#I feel like I'm committing a sin of some kind writing angst of these two

[scribblestatic]

Ding Ding Ding new COTL sads for the masses

I've been up all night with a migraine so it's time to make it y'all's problem by writing some angst I thought up.

I call this shit the Forsaken AU, because why not.

I may go into summary-drabble partway through this, but I'll probably fix it up or something when my brain stops trying to kill me via headache.

(Note: I wrote this stuff several hours ago. Finally went to sleep, so now I am Rested. Also, omg hit tweet. I'm glad y'all like the soft fluff! It's very good and I'm glad I thought of it and shared it so we could gush over the idea as a collective!

Time to show you sadness now uwu)

Warning for canon-typical violence.

-- -- --

The Lamb has done their duty. They have gathered an entire flock of followers, just for The One Who Waits. 30 souls—some found and indoctrinated, some born into the cult—all caged and waiting as the Lamb stands before their god. The One Who Waits grins down at their most successful vessel, freedom on the tip of his tongue.

And the Lamb, ever devoted, goes down on their knees without hesitation.

They take the crown off their head and look down at it solemnly. Of course the little one has grown attached to the power, Narinder thinks. He wonders, briefly, if he will have to wrestle the crown that is rightfully his back from the creature he only temporarily loaned it to.

But no.

After a few brief tears, and even thanks to the crown, the lamb lifts their hooved hands to their god, willingly relinquishing the crown's power back to its owner. Narinder can't help but smile. Now, the most successful vessel has become the nearly perfect one.

Narinder lifts the crown back onto his own head and feels its energy flow into his body. The already rotted chains fall away with a clattering shatter, and the cuffs that rubbed his skin raw fall to the ground with loud clunks.

The One Who Waits feels it all: the devotion, the power, the energy that flows through him once again. It has been so long since he felt so powerful. And now, without his wretched siblings in the way, he can truly enjoy the full extent of his godhood.

Yet, at the same time, he feels resentment.

Anger.

Because, for as much as the Lamb preached to the cult about his righteousness, about his return, the devotion he feels comes attached to the Lamb. The Lamb slayed not a single follower they indoctrinated. When food became scarce, they granted all the ability to enjoy the grass like they could—not that they needed to eat any longer anyway. Instead of fasting, they called for feasting. Instead of taking gold, they had rituals in which they gave it freely.

Even if it ran the Lamb ragged to provide everything the followers desired, they did so with the smile of a fool on their face. They decorated the crypts and mausoleums with camellias and candles, curtains and statues. They allowed their followers to indulge in drink and sex, spending time raising their offspring while the parents themselves worked to provide for the cult.

It was all soft. All unrestrained kindness. All sugar on which the followers glutted themselves until their teeth rotted. And now, the cult worships death with a face of fleece, not fur.

Moreover, his siblings. Not that he ever wanted even the slightest bit of mercy for those treacherous heathens. The Lamb slayed them in his name, and they got exactly what they deserved.

But Narinder could not slay them himself. He couldn't be the one to truly rend their hearts from their flesh. Although he was the one to land the first blows on them, he was not the one to land the last. And that bothers him immensely.

These two sins the Lamb has committed against him. And for these two sins, Narinder shall use them as an example.

The Lamb floats into the air with Narinder's restored power. They have their hooves laced, palms touching in what Narinder can now hear and see as prayer. Hopeful, tearful eyes gaze up at him, much like they had each time the Lamb died and each time they went back to continue their crusade.

Having seen each other so often, the Lamb must notice something in his expression. Their gaze shifts from hope to wariness, glancing between his three eyes.

A wide smile spreads on Narinder's face.

"You've done me a great service. You've fulfilled the prophecy that has called for my return. For that, one could praise you for doing as expected..."

His hand curve, squeezing on air as the Lamb's limbs begin pushing in closer under the pressure. They look around worriedly, like they can't understand.

"...But. You coveted what was not yours, little lamb. I saw what was in your heart, in your mind. You wished for more than you were to be given. You wanted not your due position, but to take my own."

The Lamb quickly gazes at him, eyes wide with shock. They try to speak, but their voice cuts off with a gurgle. Narinder doesn't want to hear anything the Lamb has to say. He knows what was true and what isn't. Tears build up in the Lamb's eyes once more as their head slides to the side just slightly, enough loosening to prevent them from speaking.

"For that, my sacrifice, you must suffer."

And suffer, he makes sure.

The Lamb's mouth opens in a silent scream, unable to bleat, as their arms and legs begin twisting, snapping, as Narinder pleases. He revels in the horrified gasps and cries from the caged followers as they watch the lamb's body contort and break, red blood falling from their body and onto the pale ground below. They choke deeper as their head slips further, tears turning pink with blood.

And, with a final crack, a final squelch, Narinder drops the Lamb's body in a wretched heap. Their head, once loosely attached to their neck, rolls away, stopping on its side.

Narinder takes a moment to stand there, looking down at the result of his anger. And oh, it was such a small bit of reprieve, but it would have to do. Once he was back out in the world, he could do so much more.

He steps forward then, raised to his full height, and he walks over the lamb's body.

"You all have faithfully worshiped Death. I am Death. If you remain faithful to me and not the false prophet which brought you here, I can assure you—thou shalt live under my protection. What say you?"

He gazes to the left, then to the right, quietly waiting.

Eventually, one of the followers, a fox, shakily bends down onto their knees and bows to him. He wears more ornate clothing than some of the others, so he is clearly an important figure. With the fox's supplication, the others stiltedly follow, until all 30 of the followers bow before him.

He feels the devotion to the crown shift, becoming thicker and rugged. Rough, indeed, but it is devotion to him, and not to the fuzzy usurper broken below him.

With a smile, he snaps his fingers, releasing them from their cages. They disappear from Limbo, the cage that held him for hundreds of years. Now, the only thing that will be left would be the corpse of a traitorous martyr.

Aym and Baal stand in awe of him, finally witnessing the true extent of his powers after having grown at his side for so long. As they follow him out of the place they too had known for so long, they do not spare a second glance at the ruined corpse. Eager to stretch their legs, they leave the space together, where only a pathetic lamb's body remains.

And that was exactly how Narinder intended it to be from the very start.

--- ---

The world outside was...incredibly vibrant.

Although Narinder had seen it all through the crown, it was quite different experiencing it. The grass felt strange against his fur, arms once again covered under flesh, though the markings from the cuffs would perhaps forever scar him. The stars twinkle brightly at night, creating kaleidoscope colors across the sky. Sand feels terrible between his toes, but he would stand in it for hours if it meant catching the delicious fish that hid within the depths of the salty water near it.

Nature was all-encompassing. Full of life that he could, in theory, make eternal. But everything was so teeming with it, at times, it could become overwhelming.

It didn't help that, despite having his grandiose form, he changed into something smaller—still larger than his closest disciples, but certainly not as towering as he was just a bit before. He temporarily feared that the crown was not in its best shape, his powers altered irrevocably by whatever strangeness the Lamb polluted it with. However, he could still feel the devotion from his followers, shaken, but constant.

The Lamb had, indeed, prepared the "flock" for their death. They made it clear that they were to die for the sake of Death's resurgence to the mortal realm. Perhaps he could've toned down the Lamb's punishment if they were all so attached to them...hah.

Not at all. The Lamb was treacherous and deserved what they received in return. It just startled the congregation, that was all, and their wavering and fear caused him to perhaps unconsciously attempt to assuage their worries. After all, their lives were his do do with as he pleased, but he knew that there was meaning and purpose in having a cult. Their belief and dedication to him was his power. So, he needed to cement it.

Narinder spent the next few hundred years doing just that—undoing all the hogwash nonsense that the Lamb instilled into them and replacing it with what he knew was right.

And goodness, wasn't that an entire chore? You change the rituals around a little bit, and despite being their god, they have it up in their heads to dissent! Oh boy, do they love to dissent! Over the smallest things, even!

You don't go get some measly flowers from the Darkwood for some rabbit to decorate her hut in remembrance of some sibling of hers? Suddenly, she's whispering about how he's the false god and the Lamb had been fooled!

You change the feasting ritual to fasting, and the next thing you know, seven followers are destroying buildings around the cult and cursing your name as though you couldn't kill them! And him forbid you actually do, then the entire cult has the audacity to threaten to disperse!

And they can't seem to do a damn thing for themselves either.

"My Lord, the stone mine has run out of stone. What else should I do for you?"

Find another mine. Shouldn't that be obvious?

"My Lord, we did not put any more fertilizer on the plants because we did not find any."

Then make fertilizer, fool.

"My Lord, I would like to eat a bowl of poop. Would you make it for me?"

Wh... Do I look like a personal chef to you?! And what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you even ask for that?!

Even after decades of teaching them the new rituals and practices around the cult, their demands were never-ending. They never understood that he was their god, and their lives were his to do with as he wished...

...At the same time, he would not have the same power he does without them.

Their belief and devotion fed his energy and ensured it never ran dry. Such was the curse of a god's existence—they were nothing powerful without their followers.

The previous 30 had since lowered over the years, dropping to a more reasonable 14. All were descendants of the Lamb's "flock," save for one that Narinder saw fit to resurrect as he pleased and needed.

The fox, Maon, who had bowed to him first upon his release.

Narinder had laughed about it many, many years back. To think! The first to bow to his power was the Lamb's husband of all things! He watched his spouse die in terrible fashion, and immediately bowed to the one who did it! Hilarious!

Narinder had praised him upon finding out, saying that he really was as wise and crafty as his species were known to be.

From the broken look on the fox's face, he hadn't taken his words as a compliment, but thanked his god for them all the same.

Through ups and downs, Maon served him well. Although not to the same level as his enforcers, Aym and Baal, he was efficient at his job, helping maintain order in the cult. The first generation, the one who knew the Lamb, called him a traitor, which carried over into the second generation as well. By the sixth generation, he was merely one who witnessed the great sacrifice that led to Death's release.

Maon's emotional state also shifted with time. He grew apathetic toward mentions of the Lamb and no longer seemed bothered when Narinder ribbed him about betraying the one he married. Eventually, he also took off the ring the Lamb gave him, his hands now bare.

He once considered that Maon would attempt to betray him, especially when three of the followers went missing under his watchful eye. But it came to nothing in the end, and the loyalty and devotion he felt coming from Maon was trumped only by Aym and Baal.

Old fox as he was now, he wore pale robes, living his remaining years until his next resurrection. That was, if Narinder decided it would be worth doing so.

While the fox helped keep things in order, the blood of the cult was growing stagnant. He did not rely on incestuous practices to keep a steady flow of new followers, but one could only pair the increasingly smaller amount of them so many times before you risk disease. Several of the remaining 14, save for Maon, were siblings or cousins. In some cases, Maon was somewhere in their bloodline.

Though he was loathe to admit it, traveling to the old lands of his "dearly" departed siblings would likely be necessary to spark new, positive change in the cult. However, going to the lands of the Old Faith would likely trigger an encounter with that loathsome seller.

After he had calmed his cult and reinstated his position of power, he had tried going to the old lands to acquire more resources, only for the Mystic Seller to appear before him. Back then, it spoke in that strange language he could not decipher before referring to him.

"I seek the god restored to his throne, the final of the five, forsaker of his chosen vessel. Confer with me."

Narinder growled at the titles forced upon him, but became even more enraged when the stranger had the audacity to demand he release his siblings from their torment. He knew very well that the Lamb did not have the full authority of the God of Death when they slayed them. No, that was Narinder's domain. And he refused to let their souls rest, forcing them to stay in a limbo so similar to the one they forced him into.

Release them? Absolutely not! They would suffer the consequences of their actions until he saw fit!

So, he sent his followers out to gather what the cult needed, with them returning with varying success. Food? Fine. Supplies, Occasionally successful. Yet, for some reason, even when he sent one of his most faithful as a missionary to any of his siblings' lands, they failed to return alive, if at all.

It had to be done by himself. It would be necessary for him to go to the land of the Old Faith and find new followers to indoctrinate. He would, at most, allow their numbers to swell to 20, but no more than that. Having made his decision, he left Aym and Baal to watch over the cult as he went to enter its gates.

For some reason, they gates to their realms were closed, unlike before. He began to read the inscriptions etched into them as he felt a shift in the energy near him.

As expected, the Mystic Seller appeared, eyes narrowed at him.

"We meet again, God of Death. How do you fare, neglecting your duties?"

Narinder sneered at the merchant. "I've neglected nothing of import. Their continued existence just happens to be a minor inconvenience. I've seen fit to relieve them of it."

"Is that so?" The Mystic Seller seemed strangely blasé despite how insistent it had been decades before. "You still think yourself of such importance despite your artless negligence. All you desire is to maintain your small circle of influence."

"Death's influence is not small," Narinder hissed, transcribing the text in the door and not liking what he was reading. "Perhaps you've forgotten that, lifeless as you are."

"Death's influence includes rest, which you have denied them. But in your absence, it only makes sense for someone else to fill the void."

The God of Death paused, then turned toward it.

"What do you mean by that? I am the one and only Ruler of the Red Crown."

The seller floated behind him, almost seeming to pace.

"I have dealt with Gods, and often pondered; does the Bearer wear the Crown, or the Crown the Bearer? In these last centuries, witnessing the wavering flow of the ether of this realm, I believe a conclusion has revealed itself. Its answer was novel."

"You speak without saying anything. Leave me be."

"...A fool once sought knowledge, and knowledge he obtained. Now the knowing one returns to foolishness willingly. But tell this merchant—was it not his pursuit of wisdom that made him so dangerous?"

Irritated by its continued bothering, Narinder whipped around, prepared to tell the Mystic Seller to leave again. However, it had already left, the cavern behind him empty save for the elements of the entrance. The statue of the red crown glowed with an eerie, never-ending light.

"...Hmmh."

Whatever. He would figure things out himself.

But first, he had to go back to the cult and find a suitable sacrifice. The door to Darkwood would not open without one.

[theliteraryluggage]

Sooooo I already have a taglist for my original WIP Impartial (and of course you can always be added to that just lmk!) but I thought I could also make a

Taglist for my fanfic writing!

If you're on that list I'll just tag you on the occasional snippet or meta I might post, art that goes with my fic and when I post something new!

If that sounds like something you might be interested in, give me a shout and I can put you on the list! This can be fandom specific or for all my fics, though full disclosure I am only actively working on FMA fics right now.

Just as a way to stay on top of things if you like my writing, or give me a bit of encouragement if you're into that, since posts can get lost quickly on tumblr.

I'm gonna talk a little bit about what kind of stories I write and the WIPs I'm currently working on under the cut so you can get a better idea of what you'd sign up for.

First thing you should know: Among my readers and mutuals I have a certain reputation for writing very painful angst :D

I cannot claim that reputation is undeserved; I do love writing angst a lot, and I rarely write any fics without it, but I don't write it with the express purpose of hurting my readers. I rarely write whump for whump's sake (except during the recent febuwhump, admittedly).

What interests me the most in my fics is exploring character's personalitites and relationships when they are put in taxing situations. I like to explore inner turmoil, questions of morality, complex conflicts that have no easy resolution and trying to live with trauma. I like peeling away the layers of my blorbos to find out what really makes them tick, and to extend, deepen or just fully map out the themes that their development (or lack of) in canon follows.

I am often told by my readers that I am good at evoking emotion viscerally, portraying complex situations with nuance and pinning down the facets of my characters’ personalities—all things that I also like in my own writing, and so I do hope I am somewhat competent at them.

Here’s a brief look at my three main WIPs right now to give you an idea of the type of stories I write.

when all is lost (and hope a ghost)

A post-canon platonic soulmate AU of FMA, often referred to as WAIL

A soulmate AU in which you can feel your soulmate’s emotions, even when you’re apart. A bond and an opportunity, but also a weakness that can be exploited. Explores what people are capable of when pushed to their limits, contemplates loss and the fear of it and the way that grief changes us. First draft is complete at 27K and currently in editing, first two chapters can already be found here.

everything is twisted (but we don’t feel a thing)

Canon nudged to the left with horror vibes, also referred to as Eldritch Elrics or EE

A fic following the Elrics through their canon adventures as told from various points of view—except neither of them is quite the same since they have returned from the gate. Some subtle quality about them is off, and it’s unnerving being unable to tell what it is. My first forray into the vicinity of horror, a slow write as I take great care in building an unsettling atmosphere. Currently working on the first draft at 7K.

I will go down punching (but I will go down)

First instalment in a four part canon divergent series named Vox Populi, also referred to as VP

A deep dive of Ed’s and Al’s characters, following the question to the end, what would happen if Ed actually was court-martialed for committing human transmutation? A canon divergence attempting to give some agency to the people of Amestris and confronting the Elrics with harsh realities they’d rather not face (part I). Exploring the pitfalls of both rigid and flexible morality (part II), how to persevere when faced with impossible choices (part III) and the concept of sin as a physical reality in the world (part IV). Currently working on the first draft at 23K.

Sound interesting? Sound off and I will add you to my tag list! And in the meantime you are of course welcome to browse through my past fics on AO3!

[exhaustedfander]

Drown Me If You Must

A word of warning: This one’s incredibly sad. There is major angst in this one, and the ending can be viewed as suicide, though it’s up for interpreation. 

This oneshot is a rewrite of an original short story I wrote a while back. Originally, the married couple are lesbians and the ocean is personified as a man, but sense it’s moceit, that gets flipped around the ocean’s personified as a woman. This is sad, but I’d love to hear what you think. 

Word Count: 1,916

a03 link

He stared out an open window, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the sea. He watched the water, the foamy waves lapping at the ankles of the last beachgoers of the day as seagulls scoured the beach for crumbs. It was a pleasant, picturesque view, one that most people would tend to enjoy.

Janus didn’t.  

Years ago, the sea took something from him. Something irreplaceable. No, she didn’t take him, people told Janus. It was an accident. A tragedy that could’ve happened to anyone. But Janus knew better. The ocean, for whatever reason, had a burning desire to take away the man that he loved more than anything else in the world, carrying out irreversible cruelty.

Maybe, Janus thought to himself sometimes when he was alone and the house was too quiet, the sea saw how wonderful Patton was and selfishly wanted him for herself. Or maybe he was always hers. Janus had watched the capture, had seen from this very window the beast that she truly was open her gaping maw and swallow his lover whole.

Janus had warned Patton about a million times not to go out that night.

“It’s dangerous,” he’d cautioned nervously, “What if something was to happen? There wouldn’t be anyone to help you.” Janus was by no means a nervous person, but for Patton’s safety, he was always cautious.

“I’ll be extra careful,” Patton promised, “I always am.”

“Be that as it may,” Janus said, eternally weak to the gleam in his husband’s eyes, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You could get hurt. It’s risky…” Patton grinned, wrapping his arms around Janus and pressed his lips to Janus’s ear in a caressing whisper.

“I live for danger.”

This was a blatant lie, so much so, Janus couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Patton was by no means a daredevil. He didn’t enjoy the more dangerous activities life had to offer, instead enjoying tending to potted plants and baking an array of pastel frosted pastries. He worked as a kindergarten teacher who volunteered at the local Animal Shelter on the weekends. He apologized when he bumped into objects and insisted on petting every cat near to him, despite his allergy. Patton was about the least risk-seeking person Janus knew.

But he loved night swimming. Patton adored the ocean and everything about it, swimming in the evening a “wonderfully calming experience,” as he once explained it, but Janus couldn’t understand it. Why was Patton so compelled to put himself in such a situation, at the mercy of the current? What was calm relaxation for Patton petrified his husband.

Janus was terrified of the water and had been since he was young. Swimming in general, especially in the ocean, frightened him so much so that he struggled to stomach the thought of so much as attempting. It’s ironic to think that he moved to a house right by the sea, but he’d done it for Patton.

His husband made him deliriously happy, he had since the day they met. Janus was not a glass half full kind of person. He liked to think he looked at things as rationally as possible, always keen to look out for himself. He’d grown up in a family where it was every man for himself, being provided very little in the ways of affection. Janus had to be tough and watch his own back because as far as he was concerned, no one else was going to do so.

And then he’d met Patton. Bubbly, pun-loving, affectionate Patton, and all semblance of what he was convinced he was destined to be shattered into a million pieces. Janus didn’t think it was possible for him to fall for someone, to give into such intense, emotional feelings. It was dangerous to let his guard down, even a little bit, and yet Patton saw through his hardened exterior with ease. He saw the person Janus was inside, the person he hadn’t been allowed to be for so long, and for the first time in his life, Janus felt nothing but love.

So he moved there for him, so Patton could always be close to the sea.

“Oh you certainly live for danger,” Janus said sarcastically, finding it impossible to smother his smile, despite his nerves. “Do you promise you’ll be cautious?”

“Absealutely,” Patton said with a grin, earning a half-hearted groan from his husband, “I promise, Janny.”

“Okay,” Janus said with a sigh, trusting that things would work out, just as they always had.  What a mistake that had been.

Of course, Janus had run down the beach, barefoot and screaming the name of the man who had stolen his heart as he watched him disappear under the waves. Of course, he had screamed for help, for someone, anyone who could rescue his husband. And of course, it was far too late. Patton was already gone, the sea stealing him away.

Maybe it was ignorant to continue living in that house, watching the very thing that had taken his love away day in and day out, but Janus couldn’t leave. He was bound to this place, no matter how sick with grief it made him. “What if Patton comes back? He won’t know where to find me.” The belief that somehow, in some form, Patton would be back with him someday had remained in his mind every day since the capture.

It had been five long years since that night. Janus cut ties with the few other people he’d been close with, unequipped to deal with their false sympathy any longer. Even Remus, someone who Janus had considered his closest friend had given up after a few years. Janus didn’t make any effort to maintain the relationship; what was the point?

Loneliness commanded his fragile heart most days, leaving Janus in an ever-present state of mourning. The house, after all this time, had remained relatively the same. Every photograph that was hung up was still there, all of Patton’s things still neat on the shelves. Janus hadn’t bothered to change any of the furniture around, either. The only thing that was strikingly different from that house that was once a home was the absence of Patton.

The breaking point came on a particularly cold, lonesome night. Janus hadn’t slept well in years; being awake late was nothing new. He tossed and turned sleeplessly, desperate for the rest he’d sought for out for too long.

It occurred to her suddenly, realization washing over him like the unrelenting crashing of waves. It didn’t matter how long time stretched on or how desperate he was to wipe Patton from his memory. The gaping hole in his chest where a heart once beat would remain empty without his husband by his side.

The epiphany set him into motion.

He rose slowly from the bed, pushing the blankets off and standing up uneasily. The wood floor groaned beneath his feet as he walked out of his bedroom, the house so dark he could barely see. He didn’t bother to turn on a light.

Janus wandered through the house, head thick with fog, and stopped just short of walking out the front door. Janus hesitated for the briefest moment, his hand grazing the door handle before he took a deep sure, deep breath and opened it, stepping out into the night.

The sand was cool under Janus’s bare feet, ivory moonbeams illuminating the waves. The smell of sea salt hung in his nostrils and suddenly, he’s back to that night, Patton’s echoed screams replaying again and again. Panic buzzed through Janus’s body, all instincts telling him to go back inside, crawl under the covers and pretend tomorrow would be better. He let a sigh roll past his lips, toes curling in the sand as he stared determinedly at the rolling waves.

No. He couldn’t turn back. Not now.

He plodded slowly down the beach until freezing foamy water was grazing over his feet. Janus felt his fear crippling him, weighing him down like a stone tossed into the water but he stood tall regardless, rebelling against the sinking feeling. He’d do this for his husband.

Janus stood still for a moment, feet soaking in the biting water before shouting in the loudest, most accusing voice he can muster: “You!”

The waves, as if paused by some god above, ceased their crashing the water stilled. All was quiet.

“You took something from me. Something irreplaceable!” He shouted despite the fear bubbling in the pit of his stomach and the shivers that racked his body. It didn’t matter that Janus was as terrified as he had been that night. He’d get his husband back one way or another, in this world or the next.

Janus swallowed down whatever remaining hesitations and continued, his voice quavering with grief.

“And now I want him back. I’m not afraid of you, not anymore.” Janus had always had a talent for deception. It wasn’t something he used against his husband, and he was calculated with his implementing of falsehoods, but it was a tool he found to be useful. The same was no less true now; terror coursing through his veins. Even so, he relieved the sentiment with such courage even the likes of the sea herself might believe him. Still, the water remained unmoved.

“I don’t care what you do to me.” Tears tumbled down Janus’s cheeks and there was a deep, haunting sorrow to the way he spoke, “You can kill me if you’d like. No one will believe it, regardless. It’ll be another ‘tragic accident’.” Janus slumped to his knees, teardrops dripping into the water as granules of sand stuck to his skin. This is how it was meant to go; Janus knew that now. “Drown me, if you must. I just want to see him again. I just want my husband back.”

The haunting quiet that had drifted through the last several minutes shattered as the tide was quickly sucked in from under Janus, sweeping him deeper into the water. Janus didn’t struggle, didn’t fight it, instead going limp.

He allowed the current to carry him far enough to a point he was no longer able to stand, beginning to flounder as the waves crest not far off. The sound was more peaceful than anything he’d ever heard and the impending sense of dread he’d expected never came. A final exasperated smile graced his face as a wave of considerable size and power swept him under, showing no mercy as she drove him down and Janus’s lungs filled with water.

The moon illuminated the otherwise black sea that Janus descended into. Years ago, a death such as this was Janus’s greatest fear, but now all it brought on was calm and peace. Finally, peace. Janus closed his eyes, letting go as he thought of finally seeing Patton again, a vision of his smile warming Janus’s frozen body as everything faded to black.

Maybe he was the one who the sea had claimed, the one destined to be taken, not Patton. Maybe it was both of them, two prisoners for the price of one. Or perhaps Janus was just a man so sick with the loss of his husband that he did what was necessary to finally see him again. Regardless, Janus found the peace he was searching for, a beauty that far outshined a sunset out an open window that captured a scene he was too tormented by to live with any longer.

=+=

Taglist:

@nadiestar, @unoriginalgayboyalex, @maryann-draws, @bella-in-a-bag, @igonnatalknothing, @elizabutgayer, @wishthefish916

Let me know if you wanna be added to my general taglist! I’d be happy to add folks. 

[qqueenofhades]

Hi Hilary! First of all, I need you to know that you have my utmost respect for how patiently and thoroughly you keep analyzing and explaining the current political clusterfuck regarding *gestures vaguely at everything*. That said, if you feel like a short break from that, I've got an entirely selfish question: if the two dudes in the fic I'm thinking of writing were very old vampires (like 1500 years or the like), what would be a good historical event for them to have vastly conflicting takes on where both viewpoints are more or less equally valid and they can have, uh, heated arguments? Sending you lots of positive vibes 💕

Thank you, my dear. Oh God, how I long for a break from All This Fucking Shit, but I suspect, unfortunately, that all the Shit will keep happening whether I want it to or not, so I have to figure out how to deal with that. On the other hand, I am MORE than happy to talk about something else, and this is an obviously delightful question.

There are a few good choices for your vampires to argue about, depending on exactly how old they are and where in the world they come from. The first possibility is the Council of Nicaea in 325 CE, which set what we recognize as Catholic Christian doctrine and formally outlawed all the other competing textual interpretations. This was the culmination of a HUGE knock-down, drag-out fight, between western and eastern theologies that tried to precisely define the relation of Jesus Christ to God the Father, whether he actually had a human body, whether he had ever actually committed a sin, whether he had ever physically died, and etc. There were countless sects and branches of various size and influence, usually named after their most prominent intellectual figure; i.e., Arianism, Marcionism, etc etc. After two hundred years of heated nerd fights, the Council of Nicaea tried to settle them in the favor of establishing a unified Christian creed (this is where we get the Nicene Creed). If your vampires are of a religious, philosophical, or particular regional bent (since certain geographic areas were more affiliated with certain strands of "heresy" than others), this is an excellent way for them to have the most bogglingly obscure technical/theological arguments known to mankind. MARCIONISM IS JUST REPACKAGED GNOSTICISM!!! yells one. INTOLERANT SANCTIMONIOUS NICENE BASTARD! yells the other. OH MY GOD, GET A ROOM AND ALSO SOME EARPLUGS FOR US, yells everyone else.

Likewise, they could also argue about Justinian and Theodora, Emperor and Empress of the Byzantine Empire in the mid-sixth century (527-65 for Justinian and 527-48 for Theodora). The Secret History by the Byzantinian historian Procopius is both wildly entertaining and shall we say, uh, colorful, and contains all kinds of sexual innuendos and slander about them, particularly Theodora. Justinian was the most influential ruler of the time, there are plenty of political events for the vampires to disagree on, angst related to losing loved ones in the Plague of Justinian, whether Theodora was a no-good scheming con woman or a powerful ambitious badass, what exactly Procopius was smoking, and so forth. They could also argue endlessly over who was really responsible for the end of the Western Roman Empire (c. 476): was it the barbarians, the bad emperors, the endless wars, the overexpansion, the taxes, the natural limits of effective control, etc.? They could also take sides on Carthage v. Rome, though Hannibal and his elephants are much earlier (3rd century BC) and the vampires, unless they're even older, would probably not have known him personally. One of them could likewise have a terrible grudge against the Goths for sacking Rome in 410, and amusingly mistakes every modern "goth" in black nail polish and a spiky collar for a Descendant of the Enemy, while the other one is like oh my god you idiot.

Anyway, if you want more options, let me know, as I am nothing if not good for generating obscure historical background context for fic. We all have to have our talents. :)

[soukokuwu]

hi there! hope ur doing well esp in times like these. i must say i absolutely adore ur writing. both the chuuya angst fics literally made me cry. i never cried to any other fics before. it was amazing. may i request an angst scenario where Dazai has an s/o & a person from his past (from his port mafia days) wanted revenge on him. now Dazai is incredibly smart & manipulative & they know that (impossible to kill) so they go after s/o & kills them. i hope i'm not bothering u. have a nice day/night.

something left unguarded.

     genre. angst (dazai x reader)      warnings. death, kidnapping/implied assault      synopsis. there are times when dazai wishes he’s dead. this is one of those times.      word count. 1.8k      author notes. hi kitty! sorry this took me ungodly long, and i’m not sure if this is what you were looking for but i hope it’s okay!! <33

there’s some unspoken things that come together with love.

for dazai, that’s the slow crumbling of his walls; the surrendering of firearms. he finds himself unfurling easily at the seams, and regarding what seems impossible for the vast majority, it’s like white on rice for you. best thing is? it comes easy, effortless. you don’t try to be someone you’re not; dazai can tell. you are just unapologetically, undoubtedly you. that’s the beauty of it all, to him.

never has he felt like this, in the crack of dawn, lying next to you on the bed, the distant sounds of the birds and your breathing is all he can hear. it’s weird — he used to hear so many voices in his head, so many conflicting ones telling him to kill himself and yet others telling him to stay because there’s bound to be something that makes him want to live.

the latter is right. because now look at him. he’s not hearing whispers in his mind, the condescending, doubtful voices are gone. it’s peace.

all that fills his thoughts are you. who was he, even, before he met you? he knows, he always knows, he’s mostly self-aware. but then, he doesn’t want to. doesn’t want to remember the person he used to be, because he loves who he is now, with you. do the voices come back sometimes? absolutely. but a minor interaction with you and he feels tranquililty. and he has no doubt that you are the only one capable of such a feat.

he always thought fear was the accompaniment of walls breaking down. why did you make him feel like it was liberating instead? is it just the impossible amount of trust he’s put into you? he doesn’t have to ever ask himself anything, never does he ever feel like he needs to doubt you. ever.

you’re a peculiar little thing, always doing what you think is best for him. you rarely ever do think of yourself, do you? that’s why dazai takes it upon himself to give you what you deserve, a wholesome, warming kind of romance, even if he isn’t so sure about it himself. dazai doesn’t know romance apart from those that’s raved about in books and movies. his whole life is an endless pit of darkness — that’s up ’til the point he met you, of course.

so if the novel, theatric kind of love is the only form of romance he knows, then the least he can do is give you that.

dazai turns and watches as you rest peacefully, weaving his fingers through your hair, appreciating the patterns of your chest rising and falling. how long has it been since he’s first watched you like this before you wake? he doesn’t really recall the exact number of days, but it’s around three years? and he can definitely deal with a lot more than this.

talks about the future has always been taboo for him. not that he hates it, but it’s because he can never feel excited about it. and frankly, it’s much more of a chore than anything. so now, catching himself actually envisioning a future with you? it feels surreal.

the two of you have a routine: wake up, make breakfast, kiss goodbye before work, actually work, come home, have dinner, maybe take a bath together before you go to bed. it’s habitual by now — everything on the list. and while the morning is no different, the afternoon definitely is.

first there is the anonymous letter he finds in his top desk drawer. nothing but a blank paper with a single ominous line of “this is for back then”. nothing else. just a single line written in blood red ink. the weretiger next to him seems a little freaked out by it, so it’s easy to tell that whoever did this made the effort to come in earlier than anyone to place this in his desk. and maybe they expected to elicit some other behaviour from him. distress? fear?

whatever it is though, it doesn’t get to him. he crumples it up and tosses it in the bin. (he misses it, but it’s not like he cares.)

he goes the rest of the afternoon in ignorant bliss. he texts you halfway though, asking if your lunch today was any good.

would be better if you were here, osamu.

dazai forgets for just a moment that you usually only type out osa. because that’s what you do to him sometimes — you make him let his guard down. he wastes no time replying you.

oh yeah, why’s that, darling? ;)

the next message that chimes in has his heart take a deep dive into the ground below him. it’s a picture. of a vile, disgusting man licking the side of your head, with you tied up to a chair, unconscious.

because then maybe she won’t be so boring like this.

not even bothering to explain, all dazai does is grab atsushi by the collar and drag him out of the agency. he’s the only combative one present currently, and frankly, if it comes to a fistfight, having him there is enough. of course, dazai is not planning to spare anyone. they dared touch you?

they’re as good as dead.

dazai never thinks letting his guard down is a crime. but he thinks the ultimate sin he’s committed? that he let himself slack on his guarding of you. because the moment he gets to you at your apartment, he realises it’s never been a race against time. the moment the picture was sent, you were already gone.

and the culprits are long gone, disappeared without a trace. except for the disgusting wet track of where his tongue traced your skin earlier. usually, dazai would go after them immediately, track them down and plan their demise.

it would have been his plan. had you been just another body, another death count. but you’re not. you’re his lady, his angel, his life. yet you’re lifeless now, your chest doesn’t rise up and down like it should. your body is dense, somewhat dry. it’s completely… not you.

atsushi doesn’t know what to do, he stands in the corner with his eyes trained on his superior who’s letting out more emotion than atsushi thinks he has in his entire life. he feels like he should console him somehow, but he knows that’s selfish thinking. dazai won’t appreciate that.

he’s right. dazai won’t. because the only person capable of giving him any sliver of hope in this god-forsaken world is gone. her body but an empty vessel, reminding him of who he once was and how he had longed to be.

and oh, how he longs to join you now.

worst part is? dazai can find no one to blame. no one but himself. not even the man who offed you. dazai recognises him, from way back in his port mafia days. which means there’s no one to blame but the person he once was, the one you made him feel like he and reprieve from.

until now.

losing you is his punishment, isn’t it? for everything he’s done. this is his judgement day and you’re another one of his sad victims. it’s your body, limp in his arms, eyes wide open and the complete stillness of it all.

and he realises maybe this is what people mean when they talk about ‘deathly silence’. he never thought that losing just the sound of your breathing would feel like this and yet here he is, with another casualty in his arms.

yet another soul he can’t save.

and dazai… despite all his attempts, is still alive.

it’s cliche, but it’s true.

the worst day of loving someone is the day you lose them.

except when they’re still around, it’s easy to take every moment for granted. because who, when they think they have everything, will think of the moment they’d lose it? sure, it may come in glimpses, but you never hover over it long enough for it to actually matter.

until it happens.

cups of hot chocolate and cuddling up to each other in the winters. words of affirmation and warmth bubbling inside chests. security of routines and safety of arms.

dazai can’t stop thinking of things that remind him of you. thinking of the good times like you’re still alive is the only thing that keeps him from breaking as they lower you into the ground.

you’re almost in there and all he can think about is the first time he tells you he loves you, the first proper time he lets his guard down. how you were on the couch with your legs tucked against your chest, misty eyes giving away just how much the whole situation means to you. you see, he always knew you had a fear of falling, but he never knew just how much, until that moment.

“you click your tongue whenever something annoys you, you subconsciously like to walk between the lines on tiled floors, you blame yourself for things that are out of your control,” dazai had told you. and he remembered the look in your eyes — that surprise, that gratefulness — because you never thought that anyone would spare you that much attention, did you? especially not him, who you knew would never spend time on anything that’s unimportant.

but he paid attention to you more than anything else.

“i love you, belladonna,” he had assured you, inching close and holding you in his arms. you always needed reassurance, and while dazai would usually think it’s a burden, nothing was when it came to you. “you may think you’re a mess, but i think you’re perfect.”

he lets your giggle be the last thing that fills his mind as they finally lowered you into the ground. and he doesn’t wait for it to be filled before he spins around and walks away. the next memory he remembers being a promise made. of how you told him not to do anything rash should you ever go first, not even in old age. (he thought it was cute how far ahead you thought of for the future — something he finds he needs now; a future with you.)

and that’s the thing about letting your guard down; you let them have a slight control over your decisions. because now, despite every bone in his body aching to throw himself off a cliff, he finds he can’t quite do so. why? he remembers the life in your eyes when he agrees to that promise, the absolute faith you have in him that he loves you that much to abide by your one wish for him. yet in his head a constant question beckons him, chants itself in his mind like a mantra.

i just want to join you, is that so wrong?

tags. @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes @animatedarchives