#like the scream is so intrinsically linked to death and loss

[moths-in-hats]

teen wolf x marvel: lydia martin as the hulk

For Lydia Week 2023: Day 3 - What-If Wednesday

[ffxivimagines]

dona nobis pacem | minific

Warnings for: character death, SHB spoilers, angst, references to unhealthy coping mechanisms, the result of a multi-century fixation ending in the worst way possible, character injury, blood, canon-typical violence, mild body horror

100% inspired by @surfacage ’s Bad End piece. Thank you for making me cry. (I hope this is to your taste ;;w;;) 

Ao3 Link

Here’s your cue to scroll past and avoid spoilers or otherwise triggering content! Beware!

They do not have a paper, nor a crier or any other newsfolk, but everyone still knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not have a paper in the Crystarium, nor a crier or any other newsfolk with which to deliver assorted information to all. However, despite this and all other underdeveloped facets of the bastion city, everyone knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not need headlines in sharp-smelling ink to believe it, having been haunted by fanciful offers of adventure the moment they rest their heads for nigh on a fortnight. There is a whisper of promise carried on the wind that they can taste. It is heady and familiar as if wrought from worn scripture. Whenever someone says they know it, recognize it, there is a note of terror to their confession.

The Warrior of Darkness has fallen. They who speak in tongues and borrow his voice are but a ghost built from desperation and aether. The Exarch knows it is madness to reside hand in hand with a facsimile of godhood, but he does it gladly, hood ever up and obscuring his face. They need not ask him why—not when they can see the edges of shimmering, blue tear tracks beginning to blend into the steadily spreading crystal of his curse—and seek to avoid doing so for fear of finding themselves face to face with a broken man.

There are no sightings outside the Tower, the Exarch and his little toy god happily locked up together in the recesses of Allagan royal suites, but the people know. They grieve for the man they knew and the love that killed him.

There is no adoration for their half-savior, not when his demise has brought their only hope for survival down to his knees in prayer. With every word that rings hollow in the air, their hatred grows.

“The Exarch is recuperating,” they have been told by the guard. “His strength was sorely tested.”

“By who,” they ask, “and how? What could prove so taxing to a man who leapt through time?”

And though there has been no spoken answer, they know. From the moment the Tower flickered, aether sputtering and flickering in protest to an invisible strain, they knew. The sky simply agreed with a blinding rush of neverending Light.

The day the Warrior of Darkness fell, so too did their Exarch’s heart shatter. His Tower, the symbol of his life and blessing of protection, had nearly faded from their sight. They felt the echoes of battle in the groaning and creaking, worried for his health when fissures rained flakes of crystallized aether down upon them, but he had returned. He was not hale, but they had assumed he was whole. What an oversight, that. 

They learned quickly that the Exarch is mad over love. What an end for such a visionary, to be tempered so (though, for some, they say it is not separate from his adoration. That devotion is one and the same). The creature he calls by name and laughs with is volatile in how it smiles and jokes back, an old friend come home, with far fewer scars and none of the trauma from the time after the Crystal Tower’s doors had shut back on the Source. He has built his own coffin and proceeded to tuck himself in as if comfortable living within a blue-gold bubble of fable and falsehood.

For those who have known him, it is nauseating. 

For those who knew the one he lost, it is infuriating. 

“Stop this,” Alisaie pleads, voice muffled through the doors of the Ocular. “You know better than most that this is not what he would want.”

She has been there every day for a month. Alphinaud has visited, but it is Alisaie’s persistence that has run her ragged where all others have stopped. Teleporting between the Inn’s aethertye and that of the Crystarium has eaten away at her Gil same as her energy, but still, she persists. Behind the locked doors, the fake that wears her friend’s face leans his head against the Exarch’s own with a dull thok. 

They do not answer.

(A little part of her is jealous that the Exarch can turn off his cares for the rest of the world so thoroughly as he does for the sake of his fabricated hero. What she would not give to be so singlemindedly greedy.)

The Scions wish to grieve. They have his body, the casket, knowledge of the badly penned will left in his inn room to the left of his aetheryte earring, but they lack the person they know the Warrior would most love to send him off. Alisaie is not the only one waiting. However, no matter what they ply the Exarch with, he does not allow them the concession of allowing their friend to rest, or releasing the (for all intents and purposes) Primal who has been made to wear his face. 

They were there when he fell and in the moments after. Ryne could not stop the Light, Alphinaud’s magic too feeble to seal the wounds torn into being across the Warrior’s body, and the Exarch... what could he do so far from the Tower? And so they had watched, helpless, as Emet-Selch brought his grand fury to bear against their faltering aegis. Watched him shatter and collapse to his knees time and time again until it becomes a mercy when he does not yet rise. 

But it is not his last stand. 

With axe in hand, he leverages to his feet once more. There are no defined steps, no head held high, no righteous fury. Where stories had said he was indomitable, terrifying, untouchable─this person is not him. This bleeding, dying warrior is mortal and just as flawed as all the rest and yet the world is stacked upon his shoulders as if his bones will not be ground to dust in the shadow of its magnitude. 

He takes one step and then another, feet slipping and scuffing along the ground, and then stops. He hefts the axe, palms sticky-slick with blood, but can do no more. 

Hades laughs at his struggle and the sound reverberates in the cage of his ribs. What bitter mockery it is to see his friend-turned-enemy struggling to stand. Hydaelyn’s Champion is nothing but a husk at his feet, soul sundered and aether long since spent. He reaches out and very carefully snuffs out the overflowing Light with a practiced hand. This will be his final victory against Her Champion. 

This is his final elegy for a friend. 

And then, in a show of pity, he allows the body to stay whole. He rescinds his darkness, the many, many masks and names and memories he carries, and steps down to pay his respects. The Exarch does not allow him that liberty, for the moment his feet all but brush the ground, the aether of his domain shivers. 

He had not designed the Allagans to have such comparable power to that of his creation, but (then again) he had not accounted for the mistakes of late royalty nearly turning his plans to cinders. The Crystal Exarch fumbles his way toward his fallen friend and pulls his body into his arms, hands trembling but face blank. He calls to him, desperate. His voice cracks. 

Emet-Selch smiles. At least, for once in all his ages and eons, something just as wretched as he is mourning their loss. He waits and he watches. Detached. 

(A part of him resents the hand that suffocated that Light, but that is the same part of him that has been around since Amaurot rose around his ears. He is not so willingly naive, anymore.)

The aether trembles and shakes in fits and starts and the crystal creeping its way up the Exarch’s cheek slides a little further outward. He holds the Warrior close to his heart, a hand resting on his head as if to protect. What could he do for a body that is devoid of life, truly? No matter how tightly he holds him, no matter the silent prayers he devotes tot he Twelve, it will all be for naught. 

Sitting there with the bloodied crest of the Warrior’s head tucked under his chin, the Crystal Exarch cries. The entire First follows suit. 

The crystal lances up and onto his yet untouched cheek and spiders outward like cracks on fine china. It does not consume him in full, but there is a dullness to his grief mirrored in the wide-eyed wildness of his disbelief. The Warrior cannot be dead. There is no way. 

But the body in his arms gives no sputtering breaths, no soft whispers of stubborn aether. It is empty. 

And every effort he has made turned to waste. 

There is no clear shift where his mourning turns to rage, but by Hydaelyn’s will it is felt. The quaking becomes pressure and a crushing embrace that screams in intrinsic tongues, “You will never have atoned enough for this sin.” 

When the might of the Crystal Tower is brought to bear, there are few who could oppose it. The cost is great, though, and there is a hardening of more than feet and back and hips, but even that of heart. 

If the Warrior of Darkness has died, so too has the man called G’raha Tia. 

And so, the Crystarium mourns. The Scions mourn. The false god ever lives. 

[welcometohellmouth]

Good

Newt Scamander x Reader

He watched from the dark.

You did not know him. You were out of reach, for he was human and you were not. He had innocence and curiosity that was intrinsic to his explorer’s soul. He was kind and loyal, caring… Gentle.

You were none of those things.

You were anything but innocent.

You were hostile and vicious. Still, as his green eyes took your form, he could not help but long for your touch. He wondered how your skin would feel against his pale hands that had started to itch, begging for contact.

As his heart raced, the back of his mind censored his behavior. He knew better. He read about your kind profusely and still he let himself trapped. He tried, but he couldn’t look away. The pull was too strong.

You moved, your bare feet hovering an inch above the ground. You floated in harmony with all nature surrounding you. He thought you did not notice him and so he stood, hidden in the dark, watching as you got your frail white gown loose. It fell to your ankles and his eyes widened at he sight of the gloriousness of your naked body.

His palms sweated and inside his stomach, butterflies caused havoc. He kept silent, nervous.

He really hoped you didn’t notice him.

You moved slowly and your toes finally touched the cool water, making your nipples react. All of your exotic beauty reflected on the surface of the lake, but he missed the glint in your eyes.

He was far in the dark.

As he watched you bathe in the pure waters, alien thoughts began to race through his mind and it was as if he was not himself anymore. He was handsome. Strong. Brave. He was a pureblood. He was better than most. You would be impressed. You would fear him. You would love him.

With these foreign, dark thoughts clouding his mind, he began to strip his clothes. Your aura clouded his own and poisoned him with feelings and thoughts that did not belong to him at all… As for that moment, he was not Newt Scamander anymore.

He was simply yours to take.

His eyes never left your body; he was sure he would have you. He walked out of shadows towards you, under the pale moonlight. You gave no sign of acknowledging his presence.

He joined you in water and his hands were stable as he grabbed your hips and brought your body harshly to his own, something he would never do in his normal state of mind; it was enough for you to feel his arousal. You were light on his hands, your weight felt like nothing. Your skin was smooth and cold like marble against his own.

You turned then, facing him. Your eyes were bright like moonlight. Your lips curled into a sly smile and your hands travelled up his arms. He felt chills up his spine that dissolved when you cupped his cheek, almost tenderly.

Instantly, a warm, pleasant feeling filled his body. He looked at you in confusion. The smile left your lips and you stared at his blueish-green orbs, your hand slipped into his own and pulled him to where the lake was deep enough to reach his chest. You were shorter and the water caressed your shoulders. You looked up, your arms folded around his neck and you pushed yourself up, folding your legs around him. Your sweet voice has finally heard as you moaned softly to his ear. He sighed and his arms encircled your small form, your breasts pressing against his chest.

As he took you, he felt he could be anything, do anything. The knowledge and power he had before could never compare to what he would have then. He would have it all. He would be unstoppable, as long as he had you, as long as he had such goddess by his side.

Again, he missed the glint in your eyes. He was yours. His soul belonged to you and for you he would be glorious. He failed to care as you bit his bottom lip; his blood tasted sweet to your tongue as you two kissed. His soul was shining brighter than the Sun. You bathed with his light. He was weak before you.

He never noticed the smirk on your lips.

He was all yours.

Slowly, his life energy started to slip away from his body and into yours, through the passionate kiss that he did not want to break. The linked bodies were your guarantee. You fed from him and he died slowly with a bright smile plastered on his face, with pleasure tingling all over his human body.

It would be over soon.

As you reached the peak of slaughter, though, something happened. Something you were not expecting at all.

Flashes of his memory appeared behind your closed eyelids and you opened your pearly eyes in shock. You stared at him, horrified.

He was good.

Suddenly, Newt’s soul was an open book that you read unwillingly, desperately trying to stop the visions and feelings he brought; it all clashed violently against your vicious nature.

He was good.

The auburn haired man was good, kind. Gentleness and loyalty filled his every pore. He was nice, too nice… Contrasting greatly with the men you used to feed on; those were usually greedy and cruel, approaching you with filthy intentions, to have their own selfish needs satisfied. Not this man, though… Newt was loving and careful, dangerously curious about magical creatures…

Magical creatures such as yourself.

He thought all fantastic beasts were misunderstood. That these beings were not solely dangerous; that they could be reasoned with, if only he learned enough about them.

You realized he was too pure.

Too naive.

With that last thought, you prepared to reap his soul for once. You were thinking too much and it was not like you. So what if he was good? You were not. Why should you care? That was his loss; it would be his lesson to learn, since he was so eager and reckless.

Curiosity killed the cat, or did it not?

Your piercing nails dig in his skin. It was over. He would die.

Except…

He opened his eyes.

You gasped, startled. He was staring right into you and you could see yourself reflected in his enticing boyish eyes. He really looked terribly naive, so harmless… It captivated you to no end. As the trap backfired, unknowingly to him, you were the one to feel cornered. He smiled softly and you felt guilt consume you.

You could not possibly…

He was human.

He was human and, against all odds, he was good.

Humans were supposed to be dangerous, gluttonous, despicable, were they not? You reasoned with yourself as you tried not to lose your inner battle… However, you knew you had already been defeated.

You knew it… You were sure, somehow…

He was different.

You could not possibly take his life.

Hissing in frustration, you pushed him away in a childish whim and your hand soundly collided with his cheek, slapping the spellbound state out of him.

Newt blinked in awe, touching his burning cheek as he finally came back to his senses. As he registered the bare humanoid form in front of him, his face turned bright red and he gaped, speechless. It made you hiss once more, furious at him for disrupting your plans, mad at yourself as well.

Stupid. Stupid, you were. Stupid he was, too.

You groaned in anger, your sharp fangs finally showing as you snarled menacingly, meaning to shock him, to make him run for his life.

Show me you are like them. Show me your fear as you cower away, looking for a sharp tool, looking for your wand. Muggle or not, you are all the same. Show me I was wrong to let you live.

He stared at you and, after what seemed like eternity, he reached out to touch your beautiful face.

Your eyes widened in surprise and you took a step away, the water between you both wavering with the abrupt motion. He kept his hand still, on air, a determined look in his blushing face. Your heart was beating frantically, your instincts screaming for you to attack or to flee. You couldn’t, though. You glued to spot, staring at him and finally looking at his hand. What was he thinking? Did he have a death wish? Did he not mind losing a limb?

Or did he really believe you would not attack?

He certainly could not be so idiotic. However… Why were you not attacking? You stared, panic filling your core as he gently approached once more, taking another slow step towards you. You snarled again, the white fangs protruding. He only smiled, his kind stare rending you silent.

Before you knew what you were doing, your body leisurely moved to its own accord and closed the space between you both. Your eyes closed as you flinched, feeling his warm hand on your cheek.

It was not bad. Not bad at all.

The thought crossed your mind and your eyes were open wide again, taken by disbelief. You could feel it; surrender. Meekness. Submission.

Was he… Taming you?!

A loud growl emerged from your throat and you stepped away again, your hands violently reaching out to splash the water between you two. Soaked, Newt blinked as the drops ran from his damp hair like tiny rivers down his face, his heart running miles per hour. He registered what happened and then it hit him, a wave of disappointment mixed with loads of adrenaline.

You were gone.

He sighed, looking around in a helpless and yet hopeful manner. However, you were nowhere in sight.

From afar, you stared as he got out of the lake, dressed and walked away, case in hand, all the while looking around for any sign of your presence. You frowned, confused with your own behavior. You went against your nature and it irked you.

It did not stop you from growling territorially at the sight of your kind as two other approached him with hungry eyes. They cringed in fear and ran away, leaving the young wizard be. You stared at him, further perplexed. Now you were protecting him. Why?

Why did you feel like going with him? Why did you want to follow him as if you were nothing but an obedient, lost puppy who finally found its owner?

Giving up on getting the needed answers, you watched him from the dark until he was out, safe and away from the woods.

Looking back, Newt could not help but stare in wonder at the shades of the insidious forest in the foreign country he was visiting. He had faced a real succubus, touched you even, and lived to tell the tale.

No one would ever believe him.

He smiled boyishly at the thought, running a hand through his messy hair and turning his back as he walked away for good.

He would still write about you, anyway.