#and that’s what made it tragic and emotional and raw

[corviddrawsstuff]

people are hating on the new wild card?? personally this has been my favourite session yet. I think the haters are a loud minority and at least for me, even if im not a fan of a gimmick or season theres still enjoyment to be found. remember nobody owes you anything and the life series is a group of friends having fun <3

[kissedsuns]

♥︎ 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, lando norris

fem!reader. kissing. pure fluff. pet names. swearing. a lot of touching. established relationship. lando is in desperate need of comfort as per usual. ₊ 𓂃 masterlist.

life isn’t always just sunshine and rainbows, and more often than not, lando is hit with the cruelty and misery in living. it’s as if he’s falling into an endless pit of despair, with loneliness becoming an unwelcome but familiar companion. all he needed was someone to lean on, and thankfully, you have always been there for him.

you’ll immediately notice how low his spirits are and how it looks like he’s just not in the right headspace after he suffers yet another tragic race weekend.

it wasn’t until late at night when lando had finally returned home to you. he had dark outlines around his sad eyes, a frown tugging at his lips that were chewed raw, but regardless, he seemed to be in one piece. the sight of him made you run into his firm arms the moment he came through that door, which took your boyfriend by surprise.

his arm looped around your waist, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. the scent of his clothes worked to steady your nerves. “i missed you like crazy,” you squeezed your eyes shut.

“impossible, baby,” he murmured as his fingers traced soothing lines along your backside. “i couldn’t stop thinking about you.” it was all he could manage past the heavy lump in his throat. he was holding himself on a single thread, deep breathes and hefty swallows as he continued his soothing motions.

his name rolled so naturally from your tongue as you reached for him, catching his wrist before he could retreat to his gaming room to drown in his emotions.

“are you okay?”

the question hung in the air, though you already knew the answer. his sharp inhale and shaky exhale betrayed the effort it took to pull together a facade. as he turned to face you, his jaw clenched slightly, but his dull eyes — shining with unshed tears, told a very different story.

“just feelin’ a bit tired,” he muttered, speaking in half-truths. the quick smile he offered you felt like a blow straight to the chest, small and devoid of any warmth.

you spoke his name again, this time softer, brows knitted with equal parts skepticism and concern.

“i’m fine,” he insisted, “really.”

and that was the last you saw of lando for hours.

the night wound down fairly quick, and you felt sleep tugging at your heavy eyelids, signalling it was time for you to head to bed.

you rubbed at your reddened eyes, too tired to fight it any longer — a few minutes of rest couldn’t hurt. lando would join you under the covers eventually. he always did.

you shifted in bed, fluffing your pillow until it was just right. you curled onto your side, staring at the empty space beside you. the side of the bed where lando’s presence was blatantly absent.

snugly wrapped in the silky, soft blankets, an uneasy feeling settled over you as your weary voice broke the quiet of the room, spelling out your boyfriends name to yourself.

“lando, lando, lando,” you whispered, voice muffled by the blanket. “oh, what do i do?”

you tossed and turned late into the night as your mind played a relentless game of ping pong with itself. silly questions bounced back and forth as you tried to figure out exactly what to do.

what could you even say? what if he didn’t want to see you right now?

with a frustrated huff, you tore the sheets off your body and wobbled out of bed without much grace. he still hadn’t come to bed, so you decided to take matters into your own hands.

with a few gentle knocks, you called his name. no response. you tried again, a little louder this time, but were met with nothing but silence and a gross feeling bubbling in your chest once again.

with a deep breath, you carefully jiggled the doorknob, easing the door open just enough to peek your head through the gap.

your big eyes scanned the room curiously before landing on him, curled up in his gaming chair with his knees tucked up tightly to his chest.

your voice is meek and barely audible when you cooed. “baby. c’mon, wake up f’me, lan,”

you reached out to brush a stray curl from his forehead and twirl it delicately between your fingers before letting your thumb glide softly across his cheek.

lando’s eyelashes fluttered open for the first time post-slumber, and he scrubbed his face with his hands to try and wipe away the tiredness which was still evident on his handsome features.

“wha—? oh, um…” his head lolled back and forth as his eyes struggled to adjust to their surroundings. “hey, baby…”

“you fell asleep in your chair,” you crouched down beside him. the monitors in front of him were dark now, the game long forgotten as his body had finally given in. “been out for hours.”

he groaned, his legs dropping to the floor as he blinked sluggishly at you. “i jus’— i was so—” he paused, letting out a heaved sigh.

“shh, shh. i know, baby, i know.” your hand moved to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“hmf, bed sounds nice…” he moaned tiredly as his head dropped to your shoulder, nestling into the crook of your neck.

you brought a hand to the base of his scalp and lightly dragged your nails across the skin.

it was like warm drizzles of syrup, your touch sinking into him as he absorbed your sweetness. 

you could see the toll the weekend had taken on him—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged.

“i love you,” you assured him, not expecting a response as you just wanted to let him know someone was on his side, no matter how much he convinced himself otherwise.

you were the only one who looked at him with such pure adoration, the only one who made him feel like he truly had a purpose. “i, for one, think you’re amazing, lan. you don’t just sit around waiting for things to happen; you’re so helpful, and so, so kind—to me.”

lando’s eyes remained on his hands that laid on his lap, palms sweaty from excessive nervous rubbing.

you could tell that he was trying his very best not to cry. unfortunately, his glassy eyes and wobbling lips were giving himself away.

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i just feel so fucking miserable sometimes.”

you cupped his cheeks and kissed him. “there’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. jus’ feeling overwhelmed, that’s all.” you kissed him again. “and that is absolutely normal.”

lando stirred slightly when he felt you brush his curls back, his head lolling to the side in content.

“lando,” you were going to try your best to sweet talk him into getting up. “you can’t fall asleep here, baby.”

he made a faint sound, somewhere between a hum and a sigh with his lips parting as though to protest but not finding the energy to form words.

“come on,” you cooed, your other hand steadying him by the shoulder when he swayed slightly. “how ‘bout we— mmf— get you in the shower, hm? you’d like that, right?”

lando’s feet shuffled weakly against the floor as you guided him up.

when you sat him down on the closed toilet lid, he leaned forward — elbows resting on his knees, his head dipping low like he was about to doze off again.

“hey, hey, hey! woah there, big guy.” you scratched his head soothingly “stay awake for me, please, honey.”

you helped him shrug off his hoodie, your fingertips grazing the warm skin of his arms as you pulled it over his head.

once the warm water from the shower began to fill the small space with steam, you carefully helped him inside. he leaned against the wall, letting the water run over his shoulders and down his back in hopes that it would wash away the horrible weight of the day.

you waited patiently by the bathroom counter for the water to shut off, until eventually lando stepped out. a fluffy towel sat snug around his waist, leaving very little to the imagination as your eyes shyly trailed down to his v-line.

“c’mere,” you reached out for him. “gotta brush those pearly whites.”

he cringed at your teasing words, but lando followed without question. he positioned himself between your legs as you grabbed his toothbrush and carefully squirted a glob of toothpaste across the bristles.

you held the toothbrush out to him, but when he made no move to take it, you simply sighed, feeling more amused than frustrated.

“open,” you ordered, and he obeyed, his lips promptly parting when you tilt his face upward.

trailing the brush along his teeth, you made sure to brush either side of the gums until reaching the raw spots at the back. you swiped the toothbrush across his bottom teeth one last time before pulling back.

“now spit,” you tapped his chin.

lando bent forward, spitting into the sink and letting the water wash away the suds as he rinsed his mouth. when he straightened again, he looked at you with sulky eyes and lips tinged pink from all the scrubbing.

“alright, time to rest those pretty eyes,” lando’s eyes softened as your sweet voice ran like warm honey in his ears. “i think you’ll sleep well tonight.”

he slowly nodded his head. you’re such a sweetheart, lando thought.

your fingers laced through his as you guided him out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom where he could change into his boxers. you followed suit as he crawled into bed, draping the covers over his body before latching onto you like a koala.

“i love you so much, lan,” you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “you did me so proud out there.”

the reassurance soothed lando enough for him to glance up at you with big eyes, teeth catching the flesh of his lips. “you really think so?” he asked you like he needed an answer in order to believe it.

“of course,” you responded, full of confidence. “mistakes happen, sweetheart. you’ll come back stronger.”

in seconds, lando was pretty much out. your soft stroking of his hair paired with the occasional whispers of sweet nothings in his ear had him drifting in and out of sleep. his arms stayed wrapped around your figure for the rest of the night, and you didn’t mind sacrificing your own sleep to make sure he was resting peacefully—because if anyone deserved it, it was him.

your index finger trailed softly down his nose, and you couldn’t help but smile as his eyelids twitched each time you reached the tip.

“goodnight, baby,”

“mmm… g’night, nngh…”

yeah, he’d definitely be sleeping well tonight.

©KISSEDSUNS 2024.

[knoepfl]

Title: In the Pale Moonlight

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Warnings:

Slight angst

Emotional vulnerability

Hints of possessiveness

Blood drinking (lightly implied)

Masterlist

Words: 1,150

The fire crackled softly in the camp, its embers glowing like faint stars in the night. Most of the party had already retreated to their tents, the quiet hum of sleep settling over the clearing. Only two figures remained awake—the vampire spawn and the one foolish enough to grow close to him.

Astarion sat with his usual grace, one leg crossed over the other, his silver hair catching the moonlight in delicate strands. In the soft glow, he looked almost ethereal—too beautiful for a creature forged from centuries of cruelty and pain. His crimson gaze flickered toward you, playful as ever, but beneath that smile was something harder to decipher.

"You should be resting, darling," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, the way a cat watches a mouse. "Or did you come out here for me?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "What if I did?"

Astarion’s grin widened—sharp, dangerous, and yet somehow genuine in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He had a way of making every word feel like both a joke and a promise.

"Then I’d say you have excellent taste," he purred, scooting closer with a fluid, feline movement. His hand reached out, brushing against yours for the briefest moment, sending a shiver up your spine. "Though I must wonder—what keeps you so captivated? My devastating charm, perhaps? Or is it the mystery that draws you in?"

You gave him a sidelong glance, trying to see past the layers of bravado he wore like armor. "You think I haven’t noticed the cracks beneath that charm?"

His smile faltered, just a flicker, and for a second you saw it—the exhaustion, the fear, the ache of someone who had spent too long pretending. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar smirk.

"Oh, you wound me," Astarion said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "I thought I was doing such a good job at hiding my flaws."

You leaned in slightly, close enough to see the faint lines of strain around his eyes. "You don’t have to hide them from me, you know."

For a moment, Astarion stilled. The playful banter he wielded like a weapon faded into silence, leaving only the barest trace of something raw and uncertain between you.

"Careful, darling," he whispered, his voice low and almost… pleading. "It’s dangerous to care for someone like me."

You searched his gaze, seeing the layers of fear hidden beneath the mirth. He wanted to trust—desperately, perhaps—but he didn’t know how. Not after what Cazador had done to him, not after centuries of being treated like a tool, a possession.

"You don’t scare me," you whispered back, your hand brushing against his.

Astarion chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "That’s what makes you dangerous, too."

He turned his hand over, letting your fingers interlace with his. For all his teasing, there was a fragile quality to the way he held your hand—like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on tighter or let go before it was too late.

The fire crackled softly between you, filling the space with warmth and light, though neither of you really needed it. The moon overhead bathed Astarion in pale silver, making him look like a dream—too beautiful, too tragic.

"You know," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, "I spent so long believing I could only survive by taking, by pretending, by being whoever someone needed me to be. And now…"

His gaze met yours, raw and exposed in a way you’d never seen before. "Now you come along, with your kind words and your foolish heart, and I don’t know what to do with you."

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "You could try being yourself."

A bitter laugh escaped him, but there was no malice in it. "And what if you don’t like who I am?"

"I already do," you whispered.

The weight of those words settled between you, heavy and undeniable. Astarion’s smile faded into something softer—something real. For the first time, he looked at you not as a game, not as a conquest, but as someone who saw him for what he was and didn’t flinch away.

"I hate how much I want you," he confessed, his voice rough and uneven. "It’s terrifying. But gods help me, I can’t stop."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile and dangerous. You knew what it cost him to say it, how much trust it took for him to bare even a sliver of his heart. And in that moment, you knew you would never betray that trust.

He shifted closer, his hand tightening around yours as if grounding himself in the connection. "Stay with me," he whispered, almost too softly to hear.

You nodded, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from his face. "Always."

For the first time in what felt like centuries, Astarion allowed himself to relax—just a little. The fear was still there, the shadows of his past still lingering, but for tonight, he could pretend. He could let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he thought.

And with you by his side, perhaps he wouldn’t have to pretend for much longer.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this softer, more vulnerable take on Astarion. If you’d like a follow-up or have any other requests, feel free to ask!

[animebw]

I've seen Kimi ni Todoke get pigeonholed a lot as a sweet, fluffy series that's nothing but good vibes. And to be sure, this show is sugary sweet to a truly dangerous level. Every second I spend with Sawako and Kazehaya feels like I'm putting myself at risk of some yet undiscovered Type 3 Diabetes. But reducing Kimi ni Todoke to its fluffiness leaves out just how wrenching it can be. It may not be as raw an emotional wound as Fruits Basket's exploration of abuse, but there is a deep, aching agony at the heart of this show just as palpable as its sweeter moments. And it comes from understanding one very basic fact: the greatest sources of happiness in our lives are able to cause us even greater pain.

Throughout this story, Sawako's most painful moments don't come as a result of bullies or tragic strokes of fate. They come because she cares about someone so deeply that the thought of losing them- or worse, hurting them with her mistakes- becomes impossible to bear. Not just with Kazehaya, but with Chizu and Ayane in the first arc when their budding friendship is almost shattered and they realize how much they've come to love each other that the thought of losing each other hurts this much. Same for Kurumi's feelings for Kazehaya, or Chizu's feelings for Ryu's brother, and all the other crushes that go unspoken for so long. To love someone in Kimi ni Todoke means to leave yourself vulnerable, to accept the possibility that things will go wrong and this thing that's so special to you will shatter like glass in your hands. To love is to open yourself to agony; to agonize is proof that it's love at all. It's a pain the characters risk again and again, because the connections they've forged are too precious to give up on.

And nowhere is that idea more strongly expressed than Ryu and Chizu's backstory. Seeing how deeply entwined their lives have been, how tragedy and suffering have shaped them, how they've both actively chosen again and again to be there for each other through thick and thin... god, I don't think this show's ever made me cry this hard before. Just the image of Chizu making rice balls for Ryu over and over again to try and replace the hole his mother's death left was enough to make me lose my shit. Never mind seeing Ryu actually cry for the first time. Time and again, the only option they have is hurt with each other, to sink into suffering together and carry each other to the other side. But they make that choice regardless, because they will be fucked if they leave the other to drown alone. Their bond is more than a childhood friendship, or even a burgeoning romantic relationship. It's a connection as essential a part of their lives as eating and breathing, a fundamental truth of their shared existence that they willed into being.

And it's no wonder that Chizu is terrified of losing that after Ryu confesses. How dare he stab a spike through everything they've been through? How dare he shatter their status quo and leave them unable to return to that part of their lives? But once again, all that is just Ryu choosing, once again, to face the pain that comes with loving someone head first, accepting the risk that things will never be the same... in hopes that something entirety new can still be born from its ashes. It's him putting his faith in what he and Chizu have together, trusting that no matter what, they are too important to each other to let go even in waters this stormy. It is, quite frankly, as powerful and honorable an expression of love as I've seen in a very long time.

This show is really fucking good, you guys.

[getghosteddd]

One of the things that the drama did was reveal an incredibly important part of hyyh vmon's dynamic that has always been there but I just didn't get before.

We know that Tae looks up to Joon as an older brother figure that he can rely on, and that Joon takes this responsibility very seriously despite being so young himself. What used to confuse me before was that Tae's safety was his responsibility, but Joon never stopped him from doing those illegal activities. In fact, he would join him.

In every one of the hyyh pairings, there's a give and take.

Jihope is made of two liars and one is in the hospital room pretending to be well and the other is there pretending to be sick but among the white walls and hallucinations and fainting and pills they give each other something solid to hold on to, a tether to reality.

Yoonkook is a cycle of addictive self-destruction born from the co-dependency of someone who latches on too obsessively and needs hurt to feel alive, and someone who cries guilt but can't help but hold on to the one person he can hurt again and again but won't disappear no matter how hard he tries.

So what did Joon get from vmon? What was the take part of this give heavy dynamic? I honestly can't believe I didn't see it before.

"Do you know what I hate most about myself? I get used to things, whatever that is. I give up and don't even fight on- no... I don't even want to fight."

Joon who is only 16 but is the breadwinner of his family, who works and works and works to support all the people who rely on him, whose worth is determined by his reliability and even temper and maturity in every situation. The first to forgive, the hardest to anger, doesn't even complain when he locks away the box that contains all his potential and dreams for people who suck him dry and give nothing back.

"I see you pouring out your anger and I get vicarious pleasure. After that, I grill you not to do that and even rationalise to myself that I'm right. That's who I am. I'm a despicable coward - so who am I to console others!? How could I understand other people!?"

I forget sometimes that Tae is older than Jungkook when he represents the clinging to youth aspect so well. He's loud, he's brash and angry and kind and rough and empathetic and raw around the edges in all the ways a child is allowed to be. Joon doesn't get that, he's not allowed that. So he lives through Tae, lets him pour out all the emotion and the thoughts he doesn't let himself say.

That scene at the container after it was set on fire breaks me because it represents this so well. He was almost murdered and he stands there silently while Tae yells at Jin all the things he doesn't let himself feel enough to say. It's like Tae is talking for him in that moment, straight from his heart, and that's what he gets from it. That night only one of them watched his home go up in flames at the hands of people he holds not an ounce of power to, knowing that they expected him to burn along with it. There are three people there in the aftermath and it is only him that doesn't cry. That just smiles and thanks Jin for the warning and tells them to go to bed.

I want to scream. How did Dogeun end up being the character I felt the most physical hurt for. How is his apparent normalcy the most tragic thing in a show littered with suicide and murder and mental illness. Agh.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Do you think there's ever been a day close to Nibelheim to where Sephiroth just...snaps. Full breakdown in front of his friends over whatever. How would they deal with that?

Not exactly like Nibelheim, because that was the result of a gradual, slow burn until it exploded. However there was another moment, one that anyone who had been in Sephiroth's immediate vicinity would regard as the pinnacle of his fury—a moment that had nothing to do with his mother, or the events that would ultimately lead to his undoing.

Sephiroth was not a man who held onto many things. Besides his sword and the locket with his mother's photo, he didn't become attached to objects. What mattered to him were people—people were his lifeline, the seem ripper that tore the constraints of the detachment he had been raised in.

Genesis and Angeal had somehow crept into his heart after he had sworn off wearing it on his sleeve, and even though it made him vulnerable, he couldn't let them go. He clung to them fiercely as they became the singular reason he had to keep going.

Hojo had noticed. As always, his interest was piqued by Sephiroth's emotional connections. He began to study these emotional reactions, wondering how Sephiroth would behave if those people, the ones he "cared about", were taken away from him. How would Sephiroth react if they were killed? What would it do to his brain, his mind? Hojo intended to find out. If the experiment led to the loss of Sephiroth's emotional stability, so be it. Perhaps this would finally harden his mind, making him less vulnerable, less inclined to lay his head upon the lap of whoever offered him the comfort of a simple pat.

The opportunity came when Angeal and Genesis were deployed to Wutai. It was a routine mission, a two-month absence that left Sephiroth back at Headquarters, alone. And despite his stoicism, Sephiroth missed them terribly. He couldn't wait to fight alongside them again, to hear their voices and feel their presence beside him. He kept up with reports, stayed updated on their mission, but the silence was eating him alive.

Then Sephiroth was summoned to Hojo's lab for a routine check-up and exam. He expected the usual procedure, the impersonal interaction, but this time something was different. Hojo's words slipped out casually, as if by accident.

"Such a shame that Hewley and Rhapsodos were killed in Wutai,' Hojo said. "A tragic loss, don't you think?"

Sephiroth looked up. "Wh...what?"

Hojo was unapologetically giddy. "It was a mistake to deploy them so deep into enemy territory, but we're sure it was their time." He went on, casually, as if discussing the weather. "Their deaths were a necessary part of the plan to bring about Shinra's glory."

Sephiroth's heart didn't stop—no, that would've been merciful compared to the feeling of the organ threatening to tear from his chest.

Hojo handed him the mission report.

He took it with trembling hands.

It was real. The words were there, clear and damning. Genesis and Angeal, dead. Killed in action. His vision blurred. His chest tightened. Hojo's words were distant, but unyielding.

"Don't act so surprised, Sephiroth." Hojo clasped his hands behind his back and regarded him with calculating eyes. "You couldn't possibly have believed that they were your equals, that they were as invincible as you are."

Sephiroth slammed his fist onto the table, the force enough to completely break through the metal surface beneath him. Angeal's smile, Genesis' laugh—everything was consumed by the raw, unquenchable rage.

Hojo didn't flinch. He simply observed, clinically, watching a subject in an experiment, even when the anger was directed at him through the tip of Masamune's blade.

The fire spread as quickly as Sephiroth's mind shattered. He was no longer calm, no longer rational, no longer human years before the idea of being a monster would cause him to lash out. He was a beast, enraged, out of control. His anger was destructive and the flames were uncontrollable.

Hojo escaped, barely, as the fire churned in the air, licking the walls, consuming everything in its path. People screamed, people ran, and they all tried to escape the inferno that was Sephiroth's grief.

Hojo had no regrets, not after witnessing firsthand what Sephiroth could truly become when pushed to his limits.

The restraints came quickly after that. Sephiroth fought them, thrashing, trying to break free, but the sedatives took hold. His body went limp, the rage retreating only to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of emptiness. He was locked away and sedated.

When Sephiroth finally came to, hours—or was it days?—later, he was told that the reports had been a "mistake". That Genesis and Angeal were alive. But the damage was done, people were hurt, Hojo had gotten what he wanted, and Sephiroth felt disgusting.

And Genesis and Angeal would never know. They would never know how close he had come to losing himself, how his grip on reality had slipped through his fingers. They would never understand the depth of what they meant to him, because they hadn't seen it. When they returned, they were confused. His hugs were too tight, too desperate. He clung to them, everywhere they went, but even as they did their best to accommodate his spontaneously volatile emotions the weeks after, they didn't understand. They didn’t know the depths of what he had gone through, the devastation he had felt.

This event numbed him. When Angeal died and Genesis was later believed dead, Sephiroth felt the grief, but it was muted. He cried in private. The dread overtook the grief and squashed his appetite.

The emotions he had once felt so intensely had been used up in that explosion of rage. Even as he mourned their loss, he wanted so desperately for it all to be a mistake. A mistake, just like before. That somehow, just like with the lie, they would come back to him. But no, this time he truly was all alone.

[ferhog]

I was initially disappointed in the lack of a Sulemio kiss, but 4 days later I actually find myself enjoying this scene more than perhaps any kiss in fiction (Except maybe bumblby for pure sentimental value reasons).

On first watch I actually found Miorine's expressions of horror and despair when she thought Suletta was dead to be quite silly, but I quickly realized it really shows how hard the concept breaks her when you see her professional persona just shatter and she loses all control of her emotions.

Keep in mind that Suletta was the first person to treat her as a person and not an object presumably since the death of her mother. That was enough for Miorine to throw away the chance to escape the prison that was the school after knowing Suletta for one day. Of course after all the time they spent together and all the things they did for each other she can't handle the idea that she's gone.

What really gets me is her colliding their helmets together, seemingly trying irrationally and desperately to touch the woman she loves through their normal suits and the vaccum of space. I've seen people interpret this moment as her actually trying to kiss Suletta, and if that's the intended case then it's a whole other level of heartwarming and heartbreaking how much she loves her and can't take losing her.

Presentation-wise obviously the choice to cut all sound fantastic, but I also love Suletta's face being almost entirely hidden behind the visor (For whatever in-universe reason), which really makes her look lifeless.

Suletta regaining consciousness and Miorine's joy in response is also great but the heartbreak that comes before it is what really makes this one of the most romantic scenes I've ever watched. Bonus points for her smile also being exaggeratedly expressive because again it shows that she's not trying to keep up an appearance and this is just raw emotion.

I still wanna see that wedding though. Come on Sunrise, give us some official art at least!

Also I made an edit in which this show ends as tragically as those particularly edgy Gundam fans were expecting:

https://www.tumblr.com/ferhog/722050957698088960/i-fixed-g-witchs-ending-for-the-ibo-fans?source=share

[chvoswxtch]

hi! could i request a fic where frank is helping reader with urges to relapse in s3lf h@rm? or maybe they already relapsed? if this is not something you’re comfortable writing please feel free to just ignore this :) i’m struggling w/ this lately so it’s just self indulgent for me lmao and your writing is ADDICTIVE. you have such a talent and i hope you’re doing well!! x

my sweet sweet sweet nonnie. I am sending you all the love I possibly can. I am so sorry that you are struggling. I know what it's like to struggle with this, and I promise you it does get better. I know everyone says that and sometimes those words can sound so hollow, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart. it can't rain all the time darling 🖤

I hope you are doing well today, and I hope this brings you the comfort that you need. thank you for trusting me with this, and know that I love you and am so proud of you

just a quick psa to everyone on my frank taglist, because this is such a sensitive topic, i'm not tagging anyone in this one. if you are not comfortable with this topic or if it could be triggering for you, please sit this one out. you will not hurt my feelings, I promise.

warning: mentions of depression & self harm word count: 775

let it out.

Frank noticed everything. He was trained to look for subtle clues of threats everywhere, to anticipate them and quickly conjure a counterattack, or eliminate them before they even got a chance to strike. After that tragic day in Central Park, his sense of hypervigilance only became even more extreme. 

Which is why he knew that things were getting bad for you again.

He could see it. That bright sparkle in your eyes that could put the stars to shame grew more and more dim until it was nothing more than achromatic ash. The heaviness weighing down on your chest that turned the subconscious act of breathing into a relentless struggle and made your movements lethargic was like an astral presence only his eyes could detect. He could hear it in your voice, the melodic warmth replaced by an echoing numbness. It seemed as though each day another of your vibrant petals withered and fell until you were rendered a bare and hollow stem.

It killed Frank to see you like this. He wanted so badly to help, he just didn’t know how. You wouldn’t talk to him about it, wouldn’t tell him what you needed. But he didn’t get upset with you, because he figured you might not even know what you needed. He was growing increasingly worried because nothing he was doing seemed to help at all. Fear was an emotion Frank very rarely experienced, but he was terrified that he’d lose you to your own cruel mind. 

Things were bad right now, but it would pass. You’d fallen from the clouds of progression, backsliding until the cold hard impact of relapse bruised and rattled your bones, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find your way back up again. It didn’t erase all the breakthroughs in your recovery. And if you couldn’t make it back up on your own, Frank would carry you himself.

Frank sat with you in the bath, enveloping you in the comfort of his body and the hot water, hoping it would soothe you. Taking care of yourself had become as hard as getting out of bed, but it was okay. He could help you with that. He’d washed your hair, taking his time to massage your scalp before gently rinsing the shampoo out completely. His large and calloused hands slowly and tenderly lathered your skin in the suds of your body wash, not missing a single inch of you. 

Your face was as blank as a pure canvas, but there was raw sorrow in your eyes and agony building up along your lash line. Frank held onto you tightly, tracing your self-inflicted scars with the pad of his thumb, applying pressure with each stroke while he spoke quietly in your ear.

“I know it hurts, baby. But you ain’t gotta let it out that way. You can get the hurt out without hurtin’ yourself. You gotta feel it, sweetheart. I know you don’t wanna, I know it feels like it’s too much, but you can’t distract yourself with a different kinda pain. It ain’t gonna make this one go away.”

Frank knew you were listening. He could see the saltwater slipping down your cheeks, your expressionless face slowly morphing into a portrait of unrefined grief. He pressed his lips softly to each of your scars, holding you even tighter in a protective embrace.

“It’s gotta heal from the inside, baby. I know it’s hard, but you ain’t gotta do this alone. I’m right here, sweetheart. Just let go, I got you.”

He could tell that you were fighting it. That you were scared once you opened that door, a tidal wave of misery would devour you entirely and trap you beneath the current until you drowned, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. His deep voice was laced with sincerity and promise as he spoke into your ear again.

“I got you.”

The choked sob that caught in your throat broke his heart. The wail that tore from the depth of your soul was the worst sound he’d ever heard. Your shoulders shook from the impact of your overwhelming emotions, but when you shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, Frank was there to collect them all. He’d patiently help you put them all back together, no matter how long it took. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, gently rocking you as he soothingly ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of your head.

“There ya go, that’s it. Let it all out, sweetheart. Take as long as ya need, I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Just let it all out.”

[silent-browser]

*sigh* oh the tragic romance of a merfolk x human story. Neither can be with the other without giving up something important. Usually fins for legs. Also usually their entire family to simply love and exist with this person in a different biosphere. Rarely legs for fins if we wanna go a reverse little mermaid here.

But what if it was different. And no one had to give everything up. And maybe yandere. With a bit of soulmate shenanigans thrown in for flavor.

Imagine if you will, a walk on an empty beach. Headphones in, listening to your favorite song and sining along. Kicking up sand and the smell of the ocean air. Just minding your own business and having a good time by yourself.

Or so you think. Because not far from where you are walking a single quiet audience member hides behind some rocks, wondering why your song, your human song, sounds so similar to their soul song.

The song that they would normally perform for other merfolk in hopes of attracting their perfect life partner. But they had never garnered any attention for it.

So how did you, a weak and squishy human get them so immediately. No creature had ever been so close to repeating his own soul song back to him. And with your own little twist too. Human words and slightly different notes in his soul song. Your song. Our song. He soon found himself refering to it in his mind.

It takes a while of them impatiently waiting for your return and slowly learning your 'walks on the beach' schedule for them to finally make their move.

On the day that changed the rest of your life, you were simply walking along and humming softly to your favorite song once again when you heard the most fantastic voice start to follow along the melody with you. They matched your tone and moved their voice in such a way that it felt like an instant musical connection.

They were worried that you would stop and run away when they started but tried not to let that fear taint their song. If you ran further inland they would have a very hard time following you. Not impossible but certainly difficult. So they took your continued humming as a good sign and continued.

They began to dribble their emotions into the notes. The lonelyness. The fear of an uncaring ocean. The rush of affection they felt when they first heard you singing. The need to see you. Hold you.

Slowly, what started out as a dribble became a riptide of intense emotions they never knew they were capable of feeling. Longing. Jealousy. Want and need so powerful he felt like he would wear out his voice singing it all. By the time he stopped he was mortified that he put all of that on you. And before the first courting gift too! He suddenly felt awful. He gutted his soul when he never ment to and you weren't even singing anymore. What if you didn't want them? What if it was all too much for you? What if you left and never came back!?

You were stunned. Breathless. The emotion. The raw intensity. No words were ever sang and yet the song resonated in the very depths of your being. You felt intimidated to ever even think of humming ever again after that impromptu masterpiece. You wanted to respond but couldn't find the words to, much less the notes like they had. So you instead made your way to the shore where the music seemed to come from and searched. Looking for this person who simultaneously swept you off your feet and explained their life story in one song with no words.

Two star crossed lovers. Separated by the sea. One filled with obsession. The other with curiousity. Both wish desperately to meet and yet both are not quite ready. How strange that love can both bind and seperate. How strange indeed.

Idk where to go with this so no continuations for this one unless I suddenly get inspired. Also the end feels really jarring to me. Mostly because I originally intended for this to continue but I couldn't come up with anything so I just cut it lose. I hope you like it none the less.

[slippinmickeys]

The Unseelie Court (8/16)

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Mulder said, double parked in front of Scully’s building with the flashers thrown on. “We try to get in with Skinner, maybe. See what he does and doesn’t remember. But first I’m going to have Danny pull up phone records. Prove that the Sheriff called me yesterday morning, and that I called Skinner. Then we plead our case and explain that this is absolutely an X-File. If we’re lucky, we’re back in Adrian County by this time tomorrow.”

Scully roved her eyes over Mulder’s earnest expression, lingering on his eyes, almond-shaped and dusky in the dashboard light. The cap of his hair was only inches from the felt of the car’s ceiling. Sometimes she forgot how tall he was. 

“I agree that it’s an X-File, Mulder,” she said. “But what would we even do if we got back to Adrian County? How do you intend to explain all of this to Skinner? To the Sheriff? We don’t have a suspect. We barely have a crime. What are we going to do, get down there and ask them to put out an APB on redcaps and a powrie?” 

“For one thing, I don’t think the fae we’re dealing with here are nymphs and sprites. I think they’re people-shaped.”

Scully sighed. “I’m not sure that’ll sound any better to Skinner. Even assuming we can prove to him all the things that have happened, that will—if you’ll pardon the expression—sound completely insane.”

A car on the corner turned and headlights panned across Mulder’s face, tracing a shadow of his jaw. He was beautiful. And tragic. And she loved him in a way that shook her to her marrow. 

“At this point, I don’t really think he expects anything less,” he said with no small amount of diffidence. 

“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” she said. She wasn’t even sure what kind of hurt she meant; humiliation, rejection, or god forbid, something worse. She would do, she had to admit to herself, a ridiculous number of things to help him avoid that. “Mulder, I know I can be…the way I am.” She struggled to put words to the raw emotion he conjured in her, both good and bad. “But I would do almost anything to protect you,” she admitted in a rush. 

Her pulse picked up a little while the hazard lights ticked a steady rhythm. 

“Feels like a root beer moment,” Mulder said, giving her a half-hopeful, half-sad smile. 

An understatement, she thought, picturing a younger them sitting in the dark in front of Tooms’ apartment. God, would they ever figure out how to get out of their own way?

“I meant what I said then,” she said seriously. “And I mean it now.”

For him she wielded a scalpel and sliced herself deep. For him she bled. Would bleed. He made her desperate, and in her desperation she had stood up to bosses, to brothers, to Congress. He made her weak, but her weakness made her strong. Love by any other name was his. 

“Scully—” he started, but she whipped off her seatbelt and was half across the console, his cheek in her hand, her lips pressing desperately into his. He melted into her touch, his own hands tangling in her hair, straining against the seatbelt he was wearing to get closer to her. She kissed him soundly. She kissed him hard. She kissed him until the roar of blood in her ears was louder than the voices of fear and apprehension in her head.

When she pulled back, he looked dazed, spellbound, his lower lip glistening with the ichorous slip of her kiss. 

“I’ll see you in the office,” she said, and she was out of the car and into the cool damp of the night before he could muster a response.

***

Mulder thrashed to awakening, his sheets wrapped around his lower legs, pulling him, pinning him down. He drew in a gasping breath, trying to make sense of being in his own room, in his own bed. His dream had been terrible and dark, the only thing he could remember about it was that Scully had been taken away from him, and he’d been held down by a searing hot pain pressing into his chest. He brought his hand to the skin there, and it was hot to the touch. 

He leaned over and switched on his bedside lamp, blinking against the sudden light for a peek at his alarm clock. 3:33am. 

Far too early to head into the office, even for him. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, though he was tired. He flopped back down onto the bed and reached for the pillow on the other side, hugging it to himself and huffing the scent of Scully’s hair that still lingered on the pillowcase. 

If he was going to be awake, he may as well put the time to use. Mentally, he put each piece of evidence, occurrence and person onto an inner-mind index card and shuffled the deck. When he laid out the cards, it put forth a confusing picture. Daly Carmichael had disappeared 26 years ago and returned, not altogether too far from where he’d gone missing, in almost the same state in which he’d left. Until Scully had pulled the leaf with the seven-pointed star etched into it out of his mouth, which Mulder had to consider might be coincidental. 

The star represented the Seelie Court of the Fae, if Mulder’s instincts were correct. The most perplexing parts of the case so far were the fact that Daly Carmichael hadn’t aged (and then had, rapidly), and the fact that no one seemed to remember it other than Mulder, Scully and the diener in the Adrian County morgue. The strange coins spoke to him, as did the now-missing ingot of iron. The fairy hollows or groves he and Scully had found, the missing time. If the leaf had been imbued with magic of some kind, that could explain either the lack of aging or the later aging itself, and perhaps why the only people to have come into contact with the leaf were the ones that seemed to remember it. Maybe it explained the other things that had happened as well—the missing evidence, appearance and disappearance of the groves.

And then Mulder remembered that the diener, Aeon, hadn’t actually seen the leaf. Scully had pulled it out of Carmichael’s mouth, and Mulder had bagged it and was still in possession of it. Other than pointing them in the direction of the lab, the grumpy little man hadn’t had anything to do with it. Unless he’d encountered it when prepping the body.

Mulder would have to ask tomorrow. In the meantime, he continued to shuffle and reshuffle the mental cards in his head over and over, each time coming up with an incomplete picture and no real concrete investigative path forward.

He sighed, hugging the pillow closer to his chest and taking another look at the clock. 

3:41am. 

***

Mulder was at his desk by 7:00, and Scully was sitting in front of her laptop in the annex by 8:00. She had bags under her eyes and had mentioned not sleeping terribly well. 

“Do you know,” Mulder said, after she’d taken the last sip of her coffee, “if by chance your diener came into contact with the leaf that was in Daly Carmichael’s mouth?” 

Scully looked pensive for a moment. “I suppose there’s a chance,” she said. “He just emailed me a digital copy of the dental records. I could ask him.”

“Would you?” Mulder said.

Only a few minutes passed before Scully looked up once again from her computer. “He says no.”

Mulder leaned back in his office chair, the base of it giving a complaintive creak. 

“What’s his last name?” 

“Whose?”

“Your diener.”

“Greene,” Scully answered after a quick glance at her screen. “Aeon Greene.”

“What do you know about him?”

Scully looked at Mulder blankly for a moment. “That his name is Aeon Greene and he’s an autopsy technician in the Adrian County morgue. Why?”

Mulder absorbed the tiny amount of incredulity he detected in her tone. “Because other than you and me, he’s the only person that doesn’t seem to be affected by the memory magic or whatever the hell it is that seems to be impacting literally every other single person involved with this investigation.”

“Memory magic?” 

“Mass amnesia. I don’t know. Whatever you want to call it.”

Scully rubbed her hands over her eyes. “You want to have Danny look into him?”

“Danny’s busy tracking down phone logs. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Scully said, standing up wearily. “Do that. I told Violent Crimes I’d look at something for them. I’ve got to go up to the third floor. You want to meet in the lobby later and go out to lunch?”

Mulder’s mood, momentarily lowered by Scully’s announcement that she wouldn’t be around the rest of the morning, instantly lifted. He smiled. 

“It’s a date.”

She returned his smile and turned back to him when she was in the doorway. 

“Mulder?”

He looked up. 

“You still carrying that leaf around?” she asked. 

Mulder reached into his pocket and held it up in two fingers. “Not really sure what else to do with it. Chain of custody and all that.”

“Well, leave it here when we go out to lunch. Lock it in your desk drawer or something.” 

“Why?”

“Because if that thing is the mechanism of this amnesia ‘magic,’” she used finger quotes, “I’m kind of hoping that by the time we get back, we’ll have forgotten everything, too.”

***

With no hit on the NCIC, Mulder logged into the Virginia state database and ran a quick search on Aeon Greene. And came up with nothing. No driver’s license, no address, no voter registration or tax information. He tried various spellings of both first and last name and put them through the systems for Maryland and the District of Columbia, then threw in West Virginia as well. Nothing. 

By the time noon rolled around, he was frustrated, hungry, and had a splitting headache. 

Scully met him in the lobby looking equally worse for wear.

“You okay?” Mulder asked, holding open the door on the other side of Security, and momentarily forgetting all about his wasted morning. 

“The ViCAP case,” Scully said, ducking out under his arm. “It was a case with kids. They could have warned me.”

“They didn’t?” he asked, incredulous. 

“No. And the next time they want me for something, they can go through Skinner first.”

Mulder made it his mission to improve her mood and actually had her laughing by the time they walked back into their basement office. Scully hung up her coat with a smile and settled into the chair she’d vacated earlier. 

“How’d your morning go?” she asked. 

Mulder could feel his headache returning. 

“A total bust,” he said. 

“Danny didn’t have anything?” 

“I haven’t heard back yet,” Mulder explained. “What I meant was, there’s no record of Aeon Greene. Not in NCIC, not in the state systems of Virginia, Maryland or West Virginia, nor for DC.”

Scully looked at her computer screen. Right there in her inbox sat this morning’s two messages from the Adrian County morgue assistant. 

“How?” she said. “He’s a county employee.” 

“Well, he’s not in the system.” 

“Did you spell it right? ‘Aeon’ is a weird name.” 

“I spelled it right. I spelled it wrong. I spelled it every which way but loose.” 

Scully brought up her own screen, curious. Her own NCIC search came up negative, but that would only list if Aeon had ever been arrested for or part of some kind of crime. Then she pulled up the database for the State of Virginia. 

Aeon came up right away. 

“Here he is,” she said. 

Mulder looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I ran a search,” she said. “He’s right here.” 

Mulder popped up out of his chair like he’d sat on something sharp and marched over to where she sat, peering intently over her shoulder. 

She pointed to the entry for Aeon Greene on the screen. 

“That wasn’t there,” he said, staring at it intently. 

“Are you sure you didn’t—” 

“Scully.” The way he said her name was low, almost dangerous, and made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She felt suddenly discomposed. 

“Well,” she said, swallowing. “It’s here, now.” She clicked on it and scrolled through what data had been collected on the man. “Nothing jumps out.” 

Mulder sighed, the warm fug of his breath playing over the activated skin on her neck. She could feel a blush of something creep up her cheeks. 

Mulder straightened and made his way back over to this desk. “Good to know I wasted my morning.” 

Scully turned to him with an eye to making him feel better. The light on his desk phone was blinking. She pointed to it. 

“Looks like you have a message,” she said. “Danny, maybe?” 

“Let’s see,” he said, and dialed in, letting it play on speaker. 

“You have two new messages,” said the tinny recorded voice. Then, “Hey Mulder, it’s Danny. Listen, I got the phone records you were looking for from two days ago. No incoming or outgoing calls from your cell phone that morning. Nothing to or from the Assistant Director’s phone. Nothing from Adrian County to your line, Agent Scully’s line, or through the switchboard. About all I could find was five calls from Agent Scully’s cell phone to your cell phone yesterday afternoon. I know that’s not the information you were looking to get. Sorry, pal. Let me know if you need anything else.” 

Mulder connected eyes with his partner over the desk. The second message started autoplaying: a voice he didn’t recognize. 

“Hello? This is Candy Winnecott calling from the Jordan Lake Motor Lodge? I got this number from our registration, and I wanted to let you know that y’all left some kind of wire or cable here sitting on top of the bed you didn’t use in unit 6. If it’s government property I don’t want to get in trouble. You can call us right here at the front desk and we’ll arrange to get it to you. 540-555-0218.”

Mulder was just remembering Scully throwing her phone’s charging cord onto her bed when there was a light knock on their office door. 

They looked up to find Arlene standing there with a sheepish look on her face, holding a short stack of file folders. 

“Agents?” she said, her cheeks pinkening. “Sorry to interrupt. The Assistant Director needs your signatures on these reports. I would have interofficed them, but it needs to be done today.” 

Mulder watched as a look of barely controlled panic crossed his partner’s face. Had Arlene heard the part about “the bed you didn’t use?” 

Making a conscious effort not to share any kind of look with Scully that Arlene might pick up on, he turned breezily towards the assistant. 

“Sure,” he said, waving her in and pressing the button to hang up the phone’s speaker function. “We can do that right now.”

[5-puthyyy]

River of Life (Agatha x Rio)

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 10k

Summary:

“A gift?” She repeated, stepping forward. The dead witch’s protests were easily ignored now; Death’s only focus was Agatha. Agatha, smiling at her brightly, eyes as bright and wild as her hair.

“A gift. For you,” Agatha revealed, taking her own step forward. Her lips trembled slightly, maybe from the cold or maybe from her nerves, Death does not know. But what she does know is Agatha just killed someone for her.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

Agatha attempted to step even closer but realised this was as close as she could get. The tip of her nose was just inches away from Death’s, the proximity immediately causing a shiver to run up her spine. “For you…my love,” she breathed out in confession, eager for Death’s reaction.

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

Death is a simp and Agatha kills witches to court her.

(So also a simp)

WARNINGS! -- (18+ ONLY) SEXUAL CONTENT, ABUSIVE MOTHER (physical and emotional), KILLING AND DEATH

River of Life

The first time Agatha encountered Death was as a mere babe, her eyes piercing swirls of blue, reflecting the dark forest and bright skies in which she was birthed. Her mother knew not of what she was, of what her future held, of the raw, addictive power that would always be within her grasp. But she knew something. Whether it was a feeling, a thought, or a sinister energy, she knew there would be something tragic about her babe as she looked down at her with sweaty hair clinging to rosy cheeks.

“What have I done?” Evanora Harkness whispers, her breath ragged and dull eyes tired yet impossibly wide with a feeling she was far too familiar with. Fear.

Agatha did not know it yet; did not know Magick, the world she was about to be thrown in without guidance, with a mother hellbent on making her suffer for simply existing. An abomination is what Evanora would say to her, over and over again, a twisted lullaby Agatha vowed to never inherit to her own babe, if she wished to have one.

Agatha Harkness does not recall her encounter with Death, but Death could never forget the feeling, the beat, thrum and rhythm of Agatha’s soul surfacing. Death felt the tug and pull but the feeling was new; it was not another soul awaiting collection, not one near the brink refusing to let go. Agatha’s call, to Death, was the complete opposite of the usual despair and dread. And Death made it their mission to figure out why.

Agatha had been on this plane for just a year, perhaps a few weeks more, when she took her first life. Still, centuries later, she remembers nothing of it, just the story her mother used as she degraded her, berated her, villainised her throughout her youth.

The story is a simple one, but oh-so-tragic. Whatever hatred her mother harboured for her grew into something even deeper, darker. There was no going back after that, no saving grace; each time she held her baby in her arms, Evanora struggled to feel an ounce of affection.

How could she for the person that killed her mother?

“Heed my words, Mother. There is something sinister about this child. Please, for my sake, for your babe, keep your distance,” Evanora pleaded, giving her Mother all the warnings she could possibly give.

Her Mother simply smiled at her, warm and understanding. “This child is your child, as you are mine. What you are experiencing is common, my dear. Every mother holds a little contempt for their child. After all, your body has been altered, shared, used for creation. Your identity shifted. You are no longer just Evanora Harkness, no longer just a witch, a member of this coven. You are a mother, first and foremost. And that duty is both a curse, and the highest blessing that the Divine Mother can give.”

It happened the next moon. Agatha wailed in her grandmother’s arms throughout the entire morning, ignoring the Sun’s demand for smiles. Milk? She’d spit it out and wail louder. Sleep? She’d shake the tiredness out of her eyes and wail louder yet. A kiss, a laugh, a smile so desperate for a little quiet; all mere distractions that Agatha was far too clever to fall for. She wanted one thing, and one thing only.

Her grandmother forgot Evanora’s warning. No Magick, she had said. The power may be too much, we are yet to know what she is capable of, yet to understand the effect Magick may have on her.

But the babe was so loud, so demanding, so…so wicked it drove the sanest witch to madness. She had no choice but to attempt to soothe her with Magick, just a quick lulling spell to put her to sleep, the same spell she had used on Evanora as a child. It was the tiniest drop, barely that, not wanting to harm her granddaughter. But all it took was a drop. That’s all it ever took to corrupt.

The wailing stopped, and so did the forest, their little village. The birds seized their squeaking; cows their mooing; horses their whining. At last, she felt as if she could finally breathe. But she would have treasured it more if she knew it would be her last. She began to choke as she sucked the crisp air in, eye snapping open at the swaying trees above. Was there danger nearby? Is this a spell from a witch of her past hellbent on revenge? What could she do to protect the babe in her arms?

She slowly lowered her head in between gasps, dread filling the remainder of her soul the moment she locked eyes with her granddaughter. They were no longer the river blues she had grown to love, but a purple. A shade so vivid it appeared angry and hungry. Hungry for more, and it took–No, she took, took as much as she could get all while sucking on her tiny thumb. The orange power force trailed from fingertip to cheek, the stream turning purple, and she could do nothing to stop it, could do nothing but watch as the flesh of her hand slowly sucked tight until it was nothing but bone.

At the drop of her body, the wailing began again, but it was not from the babe. She remained silent, her need finally fulfilled. Until her eyes landed on green. The colour was bright, welcoming, beautiful on the dress that caught her attention. She was but a child, flapping her hands with wide eyes at the new colour, and she then let out a squeal as another appeared. A purple azalea, sprouting out from inside the green person’s palm.

Agatha made not a single sound as she slept through the night, the flower crushed in her hard grip.

Death was typically impeccable with timing. They could sense it all; when people were ready, what they needed to be ready, when to show up for them. It was always for them. It was never something Death had to think about because it was duty and that was all. That was their…well, not really life, as to have a life means having an end to it and Death has no end. 

It is a burden weighed on their mind at times, on the rare occasion that the world was quiet. A burden, they thought, to not simply have a job but be a job, full of heavy purpose but just one, one thing to do for eternity. Yet be cursed with a mind. A mind capable of boredom, of deeper thought, thoughts that question that very purpose. This cannot be it. There has to be more, there has to be an end, though Death has been here so long they don’t remember the beginning. 

Back to time; time is duty. That is all it has ever been. But it has been a decade since…since that night, and all Death could think about was time. Why does it move slower than a chewing cow?

“By God’s bones…” Death swore, grunting as they strolled through the mist into yet another old man’s bedroom. “What is holding you back, Sir?” They asked in a monotone voice, wanting to move to the next as soon as possible.

The grey man coughed, somehow sounding dry and wet at once, and croaked. “My wife…I cannot leave my wife,” That made it the eighth time Death had heard this one in a night, the twentieth of the day, and the hundredth of the week.

With a deep sigh, Death waved their hand. “Edith will live a happy, safe, and full life. She will be at peace, so you may be.”

He coughed again, lips quivering before he revealed the real reason he could not let go. “She cannot wed another,” Of course. That made it the thirtieth out of the hundred.

Death clenched their jaw in frustration, contemplating what would cross the line of professionalism. Anger took over in the end. “Fine. Watch over her while another man beds her. Weap and suffer for all I care. The door is open for you, good sir, when you realise your wife is not a possession but her very own being! I know, sir, that thought must be entirely shocking to you, but Edith did live a life before you, and she will live another, and another, so long as she weds wilting old men thrice her age like you!”

With that, Death cut through the threshold and lept into the clouds, falling, falling, falling until there was nothing. They landed in a pile of leaves but felt nothing of the impact. They felt nothing, always, destined to serve and nobody can truly serve if they feel. 

The calls never stop, not really, but throughout the aeons, Death had learnt which ones to ignore. Time, again, is an all-powerful source. It can heal anything and everything. It had been a couple of minutes at the most and Death could feel old Jack passing through already having had the time to think about Edith’s happiness and his own need for peace.

But this next call, Death could not ignore, because they had only ever felt that twice. Once, eleven years ago, and another the following year. It hadn’t felt like a soul calling for Death, but a soul calling to Death, with a curiosity, an intrigue so strong it could not be ignored. Their knife ripped through time as they made their way to their destination.

Death chooses to watch. They are an observer, after all, existing only to guide when needed. They choose when to appear, and who to appear to. Being able to play with their form comes with its benefits, the biggest one being the chance to be unseen but still felt.

Step by step, Death moved closer and closer to that curious soul calling to her, until they saw her. Unmistakably, it was her. It was that babe in the forest that took her first kill at the age of one. One turn around the Sun was all it took for this power-hungry witch to yield to her higher calling. Her hair flowed down her back, wavy but not curly, dark but not black.

Death crushed a stick as they stepped closer to see what the girl was tilting her head at on the ground, but before they could get there, the girl’s head swooshed to the side. Their eyes locked. Time had never existed for Death, but if it did, they were sure it would be frozen at this moment.

“Who are you?” The girl demanded an answer, her voice youthful yet holding so much power, authority, the type that can only come with confidence in one’s abilities.

Death remained frozen; their eyes had never been this wide before. “Impossible,” they whispered, for the first time truly surprised. Death was meant to be hidden, they were sure of it. They were so sure, so sure they did not want to be seen by this girl, not yet, not before understanding what made her so different. This only added more questions to Death’s mind; how could she see their form?

Purple flares began to spark at the girl’s fingertips, enough to shake Death out of their daze and fade into a cloud of black-green smoke, but not before catching a glimpse of a bright purple azalea, the stem tucked behind the girl’s ear.

“You have always been a wicked girl,” The words slashing through Agatha’s heart hurt more than the hand slapping her across the face. Her cheek stung, and it would stay bright red at the very least until the Sun drew itself back into hiding. But the sting in her heart, her soul – whatever was left of it anyway with the absence of motherly love in her life – is what made Agatha cower and shrink within herself, turning away from her Mother.

“I did not mean to, Mother. Please…if you could only teach me how to control it,” she pleaded for forgiveness, for her Mother to show her an ounce of mercy and not punish her for something she cannot be blamed for.

But Evanora simply scowled and struck her daughter down again, and again, until she was lying on the ground curled up like a powerless infant. “You must learn to behave the way a witch is expected to! But what else can I expect from you? You are no witch, you have no power of your own. All you have is greed.”

Agatha snapped her head up, revealing her tear-stained cheeks as she yelled. “And all you have is hate! I am your daughter, Mother! Am I–Am I not your flesh and–and your blood?” Her voice cracked as vulnerability broke through, her eyes shining with a desperation to be loved.

Evanora shushed her with a simple look, a dark one that hid any affection she may be holding, any sympathy left in her heart. Crouching down like a predator intimidating its prey, she gripped Agatha’s chin in her hand, fingers digging into sensitive skin, and hissed. “You…are an abomination.”

A gust of wind rushed through the woods powerful enough to push Evanora back a step or two, forcing her hand away from her daughter’s trembling face. The toxic mix of emotions running through Agatha’s body had her too distracted to notice what had just happened; she ignored Evanora’s confusion and curious eyes cautiously analysing the trees around them. 

Standing on shaky feet with soil digging under her nails, Agatha screeched. “I hate you!” The forest shook with her, a few branches ripping off as her purple blasted towards her Mother. The elder is pushed back again, harder this time, her feet dragging the soil and disrupting the flow of grass.

“Enough!” Evanora yelled with weakened authority, her voice trembling with fear, eyebrow twitching at the shiver she could feel running down her spine. This was not just Agatha; there was someone else here, something else, powerful and just as angry if not angrier.

Agatha growled, her blue eyes turning darker as swirls of purple threatened to overtake them. She was close to letting them, so very close to blasting her Mother over and over again until she truly understood the meaning of power, real, raw power. Maybe then she would understand why Agatha was the way she was and why it was an impossible task to control what she had.

Her fingers expertly twirled, playing with her food as she swirled her Magick around, forming a ball. But before she could throw it, a flicker of green caught her attention. Just a gleam, small but so bright in the corner of her vision. She turned nonetheless, distracted as her mind attempted to pinpoint where she remembered that shade from. It only took her a moment to remember and she trailed off into the forest to follow, her trembling Mother’s gasps and protests falling onto deaf ears.

She had walked this forest her entire life, all thirty-five years, and knew it better than most. This was her comfort. The trees could never reject her, abandon her, disregard her like she was nothing. As far as she was concerned, her flesh was hardened wood and blood the sweet maple that runs through these trunks. And, oh, how sweet they were, always sparing a drop for her as she pleased. They did not reject her but please her, bend to her will, sway and rustle her to sleep on the nights she had nowhere to go, no bed to sleep on but the bed of fallen leaves that soaked her tears in. The fourth time, she returned to a bed of azaleas, believing she had grown them with her tears, that her pain held the strongest Magick. So she began to embrace the hurt and let it fuel her.

“Do you know what they signify?”

Agatha spun around towards the husky yet feminine voice but found nothing but an endless forest. She squinted as she scouted the area, eyes swivelling between branches and logs, leaves and bright flowers. She knows this forest and therefore knows all its hiding spots; no one could hide from her here.

It seemed she had found her match. She decided the best way to get them to come out and play was to join the game. “That depends on the colour, dear,” She replies lightly, hands open by her sides, making sure purple swirls were bright enough for her new friend – or enemy – to see. She may be playful, may be a young witch still, but she has power, more than any singular witch could hold.

“Purple?” The voice asked, echoed, lingering while their body disappeared yet again. But before they could, Agatha caught that green again.

Focus, she told herself, her eyes fluttering shut as she honed in her senses. The forest went silent in her ears, hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart. She searched for another, tilting her head as her teeth ground together in frustration.

“I do not have one,” The voice spoke again, this time sounding less playful – just a smidge, but enough for a woman like Agatha to figure out, “A heart, that is. If that is what you are searching for,” They sounded closer this time, just behind her. So close, that Agatha could feel the heat of a body behind her own. Or, rather, energy would be the better word as all she could feel was ice. So incredibly cold it forced a shiver to attack her body.

“Every living being has one,” Agatha replied, taking in a deep breath as she leaned back towards the danger.

A gulp, audible. “And if I dare to tell you the truth, that…that I am not? Living?” 

It took a couple of seconds until Agatha let her eyes fall open, this time finding herself staring into wide eyes. Not just eyes, no, there was nothing ordinary about those eyes, so dark yet bright, deep yet empty, brown, so beautifully brown like the very trunks of those sweet maple trees Agatha loves so dearly. Agatha’s lips stretched into the widest smile she had ever given.

“Death comes for us all.”

Beautiful is all that echoed in Death’s head, over and over again, so loud it cannot be an echo but a scream, a constant reminder to ensure she never forgets how precious she is. ‘She’, being the witch that haunts Death’s silent hours. It used to be quiet in their head on the rare occasion that souls pass through on their own without the need for a guide. Those moments they cherished, being able to think clearly, or not think at all, just…exist. Now Death exists with Agatha, and cannot imagine existing without her.

After revealing themself to the witch, the two became inseparable. Where Agatha walked, Death followed, hiding from everyone else but remaining visible and oh-so beautifully green to Agatha.

“Do you have a name?” Agatha once asked them, building up the courage to ask after a few weeks spent in tension, the two navigating their blossoming…friendship? 

Death waited a moment, leaning back against the tree trunk before shrugging. “Death.”

Agatha rolled those blue eyes and Death cursed her for hiding them away. “No, a real name,” Agatha teased with no harm in her words, just a curiosity glinting in her eyes as she turned to scan Death’s expressionless face.

“That is all I have been known as. All I have known myself as.”

Agatha promptly dropped the topic after that, never mentioning it again. She simply observed. She was always observing, always analysing, measuring, plotting. Her mother called her wicked for it. Death was there for every insult, jaw tight and fists white. They’d step in on occasion, of course without Evanora knowing what was truly happening, but Agatha would cackle a sound so joyful if Death had a heart it would sure flutter in their chest, hard enough to fly out straight into Agatha’s open arms.

“What are you exactly?” Agatha asked, looking down at Death’s soft face in her lap. It took all her self-control to not brush her thumb over Death’s pink lips.

Death huffed and shrugged again. “Death.”

“Lady Death?” Agatha teased, her nails gently scratching underneath Death’s cold jaw.

Death contemplated for a moment. Their form was always changing, their true form not confined to a gender. But the form they had chosen with Agatha was a female one, soft yet dangerously sharp. And she seemed to like it. “Well. If I were to remain a Lady, would you like me more?” They tried to keep desperation leaking from their tone but it was impossible around Agatha given the smirk she gave them. 

“Perhaps.” 

Death sunk their head deeper into Agatha’s soft thighs and thought about being called her. Keeping this form, perhaps choosing to walk this plane and blend in with its people, getting to know them before taking their souls. It could be fun. “Then I will use this form for as long as I live. Which is eternity, I suppose. What a thought.” Death let her thoughts drift as her eyes fluttered shut; no, she cannot ever sleep, but she can rest. It’s only Agatha’s presence that can make her feel this serene. 

Her sweet Agatha let her fingers trail from her cheek to her hair, gently running her fingers through it, hiding it behind her ears to keep her sharp features exposed. “I like you as you are,” She whispered before leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses across Death’s brow.

She froze, expecting to feel tension, fear, discomfort at being touched this way. It had been many centuries since Death had let someone touch her like this, having found little pleasure in exposing her true vulnerability to others, uncomfortable with the thought of loving and wanting just for mortal bodies to inevitably rot. But there is no fear here. She had never been dealt with in such a gentle way, an almost motherly way. It made her feel cared for like never before. When her eyes fluttered back open, they met with the sky and she saw no storm in them.

That day wasn’t any different to another. Death collected body after body – though she was calmer in nature than usual – her mind flickering back to her love. Well, Agatha was not her love. Not yet, anyway, not until Death grew enough courage to ask, to take that step forward as they both gazed into each other’s eyes for hours on end. It was a game, Agatha said, to see who blinks first. The loser gets a flick on the nose. Agatha’s nose always ended up red as a tomato by the time the Sun falls; Death would never blink and risk missing the shift of a swirl of blue, or a cloud forming behind those eyes she has come to crave. 

There is so much life in them, she thinks. And as Death, life was never something that fascinated her. It was something she only took. It was duty. A life ended every second so she never really stopped to think about just how long that life was, what they achieved, what they did during their time. That is what makes it precious; that there is a time, time for it to end. She wonders what Agatha will do with hers.

“I am not ready, please, do not take me away, God, please–”

Death shook her head. “Not God,” she corrected, leaning against the ledge of the open doorway to the Other Side, “Death. It comes for us all, and you must be ready to let go.”

The woman shrieked, wailed, refused to budge from her spot on the soil next to her son. He lay there, dreaming, unaware of his Mother’s passing. The flu took her, was strong enough to take her as it had been the fourth time it attacked her in the month. But she could not afford the help, could not conjure up a spell, knew little of the herb mixtures. She did not eat, did not drink the water other travellers were kind enough to lend; everything must be for her son. She told herself if she were to pass it would be fine as long as he survived, but now that the time has come, she refused to believe it to be true.

Death leaned down behind her, her touch gentle against the woman’s trembling back. “You do not want to see what becomes of the soul that lingers. He would not want to see you as that,” she whispered soothingly, convincingly, “Peace is on the Other Side. And you will reunite soon.”

The woman’s sobs slowly ceased until she was simply stroking his head with a shaking hand, tucking his curled hair behind his ears. The gesture reminded Death of her Agatha. She wanted nothing more than to return to her at that moment, for that hand on her cheek again, the tips of those fingers tracing every bone, structure, curve on her face and she feigned sleep.

“Will he…will he be okay?” She asked, standing up and turning to look Death in the eyes.

Death nodded. “He will. The world does not stop moving, and neither will he.”

Death will always show up when Agatha calls for her. Always. She made a promise to be there, be present, be watching, and she intends to live up to that promise. This call felt different though, there was a twinge of anxiety in her call, a hint of fear, and it immediately terrified her. What if something terrible has happened? What if Agatha was attacked? Was it her Mother again, or worse, the entire coven? It wouldn’t take much for them to turn on her, not with Evanora’s influence. 

What started as a bad mother-daughter relationship had turned into something darker, something wicked, rooted in evil. Death had seen a lot in her lifetime; she is no stranger to cruelty, and that is all she saw in Evanora’s treatment of her flesh and blood. So when she hurried back, revealing herself in Agatha’s forest in a cloud of green smoke, she was surprised to see the witch with a grin on her face. Wide, excited, but also hesitant.

“Agatha? Is everything alright?” Death asked, stepping forward over the broken branches on the ground. With a flick of her hand, they curled together into the soil, new roots twisting and digging in to grow strong in a couple of weeks.

The witch was dressed in a purple gown, a darker shade than usual, with a white one underneath to preserve modesty – though she was thinking nothing but immodest thoughts at the sight of Death with that green cloak she never takes off. Before Agatha could utter a word, Death spun her head to the side, hearing another call.

“She–She did this to me!” The soul yelled at her, emerging from behind a tree. An older woman, hair silky and grey twisted into a braid. She pointed a finger, bony and the tips black at Agatha. 

Death followed the finger’s aim, seeing Agatha’s eyes directly on her, not being able to see the soul of the other witch. “Did you do this?” She asked Agatha who could only grin wider, teeth pearly white. “Why?” There was no judgement in her tone. No anger, disappointment, nothing that a small part of Agatha feared there would be. No, there was only intrigue, a dark look in her brown eyes.

Show me Death, Agatha thought. “A gift,” she whispered, her voice travelling through to Death’s confused ears.

“A gift?” She repeated, stepping forward. The dead witch’s protests were easily ignored now; Death’s only focus was Agatha. Agatha, smiling at her brightly, eyes as bright and wild as her hair.

“A gift. For you,” Agatha revealed, taking her own step forward. Her lips trembled slightly, maybe from the cold or maybe from her nerves, Death does not know. But what she does know is Agatha just killed someone for her.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

Agatha attempted to step even closer but realised this was as close as she could get. The tip of her nose was just inches away from Death’s, the proximity immediately causing a shiver to run up her spine. “For you…my love,” she breathed out in confession, eager for Death’s reaction. 

My love. Her love. Agatha’s love. Love, love, love…

“Yours…” Death whispered back, brushing her nose to Agatha’s, the touch making them both jolt inside. It took everything in her, all the power she could hold in her lifeless body to pull away, “But you cannot,” but she did.

Agatha’s hands immediately reached for Death, holding her close before she could flee from this. “I can. I do, my love,” my love, “I want you. Only you, since the moment I gazed into your eyes,” Agatha continued, unable to stop now that she had finally said the words, “Your eyes, my, I simply knew it when they reminded me of my forests, of these trees, those sweet maple trees…I knew that no sweetness would ever match you, my love, my sweet, my life.”

Agatha’s hand, up her neck, both tight yet soft against Death’s jaw. It would take a step, just one, an inch to close the gap, to give in to Agatha’s hot breath and sweet, plump lips. But she cannot. Not when Agatha has her entire life ahead of her, great things to do, power to steal, witches to kill…the things she could do, and all Death was planning to do was watch and admire from afar. She will not hold Agatha Harkness back from greatness.

“I–Agatha, you charm me, warm me so, but I cannot be life, not what I am Death. I am a plague, I cannot be with you for all my time–” 

Her witch shook her head fast, holding Death’s face in her hands. “You do not have to be. I will carry you, like so,” she held Death’s gentle hand to her heart, beating loud and proud for Death to hear.

But she thinks of what it would feel like to have to leave Agatha. To have to step away when another soul calls for her, if another war was to break out and she’d spend weeks away from the one person she wanted to be near. “But I want to. I have never wanted in my existence, Agatha…until you.”

“Then show me,” Agatha breathed, demanded, “Then take me,” Death’s hand curled against Agatha’s chest, crawling up to her pale neck, slowly losing all control over herself at the husky change in Agatha’s voice, “Claim me.”

The last loosened string of her rope of self-control broke by those words, the love and lust in her darkened eyes, the desperate desire dripping out of her tone. Death could no longer hold back, silencing the screaming dead witch with a single swipe of her hand that pushed her through the gateway to the Other Side, leaving Agatha’s hot pants as the only sound in her ears.

First, she didn’t know where to put her hands because she wanted them everywhere, but she settled on one at the waist, pulling Agatha flush against her, and the other at her jaw, holding her face near. She had to gaze into her eyes long enough to memorise the change in them, Agatha no longer holding her feelings back, and the pure adoration was enough for Death to finally break the distance between them.

The moment their lips touched, Death was certain she felt a cosmic shift in the universe; that had to explain why she felt a clench in her entire body, in the empty space her heart was meant to be. Their lips slid together and connected like they were made together and split at creation. As if Death had been here from the creation of the universe for the very sole purpose of waiting and waiting and waiting for Agatha to be here, to be hers.

It was innocent, just two mouths moving against each other, until Death let a tongue slip and Agatha let a moan slip. What became of them was far from innocent. Wandering, gripping hands, a body shoved against a tree, then body shoved against body. Mouth from closed to open, tongues gliding together in an unholy, dangerous dance, and the sounds. The soft ones of Agatha sighing against her lips, the sharp breaths Death had to take in at each scratch of Agatha’s nails, her love’s intoxicating whines when Death pulled back just to look at her before kissing her again.

“You killed for me,” Death whispered, not bothering to hide the love and fascination in her tone.

Agatha pulled back with a shy grin, chewing on her bottom lip which made them look even more enticing. “I am unaccustomed to courting Lady Death herself, so I did the best I could,” she leaned back in to quickly peck Death’s lips, “She was a bad, bad witch.”

Death gulped at her husky tone. “Was she?”

“Mhm,” Agatha nodded, raising a thigh against Death’s hips, forcing their lower halves closer together, “She was a bully, a mean old lady that preyed on youthful, more beautiful witches, babies really, who simply wanted help controlling their magic.”

Death brushed her lips against Agatha’s jaw, leaving a ghost of a kiss on her skin. “And what did she do with them?” Kisses under her jaw, stronger kisses down her neck, a bite at the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Agatha gasped at the sensation of teeth, nails digging into Death’s scalp which the latter found deliciously painful. “Took their power for her own until there was nothing left but flesh and bone.”

“And what did you do?”

“Don’t stop, please, my love,” Agatha whined against Death’s parted lips, legs stretched wide to make room for her lover’s hand.

Death chuckled, low and breathless. “I would stay this way for eternity, if I could.”

She stayed as long as she could; each and every moment she could spare, Death would find herself back in Agatha’s forest, the only place she found comfort. It would always be Agatha’s arms, Agatha’s eyes, Agatha’s legs so long and pretty, always wide open to invite her in. 

“Harder, please,” she begged. The begging was something meant to give power to Death, something that should only happen when Agatha has been teased and frustrated to the point of no return. But her cunning little witch has figured out a way to switch it around. She begs constantly, begs in that whiney tone, moaning it right into Death’s ear before biting down on her neck. She could never resist Agatha like that, and the witch knew it with that telling smirk.

“So warm,” Death muttered against Agatha’s pulse point, having made it a habit to nuzzle her nose right there, right where she could almost feel the throbbing of her heart. And the throbbing of something else.

Agatha clenched around her lover’s fingers, pulling her in deeper. “Please, can you not feel me, dear? How wet you make me, how badly I need you?” Agatha whined again, still teasing but with a hint of real desperation in her voice.

While Death was simply taking her time admiring being this close to Agatha, it seemed her witch had become impatient. With this, she discovered a way to spin this back in her favour…all Death had to do was hold on.

“Oh, I know, my love, you feel so warm around my fingers…” Death curled them a little just to extract a gasp from Agatha’s lips, before pulling away from her neck to shoot her a sinister smirk, “I wonder…Will you feel as warm around my tongue?”

The suggestion alone caused Agatha to let out a filthy moan coated with desperation. Death was too slow to kiss down her sweaty, writhing body, too languid with her kisses and marks over Agatha’s stomach. Agatha could hang on, could beg and beg with that same smirk as she refused to drop the power, until she looked down to see Death’s eyes. Wide, blown, brown, so beautifully powerful yet filled with worship. For her.

“God, please, please, please, I cannot! I cannot wait longer, my love, I need you, I need your tongue, please do not make me wait a moment longer!” Agatha completely broke, her walls tumbling down as she begged, truly begged, without that wicked smirk. 

Finally, Death thought, unblinking as she looked up and relished the image, the sounds, her little witch succumbing to madness for something as simple as a tongue. Her hair, wild and free, frizzed from the heat of their lovemaking; her eyes dark and blown enough to almost hide the blue; her lips, swollen and bruised from their harsh kisses. Death’s hand reached up to gently grip her chest, thumb gently rubbing against a perked nipple. This only made her witch wail louder, arch into her further, wanting all she could take.

“As you wish, my love,” she whispered against her glistening lips before swiping through her slit, immediately moaning at the heavenly taste. Her hand abandoned Agatha’s chest so she could wrap it around her behind, squeezing her impossibly closer.

She had never heard her witch this excited before, this broken, this mad as she thrashed and writhed against Death so hard that the latter had to use her other hand to hold her down. She gently pressed against the patch of hair just under Agatha’s stomach, enough pressure to keep her in place.

This was about Agatha, of course, it was about Agatha’s pleasure, but once Death got a taste? She never wanted to taste anything else ever again. She didn’t dare stop, just as Agatha had wanted, even as her witch cried and pushed at her head, having been pushed over the edge twice already. There would be a day. Death was so sure of it, so sure that there would be a day in the future when this would end, when Agatha would have enough of the disappearing, the Death that always follows, the inability to…to build a life with a family. And she wanted to make sure Agatha would be absolutely ruined for anyone else. No one would be able to make her feel as good as Death could. No one.

Death had Agatha every time and every place she could get her. Against a maple tree with Agatha’s legs wrapped tightly around her waist; in a bed of beautifully vivid azalea flowers Death conjured up; in Agatha’s creaky bed when Death appeared in a cloud of green in the middle of the night. They were tested to their limits to remain quiet that last time, but the thrill of risking Evanora’s angry appearance had Agatha clenching particularly tight against Death’s fingers.

“I wish to give you a name,” her thoughtful witch interrupted the silence between them, “if you would allow it.”

Death scoffed playfully. “Allow? I am not your Mother. Though she should not have the power to control you, anyway,” she added, wrapping her arms just a little tighter around her witch.

Agatha hummed, burrowing her face into Death’s neck. “I love when you are protective over me,” she claimed vulnerably, leaving a gentle kiss against the cold skin she found there. She left another, and another as she trailed her kisses up along Death’s sharp jawline.

Their eyes met, a soft look shared between them as words were shared in silence. 

I will always protect you.

I will always love you for it.

Agatha sighed as she shuffled around in Death’s arms, resting her back on her lover’s chest. They peacefully lay together, watching the gentle stream of the river they stumbled upon.

“Rio…” Agatha mumbled thoughtlessly, on the verge of falling asleep.

Death’s arms tightened. “What was that?”

Agatha lazily hummed, holding Death’s hands in her own. “Rio. It means river. I stumbled upon some travellers once. They taught me a few phrases of their language.”

Death kept her gaze on the stream, watching the water smash against the rocks and tumble into the fallen tree that stretches from one side of the river to the other. Wordlessly, she circles a finger against the back of Agatha’s palm, eyes on the tree as she carefully sprouts a fresh bed of flowers on it.

Agatha let out a soft, fond giggle at the colours. “Rio Vidal. River of life.”

Rio Vidal. Though she is Death and believes she can never be life, upon waking from her nap Agatha claimed Rio rushed into her life like a river, brightening it without a doubt, pulling her from the dark depths of her mind. 

“You are Death, yet I did not know Life until I met you.”

“Must you guide everyone?” Agatha asked curiously, her fingers playing with Rio’s hair. The latter mumbled against Agatha’s naked chest, reluctantly shuffling to rest her chin against Agatha’s stomach.

“Just the ones that require it,” Rio answered, leaving a gentle kiss against a bright purple mark she left just a few minutes ago, “The ones that struggle to let go…or the ones I feel drawn to.” Rio licked a stripe up Agatha’s stomach, so soft for her she could fall asleep in seconds if her body would allow her the privilege.

“You feel drawn to others?” Agatha said with a dramatic gasp, playfully gripping a fistful of Rio’s hair. She pulled her up, Rio reluctant to move so quickly past Agatha’s full, marked chest. Her tongue managed a swipe against a nipple before her lips reached her lover’s.

Rio sighed against Agatha’s lips. “Not like this. I—Never. Never before,” she confessed in a moment of vulnerability, seeking any sign of discomfort in Agatha’s eyes but finding none, nothing but glee.

Agatha connected their lips in a slow, sensual kiss. “Do you feel them?” She pulled back to ask, leaning back in right away.

Rio moaned into the kiss, fingers tightly gripping Agatha’s curves. “Every single one of them,” she whispered.

“How many do you feel now?” Agatha breathed into Rio’s mouth, twisting her hips until their thighs parted for each other, hips slotting together, slick against slick. They both gasped at the sensation, Rio immediately starting a rhythm with a slow, languid roll of her hips.

She wanted to tell the truth, wanted to scream ‘All of them! Every single one passes through like a thousand pricks to my skin’. But she takes one look. One look into those bluest of blues, those that capture the calmest trail of the morning skies and the silkiest glimmer of the gentlest waves so beautifully…so beautifully that she wishes she was not who she was. Wishes she was not The Original Green Witch, Death itself, a higher being burdened with knowledge. Rio wishes she was a simple mortal who knew nothing, for the simple want of being able to look into Agatha’s eyes and then, only then, truly believe that Magick does exist. Because she does.

She settles with, “I only feel you.”

They hadn’t said it just yet. My love at the end of a sentence is one thing, a simple term of endearment, though it does carry a heavy weight between them. But saying the actual words? Acknowledging that this thing between them is real love, a once-in-a-lifetime love? Hell, Rio would go as far as saying soulmates, if she had a soul, that is. They hadn’t said the words yet, though they spend every waking moment together, every moment they can. Though Rio has not taken another lover and she assumes – prays – Agatha has not either.

Clearly, it had been on Agatha’s mind given their next meeting after a week or so apart was tense. Rio felt it the moment she appeared, felt the distance Agatha was forcing between them. She allowed a kiss, and another, but after that she began to stroll aimlessly, trusting the forest to navigate for her. 

Rio followed – she always will – with her hands in a tight clench behind her back. She dared to let her thoughts run into the wildest directions yet. Will Agatha end this? Had she realised she did not want Rio–Death to follow her to the ends of the universe? Had she simply had her fill and–

“It may be,” Agatha suddenly spoke, still keeping her walk, eyes to the soil, “presumptuous of me to think we are something more. Something real and serious—”

Rio could not help but frown, leaping forward to shake Agatha, turn her around and hold her blushed cheeks. “Do you not know how I feel for you? Really?” She truly was in shock at the assumption, now analysing her previous actions. Every passionate kiss, every longing gaze, every gentle touch. How could Agatha doubt her? As if she does not have Death wrapped around her soul.

“Let me finish. Please?” Agatha pleaded and Rio had never been one to resist that, so Agatha nodded and continued with slightly trembling lips, “But I do not care. You may feel what you feel but I am certain of how I feel and I wanted to do this for you. It’s small, really, just a—”

Rio is thrown back to the first time Agatha gifted her something, that old witch’s soul. “A gift? For me?” She couldn’t help but lean in and gently kiss her. Once she pulled back, Agatha’s cheeks were even pinker, eyes bluer.

“Of course, my love,” Agatha allowed Rio another moment of indulgence, sighing into the passionate kiss Rio initiated. Her hands wrapped behind her lover’s neck, nails scratching against her scalp in the way she knows Rio loves.

“You are too good to me,” Rio moaned out as she pulled back for a moment, leaning back in to steal another kiss, but her lips ended up against Agatha’s palm.

It seemed the forest paused with Rio as she waited for Agatha to turn back around. The witch had her back to Death now, her hands swirling her purple Magick until she uncloaked Rio’s gift.

Turning back around, equally as giddy as Rio, Agatha presented her with a box. Rio’s shaking hands took it, held it like it was the most fragile, precious thing to her. It really was beautiful, a dark, forest green with intricate patterns painted purple. She traced them with a finger, gently feeling the bumps. It felt like Magick, like she was conjuring up a spell.

“May I?” Rio asked, hands shaking at this point.

Agatha nodded and with that she unclasped the box, revealing…

A heart. Anatomical, true to size, and the darkest of blacks Rio has seen. It was glossy, shiny, almost slick as if covered in black blood. With parted lips, Rio was ready to thank Agatha, until her words caught in her throat at the sound. A pulse. The pulse was there, loud, throbbing, so loud Rio was sure she’d hear it across the universe. 

“How?” She gasped, unable to take her eyes off it. A shaky finger grazed against the heart, tracing the veins and arteries.

“Magick,” Agatha raised her hand, tender and impossibly sweet against Rio’s cold skin. She warmed instantly at the touch, leaning into it without a second thought. It was hard to move her eyes from her new gift, but Agatha’s hand gently raised her head, and Rio was met with raw honesty, “As long as there is Magick in my veins, as long as my own heart beats…so will yours.”

“You–You did–Agatha, I do not know how to repay you for something like this. You are too good to me, my love, far more than I deserve,” Rio struggled to accept something like this, love like this. It was not something she thought was even allowed for her. It felt wrong, to be Death yet have a love so strong, to feel so strongly.

“Well, if you wish to repay me…” Agatha trailed on playfully, stepping back and leaning against a tree. Her fingers, cunning yet delicate, tug at her dress slowly. The hem rises from her ankles, up, up, up to reveal glistening lips and a patch of dark hair. Agatha bit her bottom lip, failing to hide her seductive grin and giddy anticipation for Death to pounce at her.

Oh, Rio will spend centuries repaying her.

Loving Agatha was unlike anything Rio had ever experienced. It came as naturally as her job, something she did not need to think about but just did. Like loving Agatha was something she was made to do. Rio quickly found that she would love her no matter what. 

Agatha with a sorry-not-sorry smile as Rio collects yet another soul pointing an accusatory finger at her wicked witch. Death simply smiled back, shoving her lover against the nearest tree and punishing her with a wild kiss.

“Yes, punish me, Rio, take me soul…take my virtue…” Agatha would whimper and moan, thrashing against her playfully, her head always coming back with a grin that stretched across her cheeks.

Agatha with angry tears streaking down her face at Rio’s disappearing acts, having missed her dearly, left alone for weeks on end.

“–and you just abandon me when I need you most!” Agatha yelled, screeched, smashed her fists at Rio’s chest, “Just as you promised to never do. Does your word mean nothing?”

“My word means everything,” Rio broke her silence at that, gripping Agatha’s chin in a single hand when she looked away, “No. Look at me while I speak with you, Agatha,” she demanded, risking an authoritative tone against her quick-tempered witch, “My work is not abandonment. It is something I must do, but please, please, my love, believe my words when I say you torture my mind every second I am away from you.”

Agatha rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Oh, you cannot feel pain. Do not take me for a fool, Death.”

“I told you that because I never have. Until you. Until I started to want, and the simple thought of losing what I want…tickles,” she held Agatha’s hand to her stomach, “right here. It’s twisted and rotten. It eats at me, and I do not know what it is–”

“It’s fear.”

“Fear,” Rio repeated, voice softer, almost in a mumble as she contemplated the word, the feeling. It took her a moment but she focused back on Agatha with a sigh and gentle kiss against her pouty, angry lips, “I would sooner abandon my power than walk away from you, my love. You must know this.”

Agatha took a sharp breath at that, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “Then do it.”

Rio, of course, meant her words in a metaphorical sense. Not because she would not do it in a heartbeat if she could, but because she simply couldn’t. She had been here since the beginning of time, collecting souls that would be lost, aimless and eventually angry without her. There is no replacement for Death; it comes for all, and all means all, past, present and future.

“I wish it were possible,” she whispered, frowning as Agatha pulled back from her yet again, this time moving to the other side of her room, “My love, please, you must know this is something I cannot give,” Rio pleaded, only following her with her eyes, “I have had only one wish and that is to be with you, always, forever,” Agatha continued to ignore her, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out of her small window. Rio knew not what to do to comfort her lover, knowing her deeply enough to see when she needed space. She dropped her head down in defeat, “I will not walk away from you. But I will let you have your moment. Summon me when you–”

Agatha scoffed, sharply turning her head with a glare planted firmly across her brows. “Summon? Oh, of course, you’re just going to disappear yet again–”

Rio sighed heavily with a fond smile. “My love, I will be sitting on the steps outside.”

“Oh.”

“And I will ignore every cry for me. Yours is the only one I care to listen for.”

With that, Rio shut the door gently behind her, stepping down and taking her seat. She must be ready for a numb behind as this would sure be a long wait. She does hear them all the time, constantly. Some are loud, souls screaming for answers, for help. But there are some quiet ones, soft sobbing that can almost feel soothing to hear. She focused on those souls, lulling them from here with whispers of ‘Soon. You will be at peace.’ But Agatha must be at peace first. She will always come first.

“Come to bed, my love,” Agatha’s voice startled Rio who was more than ready to dissociate by listening to her crying souls. It must have been less than an hour, she thought, looking behind her shoulder at her witch now in her bedclothes.

“As you wish,” Rio nodded her head once, following Agatha silently. They moved together routinely, Agatha stripping Rio of her green cloak, dress, leaving her in black undergarments. There is water for them both, though Rio needs none; she always takes a sip just to appease her lover, allowing her to indulge in the fantasy that they are simply Agatha and Rio, two lovers with no higher burden to shoulder.

Agatha sighed, only allowing her tears to fall again once she was safe in Rio’s arms. The latter pulled her closer once she heard the sobs and felt Agatha shake in her arms. Perhaps this is Agatha’s torture, that she only finds comfort in the very arms that are destined to hurt her.

“I hate that I love you,” Agatha sobbed harder, her words breaking a piece of Rio’s black heart. But Death could only shoulder it, dropping a kiss to the top of Agatha’s nest of hair.

“I am angry, my love. Angry that I am what I am, that I cannot be what you need me to be. I wish we were as simple as my love is for you. I wish it were easy, that I were easy. I wish I could hold you like this forever, that you may lay your head on my chest and hear my heart, God, I wish I had one. A real one, just to tell you it beats for you and only you,” Agatha’s breathing slowed as her sobs began to cease, “I let myself dream, sometimes. That I work as a tradesman, and that you are my…You are my wife. That I must leave you and you cry and strike and beg me to stay, and in my dream I…I am able to stay. I do it in a heartbeat, leave my work behind, build us a home, grow crops and trade from our very doorstep so I may spend not a single moment away from you. I dream, and I weep. I weep with want because I have never wanted to be anything other than what I am until I met you, and now…all I ever want to be, Agatha Harkness…is yours.”

Rio knew Agatha had fallen asleep moments ago. She let her tears fall freely.

Unfortunately, a war had broken out halfway across the globe. Long-bearded men with angry features, and thick, sluggish eyebrows, all hellbent on holding on to continue fighting. Rio had already been there for weeks, spending hours and hours on end to convince soul after soul to walk through to the Other Side. At the hundred point, she realised most of these men were only respectful to other men, so she changed her form to something they were bound to bow to. It did speed up the process significantly, but the numbers had been astronomically large so Rio did not return for months. Yet again.

By the time Rio’s head was clear enough to hear Agatha over the other souls, it was too late. She heard her, loud and clear, her cry covered in pure fear and sadness. Rio transported over in seconds, trading the grounds of war for something she feared was worse. Grabbing the nearest tree, she hid behind it just to catch her breath, to close her eyes tight and hope Agatha was safe behind her, safe and her soul still attached to her physical body.

“Mother, please!” Rio turned around at the loud cry, immediately sprinting towards the sound. By the time she reached them, their corpses dropped to the ground, weightless. Agatha stood at the stake, ropes discarded, vivid swirls of her purple Magick clouding around her. She looked…

“Agatha…” Rio whispered, gasped, unable to take her eyes off her.

The witch slowly turned her head, her eyes unrecognisable, purple, and absolutely filled to the brim with power, the sheer force of power sharpening her facial features. “They should have taught me to control it,” she said nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders before cackling louder than before, a wicked sound that had Death stuttering. Was this a test? Had Agatha finally found the bravery to show Rio her true self? One witch at a time until this grand finale.

“Agatha…” she whispered again, slowly descending to her knees. 

Whether it was in fear, disappointment, or loyalty, Agatha did not know. All she knew was power, the power she had just stolen from her coven, from her Mother who had tortured her enough and decided it was time to end Agatha’s life. Fools. Every single one of them.

Facing them was a fearful challenge but facing Rio at this point proved to be more terrifying than anything imaginable. If she were to turn to her and see those eyes filled with defeat, disappointment, even anger? Agatha would not know what to do with herself. How could she continue on a life without her Rio in it?

“Do not dare feel shame for the power you possess,” Rio’s voice was unwavering, strong and sure, “If my power would not kill you, I would…” she paused this time, stuttering.

Agatha turned her head, her eyes flashing purple to her lover. “You would…what?” she asked, getting closer by making a show of floating over the dead bodies with balls of purple in her fists. Rio could not keep her eyes off Agatha, especially as she got close enough for them to share the crisp air of death. The witch gripped Rio’s chin in her hand, eyes dark and dangerous, “Spit it out.”

There was a moment of silence between them, both their eyes wide and lips parted. It is a game of power, Rio thought. That is what love is. You choose to take it or give it up. And in this moment, she wished she had not an ounce of it in her bones. 

“You want power?” Rio husked out, shoving a hand against Agatha’s chest until the witch had fallen into a bed of flowers. Agatha noted there should be nothing but wet soil and broken branches on the ground, but her Green Witch was persistent in her sweetness, “Control?” Rio whispered, making a show of arching her back as she climbed into Agatha’s lap. The witch shook with nerves, lust, and excitement all at once, settling her trembling hands onto Rio’s hips, “Then take it,” Take me.

The cold wind stopped gushing for a moment, waiting for Agatha’s answer, but the witch could only look at Rio and think she really would end up being the Death of her. Their kiss sealed their fate for centuries to come, the path ahead set in stone. Rio had seen the worst of her, had all the warnings of the chaos and destruction bound to come, yet there she was, in Agatha’s lap with her head thrown back in submission.

Rio moaned Agatha’s name with each controlled bite the latter left on her neck. It was an angry scraping of tongue and teeth, lips leaving a brief, gentle kiss as if to soothe the red heat. “That’s it, sweetheart, take me, take all of me,” Rio panted into Agatha’s ears, licking down her neck filthily, rolling her hips against Agatha’s with desperate, untamed desire. Seeing her witch like that, high on power, gifting Rio souls, so dangerous, had driven Rio to madness.

Agatha whined into Rio’s neck at her words, one of her hands finding its way between her lover’s legs. Rio spread them as best as she could in this position, glad she wore a less complicated dress, a green gown of sorts. She bunched it up around her hips, revealing her naked half to Agatha who immediately pounced with her delicate fingers.

“Yes…” Rio hissed, moaned, whimpered as the witch brushed her thumb against her clit, pressing harder with each praise, “Right there,” Rio groaned, “Feels so good, my love, you feel so good.”

Agatha keened at the praise, failing her attempt at hiding how much Rio was affecting her. “More,” tell me more.

“No one will take me like this, only you,” Rio continued between heavy panting and whimpers, “I want no one but you, Agatha. Nobody is as good as you,” Her breath caught in her throat as her witch thrusted dainty, long fingers inside her with little warning. She could feel all of Agatha wrapping around her: her fingers curling; Agatha’s palm pressed against her clit; the distinct scent of lavender and honey gripping her lungs; those eyes, so deep, so beautifully bright and lustfully dark transporting her into the one place she has no access to, “If I had not met you, my love, I would have doubted the existence of Heaven. But you take me there, Gods, take me there, please, Agatha,” Rio’s words had lost their structure, turning into senseless ramblings as she begged and begged for her lover.

Agatha observed in astonishment at the submission, the easy handover of power. “My love…” She mumbled into Rio’s neck, bruising it with her kisses as she slipped another finger to join the other two. With Rio’s gasp, Agatha lifted her thumb to brush over her clit, just a single brush that had Death begging within her grasp.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she moaned filthily, rolling her hips up against Agatha’s touch, seeking, seeking, seeking…

“Will you?” Agatha panted desperately, ending her sentence short, knowing Rio understood her every word, “For me? Will you?” It took less than a minute after that for Rio’s hips to still, back arched up in the air. Agatha could do nothing but thrust again and again, pushing through the throbbing pain in her wrist. Her thumb circled Rio’s clit as she did so, keeping her right there at the top of the cliff for as long as she wished. It was all within her power, her control; she was the one who decided when to give Death life.

Rio’s cheeks turned a bright red, her face flickering back and forth to bones as she lost that little bit of control she had left. “Agatha,” She forced out with a heavy breath of relief, eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her fingers pressed into the soil, immediately sprouting a bed of purple flowers – violets, Agatha immediately recognised. She tightened, impossibly wet around Agatha’s fingers as a flow of honeyed liquid coats Agatha’s palm. It took everything in Agatha to keep from pulling her palm away and licking until there was not a drop left to spare. But she stayed, stayed there, stayed secure, stayed with Rio until her arch collapsed into the ground and Agatha with her.

They lay there, existing together and only together for a while. While they could. Agatha no longer felt fear, not like she had before. There was nothing but acceptance in her and Rio’s world, which is something she had never experienced before yet is all she ever wanted; undying, unconditional love.

“I love you, Rio Vidal,” she whispered as the stars shone brightly above them.

Rio sighed, happily burying her face into her witch’s neck. “I love you, Agatha Harkness."

masterlist + guidelines

HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS ONE!!

[tyrantisterror]

Say TT, what would be your top 10 T-rexes from media?

Ooo, tough one. I don't know if I can even rank them - I think I'll just share ten I love.

We'll start with the queen, the goddess, my inspiration, the T.rex(es) from Jurassic Park (and its sequels). An elegant design with so many iconic features, from the angry eyebrows to the overbite and of course the iconic roar. The franchise itself stops treating the T.rex with respect from the third movie on, but that doesn't stop it from being its flagship creature.

As villainous rexes go, I don't think any have surpassed that bastard Sharp Tooth, who channels the raw horror of the most fearsome fighting animal in the fossil record.

Every single moment of the T.rexes in Prehistoric Planet filled me with delight and childlike wonder - yes, even when one got chased away my quetzalcoatluses. It was just nice to see a dino documentary where T.rex doesn't die for once, and seeing rexes be tender and social was also something I deeply crave but rarely get to see in dinosaur media.

For dino documentaries that break my heart, the Walking With Dinosaurs rex reigns supreme. I know it's not a particularly accurate reconstruction (and in fact kind of mind bogglingly weird if you look at the details closely - what is going on with the area where her skull meets her neck?), but the story they tell with the rexes here is so tragic that it's burned into my mind. There's the one scene of a rex howling alone in the forest in search of a mate, where the narration notes that it's unlikely anyone will answer the call, that's just lodged into my memory as the ultimate illustration of romance-based loneliness. I feel that rex, man. I feel that howl into the empty woods.

I know it's not a "good" movie, but fuck it, I love The Last Dinosaur. I love the suitamation, I love how the T.rex is presented as this borderline supernatural threat in the vein of Moby Dick, I love that it actually gives us a T.rex vs. Triceratops fight (an odd rarity in dinosaur media despite it being a matchup that 1. happened a LOT in reality and 2. pits two of the most popular and fearsome dinosaurs against each other - "T.rex vs. Triceratops" is, like, someone who's so hot that no one ever asks them out because they think they have no chance).

There's a Japanese kid's movie about a girl who's trying to reconnect with her estranged paleontologist mother and ends up adopting a baby T.rex, and it's very cute and deeply emotional and has scenes of a baby T.rex in a Christmas cape and Santa hat evading the Feds because that's just what you have to do when you're a weird animal companion to a child. It love it. It's called Rex: A Dinosaur Story and I watch it illegally every year because there's no US release of it.

You Are Umasou is another Japanese piece of paleomedia aimed at children with a deeply emotional story about strained parent-child relationships that involves a T.rex - several T.rexes, actual, one of which invents the art of kickboxing to style over his opponents - and l also used to watch it illegally, but luckily Discotek Media released a blu-ray collection of it and its sequels (called "The Heart and Yummie Collection" in an atttempt to translate the pun of the original title that only kinda works), so now I can just watch it whenever, to my delight.

Fang from Primal is one of the most well-rounded T.rex characters in media and I love her so much, even if I can't watch the first episode of that show ever again. It's a shame that show never got a second season, I would have loved to see more of Fang's adventures in a prehistoric world full of dinosaurs and monsters. A damn shame that they didn't continue it - they certainly wouldn't have made the show be about ancient human civilizations with almost no monsters and a weird scene where a woman sleeps with a caveman covered in third degree burns.

Speaking of tyrannosaurs who get a great deal of characterization and team up with cavemen to fight dinosaurs and monsters in a fantastical prehistoric world, none have ever done it better than the original Devil Dinosaur. He lost all of that characterization and, like, any agency at all really when Jack Kirby stopped writing him, sadly, but at least he had a fun team up with Godzilla before he was reduced to a mindless brute and/or glorified pet in subsequent Marvel stories.

Finally we end with Gon, the star of the manga of the same name, a tiny little T.rex (well, arguments could be made he's more of a generic theropod, but he's been called a T.rex enough for me to count him here) whose anthology series tells some of the most dramatic, emotional stories about animals surviving in the harshness of nature without a single line of dialogue. Gon's stories range from the humorous to the downright tragic, and you can always tell what this little dinosaurs is thinking and feeling without him saying a goddamn word. Also he personally beat the shit out of every single fighter in Tekken, which basically makes him as powerful as twenty Gokus.

[jakesaverse]

ECHOES OF YESTERDAY | JAKE SIM CH.2

Synopsis: On her 21st birthday, Y/n wakes up overwhelmed by guilt and sorrow. It’s not just her birthday; it’s also the third anniversary of her high school boyfriend Jake’s tragic death. Surviving the accident that took Jake’s life, Y/n is haunted by memories of their love and the future they lost. In a moment of desperate longing, she makes a wish to see Jake again and is miraculously transported back in time to when Jake was alive. However, she finds that Jake now hates her, adding a new layer of pain and confusion. Determined to change his fate and earn his tolerance, she resolves to do everything in her power to ensure he escapes death this time.

Reader: Jake x reader

Author’s note: Hello! This is the second chapter! Hope you guys like it 💛! Also, I can’t thank y’all enough for all the support and comments I have received even with only one chapter out!! I truly appreciate all the support and I sincerely can’t thank you enough 🥺

MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

The clamor of the high school hallway seemed to mute as you spotted Jake leaning against a row of lockers, his presence like a storm cloud amid the bustle of students. The animosity in his stance was palpable, a stark contrast to the affection that once colored your interactions.

Without hesitation, driven by a force you couldn't explain, you darted towards him, your arms wrapping around Jake in a desperate embrace. Tears streamed down your cheeks, sobs wracking your body as you buried your face in his chest.

Jake's reaction was immediate confusion, his body rigid under your touch. "What the hell, Y/n?" he spat out, his voice laced with a mix of surprise and disdain. He tried to peel your arms away, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of what might have prompted this unexpected display.

"I don't know, I don't know," You managed to say between sobs, your words muffled against his shirt. "I just had to see you, to be here with you."

Students passed by, throwing curious glances their way, whispers already weaving through the air. Jake's confusion deepened, a frown etching his features as he looked down at the girl who seemed to be falling apart in his arms.

"Why are you doing this? You know I can't stand you," he muttered, his voice a harsh whisper meant only for your ears.

Your grip on him only tightened, your heart aching with a sorrow you couldn't articulate. You had no explanation for your actions, no reason for the pain that seemed to bridge the gap between them. And Jake, he offered no answers, his silence a riddle wrapped in a mystery that only drove the wedge deeper.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the moment, but for you, it felt like the end of the world. You released Jake, stepping back with a shaky breath, your tear-stained face a testament to the raw emotion you could not hide.

As you turned to leave, Jake remained still, his mind racing with questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to. The image of your tearful embrace would haunt him, a puzzle piece that didn't fit, leaving him more bewildered than ever.

You stand there, in the solitude of the bathroom, the door closed firmly behind you, shutting out the world and its judgments. The harsh fluorescent light above flickers, casting a stark glow on the stark white tiles. You lean against the cool metal of a stall, your heart racing, your mind reeling.

It hits you like a wave, the realization that you're not just reliving memories; you're walking through the past itself. The rejection from Jake wasn't just a replay of old heartache; it was happening now, all over again. The acceptance you once felt, the warmth of unity and the thrill of mutual understanding, had evaporated into a cold, stark rejection.

The thought crosses your mind, absurd as it seems, that maybe you didn't survive that night. Maybe this is all a dream, a hallucination your brain concocted to cope with the guilt of being the one who made it out. The guilt weighs on you, a heavy chain around your neck, suggesting that Jake's disdain is nothing more than a reflection of the self-hatred you've been carrying.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the sobs shaking your frame as you replay the scene over and over. The way his body had stiffened, the way he'd pushed you away, the laughter and whispers that followed—it cuts deeper than any knife could.

"It's like I'm dead," you whisper between sobs, the pain so intense it feels like you must be. But then you pinch yourself, and the sharp sensation brings you back to the harsh reality. You're very much alive, and this agony is yours to bear.

Time slips away as you sit there on the cold tile floor, lost in your misery. The sound of the bell jolts you back to the present, a stark reminder of the world moving on outside your stall. You've missed your first class, but that seems insignificant now.

With a shaky breath, you stand up, wiping your face with the back of your hand. You can't hide forever. You exit the stall and make your way to your second class, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As you enter the classroom, you're greeted by the sight of Jake and his friends. Their laughter cuts through the air, and even though you can't hear the words, you know the joke is at your expense. You keep your gaze fixed on the floor, your cheeks burning with humiliation.

You slide into your seat, trying to become invisible, but you can feel their eyes on you, their amusement at your pain. It feels like karma, a cruel twist of fate for surviving a night you're not sure you wanted to survive.

"Why do you even bother showing up?" you hear one of them sneer, and it's all you can do not to break down again.

You don't respond, you don't look up. You just wait for the moment to pass, for the class to start, for anything that will drown out the sound of their laughter. Because right now, every chuckle feels like another crack in your already shattered heart.

The classroom buzzes with the sound of shifting papers and whispered conversations as your teacher clears her throat, drawing the room's attention. "Alright, everyone, we're going to start a new project," she announces, and a collective groan rises from the class. "You'll need to find partners. Please write down the name of the person you would like to work with on a piece of paper."

Your heart races as you scribble down a name without a second thought: Jake. It's instinctive, almost as if your hand moves of its own accord. You know that Jake is not the most popular guy in class, often keeping to himself, which means your choice might just pair you together by default.

As the teacher collects the papers, a quick tally confirms your hopes: an odd number of students and Jake's name standing alone on your slip of paper. The teacher has no choice but to pair you with him, and though your heart aches with a mix of fear and excitement, you can't help but feel as if fate has handed you a lifeline.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and you're gathering your things when Jake approaches you. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. "You're a stalker, you know that?" he accuses, his voice low and harsh. "Just leave me alone."

As you stand there, the raw emotion in your eyes is unmistakable. The tears that stream down your cheeks are a testament to the turmoil inside you. You reach out to Jake, hoping to bridge the gap between you with your earnestness.

"Why are you doing this?" Jake asks, his voice tinged with a mix of incredulity and annoyance. "What's all this about?"

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you muster all the courage you have. "Because I feel it, Jake," you say, your voice quivering with emotion. "I know it sounds insane, but I believe there's something more between us, something that defies logic."

Jake takes a step back, his eyebrows raised in skepticism. "You think there's some cosmic connection between us?" he asks, the disbelief clear in his tone. "That's... that's just crazy talk."

You press on, driven by a feeling you can't ignore. "It's more than just a feeling. It's like our lives are intertwined, like there's a reason we keep coming back to each other," you insist, the intensity of your conviction not wavering.

But Jake just shakes his head, a half-laugh escaping him as he looks at you like you've lost your mind. "I'm sorry, but that's just not rational. You're talking about fate and past lives as if they're real. It's... it's too much."

You can see the judgment in his eyes, the way he's already dismissed your words as the ramblings of someone unhinged. Despite the sting of his reaction, you know your truth, even if you can't exactly share it.

"I know it's hard to believe," you admit, your voice a whisper now. "But I had to tell you. I had to try."

Jake's demeanor softens just a fraction, not with understanding, but with a hint of pity. "I think you might need some help," he says, not unkindly. "This isn't healthy."

The words hit you like a physical blow, tears springing to your eyes unbidden. Despite the pain, you step forward, arms open, driven by a powerful sense of deja vu. It's as if you're reaching across time, trying to bridge the gap between this life and the one where you saved him, where you fell in love.

For a moment, you're frozen, his accusation echoing in your mind. But before you can even process it, Jake is already turning on his heel, his footsteps a rapid retreat down the hallway.

You're left standing there, a statue amidst the flow of students. Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat a mix of hurt and urgency. You can't let it end like this; you can't let him walk away not understanding.

With a surge of determination, you break from your paralysis and start after him, your voice rising in desperation. "Jake, wait! Please, just listen to me!"

He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, and so you chase after him, catching up just as he's about to push through the exit. You reach out, grasping his arm, and the physical contact finally makes him halt and face you.

"Jake, I'm not trying to be a stalker. I'm trying to save you," you plead, your voice earnest, your gaze searching his for any sign of understanding.

He jerks his arm away, his expression a mix of fear and frustration. "Save me? From what? You're talking about past lives and destiny. Do you hear yourself? You sound crazy!"

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "I know it sounds out there, but I have these dreams, these visions of us. We were together in another life, and something bad happened. I can't shake the feeling that it's going to happen again, that I'm supposed to prevent it."

Jake's face softens for a moment, the fear in his eyes battling with a reluctant curiosity. "This is... it's too much. I don't believe in that stuff. And you coming at me with these stories, it's freaking me out!"

"But we have to work together on this project, Jake," you remind him, bringing the conversation back to the immediate reality. "We don't have to believe the same things, but we do have to pass this class. Can we at least agree to work on that?"

He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "Fine. We'll do the project. But that's it. No more talk about past lives or saving me. We focus on the work, and that's all."

You nod, the disappointment heavy in your chest, but you recognize the concession for what it is—a chance to at least remain in his orbit. "Okay, just the project. We can do that."

Jake gives you a long, hard look before nodding curtly and walking away, leaving you to grapple with the chasm between your realities. You know what you believe, but for now, the project is your only bridge to him, and you'll have to tread carefully.

The weight of the confrontation with Jake sits like lead in your chest, each breath a laborious task. The classrooms, once a haven of learning and growth, now feel like walls closing in, suffocating you with their stifling air of normalcy. You can't stay here, not now, not with the turmoil churning inside you.

With a resolve that trembles as much as your hands, you gather your things in a hasty scramble, the clatter of your belongings barely registering over the loud hammering of your heart. You can't be here, not another minute, not another second. The exit beckons, a narrow escape from the prying eyes and the whispers that might as well be shouts in your ears.

You burst through the doors of the school, the open space outside offering no solace to your troubled mind. Your feet pound against the pavement, a desperate rhythm that matches the racing of your thoughts. You run, each step an echo of your frantic heart, each gasp for air a silent plea for relief.

The world blurs past you, a smear of colors and shapes that hold no meaning. You take stops, your body protesting with sharp stabs of pain that cut through the fog of your determination. Your condition, often a mere whisper at the back of your mind, now screams at you with every labored breath. But you push on, driven by an urgency that goes beyond physical limitations.

Home looms before you, a familiar structure that hasn't changed, that doesn't know the chaos of your inner turmoil. You stumble inside, the door closing behind you with a finality that seals you away from the world outside. Your room greets you with open arms, everything in its place, everything as it should be.

You should be panicking, should be lost in the whirlwind of your encounter with Jake, but instead, a strange sense of calm settles over you. Here, in your sanctuary, you can breathe. Here, you can think. The nightmare that haunts you, the dark premonition of Jake's fate, is yours to alter.

A twisted dream or a cruel reality, it doesn't matter. Your home, and in the silence of your room, you find a sliver of hope. You will change his fate, no matter what it takes. The determination that fuels you is not just a fleeting spark but a raging fire. You will save Jake, and nothing will stand in your way.

Jake slumps against the door of his room, the weight of the day's classes and the intense encounter with y/n pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. His mind is a whirlwind of confusion, the echoes of y/n's rants about past lives and the intensity of her tears still vivid in his memory. He's barely had a moment to collect his thoughts when the door bursts open.

Sunghoon and Jay stride in, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. They've always been the type to get straight to the point, and today is no exception. "What's the deal with you and y/n?" Sunghoon asks, his eyes searching Jake's for answers.

Jay nods in agreement, leaning against the wall with a look that says he's not leaving until he gets the full story. "Yeah, she's been acting really weird around you, man. What's going on?"

Jake runs a hand through his hair, the frustration and exhaustion of the day seeping into his voice. "I'm just as confused as you are," he admits, his brows knitting together. "I always thought y/n was a bit strange, but now... I don't know, she's acting like a creepy stalker or something."

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the unease that has settled in his chest. "She's talking about past lives and crying and hugging me out of nowhere. I just wanted to get through the day without any drama, but that seems impossible now."

Sunghoon and Jay exchange a glance, the unspoken agreement clear between them. They're here for their friend, no matter how bizarre the situation. As they settle in, ready to listen and offer whatever support they can, Jake feels a slight easing of the tension within him. With his friends by his side, maybe he can figure out this strange puzzle that y/n has become.

The mood in Jake's room lightens as Sunghoon and Jay shift the conversation to the band practice they had earlier. "Not to make this about us," Sunghoon says with a playful smile, "but you missed a killer session today."

"Yeah, and we're already behind because someone," Jay chimes in, nudging Jake with his elbow, "has been too busy with the books to rock out."

Laughter fills the room, and for a moment, Jake's worries seem to fade into the background. The banter, the easy camaraderie, it's a welcome distraction. They crack jokes, each one more ridiculous than the last, and Jake finds himself genuinely smiling despite the chaos of his thoughts.

But as the laughter dies down, the image of y/n's tear-streaked face and her desperate words return to him. She had said she was trying to save him. The phrase echoes in his mind, a haunting refrain. Save him from what? Himself?

The question lingers in the air, unspoken but heavy. Jake feels the weight of it, a puzzle that he can't quite solve. Who or what did y/n believe was threatening him? Was it his own self-doubt, the academic struggles, or something else entirely?

His fingers tap a restless rhythm on his desk, the need to understand, to make sense of y/n's actions, growing more insistent. Sunghoon and Jay watch him, their expressions turning serious as they recognize the shift in their friend's demeanor.

"We're here for you, man," Sunghoon says, his voice firm. "Whatever this is about, we'll figure it out together."

"Yeah," Jay adds, "and if y/n thinks she needs to 'save' you, we'll be your backup. No one messes with our bandmate."

Their words are meant to reassure, to strengthen, but they also serve as a reminder that Jake isn't alone in this. With his friends by his side, perhaps the answers he seeks aren't as far out of reach as they seem.

Jake's breath comes in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a caged animal desperate for escape. The room is dark, the shadows stretching across the walls like sinister specters, and for a moment, he can't distinguish where his nightmare ends and reality begins.

He claws at the sheets, a silent scream lodged in his throat as the remnants of the dream cling to him—a visceral fear of death, a terror so profound it shakes him to his core. And there, at the edges of his fractured thoughts, is y/n's face, her words echoing in his mind, a haunting melody that now feels like a curse.

"Why did you have to say that?" he chokes out, the accusation hurled into the emptiness of his room. "Why did you put that idea in my head?"

But the silence that greets him is a stark reminder that y/n isn't there—that this fear, this gut-wrenching panic, is his alone to bear. He's trembling, fingers digging into his palms as he fights to regain control, to push back the tidal wave of panic that threatens to engulf him.

The world feels too big, too oppressive, and Jake is suddenly, painfully aware of his own vulnerability. The thought of mortality, once an abstract concept, now looms over him with a weight that is suffocating.

It takes time—minutes or hours, he can't be sure—for the panic to recede, for his breathing to slow and his heart to steady. But the fear lingers, a bitter aftertaste, and Jake knows that when morning comes, he'll have to face y/n. He'll have to confront the reason her words have the power to unravel him so completely.

taglist: @belovedsthings @en-chantedtomeetyou @syazzzlisa @k1ttylvr @jaeyunpinkyring @dreamiestay @soobs-things @capri-cuntz @beomgyusimp @heelariously @thinkinboutbin @jyunsgf @lwavander @chaewonshoney @maliakealoha @addictedtohobi @likeemi @shaniandme @chocminteu @lilyuwon @kgneptun @dojaejunging @binniesbabe @asteria-wood

[oddyseye]

EPIC is an absolute banger. The music? Gorgeous. The emotion? Raw. Jorge’s talent? Undeniable. The way Calypso is written? Tone-deaf, frustrating, and honestly pretty gross.

In Homer’s Odyssey, Calypso is not some sad, lonely girl with a “childlike mind” who just loves too much. She’s a vindictive, manipulative immortal who traps a traumatized war veteran on her island for seven years and forces herself on him. That’s not a tragic romance — that’s abuse. She’s not some misunderstood girlboss crying about unrequited love; she’s a literal predator. The Gods had to order her to let Odysseus go. And even then? She didn’t make it easy. She handed him an axe and made him build a raft himself. As if this 40-something-year-old man who’s spent a decade at war and has lost everything needed one more chore. She wasn’t helping him. She was making him earn the privilege of escaping her.

There is no ambiguity to her actions and Homer himself never once tries to justify her.

But in EPIC, we’re suddenly supposed to feel sorry for her. “Love in Paradise” paints her obsession as some dreamy, lovesick devotion. And it is creepy.

The problem is, this version of Calypso erases the reality of what she did. Jorge turns her from a vindictive, manipulative abuser into a sad, lonely girl we’re supposed to sympathize with. That’s not fair to Odysseus, and it’s not fair to male survivors of abuse. Men’s trauma is rarely acknowledged as it is, and here was an opportunity to tell that story honestly — and it got romanticized instead.

Calypso apologizes for “coming on too strong,” as if her actions were an innocent misunderstanding. No. She didn’t just “push too hard” — she abused a broken man for her own selfish loneliness. The song treats her confession as tragic, culminating in her frustration: “Why in the world won’t you love me too?” But that frustration isn’t justified. It’s manipulative, as if Odysseus owes her love because she’s sad and lonely. It’s a narrative that too often gets applied to real-life victims of abuse: “Can’t you see how much I care about you? Can’t you just love me back?” Framing her desperation as sympathetic only romanticizes her cruelty. The issue? These words are carefully chosen to minimize her abuse. She reduces seven years of captivity to “coming on too strong,” as if her actions were an awkward overstep rather than a violent stripping of autonomy. The word “ambushed” is especially insidious — she uses it casually, almost like a joke, to hand-wave away the depth of her cruelty. The framing makes it sound as if Odysseus simply rejected her too harshly, as though her love was just “too much for him”.

Her final plea in the song: “Why in the world won’t you love me too?” …is the most manipulative moment of all.

The focus shifts entirely onto her suffering, centering her loneliness as the true tragedy instead of Odysseus’ years of despair. Her pain becomes the emotional core of the scene, while Odysseus — whose trauma, grief, and loss should be front and center — fades into the background. Calypso’s selfish lament distracts from the reality: she was never a victim. She was a predator who exploited a broken man to soothe her isolation.

It’s even more frustrating when you think about how Calypso is treated versus other female characters in the musical. Penelope gets a whole invented storyline about threats of sexual violence from the suitors — something that wasn’t in Homer’s original text — while Calypso’s literal abuse of Odysseus gets downplayed into sad girl hours. Make that make sense.

Calypso didn’t need redemption, and she didn’t need a ballad. She needed to be called what she is: a captor who preyed on a broken man.

And before ANY of you BRAINDEAD defenders come at me with the “B-but Calypso didn’t force herself onto Odysseus! This is a retelling that removed that part!”—no. You’re wrong. The lyrics in "Love in Paradise" and "Not Sorry for Loving You" make it abundantly clear that Calypso’s actions are still coercive and controlling, even if the story doesn’t explicitly spell it out.

“Soon, into bed we’ll climb and spend our time”. What exactly do you think she means by that? Odysseus outright says no — “Hell no, I could kill you where you stand! I’m no pet, I’m a married man!” — and her response isn’t to respect his boundaries but to smirk at his helplessness. She laughs off his threat of violence because “last I checked, goddesses can’t die”. Calypso knows Odysseus can’t fight her, can’t escape her.

She doesn’t care about what Odysseus is going through. She only cares about keeping him there.

Odysseus says no — explicitly, violently — but it doesn’t matter. She’s already decided how this story goes.

“So if I pushed you, Or if I came on too strong, Or if I ambushed you, For that, I’ll say I was wrong.”

Let’s focus on “ambushed you.” She’s admitting it. She’s admitting she forced something onto Odysseus he didn’t consent to — she just downplays it. Instead of accountability, she turns herself into the victim with: “I’m not sorry for loving you.”

This isn’t remorse. It’s manipulative. She’s telling Odysseus that her feelings justify her actions, as if the way she loves him matters more than the pain she’s caused. And then she twists the knife further:

“Why in the world won’t you love me too?”

This is emotional guilt-tripping. Calypso has kept Odysseus trapped for seven years, ignoring his grief, his trauma, his screaming memories of war and loss. Yet when he rejects her, she makes him the cruel one for not returning her love.

I actually really liked Calypso in The Odyssey because it didn’t sugarcoat her actions. The Odyssey shows that women can be just as awful as men. Coercion, abuse, manipulation, it’s all there. And it’s important to acknowledge that men can be victims of these things too. That’s real, it’s gritty, and it doesn’t shy away from difficult truths. What I loved about it is that it made me think. It wasn’t all about idealizing characters, it was about understanding that people, both men and women, can be flawed and capable of harm.

But then Epic came along and ruined her. They took the edge off her character, made her into this sad, lovesick nymph who just wants to be loved by Odysseus, and completely erased the fact that she’s an abuser. And that’s what frustrates me. Epic fans seem to ignore that critical part of the story. It’s frustrating as hell to see so many people romanticize this version of Calypso without any awareness of the actual harm she caused. Sure, if you haven’t read The Odyssey, maybe you won’t get it, and I get that. But the rest of you? You’ve had the chance to see the truth and still choose to ignore it because it’s more comfortable. You’re not interested in critical thinking or nuance, so congrats for missing the whole point of the original myth.

If you’re going to turn Calypso into something she wasn’t, at least admit that you’re not trying to tell an honest story anymore. Just be honest about the fact that you don’t care about male victims, or your own intelligence for that matter.

[chiqelatasblog]

The Moon is Beautiful, isn’t it? 🌕

->Ao3 link is here.

-> This one-shot is the part of 'The Savior Series.' Here is the first part.

Pairings: Bi-Han/Sub-Zero x Reader, Kuai Liang/Scorpionx Reader, Tomas Vrbada/Smoke x Reader

Tropes: Love Confessions, Falling in love, Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Polyamory

Summary: In which you fall first, but they fall harder. How Tomas, Kuai Liang, and Bi-Han each realize they’ve fallen in love with you and express their feelings in their own ways.

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TOMAS

He was the first to fall for you, and it didn't surprise him at all. What did surprise him was how quickly it happened, yet it felt so natural, safe, and warm.

He was captivated by your gentleness from the beginning. Even though you were clearly afraid of them, you didn’t hesitate to make them comfortable in your home, ensuring everyone was well-fed and had a place to sleep. You were brave and so genuine in everything you did that it was impossible not to fall for you.

You always had a certain expression on your face when you gazed at them, thinking no one noticed; it was not pity but a deep, raw sadness that made Tomas’s heart ache. You were clearly angry and sad on their behalf, especially as you started to learn about their past and let down your guard as you got used to them.

It was late one night when Tomas clearly felt he had fallen deeply in love. You were fast asleep on the kitchen counter, surrounded by open books. Some of the notes you had taken had fallen to the floor, with Ninja sleeping on top of them. Your head rested on your crossed arms to make yourself a bit more comfortable, though Tomas was sure you were not. Your neck must have been in a lot of pain. Your lips were slightly ajar, your breathing came out in deep puffs, your chest slowly rising with each breath. Some of the ink from the notes was smeared on your left cheek. You looked achingly sweet, adorable, and innocent.

Tomas approached you slowly, not wanting to wake you. He glanced at the books you were reading; one and a half months had passed, but you were still looking for solutions to break the curse. This week you had gone to the city center, which had a huge library, hoping to find more books about the curse and maybe a solution to break it. You were so full of hope and light that it also made Tomas start to believe.

Your presence felt familiar, like the warmth he once shared with his family before their tragic end. It was as though you emerged from a past he had long buried, stirring memories buried deep within. He sensed a connection to you that transcended explanation, as if his soul recognized yours before his mind could comprehend it. This inexplicable familiarity felt both unsettling and comforting, like rediscovering a forgotten part of himself.

Though he might seem more harmless compared to his brothers with his easygoing demeanor, Tomas had learned survival instincts from a young age, navigating life's dangers with caution. Always on guard, he trusted few beyond his family circle. Lingering emotions from his past remained, deeply ingrained within him. Yet, in your presence, his defenses softened, his body responding instinctively to your calming influence. The tension that had once consumed him ebbed away, leaving him feeling strangely vulnerable yet inexplicably at ease.

When he reached out to take you into his arms and put you in your bed to ensure you had a nice sleep, you easily snuggled against his chest. A small, ghostly smile appeared on your face as you softly said his name in your sleep. Tomas's heart throbbed. Here you were, in his arms, most vulnerable while sleeping and subconsciously calling out his name, recognizing him even in your deep sleep. How could Tomas not fall for you?

As he carefully carried you to your bedroom, not wanting to wake you, Ninja followed. He laid you on the bed and then lay beside you, pulling the cover over both of you. The kitten settled at your foot with a soft yawn, its tiny form curling up in a ball.

“I love you,” Tomas said, his voice as soft as the night itself, carrying in a whisper. His lips brushed your temple gently. You stirred a little, then snuggled against him, your face hidden beneath his neck, and Tomas could feel your smile against his skin. You also whispered softly, “I love you too.”

KUAI LIANG

It was one afternoon when you took a walk in the park and showed him the chubby squirrel named ‘Theodore’ that Kuai Liang realized he had fallen in love with you.

Under the orange rays of the sun, you looked beautiful, your cheeks slightly flushed as you gave the squirrel some nuts and encouraged him to do the same. Kuai Liang kneeled beside you, his gaze fixed upon you, and as you noticed him, you turned to meet his eyes.

Kuai Liang could hear the joyful voices of children playing frisbee a little away from them, birds chirping under the tree they were sitting at the base of. The air was warm but not too hot to sweat, and a gentle breeze surrounded them. It was peaceful and incredibly calming, a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He breathed in the fresh air, the smell of grass and flowers filling him, the tension his body had carried for years ebbing away.

You were an easy person to warm up to, always sweet and brave. Not many people could stand up straight in their presence, knowing they were deadly assassins and, if not for the book’s protection, could take a life within a heartbeat. But you weren’t someone Kuai Liang wanted to hurt. The thought of your blood on his hands made him sick and furious. No, he wanted to protect you, to shield you from any harm.

You deserved to be treated gently, always gently, since you did nothing but shower them with kindness. Kuai Liang had learned to act as people reached out to him; he would do the same in return. But for you, he wanted much more than just being on the same page. You were compassionate to him and his brothers, even though Bi-Han did nothing but hurt you with his words and rudeness. You still acted with kindness, quietly understanding why he behaved that way, keeping your distance and giving him his space.

You never gave them any orders. Not once, not even to test if the curse was really working. You just let them be. Kuai Liang didn’t know what freedom felt like after ten years of imprisonment. This wasn’t exactly freedom, but it was better than nothing and felt like heaven compared to the hell they had been through. It also gave him a better perspective to watch you and understand you. What he learned was that you were genuine, with no masks to hide your thoughts or emotions. You were open to them, with a golden heart, taking in the kitten you found on the street even though you had no income at the moment while also trying to take care of them. And you didn’t want anything in return, just their happiness, Kuai Liang noticed lately.

So it didn’t surprise him when he realized he had fallen for you, as he took stock of his own feelings. He was always a bridge between his brothers, and even though he was warmer than Bi-Han in his approach, because of his destructive fire power he kept his heart well guarded.

Until he kissed you on that couch after his nightmare. After you cried on his behalf and hugged him, always giving him space and control to act as he liked.

Until now.

As he looked at you, it came to him like a gentle wave.

“I love you,” he said. Your eyes literally sparkled, a soft smile appearing on your beautiful face as you responded with the same words. Kuai Liang couldn’t help but smile as well and reached to kiss you, his body burning with a protective fire, wanting to hold you in his arms and keep you close in this perfect moment.

BI-HAN

Bi-Han didn’t know he was in love with you until he realized he was about to lose you. He was ready to spill blood for you—it didn’t even matter whose. He was ready to kill Liu Kang if needed. All he wanted was to save you. He didn’t care about the curse; after ten years of obsessing over how to break it, all that mattered now was your life. If your life was needed to break the curse, then he didn’t want that. He could live with the curse as he had in the past years, but losing you? No.

So when Liu Kang stabbed you, Bi-Han saw red. His vision went hazy, all his focus on you as you stood there, looking strong for them, trying to be brave as you always did and smiling at them. It was a smile full of pain and sadness that made his heart clench painfully, his breath caught in his throat.

He was so angry, furious at the injustice inflicted on them, furious that you took this decision without telling them, furious that he had to witness this and do nothing in return. He roared, cursed at the Fire God, and punched the invisible wall that kept him from reaching you.

He could feel the curse lifting. The heavy pressure on him, which had become second nature as he got used to it, was finally lifting. But in return, he was also losing you. He wanted the fucking curse back.

When Liu Kang caught you before you collapsed to the ground, the invisible force lifted. Bi-Han wasted no time, sprinted to you, and attacked Liu Kang with all the feelings raging inside him. But Liu Kang easily caught his fist, covered with sharp ice, and looked up at him. “I can save her.”

Bi-Han breathed deeply, not knowing what to do with all the feelings hurling inside of him. His fists ached and twitched as he still wanted to spill blood. He didn’t know how to deal with any of this. But his logic came to him easily, realizing that Liu Kang could save you. So he let him be. Liu Kang quickly kneeled before you, and Bi-Han watched him, angrily saying how he was going to make your life a living hell after all you had done. You scared him shitless, and that was a new achievement no one had accomplished in his lifetime.

Like time being rewound, Liu Kang’s blue-orange flames covered your lifeless pale body gently and pool of blood returned to you just like nothing had happened. The Fire God spoke of you resting for a while, but his words fell on deaf ears as Bi-Han crouched to cradle your limp body in his arms, his focus solely on you. He didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing until he could finally touch you and took a deep breath. His body was still trembling with adrenaline surging through his veins, all too cold and rigid, but holding you helped him calm down. He didn’t care about anything at that moment; you were what was important to him.

He once regarded feelings as useless, akin to shackles that bound him and made him vulnerable to exploitation by his enemies. Emotions were something he didn’t want to deal with; he didn’t believe he had the time for them. His clan always came first, before anything else, even before himself. Whatever was deemed important for his clan, he would do in a second. Lin Kuei was his pride and honor, and the responsibility for its future rested heavily on his shoulders as Grandmaster. But now, as he held you, his beliefs began to shift.

Yes, you were his weakness, but also his wellspring of power. His recent actions were the ultimate testament to his feelings. He yearned to become stronger and more powerful, solely to ensure he could always protect you, never wanting to fail you like he had today. He had never considered himself capable of loving another person; he had always viewed himself as too cold, harsh, and emotionless. Yet, as he gazed at you now, he knew without a doubt that he loved you.

He desired to be gentle, especially for you, so he could hold you without causing any harm. He wanted to offer you a sanctuary, just like he did for his brothers, a fortress where you could seek refuge and trust that he would shield you from anything. You were the kind of person he was willing to put his life in danger for. He was willing to kill and die for you, and it no longer surprised him that he had come to this conclusion.

As he watched you slipping away before his eyes, he felt as though he was losing control of his mind and body. He understood the danger of becoming so deeply attached to another person, especially as an assassin and as a grandmaster where from a very early age he was taught to put his clan first above all else. But for the first time in his life, he found himself unable to tame his emotions.

‘I love you’ he whispered in his mind. He wasn’t ready to voice it out loud yet, but he was sure you would feel it from now on.

………

Author’s Note; Hello, the third part of the series is out now! If you’re interested here is the link. I'll post it here sometime later💕

[perotovar]

hey sweeties!! kel and i put a list together of all the submissions we got for our event and split them into two masterlists of fics for you all to read and enjoy! this is my part of the list, so if you don't see yours give @beskarandblasters 's list >here< a look and see if that's where your fic/submission ended up!

we can't thank you enough for submitting and helping us give a voice to the smaller writers of the fandom ♥ oh, and for any multi chapter fics/series, we only read the first chapters to make it fair!

please make sure to read each fic's warnings carefully and happy reading! ♥

@iamskyereads - Compulsion (Ezra x ofc!Beatrice)

i can't even begin to describe how much i love this fic already. it's so smart and the worldbuilding?? incredible!! it feels like a sequel to the film, or like it could easily take place in the same universe. just brilliant. and ezra's voice is so clear here, i could hear him saying every word. and the oc, beatrice, is fascinating already, i can't wait to see where it goes!

@all-the-way-down-here - This Is Why We Fight (Dieter x nb!oc!Bell)

i love the start of this. both dieter and bell have excellent characterization and the conversations being had by every character feel so real and are so important. bell's group of friends all sound like friends i would have, and i would love to hang out with them. i love the direction this is going!

@linzels-blog - Delta Palms Tropical Resort (Frankie x f!reader)

ahh what a delightful little fic! it feels very much like an early 2000s rom com and i mean that in the best way! very cute and i love the vibes. everyone's characterization is great and i can't wait to sink my teeth into the rest of it!

@elvenmother - Context and Perspective (Marcus M x f!reader)

completely obsessed with this concept. i love a good enemies to lovers and this is such an awesome way to do it! i always see marcus m fics featuring someone without superpowers, but to have a character that's just as powerful as him? sign me up!

@kedsandtubesocks - In the Dead of the Night (Din x f!reader)

one of my absolute favorite din fics. the worldbuilding and din's creature form is incredible. i love a horror au that's flipped on its head. i also love the "creature is also the hunter" trope and this does that incredibly well. the atmosphere is off the charts.

@ghostofaboy - Rock Bottom (Frankie x original male characters)

god, i don't even know where to begin with this story. it's so raw and visceral and i can't say enough how much i enjoy it. i love reading something new and especially if it's coming from a male perspective. this is, unfortunately, something i could see frankie getting up to. frankie is such a deeply tragic character and this fic does that justice in a dark, but really intriguing way.

@ishabull - The Way We Were Drawn (Marcus P x f!reader)

ohh this is such a sweet fic. i love the imagery painted and the dynamic between marcus and reader is so sweet!

@secretelephanttattoo - Headshots (Marcus P x f!reader)

this fic is beyond sweet and so dreamy. the ideal scenario for anyone, in my humble opinion. who wouldn't want to take pictures of handsome fbi agents and then fall in love with said agent?

@lesbianhotch - you walk by and i fall to pieces (Frankie x f!reader)

THIS WAS THE CUTEST DAMN THING. i love me a nervous frankie (hello, have you read my fic lmao) and this was by far one of the cutest. i'm obsessed with reader's confidence and i just know those two are gonna be menaces once they're together. throw in some patsy cline and i am a goner. this is going on the reread list for sure.

@insomniamamma - Remain Nameless (Ezra & Cee w/ gn!reader)

ok, this one actually made me cry. i'm not sure if it's my own sleep-deprived ass that caused it but this is probably one of the most beautiful but sad fics i've read in a long time. i mean all of this in the best way because i don't normally get emotional from fics. prospect as a movie makes me emotional, though, so it doesn't surprise me that this did as well. it's such an incredible missing scene that i can, unfortunately, see absolutely happening. have some tissues nearby.

@sweetercalypso - Unlikely Friends (Joel x gn!reader)

this fic is one of my absolute favorite fics for joel. a big reason for that is i have a cat named tilly. and imagining joel reluctantly and grumpily cuddling with my tilly makes me emotional, ok??

@softstarlite - The Casualty of Love (Javi P x f!reader)

very cute! i love the awkward tension around not seeing someone for so long and there being a huge glow up maturity-wise from one of them! seeing someone in a new light is always a strange thing and i love the start to these two and their journey!

@julesonrecord - Shots (Jack x f!reader/oc)

probably one of the best post-movie fics i've ever read for jack. the way jack's trauma and therapy is handled is so fucking brilliant and tonic is one of the best fucking characters, god. eva is written so well and i just. i can't recommend this fic enough. if you like jack, hell even if you don't, give this fic a shot. i promise you'll come out of it liking it.

@coulsons-fullmetal-cellist - The Audition (Dieter x f!reader)

goddd this was so cute! dieter's insecurities don't come up very often and i absolutely love what a match he and reader make. she's so sweet with him and takes such good care of him. and he loves her so much and i love them ok

@max--phillips - A Little Lipstick Never Hurts (Max P x f!reader)

this is one of the best explorations into kink that i've ever read. it's so respectful and hot as fuck. completely obsessed with this take on max as a character and i can't get enough of the dynamic between him, reader, (and eventually dieter). it may not be everyone's cup of tea, but i highly encourage you to give it a try. max gets some well deserved lessons taught, and who doesn't love that?

@coastielaceispunk - The Gift of Lingerie (Max L x f!reader)

god, this was so fucking hot. i'm so here for a mentally healed maxwell in a healthy marriage with a fulfilling sex life lol the little bit of teasing on both their parts was beyond sexy and i loved how equal everything felt. ugh, will be rereading this one for sure.

@lotrefcp - Hidden Away (Javi P x f!reader)

i'm obsessed with a no nonsense reader with just as much attitude/sass as javi does lol i just kept reading going GET HIS ASS. an excellent start to a universe i'm excited to sink my teeth into!

@beefrobeefcal - On the Waterfront (Frankie x f!reader)

oh, this is dark. i love the vibes immediately. i've had a weird fascination with the mafia for most of my life and this has that air about it. a dark, chubby mob boss!frankie is right up my alley for sure. i love that he's still frankie tho. sensible, practical, but with an edge. mind the warnings.

@flightlessangelwings - La Estrella de Mi Vida (Javi G x f!reader)

ahhh so romantic and so tragic!! i swear, it's impossible to make javi unappealing but this fic is just so sweet and manages to make me love him even more (somehow). but i love the added drama and tension from outside forces!! i need to read the rest of it asap!

@littlemisspascal - Rockford & Roan (Tim x f!reader)

my god, i love this?? i'm not usually one for superpowers/soulmate au's but i'm in love with the practicality of this? it feels otherworldly without being too much and it's very grounded. i love the reader and the way tim is written is so believable. i love that we as a fandom have created such a visceral image of this character from only a minute's worth of footage!

@something-tofightfor & @the-blind-assassin-12 - Aphelion (Oberyn x Ellaria & f!reader)

goddd the imagery painted in this one. so heartbreaking. absolutely breathtaking. i'm a slut for vampires and i'm a slut for oberyn/ellaria. this is absolutely something i will be reading the rest of lol

@bluestar22x - The Rockford Files (Tim x f!reader)

ok this is insanely good. one of my favorite books of all time is "red dragon" by thomas harris and i felt like i was reading that again while i read this. the details of the case and the cadence of everything was top notch. obsessed with the psychic element thrown in there and i'm beyond excited to see where tim and psy end up next!

bonus:

@sweetenerobert - Fiction vs Reality (Tommy Miller x m!reader)

ohhhh my god. you give me a bisexual tattoo artist tommy miller with stretched ears and i'm supposed to be normal about it??? UNLIKELY. i am extremely tempted to edit this into reality ngl but my god. this was so fucking hot lmao