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orthodoxydaily · 6 months ago

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Saints&Reading: Saturday, June 22, 2024

june 9_june22

Commemoration of the Dead.

SAINT ALEXIS MECHEV, PRIEST OF MOSCOW (1923)

Our Lord’s parable of the mustard seed would surely apply to Alexei Mechev. There was no sign of real promise in this child’s early life. He was born in 1859, the son of a choir director who served under Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow. The family lived modestly with no opportunity for young Alexei to have the privacy of a room of his own. His ambition was to become a doctor after finishing school, but his mother’s ambition was for him to be a priest.

Alexei sang in the choir of another Moscow church, where the priest was extremely cruel to him, even to the point of beating him at times. Instead of rebelling, Alexiy decided that the priest was trying to teach him humility and so he endured this treatment.

At the age of 25, Alexiy married Anna Molchanova and they had six children over the next decade. Only one of these children – Sergius – remained close to his father through the years. Finally, at the age of 35, Alexei was ordained to the priesthood, fulfilling his mother’s ambition. He was assigned to the small church of St. Nicholas in Moscow which was in terrible decline. When Fr. Alexiy began offering the Divine Liturgy, no one came! He would ring the church bell to indicate that services were about to begin, but the church would remain empty. For eight years, this situation existed, and despite the ridicule of some of his fellow priests, Fr. Alexiy did not give up hope.

Tragedy struck the family in 1902, when Anna became ill and suddenly died, leaving Fr. Alexiy with the six children to raise alone. He was grief-stricken and sought the spiritual guidance of Fr. (St.) John of Kronstadt. The advice he was given sparked the blossoming of the mustard seed into a great tree: “Go to the people and share in their grief!”

Through his grief, Fr. Alexiy was able to discern the spiritual needs of people even before they told him of their troubles. He began to be able to speak to their hearts and give counsel that would help them in their lives. He worked tirelessly among his flock and kept a notebook with all the names of those for whom he prayed daily.

Soon Fr. Alexiy became known as a great spiritual father, an elder or “starets”. Those who came to him for counsel were so numerous that there were long lines waiting for him at the church or his home. Like his mentor, St. John of Kronstadt, he gave each person his full attention and turned no one away, even those who were not church-goers or who were of other faiths.

Among the many words of wisdom which Fr. Alexiy passed on to others were those which served as his motto: “Live for others, and you yourself will be saved. To be with people, to live their life, rejoice in their joys, sorrow over their misfortunes…herein lies the meaning and way of life for a Christian, and especially for a pastor.”

With the uprising in Moscow in 1905, Fr. Alexiy foresaw the Revolution and the chaos which that would bring, especially to the Church. He advised the writer Nikolai Berdyaev to leave the country so that the world would be able to hear his words.

When he fell asleep in the Lord on June 22, 1923, tens of thousands attended his funeral. The incarcerated PatriarchTikhon – the St. Tikhon who is considered a patron saint of Western Rite Orthodoxy – was allowed out of prison for a few hours in order to be present for this holy priest’s burial. In 1934, as Fr. Alexiy’s body was being removed to a new grave, the body was found to be incorrupt. This mighty tree, which blossomed from a humble mustard seed, was declared a saint – the Righteous Priest, St. Alexiy – by the Moscow Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church in 2000. Now closer to the throne of God, he can intercede for us as he did for so many in life. Holy Alexei, pray for us.

Following in his father’s footsteps, Fr. Alexiy’s son, Sergius, who had also become a priest, was assigned to continue the work of his father at St. Nicholas Church. With the worsening of relations between the Soviet government and the Church, Fr. Sergius was imprisoned several times and finally murdered in 1941. He is now also a saint of the Church.

Source: St Elizabeth Convent

THE MONK KIRILL (CYRIL), HEGUMEN OF BELOEZERSK (1427)

Saint Cyril, Igoumen of White Lake, (in the world Cosmas) was born in Moscow of pious parents. In his youth he was left an orphan and lived with his kinsman, the boyar (nobleman) Timothy Vasil’evich Vel’yaminov, in the surroundings of the court of the Great Prince Demetrius Donskoy (1363-1389). Secular life bored the youth. Knowing that Timothy would never consent to Cosmas to become a monk, Saint Stephen of Makhra (July 14), clothed him in the riasson and named him Cyril, leaving the rest to God's will.

Saint Stephen went to see Timothy, who was delighted by his visit. He met his guest at the door, asking for his blessing. The Saint replied, "Cyril, who entreats God for you, blesses you." The boyar asked who this Cyril was. Saint Stephen said, "Cosmas, your former kinsman, but now a monk laboring for the Lord, and praying for you."

At first, the boyar was very angry, and spoke harshly to Saint Stephen, who left the house. Timothy's wife reproached him for offending the Elder. The boyar repented and sent someone to ask him to return. Both men asked forgiveness of one another, and Timothy agreed to let Cosmas fulfill his heart's desire. Saint Stephen rejoiced, and told Cyril the good news. He gave away all his possessions to the poor, keeping nothing for himself.

Before returning to Makhra, Igoumen Stephen brought the new monk to Simonov Monastery, which had been established in a new place by Archimandrite Theodore (November 28), the nephew of Saint Sergius. He accepted Cyril into the Monastery and then tonsured him.

Cyril fulfilled his monastic obediences under the supervision of Elder Michael, who later became the Bishop of Smolensk. By night the Elder read the Psalter, and Cyril bowed and made prostrations, but at the first ringing of the bell, he went to the church for Matins.

He asked the Elder permission to partake of food every second or third day. The experienced Elder did not permit this, but blessed him instead to eat with the brethren, only not to the extent of satiety. Cyril fulfilled his obedience in the bakery: he carried water, chopped firewood, and distributed bread. When Saint Sergius of Radonezh came to the Simonov monastery to see his nephew Theodore, he would seek Cyril in the bakery and converse with him about spiritual matters before seeing anyone else.

After a while, Cyril was transferred from the bakery to the kitchen. He gazed into the burning fire and told himself, “Have patience, Cyril, so that by this fire you might save yourself from the eternal fire." Cyril toiled for nine years in the kitchen and God granted him such a tender heart that he was not able to eat the bread he baked without tears, and all the brethren regarded him not as a man, but as an Angel of God.

Fleeing the glory of man, he began to behave as a fool-for-Christ. As punishment for transgressing against propriety, the Superior of the monastery placed him on bread and water for forty days. Cyril underwent this punishment with joy. But the Saint could not conceal his spirituality, and the experienced Superior discovered that Cyril was not behaving as a fool out of pride, but out of humility. Against his will, they compelled him to accept ordination to the priesthood. When he was not serving in church, Cyril occupied himself with heavy work. When Theodore was made Archbishop of Rostov, the brethren chose Cyril as Archimandrite of the monastery in 1388.

Wealthy and important people began to visit the monk to hear his counsels. This disturbed the Saint's humble spirit. Despite the entreaties of the brethren, he would not remain as Igoumen, but secluded himself in his former cell. Even here he was disturbed by frequent visitors, and he went to the old Simonov Monastery of the Nativity of the Theotokos.

Saint Cyril’s soul yearned for solitude, and he asked the Mother of God to show him a place conducive for salvation. One night he was reading an Akathist in his cell before the Hodēgḗtria icon of the Mother of God, and had just reached the eighth Kontakion, “Seeing the strange Nativity, let us become strangers to the world and transport our minds to Heaven.” Then he heard a voice say, “Go to White Lake (Belozersk), where I have prepared a place for you.”

There at the desolate and sparsely populated White Lake, he found the place which he had seen in the vision. Saint Cyril and his companion Saint Therapon of White Lake and Mozhaisk (May 27), set up a cross and dug a cell in the ground near Mount Myaura at Siversk Lake.

Saint Therapon soon went to another place, and Saint Cyril remained where he was. However, he was not able to live in his underground cell for even one year.

Once Cyril, troubled by a strange dream, lay down to sleep under a pine tree, but just as he closed his eyes, he heard a voice cry, “Run, Cyril!” Cyril barely managed to jump away as the pine tree came crashing down. From this pine tree, the ascetic fashioned a cross.

Another time, Cyril nearly perished from flames and smoke when he was clearing the forest, but God preserved His Saint. A certain peasant attempted to burn down the monk's cell, but try as he might, he did not succeed. Then he repented with tears, and confessed his sin to Cyril, who tonsured him into monasticism.

Two monks whom Cyril loved, Zebediah and Dionysios, came to him from Simonov monastery, and then Nathanael, who afterward was steward of the monastery. Many began to come to him seeking to be tonsured. The holy Elder perceived that his time of silence was ended. In the year 1397 he constructed a temple in honor of the Dormition of the Mother of God.

When the number of brethren had multiplied, the monk gave the monastery a Rule of cenobitic life, which he sanctified by the example of his own life. Thus, no one could talk in church, and no one could leave before the end of services. They also came to venerate the Gospel according to seniority. At meals they sat at their own place, and there was silence. From the trapeza, each went quietly to his own cell. No one was able to receive either letters or gifts without having shown them to Cyril, nor did anyone write a letter without his blessing.

Money was kept in the monastery treasury, and no one had any personal possessions. They went to the trapeza even to drink water. The cells were not locked, and nothing was kept in them but icons and books. In the final years of Saint Cyril’s life, the boyar Roman decided to give the monastery a village and sent the deed. Cyril knew that if the monastery came to possess a village, the brethren would become concerned about the land and settlements would disrupt the monastic solitude, so he refused the gift.

The Lord rewarded His Saint with the gift of clairvoyance and healing. A certain Theodore desired to enter the monastery, but the Enemy of mankind instilled in him such hatred for Cyril that he could not look at him, nor listen to the sound of his voice. He approached Cyril’s cell and, seeing his grey hair, he was not able to say a word from shame. The Saint said to him, “Don’t be sad, my brother, for all are mistaken about me. You alone know the truth and my unworthiness. I am actually a worthless sinner.” Then Cyril blessed Theodore, promising that he would not be troubled by such thoughts in the future. From that time Theodore lived at peace in the monastery.

Once, there was no wine for the Divine Liturgy, and the priest told the Saint about this. Cyril ordered a monk to bring him the empty wine vessel, and when he opened it, it was full of wine. During a time of famine Cyril distributed bread to all the needy and he did not stop, even though the normal reserves hardly sufficed for the brethren. Despite this, the more that bread was distributed, the more it increased. The monks then realized that God would provide for their needs, through the prayers of Saint Cyril.

The Saint calmed a storm on the lake which threatened the fishermen. He predicted that none of the brethren would die until after his death, despite a plague that would rage. Then many would follow after him.

The Saint served his final Divine Liturgy on the day of Pentecost. After giving final instructions to the brethren to preserve love among themselves,1 Saint Cyril reposed in the ninetieth year of his life on June 9, 1427 on the Feast day of his namesake Saint Cyril of Alexandria. Within a year after the Saint's death, more than thirty of the fifty-three brethren reposed. He often appeared to the survivors in dreams, offering advice and guidance.

Saint Cyril loved spiritual enlightenment and he instilled this love in his disciples. In 1635 there were more than two thousand books in the monastery, including sixteen “of the Wonderworker Cyril.” Three of his letters to Russian princes survive down to our time. They are remarkable specimens of his spiritual instruction, love, peace, and consolation.

The veneration of the holy ascetic began not later than 1447-1448. The Life of Saint Cyril was commissioned by Metropolitan Theodosios and Great Prince Basil the Dark. It was written by the Athonite monk Pakhomios the Logothete, who dwelt at the Cyrilov monastery in 1462 and met with many eyewitnesses and disciples of Saint Cyril. He learned the most from Martinian (January 12), who had lived with the Saint from his youth.

1 In the Icon of Saint Cyril, his words appear on the scroll in his hand: "Preserve love among yourselves."

Source: Orthodox Church in America_OCA

ACTS 28:1-31

1 Now when they had escaped, they then found out that the island was called Malta. 2 And the natives showed us unusual kindness; for they kindled a fire and made us all welcome, because of the rain that was falling and because of the cold.

3 But when Paul had gathered a bundle of sticks and laid them on the fire, a viper came out because of the heat, and fastened on his hand. 4 So when the natives saw the creature hanging from his hand, they said to one another, "No doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he has escaped the sea, yet justice does not allow to live."

5 But he shook off the creature into the fire and suffered no harm. 6 However, they were expecting that he would swell up or suddenly fall down dead. But after they had looked for a long time and saw no harm come to him, they changed their minds and said that he was a god.

7 In that region there was an estate of the leading citizen of the island, whose name was Publius, who received us and entertained us courteously for three days. 8 And it happened that the father of Publius lay sick of a fever and dysentery. Paul went in to him and prayed, and he laid his hands on him and healed him.

9 So when this was done, the rest of those on the island who had diseases also came and were healed. 10 They also honored us in many ways; and when we departed, they provided such things as were necessary.

11 After three months we sailed in an Alexandrian ship whose figurehead was the Twin Brothers, which had wintered at the island. 12 And landing at Syracuse, we stayed three days.

13 From there we circled round and reached Rhegium. And after one day the south wind blew; and the next day we came to Puteoli, 14 where we found brethren, and were invited to stay with them seven days. And so we went toward Rome.

15 And from there, when the brethren heard about us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum and Three Inns. When Paul saw them, he thanked God and took courage. 16 Now when we came to Rome, the centurion delivered the prisoners to the captain of the guard; but Paul was permitted to dwell by himself with the soldier who guarded him.

17 And it came to pass after three days that Paul called the leaders of the Jews together. So when they had come together, he said to them: "Men and brethren, though I have done nothing against our people or the customs of our fathers, yet I was delivered as18who, when they had examined me, wanted to let me go, because there was no cause for putting me to death.

19 But when the Jews spoke against it, I was compelled to appeal to Caesar, not that I had anything of which to accuse my nation. 20 For this reason therefore I have called for you, to see you and speak with you, because for the hope of Israel I am bound with this chain.

21 Then they said to him, "We neither received letters from Judea concerning you, nor have any of the brethren who came reported or spoken any evil of you. 22 But we desire to hear from you what you think; for concerning this sect, we know that it is spoken against everywhere.

23 So when they had appointed him a day, many came to him at his lodging, to whom he explained and solemnly testified of the kingdom of God, persuading them concerning Jesus from both the Law of Moses and the Prophets, from morning till evening. 24 And some were persuaded by the things which were spoken, and some disbelieved.

25 So when they did not agree among themselves, they departed after Paul had said one word: "The Holy Spirit spoke rightly through Isaiah the prophet to our fathers, 26 saying, 'Go to this people and say: Hearing you will hear, and shall not understand; And seeing you will see, and not perceive;

27 For the hearts of this people have grown dull. Their ears are hard of hearing, And their eyes they have closed, Lest they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears, Lest they should understand with their hearts and turn, So that I should heal them.' 28 Therefore let it be known to you that the salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles, and they will hear it!

29 And when he had said these words, the Jews departed and had a great dispute among themselves. 30 Then Paul dwelt two whole years in his own rented house, and received all who came to him, 31 preaching the kingdom of God and teaching the things which concern the Lord Jesus Christ with all confidence, no one forbidding him.

JOHN 5:24-30 (DEPARTED)

24 Most assuredly, I say to you, he who hears My word and believes in Him who sent Me has everlasting life, and shall not come into judgment, but has passed from death into life. 25 Most assuredly, I say to you, the hour is coming, and now is, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God; and those who hear will live. 26 For as the Father has life in Himself, so He has granted the Son to have life in Himself, 27 and has given Him authority to execute judgment also, because He is the Son of Man. 28 Do not marvel at this; for the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear His voice 29 and come forth-those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of condemnation. 30 I can of Myself do nothing. As I hear, I judge; and My judgment is righteous, because I do not seek My own will but the will of the Father who sent Me.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #easternorthodoxchurch #originofchristianity #spirituality #holyscriptures #gospel #faith #bible #wisdom #saints

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astaroth1357 · 3 years ago

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How Often They Worry about MC…

For those who don’t know, I have a little dog named Charlie and she is a large portion of my world. There's no need to be alarmed, my dog is fine, but there are days where I hold her and all I can think about is how much I worry about her health down the line… I suppose we often do that for the people we love, particularly the ones who may not last as long as we will. Take that as inspiration if you'd like.

Lucifer

Near constantly.

If you tracked his blood pressure on a grid, you'd see it start to continuously rise about when he decided they were worth having in his life.

Lucifer is the eldest sibling to a whole crew of brothers so he's no stranger to worry. He worried about his brothers when they were young, he worried about them after the Fall, and he still worries about them now (even if he's less open about it).

But a part of him knows that his brothers can handle their own, at least to varying degrees. The MC, though? He's far less sure…

They've proven rather resilient, but also headstrong and reckless. Neither of which are good things to be in a place this dangerous...

If Lucifer isn't careful, he can catch himself staring at a wall or window just wondering where they are and if they're doing alright… If he called them every time he had a passing worry, their inbox would be full by the end each week.

He holds himself back because he doesn't have the time to constantly protect them, but that doesn't stop him from sending a text once or twice a day. They better respond or he'll start (secretly) panicking.

Mammon

He forgets their mortality from time to time, but every time he remembers it hits like a ton of bricks…

Mammon is a pretty "in-the-moment" person. He doesn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the future, but whenever he does the thought of losing MC always comes back to him again and again.

Like. It's gotta happen eventually, right? They're human, humans die, hell they don't even live that long to start with!

The MC can always tell when Mammon's getting worried because he'll get uncharacteristically quiet and pace around or hover by them…

Every little injury or strenuous task will suddenly seem like too much to him as well.

If they need to carry some boxes, he'll carry them all.

If they have to jog to class, he's carrying them.

If they so much as get a papercut, he'll have a heart attack.

It's not very hard to get Mammon out of these funks - he really does want them to reassure him that they're okay - but he's never going to get fully over it…

Not until he can steal whatever top secret immortality formula Solomon must have used anyway… He'll get it off that bastard eventually.

Leviathan

Thinks about it so often he has to actively try not to just to get any peace…

He dodges his fears for MC like a protagonist dodges lasting consequences. Every time he feels one creeping up, he's always got a distraction waiting…

"Hey where's MC at? I hope they didn't fall into the riv-OH HEY CHECK OUT THIS NEW GAME!!"

"What are they doing over there…? That looks hard, what if they bre-WAIT DIDN'T MY FAVORITE VOICE ACTOR JUST RELEASE A NEW PODCAST???"

"What if the MC dies tomorrow and they leave me all alo-DEVIL FIGHT 200! YOU CAN'T BEAT DEVIL FIGHT 200, LET’S BREAK MY HIGH SCORE!!"

Cut him some slack, his psyche cannot handle the idea of losing them on top of everything else he grapples with every day.

If, on the rare occasion, he does let himself fall down that rabbit hole he becomes extra clingy and practically begs MC not to leave his room… like ever. He'd bubble wrap them if he could.

Anytime they get really hurt or really sick he refuses to leave their side even if it means he has to awkwardly sit on the floor. He just needs to be able to glance at them every so often to be sure they're alive… Still breathing?? Phew…

Satan

He worries, preps, rationalizes, then worries again…

For Satan, knowledge is power and every scrap of information he can learn about MC is more power he can use to keep them safe and healthy.

Yes, he will want their medical history. Yes, he's going to need a list of prescriptions. Family members too. And no, you do not get a choice.

He'll read up on as many things as he can - pawn medical journals off of witches and get magical alternatives from Solomon.

The cycle usually goes:

1. He's lying awake at night because he just heard about some terrible bacteria that makes human's skin peel off or something.

2. He does all the research he can on this bacteria, its treatment options, best prevention methods, etc.

3. Gets right about to break out the rubber booties for MC to wear around, then realizes they have a very slim chance of catching said bacteria since it's only native to incredibly remote parts of Indonesia.

4. Feels instant relief that MC will probably not catch flesh-eating bacteria and can finally sleep again…

5. Hears of some other human medical horror from Solomon and starts to worry…

It's a vicious cycle indeed… But at least he's getting a lot of medical training. Soon enough he'll be the Devildom's version of a human vet (which I guess is just a doctor, come to think of it. 🤔)

Asmodeus

Lives so "here-and-now" that he doesn't remember often, but when he does it's always heartbreaking…

Asmo usually tries to worry about things as little as possible. It’s bad for the skin, you know? But when the MC is involved, all of that goes out the window.

Like how a delicate blossom eventually wilts in the snow, the MC is bound to leave them in time… Usually there's supposed to be something beautiful in that kind of tragedy, but perhaps he's just too close to them to find any romance in it.

The thought of their death gives him breakouts and anytime they get hurt or sick he's the first brother to offer them comfort. Every time.

Because he doesn't feel like he's as physically strong as he brothers, he tries to make up for it by minding their health in other ways. Anything to keep his MC strong and beautiful as always!

If Asmo is in a worrying mood, then he may also compensate by trying to take the MC out to a party or some fun event. Why sit around worrying by himself when he could be making memories with them now, right?

Beelzebub

It comes in waves, mostly at night.

When your thoughts throughout the day are mostly, "I wish I wasn't so hungry," it doesn't afford you a lot of time to think about much else.

In a way, it's a good thing since he experiences a lot less stress. But those worries are still there and they mostly plague his dreams…

Beel doesn’t feel hungry when he's sleeping, so a lot of his fears will make themselves known overnight. An injured or dying MC is often in his rotation of nightmares though, of course, he'd rather it not be…

After having one of these dreams, his first instinct is to always make sure the MC is okay. If they're with him, he'll hug them and check their heartbeat. If they're somewhere else, he'll go to them or shoot a text.

He has woken up without realizing his nightmare was all a dream though, and usually it's up to Belphie or MC themselves to console him while he cries… It's so heartbreaking, sweet boy just puts a lot of pressure on himself to be sure they're safe…

When he worries, it's like they're the most beautiful and expensive China set in a room full of bulls and hammers. If he could tape them to his side, he probably would. He gets scared for them that much…

Belphegor

More scared about it than anyone else in the House.

Despite his calm demeanor, Belphie is truly afraid of losing his loved ones beneath the surface… He's already lost one of his most dear siblings before, going through that again may just break him.

Unfortunately, he's also felt just how fragile the MC is firsthand... He's not even the strongest of his brothers, yet he was able to snuff them out so easily… Who's to say someone else won't try?

Like Beel, MC's death is a recurring nightmare for him but he can usually shake off his dreams fairly well, if not change them mid-sleep. More scary is when something is actually wrong with them or they're not feeling well.

Belphie always sets his inner laziness aside for the MC when he can. If they get sick, he'll usually be right along with his family to take care of them - even if he has to skip school to do so (not that he cares about class anyway).

When he's worrying about them, he tries to play it off at first, but soon enough they'll notice him acting overly concerned and losing sleep… Best to calm him down before he starts getting cranky.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons

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shorkbrian · 4 years ago

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Prelude - I need to stop catching sight of poetry on my explore page lol. This is entirely self-indulgent and very specific cause I’m rotting thru life rn and so if u dislike I understand lol. When I was in the hospital this last time it sucked rlly bad and like the awful horny degenerate I was I kept thinking abt Kirishima and soft sweet Sugawara idk lol

Pairing - Death god Kirishima x Reader

Warnings - Suicide, suicide attempt, no smut. Death. Drunk Drivers. Yandere but only a little bit and cause I can’t voluntarily accept love it has to be forced bc I cannot handle the thot of someone who is sane loving me bc there is no freaking way lol

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/5Iy1wdO0tMaHwKnfFYtlel?si=-vqod-W6SHia8ui2Hdl_9g

Adding this one bc it’s like one of my favorites and I wish god I wish and I hope that this year is better than the last amen lol also there’s nothing more sad to me than someone pleading and begging and crying for the year to treat you nicely like bitch u okay? no. the answer is no.

https://open.spotify.com/track/0xRO7EKgYKVB8zKIoiXMDD?si=HYBaiBzjRGmQwfCHgnTUxA

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“It hurts.” You had told him, as the entity sat at the end of your hospital bed.

He often sank heavily onto the nearest surface, as if his bones ached with the weight of his body. You saw him often during those first few days in the hospital, days spent puking up pills, every move you made monitored, doctors and nurses scolding you about the severity of your actions.

You didn’t think they could see the hulking figure that comforted you.

“I”ve heard that it’s supposed to.” The red god of death would think aloud.

“I don’t want it then.” Tears upon your cheeks, soft, misty. “Take it.”

“Your life?” A nod would affirm his question, but the red god would shake his head. “I am no thief. Not a hunter, simply a gatherer of souls. I won’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

“Then it’s yours, have my life. A gift, from me to you. Don’t make me live it any longer…..”

His sadness would show in his eyes.

But the soul-crushing hugs that were provided were admittedly a tiny bit nice.

“You’re far too sweet for your own good. I’ll receive your life when the time is right, not before.”

“But I don’t want it!” You sobbed into his shoulder, the god seeming to be your only friend in the world.

Hands stroked along your back, soft shushing sounds as the god attempted to soothe you in the ways he knew how. Soft touches, kind truths. “Many don’t. But it happens - life happens anyways. All you can do is find the things that make it less painful.”

“That’s not enough, it still hurts. I can’t stand it.” The sobs wracking your body didn’t stop the entity from holding you.

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

——

He’s patient and kind.

Surprising for a god who’s work involves collecting souls as if they were taxes. A job that should be bitter and tiresome, but the entity has infinite softness resting inside of him.

He walks with you, as you get “better“.

You watch him stop to marvel at flowers, to study the way dew drips from trees in little drops, eyes wide and wondering as crows startle from their perches and take off with noisy weeping.

This courtyard is drab and brown, a prison. Safe.

Yet the god of death treats the space gently, with respect. He thanks the old walls for standing, the worn stones beneath your feet. Their service is noted and appreciated. He’s so tender it almost makes you sick.

But you come to realize that he’s simply allowing himself to be vulnerable, to experience the earth and the beings in it.

For as soon as one recognizes vulnerability, which is so different from weakness or tragedy, one experiences a sense of tenderness. Without tenderness, pleasure means nothing. You need only look at the animals to see the truth of that. It is gentleness that distinguishes their playing from the actions they constantly take to ensure their survival.

You ask why he walks with you, why he is so focused on seeing you get “better“.

A soft smile, a meeting of eyes. “There is an end to your pain, sometime and somewhere. It’s most likely not here, not in this place at least-“ and he looks around, at the cold walls, the other sick patients, the staff. All human.

“-It will come. But for now, it’s enough to try and seek it out ourselves.”

You must look more sick than you really are, talking to thin air like that.

——-

Once you return home, the red god writes you letters.

He’s an old soul, an old god. You’re sure if you asked, he’d be able to recount the very first souls he reaped, a man and a woman, sinful and sweet but in love.

The letters help you get out of bed. What new stories or little quips the god has written pique your curiosity, even when you don’t want to move, don’t want to be awake or alive.

He tells you stories about certain souls, how each one is infinitely interesting, how they all interconnect. How some of them struggle against him, however fruitlessly. But he’s not the one who brought about their death, he’s there to comfort and guide.

Other souls, (“souls like yours” he writes) welcome him, run to his arms like a long lost lover. Their death was terrifying by their own hand, and it hurt. He can’t take away that pain, those memories. The red god says he wishes those souls find peace wherever he must take them afterwards, or at least, some form of contentment.

“The meaning of life is to give life meaning, at least, that’s what seems to be the consensus.” You rip off that part of the letter, hang it on your wall by your bed. The other letters you keep in your nightstand, content with the knowledge that there are souls out there like you

It’s hard work, creating meaning for yourself.

The red god takes to visiting you between each letter, says he misses you, the way your soul cries. He tells you that he wishes he could help you quiet it, quiet that raging, terrible storm that hurls you about.

You make him cookies - it’s the only way you know how to say thank you. It’s what your mother taught you, so it may not be right, but the god eats them nonetheless. He likes it when you eat with him, feeding you bites from his cookie, wiping chocolate off of your nose, making you laugh with stupid jokes and a mouth stuffed full of cookies.

Even if some of them are too crunchy, or others too soft, all of them imperfect.

Imperfection is the essence of humanity, he tells you, and it’s more fun eating each cookie with the thought that you’re devouring your imperfections, making yourself whole again, filling up the empty spaces in your soul.

——

Eventually, the crawl back to your feet, rise with the unsteadiness of a toddler. You fall frequently, cry often, but you’re able to get up and try again.

Some days you need to bury yourself in sadness, let yourself feel and feel and hurt. Other days are not so bad, but still tinged with regret and fear and sadness.

The red god is by your side, gives you something to cling to when you waver.

He is always there.

He will be there when you meet your end.

The god is in no hurry.

You question why he wastes his time on you, hours spent reassuring you, talking to you, tucking you in your bed and leaving glasses of water on your nightstand before taking his leave.

Home is a feeling, not a place. Home is with you - that’s what he tells you. You take his breath away, even though he might not even need to breath because he’s the god of death. HIs thoughts muddle and he trips over his feet and can’t help himself from wanting to hold you.

You learn that even gods yearn for home.

He’s capable of feelings and emotions just like any other human. He may be wiser, and older, able to draw from experience and a deep well of wisdom. But he still feels, and feels deeply.

Just as he gives the earth around him such reverence, he extends that same attitude when he deals with you.

“Everything I see reminds me of you. When I wake and the sun creeps over the mountains, hesitant, it reminds me of the way that you rise - haltingly, yet it happens nonetheless. The flowers in the field that so steadily grow, you’re like ground they take root in, soft and unstable yet still tenable with the potential for growth. I don’t know, I haven’t exactly held such closeness with a human-“

He trails off, but you think you understand.

Maybe you don’t. It’s hard to relate to a god.

——

A confession occurs, and you’re surprised to learn that the blood-red god of death is in love.

“What did my hands do before they held yours? What did my heart do without all of this love? I can’t hold enough of you, I carry such love for you in my heart.”

With a frail, hopeless human nonetheless.

You don’t know what to tell him, how to explain that you can barely take care of yourself right now, meet your own needs.

But the red god seems to know, seems to understand the way your breath hitches and your eyes widen. One more hug, squeezed tight to his chest while he promises nothing has to change.

Things do change, even if you wish them not to. The world doesn’t bow to your whims, nor the death-god’s.

Innocent touches, his hand on your shoulder, patting your head, offering to rub out the tension in your back after you’ve had a crushing day - they don’t feel so innocent anymore.

The constant survellience still seemed kind, and you knew it was with your best intentions in mind that the god hovered so close, invading every aspect of your life.

But a creeping tendril of unease took hold, and you worried.

Everywhere you turned, he would be there, ready to support you, walk you through anything you wished.

Again, you questioned his commitment. Why? Why you?

“I can’t explain how fond of you I’ve grown. How heat blossomed in my chest as we grew closer. There’s infinite things I wish to say to you, ways for me to express my-my love, but I’ll just let you live.”

He neither killed you nor let you live.

Was it frightening? Maybe. But you had nothing to really live for, lost, searching for your own meaning in a big big world, floundering in an endless sea of sadness and suffering. You weren’t afraid of anything the god could, or would, do to you.

Until you woke up, not knowing where you were, in pitch black.

Arms encircling your shoulders, a soft body beneath your own, holding you tightly, a hand caressing your cheek.

A sun rose, on a strange new land, on the blood-red god gazing at you.

“There seemed to be so much more time for you. But accidents happen, Drivers drink and hearts give out. I was expecting you to grow old, for us to live and love like that, see how you grew through life.”

He looked around this new world, and you vaguely remember what had come before. A walk along the sidewalk, blaring horns, impact, blood.

“But this will be just as nice. You can stay here with me now. Life can’t cause you anymore pain.”

You don’t feel comforted by those words. There’s no way for you to know whether this new world would be better than the one you left behind.

#kirishima #Kirishima Eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima imagine #bnha kirishima #kirishima x you #yandere #Yandere kirishima #tw.death #tw.suicide

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thecrownless · 4 years ago

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through centuries above

Behind the lilac trees where the bees hum in the sweet flowers, Thranduil sits with the shadow of old blood wet on his fingers. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asks Elrond in the span of three minutes, for the words are hard to get out. Elrond turns and looks at him with wide silver-grey eyes, borrowed from some memory and never returned. ‘I’m still angry,’ Thranduil says, even though that might not be the secret – or all of the secret, or the most most important part of the secret. But it’s the part that’s flooding his beaten heart.

Elrond rests a steady hand over Thranduil’s long fingers. His touch is warm and too comforting. He has taken too much pain and twisted it into hope, or love, or both, kept together. It is written in his borrowed eyes. It tries to stop the unravelling of his tattered soul.

It’s beautiful in its determination, and horrible in how Thranduil can compare himself to Elrond and find that he doesn’t measure up. Somehow though even with that clear on Elrond’s face, he wants to tell him every rotten thought and bare every pain, because Elrond is kind in the sort of way that means he won’t judge him.

He can say, ‘is it so bad that I hate the gods simply for being gods?’ and Elrond squeezes his fingers, and it is not an answer, and it is an answer.

It is the only answer he wants, because he can’t hear it, and if he can’t hear it, he’s spilled open questions that don’t exist, and the echo of his voice won’t unfold for the rest of eternity, rippling away from him, carrying his anger to the heavens.

He’s already told the heavens, and the stars are gentle in Elrond’s stolen eyes.

Thranduil touches the earth. His father is dead. The Valar do not come to collect their fallen servants. People die.

‘I’m angry at you too,’ he says, and Elrond’s hand does not leave him. ‘Though it’s not your fault.’ It is his fault. It isn’t.

It is a tragedy of war. It is a tragedy of the world. It is a mistake.

He lifts Elrond’s hand with his and rests them both on his leg. He puts his other hand over his hand, holding it safe between his. He holds it in a vice.

‘I just want to blame something I can touch,’ he says.

Elrond slips his hand free and then draws Thranduil into his arms and onto his lap, carefully. He brushes his hair back until it is all out of his face and settled against his back. His touch is gentle – a healer’s touch: you can’t forget it. He settles Thranduil’s head against his shoulder, so that Thranduil has to look up at him to see his face. He does. Elrond’s eyes are still stolen, like his innocence, like his youth.

It was so long ago.

It was cruel.

Elrond turns his face and kisses Thranduil where his lips press.

‘I want to blame you,’ Thranduil says again. ‘I want to blame everyone.’ He stays on Elrond’s lap. He does not cry. He wishes he could. It’s been so long since he cried.

Sometimes he measures the years. Sometimes he stares at the forest and watches the leaves change. It’s easy to lose yourself in dreams. He sets them as traps for others. He knows how because he’s felt them too dearly.

Elrond strokes his hair. He does not answer. Thranduil is giving secrets. Elrond is not giving blame.

Thranduil touches the ring on Elrond’s finger even though they aren’t supposed to talk about such things, even though they are supposed to be secret, invisible. He’s seen too much though. Maybe that is why he can see it. Why he can feel it. Why it gleams as deep as the night sky for which Elrond is named.

Elrond is more beautiful, with his stolen eyes – his stolen, shadowed hair.

‘We’re alive,’ Thranduil says, but his voice sounds uncertain.

‘We are,’ Elrond speaks for the first time in a long time.

‘I am strong for my people,’ he says.

‘You are.’

Thranduil slips down in Elrond’s arms until his head rests on his lap. He is too tired to sit up, even supported.

‘How many mistakes can you make before you’re doomed?’ he asks.

‘Fate doesn’t work like that.’ Elrond strokes Thranduil’s hair. For a second, his hair catches on his ring.

The sunlight is gentle on the lilac blossoms. It is sharp on the leaves.

‘Sometimes I wish it were all equations,’ Thranduil whispers. ‘I’m tired.’

‘Then sleep.’

‘I can’t.’

Thranduil holds onto Elrond’s leg. It’s easy to tell him secrets. He gathers them up so carefully you could cry. He doesn’t break because he can’t anymore.

‘You take too much,’ Elrond says. ‘You overwork yourself.’

‘No.’ Thranduil shakes his head. ‘That’s you.’

Elrond lifts Thranduil’s hair and lets it fall. He smooths it gently. He lifts it again. ‘It can be both of us.’

‘I thought you’d deny it.’

‘I won’t try lying to you.’

Thranduil looks up at Elrond again. Elrond’s eyes are soft. His fingers stroke through his hair. He smiles weakly down at him.

‘I’m still angry,’ Thranduil whispers.

‘So am I,’ Elrond answers softly.

Thranduil reaches up and strokes his cheek. He cradles Elrond’s face in his hand, his fingers spread out over his features, two fingers over his eye, his hand covering half his mouth.

Elrond does not move. He is framed by the lilacs.

Thranduil wants to take him into his arms and take his pain away. He cannot. He wants to promise him that everything will be all right now, but he won’t lie to him.

The evening is beautiful. The sun is high. Maybe this summer he will live again. He does not know how long it is supposed to take to heal. Elves aren’t supposed to die.

They do.

‘So many of them died,’ Thranduil murmurs, barely moving his lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elrond answers, against his hand, like it could be his fault.

‘I wish I had something more to say.’ Thranduil does not move his hand. ‘Something that isn’t just…’

‘Anger.’ Elrond kisses his hand.

‘I wish I were wise. Don’t,’ he says, when he feels Elrond’s lips move. ‘You are wise.’

Elrond says nothing. The wind stirs his hair.

Elrond is dangerous. If you aren’t careful, he’ll steal your pain. He won’t give it back. He’ll keep it, like Thingol’s eyes. Like every terrible secret whispered to him.

Here they are behind the lilac trees, in stalemate.

In the woods about them, nightingales sing.

#thranduil #elrond #elronduil #lotr #silmarillion #tolkien #jr2t #lord of the rings #silm #lotr fanfic #writing #my writing #fanfiction #1k words #blood #death #war

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lov3nerdstuff · 4 years ago

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.28}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 5.7k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

It was the middle of March when a simple trip to Hogsmeade turned into the beginning of the very end.

Robin had let Cas and Jorien talk her into coming along to town this Hogsmeade Saturday, and she had used the opportunity to sell another batch of rare ingredients in the small dingy shop she had actually come to appreciate for just that at this point. After dropping the girls off at Honeydukes, she'd gone on to the potions shop by herself, scared the shop owner beyond reason yet again just for her own amusement, and left a little while later with an even larger sum of galleons in her bag than the previous time she had been there. Really, it was incredible for just how much some of the stuff she possessed sold even around here. Thus, content and smiling to herself for the well accomplished mission, she made her slow way back from the shady part of the village to where she was supposed to meet the girls on high street in twenty minutes. Hopefully time would pass quickly… it was terribly cold outside, even for March, and Robin couldn't wait for a nice hot cup of coffee in whatever cafe the girls would surely drag her into next.

When she crossed from one mud covered street into an even narrower alley of much the same sodden ground, her smile was wiped off her face however, in the very instant a repelling spell hit her square in the chest and sent her flying backwards into the half frozen dirt of the larger road before she even had the time to register what was happening to her. Suddenly void of every air in her lungs, Robin gasped, then yelped when her back hit the hard ground and unruly stone, sending a hot searing pain up her spine that made her eyes water. Adrenaline rushed into her veins, as flooring as it was exhilarating, and while her mind was spinning as it tried to grasp for a sense of what was happening, she already had her wand in her hand only for it to be knocked straight out of there again by an Expelliarmus spoken by a very much familiar voice. Oh no…

"A path of shadows isn't a good place for my little songbird to dwell in… It isn't safe out here. The cats might come to prey on you." Damion Morgan sighed exaggeratedly, while he picked Robin's wand off the ground before she ever had the chance to reach for it. "Get up now dear, before you become as sodden as the ground."

Robin's mind spun in hazy circles of panic as she scrambled to her feet without taking her eyes off the man in front of her. Really, it was her bad luck that it was his turn to supervise this particular Hogsmeade weekend. And away from the school, away from anyone who would witness the incident, she was as good as doomed alone with him in this bloody back alley. For a second, her mind sped through her options. Apparating away? No, not without her wand. Wandless magic, perhaps? In the matter of a few seconds she tried every defensive spell she knew she could do without her wand, running a string of words through her mind with as much focus as she could fathom, but they all proved ineffective against the smug man in front of her. Fuck… he certainly wouldn't make it as easy for her as the last few times, he had already shown her glimpses of that back on new year's. Perhaps he wasn't quite as untalented in the dark arts as she had always tried to convince herself of.

"You needn't try, darling. After the little stunt you pulled on me on the night of the welcoming feast, I have seen to it that my own resistance to your admirable spellwork was fit to counter. And after years of studying you in my class, I know just what spells you have up your sleeve." He told her just in that moment with a disgustingly sweet smile. Dropping his arm with his wand to his side then, he took a step closer to Robin to be right in front of her now. "I had so hoped we could do this in another way. I had hoped it would never have to come this far, if only you had chosen me as I have chosen you. Now, all there is left for either of us is pain."

"Indeed." Robin replied in a breathless huff, and while she didn't understand a single thing of what he was saying with his many words, she knew that she wouldn't get a better chance than this. Without wasting any time overthinking for once, she curled her hand into a fist and punched Morgan straight in the face as strongly as she could. Magic was nice and all, but sometimes the muggle way to do things did work just as well. The blazing pain, the sting and burn that spread from her knuckles up into her entire arm in an instant was well worth it as she discovered, for Morgan dropped both Robin's wand and his own when he instinctively clutched his hands to his hurting face.

What followed then definitely followed too fast. Robin went to claw for her wand immediately, but so did Morgan with his own. Both reached theirs in a striking simultaneity, and in the very same they directed at each other their respectively chosen spells. It wasn't a matter of thought, of conscious action or strategy, but rather an adrenaline driven instinctive defense that made Robin send yet another stunning spell at Morgan. And it seemed no less instinctive for him to send a curse to her in return. Both spells hit their target, both too quick and intricate to deflect. Morgan once more landed on his behind in the offgoing alley, groaning but unfortunately still very much in consciousness. Robin on the other hand let out a bone chilling scream, then crippled into a heap on the very ground she had stood upon, ridden by such a sudden explosion of pain in every cell of her body that it replaced both sense of self and thought. She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't move… Her wand lay only inches from her hand, but she found the distance impossible to cross, impossible to think of fighting back at all. All she could do was to keep her eyes wide open as she lay curled up on her side in repeated shivers of pain that drowned out even the cold around her, beneath her, and to watch how Morgan came approaching her once again. His wand raised and pointed at her with a sneer on his face.

"You will have to be better than that, my dear…" He sighed in a raspy voice, then finally crouched down right in front of her and almost affectionately brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "You will never succeed if you do not even try. The time has almost come, I'm afraid, and I can no longer hold it off. Neither can I resist you anymore. Oh, how I wish you just could've been mine."

All Robin could do in return was to whimper, as pathetic as it was, but she had no capacity left within her being to care about anything but the pain that was eating her up from the inside. Only in blurred lines above her in her quaking field of vision, Morgan's face twisted in as much agony as she felt, and yet he wore an expression of the utmost sympathy. Robin suddenly felt sick and terribly exposed, and she turned her face downward in a vain attempt to shield herself from the sight of him. Pressing herself into the mud and stone beneath her even if the rash pebbles cut into her skin like a million shards of cruel fate.

"I could end it right here, you know… I should end it here and in this instant." He spoke again, through a layer of sincere remorse. "But I cannot do it if you do not resist. I… I can't, Robin. Not like this. Please don't make me do it like this."

The pain in her body surged to new heights with every word he said, and she let out a strangled sob, a cry of sheer agony even, and perhaps an equal amount of fear. Every atom of her body was torn apart, stabbed with a million knives over and over again while her soul was split into a state between life and death. So much for fighting back… so much for doing anything to protect herself. There was nothing she could do now. She's had her chance, and she'd waisted it on the mildest repelling spell she knew. A bloody idiot, that she was, and nothing more. Perhaps, for that, she did deserve death after all.

No. She was better than that. Robin couldn't give in, not now, not like this, not ever. She had made a mistake by choosing the wrong spell, yes, but she had to work with the consequences now. She would not give up. Never. She couldn't do that to Snape… after all he had been through in his life, he deserved happiness that lasted longer than bloody two and a half months before the next tragedy came haunting him. So did she. They deserved better, and no bloody Damion Morgan could get in the way of that. With the most miserably shaking hand, she tried reaching for her wand, fingertips brushing against the dark wood after what seemed like eternities of pain. Do it do it do it do it do it… Her instincts begged her to finally make use of one of the thousands of horrible curses she had come across over the years, or even to just apparate away for good. But when her sight fell onto Morgan's highly expectant, almost begging expression, her reason won over the instinct. He wanted her to fight. Wanted her to try running. And she would not play this game by his rules anymore.

With another pained whine, Robin clasped her wand in her hand, holding both tightly pressed against her chest, then she rolled onto her back to look up at Morgan's twisted face above her, and even further up at the blindingly white sky. A new wave of maddening pain, she could hardly breathe. Hardly think.

"You really are quite beautiful, you know… Even now, like this." Morgan sighed sadly while his eyes traced the paths Robin's angry tears had painted on her muddied skin. "And while I look at your lovely being every morning and every night of every day, you I hardly ever get to see. I must say though that the earrings are a nice addition. Very… modern."

His words still made no sense to Robin's mind, not now, not when the pain took away most of her thoughts in the first place. But she knew that she wanted him to stop playing with her. Think, idiot, through the bloody haze of pain! She'd done it before, pushing the pain away behind the walls in her mind… just enough to make room for reason. Just to focus, just for a moment.

He expected her to fight, or to run, to act in any way they had been taught in his very own class. Therefore he must be looking out for those spells, ready to stop her, ready to attack in return. He wanted her to resist, to fight back, that much had been clear for a long while now… and if she attacked him like that indeed, she very likely wouldn't survive the backlash he had probably been preparing for months now. At least not in her current state of painforced weakness. A state she had brought upon herself when she had let him put that curse on her. A curse of the kind he could only uphold if he put his entire focus on it. Gods! That was the flaw in his actions she had been looking for.

Still very much trembling, she lifted her hand to point her wand up at the sky, then closed her eyes when Morgan started to smile at her doings. He was still waiting for her to make the move that would finally allow him to murder her after all… but she wouldn't do him that favor. She had learned long ago to follow her reason, not her fight or flight instincts. This had to work, she had to be better. For herself, for Snape, for her friends. A faint Lux Obscurius left her lips in even less than a breath as her eyes flew open again, and a broken second later she could feel the earth beneath her vibrating when black lightnings hit the ground around her like a relentless hailstorm of her own fury.

It was enough. Enough to catch Morgan by surprise, to make him lose touch with his spellwork, his focus on Robin, and when the echo of soundless thunder overtook the air around them, the curse's pain was gone from Robin's mind, pushed out of her body by enough adrenaline that forced her onto her feet in an instant. Her wand gripped tightly in her hand, she pointed it at Morgan who staggered to his feet a second later when sound returned to the world.

He tried throwing another curse at her, but Robin had no problem deflecting it even without a word now that she knew what to expect. He tried again and again, growing in desperation and anger while losing in focus and determination, which made it all the easier for Robin to counter while her body and mind slowly recovered from the horrible pain. Luckily the curse had only been on her for a mere few minutes. She was still hurting now… but more so from her hard landing on the ground and a few scratches than from any kind of magic. So far so good.

"Haven't you learned anything throughout the years?!" Morgan cried out at her after a moment, and the string of spells thrown at Robin stopped for the moment as he caught his breath. "You are supposed to fight me! I'm trying to kill you and you just stand there like it's none of your goddamn business! Defend yourself properly, for heaven's sake!!! Try at least! Please!"

"No." Robin got out more or less calmly, but she knew better than to let his talking distract her again. She had made the mistake of letting him catch her off guard once, of underestimating what he would do to her if he got the chance. She wouldn't do it a second time. Neither would she attack him though, even if she had in past times almost hoped for a situation like this. An opportunity to get rid of him. But now that it was here, right in front of her, she found that she couldn't even curse him. Leave alone kill him, like she had always thought she would want to if it came this far. But she simply couldn't bring herself to do either.

"You are just like her, you know that?!" He yelled across the short distance between them, half in laughter, half in despair. "You're too bloody perfect, too much of everything I need to live. I have never been one for irony, but you, love, you are perhaps fate's cruelest twist of bloody irony in existence!"

Robin didn't respond to that. She wouldn't have known what to say anyway, not when he clearly was having a conversation with someone that wasn't her. Not really, anyway. He was just insane; only a madman talking nonsense who was trying to kill her for fun or his own delusional reasons whenever they met outside of class. That was all there was to it, all there could to be. Deep down however, Robin was starting to doubt just that more and more. He didn't seem insane… only caught up in a different reality than her. She was merely clinging onto her version of things for her own good at this point, and she would continue to do so until there was a more reasonable explanation. But for now, she stayed silent either way.

"You know that I will not stop trying, don't you? I cannot stop!" Morgan went on instead, loudly and unbothered in his desperation as if they weren't still in the middle of Hogsmeade. "And unless you kill me first, there is nothing you can do to change your fate!"

The loud banging of a wooden door to Robin's left suddenly caught both her and Morgan's attention then, as it flew open harshly before a bulky barrel of a man came stomping out with a deep frown on his face. Must be the backdoor to one of the taverns, Robin remembered just then. A truly lucky coincidence.

"What's all that shouting and yelling about now again?! Y'all be scaring my customers away!" The burly man bellowed in an instant, and his small angry eyes scanned Robin at first, then Morgan, and finally both their battered and dirty appearances. His anger turned into weariness in an instant, and he addressed Robin with an almost reluctant gaze and a motion towards Morgan. "Need any help dealing with that fellow?"

"Thank you…" Robin replied with a polite but very much feigned smile, then didn't even take her eyes off the barman while she sent a silent Stupefy at the still distracted Morgan, who registered her sudden attack only way too late. Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw how the professor was thrown back and down the road by the spell, then stayed lying on the ground in a motionless heap. Truly unconscious, at long last. And yet, Robin's eyes did not once leave the flabbergasted bar owner who stared at her in return as she went on with her statement after a breath. "But I believe I am just fine."

"I, uh… Sorry, for… for interrupting." The man finally stammered out after a moment of taking in Robin's perfectly feigned calm and Morgan's unconscious body. "I'm just… gonna get back to my bar and leave you to your own business."

"Actually," Robin was quick to stop him from vanishing through the door, as she took a determined step towards him, "I would very much appreciate it if I could shortcut to high street through your… establishment."

… … …

Ten minutes later, Robin had almost reached the shop where she was supposed to meet Cas and Jorien. She'd gotten rid of the mud and water that had clung onto her in chunks before setting foot onto high street, which then had left her only with messy hair, a bleeding scratch over her eyebrow and too many thoughts yet to be dealt with. A look into one of the shop windows confirmed that she still looked quite as terrible as she felt; cold, confused, exhausted and anxious enough to burst. Putting her hair up into a bun and a stasis charm onto the scratch to provisionally keep it from bleeding did a good enough job at fixing the outside flaws, but her mind remained troubled as it could be when she finally went to seek out the girls. She was 10 minutes late anyway, no need to let them wait even longer than that.

But even when she slowly approached their meeting spot, she couldn't quite move past what had just happened. Sure, Morgan had hurt her before, had said things along the same lines of her belonging to him, but this just surpassed it all. She didn't doubt that he truly wanted to kill her, even if her refusal to fight back seemed to have hindered him in that today. He certainly wouldn't allow himself to make such a mistake another time, wouldn't hold back nor let his twisted emotions overcome him. His intention was more than clear at this point; his reasons were not. Because as much as Robin wanted to blame it all on insanity, the things he'd said and done, the sincere desperation and agony displayed on his face when he had begged her to fight back just didn't add up anymore. There was a reason to the things he did, a very much sane one, but it was yet veiled in darkness. He said he would try to end her again… So she would have to find out what the hell was going on before then. Why he had said those weird things that still kept nagging at her mind in the strangest way, ringing some distant bells she couldn't quite put her finger to. Gods, she felt exhausted enough for her hands to shake even beyond the cold… it was a miracle that her legs hadn't given out yet.

"Finally you grace us with your presence, Robin!!! Jorien and I have been freezing to death out here for the last ten minutes!" Cas' relieved and reproachful voice pulled Robin out of her thoughts, but it also made her jump in an instant. Visibly, for once. Great…

"Are you alright?" Jorien asked immediately with a big frown on her face, just when Robin came to stand in front of them. "You look-… There's really no nice way to say it. Tired and battered is the mildest one, probably."

"Oh, you know me… always running into one thing or another." She replied with a sigh and a half smile that was more feigned than sincere. "But yeah, I'm quite exhausted, and way too cold. I'm sorry I made you wait, I was held up and couldn't get away from the situation for the longest time."

"It's fine…" Cas sighed as well, a lot milder in her expression already. "We were late anyway, so we really only waited a couple minutes out here."

That finally brought a sincere smile to Robin's lips, even if a small one. Of course they'd been late as well… they always were. Well, thank Morgan for holding her up long enough to spare her the waiting time. Robin snorted at her own thought, and couldn't quite understand why almost dying was suddenly so amusing. Then again, Snape had always been saying that her humour could be quite morbid at times. He was right, as always. Gods, she just wanted to be back with him already, wrapped up in a tight hug, telling him all about what happened… but he was still stuck with the dunderheads who had earned themselves detention this week, and wouldn't be free until after dinnertime. Which was one of the main reasons why Robin had agreed to go to Hogsmeade today in the first place.

"If you're exhausted, we perhaps better skip the next part of our grandiose plans for the day…" Jorien said, thereby regaining Robin's attention in time for her to see the sheer disappointment on both girls' faces. "It probably was a stupid idea anyway. Let's just go to a cafe instead."

"No, it's alright! Don't worry about me." Robin replied in an instant, when her inability to bear seeing the girls sad got the better of her. Damn her empathy, a cozy cafe sounded nice right now… and whatever plans they had made surely wouldn't be nearly as relaxing. But as much as she annoyed herself by doing so, she couldn't help putting them and their happiness first. "We can do whatever you guys originally planned. It's fine!"

The smiles were back on their faces in an instant, as was the excitement and mischief, and while Robin didn't know what she had just gotten herself into, she was prone to find out when they immediately started dragging her off down the street. Two minutes later, they stepped through the door to one of the surprisingly many clothes shops in the small village, and this one obviously seemed to cater more to the younger generations. That was the only thing Robin could tell from the look around she had immediately upon their entrance. A nervous habit, really, that had only intensified now after getting so stupidly taken by surprise earlier.

"So…" Cas started with a grin while she walked ahead in obvious certainty where she wanted to go. "You know how in a week I'm going home with Simon for the easter holidays, right?"

"You mentioned it a couple million times, yes." Robin sassed in feigned annoyance, but her small smile was a sincere one yet again. How could she forget, when both Cas and Simon had been speaking of little else over the last few days. It was rather adorable, really, how excited both of them were to spend time together outside of school for once, at last, after over a year of dating. Robin had the utmost understanding for that, and for them in general.

"Funny." Cas rolled her eyes at Robin, but then went on while she slalomed around shelves and tables of clothes with the others in tow. "Anyway, I wanted to get some nicer things for the occasion. You know, like some pajamas and underwear and stuff… Everything I have is terribly childish or boring and just meh."

Oh dear… Robin could relate more to that than she wanted to admit, and that level of subtle embarrassment wasn't something she currently wanted to deal with. Nor did she want to discuss these matters with her roommates, even if they seemed to have no reluctance to do so the other way round. To her luck, they at least weren't here because of her. Or so she sincerely hoped.

"To shortcut Cas' elaborations, we picked out some stuff for her, but we couldn't really decide and weren't too sure if it was too much or too little, so we were hoping you could give your usual overly-rational evaluation." Jorien concluded factually, and Robin only nodded her agreement with a silent sigh.

This really was the most horrible timing; she had no room in her mind for insignificant matters like clothing! There was only fear and anxiety and concern… and Morgan's words still nagging at her. 'You are just like her', he'd said. Like who? Did Robin remind him of someone who all of his anger and affection likewise were actually directed at? 'While I look at your lovely being every morning and every night of every day, you I hardly ever get to see.'... What the hell was that supposed to mean? Robin always made a conscious effort to avoid Morgan as much as possible, to the extent of almost hiding from him during mealtimes. They only really met in defense classes these days. So he really hardly got to see her indeed… but he looked at her being every day? One of the photos of her that had been in the paper, perhaps? But then he would see her as well, not her being. Ugh, this was just-...

"Earth to Robin!" Cas snapped her fingers in front of Robin's face with raised eyebrows. They were standing in front of a line of changing cubicles now, or rather Jorien and Robin were, while Cas stood in the door of one and moved back towards the mirror inside where she looked at herself. Robin had to frown when her attention returned to the current moment. Cas was still wearing her own clothes, but in the mirror, her reflection wore the piece she was trying to show to her friends.

"Interesting spellwork with the mirrors…" Robin mused before she could help it. "Is that a common thing in clothes shops around here?"

"...yes?!" Cas scoffed incredulously at the –to her– obviously inane question. "You really don't go shopping often enough. The mirrors are charmed to show you what the pieces would look like on you. Then you only have to try on the things you actually like on yourself for the right size. We've done that already, so it's just deciding between the looks now. What do you think?"

With an almost impressed expression, Robin studied both the mirror and Cas' reflection for a moment to actually make an effort at last. Perhaps this wasn't quite as terrible as she'd thought… Sure, it seemed kind of ridiculous to be here shopping now after she'd had to fight for her life half an hour ago. But perhaps that was why it was a good idea after all; a remedy for all the ghosts in her head, the fear and anxiety in her body. It might do her good to get some distance to the events before trying to understand them.

Thus for the next forty minutes Robin did her best to actually focus on the girls and on helping Cas with her shopping. They really had picked some nice things that weren't too over the top, and after Robin had given her commentary and evaluation as well, the selection Cas was left with was well worth their efforts. Robin was almost led to believe that allowing them to drag her here hadn't been quite such a terrible idea as she'd originally thought.

That was until Jorien and Cas were fooled enough by Robin's desperate efforts to push through this endeavor with the very last of her energy and enthusiasm to try to make her try things on as well. And that Robin really didn't have the mindset for today. Being alive was currently a higher priority to her than being well dressed, which the two younger girls of course had no understanding for. They couldn't, really, and Robin wouldn't burden them with it either. Thus she agreed to let them pick whatever while she would patiently stand in front of the mirror to let them gawk at the reflection, as long as she wouldn't have to actually physically change. Or make an effort to show sincere interest in any of the pieces any longer.

For a while the girls picked all kinds of both horrendous and actually quite nice pieces just to giggle and fawn over and Robin simply let them. As long as they were having fun, she couldn't care less if they made her reflection look like a clown or a magazine model. And while her reflection's garments changed from t-shirts to dresses to pajamas to lingerie, she resumed her pondering of Morgan's words and actions as well as her own. Ignoring the outside world as successfully as ever for a good twenty minutes at least.

"How strange…" Cas' half humoured and half confused huff was what pulled Robin back into the reality around her at last, and she followed the girl's line of sight to her underwear-clad reflection. Good gods… she looked like the closest thing to a piece of pastry she'd ever seen. Or an 18th century mistress. Or both.

"What's so strange?" Jorien asked a short moment later, and frowned at Robin's ridiculous reflection as well.

"I haven't really noticed before either, because I was admittedly distracted by the fun pieces of clothing, but it's really quite obvious now." Cas replied and crossed her arms over her chest with an almost smug expression. "Tell me, what do you see?"

Jorien scoffed, then rolled her eyes, but went to answer nonetheless. "Well, I see Robin, looking like an ancient painting of some royal hooker. Don't tell me you see any more than that in the mirror…"

The words sent a surge of immediate anxiety and adrenaline through Robin, and while she thought that it was due to the discomfort upon looking like a tart at first, the impression soon was replaced by the nagging in the back of her mind that picked up stronger than ever. Her mind started spinning too fast, thoughts tumbling over each other in both panic and reason. Gods, she could almost grasp the thought, the words that were haunting her now.

"Well duh…" Cas rolled her eyes, then tapped against the glass on the height of Robin's ribs. "There's no scar, idiots! As far as I remember, Robin has a rather visible scar on her rib cage, while the reflection doesn't. Isn't that odd? As if the reflection isn't even you."

A wall inside Robin's mind collapsed in that instant, and buried her under the impossible weight of its ashes. Its implications. She could hardly breathe. Paintings… Reflections… Scars… Earrings. A wild rush of adrenaline. Panic. She felt sick as soon as she finally understood.

"Robin, are you alright? You look terrible again… Did we say something wrong?" Jorien inquired instead of reacting to Cas' explanation, and half a second later both girls were gazing at her in concern. Robin had no capacity left to care that she worried them. She had no capacity for anything outside of her own mind.

"I need to get back to the castle. Now." She said in a quiet voice, staring at her own eyes in the mirror for just a moment longer before spinning on her heels and making for the shop's exit. Every cell in her body stood on edge, every emotion locked away behind the thickest walls she could muster up to cope with reality. Right now, she only needed reason, as much of it as she could get. And in a spurt of just that she looked over her shoulder at the two confused girls once more before she reached the door. "I'm sorry, I just remembered something very important that I have forgotten about for far too long. Do go on shopping without me though, and be sure to tell me all about it at dinner, yes?"

Then, without waiting for an answer, she was out of the door and on her way back to the castle. Her lungs hurt, heart racing, head spinning, and her eyes stung terribly from both the wind and unshed tears of raw anxiety. Perhaps it was only the shock of realisation hitting her, or perhaps she was really quite so scared. She didn't know if she hoped to be right or wrong in the unnerving suspicion that had fallen upon her like the darkest of night. Because frankly, either way would end in a nightmare.

______________________________

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elysialm · 3 years ago

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❛ i feel everything so deeply . ❜ from koto !

@metsurisen

Was it better to feel everything or to feel nothing?

The tragedy of apathy is unknown to her, a nightmare she wishes to never have. The colors of this world, no matter how painful and bright they could be, were beautiful in their essence. They carried life within them and if one could not experience them? Then what was life about. The sensations, the tastes, the experience, the existence itself would become impossible to perceive and the world will lose its beauty. Elysia would shudder at the thought of losing any of the feeling she was experiencing. All experiences have made her who she is, to lose the touch of world's essence would become simply unbearable. It would no longer be a life, it would be torture. Her heart would not be able to handle emotionless existence.

Koto reminded her of Kalpas, the very warrior whose veins brimmed with fire and emotion. A fragile young man who had experienced terrible loss and who had suffered so much, only witnessing the beauty in the war that she promised him before. The promise she kept, hopefully, giving him never-ending battles and letting him continue his existence without losing the flame within his soul, the very color that made him feel everything too much and so deeply. He might have been damaged from the life's cruelty and from how the emotion would explode within him like a volcano, but he lived brightly and beautifully, no matter what others told her. The very passion that burns and shines was what she saw as the evidence of one's life that wasn't lived in nothingness, nihilism wouldn't steal them away from life's roots.

" And it's wonderful, Koto, " Elysia says as she sits down next to the other, glancing at her with a never-ending smile that continues to remind others of blossoms and unconditional adoration. There is nothing malicious within pinkette's eyes, existence, soul. What she sees - she speaks, what she feels - she says out loud; other would damn her existence while another would bless her existence like a deity of love's compassion. " Feeling is a gift, even if sometimes it can be hard. Feelings are the blossoms that come from our heart, roots that carry out the flowers and that will influence others around us. "

The woman gestures at the place around them, the color of the grass and the color of the clear sky. They are living, they are alive, they must experience everything before death will come to get them all. All will be smitten by the apathetic hand of someone who sees all and everything without an ounce of emotion; that's why Death is all-taking, never glancing at the emotions and bringing the soul into the next life or letting it disappear without a trace. That's why a legacy must exist, for a person to continue to existing in a beautiful memory. Elysia fears leaving no legacy, no memory, she fears not having left anything behind. All the more she feared having no legacy left behind her friends who fought to save the world she won't return to, ever.

" That's why, I think it is wonderful to experience life through deep understanding. We live, we move forward, we push forward. It is the beauty of the world, of life, of us, " her gaze is filled with hope as she extends her hand towards the sky, gentleness spilling over her whole feminine face. Her words become quieter at the end, her mind traveling back to those who she wished to always keep in her heart and in her mind. Koto mustn't lose this deep and intense sensation of the world, for when it is gone... you may never regain the sight of beauty within this world.

#metsurisen #I HOPE THIS IS OK BOTAN !!!!!!#ELYSIA THINKS KOTO FEELING EVERYTHING DEEPLY IS WONDERFUL !!!#she just thinks koto is such a great example of humanity and of how important it IS to live and to FEEL while u live #im just crying on the floor #∴∵ ❁ ∴∵ 「 THE BEGINNING OF YOU AND I. 」 in character.

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speciosuspoematis · 3 years ago

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@referentblood

The dire temperatures of the outdoors poise as a stark contrast to the humidity of the greenhouse; poised atop the Montrohain household for some decades, the glass and iron addition is an unusual sight within the city of stone and snow. That day, vast windows were heavily fogged with condensation, plants within thriving while all of those outdoors threatened to entirely perish - plant or Elezen alike. It is within the embrace of warmth that the poet lingers, very gingerly tending to the extensive array of plants - be them flowers, fruits or vegetables - with the intention to form a rather heartfelt gift.

It is with perfect care that Cyvel clips a selection of blush pink carnations, four widely blossoming red roses and a single white lily; setting them aside momentarily as fingers quietly remove the thorns from the stems of the roses with a dainty knife. Always gentle, the poet orders and binds the bouquet with a deeply red ribbon - making certain to add the twine belonging to a label within so it would remain in place and not simply fall aside.

He sits, brushing the length of the feather upon his quill as he thinks - a timid tremble to his hand as he picks it up and dips it quietly within ink. He may have written affectionate poetry more than aught else but he found himself uncertain of what to scratch unto the label of the rather thoughtful, heartfelt gathering of flowers not only grown by his own hand, but also sincerely special.

Flowers meant much to the poet, of whom had spent many years of his life buried within books of their kind, learning the very language that each bloom represented.

For the moment, he sets aside the quill -defeated- and instead turns to wrapping the carefully selected book. Beautifully bound in decorated leather, the book in question was a tale of Knights and struggles, of betrayal, of atonement, of stubborn royalty and beautiful brides, of secret lovers and tragedy. Fingers briefly brush against the cover ere pulling forth the lightly decorative paper to wrap it within - once sides were folded in and fixated, a ribbon of the same tome binding the flowers was used to tie a bow around the book - deciding to have both gifts match.

A nervousness pits within Cyvel’s stomach as he turns, once more, to the label he has attached to the bouquet - quill in hand and a softened quiver to fingers as they pen a perfectly heartfelt, short poem of otherwise voiceless adoration and tender care. Such floral words were his forte, and yet it took some repeated renditions to find the exact words he felt most connected with.

Finally done, there is but only the task of handing over the gifts remaining, the aforementioned anxiety felt now bubbling viciously within the walls of his chest as he attempts to find a modicum of bravery in order to follow through with plans. Shaking hands grasped the gifts, held lovingly against his chest as he paces out of the greenhouse and into the expanse of the manor - still scented akin to fresh paint and sawdust from extensive renovations.

It takes not long at all to slip on boots and a thick coat to head out into the late night air - gas lamps all in which lit his way as Cyvel made his way through rows of lavish housing and down masses of stone steps. He can but only hope his assumption of where to find his target - even at such a late hour - is correct.

He’s shivering by the time he reached Foundation and for but a moment did booted feet hesitate against the stone - nearing the doors of the congregation. His heart thumps wildly against ribs, feelings of utter nervousness thrumming through each and every nerve, every blood vessel, every artery and every vein - and so terribly did it grow, in fact, that Cyvel considered turning back homeward.

With the door ahead of him opening, and a Knight emerging to head, likely, home himself - Cyvel found his feet automatically pacing inward. The warmth was wonderful, shivering that had encompassed him previously dulled somewhat and with a slightly uncertain tone did he request to see the Lord Speaker - promising but only a few moments of his time.

Thus Cyvel sat and waited, warming his hands near the hearth, comfortable and frankly, it scarce felt as if hours had passed. He’d begun to doze off, in fact; the now sincerely very late hour one in which he would usually be attempting to sleep within but instead startled when he was tapped upon the shoulder by a Knight.

The confirmation that he could now pace within the office renewed the anxieties in his chest, steps ever hesitant and nigh silent as he walked, tucking himself around the door with a somewhat apologetic smile. Gifts were nested against his chest still, approach slow - unable to entirely dissipate the feeling of being rather inconvenient given the sight of the mountains of paperwork upon the Lord’s desk.

He exhales gently, brightening his smile as he gently places the gifts unto the very side of the other’s desk, attempting to place them somewhere out of the way and not on anything that looked important - which was remarkably difficult given the mass of papers upon Aymeric’s desk.

“I--” Given that he made a living with flowery, poetic and beautiful words - it seemed that they had deserted him now, when it all meant the most. “I wont interrupt for long-” A small apology, the timid smile he wore brightening marginally; “I... wanted to gift you something meaningful - - given that tomorrow is Valentione’s celebrations and I do not doubt you shall be busy, regardless- -” He couldn’t seem to form a decent sentence, couldn’t seem to say what he wanted to. “- - and likely swamped with gifts, no?” Ah - he tried to brush his efforts off due to nervousness, but a hand gestured towards the blooms and the wrapped gift, the label facing upward;

The light that lies in your eyes has been my heart’s undoing.

#Valentines Starters || Cyvel ||#Long Post

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soulwillower · 5 years ago

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narcissist • bill denbrough

(bill denbrough x reader)

(title taken by the song narcissist by no rome)

requested: hi i was wondering if you could do another fan-fiction of bill denbrough x reader and bill used to be friends with the reader until he became popular and started bulling the reader also the other losers are popular too so the reader has no other friends. when ever she comes home shes ussually crying or blaring music oh and her parents only care about there job then there daughter but you can do whatever you want from there

warning: swearing, mentions of shitty parents, mentions of bullying, lil angsty, fluffy ending, unedited and poorly written

[losers + reader are 16+ in this.]

hi i may come back and edit this bc i think its choppy, also the user that requested this deactivated their account sometime since i last talked to them :( i hope they’re okay <33 this is for them!

2.2k words

♡

it was one of those days that really should have been fantastic.

you woke up happy and not tired, you had the chance to actually make it to school on time and grab an apple on your way out the door, your parents even said good-bye to you as you left. and then today at lunch, you were eating on your own and you didn't quite feel as lonely - after that, nobody had come towards you and shoves your shoulder in the hall or knocked your books out of your grasp.

so yeah, it wasn't much but you take what you get, honestly.

and now you're walking home, headphones in your ears and drowning out the world around you as music blares at you from all sides, consuming your thoughts and creating a sense of security that you never found within the walls of your own home nor the halls of your school.

"y/l/n!" a voice barks, and you turn your head quickly, startled as you pull a headphone out of your ear. your stomach falls to your ass as you lock eyes with the only face you didn't want to see staring back at you.

bill denbrough.

he looks completely hazardous as he walks towards you, a teasing smirk on his lips. you already want to cry and he's not even opened his mouth yet - but you know when he does you'll loose the tiny shred of hope you had left for a good day, because he made your life a living hell.

well, you suppose it wasn't really just him, but he certainly didn't help whenever he would snicker at the words uttered by your peers, or the way his mouth seemed to tease you just as much as his eyes did.

and if your life was a silent film, bill had the means to force your world into an array of technicolor screams and and an endless, torturous laugh track that started with a joke at your expense and continued through your day until you ran into your indifferent parents as they stared at their laptop screens and barked work orders into their phones. everything you did, bill's domineering laugh haunted it.

and you know bill could take your silver screen tragedy and turn it into a major motion picture film starring you, the sad delinquent without a caring family and a disputably unappealing social life, and him - the star boy of the town, the dream boat, the handsome devil himself.

he could do that, but instead he just continues his ways, every day hurting your already smashed-out heart and stomping it into a messy pulp on the ground he floats upon.

although despite this, you know he wasn't ever really the one saying it. it doesn't matter, because he stands there and watches as you're berated and sometimes even cracks that brilliant smile of his at a real funny jest at your expense - and that was the most painful part of every day. because you used to be friends. you used to bring that same smile out all the time.

but in a much, much different way.

you and bill had a falling out so long ago that you barely remember what it was like to have him always by your side. all you can remember is feeling the complete opposite of how you now feel - you used to feel so powerful. but you'd gone and lashed out at bill after the stress of your absent parents, resulting in you doing some very terrible things that caused him to abandon you and find new friends.

"d-did you hear me?" he says with a lifted brow, staring down at you with a boldly irritated look. your throat feels dry and you shake your head, "leave me alone, bill." you squeak out, your legs starting to carry yourself faster down the sidewalk towards your neighborhood. but of course, there's that damn laugh again and his long legs carry him back to you effortlessly.

"i s-said, m-mrs. graham told me she lent you a copy of the s-scarlet letter. i need it."

you swivel your head to stare at him. "what." you say, completely unsure of the complete lack of animosity behind his words. is that why he's here? he needs something from you? you want to scream as you let your feet fall against the pavement, nearing closer and closer to your house.

"you r-really are a d-dumbass, aren't you? i said i n-need the book." he says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. what's he doing, walking with you right now, asking to borrow a book? he's not your friend, as he reminds you every day, so why is he suddenly trying to act like it? "well i don't have it." you say honestly, "it's in my room. get it from one of your friends." you utter, mind flashing to the faces of the losers who, really, were absolutely not considered losers by a popularity standpoint.

the losers were the life of every party, they were the 'cream of the crop,' they were the most popular kids in school. and as much as you hated to admit it, they were the reason that you weren't friends with bill anymore. you and him were the best of friends when you were younger; your moms had been friends for a long time and when they both had kids the same age, it was like a match made in heaven. so for the first fourteen years of your life, you and bill were close to the point that you somehow fell for him along the way.

which is why it hit even harder when you went to high school and the losers started to pull bill away from you unintentionally. and even the losers didn't mean to do it. other people loved bill because of his charismatic, gently leading nature. they loved him because he was handsome and funny and caring.

and they hated you, so bill had to start conforming to that stereotype. and now, almost four years later, you still flinch when you catch a glimpse of the losers in the hallway or when you meet a certain pair of green eyes.

"n-none of my friends have it, y/n. that's wh-why i'm asking y-you." he insists and you swear you're about to scream or cry. maybe both.

in the end, he follows you to your house and you dig out the scarlet letter.

"fine, i gave it to you, will you leave me alone?" you mumble as you turn to meet bill, who hasn't moved a muscle since grabbing the book. bill huffs beside you, a strange and unexpected silence falling over you as the air changes in the room.

his eyes are swimming over your empty walls and you're suddenly embarrassed because you have no photos of you with friends to hand up. and he can see that. "you ch-changed your r-room." he says next, rocking on his heels.

you're so nervous about what he's going to say that you almost stutter like him. "y-yeah, of course i have since middle school." you reason, looking around and noticing all the ways it's changed since he and you were friends. now the walls are a new color, posters of your favorite bands hanging up, covering the spots where photos of you and bill and even georgie used to hang proudly. you aren't sure where those photos are anymore, but you know they're not here. it still hurts too much to look at them.

"why? i liked it b-before." he says, sounding honest. your heart drops and you look up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“you’re joking.” you say, arms crossed. he glares at you, the animosity obvious in his green eyes. “you know why i changed it all.” “what, y/n? i don’t know what you want from me.” he snaps and you nearly scream at the irony of his statement. “you’re a narcissistic dick, you know.” you mutter, crossing your arms. and you believe it, which makes it even worse to realize that you still love him, despite that. you sigh, sitting on your bed and dropping your face into your hands.

slowly, the mattress dips beside you and a warm body slides next to you. you look at him out of the corner of your eye suspiciously.

“y/n.” he whispers, but this time his voice is soft and you’re just confused. he looks at you, eyes flickering downwards a few times and confusing you. until he’s leaning forward and his eyes are closing and... oh god -

you jerk your head away from him like he's a hot pan and he opens his eyes and stares at you. you want to fucking sob. "bill, are you kidding?" you whispering, noting how broken you sound to yourself.

your mouth continues before your brain can filter it. "come on. i can put up with the incessant teasing, the rude remarks, the dirty looks. whatever. but if you're going to try and make fun of me in this way..." you trail off, afraid that if you keep going you'll actually cry. he looks lost and nervous.

"can you just leave?" you whisper, avoiding his eyes and picking at the hem of your sleeve.

"y-y/n, but-" he starts but you let out a half sob, "no, bill, this is not funny. this is really fucked up." you say, the words slicing through the air like a sizzling knife.

"its n-not a j-joke." he says quietly, but he stands up and scratches his neck. your eyes snap up to watch him with an apprehensive feeling of hope blossoming in your chest. as he turns to leave, you catch his wrist. he looks at you, cheeks red and a defeated look across his features. "what did you say?" you ask quietly. he just looks at you, as if he doesn't want to say it again.

and you can’t believe he won't willingly say it - because he’s that ashamed.

"you've made my life hell, bill. you can't just act like everything's changed because you tried kiss me just so you could make fun of me." you say, tired of his shit, "you're a terrible person for what you've done, especially if you know that i still have feelings-" you try to cut off your frustrated ramblings but it happens too late and you sigh. "leave." you say simply, dropping his wrist.

he kneels down instead, though, so he can try and meet your downward tilted eyes. "p-please, y/n. i'm s-sorry. i don't want to h-hurt you any-more." he whispers, tears welling in his eyes. you look at him, shocked to hear him sound so vulnerable. you realize you aren't sure when the last time was you heard him sound so sincere.

"i kn-know you can't f-forgive me. i don’t d-deserve that. b-but maybe, one d-day, you'll s-see that i feel r-really awful. a-and i need to make a ch-change." he's saying these words and it's like your world is clicking by one still frame at a time and you realize fleetingly that he's done it - bill denbrough has finally turned your life into a major motion picture.

"so... that-what was-" you stammer and bill shakes his head, leaning closer and gently placing his hand on your jaw. you don't flinch this time.

"i w-wanted to kiss you for r-real, b-because... because i've w-wondered what it would f-feel like for y-years." he says, staring into your eyes. “so i’m s-sorry to put you in th-that situation. i-it’s just a crush, y-you don’t have to w-worry.”

your heart starts flipping as you stare at him, lips parted in shock. "what?" you ask, feeling dumb because no way is this happening.

no way is bill denbrough, the boy who learned just how to make your bad days just a little worse, confessing that he's wanted to kiss you for a while. and no way are you admitting to yourself the same thing.

“i l-like you, i think. i w-want to know you a-again. i hate not talking to you e-every day.” he says, staring into your eyes. you smile lightly, resolve breaking and he beams, happier than you’ve ever seen him.

so yeah, it was one of those days that really should have been fantastic. and as you sigh a shaky breath and lean forward, bill closes the gap with a soft press of his lips to yours and you suddenly dont care what the day should have been, because you have a feeling that what's happening is going to change the course of the rest of your life.

his lips are a presence against yours; a force that knocks the wind out of your chest as his hand caresses your cheek and lightly licks your bottom lip. you’re putty in his hands, and you both know it.

you just have to trust him.

as you pull away, though, you take one look at him and realize that yes, he will wait for you because this is bill, and he will show you how much he cares.

"c-can i stay? p-please." he asks, looking insecure and making you smile softly. "yeah, bill, of course you can."

he smiles fully, pulling you into his chest before rising up to flop on your bread, star fishing and tugging you to lay with him. you laugh slightly, heart pounding just as hard as his own

"we have homework, bill." you state, knowing the boy despite all that you'd been through. he grumbles, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder with red cheeks. your stomach flutters with nerves and butterflies.

#bill denbrough x reader #losers x reader #losers club x reader

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littlesparklight · 4 years ago

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Water Lilies and Narcissi

There’s multiple counts of character death in here, both by murder and suicide, but none of it graphic.

***

Once there was a pair of twins born to the river god Kephisos and the nymph Liriope, pretty as the buds on flowers. As they grew, they bloomed, and more beautiful yet became. The girl, wielding bow and arrow as cleverly as she could weave or pluck flowers, blossomed under the attention her flowering beauty drew. She was charming and sweet, and sweetly charming to her suitors, and Nymphaia's father made sure that those who approached her in potential hope of more would treat her right. So her sweet disposition and her sweetness grew more fair, but not a single one of her suitors could distract her should her brother want to hunt, for she went with him always.

A potential worry to any parents, perhaps, except that their love was innocent; Nymphaia doting on her brother, and Narkissos would only see her smile, whether it was in the success of a hunt or for a gift from one of her hopeful suitors. He did not understand what charm she found in the play, or the promise of a future marriage. He did not understand why beauty should draw attention at all, and was uncomprehending not just in the face of his sister's suitors, but his own. For Narkissos felt not the sting of either love or lust, no matter the hopeful girl or boy or man, and in his lack of understanding he was thoughtlessly cruel in his rejections.

It might have mattered little, except for the string of broken hearts he left behind himself as he went to hunt, like a careless child attempting to mimick mother or sisters and eagerly yanking on flowers and herbs, breaking some, leaving others pulled out by the roots, yet more with drooping heads left to nod painfully in the wind.

Echo, spying the twins, tried to join them in their hunt to hopefully gain Narkissos' favour - unfortunately her lack of conversation left Nymphaia confused and, when a misunderstanding left her to attempt to embrace Narkissos, Echo was furiously spurned. Left behind was only a voice in the wind, but one of Nymphaia's suitors had spied the altercation, and already suspicious and laid to jealousy, he confronted Nymphaia alone, away from her father's riverbanks.

"You shameless, terrible girl, stringing us all along, when you only have eyes for your brother! It would behoove you to reject us - me - with some grace and honesty, but you can't, can you? Not when you need to hide such shameless lust."

The young man was furious, and uglier for both fury and jealousy, misaimed as it was.

"Love my--- Of course I love my brother! But not like that, what claim you? Have some shame! I already told you I wasn't interested, and Father has told you to go, so go!" Nymphaia cried, furious herself and humiliated besides. And, for the light in that former suitor's eyes, scared. He knew no reason any more and threw herself at her.

Her cry for father, for mother, for her dearest brother, was lost to the shaded pool they had been standing by as she was shoved underwater. The terror of the girl's struggle made the plane trees ringing the banks drop all their leaves.

The body sank to the bottom, and in her place lovely, death-white blooms grew from the leaves floating on top of the water.

The young man fled the scene, and said nothing of what he'd done, leaving Narkissos and his parents to search in vain for the lost daughter. But though he had no knowledge to accuse anyone in particular, Narkissos looked between all her suitors and accused them all with silent stares and harsher words, blaming their love, if not actions, for his sister's disappearance.

Narkissos' thoughtless cruelty in rejecting what he did neither understand nor feel from others became pointed. Became ugly and malicious as he blamed love - and truly so, however blindly! - for his sister's death. Unfortunately, though fewer and fewer approached him, one, unfortunately, so did. Even before Nymphaia's disappearance, Narkissos' tendency to be shallowly thoughtless would have hurt such a sweet-minded, gentle boy. Now, it was worse than that.

"Love?" Narkissos sneered, all flashing blue eyes and long, dark hair to frame that comely face as he stared at the hopeful suitor. "You might as well take your sword there at your side and kill yourself here and now, that would be quicker since that's where all love leads! And I want nothing to do with you, Ameinias. Take that love of yours and go."

The door was slammed shut, and not even Liriope's sad-eyed, frowning disappointment in her son would urge him to open it and be kinder in his rejection.

Perhaps if he had, if he'd not been hurting and nursing his annoyed confusion for all the attention aimed at him, matters might have ended differently. But poor, gentle Ameinias spent the day in tears, sunk into a blackness of mind from whence desperate action comes. Narkissos' cruel spurn echoed in his head again and again, until it had become a demand in the dark of the night, until Ameinias stole out from his comfortable bed and sturdy home, sword in hand, and walked the empty streets until he came to the right door.

"Nemesis! Furious, gentle goddess, who avenges those wrongly harmed, hear me!" Ameinias was sobbing as he drew his sword, hands shaking but his grip determined, eyes fever-bright and locked in a desperate stare at the door. "Narkissos, son of Kephisos, has no kindness in his heart, has no regard for others but himself. So let him love only that which he can't reach, when he's spurned all other love besides. Let him not go out of this unharmed, meanly injuring others with no thought!"

The sword cut true, despite the boy's upset, and Nemesis, her dark wings spread in guarding sympathy as the body fell down onto the threshold, fulfilled Ameinias' last, aching words.

In the morning, Liriope, going to fetch water, was the one who first found the body. Her scream roused Narkissos who, in wild-eyed, guilty upset, fled the house.

He had not, for all his cruel words, actually meant them. Amneinias dead there on their doorstep was a shock.

The young man ran through the streets of Thespiai, and out into the surrounding wilderness. Down paths he'd taken with his sister, laughing ease to her steps as they pursued a deer, paths he had been avoiding in his grief.

Now, they took him to a little lake in the forest, surrounded by denuded plane trees, their leaves thick on the lake's shores and the air shimmering with fear and grief. Narkissos, tired as he was, sunk down there to drink. Nemesis, having followed, made sure he paused too long as he bent over the water. Paused just long enough to catch sight of his reflection, which he had avoided in any surface that might show it to him since Nymphaia disappeared.

Arrested now, Narkissos stared, and ached for the accusing similarity he could see in his reflection. His sister was still here, and yet untouchable, and he missed her. She might have been able to stop him from being so cruel, and now two people were dead.

Three.

"Nymphaia, where did you go?" Narkissos cried, striking the water, but though it shattered the beloved image he couldn't made himself move. Instead he sat rooted, all the more desperate for the image to return whole and still to him, for he was aching with loss and the love of what was only a mockery of what had been. He was his sister, but his sister wasn't here, and she had died - he was sure one of her suitors was the reason, had she perhaps been suffering from heartache? Had someone killed her? It didn't matter. She was gone, and he was here, and he missed her.

And in missing her, he had caused a boy who had only been suffering from what Narkissos himself didn't understand in any way than as what he felt for his sister to kill himself. And though he had had no desire, still didn't, couldn't ever have seen himself to kiss her for that love, would he have killed himself for it?

It had been a guilty thought, but his parents' grief had stopped him. Now... Now his heart ached as much for guilt as longing.

"My words have caused death, our beauty has caused your death and I cannot live without you. Nymphaia, Nymphaia, I miss you, I miss your face, but seeing it in my own reflection only makes it hurt so much more. Mother and Father are glad to see me, both for myself and for the reminder that some part of you are still here, but you aren't and I hate myself as much as I love you!"

And he couldn't move.

He had feared it, had feared he wouldn't have been able to look away once he spied himself, but Nemesis had ensured he had looked and now kept poor Narkissos rooted. Not even clawing at his face made him able to move, and instead he was reduced to tearful regret of marring the face that was his sister's, too.

Finally, unable to stand the sight of himself but unable to look away, Narkissos tossed himself at his reflection, reaching for what couldn't be touched.

The lake swallowed up the youth, and Nemesis, in solemn understanding, let flowers bloom at the spot the Narkissos had sat, unable to look away from his reflection. In death, the twins would be together, his flowers on the bank of the lake, her flowers growing on the surface of it.

*** Myth check: I’ve combined different versions of the Narcissus story into one. The one that involves Narcissus having a sister is incestuous, but as I’ve always liked how Narcissus can easily be read as aro-ace in the other versions, here there’s no incest, only platonic sibling love in service of the tragedy and to flesh the relationships out. In the incestuous version the cause of his sister’s death (she has no name) is unknown, so I went with something that seemed to suit the situation and also pulled in the incest angle, if only as a wilful misunderstanding of Nymphaia and Narkissos’ relationship.

#greek mythology #narcissus #lightart

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ughseoks · 5 years ago

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the story of us | ksj

— pairing; seokjin x reader

— genre; angst, slight fluff in beginning & end

— word count; 1.6k

— warnings; angst, small fight, two stubborn dummies refusing to communicate properly

— summary; you thought that the story of you and jin was one that had a fairytale ending, but a miscommunication leaves you scrambling to ensure it doesn’t end in tragedy instead.

「based on “the story of us” by taylor swift」

— masterlist —

From the moment you met, you hoped that one day, you’d be able to tell your kids the story of you and Jin. You’d be able to recount how his cheeks tinted pink when your gazes locked, sparks flying instantly; how you crossed the room to talk to the mystery boy with broad shoulders, and a feeling of right tugged deep in your gut.

Your relationship blossomed from the first hello, and before you knew it, you and Jin were attached at the hip. Friends and family would always tell you that the two of you were “the lucky ones,” and you couldn’t deny it. How you’d managed to find Jin amongst the sea of people at your university still left you clueless, but one thing was for sure: you had no intention of ever letting him go.

It’s funny how in just one week, everything can change.

Glancing at your phone, you pushed open the door to the library. Your first instinct was to search the room for the tall, elegant creature that was Jin— but you stopped yourself short. Just a week prior, everyone knew that your place was the spot next to him, but now, you were searching the room for an empty seat. The large building was filled to the brim with students studying, sleeping, and frantically completing almost-due assignments. Casting your gaze to the floor, you plopped down at the nearest vacant table, pulling out your laptop to continue writing your literary analysis.

After a few minutes of staring at the halfway-completed document, you sighed in frustration, running a hand through your tousled hair. Normally, you were a quick writer, the words flowing from your fingertips with ease; but now, you couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence.

As much as you hated to admit it, the source of your distraction was Jin. The argument that the two of you had three nights prior was the only thing you could focus on, and it was affecting both your work and school life way more than you’d like to admit. Resting your chin on the palm of your hand, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the memories begging for your attention.

“Lately, I don’t even know what page you’re on!” you yelled, throwing up your hands in frustration, “It’s like you aren’t even you anymore. What happened?”

Recently, you’d felt like something new had formed between you. Something more than being just friends. But, clearly, you were wrong. Jin had grown distant from you; he was staying out into the late hours of the night, ignoring your texts and calls, and showing up to school with the darkest under eye bags you’d ever seen. You didn’t know if it was because he sensed a change in your feelings for him or some other underlying issue, but what hurt you the most was that he was choosing to distance himself rather than confide in you.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jin retorted, desperation and panic seeping into his tone, “I’m still the same Jin you’ve always known. Nothing has changed!”

“You know that’s a lie,” you growled, pointing an accusing finger at him, “I can tell when you’re lying. Just tell me what’s going on!”

He clenched his jaw, averting his gaze from your fiery eyes.

“Is…” your voice dropped to a soft tone, emotion causing it to shake slightly, “Is it because of me?”

“What do you mean?” he replied, still not looking at you.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t noticed it,” your voice had developed a bitter undertone to it; after all, you couldn’t believe he was denying what had been happening between the two of you. “You and I… I see us as being… more than just friends. Do you not feel the same way? Is that why you’ve been distant?”

Jin’s eyes blew wide open in shock, but it was only a moment before his face turned stone cold and the answer that you’d been dreading floated past his lips with an insulting level of ease.

“Yeah, it is.”

Miscommunication leads to fallouts. You and Jin were both well aware of that. But some invisible wall kept the two of you divided, and no matter how many things you wished he knew, the wall you’d erected seemed to grow taller and thicker each day. It stood tall and proud, guarding your already fragile heart from being dealt the final blow that would inevitably shatter it into a million, glittering Jin-shaped pieces.

Letting out a groan, you slammed your laptop shut, sliding it into your bag and storming out of the library. Clearly, you weren’t going to get any work done.

How did you and Jin end up this way?

It was three weeks later when you found yourself in the middle of a party, nervously pulling at your sweatshirt and trying to look busy. Scanning the room anxiously, your gaze unexpectedly locked with Jin’s. His eyes widened in shock before he spun on his heel, leaving you behind him without so much as a peep.

That was the first time you’d seen him in person since the argument. You hadn’t expected him to act like nothing had happened— after all, you weren’t sure you wanted to pretend like you were suddenly best friends again, either— but you didn’t expect him to flat out ignore you. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you tried to find a familiar face amongst the crowd, pushing back the thought of Jin doing his very best to avoid you.

Once upon a time, you thought you’d tell the story of how you almost lost your mind when you saw Jin for the first time; how he walked you home that night to make sure you’d make it home safe and sound because you were “too nice to die at the hands of a creepy old man on the street at 11pm.”

But now, he held his pride like he should’ve held you.

God, you were scared to see the ending of this story. Why were you both pretending like this was nothing? It was getting to be too much for your body and mind to handle, and judging by the dark circles you’d spotted under Jin’s eyes, he wasn’t faring much better than you.

Words couldn’t describe just how badly you wanted to run into his arms and tell him how much you missed him. But you had no idea how to.

Pulling out your phone, you drafted message after message, only to delete each of them a few seconds after typing them. The last messages sent between you were from two weeks ago, and the last time you’d actually talked in person had been almost three.

Yet you’d still check your phone at least once every hour, hoping to see a notification from him, just to be let down by a blank screen.

Huffing, you slipped your phone into your pocket and ran a hand through your hair, frustration and confusion coursing through your veins as you stood alone in the crowded room. Sure, you’d had arguments with Jin before, but you swore you’d never heard silence quite this loud. Inside, you were dying to know if it was killing him like it was killing you, but you didn’t know what to say or ask to get past this roadblock.

This terrible twist of fate had shattered everything, and the once fairytale-like story of you and Jin was starting to look a lot more like a tragedy now.

In an emotionally fueled rampage, you suddenly yanked your phone back out of your pocket. Your fingers slammed into the keyboard over and over again, not giving yourself enough time to think twice about what you’d typed out until after you hit send.

You: hey. can we talk?

You were sick and tired of competing for the title of who could act like they cared less… you just wanted Jin back. Although you might be stubborn, you liked it better when the two of you were on the same side, and you were more than willing to lay your armor down if he would admit that he’d rather love than fight.

Sighing, you turned your screen off once more, sliding your phone into your pocket. The battle was in his hands now, so there was no point in letting this ruin the rest of your night.

Jin’s heart was beating a million times a minute as he stared at his phone screen, reading the text message from you over and over again. All he had to do was reply to the four simple words, but for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to respond.

The question really only required a one-word response, so why was this so hard? Was he scared of the conversation that would inevitably follow? The chance of having his heart broken? Or was he, deep down, still trying to pretend like nothing was really wrong?

There were thousands of thoughts racing through Jin’s mind as he continued to stare at the screen, wishing there was a way to express what he was feeling. He had so many things to tell you, but he didn’t know how, and he was sure that if he stared for even a second longer he might shut down.

“Everything okay, dude?” Hoseok put a hand on Jin’s shoulder, throwing his friend a concerned glance, “You seem a little out of it.”

“Y-Yeah,” Jin locked his phone after sending a quick reply, sliding it into his pocket with only a moment’s hesitation, “I’m good.”

Jinnie: sure. let’s call later tonight.

a/n; this is a day early bc i love jin & i’m high on that mots:7 juice right now. sorry for the angst & messy writing. but i wrote this in like an hour with no editing and hey, at least there’s implied fluff at the end, right??

— masterlist —

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imissthembutitwasntadisaster · 4 years ago

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Tallahassee liveblog for @magpie-trove

BEANSTALK BEANSTALK BEANSTALK

"The truth's a little bit more gruesome" Truth references? In my OUAT? It's more likely than you'd think. But really, it's interesting that Emma is really trying to find out the truth of this world, but at every turn (the blindness of ogres, the stories being untrue) she is foiled in this. Even her first adventures in magic land ends with deception: Cora pretending to be Lancelot. As a Hero of Truth she has overcome one struggle, that of realising the physical truth of fairytales, but now her greater struggle is to find a higher Truth of the land, and everything is trying to stop her.

Angry mom Snow has my whole heart.

Bless 17 year old criminal Emma her glasses are adorable.

The beanstalk narrative is inherently one of deceit (The giant's wife constantly lies, etc) which is interesting, and how that translates to a twisted story told differently by both sides is fascinating. There is probably truth in both sides, so really it seems like there is little that can be done to escape the situation with the Giant without something terrible happening but then! Emma chooses kindness! She chooses not to care about the individual petty truths of the matter! Because the one overarching one is that kindness is right! And it gains her kindness in return!

Emma pays so much attention to everything all the time.

A time where Emma is fighting more than anything for Henry and her family juxtaposed with a time when she is almost utterly alone in the world and loses the family she has tried to create with the two parallel narratives is genius. Fundamentally everything she does is trying to find a home! And in both plotlines she has lost hers, but in different ways. YET, with the pregnancy mentioned at the end there comes again the hope of family which is so fundamental to this story.

Emma builds up so many walls and Hook can see through them so easily and I'm really starting to see why people get so excited about them.

Emma denying the truth of her love because it causes her pain is such a HER thing to do.

Aurora is growing on me, and I love the idea that the prince dies. So many of the fairy tales are accurate.

The two instances of blossoming of potential love meeting two significant men juxtaposed? This is a Good Episode.

Actually bringing up Milah is just making this an episode of Lost Love which is also valid.

Hook is BRAVE and VALID I am indeed coming to love him.

I've said it before but this season really is about Emma just looking for a home and it being constantly ripped away from her.

The fact that Neil didn't actually abandon Emma because he didn't lover her in many ways makes this even more tragic.

It's about! Time! Time pieces! The passing of time! Watches and Clocks and the ticking of time! Which links into the fundamental idea of change!

Oooooh just realised Neil and Hook are being paralleled as thieves. But Young Emma was so hurt by Neil that she can no longer trust Hook, which is in itself as tragedy, that she has been so damaged.

The repeated motif of the sword!

Loneliness, I may have thoughts on this in the future but right now I do not.

The kindness of strangers as reciprocity!!! The core fairytale theme!!! She doesn't kill the giant, he gives her a special way to escape!!! This is so very important!!!

Charming lighting a candle for his grandson as well as his wife? I'm... The generational repetition? So crucial in a story of parent and child? Amazing

Ooh Henry and Aurora linked? Perchè?

#ouat #ouat liveblog #these are hardly enlightened or coherent #and I need to think really hard about Neil/Hook #and see more of the Hook storyline #before I come up with anything too clever #but this was done while watching the show

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soulwounds · 4 years ago

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「 jensen ackles , forty - one , cis male + he/him 」 did you know 𝘋𝘌𝘈𝘕'𝘚 real name is 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ?! around the island they seem to be quite loyal , but also short tempered , but it makes sense given they are a FIRE CHIEF and come from 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 . you can hear 𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙾𝙽 by 𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝚉𝙴𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽 blasting from their house , but be careful ! they can be agitated as nightmares bring back memories of JACK DEFEATING CHUCK . even so , it’s impossible to see 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏, 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒅 and not think about them .

hey i’m link , i’m 24 , & i never learned how to fucking read . VERY excited to be here again . i work a lot but i’ll be on as often as i can . beyond that i hope you all enjoy the mess of characters i have / plan to have here ! such as dean here ! feel free to message me on here or on discord at ANY time i do not bite & get excited very easily !

full name : dean henry winchester . alises : the righteous man . the sword of michael . squirrel . age : forty one . gender & pronouns : cis male , he / him . sexual & romantic orientation : bisexual / biromantic . species : human . identifying marks : multiple scars across his body . some looking like they came from knives , others from guns . his memory on how he got them is fuzzy .

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐑 ?

there was still a fire at the winchester house when dean was four years old . an accident this time . an electrical fire . a normal tragedy . their mom was still lost but dean , holding onto the bundle that was his little brother , watched as the fire fighters pulled his dad from the flames . sitting with them , brother in his arms , while they consoled him & let him wear their helmets would always be a far more comforting memory to dean than the ones his father gave him in the years to come . john winchester became distant . negligent . borderline abusive . dean did his best to take the bulk of what their grief drowned father put on them , trying to shield sam , & gave a lot of his life to helping raise sam where john fell short .

when he was a late teen if he wasn’t at home or sneaking out for a smoke & some girls , dean worked at being a volunteer firefighter . it was something , he thought , slightly productive to do with his life as it was already obvious to him that he wouldn’t be able to go to college with sam still needing him around . at age eighteen , with his high school diploma stating he graduated with average grades , dean officially joined the fire force at an entry level & began saving up money for his own place . a place away from his father but close enough that sam could use it to get away at any time as well .

when dean was twenty the place ended up getting more cramped than expected . dean was notorious with women & thought himself as careful but clearly not as careful as he thought . when he found out he was going to be a dad he initially rejected the idea , wanting nothing to do with the child out of fear of turning into his father . sam was the one who talked him down from the anxiety . with his encouragement , dean slowly worked to learn how to be a parent . preparing a room . reading parenting books . anything . it came as a shock a month before the due date to when he found out the mother was backing out of keeping the child . she had been the one initially for raising it at first but suddenly felt she couldn’t do it . though he’d be on his own , dean had steeled himself to becoming a father too much to let the boy to go up for adoption . richard samuel winchester was born march 7th & dean took full custody as his sole guardian . he kept in touch with richie’s mother still , who went on to study psychology outside aurora .

being a single father was far from easy but dean managed , always taking help where he could from his brother or from friends . one friend even got closer than others . when richie was nearing two years old , dean started seeing ( REDACTED ) & the casual feeling of the affair wasn’t there for long . things blossomed into something serious & when it was discovered she was pregnant , this time dean was far more sure about things than when he was twenty . the wedding was small & around nine months later dean became a father of two as maxine joined the winchester family . or max , as was preferred .

for a few years this seemed the perfect arrangement . dean worked up through the ranks at the station , setting himself up to be the new fire chief one day , & raised his kids happily with his wife . but perfect sometimes doesn’t last long . their relationship , after all , had been a rushed one . after around eight years , things simply didn’t have the same spark as they used to . the divorce wasn’t nasty , they knew it was a mutual thing , but it still stung . he left the court as a single father again , now with joint custody of his daughter .

at fourty one , years later , he’s gotten well back on his feet . no serious relationships seem to stick but at work he’s finally gotten fire chief . he misses being in the middle of the action sometimes , but he loves his job nonetheless . if not at work he’s visiting his brother , the bar , fixing his car , or dedicating time to his kids .

��𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀 𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 ?

a blonde girl with a sickening grin . ( but he can see beyond that . she’s gruesome . horrific . a monster made only for the worst nightmares with two pure white eyes ) she reaches for the door & her voice is as sickly sweet as a child’s . sic ‘em , boy . what’s behind the door rivals her for terror . a black beast of a dog . red eyes & snarling teeth . blood staining its muzzle & paws . one breath blows away the protective herbs . & then dean is helpless as it rips into him . his leg first . his arm . his side . though the worst of it all is hearing sam’s begging for it to stop . but it won’t . it can’t . & WHO’S FAULT IS THAT , DEAN WINCHESTER ? dean wakes up when the dog rips his chest to ribbons , clawing into his heart . his hand goes to his chest --- there’s nothing there .

after fitfully falling back asleep , his mind plays the aftermath . it’s dark & he can feel pain . pain in his shoulder . in his side . in his head . it’s ripping him , pulling him . two hooks in his torso & chains around each wrist & ankle suspend him from nothing in an endless thunder cloud . the only time he can see is when lightening flashes . there’s blood coming over his lip . it’s pain like he’s never felt before . it’s fear like he’s never felt before . SOMEBODY HELP ME ! a desperate call . SAM ! when he wakes up in cold sweat this time , he doesn’t go back to sleep .

( one nightmare in two parts . dean had dreams of the end of season 3 where he is dragged to hell . both of the dragging & of his first moments in hell as well . )

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐖 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 ?

he tries not to think of them . tries to believe they’re just dreams because the alternative is so much worse to consider . at the same time , though , as he starts to see the things that go bump in the night as more real , he feels the urge to go to his roots if only to protect the family he has here . a fake life or not , those he knows in aurora are still real enough to him .

𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄 ?

father to RICHIE & MAX . he will absolutely go off on you if you are mean to his kids . yes , this includes other kids who bully his kids . he doesn’t care he’ll yell at you for being an asshole no matter your age . absolutely no one messes with his kids .

still has the impala here . can’t have dean without his car .

while he is the fire chief , fixing cars is a huge hobby of his . if he didn’t love his job , he would absolutely leave it to work as a mechanic at the local garage .

while he mostly works on his car himself , he still brings his car to the garage a few times a year for things that his own garage doesn’t have the tools for . they know him there from his recognizable car .

his father has been alive for sometime but he’s recently found out he died from a stroke in his sleep . dean is stuck between the duty of giving his father a proper funeral & his own bitterness at the man for how he treated him & sam . this is only worsened by the memories of john that will come back .

he is bisexual ! because i’ve watched this show & have eyes ! i know ! is he repressed a lot & hasn’t exactly had an offical coming out ? also yes ! doesn’t mean he HASN’T made out & gotten with a guy or two in the past . just means he never felt like he could say anything about it all growing up & now just figures it’s too late .

uuuuuuuuuuuuh anyway . i’ll add to this more if i think of more .

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 .

SAM WINCHESTER - younger brother . simultaneously a pain in his ass & his best friend . practically raised sam but is still his brother at the end of the day . they annoy each other & love each other . very happy his kids have such a cool uncle .

RICHIE TOZIER WINCHESTER - son . absolutely is dean’s “little weirdo” & dean will say that in the most affectionate way possible . he’s always trying encourage rich & that means enduring richie’s terrible impressions then pretending they were incredible . he has , in dean’s opinion , improved with that . his jokes genuinely make dean laugh . he thinks richie is hilarious .

MAXINE “ MAX ” MAYFIELD WINCHESTER - daughter . he would do anything for max , literally she has him tied around her finger . if the principle called that she got into a fight he immediately asked if she won . but , once back home , he’d try to be responsible & tell them that fights maybe aren’t the best idea . will listen to taylor swift for them . secretly enjoys it .

EDDIE KASPBRAK - son figure . absolutely will look out for eddie as if he were his own kid . however , the boy’s mother was someone he got into shouting matches often with which probably didn’t bode well for the future of eddie & richie’s friendship . in dean’s opinion , though , the kid needs a lot more living . even if richie & eddie had a falling out , dean would still be there for the kid if he asked .

ASH WILLIAMS - close friend . they initially met when dean was around eighteen in a bar that he had used a fake ID to get into . though they ended up on opposite ends of the bar fight that broke out , they later ended up buddying up in jail while waiting for bail . since then , the two have remained quite the chaotic duo .

SIRIUS BLACK - acquaintance . works at the garage & dean trusts him with the impala . sometimes sirius stares at him for a bit too long but dean doesn’t question it .

JYN ERSO - acquaintance . also works at the garage ! lets dean borrow tools sometimes & he appreciates that a lot .

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 .

EX - WIFE - someone to be max’s mother . can be around 39 - 43 . marriage was ended mutually & they’re on good terms now . has joint custody .

#dean: intro #sorry this is a NOVEL #ill make a nice graphic for it later #when my laptop isnt busted #❝ 𝑫𝐄𝐀𝐍 ( about ) .#tw abuse #tw death

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