#crimlune

[petitsdieu]

🏆 🏆 🏆 (for three recs!)

꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ... 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑇-𝑂𝑈𝑇𝑆 𝑜𝑓 𝐴𝑊𝐸-𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒.

A note to all three ... Although different in your own right, you all write like music. It's a privilege to read, a bigger one to be apart of your duets. So glad y'all found me. ʚ♡ɞ

🏆 ― 10/10 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔, 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑

@nightmarefuele ... home of the true grit ... and somehow exceptionally a light beacon to me ... i mean c popped into my life at the right time and showed me there were still people out there that wrote things i loved to write, too. and not only that, she's always been so unapologetic about it. it's very inspiring. i've loved all her characters i've gotten a chance to interact with ... but there's a special place in my heart for the first. ren, an epitome case in taking the best parts of canon and growing it into something uniquely their own. that seems to be her tried and true recipe and if there's one thing to take away from her its that, folks. her writing is insanely beautiful. and i'm not just saying that because i think it pairs so lovely with mine ... which it does. it's gritty, dark, visceral chew ... and my brain chews it up, spits it out just to chew it up again. whether it's a line, a fragment of a line, a paragraph, a whole reply ... edible, always. she's one of the kindest people here. and one of my all time favorites i've ever gotten to met thru this hobby. some of my fav drool-worthy excerpts below!

🏆 ― 10/10 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔, 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑

@deficd ... lee, literally ... and i really mean literally ... from the jump has been so overwhelmingly sweet and kind. they are easy to talk to ooc. and they're excellent in collaborative plotting and writing ... in most cases i like the equate to the ultimate writing partner as someone you're having a tennis match with ... they've KO'd me countless times when hitting back their reply ... but lee sits a shelve above ... our writing feeds off each other to create something so breathtakingly beautiful i could weep. there's never been a reply from them that hasn't left me in awe ... pure poetry. lee's ability to match my freak levels when it comes to romance writing takes a big, big swallow of hearts here. beauty in the disgust at its finest ... romantically, and otherwise. because i mean this fondly, they really know how to write something lovely gross. and to top it all off, lee knows how to be a little self indulgent and to have fun ... and that's really inspiring. flawless, yummy. some of my fav drool-worthy excerpts below!

🏆 ― 10/10 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔, 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑

@crimlune ... corner to corner, blog to blog, miffy achieves a perfection ( by my opinion, so you can't deny me here ) every time. she has sucha impeccable eye for aesthetics. but what i adore about her the most is the way she writes. i love the way she can make angst so ... buttery, velvety, like it smooths all the way down as it hurts in a way that you don't just mind but prefer. and than her ability to write romance and sensuality in all its beautiful grotesque glory ... i've known few to get it ... its fun being able to go full out with her on it ... tho i think she could take the most mundane topic and make you fall in love with it. and i've adored our exploration through something entirely new on this blog ... brother/sister dynamic that isn't filled with hate and is ultimately heathy. always giddy to see her pop up in my activity. whether i'm writing with her or witnessing on the dash is an absolute treat. flawless, highly recommended, adore miffy to heaven and back. some of my fav drool-worthy excerpts below!

[ange1s]

   STARTER ;      SOPHIE  &  HOWL  FT. @crimlune

𝑠𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑒  𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠  𝑜𝑓  𝑒𝑛𝑣𝑦.     it  is  a  familiar,  ugly  sensation,  a  horrid  green  monster  that  gnawed  at  the  back  of  her  mind  ever  so  often,  especially  growing  up  with  her  two  younger  sisters.   she’s  come  so  far  in  her  self-perception,    but  that  did  not  mean  it  didn't  falter  from  time  to  time.  working  at  the  hat  shop,  now  as  the  new  owner,  she  is  bound  to  meet  very  gorgeous  customers  who  are  dressed  in  elegant  fabrics  &  are  in  the  latest  fashion.   she  does  not  think  she  is  any  less  than.   no,  not  at  all.   but  when  they  come  in  and  spend  most  time  gazing  and  admiring  her  husband  ( who  so  happily  helps  around )  than  any  of  the  hats,   well  …  her  mind  cannot  help  but  linger  on  the  thought  of  howl  enjoying  it.     of  course  not !     what  a  silly  notion.   yet  a  notion  that  overstayed,  even  as  now  they  close  up  for  the  shop.   her  brooming  and  dusting  was  hasty  than  usual  &  the  quiet  little  ‘hmphs’  that  left  her  lips  were  not  from  exhaustion.

[saintcecily]

݁ᛪ༙ ࣪ ˖ *͟ ▒ ⊳ @crimlune › closed. ▒ ᴸᴵᴷᴱᴰ, ᡣ𐭩 [ 𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 : — ASTARION . ]

❛ ❛ i'm old , not blind . ❜ ❜ tone sits on the precipice of teasing , wicked curl of cecily's lips accompanied by a glint of humor within the vampire's eyes . ( to yourself , you wonder how his pretty face came by the fangs . ) she turns , gaze precise in finding the spawn amid dim light from the campfire . ❛ ❛ is there a reason you skulk about so quietly ? ❜ ❜

[oupires]

▒ |   ⊹₊ 𝄞  ₎         ────         «   setting:   a   dark   forest.   »                                                       𝖋𝖙.     @crimlune ,   cain.

like   a   rabbit   already   ensnared,    she   recognizes   the   futility   of   her   fleeing,   welcomes   the   all   too   familiar   helplessness   as   though   it   were   an   old   friend.   feet   ache   as   they   carry   her   across   the   woods,   torn   skirts   reveal   torn   skin   beneath,   blood   dried   &.   mud-stained.   it   is   equally   exhilirating   as   it   is   agonising:   blood   rushes   to   and   from   evangeline’s   pumping   heart,   cold   air   coming   to   her   lungs   in   sharp   gasps   that   scrape   a   burning   throat.   against   all   better   judgement,   one   thing   she   knows—this   is   RIGHT.   the   aches   &.   the   sufferings,   the   ceaseless,   relentless   pounding   in   that   wretched   thing   that   her   heart   is.   this   is   what   it   feels   like   when   your   body   is   built   to   sustain   you,   not   kill   you.

              she   seeks   temporary   SOLACE   behind   a   thicker   trunk.   again—it   is   a   fruitless   feat,   this   flight   of   hers.   her   doom   is   nearing,   his   footsteps   thunderous   as   they   crush   each   dried   leaf   on   his   path.   the   path   straight   to   her.   his   restless   lamb,   she   who   will   leave   claw   marks   all   around   as   he   drags   her   to   slaughter.   as   he   helps   her   feel   alive,   at   last,   before   he   shatters   her.

              her   silence   is   cut   short,   lungs   ablaze   drawing   air   in   quick   pumps,   the   arhythmic   cruelty   of   inhale-exhale-repeat   stabbing   through   nature’s   quietude.   the   girl   bites   down,   muffling   her   noise   on   the   sweat-cloaked   flesh   of   her   palm.   fingers,   covered   in   the   ground’s   dirt,   reach   under   the   white   of   her   skirts,   hovering   over   the   butcher’s   knife,   its   cold   blade   pressed   flush   against   her   outer   thigh.   blood   drips   leisurely,   skin   pierced—must   have   happened   during   her   flight,   she   figures.   stupid,   careless   lamb,   you’ll   end   your   life   before   you   have   the   chance   to   live   it.   does   he   pick   up   on   the   iron   scent   of   her   blood  ?   can   he   smell   this   FEAR,   this   ACHE   so   atrocious,   on   her  ?

[unfaes]

░ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 ▸ @crimlune — closed. from ROAN , to IMOGEN . 𐔌 TRACK : 1965 / zella day 𐦯

❘ ❘ ❘ ❛ ❛ i've never had anybody touch me like i'm glass . ❜ ❜

[gothyq]

@crimlune : you  think  i’m  afraid  of  what’s  between  us,  but  i’m  not.  i’m  terrified  of  what  life  would  be  without  you.  i’ve  never  felt  more  alive,  more  connected,  more  me  than  when  i’m  with  you. for ellen, from thomas.

— "  if  the  heavens  were  just,  if  fate  had  a  heart,  i  would  be  yours  and  you  would  be  mine.  we  would  wake  to  the  golden  hush  of  morning.  our  hands  clasped  from  the  night  before.  the  weight  of  the  world  nothing  more  than  a  distant  dream.  "  a  ghost  in  the  candlelight,  wind  rattling  the  glass  like  a  prisoner  shaking  the  bars  of  a  cell.  the  night  presses  in  thick  with  the  scent  of  damp  earth,  dust,  and  lilacs.  bitter,  breathless  laugh  escapes  her.  "  but  the  heavens  are  deaf,  and  fate  has  no  heart.  love  was  never  meant  to  be  kind  to  me.  i  was  never  meant  for  the  light.  the  darkness ...  it  called  my  name  before  i  ever  learned  yours,  and  now  "  she  exhales  —  like  something  inside  her  is  breaking.  "  now  it  has  come  to  claim  me.  "  a  step  forward  and  the  creak  of  a  floorboard.  fingers  trembling  as  they  find  his  face,  tracing  the  heat  of  his  skin.  so  warm,  so  real,  while  she  had  grown  as  cold  as  the  dead.  she  presses  forward,  lips  ghosting  over  his.  breath  tremulous  against  his  skin.  "  if  i  had  a  choice,  "  she  whispers.  her  lips  quiver,  as  her  fingers  curl  against  his  jaw,  as  if  finding  an  anchor.  dark  gaze  glistening  meeting  the  bright  blue  of  his  eyes.  "  it  would  be  you.  it  would  only  ever  be  you.  "

tarot based scene starters : still accepting

[hechose]

i want to forget. just help me forget. // @crimlune ( nicki. )

something in the words rings true with armand, connects with something deep in his soul, something... tucked away. swept over and instead painted gold and blue. oh, for all the ways he has been fascinated with nicolas, for all of the ways it has been a curious, beautiful little game, there is such... depth too. such hidden, private honesty and even care about the way armand looks at him, touches him, holds him sometimes.

( does he not orchestrate his whole life, his entire being on the notion of forgetting, of rewriting? even if sometimes he does it so naturally, he is not aware of the edits? )

he blinks back into focus and smiles. something gentle, but there in the corners, something with the promise of wickedness, of something sharp and armand raises a hand to quickly grip nicolas' face. tight grip sudden, holding at chin and sliding against jaw as he turns nicolas' face, tilts toward him, meeting eyes with severity before it it turned away instead so armand might move in closer, might bring lips to ear and let breath ghost against skin.

"do you give yourself to me, nicolas? do you devote yourself to me, mon petit monstre?" a sigh as he lingers and even without a taste, without sinking fangs into flesh, he can smell the madness, that intoxicating, horrifying darkness within. how it calls to him. how he wishes to silence it for nicki, even if only for mere hours.

"on your knees for me, hands together in front of you. i'll give you all you need."

[heartsbreaking]

she put her phone down and let her headphones fall around her neck. "half day at school," miranda explained. "but i'm sure mom told you we're getting the garage fixed today. dad can't come get me until his car's not stuck in it." she knew to be as unobtrusive as possible, stay behind the desk or in the break room and out of everyone's way. for the most part she didn't mind the hospital. it was rare she saw anything truly gnarly. maybe she'd just gotten desensitized to what gnarly really was though. "doesn't seem like- bad- today," she observed with a shrug, looking up at the doctor.

STARTER CALL | starter for @crimlune / dr. robby *

[roseguided]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 ? 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒, clarice didn't feel as if she could give will a straight answer nor, maybe, one he'd wish to hear right now. there was too much going on, a killer to find, a case to solve by doing so ... she couldn't think of anything else until this killer was caught & no one else was put into danger because of them. more & more it seemed victims showing up, missing organs, with little to no traces of the person who'd done it--no hair, no dna, nothing. the only MO clarice had, that the fbi had, was the way in which he killed his victims ... the way in which some organ was always missing. all of that, & will wanted to ask her that now ? it takes her aback slightly, blue eyes blinking in their surprise.

@crimlune ASKED, " YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T WANT THIS. WERE YOU LYING ? "

body becomes tense, notable. ❛ will, i- ... ❜ stomach tightens a little, hand coming to rub at the wrinkles between furrowed brow. fingers brush strand behind her ear, tongue wetting her lips before clarice can open her mouth: ❛ i can't answer that right now. ❜ it's a straight forward answer, would he appreciate the honesty ? ❛ we have-a killer t'catch. a case t'solve. that's my focus with now ... until we can catch 'em, stop these killin's ... ❜ head gives a shake, eyes flashing sadness. ❛ i can't answer you. i'm sorry. ❜

[altarcup]

you? kill me? that's funny. for ekko › from jinx.

he tells himself he’ll do it,  that he can do it.   𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲,  if anyone could,  it should be him.   𝗲𝗸𝗸𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗶,  and of the g̳r̳i̳e̳f̳ that has festered on her like rust,  aged and 𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 her.   she’d hesitate.   she’d tear herself 𝖆𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 over it,  never sleep again.

𝙴𝙺𝙺𝙾 tells himself a story about how he wouldn’t.   won’t.   a story in which he’ll sleep just fine with this blight upon 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖉.      ❛❛  go ahead and laugh.  ❜❜      he pulls his mask over his eyes and 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 until it becomes dust in his mouth.      ❛❛  i’ll settle things with you.   if not today,  𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰.  ❜❜

[petitsdieu]

@crimlune, 𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠 ... "no one should even get to look at you unless you want them to."

Wants?

❛ I've yet to understand my needs— ❜

Chimerical wants not yet feathered to the folds of her brain that think but perhaps they exist in other parts of the body. Still, there is this romanticism towards the needing. In the spot to the left of the rosarium is where she daydreams all her needs are fulfilled. Is that want?

Eros, arrows for eyes, knows volumes in want, desires, loves — if should not surprise her to hear him speak in such a way. She knows him for each balsamarium of rose water made here; there's one left in his name. She knows how to talk to Gods. She's half one.

❛ How could I possibly know what I want. ❜

[ange1s]

   STARTER ;      VICTORIA  &  SILAS  FT. @crimlune

        she’s  heard  her  father’s  booming  voice  from  his  study,    her  mother’s  muffled  sobs  —  this  is  nothing  new.   it  happens  every  day.   she  is  always  the  center  of  attention  in  this  household,  but  never  for  the  right  reasons.    precious  daughters  make  their  families  proud.   but  she  is  not  like  them.   VICTORIA  IS  A  DISGRACE.            the  failed  engagement,    the  shame  it  brought  . . .  did  they  know  the  shame  she  felt  when  she  was  unwillingly  laid  in  the  grass  with  her  fiancé  ?  if  only  they  knew .  but  that  didn’t  matter,    did  it ?    she  had  turned  down  a  wealthy  baronet,  and  in  turn,    has  ruined  the  family’s  name.       and  now,  another  scandal  taints  the  family  name.   MADNESS,    they  call  it.          ❝    she  cannot  stay  here,  prudence.   she’s  a  raving  lunatic !  crying  about  VAMPIRES — what  nonsense —  scaring  the  servants  off !     ❞  

       victoria’s  throat  has  gone  raw  from  crying,   from  pleading,   from  shouting  into  the  void  of  their  indifference.   her  eyes  are  red  from  endless  tears.   but  she  is  not  mad.   vampires  are  real.   she  knows  this  because,   in  the  night,    she  is  loved  by  one.            soon,   he  will  be  at  her  window.   she  will  let  him  in,  take  his  hands,  and  feel  their  cool  solidity  in  hers.   HE  IS  REAL.    and  maybe,  just  maybe,  he’ll  take  her  far  away  from  here.   how  she  longs  to  flee.     to  be  gone  from  this  horrible  place  she  called  home.           the  lights  finally  dim  in  the  other  rooms.   the  house  grows  dark.   the  harsh  voices  hush.   she  finally  peels  herself  away  from  the  door,    drawn  toward  the  moonlight  spilling  across  her  room.     it  leads  her  to  the  window,     her  nightgown  whispering  across  the  wooden  floorboards  as  she  awaits  for  him.

[ohsunshine]

caress. gently caress my muse’s face. for armand › from nicolas. / ( @crimlune )

Armand's instinct is to pull away from the gentle touch, or else to brace for it to turn painful. He hides the notion well; he does not pull away. Instead, he leans into it, his eyes fluttering closed. He knows, thanks to dozens of paintings in his youth, that he makes a handsome image like this, his head slightly bowed, eyelashes fanning against the gentle upper curve of his cheek. It's a performance, as more things are, but it cuts closer to the truth than anything else might, a very real longing for connection that he allows to surface for air before he inevitably tries to drown it again.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, another performance of uncertainty, all for Nicolas' benefit. It gives the illusion of power in their relationship, the pretence of Armand offering him a choice, instead of allowing him to see the truth, which is that Armand is floundering, desperate for guidance. This is all still so new after centuries of denial, and he feels like a creature made entirely of appetite, starving for more.

Unbidden, his hand reaches for Nicolas', pressing it to his cheek as if he might like to absorb that point of contact into his very being and carry it with him always.

Their eyes meet, and Armand reaches for Nicolas' other hand, his eyes wide and shining in the darkness. "Grant me one moment more of this and you may ask of me anything."

[luminescenc1e]

He melts into every touch she grants him, as if the universe itself bends to her whim. A life without her? Unthinkable now. Everything they’d endured—against all odds, against every force that sought to tear them apart—had led to this moment. Alive. Together. As one.

His pulse thrums under his skin, wild and relentless, as his hands move instinctively, knowing every curve, every reaction. They trace the lines of her body like a song he’s memorized but never grown tired of playing. Being with her was everything, and yet it was never enough. Always more. He craved her endlessly, a hunger that no amount of time could sate.

He’d been unsure once, nervous even—asking her to marry him, and she’d said no. For a moment, he’d been shaken, though he would never admit it aloud. Perhaps he’d rushed it, still unaccustomed to the luxury of peace, to the absence of battles for their right to exist together. Maybe it was the lingering fear that the world, or worse, the underworld, would find some way to tear them apart again. But he would wait. He would give her the years she needed—if only to prove to himself that he could.

Her lips graze his neck, soft and deliberate, and a shiver runs down his spine. His head tilts back, eyelids fluttering shut as her breath warms his skin. “And aren’t you lucky,” he teases, his voice low and whispered, “to have such a captivating muse?”

His eyes open slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips. The past few weeks had awakened something in him. He’d been playing the piano more than he had in years, every melody steeped in her. Some pieces he hadn’t shared with her yet—they felt too raw, too intimate, like baring a piece of his soul he wasn’t quite ready to part with.

She asks him something, but his brain falters, caught between her words and the way her skin glows in the soft light. His gaze moves over her, devouring her. No matter how often he sees her like this, it always feels like the first time. She’s breathtaking. And she’s his.

“I want everything,” he says, voice rough with desire. “All of it, Clary.”

With renewed determination, he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her effortlessly beneath him onto the bed. He knows she lets him. That knowledge thrills him as much as her touch. “But if I have to choose, you here, with me, is the only thing I need.”

Settling between her legs, his lips press against her chest, moving slowly, reverently, yet with an urgency he can’t fully contain. It’s a battle—two sides of him warring for dominance. One wants to lose himself in her, to take everything now; the other wants to linger, to draw it out, to savor every second. In the end, he lets her decide, reading her signals, her words, her body.

His lips travel lower, brushing against her stomach as he nips at her skin, a playful grin flashing across his face. Strands of golden hair fall against her, brushing her like a whisper. “I’m going to make us late for our date,” he murmurs, laughter in his tone, before silencing himself in the best way he knows how.

clary relishes the kiss to her forehead,   his sun-kissed and sturdy arms surrounding her.   he makes it easy to forget every obstacle it took to get to this point:   the youngest shadowhunters to head an institute,   a space dedicated to her art and jace’s music,   a place as much a home as it is a 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈.   ❛ maybe … you should make me a scrapbook or something, ❜   she suggests,   peering up from his shirt with a playful glint in her verdant eyes.   clary rumbles with a gentle laugh.   ❛ only for when you’re missed,   of course,”   she echoes,   feigning innocence as her teeth worry at her bottom lip. welcoming his kiss a little too enthusiastically,   clary’s freckled cheeks burn with a blush comparable to her red locks.   she rises to her tiptoes to further display her eagerness,   her need wordlessly.   mouth parting further,   a soft sound emits from her throat as their kiss grows in passion.

when she’s lifted from the floor,   clary grins against jace,   the tip of her nose pressing to his.   pale legs  —  scuffed knees and scars from childhood  —  naturally hug jace’s hips securely.   she settles in his lap atop her bed,   hips pressing down into his as her fingers reach for his unruly blond curls,   twirling one around her graphite-stained finger. soft sighs part clary’s lips further under jace’s ministrations.   goosebumps rise against her fair skin and a pleasant shiver shoots down her spine,   the flame to her trying match.   ❛ my muse … you’ve always been my muse,   𝒿𝒶𝒸𝑒, ❜   she breathes reverently,   her very own kiss finding the line of his jaw,   the sweet flutter of his pulse point.   ❛ is that right?   any photo? ❜   clary asks,   tentatively darting out her tongue along his skin,   barely tacky from an uneventful hunt.   this new territory  —  this game they play  —  pools arousal in her gut.   ❛ and what say you, hm?   more photos of me as well,   or are you … content with the real thing? ❜   clary asks,   breathless as she courageously strips off her cami to reveal her baby pink,   sheer and lace bra.   a 𝒹𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓎 bow sits in the middle.

[altarcup]

(aftermath): after a battle/war, sender and receiver reunite thinking the other was dead. for viktor › from jayce.

in the blooming light, he went blind almost instantly. ( he hadn’t known a soul could go blind. ) 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎  ‒‒   for a flickering second, he was still solid in the places jayce was touching him   ( . . . )   h̳a̳n̳d̳ ̳i̳n̳ ̳w̳r̳e̳t̳c̳h̳e̳d̳ ̳h̳a̳n̳d̳,̳ both wrapped around the seedling of their last collaboration. his shoulder, as he’d done so many times, in jest, to draw notice, in support, 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎 ( “i’m sorry,” “you are my best friend,” “i have looked down on you, but i never will again.” ) and then, with one last jumping spark, one last synapse firing, one last conscious thought before the great ending, the great beginning  ‒‒   they were dust.

now, viktor was remembering everything.

every timeline, every possibility. every attempt to find jayce and teach him the knowledge needed to 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐦. jayce as a small, chubby-cheeked child, gazing with nameless wonder at the newfound center of his life ; 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚢 and infintely powerful in this little hand. the smoking rubble of a piItover apartment, 𝘫𝘢𝘺𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘺𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦. a place where borders didn’t exist between them, where they’d grown up scraping themselves bloody on the same polished cobblestone, where they went on to visit the same classes and create the same hotwire-death for humanity, because b̳o̳r̳d̳e̳r̳s̳ ̳d̳i̳d̳n̳’̳t̳ ̳e̳x̳i̳s̳t̳ ̳b̳u̳t̳ ̳s̳u̳f̳f̳e̳r̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳d̳i̳d̳,̳ a̳l̳w̳a̳y̳s̳,̳ ̳ ̳a̳l̳w̳a̳y̳s̳ ̳d̳i̳d̳,̳ and because viktor hadn’t learned the truth about that yet. he never did, at least not quite fast enough. worlds where they were magnets to each other, worlds where they hated each other 'to a bitter end, lives they lived completely separate from one another but for a crucial, fleeting moment that allowed for infinite ends to infinite worlds. 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍.

birdsong on the hill. flowers blooming from jayce’s coral skull. viktor opened his eyes and found, instantly, that in infinite iterations of viktors, none of them seemed to know how to let go of a friend. fleshy, aching, lame, kneeling was impossibly painful but necessary to try, even if just for a mad and fruitless minute, to peel jayce’s calcified fingers from his hammer. i̳t̳ ̳w̳o̳u̳l̳d̳ ̳h̳a̳v̳e̳ ̳m̳a̳d̳e̳ ̳n̳o̳ ̳d̳i̳f̳f̳e̳r̳e̳n̳c̳e̳. there was no body to save from the impact of the dying world. it was already too late, it had already happened, over and over and over again in full, excruciating, perfect colour. the blue butterfly brushed him with its wing as it whispered past the memorial of the world, 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎, on to jayce taIis, flesh-and-blood, standing on a patch of grass, simple gaping mouth and silly twitching brows. and viktor did something truly shocking. he gave up on trying to understand.

[ange1s]

MOTHER  HAD  BEEN  GONE  FOR  FAR  TOO  LONG .      the  cool  night  air  slipped  through  the  open  window,  curling  around  rapunzel  and  sending  a  shiver  down  her  spine.  she  wrapped  her  arms  around  herself,      but  the  chill  wasn’t  just  from  the  wind.

  absence  was  nothing  new  to  her.  she  had  spent  countless  hours,  even  days,  alone  in  the  tower,  watching  the  sun  rise  and  fall  as  she  waited.     and  yet,  she  had  never  truly  feared  it because      MOTHER  ALWAYS  RETURNED.      always.      her  departures  were  predictable,  her  returns  inevitable.

  most  of  the  time,      rapunzel  welcomed  the  solitude.     a  quiet  tower  was  easier  to  breathe  in,      without  mother’s  sharp  gaze  pressing  down  on  her  every  move,      without  the  weight  of  her  expectations  wrapped  around  her  like   chains  disguised  as  a  loving  embrace.     of  course,  she  loved  mother.     didn’t  all  daughters  love  their  mothers ?      it  was  the  natural  order  of  things.  and  yet,      love  could  be  suffocating .

 yet  now  ?      now,  @crimlune's  absence  gnawed  at  rapunzel’s  stomach  in  a  way  she  didn’t  understand. it  curled  in  the  pit  of  her  chest  like  something  dark  and  coiled,      something  that  whispered  of  things  she  dared  not  name.     where  was  she ?      why  had  she  not  returned ?

 the  wind  howled  through  the  trees  below,      a  distant  echo  of  her  own  restless  thoughts. for  the  very  first  time,      she  wondered  …      what  if  mother  doesn’t  come  back ?   what  would  become  of  her ?  with  no  way  out,      she  would  rot  here,      forgotten.     no  one  knew  of  her,  besides  mother.     SHE  WAS  NOTHING  WITHOUT  HER.     guilt  creeps  up  …  many  times  she  had  wished  for  one  more  day  of  solitude,      to  be  free  of  her.     but  now ,   she  wanted  nothing  more  but  for  her  to  return.     she  would  be  good!      she  promised  herself  that  she’d  no  longer  have  such  selfish,  wicked  thoughts.     she  would  be  a  good  daughter  and  behave,      if  only  she’d  come  home.