#SCRAWLED UPON MY SOUL

[unicornsaures]

is it too 'out there' to say that this is lams coded

[ghostbeam]

1.3k words Bakugou Katsuki x reader, aged up characters, Bakugou is an art student, a little angsty, he’s kind of a huge asshole in this at some point but he’s kind of just trying to get under reader’s skin, I’m so out of practice in writing him I hope it’s okay, set in the same universe as my charcoal artist!Dabi and oil painter!Tomura, sorry if this sucks and is pretentious

Bakugou’s studio is impeccable. 

Everything has a place. His tools are all lined up, hammers and chisels and rasps all hanging from nails stuck into a large board on a wall. Beneath them are three tool carts filled with various electric saws and files, all placed meticulously. Besides that is a hand truck, you assume for moving the bigger sculptures he works on. He has one corner of the room reserved for all of his statues and uncarved stones, the largest ones pushed towards the back. The smallest stones and sculptures sit on tables near by, all set—what you have to guess—an inch apart from one another. There’s a standing desk with shelves of art books and comics beneath it. The entire middle of the room is covered in a tarp that looks immaculate, like he’s never worked a day in his life on top of it, though you know that’s not true judging from the half finished giant stone sitting atop of the clean tarp, tools sitting on the last step of the stool he’s using to reach the top of the sculpture. It’s draws your eyes immediately upon walking in—the stone that looks as though something is crawling from inside of it. 

The last wall is covered in brown sketching paper, three rolls of it mounted on one side so that it can be stretched across the entirety of the wall. The paper is filled with a multitude of sketches and scribbles, notes scrawled across that you can barely read due to the obvious urgency they were written with. 

Being inside of his studio feels personal—intimate—like you’re taking a peak inside of his brain, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind. Tearing your eyes away from the giant in the middle of the room, you watch him bring an extra stool to the table he’s cleared for the two of you to work on. 

The project is simple. You’re both meant to agree on one artist with an emphasis on a single medium of theirs. Both a seven slide powerpoint and a six page essay are due about the topic. Bakugou was assigned to be you’re partner. Despite his obvious bad attitude and the constant frown he wears, he was surprisingly open to working with you. You let him pick the artist, but he wouldn’t let you leave without choosing the medium. So even though your interest in your major is slowly deteriorating, you chose the first one that came to mind. 

So now you sit in Bakugou’s studio (brain, heart, soul), listening to him as he explains the importance of your artist during their time period, eyes flickering between the text in your book and the stone in the middle of the room. 

“Stop.” Bakugou’s voice snaps you out of the trance you’re in, swiveling your stool between the textbook in front of you and the stone to your right. You feel his hand come down on your knee, pausing your movements so that you’re facing him. 

“Huh?” You ask, eyeing the size of his hand on your leg. 

“Moving back and forth like that. It’s distracting.” Distracting. If only he knew how distracting his giant stone with the person/monster/angel crawling up out of it has been for you. 

“What is it?” You ask him, spinning your stool again so that you’re facing the unfinished sculpture. His hand slips from your knee. 

He glances at it for a moment before shrugging, “I dunno yet.”

“What do you mean?” You ask him.

“Exactly what I said.” He sighs, already annoyed with the conversation. “I don’t know what it is yet. I have to keep going until I—”

“Free it.” You interrupt, eyes still on the stone. “Until you free whatever’s inside, right.”

He’s quiet for a moment, head turned towards you as you observe his statue. You see him nod out the corner of your eye. “Yeah. I have to free it.”

When you look back at him, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gone is the permanent frown across his lips, the harsh line between his eyebrows. You think maybe its curiosity, maybe suspicion. 

What it really is, though, is that Bakugou is suddenly struck with the feeling of being understood. And he didn’t have to tell you a thing. One look at his rocks and you saw it. He’s not sure how to feel.

“I used to feel like that.” You tell him. His frown returns. You recognize that feeling, like something deep inside is screaming to get out, that feeling that you have to set it free or it’ll die inside of you. You used to feel that way every time you pushed your brush into a blank canvas. 

“But you don’t anymore.” He gathers. There’s a harshness to his voice, almost angry, but not angry at you—angry for you. 

“I think I lost it. I think art school sucked the life out of me.” Whatever spark you had died inside of you like you always worried it would. 

“That’s bullshit.” He tells you. He stands from his stool and pulls you up with him. He drags you to the giant stone in the middle of the room, and up close you can see the cross hatching he’s done to it at the top where the limbs seem to start. “You can’t keep your eyes off of this. It’s making you feel something.”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything anymore. You’re just talented.” You shrug.

“I know I’m talented.” He scoffs. “That’s not what you care about. You care that she gets out. You care that I turn this cold, unforgiving piece of solid fucking rock into something beautiful.”

“Or horrifying.” 

“It’s not gonna be horrifying.” He speaks, his lips close to your ear as he keeps you turned toward the stone. 

“You said you don’t know until it’s done.” You shiver.

“No, you said that.”

“You didn’t disagree.”

“Stop fucking—” He sighs loudly from behind you. “Yes, freeing it is a part of it. But I already know what it becomes. I knew the moment I hauled that fucking stone into this room. And you know it too.”

You don’t think you do, but Bakugou says this to you with such conviction, you think you believe him. You turn around, breaking yourself from the hypnosis the rock has put you under. 

“I thought it was weird that you didn’t jump at the chance to choose our artist. I had to practically force you to choose the medium. Maybe art school sucked the life out of you, but you let it.” The truth is harsh, makes you flinch away from him, but his hand reaches out for your wrist to bring you back. 

“You don’t have to be so fucking mean.” You wrench your wrist from his grip. 

“You think this is mean?” He spits. “You paint, and you sketch, and if you fuck up, you paint over it or you erase it. If you fuck up with this—” his palm slams against the stone in a loud thud next to your head. “—that’s it. It doesn’t forgive you.”

“So what? I’m some kind of lesser artist cause I don’t chip off pieces of stone? Fuck you.” You push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“No, you’re a lesser artist because you gave up.” He takes another step forward, his nose just inches from your own. “Whenever you wanna resurrect whatever the fuck died inside of you, you know where to find me.”

He’s off of you in a second, halfway across the room by the time you catch your breath. Squaring your shoulders, you march your way toward him. You hate that he’s right, even if only a little bit. His sculpture did make you feel something. They all did. You haven’t felt that excitement in such a long time, or that jealous pit in your stomach you used to get whenever someone was so good at something it made you want to be better. You envy him. How could a place that slowly ruined you build and mold a man like him?

“I didn’t give up.” You seethe. He turns towards you, towering over you with that same frown on his face, but his eyes have that familiar look in them from when you spoke about his giant.

“Prove it.”

[bitchinfawkseh]

•♡ Pages of Affection ♡•

Dean Winchester x girly girl reader

Summary: You and Dean go to the library to investigate a case. While searching through some old papers and clippings, you discover a series of old love letters. Dean thinks they're stupid - you think they are romantic. In an attempt to make you feel special, he writes you a love letter.

Word count: 1288

Book after book, page after page, and still nothing. Nothing that would help you with this case or future cases - and Dean's grumbling and complaining was getting annoying. You adjusted the bow that was pinning your hair back away from your face - sometimes it got all slanted and looked weird. And you'd rather not have Dean tease you about it again. "We should have just made Sammy do the research." Dean started. You rolled your eyes and let out a deep, heavy sigh.

"I can't focus when you're whining."

"I'm not whining -"

"You are!" You interrupted, shooting him a mean glare. Dean went silent, and you decided to enjoy it while it lasted. You flipped open an older and more worn heavy book, the edges were frayed, and there were tons of scratches on the cover. Two flimsy pieces of paper fell out, landing in your lap. They looked to be old, too, with how dirty the paper was and how it smelt amazing

You purse your lips together and carefully pick it up, rubbing the material between your fingers. It felt more like parchment rather than modern-day printer paper. "What's that?" Dean asked, trying to peek at the papers. You shook your head and shrugged. You weren't sure what it was until you unfolded it. Messy scrawl and an easily read "My love," addressed at the top. You slowly smiled as you read through the love letter. It was so sweet… so romantic.

My love,

You've been on my mind for quite some time now, and it's getting harder each day to forget about you. I have known you for close to six years now. As time passes, I fall deeper in love with you. Sometimes, it's tough for me to express myself. Whenever I talk to you, I get flustered. Whenever I talk to somebody else about you, I get tongue-tied. You make my heart jump every time I see you. It's crazy that you are oblivious to your effect on me. But that is a part of your charm. The moment I laid my eyes upon you, I knew that my heart would forever be yours. Your beauty, both inside and out, is unmatched, and your kind and loving spirit only adds to my admiration for you.

You are my heart, my soul, my everything. I can not imagine a life without you, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy. I love you now and forever.

Forever yours,

George

"Oh… Dean, look." You said, passing him the letter as you went to read the second one. This might be the sweetest thing you've ever read, this George guy sure had a way with words. Dean watched with raised brows as you scanned the second letter, a soft happy smile on your face. Who knew someone else's love life could make you so happy? He swallowed hard and started to read what you handed him. It was… cheesy to say the least. It sort of made him cringe, to be honest. "You like this stuff?" He snorted.

You frowned. "It's romantic."

"It's cheesy, is what it is."

"He loved whoever he sent this to very much, who cares if it's cheesy?" You asked. Dean cocked a brow and looked you up and down, from your floral dress to your Mary-janes. Something you'd only ever wear if it was a "chill day", when you were out in the action, you'd opt for jeans and boots. "You like this stuff?" He asked. You nodded and your eyes briefly met his. "It's sweet."

His lips thinned slightly, "Huh."

And here he was, hours after you and Sam had both gone to bed, trying to write you a love letter. Dean tried to go with a rhyming scheme for a while - until he tried to rhyme your name with something that wasn't completely stupid and couldn't think of anything and scrapped that idea.

He thought about just copying the love letter you found - or something from online but that would be stupid. You could tell, and it wouldn't show he tried to put any effort in at all. Dean glanced over at your curled-up sleeping form, wearing a cute pink vintage nightgown that you nearly flipped your lid over when you saw it in the thrift store. You did love all of that… girly stuff. It was very endearing.

Then, he suddenly got some inspiration. Dean picked up his pen again, scribbling some things down on the paper. He knew what he wanted to write - but he didn't know how to word it. Dean appreciated you too much for it to be half-assed - or something that could be taken the wrong way with how it was worded.

And soon, the words just started to flow.

The next morning, Dean took you out for a coffee and some pastries at the local shop. The letter he wrote for you was snug in his coat pocket - waiting for your eyes and only your eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped one of his clammy palms on the expanse of his jeans as he sat down on the bench next to you. You briefly looked over at him, taking a tiny sip from the herbal tea he had gotten for you. “So, what’s the occasion?” You asked. Dean’s brows furrowed and he chuckled nervously, he swore that his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. “What? No occasion…”

Your eyes narrowed, “Dean.”

“Okay! Okay, I… I have something for you - but don’t laugh, okay?” He swallowed hard and started to dig through his pocket. Your face immediately softened and you turned to face him, whatever it was - it was important to him.

Then, he pulled out a folded piece of paper with your name addressed on the front of it. “I tried real hard, okay? So… don’t laugh.” Dean warned - but with the slight waver in his voice, you could tell that he was very nervous. You took the delicate piece of paper from him and carefully unfolded it. The first line was enough to make your heart swell and for butterflies to form in your stomach.

Hey,

I don’t really know what to write… You know I’m not the mushy-gushy kinda guy, but I wanna try for you. I wanna start this off by saying I think you’re the prettiest woman out there, no doubt in my mind (and the bows you like to wear in your hair are damn cute.) You’re my whole goddamn world… you know, I purposefully try to make you laugh all the time too because it honestly sounds better than any Zeppelin song (don’t tell anyone I said that.) All it needs is a good guitar solo… kidding. Anyway, you’re my sweet girl who adores all that cute girly and flowery stuff, hell, I even let ya put that old heart key chain on my keys for Baby - nobody gets to fuck with Baby, except for you. I love you, more than words can say. I know I don’t tell you a lot, but I do.

I love you.

Your bottom lip jutted out, and you clutched the piece of paper to your chest, “Dean…” He surveyed your reaction carefully with wide eyes. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Finally, you practically threw yourself into his arms and buried your face in the crook of his neck. “This is the sweetest thing ever.” You beamed. Dean let out a relieved chuckle and tightly wrapped his arms around your waist. He (not so) discreetly inhaled the scent of your hair, smiling faintly when the light fragrance of flowers hit him. “Glad ya like it, sweetheart.”

[whereonceiwasfire]

If you're game to write a cheese melt (Vlad & Dani father-daughter dynamic) ficlet, I'd love to read one. If not, that's cool :)

*vibrating with excitement* My friend. Your cheese melt art has been living rent free in my head for WEEKS. It's my sincerest pleasure to write a ficlet for this. I hope it's okay that it's an outsider POV, I just had an idea and my brain went brrrrrrr LOL

May I offer you a dysfunctional parent-teacher interview?

Parent-teacher interviews are always a nightmare, but there's one in particular that’s making Amity Middle School’s beloved Ms. Burnell sweat through her shirt. As the time slot nears, her gaze keeps flickering to the clock, her classroom door, back to her nervously interlaced fingers on the desktop.

It’s going to be fine. Perfectly fine.

“This one! Over here! Dad! This is my class!” The excited words, shouted in the syrupy sweet voice of a little girl, sets every nerve on edge, Ms. Burnell’s heart plummeting straight into the pit of her stomach.

Oh lord. Maybe it’s not going to be fine. 

Her student comes bounding into the classroom, eyes bright and excited, oversized blue sweater sleeves slipping over her hands, even as she gestures emphatically for her father to follow. Black hair spills out of her ponytail, whipping across her face as she throws herself into a desk across from Ms. Burnell’s with a bright smile. 

Her father, on the other hand… 

The heel of his expensive Italian loafers strike against the linoleum as the man stops at the threshold of the classroom, cool gaze doing an assessing sweep of the space, expression crinkling in distaste as it does. He doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t make any move to actually step inside the classroom. 

Ms. Burnell is the one who clears her throat, pushing to an awkward stand as she extends a hand out to the man. 

“Hello, Mr. Masters. Thank you for making the time to come discuss your daughter’s education. I know you’re very busy.” 

The man’s eyes slip to her outstretched palm, and for a motifying second, she doesn’t think he’s going to take it. When he finally does, he just gives a brief, cursory shake before swiping his palm off on his suit jacket and striding past her toward his daughter. 

Ms. Burnell’s face is all kinds of warm, chest tight with embarassment as she fumbles back to her desk, trying to wrestle herself back into some kind of composure. Still, she barely looks up as she pulls out a folder with Danielle Masters scrawled across the tab.

“Dad! Dad! That one’s mine! Do you see it? Do you like it?” Danielle calls proudly, tugging on her father’s suit sleeve and pointing toward the paintings that are spread out beneath the windows to dry, paper wavy and crinkled.

���Oh, er. That’s actually a good place for us to start,” Ms. Burnell cuts in apologetically. 

Mr. Masters gaze snaps from where he’d been examining his daughter’s project, over to her, brows dropped low. 

“Why? Is there a problem with my daughter’s work?” The question is sharp, accusatory, and she’s pretty sure her soul shrivels up a little bit at the unguarded disdain in the man’s eyes.

Swallowing hard, sweat beading against the back of her neck, Ms. Burnell resists the urge to immediately take it back. Surely he can see the problem with the piece—isn’t going to make her say it? 

It's too scary.

When his challenging gaze doesn’t waver, she forces the words out. 

“Uhm. Well. It’s just. Not quite. Appropriate for a sixth grade class?” It pitches up into a question as she gestures vaguely toward Dani’s painting. 

It’s a bit sloppy, the layers of paint caked upon each other, the lines hasty and uneven, but the scene itself is clear enough—a little, smiling, white-haired girl in the shadow of some kind of hulking creature, its skin blue, eyes red, sharp fangs bared as its cape flares out to take up the rest of the page. 

Ms. Burnell almost set up an appointment for Danielle with the school counselor when she saw it, wondering if Dani felt like she was the little girl, trapped amongst nightmares and “monsters.” She decided against it for the time being, until she could speak with the girl’s father, but that’s proving rather unhelpful so far if the contemptuous way the man is looking at her is any indication.

“Did Danielle complete the assignment?” he asks finally. 

“Uhm. Yes.” 

“And adhere to the grading criteria?” 

“Sh-she did,” Ms. Burnell answers reluctantly.

“Then I don’t see the problem,” he answers, finality in the words as his gaze turns to his daughter. He takes a much softer tone with her, brushing the disorderly strands of hair off her face, an absent domesticity in the way he straightens the ponytail gone lopsided. “I think you did a lovely job, dear.” 

“Thank you! I used Alizarin Crimson,” she answers proudly, hair flopping right back into her eyes.

“Excellent choice.” 

“Uhm. Well, there’s also the matter of Danielle’s conduct,” Ms. Burnell cuts in.    

The man lets out an irritated sigh, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back against one of the desks, one ankle crossed over the other, unimpressed gaze finding Ms. Burnell once more. 

“What?” he says, like it’s an inconvenience.

She swallows hard. “She’s been…uhm. Not getting along with some of the other girls.” 

“That is so unfair, Mackenzie started it!” Danielle shouts abruptly, popping up to her knees on her chair, palms slapping down against the desktop. 

“Well that’s not what Mack—” 

The girl keeps going, cutting Ms. Burnell off. 

“She said the only reason Eli agreed to play with me at recess was because Joshua dared him too, and I said nuh unh and she said yuh hunh, and I asked how she knew that, and she couldn’t even prove it, it was so obvious she was making it up!” 

“Mackenzie told me that you said some pretty unkind words to her, Danielle.” 

“Barely! I just said it was a bad look for her to be so jealous of me and just because she looks like she fished her outfit from the same trash bin she got her personality from isn’t any reason to be a jerk.”

Her father’s expression twists into a sharp smirk, amusement lighting his blue eyes, and Ms. Burnell thinks she’s starting to get a better sense of why Danielle is proving to be one of the most challenging students in her class this year. 

“We treat people with kindness and respect in this classroom, Dani. Do you think what you said to Mackenzie was kind and respectful?” 

“Well…” Dani’s gaze drops, expression pinching in thought, and Ms. Burnell thinks she might actually be getting through to her.

“It doesn’t sound as though this other girl was treating Danielle with kindness and respect,” Mr. Masters answers, the words coming out with a mocking turn, like he finds the concepts incidental at best.

“That’s true. She did start it,” Dani reasserts, turning her gaze up to her dad.  

“I’ve spoken to Mackenzie about her part in everything,” Ms. Burnell answers tightly. “But we’re here to talk about Danielle’s conduct. That’s not the only incident of its kind that’s occurred this year and—” 

“You know, it sounds to me as though Danielle’s doing just fine,” Mr. Masters says, pushing up to a proper stand, tugging the bottom of his sleeves and smoothing the dark, wrinkleless fabric.

“But—” 

“Did she make this girl cry?” 

“Well. No, but—” 

“And how are my daughter’s academics?” he asks, gaze fixed on hers, sending a chill creeping down her spine. 

“Fine, but—” 

“Has she gotten into a physical altercation with anyone?” 

“Not exactly, but—” 

“Started any fires?” he asks, sarcasm and derision dripping from the words. 

“No, she hasn’t started any fires.” 

“Then I believe this meeting is finished. Thank you for your time, Ms…”

“Burnell,” she answers weakly.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Burnell. Danielle, are you ready to go?”

“Yup!” She pops up to an enthusiastic stand, rushing over to the windows to snatch up her painting, twisting it toward Ms. Burnell. “Can I take this home?”

She gives a heavy sigh, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “Sure, Dani. That's fine.” 

“Thanks, Ms. B!” As the girl traipses after her dad, a bounce in her step, horrifying painting swinging at her side, Ms. Burnell can hear the girl still chattering away, even as they pass out of her classroom, voices growing distant. “Do you think I should have made Mackenzie cry?” she asks.

Ms. Burnell is glad she can’t hear the man’s response—she doesn’t even want to know his answer.

[forlix]

𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬・l.f.

— "if you smell the same as someone, you'll have some peace of mind."

words・1k pairing・felix x gn!reader genres・hurt/comfort, established relationship warnings・detailed descriptions of an anxiety episode

a/n・ inspired by this thing lix said in an ep of skz code and my favorite line from natsume souseki’s kokoro. i hope this can provide u with some solace; love u

When you slip into your side of the bed, Felix feels a touch of cool air from the duvet being lifted off the mattress, but it’s quickly nullified by your body’s warm pressure against his as you tuck yourself into his side. He looks at you, shrouded in one of his old hoodies, glasses halfway down the bridge of your nose, one hand patting down the blanket around your legs and the other holding your phone to your face as you scan over a text.

This is far from the first time you’ve spent the night at his place, and even further from the first time his anxiety has made itself known beyond just its ceaseless simmering beneath his skin. Yet, it is the first time the two events have happened in simultaneity, and he finds himself wondering if he should tell you about the unmistakable tightness pulling at his ribs or the winding coil waiting to snap behind his eyes.

An answer follows as quickly as the question surfaces, though. You haven’t been dating long, but in only three days short of six months Felix has learned that he could cut his heart open over your hands and you’d still find a way not to spill a drop of his blood. That is the extent to which your love makes him feel safe, secure, sacred; the extent to which he believes in your ability to protect his soul, even when it isn’t something unseen and external bombarding his defenses but the most familiar enemy of all. One that bears his name and wears his face.

“Baby,” Felix says, and your fingers still over your screen. As does your heart, when you see his quivering lips and unblinking eyes.

Your phone falls upon the blanket with a soft thud.

Scrawled all over the lines of your face is the worry that Felix was so reluctant to cause, but the way your eyes soften as you look at him now is a perfect replica of how they did that time you took him stargazing on the roof of your apartment building, and breathing becomes marginally easier right away.

“What’s happening?” You whisper, your fingers swift but so careful as they find and slide over his wrist. “How can I help, angel?”

Shakily, blindly, Felix’s hand chases yours under the sheets, and your palms have hardly touched before you’re completing his unspoken sentence. You lace your fingers with his, their pads fluttering against the back of his hand, and this gives him the strength to utter, to plead—

“Hold me?”

Your free hand moves to graze the curve of his cheekbone, then to hold his nape. Then, with a flourish of movement that Felix hardly registers, you lift yourself to straddle his lap and tighten your arm where it curls around his neck, drawing him so gently into your embrace that he can all but evanesce against you.

Time ceases to exist. What proceeds is simply warmth: your hands and mouth pressing life back into his body with every sweep through his hair and “I’ve got you” upon his ear; his face gone in the cluster of fabric that marks the beginning of your hood, his hand pushing beneath the heavy cotton to seek out your bare back, his breaths timed to the quiet heartbeat he finds there.

The two of you spend what feels like multiple lifetimes locked together in this fashion.

It is somewhere towards the end of life number three that Felix realizes, dimly, arbitrarily, that you don’t smell like anything.

You’ve always come with something, be it the aromatic remnants of your childhood home that you’ve never quite outgrown, the fragrance you always dab behind your ears before leaving the house, or the telltale shampoo-conditioner combination you’ve been using for years. But right now, there is no discernible scent attached to your skin or your clothes; no olfactory indications of your person, your presence.

This surprises Felix so thoroughly that it seals his windpipe closed for a few seconds. It’s as if he’s lost something he never realized was precious until only after it’s slipped from his grasp, and the notion nearly sends him on a new spiral entirely, nearly undoes the progress that you’ve so tenderly helped him make since settling upon his thighs.

But then you shift, and, in a manner reminiscent of brushing thick, tangled vines out of the way to read an ancient stone plaque, Felix skims the tip of his nose over the hollow of your throat, and it is there that he finds the subtle scents of you that he thought he’d forfeited. And his next realization not only pries his lungs open again but brings a much-needed rush of oxygen back into them.

It is his bodywash that you used in the shower and his garment that you slipped into right after drying off. It is his blanket that you’re currently folded together in and his dormitory that you’ve carried a spare key to for weeks now. It's his hands and lips that dote constantly on your neck and waist and shoulders and anywhere they can reach like poppies vying for homes in cracked cement.

It’s not that you don’t smell like anything. It’s that you smell like him. 

Like us.

Felix knows well that anxiety is too fickle a creature to ever leave for good, but when this thought occurs to him he senses the foul apparition waver for once.

He starts to unravel himself from you after life number seven, and you expel your relief in the form of a sigh when you pull away and see the faint smile on your boyfriend's face; sense the stable in, out of the chest your hands rest upon.

The puff of air is quickly sucked back in, though, when Felix presses his lips to the underside of your jaw; to the point of your chin; to the apple of your cheek; and, at last, directly to yours. The kiss begins tense and unmoving, still riddled with the tonnage of his burden, but then his hand cradles your face with all the ardor of thank you, and his tears taste like the words I love you when they land on your tongue.

And it is perfect, as is he.

🔖 (send an ask or reply to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[entomolog-t]

Another weirdly specific brainrot is plagging me-

Imagine finding some item at a pawnshap/garage sale/thift shop, Maybe the item is a little figuring, maybe it's a book- whatever it is, the item is fairly small. Upon bringing it home, you start feeling weird. Your head hurts. Thinking it's a migraine, you grab the item and go to head to bed, only-

It yelps.

In a panic you drop it.

It screams.

At first you're quite freaked out, but upon realizing that the item is far more freaked out, you start to calm down. They, whatever it is they are, have been bound to that item, fully aware and conscious- able to feel and perceive, yet completely helpless and unable to do anything. Just an inanimate object. You're the first person that's been able to hear them. They're desperate for your help, though you can tell they're still terrified of you. You're huge to them, and they are quite literally unable to do anything except beg you be gentle.

It's odd, comforting an item, especially one so very terrified of you, but you do your best.

After some time, through conscious actions or random happenstance, you're able to figure out how exactly they're bound to the item- a small binding insignia scrawled on the surface of the item. All you'd need to do is interrupt the lines of ink and they'd be freed, returned to whatever body they came from.

Maybe you've grown close, and the notion of them leaving is sad, maybe the item is absolutely annoying and you're so very excited to get them out of your hair- whatever the case, you do it.

Though things don't work as expected.

They don't return to their body... in that, the item doesn't just go silent as the bound soul zips off to reunite with its body. No- instead, the item glows, taking on a human shape. It grows, but to your horror- it doesn't stop at 6ft. Not 7 or 8.... the once-object-now-person keeps growing beyond the limits of what's humanly possible. Are they 12ft? 20?? 50?? Up to you- but they're clearly far too big to be human, and suddenly, that feeling of powerlessness they once felt is now very unpleasantly relatable.

Is it a magic mishap? Are they from another world? A different species? Perhaps they're dangerous, bound for a specific reason. Are they grateful? Annoyed? Angry???

Adhdjsfjdjd I just think there's so much odd potential from what is essentially a very odd size swap. Lots of potential for both angst and sillys and very unique fearplay, and that combo is my go to happy meal.

[evilvillain123456789]

in my noble pursuits i roam the streets of oregon, writhing, throbbing hard and wet and deep in vagabondage, scrawling in shit, sharpie, blood, gel pens- whatever i can find, upon the walls of the commons such delightful designs i invented of dog girls with big sparkly eyes and their wet mouths open. and their tongue sticking out. and I draw dragon girls with big sparkly eyes and their wet mouths open, and cat girls too. but i'll reveal to you a trade secret- i make them all look like the dog girls. i do. and its good that they look the way they do.. because i'm conserving my precious brain power for what's really important things- i need to writing a speech bubble coming out of their wet mouths that reads, Were here, were queer, or, Smash, the fash.. Vaccines save lives... of course there are other slogans, but i cannot think of any more at the moment. but this work i do is important. i do this to mark my territory. in the sense that i pray a beautiful goddess will come, see me huddled. within my impressive collection of vintage lego sets and empty coffee cups, and candy wrappers. and see how many twitter likes my graffiti and opinions got and accept me into her, multi partnered sexual relations, and her home, where i may roam freely with both her and the beasts that flock to lap up my taint wounds, and sing to me beautiful songs on their ukeleles... where we may paint nude torsos covered in all manner of jagged surgical scars... where monster energy flows freely as water... i dream of it, my paradise, i'm hoping, i'm coming, i'm coming.... but i digress.. i'm getting a bit ahead of myself, ha, me and my dreamers soul. i also do it to make sure any people of color passing through my turf know that they are not welcome here.

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #6] Wishing

warnings: i like to call this a montage chapter - it gets us through the entire summer :) gym trips! dionysus nights! jaykay being sexy in the gym! dynamic and friendship solidified!

soundtrack: c'est la vie - ethan surman; my type - brb.; happiness - the 1975

wc: 6k

bd total wc: 540k (on-going)

minors dni | AO3 | series masterlist 

The scowl on your face as you reach the gym prevails. You've a coffee in one hand - ice americano, double shot - and the hood of your sweater is bunching around your shoulders. You lift it over your head, and push the swing door of the gym open with your shoulder, wanting to avoid the unwanted eyes of Jiyeong, just in case she's working.

You don't look over to the reception, but the lobby is empty, regardless. It's quiet, always a little less busy in the morning than it is in the evening.

You make your way to the gate of the gym. Punch in the code. Get it wrong. Tell the keypad to 'stop being a prick'.

You try again, exhaling a weighty sigh as you do so.

There's a whir as it works this time, hinges clicking open for you. The metallic clang of gym equipment and grunts of burly men cloud the air, battling with the voice in your head for the title of most annoying sound. Always have to win, don't you? Couldn't just take a loss!

It's a flaw; one that you'll admit to, but one that you wouldn't change for the world. A little bit of drive is good, even if you do drive yourself up the wall more often than not.

Hood up, a pair of leggings and a sweater on, black high-tops tied in bows around your ankles, you look like death warmed up. There's glitter caught in your lashline, and your hair is still damp from your quick shower, but you've a point to prove.

And so, just shy of midday, your feet stomp heavily up the stairs, as thunderous as the look on your face.

It's not that you're actually mardy or moody at all - you're just hanging like an absolute bitch.

Whatever Jeongguk puts in those tiny purple shots is lethal. Writes you off every single time.

Admittedly, you had gone a little harder last night knowing that you didn't have work the following day, but that's beyond the point. Normally your hangovers aren't so bad, especially not when you drink water throughout the night - which, thanks to Jeongguk, you had been.

Jeongguk doesn't notice your arrival until you roll down onto the bench behind him. You're on your side, legs tucked up, just like you had been in your bed when his message had arrived in your inbox.

He's in shorts - black, finishing midway down his thigh - and a big baggy t-shirt. On his feet, he's matching with you. Black Chucks. The only difference is that he ties his around the front. His bows are double knotted and little lopsided, the white trims on the soles scuffed and well worn. He's got history in his hi-tops, and you wonder how it compares to yours.

There's a girl in the city who matches him, and it isn't you. You don't have the tiny 'J' scrawled into the rubber of your soles like she does. He's scratched out her initial on his sole.

Takes a little longer to erase it from his other soul, mind you. It's still there. Only faintly, but enough to make him trip over himself from time to time. S'why he always double knots. Harder to fall, that way.

There's concentration on his face, features perplexed as the weight he lifts forces him to exert more energy than he's fully ready for. His teeth are bared, face tight, brows tied in a pretty knot between his eyes. You can see why Jiyeong is so territorial. He's not a bad-looking bloke. Quite handsome, actually.

He exhales as he brings the weight down, resting it on the ground, chest heaving ever so slightly before he turns to look at you. His brows are still furrowed, but his eyes are soft as his body gets more comfortable and settles into a state of rest.

A breathly laugh graces his lips as he reaches for the towel by your head. He pays no mind to the fact your crown is resting upon it, whipping it from beneath you to dab at the sweat gathering on the back of his neck.

"I said bright and early," he smirks, knowing that you must be hating everything about this interaction.

"It's before twelve," you mumble, eyes closed, knowing that watching his dimples form would only make your tummy feel all light and vomit-inducing. You're too hungover for anything other than neutral sensations. "It is bright and early."

"You're basically asleep."

"The bet was that I'd be here, Jeon," you remind him, voice a grumble as you shuffle deeper into your position. "Not that I'd be doing anything useful."

You've a point. It's not one that he can argue against, and so instead he just shrugs and picks his water bottle up from beside the bench. He tosses a little back into his mouth, the stream of water running from the plastic opening and into his mouth with such precision that you're sure he must be an asshole deep down.

You don't buy the nice guy front. Only assholes look that good doing the bare minimum. You'll get to the bottom of his assholeness eventually, but not now. Not when you're this grouchy, and everything feels a little biased.

"C'mon," he says as he knocks his head to the side. "Treadmill. Walk with me. You'll feel better for it."

"I think I'll die," you tell him with so much certainty he can't help but laugh at you.

Still, he stands in front of you and waits for you to join him. Knocks his knee against yours. Kicks your shoe with his own.

He's patient, his eyes soft as they look down at what a sorry state you are. There's something about the way his lips purse gently that makes him feel like a safe bet.

You've no regrets for tumbling out of bed and catching the subway to meet him at the gym. Your head is killing, granted, but it would have been killing you at home, too. At least this way you can feel like you've actually done something productive despite the hangover.

"Trust me," he insists, holding out his palm. "It really will help."

And so you take his hand, letting him pull you up. They warm, and a little clammy, but you don't mind.

When you're finally on your feet, your eyes are level with his chest. He's broad, chest well defined even beneath the shirt. You try not to think about the fact you've seen him shirtless, but you can smell the scent of his laundry detergent, and it adds a whole new element to the enigma the Jeon Jeongguk is. Looking at him, you'd imagine a scent of musk - something woody, maybe. Instead, he smells like fresh blooms, sweet peas under summer sun.

You don't let yourself linger for too long, fearful of him reading into the way you can't seem to keep your eyes off him. He's just new. Something shiny. Fresh. Excitement amongst the mundane of a city you've grown tired of.

He reaches down to pick up your half empty coffee and takes a sip as he begins to walk away. "Tastes like shit."

You pull it back from him, and nudge his side. "Feels like crack cocaine. The Purple Starfuckers, man... they actually kill me."

"You're welcome."

Small talk peppers the walk down the steps - How are your friends? Get home alright? How was Jimin feeling in the morning? How long do you have to stay after closing time? - and flitters around the pair of you as you set your inclines. His is noticeably higher than yours, but you're not here to work out. You're here to win a bet - of which he keeps reminding you that you lost, and that you are, in fact, a 'loser'.

You just tell him to 'fuck off' in return.

He never does. Just smiles, beams all wide, teeth on display, nose a little scrunched, and says "sounds like something a loser would say."

Jeongguk is easy to be around. His company, his humour, the anecdotes he tells. They're delivered freely, revealed without pressure. No diamonds are being formed, but there's enough of them in your eyes when you laugh with him, regardless.

You reduce the ease of your interactions to your perceived lack of expectations he has of you.

There's security that comes with fucking someone's housemate. You're no longer a viable sexual conquest, and therefore you don't have to worry about an ulterior motive for your exchanges with Jeongguk. Jimin's been there, done that.

For Jeongguk to be hanging out with you, you think he must actually like your company. It's mutual. Reciprocal. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

There's a clear line drawn in the sand between the two of you, as you walk forward on separate treadmills. He matches your speed - slow and lethargic - despite his marginally higher incline, before offering you his water.

You hold up your coffee, but he shakes his head. "It'll dehydrate you."

You'd left in such a rush (and without any intent on actually working out) so had neglected to bring any water with you. Never mind the fact you stopped by the coffee place inside the subway station. Force of habit.

You're chronically dehydrated as it is. Danbi has to remind you that you need water, not just iced americanos to get you through the day. Sometimes you listen. More often than not, you don't.

"Sure?" you ask, aware that you don't really know each other well enough to be sharing drinks yet (despite the fact he'd already helped himself to your coffee) but he just nods. Doesn't really see it as a big deal.

"Don't backwash," he tells you as you're mid-sip, and it almost makes you choke the water straight back into the bottle. You refrain, swallowing it down, coughing slightly as you recover from your shock.

"Christ. Too late," you joke as you pass it back, before he makes some crude remark about how you've basically kissed now, and that 'you can't have your way' with both him and Jimin.

"Fuck off," you laugh. "For starters, Jimin and I aren't like, a thing. It was a one-time hook-up."

"Sure."

"Well, I mean, he tried last night," you shrug, looking up to the mirror ahead, finding Jeongguk's dark eyes already on you.

He doesn't look away as he says, "he did?"

"You served us, Jeongguk," you remind him. Your memories of last night are far clearer than they were of the night you'd actually hooked up with Jimin. "He wasn't getting me drinks just to be kind."

"You don't know that," Jeongguk pouts, though he's not sure why. He knows Jimin. He was definitely trying to get laid - but he's also his best friend, so he says, "he's a good guy."

"I don't doubt that," you agree, not wanting it to appear as if you're being over-critical of Jimin. You're the one who fucked him, after all. He's incredibly attractive, and you know that many people would consider themselves lucky to end their night with him, but you've fucked handsome men before. It doesn't really couldn't for all that much.

A fuck is just a fuck.

What we do in the dark has no bearing on who we are in the light of day.

"Sounds like you do," he assesses, but you dismiss it.

"Sounds like you're reading into it a little too much," you banter back, slowly learning that Jeongguk likes to do that. He overanalyses. You do quite the opposite.

Jimin could have a noble peace prize for all you care. Doesn't mean you've any interest in fucking him again.

The conversation dwindles on, you gradually upping the pace of your treadmill to the point where Jeongguk might consider it a brisk walk (though you'd argue it's a jog).

He's kind in the way he takes a second to think before he speaks, conscious of letting you finish your sentences, and also wanting to be sure of the words he articulates. Thoughtful. Mild-mannered. Nice, but not in a way that boring. Nice, in a way that feels safe.

By the time your legs begin to ache, the treadmills have been running for over forty-five minutes.

You've been too busy guessing the conversations between other strangers in the gym. Who they are; where they're going after their sessions. What they'd had for breakfast (and for some reason, Jeongguk would guess 'egg whites' without fail for every single person) and what they'd be having for dinner.

He mimics their voices, and you laugh along, adding a narrative. So many lives have been lived by the people around you, and not single one you get even remotely correct.

There's a burly man, bearded and broad, with a petite girl hanging on every word he says towards the far corner, and you decide that they're a couple.

Jeongguk thinks they're siblings.

Makes it a little awkward when the guy starts squeezing the girls ass mid-squat.

"Yep, no, maybe you're right," he cringes, face scrunching up, lip ring almost disappearing into his mouth as he does so. Unfortunately, he does also then begin to debate the prospect of them maybe being stepsiblings, at which point you threaten to push him off his treadmill.

"You watch too much porn," you tell him, and he can't even argue against it.

It's been a little while since his last situationship ended, and he's been avoiding bedding anyone new like the plague. Been keeping girls he thinks he could grow to like at arm's length. Safer that way.

"I watch a perfectly healthy amount of porn," he scoffs, but then bunches his face up, clearly not proud of himself for making such a declaration. He chooses to not share the fact that he and Jimin split a VPN bill for that purpose exactly.

You laugh with him, the topic moving along to the PG shows he watches instead, the Netflix shows you're both hooked on, and what you'd each chosen for your Vecna song (which also leads to him helplessly defending all of his Spotify playlists from your gruelling judgement ( Justin Bieber defined a generation and I won't listen to you talk shit about him.... And fuck off, Mad at Disney is cute! Cute! I'm never showing you my Spotify ever again. EVER.))

He mirrors you as you slow the pace of your treadmill, looking over to you after checking the time on the clock - 58:23. Longer than he'd expected you'd last. "Done?"

"Done," you nod.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like death?"

"Still?"

"Still," you nod. "Need a Vita500 and a nap."

"There's CU round the corner," he notes. "I'm now about to leave anyways. I'll come with you. You can get your vitamins, I'm gonna grab something to eat."

You nod, not minding in the slightest - but he mentioned food, and your stomach begins to grumble like King Kong atop the Empire State.

"Would die for convenience store ramyeon," you sigh, musing over one of the finest delicacies in life. Nothing beats instant jjajangmyeon, not even a home-cooked meal.

"Wanna grab some?" Jeongguk asks a little mindlessly, not thinking much of the offer. "I'll eat with you."

And so he does. The comfort born in the confines of the gym is nurtured over cheap food and even cheaper shots at one another in the form of banter. He's a lot of fun, you think. It's a shame he's always stuck behind the bar and never able to let loose with you in the club.

He texts you midweek to let you know he can put you on the club guest list, if you want. Save paying entry and queueing. You'd be mad to say no - and so you spend the next few days convincing your friends that another night out is a good idea.

It's not. Hoseok somehow ends the night without his shoes, and you wake up with an ache in your lower back from a guy who'd tried to be all sexy in his bedroom last night, failing miserably. Human bodies aren't supposed to bend in the way he insisted on positioning you in.

You ignore the slight burn as you head to the gym though, ready to pretend like Jeongguk's the bane of your life once more.

A routine is forming.

What started as a bet becomes a weekend guarantee: you will get shitfaced at Dionysus on a Saturday, and then you will chat shit with Jeongguk on the treadmills for the duration of your Sunday morning.

He never lets you off the machines until the scowl that you inevitably arrive with transforms into a subtle smile. Some weeks it's quicker than others, but one thing is for certain; your scowl will always fade.

By week three, he's already by the treadmills when you arrive.

"No napping today," he teases with a soft smile, making light of the way you always curl up on the bench behind him as he does his final few reps. He's already done with them. Got to the the gym fifteen minutes early to make sure he would be.

"Gguk," you groan, dragging your feet a little and yet still heading in his direction towards the cardio area.

The way his body swings around to look at you, a single brow raised, is like something out of a kid's cartoon. He's so animated and full of energy that it's hard to believe he was at work until five that morning. "What did you just call me?"

"Shut up," you mumble, crossing your legs and sitting down on the treadmill belt. It's quiet - this time of day is never busy - so you don't feel bad for hogging a machine that no one would be using regardless. "Everyone calls you that."

He hops up on his treadmill and sets an incline, while you let your body flop down on yours.

"You're not everyone."

"Be impossible to be everyone," you mumble, eyes closed, body shuffling into a more comfortable position - until the treadmill jolts, moving ever so slowly beneath you. The way you get up is akin to a cat being confronted with a cucumber, a small yelp leaving your lips. "Jesus, Jeongguk!"

He's smirking, as if hadn't been tampering with the buttons, shrugging. "Started by itself."

"You could have killed me."

"What a shame that would have been." He grins at you like a kid who just found a stash of candy. "C'mon! Up you get. I've got places to be. A life to live."

You scoff as you begin to walk forward, lowering the incline that he'd set it to. "You? A life? Seems unlikely."

"You know, you're incredibly hard to like," he assures you. You catch the challenge of his gaze in the mirror and simply shrug.

"Yet here you are, still trying to be my friend."

"Can't shake you off."

"You force me to come."

"I do no such thing."

"Ohhhh, disco baaaaall," you begin to imitate him, bringing your clasped hands to your heart as if you really are��begging. You sound nothing like him, but it's kind of deliberate. The more ridiculous you sound, the more he'll laugh. "Pwetty pwease come to the gym and keep me company."

"I don't talk like that," he laughs at how whiney you sound. "And fuck off, I've never said that."

"So you don't mind if I leave?"

His hand reaches over and hooks into the hood of your sweater, as if you're a dog on a leash. His grip is tight. Ain't no way you're going nowhere.

"No, you're not allowed," he says sternly, but there's a smile on his face, voice dulcet as the command rolls off his tongue and sinks into your ear. "I'll get bored."

"See!" You laugh, and pay no notice to the fact his hand stays with an iron grip on the fabric of your sweater even after the joke has been made. He keeps it there.

"It's either I have you keep me company, or Jimin keep me company," he says with a shrug. "I've always got a second choice."

"Aw, but I'm your first choice. How cute."

"My god, I hate you," he says as he finally drops his grip on your hoodie, nudging your shoulder as you walk. He busies his hand, tampering with his incline, trying to make it seem like the touch was casual. Nothing to read into.

It's a debate the pair of you are able to have for hours; who hates who more, who hated who first, who's gonna hate who for longer.

It's not flirting as such, but it is a ruse. You deflect the fact that you actually really enjoy each other's company, using hatred as a measure of just how much you like one another. It's all very juvenile.

He tells you he hates you when you steal half of the cheese he buys for his instant ramyeon after the gym, and you tell him that you hate him every single time you show up at the gym. It's a win-win.

By the time week four comes around, you're surprised to find yourself considering signing up for another month.

You rarely use your membership - once a week, to be precise, and only for about an hour at a time. It does give you a luxury of freedom, though. Chances are you'll be able to find Jeongguk there, no matter what time of day it is.

You'd swung by one evening that week after work just to show him the painting someone did of breadfish, knowing that he'd be the only other person in the city who remembered something so ridiculous.

He'd been deadlifting at the time, a thick leather belt cinching the baggy shirt he'd been wearing, stopping you quite suddenly in your tracks.

Hands covered in paint, hair up, a pencil still tucked behind your ear, you're the most 'you' he thinks he's ever seen you.

Sure, he's seen you with your makeup all smudged after a night out, and he's seen you after far too many drinks deep, but he's never really had the luxury of a totally sober 'you'. The 'you' that other people get to indulge in.

The glitter on your lids is a little more subtle than he's used to - it's thinner, finer, a little pink in its hue - but still prettily in place. Sparkling under the harsh gym bulbs. It's nice to know you're a disco even in the daylight.

He finds himself holding the bar he's lifting for a little longer than expected. His eyes are on yours in the mirror. You've paused by the top of the stairs, eyes on his.

It had been the shock of how bloody tiny his waist is that had startled you first, the look in his eyes, second.

And it's that second surprise - a pleasant one - which stops you from doing anything else but staring. He's got car crash eyes, and you can't help but watch the disaster of the wreckage burn.

You can't even really take in the rest of his face, and it's a shame, for he's a sight to behold; lips ajar, the freckle beneath them covered by the shadow of his pout, brows furrowing together slowly.

The longer he looks at you, the more strained his expression becomes - until his eyes close, teeth clenching, body holding the weight until he can't support it for much longer. It drops, his body shaking as his chest heaves, the sound shattering the tension between the pair of you.

You feel bad for intruding; as if you've seen him in a way you were never supposed to. It's not like you walked in on him showering or anything as intimate as that, but it's been a while since a man has looked at you like, well, that.

Desire, passion? Sure, whatever. They'd looked at you with those in their eyes.

But Jeongguk hadn't been looking at you with either of those wants. At least, not a want for you.

He'd been pushing himself. Proving himself.

And while he hadn't been proving himself to you, you're reminded why you don't fuck anyone face-to-face these days. Eye-contact. It's too much. Gets you all hot and bothered.

And so while his chest heaves, eyes looking you up and down, a little unsure of what the fuck just happened, you do the only thing you can: distract him.

Behind your back is the breadfish canvas, so you bring it around, hold it in the air and smile as brightly as you possibly can. "Please tell me you know what this is."

He takes a second. Tilts his head, and then realises exactly what it's meant to be - a loaf of bread with a fish head and tail tacked onto the end. He's not seen it since middle school. Was the only one of his friends who found it fucking hilarious - and the way you're beaming makes him think that you were probably just as strange as he was, growing up.

Your mutual childhood strangeness is proven right. Transcends in adulthood, apparently. He sends you voice notes of him singing the breadfish song on loop for three days straight. You block him on 4 separate occasions.

Doesn't stop him from making sure the DJ plays the song on Saturday night. He'll take the blocking if it means he gets to see your smile just as bright as your disco ball eyes.

When Sunday comes, the look on Jeongguk's face as you tell him your membership is due to expire is hard to read.

His eyes, for once, don't give much away.

He's forbearing as he says, "you can't use your memberships expiring as an excuse not to hang out anymore. I'll still force you on hangover walks."

His stoicism fades as he tries to hide a smile when you ask him to wait by the door of the gym lobby. You renew your membership. Just for another month - just enough to keep him happy.

And so the routine continues. Saturday nights are reserved for Dionysus; Sunday mornings for the boy from behind the bar.

There's normally a gap of five or so hours between you saying goodbye at the club and hello at the gym.

Sometimes you go home from Dionysus with Hoseok and Danbi.

Other times, you end up in an apartment that's unfamiliar, with a man who's equally as unknown.

They're always nice enough.

Never nice enough to make you wanna stay the night.

On one occasion, you end up going home with another woman, instead. It's not unheard of, for you, just harder to come by. Your first experiences had been with women, and your dating history is littered with as many women as it is men. You don't subscribe to the idea of sexuality being a linear thing, far more content with just going with who feels right, not what feels right.

Naively, you'd put her on a pedestal, thinking you'd finally get a decent lay - but a drunk shag is a drunk shag. You still ended up leaving as soon as you could, orgasm not quite reached.

At this point, you figure it's a mental block. You never used to have this issue, but you also used to only fuck people you loved.

When the people you loved began to fuck you over, things changed.

You've too many rules now. Too many restrictions on yourself. You can never fully relax and actually enjoy sex for what it is.

The rules are never set in stone, but they always follow the same pattern.

Don't let yourself be vulnerable. Don't get fully naked. No kissing during sex. Absolutely no face-to-face fucking - taken from behind, or not at all. You'll give oral, but the second someone tries to reciprocate, you move it along.

How can you enjoy intimacy with another person when you won't let yourself be intimate?

There are just too many things that remind you still of him; things that will hurt your heart more than it already does when someone else takes his place.

And so sex isn't really sex anymore. It's a tool.

You use it to pretend like you're over everything that happened with your ex; as if you're in control of a situation that he created.

And so that's why Saturday nights are reserved for Dionysus: they're filling the space of date night. Sunday mornings in the gym? Filling the space of lazy morning fucks and brunch down by the lake near Hoseok's place.

Being busy with the gym stops you from making 11:11 wishes for him to show up at your door, and the nights in Dionysus stop you from looking for shooting stars to wish upon instead.

Instant noodles with a guy you barely know don't quite manage to make you forget about eggs benedict with the man you thought you might one day marry, but hey - it's something at least.

On the nights that Jeongguk knows you don't go straight home, he checks up on you; will text when his shift is up, again when he gets home, and one final time when he wakes up. He doesn't care for the semantics that come with double messaging. He isn't trying to impress you.

He knows what you get up to in the dark. What you do is your prerogative. He's more concerned about the lack of trust and faith he has in the people you do it with. Despite this, not once does he berate you for it.

Even Hoseok's made a dumb remark here and there about the fact you're 'getting around', but if Jeongguk's thought similar things, he doesn't let you know it. He's a good friend. One that you're lucky to have. Thank God you fucked his flatmate and not him, instead.

The illusion of you has slipped by this point, for Jeongguk. He knows you too well to toy with what-ifs.

You feel secure in the fact he's not trying to get into your pants; a rarity for dudes these days.

Even Jimin took the hint after you turned him down, and has become a welcome addition to your nights out. He's fun to flirt with, but he knows nothing will happen, so he never pushes it too far - but is also happy to be your cover when another bloke is getting too touchy with you for your liking. He's been your 'boyfriend' a grand total of three times, now - only ever for a night.

You're not too familiar with Jeongguk's other friends yet, but you sometimes get in on a round of shots with them. There are four usual suspects: Jimin, Taehyung, Namjoon and Yoongi. All handsome, all perfectly nice. None of them stick to you like glue, though. Not Jeongguk did.

Hoseok and Danbi have followed your lead, and consider the boys casual acquaintances; drinking partners for when they happen to be at the bar at the same time.

A dog walker by profession, Danbi always finds herself flirting with Taehyung, who tries his hardest to get a discount on her services. She always refuses.

Jeongguk and Yeonjun have a running bet going to see how long it takes until he's paying full price, just for an excuse to see her outside of a club setting. They've had to reset the bet twice, because Danbi might just be the most stubborn woman to have ever graced the planet.

Summer is spent in a technicolour haze of Purple Starfuckers, club lights, unorthodox gym routines and enough glitter to open a craft shop.

Jeongguk didn't quite know how, but he was always finding flecks of the metallic warpaint on his gym gear. He always has a little laugh to himself whenever he does the laundry. "Fucking Disco Ball."

It's early autumn by the time Hoseok and Danbi make their first appearance at the club without you.

He texts you - boo, you whore - and waits in the backroom of the bar until he sees a reply come through.

Busy tonight, your reply reads. It feels a little cold, but you don't mean for it to be. You're just a rush, and Jeongguk nagging you is the last thing you need.

JK:  Busy doing what?

You:  none of your business x

Despite the kiss you end your sentence with (he can hear the way you say 'mwah' the same way you do whenever you know you're being a little cheeky), it still feels... off.

JK: Oddly defensive.

You: i'm always defensive :)

You:  lemme know when you get home safe

It's a simple role reversal, but Jeongguk isn't sure what to make of it. He's normally the one making sure you get home safe. Not the other way around. It's not a 'what-if' scenario that he's run through in his head before. He doesn't like it.

He likes being depended on. Has gotten used to you depending on him.

Pushing it to the back of his mind, he makes orders without much thought, too busy letting himself indulge in what-ifs. It's been a while since he's thought of any regarding you, but he's consumed by them, now. Where you are, who you're with. Why Danbi and Hoseok won't give him a straight answer when he asks. They say it's not their business, but the way Danbi gives Hoseok a grimace whenever the topic is mentioned would suggest she doesn't approve.

It's probably why you haven't told him. He wonders how bad it must be. Secrets aren't something really kept between the pair of you.

There are things he hasn't told you - parts of his past he'd rather keep buried - but he doesn't actively hide himself from you. He thought you did the same.

Apparently not.

He arrives home with no new message from you. It's five thirty, and even though he's a little pissed with the sudden change in your attitude towards him, he can't bring himself to take it out on you.

JK: I'm home, asshole.

JK: Dionysus ain't the same without a disco ball.

Tossing his phone down onto his sheets, Jeongguk stares up at his ceiling. There's never been a complicated weight to your friendship, but he's also never been in the dark before.

Above him, origami birds dance in the light breeze coming from his aircon unit.

There's a dozen strung up from his paper folding phase six months ago, when he was trying to get his mind off of the girl whose initial had been scratched out of the soles of his shoes. Thought that if she came back, she'd find the birds endearing.

Kept them up just in case. Now, he just keeps them up as a reminder: You've gotta let wild birds fly away. Can't keep them caged up.

And it's funny, cause the strings the birds hang from feel like a cage for his thoughts, now. They get tangled in the spokes, your name wrapping around the bars. He can't keep you in a cage, either. Can't expect you to be as you always have been with him, just because it's the 'norm'; can't expect you not to have a life without him.

You:  does your apartment need one?

JK: A disco ball? Don't think so?

Truthfully, he thinks a little disco ball would be fitting strung up with all of his birds.

You: gaaawd, ur such a boy

You:  i'm   asking if i can come over :(

He tries not to read into the unhappy face, but it has him sitting up, replying just as quickly as his heart is beating. There's something amiss, and he doesn't like it.

JK: Oh. Now?

You: no, next week

You:  yes now, doofus

JK:  It's 5am?

He doesn't know why he's being like this. Difficult. Perhaps he is a bit bitter. Petty.

You: this isn't a booty call lmao, chill out

You: i'll be there in 15

JK: Do I get a choice?

He's smiling as he sends the message, and hopes you'll read it in the tone he intends. He's bantering, trying to deflect from the heaviness he can feel in your text thread.

He's relieved when you reply just how he hoped you would.

You: no x

JK:  See you in 15, db x

AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT

[glassrowboat]

Kiss Me (Kill Me). Dottore.

Summary: And then his breath halted. Nails slotting into the same marks she had left in the leather as he gripped it tightly. One sentence was enough to have his synthetic heart beating wildly, pounding as he took in the most simple phrase possible. After all, how can one mistake the words sitting neatly right before him?

Series warnings: suicidal ideation, gore, Dottore, the author trying their best to write a psychologist without any formal studying themselves, suicide, self harm, drug abuse, unhealthy relationships, depressed reader, reader is her own character, eventual smut, religious symbolism

Chapter one:

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

Matthew 11:28-30

Pages were pinched between deft hands, crinkling them with ease as if the words printed out on them in a rushed, messy scrawl meant no more than a spider being crushed to death under a white tissue. All without so much as a hint of protest, for what could paper do against merciless hands?

It was merely a dead tree at the end of it all. Torn from its root, broken off and left to dry in the heat of a warm day, sapping it of all the life it had only to be dunked back into water. Boiled; down to its most basic properties and pulped. All to be formed into something new: the base that starts a creation. From books, art, or scrawled secrets in a diary.

But the dead do not praise the almighty that snuffed it out, nor do any who go down into silence. So the plant it had once been withers away.

A page was torn, a sound that grated on his ears. Dottore almost recoiled on instinct, having gotten so used to the distinct rip of paper that was torn asunder after hours of work had been documented only to turn out fruitless. A waste of his time and effort as a trash bin would slowly fill and tip over.

A scowl grew on his lips.

Now just what was she doing?

In the matter of a few long strides, Dottore had moved from his spot, leaning against the doorframe to her, grabbing her wrist with ease. Capturing her attention. The woman he dared to whisper the pet name habibi to in the dark of the night between rumpled sheets and had long since dubbed Beauty jolted back, looking up at him in a manner he was well used to by now.

Her gaze was as analytical as always; from the very moment they first met to now in their silent reverie. Observing him in the very same way Dottore looked down at a subject below his eager fingers or a piece of Khaenri’ah's legacy left behind in fragments scattered across Teyvat; breaking them down and building them back up so he may understand every last piece. How it works, how it moves, how it falls, and watch it all come together again with a newfound piece of knowledge to utilize.

But contrary to those moments hidden away in his laboratory, there were no gloves separating Beauty from him like there always was with those who lay strapped down on a stainless steel vivisection table. Nay, there was only the warmth of skin against skin he had so greedily chosen to relish in for he was a man who has never tasted sweetness being drawn in by the red sheen of an apple, pointed teeth biting into it for the first time as its juices befouled his maw. Not even the snap of blue rubber against his wrists could save him from the heat of her touch.

That was something Dottore had learned long ago.

“This is the first time I've seen you out of bed in days, and it's to tear apart your work?” Dottore questioned.

At least, that's what he assumed it was. She hadn't even given him the proper chance to peek at the pages he was expecting to see littered with bullet points and breakdowns of this subject or that one all in glittery ink before her free hand was brushing it all away. Nearly knocking it off the desk as she formed a measly excuse of a stack. Ruffling could be heard, but that paled to how her fingers were splayed wide to block his prying eyes.

Only a few messy words had caught his attention, drawing him in before she ripped everything right out from under him. Sheets of paper a rug his feet weren't even planted on suddenly throwing him off balance.

Tilting his head back to thunk against something all with the gentle scoff, she huffed, not even looking up at him as “peeking now” was asked in an accusatory tone.

“Could you blame a scholar for being curious?”

“Yes, I can.”

He felt her swatting at his chest, touch as light as the gentle caress of a falling feather, as she tried to get Dottore to give her some space; if not an ample amount. It's just like she's been insisting on for days now. Endlessly. Assurances of how she's fine, that they're fine, and everything is simply peachy besides the fact she's simply been feeling a little under the weather as of late have been stuffed into his ears again and again like cotton swabs. Soon, no doubt, they would pierce the tympanic membrane and leave only blood in their wake. For today, it had reached the two week mark, and Beauty was still insisting she was “fine.”

It took no effort on Dottore's part to capture the offending limb.

His thumb ran over her wrist, over her racing pulse, until he was tracing the lines on her palm. Mapping out how they curved around them and shifted with each flex of her hand. “Someone's nervous.”

“You..” Beauty's voice trailed off, fading down to a whisper only from uttering one word. But still, he stared down at her, waiting for a proper answer on what this entire debacle had been about. “And you know I don't like you going over my work when it's incomplete.”

Dottore's fingers twitched, threatening to tighten his hold on her before he let her go.

“Then I suppose I should have come home at my usual hour then. That way, you would have had the time to hide this”- he gestured to the mess on the vanity- “away.”

Of course, she jumped, nearly throwing herself off a cliff in the process, at the chance to change the subject. “Actually, I was wondering why you're back early. You're usually so wrapped up in work.”

Which would usually end with Dottore trudging through their bedroom door after a long day, only to slip his coat off as silently as possible to drape it over a lone chair off to the side. A dull blue light would always fill the corner as he came back, flickering over his face and hers as Beauty laid in bed, illuminating the way her eyelids twitched in irritation at the sudden glow; still, she always pretended to be asleep anyway.

Never stirring from the covers.

Not even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped into the bathroom to get ready for the quiet night that awaited him; one of Dottore staring up at the ceiling while she slowly fell into the depths of the dream world he had once been ecstatic at having access to when he first ripped the Akasha from his ear and called it what it truly was: a limitation. An inhibitor. A chain wrapped around the necks of human beings like they were dogs to be shackled by Celestia's will.

The very same irking feeling at the thought greeted Dottore tonight like an old friend, beckoning him as he made his way downstairs, pulling her along with him and away from her supposed work and the wooden vanity so they could have dinner together.

Though she had first insisted on cleaning up, on getting rid of the “trash” she had “dared to pen down in the first place.” Her purple bound leather notebook with loose, torn pages sticking out of the sides was suddenly shoved into a nearby waste bin and quickly taken out to be dumped by one of the maids as they worked. All before he could even make out the design stamped into the front.

It was so unlike her, but she always did have a way of confounding him.

A reticent meal had taken up his evening; one Dottore never would have imagined bothering with five years ago, not when he could have been down in the lab with the sounds of metal clanging or the gentle hum of a machine running as he tinkered with a ruin guard. Rust would be filling his nose rather than the scent of roasted duck as he was left with something that would at least make eye contact (or the closest a ruin guard can get to such) without Dottore having to draw its chin up to look at him.

Her eyes boring into his before she pushed Dottore's hand away and told him to eat lest he let another meal go cold before he finished it. Again.

So he laid in their shared bed, the taste of mint still on Dottore's tongue from brushing his teeth after dinner, and once again started counting each dot in the ceiling above as he stared up at the all too familiar sight.

When he was younger, before he knew the truth about the false sky and the lies it whispered to him, a little boy with wide eyes and his mother’s favorite blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep off the starving cold had done the same with the stars. No matter how itchy it had been, he would have tugged it closer, welcomed its warm embrace, as he wordlessly mouthed the words:

One thousand forty-three.

One thousand forty-four.

One thousand forty-five.

Until he was dragged inside by a hand that grabbed him a little too tightly to do the very thing Beauty had now: to fall asleep.

Her breathing steady, as unshakable as those devout to prayers and a lifetime in pews as Beauty laid curled up against one of the many pillows littering the bed, taking more comfort in the foam stuffed inside it rather than Dottore and his awaiting arms. Comfortably, her nose sat buried away in the shirt she had stolen from him, again, and her legs coiled themselves up in the sheets. She always did have a way of taking them from him in the midst of slumber.

It would be so easy to pull that damnable pillow from her clutches, to throw it off to the side and hold her close until the morning came, and he'll have to leave when the sun rises. Casting its glow across her form lying alone. Only an imprint of his body in the mattress for company, but the few words he has been able to catch scratched out from the mess of papers have been worming at his brain the entire time he had laid there counting away.

Maggots to a corpse.

Feasting on curiosity he had in spades.

One thousand fifty-two, Dottore counted.

His name had been painted across the pages. Dottore, Zandik, and the nickname she called him. Matching the one he had for her. Back then, she had a smile on her face that had halted his breath, just the way it did as he stared at handwriting he could recall all the way down to every flick of an E.

Observations, no doubt, for human behavior was her bread and butter; the very air she breathed; and the ink spilling from her pen as she wrote down every sin he dared to confess.

He had received hundreds of reports from her by now, far too many to count but stored away nonetheless, about the latest test subjects detailing every last thing she could think of. To the point that he already had a vague idea of what she would have written about him, but it was more than that. It had to be. For she wouldn't have tossed that damn journal out otherwise.

Cast it aside like dross.

With one last lingering glance her way as Beauty snored against the sheets, Dottore got out of bed.

The floorboards didn't even so much as creek below him as he walked to the door and shut it with a silent click.

A book of all things was haunting him. Causing Dottore to leave his chambers in the middle of the night to make his way down chilled halls. The presence of the cryo Archon herself decorating each corridor, each twist and turn, with the cold he had worked so hard to combat a few centuries ago with heaters so hot to the touch you couldn't even graze past one without it leaving a burn on any trace of exposed flesh. (As learned from personal experience).

Zapolyarny Palace's rubbish room should be…

The flutter of his white jacket followed Dottore as he pulled it on, having only just plucked it from where it hung before the door had smacked him in the face he made his way down a flight of steps.

Briefly, Dottore could hear his segments over their shared network prying into what he was doing. Or arguing with themselves, really; that seemed to be their favorite hobby. They always had something to say. To jabber about to the point that tamping each voice down had become second nature.

Shutting them out was easy, something he had done millions of times by now. And that was just this past six months.

The last thing he heard, flickering out as the connection was temporarily cut to dull the ache in his head was Epsilon. Petulant, as between the radio static Dottore caught something about “and you say I'm the one who should mind their own business.”

Then, all Dottore was left with was the loud groan of the trash compactor. A sound that had welcomed him time and time again after all the times he had been down here. His shoes had always hit the floor louder than necessary as he had to deal with tossing supplies that unfortunately hadn't lasted through his experiments.

It creaks a nostalgic hum.

But that wasn't why he was here.

Flexing his hands, the leather of his gloves moving with them, Dottore set to digging through the plastic bags in front of him. Tossing anything that wasn't his goal out of the way, cluttering the floor with paper cups, shredded files, and whatever else had been used and forgotten. A lesser man might have been disgusted, but this was just another Tuesday.

And then his fingers met the stained purple leather.

Kalpalata lotus print embedded on the front.

A white figure huddled over trash stood in the middle of the room, a reverent touch grazing over the cover of the journal covered in scratches and fingernails prints worn into the leather just like the flower marking the front from having gripped it too tightly.

Surely, if someone came in now, they'd look at him as if he was crazed. Maybe even shout about ghosts suddenly intruding on the palace; to which he'd only laughed.

Taking the treasure in his grasp, Dottore turned it over methodically, studying just how well worn it was. Threadbare, down to the bone as the binding threatens to fall out on him, the first page already hanging out of the book as he opens it to read his habibi’s name claiming this as hers all with one simple signature staining the surface; in a way that he couldn't find himself to mind even with the occasional drops of ink.

It was enough to have Dottore pulling his gloves off, throwing them to the floor to collect later so he could trace over each word. Even with the splatters, it was still so much neater than his own notes written down in a crazed frenzy.

And then his breath halted.

Nails slotting into the same marks she had left in the leather as he gripped it tightly.

One sentence was enough to have his synthetic heart beating wildly, pounding as he took in the most simple phrase possible.

After all, how can one mistake the words:

Wouldn't it all be easier if I was dead?

In pure black ink. No colored pens, no glitter, not even doodles in the margins or a little heart just for him, a sight Dottore had grown well used to seeing in her reports to him.

The sight made him want to hurl the book into the shadows of the room around him. Let it be forgotten between heaps of trash and plastic bags. They could hide the pages, cover them in scraps of food, and soak in the drops of half finished drink until each letter was blurred beyond recognition.

She did, after all, decide it was trash.

So wouldn't it make sense he let it be treated like it was? As long as it meant never seeing those words again.

His arm was already extended, waiting to toss it into the foul abyss and say good riddance, but what would that do, really?

In the end, he still knew.

Dottore could sit here, close his eyes, and picture that damned sentence again all because he knew.

That simple fact was enough to have Dottore grimacing in annoyance. Mind telling him the obvious, just as always, even in this moment where his emotions were stirring into a storm. Clouds in his veins and behind the eyes, raining down as he flipped to the next page.

Thursday, May 13, 1675.

Graduation was today.

I sat with a few other people in my Darshan in the cheap chairs they set up (one I swear gave me a splinter) and watched as people took their scrolls with smiles on their faces. Years of work finally came to fruition.

Good for them, really. Good for me. Or, at least, that's what I tried to remind myself as I climbed up on stage and faked a smile as I was congratulated for making it this far. But even then, I was glad to cast that hat aside, the yellow Vahumana badge staring back at me as I put it away for the last time.

Another page.

Wednesday, May 19, 1675.

I have everything packed up and ready to go for my trip back home. My clothes were cleaned and folded, books were stored in cardboard boxes (I never noticed how many I've bought or been gifted over these past few years until I saw three boxes stuffed full), knick knacks wrapped in paper for safe travel, and the key to my room set out to be returned to the dorm mother tomorrow morning.

Everything is ready for me to leave and forget these hallowed halls.

Just like my roommate already has.

She didn't even say anything to me other than a passing goodbye as she left. It's not like I was surprised. Still, you think someone you have lived with for so long would be missed despite the harsh tension between us, but maybe that's just my own feelings.

Regardless, I'll be heading back to my family home soon, at least. So that is some comfort for whatever it's worth. Even if that does mean I'll have to prepare answers for the questions they will undoubtedly ask.

And another.

Saturday, May 22, 1675.

I have just arrived back home and already I want to leave.

My family was all smiles as they welcomed me in, told me to unpack what I could before dinner, and then barged into my room to talk.

What were your classes like? What did you do while you were gone? Did you make any friends? ….And I couldn't bring myself to tell them that no, I don't think I did. Not unless you count the someone I kept bothering for the sake of helping me translate texts full of the old Sumerian dialect for my papers.

Sunday, May 23, 1675.

Sunday dinners are the same as ever, I see. The last time I had to deal with this was when I was a freshman and visited for the first official break between semesters. From there, I decided I would prefer to stay in the dorms even when it's the holidays.

But tonight, I sat before a plate full of sabz meat stew and rice and watched everyone bow their heads as my family prayed in thanks.

The entire time I refused to even blink.

Friday, May 28, 1675.

I need to find a job. At least, that's what I've been telling myself for the past five days.

The very idea of getting up and searching is draining, but so is putting a smile on as someone pops their head into my room (without knocking, mind you) and asking how I'm doing. To which I always respond with I'm fine.

I’m fine.

I have to be.

Monday, May 31, 1675.

No more heads have been poking into my room, not since I told them I was going to join the Fatui despite all the other places I applied and got accepted into. The looks I got when I told everyone over dinner, right after they all prayed, had been priceless. Completely, utterly, stupefied, and I had to keep myself from laughing.

At the very least, this new job will keep my mind distracted. I won't be able to sit at home staring at family photos from when I was younger and- all that matters is I can keep my mind distracted.

A busy mind is a good thing, keep it from wandering, so I intend to let it stay that way.

And lastly:

Friday, June 13, 1675.

Dottore traced his fingers over the date, one he knew well. Not that he'd willingly admit that. If anyone did dare to ask, they would be simply dismissed, waved away as Dottore tells them something along the lines of “I have no need to pay attention to anniversaries.”

The thirteenth of July. It was the first day she started working for him.

Dottore found himself walking back inside, journal tucked into his jacket to make sure Beauty wouldn't see it in case she was awake and sleepily tripping over her own two feet in an attempt to find him to drag him back to bed. The door to his steady swung open without so much as a creak and closed just as silently. Lock turning in place before Dottore sat down in the couch chair he so rarely used these days; not when she was always there nagging him about how it would give Dottore crooks in his neck if he fell asleep there one more time.

Her hands lingering on his shoulders and lips pressed to his mask…

Dottore pushed the wry grin that threatened to grow on his face down, opting to lean back into that same chair that threatened to swallow him into the cushions the same way the open book did its pages.

Devouring his attention.

Settling in had been…far from fun, but I unpacked what I needed for the night and left it at that; the rest can be dealt with later. Besides, compared to the day I had a few cardboard boxes barely mattered. After all, what could compare to meeting the elusive Lord Harbinger Il Dottore himself?

The endless white halls had already started to blur together, forming a maze in your head as you tried to map out each and every turn of a corner as you followed behind the man in front of you. The stray posters tacked up on the wall about lab safety barely differentiated one place from another, not even with their cheesy lines and reminders to use basic common sense. All you could rely on at the moment was the one dutifully leading you along, giving you a tour inside the depths of Zapolyarny Palace like it was nothing.

For him it surely must be.

But you were stuck watching the swing of his badge as every step you both took it moved back and forth, taunting you. It was in Snezhnayan, not common, meaning you were left glaring at symbols you couldn't understand all because you hadn't heard the man's name properly when he introduced himself after giving you a pair of safety glasses.

Lab mandated, apparently.

They would take time to get used to and you can already see yourself forgetting to take them off at the end of the day, but for now you were focusing on the tour you were being given as you chewed over the idea of just simply asking for his name again.

But by now, it felt a little too late to ask again. Even if it just was for clarifications sake.

The tapping of shoes came to a halt as you both stopped before a pair of open doors leading to a giant room. It was mostly bare, but it had three practice dummies close to the wall currently falling from the pikes they had been strung up. Keeling over onto the black stained floor beneath them covered in ash.

A lone boot print stood in the inky black, leaving a patch of white into the inky abyss.

And more boot prints trailed a path along the floor until they fully disappeared.

“And here is where we run physical trials for test subjects.” He shot you a look as he said: “but I don't think you'll be here much.”

You only nodded in response.

Another room came after another hall to add to your mental map you had long since lost track of as everything seemed to wander off into dead-end alleys and dark dungeons. All as the sound of rustling clothes filled your ears and mindless chatter about how working down here had been for him. Even in a place known as Heresy’s he managed to seem carefree as a door was pushed open to an archive.

Hand above your head to give you the chance to peek in to see stacks of books right from the moment the door swung open with a loud groan.

You could already see yourself spending far too much time in here as your eyes scanned over the seemingly endless rows, but you weren't given much of a chance to take it all in before you were on to the next stop.

You both passed by a few labs. Some seemed calmer than others, some had posters about safety lining the walls, but all of them had you pulling your head away only seconds after sticking it in the doorway to scrunch up your nose as the smell of disinfectant and other chemicals you couldn't place assaulted you.

For a moment, you heard your tour guide mutter a “bless you” as you sneezed (again) before walking on ahead to another sector of Heresy's.

One full of hustle and bustle as people in lab coats moved around the room with an ease that only came from knowing a space inside and out. Shuffling around giant crates, pieces of machinery you couldn't name but certainly recognized from a few constructions in Sumeru you had been told not to stray near, and steel tables all currently occupied with Fatui.

Faces hidden away by metal masks.

Just like the ones who openly walked around under the Tsarita's employ back home, never sparing you a glance.

The masks were only lifted away long enough for a light to be shined in their eyes, ones you always questioned as you passed them by on the streets or in Lambad's tavern, and then their faces were hidden away again. Blocked from sight so the individual fell away, and they once again belonged to the mass. To the service. To the worship of their beloved cryo Archon.

Would there be mercy in the eyes of the neighboring nations' people as they fulfill Her orders? Dutifully listening to whatever they're told simply because someone divine uttered a word or two.

The only thing that halted your train of thought with a resounding screech, breaks pulled back and forced to kick up sparks along well worn rails that lit your mind afire was the same man's voice who had been showing you around calling your name. All so your gaze could follow his pointed finger towards one figure in the room.

Pointing, pointing, and pointing towards a head of blue hair and a black mask.

Funny, you could have sworn you saw that same distinct shade in a few of the other sectors before you had been encouraged to keep up with the wave of a hand.

But the man at the other end of a finger and its broken nail was standing tall as everyone moved around him. A lone figure unbothered by the crowd that already had your shoulders tensing as someone passed behind you with a quick call of an “excuse me.”

“It's rude to point you know.” You said, trying to make a joke as you took everything in at once.

Between bustling figures was an earring like beryl only for it to glow the same way the flicker of a flaming torch lighting up the darkest of nights would, clothes ironed but clearly rumbled from today's work, and a mask with the gleam of burnished aluminum as this man stood before an occupied steel table. (You had later been told the correct term is vivisection table). A hand over a random Fatuus arm, checking for something or another with rippling skin as the limb was turned this way or that; discolored, but against the pale skin the bruises looked like the ice cold ocean you had sailed upon as a boat took you further and further away from your home.

You didn't even register your tour guide, saying that being rude was the least of your worries as that mask turned towards you. The end of its beak, birdlike as it was, stabbing at the air between you and who you could only guess was-

“Lord Harbinger Dottore.”

An arm was dropped, forgotten about with ease as Dottore himself moved to stand before you.

The man beside you bowed his head in respect, and you followed his example.

Head lowered, safety glasses sliding off your face and only stopping thanks to your ears as the sound of a multitude filled the air. All from a sentence so short it barely came across as a sign of acknowledgment.

“You must be the new hire.”

“I am.”

“I hope you prove your worth then. I would hate to have wasted my time bringing you here only to have a lack of results from bringing in a psychologist for my test subjects.” A pause. “But I am sure you understand. After all, you are only here temporarily. A trial run if you will.”

And as you looked up, meeting Dottore face to mask, all you could see was your own reflection staring back at you. Dark circles under your eyes from the lack of sleep you were able to get last night having tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed before you slowly succumbed to the constant pull at your mind to let it all go.

To simply rest.

For humanity, after all the time you have sat back with a colored pen and a notebook in hand, it has spilled its secrets to you. That it is afflicted in every way; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

And you could only say you long since stopped hoping for destruction to turn a blind eye to you.

“Well, I am honored to be here as a trail run, Lord Harbinger.”

You didn't miss the way his lips curled up, twisting to reveal pointed teeth as Dottore drawled out. “Good. Then we're on the same page."

[stormz369]

The King of Hell and Me: Ch 4 - The Contract

Chapter Guide Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4

Summary: A witch summons Lucifer to earth to make a deal. Warnings: none I can think of? This is a generally sweet, fluffy chapter Word Count: 2.3k

Summoning the devil wasn't part of the plan. A demonic creature, yes, but the actual devil? The book didn't say anything about him. I was expecting to be dealing with an imp or some other kind of lower level Hellion. Someone with the power to do what I wanted, but not to completely fuck me over. Someone who'd take something I could spare. Not my soul.

The devil was also far less intimidating than I expected. He was a little on the short side, and far more human than I might have thought. Aside from the six glorious wings at his back, the least human things about him were his teeth and eyes; red and yellow, swirling with confusion and housing an ancient sorrow that seemed buried just below the surface. An unamused, but surprised look finally landed on me, knelt by the edge of the summoning circle. He made to move toward me, but was held in place by the ring of black salt. With a huff, he leaned back against the barrier, crossing his arms and observing me.

“... No one's summoned me to the mortal world in a long time. … You must be desperate.”

“I … I'll be honest, that wasn't supposed to happen, Sir … the book doesn't say anything about …” I fumbled through the book, rereading the spell. There was nothing to indicate who it called upon.

“Sir?” He chuckled, “well, that’s refreshing. Last time I was pulled into a summoning circle, the wretch had the nerve to call me ‘Dark Prince’ the whole time.”

I chuckled a bit awkwardly. “... Well, that's kind of a mouthful. If you don't mind, I think I'll stick with Mr. Morningstar?”

“Lucifer, please … but how did you know?”

“Aside from the snake and apple motifs you've got going on? You have six, very large, feathered wings. I might not be Christian, but I do know what angels are supposed to look like. … Sir.”

After a moment he let out a bark of a laugh, holding his sides. “Oh golly, you're entertaining! Alright, little witch. Whoever you were trying to summon, you've got me. So what deal were you trying to make?”

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Now or never, I guess. “My best friend is ill, and the doctors have given up hope. …”

“You want to trade your soul for your friend's life?” He smiled gently.

“... Does it have to be my soul?”

A strange look passed over his beautiful face, and he considered me for a moment. “... Maybe we can come to another arrangement. … There is something I can't get in Hell, and you did bring me here.”

I nodded slowly, curious what Lucifer himself could possibly want from earth. “Yes?”

“... Only sinners end up in hell. I … I gave Eve that apple for her own benefit. To help her, and her children. So they could be better, be more … more. Not just animals, consumed by their instincts. But I’ve never seen any good come of it …”

“Oh … well that's not at all fair …” I frowned, looking up at him. “Especially considering how much good there is …’’

He cleared his throat, nodding a bit. “Right, so … if you show me some of that good, I'll heal your friend. Do we have a deal?”

“Huh? N- no, I don't just want my friend healed. I want a cure.”

“... Same thing?”

“No, Sir,-”

“Lucifer.”

“... Lucifer, … the doctors don't know how to help her. Which means they don't know how to help anyone else with this illness either. I want my friend healed, but I also want there to be a cure for everyone else.”

A small smile slid across his lips. “... That amount of power will cost quite a bit more … but something tells me you're more than capable of paying the price.”

A crisp white scroll unfurled from his hand, gold ink scrawling across it before my eyes. I carefully took the paper in my hands, reading it carefully.

“... This says you decide when I've held up my side of the deal. How do I know you'll ever decide to pay up?”

He smirked a bit, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “You're a clever one. … Alright, as a show of good faith, I will heal your friend up front. … You earned that much at least.”

With a wave of his hand, the text changed. I reread the document and nodded. “... Thank you. Ok, where do I sign?”

A white feather quill appeared, and Lucifer took it. He tapped the end to his finger, and pulled away a trail of … liquid gold? He signed the bottom with a flourish, then offered me the quill.

“Touch it to the ring finger of your non-dominant hand, it will draw up a small amount of your blood to sign with.” He tapped the paper where I was to sign. 

I nodded, taking the quill, and placed it against my finger like he said. There was a brief, sharp, pain and when I pulled the quill away a trail of red followed. My finger appeared uninjured, but hurt like I had pricked it with a sewing needle. I signed where he indicated, and the summoning circle went up in flames, leaving no trace.

Lucifer smiled brightly, rolling up the scroll before he handed it to me. “Your contract, my lady.”

I took it, standing slowly. “... Thank you …”

He snapped his fingers, creating a crackle of energy throughout the room, and grinned. “There’s my side done, for now. So, how shall we start?”

///////////////

It took me all afternoon to think on what to start with. While I made tea and thought about it, he entertained himself by looking through my books and movies. His wings disappeared as he sat on my couch, reading the back cover of a book.

“... Is this for entertainment, or documentation?” He held the book up to show me the cover.

“That’s historical fiction, so entertainment based loosely on fact. It's about the wives of Henry the Eighth. … Do you know about them? How much do you know about human history?”

He chuckled. “I do keep apprised of the major headlines up here, but I don't typically bother with anything more. … You derive entertainment out of the suffering of those women?”

I chuckled a bit, setting a teacup in front of him, and sitting on the other side of the couch. “I think most people who read stories about horrible events do so because they don't understand how such things happen. We have a certain … morbid fascination with cruelty. … But I think it's usually also about honoring the dead. … They suffered so horribly, but we remember them. We don't let the bad things that happened to them get swept under the rug.”

He took the tea, watching me. “... I see …. Well, what good is there in that?”

“Ever heard the phrase ‘those who don't learn history are doomed to repeat it'?”

“You think remembering their pain will keep it at bay?”

“Something like that … can't avoid pain if you don't know what you're looking out for. Can't protect your loved ones unless you know what you're defending them against.”

He chuckled, sipping his tea. “I see…” He watched me, a curious look on his face. “So, any ideas yet?”

“Well, I was thinking we could start around town. You said it's been a while since you've been on earth?” He nodded, giving me a curious expression. “Then I think we ought to start with a little tour around town, so you can get acclimated. Maybe something will strike your fancy, yeah?”

“... You don't have to do that, you know.” A small frown slid across his face.

“Do what?”

“The tea, taking me on a tour … it's cute, but unnecessary.”

I set my teacup down, raising an eyebrow. “... Cute?”

“Trying to curry favor.” He frowned more.

A sharp laugh ripped out of me, and I covered my mouth. “... I'm sorry. … I'm not trying to ‘curry favor' with you, Lucifer. You're a guest in my home, you should be able to expect some basic hospitality. My grandma always said we should be hospitable to others, cause you never know when it'll make all the difference in their lives.”

He watched me for a moment and chuckled softly. “I don't think your grandmother meant you to be hospitable to the devil, little witch.”

“If my grandma were here right now, she would ask why I haven't set out any cookies. Sadly, I have none to offer you. But I was thinking we could stop for ice cream on our tour. There's a really cute local ice cream parlor, I'd say it definitely counts as something good people have done with free will.”

He blinked slowly. “... You are … not at all what I expected.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

After a brief moment he smirked, standing up. “Where's this ice cream parlor?”

//////////////

So I showed Lucifer around my little town. I took him to a playground where he could see happy families together. To a riverbank where my coven picked up litter and people went tubing and swimming. The ice cream parlor, and some other local businesses I liked. I bought him an ice cream cone, and a duck plushie he seemed particularly drawn to. He was hesitant to accept it, but once it was in his hands he held it to his chest, periodically stroking the tuft of fur on its head.

We walked in the sunshine, past schools and libraries. We watched a guitar player in a park, and got tacos from a food truck. And all day, I told him stories of kindness and generosity, big and small. Everything I could think of, from the Christmas truce in World War 1 to my brother's boss giving me free coffees when I pick him up from work. Any act of kindness I had experienced, seen, or heard of became an example of good things that happen because people have free will. 

When it started to get late I took him to my favorite place to watch the sunset. He sat beside me, still hugging the duck plushie, and watched the sun dip lower and lower, the sky turning brilliant shades of purple and red.

“So? Any thoughts?” I watched him think for a minute.

“... They're good stories. But there's one problem.”

“What's that?”

“... Most of it wouldn't be necessary if evil weren't so prevalent in the world.”

“... Well, … you can't have good without bad.”

“What?” He frowned, turning to me.

“Without knowing about bad, you wouldn't know about good either. You'd just have … middle. In order to know you like something you have to be able to compare it to something you don't like. Otherwise it would all just be. … Plus, when everything’s going worst is when we notice good things the most. Smaller kindnesses mean more when we're hurting.”

Lucifer looked back at the sunset, thinking. “... Why did you give me the duck?”

I chuckled softly. “You seemed to like it, and I could afford to get it for you. Everyone should get a souvenir when they take a trip.”

“So you weren't trying to get in good with the boss of Hell?”

“Nope.”

“... Even though, by making a deal with me, you have condemned your soul to my realm when you die?”

“Anyone who thinks a duck plushie is going to buy them preferential treatment in hell is an idiot.” He gave me a skeptical look at that. “Lucifer, I swear, I only bought it for you because you seemed to like it.”

He thought for a minute, petting it absentmindedly again. “... You've held up your end of the bargain…”

“... But?”

“... When I finish my end, I go home. I can only be on earth for the time it takes to complete a deal. … I … I really enjoyed today.” As it got dark, his body started to glow with faint gold light. He looked up at the silver stars, and in that moment he seemed so sad, so delicate.

“... You know, I am asking for quite a lot … a cure for everyone with this disease, and all you get in return is some examples of kindness and an afternoon running around my town? … Maybe we could rework the contract.”

His eyes went wide as he turned to look at me. “... What did you have in mind?”

“... Well, you're not bad company. And I had a good day today too. We could do it again, if you wanted.”

Lucifer slowly grinned, and the contract was suddenly floating in front of me. An addendum was added to the bottom. Lucifer would send the necessary information to a doctor for the cure tonight, and once a month for the rest of my life, Lucifer would visit me wherever I was on earth. I would tell him more stories that showed what good has come of free will, and show him the good parts of life on earth.

I grinned, taking the quill that floated next to the scroll, and held it to my ring finger. A sharp pain later, I was signing at the bottom. Lucifer signed next to my name, his hand slightly shaking. “Alright … I'll see you again in one month then.”

I nodded. “I'm free on the third, if that works for you?”

He nodded. “The third. It's a date.”

With a snap of his fingers he was gone, and I knew some medical researcher somewhere was having the epiphany that would lead to the cure. In the meantime, I had a date with the devil to plan.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

“You know I am a righteous man.”

They are the villains, and he, the righteous hero.

Or so he thinks.

... Oh no.

“Mr. President, there’s another letter for you from Night Raven College!“

Another week, another letter.

That pesky girl is at it again.

He barely glanced up from his paperwork. “… Leave it on my desk.”

“You’re not going to read it now, sir?” his aide asked. “I think it’s from your pen pal. The girl in raven feathers, right?”

He silently cursed the bird—he had misjudged her cunning, her sentimentality. To intentionally send correspondences to his fellow student council members instead of directly to himself, asking them to deliver the letters to him on her behalf… It placed a social pressure on him to receive them, to reply, rather than ignore or trash them.

We both scrawl down our true feelings on paper rather than share them with those around us, so let’s talk with each other. It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, but just sharing a little of our days and sharing stories. Let’s take small steps together. Shall I start? Today, Sebek-san introduced me to a new book series—

He had furiously scrawled responses while his aide and vice president hovered. Blissfully ignorant and eagerly commending his newfound friendship.

Miss Crowley, you must cease your frivolous communications—

This, too, he considered a cruel and unusual punishment dreamt up by the depraved souls at Night Raven College.

Disgust and hatred surged through him. It took all of his willpower to not snap his writing implement in half. He could feel a migraine coming on.

“That will not be necessary. I will be paying their campus a visit soon enough on official student council business.”

“Oh, so you can just catch up with her and all your other NRC friends in person.”

“That’s our president!” his vice laughed. “Always so courteous. It’s better to speak to people face-to-face. They’ll be really surprised to see you, huh? The last time we saw them was the masquerade.”

“… Indeed. It had been some time.”

The masquerade. Anger rose like bile in the back of his throat. His face remained blank as he signed off on and stamped the current document before him.

“To serve as an ambassador for ourselves and the Night Raven College is truly an honor,” he said flatly. “Strengthening our bond is my first and foremost priority. If there is time to dedicate to socializing, then it is secondary to my duties. I do not plan on squandering my time there.”

Moreover… I must remain vigilant.

A monstrous figure emerged from his mind. Horned, with eyes that glowed green in the dark. Dressed in nightmares and outlined by flame. A cold, challenging sneer at his mouth.

The demon walking around in broad daylight.

Malleus Draconia. He still yet lives.

Night Raven College was the home turf of he and his retainers. Enemy territory teeming with magic.

He was quick to cover his grimace with a handkerchief. A quick prayer uttered under his breath. God have mercy on me.

"Has there been any news of who is to receive me upon my arrival?" he asked of his aide.

"A student representative like yourself, sir. I believe they're still in the process of selecting someone. Would you like me to contact them again to inquire for an update?"

"If you can find time to do so after completing your other tasks. It doesn’t take priority.” He shook his head, crushing his handkerchief in his grip. “Surely the headmaster of such a prestigious learning institution will send a qualified and professional candidate. Perhaps I worry for naught."

"Yessir! I'll get right to it when I can."

He returned to his work.

The unease that had been building in him all day had not abated. No, it had only swelled since the morning, having evolved into a deep despair weighing down his soul. Metallic fear clung to the roof of his mouth.

What's wrong with me lately? Am I going mad? He rubbed at his temples, trying to chase away the sinking feeling. This visit is merely a formality, nothing more. So why does this dread persist?

Outside, bells tolled. A familiar, comforting sound that resonated, filling the entire City of Flowers for a fleeting moment. They announced the beginning of the afternoon, a time of respite and relaxation.

The bells.

The bells.

A distant, painful exchange flared back to life. Of he and of Malleus, their wills clashing in the aftermath of a great calamity. But who was man and who was monster?

He couldn't see anymore.

"Lie, if you must. It will make it easy for you to deceive others, perhaps even deceive yourself."

Stop.

"However, you cannot fool the Bell of Salvation. You cannot run, nor hide, from the eyes which see the entire city."

Don't look at me.

"It has always been watching over you, judging your every action."

Not with those damnable eyes...!!

He guiltily tore away from the bells, addressing his student council. "You're dismissed. Enjoy your lunch break. We'll resume our activities when you return."

"Aren't you going to have lunch too, sir?" his vice president asked. "You shouldn't overwork yourself."

"You could always join us!" the aide suggested.

"Thank you, but I need some solitude. I'm not feeling very well. I would hate to potentially pass it onto you."

"Oh... well, can we at least grab you something?"

"Don't trouble yourselves." He waved a hand towards the door.

His aide and vice president exchanged a look--but ultimately, the two shuffled out as ordered. When the door clicked shut behind them, he allowed himself to expel a sigh. The emotions brewing inside of him still stirred restlessly, seeking an outlet.

How pathetic. Those villains are getting to me.

They would be so smug about it if they knew the effect they were having on him. Jeering, proud characters, all of them. What he would give to wipe those grins off their faces.

The common, vulgar, weak, licentious bunch.

He tried to squash the feeling down, smothering the fire into cinders and ash. The thought dispelled, he was left with a deep scowl.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted the letter, untouched at the edge of his desk. “I think it’s from your pen pal. The girl in raven feathers, right?”

Something burned inside of him. The same fuel for the fire he held for his most hated foe. Her forgivingness, her encouragement—he despised it, didn’t want that pity.

A ray of hope. The temptation for an alternative path to salvation.

“If you look around, you’ll realize that there are others that care for you and want to see you at your best. You don’t need to face your pain alone anymore.

“Let others in. Reflect, repent, and forgive yourself. Only then can you rediscover joy. I’m sure he would have wished for your happiness as well.”

“… Hmph. Ridiculous.”

Granting me a ‘second chance’? When I’ve committed no sin? Yet it is the sinners themselves who would tell me to repent…

Draconia and that girl continue to be thorns in my backside. Servants of evil, the both of them!!

He stood from his desk, snatching up the letter. Storming over to the fireplace, he stood before the enticing dance of fire, envelope crushed between his fingers. The hypnotizing warmth, conjuring visions of the sun caught on hair, power blazing out of control.

He casted the letter into the waiting, eager flames. It smoldered into a satisfyingly pitch black within seconds, cleansing him of the burden.

His resolution was born anew, scorching hot and seared into his very soul.

“Malleus Draconia…! Raven Crowley…! And every single one of the malefactors of Night Raven College… Mark my words, when next we meet, I fully intend to make good on my promise.”

To destroy you and all that you stand for.

[lovesickletters]

Would it be possible if you did a letter from Knight cookie? Maybe a confession of his love?

💜𝒦𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒞ℴℴ𝓀𝒾ℯ | ℒℴ𝓋ℯ𝓈𝒾𝒸𝓀 ℒℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇💜

The handwriting is clearly heavily laboured over, each word carefully chosen and scrawled in precise ink. You wonder how many sheets of paper were tossed in the process of attempting to achieve perfection.

My Liege,

In the presence of your grace, my heart finds itself in a quandary, battling the dragons of doubt and uncertainty. Yet, in the face of this armor-clad hesitance, I cannot help but lay down my shield and reveal the truth that weighs heavily upon my breastplate.

Though I may wield a blade with ease, my armor feels heavy in the face of baring my heart. I confess, with a humble spirit, that my feelings for you transcend mere admiration. They bloom like the rarest of flowers in the garden of my soul.

Would you grant this humble knight the honor of your affection? To stand by your side, to shield you from harm, and to cherish you with the unwavering loyalty of a knight sworn to protect their most precious treasure.

Yours, with earnest humility and devotion,

Knight Cookie

[anonymous-dentist]

im living off q!archivists CRUMBS so maybe something about cellbit learning about phils past as the angel of death?? they bond a lil over their retirement/redemption arcs??? smpearth is CANON in my HEART ok

Phil knows Death. He likes to think he knows Her rather well, actually. He’s been around for long enough to know Her influence when he sees it, though it’s rare to see as much of it in one place as there is on Quesadilla Island. But it makes sense, really; between Bad and Phil himself, there’s plenty of death to go around.

But it’s Cellbit of all people that the crows attach themselves to. And Phil, frankly, doesn’t get it. Because. Because he’s Cellbit. He’s a nerd! He can fight alright, but that’s it.

Then Phil dreams of the birdhouse. And then he wakes up, and, for the first time, he sees the only black tendrils of death snaked around Cellbit’s arms and hands like tattoos. On that same day, he hears one of the newer crows mention a ‘God of Death’ living in Cellbit’s basement, which is concerning considering there’s one Goddess of Death and she’s A) Phil’s wife and B) not currently in Cellbit’s basement.

And then the two of them are sorting through documents in the Order and they get to a couple of Bagi’s submissions: photocopied pages right out of a child’s diary.

Cellbit hesitates when he sees them.

Then he hands them to Phil and says, “I can’t read her handwriting.”

Phil takes the papers. He looks at them. Reads them. Sees Cellbit’s name written in childish scrawl. Looks up. Sees a distant look in Cellbit’s eye. Sighs. Puts the papers in a neat stack next to his knee.

“Do you know why I picked that ‘death room’ of yours?” Phil asks.

Cellbit shrugs and picks up a photo Fit submitted to add to a new album. “I figured it had something to do with your… reputation.”

And that’s interesting, because the only two people who would know that reputation on the island are Wilbur, who Cellbit has only met twice, and Bad.

And Bad. Right, they’re friends, aren’t they?

(Once upon a time, Bad had mentioned all the souls he had reaped from those silly little “Hunger Games”, and he had mentioned the little human kid he had almost thought about recruiting to become his apprentice.

Now, Phil looks at Cellbit’s goggles and thinks that they look a lot like a pair that Bad used to own a long, long time ago.)

“Well,” Phil says, “you said that Death has to do with time, right?”

Cellbit gives him an unimpressed look. He’s too smart for his own good sometimes.

“It’s about how time can always run out, yes,” he flatly replies.

But that’s not quite how Phil remembers the explanation going.

There are dark circles under Cellbit’s eyes and blood under his nails. Phil knows after accepting these diary pages from Bagi herself that she and Cellbit had painted their nails the same color. Still, the red remains: an all-too-familiar color that fits Cellbit more than it fits others Phil has met.

“Or,” he gently says, “it’s about how time can never run out. Sometimes, that’s all you need.”

He picks up a new stack of papers, then, and starts sorting them as Cellbit stares at his own hands, flexing his fingers.

Time. It really can be the solution to all of one’s problems, or it can be the cause.

Funny, that.

[invisibleraven]

Hey, #7 soulmate au is DEVASTATING sooooo

peterpatterlina

Some of the first words every child learned to read were the ones printed on their skin-the last words their soulmate would ever say to them. A bit morbid, and no one really thought it best system to find a soulmate, but it was all they had.

Reggie Peters was lucky enough to have two soulmates-though that meant losing the love of his life twice, he figured that at least he wouldn't be alone. Or at least he hoped.

He traced the sentences that floated over his arms over and over until he knew them by heart.

Cariño.../I'll be waiting

The first he found out was a Spanish term of endearment, one he loved and couldn't wait to meet the person who was going to use it. The second made him a little melancholic, but it also meant he would also have a romantic soul to love.

He met Luke in college, they ended up as roommates, and bonded immediately. They loved the same music, even if Luke wasn't into country. They jammed late into the night, bonding over items of childhood nostalgia and parental troubles alike.

He saw Luke's marks early on, for he constantly wore cut offs and the sentences were scrawled along his ribs.

Maybe we can jam together in heaven?/It's okay, we'll be alright, you can go mi vida

Reggie had to hold back a squee at that, because Luke also had a soulmate who spoke Spanish-could they be the same person? Could Luke be one of his?

They started hooking up one drunken night, and decided to keep it up, developing feelings along the way, deciding to make it official upon graduating when Luke confessed he never wanted to stop living with-and loving Reggie.

They never really talked about the marks-it was a depressing thought, something that couldn't be confirmed until they broke up, or worse-when one of them died. For now they were happy, and that was enough.

They began working as session musicians at a studio, with Luke writing a few songs that got bought helping him get closer to his dream of being a real musician.

They met Alex there, the session drummer who got on with them like a house on fire, and Luke proposed starting a band, all three of them. Give them a chance to perform, maybe be the ones recording their own stuff instead of supporting the latest craze who had AI generated lyrics and next to no musical talent.

However it was through the studio that they met Julie-she was an intern there doing backing vocals for the odd song. And she was good.

"Why aren't you using those pipes to make your own music?" Luke asked her one night as they were all packing up.

"Haven't found my sound yet," she replied with a shrug. "Happy to be in the background until I do."

"Why don't you check out our band?" Reggie offered. "Might be fun to have another vocalist and I know you play a killer piano."

She smirked at that. "I could be persuaded."

Julie joined their relationship soon after that-with lots of conversation beforehand-coming to a head after a long band practice on the hottest day of the year. One that involved them needing to clean the couch in their small studio, lest Alex kill them-though he eye rolled at them the next day, muttering about 'Finally'.

Reggie loved worshipping the marks on Julie-they lined her hips, so he traced them with tongue filled kisses, Luke doing the same until Julie was a whimpering mess between them.

But what about you?/I love you darlin'

The darlin' left little doubt in Reggie's mind-his southern twang didn't come out much, but always made an appearance when granting pet names-Luke was already beau to Reggie. Luke teased him with French pet names, insisting that being called a little cabbage was totally romantic. Julie lucked out in mon cher in Reggie's estimation.

The years passed quickly and at a snail's pace at the same time. They became rising stars, international sensations and passé over several decades. Yet they were always together, there for each other, loving one another and their family.

Yet... well they were getting on in years, though none of them wanted to admit it. Luke in particular refused to act his age-something that proved his downfall, after he fell off a stage, breaking his hip in the process.

Though they had the best doctors, Luke declined fast, his body too frail to recover. The end was upon them, and after the children and grandchildren had said their goodbyes, it left Julie and Reggie.

There were tears all around, with Luke trying to joke, but his once powerful voice was faded to almost nothing. Reggie turned and he knew the next words to come out of his mouth-they had been printed on Luke's side for as long as he had been alive.

"Maybe we can jam together in heaven?" he joked despite the tears almost blinding him.

"I'll be waiting," Luke rasped, a smile painting his aged features. He then turned to Julie. "But what about you?"

Julie sobbed, but then clutched his hands. "It's okay, we'll be alright, you can go mi vida."

With that, Luke slipped away, leaving them to cry and clutch at one another, finally knowing the truth, too late to share the fact that they were meant to be together. But maybe Luke knew-he had seen their marks a million times over the years, so maybe it gave him the solace to go, knowing he had spent his long life with them.

They got along after that as best they could, though it always felt like there was something missing-reaching out in vain for Luke.

Then Julie got sick-she thought it was a cold at first, brushing it off. But after she didn't get better, they went to the doctor.

A terminal diagnosis.

"You can't leave me," he begged Julie that night. "I can't bare it."

"You can, and will," Julie insisted. "You're so strong, and we'll be reunited eventually."

Reggie stayed by her side through every chemo session, any effort to prolong Julie's life, however fruitless. Watching her white curls fall out, her already dainty figure shrinking.

"No more," Julie insisted after a few months of it. "I'm ready Reggie."

"I'm not," he said, kissing her palm. "But it's not about me."

One night as they slid into bed, Reggie knew-deep down in his soul that he would be waking up alone.

"I love you darlin'."

Julie's eyes welled with tears. "Cariño..."

He shook his head, resting their foreheads together and kissing her sweetly. Just held her tight as they slept, feeling her grow cold sometime in the night, and he calmly called for the ambulance.

He had her buried next to Luke, a space bracketing him for Reggie. He went on as he must, but his heart wasn't in it. He tried, for Danny and Luna, for their broods, but he knew life was gray and meaningless without Luke and Julie.

So he let himself grieve, growing even older, until one night-the night he knew he would give up. Tucking himself into the too big bed, closing his eyes and smiling for the first time in forever.

"I'm coming sweetie pies, I'm coming."

[arclundarchivist]

Spoilers C3E109

Dear Departed

She remembers that first night in that land of eternal chill and dark.

Her heart burning with a question, her head full of plans to grasp the answer unhindered.

And then a voice.

"How rare a sight, a star so bright within my domain of gloom."

Him. Death. Fate. Winter.

Personified, no exemplified.

No, Deified.

"I was expecting you," he says.

She can remember the voice but not the whole of it. There are facets missing that ache within her soul like a pained muscle.

Yet his face is lost to her and lost to all because of their bargain.

It had started small conversations, interrogations, and sparing commentary that enlivened her in a way she had not expected.

She doesn't know what saw him engage with her so readily.

But she remembers how things had evolved, the conversations growing longer, delving deeper, becoming soulful, more personal.

She shirked responsibilities for their parlays, delved deeply into lore hidden and forgotten to challenge his assertations.

"You take risks beyond measure; surely you do not miss my company so much that you would seek to join it permanently?" he challenged one morning, observing fresh scars.

"You care for my wellbeing on this side of your door, oh lord?" she had challenged, smirkingly.

"Well, of course. There are no stars beyond my threshold." was his response, wry and witty, in a way one would be befuddled to join with a being so shadowed of countenance. That part she does remember

She also recalls when she dared to ask him about his domain.

"How did you come by your domains?" she demanded.

He had paused, staring at her pensively. How she wishes she could draw forth the lost color of his eyes.

"One I chose." he returned.

"Which?" she asked.

"Death," he stated.

"Whatever for, no one wishes for Death." she scoffed.

"There are things that even my ilk can not shake," he replied, turning away from her. "Though I will counter, if none would truck with Death, then why are you ever within my domain?"

She had conceded his point ruefully, yet as ever, more questions lingered.

"And the others?" she asked.

"They came to me, as all things do when they pass," he stated cryptically.

"Fate can die?" she responded incredulously, "Winter?"

There is no response.

Yet she would learn in time that, yes, even the Gods had endings.

"I am tired." he muttered, holding her hand in his, seeing her as what they had become without realizing, an equal, "Would you help me?"

Had she loved him before then? She can't say, but their work together, the intimate hunt and scrawling of such a work, the bond that it forged, unspoken, unbidden, that... that cemented it.

She loved him, and she killed him, and he thanked her as he went.

The Rite of Ascension

A Funeral Rite.

Their hands were woven together by the thread, and snow and raven down, a mask to hide her tears, dispassion enshrouding grief.

She can't remember the exact moment that he passed, but she remembers the embrace before, leading to...

Leading to...

Dissolution. Dissatisfaction. Dread.

No one knew what they had been.

Death lies slain, and all hail the new.

His Usurper.

Not his Friend, His Peer, His... Love.

Emhira awakens in Hawk Hill, clutching for her heart, tears not fully her own tracking down her face.

Why now does she recall him?

The answer is simple after a moment of call.

Aeor looms above her.

And within it lies oblivion.

Not Peace, not him, not the ending she seeks.

Or is it... should she accept it and find her way into his embrace once more?

Finally, see his face again for the first time in centuries.

Remember all that had, all they had been, not the fractured, fractile story that had been placed upon her by her own hands.

"My Lady, it's time?" her champion states, pushing open the lip of her tent.

Is it?

"I'm coming," Emhira responds, drying her tears as the scent of winter briefly meets her nose.

[aspiringtrashpanda]

And thus, the tenuous friendship began... Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 23 Prompt: Thirteen Additional tags: Backstory, first meeting, SPOILERS FOR NB 11-10 1.7k

Candy didn’t always take her on the harvest. Typically, she left without a word, a hastily scrawled note nailed to Thirteen’s bedroom door and little left in the pantry. That was Thirteen’s routine lately: wait until Candy leaves, then scavenge the forest surrounding their cave. If she was feeling particularly bold, she’d open a portal with her inherent abilities and dip into the Devildom. The merchants there were the worst at supervising their wares. She thought it would be human world vendors, but no. Perhaps it was a pride thing with the demons, convinced that nothing could sneak past their clever eyes. 

Well, she had proved them wrong time and time again, and they still hadn’t thought to increase their security. On the rare occasion that they did catch her, tiny hand pawing at an acid apple, she simply turned on the starving child act. Big eyes and some tears were fruitful more often than not. She’d take a nice, fresh apple over whatever Candy had left fermenting in the cupboards any day.

However, tonight was different. 

“Hey,” Candy poked her head into Thirteen’s room, a resigned desperation in her voice. “I know you’re not an apprentice yet, but I could use some help.” 

Thirteen looked up from the wooden dice she had been rolling across the floor, a made up game tallying numbers in her head. Her sister looked like, well, shit (not that Thirteen was supposed to understand that word at her young age of 500), with heavy bags bruising the mischief in her golden eyes, and skin pale and lifeless. 

“It’s a mess up there,” Candy sighed, and Thirteen never understood why she referred to the human world as above the Other World when they really existed in some entirely different plane of space-time. “Famine, and a plague. Not to mention the wars in the east. We’re drowning out there.”

And though her sister’s words should have spooked Thirteen, she instead lit up like an ember catching on a discarded scroll. She could barely contain her excitement as she leapt to her feet, cheering, “You’ll let me harvest!”

“Er, no,” Candy corrected, “You’re to catalog the souls in the area while I harvest the ones on my very–”

With a twitch of her wrist, she let the scroll in her hand tumble to the ground, unfurling all the way to where Thirteen sat beside her bed. It was still coiled at the end when it nudged against her foot. Candy grimaced, “Very long list.”

That’s how Thirteen found herself, skipping throughout the dreary alleyways of the human world with a quill and roll of parchment. Guided by the light of the moon, playing hide and seek in the cloud cover, she jumped from stone to stone, flitting between side streets and main walkways. Everytime she would pass a soul–whether murky or bright or translucent or entirely opaque–she’d categorize it with enchanted ink upon her scroll. She didn’t quite understand what all the numbers and letters meant, but she knew that Candy had a system, and the last thing Thirteen wanted to do was mess it up. 

It was a little tricky to catch every glint of a soul, her large black hood hanging a touch too low on her head. Candy was insistent that Thirteen hide her brilliant pink hair from the lamenting townspeople, lest they think she was something inhuman. Funny how being something inhuman would prompt such a thought! Still, as much as she longed to throw off her hood, to revel in the cool breeze of midnight in the alleys of a foreign world, she knew Candy would be upset. Thirteen had learned to pick her battles.

That wasn’t to say that Thirteen was going to play nice about the whole ordeal. No, she was going to pout the whole time she maneuvered through the sickly town. At least, whenever she remembered that she was supposed to be annoyed by her hood and firmly replaced her curious smile with a pursed frown. 

Her steps halted when the moon passed behind a particularly large cloud. The muted light, coupled with the stifling hood, dulled her sight, stoked caution in her bones. Thirteen had heard Candy and Barbatos discussing the phenomenon that allowed other senses to thrive when one was weakened, but she had never experienced it herself.

Until now, apparently, for she felt a prickling sensation on her hands, the only part of her body not cloaked in black fabric. 

Spinning on her heel, she lifted her chin to peer at the windows of the buildings lining the alley. Hm, nothing. She could have sworn she thought someone was watching her. When she dropped her head, eyes back to the cobblestone under the inconvenient hood dipping into her vision, she realized she had assumed correctly.

A young boy peered up at her from a semi-basement window, curious eyes shadowed by a decorative lattice. The moment Thirteen met his gaze, he stiffened, a shrill shriek tumbling from his lips as he staggered backwards into the comfort of the room.

Panic panged in her chest, and she threw her palms up in a gesture of surrender, dropping her parchment and quill. She wasn’t sure why–perhaps the fear of being caught and Candy facing repercussions, or perhaps the tiny seed of excitement at running into another kid–but she insisted, “I’m not your enemy!” 

The moment she spoke, the moment the child returned to the latticed window, the moon split the clouds, silver light spilling into the alley and scattering the shadows. 

Thirteen gasped, for the stars weren’t the only thing that sparkled.

The young boy’s soul glowed like the purest diamond, a fresh spring of water dappled by sunlight. Glittering like a frosty veil over his fingers as they curled around the bars of the window, his essence rendered him a polished glass statue to Thirteen’s keen eyes. 

“Oh,” She gasped. “Your soul! It’s so pretty!”

He squinted up at where she had fallen into a squat, where she eyed him like he was made of the finest jewels. Fear wavered his voice as he asked, “Who are you?”

So, plopping herself down on the dirty stone ground, she answered as she had rehearsed many times alone in her room, “I’m Thirteen! I’m turning 501 in two moon cycles. How old are you? You look around my age.”

“I’m 8.” The boy looked skeptical, “No one lives that long, silly.”

“Reapers do!” She waved him off, leaning forward with a sugary grin, “Can I have your soul?”

He shuddered, pulling away from the window just as she shuffled closer. “No.”

Pointing into the shadows just over his shoulder, she prodded, “Can I have that toy horse, then?” 

“No.”

“Well, you’re no fun.” 

His grip on the bars loosened, and a desperate loneliness bubbled in her gut. No! Don’t go! Thinking quickly, Thirteen pulled her trio of wooden dice from the pocket of the reaper robes her sister had found in a closet. “What if I trade you my dice?”

The young boy successfully halted his retreat, that same curious spark in his eyes that she had seen gleaming through the dark alley. “What do you do with those?”

She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Count them? See, I toss them like this…” 

The cubes tumbled towards the lattice, tilting on their edges until the clattered comfortably on a chosen face. He raised an eyebrow, lowering his face to the ground and watching the dice at eye level. 

“And then try to beat my number with the next roll,” Thirteen explained, puffing out her chest with pride. She was so clever and so creative!

“That’s cool.” Already reaching through the gate of the window, the boy hesitated with his palm over the nearest die. “Can I try?”

“No, you won’t give me your horse.” She really considered swiping the little dice away from his reach, but something in her chest told her to wait.

With a thoughtful hum, the boy glanced over his shoulder. When he turned his eyes back to the reaper, they shone with resolve. “If you roll more than me, you can have my horse.”

“Okay!” Thirteen agreed as the boy wedged the toy horse through the bars, allowing both toys to sit on the cobblestone floor of the moonlit alley. With an unnecessarily strong thrust of her wrist, the dice spilled in front of the boy, both of them trying to count faster than the other. The boy was quite the fast counter for someone who had never played with dice, but Thirteen managed to triumph. Happy with her result, she crowed, “14! Take that!”

“Hm.” When the boy took the three dice, his hand shook, and not in the intentional manner that one would expect from tossing dice. Regardless of the inconvenient angle, he managed to roll the wooden cubes towards Thirteen’s feet. 

She clicked her tongue, already reaching for the toy horse with a triumphant, “Oh, too bad. Looks like a 12! That means I get to take this and–”

“Hold on, check the horse’s tail.”

She paused, fingers just barely brushing the carved horse’s spine. Narrowing her eyes in contemplation, she considered just grabbing the toy and booking it back the way she came. She’d never see this kid again, anyway. 

Another squirm in her gut had her complying. Despite her better judgment, she tugged on the frayed rope tail. A compartment opened in the rear of the horse, a fourth wooden die tumbling onto the ground.

The boy beamed, “Looks like I rolled 17!” 

“H-ha?!” Blinking, Thirteen examined the horse, realizing it to be a toy designed to hide something of value. Had he added the die when he had turned to fetch the gambled prize? Shock flared in her chest, warming the blood in her veins. Petulant, she protested, “That’s not fair!”

It was then that Thirteen heard Candy’s voice, calling out that fake name they had agreed upon when they had left their cave. It was time to go, and quick, before her sister saw her conversing with a human. 

As she stood, nearly face-planting due to the tangle of black robes at her feet, she forgot to collect the dice, forgot to retrieve her scroll and quill, forgot to return the empty horse to the young boy. No, in a flurry of movement, she fled from the alley, the toy hanging from the rope tail clutched in her fist. 

“Is anything?” The young boy asked the moon, the four wooden dice clattering onto the shelf next to his bed.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

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