#cold heart in red moonlight [ canon verse ]

[wood-white-writer]

"Didn't mean to make your heart Blue" || [3/...]

- OPLA!Buggy x F!Reader

"And I am the idiot with the painted face, in the corner taking up space. But when he walks in, I am loved."

— Mitski, "Me and My Husband"

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live action) x F!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends. Years have passed since you last saw Buggy following the dispute that you thought ended your friendship. When you finally reunite with the blue-haired menace you once considered your closest friend, it’s under less than “friendly” circumstances.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, LA!Verse, Buggy is a lonely asshole, flashbacks, semi-canon divergence, Reader is strong AF,

A/N: I forgot to mention this before, but I guess this technically does hold some spoilers from the manga/anime. Keep in mind, I've not seen/read either piece, so it's merely used to give their stories some background.

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or comment :))

Fuck, fuck, fuck, where the fuck are you?

After some time of searching, Buggy finds you sitting by the docks, your feet gently swaying with the waves, almost free of any earthbound weight. He’d join you if he could, but he’s not brave enough to get too close to the waters yet.

However, he’s content enough to just watch you from a safe distance. The sky is free of clouds and the moon is full, which illuminates your shape like a bright lantern in the night.

Beautiful, that's what he thinks you are. In fact, that's what he's been thinking for a while now, not that he's ever told you that to your face. He wonders when he stopped looking at you like something more than a friend. 

Maybe it was when he caught you smiling at him after you'd successfully managed to steal a bottle of fine rum from the local bar, and you both ended up getting blackout drunk on the ship deck?

Maybe it was when he saw you win a round of arm-wrestling against one of your other crewmates, despite being significantly younger than the opponent.

Maybe it was when you beat a guy black and blue for making fun of his nose in public, with both him and Shanks cheering you on from a safe distance? 

It doesn’t matter when it was. What matters is that, for a while, he has found it difficult to take his eyes off you. Even if it’s just a peek, it usually takes him a while to force his attention on something else.

The rest of the crew are on the Oro Jackson, celebrating their recent endeavors, yet here you are, celebrating on your own. He finds it odd; you’re usually happy to participate in any celebrations with the crew, but you’ve decided to be here instead. It was your absence on deck that prompted Buggy to go looking for you.

The wind picks up and he can feel goosebumps spread across his skin like wildfire. He shivers and tugs his jacket tighter around himself, and that’s when he notices that you’re not wearing any additional clothing to stave off the cold in the night.

He finally calls out to you, a little throaty for reasons he refuses to disclose aloud. “You’re gonna get a cold like that, dumbass! You wanna get pneumonia and die or something?”

You subsequently turn around to face him, and his breath gets caught in his throat. Your sharp eyes, when caught in the moonlight, sparkle like a thousand treasures — compiled of gold, diamonds, and millions and millions of berries — holed up in two caves.

Smiling in the way that makes his pulse quicken, you proceed to wave your feet in the water. A few drops land on your arms, sparkling in the air before landing on the skin of your arms. “I don’t think so? If we get to the South Pole, maybe there’s a higher risk?”

He frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “The North Pole is colder!”

“Ah, well,” you snicker. “In that case, then I’m not likely to get pneumonia unless we’re there.”

“You can still get cold! What are you, a moron?” 

For someone who can’t keep his eyes off you for extended periods, that doesn’t keep him from being rather crass in terms of vocabulary with you. That’s alright. You’ve never been one to appreciate honeyed words if your frequent bickering with both him and Shanks says something.

With another swing of your legs, you reestablish contact with with wooden platform and make your way over to him. That’s when he finally realises that you haven’t brought your shoes with you, but you don’t seem bothered by it. “By the way, what’re you doing here, Buggy?“

He considers telling you a simple lie that won’t clash with what he knows to be the truth. He was coincidentally going for a walk, he needed some air, he was purposefully looking for you…

“Noticed you weren’t on the ship,” he finally settles on with a hmph. “Had to make sure you hadn’t accidentally up and drowned or something. You’re a shitty swimmer,”

“Not as shitty as you,” you counter and blow him a raspberry. 

He’s about to tell you to fuck off or something when, again, he finds himself pausing. 

You’re smiling at him, so softly, and it feels so warm that the wind no longer has any effect on him. He can feel his cheeks scorch up and his heart is pounding so hard that it feels on the verge of breaking his ribs.

He hastily looks away and coughs a couple of times, trying to maintain what little dignity he has left.

“Are you alright?” You ask with faux concern. “Did you just catch pneumonia or something?”

“S-Screw you!”

You laugh, and it’s like music to his ears. Your laughs are usually raspy and hardly appropriate, but he finds that it’s the prettiest sound in the world. Your smile, your laugh, they are so warm that he hopes that you’ll never stop making them.

Out of the blue, you wrap an arm around his shoulder and begin tugging him on the path to the ship. “Come on, before they leave us behind.”

“Y-Yeah, let’s.” He doesn’t move to tug your arm away, and no power on this earth will make him.

------

Now that he's closer to the kid, Buggy realizes the stupidity of asking if he was yours. The two of you are nothing alike, but the truly defining factor lies in your eyes. Rubber Boy's eyes are too bright, too round. Whereas yours are knives ready to strike, his' are simple spoons.

He begrudgingly has to hand it to the kid; he's a fearless one. Even stretching his limbs beyond human capabilities does not diminish his spirit. Buggy doesn't know whether to applaud or reject the determination the boy has.

"I want you to think of this, like an artistic exercise," he explains. "Because pain leads to art, and art reveals truth."

He can't hear any commotion from the backrooms where he keeps you contained. Truth be told, he never expected it to keep you for long, only detain you for a limited amount of time. If he wants to both get the map and keep his life in one go, he is going to have to try and get it without necessarily ruining the kid too much.

Still, it doesn't keep him from testing the lines. He tries to pry the answers out with a needle, but no matter what he does, the kid remains infuriatingly mute. 

So, he decides to dig a little deeper.

"Now, what makes a boy want to grow up to be King of the Pirates? Who are you trying to impress?" He tilts his head with inquisitiveness. "A lost love?"

On cue, he can vaguely make out a gnarling sound coming from the back rooms. The sound of chains rattling, which he perceives as you probably moving in the enclosure. He thinks about sending someone to check on you and find out what you're up to, but he does not want the number of supporting casts to reduce.

"An absent parent?" He continues, ignoring the noises as he closes in on the boy. "Or was it someone that you worshipped? A false idol."

Try as he might, the boy fails to feign any indifference to him. A master of performance himself, Buggy knows when he's hit his target "That's it."

He yanks the dumb straw hat off his head, and the boy's protests against it further dig a nail into the coffin. "Give me back my hat!"

"I used to know a pirate that wore a hat just like this." Buggy's grip on the feeble thing drastically tightens as memories of the past resurface. "Red-Haired Shanks."

"You knew Shanks?"

"Ginger? Three scars, left eye?" Of course, how could he not know of the bastard? "We served together on a pirate crew when we were about your age. In fact," he glances at the boy from over his shoulder. "Your friend, Cross-Hairs over there, was with us at the time."

The kid blinks in confusion, clearly not aware of this little piece of information. "I knew she served with Shanks, but she never mentioned you."

In all honesty, it doesn't surprise him, yet he still perceives this as a slight against him from your side. The underlying hypocriticism in that doesn't evade his notice, but he elects not to address it. 

Buggy can feel the straws under his digits lightly crack beneath the pressure of his grip. "She did, but before then, it was the three of us. For a time, I even thought we were friends." His nail pierces a hole through the inside of the hat. "Until they betrayed me, like all the others. He wanted to keep me out of the spotlight! He wanted to keep my star from shining too brightly!"

"They wouldn't do that," Rubber Boy is quick to protest, rather vehemently too as if Buggy just insulted his entire lineage. "You don't know her, and you don't know Shanks. Don't talk about them that way."

"I bet I know her far better than you do, Rubber Boy." He smirks and raises a knowing eyebrow at the kid. "Does she still snatch specifically red apples off vendors when you're in town? Does she still tend to store her knives in her boots when she thinks no one's looking?"

The kid doesn't have to answer. His silence is all the confirmation he needs, and it makes him feel victorious in some sense. 

"Let me ask you something else, then. How'd the famous Captain of the Cross-Haired Pirates get stuck with a simple-minded nobody like you? What did you do that was so special that she decided to stick around until now?" 

The damn brat doesn't answer.

He presses on. "Apparently, she made a promise to someone, and though I have a sneaking suspicion as to whom, I don't want to jump the gun." He grasps harshly at the kid's face, no longer smiling. "You know, and if you tell me, I might be convinced to lessen the restraints."

The damn brat still doesn't fucking answer, and it vexes him greatly. Even so, if there's one thing he's learned, it's that the kid's silence can be substituted for an answer.

So, he finally asks the billion-berry question: 

"Was it Shanks?"

Rubber Boy does not answer. He doesn't fucking answer, and Buggy's patience snaps like a twig.

You would be willing to go through all of this trouble, to keep the kid safe and help him achieve his dream, just because you made a silly promise to what was once your mutual friend. You would give up your career as one of the most successful pirates in the modern age, just for that?

Just for him?

Deep down, he feels something carve at him. Carve at the boyish version of him he left behind the same day he left you. Would you have been just as loyal to him as you were to Shanks, if only he stayed?

He does not voice these thoughts aloud. Instead, he can't help but beam, because everything he's theorized up until this point has just been verified. It aches, and it hurts, and it cuts, but even so, he can only smile down at the boy.

"Stretch him until he breaks." 

------

Although you hear a commotion coming from the stage room, and despite the urge you have to just break out and be done with this all, you deliberately remain in your cage. One leg pulled up to your chin whereas the other one rests uncomfortably on the stale ground boards, you do nothing more than let your temper simmer down.

Honestly, what a mess.

You made one thing perfectly clear to Shanks the day you agreed to disband your crew and keep watch on the boy. It had not even been a week after he returned to the docks of Fooshia Village, one arm short and the boy by his side.

------

"I am not his parent. I will not be held responsible for the mistakes he makes when he decided to leave land. I will only keep him alive until I decide he can do that himself; after he's earned his first bounty. After that, I'm off."

"And what will you do after?" he had asked, genuinely curious.

You didn't answer, because you didn't know.

"Look after the lad for me, will you? Help him achieve his dream." He had taken your shoulder under his warm remaining hand and said:

"Maybe one day, you'll find your own."

------

If you'd known that Luffy's dream would one day lead you back to him, you would've been more reluctant to make that promise. At the time, you had little interest in picking up the shattered pieces of your childhood dream, yet it seems that now it has decided to search you out instead.

Or rather, he has.

Your head hurts.

This is not the time for heartfelt reunions if there ever was one. Buggy has only one goal in mind, and that is to get his hands on that damn map. Harming Luffy will serve as a means to an end in achieving that, which happens to clash with your goal. You're not Luffy's parent, you tell yourself, but you're willing to extend the promise to Shanks just this once.

And so, after some careful deliberation, you make your escape. 

You hit the metal once, and it bends significantly. Then twice, and on the third strikes, they bend and crack, finally granting you access to direct contact with the ground. It's never felt so relieving to be earthbound, and you even go as far as to tap your feet a few times to enrich that feeling.

Having most likely heard the noise, two troupe members march through the curtains to see what's going on. The first one barely has the time to register your escape before you lunge. 

You're quick to subdue them, knocking the first one out with an easy choke-hold whereas the other mysteriously ends up with half his body stuck in what remains of your previous confinement. His ass hangs out in a rather humiliating position, but the point is, he's out of the way. 

The adrenaline is the one part of piracy you've missed. The surge of energy that flows through your veins, feeling the air brush your face as you make your move, the warmth in your heart that substitutes any pain or hurt you've ever felt if only for a moment.

You relish it.

You happen to find your weapons in the room, hidden in some crates. Your knives and your pistol, are both unscathed and fully functional, but you know that you'll end up relying on your hands for this. After all, it's personal, and personal matters are handled in a personal way. 

When you're certain the two troupe members are of no concern to you, you exit the back rooms and find yourself in the opening between the audience rows shortly after. The lights have been killed and there's an ominous silence stretching in the atmosphere.

You look up at the terrified audience, and though you're almost in clear view of them, none dares stray away from the view up ahead. 

Said view in question being of Luffy halfway submerged by seawater in a tank, already struggling to keep himself afloat. 

Fuck this. Fuck him.

You don't even stop to coordinate your next move as, as you would've done under ordinary circumstances. No, the moment you spot Buggy standing there, trying to reason with the kid with the promise of belonging and having a place on his crew, you lunge for the kill.

------

All Buggy sees just as you make your move is a flash of sharp eyes that seem to glow in the dim room. There's no word upon your entrance, no sound, not a single warning at all. A shriek resonates through the air, shattering the silence that had unknowingly settled over them, and it's his own. 

The air gets knocked out of his lungs as you shove your fist straight into his stomach. Ordinarily, that specific portion of his would've just straight up dislodged itself from his body, but it doesn't this time. He remains intact, a contradiction to what you had threatened to do, and he falls back several good feet on his back like a kicked dog.

A raspy groan is all the noise he manages to get out, heaving his chest in search of the air that was stolen from him. He throws one arm to the ground and gets his upper body up. 

When he finally manages to somewhat stabilize his line of sight, all he sees as the world remains blurred around him is you standing over him with a dangerous glimmer in your eyes. One he's already familiar with.

This is not his old friend or his old flame crew member. This is Cross-Hairs, the feared captain of the vicious Cross-Haired Pirates. The Beast of the East. The one whose aim never misses, and if it does, she'll hunt her target down to the ends of the earth.

And now, he's officially become your target. No longer a passive one at that, but the only one your eyes are set on. He doesn't know if he's content or unnerved by this.

There are no palpable emotions on your face, but he can read your eyes well enough to know that you're angry. No, angry doesn't even begin to cover it; you're absolutely, positively, completely pissed. 

"What?" He forces out, still aching from the punch to his abdomen. "Going to make good on your promise? Going to finally kill me after all this time? If so, then just get on with it!"

You don't answer, and he hates it even more than he would've had you responded. A part of him wants you to kill him; wants you to show that you care enough about him to just fucking do it.

No, instead, all you give him is a glare. That same glare that's never left your face since he first laid his eyes on you. You turn your full attention to the tank and, with one simple hit, you break the glass to try and free Rubber Boy. You free him, without even a moment to hesitate, and it feels so much more painful than if you’d just ended him on the spot.

He wants to scream. Buggy wants to scream until his lungs give in. Scream at your inability to fully look at him. Scream at your apparent concern for a boy who is no more a pirate than he is a banker. 

Scream, because even after all this time, you still refuse to choose him.

Never him.

[kusunokihime]

[ tag dump ]

[sweetlangdon]

Steal Into My Melancholy Heart (Michael Langdon x Reader Beauty and the Beast AU)

Notes: Here it is (finally), the start of the AHS: Apocalypse Beauty and the Beast AU. There’s going to be a lot of changes to canon. Some characters have been left out, others have a different backstory and purpose to suit this AU ‘verse. Hopefully everything makes sense as the story goes on! The title comes from the song “Evermore” in the 2017 version of Beauty and the Beast, because I can’t help myself.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: Some violence, mentions of gore and blood. 

 {Prologue}

A thin veil of moonlight fell across the obsidian spiral, a monolith shrouded in a layer of dense fog. It parted around Cordelia Goode’s shoes, chilly and damp, clouding an otherwise clear night. The Hawthorne School looked abandoned. That was for a purpose, for protection, but a feeling clawed its way deep into her gut that suggested maybe they were already too late.

That the warlocks had suffered the same fate as her girls.

She could still hear their screams, their agony echoing in her ears. The shadow of their blood still clung to her hands. Even in the dark, she saw the trails it had leached under her nails and how it sat in the creases between her knuckles. The house had reeked of it, the blood and carnage heavy in the air, bright red pooling on the immaculate floors. She’d sat there for the longest time, minutes turning to an hour she didn’t have, hollow with grief. That house was now their tomb. Cordelia had left their bodies where they’d fallen, cold and still and pale. Fingers and lips turning blue. The halls of her school silenced.

Four had survived. It was enough, for now, to hold together Cordelia’s shattered heart.

Madison, Mallory, Coco, and Emily trailed in her wake, footsteps whispering across the dry, desert earth. She could hear their quiet weeping, their sniffling and heartache so palpable it settled on her chest like stones. They hadn’t spoken on the plane ride here, too stricken with heartache and shock and anger that words didn’t seem enough. The march up to the doors of Hawthorne felt like a funeral procession. Somber. Bleak. Their black clothes, still holding the scent of their fallen sisters’ blood, a sign of mourning rather than tradition.

Cordelia steeled herself, wiping the last of her tears from the corner of her swollen eye with the edge of her thumb, as she came to a halt at the doors. Where they were still coming from, she didn’t know. How could she have any left to cry? What would she do if they found the warlocks slaughtered inside their school?

The quiet unnerved her. The hum of crickets, the distant sway of leaves in a nocturnal wind. The strange, dark cylinder towering over them stood resolute and still as a grave. If it had become one, then she couldn’t see a way out of this. She couldn’t see a light beyond the hurt and despair. Not right now. Not when they’d already lost so much.

Every muscle in Cordelia’s body tensed when the door slid open. The surviving witches, gathered at her sides, looked up once warm, flickering light spilled over the threshold and broke the chill of the night. Golden candle light illuminated the tears that glistened on their faces.

John Henry Moore leaned against the doorway, a pale wisp of smoke coiling up from the cigarette between his fingers. Cordelia’s knees almost buckled from relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhaled. “Are you all right? The students—are they all okay?”

One of John Henry’s dark eyebrows rose. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Why?”

“Michael Langdon isn’t here, is he?” Her tone had turned dangerous, the hate dripping from her curt question.

“Haven’t seen him since he fucked off into the woods, Cordelia.” He pushed off the wall and moved to let her and the girls through, then took a drag from his cigarette. He sounded annoyed. “What is it? Kind of late to be making unannounced house calls. It’s past curfew.”

“We’re not here for your witty comebacks, asshole,” Madison countered.

Before John Henry could take offense, Cordelia started down the hall toward the elevator, the girls following close behind, a cacophony of heels ricocheting across marble and stone.

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You want to explain what’s going on?”

They took the elevator down beneath the earth. John Henry leaned against the wall, taking long drags from his cigarette and eyeing the group of young witches congregated tightly opposite him. Madison was silently furious, arms crossed over her chest, her sharp glare fixed on the closed doors. Mallory sniffled, drabbing at her eyes with the edge of a long, black sleeve. Emily found solace in Coco, her head pressed to Coco’s shoulder. Cordelia looked beside herself, her gaze distant, restless as they waited for the elevator doors to hiss open.

“You were right.” Cordelia’s voice broke, frayed with the tears that still trickled down her cheeks. “About everything. You were right.”

“Now what’s all this?” Behold Chablis joined them as they filed into the cavernous heart of The Hawthorne School, a labyrinth of candle lit staircases and hallways. His question, rising sharply at the end, filled up the quiet. The students were locked away in their dormitories for the night. Safe and oblivious to the danger heading their way, for now.

“Miss Goode was just about to tell me.”

“Langdon,” her voice cut deeply into the name as her eyes fluttered closed to stave off more tears, “Michael Langdon…murdered my girls. We were lucky to escape when we did. And if we don’t act now, then this school—you and your students are next. I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Jesus.” John Henry muttered. He turned away, scratching at an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail.

Behold’s dark eyes widened. “I’ll evacuate the school.”

“No,” Cordelia said. “We might need them.”

“For what?” Behold asked. “I’m not leaving our boys to be some Antichrist’s cannon fodder, Miss Supreme. Not after he slaughtered your girls.”

“Coming here wasn’t about just warning you. We need a curse,” she explained. Madison and Mallory exchanged looks of surprise before they caught her eye. She’d kept her plans to herself, an impulsive decision on the flight to California. “And if memory serves, the reigning expert on curses is you.” She turned to John Henry.

At her pointed look, he scoffed. “We need a firing squad, not a curse.”

“Shockingly, I agree,” Coco said softly.

“You never said shit about that,” Madison said. “I mean, what the fuck, Cordelia?”

“We have to fight him,” Emily agreed. “I don’t care what it takes.”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of curse?”

John Henry held up a hand. “Forget it.”

“He has too much power now,” Cordelia reasoned. “We can’t kill him…we can’t even stop him if we tried. I felt that power when he broke past the defenses at Robichaux—Langdon’s the Devil’s son, and that makes him invincible. Our only choice is to play the long game. Survive the impossible, together, and create something that tears him down, bit by bit. Make him his own demise.”

“So your solution is,” Behold drawled, “to…sit back and watch the world go up in flames? Let him win?”

“He’ll think he’s won,” Cordelia said, a determined grin curving one side of her mouth despite the tears that welled in her eyes. “And then he’ll get what he deserves for all the chaos he’s wrought, slowly, until his death sets things right again. A hard reset. Everything back to the way it was.”

She’d had a lot of time to think on the plane.

John Henry laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “That’s a tall order.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Madison rolled her eyes.

“Wait,” Coco interrupted. “Can we…really do that?”

“No,” Behold answered at the same time John Henry deadpanned a halfhearted, “Definitely not.”

“Yes,” Cordelia insisted, her voice shaking. Her gaze flittered to Mallory, who hadn’t spoken a word of dissent or skepticism. “There’s enough power in this room—in this school. If we combine that magic, I know we can. I have to believe it, otherwise what else do we have left?”

“Curses are stubborn. Delicate,” John Henry said. “They have to be precise, not to mention the amount of magic they require. You can’t engineer a curse in a single night, Cordelia, it can’t be done. Not for what you’re asking.”

“We have to find a way.”

“It’s just not possible,” seemed to be John Henry’s final answer. Resolved to defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Behold offered. “Wish we could—”

“I think we should do it,” Mallory said. “I know…I know Cordelia’s right. We have enough magic right here in this room. We have to try.”

“What the hell, right?” Madison flicked her long hair behind her shoulder. “Mallory’s magic could power the whole curse by itself. I’ve seen it.”

The witches murmured their agreement.

“It’s not the magic I’m worried about,” John Henry replied. “Curses are unwieldy. I’ve never designed one this complex.”

“Well,” Coco said brightly. “First time for everything.”

***

They settled into the central hub of The Hawthorne School, their work lit by roaring fires and sconces on the walls. John Henry gave each of them a task based on their skill level, some facet of the curse that was theirs to render with their magic. By that time, he and Behold determined that they’d only need a few of the students lend their talents, and the rest would be sent in groups to scatter themselves in different directions across the state. To escape and survive the impossible, as Cordelia said.

Three Hawthorne students had joined the witches and John Henry, chosen by Behold’s own meticulous eye. He knew those boys well enough, saw their magic at work in his classes. They’d proven to be the most proficient with the incantations and sigils needed to design their curse.

Timothy, Andre, and Gallant circled around John Henry like a trio of baby ducklings, a force of habit that couldn’t be broken even under the unusual circumstances. The boys cast wary glances at the witches in their midst, unused to working alongside them. They were half-dressed in their Hawthorne uniforms, not quite so polished, the dress codes forgotten. Sleep still clouded their vision as they struggled with whatever archaic texts John Henry shoved at them.

The room was a mess—papers littered with John Henry’s inelegant scrawl, more discarded on the floor than kept for revision; old books heavy with a musty scent in careless piles for reference. Most were in Latin, others almost unreadable even to Cordelia’s rather astute magical knowledge.

She hoped these archaic words and symbols would be enough. There had been more than one argument ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings in the long hours they’d spent working on this. Cordelia knew what it would take, how she wanted the curse to evolve as time wore on, but translating that to magic had John Henry at his wit’s end.

There were variables to consider. And layers upon layers of incantations, each with a specific purpose. Not to mention, they had to put the entire world back together—and billions of lives—once the curse had slowly withered Langdon away. One wrong link in that chain and everything else would crumble. So, of course, there had been shouting matches and a litany of swearing and one instance of John Henry walking the fuck out of the room for another cigarette as tensions ran high.

“We need a failsafe,” John Henry decided.

Cordelia reached over the table of papers and books to reach her wine glass. “Like what?”

John Henry sighed, ink-stained fingers splayed on the tabletop. He slumped forward a little and stifled a yawn. “You said it yourself. Kid’s got the protection of fucking Satan. If this isn’t enough to wear that down and kill him over time, we’re gonna need backup. Another way to take the shot. So to speak.”

“Well, he’s still half-human.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” Behold mused. He refilled Cordelia’s wine glass with a languid sweep of his fingers.

“I’m talking about emotionally,” she explained. “He’s…sensitive. You saw his reaction when we retaliated. The way he cried over that woman. I don’t have much hope for whatever humanity is left in him, but if we can use it to bring him down, that might be our only shot. If the evil in him doesn’t break him, then maybe his heart will.”

“You think the Antichrist is capable of love?” Behold raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “That human heart of his—Michael’s heart—might.”

John Henry heaved another long-suffering sigh. “That’s a gamble.”  

Cordelia took a sip of wine, her gaze downcast to the scattering of notes. “It’s all we have.”

They chose the main foyer to lay their trap.

Right below where the two central staircases converged, there was ample floor space. Langdon would have to set foot there when he arrived at Hawthorne, and by the time he recognized the power that surrounded him, it would be too late. For that to work, they needed the curse to soak into every single fiber of the room, to make the space itself alive with the full force of their magic.

And piece by piece, it did.

Sigils were burned into the floor, where they disappeared out of sight. That was Mallory’s doing, her strong, unwavering magic building the foundations of the curse. She had the most work of all, though she didn’t complain about it. Not once. Not even when she and Cordelia and Behold had to figure out the complex magic involved in restoring the entire Earth. The hard reset Cordelia insisted on seemed to be beyond anyone’s capabilities. But she was the exception.

More sigils were inlaid in the walls. John Henry oversaw the precise order and placement of each one from the notes that no one could read because he’d written them. The incantations were the most important—and required every single witch and warlock to chant the ancient words as one. That was the trickiest part. John Henry, Behold, and Cordelia went over the exact pronunciation beforehand until their students were tired of it; archaic Latin wasn’t everyone’s best subject at either school of magic, and one wrong syllable would topple all their hard work.

Designing a curse was fucking exhausting.

Emily slumped onto the staircase. Through a yawn, she asked, “So, what happens now?”

“This is going to get ugly,” John Henry said, running a palm across his face. “He’s coming here for revenge. He’ll want blood.”

“Which means you all need to get yourselves out of here,” Behold agreed.

“The three of us will stay behind,” Cordelia said. She studied the weary faces in front of her, so young, trying to hide their fear. “We’ll get out once we know Langdon’s activated the curse. But if this works—”

“And it should,” John Henry grumbled.

“We’ll have to stick close,” Cordelia told them. “We have to see this through to the end.”

***

A midday sun blazed scorching hot across the dry desert earth. Michael Langdon inhaled the scent of dust and heat, pausing to consider the gruesome scene in front of him. Three large birds, their pitch black feathers fluttering, beady eyes reflecting the bright sky, poked at an animal carcass. He couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a rabbit or a squirrel; tufts of brown fur were lost in the gore, dark scarlet staining the cracked earth. Two of the birds fought over the animal’s innards, pulling at them with their sharp beaks. Michael turned away, slightly unsettled, the edge of his cape rustling in the wind. He had no reason to fear the blackbirds—they were harbingers of his father’s presence, they kept a watchful eye from above.

And they wouldn’t be the only ones to spill blood today.

Michael drew in another deep breath, his fingers curling into light fists at his sides. He wasn’t so blinded by his own rage and vengeance that he couldn’t sense the magic inside Hawthorne. It was almost oppressive. It had never been that way before, not when he was a student. Maybe then he hadn’t been so sensitive to it. The power inside him was far stronger than it had been when he turned the library into a furious snowstorm. But now Hawthorne’s magic felt different to him, seeping out of the strange building to coil at his shoes like a fine mist.

It was strong. Defensive, he thought, if he had to give it a particular quality. But it wouldn’t give him any trouble. No witch or warlock had the power to rival Satan’s own son.

Hawthorne was quiet. Michael noticed an unusual tension in the air, a breath away from snapping. He could still remember the meticulous class schedules and customs, how the halls were always buzzing with noise and footsteps and voices chanting. Lessons took up every odd corner and room. The only time he’d ever seen it this quiet had been long after curfew, when he’d slip away to visit Ms. Mead, memorize the layout of the school, or try and contact his father.

It was just after twelve thirty in the afternoon. And yet, the halls were abandoned.

No, Michael thought, a snarl on his lips. Evacuated.

Someone told them he was coming.

“Cordelia,” Michael growled.

“Hello, Michael.” The voice was a gruff, familiar one that hadn’t so much said his name as it had spat it back at his feet.

Michael found John Henry Moore sitting in the middle of one of the main staircases. A single, flickering flame from a lighter—which he appeared to have some trouble igniting—illuminated the purple shadows beneath his eyes and his jaw shadowed by stubble. His gaze was dark, sharp as a razor.

“I thought you would have been smart enough to leave,” Michael said. His voice carried, bouncing off the cavernous walls as he approached. “After all, you were the one to see past the bullshit. You had me all figured out.”

John Henry’s gaze didn’t break from him, not when he took a long drag from his cigarette. Michael tilted his head a little, a provocation for whatever sarcastic comment John Henry had to offer him. The school’s magic still pressed in on him at all sides, in relentless waves, though there was no one else in sight. He listened, fingers flexing at nothing, stirring up the air. Testing it.

With a rough flick of his wrist, Michael sent John Henry flying backward up the staircase. His lighter clattered onto the steps at the same time his body landed with a crack, his neck twisted at a sickening, abnormal angle. A thin ribbon of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth onto the floorboards. His open, sightless eyes reminded Michael of the blackbirds feasting on their gory prey.

Michael lifted his chin in approval. But when he stepped forward to admire his grim handiwork, the magic in the room seemed to shift. Michael staggered back from the intensity of it, the crushing weight he felt from all sides. It immobilized him, kept him rooted to the spot where he stood. His hands curled into fists so tight that his nails bit into the skin of his palms. He tried to push against it, break it down like he’d torn through the defenses at the witches’ school. A hoarse, mournful, frustrated cry ripped free from his throat as the magic overpowered him and forced his knees to collapse.

And when he looked up, beneath the curls that had fallen into his eyes, he saw how the room itself had changed. He watched the markings surface on the walls. Symbols that meant nothing to him, scored into the stone and wood and tile as if they’d been etched there by fire. He lifted his palm when they appeared under him like they’d scorch his flesh. The complicated patterns arranged one by one, circle by circle. There was no one else in the room with him, not that he could see, but the air echoed with voices. They chanted as one, their ghostly chorus filling up the silence. Words he’d never heard before.

Words, he realized, that were meant to harm him.

“You’re not used to weakness, are you?” another voice asked.

“Cordelia,” Michael spat.

The ground trembled under the influence of magic. Some of the fires in the sconces on the walls flickered out. Michael let out a sob when the suffocating weight of the magic surrounding him turned into a sudden flash of pain. He fought again, pushing a hand toward Cordelia, fingers rigid with agony and a surge of pure hatred. Cordelia didn’t even flinch.

“You’re just a sad, scared little boy,” she told him. “And if you want to embrace that evil, then fine. You do that. You can tear apart the world until there’s nothing left. But now…it will cost you, Michael.”

“It already has,” Michael sobbed through gritted teeth.

“No.” Cordelia shook her head. “Not like this. If you want to become a monster, then who are we to deny you that? Your actions will have consequences, now; ones you won’t have any control over. The further you descend into darkness, you’ll have to live with what your choices have done to you. Every time you look at your reflection—when you see all that beauty withering away, you’ll think of the lives you’ve stolen and all the times you could’ve stopped. But no amount of regret will help you. It’s too late, Michael.”

A pain Michael couldn’t find the words for took hold of him, forcing another strangled cry from his lips. He was sprawled on the floor, muscles tense, tears streaming down the swell of his cheekbones. He felt the magic seeping into him, latching onto his bones, branding itself onto his very soul.

“Enjoy your apocalypse.”

The air went still and silent. Michael sensed the remnants of the magic as it receded and let go of him. There was nothing left except the sound of his ragged breathing. When he pushed himself off the floor onto his elbows, ignoring the deep, lingering ache in his body, Cordelia had disappeared. Her escape, and the warlocks’ covert plan to destroy him, renewed the flicker of rage in his heart.

Michael staggered back into the daylight with a curse sitting in his veins like poison.

***

Tagging my usual list + people I think might enjoy this fic (I hope you don’t mind)! And as always, if you want to be tagged, just let me know!

@lastregasolitaria​ @mylippo​ @zeciex​ @lvngdvns​ @langdonsdemon​ @wvntersldr​ @sojournmichael​ @gabnelson98​ @antichristlangdxn​ @keavysmithxoxo​  @batgirlbride​  @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998​ @gentianea​ @cryptid-coalition​  @kinlovecody​ @yuriohoe04​ @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean​ @jcshadowkiss-blog​ @frozenhuntress67​ @sebastianshoe​ @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435​ @holylangdon​  @angsty-otters-blog​ @denaexr @mr-langdonn​ @micheallangdons​ @lostin-fern​ @crazedcatcuddler​ @michaelsapostle​ @wroteclassicaly​ @monsucre @ritualmichael​  @queencocoakimmie​ @bluelancesredswords​ @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26​ @readsalot73​ @americanhorrorstudies​  @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini​ @xavierplympton​ @kaetastic​ @blakewaterxx​ @duncvns​ @codyssfern​ @avesatanormalpeoplescareme​ @langdonsoceaneyes​

[orsino-the-enchanter]

your muse as a lesser deity from Greek mythology

bold what applies - italicize sometimes -strike out never.  repost don’t reblog!

EROS: • scornful jealousy • pink • presents a certain decorum • heavy air in a nightclub • has a tattoo they regret (not exactly tattoos but still he hates the blood magic seals all over him) • sex & love therapist for their friends  (only for Quentin, he regrets it to this day) • juvenescent (he’s not young anymore) • uses enchantments (weapons only)• aloof (italics for canon, bold for post-canon)• wears rose-coloured glasses (i can see that happening only in the potterverse and modern verse) • velvet, latex, & lingerie (his robes are canonically made out of velvet, he HATES latex because it smells funny to him and he’s not against wearing lingerie) • milk baths with champagne bubbles (too extra, too luxurious) • impetuous in love (pining forever is still love) • intense eye contact is a sport • kinky • soft lips • wears stacked rings (he doesn’t but appreciates the aesthetic) • sets fashion trends (i’m not putting it above him)• graceful movements (he’s an elf,so)• marble floors • heavy perfume or cologne • deeply emotional • born glamorous (close enough, he’s born extra) •  

HECATE: • prefers canine companions (he’s afraid of dogs and mabaris in particular) • wears symbolic jewelry •  can see spirits (he’s a somniari so he can see them in his dreams. He hears them all the time in post-canon) • melting wax • uses hexes • feels most comfortable at night • smell of cinnamon (he’s allergic to it) • moonlight • red wine • understands poisons & herbs (although he’s an elf he doesn’t particularly like herbalism but he knows his poisons) • collects bones or feathers • partakes in rituals (blood magic and chill) • black • fog at night • is aware of their shadow self (again, somniari powers and undead in post-canon) • embraces the unknown • enjoys collecting secrets • approves of necromancy • meditates • has prophetic dreams (he doesn’t dream, he travels the fade so technically they’re not dreams, just a different reality)• lace • knowing too many secrets • fishnet stockings  (he doesn’t understand them)•

PAN: • enjoys poetry & prose • wool (in winter)• smell of decaying leaves in autumn • prefers to be barefoot (unlike many elves he has gotten accustomed to wearing shoes too) • tends to overindulge  • easily excitable • thriving in social circles (depends on the social circle. He’s a magnet for weidoes -see Uldred, Quentin-)• loves being around campfire (waaaaaarm) • antlers (he likes them when still attached to a LIVING animal) • dirt paths • the sound of wind/todash chimes (too loud) • penchant for sticky fingers • pine trees • stamina for days (he’s not the healthiest of people even at his best)• falls in lust (rarely) • vagabond • physically stronger than given credit for (that’s laughable) • foxglove (won’t need it) • welcomes luxury • non-confrontational  • charming words • talking to animals  • nature for jewelry (he likes them and wears them on special occassions)•

NEMESIS: • angry (rarely but when it happens, run) • protective of their values • balance & harmony • looks like an angel but isn’t (not an angel but he certainly looks more agreeable than what he is) • more perceptive than people realize (especially post-canon; people tend to underestimate the priviledge of fade voices talking in your head) • snow capped mountains • grey • wears leather • silver jewelry • likes snakes • can’t stand ignorance • believes in retribution • analytical of own emotions (he’s his worst enemy) • well read • marble columns • has very rigid morals • bruised knuckles • humorous under the sarcasm • clean workspace • everything in moderation (except emotions)• cold morning air • resting glare face • fluent in curse words (not his preferable method of insulting someone)•

HYPNOS: • very calm demeanor • easily overwhelmed (again, he’s an elf) • relaxing is their vice (he’ll relax when he’s dead)• transactional friendships (he wishes) • has a soft voice • head in the clouds • carries drugs with them (does elfroot count?)• has a sibling they’re close with • drawn to winged animals • lavender • has plush furniture/blankets  • starry eyed • horrible money management  • gives amazing hugs (he has issues with accepting hugs, like all elves) • dreaming big as a full time job • wears comfy or loose clothes (at night, cause his canon clothes are very form-fitting)• existential questions • not good at memory based skills • fairy lights • can’t sleep somewhere unfamiliar • crystalline chandeliers • dislikes bright sun • fluttering eyelashes (only to tease) •

IRIS: • life’s a technicolor spectrum (HISSSSSSS)• has a lot to say • beaming smiles • always has candy with them (he feeds off sweets, tea and elfroot; also to treat hs lil magelings) • flirting by accident (his only way of flirting)• walking to the beat of their own drum (in post-canon) • gossamer curtains (if he could have them)• has a surprising amount of connections • blushes very easily (he used to, but the emotion is still there) • confident laughter (chuckle)• uses a staff (the best staff of dragon age to be exact)• fresh fruit slices • decorated handwritten letters • a social chameleon (when he must)• blood made of honey (he’s a blood mage, so he could use that metaphor)• treating people with kindness (when they deserve it)• sentimental heart  • vases full of wildflowers • feels fulfilled when helping others • has a healing aura (used to)• always travelling • stained glass windows (if he could have them)• just trying to be a good person (the intention is there but he doesn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty if he has to)•

tagged by: @of-enormous-girth

tagging:  @bloodylyrium  @the-old-and-the-hapless @soldier-of-visus @prince-vael @enchanterthekla @haeler @the-flaming-pavus @venatoripavus @oftevinter @dreadeternal @hisfavoritewolf @redtemplarcommander @elderone @sworntoprotect @lowtownbutcher @the-champions-of-the-just

[pi-cat000]

Girl who made the night sky: p4

Summery: To return home Shikako splits herself infinitely across dimensions. A fault in one of the splits results in a discorporated Shikako stranded in the Naruto canon-verse.

part 3 here 

part 4: Sakura has a nightmare 

- Link to Juno-nine’s original post which inspired this work: Shikako hitches a ride with canon!Sakura

- My original post, Sakura continues to investigate under my Fanfic account: Starcat000

.

She was standing in the middle of a dirt field. In her hand was an awkwardly sized scroll. Across the field stands of people were watching in silent anticipation.

She was moving, swinging the scroll around till it hit the ground. Ink blossomed out from the point of contact, spiraling across the rock, dirt and grass. A city of stone rose up around her. Giant pillars of rock.

Was she doing that?

She was moving. Fast. Faster then she had ever moved. Seals flourished under her feet as she ran. Her opponent blocked her with waves of sand. Lighting danced between her fingers. Red hair flashed under the sun and her opponent ducked away. In the distance crowds were cheering. They were cheering for her. The world seemed to explode outward. The stone pillars were falling. She was falling. It was okay. Sand was cushioning her fall.

Then it was dark. The warmth faded to be replaced with a creeping cold.

Dust. It floated in the air, catching stray rays of light. A stone room. A stone floor covered in red. Red as far as the eye could see. The world was red. Shadows moved just out of sight, dancing out of reach. Something huge and unfathomable stirred. 

It watched.

It knew she was there.  

Fear, panic. She was trying to run but she had no body to run with. She was trying to escape but whatever it was had pinned her in place. She was shadow. She was nothing.

She was falling. Away. Away from everything.

Down, down, down.

Into the dark and shadow. It pressed down from all sides, sealing her in. Ahead a mass of dense backness blocked the way, offering a reprieve from the chaos. All she needed to do was sink. Sink and let it take her away.

/!WaKe uP!/

Sakura jerked, flinging herself upright.

Her muscles tense. Her breath short.

The world slammed down around her. Heavy and real. Instead of the suffocating darkness, there were soft blankets. Slowly, her vision seemed to clear. The dim outline of her wardrobe greeted her. For a few seconds she couldn’t breathe, her chest tight. The shadows around her wobbled and shifted like long appendages, reaching across the room.  

Kako was a churning mass of frantic concern, hovering just out of reach. Sakura fumbled for her lamp, switching it on. Warm light illuminated her room, softening its edges. The shadows were just shadows. For several seconds Sakura sat in silence, listening to her hash breaths and pounding heart.

/Okay?/

The question and its underlying concern penetrated her disjointed thought. She swallowed.

“Okay,” she repeated dumbly.

“Okay. I’m Okay,” her voice sounded hollow and wooden in her silent room, bouncing off the walls. She shivered. Kako seemed to calm, pulling away, distancing herself.

“What was that?” Sakura asked, trying to pull Kako back in. She didn’t want to be alone. Not after that.

/A Dream/

“That was a dream,” she whispered. It had been so real. The sound of her voice was absorbed into her carpet. Barely audible. She shivered, swallowing and pulling her knees to her chest. Silence ticked by, slow and uncomfortable. In the back of her head, Kako watched, also silent, reminding her of the dream. That thing had also watched from the shadows. It had seen her. What if it was still watching? Her breath hitched and the sound echoed, impossibly loud. Even the beat of her heart seemed too loud for the unnervingly silent room.

/Tea?/

The comparison shattered. Kako was Kako again, her concern palpable and warm. Sakura breathed, glancing up, shaking her legs free of the blanket. The movement felt good. Tea was a good idea. No way was she sleeping now. Quietly, she padded down the hallway and past her parent's room.

On first glance, the kitchen was dark and still.  Closer inspection revealed the far window, half open, letting in the sound of crickets and the street outside. A soft breeze pulled at the drapes. Moonlight illuminated the dining table in a soft glow and reflected on the metal appliances.

The motions of brewing tea, boiling water and finding cups, calmed her nerves, giving her something to focus her thoughts on. She poured a cup for herself and, after a second of hesitation, poured one for Kako as well, placing it opposite her own. For a few minutes she sat, watching the steam on both drinks rise, dispersing into the air.

/Better?/

Sakura took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of herbs and spices. She did feel better.

“Yeah,”

She took a small sip of the hot tea.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. All that fuss over a nightmare. And she called herself a ninja. What sort of Shinobi was scared of their own bedroom?

Kako stirred uneasily, /No thanks needed/.

Sakura focused inwards but Kato had pulled away, cornering herself off and out of reach. Maybe the dream had disturbed Kako as well. When you shared your emotions with someone you began to pick up on these things. She thought of the red and that thing, that terrifying thing watching.

A full body shudder. Maybe it had been more than a dream. Where they in danger?

Kako, sensing her distress, returned, edging back. A new warmth tickled the edges of her mind as Kako smoothed over the worst of her anxiety. No. They weren’t in danger. She took a sip of tea and relished its fruity taste.  Whatever that ‘not-dream’ was, she wasn’t in danger. She trust Kako.

In fact, now she thought about it- before the whole thing had spiralled down into a nightmare-it had been fun, exciting even. She had been fighting someone in some sort of tournament. No. That wasn’t right. It hadn’t been her fighting. She had been more of a passenger, reliving a past memory. Like those times she dreamt about Taijutsu class. So, if it hadn’t been her then…

It had to have been Kako. She was almost 99% certain. Sakura, shadowy monsters momentarily forgotten, turned her attention to Kako.

Intellectually, she knew ninjas had the capabilities to literally move mountains. She supposed she had never internalized what this might mean. The way Kako had combined seals and Taijutsu and Fūinjutsu. The speed, moving so fast the world became a blur. Explosions at the touch of a hand. It had been incredible. Better than anything Sakura thought possible. Better than anything she thought she was capable of.

“That was you fighting against the red-haired man wasn’t it?” How could it have been anything but?

Kako didn’t respond but her silence was enough for Sakura.

“You were amazing,” she muttered to her cup. Not for the first time Sakura wondered who or what Kako had been before she had ended up in her head. Did she resent being stuck with someone like her? Someone weak.

Kako remained silent, seemingly surprised by her words.

/Possible for you/

Sakura snorted, “How? I’m not strong. All I can do is read and memories stuff.”

She tried not to let the taunts of her peers influence her but, in situations like this, it was hard.

/Training/ Kako declared with finality, amusement echoing outwards. That was easy for her to say, Kako was a disembodied voice. When would she even have time for extra training? She bearly had enough time to pursue her own interests as it was.

/Anyone can be strong/ Kako encouraged, sounding like she actually believed it.

Maybe if she started waking up earlier she would be able to fit more training in. It wouldn’t be fun but if she managed her time correctly then perhaps she could work something out.

“If, hypothetically, I wanted to be able to do things like that where would I even start?”

Kako gave off an amused hum, /Stamina/.

Sakura scowled. Her least favourite of the shinobi arts.  

/Basics first / Kako reiterated, almost gleefully. She was getting the feeling that Kako was planning something unpleasant.

/Stamina is important/.

“Okay, fine, I’ll wake up early from now on and work on my stamina,” she agreed already regretting bringing it up. She just had to keep believing that this was better for her in the long run. Seals were all well and good but she needed to be able to apply them in combat, meaning she had to be faster, stronger, smarter, and all-around better than she was now.

She thought back to the ‘not-dream,’ to the sensation of flying and the ground to disappearing beneath her steps. She wanted to fly like that. She wanted to never feel that powerless again. Sakura shivered. Whether it be in a dream or in real life. 

With the power of good time management, anything was possible.

[elaestigirl]

♡        *　      ❝ 　   𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞   𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬   .

bold - canon verses. italic - verse dependent.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎  &  𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐓   .  suburban  july.  scraped  knees.  bruised  knuckles.  blood  in  your  teeth.  bare  feet  on  hot  concrete.  restlessness.  your  high  school’s  empty  parking lot.   love  poems  in  your  diary.  a  window  open  to  coax  in  the  breeze.  burning  inside.  an  ill - fitting  party  dress.  a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself.  the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bangs.  biking  to  your  friends  house.   bubble  gum.  gas  station  ice.  the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before.  rebellion.  a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street.  cheap  fireworks.  a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie.  switchblades.  red  solo  cups.  dancing  in  your  bedroom.  screaming  yourself  hoarse.  running  out  of  options.  the  forlorn  looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  a  cul - de - sac.  climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night  while  your  parents  are  asleep.   flip - flops.  a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf.  the  merciless  noontime  sun.

𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐋𝐄𝐓   .  speaking  in  a  whisper.   holding  your  breath.  a  browning  garden.  a  half  remembered  story.  furniture  covered  with  sheets.  fog  at  dawn,  mist  at  twilight.  losing  touch.  the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring.  the  soft  skin  at  your  temple.  the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror.  things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words.  uncombed  hair.  books  with  writing  in  the  margins.  books  with  cracked  spines.  books  with  lines  scratched  out.  prayers  on  all  souls’  day.  a  chipped  ceramic  bathtub.  a  cold  stone  floor.  the  uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat.  the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house.  shadows.  the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child.  a  dirty  night  gown.  an  oversized  t - shirt.  a  collection  of  your  favorite  words.  soil  beneath  your  nails.  ghost  stories.  the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth.  deep  silence.  exhaustion.  a  cliff  with  a  long,  long  drop  down.

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐓𝐇  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   .   wicker  deck  furniture.  new  england  summer.  large  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob.  a  storm  over  the  ocean.  patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind.  the  smell  of  chlorine.  muffled  laughter.  sarcasm.  starched  cuffs.  day  drinking.  bay  windows.  the  idea  of  love.  love  for  the  idea  of  love.  love  for  love’s  sake.  hangovers.  wandering  over  the  sand  dunes.  a  vagabond  with  a  guitar.  fishermen  with  tattoos.  a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie.  a  lighthouse.  growing  too  close.  boat  shoes.   feeling  yourself  change.  big,  floppy  sunhats.  double - speak.  a  song  you  keep  listening  to.  turning  red  under  their  gaze.  margaritas  drank  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger.  string  lights  on  a  balmy  night.  sleepy  june  days.  fights  you’re  unprepared  for.  hope  you  weren’t  expecting.  pranks  that  go  too  far.  bad  poetry.  pining.  becoming  less  of  a  stranger.

𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐇   .   the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be.  a  bird  that’s  lost  an  eye. old  blood  stains.   heavy  blinds.  the  smell  of  sweat.  the  stillness  after  a  battle.  a  fake  smile. a  curse.  the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue.  your  house,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark.  a  dusty  crib.  the  smell  of  sulfur.  an  orange  pill  bottle.  streaks  in  the  sink.  a  black  cocktail  dress.  your  hand  on  the  doorknob,  shaking.  a  chilly  breeze.  crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night.  clenched  hands.  a  rusty  swing  set.  a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00.  a  snake  that  crosses  your  path.  an  owl  that  watches  you.  a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach.  red  smoke,  dark  clouds. cool  steel.  tile  floors.  footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night.  a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before.  visions.  insomnia  headaches.  nursery  rhymes.  being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now.

𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐀𝐃𝐎  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆   .  the  high  drama  of  small  towns.  a  pickup  truck.  military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall,  hugs  all  around.  tulip  bulbs. a  wraparound  porch.  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea.  a  rubber  halloween  mask.  someone  on  your  level.   ill - timed  proclamations.  stomach  clenching  laughter.  rushing  in.  not  minding  your  business.  crepe  paper.  white  lies.  secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away. southern  hospitality.  homemade  curtains in  the  kitchen.  a  sink  full  of  roses.  hiding  in  the  bushes.  old  friends.  the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore,  and  her  mama  before  her.  a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary.  chamomile  with  honey.  the  intimacy  of  big  parties.  lawn  flamingos.  gossip.  a  crowded  church.  friendly  rivalries.  unfriendly  rivalries.  shit  getting  real.   love  at  five  hundredth  sight.  not  realizing  you’re  home  until  you’re  there.

𝐀  𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓'𝐒  𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌   .  the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves.  listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed.  wildflowers.  the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs.  a  pill  someone  slipped  you.  fear  that  turns  into  excitement.  excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy.  mossy  tree  trunks.  a   pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness.  night  swimming.  moonlight  through  the  leaves. a  bass  beat  in  your  chest.  a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose.  a  kiss  from  a  stranger.  a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree. glow  in  the  dark  paint.  drinking  on  an  empty  stomach.  a  twig  breaking  behind  you.  spinning  until  you’re  dizzy.  finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from.  an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods.  cool  dew  on  your  skin.  a  dream  that  fades  with  waking.  moths  drawn  to  the  light.  giving  yourself  over,  completely.  afterglow.  the  long,  loving,  velvety  night.

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a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ] at the beginning [ canon verse ] cold heart in red moonlight [ canon verse ] i won't leave you behind [ canon verse ] lost in the mist [ canon verse ] runaways [ canon verse ] marked by the serpent [ canon verse ] of fans and flowers [ canon verse ] one soul lies anxious wide awake [ canon verse ] ryū no ryokan [ canon verse ] this little light of mine [ canon verse what could have been [ canon verse ] what remains [ canon verse ] white hands of healing [ canon verse ] we're not in konoha anymore... [ crossover verse ] best years of your life [ au ] catch 'em all [ au ] divine light [ au ] healing waters and scorching flames [ au ] his angel fallen [ au ] like magic [ au ] make ends meet [ au ] of monsters and men [ au ] river runs deep [ au ] to rule them all [ au ] when dead walk [ au ]