#i had erased that from my memory how very dare you bring this up in my own home

[mi-i-zori]

Lies of Apathy

CoD - Demon!AU - Demon!Ghost x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS : She should have started running a long time ago. But they’re one and the same. No matter how far she goes, she always comes back to him. And the demon knows how to find her.

WARNINGS : Heavy angst with very small comfort, allusions to self-harm, mentions of smut (with consent), blood, description of panic attacks. There are a lot of religious metaphors that come from many, many religions, but none of them is directly mentioned.

Author’s Note : This is something I originally wrote in my native language a while ago, but ended up getting lost in my files because I had no idea what to do with it. So I used it as both a translation and writing practice. Hope you like it !

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

Word Count : 12k+

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Beyond the turquoise shine of the firmament, a mayhem hides.

Waiting to awaken.

It longs for destruction, wishing to make our world and its peace a crude copy of the original Pandemonium. Lost in the soft, spectral feathers of a Fallen, a crimson suffering leaks, drops and runs, engraving its cruel wails into the bones of those who dare hear them. Those who only see it as an incarnation of love.

Oh, how tragic it can be, that imitation of kindness forging those who are supposed to guide the lost souls to the other side of the river ! In the blood of an Angel dance the names of countless minor deities bathing in their corrupted altruism - something the Ghost knows too well.

Sometimes, he remembers how he’s not supposed to be, for the memories of his origins have been erased by a never-ending hatred and despair.

In front of him, the young Hunter falls to her knees, facing the ruins of her own happiness. A peculiar fear tears a whimper from her knotted throat, and the idea of praying before this dilapidated shrine, created by a merciless Divine, leaves a rotten taste on what’s left of her tastebuds. A nameless exhaustion claws at her face, tries to drag her down the abyss of her subconscious. Her heart crumbles upon a way too familiar weight, and her breath gallops erratically in her lungs, her chest threatening to cave in under the ever-growing despair tainting her tears.

Knowing said despair is akin to drowning in its breast, to familiarise yourself with its screeching song and bury your bloodied eardrums among its decaying notes. In this very moment, a monster holds her with a renewed form of frenesy, and something inside of her cannot seem to wriggle out of the thorns covering its arms.

Around her, a baritone voice echoes from the darkness.

- Beautiful sight, it says. Small, vulnerable ya, prostrated in a field o’ ruins. ‘Ow many statues of ‘ope did ya build ‘ere, only for ‘em to instantly be destroyed ?

A familiar silhouette emerges from the nothingness facing her. She doesn’t answer to its usual sarcasm - instead, she allows her heart to bleed one more drop on the cracks littering the ground.

- Wot are ya prayin’ for, this time ? The entity asks as he stops next to her, crossing his arms on his chest. Maybe I can ‘elp.

His words awaken a wave of uncontrollable shivers in her guts. An violent earthquake, cold and cackling. Its growls bounce around her vocal cords as her nails dig into her palms.

- I’m not praying, she says from in-between her clenched teeth, her eyes falling upon the remnants of something she can’t bring herself to recognize. The Gods will never lift a finger when it comes to listening to a Fallen Soul.

The Ghost kneels before her crumpled form, the skull covering his face glinting in the darkness. A long time ago, seeing him like this, lowered at her own level, would have satisfied her ; showered her in a grandeur a part of her has always wished to know, laced with a taste of Paradise. Now, it’s nothing more than sickening. His smile, given away by the obvious crinkling of his eyes, brings a storm of Chaos in her already fractured mind, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to forget this feeling. Trembling hands rise to grip the short strands of blonde hair of the Fallen, dragging him down to properly face her snarl.

- You poor, pitiful bastard. Why do you keep laughing at me as if it’s all your life has been reduced to ?

She wants her voice to be sharp and cruel ; but it only sounds lifeless, washed away by her exhaustion. The rough edges of a laugh bark inside the abyss of her skull. Her muscles suddenly tense like bowstrings, tightening her grip on his hair.

- Ya think Beasts were once made to live the grandest o’ lives ?

Her jaw snaps shut. Before she even realises it, her arms fall abruptly to her side, their strength devoured by the demon’s words.

- Or do ya think your Destiny is only made o’ ruins ?

The smile dancing in his eyes is much softer now, and it’s as if he had lost the usual malice lingering in his heart. Her own heart skips a beat at the sight, so out of place among such devastating surroundings. It’s a terrifying thing to point out, she thinks, probably the most acrid of all.

Blood covered lips twist in uncertain disgust at the thought.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

She hates him. She hates him. She hates him.

A metallic flavour melts on her tongue, crude and molten, burning her senses through the gut-wrenching wish to fearlessly face his playful, mocking truths. She can barely feel her limbs ; but she feels the bruises blooming on her skin, born from the war and chaos she keeps tearing through on the daily. In the Ghost’s eyes, the mix of such somber colours, full of meaning and ache, holds a beauty he’s never been able to name.

Her clothes get heavier under the amount of blood pooling through their fibres ; but so do his, and neither of them could tell which crimson belongs to whom. The thought carves a smile behind his mask - doesn’it it make it all so much more interesting ?

- One day, she snarls, you’ll be judged.

An endless cacophony of whistles drills through her head. She knows nothing of the issue of their fight ; but it won’t stop her from clawing at both her freedom and her peace. She fishes her weapon out of the decaying puddles rippling around her knees, and holds it at his throat.

- And I’ll bury you a thousands times under the weight lining the Jackal’s scales.

The entity looks at the blade with mocking interest. A spark of danger dances in his lifeless eyes, only growing brighter as they lock onto hers. He notices the way her features are pulled tight by a bottomless rage. Disarming her is simple, done in the blink of an eye, and he wonders if she’s really going down the path that will lead her to surrender. If she’ll do it willingly, or if she’s still going to fight - if so, how long do they have left ? He knows this question has also crossed her mind, sees it in the tremble of her hands. Even like this, now laying under him like a mouse under a wolf, he finds the young woman to be more than a mesmerizing sight.

She could easily be mistaken for some kind of divinity, he thinks, and it almost makes him laugh. The sounds, unfamiliar and rough, mimics the memory of what used to be a beating heart in the depths of his chest.

How long ago was it ? The last time he ever felt alive ?

Did he ever ?

Now, he’s supposed to be close to death - or a vessel for it, even. A being of rage and torment, made for walking in a world of destruction and pain, for leaving a path of decay in his wake. He feels it all, yet he isn’t allowed to die. A part of him probably wishes he was ; but he forgot about it since the moment it was sent to lay dormant beyond his consciousness. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to find it again. If it still exists.

His attention zeroes back in on the desperate soul laying in front of him. The armor she keeps covering herself with is has once again been reduced to shreds by their never-ending fights. There isn’t an inch of her skin that hasn’t been covered in dirt. He takes in the sight before lowering his face next to hers, his rough whisper floating in her ear.

- Oh, lil’ Snowflake.

I can’t wait.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Tonight, her favourite restaurant is filled to the brim.

The happiness of her family’s voice gets lost in the cacophony floating through the room. Everything around her is blurred with exhaustion ; but his presence is crystal clear. Behind her, sitting in the shadows of a decorative curtain, the Ghost is patiently waiting for an opportunity to strike. The more time passes, the more easily she can see him in her mind. It’s a stupid game - one they both keep playing, wondering who will break and speak first. Allow the other in.

Maybe the day will come when they finally become one - simultaneously taking a bite of the poisoned apple.

This cruel temptation may be the reason why she’s cursed, she thinks, an invisible wall slowly forming between her world and the one spreading in front of her, filled with the laughter of her loved ones. Her life is made of painful memories, witnesses of a will to live that never really was. The idea that her future could be the same, tainted with the kind of horrors nobody else can see, is terrifying - injects even more corruption in her veins, lungs and bones. A rusty sword dangles above her neck, ready to cut one half of her existence and leave the other to suffer through a ruthless agony, trapped under the weight of its metallic carcass.

She’s not yet ready to drown in her own damnation, but the somber waters never cease to rise. The black tide finds pleasure in torturing her, filling her trachea to the brim before throwing her back to the surface. It cackles madly as she drags her disjointed puppet of a body on the shore, proud of the violence it keeps subjecting her to.

When she thinks about it, the young woman often realises how far back in time this curse goes. It seems to plunge its roots in her very origins, as if vowing to forever haunt her dreams with visions of madness, horrifying and useless prophecies that could have made sense had she been born in humanity’s most ancient of times. But the old Oracles are no more. So she swallows the twisted sights piling in her soul, and fills her daily life with empty smiles. A normality that was never hers.

Her demons were born alongside her. And they will never meet their end unless she succumbs to her own fall.

She saw many strange things and fought an equal amount of nightmares ; she shouldn’t allow any of this to affect her so badly. But it’s in her nature to think and feel, way too much even, which makes her an easy prey to the eyes of Those Who Fell. One of them trails behind her, melts within her shadow. He wants to devour her life even more than any of the others will, and refuse to let her breathe. He knows which string to pinch in order to make her fall, which melody to play to stir up her rage. He forces her to run within his -her- darkness, to get lost in its endless expanse, to confuse herself until she doesn’t know which path she is following anymore ; abandon or redemption. Like an offspring of Eris, he finds pleasure in throwing the apple of discord between her and the world she desperately tries to belong to.

His very presence used to terrify her. But time decided to drop some hatred in the bottomless goblet of her fears, birthing a futile perseverance at the bottom of her guts.

A few seconds fly past her eyes before the vacant chair to her left silently creaks under the invisible weight of the entity. As always when he manifests himself in public, she barely spares him a glance. A part of her wonders if he would act the same, should the roles be reversed. She came to find a peculiar kind of comfort in his freezing presence and the familiar thoughts he brings.

In front of her, her uncle barks out a laugh at a waiter’s joke, tearing her away from her thoughts. Leaning forward to examine the enticing content of her newly-delivered plate, she feels the demon do the same against her back, reminding her of his presence through the cacophony of her thoughts. Usually, she would curse him without hesitation. But right now, this is not something she can afford to do ; not when she has to play pretend in front of her family’s peace.

An invisible hand settles on her wrist as her free hand rises a spoonful of rice to her mouth, allowing the Ghost to measure her tired heartbeat. It sometimes launches itself to a full gallop whenever she has to speak or a sudden crash emerges from the restaurant’s kitchen. Following the same rhythm as the drumming in her ears. The bloodied melody always takes its time to fall back to a steadier beat, and the thoughts that follows hold a suffering the Ghost likes to decipher.

A secret message. A call for help, written in the trickiest of codes.

What a beautiful song, he thinks, burning with chaos ; and the young woman barely restrains the twist of her features when his mockery echoes in her already overflowing mind, threatening to worsen the migraine lingering around her skull.

How good is it to fight anyway ? She sometimes murmurs to herself, shutting off the cackles echoing in the back of her mind. Is the darkness really that bad ?

Maybe her feelings are getting the best of her. Maybe the idea of surrendering to the enemy’s claws comes from the loneliness nesting behind her heart, the one pushing her to more or less willingly seek the Ghost’s company. Maybe she’s simply imagining the spark of sympathy that sometimes dances in his gaze. A part of her insists that there can’t be any light without darkness, and vice versa ; but maybe she’s just reading in-between lines that don’t even exist.

Maybe all these thoughts are the result of another manipulative ambush orchestrated by her demons.

To hell with all those beings made of impurity and fake divinity ! She exclaims silently while laughing at a story she didn’t really hear. Those monsters corrupting the innocents’ dreams, immolating them with waves upon waves of sinful flames, leaving a salty, rotten taste on the remnants of their tongues ! They find happiness in Their victims’ despair, cooing at the ruins of their broken hopes, recalling the misadventures of Icarus and the other mortals They disgraced with Their attention. Be careful to not burn yourself, they cackle and rasp. The phoenix went extinct eons ago ; it’s now impossible to come back from your ashes.

Lie, little dream, lie, the Divine laughs ceaselessly as she surrenders herself to a hopeless optimism. Why not hide yourself behind an illusion ?

Lie, little dream, lie. Why not become a nightmare ?

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Sometimes, she wonders if her throat isn’t laced with a red string - the kind that, one day, will inevitably be the end of her.

She often turns around to catch a glimpse of it, in an elusive reflection in the mirror, or in the corner of her vision. She read dozens of stories worshiping it as the proof that true love is far from being a myth, saying that seeing it means one’s soulmate is nearby. But only in dreams can such things really exist.

And, sometimes, even dreams can lie.

For the spectre of her destiny created the thread with a mix of love and hate, of strength and cowardice ; a foreign intimacy made to drown them as one. The kind of thing that, should she ever share it with the world, would only be the source of laughter and disdain. She would probably be punished for her lack of gratitude for the life she was given.

Each breath is constantly filled with a bloodcurdling fear of simply existing. Her body never ceases to quake, trapping air in the expanse of her lungs and struggling to let it out. A thousand bear-traps snap at her flesh as she tries to keep pursuing her future, this vision she never really manages to see clearly. She sometimes think about tightening the string around her throat, deepen its colour with the moisture of her own blood ; yet it seems content with just grazing her skin in a satire of love, constantly feeding the frustration nestled in her breast. She never knows if it will ever be merciful enough to slash her neck open.

The Ghost holding the other side of the crimson line is dangerous, murmurs a voice resembling her own. One wrong move would be enough for him to send her over the edge. A clumsy step to the side. A benevolent mistake.

She often notices the small knot clashing with the dull porcelain of his skin. He likes teasing her by wrapping the string around his palm, adding enough pressure to have it leave a rugged caress on her neck ; to remind her of its presence. She loathes the cruel smile that carves his face open when he catches her off-guard, causing her to lift her hand towards her own knot.

She despises them all : him, the world, her Destiny. And she hates her own inability to get rid of the miasma plaguing her mind ; the way her empathy whimpers whenever her eyes follow the never-ending scars mapping the body of the Ghost ; the whispers that make her realise how similar they are to one another.

They are nothing more than two sinners looking for a reason to live.

Looking for redemption.

- Ya know we’ll always be bound to each other, Snowflake, the entity says, cackling in her ear. Why do ya always try to ruin whot canno’ be destroyed ?

Her blood boils as she presses her frozen palms against his throat with a snarl, as if trying to force him into silence by imitating the thread caging her own pulse. She knows how futile it looks, knows the fruits born from this endeavour will hold the bitterness of her failure. Yet she refuses to crumble under the mocking weight of his words, for it would be surrendering to the way this rotten world keeps trying to send her into exile.

The gravel of his voice resonates against her palms.

- No’ tired of fightin’ a ghost ?

Her teeth sharpen into her mouth as he coils an arm around her waist, locking her body against his. She can’t stop a shiver from rolling down her spine ; and, unable to decide if she can really allow herself to savour the frozen warmth of his skin, her fingers tighten around his breath. His Adam’s apple makes a mould of its own shape in the crevices of her hands.

Yet he doesn’t even flinch.

- ‘Ow many times did you try to run away from me, darlin’ ? To make me fall, only to fail ?

- Shut up.

- Wouldn’t take much for us to bend this world to our will. Think abou’ it : we could face ‘em, ‘and in ‘and, laugh at ‘em until our voices break. Take the clay they used to create their dreams with and burn everythin’ with ours.

- Shut. The fuck. Up !

Yet no amount of resistance seems to tarnish his fantasies of despair. She barely has the time to blink before he slips behind her back, his breath burning incandescent holes against her ear. His hollow heart beats silently against her spine - and her arms fall limp against her sides, getting tangled with the crimson rope circling around them.

- We could make our own miracles, he whispers, never letting go of his decaying thoughts.

A broken cackle tears through her clenched teeth.

- So now you want to play like a God ?

One of his hands, torn open by countless cursed knots, comes to circle the neck of his prey. His smile drips into the passion lining his voice, and she can almost feel him against her cheek as his massive frame leans over her shoulders. Their spines could fuse with each other without her even realising it, she thinks, feeling her back crack under her demon’s weight. She wonder if they are now worthy of the crumbling statues haunting the temple of her mind.

- Why no’ ? He says, and her legs suddenly go numb.

The Ghost breaks her fall without any effort, taking advantage of her now lethargic state to hold her tight against his heart. He presses a kiss against her cheek, slowly savouring the taste of a frustrated tear.

- Why couldn’t we be our own Divine ?

Crimson now runs towards the very center of her soul, and she can’t do anything but dive into the motlen marble of the Ghost’s eyes.

Another fight is coming to an end.

Her human heart pumps with an overjoyed frenesy as its end nears once more, but the Hunter is far from glad as she realises said end is nothing more than an illusion coated in sulfur. The entity can see the suffering dancing in her eyes, now reddened by the tears she refuses to set free. The Fates could slice their mutual despair open with a laugh whenever they want ; but they have yet to do so, and he wonders if they enjoy watching the both of them struggle to stay afloat.

- Slowly now, he whispers, slightly loosening his grip to erase the dull ache throbbing in-between her ribs. Wouldn’t be wise to exhaust yourself withou’ me.

A part of him would probably qualify this role of his of Apathy, or Disinterest ; bury himself in a litany of lies to play the perfect villain, always finding a new excuse to justify the satisfaction he gets out of it all. Try to convince himself of how none of this, her, Them, deserve even a shred of his attention. But he knows that, somewhere in what’s left of his angelic heart, slumbers the reality of a longing, a thirst for love and touch he refuses to see. And she knows it too.

He silences the feeling again, covering it with words dripping with his own broken kind of sarcasm.

- This world doesn’t make any sense if you’re not ‘ere.

A sickening growl shakes her guts as she takes in what she refuses to hear. It dies before reaching her lips.

- What a liar, she grumbles, her voice and mind fading more and more with each syllable. You’re just a fucking liar.

The smile he offers her is nothing short of carnivorous, and through it, she could almost make out the virtuous remnants of what used to be his soul. He presses a searing kiss over the bloodied foundation covering her shoulder, incredibly soft despite the sharp, mesmerizing coldness haunting his each and every word.

- C’mon, lil’ Hunter. Give up.

And this time again, the taste of victory flows bitterly against his tongue.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

When she opens her eyes, her room is nothing but silence, and the chaos of her bed seems covered in a thin layer of ice.

Her entire body is being crushed by an invisible weight as countless shivering waves run along her skin. A choir of ghosts dance in the corner of her vision, their laughter echoing through the walls of her skull. A frozen, corrupted substance flows through her still slumbering veins.

Why is it so cold ?

Her breath quickens as she fights to keep a semblance of control over the ruins of her mind. A sea of urchins is tearing her trachea apart, and she would love to feel her hands smash their spikes through her throat - yet nothing seems to even think of taking pity on her. A river slowly starts running down her frozen cheeks, its flow carrying her thoughts away like a hurricane would a twig, as if trying to drown her in her own mind.

An earthquake suddenly takes over the marble of her hands, and she doesn’t know if it is caused by the ambiant cold or the thunder wreaking havoc inside her ribcage. The magma that was once slumbering in her chest is now trying to escape through her every pore ; and it burns, scorches her insides over and over again as the volcano bursts along with her tears, threatening to carve a new rift on the surface of her heart.

Crushed by her ribs, her lungs refuse to work properly. A pungent breath bites through her bones, as if trying to corrupt even the marrow hiding behind their calcified walls. Her own existence is hoping to tear the guts out of her humanity’s rotting corpse. The decline of a heart filled with despair is tragic enough to become the muse of countless poets and their sonnets ; yet there’s no glory in the mourning of what we once used to be, she thinks, especially when Life itself drinks our tears with a crooked smile painted on its mask of comedy.

Next to her, the mattress sinks. Her eyes, burned by the salt of her tears, can barely make out the dark silhouette leaning over her ; but she doesn’t need them to feel and know who it is. The Ghost lays a burning hand on her cheek, and something inside of her desperately tries to anchor itself to this touch she subconsciously learned to look for amidst the storm.

A somber look covers the entity’s features as his fingers meet the ice of her hands. She’s a warrior ; one he’s used to fight almost every single day. Seeing her in this state is almost disturbing, for he quickly realises there is nothing left of her usual hostility. The Flood swallowed it all.

For once, he’s not the source of her distress, and this train of thought leaves a strange feeling in its wake. Is it rage ? Jealousy ? A mix of both ? It doesn’t matter. The Divine is not allowed to toy with a prey that isn’t Its own.

She barely has the strength to utter a single sound as he takes hold of the fragility of her fingers to bring them to his own neck. The mocking spectres dancing around them suddenly cease all movement. They even seem to disappear the second she starts feeling the echo of a pulse under the scars littering his skin, the confusing proof of the decomposing existence of a life filled with darkness. Its rhythm is slow, silent, ghostly. It gently lulls her mind, offering a blessed shelter against the violent winds.

Her own demon tries to hold her head out of the water ; a situation that would have made her laugh had her throat not be so parched.

- What did it taste like, she finally croaks out as her hand ghosts over his skin, the despair that made you fall ?

Was it similar to the fear haunting the surface of my lips ? Will you end up smearing it on my tongue to break what might be left of my humanity ? Will you be seated on the Emperor’s throne on the highest part of the infernal Coliseum in the middle of which I will inevitably be forsaken ?

Or will I be the one to guide you towards the light ? Will I be able to let you taste the ambrosia of peace I keep looking for ? And if it indeed ends up touching your lips, will I even realise it ?

- Like my own blood, the Ghost says, and she notices the peculiar softness that has replaced the usual sarcasm tainting his voice. Wan’ to try it ?

The kiss he offers her is like a cruel salvation ; a source of comfort immediately shattered by waves of chaos blooming into her soul. It leaves a sour taste on her tongue, akin to a tragedy leaving a trail of weeping arteries and broken bones in its wake. Like the smoking remnants of a battlefield, she thinks, witnessing the horrors she went through ; the nightmares haunting her sleep. A series of erratic visions displayed on the dark screen of her eyelids.

It tastes like the beginning of the end, murmurs a voice lost in the torn expanse of her mind, and she finds herself submerged by the need for more.

The warmth of his skin slowly melts the ice imprisoning her. Yet the tension running between them still has the red thread tightening around their throats, and a part of her refuses to see how good it could be to let him drag her down into his own flames. Let them be hers.

She only now sees the strange pattern they created, made from both violence and peace, love and hatred, as well as a guilty freedom tightening around her guts.

The Ghost probably noticed it too. Even when they exchange words filled with mockery and blood, he always ends up savouring the harsh touch of her hands pulling his teeth back towards her neck. And slowly, surely, he unwinds the knots holding her spirit together, only to tie them up all over again as she wakes up from a familiar anesthesia. A predatory smile carves itself against her neck, sharp teeth threatening to break both her body and soul - progressively widening the rift in the facade she desperately tries to keep in place.

- Relax, luv, he whispers, his abyssal timbre sending shivers down her spine.

His hands clutch every single one of her curves with a desperation she has yet to understand. His fingers seem to reach for her very soul, claws moulding her body to his will. Their hearts dance with each other as he holds her to his chest, exploring the expanse of her back as if he was discovering it for the first time. His breath leaves a scorching ache on her shoulder, and she wonders how his touch keeps getting even more delicious each time.

She lets out a cry as his fingers find her core. Her teeth coax a vicious growl from his throat as they sink into his flesh, and the Ghost drinks up every trembling breath dripping past her lips. A rumble echoes deep within his chest as she loses herself against him, her nails leaving crimson rivers down his neck.

The cold haunting her is now long forgotten. The ice shatters under the Ghost’s fangs, and, for a second, he draws his eyes towards the darkness of the room. They mercilessly pierce the remnants of the now silent spectres that tried to steal his perfect prey. Their silhouettes finally vanish completely ; at the same time, a shuddering whimper shakes the body resting in the iron of his grasp.

- Let’s show ‘em who ya belong to.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

She feels more than she sees the way her palms turn white under the assault of her own nails. Her heart never slows its erratic rhythm, forcing the mud coating the surface of her lungs to pulse along its beat. A few centimeters away from hers, the Ghost’s chest rumbles with a laugh.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands, he thinks ; she’d just need to strengthen her will. She could take over this infernal game and make it eternal, let the Divine Creations burn and burn, turn into a lake of sterile ashes. Ring the final bell and have its sepulcral cries echo in the bones of the Gods. Create her own version of a happy ending.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands ; for her determination is a synonym of destruction. And They know it. They are the ones who sent him to her, trying to make her fall. Did They even think he’d try to make her his instead ? To turn her against Their pathetic idea of glory ?

But he has yet to win. An infuriating reality. You should already be dead, he wants to scream, why do you refuse to yield ?

She only looks up at him through the darkness lining her eyes, ignoring the nauseating feeling of her life bleeding along her skin - leaving a series of darkening trails along the porcelain of her bones.

- What about you ? She says, and it’s like she’s reading his thoughts. It’s not like you’re doing much.

And it’s true. He torments her, brings her down over and over through countless excruciating fights. Strikes her weakest spots, both in her body and soul. Yet he knows it’s far from being enough. He wants to see how long she’ll last, what will end up being his coup de grâce ; but maybe a part of him wants her to live, achieve what his distant, decaying memory tells him he was never able to even touch.

His fangs scrape painfully against each other. Under the mask, his jaw is covered with the blood of the lives he took. Hers soaks through his clothes, skin, muscles and bones - but it has yet to taint his teeth, coat the walls of his stomach. He is the reason why his ideas haven’t been brought to light. He knows it well, perhaps he has even acknowledged it.

- You could reign over this world and you know it, she adds weakly, her voice breaking over the words she doesn’t even really need to articulate.

She doesn’t know if she’s glad to still be alive despite the fact that her body should already be lost six feet under, or if she wishes it would be the case.

- You have the power to bring your every desire to life. Make it a perfect reality.

Her muscles weaken with every second that runs through their fibres. Her lungs, filled with a dark, freezing darkness, beg to breathe in even the slightest amount of oxygen as her chest crumbles with exhaustion. Despite all of this, the Hunter refuses to sway, ignoring the waves of pain crashing against her bones. She tries to stand proud in front of the Ghost, feeling him watch intently as she fights against herself. But her legs crack and stumble ; and his reflexes are a perfect proof of his inhumanity when he launches himself forward to catch her, preventing her from shattering her already broken self on the rubble at their feet. He holds her tight against him, letting out a deep, mocking laugh - yet refusing to let her go.

They both know why.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

A flash of silver.

A familiar sting.

A salty tear.

Another wave of crimson crashes against the porcelain of her skin, violently, beautifully. The puddle swirling around her knees reflects the pathetic face of a broken doll. Her limbs are numb, unable to feel the rain hitting them as if it was trying to avoid her, only aiming for the floor. For a second, she wonders if a Divinity is crying for her Destiny, but the thought quickly falls quiet, silenced by a muted laugh. The Gods never pity their mortals.

Her soul falls into pieces once more on the marbled concrete at her feet, and the faraway echo guides her eyes up towards the sky. The adrenaline born from the usual fighting is slowly starting to fade. On the edges of her blurry vision, the Ghost draws his familiar silhouette out of the fog. The misshaped sarcasm she throws his way doesn’t make him flinch the slightest, making her wonder if this nightmarish entity didn’t place much more faith in her than she ever will.

What a stupid thought, they both whisper, the only thing breaking them apart being the usual snarky smile she forgot to wear to hide her ever-dampening cheeks.

- Ya know you’ll have trouble hidin’ those blood stains, right ? The demon says, kneeling to her side.

A soft sound escapes her lips, scorching hot compared to the rain.

- It’d be useless anyway.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

She wakes up with a start and a silent scream as sweat runs coldly down her chest. There’s a dry, violent pounding in her skull, enhanced by a laughing tide of cramps tearing her bones apart, its echo bouncing around her sleeping muscles. Despite the confusion lingering in her brain after what is probably her third nightmare of the night, she registers a warmth laying next to her, one she’s surprised to see at this hour. A part of her expected him to come and go as he pleases like he always does - never taking the time to stop, even for a moment. But in the end, him being here isn’t that surprising. Just like her, he’s never been able to leave her side for too long.

Maybe they’ve become each other’s haven among the mayhem of this world.

She shivers violently has she buries her face under the covers once more, ignoring the sweat lingering on her skin. Her hands whiten with the strength she uses to scratch at her scalp, hoping to lose her thoughts among the apocalyptic landscape of her bed. Find an anchor outside of the dreamworld.

- It’s impossible to fully heal, isn’t it ? She whispers more to herself than anything, even though she knows how light of a sleeper the Ghost is. No one can really forget.

Almost immediately, she feels him move against her shoulder, silently turning around to meet her form ; small and trembling under a nameless terror. Pathetic, he would usually laugh, but his own scars burn so viciously that he can only clench his teeth as he faces her pain. Is that empathy twisting his guts ?

What he would do to forget that thought.

- If ya want to forget tha’ badly, I might ‘ave a solution or two.

The Silence is loud as she nods slowly, tiredly. Seeking refuge in the sulfur of his touch.

- Please, she says, quaking as his hand smears layers upon layers of charcoal upon her hips, don’t you wish for the same ?

His lips fall upon the curve of her neck, barely restraining the fangs hiding behind them from piercing the already bruised skin ; reveal the raw pulse hiding underneath.

- Yes, he answers, barely daring to break the erratic rhythm of his breath - and, once more, feeling her melt through the peculiar love of his hold.

When traitorous Morpheus finally takes control over her mind, the sun has already broken through the night, painting the firmament in blinding hues of blue, devoid of any cloud. It claws mercilessly at the Ghost’s eyes, tears a low growl from his chest. On the other side of the window, the world rises to a mix of car engines, footsteps and voices, involuntarily celebrating the light that is constantly trying to burn him to ashes.

The sky has no reason to be blue, he thinks as his forehead meets the window pane, just like his Snowflake has no reason to sigh so serenely in his presence. The atmosphere is soft, warm ; dragging a wave of shivers down his back. A frustrated growl escapes his throat, the night of his eyes sparkling at the taste of a familiar rage. That celestial blue is silently looking down on him, mocking his darkness.

He loathes it.

He loathes her.

A second is enough for his knee to dig into the covers once more, giving him enough support to guide his fingers towards her face. They slowly dance along her skin as the weight of his very existence makes the mattress whimper, before roughly circling her neck. Her blood pumps peacefully under his touch, and his own voice screams in the back of his mind, distorted and rough.

Do it. Take her. Rid us of this nuisance.

His tongue soothes the cracks covering his lips, and a twisted smile eventually slices them open once more as the words settle in his thoughts.

But in her sleep, the Hunter moves - and his excitement dies as quickly as it came to live. She breathes in deeply, her head lolling against the pillows. Instead of braving for a fight like she usually does, she lets her subconscious raise a hand to his wrist, as if she was trying to offer him her silent support.

But that’s not what he wants. That’s not what he is.

What happened to this poor human that fought mercilessly against him, fueled by an endless determination ; the one who bared her broken teeth in his face through a bloody sneer, ready to turn his words against him and burn his entire being to ashes ?

He loathes the way his own mind whispers those words in his ears, exchanging it’s usual coldness for a dry melody made of anger and fear that makes his hold tremble around his Snowflake’s throat. The peculiar understanding they both came to. The doubts this small, vulnerable thing keeps planting in his soul. The fact that he can’t make any sense of the abyss bubbling in his head anymore

So he staightens up, ignoring the way his spine crackles as he makes his way out of this way too-familiar room. He almost expects a knife to dig through his back, to whistle in retaliation for engaging in an unfair fight. Give him a taste of his own medicine, in a way. A painful warning. So he waits.

But nothing comes.

A glance over his shoulder shows that the Hunter hasn’t moved a single inch. She still lays there, swallowed by a capharnaüm of blankets, her sleep-laden breath so slow it barely disturbs the quiet of the room. Her favourite plushie is curled on top of her head, like a guardian trying to keep its treasure from the merciless claws of a nightmare. A fitting description, he thinks, realising it’s probably been months since she slept so soundly.

His teeth strain under the sudden pressure of his jaws. This is the exact kind of peace he is starting to see in the eyes of his prey - as if she was in the process of surrendering, giving up her life to his now familiar hands. He doesn’t understand how she can bring herself to look at something like him and feel so serene. It makes him want to keep her for himself even more, taint the corrupted purity of her soul. He knows she can feel it ; so why does she treat him with so much tenderness ? Even more so after the hell he’s been dragging her through while laughing at her tears ?

A sour smile loses itself to the her sleepy silence as he turns back to sit on the edge of the bed. Perhaps the only reason why he wants her to be his is to understand her better. And once he does, he might finally be able to grasp how similar the chaos brewing in their hearts is. Forging their souls from the same steel.

Or perhaps the roles will change, and he will become nothing than a frail and vulnerable lamb. An easy prey caught in the destructive jaws of the Hunter.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Think.

Above her, a string of neons blink.

The young woman has no idea of what pushed her to once again get lost in the smelly bathroom of this nightclub - the one her friends keep dragging her to. Her eardrums haven’t stopped ringing violently ever since she stepped foot through its doors - perhaps because of the music that’s way too loud for her senses, the multicolored lights tearing at her retinas, or the uncontrollable amount of blurry faces swinging way too close for her comfort.

She doesn’t belong here.

Despite the nauseating swaying of her vision, she notices a more-than-familiar silhouette lingering in a corner of the room. He seems way too big for fit comfortably in the small space, engulfing it completely with his darkness. A stark contrast to the colorful graffiti littering the walls.

- ‘Ow many times do ya plan on makin’ tha’ back an’ forth between the dancefloor and this shithole ?

If the mockery in his tone only serves to irritate her more than she already is, the young woman doesn’t have the strength to meet the Ghost’s eyes. Instead, she stares at her own reflection among the suspicious dirt covering the mirror dangling on the wall, akin to a failed portrait made by a drunk painter. She thinks about taking a picture and submit it to the first museum of contemporary arts she stumbles upon, to top it off with a ridiculous title. Who knows - with a little bit of luck, she could maybe earn a little bit of money. Make it easier to reach the end of the month.

As that thought runs sarcastically through her mind, she ignores the dry chuckle rasping from the corner behind her.

Somewhere beyond the door, the DJ makes a poor transition to another music she barely recognizes. All that’s left in the tired void of her mind is the struggle of her own existence and the calm breathing of the entity, wafting against her neck despite the small distance between them. Her eyes meet once again the cracked lights in the mirror, and she can almost see it pulsating against the wall along the beat coming from the next room. The music keeps screaming in the rancid air, and her blood almost crystallizes in her veins when it’s joined by a chorus of screeches and whistles.

- I need to get away from here, she says, knowing the Ghost heard her despite the ambiant chaos.

She can feel him shift behind her as she reaches towards the dilapidated door with a trembling hand, desperately trying to shut off the pain lingering in her marrow.

- Let’s fuck off then, he answers almost immediately, and she wonders if he, too, hopes to get rid of a loud ringing in his ears.

She barely has the time to step out of the bathroom that she’s assaulted by the sounds, the smells, the touches. The singing voices and bodies burnt by an impossible amount of toxic liquids and smokes, a violent choir telling her to get away, away, away - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE ; and she has no idea of which is stronger between the screams of the nightclub or the cries of her heart. Almost instinctively, she reaches behind her, seeking a destructive yet familiar contact in the hand of the entity following her. But her pride is a powerful force, and her arm stays stuck to her side.

Yet the Ghost knows her well. He feels what she does as if he was the one living inside her head ; and he kind of is, in a way. Perhaps he is the one feeling all of this, and not her ? He quickly silences the thought, enveloping her hand with the charcoal covering his own, squeezing so tight it’s almost painful.

It soothes an ache in his own non-existent heart. He wonder if she knows, feels, everything about him too.

Another nightmare comes running down his back ; a memory, the laughing spectre of what used to be a majestic pair of wings, which he used to fight in the Divine’s name until It abandoned him to his own abyss, tore his feathers apart to burn them to ashes in the flames of Its arrogance.

He almost feels the need to throw his eyes into another mirror shining below the erratic lights, as if the crevices running along its surface could give him what he lost ; a new kind of feathers, way too sharp for the immaculate hands of the Gods. But the Hunter keeps walking, dragging him along.

And the Ghost follows. For she’s his only shelter in this bubble of suffering they both unvoluntarily insist on sharing.

Run. Dodge. Fight. Think.

How do you mourn a devastating loss when you’ve never had anything to lose ?

Tell an Angel a tale of love, and they will carry it in their dreams. Listen to the beating of their heart, akin to a bird’s song celebrating the rising sun. Watch the molten gold reflecting off the ink of their blood drop from the wounds their longing for such a feeling caused. Realise how beautiful the depths of their darkness is, abyssal and mesmerizing ; how empty it all is, devoid of any sense.

The Ghost isn’t too different, he who lives thanks to those who unknowingly need him, who convinced himself that he was made to serve their torment. His very existence is proof that, if he can’t find a soul to pull him forward, he is nothing ; which is why he looks for his redemption through countless paths made from wounds that aren’t his. He dips his feet in puddles tainted by the blood of mortals, the crimson life -and death- of those whose hatred and suffering only serve to fuel his own.

A long time ago, he forgot what it’s like to love.

Maybe he remembers the meaning of caring for someone. But does that mean his feelings were once given back to him ? The thought is both ridiculous and horrifying ; a description that fits him well, too. It has become impossible for him to get rid of the impression that, if he one day decides to let go of the his Snowflake, these shreds of memories would also slip through his fingers.

So he holds on, so strongly that his knuckles whiten and crack under the corrupted ink of his skin. He doesn’t know whether or not he could speak of love - if he should. Behind the deformed skull covering his face, the entity hides a terrified snarl.

Sometimes, alone in his own darkness, all of this makes him laugh. How lucky he is to have something to fear, something to drive him forward ! And how undeserving he is of it, Fallen that he is, he who fell so long ago in a bottomless well of which he will never get out !

During his most vulnerable moments, laying down next to the Hunter among the chaos of her bed, he lets his doubts break through his voice.

- You’re mine, aren’t ya ? He asks, and she murmurs something he can’t catch before clearing her throat.

- Yeah, she answers sleepily, I’m yours.

Her hands get lost in the gaping scars littering his back, and he allows himself to be lulled by such a light touch, devoid of the usually anxious trembling interrupting her days. Among his sighs, now peaceful thanks to this intimacy they barely think to share, his muscles tense periodically. She feels more than she sees the earthquake hidden behind the baritone notes of his voice ; and she knows his fears too well, these nightmares that keep trying to shatter the pieces of her heart. She can almost see his eyes look for an answer she might not really dare to give him, for she almost knows him better than she knows herself ; and vice versa. Or maybe not, whispers and echo that sounds eerily close to a mix of their voices, but she refuses to torment the already too twisted soul of the Ghost.

What made you like this ? She sometimes yearns to ask. Who made you into those ruins of a man, constantly trying to drown you in a bottomless abyss ?

But she knows she will never be brave enough to loudly articulate those questions, even if he might already know about them. So she settles for snuggling against his peculiar warmth, covering the tangle of their bodies with a toasty piece of her covers, not really knowing which one of them she is trying to bring comfort to. A yawn escapes her lips as she holds him against her chest like a damaged, oversized plushie - not unlike the one sleeping peacefully next to her head.

- And you’re mine.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

The era she lives in is made of corruption and greed, she thinks, its horrors rivalling with the ones found in the deepest pits of Hell itself. Or perhaps it’s a form of Paradise ? Maybe she’s nothing more than a demon hidden in a masquerade filled with pure, ancestral beings, her flaking skin gripping the velvet of her costume, threatening to tear it apart like the Gods did her soul. Maybe she’s one of the few who see the Truth hidden behind this never-ending show, this cacophony in the middle of which she’s forced to survive despite the fact she’s not meant to be there in the first place.

In a world covered in scorching waves and deadly shores, where is she supposed to find herself a halo ?

Sometimes, she wonders if the Angels of today pray when the sun rises, kneeling in front of the loud cries of their coffee machine. If the remnants of what were once sacred melodies dance in the ashes if their memory, disappearing behind the echo of the last drop falling into a cup they will never empty completely.

She wonders if their now blunt teeth break cigarette after cigarette, their ends piling up on the cold and dirty tiles of public restrooms, the walls around them covered in holy quotes they have long since forgotten. If their tongues happen to trip on the syllabes of a language they can no longer understand.

She wonders if their mouths are still filled with ambrosia, tainting every other food with a flavour they now know as forbidden. If they still remember lazing around in the middle of starry clouds, once upon a time when their glasses were never empty and their laughter ran along the skyline.

And she wonders if they would still be able to recognise their brothers and sisters behind the corrupted aura surrounding them, the foam born form the Lethe that lingers in their eyes. If they meet each other under the noses of the mortals species they now belong to, their sanded claws tearing the silky skin covering their bones, as if trying to find an illusion of peace in the ocean of confusion they are doomed to roam.

Are there even such beings, nowadays ? She murmurs. Remnants of sacred ruins destined to sway forever between their forgotten paradise and the hellish grounds they always feared ?

- You’re overthinkin’ again, a voice echoes at her side, and she can almost see two dots of dried blood light up at the edge of her field of vision.

She doesn’t even think about turning her head towards the sound, her own eyes focusing on the darkness of her ceiling.

- Would you be able to answer any of my questions ?

Her mattress suddenly caves in under a weight she now knows too well. The Ghost leans over her, a foreign expression carving his face behind the skull of his mask.

His silence is as somber as it is eloquent.

- Your fall, she insists, did it hurt ?

- ‘Course it did.

Of course it did, echoes a smiliar voice floating in the darkness. I felt my wings decompose as I tried to slow my fall down, the stars burning my fingertips over and over. My hands have been torn open by the lightning crawling around the atmosphere, and the clouds cried waves upon waves of salty tears upon my wounds. My scapulars tore the muscles of my shoulders apart, and my feathers burned among a sea of flames I once came to admire.

This nightmarish moment still haunts my entire being. I can still hear my own screams bounce around my skull, refusing to quiet down despite the passing of time and the crevices that line its walls.

Of course it hurt.

- Of course, she repeats once more with a pale voice, as if the memories twirling in her mind had always been hers.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

Angels are sacred beings, spells a voice lost in the young woman’s mind, whose wings have been carved in a block of purity, and whose feathers sway along the rhythm of a virtuous wind. It’s easy for them to lose it all. Remember this, for the next time you catch the eyes of a Fallen.

Inside the Ghost’s ribcage, a somber void sits where a heart once was. The cracks of the Genesis hide a bottomless abyss, cruel and bathed in despair. She never knows how to resist to its alluring call, the loving whispers twisting her soul and turning it into a palette of rotten watercolours.

She’s been standing in her bathroom for a long time now, watching her reflection in her foggy mirror. Her hair clings to her face, still wet from the heat of a way-too-long shower, yet she does nothing to move it. Truth be told, the reflective glass only shows her a vague, colorful shape ; but she knows herself well, so much that it has become impossible to ignore the marks lingering on her body. She’s the reason behind many of them, guided by the honeyed words of her nightmares, always so cold against the invisible flames licking at her skin.

She should run. She knows that too well. She should have started running eons ago, even, but something inside of her refuses to get rid of her chains. She could escape to the other side of the world - yet nothing could stop her from coming back to the entity that, despite their constant fighting, somehow keeps her head out of the water.

Migh’ be our Destiny, is what he always says, persuading her to stay by his side. And it could be true, for the Fates are vicious and cruel, always looking for a way to laugh at their pathetic efforts to stay afloat.

He used to be an Angel. Everyone is to meet at least one during their life, and another one after their death ; no matter its nature. The Divine no longer cares about the purity of the entities It sends to the mortal world, and might even find some pleasure in seeing the consequences of Its own failures, convincing Itself that none of them is Its fault. The Gods will always see Themselves as better than anything else, and the Ghost hopes she never forgets it.

- And there she is, he says as he steps closer to her exhausted form. Back again.

The echo of his footsteps sends shivers down her spine. A bitter taste haunts the dried walls of her throat, soon taken over by a nauseating sweetness - the kind that makes her want to hold even more of it between her teeth.

Run, the voice whispers once more. You poor little thing, it might not be too late to escape him. But she knows this regret will soon go silent, making it even more easier to stay. So she stays, unmoving as he gets closer and closer, until there’s barely an inch left between their chests.

- Tha’ was quick. Missed me tha’ much ?

His smile is impossible to describe. Her reflection is clear in the bloody lake of his eyes ; showing her the peculiar fascination that paints her features, sometimes broken by rays of doubt and desire. Their lips barely graze each other as he leans in, yet the touch is so vivid compared to everything else that the Hunter wonders if it wasn’t just her imagination.

- Your ego knows no bound, she mumbles, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

The Ghost smiles, knowing too well how captivating his inhumainty is. She constantly tries to get rid of this malicious attraction that chains the both of them, dipping her finger in the spectral thoughts whispering how much better she is than all of this, than this Fallen who knows nothing about the depths of love. It’s all an illusion, a dream created by an infernal fever. A trap. She’s aware if this - so why does it all seem so real, sometimes ? Could it be that all these silent, vulnerable moments are nothing more than the sparks of futile hope she thought was real ?

She should run. But she wants to know if there isn’t even the smallest of truthful lights hidden behind this never-ending nightmare.

- You always say that Destiny’s the reason why we’re constantly brought together, she murmurs weakly, dropping her head against the Ghost’s torso as he holds her there, hands coated in a silent tenderness. But how could that be, since I always do my best to avoid you ? How do you keep finding me ?

For a moment, the entity feels his eyes widen with surprise. He quickly hides it behind a sly smile, cruel and warm. This time, he dives even deeper to really meet her lips, and she can taste the rust that seems to haunt his every touch.

She should run. But she doesn’t. She never will.

- I jus’ follow those who are waitin’ for me, Snowflake.

She sometimes wonder if she’ll ever be able to forgive their mutual sins ; and the voice in her head cackles. You’re bound to a being that lives for this, it says, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten ? The laughter refuses to stop as she realises again and again that she’s far from being Holy - something that the Ghost knows too.

- You always save me from my demons because you want to kill me yourself, don’t you ? She asks, her words bouncing strangely around her dried throat. You’re the only Death you’ll allow me to have.

He sucks in a breath, the darkness of his features twisting under his mask. Those questions -or statements ?- rouse an unknown feeling from the void ; new, complex, indecipherable. She can almost feel his usual arrogance quiver in her own heart, abruptly hidden by the melancholic sigh crossing his lips.

After a moment of silence, the entity places a kiss on her shoulder, light as a buttefly. Something loud echoes from his thoughts, a conflict lost eons ago to the abyss, while his own silence offers no denial or confirmation. So she keeps herself quiet, holding her certainty in a corner of her blurry mind.

And in her dreams, when Morpheus laughs as he asks her if she’s found herself to be seduced by his newfound vulnerability, the exhausted Hunter simply offers him a bitter smile, drinking her own tears from a golden cup.

She no longer has an answer.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Hunter never knew a single end ; only strings of never ending realities and gargantuan burdens holding the cruel thoughts that keep laughing at her misery. Destiny has never been on her side. Which makes her laugh ; maybe she stopped believing in it too long ago to care.

She couldn’t say when exactly she lost the taste of happiness that came with the old memories of her youth. Instead, her tastebuds tremble whenever a tired and distressed breath invades her mouth in the hopes of being set free, twist under its sour flavour as she tries to swallow it. Some times are not made for sighing.

The Gods decided that she was made to wither in Chaos, but she’d rather see things differently. She doesn’t like the idea of the cruel, broken concepts They make, those that never hesitate to unleash waves of suffering on thousands and thousands of innocent souls. She tries to focus on the positive things they sometimes leave in their wake, no matter how difficult it is to find them, how easily they can crumble in her hands.

For now, she’s stopped fighting. But the cascades of her own blood are now weaved in her soul, constantly retelling tales of the wars she’s been through. She can do nothing more than to wait for the next storm. Which she does.

Among the uiverse in which she lives, comfort comes and goes however it pleases. More often than not, it goes down a path drastically different than hers, so far away that she loses sight of it. Those periods of time stretch out for so long that when this peace comes back, meeting its almost unknown silhouette triggers her reflex to fight - her soul screaming at the potential enemy standing in front of her.

Fight ! It pleads. Fight ! Fight ! Fight !

Survive !

Yet she silences it for now.

Outside of her window, the city still hides behind a thick veil of fog. As always, it should be too early for her to be awake ; but her eyes refuse to stay closed, and her mind focuses on the heavy feeling crushing her waist. The Ghost lays beside her, still fast asleep with an arm slung over her frame, his body easily engulfing hers. It’s a good opportunity for her to observe how his short, blond hair fades into the porcelain of his skin, shattered by countless scars of all colours. She dares run a hand through the blond calamity of his hair. How strange it can be, she thinks as he sighs against her breast, to sometimes boil with hatred and disdain for the other, yet still share those quiet moments of intimacy whenever the fight ends.

She used to wish for him to disappear. And yet now, she finds peace in his presence.

What happened ?

In her eyes, the entity did nothing to deserve even an ounce of kindness. He dragged her down over and over again, enjoyed building her back together only to break her again, drew tears and blood from her very soul to savour the taste. But so did she.

The Divine keeps laughing at their pain by offering them fake opportunities of redemption. But they both know they can only find their salvation in the other’s soul, walk side by side towards a new world of their own creation. If the thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, she still sees how attractive it can be to slowly burn out in the heart of the Ghost while cradling him in hers - free both of their souls of the miasma haunting them.

This is a fantasy based on nothing, cackles a distorted voice in her head. And it’s true. No matter how much they try to redeem themselves, how many times they tear their own knees apart while praying, and how many rebellions they go through in order to cut their own strings, the skies will never allow them to leave Their grasp. But they stopped caring a long time ago.

Raising a trembling arm to her eyes, the Hunter smiles. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her lips as she silently follows the too-many marks littering her skin - a familiar sight, with an ever-growing number. She realises how similar her scars are to the Ghost’s. The canvas of their bodies is covered in white lines, rugged burns and deep, purple bruises that never stop appearing, and her vision sways before she can finish counting.

Yet she can’t stop her eyes from following the crevices lining the entity’s back. They rise and hide among a valley of broad muscles, holding the memories he refuses to share. The visions he can’t forget. Her own back is probably the same. They are covered in the painful remnants of what used to be their wings, the spectres of their freedom weighing heavy against their bones.

- I know you’re awake, Ghost. Stop pretending.

She immediately feels him smile against her skin, his fangs threatening to catch on the red lines crossing her chest.

- No’ pretendin’, he answers with a low and cheeky voice. Admirin’ my work.

- Oh, fuck off.

That drives a cackle out of his throat. He could have followed up with one of his usual snarky comments, but he chooses to nuzzle the crook of her neck instead as she slowly rakes her nails along his scalp. The gesture is soft, tender - so different from the times she claws at him instead, either during their fights, or their rougher moments of intimacy. An empty glance to her face, one she tries to avoid, tells him that she probably had the same thought.

The atmosphere is strange during this morning, bathed in a shy light, but the Ghost doesn’t pay it any mind. The room is perfectly silent, and it would be a shame to ignore this opportunity to get a glimpse of her beautifully complex mind.

How many times did he see his Snowflake’s eyes hold the darker hues of a violent rage, an abyssal despair, or any other feelings she couldn’t decipher ? He reads her like an open book, so satisfyingly transparent. How beautiful it is to watch how her story writes itself to the rhythm of her thoughts, of the days they weave together ! For now, all he sees is a slow melancholy digging in-between the lines, akin to a storm brewing on the horizon. An infinite tiredness that has him silencing the teasing he was tempted to articulate.

- You miss it, don’t you ? She finally says, interrupting his observations.

She hesitates slightly, pausing in her train of thoughts. How could she summarize the entirety of their mutual struggle in one sentence ? Her own saliva becomes painful to swallow, dragging against the dry walls of her throat. It’s like a marble of lead is blocking her oesophagus, leaking the poison of doubt in her system.

- The Chaos, she continues, her voice sounding incredibly raw. You keep chasing it, but it’s getting away.

The Ghost rolls onto his back, grunting as the rust of his bones hinders his movement. She isn’t wrong. Just like Violence has tried to break her soul, his is tainted by a visceral need to ruin all order. All is boring when Peace settles in ; silent, clean. Unsufferable.

But when he looks at the Hunter and her milky scars highlighted by the rising sun, the entity thinks this moment of rest -which will obviously be too short for her tastes- isn’t that bad. He appreciates the calm floating in the air, and her presence too, even if their relationship might be far from ideal. To stay here, bathing in the misty morning glow without holding a blade to the other’s throat, is something he finds himself to enjoy quite well.

He slowly sits up, allowing his head to stretch lightly to the side. The smile he gives her is full of harmless malice.

- Ya’d miss me, eh ? If I left to pursue tha’ Chaos.

- Oh no ! Not at all !

- Always so shy, he sighs as if her reaction offended him. Neva’ sharin’ whot ya really think.

He leans above her, voice lowering, and his arm twisting in a way that can barely support his weight. It wouldn’t take much for him to fall into his previous position.

- Bu’ maybe we could create our own Chaos ?

- We already do that quite a lot, she quips back while rolling over to turn her back to him. It’s enough for me.

She feels more than she sees the way his smile now leaves his fangs on full display, showing how much he enjoys troubling the morning peace with his dark and honeyed words. He softly takes hold of her wrist, where his lips come to follow a path he now knows more than well.

- Bu’ didn’t I hold your hand ta guide ya towards peace, multiple times ?

Face halfway buried into the pillows, the Hunger grimaces. These words reflect a twisted truth, ensnare her throat like the red thread that runs along her skin.

- You hate Peace, she breathes.

- And ya know nothin’ o’ it.

Sometimes, she thinks, « dangerous » isn’t powerful enough to define the Ghost - especially when his thoughts get so close to hers. When she finally decides to meet his gaze, she finds the usual spark of arrogance dancing behind his pupils. Yet there’s also a hint of laziness and sincerity, one she seems to see more and more as time passes. Body still heavy with sleep, she raises herself towards him, and languishly runs her thumb across the traitorous curve of his lips.

- You know your offer is tempting.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Gods like to play like cowards, binding them together as one tormented soul. They both despise Them for giving them so many feelings they will never control. On one side of the coin, it’s freeing to be carried by the dangers they hold ; but on the other side, constantly standing in the eye of the storm is exhausting. Like fighting with bare hands against a raging fire.

- And I know you’re gonna refuse, Snowflake.

She simply cackles.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

She doesn’t remember much about the happy times of her childhood. The earliest memories she holds are already painful, filled with an almost visceral need to survive against the infernal obstacles that Life keeps throwing in her path. They keep repeating that it’s like this for everyone, forcing her to reduce her own armor in pieces and tear out the heart beating behind it, showing this corrupted world the gaping wounds it has to beat with ; the searing edges she had to cauterize herself in order to not bleed out on her own ; the cries she swallowed into silence to avoid being treated like a stranger to her own existence.

Maybe they’ll come to see how difficult it is for her to keep going, she thinks, to hold her head high when everything tried to drag her down.

Her eyes, circled by her tired pain, get lost in the phosphorescent stars haunting her ceiling. Their pale, green light has always been a guide, a sturdy anchor protecting her against the merciless currents of her thoughts whenever she feels like giving up. Being a Celestial must be tiring, she sometimes whispers while imagining said creatures flying among clouds and comets. She can’t imagine what it takes to bear the weight of the hopes and dreams of others when one’s has already left this world to wander in another.

She always thought she never believed in Fate ; yet when she lets herself be carried away by the abyssal timbre of her Ghost, that demon she now knows more than herself, she remembers that it’s impossible to escape its languid clutches. Sometimes, a part of her wonders if she wasn’t wrong to listen so much to her doubts.

Her body is covered in scars she is ashamed to wear. But her fight is still far from whatever ending it might follow, and something in her mind murmurs that they can’t be that bad, those white marks she shares with the Fallen she’s come to love.

Her bones crack as she turns her pillow over to meet the cool fabric of its unused side ; but it’s the touch of the entity laying on top of her that keeps making her shiver, and a light laugh escapes her when his charcoal-covered claws brush against her ribs. It’s a rare melody, and it convinces him that, somewhere, the firmament must be torn by the miraculous and silent dance of a shooting star.

His thoughts only quiet down when she slides a hand along his scalp to feel the softness of his hair, the clarity of her voice echoing through the silence.

- Don’t you want to see it from up close ? She asks, causing him to raise a curious brow.

- See whot.

- The shooting star.

The Ghost smiles, littering her skin with butterfly kisses filled with reverence. To see the one he gave his love to so eager to do the same is a beautiful feeling, and he realises how lucky they both are to have met each other while looking for a new kind of ataraxia.

- No need, he whispers, nuzzling in the crook of her neck.

I already have one.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Live.

[metamorphesque]

its so comforting to see someone unbashedly love their country and culture. the way u write and speak of it its so refreshing to me. im from india and well, the state of our country isnt good our fascist leader is successfully dividing the people and its so rare these days to find ppl just simply love where they come from, culture and language without any hate for anyone else. so i absolutely adore it when i see u talk abt armenia its like one can see how much care u hold for the language and the country. wishing for peace and sending love x

I am sorry, dear, that dark clouds are looming over your bright and colorful land of magic. In my lifetime, I’ve had the pleasure of encountering a few young Indian people (both in real life and online), and I have a lot of love and respect for your nation and its culture. I am sure that brighter days are awaiting both our homelands.

You see, what I’ve noticed is that some people often confuse their fatherland with their government. The hatred that they have toward the latter often taints the love and respect they ought to have toward their homeland. But, once and for all, we must remember that these two are not synonymous. Fatherland is a place where the roots of history, culture and identity intertwine. A fatherland is not just a geographical location; it is a sanctuary of shared memories, values and traditions passed down through generations. It represents the collective spirit of a people, their history, struggles and triumphs. To call a place one's fatherland is to cherish it as a cradle of life, as one’s own home.

To me, the love one has for their fatherland is like a mathematical function that always moves towards infinity (its designated final value) but never quite reaches it. One can never love their fatherland enough. There’s always something more you can do, there’s always something better you can do. I guess the vessel that carries one’s love toward their homeland is only ever fully filled when one gives up their life to protect their fatherland.

I can only speak from my own experience – I was raised historically and, more or less, politically conscious. When you’re a six or seven-year-old impressionable kid and you visit The Museum of The Armenian Genocide of 1915, you see the photographs, the articles, all the documentation that exists – firstly, you’ll never be the same again, and secondly, your naïve childish brain thinks that, as you’ve always been told, whenever someone commits a crime or does something bad, they get punished. Then I looked around and noticed that these heinous crimes, these massacres, were not only left unpunished, but the whole thing was swept under the rug by the world, as if it never happened. Then you grow up, sharing borders with the enemy, the dagger of war swaying upon your head, with every new day bringing more and more deaths of Armenian soldiers serving on the border. You see your enemy disrespecting you, your history and your culture. You see them erasing your history and your culture … and all of this is accompanied by the crickets of the world. Then there’s Western Armenia calling for us, a topic that I plan on writing more about. And at last, our Ararat that you can see so very clearly from Armenia …

And, alongside this, there’s this immense pride you feel in being an heir to a nation that created a culture so distinctly beautiful, a nation that gave birth to luminaries such as Grigor Narekaci, Sayat-Nova, Hovhannes Toumnyan, Vahan Teryan, Eghishe Charenc, Daniel Varujan, Paruyr Sevak, Misak Metsarenc, Silva Kaputikyan, Hovhannes Grigoryan, Vardges Petrosyan, Martiros Saryan, Sergey Parajanov, Shahan Nathalie, Gurgen Yanikyan, Monte Melqonyan, and the list goes on … the nation that invented color television, ATMs, hand-held hair dryers, coffee machines, PET scans, MRI and so much more.

Have all of this brew in your soul and dare not to love and cherish your fatherland – you can’t.

[jsmuts]

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever - Spoiler Review

This is a very spoilery review, so enter if you dare...

I loved this movie so much. It really felt like a goodbye to Chadwick, from start to finish. There were moments that were hard to watch, including the intro which was hair-raisingly silent, the funeral and seeing the Black Panther suit on somebody else (which I'll talk more about later). I know there's a lot of controversy surrounding T'Challa being recast but I genuinely believe this was the better approach. It would have been weird to pretend like Chadwick never existed. I can't just erase him from my mind for a new actor, nor do I want to. Chadwick played T'Challa with such grace and perfection and had led some of my favourite scenes in the Marvel Cinematic Universe in general. I'm also so glad that T'Challa wasn't just killed by someone off screen or something ridiculous. They made it a similar cause of death and even mentioned how he suffered in silence, which was a really sweet touch. Chadwick was so strong, up until the very end. It feels nice, knowing his memory is being honoured.

Going into this, I had no idea what the plot was going to be, other than Namor being the villain. So I didn't realise that Riri Williams was going to be playing a major role in this movie. Immediately, I was enamoured by her character, so I'm ready to learn more about her. There were some hints to her background which I appreciated - I like having some mystery to her until her series. The design of her suits were really fun and creative. The original homemade one was a lot of fun and I loved the parallels she had with Tony Stark. When she pushed the limits and went as high as she could go to take down the satellite and even her workshop had the Stark vibe. There were nice nods to her inspiration, but it still very much felt like her own character. She's not a knock-off Tony, she's more than that.

Namor's a little shit and I love it. I'll be honest, I wasn't thrilled that he was going to be the villain in this movie. I've recently started getting into comics and started reading the original issues from the 60's and Namor is the most arrogant prick on the pages so far. I wasn't a fan of his character, especially the winged feet, but the MCU made him likable (and I'm sure the comics will eventually down the line). They instantly made him a formidable foe, with the help of Letitia and Angela's acting. They made it look so easy, to capture Shuri and Riri and defeat Okoye. I would have liked more background on the people around Namor, maybe show us a bit more personality, because they felt a bit like Stormtroopers (faceless henchmen). However, they made up for it with Namor's backstory. They hit you with this gut punch of reality, that Namor stepped onto land and witnessed humans enslaving humans. The realisation that the surface world, the world his mother adored, had become a place to fear and pity. Namor's just looking for an excuse to rule the surface world, to bring order and punishment to us and perhaps we deserve it. I am quite surprised they didn't mention sea pollution though...

I loved Shuri in the original movie and I loved her in this one too, however they feel like very different characters. And it's understandable, she lost her brother. But even so, I definitely felt the shift from side character to protagonist very quickly. I'm not a huge fan of Letitia, but she and the writers made me emphathise with her right away. I will say, I disagree that she should be the Black Panther. I know that she's T'Challa's sister, but she's not a fighter. She's a scientist. The Black Panther is meant to protect the country, so I personally think the herb should've been given to Okoye. She's the literal protector of the throne and is such an incredibly skilled fighter - imagine what she could do with the herb. It just makes sense to me that it would be Okoye. Shuri can be the Midnight Sun instead. I'd also be okay with Nakia being the Black Panther, but I'm also quite happy with the idea of her coming and going from Wakanda as she pleases. I will say, why not split the herb? Why not give it to multiple people - especially at a time like this. Why not give it to Riri, Okoye and Nakia during that epic battle? We know we can trust them, so we may as well get all the help we can get.

I will say, this movie seemed pretty dark in lighting. I don't know if that's just me, but even in a cinema, it felt like it was darker than usual Marvel movies. I understand, because long portions of it is set at night/underwater, but I wish they had still lightened it up a little bit more, because there were some moments where the acting was literally overshadowed.

If Angela Bassett doesn't get an Oscar for this role, I'm suing somebody. Flawless performances. I got so many full-body chills. The scene where she's firing Okoye as the general is one of my new favourite scenes. Although I'm on Okoye's side, Angela's performance and the writing for her character made it impossible to argue with her. Such a powerful scene. I was so mad when Ramonda died. I will say, I wish she had a more epic death, but I guess when the villain is of the seas, someone dying of drowning is reasonable. It just felt like a bit of a lame way to go for such an impactful character. But maybe I'm just upset she died at all. I did think for a moment that Okoye was going to save her, to prove she was worthy to be general buuuut that didn't happen.

That end credit scene though? A son named T'Challa? I almost cried. I think if/when I watch that scene again I'll bawl. Such a beautiful way to continue T'Challa's legacy. I'm curious if T'Challa jr will inherit the Black Panther powers, because I'm assuming his parents did it while T'Challa sr was still the Black Panther. I'm also assuming that they're still setting up the Young Avengers, with T'Challa jr being another addition. That's very, very interesting. Really excited to see how that develops in the future.

It goes without saying, but the music was 10/10. Loved it. Gave me goosebumps several times.

I absolutely loved this movie and despite there are certain things I'd have done differently, I'm not mad at the movie at all. It's a great addition to Phase 4.

[forgottnseccnd]

Every emotion had sort of... struck Aurelius all at once when seeing Guilliman. He was happy. He was upset, angry, terrified-- joyful, relieved-- what was he supposed to feel? He felt that joy and almost childlike wonder at seeing his face again, hearing his voice, knowing someone had returned to find him... but anger and rage from it all-- he was why Aurelius was like this. He was why Aurelius had witnessed his sons die. And... the fear. The fear of being abandoned again, of being forgotten. It was all silently coalescing as Guilliman tried to reassure him. Guilliman's words went through one ear and out the other-- he didn't dare reply, his telepathic voice having gone completely silent.

I know it hurts. Did he? Did he TRULY know how much it hurt? How much he felt the volts of this whole ship go through his body, how he was sapped of his own energy and kept alive just to cling to a memory no one else knew? Did he know the agony of losing his whole Legion-- of knowing he had been excommunicated all because he wished to see the Imperium prosper, to make his Father's dream come true? To witness half of his Legion taken from him and minds erased of any semblance of knowledge of their Primarch and the other half to die to daemons and Leman? His very own brother? Did he? Did he?

A part of him felt genuine rage at what was meant to be a comforting response. His fingers would have curled into fists if he had them. I have been here for ten thousand years. I have only known suffering. I am so tired. I do not even have a home to return to anymore, brother. Yet you come here... now? Of all times? How dare you. How DARE you step foot here when you said you would personally see to my death? Well, look at me now. Look at me, and bear WITNESS to my unending demise.

... As Aurelius silently seethed behind the stasis field, Nirisch spoke with a bit of trembling, looking back to Aurelius, staring through the helm into Aurelius's very eyes. This seemed to have, oddly enough, calmed Aurelius down. Emphasis on seemed to.

" We should be able to lower the stasis field... um-- " the Magos wringed his hands nervously again, trying to clasp them together while his servo arm tapped away at the cogitator's panel. " O-Our ship should have enough energy to continue supplying us with oxygen. But-- the Lord's helm is still bolted to his neck, so I would recommend caution. And while I had ensured Lord Aurelius can be safely removed from the wall, he... he must be treated with care. "

Aurelius's eyes stared at his brother's boots, then to his hands. He couldn't bring himself to use any sort of telepathy, but his mind silently raged. Do not touch me. Kin-Ender. If you pick me up once this field falls... if you dare lay your hands on me... I will show you what has swirled in my mind for millennia. I will show you just how I had been tormented by the Ruinous Powers when you had left me to die. I will show you what it feels like to be me.

I will show you what I had witnessed, dear brother, of what I had been forced to see-- of what the Chaos Gods hoped for all because I wanted to help, ALL because you couldn't stand up for me against Father's ego. For the seas to boil. For the stars to fall. From the skies of Terra to the Galactic Rim...

With the help of Nirisch, he and Amabilis get the Primarch to his feet. He still seemed to be reeling from the revelation that had wracked him so deeply. Amabilis seemed to have the same idea of trying to tend to his Primarch.

Roboute waved them both off, very gently pushing the servo arm away. "I'm alright. I..."

But he wasn't. He knew what made that block now. He knew who had thrown away his little brother's very existence. Now he could remember that day that the Emperor disowned the second legion. Now he could remember how heart broken he'd been. One of his closest siblings was to be excommunicated from the Imperium. And he couldn't stop it. He-

The scream tore him from his thoughts as panic spiked within him.

"Aurelius!" he shouted, both hands quickly pressing against the field. He couldn't get any closer, he couldn't help. All he could do was stand there and watch his brother writhe in agony until the pain subsided...

Roboute could feel the cracks in his heart threatening to shatter it at the sight. Seeing the strain and strife this terrible set up was causing him, made him want to breakdown and weep for him. But he needed to be strong right now. He'd already faltered once, but he was not inclined to do so again. The Primarch turned to Nirisch, opening his mouth to ask something, but immediately shut it again when Aurelius spoke.

"Auramite? Of course. We will do whatever we can to help in that endeavor. If it is to help my brother, then the Ultramarines and any resources you may need are at your disposal," he assured the techpriest.

Then he noticed the strange look on Nirisch's face as the man suddenly began to panic. Roboute turned his head to look at his brother and felt his blood run cold. Through the eyes of the helm he could see him staring through him. "Aurel-"

He stopped and let out a sudden sharp cry as he grabbed the sides of his head. There was another chorus of screams behind and beside him as his marines too felt the full force of this vision. This time he nearly collapsed to the floor completely, on his hands and knees almost unable to hold himself up.

And as the vision came and went, he had another horrible realization. He knew who had been on the other end of that plea for help. He knew exactly why Aurelius had been denied aide and supplies.

Roboute had been the one to dismiss the cries for help.

"Do not toy with me. You are no brother of mine. How dare you claim to be one of my beloved kin. We will not aide you. And should you claim such falsehoods again, I will personally see to your death."

Those had been the last words he's spoken to his brother. He'd threatened his life. And even worse still, his outrage at Aurelius had caused more than just the emotional sting of harsh words. It was the reason his brother was like this now. This was Roboute's fault.

Now he had a chance to fix it, to make things right.

"I-I know it hurts... But I'm here now. Your big brother is here. It's going to he alright," he said as he stumbled to his feet. His hands pressed once more to the stasis field.

"Nirisch," he said. "Do you think Aurelius would last long enough to drop the stasis field and have Amabilis tend to him? We need to get him down from that wall. He needs medical treatment."

[maizumis]

Hii! Another Haikyuu dad au! Can it be with the miya twins, Bokuto, Iwa, and Suna? They get into an argument with their pregnant wife so the wife tells them to leave her alone. The boys find a loophole so they talk to her baby bump about how sorry they are to their mama :)

— HAIKYUU BOYS ARGUING WITH YOU WHILE PREGNANT AND APOLOGIZING

ft. timeskip!miya atsumu, iwaizumi hajime, suna rintaro

note: female reader‼️ angst to fluff ‼️different format cos I wanted to write more 🥴 thanks anon! hope you like it 😽 I think I'm gonna do a part two cos this got longer than expected and I couldn't add all the characters! not edited, that's work for tomorrow!

# MIYA ATSUMU

atsumu came home after a rough day at practice, excited to spend some time with you and baby boy that was about to come in just a month

all happiness he had quickly erased when he saw that the home was on the same that when he went to practice, dishes without washing and clothes without fold

" ‘tsumu you're home! we missed you!" he walked past you, he didn't even give you a side look, going directly to the bathroom "‘tsumu all okay? I made your favor–" "could ya please shut up? a come home after working and entire day for ma family and the house is like this? what did ya do the whole day?"

you were stuck in your place with wide eyes and hands over your belly "I'm sorry ‘tsumu, my back hurts a lot today and—" "save it, don’ wanna hear yer excuses"

"go fuck yourself then, miya, sleep in the comfiness of the couch today and don't you dare talk to me until tomorrow" with that you were gone to the master bedroom, fighting the tears that were in your eyes

he thought nothing about it and went to the shower, thinking what was he gonna eat for dinner then go to sleep, tomorrow is a new day

-

freshly out of the shower with pajamas on, he went to the kitchen to eat something, mesmerized when he saw the little note on the oven glass

"enjoy your meal! we love you!<3"

not only that, but that you made his favorite, knowing he was gonna come home late and exhausted after practice

memories of the recent fight came to his mind, he didn't even let you talk your mind, his throat feeling heavy with the guilt that he was experiencing, maybe he should let you talk after all

contradictory to your words, he went runnint to the shared bedroom, ready to apologise for being an ass "baby, yer awake?"

"not for you" you told him trying to hide your sobs, the day was awful, your back didn't let you do anything, the meal you cooked was an hour of fighting the back pain, thinking your ‘tsunj would be happy if he found this

"okay then, good thing a have a baby I can talk to"

he knelt down in front of you, carefully placing his head on the baby bump, caressing it from time to time

"I was an ass, sorry, a bad person to yer mom today baby, a came home and told her bad things, she was hurting and a Didi care, can ya tell her sorry for me?" he felt a kick on his cheek and a smile on his face when he saw you laugh, even with the tear-stained cheeks you were beautiful

" ‘tsumu, not cool what you did today, I wasn't feeling okay and I missed you, we missed you" your voice still a little wiggly after that crying session you had with your maternity pillow

finally, first name privileges, he thought "a know, am sorry, am so sorry, ya deserve so much better angel, am sorry"

"‘s okay tsum, cuddle me as an apologize, yeah?"

he never got into bed at that speed, quickly cuddling you with hands on your tummy while giving little pecks to your neck

"ya don't have to tell me twice"

# IWAIZUMI HAJIME

before and during pregnancy you joined iwaizumi on his works out or runs from time to time, you knew he enjoyed his time doing it so, why don't join him?

today you were not feeling like it, morning sickness took over you and the bed seemed like the best place to stay all day, one day in bed wouldn't hurt, you thought

apparently it stroke a nerve on hajime "what are you doing in the bed? up! we need it go out! " '‘m sorry haji, not really feeling like it today, why don't you go and I make something when you return home?"

"what do you mean 'you don't feel like it' the only thing you do all day is laze around"

you took a deep breath before answering, knowing didn't meant what he say "well I'm sorry I'm pregnant iwaizumi, I can't help it. go on your run and we can eat something together when you return"

"fucking Clara wouldn't put this excuses on me" he murmured under his breath, hoping you didn't heard the mention of his ex partner

"repeat yourself iwaizumi hajime, I'm waiting"

"no baby— I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-"

"go out before I go out by myself iwaizumi, don't bother talk to me the rest of the day, I'm gonna make dinner and leave it on the fridge, I'm also gonna sleep in the guest room. fucking low of you iwaizumi, so fucking low"

he went out with a knot on his throat, he didn't need to bring that up— he knew you weren't feeling your best and then he still played that ex-girlfriend card. on the way back home he picked up flowers knowing you loved them, praying to anyone who was above him for your forgiveness

"I'm home"

"and I told you not to talk to me, iwaizumi"

being petty was right, the mention of his ex while carrying his first daughter because you didn't feel like going out today was bullshit, he didn't have an excuse

he looked down to the floor before closing the door and going to the living room to think about what he did, cheeks red of embarrassment because of his childish behavior

-

he waited for you to be asleep before going into the room, with the idea of carrying your to the king bed instead of this one, after all, he was the one that deserved the uncomfy room

before picking you he saw the pregnant belly, the shirt you were wearing rolled up so it was exposed to the cold air

" ‘m sorry baby, your mama doesn't deserve this, you have the right to be angry with me" tears were pricking his eyes, maybe he was thinking too ahead but would you leave him for this?

"I'm such and asshole, I hope you don't remember that lady's name" he told the fetus as if he was having an actual conversation face to face "behave for mom yeah? don't put more pressure on her than already did" with that he picked you up, without knowing you were fully awake the whole conversation

you let yourself be carried to the big bedroom, once you felt him place you on the bed, you tugged his shirt while looking at him with teary eyes "we need to talk tomorrow but please,stay hajime" you were still mad, but his company is what you were craving right now

"there's no way I'm not staying forever with you"

# SUNA RINTARO

rintaro was coming home late this past weeks but he finally had a free night! so you were excited to spend a bonding time with him and your unborn baby

finishing the little detail on the table such as the dry flowers and the candles, you hear the door being open "rinnie! you finally home! it felt like forever while waiting for you!" he gave you a sweet peck in your lips before going to his room to change his clothes

"oh~ I see you dressed fancy for the occasion! wait for me I think I have a dress that stills fits me!" "what do you mean? I'm going out with the inarizaki boys, kita is in town"

you stopped midway the hall that ended in your room, quickly walking towards your boyfriend again "what do you mean you're going out? what about what I made?"

"you made something?"

it was ridiculous to keep begging, maybe you should call it a day and watch some movies in the couch with a tube of ice cream, alone, again.

"okay then, have fun rin, don't drink to much and come home safe"

-

rin came home after a few hours out, he indeed had a good time with his old teammates but his mind was all the time one you, maybe he should have stay with you, eat some homemade food and cuddle all night while talking about nothing

he entered the house and saw you spread on the couch, huge blanket on with his highschool jersey on, long forgotten night snacks on the night table and Netflix on the tv

it wasn't only that what caught his eye but the table in the kitchen too, he walked towards it and saw it, the candles, the flower carefully placed on the middle of the table, the matching napkins and fancy plates, so that was what you were referring to earlier

guilt creeped all over his body, he didn't acknowledge your efforts to make a night for the both of you, was this negligence? he thought

going again to the couch, bending over so he would be at your height, he placed a hand on your belly before speaking

"you're allowed to be mad at me when you're born baby" he paused for a few seconds, thinking what was he gonna say next "papa is a fucking asshole— sorry, don't say that, papa is very clumsy from time to time"

"Rin?"

there you were! his hand came quickly behind your neck, pressing your forehead and noses together, lips brushing each other

"I'm sorry I'm so stupid— fuck, I really don't want to cry right now, I'm an horrible person"

you cupped his face with both your hands, eyes teary about to cry for a second time that day "you're not horrible Rin, it's just it feels lonely you know?" tears already going down your cheek, the sight made his heart ache, you were crying because of him

"I know you're out there trying to be the best for us but" your voice wiggly, you were really trying to hide the sobs you had inside "but sometimes it feels like you're not around anymore, I can't share the little moments I have because I wake up to an empty bed and go to sleep with the thought of you being out" full sobs were coming out of you at this point, days of pain finally reaching their point "and it hurts so bad not to have you around"

rintaro was crying along with you, you could feel his wet tears on your neck, where he was placing his head "and your absolutely right angel, I'm gonna be better for you– for the both of you, what about I take the day off tomorrow, yeah?" his quavering voice betraying him, even if you knew he was crying he wanted to be strong

"that sounds perfect rin... come cuddle me?"

carrying you bridal style to the bedroom, he lit your favorite candle and snuggled you under the cost sheets

"cuddle you, all day long baby"

[theythedisaster]

See me with your hands Pt.1

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Midoriya Izuku

Content: Medusa! Katsuki x Blind! Izuku

Pt.1 Words: 1,667

Summary: After being cursed by his goddess, Katsuki turns his back against the world and seccludes himself with the nymphs and his garden. He lives lonely, until a dumb, young demigod comes to try and take his head away and only ends up bringing more trouble to his life. 

Though Katsuki cannot really complain about it.

“Eyes are the windows of the soul,” Katsuki reads from that beat up book he used to love so much almost twenty years ago, the same one his goddess had gifted him the day he became the head-priest of her Temple. 

He feels his heart squeeze inside his chest. It’s been a long time since he last set his eyes on its cover; a book woven with goddess power, shining gold details in the form of embedded vines. It is a beautiful book, even as beat up as it is. But it brings very painful memories. 

Katsuki sits passively in front of the tall fountain he had constructed himself, the book resting on his thighs as he reads quietly. 

That sentence has always stuck with him. Haunted him, really.

It is something he heard often, everyone said so. His mother, especially, liked the saying. Whenever the topic of love came to conversation, she would throw the saying to the air for the winds to carry into Katsuki’s heart. And he believed it. His goddess believed it too. 

All of them said eyes could tell the truths of the soul, show you how pure someone’s heart is, but it seems like it never worked with him. It didn’t matter how many tears gathered and fell from his eyes back then when he looked up at his goddess, his robes turn to pisses and still clinging loosely to his body; it didn’t matter how hard he tried to show her his soul through his eyes, she looked at him in disgust. 

“Don’t ever dare to show your eyes to me again.”  She had hissed at him with so much hate (her love for him completely erased from her eyes), ripping her dress from his pleading hands as he cried for her forgiveness. Though he had absolutely no fault as to what had happened to him.

He had babbled then, taking his eyes away from her, following her demand. He begged for her to not throw him away. He was her loyal servant after all, he had dedicated his life to serving her deed. 

She did not care for him. Not anymore.

“I curse you, Bakugou Katsuki. You will become a monster of lively hair and fearsome eyes. Anybody who ever looks at your eyes will turn to stone and you’ll be miserable. Until the day of your death and beyond, people will know of your transgression against me.” There was so much anger and hatred in her voice, it pierced clean through Katsuki’s heart. 

His goddess was taking away her blessing, cursing him even. Everything hurt then, as if his soul was being ripped out of his body. She was no longer a part of him. She was leaving him alone.

Katsuki sobbed in agony, his screams of pain echoing through the walls of her Temple. His fellow priestesses looked away, unable to do anything to stop his pain or their goddess’ anger. They were powerless, just as him.

He felt how his hair came to something akin to alive and his eyes burned as if being branded with boiling iron. 

It hurt so much. So much that he passed out.

When he woke up, his eyes were hidden behind a thick cloth and there was no more pain. There were new robes folded around him. 

“You’re awake.” 

Katsuki startled towards the sound of her voice, Athena. He couldn’t see her, but he could have recognized the thrum of her power anywhere. He had been part of that power once. Now that it was not there in him anymore, he felt empty. 

“Get out of my Temple and don’t ever come back.” 

Her voice sent chills down his body, freezing him in place until warm hands took a hold of his arm.

With sorrow, he let his fellow servants guide him to what he assumed was the back door of the Temple, the door facing the vast forest that no one ever dared enter. Once alone, he took away the blindfold and ran. He ran through the darkness, past trees, among branches and leaves. He stumbled and fell and scraped his arms and legs, gashed his face somewhere along the way. And he cried until he couldn’t anymore, until the nymphs took pity on him and helped him get a new place to live; somewhere far away from gods and people. A place controlled by them, somewhere he would be safe from those who hurt him. 

Athena had cursed his eyes, made sure he couldn’t show his soul to anybody else. She made sure that if he showed his eyes to anybody else, they would cease to exist. 

She had cursed him to an existence in solitude. 

He was alone. 

 A twig snapping behind him brings him back to the present and, through the reflection of the falling water in his fountain, he sees the silhouette of a boy. 

Katsuki puts his book down and frowns, making sure to mark the page before closing it. He waits for a few seconds, sitting straighter in his seat, but nothing happens. 

The boy keeps behind him, sword tightly held in front of him. He looks frozen.

He stands from his chair and turns towards the boy, keeping his eyes forward and over the boy. 

The dumb boy looks him in the face, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Don’t look me in the face, idiot,” Katsuki hisses, giving the stupid boy time to frantically lower his eyes to his feet, his sword shaking tenfold at being adressed directly. He sighs, shaking his head in exasperation. 

This is just a kid, maybe ten years old at most. 

He turns around, looking at the top of his head, where a stupid red hat rests above black locks of hair. The power that emanates from him is ancient, very familiar to Katsuki. 

A sneer forms on his lips, his skin prickling with disgust. 

A son of Poseidon. 

 Rage fills him and his hands shake. He still follows him, even now after so many years. Katsuki feels weak all over again, vulnerable in front of a ten year old that can barely hold his sword. All because he is the spitting image of the one who he hates most in this cursed, backwards world. 

“What are you doing here, son of Poseidon?”  

The kid trembles, his small hands gripping the hilt of his sword harder and Katsuki sees from up top how his eyes widden in obvious surprise. He doesn’t state his purpose, but Katsuki knows. No one has ever come to simply commute with him, the multitude of statues proves his point. 

“You’ve come to take my head? Like the so many others in this garden?” The hiss that comes from his mouth is hateful, resentful and hurt. His eyes rake around him, pointedly looking at the mossy statues.   

He has never maliciously harmed anyone. Not before and not even after being cursed. Every single one of the statues scattered around his garden are people who have come to his home with the intention of taking his life. Most of them dumb, young demigods in search of grandiousity for being the ones to behead the Medusa. He had never done anything worthy of the atrocious stories that carried the dumb children to his garden. But yet, somehow, the reputation of being a horrible monster follows steadily behind him. Not even him secluding himself in his garden was enough to keep them away. 

Ironic, really. He is the one wronged in this whole ordeal.

The kid looks around and suddenly drops his sword, but doesn’t move from his spot. So, Katsuki moves to his work table and grabs the cloth he uses to dry his hands. With fast hands, he ties it around the dumb kid’s head securely, making sure he wouldn’t be able to see through it. 

There’s a tiny gasp that traps in the middle of the child’s throat and he stiffens, but lets Katsuki do as he pleases. 

When he is done, Katsuki steps away, letting the boy inspect the cloth, probably confused. He does lift his head, though. 

“What’s your name, brat?” 

“I- My name’s Kouta…” He whispers, his voice slightly high pitched and innocent. The voice of a kid after all. 

He feels how his anger melts away. This kid has no fault for being the son of a terrible god. 

“Kouta, huh?” Katsuki sighs, grabbing a chair from his work station and placing it loudly behind Kouta, causing the boy to jump startled. “Sit.” He instructs and Kota immediately follows his command. 

“Who sent you here? How did you even find me?” 

“The- The oracle said we would meet; talked about following the trail of blooming roses that guides to your garden during the full moon.” The kid talks, a bit more securely than before. His hands reveal his nervousness; rubbing against each other in an obvious attempt at soothing. 

Katsuki hums and wonders if there really is a trail of flowers leading to his garden. He has never seen it himself, for he never wanders far from his garden. He moved to the middle of the darkest and most dangerous forest known to mankind with the permission of the forest nymphs for a reason. The forest of the lost souls, people call it, but the nymphs made his space bright and fruitful. 

They pitied him, he knew and he hated it. But at the time, their pity seemed better than staying around the humans and the gods that cursed him. 

Huh. This kid is fairly brave. Maybe if he was a little older, Katsuki would have actually lost his head today. 

Well, lucky him.

The kid ends up leaving half an hour later, properly berated by Katsuki, and the cloth still tightly wrapped around his eyes. And even though Katsuki is relieved to still have his head attached to his body, he feels nostalgic, melancholic. 

It's been years since he last spoke to another human. 

Damn. He feels lonely.

Pt.2

[literaila]

ten seconds of space.

spencer reid x reader 

summary: the reader overhears spencer ask for space and well...

warnings: angst, seperation anxiety, intimacy issues, fluff, contridicting myself every sentence. 

a/n: hi darlings! so, maybe you know, that a year ago i started writing again. and maybe you also know that exactly a year ago (in two hours!) i posted my first fic called “space”. it was a birthday present to myself, and so now, so is this. if you enjoyed space i hope you’ll enjoy this! (the only differences are.. improvements i hope). thank you for reading, and getting me here. 

the first one here. 

*

it was something in the air, sure.

it must’ve been something uncontrollable, unexplainable. something in the air.

that’s why you’re staring at him, now, watching him with a familiar sensation in your stomach.

love, maybe? pain, possibly. maybe it’s just because you haven't eaten anything yet, or maybe this feeling is real. you don’t really care, you know.

you just stare, watch his eyelashes flutter against his cheek and resist the urge to reach out to him. in so many ways, you’re resisting the urge.

it’s mornings like this— since nearly a week ago —that you adore most. mornings when you can just pretend until the alarm goes off. when you don’t have to sleep, cold, next to him.

it’s something in the air, something around you, on mornings like this. if you have to put the blame somewhere— and you do because this is shameful, because this is ridiculous and you hate it —you’re going to put it on the air.

and the sun, and the blankets, and your emotions, and this infuriatingly beautiful man who is lying next to you. and those words, terrible words that just won’t-

it’s an immature deflection that you don’t care to think about.

you breathe in, one, two seconds. then, close your eyes and memorize the scent.

your hand reaches out, your eyes are still closed, not ever daring to actually touch spencer’s skin. (never). but, coming just close enough to his cheek, just right there. the warmth, tiny, superfluous, is just enough to keep your hand from daring any closer.

it’s enough to keep the words at bay. to avoid that swell in your chest.

to make sure he’s still sleeping.

…you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. honestly, you trusted spencer, you trusted your friends, and you knew that spencer would tell you if something was going on.

well, used to.

it wasn’t your fault, really, that you slipped up. that you stood on the other side of the door (cracked only slightly, just enough for you to hear) and listened to every word he said.

it was an accidental pause, one that you might wince at every time you thought back. but still, you didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

especially not when he was talking about you, telling JJ that he-

you breathe in again. force the memory away from the front of your mind. you turn to check the clock, making sure to never let your hand drift too far down, and frown when you catch the numbers.

there’s only a few more minutes left of this morning, of this moment. you want to savour every second, but really, how can you do that when you’re not even supposed to be looking at him in the first place?

a scoff emerges from the silence, not loud enough to wake spencer, but enough to bring your attention back to that feeling in your stomach.

love, you swear. why would you be feeling anything else?

you steal another look. watch his parted lips, breathing, watch his eyebrows, his nose, his cheek, his eyelids, and his skin. his skin.

you’re looking at it all, and you know it’s not really there but you can hear something counting down the seconds in your mind. reminding you that this is it. it’s cruel.

finally, you let one fingertip trail along the space under his eyes, you let one fingertip move across his cheek and bask in the exhilaration. spencer doesn’t stir. doesn’t breathe.

you smile, for only a moment.

and then, there’s ten seconds, and you’re moving away from spencer.

there’s nine seconds and the smile on your face is gone.

there’s eight seconds left, left, and you’re closing your eyes briefly. trying to keep that feeling from tearing through them.

there’s seven seconds and you’re rolling on your side, facing away from him.

six seconds.

and then five, and you whisper the rest of the numbers out loud, you breathe and breathe and there’s only one second left.

you don’t jump when the alarm goes off. you don’t move, you don’t breathe.

spencer is sitting up beside you, always meticulous and dependable.

you breathe in once and feel his hand on your shoulder, shaking you awake. you breathe once and turn to look up at him.

“good morning,” he whispers, notes of sleep around his eyes and a soft smile on his face.

you stare, watch, look. you stare for only one second, just to get a chance to look into his eyes, longing for something that’s not really there. and then as every other day this week—

you’re up and out of bed, away from his eyes, within five seconds. you’re in the other room in six.

*

when spencer looks at you later that day— at work, several hours after you stopped thinking —you don’t hesitate to smile.

it’s easy, actually, to act normal from across the room.

it’s easy to enjoy the smile you get in response. it’s easy to enjoy it just for a second.

you turn around though, forget the moment ever happened.

it’s exhausting to pretend this is normal, so terribly easy. it’s too much for the middle of the afternoon, for a boring day at work.

you tune those thoughts out and get back to the paperwork you’re supposed to be finishing. you haven’t noticed the looks your teammates have been giving you lately, so you don’t notice now.

really, it’s not that hard to pretend. not this time.

*

you didn’t mean to eavesdrop when you failed to knock on the door. you didn’t mean to pause, or to turn your head so that you could hear a little bit better.

you didn’t mean to listen, or to turn around a minute later, wet eyes and dry feelings.

it was all an accident.

to be there and to hear. to be taking a file to him at this very moment.

but you are, and you were, and you’re standing there, hanging onto his every word.

“it’s…” there was a murmur, something you couldn’t hear through the door. “suffocating…”

you shouldn’t have been standing there.

“i’m sure y/n isn’t…” the higher voice drifted off, and still, you weren’t supposed to be listening.

“no, no. it’s not them, it’s just-“

this time the voice stopped. you were leaning in closer, curiosity spiked, adrenaline flowing.

you should’ve just walked away.

“i just need some space,” there was something after that, a whisper, a name you knew, a word you could hear. but you were already walking away.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t a long sentence. it wasn’t anything significant.

except, except. he had whispered your name, just after. he had said the words, the words— that would repeat themselves over and over for god knows how long after —and then he had whispered your name.

i just need some space. he said.

not to you, of course. it was an accident to hear them in the first place.

i just need some space.

you walked away, slouching, unaware of anything else. you tried not to listen, tried not to hear it. begged that pause to erase itself, and begged those words to disappear.

but they couldn’t, and they wouldn’t. and maybe, maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.

*

at home, you move rooms.

you’re learning, you know. learning how to separate yourself, how to keep your distance, how to be better.

how to. how to. how to.

you decided, moments after those words, seconds after that feeling crawled its way up your neck. you decided that you needed to learn how to give spencer space, how to be okay with some more distance.

and that everlasting question, what are you doing wrong?

, well you had to learn how to fix it.

but you’re still learning. and you still yearn to cuddle with him on the couch when he sits next to you. you still want to play with his hair when he’s sitting at his desk. you still want to drag him to get coffee at two in the morning, and laugh with him when he beats you at chess.

you want it all, but, you have to learn. and so, you learn, you navigate and you try to let it all go. smile at spencer, kiss him in the morning, hand him his file at work, and keep your distance.

it’s a perfectly balanced, perfectly organized routine, but he always tilts the scale when he comes to sit down next to you.

when he watches you in the kitchen, and when he comes into the bathroom with you to brush his teeth.

when it hurts, when it burns, when you ask again, what are you doing… but you still try to discreetly move out of the way. when you smile at him then change rooms and pretend this is all normal.

he walks into the room now, book(s) in hand, a happy smile on his face. he watches you and you pretend not to notice. then, he sits next to you, so close, and leans your way.

he smiles some more and whispers out a gentle “hey, love,” as he opens his book.

you acknowledge him with a short “hey,” so quiet that you’re not sure if he heard.

you breathe while he’s right next to you, try to keep your eyes off his hands and off his face and off of him.

and too many seconds later, you’re getting up. you’re swiftly walking away.

and you don’t turn back to look at him. you’re learning.

*

there was something to be said about the feel of his skin.

god, you’re not supposed to be doing this.

something there, addictive, exhilarating, an unstoppable tidal wave of emotion. something to be said about the feel of his skin against yours.

you’re supposed to be walking away right now.

something about his hands and his mouth and this kiss that he’s breathing into you.

what are you doing wrong?

you’re kissing him, you know, you’re kissing him because he grabbed onto your waist. you’re kissing him because once he was close enough, once you could practically taste him, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

you’re kissing him because you miss him and because he grabbed onto you while you were walking by because he grabbed on and he wouldn’t let you go and you missed him so much and—

what are you doing wrong?

you’re not supposed to be doing this.

it’s his voice, it’s his face, it’s his skin, it’s his lips, it’s his everything that finally gets you to break away from him with a gasp.

it’s his words, from before, that finally get you to move away, a few steps back, and catch your breath.

spencer is just staring at you, lips raw, eyes glistening.

he’s so beautiful and this is so terrible.

you smile, tight-lipped, trying not to say anything.

“what?” he asks, he’s smiling back, bigger than you. you’re both still panting.

you can hear those words again, louder, pounding in your ears almost as loud as your heart.

this was a mistake, you know.

“i’m tired,” is all you say. not really answering, not really listening.

but it could be true, it might be true. you’re right next to the bed and it’s so easy to slip in and pretend that whatever just happened didn’t happen.

it’s so easy to forget everything, all of it, to leave yourself standing there on the floor while you lay in bed.

it must be easy for spencer too, because, moments later you feel him move in beside you.

you both fall asleep, inches apart.

*

it's the words that keep you from crying out to him.

it’s the words that stop you from telling him.

it’s those words, so loud, that make sure to lock your secret up. to hide the pain away somewhere no one will ever find it.

except for maybe you, because really, how can you avoid it?

it’s those words, too many and too much, that keep you from talking to spencer. from asking him for help. from begging him for a hug, or a kiss, or even just a glance that lasts longer than five seconds.

you don’t want space, you want to scream at him. but you cant, you won’t, and spencer shouldn’t know. you shouldn’t blame him for the words.

but you hate them, you hate them so much that sometimes you feel as if your chest is going to explode. you think you’re going to collapse if you spend one more night years away from him. you think that you’re almost gone, that you won’t make it. you hate them.

you hate them for making you feel this helpless, for hiding you from spencer. you hate them.

(but maybe. maybe you don’t.

maybe you can’t because they came from him. because they’re a truth that you needed to hear. maybe you love them because they’re so obvious. After all, they’ll keep him here longer.

maybe you love them, secretly.)

it wouldn’t matter if the words weren’t there— pounding in your head, yelling in your ear —anyway, you think.

you and spencer don’t talk much, these days.

*

you aren’t expecting it, when it comes.

or maybe you are. you can't really remember, to be honest.

but you’ve noticed the looks, the frowns, the raised eyebrows. you noticed, you know. you just ignore it. just ignore it all.

so, when it comes, when he’s finally in front of you, finally there. you aren’t expecting it.

not the quip in his voice.

not the harsh way he asks you what’s going on.

not his never-ending stare.

“what?” you ask back, staring at the floor because there’s not much else to stare at.

“what's going on?” he asks again, softer this time. he's standing in front of you, blocking your way through the door. 

you can feel the impatience rising up in your chest. you just want to go lay down, right now. you look up. 

“can i pass, spence?” 

he looks shocked at the words, and for a moment you wonder if it's because you didnt answer, or because you’ve just called him spence. by the look on his face, you guess it could be both. 

you sigh and wait. you’ve been waiting all day. 

you still didnt expect it though. 

“what?” 

“i want to go throu-” 

“no, i heard you. i just...” he pauses, turns around and through the door, complying with you. you move past him. 

this is cruel of you, some part of you knows, this is cruel. but you’ve learned, you’ve practiced for far too long to stop now. 

you cant just stop because spencer asks a question. you cant stop. you wont make another mistake. 

the bile rises in your throat. you push it down with a question, you turn it away, slam the door. 

spencer is looking at you, watching you grab something out of a drawer. you can feel his eyes on your back. 

“what is going on?” he asks again, anger and desperation mixing in his voice this time. you’re glad you cant see his eyes, you note. glad this isnt really happening. 

you’ve been playing pretend for a while. 

“nothing, spencer,” you say, you mutter, you sigh. you’re very tired, you realize. 

“nothing?” he whispers and you turn around to face him. his soft eyes are pleading, now. his face is contorted, his worry is palpable in the air. you dont understand it. 

you’ve been acting perfectly normal. 

there's a longing in your mind that wishes for it to go away. 

you nod at him. 

spencer laughs then, a harsh sound in the quiet room. you dont think you understand anything. “nothing?” he repeats, a doubtful question this time. “you arent even looking at me,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair and your eyes flick up. “you won't even look at me for more than two seconds at a time and theres nothing going on?” 

you meet his eyes. dont flinch. this is normal. it's very easy. 

“i’m looking at you now,” you offer, a brighter tone, shifting into a happier person in an instant. 

spencers eyes are wide. “thats not-” he groans and moves away, turns toward the bed and paces. you can see his impatience with you, you can feel the tension in the air. 

and despite everything, the voices, the words, the feeling in your stomach you’re trying to push down, you still have to help. somehow, you have to do more. 

“whats wrong, spence? what can i do?” you’re asking, you’re pleading and spencer turns around so fast you have to take a step back. 

“what can...” his voice is drifting off as he observes your face, your terribly blank face. hes walking closer, and you’re taking another step back. 

its painful, to be standing this close to him. painful, to not scream at him, painful to keep it all hidden behind your perfectly placed mask. your face doesnt move though, despite the pain. 

spencer tries again. takes a step forward. you take a step back. 

his eyes are frightened, but you can barely tell. 

“can i touch you?” he asks, soft, a voice you recognize but cant recall. his eyes are careful, his smile is practiced. 

you breathe in and the first flash of emotion hits your eyes. you gulp. can he touch you? you wonder, can he? 

“um,” you pause and nod at him, you pause and try to weigh the outcomes. you try not to freeze. “sure,” 

your words are quiet but spencer is rushing towards you, hes taking your arm in his hand, and hes trying to meet your eyes but you’re looking at the floor again. 

this is so strange. theres something about his skin. 

“are you okay?” he asks, he wonders, he pleads with you again. 

you laugh, trying to liven your voice, trying to push down that stupid- 

you laugh. you nod. “i’m fine,” you say, but your voice is too loud, but you’ve spoken too fast and its coming out wrong. 

spencer whispers your name. it takes all your effort not to look up at him. not to move closer, not to suffocate him with your hug, with your kiss. it takes so much effort to breathe out again. 

he whispers your name. again. 

you dont know if its him, or if its you, but suddenly your chin is up, your eyes are on his and you want to melt under his touch, you want to melt to the floor and disappear into the earth. you want so, so many things that you arent supposed to have. 

“are you okay?” hes asking the same questions again and again, but this question is desperate, helpless. you can hear that. he doesnt understand, you know, and thats terrifying. 

“why, spencer?” you ask, you demand from him in a soft voice. 

you dont need to do this right now. you can just go to bed, you think. you want to move away, you’re sure, but thats such a lie. 

he whispers your name again, takes another step toward you. its threatening in a way, terrifying in its advance. 

“why?” you demand again. “why now?” 

you’re fully in his arms now, his hold quick, strong, as your voice breaks, as your breathing halts. you’re whispering it over and over again, why why why, and spencer doesnt know what to do. he doesnt know whats going on. 

so he asks, one more time. 

“whats going on, love?” 

that feeling is there now, you know, that feeling that is just pain, just longing, just nothing and everything and so much. unbearable, strong, malicious. 

“i’m just trying to give you space,” you sob out, turning, wrapping yourself in him, breathing in the scent of his sweater. you’re crying, but you cant feel the tears. and you’re shaking, but you cant feel your limbs. 

you think, briefly, that spencer must be holding you up but you dont know. 

spencer, in reality, is frozen. hes repeating your words in his head. hes going over them like an equation, something he cant solve. 

just the same as you. 

the two of you, together, think over and over and over again. the words that have been stuck in your head for so long. 

space. space. space. 

its such an evil little word and its attacking you both. you hate it. 

“you heard,” spencer whispers against your head, maybe in awe, maybe in shock. “you werent supposed to hear that,” 

you laugh but it comes out as more of a sob. 

spencer is apologizing, whispering to you, saying “shh, shh,” in your ear. hes trying to console you, but he barely even knows how you figured it out, why you havent spoken to him. 

hes recalling everything thats happened, every kiss, every passing touch, every step you’ve taken away from him.

this is all so shocking. 

you werent expecting any of this. you didnt expect this.

“it was an accident,” you say when you get a moment to breathe, when you gasp just enough to finally take in air. you’re not sure why you’re crying. maybe its spencers hands, or maybe its his voice, or maybe its just the pain in your stomach and in your chest and resting on your throat. 

spencer, then, is grasping at your wrists which are clawing at his shirt, hes trying to breathe with you, trying to get you to look at him. hes trying so hard, but you cant tell. 

it takes a minute, and then, his hands are just soft enough to make you focus, you make you look at him again. they’re enough to breathe. 

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers, void of explanation, eyes pained looking at your face. you rub a rough palm over your cheek, wiping the tears away, trying to claw at something that isnt there. your skin feels raw, your chest feels split open. 

you’re not sure how it happened. 

“spencer,” is all you say. 

“i- i dont-” he sighs and looks down, away from your eyes, sending pangs through your chest again. 

theres something unspoken in the air, your heart beats louder, your chest feels tighter. you dont know what to say next. 

spencer speaks for you. “i’m so sorry,” he repeats, hands grasping onto your face, holding your eyes on his. 

the feeling is so unfamiliar, so strange after weeks of not touching him properly, weeks of getting by with nothing more than a sharp kiss. weeks of nothing, and more and more silence between the two of you. weeks of unbearable, undeniable, pain. 

your mind is reeling in relief but your body doesnt trust him yet. you cant relax. 

he feels the tension, he feels you pause every time he shifts. its doubt, you both know, unspoken in the air. trust, spencer knows now, is gone. trust, you realize then, has been broken. 

trust, has never been your strong suit. 

“i’m sorry,” its another whisper, another plea, another sentence full of nothing. 

and you, you’re just sitting there. you’re just waiting, just listening to him, just trying to trust him with all the fervor you used to have. 

“what happened?” you choked, voice sore. 

spencer, took a deep breath. the contraction of his chest was clear against your body, your hand, still latched on to him. 

and then, 

“avoidant personality disorder affects around 2.5 percent of the population,” he pauses, looks at your face. “it- it affects both men and women equally, and usually, it um, it tends to start early on in childhood.” 

you dont say anything, just watch his eyes, so strange now. 

spencer laughs, but its sad. its lonely. “my mom, she never mentioned anything like it. i didnt even really know what it was until-” a breath. “until i- i started studying psychology and-” 

he stops. looks away from you. 

and you dont know where this is going, you dont understand yet. you’re not like him, you cant piece together a puzzle, solve an equation. you can only listen. 

you’re not sure if you’re hearing clear enough. 

spencer looks at you again, stares for a second. swallows. “even when i learned what it was i didnt believe that i might- that i would have it.” 

he stops again. 

you hear the words. you hear and still you ask, 

“you think you have it?” 

spencer, who is still looking at you, still holding you even though you’re not sure how he can stand it, laughs. he laughs and looks down and frowns then looks up. you cant tell what hes feeling. 

“no, i’m saying i do.” 

“oh.” 

hes speaking some more, teaching you. “a lot of people dont realize that intamcy issues fluctate-- that one day someone can be completely okay and then the next they feel irritated and uncomfortable-” 

and. 

“social isolation is a common symptom of avoidant personality disorder-” 

he tells you more. speaks so fast that its hard to keep up.

“it can span out from abandonment issues, or fear of rejection. kids with deep-rooted trauma are more likely to experience it-” 

he tells you so many things, so many facts. 

and then he stops. 

spencer is holding your head in his hands again, grasping, pleading for something that you dont understand. hes making you look at him with suddenly desperate eyes. “i never meant to hurt you, though. i promise,” 

you blink at him, then nod, eyebrows furrowed. 

“i didnt you to hear that conversation with JJ- and i still wish you hadnt because i was so...i was..” he draws off, nervous, eyes looking back and forth. 

your chest is burning, that pain is still there, still ringing. some voice in your head, spencers maybe, whispers the word again. 

you flinch, almost away from spencer. scared. “you were what?” 

“i was wrong,” 

a moment pauses, spencer is staring, waiting for your reaction. 

and then, after a breath, you laugh. manically. too loud. 

spencer is confused, hes concerned. 

you keep laughing, leaning back to cluch at your waist, leaning away from him and laughing. you dont know why this is funny, you’re not sure, but it is. 

“you’re-” you start, giggling some more. “you’re a genius-” you’re running out of breath, and the tears are falling out of your eyes again, and spencer is still just staring. “you were wrong!” you exclaim, almost mockingly, almost seriously. 

spencer though, still isnt laughing. 

he waits, waits for you to calm down, to look at him again, and then he moves away from you, taking a step back. 

you frown, but his hands are finding yours. his hands are grasping yours with a grip you dont expect. you hold your breath while he stares again. 

“i was wrong,” he repeats, earnestly, urgently. “i didnt realize it until a couple of nights ago, when you moved away after we kissed. when you-” 

you try to interrupt, to explain but he continues, breathless. 

“when you looked at me like you were terrified, like you were making a mistake. you just stared at me for three seconds, and then you left. you didnt explain, didnt speak.” 

“spencer, i-” you start. 

spencer is leaning over to kiss your forehead, to hold you softly in a hug you’ve been waiting weeks for. 

its so strange, to stand here like this. 

“i realized you were avoiding me then.” spencer says, whispers. “i missed you so much and i didnt even realize it,” 

you breathe in. shocked. 

“i’m sorry,” 

“no,” 

“yes, love, i never wanted you to feel like that. to hurt you like i did, like i am.” spencer looks ashamed but you press on, scowl on your face. 

“no, no, no.” you move back, stare at him with hard eyes with a soft face. “i needed to know, spencer. if you need something, even distance from me, than i needed to know.” 

you know thats why you listened, you know that your pause had a reason. it was never an accident to know the truth-- to give spencer what he needed. 

it was easy, when you thought thats what he wanted. 

“i was wrong, though-” 

“i needed to know.” 

spencer stares at you, for the millionth time. he looks at your unwavering eyes, your stern faces. he sees it, the fear, the worry that he’ll move back, or leave, or run away from you. he can see it. 

but you, you’re just standing there. you, you changed everything just so he would be happy. 

he sees the sacrifice now, curses himself for it. 

but all he says is “okay,” and then, taking a step forward, he repeats it. “okay.” 

“okay?” you ask, voice small. 

“yes, okay. i will tell you. i’ll tell you everything,” he promises, intense eyes, and stronghold on you. 

he pulls you in again. 

its enough. its enough to fade that pain down into a simmer, to turn trust inside out again, to straighten the pins you’ve put up on the wall. 

the words are there still, but they’re distant, like the chime of an old clock, but quiet. broken. 

its so overwhelming, to be in his arms again. 

but you fall, even still, you hold him back even tighter than before, you trust that hes going to stay there. 

and the ten seconds start again. 

you’re scared, still, with nine seconds. scared that this isnt going to last, that hes going to change his mind, that hes going to realize hes right. 

you’re breathing, at eight seconds, thinking about these weeks without him, about this comfort in his eyes, in his arms. you’re thinking about how hes here right now, about how thats the only thing that matters. 

you’re smiling at seven seconds, tick-tock, as you breathe him in, as you taste the air and realize that theres always been something about his touch. 

at six seconds, hes whispering in your ear, a quiet “i love you” a meaningful promise that you’ve missed dearly. 

at five, you’re whispering back, you’re promising, you’re breathing, you’re trying not to think, trying not to worry. 

at four, you’re kissing his lips, you’re molding yourself to him once again. 

at three, hes gripping your waist, kissing you like he never has before. 

at two, you’re whispering “stay” against his lips, tasting him, pulling him, begging him. you’re not afraid to speak this time, and you dont need to pull back. 

and then and then and then, you’re holding each other and theres only one second left, theres just one tiny little moment left. 

and it’ll last a lifetime. 

*

my masterlist here. 

[slurcas]

#like the micheal!dean fight? lmao @vambracer i will physically fight you omg

fuck it, they should’ve let cas float

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

Imagine: Wanda’s your next door neighbor.

(CW: Hypnosis, Yandere!Wanda, mentions of dysfunctional/neglectful/abusive family, kidnapping)

You didn’t particularly have a great home life; your family was rather.....absent. Emotionally unavailable. Your accomplishments seemed to mean nothing to them, but when you were in trouble, they would yell at you, insult you, and you’d run up to your room in tears. You just wanted them to be proud of you for once. Was that so much to ask? Eventually you just learned to hide it. 

One night you were out in the backyard under a tree, crying as usual, when you suddenly heard a soft voice call out to you. 

“Is something wrong?” 

You looked to see a woman with long dark brown-red hair call out to you from across the fence, her eyes were soft and sympathetic. At first you were reluctant to say something, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hide it anymore. You nodded.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

You nodded again and rushed right over to her, beginning to tell her everything. She eventually invited you inside when the mosquitos began to bite and you readily accepted. At this point, you’d take any sort of love and affection from anyone. 

The woman gave you some tea and cookies. She introduced herself as Wanda and you introduced yourself. You told her all about how you just wanted your family to be there for you, how you hardly had anyone to talk to, and she absorbed it all. You soon found yourself leaning in and cuddling in close with her as you wept. That was when something clicked in Wanda. You just looked so....vulnerable and helpless, like a scared puppy. You, this poor, sweet child, needed love and affection so desperately that you trusted a woman you barely knew. Her heart melted, and she made it her mission to give you that love and affection.

Wanda invited you over everyday after school. You’d go and have tea and cookies and sometimes dinner. She’d do her best to help you with your homework. She’d invite you to stay over on the weekends. Your mood and mental health started to improve, all because of this one, kind soul, and you began to see her as a sort-of mother figure. She was the closest person you felt you had to any sort of parental figure. 

But of course, your biological family had to ruin everything.

Out of nowhere, your parents sold the house and you had to move to a different place. When you found out, your heart shattered and you ran directly to Wanda to tell her about it. She did her very best to comfort you, but on the inside, she was fuming. How dare these people take this sweet little angel from her! They weren’t worthy of being your parents. She knew that all they did was crush you and tear you down; you, a precious child who only wanted to love and be loved. She formulated a plan right then and there to keep you from leaving.

The day you were supposed to move, you went over to see Wanda for the last time, tears in your eyes. She invited you inside for a last cup of tea, at least you thought it would be the last with her. See, Wanda never told you that she had magic or powers. So when you sat down, Wanda sat next to you and a wisp of scarlet appeared in your vision and her voice echoed gently in your mind.

“Sleep, my sweet and precious child. I will love you and take care of you from now on.”

Your eyes fluttered and you fell asleep against her. For a time, Wanda pet your head to assure that you were asleep; you looked so adorable and at peace that it made her melt. Once she assured that you were out, she used her magic to erase your family’s memories of you, packed up the house, picked you up in her arms, and flew to her little cabin in what was once Sokovia. She was going to be your mother now and she was going to give you so much love and affection that you would never want to leave her. 

Not that the barrier she conjured around the land would let you leave, of course.....

[sp00kworm]

Black Oak (Part 2)

Pairing: Alcott Glyn (Headless Horseman) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Body Horror, Murder

PART 1 

---

---

The police arrived about an hour after you had woke-up the whole village screaming. Peswick was far away from the nearest city’s response, and you sat shivering, wrapped in a blanket from the house, clutching it close as Mrs Shaw rushed to bring you a hot drink. She and her husband were dressed, but neither went into your house. They rushed back home, bringing you a cup of tea from their own kitchen along with a foil blanket for the shock. You weren’t allowed to touch the body, and you tried to ignore the swinging noise of the corpse as you sat perched on the front doorstep to your home, sniffling into the cup of tea. The police took off their hats as they stepped past your gate, and you watched as the crime scene investigation and forensic van pulled up behind them. The two officers nodded at Mr and Mrs Shaw before smiling as best they could.

“Would you like to come with us, please?” The male officer asked gently, “Lets go inside and we’ll get your statement of events, okay?” The female officer with him looked back at the tree and swallowed hard as Forensics suited up to remove the body and take evidence.

“Come on, Sully.” He ushered his companion as he helped you to your feet and nodded to your neighbours. He whistled and smiled as he opened the door for you, “Nice old place you’ve got here.” He complimented kindly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with crows’ feet, “Mrs Finch used to live here. Are you a relative?”

 You shook as the officer led you gently into the front room, “It…She was my aunty, distantly.” You whispered as you eased yourself back onto the sofa, clutching the lukewarm tea tightly, as though it was a lifeline in your grasp.

“She was a kind woman. Made a lot of oils out of her garden, but she had nothing but trouble and vandalism with this place. Kids used to make a mess of the sides of the house regularly.” He tipped his head to the wall where the fireplace was, “It was always on the chimney. She never did anything, but the kids called her a witch and all that trollop.” He shook his head.

“You haven’t introduced yourself.” Sue gave him a lopsided smile as she pulled out the clipboards full of paperwork to be completed.

“Ah, so I haven’t!” The officer dipped his head, “I’m Officer Perks.” He pointed to the blond woman with him, “And this is my partner Officer Sullivan.”

You nodded shakily licked your lips, “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for coming. I know...Its far.” A breathy sigh left you as Sullivan took out her pens from her vest and smiled.

“We just need an account of what you did this morning and if you knew the victim.” Percy offered as he sat on your couch, “Spare no details. Even something small to you might be important to us.”

 Conflict burned in your throat and gut as you thought about what had happened, “I don’t remember anything of relevance from last night. I spent the night in bed. I’ve only just moved in, so I was exhausted.” You took a shuddering breath and continued, “I went out this morning to the tree and…and I looked up… and he was hanging there, without his head.” You looked into the tea in your hands, noting that it was now ice cold.

“How long have you been here?” Sullivan asked as she shorthand filled in the details on the paperwork, “You said you moved in recently?” Perks looked from the paper to you and smiled reassuringly.

“I moved in yesterday afternoon.” You whispered and Sullivan gave you a pitying look.

Perks shifted against the cushions, “Did you have anyone with a grudge against you or motive from where you used to live?” He asked.

“No one that I know of.” You answered as you put down the cup of tea, fighting the tears and upset.

“Okay so what time did you find the body?” Perks asked. You took a deep sigh and continued to answer the police officer’s questions well into the afternoon.

 Perks and Sullivan could drink their weight in tea, it turned out, and you offered them many drinks over the course of the few hours. They had a couple each, pens scratching papers as they took notes and an official account of the events for the records. You looked out of the window as Sue and Percy signed the bottom of the page. Crime Scene Investigations were hoisting the body down from the thick black branch of the oak, working to preserve the noose he was swinging by. Three people held the corpse up as they cut the rope carefully, keeping the knot intact and bagging the rope before they got the body down into the bag on the stretcher.

“He’ll need to go to pathology to determine cause of death…though I think I have a pretty good idea.” Sullivan whispered, trying not to be heard as she eyed you sat across from them. Perks rolled his eyes and elbowed his colleague.

“Here. Let me draw the curtains.” Perks stood and reached for the curtains before drawing them over the forensics team dragging the body into the bag, impassive to the blood that stained their tunics and gloves.

“I think we have everything.” Sullivan announced as she stood up and took hold of both their mugs, “I’ll put these in the kitchen for you.” She offered with a small, pathetic smile.

 Perks nodded his head as Sullivan as she left towards the kitchen. You heard her bang the cup on the countertop before you tugged the blanket closer and shifted uncomfortably.

“Thank you for your cooperation today.” Perks took his hat and tucked it under his arm, “I know these kinds of cases are very difficult to talk about. I have this card for you.” He held you out a green printed business card, “That’s the helpline for a couple of organisations and the other side has someone you can seek out if you would like some help talking through all this.”

You looked at the numbers vaguely before nodding and placing the card on the coffee table, “Thank you.” You replied quietly before Perks replaced his hat on his head.

“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you once again and good afternoon.” He looked at his watch before he opened the lounge door and quietly exited.

Sue scoffed at him in the hall, “Come on. We’ve got these reports to write up.”

“Coming, coming.” Perks grumbled, “Nothing wrong with being nice. They just witnessed a damn corpse…” The voices trailed off as the front door closed behind the two of them with a bang.

 Silence.

 You looked to the curtains and stood up, letting the blankets finally fall from your shoulders as you fisted each side of the heavy curtains. They were old and embroidered with curling leaves. You tugged them open with a heave and watched the police vans trundle away back down the old stone roads, back towards the hills where they had come from this morning. With a deep breath, you tied the curtains back before taking one last long look at the gnarled, black oak in the garden, and heading towards the stairs for a shower and to get dressed. You hoped that a shower would wash away the sticky feeling of malaise on your skin and mind. Hot water usually purged bad thoughts, or so you hoped as you tried to erase the memory of the swinging corpse from the shrivelled branches of the old oak tree.

 You shivered through the house after your shower, wrapped in a jumper and heavy jeans as you tried to navigate the halls without looking out into the garden. The memory of the body lingered with the burning feeling of the heavy box in the other room, filled with an old skull. It was a skull inside. A perfectly preserved ivory skull. The teeth were yellow with age on the enamel, and you looked to the table where the muddy box sat with the key in the lock. The headless creature had moaned and groaned as its head screamed from the other room. You turned and looked at the ornate metal decorations before daring to turn the key again. The lid popped open and flew back to reveal the skull again.

 It sat perfectly still on the cushion, staring at you with empty eyes. With a deep breath, you dared to reach out and touch the skulls surface. It didn’t move. No magical energies tore out of the eye holes. It was perfectly still. It was just a skull. But the memory of it screaming and cursing inside the box was burned into your memory and you carefully picked the skull up, cushioning the bottom of its jaw before your strokes over the place where the eyebrows had once been when it was a man. It had to belong to the headless horseman, but why your aunt had it locked away in her home was another question entirely. You held the skull up to your eyes and peered into the bone of the eye sockets as you pondered your decision. There was a glimmer of gold inside the mouth which caught your eyes, and you dared to open the jaw wide enough to snatch at the shiny object. It was a single heavy golden coin which had been wedge between the back teeth. You looked at the old print and then quickly replaced it, wedging the jaw back shut as you placed the skull away on its pillow.

 It sat and stared at you, and you stared at it, wondering what happened last night as you clutched at your head and sighed. You slammed the lid closed and snapped the lock closed before you placed the box in the centre of the table.

“What the fuck were you up to aunty?” You asked the air as you rushed to the kitchen to make yourself another drink. As you set the water to boil you continued to curse, thinking about the headless man who what invaded your home chasing the poor man who had ended up hanging from the tree in your front yard. The head had screamed ‘witch’ from its confines, but you had no knowledge about what it could mean. You took the hot water and made a drink before looking at the last few boxes of unpacking and scoffing, deciding that the day would be better spent researching what had slaughtered the man and hung him from your tree.

 The village library was barely a few bookshelves put together and you sighed looking at the poor collection of books before you dated to approach the old librarian sat next to the desk. She had her own book open, some trashy romance novel set in the Victorian era, and she looked engrossed as she flipped the page and took another bite of her current tea cake.

“Hello?” You asked quietly in front of her.

The librarian jumped in her seat before she clutched at her chest and adjusted her glasses, “Dearie me! You scared the soul right out of me, love.” she took a moment to take a breath and close her book before she stood with a small wince and smiled, “What can I do for you?”

You could see the questions burning in her eyes. She no doubt knew you were the new person in town, and about what had happened at your home.

“I’m looking for some history books about the town. I wanted to try and get to know the place, but I don’t think there’s anything on the shelves.”

Her face pursed a little before she smiled again and pointed to the last one of the small walls of shelves, “There isn’t a lot but there’s a couple of books on the bottom shelf of the end one. For the records and such I’m afraid you will have to ask at the village hall. Rose keeps them in good nick there, lovely woman she is.”

“Ah, thank you.” You returned her smile and left her to her book as you went to the last set of shelves in the wall and started to rummage through the folklore and history books.

 There wasn’t a lot, she was right, and you sighed after about twenty minutes of pulling out books. You tugged the last, thick history book from the shelf and dusted the cover to reveal a history of the local mines and hills. It wasn’t what you were looking for. You peered at the shelf again and huffed before there was a glimmer of silver lining at the back of the bookcase. You squirmed your hand to the back and plucked the small book from behind the tattered paperbacks. It was a pocketbook, stencilled with an old name in cursive, faded and marred with cage.

‘Maria Theresa Glyn’

You dusted the front and followed the name before looking around and tucking the book into your bag. You felt bad just taking it, but obviously the Librarian had no idea it was there, and the name was familiar to you. You remembered the coat of arms on the old teapot. If this was the diary of someone with the same name it might have clues, or so you reasoned as you plucked a few books from the shelf and took them to the counter after replacing the rest.

 “Did you find what you were looking for, pet?” The librarian asked as you placed the books on the counter. She smiled and pulled out an old paper ticket to write your name onto. She poised the pen over the paper, and you told her your name before she copied it onto another for you and jotted the book codes down. She tutted at the date stamper and fiddled with it to get it to the correct date. Obviously not many people used the library.

“Yes, I found a few interesting things to have a flick through.” You told her as she stamped the tickets inside the books and stacked them in front of you.

“Well, you have fun...and be careful, huh? There’s a lot of weird and wonderful things that go on around here. It would be a shame if you forgot that, and something happened.” She smiled sweetly, but it sent shivers down your spine.

“Thanks. I’ll try.” You smiled awkwardly back at her before you took your arm full of books and made a quick exit back into the chilly air.

 The village seemed to watch you as you wove between the avenue of trees, crunching autumn orange and brown leaves underfoot. The chill in the air mimicked their icy feelings. You were the outsider among them, and soon enough they’d come to hound you out of their home. You only hoped to solve what you had seen. There was no way a headless man was riding around taking heads...right? You tried to console yourself as you made it to your home, and past the gnarled black tree in the front garden. It was twisted and old, and the branches seemed to creak as a greeting on your return. A glare silenced it, or so it seemed, perhaps it was just the wind dying, but the tree went silent as you walked up to the door with your keys in hand. The door swung open when you unlocked it and you clutched at your books as the wind howled into the mouth of the house, screaming down the hall like a ghost before you kicked the front door shut, shivering. The old back boiler chugged in the background as you kicked off your boots and placed the books in the lounge on the small table by the chest.

 When the chest remained still and silent you left to place away your bags and get a drink. You returned, rubbing your eyes as you opened the little journal you had found. It was penned with ink and quill, that much was obvious, and you ran your fingers over the woman’s name again before you touched the crest and went to find the teapot. You grabbed the porcelain handle and placed the two together over your lap. They were the same. The Glyn coat of arms. You placed the teapot down and opened the diary to look at the first passage. It was dated back three centuries ago, back when the alliance was beginning to form between the different races, monsters and humans alike, though you could tell this village hadn’t had such luxury. The entire populace was human, apart from the dairy farmers four miles outside the walls of the village. They were large goblins of some kind, cave dwelling and gangly limbed from years in the dark, but you had only seen them.

 The first passage was written in neat, printed cursive, echoing the care the woman had taken to write her feelings and events down.

‘Today is the day of my birth. My birthday rather. I was given this journal by the kind Mister Glynn, as a gift, and so I find myself beginning to write down the events of my daily life, so perhaps I can look back on it and reminisce when I am old and grey.

 Mister Glyn is a kind soul. He is part of the King’s Royal Entourage and the Commander of a large cavalry unit. Why he is in this small village is unknown to us all, but my father suspects it is because of the Wood Witch. Perhaps he has been tasked with taking her head? It is rumoured the armour he has is enchanted against such magic, but I feel as though those are rumours made about a dangerous and powerful man to excite fear.

 He is nothing but polite to me. I suppose my father will want to marry me off to this one as well.’

 The passages were perhaps a couple of pages maximum, and you flicked through the dates quickly, watching her words change from cold and indifferent to soft and loving of the man see always called Mister Glyn. It wasn’t until a year later in the diary that you saw his true name.

 ‘Alcott escorted me to the capital atop Mallor, his beast of a horse, though the creature seems to like me now that I bring him sugar lumps. Alcott wished to show me the city and its fruits though there is rather less fruit and more muck and grime. I am used to mud on my shoes, but I despised the odour of the place, much to his amusement. As I write, I can hear him snickering at me across the table.’

 There was a few blotches of ink and another set of handwriting.

 ‘She stood in a man’s excrement.’

 Their trip seemed peaceful, and Maria even attended a gathering at court. It seemed well until you found the final page in the diary, written across a page in shaky ink.

 ‘They took his head.’

 There was no fond farewell at the bottom of the page or a cursive signature. It was stark and naked on the yellowed paper, like a bad omen forever preserved. You ran your fingers over the words before you flicked through the last pages seeing nothing but blood splodges and blackened dark blood at the corners. It smelt faintly of rot, and you recoiled from the smell as you looked at the empty bare pages. The back of the book was burned across the inside of the cover. It was mysterious but it seemed like Alcott Glyn had been killed. But by who? You had no idea but as you looked at the chest again and thought of the head inside you shuddered.

 Alcott Glyn. There had to be a grave. You tugged your bag open and stuffed the book inside before you rushed out of the door, locking it quickly as you rushed towards the little church. It was at the top of the hill, sat in a mound of earth, subsiding on one side with props and scaffolding to try and hold it up. It wasn’t used anymore, the town hall was used to any religious needs, but it was haunting. The stained glass was dirty, and the front doors bolted and chained to prevent anyone entering. You rushed around the side of the church and looked at the dates on the graves and the dates in the diary. It had to be the 1700s. You thought back to your history lessons and tried to recall the date of the alliance war. 1774. You rushed around the small paths and glanced at the years, 1770, 1772, 1773... you looked at the gap where the 1774 stone should have stood. There was nothing, just unchurned earth and a set of roses growing from the floor. A troubling feeling settled in your gut as you meandered down the path to the back of the overgrown graveyard. There were old stones, crumbling and forgotten under blackberry vines and leaves. It was chance that you leaned down next to a short stone and looked at the faded name.

 Alcott Glyn.  

 The name was chipped and faded, like the memory of the man. Vines grew in wild abandon over the grave, and the blackberry vines had taken over the base, winding around the whole stone with wide dying leaves. It was perfectly hidden and forgotten about. The village’s little secret in the secluded corner of the graveyard, forgotten and buried. Or apparently, not buried completely. The earth was turned over, like something had ruptured from the ground and burst free. It was a long patch of upturned soil, as long as you were tall, or even longer, and the earth and stones were wet, fresh with the rain from the evening and being upturned, as though someone had run a plower through it.  Carefully, you ran your fingers through the earth, feeling the soil between your fingers before you took a steadying breath.

“Someone came out of this…” You breathed into the chilly air, your breath making mist with the cold as you stood and looked over the grave. You said it again before turning and bolting from the graveyard before the night could fall over the village.

 When you reached home, you threw your bag onto the couch and grabbed the chest, prising the lock open to peer at the skull inside. It was sat, still as a statue, on the cushion, with the glimmer of gold between its jaws. You lifted it from the cushion, carefully, pulling it up to your face level as the sun set over the horizon, bathing you in a golden glow with the skull clasped between your hands. There was nothing but the distant hum of the hot water pipes in the old house to answer your stare. The skull did nothing. It sat in your hands as the sunlight died over the horizon and the night began to settle in. In your gut, disappointment settled with the cold reminder that you were holding a dead man’s skull. A real human skull. Carefully, you placed it back down on the cushion and sighed as you went to draw the curtains, ignoring the creaking of the gnarled oak tree outside your door.

 The wind blew as you looked back at the head in the chest, positioned slightly skewed on the cushion. You chewed your lip and sighed before you stood over it again.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered to the skull. Nothing. The old electrics flickered for a moment, dimming before they brightened again. Silence, except for the hum of the back boiler. The breath you had been holding escaped and you turned away with a grumble before the lights surged bright and yellow, like the sun, before the bulbs exploded in a sudden thunder of noise. Glass shattered and flew across the carpet in a shower, and you gasped, covering your ears before you looked back at the cushion.

 The head was sat, jaw agape, with two lights in the blackened sockets, rolling side to side. The little lights rolled like stoned before they settled on you and the open jaw began to jitter, chattering the yellowed teeth together loudly. The skull didn’t move, just snapped it’s teeth like a scared dog before it stopped, and the eyes dimmed. It was only a moment of silence before there were three heavy pounds on your door. With a gasp you rushed to draw the curtains, and gazed upon the creature stood on your doorstep, his steed kicking and throwing it’s head by the twisted roots of the black tree. The body stood there, breathing, its undead chest moving as though it needed the air.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered again with a dry mouth. All the moisture dried up from you and you tried not to shake as the skull slammed against the side of the box, it’s eyes glowing.

It shook and chattered its teeth before a voice screamed from between the open jaw, “Let me in, witch!”

Fear twisted your guts as you rushed to slam the chest shut on the screaming skull. It chanted inside the decorative metal, hollering about burning you at the stake before you took it to the front door. The horseman slammed his fist on the door again, repeatedly, as though he was going to tear it open, and you shivered as your fingers shook by the latch and keys.

 The horseman began to bang repeatedly and the head in the chest slammed around, shaking your arms as you struggled to keep hold of it. You took a stuttering breath and unlatched the door, turning the keys before you wrenched it open. The headless horseman heaved puffs of misty breath up from the stump of his neck, his trachea flexing with the movement as the nerves of his spinal cord twitched and thrummed behind it, imitating life in his corpse body.

“Witch!” the skull screamed again, his head you realised as you stepped back, and the creature followed. His boots left muddy smeared marks on the wooden floors, and you looked down to see the crushed blackberries over the soles. Your heart pounded as you realised, he had crawled from the grave you had sat by earlier.

“I saw you by my grave. I will not do business with you again.” His voice came from his body this time, contorted and dark as it leaked from his lungs like a wisp.

“Business? What business have you?” You asked, voice shaking with fear.

The skull laughed in its box, a malicious and evil noise, dark and tempting, as though you were truly stupid for asking, “What business did we not have? Have you forgotten in your age, crone? Death and blood, that’s what you wanted, and I delivered it.”

“Who did you have the deal with?” You steeled yourself.

“You, you pathetic soothsayer.” He droned before his dead fist slammed the door closed, “Now give me my head. Our bargain is met.”

“I am not my aunty.” You tried, “I have no deal with you.”

 The horseman stopped, his body stiffening as his horse brayed and screamed outside, kicking its hooves at the black oak with a great smash. The tree shook, shedding twigs, but didn’t fall. He stalked closer, the bulk of his frame blocking out the light from the moon and the electric fitting overhead.

“But you have my head.” The skull whispered from inside the box before he grabbed for the chest. He touched the metal of the latch and screamed, the noise escaping the corpse before you and the skull inside the box. It was an ear piercing, unholy noise which burned your ears and made your head swim in agony. The horseman clutched at his chest and the stump of his neck, his gloved fingers pressing into the gored wound of his neck as he wobbled towards the wall and grasped at it for balance.

 “Fuck.” You cursed before you whipped the chest open and grabbed his skull by its eye sockets, hanging it over him as he slid down the wall and screamed again in agony, twitching against the wood.

“If I give you your head, horseman, will you indebt yourself to me? Your previous contract will be null, and you will only serve me.” You announced.

The horseman writhed before going deathly still. He laid like a corpse for a moment or two before shakily he braced his arm against the floor and pushed himself up. With a shudder he got onto his knees and kneeled before you, his neck dipped to expose the sore, congealed wound of his decapitation.

“I... I will serve.” The horseman gurgled.

“Then I give you your head to end your torment, Alcott Glyn.” You promised before you held his skull between your palms and lowered it to the spinal column of his body.

 There was a great groan as the spine extended from Alcott’s body and snapped to the skull, holding it in place as the eyes burned bright with purple light, the colour of blackberries, rolling in his skull as he reached and clasped at the bone, howling as light burned from the base of his neck and enveloped his skull with a whoosh of purple fire. The fire abated quickly as the moonlight disappeared behind the curtains and the skull shimmered as muscle and tendons swarmed the bone, linking and covering the surface before the he howled, and skin crept from his neck to his face, covering the surface in a perfect alabaster coating. His eyes however, remained voids of black, the centres beautiful blackberry lights in the dimness of your home. Black waves of hair grew from his head, dripping over his shoulders like ink as he howled, leaned against the old wallpaper. They finished growing with a crackle of fire, purple flames licking at the ends before it disappeared, leaving a heaving, black eyed creature curled against the wooden floor.

 Your mouth hung open as you watched the horseman shake against the wood, heaving as he reached to clutch at the hair that draped from his previously naked skull. The inky waves slid through his gloved hands and was quickly marred with dirt and blood before he peered at you through the curtain, looking at you with the purple lights in his irises which were sunken back into his skull. His lips parted before he took a deep breath, wheezing out dust and muck, coughing like a goose before he kicked the chapped skin and crawled closer to your feet. He only looked at you, staring before one gloved hand whipped out and snatched your ankle, holding it tightly in an iron grip.

“Bound to your bloodline again...” he growled, “Humiliating.” Before he pushed himself back and stood, swaying on his legs like a new-born deer as his balance came back to him. Having a head was a heavy burden.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” You breathed as Alcott slammed the side of his head and beat dirt out of his ears.

“Of course, you don’t. None of you ever do. Now I’m bound here to you until the day you drop dead and rot. Why can you never let me die?” He growled in a worked-up fury, flinging his hands to the windows before he stalked to the door, his boots slamming against the wood. He swung it open, and his mount brayed in greeting, throwing its giant head back before it caught sight of you and snorted, bowing it’s neck like a graceful Swan.

 “You are all the same!” The horseman shouted before the moon was revealed, a cloud moving away from its white surface. He shuddered and you watched the skin on his face disappear with the muscle, revealing the purple lights in a bare, burning skull. As the cloud recovered the moon, the base of his neck flared with purple smoke and fire, revealing the scar where he was decapitated, and his face reappeared.

“I gave you your head back, Alcott!” You shouted after him.

The horseman shivered and turned back to you, looking at you with his haunting eyes, both hands gripping the pommel and stand of the saddle, “How do you know my name?” He whispered in questioning.

With a small breath, you locked your lips nervously and ducked back to the table, grabbing the little diary from you bag before you stood on your porch and held it out to the wraith, “Maria wrote about you.”

He growled and snatched at the book, and you let him take it with a painful smile, “I know the townspeople killed you. They betrayed you. I don’t know what happened to Maria.” You confessed.

Alcott opened the diary and flicked through it before he looked at the night sky, “She lived in mourning the rest of her life. They institutionalised her after they found her carrying my head, wailing through the town. She died, high on cocktails of medicines, with her head buried in the soft soil of a flower bed.”

 The revelation was something of a shock and you looked at the undead man in front of you with a bitter, pitying look.

“You watched her die, didn’t you?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

The horseman scoffed, “That was the curse after all. To terrorise the town for their betrayal. But not her. I used to try call to her from the window, but she never could bare to look at me. Eventually they gave her more cocktails and she stopped coming to the window all together.”

“Jesus Christ.” You cursed.

“Such foul language.” Alcott sneered as he snapped the diary shut in his gloved hand, “She died from the madness and grief. That is the fault of the town and its yet another reason to run into each of these homes and tear their heads from their bodies.” Alcott spat furiously. As fury overtook him you could see the white scarred seem of where his head had been replaced burning with smoke the purple fumes puffing from it like a new wound before his neck popped and cracked, sending his head to the left, hanging on by a thread of flesh to the other side. You let out a screech and clasped your mouth as the horseman gurgled and reached for his head, grasping it by the hair before he groaned and dragged it back into place, snapping the vertebrae back into place with a twist and a squelch of bloodied tissue. It cracked again quickly, and Alcott held the top of his hair tightly with a groan as the smoke poured from his mouth and his head twisted backwards like a ghoul, spinning on his neck before it snapped again and came free, rolling over the floor to your feet as a skull. The flesh and hair melted in waves of muck from its surface, and you shakily took hold of the skull again.

 The horseman stumbled left and right as he reached towards you for his head.

“MY HEAD, WITCH!” He howled at you, but you dashed back up the porch steps and held it protectively.

“You are under my command. Anything against my wishes is against our contract...so you lose your head. Do you hear me horseman?” You blagged, hoping you were right, “So there will be no killing.”

“Evil, corrupt creature. I'll hang you by your feet and bleed you from the neck!” Alcott threatened as fire and smoke poured from his throbbing trachea. The smoke puffed before he went sent to the floor in agony, the black oak behind him creaking and swaying left and right as though the roots were snaking towards him. Sure enough, the ground rumbled, and the black oak’s roots exploded from the ground, snagging the horseman by his wrists and ankles hoisting him into the air as the branches hissed and his mount, Mallor, brayed and screamed, blood spraying over the fence from the horses broken throat.

 It was a curse. You should have expected as much, but you shook as the tree cinched the man’s limbs, holding them tight before it pulled, making him scream in agony as his joints were pulled tight.

“Stop!” You screamed, and the tree stopped pulling, holding the horseman aloft still as it swayed and bent towards you, its branches touching your head as though trying to figure out who you were.

“He is mine.” You told the tree, “He will obey and submit to the laws of his contract.”

The tree groaned, it’s roots wiggling in the cold, hard earth for a moment before it dropped Alcott like a sack of grain and settled down quietly, smacking at the horse inching closer to its trunk.

Alcott touched at his neck as he rose, swaying as he cracked and snapped his joints back into place like a disjointed puppet.

“Are you going to play nice now?” You asked as the man wheezed in front of you. When he nodded you offered him his skull back and watched the skin and flesh cover its surface again before he snarled behind his curtain of overgrown hair, blackberry-coloured lights burning the void of his eyes.

“You truly are her kin if that disgusting thing listens to you.” He snapped as he headed for his horse and mounted the saddle with a quick bounce on one powerful leg, his thighs locking tight around the beast’s sides as it bucked and brayed. Alcott turned his horse and tipped his head with a wave of purple smoke and fire, “Call on me then, witch, and see what havoc I can wreak for you.” Alcott laughed bitterly as he turned Mallor onto the cobbled drive and rode onto the road, his face becoming bone and flesh intermittently as the clouds passed overhead.

“I’m not a witch!” You screamed after the horseman, but he was gone into the mist and the trees, unlikely to have heard you cursing against the stairs of the porch as you collapsed.

[doctorofmagic]

No Way Home Review By A Strange Stan‘s POV

Spoilers under the cut

WHAT A MOVIE, MY FRIENDS, WHAT A MOVIE!!!

Before we start, I just wanted to say that I hate, HATE, the person who edited the trailer. You can rot in Mephisto’s realm and no one, not even Stephen, will save you. You baited me into believing Stephen would go against Wong, that he’d be the one to mess up the spell, that he’d be cold and uncaring. YOU BINCH, YOU DARE PLAY WITH MY HEART LIKE THIS? I had to endure Wendy stans for weeks ughhh.

Okay, now back to the real deal. I’m not focusing that much on Peter(s) because this is a Stephen blog, but rest assured, I’ve never screamed so much in a theater before. Fanservice at its finest *chef’s kiss*

First thing that I loved is how Wong and Stephen are still keep bickering at each other married even though Stephen was blipped. And speaking of which, I also love the fact that Wong, THAT’S RIGHT, WONG IS THE SORCERER SUPREME, AS HE SHOULD BE!!! I just think he deserves more than Stephen when it comes to the MCU, ngl. And this is also important for representation so let’s keep it this way, shall we? It doesn’t change a thing for Stephen, he’ll still be the sassiest and more depressed one, as he should.

Next, Stephen totally asks permission to Wong to perform the spell. AND WONG JUST MELTS TO HIS PUPPY EYES AND SAYS “Okay, fine,” BEFORE LEAVING. HE’S SO AOHDOHFEWOG I LOVE THIS BASTARD SO MUCH. And then he winks, VERY DIFFERENT FROM THAT THE TRAILER SOLD US, I’LL INSIST ON THIS MATTER BECAUSE I’M OUTRAGED.

Another important thing is the fact that Stephen did nothing wrong. He had Wong’s permission (Sorcerer Supreme),  AND he was performing the spell correctly until Peter interrupted him and tampered with the spell SIX (five) TIMES. He did what he could to prevent the spell from collapsing reality but of course there would be side effects. It’s magic, after all. I do not blame Stephen for being mad at Peter, he even realizes Peter is still a teenager and has much to learn, but he’s right. I’m sorry, MJ, I love you, but that was not on him. And I still don’t like the “Scooby-Doo this shit”, it feels so OOC lmao. But okay, fine.

Now, one thing that made me a little.... wary and iffy is how Stephen didn’t give Peter a shot at trying and changing the Sinister Six (Five?). 616 Stephen would totally agree with Peter on this matter because he believes in people’s inherent good. Hell, he has been given a second chance, it’s too much of arrogance and lack of empathy to believe others can’t have that too. Also completely convenient how Stephen loses the battle to “science” when it’s ALWAYS the other way around haha. I didn’t catch how he remained trapped in the mirror dimension for twelve hours if he could, you know, get rid of the webs and teleport back even without the ring? But I don’t mind that because it was important to bring TOBEY FUCKING MAGUIRE AND ANDREW FUCKING GARFIELD to the movie, so I pretend I do not see it.

And speaking of which... I don’t mind Ned learning magic that easily at all. Many magic users are more intimate with magic than others. Also, the most important thing to perform magic is to believe. That plot in Fantastic Four v1 #500-501 is amazing to show how Reed, a man whose most fundamental trait is his love for science, can learn magic in a day if he truly believes in it. Besides, Ned’s magic is not perfect, for he accidentally brings the “wrong” Peters to their universe. I’d love to see Ned as a magic user, ngl.

When Stephen finally rejoins the drama, the multiverse is collapsing. Can I just say how heartbroken he looks when the sky is cracking? And then, when Peter asks him to erase everyone’s memories, you can just see in his eyes that he’ll miss Peter. When he says “we” instead of “they”, it means that he also cares for Peter. He almost ruined his eyeliner there with a tear, I could tell heh (beautiful makeup btw, I need more. Make it more evident please?)

And lastly.... THE LEAKED TRAILER WAS ACTUALLY THE LAST SECOND CREDIT SCENE AFTER ALL. I already watched it and ngl, the leaks I read are turning more and more real. Something went haywire with the spell, OR it’s all planned. I’m still cautious with the movie because 1) too many characters and 2) fuck Sam Raimi, but the trailer brings a little bit of relief. AND GODS, Y’ALL KNOW I DON’T SIMP FOR BENEDICT BUT HE’S SO DADDY AND STEPHEN IN THAT TRAILER, WHAT THE HELL. Also, if the leaks are real, I’ll be SO satisfied. And oh, that’s right. EVIL STEPHEN!!! I mean, he didn’t sound as the What If? version of him, he was kinda scarier and creepier? But maybe it’s just the trailer baiting me again for I know he won’t be the main villain.

But hey, Rintrah confirmed! And hopefully Clea as well. Some of the other toys, by the way, are not part of the movie, like Sleepwalker and D’yspayre. Shuma-Gorath is confirmed, tho. And if you ask me if I understood the plot... I’ll answer: NO, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON. Christine getting married finally gives me room to breathe. I mean, she still could become Clea, but then she wouldn’t be Stephen’s love interest, unless they go for “sudden realization I love him more than my actual husband”, which will make me SO SO SO enraged. Just let them be two different characters, please? I can’t talk about Mordo without spoilers within spoilers so I’ll keep that to myself. Same goes for Wanda.

Lastly, imagine feeling like the ultimate clown for believing Stephen was Mephisto HHAHAHAHAHAHA YOU’RE ALL SO OUT OF YOUR LEAGUES, PLEASE. Perhaps allow the actual fans to elaborate theories next time? The embarrassment will not be that overwhelming, I assure you. #notmystephenmyass

PS: I’d love love love to talk more about the Peters and the Sinister Six, honestly. I’ve always believed Otto would still be alive somehow when I was a kid, and against all the odds my dream came true? I’ve always manifested the F4 to go back to Marvel as well so they could have a decent movie and honestly, after this experience, I trust the director. The emotional burden Holland’s Peter has been through in this movie is just SO on point. I cried with him, and I cried with Andrew’s and Tobey’s. And speaking of Andrew, I was just SO happy for him. You could see the bright in his eyes, and that cannot be faked. He was genuinely so happy for being there and he has all my support and love. Also they actually used the Sinister Six in a way that you could see character’s development, especially Otto and Norman. Max was a delight as well, and the little tease about Miles Morales made everyone in the theater scream, me included. Only thing is, I’ll definitely have to watch Venom now because I haven’t yet lmao.

AND HOW COULD I FORGET? MY BELOVED MATTHEW MURDOCK, MY SWEETEST LITTLE MEOW MEOW, PART OF THE MCU??? I just feel Punisher will be around after that. The Midnight Sons project is slowly taking shape. Blade, MK, Ghost Rider, I need y’all to manifest!!

And that’s it. I just really loved this movie and I’m so grateful Stephen is there to be part of this incredible experience, and he’s on point too! Not the best Stephen’s characterization in the world but it’s decent, it’s valid. Top 5 easy!! I’ll definitely rewatch it asap to catch more details and easter eggs, for sure!!

[ygo-is-gayer-than-i-remember]

Yugioctober Day 28: Is Burning People Alive That Bad If It’s to Save Your Friends?

(Prompt list)  (Read it here on Ao3!)

Summary: During a slumber party, the nerds go around sharing memories of the moments they're the least proud of.

Mokuba’s jaw hit the floor.�� “You what?!”

“Look, I was in a very different state of mind back then!” Atem argued.  “Anzu was in danger!  And it wasn’t real fire, it only felt like he was...lit on fire.”

He cringed at the memory of how destructive his first few months out of the Puzzle had been.  It was difficult for him to decide whether or not he was more ashamed or afraid of what he had been back then, but however he felt, he would much rather erase it from history.  Still, Yugi had a point when they first discussed it in detail.  That had been a part of his journey to where he was today.  An unsavory part, yes, but a part he nonetheless had to accept.

That’s what everyone had decided to do, he supposed.  All of them were sitting around the parlor in Kaiba manor in their pajamas, blankets and pillows bundled up like little islands around each person.  A game of truth or dare had led to the question of what the worst thing he had done after escaping the Puzzle was, and seeing how uncomfortable the question had made him, the group had unanimously (albeit reluctantly for some) agreed to share their most embarrassing or shameful moments in response.

Atem was going to make sure they all held up their end of the bargain.

With a glance at Yugi, a dark blush crossed his face.  “I um...I guess mine would be how I acted like a huge perv my freshman year.  It was super gross and not me at all, but I felt like I had to prove myself as a ‘real man’ by acting like all the other guys at school.  Not that that excuses it.  Most of my sophomore year was spent apologizing to a bunch of the girls at school.”

“The important part is you realized it was wrong and grew out of it,” Anzu assured him.  Atem couldn’t help but agree and mirror her soft smile.

All eyes turned to Jounouchi, who held his hands up in mock surrender.  “Tossin’ Yugi’s puzzle piece outta the window, hands down.  How ‘bout you, Honda?”

“Anything that happened while I was a robot monkey.”  Honda visibly shuddered.  “I still have nightmares about it.”

Otogi squirmed under everyone’s collective gaze.  “Do I really need to say it?  I think we all know.”

The group eyed one another and silently decided to let it slide.  Atem, for one, didn’t want to think about that horrific incident any more than necessary, and it seemed the others shared his feelings.  Just bringing it up forced a lump into his throat.  One of his hands slipped into Yugi’s to make sure he was still there, safe and sound.  Yugi smoothed his thumb over the back of Atem’s hand, a simple gesture that worked like a spell to calm Atem’s nerves.  With the dreadful memory left behind, the spotlight shone on Anzu.

“Oh god, probably that stupid feud I had with Rebecca over Yugi.”  Anzu laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment.  “I mean, how ridiculous was that?  She was literally half our age and he was taken anyway!”

Atem’s cheeks warmed, and Yugi offered her an apologetic shrug.

Ryou had a bit of a hard time figuring out how to answer the question, understandably so considering how little he retained from the first few years with the group.  “I would say that time in the cave at Duelist Kingdom when I got run over by that giant inflatable boulder.  It took me almost five minutes to realize I wasn’t dead, I was petrified!”

Yugi, Anzu, and Honda groaned, and Yugi reminded them, “Remember how we got cornered and Honda decided the best way to defend ourselves was to punch the giant rock?”

“Well it worked didn’t it?!”  Trying to deflect everyone’s laughter off of him, he shifted attention to the next participant.  “Mokuba, it’s your turn!”

“Hmmm…”  Mokuba rubbed his chin with his hand.  “Maybe how I went after Yugi and Atem the first time they beat Seto?  I was a real amateur at Duel Monsters and only did it ‘cause I was angry.  Then I figured out how cool they were!”

Yugi and Atem matched Mokuba’s bright smile, but only for a moment.  A noticeable tension filled the air as the group focused on the final member.

Seto refused to meet anyone’s eyes, opting instead to hunch over with his elbows on his knees and stare down at the floor.  Atem’s heart ached seeing Seto so distressed, but he understood.  The question was just as loaded for him as it was for Atem, only the people who Seto’s misdeeds had targeted were the same people sitting around him.  Yugi seemed to be following the same train of thought because he stood up, his hand still in Atem’s, and guided them both to sit on the couch next to Seto.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Yugi told him softly.

“No, I know what it is, it’s just stupid considering all the shit I’ve done.”  Seto shook his head, a sad smile on his face.  “I don’t know why it sticks out to me so much but...when I hit you in the face with my briefcase.”

Yugi’s eyes softened.  “Seto--”

“Really?”  Seto and Yugi’s gaze broke to look at Jounouchi.  “I would have thought it was that ugly green hair dye.”

Yugi tried to muffle his snort behind his hand but managed to get a glare from Seto instead.  Atem rolled his eyes.  Seto knew just as well as anyone his hair had been hideous.

Their previously tender moment returned when Atem set a hand on Seto’s shoulder, smiling from behind Yugi.  Seto knew he had made mistakes.  They all had, Atem knew that better than anyone.  Seto put his hand over Atem’s, and his other hand found Yugi’s, safe in the fact that he had been forgiven long ago by the people he had wronged.

Yugi leaned over to peck Seto on the cheek.  “Just promise me you won’t ever do it again, hm?”

“Only if he promises not to set me on fire if I do.”

Atem almost slapped Seto in the face as he threw his arms over his head.  “It happened one time!  Once!”

“Twice.”

At Yugi’s correction, several voices cried out, “Twice?!”

Atem dragged his hands down his face, snickering in spite of himself.  It was going to be a long night.

[ilyrafe]

𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒚 ✧ 𝒄𝒉 𝑰𝑰𝑰

pairing: charles brandon x duchess!reader

warnings: sexual innuendos, minor angst, cheating (brief)

word count: 1,5k

taglist: @runawayolives @kmuir1 @marytudorbrandon @lharrietg @shittingdicknipple @alexa-fangirl-forever @mis-lil-red @amberangel112 @ohmygoodie @itmejado @radaofrivia @scarlets-widow @ragamuffin285​ @thereisa8ella​ @​​titty-teetee 

redamancy masterlist | main masterlist

a cold breeze enters the small room through the window gaps, and chills rise to the surface of her skin as his fingertips come in contact with her bare back. his fingers run from top to bottom, caressing her gently. the sound of his heartbeats send her into ease, though everything around her tells them that after that moment, her life will be a torment.

that place is no longer sacred. it breaks her heart to know that this is the last time she will see james, and it’s impossible to accept her fate. as she lies next to the man she loves, y/n tries to absorb as much of him as she possibly can.

“how am i supposed to exist without you?” she asks.

“you will be happier.” he assures as he tightens his embrace around her body. “you will have a happy life. you will have everything you’ll ever need, and with that thought in mind, i know i can rest assured you’ll be protected.”

“nonsense.” she mumbles and sinks down onto his body. “my only chance of happiness is you, james.”

her words hurt more than a knife crossing his heart. as much as he wants to convince himself that she will have a much better life than he could ever give to her, james is shattered. deep down, he hoped her parents would accept their romance, but he doesn’t have much to offer, only his heart and love.

after long months lying hidden, the arranged marriage between her and the duke of suffolk had been announced, and now her fate has been traced in the way she least wanted. y/n had decided to devote to james, even from afar.

“i want you to know that i will always love you. no matter that another man is destined for you, i love you as i never loved anyone and i will never love anyone else. you are the light that illuminates my day, y/n. i want you to promise me you will be happy.” he states, gently cupping her chin, staring directly into her eyes.

“only if you promise me you will never forget me, because i will never erase you from my memory.”

“i promise.”

her memories bring the feeling of longing, and she can not blame anyone but herself for keeping thinking about him. every day she daydreams about the moment when james will invade the castle, he will duel with charles and he will win, and as in fairy tales, they will leave together on a horse to live happily ever after... however, this is not a fairy tale, it is the real world and it is just sad that even her attempts to not get depressed are just failures.

when she finally sends the letter, she feels a little hopeful; maybe things will change. as the days go by, y/n feels more and more daring and bold, so running away isn’t completely out of the question.

even without knowing if she can trust those around her, she is prepared to give answers to whoever is needed. the need to get cards up her sleeve all the time is exhausting and stressful. she’s not the kind of person who lives on the defensive, but she feels forced to defend herself from everything and everyone, since that castle looks more like a minefield.

with each passing day, she loses herself, and it is much more painful when she feels her very own essence slipping away from her hands.

 before taking her daily sunbathing, she stops by the library to pick up a book. she runs her finger over the titles, pondering which issue she will pick today. she doesn’t know if charles has ever read any of the books, but he has good literary taste.

before leaving the room, one of her ladies-in-waiting surprises her with her presence.

“my most sincere apologies, your grace. the duke wishes to know if you’ve had breakfast today.” her sweet, yet apologetic voice says.

the young looking woman bows down to the duchess and y/n nods, signaling that she may stand.

“no, not yet.” y/n responds.

it is clear how frightened everyone around her is by her presence. perhaps she should be less hostile, they’re not to blame for anything.

“do you wish to have breakfast in your quarters?”

“no, i would like to eat in the garden, actually.”

“that will be arranged, your grace. what shall i communicate to the duke?”

she thinks for a few seconds and smiles as she elaborates an answer. “tell him i am feeling much better.” the lady-in-waiting nods, but y/n stops her from leaving. “may i ask your name?”

“my name is beatrice, your grace.”

“beatrice. it is a beautiful name.”

“thank you, your grace.”

y/n smiles shortly and beatrice leaves, possibly to charles’ office, or wherever he is at the moment. she is anything but foolish, something must have happened for charles have sent a servant. no flowers or cards with proposal nonsense... the less contact with him, the better.

fortunately, at least for charles, there are not so many important things to do on the day, so with his free time, he goes to visit the horses at the stable, a great passion of his.

meredith is still in his mind, and he plans to see her again tonight. the lack of guilt scares him, but he tries to distract himself from the fact that his marriage is just an exchange of favors.

whenever he thinks about y/n’s father, his blood boils in his veins, and deep down, he can empathize with her. he would certainly loathe having to do something against his will for the rest of his life. unconsciously, charles respects her every wish because he knows she cannot be any more miserable than she already is.

the same way she knows about his life, charles sought to know about hers, and he came to the conclusion that she is a young woman like few others. he knows a lot of women, and y/n certainly stands out, not just for her beauty, but for being an intelligent person who seems to see the world in a different lense. the fact that her father is embarrassed that his daughter has wanted to fight for the downtrodden since she was just a child says more about the kind of person he is.

he can’t help but be intrigued by her. she certainly has a strong personality, and oddly enough, he admires that. of course, she usually takes all her frustrations out on him, but he can’t help but see that it takes courage to be bold.

one of his great faults is that charles cannot stand being hated, despised by others. there is a great need to get affection from people, even if he doesn’t even know it, so having to live with his wife’s brutality and neglect is difficult.

as he caresses his horse, one of his messengers enters the stable with a paper in hand, it looks like a letter.

“your grace, an invitation from the king has just arrived.”

on opening the paper with the royal seal, the duke reads the invitation to a party to celebrate the birthday of his new wife in two months, and the presence of him and the duchess is required. he knows it is just an extravaganza of henry’s, however, he cannot not go. it remains to be seen whether y/n will want to accompany him.

a tired sigh leaves his lips when he begins to imagine the conversation he’ll need to have in order to convince her to go. even the idea of talking is draining.

after thanking and dismissing the messenger, the duke mentally prepares to speak again with the duchess.

he goes into the garden but doesn’t find her. so, he goes to the library and she is not there either. perhaps she is in the piano room, but when he gets there, he finds the room without anyone. in fact, the room is the same as it was months ago, before the wedding. frustrated, he heads to the door, but ends up meeting with beatrice.

“oh, do you know your grace’s whereabouts?”

“the duchess is in her chambers, your grace. she requested no one would interrupt her.”

he knows it’s not worth insisting on speaking to her at the moment, and he doesn’t need to inform her about a party that won’t happen anytime soon.

in her chambers, the duchess concentrates on writing another letter to james. her anxiety can barely be controlled as she needs news from him to move on. it’s hard to accept that she relies on a mere piece of paper in her beloved james’s handwriting to get her to feel at least not as sad.

she will wait another two days, if she doesn’t get any answers until then, she will send another letter. she fears for james’ life as she knows what her father is capable of.

(...)

as soon as night comes and the moon decorates the sky with thousands and thousands of stars, charles heads to the brothel again, and as usual, there is meredith. her sensual charm and her lack of formality attracts him in an inexplicable way. it even seems that she is already waiting for her favorite customer.

“to what do i owe the honor, my lord?” she asks with a smirk on her face.

--

feedback is always appreciated!

[chaozsilhouette]

Moonlit Musings

The night is such a perfect time to face one’s darkest truths. Shrouded in the moon’s light what can one do but admit to their flaws. It can be a time of rejuvenation and rebirth, only if you let it.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

It was a quiet night.

The full moon hung high in the heavens accompanied by millions of stars. Not a cloud to be seen, an ideal night for passions to run wild. Normally people would be taking out their telescopes or arranging romantic picnics.

Sadly, nights like these only filled Sun Wukong with dread. It was a night like this when he was finally able to return after the Journey. That was the night he learned he had lost a precious treasure.

When he returned, he expected to be greeted by his subjects until Macaque showed himself. He expected to be strangled as the pale furred monkie admonished him for his recklessness. He expected to watch as fury transformed into tearful joy as they embraced one another for the first time in over five hundred years.

But that wasn’t what happened.

The moment he set foot back onto Flower Fruit Mountain, he sensed something was very wrong. Like his previous return trips, his subjects greeted him with loud celebrations. The new mothers showed off their infants. The young ones wasted no time climbing all over him, taking in the scent of their king.

The immortal elders, however, looked concerned.

That was when he realized Macaque’s scent on the mountain was far too faint. Even the magical signature of his clones no longer felt fresh.

Macaque was nowhere to be found. The monkeys reported Macaque had returned a few years after he stopped by the mountain earlier in the Journey but not as his usual self. He didn’t respond to any of their questions. He didn’t even take time to check in on the infants. He didn’t say a word.

He just entered the mansion, but no one saw him leave.

Entering the mansion, Wukong dashed to their room desperate for answers. Opening the doors, he saw the room was horribly empty, sure all of his belonging were exactly as he remembered them, but all of Macaque’s stuff was gone. Macaque’s closet was empty and all his books had vanished. Despite his desperate hopes, there wasn’t any signs of a struggle or hidden messages to be found.

Macaque left of his own free will, but why?

He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the bed they shared so many nights together. Every time he dared, he awoke expect to be greeted with the comforting warmth of familiar presence, instead he opened his eyes to a cold emptiness.

The lack of answers broke his heart, but he didn’t have time to start tearing the landscape apart trying to find him. Now that he was back for good, he had so many responsibilities to catch up on. He was determined to be a good king for his subjects and that meant ughthinking things through. Plus, he wanted to spend as much time with his master and brothers as possible.

Then there was the concerning fact all his previous allies had severed their alliance with him.

Apparently after all the fuss with the Demon Bull King, word had spread that Wukong broke their alliance by disrespecting protocol and attacking the royal family. Plus, his new position as a defender of humanity annoyed more than a few respectable demons. Combined with the sheer number of powerful demons he killed on the Journey cemented the idea that having an alliance with him would only end poorly.

He was banned from court meetings and the other kings in the surrounding areas wanted nothing to do with him. The chaotic nature of his past had finally caught up to him and in the worst possible way.

He was still recognized as the Monkey King of the Sun Court but was effectively blacklisted. No one wanted to mess with him, but they also didn’t want to interact with him. Not good for his mental health to say the least.

Simians are naturally social creatures. Wukong was used to constantly being around other people and learning new things. His time imprisoned was not kind. His first year of freedom had him constantly climbing over his brothers and master just to reassure himself that this was real.

And now that he couldn’t reconnect with old faces unless it was through a battle to the death…It forced him to delve into old memories. Memories that while sweet only made the emptiness more pronounced.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

Sun Wukong smiled as he watched Macaque’s reaction.

The six-eared monkie was furiously pinching the bridge between his eyebrows after he shattered a boulder with a careless headbutt as though it would make his life mercifully easier. “You’ll have to explain it to me again. What did you mean by ‘no longer under Yama’s jurisdiction’?”

“Exactly what I said. I was napping. Having some time to myself, when out of nowhere some idiots tried to take my soul to the afterlife.” Wukong explained as though having entities of death rip out your soul to drag it to the underworld was no big deal.

“Bet you weren’t happy.” Macaque couldn’t help but smirk at the flippant tone. He just made it so difficult to stay mad.

“Not in the slightest. I barged my way to the top brass, bunch of cowards called the Ten Kings (totally undeserved titles by the way) and demanded what the fuck was going on.” He was still ticked off even if the payoff was sweet. Seriously! Did immortality mean nothing to these cowards? They couldn’t even play it off as him dying in battle. He was in the peak of his youth! “Can you believe they tried to play it off as a misunderstanding? Should have smacked the loudmouth when I was there.”

“So, through a series of ridiculous events, you erased your name from the records of the dead.” Macaque could easily piece together the rest from there. No matter how ridiculous the odds. He learned never to bet against his friend when a problem could be handled with brute strength or intimidation. If it didn’t look like such an answer was possible, clearly, they hadn’t experienced the force of a determined Wukong. Something about facing a ticked off monkie of practically infinite strength and invulnerability left harden conquerors pissing themselves.

It was hilarious.

“Not just mine. In my infinite wisdom, I erased the names of several of the monkey inhabitants of esteemed Flower Fruit Mountain, including yours.” Wukong playfully booped Macaque’s nose.

Turning away to hide a light blush, Macaque scoffed to cover his embarrassing response. “Typical. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you doing something insane.”

“I know. I’m just that awesome.”

“So what? Are we now double immortal?” That was the question wasn’t it. Due to their master’s instructions, they were immortal and ageless, so what exactly would this give them? He didn’t feel any different. He couldn’t sense any new powers or changes in his instincts.

His counterpart, however, had other things on his mind. “Who cares. All I know is that those idiots have no control over our souls anymore.” And with that the King took his rightful place across Macaque’s lap as the other returned to his scrolls.

Wukong instead took the time to examine his friend, who finally gained enough confidence to fully drop his glamour and embrace his true appearance.

He still couldn’t believe Macaque actually had six ears. The weird part was how natural they looked, almost as if seeing him with only two was bizarre. The coolest part was how each pair softly glowed a different color. Blue. Purple. Red. Sometimes Wukong would just stare at them, imagining that he could see glittering stars emanating from that glow.

Suddenly those magnificent ears twitched. Macaque didn’t bother looking up from the bamboo scroll. “A trespasser...multiple, boar and vulture demon. Another hunting party”.

“Again. Ugh. Don’t these idiots ever give up!” Don’t get him wrong, Wukong loved a good fight. What better way to prove how superior you are to others than to steal what’s most precious to them? But even he was starting to grow bored with the sheer number of hunters that thought kidnapping his subjects was a quick cash grab.

After the fifth army he returned in pieces to the surrounding upstart lords, you’d think they’d take a hint.

Thankfully he wasn’t the only powerhouse on the mountain. “I haven’t tasted blood in a while. Why don’t I defend the kingdom while your highness enjoys a show?” Macaque set aside his reading material, eyes glittering with bloodlust.

Wukong returned the smirk with one of his own. “I’m always up for a good thrashing. One request: make it glorious.”

“Don’t I always.” Macaque joked as he retrieved his spear from his own shadow.

Wukong summoned his cloud and claimed a good vantage point. Once again, he marveled at his friend’s hearing. Judging by the distance it would have been at least three hours before he would have detected their presence.

Kicking back, he transformed some hair into a fruit platter and waited for the screams.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

To this day, Wukong knew Macaque was alive. Thanks to his efforts combined with the intense training, the monkie was double immortal. Besides, that monkkie was way too stubborn to die. He would survive purely on spite if he had to.

Macaque left, but why?

While he may have effectively isolated himself, that didn’t mean he didn’t hear about the other courts. A few centuries ago, he heard rumors about the formation of a new court by someone under the title of the Macaque King. Supposedly they were a powerful monkie who knew way more than he had the right to. For a brief moment, Wukong dared to hope it was his old friend, but it didn’t last. The few recounts he caught described him with black fur. Besides, he knew how much Macaque hated the title of King. Even when Wukong offered him the position as co-ruler of his kingdom, the pale monkie adamantly refused.

Still, he was curious.

For a few weeks he could have sworn he detected a familiar scent hiding underneath Mk’s. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few of the immortal monkeys questioned him on the mango infused scent and what his plans were. It was almost too much to take in.

To think he returned to teach his student instead of showing his face. It hurt just to think about it. He chose to ignore the beckoning scent until it became impossible to ignore MK’s leap in progress. Then it just vanished like it hadn’t been testing his patience. Like it hadn’t brought him to the brink of shaking the kid upside down until he confessed where his old friend was hiding. The kid probably grew wise, or someone told him to change his bathing habits, and by the next training session it was all but gone.

Dragging his hand down his face, Wukong tried to reevaluate his thoughts.

Getting mad at the kid wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew he hadn’t been the most attentive master. Hell, the whole hammer exercise at its core was a desperate attempt to remove a painful reminder of better times. His master would be disappointed in how he was running away from his problems, but would encourage him to take the steps to be better. Zhu Bajie would be a sarcastic little shit, trying to get him riled up so the monkie would prove him wrong. Sha Wujing would sit him down and wouldn’t let him leave until they talked everything through.

He had to make things right with the kid. He deserved a better master. And this New Years he was gonna get one.

He spoke, praying the winds would carry his voice to his Warrior.

“Macaque. I know it’s been a while, but…I-I want to talk. I know you’re out there, somewhere I can’t reach. I miss sparring with you. I miss lazy days napping in the shade by your side. I miss defending the mountain as we held contests to see who could take out the most trespassers before their common sense kicked in. I miss you. Please come home.”

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

The moon was high in the sky. Stars danced in the heavens as the faintest hints of vibrations pulsed through the concrete from the late-night dance clubs. MK lay awake, his mind struggling to make sense of it all.

Ever since Macaque disappeared in order to remain undetected, he kept thinking about his relationship with the Monkey King. Sure, he was being trained and he was definitely making progress. The monkie was still on his case for supposedly cheating on him with another mentor. Nothing MK said or did could make the monkie think otherwise. Thankfully, he was no longer shooting him suspicious glares, but the underlying tension remained.

The sad truth is they just weren’t that close.

He would have expected to learn more about the Monkey King on a personal and emotional level, but he just couldn’t get past that wall. Their training sessions felt more like just the Monkey King arranged just to get it over with. There was no passion at all.

Okay, perhaps that last bit was an exaggeration.

When you peered past the arrogance and pride, you found one socially awkward monkie. It was similar to Red Son the more he thought about it, both seemed to find it difficult to talk to or relate to others in a friendly setting. Sure, Monkey King projected a friendly demeanor and called him “bud”, but if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn the monkie was afraid to take that final step.

The last few sessions had taken a bit of a turn in a positive direction as Sandy would say. Maybe Monkey King decided it was time to make a change? Maybe this was all a trick so MK would lower his guard and reveal Macaque’s identity? Maybe he was just tired and should have conked out an hour ago?

Maybe.

Reality was so different from the legends. When Tang first introduced him to the Monkey stories, he was hooked. He loved listening to the tales of the infamous trickster that flipped off every major religious figure with unbridled confidence. Meeting the Great Sage in the flesh was like a dream come true until he was exposed to the King’s less pleasant tendencies.

Mk couldn’t help but wonder just how much confidence the Monkey King had in his training skills. Did he ever train someone before? Could MK talk to someone about this without appearing even more ungrateful than he already looked? Why didn’t he stop Red Son from unsealing his father when he was there? Why didn’t he simply seal the entire family when they were reunited? Why did the five times immortal sage decide that now he needed to train a disciple? Was Monkey King not telling him something important?

He had so many questions and not even the foggiest idea of where to start looking. Or perhaps he did?

The truth was he missed Macaque. The dark-furred monkie may have only taught him for a month, but the progress he made and the level of care he was exposed to made him feel as though he had finally unlocked the ability to fly.

He missed the regular grooming. He missed learning about the demon community. He missed learning new ways to mess with Red Son through appropriate court manners.

Watching the fire user freeze up at the term “honorable prince of the Iron Bull Court” just made him laugh, when his hair combusted it really matched his face. Now that he thought about it, were those horns starting to peek out of his forehead? And maybe the slightest hint of a tufted tail swiping the bottom of his coat? Seeing the demon frantically compose himself was a treat he didn’t know he needed. He still had the video saved as one of his favorites, didn’t hurt that Mei caught it at the perfect angle.

Oh yeah, he missed that.

With any luck, New Years would be the start of something better.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

On an island that remained surrounded by unquenchable storms, a single black-furred monkie sat cross-legged in a secluded part attached to the palace. All around him fruit trees and bushes bore a hefty bounty releasing an intoxicating scent of life.

Ears twitched.

Macaque opened his eyes, aroused from his meditation. It was odd. He had the faintest sensation that someone had been talking about him. Now that wasn’t exactly unusual, he made plenty of allies and enemies across the centuries. What was odd was that the voice sounded like someone he once cherished.

But that couldn’t be right.

The deceptive silence of his personal orchard gave him no answers. Not that he really expected it to.

For some reason he refused to identify, Macaque turned to the single peach tree in the grove. A tribute from his past and a reminder of his mistakes. But it was also a valuable resource once he learned the truth about the peach’s properties. He used its powers to protect many happy relationships, if only it could have helped him so long ago.

No matter.

He still had many projects to work on, including one successor just rife with insecurities. He honestly felt bad ducking out as he did. If things were different, he would have offered him a new life. His Stars were always happy to welcome a new member into their budding community.

As a bonus, his presence would have interrupted their constant attempts to set him up with new dates. He adored their efforts but being paired with partners who only wanted power or he would view only as friends was not something he enjoyed. Although watching them mentally destroy those they didn’t find suitable for him was quite entertaining.

Either way, New Years was coming up fast and he still needed to approve a few changes. His Stars were determined to make sure this event topped last years in every way possible, but they had to make sure they didn’t set the orchard on fire again. Or worse, they could launch the fireworks into the storm barrier. He wasn’t sure why or how, but the tornadoes and clouds turned different colors as explosions rang throughout the night.

It was beautiful but lost its charm after the third day.

[moons-and-stars-and-shit]

Okayyyy so here’s what I’m Thinking. Bokuto was well known in Tokyo and everyone knew not to mess with him. He met reader at a book shop she worked at. He found her very interesting. The reader is a bit shy. They became friends and started liking each other. She didn’t know that he was in the maifa until she saw him kill someone. He then tired to tell her it’s not what it looked like but reader was afriad of him and ran home. She avoided him for weeks until he showed up at her door with flowers and a bunch of gifts and begged her to talk. - 🍒

𝙼𝚊𝚏𝚒𝚊! 𝙱𝚘𝚔𝚞𝚝𝚘 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝚆: 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛/𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝙶𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝙺𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.5

Oh god

It was moments like these where you wish you could just travel back in time...or at the very least erase your memory...but life won't give you those options, so the only option you have now is to run.

6 Months Ago…

"Ah yes there's nothing quite like this" you thought to yourself flipping to the next page of your favorite book. You really loved working in the local bookshop. Your friends would always joke around how it fitted your “aesthetic” so well. Not that you could disagree though, you couldn't deny that you loved evenings like these, where the rain was pouring outside while you were inside the building reading a book. The faint smell of coffee from the coffee shop next door being the cherry on top to this little vibe you had going on. “Y/n! Do you think you could close up shop for me? I gotta go pick up my brother from practice before this rain gets too crazy". You were brought back into reality by your co-workers request. “Oh for sure! Go ahead.i'll take care of it” you said putting down your book. She thanked you before grabbing her coat and heading outside. You looked up at the clock making a mental note to start closing up in about 20 minutes. Suddenly your train of thought was interrupted by the shop's door opening, causing the little bell on top to jingle. Thinking it was your co-worker you turned around to ask what she had forgotten only to be face to face with a man.

Uhm...Hey! Do you mind if i stay here until this storm dies down?” the male asked you. Giving him a quick look up and down you took notice just how drenched he was, from his grey and black hair dripping and sticking to his face, to his clothes that might as well have been dunked in water with how wet they have gotten. “O-Oh of course! Please come in'' you stuttered after realizing you had been staring at him just a second too long. You quickly ran to the back to grab the blanket you and your co-worker use whenever it gets too cold in the store. Running back to the front you hand the mystery man the blanket. “This won't do much for the clothes but maybe you can at least get your hair dry” you say as he takes the blanket. “Thank You so much!” he said beaming. There was a bit of awkward silence as he dried his hair off, but the silence was broken when he handed you back the blanket. “You're not much of a talker are you?” he said with a light chuckle. He made his way over to one of the reading chars and took a seat, motioning for you to do the same. “Yeah uh...sorry I'm a bit shy! Especially around strangers who just happen to walk into my bookshop” you said making your way to sit next to him. Once you had sat down he looked at you with shining eyes and a oh so bright smile “Well if that's the problem” he said holding his hand out to you ”I'm Bokuto Koutarou!”. You laughed a little at his enthusiasm before grabbing his hand “Well Bokuto, it's nice to meet you, I'm Y/n”

That night was the first of many that you'd be spending with Bokuto, in fact after that night he had become a frequent customer at the bookshop, always coming at the later hours, and always keeping you company whenever you started closing up. Hell he's even taken you out for drinks a couple times after your shift. You have never been one to trust strangers, let alone become good friends with them but shockingly enough, you felt rather comfortable around this strange man. Maybe it was his bright personality, or the way his eyes seemed to sparkle wherever he laid them on you, or even the way that his laugh caused a giggle or two to escape from your own lips. Either way you liked this Bokuto Koutarou, and if only you knew how much Bokuto liked you as well. Lucky both of your feelings would come to light on a night similar to the night Bokuto magically waltzed into your life...

Here you both were, sitting on the very same chairs you had introduced yourselves in. Only this time, you were both reading your respective books. However this peace was soon interrupted by a whiny Bokuto. “Y/nnnn I'm so boredddd” Bokuto said slamming his book shut. You put your bookmark in your book before closing it and looking at his puppy dog eyes ``Y'know for someone who comes into a bookshop so often, you're not that interested in books are you?” you told him with a smirk. “Hey! I'm smart enough without the help of your stinky books'' he said tapping the book against your head.. You grabbed the book from his hands and stuck your tongue out, watching as he plopped back on his self proclaimed “personal reading chair”. “Besides, I only ever really come to this shop to spend time with you”. You blushed at his small comment but not wanting your feelings to get the best of you quite yet, you decided to “test” these waters you were trending in. “What? You got a crush on me or something?” you said giving him a playful nudge. Now it was his turn to blush. It was silent for a beat to long and you were about to take back what you had just said, but you were quickly cut of when Bokuto took your hand, looked you dead in your eyes with a look that sent shivers down your spine “Would you hate me if I did?” he asked you in a soft tone, almost like a child admitting they broke something to their parent, a big contrast from his usual loud and confident voice. Instead of responding you simply squeezed his hand and cupped his face with the other “I would never hate you, especially if i feel the same way about you” Not being able to hold back anymore he simply grabbed your face and pulled you in for a soft but passionate kiss.pulling away he looked at you with all the love in the world “Y/n, I really want to be with you, but… there's a part of my life that you've never seen and I don't want to lose you over that” he told you, his eyes beginning to gloss over. Still pretty confused about what he was talking about you only took his face in your hand once more “Kou I will love you no matter what. Even your ugly parts”. Bokuto pulled you into a hug, trying to hide the tears that were falling freely from his eyes now. “Y-You promise?”

“I Promise”

Present Day

Thinking about that night still caused butterflies to flutter in your stomach. But now as you were running towards your apartment as if you were running from the grim reaper himself you couldn't ignore the feeling of dread that was sitting next to those butterflies. Had you really just seen that? Did you really just see your loving goofball of a boyfriend kill someone? It was supposed to be a normal night. You had closed the shop and were beginning to walk back home when you saw familiar spiky hair across the road. Curiosity had got the best of you, so… you decided to investigate. What you didn't expect to see was your boyfriend holding a gun to a man's head. It had all happened so fast first the crack of the gun, then your scream, then Bokuto's horrified expression as he turned and saw you standing there with your hand over your mouth. Before Bokuto could even try to explain what he had done, you ran. You ran away as if he was going to point the gun at you next.

Finally. Finally you were safe in your apartment. Your lungs felt like they were on fire, and your legs felt like absolute jelly. All you could do was collapse to the floor and break down crying. The scene from earlier replaying over and over in your head, causing you to get even more hysterical. Suddenly your phone started buzzing. You picked it up, as if you didn't already know who it was calling. The image of your boyfriend's face appeared on your screen, he looked nothing like the man who you had just seen commit that heinous deed. Suddenly anger took over your senses and you threw your phone across the room, returning to your fetal position to cry all your emotions out, eventually crying yourself to sleep

When you had finally awoken the sun was rising and the birds outside were singing their spring songs. You pulled yourself off of the floor before making your way to your phone across the room. "Damn it" you thought. Of course you had cracked your screen. Turning the phone on you was bombarded by hundreds of missed calls and text messages from your boyfriend. Could you even call him that any more? Would you really look at the man you saw kill and call him your boyfriend? Opting not to answer any of his messages or return any of his calls, you blocked him and went to go make you some tea, hoping to calm your still frazzled nerves”

The next few days were pretty quiet you hadn't even dared to leave your apartment, let alone even show up at work. You had called out telling your co-worker that you came down with a terrible cold and wouldn't be in for a couple of days. Sitting alone in your apartment during this time really gave you time to think about the events you had witnessed that night. Is this what Bokuto was talking about that night he confessed to you? Is this what he was afraid of losing you over? you couldn't really blame him if it was. But still, he could have at least warned you about this part of his life, or at the very least act like he was a cold blooded killer! You still couldn't bring yourself to think that the man you had cuddled in bed with, the man you had taken walks in the park with, the very man who opted to release a spider instead of killing it, would actually have it in him to kill an actual person. Suddenly your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Still a little on edge you jumped at the sudden sound before that familiar sense of dread flooded your stomach. “Well gotta face the music some time” you breathed out slowly walking towards the door.

When you had opened the door you were practically tackled into a hug by a very hysterical Bokuto. You froze at the sudden contact “How could a man hug you with the very same hands he took someone's life with?" You thought as you gently pushed him off you. “Y/n I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now but-” he was interrupted when you raised your hand. “You have 10 minutes to explain yourself then you either need to leave, or I'm calling the cops” you told him motioning for him to come inside. Bokuto practically jumped at the opportunity to finally explain himself to you and hopefully make you understand why he did what he did.

Each of you took a seat at your dining table. It was time for you to get answers... “Ok for starters, why are you here?” you started staring at him coldly. “Well you weren't answering any of my calls or texts and whenever I stopped by the bookshop you were never there, so I got worried” he replied fiddling with his thumbs. You slowly nodded at his answer. “So are you gonna tell me what the hell happened that night or are you just gonna sit there” you spat at him almost angrily. He flinched at your words before taking a deep breath “Well what did you see?” he asked. That was it for you. You slammed your hands on the table, not able to control your anger any more. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN WHAT DID I SEE?!?!? I SAW YOU FUCKING KILL SOMEONE KOUTAROU!!” you screamed at him standing up from your seat.”I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU!” he shouted back at you, throwing his hands up in the air. You both stared at each other in teary silence. “Y/n please let me explain… then you can hate me or kick me out i don't care! Just please…” you huffed before sitting back down, doing your best to hold back your own tears. “Ok” he said, trying to find a way to tell you everything “My family has always been a part of the mafia” he started, “When I turned 18 it was time for me to “take over” the family business” your mouth fell open, since he was 18? He's been doing this since he was 18? “When I first met you, I never ever wanted to tell you how much you meant to me because I never wanted you to find out about this part of my life, or even worse...I never wanted this part of my life to find out about you” he continued. You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean “find out about me”” you asked him. “I mean, that if my rivals found out about you and I, they would start to come after you”. Your eyes widened at this. “S-so that guy you shot-” “was trying to kill you” he said finishing off your sentence. He then looked up at you, visible tears in his eyes. “I'm so sorry Y/n I never wanted to put you in any sort of danger but-” you had cut him off when you smashed your lips against his. All this time you had thought he killed that man out of cold blood. Not once did you even consider he was doing it for you. He kissed you back before pulling you into the tightest hug. “Y-your not mad?” he blubbered out. “Not anymore,” you said, smiling at him. “ I just wish you would have told me,” you said. “But I didn't want to lose you…” he whispered in your ear. One last time, you took his face into both of your hands. “Bokuto Koutarou I love you” you said, letting the tears fall from your eyes. He laughed a soft laugh “even the ugly parts?” he asked you

“Even the ugly parts”

[alyssadeliv]

The Forgotten One

First ��    Previous

Chapter 6

They won. Just as she knew they would. But still... she lost so much that day. At this point, she should be numb to lose. After all she lost in her life, it should be easy for her to deal with grief, but the feeling of having your chest split open would never go away completely. After Master Fu’s death she had only one goal in mind: find and kill Hawkmoth. It took her six long months until she finally was able to finish what her Master had started. With time and dedication, she was able to gather enough power to be able to tell the exact location of where the villain's energy was coming from. It was a hard thing to do, but Marinette was nothing but determined. She focused all her energy and time on achieving this goal. Making the people around her be concerned for her wellbeing. Knowing about her upbringing her godmother understood her the best, she also never rested until her mission was finished. But the others, especially Tikki and Chat Noir thought she was working herself to exhaustion. They tried their best to help her, but that was something she had to do by herself now that she was the Guardian. 

When the time came, she was ready. She did not ask for the help of the temporary heroes, because she knew she wouldn’t need them. It was only her and Chat in the beginning, so it should be just the two at the end. Between them, she felt confident that they would end victorious. So that’s what they did, on one cloudy day two years after their debut, they marched to where Ladybug swore was Hawkmoth lair. Much to Chat Noir’s displeasure and disbelief they arrived at the famous Gabriel Agreste mansion. After Master Fu’s death, she was supposed to learn the real identity of her partner, but she couldn’t get herself to unmask the person that she trusted with her life. In those two years that they fought together, they formed a very strong bond, not only as partners but as friends as well. She never had a relationship like that with anyone, sure she had trusted people before, but no one except for Damian trusted their life with her. At the time, because she didn’t know who he was, she couldn’t understand his reaction when they arrived at their destination. But she decided to address that after the battle, now she needed her total focus on her task. Big mistake. 

Discovering a secret passage in the designer’s workroom wasn’t a surprise, she had no doubt that it was him, the recluse fashion designer that lost his wife years ago. He fitted the profile, and she should have seen that before. Gabriel Agrest received them not transformed, with his assistant at his side. After their last battle, she had healed, but she would never be the same. His lair was exactly what she imagined it to be, spacious and full of white butterflies flying around. The strange thing was a big recipient in the middle of the room, she could see a woman lying down, in a deep sleep, but had no clue who she was. At her side, her partner stood frozen. Incredulity clearly displayed in his face. 

“So you finally came after me, I had been wondering what was taking you so long” The villain taunted her. “Don’t you see Ladybug? This is the only way! I need my wife again! My son needs her. All I’ve done was to bring my son’s mother back to him. Haven't you lost someone you loved? Experienced grief? With your help we can bring them back, all I need is your’s and Chat Noir’s Miraculous!”

She felt her blood burning through her veins. How dare he try this on her. No one knew grief better than her. At only fifteen she lost someone she thought to be her other half. After years of training him, it was almost impossible to not get attached. Only to have him be disposed of by her own grandfather after he discovered the true nature of their relationship, her best-kept secret. At least according to her mother, he wasn’t dead, but you could never be so sure. After that, it was as if a door had been open, year after year she lost someone new. First, she lost her mother and brother - Even if they were not dead, she couldn’t be with them, then her Master, she should have known more would come.

Enraged she didn’t waste any time. She attacked, engaging HawkMoth into battle. 

“Very well. We’ll do it the hard way.” And then he called in his transformation. Immediately blocking her first strike. 

She wasn’t sure what was happening behind her, but she heard Mayura calling her transformation as well so she could only assume her partner had engaged in battle as well. But then the peacock wielder advanced onto her. Fighting two opponents at the same time wasn’t supposed to be difficult, not after all her training, but adding the fact that their Miraculous made them stronger certainly complicated things. 

“Chat! Where are you?” She yelled, dodging Hawnkmoth’s staff. She threw her weapon at Mayura, and after it curled around her left ankle she pulled, sending her flying in the designer direction. They collided.

It gave her enough time to search for her friend. He was sitting in front of the unknown sleeping woman. His hand resting in the glass. He had tears running down his face, and it broke her heart to see him so lost.

Distracted, she felt a blow on her side, and it sent her to the ground. Using that to her gain Mayura attacked, Marinette reacted fast, but not fast enough using her fan the villainess was able to cut her in the right cheek. Ladybug chastised herself, she was distracted by her partner's odd behavior and was allowing them to hurt her.

“Father! Stop!” Relishing his transformation Chat Noir was gone.

In his place stood Adrien Agreste. A shy boy she had met a couple of times when he went to the bakery with his friend. So different from his secret persona, she never even suspected him to be the cat miraculous wielder. She was shocked, but she was glad she wasn’t the only one. Hawkmoth had an expression of shock and unbelief. 

And that’s when things lost control. Sometimes when she fought she lost herself in it and everything would be a blur at the end. She just knew that when it all ended she stood beside Mayura’s body. Adrien knocked unconscious and no sight of Gabriel Agreste. It was only the fact that she was holding the butterfly miraculous that she relaxed. With adrenaline pumping in her system, she approached the sleeping woman, who she now knew to be Adrien’s Mother. Something inside of her was humming, ordering to reach the woman. So that’s what she did. The rush of energy that left her was overwhelmed. She felt so full and invincible. To her surprise, the woman woke up. 

After that things calmed down. She finally found the two missing pieces of the Miraculous box.

But that didn’t mean she was finished. Somehow Gabriel scaped, leaving his son and wife behind. She knew from experience he would not be returning any time soon. Too afraid to fight her without his powers.

She still needed to go after him.

So that’s what she did.

She decided to bury Nathalie herself. Even after her bad choices in life, Marinette felt that she still deserved to rest somewhere, so she chose a small cemetery just outside of Paris that would do. She packed her things and said her goodbyes to her godmother and her husband. But she only really left after making sure that Adrien and his mother were safe. She left him a way to contact her, no matter where she was. Revealing her identity to him would be too dangerous at the moment with Hawkmoth free, he was unhappy but he understood. Discovering that his Father was the one that had been terrorizing Paris for almost two full years clearly changed the way he saw the world. And he was truly surprised when she told him she would not reveal who his father really was. He just got his Mother back, he didn’t need to suffer from the actions of his selfish father. She still trusted him, and she made sure he knew. 

Leaving Paris was surprisingly difficult. It had been her home for a long time, even after the bad memories she still couldn’t erase all the good ones. Going into mission mode she immediately started tracking the escapee. She kind of missed this, the tracking and waiting. She wasn’t sure if he knew she was after him, but he would be naive to think she wasn’t.

She found tracks of him in Dunkirk, from there she went to London. It was the only possible choice after all. His wife’s family lived there, so it was possible he had resources there. Lucky was on her side so that’s where she found him. After getting in touch with some of her contacts she got the information she was after. After a close call, he apparently decided that leaving the continent was the safest choice. She had to applaud him, he was cleverer than she gave him credit, but she was smarter. 

Arriving in New York was a surprise, but discovering that her target goal was Gotham was a shock. It made sense, her Father’s hometown was the Capital of crime. No one would pay attention to a former designer looking for a safe place to live. It made her wonder if he hadn’t planned this beforehand, fearing he would need to flee the country. 

So here she was, a random dealer tied up in front of her in some god knows where warehouse, the blood coming from his wounds a clear sign that he wasn’t giving her the information she sought.

“Why do you insist on lying to me? We both know you talked with Gabriel Agreste this afternoon… Tall, blond… Why don’t you tell me what you two discussed?” She smiled predatorily. Balancing her dagger between her hands. 

“Please! I don’t know what he wanted, I swear!” 

“Tsk, wrong answer…” She stabbed him in the calf. He screamed.

This had been going for a couple of minutes, and honestly, she was getting annoyed. She knew he sold Gabriel something, she just needed to know what. She was done playing cat and mouse. Being so close to where she knew her brother was made her anxious to just go and find him. But the person in front of her just wanted to make her life difficult. 

Instead of wearing the Ladybug Miraculous, she decided to wear her old League uniform, as it would blend better with the darkness of the city. Her attire was a mix of black and scarlet green, really different from her red ladybug-themed suit. A hood and a mask that covered the bottom half of her face kept her identity concealed. She didn’t see the point of having a gun, so she opted to go for the more traditional arsenal. With her sword strapped to her back, and some other small knives hidden, she was well-armed. 

“Let’s try something new.” From one of her pockets she took a photo. Gabriel Agreste with a serious expression started from the photography that she took from a magazine. “Do you recognize him now?”

The man lifted his beaten face and analyzed the photo for a couple of seconds. Then he sighed in defeat.

“He came today asking for some armament. He gave me the money, I gave him the guns.” Marinette tilted her head “I swear! It was only that! Then he left!”

“Well that wasn’t so hard, was it”

Suddenly she heard sounds coming from a distance, it seems his friends finally realized he was missing. She wasn’t worried, she got what she wanted, but she still needed to keep her existence a secret, so she would need to deal with him. 

With one swift move, he was dead, a pool of blood rapidly forming under him. 

Using a yoyo, similar to the one she used as Ladybug she lifted herself to the rooftop. In a distance, in the warehouse rooftop across from her’s, she saw movement. She needed to leave. She started running and jumping from building to building. She felt as if she was being followed. Trusting her instincts, she slowed her steps a little to allow whoever was following her to reach her, and then she attacked first, using the element of a surprise to her advantage. Red Robin wasn’t expecting that move so she was able to hit him with her dagger, cutting his right arm in the process. Now that she knew he was one of her father’s pupils she knew she couldn’t hurt him, with that in mind she decided that knocking him out was the best course of actions, if there was another bat boy following her they would be too worried about their friend to track her. She wasn’t ready to make her existence known yet, she first needed to finish what she started. Only then she would reach out to her brother. 

Landing a powerful blown into her opponent he was knocked out in seconds. Not wasting any time she disappeared into the night.

This chapter took longer than expected... So she’s finally at Gotham! Who knows what’s going to happen? (except me of course) Thank you for the encoragment, hope this was another good chapter. The taglist is still open so feel free to ask to join! Whoever gets the little easter egg I put in this chapter gets a virtual hug!

WARNING: Major character death; description o violence.

Next

Taglist:  @macncheesemonster @jumpingjoy82 @silversaphire12 @jinx-jade @swiftie-miraculer13  @greatcatblaze @megaafangirl @ramos123 @theamityislife @maskedpainter @toodaloo-kangaroo @nyx-in-line @ketchupqueenboiiii @blackroserelina @lozzybowe @user00000003 @kashlyn @msshadows97 @ira-sairain @stackofrandomstuff @myazael @frieddonutsweets @asrainterstellar @our-preciousss @laurcad123 @nyaabinch @rverfades @thefangirlwholiterallydies @astoriaandromeda @unnamed2357 @little-lady-bird @imdaqueenie @meismu @dorkus-minimus @a4-machete @arty-shadow-morningstar @catthhay @sizzling-fairy-oil @poodapup @charme-de-malchan @jayjayspixiepop @fusser90 @adrestar @iloontjeboontje @buginetye @macncheesemonster @messymessyml @redbullgivescaswings @queer-illusion @moonlightstar64 @kking13 @lupagrimm