#and even then he’s not really a major character until we get his pov in book 4 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

m1ckeyb3rry · 2 months ago

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Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness.

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile.

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting.

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming.

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them.

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular.

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said.

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation.

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless.

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back.

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling.

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

#sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #canon au #hierophant #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

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Now don't throw tomatoes at me but I'm actually really excited to finally see malleus again— I've always loved malleus since we met him in the story, but I'm also sooo curious about what's gonna happen next,, I'm wondering the obvious thing, about whether or not we might get a parralel scenario like what happened with the KoD and silver will have to "slay" malleus or at least be the one to land a killing blow, but I also saw a really interesting post focusing on how magic is a manifestation of dreams and deep desires and imagination,,,, in that case, I may (VERY delusionally) hope that Yuu finally gets to be a major part of the story for once??? Even reading the novels, there HAS to be something bigger for yuu— while the idea of crowley simply being an incompetent airhead is fun and more comfortable, haven't you thought that meybe he pulled them into this world deliberately??

All to say, what if at some point, Yuu somehow manifests magic in a very dire moment ?? You know lol?? Agh idk. I just want yuu to finally make impactful choices but that IS too much to ask, as far as we can see for now,,, (but hey, that part leading up to ace getting is UM, and the convo between him and yuu,,, it *does* give one a sliver of hope, doesn't it? :') )

Don't worry, no tomato throwing here! 😅 I may not care for certain characters, but I’m not going to shame anyone that does. You’re free to think however you want about Malleus!

dbjsvsJcwhj My personal feelings about him aside, I am actually glad he’s finally relevant to the main story again. He’s missed out on so much of his own book OTL In the time he’s been gone, the fandom has been left to speculate about both his and Lilia’s potential death flags. I really doubt Twst will have the balls to kill off one of them, but it would be cool to at least see Silver delivering the final blow to knock some sense into (not necessarily kill) OB Malleus.

Yes, it’s true that Silver states in the recent update that magic was originally considered “a miracle borne of strong desires from the heart.” But 💦 I don’t think that means Yuu would randomly manifest magic in the final fight?? It feels more like a “let’s save the day with the power of friendship” to me, but I could of course be wrong.

I understand being frustrated that Yuu’s participation in the main story seems to fluctuate a lot, with most of their activity being books 3, 4, and segments of 1, 6, and 7. That’s not much, especially considering how long books 6 and 7 are. Sometimes (even in events) it feels like Yuu is barely there, as most dialogue options don’t involve different reactions from the characters. Even Yuu's quest to find a way home is barely addressed or taken seriously until early in book 7. Yuu hasn't gotten "real" development unless you count them realizing their Disney dreams are prophetic in book 5, taking the initiative to save Grim in book 6, and that dialogue option about them being worried they're not contributing + the related convo with Ace in book 7. All very short moments in the grand scheme of things. And honestly, I think that makes sense for the kind of character Yuu is. A blank slate, a self-insert, an outsider that's easy to exposit information to, someone with which to view the story, characters, and world through. Yuu is primarily there to be the POV character, the lenses, the camera that we see Twst through. They're not really meant to be a traditional "main character". It's possible that Twst gives them a slightly bigger role at the very end (especially with what went down in the dream in book 7), but I doubt it will be a huge triumphant moment where they and they alone save the day or deal the final blow in a crazy act of self-sacrifice. Twst has always been a story that puts the NRC boys first, while Yuu is the observer.

I've noticed that the complaint of Yuu not doing a lot in the story comes mainly from English speaking fans?? And I guess that makes sense, given how western culture tends to emphasize independence and standing out. They want Yuu to reflect that. They want to be the ones to make a difference. I don't even remember ever seeing these same comments from the Japanese speaking fans; it's definitely a less common sentiment for them. The Japanese fans seem pretty content with Yuu being an observer and taking on more of a minor or supporting role. Again, this fits in with what I understand of many eastern cultures. They're demurer, not wanting to stand out too much from the crowd and instead prioritizing group harmony. Very interesting cultural difference to note!

It's a common theory (with many variants) that Crowley intentionally summoned Yuu to Twisted Wonderland for his own nefarious motives. People found him pretty sus right away due to how he seems to not put in any real time or effort into investigating a way to send Yuu home. Plus, there's that ominous opening monologue of his to consider. However, I don't think he summoned Yuu because of their (potential) great magical capabilities. The Mirror of Darkness tells us that it doesn't sense a shred of magic in Yuu, and Leona smells zero magic on them (though that could be because it hasn't technically manifested yet, as some fans claim).

The idea is that Yuu is supposed to be plain. They are supposed to be magicless. Why? To humble the NRC students and to show them that asserting yourself violently or with great magical power ISN'T the way to go. To show them value in strategizing (which Yuu does in the prologue by helping Grim aim at the ghosts), of camaraderie. What does it say about the story's themes if Yuu, the person who is supposed to be showing them the worth of mundane things, is suddenly... "secretly ultra-strong, actually”/“just like you guys” (even if it's only a temporary hope-fueled magic)? It might contradict what has already been set up. It also breaks the self-insert appeal of Yuu, since developing magic would also mean Yuu would later have to further develop things like proficiency in magic, best/worst subjects, and an unique magic/signature spell... meaning Yuu HAS to become better "defined", thus losing their blank slate nature. This would surely upset some fans who deeply project onto Yuu, have a Yuusona, etc.

Yuu can still make an impact on the characters and the world--and they have, judging by how much closer the boys are with each other--without having to be The Most Special One or like everyone else. I think it undermines what Yuu has already managed to achieve to say that they haven't made an impactful choice at ANY point in the main story when I believe they definitely have. Yuu made the choice to sign the contract with Azul. Yuu made the choice to approach Malleus. Yuu made the choice to go against Crowley's orders and go retrieve Grim from S.T.Y.X. Yuu made the choice to get Leona’s help with the contracts. Yuu made the choice to stand with Adeuce against Riddle in book 1. Yuu made the choice to let the VDC/SDC tribe train at Ramshackle. Yuu has done a lot, and all without needing to seize the spotlight or to do anything big and flashy. I don't think Yuu needs to be big and flashy. There is pride to be had in simplicity and being humble too. There is pride in representing the 90% of humans in Twisted Wonderland that are ordinary and without magic.

(An aside: so if Yuu wasn’t able to manifest magic in many other extreme instances, does that mean their desire to save Grim in book 6 wasn’t “enough”? That their desire to save Ramshackle, their one and only home in this world, wasn’t “enough”? It implies that Yuu didn’t wish hard enough for these other things they clearly care about and want.)

I think a good way to give Yuu a decent role while staying true to their design as a blank slate would be for Twst to really lean into the whole "beast tamer" aspect that was introduced all the way back in the prologue. This would work well with their deep connection to Grim as well. Assuming that Grim ends up being the final OB... We could easily have the NRC students and staff on the ropes, Malleus at his wit's end after exhausting himself with his own OB, a rampaging Grim about to end it all. And then... one lone figure shakily rises from the rubble and confronts Grim. One human. Magicless, defenseless. A human lost in an unfamiliar world, a human who believes they're useless and don't contribute much. A human who is always in need of being protected by others. But not anymore. This time, it's Yuu's turn to protect what they love--their friends, this world they've come to love, Grim. Ace and Deuce yelling at Yuu to not be stupid, to get back--but Yuu just advances, calling out to Grim and begging him to stop. And maybe it's Yuu's wish that rallies everyone and/or gets OB Grim to hesitate. That's when they can strike. Is that corny? Yeah. Does it sound like the ending to a Disney film? Sure. But it still grants Yuu, a magicless human that is supposed to be there to teach everyone about friendship, cooperation, and humility, their big moment to shine. The best of both worlds, I'd say.

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bright-side20 · 3 months ago

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Ranting

When I think of it as a whole, the plot is pretty much very obvious where it's going.

We have the Bone Carver in ACOWAR foreshadowing the corruption of the Cauldron when he said that some creatures manipulated it and it became a weapon of destruction, which shows that SJM had a plan from the start and just developed it gradually. Then Feyre observes how Azriel treats her sister and how he seems like the one for her. She even asks why he wasn’t chosen to be her mate,why Lucien? So Rhys explains that Elain can reject the bond and that sometimes bonds are created randomly, not meaning the two are soulmates or even good for each other. But Fae try to make it work believing the Cauldron chose them for a reason,so they end up miserable. That bowl was directly accused of having a distorted system, with its swirling eddies that wrongly match people solely for breeding purposes.

Rhys explained all that, but he wasn’t really taking it seriously. For him, Az is in love with Mor and must be asking himself why the bond hasn’t snapped between them. Also, Rhys in fact is bond biased.

During ACOWAR, we got major hints,like the rescue scene, Azriel discovering Elain is a seer while her so called mate thought she’d lost her mind, the Truth-Teller scene and from ACOWAR to ACOSF, Elain and Azriel were slowly getting closer. Meanwhile, she completely refuses to be with someone she doesn’t know, just because fate says so. That’s the main thing here, most Fae try to make the bond work even if they’re not truly interested in each other, just because the bond must have snapped for a reason. And that’s exactly what Lucien is trying to do, even though he knows Elain wants nothing to do with him ,he literally said so himself. And Elain is refusing these Fae beliefs, as she should.

Some people love to act like the bc is the only proof of the Cauldron being wrong, but no ,that was a huge plot established in the main books. They just love to ignore it. The bc was just a reminder of what Feyre already said in ACOWAR. Azriel basically repeated the same idea: he doubted the Cauldron’s mate matching system and said it could be wrong. His POV also proved that what people around him assume about him being completely in love with Mor and never moving on is wrong. And eventually, he was thinking about Elain being his mate. Not Mor. Not anyone else.

HOFAS revealed some very important things that developed the plot further, especially with Azriel’s presence. It confirmed the corruption of the Cauldron (remember, this was foreshadowed by the Bone Carver), explained a lot about the Daglan and how they exploited the Fae (which matters, since the Cauldron operates under their system), and Nesta saying Fae believe the Cauldron controls their fates was, for me, very important. Later, it was proved wrong when it was revealed that the Mother is the true governor of all worlds and the Weaver of Fate. She’s the real creator of bonds, which explains that the Cauldron is an imposter, copying the Mother’s work in a distorted way. So, long story short, the Cauldron is wrong. And that’s what Elain’s book will end up revealing. Elain is the one who has the power to change this situation, to change the fae wrong beliefs about the mating bond and how they treat the female as a belonging to her mate, Elain is the one who has the ability to fix the Cauldron.

But according to some people, all this long ass plot buildup is going to lead to us opening the next book and finding out that all the characters were hallucinating. The Cauldron isn’t wrong. The plot is that Elain will sell herself to Koschei, Lucien will save her, and she’ll decide to give him a chance, no longer caring about “love would trump even a mating bond.” She’ll just realize how much of a good male he is, fall in love with him, and beg him for forgiveness. A plot of poor Lulu my baby deserves the world

And Azriel? Oh, btw Gwyn is your mate.

Sarah, what about the whole plot you’ve been developing until HOFAS?

Who cares, I’m a fated mates author.

#pro elriel #elriel #elriel supremacy #elain x azriel #pro elain

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andreal831 · 4 months ago

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Do you see Klaus as an unreliable narrator in TO?

1000% yes.

He's a textbook narcissist so we have to remember everything he says comes from a place of being unable to look outside himself or to empathize with others. Which makes the entire narration of TO unreliable.

One example I can think of is when Elijah and Klaus are talking about Tatia (Elijah is also an unreliable narrator because he centers everything on Klaus. In my opinion due to guilt). We hear, and in TO see, how much Elijah cares for Tatia. But not really Klaus. We hear him and Elijah say Klaus loved Tatia, however, in the scenes in TO, Klaus essentially assaults Tatia by kissing her without even being concerned if she wants him to. Even when she pulls away from him, he just moves on. This isn't the actions of someone who is in love. And then when we see Tatia and Elijah interact, there is clearly some history. They have an ongoing flirtation. Yet, when Elijah and Klaus tell the story, it essentially focuses on their brotherly bond and less on Tatia. We don't hear how devastated Elijah was from her death, but how loving Tatia nearly broke their bond apart. Even when Elijah learns he was responsible for Tatia's death, instead of allowing him to feel that pain and grieve, he has to apologize to Klaus (and also deal with Klaus murdering his own father). Klaus doesn't react the way he did when he learned of what Elijah did to Aurora because he truly didn't care about Tatia. But he continues to push the narrative to center Elijah's past love interest around himself.

We see him do the same with Stefan in TVD, to the point where a large majority of the fandom believes Stefan and Klaus were romantically invovled despite being explicitly told that Rebekah and Stefan were invovled at the time. I'm not saying yes or no to either, but pointing out how the narrative impacts the viewers.

We also see this with how little emphasis the show puts on anyone that is not directly related to Klaus. Klaus is not the sole narrator of the show, but we can safely say it revolves around him. So characters like Aya, Celeste, Gia, Emil, etc. Their flashbacks are quick and just serve to explain how they know the Mikaelsons. Whereas, Klaus' love interest in the past, Aurora, gets exposition and depth through flashbacks.

The narration is told in a way that continues to victimize Klaus and brush aside his crimes. For example, when he lets Cami into his head to "scare her" and show her what a beast he is. He could show her endless slaughters, and that's just in the past year. He could show himself sacrificing a teenage girl or killing Jenna, stabbing his siblings, killing his mother, etc. But instead he shows himself turning for the first time and his family chaining him up to suppress his werewolf side. He doesn't even show the plethora of village people he just murdered which even scared Elijah. He only shows her what will create sympathy for him. We see this throughout their "talks." Even Cami calls him out on it multiple times for phrasing the story in a way that undermines how his siblings were feeling.

Contrast this to how Elijah's story is told. We already talked about Tatia and a lot of his exes. They are either explained very quickly and then moved on without allowing him/the audience time to grieve, or he they are handled through Klaus' POV so that their death's are justified/excused. But more than that, simply how his backstory is told, or Kol for that matter, is done in a less sympathetic light than Klaus.

We don't really see Elijah feed from people or murder without cause. That is up until the show decided to introduce the Red Door. This entire storyline is used to retcon Elijah as "the worse brother." But lets be honest, they've all killed so many people, why is Elijah killing seen as worse? Because they make it scary and bloody and it scares even the main characters. Whereas Klaus' trial is made to be humorous. The audience is supposed to laugh at Klaus forcing a girl to watch her mother burn alive because she was coughing too much. Even Klaus killing main characters like Carol are made to be humorous. They make Kol seem like this unhinged killer, but Klaus is the one who goes off and kills with him. When Kol does it, it's out of control. When Klaus does it, it's funny so their lives don't matter.

We see this with how the show treats Rebekah and her suitors. Rebekah is seen as naive because she keeps falling for the wrong people who take advantage of her. But Klaus is seen as compelling when he allows Caroline to manipulate him, to the point that it gets his brother killed. Or Aurora manipulate him to the point that it gets Rebekah kidnaped. Or Genevieve manipulate him to the point it gets Hayley killed and almost Hope. But when Klaus is manipulated, it's because he cares too much and the women took advantage of him. When it happens to Rebekah, it's because she's stupid and needs Klaus to make her decisions.

We see it in how Cami's transition is told. Cami is struggling throughout Season 3 but all Klaus sees is himself. To the point that when Cami snaps at him for pushing too far, the next scene is him killing a random art critic, essentially implying that it was her fault. She shouldn't have prioritized her own emotions and snapped at a grown man because he can't be responsible for his own actions.

TO thrives on Klaus being an unreliable narrator because it allows his misdeeds to be pushed to the back of the audience's mind and his victimization brought to the front. Even how he speaks about himself is unreliable. Initially, he blames Mikael for making him a monster. But then he learns his mother made him weak and blames her. But then he later blames Elijah for what he did to Aurora a year later. And throughout the show he blames all of his siblings for "abandoning" him when we never see a moment of them attempting to abandon him. Yes, I'm sure all of these things contributed, but the main point is that at no point does he blame himself. He never once takes accountability for his actions and no one ever makes him. Elijah and Rebekah attempt to several times, and lord knows Cami tried, but they are seen as unsympathetic in those moments through Klaus' eyes.

Thanks for the ask! I answered this one so quickly because I don't think I've talked about this individually and it is so fascinating to me. Let me know if you agree or disagree <3

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shadowgast-recs-weekly · 10 days ago

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Featuring Essek's Parents: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have Essek's parents! Check under the cut for seven fics that feature Deirta, Essek's father or both! Don't forget to comment and kudos if you like them!

No One By That Name Lives Here Anymore by Operafloozy (13138, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

A few years after faking his own death, Essek runs into someone he used to know by chance in Uthodurn - A certain someone who had supposedly died his last death in Bazzoxan a few decades before.

Reccer says: This is a really interesting look at what consecution might actually imply in terms of family. It's really bittersweet and invites you to try to empathize with both sides of the central conflict instead of painting them in black and white. One might imagine that the beacons are grey for a reason. (Plus I REALLY love outsider POV!)

destructive interference by atlasarcana (141219, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Essek is haunted by a monster in Aeor that makes him suffer flashbacks of his worst actions; Caleb helps him forgive himself and take accountability.

Reccer says: Essek's family (Deirta, his father, and Verin) play a prominent role in the character study of how Essek is the way he is.

The Joys of Parenthood by Queen_of_Thornes (3945, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Four vignettes of Deirta Thelyss's exhausting life as mother of two precocious future leaders.

Reccer says: I'm not one for kidfic but this is just so dead-on to life with toddlers, insane and baffling little gremlins that they are, that I couldn't help but love it. It reminded me of my younger siblings when they were that age with the "How did you even think to do that" shenanigans they'd get up to so it's pretty nostalgic for me. Readers with children or who helped raise siblings will find a lot to relate to here.

spare just a day for the weeping by essektheylyss (divinationwizard) (3619, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death

Criminal punishment among the upper echelon of the Dynasty is determined by the court, but implemented by the umavi of the den of the convicted.

Reccer says: Features a wonderfully complicated Deirta, and incredible character dynamics all around

until it doesn't hurt by breitweisergallery (3800, General) Reccer's Content Notes: None

5+1 times Deirta spoke to Essek via sending.

Reccer says: The fic delves into a more loving Deirta who is distant from Essek but still loves him all the same.

looking for the meaning of life by quinn-of-aebradore (15281, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Centuries later, Essek has settled into another new life. Little does he know so has Deirta.

Reccer says: A year is a long time all on its own and this fic is packed with impressions of lived history and emotion built over the course of centuries. If Deirta was once a distant parent, how might she try to bridge past gaps when a new life gives her extra perspective? If Essek has loved and lost and loved again, how might he understand his mother anew? A fascinating exploration of how time can change people and how people can change over time.

The following fic received two recs!

Starburst Hearts by kaeda (4805, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

A wonderfully tender fic in which Deirta catches up with Essek a few years after c2 and finds that her son is a man remade.

Reccer 1 says: Outsider POV my beloved! It turns a camera's eye onto the man Essek becomes through the Mighty Nein and gaining Caleb as a lover, and onto the love that the Nein have for him, shown through a soft lens. Reccer 2 says: A wonderful fic from Deirta's perspective of Essek's interactions with the M9 and all of the complicated family feelings that come along with it.

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation.

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring xenobiology! This includes all sorts of unusual and non-human biology

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #cr fic recs #fan fiction rec list #critical role fan fiction #cr fic #cr fics

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anonymousdisco · 5 months ago

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How’d I get Isikiad into Yandere Obey Me Chapter Eleven Part One-Tears, fears, and not so secret discussions

Three important things real quick to make things a bit more clear before we head to the story:

1-) November and December suck up any free time I have. This is due to things I have to do in my personal life that include family, my education, and my work. Because of this updates will be sporadic until mid December with the exception of Christmas. Which is slightly unfortunate because I love writing given it’s my passion.

2-) I’ve avoided using curse words in my writing till now, but I will be holding a poll soon to see if the majority of y’all don’t mind cause I don’t care either way.

3-) Just to let y’all know Reader Cannon Age in the story is going to be 17,998. This is because I headcannon that every thousand years is like one year to immortals, and I want the reader in the story to be just almost an adult which would be at eighteen thousand. But before entering the story the Reader was already an adult for a while so their treatment of her is going to cause her discomfort as someone who is mentally no longer a young almost adult.

The characters ages are as follows:

Barbatos: time itself tbh

Lucifer: 24,331

Diavolo: 24,451 (I feel like he and Lucifer are really close in age given their dynamic with each other, but Diavolo is just slightly older.)

Mammon: 23,302

Leviathan: 22,856

Satan: 22,560

Asmodeus: 21,985

Beelzebub: 21,005

Belphegore: 21,005

Simeon: 24,556

Luke: 10,115

Solomon: He lost track and doesn’t even bother with his age beyond 6000, but he’s considered an adult instead of a 6 year old equivalent given that he’s human and their lifespans aren’t supposed to be that long. He’ll always say he’s 6,000 and holding 😂.

Mephistopheles: 23,334 (he’s around 1,000 years younger than Diavolo because I’m sticking to the canon of him being born to be Diavolo’s friend/playmate for his parents status.)

Thirteen: a lady never tells her age but before she was a grim reaper I headcanon that she died at 25 as a human so still an adult.

Yuki: 16 nearing 17 (Yuki’s appearance btw will be based off of my MC as will her background story which will be revealed later on. I can’t wait to put her in the story cause I thrive on foreshadowing.

It’s also part of my headcanon for immortals like demons and angels to not really care about their age past the thousands part. So if someone asks their age they’ll say 23 instead of 23,560 because to them it makes more sense. Most don’t even celebrate their birthdays every year and only celebrate them when it seems to matter like every thousand years. The only exception to this is when their a figure of importance or of great respect. Then they celebrate every single year. This will be important later on so when introductions are eventually made soon, I hope this clears up any misunderstandings. Have a lovely day and enjoy the story!

(Y/N) POV:

I blinked slowly and struggled to sit up. Barbatos quickly assisted me carefully while chiding me. “Your still a bit weak, My Lady. Be careful.”

“Y-yes, Barbatos.” I stuttered out confused. His behavior was vastly more familiar than before. Just how well did this cliche work?! I told Glitch mentally to prepare a status update for me.

“Where are my Brothers?” I hesitated for a moment acting a bit shy. “Are they… here?” I let my shoulder droop a bit in an act of disappointment not seeing them near.

“Your brothers are nearby. They have taken a moment to rest while waiting for you to wake up. It’s quite late at night.” He gathered a blanket from a linen closet and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Here bundle up, My Lady.” He then walked over to the fireplace checking over the fire.

I sat there staring, just feeling genuinely confused. Those sedatives really did a number on me I suppose since my cognitive ability is still waking up. I could tell I felt stronger though. Where before I felt like glass I now felt more sturdy.

“I will inform the others of your change in condition.” Barbatos bowed before leaving.

“A competent butler is truly something else…” I mumbled. “He knows exactly what to do so fast.”

“Status update prepared.” Glitch announced popping into existence in front of me.

I read the screen carefully as discreetly as I could. It seems like this worked better than I bargained for. I never realized they had a savior complex. But then again they always seemed to call the player in the game human as if they’re weak no matter how strong they showed they are so I suppose it makes sense. They must need to perceive someone they care about as weaker than them, and it appears I have officially stolen that spot. What will happen to the game timeline now? Did I girl boss my way too close to the sun…?

The uncertainty made me tremble. Till now things have been completely under my control. I knew this was necessary for me to do as a step towards my end goal but still… I felt panic grip my heart. Panic attacks were no stranger to me. Before I died I used to have them all the time. But it felt like ages ago compared to all I had achieved till now.

(Panic attack described below based off of ones I’m used to. Everyone reacts differently to different levels of panic attacks. I’m just going to describe how I’m familiar with one. I want to add a warning in case anyone finds this triggering to not read till my next note.)

I felt like there was cement gripping my heart in my chest shrinking it smaller. My vision felt glassy and my cheeks felt wet. Was I crying? I don’t understand. I feel like I can’t move but I’m clearly shaking. I saw drops of water hitting the blanket I was gripping in a death grip. Ah, so I am crying. Why won’t it stop, why won’t the shaking stop? I want to be small, I feel too big… How’s my mind so calm when I’m freaking out so much?! Why won’t my body listen to me?! I’m still in control so just listen!

I felt someone grip me in a vice grip. Something dark covered my vision. It felt soft and warm. I’m so cold, why am I so cold? I slowly realized I heard sobbing. It sounded like someone was grasping for breath. Was that… me? Why won’t my lungs take in oxygen? I’m telling them to. I clutched whoever was holding me. It felt nice now that I got over the initial shock and fear of being suddenly held. After a while the shaking subsided and I was only hiccuping a bit from all the crying.

(The description is over so it’s safe to read from here if panic attacks being described triggers you. I hope this helped you avoid it if you wanted to.)

Hands stroked my head still slowly as a quite comforting chirp of sorts sounded from whoever it was. I looked up slightly with puffy eyes. “B-big b-brother…?” I gripped him tighter. “Y-your here?” I felt shocked. I hadn’t expected anyone to show up after being updated.

“Yes, I’m here. We all are.” Lucifer lifted his wings from around me as he chirped comfortingly. Cooing to me in reassurement as he held me tighter. “What’s wrong little one? Who scared you?”

“N-no one, Lucifer.” They all gave me doubting looks and I shrunk down a bit.

“It’s okay, you're not in trouble. Just tell us who caused you to have a panic attack. We just want to talk to them.” Satan's smile as he reassured me was scary. It didn’t seem like it’d be a simple talk at all.

I looked down in embarrassment. “No one caused it. I w-was just alone, a-and got scared.” Tears pricked my eyes. Of course I couldn’t tell them the truth. At least Glitch protected me from Diavolo’s gift to see lies. And I wasn’t even really lying, just not telling the whole truth.

“Oh, Darling, don’t worry we’re all here now.” Asmodeus said as he held one of my hands soothingly. “It’s late. Why don’t you cozy up and get comfy. You have a big, big day tomorrow.” His tone was almost patronizing the way he talked as if I was a little kid when I clearly was not. I was too tired after my panic attack to protest though as they all tucked me in.

“I’m sorry, My Lady. I should’ve realized you would be scared to be left alone. I have no words to describe my regret now.” Barbatos apologized, bowing in regret. “My incompetence is unforgivable.”

“It’s alright.” I mumble half asleep. “You didn’t do it on purpose.” I yawned as all my brothers kissed my forehead one by one saying goodnight.

Lucifer POV:

I held (Y/N) in my arms carefully while she slept. A brief argument had broken out in the hall over who would be the one to do so, but I put an end to it immediately. Tomorrow it will be Mammons turn, and it will eventually start over after Belphie’s.

I stroked her hair lightly, still cooing a bit to her in comfort. I can’t believe out of all the things I didn’t notice, I never noticed she suffered from panic attacks. I still remember all the nights I spent helping my brother with their ptsd from the celestial war. Those seven thousand years we spent fighting our own kind only to fail, and end up what we were taught to hate and despise… It messed us up, and we were all adults. What must it have done to a small child?

The pain of the fall, the feeling of being ripped apart and unmade, and the horror of being in what we thought would be a land full of beings who would kill us on sight… Even just the smell of the blood we were drenched in from after the fall. She was three thousand at the time. Did she even know what it all meant?

My grip tightened causing her to shift in her sleep. I shushed her gently back to settling. She must be exhausted from the sedative still.

(Honestly this is the most I can post right now. I really wish I could post more, but my life involves more than writing unfortunately. 😭 Even though it’s Sunday I still have so much left to do today lol.)

Next Chapter:

https://www.tumblr.com/anonymousdisco/768592135177027584/howd-i-get-isikiad-into-yandere-obey-me-chapter?source=share

#yandere obey me #platonic yandere #romantic yandere #female reader #diavolo #obey me x reader #barbatos #lucifer #Dateables #sidecharacters

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l0bulariia · 2 months ago

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the art of hatred - h.j.

while in a psychology class, you are faced with the cardinal sin of upper education; a group project. to make matters worse, your partner is the definition of a "douchebag."

Warnings: first person pov, female reader, uni!stray kids au, han being a general douche, self deprecating speak, hyunjin being hyunjin, reader being slightly egotistical, angst (only if you squint really hard), frat boys, underage drinking, mention of harassment (jokingly), negative speak of greek life, pet names used (jagi, baby, sweet thing)

back to m.list <3

ah! my first (public) fic!! i really hope you all enjoy this because it was genuinely so fun to create. i am so sorry this took so long to come out, i ended up catching the flu over my spring break and this fic kinda took the back burner. i am hoping to get part 2 out on monday!! AHH enjoy!

word count: 3.7k

SC count: 7

The monotony of schooling has never been lost on me. The mindless day and night cycles of spending too much time procrastinating and then stressing about the growing to-do list on my desk which leads to too little sleep only to restart the cycle when the sun rises again. There was very little I could do that would break me out of the downward spiral into my educational burn out that I constantly flung myself into. All of this was true until my psychology 201 class.

The professor, a middle aged man who bragged about his kids accomplishments and dressed like a cartoon character every Monday and Wednesday at 11:30 A.M. strolled into the lecture hall as per usual. He donned a yellow polo and his classic khaki slacks, all fitted together with the same beaten loafers that I swore were, somehow, cemented to his feet. I definitely didn’t mind this class. It was always easy enough to understand, the assignments never felt burdensome even with the massive habit I have for procrastination, and everyone decently kept to themselves, bar someone needing a pencil here and there from the row behind where I sat in my unassigned-assigned seat.

I would consider myself a good student. Always keeping my gpa high, attending extra lectures and seminars when the need arises, turning in work on time, introducing myself to professors and faculty, something my roommate insisted was important for “marketing myself.” Being in my second year at a state university, I didn’t see much need for it, especially in a class that I was simply taking for the prerequisite credit, but I went along with it anyway. It couldn’t hurt being on a first name basis with a professor if I ever needed an extension on homework, right? I had decided on this school, along with my major, while I was still in grade school, deciding that a sensible degree in human resources would get me just far enough in life to support myself while still leaving space for the things I truly wanted to do.

When my mind chose the reasonable and “safe” route, my heart still yearned for the pull of the arts. My vice? Painting. A hobby that had turned into something of a near addiction by the time I reached my last year of highschool, as well as a hobby that had brought me my very best friend, Hwang Hyunjin. A string bean of a man, Hyun had seen my sleeve covered in streaks of an emerald green paint at a university welcome event during our first week of freshman year and nearly exploded in excitement at the prospect of having a friend who shared his love for painting. From that day on it had been constant texts, trips to the dining hall, hours spent in the intramural art studio, drives to the local convenience store for snacks, anything and everything. I was grateful to have met him, no matter how often his and my friends were convinced we were something more than friends, neither of us had ever even considered it. Frankly, to the both of us, it would be like dating my sibling. Unfortunately for me, Hyun was not in this class with me meaning I was bored the majority of the hour and a half lecture, spending time doodling in a sketchbook more than I was paying attention to the words plastered on the powerpoint.

It was only when my professor uttered the words “group project” did I rip my eyes away from the anatomy practice that was scribbled over the canvas paper in front of me. Suddenly, this man had dropped from my highest ranking professor in the category of likeability to the lowest. He had committed the cardinal sin of large lecture classes. I let out a low grumble as he excused the class to open up the sheet of names he had added into the online course, listing the pairs of students working together. Scanning the document for my name I discovered that I was paired with a “Han Jisung,” a name that was as unfamiliar to me as the other 150 other names on the document. With a shrug I copied down his university email and number with the plan to message him to introduce myself and set up a time and place to work on the presentation once I was back in my dorm for the night.

The rest of the class droned on until professor polo-shirt dismissed us, reminding us to connect with our partners “sooner rather than later!” I packed my things back into my bag, slinging the tote in which mostly contained art supplies over my shoulder and started my route to the creative art building on the other side of campus. Headphones over my ears, I drown out the sound of lively chatter throughout campus with whatever podcast was highly recommended to me by my roommate for the week. This is only until I come face to face with my biggest dread when it comes to attending a large university, the fraternities fundraising in the campus square. This degenerate sight physically pained the academic portion of me, seeing my peers dance around shirtless, getting pelted with paper plates of whipped cream all in the name of raising a few dollars. I tuck my head into my chest and pick up the pace to avoid any unwanted attention, which was normally a successful adventure. Until I felt the unmistakable wet, sticky feeling of sweetened cream slide down my arm.

I let out a disgusted gasp, snapping my eyes up towards the table of barely dressed men, all now wearing a look of shock as I stare daggers into every single one of them. After a painfully long moment, one of the members, a short, shaggy haired boy emerges from the gaggle of idiots clutching his stomach as he doubles over in laughter. It is at that moment when I consider throwing away any chance at a sensible life for one of murder and jail time as I feel the slimy, warm whipped cream slide down my arm and onto my tote bag. My attention moves to him as he walks towards me, still laughing as he attempts to get out, possibly the worst apology I have ever heard in my 20 years on this planet.

“So sorry, baby! Little bit of friendly fire there.” The cackling boy finally manages out.

“Yeah, I can see that.” I reply, moving my unscathed hand to the arm to scoop off the remaining sweetness and flick it to the ground before it dries. The boy watches my hand closely, turning back and giving a smirk to his brothers as he takes another step to me, gripping my arm loosely in his hands.

“Allow me…” He spoke, his voice lowering to the most abhorrent fake-sultry tone that makes me imagine all of the poor girls who had fallen for it in the past. He takes the corner of his shirt which was hanging from his belt loop and wipes the area of my arm coated in a sweet sheen, his eyes darting between my eyes and my lips. At this I reel back, ripping my arm from his grasp, my blood now boiling.

“You’ve clearly done enough. Go back to… whatever that is…” I spit out the words with barely contained venom as I turn my back to the crowd of men, all now cackling at the actions of their member. I decide, for once, to leave it there, moving back to continue my walk to the studio as I hear them guffaw at my borderline harassment case in the making. As I move my headphone back over my ear, I hear the same man who had “helped” me yell over the growing laughter.

“Come back whenever you want, sweet thing!”

With a roll of my eyes, I keep walking, waiting for the safe, stale air of the art studio to be around me once again.

“I couldn’t believe the audacity! I mean, if you're going to throw around whipped cream, of all things, at least have a tarp down so people don't have to step in it!” I pace around the easel that Hyunjin is working at as I rant, my hands thrown up in frustration. “And he had the bright idea to yell after me as I clearly wanted nothing to do with his little… party trick!” Hyunjin just hummed in response, a look of amusement on his lips as he placed his paintbrush down and leaned back on his chair, watching me as I walked circles around him.

“Let me get this straight. You caught a stray glob of whipped cream, and that led you to consider murder?” He held back an obvious laugh, knowing it would bring me back to earth from my angry bubble of nerves. “Jagi, it’s only Monday. I don’t think there is enough spite in the world to keep you going at this pace.”

I shoot a playful warning look at him as I pull a stool up to my own unfinished painting, staring at it as a huff leaves my lips unintentionally.

“It's the principal, Hyun. They think they can just do that because they paid for a group of friends as equally stuck up and dickish as they are!”

All Hyunjin can do is laugh as I let out another grumble and turn my attention to the canvas in front of me, picking up my paintbrush to continue the garden scene I have now been attempting to perfect for over three weeks now. I feel every worry and sliver of annoyance slip away as I guide the brush strokes over the canvas, keeping quiet yet thoughtful conversation going with my best friend.

I paint for another hour until I look over to Hyunjin’s easel seeing that he had since abandoned his canvas, yet again, to sit on the floor, his overly loved sketchbook in his lap as he traces shapes over the papers.

“Dining hall?” I question, wiggling my eyebrows at him in a mock suggestive way, sensing his boredom even from a few feet away. He lets out his signature excited squeal, even for the sub-par substance our school calls “food” we unfortunately pay way too much for, as he gathers his things, quickly shoving them aside to stand up. I pack up my own belongings and we walk over to the cafeteria. Our days since becoming friends have always been easy, never doing too much to overwhelm us in addition to our course work. I like the life I have created for myself, even if it is a few hours from what I still consider home.

Our night ends as it always does, sitting on the floor of my dorm, food sprawled across my carpet, his laptop open and playing a Netflix show both of us have sworn we would pay attention to but never do. My dorm became our hangout spot quickly when my roommate met her boyfriend a few weeks into our freshman year, opting to spend most of her nights at his place instead of the room she was supposed to inhabit. I never complained, even though we had been friends long before we became roommates, her incessant cries for me to “find my person” and “live a little” began to sound like nails on a chalkboard. I knew her intentions were good spirited, even if me getting a boyfriend was mostly for her gain so that we could go on her coveted double-dates, however I had told her from the beginning I was at university to get my degree, not a hookup buddy. I let out a sigh as I rolled off of my place on the floor, reaching for my laptop and opening it to the same screen it had been left on since my psychology class ended earlier in the afternoon.

“I still can’t believe my professor is damning me to hell by assigning this random group project. Who even does that?” My complaints are met by a shrug from Hyun as his attention stays on the pint of Ben and Jerry’s in his hands, scooping away at the chocolate ice cream gleefully. I type out a text to the number I wrote down earlier, deciding now was as good of a time as any to get the ball rolling on the project, even if it wasn’t due for another few weeks.

I scoff at the message sent back to me, placing my phone on the ground to set aside the annoyance I felt resurface at the blatant dismissal.

“This project is going to be a nightmare.” I groan, laying back onto the ground, my hands dragging down my cheeks. “Who even assigns group projects in lectures anyway! I don't know any of those idiots! Why does my grade have to depend on them?” I shove my phone closer to Hyunjin, flipping over onto my side to watch him as he reads over the text.

“Oh, ew. Good luck with whatever stick is shoved up your partner’s ass.” He pushes the phone back over to me as I let out another frustrated noise. Great, two annoying men in one day. What could be worse.

Four days have now passed since I had heard from my project partner, and my displeasure for him has only grown. Since the text on Monday, I have already started the work deciding to just get my part started so that when I finally do get a reply I have a better idea of what needs to get done. As I sat in a study room inside of the creative art building I hear my phone chime.

God… This dude was still a prick even after blowing me off when I wanted to meet earlier in the week. I swallow any other choice words I may have for my mystery psychology partner and turn my attention back onto my laptop, finishing the outline for my section of the project I had pretty much assigned myself. The project would be simple enough as long as my partner cooperated, which now seemed like a fleeting wish. Letting out a sigh I continue working, my mind drawing pictures of what this shit show of a project was going to turn out like.

I rounded the corner into the business building at 11:47 the next day, deciding to get there a bit early to ensure there was a study room available. Finally securing one of the rooms in the back of the building and pulling out my laptop and pulling up whatever resources would be needed for the project, shooting my partner a text to inform him of where to meet me. To pass the time I began sketching an idea for another landscape that Hyunjin had told me to attempt.

I watch as the clock hits 12:48, my hands gripping the pencil in my hand so tight, I think it might break. He’s late. What else did I expect? Pulling my phone out once again, I text him again, holding back any rageful curses, just barely. It takes him an exorbitant amount of time to reply, and when he finally does, I only see red.

When he finally shows up, I nearly bolt out of the room. Of course. Of course it's the same, shaggy haired, cretinous, nuisance of a man that I had the displeasure of interacting with in the campus square at the beginning of the week. He now stands before me, reeking of stale, cheap bear, sporting the most egregious hickey on the side of his neck in a backwards cap and a somehow wrinkled hoodie.

“How nice of you to show up.” I finally mutter as he enters the room, slumping over into the chair opposite of me.

“Nice to see you again, baby. I would have been here sooner but the brothers and I threw last night. Ended up drinkin’ a bit too much.” The smirk he is wearing makes my very insides turn inside out, either that or the smell of the cheap perfume that still lingered on him from his night-time escapades.

“That much is obvious.” I scoff, waking up my laptop that had been abandoned in his tardiness. “Lets just figure out who has to do what so you can go back to whatever hangover activities you were attending to.”

Han sucks in a breath through his teeth, moving his hand over his heart in mock hurt. “Hurts me to have you think I get hungover, sweet thing.”

I just roll my eyes at him and push my laptop closer, showing him the outline I had prepared previously explaining to him the parts that I wanted him to complete. After a while of me talking and him trying to use what I can only describe as stereotypical “charm,” on me, he leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head with a look of confusion written clearly on his face.

“See, baby, I was thinkin’ that you could just… yaknow, do that part for me. Be a team player, yeah?”

“You're being facetious, right..?” I question, jaw half clenched as I get the words out. Taking in the look on his face I can tell he is, in fact, being dead serious about me doing every portion of this project.

“Look, I don't even know what that word means… Do you really want your name tied to mine on a project like this? I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually showed up to anatomy.”

“This is for psychology class, you…” I bite my tongue before I can call him every fowl name in the book. I let out a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try my best to calculate the next words that are about to come out of my mouth. “I am submitting this project with my name on it whether you do your part or not. But I refuse to do the work of two people. You and the brothers of Alpha Epsilon… whatever, can keep your hands away from a girls tits for two days while you do your part of the project.”

“It’s Sigma Kappa Zeta, and I’m just saying, your grade, and mine by default, would be better if you just did the project.” He corrects me, as if I genuinely care about the name of his stupid paid friend group. I get to a point where if I have to listen to him for another moment I will claw my eyes out right here in the study room. I close my laptop abruptly, causing him to flinch in his chair, his eyes wide and locked on my movements. In one quick motion, I shove my laptop back into my bag, throwing it over my shoulder and standing from my space in the room.

“Do the project or don’t, just know that I am not doing it for you.” The not so well contained anger that laces into all of my words definitely sparked some sort of fear in the brown haired boy as I walked quickly out of the room and back into the main atrium of the business building.

If I am anything, I am a woman of my word. The entire rest of my weekend was spent working on my portion of the project and nothing more. Formulating slides for the presentation, ensuring that my research was concrete, everything was cited in proper notation. I didn’t leave a single point of the rubric untouched. I wanted to give Han the benefit of the doubt, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would have taken my little outburst as a warning and actually done his portion of the work. I shared everything he would have needed in his email, but nothing more. But as the weeks leading up to the due date wore on, I saw no new activity in the shared documents. There was a gnawing feeling of guilt that lingered in the smallest corners of my mind at how I reacted to his mostly mindless request until I reminded myself that he was also a grown man. He didn’t deserve to be babied through college, no matter how dim-witted he came off.

The day of the presentation came quicker than I expected as my workload nearly doubled before my eyes. The last week and a half became a blur of midterm papers, stupid assignments that left me more confused than not, and some of the worst wine hangovers i've ever experienced thanks to Hyunjin’s new fake ID. As I took my seat in the lecture hall, I spotted Han entering through the side door, ego emanating off of him like cartoon stink lines. Just as I had expected, he hadn’t even opened the document that I had sent him so I submitted it to our professor unfinished and only with my name on it, along with a lengthy email drafted in my notes when I inevitably have to submit my peer review.

The rest of the student’s presentations nearly put me to sleep as I mindlessly scribble in my sketchbook, awaiting my turn to completely embarrass Han. And when that fateful moment finally rears its head, it's just as glorious as I had expected. We walk to the front of the hall from our respective seats. Him clad in an unironed button up shirt and slacks, me in my most business casual dress from the very back of my closet. I begin by introducing the topic, giving the prepared background and flipping through my slides with practiced ease. It was clear to my professor that I had put in effort and time, rightfully so. But once Han’s slides appeared on the projector in front of the entire hall, his face paled. I bite back the shit eating grin I know is forming on my lips as I watch him flounder at the sight of the empty slides. Small snickers can be heard from around the classroom, the more astute students whispering to one another about his clear unpreparedness. This beautiful scene carries on for another 30 seconds or so until our professor loudly clears his throat, dismissing us back to our seats.

Once I am out of view from Han, I can't hold back my smile any more, cheeks burning as the muscles contract further than I think they ever have. Sweet, sweet revenge. My phone vibrates against my desk and as I turn it over, the messages that plastered my lock screen only made my smile grow.

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anadrym · 4 days ago

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Extended Author's Notes for Left Behind Ch16.

Spoilers!

Chapter title is from "Ashes of Eden" by Breaking Benjamin. I considered using a line from "Dark of You," but I think the tone doesn't quite match what I'm going for. It's too hopeless.

Nasir knows Caitlyn is also not in great shape, but he doesn't push the issue for two reasons: 1. He knows she's not going to let anyone worry about her when she's so worried about Vi; and 2. He literally has his hands full with Vi, and he can't bring anyone to help Caitlyn because they're trying to stay unnoticed.

I've been kind of flip-flopping on how bad Cait's ribs are, but I think we're going with: they're bruised and one is cracked, but there are no major breaks. Lying down is discouraged for broken ribs, so being in the hiding place has aggravated the injury. It hurts, a lot, but it's not dangerous. She's just pushing herself way too hard.

Vi, waking up cradled safely in Nasir's arms: WHO THE FUCK IS THA- Oh, Caitlyn's here. <3

Also, remember that Caitlyn is running on very little food and sleep. So that's why she feels so terrible.

Petra! I personally don't like making OCs to throw into fanfic, it's just not my thing. We're all here for the canon characters. But I am happy to bring Petra back. I love her. She cares so much but she's so damn cranky about it.

Petra asked Nasir to go back to Piltover just on the off-chance that Cait changed her mind on dying for revenge, but she didn't expect anything to come of it. She really didn't think Caitlyn would come back, and she never in a million years thought she'd bring someone else with her. Remember, she has absolutely no idea who Vi is or what she means to Caitlyn. One of the last things the two talked about before Caitlyn left was how she doesn't let herself care about people because she lost everything and can't bear to do it again.

Mmm, imagine this scene from Jamal and Angel's POV. Ghost, badass assassin who keeps to herself and doesn't let anyone get close, turns up with a half-dead girl and begs, almost in tears, for someone to help her. We love it when a character drops the mask.

It's probably obvious, but Petra does take them directly to her own apartment.

I've been trying to keep bringing up how shakey Caitlyn's hands are right now. Snipers have steady hands, even under extreme stress. Cait's hands are shaking specifically because of low blood sugar and exhaustion.

Vi reacts to Petra's hand touching her hair because of how the Baroness would grab her by the hair.

Nasir doesn't stick around because it's suspicious for his ship to be back at this port so soon. He's got to go before anyone suspects that something is up and starts digging for information that could lead them to Petra and the girls.

I had the word "festering" scrawled on the side of the document because I wanted to use it and had to find a spot to squeeze it in. I sometimes just really like the vibes of certain words and write them down so I can try to fit them in somewhere. :)

It was really important to me that Petra ask Caitlyn if Vi trusts her. She wants to make sure they're not doing something potentially 'violating' unless there's no other option. As far as she knows, Cait and Vi met within the last week, but it's still better to have someone she knows and trusts undressing her, rather than a stranger.

Petra is short-tempered because she's stressed, and Cait is irritable because she's hurt and hungry and tired AND stressed. That's why they're at each other's throats here. It's a miracle they don't start fighting.

The two paragraphs between Vi begging Caitlyn not to leave and Caitlyn swearing not to are the direct result of your comments. A lot of the time, you all point out things that I might kinda gloss over, so I go back and make sure to emphasize things that y'all mention as important.

AAAHHH, THE SCAR! The reason Cait hasn't noticed it until now is that it's hidden under Vi's hair, not to mention it's five years old so it's not super obvious. It's also pretty small. (Remember that Cait's brain has added details to her memory that aren't accurate - she didn't actually see any gore or anything.)

I don't know why, but I decided a while ago (during Blood & Bone?) that Caitlyn only uses the line "for me" in desperate circumstances, because Vi won't say no to it. Interestingly, in the first chapter of this fic, Vi tries the reverse and Caitlyn refuses.

I imagine it's incredibly gratifying for Caitlyn to see just how angry Petra is at Vi's condition. Pretty much everyone else has been... dismissive? The Baroness and her people range from apathetic to almost proud of how much they've broken Vi. Nasir is a mild person, he shows mostly concern. But Petra is fucking furious. That validation of her feelings is so important to how Caitlyn can start sorting out her emotions.

Petra only tends to Vi's legs in this chapter, but don't worry, she takes care of her arms and neck in the next one. She's also going to take care of Caitlyn.

I feel like I should have more to say, but I can't think of anything? So, yeah. Sorry this one is short. And late.

Teaser for next week:

She's done this before, Caitlyn realizes with a jolt.

Before she can delve more deeply into that thought, Petra says, "Alright. Go clean yourself up."

Caitlyn opens her mouth to protest, but Petra cuts her off. "Ghost." Then she sighs. "Caitlyn. Ten minutes. She'll be fine." She meets Caitlyn's gaze evenly, and her eyes are heavy with sympathy. "You'll be fine."

#my writing #extended author's notes #left behind #all the things we left behind

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cbrownjc · 9 months ago

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Hey :) just saw your post with your speculation about how much Eric/Daniel will be in S3. And while this isn't a definitive answer or anything, Rolin did address the question of whether or not Daniel would still play a part in the story post-s2 in this interview for the A.V. Club: https://www.avclub.com/rolin-jones-interview-with-the-vampire-season-2-finale-1851566667

I kinda feel like this means we'll see him more than just in a couple of scenes here and there, even in S3 (though he didn't specifically say "in season 3". But I feel like "still" implies this?)

Only it's difficult to judge because any present-day storyline they do with him is a big question mark since they seem to have departed from books (where he only gets turned shortly before the concert and does not part from Armand). What Armand is up to in the present-day is also a question mark imo. At least until the story converges at the concert.

I mean, I'll be real I'm also just trying to convince myself he'll be in it more because I'll miss him otherwise 🥲

Hi!

So, first I want to say that I think the two major pieces of casting that still need to be done are obviously Gabrielle and Marius. And I've long speculated that Marius is already playing a huge part in Daniel's story because I really do believe that Marius was the one to erase Daniel's memories of his past relationship with Armand.

Yes, Marius plays an important role in Lestat's life, but he plays an even bigger one in Armand and Daniel's as well, especially going by the books. In the books, Daniel lived with Marius for almost 30 years -- first healing from his mental issues, and then as companions -- before getting back together with Armand during the Prince Lestat era. All that, plus given what Rolin Jones already said about Raglan James, I don't think Justin Kirk is secretly playing Marius. So Marius still needs to be cast, and I very much expect him to be deeply involved in Armand and Daniel's storyline, going forward.

I just don't see that happening much in Season 3, however.

Because Season 3 is Lestat's story and focus, primarily. Just like Season 1 and Season 2 were mainly focused on Louis.

There is really only one episode in those two seasons where you can say Daniel was focused on -- outside of just interviewing Louis -- and that was episode 2x05. And even then, Louis factored heavily in that episode as well.

Armand and Marius play major roles in Lestat's story. Daniel doesn't. So if Daniel has any type of major storyline in Season 3, it will have to be with those two characters, IMO; as well as the Talamasca, since they were the ones to publish Daniel's book in the first place, and Rolin already said they and Raglan James will play an even bigger role in the show than they did in the books.

But without an episode count yet, I just can't see it being a huge focus. Mostly because characters like Marius still need to be fully set up and established. Also, I already think Armand is being set up to be a false Big Bad in Season 3 (since he's pretty much a villain in The Vampire Lestat), so I think whatever of Armand's POV that we get in Season 3, in the present day, will be very limited too, IMO, if we get it like we did in episode 2x03.

And yet, IMO, the only way we are looking at getting another episode like 2x05 in Season 3 is if it's told from Armand's POV. Because, again, Armand actually ties into Lestat's story, both in the past and in the present. And I think for sure that whatever Armand is up to in the present will have something to do with Daniel, as well as whatever else might be going on in the setup for Akasha rising.

Heck, if my theory is right that Marius was the one to wipe Daniel's memories of his and Armand's past relationship, Armand and Marius might have a present-day scene together, likely discussing Daniel (along with what Lestat is doing).

And yes, while Eric might still be in the top five for the call sheet going forward, that really doesn't say much IMO without knowing the Season 3 episode count. I mean, I'm sure Sam Reid was top 5 on the call sheet in Season 2, but if you look at his screen time in Episodes 2x01 and 2x02, it really wasn't much. And we didn't see him at all in episode 2x05, only heard his voice. And he didn't appear in episode 2x06 until the end.

I thought they found a way to work Lestat into the story of Season 2 very well, expanding on things from the book. But he still wasn't in the first few episodes very much.

And Daniel is even more different because he's not mentioned or referenced in The Vampire Lestat book at all.

So wrt Daniel in the present day, I'm tempering my expectations. Because yes, whatever is going on with Eric's Daniel in the present day is completely off-book. But, with every other facet of the story, the show has very much been on-book, in a rather strict way. Lestat's story is the main story of The Vampire Lestat and therefore will be for Season 3 IMO. And I think, whatever happens with Daniel in the present day is going to have to tie into that story. And that can't really happen via Daniel directly.

Louis' story is already being set up to tie into Lestat's present-day storyline directly, with his challenging all the vampires in the world to come for him if they dare. One of the reasons Lestat even became a rock star in the first place was to try and protect Louis by drawing attention to himself in an even bigger way than Louis' memoir drew attention to Louis.

But there are only two ways I see Daniel's story drawing directly to Lestat, and those are not in a way that directly has to do with Daniel. Because Lestat doesn't even know Daniel, has never met him before or interacted with him. (No I don't think they changed that from the book.)

So it's only through Armand, possibly Marius, and the Talamasca that Daniel ties into the larger story of what's going to be going on with Lestat in the present day. (Maybe a bit of Louis too, but the vampires we heard talking at the end didn't seem to be threatening Daniel, only Louis. Curious.) And, again, without an episode count yet, I just don't know how much time that focus can really get, especially when you have to set up Marius as a character; as well as probably having to set up the Talamasca even more as well; as well as maybe not revealing too soon what Armand is up to in the present day to keep his motives as mystery and have non-book readers wondering if Armand is the Big Bad villain they think he is or not.

And having to do all of this, plus laying preparation for adapting Queen of the Damned next. The book where Daniel actually does get a lot of focus.

And this also lines up with what Assad let slip about Season 4 being when we would see Armand's backstory. (Which is when QotD would start being adapted if TVL isn't split into 2 seasons like IWTV was).

And Rolin Jones flat out said people need to stop jumping ahead because Devil's Minion was "3 books ahead" of where they were now in adapting (which at the time was the 2nd half of the IWTV book), and to "slow down" about it.

So for now, I'm going to listen to RJ and just "slow down" about this.

So, in doing so, while I think we'll see Daniel in the present day in Season 3, I still don't think we'll see him much. And I think when we do, one of the episodes we'll get will probably be a stand-alone episode in the vein of episode 2x05 that focuses on what happened in the past. (Which I think will be an episode that focuses on why Daniel once woke up in a parking lot in Milwaukee not knowing how he got there). And I think for sure he'll be in the Season 3 finale. But other than that? 🤷🏾‍♀️ Again, I'm slowing down and tempering my expectations. Especially if we only get another 7-8 episode count again.

Because right now, for Season 3, Lestat's story is the main focus. Not Daniel, not Armand, and not Devil's Minion. And Daniel's character can only tie into Lestat's story via other people, which is rather limiting but can't be helped.

#Daniel Molloy #Lestat de Lioncourt #Armand #The Vampire Armand #Marius de Romanus #Louis de Pointe du Lac #Devil's Minion #The Devil's Minion #Rolin Jones #iwtv Season 3 #The Vampire Lestat #Queen of the Damned #iwtv Season 3 speculation #Interview with the Vampire #amc iwtv #iwtv #ask #ask and answer

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golvio · 1 year ago

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I think the metanarrative reason for the Princess being put into an antagonistic role in the “intended story structure” instead of being the protagonist is a big hint to her true nature.

While the protagonist gets to have the POV and make the major decisions that determine the story’s resolution, the antagonist is the one who actually makes things happen. Even when she’s not an antagonist and you’re working together, she’s still making things happen solely by being the only visible character present. Her mere presence changes things.

It’s very, very difficult to have a story without some external force or another character acting upon your protagonist and pressuring them to make a move. Even stories told primarily in flashbacks have the main character interacting with something, even if only in the past tense. A story where the main character just sat there, never interacting with anyone or anything, never having any experiences to learn from, would be incredibly boring. Simply having someone else there to talk to and play off of is enough to get things to move again.

Contrast this with The Narrator’s ideal story, which is a Wholesome™️ story where the main character does what they’re told and then never has anything bad happen to them ever because, as the only character left in the story, they’re safe from conflict, change, or heartbreak. Sure, it might not be a controversial story that would upset someone, but it’s also incredibly dull and unfulfilling. The credits roll and that’s it? That’s all we get?

It’s absolutely hilarious to me that, while The Narrator inserted his echo into the Construct under the conceit of being the literary device that’s the vehicle delivering the story to the reader, he really sucks at storytelling. He can’t build rapport with his audience (us) because he doesn’t understand what we want or how to persuade us beyond vague moral arguments with no emotional hooks whatsoever. He’s so inflexible and refuses to allow alternate interpretations that he can’t handle when things go off script, and can’t get the story back on track when we start going off the rails short of pulling a deus ex machina (which only works when the audience still has enough faith in him to take him seriously as storyteller instead of doing their own thing). Things only get interesting when the Princess gets involved. Things only move forward when she forces the issue, particularly in the Nightmare route, where you refuse to commit to a choice out of fear of potential consequences.

A friend of mine who recently did their first playthrough commented on how the underlying quest to collect perspectives for the Shifting Mound was basically an improv session. I think they’re right on the money. Each chapter is like a game of “Yes, And” between you and the Princess that continues until neither of you can think of anything else. The developers mentioned in an interview that Shifty M. only arrives to take the vessel home when the story “ends.” That is, when there’s nothing left to do. Improv is one of the genres of performance that best encapsulates Change in its demand for adapting to circumstances and new information, so of course The Narrator would be against it, preferring simple, linear narratives.

People tend to become fascinated with antagonists because they’re the ones who make things happen. Adding an antagonist who’s also a person is one of the easiest ways to start building a story. By making the Shifting Mound and her fragments our enemy and requiring us to get within talking distance in order to slay her, The Narrator shot himself in the foot by making Her the most compelling and interesting character by default.

#slay the princess #slay the princess spoilers #stp spoilers #the shifting mound #the narrator #princess princess

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dreamwatch · 9 months ago

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Home

Written for @steddieangstyaugust

Eddie kicks at another box trying to work out if it’s light enough for him to lift on his own, or whether it’s another one over filled with unread books that he should just donate. He grunts at the weight of it; books. He’ll leave it for Ryan.

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he dusts or cleans these rooms, the moment a box or piece of furniture is removed, another cloud of dust seems to fill the air, settling over everything. After today it’s not really his problem anymore.

He can hear the kids giggling upstairs, so he follows the sound to the attic. They’ve accumulated so much shit over the years, it doesn’t seem to matter how many boxes they remove, the moment you turn around there’s another in it’s place; it’s like playing whack-a-mole with their own possessions.

He pushes upwards to the top of the steps and pokes his head inside the attic, letting out a dramatic “Ahem” as he does so. He watches on amused as Hope scrambles to hide something behind her back.

“I seem to remember sending you guys up here hours ago to clear this shit out. We haven’t got all day.”

Ryan gets up off the box he’s sitting on, another one marked ‘BOOKS’ in Hope’s neat handwriting. “You’re not supposed to be up here. Where’s your cane?” He holds his hand out and helps Eddie in the rest of the way.

“Yeah, well, if you were up here working like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have to be up here, would I?”

Hope makes that sorrowful face at him, the one she uses when she’s trying to wrap him around his finger.

“Sorry, Daddy,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah, turn it off, it’s not working today.”

Ryan tuts, and mutters “It always works.”

He’s not wrong.

Ryan helps him climb over the last of the trash and finds him a box to sit on.

“What were you laughing at, anyway?”

They throw guilty looks at each other, but eventually Hope reaches behind her and pulls out a piece of shabby once-white fabric. It’s funny, the things that throw Eddie off balance. He’s got used to seeing past things, the sentimental stuff; photographs, jewellery. Like he’s trained himself to cope with it. But then he’ll get a bolt from nowhere, stupid little things that shouldn’t mean anything. Finding a bar of Steve’s favourite soap at the back of the bathroom cabinet.

A silly hat he had to wear to work when he was a teenager.

The kids (kids, they’re nineteen and twenty-one now, Jesus Christ) look unsure, like they’ve fucked up somehow, which won’t do at all.

“So are you gonna let me see?” he asks with a smile.

Hesitantly, Hope places the old Scoops Ahoy hat on her head, and Eddie feels his heart being pierced. She’s always looked liked Steve, from the moment she was born. Now with her hair shorter, above her shoulders, it’s even more striking.

“Are you okay, Daddy? I’m sorry if—”

“Uh uh, nope. Nothing to be sorry for.” He swipes at his eyes quickly. “I love that you look so much like Poppy.” He stands awkwardly, Ryan reaching out to help him up, which he honestly hates. He’s fifty-one, he shouldn’t feel this old when he’s this young.

“Alright, you guys good to get this stuff downstairs?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll get these down. Once Hopeless is done with that box.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Hey!” he claps. “No fighting. Thirty minutes then I’m locking up. You can be in the house when I do it, if you like. The new owners can have you.”

He gingerly makes his way down the attic steps, leaving his kids to their arguing.

Forty five minutes later, Ryan and Hope drop the last of the contents of their home into the back of the truck. It was amazing how much they had accumulated over thirty years together, and how their possessions had mushroomed once babies entered their lives.

Eddie stands in the middle of their old den, taking it in for the last time, until he hears a knock on the door behind him. He turns around and finds Ryan looking back at him, the worry etched in his face. He’s always been such a sensitive kid, kind of like Eddie but without the hard outer shell because he never needed it. He was loved from the second he entered the world, adored and cherished at every possible moment of his life. Eddie worries sometimes that they’ve made him too soft, can’t help but worry about both of them now they’re out there on their own, making their way in the world.

“Are you ready to go?” Ryan asks, gently.

He’s not. Selling up was a decision made for him, between his kids and an ailing Wayne. The house was too big for him to manage on his own, according to the kids, though he thinks a tumble on the stairs was actually what made them push for him to sell up. He’s moving into a small single storey house, close to Ryan.

Wayne, though, the contrary fucker that he was, had a different take.

“All houses are haunted, Ed. Every last one of them. We just can’t always see the ghosts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Some people can stay in a place they made special, can live in a home that was filled with life and love for so long. They can draw on it, you know. Take comfort from it. But you’re letting it consume you, son. You’re not taking from it, it’s taking from you. I’m not going to be here for too much longer—”

“Don’t.”

“Come on, kiddo. I’m eighty-five in a couple of months. Let’s not do that, okay? I’m worried about you, Ed. The kids are worried about you. It’s time to move on, Bub.”

Eddie missed him so much. It wasn’t fair to lose them both so close to one another.

A home being haunted by it’s memories, by the people that had lived there and imprinted themselves on it, never seemed like a bad thing to Eddie. It had been packed to the rafters with love and happiness.

He doesn’t bother stopping the tears, just wipes them away so that he can see more clearly. Ryan crosses the room and hugs him tight.

“I’ll move in. If you want to stay, I’ll move back.”

God, this kid. His throat tightens, takes his voice away from him for a moment, so Eddie can only shake his head in response. He wants them to have fun after the last couple of years of hurt, go back to college and enjoy it, not be at home looking after him because he’s a lonely old man.

They stand in their family den, squeezing each other tightly, until they hear the horn of the car sounding repeatedly.

“God, your fucking sister, so like your Pop.”

Ryan laughs and runs his fingers under Eddie’s eyes, brushing away the last of his tears.

“You’re a good kid, you know that? Go tell your sister I’m coming, just need five minutes.”

He kisses his boy on the top of his head, the way Wayne did to him all the way into adult hood. He used to think it was embarrassing, but he longed for it the older he got, cherished those little kisses. Misses them so much now. So Ryan doesn’t escape them. He never will.

He starts in the bedrooms, Hope’s first, double checking the closets even though he knows they’re empty. Smiling at the wallpaper Steve had picked out, the sunflower design replacing the Barbie pink that had been there for years.

Ryan’s room looks so odd without the floors covered in clothes and magazines, and pretty much everything else he owned. Steve’s voice echoes in his head. “I don’t understand why we bought you a dresser if you’re just going to throw all your shit on the floor. You’re like your goddamn father.” Eddie blows out a breath and closes the door behind him.

Their room was a sanctuary, their place of peace. They made love here; lay under the covers holding hands, cuddling, giggling. Acting like disgusting teenagers is how Robin had described it. They had, all the way to the very end.

Eddie hadn’t been able to sleep in this room for the first couple of months after Steve died. The thought that he had been lying next to him when he went, that Steve might have needed him, that Eddie might have been able to save him if he’d just been awake, ate him raw. It took a while for everything he was being told to sink in, to accept it. The years of head trauma had finally caught up with Steve. He’d had a headache that night and gone to bed early, but that wasn’t unusual for him. They could never have known. It didn’t make it any easier.

He prods the wonky floorboard outside their room, smiling as it creaks. Steve always stepped on it even though he knew it annoyed the shit out of Eddie, would come into bed laughing as Eddie swore at him. He’s missed that noise so much.

When he gets downstairs he opens the front door and sees his kids sitting in the truck, Hope on her phone, Ryan trying to hide that he’s watching Eddie. He steps out onto the porch, and takes a last look down the hallway.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “If you’re still here, come with me. Please.”

A warm breeze whips around him, blowing some loose hairs out of his face. Eddie sighs, smiling to himself before he closes the door for the last time.

I did NOT plan to write for this but I was waiting for Deadpool and Wolverine to start and this popped in my head from somewhere... go figure!

Title is from Home by Foo Fighters, which is just perfect for this song and hurts my heart everytime I listen to it.

#steddieangstyaugust #steddie #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #cw major character death #cw death of a spouse #cw death of a parent #cw grief #day 2: ghosts #Spotify

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romana-after-dark · 1 year ago

Text

Room's on Fire: 6. End of the Innocence

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna wins over Frankie, but in the mean times upsets Jonah and Pope

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

WARNINGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED!!!

Extra warnings for chapter: spit kink, non consensual voyerism, physical violence.

3.6k words

A/N: Some madonna POV, but we also get Jonah, Santi, and Frankie

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

"Oh, but I know a place where we can go Still untouched by men We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by And the tall grass waves in the wind You can lay your head back on the ground And let your hair fall all around me Offer up your best defense But this is the end This is the end of the innocence" ~End of the Innocence, Don Henley

“Fuck, Madonna…” Francisco moaned under you, his massive cock filling you up again and again as you bounced on him. You had undone his belt and pant button, keeping his pants on but pulled his cock out. With your panties pulled off, you had sat on lap with his member stuffed inside you as you made out with him. Francisco was a tender, passionate lover, kissing you with all the love you’d been missing since Pope stopped kissing you at all.

“I love you, Francisco…” You whisper to him, clutching his body to yours in desperation. You needed him to know how much he was adored and appreciated. He is your husband just as much as the others are, even if he ignored you for so long. You card your fingers through his hair and nibble on his lips, sucking the pouty lower one into your mouth and pulling. “My handsome man…”

Hands on his chest, you kiss him down, letting his head fall back on the grass and your hair cascade down around him. Francisco moans out a strained ‘Madonna…’ as his cock twitched inside you. You knew he preferred to be taken care of instead of in charge, you had noticed it in the way Pope fucked him. Whatever Francisco wanted, you were going to give it to him. Anything for him to love you the way you love him. Anything to have the love of all your husbands.

Pushing yourself up, you bounce on his cock as he runs his hands up your loose dress, feeling up your tender breasts and playing with your nipples. He tweaked them through the thin dress, rolling the hardened buds in his fingers until you cry out his name, sweat beading down your face in the warm sun. “Francisco!” You close your eyes tightly, your senses taking in him, him, him. He roughly squeezes a tit, and as your legs tire you fold down over him again to his beautiful mouth. You feel him spearing you, laying his claim really and truly for the time as he hit that spot inside you that made you dizzy.

“So beautiful, Madonna” He mutters against your ear, panting and whining for you and only you. He was so beautiful like this, comfortable and happy and turned on, paying attention to your body. “Gonna cum…” He whines, hips bucking as he chases his release. “Please, need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad.”

Tender, you kiss his forehead, sliding up and down his throbbing cock, wanting to get him off so fucking badly. “Cum for me, I’m right behind you, wanna feel you fill me.”

With a loud groan, Francisco pulsed inside you, filling you up with his warm seed. The thought of becoming pregnant out in this field after finally securing his love, your body swelling with the savior… you came on his cock, pussy gripping his softening member with your fingers digging into his skin. It was hard, it was blinding, your heart bursting with love for the man eveloping you in his arms.

His cock still stuffed inside you, you rest your head on his shoulder. For the first time since the incubus, you fall asleep peacefully. Francisco would keep you safe, plugged up with his cum so it had no chance of leaving. You were going to get pregnant.

Fracisco woke to the sound of footsteps on the grass, and as he remembered him and Madonna’s compromising position he gasps awake.

“Oh shit- god dammit-” He see’s Jonah quickly turn around, grumbling and ruffling his hair, tucking his other hand in his jean pocket next to his holster.

Francisco’s pants were still fully on and your dress fell around you, so to Jonah it had only looked like you had fallen asleep cuddling. He must have realized that you were still implailed on him. The panties on the grass didn’t help.

He felt you stir, but he caressed your hair and shushed you. You were so tired, the bags around your eyes getting clearer every day. You needed your rest.

“It’s getting dark…” Jonah mumbles, clearly uncomfortable but trying to do his job. Frank didn’t mind Jonah, honestly. He did good work and especially he treated Madonna well. Frankie knew he has a fatherly presence, something Frankie didn’t long for the way Santi did, but he knew you needed. And Jonah needed someone to take care of since Iris rejected him. They didn’t even talk for the first three years of it all.

“Give us a few minutes” Frankie whispers to Jonah’s back. It was 20 minutes before he finally woke you, the pair of you having slept on the grass for 2 hours or so. He wanted to pocket your panties, but he didn’t want to have something someone might find. If Santi found it, his jealousy would be a problem for everyone involved. If Ben found them, he’d be hurt, thinking Frankie preferred Madonna. Did he love his wife? Yes… yes he thought he did. Who was he to reject this unconditional love from her? Yes, he loved his wife but he loved the man who was now his husband more. Benny before all else.

There was no way on this earth that Francisco was letting his wife, still wet and dripping with his cum, smelling of sex, in her pretty dress with Jonah of all people. Will would flip his fucking shit if he saw Madonna on his lap. So, she’d sit with him as they rode back.

Problem was, that smell of sex? That dripping, tight little hole that was all he could think about now? Her cute ass pressed against his crotch as she bounced on the horse? He wasn’t sure he could make it back to the house. His dick hardened against you, his arms pressing you close to him, he slide a hand up to touch your body. It’d been so long since he touched a woman’s body, preferring the company of Ben if he had a choice… and taking the love he could get from Santi if he couldn’t. He forgot how soft women were. Ben was rigid, safe, strong. His body was firm in a way that comforted Francisco. Santi was softer, sure. Santi’s legs and ass were thick with meat and his stomach a padding of stomach fat, but under it all was muscle still, joints and tissue and heft all boundled in the tight body of the would-be savior. Santi could never relax, his anger, his shame, his failings, the ever-present overcast of his mother never allowing him a moments peace. It wasn’t uncommon for Santiago to take Frankie in the sanctuary, Beatriz’s remains watching them as they consummate on the alter, not unlike Madonna, after reciting faux vows multiple times. Francisco had sworn his fidelity to Santi again and again in these private ceremonies… Francisco didn’t believe a word of Beatriz, her wishy-washy attitude of who the savior was when her mood changed solidified that for francisco in his youth… but some days…

Some days Francisco wanted Ben to drag him into the sanctuary, he wanted Ben to bend him over the alter and claim him, to not belong to and be subject to the will of any Garcia again. To belong to Ben and only Ben and tell Santi to fuck of… But that wasn’t happening. The Millers were dying before Beatriz took them in, and Ben had worshiped the ground Beatriz and Santiago walked on, and if Frank were being completely honest, he did long Santi. He missed their boyhood together, before Santi’s soft mess was beat out of him and he stuff all his love for his brother until it folded in on himself, only let loose under the cover of night fucks and threesones and orgys.

Ben was a rock. Santiago was dynamite waiting to explode.

You? You were soft. And it didn't matter that Jonah was only a few feet away on his horse, Francisco was going to feel every inch of that softness. You wanted him? Out in the open, no secret? He'd have you out in the open.

“Francisco?” You whisper as he slips a hand under your dress, feeling your little clit through the cotton.

“I got you, just relax…” But you squirmed against him. There was nowhere to go, the trotting horse so far off the ground and his arm tight against your middle. “Relax.” He was more firm this time.

You stopped moving, but your body remained stiff. “But… Jonah.” You speak quietly so the other man doesn’t hear, but Francisco doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip, pressing down hard on your clit and rasps in your ear. “Relax.”

You have to bite on your cheeks to keep from whimpering, and Francisco doesn’t like that. He wants to hear your sounds again so he toys with your body, playing you like an instrument he is well practiced in. Your nipples are stiff and sensitive, making them easy prey to Francisco’s long fingers. How did he know your body so intimately already? His fingers working fast, Francisco is still ever-tender, kissing your mouth as you tilt your head to kiss him. You were a pretty girl, you deserved to be kissed, but right now he wanted to hear you so he opted to detach from your mouth and kiss down your neck, sucking a possessive hickey on you until he got what he wanted; a moan.

He saw Jonah tense and smiled against your delicate skin as you began to relax finally. You still were stifling your sounds, obviously not wanting the older man to hear you on the verge of cumming, but little noises were slipping out. Jonah grunted and kicked the horse, effectively riding ahead. His was missing out, the desperate, shuttering whimper as you came was music to Franicosco’s ears, cumming in his own pants once again.

Jonah’s face was burning. He didn’t want to hear that, he didn’t want to see what he saw. He didn’t want to know what she did with those four at all hours of the day outside of her not being harmed too badly. He has a duty to Marcus to keep her as safe as he could without rocking the boat too much. His duty to Iris came before all else. Now he was physically sick, and he was stuck with her trailing behind him. Francisco was putting the horses away, and obvious wet spot in his own pants sickening Jonah more, and had told Jonah to watch her.

Her voice was small. “Jon-”

“Don’t” He grunted, not wanting to talk. He needed to find Iris or Reyansh, he needed someone else to watch her. He needed to get away.

“I’m sorr-”

Jonah whipped around to face her, keeping his distance. His shame only grew when Jonah saw her eyes flick down to his pants. It was brief, only for a second and she didn’t see anything there but the fact you thought you might, the fact you had any suspicion that he might have gotten turned on by Frank’s display was humiliating.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I- I couldn’t hold it in. I was trying to be quiet but he-”

Jonah shut his eyes, not needing any more imagery and held up a hand. “Honey I can’t do this right now, okay? I’m not-” He sighs. “I’m not mad at you. I just can't be around you right now.” He saw your lip quiver, but Iris walked into the hall carrying a load of laundry on her hip. “Here.” He looked at Iris and gestured towards you. “I need you to watch her.”

Iris scoffed at that. “You can’t just pawn her off on me when you’re bored of her.”

“I’m not pawning her off, I-”

Your voice was small but firm, slight wavering but determined to speak. “I’m not- I’m not a puppy who can’t be left alone for 5 minutes…”

Jonah scrubs his face. “That’s not what I meant… I just mean-”

“I know what you mean,” She looked back and forth between him and Iris who was listening curiously. “But I’m not a child, I’m not a dog. I’m the Madonna and I don’t need to be babysat.”

“I know, I know, but they want someone with you at all times-”

“I’m twenty-two!” You suddenly raise your voice.

Jonah was done with this conversation, he couldn’t look at you without feeling sick right now. He turned to Iris. “Watch her, please?” and stormed off. He needed to find Frankie. He hears Iris sigh, then speak to you.

“C’mon, you can help me and Rey with laundry.”

Rey must really love her if he was helping her do laundry. He'd seen his room... laundry was not a priority...

Jonah slammed Frank against the wall as he entered the house from the stables. At about the same height, Jonah had an inch on him but that didn’t mean much against Frank’s broad expanse. Jonah needed to posture if he was going to intimidate him, even if Frankie was the most timid of the 4. He needed to make sure that today did not repeat. “What the FUCK was that!”

Frankie’s eyes were wide, all his prior bravery and showmanship gone as Jonah pressed his forearm into his chest. Jonah’s hand was fisted in his shirt. “Nothing!”

“That girl has enough going on without you publicly humiliating her! Are you going to bring her to one of your sex parties next? Parade her around naked for everyone to see!”

“NO!”

“What the fuck happened to you! You were the good one, Frankie! After everything Beatriz put us through, you wanna do that to her too!”

When Frankie’s mouth opened to respond, hurt and guilt flittering across his face just as Jonah knew it would, Jonah was tossed to the ground and tackled. Before Jonah even had a chance to see who it was, his face being beaten by fists, he knew it was Ben.

“DON’T! FUCKING! TOUCH HIM!” The boy shouted, pounding Jonah’s face so hard he wondered if he’d cave it in. The thought didn’t seem so bad, but he couldn’t leave Iris and the girl. It wasn’t fair for Jonah to escape this hell he put Iris in.

It was Frankie that pulled Ben off him, eyes blue and crazed and flashing with anger, keeping his body protectively in front of his lover. They were a secret from Santi and the girl, both of them too oblivious to suspect, but the rest of the household knew.

“Ben, stop, it’s fine”

“IT’S NOT FINE!” He screams, chest heaving in rage. Ben turns around to cup Ben’s cheek. “He doesn’t get to fucking touch you, baby.”

Frankie averted his eyes, body language stiff. It seemed he was okay compromising the girl’s dignity, putting her sexuality on display but was uncomfortable with Ben touting him. The reason, of course, was that Santi was a jealous god and Ben's possession could end his life, but the irony was still there.

The men left the hall, Frankie only looking back on where Jonah lay bleeding for a moment.

It was Rey that finally found him, Jonah too pained to get up on his own. His nose must be broken and everything ached, but the shame on Frankie’s face was enough. He made his point.

“Jonah! Shit!” Rey ran to him, and jonah forced himself to sit up lest the boy think he was dead.

“I’m fine, Rey.”

“Fucking bullshit, who did this? Was it Santi?”

He laughs. As if that man could get the jump on him without a knife or gun. Jonah could take him, he wasn’t the problem. The problem was the others. Ben, obviously, was a fucking force, and Will was a human mountain. Frankie was timid but don’t let that fool you, he’d seen the man take down forces.

The problem with Santi is the loyalty he garnered. Harming him meant the other 3 coming after him, and a majority of the commune. Delta would die for him, literally drinking the kool-aid if he asked.

Jonah refused to go to the kitchen, knowing Iris and the girl would be there, so Rey took him to his room to clean him up.

“You probably shouldn’t sleep.” Rey says, icing his face.

“I probably should drink either, but I'm gonna ask you to get me some whiskey.”

Rey chuckles and shakes his head, but gets the drink anyway. Jonah would just get his own.

Jonah mutters a thank you. “Please don’t tell Iris…” He sighs, knowing the answer to his request.

“You know I have to. Everyone else lies to her, she needs me to be honest.”

‘Everyone’ meant him. He hadn’t been a good father, he knew that. God, did he love her. Iris deserved better, he wanted to leave with her but there were no options. Everything around them had fallen apart, the other small communities around being so afraid of Delta they’d turn them in.

In the barren environment, Iris would die of exposer or be raped and killed by raiders within weeks, even with him and Rey protecting her. Not that she needed much protection, she was a skilled shot… which is why she wasn’t allowed a gun. Will kept careful eye on all the guns in Delta, Jonah himself only allowed his pistol during the day time, turning it in at night.

But Jonah hadn’t given up. He wouldn’t give up on getting Iris out until his last breath. If he could get the girl and Rey out too, he would, but Iris was the priority.

The energy had shifted, and Santi noticed.

Santiago fucked into Frankie who he had flipped naked onto his stomach with Will having Madonna on her back. Frankie, who previously in these moments had focused on him or Ben was now eying her tits as they bounced in time to Will’s thrusts. He had kissed her, even, which hadn’t sat right with him. He tolerated it with Will or Ben, but her? She wasn’t for Frankie to love, she wasn’t for Frankie to be attracted to even. She was for Frankie and him to fill.

You were on the edge of an orgasm, but so was he, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t waste his godly essence on a barren hole. And he wanted to, god he wanted to. He wanted to cum so hard into his lover that Frankie swelled with child. Could it be possible? They were god, they were powerful… Maybe if he fulfilled his duty, maybe if he produced the savior with the whimpering girl impaled on his brother's dick, Mother would grant him this. If he had it his way, he’d have this child with Frankie only… but even now, even in his 30’s and the primary leader of Delta, a demi-god and son of the Holiest Mother on high, he could not control this.

With a strangled, pained groan, Santi pulled out of his most favored lover, shoving at Will as he stroked himself. Taking the hint, Will came inside you, kissing you deeply even as he pulled himself away to make room for their leader. As Santi angrily pounded your core, making your eyes roll back as he was the one to make you cum, not Will. He watches as your body writhes under him, Will’s cum coating his cock and spathering on his hips as it leaks out. Frankie joins Will in kissing you, your pleasured face chasing both their mouths until it was a blur of who was kissing who, the two mouths intertwining.

Your moans grow louder again, chest heaving and back arching off the mattress and unable to kiss back as another orgasm began to eclipse you. That’s right, your pleasure was his. He controlled your body and what it felt, good or bad. Kneeling on either side of you, Will and Francisc straight and made out above, you sloppy and wet with Will shoving his large fingers into Frankie’s mouth. Santi wanted to cum, but his anger, his jealousy the white-hot fury that bubbled at his life-long inadequacy was holding him back. Will was practically throat fucking Frankie with his fingers, his left hand wrapped around his throat and Francisco’s whimpering moans gargled by his spit that dribbled down his chin and onto your breasts.

Pleasured sounds from your lips intensified when your hands went to your breasts, spreading the droll on your tits and playing with your nips with the slicked-up pads of your fingers. Despite fucking you, from where Santi knelt between your legs he felt on the outside of the scene, like he was the dildo and they were your porn, like he was being cucked in his own goddamn home.

Will pulled his fingers out, ordering Frankie to spit in her mouth. Santi watched in jealousy as you swallowed that part of him, quickly followed by Will’s own saliva. When Will went back to kissing Frankie, wet smacks of lips on lips, he used his dominant hand to jerk off Frankie's, throbbing, massive, uncut cock and the other shoving two fingers in your mouth. He wasn’t aggressive with you, merely giving you something to suck on as you came around Santi’s cock again. And then again. When Santiago watched Frank cum on your face, streak after streak of white liquid on your skin, Santiago couldn’t take it anymore. Angry, he reached out to fist Frank's brown curls and yank him towards him, lips crashing together.

SLAM, SLAM, SLAM he thrust his hips into Madonna until she screamed a final orgasm with the help of Will's lips lapping at her nipples. As Santi came into your womb with fury, biting down on Frankie’s lips until he tasted blood. When it was done, he shoved Frankie to lay down where Santi joined him, lapping at the tangy blood and sucking on hip lip to draw more out. Will laid down by you, kissing you in a stark contrast. It was gentle and soft, making you smile.

Santiago reached out repeatedly, scooping up the cum on your face and shoving it inside your sore, puffy pussy.

“Can’t be wasting a single drop, Frankie.”

WHAT ARE WE THINK WHAT ARE WE THINKING WHAT ARE WE THINKING

I don't know what came over me with that smut bro, I blacked out and wrote it. im on my period a lot is happening.

Oh Frankie.... c'mon dude, don't do Jonah like that :((((

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