#Die by my hand clear sky you do not belong in this world

[bonefall]

Clear Sky: *invents borders and gathers violent rogues to defend them*

Clear Sky: *acts controlling over his pregnant wife, giving her orders in public*

Clear Sky: *isolates his younger brother from the rest of his family, commanding he go hunt immediately instead of catch up with Gray Wing*

Narrative: "He's just protective guys!! He just cares a lot!!!! Everything he does is for his Clan be nice to him :(((((("

[thatstomorrowsproblem]

DPxDC A Boy and His Pit Demon

Danny 

The world was green, green, green. Green beans, bean soup, Soup Time. Soupy, soupy Soup Time. 

Would Soup Time hurt now? 

Most things hurt now, because he was broken, broken, broken, but not the green. Green, green, green. 

Green isle, green sky, green eye, green soup. 

He paused. 

Green, green soup. He liked green, and he liked soup, but maybe he didn’t like green soup. 

“No eggs, just soup. I am not Sam, I am not.” He giggled quietly at the thought of amethyst eyes encircled with black and purple paint and approached the lake of green. 

It smelled like Soup had been left out in the sun to rot.

“Hot rot, hot rot.”  

He laid a clawed hand over his icy chest. Food was mean. Sometimes, food fought back. 

Food fights, fighting food, union fight, fighting Soup? Hot-rot green soup. 

He was so hungry, but hot was bad.  

Ice core, hot sore, hot-rot soup. 

He was already so broken, broken, broken, and green was good. 

The hot-rot soup was hot, and he was ice, but it wasn’t fighting back, and it might be nice. 

What did he have to lose? Lost friends, lost home, lost mind, lost all, found Soup. 

He liked green. 

He hummed happily before diving headfirst into a pit of rancid, fetid ectoplasm leaving the Infinite Realms behind. 

Damian 

Damian was nine years old, but that wouldn’t stop him from being the best the League had ever seen. 

He was almost there already, of course. 

He’d even won a fight against his mother once.  

Of course, Damian had set many traps on the battlefield in advance, but it was only proper to use every tool that one had on hand. 

Damian moved smoothly through his training stances, clearing his mind of all thoughts except executing his actions flawlessly. 

He had perfected them years ago, of course. He was not a baby, and he’d been practicing with the blade since he was four. It was important to keep all of your weapons, sharp, however, and ones own skills are the most valuable weapons. 

He often practiced near his grandfather’s pools.  

It was a place where few had permission to go unless accompanying his grandfather, after all, and the soft green glow was pleasant to be near. 

It could be dangerous, of course, but Damian was not so foolish as to risk falling in while healthy. 

A sound caught Damian’s attention, breaking him out of his fluid routine. 

His head whipped towards the Lazarus Waters which had begin to froth and bubble violently. 

Damian had never seen such a reaction before, but he’d heard from others what it meant. 

Rarely, perhaps once every five decades or so, a demon would rise from the pits. 

There was nothing even the best trained assassin could do against them. 

They were strong, fast, unkillable, and the only thing you could do if one set its sights on you was pray for a quick death. 

Damian straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, readying his blade. If he were to die, he would do so with his pride and strength in place. 

He only had to wait a few moments before a nightmarish head rose from the boiling pool. 

It was blacker than night, seeming to suck the luminescence from the waters around it. Its eyes were slitted, with sclera the same toxic green as the pool’s waters. Its mouth was a nightmare of serrated fangs bared in the parody of a smile. 

Damian raised his chin defiantly to death. “You do not belong here. These are my grandfather’s pools.” 

The demon’s head tilted far past what any human would be capable of, and it let out a low, static-filled hiss. “Hungry, hungry. Play, play?” 

Damian gritted his teeth. He had never heard of a pit demon ever speaking before, and the thought of it wanting to play with its food before it ate him brought him nothing but anger. 

If he were to die, he was going to do so with dignity. 

Damian sniffed. “No. One does not play with their food.” 

The creature let out another awful sound like lightning or a windstorm before its gruesome maw stretched even wider. “Fight food.” 

Damian took a deep breath before he let it our slowly and pointed his sword at the creature. “Then let us fight.” 

The creature rose slowly from the water, revealing a small, thin body, but Damian knew that size mattered little when it came to the power of a pit demon.  

It was almost human in the same way that his mother could be called almost nice. 

It had a head, a body, two arms, and two legs. 

However, its limbs were too long. Each of its hands had five skeletal fingers each ending in a razor-sharp blade. Its thin legs had an extra joint, and its stance hurt Damian’s spine just to look at as it floated above the pool dripping toxic water that could kill or poison the living. 

“Fight,” it growled in a voice filled with the cackle of a broken League communicator. 

It did not try and dodge or evade as it spend towards him, claws outstretched, and Damian thought he might get at least one good hit in before he died. 

Damian’s blow struck true, right at the demon’s center of mass, but it didn’t slow its momentum in the slightest, and Damian barely had time to get out of its reach before its claws could impale him. 

He spun quickly, keeping the creature in his sights as it turned on the ground, back arching like a cat about to pounce. 

There was no wound where Damian’s blade had struck, only smooth black skin, darker than night. 

Damian growled. 

It was still playing with him. Still making a fool of Damian, even in his last moments of life. 

Damian shrieked, darting forward and aiming a blade at the pit demon’s heels. 

If he could injure it somewhere delicate, maybe it would retreat back into the waters. 

The monster laughed, unnaturally twisting its legs out of reach and back into the air without a thought for the limitations of gravity or basic anatomy. 

Damian pivoted, slicing upwards at the beast’s exposed face, but the being only caught the sword in its bare hand. 

Damian had a solid grip on his sword. 

One of the first things he’d learned, mastered before the age of five, was how to keep a firm grip on his weapon while maintaining enough flexibility for rapid movement. 

The moment the creature wrapped his hand around the weapon, however, it was as if his favorite blade was as insubstantial as a cloud, and it went through Damian’s hand in an instant. 

The demon laughed its monstrous laugh again, tossing the beautifully forged custom blade behind itself as if it were a common stick. 

Damian knew he would die from the second he’d seen the pit demon emerge, but it was worse to know how insignificant of a threat he posed. 

With a flick of his wrist, he unsheathed and threw a poisoned dagger at the creature. It whizzed between its eyes, and the creature turned its sharp smile to watch the blade sail away. 

It wasn’t fair! 

The creature dropped to the ground in front of Damian, assuming the deplorable fighting stance of a seasoned street brawler, and Damian brought his own fists up at the ready. 

If this monster was going to toy with him like a cat with a mouse, if it liked to play with its food, Damian would be sure to win at least one game. 

The pit demon was even smaller on the ground, barely reaching Damian’s own chest, and Damian grinned savagely. 

He never got the chance to fight someone smaller than himself. 

In a quick movement, Damian darted forward, aiming a blow at the demon’s shoulder. 

Damian wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the fact that his attack had landed, or the fact that the creature hadn’t moved a single centimeter from the force. 

Damian ignored the stinging in his fist and decided to count it as a win. He’d never heard of anyone ever landing even a glancing blow against a pit demon, not even when a dozen of Grandfather’s best had been fighting one together. 

The demon threw a half-trained punch at Damian, and he stepped to the side to grab its wrist, hoping he could use the momentum against it and throw it to the ground, but his hand passed through the creatures arm as if it wasn’t there at all. 

With the distraction, Damian almost didn’t notice its other hand whipping out, and Damian could do nothing as the monster hit his diaphragm with enough force to knock the air from his lungs and send him tumbling backward to the ground. 

He heaved in a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the killing blow to land. 

He had fought well and landed a hit against the untouchable. 

A soft weight settled against his chest, and Damian’s eyes flew open. 

The pit demon had settled on top of his chest. “Brave, brave, boy. Fights well, so young. Good fight.” 

Damian shuttered at the being's sharp fangs so close to him, but tried to take pride in knowing that even a true pit demon thought him a worthy fighter. 

His mother and grandfather might never know, but Damian knew that he had done his position as Heir to the Demon proud. 

The creature moved its face toward Damian’s exposed throat, and he prayed for a swift death. 

The creature nuzzled the underside of his chin before growing limp and beginning to hum softly. 

Damian froze in confusion. 

The pit demon’s mass shifted, black body becoming almost like a liquid as it pooled around his neck and over his chest. “Good boy, good fight, like boy.” 

Damian knew he shouldn’t provoke the pit demon. He knew that. However, he had already played the monster’s game and wouldn’t sit passively until it decided it was ready. 

That was one indignity too far. 

“Are you not going to eat me now?” 

“Eat!” The pit demon screeched, purring hum coming to a sudden stop. “Fight food, fight boy, eat food, like boy. Boy fight, I fight, like boy, eat soup.” 

Damian swallowed. The pit demon spoke English, and Damian was fluent in the language. He was not as sure that the pit demon was fluent, however, with how little sense it was making. 

“In return for sparing my life, you would like soup?” Damian tried, furrowing his eyebrows. 

A hand reemerged from the black mass that was the pit demon, and a clawed finger pointed at the Lazarus Waters. “Ate Soup, green Soup. Sam I am not.” 

Damian didn’t know how not being named Samuel was related to drinking Lazarus Waters, but that was irrelevant to the small, absurd hope rising in his chest. “You are satiated after consuming my grandfather’s… soup, and you have no plans on eating me?” 

The demon wheezed out another crackling laugh and patted his cheek. “Funny boy, funny soup, like boy, keep boy.” 

Its sharp hand melted back into its body, and it resumed purring. 

Damian’s mind raced at the implications. 

He had fought a pit demon, he had landed a blow and impressed the creature, and it seemed that it planned on staying. 

Damian had– He had been the first to impress a demon with his fighting prowess, and he seemed to have won its loyalty. 

He had always known he was destined for greatness, of course, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this as a possibility. 

Damian laid a hand carefully on top of the purring monster on his chest. “If you are not Samuel, then what may I call you?” 

The demon rumbled and hummed, pressing itself into Damian’s hand. “I am P4NT0M, I am Dan, I am not Dan. I am Phantom. I am Danny.” 

Damian wrinkled his nose. Most of those names were unacceptable, but he supposed that he could make due. “Phantom, then. Welcome to Nanda Parbat. I am Damian al Ghul, grandson of Ra's al Ghul.” 

The creature purred more loudly, and Damian ran a hand along the monster’s cold brow. 

Damian grinned and sat up, cradling the black purring mass against his chest. 

He was Damian al Ghul, first of the League of Assassins to ever earn the respect of a Pit Demon. 

He would also be the first to tame a pit demon. 

[that-basic-simp]

Let Your Hair Down

Mizu X Fem!Reader CW: N/A WC: 1.2k+ A/N: This was originally going to be the first one-shot I was going to upload since this was the first one I wrote.

"You should wear your hair down more often," I said.

"And what? Get you and I killed?"

"No, I meant when we're alone. When we don't have to worry about people coming after you."

"I'm still surprised you haven't gotten killed either. Or kidnapped and made to be a prostitute."

"That makes two of us," I said.

"You really should hide yourself better."

"Like you?"

"It throws people off. And also no one will ever know because they die. A dead man tells no tales."

"Funny, weren't I the one to figure out your secret?"

"Because you kept following me when I said not to."

"You really don't remember me?"

"I try not to remember Kohama all that much."

"Can't say that I don't blame you. Kohama didn't treat me right either."

"This world doesn't treat women right."

"That's why we're not women," I smiled at Mizu.

"You do a horrible job at disguising yourself, you know that right?"

"Come on, try to be at least uplifting once in a while, Mizu."

"I can't when I am constantly worrying about our backs out here. More specifically yours."

"Aww, did I warm my way into the cold samurai's heart."

"I'm not a samurai. They're honorable. I have no honor."

"Not yet you don't."

"You think seeking revenge is honorable? It's anything but, Y/N. I don't know why you even followed me to begin with."

"Because I saw something you can't see in yourself."

"That being?"

"A lost, broken soul that is trying to get back at the people who wronged you. Especially that white man who caused your birth."

"What gave it away?" Mizu asked sarcastically.

"I wasn't finished. But also someone who constantly views themself as a monster, an onryo."

"Join basically everyone I have ever met," she sighed.

"But I also see a person who just wants someone to see you for who you truly are, not what you are."

"And who am I, Y/N?"

"You're Mizu. Simple as that."

"And who exactly is Mizu?"

I let out a soft chuckle, "Seems you need to do some soul searching, Mizu. Currently you're out for revenge, so I don't think soul searching is your thing to worry about right now."

"Well, who is Mizu to you?" she asked, curious.

"A strong person who will go the distance to get whatever needs to get done. A driven soul that wants to get back at the people who wronged you, but don't really go after those of your past. Those who treated you poorly and called you horrendous things. Just after the guy who made you and your mother suffer. Someone who is in need of a kind and caring  soul," I smiled at Mizu, trying to find her true eye color, but with her tinted glasses, they weren't helping.

Closing her eyes, she reached up and removed her glasses. Slowly opening them, she tilted her head upwards. My eyes found hers. I have only seen her true eye color once in a while and it was when she glared at me over her glasses. So to finally see them in their fullest and at their most vulnerable, it reminded me of the calm waters on the peaceful beach. How clear and stark they were, piercing like the ice, cold, too. Harsh, like a winter storm was raging behind those eyes. A single tear slid from her right eye and dropped onto the floor we were sitting on.

"I'm a monster, Y/N. Simple as that. Someone who shouldn't even belong in this world."

"Yet you're still here."

"I'm here for a reason."

"Your body could have easily given up on you. But you're resilient and able to push yourself through struggles. Sure you're here to get revenge, but you being here," I reached over and grabbed her hand gently. "Is a gift."

She shook her head, "I'm not, Y/N."

"To me you are. That's all that matters. And to me, I don't see a monster."

"Then what do you see?"

"A beautiful woman or handsome man. Whichever you prefer, with the most alluring blue eyes I have ever seen. Bright like the sun lit sky, calm as the waters at a peaceful beach, and yet, harsh and cold like a winter storm."

Another tear slid down her face as she turned away, shaking her head, "I-I--"

"It's ok, Mizu."

She turned and faced me, "No one has told me that before. T-Thank you, Y/N."

"You're welcome. It's a shame people only see you for your physical features and not what you harbor on the inside. Aside from revenge," I chuckled.

A slight smile formed on her lips. It was very rare for her to smile for a long period of time. Actually, it was just rare for her to smile period. Rare to show any kind of emotion other than being serious and taking no bullshit. But for some reason, I was able to worm my way into her life and still stick around.

"Everything ok, Y/N?" she asked, a little worried.

"J-Just thinking," I said.

"Thinking about what exactly?"

"Nothing too serious. Not like I could plot to kill you. I could never raise a blade like you do. It's almost as if you learned everything on your own. All the different fighting skills and blended it together to kind of make your own."

"I guess you could look at that in a sense."

"You're amazing, Mizu. You know that, right?"

Looking into her eyes, they widened slightly and she blinked a few times. Her mouth opened and closed before some pink crawled underneath her eyes. Reaching over, I placed my hand on her left cheek, turning her head to face me.

"Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Because I will come back and prove them wrong."

The right corner of her mouth twitched slightly, as if she was going to smile but didn't. My eyes flickered between her eyes and her lips. Letting out a soft sigh, she reached up and removed the string that held her hair together. Her long, raven like hair fell down past her shoulders. It really complimented her blue eyes, making them stand out even more than they already do. I couldn't help myself now.

Leaning towards her, I lightly placed my lips against hers. A surprised sound came from her as she backed up slightly, causing me to pull back.

"I-I'm sorry. I-I should have asked. Fuck," I breathed out, some tears forming in my eyes now. "I-I read into it too much, didn't I, Mizu? Shit, I-I'm so so sorry, I-I didn't mean t--"

I was cut off by Mizu returning the gesture. Fluttering my eyes closed, I reached up with both of my hands and dug them into her silk like locks. Pulling away, she found my eyes and smiled. It was soft, genuine, and for the first time, full of love and admiration for someone.

"Don't be sorry," she whispered. "I should have done that first, but you beat me to it."

I giggled, "You know, I was right."

"About what?"

"That you look gorgeous with your hair down. Or handsome. Whichever one you prefer."

"I prefer yours," she smirked.

My eyes widened and blinked rapidly as blush crawled onto my cheeks.

"I--uhm--uhhh," my mind went blank.

She chuckled and pulled away, "Thank you, Y/N."

"Y-You're welcome, Mizu," I said once I gathered my thoughts.

Sitting beside her, I set my hand down. Looking down from the corner of her eye, Mizu placed her hand on top of mine. Smiling, I leaned against her shoulder, placing my head on hers. Hers rested against mine and both of our eyes closed, taking in one another as we fell asleep, getting some much needed rest.

[violettduchess]

"doubt thou the stars are fire // doubt that the sun doth move // doubt truth to be a liar // but never doubt that i love (you)" x gilbert (or whoever you feel fits this best)

-revassierum

A/N: Gilbert won the poll so the first fic belongs to him.

This is the fic that comes before this one but I think that you can read this on its own.

Gilbert x Reader

WC: 2.3k

Full quote:

"Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love you. I love thee, I love but thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old. -William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

His knuckles, hidden under his black leather gloves, are white as he grasps the cold gray parapet. His eye, red as a hellish comet streaking across a midnight sky, surveys the shapes he can make out below, the ones revealed by the twin luminance of moonlight and torches: the shadowy lines of the encampment tents in front of the castle; light winking weakly off the metal of soldiers’ helmets as they move around. Beyond them the ribbon of pale gray road that disappears into the imposing darkness of the treeline, so dark it drinks in all the light without leaving a single drop.

The road holds his gaze, has every ounce of his attention so thoroughly that he doesn’t react to the man who joins him, the one who is silent as he stares at Gilbert, his expression as stoic as the stone Gilbert’s gloves are so tightly clenching. 

After a moment, he speaks.

“Yes, Doctor?”

Walter reaches up, adjusting his glasses.

“The night is chilled. You should be abed, resting for what is to come.”

Few people in the world can speak to Gilbert in such a way, telling him what he should be doing. But Walter is one of them. The man who carries the weight of Obsidian on his broad shoulders doesn’t answer his physician but the tightness of his jawline is enough of a sign that he has heard.

Walter finally turns his head, his pale gaze following Gilbert’s line of sight until he too is looking at the place where the road vanishes into black forest. He remembers a whispered conversation with Roderich, hushed and hurried, quick as a sparrow nervously jumping from branch to branch lest it be snapped up by the jaws of some far-quicker predator.

“If I may speak freely….”

Gilbert waves a hand. “As if that would be something new.” Though there is a faint glimmer of humor in his voice, his gaze is as intensely focused as ever and he does not glance at the doctor.

“You sent her away. Quite….forcefully, if I recall the story.”

That gets his attention. He turns away, a movement as quick and sleek as silvery clouds sliding across the face of the moon.

Walter knows him well enough to read his face. He sees the miniscule flash of surprise in the depths of his crimson eye, the slight drawing of his shoulders. Anyone else would think Gilbert had no reaction. The doctor knows that this particular subject has just set off a cascade of emotion within the Obsidian leader.

“I won’t ask how you know this or else I would be forced to deprive Obsidian of its best healer.” Annoyance lines his words as he turns back to the parapet, as if he cannot help himself, as if staring at the line between the encampment and the forest is necessary. Agitation dances across the tight line of his shoulders, the straight rod of his back.

Walter clears his throat, stifling the urge to place a hand on Gilbert’s arm. 

“Rhodolite may be the enemy. But it is where she is safest.”

His statement is met with silence, as cool as the night breeze winding its way across the battlement, Gilbert’s black cloak dancing in its wake.

“I’ve taken my tonic. I believe your presence is no longer required tonight, Doctor.”

The dismissal doesn’t bother Walter. He knows Gilbert has heard him. His dark head bows in deference.

“Gute Nacht,” he murmurs, casting one last look at the man whose life he is charged with keeping safe. He may be responsible for Gilbert's body but there is no doubt that his heart is within someone else’s hands.

Gilbert waits until the doctor’s footsteps fade into the other sounds of nighttime, the ebbing murmur of his soldiers as they retire for the evening, the faint clanking of armor as guards patrol the grounds, the lone, mournful hoot of an owl. Only when he is certain he is alone does he allow his head to drop, eye closing for a brief moment.

There is little that escapes Gilbert von Obsidian. He is three steps ahead of everyone, always, the human mind a complicated puzzle he is adept at solving. And yet, when he sent you away from his tent, you with your starlight tears and petal-soft mouth, when he watched you flee, eyes as wild as a fearful rabbit, when he told you to return home to your roses and your pale-haired king…..he was not entirely certain you would listen.

The doctor is right. It was the more rational choice. But it was not the one that his heart wanted, the one it is still screaming for. You belong with him. You should be his. 

He has tasted you, knows the sound of his name when it escapes your lips on a wavering sigh of want. His teeth have sunk into the soft skin of your shoulder, his tongue has traced the line of your neck. He has felt the waves of desire as they ripple through your veins, all because of him. All for him. It is all he has wanted for so very long, all that has consumed him….

And yet he had smiled, sharp as the edge of his sword, and told you to run. Sent you away even as your scent of lavender and roses lingered in his tent, settled across his black mantle like a ghost unable to find peace.

What is he even looking for, out here in the night, as the tents darken one by one like candles blown out by the wind. You are halfway back to your kingdom of roses. You chose home and you chose Chevalier.

So why can’t he tear his gaze away from the darkening road?

It becomes a phantom as the torchlight dims and the moon excuses herself, stepping behind a barricade of clouds. And still he lingers, even as the night air turns cold and unwelcoming, and he feels his muscles contracting in response, struggling to support the cry of his heart to stay….just in case.

Teeth clenched like a beast on the edge of growling, he is about to turn and head inside when he sees it. A shadowy shape bursting out of the black treeline, a spectral horse and rider charging down the ribbon of road. 

And he knows.

The castle walls blur as he flies down the spiral stone steps, down down down and then out, past the startled guards. He is a tiger honed in on its prey, eyes flashing with resolve and hunger. 

You’re already off your horse, speaking in that voice to a soldier with his sword raised in your direction. You are, after all, a stranger who has just flown into their camp like a banshee.

When he arrives at the scene, the soldier immediately lowers his sword and drops to one knee. Gilbert does not hear any of his stammered words. Instead he reaches out, his gloved fingers closing around your wrist as he pulls you towards the nearest tent.

“Raus,” he orders the soldier who was just getting ready to bed down for the night. The word is iron, undeniable and final. The man gathers his things quicker than he ever has before in his life and exits, the tent flap falling closed behind him with a soft whooshing sound.

It is a simple foot soldier’s dwelling with an oil lantern still burning next to the untouched bedroll. The wan light throws your shadows across the thick canvas walls, moving like images inside a zoetrope. 

Gilbert is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath, but there is nothing unsteady about the way his eye, the color of wine in moonlight, is fixed on you. With trembling hands you push back the hood of your cloak, white with small red roses embroidered along the hem like drops of blood. Your cheeks are flushed with the urgency and speed of your ride. Your skirts and boots are splattered with mud.

“I know….you warned me to go and I started to.” Your voice is airy but uncontrolled, a tornado forcing its way past your throat. “I got just past the border and stopped at a tavern to rest the horse. Rhodolite soldiers were there, several tankards in, and they were bragging…they’re coming, Gilbert. At first dawn they’ll be here.”

You step forward, your hands reaching to gather the soft folds of his black cloak, fingers curling into it as it could steady you, a bulwark against the storm of information you need to tell him.

“They have weapons. They intercepted an Obsidian transport and they have guns.” He hasn’t said a word yet, hasn’t had a chance in the face of all the words you’re hurling at him but now you pause, searching his face. “Gilbert, did you hear me? They have-”

He finally moves, twisting his leather glove off his hand and tossing it aside fecklessly. The next thing you feel is the cool touch of his palm against your cheek, his fingers curling to cup your face.

“You’re here.” 

The words are husky, maybe because he is still catching his breath. Maybe because he can’t believe it.  Or maybe because he can and he’s basking in the confirmation of his prediction.

“I…..” You need him to understand the urgency of what you are telling him and yet his hand feels so good. The last time he touched you that hand was at your throat. Now it is cradling your face with a gentleness just as dangerous.

Your words drop to a whisper. “Gilbert…..they’re coming and they–” And then, as he raises his other hand to his lips, biting into the tip of his glove and removing it with his teeth, the truth hits you like an avalanche careening down a mountain. The encampment here. Gilbert occupying a castle so close to the border and not heading home.

“You already knew.”

And now he’s holding your face in both hands, the coolness of his skin paradoxically sending waves of something unbearably hot through your limbs. 

“But you didn’t. And you came back, risking everything to tell me.”

The world begins and ends in the red of his eye, the fall of dark hair across his pale forehead. Something inside you breaks, shatters like stained glass struck by stone. You reach up, curling your hands around his wrists.

“I….I couldn’t live with the thought that something could happen to you….I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to stop it, even if it meant-”

The rest is stopped by the savage press of his mouth against yours. He will not even allow you to finish that sentence. The grip of his hands tightens as he hungrily swallows any other words you wanted to say, as he drinks deeply from the gasps of your lungs and the moans of your throat. Over and over he devours you while still holding you between his hands, your own having gone slack at the very first kiss.

He kisses you until your lips ache from the crush of his mouth, the sting of his teeth. Your tongue is full of him, the rich, cool taste of him. It is the sweetest nectar, ambrosia as heady as the starlit sky. It leaves you spinning with satisfaction, dizzy with content. And yet, it leaves you parched, always seeking more and more and more of him as the hot winds of desire blow through your veins.

Gilbert is the one to break away, to gasp a lungful of air, feeling the absence of your lips as keenly as any ache. His eye burns like a singular star, swallowing up the darkness.

“Retreat to the castle.” His hands roam your body as he speaks the order, as if he can’t help but touch you even as he demands you to leave him. “The cellar is safeguarded. My men will go with you-”

You shake your head vehemently, capturing his hands in yours, holding them hostage in your own tight grip.

"I have turned against my country for you. I was ready to face whatever hell awaited me here if it meant keeping you safe.” Your voice is low, trembling as it skirts the bedrock of emotion in your chest. “I'm damn well not leaving your side now."

He recognizes a mind as sharp as his own, a will as iron. As much as he has craved your gentle heart, your kind spirit, those soft, beautiful parts of you, he is equally as drawn to the steel in your nerves, the forge of determination in your bright eyes.

He could have you sent away, dragged by his soldiers down to the underbelly of the castle where you would be safe. But as he reaches up, cradling the nape of your neck with one hand, he realizes you are right. After all, who could protect you as well as him? Who but him would trample the world for you? Would set the night ablaze before allowing anyone or anything to harm you?

One arm winds its way around your waist and pulls you close. He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. His voice is hushed, but rough, gravelly with emotion.

"When all this is over, my brave Häschen, I will reward you.” He catches your earlobe between his white teeth, his heart fluttering at your gasp. “Over and over until your voice is hoarse with the sound of my name." 

There is no time to catch the breath his words have robbed you off. The distant warning of cannon fire fills the night and the encampment is coming awake, following the carefully laid-out plan in preparation for what is coming.

“Come.” And with your fingers linked with his, you step out of the tent together, into the foreboding night.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @joiedecombat @ozalysss

[ltash]

Ashes to flames

Part 1

British India:

1940s.

The flames flickered and crackled ominously as they prepared the pyre. You stood there, clad in a brilliant red silk saree that shimmered under the fading light. The red dot between your eyebrows, the sindoor parted across your scalp, and the heavy gold jewellery that adorned your fragile frame all marked you as a widow, a bride bound to her husband, even in death Your pearly white skin, striking against the deep red of your garments, seemed too pure, too innocent for the fate that awaited you.

Your long, dark black hair, wavy and unbound, cascaded down your back like the night sky, and the henna tattoos that covered your slender arms and feet were still vibrant from your wedding day. Each intricate pattern felt like a mocking reminder of what should have been, but never was.

The weight of the moment pressed upon you, and memories rushed through your mind like a torrent you couldn’t stop.

You had been born into a wealthy Rajput family, one of privilege and tradition. Your parents, progressive for their time, had sent you to school with British girls. You could still hear your father's proud voice.

"You're not just a daughter," he’d said, his eyes gleaming with pride, "you're my pride. You will make your own path in this world."

But the dream of forging your own path had shattered the day he passed away. The vibrant, strong man who had nurtured your hopes and dreams was gone, and with him, your world collapsed. You remember standing there, watching as your mother stepped into the pyre beside him, her face serene with acceptance, fulfilling her role in the cruel practice of sati.

You had begged her not to go, gripping her hand tightly, but she had only smiled. "This is my duty, my child," she had whispered. "It is what we must do."

And now it was your turn.

At 23, you had been forced into a marriage with an 80-year-old man, a frail and terminal figure you barely knew. Your uncle had orchestrated it all, ignoring your protests and pleas. Your life, once filled with promise, had been reduced to caring for a dying man, a man who never loved you, never saw you as more than a young wife to be bound to his deathbed.

As you stood upon the pyre, your heart pounded in your chest, cold terror coursing through your veins. The deceased body of your husband lay beside you, his wrinkled face unmoving, eyes closed in eternal sleep. It felt like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Your uncle’s voice boomed from behind you, cold and resolute. "It is time. Your duty is clear. You belong to him, in life and in death."

Tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were an abomination, they said, cursed to burn beside your husband. There was no escape now. You looked at the faces in the crowd, their expressions a mixture of reverence and indifference.

"I don’t want to die," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible above the crackling wood and the ceremonial chants. Your body felt too fragile for the weight of what was expected of you.

For a moment, the world around you blurred, and you were back in the classroom, sitting at a desk with your British classmates, laughing and learning. You remembered the joy of those days, the dreams you had once nurtured, and the freedom you had tasted.

But it was all gone now.

The fire beneath the pyre roared to life, the heat licking at your feet, pulling you back into the present. Your breath hitched, your hands trembling as they were bound for the final rites. The crowd began to chant, their voices blending with the wind, carrying you closer to your fate.

You stood in shock, your mind screaming for escape, but there was none. The flames rose higher, and the scent of burning wood filled the air.

In that final moment, as the fire closed in, you closed your eyes and let the memories of your father, your mother, and the life you had once dreamed of wash over you. You had been a flower, once full of life, now destined to wither in the flames.

The flames raged around you, a roaring inferno that licked at the edge of your red silk saree, threatening to consume you whole. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood, filling your lungs with every breath. Your screams had become raw, a desperate plea that seemed to vanish into the night, absorbed by the rising chants of the crowd. Their faces, once familiar, now appeared distant and monstrous in the glow of the fire. Every inch of you trembled, trapped in the suffocating weight of tradition, knowing there was no escape.

Suddenly, through the deafening roar of the flames, another sound broke through, the thunder of hooves pounding the earth, fierce and unyielding. The chanting faltered, and for a moment, all eyes turned toward the source of the sound. Out of the swirling smoke, a figure emerged on horseback, riding at full gallop. The villagers stumbled back, their voices fading as the rider approached.

"Enough!" A voice rang out like a clap of thunder, so powerful it seemed to silence the world. It cut through the noise through the chaos, commanding attention.

Through the haze, you saw him, Lieutenant Admiral Simon Riley. His tall, imposing figure sat astride a powerful black horse, the silver insignias on his pristine uniform gleaming under the darkening sky. His face was set in a mask of anger, jaw clenched, eyes burning with purpose. His gaze met yours across the pyre, and in that moment, time stopped. The weight of the flames, the pressing heat, the terror, all of it disappeared as his eyes locked onto yours. They were sharp, focused, and filled with a fierce determination that left you breathless.

In one swift motion, Simon dismounted, drawing his sword in a fluid arc. The blade gleamed like polished silver, a beacon of power in the dim light. Without hesitation, he strode through the crowd, parting them with the sheer force of his presence. The people, once so confident in their cruelty, shrank back in fear.

His gloved hand reached for you. Strong, steady, unwavering, he grasped you by the waist as though you weighed nothing. With effortless strength, he lifted you from the pyre, cradling your fragile frame against his chest. The heat of the flames still crackled beneath your feet, but in his arms, the terror that had gripped you began to fade. You clung to him, your heart pounding, your body trembling from shock.

“I am taking her with me,” Simon declared, his voice low but lethal, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. His sword remained raised high, its deadly point gleaming, daring anyone to approach.

Your uncle, face flushed with rage, stepped forward. “You can not do this!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fury. “She is an abomination! The consequences, " He faltered, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and arrogance. “The consequences won’t be good. Saahib, I warn you.”

Simon’s icy blue eyes narrowed as he turned to face your uncle. “You dare threaten me?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. His grip on you tightened, his body a wall of strength and defiance. “You call her an abomination, yet you are the one trying to murder an innocent woman in the name of your backwards traditions.”

One of the villagers, emboldened by your uncle’s words, stepped forward. “She has a duty to fulfil! She must burn with her husband. It is our way!”

Simon’s jaw clenched as he glared at the crowd. “Over my dead body!” he thundered, his voice booming across the gathering. “You barbarians think you can hide behind your so-called customs? Killing an innocent woman under the guise of tradition? I will not allow it.”

His eyes swept over the villagers, daring them to defy him. No one moved. Even your uncle, who had always wielded power over your life, seemed small and insignificant in the face of Simon’s wrath.

The soldiers who had followed Simon arrived on horseback, dismounting swiftly and surrounding their commander, their faces set in grim determination. They moved into formation, shields, and rifles at the ready, forming an impenetrable barrier between Simon and the villagers. The crowd’s courage crumbled as Simon’s men stood at attention, their loyalty to him unshakeable.

Simon sheathed his sword with a sharp clink and swiftly mounted his horse, never once loosening his protective grip on you. With one fluid motion, he pulled you up onto the saddle in front of him, his arms encircling your body as he guided the reins. You pressed against his chest, your heart racing, your body trembling, still reeling from the terror of what had almost been your fate.

“Hold on,” Simon whispered, his breath warm against your ear, his voice gentle now, a stark contrast to the fury he had shown moments before.

As he urged the horse forward, the powerful animal surged ahead, hooves pounding the earth as the village disappeared behind you. The wind whipped through your unbound hair, and the world blurred around you as Simon rode with speed and precision, cutting through the night. His chest was firm against your back, a solid presence that anchored you as the remnants of the horror faded into the distance.

You glanced up at him, still too shocked to speak. His face was set in determination, but there was a tenderness in the way he held you, as if he had just saved something precious. His residence came into view on the horizon, a beacon of safety amidst the storm of chaos you had left behind.

As the horse galloped toward his estate, you knew that the life you had been condemned to, the pyre that had almost claimed you, was far behind. In Simon’s arms, you had been saved, not just from death, but from a life you had never chosen.

By the time you reached his mansion, your body had given up. The exhaustion, the terror, the sheer weight of what you had just survived had drained you of every ounce of strength. You could no longer hold on, and with a faint sigh, you collapsed in his arms, your head lolling against his chest as unconsciousness claimed you. Simon’s strong arms caught you, his grip unwavering as he dismounted his horse with practised ease, cradling your limp form close to him.

The grand doors of his mansion swung open as Simon carried you inside, his boots echoing sharply against the marble floors. His face was a mask of calm control, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the turmoil raging beneath the surface. The servants, startled by the sight of their master carrying an unconscious woman, rushed forward, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"Sati! But she is alive!" one of the servants gasped, his eyes flicking nervously between you and Simon. The whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of shock and confusion filling the air.

Simon’s eyes, cold and resolute, silenced the room. “She will stay alive,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. There was a finality in his tone, a command that left no room for doubt.

“But, Saahib… you shouldn’t have brought her here,” another servant, an older man with worry etched into every line of his face, stepped forward cautiously. He glanced nervously towards the door, his voice lowering as he continued, “They will come for her. The village… they won’t let this go.”

Simon’s eyes darkened, a flash of anger crossing his face as he looked down at you, your fragile form still limp in his arms. “She will stay here from now on,” he declared, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His gaze returned to the old servant, daring him to say otherwise.

The servant hesitated, wringing his hands together anxiously. “But, sir… she has committed...”

“She has committed nothing,” Simon interrupted sharply, cutting him off with a glare that froze the words in his throat. “What they tried to do to her, that was a crime.”

Without waiting for another word, Simon turned and carried you through the wide, opulent halls of his mansion, the luxurious surroundings a stark contrast to the horrors you had just escaped. He moved with purpose, his grip on you gentle yet protective as if he were carrying something precious and fragile. As he reached his private chambers, he nudged the door open with his boot, striding inside.

He walked toward his grand bed, the soft linens and dark wood frame a world away from the pyre you had almost perished upon. Lowering you carefully onto the bed, Simon’s touch was tender, as if he feared you might break. He adjusted the pillows beneath your head, smoothing your hair from your face as he stood over you, his gaze softening for the briefest moment.

“She has nowhere to go,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, his eyes never leaving your unconscious form. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the warmth of his touch a faint comfort against your feverish skin.

The silence hung heavy in the room as Simon stood beside you, the weight of his decision clear in the set of his shoulders. He had saved you from the flames, but he knew the storm was far from over. They would come for you. But as long as you remained under his roof, under his protection, they would have to get through him first.

And Simon Riley had no intention of letting you go.

The soft clink of your heavy gold bangles stirred the quiet room, breaking the early morning silence. You blinked your eyes open, the weight of the ornate jewellery and the lingering scent of smoke bringing back the harsh memories of the night before. Your body felt heavy and exhausted, but you were alive. The bed beneath you was soft, a far cry from the pyre you had stood on, and the air was cool and still.

Simon, who had been standing near the window, turned at the sound of your stirring. His eyes, sharp and alert, softened when they met yours. "You’re awake," he said, his voice low but gentle.

You slowly sat up, feeling the weight of your golden jewellery shift as you moved. The red silk saree you still wore clung to you, a reminder of the ritual that had nearly claimed your life. Simon watched you closely, his expression unreadable for a moment, but there was something in his gaze, something like awe. You looked like an Indian goddess sitting there, the rich red fabric and gleaming gold of your attire contrasting with the delicate vulnerability of your face. Even in your weakened state, you were breathtaking.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are safe now,” he said softly, his tone reassuring, firm. “Nobody will touch you. I will make sure of that.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten with gratitude and fear all at once. He was offering you something precious: safety. A luxury you hadn’t known since you were forced into this nightmare.

“The servant will prepare breakfast for you,” Simon continued, his voice softening as he spoke. “Whatever you wish to eat, just tell him.” He offered a faint smile, one that barely reached his eyes before turning to leave, giving you space to gather yourself.

But something inside you panicked as you watched him turn away. Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist. “They will come back for me,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the fear returning in waves. The memory of the village and the pyre still haunted you, lurking just beneath the surface.

Simon paused, his back still to you, his muscles tensing beneath your grip. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence weighing heavy in the air between you. Then, he turned his head slightly, his voice calm but resolute. “We’ll see,” he replied, his tone carrying a quiet confidence that made you want to believe him.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Simon’s servant stepped into the room, bowing slightly. “Saahib,” he said, a nervous tremor in his voice, “the village minister has come to see you.”

Your grip on Simon’s wrist tightened, fear surging through you once more. “They’re here to take me,” you muttered, dread filling your voice.

Simon looked down at you, his expression softening as he gently removed your hand from his wrist. “Relax,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “I will take care of them.”

He turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps purposeful, leaving you alone with the crushing weight of your fear. You sat there, frozen, barely breathing as you listened to his retreating footsteps echo down the hall. The walls of his grand mansion felt suffocating now, closing in around you as the threat loomed just beyond the doors.

Simon entered the living room, his posture straight, his face unreadable as he approached the man waiting for him. The village minister stood at the threshold, his weathered face lined with anxiety. As Simon drew nearer, the minister removed his turban and knelt before him, bowing his head low in submission. The gesture, one of both respect and desperation, seemed to fill the room with an oppressive air.

“Saahib,” the minister began, his voice thick with pleading, “please… I put my honour before you. Give her back to us.” He kept his head bowed, his hands trembling as he placed his turban at Simon’s feet, a symbol of his surrender.

Simon’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening at the man’s words. He took a step forward, his presence towering over the kneeling minister. “Give her back to you?” Simon’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, sharp as a blade. “So you can burn her alive again?”

The minister flinched at Simon’s words but kept his head bowed, the weight of his shame clear. “It is our way, Saahib. The village demands it… her duty...”

“Her duty?” Simon’s voice rose, cutting the minister off sharply. He took another step forward, looming over the man. “Her duty is to survive, not to be thrown into the flames like an offering to your backwards traditions.”

The minister dared to look up, his eyes wide with desperation. “Please, Saahib, you do not understand… This is how it has been for generations. The village...”

“Don't try to lecture an officer of the East India Company. I don’t care about your village,” Simon snapped, his anger barely contained. “I will not let you murder her. Not under my watch.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, and he leaned in slightly, his eyes blazing. “If you think you can come here and take her, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The minister’s face paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words, but there was no room for argument. Simon’s authority, his sheer presence, left no space for negotiation.

“Go back to your village,” Simon said coldly, stepping back. “Tell them she is under my protection now. If anyone dares try to harm her, they will face the full force of the British army.”

The minister, trembling, scrambled to gather his turban and stumbled to his feet. He nodded hastily, backing away toward the door. “Yes, Saahib. I will… I will tell them,” he stammered before turning and fleeing from the mansion, leaving Simon standing alone in the heavy silence of the room.

Simon exhaled slowly, his fists unclenching as the tension ebbed from his body. He had made his stance clear, but he knew the battle was far from over. They would return, perhaps with more men, more pressure. But for now, you were safe.

And that, Simon vowed, was all that mattered.

[mossymenagerieart]

help it is late at night and I’m listening to the song “putting the dog to sleep” by the antlers. And now I actually kind of wish I was the dog in that song. I am NOT suicidal btw. I love living I love sunlight I love being on earth etc. HOWEVER I want that. I want to bleed out to death in a snowy forest where the sky is so so clear and I can see the stars as they were when I was born, being held in the arms of someone who loves me so dearly that to give me peace they shot me. Even if it kills them. Even if it breaks their heart, they love me enough to let me go gently because I begged them to. Because I wanted it to be them. I will always choose them, and it always will be even if it’s the last thing I do. I want to be held tight in their warm embrace in the snow surrounding us, my life bleeding out from me and into their gentle hands, the hands that held me when I cried for them, held me when we danced all those summers ago, cradled my face and wiped the tears from my eyes even though I snarled in fear, in pain. The hands that belonged to someone so human, so unafraid, so caring as to love a beast as I. To take my teeth in his neck with a smile and hold my talons despite my claws, to wipe the blood from my snout with a loving gaze. Someone I will love forever until my last dying breath and then beyond my life. Someone who will miss me for the rest of his. I want to go looking at his face, despite his tears, despite the blood on his hands, my blood. Despite it all, I want that. To be with him one last time like this, held close to his heart so I may hear him sing in his heartbeat once more to me of our time together. Then I close my eyes one final time, the stars gleaming so bright exactly as they looked the day I saw them the first time all those years ago, then blurring together as the world spins and fades away…

idk is that like. Normal. Is that a normal thing to want?? idk but i promise I’m fine ok i don’t WANT to die. But like when I do I want to go like that does that make sense. Something something dog motif something something being truly loved by someone that they’ll kill me if I asked because I want it to be them. Someone who will hold me as I bleed and fade away in their arms under the moonlit snow and stars. Someone who will let me go even if it kills them, but hold me in their arms as I do.

⬆️actual text messages I sent to one of my friends

straight people: I love boys so muchhhhh I love kissing boys they are so pretty!! I want to hug him and I want to dance in his arms on a nice spring day in the meadows!!

gay people: I want to bleed out in his arms while he cradles me tight, close to his chest, his heartbeat a song that fills my chest as my own heartbeat slows and fades. I want him to be the last thing I ever see, I want the life to spill from me slowly in the sparkling quiet night, into the hands of someone who loves me truly, the hands of someone who loves me enough to let me go even though it will kill him, will let me go because I wanted it to be him, because I will and always have chosen him, even if it’s the last thing I do. I want my life to stain the snow and frozen ground around us, color blooming into the blank winter forest for the first time in a long time, so that one day in the coming spring when life blooms anew my blood may bloom through the new shoots and buds and I may live on through them. I want to see the stars fade and blur around my beloved’s face, reach my bloodied paws up to his tear stained cheek and cradle it close, so warm as my life fades into the snow around us, as I grow colder in his embrace. To look in his eyes one last time, see the stars as they were when we met, when I was born, and again as I die.

Anyways here’s the song btw if you want to experience what it’s like to die bleeding out in your lovers arms as their dogboy/werewolf boyfriend or whatever. Idk. Shuffles away and hits my head on a tree branch on the way out.

[teakookssi]

Before I Leave You [Eren/Levi x Reader FF]

[ curated playlist ][ full story can be found here or here ]

[Overview & prologue]

➺ pairing: levi ackerman/eren jeager x fem!reader 

➺content: mafia au, crime, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, angst, lol so much angst

➺warnings: SHIT. IS. DARK. YO. violence, blood, strong language, guns/weapons, and illegal activities are all mentioned but hey, that’s attack on titan for you, so if you can handle that, you can handle this (: 

chapter 5: the worst kind of monsters

You stand leaning against the black metal railing of your home’s rooftop, alone, a lit cigarette in between your fingers. Above you, the sky bleeds a crimson red and orange as day gives way into night. You look out over the smog-infested city, to the bustling streets below.

Children are scurrying back home as shops begin to close for the day. Men and women of all ages cross through the unpaved roads as they return back from work, sidestepping out of the way every once in a while to let a random member of the aristocracy drive on by in their rumbling automobiles.

Before your father came into power, the Founding Sector had been nothing more than a rundown, underdeveloped, pathetic excuse of a city. The ones in power were the only ones who ever knew what it was like to live comfortably. Slaves to their greed, they fed off the weak like ravenous vultures, all the while the people of the Founding Sector grew ever the more weak and powerless.

Your father—forced to grow up under such a corrupt and broken system — learned from a very early age how the world worked.

And the world belonged to the strong.

You were either the one in control or the one being controlled.

It was for this reason your father, a mere young working class man with nothing to his name save his wit and desire to succeed, refused to submit to the unfavorable hand he had been dealt with.

You draw your cigarette to your lips and exhale, your sharp eyes easily locating your father’s legally owned businesses and properties across the city like landmarks. You think of the illicit activities taking place from within most of them and your eyes narrow.

You will not deny there are days when you are sick with guilt. Sick with death. When your mind aches for solace and peace even though every drop of blood you’ve ever spilled screams you do not deserve it. But then you gaze out into the powerful city your cunningly ambitious father has managed to rule over through violence and fear and intimidation, and you're reminded of why the line between right and wrong does not exist for people like you.

You never asked for this life.

Neither did your father, or Levi, or Mikasa, or any of them. But the world has never apologized for forcing you all to walk down this dark and weary road, so why should you?

The strong devoured the weak.

That was the twisted reality. So your father found a way for this rigged bureaucracy to serve him instead. If that meant crime was to continue running rampant across all Sectors of Paradis, than so be it. At least he would be the one in control now.

And you…

You were to make sure it stayed that way.

Eventually, the streets below begin to clear out and the clanging of construction and manufacturing companies begins to die down as street lamps and late business signs flicker to life across the Founding Sector.

Meaningful footsteps sound behind you moments later. You don’t need to turn around to know they belong to Mikasa.

“The appointment you requested with the journalist has been scheduled for eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” she informs you, coming to stand beside you to look out over the city.

You flick the burnt ashes from your cigarette with a tap of your ring finger, letting the wind catch them in its midst, before taking another smoke. “You sent the invitation under my father’s name as I instructed?”

Mikasa nods. “Will he need to be taken care of?”

The corner of your lip curls. “Not yet.”

Based off what you wrote in your invitation, Marlo Freudenberg, a journalist for Paradis Times, thinks he is meeting with your father tomorrow morning in his office, Ymir & Co., for a brief one-on-one interview, which is why he responded so quickly. Your father is not one to entertain the prying questions of many journalists, after all.

But if Marlo thinks you haven't already figured out what his true intentions really are, he's more of an amateur than you originally thought.

You put out your cigarette against the metal rail of the rooftop. “Erwin’s little spies are hard to come by,” you say almost playfully. “I’d like to have a proper chat with this one first before we're forced to part ways.”

You turn on your heels and commence to make your way down the rooftop to the stairs leading to the balcony on the third floor. Mikasa shadows behind you until you reach the hallway on the first floor leading to the kitchen where she thinks you will join them for dinner.

The freshly rich aroma that welcomes you as you pass by the dining room on your way to the front door stirs your appetite. You manage to catch a glimpse of Niccolo, your home chef, watch with expectant eyes as Sasha and Connie bite into his exquisite looking meals with great enthusiasm and appreciation. Jean and Historia, seated beside them, are the only ones who notice you walk by.

You’re almost to the front door when Historia calls after you. “Anya? Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

A glimpse over your shoulder tells you she’s popped her head out of the dining room, along with Mikasa and Jean.

“I need to check on something,” you mutter reluctantly.

“You haven’t eaten anything since this morning,” Mikasa points out almost accusingly.

“I’m fine. I won’t be long. I’ll be just around the corner.”

Mikasa begins to stride over towards you with the full intention of chaining you to the dining table if that’s what it took to get you to sit down and eat.

“It’s fine.” Jean steps in her path, a hand in the air to get her to stop. “I’ll go with her. I’ll make sure she eats something at one of the pubs.”

“I’ll go too,” Historia offers, leaving the dining room to reach for her coat.

“Maybe we should all go,” Connie suggests reluctantly, not wanting to leave his precious meal behind so soon. “Last time she was alone with Jean she nearly died and Levi almost had our heads.”

Jean’s face flushes as he turns on him angrily. “And what the hell were you doing? Stuffing yourself with food like a damn useless boar?”

“Huh?!” Connie exclaims indignantly.

You roll your eyes and head out the door as they continue their bickering, not willing to wait for them to come to an arrangement.

The moment you step out, however, you inwardly grimace at your timing.

Eren is walking up the porch to the townhouse next door, where Levi’s men are stationed, key in hand and ready to head inside. Levi had insisted his people be the ones to keep an eye on him, since no one trusted him enough to have him anywhere near you, let alone living under the same roof.

A swift glimpse in Eren’s direction confirms he’s just arrived from your father’s office. He carries a leather suitcase in hand and wears a dark grey tailored suit that helps him fit the role you’ve assigned him well.

You test your luck and walk forward into the streets, needing to head past him in order to get to the alley behind The Red Rose — your destination for tonight — but your presence doesn’t go unnoticed by him. The second he recognizes you, his face lights up and he begins to walk towards you.

“Anya!” He waves at you thinking that might get your attention, but you blatantly ignore him, not wanting to peer into those doe-like eyes of his if you could help it.

This doesn’t seem to derail him though. He's close enough now you catch him from your peripheral vision as he extends a hand out to try and reach out to you.

“Oi!” Jean quickly appears beside you, roughly shoving Eren back before he can touch you.

You don’t miss a step in your stride as you leave Jean to deal with Eren, but you can still hear Jean loud and clear behind you, pointing a threatening finger at Eren’s chest.

“Try going anywhere near her again,” Jean growls, “and I’ll have you wishing she had never spared your life at all.”

“Jean!” Historia chides, stepping in to steer him away from Eren and back in your direction. “He only wanted to say hello. You don’t have to be so hostile with him all the time.”

Jean lets out a grumble of disagreement before they both fall into step beside you, failing to notice the amused glimmer in your eye.

There is no denying how much Jean despises Eren. Whether it’s because he doesn’t trust him or because Eren had bruised his ego by saving you in his place from your encounter with Floch, Jean was looking for any kind of excuse to get his hands on Eren. To prove to you he needed to be gotten ridden of. And it was killing him that despite Levi’s objection, you were still adamant on keeping Eren close — to you, to your circle, and now to the inner workings of Ymir & Co.

Or at least that’s what it looks like to him.

You glimpse over your shoulder to Historia, an assistant to one of your father’s legal advisors, and the one you assigned to oversee Eren’s work at your father's company.

“Has he settled in well?” you ask her casually, not needing to mention Eren’s name for her to know you were talking about him.

Eren’s current position there was to serve as your father’s administrative assistant — a temporary role you wanted him to perform to help determine if he was fit for the actual position you had in mind for him.

It’s been over a few weeks now since you first made his acquaintance, and you find it rather suspicious that in all that time, not once has he attempted to leave town. You’ve allowed him to walk the streets of your city freely, without any threat of your people tailing after him. He could have used any moment to make his escape. And yet, at the end of the day, the boy still kept coming back.

You don’t spare Eren a second glance as you continue down the street for the same reason Historia is looking at him over her shoulder with a sympathetic look in her eye. Given Eren’s unexplainable attachment to you, he’s probably standing in the middle of the road watching you leave the way a puppy looks when their master leaves them behind. Confused and hurt, but still loyally waiting for their return.

Historia turns her head forward again. She nods beside you. “You were right about him. He’s clever as he is charming. He’s already interacted with some of your father’s usual clients, and there’s no denying he's got a way with people.”

Jean scoffs, not at all impressed, but Historia ignores him. Her softhearted sapphire eyes are pinned on you. “He’s been asking for you.”

But your face remains indifferent. “I’m flattered.”

She frowns. “Anya—”

You throw her a warning look and she lowers her gaze, dropping the subject.

You make one quick stop at the fish market, ignoring the odd looks Jean and Historia give each other when you ask for any leftover tuna or sardines from today, before heading to the Red Rose.

As the pub appears within your line of sight, Jean goes ahead and stops in front of the entrance where many of your father’s men are already stationed so he can inform them of your presence. Ever since the attempt on your life, your father has doubled the amount of men in your area to help patrol town. Unfortunately, that means any chance for Erwin to make any more bold appearances grow all the more slim.

When you confronted Hannes about why he'd failed to mention to you Erwin’s little surprise visits to the pub, he claimed it was because of how difficult it was to keep track of the amount of people that go in and out of the pub ever day. If Eren had spotted him, it had been because ever since Hannes had hired him, Hannes had spent less and less time out front serving drinks for him to notice.

To some degree, you believed him. If only because you knew that nowadays, he was always passed out, drunk, somewhere in the back.

“Oi!” Jean calls after you when he sees you walk past the entrance of Red Rose. “Where are you going?”

You turn the corner into the narrow alleyway behind the pub where you spotted the little furball a few weeks ago.

“Anya, what is it?” Historia asks, peering into the dark alley behind you.

You raise a finger to your lips to silence her and signal for her to stay back as you see her begin to follow you, but Historia refuses.

“I’m not letting you walk into a dark alleyway on your own,” she hisses behind you.

Jean’s footsteps stop short beside Historia. “What is she doing?”

You tear open the small newspaper-wrapped package you’ve been carrying in your hand from the fish market and pull out a sardine.

Trash bags rustle on the floor near a dumpster to your left and when you crouch down, a pair of eyes flash in the dark.

You hum in delight. “There you are.”

You toss the small piece of fish a few feet in front of you to lure the kit out. It had taken shelter under a stack of cardboard boxes, but the moment it caught the scent of food it slowly made its way out.

It’s black fur blended well against the darkness of the alley. If it weren’t for its bright, glowing eyes you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint where it was.

Just a few weeks ago you’d seen a female cat with her young litter foraging for food around the back of the pub. They must have relocated soon after because you never saw them again, but being the runt in the litter, this last one must have been left behind. It couldn’t have been any older than three weeks old when you first heard its mewling on your way back from the pub.

Out of curiosity, you’d gone in search of the noise and came across the little black thing stumbling its way around the alleyway looking for food.

For a while you just stood there and watched as it struggled.

You knew that without the mother to fend for it, it was not going to survive on its own. It looked so small and frail in comparison to its surroundings, so helpless, you were reminded of that day as a kid when your mother was taken from you. When you too learned what it was like to be afraid and powerless. But like all things born of this world with a will to live, you learned how to survive. Instead of being afraid, you became something to fear. And if this little thing wished to live despite its unfavorable circumstances, it would learn this too.

You would give it a week before deciding if it possessed the strength and determination necessary to live and survive on its own. You had no interest in weaklings, and if this one didn’t fit your requirements, you would find another that did.

Assessing it up closely now, you’re impressed by how nicely it has grown in size since you last saw it. It has to be at least five weeks old, which means it’s much more curiously aware of its surroundings than before, and within seconds, it devours the piece of sardine you've offered it.

It meows at you for another and starts to approach you cautiously, sniffing out the rest of the fish you carry in your hand.

But then Jean steps forward too abruptly and startles it, having peered over your shoulder to check what you were doing.

“A flea-infested stray?” he asks incredulously beside you. “That’s what we came here for?”

The kitten hisses at him in warning. Jean has stepped far too closely than the kit is comfortable with. It’s back is arched towards him with its hairs raised and its ears flattened backward on its head—pupils dilated.

You smile approvingly at the kitten's reaction. In the short time its lived out on the streets, its learned to be distrustful of humans — and much rightfully so. Humans are the worst.

As you were about to prove it.

Dropping another piece of sardine in front of you to warrant its attention, you take advantage while it’s distracted to reach for its scruff.

“Don’t touch it!” Jean scolds you, pulling your hand back. “It's feral. It’s probably got rabies.”

The cat mistakes Jean’s quick hand movement as a threat and scratches him across the hand with its sharp claws with enough ferocity to draw blood. Jean curses and pulls his hand back as you raise your eyebrows in surprise.

Historia stifles a giggle. “It doesn’t seem to like you very much, Jean.”

“Vicious little thing, aren’t you?” you muse as it resumes munching on the last scraps of raw fish on the floor when it feels Jean no longer poses a threat to him.

Before it has time to finish it, however, you snatch it by the scruff before it can fight back and you rise to your feet with it. It hangs helplessly in your hand with its paws out in front of him. You tap its pink nose. “We’re going to get along just nicely.”

You hand the leftover fish to Historia despite your new companion’s meows of protest. But it's already associated your scent now with food so it believes you’ll provide him with more if it behaves and waits a little longer.

Jean and Historia follow after you as you begin to head back home, but Jean has his scratched hand cupped in his other hand with a sulking face. “You better have a good reason as to why you're bringing that bloody thing home with us.”

You pet the mangy fur of the creature in your arms mindlessly. It looks to you and meows before it starts purring at your touch, comforted by the scent of fish in your hands. As you pass under a lamppost, you notice the cat’s eyes are bright and green, like fresh blades of grass.

“There’s a very special person I’d like to befriend at the park,” you tell Jean and Historia. “He's very fond of these furballs.” You raise the black cat to your eye level, noticing it's still very small for his age given his entire body fits in the palm of your hand. “My walks to the park will prove most promising with this one in my pocket.”

—

The following morning Connie drives you over to Ymir & Co. in a sleek black automobile, gifted to you by your father now that you were enforcing business meetings further out into the city more frequently.

Mikasa sits in the front passenger's seat next to Connie while you sit in the back of the car, gazing impassively outside your window with an elbow propped up against the door frame. Outside, the people of the Founding Sector scurry about, rushing to get to work and start their day. They’re familiar with the type of vehicles you and your family own, so when they recognize your car drive past them, they nod towards your car respectfully before continuing on their way.

Ymir & Co. is located in the heart of the city, and it’s where your father handles the legal side of business. You drive past one of your father’s warehouses a few blocks from your townhouse, where his men are most likely finalizing the last preparations necessary to ship out the manufactured commodities over to Marley as agreed upon, along with various misplaced military weapons hidden in the cargo.

If anyone were to discover these weapons had been sent over to aid enemy nations, like that of Marley, when Paradis was on the brink of war with them for wanting to extract Paradis of its natural resources, the ones responsible would be found guilty of treason and imprisoned for life, if not sentenced to death.

You look to the east of town, where the Founding Sector’s canal networks currently send illicit goods into the heart of the city, per the requests of many powerful lords and elected officials, who await for them with open arms and pockets full of money.

There was a time when you used to look down on them all for their unscrupulous ways. As a child, you would often hear of their appalling demands and just the mere sight of them afterwards sickened you to your stomach. But after your childhood became overrun with death and violence, you grew numb to humanity’s sinful nature. You came to realize there was no use changing it. Your father understood this better than anyone. The intricate web of criminal activity he was able to form in the underworld, embedded so deep in the Founding Sector only those within his circle knew just how deep it truly lied, proves it.

Such was his network of clients — corrupted to the core, requesting all kinds of services ranging from the legal to the illegal, and willing to pay good money in exchange for the guaranteed promise of delivery — that made this business so profitable. But your father also had a reputation to uphold as CEO of a highly successful car manufacturing company. And to continue holding onto that respectable power and status, all legal matters needed to come first.

Which is where Eren would come in.

Your father needed a spokesman. Someone to represent him whenever he couldn’t attend a certain business meeting for Ymir &Co., or whenever he needed someone to simply whisper in his ear the names of people he encountered at charity events or other important social gatherings so as to appear interested and involved.

Ymir had originally wanted it to be you. So he could show you off proudly as his one and only heir. But your father had raised his taste in business partners. He was now keeping senators, diplomats, leaders of entire countries, for company — people whose presence required you to play civil.

And you were never one for diplomacy.

To keep the bridges your father had built with his new affluential clients, your father needed someone tailored to their liking. Someone with a welcoming face and charming personality, capable of striking a deal with them because he knew how to put on a fake smile and make it look genuine. Someone docile and patient, who didn’t appear like a threat and could follow their social rules and etiquette until he had them letting down their guard enough to attack.

Eren checked all these boxes perfectly, and as Historia mentioned earlier, was doing so already.

When you brought this up to your father, you assured him that he lost nothing with using him. Eren would only ever be informed of the legal parts of business. He would have no access to the records or dealings that your father partook in outside of the law because all incriminating evidence was stored outside of that office. In a room that only you, your father, and Levi had access to. And after showing your father Eren’s identification papers, along with a photo of him, he could not deny you that he fit the part well. All Eren needed was to prove whether he had the skills necessary to take on such a task.

The boy also seemed to be willing to do anything to please you, and you would have mentioned this to your father — to assure him of your confidence in this plan — but after the way Eren saw you kill another man in cold blood without hesitation, you weren’t so sure.

Armin would have been an alternatively ideal and safe choice after you, if his name hadn’t already been marked and linked to the underworld. The majority of your cadre’s identities, actually, had already been defaced in some shape or form before coming to you.

But it did not matter; you needed Armin down in the Colossal Sector more.

The day you had been targeted, he had been in the area on business. Once he knew you were out of danger, he returned back to the Colossal Sector without a moments waste, despite having left it in safe hands. Bertholdt’s clan may have bent the knee to House Ymir, but tensions still ran high between families, and only Armin was capable of keeping them all in check. He was wickedly clever. He knew what made people tick, which made it easy for him to find people’s weaknesses and manipulate them to your advantage. A skillset of his you valued greatly.

Ten or so minutes later, you arrive at the red-bricked building where Ymir & Co.’s business partners frequent and where your father’s prestigious looking office is located.

You make your way up the staircase with Connie and Mikasa behind you, passing through the open glass doors and richly warm colored hues of the main parlor.

Not bothering with the receptionist at the front desk, you walk right past her and take the elevator up to the last floor where your father’s office as CEO is located. Mikasa and Connie join you inside. When you arrive at the top floor, Connie stays behind and stations himself beside the elevator’s sliding black gates while you and Mikasa head down the end of the hallway to your father’s office.

A metal sign with your father’s name on it and the word CEO underneath is framed on the wall beside a dark cherry wooden door. You open it and find Eren sitting behind a desk to your right. Historia stands over his shoulder, in the middle of explaining something to him.

At the sight of you, Eren stands up so suddenly, the chair behind him nearly tips over. He was not expecting you to make an appearance at the office and it’s caught him by surprise.

“Anya,” he says in a daze, as if not quite believing you’re standing in front of him.

Historia clears her throat. “You’re early,” she notes, beginning to move towards you so as to draw your attention away from Eren’s reaction. “Have you had breakfast? I can order you something to eat—”

“I won’t be staying long,” you reply, already half way across the reception’s area. “Send him in when he arrives.”

From your peripherals you catch Eren attempt to follow you, but Historia rests a hand on his shoulder and manages to keep him seated at his desk.

You turn the corner to the right and walk through the open door of your father’s office where you’re immediately welcomed with the smell of expensive leather, fine wood, and burnt cigarettes. The blinds are drawn, with only a small sliver of golden sunlight to seep through, but there’s something about this dim lighting that makes you feel powerful the second you walk in; you feel right at home.

Ymir’s desk is made of rich, dark wood and is sparsely populated by writing tools, a telephone, a cigarette tray, and two tall lamps. One on each side to provide him light during the late hours of the night. Behind his desk is a wooden shelf with a small collection of decorative books and trinkets on display, and to his right is a metal filing cabinet pushed up against the wall. Beside it, a little farther to the left, is a small table where he keeps some fine bottles of scotch and bourbon, a pair of drinking glasses, and some fresh ice that Historia must have recently set up for you.

You take a seat on your father’s black leather padded chair behind his desk as Mikasa closes the door behind her. She faces you, her jaw set, and you sigh, bracing yourself. You cannot avoid this conversation with her any longer.

“Go on then, Mikasa. Out with it.”

Mikasa crosses her arms across her chest and rests her back against the wall beside the door. “Levi is right. You can’t keep collecting any more of these strays. One of these days they’re going to betray you.”

You shrug, nonplussed. “If the cat remains feral, we can always toss it back out.”

She throws you a deathly glare and you try not to smirk. You know she is referring to Eren, but she’s so easy to rattle you enjoy teasing her when you can.

“You think keeping him confined within these walls is going to shield him from the things that go on outside this office?” she questions. “He knows who you are. He’s aware of your father’s reputation. The longer you keep him at your side, the higher chance he has of finding something to use against you —against your father.”

You meet Mikasa’s troubled gaze with steady eyes. “His sole purpose is to serve as the face of this company. Nothing more.” Eren may have an inkling about the kind of activities you and your family are involved with outside of Ymir & Co., but he cannot begin to comprehend the exact kind of business that entails. And he never will.

Mikasa raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “Right. But does he know that?”

You roll your eyes, a look of distaste on your face at her underlying meaning. “Whatever perfect vision he has of me will shatter soon enough, if it hasn’t already.”

Mikasa frowns. “That’s the problem.” She begins to cut across the room towards you. “He knows you’re spoken for. He’s got a good sense of what you do for a living — I mean, you killed a man in front of him. A police officer, at that. All things that would have any normal person running, yet he refuses to stay away.” She shakes her head with open annoyance. “You should see the way his eyes light up whenever you walk into the room.”

You prop your elbow against the arm rest of your father’s chair and rest your chin on your fist. Mikasa’s suspicions mirror your own so you surprise her by not dismissing her concerns as you usually do. Jean is also very much against Eren’s presence. Mostly because they cannot be assured of Eren’s true intentions with you, and you have too many enemies on your back for Eren not to raise mistrust amongst your inner circle…

You flick a subtle gaze over to Mikasa at the thought of the rest of your cadre.

Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Sasha, Connie, Historia — all loyal to you because you had saved them all from a fate worse than death. When the world turned its back on them, you gave them a second chance at life — even if it that life was one of crime. The fact that you went out of your way for them, risked your own life and your own people to save them, is what ultimately won you their undying loyalty. They would die before letting anything happen to you.

Except…Eren is not like all your other strays.

You cadre had all suffered. They had known pain before coming to you. Eren had not. And that’s what has your team worried. They are all well acquainted with the darkest parts of humanity, and thus understand why you do what you do, but Eren never will. The second he finds out what you are truly capable of, he will not hesitate to turn to the law and make you pay your dues.

A knock sounds at your father’s door and your attention cuts to Historia as she opens the door to let herself in. But a hint of sadness envelops you at the sight of her. The softness in her eyes and inviting aura she radiates with her charm is the most deceiving part about her; it’s also what makes her the most dangerous.

If you didn’t know any better you would think she’s lived a carefree, happy life, alongside a family who loves her and wishes only the best for her.

But, you do know her.

You know the kind of life she’s lived. Of the grotesque filth you tried wiping off her golden hair and skin the night you set her free from her captors. But no amount of water or soap could remove the amount of scars traced across her body, and it’s that gentleness in her demeanor she carries with her always that catches you off guard. Because you are incapable of smiling the way she can.

As if everything was all right in the world.

As if she wasn’t terribly broken inside.

It always made you wonder if Historia would behave any differently — less pleasant, more angry, more real — if you had been able to save the brunette as well. But Historia never spoke of the girl with the freckled face, who had looked after her protectively inside the brothel. The selfless girl who died helping Historia get away — to you.

“The journalist from Paradis Times is here,” Historia announces, snapping your attention back into place.

She steps aside to signal the journalist to come in and you amuse yourself by the look of confusion that quickly settles across his features at the sight of you sitting in your father’s chair. At Mikasa standing to your right.

“Mr. Marlo Freudenberg,” you announce in that deceptively inviting tone of yours, leaning back in your father’s leather chair to give Erwin’s little spy a once over. “You have no idea how much I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Marlo Freudenberg was a tall young man with a diamond-shaped face, black bowl-cut hair, a beaklike nose, and dark brown eyes. He carries a dark grey coat in his arm and a brown leather suitcase where you assume he stores all his notebook and pens to take notes. He glances over nervously to Historia and Mikasa as they begin to take their leave.

“I was…I was told I would be meeting with Mr. Ymir today,” he stumbles out.

“Right.“ You offer him a wicked side grin as Mikasa closes the door shut behind her. “About that…”

Marlo might have thought —or perhaps had it been Erwin?—that by setting up a meeting with your father at his company’s office, under the watchful eye of the public, Ymir would never risk acting out on a threat so openly. That by being in his office with so many potential, respectable witnesses, his safety was guaranteed. So the fact you’re here instead changes things significantly.

He seems well aware of how wild and unpredictable you are, and the danger of being left alone in a closed room with you based on the way his eyes flicker over to the door warily.

Reaching into the inner pocket of you coat for your pack of cigarettes, you take your time lighting one up, enjoying the fear and uneasiness you evoke in him as he watches your every move, not knowing what you’ll do next. You finally lean back in your chair and put your feet up on the desk, blowing the first smoke upwards.

“You're not the first journalist to request a meeting with my father and get denied,” you begin most calmly. “Inquiries after inquires he receives. Every day.” You give the cigarette in your hand a light tap and let the ash fall on a tray nearby. “Your very own list of questions might have gotten lost amongst the rest if I hadn’t come across them first.” You flick your gaze up at him, an undertone of danger in your voice. “And your questions have garnered my attention, Mr. Freudenberg.”

You nod to the chair across your father's desk. “Have a seat.”

Marlo swallows at your command, throwing the door behind him one final look, before gingerly taking a seat at the chair you’ve indicated. He’s realized that Mikasa is probably waiting outside the door and that there is no way out for him until you allow there to be.

“I’ve read your articles, Mr. Freudenberg,” you continue coolly while he loosens his tie with unsteady fingers. “You consider yourself an honorable man, willing to stand up against corruption. You wish to empower your readers to do the same. To not be afraid of those in power and bring about change.”

You blow out a last line of smoke from your cigarette before putting it out. “I commend you. I really do. It takes a lot of courage to play the hero.” You let out a heavy sigh before getting out of your chair to circle around the desk. “If only you weren’t trying so hard to dig into my father’s past.”

Marlo’s jaw clenches as you lean against your father’s desk in front of him, hearing the threat in your words, but his eyes remain leveled to the empty chair where you’d been sitting. His voice, unyielding. “The people of this city deserve to know about the kind of leaders who represent them.”

“My father is nothing but a small, working class man who made his fortune by working hard,” you correct him, an edge to your voice. “Do not write him off as the villain Erwin Smith is trying to sell him as.”

His stoic expression falters for a brief second. “Erwin Smith? I don’t understand. What does the Chief of Police have to do —”

You laugh mockingly. “Oh, but Erwin Smith has everything to do with this, my friend! He hired you to tear my father’s image apart, did he not?” You swiftly reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out the voice recorder Marlo had intended to use to record your father during his interview. You’d seen him subtly reach for it when he first walked in, and you turn if off with a click. “To use any means necessary to gather your evidence so you can release it to the media. He risked your life by setting up your meeting with my father here, and yet you still chose to walk in here willingly.”

You step away to fix yourself a drink from your father’s bottle of scotch. You serve one for Marlo as well before heading back to him with both drinks in hand.

“Tell me,” you say curiously, holding out his drink to him, which he takes somewhat mindlessly. “What inspirational speech did he give you for you to give up your life for him so easily? Did he share with you his vision of the world? Free of evil and corruption?” You read his tense posture and smirk as you take a drink from your glass. “He made you believe you were important, didn’t he? That despite the danger, what you would accomplish here”— you gesture to the space between you and him — “would be for the greater good. And if you died, it would be an honorable death. That your life’s sacrifice was a step towards the betterment of mankind.”

His refusal to look at you tells you you’re right.

“He does not care for you, Mr. Freudenberg. You are all just pieces of pawns for him to use in his grand scheme of things.” You take another sip of your drink. “Which is most unfortunate, really. Your noble, white knight has ruined more lives than you will ever know. And for what?” Your voice drips with venom. “All his life he’s been chasing after a pipe dream, and deluded others to do the same.” You shake your head. “This whole world, this society,” you say emphatically, circling your hand in the air you nearly spill your drink, “is founded on corruption. You cannot change it.” You narrow your eyes at Marlo in warning. “If you do not accept this, you will die for nothing, as will the people of this city — your readers.”

Marlo’s grip on the drink in his hand has his knuckles turning deathly white, that you wonder if he’ll break the glass. “You wish for me to turn a blind eye to everything wrong in the world?” he asks, voice strained. “Like some spineless coward?” He finally meets your gaze. “No. My heart will not allow it. I cannot live in such a world.” He firmly places his drink on your father’s desk. “I refuse.”

You study the deep resolve in his eyes closely before lowering your gaze with lament. “All I’ve said,” you mutter quietly, “and you still think he’s on the side of the angels. Is it because he’s offered you money to pay for your daughter’s treatment?”

Marlo’s face pales. “What — What are you talking about?”

You give him a pointed look. “Come on now, Mr. Freudenberg. I make it my business to know things — just like you. And I not only know what Erwin Smith hired you for, but I also know of your family. Your wife — Hitch, was it?” You place your cup of glass on top of some books by your father’s desk to pull out a dainty golden locket from the pocket of your coat. “And your only child, Freya, who is terribly ill.”

You let the locket fall out of your hand, using its golden necklace to dangle it in front of him.

A noteworthy gift from Sasha, you had to admit, considering she had nicked it from his daughter’s room while her mother bathed her. Inside the locket is a mini portrait of five-year-old Freya being held in Hitch’s arms with Marlo standing behind her. Engraved in the back with fancy letters was Freya’s name.

Marlo’s eyes widen at the sight of it in your hands and he lunges for it, but you pull it back out of reach before he can take it. “Uh, uh, uh. Not so fast.”

Despite how Marlo stands looming over you, you are not at all threatened by him. You wave a hand for him to back away and he obeys you. Reluctantly, but without protest. With the way his wide eyes are full of dread at the thought of you hurting his family, he’s at your complete mercy.

“Please,” he begins to say, “don’t—”

You raise a finger to silence him and his mouth clamps shut as you force him to wait.

“Here is my offer, Mr. Freudenberg: I will pay for your daughter’s medical expenses and I will make it that you and your family live a safe, and comfortable life.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“Do not give me an answer just yet. Think it over first. Think of your daughter. If you die, do you really think Erwin will keep his word and look after her? You cannot deny the gamble Erwin took with you. The chances of you succeeding here were slim. By giving you this job, he knew he was most likely sending you to die.”

Marlo frowns, looking hesitant, and you watch as the seed of doubt you’ve planted begins to grow.

“This is what he does, Marlo,” you insist with brows knitted in concern. “He sends people to their deaths. Do not give him the power to do with you what he wills as he’s done with so many others.”

He slowly sinks back down into his chair, an expression of defeat woven in his features.

“If you insist on sparking change and influencing the mind of the people,” you go on, unable to hone down the malice in your voice, “you will only be leading them straight to their deaths. And you will be no better than him: a monster.”

This doesn’t seem to sit well with Marlo, however, and you sense the change in him almost immediately. “I fail to see how wanting the best for humanity makes you a monster,” he says through gritted teeth, glaring up at you.

Your expression hardens as you catch the heroic ardor in his eyes. He’s made you aware of his decision without even realizing it and you can’t help your disappointment.

You break eye contact with him to reach back for your drink and throw the last of it down your throat before going over to place the cup face down on the table with the rest of your father’s drinks. “The worst kind of monsters are those who don’t think they’re monsters.”

Marlo’s own drink, which he’d left untouched on your father’s desk, is in your other hand. You give it a swirl.

“You have twenty four hours to collect whatever research you have managed to get your hands on for this story and deliver it all to me,” you say with finality. “You betray me, you submit any of your work for publishing, and I come for you instead.”

He takes this as his cue to leave and numbly makes his way to the door while you down his drink in one go.

“And something you should know about me, Mr. Freudenberg,” you forewarn behind him as you place the empty cup face down next to your other one.

Marlo stops halfway to the door and turns to you. The familiar look of resentment you rouse in your enemies settling well over his features. You toss his daughter’s necklace for him to catch.

“I always keep my word.”

—

Moments later, Eren catches you in the hallway as you try to leave your father’s office.

“Anya!” you hear him call behind you. “Wait!”

Mikasa stands a few feet ahead of you, eyes fixed on Eren from over your shoulder as you hear him approach you.

He’d skittered out of his desk the second you walked past him in the reception’s area, and with no sign of Historia there to stop him, he did not hesitate to chase after you.

“Anya!”

Your nails dig into the palm of your hands as he keeps calling your name, frustrated at his inability to take a hint. Ignoring him was clearly getting you nowhere, so you stop short in the middle of the hallway, most unwillingly, your back to him. When Eren realizes he has your attention, his footsteps come to a halt a few feet behind you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks quietly, almost petulantly. “You spared my life that day, but ever since then you won’t even look at me.”

You scoff dismissively and resume your leave, hating that Mikasa was right about his undying attachment for you, but the boy is deeply wounded and unwilling to hide it.

“Do you regret saving me that much?” you hear him muster out behind you, his voice pained, as if afraid to hear the answer.

His words stop you dead in your tracks.

“Saving you?”

You let out a sharp laugh, turning to face him.

“What makes you think I saved you?”

His bright green eyes are visibly hurt as he looks to you from across the hall, but your piercing gaze remains cold and dangerous as you stride towards him.

Eren watches you wearily as you come to stand in front of him. He manages to hold his ground, but your disdain is written all over your face he struggles from flinching away.

“You exist because I allow it,” you snarl at him, inches from his face, “and you will die when I demand it.”

You turn on your heels and leave, not needing a response from him, but you’re left with a bitter taste in your mouth, as if you’ve swallowed down poison. But you refuse to take the antidote; refuse to let doubt cloud your judgment.

You storm out of there before the crushed look and anguish on Eren’s face remains permanently branded across your mind, and before the guilt, of knowing just how much you’re bound to ruin him, starts to catch up to you.

—

Later that evening Sasha knocks at your bedroom door. You’re lying on your stomach in bed with your elbows propped on the mattress and your chin in the palm of your hands, watching as your little black alley cat frolics around on the floor in front of you.

“Did you retrieve it?” you ask Sasha as she makes her way inside.

She places a manila envelope beside you on the bed. The article about your father Marlo had tried to deliver to the presses despite your warning, tucked safely inside.

“Any problems?”

She shrugs. “Nothing I couldn’t handle it.”

You let out a heavy sigh, hating that the journalist had to go on and be so predictable, because now you had to drag yourself out of bed and pay him a visit all the way across the city, when all you wanted to do tonight was catch up on your sleep.

It was tiring, always being right.

After your meeting with Marlo, you’d sent Sasha to monitor the Paradis Times building for any signs of him while you had Connie tail him the second he left your father’s office.

Leaving your bed, you retrieve your weapons from your bedside table and begin to strap them to their respective places across your person.

It was truly a pity about Marlo.

You’d tried to warn him about Erwin, but that hard look in his eyes at the end of your meeting with him told you Erwin’s scrupulous ideals were already planted in him too deeply. There was nothing you could say that would change his mind.

Even when you’d offered him the money for his daughter’s treatment, you knew he wasn’t going to accept it. Not when he knew where that kind of money came from.

Swiping the manila envelope from your bed, you begin to open it as you make your way out the door, your four-legged creature following behind you like a small shadow. It hurries on past you and disappears somewhere downstairs, probably in the direction of the kitchen where it hopes Niccolo will feed it some scraps before dinner.

“I could have spared you the trouble of doing it yourself,” Sasha says, coming up beside you as you head down the stairs while you skim through the article Marlo had risked his life to send to the presses. “I had eyes on him from above the whole time he was there. I could have taken him out at any moment before he sneaked out from the back and drove off. If he’s got any brains, he’ll be trying to make a run for it right about now.”

But you disagree.

When you had asked Sasha to keep tabs on the Paradis Times building, you’d done so with the assumption that Erwin had provided Marlo with some form of protection for him and his family, since he knew what would happen once it became known he had gone against your wishes. Connie had followed Marlo all the way to his home and only confirmed this for you when he’d returned to report the number of coppers stationed at every corner of his home. Whatever trouble Sasha had come across in her interception of the article had come from Erwin’s men, who had been patrolling the area from your people so as to assure Marlo’s success.

You’d asked Sasha to maintain secrecy and act as quickly as possible so as to avoid any unwanted attention since she’d be working out in broad daylight. You trusted her skillsets to get the job done so you had her act alone, not wanting any more of your people in the area than necessary. It’s why you’d had her keep Marlo alive — to make him and Erwin think he had succeeded — all the while Sasha would swoop in moments later to infiltrate the place with as much discretion as possible, and locate Marlo’s article to replace it with a fake one.

“Erwin promised Marlo security,” you explain to Sasha, ripping the article in half, “and Marlo trusts him too much to think the coppers stationed at his home will be enough to stop me.”

Sasha hears the slyness in your voice and it finally dawns on her. “You know this is a trap,” she states matter-of-factly, not at all surprised that you’re once again running into danger head on. “They’re expecting an attack from us.”

“They’re expecting an attack from my father,” you correct her. “But in Erwin’s pathetic attempt to draw him out, he’s failed to anticipate the extra chess piece on the playing board.”

You.

“Your father has plans for Erwin,” Sasha reminds you gently. “He’s told you not to interact with him until the time is ready. Is Ymir even aware of your meeting with the journalist today? Is Levi?”

You slide her a knowing look that answers her question. “I’ve waited long enough, Sasha. Don’t you think?”

Your stealthiest of spies exhales sharply through her nostrils in disapproval. You smile back at her wickedly. “Relax, love. There will be no encounters with Erwin tonight. Though, I expect him to be watching. His obsession with my father means he’s got tabs on him everywhere, waiting for him to make a wrong move. But by doing so he’s invited me to come out and play.” Your smile lights up like a loaded gun. “And I want to show him just how well I play the rules of the game.”

As you reach the bottom of the stairs, you head into the main living room where the nearest fireplace is located. Pulling out your lighter you feed the ripped pages of the article to the candle-like flame and throw it into the hearth to let its ashes collect inside. The article contained nothing that could implicate your father legally. Everything Marlo had brought up, Ymir had been cleared of years ago. But despite Marlo being unable to collect any new hard evidence that could stir open a new investigation against your father, his mention of these past allegations was enough for people’s suspicions over his questionable background to resurface amongst his new business partners. And that was not the kind of attention your father needed, or deserved.

The sound of a car engine draws near and moments later you hear the front door open.

You turn towards it and Mikasa appears in the doorway, layered in all black, much like you and Sasha.

“The car’s ready,” she informs you. “The rest of your team has already left and will meet us there. They’ve been instructed to wait until you give the signal.”

You lead Sasha and Mikasa to the front door. Opening it, you find your car and another modestly luxurious car parked outside in front of the house. Connie sits in the driver’s seat of the car behind yours while Jean leans against the side of your car with a cigarette pressed to his lips, patiently waiting for you.

It had been decided that Jean and Mikasa would accompany you in your car, while Sasha and Connie would take the spare.

You begin to climb down the stairs of the front porch when you catch sight of two running figures a small distance away.

“Eren, wait!” you hear one of them call out.

You quickly recognize them as Historia and Eren, but the way they’re racing towards you has your cadre on alert. Mikasa immediately steps in front of you protectively, not allowing you to take another step further, while Jean stands ready for them at the bottom of the stairs by your car.

Both Historia and Eren look completely disheveled and appear to be returning from the office despite their work attire reflecting their current indecorous state. There is no mistaking Historia is chasing after Eren, trying desperately to catch up to him and get him to stop. But Eren has a great lead over her and covering a lot of ground, fast. He makes it to you in no time, but Jean is there waiting for him and intercepts him before he can make it up the stairs. You inwardly wince as Eren collides into him.

“No!” Eren protests, struggling in Jean’s hold. “Anya!” The horror in his face takes you by surprise as he looks up to you with pleading eyes. “You can’t do this! Please! Call it off!

“Oi!” Jean hisses at him angrily as he struggles to hold Eren in place. “Calm down!”

“He has a family!” Eren cries out to you. “The reporter, Marlo —”

Your cadre all tense around you at his mention of the journalist, eyeing you for your reaction, but your face remains void of emotion.

“— I spoke with him when he came asking for your father a few days ago. He’s a good man!”

Historia finally reaches you and collapses on her knees before you. “Forgive me, Anya,” she says in between breaths, head bowed in shame. “He must have overheard my conversation with Jean earlier today. I should have been more careful, but he must have connected the dots on his own. I tried to stop him the second he figured out about tonight, but he’s faster than I anticipated.”

You tsk, and shift your eyes to Eren, annoyed. Why was this boy proving so damn uncontrollable? He was supposed to remain ignorant and far, far away from all this bloody business of yours, dammit. Why was he trying to meddle his way into this life of crime when his chances of surviving it were nonexistent?

“I don’t have time for this right now.” You sidestep Mikasa and resume your way down the stairs to your car. “I’ll deal with you both later,” you say as you walk past Historia and Eren.

“No! Anya!“ Eren grits his teeth as he struggles against Jean’s grip. “His daughter,” he pleads to you desperately. “She’s sick. She needs him!”

You pause mid-step. Rather surprised and mildly impressed by how he got that piece of information out of the journalist by simply striking up a conversation with him when Sasha had to follow him all day, and from afar, to collect that same intel.

Your face, however, remains blank, distant, as you resume and open the back door of your car. “Then he should have thought of her before dipping his toes in business that does not concern him.”

Before you step inside, you glance at Historia over your shoulder with evaluating eyes. Levi was out of town with Isabel and Furlan so you couldn’t rely on them to keep an eye on Eren for you while you and your cadre were away.

”Can I trust you to keep him in check,” you ask Historia none too kindly, “or is he going to run off on you again?”

Historia registers you’re talking to her and she stands at attention. “It won’t happen again,” she assures you firmly. “You can trust me.”

You give Jean a subtle nod before stepping in the car and directing your next order to Historia, gesturing to Eren. “Get him out of here. He’s causing a bloody scene.”

You shut the door and seconds later hear Jean knock the air out of Eren. You don’t need to look out your window to know Eren is on the ground, doubled over in pain.

You rest your head against your seat and close your eyes, impatiently waiting for Jean to get in to start the car so you could leave this moment behind. The look of horror and desperation on Eren’s face at your callousness is seared across your mind and you can’t shake it off. It was far too similar to the way you had once looked upon your tormentors from that day. When they’d rid you of your innocence and filled your heart, your soul, with so much darkness, the girl you were before was left buried ten feet underground.

Perhaps this is why you can’t bare having Eren anywhere near you. Because you knew that for as long as he remained within close proximity of you, you were chipping away at his innocence the way they had done away with yours.

It makes you hate yourself just a little bit more, knowing you were turning into the same monsters you’d vowed to destroy.

But then you think of what your father once told you, and your inner demons still once more. “There are two kinds of people in this world,” your father had said. “Those who live on the side of the world who have never been touched by darkness, and those who were raised in darkness.”

And you, Anya Ymir, belonged to the darkness, residing alongside the monsters and devils that reigned within it until you’d learned to make it feel like home.

As a child these creatures had threatened to devour you, sensing the softness still nestled within you. But now they recognized you as one of their own — a monster in human form. If you had any chance at retribution, your wretched soul could not waver. Could not forget: your mother’s killers had been monsters too.

A slam of a door closing snaps your eyes open. Jean has finally made his way inside your car and jabs the keys into the ignition, turning it on. Behind you, Connie’s vehicle also roars to life. Connie and Sasha leave first and Jean follows behind them seconds later, leaving Historia behind with Eren still bent over on the floor at her feet.

You draw out the revolver from your holster and pop the barrel open. Taking out the bullet with Marlo’s name from your coat, you exchange it for one of your regular bullets.

It takes a monster to destroy a monster, you remind yourself, locking the barrel back in place with a hard click. And you intend to be the deadliest.

[another-heroine]

9 Ship Songs 2.0

Some time ago I was tagged on this one, and by that time I have had no enough songs for any of my beloved ships.

Now that my brain is spinning Lann and Katya like a rotisserie chicken, I am finally able to list nine songs for them at least lol

(And I just followed the shuffling order of Spotify. Check on their playlist here)

Be There (Seafret)

You've got me surrounded

It feels like I'm drowning

And I don't want to come up for air

I lost everything

I threw myself in and you took me when no one was there

Well you can take what you need, take the air that I breathe

And I'll give away all that I own

Whatever I lose, is put back by you in a way that you'll never know...

Sunlight (Hozier)

I would shun the light, share in evening's cool and quiet

Who would trade that hum of night?

For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

But whose heart would not take flight?

Betray the moon as acolyte

On first and fierce affirming sight

Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

I had been lost to you, sunlight

And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight

Oh, your love is sunlight

Oh, your love is sunlight

But it is sunlight...

Honeylight (Amber Run)

There's nothing to it

You just exist

Then you die

I'm under no illusion

That things get better

But I'II try

'Cause you know it goes down like honey (honey)

So open wide, open wide

You don't have to say you're sorry (sorry)

You only tried, you only tried

It comes in waves, it's red like rust

And in the stream you see the dust

I would like to bathe in honey (honey)

In honey light, in honey light...

Creep (Radiohead)

When you were here before

Couldn't look you in the eye

You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather

In a beautiful world

I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special

But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo

What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here...

Hello My Old Heart (The Oh Hellos)

Hello, my old heart

How have you been?

Are you still there inside my chest?

I've been so worried

You've been so still

Barely beating at all

Oh, don't leave me here alone

Don't tell me that we've grown

For having loved a little while

Oh, whoa, I don't wanna be alone

I wanna find a home

And I wanna share it with you...

War (Poets of the Fall)

Do you remember standing on a broken field

White crippled wings beating the sky

The harbingers of war with their nature revealed

And our chances flowing by

If I can let the memory heal

I will remember you with me on that field

When I thought that I fought this war alone

You were there by my side on the frontline

When I thought that I fought without a cause

You gave me a reason to try...

Colours (Billy Raffour ft JJ Wilde)

It's the smartest thing I ever did

Opening my heart to let you in

You taught me that despite the evidence

I'm still worth a damn, you'd still take the risk

Oh, stay with me, don't ever leave

Where I was broken, you made a home in

Where I had nothing, you gave it all

Where I was hardened, you grew a garden

Your love, it hollers down my halls

I've got your colours on my walls...

Golden (Harry Styles)

Golden, golden, golden

As I open my eyes

Hold it, focus, hoping

Take me back to the light

I know you were way too bright for me

I'm hopeless, broken

So you wait for me in the sky

Browns my skin just right

You're so golden

You're so golden

I'm out of my head

And I know that you're scared

Because hearts get broken...

Sirens (Pearl Jam)

Hear the sirens, hear the sirens

Hear the sirens, hear the circus so profound

I hear the sirens more and more in this here town

Let me catch my breath to breathe then reach across the bend

Just to know we're safe, I am a grateful man

The slightest bit of light and I can see you clear

Oh, had to take your hand, and feel your breath

For fear this someday will be over

I pull you close, so much to lose

Knowing that, nothing lasts forever

I didn't care, before you were here

I danced in laughter, with the ever after

But all things change, let this remain...

[sofya-fanfics]

The Stars Will Always Lead Me To You

Fandoms : Naruto / Doctor Who

Relationship : Thirteen x Sakura

My Crossover Ships Week 2023 contribution for the prompt : Reincarnation.

I’m sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language. I hope you like it.

Summary : Sakura put her head in her hands as a sharp pain ran through her. She had never felt this. It was as if her head was going to explode from too much information. Thousands of images raced through her head. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. She remembered everything. Her name was Rose Tyler and she had regenerated.

Disclaimer : Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto and Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.

@crossover-ships-brainrot​

AO3 / FF.NET

The Doctor ran as fast as he could. The ship was heading straight towards a black hole, with about ten people on board. He had thought about all the possibilities and he had found a single solution. He had to gather everyone in one part of the ship and separate the other part to prevent the black hole from sucking them in entirely. But for that, someone had to stay at the risk of being sucked in. Only he could do it. But he would not have thought that Rose would knock him out to take his place.

He did not know how long he had been unconscious, but he had to hurry before it was too late. He had just reunited with her, after all these centuries without her. He had lost Amy, Rory and River, but Rose had reappeared in his life. She was no longer human. The TARDIS had changed something in her so she could not age anymore and she could not die.

For the first time in years, he was happy. They could finally live together forever. But things had not gone as it should and they were going to be separated again. He arrived at the heart of the ship, where it had to split in two. The door was closed. He tried to open it with his sonic screwdriver, but he could not opened it. Rose must have blocked it. He saw her through the glass of the door and he knocked with all his might.

“Rose !” He shouted. “Rose, open the door !” “No way,” she said, making the final adjustments to the central computer. “You won’t sacrifice yourself.” “Don't worry, I'll find a way to get back. But I'm begging you, open that door.”

Rose approached the glass.

“Promise me you won't stop running. You have to travel, find companions and show them the universe. The universe needs you.”

He did not care about the universe, he thought. All that mattered was getting Rose to safety. She put her hand on the glass and the Doctor imitated her. He begged her to discard the idea. Rose smiled, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“The stars will always lead me to you,” she said.

Without taking her eyes off him, she pointed her sonic screwdriver she had made in Pete's world at the computer and the ship split in two. The Doctor felt helpless. All he could do was watching Rose get sucked in the black hole while the part of the ship he was in drifted away.

After getting the entire crew to safety, the Doctor returned to the TARDIS. Why keep helping the universe, he thought bitterly, when the universe was taking everyone he loved from him.

******

Sakura lay down on the ground and watched the stars. The sky was clear and the stars sparkled brilliantly. She had always liked watching them. They soothed and comforted her. As far as she could remember, the stars had always brought her this feeling of well-being. When she was a child, she wanted to travel across the universe so she could visit distant galaxies. She was convinced that it was possible and she was still convinced of it.

Naruto lay down next to her. Sakura looked at him and smiled. He had had an arm transplant four months ago and he had insisted on going on a mission with Sakura. It was a simple two-day mission, but Sakura was happy to spend time with her best friend.

“Still watching at the stars,” he teased gently. “I find them comforting.” “Do you still believe you can travel to the stars ?”

Sakura laughed lightly and she patted his shoulder. Naruto could not help wincing.

“Stop making fun of me.”

But she was convinced that something was about to change. Something important that could change her life. After returning from the mission, Sakura had the strange feeling that she was drawing to the stars more and more. As if they were calling her. Every day, she felt like her brain was assimilating new knowledge, things she had never learned. At night, she had strange dreams. She dreamed of unknown creatures and distant planets. But some things were recurring. A blue box that was bigger on the inside and a man with different faces. One day, while she was sleeping, the name of that man came to her mind.

“Doctor !” Sakura called waking up suddenly.

She put her head in her hands as a sharp pain ran through her. She had never felt this. It was as if her head was going to explode from too much information. Thousands of images raced through her head. London, Powell Estate, Jacky, Mickey, the Doctor, the TARDIS, Bad Wolf, Pete's world, John, her reunion with the Doctor, the black hole.

Sakura lowered her hands and opened her eyes. She remembered everything. Her name was Rose Tyler and when she was being sucked in the black hole, she had regenerated. It was the only explanation she had. She would never have thought that Bad Wolf could do this. She had landed in Konoha as a baby. The Harunos had found her under the cherry blossoms and had named her Sakura. But unlike the Doctor, she had no memory of her past life until today. Sakura remembered the feeling she had that things were about to change. But she would never have believed in this kind of change.

******

Several weeks had passed and Sakura had only one idea in mind, to find the Doctor. But she had no way to contact him. Ever since she had regained her memory, she had been trying to build a device that might be able to send a signal to the TARDIS. She knew it would be complicated and it would take her time. But she was sure of one thing. No matter how many times they were apart, they would always meet again.

******

The Doctor lowered the throttle, but the TARDIS would not listen and did exactly as she pleased. They were heading to an unknown destination deep in the universe and that worried the Doctor. There was a violent jolt and she fell to the floor. She did not understand what was going on. The TARDIS suddenly stopped and the Doctor walked towards the screen. She opened her eyes wide as she read the instructions. Her hearts were pounding so hard she thought they would explode.

It was impossible. She did a new check and the result was the same. Rose was there. On the other side of the door. She remembered that fateful day when Rose had disappeared. There was no way she survived. But maybe… The Doctor felt hope rise in her. Maybe Rose was still alive. After all, it was not the first time that she thought she would not see her again and Rose miraculously reappeared in her life.

The Doctor only knew that she was in a village called Konoha, on a planet similar to Earth but which was millions of light years from where the black hole had been.

The Doctor ran out of the TARDIS. She was in front of a building that was being demolished. She stepped inside and nearly lost her balance when she felt a violent jolt. She arrived in a completely demolished hallway.

“What happened here ?” She wondered.

The floor shook again and the Doctor saw a figure running towards her. It was a young woman, but it was not Rose. She had pink hair and when she arrived in front of the Doctor, she could see her big green eyes.

“You mustn't stay here,” she said. “Run !”

She took her hand and they ran off. This took the Doctor back several centuries when she met Rose. This girl was not Rose, yet she felt the same warmth and sweetness in her hearts. The Doctor looked behind her and she saw two Cybermen. They left the building and the pink haired let go of her hand. The Doctor felt a void, but she came to her senses when the pink haired hit the ground with her fist and the building collapsed.

“Wow !” The Doctor exclaimed. “Impressive.”

The woman grinned from ear to ear.

“Thanks.”

She looked towards the ruined building.

“I must have miscalculated,” she muttered. “The Cybermen should not have heard my call.”

The Doctor watched her. She had spoken far too softly and she had not understood what she had just said. She did not look like Rose. But she knew it was her. Everything in her knew it was Rose. Maybe she had regenerated. After all, there's still a lot she did not know about Bad Wolf.

“Is everything alright ?” She asked, noticing the Doctor watching her. “Yes, it is.”

The Doctor grinned from ear to ear. Suddenly, another Cyberman came towards them. The Doctor walked over to the building's electrical panel. The electrical wires were down. She ran her sonic over the panel. When the Cyberman would step on the wires, he would be electrocuted, she thought. But they had to leave quickly, it was also dangerous for them.

“Let's go,” the Doctor said.

She took her hand and the girl followed her without asking questions. They entered the TARDIS. The Doctor walked to the dashboard, while her guest looked around.

“It's…” she began. “It's bigger on the inside,” the Doctor continued.

She approached the Doctor, smiling.

“I knew you would hear my call.” “Rose,” the Doctor smiled. “From now on, my name is Sakura.”

Another flower name, the Doctor thought.

“What do you think about it ?” Sakura asked. “Is that a good or bad difference ?” “A good difference,” she answered, she had never been so happy.

Sakura took her hand and squeezed it.

“The stars will always lead me to you.”

This sentence which had caused her so much pain, now made her happy. She took Sakura in her arms and kissed her. She was reunited with her and she did not want to spend a second away from her.

No matter what would happen. Whether her name was Rose or Sakura. She was finally with the Doctor, aboard the TARDIS, forever.

The end

[domaslut]

BROKEN PROMISES.

Pairings: Felix Rosier x reader;

Warnings: angst, death;

Prompt: before leaving for the Battle of Hogwarts, Felix makes a promise to you. A promise destined to be broken.

You stared up at him, your fingers tracing his sharp jawline as he brushed his thumb over your lower lip. It was a little moment of peace, far from the dangerous streets, far from Hogwarts. You wished you could just go with him, but your pregnancy was all that mattered to him.

“Let me come with you, please…” you tried again, a single teardrop running down your cheek.

Felix cupped your cheek in his gloved hand, sorrow and a dim spark of hope shone in his dark eyes “Absolutely no. I will be fine, love. If I lost you and the small creature in your womb, I honestly would not know what to do with my life anymore” he said, glassy eyes staring into yours. You had never ever seen your husband so desperate.

You nodded your head, standing on your toes to plant a fiery kiss on his chapped lips. Felix wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His touch was warm, electric, but his robes broke your spirit. He was a Death Eater, his silver mask covering the upper part of his face made it loud and clear. He knew you belonged to the opposite site, but he did not care. He had fallen in love with you a long time ago, when you were kids reading books from the restricted section. You were his whole damn world.

“Just promise me you are coming back to me, Felix” you breathed out, as soon as your mouths parted.

Felix pressed his forehead against yours “I will come back to you, mon amour”.

You smiled weakly at him one last time, soaking in his lean frame, watching the way his black cape twirled around his body. He smiled too, then he apparated on a battlefield and you spent hours on your knees, begging for him to come back home.

But a week later, you wiped some dust away from a marble grave. Your forefinger traced the letters engraved into the stone. Huge tears fell from your lashes, a sob breaking the defeaning silence around you.

“You were supposed to come back to me, Felix… Not to die on me!” you shouted up at the sullen sky. Broken promises broke hearts. And only then you remembered a stupid thing he had told on your first year at Hogwarts.

“You should keep your distance. Rosiers bring death with them, wherever they go”.

[multistoty]

Hope and Aemond

A surprised sound passed the gates of her lips once he had gathered her to his arms. Though Hope found herself melting into the embrace without forethought almost instinctively. She was like a lizard searching for the warmth of the sun. Only he was a dragon that curled around her and protected her with his fire. The ghosts could come back to haunt her, but they would not reach their claws. This was the first time that someone had helped pull them free. It was a heavy moment to meet a heavy movement. She may have craved this but was not in a state to ask that of him or expect them. Aemond deserved his boundaries which made his all the more powerful. It was because they were two parts of a whole. He did not belong to her. And she did not belong to him. It was never about belonging to someone. It was about belonging together. Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky. They’ve  had a terrible start—it doesn’t mean they  can’t have a better ending. He consumed her  in a different way- the way his eyes made everything jump inside of her when she  looked into them, his laughter, temper, the way he sometimes struggled for words, the way his jaw twitched when he was angry, the thoughtful way he listened to her, his incredible restraint and resolve in the face of overwhelming odds. When she looked at him, she saw the easygoing knight he could have been, but she also saw the soldier and prince that he was. He had taken her unraveled spools and tied the yarn he held against hers. For that was a choice more than beauty. And if choosing to love was a warrior of its own, Hope would easily join the ranks. She tried as hard as she could to pick up the pieces already knowing the wetness would cover the length of his black clad shoulder. And something snapped in her. A thread she hadn’t allowed herself to entertain before. Tears she hadn’t allowed herself for it was time to be the heir not the child. The words should not fear a woman with blades hidden in her clothes. Waiting. She did not care about consummation or the like until they were ready. And that tradition would be one she would follow. Besides, they offered better ways for forcing out this threat. This person who had insight on the succession and world of her country and now his. As well, how unnerving a threat against herself or her father here would be. She held him like a grudge. Like a safety. For the first time, her heart truly felt like it could be held even for a moment. It was his choice to crush or cradle it. This wasn’t about Alicent’s matchmaking or the line of succession. This was people falling for souls. Falling for the rough edges that ensnared your own and the linen that coddled your skin. The kind of love that started with eyes giving butterfly kisses instead of smolder. The kind that came from mutual respect. And stubbornness as Helaena had practically flagged her with. Some how, it felt like he was right. He was certain that they were safe. And she almost dared to believe him even as the blankets of auburn hair and targaryen blonde ran their frames. “I know that,” She croaked though the clear terror at the idea of a dying breath made itself clear even as the woman who was used to being others enough that she thought being marooned impossible. Klaus had protected her. But he could only do to much. He thought haunting people would make people scared to touch you and sometimes it did, but the war always tinged the sides even in peace. A balance. This was a place were a man had chosen to fight and die for her. Had chosen to take what was her smolders to make a castle. “Always and forever. But you do not keep the world in your hands, Aemond, and my vow is to love and protect you. And I have slowly, stupidly fell for you. I used to feel like love outside of family was a transaction or a secret. You have kept your vow and kept the girl over the enemy. But it doesn’t mean I have it in me to be feared. To be taunted with the hollowed eyed memories of losing my mother, the first eyes I ever looked into. For me, she died for me. It almost makes it worse to come so close. I want to be a princess or queen worthy of you.- It’s learning, sweetheart. It won’t be easy, but you have given me the greatest reassurance and bliss.”

@musings-with-ash​

[casspurrjoybell-22]

Dream Eater - Chapter 10 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

My shadowy vision indicates he bows in my direction and I do the same towards him.

"Likewise, General Oran," I say, playing along for Damien's sake.

"If you'll excuse me," Oran says. "I have a speech to give."

He leaves us and the interminable mingling continues but from that point on, I notice that Damien's hand never quite leaves my arm.

The party drags on for another eon or so but like all things must, it eventually comes to an end. In our chambers, Damien helps me to bathe and change.

I've gotten pretty good at navigating familiar spaces without sight but I'm tired enough not to mind his hovering.

As he guides me to the bed and pulls the blankets back for me, I risk the proposition that's been on my mind all evening.

"Damien... I need a dream," I say, catching his hand. "Will you stay?"

I see his shape looming over me, like some dark angel.

"Are you sure? I thought my dreams were too much."

They are but they're also familiar and available.

Which, I realize, are two reasons that underlie a lot of poor choices but I make this one anyway.

"I'm sure," I say, going for levity but sounding a little desperate. "And hey, you don't even have to pay me."

He settles beside me on the bed and takes my hand.

"My dreams haven't been as bad since my memory returned," he says. "I think you've seen the worst already."

"Great. Maybe you'll dream about something mundane, like snakes or falling."

I'm not counting on it but hope springs eternal.

********

This time, the dream is from Damien's perspective.

He/I stand on a ledge over a precipice.

The sky roils with orange clouds and the landscape looks like a mountainous region of Mars.

I get the sense this is one of the lower realms.

Beside me stands a man I love and who I know I'm going to lose.

He's tall and fair and beautiful.

He looks like he's lit from within by his own star and the light of it shines from his eyes with gentle warmth.

He's dressed for battle but carries no weapon.

"Sakariel, is there nothing I can do to dissuade you? Nothing I can say to make you change your mind?" I ask.

I feel like I'd let worlds burn if it meant I could protect him.

He shakes his head and gives me a sad smile.

"No, 'Talian. The time is now. All things have their season and mine nears an end. I will make this attempt and whether it succeeds or fails, it shall be my last."

His words weigh on my heart like stones.

"I wish we had more time," I say, feeling it slip through my grasp even as I speak.

He takes my hand.

"As do I," he sighs. "'Talian, whatever happens, know that if my life were my own to give, it would belong to you."

He steps back and I see that he holds a silver horn in his hand.

Raising it to his lips, he sounds a long clear note and I feel it pierce me like a spear.

The end has begun.

The dream shifts and I stand on the top of a high tower.

The sound of battle rises from below.

Fear catches at my heart and I draw the long blade I wear at my hip, ready to fight.

Sakariel is at my back, grief in the lines of his face and the slope of his shoulders.

Oran is there as well.

"They've breached the lower levels," he tell us. "Sakariel... Azael's assassins did not gain entry without aid from within. We've been betrayed."

He slumps against the wall.

"Then it is over."

"You must escape," Oran says urgently. "Dantalian, take him and go. I will hold them off."

"I am no coward, Oran," Sakariel says. "I will not flee and leave my people to suffer in my stead."

"Damn it, Sakariel. If you won't think of yourself, then think of me," I shout. "I won't leave without you. Either we go together or we die together here."

I see his hesitation and for a moment I'm not sure which he'll choose.

Finally he nods and reaches for my hand.

There's nothing like hope in his eyes but there is love.

"Very well, 'Talian. Whatever of my life is left, it's all yours."

Oran yells at us to go.

I hold Sakariel in my arms and heart shivering with hope and fear, let the fire of the Fallen take us away.

********

I wake up with a racing heart but Damien was right.

Compared to his other dreams, that one wasn't so bad.

I feel stressed out and depressed but my energy is restored.

I blink a few times but my sight is no better than it was.

Damien's hand is still in mine and he's still asleep.

Sitting up, I consider his shadowy outline with a frown.

The stress and sorrow are already fading but another feeling remains strong.

I've always been pretty good at separating the emotions in people's dreams from my own but it's hard to experience a love like the one he had for Sakariel and not feel at least a little affection for the guy.

On impulse, I reach over and lay my hand on his chest above his heart, feeling the steady beat of it beneath my palm.

I don't remember seeing this in the dreams but I'm suddenly certain that it's something Sakariel used to do.

The feeling unnerves me and he chooses that moment to wake up. I snatch my hand back.

"Alex?" he asks, sitting up. "Is everything okay?"

The images from the dream flash through my mind and that weirdly persistent feeling pulses a little stronger.

"Yeah," I say and turn away to get up. "Everything's fine."

I meet a bunch of people over the next several days, most of whose names I fail to remember.

Apparently, they're what's left of Sakariel's closest allies in this realm. 

Maybe it's the fact I know it was an ally of some sort that betrayed him but I don't like any of them very much.

The feeling seems mutual.

I catch more than a few whispered arguments about 'unclean souls' and 'demonic pollution' and by lunchtime on the third day, I've had enough.

"Damien, why are you making me meet these people?" I ask. "They clearly don't want to meet me."

"They do," Damien assures me. "Heavenly Keys are rare and usually aeons pass between one occurrence and the next. To have found even a piece of one gives them hope."

"Well, don't let them get their hopes up too much, because I'm no hero or leader or whatever-the-fuck your dead angel was. I'm demon trash and as soon as I get the opportunity, I'm out of here."

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

When he goes on, it's with the patient air of a parent dealing with a cranky child.

"We need their protection, Alex. We might have asylum here for now but things change. The knowledge that you carry part of a Key will incline them to our favor."

"So you're using me?" I ask and contemplate exactly how angry I should feel.

He sighs.

"Let's go out. I know your vision hasn't completely returned but the fresh air will do us both good."

I consider being difficult for the hell of it but then decide that a walk actually sounds nice.

We wander the city streets and while I can't see clearly, my vision has improved enough that the world looks kind of like an Impressionist painting.

I can see colors, shapes, shades of dark and light.

The sounds and smells are interesting in their own right and I make Damien stop and describe stuff to me almost constantly.

I gather that the city is a strange mix of ancient and modern.

There are something like electric lights but everyone goes about either on foot or by the boats in the canals.

The economy is based on a form of credit calculated according to a person's station and the shops range from street vendors to what amount to high-end boutiques.

Damien buys me some sort of pastry with the credit Allannan gave him and I nibble at it as we walk back across one of the great bridges spanning a wide canal.

We're about halfway across when Damien stops short.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I thought I saw... someone I know," he says, sounding odd.

"Alex, wait here. I'll be back in a minute."

"Hey. Don't just..." but he's already gone... "Leave me here," I finish with a sigh.

The bridge has a low stone railing along its edge and I sit on it while I wait, wondering if I could find my way back on my own if Damien forgets me here.

I watch the indistinct shapes of people passing back and forth and listen to the persistent background noises of the city's life. 

[thunderous-wolf]

Drunk Dazed

Installment 2 of my series of "Thoughtz"

Note: "Thoughtz" is a compilation of drafts of fanfic that I've had in my notes for a while. They're unedited and most are unfinished. Since I do not feel motivated enough to finish them, I'm posting them all for you to read. Enjoy~

Midnight Escapade

Part 1 of 3

Pairing: no relationship, but features Bangchan and fem!reader.

Plot: You find yourself in a strange world...

Warnings: its supposed to be a little confusing, violence, guns and shooting, death, an implied "not-so-kind" man

a/n: This was a goofy project inspired by a friend that consists of three separate stories tied together. Just like a dream, they don't have a clear plot and are strictly for fun.

Please DO NOT copy, translate or steal my works.

You woke up to find yourself standing behind your best friend, Lisha, in a unfamilliar hallway somewhere. You can hear music coming from the room at the end of the hallway, and the door was slightly ajar. From what you've gathered, it looks like a dance practice room.

After coming closer, you recognize that Red Lights is playing. You stopped right where you were. No way were you gonna watch that, you'd die from blushing as red as a beet. But Lisha, with unknown strength, pulled you along with her. We walked - or rather, dragged - along the hallway until we came to the door.

You were about to open the door when suddenly the ground beneath you gave way, and you were plunged into darkness.

You fell on something slightly soft. You jumped up, thinking it was Lisha, and after some examination, it was just a couch. Lisha had vanished into thin air without a trace.

A spotlight above you flickered on, revealing three doors infront of you. There were no other exits in the room, leading you to believe you had to go into one of the three doors to escape.

The first door was an old wood door (some might even go as far as saying it's mahogany). There was a small gap between the door and the floor, and you could feel a crisp night's breeze seeping in from it.

The second door was lit up with neon signs. It looked like it belonged to a night club. It was very dark tinted glass, and if you got close enough you could barely make out dancing lights from within. You could feel the vibrations on the door that were caused by the thumping music from within.

The third door - and by far the most odd one - was made of steel. It was painted stark white, and the paint was chipping off from the years of usage. One piece of paint in particular was getting on your nerves. You reached out to pick it off and immediately drew your hand back. The door was so cold it almost shocked your hand. Unlike the first door, it didn't have cold air flowing from it.

You stepped back. How were you supposed to know which one would lead you home? Although, you could just poke your head in each one and see which one looked most promising. So that's what you did.

However, your plans didn't factor the possibility of you being sucked into the atmosphere. Literally.

You had chosen the first door (as result of a game of eeny meeny miny moe) and were immediately thrown into the inside when you opened the door wide enough for you to fit through.

Beyond the door, you had stumbled upon an alley. It was late at night, the moon was already high in the sky. Looking up at it, you see that it's a full moon. However, it was the weirdest full moon you've ever seen. The clouds surrounding it were purple, making it cast purple rays of light onto the ground.

You hear shuffling coming from behind you, and you turn around to see a figure walking towards you.

As it came closer, you could see it was a man, in his mid forties, who was certainly not a sight for sore eyes.

"Hey there, pretty lady. Why don't you come with me and we can have some fun~"

"Dang it." You whisper to yourself. "Umm, thank you for the offer but I'm not interested." You say as politely as you can. You don't need to offend him since that could make it worse.

You slowly back away, but he mirrors your movements. His strides are bigger than yours and he's gaining on you. You were about to turn around and run when you suddenly hear a gunshot. You whip your head around to see where the shot came from.

On one of the rooftops above you, stood a younger man standing with his back to the moon, holding a really cool looking gun. There was a painful thud behind you and you whip your head around yet again to see that the man following you fell to the ground with a bullet hole in his chest. Blood was around around him and you stepped back to avoid getting any blood on you. You looked back to see if the young man was still there, but just as your head turned, he jumped off the roof. He quickly disappeared in the endless streets without a sound. Soon, you found yourself alone once more.

Part 2

[niinra]

Protocol One. The Prophet and the Voices

Authors Note: That i would be posting again is something i didnt think was possible haha no but for real i recently started writing again and i missed it. not me acting like i ever wrote much to begin with..

Warnings...like 2 mentions of dying and its probably a bit confusing to read but good luck!

Word count: 932

All things life gives are fake, it wants to fool you like it did with the rest of us. If I told you the same things it whispers in your ears you would call me a lunatic. That the way of things it always was the most believable. But believe me when I tell you it just wants you to lower your guard and lower your guard you will. All it needs to do is wait and then at that one little vulnerable moment, that's when life strikes. Believe me when I say explore and enjoy this false paradise while you can because the things after are nothing you ever wanted to know even existed…

That was what I got told over and over again by the voices in the skyes. As I walk through the world I take my time to look at everything. A little river? I cooled my feet in it. A field of flowers? I braided a flower crown. But the more I look the more the voices grow, at first it was one, then two and then three. Right now there are around eight of them, with each voice I found one. One anomaly which doesn't belong here. Wires in a tree…glitching in the water..and the most recent clear liquid from an abrasion on my knee.

“Yes..go that way!” “No the other way is the right one” “Right or wrong is of no meaning” “kill yourself!” “don't listen to her, my Prophet! She is just jealous!”

And so on and so on. The seemingly endless forest is not as endless as I hoped. I have come by the same waterfall at least 15 times over the length of my journey. I have no recollection of anything besides one meaningless sentence. “You are the Prophet. Act like it and you will have your way made for you, back to where you belong, in our mothers embrace. The Mother of Life. The mother of despair.”

I step over a fallen over tree, feeling watched. i'm always being watched, i cant see them but i know they are there and they watch close. each breath i take is monitored, each blink is counted. I know that because there is a distinct *click* that can be heard everytime i blink. 

“Prophet continue!” “Why did you stop?” "Go! you have to go!” “this is not right, this is not how it was foretold!” “If you won't do something, just die!” “Sister. calm yourself, you are still speaking to our chosen.” “the chosen can die for all i care, *i* should have been in her place!”

And just like that the arguing starts once more. it's always between voice 4 and 2. As a matter of fact those two are the once that speak the most. Number one which guided me the first week of my seemingly not new existence has gone mute. i sit down in a shallow part of a lake, staring up at the sky and the let the *rain* drench me. The liquid form the skies is red, sticky and warm. It reeks of iron like the rest of the *water*. 

“...quiet..watch..the prophet is cleansing herself..” “cleansing…yes yes!” “like she should! everything around her is unworthy!” my eyes move to my right and they lock on a terrified being. It stares at me, its limbs tremble in fear. I slowly stand up and walk over to it.

“My Prophet?” “*our* "Prophet.." “y-yes she found something?” “..’gasp’ its one of them..” “them?” “ a ‘heretic brother” “what will she do?” “i don't know” 

The thing moves back the closer i come to it. “Why are you fleeing?” i ask it in a low voice which apparently make it only worse. The Rain runs down my body and I leave red footsteps behind. I lift my arm and stretch my hand out towards the it. “Why are you so mean? I am trying to help and guide you!” I hiss at the thing as it cowers away from me. “LEAVE ME ALONE! YOU MONSTER!” the thing screams at me. “Monster? I am not a monster..i am your Prophet..your savoir!” I argue back as I speed up my steps to get closer to it. “P-Prophet? No! My Prophet is in out church! You are a Martyr!” “i am not! Who do you think you are? You are nothing! You hear me? NOTHING compared to me!” I counter annoyed as I grab the face of the thing. “Yes our Prophet! Tell him!” “yes he knows nothing!” “His prophet is a false one!” “its a imitation of you!” “they cherish and their believe in you is so strong they needed someone to be a place holder” “but the place holder seemed to have forgotten where they belong.” “show him the truth!” “yes!” “no she shouldn't!” “yes she should do it!”

I force the mouth of the thing open and let the rain drop in it from my fingers. “Sallow the sacred water. Sallow it and become my follower once again! Take your place on the right side of things..:” I watch the things eyes roll into the back of their head before they come back forth. The green they held before having darkened to a deep red. Letting it go I take a few steps back and unsurprisingly this time it follows me instead of backing away. It seems borderline desperate now to be in my presence.

“Yes!” “The first was converted back to the true!” “Our Prophet has started the revolution!” “The age of the Prophet has come.”

[pretentious-dipshit94]

Where Angels Seek & Dare Beyond Wisdom Teeth (flash-fiction, 1k; workshopped Nov. 8th)

    By the time you read this, none of it will be true anymore. It will become increasingly clear that the boundaries have been breached longago. There is no need for ourselves to think lesser, once the publicity has done the release against what my convictions has left me behind, limbs lightweight and the subsequent sadness that ate my sentence into the lingering acrimony caught inside my cell-shaded letters: the line belongs to another who has been caught red-handed in the killing of someone who could of destroyed this precarious balance, although I do not suspect it had a thing to do with your own ruse.

        Tawdry, though tantalizing to touch in all respects, the testimony brings the divide between the powerful and the pauper into closer, if poorly shown in hindsight, view. 

The world I was left inside has us all scrambling for the front page, near shrieking at every second for the notice that another's feelings could shake the order wherein all our feelings are just that: the boundaries of the too late for it to affect anyone but ourselves, alone. This is the saddest song, reprised tonight at Graceland manor. 

Already the reception was underneath the forceful splash my invasion of my father's estate had done magnificently, surefire and galvanized, thereby magnetizing my brief stay.

    Another tangent, although there is enough space between this open window and the promenading mob, the vicious and expectant crowd watching me as the moment soars dangerously alive. “Tell it to the judge, you child killer!”, one of thousands hurls as stones are thrown against my only escape; poly-admiralty, it appears, has been hunting me down for sport until it brought them ravenous at my frontage, and there does not seem to be any sign of surrender from either end. I am fearfully unafraid of what fame has in cold storage for mine alone: plentiful, row after row, columnated, there is space enough for open shelves.

        Worship this naked exposure, I rally the strength for my audience gathering at my shadowed footfall’s outline. Enjoy it to the last drop, the adjudicator's last tears spread across the perfume of innocent limbs, seeking solitude in the clamour of many. “Monster!”, they all cry outside my range, ringing false praise with a dejected halo’s garrison, smaller although taller when I emerge within hearing, all voices are circles faded to my ear whereas I was only beginning my fated death’s penultimate harmony.

    I pull myself out from the opaque shadow work of my balcony. A helicopter is slicing the air thinner than my appearance into the fray would benefit. After supplying myself amply with hollow-point shells, I take to the front stage. A reflexive twist, feed the fireworks! A scattering of my frenetic rage roams a distant shot into the darkened side of the gathering mob. “She did it again!” Of course. I am always susceptible to playing favorites.

    “Child killer!” they howl in bleeding unison. I grin, amorously expectant for the finale. 

*

    The reply was drawn out in rapid succession. The gunfire, blown out proportions, viscera, gory and the return did not look favourably toward my living image’s restoration.

    I look upward from the crowd, inching forward and nearer, bloodthirsty at the belligerent, quicksilver sky, both beaming at one another, wrathfully. The moon was shrouded in the neon-polyglot explosion. All of this commotion, I wondered, dazed. All because of me… It must be destiny, to die under the onrush of glorious limelight, persecution, kinetic tendrils of a lifetime sprinting now to devour my bleeding legacy…

My name is Meredith Presley. From a distance, if you squint hard enough, you could almost see the resemblance as the blood gouts that pour from my face and my convulsive poise, akimbo, concentrated almost look the splitting image of our family’s namesake, The King, himself a tornado of rhinestone and graceful hamstrung movement. I wish you were here to see me rise from nobody, father… Humiliating, from a speck in the beautiful glass, now shattering your legacy as a tempest seeming to outlast… This is the saddest song you ever heard in your life… I've never seen a night so long… And time goes crawling by…The moon just went behind the clouds….To hide its face and cry… I’m so lonesome I could just… Die.

*

Yesterday has already made my death cemented in cinder, and the faded tragedians arrive at the scene whereas my remains have long been carried away, splayed across a stainless tray and bled out under antiseptic arrays of light and gloved utensils. Doubtful if their own fingers would penetrate my fall from grace with adequate results, doctors and news reporters scramble to uncover some penalty, however paltry, to wherein my death and the death of my followers, comeuppance crept whereupon was my ecstatic hand did my own fingers play so nimble across the stage: 13 dead, including the shooter herself, including three children; 22 mortally injured, field forensics and more expected incoming once the investigators have taken fuller measures to determine the damages caused by last night’s horrible public massacre… The Presley Estate declines further comment, despite the scandal occurring at their beloved Graceland mansion home… Nationwide, and here back at home in Tennessee, we are at a loss of words and extend our sympathy to the travesty that has benighted our fondest homegrown memories of The King, Elvis Presley… 

Unbecoming, saccharine enough to sift the truth from the pan where everyone eats indiscriminately at the remains: already my name has meant nothing but the shit that cannot be caught within the immortal rigamarole. And I am so lonely…. This is the saddest song–...

Describe my position? I dare the truth to dig into my body. The marrow has a broth that demands the charity of the eager, the fanatical, the grooves of lampooning the needless and the fatal all within one kitsch-rimmed shimmery frame. This is the saddest… I am so lonely… What could you do, Father? Entertainment has us in the garrote of legacy.

*

(fin)

[donnajons]

A Universe with You  Prelude

Next

Soo, hello Daminatte nation. Are we still there? It’s been ages since wrote a maribat fanfic. Quick PSA, I will not longer update Leave Paris, Move to Gotham, because this new fanfic is based on it, so if you see similar themes between these works, don’t be surprise by it. I hope you enjoy it and please tell me what you think. 

Warnings

The following work contains mentions of bl00d and disorientation. Also hints of amnesia episode. Warnings will change according to the content of the chapters. 

For this episode. 

The complete italic dialogues are in English, expect when they come along with the next symbol, *, there is a quote. 

 Universe with You

Selfish. She couldn’t afford to be selfish.

If she did not abandon Paris, the people that once loved her and billions of innocents would disappear. Not die, their souls would disappear into nothingness. 

She would disappear with them.

Deafening thunders came from the cloudless and yet dark Parisian sky. The starless sky was a clear sign that the time was running out. The once heroes of Paris hold from the rusty beams of the top of the Eiffel Tower. The young guardian struggled to keep her balance while holding on to the miraculous box. 

“We need to do something before the wish destroys our reality!” the blond hero yelled to his partner. 

There was no way around it. The guardian knew the only solution, but it would cost everything.

“I-I know the way! It is risky, but the book says that it will assure our reality’s safety in case a wish goes wrong!” The girl took a rope from the ground and walked to the stairs while the air pushed her up.

“What’s the plan, Bugaboo?!” He said as he followed her lead.

Hawk Moth finally did it. He got his wish, but he wished it in the wrong way for the wrong thing. The man wished for his wife to come back, but she disappeared like they were about to. His wife belonged to another place, and it wanted her back no matter what.

“The other place wants the miraculous!” and a soul, “So, I’ll throw them into the void!”

The next part happened too fast.

The young heroes reached the very top of the tower. The air threatened to pull them inside the void, but they held onto the structure because their life depended on it. 

“Here, hold it!” The girl gave one end of the rope to her partner while tying his waist against the railing.  

“Wait, Bugaboo, what are you doing?!” The boy did not have time to react or fight her.

She knew that he would follow her until the end, but the void would only accept a soul that was lost or a soul connected to every single one of the miraculous. A fall from that height would kill him, and she would not lose him.

He would lose her.

Still, the boy held her hand in an attempt to stop her. The girl looked at him with a sad smile and watery eyes. Without saying a single word, he understood her plan. 

“No, no, NO!,” he held her hand tighter. “You can’t do this! We, we can think of another way! But don’t do this!...” the boy let out a soft sob “don’t leave me, my dear friend.”

There was a time when the word “friend” would have triggered her, but now, she would give everything to be his friend forever.

She smiled, “Adrien, you will always be more than my friend, more than a lover or a brother. You are my partner, and it was always the plan, since I became the guardian, to make sure you and the world are safe.” Her voice broke. The void was getting stronger to the point that her legs were floating towards it. “This is not goodbye. It’s a see you later, and I know that we’ll see each other again somehow, somewhere.”

 The boy sobbed. His nails were starting to dip into her hard, cutting her skin and making her bleed. 

“And if we don’t?”

“Then I will remember our adventures. I will remember the laughs, the fights, the time we spent together and apart. When we were at school and playing video games. And if somehow I forget, I’ll remember. I’ll find a way. I promise you.”

 And somehow the boy understood and regretted it.

“Before you go, was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting?”*

She shook her head, “It was not your fault. The decisions of our parents are not ours. Don’t ever blame yourself. Live the life you want, and don’t wait for me.”

Those seconds felt like a lifetime. They wished they could be together, but the thunders got louder and louder by the second.

“Pound it?” the girl asked one last time.

He smiled. “Pound it,” but instead of their iconic victory celebration, the boy let go of her hand.

To him, she looks like an angel floating… no… flying into the darkness to defeat it.

It only took the blink of an eye for it to be over.

The void was gone. She was gone.

The boy left his body hit the floor. He did not care that the rope was almost encrusted on his torso. He did not care that tomorrow he would have some bruises. He just wanted to cry until his body allowed him. He just lost everything. Plag, Chat Noir, Marinette, all of them were gone, and for what 

He cried for it seemed until a soft hand softly touched his face. 

“Adrien?” The boy could barely see the person in front of him, and yet he knew that blond hair and green eyes anywhere.

She was not her aunt. She was…

“Mom?”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paris was a beautiful place to take a vacation for anyone, well except for Bruce Wayne.

“Are you sure that those swords will be safe in Themyscira?” The billionaire put two swords on the examination table that Diana used to restore antiquities in the Louver. 

“You have my word. The amazons will protect them with their lives. You don’t have to worry for al’ Gul. I talked with my mother, and she will make sure of their safety.” 

The Justice League’s latest mission involved retrieving some magical swords from the black market before the League of Assassins could get them. After some conflict between parties and a very tedious reunion with Talia. The swords were secured in the Louver museum, where Wonder Woman would personally take them to Themyscira. 

“Are you going to head back to Gotham after this?”

Bruce nodded. “Damian has a gallery exposition in a few days, as part of his senior graduation requirement.” 

Diana smiled at the name. The youngest of the Waynes and she shared a fond love for the arts and combat with swords. In fact, she promised to teach him some amazonian tricks the next time they got together. 

“Mind if I visit them at the gallery expo. It is always a pleasure to see his paintings. I am still trying to get a commission from him.”

“Not at all. My boys will be happy to see you, especially Jason. He asked me to…” but before he could finish, a deafening thunder shook the place. It was too loud that the windows almost shattered from their frequency. 

Bruce and Diana look at each other. 

“The weather forecast didn’t predict rain, right?” Bruce asked as she took the swords and put them in a safe under the table. 

“It never rains in July, and those thunders are identical to the ones we get in Themyscira every time anyone tries to enter the varier.”

The heroes walked and made their way to the Louver. Along the way, Diana explained that those thunders only happen when a magical barrier shatters. Paris didn’t have a magical barrier, so someone or something was entering their world. This happened before when Ares broke the barrier between Olympus and Earth to get back Aphrodite in World War II. Once they were outside, they found the darkest sky in the middle of the day. People panicked while trying to look for shelter from the strong winds in the dark sky.

“It is coming from the Eiffel Tower!” somebody shoots from nowhere.

Indeed, the top of the Eiffel Tower was covered by darkness. Not even the strong light coming from the top could illuminate the sky. 

They had to act quickly to secure whatever was coming from the void. Diana had her suit under her clothes, but Bruce left his suit in her apartment. He would not be too much help, and he knew it.

“Go and secure the perimeter. I’ll help the civilians and try to contact the other members. If you see something, use the communicator.”

Diana didn’t have to be told twice. She ran towards the tower while taking away her civilian clothes. The chaos gave her a convenient inattentional blindness from civilians. Once she was close enough, Diana used her lasso of truth to swing between buildings. 

If this was another prank or mischief of Zeus, she would personally talk to Hades to take away his throne and create a democracy in Olympus. 

The demigoddess arrived at the tower, not a single soul reminded in the place. The hurricane-like made the people flee away. The thunder got louder and louder as if it had just reached its maximum strength. She tied the lasso to one of the buildings around the tower. This was as far as her body would let her be to the void. 

It only took a blink of an eye for it to be over. 

The darkness, the air, all of it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Now or never,” she told herself as she went up to see what broke the barrier.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her body hit the ground so hard that it bounced from the impact. The air of her lungs got out of her body the moment she made contact, yet she never stopped protecting the box with her body. Even with her eyes closed, everything around her was too bright. The void felt like a sensory deprivation chamber. The sounds, colors, and even smells were different.

It took her a few seconds to try to see the place around her. With all the strength left in her body, she crawled to sit down without letting go of the box. 

“It can’t be,” The girl said as she looked at what was around her.

She was in Paris, or better say, she was in the same place before she got into the void. The buildings, the streets, the view was similar to her hometown, but it wasn’t her Paris. 

Quickly, the girl took the box and headed to the stairs. She knew that someone was waiting for her over there, someone important to her. Yes, they were worried for her. She just needed to make sure that they were okay, and they needed to get the rope out.  

The girl was so focused on getting to that person that she didn’t notice that she was limping while her nose started to bleed. 

“Hey! I’m here!” she shouted as she came closer to the stairs. A bubbling feeling hit her throat. She wanted to cry out of pure raw emotions. 

“I’m here, you… umm…” how weird she couldn’t remember their name, but she knew they were waiting for her. “Sorry, I… I don’t remember your name, b-but I have the box!”

She fought her tears from the frustration of not remembering them. She had the box of the miraculous, so it was her duty to protect it and them. Tears could wait.

The girl almost reached the end of the stairs when her heart started pounding. Her eyes glowed with emotions when she, in fact, saw somebody at the end of it. 

“Hi, I’m here, I’m here!” she shouted out pure glee. “Were you waiting long?”

The girl stopped when she saw the person in front of her. The woman was tall with body armor that made her look intimidating. Her piercing brown eyes felt like daggers on her body. On one hand, the woman had a golden rope and a big sword ready to use on the other.

This didn't make sense. The woman was at the end of the stairs and had a rope. This is what the girl was looking for, and yet, it felt like she had the wrong person. She felt disappointed. 

“You were looking for me?” the woman asked the girl without letting her guard down. 

Logic told her yes, this was the person on the stair with the rope, but her heart to her not.

“I-I think so… you are here at the stairs, and you have the rope.” The woman lifted an eyebrow at that last part.

“It’s not a rope. It’s a lasso.” the woman gave her an end of the lasso to the girl. “See? It is a different material.”

The lasso felt weird on her fingers like a shock of energy. The girl looked at the woman who watched her in silence.

“I have the box.” She pointed to the wood creation with the hand holding the lasso.

“I can see that. Where did you come from?”

“The void,” she blurted out.

“And beyond the void?”

“Paris.”

“You are from here?”

“No, not this Paris. My Paris, our Paris.” The girl tried to explain. “This place looks like Paris, but it is not. The place is gloomier and colder and… and… it doesn’t have that feeling of home. Don’t you feel it?” The girl’s legs failed, ungracefully sitting on the stairs with the box on her legs. 

The woman stepped closer. “I am afraid not.”

“Then you are not the one waiting for me?” she said with hope in her voice.

“I don't think I am.” the woman kneeled on her level. If she wasn’t the person who was waiting for her, where were they?.

“Tell me, what is the box?”

“The miraculous.” she held the box even closer.

“And what is that?”

“Power.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I-I am the guardian. I have to keep them safe from bad people.”

“That’s why you came from the void?”

“Yes.”

“So you opened the void to protect them from these people.”

“No,” the girl stopped for a second. Her head started hurting. “No, I didn't open it. I just jumped into it. The… the bad person opened. He wanted to… he wanted to do something forbidden, something bad, and he did it wrong, and I had to close it because it was getting bigger, but the void could only be closed by the miraculous and me. And then this person was on the stairs,” silent tears hit the cover of the wooden box, “ they had a rope, and they were waiting for me. I know that… they must be waiting. Somewhere they must be waiting for me, they were sad when I left, and I don’t want them to be sad. I need to find them so I can tell them I have the box, and we will be happy, but I have to find them and tell them I am fine. I am fine, and the box is fine, and the void is gone, and they must be fine, so I… so I have… I have to…” It was at this point that she couldn't speak anymore. She could just cry. 

The woman took her lasso away from her and tried to comfort her. “Hey, hey, we’ll find your friend, and we’ll tell him that you have the box, but first we need to get you some re…” 

Blood, the girl coughed blood on the woman's her face, but it did not stop there. The girl lay against the stairs while she coughed uncontrollably. 

The woman got even closer to the girl to help her while she put a hand behind the band of her tiara. 

“Batman, this is Wonder Woman. Prepare the medical suit, we have a young woman in need of help. She is in bad shape, hurry!”

Her body felt too cold and hot at the same time, and her lungs felt as if they were full of water. She looked at the woman for some kind of help, who passed a hand on her forehead. 

“Don’t worry, love, you’ll be al….”

Everything went dark from then. 

Before You go, Lewis  capaldi