#marriage of the flesh

[drawingsphopho]

who wants to funger marriage with me

[eggsploded]

i never posted this lol

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself. 

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t. 

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you. 

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life. 

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner. 

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you. 

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more. 

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch. 

That took years, too--the settling. 

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless. 

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation. 

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all. 

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down. 

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

--

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books. 

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you? 

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests. 

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little. 

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre. 

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book. 

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose. 

But because the man in front of you is Ren. 

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t. 

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three. 

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did. 

“ Ren ?” 

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break. 

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts. 

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways. 

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences. 

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper. 

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler. 

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin. 

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?” 

--

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all. 

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order. 

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you. 

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars. 

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh. 

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink. 

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop  notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart? 

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and  add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left. 

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years. 

Fuck. What a world you live in. 

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again. 

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it. 

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours. 

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look  up at his face. 

Oh, the passing of time. 

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way. 

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back. 

“Do you live around here?” 

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile. 

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter. 

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die. 

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question. 

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets? 

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely. 

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house. 

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now. 

“Ren, I–” 

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair. 

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren 

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk. 

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound. 

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop. 

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren. 

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness. 

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured. 

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird. 

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

 You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly. 

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either. 

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.” 

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs. 

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.” 

[felsicveins]

Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, darling you give love a bad name

[ink-through-her-veins]

Arthur stumbles upon the dragon purely by happenstance, but by gods is the beast a chatty thing. It goes on and on about destiny, Albion, peace, and Arthur’s favorite part how the once and future king (himself) and his fated other half (Emrys) are two halves of the same coin, and everything will become clear when they realize this. Then the beast tells Arthur that Emrys not only has magic, but is magic, and Arthur’s head begins spinning—not with fairy tale romance where he gets swept off his feet as he’d been imagining moments before—but how anyone could have magic and not be evil.

‘Merlin could do it,’ he thinks wistfully, his unrequited crush upon his manservant rearing its ugly head even as he contemplates his soulmate.

He’s pulled from his daydream by said crush ambling clumsily into the cavern, gaping wildly, and then blurting out, “I can explain!”

The dragon laughs. “I already have, Emrys.”

And Arthur’s head starts spinning again. He pushes himself off the ground, takes a single step toward Merlin, and pulls himself back as a landslide of realization clobbers him like a thousand stones. “You knew?”

Merlin looks completely broken when he says, “I didn’t want anything to change between us.” I didn’t want you to have to choose between me or your father.

Arthur’s heart aches. Tears burn behind his eyes. “Of course,” he bites out, but all he can think, is what kind of man can’t be loved by his own destiny? What kind of monster must he be?

Things do change. Merlin’s stiffer. Arthur’s quieter. The dragon beneath the castle becomes one of Arthur’s closest confidants even if it speaks in riddles and leaves Arthur’s clothes smelling so strongly of smoke even his father notices.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers one night as the smell of Kilgarrah’s sulfurous smoke fills his nostrils as he prepares Arthur for bed. He misses the smell of Arthur’s sweat, and the combination of leather and grease that clings to his armor. He misses the way Arthur used to look at him, joke with him, befriend him before he knew about the magic. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

I’m sorry I’m me, Arthur thinks as he silently raises his arms to let Merlin drop a sleep shirt over his head. He only grunts in response.

Months pass, and as the ground thaws so do Merlin and Arthur, because though he may speak as clearly as a mud puddle Kilgarrah isn’t wrong: one cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. Arthur clings to Kilgarrah’s promises. One day. One day. Hopefully one day soon.

And the day comes in late summer when Merlin’s nearly skewered by a bandit while he and Arthur are on a hunt. Arthur’s checking him obsessively for any signs that the blood on him is actually his, while Merlin swats at his hands insisting he’s fine.

“Why wouldn’t you use your magic!?” Arthur screeches shoving Merlin’s hands out of the way so he can look over every inch of him.

“So I could be burnt upon a pyre? No thanks.” Merlin manages to push himself free of Arthur and stalk away.

“We’re meant to marry one day. We’re two sides of a coin, soulmates. Do you truly think me so monstrous?”

Merlin’s eyes are big as eggs. “What? Married? Soulmates?”

“What do you think Kilgarrah meant?”

“He’s an overgrown lizard!” Merlin shouts suddenly feeling too warm and too confined despite the mild weather and endless amounts of fresh air. “That…He…Is that what two sides of the same coin means?” He’s pacing the meadow, ignoring the dead bandits scattered in the tall grass. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I am. I…I don’t think you’re a monster, and I’m sorry you have to choose between your father and I. I’m—“

Arthur sees something then in the way Merlin tugs at his hair, eyes full of concern when they swing toward Arthur. Fools, Kilgarrah had called them, and fools they absolutely were.

“There’s no choice,” Arthur murmurs, sidling up to Merlin to take his hand. “It’s you. It was you before I knew of our fate and your gifts, and it’ll be you no matter what stands in the way.”

[ne0m0rtem]

Marilevi marriage

Cw for artistic nudity!!!

[waspgrave]

there is something depressingly funny about seeing 2014 levels of dragon age dramatics happening on twitter while so many people here are relatively chill at the moment. The bullying, the meltdowns, the disrespect to the devs, the cullenites vs solavellans.... it's like returning from college and your home is still toxic as ever

[monpalace]

There were several times a day you thought that Aram was leagues out of your reach. His divinity didn't deserve to be tainted by your human blood.

It's a wonder how you managed to tame the one regarded as Fierce Deity.

(He was always the softer one in your relationship, though. From massaging your aching joints during an unrelenting storm to taking over cooking when the flames began to overwhelm you.)

Soft presses on the back of your neck remove you from your thoughts, trembling hands engulfed by one that dwarfed them both, the other resting itself on your stomach.

“My Grace.” Aram’s voice is low as he calls your mind back to him, the vibrations of it seeping below your skin and easing your muscles. He pulls your body against his own, the warmth of his torso emanating leaving him to soak into your own. “What ails you?”

Uncurling your body so you can press yourself into him, the thought of becoming a marriage of flesh becomes more and more appealing the longer you think about it. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” you murmur with a shake of your head.

The hand that covers yours moves to cusp the bottom of your chin, Aram pushes a finger up so you're able to meet his eyes.

Despite there being nothing but a creamy white to gaze into (and lose yourself in— it wouldn't be the first time), there were plenty of thoughts you were able to make out with a simple glance. He was concerned, he wanted to pry more but knew to respect your limits, among several other things.

“My Dear,” Aram voices, this time airier than before, “would you prefer I stay or go?”

“Stay,” you rasp before your mind can process his question. “Please.” Your hands grapple to grab the one holding your chin, body turning and face hiding where his neck ends and shoulder begins.

A deep rumble leaves Aram— a noise your mind registers as a chuckle— as he shifts to recline against the hard, wooden floor of your shared cabin. His hand reciprocates the hold you have on it (albeit, significantly more gentle) as he helps you cling to him comfortably. “It’d be my honor.”

It's your turn to let out a strange sound in the form of a whine. “I don’t deserve you,” you sorrowfully moan into his skin.

The hand on your back (that had previously been on your stomach) begins to rub and knead, Aram’s fingers working to further relax you. “I beg to differ.” His massage works its way up to the back of your neck where he had originally pressed feather-light kisses. “Being in your presence blesses me more than the goddess Hylia herself.”

“You talk like we're still in our honeymoon phase, please.”

“And I have no intentions to leave it if it means having you in my arms like this for an eternity.”

Aram’s leg raises, the angle making it easier for him to hold onto you. A groan leaves you at his words despite your heart fluttering at the thought. “That's cute,” you hum when the arm looped around your waist tightens, “I love you.”

“It will forever be my honor to simply breathe the same air as you. Your being in this home is enough to cleanse the sins of my body.”

“You are such a sap,” you huff, sinking further into his hold.

“I live to serve and please you, My Grace.”

[mrsdaqota]

I decided to share you with these pictures all in one post. It’s been a while since I posted something on tumblr so here it goes. I’m hoping on your feedback, guys! 😤

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

yes, marriage to dicephalic conjoined twins is polygamy and adultery and fornication

[maegalkarven]

This thing with the suggestion of Ulder being just fine with Durge and Wyll dating still nags at me.

Like, they are the Bhaalspawn. For every Abdel Adrian there are ten Orins. They are by default bad news.

Jaheira was Abdel's close friend and companion and her reaction to finding Durge is a Bhaalspawn is to guard them with blades. THIS is the sane reaction.

I rather believe Ulder Ravengard is a sane person.

You can not convince me Ulder Ravengard, a man who worked alongside a good man and saw even the BEST of Bhaalspawns struggle with his parentage, saw Durge and Wyll together and was like "fine by me."

It's unclear if Abdel died fighting Viekang OR turned into Slayer.

The possibility is here, for they do not know the truth.

Look me in the eyes and tell me Ulder Ravengard, the man who knew Abdel better than many, did not lie in his bed with no sleep at vicinity wondering what was Abdel's end - his brother's blade or the blades of the very men he lead.

Tell me Ulder was not confronted by the fact what his FRIEND might have succumbed to his unholy nature at last.

On good days he strongly believed Abdel stayed true to himself. But on bad days? Doubts had to creep in.

And then his son comes back. As a devil. And introduces another bhaalspawn, someone who should not even exist, but somehow does.

And this Bhaalspawn is...was involved in the things currently destroying his beloved city.

And said Bhaalspawn killed innocent girl and tried to murder his son. They tried to murder his only son, someone Ulder thought of every day ever since fate strayed his hand and he had to exile Wyll for the wellbeing of the people.

A Bhaalspawn actively haunted by their father.

A Bhaalspawn who was working together with Enver fucking Gortash.

Does memory loss excuse anything? Does it change the horrors this spawn brought? I sure don't think so.

And I don't think anyone knows better what a tickling bomb Bhaalspawn is than someone who knew a Bhaalspawn closely. There is no "safe" Bhaalspawn.

And I believe Ulder would want his son to be safe and not dealing with a murderous amnesiac Wyll decided he is in love with.

[simonsquest]

Maybe a small picnic or forest outing with Simon and Selena? Maybe he can teach her about some of the more harmless forest creatures 🥰

It's been nearly a month since Selena arrived at the Belmont estate in Transylvania, and met her arranged husband-to-be. She is expected to give an answer as to whether or not she consents to marry Simon. Simon tries to talk her out of it.

They had a daily routine: after Simon’s hours-long morning training, he would get cleaned up, eat breakfast, and court Selena around the Belmont estate.

This routine would continue near daily, for the month’s duration of Selena’s visit to Transylvania. By the end of which she will need to come to a decision about whether or not she consents to proceeding with their arranged marriage.

It has nearly been a month now, and anxiety paralyzes Selena. She hardly knows Simon, even after spending time with him daily. But there is an urgency to their arrangement that weighs heavily on both: the time of Dracula’s calculated resurrection draws near. The Belmonts need an heir, and soon.

Despite that necessity, Selena has never felt pressured by Simon. Actually, she doesn’t know much of Simon’s feelings on the matter at all. He has been polite, certainly. Courteous, too. But he is incredibly private. Selena wonders, if she chooses to marry him, if she will ever learn about his true intent. What goes on in the mind of a man shouldering the burden of Dracula’s impending revival?

What kind of man will he become after they’re wed? Will he change from who is he now? For better, or for worse?

Or will he remain a perfect stranger—no love, no tenderness—as Selena is expected to spawn an heir for him?

Who can she expect to spend her life with if she consents to this union?

She battles the nausea that threatens her as Simon approaches, bowing his head to her in greeting. She curtsies in reply.

“Good morning, my lord.” Selena greets in her usual way.

Simon still isn’t used to being referred to as a lord. Selena can tell that much. But she cannot bring herself to call him by his first name. Not yet.

He gestures for her to walk ahead, and she does, starting on their usual route through the stamped out earth around the perimeter of the Belmont estate.

Courtship is awkward for both. Silence hangs heavy, as usual. Simon has done a terrible job of selling himself. He has not boasted about his accomplishments to earn her favor, nor tried so much as to kiss Selena’s hand.

A month isn’t enough time to truly get to know a person. Selena feels Simon’s resistance.

Sometimes, she wonders if he finds her undesirable. That would be a blessing—it may spare her yet of being wed to him.

But it is also humbling. Was she not to his taste?

Selena’s attention is pulled from her spiralling thoughts as Simon, at last, has asked something:

“I pray you slept well last night?”

Selena offers a polite smile in reply. “Yes, I slept peacefully. Your home is very comfortable.”

Simon hums to himself: a relieved, soft noise.

As they move through their usual path, Simon takes pause. He stares off beyond the gates of the estate, in the direction of the Jova woods.

After a moment, Simon takes the initiative in leading them off of their usual route, through the gates. Selena takes notice immediately.

“My lord?” Selena inquires, following dutifully after him. “Where is it we’re going?”

“The forest ahead,” Simon clarifies. “Rest assured, creatures of the night do not wander it during the day.”

He takes pause.

“Is that alright with you?” He asks, looking at her.

Selena has not stepped foot off of the Belmont estate for a month now. She longs for a change of scenery.

“Yes, of course. That would be nice.”

Simon grants her a small smile as they venture outside of the usual borders, and into the forest of Jova.

There’s a coolness in the air as shade washes over the pair. Selena remarks the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind, and the various woodland creatures within.

Serene moments like these make her forget of the malevolent creatures that stalk the area at night.

But remarking the scars on Simon’s arms quickly remind her of the very real threat. She notes how his hand rests on the handle of his whip at his side. He is still on alert.

She is safe with him, she supposes. He has proven his strength, and his dependability.

The pair slow to a stop at a clearing of forest. They linger there for a moment, before Simon spots a fallen log.

He moves to take a seat upon it, and gestures for Selena to join him. She does.

The adults sit in silence, enjoying the soundscape of the forest as minutes crawl on.

Selena was just beginning to relax, when Simon’s voice interjects the quiet:

“It has nearly been a month.”

Selena’s stomach knots. “Yes, my lord.”

She notes how Simon shifts, uncomfortable.

He continues, quieter: “the choice is yours to make. Please do not feel pressured.”

Selena doesn’t know how to reply to that. Is he expecting an answer now? Here?

“Thank you.” Selena tries, stilted. She is grateful to have the choice.

But she wonders something, as she pokes a fallen twig with the tip of her boot. Her eyes are downcast.

“Do you not have a choice as well?” She asks.

Simon doesn’t reply, and that only makes Selena feel worse.

She apologizes: “I beg your forgiveness if I am unworthy to be your wife.”

“My lady, that isn’t—“

She interrupts him: “Selena. Please.”

Oh, she shouldn’t have interrupted him. Selena feels the heat of embarrassment rise to her ears.

Simon tries, awkward: “Selena.”

She thinks it may be the first time he’s ever called her by her name. It evokes a strange feeling in her chest at the sound of it.

“That isn’t the case.” Simon assures.

Selena can hardly hear him as the thudding of her embarrassed heart deafens her.

“It is simply not my choice to make. It is yours alone.” He adds with careful emphasis.

“It is challenging to make such a choice.” Selena admits at last, wanting nothing more than for this exchange to be over.

Simon nods once with understanding. He looks away at nothing in particular.

The air hangs heavy as time crawls on.

Emboldened by their perfect privacy, concealed in the thick of forest, Selena pushes through her embarrassment to timidly ask: “if I may be candid, my lord?”

“Yes.” Simon replies.

She takes a moment to find the strength to admit: “I don’t feel I have a choice, even if you say I do.”

She doesn’t have to look at Simon to feel the consequences of her confession.

“I was selected into this arrangement as an asset to strengthen the Belmont line. Should I choose not to marry and conceive with you, then I would be burdened with the weight of having done nothing to stop Dracula when I had the chance to.”

Selena still can’t look at Simon as she concludes: “there is no choice.”

“The Belmont family will find a way, as my ancestors have,” Simon reassures, but Selena senses a tension in his reply.

With a certain firmness, he underlines: “do not let guilt influence you.”

Sensing that she has said too much, Selena makes herself small, bundling herself in her shawl. She glances to her side, remarking how Simon has transitioned his hands into his lap. He’s rubbing a thumb upon clasped hands as the silence builds.

It couldn’t really get any worse. Selena was at last being honest with him, and there is one question burning to be answered:

“Do you find me undesirable?”

Simon’s reply is immediate: “no.”

Oh.

It’s Simon’s turn to be honest now: “but like you, I feel the pressure of this union, and the necessity of its success.”

Selena lifts her head to look at him. Simon does not return the glance. He’s wringing his hands together, now.

Selena feels foolish for assuming otherwise: of course Simon would be just as impacted.

His life is on the line in this fight with darkness. If he dies during the battle, then…

There’s so much at stake. He shoulders it all alone.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord.” Selena concedes, head bowing again. “We will share this burden.”

“Please don’t.” Simon tries, awkward. He worries that she’s only saying that out of pity.

“You have a choice.” He reminds, gentler. “Please, make the right choice.”

Selena processes his words. She feels how he shifts at her side, his hands transitioning onto his lap.

The choice is clear.

Selena moves her hand out from in front of her to land atop of Simon’s. She can feel him freeze under her touch.

“Selena,” he breathes, and it’s tinged with a resigned sadness.

She holds onto his hand.

Simon timidly returns the gesture.

Adults sit crushed by the weight of circumstance, comforted only by the calm of the forest, and the warmth of each other’s touch.

[everlasting-evocation]

Marriage in Fear and Hunger

An Analysis of Sylvian Rituals - SPOILERS for both games

Despite being a core mechanic in the first game (and present to a much lesser degree in the second) it's interesting to reflect on how little we truly know about the marriage of flesh beyond its ritualistic origins and physical characteristics.

Going back to the first Fear and Hunger, marriages of flesh could be performed on any ritual circle regardless of location or the character's godly affinity, whereas in the second worship to Sylvian is reserved only for asymmetric circles containing a God's specific sigil. I may have missed something in the game's books (I was unable to collect them all through my playthrough) but from the "Occult Grimoires" it's evident that the asymmetric circle was adopted at some point in history, replacing the previous ritual circle between the events of the Dungeons and Termina for unknown reasons.

Moving forward to Termina, from what I can tell from limited information it appears to be implied through Daan's diagnosis dialogue that the Sylvian trooper (along with other high ranking members of the Bremen Army) are the result of a marriage of flesh, existing alongside the platoon which clearly consisting of many different humans melted together in a form reminiscent of the human hydra from the first game. While the Bunnymasks, from what we're able to see in the game, appear to be Sylvian's most prevalent cult; however they don't seem interested in creating marriages, instead indulging in a different Sylvian ritual. This raises some questions about the role of marriage throughout the world of Fear and Hunger, as the marriage of flesh within the dungeon are almost exclusively created out of necessity rather than as a genuine act of godly devotion or genuine love between participants. But then again the love that Sylvian has for her creations is much deeper than the love they are able to return to her and, as a result, maybe even the simple desire to create a marriage through merging flesh is enough of an act of 'love' if done in the name of Sylvian, even without any truly affectionate feelings to support it.

"Blood & Flower magic I" found in the first game describes a marriage as an act of love in the passage that follows: "I no longer have to fear for separation from my loved ones, for we can forever join in a marriage of flesh. An act of love that creates a beautiful unison for two souls."

In the White Bunker there appears to be (assumption, not confirmed) a failed marriage within one of the closed rooms of the third bunker. The creature isn't hostile although it does appear to be in great pain. This brings up one of the more important questions regarding the role of a marriage and, more specifically, the soul union as a result. Marriages are stronger than the average human, as shown clearly in the first game from the Marriage's boosted attack, but what about the state of the creation's mind? What exactly is there to be gained from merging consciousness? As things currently stand we have no idea what goes on inside the mind of a marriage, but I believe that the two souls within it remain distinct from one another, each acting as an inner monologue with control over the host body. The union is specifically described as a marriage of flesh rather than a marriage of the mind which is why I believe that there is still some degree of separation. From what we can read in Blood & Flower magic, marriage was, at one point, viewed as a beautiful unison and a very high form of love as it entails becoming permanently merged with a loved one. But why are members of the Bremen army using this ritual? The weaponized Human Hydra appears to be a successful marriage, even though it is unable to function on its own and dies immediately if the Sylvian Trooper is defeated before the platoon is able to join the battle.

Continuing this thought, while the platoon does seem to retain some of it's human understanding, but unlike the Human Hydra it is unable to speak. The marriage is stable, but important aspects of it's humanity have been discarded in favor of turning it into a machine of pure destruction, which calls into question the morality of 'love' when it comes to marriage and the different aspects and consequences of it's creation. The corruption of love could also be significant, as a ritual meant to create a union between two souls has instead been used to birth abominations (like the Centaur)

I'm sure this has some real lore significance and implications, but I can't quite figure it out yet so for now this is going to be left open ended.

[abyssalbloom]

Fellas

[perilegs]

sweet pool (2008) - fear & hunger (2018)

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

my 1 (one) stardew opinion is shane should not have won the bachelor poll