#but the veranda… does not exist yet

[areyouwho-ithinkyouare]

guys look @ the new lights we got today i can’t stop staringgggg

[oneatlatime]

City of Walls and Secrets

I am also once again saving the commentary for a rewatch.

I still think rock trains are neat but their inefficiencies hurt my brain. The friction! They should at least install dynamic braking.

That's big. This show has really confined itself to the hinterlands so far, so this is really novel. I had no clue anything this big existed in the Avatar universe.

Complete nitpick time! Given that earthbending is a thing that exists, why bother making things out of stone with individual tiles like this?

Single most threatening musical sting of the whole show so far goes to an overly smiley tour guide.

Wow! I hate this lady already!

"Oh, Ba Sing Se has many walls! There are the ones outside, protecting us, and the ones inside, protecting us from smelly poors!"

"In case someone brings home a lady friend!" Do you know your nephew AT ALL?

Both Iroh and Zuko are right. Life does happen everywhere and without your permission. But, the city is also remarkably prison-like.

He got them jobs in an afternoon. AN AFTERNOON. Stop it Iroh, you're making me feel inadequate.

Once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy. This particular leopard can't change his spots, no matter how he tries to dress up his actions in a new law-abiding veneer. I feel sorry for Smellerbee. Her faith in her leader isn't exactly being rewarded.

So... is there a law on the books that makes being a firebender illegal in Ba Sing Se? Because the head-in-the-sand vibe I'm getting from Judy makes me think that the average citizen doesn't even know there's a reason to dislike the Fire Nation. Iroh and Zuko could probably bend as openly as a waterbender or an earthbender could here.

This whole being handled thing must be dredging up some pretty nasty feelings for Toph. This is specifically what she left behind.

Speaking of precisely targeted torture, Judy is engineered to be as irritating to Sokka as possible. Man of action versus Lady of script.

What a productive use of time! What an exemplary case of turning over a new leaf!

Iroh buddy I have news for you regarding the ingredients of tea.

That's like the nicest thing a member of the Fire Nation royal family has said all year.

How to get Iroh's ass in gear: Step 1: Make insulting tea. Step 2: There is no step 2.

I thought that little thingy in the background was one of those electricity things.

The attention to detail in this show is stupid. There's a moving reflection of the carriage in the water as it goes past.

Hi forbidden city!

Ba Sing Se has a morality police?

I've already run out of patience with the city and I'm 7 minutes in. I haven't even made it to a commercial break yet!

Their house is cute but the veranda is so substantial that it's probably really dark inside. Also there's a pumpkin hood ornament on the roof.

I don't think you can stop there for a month. Have you guys forgotten the now-doubled ticking clock? Eclipse and comet?

Oh ok we're doing 1984 now. Damn. This show goes places.

I stand corrected. Everyone knows about the war and would be appropriately non-welcoming to firebending. But not openly. This could be like one of those Bugs Bunny bits where he traps someone in societal rules. If someone told a firebender not to bend, all they would have to do to get the guy off their case would be to ask why they aren't supposed to be firebending. What's the guy going to say, because there's a war on?

Shout out to Pong for doing the Gaang a solid and providing the only useful info since they've arrived.

There is something very Gollum-like about Jet, crouched in laundry on a roof in the dark, talking to his stolen spark rocks.

Sokka. Feet off the artwork.

Time for Toph to weaponise her oppressive upbringing and out-fancy the fancies in the name of ending the war.

Aang can master an element in a couple of months but a qualified expert declared manners to be beyond him.

I just realised that Sokka and Katara don't have a last name.

Sneaking into a Bear's (JUST Bear's) birthday party may be the single least violent infiltration attempt in the show so far.

Smellerbee is very articulate, and it's rare that this show spells out its themes so obviously. No metaphors, just "you're obsessed. It's not healthy." And Jet still doesn't get it. Maybe Smellerbee should have tried metaphors.

Normally glowy green stuff is bad news, but all of Ba Sing Se's green lighting is surprisingly cozy.

Sometimes, rarely but sometimes, Zuko has to put up with a lot of nonsense.

A raise? Did I miss a timeskip?

Busting in to a local business, yelling about the enemy, pulling out a lethal weapon: How to Look Sane, A Guide by Jet.

Customers, amirite?

I guess the Bei Fongs are too minor as nobles?

"You don't know what I had to do to get seats this near the bear!" but I want to.

I know this guy's voice from something.

Momo ghost plan. I want it.

Pretty funny that the busboys plan works better than the fancy ladies plan. Goes to show you should always play to your strengths.

Get de-wheated punk.

I'm not sure I've rooted for Zuko this wholeheartedly since The Storm.

Jet be like.

Judy is not good at her job. Like really not good. Her insistence on getting out of there before they cause a scene caused the scene. Nice going!

The music slowing down when Judy's face falls is really effective.

You ever get the feeling that it should be Aang who ran away to the circus rather than Ty Lee?

Actually a travelling circus would be a great way to be, and remain, an incognito airbender. Aang should have done that rather than frozen himself. Ok I'm not sure how much say he had in that, but you know what I mean.

For the first time in his life, Zuko has people take his side. It's too bad that it's based on a lie, but it must feel nice.

I would have preferred if Zuko had a clean win against Jet - they're both great with swords, but I thought Zuko was better - but an assist from the funky hat police works too.

I'm getting some funky vibes from the funky hat police.

Bye! I won't miss you!

The face on the guy on the left is the funniest part of this episode.

Now these are some funky hats.

I know this scene is supposed to be scary and tense and action-packed, but I can't get over the fact that the king just did a drive by. They carried him in one side and out the other. This concludes the King's presence at his Bear's birthday party. He's a very busy man, you see.

Long Fang's title keeps getting fancier.

Brain washing crops up quite a lot in kids' cartoons. This is not the first time I've seen this plot beat.

Forget the Fire Lord. Forget the Fire Nation. Long Fang just threatened Appa. Long Fang has to die now.

The Judys are replaceable. Given everything else this city seems ok with, they're probably disposable too. Yikes!

Final Thoughts

This episode was probably the most expository I've seen this season. Maybe even the whole show. It was a big infodump with barely any humour. Actually that's wrong; there was humour, but not to my taste.

Jet is infuriating as usual. I think the writers are going for the villainous decay trope, because smooth-talking season one Jet hasn't reappeared once.

I feel really sorry for Smellerbee and the archer guy. I wonder if they even wanted to go to Ba Sing Se in the first place.

Once again, for the third episode in a row, Zuko is one of, if not the, most reasonable character. Season one shouty Zuko is gone. Is this what I think it is? Has Zuko really turned a corner? If so, I'm liking (rather, disliking less) this new Zuko. This is good. I'm also surprised, because in my experience, if you want to domesticate someone, you don't put them in a customer-facing role. That will have the opposite effect and make them turn feral.

Iroh is having too much fun. It's good for him to have something of his own going on. I think he's been in Zuko wrangling mode 24/7 for the last two? three? years, so he definitely deserves to pursue his own interests for a bit. But I can't see Zuko being a tea boy for long before he's back to needing wrangling.

What's the long term plan though? Are Zuko and Iroh going to live the rest of their lives in Ba Sing Se? Are they waiting for something? Are Iroh and Zuko functionally dead, with Lee and Mushi taking their place?

I will give the show credit for finally coming up with and antagonistic force that Aang & company can't just bend or talk into submission. Bureaucratic tomfoolery covering for authoritarian censorship and information suppression and re-education was not something I'd ever have expected in this show, because it's a little too much like the real world, if you know what I mean.

I don't like seeing our heroes unable to triumph, so this episode was kind of uncomfortable to watch. It felt off the whole way through, which I credit to that creepy music box tune that played throughout. The soundtrack of this episode was a cut above what I usually hear in this show. I noticed it more than I usually do, and I mean that in a good way.

As someone who'd be lucky to pass as a busboy, upper class intrigue and social games stuff doesn't do it for me, so this wasn't an episode I was going to enjoy anyway. I preferred the B plot with Zuko and Iroh, for the sheer absurdity of the concept. Imagine you're in 1950s London, having barely survived the Blitz, and you come across Himmler working in a pub. It's so odd that it almost wraps back around to normal again.

I didn't find this episode very enjoyable. I don't like the forced inactivity that's been imposed on the Gaang. The humour was not to my taste. The worldbuilding was substantial, but - probably thanks to Joo Dee, whose name I've definitely been misspelling - it felt inorganic, like a lecture. Which the writers do lampshade by making Joo Dee sound like one of those audio guide things you rent from tourist attractions. But lampshading a fault does not make a fault go away.

Thanks to what happens to Jet, I know that the people of Ba Sing Se don't dare even think about the war, for their own safety. But after spending more than half a season being shown every type of refugee and victim of war in other parts of the Earth Kingdom, I could not bring myself to give a flying fuck over Pong's concern for keeping his house. The city is frustrating, the officials are frustrating, their priorities are beyond frustrating. Zuko was right when he said he didn't want to make a life there, although I did find the lower ring where Zuko and Iroh are to be far more comfortable than the high ring where the gaang is.

This episode makes me want to bite something.

And still no Appa.

[yyoon5]

Finally got Ren'Py to work...the VN is making more progress every day. It feels like less of a drag now that the code is finally working and the launcher doesn't give me problems. I'm very excited to see how it turns out in the end. It's my introduction to programming basics, anyway, so I'm quite proud of the work I have done. It currently does not have a -ge genre that I have labelled yet. It's just apocalyptic fiction in the viral sense.

I cried on the veranda last night. I've tried to expose myself to more art that hurts me so I can get over this fear but I fold under the pressure. My landlord also caught me crying while making nightly rounds around the area. He never does that. But at 2 AM like always, no one ever comes out of their apartments. That's when I need to try again next, but next time I do, I'm getting high, because otherwise I can't handle the pain.

I never liked painful things from a very young age, I remember. I became terrible at stomaching art that gave me heavy emotions around my teenage years, whereas when I was younger, I handled them better. It's kind of funny because I used to cry so much as a child that my eyelids would always be swollen and it became normal to me. Then when I got out of that situation, I resorted to bottling emotions up. Then cutting. And now I just get high and blare music so I can actually wake up with the only consequences being guilt and chest pain for a few days.

I think part of why the art now hurts is because it's so beautiful and I know my life can never be like that. I love my life and the art I dedicate my whole existence to but I know it should be better. There is no mesmerizing love story waiting to happen upon me, no one who will fit the role of a partner I want, and definitely no one outside of the screen who knows me like this. There's a term for it I found a few days ago: solaic attraction. I don't know if that's really it though. But to hear such a perfect potential reality be presented only to know it's not potential for me makes me yearn. And I hate yearning, I've done that for so long.

A constant thought in my mind is if I consume the art and allow myself to be in pain from it's meanings, I will be unable to function as a human being, and will essentially die. I'm sure it's just paranoia because I get those episodes all the time but it weighs on me.

[falseficatored-blog]

Jingyuan :: Vyn Richter (Parallels)

Ft. Aha & Yanqing

🎨 Credits: jiukuzi18797 & ueauwa

It was one of those rare days where Jing Yuan had free time to himself, he was at a total loss at what to do given that everyone seemed to be avoiding him(to not be tempted at bothering him or giving him more work). He liked the peace and solemn yet it reminded him even more of the loss or lack of his previous comrades.

He closed his eyes as he felt the gusts of wind that passed by his veranda and yet the wind was too strong for it to be just any wind "what is it aha?" He sighed at the obvious attempt at getting your attention "Well you seemed to be crying by yourself so I thought I'd give you a gift" his smug grin seemed to be heard through his words. "Thank you but that might as well be unnecessary if all you plan is to reshow me my past memories" venom was laced in his words as for him those memories did less help at easing the pain from the past. "Don't be so uptight, it's something different this time, you'll know it when you see him" Aha's laughter was joyful yet infuriating for him at the moment "let's see..." He tried to keep his calm, this day was a well deserved break for him after all even if maybe he didn't think he deserved it.

His day passed like that as he walked around the Xianzhou, there were surprisingly a lot of changes. It made him realize that time did pass by and time left no room for anyone for it to stop under the guise of pain or suffering.

His daw was about to end and his eyes dropped sleepily, knowing Aha's 'gift' would be coming for him in his dream.

A similar looking man to him sat by his side. The scenery was a wide green plains of grass spread out around you two as you say on a bench. "I presume this another form of amusement Aha has to let us two meet" Jingyuan muttered slightly exasperated by the scene in front of him, particularly the man in front of him.

"It seems you're awake now, I'm Vyn Richter, you are?" Vyn calmly replied. "I'm Jingyuan, I could say I'm probably another you in another world" for a few moments there was an awkward silence between the two. "Is that so? I'm more likely than sure I was brought here for you so do you have any questions for me?" Vyn questioned taking a glance at him before looking back in front of the plains in front of them. "What's your life like in your world..." Jingyuan slightly dragged his words revealing a rare side of vulnerability. "I'm a psychiatrist, though the words may not exist in your world it means I just help people figure out how their mental state is and possibly guide them out a negative one, you don't seem to be at your best either" he sharply remarked seeing right through him. "So what particular aspect of my life are you really curious about?" Jingyuan let out a chuckle to try and ease his nerves "I'd like you to talk about the people in your life"

"Well currently it's obvious based on my job but I have a lot of people relying on me and I carry the burden of their expectations, though the one person I want to help barely does fully rely on me, she sees me as someone reliable yet always tries to find a way to solve things herself... Currently though I'm trying to court her but a few other men obviously have their eyes set on her." His expressions changed quite dynamically from worry and softened before letting out a dark chuckle as he glared slightly.

"You must love her a lot then." Jingyuan sighed

"I do and I have no intentions to lose." Vyn said a couple of words but at that point Jingyuan couldn't hear anything as he figured.

'ah, time is up.'

He woke up feeling refreshed as Yanqing peeked through his room. "General Jingyuan wake up!" He wasn't alone either, he held responsibilities and carried expectations, accompanied by people who wanted to help him just as much.

[redkemse]

Your Trusted Home Extension Builders in Brisbane

Introduction: A home extension is a term used to describe the addition of new space to your existing house. It can be something as simple as adding a room or as extensive as rebuilding an entire section of your home. The decision to build an extension should be based on how much space you need and how quickly you want it done.

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A home extension is a building addition. It can be a single room or multiple rooms, and it can be added on to an existing house or new house. The most common type of home extension is an extra room, but there are other types as well:

A deck or veranda attached to your property (typically with no garage)

A covered porch that connects to your house’s main entrance

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There are many factors that can influence the process of choosing a trustworthy home extension builder in Brisbane.

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[yostresswritinggirl]

Alatus' Weakness

Even the strongest, mightiest men carry with them their ultimate weakness. And when it is under the wrong hands, their power won't be enough to prevent them from crumbling... What is it? What was it that the Evil God took hold of that forced him to serve his evil deeds for years?

Pairings -> Alatus x Reader (Xiao)

Word Count -> 1350

Themes -> You won't find happiness here.

Series -> #SojournerSpecials (600 Followers Event)

Warnings -> This is punishment for Xiao forcing me to whale for him. As well as the Oceanid anons. (EDIT: THIS HAS MADE PEOPLE CRY, PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK)

The Yaksha of the wind dances in fluid whirlwinds as the breeze makes its rounds over the plains, his lightness barely wrinkles the green grass underneath his uncovered feet as the robes he dons flutters behind him.

It was so beautiful, he looked so ethereal.

And when his spear finally settles in a sharp swing, the force manifests into harmless gusts that sweeps the pasture for a second before straightening up again. Alatus had always been an agile dancer. And everyone in the village knows of this.

He offers a slight bow and a smile upon your loud clapping, so giddy of the exclusive performance that you were lucky to witness. It was a treasure that every local wishes to see beyond the battles he fights. Men and women alike yet out of them all it was you who was graced with this blessing.

"Beautiful as always, Alatus!" Your wide smile was infectious and his grin grows the closer he comes to you, arms finding its way around your waist and across your back in a soft hug. The giddiness continues as you turned into a giggly mess from his special affection, reciprocating with a tackle of a hug.

"Did you miss me that much?" He was answered by wordless nuzzles to his chest, making him chuckle and pull you closer.

Alatus was a great and powerful spear dancer, and he had been protecting the village you two reside in ever since. Gods and beings trekked the world commonly and it was too dangerous even for stationary communities. More so for those who lack the Vision to fight in the first place.

He was one, if not the only one capable enough to protect everyone. And many times he would go beyond the parameter to exterminate threats before they became an issue. Most of the time he disappears for a while during this expedition and then return triumphant as the village people greet him and praise him for his hardwork.

But at the end of the day, he settles down in your quiet home where he engulfs you protectively in his arms. There you two would exchange your tales during the span of his expedition, and he would indulge you in a showcase of his dances as compensation for his absence. The highlight of your day.

"There seems to be higher activity in the surrounding territories regarding monsters and Gods," he introduces the topic as he picks up the nian gao with wooden chopsticks, munching the soft treat as you poured a cup of tea to match the snack. "The other villages are asking me to patrol their parameters for a few days to at least clear some of them."

"There's been disturbances around here too," you worriedly chewed at your own snack as you two sat by the veranda of your home, watching the whole of the village from your spot over the cliff. This must be one of the reasons he liked staying here too, an easy access and overseer to the whole area for his duties.

Alatus hums in agreement but continues eating. The way he chews his meal was a telltale sign that there's a worry gnawing at the back of his head. And you had the same worry, except much lighter than his.

The growing tension between the Gods of Teyvat spurs on more turmoil at the news of Celestia's sudden challenge over the archons. And with such offers and desperation, powerless humans and villages had been wiped recently courtesy of the war.

It was a matter that didn't really bother him nor the village, but somehow it came back to him tenfold in multitudes of worry. He has a gut feeling. But Alatus cannot make himself turn away from the pleas of the people that call his name for saving grace.

"Come home soon," your smile snapped him back to reality upon knowing that he wouldn't just leave the other villages behind.

Yet when he left, there was still a gnawing anxiety at the bottom of his stomach.

Alatus for once... had lost his grace for in his hand his spear shakes in unspeakable fear. In front of him beyond the cliff's edge is the blazing ruins of a village he protected for years, day and night diligently. Monsters and men ravaged what's left and he tries to push away the guilt of ignoring them when he rushed immediately to his home.

To where his home should be.

"Alatus," the towering figure turned around to face him and his pupils dilated at the image, muscles flexing to dash when its hand raises in a motion to stop him, tutting mockingly at the warning. "Ah, ah, you wouldn't want them to die like this, would you?"

The being of pure evil had your unconscious form in its arms, a fight evident on your bruised and cut form as blood trickles from your forehead to the earth beneath. And on your head, the source of the wound, is a crown of thorns. He fights the urge to cry and vomit at the state you were in, at the state he could have prevented if he'd just STAYED.

"Please," his broken voice ghosted a smile on the God's face, "Please leave them alone."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Alatus' heart sinks at the refusal with his gaze unfocusing at the difference in power. "After all, they're the one I wanted in the first place, everyone else is just collateral damage."

From that point forward, to preserve the little life force you have, Alatus was under the grasp of the evil god. Under his command he razes the villages he once protected, eating the dreams of the humans that only wish to live in peace. His hands of grace grips his spear with the stains of blood as he kneels in front of the evil God, its name he didn't bother to remember anymore at this point.

It smirks at him while over its hand floats a cube only a few inches bigger. Your cell, where you're cooped up with only a glow of deep blue indicating your existence within it. When he misbehaves he hears cries of agony from it, when he does very satisfactory he even gets to hold it but only that.

The years of painful service had wiped off his smile and most of his memories. Alatus had already forgotten your voice and your face at this point, only the humans and beings he had killed comes to his memories.

Soon after, he has only known the cube to hold something dear to him, a weakness that is a precious one he could not risk. When he tries to remember, he's reminded of a vague visage and a sweet taste on his tongue. If he could cry now he would. It was one of the only good things in his mind now even tho its details continue to ebb away with his horrific deeds.

And finally, like a light that shines through the canopy of the overhead trees, a being mighty enough to contend his evil master comes down to end his suffering.

Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon, the one the evil god desperately tries to overthrow died in his hands.

It is done, all of it. No more innocent blood should stain his hands. "The cube this god possessed is a cell." What should he do now? There was no other place to come back to, maybe the You that resides in the cube had any ideas, to start over. That sounds like a good idea.

"Alatus, was it?" His head slowly picks up from the blank stare it had on the ground.

"Yes, Rex Lapis?"

"Do you know of the one who resides within this cube?" There was a hesitance in Rex Lapis' voice that passed through him.

"They are someone that I know."

"It seems... that human... has perished 200 years ago in this cell."

Alatus, like that last day in a ruined village, had lost his grace when he collapses to the ground. His weakness and his hope both gone.

Seems to me my writing has been short lately

@moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie @lehra @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @lilydewi22 @yellowflowre @traveler-lumine @nonniechan @kookieyachi @struggljng @bunniesrorange @anormalguyreader

[gamingperipety]

I read the cinnamon roll MC ask and I immediately ruined it with angst

So could you maybe give RO’s reaction to a MC that slowly goes from cinnamon roll to cold and stoic

no rush btw take all the time you need to get into writing because your health comes first❤️

You're so sweet ❤ thank you!

Dominik: It's something he expected to happen sooner or later, but when the light leaves your eyes a part of his heart dies with it. He keeps telling himself that it's fine. This is for the better. But is it worth it? "Is this what you wanted?" A voice taunts him.

Teht: They're watching you. Silently. There's something in the air. A tad bit of tension. I'm sorry. They think to themselves as nails dig to their palm. I couldn't protect you. You give them a look and their mouth goes dy. "Teht," Dominik calls to their attention. "Are you in or not?"

Zet: Not again, they think. This can't be happening again. They try to bring you back but it's too late now, isn't it? The damage is done and there's not much they - or anyone- can do to undo it. All they can do now is be by your side for the rest of your journey. As long as it might last.

Miata: She never thought that it would bother her so much, but it does. Not because there's something wrong with the way you are now, but this is not you. She knows the real you. She's seen you almost every day for years. Miata bites the insides of her cheek. Be quiet. Her thoughts are being too loud. Just what did you expect to happen?

Narkis: He's been observing you for a while but soon enough his scrutinising gaze becomes too much for comfort. "What?" you ask. Your eyes lack emotion as they narrow into slits. He knows that it's nothing personal against him, yet he can't help but snarl. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Prisca: She wishes you wouldn't grow cold. She wishes you'd go back to being the same way you always were. This feels foreign and sometimes she wonders if it was just an illusion of a past that didn't exist. Guilt builds at the pit of her stomach but she won't sit there and mop about it. No. Prisca isn't like that. Just you wait.

Shin: They're angry; not at you. It's not your fault. They're angry at the world, at the people, circumstances- At themselves. They tell you to snap out of it. It's hypocritical, they know, but give them another chance. They'll protect you this time. Just...

Herian: "You've always had it rough," they tell you one day as you're both sitting at the veranda behind their main house. "I don't know why I was foolish enough to believe that this time it would be different." I'm sorry.

Kalipso: They fall quiet and become more tender towards you. "I'm here, if you need me," they tell you and take your hand into theirs. They mean it; they know they do. But do you? Did your heart grow so cold that you can't feel their warmth anymore? Did the knifes of betrayal cut you so deep that you can't trust anymore? Their hands are drenched in blood; a few additions wouldn't make any change.

Deoki: They thought they would be fine with... whatever this is. "You're too innocent, too naïve -" they'd often tell you. Are you satisfied now? It mocks them. They grit their teeth and run a hand through their perfectly white hair. "As if." "Did you say something?" You ask in a monotonous voice. "No." They breathe in. Compose yourself. "Nothing." As if...

[vetrenar]

Hm... Who did know that writing hurt-comfort can be so soothing? 😂 Certainly not me. But it is, and with this discovery, it probably will be appropriate to honor my favorite characters with a minute of silence. Because a lot of hardships are waiting for them in the future...

Ok, I'm joking. Almost.

This is technically an additional chapter for this almost-fic (I will probably polish and expand it a little before posting it on the Archive somewhere in theoretical future, so it would look like a normal fic). Just a little snapshot of certain character's POV. It's something I wanted to write for a while now, and, considering details the last chapter of "Visions of V" brought, it's finally the time!

Let's go! ...Or, at least, for a certain someone, crawl.

A dark, ragged figure stumbles through the streets of Fortuna.

Every step staggers. His body, covered with a dirty cloak, shakes with every pathetic movement.

Stepping hurts. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts.

He doesn’t remember much. His mind is overwhelmed by a whirlwind of fever, pain and distorted memories. He is hardly aware of his surroundings. The only thing he can clearly feel - the only call he can heed - is a beacon of bright blue aura somewhere on the edge of his consciousness.

Yamato.

He doesn't give much thought to why she is here or where is "here" is. It's irrelevant. He only knows that Yamato is nearby and that she belongs to him. She should return to him, and then-

A fit of cough interrupts his uneven train of thought and he halts on his path, waiting for the fit to pass. It doesn't. It wretches his body, and it seems like it's going to continue until there is no air anymore and no breath and no blood and everything of him crumbles into dirt.

But it isn't the time yet. With an unimaginable effort, almost ceasing to breathe entirely, he manages to stops the fit by sheer willpower alone, and, with the newly-acquired illusion of control over his shell of body, continues on his way.

He's dying. This knowledge was imprinted in his mind, cold and unshakable as the simplest of truths. The fragile, corrupted body that emerged from the darkness in which his soul was immersed will not last long. And ... he does not oppose it. Not really. For the infinite time, his world was made up of pain, darkness and nightmares; he doesn't object to leaving it all behind.

But.

Somewhere, in the deepest corner of his unraveled mind, an untainted piece remains. It's as blurry and fragmented as the rest of his memories, but instead of cold and dark, this corner is filled with sunlight and warmth. His father's laughter sounds like a thunder’s ramble there, and the touch of his mother's gentle hand is felt, gently removing the fallen strands from his forehead. The sun's rays falling on the veranda; the rustle of book pages fluttering in the wind; a melodic duet of piano and violin; an annoying, obnoxious loud voice that just can't let him read calmly - and constantly drags, drags, drags him to the another “Great adventure”, and the only way to push some thoughts into this stone head of his is to hammer them into it literally, and therefore they fight more often than they talk, and it becomes a new language for them, which gradually replaces the first one.

Everything else has long since disappeared into the darkness. But this last, stubborn piece remains. It changes over time - both of them change. Where there was a loose cotton T-shirt, there is now a heavy leather cloak of an abhorring scarlet color. A child's wooden sword is replaced by a heavy broadsword, and a pair of pistols, and a rocket launcher, and Heaven knows what kind of nonsense the idiot manages to use instead of a real weapon. The attacks they exchange lose their childlike innocence and become sharper, angrier, filled with murderous intent. A loud, obnoxious voice makes sarcastic jokes instead of an excited chatter. The idiotic joyful smile loses its sincerity, transforms into a mask, under the external carelessness of which years of suffering and pain are swirling.

But their language - the language of combat, the language of weapons - remains, and like a blue-red lightning sweeps through the darkness, linking the delusional fog of the present with the warm light of the past. This is the last pillar holding his world. A lifeline that keeps his decrepit body from falling apart. An instinct that engulfed his whole being, forcing him to take one staggering step after another.

He is not afraid of death. But he longs for one more time to plunge into this vortex of blows and parries, which feels like a coming home. He wants to taste the smug superiority of the victory and see the offended and stupid face of the idiot when he realizes that his older brother is still one step ahead of him. And he will say, as he has said many times before:

"I won, Dante."

-and then, perhaps, he will be able to feel the echo of that place filled with light and warmth.

Logically, he realizes that this is nonsense. Their fights have long crossed the line of a friendly skirmish. In their battle, when it takes place, there will be no place for brotherly bragging, and warmth, and a friendly handshake at the end; only death, cold and final. But the delirious consciousness does not care about clarity of real circumstances. His whole existence is reduced to a single impulse:

He... he wants to fight. He must fight.

But his body is barely able to take even a few steps at a time. He has to fight for every next breath, let alone the possibility of shedding someone else's blood.

Blood. There are two kinds of blood flowing in his veins: human and demonic. Father's blood and Mother's blood.

His Father's blood gave him power; it healed him from terrible wounds and allowed him to endure many months, years without food and water; even now supports his fragile body, not letting it fall apart.

Mother's blood, on the other hand... Was there a moment when it did him any good? No, from the very beginning, this blood has never helped him. Even now, it does not allow his body to regenerate, impeding the power of demonic blood with the weakness. It was unable to endure the darkness and allowed his mind to break, filled him with nightmares and doubts, weakened him, depriving him of the ability to think and perceive clearly.

This weak, useless, desecrating blood... He had to find a way to get rid of it. Cut it out of him, like a surgeon with a sharp scalpel excises a malignant tumor so that the whole body continues to live.

Cut off human from the demon. There is hardly a surgeon capable of performing such an operation. But fortunately, he knows a blade that is sharper than any scalpel.

He would get rid of his weak, useless part, and be able to regenerate and recover, and then he and Dante would fight one last time, and everything will become right-

The world around is bright to the point of pain in the eyes, to the point of blindness. But among this cruel brightness stands out an inviting, reassuringly cool blue aura.

Yamato.

She's very close now. He feels her near, hears her thin voice in the air. In front of him is a dark mass - building. The door - gate? - is open. He notices movement inside. A person. Alone. But their insignificant presence is immediately thrown aside, because she is here and she is the only thing that matters.

Yamato.

But something is wrong. She's here, but she is... not here? This thought makes him stop and his attention returns to the person inside.

Dark blue leather jacket. White hair. Blue eyes.

The man doesn't move. He looks at him and his face is distorted with shock and something else that he can't distinguish and doesn't care to.

"You're alive." - And his voice is overflowing with emotion, and almost breaks. But it doesn't matter, because the next second the man turns to him, and he sees the arm covered with blue scales and burning with a bright light, and at another time he would have stopped trying to figure out what kind of power it is, but now it doesn't matter, because he feels it, and rushes forward, grabs and pulls.

Yamato-

Except, he barely manages to touch the demonic arm when the man impossibly quickly wriggles out of his grip, and only a couple of broken scales remain in his fingers. And then, before he has time to reassess the situation and attack again, something crashes into him and throws him against the wall, scattering pieces of metal around. The blow deprives his frail body of breath completely; he loses awareness for a split second, and then he sees a mixture of white, and brown, and gold in front of him, and something sharp touches his neck, and he is too weak to resist. Then there is a shout, desperate and piercing his mind that struggles to stay on the surface.

"Stop!"

A man's voice, sharp and distinct, but clearly puzzled:

"Nero? This demon attacked you. We have to destroy it."

"He doesn’t... he’s not... Fuck, Credo! Just don't touch him!"

The blade at his neck hesitates but doesn’t not retract.

"Does it have something to do with...?"

"Yes! And now listen to me and step away from him!"

An appropriate warning, because he had already regained consciousness sufficiently and gathered enough strength to tear the blade’s owner apart. But before he can jump to his feet and attack, something inside his body cracks, and the air leaves his chest again, and another coughing fit twists him, and suddenly the ground is in front of his face, and his vision is covered with black dots, and he can't breathe-

And then someone turn him on his side. Something strokes his forehead, and this touch seems foreign and unreal and wrong, because it does not bring pain with it.

"Vergil? Hey, can you hear me?" A hand takes him by the shoulder and shakes him lightly. He looks up wearily and blinks, trying to clear his blurry vision.

White hair. Blue eyes. A young face incredibly reminiscent of his own, as it was preserved in his fragmentary memories.

Dante?..

No. Not Dante. The stranger who somehow knows his name, the one with blue coat and the demonic arm that continues to glow with a bright, inviting light.

"Yamato."

His own voice hurts his ears. It's cracked and dry and breaks, just like the rest of his body. And it's quiet, barely audible to himself.

But the odd stranger clearly hears him, because he looks at his arm and shakes his head with a sad laugh.

"Sorry, old man. Can't give her to you yet."

Yet. So he’s planning to return her later? But why, and why he has her? These questions make his head spin. They should not matter: all he needs is to reclaim what is his, and then finally get rid of his weakness. But his pathetic body doesn't even have the strength to get up. All he is capable of is lying on the ground, and looking at a strange (un)familiar stranger, and - hating and despising himself for the weakness - trying to make him understand.

"I need her."

Something shifts in the stranger's expression, and for a moment his face becomes open and almost helpless. But this moment goes away as quickly as it appears.

"Yeah, I know. And I will return her to you. Promise. Just... not now, ok? You know..." - a smirk slips into his voice - "It doesn't look like you'll even be able to lift her."

The tired mind freezes for a second from the insult, and somewhere in its corner the offended "insolent brat" echoes. Because who is this child to decide what he is capable of and what he is not? Even if he is right and the humiliation of this fact weigh down his body more than any corruption can.

"You know what? Why don't you put your feet up for a while? We will decide what to do when you're more lucid."

"Nero…"

"Shut up, Credo. I’ve already said that I’ll explain everything later."

Rest? Even the very thought of it sounds ridiculous. Just recently, he knew for sure that if he allowed himself to give in, he would never open his eyes again.

But... now, when he lies crushed by his own weakness on the garage floor, surrounded by the smells of engine oil and metal and paint, this feeling gradually fades away. Somehow he knows that he will wake up though he doesn’t know how to feel about it. He sees a patch of sunlight on the ground in front of him, and the cold that bound his chest slowly recedes, dissolving into warmth, and something again brushes his forehead in this strange, non-painful touch.

"Guess you’re really a piece of work, huh? This craquelure on your skin is worse than on your family portrait. Damn old man. Why is nothing ever easy with you?"

Yamato sings close to him, and her song is light and soothing, like a lullaby that Mother sang when she stroked his hair in the past, in that warm and cozy place. And he hears in her voice joy, and relief, and promise, and some secret that she can't wait to tell. But all this remains for later, because now he dissolves into her singing and lets its waves carry him away.

"Yeah, right. Yes to napping, no to killing and ripping arms off. Take a little time out, because I really need some time to strategize-"

For the first time in forever, Vergil falls asleep.

[lorei-writes]

Lesser Pain

Shingen x MC Angst

Request: Anonymous Prompt: Unrequited + “I’m awful, aren’t I?”

Ahhh, it took me forever to get to it, as I didn’t feel quite well enough to tackle angst in the past few weeks, but here it is!

Content Warnings: terminal illness (hinted at)

All vows come with a price, the punishment becoming effective once the words are disregarded, one side of the agreement going against the pre-established rules. Whether locked within the contents of a written contract, or held in power only by the spoken agreement, it does not matter, only the form of execution and reparations changing their shape. Oddly enough, however, to an extent, feelings are not much different, the stronger the bond, the graver the penalty – and yet, humans still do choose to chastise themselves, despite being completely aware of the consequences. 

All vows come with a price, the punishment becoming effective once the words are disregarded, one side of the agreement going against the pre-established rules. Whether locked within the contents of a written contract, or held in power only by the spoken agreement, it does not matter, only the form of execution and reparations changing their shape. Oddly enough, however, to an extent, feelings are not much different, the stronger the bond, the graver the penalty – and yet, humans still do choose to chastise themselves, despite being completely aware of the consequences.

Shingen loved her, much to his horror and dismay, the emotion having taken real form without any prior warnings, overwhelming him in the process. He loved her, and as if to make him a martyr, she returned the sentiment without any hesitation. Even if it was yet to be sealed with words, he could almost hear her voice in his thoughts, a single sentence he both dreaded and desired being whispered, just barely audible: In sickness and in health, my love. Shingen winced internally, the very possibility of her knowing of his state hurting more than any disease ever could. Had she heard his cough? Seen stray specks of blood, the few he might have missed? Caught him gasping for breath, or…? Perhaps, although he’d curse himself for ever daring to dream of such a state of affairs, such was the true affinity of souls. Perhaps she simply knew, as if being blind to his condition was not even an option to begin with.

The day came, the dream turning into his worst nightmare upon touching the reality. “And… It may be daring of me to say, and yet, I do believe I will always love you, in sickness and in health,” she admitted shyly, the sounds flying of her lips with a flutter of a pair of butterfly wings – and Shingen was certain he was consumed whole by them, the room ceasing to exist as it surrounded him, her smile, her blush, her everything and anything. Dazed, his throat dry from emotion, impatient to reply, to accept her, to tell her everything he held inside, to disprove any worries, to… And yet, Shingen shook his head, his vision clearing up as her gaze faltered. He could have sworn he saw storm rising behind her lashes. “I’m sorry, I am afraid I never thought of us in this way,” he forced out of himself, seemingly effortlessly so, lying having become his second nature long ago. His mind was raging, torn apart by what he confirmed to be his selfish desire – for he knew he’d be leaving her soon just regardless.

She averted her eyes, her lips quivering, his hand freezing before it even began to move. He could not touch her, could not comfort her, not if he wanted to save her from the greater pain. “Oh. Well, I misunderstood,” she laughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I’ve made things complicated. I.. I think I need a moment to think.” It was all it would take. She turned away, she left, the door closed behind her back.

Shingen sat down heavily, glancing past the veranda and into the gardens, Koro hurrying inside. On any other day, he’d try to convince the bear cub to spend the evening out in the nature, hoping to be able to release him back into the wilderness, or to perhaps have less things to accommodate for once the pet grows up… Then, however, Shingen did not mind, fuzzy nose pressing against his chest. “I’m awful, aren’t I, Koro?” he laughed bitterly, patting the animal’s head.

Tag list: @datenoriko, @nad-zeta, @tsubaki3192, @missjudge-me, @ikemencrossedmyth, @nuttytani, @thesirenwashere, @milas-imaginarium, @kisara-16, @yukas-clover, @alerialumina , @cheese-ception , @iamryxx, @cottonfluffballofdoom, @ozziegrl71, @rikumorimachisgirl, @bestbryn, @kink-rabbithole If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, do remember to specify fandoms (and characters, if you are interested only in some) :D If it ever happens that you wish to be removed from my taglist, for any reason, do let me know. I will not ask why, it’s all fine ^^

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 30 - Epilogue

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Notes: This is the last chapter... it’s over uwagh T_T

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell​ - here is the latest update

Epilogue

…

…

[“There is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream – a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought – a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

- The Mysterious Stranger, Mark Twain]

...

...

The doorbell rings and Jace opens the door to see his best friend standing on his doorstep.

“Chuck!” he exclaims happily. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come visit."

They share a hug and he invites her in for tea. He’s in the middle of packing so there are plenty of suitcases and clothes lying about though his pokemon seem more interested in playing around with the mess than assisting.

And the weather’s good so he opens the door to his veranda and props two chairs outside where they can enjoy their tea and some fresh air. It grants them an exquisite view of the river and the promenade and together, they sit and chat about old times and Jace’s new job.

“Jace,” she says, before she departs. “Thank you for everything. You were always there to listen and support me. Thank you for being my best friend.”

He pats her on the head, ruffling her hair. “Awwww…thanks, chuck; you’re my best friend too. You’re the bestest friend one could ask for,” he replies and they hug again, but her body feels abnormally cold.

...

Professor Magnolia and Sonia return home.

They’re tired and exhausted, having spent the remainder of the night at the police station where they informed the officers about the attack and filed a missing person’s report. To their utmost surprise, said missing person has mysteriously turned up home the following morning.

She’s sitting in the conservatory with a cup of tea in hand and little Polteageist is floating beside her though he looks downtrodden and holds his teapot lid in his hands, his head bowed low, and the professor and Sonia stand in shock, staring as she lowers her cup and smiles at them.

“Where on earth have you been?!” they cry.

They’re ecstatic to see her though Magnolia tells her off at the same time and the women share an embrace, sit down and have some breakfast.

“I went to find something,” she replies. “Everything’s under control. Did you tell Leon what happened?”

Sonia nods, anxious. “I had to, I was so worried. I called him last night and told him everything. He spent the whole night looking for you.”

In response, she finishes the rest of her tea and immediately rises from her seat. “Thanks, Sonia. I’ll go see him now. Professor, please excuse me.” Without a second to spare, she heads for the front door.

“You just got home!” Sonia exclaims, confused by her behaviour.

She pauses, turns round to the seated women and smiles.

“Professor Magnolia, Sonia. Thank you for everything,” she says, “I won’t forget your hospitality.”

…

In Postwick, Leon paces the kitchen with his phone. Charizard lingers in the doorway, holding his claws together whilst mum and Hop throw each other concerned glances.

He’s been looking for her all night after he received the frantic, distressing call from Sonia, who had informed him that something had attacked and chased her out of the house in the middle of the night, and it had also killed two of their pokemon.

They had cleaned the blood off the walls, stairs and floor and were hoping that she would come back in an hour or so, but she hadn’t.

He wished Sonia had told him earlier because he thought there was something wrong when he had tried to call earlier only to go through to voicemail.

Leon had searched all the places where he thought she might be but he had no success. If it wasn’t for Charizard, he probably wouldn’t have made it back home before dawn.

His phone rings, the screen indicating a call from Oleana.

“Hello?” he says, pressing the phone to his ear.

“We’re outside.”

“Alright. Thank you, Ms Oleana…”

Leon quietly hangs up and looks at his family.

“Leo…” Mum says worriedly, “…I think it’s best to leave the search to the police now. You’ve done all you can...I’m sure she’ll turn up. Hop and I can go look for her and we’ll keep an eye out on the news…. Please, you should get ready…Chairman Rose and Ms Oleana are waiting for you.”

He has a strict timetable today, back-to-back with events and battles which allowed no flexibility.

Leon has no other choice but to nod and he leaves the kitchen, heading to his room with Charizard bumbling after him with dark circles under his eyes. His pokemon is tired; they had spent the night flying around, searching but to no avail. He lifts a hand and pats Charizard on the neck.

“Thanks for your help,” he murmurs appreciatively and Charizard lets out an exhausted snort in response.

They barely got any sleep.

After Leon gets changed out of his casual wear and into his Champion gear, Charizard meets him outside where a black car is waiting.

The door automatically opens and inside, Oleana sits rigidly in the passenger seat with her long legs crossed over the other. She taps at her phone delicately, eyes glued to the screen. A tailored suit in a plastic cover is strewn carefully over her lap with a dry cleaner’s label on the hanger.

Leon slips inside and the door automatically closes behind him; the driver begins to reverse out of their driveway and mum and Hop stand at the front door, waving him off.

“We have a busy schedule ahead of us,” Oleana murmurs, without looking away from the flashing screen of her phone, “Chairman Rose has already arrived at the hotel for the fanmeet.”

“Right, the fanmeet,” Leon echoes, staring outside the window as the scenery of sleepy Postwick slowly disappears behind them; the driver steers the car towards the direction of the motorway.

Once they’ve arrived at the hotel, the chauffeur steers the car to one of the backdoors; despite the attempt to be discreet, some eager and diehard fans are waiting for Leon and once he gets out of the car, he hears wild cheering and a large crowd of women and men of all ages stand behind barriers, holding signs and waving them in the air; the majority of his fans are ordinary folk, though some of them are donned in copies of his snapback and wearing other merchandise he himself isn’t actually particularly familiar with.

Everyone’s chanting his name feverishly and he doesn’t want to disappoint despite his own personal circumstances; Leon raises his arm and waves to his adoring crowd with a wide grin on his face before he does his infamous pose. The group goes wild in response and once the theatrics are over, the security team are quick to escort him inside.

They lead him to his dressing room where the makeup artist and hair stylist are waiting for him.

He is made to sit down in front of the lit-up vanity mirror where he sees just how tired he actually is, but they hide it with makeup and he lets them work on him but the anxiety and unease bubbles within.

Where is she? Where could she be? Is she back yet?

Once they’ve finished prepping his face and combing his hair, he is finally allowed to sit up and leave his chair and the first thing he does is ask the artists for a moment alone.

They’re friendly and accommodating enough, so they oblige and exit, leaving him alone in the dressing room to be with his thoughts.

The show must go on but he is so sick with worry about her whereabouts that he runs to the door – was this really happening? Was he really going to tell Rose he cannot go through with it today? Was he really going to drop everything and leave?

However, none of those are necessary because he opens the door and there you are, standing with a smile on your face.

“Hi Leon.”

He’s utterly shocked to the core, eyes wide, and he looks at you head to toe before he glances around the corridor; how on earth did you get in? This is a VIP section and certainly for backstage crew, for staff members only. How did you manage to slink past?

None of those matter; Leon pulls you inside the room, closes the door before anyone can see and immediately throws his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

“Where’ve you been?” he manages to choke out, with his eyes squeezed shut and nose buried into your hair. He holds you so tightly, arms crushing your body to his as though fearing you would disappear if he let go. “Sonia told me what happened, and I went out to look for you.”

You let out a gentle sigh, wrapping your arms around him in return and resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“I know, she told me. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make everyone worry,” you whisper, closing your eyes as you relish the feel of being in his arms again and his warm chest pressed deeply against yours.

“I’m just glad you’re here and that you’re safe,” he replies, his voice muffled as he nuzzles your nape.

As he sighs, tightening his arms around your waist, you pull away slightly to place a hand over his cheek, making him look at you. Your eyes meet and as his eyes searches yours, you smile gently, brushing some hair from his face, running your fingertips over his stubble.

Leon leans in, your foreheads pressing together, noses rubbing affectionately and your lips curls into a fond smile.

“Leon?”

“Yes?”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not afraid anymore.”

There’s a brief silence and Leon slowly releases you. Holding you at arm’s length, he gazes at you intently, his honeyed eyes sweeping over your form before he presses his palm gently over the curve of your cheek.

“What happened?” he says quietly.

Your gaze softening, you lean into his hand and shake your head before you gently take his hand into your own then reach for his other. You hold his large hands tightly with your own and you both avert your glances to your entwined hands.

You smile once more before you look up, your gazes meeting.  

“I love you,” you murmur.

Lifting his hands to your lips, you press a kiss over his knuckles and close your eyes. “I love you so much, Leon.”

“I love you too," he stutters out, taken aback by your gesture. His cheeks flush brilliantly and you can hear his heart pounding loudly against his ribs.

He watches as you slowly reopens your eyes and let go albeit you do not mask your reluctance to do so, letting go of him with a shaky breath from the back of your throat. There’s a profound despair settling in your eyes as you look up at him.

“I need to go now,” you say quietly. “Goodbye.”

Something’s wrong, and Leon is overcome with the most dreadful sensation. A desire to hold you back, to stop you, overwhelms him and when you turn, he attempts to reach for you once more but you’re already leaving and Leon follows you outside his dressing room.

“Wait!” he yells, calling after you, “Come back! Where are you going?”

He’s quickly interjected by his makeup artist who has returned with some coffee in hands. “Leon? What are you doing outside? Please go back in, the fans cannot see you like this and the event’s about to start.”

The makeup artist cheerfully steers a conflicted Leon towards the direction of the room with a hand on his elbow, but he’s reluctant to go inside.

“Let’s get you all made up,” she says cheerfully but much to her vexation, Leon shakes his head, pulling himself away.

“I’m sorry!” he yells; although he’s wracked with confusion and guilt, Leon just knows the right thing to do at this moment is to follow you.

“Leon, come back!” she shouts as Leon races towards the direction you had disappeared off to. “Leon!”

...

Sonia tells Leon you haven’t come back so he crosses the house off his list. With Charizard, he goes through some of the places that might be meaningful to you; it could be the cemetery, or the hill where you had watched the sunrise together, it could be the mansion where you completed your first mission together, or it could be the area near the lake where you had camped together and ultimately had your first kiss.

Meanwhile, you stand in the middle of the cemetery, gazing at the large space around you that you can utilize.

Unsheathing your penknife, you grasp it firmly in your palm before you turn to Lucario and your pokemon.

“Do not let anyone enter,” you utter, and your pokemon nod in acknowledgement.

You watch them disperse then glance at the knife in your hand.

“Let us begin,” Deimos says, and you nod. “Do exactly as I say.”

You slide the blade over your hand as instructed, the blade tearing your skin apart so seamlessly and effortlessly…but you do not feel any pain; as fresh blood begins to bubble out from your sliced flesh, you put the blade down and dab a finger into the wound.

Lowering yourself over the ground, you begin to swipe your fingers over the concrete, drawing various symbols and runes.

Leon arrives at the cemetery, having guessed this would be where you are, and as he hops off Charizard’s back, he thanks his pokemon and races towards the locked gates where he sees you within, crouching over the ground near the mausoleum; you’re engrossed with some task that concerns writing in the dirt…and he sees that your hands are drenched with blood.

Leon yells your name but you do not respond, and as he tries to open the huge gates, they don’t budge as predicted. He could always scale the fence or fly over the barrier using Charizard but before he can even take one simple step, Gengar appears from out of nowhere, accompanied with a shiny Lucario holding a wooden staff.

He studies the pokemon carefully, in particular, the shiny Lucario. It’s as you mentioned - the Lucario is real. Gengar, with his never-ending grin, slowly shakes his head before gathering a massive swirl of energy in his hands.

It’s a Shadow Ball, and Gengar quickly sends it hurtling towards Leon’s direction whilst the Lucario spins his staff in a circle and aims the tip at Charizard, a bright light shooting out.

Charizard counters the attack by spewing forth a burst of flames and immediately zooms towards Leon to protect his friend, Gengar’s attack hitting him squarely in the belly.

“Charizard!” Leon yells, before he flings his glance to the pokemon. “What are you doing?”

“You cannot intervene,” Lucario replies, his voice loud and as clear as day.

Charizard snorts in disbelief at the talking pokemon and turns to gawp at your direction; you’re oblivious to the gathering outside, drawing on the ground without stopping.

To get the message across, Gengar flings a Dark Pulse at the flame pokemon and Leon grits his teeth as Charizard dodges.

“I need to go to her,” he yells, but Lucario shakes his head and twirls his staff in his paws, moving to an offensive stance. “Charizard, use flamethrower!”

Outside, you can hear the disturbance as the three-way pokemon battle begins between Gengar, Lucario and Charizard; you’re finished with your runes regardless and you rise to stand, swaying slightly from the blood loss, your body feeling weak.

Surrounded by bloody symbols, you move to the centre of the pentagram you’ve drawn, kneeling down.

“Ready?”

You nod, closing your eyes before you take a deep breath, attempting to drown out the distracting noises of the battle outside.

“Voco autem a tenebrarum gente omnia mala de fovea,” you murmur, holding your arms out, your palms facing upwards; the blood in your hands trickling down your fingertips and nails, droplets staining the ground. “Phobos, viditur.”

Your incantation is finished, you return to the edge of the circle and the sky above swiftly turns from its usual light blue hue to a deep, intense red.

Leon and the pokemon stop at once, throwing their gazes up. Lucario, with no more intention to battle due to the ritual being successfully completed, lowers his staff and Leon rushes up to the gates of the cemetery, grasping the cold bars as a strong wind begins to pick up, sending leaves and debris on the floor whirling high into the air.

He yells your name again whilst Charizard takes to the air and attempts to fly inside – he’s immediately repelled by an invisible force and his body slams backwards. Roaring in confusion, Charizard huffs as he gets back up before he unleashes a massive barrage of flames at the invisible barrier.

Leon watches as the symbols surrounding you begin glowing brightly before the ground splinters; you do not move or step backwards and Leon calls out to you, his pleas falling onto deaf ears.

His eyes widen as soon as numerous black tendrils begin to crawl out from the gaps of the cracked earth, some of them slinking over your feet and stretching towards your calves…the ground bursts apart and the huge creature buried within rises high and into the air with a loud roar, towering over your small form.

Your gaze lands on the creature that manifests, its dark limbs spiralling and contorting in the air before they settle to float around its body aimlessly. It is a creature of unholy origin, something that doesn’t belong here.

“Phobos,” you murmur.

It shifts and coils, the black mass curling into itself and out before a single red light forms in the middle of its body.

“Who has summoned me?”

Its words slither out in a series of scratches and hisses and once it spots you, it lowers itself to your level, peering at you with its glowing red eyes.

“You,” it says. “You have finally figured it out.”

A black tendril shoots out, wrapping itself around your neck tightly and lifting you off the ground as though you weighed nothing; your legs dangle as you’re raised up a few feet off the ground. You struggle, legs kicking as it snickers and sneers.

“You fool; I was going to devour you later, but since you seem so keen….”

Phobos’ voice grows fainter and fainter, its words slowing down as the darkness it is made out of begins to spread, blanketing your vision.

As you stare into the abyss, you attempt to detect any traces of movement that might explain its existence or the matter it’s composed of. Even at this moment, to the very end, you’re still trying to understand, to figure out how things work.

How it works.

But nothing remotely comes to mind.

You can liken it to a black hole but ultimately, you cannot fathom the origins or how it came to exist.

And now you’re going to be devoured.

Deimos’ voice returns: “What’s the happiest memory you can recall?”

“I don’t know.”

“Choose one.”

A series of events are presented to you, almost like a reel. How quaint. A flash of light flickers and there’s a scene depicting you, Sonia and Magnolia and the pokemon having tea in the conservatory. You smile; of course, you had so many lovely, tender memories with Sonia and the professor who treated you like one of their own.

However, it’s quick to change from the conservatory to show you and Jace sitting on the sofa in his apartment, watching and laughing as you watch TV. You had always cherished the time you had spent together no matter how simple it was.

It’s Ezra now. He’s barking orders, using his cane to correct your posture as he circles you. This was a few years ago when you had started training. You’re standing in front of a target – an awkward-looking boulder with a bullseye messily drawn on – and with a talisman in hand, you’re trying to toss it properly and in the best way possible.

“Again,” he barks when you fail, and you remember thinking how harsh and strict he was back then.

Graves is next, and the image of you training with Ezra switches to a scene consisting of you and Graves quietly seated down, watching the game at home on leather recliners. You never realized that although it was a bad time, mere days after your family’s disappearance, but you really appreciated him taking the time to keep you company.

Then the scene changes to the time he taught you several ways on how to hold your torch and another time when you played with Growlithe and Manectric... and finally, you see yourself and Graves eating at Bob’s Your Uncle.

Next, you see Leon. You're camping with him in the Wild Area, sitting close together in those small foldable chairs and looking at the night sky. It’s when you had your first kiss. He’s looking at you and holding your hand so tightly and lovingly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, and you smile for you remember this, how truly wonderful it all was.

“You have lived a meaningful life,” Deimos says.

“Thank you,” you reply.

”This is it,” it says.

”I know.”

A single tear drips down your cheek because you know what will happen next.

It averts you to look at Phobos, but you are no longer afraid.

Deimos abruptly bursts out of you in a spray of black and promptly pounces on the creature that was holding you, overwhelming it and tearing it apart, ripping it into shreds; you’re released due to the unprovoked attack and you collapse over the ground, unmoving.

Copious amounts of blood gush out from every orifice – your eyes, mouth, nose and ears.

Leon slams his fists against the invisible barrier over and over again.

Loud, unearthly shrieks can be heard as the two creatures maul and fight each other viciously, slashing at one another and ripping each other apart with brutal abandon until one emerges the victor; the one that had emerged from your body.

It stands proudly over its opponent which lies motionless and is beginning to fade away. Victorious, it faces the sky and emits an ear-splitting screech.

Leon winces from the sound, and his fist finally slips through.

The barrier is gone.

The red sky gradually clears, returning to the normal, tranquil blue.

He rushes inside, acting purely on adrenaline, his mind in utter chaotic shambles. He makes his way up to the centre of the graveyard where your body lies sprawled in a pool of blood and he slowly drops to his knees before you, easing you carefully off the ground and into his arms.

There’s so much blood; his fingers are completely soaked as he brushes some hair away from your bloodstained face. You’re unrecognizable.

Leon murmurs your name and gives you a little shake.

Your body wobbles from the action but there is no response.

The massive coil of black floats beside him; it is as dark as the night sky, hovering in the air with very limited shape or distinguished form, freed from the constraints of gravity. Its body is dotted with plenty of red lights which he recognizes to be eyes. They rotate and roll around this sea of darkness with carefree abandon, but they are all focused on him.

Leon can only stare; this cannot be a pokemon. This cannot be a creation of Arceus. Its design, its origins, are far too complex to have been engineered from earth.

It zips to his left, surrounding him and your body, peering at the Champion inquisitively before it looks at you. Then it dives upside down to gaze at Leon and returns to its proper upright position.

“You can see me.”

Leon nods.

The eyes crease with content.

“It is done,” it says, “Phobos is gone.”

…

White ceiling.

Bright lights.

Overlapping voices.

Squeaking wheels.

A sterile, noisy environment.

“We’re losing her!”

“Hurry up!”

You shake your head at all this unnecessary noise, sighing.

“Sissy!” exclaims a cheerful, happy voice behind you, and you turn round to see your little sister running up to you, holding a Teddiursa doll in one hand and Sunkern in the other whilst Cutiefly buzzes near her shoulder.

“Rosie! Cutie! Sunkern?!”

“Heehee, yes, we’re here!” Rosie says with a giggle as she jumps into your waiting arms.

You lift her up and into your arms with a grunt, Cutiefly flies over and nuzzles you gently, then he buries himself into Rosie’s hair and as you look at your sister, you exclaim, “Oh my gosh, look at you, you’re all grown up! I’ve missed you so much!”

She giggles and wraps her arm around your head, kicking her legs around happily. “I missed you too, sissy.”

Turning to the Pokemon, you murmur, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

”They say it’s not your fault,” Rosie remarks as Cutiefly does a few loops and Sunkern squeaks.

Over the white horizon, a familiar black blob is making its way over to you.

It stops a short distance away before contorting and shifting and expelling two bright lights which come floating out. They are safely deposited to the ground and the blob returns to its proper shape.

“As promised, here are your parents,” Deimos says.

“Thank you, Deimos,” you say as you adjust your hold on Rosie.

“You are welcome.”

Deimos retreats and dissolves into wispy black smoke, leaving behind a familiar couple who head towards your direction at their own leisurely pace.

When the couple finally arrives, stopping shortly in front of you, you gently let Rosie down, who rushes towards mum with a grin.

“Mum, sissy’s here!” she says, and mum picks her up next and into her arms.

Your mum looks at Rosie and smiles, before shifting her gaze to you.

Glancing at the smiling faces of your mother and father and sister, you squeeze your eyes shut and smack a hand over your mouth, before you promptly burst into heartfelt sobs and they quickly move to your side.

“Mum, dad…I missed you so much.”

“We know.”

Your mum gently places Rosie down so she can wrap her arms around you, and your father joins in the huddle.

You're shaking as they hold you, sobbing and sniffling uncontrollably

Rosie is squashed in the middle although she giggles and clings to your side, and mum and dad hold you tightly with their eyes closed whilst you bury yourself in their inexplicable warmth, trembling and weeping in their arms.

They really are here.

It’s as though none of this happened and they had never left your side.

“I had a bad dream,” you say as you finally stop, reduced to a few hiccups every now and then.

You gently pull away so you can look at them and you want to look at them for as long as you can, for it's been such a long time since you had seen them in the flesh and not from a picture.

“I had a horrible dream where you were all taken away from me and I was alone. And I wanted to save you. I wanted to save you all.”

“And you did,” says dad, smiling. “We’re finally free.”

A mournful sob escapes your lips as you close your eyes again, and your parents usher you into their embrace again.

”It’s okay, we’re here.”

You shake your head. “I’m scared that I’ll open my eyes and you’ll be gone again.”

”Don’t be scared, we really are here.”

As you snivel, nodding weakly, you slowly open your eyes; your mother and father stand proudly before you, wearing kind smiles on their faces.

“We’re so sorry we weren’t there for you.”

You shake your head.

”You’ve had to grow up without us. You went through so much.”

Again, you shake your head.

“But seeing you now, we’re so proud of you,” mum says as you emit another choked sob. “You’ve worked so hard and you've helped so many people...we're so proud of you, dear…and now the next chapter of your life’s about to begin.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Here, here, look down there and have a look yourself,” mum says with a chuckle, and she steps away and you follow her to what appears to be a ledge where she peers down. “Look at that handsome young man by your side; despite seeing all these horrendous, evil monstrosities, he is still there for you.”

As you stand by her side, she gestures for you to glance down which you do, where you see a despondent Leon sitting by your side, holding your hand. You’re in a hospital room, lying on a bed with an IV drip and hooked up to a heart monitor. This has happened before.

Dad nods in approval. “He has my blessing.”

“Mine too,” mum replies, and your parents chortle and giggle to each other and as you watch Leon, your heart plummets.

“Well, Rosie, the great beyond awaits. Let’s go,” dad says, and he picks up Rosie’s hand and mum takes hold of her other.

“I’m scared,” Rosie says, glancing between your parents.

“Don’t be. I heard there’s a lot of marshmallows and Teddiursas waiting for us.”

“Okay,” she says timidly, “will sissy be coming too?”

”No, darling.”

You blink in disbelief. “Wait, what? What are you talking about? Where are you going?” you say, making a move to follow them but they turn to you with smiles.

“It’s not your time yet, dear,” mum replies.

“What do you mean? I…I was killed. Deimos killed me.”

They shake their heads.

“Not your time,” says dad, “And I’m darn relieved it’s not. You have yet to live a promising life with Leon.”

”But...”

”Tell your Uncle Chris I said ‘hi’, and not to blame himself anymore.”

“…It’s really not my time yet?”

“Of course not, you still have plenty of more adventures with that young man,” says mum; she smiles too but quickly drops it, mirroring your sullen expression. "I'm sorry, dear. You finally got to see us but...."

"It's okay, mum. I'm just glad I got to see you all again. Even if it's...the very last time,” you reply.

Your family return to your side once more where you share one last embrace with your parents and Rosie. You close your eyes as you hold them tightly; you want to hold onto them for much longer but deep inside, you know you have to let go.

You let go of Rosie last, giving her an extra squeeze before she leaves your arms.

“Take care, dear. We love you.”

"Bye mum, bye dad. I love you too.”

“Bye sissy,” Rosie says, scooping her hand out of your father’s so she can wave at you.

"Bye Rosie," you reply, waving. “I love you.”

“Love you!!”

They're walking away now, and you're deathly afraid that the moment they turn their backs to you they'll vanish from your eyes, leaving nothing but that desolate, empty void that was rooted within you for years and years from the very moment they were forcibly taken away...but strangely enough, that feeling never comes.

Your mind is at ease, your heart content as they throw glances at you from over their shoulders, smiling and waving.

You watch as they slowly move further away and away from you until their voices are scattered and slowly, dissolve into faint whispers in the wind and finally, silence.

They are bathed in a comforting glow and you feel at ease and tranquil as they laugh and smile, disappearing into the warm and serene light.

…

Ezra sits on the bench outside with Absol by his side, his dull eyes unfocused and staring limply into nothingness until he hears footsteps approaching.

An individual plops down on the empty space and there is the sound of a newspaper being flipped open, the paper crinkling under their grip, followed by a very weary sigh.

“Hello, my old friend.”

“…Deimos.” Ezra grunts under his breath.

“Your world is rid of a great evil. You must be happy.”

The old man emits a disgruntled sigh under his breath. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“She will be fine.”

He harrumphs, before his lips spread into a smile. “No sacrifices necessary this time?”

The newspaper is carefully flipped to the next page and the voice hums nonchalantly, “Well, herself – which she was aware of...but I brought her back as you requested.”

”No side effects?”

”No.”

“Her family?”

“Safe and moving on.”

“Thanks,” Ezra replies, “...Thank you.”

Deimos brings out a cigarette and a lighter is switched on, the little device emitting a satisfying crackle. “Would you like one?”

“I can’t.”

“Cancer, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“I have never tried one before. I'm very intrigued."

Ezra listens as the cigarette is lit up, Deimos inhales and takes a deep drag then exhales heavily, blowing some crisp, smoke into the air. In a few seconds, he begins to cough and choke.

“This is vile,” he croaks out, and Ezra laughs.

He hasn’t laughed for a while now, not like this. It’s refreshing yet so strange.

“What’s so funny?” says a new voice, gruff and deep, and Ezra quirks a brow as another set of footsteps approach the bench.

“Hm, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Graves. You feeling better?”

”I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You?”

”I’m well.”

Graves glances at Deimos next. “And you are?”

“I'm an old friend.”

Graves responds with a grunt under his breath before he throws his glance to the cigarette. “You got a spare?”

“I do. Would you like one?” Deimos asks.

“Yeah, gimme.”

Graves plops himself on the remaining empty space of the bench beside Ezra once Deimos hands him a cigarette, and he takes a deep drag before exhaling into the atmosphere. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“Don’t make it a habit.” Ezra warns.

"I know my limits."

"How is she?"

"She's in a stable condition now. There was a lot of blood loss but she's pulling through.”

There’s a brief silence as the men sit quietly before they inwardly sigh with relief.

“Weather’s awfully good today, isn’t it?” Graves mutters, looking up at the sky.

“Yeah,” Ezra replies, “it sure is.”

..

..

Many months later.

Leon has a Pokemon battle against Gloria.

He gives it all his best, but he loses.

He is no longer Champion and he silently heads towards the dark corridor on his own, leaving behind the fanfare, the confetti and the cheering, which is no longer for him.

Up ahead, a young woman in a white labcoat leans against the wall, waiting. When he arrives, however, she pushes herself off to stand properly.

Leon grins and makes his way over, sliding his hands around her waist and bringing her close to him, enveloping her into his chest. She wraps her arms around him in response, holding onto him firmly, eyes squeezed shut.

For what feels like a long time, they stand comfortably in each other's warm embrace and when they part, albeit still in each other's arms, he lifts a hand and brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, away from her eyes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he murmurs.

She shakes her head, smiling. “Not at all.”

“Let’s go.”

He reaches for her and she reaches for him.

Hand in hand, they head for the exit together, towards a future unknown.

..

..

[jungcity]

from saint. | love, eternal.

7:08 AM. 20** 

What should I call you? But hi, diary. I am Saint. Saint Jung. Son of Jung Jaehyun and Y/N Jung. Today, I am seven years old. I asked Daddy Taeyong to buy me a really, really, really old diary. I don’t know where he found you, but I am glad to write on you. 

Mom is busy, so is Dad. They said seventh birthday is important and must be grandiose (I hope I spelled that right). But to be honest, I want it to be as simple as possible. Since I am not really comfortable with parties. Dad insists I should wear suit (it’s itchy), but Mom only laughed at him and told me I should wear something casual.

Mom has been cooking all night long for my birthday. Dad said we could order food in a restaurant, or we could contact a famous chef from Seoul to cook my birthday dishes. I don’t know if this is my birthday or my parents’. I hope that doesn’t sound disrespectful. 

Yesterday, my zipper’s bag snapped open because of its content. Gladly, I am already inside the limo when it happened. My classmates had thrown me an advanced birthday party at school. Judy, Heidi, Gale, and Anika gave me tons of chocolates. I hope I could eat it all but I have to share some for my family. Mom wouldn’t be pleased if I ever get toothache. 

That’s it for today, diary. 

P.S.: I heard Mom and Dad talking about my angel blood last night. I didn’t understand one bit of their conversation. But I hope I will, someday. 

—

8:26 PM, 20** 

Hi, diary. This is Saint Jung once again. We have written letters for our moms today. Miss Rona was pleased to read mine. She said the letter does not look like it came from a seven year old. Oh, I know, you’d like to read one of the excerpts of my letter right? 

Well, here it is: Mom, thank you for shining like a star in our lives. You are the light in the darkness. I love you. And Dad. 

That’s it. Was it too cheesy? I have to give the letter to Mom. I hope she does not cringe. 

—

3:11 PM, 20** 

This is Saint Jung. I already gave the letters to my Mom. She cried. So hard. I was afraid Dad would scold me when he returned from work. But he only sat with me on the veranda.

It’s odd. Because I was wearing my pajamas and Dad was wearing his suit. Someday, I’d like to be just like him.

He wasn’t mad. In fact, he was glad. And we’ve exchanged stories until I fell asleep. 

“Mom cried,” Saint said, lips quivering. Jaehyun’s heart thudded because of his son’s face. He couldn’t believe this bundle of happiness is his own flesh and blood. 

“Because she was so happy to read your letter,” He patted Saint on his head. 

“Really?” the little boy asked, wiping his eyes off tears. Whenever he looked at his son, it was always like seeing the little version of him.

“Come here, bud.” He smiled. Saint sniffed before sitting on his lap, still wiping his eyes. 

“Did I hurt Mom?” 

Jaehyun let out a chuckle, “Of course, not. You made her so happy today. I am so proud of you, Saint.” 

Then he kissed the little boy on the cheek. Saint giggled, flashing Jaehyun his two deep dimples. 

“Will you write Daddy a letter, too?” He asked, hugging his son tighter. 

“Of course, Daddy.” 

The both of them held each other under the stars. With his arms draped around Saint, and the little hands of his son hugging his torso. They stayed like that for an hour. Exchanging little stories about Jaehyun’s work and Saint’s school. 

“One day, I hope you’ll be happy as I am, Saint.” No response. Then Jaehyun heard soft snores from the little boy. He chuckled. Then he carried his son to his bed, tucked him in, and kissed his forehead. 

—

 9:14 PM. 20** 

Summer vacation has started. And we are here in Greece. All of us. Including my other daddies and Mama Yuqi, and Mama Chaelin. Mama Yuqi brought Zion with him. 

Zion, he is my cousin. Mama Yuqi and Daddy Lucas’ son. He told me we should go explore Greece on our own. That boy. If I inherited my Dad’s silent demeanor, Zion inherited Daddy Lucas’ extroverted side. No wonder Mama Yuqi’s always on edge with him. 

But of course, I said no to his offer. You might call me a bore. And I might be a bore. I just do not want to worry Mom. Dad would never like that. Mama Yuqi said Dad is the human embodiment of petrifying when he’s angry. 

 — 

 8:56 PM. 20** 

Dad and Mom fought. Over apples. I don’t know if I should laugh, or cry. It’s their first time fighting. And it’s… because of an apple that wasn’t precisely cut. 

I stumbled upon Mom and Dad hissing at the kitchen. 

“You’ve been doing this for so long, chérie.” Dad said, frustration was clear in his voice. 

“Why are you so sensitive today?” Mom asked. 

Dad sighed of frustration, “Because—” 

“Mom? Dad? Are you fighting?” 

It was obvious that they were. But Mom quickly hugged Dad and pretended to wipe his mouth. “You are so like a child when you eat!” She pinched Dad on his cheek, and I know that hurts. 

“We’re not, baby.” Dad said through his dimpled smile. 

I shrugged and walked straight to the refrigerator and grabbed some milk. “Dad, what is ‘fuck’?”

By my words, Mom gasps. Dad choked on his apple.

“Where did you learn that word?” Mom asked, kneeling in front of me. 

“Zion said it’s a magic word,” I told her, cupping the box of milk with my little hands. 

Mom turned to Dad, “Call Lucas.” She said. Then she looked at me, “That’s a bad word, honey.” 

I blinked, “Is it Mom? But Zion said it is a holy word. Because fuck creates babies.” 

“Call. Lucas. Now!” Mom repeated, there was a warning in her voice that made Dad dashed for the telephone. 

After that, Zion didn’t talk to me for weeks. Because according to him, I ‘betrayed’ our friendship. But then came his birthday, and my gift, he could not possibly say no to that. And he ended up forgiving me. 

 —

 1:37 AM, 20** 

Hi, this is Saint Jung. You’re probably wondering why I wrote this in such late time. I am now eighteen. Eighteen means parties, girls, and trouble. I just came back from one of Zion’s party. Uncle Lucas, (it’s odd to call him Daddy) and Mama Yuqi had gone to another country to celebrate their anniversary. Leaving their house to Zion’s hands. 

Zion. Alone. Mansion. What did I expect?

It was a mess. There was trouble. Zion made out with different girls tonight. 

But I didn’t. No. I did. I did make out with one girl from my class. Her name’s Veina. (Mom will prolly scold me for this)

We made out. And I think… this is so odd. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be writing this on here.

But her lips, damn, it was like velvet cake against mine. She smelled like lavender with a mix of strawberry. I could not name her scent exactly. She was unique. 

 — 

 3:42 AM, 20** 

I got into a car accident. Right. The good boy Saint in an accident? A nightmare. 

Mom was angry. Dad was furious. 

I feel like shit when Mom cried at the hospital, I hate seeing her cry. And I hate myself to be the one causing her tears. All of my uncles has paid me a visit, with a lot of scolding and pinching ears. Uncle Doyoung was beyond furious, even furious than Dad. With what happened, he postponed giving me a Ferrari. Right. He promised me that car, months ago. But Saint has been a bad boy. 

Zion was laughing and rolling on the floor when he visited me. The only thing that stopped him was the shout of Mama Yuqi. 

And yes. I’d hate to say this, since I don’t want to sound so self-centered and narcissistic, but yeah, a lot of girls had been on the hospital to visit me. Of course, rudeness isn’t in my vocabulary. And I’d feel an absolute jerk if I didn’t show kindness to the girls. Mom is a girl. A woman. Call me old-school, but I believe that when you hurt a girl, it would be like hurting your own mom. 

After all the commotion, Dad sat beside me. While Mom sleeps on the sofa. He sat beside me and I swear, my breath hitched when I saw tears in his eyes. Dad never cried. Or so I thought. 

“Be careful next time,” was his words, before leaning in to me and kissing my forehead. 

I know. Don’t judge me diary. I know it’s cheesy, and unmanly-like. But that’s my Dad. He’s loved every fiber of my being ever since I was born. 

 — 

 11:23 PM, 20** 

I got into a fight. And we had to move houses because of the trouble I’d been into. Worrying Mom is on the very least of my priority. But I guess I’ve been born to worry her. 

Some dickbag in school called Dad an alien. I have to be honest, Mom looked like she’s near her forties. Yet Dad looked like a twenty-three year old man. It doesn’t make sense to me, either. But hearing my Dad being called an alien has sparked an anger inside me I didn’t know existed. 

So I threw the punch. And I hit him until he’s a bloody mess on the school hallway’s floor. Bad temper, I must admit. 

And now we are here. Far from the city. In the middle of the forest. Near Uncle Doyoung’s mansion. Right.

Yes, Zion laughed at me until his chest hurts that he needed a nebulizer to help him breathe again. 

 — 

 4:09 AM. 20**

This is Saint Jung. Twenty-one at long last. I want you to know, diary, that I am writing this entry with bloodshot eyes and alcohol drowning my lungs.

It’s my first time to drink like this. 

But what would you do if your mother and father told you that you’re half-mortal, half-angel? And that you would live a long life. Without a mother. And that your mother would be reincarnated someday? But the take is that she won’t be able to remember you. 

It’s fucked up. It’s beyond me. 

But now I understand. I understand why I seem to have this divinity inside me. Why I could run faster than Zion even in his wolf form. Damn, I should’ve known that something is up with me too, when Zion admitted that he is half-wolf, half-human to me.

I should’ve asked Dad when I felt my system convulsing with power. Of strength. Of something I did not understand then. 

Dad. Wait, diary, I have to process this one. Give me a minute to breathe.

Dad is Lucifer. Right. The banished angel from heaven. The morningstar. The Prince of hell. He is a f u c k i n g angel. And I am a f u c k i n g nephilim. I would’ve ended up not believing it, if only Dad didn’t show his wings. Fuck. Sorry for the curses Mom. I had to.

I couldn’t process this in one night. But I need to. So Mom would never cry in front of my door again. Begging me to open it. 

 — 

 2:29 AM. 20** 

Mom and I, we’ve talked. She showed me a picture of a girl with black hair and blue eyes and told me she was Aurora. Mom said it was her one hundred years ago.

Why am I only knowing all about this now? I don’t have any idea. But I am glad they deemed me worthy for this mind-boggling information. 

Aurora was Mom’s face one hundred years ago. Aurora’s reincarnation was Mom today. 

Mom said she would die one day. Her face would disappear from this world, but her soul will not. She said, with tears in her eyes, that I should wait for her to be back. I should wait for her be reincarnated again. 

She’s my mother. She’s my everything. She’s the only flower in my garden. And Dad. Of course, I will wait for her even it takes her a thousand years to be back.

It hurts. I know that sounds weak. But it hurts. I am hurt. I don’t want to wake up one day without her. I think I’d rather die than be parted away from her. 

“Saint,” Dad called out from behind my door. I stood up and laid the controller on the bed. 

“A minute?” He asked. I nodded and guided him towards the veranda. It was frightening, to see Dad. He was so like me I always thought I’m looking at the mirror every time I stand face to face with him. He could pass as my doppelgänger. No joke. 

“How are you, Saint?” He looked at the horizon of gleaming lights far away from us. 

I propped my arms on the railings before answering, “Wrecked.” There’s no point in lying. Dad could smell a shit from miles away. 

“I was like that when I knew about your mother’s real identity,” He smiled a bitter one at me. “Pushed her away. Like a douchebag in a cliché novel, said your Mama Chaelin.” Then he shook his head while sighing, “But where did all those pushing led me? Back to her.” 

“That’s romantic, Dad. But forgive me if I am too hurt to comprehend.” I admitted. 

Dad put his arms around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. “We have to be strong for your Mom,”

Surprisingly, a hot feeling around my eyes blurred my vision. It took me a while to realized that I was crying. “I can’t lose Mom, Dad. I can’t.” was what I said between sobs.

Dad held me tighter and closer while I sob that night. 

Losing Mom would be my downfall. It is the bane of my existence. I would simply shut down once it happens. 

 — 

 That was Saint’s last entry. He never continued his diary ever again after knowing the truth.

[imthepointe]

When the Hourglass Runs Dry

well ok this was supposed to be for @ninjago-angst-week but considering i’m, like, a week late, i’ll just post it as a regular fic :)

angst week day 7- prompt: future

tw: death, suicide and suicidal themes / word count: 2057

Many years into the future, Pixal and Zane reflect on the past.

Death was always a fanatical topic at dinner tables, partly because each ninja tended to die rather frequently. It was always brought up in a joking manner (“I dunno, Cole’s died, like, four times at this point,” or “Zane, after Prime Empire, I don’t think you’ve died the most times now!”), and truthfully, it wasn’t really something the ninja had given much heavy consideration to in the past. They were always taught to avoid death- to cheat it- they were ninja; it was kind of their job to protect, which is something you can’t do if you’re dead. Plus, the point of existing is to stay alive for as long as you can, anyway.

It is really so unfortunate that death is not a fleeting matter, unlike youth. It is so, so sad that the inevitability of mortality affects everything. 

Occasionally, in a fit of existential panic, Lloyd would remember that he was going to outlive Nya, Jay, Kai, and Cole by at least a few hundred years. But for now, while they were still teenagers, that wasn’t something for him to worry about. Zane and Pixal had told him it wasn’t something for him to worry about yet.

Then teenage years turned into the twenties, then twenties into thirties, and so forth- such is life. 

Lloyd, Pixal, and Zane had to watch their friends grow old, to watch them age; to Lloyd, there was nothing more painful than the thought that they were all going to die and he still had a good portion of his life that he would have to live without them. But, hey- they had all made it into their seventies, which if you asked Lloyd when he was a teenager how long they would live to be, he would have set the bar a little lower.

But then Cole was diagnosed with the same illness that killed his mother when she was barely in her thirties, and the beloved team ninja was forced back into the reality that they were all going to die sooner or later, and it was probably going to be sooner.

“We made bets on who was going to die first, do you remember?” Kai had said after the former black ninja informed them of his diagnosis. Even though his tone was humorous, his wrinkles furrowed and his eyes drooped.

“Yeah, I think I said it would be you, dumbass,” Cole laughed, which promptly turned into a rattling cough.

“Ka-arma,” Jay smirked. Nya smacked him across the face.

And then Cole was dead within two weeks. 

Then Kai, then Jay, then Nya, all only a few years later.

“They lived long lives, Lloyd,” Zane had mentioned one day. “I am so glad we were a part of them. We will see them again in due time.”

Lloyd prayed he was right.

***

Lloyd had made a comfortable living with Pixal and Zane. The three had moved out of Ninjago City, to a quiet and comfortable cottage near Ignacia, where they mostly kept to themselves. 

They each tried at least once a month to all visit their friend’s graves, which was normally easier said than done. When they did go, they were alone- Lloyd liked to spend personal time with each of his friends, and he supposed Zane and Pixal had the same logic. 

Years passed, and life droned on quietly. There were no new threats to the safety of the city, no new evils or big bads to defeat. 

Lloyd began to age. Slowly, surely, but he was aging, and grew to look more and more like his father with each new wrinkle or sign of age, which was often the butt of Zane’s jokes.

Three hundred years later, and the three of them had shifted into a routine with a strong sense of normalcy. It was nice. 

It was very nice, actually, Lloyd had decided. He no longer had to worry about people in his life leaving him.

But at four hundred years, he began to worry about his leaving of Zane and Pixal. Wu has lived to be nearly five hundred and thirty years old, but as Lloyd only had a fraction of the godlike blood that Wu had, he feared he would not last much longer.

Not only that, but Lloyd found himself getting much more tired and fatigued considerably more frequently.

The three always started out their mornings on the veranda of their cottage, talking and chatting about whatever subject was most relevant to their quaint lives. 

“I’m very old now,” Lloyd had said one day. 

“We all are, Lloyd,” Zane pointed out. Pixal lightly squeezed Zane’s hand as if to say really?

“When I die, what will happen to you all?”

Pixal whipped her head around to face the former green ninja and stared him in the eyes. “Do not talk like that, Lloyd,” she scolded. “Don’t worry about us. Don’t say that.”

That was the end of the matter, until Lloyd’s health only continued to decline. 

By four hundred and twenty-three years old, Lloyd Montgomery Garmadon was practically bedridden, his extended longevity catching up to him.

He knew he didn’t have much longer on this earth.

Zane and Pixal has been taking care of him to the best of their ability, but death is unavoidable, even for the green ninja. 

“I’m sorry,” Lloyd had managed one night, his voice raspy and weak.

“For what, Lloyd?” Zane gently raised the his torso and propped him up with a pillow.

“For leaving you and Pixal.”

“Do not be sorry, Lloyd,” Zane replied with a solemn tone. “Just say hello to our old friends, would you?” 

A small tear rolled down Zane’s cheek and he held Lloyd’s hands. The nindroid was mostly sure the other boy had nodded.

Lloyd died peacefully in his sleep two nights later.

***

Zane and Pixal sat on the porch, just as they did every morning, admiring the birch trees and various wildlife, occasionally pointing at a deer or falcon or fox that happened to cross their vision.

It had been a mere three months since the green ninja’s death, with only the two nindroids left to keep each other company. But this morning, this morning was different- Zane was ‘in a funk,’ as Lloyd would have said, and the recollection of Lloyd’s funny vocabulary made Pixal laugh.

“What is funny, Pixal?”

“You seem weird today, that is all,” Pixal met his eyes, “as Lloyd would have said, ‘you are in a funk.’ Are you alright?”

“I’m splendid. In fact, I was thinking of fixing a cake in a minute. How does chocolate sound?”

“That sounds nice, Zane.”

Now Pixal knew something was definitely wrong- Zane only made cakes when something was bothering him.

But even as she watched Zane move inside to the kitchen and put on an apron, she began to think about the question that was heavy-set in her mind, as well.

How much longer of this?

They were nindroids. They could not die from natural causes- how many more years would she live to see?

Pixal, she mentally scolded herself, stop thinking like that. You’re being silly.

You’re being silly.

She stood from the rocking chair, collected herself, and went inside to help Zane- Pixal too found baking rather enjoyable. 

Zane asked her to prepare some icing, so she fiddled with the sugar, cocoa, and milk, until she had a consistency presentable enough to self-proclaimed Master Chef Zane. 

...which, naturally, there was an issue with.

“See, Pixal, you must add more powdered sugar than milk, that way it stays fluffy,” he dipped his finger into the mixture, “but it still tastes good.” With a swift motion, he scooped some more icing with his finger and smeared it on the girl’s nose. 

“Zane!”

Through her frustration, she could not help but laugh, and thus a food fight broke out between them.

By the time they were through, an even layer of flour coated the kitchen counters and floor, cocoa stained on their garments, and icing was in every place imaginable. 

Zane stood and helped Pixal to her feet and almost stood in awe of the impressive mess they had made. 

Pixal hugged Zane, mostly in an effort to get his clothes significantly more adulterated than they already were. “I would have maybe expected this from Lloyd, not from you.”

The master of ice closed his eyes. “We should probably clean up.” 

“Right,” Pixal shoved him playfully as she made her way to the cleaning supplies underneath the sink. She handed Zane a broom and kept a cloth for herself. 

She picked up a photo frame that had been completely caked in flour and began to wipe it off. Underneath was a framed picture of her friends, some four hundred years ago, after some valiant battle.

She exhaled loud enough for Zane to notice. 

“When will we see them again, Zane?”

“I- I am unsure,” he sighed, “I have been wondering the same.” He swept the flour into a neat little pile in the middle of the floor.

“You have?”

The nindroid looked lost in thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said decisively. “That is why I have been acting weird lately, I suppose.”

“Even though it’s been hundreds of years since their passing, I still miss them so, so much. Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, Pixal, I hope not.”

The rest of the kitchen was cleaned in a thoughtful silence. 

The cake was finished and set on the small dining table, with two rocking chairs on one half of the table and a third chair cast off to the side. 

Zane sat down in a chair, and pulled the other out for Pixal to sit beside him. He cut the cake, his hands moving more clumsily than before- Pixal thought he seemed lost in his mind, and she would know- she’s been stuck there before. He carefully set a piece of cake on each plate.

 “Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear; seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.”

 Pixal couldn’t help but laugh at Zane’s sudden use of Julius Caesar. “That is Shakespeare. Why quote it now?”

“Because it does not apply to us. We will not meet a necessary end.”

She tuned back down to her cake. “That is true.”

She poked at the chocolate for a moment before setting her fork back down. “What are you suggesting? I assume this has something to do with the conversation earlier.”

“I’m just saying I do not think we will ever see Cole, Kai, Nya, Lloyd, or Jay ever again by any natural means.”

 Pixal considered his words for a moment before grabbing Zane’s hand. “I have an idea,” she said cautiously- it was risky, unsettling, and terrifying- “but only if you are totally sure about it.”

***

2 weeks since the cake baking incident and Zane and Pixal had finished eating all of the cake. Zane has immediately agreed to Pixal’s idea- he had been toying with the same idea for some time, too, he admitted.

[MANUAL SHUTDOWN DISABLED. OVERRIDE?]

Zane’s fingers wrapped around Pixal’s. The rocking chairs swept back and forth, a gentle sway, just as they had every morning, like this was some part of their routine.

Pixal looked to Zane, her voice barely above a whisper: “Are you sure you want to do this, Zane?”

The nindroid smiled softly. “They are waiting for us, Pixal,” he continued holding her hand, “I can’t wait to see them again.”

Pixal followed Zane’s gaze to the same framed photo sitting across from their chairs.

“I cannot wait either, Zane.” 

There was a silence, but not the dreadful kind- the kind of silence that is warm, welcoming, and comfortable. 

“I love you, Pixal.”

He gripped her hand tighter.

“I love you, Zane. So much.”

[OVERRIDE.]

***

Soft light cascaded through trees with golden leaves, and a small breeze gently rustled the leaves. The place seemed familiar, in a very distant way, but the two nindroids could not recall anytime they would have visited such a place with this ethereal beauty.

“You two are late,” a familiar voice sounded behind them.

The two turned around, hands still linked, to face their friends. Cole stood in the middle, a tender smile spreading across his face.

“We are here now, friends.”

[mad-riff]

Bud & Lou

Tittle : Bud & Lou

Fandom : Batman Telltale

Pairing : John Doe / Bruce Wayne 

NdA :  I know that inktober is mainly for drawings but I wanted to participate and, having no particular talent for drawing... Bud & Lou are the names of the hyena Harley has in some comics

“Hello, buddies! What’s up?” asked John with enthusiasm. He gently tapped the glass of the aquarium installed in the living room of the manor.

John had noticed it almost immediately when he had arrived here and visited the place. The fish were numerous and swimmed harmoniously in their large space arranged and maintained. By observing them more closely, he had found the activity very soothing and attached himself to them. Especially one of them, actually. Alfred had told him it was a guppy ; its scales were green and strewed with some yellow reflections. Did John identify with it at all ? Nah… Well, maybe a little. Just a little. This tiny fish, swimming in its bowl, following the group, distinguishing itself by its bright colour, and sometimes hid in a small chest in the decor, had conquered him. John sometimes spent hours watching it.

Bruce didn’t care much about it, he thought fish were a good therapy. When John started thinking too much, they would sit together in front of the aquarium. It happened often in the evening ; they turned off the lights and the blue glow of the aquarium projected on the walls a peaceful and serene atmosphere. Bruce had simply not thought of a small detail by letting John become so attached to such fragile animals…

“Hey, where’re you, Bud, best buddy? … Well, best after Bruce, of course! But don’t worry, you’re high on the list, number two, actually!” John giggled along the aquarium in search of the guppy. “Here you are!” he exclaimed before frowning and leaning toward the glass. “Oh no… No, no, no, no! Hang on!” 

At the height of the panic, he tiptoed and plunged his arm into the aquarium without raising the sleeve of his jacket.He grabbed Bud between his fingers, trying to be as delicate as possible. The little fish was inert. It slipped in his hand, because of its scales, but did not make any movement. 

“Breathe, Bud! It’s gonna be okay.” 

John glanced around him in panic. What was he supposed to do? He closed his other hand on the fish without tightening it and rushed into the kitchen. He placed the little one in a bowl of water and opened the laptop that was lying on the work surface. 

He opened the search engine and started typing different keywords. My fish don’t move, inert fish, dead fish ? All the answers afflicted him and brought no solution. He approached the bowl. Bud was not moving.

“Hi, John.”

“Bruce!” exclaimed John, turning back at the man who had just entered the kitchen. In the face of his panic, Bruce stepped back but looked at him with concern.

“John, what is it?”

“It’s Bud! He’s not moving! I don’t know what to do and this STUPID Internet is USELESS!! You think he’s dead? Please tell me he’s not dead! He can’t be dead, right?”

Bruce posa une main sur l’épaule de John et l’agrippa fermement.

“Calm down.” He tried to say with a firm voice.

“To calm down?? Bud may be DEAD!”

Bruce took a slight breath and approached the bowl on the table.The fish was indeed inert. Bruce made a grimace and glanced at John, whose expression became horrified. He took the bowl in his hands.

“Fine. Since no one wants to help me, I’m going to find out how…”

“John, it is dead. I’m sorry. Fish are fragile creatures, it happens often…”

John looked down on the fish and a nervous laugh escaped him. He gently rested the bowl on the table and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh. Ok. Whatever.”

He came out of the kitchen and Bruce looked at him before he sighed. He passed a hand through his hair and looked down at the fish. He should have been more careful; John may not have been stable enough to attach himself to pets. He went out of the kitchen and went to the garden where he knew John liked to spend time. He did indeed find him at the edge of a small pool, his eyes fixed on the water lilies. He clenched his fists, visibly upset. Bruce put a gentle hand on his back. 

“Hey. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. Told you : whatever.”

“Look, I… I know you liked it.”

“Yes, of course. But that’s not really the problem. I.... It happened so suddenly. We couldn’t.... We couldn’t do anything. And—” he laughed. “Well, everything we have is fragile, huh? Our existence is fragile. And ... We are. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be dead, too.” 

Bruce remained silent for a long time, his hand still on John’s back. He had already thought about it, of course. Now that he had put Batman away, however, the risks were lower.

“Living carries a risk, yes. That doesn’t mean you have to stop breathing and live. Loving carries a risk, too. And yet here we are.”

John raised his head before snuggled up against Bruce. 

“I loved it very much. It was green. And, you know, green is my color.”

“I know, yeah.” The silence stretched between them, more soothing. Bruce held John in his arms. His fingers stroked his back. “You want to bury him?” He finally asked. John nodded. 

They buried the fish in the garden. John made a little speech, then they spoke no more about it. However John stopped looking at the aquarium. One night, Bruce came back with a surprise. He found John on the veranda and handed him a small bag containing a green fish, a guppy. John blinked several times before taking the bag in his hands.

“Bruce... but... it’ll die too.”

“It won’t stop you from loving it and taking care of it. Come on! It’s green. Green is your color.” 

John gave him a huge smile before he laid a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Thanks Bruce!” 

“So, what are you gonna call it?” 

“Hum… Lou!”

[queenofeden]

my contributions to @lovelikeyoursfest for the first prompt, “the start of something new”. these are technically both excerpts from longer in-progress fics featuring my apprentice, laurel, but they happened to fit the theme so well i thought at least part of them deserved to see the light of day. consider this a teaser for my future works if u find urself interested~

chronologically, nadia comes first, julian can be found under the cut

Nadia & Laurel

January, 5 years ago

The whole of Vesuvia thrums with the energy of the masquerade, like one large body set to motion at last after a long winter. The lights, the reeling crowds, they pulse and pump as they make their way along the arterial canals, upwards, always upwards, to the highest reach of the city -- to the beating heart of it all -- the palace. Laurel catches Asra’s hand in her own, dragging him along, or he her, or perhaps they simply get swept away together by the throng, laughter bubbling on her lips for what feels like the first time in months.

Try as one might, it is easy to get separated once the party truly takes hold of the palace. The hoi polloi of Vesuvia clamor towards the offered food and drink, while the elite swan about and entertain themselves with chatter and gossip. It is not with intent that she loses track of Asra somewhere past the room full of enchanted, talking statuary. One moment he is there, and the next he is not, the space he once occupied at her side now taken up by three bustling women in matching silver gowns and masks done up like swans, all vying for entry into the room. It matters little to Laurel. Asra will find her eventually, when he cares to be found himself. He always does, somehow, whether she cares for him to or not.

There is little intent to where she wanders, keen to let herself be drawn wherever the whims of the party may take her. She knows there is something surrounding her -- a pall of grief, though it seems too melodramatic a sentiment. It is a palpable, invisible thing about her nonetheless. People walk around her, unsure of why, rowdy drunkards don't dare to jostle or bump her. Her own personal never-mind-me spell, cast without intent simply by virtue of existing. Their disinterest rankles, but she shoves the ill-feeling down deep. It's not them she's here for, anyway. A tall glass of fizzing wine makes its way into her hand, plucked deftly from a passing servant’s platter, and she carries it along in her gloved hand, sipping occasionally, leaving a smear of bright red along the rim of the glass from her painted lips.

The heavy press of the party lessens as she finds herself on the veranda, the roar in her ears fading, carried away on the cool evening breeze. It chills her overheated skin, bare beneath only a few thin layers of chiffon and satin, and she relishes the prickle of gooseflesh it leaves in its wake like a kiss. She takes her glass and drains the last of the golden wine too quickly, and trades it for another -- something pink and dangerously sugared this time. This too she finishes in a few deep gulps, setting the empty glass back onto the bemused servant's tray and taking another before they have time to even move away. Alone, save for the alcohol that burns in her too empty stomach, she wanders the less crowded gardens, full of others who have little interest in being found. She hums along to a familiar tune as she passes through a faint cloud of sound, drifting over the tops of the immaculately trimmed hedge walls.

She feels sweet with wine and song, the lightest she has felt all year. Here, the sounds and smells, the anonymous, whirling multitude of bodies-- they keep out what Laurel would rather forget. Here there is no responsibility, no pitying glances from familiar patrons, none of Asra's well-intentioned saccharine condolences. No one knows her here, not behind the gilt painted mask. She is hardly herself, if she wants not to be, and oh how desperately she craves the chance to not be herself, if only for just a little while. That is the true magic of the Count’s masquerade, something far more powerful than what she could throw together in a mortar at home and call such. She is only the swell of the music. It lifts her slippered feet, carrying her in some semblance of dance as she walks the cobbled path, eyes closed in what would feel almost like joy, if she could remember the feeling.

There is no one on the path with her, no one to see her dizzy, stumbling attempt at a coranto, so when her body meets something else -- someone else, the slide of a silk gown against her bare arms -- her eyes snap open, and she stumbles backward with an embarrassed curse.

"Shit! Sorry, so sorry."

Laurel lifts her gaze, expecting to see the heated glare of whomever she'd been unlucky enough to plow into. What she does not expect is the countess -- The Countess -- blinking back at her with equal amounts of surprise. 

With a choked sort of squeak, Laurel drops immediately into her best, lowest curtsy, knees creaking and head bowed so low her mask threatens to slip straight off her nose.

"O-oh, My Lady Countess, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

Her heart hammers in her chest. The Countess! Of all people to drunkenly stumble into! The count would likely have her head for daring lay a hand, however accidental, on his beloved wife. Or perhaps the countess herself would ask him to cut off her wicked, clumsy feet instead as a mercy. 

Less likely was the countess's voice -- rich and deep and rolling over her like sweet molasses -- saying softly, "It’s quite alright. Please stand."

Laurel blinks, straightening her spine in fractions, giving ample time should the countess deign to change her mind and command her to sprawl, prostrate in the dirt, at her feet instead. She doesn't. Eventually, Laurel is able to lift her chin and look the -- only slightly -- taller woman in the eye for the first time.

She had known the countess was beautiful, much in the way that people knew the sky was blue, the grass grew green, and the south was a frigid waste, an immutable fact. People spoke often of her features in the market, lauding the beauty of her violet hair, her striking, crimson eyes, her high, royal brow. More so, she knew it to be true by the simple truth that vain Count Lucio would never settle for less. What few memories she has -- a parade, swirling streamers in the air; the profile of a distant woman, nestled like an idol on a float of white roses and purple hyacinth -- are clouded by time and distance. She had pieced her together that first year, vague impressions and gossip and distant glances in the town square where she deigned to appear. Vesuvia's very own princess had crossed her mind very little after that.

This close, close enough to smell her sweet jasmine of her perfume, to count the faint few freckles on her bare shoulders, Countess Nadia is more lovely than Laurel could have ever imagined.

Laurel's gaping leaves her uncharacteristically silent, but the countess seems to recover first. Likely she's used to filling stunned silence.

"How is that you found me here?" she asks, a faint tinge of pink across her nose, though whether it is from embarrassment or anger Laurel cannot gauge.

Laurel glances around, taking in the tall topiaries that surround them. “I-- where is here, exactly?”

Julian & Laurel

Late September, 5 years ago

1.

The first time she arrives at his clinic, Julian doesn’t yet know that he should turn the woman he would come to know as Laurel Lobban away. She comes to his clinic like most regular patients, in a hurried flurry of skirts, eyes bright — not red, thankfully, the sclera a clear, healthy white with irises of sky blue — sharp with an edge of desperation. Perhaps a family member was sick, a spouse, or sister. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had dragged him from his clinic in the misty, early hours of pre-dawn with their pleas.

He lets the woman in — his first mistake — and leads her to the small table in the corner where he offers her a perfunctory cup of poorly brewed coffee or tea, though she doesn’t look to be in any particular need of it. There is a tension to her body, ratcheted tight as a halyard line. If plucked she might sing, high and sweet like the E string of his vielle, but that could also be his third cup of coffee before sunrise talking. From over her nose and mouth, she pulls down her paisley patterned scarf to reveal full but drawn lips, chewed raw and near bleeding. She stretches and bunches the fabric in her hands, twisting it into knots.

“You’re the doctor, then, yes?” she asks, squinting up at him. “Doctor Devorak? The one everyone talks about?”

A grin, black and bitter as the lingering taste of coffee in his throat, spreads his lips thin at that. “Well, now, that depends. What do the people say?”

The woman watches him, eyes canny as a hawk, flitting between his features, sizing him up. “They say you help people, that you don’t overcharge like the hacks in the heart district do.” She sniffs with derision then, nose crinkling up, though whether at the thought of his colleagues uptown or the smell of something in the room, he cannot tell. Astringent probably, he had just cleaned his tools for the day. Often he forgets how strong the smell can be to those far less nose blind than he. She coughs delicately, like she’s trying to suppress a gag. “They say you’re a good man.”

Ah, well, hm. Julian can’t say he’s heard that one before. ‘Foul, beaked harbinger of misery’ yes, ‘heartless bastard’ sure, ‘utter fool’ sometimes, but good man? Compliments were not something many of his patients or their families had on their minds once he was around. Her words settle like a heavy stone in his near empty stomach. This close, with her looking at him just so, her eyes are less so the color of summer. Darker, near navy, paling into a grey to match his own with a flash of almost-barely-there yellow at the center, like a brewing sky at sea -- one set to storm and tear him to pieces any moment, the look of them setting his sailor’s intuition on edge. He ignores them, words and eyes both. 

“And are you in need of my help then?” he asks, stepping away to rifle through his curio cabinet, stuffed to bursting with jars of tinctures and salves. “You don’t look beplagued, perhaps some other malady? Allergies? A fungus?”

A loud, nearly surprised, scoff. “I don’t have a fungus,” she asserts with umbrage.

He feels his cheeks heat, grateful that his head is buried in the cabinet and not on view of her no doubt scrutinizing gaze. “Of course not, of course not, so sorry. I didn’t intend any offense miss-- ah, I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Laurel, Laurel Lobban.”

She’s right behind him again. He jumps, knocking the shelves with a wayward elbow as he turns. Her hand is held out to shake, and he takes it with mild surprise. Her grip is firm, no nonsense, but she squeezes a little too hard just before she lets go in a way that lets him know how intentional, how controlled those reads he took of her were. He would see nothing of her that she didn’t want him to, that much he could tell. 

“Laurel Lobban,” he repeats, rolling the matching consonants on his tongue. “Laurel, laurus nobilis, lauraceae, like the plant,” he rambles, finishing rather dumbly. She snorts.

“Yes... like the plant. Are you all right, doctor?”

Was he all right? Maybe that third coffee had been a bad idea. “Fine, fine. Though I would be more fine if I knew what I could help you with, Miss Lobban. Hard to diagnose if I don’t know what ails you.”

“I don’t — ” she sighs, frustration warring across her features. “I’m not sick. I’m not here for some tincture. I — I want to work with you.”

He laughs. It was the wrong thing to do, by the telling darkening of her expression, the subtle shift in her jaw as she clearly clenches her teeth. He can’t help it though. It trails off, nervously, his stance shifting from one leg to the other. Whatever you do next, proceed with caution, Ilya.

“Work? Work here?” Nailed it.

“Do you work elsewhere?”

“I — no. This is it,” he replies, gesturing weakly at the single, cramped room, with it’s tiny storage closet and its rickety loft where he keeps his private office which is little more than a second closet. Why would anyone want to work here? With him?

“Then yes, here. With you.”

That he didn’t like.

“And do you ah — do you have any medical expertise then?”

She frowns. There’s a knot of lines between her brows that would be cute, almost endearing, in any other situation than this. Her cheeks flush pink. “Well, no. I mean I’ve read a few books, but… I had hoped you would take me on as an apprentice.”

His mouth falls open, spluttering. He weaves around her so that he’s no longer pinned, like a bug to a board, between her expectant gaze and the cabinet. “Unfortunately Miss Lobban, I’m not equipped to take on apprentices at this time. You see, I’m — well, the fact of the matter is — ”

Stop it. Stop talking.

“There are plenty of other doctors who would take you on, I’m certain.” Who? It doesn’t matter. Doctors who aren’t me. Why would anyone want to learn from a failure who couldn’t even cure his patients, anyway? What could he possibly have to offer an apprentice?

“I don’t want those doctors. They say you’re the best in the city, I want to work with the best.”

The best. Julian bites back another fit of laughter. Grinning — baring his teeth really — instead. “Now now, flattery won’t change my mind.”

She’s followed him again, standing as close behind him as she dares while he flits about the room, restless with nervous energy.

“If I was flattering you, doctor, you would know.”

Had he been this insistent when he’d come to Nazali the first time? Almost certainly, if the stories he’d heard oft repeated are true. How had they put up with him, and not thrown him out on his ear? The simple answer is that they are a much better doctor, a better person, than he. Nazali had discovered the plague, had made the greatest strides in its classification, its treatment, yet. And what had he done with their teachings? Squandered it all. Sat by and watched as patient after patient came to him for help, had plied them with false comforts, and in the end had done nothing, save for ease them into their inevitable deaths. He should tell her that. Should count out his many failures for her like he does for himself every night in place of sheep. Certainly that would frighten her away.

What he says instead is this: “Have you ever watched someone die?”

Her mouth goes slack, obviously taken aback by his question. For a moment he sees the fear flash across her eyes, but quick as it came it's replaced by something else. Something harder. She licks her lips and smiles, lips wobbling at the edges. "Do you ask all the girls that, or am I just special?"

He keeps his gaze hard, until the slight upturn of her lips collapses into a frown.

“Surely that can’t be a prerequisite for the job.”

“On the contrary,” Julian replies, nerves solidifying. “Humor me.”

Laurel’s eyes slide sideways. “No,” she says carefully, chewing over her words. “Though death and I are no strangers.”

Julian takes a deep breath, a brief flare of pain in his chest for having been the cause of the dark shadows that crossed over her features at that admission. He rakes a hand through his curls, shoving them away from his face, where they stay for a moment, before flopping back into his eyes. 

“So you have lost someone?” he asks, though it is less question and more statement of fact.

Her gaze flicks back to him, sharp and pointed as the tip of a blade. “Hasn’t everyone in Vesuvia by now?” she asks him cooly. 

Julian at least has the grace to look chagrined, feeling the heat of one of his telltale flushes burning under his collar. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“I don’t relish the thought of death, Doctor Devorak, if that’s your concern.” Laurel grips the strap of her bag tightly, staring up at him, imploring. “And I’ve no agenda, I assure you. I simply want to find some way to help.”

It is that moment that the door of the clinic swings open, the sharp RANG-CLANG-CLANG of the bell startling the both of them. A barrel-chested man heaves in the doorway, face shining, slick with sweat as he gasps, hands on his knees.

“Doctor! Doctor please, my husband he — “

Immediately, something shifts in Julian. One moment he is himself, good old Ilya Devorak. The next he is simply Doctor, parts within himself shuttering closed as others open, the whole of him changing as instinct takes over, just as it had every instant before a battle when the quiet set in and he and Nazali knew the first wave of bodies would soon hit; the calm before the storm, captured entirely within himself like a model ship trapped in a bottle.

“On it!” he barks, grabbing his overcoat and mask from their hooks with practiced ease, already making long strides towards the door before Laurel’s voice cuts through the quiet roar of his thoughts.

“Doctor please!” she all but hisses, chasing after him with stubborn steps. “I need — let me do something, anything!”

With a sigh, Julian reaches out and fixes the scarf about her neck back over her nose and mouth before placing his own mask over his face. Safe behind red glass, he cannot see the piercing blue of her eyes anymore, no longer at risk of being swept away by the violent current of her.

He takes her by the arm, and gently but firmly leads her to the door, past the panicked man who dumbly, silently, follows them out onto the street at Julian’s other hand. The rosy tendrils of pre-dawn light are barely making their way across the sky, the cobbles beneath their feet still heavy with morning fog yet to be burned away by the heat of the day. With a deft flick of his wrist, Julian switches the crude sign on the door front from ‘IN’ to ‘OUT’. When he turns back, Laurel still lingers under the halo of lantern light, hem of her skirts dancing around her ankles as she shifts anxiously from foot to foot. 

“I — ” 

“Go home, Miss Lobban,” he says, voice half muffled, mouth filling with the cloying scents of camphor and dried roses. “Truly, the best you can do for anyone is to not find yourself here again.”

With that Julian turns and follows the snuffling man where he leads, leaving Laurel behind him, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom.

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 16

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] AO3 link

I tweaked the prompt slightly, so Belle isn’t the only adult female in the house they’re in, but certainly the only one Alice would confide in.

x

Belle patted her hair to ensure it was staying in place after removing her hat, and smoothed her skirt over her hips as she followed Thwaites’ directions to breakfast. She walked swiftly, drawn by the sound of murmured voices and the scent of fresh coffee. The breakfast room was light and airy, the walls a pleasant green colour and heavy brocade curtains held back from the tall windows that led out onto a wide veranda overlooking the gardens. A large fire at one end of the room kept the chill from the air, and most of the others were up, with the notable exception of Lord Tremaine.

“His Lordship never leaves his room before noon,” said Lady Tremaine, picking up her teacup. “Unless there’s a hunt, of course.”

“What time will we hunt tomorrow, my Lady?” asked Mr Branson.

“Oh, around eleven, I should think,” she said. “I suspect there will be some bleary eyes and sore heads, but that can’t be helped. We ladies will join you gentlemen for a late luncheon when you return.”

Belle took her breakfast plate to the table, slipping into a seat beside Ogilvy, who smiled at her and poured her a cup of tea. Mrs Mills started telling Mr Branson where the most spectacular local scenery could be found, with help from Lady Tremaine, and Belle was relieved not to be expected to join in the conversation.

“Where’s Alice?” she asked quietly.

“Still with the children,” said Ogilvy. “I looked in on them. She said she’d get them cleaned up and dressed.”

“I should really go and see to them myself,” said Belle, chewing her lip anxiously. “I’m not really fulfilling my duties sitting here, am I?”

“Eat your breakfast,” he said gently. “Alice is more than capable of standing in for an hour. She was the one to take care of them before you came into our lives, after all.”

“I just feel as though you’re paying me a wage for doing very little,” she remarked, and he smiled.

“You’re worth every penny,” he said. “Besides, Doc and I are due to talk to Her Ladyship this morning. We’d like to go over what she says with you before dinner.”

“Oh.” Belle returned his smile. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

“Then eat up,” he said, gesturing at her plate. “The temperature has dropped, and I suspect we’ll have more snow before the New Year dawns.”

x

Once she had finished her breakfast, Belle hurried upstairs to the nursery, where she had been told the children would likely be. The nursery was large and bright, the morning sun shining through long windows. It was an L-shaped room set on a corner wall of the house, with a small sofa and chair near the fireplace, and a daybed by the window. Alice was seated on the sofa, and looked up with a smile as Belle entered. A large doll’s house stood in the corner, the front opened to show ornately furnished rooms inside, and a beautifully-painted rocking horse stood in the corner where the main body of the house met the east wing. The twins were seated on the floor in front of the daybed, playing with a wooden Noah’s Ark set with another young girl. Lucy Mills, Belle presumed. 

“Miss Belle!” chirped Nicholas, scrambling to his feet. “Look! We’re lining up all the animals! I got the horses!”

“Very good,” said Belle, with a smile, and turned to Lucy, who bobbed a careful curtsy. She was a pretty child with her mother’s large, dark eyes and smooth, light brown skin, in a blue dress with a matching ribbon holding back dark hair.

“You must be Miss Lucy Mills,” said Belle. “I’m Miss Belle.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Belle,” said Lucy immediately.

“May I call you Lucy?” asked Belle, and Lucy nodded a little shyly.

“Your mother tells me you’ve been at this house since the summer,” said Belle. “It must be very different to America.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose a little, but said nothing.

“How did you enjoy Christmas?” asked Belle.

“The food here’s good,” said Lucy suddenly. “I liked the plum pudding and treacle tart. But there’s no one to play with, and Her Ladyship says—”

She cut off, biting her lip and looking at the floor. Belle waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t, simply smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.

“Well, I’m sure Nicholas and Ava would be delighted to join in some games,” she said. “Why don’t you carry on getting those animals onto the Ark? The waters are rising...”

The children scrambled to rescue the animals, giggling, and Belle crossed to the couch to sit beside Alice, listening to the children as they made animal sounds and argued over which creatures should board the Ark first.

“Thank you for taking care of them this morning,” said Belle. “Did you have breakfast yet?”

“Yes, I ate with the twins,” said Alice, and lowered her voice. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat with Her Ladyship, anyway. She seems to be pretending I don’t exist, and it makes me feel even more awkward.”

“Well, I know it can feel difficult, eating with strangers,” said Belle. “But it gets easier with practice. Breakfast is far less formal than dinner; you could sit next to me, or Mr Ogilvy.”

“I suppose.” Alice looked thoughtful. “I’ll try tomorrow. Perhaps everyone will be feeling too tired to want to talk to me anyway.”

“Oh, the morning after a party is good practice,” said Belle, with a smile. “No one’s expecting you to say anything astoundingly brilliant. In fact they’re hoping you don’t.”

“I’ll ask Mr Mills about his books, perhaps.”

“That seems a safe topic for discussion.”

“I like Mrs Mills,” added Alice. “I know I didn't really have the chance to speak to them all that much, but they look very happy together.” 

“Yes, they do,” agreed Belle. “They appear to share genuine affection and respect, which is certainly what you should look for in a marriage.”

Alice huffed.

“I can’t say it’s something I see in my future,” she said.

“I don’t suppose you have to think about it for another year or two,” allowed Belle. “Although you did say you wanted to be able to move easily in society. I assumed you meant talking to potential husbands, as well as making conversation with young ladies.”

“Oh, I want to be able to say and do the right things so I don’t cause problems for Papa and Doc, that’s all,” said Alice. “I want to be able to make conversation with people my own age and not look foolish.”

“You’ll find that finding an eligible marriage partner is the biggest concern for most young women,” said Belle. “Be prepared for many, many conversations about the prospects of the young men you meet.” 

“But I don’t want to get married!” said Alice earnestly. 

“Oh.” Belle folded her hands on her lap, glancing across at her. “Well. You don’t have to, of course. There are other paths a young woman’s life can take, although not as many as she deserves, it must be said.”

“Why didn’t you marry?” asked Alice, and Belle sighed.

“Because I wanted to study,” she said simply. “And in the world we live in, education is largely considered wasted on a woman. What use would she make of it, after all? She would be busy bearing children and caring for her husband and home.”

“That’s so unfair!”

“It is,” said Belle. “But I fear most men do not share our view. Nor most women, in my experience. I’m considered something of an oddity, Alice.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re odd at all, I think you’re wonderful,” said Alice fiercely. “And so does Papa, and Doc!”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I bet Papa wouldn’t expect you to be popping out children every five seconds if you married him.”

“I—” Belle closed her eyes, feeling herself blush. “Well…”

“Although he does love children,” Alice added thoughtfully. “But he would never make you have them if you didn’t want them.”

“Of - of course not.”

Belle tried to wish her blush away, but if Alice had noticed her reddened cheeks, she said nothing.

“If you’re not going to get married, what do you want to do?” asked Belle, to change the subject, and Alice turned to her with a wide grin.

“I want to be like Papa and Doc and travel to far-off places, seeing new things and battling dark spirits!” she said eagerly. “I want to be able to help them with their investigations, and banish demons and help poor lost souls find their way.”

“I suppose compared to that, marriage and children must seem quite dull,” remarked Belle, and Alice giggled.

“Perhaps I’ll just take in some children who need a home,” she suggested. “Like Nicholas and Ava.”

“That might be difficult if you’re travelling the world saving people from demons.”

“Perhaps,” Alice conceded. “Do you think society would disapprove?”

“I find that society’s approval is hard to maintain and very easy to lose, for a woman,” said Belle, in a dry tone. “The fortunate thing is, the older you get, the less important it seems. At least in my experience.”

“Then I can be a demon-fighting spinster with a dozen adopted children, all trained to battle the forces of darkness?” asked Alice, with a giggle.

“I don’t know about that,” said Belle, with a smile. “But I’m sure Mr Ogilvy would never make you do something that made you unhappy.”

“No, of course he wouldn’t,” agreed Alice. “It’s - it’s not so much the idea of marriage, anyway, it’s - it’s more the idea of marrying a man.”

She looked uneasy as she said it, her eyes wide and imploring.

“Oh.” Belle put a hand on hers, smiling. “I realise my earlier words may suggest otherwise, but there are many good men in the world. You have two excellent examples in your own family. And there is plenty of time to meet and get to know eligible suitors. Suitors who share our view of things. I’m sure Mr Ogilvy will evaluate them carefully before he allows them anywhere near you.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Alice, with a chuckle. “You may not think it, but he can be terribly fierce when something threatens someone he loves, you know.”

“Really?” 

Belle raised her brows in surprise, thinking of the man she was beginning to know, with his gentle ways and kind eyes and his air of sadness. She pursed her lips, remembering their conversations about religion and the fate of women, his irreverent sense of humour, and his devotion to the children that were not his own.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, I imagine he could be.”

Alice was still looking uncertain, fingers plucking at her skirt.

“Do you - do you think it would be alright if I had a companion, like Lady Ella and Miss Waters?” she asked suddenly. “I think I’d like that much more than marriage.”

“Oh.” Belle began smoothing her own skirt. “Well. The two of them certainly seem to be very good friends.”

Alice shifted nearer, cupping her mouth with a hand to keep their words private.

“I think they’re lovers,” she whispered. “And they seem very happy to me. It’s a shame they can’t get married.”

“Lady Ella is already married,” Belle reminded her.

“Yes, and she’s unhappy with her husband,” said Alice, sitting back. “I daresay he’s unhappy too, but they can’t do anything about it. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Another of society’s rules, I suppose,” said Belle, with a sigh, and Alice nodded agreement.

“All the more reason not to do it if you don’t want to,” she said decidedly. “Why can’t people just do what makes them happy? It’s not fair.”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” said Belle, and frowned as she glanced over her shoulder. “Where are the children?”

Alice looked around, blonde curls swinging. The nursery was eerily silent, the rocking horse moving slowly back and forth, and the wooden Noah’s Ark animals lined up two by two, one of the elephants on its side. Belle stood up, looking around.

“Nicholas?” she called. “Ava?”

“Did they sneak past us?” asked Alice, standing next to her. “I didn’t hear them go, did you?”

“Perhaps it’s a game of hide and seek,” said Belle wryly. “Children? Come out, please!”

She strode around the corner, where the boxes of toys were kept. Stuffed animals sat on top of a wooden chest, pushed up against the panelling. A small table held a brass lamp, unlit, and an open picture book. There was no sign of the children. Belle hurried to the window, but it was locked.

“They must have been as quiet as mice to get past us,” she said, striding to the door. Alice trotted to keep up.

“Let’s check the rooms next door,” she suggested. “I’ll go left, you go right.”

Belle nodded, ducking down the corridor and into the room next door, finding the schoolroom. It was cold and a little draughty, with four small desks and chairs and a large blackboard set in front of them. It was also empty of children, and her mouth flattened.

She closed the door behind her, heading to the next room. It was a child’s bedroom, and she suspected from the stuffed animals and finely-dressed dolls lined up on the dresser that it was Lucy’s. She opened up the wardrobe to check inside, but it was filled with clothes and shoes, with no places for a child to hide. Dropping to her hands and knees, she peered under the bed. It was clear except for a discarded book, which she picked up and placed on the dresser. There was a dull thump, and she frowned as she heard a murmur of voices, whispering and a high-pitched giggle that she thought was Ava’s.

“Ava?” she called. “Nicholas? Where are you?”

Silence, but for another thump. Belle turned slowly, trying to pinpoint its source, and tapped her foot in vexation. She heard nothing further except for the sound of soft footsteps, and the door burst open as Alice entered.

“Nothing in the rooms to the left,” she said breathlessly, and cut off as Belle held up a hand.

“I thought I heard them,” she said.

“Well, they didn’t come past me,” said Alice. “Perhaps it’s a game. They’re hiding until we go past, then sneaking out again.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Belle. “I suppose after two days of travelling they need a little excitement. I don’t imagine being cooped up alone for days on end is good for Lucy either. They could all use some fresh air and exercise.”

“Snowball fight,” said Alice promptly.

“Let’s get them out of the house, certainly,” agreed Belle. “Shall we see if they’ve managed to get back to the nursery?”

They closed the bedroom door behind them, and went back to the nursery, where Belle wasn’t the least bit surprised to find the three children staring up at her innocently and trying to hide their smiles. She decided not to mention their brief disappearance.

“Alice and I were just checking on the weather,” she announced. “I think we should all go out and build a snowman, what do you think?”

“Snowball fight!” crowed Nicholas, and Ava shoved him.

“Her Ladyship says young ladies don’t play in the snow,” said Lucy, looking disconsolate.

“Well, I could ask her permission, if you like,” said Belle. “What does your mother say?”

Lucy beamed.

“Oh, Mommy and Daddy let me play!” she said eagerly. “Could you ask them please, Miss Belle?”

“Certainly,” said Belle gently. “Why don’t you all get into your warm things? I want to see mittens, hats and scarves on everyone before we go out. Alice will help you.”

There was a scramble of small, sturdy limbs, and she smiled to herself as she left the room. Fresh air and exercise would do them all good.

Finding Mrs Mills was easy—she was talking with her husband in the small study next to the breakfast room—and getting her permission to take Lucy outside even easier.

“Oh, I’m so glad she’s making friends with your twins!” she said, putting a hand on Belle’s arm. “She’s been the only child here since we came, and I worry about her being lonely. My stepmother can be a little - rigid - about rules with Lucy.”

“Yes, Lucy mentioned that ladies didn’t play in the snow,” said Belle. “I don’t want to cause trouble with Her Ladyship, but I think it would be good for her.”

“I’ll tell her it was my idea,” said Mrs Mills. “But I’ll tell Papa first. He won’t stop Lucy playing.”

“I’ll come out and help with the snowman later,” offered Mr Mills. “Besides, Her Ladyship’s busy with the Professor and Mr Ogilvy. I daresay she’s having too much fun telling them of her mysterious spirits to worry about Lucy throwing a few snowballs.”

x

“It started in here, Professor.”

Lady Tremaine walked sedately into the centre of a comfortable salon, gesturing around herself. The walls were papered in dark red silk above oak panelling, patterned carpets covering much of the wooden floor, and cushioned sofas near the fireplace. Thick red velvet curtains were pulled back from the bay window that looked out over the grounds, and Ogilvy peered out, noting that snow covered the extensive lawn and the tops of the bushes that surrounded it.

“Tell us what happened, my Lady,” said Doc, from behind him, and he turned on his toes. Doc had a notebook in his hands and a pencil behind his ear.

“Well.” Lady Tremaine sank onto one of the sofas with a sigh and motioned to them to sit. “It was perhaps four-thirty in the afternoon, around the ninth of September. A miserable day, as I recall. I was taking tea in here, as I often do, when I heard this knocking sound.”

“Rhythmic or intermittent?” asked Ogilvy.

“Oh, I don’t know. Intermittent, I suppose? There didn’t seem to be a pattern to it. At least not at first.”

“At first?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Later, when I heard it again, there was a definite pattern.”

“Well, let’s stick with this occasion for now,” said Doc, scribbling. “What did you do?”

“At first I ignored it,” she said. “But it was irritating, so I put down my cup and tried to find out where it was coming from. It seemed to be near the fireplace.”

“A bird, perhaps,” said Ogilvy. “Trapped in the chimney.”

“I didn’t say in the fireplace, I said near the fireplace,” said Lady Tremaine, with some asperity. “As soon as I went over to look more closely, the noise stopped.”

“Did it return?” asked Doc.

“No,” she said. “Not that day, at least.”

There was a clinking sound from outside the door, and Ogilvy went to open it, receiving a serene nod of thanks from the footman carrying a tray of tea things.

“Has His Lordship risen yet, James?” asked Lady Tremaine.

“Yes milady,” said the footman, setting the tray on a small sideboard. “He’s in his reading room.”

“Good. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, milady.”

The footman walked out, stiff-backed and sombre, and Lady Tremaine turned back to Doc.

“What happened next?” he asked, pencil poised above his notebook.

“Well, I thought nothing more about it,” she said. “And then two days later, the knocking returned.”

“Go on.”

“I was sitting here, reading some letters, when I heard it again,” she said. “There seemed to be much more of a pattern to it this time. A series of taps.”

“In the same place?”

“Near the fireplace, yes.”

“What was the pattern?” asked Ogilvy.

Lady Tremaine hesitated, then got to her feet and rapped on the sideboard: three sharp taps, then a pause, followed by three more.

“What did you do?”

“I said ‘who’s there?’,” she replied. “The tapping started again, and I started to think that perhaps there was something strange going on. Something - otherworldly.”

“How so?” asked Doc.

“The room went terribly cold, enough to make me shiver,” she said, clutching at herself as though to demonstrate. “I could feel my heart thumping hard, my breath rapid with fear. And then - it happened.”

She nodded slowly, and Ogilvy shared a glance with Doc.

“What happened?”

“I put my hand on my heart,” she said, demonstrating. “I closed my eyes, and I tried to speak to it. I said ‘Spirit, if you can understand my words, knock three times’. And it did.”

Her tone was portentous, and she nodded slowly, opening her eyes and looking between the two of them.

“The same pattern of three knocks?” asked Doc.

“The very same.”

“What did you do then?”

“I - I have to confess I ran,” she said. “I was more than a little alarmed. I went to find Mrs Timpson, and had her accompany me when I next entered the room.”

“And did the knocking come again?”

“No, I can’t say that it did,” she said. “But Mrs Timpson agreed with me that the room felt very cold.”

“And you think that proves it was a spirit?” asked Ogilvy, his tone sceptical, and she blinked at him.

“Well, I certainly think it bears investigation,” she said, with some indignation. “The chills, the knocking, the fact that it responded to my request…”

“Yes, of course,” said Doc, sending Ogilvy a quelling look. “We’ll do our best to get to the bottom of things. You mentioned other noises.”

“Yes.” She turned to the tea things, and began pouring a cup. “The next time it happened was at night, in my bedroom.”

“Go on.”

“I was having trouble sleeping,” she said, pouring another cup. “It must have been after midnight, and the house was silent, but I heard a shuffling and scraping. Again, the room felt terribly cold, and I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart racing. Then it started tapping.”

“Was it the same rhythm of taps?”

“Yes. Sets of three,” she said. “I - I spoke to it again. I asked it what it wanted.”

“And—whatever or whomever it was—tapped again?”

“Worse,” she said ominously. “It moaned.”

“Moaned?” said Ogilvy. “Were there any words you could make out?”

“No no, just - just a terrible wailing sound,” she said, and shuddered. “I’m not ashamed to say that I screamed and leapt from my bed. It took Thwaites, Mrs Timpson and a large glass of brandy to calm me down.”

“Did you return to the room?”

“Not that night,” she admitted. “I slept in one of the guest rooms.”

“And - and His Lordship?” asked Doc, in a delicate tone.

“Oh, he has his own rooms across the corridor,” she said. “We keep very different hours.”

“Has he heard anything untoward?”

“Nothing,” she said. “This spirit appears to be concentrating on me.”

“Where is your bedroom?”

“It’s next to this room,” she said.

“Did you sleep there the following night?”

“No, I stayed in one of the guest rooms for the next week,” she said. “I had Mrs Timpson sleep in my room, but she didn’t hear a thing.”

“And you heard nothing in the guest room?”

“No.”

“Where was that room?”

“In the opposite wing of the house, facing the rear.”

“And since that night, have there been other instances?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “As Mrs Timpson reported nothing strange, I went back into my old room. Things were quiet for a few weeks, but then as the winter came on us, the visitations became more frequent.”

“Are you able to remember dates?”

“I remember that the first was on All Hallows Eve,” she said. “Knocking in a pattern. It sounded as though it was echoing around the room. I was terrified, of course, but I stayed in my bed as long as I could. I asked the spirit what it wanted again, but only had more moaning and some evil laughter for my troubles. The laughter was too much to bear, and I ran to get help.”

“Did you return to the room?” asked Ogilvy.

“I did,” she said. “It was silent, and by the next night, my fear had changed to irritation. I resolved not to leave the room, should it return.”

“And after that?”

“It has visited me at least once a week,” she said. 

“Can you think of anything that might have caused this increase in - visitations?” asked Ogilvy.

“Yes,” she said promptly, as though she had been waiting for the question. ”It coincided with the repairs to the boathouse.”

Doc set down his notebook, looking puzzled.

“I don’t follow.”

“Travers took some stones from the castle,” she explained. “Well, everyone knows it’s haunted!”

“The castle,” said Ogilvy, in a flat tone. “You mean Langfell Castle. It still stands?”

“More or less,” she said, as Doc shot him a look. “It’s a little ruined, but the towers are still there, and the main building is in a reasonable state. The outer walls are almost gone, of course.”

“And you think it’s haunted,” he said. “By what?”

“It’s said the ghost of a witch haunts the area,” she said, with relish. “The only daughter of the noble family that once lived there.”

“She wasn’t a witch!” snapped Ogilvy, and Lady Tremaine blinked rapidly. Doc held up a hand, giving him a sympathetic look, and he turned away, wanting to grind his teeth.

“You know the story?” he heard her say. “I must confess it’s not one I was familiar with until Travers’ wife mentioned it. It’s said she walks the grounds and tries to trap people in the towers.”

What utter rubbish, thought Ogilvy sourly.

“What does that have to do with your ghostly visitor?” asked Doc.

“Travers—he’s our steward—needed some local stone to repair the boathouse,” she said. “I wasn’t aware he had taken them from the castle grounds until earlier this month, but the date of the repairs ties in.”

“And you think the spirit is from the castle?” asked Doc.

“What other explanation is there?” she said. “Perhaps we disturbed her rest, and she’s focusing on me, given my sensitivity to these things. Can you - oh, I don’t know - move her on?”

She made a shooing motion with her hands, and Doc took a deep breath as he launched into an explanation of how they would first test for the presence of spirits, and what they could do to rid the house of them. Ogilvy wandered back over to the bay window, glancing out over the snow-covered lawn. 

From his position, he could see the twins, along with another young girl, darting back and forth across the ground. He could hear their faint, excited squeals as they each threw snowballs and dodged those thrown by the others, with varying degrees of success. Belle and Alice shouted encouragement as they piled snow up to make a snowman, gloved hands patting it into shape. A snowball soared close to Belle, and she jumped backwards with a shriek of surprise. Alice made a grab for her arm to stop her falling, the two of them laughing as they clutched at one another for balance. It made him smile, tears pricking at his eyes as he felt his heart swell with love for her, a familiar, dull pain.

“Of course, in general terms, it’s fascinating,” Lady Tremaine was saying. “Discovering that those who have left this mortal plain can return.”

“Indeed,” agreed Doc. “There’s a comfort in that, to be sure. Knowing that those we love are never truly lost to us.”

Ogilvy’s smile widened as he watched Belle bend to scoop up snow, forming it into a ball before tossing it underarm for Ava to catch and throw at her brother. He reached for the moonstone ring on his left hand, turning it unconsciously as he watched Belle and Alice form the head for their snowman and lift it into place atop the body. 

She came back to us, he thought. She came home.

He lifted the ring to his lips, kissing the cool stone as if sending up a silent prayer. Belle turned, brushing snow from her gloves as she glanced up at the window. She seemed to falter a little as she saw him, but then a wide smile spread across her face as she waved. He raised his hand to wave back, the dull pain in his chest easing a little at the sight of her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. She had come home. She was back in their lives, and he was determined never to lose her again.

[ghost-drabbles-bc]

A happy ending

FUCK IT I’M POSTING MY SUPER SELF INDULGENT PAPA III STUFF. It could be an x reader if you really wanted since I left my name out, but it’s super specific so bear with me. I just want more people to see the stuff I don’t post. 

Papa III x Reader(???)

Plot: Growing old with your lover.

“We did good…” ‘Yeah…. We sure did…’

The couple sits hand in hand in their rocking chairs on the veranda of their home. Once living in the comfort of the church, they just needed more room. They go back to visit all the time, seeing old and new faces every chance they can. Copia finally in control of the papacy, and soon to pass it down to the third’s firstborn. Having aged a full 37 years, he still looks like as young as ever. Taking right after his father. That’s the thing about having demon blood, It doesn’t need to be all that strong to give you the abilities. Given that He would only be half of the half-demon his father was, it’s quite strong and will be in the descendants far down the line. Ones the old couple hope to be around to see. When you’re a part demon, you tend to age normally until you hit the age of 18, and then it seems to slow. You still go through the years, but the aging process seems to hit slower. God knows how old Nihil could be, but he’s still alive and well, and currently holding the newest addition to the family: his great great great granddaughter. Everyone’s gathered at the house to celebrate Lorenzo’s birthday, and his soon to be papa position. It’s always nice to see them all in the same place. Nihil with his wife and their children, I with his and their child. II with his, and his children. Copia and his lover, who, unfortunately, but respectfully, never had any of their own. Of course, III was there too, along with his. What would the party be without the man who brings so much life to it all?

‘We deserve it… We finally really deserve it…’ “Hm…?”

They both stare out into the yard. Sons and daughters run after their kin, laughter filling the air. The oldest wrapping his arm around his son. Congratulating him for finally settling down and giving another little one to the family. The male twin of III’s family fooling around as a way to congratulate Lorenzo on his upcoming promotion, only to get knuckles rubbed into his hair. The female twin sitting with one of the other mothers and just catching up. It’s nice to see the child that was once so rowdy has finally given a little maturity a try. It’s cute to watch Bernedetta and her significant other feel the growing bump in Bee’s belly. They joke about her taking another pastry off the endless pile on the tables. She always was a little chubby. Rosalie hasn’t found her forever just yet, but she’s not rushing it either. She’s got a while before she has to really worry about it, and even then it’s not much to worry about. She’s finally facing her fears of what seems to be everything and giving things a chance. She could even be considered the ‘Daredevil’ and the ‘cool aunt’ of the family. Even Antony showed up. He doesn’t really show his face much anymore, having fallen into the same shoes as his father when he was that young. He has no plans on settling down, but neither did his father. Now he’s got a whole family line. Seeing the whole family together brings a tear to the eyes of Dante’s spouse.

‘Our happy ending…’ “What do you mean? ‘We’ve worked so hard for it and now… well… it’s finally here.’ “You’re such a crazy old man, Dante…” ‘I mean it. We did our best in the times it didn’t seem to matter, and we did even better when it did. We’ve worked so hard to make this family what it is today, despite the bumps in the road. Every little thing always seemed to work out, and most of it was because of you. You did so much to make sure everything worked. I never believed in true love, but now I know it exists. We have… Hell… 40 crazy years of proof that it does. We deserve our happy ending, and I think we’re finally finding it. Sure, this isn’t the end of the story, but maybe this book in the series. We still have plenty of books to fill, but I think this one has ended wonderfully.’ “Dante…”

The tears that were welling up started to fall a little more. His words hitting a part of their heart deep inside. They lean over to kiss their husband. One full of passion, but not enough to scar the large number of children and family all around. One of the six children come up to them with one of the grandbabies to hold. Dante watches as they take the child with open arms, and it brings back nostalgic memories that were long ways in the past, but certainly not forgotten. They look just as wonderful as they did when they held their own for the first time, and every other time after. A little one runs up to him and climbed their way up onto his lap. They’re giggling at one of the silly faces he’s making.

“I still stand by what I said, you know.” ‘What?’ “You’re a crazy old man, Dante.” ‘Yeah? But I’m your crazy old man.’ “Fair enough”