#could be blood. could be bile. could be paint. (its not paint)

[noxturnalmoth]

Repentance

Summary: Repentance: n. the action of repenting, sincere regret or remorse.

Hurt, overworking and miserable, two souls find one another and fates intertwine even when they are worlds apart. How can one deal with the guilt of wanting something they cannot have? And why does going against the very principles you have imposed upon yourself feel so good?

Warnings: violence, crude language, themes of guilt, suicidal ideation, depression

Word Count: 5, 793

Masterlist: here

Chapter 1 - Erring in the City of Iron and Glass

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

"Go! Leave!"

"I can't! We stay together!"

"Just fucking leave! You'll end up dead!"

"I'm not leaving without you!"

Your voice screams, the is air scarlet and heavy with smoke, the sky is painted with burning flames as the stone beneath your feet is stained blood red.

Littered with corpses.

Children, men, women. It didn't matter to Piltover, Zaun and its people didn't matter to Piltover.

You never did.

You run after Hekarim, your older brother, your only family. But he is so much faster and your strides could only hope to match his as he marches into the fray like a Noxian soldier into a battlefield.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

The smell is enough to make you heave, burning flesh, gunpowder and chemicals, the smell of death.

"Don't leave me!"

"I need to, they need me!"

"You'll die! I don't want to be alone! Mom and dad said-"

He turns around, tears carving through the soot and blood marring his face. "Mom and dad are dead! They're gone! They have been for so long now!"

"You're all I have left! Please don't do this!" You cry out, finally catching up to him as he slows down, your knees giving up from under you as you hold him.

His arms wrap tightly around you, shielding you from the world crumbling around you. "If I don't fight for our freedom, then I don't fight for you. And I'll be damned if I can't strive for a better life, if not for me, if not for Zaun, then at least for you. Our people are fighting out there, and I can help, I need to do this little bird."

"I'm old enough Heka, I can fight!"

"If you don't survive, then I'd have fought for nothing. We finally have a chance at making a difference, I can't let it go to waste. As a Zaunite and as your brother."

Your shoulders shake, his do too. His hands cradle your face softly, his eyes raking over you as if to ingrain the sight in his memory before his forehead gently touches against yours.

The Zaunite symbol for love, a kiss shared to those you love most.

A goodbye.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

You claw at him as he leaves but your body is too weak for you to rush after him like before, the smoke erasing his silhouette all too soon as you crawl. Bile rises in your throat as you scream for him, shadows of your people falling like flies illuminated by the flaming bridge.

The bodies are piling up, surrounding you in a grotesque painting of mangled body parts and broken spirits. Yells echo in the air, yours, theirs, the enforcers', all swirling into an unintelligible cacophony of hatred, pain, fear, disgust and..hope.

Hope for a better future for Zaun.

Hope for a better life.

"Please!" Your people echo. "We are as deserving of a good life as any of you!"

Yet the pleas of Zaunite souls are ignored by the gods, the deities looking down, mocking your pitiful attempt at fighting for freedom.

Your legs shake, your balance all too troubled by the overwhelming scenery.

There it was, the proof that the lords above didn't care.

No, they didn't give a shit about any of you.

Neither did Piltover.

Neither did the rest of Runeterra.

Zaun was alone in its fight.

And you are now alone too. The last of your family taken in a conflict that should have never been, in a situation that could have been avoided if not for the greed of those in blue and gold.

You are terrified and all you can do is stand straight as you quiver in fear, watching the massacre happen.

Yet a noise you don't recognize resounds in the loudness of the battle, your own. A war cry, choked by tears, making its way out of your throat, ripping it to shreds as you rip a metal pole from a brethren's corpse.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

You run into the fray.

Fire burns your lungs, licks at your skin, and the blood covering you becomes wet again. The dried metallic essence fueled with life again as you bash an enforcer about to hurt a child.

"Run!"

And she does, her pink haired companion nodding at you in thanks.

You're gonna find your brother.

And if I don't then damn it all, I'll die here fighting too.

The gods don't hear you, they haven't for a long time. So you'll take the matter into your own hands and make them hear, make them see.

Bullets fly by you, piercing you with crimson lances of white hot pain, batons strike your young body, leaving trails of indigo while you soldier on. And you bash and bash, hiding behind the Piltovan forces before you skewer them, hiding between corpses so you can crack their skulls open, rage blinding your vision while you roar again. As loud and as hot as the flames that seemed to come from the river itself.

You have to.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

This pain is nothing, it's nothing compared to what you're about to lose, compared too all that Zaun has lost at the hands of the ones topside.

As if hell had opened itself up and you were about to be swallowed.

It's unfair! Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why?!

Bomb explode as your eyes watch a life drain because of you. You're a murderer now, you haven been since you entered the fray to fight for your people.

But so were they. Them in their ivory towers, them in their navy uniforms, them from the other side of the river. Them, them, them.

It's all their fault.

The loud bangs sound closer, yet so move forward. Only stopping at the sight of your brother, the man that raised you for most of your life after your parents died in the god forsaken mines Piltover has caged many of your people in.

It seems as if he's dancing, dancing the dance of your people. A dance of rage, of hurt, of hope. Yet you know he's fighting, not for his own life but for your own.

So your dead vocal chords cant help but let out a pathetic sound as the enforcers surrounding him beat him into submission. His body crumples yet he remains straight, even when brought down to his knees.

"Hekarim!"

His head turns and his look of horror turns turns wide eyes as a bullet is shot through his head.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

Then his body hits the ground, like many others around you. It ragdolls with a thud, crumpling to the ground lifeless.

Yet instead of the chaos you've been in for god knows how long since the revolt began, everything stops. Noises muffled, sight blurry and draining itself of every color. Every one of their eyes trail to you. Their filthy eyes, soulless and angry.

Then it all hits at once.

Kha nas xera.

I hate them. I hate them all.

Your throat doesn't make any noise when you yell and cry, stumbling over yourself as your rage moves your body like a puppeteer, pushing you to rush forward and attack. It doesn't make a sound as you're punched and kicked, as you claw at the men in navy blue.

It doesn't make a sound when they set off a grenade next to you.

Neither when your body is projected onto the stone fences bordering the bridge.

But your bones do.

A sickening crack overpowering every other unbearable noise when your back hits takes the blunt of the shock, a sharp breath burning your lungs with the flames surrounding you. Your mouth tasting blood, smoke and salty tears as you slump down with the other corpses.

You're gonna die. You're gonna die alone and you couldn't do anything else.

Hekarim had been right.

He'd fought for you and you've still gone and fucked it all up.

And now you'll be swallowed by the gaping maws of hell while the gods above get their entertainment.

You've been foolish, stupid, reckless.

You've been foolish and now you're paying the price.

"Wait for me in the abyss, Heka." Your soul calls out to one that has been long gone. "Mama, papa, I'm coming." One last tear escapes your eyes, the loud screeches surrounding you rolling over you one last time before they're drowned by the sound of your slowing heart while your eyes close.

Please gods above, take me away too.

But I beg of you let my people live.

"-llo?"

Janna, is that you?

"-ello?"

Have you finally come to protect us? After you've abandoned us to pain and misery?

"Hello?"

Wait, you're not-

____

"Hello! Runeterra to the bartender, anybody home?"

Your head snaps up.

You rub your blurry eyes, the first thing coming into view being a familiar mop of magenta hair, powder blue eyes concerned and gentle as you emerge from your thoughts. Warmth seeping through your shirt from the person's hand shaking your shoulder hurriedly.

Then comes in the cozy dark green wallpaper and mahogany hardwood floors that you've grown used to these past few years, scarlet curtains framing small booths carved into the walls. Chairs and tables arranged in a way you've memorized, carved in your mind's eye after years, and a cold, scratched, oak counter top beneath your arms contrasting with the warm touch nudging you awake. Next to the pink haired girl stands dark brown haired woman, her tan skin looking soft in the warm lights of the bar as her grey eyes observe you with worry.

Finally come in the rest, the smell of leather and alcohol, tobacco lingering at the forefront of it all. The sound of music emanating from a jukebox in the corner of the room.

"You're good, kiddo?"

A low feminine voice attributed to the older woman rings as you blink away the last of tears you haven't noticed were flowing freely from your eyes like rain from the heavens.

"Yeah, you've been staring at the wall, crying for the past ten minutes."

Only ten?

It felt like an eternity.

But then again, time is different in hell.

You shake your head with a drawn out sigh as your hands wipe at your face hurriedly, getting rid of the last of your daydream and its traces on your face.

"Oh yeah, my bad girls. What were we talking about again?"

"Oh hell no, we're not skimming past that dude." You groan at the scolding.

"Vi, really, I'm good. C'mon, you're gonna get on my ass for being distracted now Miss Darcy. I'm just a bit tired is all."

The girl looks at you unimpressed, her famous "shut up" look craving through her face like a chisel through marble. Yeah, she wasn't taking any of your usual deflection today. And Sevika neither by the looks of it.

"Really, I just think I've been working a little too much lately. I just need to rest."

"Bullshit, we both know you won't." Grumbles the taller lady, slipping behind the bar counter, next to you, before she cages you against the counter top.

"And that you're lying about being just a little tired."

Back groaning at standing for so long, hunched over in an uncomfortable position, you slump against the corner in resignation, grunting as your two friends corner you and hound you with care.

Undeserved.

Too much.

Yet always appreciated.

You've been working with them at The Last Drop for years, Violet recognizing you even years after the bridge "incident", as the Pilties called it, and offering you a spot at her godfather and uncle's bar. Not only to "repay a debt", which you insisted was non-existent in the first place, but also for friendship, wanting more people around her age in her life.

You didn't blame her, you were grateful in fact.

You were grateful to Sevika too, who endorsed Vi in her quest to get you in the staff due to seeing your teen self rushing into the fray thirteen years ago. Admiring your courage and scolding your foolishness, forcing you to promise never to put yourself in such danger ever again.

Back then you let out a bitter laugh, the promise easy enough to make from the traces the battle left for you.

Parts of your spine were broken to such an extent that you'd have to wear a brace for the rest of your life, limiting movement and straining you until the day you died.

Since that day you've been alone. Working shitty job after shitty job to sustain yourself while the Pilties seemed to go back to their peaceful lives. Your spine screaming louder after years of slaving away for your own safety and a life that was worth living.

Yet you persevered.

Clawed your way out of the pit that topside has dug for all of the children they ripped families away from.

And now here you are, working two jobs, having your small shoddy apartment and two friends you wonder if you truly deserve. They tell you that you do, yet it's hard to believe when every night is plagued with the same visions. Ghosts that seem to never want to let go of you, now even throughout the day. Clawing at you from the inside and screaming in your head, filling your eyes with sceneries straight from hell. Yet you know it to be far from the truth. Or hell is on Runeterra, and it likes your pain enough to rip you apart day after day.

You'd think you would have grown accustomed to them. Yet if anything, the constant reminders only make you grow more weary each day that passes.

"What's your schedule been like?" Violet slides next to you, her shoulder nudging yours softly to snap you out of your reverie.

"The usual? I don't know, I don't feel much has changed."

When you turn pain bites at your upper back and your hands grip the bar top, nails biting into the wood while you set your jaw to stop any noise of pain to escape you. Vi looks at you with the same expression she always has in moments like this, sisterly love. For being five years your junior, the girl surely know how to make you feel younger with her affections.

"Tell us, or we're gonna have to tell Silco and Vander about it."

"Yeah, can't have our bartender keeling over one night." Sevika sets herself on your other side and slides your stool under you, reserved for when your back gets too much. You nod your thanks and let out a groaned out breath at the feeling of your body not needing to hold itself up anymore.

"Just nine to five at the library and the usual seven to two in at night for the bar. Same as always."

"Same as always. Well seems like this isn't sustainable for you anymore. I don't even think it ever has been. You do know that working yourself to death is not gonna fix anything, right?"

"Have you been-"

"I have been, Vi. I've been journaling, I've been drinking less, I've been trying to get more than three hours of sleep per night. But I can't, nothing clears my head, I can't even afford a good therapist because they're so rare in Zaun it's like trying to find a unicorn, and like hell I'm going topside because they'll only extort me until I have nothing left."

The women at your sides nod in understanding. They've been trying to help yet nothing seems to soothe the storm of your soul, forever raging, ever restless, screaming from the depths of your very being and haunting you at every moment. Their support means the world to you though, and you feel like you never know how to show just how deeply important their presences are within the nightmare of your life. You feel like you're not grateful enough for all that they've done for you, not deserving enough. Like you're-

"You're not a lost case, Maestro."

You chuckle bitterly at the nickname, your two friends having nicknamed you as such because you were the "drink virtuoso" of The Last Drop. The young bartender that knew people's tastes like the back of her hand at first glance and who always knew which buttons to push to get clients to buy something more expensive if they could afford it.

"Sevika's right. She's doing better, Silco and Vander too, not to forget Powder and I. You'll make it. We just have to find the right coping mechanism, the right…thing."

Violet mumbles, cursing at herself for being bad with words compared to her more "proper" girlfriend Caitlyn, a Piltover enforcer born in one of the gilded city's most noble families.

"I know but I've tried so much. Many options I don't have the time for, others are too expensive, the rest just doesn't work. You two are keeping me afloat but I wonder if I'm just rotten work, like trying to help me or even simply being around me is just gonna end up wearing you down in the end."

The women chuckle and eye one another with a smile, one of their arms wrapping around your back in two half hugs.

"You? Wear us down? Now aren't you underestimating us?"

"I think you forgot who you're talking to so let's remind you. We're your best friends, and if you think you'll ever get rid of us because you're a mopey little shit then you clearly are overestimating yourself."

"Sev's right, you're a cocky bitch if you think you're so cool that you'll be able to push us away in any way, shape or form. We're the dirt under your nails, Maestro. Don't you dare forget that."

"Oh fuck off you two."

You chuckle along, the burning flames of the bridge cooled by the laughter of the women holding you.

"You know we're right."

"Yeah yeah, now stop being gay and help me cleaning. Butch one you take the booths, Butch two you take the floor. I'll take the tables and bar."

"Shut your trap, kid."

"Aye aye captain."

Are chuckled out as your two friends leave your side to get started on tidying up the bar, the soft notes of the jukebox rhythming the cleaning and softening the heaviness in the air while you stretch. Getting out of the stool feels like a ton of lead has been dropped onto your shoulders and pain fires through you like electrical current but you still pick up your rag, a bottle of cleaning product and make your way to the tables.

It's comfortably silent between the three of you from then on. Humming coming from your throat as you bend over, scrubbing away at the traces of alcohol and crumbs left by patrons on every table, placing the chairs upside down on each and every one of them after wiping them down too.

Vi taps your ass with the broom while passing by you and you slap her arm, the girl acting hurt and falling to the ground at the ministration.

"How could you hurt me so, dear friend?"

"You already got a fine piece of ass at home, don't be greedy Darcy."

And you offer your hand and Violet refuses before you grab hers anyways and drag her up, your body shaking in pain as you pick your friend from the floor. She pinches your hips with a softly scolding look before going back to cleaning the floor.

Time passes and the bar top is the last surface that needs cleaning, Sevika and Violet try to get you to stop but you push them away.

"My bar, my responsibility."

"Technically it's Vander and Silco's-"

"I'll rip your tits off Sev."

"Bite me."

"Nah, you'd like that. You whore." She barks out a laugh at that, "touché" escaping her painted lips as she gets out her pack of cigarettes, two little cylinders are pulled out from it and she places both in her mouth to light them. The flick of her lighter echoing through the now silent room before she gives you one of the smoking tubes.

You inhale, the smoke filling your lungs in an all too familiar way and nicotine rushing through you while you slump over the spotless oak with your arms crossed, your eyes softly closing to enjoy the taste of tobacco and the presence of the two women at your side.

Just a normal night, after a very usual day. You dread to think about your weekend, having nothing to do killed you a little every time it happened, the silence of your apartment too loud and only serving to fuel the maelstrom of feelings swirling within you at any moment. Anytime you try to sleep those days off you wake up sweaty and screaming like every night, unable and unwilling to fall back asleep.

Life for Zaun has gotten better, sure. Access to topside was not as restrained, the city was given sovereignty after the complete hecatomb that happened thirteen years ago opened the eyes of many to the destiny of most Zaunites under Piltover's rule. It took about seven years for the gilded city to surrender Zaun and accept it as an equal, since then business had been booming, general health and education got much more advanced yet a lot was still a work in progress.

Progress that was not achieved with much help from Piltover, no, but by the blood, sweat and tears of the people from the Undercity. Who worked hard to make living here much more comfortable with the new influx of income and trades from all around the world.

And you were proud of your brethren for making it this far, you were proud to be part of such an enterprise to make Zaun a better place.

Yet no matter how much you worked then, how much you work now, how much you fought and still fight, you still can't find it within yourself to find forgiveness. Not after witnessing what you had, feeling what you did. Even if Vi's girlfriend was a kind girl and very involved with her family to help Zaun, the actions of one still didn't make the bile rising in your throat when thinking about Piltover subside.

You didn't necessarily hate everyone topside. The targets of your rage were their police force and their politicians who, for three hundred and fifteen years, cultivated a mentality of elitism and classism that was the flail used to whip your people into submission. To make Zaun into their own colony, providing for their every whims while they stood behind you, twiddling their thumbs and laughing at your misery. So you still had a hard time feeling comfortable or peaceful with the people that persecuted your own, directly or by proxy, many had let this happen even if they knew it was wrong and that was something else you could not forgive.

None of the rage you direct towards Piltover can truly fill the hole within you, though.

A hole that had been dug since you were born, the intrinsic Zaunite anger at the unfairness of others' treatments towards you ingrained within every part of your DNA. A hole that became a fissure, similar to those trencher miners would die in, when your parents died in a crumbling mine that was left operating even with the dangers its state was dismal. A fissure that became an unspeakable abyss the day of the bridge revolt when you lost Hekarim and so many of your own, nearly meeting your maker as well in the process.

An abyss that you've tried to fill with anger, with so much work that your body would crumble the second you reached your small apartment, with your two friends' presence that although helped you, never filled the tear in your soul. No, the abyss grew with time, no matter how many books you read, how much music you listened to, how many hobbies or coping mechanisms you tried.

It grew.

And grew.

And although you've ignored it, you're becoming unable to. The exhaustion. Setting deep within your bones from the sleepless nights, from the overworking, the constant reminders of vision's you'd rather forget. It's like no matter what you try, your symptoms only become worse.

And you feel so much guilt.

At not feeling well, at not being able to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, at not seeing how far you've come, at your friends not being nearly enough to fix the broken, ugly mess that you are.

You feel guilt for losing faith at everything in life that pertained to you. You are on survival mode, and you can't flip the switch off. But there's only so much you can do on survival mode before you shutdown.

And right now you were going down that slide at immense speed.

One where your thoughts would drag you to commit something that would never be able to be taken back.

And you hoped that if it ever came to that, you'd at least be missed.

snap

Your eyes swiftly get to Sevika who's snapping her fingers at you, her other hand holding the ashtray under the cigarette currently burning away between your lips.

"Yeah no, we're not taking I'm fine for an answer."

"Sev, c'mon."

"No, girl, c'mon. You're not okay."

"Vi." You whine, taking a deep inhale from your cigarette, the smoke escaping your nose in two streams. "Really, I'll be fine. I'm a big girl I can take it, you know me."

"Not anymore it seems." Inhale, Sevika gazes at you with a knowing look shining through her steel tinted eyes.

"You're trying to do all of this by yourself. And we get it, we really do, but you're just pulling yourself deeper." Exhale, Vi brushes her hand on your arm comfortingly.

"We love you, and all we want is your good health and for you to finally be able to rid yourself of whatever's going on in there. You don't tell us because you want us safe, yet what about you?" Inhale.

"We've thought of something, and we know you'll vehemently refuse at first, but it's free and many people find comfort in it. Especially here in Zaun."

You tilt your head, smoke held in your lungs as you look at your two friends inquisitively.

"So, would you be willing to go to church?" Exhale.

Stub.

"No."

They look at one another in a way you knew all too well. They knew of your stubborn streak, to anything related to Piltover. And to faith.

You had prayed everyday for your parents' safety. They died, alone, in the dark and ripped to shreds by rubble.

You had prayed everyday for your people's freedom. They kept on dying unjust deaths by the hand of their greedy, self-important jailers.

You had prayed for your brother to be alive that day. He was ripped away from you before your very eyes.

You had prayed for your own death, to stop the pain, to stop you from losing everything when nothing was left anymore. Yet you lived.

The lords above didn't exist.

And if they did they had abandoned Zaun.

And me.

So like hell you'd go to a place of worship to any one of them. That day you abandoned them just like they did you, mockingly watching from above as meaningless deaths happened beneath their almighty gazes once more.

"Listen. We know. But would you listen to us?"

You look at Violet with expectant eyes, exhaustion pulling your lids down into a glare that has been carved into your face, never to be erased.

"Powder has a tutor, she has for a while now, and turns out he's a priest for the local Jan'ahremite church. He seems like a good man and maybe he'd know how to help, it's his job to lead those who are lost and all that. You could go to mass, test the waters, you could even confess! It's like therapy, but free."

You exhale a sharp breath.

"Vi's right, but there's also the fact that you'd be surrounded by a community. It would do you good, go at least twice. Please? We know it's far from what you want but it could be what you need. You don't need to believe, just to be there."

"What do you have to lose, right?"

You pull away, slowly making your way to your coat hung behind the bottle filled shelves, your back screaming at you for rest as you cover yourself, slipping one arm after the other in the long sleeves. You pass by the counter where your two friends are, stopping at their level as Sevika calls out for you.

"You can't keep on going like this, kiddo. We may not know what's going on in that head of yours, but we know it's far from pretty. Everyone needs something to believe in, and as is, we know your faith is in nothing but your own fall."

You scoff. "Understatement of the century Sev."

"Even more of a reason to try! We don't ask you to pray, to beg for whatever god may listen, only to see if it'd help. I'd be more than reluctant to step a foot in a church myself, and I know that Sevika too." The older woman scoffs as she nods at Vi's words. "But we know that wherever your mind's headed right now could potentially take you from us, and we can't imagine Zaun without you. Neither can little man or Powder."

"Hell, Vander and Silco would hate to lose you too, every patron around here and everyone at the library too."

"You're worth so much more than you can imagine to so many of us. So, please, at the very least if not for yourself, do this for us."

Your hands grip tightly at the counter top, a lump forming in your throat at the very thought of stepping into a god's space. Wanting nothing more than spit and yell in rage at their pictures and statues, never to be vulnerable for them ever again.

"I'll think about it."

Is all you can manage to let out.

"And that's all we ask."

You nod, the three of you leaving the building and locking up behind yourselves and Vi nudging her forehead to yours as a loving goodbye before she hops on her motorcycle.

"Kid, you know we love you, right?"

You purse your lips, eyes looking down as your heart drops to your stomach. Feeling all too undeserving of the words.

"Yeah, I know Sev." Your gaze reaches hers, and you know she understands what you mean with it.

I love you too.

You sigh and softly place your forehead on hers.

"See you on Monday, kid." She ruffles your hair lightly and walks away, her body illuminated by the kaleidoscope of Zaun's neon signs.

You get in your car, the music not loud enough to drown your thoughts, the words and melodies jumbling in and all too familiar self-deprecating dance as you arrive home.

Your body drags and you step foot within the threshold of the building, it slumps against the elevator's walls as you wait for your floor and it drops onto your bed as you arrive at your bed.

Your phone is put to charge, your clothes and brace are taken off for the night and you refuse to get up for any food or water. The comfort of your mattress pulling you in like quicksand in the deserts of Shurima even if your mouth is pasty and your stomach grumbles.

Your eyes trail to your ceiling, tears rolling down like a waterfall before you even realize what's happening. No sob escapes you, you believe you've exhausted your capacity for them since hell opened its gaping maw and presented you what it had to offer.

Exhaustion, bone deep, was eating away at you like water erodes stone. Your soul was rotting and although you could always keep yourself together it seemed like your willpower was abandoning you.

Just like everything and everyone always did.

Were Violet and Sevika right? Could going to this place of worship work, even with your hatred of those sitting on their golden thrones up above? Could this be it, the one last thing that could help you from drowning further in the dark tar possessing every inch of your heart?

I don't think so.

Yet as much as the thought of standing before the eyes of a deity makes you sick, you make yourself sicker. A hateful, pained and pathetic little thing you are, filled to the brim with so much sadness that no good can truly reach you and pull away the black veil blinding your soul. A disappointment, a failure.

And yet your two friends still remained by you.

You could wallow all you want, but bile rises in your throat at the thought of hurting the girls that stand by your side even after everything.

Even if respite in death is all you crave now.

Maybe you could try one last time. To make them proud more than to save yourself. Although if the latter came with the former you would accept it with open arms.

Yet I still find myself unable to believe that the broken mess that I am can be fixed.

I am beyond saving.

But for them you'll try. Your final attempt at piecing yourself back together.

Your eyes close, the last of your tears contained beneath the dam of your lids. Images quickly flickering from the bridge to Sevika and Violet standing next to a grave, their gazes a storm of regret and pain as they cry and call out to you softly. Praising you even after you took the cowardly way out, even after you abandoned them.

"If not for yourself, do it for us."

Yes, for them you'll try anything.

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[slashthrashandcrash]

Same anon that voted for 2 here and hell yeah venesian mask goes hard

maybe also like the overalls have like ‘paint’ splatters on them (its blood.) but mans also a massive clean guy and would prolly have access to peroxide

Yeah yeah okay that's mb since I responded to another comment too but since these are his murder clothes they're absolutely covered in old blood and grime and bodily fluids, I probably should have included some stains on clothes in the sketches lmao

[beloveds-embrace]

Until the Last Loop: the Execution

(How many times must you repeat the same song and dance before the curtain falls?

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

The crowd screamed for your blood.

Their voices rolled over the courtyard like thunder- sharp, frenzied, and hungry, sharks smelling blood in the waters. You didn’t flinch. You had stopped flinching a long time ago. Instead, you stood on the scaffold with your wrists bound in rusted iron and your knees aching from where you’d been forced to kneel, a once-proud back bent into prostration.

The cold bites through the thin silk of your dress. You feel the rough wood splintering beneath your knees, the way the wind stings your skin, the weight of the executioner’s shadow looming above you.

You were not allowed the dignity of a white dress, or a veil or a blindfold. You never were.

The wood creaked beneath you as the executioner shifted, sharpening his blade against a whetstone. Sparks flew, bright and vengeful. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at the crowd either, for they were all familiar scenes- so much so you were sure that if you were to be given a canvas and paint, you would be able to redraw it all simply from memory.

Instead, your gaze wandered.

You let your eyes drift across the sea of faces twisted in hatred, searching for the one thing that hadn’t changed in all these lifetimes-

And there he was.

You spotted him near the back, the man in the crowd. As always, standing just close enough to see the platform clearly but far enough to remain unnoticed by the mob. Hooded, broad-shouldered, and still. He didn’t yell. He didn’t jeer.

He just watched. He always did. The same stance, the same gaze.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to look away. He had been there in every loop, always standing in that exact spot, and you had stopped trying to understand why. Whatever answer you might have once craved had been buried under exhaustion and bitter acceptance, and the defeating knowledge of not knowing where to even start searching for him.

The executioner finished sharpening his blade and stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wood. The crowd’s roar swelled as the official stepped forward and began to read the charges- words you had heard so many times they no longer felt real. Were they here, you wondered, listening to your crimes?

“Treason against the Crown.”

Your nails dug into your palms.

“Conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Attempted regicide.”

The crowd erupted at that, like oil meeting water, and you wondered- not for the first time- if they even cared whether the charges were true. It didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to blame.

And you had always been an easy target.

The executioner raised the blade. The sun caught its edge, and for a brief moment, you saw your reflection- tired eyes, hollow cheeks, and lips pressed into something that could no longer be called a smile.

The crowd roared louder. The executioner took his stance.

You closed your eyes.

And the blade fell.

You wake with a gasp.

The silk sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild animal escaping the clutches of its predator, and for one wild moment, you’re sure you can still feel the blade at your neck, the bite of steel against soft, tender flesh-

But there’s no blood. No pain.

Just sunlight streaming through the tall windows, warm and golden, painting the room in the soft golds and reds of the afternoon.

You stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the bile rising in your throat. The air smells like jasmine and lavender. It always does.

You force yourself to sit up even when your muscles ache, and your wrists burn with phantom pain from where the shackles had been. There are no marks, but the memory lingers, haunting every little move you make.

How many times now?

You stopped counting after twenty. It didn’t matter. It never changed.

The knock at the door comes exactly when you expect it, after you had forced yourself to clean away the sweat rolling down your skin and sat at your settee, begging your heart to calm down.

“Your Highness?”

Your maid’s voice.

You already know what she’ll say, what expression she’ll wear when she steps inside. But you don’t move.

The door opens, and she enters with a bow, her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression detached and polite. And behind her, four men follow.

You don’t need to look to know who they are. They’ve been with you every life, always the same tune and dance.

He stands at the front, broad-shouldered and commanding, streaks of gray in his beard and sharp eyes that feel like knives. You meet his gaze, by now fully used to him and his presence. Price- John, he’d said you can call him either in your last few lives, when your spoilt attitude had been stripped off you with each death.

“You ain’t so bad, princess. Not a hoity-toity piece of work.”

Slowly, the others trickle in after him.

The mask hides most of his face, but you don’t need to see it to know what’s underneath is Ghost. He watches you the way a predator watches its prey- calm, patient, and ready to strike, but you know that later, he will ever so slightly warm up to you.

“I don’t know what to do… I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!”

“I know. But you’ll catch a cold if you stay out any longer, princess.”

Soap smiles when he steps inside, easy and disarming, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near the dagger at his hip. That same dagger has saved you before, but not always. In some lives, he is not there with you when you get ambushed- you were such a hard thing to get along with before- and yet in other lives…

“Wee lass, tell me where ye’re goin’, and I’ll protect ye always, aye?”

Quiet, steady, and sharp, like a hawk out for hunting. Gaz’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging every detail before they land on you and he nods towards you. Polite, always polite, even when you’d been like a hissy, feral cat towards him in times. Gentle when you’d been a quiet, reserved version of yourself.

“…will you stay with me? Just tonight? Please, Gaz… I feel lonely.”

“Course, princess. You don’t have to ask.”

You exhale slowly.

They’re different from the crowd, from the nobles and commoners of the kingdom. Always have been, always will be. They don’t look at you with hatred, even if they have their own misconceptions of you. But they’re still here, still close, in this life and before and next and that makes them special to you.

And this time, you… don’t have the energy to keep yourself away from them.

Price steps forward first, always the leader.

“Princess,” he says, and there’s something heavy in the way he says it. Like it means more than just a title. Or maybe less; mercenaries care little for royalty beyond what they can offer them. “We’re here to protect you.”

You almost laugh. Hired by king for no knight wanted to work for you, the shameful stain no one wanted to acknowledge or favor too much.

Instead, you turn your head and stare out the window, heart still pounding against your ribs.

“You’re wasting your time.”

You expect them to leave, even if you shouldn’t. Most people do when you push them away. Though you told yourself you won’t keep yourself away from them, you also truly want to just exist quietly, unperceived, until the inevitable hour arrives and you return back to this point.

But Price doesn’t listen to you, unsurprisingly. You can see your maid scoff about his nonchalant manner out of the corner of your eye.

“We’ll see about that, Your Highness.” He says, unbothered by your attitude.

And when you finally look at him again, his eyes are lingering on you- steady and sharp.

And thus, the loop starts anew.

Part Two

Masterlist

[trulyumai]

Be My Distraction

pairing: emperor geta / wife! reader

Synopsis: Bloodshed wasn't in your interest. good thing you had your emperor there to comfort ill feelings.

Warnings: blood, violence, fighting.

Enjoy!

You’ve been married for eight months and twenty three days. It was rough in the beginning— to be belittled so easily and forgotten within every moment the two of you spent together. 

But over time, the jokes, the pradling eased. He didn't grab you as much, or as roughly as he once did. The scratches, the bruises faded with time, no more did they grace your cheeks, your arms. 

You learned early on that the man craved violence— sought it out in the coliseums every so often. Blood didn't seem to bother the emperor, in fact, the more that the maroon color graced his presence, the better. 

You, however, could do without. 

It was so hot- so stuffy that day. Humidity clung to your skin like an unwanted sickness. Sweat dabbed at your brow as you tirelessly fanned at your face, sitting just beside Geta himself. The crowd was ever so loud, jovially crying out, impatient for the show to begin. 

The emperor sat, knees spread with an arm bent on the rest attached to the chair. 

“This will be a good one,” Beside him, his brother; Caracalla hummed in agreement, giggling at the aggressive pushes and shoves the citizens gave to one another. 

You couldn't imagine how hot it must be down there, so close to the pit. 

Even up in the stands, you thought you might melt. 

“Wife, did you hear me?” 

Flinching you looked back at Geta, meeting his intense gaze upon your form. 

“W-What?” 

“I said, are you ready to be entertained?” 

The movement in your hand stopped, it was useless trying to fight such a heat. Not wasting a breath you answered. 

“Of course, husband.” 

Smiling, the man stood and raised his arms to the citizens. Screams erupted, they cried out in response to the man of such power, of such terror. 

With his arms back at his sides; the signal was given. 

The fight could commence. 

Roughly turning back to the box, Geta sat upon the edge of the throne, waiting to see the first death of the match. 

Not wanting to disappoint him, you stood straight, facing the clashing of swords, the crying of men. A particular soldier had ill timing with his slash, missing his foe entirely. It left him open for a second, but that was all the time that was needed. With a quick slash, the man's entrails dangled from his stomach, painting the ground a bright red. 

It was unbearable to see such a display of violence, to see these men's lives end right before your eyes. 

Your palm met with the skin of your lips, afraid of the rising bile you covered your mouth tightly, eyes gazing over with wet desperation. 

A distraction— you needed one and quick. How embarrassing would it be for the wife of the emperor to throw up her morning meal? 

In front of her own citizens? 

Nothing was working, the sounds, the clashing was too loud. The blood littered the field, running freely over the crevices with its own dirtied purpose. 

Your breathing was beginning to be too fast, too quick to catch up with. 

Think, think, think- 

“Wife?” 

Oh gods. Not now. You couldn't take the poking, the showing of bodies that lay limp and torn. 

Geta noticed the desperation in your eyes, the way you squeezed your mouth shut like a tragedy just struck before the coliseum.

“Wife. Look.” 

“Geta please-” 

A hand reached out, a mirage of colors graced your vision. 

His hand? 

His.. rings? 

“Oh…” you sighed, reaching out with both hands to grip onto the bigger one in front of you. 

“New rings?” you smiled. The bile no longer burned the back of your throat, with ease it bubbled down and the taste of your previous meal left instantly. 

“Indeed. See this one?” His pinky moved lightly, it moved up and down meticulously.

You nodded and the jewelry around your neck sounded out. The man couldn’t help but look upon it, with a smile of his own. 

The golden chain you wore, decorated in the finest stones lay about your image, resting just above your collarbones. He remembered gifting it to you not long ago, just upon the third full moon of this month's harvest. 

Your touch brought him back to the present. To your sweating form.

“This one brings good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” 

“Mmh,” he agreed, once more setting his eyes on the show in front of him. 

Couldn’t show everyone how soft he could be with his betrothed. His reign would lose its footing; a weakness she brought, they would say to him.

“What would you need that for, dear husband, when you have so much already?”

He could see you from the corner of his eye. Saw the way you stroked at his fingers with a light- loving touch. 

Your hands were much softer than his, he had to resist letting out a pleased sigh at such a discovery. 

“There can always be more.” He spoke low, distracted by the onslaught of men that paraded around the ground floor. 

“...I suppose.” The nausea was replaced with a wave of comfort. His heavy hand sat atop your lap, with your smaller fingers dancing across the new set of rings upon the man's digits. 

“Husband?”

Geta hummed. With no response, it meant he was starting to get impatient, itchy with anger. 

“Can I hold your hand here, for a while?” 

The emperor didn't say anything for a concerning amount of time. The comfortability was wearing off with every scream and groan that left the pit. Swords clashed on and on. 

Not wanting to upset your husband further, you tried to back up, to take the words out of the air. 

“Im sorry, forgive me-” 

“I suppose.”

Geta’s eyes never strained from the fighting and yours never left his image. But even from the side, you could see a softness that wasn't there before. The way his hand relaxed against yours. Ever so rough upon your oiled and cared for palms. 

That was all that needed to be said. 

You watched on, caressing Geta’s hands every so often in unspoken affection. 

A/N: we love a man that can calm down his wife with barely any effort. something about big scary men being soft with their wife has me in a chokehold and im sorry

[sweetlywriting]

Allegiance

Feyd Rautha x Reader

Part one Part two

Warnings-Dune II spoilers, minor violence, enemies to mutual respect to fiancés(?)

Synopsis- Your planet is rich in horticulture and resources but faces the growing fear of imperialism from other houses. A solution presents itself when you are offered to marry their heir to house Harkonnen, Feyd Rautha.

You entered into the colosseum-esque arena, fascinated with the way the sun cast a veil of black and white onto everything within its grasp. It was subduing, and you felt as though you were in an old imperial painting-where all was colorless but the expressions of the people in them.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy this. Feyd Rautha wanted you to arrive today so you would be able to see the show” The Baron said in his mangled voice, gesturing a pale hand towards you.

“I am honored to be in attendance Baron, especially on such an important day.” You said, musing on how it was rather generous for the Na-Baron to allot your visit on his own birthday.

You were excited, no one had told you quite what the entertainment was but you could imagine great performances and exotic animals in the Na-barons name. A lighter part of you also wished to see what he looked like, how he held himself, the tone of his voice-though surely upon the prospect of marriage it was rational to take into consideration.

A crease began along your mouth as three staggering men in chains were pushed into the arena along with who you could only assume was the Na-baron. Your temperament quickly changed realizing the entertainment was a fight to the death. The discontent grew seeing that two of the weren’t even truly conscious, stumbling and flailing. ‘A cowards move’ you thought pursing your lips.

You felt more foreign than ever, closely observing the calm and jovial nature of the Harkonnens around you, cheering at the calamity. It frustrated and confused you deeply, unable to stand the senseless violence. The intense smell of blood lust made your eyes water and their rims turn a bloodshot red. Why would your house choose you for him? Your home planet and house was far smaller than Geidi Prime but held traditions of peace and neutrality strong. Yet your family wanted you to marry this man? Live on this planet? With these people?

You turned to your attendant and motioned them to sit beside you.

“What were they thinking sending us here?” You whispered softly in your foreign tongue to them.

“The future of our planet my lady.” They whispered back, head down.

You felt uneasy, but understood that without some influence or power your house would soon slip into irrelevance or face threat from stronger houses. You wore the duty only for the love of your people.

You were snapped out of your reflection when the crowd started to roar again, the bodies of three atreides prisoners lay limp on the floor while the Na-Baron raised his bloodied weapon in victory. Bile rose to your throat. ‘How very difficult this will be’ you thought.

***

A banquet was held for the Na-Barons birthday and you were glad that there was no loss of life involved in simple meals and dance.

You roamed in a corner of the large room, dreading having to present yourself and your gift to the Harkonnens, wary of their violent nature, but it seemed the Na-Baron had beat you to it.

“Lady y/n” The Na-Baron said as he approached you. Up close you couldn’t deny that he was frustratingly handsome with sculpted features, tall gait, and skin like the white marble only seen in Kouros sculptures.

“Na-baron” You said, bowing lightly and offering your hand.

He took it, but rather than shake like on your home planet he kissed it. A polite gesture, but a bit rougher than you would have liked. His teeth grazed your hand, and left light marks. You tried to smile and brush the thought of getting some painful infection on foreign planet over something this irritatingly trivial.

“Call me Feyd. I heard you made it in time to see the Arena festivities” he said with a wolffish grin.

“Yes.” You said curtly, knowing if he asked how felt about them you would not be able to lie.

“Did you enjoy them?”

“I . . . thought it was rather brazen, an unecessary power play. All know your house is very strong and affluent, why spill more blood to reinforce something all know to be true.” You said this slowly, choosing your words carefully and hoping to sound more flattering than judgmental and unhappy with the injustice.

His smile dissipated and you could tell this was not the answer he wanted or expected, and a part of you feared the same fate of the Atreides prisoners would befall you. Luckily he seemed to find it humorous and laughed.

“No one has ever told me such an odd thing. Pity for prisoners! Very curious lady y/n, very curious.”

Perhaps he was interested, but you could still see venom where you hurt his pride and aroused his anger. You didn’t miss his arm clutching the sheath of his dagger as he laughed, and the way his smirk was more of a snarl now.

“I do not mean to disdain your traditions, I simply don’t quite understand them.” You said mildly when his laughter had faded.

“It’s alright. I like honesty and I like you too.” His eyes glimmered with malice and charm.

“It is true you have come as a prospective bride, yes?” He said.

“Yes. . . I have brought you a gift” You said, firmly thinking of the kind but worn face you your people as you rehearsed the proposal speech in your head. You motioned for one of your attendants to bring a sachetel with a cluster of flowers inside. You felt less reassured about your gift knowing Feyd’s character but presented it nonetheless.

“This is a heliolaris flower, it blooms yellow even in extreme conditions and without the light of the sun. It will hold its color even through the conditions of your planets black sun. Its species was created specifically for you and Giedi Prime. My planet is minor but we have plants that hold powerful miracles and arable land beyond compare. If you went through with our alliance . . . All of that would be yours too”

He peered inquisitively at the plant. He seemed unsure by the gift and your proposal but it only took a minute before his snake-like manner returned.

“I will plant these flowers. If they bloom in color as you say before the fortnight I will marry you, if not you will surrender your life to the arena that you so seem to despise.”

[bingwriterxo]

my tears are becoming a sea

pairing: vada cavell x reader

summary: in which you have to wait, and wait, and wait

warnings: descriptions of school shooting, blood

word count: 900+

author's note: highly suggest listening to 'my tears are becoming a sea' by M83 while you read

Cops surrounded the perimeter of the school, their radios chattering and the sirens on their cars screaming. Students were scattered along the parking lot in groups, holding onto one another tightly; tears slid down their faces so quickly that no one bothered to wipe them away. Teachers frantically tried to do head counts and swallowed down bile when they couldn't account for a child. Parents were desperately attempting to push through the police barriers, yelling the names of kids they prayed were outside.

You found yourself shell-shocked in the back of an ambulance, your eyes trained on the front doors of the school while an EMT bandaged your wound. A bullet had just barely skimmed your shoulder--enough for blood, but not nearly deep enough to need real treatment.

You had already scanned all of the faces that you could see, yet none of them were who you were looking for. None of them were Vada, and a rock settled in your stomach at the thought that she was still in there--there, where gunshots could be heard and screams were filtering out the windows.

Time was moving slower, each second that passed feeling like an hour, each minute feeling like a decade. For every moment that went by in which her head of brown hair or her face full of freckles didn't appear, you swore that you could feel a piece of your heart break.

And then, the gunshots stopped. There was silence from within the school.

You scrambled to stand as the first line of kids walked out, their clothes bloodied and their bodies trembling. No one missed the tears that cut through the grime on their faces; no one could ignore the cries that fell from their lips. A shiver ran through you when Vada wasn't among them.

You hopped down from the ambulance, ignoring the calls of the EMT, and pushed your way through the horde. No one tried to stop you. No one wanted to get any closer than they already were.

The police tape held you back from rushing forward. You were forced to stand there, behind that yellow line, and wait. You were forced to hope that you'd see her walking out, uninjured and alive.

You watched as your classmates walked past, into the arms of their friends, into the arms of their parents. The blood on them was passed from skin to clothing. A few of them were ushered to the ambulances, the blood painting them red coming from their own wounds.

Then, another line of students. More faces you recognized from classes, or the halls, or the football team, or the pep band. More students who looked like their legs were about to give out, who could barely seem to breathe without sobbing.

Still no Vada.

Anxiety was choking you, its strong hand squeezing your lungs and making it impossible for you to take a breath. You gripped the police tape like it would help and ignored the pain that shot through your shoulder. It didn't matter, not when she still wasn't visible.

The principal walked out, face buried in his hands as he wailed.

The gym teacher followed, his jaw clenched and silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

You saw your math teacher, one of the lunch ladies, a janitor.

Each person that exited the school made it harder for you to breathe, made your tears fall faster, made your hands tremble more. Each person that wasn't Vada made you pinch yourself, wishing that you would wake up from the nightmare.

One after another, students tumbled out of the doors, and the longer you waited, the more you prepared yourself for the fact that she may not walk out.

A boy from your history class; a girl you had asked to the dance back in middle school; Quinton Hasland; a teacher that should've retired years ago but never did; Mia Reed, her hand gripping tightly to--

"Vada!" you shouted, your voice cracking with relief as you saw her.

Her head whipped in your direction, and you sobbed at the sight of her, your breath finally returning to you. Her eyes were wide and her lips moved, saying something that you couldn't hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

She let go of Mia and sprinted to you on shaking legs, ducking under the police tape and launching herself into your waiting arms. You caught her with a strength you didn't know you possessed, your injury screaming but your mind only focused on her--her weight pressed against you, her hair in your face, her nails digging into your back.

"You're alive," she cried into your neck, tears drenching your shirt and turning it even darker than it already was from your wound. She was trembling viciously. "You're alive. I didn't--I wasn't--"

You held her tighter, like she would disappear if you didn't. "You're okay," you mumbled against the top of her head. "You're okay. I've got you. You're okay."

Vada choked out a breath and pulled back, eyes scanning your face. "You're alive."

You nodded, hiccuping. "I'm alive. You're alive."

She kissed you with salty lips, pressing herself into you as much as she possibly could, like you were the air she needed to breathe, like you were the only thing keeping her alive.

"We're alive," she muttered when she buried herself back into your neck. "We're alive."

[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝒱𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 ༻

Raphael

Summary: Raphael returns to his boudoir with news that will forever burden your soul, the loss of a child is never easy…

Pairings: Raphael x F!Tav/Reader

Notes: This is separate from “Heirs”. I just wanted to write more angst bahaha.

Character Death - Angst - Battle - Blood

Throughout your journey with the absolute, you found yourself entangled in a forbidden love with Raphael, a love that defied all odds. Your union was born from flames, a tempestuous affair woven between two souls, bound by both passion and damnation. Your companions, especially Karlach and Wyll, vehemently forbade it. Karlach, the barbarian tiefling, was particularly against your entanglement with Raphael. She had expressed countless times her disapproval of witnessing you surrendering yourselves so freely to the devil. One day, she finally left your life for good, and you haven't heard from or seen her since.

However, your greatest fear loomed over you: now that Raphael had the crown he would set his sights on Avernus, where Wyll and Karlach resided. You dreaded receiving the news that Raphael had either killed Karlach or one of his lackeys had. His insatiable thirst for power would drive him to conquer Avernus and beyond, and Karlach would be caught in the crossfire.

You knew Raphael would be a part of the fights here and there, at times you worried, other times you were sure of him. But what you never anticipated was that yours and his daughter, a gentle yet fearless soul birthed from your twisted union, would also become entangled in the wars to come.

The knowledge of your daughter's involvement in the chaos gnawed at your heart, a foreboding sense of unease that whispered in the recesses of your mind. She was out there now, surveying the lands near Zariel for her dear father to see where they should strike first… The night was still as you stood by the crackling fireplace, finding solace in its flickering flames while Haarlep laid on the bed like some sort of house cat.

“You have little faith in our precious little girl.” Haarlep spoke freely. The incubus had forged a bond with your daughter, but unlike you, they lacked maternal instincts. “She’ll do well out there, afterall she is also of Raphael’s blood.”

You remained silent, your eyes fixated on the dancing flames. It felt as if you're trying to glean the happenings in Avernus, near Zariel's domain.

The sound of Raphael's return to the boudoir finally broke your trance. Little did you know that he carried a tormenting secret, burdened by its weight. Slowly, he approached you, his steps deliberate as he reached out for your hand. A mix of vexation and despair painted his features as he prepared to unveil the truth that would shatter your world.

"My dear-," he spoke, his voice seething with a mix of sorrow and anger, "in this moment, I must share tragic news that will forever haunt your soul." you could feel the gravity of his words, the pain they inflicted upon him even before they left his lips. “Our daughter, the fruit of our affair, has been plucked from us by the hands of treachery. It is with a heavy heart that I reveal to you the dreadful truth-,” Your heart twisted with anguish, you had feared the consequences of his ambitious plans, but you had never anticipated the loss of his and yours own flesh and blood.

You couldn’t see it, but Haarlep’s tail fell to the bed, hanging limply off the edge of the bed…

Tears welled up in your eyes, anger and grief mingling within you, with a trembling breath, “H-How could this be? Tell me, Raphael.” your voice was demanding while your lips trembled as your tears teeter on the edge of your eyelids, glistening, before finally succumbing to gravity…

Raphael's grip tightened on your hand, his voice seething with restrained fury, “Karlach and Wyll, your previous companions carried out this malignant act.”

You could feel the bile rising within you, your breath catching in your throat as your knees threaten to surrender beneath the weight of unbearable grief. The room spins around you, a cruel vortex of disbelief…

Raphael stood by your side as you took in the horrific news, his hand never leaving yours. Your free hand clutched at your stomach, your fingers searching for the child that was once a part of you. Desperate for stability amidst the chaos of your emotions.

Your vision continued to blur as your mind struggles to comprehend the magnitude of what has unfolded. To realize that those you had once trusted, the companions of your past, were the catalysts of your daughter's passing… It was an unbearable torment. Betrayal, the venomous beast, sank its fangs deep into your soul.

You turned to face Raphael, your expression a tempest of grief and rage. In that moment, the fires of vengeance ignited within you. Your daughter, Raphael’s heir, the child of House Hope, gone far too soon… "Raphael," your voice whispered, your voice trembling with a haunting resolve. He watched you closely, allowing you to speak the words he already had thought about, "We shall not let this cruelty go unpunished. Our daughter's blood shall not stain the ground without punishment. Let Wyll and Karlach tremble in fear beneath the weight of our wrath and power."

“My child will be avenged in the cruelest of manners.”

Amidst the chaos and the clash of steel, your heart pounded with a ravenous rage that threatened to consume your very soul. Your daughter, a precious light in your life, had been mercilessly struck down by the hands of those you once called friends. Wyll and Karlach, their names now etched in your mind as the embodiment of betrayal.

As you advanced, your eyes locked with Karlach's, a flicker of desperation in her gaze. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she pleaded, her voice strained. "Your daughter interfered, it was a mistake!" The weight of Karlachs actions settled heavily upon her heart, as the reality of the loss she had inflicted upon you settles in. She never wished to take your daughter's life, to rip a child away from its mother. Even if the child belonged to Raphael, she was still yours that you birthed. Karlach knew the pain, but at the time… It was all a mistake.

You refused to believe such words, "Liar!" Your voice echoed through the battlefield, your voice mighty like a dragon's roar. You swung your sword with a force born of anguish, aiming for Karlach's neck. In that moment, time seemed to stretch, as if the world itself held its breath.

With a swift motion, your blade had connected…

Severing Karlach's head from her body...

The sound of steel meeting flesh filled the air, followed by the sickening thud as the lifeless head rolled away, coming to rest in a pool of blood. It was done, but now what?…

Overwhelmed by the weight of it all, you sank to your knees in the desolate landscape of Avernus. Red skies and a brewing hellish thunderstorm served as a grim backdrop to your misery. Sullen tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing with the blood stains, marking the depths of your sorrow.

As you surveyed the carnage you had wrought, a bittersweet emptiness began to settle within you. The flames of vengeance, once vibrant and fierce, flickered and revealed the true hollowness beneath. The tragic truth of never seeing your daughter again haunts you, overshadowing any satisfaction you may have derived from retribution.

Behind you, Raphael, with his immaculate ascended form, towered over you. He crouched down, his much larger frame curling protectively around your back. One of his wings shielded you from the hells, providing solace and comfort. His head rested gently at your side, Raphael allowed himself to mourn alongside you.

A rare sight indeed, but a much needed one before you both caused the skies around Avernus and every other realm to fall...

"Your reign has just begun, Raphael,” your hand finds the bones to his cheek, "you'll have it all. This I swear to you." Raphael's tail tightens around you, a silent agreement. Because the hells and every other realm haths no fury like a devil and a mother that lost what should never have been taken...

[ko-fanatic]

Leave All Your Love And Your Longing Behind | Chapter One: Double Vision Turning Triple

Rating: Teen and above Pairing: JayVik Characters: Jayce, Heimerdinger, Mel Medarda, Salo, Mylo, Claggor Content warnings: Vomit, References to Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Very Minor Reference to Self Harm (blink and you'll miss it), Slight Well-Meaning Ableism, Co-Dependency, Anxiety, PTSD, Trauma Summary: Jayce gets spat out by the Arcane, again, after all was said and done. All he knows is that he needs to find Viktor. Things here are... very different. A/N: I’ve fudged ages a little bit to make the narrative a bit smoother for what I want to do. You can probably take that as the Arcane being weird, if you wish. And yes, Jayce is already irrevocably in love with Viktor as it’s post-series Jayce. You’ve heard of slow-burn, get ready for light-speed incineration. AO3 LINK

After what Jayce and Viktor believed would be the end, the first thing he could feel in the darkness was burning. From his stomach, a path scorched along this throat and out of his mouth, lungs seizing as he choked and coughed on viscous magma. For all its discomfort, it struck Jayce as familiar.

Unsettlingly, horrifyingly familiar.

He remembers his time in that other universe, how it felt to be hurtled through timelines and threads of everything that could, would and has been. How it had turned his stomach upside down and his thoughts to static, unable to focus for a good few minutes, at least. Then, he’d opened his eyes to that post-apocalyptic hell. The culmination of all the flesh and blood that’d spilled on Viktor’s path to… “evolution”. Hell. 

However, rather than opening his eyes to blackened, twisted metal and death, what greeted him when he finally managed to pry open his eyelids was… a sunlit room. Granted, with a puddle of bile and whatever else that had managed to stay in his system during his not-so-merry jaunt through time and space, but it was still bright and warm.

Lifting his gaze, he could see a blue sky through an airy window, framed by white, gossamer curtains. A desk that was standard issue and groaning under the weight of books - notebooks and textbooks - schematics and blueprints. A neglected pot plant sat on a high shelf above, flowers shrivelled and leaves beginning to turn brown, but not quite dead yet. Something forboding beat in his chest, a little off-rhythm with his heartbeat, feeling like his guts were going to upend once more but pushing through the sensation. 

There were three walls painted a pale cream colour, offset by one navy to make the place seem a little less devoid of personality, but Jayce knew where he - probably - was. 

An Academy dorm room. 

He’d, of course, had his own apartment during his time there, but he’d had acquaintances and classmates who’d lived there, and it was just so reminiscent. 

The deduction was not at all aided by the uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. 

So he was at the academy, in a dorm room that seemed to be his, despite having never roomed at the academy in his stay. The posters on the wall were just too… him for this not to be his room; sketches, his childhood drawing of himself with his hammer (which definitely didn’t leave an awful taste in his mouth), and various memorabilia from magic shows and the like. At least he knew that, brain leaking out of his ears or not. 

Jayce stumbled to his feet, bracing himself on the wall as to not eat wood flooring soon after waking up. 

“Jayce!” A too-familiar voice called as it knocked politely on the door, “Are you alright, my boy?”

Blinking away the double vision, knowing that it was best to open up and see what the Arcane had in store for him this time, he shuffled his way to the door and twisted the handle. 

If it weren’t for his distinctive voice, Jayce wouldn’t have known it was Heimerdinger at the door. Not because he looked different at all, but because the short Yordle was fully eclipsed from view by a mountain of papers and books. In fact, Jayce had no idea how he’d managed to knock at all, let alone so politely. 

A brief spark of a memory glitched through his consciousness. Viktor clutching boxes upon boxes of metal and gears, before he’d needed to switch his cane for a crutch, debating whether to “knock” (read: kick the door) with his good leg and be forced to balance on his bad, or vice versa. 

He’d reminded Viktor that he could do it, and the other man genuinely hadn’t considered the idea before he’d said it. For a genius, he could be… Not stupid, never stupid, even in Arcane-tainted madness. He could be silly. 

Jayce caught the pull at his lips and dragged himself back into this unfamiliar present. 

“Uh… Fine! I’m… fine,” He attempted to assure, but he didn’t sound all that convincing. Evident when Heimerdinger dropped the stack he’d been carrying - with an impressive thump, one might add - and raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You’re usually up and about by now, and when you missed the first meeting on the agenda, I thought I’d come looking for you,” Heimerdinger explained, “Very unusual behaviour from you, my boy. If you’re ill, you only need to say and I can continue on for today.”

“Meeting…?”

Jayce ran a hand through his - much, much shorter - hair, scratched at his shadowed-but-not-bearded jaw a little, trying to catch up. Heimerdinger was treating him like…

“I can cope without my assistant for a day or two, Jayce, Godsend though you are,” A small, gloved hand reaching up to rest on his forearm in something so painfully fatherly and caring, “You’re pale, and you’re equilibrium and balance are obviously off. Take the day.”

“No!” 

Jayce stopped himself in his tracks, coughing into his fist at the yell that came out unbidden. That probably didn’t help his case; the yelling or the embarrassed coughing. 

“With respect, sir, I don’t need the day off, I’m fine,” He smiled, playing off the small piece of spoon-fed information he’d likely get, “My alarm clock didn’t go off, and I was disorientated from being woken up by your knocking. I’m very sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Heimerdinger looked him over, slowly, before sighing and nodding in a vague approximation of approval. 

“Very well, I’ll wait for you to perform your morning ablutions and dress yourself for today. No need for the uniform, you’ll recall, as we’re mainly going to be off-campus today,” Heimerdinger reminded, as far as the older man knew. 

Off-campus? So, presumably, that left supply shopping, personal errands, or council work. He should probably dress a little nicer, just in case… 

Heimerdinger cleared his throat, Jayce snapping out of the trance enough to watch as the man unclipped a well-loved clipboard that had been fastened to his belt, and passed it over. An agenda. Helpful. 

-*-*-

Working in a lab with Viktor meant that one learned to be as quick as possible when getting ready. Not because Viktor was mean, or demanding, but because of how excitable and surprisingly impatient he could be. Jayce was similar in that regard, the two of them often going days with only the basics of hygiene and self-care in favour of more planning, more theorising, not breaking their concentration for anything. 

Viktor drank sweetmilk and ate a truly horrifying amount of sweet things - baked goods, chocolate, and every fruit that was in season. Jayce drank black coffee that Viktor had tried once and nearly spat straight out, making the most adorable “blegh” sound and sticking out his tongue once he managed to choke it down, looking far too much like a grumpy cat. A probably inappropriate joke likening it to self-harm was made, and Jayce snorted so hard he gave himself a nosebleed. 

It’d probably been something to do with them both approaching the 100-hour mark without a wink of sleep. Still, it was a memory that he still held close, rose-hued and warm. 

Walking alongside the professor down the expansive, winding hallways, he still had yet to see Viktor. Back to the academy days, strange universe or not, he was expecting to hear some comeback or quick wit, or spy a mop of unbrushed hair as he took a “surprise nap” on a desk or table somewhere. 

He’d even been scanning the benches for his lanky frame, in case said “surprise nap” had taken him out in the hallway. No luck, however.

He was almost surprised by the amount of walking and the amount he was expected to carry. If he was Heimerdinger’s assistant also in this world, then maybe the man gave him a bigger, more physical share of the work. It hurt to imagine Viktor attempting to run around, trudging up and down the many staircases while his weak spine bent from the load he carried. 

Another flash of his other life, Viktor’s eyes shying from his own, arms crossed uncomfortably as he talked about his journey from people-pleasing and too “accommodating” for his own good, to self-advocacy and willingness to protect his admittedly fragile health. 

“Heimerdinger was very willing to support me, actually,” He’d chuckled, bathed in lamplight, a wicked twist of humour to his eyes, “At least, after I fell down the stairs.”

Swallowing hard, Jayce kept his head up, striding through the distortion as if there wasn’t any.

“I, uh… Suppose Viktor will meet us there?” Jayce ventured, deciding to try and prod a little more. 

Heimerdinger, however, simply gave him a confused glance. “I don’t know, lad, I’ve no recollection of a Viktor,” He hummed, “A friend of yours?”

A friend of ours, he manages not to say, breath a little too short to work with, everything swimming again. Cracks and fissures sprung through his mind, a recollection of the lifetimes upon lifetimes that Viktor had found him in. Smiling lips and soft eyes… A lack of runestone bracelet.

“He’s… He’s the best student the academy has ever seen…” Was what he did say, unable to keep himself from divulging that, speaking a little too openly for a world he wasn’t meant to be in but hoping that might make Viktor… appear? Like Heimerdinger was… He didn’t know, doing a stupid prank? As if the man would. 

“Jayce, there is no Viktor in the academy, as far as I’m aware,” Heimerdinger fiddled with the hem of his gloves, “And I would be aware of someone like that, if he managed to impress you so. Still, if your new little friend is that bright, he should certainly apply! I trust your judgement in these things.”

He hesitated, for a beat or two. 

“Morality of lying about being a student to - presumably - talk to you aside, of course.”

Viktor… wasn’t here? Not a student of the academy, even? Because Heimerdinger would know Viktor, with the man’s voracious consummation of knowledge and his sheer intellect, Heimerdinger would have to notice that. 

Did that mean that Viktor… Never got out? That he was still in the undercity, with poison in his lungs and pumping through his veins? That the violence and the dank still surrounded him, swallowing up his light?

That he could certainly be dead already, if that were the case.

He doubled over, books and papers dropped and scattered like debris and rubble, feeling like he’d been shoved off his feet, slammed into a wall.

His hammer dropping onto his leg, a mirror image to Viktor.

“A-Actually…” A big gulp of air as he tried not to vomit on the other man’s head, “Professor, I really don’t…”

“Feel well?” 

Soft replaced sharp, Heimerdinger’s careful, nurturing tone somehow a little louder than the screams in his head. 

“Go on, my boy, take a few days off, I can manage,” He assured, “I’ll pop by later, just to make sure you’re alright, but go rest and drink plenty of water.”

“I will.”

Barely ten minutes later, sprinting through the streets of Piltover and towards the bridge, Jayce couldn’t help but think that breaking promises was becoming an awful habit of his.

-*-*-

Heimerdinger could, despite all rumours to the contrary, get on perfectly well without Jayce. He had the agenda clipped to his belt as he had this morning, dropped the mountains of papers in his office, and had got himself to the meeting room with time to spare. He was glad that the perpetual over-worker had been persuaded to look after himself, even if he had to turn an alarming shade of green before he finally retired to bedrest.

However, Councillor Medarda was quick to point out the change of routine.

“Good morning, Professor,” She greeted with her typical smile and disarming humour, “I see you’ve lost your shadow this morning.”

“Yes, Jayce was quite unwell - I managed to shoo him off home,” He explains, taking his seat with a little effort. 

Jayce only tried to pick him up once, but the memory still comes up occasionally when he has to hop up there. Awkward apologies and a puppy-ish will to help that just made him such an endearing person. This morning he was… off. Quiet, and sullen. 

Perhaps he was missing this new friend he mentioned! A quick attachment, certainly, but that actually put another worry he’d had for his assistant to bed: his lack of close friends. 

Jayce was certainly friendly with others, but the more Heimerdinger observed him, the more shallow the connections seemed. Far be it from him to badger his employee about such matters, but as he mentioned before - Jayce was endearing. He wanted the boy to be alright, and his overworking habits combined with few close social connections were worrying. As were other things.

“Jayce, my boy, what are you doing?”

“... Just people watching,” He’d said, eyes cast down over the balcony…

Yes, a friend was just what the doctor ordered! When Jayce was a little less dizzy and such, he could introduce the pair of them, perhaps! He’d be very interested to see the person who managed to captivate him so.

“Fellow council members,” Salo, of all people, began, expression grim, “We’ve uncovered yet more unsanctioned engineering work in the undercity, with the same graffiti as the others.”

Salo passed a handful of pictures to Hoskel, gesturing for him to look through then pass them along.

“This seems to have been a big project, requiring manpower and hours without interruption,” Salo continued, “Along miles of pipeline, as well as naturally occurring cracks in the rocks which lead lower. You are all aware of the system that was put in to migrate the factory fumes lower than the populated areas? Well, it seems our work didn’t meet someone’s standards.”

He spat the last word as if it were a curse, rolling his eyes and looking the most ticked off Heimerdinger had seen him… perhaps ever. 

“The sketches being passed around are of the devices themselves, including the graffiti -”

“I believe the young ones call it a tag, Councillor Salo,” Heimerdinger very helpfully corrected, met only with a slight narrow of Salo’s eyes before the man carried on. 

“Including the tag scrawled on them, but we also have a composite of a possible suspect, seen hobbling away from the scene by a witness.”

Heimerdinger accepted the pictures from Councillor Medarda with a nod of thanks, before parsing through them. 

The sketches of the device itself was… lackluster, seemingly not done by someone with a scientific or engineering background, but even so, it’d be hard to discern specific functions without seeing one for himself, in person. 

The copies of the tag were… odd. On one half was a crudely sketched, blue monkey, all big ears and separated jaw, a cartoonish, angry frown on its face. The other half was some sort of… reptilian creature in the same style. A lizard, or perhaps a salamander, in a green so pale it could have passed for white.

The composite wasn’t much to go by, a filtration mask covering half of the person’s face, but a few key details were available. A tousled mess of brown hair, interrupted with streaks of blue, red and purple; three piercings on each ear - one lobe and two cartilage, symmetrical; hazel eyes ringed with dark liner; a mole peaking out from the golden metal of his mask, beneath his right eye.

While they had nothing of his mouth, nose or jawline, it was… quite a few distinguishing features to go off. Which led to three avenues of thought: the suspect wasn’t smart enough to cover them up (unlikely), the suspect was just that cocky (more likely), or thirdly…

For some unfathomable reason, the boy wanted to be caught.

“Councillor Salo, you said the suspect was… hobbling?” Councillor Medarda inquired.

“Yes, he walks with a cane and a limp.”

-*-*-

Chest heaving, Jayce’s frantic running was finally halted, his lungs feeling fit to burst and legs weak with exhaustion. A blockade of people stretched in front of him, so dense he couldn’t pass without shoving. The need to just keep going was strong, almost reminiscent of the pull of the runestone in Viktor’s hand, his own clasped around like a lifeline.

“We’ll end this, together.”

He was about to start pushing through, when he took a second to actually observe the situation. 

The undercity was bright, almost bustling, and not in any way it had been before. Clean streets, adequate lighting, air that was almost as fresh as above. 

Nothing like the few stories Viktor had divulged, nothing like what he’d witnessed as a council member. 

He then took stock of those around him, seeing… braces, wheelchairs, canes, crutches. If he started shoving his way through, he’d definitely hurt someone, and while some desperate, slathering part of him didn’t care…

“Excuse me!” He all but yelled, trying to duck and weave through any opening he could, just to get a little closer, just to possibly stumble across Viktor in the sea of metal and mobility aids. He needed to get closer, had to find him, had to -

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jayce’s momentum was stopped by… a scrawny teenager with a bad haircut. Firm on the ground for someone so lanky, squaring up his shoulders despite the general height and size difference between them, “Do you have a ticket?”

“Ticket?” Jayce echoed, trying to stamp down any instinct to just push the kid out of the way, “No, you don’t… I’m looking for someone, I need to see Viktor.”

“You and everyone here, bud, step out of the crowd for a minute.”

… What…?

Jayce barely reacted as he was redirected out of the throng, that floaty, spacey feeling returning once again. The double-vision turned triple, brighter streets fading into crystalline, white structures surrounded by flowers. People turned to disciples and followers, Viktor’s fingerprints shimmering on their faces -

“Y’know, you don’t look very disabled to me - OUCH!!”

Another boy, much stockier than the other, almost seemed to materialise out of the crowd to punch the first in the back of the head. 

“What has Viktor told you about assuming, My?” The newcomer sighed, “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” The scrawny kid huffed, hands held up in surrender, “He was pushing through, though, didn’t even know about the ticket system.”

“Did you tell him?”

Silence. 

“Thought so,” The boy turned back to him, pushing the gear-patterned goggles from his eyes and resting them on top of his head, “Hey dude, my name’s Claggor, the dumbass is Mylo. We’re working security today. We have a ticket system instead of a line, so people can take breaks to sit down and rest, get something to eat and drink, that sort of stuff.”

“Oh… uh…” Jayce eloquently stuttered. 

“Come on, I’ll show you where to go,” Claggor smiled, “Any assistance needed, just say. Cool?”

“... Sure…”

Jayce had to just… play it by ear, follow instructions. At least he wasn’t aimlessly running anymore, with no way to find Viktor. The other man had almost fallen into his lap, easy to find as soon as he crossed the bridge. 

He would’ve just taken a ticket and waited patiently, as everyone else seemed to be doing, had he not actually… spotted Viktor as he was led to the small booth. 

And time stood still for that moment, the rapid beating of his chest freezing like his heart had simply stopped.

Viktor was very different, visually. Brown hair highlighted with bright blues, purples and reds, his clothes so obviously Zaun that the sight instantly sent prickles down his back, piercings around his ears and tattoos trailing up his arm in swirls of dark ink. 

Even with his back to him, however, Jayce knew it was him. From the cane by his side - covered in paint though it was - the foot of his good leg tapping to the beat of heavy drums and electric guitar blaring from a beaten-up speaker by his side, to how he soldered the plates of metal in that oh-so-familiar way. If he hadn’t been wearing a mask over his mouth and nose, Jayce was sure he’d see his partner’s tongue peaking out the side of his mouth.

It was so different, yet so similar that he moved on his own, magnetised, to his other half.

“Viktor!” He yelled as he slipped out of Claggor’s grip. 

The familiarity ended, as this other Viktor chugged the ominously purple liquid in the cup beside his hand, used his good leg to push off, spinning around in his chair and grinning - not the soft, small smiles shared in the lab with the blue glow of hextech carving his cheekbones - but something more… manic…

Something almost like… Jinx.

“That’s me!” He all but sang, and Jayce could only collapse to his knees.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Rue the Day

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: Creepy whumper, blood, restraints, magical whump, nonhuman whumpee, multiple whumpees, defiant whumpee, threats of death

“The rabbit is excellent tonight, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Guilford Wentworth sipped from his wine glass. When Kira didn’t answer right away, he smiled, and his teeth seemed stained slightly red. Kira fought back the way her stomach flipped and bile seemed to rise in her throat, fighting to find its way out. 

She had to stay calm. 

“Miss Losna?” Wentworth’s smile widened, giving the lie to the carefully practiced false concern in his voice. “Are you quite all right?”

Kira cleared her throat, blinking rapidly and forcing herself to sip from the wine as well. She kept her eyes on Wentworth, because if she looked at the display behind him, she may not be able to hold the scream back any longer.

There as a whimper, half-suppressed, and Kira set her jaw and told herself to ignore it.

“I am fine,” She managed, and her voice was calm where her heart beat with frantic, frightened wings within her chest. “Rabbit is not my-... it is not a meat I often dine on, is all. The taste is… new to me.”

“Oh? My apologies. I would have chosen a different entree, but I had heard you come from… well, shall we say humble beginnings, and I thought rabbit may be familiar to you.”

His mockery strengthened her nerves. Kira stabbed a bite of rabbit viciously, trying not to think about how the meat had been coated in a bright red berry sauce that tasted too dark and rich. She chewed, and tried not to taste copper.

Because of course there was no copper.

There couldn’t be.

It was all in her mind, all because of-

“I was not raised on rabbit, Lord Wentworth,” She said coldly, and forced her eyes down to the pale ivory ceramic of her plate, painted with a beautifully oceanic blue. Images of mermaids and sea serpents cavorting in stylized waves, blocked in some spots by the rabbit. Just to the edge of the plate, she saw a handful of painted sirens, looking at the other creatures with… melancholy, perhaps.

The whimper came again. 

Kira’s teeth worked the rabbit to nearly nothing before she swallowed. There was something to that soft sound of pain that struck her like a hammer to a gong, her despair ringing in the air so loudly she could nearly hear it. 

“It is not the siren’s fault that your son spoke up,” She managed to say, if only so she could speak over the way the siren’s careful, determined silence had begun to break against the waves of pain. “You shouldn’t punish him for it.”

“So I should end our dinner early and go punish Ford in person?” Wentworth asked, unbothered by the scene behind him, by the sounds the siren could no longer hold back. “You have quite the cold soul, Miss Losna.” His smile widened. “Perhaps I chose you better than I realized.”

“I do not think you should do anything to your son but leave him alone," Kira bit back. "And you did not choose me." Her fork dropped with a clattering against the plate. “I answered an advertisement. You had no idea who I was before I walked up your front steps.”

“True.” Guilford Wentworth tipped his head forward in acknowledgement. "You answered my advertisement for a job."

“I wish to the gods I hadn’t.”

Guilford Wentworth laughed, a harsh, barking sound that nearly made Kira flinch. Somehow, though, she held steady. “I should be honest with you, Miss Losna. I’m not entirely convinced there are any gods at all.”

Kira sat back. Took another drink of wine, and let the room spin a little around her. It loosened her tongue and stiffened her spine, but it also set her cheeks aflame and left her unsteady. Strong, but dizzy, as if spun endlessly in a dance. “That’s blasphemy.”

“It is.” Wentworth nodded, picking up a heavy red fruit and biting into it, red juice on his chin, dripping onto his plate. Kira’s stomach threatened once again to heave itself empty, and she had to grip onto the edges of the table until they nearly cut into her palms to settle the twisting, flipping sensation. “And yet… well, Miss Losna. If there were gods, then you have to assume one of them would have noticed me, hm? I have one of their own. I live longer than men were meant to live. I haven’t aged a day since my siren was bound to me. They are supposedly a gods’ children, aren’t they?”

Kira was silent, then. 

If he wanted to give a speech, let him. She would simply try to get through this meal, and try equally not to be furious with Guilford’s son Ford, whose dismissal from the table had left her alone with this monster masquerading as man.

From the window, the siren’s soft sounds of pain lengthened into a soft wail. Even that, Kira thought with a shiver, sounded like music.

Against her will, she looked at him.

The siren was strung up like a tormented saint, arms up over his head wrapped in rough sailor’s rope that scratched up his skin and smeared it red. His toes barely danced on the floor, barely able to hold even a little of his weight. To stand normally, he had to let his arms hold all his weight, and it tore the ropes in more deeply, bit by bit. Staying on his tiptoes stretched his leg muscles to what must have been screaming agony. 

He was framed by the yellowing evening light coming through the window, nearly making him a silhouette, a suggestion of endless darkness ringed in awful light.

Kira’s eyes burned with what she resolutely denied could be tears as she saw him twisting his wrists a little, blood running in a rivulet down one arm now. The muscle in his arm twitched as the trail worked down to the crook of his elbow, heading towards his shoulder.

He was naked now, the markings that kept him in bondage to Wentworth’s wicked demands on full display. Kia’s heart beat faster than the rabbit whose remains were on her plate had ever been able to run.

Wentworth had given the order in between inane commentary about weather and what grew in the garden’s greenhouses. It had been tossed out like an aside, as if it didn’t matter at all. Areyto had - staring at Kira all the while - begun to tie himself up. He had climbed up himself into position, moved each arm and leg as Wentworth ordered. The butler Babbage, his eyes clouded and cheerfully convinced he was doing something with curtains, had finished stringing him up. 

Once the weight had become to much, Areyto’s eyes had gone blank and empty. He had wiped himself from his own body with the pain.

Or… perhaps only by the work it took to survive it.

He had no ability to die.

Not unless Guilford Wentworth allowed him to.

Servants bustled around - Nadette and Babbage cheerfully refilled empty cups and whisked away each course and brought the next as though they saw nothing. Nadette had come back puzzled as to what she had even been doing upstairs when she was meant to be attending Kira at dinner, and Kira could only pray to gods that may or may not be real that the clarity in her had lasted long enough to find Kira a way out.

They didn’t see the siren for what he was, or even seem to hear his crying.

Kira did.

And she hated Ford, in the moment, for having been here but then getting himself dismissed so she had to be here alone.

“They are,” Kira said, voice trembling a little. “The moon goddess made the ocean’s creatures, sirens, the mer people, the-”

“And yet,” Wentworth interrupted, too committed to his monologue to allow her to cut him off before he was done. Kira stared at Areyto, watching salt tears running down his cheeks, even though his face was utterly blank. “And yet. Look at him, Miss Losna. Look. Does his goddess save him now?”

Kira swallowed, but her throat felt nearly closed and it took far too much effort to manage. “No,” She whispered. “No. His goddess does not save him.”

Lord Wentworth’s fork scraped in dissonance along his plate, dragging Kira’s gaze back to him. “Clearly she doesn’t,” He said, with confidence. “A century and a half, give or take a dozen years here and there, and my siren remains mine. And he will remain mine. There is no goddess of the moon and waters, Miss Losna. There is no god of the land, no mountain deities to worship, no demons hiding in the Maitsa. There is nothing but people, and two kinds of people at that.”

Kira tried to tear her eyes from the siren’s suffering, but all she could make herself look at was the bottom of her emptied wineglass. There wasn’t enough wine in the world to make this bearable.

“The first sort of person goes on living the life prescribed. Does all the right things, says the right words, gets married and bears a few children and then dies. It’s all for nothing. It means nothing. The second sort of person is far more rare.”

Guilford Wentworth stood, and Kira’s breath caught as he picked up the sharpened blade of the knife that had been beside his plate. He turned away from her, walking over to the siren. Kira should have stood, then - stood and run - but she felt frozen. 

“The second sort of person,” Guilford said, voice lower now, “Is one who controls his own fate. Who refuses to live the prescribed life. Who takes control.”

The edge of the knife cut into the unmarked side of the siren’s body, a slow slice echoing the line of his ribs. 

“Hold still for me,” Guilford said, voice low and thick with some sickening emotion Kira didn’t dare name. The siren turned to look at him, and something in his empty face flickered back to life. There was a pleading there. A scream, but a silent one. “Hold, Areyto.”

The siren’s lips trembled as the knife left him and cut again. Blood ran down to his hip, maneuvered around and over it, ran down the inside of one muscled thigh. Kira’s heart beat so hard she had trouble breathing around it now, as if her lungs refused to expand. She took shallow gasps instead. 

Her fingers closed around her own fork, unconsciously, and she pushed herself to her feet. “Stop,” She whispered. 

“Areyto is mine.” A third slice had the siren weeping openly, unable to fight the pain everywhere within him any longer. Guilford raised his free hand and wiped a tear away with his thumb, licking it off the tip and humming, as if he’d tasted the finest wine. “As you will be. I could cut you just like this, and if he commanded it, you would hold perfectly still.”

“I said-” Her voice cracked. She moved, though, without thinking, coming around the edge of the table and heading towards him. The fork seemed to come to life in her hand, silvered metal twisting and heating up until her palm felt like it was burning. But somehow the burn did not hurt at all. “I said for you to stop. He does whatever you want, leave him be. I don’t require this showcase of your power, Lord Wentworth, you already have me held here against my will!”

“Oh, Miss Losna.” Guilford sighed, happily. “You find yourself terribly mistaken. This isn’t about you at all. I’m not doing this to show you my power over him.”

“Then-” Kira came to a stop, a few feet away. The fork in her hand no longer felt like a fork at all. She looked slowly down at it. “Then why are you-”

“Because he is beautiful,” Guilford breathed, looking back to the siren with shining eyes. “Like this. Because there is nothing I cannot do now.”

Kira had no ready rejoinder, and after a heartbeat of trying - and failing - to think of one she gave up. Standing here watching her captor torture a siren who had done nothing but run into him hurt more than it should. Sirens, after all, were monsters who sang men to their deaths, who took sailors to the depths. But Areyto was also a man, if not a human one. One worn down like river rocks, and soon enough he would be fine as sand, and then he would be nothing at all. 

The air felt heavier and heavier around her, as if any moment now she would cease to be able to breathe it. The inside of her head, by contrast, felt too light, floating away from her. 

Torn in two, she decided to hell with false politeness. 

“Why not just get it over with?” She asked, without looking away. The siren seemed to feel her eyes on him and managed to - briefly - meet her gaze. There was something pleading, there, in the darkness of his eyes. 

“It?” Guilford cut him again, and Kira watched skin twitching beneath his knife and wondered if she could simply vomit all over Wentworth to make this awfulness end. In her hand, the for had become long, straightened out. A sort of tiny spear of silver, and it burned hot enough that she knew if she hadn’t been the one to create it, her hand would be blistered and bubbling. 

She raised her chin. “It, Lord Wentworth. Whatever it is you plan to do to me. Destroying my mind, marrying me off to your son, whatever it is you’ve got tucked away to ruin lives for your own amusement. Why not just do it and cease forcing me to… wait?” 

“Ah.” Wentworth smiled. “Well, that’s quite simple, Miss  Losna.”

“It… it is?”

“It is indeed. Areyto? Would you care to explain?”

The siren cut his eyes back to Guilford, staring at him with such open, baleful loathing that the sheer force of the expression took Kira’s breath away. Then the pain overtook his ability to hold the expression and he slumped into sullen silence, seconds ticking past. 

“Areyto.” Guilford Wentworth’s eyes narrowed. “Tell. Her.”

Areyto’s mouth opened without his say-so. Kira watched him as he spoke, rote and lifeless, voice thin and rough with pain. “The magic-... must be written with free will, or… or it is too weak to hold me.”

Kira blinked. “But-... wait. You-... you enthralled your first magician-”

“I had the thrall lifted,” Guilford said, voice going a little softer. He looked away, then, over towards the grand floor-to-ceiling windows. “Every ten years. For two days, I had it lifted. And she strengthened the spell.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Guilford said, almost gently, lifting his own knife just under the siren’s chin, nicking his throat just to watch the blood run from there, too. “If she didn’t, I would ensure my wife would throw herself off the roof.”

Kira took in a breath.

There was only one monster in this room.

She moved all at once, pushed by a swell of emotion that felt like being sucked under by the riptide, and reached up as high as she could. The burning-hot silver in her hand sliced through the ropes that held the siren as if they were made of butter, not heavy hemp, and the siren dropped to the floor all at once with a cry.

She turned, stepping between Guilford and the siren, lifting her chin. 

“You have no such way to force me, Lord Wentworth.”

To her shock, though he did step back from her, Guilford Wentworth did not react with fear or anger. 

Instead… he laughed. “Of course I do.”

“Oh?” Kira shifted, unconsciously moving closer to Areyto, who had not moved from the floor. She could hear him growling, a sound somehow utterly animal and deeply musical, a bass note held unending. Blood smeared under his hands, soaking into the shining wood under him. It was a deep, oxygen-rich burgundy, darker than Kira’s own - a reminder that despite his appearance, he wasn’t human. 

Not that being inhuman meant he deserved any bit of this.

She faced Wentworth head on, chin high, with every ounce of courage she had in her. The wine had gone entirely to her head, but her voice stayed steady and strong. “And what, exactly, will you do to make me obey you and help you make an empire for yourself when I would happily tear out your throat with my own damn teeth if they weren’t so blunt?” 

Behind her, the siren made a new sound.

It wasn’t quite open laughter - he was in far too much pain. But the soft sound, the huff of breath with the barest edge of volume to it, set stronger steel in Kira’s spine just the same. Warmed something in her that had frozen over before. 

“I won't lift a finger to stop you, Miss Losna.” Wentworth moved away, picking up his wine glass and taking another sip. 

Her lip lifted in a snarl at the smug lie he told so easily. “You speak like a man who hasn’t barred all the bedroom windows to keep me inside,” She responded, voice tight.

Wentworth’s smile did not waver or fade, but something in it tightened. “I will not stop you,” He repeated. “But everyone else here will.”

“You will have them… attack me? Do me harm?”

“No. I will have them do themselves harm.”

Kira froze. “What?” Her voice was a whisper. 

Wentworth shrugged. “Every single one of them will die, by their own hand, as soon as you step off of my property. Their deaths will not be quick or clean, and they will be because of you.”

Kira’s jaw worked, her eyes moving to where Nadette and Babbage still stood by the kitchen door, both of them smiling politely and seemingly unaware of the confrontation by the window. “You lie.”

“No, my dear, I do not. The order has already been given.” Wentworth sighed, voice gentling. “It was given as soon as I knew you had already met my siren. If you leave, they will die. You will consign three dozen servants to their deaths, including my butler and of course your own sweet maidservant… even the stable boy will hang himself in the barn. Every one of them will die in some way, and they will know why they do it but be unable to stop. So.” He lifted one hand, twirling his finger in pointed down. “I suggest, Miss Losna, that you drop your weapon, or I will command the first death. Which of course will be the lovely young Nadette.”

Kira hitched in a breath, fear washing cold across her. She stared at Nadette’s smiling face, where she stood across the room, and thought of the terror in the girl when she had grabbed her arm and said I don't want to be here. “I-... You wouldn't. How would your life ever continue-”

“I will. If you refuse me, and I lose my siren’s power, then my life will be short and brutish regardless. I have little to lose, if the creature is lost. So leave and know your selfishness will be their cause of death. And know, also, that I will ensure you are charged by the king with every single murder. After all, I have no magic. But you do. Or so the king will believe. Drop the weapon, Miss Losna. Now.”

“Lord Wentworth-”

“Drop the weapon,” Guilford said, voice lower than ever. “And say, yes, my lord. Or Nadette will drink the vial she carries in her pocket, and you will watch her die in agony.”

Kira stood still for a long moment.

The bit of silver clattered from her numb fingers to the floor. 

When Wentworth's eyebrows raised and he leaned forward, one hand cupped behind his ear as he waited, she swallowed and managed, in a trembling voice, “Y-... Yes, m-my lord.”

“Good girl.” Wentworth's voice was sickly sweet and low. His smile widened once more - too wide, grotesquely stretched. “Sit back down, we still have to enjoy our dessert.”

Kira felt her feet moving without her, drifting back to her chair. Her mind raced and the world around her felt suddenly unreal as she settled, staring down at her plate until Babbage whisked it away and disappeared back into the kitchen again.

Kira looked over at the siren, where he still knelt on the floor.

“You, too,” Wentworth said, beckoning the siren with a single crook of his finger. Areyto pushed himself uncertainly to his feet, struggling to stay upright. His ribs were still bleeding, the smell of it overwhelming and making Kira’s stomach flip again. Or maybe it had never stopped. 

Areyto sat back in his chair, still naked - the servants didn’t seem to notice. Kira couldn’t see anything past his bright eyes and the red of his blood. The sight of him felt real in a way nothing else in this house of horrors did. 

“You will not leave your room again unless summoned,” Wentworth said, imperious now. “If you are found anywhere else, even once, I will begin ordering deaths. If you care about the lives of anyone but yourself, Miss Losna, you will go where you are bid and do what I tell you. And you will bind my siren back to me with all the magic you can use.”

Kira kept her eyes on the siren.

She had no idea what was served for dessert. She heard nothing Wentworth said after that. At some point, she was given leave to return to her rooms and she fled to the stairs, feeling a stab of guilt at leaving the siren once again alone with this monstrous man. But it was not enough guilt to stop her.

Once she had closed the door behind her, she flung herself on her bed, screaming into the heavy soft pillow.

How had she already begun to think of this as her room? This bed as her bed? How could she have been so well encircled and not realized he would use the servants against her?

She screamed again.

This time, she kept it up until her throat burned with it and her voice began to give, going hoarse and rough. She held the pillow against her face until sparks danced behind her closed eyes as she fought for air. Finally, she threw the pillow away, watching it thump onto the floor.

Then she turned to where it had been and saw the crumpled paper there. Kira swallowed, picking the folded piece of paper up and slowly opening it. 

Young Master Ford, Young Miss Nathalie, and the twins all have rooms without bars on the windows. 

Master Ford will come to you at midnight with the siren. 

Miss Nathalie will, too.

Nathalie. Kira felt something in her settle. That would be the eldest daughter from the painting, Ford’s younger sister. Clearly she and Ford felt similarly, if they were going to help Kira and Areyto, or even just Kira…

No.

She wouldn’t leave here without the siren beside her. Areyto needed rescue more than she did, in the end, and it wasn’t his singing that made her believe it. It was her own conviction. Her own certainty.

Kira pushed herself off the bed, then, setting her shoulders with resolution and heading into the bathing room, hoping against hope she could somehow manage to get this dress off all by herself.

She was sorely in need of a bath.

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10   @apokolyps   @wildfaewhump   @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee @angelsproject @loony-whumptoons

[fandom-monium]

Sweet Poison - Part 5

Summary: In which you avoid Zagreus, until one day you can't. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

WC: 2.4k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones (technically it’s succubi magic aura), Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut, MINOR descriptions of blood and injuries. Physical touch, affection. Just Zagreus being soft and doting and kind to you this chap

Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn—

Teeth clenched, your vision swims as you grip the rim of the basin for balance, washing off the blood as red drops swirl and mix like watercolor paints before the water clears again. It’s days like this where you wish you can get stronger, more powerful, but there’s a limit to everyone’s full potential, and unfortunately you met yours a long time ago.

Still, it’d be nice.

Contrary to popular belief, succubi can be vicious warriors, they’re simply in their own class. Their abilities, their magic, while never measuring up to gods, could ruin an army in a master’s hand, but it has its limits. Especially amongst demonkind.

As the water calms, you grind your teeth at the sight of your reflection, assessing the damage. Blood and darkness, that’s going to bruise, that one’s definitely going to scar, and you curse the universe because your job’s about to get that much harder now that you may have to use a glamor. Oh, you swear next time you get your hands on her, you’ll—

A resounding rumble quakes the room.

Your chamber door.

You curse. But you're sluggish from the blood loss, and before you can hurl yourself out the balcony, Zagreus steps in without his usual greeting, panting and laurels slightly askew, like he rushed in knowing you’re here. Wild eyes dart to every corner of the chamber, as if he half-expects you to be hiding, until they fall on you, embarrassingly hunched over your healing fountain.

One glance at your battered face, he’s beside you in a flash.

"Zag—”

“What happened?” His tone is surprisingly strained as his hands, clean of blood and gore, reach for you. Then something flickers across his face that makes him hover, his eyes—red and green and wide—taking in your new wounds with horror.

If only you had the energy to cower, shield your bruised face. He’s the last person you want to see right now, and your vision blurs, hating how he of all people is seeing you like this—broken, imperfect.

“I’m fine, Zagreus,” You croak, your voice quiet as you swallow your insecurity like bile. A poor attempt to put some distance between you, you try to step aside, but your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumple like a house of cards.

Of course, Zagreus catches you—asshole—strong, lean arms gentle as he hugs you to his chest, holding you up as if you’re the most precious of gems. Hate how quick you are to relax in his hold, clay in his hands. Blood and darkness, it’s so easy, so quick, so… right.

You squirm against him, but his grip tightens slightly, mindful of your injuries.

“Sure you are,” Zagreus snorts, though he gazes down at you so soft and sweet you want to shout, wondering if he tastes the same. “Come on, I’ll patch you up.”

Unable to protest, you let him carry you like a rag doll, limp in his hands before he gently props you up on the lounge chair. You lean against the back with a groan. “Really, I'm—”

“'Fine', yes, you’ve said that,” Already, he’s rummaging through your cupboards, at least the ones he knows aren’t filled with art supplies. “Do you have bandages?”

“… Second last cabinet on your left.”

Without a word, he walks through your chamber with self assurance, maneuvering around your easel and stepping over splayed out canvas as they finish drying, careful where to leave his burning footprints. He finds what he’s looking for easily enough, a moment later pulling up a chair and plopping down in front of you. His hands are methodical as he lays everything out; two bowls of water, a small cloth, and the saddest little first aid kit.

In your defense, you hardly end up like this.

You watch his hands as he dips the towel in the water then wrings it out, before gently dragging it across your exposed arms. You flinch as he begins wiping off the grime.

“I know,” His tone is soft, terribly understanding as he continues. “Give it a minute, you’ll feel much better soon.”

You want to snort, snap at him that you’re fully aware of how it works, but the cool sting of water, the mild burn from the open gashes and cuts along your skin, is quick to clench your jaw shut. Pain ebbs across your body, and you watch him speechless, the rhythm he follows, painfully gentle as he drags the cloth across your skin, careful not to aggravate your wounds. Clean water, wring out, wipe, rinse, repeat; he even goes out of his way to change the water, and the relief that comes after would make you sink into the couch, if not for Zagreus's silence.

He's yet to say a word since he entered. He'd asked you already, yes, but you take him for someone who doesn't give up that easily. You expected more of a fight. Now, you're not so sure.

"Zagreus, I… I—" It's hoarse, hardly above a whisper, but it's a start.

You feel him pause before choosing to lay into your newfound cowardice like a wet blanket, avoiding his eyes. Who knows what you'll do if you meet his gaze.

Sensing your hesitation, Zagreus clears his throat, "Perhaps you should save your energy. We can chat when you're healed."

You shake your head, though it only makes the room spin. "No, I need to tell you this now. Before..."

"Before what? You start avoiding me again?" He resumes, wrapping gauze around your forearm, his touch ghosting your skin as he holds your arm out. There’s no malice or respite in his tone, soft and withdrawn as it comes, but you wince. If anything, it’s bittersweet, with an acceptance he long held before he approached your chamber, and it leaves your heart clenching. You don't know how to respond. Are you that obvious?

"(Your Name)... did I do something wrong?"

You blink, whirling to face him.

Zagreus bites his lip, emotions he can’t fathom threatening to spill out of him. That's always been his flaw, according to Father. He's attuned to his emotions, more than Nyx, Father, literally any of the chthonic gods. He stares as his hands tremble, attempting to knot the bandage. "Because if I did, please just tell me what it is so I can make things right between us."

"No-no, you've done nothing wrong," You assure him, sitting up through the pain even when Zagreus protests. When he raises a brow at your answer, you rush to add, "I swear! I've been busy with... work." Technically, this isn’t a lie.

"... 'Busy'. Is that how you got these?" Zagreus holds out your mangled arm by your hand, flicking his eyes over your body in the way you hate most. You'd take aura-induced desire over this: pity, disgust.

You wrench your arm away, cradling it in your lap and shrugging. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

"(Your Name), who did this?"

You freeze. Nerves go haywire, and you squirm under his piercing gaze, burning through you as you contemplate lying to him, but you know better. At this point, you know each other too well, and—blood and darkness—he'll see right through you. There’s a defeated sigh, then a quiet, "Alecto."

Zagreus's eyes darken, but you wave him off. "Don't worry. In her defense, I kind of deserved it."

Zagreus sputters, taken aback, staring at you as if you offended him. "'Don't worry'? Don't—how can you say that? First I've seen you in days, and you're—" A sharp intake of breath, and he clenches his jaw so hard you're surprised it doesn't break.

"It's not a big deal. I disobeyed direct orders, and..." You trail off, thinking back.

Since meeting Zagreus, seeds of doubt sprout in your chest, in your lungs, suffocating you as you question the system you’ve worked under for so long. You’ve never questioned who you are and what you do, not to say you love your job, but it’s your life. Yet who’s to say there aren't poor souls sentenced to the wrong level? Genuine and kind, noble and passionate—people who don't deserve eternal damnation.

The possibility of your victims being innocent and undeserving makes you want to hurl, tortured shrieks and endless tears flashing across your memory and echoing in your ears. Your stomach clenches just thinking about it.

"(Your Name), I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Zagreus starts, mouth opening and closing like he can't find the words, his breaths coming quick and ragged. He just stares at you, eyes gleaming with an emotion you can't quite place—as if your virtuous act breaks his heart, crushes his soul. Then he blinks, and it's gone, shaking his stupor. “This is my fault…”

You raise an eyebrow, “How is this your fault?”

“I… I just… you shouldn’t have…” You frown as Zagreus struggles, brow furrowed, clearly pained as he thinks over his answer, like whatever he says next determines your fates. Seeming to think better of it, he shakes his head and brings your hand to his lips, and you flush, your heart skipping as his lips graze over the bandages, warmth seeping through the material and into your wounds like a healing salve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He rasps between each kiss, trailing up the back of your hand and up your forearm, like they’ll heal the wounds faster. Like this is the best he can do, like this is all he can do. Not that you plan to stop him.

Your face burns, but you let him apologize, though you’re not sure what for as he stops before your shoulder. At some point, he slotted himself between your thighs, and now face to face, he studies your cuts and bruises, already fading away as his eyes, soft and glistening, flick over your features. Like he’s debating if his kisses will help them heal faster too.

Gods, if he brings those lips anywhere near your face, you might combust.

You meet his gaze, “What—”

“I lied.”

It comes as a whisper, his voice dry and low that you tilt your head, urging him to continue.

“I’m not some mortal soul, dredging their way through Tartarus,” Zagreus grinds out, scanning your face as if committing you to memory one last time. Then he sits back and stares at the floor, still gripping your hand as he rubs circles over the bandage. “I mean, it’s true I intend to escape the Underworld.”

“Zagreus—”

“And yes, I’m searching for my mother—”

“Zag—”

“But I’m really—”

“My prince.”

He flinches, his eyes shooting up to meet yours. “What?”

“None of this is your fault, my prince. With or without your influence, I’d have done the same thing anyway.” He gapes at you and you smirk, using the little strength you’ve recovered to squeeze his hand reassuringly, “Or would you rather I address you as Your Highness instead?”

Zagreus shakes his head, black hair flopping out of his shocked face. “I don’t understand. You knew?”

“For a bit now, yes,” You shrug as you turn his hand over, large and calloused in yours, swiping a thumb over one of his healed blisters, probably from gripping his weapons. “Took me a while to figure it out, but I can’t say I was surprised. It explained some of your funny behavior.”

He scoffs, the corners of his lips twitching slightly, “What sort of funny behavior?”

“Pretend all you like, but you can’t suppress those noble habits,” You chuckle, eyes crinkling seeing him cheer up. “All your mannerisms screamed ‘royal’, I just didn’t realize we were talking Underworld royalty.”

“Seriously?” Zagreus gazes at you in disbelief. “I thought I did a pretty good job acting—”

“Like a commoner?”

“Like a mortal,” He shoots you a pointed look, and you snort, relaxing into the love seat.

“You were okay.” You purse your lips, “While we’re on the subject of identity reveals, you should know I’m—”

“A succubus?”

You blink before pouting, snatching your hand away to cross your arms over your chest. “You only say that because I was about to tell you…”

“Not true,” Zagreus grins, leaning over to give your thigh an affectionate squeeze. “I knew from the beginning. Succubi magic doesn't affect gods, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it.”

“And you still stayed? Knowing what I am and what I do?”

“And you still treated me as any other friend, knowing who I am?”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

“I disagree,” He coaxes your hands into his, prompting you to meet his gaze as his expression shifts into something more earnest. “We both tried—and failed miserably—to hide a huge part of ourselves in fear of what we’d think of each other, am I wrong?”

You shake your head.

“Exactly. (Your Name), I hope you know not once did I think any less of you for your work, much less your species.”

You respond in kind, “And not once did I consider bowing down to the Prince of the Underworld, especially not after seeing him stuff his face with wraps he picked off the ground.”

He guffaws. “Good, then we’re in agreement?”

“I guess...”

“Just what every man wants to hear from a beautiful creature.” Ignoring the burn in your cheeks, you roll your eyes, and he adds, “But we’re okay? You won’t avoid me anymore?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“Keep that up, you won’t be seeing me for another couple runs.”

“I was agreeing with you!”

“Your tone said otherwise.”

By the time your shared laughter dies down, the atmosphere clears, leaving a comfortable silence settling in the small space between you. In that time, he’s yet to let go of your hands, your thighs brushing as he rubs soothing circles against your hands, and while he insists on staying until he’s sure you’re better, acceptance rushes over you like the oncoming tide, because try as you might, Alecto’s punishment was nothing in comparison to Zagreus’s absence. These fleeting moments he stops by your chamber, whether to recover, commission a painting, or to simply have a chat, you appreciate each and every one of them. If that’s all you’ll ever have with Zagreus, you decide, your chest tight with a melancholic warmth, then that's okay.

This is enough.

—

Soon after Zagreus reluctantly leaves you once more, he enters the last chamber of Tartarus.

“Redblood! What say you—ack—hey, I wasn’t done talking!”

If he prolongs their time together, allowing him to indulge his cruelty, then consider it time well spent.

—

AN: One of my biggest peeves in media tropes is the betrayal and angst as a reaction from hiding identities from s/o, like in superhero media. It's overplayed, overdone.

A good, recent example of this is the new animated Superman show, My Adventures with Superman, where (SPOILERS) Lois forces the truth out of Clark, and is pissed when he confirms he is Superman. Bro, you literally said to his face how you'd reveal his identity to the public, can you blame the guy? Idgaf you think he's lying ab his feelings omfg he's protecting his idenity (its a good show tho pls watch it!!)

However, a cartoon that does the scenario right is in the old Nickelodeon cartoon, Danny Phantom (some of yall may be too young to remember), the older sister, Jaz, of the mc, Danny, quietly realizes he's the superhero of their town, and decides to patiently wait for him to tell her when HE'S READY. Like askjgdaksjhf yassss we love patience and understanding.

Which is why I like to imagine while Zag didn't outright tell you who he is, he didn't try to hide it either. The underworld's a big ass place, he's got no control over who and what ppl say and do, so however you find out, whether in passing or of your own sleuthing skills, you both wait.

Ty for coming to my ted talk :D

[pavus]

PROMPT : Vhenadahl. DRAGON AGE 2 ERA. Words: 2535. Characters: Anders & Merrill. Note: This is a very Anders-focused piece. A little navel gaze-y, but I'd just finished DA2 when I wrote this and I was chock full of feelings.

For his first few years in Kirkwall, whenever Anders felt himself at his most panicked and desperately overwhelmed, there was nowhere for him to go. There was no escape from the crushing weight of his work in Darktown or the deep shadow of the Gallows, which coaxed the suffocating fear he felt in his chest into his starving lungs instead. 

In those moments, Justice did not lift an ephemeral hand to help him. 

Instead, when he reached for the comfort of his only remaining friend, Anders felt a cresting wave of judgment that left his breathing even thinner, ears burning with embarrassment, heart aching in response when even pleas failed him. The word weakness rose in the back of his mind every time he took a turn for the worse. Whenever he was still capable of thought, at least. 

Sometimes, the hysteria darkened to black, and only then did Justice truly intervene and only ever to keep him from hurting himself – from damaging his vessel.

But those years were a half-forgotten thing.

Hawke changed everything by leading him out of the haze of desperation that surrounded his clinic, not only reminding him of the sun’s warmth, but introducing him to others who worked – willingly – beside him.

Of their half-dozen, he had not expected the blood mage, Merrill, to be the one who extended her hand most willingly. It was a skinny thing, her hand, with long fingers and painted nails and mail gloves with a fraying, knitted orange fabric beneath. Her skin was covered with jagged little scars that ranged from the fresh to the faded, and despite his perhaps occasionally hypocritical stance on her magic, he couldn’t ignore the rush of relief that filled him upon seeing them.

All it took was one visit into Darktown along with Hawke for her to scuttle over to his side, flushed cheeks full to bursting with her offer.

“You ought to visit the Alienage sometime,” she said with a decisive nod, as if she’d accepted the request on his behalf in an instant. “There are loads of people who could use your magic there.” She must have noticed the way he paled at the admission, as she quickly added: “But it isn’t just that! There’s a tree and a bit of the sun and the food isn’t half-bad, even if there aren’t many vegetables.”

Anders could not help but laugh at the time – a husky chuckle that tugged the perpetually downturned corners of his mouth into something reminiscent of a smile.

‘You deserve better’ wasn’t something he could swallow.

‘You need better’ was.

There was only so much drowning he could take before the satisfaction of healing the destitute would only pull him farther under. His cup had been emptied of water and replaced with bile, with blood. And so, he took Merrill up on her offer sooner than he ever anticipated, taking the walk up from Darktown to Lowtown one afternoon after leaving the clinic in a pair of somewhat capable hands.

He remembered with startling clarity the freedom of leaving Kinloch Hold for the first time – the icy waters, the sky that stretched out every direction and its sumptuous blue, the thrill of escape and the promise of adventure and the brilliant explosion of promise in his belly. A similar feeling took hold of him again, though it was much more subdued… and more than a little guilty. Leaving the men and women of Darktown due to the stress they laid upon his chest felt cruel.

Anders had taken up the mantle of caretaker willingly, thrusting himself into an unfamiliar role to bury the man he’d been. The runaway mage was not the sort of man to heal the poor for free, but he had not been the sort of man to put his heart into mage liberation, either.

He slowed to a stop on the side of the path that snaked between the lath and plaster buildings that lined Lowtown’s cramped streets. Pressing his hand flat against his chest, Anders felt his heart hammering against the cage of his ribs, thrumming up against his sternum with concerning speed. He exhaled, waited, then inhaled, repeating the process a dozen times before he felt the guilt leave him like smoke. The scent of it clung to his threadbare robes, to his hair, but when he took another breath, the tension in his breast had faded.

How long would he have to survive this? If he didn’t, if he gave in to the pressures that threatened to crush him, how long would Justice carry his corpse?

His thoughts lingered upon Kristoff as he turned the corner and picked his way slowly down the crumbling stairwell that proved to be the only entrance into the Kirkwall Alienage. Only once he looked up and opened his eyes did the landscape in his mind change.

Slowly, piece by piece and bit by bit, his mind cleared itself of his worries, replacing each errant thought with a new sight, a new sound, a new smell. 

While the buildings were made from the same materials as the rest of Lowtown, the homes that surrounded the square were stacked on top of each other like a treacherous tower of books, each of them with their own painfully obvious flaws. One home’s face was missing its windows, leaving its patched curtains to be flicked limply outside of the empty square by the faint breeze that teased the otherwise stagnant air between the buildings. Another home was covered with a mural he did not quite understand – an elf woman, a thrice-painted seed, a river of tears from under closed eyes. The paint had been cracked and worn by the hands of time. Right beside that building stood one that did not even have a door. Instead, a blanket hung from the rectangular frame beneath lashes of scorched black that spoke of a fire.

And in the very center of the square stood a tree – the vhenadahl, Anders recalled – that was altogether larger than any he’d ever seen. The firs that stood as sentinels around Lake Calenhad were narrow nothings in comparison, just silvery wisps whose smell burned his nostrils. Even the array of larch and pine trees that populated the Coastlands of Ferelden did not grow as tall as the one rooted before him. They gave off ample shadow for afternoon napping, but they only stretched so far into the sky.

Just before noonday, the vhenadahl laid a thick shadow across the ground of the Alienage, making the few beeswax stumps that were scattered around its roots the only light around the tree’s impressively broad trunk. The candles’ flames flickered just high enough for Anders to see the rich red paint that flaked from its bark and the surprised expressions on the elves’ faces when they lifted their heads in his direction.

There was so much he could have said. Explanation after explanation rose to his lips only to fall still and force him to stumble over his own tongue.

The elves closest to him stepped back with wary stares and white-knuckled grips on their children and their possessions alike. As a mage, he understood something of the panic that resided inside of them. One of them reached out with a sudden, shaking hand, intent on stopping him in his tracks.

Anders’s ears burned in a rush of awkwardness, and a single, pleading word finally broke free.

“M… Merrill?”

One of the elven men – older and weathered, likely by a lifetime in Kirkwall – stepped forward. He was not the one who lifted their hand in defense, but when he spoke, his tone was sharpened with accusation. “What do you want with Merrill?”

“What do I want with her?” Anders murmured in disbelief. The thought that he could ever be seen as just some human man creeping into the Alienage to snatch up one of their maidens bewildered him. But what was he, if not human? What was he, if not exactly what they feared? He was so tired of being what people feared. “She… invited me.”

The elves cast doubtful looks to one another, passing along the ripple of distrust from one pair of hands to the next, while Anders stood there, locked between indignation and hopelessness. In the quiet, the old man coughed violently into a handkerchief, and those around him shifted on their feet, unsure of how to progress.

“Go, child,” a woman whispered to the little boy clinging to her legs, nudging him in the direction of the door that he knew led into Merrill’s home. The child set off in a flurry of limbs, as if he was still growing accustomed to using them for speed. Children were only ever children, after all, whether they resided in High- or Low- or Darktown, whether they were human or elven or dwarven, whether they were happy or they were afraid. “Fetch her! See if she knows this human.”

They’d been traveling together for years, but Hawke did her best to keep them out of the Alienage unless Merrill needed them for a job. It’s better to keep our distance, she’d explained, at the very beginning of their time together, when Merrill wondered aloud why they never visited. I don’t want to bring trouble onto your doorstep.

Varric teased, claiming that she didn’t have a doorstep to bring trouble to, and Merrill laughed despite the lonely resignation in her eyes.

Sprouting from around the door leading into Merrill’s home were scribbles of daisies, drawn into the old wood with white and yellow and red chalk. They climbed their way up towards the home’s single, tiny window. There,  a planter full to bursting with elfroot hung, its tender leaves dripping down along with the water that had been recently poured into its pot. Similar planters – each of them different shapes and colors and containing different plants, herbs, vegetables – hung from other windows, stood in what few empty corners that remained to the alienage. 

The square was not all scars. There was color still. There was a future. There was hope, hidden amongst the wretchedness, and Anders saw more and more of it as he took in more of his surroundings.

From the branches of the vhenadahl hung ribbons of the same red that decorated the massive tree’s trunk. Many were washed out and faded by the march of time, threadbare and tattered at the ends, but not all.  There were just as many, if not more, that were the rich crimson of blood, shifting faintly with each brush of the wind. They were beautiful.

For a moment, Anders wondered what scant few beauties he’d missed out on in Darktown.

“Anders!” 

His eyes snapped in the direction of Merrill’s home just in time to see her hauled in his direction by the eager, blessedly task-driven child. She was brimming with smiles, and it did not take long for her to delicately tug her wrist away from the boy in order to hurry in the direction of the crowd. Dispersing them would – hopefully – be her first step.

“Ir abelas,” she said over and over as she approached, reaching for the arm of the old man only to draw her hand away before she made contact. “I should have warned you all that he might be coming, but truthfully, I didn’t expect him to!”

The mother drew her boy back towards her. Her four-fingered hand slid into his pale brown hair, and while the proximity visibly softened her, she did not take her eyes off of Anders for a moment. “Who is he?”

A mage, Anders thought. A runaway. A warden. A deserter. A possessed apostate.

“He is a healer!” Merrill offered as she went to his side, her hand finally finding purchase around his wrist. There was no hesitation in her touch, even after all he’d said to her in the past. He felt the tension in his chest unravel bit by bit. “His clinic is in Darktown, though… Quite a ways away, and it is very… dark, so I said he should visit us to clear his head a bit.”

Anders opened his mouth to speak, to apologize for intruding upon their space and causing them no small amount of unrest, but then, he felt her hand curl around his wrist, squeezing almost painfully tight.

“I hoped he might be able to look after some of you, as well.”

The elves bristled even before he did.

“The last time an illness spread through the Alienage, the Chantry didn’t even bother sending any of their healers to help!” The dissenting voice belonged to someone who’d been silent thus far – a young woman, broader and taller than the others, with the rounded ears of a half-elf. She stepped in front of the old man in what could only be defense. “They let that fever burn through us. Why would your healer even bother?” 

Anders’s stomach turned. The knots in his chest twisted, winding together even more tightly than before. Had this been her reason for inviting him all along? Not out of concern for him, but in an attempt to ingratiate herself with the elves who could barely stand her?

He moved to pull away, but found that he could not. Between her grip on him and the pleading look in her wide eyes, Anders was rooted in place. 

“Anders has a clinic in Darktown,” Merrill repeated herself, carefully picking over the words as if they hadn’t been clear enough the first time. Her tone fell upon displeased ears, but they still listened. They still considered the human standing in their midst – a healer, one who worked without thought towards payment. “We may not always agree, but I know he’s kind. He has to be in order to do what he does!”

Weariness threatened to smother him.

The desire to assist the less-than-fortunate was entrenched inside of him now, but deeper still, there remained a seed of his old selfishness that railed against Merrill volunteering his services without his knowledge or consent. He longed for rest. He longed for quiet and for peace and for a nap beneath a tall tree, as he’d indulged in so often when traveling with the Warden-Commander.

He missed those parts of his old life – just another version of himself that he’d shed like unwanted robes. He missed Warden-Commander Aeducan and the way Oghren made her laugh. He missed Nathaniel and all his bickering with Velanna. He missed Sigrun’s dark sense of humor and the way she snorted when she laughed. 

He missed…

Justice thrummed at the back of his skull, humming like a too-close memory. The ache that radiated through his head in response pulled him away from any pleasantness that reached for him and replaced it with a much more solid, much more painful reality.

“I will help you,” Anders said. Exhaustion marched through his words, but he spoke them loudly enough to reach each of the elves gathered in front of him. “Beginning with the old man.”

The elderly elf crumpled his bloodied handkerchief in his hand, gray brow furrowing.

“Step forward.”

Before long, he would find the rest offered to him. But, as always, he would work for it.

[xxnaiad-s]

everstill ━ geto suguru x reader

wc: 5.3k

cw: angst; self-loathing; description of a panic attack; reader is described as a chubby black woman; unprotected sex; creampies; bathtub sex; please let me know if i'm missing anything here!

notes from author: do NOT interact with this post if you are below the age of 18 ━ i will block you.

you hate the woman you see in the mirror. with every ounce of your heart, you despise her.

your brown eyes of earth and deep autumn, they pick your body apart along cruel tears and whispers so dark that you wish they’d stay hidden, that they’d disappear into a dark night, for them to never return. yet, during your eleventh hours, they do — they haunt you like ancient demons that would carve sigils beneath your skin, so that they may be summoned time and time again when your eyes meet your reflection. tonight, you mourn, feels as if it will be no different.

before you, stands a girl who pretends to be a woman. broken, so terribly and utterly broken this girl, with her dark skin littered with eons of fractures just like a vase waiting to fall apart. her imperfect body lays bare between your brown eyes, and even your tears aren’t enough to shield you from the unsightly mars you find, try as they may. your vision turns hazed and your eyes sting terribly, but still you see the weight that sits on your bones, and you believe it unsightly. you believe your belly too big and your face too round; you hate the way your breasts hang lower than they used to, how your hips crease and bend like the sides of a violin. the stretch marks that litter your brown skin, they remind you of lines carved carelessly by a dull knife and you find them hideous, where your voice disappears between your lips beneath poisoned sobs and choked back cries.

yet, oh ever-yet still, could this not be enough to hurt you? it is — it’s already more than enough, yet your cross sits heavily on your shoulders, and your crown of thorns are yet another labyrinth of invisible scars marred into your temple. there’s a pain unseen that runs beneath veins shredded to red ribbons, so beautiful in their tragedy as they pour your heart through bleeding cuts. visceral carnage told through two decades of betrayal from the people closest to you, whose tongues hid sharpened blades dipped in a purple venom, their damages still felt in their absence, a gaping chasm that you’ve placed between you and your past. it’s vast and merciless, and you’d vowed never to speak their names evermore, nevermore, and yet still, they haunt you in the remnants of their memories like childhood ghosts, and with each cruel apparition comes a clarity you wish so desperately that you’d stay oblivious to — those people of your flesh and blood, they never did care for you. and even now, they never will.

you only pray, with your bleeding heart cupped in hands painted red, that you and your broken pieces would be enough for one man alone.

there’s a sound of a door that opens in the deafening quiet, the wooden structure so gentle as it slides shut, yet it jars you so and your breath locks inside your throat. fear is familiar, yet comes to you as a stranger, it’s face so foreign and the touch of its cold fingers out of place where you’re hidden away in sanctuary. you shouldn’t feel fear when you know where you are — you’re home, and you wait between the comfort of four flaming wands for your darling to return. you know it’s only him coming back to you, but you’re so vulnerable and you’ve done everything to tear yourself apart in his absence that you panic and your skin crawls with the taste of bile in the back of your throat. you can’t let him see you like this, not when the cracks in your frame have deepened to the bone and rendered you asunder — he shouldn’t know of these demons that torture you on malevolent hymns, you pray he never will. you know what you must do — you know the door to this vast, coffee painted bathroom only stands so many steps away from you, but it seems so far all the same and the distance is daunting and you’re too terrified to move. your lungs forget the taste of oxygen and become intoxicated on the poisonous lack thereof, your heart abandons you and runs wild through a plain of darkness and every nerve tangles around your spine like a snake whose fangs bury themselves deep inside your jugular. here you stand, frozen, naked; afraid and bare just as the day you were born, and it’s in this state — a gentle knock raps against the bathroom door, one, two beats that don’t dare to catch pace with your racing heart as he calls your name — that suguru finds you.

the shoji door slides open despite the cries of your heart for it to stay closed, and the thin bamboo frame exposes you mercilessly to the man who stands behind it. you take in the picture of him in front of you; watch his eyes first melt and a smile paint his lips, before his familiar visage turns to one of worry as he looks at you, truly looks at you and sees you, just as he’s always done. he sees your puffy eyes, stricken red by tears as salty as the dead sea; your lips which quiver with the frigidness of a harsh winter’s 4 am; your chest that shutters up and down, up and down, desperate for the mercy of air and, gods, you must look so pitiful, and you hate yourself for letting him see you this way.

“angel, what’s the matter?” suguru sounds as breathless as you feel and you can’t understand why, but you’re so desperate in this moment to let everything go. you’re so close to falling apart as his hurried steps close the distance and you want to reach out to him, to hold him and reassure him that you’re fine, ‘i’m fine,’ but the words are too heavy and your cross weighs down on your back like a vice. and beneath yellow fluorescence that shines like a cruel sun, you crumble as soon as his arms wrap around your naked body.

“oh, angel… it’s okay.” suguru holds you, hushes you as your body wrecks itself apart on childish cries, your voice broken on abandon as you sob into his chest. “shh, shhh… i’m here, (y/n)… i’m here. i’m right here…”

“m’— m’so sorry, suguru…!” your hands find purchase in the dark fabric he wears, holding so tightly as you apologize and beg for forgiveness. “m’so— sorry..! m’so sorryyy…!” cracks bend the pitch of your voice and turns you into the wounded little girl who’d only ever known how to cry. “you s-shouldn’t… y-you shouldn’t see m-me like this… m’ so sorry, suguru, m’sorry…!”

suguru’s arms wrap around you tightly as he pulls your face against his chest, his chin resting atop puffy curls and his palms spread against the flat of your back. “no, no, baby, no… you don’t need to apologize to me… you’re doing nothing wrong, it’s okay.”

you feel your snot and tears staining his shirt, the feeling so ugly to you that your body feels repulsed and you want to pull away lest you dirty him any further, and it’s as he senses your thoughts and he tightens his hold around you. each gentle hush pushes gently through every sob that racks your lungs as he gently cups the back of your head and pulls you closer into his chest, as if to tell you that he couldn’t care any less about his clothes being dampened by your tears. “there, baby girl, there,” he whispers against your hair, soft, patient, and loving. “take a deep breath for me, hm? in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

biting your lip in a weak attempt to control your sobs, you do as he says, and suguru repeats the action in sync with you as his heartbeat thuds against your ears, a gentle drumming noise that grounds you against the feeling of him being here, hands pressed against your skin, lips resting atop your head. “that’s it… just like that, angel. you’re doing good.” he praises you on a quiet whisper. “one more time, okay?”

just as he asks of you, you breathe once more, imploring your traitorous lungs to do as he desires, because he desires. for him, you let him show you how to breathe, and his scent washes over you on nodes of petrichor and rain washed mountains. you breathe, and abandon all else that isn’t him, clinging to him like a lifeline, for he keeps your head above violent waves and saves you, just as he always does.

“that’s it, (y/n)… thank you.” the hand that rests on your back comes to your chin, he tilts your face upwards so that you’ll look at him and gods, the sight of those brown eyes causes your head to spin. somehow, they’re wet and his dark lashes are lined with beautiful tears, and he looks at you so tenderly, so full of care, with affection in the place where you’d expected to see disdain. “you did so good for me.” he praises you with a soft kiss to your forehead, his cool breath ghosting against your skin. “so, so good. such a good girl for me.”

you sniffle and wrap your hands around his back, feeling the need to hide yourself from him so that those perceptive eyes won’t peer down at you any longer. you feel as if you should cover yourself lest he look at your broken form with such amour, because how can something so damaged ever dare to take so selfishly? “m sorry, suguru…”

yet again, you apologize, because you’re not sure what else you can do. shame is a bitter medicine on your tongue that you force down with a grimace, your throat locks around it and your body wants to refuse it. you’re too scared to meet his eyes and you worry that, this time — this time for sure, you’ll se disgust, hatred, the very same that looks back at you in your reflection. how could someone like you, after all, so fragmented and imperfect and so horribly ruined, ever meet those eyes and accept with your heart that he looks at you and loves you despite?

and yet again — time and time again, and again, and again — he does. his touch is compassionate against your right cheek when he guides your face upwards, and his lips, they’re merciful. merciful, and loving, and tender and all when he presses them to your puffed eyelids. his thumb, even the soft touch of it alone lights your skin along glowing embers as he uses it to caress your skin and he breathes — exhale, inhale — and you mimic him in the action, so, so desperate to taste his air.

“(y/n),” a whisper of your name that echoes against coffee painted walls, it sinks into your heart and holds it close. “angel, you don’t need to apologize to me.” his kisses, they’re eons of a love you’ve only ever dreamed of having, never enough, never enough are you to ever hope of being worthy, never daring of wanting, of having. “i’m here for you.” and his lips, they linger by your eyelids, where the salt of your tears leak like a faucet. “i’m here, and i always will be, okay? i’ll always be here. trust me, okay?”

ah, and there it is. that plea, so soft it would vanish had he spoken any quieter, and yet so resolute, as it his words were the creation of the universe itself. your brown eyes water and the tears run freely, collecting atop his palm where he kindly wipes them away. you can’t trust your voice, so you grasp on to his wrist and lean further into his touch, wishing, evermore praying that you’d never depart from it and you nod. you hope and beg to the gods that would listen, that your heart could perhaps sing her broken songs loud enough for him to hear, that her voice could carry through childlike sobs and that he’d understand. he does, he always does, and he smiles down at you and takes your lips with his in a show of devotion and worship that overpowers your every sense and paints pictures of a god and his devoted follower. and that god, you find through suguru’s lips, you find that she’s you. that she looks like you through his eyes, eternal and heavenly, with her hand stretched down from the heavens, and your devotee, him. a man that holds on to your viscage with so much reverence and adoration, touching you as if just the feel of you could grant him eternal life. he revers you with his kisses, with the touch or warm fingers that leave their mark in your bloodstream, where they dance between your veins and fill you up anew. he kisses you and devours each sweet plea of his name, each fragile cry, and he paints them across his skin on amour eterno.

“lemme take care of you tonight, angel.” geto’s lips are searing across yours, where the taste of your tears sit heavy on his tongue and you remind yourself to swallow lest your heart leaps into your throat. carefully, he guides you backwards, and he’s smiling at you, so lovingly, so tenderly — just as the touch of his hands and each kiss that flutters across your cheek. soon, the back of your legs hit the cold edges of the large bathtub, and you fear for a moment — a silly, fleeting moment, that you’d fall and you yelp, grasping on to his biceps and clinging for dear life, but suguru, he holds you firm, never wavering his grip around your hip and chuckling softly when you bump into his chest.

“i’ve got you angel,” he lays another kiss between your brow before he gently pushes you down, so that you now sit on the very edge of the bathtub. “here, lemme run you a nice warm bath, okay? just sit tight and wait for me right here — i’ll start gathering everything and i’ll make it just the way you like it.”

“suguru,” before you can stop yourself, your hand flies to grab hold of his wrist, stopping him before he can get too far. your eyes, they’re pleading up at him, and again, shame dances in your gut like terrible vise. “you don’t have to…” your head shakes, and your nails dig into his skin without you taking account of your actions, only yet feeling the desperation that wraps around your voice. “i don’t wanna… don’t wanna cause trouble for you after a long day.”

there’s a soft, soft exhale that falls from suguru’s lips, yet within that breath, you hear no malice or frustration, no hint of annoyance that you’d convinced yourself he must’ve been feeling. instead, he leans down, his weight balanced on his heels and he takes your hands in his, where his thumbs trace circles across your knuckles and his touch, evermore warm. his eyes, they resemble the deepest hour of midnight, so dark and enchanting and you, you’re enraptured beneath them, your fragile heart singing his praises and glory be.

“i want to.” he utters, and in those words are a promise untold. “it’s no trouble at all. trust me, hm?” endearingly, his head tilts to the side, little wisps of black hair slipping across his forehead as he leans forward and presses his face into the bare skin of your chest. your arms wrap around his shoulders, and your face buries atop his head where his black hair tickles your nose, and you sigh, relenting.

“okay…”

he hums softly before squeezing you tighter, for a second and then more, and he presses a soft kiss between the valley of your breasts as he pulls away and sets to work. he lets the bathtub fill with warm water, a beautiful golden bathbomb from your favourite store scattering glitters and bubbling up beneath the clear water. you watch him set alight the honey oatmilk and almond scented candle he knows you love the most, and sprinkles a few droplets of lavender and grapeseed oil into the bath before shutting the water off. he’s set everything up just the way you love, ever so considerate, ever so caring, and it warms your heart and brings new tears to your eyes because you can’t understand — how could he love you so?

“is the water okay?”

you lean into the hand pressed against your cheek, falling into the warmth he radiates between the orange candlelight and smile at him, humming. “mhm… will you join me?”

“of course my love.” he whispers as he presses a kiss against your temple. “here, lemme get undressed, why don’t you go ahead and get in?”

you do as he says, sliding your legs over the white porcelain to stick your feet into the bubbly water. it’s warm, and the glitter sticks to your brown skin like a thousand beautiful shards of gold, they paint themselves over your visage in the light of fluttering kaleidoscopes. taking a deep breath, you slide in, and let yourself be encompassed by the love you’ve been presented in act of service. and soon enough, suguru joins you too, completely bare and his hair tied up as he slides in behind you, where his hands pull you snug between his legs and against his chest.

“thank you, suguru…” you sigh as your head lulls back and falls into the crook of his neck. his hands, so firm, yet careful, rub circles into your hips, molding away at each tense muscle and you, helplessly, melt. “i’m sorry i’m making you take care of me like this… you must’ve had such a long day.”

behind you, suguru presses another kiss beneath your hairline, where his lips linger with his breath and his arms squeeze you tighter against him. “it’s no trouble, my love.” he reassures you softly, as your body softens and turns to putty within the sanctuary of his embrace. “you’re going through a hard time, i don’t want you to ever apologize for that.”

“but…” your words quiver on something you don’t understand, its weight on your throat like a noose that stops your breath. you’re scared to face the man behind you, yet the comfort his arms is so profound that you consider, maybe, he wouldn’t turn you away. and your eyes — those beautiful, brown eyes of gaia, earthly mother — they look up at suguru, your neck angled up, and you find glory in his smile. “i feel like i’m a burden… i don’t…” oh god, those eyes, they overwhelm and consume you just like the night sky, where within them your reflection shines back at you like the milky way — beautiful and enchanting, but god, how unworthy you feel. “i don’t have any right to make you worry for me…”

“oh, angel…” the water makes noise as suguru lifts his hand and his body shifts so that he can turn you to the side, wanting to look at you better, for you to look at him. his hand finds home on top of your cheek where his thumb caresses your skin, tracing little hearts as they trail down to your quivering lips. wistfully, he sighs, and there’s an aching there in his voice when he whispers,

“if only you could see yourself the same way that i see you. if you could see that you’re so worthy of love, so, so worthy and deserving, you’d never think of yourself as a burden. (y/n), i love you — even through these hard days and painful nights, i’ll never leave your side. the space you hold here in my heart,” with his other hand, he reaches up and pulls your palm flat against his chest, and there’s a gentle bum, bum, bum that sings to you amorous melodies. “you have every right to hold and stay here… never for a second doubt that, okay? you’re not a burden… loving you could never be a burden.”

when he kisses you, you break all over again.

between his lips, you taste the poems of old greece, songs written for persephone and aphrodite, legends of goddesses revered and worshipped. your world spins on the winters of agape as your mouth molds against his and your hands, they desperately wrap around his shoulders and knot into his hair, where your fingers tangle and pull apart his bun so that black tresses fall and tickle your skin. oh, how wonderfully your world spins — and how precious this kiss, the feeling of his body burning you on ravishing fires that you fear you’ll turn to nothing but ashes, ashes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

“suguru…” breathlessly, you whimper his name like a prayer for salvation, your skin suddenly hot inside the cooling bath. your very bones ache for him, and yet, your feeble soul tells you you’re unworthy, unworthy. that you don’t deserve his love.

but suguru, he proves to you that you are more than worthy.

without ever parting your lips, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap, fingers spread across your back before settling into the flesh of your hips. beneath his touch, you become all too aware of your imperfections, of the fat beneath your skin and the stretch marks raised like lines of a map. but before your heart withers, suguru holds you and pulls you back into him before you can fall too deep.

“you can’t begin to imagine,” his voice, so soft, so sweet, it rings in husks against the shell your ear where he nibbles and bites, the sensation of his tongue sending shockwaves down your spine and you grip him tighter, moaning. “how much i absolutely adore you. every part of you.” his teeth suckle and bite your neck, his tongue draws circles and his lips suck fresh bruises along every inch of you he can reach. “how i worship you… how i love you.”

his fingers dig into your flesh as he rocks his hips against you; squeezing, feeling, positively devouring. “every part of you. every inch of you…” he reaches one hand for your breast, swollen and matured with time, no longer perky, but so full and round. he moulds them in the palm of his hands, his fingers aptly pinching your engorged nipples and twisting so that you squeal and throw your head back on a cry of his name. “you’re a work of art… the height of renaissance — the very image of perfection.”

his words are astoundingly clear amidst the fog inside your mind. they enrapture you, stealing your breath on the very taste of eros, and it teaches you hunger beyond hunger, the heat between your legs pouring through every vein as his erection rubs between your plush thighs. perfection, he called you — the word a concept so far placed from you that you thought he might’ve been delusional. but those thoughts don’t dare stay with you for long before suguru pulls you back down to earth.

leaning forward, his hands guide you to by your soft and squishy hips to hover above his waist, legs spread wide and your eyes looking down at him. “fuck, (y/n), if only you could see yourself the way i see you…” your nails dig into the flesh of his back as he swipes his tongue over your brown nipples, sucking until the bud would be drowned in his spit and your nerves choking on pleasure. your knees nearly buckling out from beneath you, you whimper, breaths heavy and laboured, all as his lips continue to roll your nipple between them, his cheeks hollowing to take in more of you until your areola disappears into his warm mouth. “if only you could feel the love you give to me each and every day, you’d never think of yourself the way you do…”

the way he touches you makes your head spin, his lips take your soul apart and makes you forget up from down and the colours around you blur on senseless desire, adoration. his tongue, truly, it worships your brown skin, his fingers poking between your thighs until they find where you need him the most. wetness manifests in a slickness that differs from the waters surrounding you as he spreads your pussylips apart, only so lightly touching that it hurts on what you can only call wanton desperation, needing him to be inside you, to be close to you. for him to hold you and love you until you couldn’t take anymore.

“suguru…” you plead breathlessly as your hips rut and shift, bucking against his digits sliding over you. “please…! please… can’t take anymore, just hold me… please hold me…”

here you are before him, weak and vulnerable. within your watery eyes, suguru finds in them his name, his visage painted with the word of ‘surrender’ — and you surrender to him. everything that you ever were, and all that you are now, he sees the way you offer it all in the name of love, pleading, hoping that it’ll be enough. yet, oh, don’t you know? to him, who would take saturn from the sky and place him between your hands, you’re so much more than enough; instead, you’re everything — everything and more, ever yet, ever still.

leaning back, suguru guides you with his palm against his face, your body chasing the warmth of his as the waters turn cold. he kisses you, and the feeling, it’s as if it would last forever. invocations of psalms taste like your religion founded on love and agape, as old an eternal and never-ending as the stars across the universe. your hunger, he satiates it, and the pain of endless time, he consumes it and so carefully takes it apart until all that’s left is you and him, him and you, here and now. and finally, finally, finally — he lets you release those cries and amourous solicitations of his name as he enters you slowly.

“su— ” your legs clench around his waist and you sob, clinging on to him for dear life as your body collapses into his lap. “suguru…!” the feeling of his cock spreading you apart tastes like a drug that courses through your bloodstream, throbbing and taking you to the very depths of eternity. his skin burns so hot against you, palms splayed across your back to pull you in closer, closer and yet never enough, where his very soul tries to break through the barriers of flesh all to embrace your spirit. his lips trail wet kisses along your cheek to follow each glistening teardrop, anguish that flourishes into proclamations of warmth and ever growing fondness that form crystalline diamonds and pour themselves all across his tongue. his hips roll slowly, and he savours every ounce of you that you give, even the parts of you that you’ve tried to hide. every demon that’s haunted you, every ghost of pain and suffering and cruelty, he caresses them with his fingers and shows them love, beseeching and pleading that they’d let you see the extents he would go for you, even to the pits of hell if need be. for you, suguru would tear the world asunder and set it alight, so that you could paint this blank canvas with the warm and beautiful colours of your smile.

“i love you, (y/n)…” he vows as a man bent at the knee, you, his empress, a divine ruler who he could only dare to dream after. and yet, ever yet — here you are before him. so close, so intimate do your bodies entangle that he disregards all fear of blasphemy and unrighteousness as he tangles his hands at the nape of your neck and kisses you hungrily. his breaths trail the dark shadows whispered on the hateful words you’d spoken against yourself and rewrites their very chemistry, the bitter taste of “i’m not worthy,” ; “i’m not good enough,” ; “i’m a burden,” ; “i’m broken,” — they become the sweetness of summer’s nectarine, and become tender vows that he endeavours to sing to you, in this life time, in the next, and for all the ones that come hereafter.

“i love you… i’ll always love you. even during the days when you can’t love yourself. i’ll never stop loving you… i always will.”

the sound of his voice so close to your ear, it’s maddening, intoxicating, and yet it grounds you to him, urging you to entangle him and pull him in deeper as your walls wrap around him, craven and crying out each syllable of his name as you sink down on him over and over. “i love you too, suguru,” you whisper, breathless, truthful, and just like him, your declaration reaches heaven on the hymns that you’d always sing. “i love you, i love you… haah! i love you, suguru i love you…”

he presses his forehead and moans, gasping at the sensation of warmth that spills out of you on his cock. deep inside you, he wants to stay forever, determined to make his home between your legs, for his heart to rest with yours and yours alone. until he could no longer tell where you end and where he begins, yearning to become one with you in every sense of the word. and god, he feels himself reaching his limit as he burrows deep inside you, ever so greedy for that sweet release only you could give him. “fuck, (y/n)… i’m close, i’m so close…”

“me too…” you exhale heavily, you own climax building slow, yet threatening to tip you into oblivion all the same. you grind against him until his tip hits your deepest point, pressing against your cervix and threatening to go even further still. “‘m almost there suguru, i promise… don’t stop yet, ‘m gonna be there with you, ‘m almost there… please…”

your words pour over him like molten sugar and suguru feels his hunger roll over him like a gentle tide, tempting him to take you over and over until time becomes nothing but a myth. until he’d become your past, present and future, and until his name would reach the divine as a declaration for the woman after his heart.

he doesn’t release his hold on you as he shifts to his knees, his chest only parts from you for a moment (but god, how empty it feels for that short moment) as he pushes your back against the far corner of the bath, water splashing around your bodies as he leans over you and presses his lips against yours. he angles his hips and pushes into you over and over, making sweet love to you and taking every sugary cry of his name from right out of your mouth. and those beautiful, lonely stars in the sky, they’d forever sing the story of your bodies uniting as finally, you fall apart together, of the euphoria that spread through your veins and across your skin like magnificent galaxies. he cums inside of you, filling your quivering hole to the very brim as your own release milks him for everything he has, breathless beneath him and devouring every gasp of your name that touches your swollen lips.

the bathroom walls blur, the feeling of the water around him vanishes, and in the end, all that’s left is you. his beautiful heart, famished and weary, and your loving eyes that behold him as if he were your deity. a smile spreads across his lips, and though his body is worn, his soul delights in your visage, tasting elation like a sweet wine as he embraces you, gentle and mindful, for how precious you are that he holds you with utter care and tenderness.

“i love you, (y/n)” he whispers against your neck, where the warmth of your heart reaches him in each pulse he tastes. he doesn’t see it, but he feels you smiling, and melts within your hold as you wrap your arms around his back.

“i love you, suguru… thank you… thank you for loving me.”

© mambalae-s ━ rb's + feedback are greatly appreciated!

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

The Kids Aren't Alright: Werewolf!Cole Cassidy x Reader

I will never say no to werewolf cassidy/mccree, and if I do, kill me

Contains: Light werewolf transformation, blood, violence, drinking, self-deprecation, gunshot wounds

He had been so careful.

He’s sat at the edge of the base, back braced up against a rock, legs spread wide in front of him, his face settled in a pained scowl. He stared into nothingness, eyes trained somewhere on the waves that crashed onto the rocky shore just beneath him, the cliffside blocking his view of the darkness below.

God, he just wanted to sink into that darkness. He prayed for demonic hands to come up the cliff and drag him down, preferably to a cold chamber in hell.

The winds are chilly for a mid-summer night. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing in his system, sitting in his stomach that was void of any food. His tanned skin was covered in goosebumps, but he made no effort in slugging his serape over his body to protect himself from the winds. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to him, having been full when he cracked the seal with his teeth and started drinking from it like that drunkard he is maybe an hour ago. The first sip always burned, but it was becoming less painful as the years went by, now really just drawing a bit of a tingle on the tip of his tongue whenever he drank.

Forgoing a glass, Cole wrapped his fingers around the cheaply designed glass neck, human fingers trembling ever so slightly in a mixture of unstable emotions as he rose the bottle to his lips. Tilting his head back, he allowed nearly half of a mouth full of bitter whiskey before he swallowed, nearly dropping the bottle to the rock beneath him. The glass still made a sharp clinking noise, nearly shattering the glass bottom.

But he didn’t care.

He fucked up. He royally fucked up and now he was paying the price.

He could feel it inside of him, the damn thing never dying no matter how much he tries to drown it with cheap alcohol that could wash paint and rust off of metals. It was like it was pacing inside of him, dragging its horrid claws along a stony wall, its eyes piercing through the dark. He could make out very little of the beast, but he knew it was him right down to the bloodied hands flexing and waiting to dig into something alive. Even now in his drunken state, he could still smell the blood from last night. It was like it had just been spilled right under his nose, the scent of copper stinging his nostrils as the flared when he took deep breaths to calm himself down.

His mind was fucking with him, had been all day, had been all night last night. It kept him up, anytime he would try to close his eyes it would just replay all that happened just hours before like some sick snuff film. It got so bad that every time he blinked his mind would show him stills and images from when he was still lucid.

He can still remember the sight of you; On your back, scrambling away from him, bloodied and bruised, and utterly afraid of him as he towered over you. The love of his life is now terrified of him.

He took another swig from the whiskey bottle, nearly choking as a sob shook his shoulders. Tears stabbed at his eyes, burning at the corners as he forced himself to swallow. His shoulders shook, his back tightened, his ribs felt heavy.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

He had been so careful up until last night.

‘Be careful out there, yeah cowboy?’ your voice echoed in the back of his mind.

‘Always am, darlin’.’

A heavy sob forced its way out of him, dropping the bottle back down to the rocks as he pressed his back closer to the boulder. He felt bile creeping up in the back of his throat as it tightened.

It was a complete shitshow. Everything started off eerie and quiet, your team cautiously entering what was supposed to be an abandoned hotel that Talon had been using as a makeshift hideout after having been drawn out by previous missions. You as well as a few others went ahead of him, having been posted towards the front of the hotel in the trashed and very dilapidated lobby as a lookout.

He had a horrible feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach the entire time he was up front, uneasily rocking back and forth, placing weight on one leg and shifting it to the other as he fiddled with his armor and gun belt. Every noise made him jump a bit, his eyes constantly scanning around for any movement that didn’t belong to Overwatch agents. Straining his ears, he could hear you going deeper and deeper inside the hotel, going up creaking stairs that threatened to give out under the slightest weight. He focused on your heartbeat.

At the slightest hike in its rhythm, he would book it from his position.

He didn’t like this place, didn’t trust it with any fiber of his being. Even the monster inside of him was starting to go nuts, gnawing at the bars of its cage, clawing at his ribs and tearing at his guts inside of him. He could feel icy claws trace along his spine.

The agents around him gave him an odd look out of the corners of their eyes, eyebrows all knit with slight concern at how he was acting. He didn’t care, though, he just wanted to get you and get the hell out of here. His throat burned for a cigarette, his nose crying from the overstimulation this place brought with all of its horrible smells of rot and mold.

Just as he was idly rolling a finger over the carton of cigarettes in his pocket, he heard your heartbeat hike,

And then came the gunfire.

He was the first to peel out of the lobby and into the crowded stairwell, taking the aged steps three at a time. Peacekeep felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds as he pulled the hammer back. He could barely make out the shouting over the gunfire, his voice barely loud enough to call out over it as he climbed the steps toward hell.

He broke through the door like a bat out of hell and shot dead the first Talon agent he saw. He called out for you, dodging bullets and bracing against walls and busted down doors, taking out whatever he could from the flood of Talon agents.

There were so many of them. How did he not smell them? How did he not hear them? If he had just focused hard enough, this all could’ve been avoided.

And then he heard it.

Your shrill scream cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter. It felt as though he had been shot in the back with a silver round. He barreled through the hallways as though he had been suddenly possessed. He felt himself slipping and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As he neared the room your scream came from, blood suddenly splattered out from the open doorway as the Talon agent fell backward. Peeling inside with Peacekeeper drawn, he nearly dropped his precious gun at the sight of you collapsed on the dusty floor nursing a nasty looking bullet wound in your side. Your gun clattered to the ground as you clasped both hands on the wound, wincing and crying, applying whatever pressure you could. Cole was at your side, kneeling beside you, encasing your hands with one of his own and applying more pressure as blood leaked between your fingers. You looked up at him with weary eyes, a faint smile ghosting over your lips.

‘Guess I shoulda took my own advice, Cass?’

He shot you a look before calling out behind him for a medic.

‘Yer gonna be just fine darlin’. You took a lot worse than this before. Yer gonna pull right through,’ he crooned.

You nodded, wincing as he applied more pressure. Seconds passed by like hours. His nerves were sparking like he was hopped up on adrenaline. Where was that fucking medic?

As he turned to yell louder, he instead got the same treatment as you did; A bullet, this time getting him right in the lower back, barely missing his spine by a few hairs.

Everything happened so fast. Colors faded together, his body felt like it was doused with icy cold water all while being lit on fire, there was a horrid ringing in his head. He didn’t even feel the pain it all brought on, just the feeling of his clothes suddenly becoming tight before tearing as brawny muscles flexed and covered with fur.

He should’ve known better. He always kept it under control.

The only other thing he remembered was the sight of you, face painted with pure fear, crawling backwards away from him into the dusty corner, blood seeping from in between your fingers.

Cole wiped his face with his metal hand, the plates were cool and strung a bit when he pinched around his eyes to stop the rest of the tears from falling. His body wracked with a harsh hiccup, hunching in on himself slightly. His serape fell forward, hiding his exposed skin from the chilly air.

“Cole?” It was like he had been shot all over again. Fear struck him right in the gut like an icy pike. He could suddenly smell them, he could even taste their worry it was that thick. “Cole?” the small voice repeated.

It was soft, barely audible, almost drowned out by the wind and the waves crashing. He could feel the warmth their body radiated, their smell lingered in his nose. It had started to calm him down without even doing anything. He couldn’t turn his head to face them, instead tucking his head down and allowing the brim of his hat to obscure his eyes.

‘If I don’t see ‘em, they’ll go away,’ he thought painfully.

“I’m not going anywhere, cowboy,” your voice was firm. He could feel your eyes rolling over him, taking in all of the torture he put onto himself. The wrinkled and messy flannel shirt stained with sweat and a bit of bile, the dirty jeans that hadn’t been washed in a while, the boots that had be scuffed with spurs all bent out of shape. Even his arm had lacked care and upkeep, the once shiny metal was dull from not keeping it clean. “Oh, Cass,” you doted, “don’t torture yourself.”

He finally spared you a glance. You were in very loose clothes, the sweatpants you wore barely clung to your waist, dipping a bit. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the sterile white bandages wrapping around your waist from where the bullet had been dug out of you. Your sweatshirt was unzipped, one of his worn shirts from long ago covered your front under it. You looked exhausted, not a single trace of shame or anger or even fear lingered on your person.

“You shouldn’ be up,” he slurred, turning to look away from you. “Shouldn’ even be ‘round a thing like me.”

He felt you step closer to him before slowly getting on the ground beside him. You didn’t dare sit, fearing the pull of your stitched up wound, instead you kneeled right next to him and kept your hands on your thighs. You both sat in uncomfortable silence for God knows how long before he felt you ever so gently place your hand on his outstretched leg. He stared at your hand, noting the small cuts and odd bruises you had, even staring at the nasty looking bruise in your inner elbow all wrapped up from where they drew blood and let the IV flow. He didn’t look up higher, though.

“I love you,” your words were soft but firm. “Nothing’s ever gonna change that, you know.” He still didn’t spare you a look. He heard you swallow thickly, your hand squeezed his leg a little tighter. “I understand why you never told me about… that. I’m not afraid of you, Cass.”

He broke down, startling you when a dry sob heaved his shoulders. You scooted closer, wrapping your arms around his trembling shoulders, holding him as he sobbed quietly in the mid-summer night. You pressed your lips to his shoulder, holding yourself firm against him as he crumbled with the sounds of the waves crashing beneath you both.

[ginafumbless]

The Crimson letters

Genre: psychological thriller and murder mystery with a touch of romance

Summary : A New body has been discovered, this is the third one and the killer is still anonymous. The whole of the city is panicking its a literal chaos.

Chapter 1 - messages unseen

Killerkillerkillerkillerkillerkillerkil

Chapter 11

The third victim

The remnants of last night’s rain clung to the streets, reflecting the muted pinks and purples of the early morning sky. The sun struggled to break through the thick clouds and the usual bustling energy of the streets in seoul seemed subdued almost as if the city itself was holding its breath. Namjoon’s breath formed small clouds in the chilly air as he stood at the latest crime scene his eyes hard and unreadable.

This was the third victim.

The alleyway where she had been found was a narrow, dark cut between two dilapidated buildings the kind of place most people would avoid. But the killer had chosen it deliberately. The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage and something far more unsettling. A dark coppery scent that clung to Namjoon’s nostrils and made his stomach churn.

The body laid sprawled across the uneven pavement her limbs twisted in unnatural angles the skin pale and mottled from the cold. Her clothes were torn and deep vicious slashes crisscrossed her body as if the killer had taken their time savoring every cut. Blood had pooled around her seeping into the cracks of the pavement, turning the gray stone a sickening shade of red. The walls were smeared with it too splatters that told a story of violence and pain.

Namjoon forced himself to look closer to take in every detail. Her face once pretty was now a mask of terror frozen in the last moments of her life. Her eyes were wide open staring blankly into the void and her mouth was contorted in a scream that had never been heard. The killer had slit her throat but not cleanly it was a jagged and brutal wound as if they had used a dull blade hacking away until they were satisfied. The blood around her neck had dried in thick and dark clots.

A familiar emblem was pressed into the center of her chest, a crimson wax seal marking her as another victim in this twisted game. Namjoon stared at the seal bile rising in his throat. This one was different from the others more prominent, as if the killer was growing bolder more confident. The thought made his blood run cold.

"Jesus Christ," muttered his assistant Minhyuk, who stood a few feet away his face pale as he took in the scene. This wasn’t his first murder investigation but the brutality of this one had shaken him. He swallowed hard trying to keep his composure. "This is...it’s worse than the last two."

Namjoon nodded though words felt inadequate in the face of such horror. He could still see the first victim’s face, a woman he had known only in passing, who worked part-time at a small shop he frequented. She had been found in a similar state her body mutilated the same crimson seal marking her as the first in a series of gruesome deaths. The second victim had been discovered in a park, her body carefully posed beneath a tree her blood painting the grass a deep red. Each kill had been more savage than the last, the violence escalating with each new body.

And now this.

"What the hell kind of person does this?" Minhyuk whispered, his voice barely audible. He glanced at Namjoon searching for some kind of answer some reassurance that they could stop this.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened, but he kept his emotions in check. "A monster" he replied flatly. "Someone who enjoys the suffering, who feeds off the fear."

Minhyuk shivered, rubbing his arms as if to ward off a sudden chill. "Do you think it’s connected to the envelopes?"

Namjoon’s eyes darkened his mind racing through the possibilities. The thought had crossed his mind, more than once. The pattern, the seals it all pointed to something bigger something that was tied directly to him. But why? Why him? Why now?

"I don’t know," he admitted, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "But I intend to find out."

Before he could say more, a voice called out from behind them. "Namjoon!"

Namjoon turned to see his best friend Jiho approaching his expression grim. Jiho was a tall man with sharp features and an intense gaze that seemed to miss nothing. He wasn’t a cop but his background in criminal psychology made him invaluable when it came to understanding the darker sides of human nature. He had been helping Namjoon with the case unofficially offering insights that had proven crucial more than once.

"What have we got?" Jiho asked his voice steady, though Namjoon could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Another victim" Namjoon replied gesturing to the body. "Same MO. But this one...this one’s different. Worse."

Jiho’s eyes flicked over the scene taking in the details with a practiced detachment. "The escalation is concerning. The killer is getting more confident more violent. They’re enjoying this."

"That’s what worries me" Namjoon said his voice low. "They’re not just killing they’re making a statement. But I still don’t know what it is."

Jiho nodded thoughtfully, crouching down beside the body to get a closer look. "It’s personal. There’s something about you that’s driving them, something they want you to understand. But they’re not going to make it easy for you."

Namjoon’s fists clenched at his sides the frustration and anger boiling beneath the surface. He had seen his fair share of killers but this one...this one was different. They were playing a game and Namjoon was the unwilling participant.

"Have you found any connections between the victims?" Jiho asked standing up and wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Not yet," Namjoon admitted. "The first victim Lee Sooyoung, worked at the convenience store near my apartment. I used to see her almost every day but I never really spoke to her beyond small talk. The second victim Park Minji, was a student at KNU like Jiwon the third one. But as far as I know they didn’t know each other."

Jiho frowned considering the information. "It’s too random to be coincidence. There has to be something linking them."

"Or someone" Minhyuk added his voice strained. "What if it’s not about the victims? What if it’s about y/n Namjoon? i'm telling this because y/n works at KNU and was acquainted with the shopkeeper too"

Namjoon stiffened the words striking a chord deep within him. He had been trying to avoid that conclusion but the evidence was becoming harder to ignore. The envelopes, the seals the fact that the victims were all somehow connected to y/n it was too deliberate too pointed.

Jiho’s gaze sharpened, and he looked directly at Namjoon. "You and y/n need to be careful. If this is about y/n, then the killer is watching y/n's every move. They could be anyone someone you know someone you trust."

As they discussed the case the paramedic arrived to take the body away, carefully placing it in a black bag. Namjoon watched as the zipper slowly closed sealing away the horror of what had been done. But the image of the victim’s mutilated body was burned into his mind, a reminder that time was running out.

"Whoever’s doing this" Namjoon said, his voice hardening with determination "they won’t get away with it. I’ll make sure of that."

Jiho nodded a fierce light in his eyes. "We’ll find them. And when we do they’ll regret ever starting this."

Namjoon took one last look at the alley before turning away the weight of the case pressing heavily on his shoulders. The killer was out there

watching, waiting, and Namjoon knew that the only way to end this was to step deeper into the darkness to confront the monster on their own terms.

But as he walked away from the scene a cold nagging feeling lingered at the back of his mind. The victims were just the beginning the prelude to something far more sinister. And if he didn’t figure it out soon someone else would be next. Someone closer.

Killerkillerkillerkillerkillerkillerkil

Note : Hillo hillo my beannnnieeeesss, So who do y'all think the killer is?? And why do you think they would be targeting y/n? Hope you guys like this chapter!! Have a great timeeee ;)))

[vallanoux]

𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚. - 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝟏, 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝟏

ps: i'm new here and idk what i'm doing, but this is the first chapter of a lucifer m. x reader x alastor fic <3

(name) (surname) was nothing special. Sure, a famous broadway star, but that was it. She was just another regular human who experienced normal, average everyday problems. A difficult “hellhole” of a childhood, a lack of love life, worry and uncertainty for the future... all of them were undoubtedly issues that everyone went through, were they not?

In this day and age, who didn’t come from some form of trauma-inducing childhood hellhole? 

The only thing that really stood out about (name) (surname) was her death. She died in a freak accident at age 28. Sent to hell by such a gruesome death––what a poor thing! Especially straight into the ring of pride. That really was the only interesting thing about her.

Or so, most people would believe. 

“Why, oh why the hell am I in Hazbin Hotel?!!” (name) cried. 

(name) (surname) didn’t die in a freak accident at age 28. No, she was transmigrated into Hazbin Hotel, an adult animated series that had its first season recently aired in the beginning of the year 2024 after its pilot a couple years prior.

(name) sighs, and she slumps down on the sidewalk. She confusedly stared at her surroundings. The buildings were all gray, either barely holding up or derelict and destroyed. The roads were all covered with some form of garbage. Feces, drugs, guts. And god, everything was painted in red. Concrete bathed under the sky of red and puddles of crimson blood and innards. 

With a rising acid reflux, and her own build up stress, she could feel her own vomit crawl up her throat, waiting for her to belch out her instant noodle and scrambled egg breakfast. All too familiar with this feeling, she pressed her hand against her chest and stopped breathing in and out. The bile manages to sink back into her stomach, and at that, (name) breathes a huff of relief. 

“I need to get my shit together.” 

Just as she says that to calm herself, she sees a familiar face, staring at her. (name) didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Fear? Excitement? She could only stare at the figure standing in front of her––the figure of hell’s head honcho, Lucifer Morningstar. She couldn’t tell what he felt. The expression on his face was too well concealed. (name) opened her mouth, her lips trembling as she spoke. She couldn’t understand why such a man was here. 

“Hello,” (name) mutters out, holding her eye contact. 

Lucifer tilts his head and thankfully, he speaks. He didn’t sound angry, but he also didn’t sound all too pleased either. “Were you sent by Father? That divine power in you must mean something.” 

“I don’t even know why I’m here. What are you talking about..?” (name) was honest with her words. She stared at him helplessly, with a tone of desperation etched into her voice. “I don’t- I..” 

(name) could feel the tears building up in her eyes. She desperately wipes away her own tears, but they would only continue to patter right out. They were the tears of a showman. A through and through famous broadway star that presented their act as thorough as a michelin chef serving a full course five star meal. A meal that Lucifer bit into with little to none hesitation. 

He looks away regrettably. The flame of suspicion that once burned in his eyes flickering into dying embers. He truly wanted to believe (name). But this situation was far too… perfect. “I don’t know what I could do for you.” He summarizes up briefly and regrettably, and he turns around. He looks away. 

“W- Wait please. Don’t leave me here. Please. I don’t know what’s happening. If you could just give me a place to stay?” She lowered her head and pleaded. 

He turns his gaze back to her and his face morphs into a troubled expression. His lips curl into a worried frown and he balls his hands into a fist, where, (name) noticed, a wedding ring still nicely wrapped around his ring finger despite his widower status. He sighs and unclenches his hands. 

“You know I could be a totally bad guy, right?” Lucifer mutters. “You shouldn’t trust the first person you meet.”

“I know that. But you just seem.. Kind.” (name) was careful with her words, painting herself in an innocent light. A light that Lucifer would feel the need to protect. 

“Kind?” He narrows his eyes briefly, unsure. Yet as always, his gaze returns to her eyes. “Sure, why the hell not. Come, stay with me. But don’t blame me if you regret it too much.” 

(name) manages a small smile and held his hand, “I don’t think I will.” 

Her expression drops slightly when Lucifer’s grip on her hands tighten. His eyes narrowed and cut through her, “but if you’re lying… I promise you’ll find yourself in a situation far worse than being in hell.”

(name) nervously and shakily nods her head. “Got it.” 

2.7 pages

883 words

status: edited

Notes:

this is a story i created for fun, so updates are inconsistent~

only lucifer and alastor will be love interests currently.

also a small reminder, don't ask for posts/updates. it ruins my motivation to publish anything. if someone comments or personally asks, i might just consider postponing an update simply because.

[ask-the-critters-survival-au]

Okay first of all…

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS!

Seriously, you guys mean the world to me and I absolutely love the fact that people are interested in learning about my silly little au!

So as a thank you present…why don’t we take a little peak into the mind of our favorite chicken?

Happy reading ;)

[Related post]

KickinChicken threw open the door to the councilor’s office, the utter force of the movement causing him to stumble and fall against the door frame. He clumsily broke his fall by clutching the door case just in time. He leaned against it, trying his hardest to breathe, but he just couldn’t. Someone had his throat clenched in a heavy grip, disabling him from taking full breaths, but there was nobody there. He was alone.

Playcare echoed with the sounds of his loud, choked sobs, each one more strangled than the last. The warm blood coating his fingers felt sticky and uncomfortable. He despised it. He wanted it gone. But when he tried to wipe it off, he felt the fur of the severed limb he was still holding rub against his feathers, painting his side in fresh crimson. He looked at it. The trademark dusty green color the long ear once held was now something you had to squint to recognize. Warm, wet, sticky blood coated the entire ear, dripping down from the torn half into small pools of blood on the floor. The strong scent of peppermint was now replaced with a sickly, rotting smell that made Kickin’s stomach flop.

His feathers felt too heavy. His bones felt too bulky and his mouth too wide. His talons felt unnaturally huge, too huge to be apart of his foot. His skin felt like it was boiling. He could feel sweat dripping off him, soaking his feathers. The taste of bile was slowly building up in the back of his throat.

He stumbled forward again, but before he was aware of it, tripped on the staircase. He let out an uncanny screech as he tumbled down, each sharp crevice digging into his body and leaving behind uncomfortable sparks of pain in its wake.

He rolled to a stop at the foot of the stairs and laid there, unmoving. His heart got louder with every beat, each boom ringing in his ears. The pain that was tingling all over his body, his head, his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his back, he wanted it gone. He wanted the sticky feeling gone. He wanted the disgust he felt with himself gone. Kickin could feel the bile raising again in his throat, and before he could swallow it back down, it came out. Kickin sat there on all fours, his shoulders shaking violently as he retched the first meal he had eaten in weeks.

After what seemed like a long, long time, he managed to get to his feet without his legs giving out on him. He wiped his mouth half heartedly with his wing, but he knew he’d have to take some form of a bath to clean himself up. Without running water in the factory, he’d have to make do with the water from the vending machines.

-

“Come on,” Kickin meekly hissed, dribbling water over his filthy feathers. The blood stains weren’t coming out. He let out a loud squawk of frustration and slammed his fist into the side of the broken vending machine he was sitting next to. He immediately regretted this decision, drawing his hand back at the prickling sharp pain. He cradled his palm in his other hand, wincing.

“Why are you wasting the only water we have left?” A gravely voice rang out from behind him. Kickin’s feathers bristled in recognition.

“What are you gonna do about it?” He taunted, trying (and failing) to keep his voice from wavering. “Take another big, juicy bite?”

“Kickin, I’m…” Picky Piggy trailed off, hugging herself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t control-“

“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard that excuse so many times,” Kickin brushed her off, holding up a wing dismissively. Picky’s brow knit together in frustration, but she didn’t retort. Kickin popped open the cap to another water bottle and started pouring more water over himself. The water was messing up his hair, but he found that he couldn’t care less. He just wanted the muck off him. He didn’t want to think about the fact that Hoppy’s blood could end up permanently staining his hands. Or of the implications that the severed ear held.

Behind him, Picky continued to stare at him, unmoving. He glanced back at her, slowly growing irritated with her presence. But before he could snap anything, she was first.

“What happened to Hoppy?” She suddenly began to press. Kickin flinched. “You smell more like peppermint than ylang-ylang right now. And she’s been missing for a day. Same with Crafty and Bobby. Not to mention you’re covered in blood-“

“I didn’t do anything to her!” Kickin howled, whirling around to face her. The words rang hollow, and Kickin knew it. He had done something absolutely horrible to her. Tears began to well in the corner of his eyes, his hysteria controlling him with a tight leash. “She left! Crafty and Bobby did too! And CatNap just threw her severed fluffing ear at me! To eat! To eat, Picky! And I don’t-“ He cut himself off with a choked sob, burying his face in his hands.

“I just don’t know what to do,” The chicken quietly admitted.

“Wait,” Picky interjected, eyes wide. “Did you say they left?”

“Yes, I did!” Kickin snapped at her. “Hoppy invited me to come, but I said no because I knew they’d get killed! And they…I don’t even know if she’s alive.” He finished weakly. But Picky was barely paying attention to his distraught anymore.

“They never asked me to come,” Picky whispered. She took a small step backwards, staring at the ground. They never asked her. Was it because she got too hungry? Was it because she was too dangerous? Or was it because they just didn’t care? Was it all three? Was it for even more reasons? Did they hate her this entire time? Were they just waiting for a reason to leave her?

“Oh, boo hoo,” Kickin sneered. “You should know very well why Hoppy didn’t invite you, after what you’ve done. Hell, you should be glad that you weren’t invited! You would have…” He trailed off. The hand felt like it was back there again, squeezing his throat in an iron fist. Just getting words out was now something he had to fight for.

Picky was also dead silent. She stood there, watching him, expression unreadable. It was silent for a few minutes, both parties just staring at each other.

“You said,” Picky started with a wavering voice. She swallowed and started again. “You said CatNap gave you her ear. To eat.”

“Gosh, Picky, don’t remind me-“

“Where is it?”

Kickin let out a strangled noise of surprise, turning to stare at her. She stared back, gaze unwavering. He looked down, around him, and then realized the ear wasn’t with him. He must have dropped it without realizing it. It was probably still at the councilors office. He hesitated for a long moment, before slowly raising up a shaky finger and pointing towards the building. Picky turned around to eye what he was pointing at, and then stormed off in the same direction.

Kickin didn’t bother watching her leave. He glanced down at the empty water bottle in his hand. The blood still hadn’t come out.

“Stupid,” Kickin muttered, clenching the bottle harder. “Stupid, stupid, STUPID!” He shrieked, chucking the bottle as far as he could. It landed on the statue in the middle of Playcare with a loud clang.

His eyes were burning with tears that soaked into his feathers and left red circles under his eyes. Defeated, Kickin slid back against the vending machine he had broken. The shattered glass dug painfully into his back, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding somewhere, but all he could think about was how royally he screwed up.

He hugged his knees to his chest and let the tears fall. He was such a screw up. Now because of him, Hoppy was probably dead. He just wanted to protect her, and Crafty, and Bobby.

“It’s not your fault,” Kickin told himself, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He told CatNap they were going to escape. He put them in danger. “You couldn’t have known that he would react that way.” He should have known that he would react that way. CatNap was dangerous, and he knew it.

“You just wanted to protect your friends.” Hah, protect. Sure did a damn good job at that. Great job, KickinChicken. You deserve a gold star.

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault,” He repeated, trying to convince himself that it was true. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your-“

A loud, sickening crunch startled him into looking up. Standing in front of him was Picky, mouth and hands covered in blood. She was holding Hoppy’s bloody dismembered ear in her hands, which now had a large bite mark in the side. Picky looked Kickin dead in the eyes, and took another bite.

Kickin scrambled to his feet and shoved past her, running as fast as his feet could carry him. He spread his wings as he ran, and took off to the faux sky. He frantically flapped around, his drenched, heavy feathers making flying a task much harder than usual. He soared updraft until he landed atop a nest of blankets, pillows, and various knickknacks settled upon a small nook in the back of the dome. The second he landed, his knees gave out from underneath him and he fell face first onto the nest. Kickin fumbled awkwardly around until his hands grasped a pillow, and buried his beak into it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kickin hiccuped, tears staining the pillow. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.” If he kept telling himself that, surely he’d begin to believe it eventually, right?