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pinchofhoney · 7 months

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perfectly flawed

benedict bridgerton x princess!reader

word count: 2.7k

warning: hurt without comfort, it might be suggestive but there's nothing inappropriate about it (friends with benefits but without any details)

summary: Finding love as a princess comes with its challenges, but becoming a mistress was never part of the plan.

a/n: two things; one, over these few months i forgot what it's like to write something that isn't an academic paper. two, in the process of writing it i forgot that i was supposed to write it based on a song. i suppose i'm already a different person than i was just the week ago when i asked you for your opinion, but regardless, feel welcome to read this,, thing<33

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

London, 18th April 1814

Dearest Readers,

The Season has barely begun, yet the glittering ballrooms of London are already abuzz with whispers and speculation. The cause of this fervour? None other than the captivating niece of Her Majesty. The fairy-like young lady, whose arrival in London coincided with the Season’s beginning, has ignited a flurry of theories.

Is she a princess, a countess, or perhaps a secret agent on a mission? The whispers echo through the salons, each speculation more imaginative than the last. Her regal bearing and the way she holds her fan hint at noble lineage, but her eyes hold secrets that defy easy classification. Could she be a pawn in a political game, or does her purpose lie closer to matters of the heart? Suitors line up, eager to claim her hand, but our debutante remains an unknown figure, casting doubt upon the intentions behind her smile.

Gentlemen of distinction have flocked to her side, vying for her attention. Lord Pembroke, the dashing heir to a vast estate, has been seen trailing her like a devoted puppy. The Duke of Ashford, brooding and aloof, has deigned to engage her in conversation. And then there is Captain Sinclair, whose sea-green eyes promise both danger and adventure.

At Lady Featherington's soirée, our young lady engaged in spirited conversation with none other than Miss Eloise Bridgerton. Their conversation delved into matters of politics—a most unconventional choice. Is our French princess a revolutionary sympathizer, or does she simply relish the thrill of intellectual sparring?

Rest assured, dear readers, that Lady Whistledown shall be your faithful guide through the twists and turns of this unfolding narrative. Prepare your fans and polish your silver spoons, for the London Season has just begun, and in the shadow of the Queen's niece, our world is poised to be turned upside down. Society must brace itself for a whirlwind of speculation, as we stand on the brink of a most intriguing chapter.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

‎

At the very core of the French Empire, you were raised as the epitome of grace and subtlety. With royal blood coursing through your veins, you were groomed to be the perfect lady, the jewel of the imperial court. Every step you took, every word you said, was a careful composition, painting the portrait of an eminent lineage.

From a young age, you were taught the art of etiquette, your days filled with lessons on poise, embroidery, and the subtle language of the fan. Your attire, always impeccable, was the evidence of your status and breeding. The world perceived you as the embodiment of perfection, a delicate blossom requiring protection from the harsh realities beyond the palace walls.

Yet, behind the facade of the devoted princess, a secreted truth blossomed. Beneath the tangled layers of silk and lace, your spirit, unyielding and untamed, stood in defiance of the expectations of courtly life. The allure of royal grandeur held little sway over you, and the burden of societal obligations felt like a daily donning of a suffocating corset.

The shimmering balls and elaborate rituals became stifling, making your heart to ache for those fleeting moments of genuine connection, uncontrolled laughter, and a subtle taste of the forbidden. Although French suitors eagerly fought for your attention and the allure of your family's wealth, your soul yearned for a partner who would daringly challenge the scripted norms, infusing romance with a breath of spontaneous authenticity.

And thus, to address your reluctance to accept the prearranged path, your mother came up with a plan. Sending you to the splendour of London under the watchful eye of the Queen, your beloved aunt, she hoped this change of scenery would guide you towards a dutiful marriage, in line with the expectations befitting your royal lineage. What slipped out of her seemingly perfect idea, however, was the playful nature of fate, particularly when guided by those who avoid predictability. So, your journey to the bustling heart of British metropolis grew with an outcome greatly different from your mother's expectations.

Your aunt, holding the most esteemed position in the United Kingdom, was admired for her wisdom and understanding. But the hours of lessons imparted to you from an early age, combined with your ability to conceal your rebellious nature from the public eye, had transformed you into a pretty great actress. And your performance, crafted over the years, was so convincing that even someone as sharp as the Queen herself failed to see through the carefully constructed act.

But perhaps, this time, you've got too close to the edge, because in the blink of an eye, you found yourself entangled in a situation that, if exposed, would not only scandalize all of England but also cast a shadow over France, where your family hopefully awaited news of your impending marriage.

And how did it all start?

The beginning of your tale remains in the memories of that fateful debutante ball, where a single innocent look changed the course of your luck. It was a brief moment, a shared exchange of glimpse between you and Benedict Bridgerton, that seemed to stretch time itself. In the glimmer of that ballroom, his bright eyes locked onto yours from across the room, and the world around you seemed to slow, as if giving space for something beyond a mere glance.

You had no idea what captivated you about the man who didn't really stand out among the other attendees, but most likely it was this quiet strength of his gaze. The gaze without the typical fascination you'd grown used to as a princess of the French Empire or the usual envy that flickered in the eyes of those desperate to secure a partner who determined their life's worth. Benedict's gaze was just different. It held no trace of the thought that you were merely a silly princess with a title. It carried the feeling that you were a masterpiece, a creation worthy of admiration. And it stirred a yearning within you, an insatiable thirst for freedom and authenticity that your heart had craved for so long.

A brief exchange of words with Benedict at the ball opened your eyes, making you believe that not every man who sought your company was doing so only for your family's wealth. As you danced together, his touch ignited a spark, a fleeting moment of intimacy that lingered long after the music faded into the night, and each stolen glance exchanged across the crowded ballroom carried the weight of unspoken desires. It felt as though the connection that binds soulmates was about to disappear when your paths crossed, signalling that you had, finally, found one another.

And so, it began. A secret affair that grew under the cloak of darkness, far from the prying eyes of nosy socialites waiting to catch a glimpse of scandal. In the hidden corners of London, where shadows whispered secrets and the night sky painted a canvas of stars, you found comfort in the arms of Benedict, a man not necessarily burdened by the weight of societal expectations, yet bound by his own hesitation to commit to anything beyond the present moment.

As the inappropriate meetings became routine, you assumed the role of a mistress, a position you never imagined yourself in, and the only rule you committed to follow during your secret dates was the lack of romantic feelings. Yet, despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of emotional distance, your heart had a way of defying logic. With each stolen moment spent in Benedict's company, you found yourself drawn deeper into the labyrinth of emotions, a labyrinth fraught with longing and desire. What started as a simple agreement, devoid of romantic sentiments, soon evolved into something far more sincere.

And it genuinely scared you.

You walked nervously around the place of your every rendezvous with Benedict, your fingers nervously picking the cuticles near your nail—a gesture unsuitable for the lady you were expected to be. But in the fuss of events that have happened in London so far, such a thing seemed a minor violation. Not only did the task of slipping unnoticed from the royal palace grew increasingly difficult, but the relentless fluttering in your heart at the mere thought of Bridgerton haunted your sleepless nights.

Throughout your life, you had yearned for a love different from the one you had observed in French society. And now, when the opportunity to live your fairy tale presented itself, reality proved to be just an unrequited feeling. While you were happy to see Benedict and yearned for his presence, it seemed he may only crave your body, not the depths of your soul.

You wanted today's meeting to be the last one, a meeting where nothing would happen. Or so you convinced yourself. The purpose was clear: to say goodbye to Benedict and to draw the curtain on a relationship built on fleeting glances and secret meetings. And even though probably the best choice would have been to just stop showing up on these encounters and withdrawing from public spaces where you might cross paths, you didn't want to just pretend that nothing had ever happened between you two. The social season was still around you, and avoiding the consequences of your actions would only complicate everything. Maybe not for Benedict, but for you, for sure.

And then, the silence broken every second by your anxious heartbeat was completely shattered by the sound of footsteps. Turning, you were met with the sight of Benedict Bridgerton approaching with firm strides, and his presence seemed to overshadow your plans to say goodbye when, for a moment, the world seemed to pause as you lost yourself in the intensity of his gaze.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist, and his touch sent pleasant shivers down your spine. The warmth of his embrace, coupled with the subtle brush of his breath against your skin, stirred conflicting emotions within you. Your heart quickened its pace, betraying the reason you came for this final meeting.

“I've been thinking about you all day,” Benedict whispered, and his breath caressed your delicate skin. But as much as the desire for intimacy flickered within, you held steadfast to the resolution you had set for this meeting.

With a gentle pull, you extricated yourself from his embrace, creating a safe distance between the two of you. The tingling sensation stayed on your skin, as a remaining echo of his touch that resonated through every fibre of your being. “We need to talk,” you said, your voice steadier than your racing heart. Benedict's eyes, once filled with a yearning, now searched yours for an answer to an as yet unspoken question.

“Talk?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of playful intrigue as he arched one of his eyebrows with his signature smile dancing upon his lips. “About what?” he pressed, and with an air of casual confidence, he crossed his arms over his chest as he ambled a few steps to the side. “You're not going to tell me you've fallen in love, are you, princess?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up from within, escaping between your lips before you could hold it back. In an attempt to mirror Benedict's movements, you crossed your arms over your chest, your head shaking with feigned amusement. “Fall in love?” you repeated his words, adopting a tone of playful dismissal. “Don't be ridiculous, of course not,” you declared, adding a scoff at the end, as if to fortify the illusion of light-hearted banter. Hoping to shield your true feelings, now concealed beneath a facade of amusement, you met Benedict's gaze with a look of mock disbelief.

“We should end this relationship,” the words spilled from your lips, hoping your voice wouldn't betray how fast your heart was beating at that moment. “I did not come to London to become just another woman in the arms of the Viscount's son. If my mother were to find out, she'd blame herself for raising me poorly, and that's not the truth,” you began to rationalize, your words flowing as an attempt to justify the decision you had set before both of you. “I have obligations to fulfil, a path to follow, and I won't achieve that by sleeping with you.”

Benedict watched you in silence, not knowing if you were serious. His gaze bore into you, seeking answers within the depths of your eyes.

“Now you're the one being ridiculous,” he retorted, his tone carrying a gentle scolding. Leaning against a nearby counter, he looked at you with a combination of disbelief. “Since when have you cared so deeply about living up to your mother's expectations?”

“I've come to understand that my mother wants what she believes is best for me. As a princess of the French Empire, there are certain expectations I must meet, whether I appreciate them or not,” you said, closing the physical distance between yourself and Benedict. Self-control was what kept your hands from reaching out as you stopped just in front of him. “Think about what would happen if our secret were to be exposed. It would be the end for both of us, and the scandal would echo across the entire continent. The Queen herself would likely seek our demise.” You emphasized your words by pointing a finger at yourself. “I cannot ruin the honour of the entire royal family for a fleeting moment of pleasure.”

Benedict met your gaze with a silent acknowledgment of the truth in your words, yet beneath the veneer of understanding, a flicker of defiance danced in his eyes. “So, what are you saying? You're suddenly prepared to sacrifice your entire life for the expectations of your family that would see you married and bearing children with some man who would likely make you miserable?” he asked, a trace of frustration evident in his voice.

A moment of silence ensued as you fixed your gaze on Benedict. Finally, a disbelieving scoff escaped your lips, and you shook your head. Taking a few steps away, you placed your hands on your hips, a gesture mirroring the internal conflict within you. “Perhaps you haven't noticed yet, Benedict, but I am a woman. And in a world dictated by the whims of men, the role assigned to women is often reduced to that of an obedient wife, tasked with bringing some affluent man's heir into the world. It's not about what I want; it's about what everyone else around me expects.”

As Benedict made a move to step closer, a surge of urgency propelled you to speak before he could interject. “I should be going now. The palace servants are growing increasingly suspicious.”

Despite the assertiveness in your tone, Benedict, keen to the nuances of unspoken emotions, closed the physical gap between you, and his touch went through the delicate fabric of your glove as he gently took your hand. “We can at least end this in a better way,” he suggested, his voice tinged with a suggestive undertone as he met your gaze.

A resolute “No” escaped your lips, infused with an overt firmness born out of the fear that another moment in his gaze might make you give in to your heart's desires. You couldn't afford the risk of surrendering to the tempting pull of his lips once again, the very lips you yearned for. “That's all I wanted to tell you today,” you continued, gently squeezing his hand as if to punctuate your resolve. Purposefully avoiding his gaze, you added, “It's over, but know that every meeting with you has been a pleasure, Mr. Bridgerton. Goodbye.” Articulated so, you withdrew your hand from Benedict's grasp, leaving only the delicate glove in his hold.

With a swift spin, you turned away and your hurried footsteps carrying you out into the rain-soaked streets of London. A quick glance confirmed the absence of prying eyes, making you hasten your pace, putting distance between yourself and the building that housed your shattered heart. As you took each step, the words exchanged at that moment of parting reverberated in your mind. The relation between you and Benedict had ignited sparks of passion and left a sweet ache of longing. Now, the path ahead led you towards the marriage your family desired, a hopeful step to fill the void left by thoughts of Bridgerton.

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macabreblublu · 2 years

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Ghost headcanons💀

Because I’m unoriginal and suffering in Literature class

Also this is my first time just sharing headcannons so please be nice-

- More of the quiet-angry type, rarely gets “loud, yelling-profanities-in-one-breath” kind of angry

- When something does cause him to be like that though (god have mercy on it), everyone just- doesn’t know how to react; whether it’s terrifying or just shocking

- Either way, Soap finds it hilarious but he doesn’t laugh about it publicly when it does happen. Maybe a snort or two slips out

- When he gets quiet-angry, every poor soldier in the room swears they start shivering and are just unable to move

- Has crooked nails and very rough skin at the edge of his fingers, specifically the thumbs and index fingers (he picks them until they bleed whenever he’s alone in his room in the base and suffering from panic attacks) -projected my issues here *cOugh-

More underneath cause I don’t wanna hog anyone’s dashes :”D

- Soap found out about this and gave him a pack of bandaids. But they’re all decorated with cartoons or patterns. Ghost still uses them anyway

- He’d be caught dead before anyone sees his bandaid-covered fingers because he always wears gloves. Except for Soap ofc, he has seen them and he has doodled on them before as a reward for actually taking his advice because yer fingers can git infected Ghost-

- Is the type to do silly things when he’s stuck somewhere deserted or is just lingering around a place like an empty museum or mall (thinking back to the time in Mission: Alone where he was waiting for Soap in the church)

- Such as getting on a high place to sit his bored arse down and maybe even swing his legs back and forth to relieve his aching knees (this man looks so stiff whenever he sits down istg)

- Or remembering a song in his head and tapping his feet to it, maybe even slightly dancing

- But he has to be completely alone. Surveys the whole area and makes sure there’s not a living soul within a 2 mile radius

- Not sure if he has a flat canonically but if he were to live in one, it’ll be the bare minimum. (I’d prolly live like him too cause simplicity ya know? Anyways-)

- I’m talking about two-roomed flat (not including the separate toilet) with one; a small store room just reeking from unknown junk in there and his bedroom with a single air mattress with a few duct tape patches by its sides due to his pocket knives falling out from his pockets and somehow unsheathing (trust me, it happened to me a bunch of times when I went camping) when he actually sleeps deeply or from under his pillow

- Only uses the kitchen to boil water and drink tea, he orders takeout. He’s a decent cook but he can be an excellent one if he had time to practice and actually put his mind to it

- Sleeps in low light, the light source being the street lamps outside his flat. Does not sleep in darkness, will have flashbacks to when he was buried with a corpse (yes I’m mixing the comics with this cause I thought that was a cool detail and angst potential)

- Random but, always wins during Uno games with TF 141. No one exactly knows how he guesses the next colour placed onto the middle stack or how he always has smth to put

I think that’s all for now, I had lots of fun coming up with these and I hope some of y’all will have fun reading it too! Lemme know if you guys want more HCs for Ghost or Soap! I’m still getting used to these characters so only Ghost and Soap are on my mind :”D maybe even Konig

Also if you are curious about my works, I do art too!

Reblogs are much appreciated :>>>

#blu babbles #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mw22 #ghost #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #soap #john soap mactavish #tf 141 #prolly?#ghostsoap #soapghost #mw2 headcanons #cod headcanons

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coldshrugs · 1 year

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liability

characters: alma greene (not a detective) media: twc word count: 766 rating: G; there's one swear. we're here for the mother-daughter trauma

The last rays of sunlight stream into the warehouse bedroom, lining the furniture in rose gold, not quite reaching the few boxes stacked by the door. Alma leans against the window, unwilling to leave just yet. Unable to reconcile the loss of a home she can barely claim.

It feels strange to leave while the rest of Unit Bravo are on patrol.

Instead, she procrastinates by fidgeting with the lanyard around her neck and the Agency badge that hangs from its end.

The badge is metal. Lightweight but sturdy, and beautifully etched with seven symmetrical moons, three of which have been polished to a reflective shine. She holds the little rectangle up in the dying light and sees her brown eyes staring back.

They’re red-rimmed and puffy, but that’s nothing unusual these days.

This should be a happy time. She should be elated. Unit Bravo have wrapped another successful case, and she’s been invited to step further into this realm of weirdness. For thirty years, Alma has lived in the space between “maybe” and “why not?” Nothing has ever come as easily to her as accepting the odd, the hypothetical, the unknown. She was made for this.

When the veil between worlds lifted, the ache to belong to it was all-consuming. A longing that pushed past her body and sharpened her focus. Fear of being used as a commodity for these beings (or an “asset” to the Agency, as they so politely phrase it) could be justified or suffocated in the name of finding her place in the world. If she worked harder, if she pushed herself just that much more…

As her dream finally solidified into something tangible, attainable, the unignorable loneliness did not dissipate as she expected.

Alma turns the cold metal between her fingers, inspecting it again, tracing her name printed on the back in English and then again using that mysterious alphabet she has yet to learn. No matter how tightly she holds it, it does not warm in her hands. Her chest throbs at the memory of her mother’s words.

“I’m your handler now.”

There was a time in her life, long ago, when Alma didn’t feel like Rebecca Greene’s project. Somewhere between the deaths of her father and grandmother, when Rebecca stomached her daughter’s face for the weekend before dashing back to her real life. Then it was Alma, alone.

Any pretense of warmth faded with the frequency of Rebecca’s visits.

Sparse instructions were left for her each week, things the housekeeper shouldn’t be bothered doing: clean your room; do your laundry, but separate the clothes into like groups; put the dishes in the dishwasher (this was always underlined); do your homework, email your grades to me on Friday; shower and braid your hair before bed. God forbid she be unpresentable even while out of sight.

She was not parented–she was briefed.

Rebecca has always favored glacial professionalism over motherhood, and Alma has always been a liability.

Why, then, has Rebecca donned the mask of tearful regret and boldly placed the onus of reconciliation on Alma’s shoulders?

Her mother begs for connection, and Alma acquiesces. Some painful secret, or omission, or blatant lie comes to light, and Rebecca cries, insisting it was for the cause or, worse, for Alma. Alma cries, too, sorrow and confusion bleeding into anger the longer this goes on. They play this game, again and again, rebreaking the bone until there is no way for it to heal.

One salient snap is all Alma has left to give.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying again until a heavy tear lands on the badge.

“God, this is so fucking stupid,” she mutters, wiping furiously at her sore eyes.

She wants this.

But… not this way.

Alma backs away from the window, setting her mind to a task before she gets angry with herself. The boxes need to be taken to the car. She’s already kept Tina waiting at her newly-reconstructed apartment longer than she intended. The place is likely to be in shambles again by the time she arrives.

Her phone sits on the top box. With a sigh, she moves it to the pocket of her cardigan, but before her hand is free, a tiny, hateful thought strikes.

She holds the phone up to her face, squinting through bleary eyes. Quickly, she changes her mother’s information from “Mom 🥰” to “Agent Greene.” It is a small, secret act of defiance–one that doesn't matter in the long run. The first cutting of an intricately woven thread, but one that provides a much-needed spark of satisfaction.

One by one, she takes the boxes to her car. Doing the work on her own, how she's always done.

#twc #alma greene #bye don't look at me

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riftwalker-limbro · 1 year

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vince's scars

the past Good Few Days i have been intensely thinking about vince's scars with much help from friend fashion show and i think i will just make one huge post about it actually because else i will be putting out stuff soon that might not make a Ton of Sense anymore.

this will be a barely-structured braindump so i will be putting it under a cut to be polite to your dash. sdjbfhg

basic little lore concepts in effect on this blog are

warframe material is unique in a way and cannot simply be replaced

warframe material holds memories in a very physical sense

warframes are created by first infecting the subject with the helminth strain and then carefully monitoring and helping the subject develop into a fully capable warframe through various medical interventions.

vince's end-of-human-life backstory is he got contaminated with the helminth strain in an unknown-to-the-orokin incident, escaped before anyone could find/catch him, and because this brand new warframe was not monitored/guided by researchers, he went a little bit mad and exploded himself eventually. basically the backstory of the limbo theorem itself with mental deterioration instead of hubris.

that's where i pick back up by saying, actually, the operator and ordis found the majority of his pieces, except the ones that were too tiny to be detected (say roughly 90% of him was recovered). and then gave this confetti-shaped mess to the helminth and asked it to put it back together into its original shape. it succeeded. well, mostly.

the fragments that they never recovered get replaced with crystallised helminth goop that would match the consistency of the original missing material the best. the scar patterns kind of converge on his chest area and spiderweb their way out across the rest of his body (limbo's in-game model has a very funkily shaped torso, especially in the back, and for vince i'm keeping this and giving this as the reason why). this is why we call him the kintsugi bastard.

one disadvantage of scars is that the skin doesn't really cooperate anymore, right? it gets tight, it pulls. the helminth had left it up to vince if he wanted that kind of fully-healed-over scar, or if he just wanted to leave all but the internal not-optional-to-patch-up damage in place, because patching it all up automatically would've meant severely reduced mobility and flexibility, and the helminth's #1 priority is to create and repair battle-ready people-shaped war machines. vince chose to leave them open - he doesn't intend to go into battle often if at all, he was never a warrior.

now, there are three major effects to being ~10% scar tissue that come into play for this beloved kintsugi bastard.

very many very vulnerable spots in his armour

he's pretty much in some kind of pain at all times. aches, internal pulling sensations, feeling like he might burst apart at any time again, general cramps when something misaligns. he gets Very familiar with the helminth over time about this

remember what i said about memory being stored physically? he lost a number of smaller memories/skills and is sufficiently changed as a person because of what he lost that he takes on an entirely different name after he figures this out.

now, since he doesn't want to have his surface-level scars too filled-in with new material, he instead opts to try and convince the helminth to build him a tight-fitting coat that essentially acts as his external armour, where most warframes already just have their skin. the tight-fitting part also helps with literally keeping him together - even if he's not at risk of just physically falling apart again, it sure doesn't feel like it sometimes. and the fact that it's not glued to his body directly/permanently means that it doesn't impede his movement like properly-healed scars would. when he's in his detachable armour, the only areas with visible scars are legs, head and hands. for now i'm hc'ing the coat as pretty similar to the ingame prime model's, only completely closed in the front and going further down his chest, to cover as big a surface as possible without impeding movement.

the hat: he came with the hat. the fins on the side are from when he got primed. the hat's scars were filled in all the way because no flexibility is needed on the hat. the hat is part of him and it feels Incredibly Weird to be separated from it for too long/too great a physical distance. toying with the idea of it being part of how his rift-related abilities work (if you get a look at a limbo mid-hat-tip, you can see a circle of energy where the hat sits on his head)

additional smaller things

since the scarred areas don't have anything impeding light between his insides and the Outsides, when he uses abilities, they light up according to the magnitude of the energy flow. technically they just let the light on the inside go outside & don't glow themselves but eh words

existing vince fic is being re-rotated as i'm typing this and will be edited soon

he looks Like That because he had a decently classy sense of fashion in life, which reappeared in his self-image, and the process of warframing takes your self-image, multiplies it by ten, and makes it physical. fights are had with the helminth about the Style of the coat.

on bad pain days he walks with a cane if he absolutely needs to go somewhere

void disturbances such as fissures and storms make it worse! :) getting primed kind of helps with this one (will be explained extensively in fic once i Get There) but doesn't negate the effects of the void disturbance entirely due to the extent of the scars

one of the things that he lost when he got confetti'd and then rebuilt was the ability to focus for long hours at a time - what got him to the point of a math phd in the first place. he can still do research and such, just.. slower, in short bursts, and it's painfully frustrating. i'm not even going to start on the mental dominos this all knocks over. his psyche would be a longpost by itself

wearing the coat for Long Periods of Time is also not very great. he can't just literally have it on permanently as a second skin. he would if he could

the wrist bracer thingies that limbo prime has are Also Detachable in vince's case

#vince #wrangling his existing characterisation and current ideas about his appearance into something coherent dont mind me #rift lore

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amjustagirl · 3 years

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Requiem of a Storm, part ii

pairing: miya atsumu x f!reader genre: angst warnings: mentions of miscarriage wc: 3.7k

m.list~ taglist.~

a/n: i hope you enjoy the second part of the remixed storm chaser. part i can be found here.

Miya Atsumu has a reputation of being relentless in hunting down what he wants.

So even though Kita frowns and Osamu blows up his phone with angry texts, he makes the hour-long drive through sleepy villages and rice paddies and bamboo groves back to her family’s home.

He does not linger overlong at her front door, does not even muster up the courage to try the window to her room - he knows it’s been latched shut and will not open, no matter how much he grovels. He simply kneels by the door, leaving bunches of wildflowers, paper wrapped packages of mochi and letters written in the light of insomnia and bitter desperation.

I’m sorry, he writes, again and again, at the top of each and every letter. I’m sorry for running. I’m sorry I wasn’t fair to you, he scribbles, regretting the nights spent convincing himself that he’s too young, it’s too much to ask, even as he dreams of childlike laughter and playful banter.

I’m sorry I forgot how much I loved you.

He refuses to lose hope when his flowers wilt from being left out in the sun, when the packages of mochi returned with a polite note thanking Kita’s grandmother for her kindness, not even when his letters are shredded to ribbons. He stays until his agent calls with demands that he present himself back in Osaka before the season starts, and with a heavy heart, he packs his bags and bids Kita goodbye.

“Yer scarin’ the payin’ customers with that ugly mug of yours”, Osamu grumbles, wiping the counter.

Atsumu doesn’t move even when the washcloth swipes against his chin, slumped in his usual seat in Onigiri Miya. He doesn’t even bother looking up.

“Yer gotta move on sooner or later, or it’s gonna affect your game”, Osamu says, a well worn refrain by now. “Or at least if ya mope, do it somewhere away from my damn shop.”

“I fucked up big time”, he only mutters, staring moodily at the letter in his hands, labelled ‘Return to Sender’ in stark, bright red.

“Yup, ya totally did”, Osamu agrees, squirting disinfectant all over the table viciously. “Don’t know anyone in their right mind who’d forgive ya for that.”

“Thanks”, Atsumu groans, burying his face back in his hands.

“Anytime”, Osamu replies, infuriatingly chipper.

Another month passes, and he nearly misses the call from an unknown number on the way to a meeting with his long-suffering agent to discuss an offer to play in Milan that he already plans on turning down.

“Miya Atsumu speaking.”

“She wants to see you”, a gruff voice growls.

He doesn’t even need to ask who she is, doesn’t even bother calling his agent, just drops a curt text telling him he can’t make it for the meeting today because he has a stomach ache, ignoring his agent’s indignant response that he saw him dashing away from his office.

“I need ta borrow yer van”, he pants, bursting through the doors of Onirigi Miya.

Osamu doesn’t even bat an eye, just passes him the keys and yells at him to be careful and not crash, damnit, tossing him a package of food with her favourite mentaiko salmon onigiris and ginger pork side. It’d be creepy if he weren’t so grateful.

Then he roars through the highways, speeding through dusty roads and rice paddies until he reaches the familiar bamboo grove. Heart in mouth, he dashes up to the front door, bows when her mother opens it with an unsteady smile.

“Wait here, please”, the older lady says, and he does, without argument, standing dutifully by the door until she emerges with a large bag on her shoulder, flanked by her older brother.

“Thanks for coming at such short notice”, she murmurs quietly.

“Don’t mention it. It’s no trouble at all”, he says immediately. “What can I do for ya?”

“Will you take me to the coast? There’s something we need to do.”

“Of course”, he replies without batting an eye at the strange request. “It’ll take us about an hour from here. That alright with ya?”

“That’s fine”, she says, walking towards the van even as Kenji pulls him aside.

“Get her home in one piece tonight, or I’m calling the police on ya”, the older man warns before shoving him forward, face implacable even as he waves her off and shouts at her to be careful, or else.

“Is there anywhere along the coast in particular you’d like me to stop?” he asks, after making sure she’s strapped in safely, adjusting the seat precisely to her liking.

“Somewhere quiet where we can watch the sunset”, she replies, already looking out of the window, curling up in her seat.

He nods, driving off.

They climb the mountain pass over Mt. Hyono, dipping into the valley covered in evergreen pine and cedar trees in silence. The colours flash by - dark green tones from the surrounding trees, golden warm hues of the sun, impossibly bright blue of the skies.

“I read your letters”, she says, almost to herself when they leave the shadows of the mountains and the road starts to stretch towards the sea.

“Oh”, he breathes. For once, he’s at a loss for once.

“The ones that Kenji didn’t shred”, she clarifies, face still turned away. “I read them. I hid them. Is it stupid of me?”

He wants to say no, wants to beg for forgiveness, for absolution, but knows she doesn’t deserve to be subjected to that.

“I’m sorry”, he says instead, elbows tucked closer to his ribs.

“So I’ve heard”, she replies, matter of fact.

He gulps, the fog of guilt suffocating him in his very seat. “I’m not askin’ ya to forgive me”, he says, heart trying its level best to punch holes through his lungs. “I know I don’t deserve that.”

She hums and falls silent again. He keeps his eyes trained on the road.

The sun curves along its path in the sky, seeming to hang over the crest of the sea as he pulls to a stop at a rocky outcrop overlooking the coast. He takes her bag and follows her patiently as she hobbles down the stairs to the beach, steadying her when she stumbles, feet sinking in the sand, but she refuses his unspoken plea to allow him to carry her with averted eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw. He can only fret over each unsteady step she takes, concern only washing away when she kneels on the sand, the waves hemming her skirt with seafoam.

“They told me to forget her and leave her behind. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t, not when my dreams are full of her. She comes to me at night seeming so real, a precious little girl with your eyes and my smile. Our girl, molded by both you and me, forged by her own fire to shine brighter than the sun in the sky.”

The knife in his gut burns.

He has to stop himself from gasping for breath, watching as she turns to unzip her bag, drawing out a cardboard boat, a wreath of wildflowers adorning the top of its hull. On it she carefully places an origami doll, a bamboo toy, clasping her palms in prayer. As a final touch, she lights the candle affixed to the top of the boat, ignoring his protests as she steps deeper into the cold water, pushing the little boat out into the sea.

“I would’ve named her Shino - the stem of bamboo, y’know? For my family. For strength, for resilience. I thought it would’ve been a good, strong name for a girl. Your grandmother would’ve hated it.”

“Miya Shino would’ve been a good name, no matter what my lousy grandmother says”, he finally gathers enough breath to say.

“A good name”, she agrees, twisting her lips into a sad, soft smile. “We could’ve been a happy family together in another life. But this is all I can do for her now.”

He chokes, her words wringing every last drop of guilt, of grief, of remorse from the cracked pieces of his heart.

“I’m sorry”, he says again. “For runnin’. For not gettin’ to know her with you.”

“It’s okay, I understand”, she squeezes his shoulder gently, leaving a white-hot burn mark behind. “You’re young. You got scared.”

“That’s not an excuse”, he shakes his head. “You didn’t run.”

“I had no choice”, she says simply, gazing at the horizon, the sunset fading from her eyes.

Shame flares in him, smouldering ashes in his throat, making him choke, unable to find words to fill the gaping would haves, the should haves in the space between them, unable to recognise the starry eyed girl he wronged in this woman rebuilt with steel.

You’re so much stronger than me. I’m sorry for being weak.

They fall silent, watching the flicker of fire disappear beneath the waves of the sea.

He insists on throwing his jacket over her shoulders, leading her back to the van when the moon rises into the sky. But she stalls, staring out at the sea.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget her again”, she whispers, pulling his jacket around her, hand pressed against the faint swell of her belly.

Acting on instinct, he bends down to snap a handful of shells from the sand, picks a pearl white pair that gleams softly in the moonlight. Then he snags her hand, presses one into her open palm, holds the other to his chest.

“To remind us of our little girl”, he says quietly. “That even though this world wasn’t ready for her, she’ll always be a part of us.”

She brings the seashell to her lips, and slowly smiles.

He pulls into her driveway when she turns to look at him.

“Samu told me you got an offer from Milan. Are you going to take it?”

“No”, he says immediately.

She frowns. “Why not?”

He’s not quite sure how to tell her that he’s still clinging on to the hope that she might want him back, someday. That it’d be the death knell of all his foolish hopes if he leaves for Milan because it’d be impossible to overcome the six thousand miles separating him from her. That all he wants is to swim in her eyes, drown in her smile, listen to her laugh just one more time.

“So if ya call, if ya need anythin’ at all, I can answer at once.”

“‘Tsumu”, she says gently, sweeping a stray blonde curl away from his forehead, letting him lean into her touch. “You ran cos you wanted space for your dreams. I’m not going to stand in the way of that, not now. Go to Milan. See what it’s like to stand on top of the world.”

“I’m not leavin’ ya. Not again.”

She shakes her head.

“If anything, losing Shino has taught me that life’s too short not to live it to its fullest. The world’s waiting for you.”

“What if I said I want you to be my world?” he says, catching her hand in his. “I know I don’t have the right to ask it of ya, but I’m willin’ to wait, to give ya all the space ya need.”

His heartbeat falters when she draws her hand away.

“Take the offer, ‘Tsumu”. she says softly, her words cutting him to the bone.”I need more space than you can give me, I need time and space to heal. Maybe someday if life wills it, or maybe in another life. Let’s see what fate has in store for us.”

He lets her go, watches as she opens the door, slides out of the seat.

“Thanks for your jacket”, she offers it back to him through the window.

He makes no move to take it.

“Keep it, sweetheart”, he says. “If fate wills it, I’ll be back for it someday.”

He drives off into the night, the memory of her smile burning bright in his mind.

He signs the offer. His agent heaves a deep sigh of relief.

Packing his life into three suitcases, he gets his mum to nag Osamu to send him to the airport.

“Good riddance, ya scrub”, Osamu grumbles, folding his arms. “Pretty sure business will be better now I won’t have ya mopin’ around.”

“Rude”, he retorts, but refuses to leave the van. “Hey, Samu -”

“I’ll look out for her. Don’t worry about it.”

He claps his brother on the back.

“Thanks. ”

Milan is amazing.

His teammates welcome him, even though the language barrier is hard to overcome at times, but they all recognise and help to fuel his hunger to excel, to succeed. He perfects the jump-float serve he yearned for previously, learns new combinations, builds his strength. The crowds in Italy start to recognise him, cheer his name.

It’s fantastic being on top of the world.

On weekends his teammates introduce him to apertivo on the Navigli canals, take turns bringing him home for dinners with their grandmothers, drag him out to street markets bursting with prosciutto and fresh pasta and cheese of every kind. He snaps pictures of his foods, sends them to ‘Samu to piss him off.

‘Yer not gonna be able ta jump as high if yer continue eating like that’, ‘Samu texts back.

‘Someone’s just jealous...’

‘Samu replies with a picture of salmon mentaiko onigiri, with ginger pork on the side. He doesn’t send any more pictures after that.

He hears from Osamu that she’s moved back to Osaka, finds out from instagram that she rented her old apartment, that she’s back at her job. Her cast is removed, the scratches on her face heal, her memory seems to have returned in full. There’s a healthy glow on her face that wasn’t there before.

She seems happy. He doesn’t have the right to ask for more.

Life starts to settle into a routine. Long practices, intense conditioning, matches watched by massive crowds. Friday nights spent alone with a pizza, thin crusted and beautifully seasoned with mozzarella and fresh tomato sauce that somehow doesn’t compare to the cheap takeout pizzas they used to eat on his apartment floor. Sundays afternoon spent in the park framed with trees, watching little girls play with a soft, sad smile.

Leaves flood the cobblestone streets with gold and red in October. The days grow shorter, the nights grow colder, but there’s a rush of warmth in his blood when she sends him a text to wish him a happy birthday.

He shakily replies. “Ya remembered.”

She texts back that night - “You’re kinda hard to forget”.

It’s the best present he could’ve received. He doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.

On a whim, he wanders into a jewellery shop tucked away in a little street near his flat. Between his broken Italian and exaggerated gesturing, he manages to purchase a silver necklace with a delicate pearl pendant, and asks for a box large enough for him to slot the seashell he treasures above all. He brings it around with him, smiles when his teammates ask him prying questions about it, only telling them it’s a reminder of home.

He returns to Osaka for a break in the off-season a year later.

There’s a date saved in his phone, marked in red. It’s pure sentiment, but he packs a bag the night before, picks a car up from the rental place. ‘Samu has an order of salmon mentaiko onigiri and a side of ginger pork neatly packed to go when he swings by the shop for breakfast in the morning.

“Ya better not eat it all by yerself, greedy pig”, Osamu says, pushing the food into his arms.

“Then why did ya pack so much for?” Atsumu grumbles, slamming the door of his car without waiting for an answer.

He turns off the highway into rice fields and bamboo groves, stopping by Kita’s farmhouse for lunch. Kita doesn’t talk overmuch, waves him off with a package of handmade mochi ready for the road. He retraces his journey up onto mountain passes, swooping into green valleys until the road emerges on the coast, parking at the same rocky outcrop overlooking the sea.

His heart flutters at the sight of a rusty motorbike parked along the sandy road. It threatens to soar right out of his chest when he catches a glimpse of a figure dressed in sunbeams and his old jacket right on the water’s edge.

“Hey”, he says, breath catching in his throat, standing a careful distance away.

“Hello stranger”, she replies, staring out to the sea. “Here to ask for your jacket back?”

“Nope.” He laughs wetly, shakily unsnapping the velvet box he carries around to reveal a pearl white seashell. “I guessin’ I’m here for the same reason as you.”

Her eyes soften with understanding, her fingers unfurling to reveal the twin to the seashell in his hand. He wonders if she can hear the stuttering thrum of his pulse as she closes the space between them to lean her head against his chest.

In silence, they watch the sun descend from the sky into the sea.

“Sometimes it feels like it’s our fate to keep running into each other”, she murmurs. “Does that scare you still?”

A storm of butterflies bursts from the bloom of hope in his heart.

“It’ll scare me more if it isn’t”, he answers firmly, shaking his head. “I’m no longer a coward who’s gonna run from my fate, not if ya are my fate, my sweet. But I’ll wait for ya til’ yer good and ready, if not this life then the next or the next after that. I’ll wait forever if ya need.”

She frowns, doubt clouding her eyes.

“But what about your dreams? There’s a whole wide world out there waiting for you, ‘Tsumu. I don’t want to keep you from chasing your dreams anymore than I already have.”

He thinks back to the past year, the superficial joy of professional glory in the ache of a lonely, yearning heart. But he knows his sins are his to bear, ugly scars that distort any request he might make of her, so he does not even dare look at her, keeps his gaze locked to his feet.

“I stopped myself from chasing my dream - a foolish dream where ya are my world, sweetheart. My heart is yours, it’s always been. It’s selfish, I don’t have the right to ask it of you I know, but it’s been my dream that you’ll take it back, give it a home.”

Gentle hands tilt his face towards hers, his blood overflowing with a rush of hope as the storm clouds clear from her eyes and she willingly steps into the circle of his arms.

“I don’t think it’s a foolish dream,” she murmurs against his lips. “Not at all.”

He catches her love and forgiveness with trembling hands, drowns in the ocean of her smile.

He bids Milan farewell without a second thought, settling back in Osaka with MSBY more than happy to take him back.

Osamu snorts audibly at the sight of him trailing behind her like a penitent puppy into Onigiri Miya. He sets a plate of salmon mentaiko onigiri and a side of ginger pork in front of her, pretending to be deaf to Atsumu’s complaints that he’s a terrible brother for refusing to feed him, tossing him his usual order of fatty tuna onigiri only when she intercedes.

Kenji, though, is far harder to overcome.

He raises hell the first time she brings him back home, demanding that she see a doctor immediately to check her brain, refusing to let him step into the house until she deliberately turns around and gets back into the car. He growls whenever Atsumu even looks at her, hackles raised for almost a year until their mother shows him the response Atsumu gives to some obscure volleyball magazine to the question: what’s your greatest regret?

It’s published in black and white, for all the world to see - “bein’ a coward and not treasuring my family ‘til it was almost too late”. His agent gave him hell for that candid soundbite, but Atsumu thinks it's worth it when Kenji sends him a set of knives as a final threat and begrudgingly passes him food without complaint the next time she visits her parents.

He works to prove he’s worthy of her, refusing to take her love and forgiveness for granted again. Their relationship blossoms anew with his newfound commitment to her, flourishing from dates spent eating takeout pizza on their apartment floor and impromptu supper runs to 7/11 for egg mayo sandwiches and cheap oden, nurtured by mundane chores like laundry loads and him playfully whining whilst scrubbing the toilet floor. They rebuild their home, full of banter and inside jokes, laughter and love.

She blooms, she heals, she forgives, and finally - when he asks her to marry him, give his foolish, wandering heart a permanent home, he cries when she answers with a smile - yes.

Osamu caters the food for their wedding. Kenji bawls like a baby. His teammates, both past and present cheer.

The years fly by.

She bears his children. Sora, a son, named for the sky. Aomi, a daughter, named for the sea.

They visit the coast at the end of every visit to her parents, the children always clamouring for a detour to their indulgent Uncle Kita’s farmhouse where they can stuff their faces with mochi and run amok amongst fields of gold and green. They park their car at the familiar rocky outcrop, laughing as the children tumble over themselves to chase the waves.

His heart never stops pulsing with gratitude as he’s surrounded by castles his children have built with sand, happy with his place in the world as she slips her hand in his, his old jacket on her shoulders, a pearl white seashell dangling from a silver chain around her throat.

“Thank you”, he murmurs against the shell of her ear. “For givin’ me the world and more.”

She laughs at him for being a sentimental old man but kisses him tenderly to the sound of their children’s groans. He laughs too, utterly content.

The sun sets into the sea. The moon rises into the sky.

a/n: thank you for giving my remixed version of storm chaser a chance, even though i may have caused you some anguish >< as always, this humble author wld love to hear what you think, if you cld spare the time <3

storm chaser universe: original version.~ remixed version.~

#haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x y/n #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #miya osamu #kita shinsuke #Requiem of a Storm #Storm Chaser #haikyuucreations #haikyuucafe

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hauntedelation · 4 years

Text

Seize The Throne

(Picture found on Google, I don’t own.)

Description: He was always so reckless, drawn and following the darkest paths in life. You can’t help but chase after him with stars in your eyes and a bizarre thrill churning your gut. Maybe this time things were too heavy for you.

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Will Shaw

A/N: I recently watched one of my favorite mob movies, Goodfellas, and fell back in love with that gritty image. A good friend of mine, @hope-to-hell, had already created her world of Mob!Will and has several parts out featuring him and his chaotic ways. Part one, part two, and part three explore so many depths to him and that heart-pounding life. I strongly suggest reading!

Her writing of this version of Will was my most favorite and I really wanted to try to pay homage to that. I hope I did good love, 🥺💗

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, gore and blood play, minor character death, reader sustains injuries, some fluff if you squint. I do not recommend if you happen to be sensitive to these topics. Please heed the warnings.

Proofread as much as I could, Please enjoy guys!

➽─────────────❥

The bottle is sat down next to your leg with a soft clink. Sand and sporadic rocks mold around the glass, holding the claret drink inside upright.

You feel your body hum pleasantly. The vibrations stem from the top of your head, down through your thighs, and settle in your toes, which are currently sunken into the warm clasp of the shore.

Salt and a hint of cinder brush your face and press through your hair, tousling the tight ringlets out of your eyes and behind your ear. You take in a breath while the wind dies down. To the very depth of your lungs, you allow the night to enter you.

The water is cool; blue as can be. It just about matched the sky earlier that morning, save for the bunching of storm clouds trailing toward the horizon.

It’s a wonderful feeling against your feverish skin, but it doesn’t fail to sting the cuts on your feet. You don’t move a muscle, not any closer to the swirling foam, but you ponder, maybe it will help.

You're unwound and you had been ever since you came closer to the sand. Head dancing blissfully and filling with each drop of the piquant wine, your visions were growing far more spirited than they had been for the last several hours.

The deal with Holford went to shit.

➽─────────────❥

You weren't sure why you were strung along with this one. Will had been disrupted, true, but he was always that way whenever a deal this significant came along. The other guys were unknown, fresh in the game but garnered enough reputation to be talked to. He insisted that you were to not be left at the house, too much risk, he couldn’t see you.

Much of the originally agreed amount was lost, the usual inquiry and loaded threats were slung from either side. Forty thousand was at stake, and the bastards dared to show up with only a quarter of that.

You were there resting two rooms down in a decaying office, listening to those voices, Will’s, Syverson, and maybe another. There was a restive silence, before a guttural shout and a bang was sent out, followed by an explosion of more. You felt your heart throb clear in your throat.

It was difficult to keep track, and the walls of that building were already so abysmally thin. There was a good possibility that if a punch was thrown, it would put a hole right in the plaster.

Bullets went through the drywall and sprinkled chalky dust into your hair. You had the right mind to jerk away and hit the floor. The concrete was chilly and layered with the filth that reminded you of a public subway. Upon impact, you were no doubt painted with inky marks on your knees and elbows.

You didn't cry out, none of it could be heard anyway. Yet, you did a fine job keeping whatever you wanted to scream out on the inside. You held your breath and ducked your head to the lowest point of the room.

It all tumbled over, that composure, soon after witnessing the man protecting you get his insides blown out.

From under the table, those projectiles continued to whizz in and out of the walls. Daniel, you think the kid’s name was, though he was only four years younger than you he had the face of a youth. He was always polite, getting you whatever it was that you wanted, afraid of disappointing.

They should have known he wasn't ready, wasn't skilled enough for any of this.

The door was kicked at, the brass lock weakening and soon falling away. Daniel whipped around, his machine gun tucked against his armpit and trembling finger on the trigger. He let out a few shots at a sharp speed, laying more holes in the door before dashing to the side.

He was panting, his big brown eyes glancing to you before pulling out another magazine from his pocket.

A deafening boom went through the wood, and the door flew open revealing colossal-sized boots stomping in. You don’t recall a second shot. Everything had been stunned, from your ability to move to any volume in your ears. All that was, had been ringing.

That gunshot indeed came, because you saw the kid fall back.

Crimson rained down over you and you felt the warmth dot your skin, covering the shade of your nail polish. Your eyes reopened and picked up far more carnage—tiny pieces of him all over the vicinity. Bone and flesh, some landing near your hands on the floor.

His body toppled to the ground. You remember how he landed, head smacking against the solid concrete and his eyes opened wider than saucers.

He was in shock, gurgling and spitting up blood down his chin. His fingers desperately scrambled for the handle of his machine gun, but it was kicked far out of his reach.

The faceless gunman placed Daniel’s chest under his boot, crushing the torn hole in his middle and forcing more distressed wails from the young man. Before the kid was able to cry any longer, he was cut off by another boom.

There wasn't much time to respond then. Your longtime guard was desecrated, all the life drained from him the instant the third shot was sent from the twelve gauge.

And all that you continued to hear, was ringing.

As that cliché says: time slowed to a standstill. Bullets pelted the surfaces, nonstop and in every direction. Devastation surged, wood chips and old papers swept up, and heavy footsteps trudged all throughout the concrete floors. You spent your lifetime under that table, cowering away from the turmoil.

Along your cheeks, and falling to your hands you saw the clear, salty liquid bend and mix with that young man’s blood

The make-shift shelter lasted a mere five minutes, then it was flipped over. Glasses and other items shattered onto the ground and spread to every corner of the room.

Directly after, your wrist was snatched in a viselike grip.

He had nails, this beast holding on to you. They were long, jagged, and digging far into your flesh. You sucked in the mucid air, holding back everything in your throat: bile, sobs, whatever it was. The man dictated something in your ear, along the lines of,

‘Keep that pretty fucking mouth shut before I pack it full with lead.’

It was more than a motivator. He adjusted his hold and dragged you toward the entryway of the room, pushing aside Daniel's lifeless body. Your free hand braced against the ground, but your legs were left dragging. It was grueling, finding leverage to move with the man.

With each manipulation the brute had on your body, each step of his feet and yank to your wrist, your legs caught shards of the glass and were sliced open. Amid this, the lacerations on your wrist gradually formed under his nails and began to drip hot down your arm. He was moving with purpose until he stalled right near the doorframe.

More bellows and pops of machine guns echoed against the stone.

The man was waiting, probably for the next cue. Or, maybe he was considering that last threat to you, should he go through with it?

How could you know?

After a while, you couldn’t feel anything at all. You couldn't feel the barrel of the gun pressed against your temple, your vein pumping against the hot surface, and the circulation around your wrist anymore. Your skin grew cold, vision drawing away. The lights in the room dimmed and you finally lept in a dark tunnel.

The weight between your shoulders slumped toward the ground.

It was shortly thereafter, seconds later, that those same voices came much closer than before. Your wrist ached but no longer were you under that crushing grip. The steaming metal of the shotgun was absent from your skin, though the pressure would forever be burned against your skull.

The only sensation that remained were calluses grazing against your skin.

There were no longer any gunshots, no more footsteps, or even glass shattering. The masculine tones in your ears surfaced and started to be particularly familiar. Those hands on your body, the clammy palms securing your jaw, it was real.

You felt how damp the thumb pads were and the sticky residue that was left behind along the line of your cheek.

Opening your lids was taxing, but you saw dark curls stuck to a creased forehead. A fresh gash was drawn on an eyebrow and dozens of bruises on that handsome face. A pink lip painfully split nearly in two.

The light was beaming around his head and the source was different than the one in that previous room. There were more windows. Natural light revealed one side of his form, highlighting his dewy skin and the dampness of his shirt.

The deep red splotches covering his body.

Your pupils dilated and centered on his face. He was panting, tongue swiping at that cut on his bottom lip. His voice read a steadied, but fraught question.

‘Hey—hey, Doll. You’re here with me, yeah?’

Will’s focus was dashing across your face and the rest of your body. His breathing jolted when he caught your pupils, but never did he lose grip of that solid poise. He reached up and his fingers smeared more pungent liquid on your face, forcing the iron-laced odor into your nostrils.

You coughed, grunting at the rough scratch along your throat. Your lips pressed together before you forced your head to nod weakly. You were sore, and you didn't really wish to move your legs at the moment. The hairs of his arm grazed against your fingertips. With a flex to your good wrist, you took hold of him.

You were breathing. You could see, you could hear, and while every bit of your nerves flared and pinched—you...were alive.

Will released a sigh low within his chest and out of his nose. The strain in his shoulders released a fraction, yet the muscles in his back maintained the stiff shape. His eyes were cognitive and lingered keenly on yours. He didn't choose to say anything else, and neither did you.

Your throat and your lungs felt as if they were packed with dust. And, what was there to say?

He dismissed a question that was brought up by a ragged-looking Sy. The veteran stopped his pacing by a blown-out window and shook his head. In a blur behind Will, you saw him remove his cap and use his stained shirt to wipe at the sweat on his buzzed head.

The air around Will's head was spiraling, the remnants of the firefight clinging to the air around you. You squinted and looked past the fog to see mutilated bodies, with thousands of bullet casings littering the floor.

Limbs twisted around, mangled, with pools of blood swallowing up each of the remains.

Every member of the Holford group was dressed in matching tan-colored suits, the corpses' jackets now drawn with scarlet. You weren't sure if you could answer the question, which man had been the one who grabbed you? Who killed Daniel?

Maybe he was one that slipped away.

Your braids moved from your face, the soft hairs by your forehead pushed back and smoothed away. Will's fingers, thoroughly slick with blood, left behind glistening streaks in their wake.

Following a short phone call made by Syverson, you three and the remaining number of Will’s men vacated the building. Duffle bags of cash and anything else that was of importance was secured.

While you made your way out of the structure, you caught the sight of armed workers, nudging the bodies of Holford’s group and aiming the end of their guns down at their heads.

The pops that rang out were sent past your mind. The air outside washed over you, fresh almost jarring. Under the occasional shots fired in the building, you could pick up the hum of insects and birds.

Your eyes fluttered under the tepid sunlight, and instead, you occupied yourself with the feeling of that. Just for those short seconds, you were under those rays.

Will was hot on your heels with a vigilant hand on your lower back, his other arm providing support for your shaky footfall. He was still running on hot, that look in his eye reflecting off far away from here.

He directed you toward a black truck and carefully helped you slip into the back passenger seat. After clicking the seatbelt over your lap, he dragged his eyes over you one last time, persisting on your wounds. He drummed his fingers on the palm of your hand and parted from you a promise,

‘It will be a little while, but I will be back. Sy will be taking us back to the house...we're gonna get you cleaned up.’

Through your lids and out the window of the vehicle, you observed the men’s work. Their actions were swift and it was clear to see that disposal of certain events was in their expertise.

A few of the guards were gathering red gallons of gasoline, entering the building, and dousing every surface on the interior. Others were negotiating with Syverson and Will, the latter man speaking with venom falling from his mouth. The last worker exited the archway and tossed the red bin in behind him.

Your legs ached. Minutes trickled by, and at first, you withheld moving. But it was as if each laceration was prying open. You took your eyes from the scene outside the truck and grit your teeth to readjust your body.

The window bore the weight of your head.

Will took a prolonged look at the decrepit building, his arms crossed and locked over his chest. The tendons in his jaw were spasming like a coiled knot and his mouth set at a firm line.

Whatever thoughts broke down in his mind, they were intensively racing and reflecting the failure of today. He sent a final nod to Sy before turning and making his way to the vehicle you were residing in.

Another man fished a lighter and cigarette out of his pocket, adjusting the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. He then flicked open the metal casting, lighting the end of the stick. Without closing the lid, he threw the lighter into the broken window of the building.

That drive was long. Despite the many twisting roads and turns, you noticed the flames shredding their way through the sky several miles away.

There behind you, Will's lips pressed to the crown of your head, with your body tucked into his chest. In your lap, you watched his torn knuckles flex. He formed a fist and would do so every couple of seconds, tremoring and taut. Eventually, he would ease up and relax those fingers, still shaking, but it would return.

Repeatedly, open and close...

open and close,

open and close.

➽─────────────❥

You flinched as Syverson carefully picked the glass out of your legs. You were sat on the granite countertop, bruised knees hooking over the edge and your foot resting in his camo-clad lap.

He was in a chair located directly in front of you, with his cap sitting on the counter and an assortment of tools surrounding it

Your wrist was the first that was looked at. It was throbbing, hardly able to be moved but the bleeding clogged. He cleaned it as much as he could and set it into a makeshift splint. Syverson then notified you that you most likely suffered fractures.

He would have a friend come tomorrow to properly take care of it.

The tweezers were skinny and almost disappeared under his thick fingers. He had his palm wrapped around your calf, and with an attentive eye, he leaned closer to dislodge more shards from your skin.

You wince as a jagged edge is plucked from your calf.

"Stop squirmin' little lady."

You tilt your head to the side and cradle your injured wrist in your lap. Your braids tangled and fell just over your shoulder. In a corner of your mind, you thought about a hot shower, scrubbing your skin, and taking the damn things down. To wash everything away.

It was absolutely anticipated.

Sy resumed his work, wetting his lips and holding back that vexatious grin.

The only sound resonating throughout the kitchen was the clink of the splinters hitting the plastic bowl, and the music of a film playing on T.V. Here and there you could make out Will's voice in the other room, his timbre suppressing an unhinged man.

How could he not? You knew how much today went south, it wasn't expected, but you didn't make an attempt to eavesdrop anymore.

Really, you didn't venture to do anything but sit and wait until the soldier at your feet was finished.

Will had entered the house before you and with not another step further, he conveyed to his partner that same pithy look. The point of your shoulder was gently tapped and under his bushy beard, the southern man offered you an apologetic look.

Sy was nothing but meticulous. He had a way about his movements that indicated his substantial experience. While he was working, your eyes glanced over that brawny man, taking in the thick slabs of muscle on his shoulders. You had to figure he possessed more scars than five men combined.

He had the look of a man who had seen a lot in his life and could destroy everything in his path, but to you, he was the sweetest he can be.

You withheld a moment longer, additional pieces of shrapnel were dug and removed from your limbs. He pulled back and sat down those tweezers, promptly moving his fingers to wrap around a cheap bottle of alcohol.

He doused a fresh white cloth with the clear drink and patted each of your opened wounds.

"Mwell...You're lucky you don't need any stitches, sweetheart," he husked.

Your lip quirked at his tone. He peered up at you with a ghost of a sanguine reflection in his eye. Remarkably, he was always the one to find a smile out of you, always after those wearisome days. You decided to indulge the man, forcing a curl to your lips. You then turned away and watched the images flash over the television screen.

His fingers lingered on a bigger cut on the top of your knee, clearing his throat. The muscles of your thigh tensed, like acid on flesh. Your nails clutched the surface of the granite and scratched shallowly.

Sy's thumb rubbed at the outside of your leg in return, applying a little more pressure to the wound before ultimately removing his fingers.

Your attention drifted away from the screen, you knit your brows down at your legs. You were sure that you would adorn some scars from today, the unfortunate memory coming in at each glance to your body.

The bottle of alcohol was placed between Syverson's legs, tucked close to his groin. You clocked your eye from his face back to the container. He was occupied wrapping bandages over your wounds, soon finishing off the last one before catching your look.

He took his hands from your legs, and palmed the neck of the bottle, unscrewing the cap. He tipped his bushy jaw back and poured the biting liquid down. Sy offered the drink to you with a crinkle of his nose. It was unspoken, but you chewed on your lip.

"Do we have anything else?"

➽─────────────❥

The bubbling of the ocean, that sparkling shore, and the break in the clouds, all of it was transfixing. You wanted to see the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air, and genuinely feel that you were alive.

So you slipped into something willowy. You couldn't pinpoint where it came from exactly. The tag was black and stitched gold in a foreign language, far too small to discern without a magnifier. From a closer look at the skew of the words, you could guess it came from somewhere in southern Europe.

The fabric was silk, completely pearly white with a sheer design layering over your chest. It was revealing, rightfully so though it was currently the dead of summer.

Moreover, it worked well to not agitate your wounds.

You passed by the living room where Sy had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The man was slumped as far as he could on that couch, all grime, perspiration, and fatigue.

You made sure to not close the glass-sliding door all the way.

Behind the sepia-colored bottle, you scanned about your surroundings. The palm trees strewn about the property swayed lazily in the wind, welcoming, disclosing to you: It's alright, you can relax now.

There was a blur of grey standing against the greenery, men in slacks with glimmering metal-encased by their arms. Those silent watchdogs weren't new to you, their presence would vanish from your mind from time to time. And even more so, the image of them called: It's alright, everything is okay now.

Except it wasn't, it wouldn't be for as long as you would remember today, but ever since arriving at this location you had been trying to convince yourself otherwise. Best practice was to acknowledge, right? You wouldn't pretend that today never happened, that you didn't come a hair's breadth away from perishing.

Being wasted away far before you should.

It's not hard to think about. This lifestyle, the outlook, and the expiration date of it all. You've known about it ever since you were a teenage girl.

The missing people that would show up in undisclosed locations, how strict your mother was with making friends, the luxury items in your home, and all of the days your father would be away, it didn't make sense until much later.

Securing all of your family's secrets followed quickly with your adulthood.

You think back to before everything split apart before you broke away. And now you stand outside of a clandestine house in God-knows-what country, you reflect.

It was never meant to last forever.

These nights you thought about many faces, strangers to the person you are now but people that blotched their fingerprints in your brain. Your mother comes around, stops during those times when you grow the most imaginative.

She would adorn a knowing look on her face but waited until you asked her for advice.

If you could just talk to her now. She'd probably kiss her teeth, cross her arms, and her heart breaking the longer she watched you. The dismay gone—no, she'd never forget what you did to the family, how you could give away your father like that with no further thought.

You hope that she would find it in her to understand, that she would look into you and see why you did everything.

If you opened your eyes and saw her standing before you in the sand, you'd take her hands in yours and ask her—just how to navigate. How do you go day by day and still feel alive?

For the first time in your life, you had no clue what she would reply with.

You were close to lifting your foot off the stone porch and making your way through the sand until the slide of the patio door reached your ears.

He sauntered out wielding a cup of amber, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, his clothes changed to something fresh, new. He had just as much gauze wound around his body as you did, but he walked as comfortably as any man.

Will was born for this life.

He sat down by the outdoor dining table, placing his glass down and stretching his legs wide and relaxed in the chair. His fingers slid down the length of his shorts, stopping at his knees and staying there.

You wrapped the gown around your body and brushed away the bumps rising on your skin.

There was a gale that blew through whenever he was near, more submerging than the humid air around you. Something close to those storms that frightened you as a child, the imminence and the pause between claps of thunder.

Yet, every time that they came, you ever ran away to hide.

Will's brows creased, and he removed his attention from the undisturbed tide straight to you. His right hand moved back on his leg and pat the top of his thigh,

"Come here."

You were slow with approaching him. The bottle in your hands was replaced with his shoulders, the container clinking dismissively close by his drink. Will's arms opened up the moment you stepped between his thighs. His head tilted back, peering up at you. He wound his fingers behind your thighs and settled you astride his lap.

The way that you drew into him, there wasn't much helping it.

You could feel him on your neck, your cheeks and your lashes, Will's breaths, and his utmost tutelage. Maybe this was your favorite. From your position, you could look down at him just right, draw the light in his covert eyes.

You were able to capture all of the lines on his face, the shade of his skin, and those dots that appeared after being out in the sun. You could study this man, searching for whatever you wanted. Each and every time you tried discovering something new.

With all of the secrets he locked away from you, there were about a dozen escaping every other day. Tales whispered amongst the other members and strangers, lingering eyes on Will's back whenever he walked by. He carried himself as if he was grasping at direction, but it was well known how untamed he used to be.

No, he was still a wild animal in his soul, you knew that part about him wouldn't ever change. You bet if you took his hand in yours there would still be dried-up blood stuck under his nails. You knew this but here you are, towering over him and you still can't quite read the shadows in his eyes.

These times? Unfortunately, they were few and far between.

Right now, he held onto you like you wouldn’t be slipping away anytime soon.

“Y/n.”

Will was mindful of your wounds, fingertips gliding over the sides of your legs and taking a cautious hold of your bound wrist. The bruising feeling shot through the crushed bones. Will gingerly placed his lips along the top of your thumb and followed the bandage wraps down your wrist.

"How're you feeling?"

He didn't blink, and for an important reason, you wouldn't look away from him. He wanted from you, your reply, whether or not it was one-hundred percent.

"I'm okay."

Your coils moved with your head, a chary nod. You knew that you shouldn't think too deeply about that question. You were patched up, scrubbed clean from all of the stains today, his skin was there and warm under your hand.

So you scooted closer to Will, brushing your chest against his, and laced your fingers around the back of his neck.

He focused on your natural hair, how the tresses flowed down your back and framed your face. You made good on your promise to yourself on cutting the old-style away. There wasn't anything quite like that feeling, that weight falling away and nothing but an utterly new look.

You turned your eyes toward the horizon, catching the distant twinkling of fishing ships and airplanes. The red and white were faint, and sometimes those lights blended in with the stars. But never had they been any closer than several dozen miles.

On the shell of your ear and down your jaw, Will's facial hair started stroking and prodding.

"Doll…"

Your lips pulled tight. You carded your nails through his damp ringlets and twirled a few strands around, fidgeting.

"Don't you go soft on me."

His fingertips sunk lightly into the flesh of your lower back and bottom. You heard him sniff quietly. For a second there, you thought he was going to apologize to you. Though, Will's thumb hooked under your jaw, caressing with a tender stroke before leading you to him.

And he kissed you, real slow.

More than he ever had with you. Will was always messy—greedy, a palm on the nape of your neck and draining the oxygen from your lungs.

He kissed you as if you were about to fall into pieces. You pulled away from him after a long while, still dazed. It was before you could slide off that white gown and unlace the waistband of his shorts. All in front of those men in the shade. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last.

He was reluctant, his palms residual on your body, but you slotted your fingers through his and detached them from your hips.

Will carried somewhat of a smile slanting his face. In the low light, you can catch a glimpse of it, how his cut lip stretched. You braced your hand midway on his chest and lifted yourself up from him. You then palmed the wine in one hand, tossing a look from over your shoulder before setting on your way.

He didn't get up or try to chase after you, but the movement behind his eyes did.

You went on to do what you originally wished to, feeling the salt and the sand. You had been neglected of this for forever it seemed, months, years maybe. Just like through the window of the bedroom there was still a spell of sorts being cast on the beach, you weren't going to fight it.

All the way to the mouth of the shore you went, taking in sips of wine and filling your vision with the stars.

Never did he take his eyes from you.

"How's she holding up?"

Sy stood about two feet away with a towel draped around his shoulders and his back leaning against the patio door. Will turned his head to glance at the soldier, before returning to you.

"She's... she'll be alright."

Will sat up in his chair, sweeping his eyes through the backyard once again.

"We lost five guys today, three including the guys from the inner circle, two others were regulars...Still have over 27K to retrieve," Sy reflected.

He set his elbow on the armrest, rubbing his fingers over the stubble on his face and surrounding his lips.

"It's a shame what happened to that kid. I'll take care of his grandparents...send them a severance."

Christ, he was actually feeling a bit of guilt, more so with how the kid went out. But, he knew what this job was. He was told about the repressions and what was expected.

Daniel was a few months shy of his next birthday if Will had that right. And, now he wouldn't even be able to have an opened casket for his funeral. Not that this mattered in the end, though.

He wouldn’t have a casket at all.

"...They've fucking lost it if they think this is all forgotten."

Syverson nodded his head, already preparing his mind for any possible retaliation. No doubt much of the next few days will be filled with planning, making calls, and ordering more supplies. Maybe a few all-nighters just to get the deal straight, spending money just to make triple the return. He thinks that he might phone up Walker, the caliber of this situation had blown up in that man's range anyway.

"You have guys surrounding the perimeter?"

"Don't you go sweet on me, Will," Sy laughed. Of course, there were men around the perimeter. Not one spot was left open.

Will wrapped his fingers around the glass and took a small sip of the drink. His jaw twitched once again at that phrase, it just about mirrored yours, "I'm not."

There was a brief silence between the men, Will wasn't looking at Sy but both of them had somewhat of the same thought winding through their worn-out minds. The soldier followed his partner's eyes, down the shore and to where those tan grains disappeared in the water.

"Then why are you sitting outside, watching her like a hawk?"

Will did not say anything in return. His tongue prodded again at the cut on his lower lip. He slowly lifted his glass and knocked back the rest of the liquor in his cup. The water and the trees moved in the wind and the sound filled their ears. Those low clouds were picked up by the gust and eventually revealed the moon.

That cool blue light spilled down and radiated off your bronze skin. It was like you glowed, drawing Will's unreadable gaze.

You were pushing your feet toward the ocean, just barely letting the water touch. Your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, not moving the container but, letting your nails pick at the ridges in the glass. Will stared at how your head tilted to the side, and your lashes closing, taking in the breeze blowing through you.

There he was dwelling, fingertips tapping on his knee and another bracing on his face, ruminating through those long corridors in his mind. As he watched you he couldn't help but think in the past, back when he first laid eyes on you and took in that fear entangled in your soul.

He thinks back to your inconceivable proposition, you were on your knees for him, begging for a chance to show him what you got. You were dead serious in the end and you slid to him that folded up paper with the keys to the universe.

He shook his head and scratched at his hair, Will's brain repeated those words that your father said to him. Through grit teeth, spitting, and bloodshot orbs, his voice echoed that foreboding line up to Will.

‘Listen, son, you fall asleep at night with the visions of the world twirling in your palms. You are hungry for it and you run rampant with the darkness that resides in every man. You don’t lock yourself back and you will stumble. The time will come where your dominion crumbles and knocks the crown off of your head. And when you wake, a phantom won’t take you, but you will be rasping for it when you watch everything you breathe for get torn to shreds.’

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @feralrunaway @inlovewithhisblueeyes @emyearns @mansaaay @cavillryarchive @thetaoofzoe

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#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fanfic #Will Shaw #henry cavill x black!reader #black reader #woc reader #will shaw x reader #will shaw imagine #henry cavill x you #will shaw x you #henry cavill x black reader #the cold light of day

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funkzpiel · 3 years

Text

Today on this episode of "I promise I didn't disappear off the face of the earth I've just been busy and totally lacking creative energy (or brain cells, for that matter) it's terrible, but hello, I did a thing" - I present this:

The Little Deaths of the Pining Flowers

For the Hades Big Bang, in collaboration with kowaiyoukai (their beautiful illustration featured here).

Fandom: Hades Game Pairing: Zagreus/Thanatos Featuring: Pining, Off-Brand Hanahaki Summary: “Does it ever get easier?” Thanatos finally asked one day.

“No,” Achilles said, the gentle hush of his words like the breath of the breeze through meadow reeds, “But it does get easier to hide.”

Death cannot die. No blade can pierce him, no hand strong enough to steal a final breath from the powerful column of his throat, no disease potent enough to mar his flesh. Death, like Time, was fathomless and unending. So long as there was Life, there was Time to observe it and Death to spirit it away.

And so long as there was love, there was pining – and all of its little maladies that follow. Death knew of them, these maladies, these “little deaths” that come before the final breath. Some fleeting, some spanning decades. The gods, in all their brilliance, creativity and cruelty, created love. Love, the painful precipice between life and death. Knit tightly between the two so that from the depths of it might bloom a beautiful, wretched thing: pining flowers . Life sprung from the ashes of despair, fertilized in love and hope unrequited. In doing so, pain became love and love became pain, death and life a reflection of one another more intimate than the eternal dance of the sun and moon itself.

Thanatos had watched these slow, curdling little deaths before. Had watched them ferment into heavy, cloying things that stole the breath from mortals’ chests. Flowers making beautiful wreaths of their lungs, thick with life borne from a love so fierce it could suffocate. Thanatos had watched men and women alike grow frail with it, their bodies made into gardens as they coughed fragile bulbs and blooms from their lips. Thorns were always the worst: roses and the like. Lips turned red, and yet these mortals who simply loved and feared too much could not find it in themselves to cure their aching chests. Could not simply let go of that impossible love – or confess it – to end that prickling, weed-like pain.

He had heard, once, that the gods could fester such illnesses; though flowers could not create homes of their flesh as they did in mortals. Rather they instead bloomed from the excess of the wealth of their power made unstable by their want. Made helpless to the source of their own gifts. But Thanatos had never seen such a thing. Thanatos had never understood. Not until Zagreus left without so much as a word of warning. All at once, it was like the Underworld had been snuffed of some great light. There was no sun beneath the surface of the earth, and yet the darkness and chill felt suddenly so much sharper, keener, without the warmth of Zagreus’ smile. Everything darker, every mercy suddenly harder to reach for, every hope dashed across the rocks like the surf wrecking a ship to ruins against the coast.

Zagreus was gone. His home, his family, his friends – Thanatos – none of it had been enough to keep him here. Thanatos had not been enough.

When the next death bell tolled, Thanatos did something he never did: he hesitated. Struck suddenly frozen by the realization. He had not been enough. Of course, he hadn’t. Zagreus was born of the Underworld, but he was also born of the surface – of life and blood and all things that breathed . Of course, death and darkness had not been enough.

Of course, Thanatos had not been enough.

He slipped from the Underworld to collect the soul the death bells tolled for and as he did, he felt something slip deep into his chest. Some foreign, alien thing; so unfamiliar as to be written away as imagination. Like a seed splitting the soil and roosting beneath.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Thanatos did not know what was worse - trying to cast Zagreus from his mind, or being constantly reminded of the man every time the death bells tolled for him. For every toll, whether Thanatos went to him or not, was another failed escape attempt and the beginning of yet another. He knew Zagrues must think his plight for the surface cursed - it was he after all who kept experiencing the relentless grip of the river Styx - but it was Thanatos who felt truly cursed. For every escape attempt was another reminder that Zagrues desperately wished to be free of them: his home, his family, Thanatos.

But the bells tolled and tolled, singing a symphony that drew Thanatos a little nearer and a little nearer each time. Like the moon, he found himself in Zagreus’ orbit - at first not at all, then from a distance, and finally passing him by, feeling the warmth of Zagreus’ being shining upon him, lighting him up. Even now, lighting him up.

He watched from the edge of the clearing as Zagreus dodged the molten depths of Asphodel, his weapon of choice - this time Varatha no doubt to spite his father - cleaving through the various shades hellbent on keeping him here per Hades’ bidding. The prince was tired. Not yet strong enough to survive his fight with Megara and continue on at full strength. But it would come, Thanatos suddenly realized with the same casual understanding of fact as one might recognize that the lava around them was hot .

But he would not survive this run much longer. And unassisted, he might not even survive this chamber. With a weight growing in his chest, Thanatos realized he might witness Zagreus’ fall for himself this time. Not second hand through rumor or one of his brother’s reports or the tolling of the bells, but first hand with his own eyes.

Thanatos couldn’t have said what made him step forward to help - not because he didn’t know, but because he couldn’t admit it. He blocked all thought out, pursuing just one goal: I can’t watch Zag die...

All he knew was that when the death bells tolled his reveal from the shadows of death into the realm of awareness in which all could now see him, the sound caught Zagreus’ attention and time stopped for just a moment - giving Thanatos the luxury and agony of seeing first the surprise on the prince’s face, then the relief that followed. Relief, as though Zagreus had been waiting at some fathomless horizon for centuries, simply hoping for Thanatos to rise above its edge and greet him.

“Zag,” he growled - voice rough around a strange feeling in his throat. He couldn’t find it in himself to dig for any other words. He barely pried the man’s name out as it was. It was easy to hide that fact between a cleaving swing of his scythe, cutting the battlefield down into a group of straggling shades that were much more manageable between the two of them.

“Than,” Zagreus wheezed, the name cut short beneath another shade’s attack.

Zagreus sounded bad. Even with Thanatos’ help, this particular escape might not last much longer, Thanatos mused. He could hear the man’s breath. A thready, wheezing thing that slowly but surely worsened. Loud, almost in Thanatos’ ears, in his very chest and he could not take it. Not here. Not from Zagreus, who would have been safe and whole if he had simply stayed home. He ground his teeth, cleaving shades with a growing eracticism unbefitting of the quick, efficient stroke of Death. Felt every swing release a little of that anger and confusion into the depths of Asphodel and the flesh of its shades.

His gaze tore to Zagreus as the last shade fell, the fire-tongued soles of his feet simmering against the punishing stone floor of Asphodel as he leaned against his spear like a crutch and caught his breath. Those feet duller than they should have been. In that moment, Thanatos felt an urge to follow Zagreus to the end. If he saw the surface, would it slake his thirst of the unknown enough to satisfy him? To draw him back? It was a weak thought, one that made Thanatos bristle madly at himself. It was becoming increasingly obvious it had been a mistake to draw this near to Zagreus. Death was obviously not as strong - or as unbiased - as he thought he was.

Zagreus had just managed to turn to Thanatos with a smile and a thank you when that expression fell - like sunlight disappearing beneath a cloud - for Thanatos was gone, a bell moaning in his absence, and in his place: a centaur heart.

“Oh Than…” Zagreus murmured softly, eyes locked upon the heart.

Alone, Zagreus hobbled his way to the heart, stopping short of grabbing it when he saw something strange on the ground beneath its floating weight. Here - in the fiery grip of Asphodel - a single petal simmered on the ground, curling fraily against the heated stone. The prince grabbed it with shaking fingers, thumb brushing over petal’s delicate length. Red as blood, thin and reaching. Soft as velvet and utterly lost here in this world of fire and death.

How in the world had anything grown here, Zagreus wondered, as he slipped it into his tunic above his heart, red like his eye and his feet and so much of his namesake. Flush against his skin, as though it had belonged there all along.

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Persephone walked amidst her garden as she often did, greeting the great flush of her gift upon the soil with gentle hands and a smiling heart. At her touch the foliage seemed to bloom all the brighter. As she neared, it appeared to lean toward her like a flower reaching for the sun, following it’s daily axis.

Everything was much the same. The trees, the bushes, the crops, the flowers. Everything, she realized, but one. A new bloom, there much without her design or intention. Slender stalks rising up from the ivy and shade of a nearby willow, unfurling into magnificent red tongues and curling petals.

“My, my, what have we here?” She mused, tender and kind as she greeted this new bloom, just as she would have an old and familiar friend.

A spider lily, she realized with raised brows. Here, in her garden. Slim fingers stroked the nearby bloom - only a few and yet startling all the same. She had not planted these. Had it been her heart that drew these lovely blooms? Her unrequited regrets beneath the simmering hurt of her past? The red spider lily - the final goodbye. A blossom said to guide the dead. No, this wasn’t hers. It had been too long, the scar of that time too old, for it to have suddenly appeared by her doing.

Strange, to say hello to the final goodbye here amongst her carefully tended garden. She watched it shiver in the spring breeze, frail somehow in its little wind-drawn dance. With a frown, she felt something heavy stir within her heart. A longing and a worry.

Somewhere, she realized, someone was mourning. She watched a petal drift upon the wind and disappear. She wondered who the goodbye was for or if, like many things, it was even a goodbye at all…

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

The first full blossom that appeared grew in the hair of a young man’s corpse. It had not been there when he arrived. It had not been placed by the loving hands of family or kin. It had not been until he reached for their soul that it grew, crimson petals splaying out like a corona - thick and full. There, among death and the dying, Life grew as Life often did: against all odds, rebellious and unapologetic.

He wondered if this human had been watched or favored by some god or goddess. It was easy enough, back then, to think nothing of it.

Easy to miss that it had not grown until he had thought - quite by accident - how similar the man’s hair had been to the prince’s.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Death’s chamber - moreso a place of enforced rest rather than necessary rest - was a cool, dark place carved out of the fabric of reality. A place made for him by the Night herself, speckled with twinkling starlight and furnished with all the trappings of comfort any entity might desire. It was not, however, a place of light or Life. There was no facsimile of sun, no warmth. It was a reflection of his very identity, and therefore the opposite of Life; and yet when he opened his eyes after a short, restive doze, it was to petals on his pillow. Not just petals individually, but a blossom. Stalkless, and yet full and lush. Large enough to fill his palm with curling petals, reaching like red tongues from its core. Death blinked and rose upright, staring down at the bloom.

The same bloom that had wreathed that corpse.

What might have been the favor of a god upon that human felt decidedly less possible now. Had it been a trick from Hypnos? From some other shade or god or goddess? But from the bloom, he could sense himself . As though it were a part of him as much as his room was a reflection of himself.

Which just… couldn’t be.

Death could not make Life .

He brushed the flower away with a faint, confused frown, only to turn to rise from his chaise and find more blooms. One atop a nearby book. Another on the floor, in a blanket, on the rug, beside a goblet. Flowers. Life. All grown here in the dark grip of Death.

This, he finally accepted, was a problem.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

It was definitely a problem.

Death did not know who’s idea of a sick joke this was, but he found the flowers blooming positively everywhere now - slight at first, but growing. It had begun as something almost ignorable. A blossom tucked in the crag of a stony wall. Red petals peeking out from the centerpiece of a table. Once, appearing what would have been a shade’s hair, were they alive.

But now they trailed him in obvious patches, suddenly crowning the heads of nearby shades and growing atop the slender rails of passing balconies. No one suspected him. It was a miracle, but it was hard to assume Death had any hand in Life. Yet still, the sudden growth of spider lilies among the courts of the dead was on everyone’s lips. Where were they coming from? Why had they appeared?

Was Persephone somehow responsible? How could she not be? Yet… she was not here.

It made the Lord of the Underworld more brittle and eruptious than before, a feat no one truly thought possible. It fostered an even greater divide between father and son as well, for the more the court wondered about how the flowers might be tied to Persephone, the more Zagreus asked after her. And the more he asked, the more the prince realized he needed to leave if he was ever to get answers.

The more he tried - and died - in the pursuit of being anywhere but among the dead, the more the flowers grew.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Even knowing that every attempt took Zagreus further from him, Thanatos found he could not stop thinking of it - the attempts, Zagreus’ failures, the repeated destruction of his- His prince. That was a safe term, yes. His prince.

He laid awake in his rooms, crimson flowers rising like the depths of the river taking Zagreus all too often, and found he could not spare his mind of thinking of him. Zagreus bleeding, pale flesh bruised like soft fruit, yet so determined to be gone.

Just because he was no longer part of the equation of his prince’s happiness, could he truly continue to just watch this happen? Or perhaps true devotion, true service, was assisting even when it reduced his existence in the man’s life to irrelevance.

He’d help, he decided, because Zagreus was his prince, and Death was nothing if not faithful and reliable. No sooner had he decided it, a blossom appeared over his heart. Large and heavy, every petal weighted like stone, driving the breath from his lungs.

Yet he didn’t have the heart to move it.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

The prince of the Underworld was special in many ways, no one could argue that except, perhaps, his father. And one such way was that when the bell of death tolled for Zagreus, it was rarely with the intention of taking him away. Thanatos arrived, his motives hidden beneath a well placed challenge of who can kill more shades here in the depths of Asphodel?

A game, just a game. No one could get hurt, if it was just a game. And goodbye would not hurt so much, if it was on Thanatos’ terms… Or so he hoped.

Death’s blade swung, cleaving shades in two. Souls upon souls, ushered back into the depths by his hands, just to spare one man the journey home. It was illogical. It went against his lord’s wishes. And yet, Thanatos knew there was no other option, not for him.

He could not be an instrument in caging Zagreus if it meant having him near would only make him unhappy. He cleaved men from their families, wives from their children, mortals from dreams left unspent and unfulfilled. Here, he had a choice.

Now, he wanted to see someone grow.

“That was something, Than,” Zagreus said as the last shade fell, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of a one bloody hand - making the mess on his face worse. Yet it did nothing to diminish the sheer Life of his smile as he turned to him. That smile - so full and unapologetic - was like the sun turning its face upon Thanatos, reaching his skin in a way it never had topside. Warm, making his belly flutter. Foolish and childish, he scolded himself. Made worse when that smile suddenly faded before Thanatos could answer and Zagreus said with a soft, perplexed frown, “What’s that?”

He followed the gaze of his prince to the ground at his feet - or rather below his feet - and there mere inches beneath the floating drape of his toes, a bed of flowers began to bloom. Spears of grass rising and charring in tandem to the merciless heat of Asphodel, and yet the flowers heartily remained untouched among the thicket of rising and dying green. Bloody red flowers, reaching up - not to Thanatos , but to Zagreus - as though he were the sun.

Lost in his grasping for explanations he simply didn’t have, all Thanatos could do was quickly retreat a few floating steps when Zagreus suddenly started forward and, using his blade as to help himself down with a grown, knelt to observe them better. He had one thick, tanned finger delicately beneath one of the lilies reaching tongues as his brows raised and he mused, “I’ve seen these around my father’s court but I didn’t ever imagine I’d see them out here . What could they possibly be?”

But when he looked up, Thanatos was gone. Gone, leaving nothing but a sudden crown of blooms in Zagreus’ hair to remember him by. Gone, because that touch - so delicate and gentle beneath the petals’ reach - had felt as though Zagreus had touched him.

And it hurt down to Thanatos’ very bones, stealing the very breath from his lungs, to know it was a touch he’d never feel for himself. Not when Zagreus wanted nothing more than to leave.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

It got worse. Much worse. He stopped visiting his brother after Hypnos once woke - bewildered - in practically a carpet of red blooms, right in plain sight of their lord. He made his reports as brief and efficient as possible after he once saw Zagreus dash by during one of them and the feeling that had arisen in his breast at the sight of him caused Cerberus - right at Hades’ side - to suddenly tilt each massive head as all three were suddenly crowned in thick, growing lilies. Hades had erupted, his gaze cast upon the shades, looking for a culprit. It was luck alone, or perhaps the heat of the god’s rage, that prevented those blooms from growing on him as well. But Achilles had seen.

With eyes so old, and so lonely, he had seen.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“If I may be so bold, Master Death, I am here if ever you need a sympathetic ear,” Achilles once said, somehow managing to sneak up on him at his balcony. By the skin of his teeth, Thanatos managed not to startle visibly. But he could not hide the spider lily that was in his hands, the very cause that had left him so lost in thought as he had braced himself over the balcony that hung above the river - waiting, though he refused to admit it, for Zagreus’ return.

“There is nothing to be sympathetic for,” Thanatos forced himself to say simply, turning back to the river.

“There is always something to be sympathetic for,” Achilles had said in that soft way he said most things - so soft in death for a man so coated in blood in life - and came beside Thanatos to deposit something on the rail before he left with a gentle, “The offer stands, when you’re ready.”

Thanatos waited until the warrior’s quiet footsteps receded before he looked. There, upon the glittering marble of the balcony, was a tiny flower. Purple and plain, easy to hide.

A forget-me-not.

“Does it ever get easier?” Thanatos finally asked one day.

“No,” Achilles said, the gentle hush of his words like the breath of the breeze through meadow reeds, “But it does get easier to hide.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“Than, wait!”

The pleading urgency in those words were the only thing that stayed Thanatos’ retreat. More and more, Thanatos realized he could deny the prince nothing. His only hope was to remove himself before Zagreus could ask anything of him. Today, he failed.

He turned only so much as to peek at Zagreus from over one cloaked shoulder, waiting. It was much as he could offer without that telling pang marching through his heart and wreathing them all in flowers. But he was learning, at least, thanks to Achilles.

“Yes, Zag?”

“I… I know there’s a lot unsaid between us. A lot to make up for. I… I know,” Zagreus said, elegant, and yet stammering. Endearing in that earnest way of his, so much so that Thanatos could not prevent the single bloom of red that began to grow in a nearby crack in Elysium’s walls, hidden in plain sight by the moss and tiny fragile flowers already native to the place.

Zagreus’ words slipped to silence, broken only by the sound of glass settling gently atop a nearby grassy, broken pillar. Thanatos turned slowly to regard it. A bulbous bottle, bottom heavy and filled with glittering amber liquid: Nectar. His gaze turned from the bottle to Zagreus, a frown so easily slipping onto his face to hide behind as he said, “Really, Zagreus? Nectar? As though that suddenly fixes all that lies between us? This is, what… a parting gift? The goodbye you never bothered to give me?”

His scorn made Zagreus wilt - the soft sunshine of his demeanor fading as though behind thick clouds. In the craggy wall, the spider lily wilted somewhat, shivering delicately.

“No, of course not. I simply found this and thought of you. Think nothing of it,” Zagreus said, his tone carefully masked and distant now. Further from him, just as Thanatos had planned, and yet this climb to their eventual final goodbye felt hollow, forced. Forced, because Thanatos had forced it.

“I never do,” he said, the death bells tolling his retreat as the flowers he left behind - spotting the walls of that chamber Zagreus lingered in - mournfully wilted around him.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“You are hurting, my son.”

Nyx’s voice was always a balm to him. Gentle and cool, like twinkling starlight. Not too harsh, not too loud, as living things were. Cold and distant, like himself, because he had been carved from her.

“I am fine,” he longed to say - but when had he ever been able to lie to her. But he couldn’t admit it, either. He merely looked away, hiding his grief behind sideways looks and long lashes. She reached for him. Her hands chill and welcome against the stony arch of his jaw and cheeks. Nyx’s thumb ran a smooth line over his cheeks, her face still and poignant, but her eyes telling.

“Just because you are Death, does not mean you cannot host Life within your heart, dear one. None of us are spared from feeling. It is perhaps the strongest force on this world - the bit of Life that nothing can wring out.”

“I do not wish to feel it, when it changes nothing,” Thanatos croaked, furious as his lashes grew misty without his consent. He had accepted what was to come, damn it, so why did the grief still feel so smothering?

“Grief changes nothing,” Nyx nodded solemnly, “But… It lets us know that if something can be changed, it is worth trying to change it.”

Thanatos leaned his jaw into the cup of her hands with a conflicted little frown.

“And if that change is not good for everyone?”

Realization bloomed in Nyx’s face like the flowers he could not prevent from growing to crown her starry head.

“Ah,” she said softly. “I see… Sometimes love is letting go…”

He wilted in her hands. A final confirmation, until her fingers went to pinch his chin lovingly and draw his gaze up to hers. Her eyes long and fathomless like the night sky, twinkling and watching.

“But usually... love is asking first, before those pains that go unsaid smother you both.”

Her pale hands rose to pick a red-tongued blossom from the crown that had grown in her hair and placed it delicately in the bowl she made of his hands; as though it were a baby bird. It glittered with fresh dew, with the tears he couldn’t quite stop from falling. Not here, in the safety of his mother’s arms. His tears were always safe in the cloak of night.

“Spider Lilies… It is said they grow at the site of final goodbyes,” Nyx intoned gently, “Others say they help Death guide spirits that have just passed into new lives.”

“The death of the past,” Thanatos said, each word carefully clinical and cold, as though distance could blunt their meaning.

She curled her own hands beneath the bowl of his and said, “They are also a symbol of rebirth, my child. Or perhaps more importantly, they are an opportunity, as everything is.”

Thanatos frowned lightly, his gaze rising to meet hers once more.

“I don’t understand.”

Nyx smiled a soft, tiny smile - as bright as any moonlight - and leaned forward to kiss his forehead tenderly, lips brushing against his skin as she spoke onto him, “Life, and all its decisions, are merely a matter of perspective, my son. It is not too late to change yours.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Before, it felt naive to hope. Hope was a foolish, mortal feeling; Thanatos knew better. Hope always faded in Death, so how could Death ever possibly foster it? And yet, his mother had never once lied to him. Beneath the light of her moon and her stars, all was made plain.

So when he tolled the bells to go to him, Thanatos allowed himself to look at Zagreus the way he had not allowed himself to before. With hope.

Zagreus had grown. As they faced off in the halls of Elysium in a quest to one up the other in battle, Thanatos found himself willingly distracted by the developed grace in Zagreus’ fighting. His posture had changed. He no longer zipped blindly across the field in a rage, trying to win by brute force. He was calm, calculated. He had changed.

Zagreus marked every trap in his mind. Every swing of his blade - new, now, one he had unlocked and partnered with - brought the shades of the underworld to heel. He marched them where he wanted them, whether that was to a swift death beneath his swing or onto a trap. He fought with a tactician’s coolness. He no longer wasted his energy. He no longer showed up to these battles covered in foreboding wounds.

He was growing. Getting closer to his goal. Which meant Thanatos, of course, was running out of time. And no one understood the gravity of the hourglass’ shifting sands quite like Death. Time, as always, was of the essence.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos said, hovering near the heart that he normally tended to simply leave behind as a parting gesture ever since Zagreus’ attempt to treat him to a gift. It was obvious the prince had not been expecting him to stay, reaching as he had been immediately for whatever god’s boon had been promised in this chamber. But the moment the prince heard his voice, the man had all but sprinted to him, and the eager warmth that had inspired in his chest caused a red blossom to bloom at Zagreus’ feet when finally he stopped before him.

“Than? I wasn’t expecting you to stay,” Zagreus said, all eagerness. Always eagerness to move on - to the world above, to a world beyond their fight.

“I wasn’t either,” Thanatos agreed, overwhelmed by the discomfort that immediately began to rise in him. He had known it would come. It had fueled many of this retreats. But nothing would ever change, if he continued to allow it to smother him. He just had hoped knowing that would make it easier , somehow. Yet he felt he could barely breathe, let alone cherrypick the words he wanted. Silence hung between them. Flowers pebbled the ground that separated them. But patiently, Zagreus simply waited. As though time were no burden to him. As though the hourglass of fate was not an enemy, but a friend.

“I know you intend to go to the world above,” Thanatos said, searching desperately for the words and finding every single one lacking. “I… I know you intend to stay there. You need answers, I know that… But before you do, I just wanted to say… She abandoned you, Zagreus. But we never have. We are your family, if you ask me. I won’t stop you from going, but… I just felt it needed to be said.”

“Than,” Zagreus started slowly, and Thanatos waited for the blow: you are not my family. You are not important. You are my past. This is not my home.

He had told himself to hear Zagreus out. He had told himself that this closure - however painful - would make everything easier. Clearer. Yet faced with this final stroke of fate, he found he couldn’t bear to hear it. Before Zagreus could collect his thoughts, Thanatos placed a crystal butterfly upon a broken stone pillar just as Zagreus had once done and said in a quick murmur, “Let it never be said that I don’t repay my debts,” before he left, like a coward.

Death, cowed by the thought of love spurned. Or perhaps, cowed by the thought of living. His offered keepsake framed in a lush bloom of red spider lilies, kept company by Zagreus’ soft, regretful sigh in Thanatos’ absence.

“Oh, Than…”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Zagreus made it topside. Thanatos could feel it in his bones, a soul that had forever been below the earth suddenly above - in his domain, among the fields of souls he was meant to reap. He felt him there, fragile after his fight with his father and yet soaring like an inferno with his victory.

Thanatos pulled down the bottle of Nectar he had kept for this moment. It had felt right to save it for this occasion, the gift a goodbye and yet also a salute to his prince’s victory. A victory he had helped the man achieve. He poured an ample glass, the liquid shimmering like a child of sunlight and starlight both, but as he rose the glass to toast Zagreus’ achievement, a soft and confused frown began to mar his lips.

Above, with every step and every second spent there, Thanatos felt that fire waning. The glass of nectar trembled lightly in his hand as his gaze became distant, his awareness fully above. Zagreus, stumbling through the world of Light and Life. Zagreus, reaching another soaring source of power - Persephone. Zagreus, waning. Zagreus, yearning, straining. Zagreus, breath stuttering.

Zagreus, dying.

The glass crashed to the ground without a hand to hold it, shattering, Nectar pooling.

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Dead, as the boy had been dead. Thanatos did not wish to go to him. Did not wish to see him dead, here, among the place his prince had so dearly dreamed about. Did not wish to see him still and pale as only mortals deserved to be. Zagreus was a being of light and power and determination. He could not bear to see him beaten down to nothingness, just a husk of flesh and nothing more. Not here. Not in his mother’s garden, so close to the answers he had sought for so long…

But to love was to suffer.

He went to him. Kneeled beside the prince, allowing his own body to touch the earth, unheeding of how it killed the very grass he touched. His fingers went to cup Zagreus’ face. To prepare him for the journey home again, and as he did, the man’s body became haloed in deep, crimson flowers. Sprouting, uncontrolled and thick. Thanatos could not stop them, could not be bothered to stop them. It was effort enough to see him like this, let alone hide his own weakness.

He had forgotten there were still eyes there to witness it.

“Thanatos,” Persephone said, appearing from around the corner of the house with a death shawl for her son and coins for his eyes. She froze, her eyes not on him or her son, but on the flowers that surrounded them.

“Oh Thanatos ,” he whispered thickly, brows twisted. Looking upon them mournfully - she, the woman who had abandoned her son and then somehow enticed him away from his family below.

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch your garden,” Thanatos said stonily, thinking she feared the spreading of the dead grass from his knees.

“Thanatos, wait--”

But they were gone, he and Zagreus both, leaving nothing but a patch of dead grass and the outline of her son in bloody, crimson flowers. The blossoms trembling in tandem with the spatterings of red that had begun to grow uncontrollably throughout her garden.

“It was you,” she whispered to no one. “They’re yours.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Once, of course, was not enough. There are still questions that need answering, and Zagreus has nothing but time to throw himself at the mercy of the gauntlet between the Underworld and the mortal realm above again and again and again. Every victory means only one thing: another tragic death so close to his goal above. And yet, Thanatos cannot help but assist him. Even if it means cradling that larger-than-life body suddenly made so small by death and escorting him back down below. Even if it means being the very vessel that takes his prince from his goal, he will help him get there once more, once more, once more.

The hourglass has been refilled, if only for a while more. If anyone can figure out a way to stay among the Living, it will be Zagreus. Zagreus, who did the unthinkable and escaped the underworld. Zagreus, who found the mother that had abandoned him. He’ll do it, Thanatos knows it just as keenly as he knows the last beat of a mortal’s fragile heart.

But he’ll gladly cherish every extra grain of sand in the hourglass he’s been given.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“I’ve missed this,” Zagreus says after one of their dual bloodbaths in the halls of Elysium. This level of the Underworld is his favorite one to go to Zagreus in. It means their momentary glimmer of peace after the fight is flush with soft grass and pleasing greens and all the Life that Zagreus deserves. And perhaps, when Zagreus is gone, Thanatos can enjoy a sip of the river to forget. He never will, he knows. It’s selfish, foolhardy and probably impossible for someone like him. But sometimes, he likes to entertain the idea that he could forget, and be free of the blossoms that constantly remind him of what he cannot have.

Thanatos turns to him, taking his time to take in the lines that make up the nostalgic expression of Zagreus’ face as he catches his breath there, sitting among the white flowers of Elysium’s fields. White and nearly like his own.

“Missed what? We do this all the time, how could you have missed this?” Thanatos asked.

“Not the fight. This . Us,” Zagreus said. “This just reminds me of how we were before I began my escapes.”

“Simpler times,” Thanatos frowned, unable to swallow the bitterness that suddenly rose in his throat. “But you chose to complicate them, Zagreus.”

He understood why, now; but that didn’t mean he didn’t resent it in his weakest moments. He waited for Zagreus to defend himself. For that bitterness to rise in Thanatos to ruin the moment, as it often did. He’d flee, and he’d waste his precious remaining grains of sand - he could see it all already, unfolding, until Zagreus brought a halt to his spiraling thoughts as only he could.

“I don’t know why this has turned into picking who I love, Than. Wanting to find my mother doesn’t mean I love anyone else any less. Everyone acts as if I’m choosing my mother over everything and everyone else. Even you.”

“Are you not?” Thanatos asked, dreading the answer.

Yet Zagreus simply looked at him, red flowers blooming in his hair, and said, “If you’re asking me who I’d choose between you or my mother, Than, my answer is this: I never intended to settle for one at all.”

Thanatos blew out a frustrated breath even as his heart soared in a way he hadn’t thought Death’s heart could, trembling like a rabbit against his ribs.

“That’s naive to say, don’t you think, Zag?”

“Says who?”

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It’s all a matter of perspective, my child.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

One day, Zagreus went topside. Thanatos prepared to go to him, to collect him, but the moment never came. Death felt the prince’s heart begin to flatter as mortal hearts did, and yet the final throbbing beat never came. In fact, it stabilized. It stabilized and grew nearer. Nearer and nearer still, adrift on the river with his brother. Not just his brother, but another too. Life was flowing down the river to the Underworld.

The Queen was returning.

Thanatos leaned bonelessly back into his lounge, feeling shaky with stunned, overwhelming relief as spider lilies rose around him like a cushion because Zagreus was coming home with Persephone.

Zagreus was coming home of his own free will.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Life in the Underworld improves. As though Persephone were a sun and the Underworld a withered garden without her, things steadily improved with her return. Cerberus pressed eagerly into the touch of her hand. The halls seemed brighter, warmer. Even Achilles seemed a little less sad, and Hades - oh Hades - it was as though he were steadily becoming a different man altogether. A softer man, gentled by her touch. His thorns shorn short, his rough and callous words turned to roses lush and hearty; though suddenly kind was a stretch to say, he was certainly safer to speak to now.

The court was alight with how Persephone’s presence was changing everything for the better. But all Thanatos could think was that none of this would have been possible if not for Zagreus, who had lassoed the sun herself and brought her back to them against all odds.

If Persephone was the sun, Zagreus was the lifeblood of this place.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

The hourglass had been halted. There was no beginning, no end, and once again Death was no longer shackled by the wasteful ticking of time. But the flowers did not lessen, did not disappear. They trailed after him, and though he had gotten better at hiding it, he knew that Persephone knew. Flowers were her children, after all; how could she not know?

“You should talk to him, Thanatos. If nothing else, Zagreus has taught me this: what you assume will happen is never definite,” she said to him one day, cradling a wayward spider lily that had suspiciously grown in her garden - startlingly white. He wondered when that had started or why.

“Perhaps I will. Thank you, my lady,” Thanatos said gently.

She smiled at him, her thumbs so gentle with the bloom’s petals, making the little flower shiver happily, and said, “I hope you do.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Thanatos had paced the length of his balcony many times now, each with a stumbling aborted attempt to head in the direction of Zagreus’ chambers. He tried to ignore the knowing weight of Achilles’ watchful gaze by the mirrors. Tried to ignore the thunderous fear of his heart or the way the lilies just kept blooming around him in fitful bursts.

Go to him , his heart said.

But what if you ruin everything , his mind howled, Now, when things are finally peaceful.

But is peace the same as happiness? His heart asked. Is that all you wanted? Could it be enough?

It certainly hurt less than being wrong, his mind said.

If that were true, then why are the flowers still blooming?

Little Deaths, the Pining Flowers. Could he truly be content, if they still found the soil of his heart so rich to bloom in?

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“Take it from a fool who waited,” Achilles said as a tiny purple blossom grew in the tuck of his hair behind his ear, “Nothing risked, nothing earned.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

This time, when Thanatos went to Zagreus in the fields of Elysium, he cleaved the souls of the dead down in one impatient stroke - knowing that if he did not act fast, he would not act at all.

Zagreus let out a startled huff of a laugh, his hand son his hips as he turned to Thanatos with a confused, if amused, “Well that was hardly sporting, Than! Have you been going easy on me all this time?”

But that expression fell, muted and worried, when Zagreus finally caught sight of Thanatos’ face.

“Than?” He asked.

“Please, don’t--” Thanatos said, holding up a hand to halt the prince’s words, “Just… listen. I… I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for some time, but the words elude me, even now.”

Zagreus brought his blade down into the grass and let it rest then, his full attention him upon Thanatos in a way so direct, so overwhelming, Thanatos felt that urge to run rise in him again.

It was the memory Achilles’ gaze - heavy and knowing - that held him fast. Sympathetic, envious and frustrated. Frustrated, because Zagreus was within reach, and Thanatos risked nothing.

He did not want to have eyes like Achilles had. He wanted to Live.

“I hate you, when you first left,” Thanatos blundered forward. “I thought you were done with me. That I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t blame you either. What could I offer you, that you couldn’t have up there? What’s Death to Life?”

“Than--”

“Please, Zag… Let me finish or I never will,” Thanatos whispered. “I hated you. Or I thought I did… but these… All of these?”

He held up a hand, a red lily immediately blooming at his call to hold between them.

“These are yours, Zagreus. All of them, every single one. Because I missed you. Because I could not stop thinking of you, worrying for you, wanting you.”

Zagreus stilled, and something akin to paleness stole over his tanned flesh. Thanatos knew, then, he’d never have him. How could Life love Death? But he continued onward, if for nothing but closure. If for nothing but to say he risked it all, he tried.

“It’s childish, foolish, reckless even - but I… I’m utterly helpless, Zagreus. You’ve made me, made Death , helpless in want for you. In loving you, I…” his breath left him in a soft, rattling wheeze as finally he admitted - with the certainty that the sword cleaves flesh - “I love you, and… I’m glad you came home.”

He waited for the blow. Waited for the moment that would wring that last breath of hope from his lungs, and he wondered if this is what mortals felt like, waiting for him. For Death.

But he waited, and waited, and it never came. Zagreus merely stood dumbfounded, something wet growing on his sooty bottom lashes, before finally he stepped forward and did what Thanatos had always been too afraid to do.

He kissed him.

Perspective, his mother had said. He had thought she meant decisions, but it was so much more than that. This moment was a perspective he thought he’d never have - could never fathom . Life, warm and bright against his lips. Flowing through him in a circle, like a cycle that never ended, life and death and life and death. He closed his eyes and Zagreus reached up to bring him down, closer to the ground - to him - and wound gentle fingers into silver hair.

Around them, flowers bloomed in the hall of Elysium - blood and bone, red and white, cascading in a sheet to cover the chamber around them. Pushing out and out and out until nothing was left but the Spider Lilies singing brilliantly in the breeze around them. Zagreus drew Thanatos down like an anchor, floating feet brushing finally against petal softness, but nothing wilted from his touch. It was as though those flowers had always been waiting for both of them, every petal glimmering and shining now that the cycle of Life and Death had finally been made whole.

“I love you,” Zagreus said between desperate presses of chaste lips, speaking against Thanatos’ surprised mouth as though the words might possess them both, “And I’m so grateful you waited for me.”

Without Life, Death does not exist. Without Death, Life is not Life at all. For one is needed for the other to exist. Otherwise, there is Nothing.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Zagreus had hidden all of his blooms in his chamber, of all things, knowing that no one went there. Not even Dusa, who was not allowed to clean Hades’ “ungrateful mongrel of a son”’s room. So there, they had remained safely hidden. Bone white blooms, ivory tongues drooping in such familiar ways to the crimson petals that followed Thanatos everywhere.

“Why did you never say?” Thanatos asked one day, as they lay side by side in a carpet of their flowers, fingers entwined together, nearly nose to nose.

“I did not want to frighten you away,” Zagreus laughed.

“And how did you prevent them from growing on me? I can’t stop the blasted things from appearing everywhere?” Thanatos asked.

Zagreus laughed again and repeated, “Because I did not want to frighten you away.”

Thanatos turned to him, arm braced so he could hover over Zagreus face with a gentle smile.

“And now that I am still here?” He asked warmly.

Zagreus reached up to brush a lock of silvery hair behind Thanatos’ ear, held back with a white lily to keep it in place, and said, “I’m glad that I was wrong.”

Thanatos smiled as red lilies bloomed to frame his prince’s head in a crown. Thick and regal, as he deserved. His mark upon the man. His prince, his love. It stirred a primal satisfaction deep in his belly as he leaned down to kiss Zagreus and say, “I’m glad we both were wrong.”

So they were reborn, there in a bed of white and red spider lilies - flowers that had guided them to new Life.

#thanzag #hades big bang #zagthan #zagreus #thanatos #hades game #pining #hanahaki #my writing #long post

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windfighter · 3 years

Text

Finally got around to typing te story out. I got distracted by sleep because apparently that's a thing my body needs? Anyway story is inspired by this post by @hermitcraftheadcanons and some cobbled together fanons I've stumbled over while stalking the hermitcraft-tag

no beta we die like the villagers during Grian and Scar's sith-arc

Summary: Grian always hides his true self, both to protect himself from the memories and to protect others from the horrors of his past. But in the quiet of his mansion, in the empty rooms, he can let his disguise fall. No one will see him there, no one will find out, especially not with everyone busy with their projects.

But Scar's project is done. Almost. Maybe he could use the input of one of his friends to help him with the last details.

-------

Grian let his disguise fall as he entered the mansion. His perfect skin slowly faded, instead revealing skin covered by white and pink scars in all shapes and sizes. His left eye faded as well, leaving only void and darkness behind, and his right eye became grumbled, but it was a long time since he relied only on his eyes to see. The magic coursing through his veins gave him the ability to sense his surroundings. Not enough to see colors and textures but Pearl used to help him with that and now he was good enough on his own. His magic couldn't help his hearing, but at home he didn't need to hear the emptiness of the mansion and he took his hearing aids off and put them in a chest by the door. He pulled his hand through his hair, flinched as his fingers found one of his scars. He held the hand infront of his face, his one eye staring at the hazy shape it formed infront of him. Did it actually hurt or was it just the memories? He couldn't tell any longer.

His friends were all busy putting the finishing touches on their projects and Grian had planned to work on his own. His mansion was almost done and he wanted to get it completed, but he was so tired. The disguise didn't use a lot of magic, it was easy to maintain since he had worked hard on transferring the image to his subconscious and sometimes he'd even wake up in it, unaware of having summoned it. But he had kept it up for weeks now, while working in Aque, on the HCBBS, on the barge, and it was wearing him down. He stretched, scars across his joints protested and he curled up slightly again. His wings ached, hidden under his sweater where they wouldn't be visible. But everyone was busy working and maybe for once Grian could let all of himself out.

Grian's sweater fell to the floor and two wings flapped slowly behind Grian. He closed his eye, relaxed his shoulders for the first time in months. There were no windows in the mansion, no water where he could catch a hazy glance of his reflection. Nothing to remind him about the Before except the ache in his scars that would never quite heal no matter how many times he respawned. He yawned as a new wave of exhaustion swept over him.

”A bed, a bed. My kindgom for a bed.”

He stumbled more than walked through the empty halls. He didn't need any magic to navigate it, the hazy sight his eye provided was more than enough. There was no furniture, no pets, nothing he could stumble over as he made his way forward. His body ached with every step, the exhaustion making him unable to filter out the pain that was always present and he could usually ignore. He fell into the bed, greeted by Professor Beak. He rolled over to his side, fixed his eye on the parrot.

”We've been through a lot, haven't we?”

He closed his eye, prepared for sleep to pull him under. Professor Beak flew down, landed on the headboard of the bed. Grian's body shuddered as he took a shaky breath.

”It's better now though, isn't it? Taurtis?”

Professor Beak whistled an answer and Grian was pulled away from consiousness.

ScarX was done. Scar stood on top of his giant drill and looked at what he had achieved. Every detail he could think of had been added, no stone left unturned, there were Jellies everywhere. Still, something was missing. He scratched his head, carefully touched the scar on his cheek. Maybe Badtimes could help him figure the missing pieces out. But the Helshermits were just as busy as the hermits, everyone working hard to finish up whatever they were doing. Badtimes would probably just suggest fire anyway and that wouldn't be as helpful as Scar would have liked. Scar fiddled with the communicator in his pocket before deciding to send out a message to his fellow hermits.

GoodtimewithScar: ScarX is done but it feels like something's missing?

Etho: TNT

iskall85: TNT of doom

BdoubleO100: Definately TNT

Tango: Sounds like a job for the Boomers

GoodtimewithScar: We are not blowing up my base

MumboJumbo: Can we blow up mine? It's almost dead anyway

Xisuma: Alright, I think we all need a break.

iJevin: And some TNT

Xisuma: Let's all meet up at the moopop café for some relaxation and games. We've been working hard this past week.

Scar put the communicator away again. TNT was not missing from ScarX, but someone had been missing from the TNT-discussion. He frowned and turned in the direction of Grian's mansion. Grian would never miss a chance to blow something up. Maybe he should make sure all was fine and that Grian hadn't gotten stuck in obsessed build-mode again. And despite their differences in buildstyles, they still had similar ideas when it came to building so maybe Grian would be able to help him find the missing detail. He jumped off the drill, fired off a rocket and took to the sky.

Something woke Grian up. A tingling sensation in his neck. Something was coming? Or wrong? He blinked, tried to shake the exhaustion off himself. How long had he slept? Taurtis would wake him up if he slept for too long. He sat up, untangled his legs from the blanket and looked around. A shape was standing in the hallway, staring at him, and Grian's magic was sent into overdrive. His regular disguise started creeping over him, hiding his torn skin and destroyed eyes. Another flash of magic rushed towards the figure and smashed straight into Scar's magic. Grian got to his feet. Scar took a step closer. Could he joke it off? Force Scar to forget it? He clenched and unclenched his hands. His mouth was dry. Watcher magic was coursing through his veins, demanding to be used. He could ban Scar from the server, use his magic to override the code of the world, cause a permadeath. Scar was his friend but no, Watchers didn't have friends and no one could know about Grian's history. He didn't want questions, hugs, pats on the back and pitying looks. Scar took another step closer and Grian still didn't move. Taurtis lifted from the headboard. Professor Beak lifted from the headboard and Grian wanted to tell him to flee. Scar took another step, he was too close now, close enough that Grian didn't need to actively send his magic out to sense Scar. Scar's magic was pressing against Grian's, aggressive in a completely different way than the Watcher's magic was. More unhinged and feral and Grian had never felt it so strongly before. Wings sprouted on Scar's back, thin things that wouldn't be able to carry anyone if they didn't have magic as well. Scar's skin shifted, changed.

Scar was close enough that they could almost touch. Grian's breathing was quick. He needed to have done something five minutes ago and yet his body remained frozen. He wanted to blame the magic oozing from Scar – it was an unknown factor – but he knew there was another reason; he cared. He had allowed himself to relax, to let the perosn infront of him get close. Scar looked at him, his eyes empty and yet so focused. He held his palms towards Grian, as if approaching a scared animal. Grian took a step back, getting closer to cornering himself, but Scar didn't follow.

”You don't have to hide here, Grian.”

Scar's voice was heavy with barely held back magic. It vibrated through the air around them, through Grian's body, and his and Scar's magic worked in unison to get the words past his worsened hearing. Grian shivered. He didn't want to answer, knew he would be unable to keep his own magic at bay if he did.

”We all have our secrets”, Scar continued with a softer voice, ”and we might not understand yours, but we're here when you're ready to tell us.”

Grian couldn't breathe. Scar took a step back, his magic and shape retreatng, returning to normal, but Grian no longer knew what was normal about his friend. Grian got ready to dash past his friend, to send the whole mansion flying with Scar still in it because Scar was too close, Scar knew too much, and there was no way Grian could hide it all back, make it unseen, because watchermagic couldn't fiddle with time in that way. Scar took another step back, started looking through his inventory. Grian prepared to bolt, was just about to run when Scar pulled a piece of red fabric out of his inventory and offered it to Grian.

”Everyone's meeting at the moopop café, you should come. And then I can help you with the mansion and you can maybe take a look at ScarX?”

Grian's hand shook as he reached for the sweater in Scar's hands. He stared at Scar's face, fake black eyes locked onto fake green ones. He had questions, still considered escaping, once again hiding the truth. His fingers touched the fabric. It was more than a sweater at the moment and Grian knew, understood. It was a promise. A promise that Scar would be there, help him keep the secret as long as he needed it and support him through the troubles he had with it. By taking the sweater Grian would accept that, accept Scar's friendship in a deeper way than he had before. By taking the sweater Grian promised that one day he'd stop hiding, at least for Scar.

The scars on Grian's hand ached when he grabbed the sweater, his wings ached as he pulled it over his head and squished them against his back. His body felt drained but he smiled towards Scar.

”Sounds fun. Should I bring the TNT?”

Scar laughed and Grian knew he had made the right choice.

#my writing #hermitcraft #fanfic #a lot of this probably don't make sense?#I dunno #it was fun to write something again tho #dipping my toes into the hermitcraft fanfiction-sea to test the waters #tw scars #tw of unknown description #I'm really bad at tws #I'm trying to learn but #there's so many variables #and people use different tws to mean the same thing sometime???#I probably spent more time looking for their in game-names than actually writing the story #in the end I gave up #I think I butchered the way Scar talks as well #but you know what #no beta we die like the villagers during scar and grian's sith-arc

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sweetestlamb · 4 years

Text

I Still Get Jealous

Summary: Gang-tae comes to terms with his feelings for Mun-yeong and acknowledges that feeling he tries so hard to suppress, jealousy.

Author's notes: Just a little jealous GT drabble that popped in my head that become something longer, I've been very busy with real life so writing has been difficult. Hope you enjoy, it's not too deep just a cute little story about an adorable jealous boy lol.

Turning in the bed, he pounds at the pillow supporting his head remembering his talk with Mun-yeong, even mentally and privately he couldn't admit that the possessive anger betrayed feeling that churned in his stomach was....jealousy.

Why would he be jealous? He didn't own her and they weren't anything. Just housemates, he was merely someone she knew. But hearing that dismissive title leave her mouth in front of someone that was visibly interested in her made him..uneasy. If a little protective. That was a much better word, he cared for Mun-yeong so it was natural to be protective of her, it had nothing to do with his potential feelings for her. Those didn't exist. At all.

He would act the same way with anyone, if an unknown man was trying to harass Ju-Ri, he would do the same because she was an acquaintance that he cared about.

That's all it was.

With a resolute nod, he turns once more finding a comfortable position before drifting off to sleep.

Meet me at the pizza shop.

He stares at Jae-su's message, as he walks through the hospital doors, hopping into the car and driving off to the pizza shop.

Walking through those doors with a smile, he searches for his best friend only to feel cold chill roll through his body at the sight before him.

She had informed him this morning that she'd be out, demanding that he meet her for lunch but he had declined, brushing her off. It was easier that way, he was still wrestling to get his wayward emotions under control.

But he feels the ropes loosening as he watches her smile that enigmatic smile across the table, glossy hair lightly brushing her creamy collar. She looked beautiful in a short green summer dress, her bare legs peeking out from the table.

Across from her sat a man he's never seen before, tall with thick brown hair dressed in a pressed navy suit. Outlandish in the casual setting of the shop, they both looked too expensive for the space.

The man leaned closer to her, stretching himself across the table although the shop was quiet and it was hardly a struggle to converse easily. His jaw tightened as those hands stopped mere inches away from Mun-yeong's which were folded primly on the table.

She smiled at his words, head tilting slightly showcasing her beautiful neck line. He could only imagine those hungry eyes devouring her and it made him feel.... protective.

Was this another fan that she was forced to entertain because of Sang-in's incompetence? Did she need him to save her? How long had they been sitting there?

"There you are! I thought you weren't coming." Jae-su claps a hand on his shoulder forcing his eyes away from the table. He turns around trying to exude nonchalance, forcing himself not to look over.

"Why are you just standing there with that sour face? Let's get you some pizza!" Pulling him to a table that perfectly aligned with hers, before Jae-su was blocking his view. His friend already has the pizza on the table, warm and delicious and he begins to feed Gang-tae spewing out complaints of how Gang-tae had abandoned him and he should be his number one.

He chews at the pizza thoughtlessly, Jae-su's voice droning away in the background, nothing more than white noise, eyes locked on Mun-yeong and her companion.

They are chatting animatedly, all hands and smiles, before the stranger glances down at his watch and looks back up. He begins to collect their garbage, before offering a hand to her. She lets herself be pulled up and that hand slides into a subtle grasp on her waist. He waits for her to push the hand away.

That moment never arrives, instead they leave the shop as his eyes pierce into the side of her face.

Dashing out of the chair, he hastily chases after them with a loud goodbye to Jae-su who sputters after him, whine in his voice as he actually abandons him the very thing he had been complaining about.

Bursting outside he whips his head around searching for that familiar figure, before finally landing on her. The man chats as he escorts her to his car, racing forward he runs around the lot so he can accidentally run into them, just to make sure Mun-yeong is not being coerced.

Mun-yeong sees him almost immediately and his heart soars as he waits for the blinding smile he'll receive. Waits for her to pull away from that unwanted touch and run over and cling to him as she often does, linking arms despite his protests.

Instead she she looks away as if their eyes never met, as if he's the stranger and not this man invading her personal space. Anger burns his sensibilities away and with a glare he stomps over, blocking their path.

"Mun-yeong, is that you?" He calls out, refusing to let her ignore him although he doesn't know why her doing so makes him so infuriated. It's just rude, that's all he tries to convince himself.

The man answers for her, "Ah you must be a fan. I'm sorry, we're in a bit of a rush right now. She can't take any photos." His blood boils at the gall of this asshole, a fan?

Ignoring him he stares at Mun-yeong, taking in her passive gaze and that hand so boldly settled on her hip.

"Do you need a ride? I drive our car here." He doesn't know what possesses him to say that, our, such a small word but the implications it carries are massive.

Shifting uncomfortably the man turns to look at her, "Mun-yeong ah do you know this man?"

"Yes we live together." He answers, satisfied with the grimace that runs across the man's face.

"He's a housemate, his older brother also lives there. He's my illustrator and he-" she juts a thumb in his direction, "is his caretaker. They were a packaged deal."

His heart thuds at those words that wedge an unimaginable distance between them, limiting their roles in each other's lives. He blisters at her callousness, at times he was her destiny and they were a set but now he was simply a housemate.

The sound of a phone ringing breaks the uncomfortable silence, with an apologetic glance the man answers his phone. It becomes clear that he's being called away, trying to contain his glee he stares at the ground, smile itching to come out.

"Mun-yeong ah I'm being called on business, so we'll have to cut this date short."

He bristles at the word date, jaw clenched so tight he fears lockjaw.

"But I'll call you and we can keep discussing what you mentioned earlier. It was brilliant seeing you, you're as gorgeous as the day I first met you. I'll drop you of--"

"No. I can drop her off."

The man jolts as if he'd forgotten he was there. Pompous imbecile.

Their eyes narrow as they both stare the other down. Mun-yeong's cough pulls them away from each other before she finally speaks, "As much as I'm enjoying this dick measuring contest, I don't intend to stand here all day."

With a furious blush, he jumps at her words, turning away wholly ashamed of himself.

"Joo-young oppa, thank you for the meal. Thank you for meeting me. Drive safely."

He watches in horror as she's pulled into a hug, her arms remain at her side but his larger frame almost swallows her entirely, gently squeezing her into him before he releases her.

With a smug look and a cheesy smile, he finally leaves and Gang-tae can breathe easily once more.

She walks away, striding to the car not parked too far from where they're standing. He rouses himself from his anger and trails after her.

Once they are safely buckled up and driving he sneaks glances over at her, but her eyes are peering outside the window oblivious to his turmoil.

He coughs loudly but that doesn't garner her attention. He clears his throat, but still nothing. Finally he snaps, "So who was that? He seemed very familiar with you." He can't tamper the bite in his voice, emotions far too close to the surface.

Those piercing eyes land on him, penetrating into his soul, curiously fills them to the brim. With a rye smile she speaks, "An old friend."

He waits to see if she will continue, but that's all she deigns him worthy of knowing.

Protectiveness pushes him on, "Why were you having lunch with him?

"Why do you care? I asked you to meet me, you didn't answer. So I ate with someone else, is that a crime?"

He knows he's behaving irrationally, he has no right to question her or get this riled up because she was dining with someone else but his heart doesn't want to hear reason. He just wants to lash out.

"What about his hand on your hip? How many men are you letting hold you? Are you two meant to be as well?"

He can't stop pushing, so furious with her for being on a date, for making his heart ache this way, for smiling at someone else and allowing them to touch her, was this thing between them just another one of her games?

He pulls up to the castle, parking the car with a deep sigh.

Unbuckling her seat belt she opens the door, pausing for a moment to stare at him, "Are you.... jealous?" Something soft flashes in her eyes, a glint of hope before a familiar smirk slides across her face.

It raises his hackles and defensively he cries, "No! Why would I be jealous? I don't care who you talk to!"

With those vicious words he rips the warmth from her eyes leaving behind cold lifeless pools of darkness. Those eyes that haunted him when they were kids.

"You're such a coward. Get out of my sight before you piss me off more." She opens the car door slamming it close in a thunderous bang. He watches her storm away from him with his heart in his throat.

He yearns to follow her, to finally actualize those feelings that percolate when she's in his presence. However fear renders him motionless.

He drives back to work with a frown etched on his handsome face. Absently nodding in apology when he's reprimanded for his tardiness. Head heavy with thoughts of her.

Nothing comes of their disagreement, Mun-yeong is tight lipped about exactly who that man was and he lets his feelings fester, pushing them down until they are buried deep beneath the surface.

He learns from Sang-in after accosting politely asking him about Joo-young Oppa that they are old friends, business friend and one of Mun-yeong's biggest investors. He'd exploded at the manager when he admitted that he's insisted that Mun-yeong meet with him because he knew the man had a crush on her. She would be able to secure his investment into her newest book.

How dare he use Mun-yeong like that? She wasn't a bargaining chip. Damn incompetent idiot.

Jae-su invites him out for drinks and he agrees after a moment's hesitation. He hasn't seen much of Mun-yeong lately and he'd been planning on talking to her, try to move past this awkwardness that still plagued their interactions. In all actuality, she seemed to be fine and was as assertive and distracting as usual, but he couldn't help picking at her, lashing out when she claimed he was what she wanted. Rejecting her love.

But thoughts of her with that man made his skin crawl and his fist tighten.

What he needed was a night of drunken disregard to firmly push those emotions down.

As if the universe is conspiring against him, he's greeted by a horrifying sight. Jae-su laughing at the table, guffawing as he slams back a shot of soju. Across the table Ju-ri giggles cheeks already flushed red and her eyes glossy. But it's the dark figure beside that renders him speechless, Mun-yeong looks at them at them from the corner of her eye, exasperation rolling off her in waves.

Since when were they all friends, close enough to go drinking together? From his knowledge Mun-yeong didn't particularly like either of them, calling Jae-su an idiot most of time and declaring Ju-ri as a two faced bitch.

Yet, there they were laughing and drinking, Mun-yeong picked up her glass with dainty hands pouring the liquor down her throat in a fluid motion.

"Oh Moon Gang-tae!! What are you doing? Come sit down we started without you." Jae-su waves him over, flailing in his seat as he gestures to the empty chair beside him.

His eyes flutter over to Mun-yeong sidetracking Ju-ri's wide eyes and her welcoming wave, she looked surprised to see him-had this not been planned?- and with a small mysterious grin she turns back to her drink.

Sliding into the empty chair he quietly greets everyone accepting the glass that Jae-su eagerly presses into his hand.

Needing it now more than ever, slamming it back then hissing at the burn that erupts in its wake.

Biting the bullet he turns to his friend, "I didn't know you invited anyone else..." He glances over at the girls, who are both too focused on eating to hear his comment.

Jae-su nods before replying, "I ran into Ju-ri and then Mun-yeong text her saying she was bored so we invited her to come with us. She's...not so bad."

He stares at him blankly, all of the rants and warnings playing back through his head.

"Yeah, yeah. I know what I said. But she's okay when she's not stabbing my best friend. Plus she's paying for everything, so I think she's great!"

Mun-yeong perks up at the last of the sentence watching them suspiciously and Jae-su shoots her a blinding grin and a thumbs up, "Cheers to Mun-yeong for paying!"

Ju-ri surges up drunkenly shouting a little too loudly, "To Mun-yeong ah!"

She glares at them both snidely replying, "I didn't think you'd order so much you damn mooches. Last time I try to do something nice."

But he can read her like a book, she's having fun, the relaxed lines of her body curving into the chair.

He can't help his answering grin.

"Well I better order something too before your graciousness warns out."

"Aish! You little...!"

They are melt into comfortable conversations, discussing their days and swallowing shot after shot until endless bottles litter the table's surface.

When he pours the last drop of soju, he watches Jae-su waving someone over. It has to be the waitress.

A new voice enters the fray, decidedly male voice, the timber low and flirtatious. Despite Jae-su's outstretched hand the waiter makes a clear bee line for Mun-yeong. Focusing all his attention on her, eyes trailing down her neck before settling on her face.

"What can I get for you?" His tone is far too suggestive for such an Innocuous question.

Mun-yeong bites her lip thoughtfully and he watches as the waiter's eyes fixate on her mouth.

He coughs loudly, answering with a frown "We need more soju. And I want noodles."

Without breaking his intense gaze on Mun-yeong he nods at Gang-tae, "If you need anything else, anything at all. Let me know. " He stresses the words before stalking off with a smile.

He glares at the retreating figure, unaware of the Jae-su's knowing gaze at his clenched jaw.

It takes all of his willpower not to shout in frustration when the waiter turns around, making his way back over to their table.

"I don't mean to bother but could I ask your name? I can't keep calling you gorgeous customer in my head." Once again his eyes are unwavering as they latch on Mun-yeong as though she is the only occupant of the table.

His anger flares up, who was this punk and why was he so unprofessional? He didn't need to get a customer's name to serve them and why did he only want Mun-yeong's name? Gorgeous customer? He shouldn't be thinking of her at all! His only job was to get their food not flirt with his.....

His what?

What was she to him? He was the very one who'd been adamant that were nothing. So what was wrong with him? Why did he want to leap across the table and punch the waiter in his smug mouth?

"Gorgeous huh? Do you flatter all your customers like this or am I special?" He bristles at the playfulness in her voice, glaring at the small coy smile on her lips.

"You're special. I've never seen anyone like you."

Gang-tae's knuckles burn from his punishing grip on the chair.

"And you probably never will. What will I get if I give you my name?"

Ju-ri admonishes at her question, lightly shoving at her shoulder as her eyes dart over to him. He grips his chopsticks in his hand, tempted to stab the man in front of him.

Mun-yeong shrugs, staring up from under her dark long lashes.

"Anything you want."

She licks her lips in response and he can't take anymore, his frustration erupts like a dormant volcano, pushing his chair back in a loud screech he ignores Jae-su's calls as he stomps to the bathroom.

Splashing cold water on his hot face and taking deep breaths to combat the rapid beat of his heart.

When he eventually makes his way back, Mun-yeong is the only one at the table. Aimlessly scrolling on her phone, when he sits down she looks up. That same infuriating smirk on her face.

"Are you done with your jealous tantrum?"

"I'm not jealous! I just needed to use the bathro--"

She cuts him off with a dismissive wave of her hand, "Save the lies. Chicken boy left and took the two faced bitch. I already paid the bill so we can go."

He follows after her as she leaves the restaurant the clicks of her heels deafening in his ear drums.

"Good night Mun-yeong ah, please come back very soon." She winks at the waiter before striding out the door.

He makes a mental note to never return to this restaurant. Glaring at the waiter, accidentally knocking his shoulder as he passes him to the door.

The drive home is tense, both quietly staring out the window. Surprisingly he's the first to break the thick silence.

"Why did you flirt with him?" Anxiety fills his heart as he glances at her from the corner of his eye.

Those eyes fill his vision again, "Why wouldn't I?"

He grips the steering wheel tighter, no rebuttal.

She staggers to her room on wobbly legs, waving good night over her shoulder.

Sleep doesn't find him easily.

There are men everywhere, approaching her at all times, while they're on line waiting for their coffee order, as they walk down the street, even at the hospital, there is no escape from the men who want to sweep her off her feet. All looking at her with hunger eyes and beckoning grins.

He doesn't know if this was always the norm, if men were always bombarding her and he simply never noticed but now he's hyper aware of every instance. His teeth hurt from how much he's been clenching his jaw.

And she doesn't do anything to deter them, none of her usual prickliness or abrasiveness, no threats or assaults. Instead she smiles mysteriously, dancing out of their reach but never outright shutting down the flirtations. It's driving him crazy.

She was still adamant that they were destined, sending him teasing smiles when they were alone, constantly asking him, "Are you jealous?"

He denied her at very turn, rejecting that there was anything more to their relationship and loudly denouncing his supposed jealous.

Admitting it would be too real. Too vulnerable.

In a turn of fate that nobody would predict it's Cha-young who wakes him from his willful oblivion.

He's changing in the locker room when he overhears the lazy nurse on his cellphone, he's supposed to be searching the patients beds for dangerous contraband and Gang-tae stalks over to reprimand him. Irritated already, as he'd seen one of the hospitals donors chatting up Mun-yeong.

He'd stormed off and ended up here in his fit.

"You're supposed to be--"

Cha-young's frustrated yell cuts him off, "What do you mean why am I upset? You were flirting right in front of me!"

He stops short, air vacuumed from his lungs as he molds himself into the wall, eavesdropping.

"But you didn't tell him you had a boyfriend. That's all you had to say and he would have stopped."

He watches him pace around the room, arms flailing as he shouts into the phone, "Well you are! We've been going on all these dates, you know I like you! It drove me crazy to see you with him."

"Yes! Okay, I was jealous. How could I not be? I thought you only acted like that with me. I want to make this official."

Then in a much softer tone, almost a whisper, "Do you want to be my girlfriend?..."

The victorious pump and whoop that he lets out makes the answer on the other line more than apparent.

"Good so now we belong to each other. No more smiles, you have a boyfriend. No, it's fine I can talk, I'm just at work I'm not busy."

In a daze, he leaves the room. Leaving him to his phone call, avoiding the nurses in the hallway who are inquiring about Cha-young's whereabouts. He has a lot to think about.

He doesn't get an abundance of time to ponder what he overheard before he turns a corner and sees Mun-yeong and the wealthy donor. The man in question, smiling and pressing into her space.

Instinctively he walks over catching their conversation, "You're even more beautiful in person. When the director told me you'd be here I thought he was bluffing. What would a best-selling author want with a psychiatric hospital but here you are, as selfless as you are gorgeous."

Gang-tae saddles up to Mun-yeong, shoulder to shoulder, internally smirking at the look of confusion that mars the man's face as he unexpectedly joins them.

"Yes?... Can I help you? We're having a private conversation." The donor looks at him in annoyance, reaching out to grab Mun-yeong's arm.

And he doesn't know what comes over him, but he's been suppressing himself for weeks now, swallowing his anger and frustration and...hurt. And it all comes crashing out as he watches yet another man encroach on his... Mun-yeong.

"Actually I do mind, you don't need to have private conversations with hospital staff. " He slaps the land away, prepared to fight now.

He scoffs at Gang-tae rolling his eyes, rubbing his hand, "How is this any of your business, huh? What are you two together?" He says the word like it's impossible, unfathomable that a mere caretaker would get someone like Mun-yeong.

But confidence swells in his chest. She wants him, has been vocal about their destiny despite suitors pouring in from all directions.

We're a set, a bomb and its safety pin.

He finally stops deceiving himself, stops suppressing his emotions and says what he knows to be true. The one thing he's been running from.

"Yes. We're together."

He hears the small gasp fall from her lips, in his peripheral he sees her head whip around to face him.

That smug smile falters minutely on the man's face but he regains his composure spitefully biting out, "You? With her? Why would she want a caretaker? You aren't on her level."

Ugly shame festers in his bone, he knows the picture they make when they're together. She is so far out of his reach it's laughable, he has nothing to offer her. Penniless and barely cognizant of his own emotions with too much baggage for one person.

She steps in front of him, shielding him with her slighter body, her voice cold and chilling, "Watch your tongue before I remove it. He doesn't need to overcompensate for anything. His face alone is worth more than anything you've have to offer."

He blushes at her words, shuffling behind her stupidly smiling at the man stands baffled and sputtering.

"Excuse me!"

"You heard him, we're together. So stop pestering me already." Grabbing his hand Mun-yeong struts off, never taking a second look back, but he does and in a childish move he sticks out his tongue, grinning at the searing glare he receives. The donor’s face angry red as he fumes behind them.

"Gosh took you long enough." Mun-yeong sighs pulling him to a bench outside, dragging him down to sit with her.

He stares wordlessly at her. She's so gorgeous, all smooth skin and plush lips.

"How long did you know?"

"Since the beginning, you hide your emotions very good. But not jealousy, that one was obvious."

He sighs hiding his face, burning scarlet cheeks.

She pries his face away, smiling sweetly at him, "Did you mean it?"

Without a doubt he knows that is hope in her voice, the seeds of hope planting themselves in her skin as she looks steadfast at him, demanding his honesty.

He couldn't fight this if he wanted to.

"Yes. I meant it. You're mine and I'm yours, it's just like you said we're a set."

Her radiant smile eclipses the sun in the sky.

Suddenly she jolts up breaking their hold, starting to race off, but he grabs her wrists holding her in place, "Wait where are you going?"

"To tell everyone, everyone needs to know that you're mine. I saw one of the new nurses looking at you. I need to tell her you're off limits and Ju-ri and I are better but I still see her looking at you, I'll just remind her."

Catching him off guard she slips into his lap, pressing a hard kiss to his lips, short circuiting his brain functions.

Caressing his cheeks she smirks at him, wiping at her lipstick now branding his mouth, "Mine."

Warmth blossoms throughout his body and his arms tighten on her waist.

Mine.

#its okay to not be okay fic #its okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #ko mun yeong #moon gang tae #jealous GT #denial is not just a river #supposed to be a drabble #thats why it is not as detailed #I thought i could write a quick 1k drabble #I failed

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biteofwinter-archived · 2 years

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𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 ?

— fervent

a fighting spirit beats like a drum within your very soul. it fights tooth and nail against all who try to examine it- touch it- hold it to the light. it holds itself in particularly high regard. it is battle-scarred and blood-soaked. it is frayed, falling apart at the seams. you are weary. ever so weary. but you do not let this show. you pound against your cage with a fighter's vigor, all the while dreading the day when the fight finally leaves you.

tagged by : @tiderider 💙

tagging : @hookd , @songeurame (valeria), @loetise + VIEWERS LIKE YOU!

#aching for something unknown . . . [ DASH GAMES ]*

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szallejh · 3 years

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Prologue

Blink of an Eye - Part 0

Here it is! Four years old, still not finished and far from being completely translated. A story about a Guild Wars 2 player suddenly stranding in the lands of Tyria with no way back and a bunch of Elder Dragons to defeat.

- - - -

Light, everywhere around me. Flashing in bizarre colors that I had never seen before, with such speed I could not comprehend.

It felt as though I was being dragged forwards, but at the same time, there was an invisible force pulling from the other side as well.

"This must be what time travelling feels like", a thought briefly flashed through my mind.

As fascinating as it was, I had no idea of what was actually happening to me. The last I had remembered was that I had been on my way home when it had started to snow again.

Then out of nowhere, something had dazzled me.

At first I had thought it was the lights of the nearby cars passing.

But all of a sudden, I was stranded here - in this chaos of light and noise which I was not able to discern. The sound around me was a mixture of crackles, crunches and squeaks. Somehow it sounded familiar, but there were far more unknowns in this cacophony of new noises.

The lights had been a sheer white color for the first few seconds of my strange journey, but now they were taking on every imaginable color possible. They changed with no recognizable rhythm and pulsed with no real consistency.

Finally parts of the pressure left from my body, and I used the opportunity to let in a deep breath into my lungs. Now the threatening part was gone – at least so I thought.

But then the pain started.

I felt the sudden urge to scream, however the pain in my ears made every sound fade out, and it caused my face to twist into a grimace. Every muscle in my body had clenched up like a tight coil, and they seemed ready to explode at any moment now. Beneath the aching muscles, my bones felt as though they were threatening to split in half.

I tried to blink, but my eyes had to burst from the amount of pressure on them any moment now.

With every flash of light dashing towards me, a needle invaded my skin. And within the blink of an eye, nothing inside my body felt the same as it had before.

Slowly, the pain faded. The yearning scream that had been building in my lungs finally burst out. It was near-deafening for my wounded ears, and it sounded way too foreign.

That was not my voice! Was it? It had never sounded as strange as it did now. Deeper... or just different. Whatever the light tunnel had done to me, it had changed something. And not just my voice, but possibly my body as well.

The lights faded, and I was left in a room filled with nothing.

My strained eyes relaxed in the welcoming darkness, and everything around me seemed to have disappeared. The warped and torn landscape from the vision before had been replaced with more recognizable colors and discernable shapes.

Suddenly I collided with something, my body jerking when it landed upon something really hard. Still full of dizziness, I raised my head and took a harsh breath - only to be immediately shaken by an enormous coughing attack. It took a few moments to calm my breathing down far enough to breathe normally.

I wiped away a few tears out of my eyes and then used the opportunity to look around.

I had escaped the light tunnel - but I was not at home anymore.

Broad arches surrounded me, and from far away I could see the distant shapes of mountains. Their peaks were scattered with the occasional waterfalls and encircled by forests.

I looked around more, immediately taking notice of how the green meadows surrounding me were teaming with flowers and life. It was a sure enough sign of a blossom spring, wherever this was.

The nearby animals that were grazing on the spring bounty were not familiar from the ones I already known. Not far from me flew a rather large beetle, but I was too much in a state of shock to care about the abnormal size of these animals.

"Where the hell am I!?" I thought to myself.

With one hand I ruffled through my hair - and stopped immediately.

I glanced at my right hand in disbelief, struggling to recognize there were only four digits now instead of the usual five. Not only that, but they were unusually thick for human proportions and had claw-like ends to them.

Besides that, the skin covering them was also way too dark! Instead of the pale white skin that did not see much sun all year round, my new skin was a dark bronze.

A quick glance to my other hand soon told me of the same transformation.

Everything else had changed as well. My arms had become way too short, and my forearms were much more broad and thick than before.

I grabbed at my hair, staring at the long red strands in confusion. It had never been this length or color before.

Everything seemed familiar to me in some strange way, but it seemed that secret didn't want to reveal itself quite yet. It was only when I glanced at my feet that I finally got some semblance of recognition.

"Three big claw-like toes and a clumpy shape. These are Asuran feet!" I thought, my eyes widening like saucer plates. It also helped explain the new unusual body structure.

But how was this possible? I hadn't taken any kinds of drugs, nor did I ever try virtual reality. I had just been walking home from a normal work day!

"Maybe someone had mixed something into my drink?" I mused, a concerned look on my new Asuran-features.

Though I couldn’t quite explain the situation, it all felt extremely real.

I was inside the body of an Asura, and I was sitting amidst the fields of Metrica Province. A feat proven by the iconic geometrical shapes and floating cubes nearby.

Somehow... I was stuck right in the middle of Tyria, in a game called Guild Wars 2.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #gw2 writing #gw2 fanfiction #blink of an eye #gw2 fan submission

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im-the-king-of-the-ocean · 4 years

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So this started as another Carulia quarantine fic, but then it sat in my drafts for a while and I sort of lost that train of thought completely and it became a character study into Carmen (more or less).

Anyways, enjoy!

Learning Vulnerability

“Sunk your battleship.”

Player splutters his protest over their comms. Carmen smiles. This is the third game they’ve played. They each won one of the previous ones and this is the tie-breaker. So far, Carmen’s winning.

Carmen hears footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment. She focuses on the sound, the rhythm of the steps. She exhales when she recognizes Julia’s stride and Julia’s stride only. Not that she doesn’t trust Jules after their weeks spent together. It’s just, staying in one location this long makes Carmen feel twitchy. Sure, she’s been keeping as low a profile as possible, but she’s still vulnerable. If either A.C.M.E. or V.I.L.E. comes for her here, where she has little backup and resources? Carmen would very much prefer that not to happen.

“Something up?” Player picks up on her distraction.

“Nothing.” Carmen reassures him. She knows he’s one keystroke away from sending a private jet for her, and the only reason he hasn’t yet is respect for her request not to. Carmen doesn’t want Zack, Ivy, or Shadowsan traveling and putting themselves at risk of infection unnecessarily. She can handle herself just fine. No one but Jules and her team knows she’s here. Everything is fine, will be fine.

“It sounds like Julia’s back,” Carmen continues. “I should go.”

They haven’t told Julia about Player yet. He’s the one relatively unknown person on Carmen’s team. They’ve been extremely careful about who they share information about him with. So far, that’s not Julia. Not yet.

“Alright.” On Carmen’s laptop screen, Player sits back in his seat. “Finish the game later?”

“Later.” Carmen closes her laptop.

She stands and tiptoes to the door. Carefully, she places her hands on it, and then presses her ear to the wood. Carmen can hear Julia speaking Mandarin to the old woman who lives across the hall. It takes Carmen a moment to adjust to listening to a different language, but then she recognizes that the conversation is just small talk while Jules passes over the groceries she bought for her neighbor.

This isn’t the bell tower, Carmen reminds herself. She’s been able to trust Julia for weeks. If Julia has been trying to get Carmen to lower her guard, she would have probably made her move by now. It wasn’t Julia’s plan to ambush Carmen in Stockholm either. Chief was the one who made that call. Julia had only wanted to talk.

Carmen steps away. She hesitates, and then returns to the couch. She sits, places her hands in her lap, inhales with her whole frame, and then exhales. Everything is fine. She’s fine.

Trust isn’t something that comes easily to Carmen. Not anymore, at least. She wants it to be. She wants to have a family, people she’s comfortable around no matter what, and she does. It’s just…

The V.I.L.E. faculty were her family too, once upon a time. Carmen had never thought of Coach Brunt quite as a mother, but the woman was affectionate, loving, and arguably spent the most time out of any of them with Carmen while she grew up.

But, Coach Brunt’s affection, Carmen is realizing in hindsight, came with a dash of possessiveness. Coach Brunt had loved her conditionally. When Carmen stopped meeting the requisite conditions, when she turned against V.I.L.E., that was the bitter end of it. Carmen hasn’t admitted it to anyone, but it still hurts. The Faculty had been her family growing up. Carmen knows, technically speaking, she turned against them first, but the fact that they hadn’t really tried to see things from her point of view, that they’d forcibly tried to bring her back into the fold, and then declared her their enemy when they couldn’t, did sting.

She had worth to them as a thief, but not as herself, as Carmen. They’d never been a family, just an evil organization and the daughter of one of their former colleagues who they considered a traitor. Carmen knows she shouldn’t ache this much over it (she’s technically even gotten Shadowsan back, so there’s that), but she still wants a family.

One that won’t betray her.

Carmen wants to believe Zack and Ivy won’t (although they almost left her already once, and she can’t really blame them for that. If returning to racing is what they want, she won’t keep them from it). Neither will Player or Shadowsan (although Player has an entire outside life that she barely knows about and Shadowsan is…well Shadowsan). Carmen hopes Jules won’t, but that already came into question once.

The thing is, Carmen once believed the Faculty would never intentionally try to hurt her too. She despises thinking about it, but a tiny part of her does wonder if the next betrayal is already on its way. If the friends she now considers her family will…

Carmen sighs. She doesn’t want to be like this. She really, really doesn’t want to be like this.

But she’s scared too.

Julia enters the apartment, arms full of groceries, before Carmen’s thoughts can go on any more of a downward spiral. Seeing Julia struggle with juggling to maintain her hold on the grocery bags while closing the door, Carmen gets up to help.

“Thanks.” Julia smiles at Carmen, while handing over one bag with a couple baguettes sticking out. “How was your day?” She leads the way into the kitchen. “For dinner, I was thinking dumplings?”

“Sounds good.” Carmen nods noncommittally. She remains quiet as Julia begins unpacking foods and putting them away in either the fridge or the cupboard.

“You know, if you’d like, you can make them with me?” Julia’s soft smile, and her body language, indicate the offer is a genuine one.

Carmen wants this. She wants the comfortable, safe way it makes her feel.

But, what if this feeling won’t last?

Knowing Jules expects an answer, Carmen doesn’t make eye contact. A part of her wants to run, but a stronger part of her wants to stay, to see what’ll happen. Eventually, Carmen looks up.

“That would be wonderful.”

It’s possible she’ll just be hurt again, but she wants to at least try regardless.

#carmen sandiego netflix #carulia #julethief #carmen sandiego #julia argent #whirls writing

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reynesofcastamere · 4 years

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Distorted Supernova

(A/N: For context, this is set about a year or so prior to the previous installments in this series. Also, the readmore is going directly under my notes this time. Just to be safe. Warnings for bad partner/BDSM etiquette, biting, blood, orgasm denial, and some autoerotic asphyxiation. Not Safe For Work. Mando’a translations are marked with [ ]. Unbeta’d.)

Ahsoka’s nails scrabble desperately against the headboard, seeking a better grip while Maul- “Ah!” Sharp pressure on the pulsing bud between her thighs. He’s never been shy about sinking his teeth into every possible inch of her body, or pushing the boundaries of her endurance to the point where pain and pleasure blur. Her moans rise and crest, trailing off into a hiss when he grinds the slippery nub between his incisors. He hasn’t broken the skin, but it’s still just a bit too much. She’s trembling as he eases up gradually, the long swipes of his tongue soothing one ache and inflaming another. If he could just keep doing that...But no, he’s withdrawing again, licking the traces of her from his lips as he surveys his ‘handiwork’. The long expanse of skin between collarbone and lower thighs bears a liberal scattering of bruises and bites, flush with desire and exertion while her breath comes in ragged gasps. Ahsoka has no idea how long she’s been kept on the edge, completion just out of reach. And the Force...There is no separation here, no sharp divide between Dark and Light. Only energy, freezing and sparking all at once. Ahsoka can feel his hunger as if it is a monster from one of the stories that the younglings used to tell each other, something that could swallow her whole in one gulp. Maul certainly looks the part, white teeth stark against darkly-patterned skin, auric eyes glowing in the dim light. It is in a near-haze that she watches him shift and lower his mouth to hers, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as if moving through water instead of air. She tastes herself on him while their tongues duel and twine, humming as he growls, her fingers raking down his back. Her hips cant slightly, seeking friction that he quickly denies her, and she tears herself viciously away from their kiss to scowl up at him. “What kind of game are you playing?” And it is a game. She is in his room, his bed for the first time since this whole...affair started. On top of that, he’s deliberately drawing things out when his usual method is to have her coming hard, fast, and as many times as possible. As if, in some corner of his twisted mind, it is both a punishment for not remaining at his side and a reminder of what he does to her. Which right now consists of smirking and a decidedly-pleased gleam in his eyes. “I had wondered when your much-vaunted patience would finally reach its’ limit.” Maul chuckles, not even having the decency to be startled when she flips them over, glaring intensely. The smug bastard actually purrs when she pins his hands down. Of course he’d enjoy working her into a state of half-maddened arousal and refuse to let her climax until she gives him what he wants. These emotions give him power over her, after all. “I can still leave at any time.” Ahsoka warns sharply. It’s the most effective threat she can utilize against him right now. “You need this more than I do. Now finish what you started.” She gives his wrists a sharp squeeze before letting go, making him watch as she sits back, bracing herself with one hand; the other spreading her core open and slipping two fingers inside. “Or I will.” Groaning through clenched teeth, eyes fluttering shut. Her sex is drenched, sensitive, and aching. So much so that she gets caught up in the sensation of touching herself, of finally getting the relief so desperately sought-after. “You are learning.” Oh Maker, she hadn’t even noticed- His breath against her already-molten cunt was like adding illerium to a bonfire. Then his tongue slips inside and his thumb is giving just the right amount of pressure on her nub to-Ahsoka Tano screams, body twitching and thrashing beyond her means to control it. She careens from one sensation to the next, any small movement within herself seeming to trigger another wave of pleasure-pain-pleasure-more until, after a small eternity, it finally ebbs. Her eyes open, breath shaking as she carefully withdraws her fingers and re-adjusts her position. This time, she does feel her sometimes-lover move underneath her, until she is once again straddling his hips. Maul looks...approving. As if her actions had brought her another step closer to the Dark, to being ‘his’. Never. He can keep trying to drag her very being into the deepest pits imaginable. Ahsoka will still fight her way out, every time. The double-beep of her wrist-comm interrupts these thoughts, moving as quickly as she can to retrieve it from the nightstand and kneel on the edge of the bed. “Receiving.”

“This is Dash. See any sharks where you’re fishing?” Asks a female voice with a rounded Mid Rim accent. “There’s a fin in the water, but it’s far off. Sea’s calm and the skies are clear. How about you?” Ahsoka verifies after performing the mandatory checks. She can’t afford to take her current location or whatever signal-scrambling tech the Shadow Collective might have in place for granted. Not when so much is on the line. “Weather’s fine where I am.” There’s a brief pause, but it’s enough for Maul to insinuate himself behind her. Before she can even think to ask what he’s doing, she’s being dragged backwards into his lap and-He’s filling her in one stroke, cold metal pressing against her rear and the back of her thighs. “There’s a situation on Corellia.” Maul’s right hand is already around her throat, his left arm keeping her arms bent and pinned to her chest. Of all the-! She mutes the comm still in her hands. “Stop.” Ahsoka instructs in a low hiss, suppressing a moan when she feels him start moving. The first penetration usually takes a bit of...adjustment for them both. Right now he barely has to put any strength into his thrusts to reach her deepest point.

“No.” He snarls in response, cutting off her air for a few moments before relaxing his grip again.. “I have to take this!” “Then I suggest you do so quickly.” “I’m not going to let you-” “Having signal problems? Please respond.” Oh, kark it all. She has seconds to make a decision and her options are limited. Either 1) she has Dash call back later, and risk the unknown situation getting worse. 2) Fight Maul to a standstill and then continue the call, which will not be easy or quick to accomplish, or. 3) Be extremely unprofessional, let him...take her, and hope that she can get all the pertinent details without the agent on the other end of the line figuring out what is going on. With a shaky exhale, Ahsoka turns off the mute function. “Just a brief patch of interference. What kind of situation?” How. Just. How in the name of the Mortis gods is she getting aroused? He’s only circling his hips right now, barely stirring up her insides, fingers applying enough intermittent pressure on the sides of her neck to slow the flow of blood to her brain. Her body should be rejecting every part of this, but instead her core is trying to pull him in deeper. “The kind that requires an extraction and some smash-and-grab.” Dash replies. “There’s a team assembling on Devaron. How soon can you be there?” Ahsoka has to bite down on her lower lip to silence a moan, running the calculations in her head. “Just under a week in hyperspace. Five days if I can swap for a better ship.” She might even be able to do it without selling a limb. Provided she doesn’t kill Maul after this. Dash hums as she thinks it over. “Not great, but it’ll have to do. How’s your condition? Heard you got sent to deal with the Broker again.” Oh, Sithspawn. Ahsoka is going to have to speak very carefully if she doesn’t want the agent on the other end of the line to wind up dead. Or worse. Most of the people she works with most closely might not know exactly who ‘the Broker’ is, but they don’t have...a great opinion of Maul. For various and completely justified reasons. One of which is that Fulcrum comes back from their meetings generally looking like someone dragged her through a field of salt crystals on Crait. Bacta patches and the Force can only do so much. Ahsoka doesn’t know for certain if the Rebellion has figured out the exact level of their...involvement by now. Of course, she could have avoided that particular complication by not sleeping with him in the first place, but it’s too late for that. “I’m-” He cuts off her air temporarily again, biting hard just underneath her jaw. She hisses, feeling the blood well up and be laved away just as quickly. “-fine.” The grip relaxes, though she can feel him starting to pick up the pace. “I need coordinates and details for the mission.” “Sure thing. Just, look, I know we need all the help we can get, but maybe you should take backup next time. Or assign someone else to him for a bit. Can’t outrun Imps if you’ve basically gone five rounds with a Wookiee.” Maul goes deathly still as the Dark Side surges. In a fit of desperation, she angles her head to kiss him, hoping that his need will outweigh any thoughts of murder and/or dismemberment. Ahsoka can only give half her attention to the numbers and facts being listed off, because he is utterly determined to possess her mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive right now. Eventually, she manages to pull back. “That’s everything. Any questions?” Dash asks, forcing her fellow intelligence operative to internally review what she’d heard and made certain it was correct. “No. Everything is affirmative. Fulcrum out.” The second she cuts the call, he pulls out, only to flip and turn her onto her back. Maul enters her ruthlessly this time, muffling her cry with his mouth. It’s this desperate clash of tongue and teeth interspersed with broken gasps as her limbs wind around his body, fingers clawing at his shoulderblades. Then suddenly her lips are skimming the side of his neck and biting down as he hammers into a spot that makes her arch in sheer, carnal rapture. He roars like a ravening beast as his blood fills her mouth. fisting his hands in the sheets near her hips. “Ner darasuum cuyan. [My eternal survivour]” He breathes. While she does not understand the words, Maul’s tone borders on...On worship, and his eyes- Climax overwhelms her, sudden and bordering on agony as he follows and they’re howling like Sriluurian dark wolves in the enclosed space... Ahsoka comes back to herself with Maul’s head resting in the valley between her breasts. Gripping some of his posterior horns, she forces him to meet her hard gaze. “Do not. Ever. Do that again.” She holds her grip and her stare long enough to make certain he understands that this is one of the boundaries that he cannot ignore or abuse at a whim. If he crosses the line again, she will leave or make him wish he’d never touched her in the first place. Possibly both. “As you command, Lady Tano.” Maul acquiesces as he pulls out of her, but otherwise continues to stay in the position of being a very odd blanket once she releases him. “I was not aware that your Alliance considers you so weak as to need protection from me.” He remarks in an offhanded fashion, nose scrunching in slight distaste. She gives a long, exasperated sigh. “It’s not like that.” “Explain.” He counters, head slightly tilted and brow raised. “Very few people know that I’m meeting with you. Or what our actual history is.” This day is now officially bizarre, even by her standards. “They see me going off to bargain with a shady underworld contact and coming back-most of the time- limping or covered in minor injuries.” And this is where the explanation might get tricky. “So the general consensus is either that I’m letting you abuse me because I’m being ordered to...Or that you’re strong enough that I can’t stop it from happening.” Those who do know his identity think he’s been trying to murder her and failing at it for one reason or another, but that’s hardly an important detail. “Ridiculous. You would not have lived this long if these scratches-” His left thumb idly traces a mark on her ribcage.”-were enough to incapacitate you.” Which, coming from him, is...Almost sweet? In any case, she doesn’t have the time to ponder his mood. Ahsoka steals a brief kiss from him and carefully sits up. “Careful, that was almost an actual compliment. Think you can lend me a ride?” She teases, extracting herself out from under him to start the process of cleaning up and getting dressed. “I was mistaken. Clearly you are a terrified, delicate waif who wilts at the mere thought of my displeasure.” Maul deadpans, getting up to retrieve a disposable datapad and typing something into it, handing it to her before beginning to set himself to rights. “Give that to Kast. She should be in the hangar at this time.” “Thank you.” They both finish up quickly, but before she can leave, he cups her jaw in one hand and presses their foreheads together. His eyes are hooded, but no less intense for it. “Oya, cuyan. Meh gar kyrayc, shuk bah ni. [Stay alive, survivour. You’re no use to me dead] ” “You know I don’t speak Mando’a.” “Then I shall keep my advantage until you learn, atin jetii [stubborn Jedi] .” He’s actually smiling for once as his hand drops and he lets her pass out of his private domain. Back into the light, where her duties wait. (A/N: Good GRIEF this thing is a monster. X_X Apologies for any butchering of Mando’a. Also, for context, ‘Oya’ is one of those words with multiple meanings, including ‘Let’s hunt!’, but is generally used as a cheer or encouragement. I simply went with the meaning that worked best for that particular line. And...ok, I probably DON’T need to clarify this, but I feel like I should? Since they’re using the Force to share some level of emotional and physical sensation, it doesn’t matter whether Maul has his original equipment, an attachable toy, or a prosthesis. So long as Ahsoka climaxes, he does too. Or at least, that’s how it works out in my writing. XD Anyway, hope you all enjoyed and cheers to everyone.)

#maulsoka #you bet your ass I snuck some Hades/Persephone symbolism into this #very spicy lemon #NS.FW

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

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For the WIP game 💕, how about the word “eyes”

Delia. You really had to ask me for a word I use all the damn time. Behold, all my WIPs, pretty damn much XD I am not including every instance for the sake of brevity:

Cherry-Orange Blossoms Chapter 6 (Bakugo/Uraraka; My Hero Academia): “Now that his future had been all but torn from him, he struggled to find the importance in riddling out the intricacies of some made-up letters and numbers. His vermillion eyes slid to the clock for perhaps the tenth time in the last two minutes.”

Untitled Ken/Chrome (Katekyo Hitman Reborn!): “Ken’s eyes were lidded as he gazed disinterestedly out of the cracked window in the Kokuyo Land administrative building.”

“Ken whined and licked at his fanged teeth, watching the snow continue to fall outside. He traced the fluttering paths of the snowflakes with dull brown-orange eyes.”

Daffodils Bloom After Winter Chapter 6 (Shikamaru/OC; Naruto): “Her brown eyes widened when she stumbled across yet another mistake, and she slammed the coffee cup down to scribble on the area with her pen lest she immediately forget her thought process.”

“I think that’s enough proofreading for now. I should begin incorporating these edits into the file… she thought as she reclined back in the café chair and rubbed at her aching eyes.”

Untitled Sakura/Sasuke and Naruto/Hinata Double Date Fic (Naruto): ““You know, we should do something to celebrate,” she posed suddenly. Sakura raised her eyebrows, eyes widening.

“Like what?”

“How about a double date?” Hinata suggested. Sakura immediately gasped and clasped her hands together with sparkling eyes.”

Untitled Aizawa/Mrs. Joke (My Hero Academia): ““What, Hizashi? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he grumped, rolling his eyes to peer at the blond leaning over his shoulder. Hizashi’s bright emerald eyes glimmered above the rim of his sunglasses, which had slipped down his nose. “What? What is it? Just get it over with.”

“Go get dinner with me ‘n Nemuri!” Hizashi pleaded with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Shota’s lips curled into a frown, and he regarded his friend with dull, lidded eyes.”

Untitled Toga/Dabi Frienship Fic (My Hero Academia): “Tears leaked out of her eyes to carve through the splashes of red on her cheeks.”

Untitled Gintoki/Tae Family Fic (Gintama): Simultaneously, the two toddlers turned to fix their eyes on their tall, lanky father. As if a switch flipped, they released unearthly squeals and bounded forward to begin dashing in circles around him.”

Untitled Hawks/Fuyumi (My Hero Academia): “Through lidded eyes, he beheld his reflection for a few minutes. Then he smirked, clicked his tongue, and pointed finger-guns at himself.”

Untitled Itachi/Hinata (Naruto): “The breeze caught their fluffy, feathery bodies to spirit them away into the great unknown, and Hinata watched through lidded eyes as they were carried off.”

Untitled Vigilante!Izuku Fic (My Hero Academia): “His emerald eyes focused on the crouched form perched at the back door of the jewelry shop. Metal glinted in the sparse lowlight, reflecting off the thin wire the masked man was using to pick the pair of sturdy locks.”

Hot damn. That’s a lot. Dammit Delia, I hope you’re proud of yourself XD

#weekly wip game #izuku midoriya #itahina #huwumi #gintae #himiko toga #dabi #eraserjoke #sasusaku #naruhina #shikamaru x oc #kacchako

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terrorhqs · 4 years

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𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄; 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

you find yourself wandering to the clairvoyant’s tent as the night winds down. the seer is cloaked by darkness, by shadow, and they do little to beckon you forth as you sit. distantly, you hear the raucous laughter as a sovereign of fools is crowned in the theatre. brittle whispers from the clairvoyant before you steal your attention, and you turn your gaze forward to fix on the tarot cards laid out, onto the slender fingers splayed on top.

“how’s this all work then?” you start, chuckling nervously. “shall i pick one?” you’ve never had a tarot reading before. at home, you were fraught with nerves, fearful of what you may find in a dark parlor holding hands with tittering strangers. this feels different, somehow, as if anything that can be gleaned can be chalked up to a drunken dream - a mirage in the north.

you start to reach - a raspy voice stops you. it’s the clairvoyant’s voice, yes, but something is... strange. a tinny, echoing quality, lilting, as if his voice is experimenting with itself.

“what are you? by god, mercy,” he rasps.

“what?”

“men! help! agathe!” wailing and rasping. “it is swift!”

you stumble back, chair falling, just as darkness descends upon the entire carnivale. in an instant, a gust of infernal wind blows all the blazing torches out. there is but black and the light of the moon - and even this is meager guidance, half-hidden by pale, mordant clouds, veiled in a fog’s film.

when you look back, the figure is gone. the clairvoyant enters not a half-moment later, frantic to gather his paraphernalia and move on, ignoring your dazed befuddlement.

sailors are notorious for their superstitions, but the wardroom officers are quick to try and quell the hushed murmuring. what kind of northern wind kills the light of dozens of torches blazing unbidden all night?

“it is only the weather, sailors.” booms the captain from the theatre stage, naught but a silhouette, the cadence of his voice unhurried as it carries through the city of tents. “allow your eyes to adjust to the dark, follow the light of the moon out, calmly, and get to the ship. nothing to fear but the bottle-ache come morn. those able to escort the guests ought to.”

the orders are clear, and everyone shifts to begin shuffling out - until a cry rings out. one of the ship’s caulkers points to the caribou head mounted upon the wall, a prize from an earlier hunt. “i saw it blink! the head! i swear it!”

“do you dare incite hysteria? get ahold of yourself.” the captain calls, the promise of repercussion coloring his voice.

behind him, past the canvas, a shadow lurks in the moonlight. the silhouette is that of a man, perhaps a member of the crew listening in, still and silent and largely unacknowledged. then, it shifts. it morphs, growing in size, growing into something not human nor animal, its maw dwarfing the makeshift theatre. those facing the officers erupt into gasps and panicked yelling - to grab the guns, to get back onto the ship, towards shelter. but even those willing to face the beast, those who run out and round the tent to confront it - all they are met with is the chill, and footprints where it once stood.

elsewhere, there is chaos.

THE MARKED, lingering in the theatre when pandemonium strikes, spots what appears to be an apparition manifesting on stage in wisps and blurs. they cannot comprehend where its limbs begin and where the shadows end: it seems to melt inside them. it points, mouthing silently. THE HARUSPEX finds them in a state of terror, transfixed - looks towards the stage, and sees nothing. it is time to leave.

THE LOVER searches for her partner in the chaos, but runs into THE IDOL, who is struck by shock for reasons unknown and refuses to move even as they are pushed by the crowd. They keep whispering a name, like a prayer or mantra, one THE LOVER would have remembered in normal circumstances as being akin to the DEVOTED’s surname. THE LOVER is left little choice but to attempt to rouse them from their stupor.

THE INTREPID is among the first to guide the crew back to the ship, but in the disarray, is accidentally jostled as they near the docks, loses their balance, and falls into the shallow water that has grown colder in the night. THE SOCIALITE, mercifully, is nearby and notices, and is quick to pull them out and usher them to the warmth of the ship. each moment is critical.

THE ENIGMA, never without their arms, glimpses an amorphous shadow grow longer, taller, from inside the Hall of Games. Without wasting a crucial delay, an expert dancer on the floor between life and death, they take aim and fire through the canvas - only to receive a very human yell in response. on the other side of the tent, THE DEVOTED has only just been grazed by the bullet - but the wound, while shallow, flows.

The CAPTAIN has led the band of running people over onto the beach, only to find a stray outline dotting the shore - THE SCION. They have known each other well enough, but this is the first time they meet without the gild of their family status or an admiralty gala. It takes a moment to start speaking - but as they do, they notice something eerie. The sea, which had been a steady droning throughout their nights and days, falls quiet. From the water, a guttural, animal voice begins to shout.

Among all the supply crates unloaded off the ship, there is also THE PURSER’S ledger that found its way among the paraphernalia. They left in search of it shortly after the crowning of the topsy-turvy sovereign, and are in no small measure taken aback to see THE EMPRESARIO labouring over it in the dying lights. The candle in their hand barely illuminates their face. But when THE PURSER starts shouting for an explanation, the candle garners a life of its own - it flares in a white blaze before consuming itself in a fire, scalding flesh and paper alike.

THE GODKILLER, having accumulated their trove of stolen trinkets and treasures throughout the evening, stands apart from the crowd to assess their prizes - only to find they’ve gone missing. Did someone steal them back? Does someone know what they’ve done? THE DOE-HEARTED, calling for their uncle, runs into THE GODKILLER sifting through the dirt and rocks - only to see the massive shadow from earlier pass through the tents.

THE COMMANDER was still hacking away at the dregs of his dinner, sitting opposite from THE SHADOW. When the pandemonium begins, both heads turn with precision - only to see that their hands are coated in something treacle-red. Like molasses, it covers the plate and mess-table, stretching over and under their nails. Instead of sea-biscuits, the plates now hold raw, pink flesh. The SHADOW stares unblinking - his eyes seem to say: Do you see it too? The COMMANDER has no answer; they no longer know what’s there and what isn’t.

THE VETERAN is quick to prepare the ship, though some unease nags her, begging for attention. The realization brings a sharp sickness to stomachs - the ocean is silent. The waves below them still moves, but no sound can be heard, the stillness jarring. When she turns to THE NOBLE to confirm the silence, the girl is found glassy-eyed staring into the open sea through the won telescope, shaking. Any attempt at reaching THE NOBLE through her stupor is unsuccessful. When the girl finally returns in spirit, she cannot recall how or when she returned to the ship. The ocean is roaring.

THE CHRONICLER and THE CLAIRVOYANT are stumbling as they return to the ship, clinging fingers suddenly wrenched apart following a sharp yelp. Among them, a sizzling sound beings to pick up, then whimpering. They watch as angry burns swirl into runes pressed onto the seer’s skin, unseen fires melting wide paths from the boy before stopping right before the girl’s skirts, now-thawed ice leaving the water pooling THE CHRONICLER red-tinted and too viscous.

THE CHAPLAIN had accompanied THE WILDCARD in the maze of wonders shortly before everything precipitated. As they’re sat there mulling over Shakespeare’s dreams and nightmares, a very real terror materializes - with a smell of sulfur and a sputtering of electricity, the projector goes out. The band snaps clean in two. It should be over, but for several seconds, the images continue to move on the paper-wall, shapes deformed and liminal. Both priest and soldier can only gape as they struggle to make sense of it.

THE DOCTOR and THE ROMANTIC, in the meantime, have ventured to climb one of the tamer bergs. Atop, they can marvel at the vast expanse of the bay and the sea beyond - perhaps they can even glimpse their trajectory ahead. But further ahead, they see something - a ship parallel of the Promethean, from their perch, they can make out its name: Agathe. They see no lights onboard, hear no distant yelling - no signs of life. They refuse to blink, watching the ship disappear into encroaching fog.

The SONGBIRD has stumbled upon THE STOWAWAY, miles away from the rest of the revelry folk. when the murmur begins - at first they think it is the gravel shifting under a man’s boot. but then sounds begin to form: Hjælp os. Vis dit ansigt. Spoken over and over again. THE SONGBIRD, rendered desperate and death-white, begs the translator to explain what it means. No answer comes. The murmur doesn’t stop.

after a long and harrowing night, morning comes as if nothing was ever amiss. carnivale is as the crew left it the evening before - without its grotesque aberrations. the caribou head remains still, the projector has stopped, no shadows lurk in the canvas - only tents to be broken down and debris cleaned up remain. with little evidence of whatever machinations were at play the evening before, save for whispers and memory, there is still a voyage ahead. there are preparations to be done. there are new terrors to face.

therein lies our first plot drop, players! you’ll notice we have paired prompts, and we can’t WAIT to see how these play out on the dash! keep in mind that you are, of course, welcome to write interactions not outlined by the plot drop.

the timeline spans from midnight of the night of the carnivale to the end of the week, just before they set sail for the passage. you may write out events of the evening, where everything has boiled unto a point of chaos, or the morning after, or any of the days still left in their layover on land. in this time, the people of the Promethean may hunt for fresh meat and fish, attempt to accompany the icemasters in climbing the surrounding icebergs, explore the little town of godhvn, or study the natural flora and fauna.

#thqevent

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