#and made to suffer through even a fraction of the immense pain and suffering that they’ve forced onto palestinians

[stil-lindigo]

Context: Israel “allowed” aid in the forms of flour bags to be airdropped into Gaza, waited for hundreds to congregate, and then opened fire into the crowd of desperate, starving Palestinians. 150 Palestinians were killed. Hundreds more wounded. This is being called “The Flourbag Massacre”.

source

Meanwhile, over on the other side…

[french-unknown]

𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖗 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆𝖈𝖊

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: ace 𝖈/𝖜: be chased, angst, death 𝖜/𝖈: 2.6k + 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You've been walking for days. You no longer slept, no longer ate, no longer lived. You were walking. And, unfortunately, the more you lost speed, the closer it got.

| m a s t e r l i s t | - | e v e n t . s u m m a r y |

𝖆𝖈𝖊

You walked between the trunks of the immense trees as well as between their low and sinuous branches which scratched your face and other parts of your body. Exhausted, you had no more strength. Nor to avoid them. Nor to protect you. Nor to run.

The only thing you could still do was walk.

For weeks, that was all you did: walk straight ahead. You had reached a point where your body was nothing more than a pile of flesh in constant agony which weighed on you like a rope around your neck. The aches and pains ravaged you from the inside and your feet covered in blisters made you suffer like a martyr, just like your joints which put you in torment. Your feet were less and less recognizable as the days went by and the pain accumulated there. Even your back could no longer support your own body's weight after days of carrying your backpack. Just thinking had become too costly an effort.

So you walked.

Without thinking, you walked.

Suddenly, one of your feet got caught in a gnarled root and you fell forward. You then found yourself on your knees while, carried away by your movement, your backpack took advantage of the momentum to crush your face down on the ground. Your chin hit the ground violently, sending flashes of pain radiating through your jaw and neck.

For a fraction of a second, no longer having the strength to fight, you thought about leaving yourself there. Abandon yourself to death which will soon arrive.

But a rustling in the trees behind you sent a shiver of terror down your spine that gave you the determination to get up. You then brought your trembling arms towards your face and got back on your numb legs to start again.

One foot in front of the other.

And you did it again and again and again.

Like a poorly oiled machine that had just been lubricated, you resumed your forward movement that you had been repeating for days. One step after another and you start again. Your feet dragged on the ground between each step but you didn't even pay attention to them anymore. As long as you were moving forward, that was all that mattered to you.

Unfortunately, night fell and, with it, darkness.

Unable to go any further, you had to force yourself to put down your bag for the night. A feeling of freshness and intense pleasure burst briefly in your ribs before being quickly overtaken by the aches that tirelessly tortured your back and shoulders. You unfolded the small tent that you had been carrying since the beginning of your wandering and you entered it.

You put down the gun that you kept in your back pocket then successively took off all your layers of coat and you were finally able to sit on the fabric floor.

You untied your shoelaces first, delaying the moment to take off your shoes as much as possible, but the fateful moment finally presented itself. You grabbed your shoe by its ends before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to prepare yourself for the pain to come. Deciding that it was best not to delay the torture too long, you gave the sole a sharp tug. Immediately, you felt your skin peeling off in several places and was followed by an intense burning sensation that made you release a pitiful moan between your tight lips. With tears in your eyes and a lump in your stomach, you nevertheless repeat the same operation with your other shoes and end up taking off your socks. You didn't even dare look at the state of your feet underneath.

Now in pants and a t-shirt and not even having the desire to eat despite the endless day you had just spent, you therefore went to bed to give your broken body some rest. And, now that it was your exhausted body that went into sleep mode, it was your mind's turn to wake up and take over.

Sadly, it was mostly for the worse.

Indeed, every noise no matter how small, became an alarm signal. The hooting of the birds—you guessed—made you jump under your tent while the rustling of the trees made you tremble like a leaf. The slightest sound was a threat.

Was this crack the breaking of a stick? If so, was it due to an animal passing by or him catching up with you again?

Was this low blowing that of the wind or its wheezing that had been chasing you for weeks?

What if the sounds of the forest camouflaged its presence? What if you didn't hear him coming and he attacked your shelter before you had time to escape?

An unfamiliar screeching sound suddenly rang in your ears and you froze.

Petrified, you could not move the slightest member of your body which had mysteriously transformed into stone. As vulnerable as it was immobile. Even your breathing seemed too loud for your own ears. However, after a good while without anything jumping on your shelter, you relaxed. You still stayed with your eyes glued to the entrance, unable to take your eyes off the zipper pull.

You then heard a slow sound of footsteps outside. As if someone were rolling the sole of their foot as slowly as possible to make as little noise as possible and thus not be noticed. You cowered in the back of your tent.

You couldn't run away anymore, he was there.

After a while though, there was still nothing.

Terrified, you gripped your gun then brought a shaking hand closer to the opening to open it a few centimeters. Millimeter by millimeter so as not to alert. You held your breath because you were so panicked. When the opening was made, you brought your eye closer to the slit to take a look outside.

Person.

You waited for a while but nothing came.

You were alone.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and as they began to flow down your cheeks, you pulled your outstretched hand toward the small front pocket of your backpack. As soon as the pads of your fingers touched the rough fabric, you felt them retract painfully around the pocket.

A moan of distress escaped your throat this time.

Moisture completely stained your face as your hand was now folded in desolation against the last proof of happiness you had.

You knew that, under the fabric below your palm, was a photo of you and Ace smiling toothily at the camera. He was dressed as Ivankov with a ridiculously large purple afro and a revealing leotard, and you as Inazuma in a long two-tone fur coat with cheeks flushed from alcohol and an empty glass of wine in your hand. Having watched him for many hours, you knew that if you glanced at him, you would see his arm happily wrapped around your waist and his lively face shining as he was cheek to cheek against you .

An unknown noise around your tent made you jump again, but this time you didn't even have the strength to silence your sobs.

Unfortunately, the sound—you don't know why—brought back the memory of your lover's body, lying on his stomach with his arms at his sides and a peaceful smile on his lips. His closed eyes cast shadows on his cheeks stained with his adorable freckles. Unconscious at first, you had to see the desperate look of his little brother on whom he was lying down for you to understand what was happening. And at the same time you notice the huge bloody hole that ran right through his chest.

Ace was dead.

You felt your heart being crushed and torn apart like barbaric torture intended for the worst crimes. You would have preferred to tear it away rather than continue to suffer this martyrdom. The distress was so intense that you couldn't even moan your distress. You were nothing more than a soft mass shivering painfully.

A rumble in the distance disturbed you.

He reminded you of how, a few weeks ago, you had been woken up by the sound of glass crashing to the floor. Confused at first, you saw the door open slowly before letting Ace appear on your doorstep. You couldn't believe your eyes. As soon as he started to approach you, you immediately untangled yourself from your sheets to jump on him with happiness. He was back!

But it didn't go as you had imagined because, just in your tracks, your lover gave you a powerful blow in the chest that took your breath away while sending you violently back onto your mattress. You didn't even have time to bounce once before he fell on you and pinned you against your sheets. The moment his head got closer, you panicked. You then tried to push him away but he was as if unleashed: he didn't speak—he only growled like an animal—and yet managed to scratch you deeply from your shoulder to your chest. Thanks to several skillfully placed blows, you managed to free him from you before running away.

Since then, all you've done is run away.

But long gone were the days when he chased you around like a lovesick puppy in order to make eye contact with you for cuddles or to be forgiven. Now he was stalking you to attack you. And he never stopped.

He didn't take a break.

He wasn't eating.

He wasn't sleeping.

He was chasing you.

The howl of an animal in the night then got the better of your nerves. Unable to close even one eyelid to sleep, you sat up despite the protests of your exhausted body and began to get dressed again. You put on your multiple layers and your shoes and, in ten minutes, you were leaving with your tent on your back.

You jumped at the slightest cry, howl or rustle of leaves but you preferred to be outside rather than trapped in your shelter.

The routine of walking, even if it made you go through an ordeal for the time you had been doing it, at least had the merit of making you turn off your brain which was drowning in suffering. One foot in front of the other. And you did it again and again and again. The sounds of the forest came from all around you but you no longer paid as much attention to them as when you were in your tent.

Here, your only goal was to move forward.

Your past, however, came back, not with a new burst of tears, but with a weight that suddenly crashed against your ribs to send you flying headfirst against the trunk of a surrounding tree. Stunned by shock, it took you a split second before you understood what was happening to you.

And that split second was enough for Ace to land a kick right into your tired knees.

Already weakened by the days of walking that you had undergone since your first attack, your joints collapsed pitifully. You then found yourself kneeling on the ground with your legs refusing to get up due to exhaustion. You were then unable to avoid your lover when he came back and took the next blow right in the face.

That didn't stop you from seeing that he had also changed since your last meeting.

Where before he was a muscular man—always shirtless for your greatest pleasure—with tanned skin and a smile that would melt the snow on any winter island of the Grand Line, he was now just the shadow of himself. His emaciated, gnarled figure seemed almost too big for his pale skin. It looked like the latter was ready to tear apart at his joints with each of his movements. Moreover, his drawn features no longer had anything warm about them. No more than the gaping hole from which you could see through his chest.

Although he fired a few attacks at you, you managed to avoid the ones that came afterward. He also wasn't in the same shape as before he left and his movements were strangely slow and haphazard compared to before.

Pinned beneath him, you twisted in disgust when you saw a drop of almost black red blood drip from his chest wound and land on the front of your jacket. Immediately, you knocked him down surprisingly easily and pinned him to the ground before holding his wrists in your hands. Now immobilized, you realized with amazement that, after endless weeks of running away from him, you could have the upper hand over him. And rather easily.

Ace for his part was growling like a madman and trying as best he could to get up to escape your grasp. However, despite his persistence, you restrained him without much difficulty.

Now that you could look him in the face, you couldn't help but compare him to your Ace. Behavior aside, it was him. The same hair, the same eyes, the same face. He was your lover. The one you had cherished and who had cherished you in return throughout your relationship.

The man who snuggled up to you every night because he claimed it was the only way to sleep well.

The man who always made sure that you were always in contact with each other.

The man who told you how much he loved you.

You didn't want to see him die again. Not yet. Not because of you.

Torn, a memory came back to you. You were both on the deck of the Moby Dick, hand in hand while he chatted with Marco and you read your book on your own. However, you heard the doctor suddenly start teasing Ace. You didn't pay much attention to it at first but it quickly became your business when you felt your lover's hand begin to heat up in yours as he kept your fingers held firmly between his.

Luckily for you, he released your hand before anything could happen to you but, as night fell, he was inconsolable. He had collapsed against you at bedtime, dying of guilt at the idea of having almost hurt you.

This Ace was your Ace.

The one who loved and cherished you from the depths of his heart.

You found yourself confronted with this monster who looked exactly like your lover. But who wasn't him.

Before you could back away, you suddenly released one of his hands before diving yours into your back pocket and, without waiting another second, you drew your pistol to point it at his forehead. You closed your eyes, unable to watch yourself make the move, and pulled the trigger.

The detonation rang out and all the other sounds of the forest faded away.

With your eyes still closed, you felt the body stop moving beneath you and sink limply against the ground. The wrist you were still holding also stopped gesticulating and fell weakly out of your palm.

Despite the lump in your throat, you opened your eyelids.

Beneath you, you saw Ace lying silently on his back, his eyes blankly turned to the sky, while his arms rested haphazardly around his head. His face was no longer twisted as before and, under the diaphanous light of the moon, it looked like a white sheet with veins showing through. His black hair in the night were as a halo which further highlighted his white face, devoid of all life.

A sob rose painfully in your throat as you fell forward with your head inches below the wounds on his chest. The tears began to flow abundantly down your cheeks and then ended their journey on the body now forever immobile and lifeless. You shook uncontrollably over his remains.

"I'm sorry." you cried. "I'm so sorry."

°˖✧ Salut ✧˖°

I just wanted to warn that this is the first times that I have written texts with a somewhat horrific style, so I am sorry if you got excited about the title for nothing and were disappointed. I'm also not a consumer of horror material because I'm a big—huge, you can't even imagine how much—sissy, then the stories risk not being very original.

So, if you see points that can be improved, don't hesitate to let me know so that I can get better. Thanks! ~

See you tomorrow!

𝖏𝖔𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖚𝖕𝖉𝖆𝖙𝖊

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @iheartamora @bontensh0e @opchara @lys-ada @xomingyu @dozcan123

[dxrknessembr8ced]

Far from the distance where everyone with in the reach of miles upon miles could see a large beaming light from the direction of the jiangshi and Nemesis which then the light have suddenly produced a thick red mist like fog covering the entire area as the red mist is the fog formation of the T-Erebus virus contaminating the entire area possibly killing thousands within their reach infecting the human survivors into the undead and kill darkstalkers through inhaling the virus with symptoms similar to that Ebola. From above the sky nighthawk and the crew within the chopper watched and record everything that is happening. The fight between her and nemesis became far more nightmarish than they believe. Hsien-Ko no longer hold back her pain, she is giving everything she had against Nemesis as her body gave out a dark menacing aura as her body once more begun to mutate and placing her into a more grisly metamorphosis.

Hsien-Ko gritted her sharp teeth stomping her feet onto the ground as sharp rows of spike like dorsal plates emerged from right behind her back all made from her flesh, her bones, and gore.

' PRAAACCCKKK!!! '

' PRAAACCKKK!! '

' PRAACCKKK! '

' PWAACCKK!! '

Then came a long tail to go along with her inner animalistic side fusing with her skin, flesh, and bone to create such a grotesque and grisly mess of a tail as at the end of her new tail is a horrid face with one eye and half it's skull exposed as the face is none other than, the face of her beloved older sister Mei-Ling which could symbolized that at thus moment no matter how much of a monster she has become her love for her older sister will always be eternal, for she is the only family she have. This could also be symbolizing how much humanity she has left, a small fraction of humanity slowly drift away from her body and mind and in those golden eyes tears of blood begun flooding down to her cheeks. Once her change have completed, there are voices in her head that echoed within, they are the cries of blood and wrath. The song of death and all of the destruction around her, the song that tells the wrath of the god incarnate.

" Persecution Of The Masses, sacred blessings count for NOTHING..... "

Nemesis watched what is happened as he cracked his knuckles preparing himself for the worse, though the tyrant have to admit this is far beyond anything he has ever seen but despite this, despite knowing he will not win nor will he survive he will continue on to fight and push forward, just as how will she will push on despite her immense suffering and constant state of agony. Right there as Nemesis begins to attack he paused as the woman is, glowing? Hsien-Ko's body slowly begun to glow again but this is something else entirely. Even her sharp dorsal spikes all the way down to her tail began glowing as she slowly opened her entire mouth as she unhinged her jaw exposing rows of sharp jagged covered in blood as blue glowing circles began to form in front of her acting as an odd particle accelerator all while the tyrant Nemesis watched on in confusion and caution. What Hsien-Ko is going to do, is unleashing a powerful condensed beam of ionized energy so powerful it will kill all and everything in her path in a single blast radius leaving nothing but just destruction in her wake. Upon unleashing the beam of such destructive power towards the tyrant, Nemesis try to get away by his whole entire body....

' KROOOOOOOSSSHH!!!! '

.....is sliced in half by the powerful beam as his entire body then exploded into nothing but charred ashes, leaving nothing behind the devastation finally killing him. The fight was no fight at all, it was an execution and though she had won and granted justice she could not stop here path of destruction as the voices within continued to sing the song of god's wrath from the voices of the people she has wronged, begging for god to grant them protection from Hsien-Ko's wrath all while setting the entire area to a fiery blaze loosing control of herself once more.

" Oh god give us you're protection.... "

Hsien-Ko's Path of destruction continued, her Humanity is drifting away further and further down her path of destruction all the way to the abyss, her older sister from in her mind tried to stop her, trying to snap her out of her monstrous rage and animalistic side of T-Erebus, but the urge became stronger than anything and she must pressed on to bring more suffering and misery into the world as the voices continued singing into her mind.

" Let no blame lie at the innocents who have prayed... "

Through the path of destruction there were no survivors, the BSAA, New shadow law operatives and everything else died at the path of destruction she made with her beam of pure ionized energy from with set this entire village to the ground as it sliced into the houses, causing powerful explosions similar to that of an atom bomb. Everyone from both sides including and shockingly Seth watched in absolute horror to what had happen and what have the virus itself done to Hsien-Ko that destructive power while it is fascinating but it is also terrifying for even the machine to take as the voices inside her head sing one last chorus as Hsien-Ko now finished her path of her destruction and she screamed in agony and regret for she finally became the very thing she feared the most.

" If your high praise is all we have, let us not be WITHOUT YOU! "

Hsien-Ko screamed into the darkness of the red mist, tears of blood flooding down in her eyes snapping out of her monstrous side as she come to her senses of what she did to everyone around her. Through the eyes of the people she's a monster, everything she feared becoming a reality. A darkstalker.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 10

Summary: Haunted by her own mind, Y/N isn’t sure what to do with the information she uncovered. On the other hand, the Darkling felt a growing distance between them, allowing himself to admit something he never thought he’d say.

Warnings: angst, swearing, fluff, sexual innuendos 

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six // Part seven // Part eight // Part nine   

=================================

A long time ago lived a young boy with the power of saints. He held the darkness at the tip of his fingers, capable of forcing the day into an eternal night. Back then, he made all the wrong choices for all the right reasons. To protect the ones he loves, he allowed the shadows to consume him. Cursed with immortality, he walked the earth ever since. Forever alone, hurt and betrayed, the Darkling's heart no longer beat as it turned to stone. No longer did he suffer, no longer did he feel pain or anything at all.

Until now.

There was no escape from emotions when he looked at her. Even in the darkness, she had the ability to set his world on fire.

A single badly made decision in a moment where everything feels more important than love can make your entire life feel like a failure. He would never make the same mistake again. 

This lifetime he gives to her – wholeheartedly.

When they stopped for the night, he had felt uneasy as Y/N conversed freely with everyone but him. It seemed like she’s on edge and not knowing why gnawed at him. Once night came and they settled in their tent, the Darkling couldn’t contain himself.

"I sense some...hostility."

Scoffing, she rolled her eyes, "Oh, how observant of you."

"What happened?” He asked, “Did someone at the Palace do something to you? Was it Genya?"

"And what if she did?” Tilting her head ever so slightly, she neared him. “What would you do?"

Without thinking, he answered, "I'd protect you."

Inhaling sharply, she raised an eyebrow. "And what if it was you?"

Pausing, his eyebrows furrowed as he unclenched his jaw. "Is it me?"

"If it was you who upset me, would that bother you?" Y/N pushed further, genuinely wondering if he cares for her as much as she thinks. After all, who’d believe the Darkling has a heart? She was still trying to convince herself it’s real when he kisses her temple when he thinks she’s fast asleep.

"Immensely."

With her hands on her hips, she narrowed her eyes at him. "So, how would you protect me from yourself?"

Letting out a heavy sigh, Aleksander ran his hand through his hair. "I'd let you decide."

Closing her eyes in frustration, her lower lip curled inwards as her front teeth sunk into the flesh. A part of her wanted to ask him about being the creator of the fold, but it was an advantage that would be unwise to let go of. 

"Why are you being so agreeable? Is it because I spread my legs for you now?"

"I've never known you to be so crude." The muscles in his jaw tighten as he squints at her and it’s taking everything in her not to smile because she absolutely loved when he’d look at her like that. It felt more natural than the soft, wistful looks he’d send her way.

"And I never realized you could be so easily tamed”, she remarks, her voice louder than before.

Chuckling in disbelief, the Darkling shrugs off his kefta without breaking eye contact. "You believe that you've tamed me?"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shut her eyes. Her face is flushed, her head spinning and she has nothing concrete to tell him. She can’t make sense of anything anymore, the image of him in her head changing with every passing minute.

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

In two strides, Aleksander found himself before her. Cupping her cheeks, he tilts her head up to face him and when she opens her eyes, she’s lost in the universe that’s captured in his eyes. She loved the night sky littered with stars, but she never truly knew what it means to stargaze until she met him.

“I’ve discovered I love you.”

Raising her eyebrows, her jaw slacked. “When have you discovered that?” Her voice is high, tone defensive, but his smile grows because it wouldn’t be her if she didn’t fight him even when he’s trying to admit to something he long forgot exists.

“When all my decisions started to revolve around keeping you safe.”

Shaking, her eyes widened. “That’s impossible! You hate me!”

Placing a hand over her mouth, he used his other to press his index finger to his lips. “Shh”, he chuckles, “You’ll wake the others.”

Rolling her eyes, she licked his hand.

“Really? I’ve touched you in a way that made you scream long into the night”, he deadpans, “Your tongue can’t possibly disgust me.” Smirking, he leans in, “On the contrary.”

Slapping his hand away, she turned away from him. Grabbing her head, she sat down with her thoughts running so fast, too fast for her to pick one out to decide what she thinks, feels, wants.

Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her back flush against his chest. “I know you hate me now, but I’m a patient man. I won’t give up on you.”

He held her for a while, too long for either of them to realize the night had slowly trickled away from them and given way to dawn. Their journey wasn’t quite as long anymore. Soon enough, they’ll be at the fold and Y/N didn’t know what to do.

Should she tell him? Ask him for an explanation?

Would he kill her even if he said he loves her?

She still felt his kisses as he laid her down beside him. For the first time since they made love, they didn’t initiate any physical intimacy. Instead, they simply stared at one another.

She’s not for feeble minded people, there’s no doubt about it in his mind and if anything, Aleksander was more determined to love her because of it. She tested him in every way possible and while she was incredibly frustrating to argue with, Aleksander refused to give up on her. She’s difficult to understand to ordinary minds, but he isn’t ordinary.

His love will conquer in the end, he truly believed that. He could have continued on like nothing changed between them, but he could not be silent any longer. After all the time he’s spent in vein, all the years he wasted and lives he’s lived, Aleksander never found someone who gave him a reason to believe. Not until he met Y/N.

While she remained silent, stunned by his admission, he spoke of the day he first met Ivan and Fedyor. He spoke of their adventures, of their silly mistakes and she found herself smiling at first. Soon, she was laughing with him, and though she had no courage to admit it yet, she fell asleep thinking about him. Their knees were touching and her heart was racing, but the world never felt so right as it did when she was next to him.

Once on the road, she took the reins once again.

Kirigan ignored the whispers about her riding his horse, choosing to glare them into silence. No one dared to speak of it after.

Stopping a few miles short of their destination, Y/N drew a shuddered breath. The sight is hauntingly beautiful, a nightmare come alive. Swallowing thickly, a faint line formed between her eyebrows as they furrowed.

How could Aleksander be the Black Heretic? How is it possible for him to live so long?

“I’m here”, he whispers in her ear.

Goosebumps rise across the back of her neck as his warm breath dances across her skin. And there he is again, with her when she’s looking for solitude, offering his hand to hold and shoulder to lean on even when she least expects it. The worst thing is that she’s actually becoming dependent on his help and that scares her most of all, because what is she supposed to do when he decides he never did love her and all of it was simply an obsession fueled by her rejection. 

She’s still a novelty to him, that will wear off eventually.

“I’m not afraid”, she remarks, “I’m-“, she pauses in an attempt to find a better word, “Admiring it.”

“Admiring”, he repeats in surprise. “Most people find it absolutely terrifying.” 

She wondered if it frightened him. What would happen if he went in?

Turning her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of his parted lips. She felt ashamed how it caused her heartbeat to quicken, how it ached for a taste.

“I’m not most people”, she reminded him. And he knew that well. The Darkling would never fall for an ordinary woman.

“What I want to know is what went through his mind”, she grips the reigns tighter.

“Of the black heretic?”

Feeling his hands tighten around her waist, she nods. “I wish I knew what led to the creation of the fold. Why did he do it?”

“Maybe he just couldn’t help himself”, Aleksander’s voice is strained, “Maybe he’s just pure evil.”

Leaning the back of her head on his shoulder, she looked up at him. She longed for him, for an earnest conversation with their souls laid bare, but would she live long if she unveiled what her mind’s been tormented by?

“I don’t believe that”, she says softly.

Their eyes meet in an instant, the closeness forcing them both to hold their breath and look at each other silently. Looking at her, he touched her cheek gently with the back of his hand.

“Why give him the benefit of doubt?”

Aleksander’s free hand gently moves along her arm, finding its rightful place at the side of her neck, touching her skin so tenderly she felt blissful and it reminded her of that night where he unraveled her, made her scream in pleasure she never found before.

There was no denying it, Y/N had a weakness for his hand on her neck and his words in her heart, neither of which she had any willpower to refuse, especially not when she couldn’t breathe when he looked at her with such longing, shameful lust and indisputable passion and understanding.

It took everything in her to find the strength to speak again without her voice cracking under the pressure of her own emotions. 

“Because darkness doesn’t equate evil, just as light doesn’t equate good.”

Without a warning, he kissed her fiercely, violently, leaving her raw. She didn’t move away, she didn’t make a sound. All she did was close her eyes and part her lips and in that fraction of a second, she allowed herself to get lost in the beauty of a lover’s touch for when his lips claimed hers, nothing mattered anymore.  

When he broke away, she was breathless and undeniably his.

“What was that for?” She raised an eyebrow, a shadow of a smile forming on her bruised lips.

She shuddered, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip ruthlessly as Aleksander’s breath caressed her skin. It felt so right, too right to resist his advances. She lived for those long nights in their bed, those thick with lust and romance and naked kisses.

Aleksander shrugs, “I wanted to.”

Lips parted, she didn’t know what to do with that. He told her he loves her, that he’d wait for her to love him back and most women would fall at his feet. Something inside her refused to do so. To admit her feelings out loud would be the end of her. 

If she allows herself to love him fully, how could she possibly be the cause of his downfall? 

What would be left of her if she took his love and used it against him in the most cruel way possible?

She’s losing who she is around him, but it hurt so much more to reject his love. Hating him, pretending her heart isn’t a feeble muscle where he resides is exhausting.

Truth is, he doesn't make her feel safe or comfortable as she once believed a man should. He makes her feel like she's teetering at the edge of a cliff and she's getting addicted to that feeling. She’s getting addicted to him – his scent, his touch, his handsome smile and devilish smirk and most of all to the way his darkness drives away her demons.

Love has to come at once, with thunder and lightning like a hurricane that wreaks havoc on your life, to shake you up and break the heart like leaves off trees, to drag it into the abyss - abyss he created. 

She used to fear the dark, but now she found herself running into it.

In that moment, she smiled. 

Perhaps the darkness is not so bad if he’ll be there, holding her hand.

=============================

A/N - So, I literally wrote this in about two hours and I’m about to pass out. I wanna thank you for Eid Mubarak responses and especially for the feedback, I was just reading through them and they made my day so much better. I’m seeing some interesting theories too, some paragraphs you loved or just thoughts about the characters and IT GIVES ME LIFE. I’m so, so grateful for it all.

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon  @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06  @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer @olympiacosplay @pansysgirlfriend @extrakyloren  @daybleedsintonightfa11 @thoughts-and-funnies @weirdowithnobeardo @folkloresworld @remugoodgirl​ 

PART 11

[fandomoverdrive]

Okay I just need to go on a rant about Whirl because I love him he might just be the most tragic character in the entirety of MTMTE and considering the candidates that’s a pretty hard position to cinch. Some of this is gonna have mentions re: self harm, suicidal tendencies/ideation, overall bad coping mechanisms etc so if that’s not your cuppa please scroll on. 

This gets long so here’s the obligatory read more. 

Let’s write “tragic” in flickering neon letters with the fact that Whirl’s first appearance in MTMTE, dropping the titular “how to say goodbye and mean it,” is a personal soliloquy delivered as he’s in the midst of constructing his own funeral pyre. Whirl is lost, directionless, trapped and unwilling to be such in a postwar environment. But how did we get here? 

Whirl is without a doubt a driven character. In the prewar functionist society, he had no qualms switching careers, risks be damned. Whether he’s always had a knack for disobeying authority or was simply driven by passion or both isn’t elaborated on, but he’s got a hell of a hardheaded streak that’s impossible to ignore. When destroying his business wasn’t enough to deter him from further rebellion, the Senate was happy to turn him into an empuratee and destroy not only the opportunity but the capability of continuing to rebel by pursuing his passion. This is what I’d personally consider the big ‘whump’ moment, less so the use and abuse as a pawn that followed but the point of trauma at which we begin to see Whirl’s psyche begin to twist.

From this point forward we see Whirl in and out of prison, let loose when he can be useful to someone else’s ploy and otherwise incarcerated for a buffet of offenses. No longer able to be constructive and having little if any control of his life, Whirl becomes aggressively destructive. In response to having everything he aspired toward ripped away from him, permanently, he builds a mental defense of bitterness and anger and paves over his black hole of self worth with a veneer of outright assholery. It’s here that he bares his metaphorical fangs and pushes - with gusto - anyone who might even suggest they’re trying to appeal to reason or get close to him as an individual. 

It’s hard to imagine, given even subtly different circumstances, that Whirl would not side with the decepticons for the war. While he’s single-handedly responsible for radicalizing Megatron towards violence, the ‘con intent at the start of revolution - that movement in society should be possible and a caste system based on alt mode is unethical - aligns quite nicely with what he’d already aspired to do with his life. His conscription to the side of the autobots is just another instance in which his autonomy is cast aside. 

Whirl is a tool. Whirl had a passion for watchmaking, but now he can’t, so his new passion is violence. Whirl is a gun and someone else has always told him where to point and all he’s ever been given for his cooperation is the blame of pulling the trigger. Whirl is an asshole, Whirl is unpredictable, Whirl isn’t a mech anybody would ever think twice about saving - the answer would always be no. Whirl wants to die. Whirl only wants to die on his own terms and he’ll be damned if he’s going to keel over under the orders of someone he doesn’t respect, for a cause he doesn’t believe in. 

A few years of this sort of treatment would be enough to drive anyone insane, let alone the millennia of warfare he suffered through. Worse yet is the one time he found a group, a team that was known for the unorthodox and taking on the big messy challenges, the Wreckers kicked him out. Whirl was too much for the mechs that were too much and there’s no way in hell that doesn’t still sting. 

That’s how we get here:

Whirl defends himself through isolation from others. He can’t be hurt by others if he never lets them close enough to be hurt by. In a hypersocial society, he has no close long-term friends, he is one of the few with no roommate aboard the Lost Light. He made himself as unpalatable as possible. He’s crass, he’s volatile, he makes it clear with every word and action that Whirl is first, you don’t mean anything, I’d leave you for dead in an instant..... But that’s not true, is it? 

Whirl is shown being completely, dramatically, self-destructively caring throughout the series. Between risking his life for the scraplet colony disguised as a protoform, participating in an untested spark jumpstart to save a life, coming up with a plan to rejuvenate Tailgate’s spark, and performing a spark transplant surgery on Megatron - without whom the world would never have been even a fraction as cruel to Whirl as it had been - Whirl is far from the most selfish character in the series. It’s in his nature, however, to deny such, to the point where he more than likely believes his own narrative that he’s irredeemable, self-absorbed, invincible, degenerate, and neither capable nor deserving of close interpersonal relationships. 

It’s also how we get here:

Whirl is one of the characters that we more frequently see in a state of disrepair. He fights passionately and recklessly, with no regard whatsoever to whether or not he makes it out of a scrum with all his limbs intact. Injuries like these, and those that he experiences elsewhere in the series, would put other mechs out of commission through pain alone, but as long as Whirl is conscious he doesn’t stop until the fight is over. 

As depressing as it is to think that Whirl is simply at this point accustomed to extraordinary pain, it’s even moreso to think about the more likely concept that he wants to be hurt. Whirl doesn’t have control of a lot that happens to him, but do you know what he does have control of? Who he chooses to shit-talk. More often than not we see Whirl being blatantly disrespectful of his superiors, and some of the more dangerous mechs aboard the LL. While obviously his intent when insulting Ultra Magnus isn’t to start a fight, harping on Drift (and subsequently getting cold clocked) or Cyclonus is a little more self-destructive in nature. 

While Whirl has been in therapy, we see during the encounter with Fort Max that he’d shared very little of what he actually considered traumatic with Rung. With no material to work with, Rung wouldn’t have been able to give Whirl instructions or advice as far as a healthy coping mechanism, and so I’m firmly of the belief that Whirl goes out of his way to get himself hurt as a way to have a vague sense of control. 

On his actions and guilt:

Whirl is immensely guilty. When he’s overcharged, he admits that everything feels like his fault - and unfortunately a lot is. Whirl believes he’s the bad guy, and he’s willing to take the fall for actions that others might find immoral. There’s a lot Whirl has done that he’ll likely never forgive himself for, even if he garnered the ability to start forgiving himself for the small things, but the character he’s created for himself has been part of him for so long that it’s near impossible to tell where to draw the line between caricature and his genuine self. 

At this point in time, Whirl is not capable of improving himself without external assistance. 

He has accepted (however wrongfully) that he is not cared about, trusted, wanted, or respected. 

His assumptions become self-fulfilling prophecy as he - consciously or not - works to perpetuate his image. Whirl is a dick, he’s unfazed by anything anyone says about him, if someone is insulting him they’re probably right, why bother arguing unless it’s with the intent to get in a fight? He doesn’t pay attention to others, he doesn’t pay attention to himself, nothing that anybody could say could possibly make a difference. 

Right? Right?

Wrong. Part of what makes Whirl so heart-wrenchingly tragic is that it is so incredibly clear that nobody has ever told him he mattered. Rodimus throws out what could be interpreted as a snide remark, “even the crazy bastard makes a difference,” and that aside sticks with him. Millions of years of warfare, of being a tool to use, an expendable soldier, a rabid dog to throw at their enemies, and not once did someone turn around and say he was anything good. He’s been thanked for saving lives, for contributions, for individual acts, but his reaction to Rodimus really cements in my mind that nobody has ever said that he, that Whirl, was important. 

Whirl is a broken character. He’s subsumed by his own self-hatred that he perpetuates and justifies with a mask of cruel indifference and aggressively abrasive snark. He’s alone, by what he thinks is his own choice but is really a horribly misguided attempt to keep himself safe. He’s got no potential for growth unless someone wants to force their way through his defenses in order to help him find the line between who he is and who he pretends to be in order to keep from being hurt. Whirl is terrified of abandonment, and guarantees that nobody will ever be able to leave him by never letting them come close to begin with. He’s not a good person, he’s violent and callous and has little regard for the consequences of his actions, but he is that way because of the life he was forced to lead. He falls into consistent patterns because he craves control, even if those patterns are self destructive. It’s proof of the little growth he was allowed during the course of MTMTE/LL that after their quest was over, he didn’t attempt suicide again but instead got into the revolving door of incarceration for petty offenses. 

All in all, Whirl is one of the saddest characters in any media I’ve consumed and please someone get this despicable bastard helicopter a new therapist and a stiff drink 

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 42)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6, Vivi POV 5, Lewis POV 7 Vivi POV 6 Vivi POV 7

Part 43: here

...

(ARTHUR POV)

“Maybe, if you’d been even half of what he was, you wouldn’t have been possessed so damn easily. I mean, this kid put up more of a fight, and he’s pretty much a walking collection of neurosis,” the demon taunts.

“I said shut up!”

The demon, and by default, Arthur, narrows their eyes. Micky’s sudden appearance has thrown a wrench into its plans, drawing its full and undivided attention. Irritation curls around Arthur, replacing the previous sensations of smug satisfaction and amusement. The emotion is unpleasant, making Arthur’s mind crawl but it’s better than the sadistic joy he had been forced to endure as it was stabbing Lewis. For the first time since that disastrous meeting in the hospital’s car-park, Arthur finds himself completely free of surveillance. The demon’s attention is focused solely on Micky and the gun. The shift is so sudden and is Arthur so panicked, that he almost doesn’t recognise the opportunity. 

Luckily-the only luck he’s had in a long while-he does recognise his opening. His one chance to make things right. 

A desperate calm settles over him. Lightning flashes, illuminating the faint blue and purple of Vivi and Lewis’s clothes. Mystery glows ever brighter, casting a red tint on the concrete around him. Everything else is darker shades of grey, fading into black.

In his new state of calm, Arthur can envision how the next few seconds would play out. Micky would shoot. The demon would dodge.  Even now, he can feel how his body is tensing, preparing to duck to the side. The demon is hyper-focus on the gun, watching Micky’s every muscle twitch. To dodge, the demon would have to already be moving even before the gun went off. It would need precise control and a split-second warning just before the shot. After the gun fired, Vivi would run forward to ‘save’ him, putting herself in danger. Then, Mystery would be forced to transform and save her. In the commotion, the demon would make their escape. 

“Did you even go back to bury him, or did you just leave him there? What happened to all the ritual, funeral nonsense to send his soul on its merry way? How disrespectful.” The demon’s voice is full of malice, coloured with amusement, aiming to both harm and insult. 

The gun clicks in Micky’s hand. Already, Arthur can feel himself tensing, preparing to move fast.

“Stop!” Vivi lurches upright and Mystery blocks her from jumping between them. “If you shoot, you’ll kill Arthur!”

 This is okay. Arthur has already accepted that he might never see his friends again. The demon would run, take him away, and they would be safe. Mystery would pass along his apology and it would be fine. The only one to really suffer would be him and he thinks he can live with that. Is that true though? 

“That fucking brat sent us to our deaths. He’s just as guilty.”

It wasn’t just him that would suffer was it? This thing would keep on killing. It would use his body to kill other people and maybe, one day, it would go after Lewis or Vivi again. The creature wanted Arthur specifically and he is aware enough to know that the demon has got some sort of plan involving his messed-up soul. 

The body snatcher sniggers, “I’m sure Dan would be very unimpressed with how you're threatening this poor innocent human. I mean, if he weren’t a shish-kebab at the bottom of a cave.” 

Micky yells, loud, animalistic, full of pain and rage. Arthur feels a pang of empathy for the man who had had the misfortune of running into him and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like Darrel.

In that fraction of a second before the gun goes off, his body, under the direction of the demon, lunches to the right.  Everything slows, time crawling by. Arthur can already see Mystery leaping, his dog form rapidly expanding. Vivi is also running towards him, face white with fear. 

His way out was suddenly blindingly clear.

With all his remaining will power, throws himself to the left. He slams into the mental barrier separating him from his body. Similar to when he’d first tried this in the van, the demon falters ever so briefly, its attention refocusing onto him and away from Micky. For a fraction of a second, in between heartbeats, the demon’s movements slow. Unlike when he had tried this before, there is no time for the demon to react.

 “ARTHUR!”

 The shout rings in his ears alongside the loud CRACK of a shotgun discharging. 

A sudden weight smacks him in the chest and he stumbles back. This time, Arthur’s sense of fear is mixed in with his own cold vindication. In a moment of role reversal, it is Arthur feeling spiteful and the demon experiencing surprise. 

“You little shit,” He feels himself spit the words out, angry, even as new wetness clogs his throat and the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. Time accelerates again. Arthur hits the pavement and doesn’t even care that his head cracks on the hard surface. All bodily sensation is fuzzy now. Any pain one would expect to feel after getting shot is dulled. Surprise quickly turns to anger. The demon is almost brittle with furry, its full attention bearing down on him from all angles, pressing in. Suffocating. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit…Bleeding…that’s a lot of blood. Need to control the bleeding.” Arthur focuses on Vivi’s face which materialises above him. For the first time since his possession, Arthur managers to move of his own violation, taking a hash breath. The process is an immense struggle and he’s not sure if it’s because of the demon or blood loss. 

“Vi…” His tong feels heavy and foreign, the words he tries to say are garbled by the blood coming up through his throat. He doesn’t get more than a syllable out before the control is wrestled away. 

‘You think this is over?’ The voice echoes in his head, low and threatening.

“Shh. Don’t speak. Everything will be okay. I don’t think its hit anything important. Just lie still.” Her expression is a mix of horror and worry. Regret quickly roles over his vindication because the last thing he wants is for Vivi to have to watch her friend bleed out and die.

His vision blurs. A purple outline appears alongside Vivi. It’s Lewis, equally, if not more panic-stricken. He can feel to demon’s attention re-centre, staring Lewis right in the eye. 

 “What’s…up. You…goin…watch him die …with me?” The demon jerks, trying to grab a hold of Lewis’s bear unprotected hands.  

‘You can’t have Lewis.’ 

Arthur slams his full mental weight into malicious presence, pushing it to one side, cutting it off mid-sentence. As his body weakens so does its control. They’re both weak now. 

‘Sharing is caring.’ Is sneered. A wave of malicious intent  chips away at his control, paralysing rational thought with uncontained fear.  Arthur feels his hand lift under the demon’s renewed power, reaching weakly for Lewis, beckoning. 

“Lew…is.” Arthur tries to speak and warn his friend off.  

 ‘Don’t do it.’ He can’t get the words out, his control failing. It is like being back in the cave, unable to stop the unimaginably terrible from happening. His vision distorts, made worse by the night around them. He can barely see the conflict waring across his friend’s face.   His arm is numb. He and Lewis are standing on a ledge overlooking a steep drop…green is pooling at the edges of his vision. It doesn’t matter that they are both weak, the demon’s got him beat in the willpower department. Too many past mistakes occupy his thoughts, distracting him. 

Lewis’s hand hovers then closes around his, drawing his focus. The hand is warm almost comforting.

NO.

He claws at the demon, ripping and tearing at anything he can reach, trying to drag it down with him. A patronising laugh bounces around and there is the sensation of something rushing to escape. Arthur scratches and grasps but it is hard to hold onto something that hardly exists. The result is an exercise in futility like he’s trying to dig his nails into loose shale. 

‘Nice try but you’re a few centuries too inexperienced to hold me down.’ The demon slips away, leaving him to sink downwards, alone. ‘Try not to die while I’m out would you. I would hate for all this drama to be for nothing,’ Arthur can still feel the echo of rage and malevolence underlining its final amused jab as it fades from his consciousness. The demon is angry. He knows it is going to do its level best to hurt Lewis. There is nothing he can do to stop it. And, suddenly, Arthur is alone in his own mind.

“Why?” He coughs, wishing he could shake an answer out of Lewis. ‘Why did you do that Lewis?’ The last he sees of Lewis is a green discolouration creeping up the other’s arm. Lewis stumbles away, swallowed by the night. 

Vivi’s shocked face fades to nothing a second later. Then there is only darkness. No demon, just himself and all his mistakes.  No snarky running commentary on how screwed up and pathetic he was. No weird dissonance as he experienced two sets of emotional responses. He is just Arthur existing alone. He should feel relieved. This should be a triumph. 

It's not...

.

It’s dark and he’s falling, slamming into a stone spike. Two sets of memories blur together, becoming one extended nightmare. Two failed timelines are laid before him in a spread of damning evidence against his very existence.

Lewis is dead…then alive, grinning, eyes flashing bright green as he looks down on him, “Once in a millennia chance and you managed to screw it up.” There is fire rising around him, growing increasingly not, framing Lewis’s human visage. “This is your fault.”

 He coughs, gripping the spike piercing up through his chest. 

“How many can say they’ve had a second chance? None. That’s how many?” Lewis growls and the flames become unbearably hot till even the air itself hurts. “Face it. I just wasn’t that important to you.” Arthur should just stop trying to fight and let the fire burn away all that was left of him. 

It’s what he deserves. 

“So that’s it.”  The female voice cuts through the crackle of the fire, “You’re just going to give up?" 

The stone around him shifts, colours mutating from purple and green to a gleaming, blue-tinted ice. Gone is the stone spike, the cliff, and the cave, to be replaced by an empty snow-filled field. He is no longer in pain. He is kneeling, half-buried in snow, surrounded be an empty silver-grey landscape. 

“What about your promise to answer my questions. You’re going to leave everyone behind wondering what the heck happened?” Lewis and his fire disappear, replaced with cold air and a familiar voice. He squints up at the blurry Vivi-shaped outline but can’t make out her face. The word around him is too blindingly bright to make out any details.

“I can’t…” he pleads, “I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“So what. That’s never stopped you before.”

He drops his gaze, ignoring the the rustle of fabric as a person knelt in front of him.

“We all make mistakes.”  Her voice is soft.

“I don’t know what to do?”  

If there’s one thing the demon has taught him it was that things could always get worse.

“It’ll be okay Arthur. Just explain what happened. I’ll understand.”

He looks up, desperately searching for the face of a familiar older Vivi. 

“I miss you.”  He doesn’t care that he is angsting over what was probably a figment of his imagination. The shadow of a Vivi he’d left behind in a future that would never happen. 

“Silly, I never left.”

The white space above him splinters, shattering like glass, falling on him like flakes of snow.

.

.

.

His next breath is heavy like he is struggling against some immense weight.  It is nothing like being on the cliff, struggling to breathe against the heat and having it cut with frigid cold, this is real. The sensation of forcing his lungs to expand and take in the dry air is almost too real. A dull ache settles over him and he can’t tell if it is coming from his body or somewhere deep in his chest. Everything feels floaty and unreal and he struggles to pull together a coherent thought. Arthur wills his eyes to open, almost afraid to try and have this illusion of control snatched away. 

Light eclipses the dark. The imprint of spikes, fire and ice, fade into a nightmare. He stares up at a familiar off-white ceiling. A pattern of square panels, broken by two overhead lights, one of which is switched off, meaning the room in only half lit. The faint smell of anaesthetic and bleach lingers in the air. Absently, he recognises the hospital ceiling. The dejavu is painful.  

Slowly, almost too afraid to try, he turns his head, scanning for his arm. There is a needle disappearing into his skin just above his wrist which is connected to a machine beeping a faint rhythmic pattern. It is his flesh and blood arm. This is his original arm, meaning this is the other timeline. The one he had just royally screwed up. His fingers twitch when he wills them to move, jerking inwards to grasp at nothing. This is the timeline where his Uncle is dead, and Lewis is probably off somewhere killing people under the demon’s control. An unbearable sadness descends upon him. He takes solace in the melancholy, welcoming it, wrapping it around himself like a familiar blanket. Maybe, if he waited long enough, the demon would return, and he would be able to save Lewis. Arthur doubts it, he has nothing of value to trade aside from himself and Lewis is ten times more valuable than him. It was pointless. Maybe he hadn’t learnt his lesson about wanting things. Maybe he will just lie here forever, wasting away.

 Maybe that didn’t sound so bad.

“Arthur.” The surprised voice cuts into him, slicing apart his thoughts.

He blinks, twitching to glance to the side, focus shifting  past the empty hospital chair placed next to his bed and towards the doorway. Vivi. She is standing in the entrance. Her clothes are wrinkled, speckled with dirt, and she has smudges across her face that look a bit like wood ash. Her eyes are wild with open surprise. 

Her surprise becomes relief, mixed with conflicting joy and apprehension. 

“You’re awake.” She speaks slowly, voice halting. 

“V…” His throat is far too dry to speak so the word comes out as a wheeze. 

Whatever misgivings had Vivi frozen in the doorway, they don’t hold her for long and she is across the room in a flash of blue. The next thing he knows her weight is resting across his shoulder and chest, gripping onto him. There is a brief flash of purely physical pain as she bumps the wad of bandages he only just notices are covering the upper half of his torso, wrapping his collar bone. Her face is awkwardly pressed against his opposite shoulder.

When his vision blurs, he panics, momentarily thinking he was losing his control. However, he quickly recognises it as a different sort of loss of control. A normal loss of control. There is water pooling in his eyes, running down his face. He’s crying, making breathing hard. 

“You idiot.” Vivi’s voice is unsteady now, full of hurt, “You colossal idiot.”

“I'm…sor…” He swallows, coughing out the apology “…ry”  He doesn’t know what exactly he’s apologising for but he’s made so many mistakes that it’s the only thing he can think to say. 

“I thought you were going to die.”

Sluggishly, Arthur tries to raise a hand, the one without a needle sticking into it, to hold onto the fabric of her jacket. His muscles feel a bit like jelly, spasming occasionally, as his mind re-associates mental commands with movement. He realises with a pang of grief that she is wearing Lewis’s jacket. What happened to Lewis?  He tries to speak, to explain, to ask questions, but his throat is still too dry. After attempting this a few more times he gives up and allows himself the small comfort of being able to hug Vivi again. 

..

NOTE: Happy Holidays!! Have an update as a gift :) Hope everyone is safe and wish you all good luck transitioning into the new year. Thank you for another years worth of support of this fic, it means a lot. 

Part 43: here

[blackenedwhite97]

Trials (An Erasermic x Reader Medieval AU Ch. 1-2)

Written: December 2020-Feb 2021

Total Word Count: 52.8 K

Wattpad link for easy reading: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/259612193/write/1029582306

Since it’s so long and organized into chapters.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

https://blackenedwhite97.tumblr.com/post/643722830321696769/trials-an-erasermic-x-reader-medieval-au

I've been hacking away at this since just after Christmas, it's basically a novel at this point and I'm immensely proud of it.  Please enjoy! There are requests that are on the way, this longer piece just took precedence.  

This post includes: physical violence, mental health, traumatic experiences and the aftermath, use of pain-relieving medications, cursing, sexual content (not full smut, sorry kids), depictions of physical assault/ beatings and forced drowning, mild religious content, and a prominent polyamorous romantic relationship.

Polyamory: the practice of engaging in multiple sexual relationships with the consent of all the people involved.

Mental Health note: This piece touches on panic and anxiety born from trauma, some religious-based discrimination and trauma as well as physical captivity and assault.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 1

 Mid Summer

You leaned forward, tearing yourself away from the sun-baked iron bars that seared your bareback and slumped forward against the equally scalding irons bars in front of you. You had long since lost the ability to hold your body upright, resigning yourself to the inevitability of the burns that peeled away at your skin. It had been two full days since you'd been left in the cage to wither away under the blaring heat of the midsummer's sun. Your shoulder and legs were blistering under the constant exposure to the sun, and your rear was scraped and bruised from the rough iron bottom of the hanging cage. Your lips were cracked, any saliva to moisten them had long since dried up. The only shred of hope you had was that a particularly large cloud might roll by and shield you from the sun for a while or that the sun would set maybe a few minutes earlier today. The hunger and thirst were the most bearable part, the painful emptiness in your gut was little more than a dull ache compared to the waves of burning pain and delirium you were tormented with. At this point, you would admit to what the townsfolk had attempted to charge you with, anything to make this end.

End. You thought to yourself. The end had always been the most terrifying thing to you, where would you go, would it all just stop, would you have done enough? The end had once held no certainty and no solace for you, but now, in the face of the burning inferno in the sky and the flies that began to pick at your already decaying skin, you were sure that it had to have been better than this.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the bars, the hot iron pressing into your forehead. You tried to take small focused breaths; the air somehow felt cooler if you puckered your lips a bit. You breathed in place of crying, your body had no more liquid to give. You breathed with your eyes closed until a cloud came, dense and absolute. The redness of the light through your eyelids dulled and for the first time since it had risen the sun's unshakeable scrutiny peeled away from your skin. Mercifully the cloud had been lasting for a while, nearly a minute now. You blinked your eyes open so you could look up at this cloud and appreciate it in all of its merciful glory. However, when you looked up you were not met with a dense white puff of air far off in the sky, but a tall man dressed in all black and a face framed in a wild halo of dark curls.

He regarded you silently, his dismal expression unwavering. The only indicator you had that he had even registered you looking up at him was the slight readjusting of his eyes as he made eye contact with you. You instinctively looked away, no one looked kindly on any of the people who found themselves stuck in these cages let alone an alleged witch. He was taunting you; you were sure. There would be no other reason to get so close. Unless...all black, grim expression. Perhaps the executioner had come a day early. Perhaps, your suffering was to come to an end early.

    He crouched down until he was in your field of view and looked up at you. His dark eyes seemed softer than they had a moment ago as they looked up through his thick dark lashes. You started to turn your head away, but his hand reached out and his fingers brushed one of your dangling legs. You tensed at this touch, too exhausted and drained to be able to properly pull away.

"Look at me." He mumbled warmly. "It's okay, I'm- a friend."

A Friend. That sounded awfully good right about now. Even though you knew he was probably lying, trying to manipulate you in some sort of way you looked back at him. What was he going to do that was worse than what had already been done to you? Your eyes met his, and you held intense eye contact for a while. He seemed to be attempting to soften his gaze and you weren't quite sure what to do with yours.

"Can you speak?" he asked, his eyes running up and down your body quickly.

You tested out movement in your throat, only to be met with sharp dray pain. An arid gasping sound was the most you could muster. You slumped farther forward, looking at him pleading eyes that tried to convey how badly you wished you could speak. He wasted no time in twisting around and reaching for a leather bag closed with a cork that was fastened to his hip. He opened it and slipped it through the bars of the cage, looking over his shoulder for any onlookers. You grabbed the waterskin with a strength that you had doubted you still had left in you and managed to get it to your lips, tilting it just enough to dribble a small stream into your mouth. Perhaps this was his game, to poison you. If it was poisoned so be it, this would be a most merciful way to die.

You swallowed until the waterskin ran dry, your body still screaming for more water. You wanted more, you needed more. You tossed the waterskin downwards in frustration at the limited amount of water it was able to provide and in a show of impressive reflexes the man reached out and caught it before it could hit the dusty road. He snorted and affixed the waterskin to his hip once more, standing.

"Your name?" he asked, his voice was gruff but at the same time kind.

You agonizingly lifted your head to look up at him, your strength hadn't returned, it would surely take more than half a day's supply of water to do that. What the water had done was dull a pulsing nausea that sat in your gut and relieved you of some of the sharp pain in your throat. You tried to speak again, this time your voice, or rather a fraction of it came out. "Y/N."

He nodded to himself. "Family name?"

You blinked hard, the sun briefly flaring up behind him as he swayed slightly on his feet. The way his stray hairs danced in the sun was reminiscent of the portraits that hung in the cathedral, of the gold-leafed angelic halos. If it hadn't been for his grim attire you'd have thought him an angel; although perhaps he was an angel, an angel of death. "Need it for my execution papers, do you?"

"No." he sighed. "I need to know if you're who I'm meant to be looking for."

You looked him up and down. True, he wore dark clothes, but they were not formal nor those of an executioner, but rather a plain set of well-worn traveler's clothes. His hair was longer than most men's in the area, and despite his somewhat disheveled appearance he had at least washed within the last few days. Under one of his exhausted eyes, a long scar stretched across his cheek, no doubt from the edge of a blade. Two of which, you'd only just noticed, were strapped across his back, rather plain and worn leather-wrapped hilts and pommels peaked out over his shoulder. He was a traveler and possibly a duelist, however, neither had anything to do with you.

"W-what if I am?" you croaked.

"Then, you're coming with me." He stated casually.

"Which would entail?"

"No hanging in a cage to roast to death in the sun." he deadpanned. "Now, what's your family name?"

You looked into his eyes. There was no sign of deceit, but then again you were in no condition to be trusting your body nor your mind's capabilities. He was right, though. This was just about as bad as it could get. You swallowed for the first time that day, it felt good to be able to. "L/N."

The man's face lit up, if you could call it that. Compared to the dismal amount of emotion before, he most definitely was happy by your response. He looked over his shoulder, shoving his hands in his pocket, and whistled. He jutted his chin towards you while still looking at someone across the way. From behind him, you heard footsteps, sporadic and clumsy. Another man appeared from over the dark-haired one's shoulder, his hair was even longer, and he bore a well style mustache as well as a set of finer clothes. He had flaxen hair that was neatly tied back into a long ponytail down his back and his emerald eyes betrayed much more than his partner's dark ones. He smiled down at you, his expression pure relief and delight. When his eyes fully settled on you his apparent happiness wavered, but he collected himself quickly and was back to smiling at you.

"Hello!" he said in a sing-song voice, that you're sure you would have adored just three days ago. "You're our lady?"

You looked up at him, his positive disposition providing a strange sense of comfort. If he was also looking for you, perhaps wherever you were needed wouldn't be so bad after all. "I- I don't know, am I?"

"She is." The dark-haired man confirmed. 'I- I'm sorry to have to prolong your situation but, do you think you can last until nightfall?"

You looked up at the two men. Were they meant to be your saviors? If so, you most definitely could last until nightfall for salvation. But, if they weren't... you shoved that fear from your mind. Your suffering was inevitable any which way but trusting them, it was the only choice you had that could turn out better. The blond man's beaming smile shrunk into a less charismatic gesture and into a comforting genuine expression. The dark-haired man had softened once again, every time you looked back to him he seemed to become more human to you. It was as if he was evaluating you just as you were him, and every inch you gave he reciprocated.

You nodded silently, wanting to save what moisture you still had left in your throat after draining the waterskin.

"Good." The dark-haired man hummed. "Zash, do you have your waterskin?"

The blond-haired man reached around to the back of his belt and without missing a beat freed it from its tether and handed it to you. You took it readily, and as you did with the first one drained it slowly until not even another drop would come out. Even though you still felt cheated with the finite amount of water in the waterskin you decided not to through this one, it felt rude. The blond man took his waterskin back and tucked it back into its respective place on his belt.

"We'll be back after sundown," The flaxen-haired man started in a hushed voice, "just hold out until then."

They both started to turn away from you, towards the bustling market across the square. Fear rose up in your chest, a fear that had managed to subside in the last day or so as you resigned to your fate. You had just been offered an impossible sense of hope, and you didn't even know their names.

"Wait, wait!" you called out after them in a hushed tone.

They both stopped, the dark-haired one didn't turn back to look at you, instead keeping his eyes trained on the crowd in the market across the street. The blond-haired turned around, looking at you expectantly.

"W-what are your names?" you stuttered.

"I'm Hizashi," The blonde smiled kindly. "that's Shouta."

Shouta tugged on Hizashi's sleeve, looking towards a cluster of people, at the center an older woman who was unashamedly looking back and forth between gawking at them and staring you down. Hizashi turned away from you and the two men disappeared into the crowd, the flurry of villagers and merchants swallowing them entirely.

CHAPTER 2

4 Days Ago

The sun was low enough in the sky for the bugs to start buzzing again and the poor animals covered in fur to try and hunt some sort of game before it got too dark. The hot summer sun had given way to a cool night that smelled of rain and brought cool breezes from the west. The dried herbs that hung in bunches in your window cell swung to and fro, small pieces of brittle stem and leaves tearing away from the bunches and littering the freshly swept floor. You watched the bunches sway in the breeze until the wind grew strong enough to snuff out some of the candles around the window and decided that perhaps a storm really would roll through and that it would be better for both you and the drying herbs if you were to pre-emptively close the shutters. So, you plucked the bunches from their hanging nails and closed the wooden shutters. Locking them in place with small brass latches and placing a heavy stone behind each shutter for some extra hold.

The world grew darker and you found yourself lighting more candles, bringing them slowly towards the center of the room and away from any stray breezes as rain began to fall and cooled the air. It was the perfect night for a warm broth, and you had some fresh bones from the last day's meals. As the night wore on your meal came close to finished and you were able to finish wrapping the small medicinal pouches for farmer Wayland's boy and set them aside for the morning. You stood and stalked over to the pot atop the embers in the fireplace and lifted the lid, the broth was boiling but the roots you had tossed in had sunk to the bottom and could be burning. You looked around the fireplace for a spoon or stir stick but found you had left it on the opposite side of the small home. You turned back to the pot filled with golden liquid and held your hand out above it as if you were holding a spoon to stir it with. From your fingertips, a spectral spoon handle twinkled into existence, inch by inch until a spoon head appeared and you were able to dunk it into the pot and give it a quick stir.

Usually, you were a lot more vigilant when using your magic, but since your shutters were closed and a storm was raging outside you were sure there would be no spying eyes lurking outside your windows to catch you. You had never used your gift for harm, not that you believed you could begin with. You could conjure objects into a semi-realistic form, they acted the same as their real counterparts in every which way except that they appeared semi-translucent and were perpetual purple collar. You could make a knife, a stone, and even a dress if you so wished. You had tried fire and water once or twice, but it always turned out as if it were frozen in time, the way artists capture fire or water in their paintings. You supposed you could conjure up weapons with which you could wage violence and war against the poor villagers around you, but you were no witch and held no hatred of that kind in your heart.

The sound of something hitting your door sent a jolt up your spine and the spectral spoon blinked from existence. You stood in silence for a moment, wondering it had truly been a knock at your door or a piece of debris lost in the storm. You turned to your door slowly, scanning it for cracks or gaps that prying eyes could have spied through. You found none but you were not calmed in the slightest. A second knock came at the door, this time it was a clear series of deliberate knocks. You scanned the room around you for any items you may have injured up and left out.

You tiptoed to the door, hoping that if you took enough time your uninvited guest would leave. But just as you arrived at the door a third set of knocks came, these were powerful knocks, frustrated and ill-tempered to be sure. You took a breath and lifted the latch to the door, opening it just enough so that you could stand in the doorway but no one else could, and held the door tight to your side. Before you stood a man, his arm raised and ready to knock again, so soon. He was draped in a waterlogged cloak that looked like it could be a rich red tone if it wasn't soaked nor the middle of the night. The hood was drawn but you could still make out a strong chin, pointed nose, and dark brown ringlets dripping with water.

"Can I help you?" you mustered. It wasn't unusual for you to get customers at your door for medicinal help, but it certainly was unusual for someone would have enough money to be wearing fine red robes to show up at your door, let alone at this time of night. You eyed him carefully catching a glimpse of a rather gaudy crest made up of two swords and a great hunting hound with something in its mouth, his nose stuck into the air.

"I'm afraid we've got caught in a storm, miss. We're looking for a place to stay the night and wait out the storm." His voice was thick and proud, and he spoke as some with years of formal education might. At the mention of 'we' you looked past him to the gate of your front garden where four men were tying their horses to your wobbly fence post and trodding on your lilies.

"Apologies on behalf of the weather, traveler," You smiled warmly. "but my home is far too small and cluttered to house you and your men. You'll have better luck at the inn in town. It's just down the hill, not but a ten-minute ride; seven if you're swift."

The man's heavy brows knitted together, and his jaw squared, he seemed displeased with your answer. "We haven't any coin, no inn will take us."

"The Innkeeper is a kind man, prone to taking on charity." You responded, inching backwards into your home and getting ready to slam the door if need be.

The man's jaw twitched and his hands, balled into fisted at his sides, were turning white with exertion. No was not a word he had heard much of in his life, you gathered. He laughed a sharp cruel laugh that sounded more like a dry cough. "I'm afraid that won't do."

The man was fast, and indeed much larger than you realized as he lunged forward. One of his large hands grabbed your shoulder and the other shoved the door open with tremendous force. You stumbled backwards and tried to pull away from his firm grip but he clamped down even harder around your arm with bruising strength. His second hand clasped itself roughly over your mouth and he shoved you backwards until your back hit the table that lined the opposite wall. His hand was so large that he was able to clasp down on your nose with his thumb, cutting off your airflow entirely. "I'm not asking this time; we plan on taking full advantage of your hospitality. You can willingly give it to us, or you can find out what your lovely little cottage looks like painted in red."

As if to provide evidence of his cruel nature the man unsheathed a small dagger, one that reflected the dim golden light of the fireplace as it was brought towards your face. He held there, lightly trailing the tip across your skin as you shuttered. With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he flinched his hand, the very tip of the blade biting into the skin of your jaw and trailing up toward your ear. You froze, where the chill of fear should have gripped your bones, instead a flare of anger ignited. Who was this man to think he could invite himself into your home and make threats on your life? Something told you that even if you went along with his requests this would turn out badly for you. You closed your eyes and focused on the crushing grip your assailant had on your face.

It was in that darkness and growing fury that a spark of brilliant purple came to you. It was in the form of a long dagger, jagged and cruel. Your restrained arm pulled back with enough force to break free and met your other between you and your attacker's chests. You could feel the cool bulb of the pommel against your palms and suddenly you could breathe. There was a warmth running down your hands and soaking through your shirt now, a wet ragged breath sputtered in your face until the full weight of a dead man crashed down at your feet. You looked up forward through the doorway and saw the pale face of a small man, a hefty coin purse at his hip and terror glimmering in his eyes alight with purple light. Purple light. You looked down at your blood-soaked hands. A great spectral gnarled dagger blade shone out in front of you, thin ribbons of blood dripping from it.

And in your sudden clarity, the dagger blinked out of existence, the cottage falling back into the dull golden firelight of the fireplace.

"Witch!" he shrieked. You had never heard a man so full of fear. "She's a witch! She's a witch and a murderer!"

[tornrose24]

My Lordsona’s letters, diary entries, and journal entry in Mother Miranda’s Lab.

I remembered that in each of the lords’ areas, there tends to be letters/journal entries/notes that are either about them or that they wrote themselves in addition to what Mother Miranda wrote about each one in her lab. I thought it would be fun to make some for my lordsona as a way to add additional information (including what could have lead to getting a cadou in the first place, because I don’t think those are given out so freely).

There is mentions of  @artistcaptainbendy‘s lordsona Bendypants and their OC Benjamin.

TW: Mentions of gore

(All journal entries located in personal studio in the gallery. Some would hold clues to solving certain puzzles.)

Journal 1

May 3rd, 1968

(page 1)

I would rather swim in Moreau’s lake and be subjected to whatever goes on in Donna’s estate than give another art lesson to Alcina’s girls. She hoped I could cultivate some talent in the three of them, and there was some promise in both Cassandra and Daniela. Bela seemed disinterested and wanted to go to the piano instead. There was some frustration over the past few weeks and it made me thankful I’m their ‘aunt’ or else it wouldn’t have ended well for me.

Weeks later, they presented me with some abominable displays. That one ‘statue’ looked like one of the maids... or what was left of the poor woman. And I doubt that was red paint used on that canvas.

I don’t mind speaking with Alcina herself once in awhile when I want a bit of class and elegance. There’s certainly no denying her sense of taste in decor and her collection of artwork is incredible. But her daughters are too much for me and I don’t agree on her views of all men. She certainly never met my father or my...

(page 2)

Father....

Sorry, I got lost in my memories there for a bit. Tomorrow I am meeting with some of the village children and will give them an art lesson. They are more of a delight compared to those poor excuses for children in that castle.

They admire the other lords, but its possibly for the best that they aren’t allowed to get too close to them.

Reminder to self: Check to see if the Duke has any works of art to add to the gallery when he comes back.

Journal 2

September 2nd 1975

(Page 1)

It appears I finally have a new security guard. The bastard and a friend of his thought he could sneak into MY gallery and steal a painting that I said would cost a fortune. They fell victim to the Escher trap (clearly they didn’t pay attention to his surroundings) and the painting was destroyed.

All that trouble for a Van Gough replica that’d be worth not even a fraction of the true painting.

But then again, what should I have expected from the son of the drunkard who nearly paralyzed me for life with a bullet to the spine and sent me into Mother Miranda?

The man was completely brain dead. The friend was a bloodied mess, but I stitched his arms to the thief, added some details of my own, did a bit of fixing up, and used a Cadou. He’s dull as a rock and doesn’t recall his past life, but he’ll be good at protecting my gallery from other idiots. 

I call him David after the famous statue.

September 5th, 1975

(Page 2)

Unsurprisingly, Heisenberg thought my creation was, and I quote ‘a hunk of shit and dumbassery mixed together’ and said he could have done so much better. Unlike him, MY creations ARE true works of art. Of course I’m not interested in getting into an argument with him as he enjoys doing so with Alcina.

I brought David to someone else who’d be fascinated with him. Bendypants seemed intrigued and wondered if I could lend David to them to help build a set.

I’m deeply disturbed that I’ve sunk as low as the others. I didn’t think I’d actually use a cadou but I try to tell myself that what I’ve done was a fitting punishment. Besides, it keeps Mother Miranda off my back for a bit.

Note to self: Need to do something about the additional arms on David. They don’t look like they are as secure as I would like them to be.

October 10th, 1975

(Page 3)

It turns out David developed a soft spot for Benjamin. As in Bendypants’ favorite lycan. He’s been looking at him like a girl harboring a secret crush.

That was.... rather unexpected. I guess David isn’t as dull as I thought. I need to keep an eye on him in case he remembers anything about his former life.

Journal 3

January 20th, 2004

(Page 1)

Karl is crude and a bit much at times. But there’s no denying that he’s rather handsome and I finally was able to convince him to pose for some sketches for a painting after all these years. It took the finest bottle of whiskey the Duke had on hand to convince him.

Bendypants will be so envious of me. They too have a certain soft spot for our fellow lord. Perhaps I can gift them with a replica painting as a present in the future.

I admire that Heisenberg doesn’t bother putting on airs like Alcina and his.... extraverted nature is a breath of fresh air. However the whiskey caused him to spill something rather concerning. He seemed unusually interested in my family’s plot of land in the graveyard.

I’m very concerned about what his intentions are.

(Page 2)

I just paid the gravekeeper to unearth the remains of my family so I can burn them and bury them under the oak tree.

I am NOT letting any of the lords use my family’s remains for whatever they are planning.

March 15th, 2010

(Page 3)

Bendypants invited me to one of their plays. It was ‘A Midsummer Nights Dream.’ It was a delight and helped me take my mind off things. The idea of making some of the characters not quite fit into certain norms that are expected in the village would have made Mother Miranda squirm.

I showed them that painting of Ophelia drowning when we discussed Shakespeare the next day. Sometimes I wonder why the cadou didn’t make me lose my mind like Ophelia–would I have been happier without my sanity in the village, amongst the others? At least I wouldn’t have been aware of what sins I would be committing across the years.

I have deeply cherished my friendship with them. They were there at the funerals for each family member of mine who died. Their condolences were honest compared to the other lords and those who were trying to kiss up to me. Like me, they too have somehow defied time’s cruelty to the body, and have known the loss of a loved one. 

(Page 4)

The children are the only others in the village that I am fond of and would protect. Such innocence to the violence hidden in the corners. Sometimes I wish to give into the desire of motherhood, but that would have been the greatest pain I could experience....

(letter hidden in Lord Bendypants’ theater) 

Dearest B,

Regardless of what Miranda tells us lords, you are the only true family I have left in this forsaken village. I would have never imagined that wild, mud covered child of the woods would be the one person I could trust.

That woman never was and will NEVER be my mother. Regardless of what she gave to me, I had to watch my family succumb to old age and sickness while I still remain as I am–a Venus forever frozen in youth and beauty. I hope she burns in hell for her sins and for what she has turned me into across the years.

I suspect that whatever she wants with the infant she kept mentioning is not going to end well for us or the village. She is charismatic, but her lack of true warmth makes me uneasy. I get the feeling that death is certain, but as to who for is not clear yet. I have two requests for you if my suspicions are correct.

First, I am going to see if I can hide any children I can find. They were one of the few things that made me happy here and do not deserve whatever Miranda has planned, so I shall sneak them in a room within my gallery. Please do not let any of your lycans harm the children or attack me tomorrow night. Should things go according to plan, they will be able to have the true freedom that was denied to all of us.

Secondly, should I perish from whatever Miranda has in store, retrieve my body, burn it, and bury it under THAT oak tree where I placed the ashes of my family. I think I finally know for sure who was getting into the graves lately, but I will be damned if I let that asshole take my body too.

I will never forget our times together, or the visits to your wonderful theater. Thank you for being there when I needed it the most.

Your friend,

-R

(Journal in Miranda’s lab)

Subject Name: _______ Rose

Cadou Affinity: Somewhat Favorable

Brain Function: Normal

Subject’s spinal chord was damaged by a gunshot wound three days before procedure. Subject has regained full mobility after cadou implantation. Six horn like protrusions have grown out of subject’s skull, yet subject hasn’t suffered any damage to the brain.

Subject’s arms mutate into an armor and bone fragments extend out of limbs like thorns that are strong enough to tear through flesh when provoked. These abilities are somewhat similar to Alcina’s but pales in comparison to what she is capable of.

Insect-like wings extend right out of subject’s backside when the subject wills them to, yet immense pain makes this a rarity. The placement of the wings is exactly where a small piece of cadou was implanted to repair the damaged spine. Additional procedures were required to ensure that the subject could not be able to fly beyond the village borders.

Further mutation turns the subject into something resembling a fae, yet behaves and moves like an insect. However it takes the subject four hours to change back. Subject also becomes predatory in this state.

An unfit vessel for Eva.

[worldwidemochiguy]

Behavioural Training

Since Jin is perfect, should his partner not be also? You are, sadly, far from the perfection Jin deserves, but he has always enjoyed whipping you into shape...

Masterlist

Warnings: Yandere themes, possessiveness, graphic violence, imprisonment, bondage, this is quite dark guys lol be careful

Word Count: 1K

a/n: came from the request “you think I like hurting you? Because I love it.” and I think it was from @seokjoontae but i can't actually find the req in my inbox anymore so if this isn’t even what you asked for then sorry lmao 🤡

BEHAVIOURAL TRAINING

“Tell me, what did you do that was wrong?”

You swallow hard.

“I…”

“Speak up.” Jin commands, paddle suddenly digging under your chin and forcing your head upwards. Your teary eyes meet his, and find no compassion lurking within at all. They always say they eyes are windows to the soul and in Jin’s case, he doesn’t have one to be seen. 

“I talked to another man over the phone.”

Smack.

Jin, who has been moving in a wide circle around you in measured paces, suddenly strikes the side of your thigh with the paddle, hard. You let the cry out, knowing that if you don’t, Jin will hit you even harder next time. Although, you are sure it’s no use. He will hit you harder next time no matter what you do. 

“And what else did you do?”

You shiver, the cold air hitting your naked body and causing goosebumps to run along your flesh unpleasantly. You try to keep your teeth from chattering as you say, “I made plans to meet up with him.”

Smack.

Another hit, to the back of your knee this time, and your legs crumple beneath you. Jin watches dispassionately as you land your full weight onto your knees on the hard wooden floor. As you stagger to your feet again, twin rivers of blood wind down to your ankles, making a small ruby-red pool on the floor. Jin admires the beauty of it for a second, before continuing.

“And why did you want to meet up with this man?”

“I… He wanted to talk to me, and I said yes.”

“And what did he want to talk to you about?” 

“I…He-”

Smack.

Jin hits you around the head with the paddle and you collapse to the floor, a broken whine leaking from your blood-covered lips as the wound from your forehead spills copious amounts of blood onto the wooden paneling. Jin crouches at your head, gently brushing your now blood-matted hair away from your face, so he can see the expression of exquisite pain ripping across it. He smiles. 

“You look so beautiful like this, my darling. So beautiful, and so, so stupid. Look at you. You can barely get your words out.” He laughs as your lips move wordlessly, eyes darting around the room, unfocussed. You can’t stop your vision from slipping away as the ringing in your ears becomes more insistent, but you know you have to keep speaking or he’ll just keep hitting you. 

“He… wan-ted to…” You slur out, and Jin laughs again, delighted at your distress over being unable to even speak properly. You definitely have a concussion, and Jin makes a mental note that he should give you more of those. You’re so pretty like this, so helpless and confused and tormented. It’s stunning. 

“Yes, go on, what did he want to do, darling?” Jin encourages gently, completely at odds with his detached persona from before. Your eyelids flutter, and Jin thinks you might be about to loose consciousness so he digs his thumb into your head wound. You scream. He smiles.

“He…” You interrupt yourself with a sob, and Jin shushes you, “-said you were… bad.”

“But he was wrong, wasn’t he, darling?” Jin coos, stroking a blood-stained hand through your hair. Your face crumples.

“No, he wasn’t. You’re… bad.” 

Jin’s face drops abruptly. 

He shoots to his feet, hauling you up with him, ignoring your groans of pain and the way your legs keep folding underneath you, and drags you out of the punishment room. Normally, leaving that room is a moment of immense relief, but even in your incoherent state you can recognise that Jin’s blank expression means you are about to suffer dearly. 

You register that you are descending as Jin drags you down the stairs, but unfortunately you are unable to get your feet beneath you enough to walk down. By the bottom of the flight of stairs, your body is so bruised and battered that there isn’t one inch of skin that isn’t marked. It’s a sign of how angry Jin is that he doesn’t even stop to admire the patchwork of injuries on your body, he simply keeps dragging you along.

As your conscious continues to melt away like ice in the summer heat, Jin straps you into a chair. It is very dark where you are, you can barely even see him in front of you, and that is only thanks to the rectangle of light leaking from the open doorway, far away from you. 

“Listen, darling, you’re going to be staying here until you can learn some fucking respect.”

“Jin… please…hurts.” You whimper, and he gives a derisive snort.

“You want me to feel sorry for you? This is all your fault. If you hadn’t done what you did, all of this could have been avoided.” Jin’s voice softens fractionally and he lifts a hand up to cup your face. You lean heavily into it, desperately searching for any trace of compassion. 

“All of this is because of your actions. You think I like hurting you?” His expression sharpens, and he roughly yanks your hair back, ripping the wound along your hairline wide open again. His vicious expression is obscured by the wave of blood that runs down over your eyes. “Because I fucking love it.”

“Remember this, darling, every time you make a mistake, I will be more than happy to train you into perfection. My favourite sight is seeing you like this, covered in blood and bruises, weak and pathetic. If you keep giving me reasons to make you like this, I will take them every time. Think about that while you’re down here, darling. You will have a long time to do that.” 

[warwaged-moved]

Although canon timeline gets confusing, likely because they didn’t think it through decided to retcon things later, I don’t disregard Beyond the Dark Portal but I have a different take on how things go, especially when it comes to A.lleria’s relationship with Tu.ralyon. So, taking it into account, here’s my take on how things happened (spoilers: it doesn’t include A.lleria calling Tu.ralyon my love half a second after they’ve talked to each other and made peace, sorry not sorry @Beyond the Dark Portal):

A.lleria and Tura.lyon met when fighting in the Second War. Before that, she did not have contact with many humans, and if she didn’t necessarily look down on them, A.lleria didn’t really see them as equals either (their senses are not as sharp as the elves’, their lives are way too short, and they are still quite arrogant in spite of that, in her eyes). It isn’t until the war that she has a chance to get to know them better, and fighting beside the humans definitely changes her views on them.

Tura.lyon, specifically, does not mean much to her in the beginning. He’s obviously smitten with her, and she finds it way too amusing to waste the opportunities to tease him — but in the beginning this is all her actions are: amusement. She never seriously leads him on, and he’s quite aware she’s entertained by his reaction to her. But as time passes they genuinely become closer. A.lleria learns to respect him after fighting with him and following his leadership, and then her actions around him are not as much jokes as they were before.

She’s interested, but she isn’t in love. It is infatuation at most, she thinks, and it’ll pass soon enough (it isn’t as if she considers a serious relationship with him either: he’s a human still, his entire life until adulthood is only a fraction of her own and she’s bound to outlive him). In truth her feelings go a little deeper than she’s willing to believe they go, but it isn’t some deep, endless love. She’s falling for him, but on her part it is slow, and she makes it slower still with all the resistance against it she creates.

When they learn the Horde will target Quel.Thalas, A.lleria is immediately on edge (she grows restless, impulsively wants to run to her home ahead of the army, questions every single decision he makes just because). She’s worried about her home, her people, and the people she loves that are there and don’t know what’s coming for them. Arriving there afterwards and fighting to drive them back and still having to watch their forests burn wounded her very deeply, even more because of her previous concern. And then she learns most of her family died, including her little brother, and it breaks her in a way A.lleria hadn’t yet been broken.

She doesn’t love Tura.lyon when she goes to him. The logic is flimsy, and only really logical to her because of the state of absolute emotional wreck she’s in. She doesn’t want to be vulnerable in front of people she knows and loves and who look up to her, though, and she came to like and trust him well enough that she seeks him instead. It isn’t a well thought out thing – she’s barely thinking at all – but it feels like a good enough idea at the time: this way her sisters won’t see her breaking, because she has to be strong for them, and she won’t burden friends who have lost people themselves, and she won’t be vulnerable in front of those who look up to her as a leader.

It (obviously) wasn’t a good idea. It is something she’ll regret immediately afterwards. A.lleria would feel guilty she had used him to try to forget her hurt, because he obviously cares for her and she does not feel the same, at least not as intensely. There is no future for them, she thinks, and what she did would give him hopes of something that couldn’t be. Beyond that, she’s still hurting; she’ll continue to hurt for a long time, unable to process her grief, unable to let go and heal. As soon as it is over and he is asleep, she leaves. Afterwards, A.lleria is cold towards him purposefully, so he will know it was just one night, so he won’t think it is more than it is. Tura.lyon doesn’t take well to it, but A.lleria thinks it’s best that way. Let him live his short human life with someone who can love him better than she can. Besides, it isn’t as if he understands; he doesn’t like the path she’s taking and she cannot meet his criticism with anything other than anger.

A.lleria isn’t concerned with love, by then and after that. All she wants is revenge. For everything, for all the family she lost, but especially for her brother. Even after the war is over, she doesn’t stop hunting the orcs, and she revels in their pain. She wants each and every orc dead, but a thousand kills do not lessen her thirst for revenge, neither do they fill the emptiness within her. They do not make her feel less guilty for being alive while Lirath is dead. She won’t let go of anger and hatred for years still. And in the meanwhile between the night she regrets and the future in which vengeance is not her utmost priority, A.lleria finds herself pregnant.

It is kind of (very) despairing at first. Most of her family died, and she’s in a very dark place mentally and emotionally. She feels the need to keep it together for those around her, but she’s falling apart. She came to regret the one night in which her child was conceived, and it isn’t like she can exactly count on someone she pushed away to care for a child now. Besides, it is said the High Elves didn’t look favorably towards half-elven children, which is one more reason to be concerned for her unborn child. A.lleria doesn’t seek support of anyone else; she hesitates in even telling people close to her about it.

But she’s decided to have her child and to keep the baby with her regardless. Eventually she’d have to speak; but before it would be noticeable, she’d let at least Sylv.anas and Ve.reesa know (maybe some of her closest friends, but even that is uncertain; she might also have panicked and told Hal.duron at some point before even telling her sisters...). So A.rator is born in Quel.Thalas, and no matter what she feels towards his father, she loves her son from the beginning. And I think much of her love for A.rator, and how deep and important to A.lleria it is, comes from the place she was in at the time of his birth. To her, he was a flicker of love and hope in a world that was seemingly all devoid of it; and the fact he may suffer some prejudice amidst her people only made her more determined to give him love that would make up for it.

Contacting Tura.lyon to even let him know never crosses her mind as a serious option. She would have thought of it at times, especially when his letters arrived, as he explicitly mentions having written to her and never gotten any answer, but she would be angry at herself for even considering it. If someone said she should (I believe someone might have), A.lleria would cut them short. She doesn’t need him, he cannot help; A.rator is her son, and they’ll be fine just the two of them.

Except they won’t, because even though she’s wholeheartedly dedicated and entirely loving towards him, she’s also consumed with vengeance and hatred for what happened to Lir.ath. A.rator would give her happiness she wouldn’t have felt ever since the war, but immediately afterwards even the faintest glimmer of happiness, she’d feel immense guilt (how can she be alive, happy, laughing, after having failed her home, after failing to prevent Lir.ath’s death? her brother would never get to laugh again, he would never father his own children; why should she have all of this, when he would not?).

It would become a cycle, and it definitely pushed her away further: happiness makes her feel guilty, guilt makes her dive headfirst in battle and revenge. She makes herself believe that A.rator would be better without her, but cannot find it in herself to tell Tura.lyon about their son and leave A.rator with him. It is part of why she’s so eager to go beyond the dark portal, too: she wants vengeance, and to protect the things she loves, and to die fighting, to die in a way that can at least leave her sisters proud, to die and leave her son to be raised by those who could do it better than she ever could.

Is it immensely hard to just pretend nothing ever happened once she’s forced to interact with Tura.lyon again, especially considering she is well aware their one night resulted in the most precious baby boy in Azeroth and beyond? Yes, but their antagonism towards each other helps; anger does not leave much room for her to feel guilty for not letting him know of anything. Of course, once they are together again, and once she acknowledges her feelings for him go well beyond just infatuation, she knows the conversation has to happen — and it is only then that she tells him of A.rator. It is quite a mess that they made, so reconciliation isn’t by any means easy, and A.lleria is never one to just give herself completely and without wariness. To her, opening up to him again is a slow process; and if physical contact comes earlier and easier than verbal declarations, even that would be slow. She doesn’t shy away from him, maybe even seeks him at times, but more often than not, A.lleria would more likely wait for him to seek contact than initiate it herself —- and it would definitely take a long while for her to reciprocate I love yous.

[vannahfanfics]

The Healing Properties of Oolong Tea

Category: Hurt and Comfort, Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Ochako Uraraka, Katsuki Bakugo

Hey, everyone! This piece was made for @bnhabookclub‘s weekly SFW prompt, “I’m fine.” I hope you all enjoy it! ^u^

The ceramic mug was pleasantly warm in Ochako’s hands, as it had absorbed much of the heat emanating from the piping hot Oolong tea Momo had courteously prepared for their weekly girls’ night. Steam was curling in faint tendrils in the air above the cup, which was still full to the brim with the dark liquid sweetened with honey, sugar, and a dash of cream.

The tea, though still hot, was the perfect temperature to drink after several minutes of cooling, but Ochako made no move to do so. The heat continued to bleed out of the cup into her fingers and palms, turning the soft flesh a faint hue of pink. Distantly, Ochako heard Kyoka quip something about her tea going cold, and so she robotically lifted it to her mouth to take a dainty but mechanical sip. Its robust flavor, highlighted by the undertones of the sweeteners, spread a comforting warmth through her mouth and body. Ochako barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the entranceway leading up to the boys’ dormitory rooms, where one Katsuki Bakugo had made his exit not three minutes before.

“Guys… Does Bakugo seem a little more… tense than usual?” she finally posed and looked back at the girls with raised eyebrows. They were all snuggled up on the common room couches together, preparing to watch whatever romantic comedy Mina was loading into the DVD player. At her question, the pink, fluffy-haired girl peered over the edge of the coffee table with a frown.

“He does seem a little snippier than usual. He yelled at me this morning because I didn’t pour my cereal fast enough and was ‘hogging the box like a stupid extra,’” she pouted. Momo rubbed her chin thoughtfully, and her gaze shifted up to the ceiling as she pondered the notion.

“It’s only been four days since Kamino Ward… He was kidnapped by the League of Villains and held hostage and witnessed All Might’s fight against All for One up close. Even for him, it must have been a very traumatic experience.”

“Yeah, ribbit, but he’s Bakugo,” Tsuyu sighed dejectedly. “He’s not the type to talk about his feelings or accept help dealing with them.” At her poignant statement, the troupe of girls collectively heaved weighty sighs. Ochako sipped once more at the tea, finding its spreading warmth more therapeutic now. She knew she should focus on girls’ night, because they started the weekly get-together specifically to create a safe space away from their problems, but she simply couldn’t help but worry about Katsuki. Everyone is so convinced they’ll be rejected that he probably hasn’t even been offered help, she moped. Deku hasn’t even made any gestures to help him feel better. He just says, “Kacchan is strong. He can manage.”

But could he? All Might’s retirement had proved that even the strongest people had their breaking points. Katsuki could be suffering immensely, and they would never even know it because he was bottling it all up inside, and no one even attempted to twist the cap open to let out a little of the built-up pressure. That’s it! Ochako decided and set down her cup of tea to pour a fresh one from the teapot. Kyoka raised a critical eyebrow at her as she stirred in a small amount of sugar.

“Uh… Ochako, what’re you doing? You have a full cup right there. Are you going all space-case on us again?” she teased with a playful smirk. It fell from her face when Ochako abruptly rose from the couch and began stepping over their legs.

“It’s not for me. I’m taking it to Bakugo.”

“Why are you even bothering, ‘Chako?” Tooru quipped. Ochako could tell by the way her llama-patterned pajamas bunched at her bust that she had crossed her invisible arms. “He’ll probably yell at you to go away!” Just as she had clambered over Momo’s legs, Ochako stopped and stared down at the bitter tea swirling in the rose-patterned teacup.

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly. She watched the swirling light patterns of the sloshing tea slowly settle with her lack of movement. “You’re probably right. But he may open the door and take it, too. If he does that, then I’ll know that I’ve helped, even if it’s just a fractional amount.” The group of girls fell into awed silence. She continued to stand there at the edge of the couch for a second, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she steeled her nerves. Bakugo would probably yell at her to go away and not even open up the door… but at the very least, she ought to try. That’s what friends were for, after all. Even if Bakugo didn’t consider them friends, she considered everyone in Class 1-A her friend, and friends always made an effort to be there when they were needed most- even if the recipient didn’t know they needed help in the first place.

“Wait, Ochako,” Momo interrupted when Ochako began walking again. Ochako looked over her shoulder to see that the black-haired girl had taken a saucer and was loading it up with the small tea cakes and tartlets that Tooru had bought from the supermarket. “Take these to him as well. I’m not sure if he has much of a sweet tooth, but at the very least, there should be something he likes,” she said with a smile and held out the pastry-laden saucer. Ochako adjusted her grip on the teacup before taking the small platter with a grateful smile.

“I’m sure he’ll love them! Feel free to start without me, guys. I’ve seen this one!” she chirped before whirling on her heel- not too fast, because she didn’t want the tea to spill and scald her hand. She carefully walked from the common room to the boys’ side of the dormitory, using the placards hanging on the doors to guide her to Bakugo’s room. She knew she had reached it when she stumbled upon a slightly crooked and bright red “Keep Out!” sign hanging on a door. Ochako kept Momo’s expensive teaware close to her body and kicked the door a few times with her foot since she couldn’t knock. “Bakugo! I brought you some tea and cake!”

“What the hell?” she heard him grunt from within. His voice sounded thick. He had announced that he was going to bed before stomping out of the common room, so it could be from sleep… But Ochako knew from overheard conversations that Katsuki fell asleep remarkably fast. It had only been about five or ten minutes since he had left; by all rights, he should be sleeping. Did that mean that Ochako’s instincts were right, and he was having difficulty sleeping because he couldn’t stop thinking about Kamino?

She jumped slightly at the harsh shriek of a chair scraping across the wood floor, then hissed as a few droplets of scalding tea landed on her hand and sizzled against the vulnerable skin of her fingers. Katsuki’s heavy footsteps echoed behind the door, but never seemed to grow any closer; he was muttering under his breath, too, words she couldn’t hear enough to comprehend. Is he… pacing? “I’m fine!” he barked suddenly, making her violently wince once more. She clenched her teeth with a little whine as more small, circular burns appeared on her hand from the hot Oolong.

He said he was fine… But he didn’t tell her to go away.

“Bakugo…” she murmured pityingly. Her eyebrows cinched a little, and she pouted determinedly before kicking the door with the toe of her slipper a few more times. “Momo worked really hard to make this Oolong tea! I didn’t add a lot of sugar because I wasn’t sure if you would like it too sweet, but I brought cakes, too! So please open the door and take them.”

“Stop bangin’ on the door, Uraraka; you’re givin’ me a headache!”

“Caffeine is great for headaches!”

“Shitty Round Face…!” Ochako grinned victoriously as his hefty footsteps finally thundered in the direction of the door. She kept the grin plastered on her- as Katsuki called it- round face, even as he flung the bedroom door open to glare scathingly at her. “I said that I am fine.” Her expression trembled a little at the unquestionable venom dripping from his voice, but she had come too far to yield to his defensive maneuvers. Wordlessly, she offered up the tea and cakes to him. His vermillion eyes bore seditiously into hers before slowly drifting down to the Oolong tea. His words were but a breath as he repeated, “I. Am. Fine. I don’t want the stupid tea.”

“Bakugo, I-” Evidently, as she began to protest again, her grin finally wavered and was replaced by an expression that Katsuki absolutely detested.

“Can’t you take a fucking hint?! I don’t want your fucking help, Uraraka, so stop looking at me with that fucking pitying look on your face!” He roared and, on reflex, knocked her hand away.

Ochako screamed in agony as the piping hot tea splashed all over her forearm. The scalding heat dissolved her fragile skin with violent relish, and she wasn’t sure if the steam billowing over her arm was just from the heat rapidly dissipating or her skin cells evaporating. Katsuki’s red eyes went as huge as blood moons as she crouched down over the shattered teacup and splattered pastries. She held her trembling arm at the elbow, wailing shrilly at the burning pain dominating her senses. Tears streamed down her cheeks to puddle at her chin, then drip down onto her fluffy purple spaceship pajamas.

“I just-” she could barely choke out the words with the sobs heaving in her chest at the terrible stinging pain, “I just didn’t want you to suffer all alone.”

“Jesus, I- Uraraka, don’t just sit there, here,” Katsuki huffed and grabbed her by the elbow of her good arm. It took no effort for him to haul her to her feet and drag her into his bedroom. He kicked the door of his bathroom open and flipped on the light. He lugged her over to the sink to flip on the tap. Ochako quailed at the sight of the stream of cold water, knowing it was going to burn like Hell, and tried to tug away. “No,” Katsuki insisted, and his grip tightened around her arm, but only just enough to keep her in place. “No,” he repeated more softly. With a gentle movement so unlike him, he pulled her back to the sink and lifted her burned arm to the stream of water. “It’s gonna hurt,” he warned.

“I’m fine, Bakugo, really! It’s worse than it looks!” she attempted to dissuade him with fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

“No, Uraraka, you’re not fine!” he barked savagely, and all the protests died in her throat as his voice cracked. While she was reeling, he jerked the burned section of her arm under the cold water. The sudden change in temperature along with the liquid streaming over the wounded flesh tore a shrieking wail from her throat. Soon it died into a few pitiful sniffles as the ice-cold water soothed the stinging flesh. “You’re not fine,” he repeated in a broken whisper. “You’re not fine, I’m not fine, this whole situation is fucked up and so far from fine, it ain’t even funny.”

Her red, puffy eyes found his. While her brown irises swam with awe and shock, his red ones burned with the most vicious self-loathing. He stared miserably at the disfigured skin of her forearm. “’S not fine,” he grumbled. “You were just tryin’ to make me feel better. Now look. I’ve gone and scarred you all up.” Ochako wanted to argue that it probably wouldn’t scar at all, but her tongue was unwilling to voice the fact. She went ahead and closed her mouth that was hanging open, since she clearly couldn’t use it. Katsuki’s face sagged woefully as he watched the last dregs of the dark tea swirl down the sink drain. “That’s all I can do, is fuck up and hurt people.”

“Bakugo, that’s not true.” This time, she was able to voice her opposition. He continued to gaze wretchedly at her arm, so she raised her good one to cup his cheek and force him to meet her eyes. He didn’t resist her. When those vermillion eyes met hers, she couldn’t help but whimper, because she had never seen him wear such a lost and devastated expression.

“I hurt you,” he insisted in a small voice. Ochako smiled forgivingly and caught the single tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye with her thumb. The fact that he was so passive right now, accepting her gestures and even deigning to shed a tear, meant that Ochako’s instincts had been correct. Katsuki was so overwhelmed by the incident at Kamino Ward that he was shouldering the blame entirely. In his mind, it was he and he alone who caused the downfall of the invincible, infallible, indestructible All Might.

“It’s not your fault.” She only had to say it once before the dam broke. He let out a choking sob and put a tightly balled fist to his mouth, obviously trying to contain the roiling emotions inside him. She let out a soothing “hey” and stroked his cheek a little. “It’s okay. You can let it out. I won’t judge you. It’s okay.” It was the most distraught she had ever seen him- face flushed, eyes brimming with tears, teeth clenched, and breaths heaved in between little sobs. At her coaxing, he slowly dropped his hand from his mouth and let out a little choking snuffle, then hung his head.

“I was so fucking useless, Uraraka.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” she said firmly. She reached up to put her hand on the back of his head, guiding his forehead to her shoulder. His hands came up to dig into her upper arms, like she was his lifeline, keeping him from sweeping out into an unforgiving and perilous sea. His body shuddered with an agonized groan, and she began to feel the shoulder of her pajama shirt dampening as the tears finally poured down. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated while rubbing comforting circles into the muscles of his upper back, just above his shoulder blades. “All Might doesn’t blame you. We don’t blame you. Please stop blaming yourself. Sometimes there are just things we cannot do alone, and it’s okay if you need help. But it’s not your fault if that help doesn’t turn out the way you wanted it to.”

His grip on her arm tightened as he heaved another wracking sob. She rested her head against his as he sought ought more of her reassuring presence, burying his face into the crook of her neck. She closed her eyes as tears of her own began to prickle in the corners of her eyes. It was just so heartbreaking, seeing the ordinarily confident and proud Katsuki reduced to such a state. It was enough to bring even the stoutest, staunchest stone wall of a person to tears. Ochako was not made of stone at all, so the tears began to cascade. “It’s not your fault.”

Finally, he nodded weakly. Ochako smiled as he began to wind himself down, inhaling and exhaling deeply to steady his breathing. With each deflation of his lungs, she could feel the tension working out of his muscles. Soon, he was breathing normally again, but he remained with his face buried into her neck and her small frame supporting his bulky one. “Bakugo-”

“Katsuki,” he interrupted quietly. Her face flushed pink. No one called him by his given name, not even Deku- just Kacchan, but that was a little different. “Call me Katsuki, and just… I need a little longer.” Ochako smiled sweetly and nodded. Her head still leaned against his, and his ash-blond hairs twisted a bit with her chestnut locks.

“You take as long as you need to. I’ll be right here.” She closed her eyes to relax, just allowing him to recover his mental state when he did something she would never have expected. His hands slipped from her upper arms to slowly slide to her lower back, and then he pulled her body against his in a small but firm hug. Ochako was so shocked at the intimate gesture that she just froze. She didn’t want him to think it was unwelcome, however, so she quickly gave him a squeeze of her own in response. Her cheeks reddened further when she felt him grin against the junction of her neck.

“Thank you... Ochako.” She hummed affirmingly, and he finally retreated, giving her a small smile. He then returned to serious, kinda-grumpy Katsuki, frowning at her burned arm and lifting it to inspect the injury. “Jeez… Can’t believe myself for this.”

“It’s okay!” she chirped brightly, and he gave her an inquisitive side-eye. “I don’t mind a scar. Scars are sexy, right?” He stared at her in utter disbelief for a second before bursting into a fit of incredulous laughter. Ochako started pouting, very unappreciative of his complete disregard for the sexiness of scars. “What?”

“You? Sexy? Come on.”

“Katsuki, that’s mean,” she frowned. She knew she wasn’t as sexy as Momo or Kyoka, but damn, did he have to go for the throat? His cheeks darkened, and he gave her a stern look.

“Dammit, that’s not-! I just mean-! Gah, I just meant that you’re cute, that’s all! Cute and sexy are two different things, but bein’ cute ain’t bad!” It was evident that he was saying these things well before actually realizing it, because after he finished babbling, he went as red as his vermillion eyes. Ochako stared at him with a gaping mouth.

“You think I’m… cute?”

“W-well, yeah,” he grunted nonchalantly, but the increasing hue of his face belied his words. “With those cheeks of yours, how can I not?” She squeaked in protest as he playfully pinched one of them emphatically. She swatted his hand away, protesting loudly but very much enjoying the compliment as betrayed by her blush. She was so focused on maintaining the unbothered act that he didn’t notice his face approaching her other cheek until he pressed a quick, chaste kiss to it. Her face immediately blazed with heat, like he had dumped some more hot Oolong right in it. He moved so that his face was hovering right in front of hers, their noses nearly touching. “Thanks for the help, cutie.”

It probably would’ve been the smoothest line ever if his face wasn’t the color of Tooru’s llama pajamas. Literally, it was the exact shade, a bright pink bubblegum color. Ochako got the image in her head of Katsuki dressed like a fluffy llama and immediately snorted piggishly in laughter. He reared back as she doubled over, giggling and holding her stomach. “The fuck you laughing at? I mean it!”

“No-! Ah, it’s just-! Ahahaha… You’re just so cute!”

“The hell? I ain’t cute! I fall under the category of sexy, thank you very much! Damn Cheeks…” he grumbled. Still holding her arm aloft, he began rummaging through his medicine cabinet and procured a tub of burn cream and some bandages. They quibbled back and forth over his levels of cuteness and sexiness as he applied the thick white cream to the burn and then wrapped it up. She was so absorbed in trying to keep from breaking into hysterical snickers that she barely registered the little spikes of pain his ministrations caused. After he secured the loose end of the bandage with a fastener, he playfully shoved her in the head. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Cheeks.”

“Is that what you’re calling me now?”

“Damn right,” he confirmed haughtily with another pinch. She groaned as he yanked on the sensitive skin and slapped half-heartedly at him, making him grin widely. “Better get used to it, Cheeks.” She sniggered happily and looked down at her bandaged arm. He had been very gentle in nursing her injury, applying only the necessary amount of pressure, and hadn’t wrapped the dressings too tight. It made her smile warmly. “Oi. Space Case,” he huffed and knocked on her head with his knuckles.

“What?” she pouted. She shrilled as his face dove down to steal a little kiss from her. All she saw was his triumphant grin as he strolled out of the bathroom with his hands stuffed into his sweatpants pockets. “K-Katsuki…!”

“You make it too easy! Let’s go.”

“Wh-where?”

“You were so damn insistent on that tea, so I’m goin’ to get some.” She jumped when she heard the click of his doorknob.

“Ah! Wait for me!” she cried and rushed out of the bathroom. It wasn’t necessary, as he already stood in the threshold. He frowned at her with the faintest hint of a smile. As she hurried to his side, he roughly threw his arm around her shoulders and steered her into the hall. Her face steamed hot with embarrassment, but she snuggled into his form with a tiny smile. “… Are you gonna try the little cakes too?”

“Eh? I ain’t tryin’ no frou-frou girly-ass cakes.”

“But they’re good!”

“Just one! But you better pick wisely. I ain’t gonna forgive you if you give me something gross.”

“Hehe, don’t worry,” Ochako reassured him brightly. He grinned and hugged her a little tighter.

“Ochako?”

“Mhmm?”

“… Nuthin’.” He didn’t say it, but she knew he was thanking her again. She decided against embarrassing him by acknowledging that, and instead said, “Thanks for your help with the burn.” He raised an eyebrow at her, then looked away, faintly blushing.

“Anytime.”

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @mhafandomman @simplybakugou @sadistiks

[moody-bloosh]

congratz on finishing finals! (◕ᴗ◕✿) 💝💝 can i request either a continuation of the prosciutto yandere cheating or cheating prosciutto trying to win his girl back? 💝💝

Anonymous said: hello! i would like some angst if u dont mind! Prosciutto cheats on his s/o who’s also a part of la squadra then s/o leave the team

Thank you! I’m proud to tell you all that I finished strong and I got myself that 3.8

hope you two don’t mind that i combined your requests bc mmm they were both so spicy uwu 

Anyway, now it’s time to suffer so please enjoy this angst

watering dead flowers (Prosciutto)

The letter you turn over to Risotto is written with a hasty hand, so different from your usual, easy, free flowing script. It is damp, he notes, as he takes it from your shaking hands. He tells you to stay and to please sit.

“You don’t have to go this far.”

You blink in surprise at Risotto’s choice of words. The way he was looking at you as if he wanted you to at least, reconsider. His words manage to give you pause.

By leaving, you would not only be turning your back on Prosciutto. You would be turning your back on the whole gang. Certainly, this gave you some cause to reconsider just the slightest bit. You would miss them all bitterly. But was that enough to tide over the waves of heartbreak you were still drowning in?

You mull over Risotto’s words for a second, you really do. But when you stepped into his office, you had already made your mind and you vowed to yourself that you would not take no for an answer. No matter how convincing the capo could have been.

“For a good chunk of my life, everything I did was for him, for his sake,” you explained as you slowly stood up, without his leave.

Yes, you could not let your resolve waver. Though your voice was hoarse and your eyes were red from all of your crying last night, you managed to plaster on a smile. Because even though it was difficult, even though it was painful, you wanted to start off your new beginning on the right foot.

“This time, I want to do something for myself.”

Without waiting for your former capo’s response, you bowed and thanked him for everything, then you promptly escorted yourself out.

You see him, leaning by the door on your way out, trying to look carefully nonchalant as he lights a cigarette. Normally, you would snatch those things from him, you’d been trying to get him to drop the habit but now you could care less about him.

Still, your pulse quickens as you step closer to him, you fear that he will hear the traitorous, erratic beating of your heart as you come closer. You fear that if you were to look into his eyes, your resolve would crumble. So you avert your gaze, you train your eyes on the door in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long drag of his cigarette as you leave.

Even though you should be used to it, his silence hurt. You remind yourself that this was nothing new.

When the door slams behind him, Prosciutto finally exhales. Walking through the cigarette smoke, he finds a position by the window where he can observe you unnoticed. He stands there for a few seconds, the sight of you driving away imprinted into his mind, before he finally leaves.

Thank God you hadn’t noticed your suitcase hidden behind him.

Truthfully, he had considered slashing the tires of your car. But that would have been too obvious and it wouldn’t have done anything good for him in the long run. Stealing your luggage, important things of yours meant that you were guaranteed to come back for it. You would have to ask him very nicely to return your things and when you did, he would certainly find a way to get win you back.

In the privacy of his own room, he opens your suitcase and selects some choice fabrics. Your favorite scarf, a cherished sweater, a beloved shirt, and he tucks them all way somewhere. That way, even then, you would have to keep coming back to him. Petty, pathetic, but this was all he could do.

That night, he holds your sweaters close and he breathes in your scent. You would come back and he would do everything in his power to win you over again.

He can hear your voice now, soft and sweet.

“Goodnight, darling. I love you.”

It has been a month since you’d left and you showed no signs of caring about the whereabouts of your missing luggage. The fact that his plan failed soured his mood immensely. The fact you would rather deal with the loss of your precious clothes than see him again felt like an earth-shattering punch to his gut.

There was a foul look on his face as he sat beside Pesci in the restaurant with the rest of the team. He had not even touched his food, too busy concocting another plan to win you over.

He couldn’t - no, he wouldn’t let it end like this.

Enjoying his teammate’s distress and intent on further annoying Prosciutto, a roguish look settled on Formaggio’s face as his tone betrayed something mischievous, “since _____ is free now, maybe I should have done what I wanted to do all those years ago…”

“Manners, Formaggio,” Illuso snickers, “remember the 3 month rule, we still have 2 more months before _____ is officially free.”

“Whatever, it’s not like Prosciutto minds, after all-“ Formaggio’s words trailing off as he acknowledged the downright murderous look in his teammate’s eyes, “heh, what’s with that scary look, huh, Prosciutto? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Pointedly ignoring the way Prosciutto’s jaw clenched, Formaggio persisted in his goading.

“If you like something, you gotta hold onto it, right? I mean, if you’re going to be mad at someone-“

“Enough,” Risotto cut in, annoyed. “Not another word about this.”

“I was only joking,” Formaggio said, shrugging haphazardly.

Whatever fucked up sense of humor Formaggio wanted to impart were lost on Prosciutto as he stormed out of the restaurant. His fists clenched so tightly, he was drawing blood from the soft of his palms. Formaggio’s words had more of an effect on him than he wanted to admit. But perhaps, he had already admitted more than he would have like when he made his swift exit.

That damned Formaggio.

He knew it well. He was the one who messed it all up. If you were to seek your happiness elsewhere, with someone else, he had no right to complain.

Already images of you with his teammate filtered through his mind, xxpressions that would have only been for him, a voice only he had been allowed to hear once, if they were to be witnessed by someone else…

He slams the door of his car with a little more force than necessary and rests his head on the steering wheel. It was not supposed to be like this. He was presumptuous enough to think that by the end of the month he would have you in his arms again.

Even though he knows that he lost the right to call you his long ago. When he had let go of your hand and foolishly expected you to stay put like a dumb little doll, blind to his infidelity.

He knows well, how shameless it is of him to have expected you to stay, how selfish it was for him to want you back after how terribly he treated you.

“I loved you wholeheartedly, Prosciutto. That’s why I have no regrets now.”

Yes, you were right. Because regretting was his job.

He brings down the visor, so he could pore over the photograph of you he’d tucked away in there. The photo of the two of you, smiling as you held each other, blissfully unaware of the sad future awaiting the two of you. His heart aches, as he runs his fingers over the photograph, trying to remember how it felt to hold you, how it felt to touch you.

He understands now what he must do if he wants you back.

You knew sooner or later that he would show his face around your apartment. You were just thankful that he had taken his sweet time. You’d known that it was him the moment you pulled up to the curb and saw his car parked two blocks away. Did he think you wouldn’t recognize it? Just like the day you left, he was leaning against the door of your apartment. He was smoking, though once he caught sight of you, he quickly put it out.

“_____.”

“Spare me the dramatics,” you sighed, pushing past him. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

“Wait,” he said, grabbing your hand to keep you from leaving. You catch the almost imperceptible tremble in his lips, the way his eyes flicker with an emotion you don’t want to understand. The sight of it is almost enough to make you pause.

“Please,” his voice is barely above a whisper, “hear me out.”

You scoff, so was this how he intended to win you back? By throwing away his precious pride? Interesting. If this was how he was going to play then you were going to milk this for all it was worth.

“Why should I? Don’t you have other people to attend to?”

“I know I hurt you, I know what I did can’t be forgiven.”

“If you know this, then why are you here?”

“Because I love you.”

The audacity of his words. You couldn’t help but let your mask of indifference drop. Hearing his foolish reasoning, you try to pull away from his grasp. His touch suddenly felt disgusting to you.

How dare he?

After making you suffer through his affairs, spending your nights sobbing as you questioned why you weren’t enough, why he took it upon himself to seek another’s company. He’d come to this realization only now? Really, you didn’t know what you were expecting. But it certainly wasn’t this.

“Even now, you want to lie to my face,” you hissed, “how shameless can you be?”

He held onto you tightly. He let you go once, he wasn’t going to do so again.

“Please, give me another chance.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine, then look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t want to see me ever again.”

“Fine,” you huff in agreement, finally extricating yourself from his touch. You were going to shove him off of you too for good measure, surely that would knock him down a peg or two.

It was easy. All you would have to do was hurt him, hurt him and make him feel a fraction of what he did to you. It would be so easy.

Look him dead in the eye and say it.

Say it.

“I…” I don’t ever want to see you again. I hate you.

When you looked into his eyes, those beautiful eyes of his that you’d spent countless afternoons getting lost in, you found that the words you wanted to use against him falling flat and useless on your tongue. Your bottom lip trembled as you gazed in his eyes, silently cursing your heart and your memories for betraying you at such a crucial time.

Really, really.

Why did he have to make it so difficult?

Your shoulders slumped as you hands came to rest upon his chest, unable to really push him away from you though you desperately wanted to. So instead, you pound on his chest, a futile attempt at hurting him. All the while you call him names, ‘asshole, bastard, cheater, I hate you.’ Before you know it, before you inch away from his touch again, his hands wrap around your wrists.

“A good man would let you go,” he said, holding you close enough that his breath tickled your ear, “but there’s just one problem with that, _____.”

A pause as you look up at him, your teary eyes meeting his icy blue ones.

“I’m not a good man.”

And then his lips are on you, greedily drinking in what little affection for him you have left. You try to push away from him though you know it is futile. You’re trapped once more in his web.

Your tears fall in earnest, just as your lips part. His touch is featherlight as he gently wipes away your tears.

“Please, let me make it up to you,” he begs.  

I would spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

“You need to be careful with me,” you warn him bitterly. “I’m not easy. I’ll leave you if I get even the slightest notion that you’re cheating on me again. And I won’t care even if you grovel.”

“I understand.”

You looked up at him again, your eyes still watery as you considered the way he was looking at you. Really, he was so unfair. But then, you were the fool who was sincerely considering on giving him a second chance again.

“You’ll have to earn my trust again,” you tell him. “And I won’t make it easy for you.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

Tentatively, he let go of your wrists in favor of snaking his arms around your waist. You do not protest, finding yourself leaning into his touch. He sighs as he holds you tight in his arms.

“I missed you.”

You take a moment to compose yourself, before you find yourself hesitantly hugging him back.

“I…missed you too.”

Oh, you missed him. You really did. But you couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there was something you were missing.

Ah.

“I want my suitcase back too, you asshole.”

[kimtanathegeek]

Two Brothers, Many Paths - Ch 15

Oh boy.... Definitely the saddest chapter thus far....

Poor Sans.... Poor Papyrus....

—

Undertale copyright Toby Fox

Story and original characters by me, Kimtana

Please do not use without both permission and credit.  

Read below, or read it on AO3 here.

First

Previous

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Papyrus sat on the bed, his hands still pressed firmly against the mat, holding himself up. He was shaking in absolute terror. He was breathing heavily, each exhale tinged with the sounds of panic. His head jerked sharply around the room, his eyes darting frantically as he searched for his brother.

Aside from the sounds of fear coming from the little skeleton, the shelter was eerily silent. The fire crackled gently in the other room. The howls of the wind echoed through the shelter’s opening.

The room was freezing. Any heat generated from the magical fire had been lost, replaced by the frigid winds that swept in through the open entrance.

The wintry chill was nothing compared to the chill that ran through his body. He raised his hands and clutched at his chest over his soul. It hurt, as if something devastating happened.

Papyrus gripped his chest tighter. The last time his soul hurt like this, he could feel his mother slip away. Now, he felt Sans slipping from his soul.

Panic tore at his heart. He needed to find his brother. Now.

He leaned over the side of the bed and reached for his shoes with trembling fingers. He sat back up and fumbled as he tried to put them on, fear and frustration making it worse. His brother had always helped him with his shoes because he still too young to do it himself yet. At last he succeeded in getting his feet inside them, glad that he hadn’t untied the laces when he had pulled them off.

He jumped off the bed and grabbed his scarf from the foot of it. As he hastily wrapped it around his neck, he glanced up at his brother’s blue jacket, still hanging on the coat hook. He whimpered at the sight of it. Why did he leave without his jacket?

Papyrus quickly crawled outside and looked around, desperately seeking any sign of his brother. The snowfall was gentle enough that he could see for miles throughout the valley. He didn’t see his brother anywhere.

Fear gripped his heart as he started breathing heavily in terror. Hot tears spilled down his face as he panicked, not knowing what to do. He looked down at his feet and spotted fresh footprints leading from the shelter’s entrance and gasped.

Knowing the footprints would lead him to his brother, Papyrus felt a twinge of joy, and ran through their trail in the snow. All he had to do was follow his brother’s prints and he’d find him. He kept his eyes trained on them, not daring to look away.

Papyrus came to a stop so abruptly he almost fell over into the snow. His brother’s footprints suddenly ended. The little skeleton started panting as the terror gripped him once again. He looked around frantically for where the footprints continued, but the rest of the snow in the area was smooth as glass.

“Sas...?” he choked out under his breath.

The panic tightened his throat up. He could barely breathe anymore.

“Sas!” He cried out, hoping his brother would call back. The scream ripped from his very soul. “Saaas!!!”

The valley remained silent apart from the occasional gust of wind.

 -

 The darkness gave way to blinding, searing pain as Sans suddenly came to, roused by something too distant for him to comprehend.

He screamed out in his mind because his body was too weak to make a sound. The pain was unbearable, even for his barely-conscious state. He couldn’t open his eyes, move, or form words in his mind. All he knew right now was excruciating agony.

Sans felt his suffering slip away as the darkness mercifully took him back into its embrace.

 -

 Papyrus sat in the snow where his brother’s last footsteps had ended, his face buried in his hands as he wept. He had been sitting there so long, a thin layer of snow had covered him, as if the valley was trying to comfort the inconsolable skeleton in a white embrace.

When his tears had been spent, Papyrus merely sat there on the ground, panning the area this way and that for a trace of his brother. He whimpered every time he caught sight of him in the corner of his eye, only to find out that it was just a distant boulder.

He pulled his scarf up to his chin as a brisk gust blew against him. He shuddered. What if his brother was lost somewhere and freezing? He didn’t have his jacket....

He thought about that day he went looking for their father. He remembered how the storm raged around him, buffeting him right and left as he tried to walk. The wind stung his eyes, making it difficult for him to keep them open as he searched the valley for their father. The cold was biting into his bones with its sharp teeth, the snowflakes pelting against him like tiny knife blades. His fingers and toes burned terribly in the bitter temperatures. He remembered the pain and how tired he felt, but he couldn’t go back to Sans without their father. So, he kept going, until....

What if that was happening to Sans right now? What if he was in pain in the cold? How would he ever find Sans in this giant valley?

Papyrus shivered, more from fear than cold. He had never been so terrified in his life. But he wasn’t scared for himself, even though he was completely alone and helpless.

He was afraid for his brother. He knew, deep in his soul, that something terrible had happened to Sans. He knew he was too little to do anything, but, somehow, he knew that his brother needed him right now. He had to find him.

He glanced over at the shelter a short distance off. Maybe Sans had come back while he was sitting there. He’d been crying there for a while, so Sans might have returned without him noticing. He might be inside, worried about where his little brother was.

Papyrus jumped to his feet and ran back to the shelter as fast as he could. He didn’t want to worry his brother, and he needed to see if he was all right. Maybe the feeling in his soul was just from a scary nightmare.

He practically threw himself onto the ground to crawl into the shelter, calling out to his brother who was probably inside, preparing dinner.

“Sas! Sas!”

Papyrus froze in the opening, still on his hands and knees. He felt his heart fall into his stomach.

The shelter was just as empty and silent as it was before.

The disappointment turned into the harsh realization that his brother was gone. It was too much for the little skeleton, and he collapsed onto his stomach, weeping in the snow.

 -

 The splitting pain in his skull pulled Sans back into awareness. He still couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes, but he certainly could feel the searing pain.

...Wh....

His mind swirled in a fog, punctuated by the stabbing pains.

....where....

He tried to move, but couldn’t get his body to respond.

....am....I...?

He felt as if he was being crushed under a mountain. He became aware of his breathing, noticing how difficult and excruciating it was.

He was so tired. So very tired. He wanted to sleep. Sleep forever....

But deep inside his mind, he told himself not to. Was that his own voice telling him to stay awake? To get up?

He clung to consciousness, afraid to let go. Why wouldn’t his eyelids open?

He tried to remember what happened or where he was, but his thoughts were clouded from the throbbing pain. It wouldn’t let him think. Wouldn’t let him move.

But he needed to move. To get up. To go back. To him.

...P...Pa...pyrus....

A deep sadness welled up within him, as if he had failed the only one in the world who depended on him. A longing crushed him worse than the pain in his body—to be with his brother. Would he ever see him again?

Amid the agony, he could feel something in his soul. Something horribly wrong. Without even seeing it, he knew his soul was dimming inside his chest.

Instinctually, he tried to bring his hand up to his soul. The slight fraction of movement sent a wave of fiery pain up his arm. He couldn’t scream, but the strangled noise he made deep in his throat brought more agony in his chest.

Outnumbered by all the excruciating pain hitting him at once, Sans blacked out once again.

 -

 Papyrus picked his head up from the snow, his face still soaked with tears. He wiped his eyes on his sleeves and pulled himself up and into the main room of the shelter. He was filled with a sense of urgent determination.

The feeling inside his soul wasn’t from a nightmare, it was real. Sans was in trouble. He had to find him and help him.

He went over to his brother’s jacket and pulled at it until he freed it from the coat hook. Sans would be needing this. Papyrus put on the jacket, which came down to his knees. He pulled up the sleeves so that his hands popped out and adjusted his scarf from under the jacket.

He crawled back outside. He covered the entrance, just as he’d seen his brother do a hundred times before, then stood up, looking around.

Still no sign of Sans anywhere.

Papyrus pulled the hood up over his head and narrowed his eyes. Then he headed back down the trail of his brother’s footprints.

He would find his brother if he had to search the whole valley.

 -

 Sans slowly came to, the immense pain just as brutal as before. He still couldn’t move, his eyes still wouldn’t budge. Every bone in his body felt as if it was on fire.

He struggled to bring his thoughts together as he slipped in and out of awareness. All he could make sense of was that he was trapped. Trapped within his own body.

He lay motionless for some time, fighting to stay conscious. Slowly, achingly, he pieced things together.

The last thing he remembered was...the tunnel. He was standing in the cavern tunnel, in the dark. He could feel the stony ground underneath him now, digging into his bones painfully. Was he still there?

No. No, he remembered. He left the tunnel. He had new magic. He used it to leave the tunnel.

His head throbbed horrifically, making it hard to think. But he had to remember, he knew he had to remember.

He had used his magic...to try to get home. A sob involuntarily erupted from his lungs, causing sharp pains within his chest. He had wanted to go home. To their house. He used his magic, then...

...nothing.

It was all he could remember. He used his magic, then he woke up here, like...this.

What had happened? What went wrong?

The pain in his skull burst forth. It hurt so much just thinking. He wanted to rest, he just wanted to rest....

Don’t go back to sleep.

That voice, it was so familiar. Where was it coming from?

He clung to his thoughts, trying to ignore the pain that crushed into him.

After a small eternity, he tried to open his eyes. It took all the effort he could summon to raise one eyelid a fraction of the way. His vision was completely blurred. All he could see was that it was far brighter than the darkness under his eyelids. The sunlight—which he hadn’t seen in months—hurt his eye, feeding the throbbing pain in his skull. He blinked painfully, then managed to open both his eyes, barely. His splitting headache made it difficult to see or keep his eyes open, but he fought to regain his vision. Bit by bit, what was in front of him came into focus.

...I-it...i-it’s....

His body was crumpled against the barrier over the cave opening. He was looking out into the valley outside the mountain. Right where he watched his mother die.

He shut his eyes, regretting spending so much effort to open them. He was too weak to cry, but he felt the sorrow welling up in his weakening soul. Why was he back here, of all places?

He opened his eyes again slowly, staring at the iridescent barrier that was a mere inch away from his eyes.

...This...thing.... This stopped me....

The barrier that had sliced through his body, decimating his HP maximum. It must have stopped him when he was trying to use his magic to leave the mountain and return to their house. Whatever this seal that covered the cave opening was, it had to be some form of strong magic. It almost killed him back then, and it almost killed him now.

No.

It was going to kill him. Deep down, he knew the truth.

He was dying.

 -

 Papyrus had searched the valley for hours. He constantly kept looking back at the shelter, making sure that it was always in sight and hoping he’d catch his brother walking back to it.

He was tired, but the desperation to find his brother kept him going. He would search for the rest of forever if he had to.

Everywhere he went, he scanned the horizon for Sans. He looked for footprints left by his brother, for a sign, for anything that would lead to him.

Each moment that passed, the fear grew inside him. His soul ached as if his heart was being broken, and the feeling worried him immensely. He knew his brother was in danger, he knew it was bad, he knew he had to find him.

Whenever he got far enough from the shelter that it became hard to see, he turned around and headed back to it. Then he’d open the entrance, check to see if his brother had returned home, and when he saw the shelter was empty, he’d rest on the bed a moment to warm up, half expecting his brother to come crawling in from the opening. Then he would go back out, seal up the entrance, and head in a different direction.

On one of his searches, he looked up at the purple and violet walls of the cavern. He wondered if his brother had gotten captured and taken inside. He whimpered, trying to put the thought out of his mind. No, his brother was far too smart to get captured. He wouldn’t be inside the cavern.

Steering clear of the purple stone wall, the little skeleton continued his search.

 -

 Sans moaned deep in his throat, coming back to his senses again. He had passed out once more.

He lay motionless, waiting for his mind to clear. He opened his eyes slightly. It was now dark outside in the valley, indicating to him that he’d been there for several hours—at least. His eyelids fell, too weak to remain open.

The pain attacked his body once again, but he was becoming used to it. So much so that he attempted to move again. He had to get out of the cave, back to the shelter. His brother would be going out of his mind with worry. He needed to see him...to say goodbye....

Sansy, get up. He needs you.

That voice again.... It sounded so much like...like....

Sans had to get back to his brother. Summoning all his strength, he tried to move his left hand. The excruciating pain shot up his arm like a ravaging fire. He screamed inside his mind in agony and a strangled cry escaped his throat, but he refused to stop. He tilted his hand downwards, facing his palm at the floor. A set of white bones rose slowly from the ground under his arms and collarbone. They lifted him up, supporting and raising him as he cried out weakly in pain. It was blinding, searing pain, threatening to cause him to pass out again, but he hung on, concentrating on forming the bones.

Soon, they raised him up high enough that he was on his feet, though he could not stand. His arms and head hung limply over the set of bones as he leaned on them, his knees buckling from the weakness and pain. He fought to balance on his right leg, the only limb that hadn’t been seriously injured. He rested against the bones, preparing himself for the next step. He knew he had one shot at this, and he needed to make it count.

He pushed away the agony, bringing the shelter into his mind.

...I need to get there.... Please.... I need to see him...one last time....

He balanced himself on his right foot, readying himself. His left palm was already facing the bones holding him up.

...Please...bring me back...to him....

He made the white bones disappear, and as he fell forward, he pushed on his right leg with his last ounce of strength and landed on his left foot, the weight snapping his fractured shinbone completely. As his body fell, the deafening fwoosh and blast of wind surrounded him.

He landed hard, a loud cry of excruciating pain ripping from his throat as he fell face down in the snow.

 -

 Papyrus’ head shot up. He had been sitting on the bed, having returned just a short time ago. He was still warming up before setting out again when he heard the cry.

He flung himself off the bed and scrambled out the entrance. He stood up and looked around, his heart racing. Then he gasped sharply.

His brother was laying on the ground near the shelter, motionless.

Papyrus ran to him as fast as he could. He slammed down on his knees beside Sans’ head, laying his hands on his back.

“Sas! Sas!”

His brother gave no response.

He nudged Sans’ shoulders urgently. “Sas!"

Still nothing.

Papyrus rolled him onto his back. “Sa—!”

He gasped in horror, clasping his hands over his mouth.

There were several long cracks in Sans’ skull, branching like lightning. His cheekbone and forehead had gaping holes where the bone was missing. A few of his teeth were broken, others were completely gone. His left leg was bent at an awkward angle, and his wrists and forearms showing from below his sleeve cuffs were fractured and broken.

Papyrus stared wide-eyed at his damaged brother, unable to move. He had never seen any injuries this bad in his life, and his heart was gripped in terror at the sight of his poor brother.

“S-Sas...,” he whispered in shock.

He took off his brother’s jacket and laid it over him like a blanket. Not knowing what else he could possibly do to help his wounded brother, he buried his head in Sans’ shoulder and wept loudly.

The crying sounded so distant to Sans, as if it were on the other end of the world. He followed it, swimming through the darkness of his consciousness to reach it.

“...Pap....”

The sound was barely a whisper, but Papyrus heard it. His head shot up and he looked into his brother’s face.

Sans didn’t have the strength to move his head, but he forced his eyes to open, staring straight ahead into space through half-open lids. “...Pap....”

“Sas!” Papyrus cried out urgently.

Sans’ white pupils slowly moved down to meet into his brother’s eyes. His mouth creased slightly in an effort to grin. He was so happy to see his brother again.

Papyrus didn’t know what to do, how to help his brother. All he could do was look helplessly into Sans’ eyes.

Sans was having a hard time breathing. The broken ribs were threatening to puncture his lungs and soul, but he had to speak. He bore up under the sharp pain to form words that escaped his throat in agony. He prolongedly spoke, each syllable whispered out with an excruciating exhale of breath.

“...Pap.... I’m...not...going...to...make...it....”

Papyrus’ eyes grew wide in fear. No.... No, this couldn’t be happening.

“...Li...sten...to...me....”

The little skeleton couldn’t stop the tears from spilling. Why was his brother talking like this? He was going to be fine....

“...Go...to...ca...vern.... They...will...take...care...of...you....”

“No,” Papyrus breathed, shaking his head slowly. “No. No, Pa stay wif Sas. Pa stay wif Sas!”

Sans’ heart broke, wanting nothing more than to stay with Papyrus. But he knew he couldn’t. He could feel his soul’s glow fading. The pain was leaving him slowly—it didn’t hurt as much anymore. His body felt extremely light now. Light as dust.

His eyes never left his brother’s.

“...I...love...you...Pa...py...rus....”

His eyes shut gently, and his breathing slowed to a stop.

Panic gripped Papyrus.

“Sas! Sas! No, Sas! No!!!”

He leaned closer to his brother, desperate to wake him up. He pulled down the jacket and put his hands on Sans’ chest to feel his soul. There was no glow within him.

Papyrus shut his eyes tightly, his teeth clenched, refusing to accept any of this.

He lost his mother.

He lost his father.

He was not going to lose his brother.

He summoned everything within him to help his brother. He felt the magic in his soul stirring as his tears flowed, his hands still over his brother’s soul.

Don’t leave me.

He pictured his brother awake, sitting up, and grinning at him.

Don’t leave me.

He imagined his brother’s soul, glowing bright white in his chest.

Don’t leave me.

He remembered the words his brother whispered in his ear that woke him up from the cold, dark place.

Don’t leave me.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the light coming from his hands, covering his brother’s chest. Sans’ soul was glowing, but it wasn’t white. It was green.

Papyrus didn’t understand what was happening, but he didn’t let go. He wouldn’t let go. He closed his eyes again, concentrating on his brother’s soul, just as Sans had taught him to do with his bone magic during all those lessons.

Don’t leave me.

He felt his magic flowing up from his soul, down his arms, out through his hands, and into his brother’s soul. He kept on summoning it, refusing to stop or give up.

Don’t leave me!

A gasp of breath suddenly tore from Sans’ mouth. Papyrus’ eyes shot open, his green-glowing hands still not budging. He watched as his brother slowly took another breath. Then another. It was ragged, but his brother was breathing again.

He felt his brother’s chest rise and fall under his hands as he breathed. Something seemed wrong with his chest, so he moved his hands slightly and felt his brother’s ribcage. He could feel that the ribs were shattered and loose under his shirt. Papyrus closed his eyes again, letting his magic—whatever it was—flow from him into Sans’ ribcage. He pictured his brother’s ribcage, seeing each perfectly curved rib. He opened his eyes and saw his brother’s ribs glowing with the green light through his shirt. He held his hands there for a while until Sans’ ribs re-formed.

Papyrus’ eyes grew wide, stunned by what he was doing. He narrowed his eyes. He could heal. He would make his brother better again. He would save him.

He put his hands on either side of Sans’ skull and closed his eyes. He pictured his brother’s skull, perfectly smooth with his gentle eyes and warm grin. Then he opened his eyes. He watched his brother’s skull glow in the green light as the cracks slowly disappeared, the gaps and holes filled in, and his teeth restored.

Papyrus healed his brother’s arms and leg in the same manner. As he continued, he started to feel a strange kind of tired, a sensation he had never felt before. The green glow under his hands flickered after a while, and Papyrus was out of breath. But he wasn’t going to stop until his brother’s injuries were fixed.  

Once he finished healing Sans’ leg, Papyrus had healed all the injuries he could see. He sat on his knees, panting for breath, and swayed slightly. He was severely drained and needed to rest, but that didn’t matter to him now.

He gently nudged his brother’s shoulder. “Sas...?”

Sans’ breathing had become steady, no longer sounding raspy or ragged, but he still didn’t wake. Papyrus knew he needed to get him off of the snow and into bed to rest. Then he would wake up, good as new.

Papyrus stood up, but the exertion from expending so much magic in a short amount of time made him weak. He staggered a bit, then fell over onto the snow. He struggled to rise, his desire to get his brother into the shelter overpowering his exhaustion. He stood back up and steadied himself, then he went around to stand behind his brother’s head. He leaned down, grabbed Sans under his arms, and lifted his limp body up, then started to pull him, inch by careful inch, towards the shelter.

Sans wasn’t that much bigger than Papyrus, but the little skeleton had great difficulty since he had been so weakened. Still, he managed to bring his brother into the shelter after an exceeding amount of time and effort. He laid him down gently in the shelter opening and collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath.

His body trembled from the strain, but he knew he couldn’t rest yet. Gulping for air, Papyrus pushed the fabrics down to the foot of the bed. Then he looked at the bed, panting, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how he was going to get his big brother onto the bed safely.

Finally, he stood against the far wall and raised his right hand. White bones shot up at an angle from the middle of the floor towards the bed, creating a sort of ramp. Carefully, Papyrus pulled his brother over to the bottom of the ramp and positioned his limp form to lay up on the bones. Then he climbed on the bed, knelt on the mat, and reached down to grab his brother under his arms. He grunted as he pulled Sans up the ramp onto the bed.

Once his brother was on the mat, Papyrus raised his right hand again and made the bones disappear, then he climbed off the bed and grabbed the haversack from the floor. He shifted his brother up to lay on the haversack, then covered him with the fabrics and his blue jacket.

He stood by the side of the bed, making sure his brother was in a comfortable position and well covered, then stumbled as he headed to the shelter opening. He crawled through, sealed up the entrance with snow, and returned to the main room. He went to his brother’s side and leaned over to check on him.

Sans was still unconscious, but breathing normally. Papyrus put a shaky hand over his brother’s soul and watched as it glowed a steady white. He was out of danger.

Relief washed over Papyrus at the sight of his brother’s glowing soul. He swayed as he stood back up straight, then his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, passing out from exhaustion. The little skeleton had finally allowed himself to rest, knowing that his brother was safely back home, and back with him.

[pastelastronomy24]

A Different Day

Part 1

Peter Parker x Black!Plus Sized OC (Elara Dawson)

A/N: Oh. Well this is awkward... I said I was going on hiatus didn’t I? 🤷🏾‍♀️ oops. Anyways I’ve been writing this thing in my head for MONTHS. And she decided to take form on this day today, so here I am writing on my phone until I can get a new laptop.

Warnings: the first part of this is very angsty. TRIGGER WARNING for anyone suffering from depression or anyone who’s experienced emotional abuse ; this is an aged up Freshman year of College Peter Parker; I decided to make this set at NYU for plot and convenience sake.

Description: A cute little fic about Elara Dawson, and what happens when meeting Peter Parker changes her life.

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Elara Dawson had been waiting for this day since the reality that life was everything less than pleasant presented itself. Years of her life were spent in a broken home. A home that fostered a desensitizing amount of pain. A home where she learned growing up without receiving love, was every excuse to grow up giving love.

Elara couldn’t place the exact moment in which she realized her mother began to despise her, but she could tell you when her father became complacent. She was 12. Elara could tell you the exact number of how many times she’d thought she had finally reached her limit for living. Exactly 46. She could tell you about all the times her mother physically recoiled and yelled at her for reaching for a hug. A whopping 266. She could tell you how many hours she spent pleading for her mother to understand that she was hurting her, and how many hours her mother spent telling her that these were lies constructed in her mind, that she was a selfish brat who didn’t know how hard life really was. Approximately 1,616 hours, called ‘Selfish’ 86 times, and ‘Brat’ 105.

“You always want to make me out to be the bad guy!!”

“So what I took some of your money, I fucking raised you!”

“All the money I’ve spent on you your entire fucking life and you’re screaming blood murder over $700 you fucking brat”

“I had my stomach sliced open and my guts pulled out to bring your selfish stingy ass into this world.”

Elara had given up on fighting years ago, and came to the conclusion that everything was her fault, and her father could never seem to say it wasn’t her fault.

“Maybe you should try to understand how she feels”

“You’re being over dramatic”

“It’s hard being a parent”

No matter the context, the day, the time, or the argument, it seemed like her dad was more concerned about shutting her up than the fact that her own mother had drove her thoughts to dark and terrible places. But she had gotten used to the pain. Everyone who knew how hard it was for Elara had verbatim always told her “Stick it out, pain sucks, but it makes you stronger” and she had to physically stop herself from either hurling or hurling someone into the sun. The idea that pain would make her stronger angered her. Because she was fragile. She was used to pain but it never made her tougher, or at least she didn’t see it. To Elara, it was illogical to simplify pain like that. Everyone experiences pain in different ways, and thinking of pain as black and white was dangerous, out of touch thinking.

Whatever the case, she came to realize that she was not- in fact- a bad daughter. If she was, she would have used her superhuman advantages and blasted her parents out of existence a long time ago. Sometimes, she thought about what would happen to her if she had let the light coursing through her veins release from her fingertips right into her parents darkened hearts. Sometimes she thought about letting her mind loose, and using it to fling her parents out of her house and far up into the sky. But just as quickly as those thoughts came, they went away and were placed with an immense amount of disgust and horror. She never wanted to cause her parents pain no matter how much they caused her. She just wanted them to love her.

Elara decided to turn her pain, into endless amounts of love and humor. Besides being a natural comedian, she was genuinely caring. When she entered high school, she knew that everyone was going through something. And if anyone was going through a fraction of what she was going through, even if it wasn’t the same pain, she was there. Her friends could never understand how someone had the patience and resilience to continue to give support, regardless of whether or not she needed some herself.

Her experience in dealing with peoples pain and her own pain, led her down the path of psychology, which she would be studying in NYU. Getting into her dream school was incomprehensible, and well, a dream. When she got her acceptance letter she didn’t cry, or really react. It was like her brain had evacuated the premises and took a vacation. Everything felt unreal, and it wasn’t until the very long car ride had ended, and she pulled into the school lot that she realized she had made it.

The tears were almost as chunky as she was as they glided down her plush cheeks, some landing on her full lips. Quiet sobs racked her entire body as she put the car in park and continued to sob, a blissful smile gracing her lips despite the circumstance.

‘Deep breath’ she furiously wiped away her tears, the smile never leaving her now reddened puffy face.

“I made it.” A long sigh escaped her body, a sigh she had been holding for years. Just like the pain of herself and others she had let it go. She had an opportunity to start over. THE opportunity to start over. She might not have had anyone here to help her move in, but just like everything in her life before today, she was ready to take it head on.

Only, she didn’t have to.

As soon as Elara stepped out of her Nissan Versa, she was met with the smile of a kind brown face.

“Hello! Welcome to NYU, my name is Maria I’m a sophomore here, and I’m going to be helping you settle in today!” She was a very pretty girl, with a thick head full of long brown tresses. She adorned thick black glasses similar to Elara’s, except unlike Elara the bridge connecting the two frames was gold. She was wearing a purple ‘NYU’ shirt that seemed to be a little to big for her as she had tied the excess of the shirt off with a black hair tie. The rest of her look was a complementary pair of blue jeans that had a “#NYU” patch sewn into her front side pocket, and a pair of slightly worn out black vans. Elara smiled at Maria and reached out to shake her hand.

“Hello, I’m Elara.” She spoke simply and firmly, her handshake matching the energy of her introduction. Elara could tell that Maria had a generous soul from looking at how excited she seemed to meet her, and it made her all the more excited for new friends and new opportunities.

“Elara is such a beautiful name, and it fits you so well!” Maria smiled before continuing “I’m apart of the NYU Admissions Department, and like I mentioned before I’m here to help you move in! Our department was made to help incoming students feel a little bit less stressed, and get a little more help because we understand how strange this transition can be.”

The way Maria’s eyes lit up as she was talking to Elara made her realize that she was finally in a place where she could be just as happy if not more about helping people.

“So, in about two minutes Bryce, Kara and Kaiden are gonna help you move all your stuff up to your dorm, but in the meantime follow me to the front so we can get your dorm key and your key card yeah?” The pep in Maria’s step couldn’t have been hidden if she tried as she started towards the direction of the check in area.

“So, what’s your major sis?” Elara realized that Maria never told her, and she was silently hoping they would share the same one. “Oh shoot that’s right, I forgot to tell you. I’m a Biology major. I’ve been obsessed with the subject since I knew it existed. I didn’t know you could major in it until my junior year of high school though, as dumb as that sounds.” Elara had to laugh, because it sounded like something she herself wouldnt have realized either.

“That’s not dumb, believe me I would have never known either.” She sighed before continuing “I guess that means since you’re a sophomore and a bio major this is probably the last time we’ll see each other on this gigantic campus.” Elara was sad at the prospect that it seemed likely they’d never speak again, but when she peered over at Maria she was met with a warm smile. Maria pulled out her phone and pulled up the number pad.

“That doesn’t have to happen. Here, put your number in. If you want to hang out or if you want a refresher about what’s on campus let me know.”

The smile that stuck itself to Elara’s face was the biggest she’d had in a very long time. She couldn’t place the feeling. It was like a bubbling in the pit of her stomach. A warmth that had spread all over her body.

Ah,

hope. The feeling was hope.

It was pretty funny. Hilarious in fact. Peter had spent the last 6 months after getting a full ride to NYU, trying to convince his Aunt May that he’d be okay. That NYU wasn’t all that far away, and living on campus wouldn’t be dangerous. That he could maintain the new normal of an adult life, and the old responsibility of being the part-time Friendly Neighbor Spider-Man (and the occasional Avenger). Peter wanted the full experience of a struggling college kid, but as he stood in his new empty dorm, he realized he had no idea what he was doing.

“Oh god” Peter put down the box of hangers he was carrying and sat on his empty extra long twin mattress. For the last five-ish years, Peter had lived based on instinct and responsibility. Everything in his high school life was so hectic, nothing ever stopped for Peter. This new life of Peter Parker, the NYU Biochemistry Major wasn’t anything he was in the realm of being prepared for. Being Spider-Man sounded a hell of a lot easier than being a college freshman right about now. In his haze of assuring his Aunt that everything would be okay, fighting crime, finishing school, and preparing for the move, Peter hadn’t had the time to digest his new reality. He was starting a whole new life.

Well, not whole new.

Ned and MJ would both be attending NYU as well as a Computer Science and Psychology Major respectively (surprisingly this was completely coincidental and unplanned on their part.). And of course he would still be active in his superhero role. But it was different. Peter was used to being on an invisible leash. The protocols Tony placed in all his suits, him mainly being stationed and secluded to Queens, and his Aunts overprotective nature never truly allowed Peter to experience independence. It was something he craved but wasn’t ready to experience.

And now he really didn’t have a choice.

“Come on Peter. You’re Spider-Man. If you can lay out Captain America you can get through move in day.” That’s what he tried to tell himself anyway. He may have had superpowers and a super I. Q, but he also had super anxiety and social anxiety. And the truth of the matter was that even though college allowed more freedoms and free time, he wouldn’t be able to solely rely on MJ and Ned for companionship. He needed to expand his horizons, try something way out of his depth.

It was time to integrate himself into society (well, campus life. )

Physics SUCKED. Elara may have had a stellar I.Q, and genius level writing and comprehension skills, but cold hard numbers were not her niche. Sure in high school her math and science skills were above average, but only slightly. They had put her in advanced math and science classes her freshmen year in high school, and it was all down hill from there. Every year, her teachers never let her drop down a level despite a vast amount of begging and pleading, so she spent most of her years acing all her subjects, but barely scrapping by in Math and science with a C+.

College wasn’t any different. She was struggling and embarrassed to her core about it. She was doing so subpar that her professor set up a meeting for her and a private tutor. Apparently this tutor was some kind of science genius as he was taking a science that wasn’t required to meet his hour requirements or his major. He just liked taking Physics. From what her professor told her, he was a very good tutor and would probably be the best option for her. Only problem? He tutored at the ass crack of the morning.

Well, she was being dramatic. 8 am wasn’t the ass crack of the morning. She was lucky that she didn’t start classes until 10 on most days of the week because she had previous hours stocked up from high school, but the thought of doing physics that early in the morning made her want to shoot herself.

So, when her alarm went off at 7 am for the first time in three months, she couldn’t control herself. Before she could open her eyes she crushed the alarm to a pulp with her mind.

“Shiiiiiit. I don’t have cash for a new alarm. “ she groaned and rose up from her bed, her warm marble comforter slipping from her torso. She knew it would end up being a good idea that she bought an alarm in the first place. She feared had she decided to use her phone alarm, it would have been bye bye for her cellular device. ‘Speaking of cellular device’ she thought, Elara unplugged her phone and the first thing she saw was a message from MJ.

Big Weirdo 🖤: Wake your butt up before you’re late for tutoring. You know it takes you 20 minutes to finish putting on your wig.

Just like Michelle to call her out. She was absolutely correct but still. Elara laughed and sent a quick ‘thanks I’m up 😂. And it only takes 10 now I’ve evolved.’ And let out a monster of a stretch/yawn combo.

Big Weirdo🖤: Good luck pooh 😪. Don’t forget the government knows when you masturbate.

Elara choked. If she wasn’t awake before her ass was awake now.

‘Uh well I guess it’s a great thing I don’t masturbate. 🤦🏾‍♀️’ She put her phone down and reached into her closet and drawers, pulling out her underwear and outfit for the day. She walked out of her room and into the common area, seeing that MJ’s door was wide ass open as always and despite the fact that she was texting her a minute ago, she was fast asleep. With a short laugh she quietly closed MJ’s door and went into their shared bathroom to take a shower and get ready.

She inspected her outfit intensely (a habit she swore she would break) analyzing every piece of clothing and how it laid on her body. In high school you would have never caught her wearing a pair of short jeans shorts, but here she was today doing that very thing. Tucked into her black jean shorts was a maroon colored plaid cami, which she’d accompanied with a black, long sleeved, ankle length cardigan. Did she have a pudgy stomach and huge thighs?? Yes. Was she insecure about it?? More than anything. She was a size 18 and some days that number would leave her crying in a mirror. She couldn’t find it in herself to ignore her round face and full cheeks, or her arm fat and stomach fat and well, fat fat. And when she could, her very sensitive skin would would laugh at her. “You thought” she could practically hear it saying as her eczema came back every time, angry and aggressive due to literally anything. Stress, heat, PMS, intense cold, perfume, yes even fucking laundry detergent.

But she was older now, and she forced herself out of her comfort zone. She wanted to work on herself so that she didn’t spend her first four years of freedom hiding in black jeans and pullover hoodies. She would try to not focus on the eczema scars covering her legs (on first glance they looked like freckles.). She would try not to fret over the slight discoloration on her face. It was a different day, and she would treat it as such.

Elara grabbed her backpack and phone, scuttling out of her dorm room off to find her new tutor.

Peter was nervous. It’s not like he hadn’t tutored anyone before, it was just how he felt every time he had to teach someone new. He hoped they didn’t hate him because he was a freshman, but logically he knew this was college, most people didn’t care. He hoped he could speak concisely enough to help whoever he was tutoring and without fail, every one of his previous tutored classmates commended him on the clarity in which he explained things. He tended to over analyze everything he did when it came to tutoring, but he had a stellar track record thus far. Despite all of these things, Peter could never seem to calm down the first day of meeting a new peer.

During the first month of school, his professors noticed his exceptional intelligence and suggested he try tutoring. Peter’s ears perked up at this because it was the opportunity he had been looking for. He promised himself he would branch out and try doing things that would -at first- make him feel uncomfortable, but could benefit him in the long run. His Physics tutor had suggested that Peter charge for his services, but it didn’t feel right. Sure, Peter was broke, but that gave him more incentive to not charge students. He knew how hard it was to keep change in your pocket during college, and he didn’t want to break some poor students bank just because they needed a little extra help. He accepted the suggestion and had been tutoring for almost three months. Peter decided when he started that he would tutor in the mornings so that he could patrol in the evenings and late at night. He knew it was probably annoying to the people he was tutoring, but it couldn’t be helped. Crime didn’t stop just because Peter wasn’t a 16 year old in spandex anymore.

He’d been up since 6 am running on 3 hours of sleep, anxiety, and sugary black coffee but he would manage. Besides, Peter had been in worse condition. He’d thrown on a black T-shirt that read “May the kg.m/s^2 be with you” in bold yellow lettering (a completely appropriate choice for tutoring physics) and a pair of dark blue jeans. He re-tied his black converse, slung on his jansport back pack and left his dorm ready for the day.

🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨

This story is my baby and I love her so very much 😪���. This was super fun to write and I’m happy to exclaim that ITS THE LONGEST THING I’VE WRITTEN ON THIS APP!!! I’m excited for the future of this lil thing and hope you all are too.

As usual if you wanna be tagged let me know. And if you don’t then don’t be afraid to tell me 😊.

Also please y’all please understand. This is my first OC since I was a baby writer on Wattpad who had no idea what she was doing. If you guys would please leave feedback and reblogs it would mean the world to me.

It’s important to me that I mention the face/body claim for Elara Dawson will be Nerdabouttown!! Her name is Steph and her blog is beautiful and amazing just like her. You all should check her out, her energy is unmatched by anyone I’ve seen and you can feel it through the way she writes.

Here’s a link to her blog (please check her out 😊)

Taglist

@thememoireeofme @danandphiltheavengers @marvelmaree @thequeerishere555 @steveslulbaby @non-stop-imagines @canumoveurseatup-no @deansbbysblog @here-for-your-bullshit @melaninfics @thisismysecrethappyplace

[warwaged-archive]

Although canon timeline gets confusing, likely because they didn’t think it through decided to retcon things later, I decided Beyond the Dark Portal shouldn’t be disregarded entirely. So, taking it into account, here’s my take on how things happened (it doesn’t include Alleria calling Turalyon my love half a second after they’ve talked to each other and made peace, sorry not sorry @Beyond the Dark Portal):

Alleria and Turalyon met when fighting in the Second War. Prior to that, she did not have contact with many humans, and if she didn’t necessarily look down on them, Alleria didn’t really see them as equals either (their senses are not as sharp as the elves’, their lives are way too short, and they are still quite arrogant in spite of that, in her eyes). It isn’t until the war that she has a chance to get to know them better, and fighting beside the humans definitely changes her views on them.

Turalyon, specifically, does not mean much to her in the beginning. He’s obviously smitten with her, and she finds it way too amusing to waste the opportunities to tease him — but in the beginning this is all her actions are: amusement. She never seriously leads him on, and he’s quite aware she’s entertained by his reaction to her. But as time passes they genuinely become closer. Alleria learns to respect him after fighting with him and following his leadership, and then her actions around him are not as much jokes as they were before.

She’s interested, but she isn’t in love. It is infatuation at most, she thinks, and it’ll pass soon enough (it isn’t as if she considers a serious relationship with him either: he’s a human still, his entire life until adulthood is only a fraction of her own and she’s bound to outlive him). In truth her feelings go a little deeper than she’s willing to believe they go, but it isn’t some deep, endless love. She’s falling for him, but on her part it is slow, and she makes it slower still with all the resistance against it she creates.

When they learn the Horde will target Quel’Thalas, Alleria is immediately on edge (she grows restless, impulsively wants to run to her home ahead of the army, questions every single decision he makes just because). She’s worried about her home, her people, and the people she loves that are there and don’t know what’s coming for them. Arriving there afterwards and fighting to drive them back and still having to watch their forests burn, it wounded her very deeply, even more because of her previous concern. And then she learns most of her family died, including her little brother, and it breaks her in a way Alleria hadn’t yet been broken.

She doesn’t love Turalyon when she goes to him. She doesn’t want to be vulnerable in the front of people she knows and loves and who look up to her, though, and she came to like and trust him well enough that she seeks him instead. It isn’t a well thought out thing – she’s barely thinking at all – but it feels like a good enough idea at the time: this way her sisters won’t see her breaking, because she has to be strong for them, and she won’t burden friends who have lost people themselves, and she won’t be vulnerable in front of those who look up to her as a leader.

It wasn’t a good idea. It is something she’ll regret immediately afterwards. Alleria would feel guilty she had used him to try to forget her hurt, because he obviously cares for her and she does not feel the same, at least not as intensely. There is no future for them, she thinks, and what she did would give him hopes of something that couldn’t be. Beyond that, she’s still hurting; she’ll continue to hurt for a long time, unable to process her grief, unable to let go and heal. As soon as it is over and he is asleep, she leaves. Afterwards, Alleria is cold towards him purposefully, so he will know it was just one night, so he won’t think it is more than it is. Turalyon doesn’t take well to it, but Alleria thinks it’s best that way. Let him live his short human life with someone who can love him better than she can. Besides, it isn’t as if he understands; he doesn’t like the path she’s taking and she cannot meet his criticism with anything other than anger.

Alleria isn’t concerned with love, by then. All she wants is revenge. For everything, for all the family she lost, but specially for her brother. Even after the war is over, she doesn’t stop hunting the orcs, and she revels in their pain. She wants each and every orc dead, but a thousand kills do not lessen her thirst for revenge, neither does it fill the emptiness within her, nor does it make her feel less guilty for being alive while Lirath is dead. She won’t let go of anger and hatred for years still. And in the meanwhile between the night she regrets and the future in which vengeance is not her utmost priority, Alleria finds herself pregnant.

It is kind of (very) despairing at first. Most of her family died, and she’s in a very dark place mentally and emotionally. She feels the need to keep it together for those around her, but she’s falling apart. She came to regret the one night in which her child was conceived, and it isn’t like she can exactly count on someone she pushed away to care for a child now. Besides, it is said the High Elves didn’t look favorably towards half-elven children. Alleria doesn’t seek support of anyone else; she hesitates in even telling people close to her about it.

But she’s decided to have her child and to keep the baby with her regardless. Eventually she’d have to speak; but before it would be noticeable, she’d let at least Sylvanas and Vereesa know (maybe some of her closest friends, but even that is uncertain; she might have panicked and blurted it to Halduron at some point before even telling her sisters). So Arator is born in Quel’Thalas, and no matter what she feels towards his father, she loves her son from the beginning. And I think much of her love for Arator, and how deep and important to Alleria it is, comes from the place she was in at the time of his birth. To her, he was a flicker of hope in a world that was seemingly all devoid of it; and the fact he may suffer some prejudice amidst her people only made her more determined to give him love that would make up for it.

Contacting Turalyon never crosses her mind as a serious option. She would have thought of it at times, specially when his letters arrived, but she would be angry at herself for even considering it. If someone said she should (I believe someone would have), Alleria would cut them short. She doesn’t need him, he cannot help; Arator is her son, and they’ll be fine just the two of them.

Except they won’t, because even though she’s wholeheartedly dedicated and entirely loving towards him, she’s also consumed with vengeance and hatred for what happened to Lirath. Arator would give her happiness she wouldn’t have felt ever since the war, but immediately afterwards even the faintest glimmer of happiness, she’d feel immense guilt (how can she be alive, happy, laughing, after having failed her home, after failing to prevent Lirath’s death? her brother would never get to laugh again, he would never father his own children; why should she have all of this, when he would not?).

It would become a cycle, and it definitely pushed her away further: happiness makes her feel guilty, guilt makes her dive headfirst in battle and revenge. She makes herself believe that Arator would be better without her, but cannot find it in herself to tell Turalyon about their son and leave Arator with him. It is part of why she’s so eager to go beyond the dark portal, too: she wants vengeance, and to protect the things she loves, and to die fighting, to die in a way that can at least leave her sisters proud, to die and leave her son to be raised by those who could do it better than she ever could.

Is it immensely hard to just pretend nothing ever happened once she’s forced to interact with Turalyon again, specially considering she is well aware their one night resulted in the most precious baby boy in Azeroth and beyond? Yes, but their antagonism towards each other helps; anger does not leave much room for her to feel guilty for not letting him know of anything. Of course, once they are together again, and once she acknowledges her feelings for him go well beyond just infatuation, she knows the conversation has to happen — and it is only then that she tells him of Arator. It is quite a mess that they made, so reconciliation isn’t by any means easy, and Alleria is never one to just give herself completely and without wariness. To her, opening up to him again is a slow process; and if physical contact comes earlier and easier than verbal declarations, even that is slow. She doesn’t shy away from him, maybe even seeks him at times, but more often than not, Alleria would wait for him to seek contact than the other way around —- and it would definitely take a long while for her to reciprocate I love yous.

[sepublic]

Nocturn

           Nocturn is an immensely powerful Okotan demigod who possesses legendary strength. A four-armed, amphibious being with a bioluminescent appearance, translucent blue muscles, and lime-green skin, he is Umarak’s strongest ally.

           According to ancient legend, the demigod known as Nocturn struck the island of Okoto with such god-like strength that he split the entire land in half. Thankfully, the Elemental Deities were able to mend the damage, and any lasting scars that remained were soon forgotten when the island was made into the foundations for the present-day Okoto, all in order to contain Umarak the Deity of Shadow.

           Generations passed since the incident, and during those centuries Nocturn has admittedly let himself go quite a bit… His strength is a mere fraction of what it used to be (although it’s still incredibly devastating), and unpleasant encounters and broken promises have made him an outcast and a recluse with trust issues. As Okotan civilization thrived, Nocturn lurked in the island’s depths, occasionally venturing beyond Okoto into the seas beyond and exploring the darkened ocean floor below. Over the years, he’s accumulated a large variety of wounds and scars from his experiences, his most grievous being the permanent loss of a tentacle after a battle with the Manas Crabs.

           When the Great Cataclysm occurred, Nocturn quickly adapted to the horrific events and made his home in the deepest depths of the Region of Water, living an isolated life in which he hunted and fished for deep-sea prey, ate, and then otherwise just sort of sat around, occasionally swam a bit, and miserably contemplated life. He largely ignored the Skull Spiders, who were unable to access the depths he normally lived in, and in turn the Brotherhood of Makuta held no interest in him, not even knowing for sure if he was alive or not.

           Nocturn at one point helped Umarak the Hunter when the latter requested his help in securing and capturing the Great Temple Squid. Desiring a taste of the squid’s flesh, Nocturn obliged on this one alliance and proved to be an invaluable ally, securing the aquatic Rahi. Before and ever since, Umarak and Nocturn have had the occasional interaction and favor done.

           Upon Umarak’s alliance with the Brotherhood of Makuta, he called in several favors owed to him by Nocturn and had the demigod pay them off by helping in the war against the Okotan Alliance. Nocturn himself proved to be an incredibly difficult and powerful opponent for the Toa in particular, who he usually clashed with, and later Nocturn participated in the Brotherhood campaign in the Labyrinth of Infinity for the Mask of Control.

           After Makuta possessed Umarak, Nocturn continued to assist the Brotherhood in its attempts to raze Okoto, albeit at least a little suspicious of whether or not Makuta would honor Umarak’s promise to spare him and the other demigod allies from the destruction. Regardless, he fought the Toa at a final stand in Destral, only to be defeated in combat.

           Following the death of Makuta and Umarak’s imprisonment, Nocturn has since returned to his old, lonely lifestyle in the Region of Water. The Okotans have made efforts to reach out to him and make an alliance, even offering to absolve him of his cooperation with the Brotherhood- Nocturn is far better as an ally than an enemy. However, Nocturn has declined these offers, getting successively angrier each time, and so the Okotans have chosen to let him be.

           Nocturn has bulbous red eyes that let him see in a total darkness (with the exception of the darkness summoned by Umarak). He is an amphibious creature and is able to breathe on land and water, and can function in both environments with ease. To swim, Nocturn mostly relies on paddling his large, flippered feet to propel himself forward, and his muscles emanate a bioluminescent light in darkness. He has four arms, with his lower arms both wielding a pair of silver scimitars.

           One of his two main abilities lies in the silver tentacle that emerges from and is entwined with the flesh of his upper left-arm (and, prior to his battle with the Manas, his upper right-arm as well). This tentacle is able to stretch for incredible distances, with Nocturn hurling it forward as it rapidly extends towards its target (not unlike a fishing rod), and is incredibly flexible and strong. The tentacle is impervious to most physical damage, and sharp weapons are usually useless unless applied with colossal force- However, Nocturn himself is vulnerable to the pain of having his tentacle super-heated or frozen.

           The main feature of Nocturn’s tentacle is its ability to attach itself to anything, and permanently stick unless he wills it not to. This ability, functioning on Life energy, is similar to that of a Mask of Adhesion��s, except more potent and lethal. In combat, Nocturn will often cast his tentacle forward, where it will lash out and strike a target. At that moment, the target is permanently attached to whatever part of his tentacle has hit them, meaning it’s impossible to crawl further up the tentacle- They’re affixed through their soul itself to Nocturn’s tendril.

           Unable to separate themselves from Nocturn’s tentacle, many of his opponents quickly find themselves helpless as he swings around his tendril, keeping them at a distance as he repeatedly slams them into the surrounding environment, or else reels in his tentacle at high speeds, bringing his victim towards himself as he scissor-slashes forward with both scimitars, the massive strength behind them usually bisecting opponents completely. Like the rest of him, this tentacle possesses massive strength and is able to further crawl up along a victim, entangling them and allowing Nocturn to crush them completely as well. Prior to losing a tentacle, Nocturn preferred to use both tendrils to latch onto separate ends of a victim, and by applying his massive strength, tear them in half, often from afar in a vicious tug-of-war.

           When Nocturn battled the Manas Crabs, he suffered his most devastating defeat. The pair of crabs easily managed to grab onto both of his tentacles and began pulling him apart in an ironic echo of what he normally did to his victims. Despite Nocturn’s strength and incredible durability, he was helpless as the Manas’ colossal power tore out his upper-right arm, causing nerve damage to the spine. Trapped and wounded, Nocturn was kept as a play-puppet for days by the Manas Crabs, who repeatedly played tug-of-war with his upper limbs, his right tentacle usually giving way because it hadn’t fully regenerated upon each round. In constant agony, Nocturn was thankfully saved by Umarak, who at the time was trying to take advantage of the Manas’ distraction to capture them; Although he failed, this led to a long series of favors and interactions between the two. Nocturn was able to regenerate his right-arm in peace after the incident, but it returned without its signature tentacle, to Nocturn’s humbled dismay.

Sometime later, Umarak replaced Nocturn’s missing tentacle with a Life-Automaton prosthetic crossbow. The crossbow, channeling Nocturn’s abilities, gave him the ability to generate energy arrows to fire at enemies- Upon striking and piercing them, the arrows in question would stay attached to their target, not unlike Nocturn’s lost tentacle. From there, they would stay, eventually dissipating after a few hours; In that time, while the victim wouldn’t be concerned with removing the arrow and dying from blood loss, the arrow’s constantly-lodged presence ensured they couldn’t recover with a Mask of Healing in the time it took for the arrow to disappear. Likewise, the arrows are large enough that they can completely block a victim’s vein, in turn stopping their blood flow and killing them.

           Nocturn’s most devastating attack, a powerful punch, has been dubbed a wide variety of titles, from ‘Megaton Punch’ to ‘Tectonic Breaker’ and ‘Island-Slayer’. Nocturn has lost track of these names, most of which come from others, but he’s willing to employ one of them every now and then. By concentrating his life force into a single fist –usually his lower-right one-, Nocturn is able to launch a devastating punch surging with kinetic force into the ground. The impact of this punch is immense, usually crafting a gigantic, smoldering impact crater in the ground as the earth itself splinters and shatters, everything within a several-meter radius sent flying.

It was this technique of concentrating life energy that allowed Nocturn to split Okoto in half, although thankfully he has neglected on his training over the centuries and is at a fraction of his strength- Nevertheless, a blow from his Tectonic Breaker is more than capable of piercing any defense and can even tear apart solid bohrok. For Nocturn’s opponents, he thankfully requires at least several seconds of charging his Island-Slayer before he can unleash it, giving them plenty of time to stop Nocturn, or more often than not, run away as far as possible.

           As an Okotan demigod, Nocturn possesses an immense metabolism and durability, and often feeds on multiple colossal squids, razor whales, and other creatures every day. He has powerful regenerative abilities, able to grow back entire limbs and even repair his spine, although sufficiently deep damage, especially done consecutively over time, can lead to a wound not fully-healing. Likewise, Nocturn has a powerful immune system that renders him unaffected by virtually any poison or disease, as well as an incredibly long life-span whose end he hasn’t been sighting anytime soon.

           Aggressive, ill-tempered, and not the brightest person, most have come to dismiss Nocturn as a dimwitted brute. However, Umarak recognizes his abilities, power, and potential, and unlike most of the people who’ve interacted with him and known his past, he doesn’t constantly lord Nocturn’s previous feats over his head, which is a sore spot for the amphibious demigod. More likely than not, Nocturn probably has depression, which isn’t helped whenever he recalls what he used to be capable of. Nevertheless, his and Umarak’s relationship probably can’t be described as ‘gentle’, but it’s definitely a lot better than others Nocturn has had.