#I don't mean to sound bitter cold or cruel but I am so that's how it comes out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

day-dream-writing · 2 months ago

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Forget me

its been 3 years since ive seen my childhood friend lestat, 3 years since he left to paris ,sending me only a letter and leaving me with memories of sunny afternoons in the french country side with my dear friend with the beautiful blue eyes.

the seasons changed again, winter,spring,summer,autumn and winter again. i couldn't sleep that night, almost as if i felt in my heart something, something terrible has happened. the thunder outside made this no better, the stone walls of the castle shaked ,the candles brough no warmth. i walked carefully to the window ,trying to close it against the harsh winds but then they almost stopped themselves and i felt a ghostly presence behind me ''lestat?'' i say silently almost as if i knew, ''don't turn around, please'' he says silently his voice almost breaking, ''is this a dream?'' i whisper, ''no'' he answers coldly, ''lestat you said you wont come back here'' i answer, ''yes...i did'', ''why are you back?'', ''things didn't go as planned'' he says, his heavy boots make a sound as he walks, i turn around to the source of his voice but he disappears in to the shadows, ''come out of the shadows my love, please'' i say in concern, ''i cant'', ''you can!'' , ''no...not anymore'', but before lestat could notice i walked even closer to the curtains he hid behind ''don't'' he warns, ''les please don't be like this let me see you'' i move the curtain to find my old friend standing there, expensive clothes adorned his lean body, his eyes still blue yet somehow even more blue than ever, i reach out a trembling hand to his ''you are so cold'' i gasp, i didn't mean to, but his ice cold skin almost startled me ,''i am'' he says shortly and coldly but his cold skin doesn't stop me from entangling my hand in his, he lets out a shaky breath, ''has Paris been kind to you, my lovely lestat?'' i say softly as i try to pull him by the hand towards my room, ''for a while it was everything i dreamt of, and then..'' ,''and then?'' , ''and then i woke up'' his voice cracks slightly, bitterness in every sentence, ''maybe i am just damned'' he says silently. ''no one is truly damned, lestat don't say that'' his face still obscure to me in the shadows of my darkened room , ''no one but me'' his voice echoes.

''how can you say such a thing'' i say in shock, ''i am leaving the country, i am leaving France, i cant stay here anymore, i am boarding the ship and...i came to say goodbye'' he says quickly, as if it was something to check off the list, ''with Nicholas?''' i ask in a slight hopeful voice, maybe he and Nicki have plans to start a new life, ''no..no Nicki he..he is dead'' lestat says coldly, ''what?'' i feel a sharp pang in my heart ''poor Nicholas, what happened?'' tears well up in my eyes, ''uh..he..he got sick'' lestat answers, the pain in his voice evident, ''oh god lestat i am so sorry'' my heart breaks for the couple as i outstretch my arms inviting lestat for a hug, he swallows a deep breath as he reaches out as well, wrapping his cold hands around my waist, his head rests on my shoulder as he leads down, and small sobs fill the room, his sobs stain my nightgown crimson red and echo through the stone walls ,after minutes of inconsolable sobs he lifts his head from my shoulder, my hands still tangled in his long golden hair

''you must forget me for eternity'' he says, not even looking in to my eyes'', ''how can you say such a cruel thing?'' my own tears fall in to my cheeks , ''i must be cruel to you so you wont look for me, don't ever, do you hear me, ever look for me, forget me ,go live your life, i am dead to you, to everyone you understand?'' he grabs my shoulders ,his voice firm and full of urgency, ''no no i wont, i refuse lestat!'' , lestat sighs in annoyance ''foolish girl'' he spits out, ''foolish? foolish? i refuse to forget you! how can anyone even try!'' i cry out, lestat wipes his crimson tears from his eyes, the first time i notice ,he cries blood ''is this ..blood'' i say concerned, ''there are many thing you wont understand, and don't try to, i told you i am damned'' he turns around, i come closer putting a hand on his shoulder ''what happened in Paris, tell me, you are cold to the touch, you cry blood, Nicholas is dead and you beg me to bury you'' i say in slight frustration, lestat lets out a sigh ''there was a creature, like from a nightmare, he stole me from my room in paris as i slept. for days he kept me, tortured me, drained me, and then...'' he paused ''and then he turned me in to one like him...a creature of darkness and craving of blood'' ,''what?'' ''a vampire,i am a vampire that's why you must forget me before you get hurt, i will outlive you for this burden is eternal and you must move on'' ,''cursed in to the darkness forever?'' i whisper, ''yes'' he says plainly now more calmly.

''you can't just leave like this lestat'' i turn him gently to face him ''give me something that will make this easier, and ill bury you my sweet lestat'' ,and just before i could finish talking he kissed me ,his lips surprisingly warm and gently ,his breath cold, he kisses me like a lover, with longing. when he breaks away i pull him closer to my bed ,he leans in to me as he kisses me again and again, ''my sweet lestat'' i say in a whispery tone, he breaths heavily as i move my neck, suddenly his eyes darken at the sight, his lip twitches ,his parted lips reveal two sharp white fangs, i let out a shaky breath, he almost looked lion like as he traced his gaze to my neck, ''les'' i let out another shaky breath but before i could finish my words he lowered his face to my pulse point, it all happened too quickly, his fangs tore to my skin, i let out a gasp and then a moan as he sank the sharp teeth in to my neck. the pain was sudden and i couldn't speak , my body was paralyzed under his weight, i gasp more as he pins me down to the bed.

the blood staining the sheets red, his body becoming warmer and warmed as mine becomes colder and the sharp pain in my neck makes me almost pass out. the blood loss makin me dizzy ''stop'' i beg with my last breath, those words seem to awaken lestat from his trance as he lifts his blood covered mouth ,he breaths heavily, suddenly he snaps out of it . he sees me laying on the bed losing breath, losing blood, bleeding out in to the sheets, in the morning the maids will find me without a drop.

''shhh don't don't struggle, you'll feel better soon'' lestat whispers in my ear, ''I'm going to do something which will make you hate me for ever, and i mean it, forever'' he continues to whisper, ''i could never hate you sweet lestat'' i say weakly, ''if i leave now, you'll die and go to heaven as you deserve and we will never meet again, but if i stay and save you then you will forever be cursed and you'll hate me as the fate of all fledglings to hate their makers'' he says ,a hint of sadness in his voice. ''i don't ...i don't want to go to heaven if i never get to see you again, heaven without you would not be heaven at all'' i cry, ''fine'' he sinks his fangs again as i gasp again, now slowly my life force leaves me, like the breath in my lungs, my body no longer belongs to me. i look at the stone ceiling ,is that it, dying by the hands of lestat feels way too lovely, and then comes another sensation, his wrist makes contact with my mouth, a warm liquid ,slightly metallic in taste, slightly sweet, like a fine wine on my lips, like honey, lestats blood rushes through my system. and i begin to hear his heart like a drum , i am so lost in the sensation until he pulled away from my mouth. i lay on the bed gasping ,opening my eyes to the new world i was now apart of. and the first thing i saw as a newborn vampire, my maker lestat, his golden hair almost shines now, his skin glows, he was mesmerizing and i belonged to him now for eternity.

i sat up on my bed, my white nightgown had no resemblance to white as it was soaked in red blood, i come closer to my maker, climbing in to his lap, i never felt such strong hunger , i want to devour him ,to tear him apart, my fangs tingle in my mouth, more more more i want more of lestat, i never craved anyone more, he made me and now as it was the fate of a fledgling i was ready to tear him apart, i sank my fangs in to his soft flesh ,with moans and gasps now from him, i drank ''easy now my sweet'' he pulls me gently from his neck ''more'' i say ,i never felt such hunger ,''you will have more, but you must be patient'' he brushes the hair off my face and kisses me again, the taste off my blood on his lips and the taste of his blood on mine.

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deerydear · 9 months ago

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when I think of "dyed in the wool" I think of something being caught in the wool, and accidentally dyed with the rest of the batch.

...or perhaps choosing to cling to the wool

"Deep... Deeper.... Deeper inside... Just pull the wool nice and tight so that it covers your eyes. Can't find a love, a god, a jesus, a father... I don't even care that much so why do I even bother?! So let me just end how I was gonna begin... Don't waste your time waiting, cuz I'm going back in! Now if I could just remember all the advice that my mother told me... and all the-- ... And all the Lost souls say: Every day I wake up alone.

These lyrics have haunted me since I heard it in a BB mixtape, when I was 16. I'm not sure if I 'enjoy' the instrumentation/sound of it... but the raw meaning of her words grips me.

I think the metaphorical 'dye' has continually washed out, over time. It just felt like it would last forever. The vermillion hue was so bright and affective, when it was first washed.

I had told myself I would keep jumping in the dye-bath every time, never tiring of it.

It's really strange... I knew "I" didn't want to look like a man, but I thought it didn't matter what "I" wanted. No one else had entirely convinced me of this, I had convinced myself. I was looking for other people to give me an excuse or a justification for what I already wanted to do. I ignored people who oozed loving sentiment; seeking out those with bitter, cruel hearts. I sought an ecological niche where people wouldn't disturb or intrude on me with questions.

This becomes messy in practice, when one actually steps into communication with an enabling or malevolent personality (who echoes one's choices back to them as if they were sane, or introduces new ultimatums/aspirations).

The shadow of the dead one raised its voice and said: “You see—or do you still not see, what the living do with your life. They fritter it away. But with me, you live yourself since I belong to you. I belong to your invisible following and community. Do you believe that the living see you? They see only your shadow, not you—you servant, you bearer, you vessel—” “How you hold forth! Am I at your mercy? Should I no longer see the light of day? Should I become a shadow with a living body? You are formless and beyond grasp, and you emanate the coldness of the grave, a breath of emptiness. To let myself be buried alive—what are you thinking of? Too soon, it seems to me, I must die first. Do you have the honey that pleases my heart and the fire that warms my hands? What are you, you mournful shadows? You specters of children! What do you want with my blood? Truly, you are even worse than men. Men give little, yet what do you give? Do you make the living? The warm beauty? Or joy perhaps? Or should all this go to your gloomy Hell? What do you offer in return? Mysteries? Will the living live from these? I regard your mysteries as tricks if the living cannot live from them.” But she interrupted me and cried: “Impetuous one, stop, you take my breath away. We are shadows; become a shadow and you will grasp what we give.” “I do not want to die to descend into your darkness.” “But,” she said, “you need not die. You must only let yourself be buried.” “In the hope of resurrection? No joking now!” But she spoke calmly: “You suspect what will happen. Triple walls before you and invisibility—to Hell with your longing and feeling! At least you do not love us, so we will cost you less dearly than the men who roll in your love and patience and have you make a fool of yourself.”

“My dead one, I think you are speaking my language.” She replied to me scornfully: “Men love—and you! What an error! All this means is that you want to run away from yourself. What do you do to men? You tempt and coax them into megalomania, to which you fall victim.” “But it grieves me, pains me, howls at me; I feel a great longing, everything soft complains, and my heart yearns.” But she was unsparing. “Your heart belongs to us,” she said, "What do you want with men? Self-defense against men—so that you walk on your own two feet, not on human crutches. Men need the un-demanding, but they are always wanting love to be able to run away from themselves. This ought to stop. Why do fools go out and preach the gospel to the negroes, and then ridicule it in their own country? Why do these hypocritical preachers speak of love, divine and human love, and use the same gospel to justify the right to wage war and commit murderous injustice? Above all, what do they teach others when they themselves stand up to their necks in the black mud of deception and self-deceit? Have they cleaned their own house, have they recognized and driven out their own devil? Because they do none of this, they preach love to be able to run away from themselves, and to do to others what they should do to themselves. But this greatly prized love, given to one’s own self, burns like fire. These hypocrites and liars have noticed this—as you have—and prefer to love others. Is that love? It is false hypocrisy. It always begins in yourself and in all things and above all with love. Do you believe that one who wounds himself unsparingly does the other a good deed with his love? No, of course you don’t believe it. You even know that he only teaches the other how one must wound oneself, so that he can compel others to express sympathy. Therefore you should be a shadow since this is what men need. How can they get away from the hypocrisy and foolishness of your love if you yourself cannot? For everything begins with yourself. But your horse still cannot refrain from whinnying. Even worse, your virtue is a wagging dog, a growling dog, a licking dog, a barking dog—and you call that human love! But love is: to bear and endure oneself. It begins with this. It is truly about you; you are not yet tempered; other fires must yet come over you until you have accepted your solitude and learned to love. What do you ask about love? What is love? To live, above all, that is more than love. Is war love? You are bound to see what human love is still good enough for—a means like other means. Therefore, above all, solitude, until every softness toward yourself has been burnt out of you. You should learn to freeze.”” “I see only graves before me,” I answered, “what cursed will is above me?” “The will of the God, that is stronger than you, you slave, you vessel. You have fallen into the hands of the greater. He knows no pity. Your Christian shrouds have fallen, the veils that blinded your eyes. The God has become strong again. The yoke of men is lighter than the yoke of the God; therefore everyone seeks to yoke the other out of mercy. But he who does not fall into the hands of men falls into those of the God. May he be well and may woe betide him! There is no escape.” “Is that freedom?” I cried. “The highest freedom. Only the God above you, through yourself, Comfort yourself with this and that as well as you can. The God bolts doors that you cannot open. Let your feelings whimper like puppies. The ears on high are deaf.” “But,” I answered, “is there no outrage for the sake of the human?”

“Outrage? I laugh at your outrage. The God knows only power and creation. He commands and you act. Your anxieties are laughable. There is only one road, the military road of the Godhead.” The dead one spoke these unsparing words to me. As I did not want to obey anyone, I had to obey this voice. And she spoke unsparing words about the power of the God. I had to accept these words. We have to greet a new light, a blood-red sun, a painful wonder. No one forces me to; only the foreign will in me commands and I cannot escape since I find no grounds to do so. The sun, appearing to me, swam in a sea of blood and wailing; therefore I said to the dead one: “Should it be the sacrifice of joy?” But the dead one replied: “The sacrifice of all joy, provided that you do it yourself. Joy should neither be made nor sought; it should come, if it must come. I demand your service. You should not serve your personal devil. That leads to superfluous pain. True joy is simple: it comes and exists from itself, and is not to be sought here and there. At the risk of encountering black night, you must devote yourself to me and seek no joy. Joy can never ever be prepared, but exists of its own accord or exists not at all. All you must do is fulfill your task, nothing else. Joy comes from fulfillment, but not from longing. I have the power. I command, you obey.” “I fear that you will destroy me.” But she answered: “I am life that destroys only the unfit. Therefore take care that you are no unapt tool. You want to rule yourself? You steer your ship onto the sand. Build your bridge, stone upon stone, but don’t think of wanting to take the helm. You go astray if you want to escape my service. There is no salvation without me. Why are you dreaming and hesitating?” “You see,” I answered, “that I am blind and do not know where to begin.” “It always begins with the neighbor. Where is the church? Where is the community?” “This is pure madness,” I cried out indignantly, “why do you speak of a church? Am I a prophet? How can I claim such for myself? I am just a man who is not entitled to know any better than others.” But she replied: “I want the church, it is necessary for you and for others. Otherwise what are you going to do with those whom I force to your feet? The beautiful and natural will nestle into the terrible and dark and will show the way. The church is something natural. The holy ceremony must be dissolved and become spirit. The bridge should lead out beyond humanity, inviolable, far, of the air. There is a community of spirits founded on outer signs with a solid meaning.” “Listen,” I cried, “that doesn’t bear thinking about, it’s incomprehensible.” But she continued: “Community with the dead is what both you and the dead need. Do not commingle with any of the dead, but stand apart from them and give to each his due. The dead demand your expiatory prayers.”

And when she spoke these words, she raised her voice and evoked the dead in my name: “You dead, I call you. “You shades of the departed, who have cast off the torment of living, come here! “My blood, the juice of my life, will be your meal and your drink. “Sustain yourself from me, so that life and speech will be yours. “Come, you dark and restless ones, I will refresh you with my blood, the blood of a living one so that you will gain speech and life, in me and through me. “The God forces me to address this prayer to you so that you come to life. Too long have we left you alone. “Let us build the bond of community so that the living and the dead image will become one and the past will live on in the present. “Our desire pulls us to the living world and we are lost in our desire. “Come drink the living blood, drink your fill so that we will be saved from the inextinguishable and unrelenting power of vivid longing for visible, graspable, and present being. “Drink from our blood the desire that begets evil, as quarrel, discord, ugliness, violent deed, and famishment. “Take, eat, this is my body, that lives for you. Take, eat, drink, this is my blood, whose desire flows for you. “Come, celebrate a Last Supper with me for your redemption and mine. “I need community with you so that I fall prey neither to the community of the living nor to my desire and yours, whose envy is insatiable and therefore begets evil. “Help me, so that I do not forget that my desire is a sacrificial fire for you. “You are my community. I live what I can live for the living. But the excess of my longing belongs to you, you shades. We need to live with you. “Be auspicious to us and open our closed spirit so that we become blessed with the redeeming light. May it happen thus!” When the dead one had ended this prayer, she turned to me again and said: “Great is the need of the dead. But the God needs no sacrificial prayer. He has neither good-will nor ill-will. He is kind and fearful, though not actually so, but only seems to you thus. But the dead hear your prayers since they are still of human nature and not free of good-will and ill-will. Do you not understand? The history of humanity is older and wiser than you. Was there a time when there were no dead? Vain deception! Only recently have men begun to forget the dead and to think that they have now begun the real life, sending them into a frenzy.”

I think a lot of the images in the Red Book of C.G. Jung, wherein the fullness of this story was told.

Another image brought to mind, of lunatic intensity...:

'Do you know where you are, Winston?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.’ ‘Do you know how long you have been here?’ ‘I don’t know. Days, weeks, months—I think it is months.’ ‘And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?’ ‘To make them confess.’ ‘No, that is not the reason. Try again.’ ‘To punish them.’ ‘No!’ exclaimed O’Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and his face had suddenly become both stern and animated. ‘No! Not merely to extract your confession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here? To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Winston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands uncured? We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you understand what I mean by that?’

He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its nearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston’s heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the bed. He felt certain that O’Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O’Brien turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently:

‘The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.’

Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary bitterness. O’Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed. ‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that since we intend to destroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference—in that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were thinking, was it not?’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. O’Brien smiled slightly. ‘You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old despotisms was ‘Thou shalt not”. The command of the totalitarians was ‘Thou shalt”. Our command is ‘THOU ART”. No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed—Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford—in the end we broke them down. I took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping—and in the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence. By the time we had finished with them they were only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still clean.’

His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was the consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range of his vision. O’Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O’Brien had not long ago known, examined, and rejected. His mind CONTAINED Winston’s mind. But in that case how could it be true that O’Brien was mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O’Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again.

‘Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however completely you surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared. And even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.’

(continue reading: pg. 323)

~~~~

‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that my face is old and tired. You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails?’ He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again, one hand in his pocket. ‘We are the priests of power,’ he said. ‘God is power. But at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means. The first thing you must realize is that power is collective. The individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an individual. You know the Party slogan: ‘Freedom is Slavery”. Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is freedom. Alone—free—the human being is always defeated. It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he IS the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for you to realize is that power is power over human beings. Over the body—but, above all, over the mind. Power over matter—external reality, as you would call it—is not important. Already our control over matter is absolute.’

For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching his body painfully. ‘But how can you control matter?’ he burst out. ‘You don’t even control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease, pain, death——’ O’Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. ‘We control matter because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation—anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You must get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature.’

‘But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.’ ‘Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did not, what difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence. Oceania is the world.’ ‘But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny --helpless! How long has he been in existence? For millions of years the earth was uninhabited.’ ‘Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be older? Nothing exists except through human consciousness.’ ‘But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals— mammoths and mastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before man was ever heard of.’ ‘Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-century biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After man, if he could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing.’ ‘But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some of them are a million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever.’ ‘What are the stars?’ said O’Brien indifferently. ‘They are bits of fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it.’ Winston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not say anything. O’Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection: ‘For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of kilometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be near or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgotten doublethink?’

Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he KNEW, that he was in the right. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind—surely there must be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not been exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the corners of O’Brien’s mouth as he looked down at him.

‘I told you, Winston,’ he said, ‘that metaphysics is not your strong point. The word you are trying to think of is solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism. Collective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite thing. All this is a digression,’ he added in a different tone. ‘The real power, the power we have to fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over men.’ He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air of a schoolmaster questioning a promising pupil: ‘How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?’ Winston thought. ‘By making him suffer,’ he said.

‘Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but MORE merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy—everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always—do not forget this, Winston—always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.’

He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be frozen. O’Brien went on: ‘And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our hands—all that will continue, and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease. It will be a world of terror as much as a world of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon and yet they will always survive. This drama that I have played out with you during seven years will be played out over and over again generation after generation, always in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible—and in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his own accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become part of it.’

Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. ‘You can’t!’ he said weakly. ‘What do you mean by that remark, Winston?’ ‘You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a dream. It is impossible.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. It would never endure.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit suicide.’ ‘Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the individual is not death? The party is immortal.’ As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O’Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O’Brien had said, he returned to the attack. ‘I don’t know—I don’t care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you.’ ‘We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity is the Party. The others are outside—irrelevant.’ ‘I don’t care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.’ ‘Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it should?’ ‘No. I believe it. I KNOW that you will fail. There is something in the universe—I don’t know, some spirit, some principle—that you will never overcome.’ ‘Do you believe in God, Winston?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?’ ‘I don’t know. The spirit of Man.’ ‘And do you consider yourself a man?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are ALONE? You are outside history, you are nonexistent.’ His manner changed and he said more harshly: ‘And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our lies and our cruelty?’ ‘Yes, I consider myself superior.’ O’Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a moment Winston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track of the conversation he had had with O’Brien, on the night when he had enrolled himself in the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol in a child’s face. O’Brien made a small impatient gesture, as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped. ‘Get up from that bed,’ he said. The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the floor and stood up unsteadily. ‘You are the last man,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are the guardian of the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.’

Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not remember whether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far end of the room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him. ‘Go on,’ said O’Brien. ‘Stand between the wings of the mirror. You shall see the side view as well.’ He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured, skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to the glass. The creature’s face seemed to be protruded, because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird’s face with a nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had changed inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the first moment he had thought that he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker than the thighs. He saw now what O’Brien had meant about seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suffering from some malignant disease.

‘You have thought sometimes,’ said O’Brien, ‘that my face—the face of a member of the Inner Party—looks old and worn. What do you think of your own face?’ He seized Winston’s shoulder and spun him round so that he was facing him. ‘Look at the condition you are in!’ he said. ‘Look at this filthy grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between your toes. Look at that disgusting running sore on your leg. Do you know that you stink like a goat? Probably you have ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep. I could snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five kilograms since you have been in our hands? Even your hair is coming out in handfuls. Look!’ He plucked at Winston’s head and brought away a tuft of hair. ‘Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many had you when you came to us? And the few you have left are dropping out of your head. Look here!’ He seized one of Winston’s remaining front teeth between his powerful thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston’s jaw. O’Brien had wrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the cell. ‘You are rotting away,’ he said; ‘you are falling to pieces. What are you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror again. Do you see that thing facing you? That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity. Now put your clothes on again.’

Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until now he had not seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only one thought stirred in his mind: that he must have been in this place longer than he had imagined. Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself a feeling of pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before he knew what he was doing he had collapsed on to a small stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears. He was aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones in filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light: but he could not stop himself. O’Brien laid a hand on his shoulder, almost kindly. ‘It will not last for ever,’ he said. ‘You can escape from it whenever you choose. Everything depends on yourself.’ ‘You did it!’ sobbed Winston. ‘You reduced me to this state.’ ‘No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted when you set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained in that first act. Nothing has happened that you did not foresee.'

(continue: pg. 344)

"There is always some madness in love, But there is always some reason in madness."

That is the frustration with real insanity (in a philosophic sense, not purely diagnostic). It doesn't neatly dissolve through 'labelling it insane'. It contains the human survival instinct. A human doesn't fold up into a ball of words... They don't dissolve like a witch in water. They live their own life, regardless of anyone else, and they have to figure out how to live it for themselves. No one else can live their life for them. So, there is madness in love and life. ☯

and what is madness? I would say that each person creates their own definition.

youtube

I feel like this is all a big project to see if I can make the mirror show another person --- not as an act, not out of deliberation, but the naturality of another different, breathing, living person... how you are.

Sure, cross-sex HRT got me halfway there. It felt like there was someone standing in front of my reflection, like a maniac, blocking out my view of myself. always there, never sleeps, never off-duty.... just some pure dyed-in-the-wool psycho.

autoandrophilia.

#Youtube

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writermask-0807 · 2 years ago

Text

A SIMPLE COMFORT - PROFESSOR SNAPE X PLATONIC STUDENT READER

A/n: this has been my mind for a long time, and now thats its finally written, me can't wait to show you guys this! Now, I may have gone wrong wrong the title and other things too but this is my first time doing something like this in Tumblr, so please don't mind, and if you could, please leave me a few tips. And this may be a somewhat long (who am I kidding this long AF), but i hope it is wholesome.

Warnings: Mentions of self harm (if u blink it'll go away), crying, and overall maybe some triggering and sensitive stuff?

" Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light."

- Albus Dumbledore

SOMETIMES you felt as if the entire world was against you. Your uncaring parents, the entire school, even your friends, if they could even be called that.

You labeled these times as the dark days. Times when you would be brimming with feelings, complicated emotions pulsing through your veins that left you baffled; emotions that left you feeling everything and nothing at the same time. It was hard to explain.

Today was one of the dark days - perhaps even worse than the other episodes.

You sat cramped in some forgotten corner of the large castle, tucked away from sight as you let the stoic, fierce facade you had built around yourself crumble away and you huddled in the suddenly heavy, damp tension that latched onto the frigid atmosphere, as if smothering the air itself and choking you, just like how you were clinging onto a last shred of hope, a false, flickering thought that seemed to be so tempting to believe, even though you knew it was a lie, a fleeting sense of comfort that maybe you had read the letter wrong, or that your parents really hadn't meant what they had written, a warmth that you hoped would protect you from the cold that bit into you like a beast.

And you didn’t mean just the literal biting cold that cut into your skin like the prickle of a thousand sharp needles digging into your sallow flesh, or like the feeling of the razor blades you used to cut yourself with being buried beneath your skin.

You meant the cold of the pain you felt - the feeling of a bucket of icy water being poured onto you, numbing you and making you feel intense, agonizing, excruciating pain. You meant the cold of the announcement your parents had sent, the cold of their cruel, harsh words tearing at the seams of your flesh and heart, shattering them over and over, but threading the fabric of your flesh and piecing the fragments of your broken heart, only for them to be torn and broken apart once again.

For a moment, you were numb, devoid of any emotion as your cheeks were cracked and split by the memory of the unhealthy amount of tears you had shed, your breathing and heartbeat erratic, your small frame shaking like a leaf in the wind as you hugged your knees to your chest, shivers and shudders erupting along your skin and rattling you to the very core, your delicate face scarily blank and your e/c orbs glazed over with the salty droplets that had carved cool streams down your cheeks, before the whole impact of their words slammed into you once again, burning like a white-hot rod, searing with agonizing pain that made your heart ache and writhe again. Your blood ran cold, your heart pounding against your ribcage, threatening to break the bones, and you could hear the blood rushing to your head, blocking out all other sounds.

Disowned.

Where would you go, when you had no-one but your cruel parents that considered you a liability? Where would you go, when all of your friends were fake? Who would you turn to, when no-one was able to offer you the meager comfort and love you so desperately craved?

disownedDiSoWnEdDISOWNEDDISOWNEDUSELESSLIABILITY -

Your thoughts had become desperate, pushing against one another, overlapping, distorted voices that echoed in your mind as you struggled to get rid of the dark voice that screamed at the back of your head, that had spat out the bitter, bitter truth that burned on the tip of your tongue.

The air was suddenly forced out of your lungs, the damp atmosphere that was frigid with Winter's freezing breath snaking around your throat, strangling you with its invisible fingers. Hot, salty tears welled up within your hollow e/c orbs that had dimmed with the absence of the light that had always shone within them, leaving them blanketed with a layer of liquid glass, your vision spinning and bleary because of tears and exhaustion.

All of the willpower, all of that sheer hope that had ignited within your soul like a flame and had guided you through many dark days, in the most dire moment of need, vanished into thin air as though it never existed in the first place, swallowed by the darkness, just as how you were threatened to be consumed by the oblivion.

It suddenly felt like the weight of the world was planted upon your slumped shoulders that sagged with defeat as your lungs burned for breath, as if something invisible and heavy was pressed against your small, cowering frame as you shook with uncontrollable tremors, stifling you to the point where not even ragged, short pants escaped your mouth as desperate, greedy gulps for air. Your throat was tightly clamped shut, not a sob nor a scream available as you hyperventilated, silent tears streaming down your cheeks.

You tried to breathe, but failed, and your lungs felt as if they had been doused in liquid fire, swimming and drowning in raw lava, and you vaguely wondered if you were going to die, alone and afraid, with no-one by your side.

" L/N? Are you here?" A strong, deep voice spoke from the darkness, and the tip of a wand flared with blinding light as it illuminated you in your little hide-away. In your disheveled state, you did not notice who it was, but the voice of the person was vaguely familiar as you wound knots in your scalp, grabbing fistful of your hair.

You did not reply, you couldn't, and your answer was stuck in your throat, choking, CHOKING -

You were vaguely aware that a strong, lean pair of arms much larger than your own had wrapped around your shoulder in a surprisingly strong grasp, pulling you closer towards the person in a swift, but gentle manner, so as not to harm you further. You could tell that the person had knelt beside you, because you hadn't felt yourself being lifted from the hard, stone floor above the chaos that wreaked havoc within your head.

You still couldn't breathe - you couldn’t -

The person reached out for you - ever so gently, ever so carefully, their thumb grazing softly against your cheek to tuck away wet strands of your hair that clung uncomfortably to your face, and then the slender, long digits hesitantly combed their fingers through the rich locks of your h/c colored hair, slipping the other free arm around your smaller frame, pulling you into a warm embrace, into a hold that was hesitant and with the same awkwardness one would possess when holding an animal for the first time, as if they feared you'd shatter at the slightest of touches like the porcelain doll you looked like you were. But, it was comforting nonetheless, considering that you had never been hugged or comforted by anyone else before.

And then the voice of the person was whispering into your ears, murmuring sweet-nothings, though you could barely hear the voice above the deafening sound of blood rushing to your head, and your pulse ringing in your ears.

" Y/N, just focus on my voice. Count to ten with me, one, two, three…"

And so you did. You focused on the voice. The masculine voice was moon-stone smooth like velvet, raw with power and authority, fluid and graceful like the fresh flow of a youthful river, sweet and thick as the words tumbled past (his) lips, rich with silk and baritone, creamy and dark like chocolate and freshly brewed coffee - bittersweet. It was musical to your eardrums, silky and delicate as each word passed their lips without a hitch, soothing and comforting as it lulled you to breathe, easing your hammering heart.

Eventually, you just melted into their arms, your heavy head resting against their broad shoulder blade, as your cries died down to soft sniffles and the occasional hitch in your breath.

Their fingers were still stroking your hair, the other hand drawing sensous circles on your back, calming you down.

Your eyelids grew heavy with undeterred sleep and fatigue, a bone-deep weariness that latched itself onto you, a shapeless oblivion that whispered and coaxed you to give into the much-needed slumber.

You were tired. You were tired of everything, so you let sleep consume you whole, your eyes fluttering shut as you slipped from one world of nightmares to another, cradled in the arms of your awkward Potions Master as he comforted you.

{...}

YOUR eyes slowly fluttered open into the world once more, like the powdery wings of a butterfly beating into life, lustrous pools of e/c orbs that sparkled underneath the dim sunlight peeking through the window, though tearless, gentle opals that swirled with a kaleidoscope of colors, rich and intense and vivid beneath the sun's warm, loving kisses.

For a moment you laid immobile on the soft mattress beneath you, your limbs heavy with fatigue, every pore of your body drenched in a slow, lethargic sensation that made your mind feel hazy and disoriented. So instead, you snuggled in closer to the warmth of the bed, relishing in the rare tranquility the peaceful moment provided, basking underneath the heat of the sunlit kisses that peppered your skin and illuminated your soft, supple flesh in rich pools of molten gold, heightening the vibrant color of your large, deep beds of e/c that seemed to hold an entire constellation of stars within their depths.

You welcomed the warmth of the sun that danced across your petite frame, a delightfully warm, fuzzy blanket that bathed you, and the flecks of dust swirling within the beams of light wreathed around your h/c tresses, as if crowning your head in a halo you so rightfully deserved.

In that moment, you looked ethereal, radiating warmth that rivaled the sun itself in all of its magnificent glory, angelic even, your delicate face a canvas painted by serenity, when it was usually strained by a fake smile, or a melancholic sadness that was contagious.

Wait…

Bits and pieces of the memories of the previous night flooded your mind, and you stood upright on the bed, your limbs getting further entangled by the blankets, your spine rigid as panic slowly began to crawl into your senses.

You had been crying last night, in some foreign part of the castle. You had swept out of the Great Hall in a hurry so that no-one would see the tears brimming in your eyes when you had read the letter your owl, Nether, had delivered. Your parents had disowned you, you reminisced.

The dark, unwanted reminder wss enough to sour your mood, and all senses of tranquility and peace you had felt earlier evaded you. Your face darkened, and the tears returned to your precious gemstones of eyes again with a strong vengeance.

You quickly wiped them away from the corners of your eyes before they could soak your cheeks again. You lifted a delicate palm, tracing the tears stains that were cracked open into your cheeks like the remnants of a dried river split open into silky earth.

You froze, remembering, you hadn't returned to your dormitory that night. Someone had been there with you, though you didn't see who it was. Someone had comforted you, someone had seen you at your lowest, but hadn't left you there to suffer. Someone had actually stood by your side, and hadn't left you alone like everyone else had.

Your heart warmed at the thought, and you lifted a dainty palm to feel the weak pulses fluttering within your ribcage like the fleeting kiss of a dove's wings.

Tears pooled in your eyes, the glassy layer shimmering in a tender glow because of the cascade of the rich, golden sunlight, but this time, these tears were not of remorse or despair, but tears of pure happiness, something you hadn't felt in a while.

A powerful emotion rose within your chest, something fortifying, plucking at your heartstrings, almost like a slow-burning fire in a kindling hearth, dancing like a flickering flame within your soul, an emotion you had felt when you heard the pheonix' song, and you recognized it as hope.

Perhaps you hadn't lost everything. Perhaps there was still something salvageable within the disaster your life was in right now.

You rose from the bed, the loose, baggy shirt you were clad in falling down your hips, the sheets imprinting the shape of your body as your dainty feet met the icy cold tiles of the floor.

A small squeak of surprise escaped your parted, chapped lips and you almost immediately retreated your feet, before cautiously allowing them to come in contact with the freezing floor again. It was then you realized, after a long, dumb moment that you were not in your dormitory, not in your bed and certainly not in your clothes.

You freaked out.

You eyed your surroundings warily, suddenly wondering if you were too quick to judge that you had been helped by someone. It was a luxuriously larger room, with bookshelves crammed against the cool cobblestone walls, a somewhat small cot draped with comfortable, woolly blankets. You wondered who could own a room that was so welcoming and yet so cold at the same time.

Then you turned your attention to the large, black shirt that was draped over your small frame. It was definitely not yours; though it was quite comfortable. The fabric was soft and velvety in your hands, slipping from your fingers as delicately as silk when you grabbed a fistful of it. You breathed in its scent, and you were overwhelmed by the sharp fragrance of fire whiskey and the fresh aroma of rich earth and books that it was soaked in.

As you raked another glance over the room with your e/c orbs, the whole impact of the situation rammed into you like the white-hot tip of a spear, flooding your senses with panic. Despite how homey the room looked, you were in an unknown room in an unknown place, and the possibility of being kidnapped dawned on you as you bit your lips in anxiousness.

Almost as though the thought had escaped your mind and floated into the warm atmosphere, a deep, cold voice interrupted your internal musings.

" Took your sweet time in realizing. But then again, you have always been quite dense, L/N."

You let out an ear-piercing shriek that was sure to have woken the dead, startled by the sudden appearance of the owner of the voice.

Casually leaning against the wooden doorframe for Merlin knows how long, with his arms folded across his chest, and a perfectly manicured eyebrow arched at you, was the owner of the calming voice, your Potions Professor, Severus Snape.

It was then you realized that the person that had been with you last night was none other than him, and your cheeks burned ruby when you came to this realization. It was not because of anger or shame, but rather, embarrassment, because you held great respect for your Potions Professor, as he was the last person you wanted to see in your disheveled state the night before.

Grabbing a fistful of your shirt, you averted your gaze elsewhere, unable to meet his eyes. Wait…

It wasn't YOUR shirt.

It was HIS shirt you were dressed in, and heat rushed to your cheeks as the lewd possibility of him changing your clothes slipped into your mind. Almost as if he had read your mind, (which wouldn't be much of a surprise due to his Legilimency), he was quick to assure you that he had not changed your clothes, that Madame Pomfrey had, and you heaved a sigh of relief you didn’t know you had been holding in.

But then, all seriousness returned to your stoic Potions Master as he reattached his usual cold demeanor, the embarrassment fading away and his voice came out strict and stern, monotonous as it rang throughout the room that had filled with a loud, impenetrable silence.

" Care to tell me why you were choking on air last night L/N?" He inquired in his usual baritone voice, toneless as he asked, successfully lacing his rich voice with slight sarcasm so that he could conceal his growing concern. You were one of the best in his class, other than the know-it-all Granger, and though he would NEVER admit it, you had begun to grow on him with your cheeky smiles and witty remarks, and perhaps… he was growing a little fond of you.

You could feel Professor Snape's eyes boring into your skull even before you met his calculating gaze, and you didn't answer, your eyes burning as you desperately tried not to lose your composure in front of him.

" L/N, look at me!" He demanded, and you shook your head, your gaze lowering to the floor, eyes pooling with unshed tears as sobs threatened to wrack your body once again.

His question had unearthed old pain from where you had buried it deep within your heart, the feelings of anguish and bitterness rising within your chest again, hopelessness overwhelming you as you reminisced about your helpless plight.

You were vaguely aware that Professor Snape had drawn closer to you, but you were barely able to register anything as tears glazed your e/c orbs once more, making your vision spin and fill up with bleariness.

" Y/N, talk to me," He whispered, and this time, his voice was tender and raw with emotion as he addressed you by your first name, all formalities long gone and forgotten. You still did not meet his eyes, lacking the courage to do so, too afraid. He reached out for you, and a calloused but somehow gentle palm cupped your cheek as he took your chin in his forefinger and thumb, so that your gazes finally collided.

Instead of meeting hard obsidian that cut sharper than broken glass and steel blades, pools of darkness that glistened dully underneath the sunlight, your e/c orbs clashed against tender ebony optics that swirled with inky shadows of night. They were colorless and bleak, brimming with dark waters you could not wade within, starless skies that somehow thrived with a galaxy of dying stars, pooled with concern and rich with pure, unadulterated love and care, a small light twinkling within his dark orbs despite the fact that his sharp, black irises bled nebulous clouds of darkness, devouring light in their intensity.

" Please. "

Your efforts to keep your feelings at bay were in vain as a small whimper escaped traitorously through your parted lips, as you heard his voice, begging, pleading, and his eyes full of pure love that coaxed you to cry your woes away, and the dam burst. The anguished sobs burst from your lips, and the bitter cries and despaired wails that spilled from your lips shook the older man to the very core.

Before you knew it, his arms were wrapped around your smaller frame, pulling you close to him and enveloping you in a warmth that you been had deprived of. You latched onto him, clinging onto his robes for dear life, into a hold so desperately firm and with a fierce intensity that one would have to move mountains to pry him out of your surprisingly strong grasp. He stroked your back and comforted you as all the bitterness and raw agony you had swallowed and had harbored deep within your soul spilled past your lips, 'ugly' sobs wracking your small frame as you cried into his robes.

His hand reached up to stroke your hair, all the hesitancy and reluctantness that had been there the other night reduced to nothing, his soothing voice murmuring into the crown of your head, other hand rubbing circles around your back as you let the emotions your kept bottled up within your heart spill its poisonous contents, mumbling incoherent words through your tears.

" Parents… Disowned… Nowhere…"

" Shh… I’m here, aren’t i? What do you think I'm going to do? Leave you out on the streets?"

A small chuckle escaped you through your tears, and you smiled, despite the tears streaming down your face. You could feel the corners of his lips tilt upwards in a rare smile above your head, and your heart warmed. And as he cradled you in his strong, lean arms, the depression and worry that had cloaked you and suffocated you simply melted away, in his warm, secure embrace, evaporating into thin air. Your sobs stilled, the tears halting. But you didn’t let go of him. On the contrary, you gripped his robes even tighter (if possible, considering you were already choking the life out of him), silently begging him not to go just yet. This time, you were sure he was using Legilimency to scour your mind as he whispered, " I'm not going anywhere. " You forgave his intrusion, and snuggled in closer to his chest, listening to the steady beats of his heart it echoed melodiously within his ribcage.

Maybe you could do this everyday, you thought to yourself and felt his warm smile above your head once again.

" Yes, perhaps we could do this everyday."

#professor snape x platonic student reader #disowned reader #sad reader #harry potter feels #idk how to tag this shi

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skiyoosmi · 4 years ago

Text

post-break up heartaches

⤷ verse 2. in the dreams that we once shared

⤷ miya osamu, bokuto koutarou

⤷ verse 1 | verse 3

⤷ play. sorrow by sleeping at last, wrong direction by hailee steinfield

commissions: open

⇢ OSAMU stays still in his seat, melancholic eyes contrasting your bright ones while you twirl around in the middle of the ballroom. he admits, your dream wedding gown fit your figure perfectly as it flowed so gracefully the more you moved. but no beauty can compare to the happiness on your face as you danced with his previous volleyball teammate; the latter having a small smile on his face, not even having a single care about the funny looks you've been getting from your distant relatives. despite the minimal expression he adorns, to someone who has known him for a long time, it's clear as day just how ecstatic suna rintaro was to declare you as his wife, just as you were to call him your husband.

that could've been us, his mind screams all throughout the time he's been in the wedding ceremony, that could've been him dancing with you. he remembers little by little— how those smiles and laughters used to be solely for him whenever you try out his new recipes, from tasty to funny, how he used to be the one suddenly dragged to dance with you, how you used to dream of being married to him. him and only him.

but time was a cruel thing. he should've known better than to keep you waiting for more than so many years with nothing but empty and broken promises. i'll be done soon, yn, you know how much this means to me, this is my dream we're talking about here. stop being selfish please— he recalls himself telling you. he fails to see the disappointment and hurt that cross your eyes, fails to protect the already fragile relationship as you say your goodbye's to him a few more arguments and weeks later— i'm sorry for holding you back, samu. make sure to reach your dreams, okay?

i'm sorry. no matter how many times he says it, your fate was already done with him. you only needed him and he couldn't even give you that.

"hey there, stranger. wanna dance for a bit?"

he looks up, blinded by your brightness that almost seemed as if it mocked his sappy mood but he nods nevertheless, taking your hands as you pull him to the dance floor. in his peripheral view, he sees suna give him a wholehearted smile.

"you should stop frowning. it doesn't suit your face you know? what did you do to my lively samu?" you huff after a few minutes of nothing but silence and awkwardness while you swayed side to side with him, pouting when he shrugs, "you're such a gloomy ass! are you still in love with me or something?"

you swear it was supposed to be a joke, something to lighten the air between you two. but how were you supposed to laugh when he replied to you in the way you least expected?

"yeah, actually, i still am."

silence engulfed the two of you as you tried to overcome your shock. and for all the years he has been with you, it was painfully obvious that the answer he hopes for will not come. not now, not ever.

"samu... it's been—"

"i know. almost 8 years, is it? i know but i can't help it, yn. how could i when you're literally all i see everywhere i look?"

you fail to give him back a reply and (un)fortunately, he feels a tap on his shoulder and immediately, he knew it was time. he lets go of your waist and turns around, heart ready to get drowned by the bitter wine he's planning to drink all throughout the night, accompanied by the tears he won't be able to let out until he comes back to his hotel room.

"congratulations on your wedding, yn."

he ignores the hollowness inside him brought about by the unfinished conversation and goes back to his seat and repeats it like a mantra: not all fairytales get their happy ending.

and much to his dismay, his was one of those that don't.

⇢ BOKUTO was a star, luminous and blinding yet always longing to be part of the galaxy that held the awe of many other people. he was a child with dreams that wander all over the world and with confidence, he wants hear it, see that same world cheer for him.

he was an enormous star but his dreams were even bigger— and as he reaches out his hand to take more of what the universe can give him, he unknowingly lets go of yours.

"you look like you've dropped a huge shit on your underwear with the way you're staring down the court," konoha comments as he takes the seat he reserved beside you, hands deep in his pocket while he does so.

you glare at him, scoffing at his vulgar choice of words, "and you look like that shit, asshole. we haven't seen each other for so long and that's how you greet me?"

he laughs out loud, opening his arms and shoving you in them, "here! is this what you wanted instead? so adorable, yn! i knew you loved me at some point!"

you let out a series of groans, struggling to get out of his hold, "no! you're so annoying, get off me!"

he cackles, releasing you as the buzz rings out throughout the whole court, signaling the beginning of the match between msby and schweiden adlers. you shift in your seat, watching the players get introduced one by one, gasping when your ex-boyfriend literally does two cartwheels in his turn. is he... serious?

"where does he think he is... some kind of circus?" konoha snickers, shaking his head in amusement. oddly, you find yourself laughing with your companion. after all, this was typical bokuto, so full of energy and surprises.

"he looks... okay. very much okay," you bitterly state, placing your chin right on your palm as your arms and elbows rested on your lap. envy envelops your whole being as you watch him lively wave to the crowds, a large grin staying on his face. you huff silently, eyes trying to look at the other players but gravity seems to be playing its tricks on you as you find yourself reverting back to his figure. you wonder if time will let you become that happy someday.

"you're not...?" the lad beside you trails off, sighing when you shake your head 'no.'

"of course not yet, aki. it's not that i still love him or anything but he's just... he was everything, you know? he's become part of all my routines and now that he's gone, it... it just feels empty. like the dreams that used to help me sleep at night suddenly went away," he nods, not pushing you to say anything further. you both knew better than to have a shameful breakdown in public.

"god, i keep forgetting that the air conditioning in here is the worst," you grumble under your breath, rubbing your hands together to keep them from freezing out... because bokuto was no longer there to keep them warm, no longer there to offer you his own hands because you both forgot your gloves at home, no longer there to blow on them as if it was effective (it distracted you both at least), no longe—

"here, give me your hand," konoha reaches out to you, palms awaiting for yours to be in contact with his. you blink, surprised by his sudden offer, along with the pink hues that dusted both sides of his cheeks.

"we can't have them becoming numb, can we? i... i want to hold these hands for a very long time, you know?" he stutters as he begins rubbing both of your hands together, successfully getting rid of the cold and providing a new warmth you never expected will come sooner. oh... it's time, huh?

"uhm... yeah... thank you," you felt your face get hot. it seems like something... rather, someone has come to distract from the coldness you've been recently feeling.

"give me your days," he coughs out, still blushing. if anything, he's flushing even more now, "i'll fill the emptiness in them... and... and i can be your dream so you can sleep tight... and you'll be mine."

you gape at him, thousands of scenes flying through your mind but all of them led to one specific scenario.

"i... i have a lot of dreams, yn! i want to become a star player, someone who everyone will look up to and cheer for! and i... i think i want to focu—"

"i get it, bo. i'll get out of your way then. thank you... for everything."

"i-i'll be your dream?"

konoha chokes on his own saliva, "y-yeah! don't make me repeat it though, do you even know how cheesy that sounds? i can't believe i just said that, god... the things you make me do, you...!"

"okay."

it was his turn to blink, "e-eh?"

"i guess this is day one then?"

"eh?! wait... we... we're dating now, right?!"

"shut up now, aki."

as his golden eyes observe the two figures sitting by the stands, bokuto wishes he could've seen sooner that you were the one he had always been dreaming of, yearning for; wishes it could be him that was holding your hands again and he swears to whoever god there is, he won't let go of them anymore.

but then again, it seems like you were finally ready to wander with someone that wasn't him— who was he to stop you from doing so?

he was just a star;

you were the whole universe,

his universe.

#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu x reader #osamu x reader #bokuto x reader #osamu headcanons #bokuto headcanons #haikyuu writings #haikyuu angst #miya osamu #bokuto kotaro #haikyuu fics #hq x reader #haikyuu hcs #post break-up heartaches

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dreamiesdotcom · 3 years ago

Text

celestial | h.rj

Summary: To attribute full sight and still have the ability to describe things to someone who's never seen them means that you've felt the world deeper than anybody else.

Word count: 2164

a/n: idk whats up with me and midnights

Renjun's first question goes like this: "What does the pool look like?"

Naturally, Jeno panics; how do you explain a pool to someone who's never seen it? He's been so used to seeing it on a daily that he didn't even pay mind to the details. He debates on describing a rectangle, and then describing the waters, and then whatever the hell his 12-year-old mind could come up with. Naturally, he fails.

For him, you saved everything that day. You grabbed Renjun's hand, intertwining your fingers before grazing the water. "Do you feel that?"

"What exactly am I supposed to feel?"

"The water. Do you feel that constant flow and the relaxing cold?" you laughed then, patient even for the moody boy. He huffs out his cheeks and nods, you let go of his hands. "That's blue, Renjun. The water reflects the sky, and a pool is like a little ocean. An ocean is like a world filled with blue."

He tries to think of it, vast and endless fields of freedom. He couldn't, though; all he's known about the sky is that it was blue, and that blue is associated with sadness. He takes advantage of the fact that someone's willing to answer his question, and he asks again, "Is it scary?"

"Mhm, for some, it is. I'll let you in a secret, come here." You nod, and then he tilts his head to the side. He hears a splash, and doesn't expect it once he hears your voice after — "I'm actually scared of swimming pools."

"Didn't you just go in?"

"No, that was Jeno. I'm here." You poked a finger on his left arm, and he could tell you're wearing that cheeky grin. His stance softens. "I'm just beside you."

###

It was morning, the sun was shining and the scorching summer heat was kinder than everyone expected it to be. Somewhere around the room, Chenle and Jisung successfully trapped a sleeping Jaemin in a domino prison, Jeno's trying to convince them why this is such a bad idea and Mark is getting scolded by Hyuck. The TV fades to background noise, the plan of cooking extra pancakes long forgotten. Renjun leans his head on your shoulders, "What does the night look like?"

It felt like an odd question to ask as the sun is halfway to its peak, but Renjun's curiosity piques in no time. You hum for a bit to think, "The night is very different to a lot of people."

Very different for a lot of people... yeah, many things in the world are like that. He figured it out years ago when you told him about the swimming pools, and the airplanes, and the rollercoasters. He figured it out when you talked to him about books, when you taught him about colors, about shapes.

He still doesn't know what different looks like, and what importance it holds.

"Hyuck loves the night. You hear his laughter, right? He likes going on adventures and feeling the wind. I think, to him, the night looks like a harsh passing of the breeze you felt when we went out on a drive." He takes in your words. These days, he gets better with understanding metaphors — he learned that blue is not just a shade of sadness, and that sky doesn't always mean blue — he understands your words better. "But me... I just sleep. I don't like the night very much."

"Huh?"

"Have you ever been in a silent place, Jun?" you asked softly. "Not the silence you can fill with music. I'm talking about blank, emotionless silence; the one that echoes. The one that haunts you. The one that makes you feel alone. That's what the night looks like for me."

Renjun wanted to nod, and he wanted to say yes because he's been in that silent place for the longest time. It's all he's ever known, and it's all that he's ever seen; it's the only thing he sees — black, echoing, loud nothingness.

He didn't, though.

Instead, he asks a question, "What do you think about the night?"

"I think it's a question." comes quickly in a reply. "I still don't know how a nightmare town gives life to dreamers, but it does. It's a question I do not want to know the answer to."

Renjun knows of the stars and the sky, and you'd tried to explain their light by telling him what blinding comfort was — think of all your loneliest moments being washed away by the fire I told you about, and that's pretty much it, 'jun — and he knows of the big, gazing moon that changes shape now and then. It's what makes up most of the night, Jeno had said, so he knows that too.

What he doesn't know is why it seems so vicious to you, and what he doesn't know is that if he could see, would he have chosen to close his eyes to not witness such complex sadness.

###

It's at times like this when solace blooms in his heart. The rest of the world seems to be fast asleep, but he's so awake, so aware, so alive. You sit beside him, yet again brought him to the place you and Jaemin frequents in, and he ignores the jealous feeling in his chest. It's at times like this that Renjun realizes he's falling.

"Your smile must look beautiful," he wonders out loud. "Can you please tell me how your smile looks like?"

"Me?" You replied nonchalantly. Your chuckle passes as cold as the night breeze, and he wonders how the poet would write themselves as poetry. The blankness of your words dulls the hope in his eyes, "I... don't like it. My eyes... they always look tired. I always look tired. I hate myself."

For a moment, he dwells on his thoughts — Jaemin's brought you here, and you're more frequent here together, and he's seen how you looked against the glimmering stars. Did he fall in love? Did he want to keep you all to himself, like a little secret? Did he want to kiss you until all spite of yourself vanishes from your soul? Jaemin must've, Renjun knows. He knows because even blind, he's aware of how beautiful you truly are; not only he's heard it from his friends, but he feels it strongly. He couldn't see the city lights that he's heard of so many times, but he knows you shine brighter than them.

Hell, he couldn't even see you — he couldn't even see anything, but he knows you do. He knows you are. You think he's wrong, that he's more gorgeous, but he reaches for your hands.

He doesn't know what beautiful looks like. He just knows that it's breath-taking, soul-stealing, ethereal, and you.

"I think you smile like euphoria. I think you smile like the sound of music boxes, those with lovely tunes," he says, eyes closed and breathing fast. "I think... "

'I love you.' oh, how he wished it's easy to say those words. He purses his lips. "...you're one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, right next to my mother."

Beside him, you chuckled and held his hands. "You're sleepy."

"I am. Right now, I'm sleepy and I know you're beautiful." He squeezes your hands, looking at the direction he knows you're at. He lets out a shaky smile, "Tomorrow, I will be wide awake and I'd still think you're stunning."

It's at times like this that Renjun realizes he's falling. It's at times like this that he fears how much he can't wait to crash.

###

Renjun's biggest fear among many is that he'll never feel like this again.

He fell too hard. He fell too quickly and too harshly and he's only noticing it now when the impact makes itself known and he couldn't stand up. He knew that he was scared, he knew that he was afraid then, but only now did he know what it truly meant to be terrified; when he's sitting beside you on the roof, feeling the wind pass by, and he couldn't help but wonder what if it's not us, but I can never love the person meant for me because they're not you?

It's a silly thing, maybe. He did not believe in many things and fate is not one of the few he believed in. He thinks that love is something you choose for yourself — it's something you decide on your own. He thinks that the only problem in 'not being made for each other' is that you relied too much on what the stars wrote, and didn't write your story on your own. What even are these stars, aside from unknown giant speckles of light? Why should they decide someone's life?

He adores them, he knows, and now he can't help his curiosity: "How do the stars look like tonight?"

"They're bright. Very bright."

He swoons at the content sigh you let out before speaking, and he lets himself indulge. It's at moments like this when he lets himself feel, where he relishes in the adoration he nestles.

"They ought to be," he whispers to himself. "They gotta be bright if they're trying to outshine you."

Giggles fades to laughter, and genuine words burn forced. He could almost taste the bitterness of your words, "You haven't seen me."

Does he need to?

"I don't need to," he concludes. "There's so much more to you than what I couldn't see."

Because it's true. All those years you held this something in you, a piece of an old soul and an unknown heavenly something you ignored just so you could spite yourself. You had this way with words, this certain understanding of the world that he's never found in someone else. Renjun thinks that to attribute full sight and still have the ability to describe things to someone who's never seen them means that you've felt the world deeper than anybody else, and to know that the world is cruel but still choose to keep your eyes open is something that should be admired.

Right now, you're the closest to him you've ever been, and he bathes in the feeling of your lips hovering above his.

"I'm a mess, Huang Renjun."

"You're an art in progress," he whispers back, eyes fluttering shut as you close what little distance you have left. "But even half-made, you're a masterpiece."

###

If somebody asked Renjun if he ever saw this coming, he'd say "Why the fuck would you even ask me that question?"

Alright, jokes aside, never in his mind did he think life would turn out this way. First of all, a lot of unexpected things have already happened, but he's stubborn so of course, that doesn't convince him. He should've felt it coming, but of course, he refused to. After all, why would he even think of his best friend laying beside him on his bed, talking about random things all night in every way domestic? Why would he even think of you two being together, whispering sweet nothings to each other? He's guilty of doing those, yes, but that doesn't mean that he knows the answer. In a spur of the moment decision, he asks another question — "Why'd you choose me?"

"You're the only one who wanted me—IT'S A JOKE! Hey, hey, I was only kidding," you laugh, finding so many things entertaining about the fact that he's unamused. He preens at the soft kiss you placed on the edge of his lips, and then even more when you whisper, "You're the only one I wanted."

Normally, this is where his heart would do those weird flips and antics. This is the time where he'd feel like he's in another world, like he's invincible and oh so lucky to be thoroughly adored by the person he loves so much.

It's only that sometimes, Renjun feels unreasonable. He's sensitive and insecure and it's so much easier to find flaws in himself than to appreciate the things that made him who he is. Sometimes, he needs to ask some things he's not exactly sure of, things much like: "Even with... even with my eyes... like this?"

And it's you, and it's never dull when it's with you, everything is always beautiful and poetic. He doesn't know where that voice was coming from, but he hears it in his mind, and it tells him to trust you.

A butterfly kiss on each of his eyelids. A hand warm on the top of his hands. The rain pours heavily outside but it's muffled enough that it's calming, and all that he can think of is warm, so warm, so loved. You hold your foreheads close and keep them close for seconds, before you press a soft kiss on his lips, "Your eyes are beautiful, my love."

And for once, Renjun's not afraid to ask — "How do they look like?"

Beautiful and so much more.

"As if something straight out of a magical dream, because you are. You are magical," you whisper, breathing in slow intervals. "You are the closest to celestial a human could be."

#nct dream #nct dream drabbles #nct dream blurbs #nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct dream x reader #nct dream one shots #nct dream fluff #renjun #renjun drabbles #renjun scenarios #renjun blurbs #renjun timestamps #renjun angst #renjun fluff #renjun imagines #blind!renjun

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theredsuzuran · 4 years ago

Text

Muzan x reader ~ Lily [pt 2]

Took me forever to complete this song fanfiction, wouldn't have been possible if my friend didn't help, thanks to him. Please check out the first part to understand it better. Here.

Warning : abusive themes, mention of blood and gore.

Enjoy

She knew she was hypnotized.

The sound of a loud slap echoed throughout the room, your father who was furious about your escape have just hit you hard on your face infront of everyone, including the servants. On other hand your mother holding your father's arm tightly to prevent him from hitting you any further.

"Get away, you callous women, it is for you that she tried to run away, you should be ashamed of yourself", he shouted, shoving off your mother roughly onto the tatami floor.

"This is wrong, the Gods will punish us", she murmured under her breath making muffle sounds, your father dissatisfied by her futile attempts of protests turns his attention away from you to hit her right in the stomach with his bare fist in pure fury, making her scream in agony coughing out mucus. Your mother being a fragile women of timid personality, rarely talked to anyone let alone protest or stand up against vile play, always seen behind the shoji doors praying to the gods and chanting prayers, constantly intimidated. Witnessing your father abusing her inhumanely infront of her children, family members as well as the servants, evoked a sense of rebellion inside of you.

"Don't hit my mother, you are angry because of me hit me instead, as much as you like, but not her", you growled furiously at your father, making your mother jolt towards your direction as she shook her head violently.

"Stay away from this brat", he said apatheticly, disappointment hinted in his voice turning his head away from you once again in utter disgust. Receiving such cold treatments from your father made your heart shattered in pieces. Then, your uncle step up.

"Take her to the room and increase the guards, this shall not happen again", your father ordered the servants which was immediately followed without any hesitation or delay before you could protest you were taken away. However you wonder why did your mother reacted that way?

As the time passed by, you grew up to be an elegant lady mostly within the confinement of four walls, while pushing down all the jovial moments deep into the unconsciousness... your mind engulfed with the thoughts of your demise. It was getting harder and harder each day for you to keep your sanity intact. A constant state of melancholy always prevailed within your aura, even your own shadow seem deceitful.

Walking on cold thin nights

Then the night of that cursed full moon occurred. You glanced at the starry night from the now open window of your cell with your souless (e/c) eyes. Succumbing towards the void of eternal darkness. Heaven knows what grave sin you might have committed to receive such heavy punishments. As you were busy getting drowned in your own thoughts the shoji door slightly opened and the maids rushed inside your room one by one with cloths and accessories in their arm.

"It's time m'lady" the head maid bowed respectfully infront of you, then motioned the other maids to help you get ready. You could feel them pitying you, sympathizing the miserable state you're in. You simply nodded and get up to dress for your deathbed. At this point you didn't care much you just want it to get over soon, trailing off in the sea of your own distorted thoughts.

You approached your family to bid farewell before heading towards the palanquin. Everyone wishpering behind your back something that they are not allowed to speak infront of you. That didn't bother you anways but you wish you could atleast see your mother for the last time. Is it that hard for a mother to witness her daughter's departure that she needs to constantly hide indoors avoiding her like plague?

A herd of maids accompany you as your bridesmaid to mount Akakura. The norimono stopped infront of a shrine. The bitter cold outside and the solemn atmosphere made it difficult for you to enter through the main gates. All of them left at once after escorting you inside the shrine. While you sat there facing the kami observing the interior, The light of the lamp beside you flickering slowly. The shrine was enormous filled with shofisticated designs, paintings and detail descriptions of the great folklore of Japan. Gods like susanoo killing Yamamoto no orochi in order to restore peace, you were completely lost admiring the aesthetics of the shrine.

But then it broke,

Did she awoke again?

"This is not what we were expecting", you felt a strong gust of wind behind your back as if something was breathing behind your back, you could feel saliva dripping over your expensive uchikake and to your exact horror was standing your living nightmare, a disfigured seven headed monster signifying those of a dragon and a serpent hovering on top of you covering almost the entire shrine glancing directly at your fragile figure with pure malice and hunger.

"Nay, certainly not, she's not one of them, fufu", another head cooed grinning creepily. You looked at them with utter confusion, raising your head slightly to look over that hideous thing above you.

"What do you mean?", Asking almost frustrated, your voice still shaking.

"Oh", the head at the centre replied, his voice calm and steady, facing you with it's long wide neck, his eyes glowing dangerously, inches away from your face, breath stinking of something you'd probably not keen to know as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I fear mortal, but you are not blood-related to any of the seven maidens we have devoured so far", you were taken aback. Not related? You were bewildered, unable to process the new set of information displayed before you, fresh stream of tear forming in the corner of your eyes.

"No, you are lying", You snapped at them angrily.

"What a clueless human, what do we gain by that?", The head in the left hissed irritatedly.

The ground beneath you seem to slide open whereas the sky above began to crumble. For eighteen years you have been raised by people who are not even blood related to you but most importantly they were using you to save themselves, you stood their perplexed, overwhelmed with the new reality. How cruel can people become? An urge to confront your parents came in demanding for an explanation, about their selfish lies, for hiding your true identity, stealing your childhood and a chance to live a normal life. Now that perfectly made sense why your mother always prayed to the Gods for forgiveness, barely talking to you or look in your eyes and why your father is so detached towards you and not your siblings. They were never your own and you were never there's.

"Those human thought they could deceive us, we will kill them", head to the left spoke.

"No, not so soon, they might have deceived us but the girl lying below us is a marechi, no no no we cannot let her go" the main head chuckled darkly, showing its true nature all of them at once looked at you with their protruding eyes, as you shut your eyelids for the worse accepting your misfortune, a heated argument broke among the seven heads.

"You have eaten all the seven women previously, I will have this one" the right head hissed, accompanied by other heads, all of them screaming and cursing at each other. You notice the unlocked gate it must have been open since the demon arrived. It was your golden chance to escape, as they were busy fighting, you took advantage of the situation, slowly crawling your way towards the entrance of the shrine . They seem to not notice you trailing off their sight.

"Stop fighting with one another, we all are literally the same, anyone of us eating her would be enough to make us stronger and please that man", the head at the center erupted fuming with anger.

"She's gone, she's gone", one of the head shouted. Indeed you were missing the only thing left was the wataboshi you wore on top.

Then she ran faster than-

You ran through the dense forest lifting your kimono, the smell of fresh air hitting your nostrils, the feeling of nostalgia came back as you can finally taste that long lost freedom you constantly craved for since forever but unfortunately that didn't last long. As you were running blindly you could feel something gigantic chasing from behind. Being too frantic you stumble and fell onto the ground your leg getting caught in the fabric of your kimono in the process.

Start screaming, "Is there someone out there?"

Please help me

Come get me

"You thought you can ran away from us? What a foolish human", the sound of loud laughter resonated through out the woods. The demon wrapped its tale around your waist squeezing you tightly in attempt to crush your defenseless body lifting you up opening its mouth to shove you inside.

Behind her she can hear it say-

"Let go of me!" You screamed on top of your lungs, a last desperate attempt to exist. When out of the blue a large mascular tentacles flew towards your direction cutting the tail swiftly in a blink of an eye, releasing you from its bone breaking grip but instead of crashing against the ground, you were caught by a pair of strong masculine arm. You looked up in disbelief. A familiar fair male in texudo emerged, his flawless features shining underneath the moonlight coming through the branches.

"Muzan..."

"We met again (y/n), I hope am not too late", he smiled at you gazing softly. Tears came rolling down your cheeks as you cannot believe was it real or just a dream.

History always seem to find it's way of repeating itself.

His previous soft look instantly changed to that of a menacing one as he trailed his glance towards the disfigured monster.

"Crouch down and lower your heads", all the seven heads bow down infront of the demon lord, Cowering with fear at once as if they were struck by lightning.

"Pardon my lord, we didn't realize you have arrived before us or else-", the demon yelped immediately like a lost puppy.

"Who gave you the permission to speak?" Muzan replied indignantly, his eyes glowing threateningly at the petrified creature. You knew he was a demon but you were unaware that he held such authority making a powerful demon like Akai that supposedly haunts the mountain for centuries to lower his head in terror on his command. What was unknown to you that he infact was the progenitor of these morbid creatures.

How ironic being saved by none other but a demon.. being first of his kind.

"Have mercy, my lord" the demon begged, while one of his head thought why's he saving that human girl?

"Why am I saving that human girl? Go ahead, continue", muzan narrowed his eyes making the demon quivered with shock. He can read my mind?

"What makes you answer my authority?" The demon lord demanded furiously, veins popping out from his head.

"Beings like you should not be allowed to exist" with that said, his one arm stretched, injecting a sharp blade into the creature allowing his blood to overflow, creating chaos in the demonic cells of that creature eventually turing it into a pile of molten flesh.

It's over, the nightmares. Fresh tears rolled down your face, mixed with all sorts of emotions, the tables have turned, the heavens seems to have listen to your prayers. A pair of large hands cupped your face breaking you from the chain of thoughts

Follow everywhere I go

"Why are you still crying, dear?" Muzan replied with his smooth, monotonous voice, removing his hand as he placed you gently on the surface. His mood changed in a matter of seconds, you wonder how much more he was capable of doing beside that but brushing aside those feelings of negativity you moved closer.

"Took you long enough" engulfing him in a tight hug, startling him in the process. The idea of being intimate with a lowly creature was good enough to make him puke in disgust. How can a mortal like you have the audacity to touch the all mighty kibutsuji Muzan? He believed himself to be above everything even viewing his own subordinates as puppets of his play. His twisted sense of morality speaks that affection holds a person from attaining superiority and is a sign of weakness, the more ruthless and cold hearted the more close you are to perfection. He shows no value to people who possess such emotions which he is foreign to. Your vulnerability makes him want to ripped you to shreds, torment you and break your mind, yet he finds himself at ease. It was hard for him to admit that his pride was hurted against someone so delicate and somehow he felt those feelings of warmth to be tolerable with you, even to the extent of craving it.

After a while, a sudden realization hit your senses as you parted from the tight embrace, your (s/c) countenance painted with dark shades of red, averting your gaze from the demon. The moon shone brightly above you exhibiting your breathtaking beauty just like a piece of art. The way your shiny (h/c) locks fell over your smooth skin, the way your pulm lips parted to speak and the way your eyes sparked with adoration, was enough to drive him insane. From the very moment he laid his eyes upon you, he knew a masterpiece like you belonged only to the epitome of perfection. He will do anything to keep you to himself.

Top over the mountains or valley low.

"(Y/n), you have a very rare blood, a marechi" said muzan, as you recall the conversation you had with the demon in the shrine saying something similar on this note.

Give you everything you been dreaming of

"What's with that muzan?" You asked curiously, to which muzan's tone changed into that of a viscous one.

"Its a great meal for demons", silence broke out as you were too shock to say anything. Muzan knew he can take advantage of that situation and mould you the way he desires.

"(Y/n) are you scared of me?"

"No", you replied almost immediately with no hesitation.

"Do you trust me?" He questioned again looking at you directly with his glowing ruby orbs. Beginning his sick games of manipulation.

"Yes I do, with all my life, you are the only one who saved my life not once but twice, you cared so much for me when no one did" you paused.

"Beside my mother"

Just let me in, ooh

"Your family abandoned you, when you needed them the most" he replied creating doubts about inside of you, making you back off a little towards a tree.

"My mother was helpless" you answered.

"They used you for their own benefit", pinning you against the tree, he whispered venom into your ears. The proximity between you two, send shivers down your spine. Seeing you helpless excited him, making him determined to claim you even more.

Everything you want in gold, I'll be the magic story you have been told.

"How do you k-know?" You trembled, gasping your mouth and before you could lift your hands to cover your face muzan held your hands into his bigger ones looking directly in your eyes.

"Tell me (y/n) am I wrong?", you knew he wasn't although it didn't make sense.

"No.." is all you replied, satisfied with your answers muzan proceeded into the next step.

And you will safe under my control.

"I want to keep you safe, (y/n)", he moved closer to your face.

"You and I shall rule the world"

"I don't know muzan"

"No one can harm you ever again"

"But-"

"Don't you want to be free?"

Free? That's what you have been wanting for so long, freedom. He made you believe that you can be a boundless bird stretching its wings in the infinite magnitude. All of your doubts stopped growing from then and there, muzan knew he has struck the right cord, creating a ray of false hope about your vision of a perfect free world, thereby controlling your perception just like a predator luring his victims with lies. Seems as if you were destined to be deceived.

"Yes" you replied hypnotized by his convincing.

"Then become a demon"

Just let me in, ohh

Muzan moved his hand across your face caressing it gently, his face inches apart from yours, as his lips crashed against yours. For someone who recoiled from physical touch, to be felt loved by something that isn't supposed to be God's creation. A warm feeling crept inside of your chest as it was pressed against his. Feeling your joint heartbeats.

I never bothered to feel my chest for a heart beat, now I do. As I looked down to see my hand moving towards my face, the slimy red droplet broke away, disconnecting our lips. Demon? This man who gave me this new life? His eyes, so calm and fiery, How can I feel such duality? I lifted my other hand, without knowing it went to his chest, On his chiseled chest, there. You thought.

"A demon?" You replied with your now quivering lips turning your face away with embarrassment, realizing your lips connected with burning passion. Your eyes teared up you know not why, to be embraced by one who was supposed to be cold, to be embraced by someone who stood against armies through out time, you wanted to be with him.

"you will be", said muzan, as you felt your consciousness fading away, you know now why... Why all of them follow him, despite the abuse..Despite the sacrifices... you know now why your body moved craving for his touch although you could feel your throat burning yet it didn't matter, the warm embrace is all that you wanted.

That night you abandoned your humanity.

#kimetsu no yaiba #muzan x reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #kny muzan #muzan kibutsuji #demon #fanfic #kny fanfic #demon lord #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #kny writing

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darling-i-read-it · 4 years ago

Text

...And the Beast From the Sea

3x11

Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham

Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, guns, pregnancy, worries of miscarriage

Author’s Note: Dudes I love this one so much. I�� really really liked this one. It’s hella long but the last one was short so I think that’s okay. I am very excited for y’all to read this one because I made some expenitonal changes to the script which I’m excited for you guys to see. Enjoy!

I used some direct quotes from the script so some things may seem familiar

Official Episode Summary: With a full moon approaching, Jack and Will are certain that Francis Dolarhyde will strike again but they lack a solid lead; Alana gives Hannibal a chance for redemption.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director

Tag List (is always open!) : @llperfectsymmetryll @ericacactus @vlightning95 @sweetgoodangel

(not my gif) (top two @/rocktheholygrail)

“Nightly news countdown to the next full moon. Chicago and Buffalo police are under a media blitz,” Jack said. You, Will and Alana were all in his office. Will had made it a sport to argue against you going with him anywhere these days but he knew he would lose the fight.

“Two days left. And he’s not going to kill again in Chicago or Buffalo. He’s moved on,” you muttered. You were sitting beside Alana. Will was standing behind you.

“Let me fill you in on what’s up for the twenty-fifth.”

“When he does it again?”

“If we have a problem on the twenty-fifth.”

“Not ‘if’. ‘When,” Will muttered.

“He didn’t kill the docket at the museum. What if he’s trying to stop?” Alana asked.

“He would’ve been better killing her. And both of you,” Jack suggested. You pursed your lips.

“I know we don’t get along Jack but that’s just cruel,” you teased.

“You think there's a way to push him to be self destructive?” Jack asked, ignoring you completely.

“You mean push him toward suicide?” Alana asked.

“Suicide suits me just fine,” Jack muttered.

“If he was really trying to stop he’s not going to kill himself. How could he be sure his death would affect whatever's inside him?” Will asked. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, his mind reeling.

“You must know something about him otherwise you wouldn’t have found him,” Jack leaded. You gave him a look. Will gave him a harder one.

“Jack Crawford. Fisher of men, watching my cork move against the current. You got me again.” Will was bitter. You liked it. “Hannibal told me where to find him. He knows.”

Hannibal and Francis talked to each other. Francis was relying on this conversation to clear some things up. A couple of things.

“I..put my hand...on her beating heart. Heard the sound of her..living voice. A..living woman. How bizarre,” Francis whispered. Reba flashed in his mind. Beautiful. “I don’t want to give her to the Dragon,” he whispered.

“The Dragon is in your belly now. The Dragon wants her alive, you don't’ have to worry about feeling love for her,” Hannibal explained. Francis looked at Hannibal.

“Is that how you stayed with Y/N?” At the mention of your name Hannibal tensed. Ever so slightly. If Francis wasn’t paying acute attention he wouldn’t have noticed. He read it as something bad. Something that struck something dark in Hannibal that he wished to be rid of. “And Will Graham. He interests me. Odd looking for an investigator, not very handsome. But purposeful. They’re married aren’t they?”

Another slight change in attitude.

Slight.

But there.

And if he wasn’t going to kill Reba then he had to kill someone else.

“Yes, yes. I see.” Your voice was quiet. Will watched you speak, your hand holding your other arm. You were on the phone with the neighbors that were watching your dogs. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thank you so much for calling.”

You hung up the phone and let out a long sigh. You looked over at Will. You were both standing in one of the main rooms of Alana's hospital. You finally looked over at him and he grabbed your hand gently, bringing you toward him.

“That was the neighbors girls. They say that the dogs have been sick, all of them. I’m going to go home and see to them, make sure it’s all okay.” Will nodded quickly as he held you in his arms. He was happy about this. He didn’t want you here, in harm's way. The safest place for you was home. “I’ll sleep the night, take the dogs to the vet and return the next day. I’ll bring new doggo with me.” You moved away from him to gauge his reactions.

“This is good,” he whispered, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. “It’s safe at home.” You shrugged.

“I like to keep you safe.”

“But you have to think of yourself now. You have to keep safe,” he whispered. “Both of you.” You closed your eyes for a moment and took that in. It sounded so pleasant from his voice. A child. His child. You loved the idea of a curly haired little boy running around that had his blue eyes.

“Two days we’ll be away from each other. And I shall call you when I get there and also when I am about to leave. And probably between that.” He nodded.

“Of course.”

“I have to do a little homework,” Francis said. Reba handed him a fresh martini and he took it, sitting on his couch between the projector and screen. Music played softly around them. Reba sat beside him, curious to what he was up to today.

“Sure. If I’m keeping you from working, I can go,” she suggested. He shook his head quickly and realized she couldn’t see him. It would take some getting used to.

“No. I want you to be here. I do. It’s just some film I need to check. It won’t take long,” he promised.

“Does it have a soundtrack?” Reba asked.

“No.”

“May I keep the music?” she asked.

“Um-hmm.”

“I think I’ll stretch out for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.” He started to move so that she could lay down but she shook her head gently. “No, don’t move. I have plenty of room. Wake me up if I drop off,” she whispered. She lied down on the couch, holding the glass to her stomach. The tips of her hair touched Francis' hand beside his tight. He flicked the remote switch on and the projector began. Light flickered and whired across both his and Reba’s face. “Are these your nocturnal animals?” she asked quietly.

“Um-hmmm”

The picture moved down from a bright white moon to find you, smiling and laughing as you moved toward a cabin in the woods, holding a blanket in your hands. A pack of dogs excitedly milled around your feet.

“They know they’re being filmed?” Reba asked.

“No.”

You stood in the vet anxiously. As the vet came back in you stood up quickly. You had talked to the girls who were taking care of the dogs and they were just as worried as you had been.

“They may have gotten into something they shouldn’t have. Has there been any change in their diet?” she asked. You took a deep breath and felt the guilt creep in.

“Wi-my husband usually makes their food from scratch. We’ve been out of town with some dog sitters and I told them to just give them canned food,” you explained.

“Was it canned food made in China?” she asked.

“Is it bad to be made in China?” you asked anxiously.

“If you’re pet food. Dogs get poisoned by Chinese pet food all the time. Pet food safety isn't’ regulated the same way as human food. And it’s barely regulated at all in China. There have been thousands of illnesses and deaths.”

All of the sudden you thought about having to call Will with the news that, despite the fact you were having a human child, all the dog ones were going to die. That was a call you never want to make. Ever.

“Are the dogs going to be okay?” you asked, moving the long sleeves of your shirt up to wrap your fingers around it.

“Yes. You got them here fast and the activated charcoal should soak up whatever’s in their system. But it’d be helpful if you brought me a sample of whatever they’ve been eating so we can run some tests,” the vet said. You nodded quickly.

“I’ll bring it by tomorrow.” The vet put a hand on your arm with a warm smile.

“We’ll keep the dogs overnight so we can monitor their recovery. They’ll be fine.”

You nodded with a smile released.

Will walked into Hannibal’s caged room. Hannibal got up from his desk and walked over to the glass.

“I’m not fortune’s fool. I’m yours. ‘Behold the Great Red Dragon’,” Will said.

“And did you?” Hannibal questioned.

“I had a random encounter.” Hannibal looked behind him as the door shut quietly. He furrowed his eyebrows.

“Where’s Y/N?”

“The Brooklyn Museum is closed to the public on Tuesdays, but researchers are admitted. You know that’s when we’d both be going,” Will said, ignoring the question. Hannibal tried to push you out of his mind. Likely just toying with him.

“A sophisticated intelligence can forecast many things. I suppose mine is sophisticated enough. You’re so close to him now. You and the Dragon are doing the same thing at various times of the day,” Hannibal said, allowing his ignorance of you to seep.

“He’s contacted you.”

“How do you imagine he’s contacted me? Personal ads? Writing notes on admiration on toilet paper?” Hannibal asked.

“Alana thinks he’s trying to stop,” Will suggested. Hannibal came closer to the glass and Will did not move.

“To begin to understand the Dragon, to hear the cold drips in his darkness, Dr. Bloom would have to see things she could never see,” Hannibal promised. “She would have to fly through time.”

“There is a family out there who don’t know he’s coming. We could save them. Tell me who he is.”

“I don’t know who he is.” Will studied Hannibal’s face and knew he was telling the truth. “And I do not know the next family, before you ask.” He was telling the truth about that too.

“You’re willing to let them die.”

“They’re not my family Will. And I’m not letting them die. You are.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. You have a telephone call. It’s your lawyer. Would you like to take it?” Alana asked.

“Did he say why he was calling?” Hannibal questioned.

“I called him. To confirm that he hasn’t called you. Not since you’ve been declared insane,” she stated. Hannibal shrugged.

“I could have told you that.”

“If only I’d known to ask.”

“If only.”

“Would you have told me the truth?” she asked.

“In my own way, I always have,” he promised. Alana pressed a button and spoke into the telephone.

“Mr. Metcalf. That’ll be all for now. Thank you for your time.” She killed the call and now her cold anger showed. The door behind her opened and Jack entered. “You were speaking to the Tooth Fairy.”

“I think he’s earned the right to be known by the name he’s chosen. He is the Great Red Dragon,” Hannibal said. Jack approached the glass wall.

“You have hubbed hell, Dr. Lecter.”

“I often do.”

“You got what you wanted. Suddenly, you’re very relevant. There is one way for you to stay relevant...and comfortable,” Alana said. Hannibal thought about it for a moment.

“You want me to speak with the Dragon. You believe he will seek counsel after the next kill.”

“We’ve got to make your contact work for us. Standing trace order for any time you’re on the phone. When he calls, you keep him on the line.” Hannibal inclined his head.

“I can’t refuse him a sympathetic ear. He no doubt needs it.”

The house seemed so empty. The dogs gone, Will away. You had to pick them up in the morning and then be gone again. In the meantime, you were staying up late to make as much dog food as you could.

“Yeah and add a little bit of the meat I have in the fridge,” Will said over the phone. His voice was staticy but there. It made you feel safer.

“Alright I think we’re good. Thank you sweetface,” you said, leaning into the phone.

“Anytime. Have a good night's sleep. Drink water. I love you.” You smiled gently to yourself.

“I love you too. Sleep tight!” You hung up the phone and then it was empty again. You glanced at the clock. Much too late. You shouldn’t have kept Will up, he needed to sleep. “I suppose I should sleep too,” you said aloud. You convinced yourself you were speaking to your unformed child rather than yourself. That sounded less insane.

You put the dog food in the fridge and finished up the last of the notes for the neighbors teenagers. You took a deep breath and turned around, eyes catching the green of the alarm monitor.

Caught it just soon enough to see it go dead.

You didn’t realize what that meant right away. Then it hit you. Fear slammed into you and you tensed up completely. You grabbed your phone and shoved it in your pajama pants pocket. You grabbed a knife from the knife block and quietly walked over to the kitchen table, where your keys were. You peaked out the window and saw a man outside, walking up the front steps.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You tried to control your fear as you quietly walked around back. You heard the door jiggle open. You were suddenly reminded of your second body, Will’s words screaming into your heart. Both of you to keep safe.

You suddenly missed Will terribly. You opened the back door quietly and stalked around the side of the house. As you ducked underneath windows you felt your heart beating in your ears. You held the knife tightly in your hand as you peaked around the side of the house to see if he was outside.

The coast from where you were to the car was clear from what you could tell.

You closed your eyes tightly and then opened them just as quickly.

You sprinted to the car and unlocked it on your way. You jumped into the driver's seat and struggled to put the keys in the ignition.

Your attacker had heard the car unlock and he was on the porch now. Gunshots broke your front window and shattered onto your lap. You squealed just as the car started and you were able to pull out.

You, however, were not able to miss the gunshot that hit you in the shoulder harshly. You let out a harsh surprised noise as your arm pretty much went limp. With your other arm you were able to drive away from your home. Your home. The place you had found so sacred. Will’s and yours first place together.

You focused on driving through the dark, winding roads and hoped that he wasn’t following.

Will ran through the hospital. A horrible glare of the hospital fluorescents over his face as he approached Jack Crawford.

“Where is she?” he asked rushingly.

“In surgery now.”

He did not seem to be any more eased at that.

“You’re both safe here,” Jack said and Will gave him a harsh look.

“Now is not the time to talk to me Jack. Not the time at all.” Will pushed past him. He didn’t know where he was going. He couldn’t see you. All he could do was pace. He wanted to ask Jack about the baby. He wondered, terribly, if the baby was gone. Two times in a row his child would be ripped from him by the puppeteer strings of Hannibal Lecter he was sure.

Will couldn’t make it make sense. He thought that Hannibal liked you. He thought for sure that you, if anyone, was safe from his wrath.

Jack took his turn approaching Will again, now that some time had passed by. The doctors promised you would be okay but made no mention of the baby.

“You think you might lose me after this, Jack? You think I might go back to my family?” Will asked, teeth almost barred. Jack stared at him.

“For a minute, I did.”

“I want so badly to. If she had died because of this I would have killed you with my bare hands Jack. She warned me against you time and time again. And again. If she had died because of you…” his voice trailed off but Jack got the message. “But then I realized what you realized. I can’t go home, and neither can Y/N, never, until the Red Dragon is out of the way.” Will looked away.

“As soon as Y/N can be moved we’ll put her at my brother’s house on the chesapeake. Nobody in the world will know where they are but you and-”

“She’s pregnant.”

Jack stopped. This information hit him and it sunk in, very slowly. He took a deep breath. He was careful speaking.

“Have you asked-”

“No. I’m too scared to,” Will admitted. He looked back at Jack and shook his head. “But if the baby lived or didn’t, if she is able to walk, she’s not going to leave my side now. She’ll put on a brave face and walk with me wherever I’ll go and you will let her.” He paused, thinking. “I’ll let her.” His eyes lightened slightly. “And even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t want anything from you. She’d be glad to see you in hell with your back broken.”

Something about the truth in that made Jack want to smile.

Will walked into the room. You had been awake just long enough to talk to the doctor. Will had been in the bathroom when you woke up but now he rushed toward you.

He practically skidded on the ground to grab your hands. You gave him a weak smile but your face was practically dead. You swallowed and squeezed his hand. Will didn’t say anything for a moment.

“The baby is alright,” you whispered. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “The bullet hit my shoulder, far away from anything that could harm them.” Now that that was out of the way, he could apologize for you. You had been hurt. That was impossible.

“The dogs are safe. I’m going to pick them up tomorrow and bring them here.” You nodded.

“Bring the vet the canned food.” He laughed dryly.

“I don’t think that’s a priorit-”

“Bring it,” you stated weakly. He nodded, not willing to argue with you right now. You looked up at the ceiling and then over at him, smiling at his pretty face. “I made the food. You have to bring that too, I’m proud of it.” He nodded, kissing your hands he was holding.

“I will.” There was a beat of silence.

“You aren’t going to get me to leave. The second I can sit up I will be back out there with you.” He nodded lightly.

“I wish you wouldn't. But I know.” You looked into his eyes, hard.

“Hannibal did not advise this.”

“He knows about the killer, things he couldn’t possibly know unless he knew about him. There’s no way that this wasn’t him.” You shook your head.

“He wouldn’t. Not to me.” Will believed that, despite it all. He kissed your hands again and stood up.

“I’m going to ask him.” He waited for you to respond but you just thought about that for a moment.

“I wanted to be the one to tell him. But I see now that you must.” He nodded. It would add to the effect, whichever way that effect went.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you more.”

Will quickly walked up to Hannibal’s cage. Hannibal could tell something was wrong immediately. Will looked like he was about to kill someone with his bare hands.

“I’m just about worn out with you crazy sons of bitches,” Will stated. Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“It hasn’t hit the papers yet. Care to enlighten me on the family this time around? Did the dog make it?” Will stared at Hannibal, dumbfounded.

“You really don’t know do you?” Hannibals face scrunched into confusion.

“I’m sorry, should I?” Hannibal questioned. Will’s lips turned into a bitter smile. He knew that Hannibal had talked to this killer and Will was about to relish in the fact that he got to tell Hannibal his efforts had messed up someone he cared about.

“Y/N went home to tend to the dogs for the day,” Will started, really milking this out. “Dr. Lecter, the killer went for her.”

Hannibal’s mind worked quickly. He took a deep breath in and for once, hung off the words that Will was saying. He hadn’t suggested Francis kill you but he should have known he would. He should have known. He was almost angry at himself for not seeing it.

“Is she alright?”

“Yes.” Hannibal let out a barely audible sigh of relief. For once it was the two men, almost in love with each other but definitely in love with you, just happy you were alive. “She was shot but she’s fine.” Will paused. “She’s pregnant. Still pregnant. You didn’t get this child and you won’t.”

Hannibal took that in quietly. He would deal with that later.

“I’m happy for her. Happy for you both.” Will turned to leave, finished with this conversation and wanting to return to you but Hannibal did not let him. “Will?”

He turned.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t know it was her.”

As the orderly came into the room, Hannibal almost jumped up. But instead, he kept his dignity and walked over to the phone, taking it in his hands. He knew that Jack and Alana were listening. He had to keep this careful.

“If I’m not as strong as the Dragon, she will die. I know that,” Francis said firstly, bluntly. “I need to think. I need to think. I told her I can’t be with her.”

“Y/N Graham is not dead,” he pointed out stoutly. Francis did not like that he changed the subject so quickly.

“I chose Y/N because she rejected you. I chose Y/N and she should be dead.” Hannibal straightened his back. “I’m afraid she will come to the house. To talk. I don't want what will happen in the house.” He was now referring to Reba, not you but Hannibal knew how to steer a conversation.

“What made you think I wanted Y/N dead?”

“You insinuated-”

“No. I did not.” Hannibal stared through Jack and Alana, enjoying an audience but wishing these next words were spoken in confidence. “You thought wrongly. You insinuated wrongly.” Hannibal straightened his lips. “Think about how you wanted to hold Y/N in your arms, as she lost blood and her heart quivered like a bird until it went out. Think about it.” He paused, allowing him to think. “Now think about Reba in her place. Because that is what is coming.”

Francis didn’t know how to react to that.

“They’re listening,” Hannibal said and hung up the phone.

Alana and Jack looked betrayed but Alana was all too happy for what came next.

“You’ve just lost your toilet Hannibal,” Alana said.

And Hannibal did not say it but he knew it was worth it.

3x12

#hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #will graham imagines #hannibal lecter imagines #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #will graham x reader x hannibal lecter #hannibal imagines

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plasticnightmaredoll · 4 years ago

Text

(art commission by the lovely and talented @curious-menace)

It is a time where I would like to see what my followers think about various concepts I have in mind pertaining to alternate versions of one my fics. It may take some time to write out any alternate versions since I've been busy and stressed out so much lately, but I am very curious as to what others would find intriguing to read.

But first, some backstory so be patient. We'll get to the voting at the end of this post.

I've been having a lot of bad days lately, and my mood has plummeted to a major low. This includes my self-esteem, which has always been in the dumps but is now basically a dumpster fire.

However, I don't want to be entirely cruel to myself. I deserve some sort of happiness, some sort of reprieve, and writing can be a good coping mechanism. I put a lot of my own thoughts, emotions, struggles, opinions, etc. into my works, as they serve as a way for me to get things off my chest. Sometimes, it's just cute and funny stuff, other times angsty but eventually fluffy stuff, and other times it's quite depressing and dark.

One fic, in particular, stands out, and that is the Mortal Kombat/Batman Arkhamverse crossover, "Volunteer," (trigger warnings: mentions psychological torture and suicide...more about this fic in a bit for those who would rather not read it because of those triggers) which features Arkham Knight Edward Nigma and Jonathan Crane, as well as a lady friend for Edward named Sara. It also features Erron Black and Cassie Cage from Mortal Kombat (Cassie is only mentioned in the story a few times).

If you read the blog intro/self-introduction post pinned at the top of my Tumblr, you know very well how I feel about Cassie Cage (particularly in MK11) and the Erron Black x Cassie Cage (BlackCage) pairing. Those negative feelings are mostly due to a very bad experience with a pushy BlackCage fan who just wouldn't relent one bit on their stance and it was emotionally and mentally draining to try and talk to them, including providing counter-arguments.

I've come up with alternate versions for "Volunteer" recently due to the spike in stress, depression, anxiety, and insecurities I've been dealing with as of late. This is where my followers come in!

I would like people to vote on which alternate take on "Volunteer" they would be interested in reading. Now, I can't guarantee when I'd get to it because, as I mentioned already, I've got a lot going on. However, I really want to try and write at least one alternate version of that fic, just to get some insecurities and negative thoughts off my chest.

Now, for those who are wary of reading "Volunteer" because of the trigger warnings, here's my advice: Just read the first chapter, if you want to. Chapter 2 deals directly with the sensitive subject matter, although, you can probably guess what happens anyway just by reading Chapter 1 and if you know anything about Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow...well, he likes to mess with people...mentally. To put it very mildly.

Now it's time for the voting. I have three different scenarios I've come up with that are variations/alternate versions of the current "Volunteer" fic's concept/storyline. I'd like followers to select 1 (one) alternate telling of the fic. I will open anonymous asks again, so if you are shy or just want your vote to remain a secret for some other reason, then that's fine by me. Otherwise, you can reply to this post with your choice.

Edit: if you are turned off by the idea of a Mortal Kombat/Batman Arkhamverse crossover, I get it. I don't read crossover fics myself, and that's usually because the crossovers either make no sense or do make sense but the ideas are poorly executed.

This crossover I'm talking about, though, isn't a full-on crossover of MK and Batman. There's no world-building, no larger plot, and no other characters in MK even appear or are mentioned except Erron Black and Cassie Cage.

If anything, it's more of a Batman Arkhamverse standard AU with Riddler and a female oc, and Erron and Cassie are the only concrete elements of MK brought in. I mean, yes, the other MK characters exist, I guess, but they have no purpose in this crossover I've written, and won't make any appearances.

So, if you had any concerns about the crossover aspect, I hope this clears things up

Choices below the cut!

A) "Don't You Wish"

This version is inspired by a song from Pink, called, "There You Go." In this alternate telling, Erron manages to survive Scarecrow's fear toxin, and escape (most likely because Erron is out of his mind and panicking, thus not a threat, and he has no one to help him, so Scarecrow doesn't give a damn what happens to the dude). The first thing Erron does is go to Sara's place, having already broken up with Cassie after realizing dating her was a mistake, and Sara means more to him than he thought.

Well, it's been several months since Sara basically pushed Erron out of her life for his poor choice in women, and (Arkham Knight) Edward Nigma has proven to be a much better (and, wiser and more sensible -- yes, I know, but he's not a skirt chaser, Guys) friend to Sara. While Erron ran off with a blonde selfie princess, Edward offered genuine comfort and companionship, and now Sara has been in the process of moving on from Erron even further.

Sara humors Erron and lets him tell her -- while sounding terrified, confused, and conflicted beyond belief thanks to the fear toxin -- what happened to him. Now, Sara doesn't know Edward asked Scarecrow to take care of Erron as a means of getting revenge for her. Doesn't matter anyway. She's unsympathetic towards Erron's plight, feeling as if he didn't even give her a chance to confess her feelings towards him, nor did he even seem to notice how she felt; it was like he was too busy with thinking with his privates to realize he had someone in front of him who would have treated him better.

Sara tells Erron -- in a flat, disinterested tone -- that his situation is tragic and all but wtf is she supposed to do? Why not go to his dumb blonde gf? Oh, they broke up? Well, how predictable. And Crane is also a (sort of) friend to Sara, which shocks Erron and leaves him feeling worse than before.

Sara sends Erron on his way, and he wanders off in a daze, unsure of what to do with his life now.

Sara and Edward meet the next day, and they have a pleasant time, obviously moving towards becoming a couple. She chooses not to mention Erron as she is completely severing the cowboy from her life.

B) "I Don't Even Miss You"

This alternate telling is similar to the previous one, but this time it's inspired by a Miley Cyrus song, "WTF Do I Know" (Hey, her Plastic Hearts album is actually fantastic!), and Edward is with Sara when Erron arrives at her place in a distressed state. At first, Sara deals with Erron in the hall of her apartment building, unsympathetic to his plight and basically telling him, "I told you so," and "too bad." Erron is getting more and more upset, even angry at Sara's callous tone, and starts to raise his voice, demanding to know why she is being so cold at a time like this?

Edward overhears Erron raising his voice to Sara, giving her a difficult time, and he gets pissed. Edward steps out into the hall and not only mocks Erron in various ways, but demands that he leave immediately, or what Scarecrow did will seem like a trip to Disney Land. Erron has caused Sara -- who is currently moving on and growing closer to Edward -- enough problems and heartache.

Edward reveals he set up Erron, and while Sara is stunned to find this out, she handles it better than expected. Edward said it was his way of getting revenge for her, and he'd do it again if need be. Erron is sent away feeling so much worse, feeling lost, hopeless, and betrayed.

Sara and Edward talk and she admits she's upset that he did something like this without speaking about it to her first. However, he explains that he genuinely did it for her and he doesn't want her to feel pain at the hands of some "idiotic cowman," who doesn't consider the feelings of others and who behaves like a greedy, violent Neanderthal. (And yes, Edward does care for Sara, and he didn't send Scarecrow after Erron out of jealousy -- maybe a little jealousy but it was mostly rage over Erron causing Sara so much emotional pain)

Sara means more to Edward than he can express, and he may not be the best when it comes to emotions, but he does care about her and wants her to be safe.

Sara forgives Edward, understanding that, through his heartfelt but very nervous and shy confession that he is sincere about his feelings for her, and they make amends. She of course tells him to never do something so extreme without consulting her first, though, because what happened to Erron -- while she doesn't care what happens to him in the slightest -- was a bit too much.

C) "Listen When the Devil's Calling"

Another title inspired by a Miley Cyrus song, "Night Crawling," and this alternate telling involves Telltale Riddler and no Scarecrow. Almost a year has passed since Erron went with Cassie and Sara, out of bitterness and heartache, refused to speak or see him. This didn't sit well with him as she was his only friend, and his relationship with Cassie dies within a few months.

He goes looking for Sara, realizing she has moved out of her apartment. It doesn't take him long to find out where she is, and she's with The Riddler, a notorious criminal genius and one of Gotham's elite villains. Erron is worried for Sara and seeks her out.

Turns out, Sara's just fine. This isn't one of those scenarios where the girl is with a guy who just using her and taking advantage of her vulnerability. No, Edward does actually love her and takes good care of her. He finds people like reckless, selfish, and ignorant people like Erron to be a disgrace but also amusing because of how pathetically primitive they are.

Edward also doesn't appreciate how Erron pushed aside a good thing in Sara to pursue a girl who is a social media brat and has more selfies on her phone than brain cells in her, well, brain. It defies all logic to Edward, but he's also not surprised because of how much of a disappointment Erron is as a human being (hey, this is Riddler we're talking about, and he's not one to be sweet and gentle to those he can't stand). Edward doesn't say these things out loud, though, as it's a bit too vulnerable and personal for him to do such a thing with someone he doesn't know or trust.

Sara is upset that Erron has resurfaced and she remembers how heartbroken she was when he went after Cassie Cage. She wants Erron to leave her alone like she asked, so she can move on. She can't trust him anymore, because he's just a skirt chaser in her eyes.

Erron tries to plead his case, tries to apologize to Sara, and expresses how he really feels, but this just distresses her further. Edward steps in and tells Erron he's done enough to Sara, she clearly doesn't want to see him, and he needs to take his leave.

This isn't a request.

Edward pulls Erron aside, telling the cowboy that the only reason he's going to walk away from this alive is that Sara hasn't asked for him to be killed. Should she tell Edward to take care of Erron, well, you all know what Telltale Riddler is like.

And those are the three variations on "Volunteer."

If you could be so kind as to:

leave a comment with your choice or

send an ask (even an anon ask) with your choice or

suggest your take on this story.

I'd appreciate it immensely!

Thank you all so much for supporting me and my writing and being patient with my sluggish publishing schedule!

#edward nigma #riddler #arkham knight riddler #edward nigma x oc #riddler x oc #edward nygma #edward nygma x oc #crossover fic #arkhamverse #arkham riddler #telltale riddler

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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years ago

Text

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

#everlark #thg #the hunger games #everlark fic #fanfic #prompt #everlark fanfic #fanfiction #growing back together #userreese #i think thats what you meant when you said to tag you????#gravity ♥️ 🌅 🥖

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reeeyachi · 4 years ago

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What's your take on why Killua feels the need to try and make Gon "less important" than Alluka? I have siblings I adore, but I don't feel the need to choose between them and my bffs (people I'm in love with). Killua's decision just felt kind of cold and cruel given that Gon only messed up once, always vocalized his care and gratitude for Killua, and isn't responsible for Killua's codependency. The Zoldyck's are. But Gon has to be punished via Killua leaving while point out he's less important?

Hi anon, I'm gonna be honest with you and this may or may not be a hot take. But I'm almost convinced that Killua took this opportunity to showcase his petty ass gay bitchiness lmfao ok not kidding aside...

Ok, I don't understand why y'all say that Killua tried and made Gon feel "less important" bcos first of all, Killua never said anything about that.

He just said, and I quote translations 1) "this is what you come second to" and 2) “sorry but you’re number 2” while referring to Alluka jokingly after she said that, and I quote translations 1) "I'll let him go after I've had him to myself a little" and 2) “after that, I’ll let him go” referring to Killua but addressing Gon.

(tysm to milady @/telehxhtrash for sharing these with me *tips fedora*).

So. Okay. Maybe it’s kind of implied? Like, since Killua’s saying Gon’s second to Alluka/number 2, he’s kind of implying that he is less important? Hmm, I don’t know anon but that does not sound anything like it to me lol

(If anything, it sounds like, since Alluka said something insanely atrocious and embarrassing (in front of his freaking crush lmfaooo), Killua seems to imply, by uttering the words “second” and “number 2”, that when it comes to embarrassing him or saying atrocious things without thinking about it first or being pure and innocent and baby, Alluka wins by huge points against Gon. And she does. She does, love.) Ahaha, ANYWAY.

I understand where you’re coming from. I, too, do not need to choose between my family and bffs and my boyfriend for that matter, because I love them all the same. However, I cannot say that I love them equally, because my family will always be number 1 in my heart. Even if I end up getting married, they will always hold that special spot.

Killua choosing family over Gon is not him being cold and cruel (that’s just mean anon i’m sorry I had to say it, it made me sad that you think of it that way). Killua choosing Alluka over Gon is a very mature decision. Know why? Because he is finally taking responsibility. At that point (may I stress), Killua found his place, he found what he wants to do, and to me, him going for that is a such a pretty narrative.

(Also, Gon messed up? Where? Killua saw it coming. He also knew what he was doing, actually. He’s just bitter at the hospital because he’s super stressed about Gon being in coma/half-dead, for one thing.)

Their separation was bittersweet. Watch it again. You’ll see how they’ve grown after all those episodes. They know each other really damn well, anon. They are bffs, selfless and caring and loving and understanding of each other. And in that final episode, you could feel that even tho we see fake smiles. They probably knew this was best. It’s not the end of the world too. They could still call and see each other after that lol it’s not like they’re breaking up on bad terms.

So, to answer your questions (finally, am i right??):

My take is that I have no take. Because Killua did not, in any way, try or make Gon feel any less important than his sister, and;

No one's going to punish anyone and, again, no one's saying that their best friend is less important than family.

#ty for coming to my ted talk #asks #anon #killugon #discourse #hxh thoughts #anon please dont break up with your bffs if they choose family over you lmao that is not fucking healthy

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brideofcthulhu10 · 4 years ago

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I promised you guys I'd whittle something out before the end of the day! (Currently its 11:30 here, so I made my deadline lol) So here's a bit of drama and fluff. Every couple fights, even vampires, but the most important thing is to take responsibility for your actions and communicate. With that in mind, I give you:

Lost Boys Make Their Fem!S/O Cry During a Fight

CONTENT WARNING: Sexual Themes, Possible Triggers, Topics of Physical and Verbal Anger

David

David is not known to mince words in any scenario, so you can bet that means he chooses an s/o who can handle his bluntness. The same could be said for your fights. Unlike Dwayne and Paul, David rarely yells anymore. Instead he's harsh, cold, and what he says often hits very hard. He doesn't tip toe around when he's calm, you can damn well bet he isn't going to be considerate when you tick him off. He can be quite jealous at times, but often it doesn't lead to a fight. Admittedly he can be a tad petty as well, but getting genuinely enraged towards you is not as common. A spat is one thing, but a serious fight can get ugly fast. He is almost jolted when he hears a sharp breath muffled under your hand. Hell he's only ever heard you make that sound during sex, and this was definitely no time to be turned on. He'll turn around and see you with your hand over your mouth trying to hide your shame and feel ungodly levels of guilt.

David's words are harsh, and when you turn out of the room he's still sitting there utterly flabbergasted that you had such a tearful expression. After all, you had to know he didn't mean it..right?

David will definitely sulk, he hates admitting he was wrong. Not necessarily because he thinks he's in the right for being cruel, but rather he's sure you just need space and then things will get better. He'll expect you back any day... So when you don't, he kind of goes into denial and will wait, and wait… and wait...

The guys stopped asking about you because every time he hears your name mentioned he grows more pissed off. Eventually he explodes in a rage, which is extremely rare for David.

"So uh.. about Y/N-"

"Why isn't she back yet?! This is stupid, she should know that I don't mean it!"

"Hey, David, man why don't you go talk to Y/N? I sure if you-"

"No! If she wants to stay away, fucking fine! Good riddance!"

Truthfully he's upset. Beyond that, really. He feels awful for making you cry, he's afraid you might hate him now, but he doesn't know how to approach the situation. Apologizing is difficult, to David it's a form of defeat and a part of him doesn't want to face that it's his fault you're gone.

Eventually he caves in after a week and a half. He misses you like crazy! The guilt gnaw at him to the point that he can't sleep, he can't think straight. Even blood begins to have a bitter taste to it.

It'll be a late night, closer to 3 am when he just silently appears in your room. If you're asleep he'll just stand there and watch you for a moment. Mostly trying to build up enough willpower to do what he's about to.

Expect his apology to be kind of crappy. At least, at first. It'll come off as angry, even a bit misguided just because he really hates admitting he fucked up. But when he does, it's the most sincere, heartbreaking moment of your relationship. He may have to turn away from you and shut his eyes before any tears tempt his cheeks. You can't see him like that. Tears means he's getting emotional, that means he's growing attached, and attachment… it's a weakness. When he's weak and attached, people die.

He lost a love before because he couldn't protect her, he's lost his brothers once because he got careless and underestimated his enemy, he can't lose more.

Once he apologizes and you come back to him, he's a bit more attached to you physically. He'll hold you from behind with his chin on your shoulder while sitting on his bike, have you sit on his lap at the hotel, even on the boardwalk he's become more open by holding your hand. He isn't ready to say the big "L" word just yet, so this is the most he can muster. Whenever he's too harsh now he'll apologize by hugging you to him. David is still scared of getting close, but he's more afraid of pushing you away from his lack of filter.

Dwayne

It takes a lot to ruffle Dwayne's feathers, so already he's not one to be careless with his words. Unfortunately once he's pushed to that point all bets are off. This usually dismissive vampire of little words becomes an eruption of rage. A lot of it is physical. He'll throw a table or punch a hole in a cement wall. He doesn't mean to scare you. When he gets that worked up he becomes unbelievably tense, almost his body's way of warning you not to push him. With fangs out, standing in the wreckage of his rage he'll pause to see you failing to hold back a mess of tears and immediately stops.

At that point he's exhausted. Rage takes a lot out of him, in the end he just feels flustered and a bit ashamed for losing his cool. The longest a fight lasts is maybe a day or two, usually you give each other space but once he's made you cry that's a different story.

Even if you started the fight he recognizes he shouldn't have done what he did. Temper or not, that's not an excuse to blow up at you. He'll be frustrated with himself for losing grasp of his emotions, and he'll probably take some time to think over his words before trying to solve the issue. It's hard to look at someone else's point of view when you're pissed off at them, he knows that better than anyone. Especially since he grew up with siblings before becoming a vampire. When he's got a good grasp on himself he'll probably try to settle things with you so that you two can get things back to normal.

"Y/N… come here, please," he'll say softly, patting the seat next to him on the couch. As soon as you do, he slings his arm around your shoulder and yanks you into his chest. He doesn't look down at you or say a word, he'll rest his chin on his fist looking straight ahead searching for the right words. If it was a mutual argument he'll explain his own point of view after apologizing for losing his temper, and when it's your turn he'll listen quietly. If it was on him, he's even more remorseful. He's reaching almost a hundred years old by now, he should know better. Truthfully he had the same issue when he was alive, but he never meant to drive you to tears. You'll both sit quietly together on the couch, Dwayne rubbing your back until you've calmed down. After all is said and done he'll tell you how much he loves you, he doesn't want to leave any negative feelings still in your heart. Relationships are a pain, he knows that, but he cares about you more than his own life.

Paul

Oh when you two go at it the gloves are off! Paul is the most emotional of the group, so when he gets mad all he sees is red. There will be a massive amount of yelling, he may even be fighting back some tears himself. He'll get physically frustrated, punching walls, throwing furniture, kicking things over. Yes, he might get in your face, and you can definitely expect him to bare his teeth at you. Especially if you're in his face too. By now it's not scary, just even more infuriating that he's trying to make to back out using intimidation.

When you cry it can go one of two ways. It really depends on the context of the fight.

If you started it, or it was a mutual argument he may storm off somewhere in the cave. To him crying can be a cheap tactic to make him feel guilty, so if you've done it when you've done something wrong it upsets him… even more so because he feels like crap! He hates fighting with you! You're his kitten, his babe, regardless whether or not you started the fight he feels terrible seeing you like that. He's just so damn frustrated! After mellowing out with a thick ol' stick of the devil's lettuce he'll sulk out with his hands in his pockets. If you're still there he'll plop next to you and explain why he was so ticked off. Granted, it isn't exactly eloquent the way he puts it. After all emotions are tricky, he doesn't always know how to express himself verbally. If you've already left and it's still night, he'll fly over to your place and try to settle things with you. He doesn't want to go to bed angry at you, and he definitely doesn't want you going to bed upset with him.

If the fight was started by him, or if you're genuinely upset he'll stop. Especially if your tears are from him hurting you. Then it's all love. He sets aside his temper, and pulls you into his arms. It'll take a moment for him to calm down, but it's just a plethora of tender apologies while he holds you.

"I'm sorry kitty-cat," he coaxes you, holding your head to his chest. "Don't cry, okay? I hate it when you cry."

If you aren't emotionally drained there'll probably be a lot of make-up sex in either situation. Once you two have made up, he wants to do everything he can to be close to you. Plus, he needs a release as well. Afterwards, he'll snuggle up to you still wearily mumbling apologies under his breath.

Marko

Anger isn't a common emotion for Marko. Well, unchecked rage that is. He can get a little irritated, but it really takes a lot for him to lose his temper. Even still it's closer to David's methods than Paul. Again it's the context. If you've done something wrong or started the fight he'll be more prone to outbursts.

While you're screaming at him, in his face he'll just watch you silently with a blank stare. On the surface he's calm. There's not a lot of yelling, but there can be some physical rage if you really push him. Marko would punch the wall and leave a crumbling chasm in his path, reminding you what happens when he's pushed too far. Truthfully he'd never put you in harm's way, but when he gets like this it's hard for him to stifle his predatorial rage that tends to poke through the cracks.

If he's the one who's upset with you, even if it's on him, he probably won't let on at first. While not petty, he'll seem distant from you. In public he'll yank you to him like a wolf warning others to stay away from his mate, but alone in private won't touch you as much. You may try to ace your hand on his shoulder and he'd immediately excuse himself from the room to sulk. If you really get clingy he grows even more agitated and will have very rough angry sex with you, his fangs may even come out in the process. Especially if he's jealous.

When you cry, it sucks. During a fight, after jealous defiling, when he intimidates you, it just sucks. If you step away from him he knows he's messed up.

Part of him doesn't want to cave in so easily to your displays of emotion, but if you're legitimately hurt by his actions he'll just let out an exasperated sigh. He may excuse himself verbally for a moment to try and gather his thoughts, or he'll sit you down and try to explain his reasons for being so enraged. If it's on him he'll carry you to the couch and hold you to him.

"*sigh* Look.. I'm sorry for going overboard the way I did, baby girl. I shouldn't have done that…"

If you cry after sex he'll feel like an utter asshole and hold you tight to him. He'll pet your hair, rub your back, even offer to let you smack him for being such a jerk. He may try to nibble your neck over kiss you until you start to giggle then give you his signature smile.

"There she is. I'm sorry I made you so sad, baby girl."

In all honesty this isn't a common occurrence. Marko still rarely ever gets mad at you, most of the time he's very laid back. So losing his temper is a bit jarring for him as well. He's never sure what will come out when he loses his temper, which is a huge reason why he does everything he can to keep himself in check. You may be a pain in the butt sometimes, but so can he. And above all, you're his pain in the butt. He still loves you more than anything at the end of the day.

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discordantwords · 5 years ago

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Don’t know if you are still doing prompts but would love one where someone objected at John and Mary’s wedding. Maybe Sherlock or Harry showing up drunk in the middle? Or David, Mary’s ex? Sholto? Or anything where John kisses Sherlock and neither of them was expecting it. Cue Sherlock shock and John worried he ruin everything.

The Interruption

The music had been timed perfectly. The procession had… proceeded. The guests looked appropriately misty-eyed. Mary was resplendent in vintage lace.

And John—

Sherlock swallowed, looked away.

He distanced himself. Not fully—he could not risk vanishing into his mind palace and losing track of time—but just enough that he could stop himself from flinching when Mary and John joined hands.

It was, the best possible outcome. Somehow knowing that did not stop him from occasionally imagining a different outcome entirely.

Foolish. He did not have time to waste on impossibilities.

Mary was clever. She made no effort to dissuade John from the work he did with Sherlock, she at times even seemed to relish joining in. He preferred her to all of the other women that John had wasted time with over the years.

So this was—fine. It was good.

The vicar was speaking. Sherlock filtered out the words, let his gaze wander around the crowded church. No one was looking at him strangely, which meant he’d not missed any important cues.

John was speaking. And Mary. Exchanging sentimental words, no doubt.

Sherlock shut his eyes, then forced them open. He kept his face blank, impassive. He stared at the back of John’s head and thought about sliding his fingers through the short coarse hairs there.

Someone gasped. A murmur ran through the crowd. It was not a happy sound, and Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He’d let his guard down. He’d let his mind wander, had let himself imagine impossible things, and now—

He snapped back to full awareness, fresh data flooding in.

No one was looking at him. Whatever the problem, he hadn’t caused it.

There was a man standing up near the back of the church.

Sherlock looked at him.

(sat near the back to facilitate hasty exit, ex-military, dress uniform, scarred face, all of which pointed to only one possibility: Major James Sholto)

He’d done extensive research, of course, after Mary’s comment. He knew a good deal about the man (It was only prudent, after all—as Best Man he should be familiar with John’s guests). But none of his research would explain why the man seemed dead set on making a scene.

No matter. The man was clearly deranged and would need to be escorted out of the church immediately before he dealt additional damage. He stepped forward to do just that, glancing towards John as he did so, and what he saw brought him up short.

John looked shocked. No, more than shocked. Worse than shocked. He looked anguished. All of the blood had left his face. He’d withdrawn his hand from Mary’s, had clenched it into a tight fist.

Sherlock hesitated, because he’d stood beside John on the brink of death more than once, and he could not recall ever seeing him make a face like that. The only thing that came close was—

He shied away from the memory.

The look on John’s face was not simply the expression of a man irritated at an interruption. It was the stricken look of a man suddenly faced with a ghost from the past, someone significant, possibly a lover.

But that was impossible. That would mean—

The world tilted sideways. Sherlock breathed in, shut his eyes, let the facts rearrange themselves in his mind.

Posh restaurant. Someone else’s bowtie around his neck, a fake moustache drawn crudely over his lip. Clean white shirt dragging stiff against the fresh dressings on his back. John, looking up from a table to finally meet his eyes. And his face—

His face.

He’d missed it. How had he missed it? He’d noted the effect his reappearance had had, of course, he wasn’t blind, and he’d gone ahead and classified that expression as hurt, but hurt was too simple, not nearly enough to cover the breadth of what John’s incredibly expressive face had conveyed with that look.

And now—

He snapped back to himself amidst the frantic muttering and humming of the crowd. John was gone from his side. Mary was gone too.

He was alone at the altar.

He scanned the crowd, but Sholto had disappeared. That told him nothing. Stupid. Stupid. He had no idea if Sholto had left or been escorted out or had disappeared somewhere with John. He’d wasted valuable time thinking about things he could not change and now—

He darted up the aisle towards the doors, tried to deduce the most likely path John would have taken.

The back rooms, of course. Where John put on his suit jacket and donned his hat, where he’d stood staring at himself in the mirror and carefully avoiding meeting Sherlock’s eye.

And—oh—Sherlock had noticed, of course he’d noticed. But he’d thought: nerves, and he’d been preoccupied thinking about all of the ways his life would change and all of the ways that it wouldn’t.

Alone. Always, always alone. And that was how he preferred it.

Wasn’t it?

The door was shut. He opened it, perhaps a bit vigorously—it rebounded against the wall and swung back, almost striking him in the face.

John and Sholto—not Mary, Sholto—snapped their heads up to look at him. They were standing close, very close, clearly they’d been deep in the midst of some serious discussion.

John cleared his throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little wild.

"Is everything all right?“ Sherlock asked, his voice flat, level. He shot a pointed look in Sholto’s direction.

"Is everything—” John breathed, and then laughed. It was not a happy sound. “No. Everything is not bloody all right. Not by a mile.”

"I am sorry,“ Sholto said, and to his credit he did look convincingly contrite. "I don’t know what came over me. I never should have come.”

John laughed again, turned away from both of them. His hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically.

"I think it’s best if I go,“ Sholto said to John’s rigid back. He glanced at Sherlock, then away. Then he nodded, a sharp little jerk of his chin (and there was enough of John in that motion that it nearly brought Sherlock to his knees), and left the room.

Sherlock swallowed, waited for John to speak.

Silence fell between them.

"Shall I—tell the vicar you need a few moments?” he tried.

John whirled around, his face contorted. “A few moments. You want to tell the vicar—Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?”

That seemed to be a rhetorical question. Sherlock remained silent.

"Where is Mary?“ John asked, finally.

"I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He looked down at the ground, then rallied. “Would you like me to find her?”

"No,“ John said, and the anger had bled out of his voice. "Not yet. Just—oh, fuck.”

Sherlock watched him warily.

"This is the sort of thing that happens in films,“ John said. There was a weary humour in his voice now. "Last minute declarations, and all that. It’s not nearly as romantic as they’d have you believe.”

Romantic.

Sherlock swallowed, nodded, though he had absolutely no idea what John was talking about.

"Surely you’ve worked it out by now,“ John said. Bitterness had crept into his voice.

"Your ex commander,” Sherlock said, speaking slowly. “And your… ex.”

"Smartest man in the room, right here,“ John said. His mouth tightened.

"And he was—hoping you still felt the same?”

"He swears he didn’t meant to,“ John said. He looked up at the ceiling, shut his eyes. "That he’d fully intended to come and wish me well, but then he just—”

Sherlock swallowed again. His face was hot. He very much wanted to flee. “I’ll go get Mary.”

"Christ,“ John said. "No. Didn’t you hear me? I can't—not right now.”

"She’ll be wondering what’s going on.“

"It’s pretty obvious what’s going on.”

"No,“ Sherlock said, feeling slow and helpless and stupid. "It’s very much not.”

John looked at him. “What do you mean?”

"Well,“ Sherlock said. "It’s your wedding day. An—old flame—” he nearly choked on the words, “—interrupted the ceremony in order to attempt to win back your favour.”

John blinked, shook his head. He looked more amused than horrified, which seemed a step in the right direction.

"As he’s left—" Sherlock said, and he offered an exaggerated glance around the empty little room, “I can only assume that you don’t return his affections. That whatever there was between you has—um—cooled. Naturally what should follow is a reaffirmation of the affections you do feel, for—um—the person you feel them for. In this case, Mary.”

John smiled at him. It was a sad smile, which made very little sense.

"Yeah,“ John said, finally, after far too much time had passed. He held Sherlock’s gaze. "Mary.”

"Then I’ll just—" Sherlock turned towards the door, his heart in his throat.

"Wait,“ John said.

Sherlock stopped. He was trembling. He did not know why. He wished it would stop.

"Did you know?”

"Probably,“ Sherlock said, and then relented. "Did I know what?”

"About him.“

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. "No,” he admitted.

"We were very close,“ John said. "For a while. And it was—yeah—it was wartime, you know? So everything was a bit—erm—”

"Good,“ Sherlock said. He clapped his hands together. "Excellent. There’s no need for additional detail.”

"But it’s over,“ John said. "Has been for—Christ, I haven’t even spoken to him in years. I don’t know why I invited him, seems a bit cruel now in retrospect, but I guess I just wanted to—I just wanted—”

Sherlock waited.

"Look, after things ended—um—I’m not good at this, yeah? You know that. I don't—I don’t talk about this stuff.“

"With good reason.”

John huffed a laugh, shook his head. “After—him. There’s only one person in my life that I’ve ever felt that strongly about,” John said. “And that’s not even—there’s no comparison, really.”

"Mary Morstan,“ Sherlock said, and wasn’t this all getting a bit tedious? John was all set to marry the woman, obviously his feelings for her were stronger than whatever he’d shared with Sholto.

"No,” John said, his voice so soft that it might have been a whisper. “Not exactly.”

Sherlock’s hands shook. He folded them behind him, bounced on the balls of his feet. Frowned. “You’re not making sense. Have you been drugged?”

"What? No,“ John said. He took a step forward, his face terribly earnest.

Sherlock could smell him; cologne and flowers and nervous sweat.

"Look,” John said. He licked his lips, looked away. “I’m not—if I'm—if this is. Um. Not something you want to hear, then I swear I’ll never mention it again. But this wedding is fucked anyway, and I just—”

Sherlock tilted his head, watched him curiously.

"Just—" John said. He clenched his fists, breathed out through his nose. “You,” he said.

"Sorry?“

”You. It’s bloody you, all right? It’s always been you. From the first moment I saw you in that lab, and you just—you were just so—" John made a frustrated sound, looked away. “You were the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Still are.”

"John,“ Sherlock said, his voice emerging much too thin and shaky. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

“Can’t you deduce it?“ John asked. "Do you really have to make me say it?”

"I—"

"Oh for—" John took another deep breath. “Look, I just have to know. Before I—before I do anything else. Do you think—did you ever think—that something might—that we might—”

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.

John couldn’t be saying what it sounded like he was saying. He couldn’t be—

The look on his face, that night at the Landmark.

Sherlock shut his eyes, sucked in a shuddering breath. “I find the thought occupies a terrifying amount of my mind.”

"Yeah?“ John’s voice had gone soft again. He sounded very close.

Sherlock nodded. He did not open his eyes. "Yes.”

"Okay,“ John said. His breath ghosted over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shivered. "Okay. Um. What are we—what, exactly, do you want to do about that?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and froze. John’s face was only a few inches away.

He had no idea what to do. What to say.

“I—” he said. He swallowed, tried again. “I—”

"I’m going to call off the wedding,“ John said. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, just for a moment. His fingers were cool against Sherlock’s heated skin. "All right? And then we’ll talk.”

"Are you sure?“

"Yeah,” John said. There was a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I'm—I’m sure.”

"Oh,“ Sherlock said. He felt a bit breathless. "All right.”

"All right,“ John echoed. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s cheek, smiled. It was a bright smile, unfettered, joyful. It lifted years from his face. "All right, good.”

"Should I—um—" Sherlock hesitated, looked around the room. His brain had not come back online and he felt sluggish, helpless.

"Go home,“ John said. "This is going to take a while, I think, and, um. I’m going to want—” he paused, shook his head. He was still smiling. “I’ll see you there. At Baker Street.”

"Home,“ Sherlock said.

"Yeah,” John said. “Home.”

#sherlock #johnlock #ficlet #mine #much too late to actually count for #221b-consolation2020 #little contributions

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dailydoseofrumir · 4 years ago

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Hmmm... I don't necessarily have angst for you... but I really want some angst about either Jecily or Lavinia

I choose ... Lavinia!

(Sorry it took so long. I wrote it a while ago but I wanted to edit and then I got caught up with life and ... anyway.)

(You can also read it on AO3 here)

Lavinia watched her husband ride east with his battalion. They traveled further and further until the thousands of men were but a speck on the horizon. She wouldn’t openly defy the king but she hoped he would suffer as she did.

Another contraction. She grasped her bulging stomach in pain.

“Your Majesty,” the midwife said, “please, you must at least sit.”

“Not yet,” Lavinia replied through gritted teeth. She counted in her head, not taking her eyes off of the troops.

“Your baby is coming,” the midwife tried again.

“You think I don’t know that?” Lavinia spat. “You’re not the one having bloody contractions every minute and a half!” She still hadn’t moved from her position at the window. The speck shrank even more. Then it was gone.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “He swore to me,” she whispered. “He swore to me that he would be here for the birth of his child and yet there he goes, off to fight in another war.” Lavinia finally tore her gaze away and set her wrath upon the poor midwife. “How many bloody people does he need to kill before his lust is satisfied?” she demanded. “He is a man that has everything. He has a wonderful kingdom, a beautiful wife and soon a child! Why is he -” Another contraction, even stronger than the last, had her nearly doubling over. She finally admitted defeat. “Why am I not enough?” she breathed.

“Your Majesty,” the midwife sighed, helping her up and into bed. “I’m sure he loves you.”

“He only loves power,” Lavinia scoffed. “He would rather see the world burn than flourish, so long as he lit the flames.”

The midwife didn’t answer, choosing instead to examine Lavinia. “The baby is almost here. Get ready to push.”

Lavinia steeled herself and channeled all of her fury into something productive. In this regard, at least, her husband did help her through her labor.

She hoped it would be a girl. She could protect a daughter from the influence of the king, train her to be a perfect lady and wife. She would marry her off to a wealthy noble and be thankful that at least one of them got to escape.

“Please,” she whispered in prayer to the wizard who created the universe. “Please bless me with a daughter.”

It was a boy.

Lavinia cradled her new son in her arms, barely noticing as the midwife wiped the sweat and tears from her face.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty. He’s positively beautiful.”

“Of course he is,” Lavinia said. “He’s my son.” She traced the outline of his face, then his tiny nose. “How could someone so cruel and evil sire something so pure?” she asked her son, who didn’t answer. She looked up at the midwife. “The king has the heir he’s been so desperate for and he’s not even here to welcome him into the world.”

The midwife offered her a tight smile. It wasn’t fair of Lavinia to ridicule the king like this, not when any form of agreement could mean her death.

Lavinia looked down at her son – she had a son – and her chest ached. Her husband would come home and corrupt him, just like he corrupted everything else. This poor baby would come to know nothing but how to kill and conquer, and she would be powerless to stop it.

Before she knew it, she was weeping, clutching her son to her chest. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. She was supposed to live a charmed life in a gorgeous palace with a husband who adored her. She was supposed to want for nothing.

Her son awoke and began to cry too, as if he knew what fate awaited him.

The midwife, for her part, shushed them both gently. “It’s normal to feel overwhelmed,” she promised. “Shall I send for the nurse, in case he’s hungry?”

Lavinia willed herself to stop and wiped her eyes with as much dignity as she could muster. “Yes, thank you.”

The midwife opened the door and gasped. “Oh, Lord Chamberlain! You startled me!”

Lavinia held her son even closer. She never liked the Chamberlain. He possessed a permanent grimace and only told the king what he wanted to hear.

“Has the queen given birth?”

“Yes but I doubt she’s ready to receive – oh!” The Chamberlain pushed the midwife aside and stalked into the room.

Lavinia leveled him with the fiercest look she could muster. “Chamberlain,” she bit out. The baby gurgled and she quickly shushed him.

“Why did you elect to not allow myself or any of the advisors into the room?” the man asked, regarding her coldly. “You do realize that it is customary for one to be present for the royal birth.”

“My husband was supposed to be here,” she replied.

“And you had no contingency plan in case he had to go away on business?” He tsked and walked closer to the bed.

“Business. You mean he went to spread more murder and mayhem in the name of expansion? Or is it glory, this time? His excuse changes each time he leaves.”

“Hold your tongue, Your Majesty,” the Chamberlain hissed. “Such talk is treason, even for you. I will disregard what you just said because you just gave birth and are … emotionally compromised.” He smoothed down his already immaculate suit jacket. “Now, onto business. Have you given the king a son?”

She looked down at her baby, feeling much like she hadn’t given anyone anything, so much as something was taken from her. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Good. We can plan the naming ceremony as early as next week. I’m sure you already know, of course, that His Majesty the King has decided that the child will be named after him.”

Ufgherd the Second left a bitter taste on her tongue and she hadn’t even spoken it aloud.

The nurse came into the room. “Are you ready for me to feed him, Your Majesty?”

Lavinia hesitated to let go of her son. But she’d rather the nurse hold him than the Chamberlain, so she handed him over. The baby made a noise of dissent but settled when he realized he was about to be fed. The nurse walked behind the screen. Lavinia lay back against the pillows.

“If there is nothing else,” the Chamberlain said as if he hadn’t been the one to barge in, “I’ll take my leave.”

Just then, there was the sound of hurried footsteps and a cry of, "Your Majesty!” Lavinia sat back up just as a messenger ran into the room. He appeared to be incredibly out of breath but had the sense to avert his eyes. “Apologies, Your Majesty. But I have urgent news from the battlefield.”

“This is hardly the time -” Lavinia began but the messenger cut her off.

“Both of the armies have been defeated. The kings are gone.”

Her entire body felt numb and cold at the same time. “Dead?” she breathed.

“I - I’m not sure. There was a forest, it swallowed both of the kings up. I don’t think either of them would have made it out.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes. The East and the West.”

Lavinia shook her head. “But that would mean...” She looked at the midwife in utter disbelief. “That would make me...”

“You can declare your son official heir to the throne,” the Chamberlain said. “In fact, I heavily advise it. You would, of course, serve as regent until he’s old enough to rule but -”

“Get out,” Lavinia said.

“Y-Your Majesty?”

She fixed him with a look, feeling more powerful than she ever had. It was a power that tasted sweeter than wine, a power she could get drunk on. “Get out. You’re fired.”

“I serve the throne -”

“And that throne is mine now. You’re hereby relieved of your duties, effective immediately.” She smiled. “In fact, all of the advisors are fired. I only ever liked one, and you sacked him ten years ago.”

The Chamberlain’s face turned bright red and his eyes heated in anger. “You insolent -”

“Guards!”

Two armor-clad men stepped into the room.

“Have the former Chamberlain escorted from the premises.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” They complied and as the door shut behind them, she let out a breath of relief. The nurse came out from behind the screen and Lavinia took her son into her arms.

Her son, whose future held so much possibility now.

“You will never be like your father,” she promised him. “You will grow into the type of man he thought of as weak. You will grow to be compassionate and loving. You will do what’s right. You will look out for your people.” She held him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You, my child, will be a better king than he could have even dreamed of being.” She looked to the nurse and the midwife. “Help me stand.”

They guided her to her feet and opened the balcony doors for her. She stepped into the warm air, holding her son to her chest, and gazed out at her kingdom. Her kingdom.

She was free. They were free.

“Someday, all of this will be yours.” He opened his eyes and she smiled, speaking the name she’d secretly chosen. “Rupert.”

“I thought the king said -”

“He’s not here anymore, is he.” She turned, the smile not leaving her face. “There are going to be a lot of changes around here. But first thing’s first, get me a quill. I’ve got a letter to write to an old friend.”

#lavinia #The Two Princes #the two princes podcast #fic

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yaboylevi · 4 years ago

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KS [1] Thanks for the swift reply! I'd like to go private but I don't have a tumblr account, honestly don't feel like doing one if you don't mind. If you don't feel like talking about snk anymore, I understand! If it only causes you bitterness, why bother? I still do it just because it doesn't and it's going to end soon anyway. Regarding your reply, yeah I too meant that the bird was Eren's conscience or connection to nature and not him literally, I just didn't have enough space XD [...]

Hiii...it’s been almost 3 weeks I am so sorry. But between real life being absolute torture, and finding respite in stuff different from snk, I completely forgot to come back to this. I really do not enjoy talking about snk, so I was really overwhelmed by your messages (that I didn’t even receive in full, and that’s one of the reasons why I’d prefer to move the conversation elsewhere - but I don't really wanna have conversations about snk atm anyway. ‘cause you see, I agree 100% with you, it sounds like I wrote these messages myself, but at the end of the day they just remind me of how much I’ve come to dislike the series...so, not really productive, or healthy for my mindset right now (i repeat, real life is just...trying to kill me apparently)).

Anyway, so I’ll just reply quickly to your messages, because you spent a lot of time typing them up, but yeah...this is not the best place or moment to have such long discussions about snk, I believe.

[2] I was wondering more on the implications to that, because thinking about it, I remembered many scenes in the anime's past seasons with birds flying, and it got me thinking if it really was all decided from the start? Maybe by some superior entity? I hope like you that little Ymir isn't just a plot device and has a role to play together with Zeke. I hope this isn't the last we see from Eren pov as well becuase those shots of little him saying 'this scenery' really worried me. [...]

I was thinking birds, besides a white one possibly meaning hope and a black one usually connected to death, are part of nature, just like all things connected through paths. Titans are connected to nature, there has been a lot of discussion about this in fandom for years, so yeah. Also, hope = freedom & life, death = despair. It all plays on the dichotomy that is Eren: he doesn’t want to kill but he doesn’t want to die either. I wonder if one of the morals of the story will be that death is just part of a natural cycle, hence you can be free in death too (but I hate this, because it’s really negative if applied to SnK).

Re-reading some stuff also made me hopeful about this not being the last of Eren’s pov, as far as explanations go. Like, there is clearly more (Liberio, for example, the WHT, etc). As for child!Eren, I think he is totally disconnected from reality, hence he doesn’t see what’s happening, and if he is, he’s also trying to convince himself that, like 19!Eren said in chapter 121, as a child he would take freedom away from people who tried to take his freedom away with little to no remorse - of course, it isn’t the case for adult!Eren, as we saw multiple times.

[3] I just hope we get to see more from him, like War Hammer titan and King Fritz memories, and there's more with Historia as well. I don't really care about shipping so I don't mind if we get EH or if Eren is the father, at least it would make sense for the pregnancy thing to be this dragged out. I just found the Armin/Annie conversation really baffling? What with the timing and the tone of the chapter? What was the point of that? To make us feel sad for Armin if Annie dies? [...]

I feel a couple, in particular a couple with Eren, would be too out of the blue and ruin Eren’s character (and the other party of the pair). Besides, romance has never been part of Eren’s character arc. If it’s just to follow the shonen manga’s trend of the protagonist ending up with [insert female character], then this will finally put snk in the trash bin for me.

I was watching a japanese youtuber’s analysis about the latest chapter and he said something very interesting about the Annie/Armin scene: just like we have child!Eren being happy vs adult!Eren despairing, their little talk repeated the same 2 povs: childhood vs adulthood. Armin’s ““declaration of love”” felt really childish and, as Annie rightfully pointed out, was that really the time for it? People are getting crushed and Armin thinks about such innocents stuff? You could say it’s the same dichotomy of hope - despair, beautiful - cruel, innocence - what Armin later admits: he is not innocent, he also killed people and children in cold blood, ever since the beginning of the story.

I personally don’t think either of them will die, but as the youtuber pointed out, usually these romantic overtones bring one of the pair to their death (I was pleased he brought up as an example yumihisu ahah), so I get why you might speculate as such.

[4] And Eren's pov got me really confused. I kind of understand what the author was going for and I agree with your analysys about his inner conflict and desperation but to me it came out of nowhere? Like you said, it doesn't really make sense for his character. This is what we get by having his thoughts hidden for so long though. At the start of the manga we got those moments where we could see he was somewhat twisted but then he grew out of it and was pretty normal, and now all of a sudden[..]

I think the inner conflict has been there, always throughout the story and in Eren as well, but for me, the problem lies elsewhere, in the sense that there is still no connection (or good enough transition) between “i don’t want to kill people but since i don't wanna die i guess i’ll kill them”. We’re talking about Eren, who wanted to die because people died because of him...who got so angry about being unjustly threatened with death, who stood up against bullies, against all sorts of injustice because he strongly believes in the intrinsic right of being free (WHICH IS THE RIGHT TO BE ALIVE). I get it that the other side wants them dead, but it still feels stupid that he would convince himself to kill the innocent majority, suddenly refusing half of what he has always believed in. If Isayama is going for “hey look, isn’t this tragic? What despair pushes people to do?” like UGH it’s just so annoying, because WE KNOW, snk is ALL about that, but what bothers me in this case, in particular, is, if Eren gets no redemption at all, then fuck off @ this story. See, I’m getting angry.

[5] he has like regressed to his childhood self? If he really hates doing all this, why does he do it? And I think you're right about Eren being demonized by the narrative: the writer made possible only 2 options and forced Eren to choose the rumbling and to him to be the psycho final villain, what with all those exaggerated expressions and shadows to draw him. If he was going with that from the start he should have done it constantly throughout the manga. And I won't even talk about [...]

And yes, the point is Eren changed throughout the story!!! For god’s sake!! Then all that progression was just so that Eren had a more nuanced view of the world so that he could suffer for this choice in particular? Wow, I didn’t know I was reading Tokyo Ghoul...... /s

[6] the predetermination stuff. Did Eren really surrender to the future he saw? Is he really just there in his titan sleeping and wallowing? LOL If Armin turns out to be the hero who can change the future... bleargh. I probably dislike the alliance as much as I do because the narrative is so biased in favour of them. I put my hope in Zeke for that! Please! Let him be the key if Eren is defeated! On the other hand I think it's not so obvious that he will lose as well. on that point, [...]

This is the last one I got, I’m sorry. Anyway, idk if it’s predetermined, or just like, the moment you think of something, the future changes. That would explain how Eren blames himself for this future: only because he dared think of this, then it happened. In any case, I doubt Armin ends up being the hero, I think it’ll be a group effort...remember Isayama was impressed by GotG’s ending....

Finally, Zeke, my lovely bitch, where are you??!?!?!?

He’s late to the party like a true queen.

#here you can see my descent into bitterness looooll so sorry #KS anon #snk spoilers #shingeki asks #Anonymous

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