#leaving blood to spill and twist into nothingness

[sagewhite]

They don't need you, just your image.

[crownofgildedlilies]

wishin' you were kind enough to be cruel about it -> cool about it [2]

in which: a son of Jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: you guessed it! more angst and cursing!

word count: 6.4k

a/n: did not mean for it to be this long but, im obsessed.... no like u don't understand. so much to be said! inbox/comment to be added to the taglist!

one [two] three four

At least you had the comfort of preparing for war to distract you.

Armor polished to perfection, swords sharpened, denarii in your pocket to pay for passage to the Underworld, should you meet your end facing an endless army of monsters that couldn't die.

Really, how Roman of you to seek the blissful nothingness at the start of battle.

You knew the exact number, down to the minute, of how long it had been since you had last seen Jason. But if someone were to ask you how many days Percy, Frank, and Hazel had been off on their quest, you would have stared at them blankly.

And even as you readied for war, your eyes had a glossy look to them, pinned on a fixed point just above the horizon.

"Don't let the legionnaires see you like this," Dakota had murmured in your ear as he adjusted the straps of your armor. You knew he had a point, but hated him for saying it, anyways.

What did it matter? The legionnaires had already seen you in hysterics in the camp center, tearing through the place in search of Jason. They wouldn't be surprised to see you were still not right, even with the promise of military glory.

But it didn’t change the fact that he had a point.

You were a centurion for a reason, and not just because the great Jason Grace followed you like a shadow. You needed to be strong and brave and ruthless, because that was what a Roman leader should be.

And the reason you became a centurion was apparent the moment you stepped onto the battlefield, New Rome at your back and your brothers-in-arms at your side.

See, the giants hadn't taken into account how much anger and fear you had bottled up inside you, uncorked with the first swing of your sword and spilling out over their armies.

Violence untethered, one of the now-retired centurions from the First Cohort had once described the way you fought. Brutal. Efficient. Roman.

And if you had been untethered before, when you still had Jason at your side—

The casualties on the Roman side were few.

You had taken a couple of big hits, but you welcomed the pain. The first actual bite of something other than heartache felt almost like a relief, like a promise that you were not trapped in a body that could only grieve.

The rest of camp may have been rejuvenated by Percy's retrieval of hundreds of Imperial Gold weapons, but all you could do was grit your teeth and limp back into the city.

The cries of 'Praetor!' that echoed after you, announcing Percy as Camp Jupiter's second leader, felt like they were twisting a knife in a wound long infected and left to rot.

Jason was praetor. Jason.

You liked Percy, you really did. He was funny—or at least, you would have thought so, if you weren't constantly looking for the next excuse to leave camp and search for Jason—and kind. He had Roman bravery, if not a little rebellious, which the Mercury in your blood seemed to enjoy.

Percy might have even been your friend, in another life. One when you had met him with your hand tucked in Jason’s, the son of Jupiter the levelheaded side to your double edged sword.

And at least you trusted Percy a whole lot more than Octavian.

"These... Greeks," Octavian hissed the word, lips curling in distaste. The day after the battle, still bruised and wounds leaking blood, you found yourself in the forum, dressed in a toga wrapped over your armor. You still couldn’t put too much weight on your ankle, and the shoulder on your shield arm was swollen. "You're an even bigger fool than I thought if you trust them."

You rolled your eyes, but bit down the dramatic gag. If Jason had been there, he would have been very pointedly ignoring you—because you had been guilty on more than one occasion of making more and more ridiculous faces in an attempt to make him laugh.

And after the third time you had gotten him to break his stony facade, Jason had implemented a 'no looking at you during meetings' rule, which he more or less succeeded in executing.

Or less, being the key words.

"Talking about fools," You murmured, and from beside you, Dakota jammed his elbow into your side so harshly, you almost yelped. In his defense, you hadn’t told him about the Cyclops that had probably broken your ribs, but you wished he hadn't hit you where you were so sore.

"Look, they're my friends up there." Percy gestured widely towards the open air roof as he spoke. You found yourself studying the skies, as if the flying Greek trireme Percy claimed would be arriving might suddenly appear out of thin air. "I trust them, and you voted me praetor. Doesn't that count for something?"

"It's something, alright." Octavian scoffed. You rolled your eyes again, almost growing dizzy with the movement.

A bad habit during meetings, Centurion, Jason had chastised you, once, with a smile so warm it didn't feel like a punishment. The two of you had just left the forum, still wrapped in your togas, your hand curled around his forearm as he led you through New Rome and towards a bakery you favored.

Wouldn't happen if you let me challenge Octavian to combat, Praetor, you had fired back, and in a moment of weakness, pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw before darting off ahead of him, giddy.

Soldiers, not lovers, you had to remind yourself. No matter how much you wanted, you couldn't force Jason to be anything he wasn't ready to be—or maybe what he just wasn't.

Octavian's watery stare landed on you, snapping you back to the moment like a rubber band pulled taut.

"I can hardly imagine you support this, Centurion? With Jason Grace gone—"

"Do not," You snapped, breath coming out in short, labored spurts. Violence untethered, indeed. "Neither I nor you get to decide who is praetor, and the spot was open—"

Your voice cracked. It tasted like a lie. The spot wasn't open. It belonged to Jason, just as your heart and tears and smiles did.

"—and Percy Jackson was raised to the rank after receiving glory in battle." You recited. You hoped it didn't sound like you had practiced in the bathroom mirror that morning, trying to make it seem like you believed it, even if you had. "I seem to recall a certain Apollo legacy cowering beneath my shield during the second Cyclops onslaught, don't you, Augur?"

And maybe it was a low blow, calling a Roman's battle bravery into question, but Jason had always been your bridge to your self-control.

"I—no—it—!" Octavian stammered, flustered, and Percy laughed. Dakota and several of the other centurions Octavian hadn't managed to blackmail or brainwash to follow him pressed their palms over their mouths to suppress their own chuckles, and even Reyna was struggling to bite back a grin. "You think you'll still hold rank as centurion, come the next election?"

He was threatening you, you realized, and you would have hauled off and socked him in the mouth, consequences be damned, if a shadow hadn't crossed over Octavian's head, darkening the whole of the forum.

Twisting your gaze up, heart hammering, you found a flying Greek trireme.

Percy was right.

And maybe he had been right about something else, too. Something you hadn’t dared to consider.

While Percy was dropped at Camp Jupiter, Jason might have been carted off to Camp Half-Blood.

Mercury swiftness blessed you once more as you took off, darting out of the forum before Reyna could finish saying dismissed.

There wasn’t much that could have stopped you, not even the bitter cold of crashing through the middle of a Lar.

You didn’t even bother pausing to shout an apology to Cassius, glowing purple and claiming to curse your bloodline for such an insult.

If you have been able to breathe, you would have told him your bloodline already felt a little cursed.

There was shouting, but you barely could hear it over the buzzing in your mind. You felt like you were going to vibrate out of your skin, eyes squinted, head tilted up, and fighting against the sun for even a glimpse of your missing half.

“Helmet on, fall in line,” Dakota tugged your arm, pulling you back to his side. You felt a little, a lot, frantic—felt desperate—but Reyna was already struggling to get everyone to fall in line, and she had given you so much leeway in the past months, that you stepped beside your fellow Fifth Cohort centurion.

“I left my—“ Left my helmet behind, you would have said, but Dakota shoved the metal piece into your hands. With buzzing fingertips, you placed on your helmet, adjusted the straps of your armor that were already perfectly done up.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Seconds ticked by like hours, limbs swimming through thick air like you were in a dream. From your spot nestled between Dakota and Paulette from Fourth Cohort, tucked under the hull of the flying trireme, standing behind Percy and Reyna, you couldn't see any of the ship's occupants.

But then they dropped a rope ladder, and your heart stuttered in your chest. Nails bit into your palms, your own fingers the culprit, and you forced yourself to stretch out your hands in an attempt to keep the bleeding to a minimum.

Jason, please, Jason, I need you, oh, gods, please—

It was like a mantra, repeating on a loop in your head. Tears stung at your eyes, overwhelmed by just the sheer possibility that your golden haired love could be so, so close to returning to you.

The first body began to climb down the ladder. A girl, with yellow hair dragged into a ponytail. In front of you, somehow, you heard Percy inhale sharply and you realized it must have been Annabeth.

The only person he remembered from his past life, until he had drank the gorgon's blood and gotten his memories restored. Unease trickled through you. There wouldn't be such a quick fix for Jason.

A second girl descended the ladder after Annabeth, with choppy brown hair, baggy clothes, and a wicked dagger at her hip.

You started to doubt Percy's theory. Maybe Jason hadn't been taken by Juno or Hera or whichever deity you felt like blaming. Maybe he was stuck somewhere else, alone, and hurting, and you were—

A purple shirt appeared over the side of the ship, atop a set of broad shoulders you could have recognized blind.

Jason.

Your Jason.

Home, to you, at last.

A gasp shuddered through you as he started to climb down the rope ladder and into New Rome. You started to step forward, but Roman training froze you to your spot as Reyna pinned you with a look that screamed 'don't break rank, not in front of Octavian,' which would never be enough to keep you from reaching Jason.

But still, you stalled.

It didn't mean you stopped staring, your eyes tracing his form from head to toe, trying to see what changed about him, what was still the same.

The scar on his lip, the sky blue eyes, the golden rays of his hair. It was exactly as you remembered, except for the hair, which had grown out just slightly. You liked it better, but you would never tell him. You knew how much he liked to keep it short, in regulation.

Look at me, please, you begged him in your mind, because you were forbidden to say the words. Another boy scaled down the rope ladder, but you paid him no attention. Jason, Jason, Jason.

It was dizzying. In all the years you had loved him, never had it felt so much like a compactor was pressing in on your chest.

Their group approached, four rag-tag demigods, three Greeks and a Roman. It sounded like the set-up to one of the awful jokes you used to tell Jason when you were stationed on guard duty together, just to pass the time and see him shake his head with a smile.

Reyna stood tall before you, strong and powerful and part of you wanted to push her to the side and race into the arms of your lost soldier.

Why hadn't he looked at you yet?

This was it, the moment you had been dying for, for months. When Jason finally came back to you, his eyes locking with yours, rules and regulations tossed aside as he wrapped you in his arms so tight your toes left the ground and his mouth slotted over yours, a kiss nearly a decade in the making.

Fear and emotion clogged your throat, and you had trouble swallowing around it. Didn't he see you? He knew you always stood between Dakota and Paulette, just to the right of the second praetor—his rank, formerly, now given to Percy Jackson.

But, there—his blue eyes scanned the row of centurions lined behind Reyna and Percy, starting with the First Cohort and making his way to you. Oh, how you were going to scream and cry and hold him later, all as punishment for making you worry—

Jason's eyes passed over you, carrying on towards Dakota like you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

Fear and routine and fear of your routine were the only things stopping you from tearing off your helmet and slamming it into his chest, demanding to know who the hell he thought he was, scaring you so thoroughly for months and then acting like he didn’t know you.

But then you remembered Percy, and how he hadn’t been able to remember anything.

That couldn’t be right, no, Jason loved you. And maybe it wasn’t in the way you loved him, but hadn’t Hadlee, the daughter of Venus, gone on and on the other night about different types of love? You knew with a certainty you had never felt before that Jason loved you, even if it was only in the sense of friends.

The way fellow soldiers would die and bleed and get torn to shreds for each other.

You had gotten upset when he asked what else was there for the two of you to be. Now, you would trade every scrap of pleasure and freedom for the chance to be only soldiers with Jason Grace for the rest of time.

You pressed your arm tight against your side, elbow pointed in and poking at the unhealed, unchecked injury from the Cyclops. At first, you had refused to go to the medics because they were still all cheering for Percy to take place at praetor.

Then the pain just became a good enough distraction from losing Jason, even if it didn't really work.

These thoughts and more swirled in your mind as Jason introduced himself and the Greeks he had arrived with. Annabeth, Piper, Leo, Coach Hedge. The names meant nothing to you, but still you memorized them, because they were important to Jason.

He and Annabeth took turns explaining the quest they were on. You only understood half of what they were talking about, because every time someone other than Jason even attempted to speak, their voice was drowned out by the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Gaea is rising. Giants trying to wake the earth mother. Need to go to the Ancient Lands to stop them.

You gathered enough to know that whatever was happening was bad. They needed Jason, your Jason, and the fate of the world was more important than the heartbeat pulsing in the tips of your fingers.

Wasn't it?

Miles and miles away, maybe already in the Ancient Lands, you heard Reyna's voice cut through the static.

Let's discuss over a meal, she had said, your stare watching the relief wash over Jason's face. You were certain no one but yourself noticed the minute reaction on his behalf. At least, you had hoped. We reconvene in the city proper for a lunch. Centurions, dismissed.

There it was, that permission you had been waiting for.

Your helmet was torn from your head before Dakota even had time to slouch, shoulders dropping from the stiff way he held them while in formation.

It clattered to the ground beneath you, and you might have even stubbed your toe on it as you stepped forward, desperate for proof that you weren't imagining things. Your soldier was home, gods praise, he was home and within arms reach.

The rank of centurions behind you remained still, anticipating the long awaited and bitterly fought for reunion between two of New Rome's finest, the two soldiers that rarely ever separated, but spent six and a half months apart.

You surged forward. Jason stayed still. You understood what was happening, but you wanted to pretend for a moment longer.

"Hey, soldier," You breathed, voice tight and eyes burning. You clenched your hands into fists, then splayed your fingers wide, stretching, desperate to reach out and touch.

But you were on very uncertain ground. You had to wait for him to make the first move, even if it killed you.

"If the legion weren't here, I'd kick your ass for making me cry." You settled on saying, knowing that he would understand just how much you missed him.

Once, during a particularly violent round of training, Jason had caught the underside of your jaw with the blunt end of his lance. Nothing had broken, which considering Jason's strength, had been both a shock and a blessing, but you hadn't been able to control the tears that sprung to your eyes and raced down your cheeks in pain.

I did this to you, he had lamented, torn between anger at himself and grief for having hurt you. His aching in his words had been nearly enough to get you to resent yourself for feeling pain. I should have been more careful. Next time, I will.

His hands had been cradling your face, turning in it ever so gently to the side to inspect the bruise already forming on your jaw. His touch on your skin had felt like too much, but now you were realizing it had never been enough.

Next time, I'll be faster, you had promised hooking your leg around the back of his and shoving into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards and landing square on his ass in a move that never would have been possible if he hadn't been distracted by your tears at his hand.

You had barely cried then. What would he say, now, learning of the hysterics you had been reduced to?

“Er, do I know you?” Jason asked, stammering, flush coating pale cheeks you could have drawn from memory.

The simple question felt like being dunked in an ice bath, then held under while your lungs filled with water. It had to be some cruel joke, some wicked nightmare you would surely wake from any minute.

Know you? Did Jason Grace know you?

The question was almost unnecessary. Laughable, even. Seven months earlier, if someone had asked that question, you would have cracked a grin. Jason would have been by your side, naturally, and been offended by the insinuation that he didn't.

And then he would have proceeded to list off all of your favorite things, in alphabetical order, organized by category.

The idea was laughable. He knew you. He had to know you.

“Jase?” It was pathetic, really, that that was all you could muster. A breathy, pained whisper of the nickname you’d given him when he was being stubborn about taking care of himself and you poked out your bottom lip to try and convince him to rest.

Most times, it worked.

Now it just hurt.

“Sorry,” He shook his head, darting a glance to the curly haired Latino boy wincing at his side, your stomach dropping to somewhere around Pluto’s palace. “I don’t remember, well, anything, really.”

How foolish had you been? Percy had remembered Annabeth, sure, but Annabeth was his girlfriend. What were you to Jason?

Just another soldier, like he had claimed the day he went missing.

Just another soldier. Only ever soldiers.

And the worst part was he looked genuinely apologetic. You wished he could have scoffed and waved you off, like some prissy, no-good asshole that turned up his nose simply because he was the savior of the world and had earned so much battlefield glory he practically reeked of it.

But that wasn't like Jason. No, not only did the jerk have to be the strongest, most strategic soldier you had ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside, he was also one of the nicest.

Holding open doors, comforting the new, young, arrivals, braiding your hair for you to keep it out of your face that one time the stomach bug had torn its way through the Fifth Cohort. You had spent thirty-six straight hours bent over a toilet, and Jason had been there through all of it.

I don't remember, well, anything, really.

But you had never just been anything to Jason. Sometimes, he looked at you and you could almost convince yourself that you were his everything.

Dakota, of all people, a little hopped up on kool-aid, came to your rescue. Knotting his red-stained fist in the back of your toga, he tugged you back into the line of centurions, using his body to block Jason from your line of sight.

And you would have expressed your thanks, if you had been able to express anything beyond total heartache.

“No one would blame you if you snuck out,” Dakota lowered his voice, ducked his head close to your ear, and that snapped you out of your stupor.

“And leave my legion?” You glared sharply at him, glad for an excuse to funnel out some of your anger, though you felt a little bad that Dakota had been your punching bag the last six months. Really, you owed him. “I don’t think so. I’m fine. Just… shocked. I’m good.”

Dakota winced. Usually, you were ace at lying.

Who tied Octavian’s shoelaces together?

Not me, you’d dutifully shake your head.

Who broke curfew and snuck into the city to retrieve little Julia’s stuffed teddy from Octavian’s sacrifice pile?

I’d never, you’d claim, aghast.

Who’s head over fucking heels, dizzyingly in love with Jason Grace?

Not my type, you’d hold a hand over your heart, scouts honor.

But a simple I’m fine?

Even Frank Zhang couldn’t pretend to not know you were lying through your clenched teeth, and he pretended like he had never found you sobbing outside bunkhouse after curfew one night, a few days following his arrival at camp.

How had Jason forgotten you? It didn’t feel real, but everything felt like too much.

Maybe Dakota had a point. Maybe you needed to get out.

"Come," Reyna ordered, breaking the silent tension that had been building as Greeks and Romans alike stopped to gawk at your conversation with Dakota. "Let's eat."

You picked your helmet up out of the dirt, a dutiful little soldier with lungs full of glass shards.

You were supposed to be strong.

You were supposed to be strong, but you were just a kid.

Ten years old to be exact. Tears stung at your eyes, burned their way up your throat. You could have vomited. You might have already.

You're a thief and a monster, the other kids at school had claimed, words like bullets as they lobbed pencils and crumbled paper and anything they could get away with at you.

A thief, you would admit to being. You couldn't help it, fingers moving almost of their own accord, always finding the easiest target, the shiniest reward. It didn't matter that you always returned everything you took. No one wanted to be friends with the freak that managed to lift the teacher's wedding band off her finger in kindergarten.

A thief, you were.

But a monster? Monsters were the creatures that clawed at your window at night. Monsters were the odd shapes in the grass your mother never managed to see. You weren't a monster. You were ten.

"Hey, we're not supposed to be back here."

The voice of another child cut through your misery, and you sharpened your glare to pin the intruder to his spot. You recognized him, because he was the type of guy that had called you names in school. Tall—for a kid—and built like an athlete. Tan skin, blond hair, blue eyes.

You were pretty sure his name was Jake Greene, or something.

"You're back here," You reasoned, waving a hand littered with scabbed knuckles around for emphasis. Here being the stretch of unwatched grass behind the Mess Hall, a little place you had discovered on your second day and realized it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry.

Now, a week in, you discovered that it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry, but Jake Greene.

He looked around uncomfortably, like he was just then realizing that he, too, was breaking the rules. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for witnesses, before trodding through the plush grass to sit beside you, legs stretched out in front of him while yours were pulled tight to your chest.

You checked the ground quickly, relieved to find you hadn't actually vomited.

"I'm Jason. Jason Grace." He introduced himself, as if your eyes weren't bloodshot and face blotchy and cheeks wet with tears.

Not Jake. Noted. Now that you thought about it, you didn't think there was a Jake at Camp Jupiter. Not one that you had met, yet, at least.

You nodded, hoping Jason, Jason Grace would get the hint that you wanted absolutely no fucking part of whatever nice guy routine he was putting on. Even if he was one of the few to approach you since you had arrived, bloody and starved, at the camp's borders, Lupa and her pack deciding you worthy.

This one is feisty, you could have sworn the alpha wolf had snarled a grin at the older centurion who found you. Young, but strong willed.

You didn't feel strong willed. You felt like you missed your own home.

You had to remind yourself that your own home hadn't wanted you and your new home was a Roman military camp.

"Your father is Mercury, right?" Jason tried again, this time earning a sharp glare.

It was easier to be angry than it was to be vulnerable, wasn't it? Wasn't that why you always bit the hand that fed you, got sent to the literal fucking wolves at ten years old?

Jason Grace didn't flinch at your hatred. Hatred? That wasn't the right word. You didn't hate anything or anyone but the schools and teachers that had convinced your mother that you were too difficult to deal with, that you needed to be sent away.

Can I come back for Christmas, Mom?, you had naively asked, not understanding why your mother was crying as you rolled to a stop outside a crumbling, wooden house in Sonoma.

A week later, you wondered if your mother was still crying. Or maybe she was enjoying the peace of no longer getting calls from schools or policemen about you.

You wished you could wipe your hands clean of yourself, like Mom had. Maybe you would understand why everyone in your life always seemed happier after they had gotten rid of you.

"It's not so bad here, I promise," He tried, again, and part of you had to congratulate him for not giving up. You would have. "I cried, a lot, when I first got here."

"You?" The exclamation fell past your lips before you could help it, and Jason's own twisted into a victorious grin. He had a scar, on the side of his lips, shining pearly white in the sun, set against his skin.

"Me," He confirmed. Sure, you had just met the guy, had been calling him the wrong name for a week, but he didn't seem like the type to cry. "I did come here when I was two, though."

You didn't know whether to gasp or swat his arm in retaliation, so you did both, finally uncurling from the ball of fear and hatred you had woven yourself into.

"You're really good in training," Jason complimented, taking your childlike assault in stride. You nodded, picking a few blades of grass out of the ground, right at the roots.

"I used to fight in school," You offered, if it was that simple. But punching your bullies was a whole lot different than locking sword and shield.

In the bunkhouse, the boy in the bed across from you was a son of Ceres, the goddess of the harvest. Your first night, in an effort to make you stop crying, rambled on and on about plants. How to properly care for different crops, what too little sunlight did to a flower, and how a tree could be dug up from the ground, roots and all, and planted somewhere else to live a perfectly normal, perfectly long life.

You stared at the blade of grass in your hand, feeling very much like the plant, your roots floating in the middle of nowhere by the hand of some unseen, unforgiving god.

But maybe you could plant your roots, too.

"If I don't make it here," You whispered, little kid voice hoarse. "Then that's it for me. I don't have anywhere else. I'll have to live on the streets. I've done it, once. Made it a whole week before Mom found me."

Part of you regretted the words as soon as they left your lips. What had Lupa shown you about weakness? It got you killed. It got you punished.

But Jason didn't sneer. He pursed his lips in a thin line, scar shining even brighter with the movement.

"I don't know my mom," He confessed, suddenly just as weak as you. Frowning, you tried to figure out why he was saying it. Big, strong—at least to ten year old you—Jason Grace should not have been any kind of weak.

Nodding, you didn’t have anything to say. But you felt the connection build, just two weak children, forgotten by their mothers.

“But I know you,” Jason offered, the admission warming something in your chest involuntarily. And you knew in that moment that maybe you were scared, but you weren’t alone.

At least Jason Grace knew you.

You grinned, then. A far cry from the glares and snarls everyone else you had come across had received. The ones that even he had been victim to, at the start of the conversation.

"Well, Jason Grace," You stuck out your hand, and he clasped your forearm like a good little Roman. "You're never getting rid of me, now."

The smile he gave you in return was a little lopsided, and when he dropped your arm and glanced over his shoulder, you remembered that your not-so secret hiding spot was off limits.

"Just don’t tell anyone we were back here, please.”

If you had thought your mood was bitter before the trireme arrived, it was nothing compared to the sulking, sorrowful mess you currently were.

For starters, you had somehow been shoved and duped into the seat beside Octavian and across from Jason. You didn't really want to see either of them, at all, at the moment.

Secondly, and you may have been reading far too much into things, but the second girl the Greeks arrived with, Piper, was sitting entirely too close to Jason. You wished that you had a good enough reason to not like her, but with your rotten luck, Piper McLean had been an absolute sweetheart despite your best efforts to act like a dickhead.

And it wasn't like Jason had ever actually been yours, ever.

Third. The plate the sprites dropped in front of you was filled with all of Jason's favorite foods. You weren't sure if it was your will or the sprites that made it happen, but you felt like tossing it all away.

Maybe you would dump it in Octavian's lap. It might make you feel better. It certainly was worth a try.

Finally, there was one aching thought echoing inside your mind relentlessly. The last conversation you ever had with your Jason had been an argument. You had walked away from him, a little petulant, entirely unnecessarily. And you had lost your soldier boy.

Because the Jason seated across from you at the Dining Hall in New Rome was not the same one that wrote out your to-do lists for you on neatly lined paper, offering to tag along with you while you checked them off.

He was just Jason, not yours.

And that hurt far more than you cared to admit.

“Centurion, you must be ecstatic,” Octavian crooned, his sickly smirk pinned on you. You felt a whole lot of things, but ecstatic wasn’t one of them.

“How so, Augur?” You huffed, even though you knew it only invited trouble. Across from you, Jason and Piper clearly had one ear on the conversation.

"Well, you have been inconsolable with our dear Jason Grace missing," Octavian said, as if he really cared about you. More heads started turning in your direction, and you found your fingertips inching to do something that would really get you in trouble. "You were a mess, honestly. Looking like—"

"That's enough," Jason interrupted, even though he didn't have any memories of you.

At least he was still the same horribly perfect sweetheart he had been before he left. His months with the Greeks—all of them watching you with mixed emotions—hadn't turned him sour.

"Oh, you should have seen her, Jason!" Octavian was going now, flourishing in the attention and you hated him, hated him so much your cheeks burned as bright a red as the kool-aid trapped perpetually in Dakota's hip flask. "Crying, every night. She even has—"

"I said, enough, Octavian,"

"—has a key to your bunkroom!" The augur finished, and if you had been able to think of anything beyond your embarrassment or frustration or fear that you were totally, irrevocably erased from Jason's mind, you would have remembered Octavian's threat, earlier, before the trireme arrived. He was just exacting his twisted form of justice.

Embarrass me in front of the Senate, and I will destroy you in front of Jason Grace, you could practically hear him sneer.

"Wait," The Greek named Leo narrowed his eyes at Jason before darting them to you, a grin on his lips that screamed trouble. "Did you two use to date?"

"I don't know," Was Jason's clipped, short reply, his cheeks dusting pink as he fixed his attention on your face. He studied you like he didn't understand you, which was ridiculous, because sometimes it felt like you and Jason shared a heart.

"No," You grunted, shoving your plate forwards, glare fixed on the stupid cherry tomatoes rolling atop the porcelain that you despised and Jason adored.

"We never could figure out if that was the truth," Octavian slanted a look to you, smirking. "But I guess we don't have to worry about that now, do we Centurion? Since he has no memory of you, of—"

Faster than what would have been possible, if your father had been anyone different, you lifted the knife set beside your plate and slammed the tip into the wooden table, between two of his fingers. He screamed, and the plates on the table rattled.

Weapons were forbidden inside the Pomerian Line, but dinner knives were only utensils.

The whole table fell silent. And maybe the whole Dining Hall, had, beyond Octavian's spluttering and cursing and calling for your trial before the Senate for attacking an Augur.

And maybe if Percy wasn't glaring at Octavian, and Reyna hadn't been the one to slip you Jason's key, he might have had a case against you.

"Praetors," Standing, you bowed your head to Reyna and Percy, and though every muscle in your body screamed to pay the same respects to Jason, you couldn’t get yourself together enough to meet his eye. How could he not know you? "I request to be dismissed."

"I will come find you later." Reyna nodded, intelligent eyes shimmering with understanding, and you never realized just how much it hurt to be pitied by her. "We’ve got much to discuss."

"Yeah. Uh, lots." Percy nodded, looking between you and Reyna like he couldn’t quite figure out what he was missing. But then his attention snagged on Jason, seated across the table, and you saw it all—the understanding, the pity, the sorrow—pass over his face. "Wait—"

Annabeth jammed her elbow into his side, and you met her eye briefly. She might have been the only one who understood even a fraction of what you were going through.

But at least Percy remembered her, and he had loved her freely, before.

“Later.” You confirmed through clenched teeth, turning swiftly to try and find a spot far enough from Jason Grace so that his lack of memories didn’t hurt.

You weren’t sure such a spot existed.

Your feet carried you deeper into the city, walking past store after store. You couldn't stomach going into much of them, every bakery and café and bookstore holding some memory of Jason. Far more memories than he held, of you.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before you heard the first explosion.

And Roman training kicked in, instantly, as you raced towards the forum, where the Greek trireme was firing on your city, the one you had only just saved from and army led by a giant.

Fall in! You shouted, organizing legionnaires, your mind and your instincts at war. And you knew Greeks and Romans were at war, too. Protect the city!

You barely were able to glimpse the dark haired boy, Leo, manning the ballistae attached to the side of the ship before it took off, rocketing through the skies, even with Roman firepower slamming into the hull.

And as the trireme disappeared into the distance, fear tore through you.

Because you knew Jason. You knew he was on that ship, with his new friends. You knew he was sailing off with them, bound to a quest that meant saving the world, if what they said was to be trusted.

And you knew what came next.

Jason Grace, loyal to the end.

You were going to have to kill him.

a/n: did not mean to give reader such a tragic backstory but I kinda love it... im so curious to know what ur fav part is, bc I cannot decide. ty for reading this much and plz let me know what you think!

tag, you're it: @aezuria @tayswiftlovebot @bonnie-tz @folklorefantasies14 @sunshine-of-ur-life @irwinchester@bellamysnatblida @saph-nic @auroraofthesun1 @helloimamistake

[skxllz]

𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐜

trigger warning; gore, implication of suicide

envy was a silly thing. it radiated jealousy, sole ignorance, vengeance, a need to backbite; all because of something... or rather someone, at times. that is why it carried out as a popular take amongst the sins in the world, taking a high achieve in the seven deadly sins category in the archives of earth, heaven, and hell.

𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾 was someone envious of a familia bond. of sharing love between parent and child, forming an overbearing relationship of hugs and support and care that anyone needs. seeing others, even from a young age, she always felt a knawing sensational twist in her stomach; a feeling known as jealousy, that would later grow into a loathing hatred. the girl despised the shared connection between mothers and daughters, fathers and daughters, since it was not one she'd ever come to experience herself.

it wasn't just that, though, no no. it was all bonds she ever seemed to create with people. they'd sever within a few months of construction, leaving that swirl of disgusted digest to pick up it's mass until eventually, a crater of nothingness was to fall into place with one last snap. people always seemed to forget, heartbreak was unforgivable, and it could drive a person into insanity.

she killed them. her mother, starting off with an empty smile as she served the ungrateful bitch dinner laced with rat poison. the effects took control in under an hour; almost... immediately, really. as the woman was spilling her guts over the stained carpet of their living room floor, jacqueline took it upon herself to retrieve a butcher knife from the kitchen drawer.

SWING! she hurled the blade into the back of the woman's neck, making her mother gasp and choke and gurgle instantly. this continued, until her head rolled, dark velvet spilling onto the floor below.

when her father arrived home, he was met with the gruesome sight of his wife's headless corpse, leaving him stunned and unable to move. the sound of the door locking is what caused him to flee, but jacqueline wouldn't let him get away. she ran track in highschool, how silly was he?

the same butcher knife, was used to strike him in the back of the skull with just a simple, arm-bending throw of her hand. there was nothing much to the kill, aside from blood spraying out everywhere; coating her face, upper body. it was disappointing on her end since she wanted more of a thrill, but... it was okay. he was now gone. they both were.

so, with everything planned out, she met her own demise in the comfort of her cold, quiet bedroom, only to layer awake in a place unfamiliar... yet all so familiar at the same time.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

sins committed; envy, wrath

crimes committed; murder

death; suicide

age; 22

given that jacqueline was not hell born and in fact a human, she is placed as a sinner within the pride ring of hell; lucifer's ring. she cannot travel outside of this area unless her social status were to be risen. it is a punishment to atone the sins and crime she had committed.

upon first arrival, she is left to drag her feet through the blazing streets of the pentagram city, until she just so happens to stumble upon the news studio. she has no clue what to do, where to go, how shit works, and all that jazz.

katie killjoy is the first demon she encounters within hell. to put it straight, the woman was a straight bitch — she reminded jackie of her late mother and it made her eye twitch to no end. however... upon inspection from tom trench, the cohost, who took a liking to her, she is offered the job of a runner and a place to stay within the studio. given that she had no idea on what else to do, she took up the offers.

when she is escorted to the upstairs where her room is located, she's given the chance to finally spot her new found appearance. although her velvet red hair had not changed, aside from the fact that it was permanent now instead of dyed, and her eyes were still a clear shade of blue, her skin was awfully porcelain and even held a grey tint to it. she also had horns sprouting among her head, rather small in size, black in color. on each of her cheeks, held a wide rosary of red, almost like blush... except it was in the shape of butcher knives.

[ her story only continues on from here. I'm way too lazy to write out an entire plot. ]

[gloriabomfim]

Boone's emotions reached a crescendo, an overwhelming mix of laughter and tears merging into a discordant symphony of chaos. His face contorted, caught in the grip of manic euphoria, as laughter spilled from his lips like uncontrollable sparks. The world around him seemed to blur, his surroundings fading into the background as his mind spiraled deeper into the abyss of his emotions.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, mirroring the fire that flickered within his eyes. It was a juxtaposition of emotions, a cacophony of joy and sorrow that threatened to engulf him. His laughter, once innocent, now took on a haunting quality, a laughter that held the weight of a thousand broken dreams and shattered hopes.

Amidst this whirlwind of emotions, a sinister edge crept into his expression. A chilling grin twisted his lips, his laughter growing more distorted, more sinister. The lines between sanity and madness blurred as his grip on reality slipped further away.

And then, in a moment that seemed both inevitable and shocking, his hand found its way to a gleaming knife. The blade glinted in the dim light, a reflection of the turmoil within him. With a swift, deliberate motion, he plunged the knife into his chest.

Time seemed to freeze as the world held its breath, witnessing the culmination of his turmoil. Blood seeped from the wound, a stark contrast against his pale skin. The pain was real, yet it was as if he was detached from it, his laughter now a haunting echo in the air.

As he slumped to the ground, the laughter slowly faded, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake. The room was heavy with the weight of his actions, a poignant reminder of the fragility of human emotions. His lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, a reflection of the torment that had consumed him.

In the aftermath of this tragic tableau, a profound stillness settled over the scene. The echoes of laughter and tears lingered, a testament to the complexity of the human soul. And as the world continued to turn, it carried with it the memory of a soul that had danced on the precipice of light and darkness, before succumbing to its own tumultuous currents.

[beetleye]

To Feel

A scream tears out of me, but it seems to fall on deaf ears, the heroes’ looks of determination unwavering. I glance to Vio, praying to the goddess that he’ll make it stop, that he’ll stop the agony and come back to me. But that never comes.

[ wordcount: 1,029 words ]

A small blurb on the process of shadow getting resurrected through the mirror and after :D

The beam of light that flows from their swords hits me directly in my heart. It feels as if white-hot metal is resting on my chest, melting through me.

A scream tears out of me, but it seems to fall on deaf ears, the heroes’ looks of determination unwavering. I glance to Vio, praying to the goddess that he’ll make it stop, that he’ll stop the agony and come back to me. But that never comes.

I watch the wisps of shadow I had been composed of vanish as the light tears through my skin. I can’t help but watch as my skin and blood and organs all fade from existence, any blood that had threatened to spill quickly evaporating.

The process is by no means slow, yet I feel every moment of it as the seconds play out in slow motion.

My torso is gone, and the light goes to eat away at my limbs and face, and, as the light hits my eyes, I’m met with stark darkness and deafening silence.

What should be a comfort, is nothing but the opposite. I wave where my hands were in front of my face. Whether I have hands or not is indeterminate as I can’t make out a thing.

My mind is numb, I can’t think or do anything. “You’re dead,” a voice in my head supplies. I try to wave it away. “No, the mirror should have kept me alive! I.. can’t die..”

I sit there unfeeling and cold for a few minutes, or hours, or days, before a booming voice rattles me to my core.

“Shadow.”

I twist around, searching for the source.

“Quite a disappointing performance, I must say,” the voice booms. “You have an unlimited supply of darkness, yet you lose to the light? You had a single purpose, which you failed.”

“Ganon,” my mind provides, “you failed the Dark Lord.”

“I.. I apologize, my lord,” I supply. I can’t help but notice how small my voice is.

“You have another chance. Don’t fail”

I’m about to respond, but my voice is cut short as I feel my body begin to reform. It hurts like hell. Not nearly as bad as the light, but still enough to draw a cry from my throat.

I look down and am met with the sight of a heart, my heart, pumping empty air. I watch as bones form, white and brittle. The darkness around me comes to form my veins and lungs, disgusting and pink, the tissue wet with nothingness. My veins spread throughout my body, branching out like roots from a weed.

My intestines and stomach come next, as my skin begins to cover my chest, the thick ropes of gore coming to sit within my gut. I feel my limbs coming to be, as I watch my fingers materialize. Suddenly, the blood rushes into my body, filling me with warmth and feeling. I hadn’t realized how cold it really was in the middle of nothing.

As my body has finally come to be, I watch the darkness come to swirl around me, cloaking me in what I had been wearing previously. The black tunic mirroring the heroes’ stitched itself around me, as well as the matching cap.

I blink, then stare into the nothing again as something pierces the darkness. A gate, engraved with the markings of the mirror. I reach out, pausing. “Thank you for your forgiveness, my lord,” I stammer, plunging my hand into the gate. It’s much slicker than imagined, and it leaves my hand wet and dripping with darkness.

I begin to crawl out, gravity hitting my body and sending me to the floor, damp and weak. My vision is blurry as the Dark Lord greets me again, “You are not forgiven, you still have your part to play,” I cough as the pain sets in as I enter the light world, my chest throbbing at where the light had hit.

“Rise again, Shadow. While the dark mirror exists, you live. Now go defeat those heroes!” I can’t choke out a response as I’m met with the agony echoing through my bones. I begin to cry, sobs wrecking through my body as I crawl along the floor.

I look up tears streaking my face, and am met with the sight of the princess, gazing down at me with a look of sorrow and.. pity.

“I.. don’t need your pity, princess,” I spit out, glaring up at her. She keeps looking at me, as if sorry I weren’t going to help her. “Move it!” I shout, “Get away from me!”

“Shadow link, don’t you see?” she says, ever so gently. She holds out her hands as if I were an animal she was trying to calm. “The light won’t hurt you. You are a Link too. Deep inside, you’re really a hero.” She smiles down at me with a pitiful gaze.

As much as I want to shout and scream, deny her and spit lies, I know her words hold truth. Watching the heroes through the mirror sent only electric pangs of longing through my veins. How I longed to talk to them by a dying fire, to spar with Green and Blue as Vio read and Red cooked, to travel paths stretching all throughout Hyrule. How I’ve yearned to feel.

Tears begin to fall again as I turn away, looking out to the clouds surrounding the tower. Suddenly, a dark cloud comes through the balcony, wisps curling around Zelda and taking her from where she stood before me. Her eyes flutter shut as she falls into the smoke.

“D-Dark cloud, halt!” I stutter, “What are you doing with the princess?” The dark cloud stops for a moment, shadowy mist blooming around the princess. “A world of darkness starts with her demise,” the cloud whispers in its impossible voice, “we must kill this last light of Hyrule!”

“No, s-stop!” I rasp, but the cloud has already carried her up and away from the tower, laughing maniacally.

Tears begin to fall again as the weight of Zelda’s words come back to settle within me. “…You’re really a hero.”

Mind set, I stumble over to the stairs, body still aching. I need to set things right.

[erinnya]

    The kiss was a collision of hunger and power, of lust and something impossibly darker. The demon devoured it, Harriet’s lips moving with a fervor not entirely her own. It drank deeply from the taste of blood and promise, from the warmth of Loki's mouth against hers, savoring every slow, languid pull as though it could tear pieces of him away and consume them. It wanted him. Wanted to sink its teeth into his flesh, to feel his pulse beating wild against its lips. It wanted all of him. His power, his lies, his cruel smile. There was a desperate hunger in the kiss, a longing so intense it clawed at the inside of Harriet's chest.

But it was also a game. It had to be patient, had to bide its time. The god’s lips brushed over Harriet’s, and the demon's greed flared up like a fire stoked too high, threatening to burn it all to ashes. It fought the urge to take more, to let its darkness spill out and drown them both. But Loki's promise wasn’t enough . . not yet. This was only the beginning, the first taste. It knew it had to pull back, had to let the god play his games, had to allow Harriet to stumble through her confusion and doubt while it lay in wait, hidden just beneath the surface.

As Loki drew away, the demon felt the kiss dissolve into nothingness, reality pressing back in with a cruel inevitability. The illusion faded, leaving behind the dull throb of Harriet's heartbeat echoing in her ears.

    She gasped softly, blinking against the sudden quiet. She was conscious now, truly herself again, but the memory of that kiss lingered . . hot and unsettling. She could still feel the ghost of his lips on hers, could taste the iron tang of her own blood. It made her stomach twist, a nauseating mixture of fear and something else she couldn’t quite name. The sensation was too vivid, too real, as if the demon had left its mark on her, etched into her skin like an open wound.

Confusion coursed through her, mingling with anger as she struggled to piece together what had just happened. She felt as though she had been dragged under a dark current, submerged in a place where she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight back. The memory of the demon's hunger made her feel violated, used. But deeper still, beneath the fear and anger, lay a spark of something she did not want to admit ... a flicker of desire that didn’t belong to her.

        It frightened her.

Harriet's hands clenched at her sides, her breath coming in uneven, ragged draws as she glared at Loki, trying to mask the trembling in her voice. “What . . what did you do?” she whispered, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew it wasn’t just Loki she was furious with. It was herself. The part of her that had been there, that had felt the demon’s twisted need and hadn’t resisted.

And that made her even more afraid.

४     𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐃. The walls that had groaned and trembled moments before, the buzzing hum, the very air itself – all of it vanished in the charged silence that now surrounded them. Thick and suffocating, it pulsed with something beyond comprehension. A tension so sharp it felt like a blade. A double-edged sword – power and doom, intertwined, inseparable.

Loki's fingers still rested beneath her chin, his touch light but commanding He could taste the iron tang of bloond on her breath, could feel the weight of the darkness waiting, watching. It's last words still lingered in the air. A bond. A contract. Another deal with a devil.

Of course, he thought. Another deal with a devil.

He had been there before – too many times, in fact. This should have felt familiar by now, and perhaps it did, in a way that only made it more unsetteling. Loki knew the game, knew how theses deals always went. ›He‹ had thought him that well enough. A lesson burned into his bones, one he could never quite shake, no matter how far he ran. And yet, here he was again. The gods always spoke of fate, of destiny, but Loki wasn't so sure anymore. If it was fate, it was a twisted one. Cruel. Or perhaps it was simply . . . him.

He should know better. But knowing better had never stopped him before. At the edge of power and doom – of ruin – he stood there, ready to plunge in with the wolfish smile on his lips, as if this time he could control it.

His sharp eyes flicked over her twisted features, his face just inches from hers. A low hum rumbled deep in his throat as the corner of his mouth twitched. "Clever little thing . . ." Loki drawled, his voice as soft as silk as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her lips. "Who am I to deny you, hm?" His words were barely a whisper, his lips brushing hers – just a ghost of a touch. Teasing, testing, toying with the anticipation that crackled in the air.

Then, with ease, he tilted her head back, his fingers firm beneath her chin as he finally closed the charged distance between them. His lips met hers, slow and deliberate, sealing the bond with a touch of indulgence. His kiss confident and languid, as though savoring every moment of the inevitable. As though this was something he wanted as much as it did.

As their lips met, the mansion around them crumbled into nothingness, peeling away into a swirling abyss of shadows. Everything vanished. Walls, floors, ceilings – until there was only darkness. And then, from that void, came the storm. Violent and howling, circiling them like a vortex of chaos. The very storm he had seen Harriet in. He could hear her now. Her pleas, faint but desperate, as his lips moved smoothly.             Lost in the storm. Sacrificed like a lamb. Finaly, with a casual slowness, Loki broke the kiss, his lips curling into a smug smile as he pulled away. Loki's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he opened them again. He let his fingers trail down from her chin, brushing light against her throat before he let them fall away completely. "There's your promise", he mused as his wolfish smile widened. His gaze danced over her face his eyes almost soft, almost tender. But the truth was buried deep beneath the mask. His promises nothing but beautiful lies. "One to keep."

With those words hanging in the air, the God of Mischief stepped back. His lips curled into one finaly, knowing smile before the storm closed in, feeding on the bond they just created. In an instant, the howling winds were silenced, replaced by the low hum of reality.

The faint green shimmer of his magic dissolved into the dim light and Loki's hand slipped from her neck. His eyes now glanced down at her.           Harriet. This mortal. His salvation – or his personal undoing. Something he had yet to find out.

[toji-bunny-girl]

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐧” (JJK VERSION)

GOJO SATORU—

It's the sight of his long white lashes fluttering in the tiniest bit as his almost-silent breaths play into your ears like the calmness of rain against the window. His stretched-out limbs are thrown all messily over the bed, one foot hanging over the edge and a right arm holding onto your waist, laying there heavy and still so you wouldn't be able to leave beneath his touch.

It's during morning like this where you get to enjoy some peace and the adorable comfort on his face, making your fingers itching to pinch or poke at his cheeks. But most of the days you don't, only memorise the imperfect shape of his lips, one edge slightly higher than the other, and the shade of his tousled hair, some strands fuzzy while some silky-like between your fingers.

On other days, you let yourself feel him under your palms, trace the length of his veins running from his hand to his arm or brush the hair of his brows, even if he's woken up by your gentle touches, his eyelids would still be straining shut so you wouldn't stop smoothing your fingertips over his skin, a kind of comfort he loves.

Then with the crack of his eyes, bright ocean orbs gaze into yours; like the sudden wave of the sea, you'd always greet him with that gentle lift of your lips and the loving curve of your eyes. And you’d whisper his name in the softest tone, let the morning air carry your words into his ears before kissing the line of his jaw.

He'd smile, thanking himself lucky to have you as his every morning and wakes.

GETOU SUGURU—

It's the tenuous jolt of his hand intertwined with yours, fingers locking firm as if he's afraid of letting go, afraid of losing the heat that exhaled out from your palm and afraid of straying away from your hold even through the long and faraway of his dreams.

There's a slight ink of frown between his brows when your bleary sight falls onto his face, head and eyelids heavy from the sleep abruptly hauled away from you. But the drowsiness simply formed into nothingness when the nightmare on his mind showed through the window of his face; knitted eyebrows and mumbling lips.

It didn't take any more seconds for you to whisper his name and attempt to shake his hand awake, worries twisting your eyes and uneasiness threading around the hushed voice of yours. Until all is silent; orbs as dark as the midnight sky spilling open into your sight and a wave of relief flushing down his features, Suguru looks at you as if you had saved his soul.

Rather than questioning the moments before, you take him into your arms, tender like something worth shielding and loving, and breathe in the scent of his hair and soothe the pale of his skin beneath yours, pleading the heavens to free him from the stalks of the nightmares, even if you are to be called to take his place, you would be glad to do so.

TOJI FUSHIGURO—

It's never certain; sometimes air lingers at the side of his bed, sheets neat and creaseless while on some mornings, you stir up from sleep to the opposite side of the bed sinking from his weight.

Even if he were to be there, body sleeping by yours and cigarette smell over your nose, you still feared to touch and feel him below your tips; afraid that the familiar form of a man was simply painted by the figment of your overheated imagination.

But most times, your touch sinks into his figure, body and skin physical and not just a dream. Then you would have to suck in your broken gasp and welling tears back into your chest, not even sure whether he’s dead or alive, whether he had stumbled into the soft of your bed with gunshots burying inside of him or organs bleeding pain and blood.

It strikes pain within your chest to have to wonder about if he's still breathing next to you, but that's simply because Toji was like no other man—he was the one and only you chose to fell in love. And it would be the fault in your heart threatened to shatter, fault in yourself for the agony and sobs you spent your mornings indulging in when he wasn't there to prove his breaths.

When you're done waiting for the moment where words would come out safe and unwavering, you don't call his name; don't demand an answer for where he had been all those weeks, and don't question whether he had even loved you. Instead, you tensed your muscles strong and go to prepare for day.

It's the smell of toasted bread and pancakes when Toji finally lifts his eyelids awake, at 10 am as the warm morning sun gently heats up his skin. It's a stranger yet familiar feel in his gut. The smell of homemade food and the feeling of his bedroom mattress under his body instead of blood stained clothes drifting into his nose and cheap motel beds that hurt his back.

When he steps out of the room, a comfortable stretch in his muscles, he sees you. You, not through the dark sleeping when he comes back home at ungodly hours or you, through the crowds of the station he sneaked into in hopes of catching a glimpse at you, when he couldn't go back home just yet.

It's you, noted of his presence with the gentlest lift of the edges of your lips

Then it finally hits Toji in his mind—its not the smell nor the bed that makes this place home. Not the bills he pay for nor the furnitures he bought.

It’s you who makes his home home.

NANAMI KENTO—

It’s the smell of coffee drifting to the furthest corner of the house, roasted and nutty and bitter, the way he likes it smelling hot in his mug, in the hold of his hardened calloused palms.

His warmth, like touches of the day sun and heat of fresh-baked, sits right beside you as the crumpling sound of papers flipping pages after pages brushes against your eardrums.

He hadn't been sleeping well, you think, from the other few mugs crowding the space atop your bedside table and the newspaper read through until the last written page; Kento is a slow reader who likes to take his pace.

Cocoa brown rolls to the sight of you, pulling your limbs and groaning a stretch before flickering your orbs, that seems to glow under the rays of the morning sun, to him.

Hair spills down your head when you rise your face, knitting strands that block your eyes to see. Even so, you catch bruise-like shades on his lower eyelids, pulling the energy and colour of his iris down to the darkened spot, and he looks like he might've been dead all night.

He did not sleep. From the wake in his blinks and clear in his voice you note. You hold a breath, then exhale a little to hard. It's morning, and the first thing you flutter your eyelashes open to was the worry the man you love gives you. It's morning, and the air smells like coffee and sun light. It's morning, and your Kento stays right beside you, warm like sun and fresh cookies.

It's morning and you figure you'll save the rebuke for later.

© toji-bunny-girl ― all rights reserved. do not modify, translate, plagiarise or repost my work

[yandere-wishes]

MONSTERS

👹 Yandere Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

👹Summary: Monsters aren’t born they're made, but Sukuna stumbles across the rare exception...

👹Warning: dehumanization, mention of gore, blood, slight dub-con mentioned in passing, death, past trauma, and abuse

👹 Edited: By the lovely @tealyjade-libran !

👹 Wordcount: 2,480

👹Alternative Tittle : If Roxanne ( from the Police song) lived in ancient Japan.

👹First Jujutsu kaisen fic! I hope you guys like it, please let me know your thoughts! Likes and reblogs appreciated!

Monsters were made. 

Slowly created as once blazing ideals, withered and died under harsh strokes of reality. Stitched together with broken promises and the ashes of rotting memories. 

Monsters were made

whisked into a role they once dreaded, once feared. Beaten into the role of the villain, the reprobate, the sinner. 

If anyone ever asked Sukuna when was the exact moment he turned his back on the laws of "good" and "evil", shedding his human skin to regrow a pelt of hate and destruction,

He would simply answer, "Never".

Because skin is skin no matter how much it decays. Even if the epidermis turns into a rotting orange shade, littered with eyeballs and teeth that shouldn't grow there.Even if the blood from all those he's slain has finally stained his dermis, tainting it in a permanent crimson that all the waters of Lake Biwa could never wash off. Even if his hypodermis is no longer made of fatty tissue but rather spiritual energy sucked from the atmosphere. It's still skin, the same old skin he was born with.

Sukuna had never shed his skin, he'd only perfected it, enhanced it, molded it into its perfect form, until he was no longer held back by foolish human limitations.

He'd never been "reborn" only recreated; only perfected. 

Spike, talon and teeth covered arms sprouting from oozing, bleeding scars, charred over by begriming infections that burned worse than the strikes he'd endured as a child. Knuckles and bones cracking over and over and over again until they grew as solid as the rocks that were thrown at him when he was all too little to understand the malice behind the insults and threats. Breaking until they could break no more, until they'd become strong enough to split a boulder with a mere flick.

There had come a time when he'd given up licking his wounds, leaving them to be kissed by the mold-covered worms who left an urticating sensation he'd soon come to associate with victory. Rotting flesh growing covered in thick layers of black tar tattoos that hid every cut he'd endured when he'd once been too weak. 

Monsters were created from quarter truths buried neck-deep in fables that snipped like red-eyed scorpions. 

Until the blood dancing through their veins was as black as the void they now called home. 

Sukuna knew the exact moment he realized he was a monster. The day he realized he liked the crunch of skulls beneath his feet, the pitiful spark in mortified eyes staring at the heavens for a scrap of mercy. Mangled mouths barely held together by fractured jaw bones, uttering prayers and pleas that died in the scorching air. 

Sukuna knew he was an abnormality, patched together by broken heirlooms and shattered family traditions. Sitting on a throne made from skulls of those who thought they could ever kill him. 

You can't kill a monster, for you can not kill that which was never born. 

You can't slay something made from good intentions with malevolent methods, something so vile that it might actually be pure. At the end of the day, no monster really admits that it is a monster, a nightmare that should have never existed. 

Yet...

Tattered hearts and cruel orbs are never quite enough. No monster is complete until they dive off that last edge, plummet into the sea of nothingness, and finally, finally break their souls on the spiked soil. Monsters, spirits, curses any malicious being that had been mended together like a half-done ragdoll was not complete until they truly let go. Until they erased all the former humanity that they had been born with. Until their eyes reflected nothing, no emotions, no malice, no want, no need. Just the absolute emptiness. 

The void in all its glory.

that was the symbol, the true markings of a real monstrosity. The void that took over their existence, that had replaced every inch of their former self. Only then could it be said that you were above all other beings, the true perfection of this world. 

There are worse things created than monsters, things that are made from nothing and everything. Things above "Yin" and "Yang". Things that have no scrap of humanity, monstrosity, or anything in them.

Things that are just empty.

So maybe -just maybe- that's why when Sukuna's rotting orange eyes landed on the epitome of emptiness, a...girl, whose face was sculpted to disreflect emotions and intents. Someone who was the void of darkness itself. The true personification of nothingness. 

His heart -for the first time in countless centuries- began to throb.

a truly dead face swarmed by a sea of buzzing ants, chasing their routine happiness. Smiles of delight and carelessness carved on their aging faces with sunlight knives and the melody of golden coins. The lust for life leaking from every pore of their bodies. 

With every face being a carbon copy of each other it was no wonder yours stood out.

There was a silver chain of attraction, dragging Sukuna towards the village girl. Not love, never love, the king of curses was beyond certain, that neither you nor he could feel such a honey-laced sensation. It was more like....something. Something paranormal, inexpiable. Some magnetic force outside of everything's control. 

It was easy enough to explain why he liked you. Why you stood out from the other insects of this middle-of-nowhere-village. 

You had dark matter for blood and dead seas for brains. 

Your eyes radiated an endless abyss. Making others shy away from your lifeless gaze. Scared to look into the void in fear that it may respond. 

You were a thrown away doll,

A living dead,

A dying star,

You were the daughter of the number zero,

The monster that had no maker nor mother. 

Something not born nor created. 

Just an entity that roamed the earth, with no desire nor hope, no wish nor dream. Not leaving, not dying, just existing in the space between today and tomorrow. 

There'd been no need for pleasantries, for hiding behind ghostly tree branches and frozen windows. There'd been no need to kill or ravage for you. No competition to eliminate, because no one ever came near you. Humans don't like what they can't explain, Sukuna knew that all too well. 

Sukuna watched from a close enough distance to almost touch. Lingering around like a phantom begging to be noticed. Orbs trailing over you, but never approaching. Until one day he'd just stood still. Waited for you to turn your head just a fraction to the left, just to see him in all his menacing terror. To finally notice the clawing, crawling sensation that had been creeping up your spine like a hoard of spiders. 

And when your dead eyes did finally land on him. Sukuna could swear that his breath hitched in his throat for the first time in his seemingly endless life.

You weren't human. Humans didn't have hollow faces or marbles for lips. 

You weren't a curse. Curses didn't lack venom dripping from their souls.

You were something better than a monster. You were the divinity of monstrosity, the void itself. Black holes for eyes, answerless paradoxes for hands, and an endless maze where your torso should have been. 

 Exploding suns danced around you, burning, burning, till they died out, leaving behind no trace that they once lit up the universe. 

The space after the end, that's what you were.

Perfect, to Sukuna you were perfect.

You hadn't run, hadn't screamed, hadn't even bothered to talk. You didn't care about him, couldn't care about him. That's what made him want you, made his mouth salivate with the thought of your flesh between his teeth. 

That night the world stood still, as Sukuna's claws penetrated your flesh like twirling needles. You were as light as a feather. You weighed nothing, were nothing. All so easy to pluck and throw about. You never made a noise when your body collided with the bamboo walls, just letting gravity and Sukuna play a twisted ball game with your lump of a body.

You hadn't protested when he violated you. As his lips bit every inch of your body raw. For some unearthly reason that even the gods couldn't understand, would never want to understand, you had found the Curse's violent actions rather...adoring. Taking every slap and slash with the earnest pride of a small child getting praised for a day of relentless chores. letting the dawn-tinted-haired monster adorn your body in blue and purple jewels. It felt right, in a  pathetically, nauseating, twisted way...it just felt right.

 It was disastrous, sure, but it was right. Like two universes crashing. Destroying each other with every kiss and every bruise. 

But...

For the first time in your meaningless life, you had truly understood what "happiness" felt like. 

For the first time in his endless life, Sukuna had truly understood what "intimacy" felt like.

///

Was it wrong to kiss you? For a fraction of a second Sukuna hesitated, blood tinged lips hovering millimeters away from your own stone-set ones. The moon's cursed rays acting like an unnoticed barrier, keeping two things out of each other's grasp. His lips curled back revealing two rows of knife-like teeth. The last resort, a final hope that you'd run away, that you'd act somewhat normal. The king of curses, the evil among men, didn't mind your lack of regularity. He didn't mind how you leaned into every bitter strike, every painful display of fading affection . He adored how you merely giggled as he slashed open your uncharged skin, creating slits for your blood to spill through, onto his waiting tongue. He admired your lifelessness, the way you radiated death. 

Oh, how you filled him with a startling aftershock every time he touched you. Every time his tongue lapped at your bleeding skin he'd feel the sort of electric shocks that came after the storms had passed. Your body had no shape, it molded to his touch, turning his favorite shades of red, with just a little pressure. 

But sometimes, in fleeting, endless seconds. He wished he had a name for what you two were. You weren't his per se, you could never be his. Being his would indicate that he cared about you, or heck even loved you and that could never be true. The king of curses did not love, nor care. He merely tolerated you; you fascinated him, that's all. 

It had been many moons since he first found you in that no-name village. Months upon months since you'd been by his side. You'd watched as he'd destroyed cities, helped him even. Eyes never shedding a single tear. Mouth never uttering a single protest. 

The two of you had become the best, the King of curses and the Queen of nothingness. With the dying speed of laboring bees, Sukuna had carved himself inside of you. Twisted emptiness into flower-covered destruction. Into molten gold lava. 

Leaving you with wounds that were stuck in a cycle of healing and opening. Until they began to harden like his. Until the need for spilled blood lingered on your tongue like the burn of boiled tea. Until under your nails were coated in a decaying crust of dried blood. Sukuna hadn't turned you into a monster, he'd simply showed you the powers that came with your apathy. With a heart as torn and cold as yours, it was a shame to let it go to waste. 

"You're not half bad," his tone is never approving. It's always laced with a strictness that keeps you nailed into place. His words are oxymorons sounding like praise, but once you peel back the lather layers they're just taunts in disguise. 

You don't answer, words die on your tongue as quickly as they are born. Sukuna can't even remember what your voice sounds like outside of small whispers in heat filled nights. 

 However, to the two of you, things like that didn't matter. Your lack of being even semi-alive and Sukuna's endless abuse had become a norm for the two of you. Where else were a two-faced monster and a lifeless girl going to find love anyway? 

Sukuna was all you had, all you ever had. You'd die for him, kill for him, turn into anything for him. Because he gave you life. 

A purpose to life, made out of raging fires and endless screams. A life fabricated from the pain and suffering of others. That was what the king of curses had given you, all wrapped in a human skin parchment. Maybe that's why all logic withered away the first night he kissed you, maybe from the first second that you sensed his presence you had finally gained a reason to be alive. 

///

Whoever said the end of the world was beautiful? Whoever said the final days would be bright and glowing and pure? 

It's just a blaze of stray flames and red crystal droplets that may or may not be your blood. Funny, Sukuna had always thought that your blood would be as black as the moonless sky, not a mundane red like everyone else's. He'd expected a grander death from you. Some sort of black hole opening to swallow the world whole. Not just another corpse motionless in a pool of their own blood. 

Although he's not one to talk. His own 'death' is lingering on the horizon. Sukuna's head tilts back looking for the flashing jujutsu sorcerers. 

"S-sukun-a..." 

He smirks, fangs sticking out at odd angles. Your voice is sweet, for the first time in forever he'd even dare say it held some semblance of emotion. 

What that emotion is, he doubts he knows or even really cares. He'd long since stopped trying to identify all those "feelings" and their associated names. 

His orange eyes lock with your fading orbs, one last time. No, not the last time, just the final time in this lifetime. He's sure he's going to see you again. In any other life, Sukuna knows he'll be able to recognize you despite whatever flesh suit you'd be wearing. 

"Shh little one," he's halfway gone before he finishes his sentence, leaving you to relish in his memory in your final moments. "We'll see each other once more, someday in another life..."

His four eyes lock on the approaching sorcerers. He finds it humorous how desperate they look. How alive and ready they seem, such a stark contrast to your ever lifeless face and dead eyes, it repulses him. 

"Or maybe in one of the circles of hell." 

The flames encircling his fingers remind him of the heat your body radiated in the dead of night. The crack from bones hum as they meet his knuckles, flash memories of your days wasted together doing nothing and everything. 

The two of you will meet once more, he's sure of it. After all...

Monsters never die. 

How could something that was never even born in the first place, ever die?

[starcunin]

There is no light. No sound. No feeling. Astarion floats in the black, weightless and unmoored, as though the very fabric of his existence has unraveled into the void. There’s no pain here——no cold, no fear. Only nothingness. He might have been like this for seconds, or years. Time doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t even think. But then… something shifts.

Astarion’s lungs seize, a desperate gasp for air, and suddenly he’s choking, but not on blood. It’s thicker, grittier——dirt. His eyes snap open, and they sting as grit grinds against his lashes. His throat burns as he coughs, mouth full of earth. And then it hits him—he’s trapped, pressed in from all sides, a suffocating weight crushing him, his arms pinned awkwardly at his sides, his legs locked in place. He’s buried alive.

Panic claws its way through the numbness, sharp and electric, and instinct takes over. He thrashes, clawing desperately at the heavy dirt above him. His nails tear into the earth, each frantic movement driving the weight further into his chest, and for a moment, the darkness threatens to swallow him again. But he’s stronger than he remembers, far stronger than he should be, and with a final, violent lurch, one hand bursts through the soil into the cold night air. Astarion claws his way out, dragging himself free from the suffocating earth, every breath of air an instinctive gasp he doesn’t even realize he doesn’t need anymore. His chest heaves as he coughs, dirt and saliva spilling from his mouth in thick clumps, his body trembling with effort and confusion.

For a moment, he collapses into the mound of loose earth, his mind reeling. His hands scramble frantically over his face, trying to clear the dirt from his eyes, his skin. And when he can finally see again—see with a stunning clarity in the dark that instantly unsettles him—the first thing he notices is the tombstone. His tombstone. His name is etched into the cold stone, mocking him in its finality. The last thing he remembers is dying—dying—the beating, the Gur, the agony of it, the life spilling out of him in hot, violent pulses. He remembers it all. The blood, the pain, the certainty that he was going to die. The cold.

But now, as he looks down at himself, his clothes are pristine, save for the dirt, the fine fabric clinging to his body like a second skin. He’s dressed in an outfit finer than anything he’s ever worn, tailored perfectly to his frame, and his skin——there’s no sign of bruises, no wounds, no blood. His body feels… wrong. Too strong, too aware. There’s something under his skin, something more. And then, the vision in front of him shifts. A figure——a pale silhouette against the dark, looming near the edge of the grave.

He jerks back, startled, his spine slamming against the cold stone of his own tombstone with a sickening thud. ❛ Bloody hells! ❜ The words rasp from his throat, hoarse and raw, the sound of his own voice alien to his ears. He can feel it now——remember it, in pieces. The Gur, leaving him broken in the street, and then… someone else. A man. A voice, low and smooth, promising salvation in the face of death.

His stomach twists in on itself as the memories flood back, each one dripping with dread. A vampire. Immortality. The bite, that sharp, sudden pain in his neck, followed by the cold, dark embrace of oblivion. And now, here he is. Reborn? His whole body feels foreign, alive with an unnatural vitality, and yet… hollow. Empty, except for the growing hunger gnawing at him. A hunger he doesn’t understand, but instinctively fears.

He looks back at the figure, eyes wide, terrified, cold sweat beading on his brow. The last vestiges of his mortal terror cling to him, wrapping around his chest like a vice, tightening with every heartbeat he can no longer feel. ❛ What’s happening? ❜ he whispers, voice quivering, barely more than a breath. But he fears he already knows. Somewhere, deep down, he knows.

Astarion lies there, shattered, barely clinging to the fragile thread of consciousness. The cold bites into him, the snow settling like death's shroud over his broken body, each flake a pinprick of ice against his blood-slicked skin. His breath rattles in his chest, shallow, uneven, every intake of air met with the sharp agony of fractured ribs and torn flesh. He can't move. Gods, he can't feel. Not properly, not anymore. The pain, once so vivid and all-consuming, now dulls at the edges, fading like a distant memory he can't quite recall. He knows that's a bad sign. He's dying.

The thought claws at him, frantic, animalistic——I don't want to die. Not in the dark, alone, broken and bleeding on some filthy cobblestone street. A magistrate's life is all order and pretense, the comfort of privilege, but never freedom. Never love. No one's ever truly known him. And now, no one ever will. The snow falls heavier, the world growing colder, distant, until there's only him and the ragged sound of his failing breath. His failing mind. Failing body. And then—something—someone.

The figure is a blur, a shadow descending from the night itself. Astarion feels himself lifted, cradled as though he weighs nothing. His head lolls weakly, and through the haze of pain and exhaustion, he catches a glimpse of the stranger's face, but the details are fractured, swimming in and out of focus. All he knows is the touch——cold, too cold, even colder than the snow. It's a strange contrast to the warmth of the blood still leaking from his wounds, trickling down his face, soaking into his clothes. The stranger speaks, but the words drift through Astarion's mind like smoke, twisting and curling, too slippery to grasp. He catches fragments——vampire lord, immortality, power. Cazador Szarr. The name echoes somewhere deep in his mind, but the significance slips through his fingers like sand. He's too far gone, too lost in the heavy fog closing in around him.

Still... one word sticks. Life. A new life.

He forces his eyes open—just for a moment, a brief flicker of blue against the pale moonlight. The stranger's voice fills his ears, a low murmur like velvet in the cold silence, and Astarion's lips twitch, trying to form a response, something—anything— but all that comes is a faint, wet rasp. His mouth fills with the metallic tang of blood, warm and thick, and the word that teeters on the edge of his tongue is swallowed by a violent cough. It tears through him like knives, sharp and unforgiving, his chest heaving against the weight of his broken ribs. He can feel the blood now, filling his throat, choking him. He gasps, but the air barely reaches his lungs, and he's drowning in it, the warm flood of crimson slipping from his lips, spilling over his chin, down his neck.

The pain surges, bright and jagged, as his body spasms weakly in the stranger's arms. But it's fading again, already receding into a distant thrum as the cold creeps in deeper, sinking into his bones. His vision blurs once more, the edges of the world smearing into black, but before it fades completely, he tries one last time.

❛ Yes. ❜

The word is mangled, barely a whisper, lost beneath the gurgle of blood. He's not even sure if it escapes his lips. But it's there, somewhere, in the shattered remains of his mind ( yes, I want to live! I want to live!! ).

[ny-nymeria]

Heaven and Earth: Part 22

Chapter 22: Yuta Okkotsu

Running through the dimly lit subway sent sparks of light flickering from exposed wiring, illuminating the tunnel while curses lurking in the shadows howled. The air was raw and rapid as you followed the ominous curse energy presence; explosions from the sky could be heard above you and turned your head upwards to see a man with pink hair and tattoos all over his body. He appeared to float in the sky, his countenance a twisted, evil grin. You focus now back on the direction where you heard two voices and turned a corner to see tall figures standing across from each other.

Your eyes widened as you saw Gojo; his torso wrapped in flesh that extend like a spiderweb. His eyes turned to yours and looked panicked, the word that came out of his mouth even more distressed:

"RUN-" 

You turned around to see Suguru, a large stitch on his forehead. He flashed a sinister look on his face; holding his throat that appeared crushed, it spilled black blood which pooled on the floor. He looked at you and gurgled a menacing laugh.

"SATORU-"

You rose up from your bed covered sweat and breathing ferociously; your chest heaving as if you'd been running a marathon, an arm extended out into nothingness as if it were trying to reach for someone. You looked around in the dark; it was early morning and the sun hadn't come up yet. You drew back your arm and held your head with it.

"I heard you scream. Did something happen?"

Your aunt entered your room looking a bit concerned. You looked at her and sighed, "Sorry. It was just a dream..."

"Was it about the Gojo boy?"

You plopped down back to bed and folded your forearm across your eyes. "Yes, he was in it..."

"A very weird, twisted dream…" you murmured, trying to focused on your breaths as you heard your aunt walk away from your room. 

"Maybe it's time for you to return to Japan," she replied, “Premonitions shouldn’t be ignored.”

The next morning you took a trip down to the nearby town to purchase goods from the merchants. As you walked through the street you saw three children run past you; one had spikey black hair and fair skin, reminding you of a young boy you left back in Tokyo.

'I wonder how Megumi is doing...' you watched children play in the streets. 'He must be a lot older looking now...'

It's been four years since leaving Japan. Much to the protest and enragement of the higher ups, you decided to leave the country to search for your own solutions. After finding you aunt and learning about your family's origins you decided to train and learn everything she could teach you. Over the last few grueling years of training; you were able to have near-complete mastery of your cursed energy. 

After gathering goods you walked to the nearby river to wash your hands. You looked at your reflection;  your hair was placed in a bun and your clothes were simple. Having to train in the high altitudes of the mountains made you exceptionally strong. Despite the simplicity of your style, many men from the nearby village would try get your attention; some even had the courage to come up with marriage proposals, and to their dismay, you declined them all.

You returned to the temple; this time climbing the cliffs with ease. Compared to the first time you made the trek up, you climbed the cliff effortlessly; drawing no sweat or using any energy of your seemingly infinite energy. 

"Back already?" Your aunt inquired as she was picking herbs from the outside of the temple grounds.

"Just needed to get some things," you placed the goods on a shelf. As simple as living was, the curses you trained to defeat were far from simple: ancient curses living around the area had no contact of modern day humans, yet they stored centuries of old and forgotten human emotions, equalling to mass amounts of energy. In the beginning of your time here, they scared you shitless. Now, you wouldn't even bat an eye towards them.

You practiced your meditation and breathing techniques the rest of the day until decided to call it an early night, returning to your quarters of a simple bedroom with an open stone window. You were trained to guard the temple using your own veil at all times; a curtain or barrier of your own cursed energy notifying you of any potential threats or intruders. 

You closed your eyes for a bit to rest your body when you fluttered them open, feeling a strong presence of cursed energy crossing the veil around the temple. Thinking it was another rogue curse that stepped too close to your territory, you got out of bed and crept to the front of the temple, hiding by the shadows casted by the pillars.

You crouched down and peered the corner; in front of you was a young boy in an oversized white jacket, with medium length black hair and a sword strapped behind his back.

Since you saw this young man instead of an inhuman curse you decided to make yourself known to the stranger. You stepped out of the shadows and appeared in front of the boy, who was just about to step onto the set of stairs leading to the entrance. 

"Who are you?"

You were surprised to see the boy in a normal condition despite having to have climbed the cliffside moments ago.

"Ah! I'm looking for someone," he looked at you with hallowed dark blue eyes. 

Keeping your guard up, you rose your hands to posture and offensive attack. "You didn't answer the question," You said, this time with a deadly tone. The boy gripped his sword handle that was strapped to his back about to unsheathe the blade.

"Who are you, and who are you trying to find?" You pressed the boy again until he said your name.

"My sensei told me to find her." You narrowed your gaze and noticed a signature yellow/black button on the top collar. 'A Jujutsu tech student?' you thought, shifting your posture into a neutral stance.

"And who's your sensei?" The boy released his grip from his sword and looked at you with a timid smile.

"The inheritor of the Six Eyes: Satoru Gojo."

You decided to let the boy come into the temple, ushering him to sit with you in the courtyard and went away to brew some tea. The boy's words caught you off guard, feeling your head buzz with slight excitement as you poured the tea into two cups. You returned and offered him a cup of tea; the boy accepted it gladly, taking a sip and smiling at you sheepishly. 

 "Boy, when Gojo-sensei asked me to find you, I expecting an older shaman woman. I didn't expect someone as pretty as you!" The timid boy grinned at you, a sweat drop forming on his head. 

The boy introduced himself to you as Yuta Okkotsu. He told you about his back story of how he cursed his childhood lover, Rika, at the time of her death and how he became a special grade sorcerer. He recounted the "Night Parade of a Hundred Demons," a night infamously known by sorcerers as the night Suguru Geto attempted a jujutsu terrorist attack to destroy the two cities of Kyoto and Tokyo. Yuta told you how the students and instructors fought against Suguru and the evil curse users preventing calamity from happening. 

"... And what happened to Suguru?" you said, looking at Yuta calmly. 

"Geto?" Yuta frowned, "I know he was sensei's best friend. It was difficult for him to do what he had to do..."

You smiled weakly, looking down at your teacup. 'So he really did it.' you closed your eyes and flashed back to memories of the life you once lived: the life with Suguru in it. Years had passed since then, making Suguru almost a distant memory; a memory you had to let go of. As much as you wanted the old Suguru back you realized that he wasn't ever going to come back. You thought about Gojo and felt a pang of guilt and sadness; you opened your eyes to see Yuta looking concerned. You quickly brushed those memories over and smiled at Yuta.

"Anyways... Yuta-kun, are you married?" You pointed to the ring on his left ring finger. He blushed adjusting the ring on his finger with his other hand.

"I-its complicated..." you decided to drop the subject seeing the timid boy fidget in nervousness. 

"Also, please don't tell Gojo I told him you that he was looking for you! He said it was a secret," Yuta shifted his gaze away, raising his arms frantically. "Something happened that we might need your help with..." his words drifted off.

"Oh? What happened?" you tilted your head inquisitively. Yuta's head turned to you, a serious expression plastered on his face.

"Sukuna's been resurrected."

Sukuna.

...

SUKUNA?

"S-U-K-U-N-A? You're joking, right?" You looked at him doubtfully. You remembered reading about The King of Curses in textbooks while at Jujutsu Tech. The curse was more lore than man. After thinking about it, you assessed that at Sukuna's full strength, you could manage taking him down. The bigger threat was the consequence of Sukuna's shear presence: having the King of Curses awaken meant the real possibility of mayhem and panic, as curses grew confident in tipping the balance of power in their favor.

Yuta shook his head, "Unfortunately I'm not. Gojo-sensei told me a normal human boy ate one of Sukuna's fingers and lived," he looked gravely at you. You paused for a bit then chuckled, your response. throwing the boy off since it was such a dark topic.

"Yuta-kun, " he blushed and your informality. "Thank you for coming all the way here to find me!" you smiled, touching his shoulder. "I will return to Japan and help Jujutsu Tech." He grinned, assuming that he felt like he was successful with his mission.

Upon your request, Yuta decided to stay for one night with you and your aunt. The three of you shared a meal together using what you purchased from the town today; elated to hear from Yuta that Megumi finally became a student at Jujutsu tech. When he shared stories of Gojo as a sensei you tried to keep the excitement from brewing up inside of you. You offered Yuta to stay in one of the empty rooms. The next morning Yuta left early, saying he needed to go overseas to Africa for another mission Gojo sent him on. You hugged him and wished him protection and health as he continue onto his mission.

"So you're finally going to leave?" your aunt said, smiling at you softly as she watched you pack. "Yes. Thank you, for all these years," you replied. She walked over to you and took you into a warm embrace.

"I see so much of your mother and father in you. You are kind and strong... And I will miss you," she said, touching your cheek endearingly, as if a mother would do.

You smiled, holding her hands in yours, "Thank you aunty, I won't forget you, or where I come from."

Taking one last look you descending the cliffside for the last time.

***

Read the Heaven and Earth (Gojo x Reader) series here:

[littlefreya]

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down. 

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue) 

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution  

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs. 

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?” 

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure. 

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?” 

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body. 

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.  

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them. 

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.  

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately. 

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin. 

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them. 

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid. 

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug. 

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel. 

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently. 

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare. 

But her laughter soon dies. 

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint. 

“Time to fall, angel.” 

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death. 

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.” 

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker. 

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’ 

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station. 

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his. 

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor. 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.” 

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull. 

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache. 

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks. 

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction. 

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them. 

A true king among peasants.  

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright. 

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him. 

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.  

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.  

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in. 

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air. 

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she? 

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever. 

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades. 

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut. 

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them. 

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her. 

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms. 

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…” 

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids. 

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death. 

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.” 

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest. 

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?” 

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest. 

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips. 

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”  

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.” 

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will. 

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue. 

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.” 

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out. 

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision. 

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely. 

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her. 

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her. 

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.   

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god. 

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world. 

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.  

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave. 

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’ 

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming. 

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns. 

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes. 

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined. 

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.  

‘How is she even real?’   

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp. 

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky. 

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss. 

Epilogue. 

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump. 

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings. 

“Loki!” 

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose. 

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir. 

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles. 

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove. 

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.  

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck. 

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together. 

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

[maskedprisoner]

Dream died when the sun was low. 

He died with the warnings of his friend echoing in his ears, with his fingernails caked in dirt and blood as he pulled himself away from Sapnap, as he pleaded until his words were cut off with a wet choking exhale. The noise the blade made as it sunk into his stomach was no different than any other time. It felt like it should’ve been. It should’ve been different, it should’ve been special, with a fight and a clashing of blades and taunts and cold rot growing in Sapnap’s chest-

Well, he had one of those, didn’t he?

Dream sunk against him, weak hands digging into his shoulders, and as the sword drew away he whined. A sickening sound, dragging years off his life into the gutter, 

(the sound of a rabid animal finally being put out of its misery. Froth gathers at their mouth and they shake and growl and hiss before, but the look in their eyes is nearly thankful as they die.)

(doesn’t that make it hurt all the more?)

The netherite dropped into the grass. He gathered Dream in his arms, moving on instinct, muscle memory, letting his forehead press into the space between his shoulder and his neck. 

“You should’ve just- why’d you leave, man, why the fuck did- I told you-”

He’d carried his brother to bed countless times before. Was this so different? What was yet another time? 

They sunk to the grass together, knees buckling, and as the shock faded Sapnap felt himself shake with a rising, hiccuping sob. And another, clawing its way out of his throat and spilling over his cheeks, carving lines through the soot. 

There was the panic, his old friend. 

He could still do something, still try to heal him- (hadn’t he forgone regeneration potions, saying if Dream hurt him, killed him, he’d accept it with open palms and his heavy, shattered heart?) try to help him (what did he have, he had never been a healer, he had only hurt and hurt and hurt-)

“Sap- sapnap- pandas.” 

It couldn’t be said that he hadn’t expected it to hurt. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt this fucking bad. Dull and aching and numb and pulling, ripping away pieces that he thought were long scar tissue and little else. 

His breath rattled through his chest.

“Yeah?”

Dream laughed. A pathetic, wheezing noise, faint through the persistent ringing in Sapnap’s ears. Over Dream’s shoulder, he could see the colors of the sunset reflected in the blood splashed across the grass.

“Can I- can I ask you something?”

His voice was thick, floaty- delirious, probably, his body flailing at the sudden loss of blood it couldn’t compensate for. Sapnap didn’t have to say yes, he didn’t have to say anything, he could sit here in silence for the ticking-away-minutes and go home.

(Home to an empty kingdom. Home to a deteriorating Karl, home to an often gone George, and home to someone who was never there at all.)

“Of course, you- yes.”

“Don’t give me a shitty funeral.” 

He wanted to laugh. 

And he did, in short, hiccuping bursts, burying his face in Dream’s hair, curling his fingers into the fabric of his cloak until his knuckles whitened. 

“Of course not, man. I’ll- I’ll make it fucking- neon green and everything.” 

Dream smiled, a short laugh, barely a breath hot across his skin. For a moment, his head lifted, staring out to something Sapnap couldn’t see, before it dropped back down. And for a moment, quiet. Only the sun pressed to his chest and the setting sun warm against his back. 

(A peaceful death he didn’t deserve. Sapnap, ribs pulled back to expose his heart to the world, forever loyal, granted it anyway)

And then he spoke. Soft, frail, near breathless as it trailed off into nothingness, fleeing so quickly Sapnap couldn’t chase after it. 

“It’s so pretty…” 

“What is?” 

. . .

By the time George struggled his way through the forest to them, by the time he ripped Dream away and pressed his hands to the wound, white against dark red, face twisted in anger, the moon had long crept over the trees.

[a-drop-of-nightshade]

L’s body was lost to him and yet he could feel it, painful touches, mirroring that to his body as he drowned in the abyss that filled his lungs, it tore at him and yet he couldn’t pass out, he was suspended in that agony, that hell, that punishment. He was terrified to wake up, he was terrified for it to continue or to end, it hurt, gods it hurt and he clawed at his throat, he couldn’t make heads or tails of up or down, there was nothing, no light only endless darkness, true nothingness, and it was eating him alive.

The ichor would burn his hands, his irises glowed in the abnormal darkness, he stared into nothingness and it stared through him, seeing nothing and everything all at once. Carson’s breath would mist in the air, L’s skin was icy cold and it bruised under his touch, black bruises spilling beneath pale skin. Laughter came again, “You greed, but it is not enough.” The kiss was met with nails tearing at his arm, teeth tearing at his lips vying for flesh and blood, the knife pressed to his ribs and pushed in as Carson’s hands greedily demanded what he wanted, “You must hunger.” They hissed pushing the knife deep between his ribs, twisting it slowly, feeling it scrape against bones.

The moment her input came there was a sudden mass of glitching purple threads that formed a very tired man, he had scruffy stubble, dark rings around his eyes his long hair turned back into a bun he wore all black with a doctors coat and purple slippers, he was midway sipping from a flask before he realised he was in darkness and he sighed, breath misting he looked down at Izzy, “You better make me some good fucking booze for this shit.” He grunted before glancing over to see Carson and what looked like an L, “Ugh, fucking disgusting Fox.”

Looking back to Izzy he held out a hand and a magic circle with golden vine designs with strange symbols formed and then came the spilling golden light that fell upon Izzy and began to heal her flesh knitting back together, blood returning to her veins it was like her wounds were reverting and she was quickly restored without a single mark, “I’m only here to help you, whatever happens after is on you, but only you can probably bring that dumb fucks soul back to his body… maybe, just don’t expect anymore help from me.” He warned her sipping from his flask, “I’ll collect my payment later.” He said as the circle faded before he waved a hand and was gone, leaving Izzy fully healed.

He needed out, gods he couldn’t breathe, he was sick of blue, greens and whites, he was sick of smiling and acting like everything was fine, he was tired of these events being the only time he could get out. He was tired of being a trophy, a possession to show off and be used to better his image, he needed out. But there was no escape, he was tagged like an object, he wasn’t able to escape his fate and now the best he could do was slip away onto a balcony.

He felt sick, he shook trying to fight the anxiety, his head hurt he was exhausted already, he wanted to curl up and yet he felt the tingling flow of nanites through his system the pain in his body fading he cursed it. He cursed this place, this world, this universe, this time, he cursed his so called owner and he cursed being what he was. He cursed being who he was. He leaned against the railing trying to calm down tears spilling down his cheeks, he didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to be an object. He didn’t see he wasn’t alone as he covered his mouth trying to keep quiet and not break down, he’d get in so much trouble.

@izzyfromdeadspace

[breaking-shadows]

Elain’s POV

Silence reigned at last. Elain had waited for the raucous laughter to die down, for the evidence of her sisters’ joy to fade along with the faelights.

            Her plan was simple, to leave Azriel’s gift subtly and unnoticed amongst his pile of presents.

           Her heart drummed in her chest as she rose and went to the door, twisting the ornate handle before stepping out into the darkness. Out in the hall, shadows swarmed, cloaking her but she was not afraid. The Elain of old would have been, would have rushed back to the light and the heat of her room. Her family tended to forget though, or perhaps they had never seen at all. The Elain who had gone into the Cauldron had not been the one who had come out.

           She padded with soft steps under the stairway arch and then stalled, her breath catching in her throat.

           There he was.

           The sight of him called and the thrumming of her blood answered. He looked tired, as if sleep had eluded him for weeks, not that it detracted from his beauty in anyway. Whenever anyone described Azriel, they all used the same band of words, semantics carved out of the very block of ice they said made him. The knife in the dark, Feyre had once said.

           It was not what Elain saw.  Where others witnessed an icy exterior and distanced aloofness, she saw a guarded vulnerability, a wonton need for light and warmth and space. Every inch of him begged to be kissed. Kissed to be told he was worthy. Kissed to be told he was loved. Kissed to be told he was enough.

           She shuddered.

           He was more than enough.

           There was a tug somewhere deep down.

           He was everything.

           “I…” His eyes were on her throat, the small gift trembling in her hands. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”

           Azriel, the High Lord’s Shadowsinger, was as guarded as the secrets behind her own lips, but his eyes sparked at her lie, beautiful hands twitching as though his first instinct was to grab Truth-teller and wheedle out the fiction.

           What he didn’t know was that it wouldn’t take much for him to learn her truth, every scrap of it. Him and only him.

           Elain closed the space between them, breath quickening but stopped a foot away. Too close and the scent of him would overwhelm her senses and they’d been so careful, a brush of fingers, and a few exchanged glances, but never anything more.

           “Here,” she wished she could control her trembling, so he didn’t see. But then that was the tether between her and the beautiful Illyrian, the thing that connected them. Despite the Cauldron gifting her the power of sight, it was always him who’d seen her, only him who’d ever seen her.

           Tentatively, he took the gift, staring explicitly at the box in his hands. It wasn’t much. The only intention was to replicate last year when she’d asked Madja to concoct a powder for his headaches. Elain had never seen him use the gift, but that didn’t matter at all when he’d laughed in such a way it felt as if it had come from deep within her own chest. It was the sound of cool rain in the height of summer, the one that made you forget yourself and want to dance barefoot.

           Elain watched as he unwrapped the box, glancing at the note she’d scribbled there. You might find these useful at the House these days. Then he popped open the lid. Two small, bean-shaped objects lay within crafted from fabric.

           “You put them in your ears, and they block out any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you…” she murmured, stopping only when a chuckle filled the foyer.

           “No wonder you didn’t want me to open it in front of everyone.”

           They both knew that wasn’t the only reason, but Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

           He offered her a smile back. “I wasn’t sure I should give you your present.”

           Elain winced as Azriel left the rest unspoken. The Fae and their mating bonds. It meant nothing to her, never would. For the rest of her immortal life, Elain would belong to no-one, but her heart, her precious heart would be given to someone she chose. It made her heart skip when she thought of it. What could be greater then to defy fate itself for the one you love?

           Azriel pulled the velvet box from the shadows behind him and opened it for her. She sucked in a soft breath, his shadows skittering back at the sound. They’d always been prone to vanish when she was around, the shadows which formed in the absence of light.

           The golden necklace was lovely, and at the end, a tiny amulet with a flat rose fashioned of stained glass.

           “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, lifting it from the box. The golden faelight shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm glowing with hues of red and pink and white.

           Azriel let his shadows whisk the box away.

           “Put it on me?” she asked, softly.

           He went still for a moment, but she barely gave him chance to breathe as she lifted her unbound hair out of the way, exposing her graceful neck.

           The world as she knew it vanished. It was as if Azriel’s shadows had swirled around them, protecting, and blocked out all else. Elain was aware of every glancing brush on her neck, her throat, as he slid the necklace across her skin. She shivered in response, silently begging him to do more. As she’d done many nights in her own bed when she imagined her hand was his.

           Heat rose in her cheeks at the thought.

           Slowly, she pivoted into his touch, until his palm lay flat against her neck. She fought to calm her breathing, to keep control. It had never gone this far.

           Something changed in his scent, not that she knew what it meant.

           And yet he still didn’t move.

           Elain bit her lower lip. “I should go.” Her feet didn’t budge.

           “Yes,” Azriel agreed, his thumb sweeping in long strokes along the side of her throat, his eyes becoming heavy-lidded.

           She drifted closer, tilting her chin to look at him.

           There was a glance to his hand, a dulling in his eyes. For a brief moment, Elain expected him to pull his hand away. He hated them and what he did with them, believed that she didn’t know the unspeakable things he’d done. But she did. Elain saw everything he was and…understood. After all, it was Elain herself who had gotten her own hands dirty when she ended Hybern’s life, ramming Truth-teller into his neck until the blood had spilled out, staining her skin rose-red.

           She saw him, and the decision he now contemplated.

           One moment.

           A taste.

           “Yes,” she breathed in answer.

           Azriel’s hands slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain’s lips parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before flickering shut.

           She heard a groan lodge in his throat, felt his head lowering towards hers. She waited for the heat of his lips against hers, eager to learn the taste of him.

           But it never came.

           His hand was out of her hair, and he stepped back. “This was a mistake.”

           Hurt swam the length of her veins, flooding her. Drowning her. How could she ever think… “I’m sorry.” She almost couldn’t get the words out.

           “You don’t – Don’t apologise,” he seemed to struggle forming his own, a bleakness darker than any shadow crossing his face. “Never apologise. It’s I who should…” he shook his head. “Goodnight.”

           Before she could say anything, he’d winnowed into the shadows.

           What a fool she was. Alone in the foyer in a house of love.

           Fighting the tears that threatened to come, Elain forced one foot in front of the other. She would not stay. She would not cry.

           Leave it.

           The necklace grazed her skin. Her hand went to the rose, curling around it as if to protect it somehow.

           You don’t need it, or him. You only need me, come to me.

           “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

           You sought me first, seer. You gave me a taste and now I want my fill. Leave the necklace.

           Elain hastily unfastened the chain. She’d wanted to keep it next to her chest, but now the sight of the glass rose wrenched her heart. It was wrong to return a gift, but she didn’t want Azriel to feel obligated by it. So, she lay it on his pile of gifts, a thing of secret, lovely beauty.

           Now, don’t you feel better?

           Elain hurried upstairs and it was only when she was in her room with door closed firmly behind her that she dared answer the voice back. They had grown worse since she’d first glimpsed the onyx box. Months had passed with nothing and now they were as frequent as the northern wind.

           “I’m going to kill you,” she whispered into nothingness.

           Laughter came back in reply. Enough of this nonsense. Human born, Fae-made. You are no match for me. I know no death; I am a god, and you will bow.

           “They’re all wrong. You are wrong,” Elain said, her voice slicing through the air like steel. “I am the one who rips diseased roots from the earth. I am the Kingslayer. I am the knife in the dark,” and with those words, the deathless god replied no more. She went to her bed and from under her pillow drew out a dagger. It was all silver, the hilt twisted into a spiral of metal rose vines. Elain turned it from side to side, watching it glint in the golden lights. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

[doitwritenow]

And They Don’t Miss The Ground

Reposting this for organizations sake; I, uh, saw the prompt about the snap wiping out everyone, including Thanos, (barring Stephen and Tony) from @ironstrangeprompts (#976) and.... things happened...

Here’s a link to the prompt. And here’s my ramble!

<><><>

“We aren’t going back to Earth.”

Tony’s hands freeze atop the cold metal of the ship’s engine. It never seems to warm up under his hands--not as he works with it, not as he clings to it. Tony isn’t surprised. He hasn’t any warmth to give.

He turns, feeling his expression slide into something cold and dark. The damaged ship lights flash across the tall form standing in the broken doorway, and for a moment the shadows make its limbs seem clawed and disproportionate. Skeletal. It looks like the monster Tony know it is.

“Where were you?” Tony demands. He’s on his feet, and he doesn’t remember standing. He presses a hand to his side. Even after two months, his abdomen still aches where Thanos had impaled him, though the wound is long since healed.

The figure, the sorcerer, steps into the space. Strange looks awful--haggard and malnourished and somehow still glowing with that sense of knowing that had drawn Tony to him once, but now just makes him sick. Strange’s whole form is soaked in ash. He tracks it in from the barren land outside into the meticulously cleaned threshold of Tony’s ship, Tony’s lair. It feels like an invasion.

“Not far,” Strange says. He rests against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Not far? It’s been two months, wizard!”

Two months. Two months of dark anger and frozen loneliness, two months of being the last creature left alive. Two months of that hope Tony had tried so hard to coax dwindling to nothing--two months of slowly realizing that Strange hadn’t been lying. It truly is the whole universe, gone. The unlucky fifty percent didn’t happen to be everyone on Titan except the two of them, no. The two of them are all that’s left.

Tony still wakes up clawing at the ash he can feel on hands every single morning. He still wakes up praying this was all a cruel joke, a twisted reality. And he’s still wrong. Every single time.

This is the world he lives in, now.

The world this wizard chose.

“You were productive,” Strange says. He looks under his brows at the spaceship, stitched together under Tony’s hands for the last eight weeks.

“Yeah, I was,” Tony spits. “And where were you?”

“I told you.” Strange just looks at him, face impassive. Tony used to be certain there was a soul underneath there somewhere, after he’d seen it shining in sorrow and empathy. Now he isn’t sure. “I wasn’t far.”

That familiar, desperate rage curls through Tony’s throat. He jerks forward. His hands curl into fists, one of them still coated in nanotech. “You left me alone, Strange.”

Strange turns to face him fully--and Tony can see, then, the waxy burn scar that creeps around his left eye. “We both know I had to.”

He’s right--but Tony’s sick and tired of hearing about what he had to do. He’s sick of dreaming about those impossible eyes flickering to him as Strange offers the end of the world to Thanos on a silver platter. He’s sick of remembering the way Strange had knelt and watched Quill and Nebula and (Peter Peter Peter--) dissolve into nothingness, repeating “there was no other way” like that made any difference.

Tony had waited for Strange to disappear, too. Waited for there to be some fairness in the universe, some justice. But Strange hadn’t. He’d knelt there, solid and real and alive, and looked at Tony like he knew what was about to happen.

He’d let Tony take the shot. But he hadn’t let Tony finish the job, drawing one last handful of the ash that was all that remained of his Cloak through his fingers, and disappearing in a flash of orange magic. And he hadn’t come back.

He’d been gone, all the days when Tony needed to kill him. All the days when Tony needed him alive.

Tony should kill him now and complete his transition into the monster he can feel building beneath his skin.

Should kill him now and be truly and completely alone.

Tony turns away, shoulders falling. He twins his hands around the ship’s controls again, feeling the way the newly repaired engines purr at his commands. “I should leave you here,” he says.

Strange doesn’t answer. Tony wonders if he agrees.

There’s no one else in the universe.

Tony should leave and return to Earth to scavenge what little hope he can. Because he might be clinging to the dregs of his spirit, might be coughing up ash, but there’s one thing that the end of the world can’t strip from Tony Stark. It can’t take the fundamental in his ribs. He’s going to fix this. There’s no question in his soul, no question in his future--he’s going to fix this, or he’s going to die trying.

And there’s no one else in the universe.

“I’m taking off tomorrow morning,” Tony says, his voice flat and resigned. “Be on the ship if you want. See if I care.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves to check the engines.

-----

Stephen only lets his form crumple when Stark has gone.

When the man’s footsteps are far enough away that Stephen’s constantly ringing ears can no longer pick him out, he finally sinks down against the side of the wall and buries his head beneath his arms. It’s so much warmer in here. Stephen swears he can sense the air touched by Stark’s body heat. Stephen’s even starting to shiver again, which is remarkable.

When Stark is gone, he tucks his shaking hands into his hair and lets the Count spill from his lips again. It isn’t pride that keeps him upright around Stark. It’s self-preservation, pure and simple and animalistic. If Stephen looks dangerous, looks like he might be some sort of threat, Stark is less likely to kill him. If Stephen offers some sort of use to the man, Stark is less likely to kill him.

Not that he shouldn’t.

But the universe isn’t about justice, anymore. Stephen doesn’t get the luxury of being killed by Tony Stark, of being redeemed. He has to save the universe.

He always has to save the universe.

Stephen sits and waits, listens for the next Scene. He prepares his lines, letting them assemble in his mind beneath the Count. The hours slip by to the deafening ringing in his ears. Slowly, the numbness starts to fade from his extremities, warmth sliding through his veins like fire.

It hurts. It hurts, and so it feels wonderful. Stephen sighs, clenching his fists tight to shock the pain intense enough he can feel it in his shoulders.

Then he lifts his head and looks around the ship. He’s left ashy footprints where he walked--after two months alone in Titan’s sands, he practically wears the stuff. He’s still alone--

Of course you are. There’s no one else, remember?

--and so he Counts out loud. He’s up to five million, one hundred and fifty-six thousand, seven hundred thirty-six, now, after two months. He has an infinite distance left to go. An infinite number of lives he took. They ring in his ears, even still.

Stephen stumbles a circuit around the room of the ship. This is the largest area, and it will do well for what he needs. Stephen picks out five relatively evenly spaced areas of flat metal. He scrapes some of the ash off his hand, then disconnectedly pats himself down until he finds the scabbed cut on his thigh were he’d sliced himself falling down one of Titan’s ravines. Digging his fingernails beneath the scab, he slicks his hand with blood.

Then he starts to write.

He’s on the fifth sigil when the voice shocks through his concentration. “What are you doing?” Stark’s furious tone demands.

The Count pauses itself in Stephen’s mind, and he buries thoughts and anticipation and frozen, frozen fear beneath the practiced lines of the Scene. “Blood runes,” Stephen says simply.

Footsteps tell Stephen Stark has stalked closer to him. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“They’re wards,” Stephen explains. “They complete an aura of protection. The strongest there is.”

“What do they have to protect against? You killed everything in the universe, remember?”

Stephen doesn’t flinch. “The energy of the creatures who died remains. It will manifest, when there’s no life around to absorb it. Much of what forms will be vengeful, built on the fear and anger of the last moments of the universe.”

“So they want to kill you.”

Stephen finishes the rune with a flick of his wrist. “Yes.”

Stark doesn’t dispute that they should. “But they aren’t a danger to me.”

“That’s correct,” Stephen says. His voice is empty. “With water and elbow work, these runes can be scratched away without issue, and you’ll be rid of me.”

Stark inhales--a shuddering breath of rage that makes Stephen’s shoulders tense instinctually. “I don’t let magic do my dirty work, Strange,” he hisses. “I don’t load the gun and hand it off to someone else. I don’t give the Stone away and let someone else snap.”

He scoffs, and its full of enough disgust that Stephen almost thinks he’s back in the cold of Titan again. “Do whatever you want,” Stark says. He turns, already stretched to his breaking point in Stephen’s presence.

Stephen waits for the last line. The end of the Scene.

“Finish your runes. Live, if that’s what you want.”

Stark’s words echo even after he’s gone.

Stephen looks after him for a long, long moment, trying to swallow down the bitter disappointment that Stark didn’t just kill him.

----

[dothwrites]

spn15 spec, destiel, post 15.18, mcd?? sort of???

---

And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend.--Antoine de-Saint Exupery, The Little Prince

---

Castiel opens his eyes in nothingness. 

It’s not dark, though the air which presses around him is thick onyx. There is neither gravity nor weightlessness here. Castiel exists but he does so in a void so barren that he doubts his own mind. He opens his mouth to call out, but no sound escapes. 

Castiel exists in ignorance for one, glorious moment. Then the weight of memory crushes into him. His chest buckles underneath the pressure. He tries to scream, but the vast emptiness swallows the sound. 

---

“Cas, we can fight this!” 

Dean, his Righteous Man, Dean, the shining beacon, his friend...The first real friend he’d ever made. Dean is ready to fight. Dean would fight God, has indeed fought God. But he can’t fight this. 

The door shudders in its frame. Blow after blow rains down on the weakening wood. Already, the wood is splintering under the assault. The thin strip of light at the bottom of the door disappears underneath a sea of writhing black. The Empty is here. It wants what it was promised.  

“Dean,” he says. He intends to say much more--It’s too late, let me go, thank you--but his voice cracks on the single syllable of Dean’s name. 

He wants to stay. God help him, but he wants to stay. 

“No, dammit Cas! You don’t get to give up! We can fight this thing, we can keep running, we can...” Dean’s voice trails off into nothing as he looks wildly around the small room. 

Though he might protest, Castiel knows that Dean is a man bailing out a sinking ship. In his heart, Dean knows the battle is already lost. But he’s still defiant, still clinging to the faintest shred of hope.

Castiel loves him for that. 

“You fought for the whole world.” Castiel’s voice is weak and pale against the ear-shattering thunder of the Empty’s attempts to break into the room. 

“Cas, no--” 

“But you can’t fight for me.” 

The words shatter something vital in him. Castiel gasps as the agony shreds through him. He thought there would be more time. He thought that happiness was an ideal that no one could ever reach. He thought there would be time, he doesn’t want to go, he wants to stay--

“Cas, I can’t...Not again, I can’t lose you again, please don’t go--” 

Black seeps into the room, slender tendrils snaking across the room towards where they stand. Castiel feels every second ticking away. He’s lived for millennia, seen worlds and empires rise and fall, felt the passing of centuries like nothing more than a passing breeze. Millions of years, and now, when it means everything, he has no time. 

Castiel cups Dean’s cheek with one shaking hand. If this is it, then he doesn’t want to leave with any regrets. “Dean,” he croaks. That word has become his compass, his prayer, the star to which he hitched his wagon. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you. If I had a choice, i would stay. I would stay with you through every sunrise and sunset, through every moment, the mundane and extraordinary alike.” Castiel’s voice catches in his throat as the door finally shatters and darkness pours into the room. 

“You’ve taught me everything, Dean, and I...I’m so grateful that I got to know you. Without you...” 

Castiel can’t continue. He’s immeasurably grateful for all he’s experienced with Dean, but he’s always been greedy. He wants more. He wants to see Dean’s hair continue to silver until it’s soft and grey. He wants to go fishing with Dean and discover the peace inherent in the activity. He wants to watch Jack grow into his own and Sam start a family. He wants, with a fierceness that takes his breath away. 

Darkness curls around his ankle and winds its way up his calf. 

Dean shakes his head. Tears well in his eyes but refuse to spill over, though his lower lip shakes. “Please,” he asks, tilting his head into Castiel’s palm. “I can’t...how am I supposed to do this without you?” 

Castiel starts to respond, but his voice is cut off by the swift, hard press of Dean’s lips into his. His heart jolts and gutters in his chest before it picks up again, beating so hard he thinks it might escape through the confines of his ribs. 

“I love you.” 

The words tumble out of Castiel’s mouth, the same as they did years ago when he was rotting from in the inside out. The same frantic need consumes him now as it did then, when every beat of his heart dragged him closer to the edge of oblivion, when seconds were more precious than gold, when he was so close to losing everything--

Dean sobs. He clutches the lapels of Castiel’s coat and kisses him, teeth bruising behind his lips.

Castiel’s whole lower body is engulfed in darkness so complete that it feels as though it’s ceased to exist. His whimper is lost in Dean’s mouth. 

“No,” Dean gasps, pulling away. Castiel already knows the cause of Dean’s denial. He can feel it, creeping up his chest and shoulders, slithering down to his arms. He remembers how it was to be devoured, remembers the noxious black ooze of the Leviathan crawling through him, but this is worse, is so much worse, because now he knows what Dean’s lips taste like, now he knows everything he has to lose--

“Cas, I love you,” Dean tells him, though his words echo strangely. The Empty crawls up his throat. Castiel chokes on it, but he doesn’t dare to blink. He can’t lose a second of this, of Dean’s face, horrified and tear-stricken though it is. 

Seconds tick away like centuries, Dean’s face in front of him. Castiel can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can see the words shaped on his lips. 

I’ll find you, I promise, I’m coming for you, Cas, Cas, I love--

And then. 

Empty. 

---

With the image of Dean’s face in his mind, Castiel screams. 

There is no sound in the Empty, but he screams anyway. His agony and loss pour out of him, his grief and fear. Everything that he’s lost, Dean--

Castiel screams until his voice cracks and breaks, until his throat is shredded and raw, until he tastes blood in the back of his throat. 

Hollow, he slumps to the side, curling into himself. His one consolation was that he would at least be asleep for the rest of eternity. He wouldn’t have to live with the weight of everything he’d lost. Now, even that slender comfort has been ripped from him. For the rest of time, he’ll have to exist with the memory of Dean’s glassy eyes, with the sound of Dean’s choked voice echoing through his skull, with the phantom ache of Dean’s lips against his. Castiel shudders, sobs ripping out of his throat. 

“Jesus. So much for helping.” 

Castiel blinks. The sound of another voice is foreign in this void where nothing should exist. He rolls over, looking up at the sardonic face staring down at him. 

“Ruby,” he rasps, then remembers himself. 

That’s not Ruby. 

“Go away,” he mutters. He wraps his arms around his legs, pressing his forehead to his knees. There’s no point in having pride here, not when time is meaningless and every second is a torture. The Empty already knows his secrets, though why it chose Ruby’s form to torment him is a mystery. 

“Look feathers, you were the one who screwed the pooch on this whole ‘fixing eternity’ thing. So I think I’m going to stick around for a bit.” 

“There’s no point,” Castiel says miserably. “You got what you wanted. I’m here. I’m suffering. What more could you possibly want from me?”

“Were you dropped on your halo? I told you what I wanted the last time you were here. I want out, you moron. I told you to find a way out, and you wound up here, which is kind of the opposite of what I asked.” 

Castiel blinks slowly, lifting his forehead from his knees. “Ruby?” he asks. 

Ruby rolls her eyes and sighs for dramatic effect. “Yeah, dumbo. You know, I’ve only been trying to tell you that since the beginning.” 

“I can’t trust that.” Castiel remembers all too well the last time he was here, the jolt of pleasure at seeing Meg once more only to realize that the Empty was aping her appearance to hurt him. “The Empty, it takes on your visage, your memories--”

“Yeah, you’re just going to have to trust me on this.” Ruby’s eyes flash black. “You know, as much as you can.” 

“I’d pay attention to her, Clarence. If you don’t, then she’ll probably kick your ass.” 

Castiel knows that voice. He whirls around. Meg’s face greets him, a tiny smirk twisting her lips upward. “Meg,” he whispers, an odd combination of grief and happiness twisting in his chest. 

“The one and only,” she assures him. 

A small shred of doubt clings at the back of Castiel’s mind, but he has to trust in something right now. Even if it’s two dead demons. 

“Castiel. So lovely to see you again. Though I can’t say that I agree with the company you’re keeping these days.” 

Make that three dead demons. 

“Crowley,” Castiel breathes. 

The demon looks exactly the same as he did  the day he died. His suit is pristine, down to the pocket square. He looks at Meg and Ruby with disdain before he turns that expression on Castiel. “I suppose you’re doing your biannual visit to this dump? Feel like taking any passengers out with you when you make your escape this time?” 

“I’m not...I made a deal,” Castiel whispers. He made a deal to save his son and he’ll never regret that, not for a second, but then he thinks of Dean’s face. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so negative, Cassie. You do have a way of wriggling out of the tightest of places.” 

Mingled guilt and joy sear through Castiel as he turns around. Balthazar’s familiar face looks at him. Balthazar raises an eyebrow. “No hug?” he asks. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel breathes. Surrounded by ghosts from his past, he feels weak. “None of you should be awake. That’s the whole point of this place. All of us, asleep, forever.” 

“That’s the way it should be, but you have a habit of wrecking the natural order.” Castiel winces at Anna’s cool voice. Though there’s no real judgement in her voice, there’s also no real warmth. “It’s been changing here, ever since your last visit.” 

“I woke it up.” 

“And because you woke it up, we all started to awake as well.” Hannah’s calm voice joins their small group, though it’s growing steadily larger. “All of us, demons and angels, started awaking. At first, it was just for moments, but lately, it’s been distracted. More of us have been able to stay awake for longer. Eventually we started finding each other.” 

“That’s my boy,” Meg says, unmistakable fondness in her voice. “Shaking up the natural order, wrecking the whole of the afterlife.” 

Castiel’s eyes dart between all of them, former enemies, allies, and friends. “Is this all of you?” 

“Were you not listening? Did they not just tell you that we’ve all been waking up, at least a little bit?” 

Gabriel pops into existence next to Castiel. Despite himself, Castiel jerks back in surprise. 

“So, what’s it going to be, Cas? Are you going to just pop out of here like always?” Crowley brings Castiel’s brain back to the present. 

When he made his deal, he made it with full awareness that there was no coming back. He accepted that burden because he knew it was the only way he could save Jack. 

But that was before he felt Dean’s lips against his, before he heard the words fall from Dean’s mouth. I love you. 

When he made the deal, he had never heard those words directed at him. When he made the deal, he had nothing to fight for. 

Now he does.

He made a choice long ago. You don’t have to be ruled by Fate. You can choose freedom. 

Castiel looks at all of them, demons and angels alike, and makes a choice. 

“We’ve got work to do.”