#erratic apparition

[mtg-art-daily]

Erratic Apparition

"What's got you all bent out of shape?" —Joseph, comedian, last words

Artist: Miranda Meeks

[almostlookedhuman]

[anonymous-existences]

DCxDP Prompt 17 :

Danny was very displeased, displeased at the fact that he had to be a quarter vampire.

Let him explain, Danny had been visiting Vlad for his annual Therapy session, Dan had told the boy that Vlad has been acting strange and isolating himself in his bedroom.

Danny speculated that maybe the man is... Doing evil things again to mess with Danny and so just as any other sane person would, He visited the man. He stepped into a dark and cold room, "Frootloop...?", he called out as he kept the door open Infront of him.

Without even giving the boy a second to process the darkness, Plasmius pounced on him and had dug his sharp teeth and fangs on his arm, Danny took only a few moments and threw Plasmius to the side, his eyes were glowing red.

Danny was cursing as Plasmius's Hair 'Horns' were actual horns now and he looked... Hungry.

Danny would not like to delve more into those new trauma memories but short to say but Plasmius had a more animalistic side to him due to his vampire shtick and it turns out he knows when it happens but simply forgot to tell Danny or Anyone about this situation.

Danny went home after having been bandaged by Dani, He felt weird ever since that day and for the past few days the sun had felt more hotter for him that he ended up using sunscreen often, he found Ectoplasm more... Delicious as well and when he happened to get injured and licked the blood off his arm due to something urging him, he slowly pieced everything together.

Danny started showcasing more vampiric features, his eyes had a red tint, his ears were pointier and his fangs sharper, slowly he's had more of an attraction to blood and Ectoplasm, being able to find or smell blood from afar.

Danny at some point tells jazz and she ofcourse accepts him wholeheartedly and protects him as much as she could, even going as far as intimidating the A-Listers enough that they'd leave Danny alone.

It... It didn't prove good for him though, The Sensors clocked him more as a ghost. It made Maddie and Jack extremely suspicious.

One morning Tucker and Sam had called him something about Maddie and Jack finding out, Danny was then caught especially at a time where Jazz was out of town.

We all know what happens in Bad Parents Maddie and Jack, They have him strapped to a table.

Jazz went home 3 days later and after finding out about what happened to Danny, she ran to the closest person she could get help from. Vlad.

The DC part ;

Danny had ran away with Jazz, Dan and Dani to Gotham, Apparently Vlad had bought them a Manor and Since Dan was the oldest he was the one who managed all the money and he was good at it.

Danny still had difficulty controlling the hunger, the Half Ghost Thing now along with having vampire stuff on him and still somehow being half human was the only thing keeping him sane and feel like he's in control of his body.

These instincts from 3 different species in one body fused to one causing him to get more confused and erratic with his behaviors, Dan resorts to taking Danny out at night and letting him ravage and feed on Criminals which Dan had specifically picked.

Meanwhilst the bats have been notified of Child and Human traffickers or anything of the same level crime that they don't feel bad about have been found dead with bite marks on their necks and their bodies drained of blood, It confused them ofcourse but no innocent bystanders or civilians was ever turned into a victim of this unknown assailant.

The public had nicknamed the supposed "Vampire Meta" As Apparition (Because Dracula was too cliché), One faithful night, a witness happens to see this strange person feed on a criminal.

A black haired teenage boy had their teeth sunken in the big man's neck, their eyes a red tint but it's obvious they were blue, said civilian immediately told the police which gave the bats a lead.

Witnesses starts to see more of him, Red Robin happens to encounter the younger boy on coincidence, his clothes were bloodied but he stared at the horizon of the city. The boy looked out of thought, his eyes hazed as Red Robin approached him, Danny turned his head at Red Robin almost immediately upon hearing his footsteps.

"Hello." He greets with a fanged but soft and innocent smile that made Red Robin's heart skip a beat. Just who is this boy? And why is Tim starting to have a crush for him.

You guys can take it from here, all my thoughts were, Halfa!Vamp!Danny and Dead Tired.

[rezwrites]

Hiya! Can you please write fem reader x Rio where Y/N gets possessed during the trial by her dead evil mother (similar to Agatha) and others want to punish her too, and Rio is the only one who protects her? Later she calms her down too, when reader is back to normal

Here you go!

Warnings: thoughts of stabbing

Everyone was gathered around the ouija board fingers on the planchette. The air grew heavy with an otherworldly energy. A round of questions go by with no answer until Teen asks, “what do you want?”

Everybody looks puzzled when the planchette spells out punish. Everyone’s voices rise up questioning if someone was moving the planchette, overlapping each other.

“Stop it, enough,” you take a deep breath, speaking up, “who do you want to punish?”

The planchette started moving across the board erratically spelling your name repeatedly. Your heart sinks as feel everybody looking at you, Rio keeping her eyes on you gauging your reaction.

Yanking your hands away as if the planchette burned you. You walked to the middle of the room trying to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. Everyone agreed on what had to be done to pass the trial, moving towards you with various ideas to punish you.

“Don’t touch her!” Rio puts herself between you and the rest of the coven, knife in her hand. Overcome by the malevolent presence of a spirit, you feel an eerie chill crawl up your spine as you fall to your knees.

The lights go out as supernatural screams fill the room, objects flying everywhere. Realizing you’ve disappeared everyone grabs a light, Rio frantically looking for you, “where is she?”

You came out of no where snarling, acting erratically. Everybody panics not knowing what do when you start attacking all of them.

Lilia finds the breaker switching the lights on, all the noise and objects stopped. Snapping out of your trance you back yourself against the wall by the television, as an apparition manifests on the wooden stairs.

The ghost of your mother appears. Rio’s face twists in clear disgust, putting her knife away knowing there’s nothing she could do against a ghost even if she wants to stab your mother a thousand times.

“Leave her with me. She needs to learn what it means to be a true witch.” You mother tries convincing then to leave you behind.

“No! no way. Just because she isn’t selfish or power-hungry like you doesn’t mean she isn’t a true witch. If anything her punishment was having a mother like you trying to corrupt her every step of her life, in order to use her as a weapon.” Rio rants to your mother, cursing her name. The second it leaves her mouth, every regressed memory and feeling came bubbling to the surface.

The path to the road opens up, Rio signals to the others to go on ahead, that you two will catch up. She runs to you, kneeling beside you. You kept her at arms distance, “I’m fine, really.”

Rio shook her head in disbelief, “I know you aren’t. Don’t brush this off like it’s nothing.”

“I was terrified, okay?! And so angry,” you take a breath attempting to steady yourself, “I thought I was okay after all this time but after seeing her, all the trauma she put me through I just wanted to-” choking up on your words your magic flickered around your fingertips, diminishing when you curled your hands into fists.

Rio slid her arms around you, pulling you into her embrace wanting nothing more to never let you go. She tucked your head under her chin as you break down in her arms, clinging tightly to her torso. She rubs your back as you sob, “You’re doing the best you can, that’s all anyone can ask of you. Take your time, I’m right here.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: The Secret History

A list of "beautiful" words used in The Secret History by Donna Tartt

for your next poem/story

Apparition - an unusual or unexpected sight; a ghostly figure

Ascetic - practicing strict self-denial as a measure of personal and especially spiritual discipline

Beguiling - agreeably or charmingly attractive or pleasing

Boudoir - a woman's dressing room, bedroom, or private sitting room

Consolatory - giving hope and strength in times of grief, distress, or suffering

Conspicuous - obvious to the eye or mind

Cufflinks - a usually ornamental device consisting of two parts joined by a shank, chain, or bar for passing through buttonholes to fasten shirt cuffs

Discursive - moving from topic to topic without order; rambling

Erratic - having no fixed course

Hinc illae lacrimae - hence those tears; that is what those tears were for

Hyacinth - a plant of the ancients held to be a lily, iris, larkspur, or gladiolus; a bulbous perennial herb (Hyacinthus orientalis) widely grown for its dense spikes of fragrant flowers

Incivility - the quality or state of being uncivil; a rude or discourteous act

Incredulous - unwilling to admit or accept what is offered as true : not credulous; skeptical

Intimately - in a manner intended to prevent knowledge or awareness by others

Jauntily - sprightly in manner or appearance; lively

Machiavellian - suggesting the principles of conduct laid down by Machiavelli; specifically: marked by cunning, duplicity, or bad faith

Miasma - a vaporous exhalation formerly believed to cause disease; an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt

Morrow - the next day

Peculiarity - the quality or state of being peculiar; a distinguishing characteristic; oddity, quirk

Picturesque - charming or quaint in appearance

Providence - divine guidance or care

Quiver - to shake or move with a slight trembling motion

Rosewood - any of various tropical trees (especially genus Dalbergia) yielding valuable cabinet woods of a usually dark red or purplish color streaked and variegated with black

Schizophrenic - characterized by disturbances in thought (such as delusions), perception (such as hallucinations), and behavior (such as disorganized speech or catatonic behavior), by a loss of emotional responsiveness and extreme apathy, and by noticeable deterioration in the level of functioning in everyday life

Séance - session, sitting; a spiritualist meeting to receive spirit communications

Traitorous - guilty or capable of treason

Undulating - forming or moving in waves; fluctuating

Unstring - to loosen or remove the strings of; to make weak, disordered, or unstable

Voluptuous - suggesting sensual pleasure by fullness and beauty of form

Winter - the colder half of the year

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, do tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[yallthemwitches]

The Storm

Some fluff for @jilytoberfest Day 29: Cold Winter Nights.

AO3 Link Here

“Alright Potter, if you are going to tease me then I will just go home—”

She turns on her heel to find that he’s now close—too close for them to be in a sitting room where Mr. or Mrs. Potter could walk in the door at any minute. 

“You wanted to stay the night.”

“Mum, it's all right. I spoke with Mrs. Potter and she said that I can stay over without a problem. God knows they won’t even realize I’m here with a house this big—”

She feels weird talking on a phone in an otherwise aggressively ‘wizard’ sitting room, but both James and Mrs. Potter had been delighted to hook up their ancient telephone so she could ring home. 

“I’ll be back in the morning when the storm lets up.” She hangs up the phone and turns to find that she isn’t alone. James stands in the corner, arms folded behind his back, face cut in half by a wide grin. 

“Do I want to know?” She lifts an eyebrow and his grin gets impossibly wider. 

“Storm will make it hard to get home, eh?”

She ignores him, pretending to become fascinated with the book selection.

“Because it’s not like floo powder still works in a storm.”

She hopes that if she remains silent he will let up—a rookie mistake.

“And it’s not like storms effect apparition—”

“Alright Potter, if you are going to tease me then I will just go home—”

She turns on her heel to find that he’s now close—too close for them to be in a sitting room where Mr. or Mrs. Potter could walk in the door at any minute. 

“You wanted to stay the night.”

Her throat goes dry, cheeks burning. She could deny it, push him away and tell him to get his thick brain out of the gutter, but her brain is going fuzzy with his body heat leaning into her. 

“I just figured that since Sirius is at his uncle’s, I could just bunk in his room. Mum’s very nervous when I travel—”

He hums in dissatisfaction, close enough now that the sound vibrates across her skin. 

“Sirius’ room—you definitely don’t want to go in there. Merlin knows what he’s been up to.”

“Then I��ll ask your mum to make up one of the other rooms—seems like you have an endless supply.”

He nods, taking a step back. The distance creates a visceral reaction and she fights the desire to take him by the shirt and press their bodies together. 

“Definitely the reputable thing to do—ok c’mon then.”

She follows on his heels as he lopes his way through what feels like labyrinthine corridors, passing portraits of men with familiar untidy hair alongside elaborate paintings of mythical creatures. They get to the east side of the house and James stops at a heavy set door that is left ajar. A glint of red and gold peeks out from the crack. 

“Is this where I’m staying?” James cheeks flush. All of his cockiness drained into a bashful expression.

“No—this one’s mine. But there’s a room right next to it that you can use.”

She can’t help herself. She presses on the door and it groans open. It's like his dorm room but with grander treatment—similar quidditch and music posters line the walls but instead of a modest four poster bed, a much too large mahogany one takes up most of the room. 

“Quaint.” She can feel him watching her and she turns back to him. He’s straight as a board, face a deep crimson as his eyes search her face. 

“It’s—my room.” He says weakly, like this wasn’t already known. “We can…go in if you want.”

Her heartbeat quickens. There is little left to the imagination when the boy you’ve been snogging for months invites you into his very big, very welcoming bedroom. Her mind wanders a floor below where she knows his mum and dad are both sitting in the study, simultaneously too close and far away.

“Maybe you can show me the other room first? That way I know where it is–”

“Right.” He turns quickly, movements more erratic than they were down in the sitting room. 

He walks a couple of steps to the nearest door and turns the knob. Inside is a mirrored bedroom, but with significantly less character. For Potter standards it’s a simple guest room but it surpasses any room the Evans’ house could dream to have. 

She sticks her head through the doorway to scan the room. It’s good, a comfortable and safe option—but that’s not what she wants.

“I like yours better.” She states plainly, but her whole body flushes crimson. His head whips to her, eyes blown wide. 

“Yeah?” He steps close, confidence mounting with each second. She can feel a warm hand hover at the small of her back and his face looms so close she can see the flecks of gold in his irises.

“Just because it’s supposed to be a really cold night.” Her brain is swimming, vision now being taken over by him and his hovering lips. 

“Would hate to have you freeze to death on my watch,” he murmurs, lips grazing hers, eyes closing. His other hand curls into her hair and she leans into his touch.

“---and I’m not very keen on storms.” 

“Me either—terrified of them.” His lips skim past her mouth and drag a path up to her ear, a smile evident.

“You don’t think your parents-–” but he’s already grabbing her hand, ushering her back towards his room. He walks his way backwards so as to not remove their distance from each other, lips finally making contact. 

“Don’t worry Evans,” he says, a smirk forming against her, “Just like you said: with a house this big, they won’t even realize we’re here.”

[bestiarium]

The Crawfordsville Monster [modern cryptid; urban legend]

As far as modern urban legends go, most sightings of cryptids and creatures tend to fall into one of several recognizable categories: a lake monster, a flying saucer, an ape-like creature, etc. But every once in a while you have something weirder or unique:

On April 5, 1891, a supposed monster was sighted in the skies above Crawfordsville, Indiana, in the USA. A local pastor, Reverend G. Switzer, left his house to get some water from the well in his backyard when he supposedly experienced a strange feeling somewhere between dread and awe. Uncertain what caused this feeling, he looked up to see a large serpent-like being flying through the sky. The snake moved quickly even though there was no wind that night, and seemed like it was about to land, only to change its mind and take off again.

The paster and his wife were not the only witnesses, for that same day the apparition was seen by two workers about to haul ice on their wagon. They were so frightened of the creature that they took shelter until it was out of sight.

The size of the creature varies between stories, putting it somewhere between 16 and 20 feet (5 à 6 meters). It did not have wings – although other accounts added several fins or fin-like structures – but was able to fly by means of writhing movements, not unlike those of a real snake. The monster was white and had no head, or at least no clearly visible head, but it did have a large, brightly burning eye. Despite the lack of a visible head or mouth, the monster emitted a wheezing noise.

The Crawfordsville Daily Journal named the creature ‘the Midnight Wraith’ but today it is more commonly referred to as 'the Crawfordsville Monster'.

When researching this sighting, I came across some very weird UFO theories. While they tend to strain credibility, I admit that it’s fun to theorize about, in a fantasy worldbuilding kind of way. For example, the last source I listed here mentions a theory about atmospheric creatures that live in the clouds of our planet and stay afloat because of their extremely low-density bodies. The Crawfordsville monster, supposedly, could be such a creature.

Several explanations have been put forth. Some claimed it was a spirit. Professor Robert Burton assumed that the witnesses might simply have been under influence of alcohol or drugs. A later sighting in the same location put forth a simpler, albeit anticlimactic, explanation: two men followed the flying ‘monster’ around until it came close enough for them to identify it as a giant flock of killdeer birds: local birds with a distinct white belly. There were several hundred of them in the flock, and the birds’ erratic flight pattern might have been caused by their confusion from the electric lights, and the many moving ‘fins’ of the monster would have been the wings of the different birds. Perhaps exhaustion in the early hour, combined with the dark night sky, caused the ice haulers and the pastor to mistake the flock for a monster.

Sources: Clark, J., 2005, Unnatural Phenomena: A Guide to the Bizarre Wonders of North America, Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 408 pp., 160 pp., p. 87-88. Zach, K. B., 2003, Crawfordsville, Athens of Indiana, Arcadia Publishing, p. 140-141. Hunt, C. M., 2023, Ghosts & Legends of Crawfordsville, Indiana. Haunted America, Arcadia Publishing, 160 pp., p. 12-18.

(image source 1: Mart, T.S. & Cabre, M., 2021, A Guide To Sky Monsters : Thunderbirds, The Jersey Devil, Mothman, and Other Flying Cryptids, Indiana University Press, 174 pp.) (image source: Enshohma on Deviantart)

[akitasimblr]

🍨BRUNO HARDMAN HARPER🍨

HARPER LEGACY TWICE | Spare (heiress' half-brother) | Generation Almond & Vanilla (2)

full name: bruno hardman harper

nickname: -

life state: sim | young adult | single

parentage: grace harper & scott hardman

partners: izzy webster by @tulipsimss

offspring: jake webster (adopted)

aspiration: nerd brain

main traits: perfectionist | loner | erratic

born in: tartosa

lived in: tartosa

career: doctor

degree: biology (UBrite)

EXPLORE MORE CHECK BRUNO’S APPARITIONS

*passport template credits

[judasisdrafting]

betray me like a god - a wip intro

this is my original work, please do not plagiarize.

tws : suicide, religious themes & trauma, catholicism, mental illness, psychosis, abuse, queerphobia, eye injury, sexual assault, substance abuse, self destructive behaviors, mild sexual content.

summary : Betray Me Like A God follows a devout Catholic teen, Darja Ausmeel, who wants nothing more than to be normal, as ever impossible that may be. After a traumatic injury to her eye in childhood, she began to see apparitions of religious figures such as Mother Mary and Christ, alongside hearing what she believes to be the voice of God. Through everything they kept her company… Until the suicide of her best friend, Diana. Beautiful, forever young, and stuck in time, Diana haunts every corner of her life, while the eerily similar face of Darja’s estranged mother taunts her in shadow. Darja must attempt to grapple with her rippling faith, as she continues to run from the feelings (perhaps of veneration) she still carries for the late Diana, the addled state of her mind, and the question of: can a child truly come out right without the deific hands of a mother?

genre : coming of age adult literary fiction.

setting : Manigan (fictional city), New Jersey, early 2000s.

pov : 1st person, past tense.

vibe : the immaculate heart of mary. sprawling cathedrals. oxfords clicking on linoleum floors. a clouded, white iris. cross necklaces. the sacrificial lamb. the feeling of breath on your neck. snake venom. yearning for a childhood you never had. the bubble of bile. suffocating in water. nails dug into flesh. snowfall. a woman who feels familiar but is faceless.

playlist : spotify.

characters ;

darja ausmeel (mc, 15-17, estonian, they/them*) - religious, uptight, analytical, unsettling, devoted, well spoken, impulsive, set in their ways, responsible, troubled/unstable, patient, self-righteous.

diana feigenbaum (f, 15-17, german, she/her) - bold, unstable, confident, stubborn, fears rejection, dogmatic, sensitive, loyal, manipulative, overbearing, overprotective.

eduard ausmeel (mid-50s, estonian, he/him) - workaholic, hesitant, protective, caring, geeky, observant, introverted, lacks assertiveness.

maria ausmeel (late 70s, estonian, she/her) - eclectic, nurturing, erratic, holds a grudge, candid, resilient, affectionate, open-minded.

terhi rebane (late 30s, estonian-american, she/her) - troubled, intellectual, avoidant, charismatic, quick-witted, cynical, short-tempered, hypocritical, articulate, selfish, loving on own terms.

f - foil.

* within the story, they are referred to with she/her pronouns because they (at the present time in which most of the story is set) are not aware of their queerness nor are out

excerpt ;

Even now at seventeen years old, Diana’s head was stuck to the other’s right shoulder, both of their hair whipping wildly from the crisp whistle of wind. Crystals of sand crackled under Darja’s polished, black oxfords and crests of sea foam lapped at her fingertips, hand held just above the water. Diana had her bare feet dug into the seashore, black toenails taking on the appearance of mussels burrowing out of sight. Her face was flushed pink and her entire body trembled each time a gust of wind rushed over them. Regardless, she kept the sleeves of her button-up scrunched around her elbows, her skirt abandoned somewhere nearby. Winter was rearing its frostbitten head as November approached over the horizon and, yet, Diana didn’t seem to care.

[thesilliestrovingalive]

To meet oneself

Chapter 1: Escaping into the wilderness from a nightmare

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to alcoholism and self-harm.

The Sparrowhawk Operations Base slumbers quietly, its occupants lost in the depths of their subconscious, enveloped by the soothing oblivion of sleep. A lone window in the quarters stands sentinel, bathing the room in soft moonlight that stretches down the rows of bunk beds, where Marchrius’ team rests peacefully. On this spring night, the air holds a crisp chill, yet hints at the warmth of summer's impending arrival. Though the beds aren't as luxurious as those at home, comfort and gratitude fill the room, for in this tranquil space, rest is a treasured solace. Returning to the base always feels amazing! The team reunites, sharing lively conversations and celebrating their victories. After a fulfilling day, they unwind, preparing for a well-deserved rest—whether tomorrow holds action-packed adventures or a welcome escape from the daily routine.

Tarma's deep snores fill the air as he murmurs softly about a vivid dream. In his subconscious, he, Fio, Eri, and Marchrius are revelling in an intergalactic adventure, defeating evil Martians after a night of drunken celebration. His burly arms wrap tightly around Fio, who sleeps even more soundly, her snores harmonising with his. Her beautiful face nestles snugly into the warmth of his chest, enveloped by his calming presence and gentle tenderness.

Nearby, Ralf sleeps undisturbed by the chirping crickets outside or the occasional creaks that break the silence. His own soft snores punctuate the stillness, accompanied by a gentle trickle of drool that runs down his chin. Above Ralf, Clark slumbers, lost in an underwater odyssey. In his subconscious, he rides the back of a horse-sized Sparky, his beloved charcoal Bengal cat, forming unlikely friendships with a menagerie of bizarre and fantastical aquatic creatures. After a frustrating day of fishing, Clark deserves some rest, but Ralf's restless tossing and turning, coupled with Tarma and Fio's cacophonous snoring, makes it challenging for him to fall into a deep sleep.

Tequila is trapped in a harrowing nightmare, reliving the horrors of the battlefield alongside his former comrades. His whimpering, laboured breathing, and restless tossing and turning betray the turmoil in his mind, clutching his blanket and bedsheets tightly as if he’s desperately trying to find solace. Across from him to his left and below where Fio would usually sleep, Eri sleeps peacefully, her insomnia unusually absent. Fortunately, she’s sober, sparing everyone from the rowdy chaos of her sleepwalking. The others in the spacious dormitory remain undisturbed by Tequila's distress, Ralf’s restlessness, and the loud snoring of Tarma and Fio, sleeping soundly in anticipation of a potential mission the next day.

Unbeknownst to the others, Marchrius is trapped in a vivid and terrifying nightmare. His face contorts in anguish, fists clenched as his breathing turns ragged. Cold sweat drips from his brow, and his body tenses as the nightmare's intensity threatens to drag him back to the horrific memories he's desperately tried to bury. It begins with Marchrius restrained on a filthy hospital bed that resembles an operating table. An angelic figure with a feminine, nude body, wings of frazzled teal plumes, and a gilded halo resembling a Black Sun, approaches him with sly, eerie grace. Her radiant form stands in stark contrast to the gore and blood that drenches her surprisingly youthful body. Her face, hair, and eyes eerily mirror that of someone he once knew, a woman he hastily abandoned after she betrayed and violated him to obtain precious samples.

The angelic apparition straddles Marchrius’ hips, her weight crushing him and her thighs gripping him like an iron vice. His breathing becomes erratic as his stomach churns at the ghastly sight. A violent gag reflex takes hold, and he vomits forcefully, the contents of his stomach surging up his throat. A fetid substance settles upon his chest, comprising a noxious mixture of seminal fluids, the iron-tainted fluid of blood, and the acidic, tar-like essence of black bile. Before he can unleash a blood-curdling scream, she abruptly forces his head into a hidden recess beneath the silky white pillow, where a dark, blood-stained pool awaits. The water within is a noxious, smoke-filled abyss, emitting a piercing, hellish resonance that reeks of charred flesh.

With a deep breath and eyes clenched shut, Marchrius is suddenly transported back to the battlefield in a twisted, nightmarish version of Gerhardt City. Merciless Rebel forces surround him, unleashing brutal attacks on his former comrades. The air is thick with the sounds of suffering and torment as they overpower and brutalise those he once called friends. The deafening explosions and relentless barrage of bullets fill his mind, forcing him to watch in a powerless state as those he cares about suffer through their final, agonising moments. His vision blurs with tears as Marchrius rushes to Tarma's side, only to find his best friend's bruised, stabbed, and bullet-ridden corpse.

As he teeters on the brink of madness, Allen O'Neil and a squad of fanatic land troops emerge behind him, pinning him down. Allen's voice drips with malice as he delivers the brutal commands. The troops carry them out with savage efficiency, tearing away Marchrius’ left arm and gouging out his left eye. His screams echo through the air as blood erupts from his fresh wounds, and the fanatics respond with cruel laughter and sarcastic shrugs.

General Morden's face looms before the group, his eyes glinting with malevolent intent. A fanatic presents him with Marchrius' grotesquely removed eye, its dangling vein quivering in the macabre breeze. Morden's grin twists into a wicked smile as he presses the cold muzzle of his Chiappa Rhino 40DS against Marchrius' forehead. With a dark chuckle, he savours the gruesome scene. The sound of the trigger being pulled jolts Marchrius awake, shattering the nightmare.

His breathing is heavy and shaky, punctuated by a few stray tears that trickle down his cheeks. Sweat drips from his face and palms, and his body trembles subtly with fear. His mouth feels parched and uncomfortably dry. Frantic, he scans the room before leaning forward on the edge of his bed and peering down. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he spots Tarma, safe and sound. He wipes away the sweat and tears that dampen his face and chinstrap beard. He had been on the verge of panic, fearing the worst—that Tarma had vanished. But as his past traumas begin to resurface, threatening to overwhelm him, he knows he won't be able to shake off the wakefulness that's taken hold. He decides to slip out of the dormitory, seeking a distraction from the darkness that's creeping in.

He cautiously throws off the blanket and descends the bunk bed ladder with silent deliberation. His feet meet the wooden floorboards, and he freezes, scanning the room with darting eyes, holding his breath in hopes of not disturbing the others. A few seconds pass, and the soft rise and fall of chests reassures him everyone remains asleep. With a deep, calming breath, he proceeds. The old floorboards groan beneath his feet, sending a shiver of paranoia down his spine, but he presses on undeterred. Marchrius’ sweaty palm wraps around the bronze door handle, and he turns it slowly, easing the door open with deliberate quietness. He slips through the narrow opening and shuts the door behind him, the soft click of the latch a welcome sound.

He knows Wysteria and Celaphios are sleeping in the lounge, surrounded by the trio of affectionate cats—Perifa, Sparky, and Mr. Kibleton—that have made this place their home. He continues with caution, tiptoeing towards the storage room where their uniforms and tactical gear are kept. Inside, he flips the light switch, and the sudden brightness forces him to shield his eyes. He squints, waiting for his vision to adjust, and his laboured breathing disturbs the silence.

As the room comes into focus, he navigates through the rows of lockers, his footsteps quiet on the floor. Approaching his locker that boldly displays his first name in crimson marker, he grasps the combination padlock, its gilded surface gleaming in the light. A tired yawn escapes his lips before he focuses on entering the combination, his fingers deliberately turning the dial to the precise numbers.

"5-9-21," he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he recites the combination.

As the dial reaches 21, the padlock yields with a soft click. With a weary sigh, he lets the padlock fall, its metallic clang dulled by the worn wooden floorboards. With a gentle tug, he opens the locker door, revealing his neatly organised gear. His uniform lies neatly folded at the top with his other tactical equipment lined up below in orderly rows. His gaze drifts to an old photograph taped to the locker door's side—a pre-teen version of himself, flanked by his father, Salvatore Rossi, and childhood cat, Grubley. A faint smile creases his lips, but it fades, replaced by his usual stoic expression, now tinged with a hint of melancholy.

He focuses on dressing, selecting key items: a platinum grey sleeveless shirt, a crimson vest with four pockets, khaki-green army cargo pants, a pair of olive green paratrooper boots, and a leather belt. He dresses methodically, securing each piece, and finally threads his belt through the cargo pants' hoops, clicking the buckle into place. The routine gesture is driven by practicality, but a flicker of vanity underscores his actions—the thought of his pants slipping off in public still embarrasses him. Despite his pride in his masculinity, he has always been baffled by men who seem unfazed by their pants sagging. To him, it's a matter of functionality and dignity, not just image.

He shakes his head, clearing the fatigue, and scans the room cautiously before reaching for his concealed combat knife. Secured in its sheath, it lies hidden in his locker, protected from scratching the metallic interior. His gaze lingers on a secret treasure, a six-pack of beer, stashed away from prying eyes. A lazy smirk spreads across his face as he retrieves it with his cybernetic left hand, the prosthetic moving with smooth precision. Marchrius cradles the six-pack with delicate care, a guilty pleasure he conceals from his friends. It's his solitary solace, a means to dull the emotional pain that still lingers.

With the knife and six-pack secured in his grasp, he softly closes the locker door and clicks the combination padlock into place. He can't shake the concern that leaving it open would spark unnecessary worry among his friends, prompting them to launch a frantic search. Gripping his blade's handle firmly, he slips out of the storage room and quietly exits the Sparrowhawk Operations Base, disappearing into the night.

It’s a beautiful night, filled with the soothing sounds of crickets chirping loudly, a distant wolf howling at the full moon, and the haunting hoots of owls echoing through the distance. The grass, still damp from a spring shower that passed a couple of hours earlier, releases the sweet scent of wildflowers and petrichor as the gentle breeze stirs. As Marchrius weaves through the landscape, he can't resist glancing up at the sky. The vast canvas above is dotted with countless white stars, scattered like diamonds across the dark velvet of the night sky, twinkling brightly. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he spots a comet streaking across the sky, but his tired mind might be playing tricks on him. As he ventures deeper into the forest, common glowworms flicker green and dart away from him, disturbed by the rustling grass beneath his feet.

For a mountainous region, it's absolutely stunning, with the perfect elevation for a military compound to be situated away from civilization. Conifer and deciduous trees cover the rocky landscape, while large patches of grass are home to flowers native to Britain, such as cow parsley and wood anemone. However, none of these compare to Wysteria's favourite spot: the serene cerulean lake. Its edges are lined with broad-leaved trees, a few conifers, and various flowers, with primrose dominating the landscape. The gorgeous surface of the water shimmers beneath the pale moonlight, adding depth to the darkened waters.

Marchrius reminisces about how Clark occasionally comes here to fish, mostly for fun, but sometimes brings back game. He vividly recalls the fish Clark caught, shared over dinner at the Sparrowhawk Operations Base just days after his arrival with Ralf: a handful of common carp, brown trout, bream, northern pike, and minnow. A faint smile spreads across his face as he remembers the time Clark taught Wysteria how to fish. She had been eager to learn the ins and outs of fishing, but her excitement quickly turned to surprise when she reeled in a silver eel—a species Clark had never seen before.

With an exhausted sigh, he trudges onward, searching for a secluded spot to indulge in some much-needed solitude. The biting wind sends a shiver down his spine, but he grits his teeth and presses on, undeterred. As he ventures deeper into the mountain forest, the foliage grows denser, and he remains on the hunt for a secluded haven. The crickets' chirping, the glowworms' ethereal dance, the occasional snap of twigs, the soft rustle of leaves, and the faint crunch of grass beneath his feet blend together in a serene symphony, punctuated by the distant, mournful hoot of an owl. For a brief moment, he sees a pair of glowing red eyes stalking him among the tangled deciduous and conifer trees, watching his every move. He freezes, a shiver racing down his spine, as his gaze locks onto piercing eyes that hold for an unnervingly long moment. The spell breaks with a sudden blink, and the eyes disappear, banished by a sharp shake of his head. Shaking off the unease, he takes a deep breath and continues walking, attributing the unsettling encounter to his overactive imagination.

As he walks, a majestic oak tree emerges from the landscape. Its trunk, robust and weathered, catches his attention, particularly the left side, where a dense thicket of shrubbery forms a mysterious veil. He approaches cautiously, setting the six-pack beside him near the thicket of bushes. With a deliberate motion, he lets his combat knife slip from his grasp, its weight thudding softly onto the earth. Then, he rests his right hand against the tree's rugged trunk, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on the rough bark. With a contented sigh, he turns around, leaning his back against the tree and arching his spine to release a satisfying crack. As he settles in, he slides down the trunk and sits cross-legged, exhaling a deep breath. His gaze drifts lazily to the six-pack beside him. Marchrius reaches for the six-pack with his right hand and pulls out a beer, his grip firm but gentle. He gazes at the can, its blue surface adorned with a white circle housing a red-trimmed black star at its centre. The lukewarm beer rests comfortably in his hand, but his apathy prevails. For him, a warm drink is just as effective as a chilled one, both serving a singular, fleeting purpose: dulling the inner turmoil that churned within.

Before opening the can of beer, he pauses, taking a deep breath to fortify himself for what lies ahead. He tosses the beer into his left hand and, with his index finger, effortlessly lifts the tab and opens the lid. The can cracks open with a satisfying hiss, music to his ears, signalling a perfect opening. The robust aroma of fizzing beer fills his nostrils, reminiscent of fresh apple cider. Opening a beer with his left hand has become second nature, thanks to his cybernetic prosthetic's impressive physical strength and precision, courtesy of its micro-sensors and neural interfaces. He recalls the early days after Tarma built his prosthetic, when he'd accidentally crush newly bought beers, struggling to adjust to the new limb. However, with time and practice, he mastered it, and the prosthetic proved invaluable in combat situations and everyday tasks, both on and off the job.

Without hesitation, he downs the entire beer, feeling the refreshing liquid soothe his parched tongue and throat. He’s hooked on the taste, indifferent to flavour or bitterness. The specifics of his latest six-pack purchase are a blur because they were overshadowed by the urgency of preparing for a mission against a pirate raid. Yet, as the beer's crisp, fruity notes dance on his palate, Marchrius identifies the unmistakable hint of apple black cherry. A sly smirk spreads across his face, accompanied by a low, amused snort. He carelessly crushes the empty can and discards it, already reaching for the next one.

He grabs another beer and repeats the familiar ritual, but this time he takes a moment to savour the taste. The beer's addictive flavour temporarily dulls the pain lurking in his subconscious, bringing a fleeting sense of joy to his troubled life. It's a small comfort that lifts his spirits during times of overwhelming sadness and dread. As he takes a second sip, he lets out a loud belch.

His mind drifts back to happier times, remembering a night when he, Tarma, Eri, Tequila, Gimlet, Ralf, and Trevor had gathered for drinks. Trevor sipped on a blue raspberry slushie and puffed on a joint, while Ralf indulged in a homemade root beer float. The others, meanwhile, enjoyed their drinks of choice. Eri's thunderous belch startled Fio, who was completely absorbed in baking a caramel-layered red velvet cake, adorned with chocolate truffles, coucougnettes, and strawberry jam macarons for Nadia's 26th birthday. The memory brings a deep chuckle, but as his thoughts continue to wander, the darker moments of his life begin to resurface. He tries to shake off the resurfacing memories, downing the rest of his second beer, and sets the empty can on the grass beside him before grabbing another.

He rips open his third beer with trembling hands, his breathing growing erratic. Memories of fallen comrades flood his mind, and he desperately tries to shake them off. But the pain cuts deeper when thoughts of his mother resurface—the one who never loved him, never accepted him. The worst of it comes when he recalls the day she abandoned him, locking him in the dark basement of his childhood home before vanishing from his life forever. As he gulps down the beer, his cheeks flush with a hint of intoxication, and tears suddenly well up in his eyes. He pauses, the can half-empty, and takes a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing nerves.

His gaze drifts to the combat knife he'd dropped earlier before snapping back to his beer. After a moment's hesitation, he downs the rest in one swift motion, crushing the can in his left hand with a mixture of anger and desperation. He tosses it aside, joining the other empty cans.

He gazes at the combat knife once more, his lower lip trembling and a few tears escaping his eyes. His breathing turns ragged as he hesitantly pulls out his right arm and begins to unwrap the worn gauze covering it, the fabric clinging to his skin. His hand shakes subtly, his conscience screaming for him to stop, but he's too far gone. This ritual has become ingrained, a primal instinct etched into his mind and bones. Once the gauze is removed, his left hand drops it to the dirty, grassy ground. With a gentle touch, he caresses his forearm, despite the numbness that grips his left arm. His eyes trace the map of self-inflicted cuts etched into his pale ivory skin, a testament to years of pain and suffering. The scars will never heal, never fade.

He pauses, his hand lingering on his forearm before slowly reaching for the leather handle of his combat knife. The blade's once-gleaming silver-white sheen had dulled slightly, bearing testament to its frequent use. He takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then exhales heavily, releasing pent-up anxiety. He boldly prepares himself for the unbearable, desperate for a temporary reprieve. He holds the blade above the middle of his forearm, the glint of steel reflected in his tense expression. With a deep breath, he presses the blade lightly against his skin, the pressure deliberate, drawing a thin line of blood. A faint wince escapes his lips as he moves the blade horizontally to the left. The sharp edge gleams crimson as he raises it, blood trickling from the self-inflicted wound.

Undeterred, he lowers the blade to a spot below his wrist, the motion deliberate, and cuts again. A soft groan escapes his clenched teeth; his eyes squeeze shut, bracing against the sharp pain coursing through his arm and spine. Each cut is a calculated attempt to distract himself from the haunting memories of his past, the physical pain is a desperate bid to conceal his emotional anguish.

@fruitypixel

[dem1verse]

﹏ ❛ all you gotta do is call me.⠀⠀⠀äs nodt.

˖⁺ ⊹୨ ★ the one where you form a friendship with the malevolent enity.

content disclaimers ╱╱ gn!reader. young!reader. HEAVY religious trauma and themes. angst to comfort. vollstandig!äs nodt. mild body horror. wc: 830.

YOU HAVE (1) MESSAGE UNREAD !⠀⠀—⠀⠀“the 2nd halloween short of the month! this one may have been inspired by czs horror history analysis of the man who can't breath from insidious and i might have used my own religious trauma as a base for this. i wrote this with christianity in mind (mainly nigerian christianity). anyways, enjoy 💃🏾”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀YOU DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME YOU PRAYED TO HIM.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀With the number of times you've been called an abomination before the eyes of the Almighty God, it's no surprise you'd see yourself as an unclean mix of flesh and blood who did nothing but wallow around. Sinner. Sodomite. Witch. Those were a few of many names that followed you around, hanging over you like a haunting veil of shame. Your relationship with your mother had always shown signs of strain, but you couldn't hate her. If anything, it was your fault for not being the ideal child, rebelling against the heavens. She was trying to guide you. Children of God don't act like this. Good children of God don't say that.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀God must hate me, you affirmed. The Lord God above would never approve of you. You swear he's looking down on you this moment, shaking his head in disappointment. Years and years of Christian sermons crept around in your mind, festering in your conscience. You'd be happy, they said. He's the only way, they said. You can depend on him. He'd be there when you called for him. Surely he'd comfort you in your darkest times. Where was he now? You silently cried out to the sky, tears already spilt and stained your cheeks, questioning your faith. That was the first time he showed up.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The second time he showed himself, you'd been jolted awake by a nightmare. You'd gone downstairs to grab a glass of cold water, leaving the sticky heat of your bed. As you opened the cabinet, you couldn't help but notice how cold it'd gotten, the frigid atmosphere making you shiver. That's when you saw it. The man in white. His long, brittle hair shone in the moonlight. His eyes were rolled at the back of his head, drawing tears of blood from his sockets. Your eyes widened in silent fear, shuddering at his appearance. He bore a long white cloak, a prominent and bloody stitch running from the middle of his throat to the bottom of the robe, revealing gory muscle and bone. And his mouth. His teeth were left in the open, lacking the protective soft appendages. His blue star halo hung on the top of his crown, shining brightly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your goblet had long hit the floor, bits of sharp glass scratching your feet and the floor. Your mother had caught wind of the incident, screaming at you for having broken such a fragile object. She ranted on, but you were too focused on the man standing behind her. Were your eyes deceiving you? Could she not see him? You silently went to your room, ignoring your mother's verbal vomiting and eager to forget the past event.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀By the time you saw him again, he spoke. You were alone, your mother leaving you home in favour of church service. You lay on your bed, feeling drained and sleepy. As you turned over on your back, you opened your eyes, only to be met with those same eerie scleras. You screamed, the apparition looming over you menacingly. Slowly, the man raised a pale, bony arm, and caressed your cheek, paying no attention to your crying and erratic movements. Being raised in a heavily prayerful home stuck with you, no matter who you grew up to be. You've always been taught to condemn the devil, resist temptation and you'd be blessed with favour and prosperity. Yet here you were, finding solace in a demonic entity. You soon stopped crying, the man's nurturing touch gradually lulling you to sleep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A fight with your mother was never pretty. Silence and dissociation were your sword and shield during those times. Heartbroken at her cruel words, you slammed your bedroom door, heaving and sobbing. The reason for my stagnation, she called you. Nothing could've prepared you for that moment, her mocking shattering your heart and breaking your resolve. Curling yourself up in a ball, you tried your best to give yourself the scarce bit of consolation you had left. Then you heard him. His heavy, raspy breathing. The only sound in your room besides your wailing. He extended his sickly white limb towards you. He took hold of you, his body no longer radiating the icy temperature. You felt like a baby in its mother's arms, the entity stroking your hair. He gave you the nurture and care you've been looking for this entire time. You were no longer going to look above for alleviation. God wasn't there for you when you needed him, so why call him again? On the other hand, the spirit held you in his grasp, emitting a sense of security.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And in that moment, you came to an epiphany. You didn't whether you'd be thrown in hell or not, you could always count on the man in white to be there for you. Even when you were dead, and long gone, you could always count on him. You just had to call him.

DEMI'S POST-IT⠀❞⠀ok im actually kinda proud of myself for writing all of this in like, one night. i also may or may have not nearly started crying in the middle of writing this. i hope this helps somebody with some sort of trauma stemming from religion. kinda based this on my experiences in my life, the ending is kind of how im feeling currently.

template by @tinytowns! taglist: @ue-projectz

[ghostkingart]

The Wrath of Sleep - Sleeptober 2024 Day 4 - Prompt "Wrath"

word count: 734

content warning: implied/referenced self harm

author's note: I tried something different in terms of perspective in this one because of its personal nature. I hope you enjoy.

I’ve been afraid to sleep. In the Dreamworld, She is always listening. I fear she might visit me if I allow myself to rest.

Days upon days without sleep have turned me into little more than a zombie. Stumbling about, fog in my mind, it feels as though my head is filled with cotton. I can’t think. But I also cannot sleep.

There’s a chill in the air, a cool breeze coming in through the open window and racing out the open door of my bedroom. Sitting at my desk, I battle fiercely my need for rest. I fear I cannot keep going like this, but… I fear Her more.

I shiver and glance out the window. The stars above twinkle eerily, the full moon shines brightly, casting long shadows across the floor. I think I see Her figure in the dark clouds. I wince, blink a few times, and She is gone.

Another shiver runs down my spine. I turn back towards my notebook. Only a few hours until dawn, for when the sun rises, I am safe.

The scribbling of my pen is a repetitive, soothing sound. I refuse to let it lull me to sleep. The scribbling grows erratic, my body moves against its own will, drawing out shapes I cannot see. When I finally drop the pen, I must catch a breath. I blink in the dim light, but I still cannot make out what I have drawn. I turn the page and start over. The scribbling is repetitive and soothing.

You have forsaken me.

I stand in the dark forest. The trees are so high and the foliage so thick they create a black dome overhead, concealing the moon and the stars. Thick mist rolls across the moss covered forest floor.

I cannot speak. The voice echoing in my head will soon gain a form. She wears a veil that conceals Her nonexistent features, a faceless apparition that dawns a long black cape, further obscuring any identifiable characteristics from view. She seems to glide forward, Her feet never touching the ground.

I want to step back but I am frozen.

You forget yourself, She says.

“I only thought…” I trail off, mortified to speak the truth. She tilts her head. Patience is not one of Her virtues. I swallow. The truth would do me no good at this time. I’d better apologize for my transgression. “I never meant to abandon you. I’m sorry.”

A deal with me is not easily broken. A chuckle echoes through my mind, though the figure before me remains motionless. Some might say such a thing is impossible.

“I know,” I say and my voice betrays me.

Then, why!?

Her disembodied voice raises in volume and my head feels like it might explode. I cover my ears but I know there is no escaping the sound.

Your duty, Vessel! You have forsaken it!

I fall to my knees before Her. Somehow, it always ends that way. “I’m sorry.”

Your apology is meaningless. Have I not given you all? Everything you wished for, in the palm of your hand? You disrespect me, Vessel. You will suffer for it.

I suffer for Her daily regardless. I couldn’t possibly raise this as an argument lest She get even more enraged. I fear Her wrath. I fear Her.

“I won’t disappoint you again,” I say, lifting my gaze towards the veil, behind which a face should be… or might be.

You won’t. Her words are no reassurance, rather a threat.

I begin to shake. I was a fool to think I could ever be free of Her. I was a fool to think I might escape her design.

She doesn’t move, but I feel it, an invisible hand caresses my cheek in an almost comforting manner.

My dearest Vessel. You know it is better off this way. You know what’s at stake, you have so much to lose. It doesn’t have to be that way. You need only do what I ask.

“Anything,” I say weakly.

Cold lips press a gentle kiss to my forehead. I love you.

“I love you too,” I push the words out, insincere. She can surely tell, but I know She does not truly care for my love.

When I wake, I am standing in front of my mirror. Crimson rivulets run down my cut up arms. Once again, I have succumbed to Her.

[femmeoutoffocus]

when you get this, list 5 songs you like to listen to, publish. then, send this to 10 of your favourite followers <3

Fun and also time to explore my erratic music taste 🤣

[gvfgal]

Bound- Chapter Eight

Chapter Seven

This story is 18+, so minors take a hike!!!

A/n: Here she is, chapter eight! Lots of dialogue here, sorry if it drags but it’s all verryyyyy important to the plot of the story! Enjoy dolls &lt;3

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use, that is all!

Word Count: 4.3k

You were staring at Jake.

Jake was staring at you.

Josh was staring at both of you.

Finally, Jake’s feet began moving towards you, prompting you to move forward as well.

With every step you took, you considered if this was all a big mistake, and briefly, your mind flashed to August, but as soon as you were standing directly in front of him, you knew there was no turning back. Those alluring brown eyes had you back under their spell in a matter of seconds.

They were scanning your face currently, as if they were trying to take in every minor detail it had to offer and commit them to memory. You stood there silently and allowed him to do so, attempting to calm your erratic breathing.

“Hi,” he finally drew out in that southern laced accent, but his voice was more timid than you’d ever heard it before. It had your heart trying to tear out of your chest and comfort him.

“Hi.”

“You came.”

“I did.”

You crossed your arms and glanced over his shoulder, “hi Josh.”

Josh offered you a smile that wasn’t quite believable, “good to see you, y/n.”

Sam and Danny came laughing around the corner, and when you turned to face them, they both froze.

“Am I seeing things,” Sam was whispering to Danny, “or is she really here right now?”

All Danny could do was gawk at you.

“Samuel, Daniel,” Josh called out as he brushed past you and Jake and over to where the confused duo were standing, “why don’t we give these two some privacy?”

He was escorting them away before they even had a chance to respond, and their eyes stayed fixed on you until you were finally out of sight.

You turned back to Jake, smiling at him warmly, “you were great out there. You looked like a real rockstar.”

The corner of his mouth turned upward slightly, and his shoulders relaxed just an inch, “you saw me?”

You nodded, “I missed the first half cause my flight was delayed, but what I did see was amazing.”

This made his stomach turn, but in a good way for once.

I played for you, just like I always have, he wanted to say. But his next words were a lot less poetic.

“Do you wanna see my house?”

You chuckled a bit at his abruptness, eyes wide, realizing just how nervous he really was.

“I’d love to. My luggage is in your dressing room.”

He sent you a curt nod, then turned to walk down the hallway without another word.

You didn’t move at first, and when he noticed you weren’t following him, he stopped and swiveled back around.

For the first time since seeing him again, Jake actually smiled. A real, genuine smile.

“You comin’ or what?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You waited respectfully outside of Jake’s dressing room while he changed, and about 15 minutes later, he returned in a simple back t shirt and jeans, rolling your suitcase behind him, and carrying a bag of his own.

“You ready?”

I’ve never been more ready in my life.

“Yeah.”

Three towering security guards approached with his brothers in tow. You took notice of the way Josh was eyeing you cautiously, careful not to make any direct eye contact. Sam was still looking at you like you were an apparition, and Danny couldn’t decide where exactly he wanted to look.

Well this sure is awkward. You were starting to believe that the three of them were privy to something you weren’t, and you’d interrogate them about it if you could, but surely now wasn’t the time.

Jake ignored them, looking you in the eyes to make sure he had your attention, “when those doors open, Frank is gonna walk you to my truck,” he pointed at one of the men.

“I’m gonna hang back for a bit, sign some autographs, then we’ll head out. That sound like a plan?”

It was beginning to set in that this Jake standing before you wasn’t just some small town heart throb anymore. He was a real celebrity. With fans, and a successful high profile career. The sweet sounds of his guitar weren’t just the soundtrack of your memories anymore, they were the sounds that filled arenas all over the country.

All over the world.

“Sounds like a plan,” you agreed.

Once the doors were open, the man you now knew as Frank began ushering you in the opposite direction of the rambunctious crowd that was waiting on the other side.

You were walking so fast that you didn’t have a chance to look back, but you could hear the screams of fans as the boys approached them.

The sound became more and more distant until you were standing before Jake’s same old midnight blue Ford.

You smiled. Some things never change.

Frank opened the door for you to climb in, and your nostrils were immediately filled with the familiar scent of the Jake you used to crave so much.

“I’ll wait around till Jake gets over here,” he bellowed out, shutting the door behind you then proceeding to stand guard several feet away from the truck.

You ran your hands along the leather seats, noticing they were a lot more worn than you remembered them. You wondered what those seats had seen in the last five years that you hadn’t.

You pulled down the overhead mirror to inspect your appearance when a small Polaroid photo fell into your lap.

When you flipped it over to inspect it, you felt your heart swell.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

June 25th, 1972

Townsend, Tennessee

Josh had his brand new Polaroid camera pointed at you and Jake as the two of you posed on the bank of the creek.

Jake was sitting crisscrossed, and you were kneeling behind him with your arms thrown over his shoulders.

“Okay love birds, say cheese. One more time.”

“Josh, no more damn pictures please,” Jake groaned, “I’m too drunk for this.”

“Oh come on baby, just one more,” you begged, smothering his cheek in kisses.

Jake began laughing, and Josh seized the opportunity to snap the picture then, capturing that all too perfect moment in time forever.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You smiled down at the picture, recalling that moment as if it just happened yesterday.

The driver’s side door flung open, and you jumped, dropping the picture onto the seat next to you.

Jake eyed the photograph, then his eyes found yours again with an unreadable expression. There was something he wanted to say, you knew it, but instead, he tossed his bag on top of it, then moved to put your suitcase in the back.

You decided it was best to leave it where it was.

He was back in the truck moments later, not speaking a word as he buckled his seatbelt.

“I wasn’t snooping,” you blurted out, feeling awkward in his silence.

Jake smirked at you, then retrieved the photo from under his bag, reaching across your lap to open the glove compartment. His arm brushed across your leg as he did so, and the sensation of his touch sent shockwaves through your entire body.

It was a simple touch, more than likely not even intentional, but after five long years without it, the feeling was enough to send your head spinning.

He tossed the picture in and closed it back, shutting the overhead mirror as well, still wearing his smirk. You were sure he noticed your sudden nervousness from his touch.

Little did you know, he was feeling the same way.

He turned his key in the ignition, and his truck roared to life, “let’s get out of here.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The ride to his house was completely quiet, even the radio was shut off. All that could be heard was the tires on the road as Jake drove down a long winding road with very few buildings. It was dark out, but by the light of the moon, you could see the outline of the snow capped mountains growing larger and larger as he drove towards them.

He would turn to look at you every once in awhile, his brain still not being able to comprehend the fact that you were really there with him. He wanted to reach out and touch you, just to confirm it as true, but he knew better than to do so, so soon. His knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel to fight the urge.

Several minutes passed before you guys were completely away from the rest of civilization, and just as you began to grow uneasy, at the top of a hill sat the most beautiful house you’d ever seen. It was huge, to say the least. Not in height, but in the way it spread across the land like some Italian Villa. The lights scattered out front shone on it light spotlights, and your jaw fell open. It was in log cabin fashion, but it’s sheer size made it look like an entire lodge.

So he’s pretty fucking rich, too.

Jake showed no signs of amusement as he pulled into the driveway, if anything, he looked afraid. His engine idled and he turned to face you, “so… this is where I live.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You we’re walking around his house as if you were in a museum, mouth still slightly agape as you took in the grandness of it all; high ceilings, a sunken living room, and at least a dozen guitars hanging on a large wall, that must’ve cost thousands upon thousands of dollars together.

There was no mistaking that this house belonged to some famous rockstar, but in a strange way, it still felt so Jake.

He was stood at the front door watching you marvel at the architecture, pure adornment in his eyes. To him, it looked like you belonged there, like it was exactly where you were meant to be all this time. His house never felt much like a home until that moment.

“You like it?” he asked you, grinning slightly as you whipped around to look at him, a similar expression of your own at play.

“Jake I think this is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. It fits you so well.”

He was further into the house now, but he left your suitcase sitting by the front door, not wanting to give off the impression that you had to stay with him, though he wanted that more than anything. Even down the hall in the guest room would be fine, just to know you were near.

But he pushed down all of those thoughts by clearing his throat, “yeah, well, I can’t take too much credit for it, I only helped design about 30 percent of it. The rest I was…” his scentence came to a stop. He was about to say he was too drunk to oversee the majority of its completion, but he knew that was better left unsaid. You were watching him with right curious eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“You wanna see the backyard?”

His change of subject didn’t go unnoticed by you, but rather than giving him a hard time, you nodded, “love to.”

He jerked his head towards the large glass windows that lined the entire back wall, “go take a look, I’ll make us some drinks.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You hadn’t been able to peel your eyes for the scenery before you for a full five minutes. The term backyard was a drastic understatement for what Jake’s house possessed. His property wasn’t fenced, leaving a vast, and surprisingly still green, field that ended just at the end of his terrace and stretched all the way to the mountains that slept in the distance.

“View is a lot better in the mornin’,” Jake remarked as he stood at the threshold of the back door. You turned to look at him, and he was holding two drinks in his hand, leaning casually against the door, but the nervous tapping of his foot led you to believe anything but. You smiled to relieve some of his nerves, “I honestly can’t imagine it getting any better than this.”

Jake sat the drinks down between two patio chairs, along the edge of a fire pit that was prepped and ready to be ignited. He lit the flame with a match, tossing it into the pit, then returned inside to get a throw blanket that you requested, finally settling beside you in his chair.

It was silent at first, not quite a comfortable silence, but not a spirit stirring one either. Just silent. The buzz of late night insects hummed around you as you took a sip from your glass. Jake’s eyes were trained on the mountain, sphnyx stoic as he watched, and it briefly took you back to that night at the creek, the night your world came crashing down around you.

“So look,” his voice finally broke through the silence, and you immediately caught his gaze, too eager to hear what words were going to spill. He looked sympathetic, “before we move any further from this point, I want, no I need, to apologize to you. I know what you said in Nashville, that it was too late for apologies,” his eyes were pained now as they bore into yours, “but y/n, for everything I did to you, everything I put you though, I’m so, so sorry.”

You casted your eyes down to the pit, examining the way the orange flames dance fiercely. The knot in your throat was making it difficult to breathe, and it took all your power to push it back into your stomach where it was a lot less noticeable. Jake was still watching you, awaiting your answer, that nervous tap of his foot returning ten fold.

“Why did you do it, Jake?” Your voice was hushed, and you returned you eyes to his, searching for some sort of understanding, “why did you lie? I never… asked you for much, just your honesty,” you were shaking your head, “so why lie to me?”

Jake let outa rough sigh that sent the flames flickering faster, he ran a had through his tasseled hair, then leaned forward onto his knees.

“I know, this is going to sound crazy, but all of that stuff I said to you at the beginning of that summer, about not wanting to let you go again, it was all true… every last word.” He leaned in your direction more as he continued, “whether we know it or not, darlin’, we waited our whole lives to love each other in that way, and that summer was our last chance to do it. But I knew that if you knew I was leaving at the end of the summer, you wouldn’t have been as willing as I was to take that dive.”

You could feel your hands beginning to tremble from his revelation, and all the time you two spent together began playing on replay across your brain like a projector, but Jake wasn’t finished.

“It wasn’t my plan to keep it from you that long, I wanted to tell you,” his voice was growing more concerned, “but when I had you, y/n… God when I finally had you, I was scared that if I did tell you, I’d risk losing you. And with the way I fell in love with you, I knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle that. But I still ended up losing you in the end, and I’ve been paying for it every day for the last five years.”

A sprout of understanding began to grow deep in your stomach as you turned everything over in your head. What Jake did was wrong, yes, but now hearing his explanation, in a strange way, you got it. You even pondered the idea of being in his shoes, wondering if maybe you’d do the same thing.

“I realize, now, how wrong and… backwards it all was,” he continued, “I was deceptive, and I shouldn’t have taken that choice away from you, it wasn’t mine to make.”

His eyes, which had resorted to bouncing off of different surrounding objects, found yours again, “do you think you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me for that?”

There was no mistaking his sincerity, it was laced heavily in his voice, it marred the once usual calmness on his face and left his brows furrowed tightly upon his forehead. He seemed nervous, as if he thought there was a chance you wouldn’t forgive him, but you wouldn’t have traveled all this way if you felt any other way.

You offered him a sympathetic half-smile, it was a small gesture, but for Jake it meant so much.

“I forgave you a long time ago, Jake,” he perked up in his chair, “and I can admit that I played a part in what happened between us. I shouldn’t have walked away from you like that,” you shook your head, your shame written all over your face, “I should’ve given you a chance to explain, but I was just so hurt.”

His eyes closed as he nodded in understanding.

“And I knew regardless if I forgave you or not, you were still leaving,” you shook your head and scoffed. This was your first time ever admitting this out loud, and it sounded so foolish, “ so I don’t know,” you sighed, “I guess I just thought it’d be easier to make you the villain in my life so that you leavin’ me behind hurt a lot less.”

It sounded foolish, but it made all the sense in the world to Jake.

He pondered the idea of being in your shoes, wondering if he’d do the same thing.

His smile was as soft as his voice, “it’s okay. I get it. Really, I do.”

You eyed him with mock suspicion over the brim of your glass, “you’re different, you know that?”

Jake chuckled, then took a sip of his own drink, “different how?”

With all your might, you tried to find words to explain what you meant. They were all right on the tip of your tongue, but none of them could be produced.

“I don’t know. It’s like you’re the same old Jake, but there’s still something… different.”

He shrugged, “well I guess if you lived a life like I’ve lived over the past five years, you’d be pretty different too.”

You were interested now. There was a hint of something in his tone that led you to believe there was a double meaning to his words, and you were desperately hoping that he’d indulge you, fill you in on all the pieces of his life that you missed out on, hoping to gain some understanding on who exactly you were dealing with now.

“And what kind of life has that been?”

He gave you a small grin before sitting back in his chair and telling you the tales of his last five years. He told you of all of his travels with his brother, around the US and abroad. He highlighted some of their best shows, and some of his favorite moments he experienced while on the road. Most of his stories were vague, and you figured it was due to the fact that, experiencing so much over such a long span of time, memories probably got blurry.

And yes, the majority of his memories were blurry, but for a different reason entirely. The holes in his recollections weren’t from a busy life of stardom, but rather from long nights of endless drinking that left most of his days hollow and foggy. He purposely left out other details fo that reason.

Once he was finished, it was time for you to catch him up on the adventures that you experienced while on the road. Tales of rally’s and protests, late night shroom trips under the moon, and you even told him about your meeting of August. He was all smiles the entire time, enjoying hearing about you blossoming into the woman he always knew you’d become. But there was a twinge of sadness looming as you spoke, he wished that he was able to experience those years of your life with you. He would have given up all his fame and fortune to do so, no question about it. But alas, your story just wasn’t written that way.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Jake questioned once the conversation died down.

“Sure.”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

You didn’t quite understand his question, and you head cocked to the side in confusion.

“That night you left,” he clarified, “you said that every time you looked at me you’d see a liar, a selfish man,” his thumb was tracing the brim of his drink as he started down into the fire, the flames giving you enough light to see the sorrow in his expression, “do you still see that?”

And there was that damn guilt again. You’d become so familiar with it over the past several weeks that it no longer surprised you when it surfaced, but you still didn’t like the way it made your stomach sour.

You could tell by the uneasiness in his movements that those words stuck with him in an ugly way all those years, and you wished in that moment that you could take them all back.

“No Jake, I don’t,” you reassured him, and he relaxed slightly, eyes finding yours momentarily before casting back to the flames, “but I also don’t like what I see now.”

Jake frowned in concern, “wh- what do you see?”

“I see a lot of hurt… pain,” you were staring directly at each other now, “…regret.”

He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Those three emotions took turns dominating his life, and he almost felt ashamed that he hadn’t done a better job at hiding it from you.

Once again, he casted his sights away from you, cowering in his metaphorical corner as he always did when it came to you.

“But it's funny,” you chortled, “because even through all of it, I still see so much love in you Jake. Maybe even more than there was five years ago.”

This was true, Jake felt like he loved you more now than he did back then, which he thought was strange. But he quickly realized that when you love someone that much, it never really goes away.

It only multiplies.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You nodded.

“It sounds like you’ve lived a beautiful life so far, and it makes me happy to see you so happy,” you blushed at the sentiment, “but do you ever wish things were different?”

You contemplated his question, “well, I’d be lying if I said no. Honestly I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit thinking about it, wondering where we’d be now if we hadn’t gone our separate ways,” your shoulders shrugged involuntarily, “but maybe things were supposed to happen this way.”

Jake was smiling when you looked at him again.

“I get it,” he replied, slouching down into his chair as his smile grew mischievous, “but you still came to me… that’s gotta count for somethin’, right?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, deciding it was better that you didn’t answer that question, though you both knew it wasn’t necessary. You wrapped the blanket tighter around your body as a cool breeze blew by, but Jake’s heart was radiating so much heat inside of his body that the nippy air didn’t phase him.

“Can you do something for me, Jake?”

He leaned into you, ready to grant you whatever wish you were expecting.

“Anything.”

You nodded over to the acoustic guitar that was perched on its stand, the same acoustic guitar he’s always had, “will you play for me?”

Jake smirked, his eyes never leaving your frame as he reached down to grab the instrument, situating it in his lap before strumming a few random chords.

“Any requests?”

You smiled at him, “surprise me.”

He took a moment to rack his brain, before he began strumming a beautiful familiar tune that transported you back in time five years.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

August 4th, 1972

Townsend, Tennessee

It was a long day spent at the creek with Jake and his brothers. The dog day sun, along with the exertion of your body in the water left you completely drained, and you had resorted to laying in the back of Jake’s truck. He was beside you, as he was always meant to be, strumming on his guitar as he worked to learn a new song.

You weren’t familiar with the tune, but the way Jake played it, even if it was choppy, sounded beautiful.

“What song is that?” You asked as you turned to look at him.

“Tupelo Honey, Van Morrison,” he responded without looking up from his guitar.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he was so focused, intent on perfecting the song. His brows were furrowed tightly, lips puckered off to the side, his usual concentrating face that you couldn’t get enough of.

“I like it, sounds pretty.”

He stopped playing to look down at you, the setting sun casting a halo around your body. He’d never get enough of seeing you this way.

“It’ll sound a whole lot better once I’ve got it down.”

You placed a lingering kiss on his lips, one that left electricity humming through both of you.

“Well promise me I’ll get my own personal show when you do.”

He kissed you one more time, “anything for you, babydoll.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never did get that private show; that was until now. And truthfully, you were grateful that it took this long, because this moment was perfect.

Closing your eyes, you allowed the sounds of his guitar and the crackling of the fire to settle your spirit, and you began growing more and more relaxed by the second.

He played several more songs after that one, each of them like a lullaby, and before you knew it, you had fallen into a deep, comfortable slumber.

It was the best sleep you’ve gotten in years.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Chapter Nine

Taglist: @jakesgrapejuice

[venstm]

a kiss to the forehead, meant to soothe. ( looks around )

The inundating dissonance of voices are like fetid water disgorging into his lungs, sputters of coruscating embers sear black streaks of ash across his vision. When deprived of visual input the malodorous presence of death becomes slick and palpable upon his tongue, terror rending him apart from his cognizance and leaving him disoriented. Part of Caelus’ mind understands that these are apparitions of the past or portents of what is to come, the other factions are desperately campaigning for his survival. He wants to retreat into himself, to press his hands firmly to his ears and reduce the onslaught of sound, to weep until his whole body quakes with it. He had been so immersed in the dream, gossamers of thread snaring his jerking arms and thrashing legs, that he didn't wholly realize he was dreaming until something compels him to wake.

The cacophony of suffering was lulled into silence by some omniscient force, it was a preternatural quiet, the inexplicable stillness of a lake of crystalline water. Slowly, as if extricated from that harrowing purgatory, Caelus’ eyes open. It takes a long moment for the familiar lobby of the express to become clear to him, the vestiges of the dream still lurking in his peripherals. Then, he becomes aware of the softness of lips against his forehead, the star-spun hair of his fringe having been swept aside, an act of supplication, whispering to the revenants of the past to release him. His erratic breathing slows, becomes steady, he almost apologizes for the clammy pallor of his skin, that cannot feel pleasant against his mouth.

❝ … sorry, i fell asleep while you were still telling your story..❞ he murmurs, startled by how raw his throat felt, his voice an unfamiliar rasp. ❝ .. did I scare you ? ❞ had it been a moment of normalcy perhaps that would have been an absurd question to ask. Sunday had witnessed the atrocities of the world, had been submerged beneath the murky waters of a desecrated dream, there was no conceivable way a plaintive whimper from the stellaron’s vessel would have instilled fear in him. Still, he apologizes anyway. 

[specialagentlokitty]

Saul Silva x reader - this empty space

Part eight:

Standing in front of the temple, you looked at the barrier and the resurrected man who was staring at you, his lips turned into a snarl.

“How dare you trap me!” He yelled.

“I’m here to put you back to rest.”

“I’ll kill you.”

Sighing, you drew the dagger and held your hand out, smacking him back into the temple with shadows and you stepped into the barrier.

“You’re not getting out of here, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been brought back.”

He was nothing more than a ghostly apparition, unable to find a body to claim as his own, only you could see him.

He pushed himself from the wall you had slammed him into and held his hands out, shadows swirling at you.

With one flick of your wrist they dispersed.

“I can’t let you out of here.”

“Then I’ll force my way out.” He snarled.

He charged forward, aiming a punch for your face and you dodged it, slamming your elbow into his back.

You needed to find a good opening to floor his body with magic and stab him, but you had to act fast.

If you flooded his body with magic and didn’t kill him, it would be all over, you would’ve screwed it up.

The fight kept going, evading one another’s attacks, sometimes he would try use magic against you, but it wouldn’t work, and you waited to use yours.

His attacks were erratic, no real thought process there as he threw hit after hit after hit. He was running on pure blinded rage.

You were running out of breath, and he was fine. Without a body he didn’t have to worry about things like stamina, breathing.

Ducking under his arm, you went to swing around only to be punched in the gut, and thrown against the wall.

“Shit…” you whispered.

Pushing yourself up, you adjusted the dagger in your hand, and moved your arm, guiding the mist to surround you.

Sure, you were powerful, but against someone who had been waiting for this moment? It was sure to give you a run for your money.

You could still see him, but you could tell he was having trouble seeing you, so, you crept up behind the king.

You palm ghosted over his back and you surged magic through his body, and he spun around with a smirk.

Shoving the blade into his chest, he held out his palms, throwing you back into his tomb, and it cracked as your back slammed into it.

Groaning, you sank to the floor, watching as the king dropped to his knees, trying to fumble with the blade before he crumbled to dust.

Sighing, you released your magic, and broke the seal around the temple, and the mist and shadows faded to let the early morning light in.

Breathing heavily, you looked down at your leg, and cursed quietly.

Reaching out, you grabbed the pole sticking out from it, and you pulled it out.

Fumbling through your pockets you grabbed a bandage and wrapped it tightly around your leg as you used the tomb to pull yourself up.

Looking around, you limped over to the corner of the room, shadows swirled around the room and you punched the railing, snapping a large piece off.

Clutching to it, you walked to the pile of dust, picking up your dagger, you put it away and walked to the darkest corner of the room, making your way back to the castle.

Your body ached, you could feel the blood running down your leg, and when you looked at it, you could see it starting to seep through the bandage.

“(Y/N)!”

Saul was pacing the front of the castle, and when he saw you he ran down the stairs, running down the path to meet you halfway.

He stopped and you stopped in front of him, leaning heavily on the pole you were using as a crutch.

“You’ve been gone all night, are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m.. im fine..” you hissed out.

You tried to breath through the pain, but it was a lot.

He walked over and you weakly pushed him away, so he walked alongside of you up to the front of the castle.

You placed a foot on the first step, and cursed slightly as you fell back down.

Saul caught you, holding your arms lightly.

“Let me help you.” He whispered.

You didn’t argue, because there was no way you had the strength to shadow walk up there, and you sure as hell weren’t getting up those stairs by yourself.

Saul took your crutch, tossing it aside, and he wrapped your arm around his shoulder, holding it and his other arm went around you waist.

“Slowly…” he whispered.

He took the steps one at a time, waiting for you to move and he was help you up.

When you were at the top, you leaned heavily against him, breathing shakily.

“Where do you need to go?” He asked.

“Just.. take me to the top of the stairs..”

“Alright.”

He helped you up the next set of stairs until you were stood on the landing, and you moved away from him, leaning heavily on the wall as you held your ribs.

“Let me have a look.” He said.

You glared at him and he backed away.

“I’m.. im fine..”

“You’re not fine! You’re in pain (Y/N), let me help you. At least let me look at your leg.”

“No.”

You slowly walked away and he just watched, listening as you slammed the door to the bathroom closed and locked it.

You sat on the edge of the path, hunched over as you tried to breath through the pain.

After a few minutes, you sank to the floor, resting your back on the bath as you grabbed a box from under the sink and you went through it, pulling out everything you needed.

First you took the pain medicine in there, and you set the empty bottle aside, and then you slowly removed the bandage around your leg.

Ripping your trousers open more, you hissed slightly as you looked at the wound.

Angry, blood all around it, slowly running down your leg.

From the middle of the wound, a gentle black mist rising from it. The black veins going up your leg somehow looking darker.

“Crap…”

You held your hand over your leg, forcing the mist back into of it and you waited a moment before you moved your hand away.

It wasn’t bleeding anymore, so you cleaned around it, carefully cleaned it and slapped some gauze and a new bandage over it.

Leaning back, you sighed softly and stayed there for a while, just sitting there as you breathed in and out.

There was a gentle knock on the door and you looked at it, using the shadows to unlock it.

Saul pushed the door open and walked over, kneeling down next to you.

“You’ve been in here a while, come on.”

He looped his arm around your neck.

“On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”

He pulled you up, and you stumbled a little, and he caught you, holding you up with his arms around your waist while you gained your footing.

Saul let go, putting your arm back around his shoulder and yours around his waist as he led you to your room and sat you down on the bed, and he sat next to you.

“Did you kill him?” He asked.

“Yes. He’s dead. The third one will rise in a week, the time between them is going to get shorter.”

“You can’t possibly fight them all (Y/N), look what this one did to you.”

You looked at him.

“Exactly! Look what he did to me, I was able to evade most of his attacks, imagine what they would do to someone like you or Farah.”

“Then let me fight by your side, like we used to.”

His eyes were pleading with you, begging you to agree.

“It’s no good if we’re both dead.”

“And it’s no good if you’re dead.”

The room went silent and he sighed, turning, he rested one of his legs on the bed as he looked at you.

“What did Luna mean when you die?” He asked.

“We all die eventually.”

You shuffled back, rested your back on the headboard as you looked at him, taking your scabbard of your belt you set it aside.

“She said it as if you were going to die soon.”

You shrugged a little.

“It’s a possibility.”

“That’s not it and you know it isn’t (Y/N), there’s something else going on. What is it?”

“Nothing. Now get out, I’m tired.”

Saul sighed, shaking his head as he stood up and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him he went to mess you made in the bathroom and when you were coming up the stairs.

He knew there was something going on. His mind and heart were screaming at him, telling him there was something else going on but you wouldn’t tell him what.

So he had to try figure out himself, because if he could help you fix it he sure as hell would.

You laid down, and tried to get some sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, so you got up, walking to your desk you sat down, placing the dagger back you shrugged the chest plate off and set it on the floor.

You moved the map and knocked the object Saul had given you, so you finally turned your attention to it.

Picking up the necklace, you ran your fingers over the pendant and opened it to show a picture of you and him.

You remembered him giving you this for your 18th birthday.

It was the happiest day of your life. You loved it so much you never took it off, which was why the metal looked dull and faded.

Setting the necklace down, you opened the map and crossed the temple off, turning your attention to the next one.

You had broken one of the seals, so in a few days you would have the strength to make a new one, and that’s what you were going to.

Just breaking and creating seals to trap the kings, even if it left you with limited energy and space to fight it.

Before it came to the last two kings rising, you had a small window in which you could channel all the magic you possibly could into creating an even stronger one.

But you were going to need help doing it you knew you strengths, and you just couldn’t build a barrier this strong, not with your magic alone, you needed it reinforced so you decided to send a message to Farah.

Getting up, you limped over to the door.

“Saul!” You called.

You heard something fall and then running up the stairs and he jogged in front of you.

“Phone.”

He handed you his phone and you looked at it.

“Unlock it.”

“It’s your birthday.”

You rose a brow at him and typed in your birthday and unlocked the phone, scrolling through the messages you sent one it Farah and handed him his phone back.

“Let me know what she says.”

“Yeah, of course. Do you need anything else?”

You shook your head and walked down the landing to the library and he sighed, making his way back to the kitchen to finish what he was doing.

When he finished cooking, he brought the food upstairs to you and walked over to the table you were sat at.

He set it down, and sat down on the other side.

“What’re you looking for?” He asked.

“I’m reading about the curse.”

“You have written history of it?” He asked.

You slid the open book across to him and picked up another one.

“We’re looking for some kind of loophole, anything that could work in my favour, there’s hundreds of books in here, and I’ve been slowly going through them all.” You explained.

“Right, okay. I’ll do this, you eat.”

“Don’t have the time. In a few days I need to go to the next temple.”

“You’re hurt.” He frowned.

You looked up at him.

“They’re not going to stop just because I’m hurt, I just have to work around it.”

Closing the book you were reading, you picked one up from the floor and set it on the table and he looked at the pages.

“It’s in a different language.”

“Ancient runes. Most books in here use it.”

You read through the pages, and Saul smiled, watching as you trailed your finger along the page as you read.

It was something he loved watching you do, you used it as a guide to read quickly or if you really needed to focus.

He turned back to the book you had given him, and took one of the chips from the plate to nibble at it while he read, and you did the same thing.

It was quiet, but this time the silence wasn’t filled with tension or hate, and he wondered if he was making progress