#in spite of hate and dark and agony

[cyber-corp]

Saw an old man with a shirt that said “ALIVE OUT OF SPITE” and it’s the most unintentionally profound phrase I think I’ve seen

[arathain]

Seams

Stone walls screeched in song as the light parted open, metallic footsteps softened by the contents of the reservoir. The roiling shadow stood directly beneath the Great Charter Stone, waiting. Expectant. As the figure approached the centre, the facade of the their discontent melted away, to give in to a pointed, relaxed smile.

'You have misbehaved much, haven't you?' happily said the figure, admiring the frankly unacceptable state of their surroundings.

Mouthpiece snarled. 'I know what you're here for. Get on with it.'

The figure's eyes snapped to them, while their head remained perfectly still, stilted at an awkward angle.

'And what would that be?'

The ghost's eyes narrowed.

'You fucking know what it is, you-'

Their throat froze in place, as the figure continued to examine them. Snapping their head to face Mouthpiece, they walked up to stand immediately before them, the clothed being towering over Mouthpiece as still as a statue.

Mouthpiece dropped to their knees, their body straining in flickers as they attempted to move. A soft whimper escaped their lips, a strange, dissonant sound.

'*Please*'

Piercing, burning eyes snapped down to the kneeling ghost.

'You still haven't voiced your wish, though.'

The creature reeled.

'END THIS' they spoke, the timbre of their tone splitting into disconnected things. Voices.

'FREE US- ME- FROM THIS. FROM EVERYONE. LET ME GO AWAY.'

'Oh, that.' the figure mused. 'I can do that.'

The Augur descended in an instant, water splashing as the two figures fell to the reservoir floor. Sharpened claws tore into spectral insides, all of a sudden growing less and less ephemeral. The ghost screeched in pain, voices separating, straining to break free.

Faces broke through the inky mist, only to sink into oblivion again; a half-mask, a square head, a rat mask, yellow glasses. Having ripped the rib-cage open, the Augur began gorging on the entrails, blood splattering as they savoured the flesh. Fat, muscle, and bone unravelled in stringy pieces, as the figure continued to scream in agony, limbs and joints splitting, contorting, and merging; orange and black skin, woolen hands, blue shirt, red sweater, and ink - so, so much black, bitter ink. Remnants of the Mason oozed in taloned hands for brief moments before being consumed - countless, immeasurable, spiteful voices. The Augur's smile grew a little, gazing lovingly at the flailing soon-to-be corpse.

'I get it, I really get it. The brightest light hurts when all you know is darkness. But it was not your choice, and I'm rather sad I could not witness them before the fall myself. You were far too selfish, my beloved - all too fitting, so consider this your reward.'

Mouthpiece's vision grew hazy, as their parts were chewed and swallowed one by one. Ugly; so, so ugly. The Augur's tongue wrapped around Mouthpiece's head as they bit down, mist crumbling into golden ichor. It hurts, hurts to see yourself; always, everywhere. Sensing the hurt, the pain, the Augur smiled in exultation. Two bodies intertwined, a lone, gleeful fire consumed the hateful, bitter remnants of everyone, everything. Sorry. I couldn't take us all down together.

No time at all later, the Augur stood up, licking their teeth and lips clean with their forked tongue. Looking around, they wrapped their arms around themselves to contain the sheer ecstasy of all that they now witnessed, all the hatred and pain now swallowed and digested. Standing up, the Augur's wide, wild grin calmed down into a controlled, innocent smile.

'Well' the Augur mused to themselves, looking up at the uncut aqueduct walls 'I believe there is work to do.'

They say the misfortune of others tastes like honey; but that is not the whole story. It is the struggle, the potential for happiness, that sweetens the pain - for the utmost showcase of power, the greatest mastery of the flame, is to smother it.

[kanohivolitakk]

Controversial take but. Fnaf is the closest we have gotten to 2010s/2020s equvalient of Bionicle. Yes, even more than Hero Factory, Ninjago, Chima, Lego Monkie Kid, Rebel Nature, Greg Farshtey's "Legacy", Xenoblade Chronicles, that one indie adventure game inspired by Bionicle, Ascending Depths and all those Afterman spiritual successors Bionicle fans have tried to make in the past few years. Yes, even more than those obscure cult classic JRPGs I have compared Bionicle to in the past.

Because Bionicle and Fnaf both:

Started relatively simple with a strongly effective unique premise at the center before gradually expanding into a sprawling narrative

Caught the audiences attention by presenting a captivating mystery from the get go that drove curiosity and intrigue

Because of the above, the community is heavily based on theorycrafting and speculation, with many fans trying to figure out the mystery of the story.

Are surprisingly storydriven in mediums/genres generally not associated with stories

Became popular overnight, creating a sort of cultural zeitgeist

Were a last-ditch effort by their creators who at time were struggling financically (Bioncle was released at the height of Legos dark/dork era, while Fnaf was Scott Cawthons last attempt at making a game before opting out of the industry)

Have (one of) their creator be relatively actively engaged with the community, interacting with the fans much to their fans amusement and frustration.

Pretty much were among the fiction that popularized the "lore" as a concept.

Get retconned and coursecorrected to hell and back, but not to the extent fans may think.

Experienced gradual tonal and genre-shift from one genre with scifi elements to more full on scifi.

As years went on, the unique appeal of the series (tropical island high fantasy for Bionicle, horror for Fnaf) were diluted because of aforementioned genre-shift to the point some people hate the later era and vastly prefer the earlier years.

In addition the mystery elements were diluted either answering everything or by complicating the story.

Heavily rely their storytelling on supplemental material on their later years, especially books.

Cryptic and vague at times to the point of frustrating

Have a main villain whose portrayal changed from simple to more complicated mastermind. Both main villains also had initially their name hidden, before their true name was revealed later on.

In spite of having its appeal be in its robot-characters, plotdriven instead of character driven

Also gradually drove away from the characters center of the appeal (Toa/the main four animatronics) to those who were involved in the origins of the story.

Had a satisfying ending (Journeys End/Pizza Sim), but still continued past that, including elements that the fans hate.

These post ending content had the main antagonist be a deeply lore-important impersonator who made the lore more complicated than it should be (Velika/Mimic)

Have a pseudo soft reboot people have...very mixed to negative feelings on (Bara Magna for Bionicle, Steel Wool era for Fnaf)

Have a fictional element act as a central mcguffin of the story (Protodermis and Remnant/Agony respectively) which is frustratingly vague and poorly explained.

Have a rather dedicated transformative fandom who make new additions to the larger mythos, or expand on the pre-existing lore. The creators actively support this, and have even endorsed fancreations or made some fan-elements official.

The creators simutaneously plan everything ahead and are a hack. At the same time

There are probably more but those are the ones I think of at the top of my head

[lo1k-diamonds]

Too Sweet 💜 Chapter 5 - But who wants to live forever, babe?

PAIRING: Demon!Yoongi x (f)reader

SUMMARY: Coming from unabashed wealth has its perks — like never having to lift a finger in your life. When that suddenly changes, you end up at a crossroads: how far will you go to have everything you want?

WORD COUNT: 10.5k

GENRE: Crossroad Demon AU (Sloth), smut, angst

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: break-up talk, feelings of abandonement, (f) masturbation, tension, talks of death

A.N. You deal with the consequences of your wishes and your time ends. I hope the ending tracks and hits 💜 (The song mentioned is Ruin my life by Zara Larsson.)

Masterpost | Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | < Previous Chapter

You screamed.

You rolled around in bed, tossing the sheets, kicking the air, screeching some deep anger, or maybe a form of agony. Yoongi couldn’t tell exactly; all he could do was look at you. He had stayed with you all night, making sure to give you comfort while you slept hanging onto him with your rigid fingers. Yet when morning came, he vanished from your eyes as he had vowed he would, and you weren’t taking it well.

“Yoongi.”

What started like a soft call that touched him in ways he didn’t understand became a cry for help before turning into a hateful shout. He didn’t take it personally; if anything, it reached a little deeper. You were probably feeling like you had lost everything, but you had decisions to make. He wanted you to realize that this was an opportunity: to stop counting on him and to make something of your last year on earth as a human.

He didn’t think your first instinct would be to cross your apartment and go straight to the liquor cabinet, grabbing a cigar and a bag of blue, small pills while you were at it. He sighed as he observed you, but did nothing to stop you.

You put everything on the glass coffee table in the center of your living room and ignored the red velvety couch, kneeling in front of it while you poured the whiskey messily. He saw you putting two pills in your mouth before you gulped a half glass in one go. It wasn’t that he was disappointed in your reaction or regretting his decision; more like he thought you knew it wouldn’t work.

You sat for a moment, letting it all sink in before you reached to grab the cigar, but you didn’t make it. You veered to the side and vomited everything you had taken in seemingly agonizing convulsions, before you fell back, panting. 

He wasn’t surprised when people knocked on your door, and neither were you. There would always be someone around to cater to your needs, as per your first wish. You simply sighed, saying you were fine before you grabbed the cigar and walked to the balcony. Yoongi followed you out, keeping his eyes on you while you faced the morning sun shimmering on the cityscape. He always liked how you looked, especially the way your cupid’s bow perked up as if asking for a bite. Your normally light eyes were dark with your thoughts, and your bed hair made you look even more aery. He hoped to see you rally, but you scoffed and put the cigar in your mouth, lighting it up in a quick succession of experimented gestures.

He didn’t even blink; you tried, but in an instant, you were coughing the smoke out, about to gag out of disgust. Someone who was cleaning inside came to check on you and you raised your hand for them to go back inside and eyed the cigar. He saw the moment your eyes lit up in realization — you had asked for this yourself. You asked to be free of the addiction, you couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen or force it upon yourself again.

He tilted his head, observing every microexpression. Technically, you could if you tried really hard. He thought you might, just out of spite, refusing to learn anything from all the sacrifices you had made, but then you rubbed your empty wrists and he pursed his lips. Your attachment to him could be something of an addiction too, and as you muttered his name, he closed his eyes.

No matter how much you called, he would never come to you. Well, at least not that you knew of. He would be there when you called, beyond the reach of your eyes, seeing you adjust and adapt to a life without him. He could feel your time ticking, he could see the sand grains falling in the narrow opening of the hourglass — why couldn’t you?

You spent a week crying, cooped up in your apartment, before you decided to rekindle a glimpse of normalcy in your life — the daily massages. He saw your determination as you made your way to the appointment you had missed for the last seven days, and wondered how you’d react when you made it there.

You staggered when you crossed the door of the spa on the first floor of your building. Jimin got up from the green armchair in the waiting room and extended his hand to you, and you took a step back. Yoongi could instantly see on your shoulders the weight of defeat, of regret. Your breathing changed with the anxiousness tensing you up despite Jimin’s pleas.

“Please, I— I just want to talk to you.” 

He looked hurt, too, with sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes. Now that he was looking at you, his heart beat a little faster, but he was still lost. Yoongi thought you saw it through your own hurt because your eyes watered, and your fingers twitched out of concern. You had rejected his offer when he tempted you with Jimin, but maybe now, faced with him, you’d change your mind.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

You guided him inside the spa and asked for an empty room that turned out to be a meeting room. Yoongi followed you and Jimin in silence. He didn’t care, he couldn’t be bothered, but he was curious about your decision. He wished you could see that, despite the spell, Jimin could bounce back if he was given the right incentive. Love took many forms, as many as there were hearts, and still some. Alternatively, you could just make the best of it and enjoy his affection and company for the time you had left. What you couldn’t do was tell him the truth and let him decide, so he wondered if you’d consider a white lie just so you could give him a choice. A false choice.

You took a few steps away from Jimin and ignored the supposed harmony of the room, with its lowered window blinds and light wall colors with bamboo wavering under an imaginary wind. Instead, you looked resolute.

“I’m sorry,” you started, and Jimin’s breath shook. “I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it, and I’m sorry I haven’t returned any of your calls. I’ve been— I’ve been trying to figure myself out.”

He nodded and licked his lips, and Yoongi pulled a chair to sit down. He guessed Jimin wasn’t dumb.

“Okay. And what did you conclude?”

“I’m still going through it but,” you looked down, selecting your words. “My decision hasn’t changed. I know it might not make sense to you, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Jimin looked bewildered, “I do! I do, but— this doesn’t make any sense to me! You want me to just trust that ending things is— Is what? Something that needs to happen?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!” He stepped to you and you stood firm. Jimin respected the distance you imposed, and Yoongi thought he truly was a great guy. Better than Yoongi ever was, at least. “I don't get it! Is it your fault I fell in love with you? Sure! But why is that a mistake? Why does that need fixing?”

Your lips trembled and Yoongi saw that you couldn’t speak. You wanted to tell him the truth, but you couldn’t.

“It doesn’t matter, I— I couldn’t fix anything.”

“Of course not!” He was angry and hurt, “You thought I’d forget you that easily?!”

“That’s not what I—”

“I fucking love you! You thought I’d just forget the person I want to spend my life with?!”

You glanced up to the ceiling with tearful eyes, and Yoongi could almost read your thoughts — you wished he could.

“I never said that,” you finally breathed.

Jimin’s jaw twitched, “No, but you don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

“No.”

“Trust me,” your lips trembled. “I do.”

Jimin ran his fingers through his blonde hair and shook his head, “No. I can see it in your eyes,” his voice sounded tight with anguish. “You hear me, you see me, but you don’t. It’s as though I’m screaming mute, and you’re nodding just to accommodate me.” That shook you visibly, and Jimin insisted, “All I want is for you to actually listen.”

You gripped your hands and nodded, and Yoongi supported his head on his hand.

“I knew from the moment I saw you, there was something about you.” His eyes were locked with yours and you gulped. “Call it fate, attraction, love at first sight— I don’t know, and I don’t care! I just knew, and everything was perfect ever since. You and I— I don’t think it’s even contestable how much we fit. I don’t need to draw you a picture because you know. You feel it too.”

You stayed quiet, and Yoongi couldn’t decide if that was a dick move or self-preservation.

“So when you tell me you want to end things, it’s like nothing makes sense! Nothing!” He insisted, voice wavering with the tears in his brown eyes. “Because I know you love me too!”

“You’re right, I do,” you acceded, and it looked to Yoongi like you were opting for the truth. “But I’m not your future.”

“How can you say that?!” Which would upset Jimin, of course.

“Because I know it’s the truth,” your lips curved in a beautiful small smile and Yoongi almost cursed. It would be easier to make the man hate you if you didn’t look heavenly without trying. Jimin would be a stupid man to let you go. “I believe there’s another fated love out there for you. I wish you find each other and live a happy, wholesome life together.”

Jimin shook his head in aversion and confusion, “No!! What the hell are you—?”

He stopped and Yoongi rubbed his mouth. You were saying goodbye and it was quite firm.

Jimin became livid, “If I made a mistake, I—”

“You didn’t,” you countered firmly, stepping forward. “I don’t want you to think that for a second.”

It was the first time you gave him something and Jimin couldn’t help himself, “We don’t have to marry.”

“It’s not that.”

“How can you say that?!”

“Jimin—”

“I mention it, and suddenly you want to end everything! I should have never said anything!”

“No, I’m happy you did,” you stepped again to face him, and you were earnest. “It opened my eyes to the decisions I was making, to— to the way I was living. It’s not about you. I’m not ready, Jimin.”

He looked hopeless, “What?”

“I’m not ready to— to live such a grand love,” you smiled sadly as you said it, and Jimin’s voice wavered as he protested with your name. “I screwed it up for myself, and for you by extension. I know what I’m doing, so won't you please trust me?”

Jimin’s desperation overturned in the tears streaming down his face and Yoongi got up. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry,” you finally raised your arms to offer a hug, and he let you, hiding his sobs in your neck.

You kept comforting him, and Yoongi had to admit it was sweet. You managed to appeal to his senses with a truth that he couldn’t defy. Yoongi could see it in the way his shoulders shook in sorrow — he respected you as a person and your decision. Even to Yoongi, it would always be elusive if Jimin genuinely loved you or was compelled by demonic magic, but that right there could be undeniable proof of authenticity. Hellish magic had a way of warping things, of distorting them, especially feelings. Jimin could have turned out to be obsessive, but he respected you enough to end things. 

“I’ll still be your biggest fan, no matter what,” you promised, still well in his embrace.

“You don't have to lose me,” he pulled away to face you, and Yoongi nodded — there it was. “I don't want you to! We could— We could stay friends or—”

“I can’t handle that,” you confessed, brushing his hair to the side.

He pursed his lips and saw your arms letting him go before he asked, “Will I ever know why you’re making this decision?”

You pressed your lips, but you never answered his question.

Yoongi was proud of how you handled your mistakes regarding your fated love, but he kept checking in on you. At first, you kept calling for him multiple times a day, and he always went to you, even if you never knew. He was there the day you tried drinking again, only to shatter the glass against a wall, and when you tried gambling all your money away only to have more pop up the next day, miraculously.

Because he was always there, he saw the moment you stopped crying and peeked your head out of the sheets, facing your empty wrists. He was sitting on the bed next to you, and your wet, puffy face still revealed to him the extent of your thoughts: he wasn’t coming. It was the way you pursed your lips in irritation and sorrow, not knowing he was right there next to you, right before you sat up and decided to grab your phone and call someone. 

Something changed for you that day, as though a switch was flipped. He never knew exactly what, only that you took a quick shower and headed out with determination. He followed you; you met with friends and tried being lively, and he thought it was sincere. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what it was that comforted you enough to get out of bed.

Time passed and although you’d only call for him once daily, he’d still accompany you for far more than that. You were finding your structure, trying to find things you liked and could dedicate yourself to, and there were green flags all around, but still. He kept showing up, always with an urge, a twitch he couldn’t shake off.

Time passed differently for him, and he was afraid of missing something important. That was why he was now facing the window of that luxurious gentleman’s den — which was really a demon den — while drinking his neat whiskey and ignoring the other demons in the room. A month into stepping away from your life, he found himself more invested than ever before, choosing to see you on the window instead of his reflection. He didn’t even notice his breath caught at the sight — you had been contacting people, but now you were finally at a music label. Standing in front of a studio assigned to you to give it a try, your hand was hovering above the doorknob, hesitating. His heart was racing as if he could rush there and grab your hand around it, taking that step with you.

His lips twitched when you grabbed the doorknob. Then, upon seeing the room, you took a deep breath and entered it. His eyes teared up.

“Are you checking on that soul again?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling that victory close to his heart. He probably shouldn’t feel that way, but he couldn’t think about it right now.

“I personally wouldn’t want to keep snacking on the same soul but…”

Yoongi turned and took his glass to his mouth, seeing Hoseok shrug on the chestnut leather armchair. On the chair next to his was Namjoon, who had originally asked the question; meanwhile, Taehyung was contemplating his options from the liquor cabinet.

“We all know some are sweeter than others,” his tone was velvety right as his tongue peeked between his teeth and he reached for a bottle. “Maybe Suga here was just lucky with this one.”

Yoongi finished his drink, the one from his private collection that, unbeknownst to you, you had helped curate, and placed his glass on a nearby table. The heavy carpet in shades of yellow and black muffled his steps as he gathered a new drink from the four Taehyung was serving.

“Hmm,” Hoseok twisted his nose before he accepted the drink from Namjoon. “There’s something about someone who is too sweet.”

Yoongi didn’t reply nor indulge in their conversation. Instead, he moved back to the window and took another peek: you were sitting down in front of the console, but your eyes fell on the piano inside the recording room, and you couldn’t stop yourself. He watched with bated breath as you sat down, placed your fingers over the keys, and pressed. His heart thrummed in response, and he blinked.

His reflection showed instead, including the unshed tears in his dark eyes, and he was bewildered. He hadn't shed tears in forever. Why now?

“If I didn’t know better… I’d say you’re in love.”

Taehyung’s voice was cloying, the impossibility of his suggestion beyond a tease and far into the realm of absurdity. So it was no surprise the whole room laughed and Yoongi's lips twitched with derision.

He took the glass to his lips, swallowing the bitter choice — he knew he couldn’t love.

Regardless of how many whiskeys Yoongi drank, all made him twist his nose. He couldn’t help it — all carried an acridity that offended his palate, or maybe it was just him trying to recall a fond taste that nothing could match.

The reason for his bitterness came down to the irrationality of his actions. The other demons would tease him at times about his attitude, and it was not that he cared — every single one of them had their illogical moments too. The problem was that he didn’t know why he was acting like this, but he had been giving it some thought.

The tears — it was the moment he was forced to admit it, but there was more. You had accused him of breaking the rules, and he couldn’t deny it, though he was sure you didn’t know how far he had gone. Giving freebies was frowned upon, but preventing you from making stupid wishes? Unheard of. No one would bat an eye at his refusal to take you earlier, as that was against good practice, but fucking you until you took a wish back? Everyone would lose their minds if they knew.

Which they wouldn’t, and although he didn’t care, he still went to you to figure it out. You stopped calling him daily and three months in, you looked well. He observed you leading your life, chatting, sleeping, or scrolling on your phone, with a sense that was unfamiliar and didn’t clarify anything for him.

Not in the beginning, but as he observed you, he ascertained a few things. You knew his name, but he wasn’t worried about it at all. He didn’t believe you’d use it, as you hadn’t, and you never wrote it down or uttered it to anyone else ever since. He didn’t fear you’d take your own life or ruin your life; you were doing well now. So what was it that made him look at the window again and instantly take a look at you?

He closed his eyes, forcing the scent of the cigar to pull him back to the demon den where he spent most of his downtime, like now. Anything to curb the need to find out where you were because one glimpse showed him that you were nervous about something, and now he was unsettled.

“Here.”

Yoongi heaved a deep breath, letting the exquisite combination of woodiness and leather of the cigar’s fume scratch his tongue before turning around. Jin was holding a neat whiskey for him to take.

“Why are you so obsessed with this human?” Jin asked, and Yoongi took a sip, grimacing instantly. It wasn’t right. “She’s already yours.”

Jin sat down on an armchair and the invitation for Yoongi to sit beside him on the other one was clear. They were alone, and Yoongi wouldn’t have bothered sitting or replying if that wasn’t his mentor.

He sat down, “She is.”

His tone was low and quiet, and the way he instantly took another sip didn’t go unnoticed by either of them.

Jin scrunched his nose a little, then suddenly gasped, “Is she related to June?” Yoongi nodded and Jin laughed wholeheartedly, “Ah, that one.” His smile danced on his lips for a moment. “I must confess I still remember her, even almost a century later,” he licked his lips. “Lucky you to get her descendant.” Yoongi didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed on his drink. “Is she leaving offspring?”

“No.”

“Oh. Such a shame,” Yoongi could tell Jin meant it. “June had a very sweet soul, it was a total contradiction to her personality,” he smirked, licking his lips again. “Her great-granddaughter would too.” Yoongi still didn’t budge and Jin looked away, “I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

Yoongi remained impassive, though he was remembering your sweet taste. Your soul belonged to him, no one would ever be able to take it, steal it, or touch it, and so he was at ease.

“I can see you do too.”

Yoongi thought about ignoring Jin, but in the end, all he did was take another bittersweet sip. “Not sweet enough.”

Jin grinned and drew the glass to his perfect plum lips; no, he could guess no one would ever compare to you.

Something echoed in the air, like a doorbell chiming, and both demons knew automatically where it was coming from and whose turn or turf it was. 

Jin kept drinking, and Yoongi nodded, “You can have this one.”

Jin swallowed harshly as his eyebrows shot up. Yoongi could be going through whatever that was, but to refuse a soul was—

He got up and Jin understood without words. “Alright.”

Yoongi took a deep drag from his cigar before vanishing, releasing the smoke as he transposed planes all the way to you. Your soul had called to him at the same time, and if the other soul sounded like a bell chiming, yours sounded like a piano brightening the fluttering wings of a butterfly — quite simply irresistible.

He found you in a studio room with a man, each of you in your own chairs, listening to a string melody coming from the speakers. You were wearing something comfortable, as you did when you went to the studio these days, and were looking down, rubbing your wrists gently as you listened in silence.

I miss you pushing me close to the edge, I miss you

It was your voice, your song, and suddenly the excitement was looking to burst out of him.

You set fire to my world, couldn't handle the heat

Now I'm sleeping alone and I'm starting to freeze

Baby, come bring me hell

Let it rain over me

Baby, come back to me

His grin widened as he heard you, and he let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed it.

I want you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, yeah

He loved that the piano set the tone of each verse, that a quick beat mimicked a racing heartbeat, and that it was exulting. By the time the bridge was repeating, he opened his eyes to look at you, and something overheated inside him, like a motor about to explode. You wanted him to bring you hell and ruin your life, and little did you know how much he wanted to grab you, kiss you, and do just that.

He didn’t because the man in the room shook his head in disbelief, “You call this a guide track?”

You shrugged, “Yeah, why not?”

“This— We could record it, but your vocals are—” He seemed incredulous that you were simply staring at him, not seeing it. “It’s good! There’s emotion, and your range is beautiful! If you want to rethink starting a career as—”

“I don’t,” you raised your hand firmly. “All I want is to be free to create as many songs as I please.”

The man sighed and Yoongi lowered his eyes. “Okay, well. I won’t fight you.” You nodded and meant to pass on to something else, but he continued, “But I do want to ask… If you’d be okay with Jimin singing this.”

You stopped and looked at the man, who was in all likelihood a producer, and hesitated.

“I know you guys ended things, but he said he’d like to listen to anything you make.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched in a knowing smile as you thought it over. You had stayed away from Jimin, who had surprisingly respected your decision and done the same. You were both fated to love and care for one another in your own ways, so Yoongi wondered what your response would be: a firm no, or a ceding yes.

“You can give it to him to see if he’d like it, on the condition that he doesn’t know it’s mine,” you decided. “I don’t want that to be a ruling factor on whether he picks it.”

“He’ll know as soon as he hears it.”

“You can tell him I just recorded the track.”

The man opened his mouth to continue giving you arguments but decided to stop there. Your gaze was resolute both in your decision and the wish to move on to work on something else, and the producer got up and left, resigned.

You put black headphones on and started working on something else while Yoongi stared at you. He could hear it in the back of his mind — you asking him so beautifully for him to ruin your life — and it made him want to get on his knees and hold you.

That was the moment that your surroundings hit him and everything made sense, like a card slotting in place. He wrapped his arms around you, placing his chin on your shoulder as you hummed something. You couldn’t feel him, but he could feel you, and he closed his eyes. You breathed music, you were the kind of muse he couldn’t deny, and he got it.

He wasn’t just proud that you were finally free from your shackles, fulfilling your soul’s desires, he was living it as well. There was an inevitability to it all. The way you two resembled one another, at least the human he once was, pulled a chord inside a heart he didn’t know he had. How else could he justify always going back to you? Pushing you to do better? Getting annoyed when you swerved from the path and avoided your true calling? The color and melody of your soul that he could see so clearly and held so dearly?

He just wished for you to make it. Because if you did, then maybe a part of him, the human remnants, would feel vindicated too. 

But that couldn’t be the only reason why. He breathed in the sugary white raspberry scent seeping from your hair, feeling the compulsion, demonic or otherwise, to own you. To at least be a part of you in any way he could, and as you experimented with effects and chuckled, he almost turned you to face him to kiss you desperately.

He remembered his reaction when you asked for that human, Jimin, to love you. Yoongi had made a mistake that day — he got too involved. He knew that you’d encounter Jimin at that party, and he wasn’t able to resist seeing it happen. He had the distinct impression that your soul didn’t change as much as it should have from such a life defining encounter, but it didn’t matter because when you called for Yoongi, you had Jimin on your mind.

It was no coincidence that Yoongi had gripped your flesh and fucked you onto that mattress, wishing to leave his mark on you. It was not by accident that he didn’t go to you in those six months that you were with Jimin, that he purposefully eradicated you from his mind and was bitter at anything remotely sweet. He thought he had become stupidly attached and even mocked himself for it — as if he, a demon, could get pussy whipped or something. But now, he could see it — and it was so simple.

If you had met as humans, you would have been explosive. He would have loved you madly. A part of him wished that would have happened.

He chuckled; of course, it would have been a disaster. He left you to your creations in that studio room, and his consciousness stretched as he made his way back to his plane. With both your addiction problems, you both would have probably died fairly quickly. But it would have been mad and passionate, and you would have birthed amazing, unparalleled music.

Unfortunately, none of that mattered. He was a demon, you were never alive at the same time and you had a fated love. Maybe that was why he gave you what you wanted and stepped back. If experiencing a bit of fated love would snap you out of it and make you live the rest of your life, then he’d do it. And he did. Only to realize that it hurt you, that helping you made things worse.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He could only shrug; he was a demon.

But that was when he realized that by trying to help you, he was feeding your spiral instead of helping you get out of it. Leaving and never showing up again was the best he could have done, right after refusing your last wish. 

He couldn’t give you what you wanted and had refused to see why for so long, but not anymore. He couldn’t steal your last opportunity to fulfill yourself and reach a little bit of happiness. He couldn’t punish you and take away the little time you had left, he wanted to see you fly. For his own selfish reasons, maybe, but also just for the sheer pleasure of it.

And now you were where you should have been all along, releasing bits and pieces of your sweet soul. He was proud, even if he hadn’t done anything, or arguably, made it all harder. Part of him hated that he ever offered you a deal, but if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else.

Now you belonged to him. You wouldn’t consume each other in your love to make amazing music as humans, but fate was not unkind. Soon, he’d have you to himself. For now, however, he would have to be contented with just visiting you and listening without partaking.

That was how he found himself in yet another visit. This time you were in your apartment, windows open with the curtains almost floating in the air. He chuckled, seeing that it was late morning, and you were still in your bed, but then he heard something.

Your moans were short and sweet, almost like a hiss, and he stopped at the sliding doors of the bedroom. His gut twisted and he scowled at himself. The human remnants of his soul were always the strongest near you, as he had come to realize, but maybe it had come the time to squish them. Maybe seeing you with someone would effectively rid him of that annoying trace.

Doors meant nothing to him, he just passed right through, only to stop in surprise. You were alone.

He got near you and kneeled on the bed, swallowing dryly at the sight. You were naked over your black silk sheets, facing up with your legs parted and a hand giving you the rubbing that was making you squirm and huff. He ate the image of you like an animal starved, watching your slick drip down onto your sheets as you bucked your hips to intensify the feeling. 

Inadvertently, his hands found their spot atop your knees, but he controlled himself in time so that you wouldn’t feel it. It was hard for him, though. Your breathing was intensifying, your tongue peeking between your teeth, while you raised your free hand above your head as if you wanted it pinned down. And fuck, did he want to give you everything you desired. Just the sight could drive him mad; he knew how much of a vice you could be, tightening around him mercilessly. He knew how sweet you tasted and how easily he could brighten your soul just by ramming his cock inside you and making you see stars.

He was burning, going mad, delirious from keeping himself at bay for so long. With every moan, he thought the next would be the one to break him. He fought himself with all his might, the claws looking to snatch you for eternity extending and barely grazing your skin, until finally you gasped.

He saw you squirming in pleasure, moaning anxiously as you rolled your hips, coaxing him to drool and leak like crazy right before you. 

When you settled down, he almost cursed you. You couldn’t know how crazy you rendered him; insane and mindless, and he wished he could do the same to you. He wished he was driving you up the wall, but you were but a fickle human. It had been six months since you last saw him, you’d have forgotten him by now, and—

You chuckled with your forearm over your eyes, “Kitten.”

You pulled your knees away as you rolled to put your feet on the floor and step away. The sound of you showering and singing was carried all the way to him, but he was still as you had unknowingly left him: kneeling on your bed, frozen with his head hanging low. 

Six months passed and there were still six more to go, and yet… he was the one you were thinking about.

He pulled the hair out of his face and took a deep breath, your perfume and arousal still hanging in the air, then bit his lip. Something was happening inside his chest, something he didn’t know was possible, and he couldn’t help a sneer. He blamed the single human heart string still left inside his heart, the one that only you could pull.

He never knew he could feel this way, but he was counting down the days. He regretted nothing, and he could wait. The best whiskeys had to sit in barrels for a long time until they matured to perfection. Six months wasn’t long, and he had your music to fill his ears. He could wait.

You woke up with a ping from your phone and as you stared at the ceiling of your bedroom, you let reality dawn on you — that was it. You sat up and pulled the AirPods out of your ears before you rubbed your eyes and let the muffled sounds of the city reach your ears. You couldn’t sleep the night before, both in excitement and nervousness, so you had decided to close your eyes and listen to music, finding comfort in the lullabies and soundtracks you had composed over the last year. Some could have stayed up doing crazy things in their last hours on earth, but not you. You had planned your last twenty-four hours to make sure you did everything you wanted and needed to, and sleeping, even if only a few hours, was fortunate.

You reached for your phone and your chest filled with relief. Finally. 

You got up, put a black silk robe on, and got to your piano room — a fairly recent addition to your apartment, all things considered. You had worried for the last couple of months that the one thing you had decided to do and leave behind wouldn’t become official on time, but you just received good news: you succeeded.

You walked into the room with dark wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows letting the morning sun and skyline comfort you, and then you sat on the red velvety piano stool and took a deep breath. The nonprofit organization you had founded and coordinated for a year to ensure equal treatment and protection of professional rights in the music industry had been finally officially recognized by the government. This meant that it could provide counseling to professionals and fight for their rights, whether economical, social, or legal. Your shoulders relaxed as you let the worry dissipate from your body; that was one of the items on your bucket list. Now, you could get started on the others.

Your fingers touched the keys, but you didn’t press them. This was a very important moment for you, and it couldn’t be rushed. You had spent the last month composing multiple melodies and accompaniment to what you had hoped to create today: your last song. The only testament that mattered in the end; the only way you’d be able to leave behind the truth to anyone who would listen.

You made sure the microphones were close to the piano soundboard and turned the recording on before adjusting yourself. You closed your eyes, trying to let the moment take you. It would be the last piece of your soul that you’d leave behind, and you wanted it to be as genuine as possible.

You started delicately on keys with more treble, softly pressing them as a chick would chirp after hatching from its egg. You were born in a loving nest, innocent to the world around you darkening as sickness ravished your mother. You matched your innocence with darker tones, establishing a baseline you didn’t quite understand at the time. Yet, everything would take its toll, even on you. As your mother lost the ability to grow your family, it caused a rift. 

You tried to reach out to your parents but soon discovered that you were surrounded by tutors and incentivized to learn as many skills and talents as possible, not so you could make them proud, but so that you’d fit a list of requirements for your solitary standing. They didn’t congratulate you for your swimming medals, prizes for winning obstacle tracks in equestrian competitions, or trophies for your ballet performances. You would strain yourself trying to achieve the highest graces, have good grades, and excel in your piano lessons, but your parents never showed to your recitals or school meetings. Your nanny assured you they saw the videos and bragged about it to all their friends, and you wondered why they wouldn’t celebrate with you, then. The void grew between you and them, and you never learned to fly properly. Rather, you learned nothing could bridge the gap, neither the good nor the bad; they just weren’t there.

You pressed the keys more softly, trying to push the melody from lower to higher registers in an attempt to fill the emptiness inside your chest. Because although your parents never cared, the piano was always there for you. It didn’t hurt you, it listened, and it always let you echo your thoughts. You thought you had found your calling, and you pressed the keys gently, tentatively; the more you tried and delved into the world of music, the surer you became.

But you were naive. The piano was good and tried to keep you safe, but there was this spiral, and you thought it would lead you up, into a higher understanding, into love, but it went down, and down. So low you became spent and graceless, dwindling like a flame smothered by a cup. You needed something to help your broken and abused soul surrounded by nothing but darkness.

You found it in sparks. Sparks and sprinkles, as exciting as the higher keys you were pressing, but equally fleeting. They were a boost, a thrill, a euphoric moment of rapture, and a delusion. Because as those notes became ever ephemeral, so did your semblance of control. The void in their absence imposed grueling efforts to keep you afloat, and you struggled.

Your fingers pressed the keys desperately, oscillating between highs and lows as you tried to keep your head above water. You weren’t good, you were never assembled properly, you had no purpose, and sooner or later, you had to leave the nest. You didn’t expect to be kicked out coldly and at the same time thought it was fitting, seeing the lows you had reached.

Then, the register of your life changed because, in a turn of events, you had a choice. A choice of grand potential for a hefty price. You had no idea what you were doing, only that you wanted to be in the comfort you had known all your life, so you made a deal to ensure you wouldn’t lose what you knew, perpetuating the same vicious cycle that had kept you stuck and in the dark.

However, something unexpected came with that deal — someone. Someone who filled your baseline with shades of blue in a baritone range that tried balancing your deregulated soprano cries. Your life became lavish but eventually guided, and despite your mishaps, he was there. In spite of your mistakes, flaws, and petty decisions, regardless of his enabling role — he was there. 

But you didn’t know better. You refused to open your eyes, attempting to replace one addiction with another until you made the most egregious mistake.

You paused in an attempt to find the right key. Love was like the first sun rays of morning, and fated love was like a summer day. Yet, you knew and valued neither. You couldn’t recognize it from the bubble you were in, and so you twisted your red string of fate until it became feeble. Exhausted of integrity, there was nothing left, and you lost it all. It took a sizable fall for you to realize that life couldn’t be lived without hardships, that struggle brought purpose, that love was worth burning for, and that fate was but a potential course of action. You had picked your love over a year before fate presented itself, and you should have known better than to threaten and push him away.

But there was hope. You realized it the second you recalled the look in his eyes right before a tender last kiss and goodbye — you were given a chance. Because although there was a price to pay for your blindness and recklessness, your potential never waned. It took you a moment to see it, but now you were finally free. There was freedom in solitude, in living for yourself and deciphering what could make your last year worth it rather than living for someone else, or dreading anyone else, including yourself.

That was why your song would end on a high note — on a hopeful spring morning about to dawn. Not for yourself, but for the roots you planted. For others to have opportunities in your wake.

Your fingers stopped, and you looked down, feeling the smooth key surfaces almost as if they were part of you. That was where you wanted your story to end, that was what you were able to tell.

Before heading to the studio room, you stopped the recording and brushed your hand over the piano in a last goodbye. You put your headset on and spent the next hours mixing the other melodies and instruments with yours. You didn’t eliminate mistakes or fill the pauses — you wanted everything exactly as you expressed originally.

Because of your preparation and how long you had spent envisioning your legacy, you finished the song quite rapidly. You were happy with it and right on time for your daily massage.

You smiled and waved at everyone on your way to your appointment, asking your masseuse trivial things before you started. You had since learned her name, that her grandmother was sick, and that she had gotten that job by accident when another professional had failed to show up during recruitment. You had become intrigued with hearing other’s stories, searching to learn and live other experiences through them, since you wouldn’t have the time to do it yourself.

During the relaxing time of your massage, soothed by the ringing of the Tibetan Singing Bowl and the water streaming peacefully from the speakers, your mind wandered. Today was about closing chapters, and you were well on your way and had decided not to bother Jimin. You had spoken with his manager since Jimin had chosen songs of yours to perform and kept in touch. You knew that he was holding up well and although his manager never mentioned it directly, he didn’t have to. Whenever Jimin was seen in public, even now, a year later, he still had the pendant you gave him on your three-month anniversary. You remembered him fondly and suspected he did too. Whenever you crossed paths, he was gentle and never once imposing or invasive — he respected your decision and didn’t hate you for it, which you were grateful for. You’d like to believe he found comfort in the thought of you, as you did of him, and that his love could one day transform into affection for a close friend. Maybe it already had.

It was a good outcome for such a colossal mistake — not caring for him or meeting him, but forcing him to feel something that, in the end, might not have happened to begin with. You realized in hindsight, after processing your feelings and decisions, that you had made your choice before you acknowledged it. Just as you revealed during your song, you had chosen Yoongi before fate presented you with Jimin. And you didn’t do it just by taking the deal, but because you depended on him, opened yourself to him, and yearned for him long before you were aware. Jimin was a calm ocean, whereas Yoongi was a succession of massive waves you were eager to surf.

You probably should have never fallen for him, never made the deal, never looked at him twice, never let yourself feel cradled and safe in his presence, but it still happened. And maybe it had been for the best too, because you weren’t sure you would have ever met Jimin or composed any lullabies otherwise. You had become a person so lazy that you refused to get clean, preferring to die on a hill from dehydration and cardiac arrest rather than yield and fight for yourself. Yoongi cured you so you could see past it, and maybe Jimin could have as well, but you doubted you’d live enough to meet to him. You were even too lazy to wait for his love to bloom naturally — it could be that the person you had become just didn’t deserve him altogether.

As you got back to your apartment, you mused over every little choice that led you to the big decisions down the line. You were in love with a demon and about to be taken by him and still, you were nothing but calm. What did that make you? You shrugged and left the elevator — you felt how you felt, it was a bit too late for regrets.

“Ah, miss.” You nodded at the maid who usually tended to your needs, Vera. “The organization has just sent something in for your approval.”

She stepped aside for you to enter your apartment, the black silk robe rustling at your passage. You noticed the big frame on your red velvet couch and went in that direction, pulling the white sheet over it to reveal a portrait. A big portrait of you with a fairly gentle expression, glistening eyes, and long hair falling over your shoulder. Behind you, there were depictions of recording rooms, concert halls with orchestras, and on the corner, a grand black piano that you brushed your fingers over.

You analyzed the drawings around your figure more than your face and noticed something was missing. The portrait of your great-grandmother came to mind and your lips twitched. Unlike hers, yours didn’t involve darkness, but she had portrayed something important that yours lacked. Maybe you could ask Yoongi to add it before taking you.

“What do you think?” You asked Vera, whose wide blue eyes displayed her shock at being asked.

You chuckled; she couldn’t seem to get used to it.

“You look splendid!”

You pursed your lips, “But what about my legacy?” She blinked, caught off guard, and you pointed, “What represents me — does it make sense?”

“Of course!” She stepped forward to your side, and you waited patiently for her analysis. She was shorter than you, but delicate in her mannerisms. At about your age, you hoped she’d have a long life ahead of her. “They could have added children or the cartoons. You know, the ones you develop the soundtracks for.”

“Children?”

“For the lullabies.”

You chuckled, “Well. It might have made it goofy,” you shrugged, though a smile adorned your lips the whole time. “It should be serious, after all. The first of many.”

“You’ll probably have another one done down the line,” Vera mused. You were quiet but your eyes on her were just enough to pressure her to explain, “This is just the beginning of the organization and your leadership will last for many years.”

Your lips twitched; she was endearing, but there would be a new president of the organization very soon. 

“Thank you, Vera. It can stay there while I think about it, but in case anyone asks, it’s perfect.”

Vera nodded and left after probing whether you’d like brunch or lunch, and you refused both, much to her disappointment. You didn’t want her to find you dead and had tried to give her the day off, but she had declined — yet another thing you would bring up with Yoongi.

You glanced at the portrait again and nodded. You were happy everything was set and prepared for your inevitable passing. All your wealth would be left to the non-profit organization, all jobs associated with you would be secured, and your presence would linger in the cartoons and music spread all around, immortalizing you, in a sense. Not that you wanted that, but you did find joy in hearing your melodies played, regardless of the medium, and found the thought that it would outlast you comforting.

You sat by your desk and faced the blank sheets of paper before you. You had thought long and hard and, despite being estranged, decided you should leave something to your parents too.

You thought it would be harder to put your feelings to paper, but it was surprisingly easy. There was no point in grudges or accusations, or in causing pain or reopening wounds. You wanted them to have peace.

You started with your father’s, remembering the letter he had left you the day he kicked you out.

I know you probably regret it, but I wish you didn’t. Your efforts gave me a chance I was not ready to take. As a parent, that was all you could have done. In the end, I’m still thankful for all the opportunities that brought me here, even the ones I couldn’t appreciate before.

Then you wrote the one to your mother. It took you a moment to begin.

How difficult it must have been to suffer for so long to keep the promise to not let me go through life alone. I wish I could erase the pain that both the cancer and the loss of a child marked on your heart. I wish you had not seen me grow to become yet another pain. As always, I wanted to make you proud of the kid you had, or if not, for you to at least remember me. I’m sorry I failed to see that there was no way you could have forgotten. The right way to make you proud was to be happy; I lost track of that somewhere. I wish for you to know that I’ve found it, somewhat. I hope you know I’m happy, and that you can find happiness in that too.

You took a third paper sheet and thought of Jimin. You were afraid of how the news would impact him, and so you kept your message simple.

Please be happy, mimi. I wish for that with all of my heart.

Unlike your parent's letters, left folded and addressed over your desk, Jimin’s stayed in your hands. You looked at the clock and sighed, getting up to sit on your bed as you faced the city out of the window. Asking Yoongi’s opinion could prove unwise, but he would know. You hadn’t seen him in a year, but you trusted the demon you knew — the one who wouldn’t lie to you.

You quite simply waited for him like this. None of what you had done had changed anything — you still sold your soul, committed your sins, and were ready to be taken. You were more nervous about Yoongi’s thoughts on how you spent your last year than anything else. You pressed your lips; you wanted to make him proud.

You didn’t notice the clock pointer rushing over the twelve, only the growling. You turned to the slid-open doors of your bedroom to find Yoongi there, standing in his black suit, looking at you. Your eyes watered at the ethereal sight; not that you could have forgotten, but he was even more breathtaking than your memory could do justice. And he was there, just like he promised.

You glanced at the dogs, each by his side, black fur shrouded in mist with red glistening eyes trained on you. They were growling loudly but didn’t show signs of impatience, and you smiled.

“Legends speak of hounds that chase people like me.”

“They won’t chase you,” he said, and your heart shook.

“I wouldn’t run.”

Tears ran down your face as you got up with Jimin’s letter still tucked in your hands. You weren’t sad per se; you were very happy to see him again.

He entered the room, walking in your direction, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Despite your cry, he didn’t seem worried. Rather, he seemed impatient.

“Did you finish all your business?”

Your lips twitched in a smile, and you wiped your cheeks, “I knew you’d ask.” You raised the letter in between you two, “It’s for Jimin. I… don’t know if I should send it.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to make things worse for him,” you confessed, unsure on how much you should reveal. Gazing up into his eyes, you knew you didn’t have to go into details. “I just wanted him to know that I wish for him to find happiness, but I don’t know if it will make sense to him. You know, when I pass.”

Yoongi was silent, and you raised your eyes to him. There was no judgment on his delicate features; if anything, only understanding. “I can make it look like something sudden that you could be somewhat aware of. Like an aneurysm or a stroke.”

Your lips parted in surprise, and then you considered it, “The drugs… would have made it possible, no?” Yoongi nodded. “And that would justify why I’m leaving a letter like this. Okay, that’s a good idea,” you agreed, though you instantly filled your chest with air. You wondered if it would hurt. “Do you think it will help him? To deal with my— death?”

“I think he’ll be mad about it forever,” he revealed, shifting on his feet. 

“Why? If it was something unpreventable and sudden like this, shouldn’t it be…”

You couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t wait for you, “Whatever little time he could have had with you, he would have preferred it. Especially if you knew your days were numbered.”

You chuckled bitterly, “Then it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he interrupted as you shifted the letter between your hands. “To receive a letter means you thought of him. Thought to give him closure. He will hate it because he had no control over it, but he’ll be comforted by the fact that you thought of him. Love… takes many forms.”

You smiled, “Okay, then let’s do that.” You placed the letter over your nightstand then turned to him, “There are… a couple of things I’d like to ask of you.”

He sighed, but you could see through his exasperation; he wasn’t annoyed, he expected it. “Yes?”

“Could Vera not find me dead? I don't want to traumatize her.”

He frowned, “Vera?”

“My maid.”

He blinked before chuckling, “Sure.”

“And… could you give my portrait a final touch?” He raised an eyebrow, and you pointed out of the room at the couch, “You’re missing in it.”

“This one?” He asked, and as you blinked, he was holding the portrait. 

You hummed, observing his reaction as he gazed upon that depiction of you. He took longer than you would have expected, going over every little detail. You couldn’t help your nervousness; it was as though he was evaluating your performance. Not of the painting, but of your life. You bit your lip with curiosity.

“And I’m missing?”

He glanced at you, and you nodded before he returned to the image with pursed lips. He was taking his time, and you couldn’t have guessed his thoughts — your cupid’s bow was much perkier than that.

“How should I do it?”

You mused about it and let your head lean against his arm as you observed the painting. “Something blue.”

His eyes stayed on you before he rubbed the portrait with his thumb ever so slightly. A shade of blue under the piano replaced its shadow, and you smiled. You felt incredibly at ease — now it was complete.

You straightened up and nodded, and in a second the portrait was over your couch again.

“Thank you.”

“Ready?”

Your smile widened, “Yes.”

You became deaf to the growling, the city noise, or even the thumping of your heart as you faced him. Your eyes drank every microexpression on his marble skin as you waited with bated breath for him to touch you. You didn’t know what was supposed to happen, only that you’d belong to him, and that was enough. You could only hope you’d get to feel his touch before dying, that you could remember the ache inside your chest at your longing, and that you’d see him again.

The back of his finger touched your cheek and your breath caught. The way he was looking at you entranced you and made you forget about everything that wasn’t your reunion. His dark eyes glistened with something you couldn’t decipher, but that had a sweet flame licking up your stomach to your chest, only to tighten its hold when his thumb brushed over your lips. You held your breath, unable to do anything that could stop this when he suddenly leaned in and crashed your mouths together. He raised you to him by the waist, lips voraciously devouring you, your taste, and your every breath. You met his hunger, gripping his dark hair so he’d stay forever on your lips, and you believed then that maybe he had been waiting for this just like you.

You didn’t want your kiss to simmer out, but his hand on your neck reassured you when he pulled away. You could see hunger and maybe even desperation in his glistening dark eyes, but then he blinked, and you knew it was time. He only needed one nod to press your lips ardently again, and you let go. You melted in his arms, guided by his taste and tongue as you abandoned your volition. Whatever he decided was what you wanted as well as long as he never let go, and he wouldn’t. You trusted him absolutely.

The flames of your desire and passion were rampant in you, without a semblance of weakness, not now that he was holding you. But you were used to your fervent yearning, so you didn’t understand when it went beyond your threshold until a second too late. Your heart beat intensely and your nails sank into his flesh, and as your mind flooded with dopamine, all you saw was white.

You woke up utterly dazed and confused, so nauseated you couldn’t distinguish above from below. But as you trashed around, trying to free your limbs and breathe, you realized you were on an expansive bed, fighting silk sheets. 

You sat up with your long hair falling messily over your face and frowned. You were in a wide bedroom with a tall ceiling with celestial scenes depicted and a large chandelier with black candles hanging from it. Over you, were black silk sheets just like the ones you liked, and over them and around you, red velvety pillows and blankets. The walls were dark, just like the floor, and to the side, the floor-to-ceiling windows let an unnatural shine in. You had no idea where you were and as you touched your chest and neck, you noticed your familiar black silk robe. Then you touched your lips, remembering just how frantically you were kissing him and—

You pushed the covers and jumped off the bed, running straight for the door. Tears were threatening to stream down your face not because you regretted or because you were frightened, but because you were alone.

Yoongi.

Your heart called out to him as you dragged the tall mahogany door open and rushed out. The whole mansion had dark walls and paintings whenever there was no door or on the ceiling, and you kept running until you found the central staircase. You looked down and, finally, your heart jumped; you took support on the banister and rushed downstairs until you could reach the first floor.

The stairs ended on a wide, several-floor high hall with only glass as walls. In it, at its center, was a red circular carpet with a black piano. It was as though Yoongi was waiting for you because as soon as your bare foot stepped over the carpet, he started playing.

You held your breath, unsure of what that meant or what you could say, but you still neared him. Slowly, your anxiety melted and your brow furrowed. What did he mean, he’d been waiting?

It took you a second to realize what was happening. He kept playing, eyes closed and head hanging back, and you observed him. You almost opened your mouth, but then you understood. You sat by his side on the long stool and pressed the keys with higher treble a bit tentatively, and he eyed you.

Your lips pursed as you retorted his glance, and then his music. You had been waiting too, you wanted to talk to him.

He heard your notes with closed eyes, and you saw him visibly relaxing before he played his reply.

I knew you’d be the one.

You froze, unable to press any keys, and just looked at him with wide, tearing eyes. He turned to you, reaching to cup your cheeks before pressing his lips to yours, and you were strangely revitalized, swimming in peace.

When he moved away, you asked him, “What now?”

“Now, I have you.”

[anathemafiction]

Fiz bandeira de um velho ditado

Alessa stares out into a deep, red sunset. Clouds shred the skies in strokes of gold, and a band of pigeons flies overhead, the sound of their wings flapping like the whispers of forbidden gods. 

She can hear the murmur of a dozen voices behind her, muffled by the walls of the brightly-lit inn but no less boisterous. 

Ahead, there's a view fit for a painting. Alessa inhales the fresh air, blue eyes watching the last light of a dying day. She is used to being cold, but Alessa finds herself shivering at the approaching night. 'Tis a beautiful view. 

And she has none to share it with.

Melhor só que mal acompanhado

One hand grips a patched satchel.

The other holds the only possession Harian could take with him. His black sword. He's panting, sweat drips from his forehead, and the blood pounding against his eardrums yells at him to keep going. But when Hadrian reaches the apex of the hill, he comes to a stunned stop. 

The land opens before him. 

Behind, too close, so far away, are the high walls of his Order. Hadrian almost looks back; he almost goes back. Instead, he makes his legs take another step. And then another. And one other after that. For the first time in his life, Hadrian walks alone.

 Nem pensava em apoiar, Os pés no chão

She crawls out from the ashes, lungs burning, eyes watering, throat like the hottest pit of hell. Her skin is red agony, her muscles shredded, her tendons torn, her heart beating out of pure spite. 

Neia, the former Dawnseeker, takes a deep, ragged, pain-filled breath. And then, she screams. 

A dark cloud of crows scatters away from her.

A specter rises to her feet, scorched, blood too dry to bleed, yelling still. When Neia has no more air left in the pitiful excuse for her lungs, she looks at her grave — the charred remains of a holy pyre. There is no one else. 

She's reborn alone.

Olho em volta, Agora estou sozinho

The ocean is a flat, moving plain, stretching to impossible horizons. 

A dozen, two scores, half a hundred vessels surround him like a curved wall. The Pirate stands at the bow of his ship, the figurehead braving the waters, nine fingers holding the damp-wooden railing. Lights shine from a hundred different windows, replicating the cold glow of the millions of stars above.

The ocean breeze is calm. He inhales the salt-filled air. 

His armada. 

The Pirate smiles, but his dark eyes do not glint. His armada, and his alone.

Não liguei às placas do caminho

On the top floor of a high, impossible tower, two windows sit on opposite ends. One faces south, the other north. There is no corridor connecting the two, no hidden passage, no hall or arched hallway. The rooms are sealed in the impregnable way only dreamed rooms can ever be. 

In the room facing north sits a young, brown-eyed girl with curls for hair and a beautiful golden gown for clothes. Ysbaella sits with her skirts spread around her and stares out her window, watching the world below move and go on and on and on. 

In the south-facing room, a young boy twirls a broken quill between too-short fingers. He sits by the window, but he doesn't look outside. He stares instead at an empty journal. Alain can't find any ink to write. 

The twins wait for dawn, for the dream to be over. Each of them alone.

Nem parei p'ra perguntar a direção

The door closes with a thud that spells finality.

Rafael slumps on his chair. His body is a distant thing now, beyond the grip of pain. Exhaustion closes in, and Rafael wants to heed its siren call, for it would be so easy. Close your eyes. Close his eyes and let go. Let go...

Distantly, he feels an ache on his side. It's not pain; he can't feel pain right now. Rafael looks down and sees the red expanding on his wraps. Blood. He was stabbed. His eyelids half-close. It would be so easy...

But Rafael twists his lips in a hateful sneer and clings to consciousness. Clings to life. To hell with them all. He's lived so far; he can cling on a little more. 

The would-be thief looks around the room — his cell. Dark and cold.

And completely deserted. 

Olá, Solidão

You raise your chin and face the mirror. 

Candlelight glows from behind, casting your silhouette in warm golden lines. Shadows play with your chin and jaw, your forehead, and the ridge of your nose. Your hair is wet, clinging to your neck, and your mouth is but a faint streak in the gloom. 

The whites of your eyes glint with the scarce glow as if they hold a light of their own. 

You stare at the mirror, but it's not your face you see. 

It is hers. 

Olá, Solidão

The bard puts the lyre aside, the last remnants of the song echoing like ghosts in the air. 

Lance unfolds his legs and rolls his shoulders, getting rid of the soreness of his muscles. His left hand is cramping, but he pays it little mind. The pain pales in comparison to the one pulsing from his back. 

He is proud of this song, but there is no applause. 

Lance looks around the small, narrow room with a sad smile. It is empty, of course. He plays for an audience of one: himself. 

- - - 

Song: Olã, Solidão by Os Quatro e Meia

[dailydemonspotlight]

Ixtab - Day 118

Race: Reaper

Arcana: Death

Alignment: Dark-Neutral

October 2nd, 2024

While the last spotlight was pretty lighthearted, this DDS will speak explicitly about self harm and suicide. Please don't read on if these are triggering to you. Trust me, this was probably the hardest DDS for me to write, personally, so I fully understand. Take care of yourself.

Among the scariest concepts in the world, death is probably the most common fear one can have. However, when one is welcoming of it, it can feel like a comforting embrace, and the ancient Mayans were fully aware of that, given the desperate times they resided in. Sometimes, in ancient times, people saw taking their own lives- suicide- as the only answer they had, and today's Demon of the Day was the goddess who'd take care of and guide those departed souls to the afterlife- Ixtab. While I'm not scared of Ixtab herself, I am scared of what she represents- not just death, but the willing embrace of death. At the very least, she represents the last gasps of comfort to those tortured souls who took their own lives...

Ixtab herself was a psychopomp, and didn't oversee or explicitly lead people to suicide- instead, she guided those people into the afterlife, being representative of the cold embrace of death. As referenced in 'A Dictionary of World Mythology', Ixtab was portrayed as the slightly decomposing corpse of a hanging woman, with "her cheeks [showing] the first signs of decomposition", as the book states. However, her domain wasn't exclusively over people who died from suicide, as she took in several kinds of suffering souls, not just suicide victims; she guided sacrifices, warriors who died in battle, and women who died during childbirth to their final resting place as well. She seemed to be a genuinely kind figure who would help these suffering souls reach some form of absolution that they weren't able to attain in their lives.

Ixtab's first (and only somewhat reliable) reference can be found in one of the works of 16th century inquisitor Diego de Landa, a guy who was famous for fucking destroying several primary sources from Maya! Dude!!!! God, that aside, though, he had quite a famous text in the form of Relación de las cosas de Yucatán, a collection of several stories he had gotten from Mayan civilization. I only gave the Wikipedia link because I fucking hate this guy even though he's the only main source we have for knowledge about the Mayans. I dunno, maybe if you didn't burn the fucking books, we'd have more, huh, DIEGO??? HUH?????? Ahem. Among the book's pages, he makes reference to Ixtab in a passage about the gods of Mayan culture. The passage is, to quote a translation from this paper,

They said also and held it as absolutely certain that those who hanged themselves went to this heaven of theirs; and on this account, there were many persons who on slight occasions of sorrows, troubles or sickness, hanged themselves in order to escape these things and to go and rest in their heaven [gloria], where they said that the goddess of the gallows [la diosa de la horca], whom they called Ix Tab, would bring them.

While this is a pretty good summary of what Ixtab actually was, another reference to her can be found in some of the few surviving Mayan papers, the Books of Chilam Balam, where they make a brief and obscure mention of her in reference to hangings and death that's rather hard to quote or translate due to the way the Mayan language worked. However, in spite of how obscure she is, Ixtab quickly became a rather popular character from the Mayan pantheon, with many references to her being found in many areas. Her role seemed to primarily be that of freeing those who died in great agony, after all, and it was that kindness that inspired her popularity.

However, the existence of Ixtab has been disputed by some scholars, and they point to her as what may have once been a hunting god due to a number of comparisons between her and some language weirdness, such as her name that translates to 'hangwoman' possibly being in reference to hunting snares. Her existence as a suicide god may have been sensationalized and used to essentially talk about the high rate of suicides in Yucatán, used to excuse and talk about a suicide cult instead of touching on possible issues with the area itself.

...God, I need to lay down. I'm sorry about this one being such a downer, though it's unavoidable given the topic. I love you guys, and I hope you're all safe and happy /gen. Thanks for reading, and I'm gonna take a nap given how heavy this was for me ;-;

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 26: "Help them,"

Content warning: attempted murder, stockholm syndrome-esque language, stab wound

“We have to help them!” Whumpee’s eyes were wide with terror. Their far too thin frame trembled with the emotion as they sat kneeled before the bleeding body. Blood pooled around them, staining Whumpee’s pants a dark, deep red. Their eyes, brining with unshed tears, were locked with Caretaker.

Caretaker couldn’t understand any of it. They didn’t understand the fear in Whumpee’s eyes. They didn’t understand why they were pressing their hands into that bleeding, fatal wound, trying to save a person who deserved death more than anyone.

They didn’t understand why Whumpee was kneeling at Whumper’s body, trying to save them.

Whumper was still alive. Their chest rose with gasping, pained breath, blood trickling from the corner of their lips. The wound in their stomach – a deep cut from Caretaker’s knife, one they’d hoped had hit something vital – poured blood over Whumpee’s fingers.

They could have finished the job before going to find Whumpee. They should have, but a spiteful part of them had whispered to keep them alive. To allow them to suffer, because they deserved it for everything they’d done. They’d thought Whumpee would feel the same.

“Whumpee, what are you talking about?” Caretaker asked, baffled.

“They’re going to die!'' There was panic in Whumpee’s voice, raw and utterly misplaced. “I don’t know how to stop it–and I can’t just let them die!”

“Why the hell not?” The evidence of Whumper’s crimes were still clear on Whumpee’s skin. How thin they’d become, how bruises and scares covered anything not hidden away under their clothing. One look at Whumpee, and Caretaker knew Whumper deserved it. “It’s self defense, nobody will blame us for it!”

Whumpee only shook their head, putting more pressure on the wound.

“Why do you want to save them?!” Caretaker shouted. They hated the way it made Whumpee flinch. But they couldn’t help but yell, not now.

Whumpee dropped their gaze, teeth worrying at their bottom lip. “I just…they have other people–um, somewhere else, not here, I–I mean,” Their words were stuttering, hesitant, as if they were afraid of Caretaker. “Nobody will find them if Whumper dies now, so…”

They trailed off, falling silent. They wouldn’t meet Caretaker’s gaze.

“They’re lying,” a voice, croaking and frail, gave voice to what Caretaker was thinking. Whumpee flinched like they’d been hit.

A laugh, high pitched and manic, broke from Whumper’s lips. Their eyes had opened to slits, ignoring Whumpee’s considered stare to lock with Caretaker’s eyes.

“They're lying,” Whumper repeated. They sounded delirious with pain, and yet their words struck with enough force to kill. Whumper smiled, their teeth red with blood. “It's because they’ve realized they’re nothing without me. They need me. They love me–,”

A pained, hacking cough silenced them. Blood dripped from their lips, and Whumpee’s hand rushed to wipe it away. It made Caretaker sick.

Whumpee's eyes didn't leave Whumper, but Caretaker saw them squeeze shut, something like shame in their expression.

They remained kneeling, head bowed, begging for the life of a monster.

“Please.” Whumpee’s voice was barely a whisper. And Caretaker, for all the anger and hate in their heart, couldn’t deny that plea.

They’d kill Whumper. Kill them for what they’d done to Whumpee’s body, to their mind. Tear them apart and give them a fraction of the agony they’d inflicted. They’d make Whumper regret being born.

But not today.

Today, on shaking legs, with a heart that was falling apart in their chest, Caretaker went to find something to slow the bleeding.

[drabblingman]

"One True Love"

Solomon hated those three words.

To most people, they were considered the epitome of many a romantic plot; the neat and tidy way to wrap up a story and let the viewer know that the couple indeed loved each other very much, oftentimes ending with a "happily ever after".

To others, it was a goal. Something and someone to strive for. Your "One True Love". The only person in the world that was meant for you.

It made him sick.

What kind of goal was that? Why would anyone resign themselves to such a fate? Glorify it? Place it on the highest pedestal as the ultimate relationship to ever exist?

What kind of cruel joke would that be for an immortal?

He couldn't imagine it. Couldn't imagine never meeting and falling in love with his lovers past. He loved them, truly loved them, with all of his heart. Each and every one of them.

He could picture their faces. He could hear their voice. When he was alone in bed, and the darkness obscured his covers, he could imagine each and every one of them laying beside him.

He could feel the pain of losing them. Each new way his heart had shattered. An agony that he would forget each time his heart mended, a new loss now fresh and new and biting. Until it faded again. Until he began feeling normal again.

And then he met someone new.

And the exhilaration. The flirting and teasing and banter that made his heart race and face flush in spite of the aloof front he tried to put up, every single time.

The thrill of returned feelings, of first dates and subtle touches, of early stages that went by entirely too quickly, but always settled in to something much greater.

The comfort, the absolute comfort of someone who knew you. By far, his favorite part was the settling in to each other, no more firsts or surprises to be had, just a home to return to. A safe space, in the shape of a person who looked to him for the exact same things.

And then it would be over, and the cycle would repeat. Endlessly.

And while in many ways he hated it, hated the curse of immortality and the grief of losing every person he ever loved, who would he be if he hadn't loved them? Who would he be if his story had been one of "One True Love", destined to end when he himself could not?

He couldn't fathom it.

How twisted by grief would he have become? How bitter would he have been for millennia, witnessing generation after generation fall in love and die in turn? What kind of man would he have become?

He never thought himself much a romantic, but maybe he would have to reconsider that.

Because he couldn't live without love. He couldn't live without the feelings of accepting and being accepted by someone in the most simple yet intimate of ways. He couldn't live without the inside jokes whispered in crowded spaces with hands intertwined, or the evenings spent apart yet together in the same room, the mere presence of each other being enough.

And as he bore witness to new feelings blossoming, as he nurtured the familiar feeling in his chest, beating together with his heart, he realized...

...He couldn't live with "One True Love".

[solalunar-eclipse]

@teamxdark happy birthday!!! I'm sorry I haven't been able to make you any gifts in a while...hopefully this one makes up for it. I've done my best to write everyone in character, and I hope that you enjoy reading someone else's writing for Team Dark (Hotwing ver.) ^ ^

“I have to do this…for all the people on this planet…for Maria!”

Shadow was floating in space. Somehow, he could breathe just fine in spite of what should have been a crushing vacuum, but he hardly noticed—his attention far too fixated on what was happening right in front of him to even consider it.

Rouge hovered a ways away from him, her fur blazing silvery-gold in lieu of her usual white coloration. She was staring up at the ARK, the space station a hazy blur when contrasted against the light emanating from her form.

Shadow felt his legs dimly, wanted to sprint towards her and scream at her to stop, but he couldn’t muster the strength to move. He couldn’t do anything at all.

He watched as she announced one final “Chaos Control!”, and the Space Colony ARK disappeared from his periphery—and Rouge began to fall.

Shadow still couldn’t move, even as tears began to well up in his eyes, even as Rouge plummeted towards the world she’d always wanted to visit in a trail of golden light. It was only once she was nothing more than a spark burning out in the sky below that he felt the muscles in his chest unlock.

Shadow screamed.

The sound echoed in his ears, one single raw sound of loss and agony and guilt all tangled together into a blend of pure, unfiltered grief, the likes of which he would never have made had he thought anybody else could hear him. Suddenly, though, gravity took hold of him as well with a lurch, sending him plunging down and crashing into the floor with a cry.

…the floor?

The black hedgehog blinked slowly, struggling to adjust to his new position. He was currently hanging half-upside down, his torso and head flat on the floor and his legs tangled in some sort of cloth. He looked up, and…oh.

He’d recognize that tacky beige ceiling anywhere. He was lying on the floor of his bedroom, in the apartment he shared with Rouge and Omega. Rouge wasn’t dead, she hadn’t even died when falling to the planet’s surface. As a matter of fact, she was currently paying a third of the rent for their shitty landlord who didn’t ask questions and let a robot live with them.

Shadow groaned quietly. Apparently, he’d fallen out of bed while in the middle of a nightmare. Just fabulous. At least he was able to get off without a sore spot on the back of his head, though he’d have to deal with the scratches his still-tense quills had made in the flooring at some point.

Since he was alone in his room, Shadow indulged himself in a bit of immature behavior and twisted himself to lie fully facedown on the floor. He hated these nightmares.

Yes, he’d formed a stupidly strong bond with Rouge within literal days of knowing her, all because she was kind to him. Yes, that bond was somehow enough for him to track her down across six months where she was presumed dead and to continue following her around even when she’d lost all her memory. His brain didn’t need to rub it in by reminding him of all the ways he was inadequate and couldn’t be helpful or useful to her, but it had elected to make that its full time job without his permission anyway.

So now he was awake before even the fucking sun, with the sight of Rouge falling to her almost-death seared into the backs of his eyes. Lovely.

Slowly, Shadow dragged himself to his feet, fully certain that he looked like death warmed over. He didn’t even make a cursory attempt to straighten his spines, his arms feeling too much like lead to bother. Instead, he shuffled out of his room and down the hall, hoping to grab himself a glass of water just so he could have something else to focus on.

He at least made an effort to tiptoe lightly around Rouge’s room so he wouldn’t wake her—she worked hard enough to earn money each day, she deserved as much sleep as she could get. Honestly, he was feeling pretty pleased with himself for his stealthy maneuvers (seeing as Rouge had her hearing cranked up to eleven, what with the bat genes and Ultimate Lifeform powers), and he kept it up as he walked through the living room, just so he didn’t disturb Omega either.

“SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG.”

Shit!

The jewel thief nearly felt his heart exit his body, jolting so violently it was a wonder he managed to get his hand over his mouth in time to choke down a scream. He whirled to face the now obviously awake robot, gasping for breath in an attempt to recover from the shock.

“Good fucking Gaia, Omega, what was that?” he hissed. “How long have you been awake?”

Omega’s eyes glowed red in the darkness, something that would have intimidated anyone who knew him less but just left Shadow distinctly irritated.

“I EXITED SLEEP MODE UPON HEARING A SOUND BRIEFLY IN EXCESS OF EIGHTY DECIBELS. SUBSEQUENT ANALYSIS SUGGESTS IT WAS PRODUCED BY YOU.” he informed Shadow, who glowered unhappily back at him.

“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing that’s none of your damn business then, huh?” he grumbled sourly, turning back to his initial mission of getting a drink. 

“I LIVE HERE. THAT MAKES IT MY ‘DAMN BUSINESS’, IF ONLY PERIPHERALLY.”

Shadow pointedly took a gulp of water in favor of answering, turning away to lean on the counter of the apartment’s tiny kitchen.

“VERY WELL. IF YOU INSIST ON BEHAVING IN THIS MANNER, I WILL BE FORCED TO RESORT TO DRASTIC MEASURES.” Omega announced, not sounding even the slightest fraction either reluctant or remorseful.

“You know you’re not allowed to shoot this place up, you signed the contract like the rest of us,” Shadow muttered. He refused to grant Omega the courtesy of eye contact, electing to remain facing the wall.

Omega whirred sharply, sounding almost as though he had scoffed. “YOU THINK TOO LOW OF ME, SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG. MY PROCESSORS ARE SUPERIOR TO ALL OTHERS, AND THEREFORE I CAN CALCULATE COURSES OF ACTION THAT DO NOT INVOLVE VIOLENCE IF I CHOOSE TO DO SO.

“AND BEFORE YOU ASK, THE REASON I DO NOT CHOOSE THIS MORE OFTEN IS BECAUSE IT IS, AS YOU WOULD SAY, ‘LAME’.”

“Oh yeah?” he taunted, finally turning around. “So what’re you gonna—” 

His words dried up in his throat, clogging it and making it difficult for him to breathe.

Omega had called Rouge.

“I don’t know what he told you, but whatever it is, he’s a filthy liar,” Shadow said instantly, nearly tripping over his words with how quickly he spoke.

“…so you didn’t have a nightmare?” Rouge asked him, her voice far softer than he preferred (than he deserved).

The hedgehog scoffed. “Psh, what, me? Nightmares? Since when?” 

“Then what was that scream I heard earlier?” she pushed, one eyebrow raised doubtfully. (So she had heard him after all. Dammit.)

“Um, I just fell off the bed, and it startled me!” Shadow explained—why did this have to happen so damn early? He wasn’t at his best in the middle of the night…

Rouge gave him a Look. “And why did you fall off the bed?”

“BECAUSE HE HAD A NIGHTMARE.” the traitor robot said.

“Omega I will actually sell you for scrap.”

Rounding the counter corner into the kitchen, Rouge stopped less than a meter in front of him. “Somehow, I’m inclined to believe Omega here,” she remarked dryly, clearly attempting to get him to snap back with his usual sass.

But he couldn’t. Not when the sight of her tumbling to the planet was still fresh in his mind.

“Believe whatever you want,” he mumbled.

“Shadow…?” Rouge moved a little closer. “Why won’t you talk to me about this?”

Shadow shrugged listlessly. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He attempted to summon up his usual cocky smirk, but only managed a ghost of the real thing. “You’ve already got enough on your plate, yeah?”

Suddenly, he was startled by a pair of hands landing firmly on his upper arms, holding him with a gentle strength that belied Rouge’s true power.

“Do you even hear what you’re saying?” she asked him, so visibly concerned he almost wanted to apologize just to get her to stop looking like that. “You had ‘enough on your plate’ trying to survive an alien invasion, but you tracked me down not once, but twice just to convince me to snap out of it and save everyone. Heck, you had ‘enough on your plate’ when it came to making me and Omega stop fighting long enough to survive, but you still somehow got us to actually team up so I could recover my memories when we’d been at each other’s throats seconds earlier.

“After all that, well—I’d drop everything else in a heartbeat to help you if I thought I could.”

Now it was Shadow’s turn to frown. “I didn’t do all that so you’d owe me.”

“I know you didn’t. You tried so hard to hide it, but I could tell…you were worried. And I’m worried now, so please, tell me what’s going on?”

Rouge looked so earnest. He’d only seen her like this a handful of times: when she was struggling with her memories, when she was standing up to Black Doom…when she’d thrown herself into the final battle against the Finalhazard…

He couldn’t look at her. Not now, not like this. “I know I wasn’t there when it happened, but somehow I still see you saving the ARK sometimes. And—and I can’t save you. When you fall, I can’t help.”

Rouge’s eyes widened. “Shadow…I’m so sorry. I should have known it would hurt you when I chose to do that…I was in a lot of pain and convinced myself that I’d already pushed you away, but that’s no excuse.”

“B—wha—of fucking course that’s a good excuse! I should’ve tried harder, reached out again, anything! I could’ve helped somehow!” he sputtered, visibly taken aback.

“You did help me, in the end. And don’t say anything about doing it sooner!” she insisted, cutting him off just as he opened his mouth to speak. “I was determined to fight until I was worn down. You came for me at just the right time to make sure I could find myself and rebuild my life.”

Shadow scowled, still doubting her. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Can’t I do that and also have it be the truth?” Rouge asked.

“…what do you mean?” 

The bat smiled faintly at him. “I care about you, Shadow, of course I want you to feel better. That doesn’t mean I have to be lying.”

“Oh. Um.” He blushed nervously, reaching up to brush his quills back in an unconscious movement. “You…you care about me?” he asked, in the smallest voice possible.

Rouge looked a little awkward in the face of such a raw moment, but continued onwards regardless. “I did ever since I met you, I think. It just took a while for me to realize it…and then once I had, no matter how hard I tried to deny it, I couldn’t stop.”

Shadow’s face fell. “So you don’t actually want to feel that way?” He sounded pathetically lost and confused even to his own ears, and his insides twisted harshly with shame.

“No, no, that’s not it at all!” Rouge said hurriedly. “It…felt like I was betraying Maria, at first. But after a while, I realized that she would want me to keep living—and more importantly, I wanted to keep living. And I wanted to do it with you and Omega.”

“I APPRECIATE THE INCLUSION.”

Shadow rolled his eyes, and Rouge half-smiled. “Anytime.” 

She turned back to Shadow, and then, almost hesitantly, held open her arms to him. 

He felt his eyes burn with unshed tears as he practically threw himself into the hug, reveling in the feeling of being held with genuine care by another. Rouge was here, she wasn’t dead, she was here and holding him and liked him.

“…ttle br…Shadow.”

“Huh?” His ears flicked upright, too late to properly register what Rouge had said. “I didn’t catch that, what’d you say?”

When he pulled back to look at her more closely, he saw that Rouge had started to blush a light green, and was biting her lip nervously. “Back on the ARK…before everything…Maria used to call me her Little Sister Rouge. I got older than her eventually, though—weird genetics stuff, you know—but she didn’t call me Big Sister until…that day.”

Shadow didn’t need clarification as to which day she meant.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking, and I want to—I’ve started, in my head…saying “L-Little Brother Shadow.” Rouge explained, her voice and posture stiff with discomfort.

That was the final straw for the young hedgehog, who promptly burst into tears.

“Ah—Shadow! I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“Y-you really wanna c-call me that?” he gasped, in between sobs.

“Only if you’re alright with it,” she reassured him, pulling him into another hug and wrapping her wings around him as well.

“I—I am.” He gave himself a minute, just taking some deep, shuddering breaths. Then he added, still crying a little, “…can I call you ‘Big Sister Rouge?’”

She froze for just a moment, before swallowing thickly. “I’d like that a lot.” she confessed, sounding as though she might shed a tear or several herself.

They stood there in the kitchen together for a long moment, just holding each other and resting in the newfound security that was their love made obvious. Eventually, Shadow did stop crying (after feeling a few drops on his head that had made his throat tighten all over again), but he didn’t let go just yet, reluctant to potentially ruin the mood.

Then, of course, it was ruined anyway.

“MIDDLE SIBLING OMEGA DEMANDS PARTICIPATION IN THE HUG.”

Shadow felt his stomach lurch, looking up at Rouge to see if she’d be upset with Omega’s brazen co-opting of her special words. Instead, however, she looked amused more than anything, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth despite her still-damp eyes.

“Very well. Come on…Little Brother Shadow.”

And when his Big Sister Rouge said that, before pulling him into a hug pile on the floor with Omega (and lots of pillows and blankets), well.

How could he ever say no? 

[rebeccathornewrites]

Sedentary Hobbies - Aloy x Seyka Fanfiction (ch.5)

There was nothing Aloy hated more than waking up disoriented.

She stared at the ceiling. Old world architecture—which meant the Base. More specifically: her bedroom. The bed beneath her was soft, the candles casting the room in a cozy glow. More blankets than necessary had been piled over her, smothering, except that the temperature in the room was crisp. The overhead lights were off, and the Base seemed unnaturally quiet.

She couldn’t remember getting here.

Her body ached, which wasn’t a great sign. Her ribs throbbed with every breath, her face was hot with fever, and when she tried to sit upright, a deep gash in her stomach prevented it. She swallowed a groan, wrapping one arm around the tightly bound wound, but that only made it worse.

Shit. Spite curled in her chest as she grasped at elusive memories. What the fuck happened? She—she couldn’t remember.

Even worse, her Focus wasn’t at her temple. Even her armor had been stripped away, replaced with a thin shirt like the one Beta wore.

Aloy clenched her jaw, drawing a fortifying breath. With one determined motion, she pulled herself into a sitting position.

Wrong move. In an instant, waves of agony and pain washed over her, causing her to curl into herself, her entire body shuddering. Something had clearly ripped her stomach apart, broken ribs. She was dimly aware of her bedroom door opening, dimly aware of strong hands taking her shoulders.

“You are such a moron,” the person hissed. “Lay back down before you kill yourself.”

Relief cut through the growing panic. Seyka. She sounded furious—but Aloy would be too, if Seyka managed to get herself into this situation. Aloy allowed herself to be lowered back to the straw mattress, and gradually, the waves of pain faded.  

“GAIA, close the door,” Seyka whispered.

Instantly, the doors to Aloy’s bedroom slid closed. The lights didn’t turn on.

“Everyone else is sleeping. It took them long enough—we’ve been worried sick about you.” Seyka released Aloy’s shoulders, her fingers tracing Aloy’s forehead with a gentle touch. The pressure felt nice against her skin, a welcome relief to the agony that had just coursed through her.

“W-What happened?” Aloy managed to ask. She inhaled sharply as another stab of pain slid up her spine. “Feels like I—fell off my sunwing.” Every breath was punctured with a shock of pain. Not good.

Seyka’s dark eyes were sharp with concern… and beyond it, thinly veiled anger. Aloy hadn’t seen anger since the archipelago, since Seyka yelled at her for keeping secrets. It made her stiffen, wracking her brain for what she’d done—and how she could fix it.

But her mind wasn’t functioning right, hazy with pain and fever.

Seyka placed a pillow under Aloy’s head, fluffing it just so. The gesture was intimate, at direct odds with her expression. “Replace ‘fell’ with ‘being trampled,’ and ‘my sunwing’ with ‘a crazed bristleback.’”

The mention of the machine summoned a slew of unwilling memories that smashed into Aloy like a mallet to the head:

Alva calling to tell her about a rampaging bristleback—an altered one, twice as big as normal and with wicked tusks.

Aloy racing there, only to realize the bristleback was rampaging towards the Quen fleet. Towards the boats they’d spent weeks constructing.

Seyka leaping into the fight before they could formulate a plan.

Aloy leaping after her, literally, shoving her out of the bristleback’s path just in time.

Here, now, the silence felt heavy.

“Oh. Right.”

Seyka laughed, the sound hollow. “Right, she says, as if she didn’t almost die three days ago. Alva said you’re heroic. Beta said you’re self-sacrificing. Neither of them mentioned how stupid you are.”

A flare of anger caught in Aloy’s chest. “Hey. You’re the one who—”

“I know,” Seyka snapped, and the anguish in her voice stopped Aloy cold. The marine rocked back on her heels, scrubbing her face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, Aloy noticed, lined with heavy bags from lack of sleep.

She didn’t look much better than Aloy felt.

Seyka continued, quieter: “I know, trust me. We’re both idiots. Difference is, my stupid moments only affect me. Yours affect the entire Ancestor-damned world.”

Guilt settled in Aloy’s gut, making her feel sick. “Beta has the same genes. She can—”

“She can’t, and you know it.”

They both fell silent.

The marine scrubbed her face, drawing a long breath through her nose. “My last officer wanted to promote me. Did you know that? Back in the Great Delta, before the Expedition, he tried to make me a captain. Turns out, I’m absolute shit at commanding people.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Aloy said.

“I don’t. He demoted me within the month. Said I was ‘too foolhardy’ to lead after all.” Seyka puffed a laugh, sending a strand of her hair flying away from her eyes. She tucked it behind her ear, shifting into a sitting position beside the bed. “He was right; I’m a soldier. I fight to protect, but don’t consider the bigger picture. Not like you. You’re a commander for a reason, sunwing.”

The title held warmth and admiration, but the casual nickname was what made Aloy’s heart flip. She cleared her throat, her eyes staring at a speck on the ceiling, barely visible in the flickering candlelight. “What happened to the bristleback?”

“I killed it.” Seyka’s lips curled into a vindictive smile. “Ruthlessly.”

It startled Aloy into a laugh—which set off another spasm of pain in her stomach. Her mirth shifted into a groan, and she curled over the injury again, clenching her eyes shut. “F-Fuck, that hurts.”

“No shit. Maybe next time you think twice before risking your life for someone like me.” Seyka rolled her eyes.

The words pierced Aloy’s soul.

She muscled through the pain, fumbling for Seyka’s hand. Her grip was tight, her words tense. “You’re every b-bit the commander I am.” She paused, swallowing a groan. This was important. “And if you think for a second I wouldn’t do it again—save you, specifically—you haven’t been paying attention.”

It was a bold declaration. The closest they’d come to having a real conversation about what they were to each other.

Seyka stared at her, tears rimming her eyes. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, Aloy.”

“I don’t either,” Aloy mumbled, letting her eyes slide shut. “But it’s true.”

Seyka was silent so long that Aloy almost drifted again. Exhaustion pulled at the dredges of her mind, and the feverish haze made her forget the impact those words might have. There wasn’t energy to logic her way out of everything—not tonight, not with these injuries.

As far as Aloy was concerned, the consequences of this conversation were future-Aloy’s problem.

Seyka’s fingers, still laced in hers, tightened almost imperceptibly. Her other hand traced Aloy’s hairline, drifting to her cheek. It felt nice.

“You’re burning up. GAIA said your wound might be infected.”

“She’s usually right.” Aloy’s words were breathy, tinged with pain.

Seyka left for a moment, then came back with a tiny patch. “Old World medicine. Apparently, some of this stuff is still good. Beta found a stash in the old staff quarters, and GAIA verified it.” She peeled paper off the back of the patch, then gently smoothed it on the bare skin of Aloy’s forearm. “That’s a fever reducer. And something called antibodies.”

“Antibiotics,” Aloy corrected.

“Sure.” Seyka chuckled. “You’re going to be bedridden for a bit, so you got a vacation after all. Any sedentary hobbies you want to try?”

Aloy was nearly asleep again. It took immense concentration to claw her way back to this conversation, but that was too good an opening to miss. “Well… you mentioned relaxing together. Testing my bed.”

“Say that to me when you aren’t slurring, sunwing.” Sarcasm tinged Seyka’s tone. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then she pressed a kiss to Aloy’s forehead. “Get better, okay? I miss you.”

Warmth of a different kind flooded Aloy’s body, and her lips tilted into a smile. Somehow, she didn’t regret what she’d done—the entire world be damned.

But before she could voice that, her mind slid into darkness, and she was asleep again. (Read it here on Ao3!)

[allmightluver]

I wonder if Toshinori listens to "Don't Try Suicide" by Queen often (unironically a great song)

He probably needs to! Poor guy.

One song that always makes me think of him is Leave it All Behind by Sleeping With Sirens. It's a bit of a heavier song, but the lyrics are what really seal the deal for Toshinori:

"When you look at my life, tell me, what do you see? I'm only human, so don't expect too much from me" -------------------

As in All Might. People blame him all the time for multiple things. Being 'too good' that he left the world feeling safe with his presence, and therefore left a massive hole in the world's protection when he retired. For not preparing them for his retirement. And now being the helpless crippled old man that he is.

"I lost my faith, what have I become?" I don't think I can be safe from what I'm runnin' from" ------------------

Look what he has become. He's lost his hope, his faith. He's exactly what he seems, a barely alive zombified man that should stay in the shadows he hides in. He can't run from the public anymore. He can't hide. Everyone knows who he is was. He can't busy himself with work to block out the criticisms and trolls. He can only work as much as he is physically able to, which isn't much. Then he's stuck inside his own mind. Inside his own body. The thing he's running away from. Himself.

"Would you be so surprised if I gave up tonight? I'm barely breathing, I wanna kill the pain I feel inside" -----------------

The amount of pain he's in constantly is a never-ending reminder of his failures. How he's failed his boy, his peers, his country, his world. The way he's always had to live alone, never with any support. Of course, Nighteye was there for a few years, but there that went. The world is falling apart at the seams, his boy is in the same self-destructive state he himself is, the boy doesn't even want him around anymore, the death sentence hanging over his head, he's pushed to the sidelines to do nothing but watch, he's a liability now. He's run out of use. Would you be surprised if he died? If he finally gave in? He can barely take a breath with the one damaged lung he has left without hemorrhaging and bleeding on himself. His body is being held together with nothing but sutures and spite.

"But I won't quit for the people I love So I'll say 'I'm fine' until the day I f*cking see the light" -----------------

He can't give in. His boy asked him to live. And despite the hate he receives, he loves his country. He loves the people he protected for 4 decades. Love has always been the problem. So he can't show the pain he feels. He can't let people see he's given up hope, that he's in constant physical and emotional pain. No, 'everything is fine' because I am here. He's fine. Don't worry about him. He's the last one you need to worry about. Give your attention to someone who actually matters. Let him blend into the background. Oh he slipped up for a second and you saw the agony in his eyes? No you didn't.

"Will you remember me If I were to fall into the sky?" ----------------------------------------------

The chorus. When If he dies, would you remember him for what he tried to be? The good things he did? The morals he believed? Or would you think of the way he bowed out of the picture right as society collapsed? Would you remember him at all?

"And what will they think of me If I leave it all behind? When I leave it all behind?" -----------------------------------------------

What will they think when he walks away? When he retired, how did people feel? He left his entire career behind. All the good he did fell apart in a matter of weeks. The world has been draped in darkness around him. What would people think if he didn't exist anymore? If he didn't live anymore? If he couldn't take it?

I think the next episode is going to basically embody this bridge:

"If you feel like you are nothing"

"If you feel like letting go"

"I'll be your hope"

"When you are hopeless"

"Together, we are not alone"

"YOU'RE"

"NOT"

"ALONE"

[astarab1aze]

"I find myself thinking about things I couldn't have the heart to tell you. I think about the end, about my own decline, about how frail I am now and how I will only be a burden to you as time goes on. I don't want to be so infirm that you have to do everything for me, for the rest of my life. I don't want that for you, and, damn it, I still have enough pride in me to refuse that for myself. But I know where I'm headed, and... Sometimes I think it's better for us both if I die before it gets any worse. I couldn't bear to see you wait on me hand and foot; and I couldn't bear to be waited on. The coward in me doesn't want to die at all, but perhaps dying earlier would be less arduous: I wouldn't have to put you through so much, watch you watch me waste away. But what can I do to avoid any of it? Even living, or dying, without you is something I know for a fact I could not handle. I am afraid. I'm terrified of the future, and it's coming closer all the time." (If you know who this is for, then you know who this is from.)

confess

Effort to appear unbothered was put forth, great care to maintain a lack of worry or concern, as he knew right and well who this was - whose words, whose cadence, whose desperate confession whispered in acheful tones. A love far greater than any he could've ever known, ever come to appreciate or reciprocate, share first, and so intense in spite of all. Everlasting, hopeless and tinged with all the grief and sorrow befitting a warlock with an anxious heart, pain and agony leaking into every word tumbling out of a man obscured from view. Convenient, that crystal blue should not meet peridots he wanted nothing more than to dive into, hands eager to gather slender figure into his arms as if the separation would eat him alive - what Hell it was to be unable to drag his fingers over hollow cheeks, paw at and tenderly kiss away the woes and worries of the only man who could give him the greatest gift of all. Redemption, atonement, the grace to afford him a chance, however reluctant in the beginning, however painfully unwanting. And yet now to have him admit his darkest sorrows which proved the opposite true, veiled in shades of gray too murky to peer through, Garrett was unsettled. Uncomfortable. Anxious, himself.

He said nothing in return for some time, the shadow over his eyes heavy and dark and wholly unreadable. Images of a shattered, ever-repeating mirror came to mind, a trap beset by Moloch in which they were each forced to watch each other suffer great torture and near-death, drawing comparisons here and now - perhaps flippantly, but it lingered and spread dread through his body as vilest poison, Hell's heat and apathy burning away at the calm he'd felt before. Yes, anxious - very anxious. There were too few things he could do to soothe worries of his own, and even less for V's, memories of the occasion he nearly lost him too soon, too early, too too too-- His palms felt a bit clammy, how unusual for him, teeth catching on his lower lip. Smoke began to steadily wisp free from the corners, then his nose, gaze flickering this way and that, mind racing, heart squeezing in his chest, flesh crackling and flaking away as if naught but ash, blackened fur peeking through like tufts of grass in pavement as the Cerberus in him revealed itself in full. Massive paws touting gnarled claws scraped into the cement beneath him, cratering under his impressive weight, fanged maw sparking, noxious fume and heat catching flame - evidence of his Hellborn blood. All this, a defense mechanism, a dogged uncertainty best left in the shade of animalistic crimson eyes and expressions that couldn't be made.

He hated talks like these in the first place, much happier to believe that V could live a life eternal alongside him, even if his devotion would see him through many more lifetimes for just a chance to see him again otherwise. It didn't matter if V died-- Oh, but of course it did. In every sense, in every version of every life in every timeline in every universe. It mattered exponentially more than anything else Garrett could possibly think of, claws flexing, grinding cement into dust. He shook himself, his hide, ash and ember falling away from him, and lowered himself to the ground, gnarled paws quick to cover his muzzle, tails tucked between his legs. Inching closer to the barrier between them, seeing all of V's emotions for what they were and being entirely powerless to fix it. Of course it mattered, but he didn't want it to. He wanted V to know that no matter the occasion, no matter the time, no matter the place, no matter his condition, his aches, Garrett would persist. He would love him as he always had, always and forever, and V need not worry for him. At the beginning and end of all things, he would wait, even if he should waste away in turn.

A whine bellowed from deep within him, and it was then he would choose to speak.

"Vitale," he chuffed, paw slipping from his maw, a deafening rumble to all but those attuned. "You're only thirty-something... and you're too stubborn to die. You're not going to die tomorrow." A light-hearted beginning, but it was acheful, crimson gaze glossy with emotion he couldn't bear to impart. "I found you in this life, I will find you in the next, and I will find you as assuredly in death. Weep not for me, nor for yourself, for the time we have is precious. Mecum eris semper, et ego tecum. There are no lifetimes, no worlds, no circumstances in which you will find yourself without - I promise you - and these pains and fears you feel will cease. To leave me... To have had you in the first place is already more than I deserve, with Lust and Wrath my cardinal sins and Hell burning like a furnace inside of me. How ever could I take you, so precious to me, and look upon you with only sorry and regret?" Wolfish nose to press against partitions, dry and caked with volcanic rock and the reek of sulphur. "I wish not for you to dwell like so, to crumble underneath your own mortality, and instead to dream and take heart in knowing the truth beyond this. In knowing you will have me, no matter the circumstances, no matter, no matter... Love is stronger than death, stronger than time, stronger than pain and woe, and you shall know it until the end of all, until the end of time as we know it. I'll make sure of it. I'll find a way. I won't have you wither, but you needn't worry if you shall. Please, stop this. Please, listen to me. Please, trust in me to ease your suffering. Love me as you are, as you will be, as I do, as I do. Vitale, V, my love, my greatest love... my only love."

@melancholymirth

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Tangled Place (Part 1/Preview Chapter)

Prompt(s): Whumptober Day 8 “it’s all for nothing” 

Summary: Zuko tries to prove his strength by summoning a spirit to slay. What he gets instead is a demon that takes the form of a Fire Sage who has taken quite a shine to Azula.

Notes: remember that self-indulgent fic I mentioned a week or so back? It’s late but it is now here; decided that it would fit better with spooky season. It's an Avatar/Conjuring Franchise crossover. Could possibly become a longer fic.

And when all is said and done it is all for nothing. He doesn’t feel stronger or cooler. Father still doesn’t love him. In fact he hates him more than ever.

He had played a stupid game and everyone is paying the price for it. Ozai’s is grief, Mai and TyLee’s is regret, Katara’s and Aang’s is disappointment, Azula’s is…he swallows hard. His own price is a mark on his chest–a big black blight that reminds him of what he has done and that his price hasn’t been fully paid. 

He can feel it inside of him.

The blight will only get bigger.

He sees it everywhere now. 

This Thing from some world far removed.

This Thing that is neither human nor spirit.

It is in the mirrors, in every darkened corner, at the shadowed backs of cupboards left ajar.

It is entirely his fault. 

He has lost the ability to sort out what is real from what is false.

Sometimes when he gazes into those dark places, it isn’t the Thing that he sees. Sometimes it is Azula’s face all twisted in agony a blackness much deeper than the shadows that surround her spews from between her discolored lips.

Sometimes he sees her in the corner, her arms stiff and twitching, her back contorted painfully. He knows that it is painful because her mouth is fixed into a silent, gushing scream. 

But it is her eyes….they aren’t right. They aren’t hers. He has seen malice and hatred in them before. He had thought that he had seen evil in them when they were younger. He knows now that he hadn’t seen evil at all–not in its most authentic, simmering form. Because he has looked her right in the eyes many times before and has never seen this.

Three months earlier

The place is overgrown. So much so that the path can no longer be called such. Stones have long since been cracked and dislodged by trekking feet and harsh weather. From the cracks grow tall grasses and creeping ivies. Invasive plants crawl down the throats of old stone fountains and into the tubes of wind chimes with choked voices and water pumps. Vines choke lopsided stone pedestal lanterns that have long since lost their light. 

The writing etched into these lanterns has been eroded beyond reading and in places where the etchings are clear the fuzz of moss has grown to obscure it. 

The trees have been overtaken by hanging moss and lichen that droops down as if melting off of the branches. A great many things hang in the trees, mingling with the natural overhang of vines; paper talismans mostly, tattered and faded paper lanterns, beaded ropes, dented brass incense burners, and collections of miscellaneous trinkets made of feather, sage, straw, white ash, and egg shells among other things. 

Zuko ducks under a tangle of what could be bird and mink bones. He does his best not to touch anything but the trinkets and talismans seem to outnumber the vines and hanging mosses. Something about that makes him queasy.

“This place is so, so…” TyLee wraps her arms around herself and shivers in spite of the muggy, humid air. 

“It smells rank.” Mai bunches up her nose. A scent that is stirred awake and amplified when Azula’s foot disturbs one of several mushy puddles. “How did you even find this place?”

Azula shrugs. “Things have been so dull lately.” She says as though that answers the question. 

But he can put two and two together. Azula had always loved exploring every nook, cranny, and secret annex in the palace. It was only a matter of time before she ran out of those and started to branch out. He just hadn’t realized just how far she would manage to do so. 

There is something charming about it–one facet of Azula’s softer side, the side that she has only just started displaying more openly and more often. She has an almost childlike curiosity about her that juxtaposes most other aspects of her–all of those parts that have grown up far too soon.

She makes her way around a particularly large sculpted boulder and comes to a halt before the dilapidated entrance of a shrine. She stands before it with her hands on her hips, watching a curtain of  paper talismans swish in the breeze. It isn’t just a curtain, he decides, it is a wall. A wall of paper with elegant calligraphy. He shudders.

For a place so teeming with unrestrained nature, Zuko had imagined that there would be sound all around. The beating of wings, the guttural crooning of toad-squirrels, the rattle of branches and a stirring of leaves as tiger-monkeys maneuver about.

But the place is quiet.

Quiet save for a distant chime.

“Should we be here?” TyLee frowns.

“Why shouldn’t we be?” Azula asks. “I’ve come here many times and haven’t had an issue.”

“You don’t think that this place is just a little…off?” Mai asks. 

“Completely creepy, you mean?” TyLee edges closer to her. 

Azula shrugs again. “It suits me just fine.” 

“Okay.” Zuko grumbles. “You can be intimidating but you aren’t anything like this.” 

She tilts her head and furrows her brows. Parts her lips as if to say something. This is another facet of her softer side–that part of her that truly believes that she is malevolent…a monster through and through. The part of her that seems to hiccup and sputter when someone implies that she is actually not so bad. 

Mai chuckles. “Look, if you feel like this place is a kindred spirit, we’ll leave you to it.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stop me if you tried.” Azula waves her hand dismissively. “At any rate, this is the place that I’ve found and I quite like it.” 

“But why?” Zuko scans the place, hoping to see whatever good she sees in it.

“It’s intriguing!” She declares. He is still getting used to seeing her more bombastic hand gestures and expressive speech. “It’s so…so…” She hums. “Charged. It has its own energy.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.” Mai confesses. 

TyLee nods. “It has a weird aura.” 

“That doesn’t mean that it has a bad aura. Weird and sinister are two different things.”

“Okay, but it definitely has a sinister aura too.” Zuko counters. 

Azula props herself up against the boulder. “I don’t think so. I think that it’s rather peaceful. It’s no different than any other shrine–just don’t be disrespectful. Leave an offering–” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small pouch of crystals, herbs, and gold coins. “Don’t steal offerings that have been left. Don’t break anything…” she trails off. 

“Fair enough.” Mai agrees. 

He isn’t surprised in the slightest that she is starting to warm up to the place. She has her own ripple of eerie vibes that cling heavily to her. 

Azula smiles, cheered to have swayed someone to her side. 

“So are we going in there?” TyLee asks with a gesture to the shrine. 

Azula shakes her head. “I don’t think that we’re supposed to touch the talismans. I usually leave my offerings on the stairs.”

“So why bring us all the way out here?”

Azula rolls her eyes. “Have a sense of adventure, Zuzu! Haven’t you ever explored something just for the sake of seeing it? Enjoy the view.” 

The sentiment is still so strange coming from her. From the girl who had always done things with a clear sense of purpose. Who had never taken a single step without having an end goal, an idea of where that step would lead. He thinks that there must be a newfound sense of appreciation for the world around her, for just living after having been sealed away from it for so long.

His stomach flutters, sometimes he thinks that he dwells upon her confinement more than she does. And maybe that’s a good thing. She has been through a lot and he is happy that she is doing well again. That they are doing well again.

That his family is slowly but surely, changing for the better. Ozai has a long way to go, but he listens to Azula. He indulges her when she proposes ideas to him. Zuko is certain that he just needs to give her time and she’ll be able to get their father to come around. It’ll give him time to decide how he feels and how much he wants to forgive, if anything at all. It might be a matter of acknowledging that some things are unforgivable, choosing to coexist, and moving from there. He thinks that forgiving Azula is plenty enough. 

It is more worthwhile than forgiving their father will ever be; for all of those hard edges and cold aspects of her she has a sense of loyalty, a protectiveness. She can be impossible to get along with but she has a good heart. A guarded and distant one but he has learned to work with that. And she has learned to work with him. 

“There’s a nice clearing just over that bridge, we can have lunch there. Or, if you’re feeling more formal, there’s a teahouse.”

“Does the teahouse look like it is going to cave in if the wind gusts the wrong way?” Mai asks. 

Azula shakes her head. “It’s actually quite new. I’m not sure if it is actually part of the shrine.” She taps her pointer against her chin. “Come on, Zuzu, you’re falling behind.”

He hadn’t even realized. 

He finds that he falls behind a lot.

These days she waits for him to catch up.

[nausikaaa]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

well, wednesday was technically three hours ago, but tumblr only just thought to tell me i’d been tagged by @technetiumai @onepintobean @ic3-que3n and @ileadacharmedlife. thanks guys!

inspiration struck and i wrote a whole chapter of angst for my Trojan War novel. here’s a snippet, it’s Helenus’s POV. content warning for domestic abuse.

All at once pain lances through my body. Every broken bone, every scar I’ve ever earned, they all ignite at once, my body breaking and opening up in one horrible rush of agony. I drop to my knees, screaming soundlessly, the knife skittering off out of reach as I slowly curl in on myself. My ribs snap, my fingers bend, my vision is blurred by blood.

“Always so ungrateful.” Apollo’s voice rings in my head. “All these wounds I healed for you, and you would hurt yourself to spite me?” Somehow, through the layers of pain, every teenage scraped knee and war wound reawoken, I still manage to feel a pronounced kick to my stomach. “You would be dead a hundred times over, if not for me. Or you would be some forgotten slave, with nothing and nobody. You owe me everything!”

A moment ago he was still in my head, but now he is before me, grabbing me by the hair and hauling me up, my feet kicking uselessly a foot above the floor. I struggle like a half drowned kitten held by the scruff of its neck, tears streaking down my face as the pain intensifies, burning hot. “What do you say?”

“I’m sorry.” I gasp.

“Not that.” He tuts. His hair glows. His eyes glow. Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision. I truly hate him, in that moment. I know I’ll not forgive him this time, and I know he accepts that, because he won’t forgive me either. There’s no point in apologising.

“Thank you.” I cry, desperate for the onslaught to end.

“Good boy.” He drops me. The shards of his broken statue dig into my knees and the palms of my hands, but the pain abates. “And you’re welcome.”

this was in part inspired by Helen and Aphrodite’s altercation of book three of the Iliad. these gods do not take kindly to being told off.

it’s late but i’m tagging anyway! take this for next week’s WW, or this week’s SSS. @martsonmars @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @ionlydrinkhotwater @confused-bi-queer @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @bazzybelle @castawaypitch @ivelovedhimthroughworse @gekkoinapeartree @erzbethluna @facewithoutheart @sillyunicorn @moodandmist @tea-brigade @whatevertheweather @wetheformidables @basiltonbutliketheherb and @theearlgreymage

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

NOT GONNA LIE THE BIGGEST DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SALLY'S SOUL STEALING AND SUBJEGATION AND ZURIYA'S SORCERY COMES DOWN TO TWO FACTORS:

Intent, as in the intentions and internal drive that brings them to absorbing souls and subjecting them to their whims. Not the end result, unfortunately.

The function and mechanics of souls in their respective realities!

For Zuriya, the Elder God's idea of 'peace' after a good life and death is a hell in of itself. When you are snatched away by the Netherrealm there is eternal torment, yes, but at least there is something to await you. Sensations, other beings, intelligent beings. You can talk, you can scream, you can suffer and feel that suffering.

But when you are given 'peace,' there is nothing. No reunification with long awaited family, no time spent doing what you love until the end of time, no reflection, no comfort, not even dreams. You are greeted with nothing but blank darkness, an empty void. You have no voice to scream, no body with which to feel, nothing to see or hear. It's maddening, it's oppressive, it's not 'peace,' not by any stretch of the imagination.

That's why, when it comes to her sorcery and soul snatching from graves and the dead, she feels no moral apprehension despite her otherwise compassionate disposition. In that sense she feels as though she is saving the dead from eternal nothingness and this false notion of peace.

It may be selfish, that much she knows, but she is giving them something. A world to see through her gems, tasks to do, forms to inhabit, chances to teach and let her embody them. It is purpose they wouldn't otherwise get, and in that she feels less like a vulture opportunistically picking off the dead and more akin to a emancipator.

For Sally though, well, the suffering is by design. Sally has no false notions that she is saving people, at least, not a majority of the time. When she steals souls, clawing them from the throats of the living along with their last breaths to absorb into herself. She KNOWS she is preventing them from eternal peace, or even having the autonomy to walk the earth until the end of reality. It's not a decision she has made lightly, but it is for the sake of punishment.

The men who killed her, who abused the patients and herself, the people that come to the asylum to gawk and laugh at the crazies, the sadists who try to use the hollowed ground of the asylum to unleash suffering on their fellow man. She steals their souls to fuel her blinking and her continued presence because she wants them to suffer in agony. She wants them to spend the rest of their sorry existences chained to her, in eternal reflection on what they've done and that their monstrousness fuels a literal monster. (yes, Sally does know she is a monster, a monster with a lot of love for the downtrodden but still a monster fueled by a lot of hate and spite)

If Sally catches the soul of a survivor or person that doesn't deserve the suffering, in every case she lets them go or guides them onto the peace their deserve. But the ones she keeps? She feels they deserve all that's coming to them.

TDLR: Sally says it sucks to suck and if she gets you, you deserve whatever pain and sorrow she can give. Zuriya meanwhile goes 'WHY ARE YOU BOOING ME IM RIGHT?' because there is no real peace after death and her personal and religious views make the idea of spending the afterlife in complete limbo seem like a hell, which makes her sorcery much better by comparison

[afriendtoravens]

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His expression was one of agony. He hated the very idea of anyone branding her as an outcast because of her albinism. She was no "freak," which just so happened to be a word that he absolutely abhorred. He loathed the term. It left his nose wrinkling with dissatisfaction. He was dragged away from his thoughts, however, as her hand brushed the side of his face.

Dark eyes rose to meet hers again and he sucked in a quick breath at the pure care and love he found there. She was such a kind woman, and it radiated from her now. All breath left his lungs on a loud exhale and his brows fell, frown only deepening.

"Do you truly mean that?"

What a ridiculous question... He scolded himself for it. Of course, she meant every word she said. He was too stunned to think properly, to even attempt his normal brilliance and quick quips.

One thing was for certain: she understood him. She was different too, just like him, and she knew how he felt. Although it might be for a different reason, she understood. She knew. She saw him, all of him, and chose to offer him kindness and tenderness in spite of it all.

"I would never hurt you," he said with a serious finality. "I simply wouldn't. I couldn't. You're safer with me than with most humans, and that's a promise."

"You're not a monster to me, Regis." she shook her head, but never broke eye contact. She needed him to know how serious she was, how much she meant was she was saying. "Monsters do monstrous things. You have done nothing to indicate you'd ever harm me in any way. You would have had plently of opportunities to hurt me, yet you did the opposite. You help people and you helped me..I don't see a beast before me. I see a good man."

Rose meant every word of it. Why would everything change for them? Sure, he was no human and there were some questions left in her head, but nothing changed the fact that he helped her, he was kind to her, he made her feel..complete in a way. He gave her a comfort she'd never really known before. "What you are doesn't change the slightest how I feel. Even though I can in no way fully understand what it's like to be seen as a real monster, I do know what it's like to be treated differently. I know that humans can be monsters too." she almost sighed. It was a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.

She lifted her hand and gently caressed the side of his face. "You don't have to worry. I don't want you to leave." she almost whispered, smiling a little.