Excerpt from Overbloterie 700 words, Riddle &/x Kalim, CW: incarceration, body horror, implied abuse AO3 link to full fic , 5,979 words, CW: abuse ~ Kalim's mood is brighter when he returns one blue-lit eon later. His jewelry glints muddy in the light, like a softer echo of the steel of Riddle's cage bars, like a pure, disgusting, human facsimile of the blot which drips and shimmers across Riddle's skin. He is so unafraid to stand before Riddle, even to attempt to speak with him more than a few words. Where was the terror, the terror, the terror? "Whoops," he says, voice a twin chirp to that which rings out from a speaker when he spends a second too long within reach of Riddle's cage. He steps back over the line on the floor, and the mechanical noise ceases. "Sorry about that," he says. "I always forget about those. I got my folks to disable Jamil's for me, so I keep goofing up with the others." He smiles. "Off with your head," Riddle is whispering as Kalim speaks, over and over, soothing himself with quiet rage. Sorry about that. He apologizes so easily, as if his transgressions are light as wind. "But yeah, as I was saying—" Kalim scratches his head. "—you guys should totally have a parade!" He is so stupid. He is so stupid. It is by the law's grace that he is allowed to live. He is still grinning. "It would be so exciting," he says, "you guys could all come out and stroll down the aisles, maybe have musicians go along with you, so we can dance and clap as you go by!" Riddle shows grace. He gives Kalim the patience he does not deserve, does not listen as his Phantom whispers "Sentence first" ; he bears with Kalim. "You are not very smart," he says. "The gentleman in the cage next to mine growls and snarls incessantly about turning the world to sand. If he were free, he would do exactly that." "Oh, but for a parade—" "Do you think we would be any different?" Riddle shrieks. "Do you think we would change into docile shapes, given the mere suggestion to look lively and march?" As Kalim replies, he thinks about how dearly he wants his head, wants swift justice upon him; he can hear his Phantom groaning, "Off with your head, off with your head." "It couldn't be too hard," Kalim is saying. Riddle hates how casual he is; he loathes this about Kalim. "After all," Kalim says, "you've got guys here who can make sure—" There it was. "You'd watch us herded through the halls like cattle in fear of the prod? You immoral, decadent, idiotic—" His words ascend into a scream; he is in his Phantom's arms; her emotions are his; they are one vast rage toward their inability to break free from their cage and punish Kalim, be the justice they so immaculately personify. Kalim's eyes are wide; he is spluttering out some sort of apology, pleading that he did not mean it that way, but 'it' and 'that' slip through Riddle's consciousness without attaching to meaning; he does not remember what words a moment prior brought on Kalim's guilt; now, he is no more than fury manifest. A robotic voice calls through the speaker in Riddle's cell, telling him to calm down. Riddle does not. The rage feels good; his throat does not get hoarse from the screaming, never has since he entered this divine state. A second warning. Riddle wails in response, blot splattering all over his cell, through the bars, right at Kalim's feet. He knows what comes after the second warning. His cuffs let out a mechanical buzz, and his senses quickly turn to fuzz, all but the sensation of his own body. Riddle feels very small, toppling to his cell floor. His Phantom's blot bottle falls on top of him; some of his ribs break with a sharp snapping sensation; blot oozes up to his chest, stitching them back together, gently rolling the exalted bottle off Riddle's body, into his arms. Riddle is very lucky, that he may cling to her like this. He is the manifestation of her rules, which is why he is allowed hold her so in his arms, taking comfort from her. Feeling very special, Riddle passes out.