#Brief Apparition of Self

[marejadilla]

Kamille Corry, “Brief Apparition of Self”, 2017, oil on linen over panel. B. 1966, Houston, Texas.  

[ddarker-dreams]

A Fool's Errand.

Yan Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, imbalanced power dynamics, alcohol mention/consumption, not SFW implications. Word count: 2.1k.

“Now that’s a scary look.” 

Ice cubes clink together as you stir your drink, feigning an air of indifference. The warm pinks swirl in a hypnotizing display. Golden flecks catch the room’s sparse lighting, shimmering within the miniature whirlpool. 

You return your focus to the reflection in your pocket mirror. 

The countenance that greets you is both familiar and foreign. Color is infused into your lips, brushed along your cheeks, and blended atop your eyelids. It’d been a while since you had applied makeup, but the muscle memory kicked in eventually. After some touch-ups, you found the results satisfactory. From this vantage point, you can admire your décolleté, complemented by a dainty choker with a butterfly charm. 

You can also see a pair of eyes staring back at you. 

You clasp the mirror shut, wishing the shadowy apparition would disappear.

Instead, it creeps closer, footsteps echoing throughout the empty room. 

You sip your concoction. It’s tart, with a splash of sweetness that soon fades into a bitter aftertaste. A hazy warmth swaddles your mind in a tight embrace. 

Blade materializes beside you like a phantom coming to life. His presence is heavy and impossible to ignore, but you try your best. He’s frowning, almost glaring at you, the skin beneath his eyes wrinkled in displeasure. Your continued apathy does little to soothe the brewing tension. 

This time, it’s him who breaks the silence. 

“How much have you had to drink?”

“This is my third glass,” you admit. His eyebrows scrunch together. “I thought you’d come faster.” 

“If you anticipated your failure, why bother?” 

“I dunno. Curiosity? Boredom?” Your finger traces the drink’s rim. Suppressing a wicked smile, you add, “Maybe I wanted to find a date.” 

For a fleeting instant, it’s like the room’s oxygen rushed out at once, leaving you to asphyxiate. Your eyes tell a different story — nothing’s changed, at least, not physically — aside from his pupils shrinking to a pinprick’s size. Faintly, what remains of your cognition advises against poking the beast. You’ve already done enough. In the coming days, you’re likely to regret this entire escapade. 

However, your present self finds immense satisfaction in spewing petty jabs. 

“Be mindful of your tongue, girl.” 

Blade’s timbre is dark and gravelly. Shivers envelop your body, which you chase off with another hearty drink. His eyes follow your throat as you gulp the liquid down. They remain fixated there for an unnerving few seconds. Shifting around in your seat, it’s growing harder to deny the magnitude of who you’re dealing with. His suffocating favor doesn’t grant you absolute immunity. 

You try reaching for another sip, only for him to stop you. 

“That’s enough,” he says. His grip around your wrist tightens when you try wrenching it free. “We’re heading back.” 

Heading back. To the life of a fugitive, forever on the run, wreaking chaos wherever he and his band of clairvoyant criminals set foot. It isn’t an alluring prospect. This brief stint has been the longest you’ve gone without constant surveillance. Even if it’s a fleeting illusion, destined to slip through your fingers, you want to hold on just a bit longer. 

The alcohol flowing through your system further emboldens you. “You wanna end our date so fast?” 

This little provocation seemingly accomplishes the impossible — it throws Blade off guard. 

“‘Our?’” He repeats, the upward inflection uncharacteristic of his monotonous voice. 

“I was lookin’ for a date and you happened to come along, so yeah, why not?” You say it as if it’s the most obvious thing. He blinks. “What? Am I not pretty enough?” 

Blade’s lips part and close in rapid succession. He knows what you’re doing, you know that he knows what you’re doing, yet your flirtations still have a visible effect. His body’s gone stiff and his jaw’s set, like he’s concentrating greatly. You hear his leather glove creak as he clenches and unclenches his fists. 

Leaning onto the counter, you look up at him through your eyelashes. “You must not like me after all.” 

“That—” he exhales sharply, his subsequent words coming out in a low, measured drawl, “... You have until you finish your drink.” 

While your mind slowly processes this information, he pulls out a barstool and sits beside you. You can tell he’s still disgruntled, yet you’ve established a temporary truce. For all the brutality he’s capable of, he's willingly domesticated the instant you offer a piece of yourself. A guard dog who requires no leash, for leaving your side is unthinkable. 

This is what’s doomed you and posed as your salvation. 

You break eye contact. 

Outside, you hear the whirr of traffic through the bar’s thin walls. You’d already forgotten the name of the planet you’re visiting. It’s indistinguishable from most IPC-infected civilizations — intrusive advertisements carved in the night sky and menial work for the masses, who will never climb as high as they wish. The Stellaron Hunter’s prolonged presence is an ill omen for the oblivious populace. 

If you asked, Blade would tell you what they’re doing here and what will become of the inhabitants.

These days, you find it’s best not to know. 

“Why didn’t you try dating me, anyway?” You ask. An ice cube begins melting into the drink, losing itself. “I’ve always wondered about that. Who knows? I may have fallen head over heels for you.” 

His answer comes surprisingly fast, slicing through the air like his weapon of choice. “I am not the sort of man you should be with.” 

You whip your head in his direction, utterly dumbfounded. “Huh?” 

“What you deserve… I can never give,” Blade’s eyes betray nothing of his inner thoughts. “It’s best that you never believed otherwise.” 

The universe’s momentum slows to a crawl. You sit up straight, ignoring the wave of dizziness the abrupt motion inflicts, scrutinizing his visage. Dull emotions attempt to burst the pleasant buzz you've cocooned in. Their sharp edges push and push, testing the material’s durability. The lights flicker, unwilling to cast him in permanent light. 

“If you care enough to consider all that, then why—” 

Why rob me of normalcy? 

Why take what made me into the person I am? 

Why deprive me of my life to make what’s left of yours better?

He lets you down what remains of your drink. It burns as it travels down your tightening throat, washing away any playfulness that lingered on your tongue. Your stomach turns in on itself. Still, you lap up every drop, chasing after a numbness that can’t outweigh the grief. The act of pulling the glass away proves overwhelming for your frazzled brain. You sway, temporarily stupefied. 

The cold leather of one hand and textured gauze from another steady your shoulders, keeping your body in place. 

“Careful. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s it matter? Seeing me in pain obviously means nothin’ to you.” 

He pauses, considering a response you’ll never be privy to, as he keeps his lips shut. Instead, he asks, “Can you walk?” 

This questioning of your motor functions has you scoffing. Wordlessly, you hop to the ground, where you stay still, intent on keeping yourself steady. Despite your best efforts, your surroundings spin ever so slightly. The minimalist furniture of this automaton-run establishment blurs together. Heat flushes throughout your body, warming your cheeks like an internal furnace. 

You overestimated your tolerance. It’s been a while since you’ve indulged — you should’ve considered that. 

Your weak performance confirms Blade’s suspicions. He approaches you, raising his hands, likely to keep you secure like he had before. You dodge his unwanted advances out of reflex. This proves to be a mistake, as you lack the coordination to make any sharp movements. Your ankle gives out and your eyes fly wide open, arms flailing about for purchase. 

Blade moves faster than you can process. You’re made to feel weightless as he lifts you up, holding you firm against his chest. 

“Hey, put me down! I don’t— I can walk just fine!” You exclaim, writhing around like a fish out of water. Exerting a mere fraction of his strength is enough to render your struggle useless. Realizing that all you’re doing is tiring yourself out, you go limp, your breathing coming out erratic from the exertion. Humiliation prickles throughout like hot needles waiting to erupt from your flesh.

“Are you finished?” 

You’re close enough to feel the low vibration of his voice. It rattles your bones, burrowing deep within the marrow. You express your resignation by averting your gaze. With that, he walks out, holding you in a bridal carry. Cool air nips at your exposed skin as he kicks the door open. It lets out into a back alley, where he must’ve skulked in from. 

He stops here and gingerly places you down, muttering, “Lean against the wall.” 

You do as instructed, though given your impaired state, you would’ve fumbled around for support without his prompting. He sheds his outer black jacket and drapes it along your bare shoulders. The fabric engulfs you, smelling faintly metallic. After ensuring you’re properly covered, he scoops you back up, maneuvering your body around like it’s weightless. 

He follows the labyrinth-like expanse of alleyways, leaving the sounds and sights of the densely populated area behind. Not a word is uttered or a glance shared. You wet your lips, your mind racing for ways to break the tense silence. Blade’s always been a man of a few words, but this bout is different than what you’re used to. Heavier, somehow. Your actions have gone beyond petty defiance. Typically, you can gauge what nonsense you can and can’t get away with. 

With this latest excursion, however—

—You’ve stumbled into uncharted territory. 

“What now?” You ask, your voice unusually meek. 

“You’ll be leaving this star system before long. We’re headed towards the pickup site.” 

Your ears perk up at his word choice. “You aren’t coming?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ve yet to fulfill my portion of the script on this planet.” 

“... Oh.” 

You can feel the look he sends your way. 

“Does this displease you?” 

“Ah, well,” you take a deep breath, finding the act of verbalizing your thoughts in this state difficult, “I didn’t think you… liked being apart.” 

“My preferences are irrelevant. Kafka will ensure you’re cared for until I’m suited to be around you again.” 

You furrow your eyebrows together, parsing through this information bit by bit. It’s like your mental faculties have been slathered with tar, slowing the gears in the mire. You’re only ever stuck with Kafka when Blade’s regenerating from significant injuries or dangerously mara-struck. You reflect on the evening’s events. The ease at which you snuck out, how it felt like the universe itself aligned along the way… 

Ah. 

You’re the ideal variable to tamper with when increasing (or decreasing) his mara. 

It’s a gross feeling — this sensation of being used like a pawn to affect the performance of the board’s stronger pieces. Perhaps the inevitably of it all is why he isn’t upset with you, or he might be trying to delay the onslaught of mara. Whatever the case, you’ve inadvertently done your part for this script. Stirring the sediments of his shortcomings and shoving your dislike of him to the forefront. 

Is this all you are? A side character in the epic Destiny’s Slave has penned? 

You grit your teeth. 

Using what little strength’s left in your muscles, you sit up, slinking your arms around his neck for support. Blade pauses, clearly more interested in your machinations than dropping you off like a package. He turns to face you. Though you’re nearly nose to nose, the night obscures his features, save for his eyes. The two blood-red moons have an otherworldly glow to them. Their gravitational pull is dangerous, yet you approach them as a willing sacrifice regardless. 

A gentle graze of your lips against his is enough for him to stop breathing. You can do what his mountains of deceased enemies gave their lives trying to accomplish. He must know you’re up to something; his grip is nearly bruising from the restraint he’s exercising. You test his fraying resolve by allowing your lips to connect. It’s purposefully brief, ending before it truly began. Upon pulling away, he chases after you, but you deny him.

Blade sounds pained when murmuring your name. 

Whether it’s a plea or a warning, you can’t tell. 

“What?” You ask. “You’re the one trying to get rid of me.” 

“...” 

Blade leers down at you. You meet his stare, unyielding, drunk on the idea of inconveniencing the Stellaron Hunters to any extent.

"... Stay still," he eventually orders, backing you against the alley's wall. "Time is short."

You wait until he's nipping at your neck to smile.

[synthetickitsune]

Oh, Death ✧ y.jh

Pairing: grim reaper!Yoon Jeonghan x reader (gn) Genre: angst without plot Summary: You've always thought death was beautiful and then you’re proven right just before your very own death when he comes to take you away. Word count: 1.3k Warnings: reader dies, implied suicidal thoughts and body image issues (very brief mentions for both) A/N: based on three banger lines (in bold in the fic) that @hanniedream dropped into my dms and then wrote her own amazing fic (with plot!!) that's much better than whatever this is so go read that (i'm just freeloading on bibi's big brain here)

You've always thought death was beautiful and then you’re proven right just before your very own death when he comes to take you away.

He stands there like an apparition of moonlight on a cold and rainy night, a single beam that would break the stormy skies and bring silence upon the world.

As if covered by a heavy blanket of snow, as if the time has stopped, all sound disappears from the world, from the street, from your room. You take a breath and you’re so startled you gasp again, self-conscious of the loud noise in the perfect silence.

His breathing is quiet and slow, methodical, as if he’s counting the beats of your heart before he breathes each time. It’s slow, you find, your heartbeat. Almost artificial in its steady tempo.

Somehow you feel like it’s stopped beating a long time ago, now only a memory meant to soothe you. Your body trying to save your life one last time, the memories of your cells working all together to keep you alive keep going even after their purpose was fulfilled until the last second. You look behind you - mean to look.

You can’t.

Not with the cold but gentle fingertips softly touching your jaw just as you’re about to turn back to take a look.

You’re startled again when your gaze turns towards what’s in front of you. He moved without a sound, crossing the expanse of space between you in just one second. Where are you? It feels like a dream. The split second of time between sleep and waking up, the short infinity when a lightning flashes in perfect silence and wakes you up from your sleep. You think you see stars, but they lose their shine against his eyes.

They’re the color of ice but hold the gentleness of melting snow, the water freed from its icy prison and searching for someone to embrace and mold itself against their shape. His touch is just like that snow, stealing your warmth slowly. You don’t mind it being drained as long as he keeps his fingers on your skin. He never warms up. His touch remains freezing and he looks apologetic for that. Yet there’s no reason. His cold is one of a breeze on summer’s day, a cold towel on your forehead when you’re tormented by fever.

You think you love him, death.

You understand that’s what he is. That there’s nothing that can be done about it, or about your demise. It’s not his place to decide about it, only to carry it out. He’s gentle. Quiet. As cold as his touch is, it doesn’t hurt you. You don’t remember any pain. You feel light, something akin to happiness buzzing under your skin. Elated. That’s how you feel. A reverent sort of happiness that you suppose comes after the hardship is over.

Is it an act of mercy that he won’t let you see the body that kept you alive? Or is it a rule he has to follow? You wish to see it. For all the complicated feelings you might’ve had towards it through your life, it was yours. It treated you as best as it could.

You lower your eyes like a child being scolded when his fingers stroke your cheek gently, preventing you from turning back for the second time. He’s patient. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do, but you’re sure it’s not lingering on the border between life and death, between the then and the to-be. Yet you do. It’s strange. You craved death so dearly, like a sweet candy after a bitter medicine, yet now that you’re parting with life you’re hesitant. Like wondering if you forgot to take your keys with you the moment the door is closed. Only this time, there��s no one to help you. Shedding your skin, like shedding your life in the world of living, is perhaps truly an act of mercy.

Of course you weren’t prepared for death, and for what comes after. No matter how much you longed for it and wished for it at times. It feels awkward. You’re glad someone is here waiting for you, guiding you. You’re sure he’s meant to guide you. It feels familiar. Did a similar scene happen before? Your memories are so hazy, your entire life flashing through your mind on a loop. Perhaps he’s there too somewhere, waiting like he’s waiting now for you to notice him.

You raise your gaze again and meet his eyes.

You always knew there was a reason you thought about and loved death as much as you did and now that you're face to face with him, everything made sense. death was beautiful. Death is beautiful.

You wonder if someone told him before.

Slowly he lets his hand fall, tracing your skin down your neck and towards your collarbones. Then lower. He caresses your sternum until his fingers stop just below it. You shiver. Like a deer staring into the scope of a rifle, you hold his gaze. They’re kind, his eyes. He’s kind. You feel no pain.

His soft eyes reassure you and comfort you. You start crying, and you see tears pooling in his eyes too until a single one overflows. You feel cold. The cold of staying in the pool for too long. The cold of sitting in the shower after the water stopped running, the droplets cooling on your skin, barely any heat remaining trapped in the fold of your curled body. 

His lips part only slightly. You want to hear his voice but he doesn’t say anything. Your breathing is erratic and too loud, you can’t even hear him breathing. Another tear spills. His other hand comes to hold your face like he did before. Gently, a barely-there touch. His hands are always gentle. Careful not to cause pain. Something is being ripped from you with his icy touch, but it doesn’t hurt. Does it hurt him? Is he taking your pain away? If so, you wish he didn’t. Seeing him cry is like watching an angel weep. It should never happen. No matter if he’s the opposite of an angel.

It feels like an ice shard is being pulled from your body, so slowly that the sharp edges don't cut you. Something heavy is being taken from you. Something that kept the blood, the hurt, inside you. What are you going to do without it? His fingers move smoothly to hold your chin up, so you don’t see what it is that he took from you. There’s a void in your chest left behind. A black hole swallowing everything, starving to fill the emptiness. It’s not hard to guess what it was that he took from you.

One more tear falls. You want to tell him it’s okay. Instead he leans closer. His soft breath caresses your skin. You close your eyes when he’s so close you can see the web of galaxies in his irises. His lips are like petals of a frozen flower against the skin of your cheek. When you open your eyes again, he’s crying. Silently.

He extends a hand towards you, stained ruby. You take it. It’s sticky and cold. It binds you together. 

If the stain remains, if it’s never washed away, will the blood spin itself into a string that would guide you back to him?

Without an answer, you follow him. For now, you only need to hold his hand. You don’t need to look for him if he found you.

And for now, that’s enough. 

For now, you feel him. 

Later you’ll look for ways to find him too.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

The apparition

a/n only fitting for to me come back with an angst after a month of disappearing. Do I think that this should have never seen the light of day? Yes. But oh well… Sleep token made me do it. Also, this a one shot. Won’t be writing a part two to this. Pain is pain for a reason. 🥹

warning: forbidden love, addiction, toxic love?, past trauma, brief mentions of sexual intimacy.

The part in italics is the glimpse of the past.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He felt like a kid. Pushed aside once again. A rock. Kicked carelessly by the side of the road. Mindlessly misplaced. Carelessly ignored. Azriel knew his tendencies. That desire to be loved. To be wanted. To be longed for. That same feeling had him crawling after females who never reciprocated his affection. Yet he crawled back. No matter the amount of stabs his heart took. He always found himself reaching.

Was this something his brothers had warned him about? Yes. Cassian repeatedly sat him down like a youngling, pointing out the damage he was creating. The wounds Azriel was tearing open. The self-inflicted pain he was causing himself. Yes, yes, and triple fucking yes. But it was like a drug, and he was an addict. Addict that was so far down the line that the withdrawal was scarier than knowing that every morning his bed was cold, his arms were empty, and his heart had been bled dry. 

The corner street door creaked open. Alerting the lost spymaster. His senses perked up. Azriel doubted that it was true, but even now, even without catching a glimpse of you, he was convinced that he sensed you. But nothing compared to that wave of familiarity that crashed into him when your frame came into view. Chasing the last bits of air out of his lungs. His hands reached out in a frenzy of muscle memory.

“Azriel?”, and it’s the surprise—the hints of horror, almost pain—that sounded in the way you said his name. But his mind was too far gone to register that. So much of an always-alert spymaster. “Oh, no, no," you dragged your hand out of his grip, “You shouldn’t be here”, you shook your head, putting distance between you two. "Please," and here goes that plea. The desperation. “No, Azriel, we had a deal, remember? Last week was the last time," you hissed at him, turning to look over your shoulder. 

“This will be the last time," Azriel muttered. A lie. He knew that. But maybe you didn’t. Maybe he could lie to himself to the point where even the ones around him believed him. “Oh, no, I know how this goes." You shook your head repeatedly, “I warned you, you stupid fool." He could feel the frustration flowing through you. The panic. “You promised me you were decent. That you had a hold of your mental shields." There was nothing sweet in your tone as you hissed out, reaching to open the door leading to your shop.

“They were. They are," Azriel muttered, stepping after you. “Don’t lie to me. You can’t fool me”, you huffed, looking through the drawer, cursing as loose pieces of paper swayed, falling to the floor. And Azriel just stood there, watching. Drinking in every single movement. “When?”, you asked, wild eyes looking up at Azriel. And he knew exactly what you wanted to know too. Should he lie? Alter the date? Hide a symptom or two. “Last month," his mouth betrayed him, however, and he had a first-seat ticket to watching your face fall. “But it’s not bad; I have it under control," Azriel quickly jumped in, hoping to defuse the situation, “It just flared up tonight, I promise." Another lie. But if he wanted to get what he was looking for, he had to push this narrative in a convincing enough manner.

“I’m telling Rhys," you muttered. "No,"  Azriel cut in so quickly that it made you jolt. “No need, plus he is aware that I am seeing you," he added in a much calmer tone. “Seeing me or seeing me now?”, you pushed. It was the mess with Elain that had made him crumple. Had taken him out for months before he found his footing once again. Even if he knew that the relationship had an expiration date, the mating bond always won. No matter the stories others showed down one’s throat about the chance of rejecting it.

“All of it. Knows all of it”, Azriel nodded. Just one more, he thought, just for tonight. “I’m saying this as a friend. You can’t keep coming back," you whispered, “This needs to stop." It was Rhys who had found you. An illusionist manipulating people’s emotions, threading together images that felt real to the depths of one’s bones. An alter of wished they called you. People and even high-fea prayed at your altars for Mother's sake. You were something some feared and others were ready to sacrifice themselves for.

“What illusions do you obtain from?" It was your fifth meeting, and Azriel, much to your dismay, had pushed the idea of getting to know each other. After all, he would have to let you into the depths of his soul. So that had been his one rule—befriend me first. You had stayed silent for a long time. Twirling the red wine in your glass. “Of love," you muttered, and Azriel could have never imagined that those two words would alert all of his life. “Why?”, was a question brought up by pure curiosity back then, with no implied intentions. “It gets messy, and the falsification of love feels wrong. Such feelings shouldn’t be tainted by magic," you said, pushing your hair over your shoulder. You glowed even in the dim light. The curves of your body were breathtaking as you lounged in the day bed on the balcony of Azriel’s apartment. It was a lethal kind of beauty, and with a handful of heartbeats, he knew that he was already slipping. 

“I saw Elain today; she... we spoke, and I just..." It was a hell of a lie he was choosing, but the need won out in his logical sense. “Mend it for me; I can’t keep feeling as if I have nothing," he breathed out. His eyes filling up with tears. “Just this one time," Azriel said, sinking to his knees. He saw your walls cracking slowly as you rounded the table. Fingers reaching out to cup his face. His hands reach to hold onto your hips. Pleading eyes burning into you. “I should have never said yes, and I hope you know how much I regret this," you muttered, clawing at his heart. 

“Admit it, I’m a fun company." Azriel leaned closer, making sure you could hear him through the music. You had no clue how he managed to drag you to Rita’s of all places, but here you were. One of the finest silks on your skin. A private booth. The lights. The drumming of the crowd. You shook your head, suppressing a smile. “You’ve gotten cocky," you observed, “Who knew you had that in you." Azriel leaned back, undoing the first button of his black shirt. "Oh, there’s so much more you don’t know about me, baby," he said, speaking into thin air. Knowing that you could hear him. He had leaned in only to feel you closer to him. Smirking as he lifted his glass. 

His hands reached out, taking hold of your legs as he pulled them up, draping them over his lap. Caught by the sudden movement, you were forced to reach out. Hand on his shoulder as you steadied yourself. That’s when he caught that unrehearsed glimpse of need in your eyes, but it was quickly pushed back. “Now this is crossing the line," you huffed. But before you had a chance to move, Azriel clasped his hand on your thigh. “What are you afraid of?” He threw that question absentmindedly, not realizing how deep that root of pain was. “Wasn’t that what you asked me the first day we met?” Azriel smirked before averting his attention back to the crowd. Leaving you slowly breaking down beneath the feeling of him. Beneath the fear of yourself.

“I should have never given in," you said, lifting his chin, and he obliged without a fuss. “You liked this too. Admit it," Azriel bit back, his hold on you tightening. He would fight hell in hopes of being able to keep his hands on you. In hopes of keeping you. “We had a deal. No falling for one another," you hissed, nails digging into the sides of his face. “I warned you that my kind doesn’t do happy endings and picket fences, Azriel," you huffed. “I don’t need that from you," he argued, “I just need you to chase Elain away. That hasn’t changed. I still love her, not you." Another lie for the night. A bitter chuckle slipped through your lips, “You’re one shit of a liar, dear spymaster of the night court.”. 

You were to blame for this just as much. You should have stood your ground. Should have never been entertained by that wimp. Because Rhys had warned you. Told you about Azriel's tendencies. So the fact that he had asked for a night that would make him feel loved should have been a red flag. But it was the empath in you that buckled at the feeling of his sadness. The loneliness that could drown out the whole army. The crippling emptiness. The way he broke down crying as he held onto you.

But all that could have been forgiven. Could have been managed. But it was yourself that you threaded into that glimpse of hope for him. Something you had never done before. It was always a made-up face you used while creating an illusion. It was the safest way. But you had been just as selfish. Nights spent getting to know each other left you wondering what it would feel like to know the touch of a man who wanted you. Who craved you. Who chose you even though loving you was a forbidden act of insanity.

And then it felt as if sending a ship you knew was destined to sink set sail. The next time Azriel stopped by, he was barely through the door as his hand grabbed the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. It felt so raw. So powerful. Whatever was happening in that small corner shop was way too big for it. Too big for Velaris. The whole world. As his hands danced over your body. Unraveling parts of you no one had seen before. Laying you bone bare beneath him. “Make me feel," he had whispered over and over. That sad lost man, making you break your own rules as you wrapped him in the sense of eternal peace as he made love to you over and over again. Digging a grave for each of you.

“If loving that silly girl with flowers in her hair had an explanation date, this has the date of your death engraved on your gravestone," you whimpered, your eyes burning as you held back tears. You warned him. Kept on warning him. In hopes of being able to wash your hands clean afterward. Because he knew the consequences. Loving you wasn’t something that could ever happen. But it only dragged you deeper. “I know. I  remember everything," Azriel muttered, pressing ghost-like kisses over your stomach. His hands already slipping past the hem of your dress. Fingers skimming over your legs. You pressed your own hands over his, “Just an illusion this time, nothing more." You reached to pull back from his touch, but his grip on your thighs only tightened. “Let me make love to you," Azriel pleaded, and if you could justify the opium your magic gave him before, it was oozing out in ugly sores now. You had doomed him. Pained tears fell down your cheeks as you kneeled in front of him. Cupping his face with both hands. You let yourself take in the sight of him. Both because you knew that you would never meet another man like him and so you could torment yourself with guilt for fracturing him for the rest of your existence. 

“You’re all better now," you muttered, smiling up at him. Azriel’s eyes grew hazy. “Do you remember the night we danced in your apartment after way too much wine?” You pushed the damp curl from his forehead, biting the inside of your cheek so you wouldn’t break down alongside him. He nodded eagerly. “You’re there, my love, in that moment," you said, taking a steady breath. Savoring the warmth of him. The feeling of him being close. “But you’re not there with me. Because I’m not real, Azriel," his shoulders sagged at your words. You could feel him trying to pull back, but you kept your hand on his neck. “I was never here. Never with you. You dreamed me up, baby," you said, pressing your lips to his forehead. You closed your eyes, feeling your own heart shatter, “But it was a nice dream, Az, and you will wake up way lighter tomorrow.”

Those same words were like a broken record as Azriel jumped up. Body aching and drenched in sweat. He turned aimlessly, as if in hopes of seeing you there. But he was in his room. The black sheets covered his body. "No," he grunts, yanking the black silk off him. Without a second thought, he winnowed. To one place that had been calling for him all of these weeks. And he’s nearly falling to his knees as the side of the wall comes into view. No windows. No sign. A solid concrete wall. “I know it’s your doing," he screams angrily into the depths of night. Hands pushing against the solid foundations. But there’s nothing. Not even a breath of you. As if it were never there. As if for the entire time it was just the corner of the street.

“You can’t push me away," he roared, beating his fist till the skin of his knuckles cracked, “You’re a fucking coward; that’s what you are." There was no way he had dreamed it. That you were a fleeting image of the night. Drafted by his brain. “You promised...", Azriel sank to his knees. His hands still pressed against the wall as he leaned against it. “I know it was real; you can’t make me believe otherwise," he crocked out, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. Falling to the ground, he pressed his back against where the door of your shop used to be. His wings sagged on either side of him. And he just sat there. The stars up above keep him company throughout the rest of the night. He wasn’t gonna move. He won’t go. He wouldn’t go. The wind kissed his damp cheeks but he was numb to it. You watched him from the other side of the alley. Hand on your mouth as you drowned the shattering waves of pain within. You watched until the night took you away forever.

[konigbabe]

the great war

DAY 3 ⇢ Hate Sex Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!curse user!reader Word count: 4k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; hate sex; timejump (2007 → 2018); lovers to enemies vibes; angst; lots of self-loating; pronebone; p-in-v; angry (??) Gojo; unreliable narrator Summary: When the news of Suguru Geto's death reach your ears, the weapon in your grasp guides you to the place where the cause lies - to Satoru Gojo. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine.

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His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure.

September 2007

Buddhists believe that life is filled with suffering and misery. That death, in the end, is not a singular event, but rather a fundamental contribution to the misery of human existence.

It was a doctrine you refused to believe in. Spending days by the side of fellow sorcerers, suffering and misery rarely crossed your mind. It wasn't that you were naive or ignorant – quite the contrary. As a sorcerer-in-training, you were acutely aware of the dangers and horrors that lurked in the shadows. Cursed spirits, malevolent curses, and the constant struggle to protect the oblivious, helpless civilians were all part of your reality.

However, you clung to an alternative belief – that while suffering is an inherent aspect of life, whether it leads to misery rests entirely within your control –

Among your companions, your unwavering optimism often stood out. While others carried the weight of their pasts and the darkness of their experiences, you chose to embrace hope and resilience. This outlook didn't make you blind to the reality of suffering; rather, it gave you the strength to confront it head-on. At least you had something to hold on to.

– How stupid of you.

With Satoru's chest pressed firmly against your back, you watch the night sky unfold its kaleidoscope of stars above you. It's not often that the night is quiet; when even the stars shine through the clouds of haze and graze you with their gentle glow.

Arms casually thrown over your shoulders, his sharp chin digs into the crown of your head as he looks up at the sky. Your face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Suguru leans against the railing to your right. Uniform rumpled, hair a cascade of frowzled strands; your eyes shamelessly roam over his face – pale (more than usual, and even more visible against the obsidian backdrop of the night), eyes staring vacantly forward, a well of shadows pooling beneath.

His appearance resembles a spectral apparition. Haunting reflection of the turmoil that seems to have taken residence within him. Events from the past emerge into your mind – Tengen' merger, Amanai's death, Toji, Gojo's enlightenment and the last piece, Haibara's tragic end.

Satoru's hand reaches to gently cradle yours, fingertips tracing the contours of the simple, polished ring adorning your finger. A single aquamarine gemstone decorating the silver band, its shape resembling a tear. His touch so soft and tender that it feels almost imperceptible.

"Hey," Satoru's voice tears you from your thoughts. Suguru's eyes dart to yours, a brief contact before he looks at Satoru, "are you even listenin'?"

("So you never thought ‘bout it?" Suguru's head sinks heavily onto his arms, the once-pristine white shirt now marred by wear of time and crinkled as he sits against the classroom wall. Class ended almost an hour ago, with Satoru leaving by Shoko's side to grab lunch.

"I mean," you release a deliberate sigh, ankles crossed on top of your desk with arms folded over your chest, "it might be an option," rising one hand, you point a finger at him, "but it's evil. And unreachable. Like c'mon," you flick your wrist dismissively, "we're talking about a worldwide genocide."

"Not worldwide, just Japan."

A derisive chuckle escapes your lips, laden with incredulity, upon hearing his words. "Just Japan," you look at your classmate, close friend, "are you hearing yourself, Suguru?"

He gazes up at you, eyes heavy with weariness and emptied of their usual vibrancy. The burden of his thoughts etched onto his face.

"Suguru," your tone drops, voice becoming a mere whisper; the man before your eyes being close to a delicate thread on the verge of snapping, "are you holding up okay?"

"No.")

"Yeah, yeah," you murmur into his skin, returning his touch and caressing his wrist.

"As I was sayin'," your eyes return to Suguru momentarily before flicking to the horizon of darkness stretching above the school's grounds, "once we finally graduate and I become the head of my clan, we could use my estate as our home. Then we can make loads of babies. Pretty sure my father would be pleased if I had a son."

"It's not your estate," you correct Satoru.

"It's a Gojo estate. And I'm a Gojo. The one with Six eyes and the future leader," his fingers sneak under your chin, gripping the soft flesh of your neck to tilt your head to the side and up, gently straining your neck so that you're compelled to look at him. Eyes the same hue of a tranquil ocean under the moonlight.

"I'll put in the work," his tone turns into a whisper, a murmur that wraps around your body like a velvet night, shielding your conversation from intruding ears – including Suguru, who's standing barely an arm's reach away. The man who now feels like an outsider to the intimate exchange of his friends, "get you all full and happy. You won't leave the bedroom until you go into labor."

It's not his words that render you speechless. Immobile. Mouth slightly ajar. Nor the promise they carry, or the weight of the commitment. It's solely the look in his eyes. As if this man truly believes his words. That he sees this not as an equal partnership, but you as the vessel for his legacy, a mother to his progeny, a means to secure his lineage.

The jujutsu society has carved a mark deep within Satoru Gojo's psyche, even if it's been only a subconscious influence.

"Satoru,"a subtle frown creases your forehead, despite the way his words ignite a fire between your legs, make your pussy throb, "I'm not a breed–"

"Some people believe that the stars are the souls of the people who've passed on," Suguru's words cut through the exchange. Pulling your eyes towards his profile, seeing as he continues to watch the night sky, hands tucked away in his pockets. A gentle smile graces his face.

While you're thankful for his precisely timed intervention, Satoru sneaks a hand onto your abdomen, resting in inside your muff pocket with palm squeezing the soft flesh over the clothes. He releases a theatrical breath, capturing the attention of both of you.

"Way to ruin the mood, Suguru," he adds after a while.

"I think there might be some truth to that," you offer a small, appreciative smile.

In the days that follow your conversation, a dark cloud of dread casts its shadow over your every moment, only fueled by the devastating news of Suguru's most recent mission. After that, each moment's laden with a sense of impending unease. As if the future has already been foretold – only a matter of time before the summons arrives, the call to a meeting that you can already taste like the metallic tang of apprehension on your tongue.

Stepping into the room, it's not just the mission that settles heavily upon your shoulders; it's the weight of an unspoken truth that hangs in the air, casting a pall over the proceedings. Staring upon the silver band encircling your finger, cutting off the flow of blood, it's the revelation that has changed everything for you.

The task assigned to you appeared simple, straightforward, presented with a cold and calculated logic: Kill Suguru Geto and return within fourteen days.

(Reality has a way of deviating from the plans made.

It is why you never came back.)

Early 2018

The ghost of Suguru Geto hovers over you like a specter in the periphery of your thoughts. Especially when you stand in front of the man you've avoided for almost a decade.

There's no solid reason for you to be here. In Satoru Gojo's overly expansive, unnecessarily spacious penthouse. His ignorance to wealth and what's necessary versus what's superfluous still glaringly obvious. Especially with his current job; one that back in the day, back when you were all still students, wouldn't even cross his mind.

You weren't entirely certain if he'd be here today. Tonight. Tracking his movements, they'd always end within the barrier of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech. A barrier that, if crossed, would result in your immediate arrest and subsequent execution. And despite your occasional recklessness, you had no death wish to speak of.

"That's why you're here?" Gojo's glasses now replaced by a black blindfold, folded around his neck. His eyes, shining even in the dim lighting, twinkle with raging stars when they shift to the weapon in your hand, sensing its foreign cursed energy that overwhelms even your own, "to kill me?"

A sardonic snicker escapes you, your laughter bordering mockery as you respond, "Come on, Gojo. Don't get foolish now. I can't kill you."

With a touch of exasperation, you add, "No one can."

"Then why're you here," he demands, his presence commanding the room. Uniform jacket already cast aside, the white button-up shirt partially undone, showing the contours of his clavicles. Time and age have done the sorcerer good; with gained knowledge, he also gained the physicality of experience. Something that creates longing – desire for the past that surges through you. A tidal wave of yearning. A wish that you stayed; that you were there, by his side, witnessing his transformation.

(Could it be the grip of regret? The sting of rue? Perhaps. But the past already happened, ensnared within the grasp on time's flow; its passing moments already etched into the annals of history. Dwelling on it now serves no purpose but to churn the tempestuous sea of emotions.

The sea whose waves are starting to crash against the rocky shores of the present.)

"You disappeared years ago. Without a word. Not even a goddamn ‘Goodbye'."

You watch his cold, distant façade crumble, anger seeping through the cracks as he waves one hand, advancing with measured steps, "I looked for you. Scoured every inch of Japan. For you. Where in the world were you?"

Gojo's eyes blaze with molten determination; boring into your soul, seeking answers you're hesitant, almost reluctant, to provide. Doubt lingers in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog, clouding the once familiar connection between you two.

A connection that you severed with a violent, rapid stroke, leaving nothing but shattered remnants in its wake.

"You had no right to do that," he seethes, words dripping with indignation.

"You are the one to talk," you return his anger, the relentless tide crashing against unyielding cliffs, "you killed him. You killed Suguru, Gojo."

His face contorts with fury, a wildfire raging behind his eyes. The air crackles with tension as your words cut deep, reopening wounds that had never truly healed.

It's then that the distance between you two narrows until he's almost within reach; enough for your fist to connect with him. Fully aware that it would never actually reach him. His flesh. That you won't feel the warmth of his skin. With the jutte sword's blade facing you, fist tightening around the leather handle, you hit and hit a void.

"You killed my friend," your voice trembles with a mixture of sorrow and rage, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The side of your fist repeatedly collides with empty air – it's a cruel dance, truly – a void that fills the space between Gojo and you, a chasm that feels as vast as the abyss, "my friend. Suguru. You killed him–took him away."

Your eyes lock onto his, a desperate search for answers, while Gojo remains a silent and immovable figure. Face resembling carved marble – all solid, perfect yet devoid of any emotion. Letting you spill your anger onto him. You observe as the brilliance in his eyes wanes, those once-vivid blue hues, reminiscent of a precious topaz, gradually losing their luster, darkening, and becoming more reflective of a human's ordinary iris.

Your fist meets the muscle of his chest.

"I hate you," one, two times your fist hits, "I hate you so much, Gojo."

Then his fingers slither around your wrist, twisting it painfully until the loud clank against the floor indicates that your weapon has slipped from your grasp.

"I know," his voice remains monotonous; a mere echo.

He advances, closing the distance between you, his presence a relentless force pressing against you. Eyes a tempest of longing; a tangible aura of desperation that shouldn't flicker across his stoic countenance. All you want to do is stab the look out of his eyes. Gauge it out with your fingers. Stealing away what he so callously takes for granted –

Maybe then he will stop being blind to his surroundings.

– just as he robbed you of your childhood friend. Someone you considered a brother.

"I hate myself too." It's all he mumbles, his voice a barely audible confession, before his lips crash into yours. A tumultuous collision. His hands are everywhere, grasping your shoulders, trailing down your arms, and gripping your hips with an urgency that borders on desperation. Pushing and pulling; body pressed against yours.

Gojo's tongue sweeps over your teeth, the wet tip coaxing yours, drawing forth moan after moan from you, hungrily swallowing every sound you release, trying to quench an insatiable thirst that only your moans can satisfy.

The kiss ravenous, consuming – it makes you unable to resist the magnetic pull of his ardor.

When your name slips between his lips, the reality crashes onto you. Pulling away, you look into his blazing eyes. Lips bruised and swollen, shirt somehow unbuttoned. Showing the contours and hard edges of his chest and abdomen. The scar across his whole upper body, though healed, remains visible. Body sculpted into perfection by years of determined training.

Your hand reaches forward. Fingertips tingling with the longing to make contact, to savor the tactile sensation. And Gojo stands still, a hand resting on your hip, molding your form against the sturdy frame of the couch. Your thighs caught between his, pressed against the velvety embrace of the dark brown upholstery.

Both of your disheveled hairdos mirror the chaos, intensity of the moment, framing your faces with unruly tendrils. Eyes fixated upon his body, hesitating to meet his eyes. Your arm extends more. An outstretched limb seeking connection.

His scrutinizing eyes trace the landscape of your face – witnessing as time stripped away the youthful, once-cheerful smile that had once adorned your lips. Now swollen, hardened lines with two delicate, faint marks traversing your upper lip – a scar. Curiosity gnaws on him, wondering of its origin. If whatever caused it might've been circumvented if you'd stayed.

If you had stayed.

(Maybe if he searched more thoroughly. Fought with greater determination…)

Your hand jerks back. Recoils as if touched by scorching heat. Gaze turning into a torrential downpour as it locks onto his, a deepening frown carving lines across your brow.

"No," he swears he hears you mutter to yourself, lips finding refuge at the juncture of his clavicles. Hands slipping beneath the satin shirt, clenching the taut muscle of his shoulders. One leg draped across his hip, you grind against his thigh without reservation, embracing the sensation of friction against your clothed core, the fabric beginning to absorb your burgeoning desire.

"What–"

"Just fuck me," you nibble at the skin, voice thick with passion, teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling, causing the man to hiss, "fuck me, Gojo."

He grips your jaw. A touch both benevolent and directing. Pulls you off his neck, compelling you to confront the storm of his eyes. Vortex of unspoken emotions. A cyclone of pure desire and passing hesitation. His thumb and index finger press into the soft flesh of your cheekbones, compressing the pliant contours until your lips pucker and part.

"I hate you," you manage to utter, the words emerging as a strained whisper through clenched teeth.

In the ensuing moment, Gojo acknowledges your declaration with a solemn nod, a silent recognition.

"Good," he then pivots you in one fluid motion. Hands finding purchase on the couch's armrests. Gone is the restraint he's maintained until now. He doesn't hold back. Not anymore, not when you made it abundantly clear how you feel; what you want.

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure. With an irresistible force, he bends your body to his will.

Fingers seeking the buttons on your pants, swiftly unzipping the zipper and tugging both your pants and undergarments down your thighs. Until they lock your knees together. His fingers graze your folds and you feel him hiss under his nose. Fingertip tracing your opening, feeling the slippery wetness, Gojo doesn't hesitate to push one finger in.

And your body eagerly sucks him in. Allows him to thrust his finger in and out repeatedly, making your fingers dig into the cushion, lips parted and shamelessly moaning with hips bucking back, meeting his thrusts. Until he adds another finger, scissors them inside and opens you up.

"Fuck," you hear him breathe out, his hand sneaking from your shoulder blades to your hip, venturing beneath your shirt to caress the exposed skin, "you always sound so pretty. Feel so good."

"Shut up," you scoff at his words, voice laced with disdain, "just–ugh," his fingers curl inside, massaging your walls in harmony with the hand on your hip, tracing tantalizing circles, "ah–just don't–don't talk," and you arch your hips backward, prompting his fingers to delve deeper. Palm completely covering your soaked cunt.

"Don't care," you add when he continues the rhythm. In and out, stretching the limits of your resilience, scissoring to accommodate something far more substantial.

"As you wish," he withdraws. Fingers glistening with your juices. And you can feel the dewy slickness spreading as he toys with your pulsating clit, circling the throbbing bud, causing you to clench around empty air. Every nerve ending in your body awakens, dormant embers being stoked; heat blooming inside.

Then he presses himself against you, hands grasping your shoulder to pull you onto his body as he hovers over you. The close proximity allowing you to feel the hard length of him, thick and pushy, begging for entry.

"Stop teasing," you practically growl at him, an annoyed command laden with unrestrained desire.

"Fine," Gojo lets out a husky huff in response to your impatient plea. Pushing your upper body down, nearly bending you over the plush cushion until your forehead meets the silky surface of his furniture. You can hear the unmistakable sound of him unzipping his own pants, the slide of the zipper seemingly never-ending as your pussy leaks onto your thighs, mind of its own; tugs them down just enough for him to fish out his cock. All hard and swollen, the engorged tip glistening with the telltale evidence of his arousal.

One hand palms your pussy, collecting your juices to spread over his cock. Lube it enough for him to slip inside your awaiting walls easily. Yet he hovers over your entrance, tip kissing the opening before running between your folds. Gojo lets out a sigh upon the long-lost feeling of your wet pussy.

It's been too long.

He wants to savor it. Savor the moment your drenched pussy opens up just for him. Swallows him whole and lock him in, never letting him go.

"Gojo," you push back, hoping that maybe it will cause him to slip in – it doesn't. Instead, the tip of his cock probs at your clit, "fuck me."

"You never shut up, heh," his hand secures the back of your neck, the other guiding his cock to your entrance, feeling you open up around the mushroom head, letting a satisfied moan out upon the feeling.

Gojo doesn't bother. At least he shouldn't, right? It's not like he's your lover. You aren't his paramour no more.

But he does take his time. Every inch a struggle, every second a torture. Until finally you feel yourself split open, the tightest of knots unraveling, and then he's thrusting deep, pushing into you with force. Your body welcomes him, contouring to his shape, embracing him fully. His breath comes out in a rush and you're soon meeting him thrust-for-thrust, hips pushing back.

Blood rushes to your head; bend at an unconventional enough angle that allows him to hit the deepest spots inside you. He pulls back then, his cock easily sliding out of your embrace until only the tip remains inside the cocoon of your warmth. Stretching your inner walls in a way that makes you feel dizzy, mind foggy. Fucked stupid.

Your moans are muffled by the couch cushion, but Gojo pays no attention; his focus solely on chasing his own high, eyes closed to draw your presence out. His thrusts become more powerful and insistent as each one hits its mark with precision.

Your name refuses to leave his lips.

Yet his name sounds like a sacred incantation spilling from your throat.

It makes him push. Hips slamming into yours with enough force to actually send you over the couch's edge; causing you to stumble.

"What the f–"

"Lie down," he commands. Stone-cold and demanding. Your body moves on its own accord as you do what you're told, lying flat on your stomach as his hand guides your body up his couch. Face sinking into the decorative pillows, he lies his weight on top of you without shame. Elbow resting next to your head, fingers tangled in your hair – pushing your face into the pillows.

Slamming his cock back inside, a surprised shriek leaves your lips. His legs on either side of your thighs, one arm holding his upper body slightly off you, the other gripping your hip, fingers biting crescent moons into your flesh.

His breath's hot against your neck, coming out in quick gasps and grunts, the growl in his throat driving you wild and you're not sure how much longer you can take it before you beg for it –

"Fuuck–so tight–ngh–"

His hand is everywhere while yours remain tucked underneath the pillows; nails tracing their way around sensitive skin and curves like a map of pleasure points.

– so you bite your lip. Face flushed against the couch's cushions. Feeling yourself cresting towards the edge. He hitches a breath as your moan’s muffled beneath the pillows, his own rhythm faltering before he plunges deeper.

"M’gettin’ close–"

You can feel the heat radiating from him, sweat dripping down your neck as he takes you higher, presses his forehead against your nape. Heat rises to your face as you feel yourself dripping. Acutely aware of yourself, the slick, shameful squelches that resonate each time Gojo plunges deep inside. Buries himself to the hilt. Pelvis melting with the curve of your ass. Smacks his balls against your thighs.

The air feels thick and stifling as you feel Gojo everywhere. Your entire being consumed by the feverish desire coursing through your veins.

His thrusts become more intense, almost frenzied as he searches for something only he knows and finds it in your body. You're so close now, the pleasure so sweet that it's almost overwhelming.

You swear it feels like an eternity before finally your orgasm rushes over you like an unstoppable tide; overwhelming every single one of your senses as he continues to thrust deep within you. Your entire body quaking beneath him, pulled even closer into him by some invisible force.

Gojo finally lets go with a loud groan and collapses onto your back; leaving him panting heavily against your neck while his cock remains firmly embedded inside of you for a few moments more, painting your walls in translucent white before slowly slipping out with a wet sound akin to pure satisfaction.

You lay there unmoving for some time; eyes closed and lips pressed tight together as if to contain all the pleasure of this moment forevermore in one single solitary heartbeat – before reality comes crashing back in around you both in an instant, making Gojo pull away.

[k0iy0]

Don't Leave(You Always Do)

Trafalgar Law x Reader

4,181 words

Fair warning this is pure angst/no comfort and highly self-indulgent.

Some swearing, spoilers, a brief panic attack, and grief/mourning. Reader is a Heart Pirate, has passed away and has female pronouns.

Cross posted on Ao3:

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Summary:

Law hates you. He hates the way you smile, hates the way your laugh sounds. The way your eyes twinkle in amusement, how observant you can be. He hates it when you make him the butt of your jokes, something the rest of the crew wouldn’t dare, and he hates how easily he lets you get away with it. How easily you’ve crept into his heart, chipping at his walls and settling in, with no intention of leaving. You’re pirates, and yet, the way you gaze at him with that knowing look, as if Law was some open book, always being considerate of his space but somehow just knowing when he needs someone-needs you. Law doesn’t deserve it. He hates it, really. The vulnerability, your kindness, the truth.

The truth is that Law loves you, that he will always love you even when you’re dead and gone and Law hates that once again, the person he loves had died without ever hearing those words from him. 

Law hates that he never realized until it was too late.

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This is a dream. Law knows this, he’s been through these so many times he can’t even count. But he doesn’t care. Not if it means he can see you again. Law stands there, just watching you, as if afraid moving an inch will make the dream fade. You’re as short as he remembers, something he’d poke fun at just to start your usual playful banter. He observes your features, letting you approach him instead. He doesn’t know when he’ll get to see you again, the dreams of you are fleeting and only return in what seems like once a year. In typical dreamlike fashion, the fine details are fuzzy, but he can still make out the things he remembers, like the curve of your nose, the kind look in your eyes, and the curl of your lips that he’s come to love oh-so-much. A smile you’d show only to him.

At first, the dreams were frequent, almost nightmarish in a way. Your death a fresh wound in his now empty heart, Law often woke in sweats every night. Sometimes he dreamt that you were alive, an apparition only Law could see and everyone thought he was crazy. You never spoke in those dreams. Other times brought him back to your death, how he missed being able to save you, missed hearing your last words. Your last breath. The worst ones were when he’d find himself back on that damned snowy island, body small and weak and cold-and so so utterly useless as he watches you lay in the bloodied snow surrounded by black feathers, eyes closed with a content expression.

At the time, he thought those were the worst. Time moved on, as did he, physically, at least. The days turned to weeks and weeks to months and Law found his dreams of you dwindling from every night to every couple of nights to a couple of weeks until it seemed that he only saw you in his dreams once in a few months. It was for the best, really. He had a crew to lead, pirates to take down, and a goal to accomplish. Things he’ll have to do without you from now on.

Law had thought it was over, no more dreams of you to keep him up at night, no distractions. 

And like everything that Law experiences, he was wrong. 

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It was different, the dream. He hadn’t realized it was a dream at first, though there were signs he should’ve noticed. The unnaturally lit room, the washed yet bright colors, and the way the room’s layout and furniture never stayed consistent. Those were easy to ignore when he saw you, sitting so calm and at ease, chatting with the crew like you had never left. 

Law stumbles into the room, staring at you with wide eyes. You looked as young as he remembered when he first met you. You were even wearing the outfit before they got you your boilersuit. Law doesn’t approach, he can’t . He thought you were…? Were what? He doesn’t remember. Someone pops up from behind him.

“Captain!” Law looks at Penguin from the corner of his eyes. 

“Look at this,” Penguin shuffles to stand before Law, holding something in his hands. “It’s her new bounty!” Penguin announces, showing the piece of paper excitedly. Law blinks. Did you get a new bounty? Golden eyes scan the writing, an approving smirk on his lips. Your picture was the same, though Law's attention was on your new bounty. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly more than the previous.

“Or, at least, it could have been.” The smirk falls. What? Suddenly, both Penguin and the bounty disappear, though Law doesn't question it. Law glances at you, still chatting with Ikkaku(was Hakugan always sitting with them?), and you’ve yet to notice him. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off you. Something’s wrong and he doesn’t know what but he feels like if he lets you out of his sight then you’ll disappear forever, which would be silly because you’re sitting right in front of him -

“Captain, guess what I’ve got!” Shachi exclaims, blocking you from sight. Law is miffed that his view of you is obstructed but peers down at what Shachi is trying to show him. Law blinks. It was a bounty poster. Your bounty poster.

“Penguin already showed me this.” Law says unamused, looking at Shachi who only shakes his head in response.

“No, no, that was an old one.” Shachi corrects, straightening the poster and Law takes another glance. Wasn’t the other one fairly new? Why would you have another one already?

Law freezes, his brows furrowing at the poster. His eyes flicker from your new picture to your new bounty. Never mind the much, much higher bounty(two hundred million berries??), it was your picture that confused Law. You looked older, more mature. Your hair had grown a lot longer, and you had that piercing you said you’ve always wanted. Your cheeks were slimmer, eyes sparkling with a sense of maturity and wisdom, and if the picture wasn't wearing your signature mischievous expression that Law knew so well, he wouldn't have known it was you. You didn’t look like the young girl he had picked up from that island way back when. 

“Shachi,” Law starts, not taking his eyes off the poster. “What is this?” 

“Well, had she lived, this is what could’ve happened.” Law’s gaze snaps to Shachi, who, like Penguin, vanished into nothingness along with the bounty poster.

Law frowns. Something was definitely wrong. ‘Had she lived?’ But she was right there -

Law’s eyes snap back to where you were sitting, and he lets out a sigh of relief. You were talking to Bepo now(weren’t you sitting on the other side earlier?) and Law chides himself for listening to Penguin and Shachi’s weird talk. He makes to approach, but when he blinks he finds himself in bed.

Law lays there, heart thumping in anticipation as his mind races at the thought of you. He needs to congratulate you on your new bounty. He sits up, a hint of a smile on his face as he thinks about seeing you again, and wow he was so weird for thinking that something had happened to you-and then reality hits him as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

Oh.

It was a dream.

He stares at your bounty poster, your real bounty poster, that he had on his wall. It’s old by a couple of years but it’s not like you’ll get an updated one. They probably don’t even print your bounty anymore. There’s no need to, anyway.

It hurt to look at, a reminder of what he had lost. How he failed you. But despite that, Law can't bring himself to get rid of it. Not when it's one of the only things he has left of you.

Not when it's the only way to remember how you looked, your features would be lost to time otherwise.

Bare feet meet cold flooring as Law swallows the bitter disappointment and anguish, standing to his feet. 

That… was new. And it felt so real. Law sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. He rubs his face, his groans muffled by his hands. He thought he was done with these dreams of you, and now he’s dreaming that you’re still alive and well as if nothing happened and it’s making him so goddamn hopeful and-

It’s a cruel joke, that’s what it is.

A cruel, fucking joke.

Law resumes his day as if nothing happened, and it isn’t another few months when the dream and hurt have faded that it repeats all over again.

-----------

Like Cora-san, you crept into his heart, easily breaking down the walls he had meticulously built over the years, revealing the traumatized little boy who never truly escaped the horrors of Flevance. Of Minion Island. Made him feel loved, even if he didn’t realize it right away.

And just like Cora-san, you’re taken from him far too early.

-----------

Law wakes up in his bed, staring at his familiar ceiling. Nothing unusual. He blinks and Law finds himself in his office, already dressed for the day. It’s fine, he tells himself. The days blur together sometimes. He takes a seat, there’s paperwork to be done and he’s been putting it off in favor of the alliance. A tattooed hand reaches for his pen but stops midway, brows furrowing. That… doesn’t make sense. Before he can ponder any longer about the oddity of the situation, someone bursts into his office.

“Didn’t I tell you idiots to knock beforehand?” Law scowls, hating the interruption. Golden eyes flicker to the door, glaring at the offender before faltering at their alarmed demeanor. 

“Captain!” Bepo cries out dramatically, winded from running to Law’s office. A furry paw grasps the door frame as the polar bear mink attempts to catch his breath. Law stiffens when Bepo utters your name. “She-She’s here! On the deck!” 

Law stands, and he doesn’t question how he’s somehow immediately on the deck, the bright sun shining down on him, yet he felt no warmth. He ignores it in favor of seeing you after so long. Law doesn’t actually believe it, because, well, you’re dead. He saw your lifeless self with his own two eyes, held you with his own hands, Law knows you're gone. Had he been a second faster, had he been stronger, maybe he could’ve done something and you’d still be with him today.

Maybe he could have said goodbye.

And so, while Law does not believe that you have risen from the afterlife in some way, he can’t take any chances. Not when he could finally hear your voice utter his name once more. Or watch the way your eyes light up when you see him. Law will take looking like a fool if it means having you back.

He huffs like he ran a mile to get to the deck, breath hitching when he sees you. You’re leaning against the railing, looking out into the sea, like you always do when the Polar Tang surfaces. And then you notice him, posture straightening as you make your way to him, eyes beaming at the sight of him, lips upturned into that beautiful and breathtaking grin of yours. Law’s chest tightens, feeling heavy and all of a sudden he can’t breathe , and everything hurts . His eyes shut, mouth agape as he gasps for breath. A hand shoots to clutch at his chest, as if it would will the air into his lungs and hedoesn’tknowwhattodonothingismakingsense-

“You okay?” Law looks up, realizing he was hunched over. He takes a moment, his breathing returning to normal. His hand drops to his side as he stands upright, refusing to take his eyes off you. He was fine. He always is when you’re with him. Law gazes down at you(did you always look this young?), not quite believing his eyes. Years have passed and you don’t look like you’ve aged a single day. You’re staring at him with that observant look, like he was the one who needed to be taken care of. Comforted. Law swallows the lump in his throat. There are so many things he wants to say. To ask.

“You’re dead.” Is what he ends up blurting out. That’s… not any of the things that he wanted to say. But you’re not offended, you never are. You simply blink at him, laughing that little laugh of yours(and it’s music to his ears if he’s honest) before responding.

“Well, I’m right here, aren’t I?” And you’re right, as always. But Law doesn’t realize your lips don’t quite match up with your words. “I’ve been here the whole time.” 

“Where?” He asks, because there’s no way he’s spent these past years thinking you were dead when you were right here the whole time . You tilt your head at his question, deciding on an answer. 

“I stayed at a previous island,” And Law frowns. It’s not an acceptable answer, you can’t just leave (or, well, stay behind) and not say anything . “I needed some time to myself.” 

“Why… why did you make everyone believe you were dead? It’s been years.” Law was confused. Everything you were saying made no sense. It wasn’t like you to do any of these things. 

You shrug.

“It wasn’t my intention but… it just happened.” He doesn’t care anymore. What matters is that you’re back. And for good. Law reaches to touch your face.

“Don’t do it again, alright? I-”

Law shakes awake. It’s dark, but he could see bits of the rising sun shining through the ship’s porthole. Law’s breathing is heavy. Right. You were back. Somewhere. Law should… he should go find you. Reprimand you for abandoning your crew. For abandoning him. He sighs, pushing the covers off of himself. Law freezes. This was not his bed. The faint sound of snoring makes Law’s gaze snap up. His blood runs cold.

Law was losing it. He dashes out of the room, not particularly caring if he woke any of them. He finds refuge in the bathroom-the only place of privacy on this goddamn ship. Shaking hands grip the edge of the sink as Law attempts to steel himself, staring at his reflection. He was pale, sweating and panting like he’d seen a ghost-a thought he scoffs at. He needs to focus. Doflamingo is right there , and he cannot afford any distractions right now. Trafalgar Law does not have such luxuries.

“Fuck this…” Law rubs his face, hands gripping his dark hair and the urge to scream, to just laugh at his own naivety and stupidity is strong. Yet he holds himself back. It was his fault, after all. Believing in an idiotic dream such as that -that you just… let everyone think you were dead for years while you lived some boring, mundane life on some remote island. 

It was stupid. This was stupid. 

He was stupid. 

…

You’re never coming back.

-----------

It’s hard. 

It’s hard knowing you’ll never get to experience what he has, to see what he has seen, to meet the people who helped him like you had wanted to all those years ago. And you did, whether you knew it or not-he regrets never telling you, never giving you his thanks. 

Sometimes, when it’s late into the night and Law has no work, no strategizing, no idiotic Straw Hat to distract annoy him, Law’s thoughts drift to you. To Cora-san. And he’s grateful to the both of you, really. Would the both of you be proud? Honestly, Law doesn’t know what either of you saw in him, to love him so deeply to the point of laying your lives for him, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. 

“Don’t ever attach a reason to the love you’ve received!!!”

Law smiles at that, maybe he doesn’t need to know the reason, if there ever was one. 

-----------

And now Law knows better, that it’s just a dream when he sees you. He wonders if he’s used to it by now, or if his mind is simply tired of the meltdowns he has every time he wakes up. It was like losing you all over again. And again. And again . 

Knowing better, Law doesn’t dare move. The moment he moves, Law wakes up and he’s forced back into the reality where you don’t exist. He wants this to last. There are things he wants to tell you, even if it’s not really you. So much has happened since you left( since you last visited his dreams ) and with every fiber in his being Law wishes you had been there to see it. See how far he’s come, how much he’s grown, how much he loves you . 

And so, he stands there, gazing at you with a longing that only intensifies as time passes. And you stare back, studying him like you always did-a supporting smile, and kind, understanding eyes. You were so young back then, all of them were, young and reckless rookies from the North Blue. 

At one point, Law had entertained the idea, only briefly, if he had said no. Left you on your home island, heading to the Grand Line without you. Maybe you’d still be alive. Coming home from work to your family. Would you have gotten married? Have children? Grow old? Perhaps you’d have joined a different pirate crew, you always gravitated towards adventure after all. But such thoughts were useless, so he paid them no mind, tucking them somewhere deep inside. 

Law calls out your name, voice soft and tender and so uncharacteristic of him but you don’t notice, or maybe you’re used to it, maybe he’s always spoken that way with you. You tilt your head, a sign you were listening. There’s a void of white surrounding the two of you, but the background doesn’t matter, not when you’re the most important thing here. 

“I missed you,” He murmurs, resisting the urge to just reach out and touch you. You never get too close in these dreams. Never say his name, not even his title, always referring to him as ‘you.’ 

“It’s been so long.” Too long , he thinks. So much time has passed. He’s sure you’d make fun of the way he ended up growing out his goatee and sideburns, or how he’s no longer that stupid teenager with voice cracks. You’d gawk at how much taller he’s gotten, how many tattoos he’s marked himself with, and in return, he wonders what kind of woman you’d have grown to be. 

Would you have grown your hair out? Cut it shorter? Law had always scoffed at the fact you could never decide. Piercing? Sure. Another one? Maybe not. Actually, maybe yes. Did you really want a tattoo or was it because you walked by the shop? Ah, that was a cute hairclip but you already have so many… With a dejected look, you depart from it(Law bought it for you as soon as you left the shop).

“Has it?” You reply, as if unaware of the future snatched away from you.

And the conversation continues, Law tells you of his journey, keeping out the grotesque parts of course. You listen like you’ve always done, and he rambles on, watching your reaction. You smile and nod your head at his words but you don’t react quite like he expects you to. Like how you would, if it was really you. And Law’s jaw clenches. Because you’re just a memory at this point. His memory. 

You can lie and lie and lie about how you’re still alive, still breathing, that you’ll be back soon, and that you’re simply away on some island or on some fetch quest of his but what you can’t do is tell him the truth-that you’re dead and gone, buried six feet under( with his own hands ), and that you’ll never, ever come back. 

Not like how he wants.

Your lies are the truth he wants but the truth he gets is nothing but his empty heart, your empty corpse, and an empty future without you by his side.

His memory of you can’t possibly comprehend the future you’ll never experience. Nor can it tell him the things that the real you never said. Not truthfully, anyway. 

Law stops talking, too caught up in his thoughts-too distraught at the fact that he’s in a dream chasing a memory of you like some goddamn addict and it’s so fucking pathetic because why can’t he just move on and every time he thinks he’ll be okay you come back and feed him those sweet, sweet lies and-

“Law, stop it.” He feels your hands(but there is no warmth) reach to cup his cheeks and he automatically bows down slightly to accommodate your shorter frame. 

This is new. You’ve never… you’ve never called his name before, much less cross the invisible barrier between you. And you’re looking at him with so much love and concern and it makes Law momentarily forget that everything is just a dream and suddenly it’s all too much- everything is too much and he just. Collapses.

His face twists into despair, gasping as he falls to his knees. His hand grabs ahold of your shirt with a vice-like grip like he’s trying to keep you from leaving again. 

“Please don’t leave. Just stay. Stay with me.” He pleads, and nothing can stop the words from pouring out. Nothing to stop his grief. He doesn’t even know when he’s started crying.

“I don’t want to go back. Not without you. Come back with me. Please.” He begs and begs and begs but he already knows that no amount of begging could ever release you from death’s embrace. 

“You know I can’t do that.” You kneel down in front of him but his grip doesn’t relent. He doesn’t want to let go. He can’t . Why can’t you just lie? Lie to him that you’ll go with him, to your crew, to your home. That you’ll continue to go on adventures with him, make up for the lost time until the both of you are old and wrinkled, and maybe you’ll settle on some remote island and live out the rest of your days.

“I love you,” He chokes out, and it’s embarrassing and humiliating because now he’s so much older than you than he was before and he’s stuck confessing to a memory of you when so many years have already passed and it’s just so, so pathetic , but it isn’t enough to stop him. “I love you so much it hurts-and I miss you, I miss you being in my life.” 

“I’ll do anything so just-just come back .” Law wants to touch you, hold your hand, pull you close and never let go but he’s afraid to push his luck when he’s already lucky to have you calling his name and be as close as you were.

“Let’s get married,” He blurts out. “I-we don’t have to be pirates anymore, there’s an island I’ve been to and I think you’d love it there. The people are nice and I’d like you to meet some of them and-and it’d be safe there .” He rambles reasons because there would be no Marines, no pirates, no danger. And even if there was, Law would be by your side. He can protect you this time.

He’ll give up his dreams for you. But what he doesn’t realize, is that you are the dream he has to give up.

He sits there hunched over and on his knees, clutching to the front of your shirt like it was a lifeline. It’s quiet, save for his sobbing. You don’t say anything, nor do you move to touch him, to hold him, to comfort him like you would have. Law glances up at you, vision blurry but still able to see your beautiful face as clear as day. His peripherals take note of your white shirt, the white void, and the unnatural white light that envelopes you. And if Law was some poet, he would sing about the symbolism of it all, but he’s not. It was just a dream.

“I’m sorry,” You break the silence, placing a gentle hand on his fist. “I wish I could-”

“But you can , just-just leave with me and we’ll, and we’ll be fine.” He interrupts, unable- unwilling to hear your rejection. 

You just sigh, like when you were sick of Penguin and Shachi’s shit, but the kind look doesn’t waver from your eyes. 

“I’ll be with you,” And Law almost perks up at that. “Just… not in the way you want.”

Law knows this, but it still hurts. He says nothing, instead trying to cherish this pitiful delusion with you. Silence surrounds the two of you, but instead of being comforting like it normally was, it is deafening. 

“Is this it? The last time I’ll get to see you?” Law asks, a sense of finality looming over the tender moment. 

You hum in thought. “Do you want it to?”

Law doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want it to, he wants to keep seeing you, doesn’t want to say goodbye but he honestly doesn’t know if he could do this anymore. 

The chance to say anything is taken from him, his body pulling him from the dream.

Law wakes up peacefully. There's no false hope, nor is there any cold revelation. He's already aware of the dream and what lies within, and he takes a moment to process it fully before it disappears to the back of his mind. His heart was heavy but a part of him also felt at peace, weirdly enough. He lets out a shaky sigh, a hand rising to rub at his face only to find it stained with tears. He frowns, wiping away at them before rolling over and burying his face into the sheets. 

It was fine.

He’ll be fine.

He’ll get to say his goodbyes next time, if there is one.

[v4voracity]

HALF A HEART - COD characters x Poltergeist!reader

POLTERGEIST COD AU

⥇❥"Reader" is a literal ghost, AFAB reader and referred primarily as to as "you", sometimes explicitly referred to as a woman, implied to be British and implied to have died in the 1500s/16th century, though the location isn’t relevant for much other than attempted historical accuracy with her death/why she’s in England. Reader is also not said to be of any skin tone or ethnicity, just that she was *likely* born in England. Reader is from a time when afab people weren't commonly educated and canonically has slight trouble reading and learning after her death since she can't access books or learning materials and had to self-teach herself to read and write after death where she couldn't ask for help, this will probably change though after she meets 141. Said information is slightly relevant to the plot, though I can make an alternate version if people want an amab/gender neutral reader :)

also roach is canonically part of this and has little antenna attachments to his helmet because i said so

  ⥇❥Word Count: 4096, excluding warnings and text above the cut.

⥇❥CONTENT WARNING FOR:

↪ Technically age gap? Reader was born and died long before any cod character ↪ possibly historically inaccurate as i was unfortunately not alive in the 1500s nor most of the following time periods ↪ possibly incorrect depictions of a ‘poltergeist’, as reader is an amalgamation of different types of ghosts/folklore (i mainly just didn't want to use the term ‘ghost’ because it’d be confusing with Ghost the character) ↪ possibly OOC characters ↪ american author writing europeans ↪reader is (basically) rasputin with their death ↪ slight mentions of religion or religious themes (mainly about the afterlife, existence of heaven/hell, and brief mentions of witch trials which were mostly religiously motivated.) ↪graphic description of how reader died (witch trials, so think salem witch trials kind of graphic)

let me know if i missed anything or should edit the content warnings!

Link to main masterlist - Link to HALF A HEART sub-list

You have been warned, scroll at your own risk.

Let’s get things straight. You are, for all intents and purposes, dead.

Deader than a doornail, in-fact, you’ve been dead for almost.. 500 years now? Well, you're rounding slightly but nobody cares for the exact amount of time.

Now, that is a long time to be dead for… Well, a long time to be dead but still conscious; a spirit, ghost, apparition, whatever you wanted to call it. If it weren’t for the fact you were more-so apparition than person, you’d almost say it’s like being alive and immortal for longer than god (or genetics, you weren’t picky) ever intended. 

And being ‘alive’ for so long is very boring; especially now that the deep-seeded anger in your heart has faded, those who wronged you long gone and their kin far too distant from them for you to ever wish ill-will towards them. Especially now that the fear you felt, the horrific terror you felt being escorted to your improper grave and the existential dread that hung heavy when you revived, only to realize you hadn’t survived nor been healed for a second chance. No, you were dead; rejected by both heaven and hell, not even worthy for eternal damnation. The only upside to this was that you were still capable of interacting with the living world; more than you could say for the very, very, VERY small number of ghouls you had met in your time of unliving. Apparently you were a bit unusual, you being far more capable and capable of manipulating the living world than the 'run-of-the-mill' ghost.

That being said, your current behavior, which was following around some hunky military men like a lovesick maiden, was totally excusable…

…It wasn’t creepy, no, you weren’t being improper. You were totally just... curious. It couldn’t have been the fact that you died unwed— a pure virgin, hardly having even engaged in romantic acts, as you were devout in your chaste nature. I mean, surely your absolute devotion which led to you never even kissing a man or woman, holding hands or lying with someone earned you a little justification to do… whatever you were doing right now.

Okay, maybe it was a bit creepy. But dying a without so much as ever having ONE cute little date with heated cheeks, bashful giggles, and butterflies in your stomach as your hands brushed each others— FOLLOWED by being forced to go entirely unperceived much less feeling any sort of physical contact or verbal interaction for A COUPLE CENTURIES makes this somewhat understandable.

It’s not like you were really DOING anything, (because, again, that was a wee-bit hard in your current state) you’ve just kind of been following this guy around?

(You followed him around because you overheard people refer to him as ‘Ghost’ and as an actual ghost you found that a little funny)

Then that led to you following his team around. You had, somewhat, messed with the men— not much, mainly flickering lights, closing doors, and moving objects slightly.

There had been slight complaints, but not much indicating they knew they were facing a lonely, dead girl who died unfairly supernatural danger in the form of a poltergeist with abnormally strong powers. Just assumptions that ‘the wiring was faulty’, or that ‘someone must’ve left a window open’, sometimes they just assume someone knocked something over (despite nobody being near said knocked object). Oh, and your favorite was that ‘some stupid recruits moving shit’— speaking of which— the guys you followed were all pretty high-ranking from your understanding and occasionally trained recruits. That was cool in its own right, but it was especially great for you because you could lob stuff at them and get some poor recruit in trouble. It was fun.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t fun enough to keep you entertained. Now, given when you were born and raised it wasn’t a surprise that you weren’t particularly that literate. Your brain (long gone and returned to the ground) wasn’t even physical or attached to you anymore, so it wasn’t a surprise that learning things was often hard for you(something you hated in death, as learning things would help pass the time if it weren't frustrating and near impossible both because you couldn’t access physical hobbies or items like books AND because your brain—or lack thereof— simply didn’t take to information like it used to), but you knew enough of written English to make out most newspapers and documents. Despite that, you had very little clue of the strange ciphers and terms used by the men, even though you had remained mainly around the military base they were staying in for a few months. 

…That was until recently, when you decided you were curious enough to try and actually learn about what they’re doing. You were currently following this guy— Captain Price, you think— because from what you knew (as a woman who died in the middle ages, uneducated, illiterate, dying fairly young by today's standards anyways and having lived without ever partaking in any wars or battles and not ever bothering to ask about any) he was the highest rank of the team, followed by that ‘Ghost’ guy you originally followed (he’s called a lieutenant, a word you hated writing or reading because it was so damn hard to spell or even look at), then this ‘Soap’ fella (A sergeant, another word you weren’t a fan of) and then this ‘Gaz’ bloke (Who was apparently also a sergeant, but he was the second? So he was lower? Why did they need two? And why was one rank worse than the other? You didn’t know and frankly found it stupid.) There were also these other people; Shadow Company or something, you didn’t really get it because the guy who they most frequently talked to from that company was white as a sheet, but whatever.

Anyways, recently you found out that while wandering wasn’t an issue for you (you weren’t ever bound to a particular area, probably because your body, or whatever remained of it, was far from where you died, and you couldn’t really remember where you were when you died so you weren’t particularly attached) it was very hard for you to follow after the ‘vehicles’ they used. Sometimes they used these wheeled inventions called ‘cars’ (which were kinda like the horses, carts, and carriages of your time but not shitty). They also had these things— called ‘helicopters’ or something similar with a different name (again, you didn't know why they made things so complicated but whatever) that were able to take them anywhere by air. Pretty cool if it weren’t for the fact it made following them anywhere exceptionally difficult. So you had to go about a different method if you wanted to actually follow them anywhere.

Possession. 

Not necessarily like the kind you’d seen in a ghost-related movie you watched over an unwitting couple’s shoulder. It was more so just somewhat attaching yourself to someone, letting part of yourself (probably your soul, if you actually had one) attach to theirs, letting them become a tether into the physical plane. The realm of the living. If you pushed it far you could absolutely do like they do in the movies, but you found that kind of scary since you didn’t know how much of your soul was required for that or if you could be exorcized like in the movies. You really only tethered yourself to someone when you first transitioned into… whatever you were now.

 A wraith, at the time, aggressive and vengeful against the man who accused you, the town that raised you then gazed at you hungrily— blaming you for their sins. Calling you a temptress for the beauty you acquired with your maturation, something you were once proud about turned into something you abhorred.

At one point you even felt festering hatred towards the family that raised you. A mother who birthed you only to denounce birthing you, claiming a devil implanted you as a demon of the night that’d ruin their village and took the milk meant for sons, your elder brothers. A father, one who doted on you before as his precious only daughter and youngest, turning his head; unable to watch as you were tied to the pyre and lit ablaze— a man who was cowardly and evasive. The siblings of yours that you grew with— were close with, were cared for by, were raised by! 

All for them to pretend they had nothing to do with you. Or to join the crowd’s jeering turned cheers as you sobbed, salty tears unable to extinguish the fast-growing embers. Not one of them dared to correct the executioner’s methods. Witches, despite stigma, were usually hung or otherwise given quick deaths prior to the burning; but you… 

Oh, poor, poor you. Things weren’t quite done correctly. You were still alive when they tied you to the post, surrounding you with flammables and letting the flames lick up your body. Catatonic, unable to beg for mercy, for them to kill you properly. Though, even if you were able to speak, you probably wouldn’t beg. You were desperate to survive. When they butchered you like the farm animals you’d skinned many times before with your dear-old-dad. Failed to cut the correct places and left you bleeding, conscious but paralyzed in pain and fear as they dragged your body to a make-shift wooden post in the town center. Never let you burn fully, the triumph leaving their voices when they still saw you, struggling— eyes still moving, hyperventilating as your arms thrashed trying to break the burnt ropes, paralysis spell broken by desperation— still living, still struggling, still surviving.

They didn’t have the courage to finish burning you either.

It'd be a poor choice if you were a witch, since burning was supposed to be done to stop them from cursing people…

Actually, now that you’re thinking about it, maybe you were a witch? Maybe you had somehow sold your soul, and with no soul to give you could enter the afterlife? Maybe that’s why you felt a path of fury when you died? You felt wronged and cursed people for nearly half the first century you found yourself un-living.

Regardless, the cowards backed away from you with wide eyes, and eventually you felt the ropes break, your body barely reacting to what you wanted it to do, stumbling around aimlessly despite your efforts.

All you could do was scramble out the village, betrayed and never wanting to return.

Eventually, you fell to a crawl, dragging yourself through the grass, fingernails caked with a mix of dirt and blood, as if your near-corpse was trying to create a shallow grave every time you scraped them across the ground…

Somehow, you ended up falling into a river. You don’t know if you fell  during your crawls or if someone put you in there, just that it was excruciatingly cold and your lungs, shrunken and shriveled by the heat of your incomplete incineration couldn’t get any air. You tried pulling yourself out but you were too far gone. Even then, ‘til the point your eyes closed you never gave up. Maybe you were so against dying your soul remained, even when your body went.

Honestly, you weren’t ever really sure which of those injuries eventually lead to your drawn-out and overdue death, but you didn’t care. What you did care about, upon re-awakening, was revenge, hearing the blood-curdling screams of those who wronged you, those who feigned ignorance, those who lied, and those who threw you out when false accusations came. You were swift in it, tethering yourself to everyone in town, attaching small pieces of yourself meant for one purpose: tracking.

No matter where they went they were damned, your violent-haze, the cravings for others to bear a fraction of your misfortune. You were like a tsunami, quick to approach with little warning, only the quick recession of water to warn those who’d be affected. (Not that your victims knew what a train was, but it was like the equivalent of seeing a train barreling toward you and being unable to move, only able to process what's about to happen.) And you were even swifter to strike, small misfortunes not enough to quell that furious fire inside you— brighter than those that scalded you. All ended in what you thought were well-deserved deaths.

But, that wasn’t what you’d be using them for. Not today, and hopefully never again.

You decided you’d turn up the heat a bit and have these men notice that they were, in fact, haunted and not just clumsy or forgetful. You had an easier time manipulating things when no-one was around, or when someone was alone. Easy prey for the ghoulish you, even if most of these guys could probably have easily broken you in half when you were still alive. It sounded dumb to give yourself away, since they might try to send you back to the rest you used to crave upon first re-animating, but it was necessary to tether yourself.

So… here you were! Fucking around and moving things, only to be met with just minor annoyance by this guy. ‘Price’, for some unknown reason, just seemed minorly peeved by your interactions, not convinced they were supernatural.

You moved his chair and desk(which was pretty hard with how heavy it was) and this guy just groaned about how his superiors treated his office however they wanted when they needed something.

You sent his papers flying, stacks of paperwork sorted neatly into piles of done and yet-to-be looked at, all flying. You flung the pen he used too, sending a blotch of ink onto the floor with the papers, permanently soaking them. Minor annoyance, didn’t even say anything. Just… grumbled. 

Hell, you toppled over a WHOLE bookshelf, loud thud echoing as it fell to the ground and all its contents scattered. And this guy? Grumbling about how the flooring was uneven!

If you had a physical body, you’d be beating your head against a wall right now. Seriously, it was frustrating!

You guessed you had done something correctly though, as he seemed annoyed enough to leave his office and go for a walk. Throughout said walk you continued throwing items and flying through his body, which usually caused people immense discomfort, sometimes to the point of causing panic attacks or full-on freak-outs. All that? Yeah, met with a “Bit chilly today.” or a “Someone outta close th’ windows.”

You were offended, to say the least.

Now, you were in a common room with several other people, including those guys, Gaz and Soap, who now talked to the Price fella. It was harder to interact with things, especially with so many people in broad daylight, in light in general. But you surprised yourself when your frustrations and slight anger led to the lightbulbs in the room flickering several times before simultaneously combusting into sparks and broken glass, all electronics—mainly the radios strapped to almost every soldier in the room—  with speakers blaring loud static as you flung the nearest object, a bench that you didn't initially notice was bolted to the fucking ground out from it and towards Price, and the other two who surrounded him. 

‘Oops..?’

Okay, maybe you weren’t entirely devoid of anger and wrathful vengeance, but you’d like to think your self-control was a lot better than when you first died. You did have around… well, about 400 other years to learn some self-restraint and become slightly less blood-thirsty?

ANYWAYS; Lucky for you they all managed to dodge that heavy and fast approaching bench! good thing they were all trained soldiers who were always on guard Oh, and even better everyone in the room now looked at the uprooted bench with wide eyes and terrified expressions! So… mission accomplished?

Well, sort of?

“The hell?!” Everyone in the room backed towards whatever wall was nearest to them, behind unmoved furniture, or otherwise tactically covered positions as quick as they could, many (including the poor sod you’d been following and the rest of his team) having their guns ready and aimed at the entrances or near the uprooted bench.

…Yeah, you didn’t really wanna deal with this.

So you floated off, through the walls pretending your problems didn’t exist, as you usually did.

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

 You came across something pretty interesting, that Ghost guy was doing some strange hand gestures to this other masked fella (why was everyone here covered almost head to in something?). For a moment you thought they were trying to summon something before remembering that the military used hand signals and stuff. 

Anyways, you now had a new guy to follow! He looked pretty cool and he had these little things hanging off his helmet that remind you of a bug. Something… was slightly off with this guy though. You could’ve SWORN he was occasionally glancing over at you, or your general area. Ghost, who you couldn’t really tell much expression-wise due to him also wearing a mask, seemed to lift an eyebrow. Or furrow them. You didn’t know, you just saw his forehead area shift a bit under the mask. 

“You 'lright?” He turned and glanced over at you, where his bug-like friend kept glancing. Bug-fella looked over at you for a few more moments before shaking his head and gesturing at Ghost again. Ghost seemingly returns to his resting facial position and glances back towards your general direction, not quite as spot on as his friend was. “Y' just keep looking over there, ‘was wondering why.” 

Ghost loses interest quickly, turning away from where his friend was staring, resuming his silent communication with the still-unnamed lad, hand gestures becoming far too fast for you to even comprehend what they were doing even if you did understand what the gestures meant. After a short while of just floating around and watching them, Ghost gives the shorter man a light bump to the shoulder with his fist (seemingly friendly?) and turns to leave. “See y’ round.” 

It’s just you and Bug-boy now. The room empty, and his eyes (not that you can see them, he’s wearing a helmet and goggles that are practically solid with how heavy the glass is tinted) are aimed directly at you. You float over, hovering a good foot or two off the floor because the ground and gravity were for cowards, and stop a few inches away from him. He reaches a hand up towards you, only for it to quickly phase through your arm, then your torso, then back into the air. He’s startled by the feeling, you can tell, shivering as goosebumps raise on his arm and his hair stands on end, you can tell because of his sleeves being bunched up at his elbows. 

“Sorry.” you say, not even sure if he’d hear you. Maybe this was some weird coincidence and he couldn’t actually see you. Though, to your utter surprise and slight delight he kind of waves it off, making gestures (full body ones this time, not the hand-signals you couldn’t quite understand) that you could interpret as meaning ‘not to worry about it’. Your eyes widened, before breaking into a big grin. “Wait, wait, wait, you can see me? You heard me— can hear me?!” He nods, looking at you, observing, then gesturing with his hands again.

You.. feel a little bad that you don’t understand whatever military signs this must be, tilting your head and frowning. “I… I don’t understand. Sorry, I don’t know much about the military signals or whatever you were using. The code signs and words you guys use weren’t around when I lived. Or died.” He seems a little confused, then brings out a rectangle from his pocket— a phone, new invention and quite useful. It lights up as he puts in the code and opens something, pressing at the glass. 

After a moment he turns it towards you. It… takes you a little to adjust to the brightness (and to read the small letters, given your eyesight and low-literacy). “Give me a second, it takes me a minute to read.” In your peripheral he nods, though you don't move your gaze away from the screen.

“That’s fine, not many people know sign language. It’s not a military signal, just a way I communicate since I’m mute.” You read his words aloud, relatively slowly and he nods after you’ve read it; confirming you’ve read it correctly. 

You glance back up at him. “Mute… So you… can’t speak? Right?” Another nod, then he turns the phone back to himself, rapidly pressing the screen and turning it back again. You read again, “What are you? How are you floating, and why’d my hand go through? Why were you watching us?” You hum, floating away from him slightly, sinking slightly to a sitting position, though still remaining affixed in the air and not sitting on an actual chair.

“Well, I’m dead. I guess you could call me a spirit, spectral, a ghost…” you chuckle a bit at the last one. “Well, maybe not that last one, it seems your friend already occupies it.”  You lean forward again, nearly doing a backflip in the air before stopping in a lying position, holding your head in your hands. “I guess me being dead physically but alive… consciously, or spiritually I guess..? Resulted in me being incorporeal, thus not really touchable by people or gravity.” He nods at your words before motioning for you to continue when you pause.

You avert your eyes. “Well, watching people is all I usually can do. Incorporeal and all. I’m not sure how you can see me when I’m not manifested or tethered to you, but it’s nice…” Smiling sheepishly, you can only hope this guy— the only person you’ve actually talked to in a long, long, time— isn’t grimacing under his mask. You hesitate before reaching out towards him, running a finger down his throat in thought, forgetting it'd just phase through. “Maybe it's because you can't speak? It's not a sense but it's like maybe because you don't have one thing your other senses are better? But back to your prior questions. Being dead is… boring. All I can really do is fuck with people and watch stuff. You and your friend, Ghost, and his other… teammates are just what have caught my interest recently.”

He nods and trots over to a nearby bench, you grimace thinking about the mischief you caused slightly earlier by throwing a bench at the captain. Let’s hope your bug-friend doesn’t overhear that and stop talking to you. “What’s your name?” He types, and turns the phone to you, a single word there. “Roach? Like… the bug?” your mouth quirks into a crooked smile and you giggle, flicking the antenna like attachments to his helmet. “Fitting, you got the antennas and everything!” 

Floating down onto the seat, you try your best to sit on it, your bum and thighs slightly phasing through the seat but it's fine. ‘Roach’ begins typing on his phone again, having it set on his thigh so you can watch while he types. It was also probably just in case someone came in or saw him and so he wouldn’t look crazy turning his phone around to nothing (from other people’s perspectives).

“People can’t usually see you?”

You sigh and lean back, accidentally reclining into the wall and to the other side before realizing he probably won’t be able to hear you if you speak. “Oops, I forgot I’d phase through. Uh, yeah they usually can’t unless I’m actively haunting them and choosing to. It takes a lot of energy to do that though, so…” He nods and hovers his fingers over the phone, thinking for a moment.

“What's your name?”

You hum, thinking for a moment. You... haven't had to introduce yourself to anyone in centuries.

"This... well, it's a little embarrassing, but I can't remember."

"Why don't I call you 'Poltergeist' for now then, since Ghost is taken?" You smile at him, your cheeks feel like they've heated up slightly, but not from the lingering burn you got after your death, no, it was the burn of happiness. Giddy from this guy giving you a name, almost like you were a stray. You shouldn't be this happy, clinging to him and internally deeming him your new best friend, but you were.

Your undeath began a new chapter today, now living as 'Poltergeist' (at least until you remembered your name) with your new ghost-inclined friend Roach.

[marsplastic13]

Knock knock - Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

It was a freezing Tuesday night, the crows were out to celebrate the end of an heist that required weeks of planning. Since not many people among the Dregs knew about the job, they decided to have their deserved night out in a club almost outside the Barrel, were they would not be easily recognized. Jesper extended the invitation to Vik, and even Kaz made his brief apparition for a few drinks. At some point during the night, Vik decided to head back home, since she had to work in the morning. Nina insisted that she let somone walk her home but she assured everyone that she lived nearby and there was no reason to worry. 

She was half way through when she noticed a man collapsed on the ground, trembling. Vik was unsured of what to do, there was no one else around her and this man could have been dangerous. Her medik sense of duty was battling with her self-preservation instinct when she noticed a cane with a crow head near the man. Kaz.

She was quickly at his side, he seemed barely conscious. "Kaz, Kaz what happened?" she checked his pulse while he tried to get away from her hands, "I know, I know I'm sorry but you loook really bad Kaz, what is going on? Should I call someone?" Kaz's sight was blurred, he could only hear half the words she was saying, but no one could see him in that pathetic state, so he used all of his willpower to shake his head. "Okay can you stand? I can't let you here, you'll freeze to death."

She was very worried, if for some reason someone passed from there and happened to recognize him, hell would brake free. A lot of men would pay good money to have a chance at a barely concious Dirtyhands. "Leg" was all he was able to say. "Your leg hurt?" he nodded "I think you have a fever, did you had any rest in the past weeks? Your body passed his limit Kaz" He knew, he absolutly knew. But he couldn't stop, not for a moment, not when the lives of his crows depended on his meticulous plans. "I'll bring you to my house, but you'll have to stand okay? Tell me when you're ready". She saw him trying to formulate an answer "No one is going to see you Kaz, I'm your medik, its my job to help you."

Her words convinced him to gave in and he tried to get on his feet, leaning heavily on the girl, putting his arm around her shoulders, while she passed her arm around his waist. "How do you-" Vik was interrupted by the boy starting to puke. The pain of getting up was too much. "Okay try to breath" he felt her cleaning his face from vomit and sweat "Yes, you're doing a good job, know here's your cane, I can make you feel a bit better until we arrive at my place but I'll have to touch your bare skin alright?" he nodded frantically, he would have done anything to get out of that situation.

"Good, I'll take your hand, you'll feel better but it's temporarily okay? When we arrive I'll check you properly". She removed one of his gloves, took his hand and his mind felt clearer, his pain felt distant. "Talk only if you have to puke again, we're almost there. Saints, you're heavier than you Iook". Vik had no idea of how she managed to drag him up for a flight of stairs, but there they were, in front of her apartment's door. "I'm going to leave your hand, you're going to feel really bad" he nodded, preparing himself. In any other situation, the accondescending tone she was using would have make him go crazy, but in that moment when his thoughts were all mixed up, he felt almost grateful that she was explaining everything like he was a child. "There you are" she left his hand and he collapsed back into her.

"Not... safe" Kaz muttered while she unlocked her door. He wanted to say that her lock was not safe but everything felt blurred. Vik dragged him on her bed, then lighted a few candles. She helped him remove his coat and his dirty shirt. Then, she took a cloth and some water to clean his sweat. "Kaz I can give you something for the pain and to sleep off the fever but you have to be good and tell me every medicine you take alright?". He used all of his strenght to give her the names and the doses of what he usually took, only after a long moment he noticed that she was writing everything with one hand while her other hand was back into his.

He felt too bad to process how that was making him feel. "Great, and how about illegal ones?" She kept watching her paper, he esitated. "Kaz I've been trained for this, I can see that you take drugs sometimes, and I'm not judging you, no one can imagine how much pain you feel everyday" still no answer "I would really like if what I'm about to give you doesn't make you od on my bed, okay?" he sighed. He always managed to keep that part him to himself, even Inej had never known those kind of secrets. He never wanted to make his people be worried about him or to think at him like someone that needed help. But this was an entirerly different situation, and he would not die because he felt ashamed, so he took a shaky breath and gave her the names. "Okay good, and what have you taken today?" "Didn't had time". She nodded and left to look for a strong painkiller. A new wave of pain washed over him when her hand left his. 

"Hope you're not afraid of needles" he extended his arm while she prepared the syringe. A sudden relief came from the puntcure, Kaz closed his eyes breathing in deeply. "I'm leaving next you a bucket if you feel like throwing up again, I'll take a quick shower and try to clean up your shirt" she noticed he must've fallen asleep faster then she predicted, "You fucking scared me Kaz" she whispered moving his hair awawy from his forehead "sweet dreams" "No dreams" he mumbled before starting to snore lightly. Vik shaked her head while reaching her little bathroom, under the hot water she was finally able to let go that night's stress. The boy didn't notice when she climbed into bed next to him, and he didn't woke up when she left the next morning.

Still with his eyes shut, Kaz felt awake. His mind was clear, his pain at the usual level. He could sense there was sunlight in his face, weird, he never left his curtains open. That wasn't his room. He opened his eyes, the brightness was too much to focus on the surroundings, but covering with his hand, he found himself in someone else's bed. Slowly, memories from the night before started to resurface. The job, the bar, the alley when his body rivolted against him, Vik's worried face. He sat on the edge of the bed, with his head in his hands. He felt the start of a migraine forming in the back of his mind, probably because he couldn't remember the last time he ate. After a few deep breaths, he saw a note on the handstand. 

Good morning sunshine! When I left earlier you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring me to wake you up. You should eat, I left you something sweet and something savory on my desk (I have no idea of what you prefer). You'll find there a pill for the migraine you probably have right now, but please eat and drink a lot of water before you take it (it will pierce a hole in your stomach if you don't, I swear). I tried to clean your shirt, it's in the bathroom. I should be back around 4, don't leave before, I want to be sure you're fine (please!). In the mean time, my home is all yours.

-V

Kaz shaked his head and got up to take the painkiller. Next to it there was a cream and chocolate pastry and what looked like an ham sandwich. Vik actually went out to buy him breakfast. The pill wouldn't actually make a hole in his stomach, right? After the past night experience, he didn't really felt like testing his body, so he recluctanly sat at the table and ate the pastry. To ignore how good it felt to eat something, Kaz looked through the papers left on the desk. There were mainly medicine books, with her notes all over the margins.

After a while, the boy started pacing around the apartment: her flat was made of large room, with a bed, a table that she probably used more to study than for eating, a library filled with books, a few cupboards that he guessed was her kitchen, and a wardrobe. Then there was a small bathroom, the door didn't close properly, it needed fixing for sure. The first thing he noticed there was the strong smell of vanilla, all of her products were vanilla flavored. His shirt was almost dry but he put it on anyway, drowning in her sweet perfume. Then he proceded to inspect all of her locks and windows, that house was absolutely not safe. It was absurd that no one had already tried to brake in. 

When Vik came back home, she found Kaz weirdly tapping on one of the window's lock with one of his picks, his head leaned on it, listening. "Hey you're awake!" the sudden noise made him snap out of his focus and bang his head on the metal part of the window. "Oh shit are you okay?" he nodded massagging his forehead. She made a few steps in his direction, then stopped "Wait I had a shift in the Infective deseases wing, I should take a shower before staying close to anyone".

She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a short black robe, her wet hair were letting water drops slip on her face and neck. Kaz found himself following one of those drops along her features, until it disapperead between her breasts. "Kaz are you listening to me?" He cleared his voice and diverted his gaze to the ceiling "I was distracted" he mumbled. Vik grinned, getting closer to him "How do you feel?" She was so close she just whispered, laying her hand on his forehead to check his temperature, while locking eyes with his. "Good, I feel good" her hand felt so hot against his skin that it didn't bother him. After years and years of shying away from human contact, Kaz could feel her delicate hand without flinching. "What are you doing?" He found himself whispering too. "Is it working?" She tilted her head a bit and moved her hand on his cheek, without breaking eye contact. "Yes".

She pulled away smiling. Keep touching me, don't leave. "I figured it's the cold that really bothers you, I tried to increase my temperature, guess it was a good call". He didn't know what to say, it was simple and brilliant at the same time. "So how's your leg? Your head? Everything alright?" Kaz nodded distractly, "I can fix your locks" Thank you for taking care of me. Her smile grew "You can? It would be amazing Kaz" he nodded moving away from her, towards the windows "Your door is not safe enough, I'll take care of that too" "Kaz" she moved a bit closer, her desire for touching him was becoming too strong and it took a lot of strenght to stay where she was. "You know you don't owe me anything, right? I did what I had to, it was not a favor you have to return" "I know" But I don't know how to say how grateful I am. She watched him with an worried frown. 

"Where did you sleep last night?" he blurted out. Why do I keep saying stupid things? She didn't have a couch, so it was obvious that- "In my bed, next to you" Vik looked surprised, maybe for the first time after he asked her to work for him. "Is there a problem? I really didn't felt like sleeping on the floor and I promise no one tried to cuddle the other" Kaz had no idea what to respond, probably because he had no idea of where he thought he was going with that question. Better if he left before other stupid shit found its way to his mouth.

"I should go now, I'll come back tomorrow for the locks" He crossed the room, hand already on the doorknob. "Great, I'll see you around 7?" She leaned on the wall beside the door. Kaz nooded, for a moment his gaze shifted on her lips. "Can you-" "The bathroom door, yes, see you tomorrow".

Vik closed the door behind him, letting out a breath. Did she really just put her hand on Dirtyhands' face and lived to tell others?

The next day, at 7 sharp, Kaz arrived with tools and new locks. And it went on for a few days. He would arrive, start to work on what was left from the day before and then the girl would remember about a broken drawer, an unstable shelf, and they would spend another evening chatting, eating something when she managed to convince him and walking together to The Slat when she had to work. She even made him laugh a couple of times.

That night, a fight broke out at The Crow Club, and Kaz got out with a bloody nose and a sharp pain in his bad knee. The other guy had it much worse. Normally he would just ignore it, but Vik was at The Slat for another few hours, so he guessed why not? 

He found her outside smocking with Jesper and other Dregs "Oh Gods Kaz, that nose is broken" Please, help me. He was about to respond that his nose was just bleeding when he noticed her wide eyes, eyebrows raised. Kaz frowned, was she trying to signal him something? She made an almost invisible nod. "Yes, definitely broken. Come on I don't pay you to chat" He said annoyed, and disappeared inside the building without sparing her another glance. 

Vik entered the infirmary a moment after him. "Thank the ugly Saints that you arrived" "Did something happened?" He sat on the bed and she came closer to look at his nose. "That Erin or Eric, I dont know, was becoming a little handsy and Jesper kept ignoring my signals" Kaz snorted "I don't think Jasper even noticed your signals. What was Erin doing?" " Just touching my arms, he tried to put his arm around me a few times" she released a breath "I know it's not that bad but I felt really uncomfortable" "Hey it's not your fault, he shouldn't had tried to touch you in whatever form if you don't want to" And I'm going to brake all of his fingers with my cane. "Thanks Kaz, I think you're all fixed, your nose stopped bleeding and you can take this pill for the knee"

"Good" he was back on his feet in front of her. "l'Il see you tomorrow? At your house?" he said clearing his voice and cursing himself. What am I doing? She delicately gripped his arm "Kaz..." "Yes?" Vik let out a nervous giggle "I think you fixed everything in my house at least two times". Kaz chuckled, biting his lower lip. The boy took a moment looking around "Yeah, well, I figured I'm a very bad handyman or you're more clumsy than you look". The truth was that they both tried to extend their evenings together as much as possible. Did she broke a few things on purpose? Maybe. And did he took an enormous amount of time to repair things? Also maybe.

"I don't want this to end Kaz, I genuinely liked spending time with you and I know that if I just walk out that door we'll act as if nothing happened and I'm not letting that happen". He raised his gloved hand to put her hair behind her ear, and after a moment of hesitation, his fingers started to trace the line of her jaw. "This is a very bad idea" he whispered "I know" "I'm a dangerous man with a dangerous job" "I won't wait up" A genuine smile took place on his face, making her grin. "I have a lot of powerful enemies" "I'll learn how to fight". Kaz's hand was behind her neck. "There are things that I dont know if I can ever give you" his voice was almost inaudible "I don't want anything you can't give me". "If we really do this, it's not going to be easy, Viktoria" "I want this". Vik carefully rested her hand on his chest. She could feel his heart at an impossible rate. "You're going to give yourself an heart attack" "I hope it's worth it then". He leaned towards her, slowly brushed his lips against hers. "May I?" "Please Kaz". And so he kissed her. A real, breathtaking kiss.

At the end, they were grinning like teenagers. "How about I go to break Erin's fingers and then I'Il walk you home?" "Can you break his fingers after taking me home? I don't want him to ask me to repair them". Kaz looked at her with his eyebrows raised "I think the Dregs have a really bad influence on you".

"Oh but it's such a romantic story Vik" said Jasper in awe "How I wish I could tell someone" she laughed "Kaz would have your head on a silver plate" before Jasper could respond, they heard the unmistakeble noise of a cane behind them "Why would I have his head on a silver plate?"

[moonlitkilljoy]

the symbolism, similarities, and contrast of all the pier scenes involving both edward and oswald truly make me lose my mind

in the first pier scene edward and oswald are facing each other, oz has his back turned to the water. edward means to kill oswald here, and in doing so kills a part of himself, perhaps unknowingly— at least to an extent. oz means no harm to ed here, quite the opposite even. oswald dies this time and edward survives— though he loses a part of himself in the process. the atmosphere is gloomy and we see the scene from far away— it’s all grays and the one subtle beige of the pier. clouds fill the sky and rain crashes into the water.

in the second one they "both" (barring the fact that this isnt actually oswald and is just a hallucination) face the water, oz behind ed. this time edward MEANS to kill both what remains of oswald (in his eyes) and a part of himself. his vision of oswald watches as nothing more than a spectator, he might as well not even be there at all. the lighting here is completely different, as is the framing. this is not a scene about revenge or murder, it is about rebirth. clouds cover the right half of the sky, yet they do not rain, and the sun shines in from the left. in a way i think the clouds passing and revealing the sun kind of symbolizes edwards acceptance for the fact that he DOES care about oswald. hes not hiding from his feelings, even if that means nothing at all anymore— after all, he’s already thrown it all away. birds fly through the air. there is life. oswald stands by the sun, edward by the clouds. edward destroys his past self and his feelings for oswald, represented here by oswalds apparition.

in the third rehashing it is gloomy again. no clouds in the sky- this scene focuses on oswald (who we've seen framed by the clear sky compared to how ed has been framed by the cloudy sky in these scenes. edward intends for this scene to be about rebirth, but we can clearly see that it much closer resembles the one focused on death. again we see the scene from far away, its all greys with the slight beige of the pier. edward has failed and it is once more about death. they both face towards the water, ed behind oswald this time. obviously this is because ed believes he’s going to shoot oz again this time, but its also kind of perfectly symbolic. this time it is oswald killing his old self, his love for ed, and destroying ed in the process— instead of the other way around like the second or first scenes. neither of them are the same after this. though, there is no rain. the hardest part has passed, and while this is emotional, it is not the most they have gone through. this time oswald faces the water and he intends to kill.

NOW. scene 4. they face eachother again. farther from the edge of the pier, neither of them dies here this time, in any sense. the clouds frame ed once more, the clear sky behind oswald. the scene is framed closely, reminiscent of their second pier scene where no one actually dies. it seems that the far away shots signify death, whereas the close ones signify rebirth. while oz faces the water in a technical sense, he doesnt actually— not really. hes facing ed, that much is clear, but he isnt looking out at the water. theyre looking at eachother and nothing else. once more there are colors that aren’t just grey. its nice. again they coexist, this time for good and not just for the brief fleeting moment before death.

i just think that the visuals at play here are truly phenomenal

[mydarlingdahlia]

𝙼𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 — 𝚃𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝙳𝚘 𝚆𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎…?

ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ : Prince!Veritas Ratio x Lady!Charlotte

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs + ɴᴏᴛᴇs : unrequited love, mentions of blood and death, basically incurable disease, brief mention of spiraling (into guilt/panic), Veritas denying his feelings, Hanahaki Disease, ghost winks (see explanation here), physical apparitions, major guilt, might be a little ooc, did I say guilt?, and fluff at the end

Also! In this story, for the plot, Hanahaki isn’t known or classified as a disease, but we all (probably) know what it is, obviously. Another thing, this story doesn’t have 18+ or NSFW content, but it does deal with heavy elements.

And it’s a royalty AU ting 🌚

ᴀ/ɴ — I like being allergic to happiness sometimes, so here we are. :) Also this is a self ship thing so just a heads up!

word count : 7.1k words

“My most sincere apologies, My Lady…. I’m afraid I do not feel the same way,” Was all that he could say.

Veritas was looking at Charlotte, standing by his side, but soon drifted his gaze towards the horizon. Dusk was rising, coloring the sky with beautiful warm colors of the crescendo of the day. In the morning, he had agreed for a rendezvous proposed by Lady Charlotte, well, to tell the truth, only having a stroll was asked. But the prince knew what kind of conversation would be brought up during that stroll. He wasn't wrong, he received a confession from her, he didn't know what to think of that situation, that got him fairly puzzled. After all, that was the first time someone ever admitted their love to him in person, and not by a letter or by indirect tellings.

What had he done to make him earn this love he couldn't even return? Or, for lack of better words, wasn’t sure how to return? Veritas didn't know, he didn't understand. That was what frustrated him.  They were merely in the same court, even if he was the prince and she was but a lady, sometimes having pleasant conversations when time allowed... Was it really enough for love to be born within one's heart? He didn't understand, but he was curious. 

“I hope I am not…intruding on any personal boundaries when I ask this,” Veritas began, breaking the heavy silence that had settled in between them. “But, why do you love me? I am curious to know of your perspective.”

“W-Why do I love you?” Charlotte repeated, her voice cracking slightly as she looked at Veritas. "I wish I could explain it better, but it's not a 'why' or 'how' question, really.... Love is just a...natural thing, for some people. It's human nature, I suppose." she replied, trying to keep a smile on her face, but the pain was evident.

"Human nature, I see,” Veritas echoed, repeating the last words. The prince had never paid attention to such matters, and now he was realizing how much he didn't know about things like this. 

"Is it painful when one can't return that love?" He asked solemnly, glancing at her worried features with a hint of concern. He couldn't find a better way to ease the probable pain she might suffer. He was a man of few words, but at least, he wanted to be gentle. After all, she was simply doing what she felt she had to do, and he respected that. Charlotte, after all, was just a lady of the court, while he was trapped in a delicate situation because of his true identity being that of the prince.

He felt deficient for not making her understand how it was impossible for him to return her love. Or, as he believed he couldn’t return it. It wasn't a lie nor a desire, but a simple fact since he couldn't even process those kinds of feelings, let alone return them. He just hoped Charlotte would find someone who could give her what she wanted, love, affection, and care. Someone humane could truly provide her what he couldn't.

"W-Well, yes, sometimes it's painful when love isn't reciprocated..." Charlotte replied, her voice starting to strain. "I don't want you to worry about it, though! I understand your feelings as well, Your Highness." she said. If she was trying to mask her sadness, it wasn't working very well, as he could practically see her heart cracking into pieces in her eyes, despite the smile she put on.

"I will not do anything that would make you suffer more,” Veritas stated, his voice barely audible as he looked into her sad eyes. He didn't want to see her in such pain, and if there was anything he could do to help, he would do it.

“Perhaps...we should continue our stroll. The sunset is quite a spectacle,” he suggested, turning around, facing the horizon with its breathtaking sunset. The sky, bathed by the warm tones, was painting their final strokes on the canvas before the night claimed its place. He hoped the sight would lift up her spirits a bit. It certainly helped him to unwind. There was something calming about the end of the day, watching the sun setting down, yielding to the darkness that would soon embrace the kingdom before a new morning was born.

"We can continue talking then, and I promise not to intrude on your feelings anymore." While he didn't understand the feelings of love entirely, he respected them and wanted to protect Charlotte from further sadness, even if it meant leaving his questions unanswered. Veritas, even in this lack of understanding of human nature and emotions, knew what it meant to hurt and didn't want to contribute to it in any way. 

"N-No, that's quite alright, Your Highness. I better be getting back, anyway," Charlotte said, her smile beginning to falter slightly. She gave him a slight bow before turning and briskly walking away. Her last facial expression that he saw made it clear that she was about to burst into tears, had she not turned away.

Veritas watched as Charlotte headed back home, unable to offer her more comfort. He was aware of his limitations, and he couldn't stand seeing her heartbroken. It pained him to witness that even if he didn't understand the reason behind it. He sighed and resumed his walk, contemplating the beauty of the sunset before him. He would have to dig deeper into this subject known as 'love'—that was the least he could do for Charlotte. Perhaps, in time, he could understand more about this emotion and the intricate feelings that came with it.

On the side, he wished that somehow, someone could return Charlotte's feelings, giving her the love and affection that she deserved, and that he couldn't render.

Then, the next day seemed to roll around without a hitch. Charlotte had shown up to the court, as per usual, but something seemed a bit...off. She seemed mostly like herself, but she didn't have as much energy or pep in her step like she always did. Not to mention the slightly dark circles under her eyes. Had his rejection of her feelings hurt her that severely? No, maybe she just had a regular sleepless night, everyone gets those once in a while…

But Veritas couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in Charlotte's demeanor when he saw her the next day. The loss of her usual energy and the noticeable dark circles were clear indications that she had a restless night. However, he chose not to inquire. This was a delicate situation, and he wanted to be cautious. He didn't want to aggravate her unintentionally. His inability to fully grasp her feelings frustrated him, but he promised himself to look into this love-matter thoroughly.

Yet, he also vowed to make sure Charlotte could maintain her position in court in the best possible conditions. He was her superior, and while he couldn't give her the emotions she desired in a private way, he could offer her a helping hand professionally. He wanted her to feel comfortable and supported under his care, especially now that her personal life was going through a rough patch.

The day went by, and Veritas focused on doing his part as the prince of his land to the best of his abilities. He hoped that in time, Charlotte could recover and perhaps even forget the disappointment she faced yesterday. It was, after all, not her fault that her love was not reciprocated.

But, Veritas couldn't shake off that nagging feeling inside of him. A feeling of responsibility, and a faint desire to make her happy. He was an enigma, a mind that very few could comprehend, yet he felt a kinship with the modern world, especially with its inhabitants. And the thought of her sadness caused him to take another step forward in his quest to understand love, hoping it could lead him to help her in some way. Perhaps not with his feelings, but with his knowledge and actions as her superior, her ruler.

By chance, Charlotte began to pass by him in the hallway as the day went on. Upon closer inspection, she did look fairly tired, and even a little sick. He'd caught glimpses of her throughout the day, and he had seen her coughing a few times.

Veritas paused, raising a finger for her to stay for a moment, waiving the cohort passing by, then he tilted his head a little, frowning. He scanned her features, searching for answers, but her condition was not able to be decided just by a mere look. Maybe it was just a common cold? After all, winter was starting to come about.

“Lady Charlotte, would you happen to be unwell?" His concern was evident in his tone, as well as how he stepped closer to her. His internal alarm rang when he saw her tired stature, dark circles, and coughing episodes, clearly an indication of her being unwell. His priority was now to make sure that she was alright, regardless of their previous conversation.

"Do not worry about your tasks today, I will assist in your duties. Rest at your place, and if possible, do not come to work for a couple of days. Recovering your health is more important." he advised firmly but gently, his voice laced with sincere concern.

Assuring her safety and well-being was something that he was willing to prioritize, no matter the situation. It was, after all, an obligation he held as her superior. Veritas may not understand love, but he was a responsible man in his public and private life. He couldn't allow his subjects to work while unwell, especially when he had the means to remedy the situation. Charlotte's welfare was important to him, and he wished to honor it in the best way he could.

"I-I think I'm fine, Sir.... It's just a small, cough, that's all," Charlotte said, offering him a weak smile. Her argument wasn't very convincing, however.

"You are not fine, miss. Trust in my judgment, please," Veritas insisted on sending her home, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. Even if he couldn't empathize with the feelings of love, he hoped that his care for her health would enhance his bond with her. "The doctor of the Palace will be informed, and he'll come to check on you at your place. Don't worry; we'll get to your condition, and you'll be back to work in no time. Now, kindly head to your office, gather your things, and leave. You earned it."

Despite her hesitation, he gently nudged her towards the opposite direction with a hint of a smile. Veritas was usually a stern man, but in moments like this, his care and kindness shone through.

"I will handle everything until you are ready to rejoin us." hee assured her, pivoting, and striding away, his mind already focusing on how to arrange the missing tasks due to her leave.

"Are you sure? I don't mind working," Charlotte said meekly, still trying to put up a bit of an argument.

"Madam, trust me on this. It's not wise to work while in poor health, and I refuse to let you do so," Veritas said firmly, ensuring there was no room for further discussion. He already had a duty to be a good leader and superior. And now, he saw Charlotte's welfare as something personal as well.

With a nod, he conveyed that it was time for her to leave, and he'd complete her tasks while she was out. He had a reputation to uphold, after all, and a palace to run. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a genuine one, as he let his eyes linger on her for a brief moment. Veritas may not be able to make Charlotte happy in the way she desired, but he could be a good ruler, a reliable comrade, and, perhaps, a friend in need.

"Now, go. Rest. Recover. We'll see each other when you're ready." With those words, Veritas relinquished any further argument, watching from afar as she reluctantly complied.

And so, he left to attend to the affairs of the day, keeping Charlotte in his thoughts, silently wishing her a swift recovery. In the background, something shifted within the sovereign. He had gained a new perspective on, not love, but caring for a human.

But, a week had passed since that day, and Charlotte still had not returned back to court. A few servants had come in now and then to alert Veritas of her condition, but each time he was informed, she just seemed to be getting worse for wear. Apparently, no medicines were working, no amount of rest or herbs were helping at all, and the doctors that visited her couldn't even provide a diagnosis.

Veritas tried to focus on his work, but his thoughts kept darting to Charlotte's health. A week was a long time to be away from court, and he had grown worried. He had made it his job to ensure her well-being, and he was failing as he couldn't reverse her predicament. Veritas cleared his thoughts, his composure returning. He would not let his worries show at the palace. It wouldn't be fair to his duties and the people who depended on him. He needed to remain his resolute self. Only after locking the doors of his study, did he relent and pick up a quill and parchment. He needed to check on her, despite their awkward previous encounter.

With a pen stroke, he wrote to the chief physician of the kingdom an order to gather all details possible about the Lady’s condition. He inquired about her specific symptoms and the medicines prescribed. If a regular doctor couldn't cure her, perhaps he could. Then, with a second letter, he requested the presence of a herbalist, another scholarly in botanical science, that could assist in formulating a new concoction with both the medicinal herbs from the royal land and the ancient knowledge he possessed.

After he had sent out the letters, Veritas went to his library, pouring over old records of herbs and cures from ancient and modern times. He feared he was too late, but he wouldn't accept defeat so easily. As a prince, he had witnessed and survived the test of time, refused to let Charlotte's life fade before his eyes. Fueled by a sense of responsibility and, he dared not admit, care for her, Veritas looked for answers. He vowed a solution would be found, he wouldn't rest nor stop until he secured Charlotte's health. Whether or not she loved him didn't matter anymore; she was a subject in his care, and he would revert to his resources to help her recover.

Surprisingly, when the physician wrote him back about her symptoms, they were most unusual, like no other disease or malady before. It mainly seemed to be affecting Charlotte's lungs, hence the various coughing fits. But, the strange part was that she had begun to cough up blood, and petals. Like that of a flower. But, no herbalist had ever provided her with anything with flora in its ingredients, which proved her case to be even more difficult and an even more puzzling enigma.

Veritas read through the scroll, narrowing his eyes as he observed the unique symptoms. Coughing up blood was a severe issue, but flowers? It was an entirely unprecedented case. However, as perplexing as it was, it didn't deter the royal. His resolve to help Charlotte remained unwavering. Flowers, a somewhat celestial association, brought an idea to mind. He wondered if the godly domain had an influence on this illness. Veritas knew of several ancient afflictions that correlated with the gods' interferences. He scribed a brief note to an advisor, asking them to consult their knowledge and retrieve any information related to melding divine essence maladies with mortal symptoms.

Thus, a plan began to form, blurred lines between the divine and mortal, an ancient illness mixing with his kingdom. Veritas, with sheer determination, set on a path towards discovering a cure for Charlotte's baffling condition. He would not fail her. This was, perhaps, the first emotion-driven quest the prince had undertaken, and he was bound to succeed or die trying. 

But, even as more weeks and months ticked by, her condition never seemed to lighten or get better. What was worse, was that now instead of coughing up just petals, Charlotte was now regurgitating floral buds and even flowers in full bloom. The coughing was almost constant, another report told him.

Veritas’ heart clenched, a burning sensation surging through his chest as the reports of Charlotte's condition deteriorated. He was failing to save her, and as the days, weeks, and months continued to pass, she continued to fall victim to the unknown malady. He couldn't bring himself to give up hope, however, and instead, he sought solace through intense research and the summoning of various medical experts—even those outside of his kingdom’s domain. In his long days and nights, he pored over ancient scrolls and texts, seeking answers as to why she was afflicted in such a manner. With every new report, he felt his desperation grow. He would spare no resources, no sacrifice, to save her. If he needed to dive into the deepest seas, he would. If he needed to tread upon the moonlit paths of dreams, he'd do that too.

Veritas’ resolve to save Charlotte grew into a fire that burned within him. He ordered boats, ships, and his men to be sent in search of the rarest herbs, gathering all the information regarding floral bloom maladies, and bringing specialists to his court to seek answers. No single avenue remained unexplored. In his study, he was almost a shadow of his former self. Gone was the composed, almost detached, magistrate. He had become consumed by Charlotte's condition, often not sleeping, and barely eating, since he took a personal stake in saving her. He systematically checked and re-checked the data in search of patterns, inconsistencies, or something that others had missed.

The once-unyielding sovereign was showing cracks. Each passing day that Charlotte didn't recover weighed heavily on his scarred heart. As the leader of his realm, Veritas knew better than anyone that sometimes things sank beneath the surface, never to be recovered. But he could not let that happen to Charlotte, his heart refused to allow it. 

Then, one day, a particularly frightening piece of data surfaced. Charlotte was now seemingly suffocating with each breath, and the flowers she coughed up were no longer dry, but drenched in blood. This was the worst that her condition had presented thus far.

Veritas’ eyes scanned the parchment, his heartbeat racing as he absorbed the latest update. It was beyond dire, verging on the edge of nightmarish, Charlotte's condition worsening in unimaginable ways. He'd never seen or heard of anything like this. The sovereign felt a weight on his chest, threatening to suffocate him, just as Charlotte was, metaphorically speaking. He crushed the document, still not willing to admit his defeat. The chronicler gasped as the prince glared furiously, fury burning within his eyes. Veritas grabbed his attendant, who'd waited by the door, "Take me to her. Now."

Silently, the attendant obeyed, leading him to the place Charlotte was held. It took little time before they arrived, and his heart clenched seeing the once-robust woman, now barely holding onto life. His throat constricted as he took in her ashen skin, pallid lips, and hollowed eyes. If there was any man unfit to express his emotion, Veritas had been that man, but as he stood over the sick bed, a well of sorrow and regret swelled inside him.

Approaching the bed, he reached out a hand but hesitated, unsure of what to do. All he'd managed to do was watch her slowly fade away. The blame of her condition rested on him, he'd failed to protect her, even as she'd shown him vulnerability.

Once a being defined by his resolve and unwavering poise, Veritas was at his wit's end, and his composure began to crack. He cursed the heavens, why had he accepted to be one of the god’s instruments, why had he agreed to be the prince, if this was the price he had to pay? His heart began to ache, his grief slowly reaching to the very core of his being. If he couldn't even save Charlotte, how could he save others? His failures as Veritas Ratio, prince, and the sovereign of his realm began to haunt him. Tears streaked his face, hot and scalding as he reached out and grabbed her now fragile hand, kneeling beside the bed.

"My Lady...?" he asked in a soft tone, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Your...Highness...?" Charlotte said, turning her face to look at him, nearly gasping for each shaking breath. Her hazel eyes, once bright and full of life, were now dull and drained. And to think, she was barely into her twenties. "You...came..."

Veritas nodded, his voice barely audible as he replied, "I am here, My Lady," A tender, forlorn smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a small sign that despite his cold nature, this woman had carved a space in his heart.

"I should have done more," he whispered as he brushed his fingertips across her forehead, trying to smooth her hair—an action only those close perform. "Do not fear, Charlotte. I will find a cure, I promise. You will not die in vain." he said, his normally firm tone wavering but not breaking. Veritas might not be able to express love, but in that moment, he'd move heaven and earth to save her, to make amends.

"You gave me a chance to give, Charlotte, something I never thought I'd experience. I won't let that end here, not on my watch. I'll save you, I swear to you." His grip tightened around her hand, a silent plea for her to fight, to hold on just a little bit longer, for him. The fierce, unbridled will that so many feared in him now boiled within, fueled by a fierce need to save this woman, who dared to love him.

"Oh, Your Highness..." Charlotte continued, her own eyes brimming with tears. "You don't know how much this means to me but–" her sentence was cut off by another one of her described coughing fits, except now he got to see it in person. The flower that emerged from her throat was indeed drenched in blood, as the physician had described.

But, yet something so simple seemed so morbid and gory all the same. The flower even had a crown of thorns around it.

Veritas’ heart plummeted at the sight, a fresh torrent of despair and anguish surging through him. He'd failed her, and he could not find it within himself to look away from the gruesome display, the thorned flower a stark symbol of her suffering and pain. When the convulsion subsided, Veritas leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes meeting hers as he whispered.

"Forgive me, Charlotte. I'll find your cure, I'll end your suffering. You have my word," The sovereign's eyes shimmered with tears yet again, a display of emotion he'd never shown, even in decades past. Most would think he was hopeless, but Veritas was a creature of stubborn will and determination. He would not falter, not without trying everything within his power first. His tears moistened her forehead, a poignant trail of silent apologies, as he resolved to save her. He wouldn't let her down.

Charlotte's own tears began to fall as well, the scene of it all like a Renaissance painting of two doomed lovers, embracing death together. But that wasn't what they were, it was something they could never be. Not forbidden lovers, but lovers never meant to love each other in the first place.

"I know I don't have much time left," Charlotte managed to gasp out, her voice strained.

"You'll have all the time you need," Veritas spoke fervently, unwavering in his resolve. "I'm not going to let you go, Charlotte." The prince understood nothing of love, but what he now felt was powerful enough to confront the very gods themselves. For Charlotte, he'd wage war. With trembling hands, he cradled her face, his touch gentle, a contrast to his harsh demeanor. "You have given me a gift, a feeling I never thought I'd have. I'm going to fight for it. For you." He held her gaze, eyes ablaze with a newfound conviction, a bond between them forming in spite of the circumstances.

"You are worth every fight, Charlotte. You will survive. I promise you." Veritas pulled away slightly, a hint of determination etched in the lines of his face, a steeliness that hinted he wouldn't stop until he brought her back. It was a fight of epic proportions, a David vs. Goliath, yet he wouldn't relent. This was his purpose, and he'd see it through to the end.

A small smile graced her lips as Veritas cradled her head, and her eyes began to droop as her movements became more relaxed. "You lit up my days, Your Highness. You filled my dreams at night, made my every waking moment something to live for," she whispered, more tears streaming down her face, despite the weak smile she wore. Like the day when he had rejected her love for him, all of those months before. It seemed so long ago, like an eternity. Now, there was nowhere to go.

Charlotte slowly leaned up, pressing her lips against Veritas’, the sickeningly sweet taste of her blood on his lips. As he reciprocated her kiss, his heart was torn in two. He felt a warmth he never knew he craved, an affirmation he never expected to receive. Charlotte had loved him and confessed it with her final breath. A sorrowful warmth enveloped the sovereign, a flood of emotions that threatened to drown him in grief.

She leaned back after a moment, her eyes unfocused, seemingly dimming by the second as she looked up at him. "I love you, Veritas Ratio.” she whispered with a soft smile, before she went still. Her chest had stopped rising and falling, and her eyes had finally closed. But, that smile was still there, like she was still with him. But she wasn't. Not anymore.

When she fell still, Veritas’’ world crumbled in an instant. He didn't feel heartbreak; he felt numb, and yet, he screamed inside. Time seemed to freeze, as though the universe itself had halted, leaving him a witness to the fleeting beauty of life. Charlotte lay before him, lifeless—an inhuman act perpetrated by the divine seemed to have snuffed out the flicker of humanity that once danced in her eyes.

“No…no…no, no, no, no no no no!” 

Veritas held her close, stroking her hair with a tenderness that would have been unimaginable just months earlier. He could do nothing but hold her, tears pouring from his eyes in a river of mourning for his failure, blame, regret, and loss. The prince had committed one fatal error, he'd let someone in. His heart, once a barren desert, had now sprouted roots, only to watch them wither in the space of a breath.

His composure shattered, he wept as he'd never wept before, silent tears finally giving expression to the myriad of thoughts and emotions turbulently coursing through his breached defenses. He'd failed Charlotte, and he knew he'd carry that guilt forever, forever knowing he'd failed at something he wanted more than anything to succeed in. Then, he realized it. He loved her. Now, it was too late. He couldn’t save her. And it was his fault.

“I love you…” Veritas gasped between strangled sobs, holding her close, the heat of her body still present. “I’m sorry…I’m so, so sorry…”

Veritas stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, trying to hold onto her for just a bit longer. This was what love was like. But why did it hurt him so? This was the price he paid for being such an insolent fool before. He felt like a king, stripped of his title and crown, and left a hollow shell of the man he once was. But, Charlotte still somehow found a way to comfort him, even after death. A birdsong could be heard from the window, and as Veritas turned to look, he saw a Violet-Backed Starling. Her favorite bird.

When the birdsong reached his ears, Veritas' heart constricted. Charlotte's beloved bird, a Violet-Backed Starling, perched on the windowsill, beak agape, singing. He didn't know if it was a mere coincidence or if the universe was conspiring to remind him one final time of the woman who'd left an indelible mark on him. With trembling fingers, he wiped the tears off his cheeks. He'd lost Charlotte, but he wouldn't let her sacrifice be in vain. As much as his heart ached, beat a lament for the love he'd never find again, he'd honor her memory. Charlotte had given him her love, sacrificed herself for it, and Veritas would do the same. He'd carry her love as a badge, an unyielding reminder of the power of love, an emotion he now understood, however late it was.

Slowly, with painstaking effort, the sovereign rose, clutching the hand of the woman he'd loved but couldn't save. Even in defeat, he'd continue the fight. Vowing to keep her love alive, he'd wage a solitary war against fate. Through cruel irony, he'd finally found an emotion, one he didn't know how to handle or express, and he'd honor it by doing the only thing he knew. Fight. He’d fight to find the malady that had caused her demise, even if it took his dying breath to do so.

In death, she lived in his heart, and in life, he'd keep her safe. In defeat, he found a purpose, and it would fuel him until his time came to join her. 

Charlotte's funeral procession was held just a week after her death. Family, friends, and others were in attendance, and so was Veritas himself. The rain was pouring that day, just like the silent tears that rolled down his cheeks. He stood beside the graveside, a single hazel ribbon slipped into Charlotte's hand. A symbol of the bond he'd never forged before, a color to mirror the eyes he'd grown to love. He'd failed her, but he'd honor her final moments, a simple gesture that held more meaning than he'd ever had to express.

As the coffin lowered, Veritas watched, a heavy weight in his chest, a wound he'd carry to his dying day. He'd pledged his allegiance to her memory, but he'd failed as a man and as a prince. He'd failed in the one piece of humanity he'd finally discovered in a mundane existence. Yet, despite the ache, a newfound purpose bloomed in him. He'd feel her absence every day, with every heartbeat, with every breath he took. But from her love, he would find a way to interpret the emotions he'd never understood, fueling him to become the protector Charlotte had wanted him to be.

With a final tear rolling down his cheek, he bowed his head, sliding a hand through his hair, a ritual he'd never performed, expressive, unguarded. For one last time, he whispered her name, a benediction to mark the end of her earthly journey, promising to follow soon.

But, somehow, in a means of grace, the universe let him know that Charlotte was still very much with him. Whether it would be her Violet-Backed Starling, her favorite song suddenly appearing on the radio, it was like she was there with him, even in the cold grasp of death. He visited her grave every day. Every dawn, every dusk, it was a sort of comforting ritual. 

Over time, Veritas’ wound started to mend, a scar on his heart where Charlotte once lived. It remained a constant reminder, a testament to love and loss, but with each visit to her graveside, the light of her memory lingered a little brighter. Charlotte wasn't just a gravestone in a cemetery; she was forever intertwined with his identity. As he sustained his visits, a small cluster of Violet-Backed Starlings began to follow him, congregating near Charlotte's tombstone, as though they too grieved for her. The sight did little to assuage his pain, but it brought with it a sense of solace, of companionship in his sorrow. Like her, they'd become a sort of anchor, a semblance of her presence in the world.

Music too provided comfort. Her favorite songs, played on the radio, on the streets, filled the void she had left, reminding Veritas that they'd shared something pure and wonderful. Through the anguish, he wove an intricate tapestry of remembrance, surrounding himself with her presence. Mystical happenings and coincidences became commonplace, and he'd come to understand that her spirit, as much as her life, would weave through his days to come. Losing her had been a tragedy, but her love had furnished his soul with the capacity to endure.

He had failed Charlotte, yet she'd given him something he'd never sought—purpose, love, and a wounded heart to remind him to fight for others, to protect the innocent. For all his power as a royal, Charlotte's love proved one of the greatest forces he'd faced, an unseen hand guiding him toward a more compassionate, loving self. 

Then, one night, it was like the unthinkable happened. He heard her voice singing in the halls of his palace, even through the pouring rain outside. He knew Charlotte's voice anywhere, since it was a habit that she used to sing occasionally as she resided in court, a quirk which Veritas had grown fond of. He stood still, a startling jolt of disbelief mingling with overwhelming hope. The sound of her voice, as clear as day in his palace, brought him to his feet. It was Charlotte's gentle, sweet melody, ringing through the halls, evoking memories of their time together.

Veritas’ long strides carried him through the halls, toward the sound of her voice. His heart raced, a palpable beat in the air as he went in search of the ethereal shadow of the woman he'd loved. Steps echoed as he explored—the chambers, the walls, the gentle swoosh of water that seemed to amplify the song's notes. Then, he found her. Well, merely an apparition of her. She was dancing alone in his ballroom, wearing a magnificent violet gown. She no longer looked sick, but as alive and well as the day they first met. Her gaze turned to look at him, as he entered the ballroom, and that same warm smile spread across her face.

He rushed over to her, the unyielding grief of the past days splintering into a million cracks. Veritas spun her around, holding her close, his laughter echoing throughout the room, feeling the warmth of her apparition. It was a physical impossibility, yet, his brain could no longer discern the difference between reality and illusion. All he knew was that he'd found her in a way that he'd never thought was possible.

In the swirl of dance, there was laughter, a resonant crescendo that echoed through the grand ballroom. Tears streamed down the prince’s face, mingling with his laughter. Charlotte, even as a breath of memory, had stirred an unrestrained joie de vivre in Veritas; it was a moment, ephemeral as the wind, yet ageless as the tides. 

"I missed you, mon amour..." Charlotte's spirit whispered, her form surprisingly warm for a ghost.

"And I have missed you more than I could ever articulate," Veritas whispered back, in tandem with the sway of their dance. The room, bathed in moonlight, seemed to pulsate with every beat, the rhythm of their hearts, the infinitesimal quakes their passage left in the very sands of time. It was a transcendent moment, one where reality, the law, and logic dissolved into a singular point of divine affection.

Veritas held her closer, savoring the sensation like a man dying of thirst in a barren desert. He couldn't taste her lips, couldn't feel her heartbeat, but it mattered little; he'd found her again. For a minute, a moment brief as a feather on the wind, he tasted love, happiness, and the bliss of reunion. Charlotte's whispered words, her form, and her expression, embedded themselves in his heart. This would remain his eternal balm of peace, his solace amongst the ashes of woe.

"I'll be back, my dear," Charlotte whispered to him, looking up at his face. "For every full moon, I shall wait for you here. Then, when dawn arrives, I must return to my rightful realm, until our next meeting."

Veritas’ heart leaped at Charlotte's promise, as he stopped their dance, gazing down at her, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He knew that Charlotte's visits would be once a month, as brief as they were. It wasn't fair, hardly enough for a man who'd lost his heart completely. But, for him, it was enough. It was the flame that illuminated his darkness, the beacon in his storm. He cupped her face gently, his thumb tracing her cheek, a silent pledge of the oath he'd made—to honor her memory, to love as she'd taught him. He'd never forget the promise of their monthly dances, a pact sealed in moonlight, and memory.

"Until then, my love, I'll await your return, my strength renewed by your visit," Veritas whispered back, a wistful smile tugging at the edge of his lips, an expression only felt by a man nurturing an insurmountable love. Charlotte then leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips. Was this what it was like, to feel the kiss of a ghost, like old poems had said?

As Charlotte leaned in, her spirit pressing a kiss to Veritas’ lips, there was a sense of déjà vu, an echo of the first kiss they shared. It was like stolen memories, a wisp of something that shouldn't exist. Veritas’s lips tingled, the sensation akin to petals gently brushing against them, numbing and exhilarating. For an instant, as their lips parted, his love had materialized, felt in that kiss. As the apparition of Charlotte faded from view, leaving him alone, the kiss remained, imprinted on his lips, a memento of their love. It would be his solace amid grief, his compass in a sea of sorrow. Every month, on the full moon, he would remember the sensation, and it would keep him sane.

Lingering in the ballroom, Veritas’ eyes met the empty space where Charlotte had danced, the memory of her kindness, sincerity, and love reflected in their depths. He would keep their dance alive in his heart, returning to it every full moon, as Charlotte promised. It would be his ritual of remembrance, a sacred vow to protect her legacy. And, as she promised, every full moon, she returned, her apparition's voice calling him through the halls, right back to the ballroom once more.

The full moon, a celestial symbol of everlasting affection, marked the return of Charlotte's spirit, her malachite eyes alight in the moon's pale radiance. With the rhythm of the dance, of their whirling embrace, Veritas was given respite, a sanctuary from the monotony of earthly duties and responsibilities. Here, in the transcendent expanse of starlight, love, and song, he became a mere man, lost in the dream of romance, mirroring the primitive pull of humanity.

Each dance was an echo of the last, punctuated with Charlotte's warm smile, her cheeks flushed as they twirled. She'd whisper into his ear, and he'd respond, their shared secret, a pact that bound them together in a state of enchantment. The whispers of love, the fragile touch of her spirit, would leave an indelible impression on Veritas’ heart. Sunrise, a fiery benediction, would dissolve Charlotte's apparition, sending her back to her realm, leaving Veritas alone, pining for the next full moon. As days turned into weeks, and months passed, the ritual remained unbroken, a constant in his quest to honor and memorialize Charlotte's memory.

As the years slipped by, the people came and went, the world and the kingdom evolved, but the gossamer thread of Charlotte's love remained unbroken, untarnished. The full moon, the call of her violet-backed starling, the sweet fragrance of lavender—all these served as silent whispers of her enduring presence.

In the presence of Charlotte's ethereal spirit, he became human, feeling the raw, unflinching emotion that love imbues, the very emotion he thought he'd never understand. Charlotte's visits, a whispered prayer of love, created ripples, transforming not just the heart of Veritas but the very heart of his realm.

These nocturnal dances, these stolen moments, borne in the gentle embrace of moonlit nights, laid the cornerstone of Veritas’ devotion, a mixture of justice, passion, and protection. Charlotte's spirit bred a symbiotic love, a reciprocity, where he protected the innocent and upheld justice as a testament to her life, a balm to his soul. As the years marched on, so too did the ballroom dance. The stars shifted, the world turned, yet the rhythm of their footsteps, the caress of her spirit upon his, remained.

And yet, even as Veritas’ hairs began to turn gray, and he wasn’t as graceful like his youthful days, his beloved was still there, waiting for him. She would always welcome him back with her melodic voice and open arms, and danced with him until the dawn reared its head.

Even on his deathbed, Veritas wasn’t afraid. While he never found love on the mortal plane, or started a family of his own, he had found all of the solace and love he needed in his beloved Lady, who was waiting for him in the realm beyond. And even as he passed on, they still danced in that ballroom. But now, it was every night. Every night, if one would listen closely, they could hear the faint music while the two danced in the celestial moonlight. Every night, if you stayed quiet enough, you could hear their voices, reminiscing about their mortal lives. And, every night, if you were lucky enough to get a glimpse, you could see the two of them, spinning and waltzing around the palace’s ballroom.

Like they never even left in the first place. They looked so happy, gazing into one another’s eyes as their ghosts danced around the opulent chamber, like they were the only two in the world that mattered. But, to them, that was true. Even in death, the only company they needed was one another. In death, for eternity, they waltzed and danced from sunset to rise.

 And that was enough.

@glitchtricks94 @v4mp-wife come get y'all food >:)

Rose banner by : @/thecutestgrotto

[sscarletvenus]

Lookism JJK au, your thoughts?

HIIII VENVEN😁😁😁

also very disorganized and brief brainrot-esque parallels and thoughts about lookism x jjjk ahead (JUST FOR FUN. these are pixels and it's not that serious 😭) :

. yamazaki, kageroi, cheonliang are like the great clans. the provinces in south korea from where the four crews, allied, ansan public, etc. belong are like the various jujutsu tech schools.

. charles choi is a sorcerer who lives long enough to become a corrupt exploitative higher up.

. the workers orchestrate the culling games.

. gapryong as toji, geniuses, he who must not be named type character, dead in the first act, haunting the fuck out of the narrative, changing the trajectory of people's lives, phantom of the past and apparition of the future.

. gapryong also as toji because he is a broke deadbeat who is despised by his children!

. daniel park as yuuji itadori. little miss sunshine in a world full of horrors. being hunted for sport by those in power. the final piece in dismantling a corrupt system. emo boys estranged from their families are in love with them and would die for them. all they have ever loved keeps turning into stone. important familial ties that are the crux of their stories.

. jay as megumi fushiguro. deep suicidal ideation, has never won an idgaf war in the face of love, daddy ruined their life, sister genuinely cares but is ultimately powerless in reversing their fates, dripped TF out, actually very powerful, hated by their respective creators

. gun as gojo satoru. like the balance in the yakuza shifted after his birth. the power gun inherits is a burden to him but he also loves being the sole one to possess it.

. he and the world around him are separated by an impermeable barrier, the boundary between the weak and the strong. he enjoys enacting violence upon his enemies just for the thrill of fighting, just for the sake of knowing he is the strongest, and also since it is the only time he realises he exists as a real person. the strong existing on the pinnacle of a lonely mountain (throughout heaven and earth, i alone am the honored one)

. he has great, unparalleled power, but can hardly connect with others. he isn't treated as a teenager when he's young, and he's hardly seen as a mortal. he is treated with derision and resentment by almost everyone.

. gun as gojo also because of. eye horror. seeks a warrior's death as freedom and release from their solitude.

. jinyoung would probably be like choso. clear thinker who isn't very emotional until it involves their family. values family and brotherhood a lot. capable of cruelty and profound vengefulness, but also monstrous indifference towards what isn't important to them. is a parental figure toward a younger child whom they care a lot about.

. goo and kinji hakari. a very self-absorbed individual who doesn't confirm to societal morals and traditions. doesn't perceive isolation that comes from being powerful. doesn't suffer from loneliness. has a strong mindset and clear goals. living their best life. very questionable allies.

. also would love to parallel gun and goo with hakari and sukuna, respectively. hakari spares his opponents while sukuna destroys them. gun nurtures talents while goo uproots them.

. gitae is also like sukuna, if you think about it. selfish, cold-hearted, immoral, and exceptionally sadistic. has committed parricide. wants an younger relative dead. eyes with such lunacy, you will only see them in eastern european snuff films.

. james lee and kenjaku, because identity theft is a competition and they are winning. impossible to tell their real age. act as a perfect foil to the main character and their ideals. slay, but traumatizing.

. GETO AND JAKE. HEAR ME OUT. pleasepleaseplease. firstly because MOTHER. secondly, there is a certain darkness and fluidity about the way they're written.

. family-oriented and self-sacrificial. empathetic and charming. entire friend group in love with them. graceful and gentle. REEK OF YIN SYMBOLISM. unhealthy coping mechanisms to their respective situations, and have a tendency to isolate themselves. very insane psychotic mentally disturbed but those details are somehow ALWAYS overlooked and oversimplified. very gnc coded. a reason behind their downfall and unravelling is the existence of a very powerful man, and their damning association with said man. did i mention being irrevocably in love with their best friend?

. jake's big deal and suguru's cult.... hmmm... i feel like the possibility of all those possibilities being possible is just another possibility that can possibly happen!!! influential girlbosses that people folk to!

. samuel is so naoya-esque. obsessed with powerful men who don't know don't gaf about him. my fav delulu.

. mary as yuki!!!!! perhaps stronger than the one considered to be the strongest...

. ELI AS YUUTA-[i get dragged from the podium and thrown in quicksand]

. jichang being very very nanami coded not only because of the aesthetic but also because the impact of their death on the main character...

. VASCO AND TODO. literally the realest people around the main character (not elaborating further)

. vin and maki. their metamorphosis from a bug being trampled upon to venomous insects, catalyzed by the injustice and abuse suffered by the people closest to them, horrible family, physical appearance portrayed as an element of monstrosity,

. LMFAO JAY BEING INUMAKI TYPE OF CURSE USER IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY TOO

. johan and kashimo because of the nuclear hazard levels of crumpled receipt wet sock energy

. the shaman(shinmyung cheon) as naobita zenin. the REAL naoya would definitely be taejin!

. so that makes samuel higuruma. impeccable dilf divorced dad of three vibes radiated by these two.

. LUA IS SO VERY NOBARA CODED. YOU WON’T GET IT BUT I DO.

. jiho's presence in this au would be like riko's or junpei's. definitely not comparing him to riko. NEVER. just the way his existence wreaks irreversible damage to the main characters. also the transformation into a monster bit for junpei??? THAT'S juvie jiho. jake takes his darkness as a catalyst for hate and revenge. he toys with jiho and feeds his hatred... he doesn't complete his metamorphosis quite because jiho is weak, and that's his tragedy!!!

. this is so badly written im ctfu but if you read up to this point thank you!!!! much appreciated

[rxborne]

One foot in front of the other.

I tend to pace. It’s become something of a habit. Whenever my brain feels cluttered or upon reaching critical levels of stress I pace. I pace around the small supplement shop that I work in, taking thousands of steps around and around, walking in a circle like a bear or some other kind of proud animal who has been imprisoned in a zoo, an animal that was always king of its respective ecosystem, never meant to be subjugated to anything other than death in the hunt or of lack thereof. It’s unnatural. I am bound in restraints. I am a creature displaced from his habitat, by my own doing mostly. When I am home, I pace throughout my neighborhood, walking on paths that weave in and out of the forest, teasing my brain with the illusion of a return to nature, an escape. I listen to Scriabin with wired headphones, one ear off so that I may hear the rustling of leaves, the song of the birds, the water moving through the pathetic little stream that was once great but has been made small and dry most of the year due to its source being subverted to make way for new construction. I don’t look down upon it for these things, I understand what that is like. I used to look forward to going to this bridge that passed over the stream at its widest so that I could look down upon all the different wildlife, snakes and turtles mostly. I haven’t seen anything alive in there in months. Still every time that I pass over this bridge I stop and search it for a sign of these little animals I had made friends with, and upon the nearly certain disappointment of finding nothing, I continue pacing around. Maybe they became jaded with the state of things and returned to a place that felt like home. I have long struggled with understanding the concept of home. 

I have lived many different places but everywhere I have stayed for more than a brief visit I have ended up feeling like that bear in captivity. I am aware of how cliché this type of thought is. I don’t feel sorry for myself, I simply recognize the pattern of my own emotions. I often wonder if maybe the type of place, the type of people I could surround myself with, has simply ceased to exist, maybe even long before my birth. I try to discard this kind of thinking, all that it does is begin the great downwards spiral. The world is quite large and has 8 trillion or billion people I don’t know which one it is. It’s quite possible that my home rests upon the peak of some great mountain, or down on the sands of a glittering beach. At times I believe that I will never know unless I scour the earth, pacing up and down every single place that I think might make my heart sing and my spirit soar.

You hear all the time that you will never be happy or content until you have your “mission”. Up to this point in my life it feels that my life has been made up of bearing various yokes, once again mostly self-imposed. So much clutter and slop, it feels as if my mission has been lost under this black pile of spiritual refuse. But I think that you cannot seek this mission out. Just like how they say that you cannot seek true love out, it must come to you, and you must claim it when it does appear, lest you find yourself out of luck for the next decade until it reappears, maybe forever. It is one of the cruel ironies of life. If you search for something so hard that it consumes you, you are fated to roam the earth for the rest of your days searching, left with want and unfulfilled desire up until you close your eyes for the last time. Maybe home will come to me if I simply forget about the cage that I pace in. Maybe true love will appear like an apparition in the night, whisking me off to paradise. But I don’t think that’s how things work. I must become true love; I must become the human embodiment of paradise. I must pray and become so mindful of every single molecule that makes up my body and mind and how they can affect that which surrounds me that I ascend and become pure light, illuminating the path forward, forever ending this ceaseless pacing.

One day I will disappear and maybe somebody will wonder what has become of me, not having a single clue until they step outside in the morning to grab their coffee or head to a job and feel the warmth of my light washing over them, filling their heart to the brim with the hope of a new day begun. They will immediately recognize this warmth as the same warmth that they enjoyed when held in my embrace and shared a laugh. I will have become pure love & joy. A reminder that in every new day is a new life. I will have found my home.

I will have become the sun.

[ghoulelegy]

Hey bro! Can you write a coming out fanfic of a ghoul coming out to Copia as nb (or any other gender tbh ^^)

I think I’d like the Y/N ghoul to be like nervous and all that, and also I’d like if the other ghouls were around you to support and all that 🥺

Love ya!! 💖

Absolutely - I would love to provide you with wholesome Copia and Ghouls content. Thank you for the request *gives you a cookie* You Will Never Walk Alone

Summary: You connect the dots one day and realise you're nonbinary. You decide to come out to Copia and the ghouls. Pairing: Nonbinary reader X Copia and Era IV ghouls (put in Aether and Sunshine too for good measure) Wordcount: 2,867 Contains:

Content warning: Negative thoughts Some brief mention of wanting to claw at your own skin. Gender Dysphoria Safe for Work Coming Out Platonic Cuddling (Cuddle puddle) Emotional Hurt / Comfort

Read You Will Never Walk Alone on AO3

You felt like something was wrong, for a while now.

Of course, it was whenever you would catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, your heart would sink like a stone into a bottomless well of despair. Your reflection, a stranger staring back with hollow eyes, felt like a cruel apparition haunting your very soul. A leaden weight settled in your chest, and a solitary tear traced a melancholic path down your cheek, leaving a trail of salt and sorrow in its wake.

You despised your name; it left a bitter taste in your mouth every time it passed your lips. The way people saw you felt like a thousand burning eyes, each gaze a searing judgment etching into your skin.

They weren’t looking at you.

They were looking at what they thought should be you.

The mere sight of your reflection in the mirror was an electric shock coursing through your veins, igniting an overwhelming urge to claw at your own skin as if shedding the shell that felt foreign and constricting. What had once been a distant, lulling hum in the background had morphed into an unrelenting roar, an emotional tempest you could no longer silence or ignore.

But it only hit you when you googled the almighty “Am I transgender” quiz when the realisation that you were not what you were told your whole life was like a punch to the gut.  

And just like that, you began to unravel. The dissonance spread like a subtle but persistent ache, seeping into every corner of your life. It was as if the realisation had triggered a growing storm of dysphoria, casting a shadow over even the simplest moments.

The ghouls could sense that something was distressing you.

 You wanted to tell them, you really did.

You wished coming out wasn’t necessary.

You wished that you didn’t have to come out. -

You held your tail close to you during dinner that night on a particularly bad dysphoria day. Your body was hunched as you ate your food with Papa and the Ghouls. You found yourself nervously bouncing your leg, self-soothing stimming to try and get yourself to ease away your nerves. With each twitch, you tried to ease away the gnawing tension, but it only seemed to intensify.

Tonight, I’ll do it. I’ll come out to them.

Of course, there was no deadline for coming out. All this pressure to come out was all in your head. There’s no “coming out Olympics.” Everyone’s advice on the internet was that there was no need to rush, no need to meet any arbitrary deadlines. You could come out to others in your own time, at your own pace, when you felt ready. In the end, it was your journey, your truth, and your happiness that mattered most. Which helped to ease your anxiety, but, hiding yourself away made you feel like you were wrecking your soul.

Before long, dinner was over, and you found yourself mechanically washing your plate and cup in the sink. You struggled to get yourself to focus on the mundane task, seemingly fighting yourself to even begin to focus, but you needed to physically get yourself to move. The clinking of dishes and the soothing sound of running water filled the air, providing an attempted distraction to the turmoil swirling within your mind. Every scrub of the sponge, every rinse of the plate, and every drop of water felt like a monumental task. The weight of the upcoming conversation with Papa and the ghouls bore down on you, making even the simplest of actions feel like a Herculean effort.

What if they don’t understand? What if they reject you? What if they abandon you and leave you isolated and alone?

As you mechanically moved from one dish to another, your thoughts raced, darting in all directions like a swarm of panicked birds. The room around you blurred, and your surroundings became a mere backdrop to the relentless storm of emotions within.

You felt a gentle pressure on your shoulder. Startled, you turned, your eyes meeting Papa's. His presence, though unassuming in casual attire, radiated a quiet strength and unwavering support.

“Hey, are you okay?” Papa asks gently “The ghouls were telling me you…seem like you’re in distress. Even earlier, the way you kept fidgeting – it’s like something is really eating away at you”.  

You turned your gaze away from Papa's concerned eyes, unable to hold his steady gaze. The weight of your hidden truth pressed down on you, making it difficult to meet his gaze and acknowledge the distress that had been building within you.

"I'm fine," you chant like a mantra, your voice wavering slightly. It was a reflexive response, a shield you had constructed to guard your vulnerability. Admitting your inner turmoil felt like exposing a fragile part of yourself that you had kept hidden for far too long.

“Chiaramente, non stai bene, Tesoro” He softly mumbles “Something is bothering you and you won’t speak up about it. I won’t press you about it but perhaps if you tell me…. I can help you.”

“I want to, I just don’t know how to…. say it”.

“Take your time, there’s no rush”.

You twirled your fingers, trying to organise your thoughts.

“So umm well I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time," you stammered, your voice quivering. Your fingers anxiously twirled a strand of your hair as you continued, "And I didn’t know at the time what I was feeling. And now I recently realized what it was called, and I wanted to tell you for a long, long time, but I was terrified. But—"

You paused, anxiously twirling your hair again, your tail whirling back and forth reeking with stress as you feel your heart pounding in your chest.

"I’m scared I won’t be accepted, or perhaps even kicked out, but Papa…I can’t live like this anymore. So, I just want you to know" Another pause, and you took a deep breath.

This is it, this is the moment

"I’m nonbinary."

“There’s no turning back now,”

 you thought to yourself, a whirlwind of doubts and fears swirling in your mind.

“I said it, I cannot unsay it.

 What if I made a grave mistake?”

 Panic began to creep in as you watched Papa processing your confession. Each second felt like an agonizing hour, your vulnerability lay bare before him.

You stared intently at him as his expression softened while he absorbed your words. He didn’t say anything but wrapped his arms around you. You felt yourself trembling still, as you laid your head against his chest. But he held you tightly, cocooning you with warmth.

“Thank you for trusting me with this, Tesoro. I love you, no matter what. Your identity doesn’t change anything.”

As Papa spoke those words of acceptance and unconditional love, tears welled up in your eyes. It was as if a dam within you had finally burst, releasing a flood of emotions that had been pent up for far too long. You felt a mixture of relief, gratitude, and vulnerability, all swirling within you.

Your body tensed as this cacophony of emotions washed over you, the weight of your secret and the fear of rejection slowly being replaced by the warmth of his embrace and his reassuring words.

"Let it out, sweetness," he softly cooed, his gentle encouragement providing the safety and permission you needed to release the pent-up emotions. And so, you did. The tears flowed freely as you sobbed, your shoulders trembling with the weight of it all.

You felt yourself sink into his embrace, your body relaxing but simultaneously releasing so many pent-up tears you buried in yourself for so long. As you sobbed, he gently caressed your back holding you as you just cried it out. His embrace was a sanctuary where your vulnerability was met with love and understanding. It was a moment of catharsis, a cleansing of the heart and spirit, and a reaffirmation that you were cherished for who you truly were.

“Tesoro, I have to ask, why did you fear that I’d kick you out or reject you”

 As you hesitated, thoughts of countless stories and news articles flooded your mind. You'd read about people's coming out experiences, the ones that had gone horribly wrong, the heart-wrenching tales of rejection, and the pain that had shattered lives. Those stories were etched into your memory, cautionary tales that reminded you of the potential risks of revealing your true self.

You swallowed hard, your voice quivering as you tried to convey the fear that had gripped you for so long. "I've...I've read so many stories, Papa. Stories of people who came out and were rejected, disowned, or worse..."

Papa's expression softened even further, and he nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "I see, Tesoro. It's only natural to be afraid, especially when you've seen the pain others have endured. But you don’t need to be afraid of me”

 You and Papa stood together in the dimly lit kitchen, your tears and fears laid bare. His comforting presence had provided a lifeline, and as you slowly regained your composure, he gently asked,

"Does anyone else know?"

You took a moment to collect your thoughts, the weight of your confession still heavy on your heart.

"No, just you," you replied, your voice steadier now. "But…I'd quite like to tell the ghouls."

Papa nodded understandingly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back. "I'm sure they'll accept you, sweet, but I understand if you don't want to tell them tonight."

You hesitated for a moment, considering the support and warmth that the other ghouls had shown you in the past. "I...want to," you finally admitted, your nerves still present but overshadowed by a growing sense of determination. -

With Papa's arm on your shoulder, you made your way to the ghoul's common room. To no one's surprise, the Ghouls were lying in a cuddle puddle.

Aurora, with her ethereal presence, lay atop Swiss' chest on the couch, her fingers interlocked with those of Cumulus who reclined beneath them on the floor mattress. Rain like a delicate droplet of water, rested upon Aether, who in turn reclined atop Mountain. Phantom, always enigmatic, curled up beside Cirrus and Sunshine, as he nestled in with their heat. Sodo, in the typical manner of the mischievous one, decided to make a grand entrance into the cuddle pile. He grabbed a nearby fluffy pillow and dramatically leapt into the centre of the pile, shouting, "Surprise cuddle attack!" This unexpected intrusion sent ghouls tumbling in all directions, laughter erupting throughout the room. Eventually, he found himself nestled amid the chaotic cuddle pile, laughing along with the rest of the ghouls.

“You’re back!” Cumulus happily chirped as she saw you “We were about to have a movie night, but we decided to wait for you”

“Actually, there’s something I’d quite like to tell you”

Papa stood by your side, his grip on your shoulder gently tightening. You knew that this moment could change everything, and the uncertainty gnawed at you. Yet, you couldn't let fear hold you back any longer. With a clearing of your throat, you garnered the attention of the ghouls. Their masked faces turned towards you, curiosity in their eyes. Papa's presence beside you was a silent source of support, a reminder that you were not alone in this.

"I, uh..." You began, your voice quivering slightly but growing steadier with each word. "I've been holding something back for a long time, and tonight, I want to share it with all of you."

You break the news.

The ghouls exchanged glances, their masked expressions unreadable. But then, one by one, they began to nod, their gestures of understanding and acceptance offering you reassurance.

“So uhh…you guys don’t…hate me?”

"Nonsense, we'll never turn our backs away from one of our pack," Aether spoke up, his voice filled with pride.

Swiss chimed in "We love you for who you are, not how you identify."

"Guess what, you’re still stuck with us weirdos” Sodo perks up “whether you like it or not.”

Tears welled up in your eyes once more, but this time, they were tears of gratitude. The ghouls rose from their seats, forming a circle around you and Papa, and the love and warmth they exuded was overwhelming.

Without a word, they pulled you into their embrace, creating a cuddle pile of support and affirmation. In that moment, you felt truly seen, accepted, and loved for exactly who you were.

“Come here, buddy” Cirrus pulls you in on the cuddle pile, her arms wrapping around you. Sunshine and Phantom quickly joined, encasing you in a mound of warmth and acceptance.

Rain and Mountain squeezed in from the other side, their presence offering a sense of security. Cumulus reached over and gently patted your head with a reassuring smile, while Aurora, with her graceful touch, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"I told you, we'll always have your back," Sodo said with a mischievous grin, pulling you closer into the cuddle puddle.

The mixture of emotions swirling within you was dizzying - relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of belonging. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off your shoulders, and you could finally breathe freely.

"I...I don't know what to say," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

"You don't have to say anything," Phantom replied softly. "Just know that we love and accept you, no matter who you are or how you identify."

As the ghouls held you close in their embrace, Aether and Swiss didn't hesitate to join in. Aether, with his calming presence, settled in beside Phantom, his arm draping over your shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. Swiss, with a warm smile on his face, carefully moved closer, ensuring there was enough room for everyone. He placed a gentle hand on your other shoulder, completing the circle of support. With Aether and Swiss now part of the cuddle pile, you felt even more enveloped in warmth and acceptance. The ghouls had created a protective cluster around you, and you couldn't have asked for a more loving and supportive albeit chosen family.

“Ahem,” you look up, and see Copia awkwardly shuffling “mind if I join? You look….cozy.”

You couldn't help but grin when you heard Copia's voice and saw him standing there, looking somewhat awkward but clearly intrigued by the cosy cuddle pile. Without a moment's hesitation, you reached out and pulled him into the midst of the ghouls, making room for him.

"Of course, Papa, there's always room for one more," you said with a warm smile.

Copia chuckled softly as he settled in, finding his place among the ghouls. As he leaned into the cuddle pile, you felt a sense of completeness wash over you. With Copia joining in, it was as if all the pieces had fallen into place, and you were surrounded by the people who truly cared about you, regardless of who you were.

"Wait shit, hold up," Swiss exclaimed, digging deep into his pockets. Out came some vape, lipstick, a lighter, some coins, and even a rock (which Mountain pounced on with a happy and chirping “THERE YOU ARE, BARTHOLOMEW”) before Swiss pulled out a giant nonbinary flag and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Swiss, how the fuck –“ Rain was astounded, unable to finish his sentence before bursting into laughter.

Swiss grinned mischievously. "You know, I like to be prepared for any occasion," he quipped, his playful tone lightening the atmosphere even further.

Rain couldn't help but laugh at Swiss's unexpected flag reveal, and soon, the entire room was filled with giggles and chuckles.

Aether chimed in, his calm demeanour contrasting with the laughter around him, "Well, I guess Swiss does carry a bit of everything with him, but I never expected a flag to be in the mix."

Swiss feigned offence, putting a hand to his chest dramatically. "Hey, you never know when someone might need a flag, right? LOOK I EVEN HAVE THE SWISS FLAG IN HERE SOMEWHERE HOLD UP.” He takes off his boots prompting an explosion of glitter.

“We don’t talk about the glitter in my underwear by the way”. Swiss laughs

“WHAT”

"Well, you see," he began dramatically, "I believe in living life to the fullest, and that includes adding a little extra sparkle even in life’s shittiest moments – such as when you’re taking a shit.”

The ghouls erupted into laughter once more, the sound echoing through the room. They weren’t treating you any differently. You were just….you.

And you were exactly where you belonged.

As the laughter died down, you felt a deep sense of contentment and belonging. The ghouls had not only accepted your true self but had embraced it with open arms and playful humour. It was a beautiful moment of connection and understanding, and you couldn't have asked for a more supportive and loving chosen family. With the nonbinary flag draped around your shoulders, you lay in the middle of the pile.

You look at Mountain who was shuffling for the play button on the remote. 

[sillyandsensibleheart]

Excerpt from 'Letters from Hertfordshire' on Ao3:

"After a brief struggle, Darcy’s cravat draped limply from his fingers. His hand rubbed the side of his aching neck as fatigue settled heavily upon him. As he approached the staircase that led to the upper floor, a soft rustling from above drew his attention.

There, standing on the curved landing above, was Georgiana. Dressed only in her nightgown and a heavy shawl, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, she looked almost like an apparition in the flickering candlelight. Her long, dark hair lay in a single plait over her shoulder, and her pale face was etched with lines of worry.

Darcy straightened, clearing his throat as they studied one another.

“You are awake,” he said at last.

“Fitzwilliam…” she replied in a small voice.

As he looked up at her in the gloom, the present seemed to dissolve into the shadows, and before him stood a young girl on the grand stairs of Pemberley’s entrance hall, her face bathed in tears. He remembered clearly the cherubic sentinel, dressed in her nightclothes, her hair bound with a glossy black ribbon. The sight of her that night had been as surreal as the long carriage journey home from London, a haze of eternal twilight. To him, none of it felt real—Pemberley, forever altered by the absence of his father.

He remembered the governess approaching his tiny sister, her black dress blending seamlessly with the surrounding shadows. With soothing murmurs, the kindly woman took Georgiana's hand and gently guided her away. Darcy, though reluctant to see her go, found himself unable to voice even a word of protest. Georgiana’s head turned back, her haunted eyes fixed on him as she followed the governess into the encroaching darkness.

Darcy turned away, surrendering to the footman’s guidance, lost in a stoic trance of sorrow. Moments later, the unnatural silence was shattered by a mournful wail, its tragic echoes reverberating through the grand house as if the walls themselves were weeping—the agonizing lament of a broken child.

Her pain had struck him like a stinging powder burn, searing across his composure. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, and silently prayed for the strength to master himself. Despite the rawness of his grief, Darcy knew he could not falter. Duty bound him, and soon he would face his father’s steward. He had to demonstrate, with unwavering resolve, that he was worthy of his legacy. 

Through him, Pemberley would endure.

Beneath his tight self-control, Darcy had yearned to be with the one person who understood this new emptiness as deeply as he did. More than anything, he had wished to offer Georgiana comfort, hoping that in soothing her, he might find solace for himself.

Yet he had walked away from her. 

One duty taking precedence over another. It was what he was meant to do, or so he had told himself—but the recollection of that moment still filled him with remorse.

Then, a more recent memory surfaced, offering a balm to his burning guilt.

“You can say nothing wrong if you speak from your heart, Mr. Darcy. I am certain that it cannot dishonor you,” Elizabeth had said. Yet no grand words came to mind, no perfect phrase to convey his feelings. Instead, his thoughts remained a tempest of powerful, contradicting emotions, both overwhelming and paralyzing.

But as he searched within himself for what to say, he found, with a sudden, unshakable certainty, that it was not words he needed.

Darcy moved.

He climbed the stairs three at a time, each stride closing a distance not measured in steps, but in years. Georgiana’s expression melted into tears as her arms rose to reach for him. Without hesitation, Darcy embraced the young woman before him. As he squeezed her tightly and felt her bury her face into his chest, he hoped somehow that if he held her tightly enough, the young girl he’d forsaken all those years ago would feel it too."

Summary of work:

After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need. Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.   Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.

[nightcolorz]

114 for the drabbles 👀

Here u go Ray 🥰 Lmfao uh this is my longest Drabble 😁. This ask is following an ask game where u can send me prompts from here: https://www.tumblr.com/nightcolorz/735473060637016064/drabble-challenge-1-150?source=share and I’ll write a Drabble!!

Takes place sometime in the devils minion era shortly post chase years when they r beginning to have a relationship. CW for some nsfw (tho no actual sex) and The F Slur 😁

114-No, you’re my bitch 

It was one of those really sweltering hot nights, Florida, when the brief breezes feel more like someone thick and sweating panting on your moistened brow, rather than a cool bit of mercy. The kind of day that drives a man fucking crazy. The sort of weather that has the crime rates spiking high enough to make somebody like me self reflect a little. A heat that could get to a vampire I figure, if you’ve got yourself a vampire bodily and human adjacent enough to notice the heat at all. 

I had myself a vampire with a fetish for all things human and feeling, lucky boy that I was, and on that particular agonizing night I found him unusually. Not looming above my bed like a ginger hawk, nor approaching me with the spontaneity of an apparition, but sitting on the steps of the apartment I was renting. Armand could’ve been sitting there without thinking of me at all, it seemed so non-calculated. Alarming for my vampire boyfriend, who was not the unintentional type. He was sitting there like a kid, sort of pouty, a bit disadvantaged looking. His jeans fit weird on his legs, too long at the ankles but two tight in the thighs. He was wearing some ratty wife beater tank that would look more at home on a harder, bigger guy than on this ethereal monster, this sad boy. His boots were working boots, and definitely too big for him, sort of clownish. Armand was looking down at them, plush bottom lip jutted out, red handed. I mean so literally, red handed, bloodied. 

It was subtle enough that only someone whose world revolved around blood could notice such a thing. There was blood coated under those claw-like nails, a sheen of sweat and sweet boy-like blush pulsing beneath his skin. And the clothes could be nothing else but the garbs of a victim. A victim who must’ve been really something, considering how Armand didn’t even seem to register me standing over him. 

“Hey man.” I said,  rocking on the souls of my feet a bit. At this point it felt so normal, speaking to him, to an extent that was almost funny. My vampire buddy, my immortal lover. My weird boy sidekick, who I wanted very badly to fuck me brainless. Hey man indeed. “Daniel.” He responded, wistfully. He wasn’t all there, which wasn’t unusual in itself. But something was wrong, even by Armand standards, and damn was I bothered. “What’s up?” I asked, after taking a beat to consider how best to go about this. I was concerned, almost like he was real and I might affect him. I really didn’t want him to be hurt. Armand hurt. It made me feel sick, in a way that was so deep it was disorienting. 

Armand didn’t answer. I realized that a question like “what’s up” was perhaps a bit too nonspecific and modern for him to wrap his head around, and I tried to rework a wording in my head before I heard, spoken to me within my soul, directly in my brain as if it was coming from me, and not my parasitic lover inserting himself in what was rightly his. “What does it mean to be someone’s bitch, Daniel?”

“Fuck.” I muttered. “It always fucks me up when you do that, God damn.” He only looked at me, non speaking. I felt sort of stupid and confused, like I was a kid struck with a pop quiz. “Bitch?” I said dumbly. Armand looked down to the shoes. “What do you mean, bitch? What is this about?”

“If a man were to say to you: Don’t get smart with me faggot, know your place. You’re nothing more then my fucking bitch—what would that entail?” I heard spoken amongst my thoughts in that delicate, airy voice. 

The force of my anger could’ve been strong enough to black me out. I knew the vengeful rage was irrational, sort of pathetic and childish, to feel like I could protect this thing before me, this thing capable of killing me with an effortless touch of his hand. Yet it was there, and in the moment I could only submit to it. “What the fuck. Who said that to you?” I asked, trying to keep myself from shouting like a moron. Armand’s eyes returned to meet mine, and some clarity calmed me as I looked into that complete darkness, those glimpses into power and age so immeasurable in comparison to my moral limitations that I could only begin to glimpse it. 

“Someone meaningless and small, whom I took easily.” Responded the voice within my head. I nodded, and with some atypical reverence and gentleness I sat beside Armand on the steps. Two dirty, confused vagabond youths, with blood under their fingernails, trying to understand. 

“Well, in this instance, that’s what he meant when he said that you’re his quote on quote fucking bitch.” I said disdainfully. “Meaningless and small.” I briefly hesitated before I continued. “Could take you easily.” Armand was looking at the shoes.

“Hey?” I prompted “Hey, are you ok?” He didn’t respond. Only continued looking downwards, no hint of understanding or emotion visible in his expression. I felt so sad, David looking up at the gigantic impenetrable Goliath for a moment, wondering how I could reach something so beyond me. It was when I began to consider standing up and stretching my legs that I heard the wind chime voice in my head, this time tinged with a lightness and a sweetness that warmed me from the inside. “How funny.” He said. “That he should think this of me, when really he was my bitch ultimately. If there is an afterlife, whatever that may be, he must exist with the reality that he died my bitch. He will always be my bitch, for as long as his cruel soul continues. A wonderful joy, to have someone be my bitch.”

Predictable pervert that I was, I blushed a little. Not outrageously, but just enough to catch my blood hungry lover’s attention, activate that primitive hunter’s nose with the blood swarming close to the skin. He looked up, into my eyes. I coughed, nearly spluttered, and looked down, averting my gaze from his. He was unflinching, unblinking. “Daniel.” This time he spoke aloud, which was less intimate than speaking within me, but much more exhibitive. “You’re my bitch, aren’t you, Daniel?” 

My breath hitched audibly. I felt exposed and naked, hearing him say that, people walking by. “Armand.” I tried to hiss, though I know it came off as more of a plea. 

“Say it.” He commanded softly, though with little gentleness or remorse. “Tell me what you are Daniel.” I shuddered. Hot flashes spread through my abdomen alongside cold, raw shivers racing down my spine. It was feverish and sickening. I was weak with it, grinning. “I’m nothing more than your bitch.” I confessed painfully, through smiling teeth, submissive like a monkey’s smile. He reduced me to that, an animal, a bitch. I was beginning to get hard in my jeans. 

“Yes..” He whispered, and he ran one of his bloodied hands through my hair, petting me like a dog. “Know your place faggot.” He said, so softly and sincerely. The crassness sounded nearly absurd. The innocence of a parrot repeating something it heard but couldn’t understand. The effect was immediate regardless. 

“Let’s go inside.” I breathed. Armand let his hand travel to my neck, and he held me there, commanding, controlling. “Dogs don’t give orders.” He said, with some humor, and I whined shakily as if to support his statement. “But yes, inside we shall go. And stay we shall still, if you can remember your place.”

——

U can find my drabbles posted on a03 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52422124/chapters/132615793

[caffeineivore]

Night Train

Liminal Spaces Pt 3, A/Z, PG13-ish?

Taking the midnight train rarely bodes well in this city. Zavier is accustomed to a strict hoodie down, headphones-on, no-eye-contact policy on those occasions, sharing that cold subway compartment with emaciated druggies sleeping off a binge and dead-eyed transients traversing through a merciless world that's forgotten them. He doesn't love this place and time, but there aren't that many jobs-- legitimate ones-- available to a boy from the projects who never grew up knowing any but the absolute wrong people, and the night shift paid far more than the day shift.

Tonight isn't too awful, because for the first two stops, the compartment is completely empty, and Zavier takes the time to enjoy the rare solitude. Despite the lateness of the hour, the subway is lit almost hectically bright in contrast to the darkness of the tunnels. He gradually lets his posture relax, a wiry, golden-haired young man with a deceptively pretty face as he slouches against the seat-back, and then he sits bolt upright as the subway car comes to a halt at the next station and the doors slide open. Growing up in his neighbourhood, he'd conditioned himself to be hyper-aware of his surroundings even before he'd taken the security job, ready for anyone and anything.

But the slim, blue-eyed apparition who steps into his compartment doesn't bear the faintest resemblance to the usual characters as she takes a seat across from him, all spotless scrubs and sensible shoes and eyes like a clear sky before dawn, somewhere far away from the grit and streetlights and artifice of the city--- somewhere with starshine and moonlight. She says nothing when his gaze meets hers, but affords him a faint, unapologetically kind smile. It should put his back up, and give him every single reason to look for an ulterior motive, and yet it doesn't.

(Hours later he would still have no idea what on Earth possessed him.)

"Late night."

He really doesn't talk to people on the subway even in the light of day-- who even DOES that? -- but even if he did, it would logically not be to state the obvious to a girl with the type of face that was found on priceless paintings in art museums.

She, though, simply nods, answers as though this were completely normal instead of batshit insane. "Yes, it really is. It has been a long day."

"Are you getting off work, I suppose?" Even as his mouth makes stilted conversation without any input from his brain, Zavier can't quite piece it together. "I didn't know there was a hospital close by."

"I had a house call, subbing for a colleague out on his honeymoon. Everyone deserves that time with the person they love." That smile again, soft as snowfall, deep as the moonlit sea. "Are you also leaving work, or going in?"

"Beginning, not ending, I'm afraid." Zavier gives a self-deprecating shrug. "Down in the warehouse district. I get off at seven. The pay's not bad and the schedule works well enough with grad school."

The darkness of the tunnels gives way to the bright lights of the next station-- Zavier's stop. It had been two stops already since she'd gotten onboard, and he hasn't the faintest idea how the time had passed in such a brief conversation. Even in the glare of those lights, the unflattering harshness of them, she's delicate and lovely and almost not real, like a soap bubble rainbow against concrete. Zavier gets up, his legs taking him by rote towards the door, and glances back over his shoulder at her. "Well, goodnight."

"Be safe out there."

The door closes behind him and the train pulls off before he can even catch another glimpse of her through those windows, and he makes his way out of the station, down the barren city streets. He's restless in a way that has nothing to do with danger lurking in the dark shadows, and curses silently to himself that he didn't even ask for her name. Then shakes his head, incredulous, at that train of thought.

Just a stranger on the night train, just a moment in time, never to be repeated. There's no reason for him to see her again, or to feel a desire to.