#alas i would wither and melt

[syoemei]

they knew i would be too powerful as a person into steampunk and minimalist clown makeup and so spawned me into the hottest most humid climate ever

[silverflqmes]

i know you got like 37393793749 requests already but HEAR ME OUT BABES.

genesis x reader where he's at banora making plans to revolve against shinra but his (other) childhood best friend still lives there. zack is coming too with tseng and they're planning to 'get rid of the evidence' right??? what would genesis do once he finds his other childhood best friend in banora and would he save them from certain death by the hands of shinra???

໒⦂ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑.

notes. hi anon, you’re so real for this request let me slap you with some angst real QUICK — or um, hurt / comfort.. ahem, luckily i finished this part in cc a couple nights ago otherwise i would be clowning🫥 ALSO THE GREAT WAR FR FIT A LITTLE TOO MUCH HERE

genre. angst + hurt / comfort

tw. detailed descriptions of injuries

genesis rhapsodos x gn!reader.

the smell of smoke polluted your lungs as a cough left your lips, eyes barely half lidded.

how.. had it come to this?

the logs holding your home childhood home together began to scorch, crack and cave in on itself — blocking most, if not all, plausible escape routes.

what had banora — or rather, the people of banora — done to earn such a cruel kismet?

sweat trickled from your forehead down to your chin, the heat sweltering —growing even more unbearable by the minute. had your predecessors known an aerial assault like this would befall their homes one day.. perhaps they would have reconsidered their building materials. alas, it was too late for that.

had you caused something to share part of this punishment, too?

blends of warm colors engulfed your vision as you ascended the decaying steps to what once was your chambers. a place of solace, where you would read to your heart’s content and indulge in your hobbies. the stairs that once led up to your happy place now groaned in protest, waiting to wither away into dust.

would there be enough time to evade fate?

the darkened planks snapped beneath your battered boots, throwing you forward onto your knees at the top of the stairwell with a stuttered yelp.

or was there truly no way out, but death?

ash and grime painted the surface of whatever skin you had left exposed, eyes glossing over with tears as the flames kissed your limbs. it was painful, unlike anything you’d felt before, but you told yourself to endure.

what choice was there but to tolerate it?

you wouldn’t trust in help being on the way, not with banora deserted — oddly deprived of its population. the only one left.. had been the mother of a childhood friend of yours.

was she suffering the same as you were? or had she been lucky to make it out, likely not unscathed, but alive at least..?

or.. would she suffer worse? as the parents of your other childhood friend had a few days ago.

such was karma, sadly. but with the mother, stuck in that house alone for years after the loss of her remarried husband, and the later departure of her son going off to join the elite SOLDIER program.. perhaps death was the solace needed to be set free and return to the planet at last, sailing the lifestream in peace.

you forced yourself back to your feet, wincing at the chars and cuts poking through the holes of your clothing. exhaustion was creeping up on you — coercing you into dropping your efforts and allow yourself to be consumed entirely by the great inferno.

but something — a gut feeling — told you it was not your time yet. whether or not that had been a fear of dying or a selfish desire to defy destiny.. remained unclear.

all you knew, is that you needed to hang on and get out.

“almost there..” you whispered to yourself as a reassurance, despite feeling as though your skin had been peeling off. layer by layer, tissue by tissue, melting down into a pathetic pool of residue.

a final stumble towards your windowsill and you nearly breathed out in relief. the casement thankfully had no fallen logs or debris to block your exit, however, the real obstacle would be the drop that awaited you.

grabbing ahold of a stool that once paired with your now destroyed vanity, you lined the pegs up with your window, heaving a breath. “here goes.”

not wasting another second, you drove the piece of furniture into the glass, watching as it shattered into thousands — millions of pieces.

the flames howled against the breeze, growing with fury as you hissed when they grazed your skin.

there was no luxury left for stalling, you needed to get out and fast.

overcome with sorrow, you threw one final glance at your precious, shriveling, home before stepping onto the charred outline.

escape was at last within your grasp, and yet..

your breath hitched, trapping in your throat when you realized how far the fall had been, and no less.. into a field of fire.

..it continued to be so far out of reach.

stay in your home and die with it, or flee your home and die before it — those had been the options that had presented themselves to you. both equally gruesome.

a series of cracking halted your train of thoughts, panic flooding you as the wooden trim fractured beneath your weight.

stripped of a surface to stand on, your hand flew out to seize the splintered frame, eyes widening as you did so.

was this.. the end?

the log crumpled beneath your tight hold, nails clawing helplessly for dear life as your vision began to blur.

maybe.. it was.

not wanting to witness your demise, you squeezed your eyes shut despite the tears that leaked out. it was probably wise to just give in.. and accept fate for whatever it was.

only, it never came.

a feather-light touch caressed your body as a pair of arms secured you against a firm chest, lifting you into the air.

startled, you opened your eyes despite your fears to find a crimson jacket — mixed with charcoal. it.. it couldn’t be.

“falling out of a window, my dearest?” a chuckle seemed to follow as your body was cradled closer to your savior. “you would be wise not to do so while in my absence.. who would be your hero, then?”

had your eyes deceived you amidst the calamity brought upon your homeland? had the fumes gotten to you so badly that your mind had created an image of your friend, now winged, rushing to your aid..

or was it all real?

“ge.. nesis..” you winced, dragging your gaze over to the dark wing protruding from his right shoulder blade before looking up at the ginger. “is it.. really you?”

the former first class SOLDIER regarded you for a moment, an absentminded smile on his lips as he let out a mirthless laugh. “does my monstrous appearance frighten you that much, y/n?”

monstrous? “where did you get that sort of conclusion..? i’m over here thinking this is all.. just a dream, a-and that’s what you assume i think?” you scoffed, reaching a hand to pinch his cheek despite your wounds before closing your eyes. “you are completely mistaken, do not ask me that ever again. you, genesis, are not a monster.”

he stared down at you for a brief second, descending slowly as his boots at last made contact with the ground. “a man who brought discord upon his homeland is anything but a ‘hero’, therefore ‘monster’ emerges as the more suitable term.” the mako-eyed male answered softly, casting one final glance toward his crumbling home — the banora apples melting away with his memories.

knitting your brows together, you lifted your gaze, frowning. “you.. did this?” your voice came out as a whisper, heart trapped in your throat. genesis couldn’t possibly have done so.. it couldn’t have been his doing.

his eyes lowered back down to yours, the sullied smile still tugging at his lips. “indirectly, i suppose, yes.” he affirmed, looking up at the smoke filled sky. “shinra did not take kindly to mine and angeal’s resignation. this, it seems, was their response.” burning a town off the face of the planet until was unrecognizable.

as if it had never been there to begin with.

you gripped his jacket tighter, dropping your head to his chest. “i’ll never forgive them..”

genesis petted your head gently, gaze sharpening. “you would be right not to.”

notes. oki finally finished this, several sittings were taken but here you go anon, i hope you enjoyed it😭 there was not much genesis but he saved the day, um kind of??? maybe.. but yeah🥹

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[their-dearest]

On the fourth day.

It was a melancholic, save for the pitter patter of the rain against Ruu’s straw hat.

“...” And for once, Paimon was as meek as a weakened mouse. Her small hands balled into a trembling fist, as tears welled up her eyes.

“So please go on ahead! I'll just be resting here for a while.”

The boy spoke with an earnest, yet tired smile. And he knows he’s at fault. He reached out to comfort her, but his hand stopped midway. As much as he wished to venture forth, the boy knew that his tale ends here.

Ruu stared at the pair for a long time, sculpting their forms into his memory. The mighty Traveller with their golden hair and the little floating spirits. He won’t admit it out loud, but…

‘...I am happy to meet you both.’

“We'll meet again someday for sure!” It took all of his strength to keep himself awake.

And on their fourth encounter, the golden Traveller and their floating spirit named Paimon left Tsurumi Island. The tired figure would watch Paimon steal glances everytime they grew farther from the sacred grounds. His eyes would never leave them until their golden and ivory hues melted with the uncharted seas, far beyond his sight. Beyond the little island he called home.

‘After two thousand years,’ Ruu's eyes, as he gazed at the weeping evening sky, ‘I’m finally free.’

For 2,000 years, he carried a heavy responsibility on his small shoulders. But thanks to the outsiders, the weight on his heart was lifted, just like the fog that governs over Tsurumi, but his eyes grew heavier. He is no stranger to death, of course. But being at its mercy felt… calming this time. Maybe it’s because he can finally rest on his own terms. At his own desire.

To say he’s exhausted is a travesty, humorous even. The mirthless joke earned a chuckle from him.

‘So… tiring.’

The world swirled under his feet, melting into an array of color and textures. Every step he took sinks to the muddy ground beneath him, swallowing the heel of his sandal in its greedy surface.

“That was my good shoe.” He protested, but his words barely reached a whisper. With a sigh, he dragged his muddy footing to the Sacred Grounds, an ancient perch said to be the nestling ground of their late goddess.

Bundles of thin, indigo leaves greeted his murky view, waving at his entrance. The Nestling Grounds, although withering, stood high and mighty against the iridescent weeds and glowing grass beneath its rotting roots. He’s only been here a few times, all of which involve intricate rituals and ceremonies.

And yet no matter how many times he's seen this place, he always found himself rendered speechless. Each breath he took reverberated on the hollow trunk of the ancient tree. His eyes, heavy from sorrow, were filled with unshed tears.

All the suffering, agony, and bloodshed he endured, finally got over him.

Tear after tear, the boy clung tightly against his soaked coat and sought any fleeting warmth it had to offer, but to no avail.

The young boy’s body rests against the dying tree as he steeled himself for what’s to come. He yearned for peace, but he mourned for his people, for the opportunities, for himself. It almost felt like a dream. A sorrowful dream after a thousand-year nightmare.

Slowly, the rain shower had picked up in pace, as it morphed into a heavy downpour and mingled with his newly-shed tears. Kama would’ve enjoyed this moment, but alas, he joined the Ferryman’s boat long ago, just like the others.

Oh, How he missed the cold breeze of the monsoons,how he missed the rain streaming on his cheek, how he missed the sound of the roaring thunder from the distance—

‘Wait… thunder?’ His mind was flooded with a million thoughts at once.

‘That can’t be. Kapatcir is dead. I saw the Serai Islands with my own eyes!’

But a silver lining of hope shimmers in his mind.:

‘She won’t come all this way for me, would she?’

Those thoughts snapped him out of his tiresome trance, pulling him away from its prying grasp. Just as he's about to speak, another voice boomed within him.

“Cease your worries,” A familiar and unforgettable voice echoes within his mind, “Ruu.”

A small, yet shaky gasp left his lips. His dreary eyes gaze across the stone walls of the mountain, only to be met by the thundering rain in front of him. “Kapatcir?”

An agonising drawn-out static fills the air, and ounces of adrenaline rushed through his bloodless veins.

“Take a deep breath.” Her tone was not sharp and cold, a lovely contrast to the icy daggers that dripped down his skin. It was odd, he never heard this tone for a long time. And the last time he did came from none other than… his dearest mother.

And breathe he did. His lungs, deflated for almost two millenniums, relished the way the air swirled in him. If he were to tell his younger self about gaining the favour of the Thunderbird herself, poor little Ruu would look at him like a madman.

“How are you alive, Kanna Kapatcir? I thought you were—”

“—Dead?” She knew as much as he did, but saying those words still sting her heartless form. Death is a face common to even gods, and yet she finds herself at a lost.

To lose herself in grief, in sorrow, and soon, in madness. How far had she fallen? The Harbinger of Thunder and Storms reduced into a rabid best… she owe the Shogun her silent gratitude.

“My story has come to its end. Tragically, yes, but I am no longer with the living.”

There was no wind, no pain against his flesh, but those words made him stiff as a corpse, fitting for a dying boy like him.

‘She’s dead. Kanna Kapatcir, the Thunderbird is dead.’

“But,” a single question floated in his flooded mind, “How can you talk to me?”

A beat, before another.

“When that strange Traveler used my pinion, I felt something pulled me from the Depths. That said Traveler made a bridge for our souls.”

Kapatcir, the Mother of Thunder, muses. But her words took a tone sounding almost human… motherly, even.

With a deep sigh, the goddess continued once more, “Your story is far from over, Fledgling.”

Every word, every syllable she spoke was a soothing balm to his wounded soul. A long, exasperated yawn left his quivering lips, the familiar weight on his eyelids returned.

“What… what do you mean? I died a long time ago.”

But the goddess only responded with a hum. A hum shifting into a gentle lullaby, a familiar lullaby. Her voice, combined with her chirps, lured him in the tiresome trance.

“Rest your worries here, Ruu.”

‘"Ruu." She remembered my name!.

And with that, a boy named Ruu fell into a deep slumber, the sound of thunder echoed in his last moments.

Within the womb of Tsurumi lies a small, yet peculiar egg. Enveloped in a nest of Electro, the young fledgling slumbers once more, awaiting for a piece of its mother to be reborn.

It is quiet, save for the gentle humming of the thunder that once enveloped the foggy shores.

[squish36-writes-and-draws]

11 November: Unraveling

Quick little update: I have burned through my stash of prewritten pages, and now, when I need to write more, I have a cold and a shit ton of school things I should be doing. We're going to be on shaky ground until probably Saturday.

Word Count: 510

TW: Keefe is swearing a lot. Also, general Keefe angst. Self-esteem is in the single digits.

General Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @stellar-lune @faggot-friday @kamikothe1and0nly @nyxpixels @florida-preposterously

@poppinspop @uni-seahorse-572 @solreefs @corruption-exe @rusted-phone-calls

@when-wax-wings-melt @good-old-fashioned-lover-boy7 @dexter-dizzknees @abubble125 @hi-imgrapes

@callum-hunt-is-bisexual @callas-pancake-tree @hi-my-name-is-awesome @katniss-elizabeth-chase @sillyguy-supreme

@void-kill @thefoxysnake

Unraveling Project Specific Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed/upgraded): @cutebisexualmess @crippling-pages @daizythegreat @sophiefostersno1stan @iggydancebreak

@theleopardstalker @you-will-meet-your-downfall @multi-fandom-lunatic

On Ao3 or below the cut!

First (3 November) / Previous / Next

I once loved a gardener with his dirt-smudged face and hands Trimmed my weeds and gave me room to grow my flowers again But now my love is gone And I am left here withering Withering

Keefe Sencen's Journal

  I hope you’re happy now, mother dearest. 

    I hope you know how much you’ve fucked me over. 

    I should have never even attempted to draw Taylor into this mess. I just—wanted to think that I’d be safe for once in my starsexile life, but that’s too much to ask. 

    Over the last couple of hours, I’ve bounced around the globe looking for a nice place to go and also trying to figure out how the pathfinder determines coordinates. I’ll probably be working on that instead of actually reflecting on my life tonight because exile I don’t want to think about my life anymore. Absolute dumpster fire of a life right there. 

    I think I’m in Paris? I can see that famous tower thing but let’s be real when we say that I’ve got no fucking clue where I am or how human society works. It could be some other ostentatious tower just to fuck with me in particular. 

    Anyway the time zones are really different between Sydney and wherever I am because I left right around dawn, and now it’s sundown. If I thought my sleep schedule was bad enough as it is, it’s about to get so much worse and I’m here for it. 

    I haven’t had any interactions with humans around here, and if I could, I would definitely try to avoid speaking to anyone about anything ever because we saw how well that went last time. Alas, I don’t trust myself enough for that to not be a possibility. 

    I’ll probably be bouncing to the next city in a couple of days. Maybe if I pick a new place often enough, no one will be able to find me. Maybe then I can stop hurting everyone around me. It won’t work, but it’s a nice possibility to think about. 

    I found a nice garden to loiter in for the next couple of days, and in the case that I get bothered by the legal authorities, I can just simply…leave. I could cause so many crimes on purpose. That bank heist plan doesn’t actually sound that unrealistic now that I’m genuinely considering it. I won’t, but it would be funny, and that’s the real measure of success. 

    You know what else is funny? I don’t, but someone across the street does. It’s much less overwhelming than it used to be and on the one hand, that’s a good thing because I don’t have a constant migraine, but it also means that I’m going to be fucked to exile in another couple of weeks, let alone centuries of this. Who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m making it centuries without Gisela finding me. I just need to hold out long enough that I’m not useful to her little schemes and machinations by the time she comes to collect her little unethical science experiment. 

    If I can’t solve the problem in its entirety, I’ll settle for being annoying. It’s gotten me this far which isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement, but it’s better than nothing, and that’s all I have. 

[tootditoot]

The Plague of Time

The wind brushed the raven-black hair of Fléu as she waltzed through the meadows that was painted in rustic light brown. She hopped over the roaming insects in the meadow and carefully side stepped the twigs upon her path. Fléu would even twist and turn as if she was a ballet dancer and the land was her ballroom. Her dress that was adorned with embellishments and ornamentations depicting vines and branches graciously flew with the wind as her floppy silk hat, with a peacock feather in its rim, covered her from the rays of the harsh sun.

When the sun would set, she would then again return to her cottage, but not after collecting and picking daisies from nature’s gardens.

“Ever so pretty and blossoming! A shame that one cannot retain their beauty once pluck from its stem!” Fléu proclaimed jovially to nobody as she stored each daisy flowers into a basket.

But alas, such days of spring and summer never last. Winter came the next morning, and so the meadows withered and hid under a thick blanket of snow. She; however, persisted: Through the lens of her bird mask, she gazed upon the fields she used to roam in the summer, now covered in snow. Fléu thought to herself: “Why of all lands from the north to the south, did the winter chose to scourge mine?”

Thinking of a way to remove the snow from her fields, she went back to the cottage and boiled water in a huge pot.

Fléu watched as bubbles of all sorts popped up in her pot. “Aha! Surely this shall drive away the winter’s icy grips from the land of mine!”

She went outside again, now dragging a huge pot of boiling water behind her. “Begone, O Winter! I offer not but an inch of mine harvest unto you!” Fléu shouted at the field of snow before throwing her boiling pot at the snow-covered field, but such a pot of boiling water was not able to melt the fields entirely. “Hmph!” Her cheeks puffed red, seeing the failure of the plan that she had devised, she went back to her cottage stomping the snow on the way in.

As she paced back and forth within the living room of her cottage, she began to ponder:

“What else is there to drive away winter but the heat of the great orb that floats upon us all?”

She glimpses outside her window and observed the sky, surely enough, the fiery orb she spoke off was hidden beneath the winter clouds much like the landscape covered beneath winter’s blanket.

“Eureka!” Fléu slammed her table. “I shall not go outside to spite winter’s arrival!” She patted herself on the back for the brilliant plan she thought off. “Now then winter! We shall see who dominates this realm!”

She sat on the chair next to the cottage’s window to witness the snow melt from her fields; just waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting… until her eye lids finally had enough of spitefully looking at the winter storm and shut itself to rest.

Not but a moment passed and she shook herself back to life. “Ah! Winter! You think I would missed a moment of your demise?! Think again!” She said as she rubbed the glass lenses on her mask, she took a glance of the window, but something was strange. She couldn’t see a speck of snow outside. How long has it been since she was asleep? Days? Months? Years? It can’t be, she only closed her eyes for a mere moment and yet, winter suddenly vanish as if it was just thin air.

Her mind was riddled at first as she gazed off into the once again blossoming meadow, but it felt somewhat strange to her that winter suddenly disappeared without a trace but she shrugged it off. Kicking down her cottage door in excitement, Fléu waltzed again to the meadow she once knew and loved, but something was different, she could not help but notice the meadow’s grass was taller and much rougher than before, but as she walked deeper within the meadow it finally hit her.

“My meadow that was sweet and luscious! Who had defiled you and laid waste upon my land?!” She looked around, half of her meadow was now turned into a wheat field and could not have been more confused. Where did this wheat field come from? When was the land plowed? Many questions rang about in her mind as she scanned her land, but none could answer her queries

Thinking what may have caused this, Fléu’s thoughts were interrupted when she spotted something in the corner of her vision. On the far end of the field, she saw two moving silhouettes heading back into a dense forest path. Fléu shouted at them: “Halt! Halt I say!” The silhouettes stood still at her call.

As Fléu tore a path in the wheat field with haste to them, the closer she got, the more it became apparent they were fellow human beings, the first of whom she saw was a man who sported an unshaven beard and wore a ragged shirt and a hay-made hat while the other was a woman who wore a hole-torn dress and a cap. Both of their faces were scribbled with curiosity and a hint of fear as Fléu stepped forward to them.

“Who art thou?” Fléu said in the poshest of voices.

The man hesitantly stood in front of his companion, puffing up his chest, he replied: “We are but humble farmers, Madame, we mean no offense to you.”

“And what of this then?” Fléu gestured to the wheat fields behind her. “Surely you must know that this wheat field that was once a meadow belonged to me, yes?”

“T-that would be ridiculous, Madame!” The woman spoke up. “This wheat fields were passed unto us through our grandfather, the only meadow we know of is two acres away!”

“Fatima! Keep your voice down.” The man took of his hay hat and bowed sincerely to Fléu, “Pardon my sister for her ill-manners, Madame, but what she tells is true. This wheat field had always been a wheat field for decades.”

Fléu adjusted her bird mask as she heard of this. She couldn’t be mistaken, just before winter had arrive, this wheat field wasn’t here before, hell, there was no wheat field to begin with, only her grassy planes and meadows, just what had happened?

“Excuse me, Madame,” The girl who her companion introduced as Fatima tilted her head at Fléu: “Not to be inquisitive, but may I ask why you wear a bird mask whose beak curls up at the end?”

Fléu chuckes at her comment. “Merely allergic to pollen, that is all. I love a flare of dramatics too.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, was it, by chance, winter yesterday?”

“Winter yesterday?” The man replied with his eye brows raised. “Winter isn’t yet to come until a few months.”

Now that is strange, in Fléu’s perspective, snow was falling heavily yesterday, but now they say that winter hasn’t come yet? She stood fazed at the siblings as she tried to make sense of it all.

“Uhm, Madame?” Fatima waved a hand in front of Fléu’s face.

“O-oh, yes?” Fléu jumped at her gesture.

“You seem aghast, would you like a cup of tea in our place? It’s not quite far up, our home is by the forest.” Fatima smiled at her and her brother nodded to Fléu.

Seeing that she could not bring back half of her meadow again, she accepted their invitation and tailed behind as she followed them into a dense forest path.

As she followed them silently, she noticed the forest path seemed to be well-maintained, she notes that they regularly brush off the fallen leaves from time to time as well as trim the bushes in the path’s edges to provide a clear way for carriages.

After several minutes later, Fléu had finally arrived to their home. Their house was made of wood and cobble with a roof made of clay tiles and a little chimney to top it all off. This was indeed what Fléu imagined when she thought of a farmer’s houses.

“Please, do come in.” Fatima opened the wooden door wide for Fléu as she gestured her to enter. She stepped in and the two followed suit.

“Do make yourself at home, I’ll prepare some herbs for the tea.” Fatima said before retreating into their home’s kitchen. 

“Pardon me, Madame, but I believed we had not made proper introductions.” Fatima’s brother spoke up from behind her. “I am Retinento.”

“Oh yes,” Fléu had almost forgotten to ask this man’s name after their encounter. “Call me Fléu, a pleasure to meet you.”

Retinento bowed. “Likewis-.”

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

Retinento and Fléu jumped at the thunderous barks.

“Those darn wolves.” He scorned as he walked to open the door again. “If you’ll excuse me, Madame Fléu, I must check if our chickens from the back haven’t been pried open yet.”

Fléu watched as Retinento made his way outside to do his rounds.

“Must be hard living in the edge of the forest.” Fléu thought to herself. Not after a minute, Fatima appears again holding a tray with a wooden teapot and three tea cups placed neatly next to each other.

“Hmm?” Fatima looks around. “Did my brother went off somewhere again?”

“He said he was going to check the chickens in the back”

Fatima nodded as she placed the tea set on a table. “Wolves are getting quite active in this parts for some reason, but they never really dare to step near our house, so he’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She poured a cup of tea unto each cup and offered out one to Fléu.

“Here, I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“Thanks.” Fléu grabbed hold of the cup. She could smell the scent of the fresh ingredients used even through her mask. She lifts her mask to drink. “Lavender and a hint of rosemary” Fléu noted as she drank from the cup, it was intoxicating to say the least.

“How is it?” Fatima asked, a nervous smile creeping around her face.

“Terifically refreshing!” Fléu replied as she drinks from the cup, making sure to tilt it at an angle where not a single drop would remain in it.

Fatima sighs in relief. “Thank you, we don’t often get guests around these parts, so this is the best we can offer.”

The door then swung open, revealing Retinento with his clothes somewhat muddied.

“By the grace of God, there’s more wolves than ever before!” He complained. “Lucky for us that they shy away from stepping out of the bushes. Just sling a few rocks at them and they scatter as fast as they appeared.”

“Oh dear, I do hope they do stay in there, else the daises would get trampled by their paws.” Said Fléu.

Fatima chuckles. “That would be a shame indeed.”

“Ah!” Retinento looks outside their house’s window. The sun has begun making its way to hide behind the hills once more. “I am sorry to interrupt, Madame, but it seems it will be dark soon.”

Fléu looks through the window as well. “It would seem so.” She stands up, brushing her skirt. “Well, I better get going then.”

 “Leaving so soon?” Fatima interjects.  “Can’t she stay here for a while, brother? I can prepare a haybale to rest on for tonight.”

“Oh no need, I have disturbed you long enough.” Said Fléu “But rest assured, I will be returning for another cup of your tea!”

They bid her farewell, Fléu gleefully skips back to her cottage hidden within the wheat fields. The trip back was uneventful, though there were some howling in the distance, it was not close enough to set her alarmed.

She finally arrives home. The familiar room of her cottage untouched and unmoved. The chair that she had sat on when she was waiting for the passing of winter was still there as she had left it, no cob webs nor any sign of deterioration whatsoever. “Oh!”Fléu looks around the room. “There should be a basket of daisies lying around here somewhere!”. She scours around. “A bunch of glass bottles on the shelf… a dozen books with torn pages inside a cabinet… A bundle of candles on the bed… AHA!”. Her hand reaches under her bed, the familiar texture of a whicker basket greets it. Pulling back, she is happy to find that her daises are still lush in their color and texture, as if she had just plucked it yesterday. “This would be a lovely gift for those two! We are technically neighbors since we share this wheat field that was once my meadow after all.” She thought to herself. In her enthusiasm, she spent the night arranging and rearranging the daises, all night, trying to get that perfect bouquet pattern, until her eyes could no longer keep up once again with her wild spirit.

She woke up, slump across her table, a basket of daisies that were beautifully assorted in a basket, laid in front of her. “Oh yes! The gift!” She jumped out of her sit quickly and grabbed the basket. Exiting her cottage in joyful anticipation. “Oh sweet tea! How I yearn for you again!”

In her haste, she failed to notice that the wheat fields that had surrounded the area had withered away, patches of weeds began to sprang more and more the deeper she went.

The forest path that she had walked alongside Fatima and Retinento the other day had seemingly been consumed by bushes and fallen leaves. Fléu would slow down her jog into a walk by then. “Huh��� Fléu looks around, the air was seemingly different than when was here yesterday, and a single question ran through her mind: “Were the trees always this tall before?”

It would not take long for her to reach the sibling’s humble abode.

“Fatima? Retinento?” Fléu shouted as she approaches their house. The clay roof that once covered their house laid in ruin, cracked and falling apart, as the cobbled walls did as well. The chimney had fallen entirely to the side, and their door was ajar, with scratches adorning it. Only the faint glimmer of a cup remained at the front of the shambled doorsteps, with the fragrant hint of lavender and rosemary. Fléu stood there motionless as a gust of wind blew the daisies in her basket. Time had flown past like a gust of wind yet again.

[casimirsstache]

Echoes of Yesterday

Yearning in the Garden of missed connections.

Do you believe in the inevitability that you are destined to be with someone, even when things have already ended? The concept of that love being unavoidable because it is engraved in the stars, written beneath the lines of Holy manuscripts, and woven into the tapestry of your fate? The unwavering force that compels you to believe that despite a seemingly final chapter, a connection that exceeds dimensions–binding your souls across the cosmos–refuses to be severed by the turning of a page in your book?

In spite of all these ideals, there is a poignant feeling that piles in the pit of my stomach that this is all an act of wishful thinking; a mirage of elusive dreams. I could fantasize about all that could’ve been but that is exactly what it is: a fantasy. I will never have the chance to gently brush my thumb across the delicate curve of your flushed cheek, nor have you hold my hand in warm reassurance, bringing me solace only your presence could provide.

Alas, there will never come a day when fate, like a gentle breeze in the air, carries you to me once more to watch the sunset and start anew. I will forever be denied the chance to experience those precious moments that we were meant to share, leaving me with this agonizing curiosity that proves itself endless as the waves of regret wash over me through the many years to come.

Though a small part of me knows that ending was for the better, there’s another part that would say yes and waltz back into rekindled flames, even if it meant withering into ashes before I could ever melt into your embrace again. That yearns to believe in the notion that fate is unavoidable, etched into the very fabric of our lives.

We cling to the faintest glimmer of hope that some divine power, greater than we will ever be, has intertwined the threads of our fates into an eternal bond that transcends the multiverse of madness. Yet, the truth remains shrouded in the realms of the unknowable. And in that hope, we can only trust that the passage of time will heal us thoroughly instead of leaving the hearts of two souls to be lost in the currents of longing.

Okay guys, please don't bully me... or give me unwanted criticism. I wrote this for funsies and it's very personal. Hope you guys like it!! Please ignore any grammatical errors...

[kat-holden]

What is life if not empty. I stare at the tiny boxes from my window. A single light indicating life. And what are all of these people doing? Languishing in the mundane. Dissolving in madness, slowly crawling to their death.

And me? I am a silent spec trailing slowly through life aimlessly without rhyme or reason.

A light flickers, and I am alone. Bitter sweet for my demons wait til dawn to melt away. Until then, they will twist my insides and whisper sweet horrors in my ears. Oh, how I wish I could drop my mask and let it shatter on the marble floor. Hold up my sadness to the light for the world to see. All I hope that at least one will remain and tell the little girl under all the layers that it's okay. But I am silence embodied. I smile and console and encourage, but I wither quietly. Funny, for my mind is raging. A thousand mourners walk to and fro wailing for my dying soul. If no feelings are left in me and anger and desire remain I will gladly burn on my self-made pyre, screaming the names of the people who robbed me.

Stone does not burn, and silence knows no screams. I wonder what it would be, just for one day to be me.

And as I look at the shadows of my window broken by the street lights, I feel my life is ending.

I try to hold on to it in my hands, but it trickles through my fingers, fleeting like the waters of a fast river. Alas, I have wasted it. If I sit under the tree of my decisions, it is full of rotten fruit. All the possibilities and my dreams are high in its crown out of reach. Thus I will sit quietly underneath the branches of my broken life and wait for death's chariot to arrive. And if he takes me to Hell, I am not afraid, for I lived through mine here on Earth. But I know death will be gentle. He and I will be nothing together, for it lasts longer than that dreadful love.

[mygodyouredivine]

The Hell In Your Eyes - 3

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of violence

Word Count: 4836

Previous Chapter

Loki is annoyed.  

Loki has sat through thousands of years of political dinners, exchanging thinly veiled insults under a layer of diplomacy, all while smiling through his teeth. Loki has spewed sensical nonsense, charming naive, innocent maids and sweeping young stable boys off their feet. Loki has endured Odin’s wrath — in all its horrible glory — countless times, and never once had he shed a tear, nor had a single cry escaped his lips.  

The whole of Asgard had coined him the Dark Prince — and who was Loki to disappoint? 

He had long since learned people saw what they expected to see. 

And so as the entire realm rejoiced in his demise, as Laufey left him to die, as Odin condemned him for eternity, as Thor abandoned him, as Frigga had sided with her husband again and again and again, Loki maintained his carefully constructed front.  

Yet one encounter with a mortal, and he had unraveled at her feet.  

If physically kneeling before the wretched creature wasn’t enough, he knew she had seen past his mask. By the time he had regained his composure, he was sure she had seen him.  

It won’t happen again.  

Loki is a god, and gods do not crack. Gods maintain their image, regardless of circumstance. Gods do not show weakness, do not show vulnerability.  

This is a lesson Loki knows well, a lesson etched into his skin countless times by Odin’s hand.  

And yet for each time Odin reinforced this lesson, the very same lesson was burned away by Thanos a thousand more. 

Loki tried, he truly did. Loki maintained his godly facade for an impressive amount of time, resisting as his body was taken apart over and over and over again. Perhaps it wasn’t as long as he thought. Loki feels as if his entire life was spent doused in agony, spent with his flesh melting off and his bones withering away. 

Ultimately, a god is no match for a Titan.  

But a mortal is no match for a god.  

And yet, Loki has found himself at her feet — at her mercy — twice. 

Even after, Loki couldn’t bring himself to summon his cruel exterior. Perhaps it had to do with the way she had waltzed into his space, all soft and defenseless, carrying that deplorable drink as if it was the elixir of eternal life (unfortunately, it tasted just as divine). Perhaps it was his body, still sated and full for the first time in months, reminding him of the food — the debt — he owes. Perhaps it was the way she held out her arm towards him, even though he could see it shaking.  

Whether it was any of these things or none at all, Loki’s cool mask of indifference was rendered utterly useless at her delicate, mortal hands.  

Loki hates her.  

His hatred fills every fiber of his being. It’s a scalding, fiery hatred, much unlike the frozen excuse of Loki’s heart. His frost giant heritage seems to reject her very being.  

Loki hates her voice, hates her hands, hates her. He hates how she makes him falter when there is no place for mistakes.  

Loki’s thoughts are interrupted by Thor, who enters Loki’s quarters without an ounce of hesitation — ever the righteous, confident, arrogant bastard. 

Ah, but Loki almost forgot. Thor is not the bastard — Loki is. How despicable; for really, Loki can not even call himself a bastard. Yet, ‘the Bastard Son of Odin’ has a certain charm to it. Perhaps another false title for his collection.  

“Loki!” Thor booms, “Here are your clothes that Lady Angel washed. You should be grateful brother, for she offered of her own volition — ” 

Is it so surprising someone would offer to help Loki without external influence?  

“ — to see and visit you! You are doing well. I am happy to see you are finally making an effort to get to know all of our friends — ” 

Thor is happy? For Loki, or for himself? Why must Loki, even now, strive to prove himself to Thor? Why is Loki’s worth solely dependent on Thor’s judgement?  

“ — and Lady Angel is absolutely wonderful. I am delighted to see you two getting along so well! I can’t believe you finally made a friend— ” 

At this, Loki’s composure cracks for the second time that day.  

“What am I? A pathetic child wandering aimlessly through a school corridor? A helpless hatchling at the mercy of others — groveling for the bare minimum? Who are you to congratulate me for ‘making a friend?’ She is not a friend ,” Loki spits out. He can feel his teeth grinding against each other, his fingernails once again digging into his palms. “She is nothing more than another worthless mortal, unworthy of even breathing the same air as I, and yet you suggest I be grateful?” 

Thor advances on Loki, his eyes hardening. The atmosphere is tense; unlike the typical bickering between the brothers, Loki identifies something distinctly different in the way the air vibrates. The space between the two gods crackles. “Watch yourself brother —” 

Brother. The word grates upon Loki’s nerves. How can Thor so carelessly throw the word around, even knowing of its false implications — implications and lies Loki foolishly believed.  

Sometimes Loki wonders if Thor does it on purpose.  

“Do you hear yourself Thor? Bending yourself over backwards to defend this wasted excuse of consciousness — you are the King of Asgard. What is she? She is nothing.” 

And now Loki is no longer staring at his brother, but the ceiling of his prison. His back is slammed against Stark’s hardwood floors and there is sharp ringing in his ears, likely the result of the crack in the floor right behind where his head is currently embedded.  

Loki almost laughs. 

Truly, it is comical — comical that even now, Thor’s first instinct is to physically threaten Loki. As if Loki doesn’t almost enjoy it. 

But Loki’s laugh catches in his throat, prevented from escaping by the large hand tightening around his airway.  

Thor’s hand is around Loki’s neck — a mirror of His. 

A thousand years Loki has known Thor. A thousand years of childish brawls, foolhardy battles, pointless arguments. How many times has Loki betrayed Thor? Thor betrayed Loki? And yet, Loki believed he knew his brother’s character.  

A thousand years Loki has known Thor, but never once has he thought Thor to be cruel.  

Oh how wrong he is.  

Thor’s hands are gripping Loki’s neck and for the life of him Loki can’t breathe. He tries to draw air into his lungs — lungs that are screaming with a familiar ache — and fails. Phantom pains flicker across his entire body and somehow, in the second before his vision goes black, Loki manages to croak out a strangled wheeze of a laugh.  

Loki is once again strapped upon a bed of coals, once again stabbed with blades of flame, once again torched with fire so hot he freezes. Loki remembers the only other time he begged — begged and pleaded for the sweet mercy of death, all while knowing death was a pleasure he was never to be granted.  

Loki is once again kneeling — boneless — at the feet of a Titan, looking up into a face promising endless pain, a face painted with the patience of a thousand moons and splattered with the ruined blood of a Frost Giant. 

Loki did not know that a Frost Giant’s blood could boil. 

Ah, but the Mad Titan knew, and he ensured Loki would never forget.  

Loki recalls the moment he let go — an eerie echo of his fall from grace, his fall from the Bifrost. And he remembers the horribly invasive power of the scepter, along with the blessed relief and utter disregard for self preservation that followed. 

And it is this — the relief — that plagues Loki. He does not fool himself; Loki may be the God of Lies, but he has no reason to lie to himself . It is not the destruction of New York nor the deaths at his hand that weigh upon his shattered mind. No, it is the fact that Loki found solace in his actions.  

Make no mistake — Loki does not rejoice in his crime, but nor could he say he regrets it. 

For if Loki were given the choice, he could not — would not — choose to spare Midgard at the cost of his own sanity. 

(But Loki was never given a choice.) 

Alas, Loki is already insane. 

The Mad Titan has taken so much from Loki.  

Physically, Loki has long since disregarded his own body. He remembers the beginning of his torture, when he still held the title of 'Prince of Asgard,' when he spoke with arrogance and oozed of indignantion. Oh how naive he had been. When the first whips had landed across his skin, Loki's thoughts could never have anticipated what the coming months would entail. Loki did not once stop to consider how he would escape the clutches of his captor — oh the confidence he held! — but instead lamented the scars he would surely have to bear. Dimly, Loki recalls worrying over his marred skin, irritated at the blemishes he would surely have to cover when taking future lovers.  

Loki scoffs.  

Loki does not recognize the man who spent time thinking of lovers. Or of his physical appearance. Or of his interests. Or of any other insignificant pleasure that ultimately contributes to the annihilation of a soul. 

(Even now, Loki carries with him an irrational fear of physical touch — a seed planted by the Mad Titan that Loki cannot gouge out, not even if he tore open his very being.) 

In fact, Loki wondered if his corporeal form had even existed anymore. But most of all, more than the ruination of his physical form, Loki mourns the damnation of his mind. 

Ultimately, the Mad Titan did triumph over Loki. For no matter how many times Loki escapes, fakes his death, runs away, he can never evade the visions that haunt his mind, the voices that infect his thoughts, the termites eating away at what remains of Loki’s sanity. 

(If Loki were given a choice, he would have chosen death again and again and again.) 

Alas, Loki was not — is not — given a choice, for suddenly he is not lying on a bed of coals, but on his apartment floor again. Thor has since removed his hand from Loki’s neck and Loki half wishes Thor just kept it there. Just kept on squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until Loki died on that bed of coals.  

Loki wonders, if he were to die at Thor’s hand, would his brother feel remorse? Or perhaps, more realistically, relief?  

Unfortunately, Loki is not dead, and Thor is gazing at him, concern evident in his gaze. As if Thor wasn’t the one who put Loki in this condition — wasn’t the one who greedily snatched all of Odin’s affection, wasn’t the one who pushed Loki out of favor, wasn’t the one who led his brainless minions in a brash suicide mission, as if Thor wasn’t the one who stared Loki in the eye as Loki let go into the abyss.  

As if Thor wasn’t the first domino in a long ripple effect that eventually drowned Loki in his sins.  

Thor was the smooth pebble that young children skipped over lakes, just barely skimming the surface of a tempting downfall — nevertheless gracefully leaping unscathed across the reflective waters. Yet Loki was the jagged, unskippable rock, destined to fall through the air and fall through the water with no hesitation. Loki has long since come to terms with this simple fact.  

No longer does Loki resent his brother, for he understands: light can only shine in the presence of darkness. And if Loki is condemned to darkness — so be it.  

Loki does not resent his brother, but oftentimes Loki despises his lightness . What some might say is endearing — the inability for Thor to give up — is just a burden. Even now, Thor still thinks he can change Loki, can fix him. Thor still thinks that by vouching for Loki and providing Loki a place to live and surrounding Loki with Thor’s friends that he can mend Loki’s broken soul and bring back the brother he once had. Thor is still in denial — he refuses to grasp the very simple concept that Thor’s brother — the Second Prince of Asgard, God of Lighthearted Mischief — is long dead. And so Thor continues to try. But light yelling into the darkness does not change it.  

And even now, with Thor looming above Loki, Loki does not resent his brother.  

But Loki resents Thor’s very being — the core of who Thor is. Thor is a duality; one of naivety and compassion, yet tainted — or perhaps embellished — with a smidge of cruelty and arrogance.  

And as Thor is speaking to Loki, mouth forming words Loki is too tired to hear, Loki simply lies on the floor, limbs relaxed around him, throat sore, and does the only thing he can do when feeling so utterly empty.  

Loki laughs.  

______________________________

Midgard is rather charming in some regards.  

Loki will eventually have to investigate the laundry process, for he has just now made the curious discovery that freshly dried clothes are warm . He suspects they were warmer right after they were dried, but he can still feel the presence of the heat, lingering within the very fabric of his garments. He wonders just how much they were heated up to — would it have burnt his frozen hands at the peak of its fiery glory? 

No, Loki’s hands are too well accustomed to fire now. 

But he doubts that her hands are. He envisions Angel pulling his clothes out of the dryer, her hands touching the same clothes that he has worn, that he will wear, that he is currently touching.  

Yet is it entirely possible Loki is standing around, imagining a scene that never played out, for it was not Angel who brought Loki’s laundry back to him, but his dearest brother. Looking at his pile of clothes again, Loki takes in the telltale signs of Thor. The messily folded shirts stare back at Loki, mocking him.  

He wonders if she ever even did any part of his laundry. Perhaps she only offered it as a way to ease the uncomfortable tension that had arisen earlier. Or rather, (and his stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought) she lugged his laundry basket downstairs and dumped it straight into Thor’s arms. 

Why else would she refuse his help to accompany her?  

A twinge of something rises up within Loki as he realizes she accepted Thor’s offer to bring his clothes back. Or, much more likely, she had pushed the task onto Thor in a desperate attempt to avoid encountering him again.  

Not that Loki could blame her. 

And yet the uncomfortable sensation within Loki only grows, and he realizes that he feels something akin to disappointment. Loki cannot allow himself to feel disappointment. He had long since learned not to expect anything from anyone — or perhaps, much more cynically, to only depend on — to trust — himself.  

Trust, Loki knows, is a fickle concept the naive embrace. Trust itself is ill fated, the certainty of an inevitable betrayal the same as the certainty that one day everyone living on this cursed realm will perish.  

Loki hates Angel. He hates how she pretends to care for him, hates how she imitates Thor, hates how she always finds a way to break him, and Loki hates how Angel makes him feel.  

Loki's silent anger boils inside of him — like the steady countdown of a ticking bomb — manifesting itself out of him as the laundry basket is violently launched across the room. 

He hates how he feels absolutely no satisfaction at the way the freshly clean clothes scatter across the floor, hates how he lost control, and hates how the damned mortal forces him to feel emotions he does not want to feel . 

Sometimes all Loki can do is hate. 

______________________________

The heat from the clothes have long since seeped into the floor. 

The sun is just now setting, dousing Loki’s room in a fiery glow. Warm light spills across Loki’s bookshelves, his impeccably made bed, the clothes strewn around his floor. Loki sits on the ground, bare of his illusions, allowing himself to just be .  

Staring across the room, he notices tendrils of light carefully curling around the air, miniscule particles of dust dancing in the golden glow. This is a gold Loki enjoys. Unlike the brash, loud character of Thor’s gold — of Asgard’s gold, this is a much softer, gentle color. The comforting hue reminds Loki of his mother, and against his will, he feels a wall of despair beginning to build within his chest.  

For a second, Loki loses himself as the wall crashes over him. He drops his head, allowing his hair to dangle in front of his face, obscuring his view of the floating particles. He feels like a child — wants nothing more in this moment than to run to Frigga, for her floral scent to fill his senses as she envelopes him in her arms. What Loki wouldn’t give to have Frigga’s delicate fingers comb through his hair just once more, for her soft lips against his forehead, murmuring words of comfort.  

But he can’t have that. Instead, here he is, sitting on the floor of a glorified prison in the midst of a community of people who hate him, with nothing but Thor to act as his buffer. 

Looking up, Loki gazes at the honeyed light as it glides over a particular heap of clothing. He watches, mesmerized, as the light gently moves, unhurriedly bathing each corner of the fabric in its rich glow.  

If he were still on Asgard, Loki would most likely have been reading, thoroughly immersed in some story or another. The sun would have showered his pages in its quiet glow, lighting the words aflame. He would have taken a stroll in his mother’s gardens, breathing in the sweet scent of her flowers as he sat in his favorite hidden alcove. He would have taken out his book and continued to read, read until the golden hue of the sun was replaced by the tender shine of the moon. Only then would Loki return, serenely walking back to his chambers, stopping only to retrieve a cup of tea, and resume his reading on his balcony.  

Loki wants that. 

Loki wants an afternoon to himself, with no worries plaguing his mind. 

Loki wants to be able to read, and to do so in an environment which permits him to let his guard down. 

Loki wants to sit outside, surrounded by flowers, and watch as the sun transitions into the moon. 

Loki wants to indulge in a hot cup of tea as he watches the moonlight spills across the pages of his book. 

Loki wants so many things — and he can’t have any of them. 

Standing up, Loki decides he has spent enough time reminiscing over what he cannot have today. He feels sticky and hot and cold and hungry and all he wants right now , is a long shower.  

And so Loki walks over to the same pile of clothes, now dull and abandoned by the sun, gazing disapprovingly downwards. Thor is truly an imbecile, for he has not even managed to separate their clothes correctly. Loki is currently staring at a dark green sweatshirt, one he knows for a fact he has never seen before. Tiredly, he tosses it upon his bed and scoops up a clean change of clothes, then turns around and trodds slowly into the bathroom.  

______________________________

Water droplets rain all around Loki, swiftly sliding down his body. 

He doesn’t particularly enjoy showering — it reminds him too much of another substance: denser, stickier, and much more red, trickling down his skin. Loki much prefers baths. Baths, however, render their subject very much vulnerable, and Loki does not fancy risking any more vulnerability than strictly necessary.  

So Loki is standing in the shower, unabashedly soaking up the shallow warmth the water provides. Surely if Thor could see him, his brother would lecture Loki on wasting Midgard’s precious resources. But, Loki reasons, if Stark truly possesses the excess of wealth he boasts of, Loki’s water usage will not be of much concern to the man. And so this is a luxury Loki will grant himself.  

The shower is one place where Loki feels the safest, where he allows his thoughts to wander and drift into otherwise forbidden territories. Today especially has been challenging, and even his muscles seem to ache, the fibers pulling away from each other, trying to rip Loki apart from the inside out. His mind is exhausted, filled with swirling thoughts of Frigga and Angel and Thor, with the occasional Odin and Titan intruding whenever a particular body part cries out.  

And as Loki gazes down at his body, the disfigured canvas of scars stare back at him and he attempts to soothe away the countless aches. No matter how much time has passed and how much magic Loki pours into himself, the pains never seem to retreat. Rationally, Loki knows it doesn’t make sense. He knows his magic is fully capable of healing himself, knows that by all accounts he is healed.  

But Loki also knows he does not imagine the sharp pains coursing through his veins.  

He is fighting himself — the part of himself that does not want the pain to stop. Because all Loki knows is pain, and he fears the absence of pain almost as much as he dreads its glorious presence.  

Loki raises his head, allowing for the stream of water to bruise his face. And if Loki’s closed eyes leak the occasional tear, no one would know.  

______________________________

Loki’s self destructive spiraling is abruptly cut short by three succinct knocks from his bedroom door. Still soaking in the shower, Loki debates whether or not to answer; after all, he truly has no desire to see his brother again today. Or preferably, ever again. Unfortunately, Loki is all too aware that if he does not answer the door to let Thor in, Thor will simply let himself in. And if there’s anything worse than seeing Thor, it will be seeing a displeased Thor while Loki stands nude and wet.  

Reluctantly, Loki turns off his shower, changes into his freshly washed ‘sweatpants’, and leisurely walks towards the door. He is honestly surprised Thor hasn’t invited himself in yet. He is more surprised when he finally opens the door and is promptly met with — not Thor’s brutish face, but the goddamned mortal.  

She stands there, in front of his door, barely out of arm's reach. Loki can’t help but drink her in. He notices her hair, laying loosely around her face, framing her profile. She’s sporting a sweater, much too warm for the present weather. Its collar is stretched out over years of use, teasing his eyes with a fraction of her collarbones peaking through. Her legs are barely covered by absurdly short shorts, and Loki feels the back of his ears heating up. Hurriedly, he averts his eyes, falling down to her feet, once again hugged by soft looking socks — mismatched.  

His scrutinization is interrupted by her voice; so soft.  

“Hey! Sorry if I interrupted you. I heard you were in the shower but I was going around taking everyone’s dinner orders. We’re getting Chinese.” She tilts her head to the side, lifting her chin ever-so-slightly, distractedly exposing the tantalizing skin of her neck. She swallows, and Loki’s eyes discreetly follow the bob of her throat. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything?” 

It takes a moment for Loki to register her question and another for him to process it. She is going to order dinner? For him? And she is asking him for his preference? Loki has not had the privilege of preferring anything in a long, long time. Damn this mortal. 

“I am not familiar with this particular cuisine, nor Midgard’s in particular.” 

She meets his eyes then, and only after does it occur to him that her eyes had been previously glued to his abdomen. His abdomen, he realizes which has been bare this entire interaction. “That doesn’t answer my question.” 

He forces himself to roll his eyes, running a hand through his still dripping hair to hide the scarlet his ears have surely become. “I am saying that I do not have a preference, woman.” 

She lifts her shoulders briefly in a gesture Loki has come to associate with Midgard’s daftness and promptly moves closer to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, then curses himself for doing so. He truly must be losing it, backing away from a defenseless mortal. But she doesn’t push further, instead tilting her head at that angle again, asking him another question.  

“Can I come in?” 

Loki hesitates. He doesn’t understand her motives, doesn’t know if this is a trick the Avengers have set up or perhaps a test designed by his brother. All he knows is that Angel is staring at him with her eyes wide and innocent and completely devoid of deceit.  

Angel must carry magic or Loki must be possessed by the Mind Stone again, for against his will, Loki steps to the side, allowing her to brush past him. The sleeve of her sweater comes into contact with Loki’s stomach, and he jerks away.  

Awkwardly, Loki closes his door and turns to face the mortal, noting how hilariously out of place she looks, standing in the midst of Loki’s domain. With a wave of his hand, the previously scattered articles of clothing fly onto his bed, meticulously folding themselves. Angel’s surprised, quiet gasp does not escape his notice. She walks towards his bed, small hand landing on Thor’s sweatshirt.  

“Take that when you leave.” Loki internally bristles at his own tone, noticing how Angel’s shoulders locked up when he spoke and did not relax when he stopped. “Please,” he adds. 

To his surprise (again), Angel approaches him, sweater in hand. “Why?” 

At this, Loki is caught off guard. Without warning, he is overwhelmed by distaste. His patience has been tested over and over again, and he does not have even a drop more to deal with this mortal’s incompetence. His hatred for her rushes back, multiplied a thousandfold. Who does she think she is and why will she not leave Loki alone? Why must she cut short his relaxation, intrude upon his personal space, inquire after him when he knows — he knows — she does so unwillingly? Why is she holding up Thor’s goddamned sweater, pretending not to know why Loki hates it so? As if she doesn’t know it belongs to Thor. 

In fact, Loki is positive she is intimately aware of whom it belongs to, undoubtedly so. He hates Angel, hates her for reluctantly offering her help, hates her for her smoothies, hates her for asking him about his preferences. Briefly, he envisions snapping her neck. Effortlessly. But the image makes him recoil, bringing about not satisfaction, but horror.  

His fists clench, his broken fingernails once again digging into bruised skin. It costs Loki an immeasurable amount of self control not to simply throw her out, hurl her from his quarters. Instead, he snaps at her. 

“Girl, do not test my patience. I am warning you, it has been a very long day and if you do not exit extremely promptly, it will not end well for one of us.” 

Loki hates the way her shoulders tense up again, hates the way she physically flinches away at his dismissal.  

Loki hates how though he can sense her increasing heartbeat, her nervousness, Angel still looks him in the eye and informs him, in a terrified voice coated with forced calm, “I’m sorry to hear that Loki. I added this sweater into your laundry after it was done, but I should have known it would not have been welcome.” 

Loki hates how she then drops her eyes, staring intently at her mismatched socks.  

“I’ll just leave your dinner outside.” 

Loki hates how she leaves, her hands gripping Thor’s — his — sweatshirt tightly, footsteps moving at a much brisker pace.  

Loki hates how Angel closed off, how he closed her off.  

Loki hates how Angel clearly did do his laundry. 

Loki hates how Angel thought of him, giving him an extra sweatshirt, offering him a choice for dinner. 

Loki hates Angel more than he hates Thor, more than he hates Odin. 

Loki hates Angel more than he hates the Mad Titan.  

The only person Loki hates more than Angel is himself. 

Fuck. 

______________________________ 

We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.  

- Charles Bukowski 

______________________________

Previous Chapter

~

~

Taglist: @spacedaddydinn @doct0rstrange

[calaofnoldor]

Dean, Don’t

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 1,906

Summary: You’re heavily pregnant and highly irritable. Luckily, Sam Winchester is the sweetest moose to ever moose.

Warnings: pregnancy (and all its related symptoms), ill-fated attempt at humor, disgustingly sweet fluff (seriously, you’re gonna need a tooth brush)

A/N: this might be my first ever attempt at this genre, so please don’t judge me too harshly :)

MASTERLIST

“Wow… geez, you look ready to-“

“Dean,” Sam shot his brother a warning glance as he guided you into the kitchen, a giant palm held gently against your aching lower back, “Don’t.”

Dean quickly raised his hands and the gesture, together with his wide eyes, seemed to say ‘I wasn’t gonna say anything!’, although you knew that was far from the truth. In fact, you knew exactly what he was thinking because you’d been thinking it too – every hour of every day. It was safe to say you really didn’t need any reminders of your current condition.

“Y/N’s already having a rough time with the twins keeping her up all night, and she’s been extra sore lately,” your moose came to your rescue as always. Sam had been doing that a lot recently, not only by shielding you from Dean’s crude comments (and consequently protecting Dean from your wrath as well), but also by comforting and distracting you from the woes of your third trimester.

“Well at least it’ll be over soon, right?” Dean tried again.

“Not soon enough,” you grumbled in reply, before attempting to stretch out your spine with an unfiltered groan of discomfort.

“Aaand, that’s my cue to leave!” Dean announced, grabbing his plate of bacon to go and sauntering off, though not before sending his little brother an exaggerated ‘good-luck-with-that’ expression.

Sam rolled his eyes despite feeling somewhat relieved by his brother’s departure, then turned back to you. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you off your feet.” He wore a sweet sympathetic smile; it was one he had been donning often as of late, but it only worsened your mood.

“Sam, I’m fine. I can’t be constantly sitting or lying down!” You barked irritably, but when you noticed the sad puppy dog look on your boyfriend’s face, your attitude instantly withered.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just hate this so much.” Your fingers began to massage your temples as your mouth continued to utter the words that took you beyond the point of no return, “I’m a hunter, you know? I’m supposed to be able to take down monsters with the swing of my machete! I used to be able to roundhouse kick those inhuman bastards when I wanted to, and now I can’t even put my own socks on!” That much was true. Sam had helped you with your socks earlier that morning.

“And sometimes you being so overprotective only makes me feel more useless,” you added with a defeated huff.

Sam waited patiently until he was certain your little tirade was over. “I know exactly what you’re capable of, Y/N; you never have to remind me. And I can guarantee that you will still be able to do all those things… after you’ve given birth to our beautiful babies, and your body recovers from this drastic change it’s endured.”

He moved closer to you and extended one hand to caress the side of your face, while the other splayed across your immensely swollen stomach. “But baby, right now, at 39 weeks pregnant with twins, you’re not supposed to be able to do all that. I wouldn’t want you to be doing all that,” he chuckled lightly with the afterthought as he pictured your heavily expectant form attempting one of your famous round house kicks.

You raised a brow at him, knowing how his mind worked, and he immediately sobered, “Y/N, my point is you don’t realize how incredibly strong you are already, even without all the pregnant kung fu fighting you seem to be so keen on.”

Although you were tempted to roll your eyes at his teasing, the boyish grin he cast you couldn’t be resisted, and the corners of your lips begrudgingly lifted. But a sudden lurch in your belly wiped the smile promptly from your features.

“Oh,” you breathed in a gasp, placing your hands upon the area of assault.

“What? What is it?” Sam questioned worriedly, as he too moved both his hands to your baby bump. His eyes flickered frantically between your face and stomach, trying to read the situation for himself.

“Nothing, just a really strong kick, I think,” was your reply after a pause. You looked up at him with what you hoped was a reassuring smile. He returned it with a certain tinge of apprehension, so you grabbed his hand and placed it where one of your wayward twins was moving erratically within you.

No matter how many times Sam felt it, he couldn’t help but beam with pride and elation at the thought of his children growing stronger each day, and the fact that you were the one fostering their development made him truly believe he was the luckiest man alive in that moment.

“Wow, I guess they’re really ready to come out, huh?”

“Maybe,” you mused, “Or maybe they’ll choose to torture me for another week. I’m not getting my hopes up.”

Still fondling your belly with one hand, Sam used his other to turn your face towards his. “I am really sorry that you’re hurting. I wish I could make it stop.” He said it with such sincerity, you were almost inclined to forgive him. Almost.

“I would say ‘it’s not your fault’, but it kinda is,” came your playful response, which happily earned you a loving kiss.

When his lips left yours, you continued, “Also, as if the fact that two of your swimmers managed to make it to my eggs wasn’t enough, did you really have to make both of them Winchester-sized too?” You motioned vaguely to the wide expanse of your front side.

Sam said nothing, but rewarded you with a hearty laugh and a second kiss.

Later that day, as you sat snuggled between Sam’s lengthy and outstretched limbs on the bed, the two of you absent-mindedly watched an old classic movie play out on the television. His lips grazed your hairline every few minutes and his hands rubbed incessant circles on your extended stomach.

“How do you know our babies will be beautiful?” You questioned Sam abruptly, your eyes never leaving the screen.

His chest rumbled with a deep chortle that resonated through your back and caused you to smile in turn. “Well, they’ve got you for a mother, don’t they?”

“Psh! You forgot to mention that they’ve also got a father who looks like he was sculpted by the Greek gods! But that’s not the point; genetics is based on chance.” You craned your neck to look him in the eyes.

“Fine. I just have a feeling then, OK?” Sam shut you up with a quick kiss to the lips and you of course assented.

“Do you still think they’re going to be girls?”

“I hope so,” he replied with a pensive smile.

You studied his elegant features for a minute before feeling a smirk form on your own face. “Well too bad, they’re both boys.”

“What? How do you know?” Sam’s brow furrowed in that way you always thought made him look unbelievably adorable, especially for a man of his stature.

“I just have a feeling, OK?” You quoted back at him. “They call it mother’s intuition.”

Sam’s grin returned and you couldn’t remember feeling better in the past month. Dean hadn’t disturbed you all day since the incident in the kitchen, and the support of Sam’s solid torso pressed against your back seemed to be alleviating some of the strain from your body.

But alas, nothing is ever what it seems when you’re living with the Winchesters. A sudden splash of fluid upon the sheets interrupted your scarce and apparently fleeting moment of peace.

It took you a moment to register the wetness between your legs, although Sam was already one step ahead of you. “DEAN!” he hollered towards the hall.

“Sam, I think my water just broke,” you told him in a slight trance.

“Yeah, I know, baby. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and changed.” Sam’s voice was soothing and you began to follow his lead, slowly rising to your feet as he supported you from behind.

Just then, Dean came barreling in, brandishing his gun as his eyes searched frantically for any potential sources of peril. His green gaze turned befuddled upon finding no clear cause for distress.

“Dean, go get the Impala ready. Y/N’s in labor.” Sam’s voice held that composed and assertive edge which it often did when he took the lead on hunts. You would have found it awfully attractive under different circumstances.

As it were, a fresh contraction tore through you when you reached the dresser, and you were forced to bend over to weather the impact, your breathing becoming a little uneven. Sam’s arms were instantly around you, while the sight of your hunched and gravid form awoke Dean from his stupor.

He cleared his throat and his voice seemed a little gruffer than usual, “Uh, OK. Right. So… the bags? What do I need?”

“I’ll get the bags. Just get the damn car ready, Dean.”

Still the older Winchester stood transfixed in his spot, his eyes were somewhat unfocused. “Wow. So this is really happening…”

“Dean!”

“Yeah! On it! Got it! Uh… fight the fairies, Y/N! We got this.” And with that, he finally took off for the garage.

You couldn’t help but giggle to yourself, “He’s right, you know? This is really happening.”

Sam turned around and held your gaze with such reverence and fondness, you nearly melted right then. “I know,” he stated simply, before he crashed his lips to yours in a rushed yet zealous smooch.

“Ow! Yeah, OK, I think the twins are sick of our antics already,” you gushed through gritted teeth as another tightening of your middle took over.

Sam cupped your stomach gingerly on either side, as if he could somehow abate the pain with his touch. “Right, let’s hurry it up then. I think all that soreness you felt before and the twins’ heightened movement might’ve been a sign of early labor.”

“You’re such a nerd, you know that?”

He only responded with knowing smirk, then continued to help you get changed so he could usher you out the door.

Dean met you outside, where he stood by the shiny black car, looking a little more prepared for action than earlier. “You guys good?”

“Yeah, are you?” Sam asked, a bit dubiously.

“Hey, I’m ready to get this show on the road!”

“Am I gonna fit?” You eyed the Impala with slight apprehension. You had always been a fan of the classic car before, but now that Sam had fertilized you so thoroughly, the backseat seemed a lot more daunting.

“Of course, my girl can handle anything. She’ll get you to the hospital in no time so that you can have my nieces.”

“Nephews,” you corrected, but nodded anyway and allowed Sam to help you inside the vehicle.

The boys stood outside for a moment longer. “You alright, Sammy?”

Sam was glowing and Dean couldn’t have repressed the surge of love and pride that rose within him if he tried, despite his ‘no chick flick moments’ rule.

“Yeah, I’ve never been better, Dean.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole!” You would later blame the contraction for your foul language, but it was your shouting through the window that ultimately got you on the road.

“Yeah alright, we’re going! Just don’t be having any babies in my Baby!”

“Dean,” Sam’s bitch face revealed itself once more, “Don’t.”

→ CARRY ON

A/N #2: thank you so much for reading! btw, if any of you sam girls wanna show off your love for the giant adorkable moose man, there’s a ‘sammy the moose’ print now available at lexicolor.redbubble.com!

also available in various styles, as well as on mugs, notebooks, phone cases, and a bunch of other stuff! and if you’re more of a dean girl, i got you covered too 😉❤️

[rheananda]

it’s ok to admit when something is unfair.

07/04/2022, the Fourth of July is considered a day of independence from Great Britain for the U.S.A. Fireworks are blown and barbecues are usually hosted. Americans are enthusiastic about celebrating each year, and get paid time and a half at most jobs, or given the day off entirely to celebrate.

—

a poem about freedom

(warning: mentions of abortion ahead)

as a female,

this fourth of july,

this so-called day of independence,

has never felt so hypocritical to me.

my neighbors hang up cheap flags, of

white stripes and white stars,

bearing a buried meaning that has been

forgotten by the people who rejoice—

holding close a promise of freedom that echoed over centuries, but still was never understood, and therefore always unfulfilled.

to be quite honest, I believe most citizens submerge themselves

in food and fireworks

just to help them forget for a little while,

just how little freedom they truly have.

every year I question why people pay

hundreds of dollars for the most

pompous parade of fireworks.

while certainly a more beautiful use of gunpowder

than the methods they let loose on schoolchildren,

they never seem to notice how temporary they are.

how quickly the colors flash and melt and soak into the sky.

does capturing it in a picture make the moment feel more complete? does it make your sense of freedom ring any louder in your ears?

while the cannons rage outside my home, i

can’t help but hear the cries of young girls and women,

the fireworks try to deafen them but i can feel them through the smoke.

screams of absolute agony as they

scrape their insides desperately,

fearful of a mistake stealing their lives away forever,

terrified of their friends and families’ resentment,

broken by shame and withered from loneliness,

disgusted by their bodies and its permanent destruction.

mentally damaging, spiritual anguish,

do you believe that they are celebrating?

today, i am expected to celebrate

a system that’s unjustly stolen

a crucial right from my sisters.

the right for them to spare themselves from performing an unsafe abortion.

no woman with a heart would ever want to hurt a child.

which is why they choose to protect themselves and spare that child a life of unpredictability,

of unstable people, or poverty, or abuse.

women simply want the choice,

to give themselves and their child freedom.

a choice i was forced to choose when i was just 18,

all alone and on my own, several haunting years ago.

a traumatic experience that saved my life,

from a future of destined doom.

my body would have been broken, and my spirit would have been crushed. the child I would’ve been forced to raise would have perished in the arms of their parents, who were two, lost, teenagers without money or a home.

my reputation would have been shattered, as the family who meant the world to me would’ve shunned me for my unchristian choices. i would have lost it all, or have been pushed into a painful corner of attempting a surgery on myself, mutilating my body and breaking my mind and drowning myself in such hatred for myself that it’d be hard to view myself as a woman of worth.

but, alas,

i had an opportunity, for a second chance.

to change my future, and save myself

from a life of certain misery.

i chose to get an abortion, in a place that was

safe, but not socially comforting.

the doctors referred to me as a number,

“22”

and never called me my name.

after coughing up half a grand,

having no insurance that my parents wouldn’t see,

they chained me to a bed, and

fed me pills that led me into a fit of blurry nausea.

i drifted in and out of awareness, as

all the other women there around me did the same.

their faces were struck with shame and fear,

slathered with a similar sadness

that i was wearing on myself.

i remember some crying, and some panicking,

and some telling me it’d be okay,

and as i threw up in the bathroom,

and a nurse removed my pants and placed a pad,

i remember blacking out, and

waking up safely in my bed,

quietly

silently

bleeding beneath my blankets.

i began to cry, as my parents invited me

to go bowling that same night,

cluelessly unaware of the cruel choice

i made just that afternoon.

while a truly heartbreaking experience to endure,

full of phrases and feelings i wish to forget,

i am thankful still for the choice i was given,

to safely get a procedure done by people

who knew what they were doing,

people who while not the most profesional,

took their jobs seriously, and while weighted by morals of their own, they were haunted by the dangerous alternatives women would do out of hopeless desperation.

now,

as this right has been stripped from girls just like me,

the choice has been made immediately illegal

in the state i reside, and several others—

females don’t feel quite as free

as the country believes we should.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

Freudian projection is characterized by some as a defence mechanism employed by those who are struggling to accept difficult emotions or truths. Rather than admit or addressing the feelings, the emotions are projected onto someone else. Perhaps that is why Osamu Miya was particularly willing to accept your unfaithfulness. After engaging with his friends and brother in the group chat, the Onigiri Miya owner’s lack of satisfaction in the answers compelled him to further research the matters discussed. There were threads on social media of what conspired earlier that day. Some accounts were evidently false while others held a candor that could not be falsified. The more information he consumed, the lower his heart sunk until it had reached the pit of his stomach, soon to be tormented by the acids inside.

Was it solely a coincidence that the description provided in most accounts on Bokuto’s mystery girlfriend fitted you perfectly? Of course, it was not. The MSBY Ace admitted to being in your company for the evening. Hell, the proof was slathered across social media. There was no shame.

But why label yourself as his girlfriend publicly? It was obvious that he would learn about it sooner or later. 

Some spectators had posted to elucidate that the mystery girlfriend arrived only to save the MSBY player from hoards of fangirls who were bordering on harassment. So, did you do it to save him? You were never one to abandon your friends, despite the situation.

“She loves you, idiot.” He mumbled the reminder to himself in a scold. It was stupid to believe that you would cheat on him with his friend. He knew you loved him.

Of course he knew it. You loved him, and only him.

Yet a little voice in his head questioned whether his recent neglect had forced you into the arms of another. But the Ace was the last person he expected you to turn to. Your relationship with Iwaizumi, or even Oikawa held far more potential to evolve into something romantic. Ache spread across his chest like a wildfire at the mere thought of you with someone else.

The tiny noise of the lock clicking to an open hauled his attention from the nightmares projecting inside of his head back to the living room apartment. Removing the cap from his head, he attempted to burn the insecurity embedded in his thoughts as he proceeded to greet you at the front door. A weak smile twitched at the ends of his mouth disguising the flood of emotions he was drowning in.

“Oh, hi there. I didn’t expect to see you waiting for me like a little kitten.” A titter expelled from your lips as you stepped into the apartment, with the food containers held snugly against your stomach. Intoxicated by the excitement of finally spending some quality time with your fiancé, you were unable to detect the hints of pain scattered across his visage. “Here, you can start eating. I’m just gonna change into something else.” The plastic bag containing layers of food was offered out to the black-haired male, who was losing to the battle of insecurity waged against his mind. 

“Okay.” As he accepted the bag, his fingers brushed against yours, drawing his attention subconsciously to your hands. He was not actively searching for confirmation of your unfaithfulness. He certain was not… because you loved him. 

But if you loved him, and only him… Why was the ring symbolizing your love no longer snug against your finger?

The threads woven neatly together to disguise his emotions slowly loosened until all that remained were shrivelled pieces, serving no purpose. But you were already making your way to the bedroom, unaware of the torment that your carelessness had bestowed upon him.

Did you want him to suffer? Was that it? Were you seeking attention? Was this all a revenge ploy after what occurred with Ichika? Did Atsumu tell you something?

Truthfully, he would prefer that than knowing you loved someone else. You could seek all the revenge in the world, as long as you remained with him. He would accept it willingly.

But first he had to know – did you still love him?

Once the food containers were placed onto the table, he immediately began walking towards the bedroom, his quest for answers outweighed his appetite.  

Inside of the bedroom you were sat at the vanity, attempting to unhook the necklace from around your neck, but upon seeing your fiancé’s reflection, the hook was released from your fingers. The slightest hint of tears could be traced at the bottom of his eyelids, and with his greyish irises, it resembled a storm seconds from brewing. 

“Samu?” Instinctively you rose from the chair, quickly removing the space between you two before taking his hands in yours. His eyes landed on your intertwined fingers praying he was incorrect in his observations earlier. But alas there was no ring. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you love me?” The inquiry was voiced dejectedly as he searched your face for an answer. Generally, you were an open book with your emotions. Whether it was love or hatred, each emotion would alter your features in a noticeable manner. Right now, concern prompted little wrinkles to form at the edges of your eyes. But with the question registering upon your ears, disbelief brought your eyebrows to narrow.

“Oh god. That’s what has your panties twisted? I thought it was serious. You know that I love you, gremlin. Sorry to break it to you, but you’re mine forever now.” Irritation gnawed at your heart – how could he question your love? Was he really in any position to do so?

“Where’s your ring, y/n?” The words were whispered softly, barely overpowering the sounds stemming from the television in the other room.

“My ring?” A quizzical expression contorted your features, instinctively your gaze travelled from your left hand to the purse located on the vanity. “Right, it’s in my purse. I took it off for the shoot, but I guess I forgot to put it back on. Give me a second, I’ll go get it.” To retrieve the handbag his hands first had to be released, but to Osamu the loss of physical contact resembled a physical blow. Weakly he caught your shirt, forcibly halting your movements.

“Did you tell everyone that you’re Bokuto’s girlfriend?” Relinquishing the control he was struggling to maintain allowed his insecurity direct access to his vocal cords. There was no stopping him now.

“What? Well… Yeah but …” 

“Why?” His voice sliced through yours, despite the fact it was quite clear that you were seconds from explaining yourself anyway. The unexpected interrogation was beginning to damage the limited patience you had. Drained from the activities of the day, it was only natural that you were not mentally capable to handle the additional stress. Not when it stemmed from misguided assumptions.

“Because he was being harassed by some crazies, so I had to save him!” There was much more you desired to add, harsher sentiments but to silence your rage, you bit the insides of your cheeks until they were raw.

Osamu paused evaluating your answer, your version of events aligned with the spectators. As he thought, you took it upon yourself once more to save a friend. So why was he still taunted by the voice in his head?

“Is it true?” He instantly regretted it, seeing how it sent any restraint you mustered to wither away.

“What the fuck, Samu. Are you kidding me right now? I’m not cheating on you!” Hurt laced with rage shimmered in your y/e/c irises. Instantly you swatted at the hand confining you to him. Hearing the sincerity laced in your declarations awoke him from his fever dream.

You wouldn’t lie to him. No. He was the one lying to you. He was the idiot.

“I can’t believe it. You’re the one who is always missing. You are the one who hasn’t barely looked at me for months. You are the one who ditches our plans. But you’re accusing me? I can’t…” Desperate to focus on anything but him, you ripped your gaze from him, subconsciously searching for an escape from the situation. “I… I’m gonna stay at Akari’s tonight. I can’t do this. There is only so much I can take.” The ache weaving into your bloodstream would not stop you from leaving. The weight of his words poisoned the usually welcoming atmosphere of the apartment. It no longer felt like home. But if you were being honest, it hadn’t felt like home in a while.

Osamu thrusted a palm against his face, panic surging from his heart into his muscles. They had all warned him, and somehow, he still managed to dig his own grave.

“No please… Y/n. I’m sorry,” The little cracks in his voice constrained your movements, bringing your hands to lower from the dresser containing your clothes. “I’m just stressed, and I said some stupid shit. I know you love me, and if there’s anyone who needs to explain it’s me,” He knew his words alone would equate to a band-aid on an open wound, and so he slowly proceeded in your direction, his fingers twitching before he rested them lightly on your hips, guiding your back to align with his chest. “Don’t go. Please.” His whispered pleads were followed by a gentle kiss that was applied to the area behind your ear. The gesture ignited a fire in your chest, one that began melting away the rage that was clouding you.

“Listen to me,” With an intake of breath for courage, you adjusted yourself to face him. “I’ll be anything you need me to be, but I will not be your punching bag. You don’t get to question me when it’s my heart on the line.” Your heavy eyelashes fluttered up at him as you squinted just a tad, challenging him to even try to dispute your words.

But he knew better by now.

“I know. I’m sorry. Please.” Slipping an arm around your waist, your frame was ushered to his as a small kiss was placed against your lips. “I don’t need you to be anything but my wife.” His response prompted your heart to complete a flip, and for once you hated yourself for loving him more than life itself.

But when his mouth returned to yours, urging you to forget the accusations that were made against your character – your loyalty, you did. At least for the night.

Let’s do it again, shall we -  Freudian projection

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: if this hurt just wait lol. 

Taglist: @idiot-juice-enthusiast @vicassa @iloveanime691 @bringmelily @newfriendjen @hikarichannn @anime-simp @tsukkismamagucci @laughingismorefun @astronomyturtle @shegrewupwithoutafather @hyskoa1998 @deephumandragonperson @pretty-setter-bois @raenebalgaire @sugawarabby @justanotherfangirl2 @keijisworld @90s-belladonna @momoinot @sempiternal-amour @cherryblosom111 @yqshirov @haikyuufairy @volleybloop @bloody-bella @sadkaashistan @seikamuzu @namyari @toaster-stick @shakiraisawesome @coconut-dreamz @roseestuosity @prcttylittlcthing @uzumakioden @nerdynstoned @kenmasgameboy @tiooo

[laulink]

A.N : This volume is gonna be full of angst, I just know it, especially for Nuts and Dolts. They had too many good moments in these first 3 eps, it’s hiding something. So, I’m going to give into the angst... then give it a happy ending because I want to make this story into a fucking fairy tale and no one can stop me.

The wind was blowind way too strong to be natural. Ruby knew that. A few hours ago, seeing this power, feeling its raw strength would have amazed her, but the situation had changed. Oh, so much.

In front of her was Penny. Her beautiful, cheerful, kind, patient, funny, enthusiastic, intelligent, wonderful Penny. Turned into a lifeless doll by that mustached bitch, on fucking Ironwood’s orders. Ruby would have punched them both if they were in front of her. Her right hook had gotten pretty mean after Ozpin’s training and feeling these two bastards’ noses break under her fist would have been oh so satisfying.

But they weren’t here and Penny was the one facing her. Her eyes had turned red from the corruption in her systems, reminding her of Yang when she was angry and her mother, Raven, when she saw her for the first and last time at the battle of Haven. 

A familiar noise at her left alerted her just in time to dodge Penny’s blades and avoid being sliced in two. Her aura was low, it would have broken under the attack. Behind her, she heard Weiss talking to Pietro over her scroll.

“What do you mean you can’t access her systems ?! You did it just a few hours ago !

- Yes, when Penny was still functioning normally ! Whatever Ironwood and Watts have done to take control of her, it has blocked all remote accesses, I can’t do anything to break her out of it ! 

- There must be something we can do !” Blake screamed from her side, avoiding another of Penny’s attacks. Ruby semblanced her a bit farther away, out of Penny’s reach so they could take a breath while still listening to Pietro.

“I have tried everything ! I can’t get through to her ! This kind of control can only be broken from inside, either by connecting to Penny with a computer and running a counter program or getting Penny to break out of it herself. But I can’t do any of those things !

- What was that about getting Penny to break out of it ?” Ruby asked before ducking under yet another attack from Penny’s blades, semblancing behind her to try and cut the damn strings, and being pushed back by a blast of wind. Her ears were ringing, but she still managed to catch Pietro’s answer.

“Penny can break any form of control on her body. That’s something I made sure of when designing her. Earlier, in the operations room, she could have pushed me out if she had so desired. The same could be done here, but the program run to control her is complex. Watts really outdid himself ; without a strong stimulus, a mind breaking shock if you will, his connection to Penny will hold and she won’t be able to push him out.

- So what you’re saying is that we need to shock Penny into rebooting her brain ?” Weiss asked, disbelieving.

“Basically, yes. A strong enough emotion could do the trick ; there’s a reason people say that, under certain circumstances, their brains short-circuit. That’s what we need right now.”

Penny’s movements were getting more precise by the minute now. Watts was getting the hang of this, and Ruby wished he weren’t. If things kept going like this, they wouldn’t be able to avoid injuries, to them or Penny, for much longer.

“What can we do then ?!” she screamed in Weiss’ general direction. “What could possibly shock her enough to do that ?! We’re running out of time !”

Pietro was silent, probably thinking. Ruby felt someone’s hand on her shoulder and turned to see Nora looking at her, serious, but eyes sparkling in a way Ruby really didn’t like right now.

“I think you know exactly what we need to do, Ruby.

- No I don’t !”

But Nora’s cryptic words seemed to make it click for Blake, who’s ears perked up. She dodged a few more attacks from Penny, progressively getting closer to Ruby and Nora, who were retreating, protected by Weiss’ cover fire. When they were all close enough to talk without having to scream, Blake told Ruby :

“Maybe you don’t know, but you are what we need, Ruby. Or rather, what Penny needs.

- What does that even mean ?!”

Weiss seemed to catch on as well because she sighed loudly and gave Ruby a glare so withering that her leader could feel it even without seeing it.

“Come on, Ruby ! We need to inspire a strong emotion in Penny ! And we’ve all seen how you look at her ! Stop being a gay mess for two minutes and go get your girl !”

Ruby’s face turned as red as her cape. She turned around to face Weiss and deny, but Nora’s hammer deflecting an attack that would have otherwise turned Ruby into a hedgehog reminded her that she didn’t have the luxury to fight with her teammates. Instead, she used Crescent Rose to deflect Penny’s swords while screaming at them :

“Are you insane ?! Do you really think it’s the moment to play matchmaker ?!

- Actually Ruby,” Pietro spoke up, still on the scroll, “your friends’ suggestion is a good one. I believe that making your feelings known to Penny would provide a stimulus strong enough to break her out of Watts’ control. It’s worth a try.

- Have you lost your mind ?!

- No time to argue, Ruby !” Blake screamed while her clone was sliced in two where she was standing a mere second ago. “You have to try, now !”

She was right, they were at their limit : they wouldn’t hold much longer. Taking a deep breath to try and calm her racing heart, Ruby focused on Penny’s movements and semblanced her way between her blades, closer and closer until she was right in front of her and-

Materialising in front of Penny, Ruby screamed as she punched the girl, breaking her focus long enough to push her against a rock sticking out of the ground, trapping her with her body.

Taking Penny’s face in her hands with all the care and tenderness in the world, Ruby told her :

“I’m sorry Penny. I love you.”

Red eyes flicked back to green, then red, then green, then red again, almost too fast for Ruby to see. She was almost there, Penny was almost back, she just needed one last push... !

Letting her heart and instincts guide her, Ruby leaned up on her tiptoes and took Penny’s lips between her own in a deep, loving kiss, trying to convey all of her overwhelming feelings to the girl of her dreams. Her adoration for Penny, her happiness at seeing her again after so long, the warmth she felt whenever Penny smiled at her, whenever she talked to her, saw her face, the joy so enormous it felt as crushing as it was liberating when Penny hugged her or kissed her cheek... The love that invaded her entire being, unbridled and devastating, begging to be known, to be shown, unrelenting, whenever she so much as thought of Penny... She poured everything, her very heart, into this kiss...

... and almost broke it out of shock when she felt artificial lips start moving against her own and strong, gentle hands press against the small of her back, bringing her closer to Penny. 

She should have taken a step back, checked that Penny was really there, free, ask how she was feeling... but the moment felt so perfect, Ruby couldn’t resist it : she sunk deeper in Penny’s embrace, her hands moving forward and around the Maiden’s head to rest on the back of her neck, cradling her, keeping her close, as close as she could while she prayed this moment would never end.

Alas, the world wasn’t so kind as to let them in their little paradise forever. The two girls eased back, just enough for their lips to part, but still close enough for their noses to brush and their breaths to mingle. They locked eyes, silver and green, no trace of red to be found, and their lips shaped into twin grins, so wide their cheeks started hurting. Ruby couldn’t help it, she pressed her lips to Penny’s again, and again, and again, even though the contact barely counted as a kiss since they smiled too much to properly give one.

Penny’s arms tightened around Ruby’s waist, bringing her impossibly closer, pressed flush against her love. Having regained some of her composure, though tears shined at the corners of her eyes, Penny whispered against Ruby’s lips :

“Thank you Ruby. I love you too.”

Melting both from the embrace and the confession, Ruby responded with a loving smile and the sweetest kiss she could muster. As Ruby buried a hand in Penny’s hair to keep her close while she deepened the kiss, they both heard someone coughing loudly, reminding them they were not alone. Blushing, both girls jumped away from each other and turned to face their friends who were giving them very pointed -and smug- looks.

Weiss was the first to break the silence :

“When this war is over, I’m commissioning Blake to write a fairy tale about you two.

- No problem,” smirked Blake, “this story will write itself.

- “The Rose and the Maiden : tale of a fated love”. This will be a best-seller,” Nora promised.

As their friends kept chatting about the hypothetic book, Ruby and Penny shared a resigned, but happy glance. Without so much as a word, their hands sought each other out, their fingers intertwined and a feeling bloomed in their hearts : the certitude that, whatever would be thrown their way, they would overcome it together.

A.N : End ! I know that kisses in RWBY always lead to absolute tragedies, so I wanted to turn it around and have the tragedy be dealt with by a kiss. We are in a show inspired by fucking FAIRY TALES, God damnit ! Give me some true love kiss saving the day !

This was a bit rushed, but I hope you enjoyed !

[chaotically-chill]

I Am Wilbur Soot

Niki finds Wilbur about to blow up L'Manburg. When she tries to stop him, he tells her a story of the boy who reached for the sun.

Niki slowly crept up the stairs behind the podium. The only light that carved her path was the soft tone of Wilbur’s voice, quietly singing L’Manburg’s national anthem. “Well, I’ve heard there was a special place. Where men could go and emancipate…” She found herself humming along as his voice grew louder and louder as she grew closer.

She entered the room and lost all sense of why she was even there. Her original mission was to leave, to find safety away from the chaos outside, not to find her closest friend and president with his hand on a small wooden button. Surrounding him were signs with the lyrics he was singing:

it’s a very big and not-blown up L’Manburg.

My L’Manburg, My L’Manburg.

My L’Manburg.

My L’Manburg.

“Wil. What are you doing?” she whispered.

He turned to her, a sad smile spread wide across his face. Something was different about him, this wasn’t her Wilbur. “You shouldn’t be up here, Niki. Go, get to safety. The fight is over, you can leave now. Let me do this.”

Realization dawned on her like the sun had crashed into the Earth. “Wilbur, no. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this. You’ve gone far enough, you can rest now.”

“Niki, there was once a boy named Icarus, in an effort to escape his prison, his father crafted waxen wings to fly away. In their liberation, he gained a sense of confidence and he flew too close to the sun, and when his wings of wax melted off of his skin, he fell into the water. But it was not his ambition that killed Icarus, it was his desire to be free.

You see Niki, I am Icarus.

Many people will see my death as a tragedy.

But that is very wrong.”

Sounds of fighting grew louder outside, the screeching of withers pierced her ears, but he paid no attention to them and kept speaking, “In my opinion, they did not tell you that when Apollo gave me wings, they did not tell you I knew I would burn in flames.

I knew, you see, I knew the agony I would face.

And as I fell I knew I did it for the sun

As hot burning wax slithered down my spine

As seductive kisses of agony peppered my skin and muscle

I laughed, Niki.

I laughed as where I saw beauty others saw pain.

I loved it, you see, it was addictive.

And even Dionysus could marvel at my insanity.”

Wilbur walked up to her, cupping her cheek in his exile-callused hand. There was no sweat, no shaking, no hesitation, “There is no beauty without pain.

He walked back to the button, Niki was too stunned to stop him.

“You see Niki, a wise traitor once said something about this country. I never understood them until now. Do you know what those words were, Niki?” His hand was on the button, she moved closer, a vain attempt to stop what was inevitable. But her movements were slowed by time and all she heard through his smile, through her screams, was, “It was never meant to be.”

And everything was gone.

The seating.

The festival.

The lake.

L’Manburg.

Everything.

Everyone was looking back up at them.

They were all staring at Wilbur.

But he was staring at her, almost expectant of her actions, but she was still, too shocked to scream, to fight, to cry.

“Kill me, Niki.” he placed a sword in her hand, just as he did with those diamonds, oh so long ago. That peace felt impossibly dead.

“Wil, I-I can’t kill you! You’re my closest friend! My president!”

“Yes you can, Niki. I believe in you, I always have. And I want you to be the one to do it.” He gently guided the tip of the blade to the center of his chest.

And with tears in her eyes, with trembling hands, with bated breath, she pressed forward.

Blood seeped into his clothes, out of his mouth, onto her hands, and he fell. She tried her best to buffer his drop, but alas, she was too slow yet again and he crashed to the floor.

She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his fading body as he leaned into her touch. He spoke once more, his smooth voice cracked with blood and pain, “And now as I wait for judgment in the Land of Hades,”

I ask myself: Was it worth the fall for the sun?” He smiled, and as her tear-filled eyes met his calmality, she went to speak. But she knew what he would say. He grasped her hand in his, squeezing tightly as if he could comfort her as he died. The thing is, he did. Her breathing slowed, her hands calmed, and she smiled a soft goodbye as Wilbur answered his question.

“And I answer yes, Niki.

Yes, it was.”

[alonelysimp]

@hqrbinger bc I'm not sending this to ur inbox <3

1.6k || i got lazy hehe

The paper in his hand crinkles in his grip and his nails nearly puncture it. His teardrops blot the ink letters, making them bleed into each other slightly.

.

How long has it been since he last saw you? Since he last saw the way your eyes sparkled in the early morning sun? Since he last heard your voice calling out to him?

You broke him, leaving only shards of what was once the man you loved.

He has gone through many things, many of which a normal human would never dream of enduring. But alas, it’s the only thing he’s ever known. From being abandoned by his own family, his creator, to undergoing the torturous path of becoming a harbinger. After hundreds of years without so much as a single person that cared for him, truly showing him any warmth at all, it’s no surprise he became the man he is. Ruthless, cold, a man who could topple entire countries to the ground. Hated by all, or disliked at the very least. It’s just how things are though, right?

So why were you any different?

Why did you love someone like him so earnestly? Accepting every part of him, even though he felt like he didn’t deserve it? He loved that about you, Curse. The ice-cold walls he put up would melt around you. Why did you show a man like him your warmth?

.

He sat by the window as he read the numerous reports he received while awaiting your return. You were just going out to the market, as you do every week, to see if there was anything you liked that was recently imported from Inazuma, right? Maybe you could bake something with him later. Everything you made always reminded him of his home, in a sense. But, the hours slowly passed. Ticking from eleven to noon, to three, to seven, and soon the sun had completely set over the freezing snowscape.

He glanced outside, noticing the time, and watched as the streetlights flickered on. The foot traffic of people returning home from work increased. He huffed, standing out of his chair. You had probably gotten distracted and lost track of time again. But this late? He headed outside after throwing on a coat, carrying one for you as well.

The name “Curse” was well known throughout the city. You were Balladeer’s beloved, after all. He made sure everyone in Snezhnaya knew it.

The square was full of people buying groceries on their way home. The merchants’ shops often sold quick, convenient food for them. Were you buying food for dinner?

He grew tired as the night went on, and the temperature quickly decreased. He called some agents to help look, anxiety began to gnaw at the back of his mind. It’s only been half a day, you couldn’t’ve gotten very far, right?

Right?

.

How long has it been since he last saw you? Since he last saw the way you asked him to go make a pot of coffee so you could sleep in a little longer? Since he last felt your hand in his as you strolled along the shore?

It’s been days since you left. Gone, without a trace. No one has seen you. His voice was still sore from calling your name for hours on end, and the lingering effects of frostbite still nipped at the tips of his fingers.

His subordinates in neighbouring nations haven’t caught wind of you wither. It’s like you’ve disappeared into thin air. Nothing but a faint fragment in his memory.

His condition hadn’t kept him from performing his duties though. After all, he was a harbinger. Some say he’s gotten more… aggressive lately, but then again, he’s Balladeer. The cold, ruthless man you once knew.

When he opens a report from one of his higher-ranking subordinates in Mond, he honestly thinks it’s a joke. You? Curse? His girlfriend? Moments of silence pass.

“Curse is in Mondstadt... and she...?” He tosses the paper onto his desk, now littered with reports both addressed to him and to the other harbingers. You were perfectly fine, seeming to enjoy yourself in the new country. He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair.

His office seems quiet, now that your voice no longer fills the room. The couch that sits beside him is cold now. Were you really in Mondstadt? He stands up abruptly, making the chair screech against the wood floor, and takes his coat off the coat rack. If you weren’t there, he could just fry the agent.

His hand hovers over the doorknob. Why had you left in the first place? If you were in Monstadt already, then you hadn’t stopped travelling since you left. Did you even stop at the square?

He pauses, glancing back at the report. Would you even want to come back to him? You were happy in Mondstadt. But you were happy with him too, right? He sighs, snatching the paper and shoving it in his pocket.

.

How long has it been since he last saw you? Since he last saw the way your smile seemed to brighten the room? Since he last felt your hand run through his hair?

He arrived in Mondstadt sometime during the next night or the early morning after. Either way, it was late, already pitch black outside.

“Curse wouldn’t be out at this hour,” he reasoned, leaving his horse with his subordinates and making his way to the Goth Grand Hotel. “Her sleep schedule can’t be that bad.”

A part of him hoped you would be staying there, using your privileges as his lover to find a place to stay.

The bed underneath him isn’t the most comfortable. If you really are staying here, he would demand a more suitable bed be imported. He huffed, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. That’s ridiculous, you’d be coming back with him that afternoon.

The next morning he was looking… worse for wear, to say the least. Dark circles line the porcelain skin under his eyes. His voice is strained and hoarse from the nights he spent sobbing into his pillow until he couldn't breathe.

He felt so weak.

He hated it.

He hated the way you could make him smile. The way you could make his heart beat so wildly in his chest. The way you could make him weep into his pillow, worrying for you.

He was finally going to see you again, though. After many painstaking days of wondering where you were, or even if you were still alive. He has a list of areas with often a high crowd, but he first decides to stroll the streets. There was a locally famous restaurant not too far from the hotel. Perhaps you’d be there.

He brushes off the stares from the people that pass, ordering only a drink and waiting for you to show up.

His fingers drum impatiently on the table. You were here, right? A heavy sigh escapes his lips as a heavy pit settles in his stomach. He would travel to the ends of Teyvat to find you.

The chairs behind him crash, dragging across the cobblestone ground. The agent is leaning on the back of the chair, panting heavily before standing rigidly the moment Scaramouche turns around.

"Sir, she's at Windrise."

.

.

... She's what.

His heart jumps at the words; at the thought of seeing you again. You. The person he loves with everything in him, the person who changed his life, the person who showed him love for the first time in the hundreds of years he's been roaming Teyvat. He roughly pushes past the agent, running out the gates of Mond.

He can feel his hands shake, even with him running like this.

You, it's you, it's always you. The one he could love.

The one he could trust.

The one where he didn’t have to worry you would leave him.

At last, he would be able to feel you in his arms again. He would give up everything for you. He could be home again, with you.

“Curse…” He can’t bring himself to say another word.

There was no way you would.

You sat beside a tall man, dressed in black. What looked to be his cape draped over your shoulders.

It’s just one of your dumb jokes, right?

There’s no way you’d actually.

He approaches you slowly, a frown spreading across his face. Why were you here? And with someone else?

“C’mon, let’s go home.” He stands in front of you, glaring down the man to your side. Please, Curse. I’ve missed you.

“I’m sorry, who are you? I think you have the wrong person.”

...You were joking, right?

“Curse, I’ve been looking for you for the past five days, let’s go home.”

“Please don’t interrupt me on my date, if you don’t need anything then go.”

This can’t be happening. He stands there in silence for no more than a few moments before turning away abruptly.

He hated how you made him feel emotions so vividly.

Please, don’t do this to me.

He felt his heart shatter each time your words replayed in his head. Did you really not love him? Was all of that just a lie? Everything?

No, this was just a joke. A dream. He would wake up the next morning next to you again, as if nothing ever happened.

Did you really hate him enough to pretend not to know him? All those dumb smiles you gave him? The quick pecks on his cheek before he left for work. Did they all mean nothing to you?

Did he mean nothing to you?

[charlettebffxiv]

Prompt #19 Hungry (Extra Credits)

Gurgling guts are gross, and annoying. If Charlette could silence hers forever, without starving, she would. But as biology would have it this was never going to happen. Instead she had to close her book, get up from her comfortable chair in front of her lovely desk and the small, window-framed view of the village outside and go to the pantry. It was a hassle, eating. Would that she could learn to survive off of aether alone like in the legends of monks in Ala Mhigo or Doma. But no, here she was, collecting eggs to feed into her fleshy construct in an effort to keep going. It’s ilms from being a paradox: spend time making food, so you can have more time doing other things. Well, there is the benefit that food is wonderful, especially this favoured snack of hers.

Scrambled eggs on toast was not just something she learned to make because Charlette spent as little time in the kitchen as possible. Yes, the fact it’s so easy to make a partially reanimated corpse could master it, and that it was one of the quickest meals to prepare, did play a role in her making it almost every sun. But it’s also, you know, really really good. Three eggs, two slices of good, fresh bread lightly toasted in a pan with a small knob of butter. No milk or anything to add during the beating, just a handful of chives. Yes, that’s a lot of chives, but no one else was eating this but her, so damn that opinion. It’s what breath mints were made for anyway. It goes right in the same bin as the idea of ‘creamy’ eggs do. If Charlette wanted to eat bird snot, she would throw pepper in a chocobo’s face and stand ready to catch it with her plate. Disgusting. If you can’t stab your fork into it, it’s not bloody cooked. The very thought of it was getting to her, as she scraped the crumbling treat from the pan, onto her toast. You could tell by how she was hitting the pan hard enough to attract some attention. “Hungry, Bluebell?” Algernon Bellamy peaked around the doorframe of the kitchen, his slate-grey face looking a little concerned when regarding his daughter's furious cooking. “Not going to snap another pan handle, are we?” Charlette gave her father a withering glance “No, and that pan already had a crack in it. This one is fine.” two long strides and he stood next to her, looking down at the simple meal. There’s a thing he did, when he was trying to sum up a gentle way of letting someone know what he thought, his eyes became very narrow and his lips very frowned. “You are done? With this?” he waved a hand over her lunch, a flick of a wrist and a downward glance not hiding his worry that she might say yes. “Yes, it is done.” oh he frowned so much more, you would think she had cursed his mother’s ashes. He held up a finger, swung it toward her “One moment.” and strode over to the pantry. Algernon never half-did anything, not his tailoring, not his posture, not his dress, not raising his daughters and certainly not food. His or theirs. It was insufferable. “Eggs on bread, darling, is not a meal. It’s curdled custard. An aborted cake. The lazy woman’s aioli.” Charlette’s stomach rumbled as she waited for him to get to his point. “I quite enjoy a good, aborted cake on toast.” his head shot out of the pantry, disappointment open and over-acted “How dare you.” and he was gone again. But not silenced. “If you insist on shoveling that gross fare into your beautiful face, then at least cover it like you would a pimple on your chin. With the food equivalent of make-up.” Charlette was standing at the doorway, just about ready to walk off and leave her father to his preaching. “You want me to slather base onto my eggs? Are you sure you still remember how to cook, ‘elder’.” he finally returned, holding three items. Half a cheese wheel, small enough to hold in one hand, a jar of pine nuts and a sprig of rosemary. “Don’t call me that, now set that plate down before I ground you, you little shit.” No, you never stop being your parent’s little one, no matter how tall or old or wrinkly you get. Charlette laid her plate down, and enjoyed this comforting fact by hiding it behind an impatient frown, and a gentle sigh. “It is inevitable, Bluebell. A Bellamy will always prefer the finer things. Do not fight it. Now.” he held up the cheese, then placed it down. “A sharp pecorino, grated over the top.” He snatched the grater from the wall, and handed it to her. “I’ll say ‘when’.” And Charlette went about it. The soft, white flakes of the slightly stiff cheese falling over her perfectly good meal added a light dusting over the top, just enough warmth within to make them wilt, and shine with a gentle melt. “When! Add a few pine nuts, not too many! A little salt, a little pepper.” Algernon grabbed a pinch of each and sprinkled them across the cheese-capped mounds. “And just a little crushed rosemary.” he plucked several leaves from the sprig, placing some in the palm of her hand, and holding some in his. Pressing his thumb into them, a soft crunch sounded out. Charlette did the same, Algernon spreading his over one eggy-slice, with a little flair of a lifted elbow, pinched fingers, but a raised pinky and ring finger. Charlette mimicked him, but lacked the confidence. “And there! I present to you, my sweet child, the miracle we have created. It is called food.” Charlette was aiming to be back at her books within minutes of completing that meal. But perhaps making them wait a little longer wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all she was busy enjoying the end to annoying hunger by sharing a slice of what was now her favourite snack, with her dad. “You really never saw me eating that before?” she asked him, her final bite having just been finished. “Of course I did. But you were not ready yet, to have your mind changed. Your stubbornness needed to age a little, get nice and lazy and lax with its duties.” Argument was on the tip of her tongue, but then she just let it go. How strange, she thought. “I suppose it did, in more ways than one.” He actually looked surprised. It was perhaps the best flavour she got to savour that sun.

[xiaomomowrites]

act IV

Genshin Impact | TartaLi/ZhongChi

Summary: It was the way Zhongli’s warm amber eyes suddenly were not as warm anymore. The way he looked at him with a piercing look, void of remorse, as he handed his gnosis over willingly to go on a whole tangent about how his “duties were done”. It was the way he turned and treated the precious traveler with the same amount of kindness and gentleness the Childe had received the previous night, with such ease; it was a look he thought was reserved only for him. It was the way he was able to turn back around, stare at Childe with an unreadable gaze, and walk away without so much of a goodbye.

Or, Zhongli and Childe finally have the conversation that was long overdue.

A/N: I’ve been playing genshin for roughly four or five months now, I can’t remember exactly when I started, but boy do I love it. No you don’t understand, I’m obsessed. But these two have been taking up room in my big brain, so I wanted to write for them. It’s been awhile since I wrote for pleasure so hopefully this is satisfactory :,) and tomorrow, I’m back to school, so I thought I’d enjoy my last day of freedom and post this today. Fun fact, I’m minoring in professional writing, so I’m hoping that it’ll improve my writing skills when I write for luxury, too. Anyway, this was a really fun piece for me to write and I hope you share the sentiment.

Also thank you guys for being so patient with our inactivity and just being such a chill audience to write for. Other social media platforms have become so...demanding haha. I appreciate y’all! Feel free to message us or talk to us about whatever :) -u.n.

Find this on AO3!

Spoiler alert: this fic does contain spoilers for the A New Star Approaches arc, so read at your own risk.

—

In Childe’s line of work, he is no stranger to betrayal.

Working as a Fatui Harbinger meant an unhealthy amount of fighting, betraying one person, deceiving another, and then on occasion, getting betrayed himself. It was all in a days’ work. Childe knew he would just have to roll out his neck and move on. He’s done it before, he can do it again. He would think that, after nineteen years of this grueling rinse and repeat, that he’d be able to tolerate a lot in the field. In fact, working with that wretched colleague of his, Scaramouche, and serving the Tsaritsa with a loyalty unmatched explicitly calls for the patience and tolerance of a saint.

Alas, Childe is the furthest thing from a saint. And still, Zhongli’s betrayal stung the most out of anyone else’s, the reason still unbeknownst to him. He tells himself that it’s because he had actually befriended the other man. That, unlike his other missions, he developed more of a friendship with Zhongli than he has with anyone else in the past. Not to mention how he really thought he’d find the gnosis, in all its golden glory, seated deep within the Exuvia, and not within his friend.

Which is why after he watches Zhongli hand over his precious gnosis to Signora of all people, Childe makes haste to return to the inn he had been staying at to furiously pack his things and leave first thing in the morning. Seeing Signora in Liyue so close to Zhongli had triggered a deep seated feeling of possessiveness over him and the city. Liyue was his territory, as far as he was concerned. It was assigned to him by the Tsaritsa and no one else. And yet, despite his unspoken possession over Liyue, its people turned against him and viewed him as the enemy. As if Childe didn’t already know that. As if he hadn’t already grown up with a layered villain complex, subconsciously looking for a fool with a hero complex to match him. Then entered Zhongli, making himself at home in Childe’s life, and he was immediately enamouring the Harbinger.

Screw Liyue.

Screw all their traditions, the stupid glaze lilies, the delicious cuisine, the obvious livelihood that fills the streets in stark contrast to his own icy hometown, screw all those goddamn unnecessary mountains, that fish market with that abhorrent smell he gradually got used to, and screw Rex Lapis. Screw Zhongli, that handsome bastard, for stringing him along like his plaything the entire time.

Childe knows, he gets it, that Zhongli simply did what he had to do because it was best for his people. And what other way for the oldest of the seven to go, if not for a grand finale? And yes, Childe admits, luring out Osial was a stupid move, but it certainly served its purpose for testing the strength of Liyue and its defenders.

Zhongli and Signora knew he would do something stupid and reckless as soon as he caught wind of the Exuvia serving as a decoy. They knew, and they played the game so well, that Childe really thought he was the mastermind puppeteering the whole show.

What a fool he was made out to be.

Childe aggressively shoves blazer after blazer into his travel duffel, angry, pathetic tears pooling at the corners of his eyes without his consent. He sniffs angrily and swipes at his cheek as soon as the first tear falls.

Fuck this, he’s not crying over a god, he still has some dignity.

But still. Pride aside, it hurt. And it wasn’t even necessarily the deceit that hurt the most. He’s dealt with that previously. It was… more personal. More of an internal struggle than an external issue. Childe truly hates those the most. At least he can shove his fist through any external problem, but he can’t exactly do the same with his feelings, or whatever they’re called.

It was the way Zhongli’s warm amber eyes suddenly were not as warm anymore. The way he looked at him with a piercing look, void of remorse, as he handed his gnosis over willingly to go on a whole spiel about how his “duties were done”. It was the way he turned and treated the precious traveler with the same amount of kindness and gentleness the Childe had received the previous night, with such ease; it was a look he thought was reserved only for him. It was the way he was able to turn back around, stare at Childe with an unreadable gaze, and walk away without so much of a goodbye.

The same eyes that gazed at him with such affection and kindness were suddenly replaced with the eyes of a soldier. And it was only then that Childe fully realized the force he was reckoning with. Zhongli was a withered god who lived too long for his own good. A powerful deity that held the ability to shake the ground with a look; he who had been humbled by time and his sharp edges eroded by the millions of faces that passed him. Simply put, Childe was just another one of those faces. And again, he understood. If he lived for six thousand years, he wouldn’t want to be alive after the first hundred.

It was the duality that dug the blade deeper into his already bleeding chest. He felt used.

“I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, Childe,” Zhongli had said to him on a warm Liyuen night, “a friend of mine, a long time ago, told me that I was… bad at connecting with people. Emotionally stunted, is what she called me. And she is correct, as I have definitely struggled with making connections in the past. But with you… it’s different. It’s easy.

Childe is thankful for the discretion that night provides him; Zhongli would have easily spotted the blush spreading across his pale cheeks had it been daytime.

“So you had trouble making a couple friends, so what?” The ginger shrugs, “I wasn’t the best at making friends, either. My mom always said I was too aggressive. Apparently that’s not such an appealing trait, after all.”

Zhongli chuckles, a beautiful sound. “It was a bit deeper than that, I’m afraid. Understanding the complexity of another’s emotions was always difficult for me, whereas she… she was loved by everyone. Adored by the youngest of fawns to the oldest of horses. It came so naturally to her. I was the opposite. Not that everyone hated me, no, people just had a harder time getting close to me. Which is why, upon meeting you, I was shocked to find that we clicked so well. Befriending you was as easy as breathing air.”

Oh, Archons, help him.

“And,” Zhongli continues, as if he hadn’t already wrecked the man six ways to hell and back, “I must sincerely thank you for indulging me once again.” The deity glances down at the bag full of antique trinkets in his lap. Childe’s lips turn upward into one of his more genuine, rare smiles.

“What’s with you tonight?” Childe responds, and Zhongli looks at him questioningly , “I mean, you never had a problem with me spoiling you rotten before. You’ve never even acknowledged it. Why start now?”

Zhongli tears his gaze away from the Harbinger.

“And,” the ginger continues, “it almost sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

Zhongli smiles at him then. He wore a kind look on his face, eyes so impossibly warm that it reminded him of his grandmother’s pirozhki. Hot and steaming from the center, melting on his tongue, dissolving deliciously in his mouth and defrosting his entire body. His smile felt like it wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed the best way possible, fitting him back together in places Childe didn’t even realize he had broken.

“What makes you say that?”

Oh, Childe is pissed.

Fuck tomorrow morning, Childe is leaving tonight.

The memories of last night crash over him not unlike a tidal wave and suddenly, he’s drowning. Filled out the brim with a familiar rage burning through his chest and searing his finger tips, his legs, his fucking toes.

He stands abruptly when he realizes he’s been sitting and resumes his packing. It doesn’t take very long after that. A couple toiletries get shoved into the side pockets, his vision is hooked back onto his hip, and his mask is slid into its’ usual spot on his head. He looks at himself in the mirror on the way out and scowls at the way his hair looks more disheveled than usual. Red rims his dulled blue eyes, forcing him to accept that maybe he cried more than he’d like to admit. Whatever.

He swings the door open and-

“Childe,” lo and behold, Zhongli stands in his fucking doorway, “I’d like to talk to you, if that’s alright.” The man looks slightly disheveled. He’s a little out of breath, Childe notices, like he ran up those ridiculous flights of stairs to get to his room- which, by the way, he never disclosed that information with him.

The man in question huffs a laugh. “It’s not.”

He makes a move to brush past him, but is stopped by an unreasonably strong grip around his bicep.

“Tartaglia,” he pleads, “please.”

Childe snatches his arm back and spits, “don’t call me that.”

He retreats back into his room anyway, hearing Zhongli close the door behind him. He dumps the bag back onto his bed and curses himself for not leaving a millisecond earlier.

“You’re angry with me.” Zhongli starts, face as unreadable as ever.

“The sky is blue. Snezhnaya is cold. Are we still stating the obvious here?” He’s too angry to carefully choose his words. Too hurt to slip on his pleasant facade.

“Tartaglia,” he presses, and Childe really hates how his name sounds on his tongue, “I truly am sorry for the way things had to go. It was not in my intentions to… hurt you to the degree in which you feel. I simply was upholding the end of my contract and doing what was best for my people. I implore you to believe that making you feel used was not my main objective.“

Oh god, his apology sounds so robotic.

“So you’re aware that what you did was a little fucked up.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re aware that almost the entirety of Liyue places the blame on me.”

“Yes.”

Well, shit. “Good talk, Zhongli-xiansheng. If you’ll excuse me, I must begin my trip home.”

He stomps toward the door only to be stopped once again. Archons, if Childe had any motivation left, he most certainly would challenge him to a spar. The ginger huffs, and looks to the heavens in a silent plea for patience.

“Tartaglia, please, I’m not finished-“

“Yeah, well I am.” Their eyes lock. Blue meets gold in a hostile hold, refusing to break. “The second you handed your gnosis over, my business here was done. Whatever… relationship we had is done. You were my consultant and was a Harbinger here for business. A Harbinger that you obviously used for your disposal. So now that that’s over and done with, I really need to report to Tsaritsa, lest she have my head on a silver platter-“

“I spoke with Tsaritsa already.” Zhongli cuts in, his grip tightening around Childe’s wrist. “I asked her for more time with you.”

“You what.”

“Surely you are curious about the deal I struck with Tsaritsa. The contract to end all contracts, yes?” Childe’s wild look on his face eggs him to continue, “I struck a deal that granted you more time here in Liyue. With me.”

Childe is silent for a moment. The ex-Archon opens his mouth to continue.

“And I’d like to say I’ve known you long enough to know that you seek freedom. From what that may be, I do not know. But Tsaritsa has agreed to give you a choice, at the very least, a temporary one. An extended vacation or complete retirement is a choice to be made by you.” Zhongli finishes, looking to Tartaglia with hope.

“THAT is worth your fucking gnosis?!” Zhongli’s gnosis. The entire essence of his being. The very thing that makes him divine (thought it certainly isn’t the only thing that makes the man ethereal), was traded for him.

“Yes,” Zhongli replies with such ease it makes Childe’s head spin. “Among other things, of course.” An aggressive why is lodged in the back of Childe’s throat. Why me? A million questions swirl around his head, knocking him off balance. He would have swayed on his feet had Zhongli not been there to hold him upright.

“That’s insane. You’re insane. You…” Childe lets out a tired sigh, “I don’t understand you.” And he doesn’t. Because one minute he’s a cold hearted businessman, and the next he’s at his door, reduced to a mortal, begging him to stay. Granting him freedom. Really, what kind of fucked up game is this? Why didn’t anyone tell him he was a part of it?

Zhongli smiles. He smiles. “You remember our conversation from the night before, yes?”

Childe rolls his ever-blue eyes to the back of his head. “Remind me, Zhongli-sensei,”

“I said,” the deity starts, drawing both of Childe’s calloused hands between his own, “that I struggled to connect with others. Guizhong, the Goddess of Dust, was the one to bring to my attention my emotional constipation. And like I said, she was correct.”

Childe’s anger withers.

“Unfortunately I understand naught of the depth of your feelings of betrayal,” he continues, “but I do wish to understand how deeply humans feel. And in our time together, I’ve begun to understand through you. Despite your… complexities. And I wish to continue to learn. With you.” I wish to feel human is left unsaid, and laced between his words instead.

“What are you saying,” the Harbinger asks weakly.

“Take me with you.”

“What.”

“Take me with you. Wherever you go, I will follow, if you will allow it.”

Well duh, he’d allow it. Zhongli just had to work for it a little more. He can’t just waltz in here after breaking his heart and ruining his trust, demanding his friendship and companionship or whatever, after everything he was put through-

“Okay.”

Very nice ass to mouth filter, Ajax.

Zhongli’s eyes glow impossibly brighter, “Okay?”

Childe tugs his hands back to his side. “Yes, yes, fine. Whatever. But you can’t just. You can’t just use me again in the name of experimentation.”

“Tartaglia, I would never,” he assures him vehemently, “Of the seven, I was always the one most oblivious to emotions. You may ask Barbatos if you want. But I know that what I feel for you is real and I would not trade it for the world.”

Childe’s mind reels. Barbatos? Feelings?

“‘What you feel for me?’”

Zhongli cocks his head in confusion, as if his feelings were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, yes. And you feel the same, no? It need not be said aloud.”

“It really doesn’t,” Childe affirms, “you can save me the embarrassment.”

“Wonderful,” Zhongli’s face brightens, and it’s only then that Childe is hit with the full realization that Zhongli is free. No longer is he tied to the city and burdened with the weight of the people. No longer does he have to associate himself with the likes of the Tsaritsa. Finally, after centuries and centuries, he is allowed the pleasure to smile so brightly despite feeling pained for finally leaving his people. He is Zhongli, and no longer Rex Lapis. Morax is long gone, too. The man before him is a man reborn, and Childe’s heart aches with happiness for him.

“Okay, well,” he clears his throat when he notices he’s been quiet for too long, “it’s been a long day and I’m tired. I think I’m just gonna take a shower and turn into bed and think about the rest tomorrow. Save it for future Childe, you know?”

He pads over to his hastily packed back and zips it back open, pulling out the toiletries he aggressively shoved in less than an hour ago. He digs his fingers into his neck and sighs at the release of tension. Summoning an angry ocean god took a lot more out of him than he anticipated.

“I agree,” Zhongli says, and begins to strip. “Personally I prefer the left side of the bed.”

Childe gawks at him.

“You-!” Truly an emotionally constipated god, indeed. He sighs and his shoulders droop, the fight leaving his body. “Fine. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out in a bit.”

“I eagerly await your return,” Zhongli comments passively as he slips under the covers, a book he didn’t even know he was carrying tucked under his arm. Childe sighs for the nth time that night and turns to close the bathroom door behind him.

Future Childe certainly has a lot to deal with in the morning.