#AND THEIR STORY WOULD INEVITABLY END WITH ONE OF THEIR DEMISE

[stardustneeko]

you guys seemed to like that Starshipping x ItaFushi crossover a lot so allow me to elaborate on why i originally found it fitting:

(Kenjaku Yubel might be controversial, but that monk outfit sure looks cool on him)

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ THIS IS A LIFE, PART ONE !

summary :: in every universe, spiderman will inevitably lose the one thing that matters most to him: y/n l/n. miguel o'hara, peter parker, and hobie brown have all suffered through this story. they soon discover another version of you is alive, bound to fall in love with miles morales and to die abruptly. with the prospect of a second chance and a newfound obsession, these four men will do anything to keep you at their side.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 7.5k

content warnings :: yandere!miguel, yandere!miles, yandere!noir, yandere!hobie, reader death, gore/violence, murder, electrocution, fire, guns, alcohol, cigarettes, suicidal tendencies, kidnapping, stalking, physical restraint, child abuse/neglect, allusions to a child's death, physically abusive ex-boyfriend, infidelity, & torture.

──── October 17th, 2099 — Miguel O'Hara remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. August 24th, 1934 — Peter Parker remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. July 3rd, 2020 — Hobie Brown remembers the day the same way he will never forget you.

Y/N L/N. Miguel O'Hara, Peter Parker, and Hobie Brown will never forget them the same way they will never forget how it felt to lose them.

The inevitable fate of your demise is a cannon event for all spider-people. To love this person with every shred of their being only to live the rest of their lives without them; to love this person with all the might their body can contain only to let go of their hand in the end. It crushes their soul. Countless people are forced to live with the consequences of being bitten by a spider, not one had suspected it would be so detrimental.

Not when it is your life that has been taken.

Written in the stars is this destiny. How they will never love another again, but vow to be a hero and refrain a similar fate from falling onto anyone else. Many have been able to crawl out of the bottomless pit that is grief, but others have succumbed to the unforgiving anguish and let their life escape them. Just the way yours had. After all, what is life if you are not present? What is the point of living if there is no one there to patch up their scars and praise them for their heroic acts? There is no point, which leaves these three particular spider-people here. Their body is stuck in the past, reliving each moment with you up until they lost you forever.

October 17th, 2099. It was all his fault. Maybe if he hadn't let his violent tendencies toward anyone who isn't you slip through the seams, maybe if he had been more persistent in his reminders of how loved you are. Maybe if he had tried harder, Miguel O'Hara would still have you here at his side.

Miguel's attempts to make this sudden transition in your life as easy as possible turned out to be disastrous. He is not stupid; he knows this upbringing into this new lifestyle you claim to be "kidnapping" was blunt. He knew this, yet still, his plans on easing you through this change had collapsed right before him. Time had passed, and he naively assumed your fear had depleted, far too caught up in the sheer delight that came from holding you in his arms. Days and nights spent trailing his fingers down the expanse of your skin and kissing away the bruises his fangs had left upon your lips. This is a dream, Miguel always catches himself thinking.

And his sweet daughter, Gabriella. How she adored you so much. Even more so than her own father, he often joked. Coming home to find you both brushing the hair of her numerous dolls, baking treats that were rich with far too much sugar, or fast asleep on the couch while some whiny kids show plays on the television. His heart hammers like a fluttering hummingbird at the sight of you so soft and calm with his daughter. However, your guard then builds itself back up, brick-by-brick, faster than a gust of wind when he makes his presence known. In a way, Miguel found himself... jealous of Gabriella. That gentle and loving nature of yours, why couldn't he have it for himself? Why couldn't you give him some of that attention, even just a blink? What could that crybaby brat possibly have done to deserve such an amazing thing!?

No matter what kind of thoughts suffocate his mind, Miguel always tried to keep himself composed in front of you. With his tall, muscular physique, it makes sense why you are so intimidated by his appearance. If he were to ever let this satiating envy bleed through the bandaids, however, you'd certainly never open your heart to him. The prospect alone makes his chest tighten with dread.

And he had been so negligent towards his daughter, it only makes sense why she would turn to you. With how breathtaking, elegant, brilliant, electrifying you are, Miguel can understand why she loves you so much. Still, this does not refrain him from tightening his jaw whenever his daughter does something as trivial as hug you. That should be me with Y/N. Let me hold them, let me hold them, let me hold them like that.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his envy through sharp gazes, a towering frame, and muffled shouts through the thin walls. It's his fault he never assured you these ugly emotions were never your fault, since you could never do any wrong in his eyes, after all. It's his fault he didn't drown you in even more heaps of affection, to further remind you of just how much he needs you.

It is his fault you are dead.

Overcome with drowsiness, Miguel heedlessly packs his daughters lunch for school that day. Despite how you are usually the one who does this task, since you have always adored looking after the little one, you needed your rest. And he was insistent on treating you with even more intensive care, all to prove that he is the right one for you. No one else. Meanwhile, Gabriella sits at the kitchen table with her backpack on, swinging her short legs back and forth. She is bright with full energy that contradicts her father's state in a comical manner.

"Y/N/N always cuts my food into cool shapes! Yesterday, they made my sandwich star-shaped!" Gabriella exclaims to her father with admiration.

The mere mention of your name from someone else makes Miguel freeze. A sudden surge of anger wraps around his lungs like a sheen layer of morning dew resting on Spring grass. You treat her with such attentive care, why can't he get any of that? What is so special about her that he doesn't have? What does he need to change about himself in order to get you to love him the way you so fatuously love her? Miguel casts his gaze across the counter and finds several bottles of cleaning products you must have forgotten to put away. So endearing, so adorable. An idea then sparks. While Gabriella continues to babble about how cool and amazing you are, Miguel finds himself considering something he will never be able to take back.

Just a dash of some drain cleaner in her sandwich and this problem will fade away.

"Y/N/N!" The sound of your nickname shouts through the air upon your arrival. Gabriella is more than elated to greet you, but your eyes remain locked on Miguel. In other circumstances, he'd be thanking the heavens above for this bit of attention you have given him. At this moment, however, there is a disturbed gleam of horror in your expression that makes his stomach twist with apprehension.

The energy is not directed towards Gabriella, as you caress her cheek and gift her that smile of yours that rivals sunlight. Miguel inadvertently rolls his eyes at the sight, envious as ever. As she continues to ramble to you about her success at a recent soccer game, you retrieve all the cleaning products and return them to their respective place underneath the sink. Not without shooting a burning glare at Miguel, however. Had he made his intentions that obvious? You wave him aside from his stance at the pink, glittery lunchbox and he obeys. Pretending to finish up his original efforts, you examine every snack inside for anything this crazed man may have tampered with.

"Good morning, button..." The nervous tremble in Miguel's voice doesn't tarnish the sheer adoration that seeps from his tone.

Your short response of "'morning" could barely be heard over the thunderous sound of his heart shattering. Yet again, you have broken his heart. And still, he will crawl back to you every time, aching for any inkling of your regard. Soon, you're saying your goodbyes to Gabriella and wishing her a wonderful day at school. Planting a quick peck to her cheek, Miguel's talons grow and dig crevices into the steering wheel while he waits for his daughter to join him in the vehicle. Oh, if only you could give him the same act of affection, he would never ask the universe for anything ever again.

And if only he had known how the rest of the morning would play out, he never would have left the house.

When Miguel finally pulls out of the driveway, giving you a quick wave that is not reciprocated, you let your guard down. You almost watched this man murder his daughter. Tears begin to form in your eyes as the revelation simmers like boiling water. With more time here, who knows what lengths he'll travel to?

Fortunately for you, with how occupied he was with his daughter and his own inner turmoil, he had entirely forgotten to lock the door to his office. The one place neither you nor his daughter were allowed to venture into. You were unaware of what is within the room or how anything inside could aid you in your attempts to escape. What you were aware of, however, is how paranoid he was in his efforts to keep you out of there. Peeling back the curtain and taking a fearful glance out the window, just to ensure this psychopath who claimed to be your soulmate wasn't lurking, you embark on your journey into uncharted territory.

Miguel had mentioned several times in his late-night talks with you about his job at Alchemax. His boring explanations about the technology he was working on there did wonders in lulling you to sleep. Now, seeing the scatterings of machinery that littered the room made you gasp from their futuristic appearance. One contraption had caught your attention, however. It seemed to be a current project, evident in the numerous tools and papers inked with equations littered around. Upon stepping closer to the contraption, a holographic screen sputters to life. You find several distorted, glitching files that all attain to you in some shape or form. Y/N's wish list, Y/N's checking account, and Y/N's security camera footage. Curiosity does spark, but with how swiftly Miguel is able to drop his daughter off and speed home to return to you, the time you had was not versatile.

If I can piece together how this gadget works, I may be able to call for help and get Gabriella and I as far away from this man as possible, you think to yourself.

The machine continues to stammer pathetically as if it were desperately chasing its own life. Trying to peruse through the technology to find anything useful, its poor performance prevented you from any fruition. In a fit of frustration, you pull your hand back and deliver a harsh smack! to the side of the machine. With how little time you have, you can feel your opportunity for freedom begin to fade away with every glitch that erupts. With one final, violent slam to the machinery, the metal borders protecting the numerous open wires inside fall, and a sudden wave of electricity surges through you. Your entire body goes rigid before you splat harshly against the ground. You are now left entirely lifeless, except for the electric shocks that cause your stiff form to twitch in response.

With that, your life was over. October 17th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

August 24th, 1934. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had stayed with you more and neglected the city, maybe if he hadn't been so careless with expressing his love for you. Maybe if he had tried harder, Peter Parker would still have you here at his side.

Peter, too, attempted vigorously to make your transition to this new life with him as smooth as possible. At the very beginning of this new adjustment, hope had still plagued your mind. As days turned into weeks, soon months, the forest fire that was your persistence had slowly been snuffed out like an old candle. Now, all you can do is sit at the window seat of his apartment and just pray that someone will recognize your face. From the numerous missing persons' posters that were now left behind in dumpsters and rain puddles, you could feel your luck grow thin. Everyday looked like this, all with this lovesick maniac at your beck-and-call, deluded enough to believe this fantasy of being your doting partner to be reality. The amount of egg-creams you've drank is bound to make you vomit at some point.

At the end of the day, you had gotten what you had wished for. You were once a journalist, putting all your time into unmasking the famous Spiderman. The truth of his identity was now in the palm of your hands. However, there were far more consequences to this wish than you had originally anticipated. And Peter is overcome with guilt when he thinks back to how disastrous his efforts to give you his heart turned out.

It's his fault he had so carelessly exposed his acts of heroism through the stench of gunpowder and chunks of blood beneath his fingernails. It's his fault he didn't spend more time showering you in the affection you truly deserved. It's his fault he never assured you the inevitable fate of the bastards that hurt you was never your fault, just so you can realize that everything he does, no matter how calamitous, was all for your benefit.

It is his fault you are dead.

Slow dancing with you in the gentle haze of the moonlight peaking through the window, swaying along to some romantic melody echoing from the saloon across the street, amorous words that you'd hear from the lips of a poet whispered into your ear — this is where heaven is. This is all that he has ever dreamed of; this is all he has ever wanted for the two of you. This is what makes him happy.

"My heart is bleeding in your hands, dollface. It's all yours, I'm all yours." Peter's breath tickles your neck, the infatuation-stained harangue finally coming to an end as he continues to sway you along to the harmonies outside.

You often joke to yourself that you could stab Peter in the heart, give him even just a sliver of the turmoil he has forced into your life, and he would still give you a smile with blood painting his teeth and that revolting gleam of pure, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. With this devotion, however, comes dark, dark side effects. This was not a surprise to you, considering how you've been locked up like a bad dog for these past several months. Still, when you inhale and the sharp odor of iron poorly masked with bleach overwhelms your senses, you find yourself taken aback.

The clamoring sound of the bolts to your prison cell your captor claims to be your love den being unlocked brings you out of your thoughts. When the door opens and Peter walks in, all you see is a euphoric, hopelessly-besotted partner. With the sudden stench that is still heavy in the air, however, you feel a new, sudden sense of dread with his presence. He is elated to see you, as he always is. An impassioned kiss to your lips and an ardent compliment are essential to your everyday encounter with the man you thought once to be a superhero. Sometimes, a gift of fresh, blood-red roses may accompany him in his attempts to woo you further, as well.

Through the whiff of cigarettes sitting on his trench coat when he envelops you in a much-needed embrace after his long day of work, you sense something else. The tang you had inhaled from outside the bedroom is now stuck to his form, nestled beneath the aroma of late-night brume and smoke. You force a gag down your throat and reciprocate the affection, trying to push your suspicions to the back burner in your mind. The rest of the evening is like any other: listening to some tunes from the radio as the two of you play a card game, all that Peter deems as a "romantic date". Your winning strike against him (he always lets you win, but he won't tell you this) falters when your brain can't help but wonder what he was so occupied with outside that door.

As devastating and exhausting as the truth is, coming to terms with reality is the only chance you have of returning to the life you once had. Hoping he'll wake from his delusions and let you off your leash is nothing more than a pipe dream, you realize. If you want freedom, you'll have to take it by the neck and claim it as yours. So, as the hours of the night fade into dawn, you conjure a plan in your head while the man beside you snores in a deep slumber (not without a few sleepy mumbles of flattery for you, though).

The scheme you had so flawlessly crafted was quick, simple, and easy. You would do something you have never done before: initiate affection with Peter.

This was your ploy: fulfill all the fantasies his lovesick brain was infested with and watch with a newfound sense of hope as he forgets to lock the door, too dazed from the pleasure your sweet attitude had brought him. And it worked marvelously. Not only did this man forget to lock the bedroom door, he had entirely forgotten to lock the front door of the apartment altogether. The prospect of this mistake being a test of your loyalty lingers, but when you watch through the window as he swings away from building to building, you let out a roar of laughter.

After your fit of hysterics, a smile sits on your face as you tread to the front door. Something stops you in your tracks when your hand hovers over the doorknob. When you leave, you will have nothing but months of memories to defend yourself with. Who are the authorities going to believe — you, a mischievous journalist, prone to bending the rules for a good headline, or Peter, the famous superhero, notorious for his restless efforts to save the city? Despite the freedom you have dreamed of being right in your palms, you step away from the door. Instead, you look around for any evidence deemed beneficial. Whatever can put him under the negative limelight is satisfactory to you.

No stone was left unturned in the apartment, all besides a single door at the end of a long corridor. The night before, Peter had been so frantic with his time inside (all in order to get back to you sooner) that he was sloppy with his efforts in cleaning his mess. The spilled bleach he had accidentally knocked over was still lying in a puddle; the nauseating scent of fresh blood still satiated through the air like a fragrance. And lastly, the latch on the door had been left unlocked.

Without so much as a second thought, you enter the room and let your curious eyes soak in the sheer horror that resides within.

A metal chair rests in the middle of the room, leather straps tightened around a body that sits motionless. Two tables are located on the sides of the room where all sorts of gut-wrenching tools reside. And there is blood everywhere. What was once a second bedroom for buyers of the apartment has now been morphed into a torture chamber of sorts.

The person restrained in the chair, you weren't sure if they were even alive. Everything is drowned in so much heaps of red, attempting to use your mere first-aid knowledge is impossible. What is most perceptible, however, is the way their eye had been forcefully torn from its socket. It resembles a runny egg how it causes bodily fluids to cascade down their face. The amount of flesh on their body that had been torn asunder, the gag in their mouth that was oozing with tears and saliva, the gushing blood that continues to hastily seep from infected wounds. Everything makes your eyes blur and your stomach churn with nauseau.

With the career you once had as a journalist, you've seen some disgusting sights. Sneaking onto crime scenes from a brawly saloon fight gone too far or snapping pictures of the result of Spiderman's "heroic" acts to save citizens, you've become desensitized to gory scenes. But, this. This wasn't like anything you have ever seen.

"Y/N?" You hadn't realized how deafening the silence was until the poor victim is able to speak out.

With one eye practically staring daggers into you, the revelation hits you like a train. That voice, that eye. This is no other than the man you had called your boyfriend before this mess had snuck into your life. Or, ex-boyfriend, as you'd prefer to refer to him as. The status of your relationship was left a mystery after the night he had come to your home drunk and reeking of someone's perfume. Your insistent demands for him to sober up and inform you of his recent whereabouts earned you a harsh slap across the face. With a loud shout of how much of a “shitty partner” and "piece of cityside trash" you are, the person you thought to be the love of your life storms out of your home. Never to be seen again.

Hastily, you unclasp the restraints that left his skin numb and bruised. With how malnourished he had become from his time spent here, it was fairly easy to support his weight. You swing his battered arm around your shoulder and help him stand on his emaciated legs. After only two steps, he pushes you off of him harshly with what little strength his body was able to garner. His attempts served well, as you feel your stomach hit a table adorned with blood-stained utensils that make you sick to imagine how they were used.

"You... How could you...?" As his weak voice fills the air, you feel your stomach fold into itself. Does he think you did this?

Opening your mouth to begin stammering your way through what you intended to be a thorough explanation, a loud bang! then pervades the air. Without a second to process his actions, the man grasped the pistol left on the table and pulled the trigger. A stream of smoke now stems from the barrel. The betrayal, the aversion, and the debility in his expression tell you everything you need to know. You were so close to the finish line that would grant you freedom, but when you shift your gaze down, you're devastated to find a bullet hole protruding through your chest. You then slump to the ground and your killer falls not long after you, the act of merely standing too much for his abused body.

With that, your life was over. August 24th, 1934 — the day Peter Parker inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

July 3rd, 2020. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had been more attentive to your safety, maybe if he hadn't exposed how soul-crushing the love he has for you is. Maybe if he had tried harder, Hobie Brown would still have you here at his side.

As opposed to the others, Hobie did little to ease you into this new life with him. The transition was curt, violent. With you as a bartender, drunken customers are most certainly not a rare sight. However, when you rejected a man who had one too many drinks and he reacted with violence, it caught you off-guard. And Hobie, the lead singer of the band that consistently played at your bar, had become blind with rage. Through the mess of the blood on your head when the beer bottle shattered against you and the apple-red matter staining Hobie's guitar as he smashes it relentlessly into the man's skull, these events somehow landed you where you are now.

An abandoned building on the outskirts of town, that's where you had woken up. The debris around the room was masked with string lights and band posters adorning the walls, as well as a rickety bed frame scarcely supporting a lone mattress. With bleary vision and an even fuzzier head, you gain consciousness abruptly. You find yourself on the bed with thick, itchy blankets draped around you, clothes that certainly do not belong to you on your body, and spiky belts used to restrain your limbs. Barbed wires and decaying planks of wood board the windows; the lack of passing cars and loud pedestrians outside cause you to worry about how far you are from the lively city you called home.

A lanky figure makes their presence known, dressed in those all-too-familiar garbs. Spider-Punk, the man you'd always see performing at your penurious bar, despite how widespread their band was. Much to your shock, his large hand finds the trim of his mask before tearing the garment off. Beneath is a gorgeous face embellished with piercings and a wild head full of hair. Large, wet eyes overwhelm you. And there is only one discernible trait you could read clearly through his expression: desire.

The way your plump body pools from the hems of the small clothing he dressed you in from his closet, fuck. Hobie has thought of this moment plenty of times — finally being able to take you away, just the two of you. He swore up and down he'd keep his fervid cravings at bay. But, when you're truly here in front of him, looking like that. He has to dig his long nails into his palms to physically restrain himself from lunging for you like a feral animal in heat. God, you look too fucking good.

From here on out, the relationship you have with Hobie sprouted into something only you would call treacherous, something only he would call rapturous. Being trapped within the small expanse of this grimy room, your new life has shown how perceptibly different your reactions are from one another. You are entirely dumbfounded at these new circumstances you've been forcefully thrust into. Meanwhile, Hobie attempts to put space between you both to avoid giving into his irresistible hunger. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice how his hands always find their way to your naked skin and how his eyes linger on the intimate parts of your body. And it most certainly doesn't take a genius to notice the sheer terror and confusion stuck to your expression.

The discomfort the residence brings does little to ease you, as well. How your body is restricted against the firm mattress has your limbs aching with cramps. Your neck throbs from no support, considering the lack of pillows. But, Hobie always remarked that his chest is more comfortable to lay on, anyway. His clothing reeks of alcohol from the numerous bars and parties he’s attended, but also from the expensive perfumes, lotions, as well as the skin and hair products he received from his time being a runway model. The scent now clinging to your skin fails to bring you any of the tranquility he wished you would feel. Meals shared between you two were often dowsed in grease and cheap in flavor. Your captor never put much effort into making your dinnertime together anything reminiscent of a romantic date in Italy or something along those themes. He would much rather eat something else for dinner, after all.

This is what life looked like for the next several months. Records spinning and filling the air with headache-inducing songs he says he had written about you; Polaroid pictures scattered around the room that display different variations of the same scene: you sitting pretty with Hobie's hands and lips all over you. Never, never, has this man ever felt so much bliss in his entire life. He has always preached about how the idea of "love" is nothing more than propaganda meant to earn greedy, capitalistic companies more money with their cheesy movies and Valentine's Day garbage. When you entered his life in all your glory, however, he was ashamed to put his pride aside and admit those irritating pop songs may have been correct.

"I don’t need nothin’ else. 'Long as I have you here, birdie." He fidgets with the necklace he had given you that was currently draped upon your neck. His lucky guitar chip is swung upon the chain, since it always belonged to you, anyway. You will always be his muse.

With how carelessly he let himself be swathed in the warm blankets of love, how carelessly Hobie had let you slip from his fingertips.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his protective nature through blood-stained bar floors and constricting arms encompassing your body. It's his fault he never assured you these conflicts weren’t your fault, it was only the monsters outside who wished to separate true love. It's his fault he had disciplined himself so heavily for his big heart, fearful of losing self-control with the love of his life.

It is his fault you are dead.

You regret not tallying the days you've spent locked up in this birdcage. Carving lines into the deteriorating walls to represent the slashes this new life has left in your sanity. It feels as if lifetimes have tread by you, the same day repeating itself like your own personal nightmare. Mere months have gone by and unbeknownst to you, the sweet escape you so despairingly crave is sitting upon the horizon. The circumstances of your freedom were the absolute last thing you had wished for, however.

Hobie’s history of being a heartthrob and heartbreaker were no secret to you, but his newfound loyalty to the innocent person he had taken from their previous life was even more evident. All the possessive, delusional fans that were convinced they'd marry their favorite singer, it was just so easy for Hobie to indulge in some casual fun before leaving them behind in his dust. As the story of all Spider-People goes, however, Y/N L/N is the tool that throws this man into a whirlpool of enamoring disarray. Embracing this newfound happiness was exhilarating for him, but Hobie was so dazed from it, he never had thought that karma would slither itself between you two.

A certain groupie, wholly convinced she and Spider-Punk are soulmates, was devastated to see how carelessly the love of her life abandoned her. Her mind had sprinted to all sorts of gut-wrenching conclusions. Am I not enough? Is he moving on? Is there someone else? Her worst nightmare materializes into reality when she stalks behind his tall figure and follows him to a building one late night, an odd pep in his step as he enters. What she assumes is just another exclusive club location with more taboo forms of partying, she is left stunned when she catches sight of what sights lie within.

The man of her dreams is found in the depths of infidelity. Through the crack of a rickety door coated with locks, there he was. Chest pressed against the back of someone else, who was sound asleep beneath an array of blankets like a baby in a crib. With his arms locked around them like a lifeline, Spider-Punk presses long, intimate kisses to their face. The words she had begged to hear from him, he was so frivolously drowning this stranger in such, despite their unconscious state. Every syllable was dripping with lust and smitten-induced hysteria. Tears brim in her eyes from how desperately she covets to be you in this moment.

With a shattered heart and a festering rage, she comes to the conclusion of what she must do. She will take him back, no matter what it takes.

Rarely did Hobie ever leave the expanse of your room, he wanted to stay with you forever. When he did, however, it was for some quick cash at yet another gig he and his bandmates had landed. Singing his lungs out, knowing every lyric revolves around the one waiting for him back home — you have brought him ecstasy he still cannot fathom the sheer weight of. A Friday night like no other, Hobie would spend the evening beneath the blinding spotlights, drinking the hours away, before returning home and cuddling with the only reason he chooses to live.

Through the barricaded windows and doors, a sudden stench of what appears to be smoke invades your senses. A big city like this, something along these lines is nothing out of the ordinary. After all, you were so thrilled to finally be granted a night to yourself, anything that would jeopardize this gift from the universe is seen as insignificant. When the heavy smell becomes more perceptible and the unmistakable sound of fire cracking gets louder, you feel dread tickle down your spine. The fear settles into your bones before you can think of a logical way to escape. Hobie did everything to ensure you wouldn’t leave his side, after all.

Air soon becomes precious, your lungs begin to squeeze, your skin is burning with scorching pain. It brings you the hell you had carelessly thought you felt before. A final cry of help into the suffocating air and you feel your life begin to fade. Meanwhile, the lost groupie stands near the entrance, holding back a satisfied smile. An onslaught of concerned pedestrians and firefighters accompany her. And Hobie was still far away, alcohol heavy in his system and the joy of returning to you seeping through his body like a drug. So blissfully unaware of what awaits him when he comes back to the place he had called home only with you.

With that, your life was over. July 3rd, 2020 — the day Hobie Brown inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

The effects your departure has left on these men are all nothing short of disastrous. No longer do they have the vibrant, loving souls they once held. Day by day, they are dragging the dead carcass that is their own body, suffering through every second and hoping it will be their last. The paths your death have led these three are unique from one another, but they all find themselves in one specific space. Spider-HQ, within Nueva York on Earth-928. The story the multiverse has written for them had so selfishly taken their happiness away from them. Taking the pen for themselves and creating the most beautiful fairytale where you are alive and back in their embrace is the only purpose they now have.

Now, Miguel O'Hara stands at the office he earned from becoming the leader of this society. Upon the various monitors displayed around him are scenes taken from numerous different universes. Lethargy sits like bags of bricks beneath his eyes, slowly blinking as he ensures no minor mistake is present. If the multiverse were to crumble, his sole objection to save the only important person in Spiderman's life will fall with it. When he verifies all is well on Earth-1610, something perceptible then catches his gaze and he does a double-take. Any sign of fatigue within him is snatched out of his body, leaving him more awake than ever before.

Within this universe, Miguel finds you.

Before, these universes have only displayed the effects your death has left on all the spider-people. Today, however, is the first time he has seen you alive since the day he lost you. Lyla snickers and accuses him of having a cute, teenage-like crush when she takes notice of the sheer captivation in his expression. Little does she know how much history lies in your mere face. It is heart-crushing, how much the simple sight of you enjoying a cup of coffee (with one too many sugars, as he knows you've always preferred) has such catastrophic effects on him.

Piles of schoolwork are scattered around your desk, covered in information adhering to your current college major. Even with your lack of sleep, school-induced annoyance, and general exhaustion over everything in your life, Miguel has never seen something quite as breathtaking as you in this moment. An epiphany sprouts in his brain as quickly as the sight of you caused his soul to blossom, just like it did all those years ago.

Maybe he can stop it. Maybe he can get you back.

Your death is inevitable, and even though Miguel was aware of this, dread still pervades his stomach at the prospect and churns with his breakfast. What really makes him shudder is when he reads through the cannon events assigned to you. A flare of jealousy ignites within him when he finds an unfamiliar name in the midst of your story.

Miles Morales, the Spiderman you are meant to fall in love with. What good is he? He's just some stupid kid, what more could he possibly do that Miguel can't? Why would you choose this loser when he can give you everything you have ever wanted!? In a sudden fit of rage, he grasps hold of whatever matter was closest to him and uses all the strength within his muscular arms to hurl it across the room. His chest heaves with infuriated huffs; his claws slice into the meat of his palms. He is enraged, yes, but he is mostly devastated that the beautiful face on his screen will soon meet their inescapable demise.

Not only will he do everything in his power to stop your death, but Miguel also vows to put his blood, sweat, and tears into ensuring you do not fall for this boy. Additionally, he will formulate a plan to bring you back into his arms without destroying the multiverse as a whole. With that being said, this does not change how reality on Earth-1610 continues to play out in front of him. It’s like a television show; a show he'd give a 1-star rating out of sheer pettiness.

In his last year of high school, Miles Morales' life was thrown into a tornado when his parents enrolled him in a new school to finish his last semester. And the 18-year-old boy absolutely dreaded this. New people, new location, new clothes that poke and jut at his skin uncomfortably. With the hefty responsibility of being Brooklyn's sole hero and hiding this truth from his loved ones, this sudden alteration in his environment does not relieve any stress. Swiftly, Miles conjures a plan to convince his parents to send him back to the way his life once was. Slack off, play dumb, and bring home report cards that are absolutely atrocious and his parents will have no choice but to give their son what he wants.

However, this is not what happened. Much to Miles' dismay, the grand idea his parents had was to not let him continue his education comfortably. Instead, they hired a tutor to aid him through his final months of high school.

Rio and Jeff had invited this tutor for dinner at their home, which Miles had flaked on entirely. Mostly due to his duty as Spiderman, but partially from how sour he was about the state of affairs. When he returned home, their anger was practically palpable. However, this disappointment soon shifted into a long, insufferable tangent about how marvelously smart, mannerly, and kind this tutor was and how embarrassed they were because of him. That Saturday, he was expected to join this tutor in the school's library or his parents may consider grounding him once again. Miles has to refrain from rolling his eyes at their never-ending lecture.

March 11th, 2023. It will be all his fault. This day is the day Miles Morales will inevitably meet the only thing that will ever matter to him.

To earn some extra support through your time in college, you had decided to take up tutoring in your free time. The myriad of students you had met all possessed the same attitude — the kind of attitude you'd expect from teenagers whose parents forced them to do schoolwork in their free time. Miles fit this category well, at first. And how your situation developed, it was oddly refreshing to finally meet someone who isn't repudiating every second with you.

15 minutes late, open backpack spilling with paper, tie loose around his neck, the student most certainly made his presence known when he stumbled into the silent library. Attempting to fix his untied shoelaces, you rush over to help him and save him from any further embarrassment he was already enduring. You are able to catch the folder that had tumbled out of his bag before it hit the ground, to where he mumbles a quick "thanks" in response. His gaze is still locked to the strings of his shoes he was attempting to tie together as swiftly as possible. Nearly tripping, Miles makes it to the table you had once organized thoroughly, but was now cluttered with everything this boy had thrown onto the surface.

Oblivious to you, the boy whose parents described as having a "heart of gold," was doing everything in his power to appear as rude and ill-mannered as possible. Deliberately arriving late, making a fool of the two of you, messing up the neat array of lesson plans and pencils you arranged. Anything to convince his parents to send him away from the nightmare that is this school. This plan of his was seized from his mind like a rug pulled out beneath his feet when he finally turns his shoulder and shifts his attention to you. What Miles expected would be the slowest, drawn-out hour he's ever experienced would actually be the most exciting, life-beaming 60 minutes he’s ever experienced.

Your voice sounds like honey as you introduce yourself to him. And that heart-stuttering smile of yours works wonders on him. Miles had already known your name, but hearing it from your mouth made him think he was listening to a symphony of angels. Since the last few stages of high school are stressful for everyone, you decided to cut him some slack and offer a kind hand for him to shake. All thoughts of his old school and the comfort it brought are all eradicated as he stares into your soul with those wide, bambi-brown eyes. After months in this new environment, you must be a gift the universe sent to compensate for all the misery he has endured. And fervently, Miles accepts you as the best gift he has ever received.

"I'm Spiderman." His mouth moves before his brain can compute. Your brows furrow in response, scrutinizing the confession for some sort of punchline.

“I mean- shit, uh… I mean, I’m Miles... You-You know, like- kilometers, yards, feet. Except, it's Miles this time... Y-... Y'know?"

His relentless stammering to try and prove himself worthy of your time while also acknowledging he accidentally told you his deepest secret earns him a quick giggle. And the sound bouncing from your lips is nothing short of paradisiacal, especially when he is the cause. A sudden wave of silence then rests between you both. You, laughing nervously to lighten the awkward tension. Miles, entirely flabbergasted at how he could have ever wanted to miss out on something as profoundly magnificent as this. His mind runs rampant while his wide eyes remain locked on your averting ones. Do it, do it, do it. Just do it already, Miles!

He pulls his hands up, your eyebrows furrowing once more trying to consider his intentions. He then lands his touch upon your shoulder.

"Hey..." Miles' voice drops several octaves, a fiddly excuse of a smirk forms on his lips, and he squints his twitching eyes that still hold the same crazed wonder they've had since they first landed on you.

"Hi...?" Your response expresses nothing but sheer confusion, not your face burning from the attention like Miles had initially strived for.

Wrapping your hand around his, your mere physical touch sends flares of electricity down his skin. Goosebumps bloom across his arms and his entire body halts in place, tense with shock and nerves. In an attempt to forcefully remove his hold on you, you're startled to find how he is now stuck to your hand. As if he had lathered his hand in heaps of glue before touching you, the efforts you took to get this boy off of you only resulted in your skin painfully stretching.

So enveloped in the way his heart lurches from holding your hand, a sudden, hushed whimper of "you're hurting me!" and Miles feels a gasp involuntarily escape his throat. Attempting to pull away from you, as much as he wishes not to, only intensifies your pain. What had Peter told him to do when this happened? Oh yeah, just relax! But, how on Earth can he possibly relax when your hand is in his!? 

People are staring, exclaiming in annoyed distress over their interrupted study time. You're trying to piece together how Miles had managed to cement his hand to yours and why he refuses to let go of you. Meanwhile, Miles is apologizing profusely for inadvertently harming you, while also soaking in how rhapsodic it is to have your hand in his. He knows he has fully fallen into oblivion when the prospect of letting go of you hurts him more than the relentless pull and twist of his flesh.

So much for first impressions, right?

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ MANY LIVES THAT COULD HAVE

BEEN ENTANGLED FOR ETERNITY . . . ❞

gif credits :: miguel, miles, peter, & hobie.

tag list :: @honey-beeuwu, @hex-touchstarved, @thel0v3hashira143, @cailey1011, @mickxxstxvxns-blog, @flaming-vulpix, @puthypirate42069, @dolliemoons, @mikalovesnoodles, @explosiongamora, @thegalacticnacho091, @brinleighsstuff, @shinsou-hoetoshi, @uselessbutinteresting, @amortentor, @fried-milkfish, @officiallypoopoo, @lu-lupe, @belladonnashifter, @forgottenbynature, @marooseshawnash, @gothika-spacech1k, @funtimefoxybae, @ethnicbratz, @painpainflyaway, @shadepelt4673, @vivacioussaint, @palepettycharmer, @rqdior, @clownwiki, @clever-username96, @bisoudoll, @darlingdontwe, @naiomiwinchester, @weskennedysgirl, @chubbuart, @simpfo, @neytirisarrow, @leilani04, @lizzymizzy-blogg, @sublimesoulmagazine, @minimari415, @hcmay, @jinuaei, @altusha, @daisygirlll, @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @islandgyal06, @the-hufflebird-girl, @laucoeurs, @nepherawinchester18307, @tiredao3reader, @decadentlawyerapricotcowboy, @kitisb0red, @gabiacee, @reneuv, @letmegetthestrap, @krentkova19, @ayupfrogg, @vita-nire, @emmbny, & @realifezompire

[callmearcturus]

The vinyl comes with... this. This is not the lyrics to the songs. I'm gonna transcribe it, because I think the first time you listen should be with this.

You are about to listen to an album by the Glass Animals. You don't always listen to albums from beginning to end, but maybe you will this time. It was written for you. (Linear Notes by Gabrielle Zevin)

SHOW PONY

You are a child. Before you were a child, your parents were children. Most origin stories begin with love, and yours is no different. Once upon a time, two people fell in love, and then it ended. It's the first love story you were every told, and it teaches you the one certainty in life is that all things end. From this point forward, you are not a romantic. They call you the cynic, and to protect yourself, you take on many forms.

WHATTHEHELLISHAPPENING

You are kidnapped. You are in the trunk of a moving car, fetal position, darkness, screech of the tires against the road, the scent of gasoline. You don't know how you got there, but it isn't the worst place you have ever found yourself, and in a way, it feels inevitable. You know you could die, so you find yourself thinking about all the people you have ever loved. The trunk is like a womb. You could live here forever but eventually you'd get lonely. Your relentless need for company is your hamarita.

CREATURES IN HEAVEN

You are a psychic. You ask your lover if they want to know the hour and the day that the two of your will part. They laugh at you, and they say they don't believe in psychics. You suspect that their failure to believe in your gift might be the problem that leads to the demise of your relationship. But who cares? This relationship ends in three months, and you may as well enjoy it. Evanescence can sometimes be a profound pleasure.

WONDERFUL NOTHING

You are a prizefighter who is in love with a boxer. You say, "It's a bad idea." (JAB, JAB, CROSS.) And the boxer says, "It's only a bad idea if it gets in the way of our work." (SLIP.) And you say, "Promise me you'll never pull any punches." (CROSS. CROSS. HOOK.) The boxer swears they won't. (SLIP. JAB.) But when you fight, the boxer always pulls their punches, and you never do. You're pretty sure this makes you a bad person. You're a prizefighter, and you do not love this boxer or anyone enough to pull punches. (JAB. CROSS. HOOK.) Just before throwing the knockout punch, you whisper, "I love you so fucking much."

A TEAR IN SPACE

You are a sock. You are an earplug. You are a miniature glass horse. You are easy to misplace. You are you, so you think you matter. You are nothing. No one even notices when you left the party.

I CAN'T MAKE YOU FALL IN LOVE AGAIN

You are an astrophysicist. You believe you can use sound waves to control time and space. A song is a time machine, you tell your colleagues. If you sing the right song, you could transport the lover to a particular time and place. You could reverse time, and if you could reverse time, you could make them love you again. Your belief in science occasionally makes you pathetic.

HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE BOMB

You are a damsel, and you are in love with a monster. You're not sure how it happened. You'd been warned about such creatures by the fairy tales of your youth. But in bedtime stories, the monster always presented as monster. The beast was hirsute, the vampire had fangs, the wolf in your grandmother's clothing was clearly not your grandmother. But your monster is clean cut and has good teeth. They knock at the door. You invite them in, and just like that, you are fucking a monster. You should be upset about it, but you aren't. The thing they don't tell you about monsters is that they are sexy as hell.

WHITE ROSES

You are Proteus. You are a god and you can change forms when the situation calls for it. This is hand for work, but difficult when it comes to relationships. You have occasionally been guilty of taking a form that you knew would make you lovable to some unsuspecting mortal. But it always ends the same way. A terrible row at an inconvenient time-- say, just before you're about to leave for the airport-- and then, you're forced to reveal yourself. You don't always mean to change forms, but it's second nation for you to shift a bit here and there-- pretend you like a certain band, express an enthusiasm for sport. Are you shapeshifting, or are you concealing yourself, and is there a difference in the end? Still, you love making people fall in love with you. Every time you do it, you promise you'll never do it again. And they you do it again.

ON THE RUN

You are an escape artist. You are handcuffed, straitjacketed, loaded into a zipped and padlocked duffle bag, wrapped in chains, tossed into the bottom of the ocean. It is billed as "The Greatest Escape of the Greatest Escape Artist, and the Culmination of a Career of Death-Defying Acts!"

The spectators on the pier anticipate your deliverance. They are sure you'll surface because you always surface. They aren't fearful; they are waiting to be dazzled. What they cannot know is how bored you are of dazzling.

You exit the bag, careful to take the props of your confinement so there will be no remains. You swim to another, distant pier. You don't see the people on the pier cry. You don't read your obituary. It's no longer your concern.

A week later, you are homesick, and you concede that your plan has failed. You miss the people on the pier and your cat and your bed and your favorite restaurant and your wristwatch. You don't remember what problems your faked death was going to solve so you can't say if it solved them.

The greatest power in the universe is nostalgia, and it that's true, maybe the people on the pier will forgive you. maybe you could come back from the dead. Now wouldn't that be the greatest escape ever?

LOST IN THE OCEAN

Who are you, anyway?

Why are so many songs addressed to you?

It's simple, you think. The songs are for you because I love you so fucking much, and when you say you, you mean all the yours: the parents and the child, the damsel and the monster, the escape artist and the crowd on the pier, the sock and the one who forgets the sock, the prizefighter and the boxer, and the world that contains all these people. You are all the lovers you failed, and all the ones who failed you. You are the lovers you haven't yet encountered-- there will be many because this world is filled with people to love. You are the singer, and you are the song. And you conclude that the only way to resist the ephemerality of all things is by singing love songs to you, whoever you are, wherever you are in the universe.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Lovefool [dark!Konig x fem!Reader]

Konig gets to secure a little trophy from the battlefield. Hope you're in for a ride.

!TW! Kidnapping, Yandere themes, Dub-con, dark!Konig

Tags: Yandere, Dark Romance, colonel!Konig, dark!Konig, Size kink, Age gap(Konig in his thirties and Reader is in her twenties), Stockholm syndrome speedrun, Konig is a huge pervert, submissive Reader

You never knew who he was before he attacked.

Your teammates did – whisperers about KorTac getting on their tails, stories about their crazy psycho commander who could barely pass a word to his subordinates while smacking heads off trained men in full armor. Spooky tails for the recruits who refuse to train in their free time – something about “If you aren’t getting in shape by the end of the month, König is going to get you”.

You never knew who he was – you barely knew the organization you worked in.

Cyber security, lowly private military. They are hiring based on CV alone and didn’t ask for a fancy college and a few degrees in hacking that you could never get. They wanted experience, and you had at least a bit of it – you passed through basic training, never serving in the military before, but fine with promises of never actually going out in the field since you would be giving them intel and cyber support from the sidelines.

Well, they never told you that “the sidelines” would be 100 meters away from the actual battlefield.

You don’t even remember what the mission was about – something important, you guess, because they asked you to be here, on sight, computer in hand, and your comrades, with whom you barely talked outside of work, alongside you. Something about weapon smuggling, though you never actually understood if you were stopping it or doing it. Working in the middle of the European Union pays a lot, and it sort of counts as free travel – you’re somewhere in Germany, maybe on the border with Poland or Austria or Czech Republic. Nothing but fields of grass and occasional mountains. They gave you a riffle, a sidearm, and instructions to try not to get too wounded since they wouldn’t be dragging your body out of the field. S[read sheet with intel opened on your computer – you’re not their secretary, but at least they don’t want you to hack the Pentagon.

You heard screams from your tent: “KorTac”, “Compromised”

“König”

What was the weirdest thing – he was alone. A single man shouldn’t be able to take on a team of trained mercs, even as lowly as your company was. You all had weapons, armor, and means of at least taking him down as a group – and you were like a bunch of babies with toy guns on the playground when a pitbull came in.

Your leader fell first – you saw his head explode with a perfect shot right between his eyes. no one screamed sniper, but you still ducked under the field table, hoping that it would save you a few minutes of peace before you’d manage to delete all of the important files from your laptop. This was the protocol – if you are in the middle of dying, you need to first make sure that the enemy won’t get a hold of precious company correspondence and deeply personal photos of your cat.

You leaned forward to see what was happening on the field – you heard screams, you heard gunshots, you heard…

Laugh.

Deep, loud, the laugh that sounded both malicious and cheerful at the same time. It sounded like the man had a field day of breaking necks and stabbing his teammates. You've never seen so much blood on someone. You wish you never had.

Your teammates are falling like porcelain dolls when the elephant hits the kitchen, and you are trying your best to be a good little hacker and not let your company down before your inevitable demise. Turning on your laptop, waiting for whatever ancient version of Windows you had since the budget was mostly going into flashy guns and cool night vision headsets, you are getting ready to format all the disks when….

“The Windows update is in the process. Please, wait approximately 9 hours to complete”

Oh, hell no. You are not going to wait another 9 hours, you could barely survive for the next 9 minutes! Of course, naturally, obviously, you can just turn off the computer and get it off work because the files will get fried up and it won’t turn on again, ever. Which would still complete your goals, so…

— Come on, please…f-fuck, please, just let me…

“As a method of complete data loss prevention, Windows has disabled the ability to manually turn off your computer. Please, wait approximately 9 hours to complete”

— Found you, Maus.

Something – a hand, big, covered in the type of protection you never saw on your fellow soldiers – yanked your ankle, dragging you from under the table you were hiding under. The air stinks of blood and you involuntarily whimper, hands are going to grab the laptop. You need to smash it, destroy it, maybe just drop it hard enough on the floor, push it against the wall, and try your best to kick it enough to damage the disk and prevent KorTac from accessing the files.

The guy steps on your hand, taking the laptop away. You swear to god you hear a crack – you prayed that he would accidentally smash the laptop, but it was your hand under his boot.

— Hurts? Good.

You whimper as he carefully puts the laptop away, checking if it’s still working. He then returns to you – laying on the floor, fingers still shaking in pain, and attempts to grasp for the computer that was snatched away. There is nothing you can do – you have a gun, yes, and he has at least three guns and deadly man-bear hands, so even if you were fast enough to draw a gun before he would, he can just kick you like a puppy.

König – it’s him, it must be him, your teammates were screaming his callsign and talking about a devil who wears a sniper hood and has the height of a not very small tree – kicks you in the ribs, turning you from the side to your back, facing him. If you were stronger, you would do something cool – bite his ankles, for example. Or spit in his face as the last remaining tip of your dignity, before he would kill you or torture you or feast on your flesh.

— Verdammte Feiglinge, can’t even face your death like a man. Look at me, ja?

Crying isn’t a shameful thing to do. So, you cry. Soft little whimpers, sniffles, you are probably looking wet and disgusting, but you hurt, scared, and fucking tired and you want out of here, and you never actually wanted to be a soldier, and they all lied to you while promising to keep you out of the field, and this uniform is horrible, and you feel your tears soaking the half of bandana you were using as a face mask and…

He snatches the mask from your face. Look you in the eyes for long enough to make your whimpers even more audible. You can swear to god that his pupils were dilated. That his hands were shaking. You could see his eyes getting scrunched in that particular way that their owner is smiling – sincerely, openly, from the bottom of his heart.

— Please…p-please, be fast, I don’t know anything, I will…I won’t, I…

Rough, calloused hand goes to cup your face. The material of his glove is tough and soaked in blood as he smears it on your cheek, your fingers are going to wipe away the tears – you don’t understand what’s happening and you are even more scared, and your mouth is twitching in a terrified grimace. He pushes the tip of his finger into your mouth, making you suck on the blood and dirt of the fabric. You think you are going to throw up.

— Quiet.

You don’t understand why he didn’t kill you yet. He is touching your face, slowly, his one hand is enough to cover your entire head and you’re sure that if he’d want to just squish your brain like a rotten cabbage, he could just fine. He pushes his finger even deeper in your mouth and you lick it involuntarily because this is an intrusion and you have the brain of a two-year-old who sees the world through their ability to devour things, and his pupils dilate even more. He looks at your frown, your tears, and your lips wrapped around his finger.

He yanks you on your feet embarrassingly easy.

— You’re a hacker?

You blink a few times. Now, the protocol is that no, you can’t state who you are, If he knows that you are a hacker, he can take you away for interrogation, maybe torture you for passwords and the intel on your company, and being tortured isn’t something on your monthly calendar. Now, the protocol also states that you have to be able to die for your company, and…

He grabs your neck, lifting you – surprisingly gently, softly even, a hand supports your waist so you won’t be able to either kick him or get choked to death because of his grip.

— Answer me, Maus. I might have a reason to let you live.

You do want to live. Maybe not long, definitely not until you’re 100 years old with dozens of grandchildren, but being able to live past the next few hours and then days and then weeks does sound incredible.

— Y…yes. I’m a cyber security specialist.

He squeezes your neck more. Pushes you up, making you cough in your grip. You never experienced anything like this before – never had a guy strong enough to handle you like this. It would look cool from the side, probably – like something from a videogame. It would look hot in the porn, probably, if it was consensual and happening between two passionate lovers.

But you are his enemy, and he is yours – cold blue eyes peering right into yours. He is looking at you like a piece of meat, and not even in the lustful, hungry way. He looks like a butcher in front of a very good beef cut, thinking about where should he sink his knife to get the best steaks. A hunter standing over the wounded deer, thinking if he wants your head above his fireplace or taxidermy your whole body as a wicked trophy.

— Didn’t know they’d allowed someone so fucking small in the field.

You can swear to god that you saw him smile, under this hood. You can’t see his face, obviously, only the blood-soaked fabric and his eyes, but something still tells you that he is smiling. Enjoying your attempts to escape, maybe – you tried to kick him a few times, producing a deep, amused chuckle from his lips. He holds you so easily like you are nothing but a sweet little kitten. You might not be as big as him, but he still shouldn’t be able to lift a grown woman in full gear with just one hand. Right?

— I’m not…not s-small.

You don’t have much fight left in you. You are on the verge of just asking him to kill you, to be honest, your neck hurts and the pain spreading from your fingers pulsates and transforms. You hope they are not broken – even though you understand that your chances to live past these few minutes are very slim. Even your usual snark is lost, forbidden in the hands of a giant who likes to play with his food.

You do feel like a mouse – in a way that you would die under his boot very soon.

He – König, monster, colonel, fucking deadly mercenary – chuckles again. You can get used to this sound. Melodic almost, in a way that most alarms are melodic while telling you about inevitable catastrophe.

— Kleine verfickte Maus. Ich wette, dass du auch ganz eng bist.

He is laughing, again. Laughing and chuckling and you can’t take it anymore because he is so obviously stronger than you, it’s not fair. You want to put your foot on the ground and tap it like a spoiled brat, like a baby on the playground whining for their mom to take them home because other kids don’t want to play by their rules. The difference in skill is so obvious, that you aren’t even able to put on some sort of fight.

— Wh…I don’t speak German.

Your other hand – the one that didn’t get squished under his boot – goes to scratch his arm. Maybe put up enough struggle that he would accidentally let you fall right from his grasp. He doesn’t react and you feel hopeless. Weak, useless, you remember all the times you decided to miss training so you could just chill in the lounge with other rookies or do something on your computer.

— You will, Maus.

Then, there is only darkness.

***

You woke up…somewhere.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t the first time you woke up. You remember opening your eyes, feeling the vibrations under your cheek, hearing the noises of a car or other vehicle moving fast. Too fast for your already spinning head and stomach – you don’t remember if you were coughing or vomiting, but the movement wasn’t stopping to ever let you breathe. You were being transported somewhere, without a chance of knowing where you were heading. At least now, when you get to the final, as you think at least, destination, you’re clean.

As much as someone tied up to a chair somewhere that reminds you of a basement can be.

You’re stripped of your weapons obviously – not like you had a chance to use them anyway. Your hands are tied behind your back, your legs are bound to a chair, and your tragic lack of clothes is…more evident than you wanted it to be. At least you still have your underwear on – it still didn’t make the situation better. He saw you naked, completely, and he might do god knows what with you now.

Although you have some feelings about what he can do with a weak enemy hacker, half-naked and tied up in a secure place.

You would panic, but it requires energy. A resource that you don’t have right now.

— You woke up. Gut. Started to think I went too much again.

His accent is weird, you think. The thought only occurs to you now, when you can hear him more clearly while not being that afraid of getting out of this alive. His voice is weirdly calm for someone of his size – you want to think of gentle giants but this man is far from gentle and is almost too big to even be called a giant. A colossus, you want to say.

— Again?

Your voice is raspy, both from your sleep and from lack of water. When was the last time you drank anything? Probably more than a few hours – your throat is dry as sandpaper, and your head is dizzy from both your trauma – he either strangled you to unconsciousness or beat you hard enough – and the dehydration. You don’t want to spend another minute in this basement – you think this is a basement, at least, the high humidity on the walls and some garbage tossed to the corner is fairly evident. It’s large, too – you never saw anything like this. It might be a KorTac prison, but the remains of a bike and a few shelves of canned foods tossed to the other side of the room tell otherwise.

— We’re allowed to take trophies home. Sometimes I get…impatient.

You’re in his house? Does a monster like him even need a house?

“A trophy”

Funny how you don’t even feel that dehumanized. He didn’t kill you, you don’t feel the evidence of violation on your body – you are clean, neat even, your stomach and private parts aren’t hurting, and, as much as you hate to say this while tied up to a chair, you are as comfortable as a person in your position can be.

— What are you going to do with me?

You shake like a leaf. He finally steps closer to you, coming from the ladder – you can hear the lock and a heavy door being closed, setting your hopes of escape. Not like you could, in your position – the bruises already forming on your legs and hands, a numbed pain in your head and fingers. You feel shitty and comfortable at the same time, trying to tune off the discomfort and just concentrate on talking to him.

He didn’t kill you – this is good, you can work with this.

He left you alive – this is bad, he is going to torture you, he is going to do a million terrible things with you and you are not a part of a regular army, You didn’t get the torture resistance training. Maybe, if it was some of your friends, other girls in the group who got through military school and never missed gym to sit on their computers, they would have survived. You never felt so weak before – not even on the battlefield.

God, you’re scared.

— Your computer. My employer needs the info you had on it.

Oh.

It’s not personal, at least. He is here for the information, not to take advantage of your weak, fragile body. It made you almost feel at peace, almost made you forget about your lack of clothing and the damp basement you’re being put in.

— What sort of info do you need?

You slowly start to wiggle your hands in your binds – he used plastic locks, those stupid unremovable things that are slowly cutting the soft flesh of your wrists. You can’t untie them, but you can try at least tear them on the metal of your chair. You can try to, just to say that you did, and not feel bad about not resisting him at all.

— Your last mission. You were trying to smuggle weapons into the EU border.

— We were trying to stop the smuggling of weapons.

At least, you think you were – your head hurts, your memories are dizzy, and they never actually told you what kind of job you had. Come to think of it, actually, you never asked whether you were the good guys or the bad guys – it was always about money, paychecks, getting your job done and not dying from lack of nutrition because most tech-jokey jobs are already filled with uninspired chatbots and graduates from fancy colleges with a dick between their legs. Not reserved for tired women like you – so you turn to, ironically, paramilitary organizations. How the tables have turned.

— That’s not what our intel says, Maus. Do you want to lie to me?

You don’t. You just don’t know if you are telling the truth or lying because you are too fucking tired to even think straight.

He comes closer, and you whimper involuntarily. His breath hitches.

— Scheisse…they knew who to hire.

He grabs you by the neck again, and you can finally see him fully – towering over you, cold blue eyes staring right into you. You sob, not able to handle your emotions because, oh god, he is going to rape you, torture you, and then put a giant burning stick right in your ass because everyone knows that this is the best way to hack a computer – you just need to find the person who put the password in the first place.

— Can’t you just hack the computer yourself?

He chuckles – you’re getting tired of that sound. You hate that you found his voice attractive, you hate the fact he is keeping you down here. You want to destroy that part of your body that likes the attention – how his eyes are only kept on you. Never had a guy kidnapping you before, and you fight the feeling of disappointment that strikes you when you remember that he is here because he needs the intel. Not because he wants you.

— It wasn’t a…conventional operation. Can’t waste manpower on breaking the walls you installed.

His hand goes to cup your face again – you frown, breathing stops because he is so close and he takes off his gloves, allowing his rough, calloused fingers to linger on your cheeks. He squeezes your face in an almost adorable manner and steps back again. You lick your dry lips again, trying hard to keep at least one part of your body moisturized, and his breath hitches again.

He goes behind you, ruffles through shelves – you can hear something falling, his awkward grunt as he had to pick it up. He is more clumsy than you though – more nervous also, hands are jittering and fingers twitching every time you look at him. Adorable, really, how this huge mess of a man can look so innocent and almost nervous in front of you.

König returns after a minute or two, holding…a water bottle. Closed, lid still on, little plastic wrapping in place. You have half a mind about just drinking it, even though he doesn’t offer it to you. Not like you could open it yourself, with how your hands are still tied up behind your back.

— You don’t speak German.

It’s not a question – it’s a statement. you watch him opening the bottle with ease, large hands are working on something so fragile and delicate. You can’t remember the last time you had sex, not with how fast your head is spinning and memories still foggy, but you think it was a long time ago – because you feel your cheeks heated from the simple actions of his large fingers ripping through soft plastic.

God, you don’t really remember what was happening before you got here, not in detail, but you know that you needed to get laid like, a year ago.

— No.

— You will.

— Wh…what do you mean?

Is he going to make you install Duolingo? Is this what it all was about? Some elaborate prank, a marketing campaign, a tough lesson for silly girls who think that knowing just your native language is enough to live your life and…

— When you want something, Maus, you have to say “bitte”.

If you were a strong and cool soldier, you would use this moment to jump from your chair, using the weight of your body to fall on him and make him lose balance, and then spit in his face as your last remaining blast of human dignity.

But you aren’t a cool and strong soldier, and you really need to drink.

— B…bitte. What does this mean?

— Please.

He is almost whispering, the water bottle tanging in his hands in front of you. You take your time, considering the possibilities – you can play like a good little prisoner and allow him to take your pride and just toss it aside. You can play like an obedient hostage and ask him nicely, hoping that it would be enough.

You don’t know what to do – appearing too shy and soft can give him…ideas. And you don’t want this crazed giant who is keeping you bound in his basement to get ideas. You can…you probably can spend more time without water. Or food. Or shower and change of position.

You take your time answering, and his demeanor seems almost…anxious. His eyes are darting between the water bottle and your face, between his hands and your body – like he can barely keep a calm facade and not force you into doing something nasty. Like he is almost afraid that you are not going to cooperate and he would really have to hurt you in a meaningful way.

— Can I have water, bitte?

— Gutes Kätzchen. Drink, you’ll need it.

In the end, you broke down first. Not because you are this weak, but because being a brat won’t save you in a situation like this. You don’t want to die over something as trivial as your pride.

König seems…at ease. He takes off the bottle cap and brings water to your lips, allowing you to drink as much as you want. You lick the remaining drops from your lips and he puts a half-empty bottle aside.

— I won’t tell you the password.

You mumble under your breath, barely audible. He chuckles.

— I count on it, liebe.

[arowyn-m]

Why Viktor Could Die in S2

“They won’t kill a champion because—“ okay just pause for a second and humor me. I’ve made a lot of arguments in the past about why every Arcane character is fair game but that’s not what I’m arguing here—I’m arguing from a narrative standpoint.

Viktor’s my favorite character in Arcane, but I believe him dying in the series finale is the most likely conclusion to his arc. Here’s why:

Viktor’s whole arc is about life and death as a concept—what really constitutes “living”? (Posed by the scenes with Rio) Why is a human life inherently valuable? (Posed by capitalizing on his aggressive need to leave a legacy) Which is more important—a person’s effect on the world around them or their effect on their loved ones? (Viktor realizing too late that Sky valued him not just for his output but for who he is)

There’s also a ton of foreshadowing to Viktor’s demise coming about by a fault in his technology or by the careless way he relates technology to human life (usually himself but not always), and it’s often disguised as humor (the “of course not” scene) or hidden behind false foreshadowing for death by illness (basically everything to do with the Hexcore in eps 5 and 6)

I’ve theorized about it on here before, but I believe at the end of the series the Hexcore will be destroyed (probably by Jayce, specifically to call back to the promise he made to Viktor), effectively ending the threat of the Void overtaking Piltover. Viktor will be so connected to the Hexcore by the finale that destroying it will kill him. He reaches his Glorious Evolution, yes, but it destroys him in the end.

And yeah there is merit to the “how can you live with yourself” kind of approach to ending a character’s story, but that conclusion has the strongest impact if the character’s arc is about learning to live with your mistakes. Most of the character arcs in this show pose that question, but Viktor’s arc really doesn’t?

As far as we can tell with Viktor so far, there’s very little grappling with that concept up until his last 5 or so minutes of screentime, and even then it’s more of a blip that resolves itself (“In pursuit of great, we failed to do good. We have to make it right.”) If Viktor’s story is about defining the respective values of “life” and “humanity” then the most bittersweet ending to his story would be by letting him die after briefly coming back to his humanity.

At the same time, in Ep 5 of BtR Alex Yee says this when talking through writing the script for S2:

“It’s, like, die or accept some things being imperfect. That would be the way that they could go back to humanity.”

So if we assume he’s talking about Viktor covertly here (he very well could be talking about some other character, but yk “going back to humanity” is a very Viktor-coded issue) we could also speculate that they may try to end Viktor’s arc with him accepting the Glorious Evolution just…doesn’t work. I hope that’s not the case because that kind of kills his whole shtick but anything’s possible lol.

To round off this thought by comparison—there’s no chance Jinx dies by the series finale because her whole character arc will inevitably move from “Am I Powder or am I Jinx?” to “Okay, I’m Jinx. How do I live in that identity with the knowledge of my past mistakes?” Her dying at the end of the series would be an unsatisfying conclusion to that question. Same thing with Vi. Vi’s arc was about trying to “fix” things. She just wanted things to go back to the way they were, and they just can’t. Her arc is probably going to be centered around her grappling with grief over losing Powder AGAIN and learning to accept things will never go back to how they were before. Caitlyn’s arc is going to be her exacting revenge and maybe living with regret and bitterness. None of those character arcs logically conclude with “and though they found the answer to their life’s question, they died.”

Viktor’s probably will.

Also here’s a link to a longer more in-depth theory I had a while ago—kind of a adjacent to this thought (for some reason it won’t work as an embedded link) https://www.tumblr.com/arowyn-m/755893249865039872/jayceviktorhexcore-situation-in-s2?source=share

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter One)

Summary: The loneliness was killing him. He was already dead and somehow it was killing him. For every day that passed with only the other undead for company, Simon’s voice grew more and more quiet. He was desperate. Desperate for an anchor to the humanity that kept slipping through his cold, stiff fingers. Word Count: 3200 Warnings: no smut this chapter (this fic is the slowest of burns y'all, strap in for a looooong ride), briefly referenced (non-graphic) SA in the OC's backstory, semi-graphic violence, POV switches denoted by line breaks (it starts off from the OC's POV but switches to Ghost's pretty quickly) Notes: It's finally here. My contribution to the Zombie!Ghost community. You can think the creators of his Alone skin to converting me into a monsterfucker (after all the years I managed to avoid collecting that kink, smdh) and @xoxunhinged for making me utterly obsessed with poor, sweet, undead Simon. Their fic sick <3 is absolutely amazing and was definitely a huge inspiration for Dove. They are just a fantastic writer, I literally cannot gush over their stories enough. I highly, highly recommend that y'all go binge read their stuff, and Unhinged, if you're reading this, I'm your biggest fan <3 (also please don't read this cuz it sucks in comparison to yours and I'll die of embarrassment if you do /hj). AO3, Masterlist

Lelia had just turned twenty when she was married off by her father. He was a politician, and her hand in marriage to some rich and powerful CEO’s son had been traded for monetary support of his campaign. Lelia’s husband was not kind, and the end of the world hadn’t changed that, when it happened three months later.

They had been evacuated to a military safe zone early on, early enough that Lelia had avoided seeing the complete and utter carnage the virus wrought upon the world. That had been why, after finding herself whored out by her husband to the soldiers in charge for better rations and amenities, Lelia decided she would be better off on her own. She’d run away, escaped the base and disappeared into the woods.

She lasted less than a day.

After hours of running, fueled by pure adrenaline and an overwhelming need to finally be free of Andrew’s casual cruelty, Lelia found herself alone in the woods, surrounded by the ravenous, snarling zombies she’d only heard of in other survivors’ stories. She’d never actually seen one of the undead, at least not while they were still alive… for some sense of the word.

Out of options, Lelia scrambled up a tree—and how she’d managed that, as unathletic as she was, she once again chalked up to adrenaline and some recently unearthed instinct to survive—perching on a thick, sturdy branch as high up as she could get. A clawed hand grabbing her foot nearly spelled her demise, but with a frantic kick, she shook the moldering limb off and hoisted herself up.

She stared down at the mass of walking corpses beneath her, and then briefly closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. There were at least a dozen, though it was difficult to count them in the darkness when they kept moving around. For all she knew, there were more. Either way, she was done for. She wouldn't have been able to fight back against even a single one. She was foolish to think she could survive out here, on her own. But she found that she didn’t regret leaving—at the very least, she got to taste freedom before her inevitable demise. The only thing she regretted was the painful, gruesome way in which she would go, once she ended up on the ground. And she would end up on the ground, she knew. Whether she simply tipped over after passing out from exhaustion, or lost her grip on the tree trunk… well. If Lelia was lucky, the fall would kill her instantly. She desperately hoped that God would grant her that one mercy, after all she had been through.

She knew there was no point in delaying her death. That she was only prolonging her own fear and suffering. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to let go. Her hands stayed stubbornly locked together as her arms hugged the tree, the toes of her shoes—ballet flats, since she owned no trainers or hiking boots, even months into the apocalypse—planted firmly on two slightly lower branches to help keep her balance. She stayed like that for hours, until her limbs locked up and her muscles burned. She pushed her body to the limit, eyes dry and irritated from refusing to fall asleep, knowing exactly what would happen if she did. It was an exercise in fruitlessness, in needless agony, and yet Lelia bore it as stoically as she could, the only sign of her terror the silent tears dripping from her eyes. Because despite it all, despite knowing it would change nothing, Lelia didn’t want to die.

“Please,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken since escaping the base. Her voice was hoarse from disuse and thick from her tears, and the small sniffle that followed it sounded clogged. She didn’t know who she was talking to—God, maybe, or perhaps a figment of her imagination, just so she didn’t feel so alone—but she knew no one would hear her. No one ever heard her. No one ever listened. “Somebody please help me… I want to live.”

***

Ghost tilted his head to the side as he examined the woman in the tree. He had been drawn by the loud snapping and snarling that had plagued the forest for hours now, signaling a gathering of the undead. The only thing that brought so many to the same place was the promise of a meal. And so, after waiting a while to avoid having to actually do the killing of innocents—something that bothered the vestiges of humanity that rattled around in his infected brain—he’d headed in the direction of the noise, hoping to find some leftover scraps.

Instead, he found her. A tiny slip of a girl, trembling in a tree and looking for all the world like a fragile little bird, too weak to fly away to safety but not yet resigned to her gruesome fate. Ghost found himself unusually curious, and he studied her for what could have been minutes or hours. He wasn’t sure—time had lost all meaning not long after he turned. Sometimes, weeks would go by without him noticing, the only indication that any time had passed at all being the changing colors of the leaves. The small part of him that was still able to feel emotions worried about how he would be able to mark the passage of time when it was no longer autumn. He tried not to think about it, in the rare moments that he could form semi-coherent thoughts. He preferred to spend that time reminiscing on happier days, trying to recall the names and faces of family and friends from before. He had already forgotten most of them. Only a few memories lingered—bright blue eyes, a deep Scottish burr, the scent of clean soap, and, much fainter, whiskey.

When Ghost came back to himself, he realized he had drifted closer to the girl in the tree, now standing right at the base of it, staring up at her like all the other infected. The only difference was that he wasn’t scratching at the bark and growling like some rabid animal. He was still, milky white eyes trained on her face. Round cheeks, big brown doe eyes, pretty pink lips, and a small, upturned nose, framed by loose, auburn curls that went down to her waist. She was beautiful, the part of him that was still human noticed. The part of him that was driven by an unceasing instinct to rend and consume flesh, on the other hand, was drawn in by her scent. Light and floral, with a hint of something sugary, she smelled like she would taste incredible. Saliva pooled in his mouth and dribbled out, his broken jaw hanging uselessly.

“Please. Somebody please help me. I want to live.”

Her voice was angelic, despite the fear in it, and Ghost perked up at the sound. It was as small as her and as sweet as she smelled. Everything about her screamed of an innocence he’d long thought purged from the world, from her voice to her scent to the tear tracks on her face that glistened silver in the moonlight, her pale skin nearly glowing. She reminded him of a dove—small and frail and pure. Easy to break and easy to kill.

Don’t let her die, Simon’s voice said in his head, like a distant echo. She doesn’t deserve to die, not now, not like this.

Ghost, who had not heard Simon’s voice in a long while, shifted uneasily. He had helped the living often, in the beginning, when he'd realized he still held some measure of sentience, of control over his new, cannibalistic instincts. In return, he had been shot at, stabbed, slashed, skewered, and otherwise attacked. The human part of him had understood, and the first few times it happened, he’d simply retreated, despite his growing desire for companionship to chase away the terrible loneliness of his cursed existence. Most people had been confused by the zombie not trying to eat them, but far too relieved to try and chase him down to finish him off. They had simply accepted their strange good fortune and ran the other way while they still had the chance.

The last human he had tried to save had not been so smart.

After scaring away the horde of undead chasing the man, he’d remained, still and silent so as not to seem like a threat. He had known then how foolish it was, had known he should have left right away, that his decaying body would only be damaged further by a vicious hack from the man’s gore-covered machete—but the loneliness was killing him. He was already dead and somehow it was killing him. For every day that passed with only the other undead for company, Simon’s voice grew more and more quiet. He was desperate. Desperate for an anchor to the humanity that kept slipping through his cold, stiff fingers.

The man had charged at him, nearly taking Ghost’s arm off, and dejected, he had turned to leave. But this man was different from the others, stupider—or perhaps a little mad. He had pursued Ghost brutally, intent on ending his miserable existence. Part of Ghost had wanted to let him, but another part refused. This was not much of a life, not a life at all, really, but it was his and he wouldn’t let anyone take it away from him.

And so, after the dozenth swing, he’d snapped.

The man had been no match for his strength, wouldn't have been even before the virus had enhanced it. Ghost had batted the machete away like it was nothing but a toy, and then sunk his claws into the vulnerable flesh of the man's exposed throat, ripping it out. Hot blood had sprayed across his face, blood that was still there to his day, as Ghost had devoured a human for the first time, stuffing clumps of flesh into his mouth, manually moving his broken jaw up and down in order to chew. The process had been long and repetitive, but every second of it had been utter bliss.

Ghost had methodically stripped every inch of flesh from every piece of bone on the man’s torso, gorging himself on the delicious meal. He’d eaten the organs with vigor, surprised to find that each had tasted a little different. His favorite had been the liver.

Simon’s voice had stopped insisting he helped people, after that day. Though whether that was because he was afraid of snapping again, or because feasting on a person had degraded his humanity that much more, Ghost was unsure. And sometimes, when he had those brief moments of clarity, it unnerved him that he didn't particularly care either way.

But there was something different about this little dove. Simon had spoken up again, for her, for some reason that should have been unknowable to Ghost and yet wasn’t. He didn’t want to see her torn to shreds by the other undead, either—though in truth, he couldn’t fully tell if that was because he wanted to protect her, or if it was because he wanted to eat her himself. She smelled so sweet, after all, he just knew biting into her flesh would be the closest he ever got to seeing heaven.

No, Simon snapped, and Ghost grunted, shaking his head as he tamped down on his beastly urges. Then, he turned around, facing away from the little dove in the tree, and snarled viciously at the other undead. A little more than half fled immediately, but those that remained crowded closer, snarling back. Ghost swiped a massive, gloved hand at them, knocking two of them over, and screeched, the sound blood curdling. All but one backed down, shambling away with a chorus of agitated hisses.

The only one left, a zombie that had once been a man only slightly larger than Ghost, roared a challenge and flung itself at him. He caught it easily and slammed it into the ground, its bigger size no match for his greater strength.

The thing that used to be a man growled and groaned as it tried to get back to its rotting feet, but Ghost didn’t give it a chance, stomping down hard on its skull. It gave easily with a slight squishing sound, brain matter splattering over his black, grime-covered combat boots. Ghost snarled once more in victory, then looked back up, towards the girl he had done all this for.

She stared down at him in pure terror.

Ghost felt an unexpected pang of hurt at that. For a second, he wondered if he should leave her before she pulled out a hidden knife and hurled it at his head, but the thought was quickly discarded. He didn’t want to leave the little dove. She would never survive on her own.

So instead, he backed up several steps, giving her plenty of space to climb down without getting close to him.

She didn't move.

Ghost could be patient, though, vaguely recalling long hours spent silent and still, peering down the scope of a rifle. So he remained standing there, quiet and unmoving, for as long as it took.

It turned out that that was a very, very long time.

Half an hour passed—and the fact that he was aware enough to know just how long had gone by was quite unusual—before the little dove moved. It was her legs, finally giving out on her as her feet slipped off the branches below her. She wobbled slightly, and Ghost rushed forward with a growl that almost sounded concerned, ready to catch her. He heard her let out a frightened whimper when he moved, and he tried to coo at her to let her know he wouldn’t hurt her, but it just came out sounding like a small, off putting gurgle. He quickly went quiet, knowing the disgusting sound was the opposite of reassuring. He cursed his past self for breaking his jaw after he’d been bit—a last, desperate attempt to stop himself from biting and infecting anyone. He didn’t know if he would be able to talk, even if it was intact, but he’d at least have been able to try.

“Please,” the girl whispered, forehead leaned against the rough bark of the tree as she shook like a leaf in a windstorm. “Please go away.”

Ghost swallowed, hesitating. He didn’t want to leave her. She would die if he left her. And that was rapidly becoming an intolerable outcome for him. He didn’t understand why. It just was.

But she could also die if she fell from the tree and Ghost’s ruin of a body failed to catch her in time. And she would fall, if she didn't come down soon. He could see that all the strength had left her frail body, and that she was only holding on through sheer willpower. Or maybe fear.

Ghost let out a soft groan that he hoped she would somehow understand was an agreement. Then, he turned around and walked stiffly back into the forest, until he was hidden in the darkness. He could still smell her, though, tantalizingly sweet, and if he squinted, he could see her silhouette. The pale pink, ankle length skirt and matching jacket she wore—Ghost groaned quietly in frustration at the impracticality of it, wondering where she had come from to be so clean and still wearing such fancy clothes—was practically a beacon as it reflected the light of the full moon.

Several more minutes passed before the little dove finally began to fly down from her nest. Ghost was tense the entire time, relearning the feeling of fear as he watched her climb down, half expecting her to fall and break her neck. And she did fall—but only after she'd made it most of the way, only a couple feet left between her and the ground. He could hear the small, startled oof she let out as her bum hit the dirt, and he twitched, ready to run back to her—but she stood up on shaky legs a few seconds later, dusting off her skirt and quickly glancing around before seemingly picking a direction at random and beginning to walk in it. Her movements were almost as stiff as his, and he hissed a little in displeasure at the thought of her being in pain. This was why she should have come down when he was there. He would have carried her somewhere safe, and she wouldn't have to limp around aimlessly in the dark, tired and hurting.

For such a large man, Ghost could be incredibly quiet. And he was, as he tailed her for another two hours, never any more than ten steps behind her. She didn’t even look over her shoulder once. She may have been a little dove, but she had the survival instincts of a newborn kitten.

She finally collapsed from pain and exhaustion, crawling into a hollowed out tree trunk that only someone as small as her could have fit into. She was out in seconds, he could tell from the way her breathing changed from panicked to steady, though still labored from exertion. It wasn’t a horrible spot to hole up in, but she was far too exposed for his liking.

He approached her with silent footsteps, careful not to wake her. As he did, he scanned the area with his senses, since she had neglected to. There were a few infected shambling through the brush about twenty or so meters away. If they got any closer, they were bound to smell her. But that was alright, because Ghost had no intention of leaving her alone while she was so vulnerable.

He gazed down at her, milky white eyes taking in her shadowed features. She looked young, painfully so, at least compared to his forty years of age. Or was it forty-one, now? He was sure his birthday had passed, it was at the end of summer, but he didn’t know if it counted as getting older, since he was no longer alive.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on the girl again. She couldn’t be more than twenty, that much was certain. And he was watching her sleep like some nasty old perv.

The thought had him turning around, placing his back a mere foot away from the opening in the tree trunk. He didn’t want to make her feel trapped if she woke up, but he wasn't willing to leave enough space for something to slip in and attack her, either. He would keep her safe tonight. And maybe, just maybe, if she saw that he was useful and wouldn't hurt her, she wouldn’t shoo him away like a stray dog in the morning. Though he knew that even if she did, he wouldn’t leave entirely. He would be her shadow, her Ghost, a benevolent specter haunting her every step, and tearing apart any that dared to threaten his little dove.

Your little dove? A voice asked in his head. He didn’t know if it was Simon’s or his own or someone else’s. But it was his that answered.

Mine.

[ramblingguy54]

What genuinely gets to me with Wild Robot’s story is how quickly and well done the liar revealed trope is handled. Chris Sanders has experience pulling off this same execution with the likes of How To Train Your Dragon’s first film, when Hiccup had to come clean to his dad about secretly harboring Toothless. Didn’t think it would be covered so fast as it happened though, considering most of the time it’s saved til that inevitable third act, so mad respect to them shaking things up in Wild Robot’s writing.

Much like that other respective film, Wild Robot is immediate and thorough in addressing Brightbill’s family being accidentally killed by Roz crash landing into their little nest. We see that crushing realization, along with Brightbill’s conflicting feelings toward Roz, play out in a manner working highly effectively. It may have been a terribly unfortunate accident, but it doesn’t take away whatever weight Brightbill feels. Imagine looking up to someone you always believed to be your parent, only to find out they played a part in your biological family’s untimely demise before even being born.

Obviously, it’s not Roz’s fault because she was flung into the nest by outside forces, but damn it all if his reaction didn’t hit like a truck. What stings most of all is Roz’s calculative reasoning unintentionally adding more fuel to the fire, making Brightbill feel like a mere “task” to her, instead of what she really means. Roz was still learning about what it means to be a mother. To feel truly happy and alive. This right here was the be all end all boiling point when her son shouted, "You don't understand anything! You don't feel anything! You're not my mom...”. Every parents’ worst fear is their son or daughter rejecting them out of painful circumstances, which made Roz completely rethink her entire purpose. Getting the necessary reliable help to make Brightbill achieve excellent flying consistency.

Brightbill’s bittersweet migration take off scene wouldn’t have landed anywhere near as hard as it did, if they hadn’t chosen doing the liar revealed scene so early. It builds a serious foundation of competent writing and massive heart for Roz & Brightbill’s chemistry. You want to see them talk it out, as soon as possible to clear the air. However, both are still internally sorting things out and aren’t ready, either. You get why it has to be this way, while having your heart stomped on by their silent goodbye to each other.

The migration scene brilliantly portrays those complex hardships any family, be it biological or a found one, can go through. There’s so much anyone wants to say to another loved one, but sometimes can’t find the words in their heart and you know what? That’s completely okay. Sometimes communication isn’t always needed. Sometimes a sweet expression of unconditional love and compassion is enough, too.

[savagewildnerness]

O Earthly Lestat, I see now the trouble I’m going to have with S3 is I may have to defend Nicolas a lot…. And I don’t even know how he’ll be written for TV. But I know he means too much to me, and that’s just that. In a way Nicolas means the most to me. Not that he means more to me than Lestat. But that the elements of Nicolas that I relate to (& importantly as you can never get over this feeling - that I related to as a 12-year-old) I cannot think of any other instance in literature or any other fictional character I could relate to or who so exactly articulated something about me. And so I cannot help but always fight for Nicki 100% (even though I am not like Nicki in all ways.)

I want to CLARIFY! This is not some “Nicolas was Lestat’s actual great love” point of view in ANY WAY! LOUIS, is Lestat’s great love!

But this is: Nicolas loved Lestat. It wasn’t only Lestat who loved Nicki. And Nicolas loving Lestat enabled Lestat to love Louis.

I find it beautiful. YES, Nickistat ended AWFULLY! (And that there was mutual love makes it all the more tragic and beautiful to me!) But I just need to say here…

People acknowledge how much of Louis’ words in IWTV are shaded by his own struggles…. So I can’t understand why so many people seem to take Nicolas’ words in his final argument with Lestat (by which point, with whatever nuance you cut it, Nicolas is as described by EVERYONE as a mad vampire, his mind lost!) as 100% his always-truth!!!?! I just cannot comprehend it!!!?! I��d love if anyone would like to explain how you can see it that way, especially after reading the actual way Nicolas was pre-Paris, in Paris, when Lestat was stolen away… all until the moment he witnesses Lestat be shot. THEN it shifts for Nicki!

I’m also not one for blaming Armand for Nicki’s demise. The tragedy of Nicolas is, Lestat is very responsible for Nicolas’ demise, and simultaneously all Lestat did, he did through love. There are a thousand ways Nicki’s tragic demise is Shakespearean inevitable resonance… and yet…

But yeah, it’s actually primarily because of his music & things around his music that Nicki matters so much to me. But nevertheless, he matters & I shall fight for him!!! Lestat and Nicki's conversation matters deeply to me too, and what Nicki is for Lestat in that conversation. But where I connect with Nicki is in his music and how he feels about his music. I personally connect with Lestat's worldview on the other hand. Although in my personality, I am my self, of course, I also relate to some elements of each of them.

The thing with Nicolas I suppose for me though is there are various aspects of his self I relate to that I have never felt anywhere else except in my own self. Not in fiction & not in anyone I have ever known in reality either. And I guess that’s why I will always fight for him. Also, because most people should understand Lestat - we’re so in his heart & head 💛. But we don’t hear the story from Nicolas’ point of view, yet for me, at times it is like he is absolutely in my own mind & heart or I am in his, or it’s the same thing in some odd way I can’t quite articulate. I feel seen by him, and I see him. I understand some parts of him, reflecting how by existing in fiction, he has understood me.

Back to Nicolas. He kept Lestat’s dressing room at Renaud’s as a literal shrine to Lestat. He fought with his friends over Lestat’s moral integrity after Lestat went missing. Even when Lestat was gone, Nicki was still loving him, fighting for him, staying at Renaud’s, wearing rings Lestat sent him. If he felt as he said in his final argument, why did Nicolas even stay working at Renaud's at all? Why was Nicolas so distressed when Lestat sent him lots of money and gifts but didn't ever contact him?

I just list these things, which are just a few ways we see Nicki's feelings through his concrete actions. Nicolas truly did resent Lestat in the end. Just as Lestat couldn’t stand the sight of vampire Nicolas. But even that doesn’t negate love.

Mortal Nicolas DESPERATELY needed Lestat’s light. Vampire Nicki doesn’t. And I see his cruelty in the final argument (while not being entirely absent of truth) as being partly founded in love…. Nicki knows the dark thing he now is & he knows, even in his addled mind Lestat won’t leave him… and he knows Lestat. He knows Lestat must leave him or he’ll take Lestat to his death with him.

It’s ok that love was once & isn’t eternal. It’s ok that Nicki’s love for Lestat did exist, but turned to hate & yet was never entirely lost. It’s ok that Lestat’s love for Nicki never diminished even though he couldn’t stand the sight of him as a vampire. These things don’t negate love. Hate can be part of love. It’s ok that their worldviews were fundamentally different. It’s ok they were not each other’s eternal loves. There was love. Deep and mutual love.

As I see it, we can accept & enjoy that they BOTH loved each other, and that fact only deepens Loustat.

By which time, Nicolas is long dead.

But I genuinely believe when they were mortal, Nicolas’ love for all of Lestat (even when envying him too!) meant Lestat could later love the all of Louis so unconditionally, as he had been loved that way before.

It’s an unpopular opinion, I know. But it’s mine. I express it with acknowledgment I can’t be objective about Nicolas. But that doesn’t lessen the strength of my truth!

In all honesty… we are all subjective humans. Can we be objective about any fictional character we have an emotional connection with?

And that’s the crux of it: when you CARE so much, ultimately it’s about whatever truth you need.

Maybe we ought to think on this on all of our favourite characters & imagine how it might apply to others for any character we love less unconditionally ourselves…?

[saulocept]

come pour yourself all over me

pairing: sebastian sallow/reader/ominis gaunt [poly]

rating: g

summary: Maybe you’ll learn your lesson this time and remember not to forget your gloves. Or maybe you won’t. Sometimes the alternative is just better.

notes: someone actually asked to see the poly fic, so it’s here! i didn’t use the prompt they sent, but i’m grateful anyway. i might actually work on it the next if i have the time and inspiration, so this is for u lovely anon - you know who u r! lots of liberties taken in here, so apologies in advance. 

also: no more love triangles! we each have two hands so we intend to use it! 

You’ve made a mistake, a grave one, though it’s something you’ll only realize much later, when everything’s far too late to take back. Okay, so maybe you’re exaggerating a little, but there’s so much going on already it’s hard to think straight. You’re already running late as it is, and you’re not even sure you’ll make it long enough to live through the consequences. Still, now that you think about it, it’s better this way, to be honest.

You huff out a quiet sigh, leaning back against your seat, wondering if you’ll still make it in time if you run back to your mother’s house and grab everything you’d left behind. You know it wouldn’t work, not really; you’re already halfway through your destination, closer to the end goal than the starting line. It would be a greater waste of time to go back; you know this, of course, but it doesn’t stop you from wishing, anyway, thinking about all the possibilities, the different kinds of outcomes that could still happen.

You aren’t going to be the only one who’s late; it’s a natural occurrence, after all, something you can’t really stop or control, but even the thought of it doesn’t seem as comforting as you’d initially thought. You don’t want to be late, period, not when you’ve spent all this time being a model student and bringing honor to your house.

In retrospect, though, that feels like a very small thing to be hung up on, especially when you’ve got a much bigger thing to worry about. Like having freezing hands, for example. Or maybe dying from the cold.

Still, there’s not much you can do about it now. The train ride doesn’t stop for anyone, and even if it could, where else would you go? Your mother’s house is too far away now, and you’ve not been here in this place long enough that you’d know every nook and cranny, every possible shortcut there is to discover.

You breathe out another sigh, turning your head to glance at the windows outside. Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s ever died from frozen hands. Or maybe someone had and you just haven’t heard of it yet. Maybe you’ll even be the first to find out. Not that it matters anymore.

The train glides into a slow stop, and you see now that you’ve finally arrived. Breathing out a sigh (and accepting your inevitable demise), you shove your hands into the pockets of your coat, then slowly make your way to the glass doors, exiting the vehicle.

It’s not nearly as crowded today, which makes everything a little easier. Small victories, you think, breathing out a sigh of relief as your feet finally meet the snow-packed ground. Not quite a victory, though, because now the hardest part of your journey begins.

It’s a struggle; it’s too cold out, and even through the layers of your clothes, you can still feel the chill. Still, you press on, putting one foot forward, knowing that you don’t have much of a choice in this. You’re not that far from the school now, and though normally, you wouldn’t have minded the walk, thinking of it as an opportunity to acquaint yourselves with your surroundings, now it just feels like torture.

At this point, you’re just trying to survive. Your teeth chatter, and the freezing wind beats at your back, but you ignore it, focusing instead on your surroundings, making up stories about the shops and buildings you occasionally pass by to distract yourself.

You pause for a second, rub your palms together, pressing them against your cheeks in an attempt to keep warm. It barely works; you’re still cold all over, nearly ten seconds away from freezing to death, and somehow, the school seems even farther than ever. Has it always been like this or is it only because you’re almost dying?

Your hands are growing number, colder, and you flex your fingers a little, just to see if they still work. They do. Good. Time to move on. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to shiver. You’re almost there, you tell yourself, just to cheer yourself up, have something to look forward to. You’re not sure if it’s true, but you have to believe it is.

The sound of your name stops you in your tracks, and for a second, you wonder if you’re just making it up, hallucinating. Are you having flashbacks now, reliving a life that’s long lost? You reach up, pinch your cheek. It still feels warm enough, more than your hands at least, so that must mean you’re still alive.

Ready to dismiss everything as a product of your imagination, you press on once more, curling your arms around yourself and hissing. There it is again – the sound of your name, coming from somewhere behind you. Frowning, you quickly turn your head, spotting a familiar pair of faces a few feet away from you.

You raise a hand, wave at them, unable to stop yourself from smiling. Quickly, you jog over to where they are, stopping as soon as you’re in front of them. “Ominis, Sebastian,” you say, shoving your hands back in your pockets as you give each of them a nod. Somehow, the sight of them feels comforting, and you can’t help but beam at them. “You’re both late, too.”

Ominis nudges Sebastian’s foot with his shoe. “Someone,” he begins, glaring at his companion for emphasis, “actually forgot to wake on time.”

Sebastian shrugs, then turns to face you, smiling playfully as he gives you a quick onceover. “Clearly I wasn’t the only one.”

“You forgot to set an alarm, too?”

He looks confused for a second, like he doesn’t quite understand, then quickly shakes his head. “No,” he replies. There’s a thoughtful pause that follows, like he’s trying to decide what he should tell you. “We got too caught up in our experiments and lost track of the time.”

You raise a curious brow, inviting him to elaborate, but he only shrugs at you, smiling again. It’s a different kind this time: vague and tiny, not quite reaching his eyes. Almost distant. You’ve been a part of his “experiments” before – which is really just an elaborate term to say that they’ve been learning more of the dark arts spells – so there’s no reason for him to keep this as a secret from you.

Still, you don’t press him for details; you figure that he’ll just tell you all about it when he’s ready, and all you have to do is to just give him time.

“Okay,” you say, reaching out to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder. He relaxes beneath your touch, all the tension from his body disappearing all at once. “But you’ll tell me all about it later?”

“Of course.” The answer’s quick, given without hesitation. He looks up to meet your eyes, then gives you another smile. Warm, genuine – not likes the ones you’re used to. Even now, the sight of it is quick to turn you into a mush. Here, his voice has grown softer, fonder, like he’s telling you a secret – something that’s meant only for you. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind.”

Ominis nudges his foot once more, frowning. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

“Oh!” Sebastian clears his throat, then opens his mouth to try again. “Of course—” he pauses, casts a quick glance at his companion, then turns to look at you again: a twinkle in his eyes, a teasing smile on his lips: “We wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. Already, the day seems to be looking up for you. “Much better.”

There’s a moment of silence between the three of you, slightly awkward. There isn’t much to say after that, you know, nothing else except for the fact that all three of you are already even running later than ever, but before you could even get the words out, Sebastian’s cutting you off, staring at you with an obvious frown.

“You’re not wearing any gloves.” It’s a statement more than a question, and it’s making you nervous somehow, even if you can’t quite tell why. You cast a glance at Ominis, who now has his head turned to you, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in concern. You know he can’t see you, not really, but still; having both their attention already feels too much, too overwhelming.

“I forgot them,” you reply, shifting your weight from one foot to another as you try to affect a lighter tone. Now that you’re saying it out loud, it really doesn’t feel like a big deal. Okay, so you forgot your gloves at home and you don’t have the time to think about replacing them. Who cares? At this point, there’s a bigger thing to worry about, like not being extra late to your first class.

This time, it’s Ominis who speaks. “You didn’t think to come back for them?” he asks, still frowning. There’s no sharpness to his voice, only worry, genuine enough to make you feel guilty. “You could die from the cold, you know.”

“I didn’t want to be late,” you explain, like it would somehow justify your earlier stupidity. You know, it wouldn’t, not really, but it’s not like you can think up of a better excuse. The truth’s all you’ve got, and it sounds even more ridiculous than the lies you usually come up with. “I only realized it when I was halfway through the ride, so I just figured coming back wouldn’t be worth it.”

This time, it’s Sebastian’s turn to speak. “I suppose they wouldn’t have called you a model student for nothing,” he remarks, snorting in amusement. You give him a glare in response; Ominis elbows him in the side, chiding, though Sebastian only laughs, turns his focus back on you. “Alright. Let me see your hands.”

It’s an easy enough request to grant. You take your hands out of your pockets, then gingerly present it to him for inspection. Gently, he takes one hand into his, turns it this way and that, frowning as he looks up at you again. “You’re freezing. How long have you been walking in here again?”

“Er, a few minutes, I think?” you reply. He gives you a disbelieving look, and you bite your lower lip, hurrying to explain, “I figured I could just get warm as soon as I’m back at school, you know, so I was trying to hurry.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, then shakes his head and sighs, seemingly exasperated. “I can’t believe you.”

You frown at him. “It’s not like I—”

“Here,” Ominis steps forward in your direction, interrupting whatever argument’s brewing between you and his companion. “Let me see.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Blindly, he reaches for your hands, takes both of them in his. He frowns, though he doesn’t say anything else. Gently, he rubs his hands against yours, then presses them against his cheek – the same thing you did before, you note, though he’s warmer. Softer.

“There,” he says after a moment.  He’s still not letting go of your hands, though his grip is a little looser now – something you can slip away from if you so much as you want to. But he’s warm, and he’s soft, gently tracing circles all over your skin. A gesture of comfort, you think. Or maybe some other form of reassurance – a reminder of his presence, warm and stalwart. You’re not sure what it means, but it doesn’t mean you want him to stop. He looks up at you then, smiling a little, “A little better now, I hope.”

“Thank you,” you reply, and your voice is thick with emotion. You’re almost certain he could hear the smile in your voice, how you’re beaming at him so widely you look ridiculous.

“Of course.” He nods; if he’s ever noticed that, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he squeezes your hand gently. You watch as his smile widens just a little, turns into something teasing. You’re still wondering what any of this means when he casts a glance at his companion, then turns to you as he adds an afterthought: “Aren’t you glad I’m here to save the day?”

Sebastian kicks him lightly in the ankle – more of a warning than a threat, and he rolls his eyes, laughing. “Alright,” he concedes, the smile still on his lips, prettier than ever, “We. Even though I’m doing most of the work.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes in response, though he marches over to you, reaching out to grab your other hand in his. His grip is much firmer, like he’s got no intention of letting you go soon. His touch is warm, though it’s a different kind; more like wildfire: harsh and burning, as opposed to Ominis’s campfire: gentle, cozy. Still, it’s not entirely unwelcome.

“You’re not doing most of the work,” he protests, imitating Ominis’s actions: tracing circles along your skin, vague patterns that seem more like magical symbols than anything. There’s a certain roughness to the way he does it, likely brought on by his frustration, and upon realizing what he’s doing, he pauses for a second, then goes slower, gentler. He looks up and meet your eyes, giving you a sheepish smile – a quiet apology, you’re sure of it. You nod, smile back at him in response, then squeeze his hand. All’s easily forgiven when you know he doesn’t mean to hurt you in the first place. He squeezes back, grateful, then turns his attention back on Ominis. “See?”

Ominis only laughs in response, shaking his head. “I hope you know that we’re even later now because of your antics, Sebastian.”

“You’re as much to blame in this as I am,” Sebastian grumbles, giving his companion a glare. Ominis, however, remains completely unfazed.

He shakes his head again, then turns to face you. “Come on,” he says, tugging at your wrist. He pulls you toward the direction of the school: one hand on his wand, the other still holding yours, tracing absent circles along the inside of your wrist. “Let’s go. Or we’re going to be really late.”

You nod, and the two of you follow after him, the both of them still holding your hands, with no intention of letting go. Huh. Somehow, you don’t seem to mind this at all. -

It’s quiet for the longest time, until Sebastian turns to you, saying your name. He looks thoughtful.

“Hey,” he says. You give him a curious look, waiting. His voice has gone oddly soft, conspiratorial, and you can’t help but feel a little suspicious. What is he up to this time? “I was just wondering—” here, he pauses, lets his words sink in – “Why didn’t you just use a spell to keep warm?”

You feel your cheeks heating up. On the other side of you, you hear a familiar snicker: quiet, subdued; it’s still obvious, anyway, and it only serves to make you even more embarrassed. You narrow your eyes, glare at him, ready to just melt into the ground and disappear. “Shut up.”

He only smirks at you in return.

[fandoms-x-reader]

Replay - Bad Ending

Requested By: @f4gg0t-4-0b3y-m3

Part 1 - Part 2

Summary: No matter how hard you try to save your friends, death is unavoidable and they all meet their end. The Seven Demon Brothers + Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon & Solomon Featuring Luke, Raphael, Mephisto & Thirteen Warnings: Lots of angst! TW: Blood and Death Word Count: 5,436

A/N: The "Good Ending" to this story will be posted 08/08

You had spent countless hours formulating a plan with the others.

You shared multiple hugs of comfort and whispers of reassurances that you wouldn’t lose each other again.

And it was all for nothing.

You had to admit, you got your hopes up a bit.

You really believed that you were going to finally beat the nightmare that had been plaguing you for so long now.

It was easy to believe your friends when they had such high hopes and confidence.

It was easy to believe them when you were in their arms, feeling their heartbeat, as they promised not to leave you again. 

But, it was a promise they had no right to make.

Fate was out of their hands no matter how hard they tried to control it.

And the inevitable happened once again.

*

Lucifer had been the first to die. 

You would think that with how powerful he was, he would have managed to fend off his demise for longer than the others. That he would have found a way to preserve himself and survive.

But he had one weakness.

A weakness that was so strong that whenever it was threatened, he threw all caution and logical thinking out the window.

He lost control and attacked with only one concept driving him forward - protecting his family.

The moment he felt like his family was in danger, Lucifer went into defense mode. He saw red as he attacked furiously - recklessly.

The others were worried about him and expressed those worries, but everyone believed the eldest would find his way out of this situation.

They believed he would get them out of trouble just like he always did.

But, the attack came faster than he could dodge and all he could feel was searing pain as it made contact with him.

His eyes were wide as he was struck down, knowing that this time, his end was coming. And, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

You all watched in a mix of shock and horror as the eldest fell.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as the familiar pain of losing someone you loved so much started to overtake your senses.

You wanted to run to him - to try to save him. But, you wouldn’t be able to reach him in time.

And he didn’t want you to.

He had met your eyes with a somber expression and shook his head, telling you to stay back. He didn’t want you getting hurt too.

He was the oldest and it was his responsibility to protect everyone else even if it meant giving his life.

As his final moments approached though, he couldn’t help but feel like he failed you and his brothers.

He told you he would survive, that he would protect everyone, and yet he was the first to pass.

He had rebelled without a care in the world once before. It's what caused the Great Celestial War. And he knew that being careless could result in dire consequences.

If only he had taken a moment longer to think. If only he had formulated a plan instead of rushing in.

Maybe he wouldn't have met his end so soon.

Your body was tense as you watched Lucifer's body collapse to the ground.

You wanted to scream out in pain, but there was a sudden numbness that ran through you.

It overpowered your emotions. It overpowered your ability to move. 

You felt like your head was spinning as you realized - it was happening all over again.

*

Mammon was the next to go. 

After seeing Lucifer fall, Mammon accepted his role as the eldest brother.

He wanted to protect everyone just as Lucifer would have.

For every scummy or shady thing Mammon did, at the end of the day, he wanted to be a good brother.

And, he was determined to get everyone out of that place no matter what.

He was so much faster than his other brothers which meant he could help them dodge the attacks that were coming for them.

He had a good strategy. He managed to always stay one step ahead of the enemies.

He believed he could finally do something good to make up for all the cheap things he did to his brothers.

He believed he would finally be able to redeem himself in their eyes.

Then he looked to the side.

He saw you running as fast as you could, doing your best to survive just like the rest of them. You still looked so perfect.

His eyes widened as he saw an attack coming for you, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

He made his way to you as fast as he could, and your eyes locked as he took the blow that was meant for you.

Your heart stopped beating as Mammon slumped forward into you before the both of you fell to the ground.

You were cupping his face as tears poured down yours, desperately pleading with him to stay with you.

Mammon hated seeing you cry, but more than that he hated being the reason that you were crying.

You held his hand in yours as his eyes memorized every detail of your face. He wanted to remember it after he had passed.

He wanted to go out strong, like Lucifer had. But he held so much love for you.

And as his eyelids started getting heavier and heavier he couldn't help but seek out the validation he so desperately craved. He couldn't help but ask you to tell him he did good.

"I protected ya', right?" Mammon asked, his voice strained and his breathing labored.

You nodded your head as you did your best to hold your sobs in. "You always protect me, Mammon," you replied.

"Good. That's my job, ya' know? As your first," he responded, the words barely leaving his lips before he took his last breath.

And as his final words fell on your ears you couldn't help but place your forehead against Mammon's letting the tears freely pour down your cheeks as you lost the first demon you had ever made a pact with.

*

Levi had been panicking since the moment he watched Lucifer die.

Lucifer was the one who made all of the decisions. He was the one who always knew what to do.

Mammon had stepped up once the initial shock had passed. He had tried so hard to fill Lucifer's shoes.

But, when he was lost too, Levi knew he had to do something. If he didn’t, he would lose everyone.

Levi knew how to fight, and he knew how to fight well. He just preferred to fight in video games instead of in real life.

But now that the two oldest brothers were gone, Levi felt an immense amount of responsibility.

He got clarification on what it meant to be an older brother to the fullest extent.

He was the third-born for a reason, and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. No one messed with his family.

He brought every strategy he learned from his games to life, trying every attack pattern he knew.

He was going to beat this “final boss” just like he promised you he would.

You had been running alongside Levi, trying to help in whatever way you could.

Whether it be trying to protect the others or just trying to fight your way out, the two of you worked in tandem. Just like the Lord of Shadows and Henry would have. 

But you had turned your back for a second to block an attack and when you turned back around, you saw blood pouring out from a large wound on Levi's abdomen.

“L-Levi?” you asked, your brain trying to catch up with what you were seeing.

You had barely managed to get his name out before he fell to the ground.

You rushed forward, doing whatever you could to try and help him.

You noticed the look of fear in his eyes and you wanted to say something to soothe his worries.

You wanted to tell him anything you could to distract him from the pain he must have been feeling.

To take his mind off of the fact that it was only a matter of time before he passed away just like his older brothers.

But, the words you wanted to say didn't want to form in your mind or on your tongue.

You were speechless and instead of speaking, all you could do was try and fight the lump in your throat that was painfully forming.

Levi didn't blame you for not knowing what to say. He wouldn't know what to say either if the situation was reversed.

He took in one final shaky breath before muttering, “I wanted to be the hero.” 

*

Satan had never felt so angry before in his entire life. 

His wrath was at an uncontrollable level. A level he didn’t even know existed deep inside him.

Satan knew that he was born from Lucifer's wrath after the Great Celestial War.

He knew that he was born from the wrath of Lucifer losing his sister.

But, he didn’t know how painful it actually was to lose a sibling.

He hated Lucifer. He hated him because he didn’t want others to think he was a shadow of him.

But Lucifer was still his brother - his oldest brother. Who would he have to curse or cause trouble for without him?

And Mammon? Satan couldn’t count how many times he had called him scum or told him how stupid he was.

Even if he believed those words at certain moments, he had seen the times Mammon tried to be a good brother.

He had seen the times Mammon tried to make up for it. Why hadn’t he commented on those times?

But, poor Levi.

He had been so happy as a shut-in and Satan couldn't help but wonder if he’d still be with them if everyone hadn’t been so adamant on getting him to come out of his room.

He deserved better.

The pain of losing them and regret is what fueled his anger to the point where it was a burning hot fire raging inside of him.

He attacked without care. He had done the calculations in his head.

He knew that he wasn’t going to make it out of his fight. He knew that he didn’t stand a chance.

But, he wanted to do as much damage as possible before the end.

A small taste of revenge that he hoped would offer him some sense of gratification.

There was blood everywhere and Satan was clearly wounded. But he didn’t stop, not until someone made him stop.

And as the final strike was given to him, he met your eyes.

The wrath dissipated in them and filled with love.

He was desperate to comfort you, to tell you it would be okay.

But soon the love left his eyes and faded to emptiness and you felt your heart shatter.

*

Asmo was a weeping mess. 

You wouldn’t think that the Avatar of Lust knew how to love.

He was charming and manipulative when he wanted to be.

He went through beings like they were comments on his top Devilgram post without a second thought as to who he was casting aside.

He had countless notches in his bedposts and while others may have had some guilt about the number of people they slept with, he was eager for more.

He wanted to have a piece of everyone. To prove he was the most loved.

So, it was natural to think that Asmo was self-centered and unsympathetic.

It was natural to think that he didn’t have a heart and that he didn’t know how to say those three little words and actually mean them.

But underneath the facade he put on for others - underneath the mask he wore to hide his true feelings, Asmo had the biggest heart.

And that heart was now shattered into pieces.

He loved his brothers unconditionally.

It didn’t matter how many times Mammon stole from him. It didn’t matter how many times Satan destroyed part of the house in a fit of rage. Deep down, Asmo knew that he loved his brothers and he always would.

But, now they were gone.

Asmo was good at comforting others.

He knew how to pamper them and which essential oils were the most comforting. He even knew the softest brand of tissues to not damage your skin. But, comfort wasn't what was needed right now.

He needed to protect you and the twins. That’s what his older brothers would have wanted.

How was he supposed to do that though?

He hesitated.

The next thing Asmo knew was that he was on the ground in pain.

You were kneeling next to him and Asmo couldn’t help but think that if you were the last thing he saw, he could die happy. 

You gently brushed his hair out of his eyes as one of your tears fell onto his cheek.

Asmo reached up to wipe your tears away and it only caused a new wave of them. 

He could feel himself slipping away, and he was scared. Scared that he would never see you again.

“There’ll be a next time, right?” Asmo asked, his eyes full of hope. 

You nodded your head and told him, “I promise.”

He had the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he passed.

*

Beel was beside himself with sorrow.

He couldn’t believe this was happening again.

He had taken it so hard when he lost Lilith.

The guilt and sadness of losing his little sister nearly broke him.

And that was after losing one of his siblings.

He just lost five of them.

Beel had snapped and went on a rampage.

He felt like a bull seeking out a red cape, but instead of a cape, he was seeing red everywhere. He wanted to charge at anything and everything that moved.

He had been a great warrior up in the Celestial Realm. He knew how to fight. So, how did this happen? What had he done wrong?

He had gone on many rampages for hunger, but it was nothing like the rampage he went on for agony.

You and Belphie had tried to stop him from barreling forward, but he was too far gone and too strong for the two of you to hold him back.

In his head, he was protecting you and Belphie.

He believed he was clearing a path for the two of you. That if he could hold the attackers off, then you and Belphie could escape.

But, in reality, he was only killing himself.

Belphie felt like he had been ripped in half as he watched his twin get struck.

He wanted to run to help him, but there was nothing he could have done.

You held Belphie’s hand, trying to pull him away from the scene, but he wouldn’t budge.

Time felt like it had stopped moving.

Beel’s eyes filled with so much love and sadness as he looked at the two of you.

There was nothing more he could do but pray that the two of you would find a way to make it out.

That the two of you would find a way to be okay. 

*

Belphie was absolutely devastated as he felt his entire world crashing down.

You were doing everything you could to pull him out of the way - to safety. But, he was fighting back. He wanted to be with his brothers.

“Belphie,” we have to move, you pleaded with him. 

He looked into his twin's eyes, the usual life they held completely drained out of them.

He continued to scan the area, his eyes landing on each one of his dead brothers.

The only reason he had coped with Lilith’s death was because he had his brothers to lean on - to comfort him. But, now, there was no one.

He lost everything.

“Belphie!” you begged, trying once again to pull him up.

No, he hadn’t lost everything.

He still had you. The perfect human who cared so much about him and his family.

He had made you a promise that he would survive for you. He made a promise not to die.

He had to keep his promise. He wanted to keep that promise. He needed to move.

He finally convinced his body to go with you despite the protest his emotions were giving him.

But, as he finally stood up, he realized that the brief delay he had was a mistake. He was too late. 

He barely managed to get to his feet when he was struck down just like his brothers, knocking him right back down. 

Your hands were immediately on him, trying to stop the bleeding as you asked him over and over again not to leave you too.

He knew the situation was unfair to you. He knew that you didn’t deserve this pain.

But, he was okay with it. After all, he was the Avatar of Sloth and he was simply going to sleep.

More than that, he was going to see his brothers again. He would make sure of it - even if it was only his dreams.

“Wake me up when it’s over,” Belphie told you with a small smirk, the same teasing glint in his eyes that was always there. 

He tried to remain brave, but there was a hidden message behind his words.

He was silently praying that you would tell him you would wake him up again.

That you would find a way to restart the timeline again. That this wasn’t the end to your contradictorily long and short-lived story.

*

Solomon had been hopelessly firing off magic attack after magic attack.

He was trying so desperately to control the damage - to stop the carnage from continuing to happen. 

He had felt the searing pain of when his pact broke with Asmo’s death. He wanted to mourn the demon. To mourn all of them.

But there was no time. If he stopped for a brief moment to let his emotions overtake him, he knew that he would be the next to go.

The brothers were gone which meant that it was his responsibility to get you out of this mess. His adorable apprentice.

If he could make sure you survived - if he could survive - then he would be there to help you next time.

He may not have been able to keep his promise of keeping everyone alive this time.

But, if he could find a way to get the two of you out here, he would find a way to make everything right. 

He would find a way to prevent all of this from happening again. He wouldn’t stop until he did. He would make that new promise to you.

But those hopes and dreams of his were lost when he suddenly found himself being met with the same fate as the seven rulers of the Devildom.

You told him that he had died prior to these events taking place, but he still couldn’t help but want to laugh.

The idea of him dying after doing everything in his power to become immortal was funny to him.

And even though you had told him about the inevitable, he never would have believed it would have actually happened.

You held Solomon's hand as you watched his once mysterious blue eyes begin to dull.

There was nothing Solomon wanted more than to get back up and keep fighting; but, even he had limitations.

He couldn’t leave you completely lost again though. He refused to.

So, he pulled out a charm and chanted a spell over it, enchanting it with all of the memories that he had of you and the others. 

All you had to do next time was give it to him and he would remember.

He wouldn’t let you be alone in this world.

He would make sure you never felt this pain again.

*

Simeon was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

He was trying to figure out how you all ended up here. How they all ended up dead.

Solomon had become a good friend of his since living together in Purgatory Hall.

He had grown to love the sorcerer’s antics and had fun chasing him out of the kitchen.

And the brothers - well, they were once his brothers as well. Before they fell.

And despite them being demons now, Simeon still felt like he was losing his family when he witnessed their deaths.

But the one that completely shattered him and brought him to his knees was Luke’s death.

The sweet, little, innocent angel had followed you all into battle. He did everything Simeon asked.

He stayed on the sidelines, watching idly by as the others went down one by one.

He wanted to help. But what could he do? He was still just a fledgling. 

He had reached out to grab Beel’s hand - to try and save him from his own demise.

That’s when Luke had been struck down as well. 

Simeon immediately pulled Luke into his embrace, cradling the young angel as sadness overwhelmed his features. 

Luke’s kind and innocent eyes turned to ones of confusion and fear. Was he going to die before he had a chance to really live?

He had many years alive, but it was nothing in comparison to how long an angel was supposed to live.

Simeon clutched the young angel tightly as his life dwindled until there was nothing left. The darkness claiming Luke’s grace.

He unashamedly shed tears over his body, letting his emotions take over.

But, then he heard you.

Simeon’s eyes immediately snapped up to you, blinking through his tears as he got a grasp on his thoughts again.

You were kind and innocent, just like Luke. And he would protect you.

You were once again running, trying to avoid the relentless attacks that were targeting you.

You were reaching a dead end, and there was nowhere else to go.

You were finally going to suffer the same ending that you had witnessed everyone else suffer.

You turned your back to your attackers, waiting for the onslaught of pain that accompanied death, but instead, you felt a strong pair of arms wrap around you.

You dared yourself to open your eyes and saw Simeon standing behind you, his arms holding you close to him as his wings shielded you from getting hurt. 

He took the barrage of strikes until they were done, holding out until the last second.

As the assault finally stopped, Simeon fell to the ground, his body giving out to the pain that he was suffering.

“Simeon,” you tried to say, but he gave you a smile that shushed all of your worries.

“We’ll see each other again,” he promised you.

*

Raphael had shown up late to the party. Too late.

By the time he had heard word of what was happening and arrived, he had lost everyone he went down there to protect.

He tried to ignore the pang in his heart as he saw the corpses of Simeon and Luke. The kind and caring angels who always tried to be perfect role models.

He didn’t want to feel the sorrow that sparked inside of him as he saw his former brothers’ bodies as well. Their vivacious features replaced with cold ones. 

He was angry. Their assailants needed to be punished, and he would make sure that he did the punishing properly.

He rained down a myriad of spears, taking out as many of them as possible. 

He managed to take out a large number. He was one of the highest-ranking angels, after all.

But, even he found himself unable to escape from death.

And as he was struck down with the same weapon that he was so fond of sporting, he couldn’t help but wonder if things would have turned out differently if he arrived sooner.

*

The royals were all that was left of the large group you cared so much about. 

With the way the number of enemies had dwindled, those who were still alive believed that they might stand a chance.

But you knew better than to hope for the best.

Everyone else had put up a valiant fight, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

Mephisto was the first among the three nobles to fall.

His family had a long tradition of swearing to serve and protect the royal family. And he refused to disregard that promise. 

He would ensure that he fulfilled that pledge down to the smallest meaning of it.

He fought off as many attacks as he could until they became too much to bear.

That’s when he used his own body as a shield to protect the Prince of the Devildom.

Mephisto knew that it meant he would suffer a quick and painful death just like the others had.

But, if he died carrying out the oath that his lineage lived by, he was okay with it. He would die a hero in their eyes.

Barbatos was the next to go, his devotion to Diavolo just as strong as Mephisto’s.

Barbatos had taken a pledge of loyalty to the future King.

And his responsibilities went much further than simply pouring his tea or fixing his meals. 

Barbatos was smart - he knew that putting up a fight wouldn’t save either you or the young lord.

But, he would be damned if he went out without trying.

He wished he had looked into the future when he had the chance to. Back when he first found out about you and the situation you were in.

He only used his abilities when Lord Diavolo expressly asked him to.

But, if he had done it for himself, just this once, he would have been able to stop this from happening.

He would have prevented the tragedy and sorrow that occurred today.

He would have prevented you from the pain of having everyone forget about you once again.

He had never failed to meet someone’s expectations before. He had never failed to exceed someone’s expectations.

But as he lay on the painfully hard ground, struggling to take his last breaths, he understood that he had failed to meet yours.

He failed to meet Diavolo’s.

He failed to meet everyone’s.

He took a deep breath and one final thought escaped from his lips as he whispered, “Please forgive me.”

*

It was only you and Diavolo now. 

And he was holding you close to him, not allowing any sense of danger to come close to you. 

He had lost everything. He had lost everyone. 

The former angel who he considered his best friend. The brothers who he had grown so close to. His kind and helpful angel exchange students. The only human who he had known for centuries. The angel who helped convince Michael to approve of his idea. His faithful courtier. And, his loyal butler.

They were all gone - reduced to corpses as if they weren’t some of the most powerful beings in all three realms.

And yet, here you were, arguably seen as the weakest amongst the group and yet you had managed to survive.

Diavolo would ensure that you continued to do so. He refused to lose you too.

He fought his way through the remaining enemies fearlessly. They were brutally wounding him, but Diavolo pressed on.

His wounds were lethal, but he wouldn’t stop fighting until the last one dropped. Until you were finally safe. 

He would make sure that he stayed strong until the very end. Like any good ruler would do.

When Diavolo had finally taken care of the last enemy, he allowed himself to collapse into your arms. 

You had cried over each and every death. You weren’t even sure how you still had tears to produce at this point.

But they flowed abundantly nonetheless as you held the last of companions close to you.

It didn’t matter if you had seen them all die before. It still felt like someone was driving a knife through your heart every time. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this from happening,” Diavolo admitted as he looked into your grief-stricken eyes. 

You brushed a few stray scarlet locks out of his face before reassuring him, “You did everything you could.”

His breathing was getting more and more labored and you knew that it was only a matter of moments now before he was gone too.

He pushed through the pain to reach up and gently rested his hand against your cheek.

He wanted to take away all of your pain, but he knew that he was in no position to do so.

His hand was growing heavy - too heavy to keep it pressed against your cheek. And as it fell back to the ground, he spoke one final goodbye to you.

“May we meet again.”

*

As the life faded from Diavolo’s eyes, you finally let your walls crumble.

You let yourself feel every ounce of despair that was coursing through your veins as you let out loud sobs, unable to hold them in any longer.

You had done everything you could think of. You had tried every battle strategy. You had performed every incantation. You had planned for every situation. But no matter what you did, you always ended up here. You always ended up alone.

Why couldn’t you save them?

And as that question burned through your mind, you felt another presence standing beside you. 

Right, there was one person who hadn’t died.

But her presence was not welcome here because you knew she wasn’t there to be a friend. She was there to reap their souls.

“I’m sorry,” Thirteen stated quietly, the massacre taking even her by surprise.

She felt an unexpected wave of anguish hit her as she looked over the bodies of those she had come to know.

You looked up at her and you could see the sympathy in her eyes.

She was genuinely sad and she couldn’t help but want to console you in some way.

But that wasn’t her specialty and she didn’t know where to start.

“What happens now?” she asked you, knowing that you had been here before. You must have a plan, right?

Part of you wished that you could walk away from this situation.

You wished that you could turn your back and move on with your life.

That you could forget about them and evade the torment that you had been suffering for far too long.

You were tired of reliving the same pain over and over again.

You were tired of the agonizing farewells and the horrid images of their deaths that filled your dreams every night.

You had played the story too many times.

It was like a never-ending book or a movie that should have ended an hour ago.

You just wanted to escape.

But you loved them too much.

You would never be able to say goodbye for a final time.

Not when there was something you could do about it. 

Life wasn’t worth living without them, even if it meant living the same life over and over again.

You couldn’t leave them.

They needed you; and, you needed them.

“Now, I try again,” you answered the reaper, standing up. 

She didn’t dare move as she watched your motions.

She couldn’t even begin to comprehend the emotional, mental, and physical pain you were experiencing right now.

But you were putting everyone else before yourself, just like you always did.

You were using them to fuel your motivation to keep fighting. 

And as you restarted the timeline once again, Thirteen understood just how deeply your feelings for everyone ran. 

*

Everything was dark. Something that you had come to find peace in.

Your initial thought would be to believe that you were in a dark room. But, you knew that wasn't true.

Your eyes were closed. And you wanted to keep them closed for longer.

Because you knew what would happen when you opened them.

You knew the joy and laughter that you would experience. And you knew the pain and sorrow that you would experience too.

It all started with you waking up.

And as much as you wanted to pretend like you were still asleep, you knew this moment was unavoidable.

That it was only a matter of time before they would see that you were feigning your slumber.

So, with a shaky breath, you opened your eyes, waiting to hear those words that you had come to dread.

“Welcome to the Devildom, Y/N.”

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Taunting Ghosts 👻

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Two idiots go ghost hunting, and it backfires. That's it. TW: bad jokes.

I know it looks scary, but I promise it's not. I was cracking myself up while writing it lmao

The ask is here!

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"Did we really have to fly all the way to fuck-knows-where in Spain for this?" Leon groaned in annoyance, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding a flashlight as the both of you made your way deeper into the woods.

You rolled your eyes.

"I don't know if you know this, but ghosts don't exactly have a knack for phones. Or international flights."

He grumbled something illegible in response, continuing to follow you.

Ghosts, spirits, demons and the like had always spiked your interests. The ever wavering question whether there was an afterlife pulled at your brain. You thought maybe you'd convert to a religion to have your question answered, but never in a million years did you think you'd pick up ghost hunting.

It's a fickle thing, ghost hunting. The large amount of fake content for views made it hard to decide whether you wanted to believe in entities or not. You had to try for yourself. To quench the thirst for knowledge.

That's how you ended up here. In a deep woods in rural Spain, searching for evidence that the biggest local legend was ,in fact, not just a story.

It had huge impacts on the superstitious locals, keeping them from the heart of the forest.

It's said that an ancient cult inhabited these woods, performing rituals and sacrifices to appease their God.

All that is known about the cult is that they called themselves "Los Illuminados" and often used insect and hive imagery. A swarm that could only survive together. Should even the smallest fly fall out of line, it would mean the terrible demise of the entire cult.

The reason why you were here, however, was to investigate a particular event that supposedly occurred.

The cult craved more influence, their following never enough for the ambitious leader. In an attempt to gain followers, they took the daughter of the chief with the biggest village.

They'd planned to indoctrinate her and send her back, hoping she'd influence her father enough to teach their ways. The girl, however, was resistant and fought them every step of the way. In the end, to spare them any more trouble, they sacrificed the poor girl.

It's said that she stumbles aimlessly around the woods, crying and weeping to find her way back home. Uncanny wails have been reported by the locals, saying they came deep from the forest. Not only that, but low moans and groans that shook the trees supposedly stemmed from the followers, patrolling the woods in search of their leader who had abonded them for his own selfish reasons.

Leon gave you an unimpressed look as you told the story.

"A bug cult? That kidnaps people? A bug cult?" He asked skeptically, his brows raised.

You huffed, shoving at his arm.

"It's not a bug cult. They were firm believers of the hivemind. Although I think they took that a tad bit too literal." You answered, your nose scrunching up.

As much as Leon didn't believe in any of this ghost crap, he did enjoy your little adventures. Even if they were at night after you'd dragged him to some abondend asylum or something of the sort. He loved seeing you so passionate. Your belief also meant that you had immense

respect for ghosts and spirits, which ended up with you being very jumpy and scared at times. Leon didn't mind. He could play the heroic protector, having his arms wide open for you to shield you from any evil. He indulged you, too.

Going along with your theories and agreeing with you when the all common question of 'did you hear that?' inevitably came up.

He was a good boyfriend, after all. The best, actually. Always insisting he carry your bag filled with all of your gadgets and devices.

From spirit boxes over candles, salt, and bundled herbs to thermal cameras and Ouija boards. It was all safely stored in the backpack slung over his shoulder.

Dry sticks and leaves crunched under your shoes as you went deeper into the forest, illuminating the way with your flashlight.

You stopped in your tracks and turned around to face Leon.

"Oh, would you do me a favor and take this a little bit seriously? I don't need angered spirits on my plate, too."

"I don't what you're talking about, babe. I'm like a super legit ghost hunter." He scoffed jokingly.

You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile that tugged at your lips wasn't missed by him. Leon held his flashlight in all different directions, taking in the woods.

"You know, this is actually a pretty good spot if you wanted to start a cult." He mumbled.

You perked up, eagerly turning to face him once again.

"How so?"

"It's isolated enough so you won't be discovered, but it's not too far away that it would cause significant suspicion if a group of people would come from here. Either to indoctrinate or potential supply runs. It has some memorable spots, something that would help with remembering the way but would be of no meaning to outsiders." He explained.

Your face lit up as you listened to him carefully.

"That's fascinating-"

"Oh, and the bone crosses that were hung up on trees that I've been keeping track of."

Your expression fell.

"WHAT?!"

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

After Leon had gotten an earful from you, you were heavily fixated on the bone ornaments he'd mentioned.

He led you to one, shining the light on it. You examined it, pulling out a little book and putting down a quick sketch of it.

The ivory, although darkened and withered, stood out against the dark and rough bark of the tree.

"You said you saw more of these?" You asked in a mumble, eyes trained on the bone in front of you.

"Yep. All along the path we went down."

"Interesting... Oh! What if they used them as-

"-trail markers?" Leon smirked, watching as you grumbled something about him being a know-it-all little shit.

"But it's brilliant! A clear sign for the followers but due to the beliefs of the locals, none of them would've dared to step past a tree marked with a bone cross..." you mumbled in amazement, a smile spreading on your face.

Leon smiled at you adoringly.

"My clever little know-it-all." He teased with a grin which earned him a huff and you sticking out your tongue at him.

You gazed a little longer upon your, well Leon's discovery, a strange and eerie aura making it hard to avert your eyes. Leon mirrored your actions, not taking his eyes off it as a silence fell between the both of you.

A gentle breeze was combing through the thick canopy of leaves, their rustling the only sound echoing through the woods.

After a moment, Leon broke said silence.

"Should I touch it? I kinda wanna touch it."

Your eyes widened, and your head snapped towards him. "Leon, no, no do not touch the-"

"I'm gonna touch it."

"NO, Leon, don't you dare touch that cross-"

Your warnings were for naught as his hand was already reaching out. Before you had any chance to stop him, his fingertips came dangerously close to brushing against the bone.

He couldn't make contact with the cross, however, because just as he was millimeters from touching it, it fell to the ground.

You let out a loud shriek, startled, your hand slapping over your mouth. Leon flinched slightly but regained his composure quickly.

He had to hold back a snort at your reaction, instead deciding to wrap his arms around you from behind and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"It's alright, sweetheart." He murmured into your hair.

"I swear to god, if we're cursed now I'll kick your ass." You said sharply, staring at the now broken pieces of bone that somehow still formed a cross as they laid scattered on the ground.

Leon scoffed.

"We're not cursed. Besides, I'll protect you from any evil spirits."

Your expression softened and your heart swelled. How sweet of him. Ever the hero, putting your safety first-

"I've watched all the Ghostbusters movies."

"LEON SCOTT KENNEDY-"

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Despite the chill and unsettling feeling that sat deep in the pit of your stomach, you refused to give up your search quite yet.

You followed the markers even deeper into these haunted woods, hoping you'd find something at the end.

And find something you did. It was a large clearing, the moon fitting perfectly into the space of the trees when you looked up at the sky.

It was like they split just for her, asking for her light to shine down on them.

"Wow, look at this.." You beamed quietly, turning in every which direction.

What stopped your gazing was a large stone structure resembling an altar. It had a symbol carved into its front, only barely visible as it was obscured by moss and weathering.

"Oh shit, so they were real..." Leon mumbled, walking closer as he inspected the altar.

"There's always a bit of truth to a legend!" You smiled, pulling out your sketch book to draw the symbol, or what you could see of it.

You made sure to faintly sketch in any cracks and scratches. You wouldn't miss anything on this. You wouldn't let yourself.

"Ha! What did I tell you?" Leon beamed, breaking into a laugh as he pointed at something on the altar.

"It is a bug cult!"

There was a small colony of insects huddled together in the middle of the stone table.

"It is not a bug cult." You replied, unimpressed.

"What are you talking about? That one is clearly preaching a sermon." He argued with a serious tone, gesturing at one of the bugs being proped up on a small rock.

You looked at each other for a beat before Leon started cackling.

"He's not- it's an insect!" You tried to stay serious, but the idea of a tiny cockraoch indoctrinating even tinier cockroaches had made a mental picture appear in your brain.

It didn't take long before you, too, were in tears of laughter.

"Can- Can you imagine him having a robe and a little staff and everything?!" You wheezed, holding your stomach as your combined laughter bounced off the trees and into the night.

Leon was doubled over, steadying himself on the altar. You were gasping for air at that point, trying to calm you nerves with deep breathes. Your mistake was looking over at Leon when you'd thought you'd calmed down, only making the two of you break into another fit of laughter.

You were wiping tears from your lashline, inhaling sharply, determined to finally get it together again when you noticed streaks of deep crimson running down Leon's arm.

"Oh my god!" You gasped, rushing over to him.

"What the hell happened?! Are you okay." You asked frantically, inspecting his hand for any cuts or other injuries while wiping away the blood with your shirt.

Leon didn't move, only staring at his bloodied hand.

"Sweetheart..." he said lowly, making you look up at him with a concerned look and furrowed brows.

"This..." he swallowed before continuing," this isn't my blood." Leon stated quietly, keeping eye contact with you.

"What? But how could-" you chuckled breathily, your gaze drifting to his hand.

Your eyes widened as they fell to his arm that you were clutching, not a scratch in sight.

You looked back up at him with parted lips.

"Oh crap."

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I hope it made you laugh at least a lil bit :D

More of my works -> 💫

《taglist》: @vampkennedy @dmitriene @k-fallingstar @argreion @leonslittlekennedy @allysunny

lmk if you want to be added to my Leon taglist!

[alexsoenomel]

Chokehold (Sam Winchester x Reader smut)

Request: Hey I don’t know if you’re taking requests but I was reading Adrenlize Me and I had an idea for a part 2? Sam and reader have been getting at it for a bit but this time they finally say “I love you” to each other? Rough smut with a little dash of fluff? 🥰

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Warnings: sexy times and I love you’s, mentions of addiction 

Word count: 2.1k

Note: I apologize for being so slow (school+work+ADHD). Writing this made me realize how single I actually am.

 Enjoy! Like/Reblog or both if you like it! :)

PART 1

Addiction. First, it feels like a warm hug, sucking you in, disguising itself as something familiar, something beautiful, and finally, you feel like you filled that hole in your soul. Then it starts taking, it takes and takes until there is nothing left to take, until you cannot give anymore – until you’re dead. You find out, a little too late, that the warm hug was just a one-way ticket to your inevitable demise.

This started as a deep-seated need but turned into a full-blown addiction sooner than I thought, but the only difference was this was a blissful one, with no reaper waiting for you at the end. It only brought endless pleasure. 

Sam was no better than me. We couldn’t stop ourselves; every touch, every kiss would send us into a euphoric state, and it was better than any drug known to man. 

After our little adventure in Dean’s beloved Baby, we tried to keep our dirty little secret hidden. Sam would come to my room only during the night when he could hear Dean snoring in his room, and even then, we had to be careful since Dean was a light sleeper. He would muffle my moans with his hand whenever he was on top of me, he would sometimes even let me bite his shoulder, but it was impossible to be quiet, especially when we both liked listening to each other come undone. Long story short, Dean found out.

“Good thing you two lovebirds finally got together! The bad thing is now I cannot sleep.” He told us one morning while sipping his black coffee, clearly tired and cranky. 

Lovebirds.

That word was stuck in my brain that day. It still would pop up occasionally. It reminded me that we never labeled our little arrangement. When it happened, we would carry on, pretend like this thing was meaningless, and then we would do it all over again. We would cover every topic under the Sun apart from this one. We completely ignored it, but it was there, just around the corner, something more than just a meaningless hookup. 

Sure, he was able to make my legs shake, make me forget my existence, and his touch would set me on fire every damn time, but the way he would look at me right before I would come, the way we would look at each other…  I knew I was falling for him. 

We were birds of a feather –we connected through art, books, and music. We liked the same things but were far different characters. I was more of a 'Shoot first, ask questions later' kind of girl, like his older brother, and he was far from that. He was my voice of reason when I would let my emotions consume me; he was the one who would tell Dean and me to get our shit together whenever we would jump the gun (and that would often happen because we were both hotheads). We worked perfectly together. 

***

"God, I'm exhausted!" I said and put my bag on the table. 

We just got back from a hunt in Omaha, Nebraska, and it was a wild one. It dragged to no end until we finally ganked the ghost that was killing unfaithful men. I almost got thrown off the balcony, Dean almost got stabbed, and Sam, well he took care of it. Overall, I was just happy the case was over and, that I could sleep in my/Sam's bed. 

"Me too! Gonna hit the hay!" Dean said taking his shoes off. 

"Already? It's only 10 pm." Sam said. On a rare occasion, Dean would sleep early, he was the worst night bird in the flock. For him, 2 am was too early for bed, and mornings started at noon. 

"Sammy, I almost got stabbed today! Yeah, already." Dean said and disappeared into the hallway. 

"Night, Dean!" I said. 

"Night, night!" I heard him say. 

I was immediately hit with the realization that I was alone with Sam. There was something so alluring about him that made me nervous in the best way possible. It would boost my dopamine and adrenaline – like a drug. I swallowed nervously as I turned to see he was staring back at me and I immediately recognized the look – the look of devotion. 

"What?" I asked. He looked tired, with messy hair, and bags under his eyes. I was a tired mess too. During these days caffeine kept me awake and sharp since we were working night and day trying to solve the gruesome mystery. 

"Shower?" He asked.

"Please!" 

We went to his room since I would spend most of my nights there. What started as casual, grew to be a routine. I started hating sleeping alone in cold sheets – his warmth kept me safe. 

When we entered his room, pleasant silence joined us. We stripped down our dirty clothes and sins as we went to the bathroom. We didn’t say a word until warm water touched our tired bodies.

“Warm enough?” Sam asked me.

I nodded. He shampooed my hair, and I did my body while letting my muscles relax under the shower, feeling every part of me slowly shutting down from exhaustion.  Once my hair was nice and cleaned and I turned to face Sam, kissing where his heart was as I balanced myself on my tiptoes since he was much taller than me. 

“My turn?” I asked and got on his knees, like he usually would do when I wanted to wash his hair, and wrapped his hands around my waist, cupping my ass. It wasn’t the first time we showered together, the aftercare was as important for him as it was for me, but this time it felt far more intimate and real. The aftercare would usually turn into rough shower sex, leaving me breathless and sometimes even covered in bruises, but this time I saw true intimacy and meaning of showering together. 

Sam kissed my stomach as I washed his hair, sending light shivers all over my body. His hand went between my legs, and a light moan escaped from my lips. 

“All done!” My voice trembled. Sam stood up and kissed me hungrily. I could never get enough of his kisses, his lips were soft, kisses sweet kinda like cherries in spring, nothing like I’ve ever tasted before. He broke the kiss as our eyes met, water still running down our bodies. I could feel his breath on my lips. The air, even though hot and heavy, got a little bit chilly for a second – or was I getting nervous? I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. I didn’t know why I was getting nervous. Everything that seemed familiar was now foreign to me. Even though we fucked a million times, even though we both had seen each other naked, I was still feeling that tickling sensation in the pit of my stomach. 

Sam turned off the shower. We did our night routine in blissful silence. Skincare, haircare, the whole nine yards…in blissful pleasant silence. Sam even started using my Vitamin C serum, when I told him how good it is for the skin. 

I was pleasantly surprised when he took a little bit of my hydrating cream after the serum. I would always use that after having a rough day on the job, it did wonders for my tired skin. 

“You’re learning,” I told him as I brushed my teeth. 

“From the best.” He simply said. 

***

I didn’t remember the last time I did my night routine in my bathroom – and it all started when Dean caught me leaving his room to get my toothbrush. 

“You two are louder than a jackhammer!” He told me as he opened the door of his room, messy hair, eyes barely open, clearly feeling creaky from lack of sleep…again. “Keep it down, or I swear I’ll kill you both!”

“Sorry!” I was embarrassed but trying hard not to laugh.

Ever since then, I decided not to leave his room during the night. So, naturally, I started leaving my stuff in Sam’s room. 

***

After we got in our pajamas; Sam in his gray sweatpants and me in my oversized blue T-shirt I “borrowed” from him, got under the covers. I could feel my whole body relaxing, as I let my mind drift God knows where…I was ready to fall asleep, but Sam had other plans. He wrapped his hand around my waist pulling me closer to him. His semi-hard cock was pressed against my ass, and I felt his lips on my neck. 

“Yeah, Sammy?” I bit my lower lip. 

“I don’t wanna sleep.” He mumbled between kisses. 

I turned around, missing the softness of his lips on mine. I kissed him, feeling the minty taste on his lips. My hand went in his hair, pulling him closer to me. He moaned when I pulled his locks, sending shivers all over his body. He pushed me back onto the mattress as he climbed on top of me, leaving kisses all over my jaw and neck. I loved his lips on my skin, I loved everything about them; the softness, the taste, the ability to make me wet in seconds… 

“You got me worried today,” Sam whispered between kisses. 

“Sorry, I was a hot-headed dumbass.”

I thought I could take down the ghost by myself. I didn’t stick to the plan and almost got thrown off the balcony when the damn thing attacked me – my mistake.

“Like always.”

And that’s why you love me. I bit my tongue. I felt my walls completely coming down under him. I didn’t care about labels, I didn’t care what we were, I just knew my heart was struggling to stay silent. I wanted to say those words as much as I desperately wanted to hear them from him. 

“Shut up and kiss me!” I told him instead. 

Sam pressed his lips on mine, this time his hand went down my stomach between my legs. His fingers were cold, making my skin shiver, but his touch bought endless pleasure. 

I could feel his two fingers in me for a few seconds before he pulled away. 

“Tease,” I said annoyed. He loved making me beg and feel desperate and I loved every second of it. 

He licked his fingers clean and kissed me letting me have a taste as well. 

“You are delicious.”

Everything about this seemed different. He was sweeter and far more gentle. Usually, he would tell me to be quiet, his good girl, he would be rough, but this time…he wasn’t? He had a gentle side, but I’d rarely see it. I felt something was different. I felt my heart connecting with his and my soul feeling closer to his own. 

“And you’re a tease.” 

He laughed, showing off those cute little dimples I adored so much. 

"Just a little. " He smirked before kissing me again. I was growing impatient, and it was like he heard me. He wasted no time, he moved my panties to the side as I helped him lower his sweatpants. He entered me slowly, letting me adjust to his size, letting me bask in the pleasure his cock was giving me. I buried my fingers into his damp hair, arching my back slightly. 

"You feel so good!" 

He would always tell me that. Every time. No exception. He knew his words made me needy, horny, and desperate…He knew what buttons to push. 

He started to move and that was when my heart decided to work against me…or it did me a favor? My eyes were lost in his, not wanting to break the contract. I was feeling every inch of him, slowly moving in and out, skin to skin….

"I love you!" 

I heard myself say. My heart was pounding, I could see his expression change as his hair was falling on my cheeks…he smiled and kissed me.

"I love you too!" 

I didn't expect this answer from him. At the moment it didn't seem real but I think we both knew it was coming. Between the constant staring, and flirting just to gross out Dean and the genuine connection we had, we knew…

Sam's pace became faster, and I was slowly losing it. His face was inches away from mine, feeling each other's breaths as my climax was getting closer. I could feel my body shaking, my nails digging into his back as I couldn’t get his name out of my mouth. 

“Come on, baby!” He whispered in my ear. 

I loved his voice, I loved his touch, his kiss. I loved him.

I came hard, biting his shoulder (Sam didn’t even flinch), not wanting to be too loud because of Dean and his “Next time I’m gonna kill you both” sentence. 

He kissed me before collapsing next to me. We were both panting, waiting for someone to say something, to break the ice that had already been broken when I told him I love you. But no one did. Instead, we fell asleep, my head on his chest, safe and sound. 

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟏  𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞   |   VARIOUS LOCATIONS, DECEMBER 1990

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

‎‎‎‎‎ ❛ The banality of human tragedy wasn’t enough for a princess. Some may have said it was an insult. The publishers, insatiable in their hunger for a story, chased answers. They would force slippery, delicate reality into the shackles of narrative. They would explain the unexplainable. Numerous leads bubbled forth in the immediate days following the event. At first, they came as a respectful trickle of whispers. Then, they came in a loud burst that could fill the amorphous space between breaking news and solemn coverage of a state funeral. Most of the claims were false: the queen had held the gaze of an owl twenty days prior; a storm had thrown and scattered stones in an ominous glyph; waterway residents had heard plaintive weeping from the water before the disappearance; a daykeeper sent a letter to the palace warning the mountains were shaking with longing; the princess was terrified of water and had diligently avoided it before this fateful outing. The latter was true.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

It wasn’t moving water that paralyzed her. She had appreciated the crashing of beach waves and the foaming, rushing flow of rivers. The waterfalls in Yaas had captivated her. The problem was still water. Placid and smooth, the expanses of lakes and ponds and swimming pools unsettled her to the core. Others saw them as gentle and inviting; these comely traits, to her, were the duplicity inherent to any natural danger.

As with many fears, this one had been formative. These bodies summoned memories of gasping and flailing—a visceral recollection of the moment in which her swimming education both began and ended. The publishers would report that she refused to bathe in tubs or put her face beneath a shower head. These details were embellishments, but they knitted together the perfect narrative to rendered the death star-crossed, inevitable, and shadowing even in the unobstructed light of day. With such winking glints of absurdity, a deluge of articles teased intrigue from something utterly ordinary.

Indeed, that was the wretched truth with which the family had to contend, even as days of newsprint consoled the public with fantasy. Once the body was recovered a few hours later, the coroner called it what her fellow passengers had assumed: an accident. People drowned in Uspana every day. Such a demise was considered divinely favored, and the context—the story that underwrote it—didn’t matter. The mountains claimed their favorites regardless of whether their lungs filled with a few inches of bathwater or deep inhales of Canarís Bay saltwater. These favorites were regular people. They were also, from time to time, royalty.

The cause was misadventure, not malevolence.

Still, when Beatriz stumbled over to the telephone on the day she received the news, she took a deep breath to steady herself and said with conviction, “Arnaut, he's finally killed her. Please come home.”

TRANSCRIPT:

[A] Boating? Seriously? [S] New yacht, too. He named it the Safyanora. Sweet, isn't it?

[A] I just can't believe he convinced you to go on it. [S] Me either.

[S] We've been giving each other space for a few weeks. [A] Is that what you call it?

[S] I should put in effort, you know? Be forgiving. [A] You do. You are. The problem is when he takes advantage of it, which is every single time.

[S] Friends will be there with us. There'll be no fighting—not the terribly unfun kind, anyway. [A] {Sighs.}

[A] And you're still not wearing the ring?

[S] For now. We'll see how I feel after this trip. [A] Uh huh.

[S] He promised a romantic getaway! Maybe that's what I need. [A] It's true. You work too much.

[S] No, you don't work enough—[A] Hold on. Someone's here.

[S] I can let you go … I do have work to do. [A] {Chuckling.}

[A] Abelina, tell Auntie hello. [AB] Hi Safy! [S] Hello, baby girl.

[A] It's bedtime story o'clock, unfortunately. [S] I'll call you when I'm home in a few days. [A] Good. I love you. Have fun. [S] I love you, too. Goodnight.

[S] {V.O.} Hi Mama. Sorry I missed you.

[S] {V.O.} We arrived in Intizara a couple days ago. There were more cameras than usual. It was disconcerting.

[S] {V.O.} Anyway, I'm calling you from the water.

[S] {V.O.} Aren't you proud of me? {Chuckles.}

[S] {V.O.} Manuel and Eita are with us.

[S] {V.O.} We're having fun, all of us.

[S] {V.O.} I needed this.

[S] {V.O.} We needed this.

[S] {V.O.} I know you don't want to hear it, but he's making an effort.

[S] {V.O.} I feel hopeful. Call me back. I love you.

[B] {V.O.} This is not a message for voicemail.

[B] {V.O.} I wish you had come to the phone just this once.

[B] {V.O.} How do I say this? It's unspeakable.

[B] {V.O.} {Sighs.}

[B] {V.O.} Arnaut, he's finally killed her.

[B] {V.O.} Please come home.

[presidenthades]

⚠️Spoilers for S.2 ep.2, kinda❓

DAERON EXISTS, LIFE MAKES SENSE AGAIN!

Anyhow, your thoughts on the new episode🎤???

Oh, and in celebration of show!Daeron's confirmed existence: mini tiny Joffron doodle ig? Made with love, not with skill☝️💚🖤❤️

Wait omigod I love this. Why does it perfectly encapsulate the two of them. 😭😍🥰 They really do have a reverse Hades/Persephone dynamic! Honestly I love this art style, it’s giving a chibi vibe that I adore. I’m going to link this to my HOTD artwork list.

Anyway yes, Daeron truthers rise up. ✊

(Obviously, S2E2 spoilers below the cut.)

First I’ll start with new thoughts on B&C. After my rewatch, most of my feelings about E1 remained the same, but I want to update my reaction to B&C. Helaena’s muted reaction made more sense to me the second time around. It is consistent with her character, and the BTS info about her visions makes it understandable why she seemed to treat Jaehaerys’s death as inevitable.

HOWEVER. Viewers should not be required to watch BTS commentaries etc. to have full context for the scene. The background info about Helaena’s visions should’ve been in the actual episode. If knowing about Helaena’s visions about her children’s potential demise is that important, they could and should have incorporated it I nto an actual scene. For example, instead of her opening scene being her embroidering, she could’ve been scribbling about that vision in her notebook.

If for some reason this was too difficult to film, there’s one small change they could’ve made to B&C which would’ve made a huge difference, visions or no visions. When Blood says both children “look the same,” Cheese could have responded with “just kill them both.” This instantly heightens the stakes and makes Helaena’s actions more understandable to even the most casual viewer: if she doesn’t point out Jaehaerys, then both her children die.

End of E1 rant. Onto E2 rant!

I’ve seen a lot of different reactions to this episode. Some say it was great, some say it was awful. IMO, your takeaway of how good the episode was probably depends on who your favorite characters are.

I think Rhaenyra and Aegon had the best scenes this episode. Otto also had some banger lines, and Helaena made me feel a lot of emotions. Daemon did not come away particularly well, Aemond was a little weird, Alicent continues to be frustrating, and I’m convinced that Criston is the writing room’s whipping boy.

TGC really got to show off his acting chops this episode. Personally I wish they could’ve spent more time on Aegon smashing the LEGOs and bludgeoning Blood, but that is a me preference. I think Aegon really did love Jaehaerys, AND he is angry about the blow that has been struck again him as king. Both these things can be true at the same time. The end scene where he’s crying alone in his room proves that his grief isn’t just a show.

And I don’t mind that Aegon’s decision to hang all the rat-catchers makes him seem violent and impetuous, because he is violent and impetuous. The scene is also framed so that you understand why Aegon did it; we see Cheese hanging with the others. And let’s be honest, if Rhaenyra did something similar to avenge Luke (eg burn down Storm’s End because Borros contributed to his demise, which would kill a lot of other people too), a lot of viewers would cheer her on.

(I was definitely thinking during the “Aegon fires Otto” scene that Aegon could really use a Jacaera to kindly knock some sense into him. 🥲)

Speaking of the end scene…omigod Alicent why. 💀 Conceptually, I understand there’s generational trauma going on. Otto was cold with Alicent, who is in turn cold with Aegon especially. But like. Holy shit. Give your son a 5-second hug. It would’ve been nice if they could at least show Alicent feeling conflicted, like she wants to comfort her son but feels incapable, so she walks away.

Backtracking a bit: I feel like Alicent is consistently made the focus of the story in places where she arguably should not be the focus, and I wonder if this is because the showrunners want to take advantage of the fact they’ve paid good money for Olivia Cooke. But I truly do not understand why it was Helaena and Alicent at the funeral rather than Helaena and Aegon. Otto said something about “our gentlest souls” but this could’ve been a great opportunity to showcase more of Aegon and Helaena’s complicated relationship and shared grief.

Whatever my other feelings on the scene, I do think Phia and Olivia’s acting was phenomenal. Helaena’s panic attack during the funeral 😱. I really just wanted to emergency evacuate her from that mess.

I’m going out of chronological order, but I’m going to backtrack again to Otto making the decision to have the funeral as a PR campaign. It’s very Machiavellian, and TBH I understand why he chose to do it. It is a huge blow against Rhaenyra’s reputation. But I feel like the show wants Otto and Daemon to be the only actual schemers on their respective sides. Everyone else kinda just whoopsies or white-knights their way through the narrative. I just want to shake the writers and tell them it’s okay for other characters to be villainous. There’s a reason Daemon is way more popular than Criston. At least Daemon fully commits to his bad decisions.

I kinda feel bad for Fabien Frankel because the writers seem to really have it out for Criston. They really want to make him the most hatable character. 💀 Imagine if instead we got a more Machiavellian Criston who intentionally decides to claw his way up from nothing to become one of the most powerful people in Westeros. Even if he does reprehensible things along the way, at least he does them purposefully, not because he’s incompetent.

I almost forgot to talk about Aemond, because he really has not been getting a lot of screen time these two episodes. The brothel scene was odd but not as odd as it could have been. I wish the writers would stop having his personality revolve around Daemon, but it’s probably their way of building up to God’s Eye. Honestly, I would’ve preferred a scene of Aemond with his family dealing with B&C aftermath rather than fucking off to the brothel.

Now, changing topics to the Rhaenyra and Daemon divorce scene. I think viewers’ reactions to this scene depend a lot on whether or not you’re a Daemon fan. He really comes off not great in the entire sequence from when Rhaenyra learns about B&C to when Daemon leaves. Also, it’s very obvious Sara Hess wrote the scene; she’s been vocal about how she dislikes Daemon, and a lot of what Rhaenyra says seems to be opinions that Sara has shared. I think Rhaenyra was right to call out Daemon for B&C and for lying to her face about it.

It may have been better if they had more buildup showing cracks between Daemon and Rhaenyra, because she’s also calling him out for a lot of stuff besides B&C. There was the S1E10 argument and choking scene, but some more interaction in S2E1 or E2 where they’re at odds would have made it fresher in viewers’ memories. But it’s not necessary, and I think the scene works as is.

Despite viewers’ feelings on this scenes, it was VERY well acted by both Emma and Matt. And it leads to Rhaenyra’s interesting interaction with Baela. Rhaenyra refuses to risk Jace and send him out on patrol near KL, but she tells Baela to do the exact same thing. It’s very subtle, and the scene is framed as a positive thing between the two characters, but this is probably the most morally gray decision Rhaenyra makes in this episode. She won’t risk her child, but she will risk Daemon’s child immediately after they fought.

The Mysaria scenes were interesting. I really don’t mind the show’s efforts to whitewash her. She’s horrible in the book, but show!Mysaria is actually sympathetic for the most part. She worked her way up from nothing but the people in charge of the system keep stomping her back down. I think her dialogue about Daemon/Otto/powerful men was heavy-handed foreshadowing that she’s going to end up serving Rhaenyra, who is notably not a man.

I don’t have a lot of groundbreaking comments about Erryk & Arryk. It was very emotionally impactful…and I wish the episode had ended either with them dying, or with the scene where Aegon is crying by himself, rather than ANOTHER Alicole sex scene. 💀

Overall, this episode had its highlights, and acting is phenomenal as always. But the writers really need to figure out what to do with Alicent and Criston, other than have the fuck all the time.

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, episode 8. Just fucking try me

By TPTB's Sovereign Decree, this season is - as we all know - split in two, which proved to be at the same time abysmally disrespectful to ***'s subscribers, frustrating - to say the least- to Netflixers, but involuntarily prescient, given the current SAG-AFTRA stalemate. The protracted strike scenario (still a possibility) would have truly flunked OL, drowning it in a sea of irrelevance and effectively making all promo impossible. So, let us count our blessings and bide our time: it ain't over till the fat lady sings. For the time being, we are still haunted by Sinéad's moving huskiness. For the sake of speculation only, I wonder if they are going to stick with this option until the official end of Season 7, as an homage of sorts. Or promote somebody else, while time and space are still available to do so.

You are definitely going to need tissues for this one. And any random type of your favorite comfort food. It is intense. It is almost impeccable. SS & RR sketches are tolerably short. S is supercalifragilistic. C is giving it her all and she is just perfect. And all the rest are flawless. So, pardon the sarcasm deficit and perhaps also my less fluid quill: you surely know, by now, my struggle with encomium is real.

The bonnie wee swordsman moment immediately brought to this book outsider's mind the exceptional fanfic author on AO3. So, if you still missed Flood My Mornings, by some obscure glitch in the Matrix, do give it a try. It is one of my top 3 , with #1 being @zeya-zg's TRS (it packs a punch, takes great risks and does so with grace). And yes - blasphemy ensues - the swordsman's fic is simply better than Herself in so, so many ways. A good starting point for a Droughtlander of undetermined amplitude (what in the name of hoo-ha is 'the story continues next year' supposed to mean?), for example. But I digress.

With Saratoga 2.0 in plain, inevitable sight, I incorrectly presumed we would see the blue light mojo - is it in Bees...? more plausibly so - and I am glad C saved JAMMF's finger. My sick mind did try to imagine a mutilated limb at some point in time, failed to do so and had to reboot entirely. I am grateful to the writer for having spared me a potential ordeal, in this respect. I am, however, less grateful to the same writer for butchering up to the point of no return the very delicate scene between Rachel Hunter and Young Ian, who initially fail to get their (impossibly to reach) bearings. It feels contrived at first, reads as injudicious as trying to become proficient in Thai after spending three hours on Duolinguo and jumps on the storyline's windshield out of virtually nowhere. The main weak point of this season (spare SS/RR's endless death row sojourn) has to be the blatant injustice done by the writers to characters I wanted to see and hear more of: the Hunter siblings, Buck Mackenzie and yes, William himself.

Speaking of William, there is an epic but fleeting moment outside Simon Fraser's tent, just after Jamie gives him his tricorn hat, that made me wonder out loud. Who are you, first and foremost, Ellesmere: a courtier? a soldier? a son? All three avatars briefly cross his face and if that is not prowess, I don't know what is. Enthusiastic kudos, again.

Cynical, lunatic, despicable me ugly cried three times in a row. Laudanum. Simon Fraser. The Scottish shores. That is a lot for one single intake.

Spoiler: I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. For such an inconsistent character, Simon Fraser saved his soul with this intense, dignified and subdued moment. There is something akin to a Roman deathbed scene one could perhaps find in Tacitus' Histories, essentially thanks to S's perfectly mastered gravitas. So yes, you can cry for the sudden demise of a secondary character you had no sympathy for and on top of that be surprised by your own tears.

A death that proves instrumental for their return to Scotland. And maybe it is time we acknowledge the simple fact that Scotland never really was just a trope of all this intricate narrative scaffolding, but a character in its own right. It is alive and it prompts the kind of raw, irrational emotions able to make your tears well up all the same in Bilbao, in Vancouver, in Seattle, in Athens or in Cairo. And it doesn't matter if you could not place Inverness on a map before finding out that well, people do disappear all the time, or if you were haunted since forever by majestic visions of glens & lochs. You will fall and you will fall hard, despite all the misgivings and the shortcomings, of which there are many.

We leave them teary-eyed on a boat sailing near the Scottish shores. It is a carefully chosen and very effective parting moment. Overall, this was an excellent half-season, if you chose to ignore Mordor's endless, reckless and soulless bitching. I sometimes wish for all these people to suddenly develop an interest for origami or find another obsessable rookie duo or simply try to be happy on their own. Nothing more, but nothing less.

This Droughtlander will be a massive pain in the rear. Mark me. And I am finally allowed to hope for better sleep patterns. But hey, no regrets: it was worth it, always is. They are worth it. A lot.

Gif choice could only involve a ship. Credit given to @avasetocallmyown. Very elegant :)

[seaweedstarshine]

Reading the newly-published Amy’s Choice original script, and!!! The Doctor's arc!!! I understand cutting back on it to better focus on the titular Choice of Amy, but the way the script uses the Doctor's self-hatred to really explore his feelings towards the Ponds and their relationship does feel balanced here, I wish more of it was left in!

As someone who loves the angle of the Doctor yearning to be worshiped and hating himself for it, I might have ulterior motive to wish this scene wasn't cut:

But really, it's the way it shows the Doctor is slowly unravelling as his relationship with Amy and Rory is picked apart — one thing I'm not sure the episode fully got across is that the Dream Lord is picking on the Doctor first and foremost, and picking on the Ponds because it upsets the Doctor to know that he's hurting them.

If only each episode just got a full hour runtime honestly!

The next screenshot is good. “You’re my friends.” Of course! They both are! Of course he's insecure — of course he wonders, in Amy's grown-up married life, where the imaginary friend fits in. (After all, Martha and Donna got married promptly after leaving, and Rose kind of ended up the same.)

But now that he's no longer insecure about their closeness excluding him, he's no longer so confident the TARDIS is real — a mirror to the way Rory no longer cares once he knows Amy would rather die than be without him.

This next scene is partially in the episode, but as much as I like the Doctor ignoring the Dream Lord, the Doctor's “Because they never see me again doesn’t mean I never see them” is everything for his Pond family vibes here — featuring inner turmoil. He does inevitably hurt his companions, but he always loves them, too.

In the frozen TARDIS, they're actually dying, their organs and brains are shutting down, so the Doctor forces them to keep moving and repeat after him to keep them alive and he shouts how he loves them, because that's what matters to him, they are all that matter to him:

Which makes Rory's inevitable demise in the next story so much harder! Honestly, I already been disappointed about the Hungry Earth deleted scene on YouTube where the Doctor is talking to Amy about how much he likes Rory, but hey, I see the love between these three in Season 5, and I love that we have so many scripts to affirm it.

If only each episode just got a full hour runtime so all this didn't have to be cut!!!

The script library, if anyone hasn't seen it. It used to mostly have recent stuff, but now it has a whole lot more! (Don't go there looking for Season 7 or 8 though.)