s device, and a panicked male voice calls out, “Received.  Keep him there, we’re two minutes out.”
The woman behind him barks out an order, obviously directed at him, “Freeze,” and he hears a metallic clicking noise.
He does not hesitate at all as he starts to run, tearing through the gate, the impact of a gunshot lodging in the stone wall beside him. In mere moments he has surmounted the steps and finds himself on the first floor of a vast manor house.  He smells moist soil and hears frogs croaking their spring songs, and follows the sensory information through the labyrinthine halls.  He breaks through the front door, tearing out and away, towards the dark tree line, with the sound of braying dogs and yelling voices close behind him.
***
The day his Stranger returns to him starts like any other.  It is, by all measures, an ordinary day.  But after centuries of immortal life, one thing that Hob Gadling knows is that an extraordinary life is nothing more than a series of these ordinary days, with a few extraordinary moments interspersed.  Whether meeting a future spouse, being inspired to find a new career, or being made immortal by a beautiful, raven-haired man while drinking with your blokes at a tavern, each day starts as any other, with no clue to its future significance.  That is why it is always worth it to live through it all, because life is just too fascinating to ever want to die.
On this particular ordinary day, Hob sits in the brilliant sun on a bench on campus, enjoying a perfect late spring afternoon.  The semester is winding down, and even the daunting pile of ungraded exams next to him can’t chase away his contentment.  He enjoys his life, and no moments shine more brightly than ones like this, where he senses the peace and rightness that can sometimes exist in the world. He feels at one with his past and future, content in his choices and atonements. He feels like he is exactly where he should be, and that sensation is like a balm for his old soul.
As the warmth of the sun seeps into his core, he reflects on another warm spring day where a beautiful afternoon like this transformed into a bucolic evening spent in solitude in the back garden of a nondescript cottage. He does not remember the details of that particular residence, but what he can’t forget is the slow arrival of the blackness of night, sinking around him, and the clarity of the stars above.  He remembers how in those days you could see the Milky Way just outside the city, bright and comforting and ever present. He had felt at peace, and allowed his mind to wander, as it often had, and still does, to his Stranger.  
He remembers the date of this memory with perfect clarity.  It was June 7th, 1788, and in one year’s time, he would be meeting his friend, the mysterious man who has sought him out every century.  In return for literal immortality, he only asked that Hob bring stories of his life to their gatherings.  Hob took his duty seriously, collecting experiences, never slowing or stopping, and living every moment as if he did not have thousands more.  While he never wished time away, what a sacrilege that would be, he hoped, as he stared up at the night sky, that the next year passed quickly in anticipation of their rendezvous at the White Horse Tavern. 
Every moment with the Stranger counted as the one of the most important touchstones in his long immortal life.  The first time he felt the importance of these gatherings was early on, during their second meeting in the 15th century.  After the Stranger had eased his mind of the legitimate concern that he had sold his soul to the devil, Hob had learned something much more vital than the metaphysical questions that had burdened him.  He learned that the only thing better than having all the time in the world to try to see and do everything, was sitting down, across a tavern table from his constant contact. The other man held a royal bearing, holding court with Hob, and he would fall into the other man’s devastating blue eyes forever if allowed, trying everything in his power to not lean forward and touch that hair, as black as the night currently surrounding him.  
Daydreams floated through his mind, as he reflected on his stranger’s dear face, and for a moment he could almost feel his presence as the stars began to collapse around him. A meteor shower, such as he had never seen before, or since, lit up the sky.  Everywhere he looked he saw beautiful, starlit streaks shooting through the atmosphere.  They were so numerous it was like a leisurely spring shower of fireworks above him as the meteors gleamed in shades of white and gold.  It seemed like a message just for him, as though the memory of his Stranger had brought the heavens to life.  He remembers falling asleep under that bright and beautiful sky, and waking feeling more peaceful than he had in decades.
He brings his thoughts back to the present day, also a peaceful one, as he stretches his legs out in front of him and slings his elbows over the back of the bench, enjoying the sights of the flowers popping through the fresh, damp smelling, soil and the sounds of songbirds returning to this hemisphere.  He smiles as he receives a few waves, and calls of  “Hi, Professor G,” from current and former students as they race across the quad, to classes, meals, and dates. To life.
In addition to the end of the semester, the spring also brings the promise of summer, and more time spent helping around the New Inn.  Many of his employees are grad students and as activity on campus dies down, so does traffic at the Inn, and the availability of staff.  Hob always pitches in, and if that gives him more time to be present, all the better.  Every year he makes sure to be in the Inn as much as possible near June 7th, a date that is fast approaching, and no matter what happens will be forever cherished, even if the most recently expected visit from his Stranger is overdue by 33 years. He has worked to turn the New Inn into an inspiring gathering place, in homage to the man who made it all possible.
It is not an uncommon occurrence for his mind to think of that last frought moment with his friend (because he still considers him as such) so many years ago, but there has been plenty of time to pine over this topic, and the happiness in his countenance drowns out the self-doubt and self-flagellation as he decides instead to just enjoy the memories and the hopeful anticipation. He does pause to wonder for a moment what his Stranger would think if he could see him now.  Reclaiming his original name, and doing something worthwhile, something he is proud of, inspiring the minds of the youth by teaching. He chose his field deliberately, dedicating himself to the study of literature and history.  
It is in this reverie, this strange space where Hob feels himself hovering between reality and memory, that he notices a man walking towards him.  The man’s gait is tentative, there is a painful looking limp apparent in his movements.  He wears ill-fitting trousers and a t-shirt, and as the man approaches, he realizes that his profile looks very familiar, as though he might be a sibling of his centennial Stranger. He feels foolish for a moment, and wonders if all of the reflection and nostalgia has made him see things, grafting his friend’s visage onto another young man.
The man takes a few more steps forward, and then his face turns fully towards Hob’s resting place.  The brilliant blue eyes widen, and Hob leaps up like a shot.  Because this man does not just look like his Stranger, this man is his Stranger, but different as well.  His face holds the same beautiful features, and his body is the same lithe form, but instead of a man arrayed beautifully, adopting the height of the centuries’ fashion, the person in front of him looks dirty, ragged, and lost.  He looks gaunt and uncared for, and Hob has never imagined an instance where his stranger would present himself as anything less than impeccable.  He reminds Hob of their meeting in 1689 when he himself was the one in tattered rags, when he had fallen so low and come to their meeting starved and bereft, desperate to see his friend and let him know he still wanted to live despite everything.
Hob’s mouth opens, and then closes in shock.  He moves forward, almost involuntarily.  Something is exceedingly wrong here.  He has always thought that he would feel trepidation, if and when he ever saw his stranger again, but instead he feels concern overwhelm him as he crosses the steps between them.  The Stranger looks at him with a strange mixture of emotions.  Loss, confusion, fear and recognition pass one after another, and seeing those feelings writ large on his haughtily and brave face undoes whatever self-control that Hob always held onto around the man.  He skids to a halt in front of him and places both hands on his shoulders, pulling him square and looking him directly in the eyes.  And he is right, there is no doubting that this is his Stranger’s beloved gaze. His concern is so overwhelming that even in touching him for the first time, he cannot spare a worry for his words and actions, and how they may be interpreted, before saying, “My friend, are you all right?”
The Stranger looks back at Hob, seeming to relax, if only by a fraction, before responding, “Friend…”. He pauses, and time stands still for Hob. He continues, expression on his face unchanging, with no sign of anger, just the same befuddled frown, “You are my friend, but I don’t... I don’t remember more than that.  Do you know who I am?”
Hob has no idea how to respond and wonders if he may be dreaming. He knows he has not conjured his Stranger in his reverie, but there is no reason for the other man to be here in this state.  And his traitorous heart sings, despite his worry, as his hands move to the Stranger’s upper arms  The other man feels corporeal.  The man also feels small, and frail, and seems to have shrunk in on himself in the years since Hob has last seen his beloved face.  Hob’s heart breaks, but there is nothing that standing here worrying will accomplish, so he guides the Stranger to the bench to sit beside him.
***
Paul McGuire hurries as much as possible, given his advanced age, through the University campus.  He has been alerted by one of the more surly guards, that Alex has recently employed, that the creature had been sighted near the campus, and to, “come quickly, if you please.” It had been more of a demand than a request.
Paul tries to push down some of his reticence.  He has been partners with Alex Burgess for years, a relationship they have only have been able to be open about in this more modern era, though he would be foolish to believe that there had not been talk and innuendo for years.
Growing up with Alex, and eventually moving into the manor, somehow he had become inured to the sight of the devil he held in his basement.  He was aghast at its horrifying visage when he had first seen the being, thin and gaunt, limbs held akimbo at impossible angles, staring straight ahead, a look of rage on its fine features.
Despite the fear that he held then, and to be honest with himself, continues to experience, he has always urged Alex to release the creature, to find a way.  The presence of the devil is a curse on their house.  On their love.  Any time things may feel normal, or lighten, reality comes crashing down around Paul at the sight of the basement door, or the changing of the security detail.  The infernal creature has tainted what may have otherwise been a truly fulfilling relationship.  Paul and Alex have never taken a holiday, lounged on the beach, set out on a spur of the moment drive into the country. The tension that runs through the manor has pervaded their bond just as surely as it influences their actions.  
Even worse, the longer Alex went after his father’s death without making a choice, the more that Paul realized that they had lost their window to do anything, really. While it was conceivable that the being could have potentially forgiven a young man for not going against his abusive father, there is no way that it could show beneficence after decades of continued imprisonment. And so, because of this history, Paul has realized they are restrained by the creature every bit as much as they have it contained.  For their safety, their protection, it is essential they get it back to their home, to Fawney Rig, before true disaster befalls them.  
Alex himself, when he was younger, had seemed to think little about the creature, in so much as all of his movements and decisions were still made with its containment in mind. Alex would steadfastly resist discussing or mentioning the thing for weeks at a time, except for periods every few months when he would become focused and obsessed, going to the basement to rant and rave at the man shaped spectre.  If not for these moments, Paul could sometimes imagine that it was not there, haunting them.  But then Alex would emerge from downstairs, reporting that the creature was as impertinent, unmoving and expressionless as ever.  And was it stupid, could it even speak?  But they both knew, from Alex’s father’s research, and a deep and strange certainty that was settled in both of their souls, that this was not the case.  It was there, it was eerily intelligent, and it was waiting.  Always waiting.
Perhaps even more frighteningly, Alex’s unhinged episodes have only increased in the past few years leading up to the series of inexplicable choices that have culminated in the thing’s escape.  Paul worried about Alex even before this had happened.  Was Alex’s sanity slipping, or were these fears, whispered in the night, the thoughts of mortality any man might experience, especially one who kept a supernatural being hostage and in return whose life span has been expanded a decade past what any regular person could expect?  
Paul had briefly thought of abandoning the search, and letting whatever was to befall them come rushing on, but Alex has no such plans, and continues to employ a significant number of guards and security professionals.  Like Michael, who he spots just off the path, a few meters ahead.  Michael Silver, their lead “security expert,” is short and thickly muscled, his graying hair cropped short.  His face holds an eternal scowl.  Truthfully, the word “mercenary” would be a more accurate term to describe him, Paul injudiciously thinks.  Brutal, efficient, morally bankrupt Michael.  
He has seen the gleam in Michael’s eyes that has developed with this chase and knows there will be no pulling the man back from the edge.  He has not been sure what exactly Michael’s background is, but whatever he had done in previous years was very likely to be illegal.  The man carries himself with the air of a killer.
He begrudgingly reaches Michael’s side and the man settles his hand on Paul’s elbow, a pantomime of helping an old man with a cane navigate the uneven ground, strong and hasty grip underlying his true intentions. He gudes them around a bend, before stepping off the path into a copse of trees, and silently points at a figure moving slowly ahead of them on the path.
The figure is unmistakably the creature, the devil, Dream of the Endless.  Paul exhales shakily.  After the monster had escaped, cutting down their guards, and disappearing into the night, the remaining guards had followed bloody footprints up out of the basement, through the mansion, and into the forest.
Paul had fully expected it to come for them immediately, to rip out his and Alex’s throats, or invite a multitude of torments on their aged bodies.  He had not expected it to vanish, leading them on a chase through the countryside.  The few remaining guards had reported that it had looked disoriented as it had stumbled away, and only through having a head start on the guards, given their obvious fear and hesitation, had it successfully escaped.
Paul has never thought about what he and Alex may do if a day like this came, but the danger of having the creature on the loose was just too much to allow.  Paul could only hope that the creature was so weakened, it might be recaptured, or detained until suitable protection for Alex, Paul, and the household could be devised.  Or forced, a small voice in the back of his mind adds as he thinks of Alex back at the house, frantically searching his father’s old spell books. 
They have been tracking it now for three days on end, finding some clues along the way that have kept them on the trail.  There had been a woman ranting about some stolen clothes from a clothesline, crushed leaves and broken branches, and in the forest, a small mound of moss disturbed as though something had stopped to rest.  Michael has a good friend, always a good friend with that one, who is a notable hunter and tracker, and he had followed the signs as clearly as another man may read a book.  All of this effort has now brought them to this place, the university campus in the city center.  
Of course, it is their luck that they would first stumble upon it in public, in the bright light of day. Paul now has a decision to make.  Does he try to haul the creature back to the van, a possible suicide mission held in the middle of a teeming mass of university students?  If the creature is even a little bit as powerful as Alex had always described that could be disastrous.  Alternatively, could he approach it to convince it to join him.? What words could he possibly say to make it trust him?
Paul is so caught up in his thoughts regarding next steps, that he does not see it when it happens.  Michael nudges him back to attention.  The Endless creature has stopped in its path. “McGuire, fuck it.  Looks like we might have a good samaritan on our hands over here.”
Paul lets out a curse as he sees a man approach the creature.  The man has a broad build, and a traditionally handsome face, with soft brown hair and a square jaw.  He looks like a caricature of a young university lecturer in his tweed jacket, jeans, and worn desert boots.  He looks to be speaking to the creature gently.  Paul wanders forward to see if he can hear and observe more.  The man has a lanyard over his neck with a university ID prominently displayed, and Paul gasps quietly as he lays his hands on the creature’s shoulders, and the creature simply allows it to happen. 
He can just barely pick up the strains of what is said, and in doing so he is shaken to his core.  He never expected this, it is uncanny.  His heart literally skips a beat as he hears the devil’s voice for the first time.  It is soft, but deep and resonant.  Paul focuses and hears the creature ask, “Do you know who I am,” and is utterly floored.  This may be easier than they ever could have imagined.  It seems to have forgotten what it is!  If it does not know what it is, and is asking a stranger, well, that is quite a boon for Paul and Alex.
Bursting with a sudden confidence, Paul steps out of the trees, cane in hand, and moves slowly but deliberately toward the pair, now sitting on the bench.  He sees the brown haired man bundling some papers into a satchel with a laptop before turning his kind and worried eyes on the dark haired thing beside him. The man’s name tag, with the large text now legible reads, ‘Dr. Gadling.’  
Well, Dr. Gadling may fancy himself a man who helps lost strangers, but that soft heart will be easily turned against him. He may never even know how glad he should be for Paul’s divine intervention.  He has no idea what he could have been dealing with if Paul had not come along, sitting there having a casual chat with an incredibly dangerous creature in the guise of a handsome young man.  A literal wolf in sheep’s clothing. It is with that conviction that Paul continues forward.
***
After moving his paperwork from the bench, Hob sits the Stranger down right next to him, hand still on his shoulder.  The man had not pulled back as he was named “friend,” the very words that had driven him away during their last meeting. He had not blanched at Hob’s contact, if anything he had leaned into his touch. Hob briefly wonders if this is a type of trick or test to see how Hob would respond, what liberties he would take, if his Stranger appeared weakened or confused.
That thought is banished quickly at the look the Stranger gives him. It is one of thankfulness, reverence, and still, confusion.
The Stranger speaks first.  “How do you know me?”
Hob’s voice drops as low as he can make it, to not attract the attention of any students or colleagues passing them, “We have been friends for a very long time.  But I have not seen you in quite a while.  Again, I ask, are you OK?  What happened?”  He pauses and bravely, or foolishly, continues, “Are you hurt?”
The Stranger hesitates, and does something Hob would not have believed possible.  He stammers. The man’s speech has never been anything other than languid and fluid, whether lowered in sympathy, or raised in anger. “I…I… I do not know,” he whispers and Hob has to lean forward into his space to hear more. “I came to in a subterranean space and was being pursued.  I escaped out of the building and into a wood.  It is almost as though something was drawing me here.  It has been several days. Since I was there. But I feel like I am supposed to be here.  That I needed to find you, though I did not know what I was looking for.”
Hob notices the older man approaching, but is shocked as his voice rings out addressing them both, “My dear boy, I am so glad we have found you.”
Hob frowns. The man appears to be approaching his Stranger.  The only reaction from his friend is subtle, the smallest recoil, only noticed because Hob is still clutching his shoulder.
“Who exactly are you?” Hob asks the man.
“Why, I’m Paul McGuire, and I can’t thank you enough,” the man looks at Hob’s ID badge, “Dr. Gadling, for finding my nephew.”
Hob’s eyes narrow, as he flatly asks, “Your nephew?”
“Yes.  He is troubled,” the man, Paul, says nervously.  “Well, all I need to share is that he has had some struggles of late.”  He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Mentally, you know how that is.  He got out of his room on our estate in the country, and we could not find him.  His family will be so glad that he has been located.  We were all very worried.”
Hob does not know what is going on here, but the gall of this man, and the outlandishness of his lies burns a bright line of resentment through Hob’s consciousness.  It is times like this where he wishes for the social mores of Medieval life, where he could run this Paul through with a sharp blade for his attempted deception. Hob does not know what is going on here, but he has no doubt it means danger to them both.  Without thinking, much as he had all of those years ago when facing Lady Johanna Constantine’s men in the White Horse, Hob is on his feet, standing between his Stranger, and an interloper.
“His uncle, are you?  Not so sure I believe that.  Tell me, what is his name then?”
Paul stammers a bit.  “His name is Randal.  Randal, don’t you remember me?  Uncle Paul?”
Hob’s Stranger looks shocked, but despite his obvious ongoing discomfort, shows some of the pride that Hob knows from their centuries of acquaintance.  He straightens his spine, rising gracefully to a standing position and spits out, “I do not know you, but I have a feeling you are one of those to blame for what has befallen me.”
Hob takes a step closer to the older man.  “Well, that is all I need to know.  I will deal with Randal, as you call him.  I don’t believe you Paul.  This man looks haggard, but in no way seems addled.  I will be taking it from here, and if indeed, he is your nephew, I am sure that the authorities will return him in good order in no time.  Do you care to leave your information for me to give to them?”
Paul casts a look behind him, and Hob notices a stout shadow hidden in the trees behind them.  Given his long life and immeasurable experiences, it takes no more than the slightest glance for Hob to recognize hired muscle.  Hob sees Paul turn back toward them nonchalantly while reaching for his pocket.  Hob steps forward again, not hiding the menace in his posture any longer.  The man pulls a piece of paper and pen from his jacket and jots down a number.
“Give this to the police.  And trust me, when I tell you, that you are in the wrong.  If any harm befalls Randal, you will be very very sorry, Dr. Gadling. And if any harm befalls you, well, you have been warned. You seem a bit naive.  For a professor.”
With that the man turns away and disappears around a bend in the path.
Hob looks towards his stranger, “Who was that?” He asks.
“I do not know. Something about him did not feel right.”
“Absolutely, love.  I have known you long enough to be certain that you are not that man’s nephew.”  Hob’s gut twists at the endearment he had let slip, but the Stranger appears to not have noticed.
“You must tell me more about myself.  This is very disconcerting.  And strange happenstance to have found one who knows me.” His brow is creased in aprehension, an expression Hob has never seen on his face.
“You don’t need to worry about me, my friend.  I will not harm you.”
His Stranger looks up, trust clear in his expression, “Somehow I know that.  I feel that deeply in my being.”  He pauses.  “It might be the only thing that I know.”
Hob squeezes his eyes shut briefly, and attempts to push down the emotions rising in his chest to deal with the current danger. “I want to tell you more, but I don’t know if you noticed the goon in the trees the old man was looking at.  I think we need to head elsewhere, quickly.  Let’s pick up a cab, we may need to make a few false stops, but I will get you to a safe place, one that may even jog your memory.”
“I trust you,” the Stranger replies, then speaking in a cautious and almost bashful manner adds, “Dr. Gadling.”
And that is just not right.  His Stranger owes him no deference.  Quite the opposite actually. He wills his voice not to shake with emotion, “Hob. You know me as Hob Gadling.”
The Stranger looks at him, eyes more sure and determined.  “Hob Gadling.  That is familiar.  That feels right.”
With that pronouncement, Hob gathers his satchel, throwing it over his shoulder and turns away.  His Stranger still has an air of uncertainty around him, so Hob again throws caution to the wind and holds out his arm in invitation.  The Stranger hooks his long graceful fingers around his elbow, and they head off toward the taxi stand.
Chapter 2
Paul stalks into the Burgess estate, Michael trailing behind, as they both head towards the study.  Alex Burgess is settled in his wheelchair behind the large mahogany desk, tapping his fingers nervously on the top.  He looks up and immediately speaks, curt tone underlying his stress, “Did you find him?”
Paul pinches the bridge of his nose, his expression tight, and takes a deep breath before responding.  “We did Alex.  But someone else found him first.”
Alex’s voice is cold, laced with fear and rage, “What?”
Michael cuts in, stepping into the fray.  “We tracked him to campus, chief, but it was the middle of the day and we didn’t want to raise suspicion, just hauling him off.  Paul was ready to approach and coax him in our direction when some professor saw him wandering about, looking all disheveled and pulled him over.”
“I don’t see how that needed to get in your way,” Alex says coldly.
“Paul approached him, but the professor was some kind of fuckin’ do-gooder.  Paul came up with a good story, was right convincing about that creature being his nephew who has a few screws loose, but the professor wasn't buying it.  And we were right, the thing is in a bad place, real weak.  Don’t know why that asshole, Gadling, didn’t believe the story, probably some stupid training he got in human trafficking or some such nonsense. He would have caused a huge scene and campus police would have been on us in a flash if we’d pushed it.”
“So now it is in police custody?” Alex shrieks, voice cracking, struggling to stand from his chair.
“Alex, dear,” Paul adds calmly, trying to redirect and soothe the conversation, “There is more. After all of his indignance and insistence on contacting the authorities, it does not seem that they went to the campus police.”
Michael now is the one to pick up the tale, despite the worsening red color on Alex’s cheeks.   “Thing is, I put a tail on them right away and just heard back as we were walking in that they didn’t hit the police station.”
“Well, where the hell did they head then, Michael?” Alex asks, tone low and threatening.  “I made you head of security for a reason.”
Michael looks down at his feet, anger breaking through his calm demeanor.  “I know. We fucking lost them.  Not for long though. We got the professor’s name, so with a bit of searching, we should be able to find him soon, find his home too, of course. Then we’ll figure out where the thing is, no matter what.”  He huffs, “God knows what he would want with that abomination.  Think it tricked him into taking it somewhere?  Or did the professor seem like some kind of pervert to you?  Or a weirdo, taking in some strange guy stumbling around?”
Paul clears his throat.  “He just seemed concerned.  I think whatever happened is obviously the creature’s fault.  Must have swayed him in some way. Or the professor is just a soft hearted fool.” He pauses to think before continuing, “But Alex.  I heard it speak for the first time.” He pales a bit of the memory, the voice had not been what he had expected.  It was musical, and gravely all at once, burrowing directly into his chest. “I heard it speak. It truly has no idea what it is.  It doesn’t seem to know that it has power.  I think we have a good chance of getting it back soon.  I just wish we had arrived first.”
Alex slams his hand down on the table in front of him, “Damn it to hell. I haven’t found anything in these old books.  But I’ll keep reading.  Michael, you keep looking into our fine professor.  Next time we approach, you will bring it back.  No second chances.”
Michael nods his head and slips from the room.
Paul carefully approaches Alex. His partner still seems on the edge of snapping. His hair stands on end, a frantic look in his eyes.  “We will get him back, right Paul?  If not, well, what will happen?  Will we age rapidly?  Will it get its memories back and come for us?”
“Right now, I don’t think it is much of a threat. Really Alex, it seemed as harmless as a kitten, and the person who took it away was some tweedy professor.  I agree with Michael.  In a few days, we will have it back, and all will be right.  We’ll be safe.”
“Safe,” echoes Alex, as he buries his nose back into the old spell book, “Safe.”
*** 
After a few cab changes, a tube ride, and a stroll through the park, Hob feels certain enough that they have not been tailed to head back towards his flat, situated conveniently above the New Inn.  The very same Inn that he had built so that his friend would always have the opportunity to find him again, despite the White Horse, their centennial gathering place, being condemned.  Throughout their transit, or flight, which might be the more accurate term, Hob hadn’t tried to talk to his friend, beyond the occasional check in.  He was using all of the skills he had developed over his centuries of an immortal life to look for any sign that they were followed.  He thinks for a while there had been someone on their heels through their first cab and tube ride, but as time passed, Hob was more certain that they were alone.
His Stranger looks at him, bewildered, but trusting.  “The New Inn?  You live here?”
“I do.  It’s not really an Inn, more of a pub actually.  We used to meet at a place around the corner, but it was shut down.  Something about being structurally unsafe.  It was really old.  I tried to buy it to fix it up, but couldn’t cut through the red tape.  So I built this instead, so we would have a place to meet.”
“Do we come here often?”
“You’ve never been here actually, I haven’t seen you in years, which is why I was so surprised to see you today.” 
His friend’s brows draw together in worry.
“But I am so glad for it, and it is also why I don’t know more about what happened to you,” Hob gestures at his friend, “All of this. The amnesia.”
Hob starts towards the front door, but his friend hangs back, reticence in his posture.  
“Are you hungry, or would you rather just head up to the flat?  I can go down later and bring something up for just the two of us?” Hob asks.
His stranger nods, and his shoulders relax a small amount.  Hob tucks away that clear reaction.  He can see that crowds might be overwhelming right now.  Any caution regarding physical contact that may have existed has long been discarded as Hob again takes his friend’s arm and guides him around the back to the private stairs up to his flat, and his friend willingly leans into him.
They walk up together, Hob in the lead, his friend following behind, looking around with uncertainty.  Hob pulls a card from his wallet, and taps it beside the door. The advanced locking mechanism is meant to dissuade any drunken revelers from trying to get upstairs.  Something about the technology just seems to bring people to a halt, some subconscious reminder of hotel rooms and key cards ending many a drunken scheme. Truthfully, Hob has realized with the rapid advent of technology that if he is to keep his secrets he would need to step his game up.  The contacts in security and technology that he has made are invaluable, and will make things easier when he needs to step sideways into another life.  
He is even more grateful for his precautions as he looks at the wan figure behind him.  He knows worry is clouding his features, but he can’t help it.  The sense of wrongness has not stopped since he first spotted the haggard figure of his Stranger on the quad. He opens the door and holds it aside, and his friend stumbles in, equally wary and subtly needy, keeping close to Hob’s elbow.
Hob leads him to the couch where he settles, sitting straight backed and alert, looking around the space contemplatively.  Hob busies himself, taking off his coat, stowing his work bag, all the while trying to give the other man some space to acclimate.  He is of course worried, and when he is worried he hovers.  His stranger is out of sorts, and Hob does not want to pressure him or increase any discomfort.
After a few minutes, he joins the Stranger on the couch. He startles a bit, eyes blinking as if trying to focus, before speaking. “You have quite a collection of books.  And ancient objects.”  He scans the shelves meticulously,  “I recognize many of the titles, but others I feel like I should know, yet I can not recall them.  I know what the objects are, but some of the newer ones are unfamiliar, even if I can extrapolate their purpose. I should know more.  I should know all of these things.  I assume this must sound very odd to you.”
“Please don’t worry about how you might come off, friend.” Hob says. “Just tell me what you’re thinking when you’re thinking it.  I doubt any detail will be inconsequential. I’m here to help in whatever way you want.  Have you remembered anything since you escaped from wherever it is that you were?”
“I have a feeling, that I am… That I am not…”
As he trails off Hob tries to give him continued space, but as the silence draws out, Hob tentatively reaches out to the man’s shoulder, touching gently as he might have alerted a skittish horse or shell shocked soldier in one of his prior lives.
“Hey, it’s OK.  We have nothing but time.  I am your friend, and I will help you.  I’m going to run down to the kitchen for some food and drinks.  Will you be fine here?  I can stay and have them bring something up, but I have a feeling you probably aren’t wanting additional company right now, and to be honest, I think the fewer people who see you the better.  That whole scene on campus was wrong, and I do think we were tailed for a bit.”
“It was.  Wrong, that is.  Have I ever been in such trouble before?”
And this is what Hob was worried about.  Perhaps he could take the liberty to define their meetings through the years as a friendship of sorts, but the facts he knows about his stranger could fill a thimble.  He is certain that the other man is immortal and powerful, that he has the ability to extend eternal life to random lucky bastards, and at one point had sand that could subdue enemies, but that is not nearly enough.  Ever since he realized the truth of his friend’s amnesia,  he knew this question would come.  His Stranger, asking questions he could only hope to answer. He hasn’t even seen the man in well over a century.  
A wave of melancholy washes over him, as much as he thinks of the man in front of him as his Stranger, emphasis on the possessive, he was never in any way Hobs’.  His only hope is that this will not break the fragile trust his friend has extended to him. He shudders to think about the alternative.
“I am not sure, mate.  We have known each other a very long time, but you have always been a private person.  I have never known you to be in trouble before.  There was one occasion we can talk about later where someone sought to interrogate us when we were together.  Let me think on that, and we’ll talk more when I’m back?”
The Stranger nods, gaze still casting all about the space, while pulling in on himself, making him seem small, unobtrusive. Hob feels a sudden rush of sadness as he stands and moves towards the door.
His friend tenses, but meets his eyes with a small nod.  “Mate?  Like shipmates?  Or convicts?  Like lovers?”
The smile Hob plasters on his face is as sincere of one as he can muster with his own uncertainty seeping through his veins.  “Like friends.  Mate, slang of Australian origin, came into favor in the early 20th century.”
“Hmm…. Well, Hob Gadling, friend of mine, I think I am hungry, but may not be able to partake. A glass of tea would be accepted.”
“I’ll bring up the tea and some broth and we can go from there.  You’ve never had much of an appetite,” Hob pauses, “dear friend.”
The other man nods, and Hob heads out of the apartment, down to the kitchen where everything makes much more sense than in his flat.
***
He does not know who he is, can name himself nothing but Hob Gadling’s friend. 
Yet he knows that something is missing.  He knows the problem is not just that he has forgotten who he is, but in knowing what he is, because he is certain that he is not a person.  He is not genetically human, like Hob, or even, he shudders to think it, Paul, or anyone else on the campus.  
He rubs his right thumb over the fingernail of the opposite hand and feels the slightest bit soothed. His otherness is not on the outside, he wonders if Hob Gadling can even sense it.   If not now, it is only a matter of time. He has not had anything to eat or drink, yet he does not flag or fall.  He was held for some significant amount of time but can determine nothing else of his captivity.  He has certainly wondered if he himself is a danger, an evil.  But with someone like Hob in his life, who has acted in such a humane way, could he be something to be feared?
He feels the days of vigilance and running eating away at his nerves and wishes only to relax for a moment.  He does not know the last time he may have rested, and if he can find himself at peace maybe he might be able to think more, to know more.  He does feel safe here with Hob, and that is a start.  He stands up and casts about the flat, which is much larger than he had expected and seems to take up all of the space above the pub below.  It must be insulated, as the noise from the pub is nothing more than a warm rumble. 
Hob’s flat is comfortable, lived in, and stacked floor to ceiling with books.  More books than anyone could read in a lifetime. He searches the titles on the book shelf, again disconcerted that he recognizes most, but not all, of the titles.  He notices that he recognizes the tomes that are old, leather bound, and yellowed, but not the newer bindings.  Yet, all of the books somehow feel like home.  He wonders if his prior life had something to do with books and reading.
The shelves are packed, and if there is a classification system, he can not ascertain how it works.  The leather of most of the texts consists of deep jewel tones, blues, greens, and reds.  The lettering, and often the edges, shine with gold.  They smell familiar, a combination of vanilla, earth, and musk. They are beautiful, and as he runs his hands over the bindings, he feels contentment.  The newer books are more fraught.  Ther pages are crisp and white and smell of grass and almonds.  Some have soft covers that he can flip through with one hand.  They call to him, as though with a bit of effort they would also be able to be held just as dear to his heart.  
He circles back around to the sofa, paging through the volumes on the coffee table.  They are marked with colored tabs, and a pad full of hastily scribbled, and nigh illegible notes sits beside the pile.  The notes appear to be an outline, as though Hob plans to hold a seminar.  This makes sense, he met Hob at the university, and knows he holds a doctorate.  He wonders after the other man’s area of study.  From the eclectic titles scattered around Hob’s home, his interest is wide ranging and could be anything.
He picks up the book at the top of the pile, well thumbed and annotated in what he assumes is Hob’s cramped, vaguely spider-like hand.  Dante’s Divine Comedy.  The name of the book is known to him, and as he begins to flip through, memory rushes into his being.  He knows the words and the plot.  He knows of the author Dante Alighieri and his love for his muse Beatrice, a young beauty who was only admired from afar, and remained unknown to the author.  He knows the narrative of Dante’s self-actualized character who displays copious pride and avarice, but who still transforms to a being of justice and love.  
He reads rapidly, flipping the pages before his hand stills.  He knows what is on the page, and as he prepares to look at the words he feels tears prick his eyes, the first that have fallen since his escape.  For all he knows these are the first that he has ever shed.
As he reads aloud, he is fully engrossed in the text, and he does not notice Hob entering the flat.
“As one who sees in dreams and wakes to find the emotional impression of his vision still powerful while its parts fade from his mind - Just such am I, having lost nearly all the vision itself, while in my heart I feel the sweetness of it yet distill and fall.”
He chokes a bit as the meaning of the words lands in the center of his chest and he realizes that he is still all there, in the very core of himself.  At the same time he knows that he can only access this sense of self one bit at a time. There are no rushing revelations, just a growing sense of oneness.  
He is amazed at the tiny bits of self that are returning as he reads.  The memories are settling into his bones, and he feels the same way that he did during the first words he shared with Hob.  It is as though an ocean of experience exists behind a locked door in his mind. He now knows that he just needs to find the key, and until then he must continue to do this, to poke little holes of memory and remembrance through the thick wood, letting the ocean waters drip through a little at a time.  And maybe, this is indeed the best way.  In his fragile state he fears that a true flood of memory could overtake him.  He is fragile. He is wrung out.
He closes his eyes, reveling in this realization.  Words, stories, dreams, experiences.  They are the path forward. He knows that to recover his memory it will take living in this world. He also knows that deep down, this is not something he takes to readily.  He is closed off and hardened. As his tears well up again, he feels a presence in front of him and opens his eyes to see the one person who may be able to help him in this quest.
***
Hob levers himself through the door of the flat, holding a veritable array of food and almost drops the entirety of it as he sees his friend on the couch, quietly reading aloud several lines from the text before him, before clutching the copy of Dante to his chest with wholly inexplicable tears streaming down his cheeks.  While Hob has seen sheer emotion in his friend’s eyes before, he has no idea what to make of this.  The most stoic, strangest, being he had ever known is tearing up on the worn green couch in his living room. He hurries over, depositing the bags on the other side of the table and sinking down to his knees in front of his Stranger.
The man stares almost through him, expression painted with regret, and deep sadness.  Hob is loath to reach out to touch yet again. His friend had never been one for touch, had been above it, in a way.  He has seemed soothed by Hob’s touch, and Hob can’t quell his desire to care and comfort, so despite his reticence he reaches out gently, putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder before resuming his recent quiet, calming speech pattern, “Hey, dear friend.  What’s wrong?  Can I help?”
“I remember.”
Hob sits in the silence, not wanting to pry, trying to be an open vessel for his friend to share what he wishes.  Mindlessly, his hand starts to rub patterns where it lies as the other man digests the words that had been read as he walked through the door.
Suddenly brilliant blue eyes bore into Hob’s own warm brown ones.  The intensity is more than Hob has ever seen from his already intense friend. His voice is as low and commanding as ever and does not waver, despite his tears.  
“I remember.  Just a bit.  I know that stories and tales are important to me.  Stories are ultimately born from the emotional impressions that dreams propagate. They are, in essence, the parts that remain when we wake.”  He seems to collect his thoughts,  “The greatest tales are spun from dreams that extend into waking moments.”
He pauses again, and runs his hands along the front of the book. “When I read the words, this knowledge just trickled through, before solidifying into my consciousness.  The right experiences, the right narratives, the right stories will heal me. I do not know how I know this, but it is true.  And I feel that I may need to change myself to fully experience them.  I think that is against my nature.”
Hob lets silence reign, but the longer it goes on, he feels compelled to help.  He wants nothing more than to help his friend.  “Against your nature?” He prompts.
“I know I am proud.  I know I am removed.   I am a product of the stories, not the story itself.  And I do not know what that means.”
Hob has never had more of an internal struggle as he compels himself to remain silent, waiting for the other man to finish.  
His friend starts to speak again quietly, “You are one who makes the stories with his actions. It is apparent. But this new knowledge makes me wonder, how can someone like you have someone like me in their life?”
Hob shifts up onto the couch, keeping a careful hand over his friend’s shoulders, but keeping his eyes focused on his friends’ hands.  He had never seen the man fidget in all of their time together, but here he is, running one thumb compulsively over the fingers of the other.
“A true friend is not something that is contingent on deserving them. It is not contingent on being a perfect person. But you are good.  I feel it. You have been there for me in my most challenging of times, and I will be there for you.”
Hob meets the Stranger’s eyes. He wants him to see the sincerity in every expression.  “I will tell you what I know about us.  But I don’t want to push things too fast.  I have heard that doing that isn’t good for memory.  Tonight, I think we should rest. All of these revelations have been a lot for you, I am sure.  A lot for me too, to be honest.  The last time we parted, I did not know if I would see you again.”
“We quarreled?”
“I pushed you too far.  And you responded with the pride that you mentioned.  I never should have assumed to know your feelings without asking.  That was my folly. You are not the only one with his faults.  I am greedy, I always want more, and I don’t always think before I speak.”
A small smile slides onto his friend’s lips, “I am glad I found you Hob Gadling.  We are quite the pair, I think.”
“And I am glad I found you again, my friend.”
“Why do you not address me by my name?” His friend asks simply.
“We… Well, you never shared yours with me.  I think it is something deeply personal. Important.”
Hob shifts in his seat, discomfort apparent in his movements. He goes to withdraw his arm, to give his friend space, but instead the other man leans closer, seeming to brace himself for his next words.
“I am not a mortal being,” His friend looks at him with a mix of daring and sheer terror.  
Hob feels his expression softening, “Me either, love.  Well, I’m human, but neither of us is exactly what you would call mortal. When I said we have been friends for a long time, I meant it.  We have been meeting for centuries. We are both immortal, I know that my immortality is different than yours, you have never been human. With me at least.”
The raven haired man breathes what can only be a sigh of relief, “Yes.  That is right.  I feel it,” and gestures to the very center of his chest, eyes again boring into Hob’s.
“And, I don’t know what you are.  I wish I could tell you that as well.  And I certainly don’t know anything about helping a human with amnesia, let alone a powerful being such as yourself.  I just don’t want to make anything worse, you know.  Maybe we can look up a little tonight and then tomorrow we can really start working on getting your memory back?”
The other many nods in affirmation, and a slight smile starts to ghost across his features, the tension in his forehead and around his mouth loosening the slightest increment.
“Well, honestly, I’m glad that is settled.  Let’s eat and then turn in.  I think we have a long day ahead of us,” Hob says.
His friend follows him to his table, and the inscrutable look is back on his face as his eyes track Hob’s movements around the kitchen with avid interest.  Hob wonders if his friend has ever prepared a meal or spent time in a modern kitchen or flat. He wonders where exactly he exists in between their meetings, the earthly realm, or some strange and fey land. Is this really how he will finally learn more about the nature of his friend, the blind leading the blind?
Dishes with a variety of foods from downstairs are scattered across the table. His friend contemplatively picks at his meal, but the silence is not uncomfortable.  It feels needed, it feels like they are able to breathe, and in this shared space they can also parse through the events of the day.  Hob finds himself periodically glancing up at the man across from him, and occasionally catches him doing the same from beneath his long black lashes.  
He feels a riot of emotions.  Worry, obviously, is foremost, but there is also relief to see his friend in the flesh after what occured at their last parting.  He had spent the past century, and especially the time since their missed meeting in 1989 wondering if he would ever see him again. His friend is here, and seems almost achingly human. It raises questions he never expected to have, and brings forth all of the feelings he had ever felt for the man: fear, wonder, lust. 
The strongest emotion he feels, Hob can barely bring himself to name.  It is not right, and it is not sane, but he knows he has fallen in love over the years with the being in front of him.  He has been Hob’s constant, and though he has shared little of himself, that has not stopped Hob’s heart from its foolish temerity. Even his Stranger knows how deeply he loves life and everything in it with every fiber of his being.  Could anyone really be surprised that he has developed these feelings for one so dear to him?
Deep in his own thoughts, he is surprised by the low sonorous voice.  “You are so kind to me.  Was I kind to you?”
Hob sets aside his fork, focusing on the conversation.  “You were.  There were times when we disagreed, or sought to wound each other, or on my part, take more than was offered, but there was much care between us that grew through the years.  After all this time, I am a good judge of character, and there has always just been something about you my friend.  Something that seemed good, and at times could be painfully kind, especially when I was at my lowest.”
“Hmmm.”  Is all that Hob gets back, but it is accompanied by a genuine smile, the likes that Hob has never seen from his stranger. It turns up the corners of his mouth, revealing perfect white teeth. His eyes crinkle, and Hob has never seen anything more surprising or beautiful.  He is in such trouble.
As they gather the dishes in continued comfortable meditation, Hob is again struck by seeing the man, who still shines with an otherworldly force, engaged in the mundanity of the action.  He wants nothing more than to bring his friend some comfort.  
Clean up completed, Hob directs his friend to the couch, pulls a few books off of the shelves and stacks them on the coffee table almost as an offering.
“I’m going to get things ready and together for you to rest, my friend.  If you are so inclined, here are the texts we have covered, or plan to, this semester in my class.”
“Hob, what is it that you teach?”
“Literature.  Books, stories, as you say, have been equally important to me in my life.” Hob does not add that part that he has spent lifetimes collecting them to share with the Stranger at their meetings.  “The theme of my literary seminar, the one covering Dante, is that of a quest or journey. What I want the kids to see is that it is not the action or events, but the summation of experience that impacts the protagonist’s internal life.  Destiny has a funny way sometimes.”
His friends’ eyes flash in sudden confusion at the mention of destiny, before focusing again and accepting the titles.  He reads the titles slowly aloud, “The Iliad, Inferno, Canterbury Tales, War and Peace, The Once and Future King, The Lord of the Rings, The Buried Giant.  Many of these are familiar to me, but not all.”  
He lets a long elegant finger land on the Tolstoy tome.  “After this one, they feel unknown, yet I also feel that it will only take a small bit of work to bring familiarity.”
Hob looks puzzled at the pile of books, “I wonder if that has something to do with your predicament.  I mentioned we had a disagreement, and you missed a routine meeting that we keep.  The ones you indicated that you were not familiar with were all written in the 1900s.”  Hob can’t quite parse the meaning of this, but knows that he is exhausted. “We will have to explore that more.”  
He glances once more at his friend, now engrossed in reading the descriptions on the dust jackets of the books before heading into the bedroom to change the sheets on his bed, and find some clothes that may fit his friend, who is equally matched in height, but even more slender than Hob’s memory serves.
When he returns, with a stack of blankets and pillows for the couch, the Stranger looks up, cradling the last of the texts.  Hob says, “I changed the sheets in the bedroom for you and have some sleeping clothes that may fit.” He hands over the bundle of dark, soft, clothing.
“You need not displace yourself from your sleeping quarters.  I can stay here tonight. I would not inconvenience you more.”
“Love,” Hob winces yet again at the endearment as it slips unbidden from his lips, “You have been through something significant.  I want you to be comfortable.  Besides, we don’t know who is after you, and I would feel a lot safer being between you and the door.”
“I doubt I will need your protection.”
“Yeah, that isn’t new.  I know you are powerful.  You once told me I need not come to your defense when we were held at knifepoint. And I knew even then that you didn’t need my paltry protection.  But I wanted to give it, and I still do.  What dogs your steps right now is more of my world, I imagine, than yours.  And you have much to remember, and much strength to regain.”  Hob dips down, pulling the hilt of a short sword from beneath the sofa and settling it next to the coffee table.  “Besides, I keep my skills up for a reason.  I want you to rest and sleep well, friend.  That is important to me.”
While Hob expects more of a rebuff, he is surprised to see his friend nod his head wearily.  Hob steers him up the stairs, showing him the bathroom and shower and his own bed.  His friend holds himself a bit further apart from Hob as he gazes at these private spaces, before stepping forward, boldly and grasping Hob’s hands between his and bringing them to his chest.  “You are a good man, Hob Gadling.  I again wonder what I did, and who I am, to deserve your help and esteem.  Thank you again for your kindness.”
Hob stands there, frozen. The recitation of his first and last name, in the way it has always dropped from his stranger’s lips, combined with the man initiating touch, just does something to him. Obviously, his brain is muddied with all of the confusing feelings of the day. He lets all of this wash over him before doing the only thing that feels natural in the moment, as much as he may never have imagined it before, and pulls his friend into an embrace, holding tight.  The other man clings back and something about this feels so right.  Long before he would like to, he steps away, deep seeded instincts not allowing him to push his luck, but not before whispering in a low voice, “We’ll figure it out, dove.  I wouldn’t count us out.”
His stranger nods and demonstrates yet another of those beautiful, contented smiles, before gathering his things, Hob’s things, and stepping into the bathroom.  Hob moves to the sofa, and picks up more of the books he had pulled from the shelf, depositing them on his bedside table for his friend’s perusal, before getting himself ready for bed.  He does not see his friend again, just hears the quiet clicking of the bedroom door.  Hob collapses on the newly made up sofa and puts his head between his knees.  He needs to get a hold on himself and think.  
He spends a bit of time looking at websites for guidance on amnesia, as if what applies to mortals may in any way affect the the ethereal being he is caring for, but right now he needs anything to draw himself away from the obscene longing that has taken up a residence behind his heart.  He grits his teeth and keeps reading. It is all he can do to not go in and check on his friend.
As he peruses yet another PubMed article on memory loss, he wishes briefly that he had decided to pursue training to become a physician in one of his recent lifetimes, the advances in the field finally making it appealing now that it has moved on from leeches and bleeding.  As he opens up tab after tab his vision blurs. While he wants to learn more, he realizes that this may be a better task for tomorrow.  He checks the bolts on the door and makes sure that the sword is within reach before drifting off to sleep.  His dreams are unsettled, and in them he is traveling towards a far off castle, but is stopped by cracks and ravines at each turn.
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Alright, so as I clear out my writing folder for fics that just aren't going to get finished for one reason or another, I thought I'd do something I've never done before and post them.
So, this is The Monsters We Made, which was written fresh off my first run with Mateo back in February of 2023. He was pretty different back then. His character was still being workshopped and he had just gotten the selfstuck Sedated By Mortum ending. I felt a lot about that ending and so, like I always do, I went off writing about it.
This is an unfinished fic and, as such, has a jarring "ending" and is not edited. It is very much a rough draft and you'll notice that it has information based on the books rather than what's been revealing in the Patreon documents, such as Mortum being Haitian rather than simply speaking French (they'd likely speak Haitian Creole, though they might be fluent in French as well, depending on their background). This, along with Mateo's characterization and ending changing and his puppet being altered, means that I will likely never finish this piece. So, it can go here. Hope you enjoy!
Mortum had been expecting a lot of things when he decided to sedate Mateo de la Cruz. He had been expecting Mateo to put up more of a fight. He had been expecting to feel some level of vindication at seeing him fall. What he had not been prepared for in the slightest was exactly how Mateo responded to the sedation. 
Fingers gripping his, not with intent but as if looking for stability. The expression of sheer terror that had flashed across his had felt like a bucket of ice water thrown at Mortum. One hand on his as he pulled out the syringe, one on his lapel, clinging for dear life. A flash of betrayal in his brown eyes. "Cariño…." He had winced at the endearment. Martín had called him that. It was supposed to be easy. It wasn't supposed to hurt so much.
He stares down at Mateo, studying his face for some sort of sign, some tangible proof that he did the right thing and that they are, in fact, enemies. Merde, he looks too much like Martín. He isn't as delicate-featured. There is no regal posturing the way Martín has. Scars mark Mateo's face where Martin's is bare and smooth. But they have the same nose, same warm eyes, same curve to their lips. Even their hair is styled in the same shoulder-length locs with gold cuffs.
Martín is sleeping, sprawled under the bedsheets with a soft smile on his face, despite his legs being in casts. Mortum would normally be sleeping beside him. If he's honest with himself, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed next to Martín and hold him in his arms for a week straight. But there's something wrong with Martín. He can feel it.
He doesn't carry himself with the same certainty. When Mortum kisses him, he feels Martín holding back. His smiles don't quite meet his eyes anymore. He speaks with a slightly different cadence. It's like watching his boyfriend through a funhouse mirror. Any passing mention of it is met with a laugh and a wave of his hand. He has a different excuse each time.
So Mortum finds himself back here on nights when sleep evades him, in what is now Mateo's personal infirmary. He's been spending too much time here these days. Ever so gently, he lifts the hem of Mateo's shirt up. Just as he'd said at La Cantina weeks ago, his body is marked with re-gene tattoos. They are a slick and sickly orange like the skin of a poison frog. A warning sign to stay away.
He wishes he could heed them. He wishes he could leave Mateo out in some back street to rot. But he looks too much like Martín. And Martín feels less and less like himself with each passing day.
Was Mortum wrong? He wonders, not for the first time, if Mateo was telling the truth. That the nights of microwaved pizza and expensive scotch and wanting and being wanted in return were never a mask or a front, but always just Mateo. Perhaps the mask of Martín was more liberating than his own.
Other than this particular, I have never lied to you and I never will. Mortum winces as the words play over in his head. They’d sounded desperate, but Mortum had only been able to feel their bitter taste.
It all made more sense in the ambulance, when Martín had woken up. There was real fear in his eyes. Fear of Mateo. Or so he had said. Had he been played that night? Manipulated by whatever was now riding in Martín's skin? It is starting to feel more and more likely.
That's why tonight, Mortum skipped Mateo's scheduled sedation.
He's already taken numbers. The headache and dry mouth have been building for the last hour, but it's worth the precautions. He doesn't want to take any chances with a telepath.
Mateo is beginning to stir. He opens his eyes with a slow sort of bleariness. He blinks once, twice, and then Mortum sees the telltale sign of a stomach turning. He just barely gets the trash can over in time for Mateo to almost pitch himself over the side of the bed and vomit. As he retches, his back shuddering from trying to suck in breaths, Mortum can't stop himself from rubbing small circles between Mateo's shoulder blades.
Mateo pushes himself back up with shaking hands, his dark eyes narrowing on Mortum's face. Mortum gently holds his dreads back from his face. He’s surprised when Mateo doesn’t bat his hand away. "You drugged me." There is no bite to Mateo's words. Just a blank statement of a fact.
"I did, mon chéri." There's no point in denying it. "It seemed like the best course of action at the time."
Mateo's eyes scan over the surroundings. Always perceptive, despite the grogginess. It was like this talking to Martín about his projects, too. Martín was not particularly knowledgeable in technological fields, but he always hung onto every word Mortum said. Always asking questions, always learning, always paying keen attention.
"This isn't the Farm or a hospital." There's a familiar sort of distance in his voice when he speaks. It's gone when he continues. "Where are we?"
"One of my labs.” Mortum shrugs, holding his arms against his chest. He tries to swallow down the guilt. “I had nowhere else to take you."
"Why didn't you kill me?"
The question catches Mortum off guard. He takes a step back. An old habit, as if he's trying to get a wider view of Mateo's intentions, to see the bigger picture.
As if reading his mind despite the numbers, Mateo shrugs his shoulders in a noncommittal sort of way. "It's what I would have done in your shoes. Especially after Martín."
Mortum's blood runs cold. He clenches his fists, counts to ten, and lets them relax again. "How do you know about Martín?"
"I caught a sense of him, right before you opened the door," he says, his voice carefully modulated. His expression is guarded, so unlike how open he’d been as Martín."He didn't feel like you. Or much like anything I'd felt before."
At least Mortum isn't alone in the sense of alienation he gets from Martín these days. Even with the tension of their situation, he feels himself sinking back into the familiar pace of their conversation. It’s a balm as compared to the past few days. He isn't allowed that peace of mind for long.
"You never answered my question."
He really is quite like Martín, hyper-focused and direct almost to a fault. Mortum allows himself a small grimace. In his attempts to get his thoughts on the matter in order, Mateo presses on.
"You seem to know what I am and how dangerous I can be, villainous career aside." Mortum wishes just once, Martín - Mateo, he mentally chastises himself - would be less matter-of-fact about the whole ordeal. "And I know I hurt you. I've hurt you in ways I never intended. I don't understand why I'm still here; why I'm talking to you now."
He says it so earnestly. Not an ounce of cruelty there, despite how much it hurts Mortum. Should he be honest? God knows, Mateo and Martín both were. On the verge of brutality sometimes. Perhaps he owes Mateo that much.
"I entertained the idea," Mortum admits. He turns his eyes away from Mateo, looking down at his hands instead. He's not restrained - a perhaps foolish choice on Mortum's part, but he couldn't bring himself to do it - but he also hasn't moved. He seems content to let Mortum speak in peace. "You are right that it would have been a wiser decision, but I couldn't."
"Is it because I look like him? Martín?"
Mortum flinches. "Why should you have this power over me?" he mutters in French.
"Because you hold the same power over me."
Mortum's eyes snap up to Mateo's face. The French is a surprise. He hadn't known Mateo was multilingual. More tricks up his sleeves. But he looks at Mortum with a tenderness that makes his chest ache all the way down to the marrow of his bones.
Mateo reaches out, then stops, and asks in English, "May I touch you, mi amor?"
He should say no. He should keep that tentative space between them. Mateo is as dangerous as open flame and will burn him if he gets too close. He's already burned once. But Mateo worries at his lip the same way Martín always did and Mortum finds himself too weak to not take Mateo's hand.
"I won't apologize again." Mateo kisses Mortum's knuckles ever so gently. "There is no amount of apologizing that will fix this. But I will thank you for sparing my life."
Mortum swears again, wishing desperately that he had better self control. It's never been a problem before. He clings to Mateo's hands like they're the only shelter from the storm in his mind. Mateo gently pulls one hand free. He reaches up, brushing the back of his fingers against Mortum's cheek. He thumbs away a tear that Mortum hadn't noticed.
Giving up the last of his reserves, Mortum turns his head into the touch, pressing a kiss against Mateo's palm. His hands are rougher than Martín's, calloused and scarred and the nails chewed brutally short. But they still touch him the same way. Something bruised and angry and soft claws its way into Mortum's throat, but he keeps it locked behind his teeth.
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souryogurt64 · 7 months
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aw man why was the arctic monkeys concert…like that?
the main thing was that i literally just thought it sounded really bad, both the band and the venues sound. i felt like the vocals were really bad and i couldnt hear the bass at all which was compounded by the fact i felt like the guitar work wasnt very good. there was a lot of feedback at one point during the show (i think multiple tbh) which i feel vindicated that i wasnt crazy. idk how but i somehow felt like i couldnt hear anything (never felt like that at a concert before) and like it was hurting my ears.
this is not really about the show itself but the lineup procedure was very bad, drawn out and disorganized and there was a lot of cutting for something that took 2 hours and a ton of screaming to do “fairly”. i also felt like the people there were kind of awful, usually theres like a sense of at least fake camraderie when youre in line for hours but there was none of that, plus i was next to this group of girls who were shit talking their friend who had headphones in and couldnt hear them.
also it was the most invasive and over the top bag policy ive ever experienced. venue was also fugly and was also not in an awesome location in terms of transportation, what was around, and safety. there also wasnt enough staff around at all given what they were asking of us
ive also never considered myself to be sensitive to flashing before but the strobing during the show hurt. there was also basically no set design, props, or confetti/inflatables, creative lighting, fog, water, anything. most big rock acts ive seen (weezer, mcr, green day, fob, panic, etc) have used almost all of them plus pyro/fireworks/other sfx so i was pretty surprised. i wasnt super close to the stage but i feel like i wouldve noticed if they had. they also abruptly cut the walkout music mid-song after only about 90 seconds or so and turned the lights up to full blast (ow) which was also really jarring and then they turned the music back on after maybe 20 seconds which i felt (like the mic feedback) vindicated that i wasnt crazy and whoever running sound was kind of clueless
opener also wasnt good. there was only one opener which i was glad for given how bad it was but i felt like the wait times between sets were a bit much— i feel like other big rock shows ive seen have managed to do a lot more in the same or not much more time, like somehow squeezed in 3-5 bands. the opener was also a pretty small band, which was fine but all in all it felt like kind of ripoff given how much it cost-- the most important thing is how the headlining band sounds but that was. also real bad.
finally alex also seemed like a very uncharismatic and uncomfortable performer to a degree that was offputting, he also didnt look so hot in general -- not like attractiveness, i mean as slang for sickly haha.
i dont want to be a hater but no one goes into a rock concert of one of their all-time top streamed artists they paid hundreds and *wants* to feel like they need to cover their ears during the show lol.
i know i was pitching a fit about the fob wrigley show but it wasnt actually bad, i was just mad i couldnt hear the bass at all during headfirst slide, they played 3 covers and i didnt like my 8ball song . otherwise it was fine. but this was like legit for real unpleasant. ive gone to over like 60 concerts including seeing the arctic monkeys a really long time ago so i feel like i have a good metric for what concerts are like normally haha
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carverl · 7 months
Text
If I'm being 100% honest with myself, this opening is perhaps the greatest achievement of the I Expect You To Die franchise in my opinion. I am constantly blown away by how incredible the whole thing is; the song itself by Puddles Pity Party is one of my favourite songs of all time, I listen to it constantly whether I'm at college, out on a walk or just shopping I've got this thing on repeat.
The way it's from the perspective of John Juniper, the main villain of the second game, who you'll be facing off against gives it this feeling of having a personal beef with Juniper before you've even met him. Like a rivalry is born between you, the player, and the villain right away just by how vindicate and snide the lyrics are and how they're directed at you. The first opening had a similar type beat with an unseen antagonist berating you, but in that case it was (and still kind of is) a little vague as to who was actually singing. In this case it's undeniable who you're meant to defeat and just how effortlessly it sets up the central gimmick of Juniper and his sadistic narcissism it's just so good.
It's especially interesting how Juniper seems to want Pheonix to act as their co-star in a way, talking about their battle of wits like it's a production they're playing their respective roles in; that being the hero and the villain. (Curious how Juniper seems to view himself as a villain, at least he's semi self aware, I guess) It acts in contrast to the first game's song in which it's clear the singer thinks nothing of you, here Juniper really seems to want to share the spotlight with Pheonix.
The visuals are incredibly memorable, where the first game used red, black, and white as its three colour atheistic this game uses green, gold, and black and I love how both tell you something about the villains; red used in the context of Zoraxis is a violent and sinister colour with connotations of blood whereas green and gold bring to mind wealth and privilege. Green also has a sickly connotation, like while Juniper is incredibly well off, he's also unwell and has a toxic relationship to his own status and sense of ego.
I also love the use of classic symbols associated with film and the theatre all throughout this opening, it almost feels like each of these title sequences step into the mind of the villain and you get to see their perspective of you and of the world. For Juniper, that's a world of adoring fans who are blind to his true intentions, all except for you. It almost feels like a classic "We're not so different) kind of thing except a bit more subtle. My favourite visual in the whole thing has to be the nukes flying towards Earth that's just so unbelievably cool.
I just absolutely adore this opening, and while I think the opening to Cog in the Machine has improved visuals, this game has a banger of a song that will go down as one of the all time greats in spy media. It's amazing how they took arguably the best part of the first game and made it 100× better in every way. It evokes images of classic spy films like Goldfinger and the whole vibe is impeccable.
10/10 absolute classic
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badpancakelol · 1 year
Text
The second time they truly meet — because, yes, while Eddie had seen Steve during high school, they hadn’t really talked, per se. Eddie had looked on, had watched from primary school to middle school to high school, had seen how the person who he thought would have called him a friend, turn into something horrible.
It was… well. He didn’t know how to describe it. A fall from grace — no. Had he ever truly been graceful? 
(Eddie likes to think so. Likes to think that the Steve who helped him up from his bike, had made sure that he was okay, hadn’t always been scathing and turbulent; a bottled storm that was destroying everything with an air of apathy and detachedness).
So, the second time that they truly meet, because Eddie does not count hallway glances, questioning upticks of an eyebrow that say who are you?, as real meetings, he doesn’t realise how much Steve has changed.
Harrington’s already waiting at the clearing in the forrest. It was an easy enough place to find if you knew how to get there, and it had been serving Eddie well for the past couple of years. As he hears the crunch of the leaves against his boots, wet from the morning dew, he vaguely hopes the spot keeps being faithful.
Eddie slows his pace, and he looks, really looks at Harrington in detail. His shoulders are drawn together, and when Steve turns his face slightly, there’s the red-blue-purpleness of a fresh bruise. Not quite the sickly yellow-green, yet. There’s a horrible scabbing on his upper lip and across his nose, but out of everything that he sees, out of all the hurt that is so very apparent on his face, the most striking thing to Eddie is how tired he looks.
“Harrington.”
He perks up in a way that could be seen as a flinch, turns his body in a careful and smooth way that almost hides his discomfort. But Eddie knows better. Has heard through the grapevine about what happened between Steve Harrington and Jonathan Byers. He had heard all about the fight in the alleyway, rumours spreading like wildfire about a relationship scandal, or something or other, but it doesn’t fully explain how Harrington is looking right now.
There’s a puppy-like sadness to his eyes as he meets Eddie head on. It almost makes him feel a bit sympathetic, if not even a bit sorry.
“Sorry, I know Tommy’s normally the one to buy but—”
Ah. Tommy and Carol who Steve isn’t friends with anymore, if rumours can be trusted. Eddie knows that they can’t, but sometimes it’s nice to indulge in the drama. When he had first heard it whisper through the hallways, he had felt a bitter bit of vindication. It seemed as if the four of them were never meant to be.
“You don’t remember me?”
-- -- --
part three of my little timeloop series is up B) and, as a treat, here's a little section from Chapter 2: SECOND WIND
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Text
You Won’t See Me in the Harbor Lights
Whumptober 19: Enough is Enough (ft. Varmint)
[warnings: implied child abuse]
ao3 link
The wind and waves lap as one, breaking against towers of jagged stone that mark the shoreline. Heidi’s thrumming heart drowns in the sea’s violent cacophony, but fifteen wasted years on this beach have rendered it white noise.
They press the toe of their worn out sneaker against the heel of the other and unceremoniously peel each off in turn. Dirt and wet gravel immediately cling to the soles of their feet as they step closer to the cliff’s edge. 
The once blue ocean is rendered black under dark rolling clouds and memories of rain. Unsafe waters for ships; deadly for swimmers.
But Heidi is neither.
Poseidon’s children belong to the sea as much as any finned creature. Heidi carefully pulls their shirt over their head only to blindly toss it to the side as a crumpled ball. Someone will find their abandoned clothes eventually, but will they know? Heidi has carried out this routine for years. It’s not just expected— it’s obligatory. Their duty to their people to hunt and provide them with the sea’s bounty.
But they know better than to treat their threadbare belongings with such carelessness as to leave them in a dirty heap outside. It’s a message that will doubtlessly be lost in translation. 
Their jeans join their shirt, frigid wind gnawing at their exposed skin like it means to meticulously strip them down to bone. Generations of radiation-induced adaptations have them shaking off the sensation readily, but they can’t soothe the dull pulsing ache beneath their right eye with the same ease. 
Good for nothing varmint. 
Heidi grinds their teeth as they brush a thumb across their father’s parting gift. Of course, he won’t get to stew in his short lived guilt when it bruises and stains muddled shades of purples and sickly greens. Not this time at least. 
No, they’ll wash up on some southern shore soon and they’ll scrape themself together with their own two hands; they’ll make something of themself. 
And if they don’t? If they bleed out in a dank back alley of a foreign town as their parents always warned? Well, Heidi can only hope they’ll be able to hear the laughter six feet below.
Despite everything, they wield the unyielding hubris of any young teen ready to spit in God’s eye. They cannot see the other side of this blade pointed at their own soft belly.
From behind them, a raspy meow calls out, closer to the screech of some abomination than a house cat’s kindly greeting.
Guppy headbutts their calf affectionately before wrapping her slim frame around it, tail flicking curiously. Her patchy fur is damp, though Heidi is unsure if it’s from rain or sea water.
They offer her a thin smile. 
“I’m leaving.” The words feel strange on their tongue. “You’ll follow me, won’t you?”
Guppy’s enormous black eyes stare up at them and the inky void is unreadable, but the third yellow, recognizably feline, eye scours their face before blinking slowly. The vestigial fourth remains unseeing. 
A sliver of tension slides from Heidi’s shoulders. They won’t be alone. Guppy is not a creature of water despite her best efforts— she could never make that swim— but she’ll find them by land. She always does. 
As they reach down to pet her, Guppy wraps a prehensile tail around their wrist and squeezes briefly like a person might grab their hand in reassurance. They scritch behind her ear in like. 
“I’ll see you soon, Admiral.”
Guppy puffs up as she pads to the edge of the cliff as if vindicated by that silly title Heidi gave her so many years ago. She stretches languidly and settles to see them off. 
They return their attention to their task and the choppy waves below. 
With one hand, they untuck the end of the stolen bandage from under their armpit and allow it to unravel. It spills like ribbon around their feet, a puddle of beige attesting to the sheer grief of inhabiting the figure it hid. Swiping a new roll will be priority one when they crawl back on land, but with any luck— and a packful of caps they don’t yet have— they won’t need them much longer. 
They suck in a breath and it feels like the first one they’ve ever taken. Their ribs ache with the fullness of it, though they so often do these days. Even on dry land the gills running down their torso sing praises of relief, no longer smothered and suffocated.
Stripped down to only ratty underwear, they step up to the ledge until the uneven ends of the stone dig into their feet.
Finally, finally, they are here. They roll their shoulders back, crack their neck, uncurl long fingers. They tell themself the buzzing in their limbs is giddiness and not terror. Glancing back one last time at the dreary village that has caged them for so long, Heidi can’t help themself. 
They raise a middle finger and jump.
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always-outsider · 1 year
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I really hope Vindicator Odin gets awakened
Welcome to my shitpost at midnight because I can't sleep.
Please keep scrolling. Don't waste your time on this post. I'm not in the right frame of mind. Insomnia is killing me. I'm making a mistake.
It has been bugging me from day one, and I cannot contain myself any longer:
I really hope they make Vindicator Odin awaken.
And why am I hoping for that? Well, just look at him—I mean, his character art. What do you see?
Too many wrinkles? No, that's not it. I'm not complaining about the wrinkles. Not at all. I'm complaining about his complexion. The combination of dark green, neon green, white, and gray has made for a very pale, dull, and feeble complexion. In other words, a very unhealthy aura. Often, when I look at my phone screen during Connect battles, his dull and sickly-looking avatar stands out so much that I can't help but notice. When I think in another language, such as Japanese, words like [暗い!] or [薄い!] frequently come to mind.
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Another point I'd like to bring up is… his arms. It looks so thin!? Somehow?? Is it just me? Is it because of the wide sleeves of his robe? Or are they playing realism here? A skinny old man… Really Ateam? Muscle atrophy? Sarcopenia much? I look at his thin arms, and I want to cry. My heart aches, and my soul weeps. I feel so so sad for no reason. I'm getting crazy. This obsession is getting out of hand. It's beyond rationality.
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I really hope he gets awakened just for the change in character art. I do not ask much; I only ask for a brighter complexion. (;へ:)At this point, he looks too sick and feeble; my heart can't take it.
Maybe I shouldn't whine about all this. I got lucky enough to be able to summon him. I should not ask for more.
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deepwebheatwave · 1 year
Text
>> FIRST KILL
rating • M (violence)
warnings • gore, violence
vague attempt at rewriting don mitchell's murder. enjoy ^_^
ao3 link, if you prefer
tonight is the night that this shit-filled hypocrite dies.
after the meticulous planning phase was finally over, after all of the research and effort, it was happening. after tonight, the phony conman would lie dead in a pool of his own blood and puke and edward nashton would finally cease to exist. there would be no more edward - only the riddler, above the flaws and eccentricities of a simple man, would exist, and people would love him or fear him or at very least know he was alive. this was for the greater good, but it was for him, too. selfishly he wanted to be the one to fulfill his own prophecy. uncovering corruption was not enough.
he had to be the one to crush it. to feel its entrails pop under the unforgiving weight of his boots.
the fucking idiot didn't even notice him, even though edward was sure his breathing was deafeningly loud. it was cold outdoors, but the rich fuck must have had quite the heating system, because under his layers edward could feel itchy trickles of sweat running down his neck and torso.
what luxury. nights like this, edward remembered lying curled up on the cold floor of the orphanage, feeling his muscles and skin sting and burn. all he could do was plead to whatever god did or didn't exist to please just kill him already.
it's good to know that rich fuckwits like him were cozy and safe during all of that.
he clenches the carpet tucker in his hand so hard that the joints in his knuckles feel like they might snap and break apart.
don mitchell continued to watch the screen, so preoccupied with staying on his throne of shit and sin.
edward thinks of how in a few moments, this repugnant man will have much bigger issues than winning an election. he barely can contain how giddy that makes him feel. all because of him.
the television quiets. don mitchell stands there, unaware of how soon his avaricious life will come to an end.
such a perfect night.
edward lunges forward, unable to contain the guttural shriek that rips out of him. he can feel his vocal cords burn and sting. before he knows it, they're both on the floor. edward lands hard on his shoulder. winded, he writhes and crawls back on top of the jarred man. adrenaline pulses through his veins. he can feel his jugular pounding as if it might pop open.
now now now now now now now now now now
his thoughts repeat like a broken record. the riddler grips the carpet tucker tight, swinging his arm back so hard it crackles, before slamming the solid metal into the man's cranium. the sound is wet and crunchy at once, a sickly sound like stomping on an egg. it only invigorates the riddler even more.
now that he has no reason to hide his presence, the riddler grunts and yells and gasps with exertion, animalistic whines of exhaustion as he continues to viciously bludgeon the tool against the dented head of the man. he only stops when he slams his sore arm down once again and hits a new, unbroken part of skull and the force sends his tool flying across the room. it rolls and clatters, leaving staccato imprints of blood where it bounced off of the fancy hardwood floor.
as the riddler stands on trembling legs, high off of the iron stench of blood and vindication, he wants to smash his foot down on this scumbag's skull and flatten it completely. yet, he's tired and the adrenaline is starting to wear off. he's starting to realize that his metamorphosis has completed. no longer was he the helpless worm. he had burnt away his larval form and been created anew.
it almost felt holy.
the riddler walks with purpose, standing over his fresh kill. unexperienced and too impatient to wait and see, he cannot tell if this son of a bitch is dead or just unconscious. no matter how much blood there was or how many times he slammed metal into his skull, there were no massive open fractures or huge dents that he could see. no matter. a man like this deserved to die slow and in pain anyway. edward might not have had a sadistic streak, but the riddler did, and he planned on nurturing it when it came to judgmental, controlling, heartless men who never left the lap of luxury.
the riddler straddles his kill and lets out a pleasured sigh, cocking his head back and taking in the feeling of being born anew.
however, he couldn't just bask in this feeling forever. he had a purpose, after all.
so, the riddler peels off a long strip of duct tape and gets to work.
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offwrldfairy · 2 years
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I was shuffling around some OC ideas and it brought up a lot of questions I have about the fairy tail universe, which turned into headcanons about laxus
under the cut because but lemme know your opinions!
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I love the series but the worldbuilding opened up a lot of avenues that probably couldn’t be approached in a PG-13 manner.
Ivan Dreyar is a great example; it’s said that Laxus was a sickly child and insinuated that he was a source of disdain/embarrassment for his father, which is why Ivan implanted the lacrima in Laxus
Basing it off this timeline (major spoilers for the whole series), I would say children usually manifest their magic between the ages of 4 to 6, which means Ivan would have noticed Laxus falling behind in his developmental milestones and implanted the lacrima around 7 or 8 years old which is super fucked up to me, he basically mutilated his chronically ill son for what? his ego? financial gain?
Ivan would later tell Gajeel that he’s going to extract the lacrima, possibly at the cost of his son’s life as its power has grown exponentially over the years that Laxus had it
This leads me to believe Laxus has massive reserves of magical energy from Dreyar genetics (similar to Cana and Gildarts) OR Laxus’s sickness was a result of the fact that his body could not process or contain the ethernano from the atmosphere, leaving him with a moderate but chronic condition of magic deficiency syndrome, which can be fatal in severe cases (this one’s my personal fave)
the lacrima may have either fed on that power and stored it OR stabilized his magical container enough to allow Laxus to function as a mage, somewhat like a magical pacemaker (the removal of which could have fatal consequences) ((Iron Man’s arc reactor would be the best comparison in fantasy as it’s a lifesaving device that grants the user immense power))
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If the latter theory is the reason, I suspect that the reason not many people know about it is because the implantation of this kind of lacrima as treatment for MDS is considered illegal and unethical with a high mortality rate, which is why Ivan did it himself and kept it hush 
In the same vein, it’s common fanon that the scar and its distinct lightning shape are from the lacrima and while there’s no scar when the lacrima is implanted (see above) it’s possible that Ivan might have sedated him and manually made the scar, as an outward reminder for Ivan that Laxus is useful and he should remember to protect his investment even though that’s his child and he should protect him regardless. Why? Because Ivan’s a sociopath  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
To be specific, antisocial personality disorder (general tw for the link). I’ve seen some people classify him as a narcissist but  ASPD includes intense physical aggression and unlawful behaviour (please note that I am not an actual psychologist, I am rambling about a fictional character that we have very little canon information on)
In Ivan’s twisted mind, he feels vindicated by taking the “stain” on his reputation as a powerful mage (his disabled or chronically ill child) and exploiting it for his personal gain, fueling his god complex with the knowledge that Laxus now relies on the lacrima to live but Ivan can take it away when he pleases
What’s also messed up is that in Laxus’s backstory flashback, he is well into his teens when Ivan is finally expelled
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Makarov is not exactly the most attentive or well-adjusted parent, so if we’re following my earlier theory on the lacrima implantation, it is possible that Ivan is expelled because Makarov finds out (years later) what he did to Laxus, which would deepen the rift between all three Dreyar men 
Makarov feels guilty because in prioritising Fairy Tail, he neglected Ivan, who would continue the abusive cycle with Laxus
Laxus feels guilty because while Makarov’s official reason is that Ivan endangered a member of the guild, Laxus knows that he is the guild member that caused the excommunication
Ivan doesn’t feel guilt but he is furious that the details of his ‘investment’ is not only exposed to a Wizard Saint, but the one man who has the power to protect Laxus from him and control where he goes and (to an extent) what he does
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hypnoswrites · 3 years
Note
Idk who to requesr this for but I'd love to see some yandere losing and reader winning if you have Any please :D
I’m gonna write this same prompt with another character soon! It was a nice change of pace. Anyway, enjoy this angst!
Chrollo x Reader 
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“Do you think I’m afraid to die?” The question came out clear, despite having been said by a man spitting up blood every few seconds. He’d tried swallowing it at first, but you couldn’t imagine that adding nausea to the pain was any relief. “I’m curious.”
“I don’t think you’re afraid of death.” You replied, sitting down on your knees and pulling his head into your lap. Your fingers tugged through several clumps of blood in his hair, slowly revealing the mark he hid underneath, your fingers slowly turning a dark brownish-red as you worked your way through. “You don’t need to be. It doesn’t make a difference.”
“Hmm.”
“Though I think this conversation would’ve gone a bit different had you been afraid. More begging and crying.” You paused, his eyes looking up at you with a hazey look, the blood loss probably getting to him. “I’m glad it’s like this.”
“Almost sounds like you regret this.”
“I don’t.” You pulled out another knot, finishing up your self-made task before going on and rubbing several dried spots of blood on his forehead. “But I’m not above admitting it would’ve made me uncomfortable to see you act like that.”
He gagged for a moment, from pain or from the blood, you couldn’t tell, and you took this moment to take a look at what you’d done, the state you’d put him in. His body was broken, his legs both pointing a different direction than they should, a large gash in his stomach forming a pool beneath him, his shoulder dislocated and another large cut in his neck. One arm was torn off, making sure he wouldn’t be able to conjure his little book.
It was a miracle he was still breathing, but it wouldn’t last. 
He would die here, and you both knew it.
The smile he still managed to form on his face, though his body had to be in unimaginable pain, seemed carefree and amused. “I hadn’t expected it would be you. Do you feel vindicated? Relieved to be rid of me?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.” You smiled back and went back to stroking his hair like you’d done for years, the motion ingrained in your memory. The nights you’d spent doing this had been innumerable, the small comfort easily given and received. “I just think that you should die peacefully, knowing that the world will be a better place without you in it. “
He tried to laugh, the sound starting loud before the pain forced him to silence. Your eyes softly went over his coat, a piece of clothing you’d seen so often, torn and stained at every stitch. “I hope you feel very morally justified.”
“I do!” You laughed back at him, your eyes twinkling. “You sound like one of those villains in comics. ‘You’re just as bad as me by killing me, superman!’.”
“Don’t believe in the old ‘an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind’?“
“Come on Chrollo.” You scoffed, twirling a piece of his hair with your finger. “I think we both know you took more than one eye. I didn’t think you’d try to sway me with such grade-school ethics.”
“You misunderstand me.” He tried to lift his remaining hand, failing. You didn’t even look up, knowing for sure you’d broken enough of his fingers to make lifting the thing impossible in his current state. “I’m just trying to understand your reasoning, not explain my own.”
“You probably have quite an extensive internal justification, of how it’s just in your nature as a thief to take whatever you want with the power you’ve gained.” A large piece of rubble close to you crumbled to the ground, the force of gravity having finally destroyed it’s foundation, the aftermath of your battle “In the end you and your troupe are just a bunch of broken children that try to form their entire identity around the fact that they can break things and kill and others cannot.”
Chrollo remained silent for a while, looking up at you still with the same affection he’d had for you since the two of you met, an affection you’d grown rather tired of. “That makes us seem rather pathetic, does it not?”
“It does, and you all are. You’re the type of bullies that mistake human kindness for weakness, instead of strength.” 
“And yet your kindness still requires you to kill me.”
“To have a fair society, you need to be intolerant to those who are intolerant. And that’s the same reasoning as before, Chrollo.” You pushed a finger against the gash in his neck, stopping the bleeding a bit. It wasn’t enough to save him, not by a long shot, but this conversation filled you with a catharsis that had been a long time coming, and you didn’t want to cut it short. “You would’ve killed so many more, caused so much more unecessary suffering. I’m not just killing a random asshole that looked at me wrong, I’m killing you. Kindness is strength, but removing cancer still requires a scalpel.”
It was quiet for a while again, the only sounds being Chrollo’s heavy breathing and some other rubble tumbling down. 
“I get what you mean.” He nodded, before flinching, the pain probably bordering on intolerable. “You aren’t necessarily wrong, just a bit naïve.”
You hummed, not intending to explain exactly to him why he was wrong, knowing he wouldn’t change his mind. He hadn’t changed his mind for you even once over the years, so why start at the end?
“They will kill you for this.” He eventually said, spitting aside another mouthful, his entire face growing sickly pale. “It’ll probably break Pakunoda’s heart, she had taken quite a liking to you.”
Wistfully, you smiled. “You think I was planning to stop after you?”
“Will that make you feel better?”
“Maybe. You probably think I’m doing this as revenge for all you’ve done to me.” You wiped a strand of hair away from his eyes, one of them completely bloodshot. “It’s more of a public service.”
A part of your plan had already gone into play, and the hardest part was already done: killing the leader. Now you just needed to clean up the remains, though you were kidding yourself if you thought it would be easy. As soon as they realized you, the boss’ little doll, had taken his life, you would be hunted. 
“It won’t be easy.”
“You’re right.” He leaned back into your lap, finding comfort in your affection even after all this time, after everything that happened. In moments like these, you could nearly mistake him for someone worth loving, though it didn’t take long before reality made you rescind that statement. 
He wasn’t worth loving. Maybe, once, a long time ago, he had been, but not anymore. 
You continued your statement. “I don’t think I need to kill all of them, of course, just the core members. I don’t think Shizuku or Hisoka would rebuild the entire troupe after that.”
A flash of fear shot through Chrollo’s eyes, and for the first time in ages, he seemed rather off-put. You smiled, having expected this, and decided to push him just a bit further. Not to make him suffer unecessarily, of course, but rather to let him know that his reign had really ended. “You aren’t afraid of death, but I think that thought scares you, doesn’t it?”
“The troupe was never eternal.” The dark-haired thief spit out. “I’ve always known this.”
“I know that, but I still think you hoped it would outlast you a little bit, carry the message across and all that.” You leaned all the way down and pressed a short kiss to his forehead, knowing you’d stain your lips with blood. “Instead, you’ll die knowing all your little friends will soon join you in hell.”
“For someone who claims to do this for public service, your speech of vengeance is rather good.” He coughed another laugh. “I’ve definitely heard worse.”
You didn’t respond, seeing the pool beneath Chrollo grow. It was only a matter of time, and you’d already said enough. You spent his last moments stroking his hair, waiting for him to quit gurgling and finally spend his final breath, the very motion becoming more difficult for him with each passing second. 
Just before his eyes finally glazed over, his mouth opened again, and you were privy to his last words, a mangled form of your name, his throat no longer able to push out the consonants that made up your name. It made you close your eyes for a moment, taking a steady breath. 
“Your death made the world a better place, Chrollo.” You shut his eye-lids as you repeated the words you’d said before, liking the way they felt. It didn’t feel spiteful or mean, but rather a statement that gave meaning to everything you’d done. “Killing the others will too.”
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thefossilwhale · 3 years
Text
signed the saw
mind blind. button x kent, 1.8k words. inspired by this ask about the ROs helping button manage a panic attack (so, cw for depiction of a panic attack/extreme anxiety). sabrina wiseman is unsurprised to find that undercover work is stressful.
The ceiling is dotted at long intervals by waning light bulbs, whose dim halos have a way of blurring the hall’s few distinctive features. Sabrina’s eyes have trouble focusing, anyway. There is grey, and there is brown, and there is the black shape of Kent’s shoulder half a stride ahead, leading her around the next corner.
This stretch of hallway was the biggest obstacle when planning the mission. Relatively deserted, with little chance of interruption, but it was at least a few minutes’ trek between point A and point B, and they needed every second.
Right now, they happen to be perfectly on schedule, and Sabrina is grateful for the dead air. She just needs a moment to collect herself, to align her breathing with Kent’s brisk pace down the hallway. One breath for every four steps, following his lead, and she’ll be back to herself by the time they round the next corner—which is coming up now, she realizes, as Kent takes an abrupt left. That’s okay. One more breath, and she’ll be fine.
She steps through the doorway, which she hadn’t noticed Kent opening, and forces herself back to alertness. The room is small. It’s as sparse and poorly lit as the hallway, with no visible evidence of the files that Kim had emphasized were mission critical. Swallowing another spike of panic, Sabrina opens her mouth, but Kent is faster.
“This isn’t the room,” he tells her.
“Okay.” She presses into the wall at her back and takes another breath. “So why are we stopping?”
The tremor in her voice is answer enough, and Kent is kind enough not to acknowledge it as he turns to close the door. “We can do our job in five minutes, if we have to. We can’t do it if you’re not at your best.”
If it were anyone else, she’d bristle at the suggestion and stride back into the hallway at double the pace. But Kent weights practicality at least as heavily as his concern. From his mouth, the words are simple fact: neither of them can afford her distraction, but they’re a good enough team to manage a detour.
Kent meets her eyes briefly, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth that she can see. She barely registers it before his focus snaps back to the doorway.
His diverted attention is appeasement enough for Sabrina’s pride, and she lets herself sink. Not to the floor, just the few inches it takes for her neck to fall back between her shoulders, cradling the crown of her head against the wall. Her hands, clasped behind her crumpled back, feel cold and sickly on its lukewarm surface. Her eyes are pointed at the ceiling, but they scan aimlessly without seeing. She screws them shut and waits.
This place needs a makeover, says Nick, who had for several minutes been indistinguishable from the thousand other nervous hums in the back of her mind. How many ceiling tiles do you think aren’t stained? Twenty bucks says it’s five or less.
If there were any windows, she knows he would ask her about the weather instead. But his impression of the space is only as good as her own hazy, stuttering glances, and though he tries, there is little among the blank walls and shadows to latch onto. Still, she opens her eyes and looks up.
He must feel her unease resurging as she takes in the room once again, because his next words come in a rush of thought faster than he could ever speak them aloud: Wait, no, I can already tell that won’t help. Don’t humor me, okay? If I’m not helping, I’ll be quiet.
Nick is, of course, physically incapable of producing any noise in his current state, so he does technically keep that promise. But in the past week, Sabrina has come to understand what it means when someone calls her mind “loud.” Her own anxiety is familiar to her, slowly building and fuzzing the edges of her perception, but Nick’s mind has never felt so foreign. It is deafening in its wrongness, its intrusion. He is terrified.
It doesn’t matter whether he voices it; Nick is worried someone will find his sister having a panic attack somewhere they’d kill her for trespassing, and she would be lucky to die on the ugly floor of that boring hallway because it would mean she at least made it out of this room, whose shadows are growing thicker and more tangible until they seem to press against her throat. Her body falters under the weight of two consciousnesses as their respective panics converge. The wall at her back is painful with its rigidness, its press against her spine, its wrinkled and uneven paint.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sabrina is struck by a sick inevitability. Of course she couldn’t do this, after Nick warned her, after she insisted. Of course her worst mistake would be to play at field agent, and of course she would bring her brother and Kent down with her. If she could think or breathe, she might wonder if Nick felt vindicated by her failure.
“Sabrina?”
Kent’s voice is closer than it should be. She feels him at her right side, between her and the door he’s supposed to be watching.
A hand comes down on her shoulder, gentle as the voice that follows. “Sabrina, look at me.”
She shakes her head, but the scrape of her scalp against the wall is unbearable. She winces and lurches forward. The shaking motion grows tighter, jerking her chin to either side in frantic protest. I can’t open my eyes right now because any visual input will be the straw to break the camel’s brain, and then I’ll really be inconsolable and we’ll either die here, or worse, make it out as failures, is what she wants to tell him, but the words won’t form even in her mind. She screws her eyes shut tighter and finally halts the motion of her chin, holding it angled away from him. Please please please understand.
“Should I not…” He trails off, removing his hand—but it doesn’t go far. When he clears his throat and tries again, she can still feel it just barely hovering above her shoulder. “Is it okay to touch you? Yes or no.”
Sabrina tries to hum her assent, but the flat “hmm” that leaves her nose communicates little. Instead, her left hand escapes from behind her back and reaches for Kent’s wrist. She presses his hand once, firmly, back to her shoulder, where it offers a comforting squeeze, so brief she nearly misses it, before sliding to her forearm. His free hand follows suit, and he pulls her forward off the wall. She only catches herself when her head meets his shoulder.
The darkness as his body shields her eyes is a relief, and the first thought she has in its clarity is to wonder how much of her weight he would bear, if she stopped holding herself upright. Her arms, folded across her stomach, form an awkward barrier between them—one already crossed by the steadying hand he has placed lightly at each elbow, the tilt of her face towards his neck. Leaning against him, with his nose at her ear, she feels the rhythm of his breath, deep and deliberate. It takes a few moments for her own body to match it. After three full breaths shared between them, her mind quiets enough for Nick to resurface.
Okay, Button? His relief is tangible, though she’s not sure how much of it is her own.
She nods—a motion that, in the crook of Kent’s neck, feels embarrassingly like a nuzzle—then answers aloud. “Fine now.”
Mumbled weakly as they were against Kent’s shirt, the words must have been barely audible. Still, his nose dips to her cheek as he nods in acknowledgment, and he takes one step back. Sabrina’s arms slide out of his loose grip to hang at her sides. Studiously avoiding his gaze, she can’t tell what he’s looking at as she turns towards the door.
Kent doesn’t move. She waits, scanning for shadows, before calling softly over her shoulder. “Time to go?”
“If you’re ready,” he says evenly. “We can afford two more minutes, I would guess. It hasn’t been long.”
She hums noncommittally, and Kent steps beside her. Their arms don’t touch, but the space between them is so slight that she would barely have to move if she wanted them to.
Nick?
Don’t you dare, he warns, managing to sound both cheerful and stern. If you try to apologize for what just happened, I’ll start singing the Ghostbusters theme again, and I won’t stop until you’ve thwacked yourself on the head a few times for me.
Apologizing is one thing, Nick, she says. Self-flagellation is a bit harsh.
I agree! So don’t apologize, and I won’t enforce it.
Nick can’t hide a thing from her anymore, and though she knows his lighter mood is genuine, it’s clear how shaken he is. Does he always get that worried, when she has an attack? These circumstances were admittedly exceptional, but how much of that helplessness was her own?
I’m just glad Kent was here, says Nick, nudging those questions into some hidden corner of her mind. He’s all right.
Yes, he is. He’s looking at her, too. She won’t return his gaze, but she feels it on her and thinks he must be gauging whether she’s really recovered. But there is no tension, no intent in the small space between them. Kent is just… looking. Trusting her to watch the door. Thinking something that she’s sure she could never even begin to guess.
“I’m ready,” she tells him, and grabs his hand—knowing that he won’t outwardly react (it’s Kent), but still not looking, just in case. With one tug on his arm, she leads him forward and poises her free hand over the doorknob, waiting on his confirmation.
“Good,” comes his always inscrutable voice in reply. “Let’s go.”
Kent takes the lead again when they return to the hallway, and Sabrina slackens her grip on his hand, slowing her pace just enough that she’ll drop it as he pulls ahead. When his arm stretches uncomfortably behind him, he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he pulls on her hand, with just enough strength that she has to scramble to avoid tripping over her feet. The momentum carries her back to his side.
“Let’s go,” he repeats. His tone is neutral, but he squeezes her hand once as she matches his pace.
A light bulb flickers above them, scattering the shadows. For a moment, the hallway is as indistinct and menacing as when she’d retreated into that room. Kent’s hand is in hers, though, and he doesn’t miss a step. His outline is clear even in the waning light.
They round the next corner.
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barnesafterglow · 2 years
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a random fact for a ship :D
i hate hate hate grape juice 😐
akdfjhnerdk what is wrong with you!! jk grape juice is mid at best
for some reason my first thought is steve?? like i feel like grape juice was a luxury back in the 30s and 40s and even if they could afford it that sickly boy couldn't have tasted it anyways.
so when he comes out of the ice and he's trying to be an actual human again, that's probably one of the things he's excited to try so he hypes himself up and buys an expensive bottle of it (just bc he can) and he takes a sip and is like 🥴
so finding out you also hate grape juice would make him feel so vindicated and the two of you weirdos would bond over it
join my first sleepover!!
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