#mocking mimic (blood-falling)

[hauntedtotem]

Doppelgangers mimic, it's in their blood, their instincts. They observe and copy, they peak into the lives of the unsuspecting and devour what they can, in every sense of the word.

It's necessary for their survival, to learn every detail of ones features. The better evolved members of their kind learn to perfectly imitate speech patterns and body language as well, leaving nothing out. Perfection is key, and a deep intricate understanding of their prey is what they strive for.

They pride themselves on their ability to reflect humanities ego back at them.

Some understand too well, and look deeper than what's necessary. Their human-counterparts oft hold secrets buried within, secrets they show no one, and yet the doppelgangers that select them seem to enjoy shouting such things out into the world for all to see.

Showing off what they've found, what was previously being hidden away from public eye.

A pilot who's mind races with endless possibilities and visions of death, who's witnessed carnage both of reality and illusion. Behind a stone faced facade and obscuring shades, paranoia clutches the mind and eyes dart nervously towards every shadow. The constant nagging of adrenaline and panic being held trapped behind an un-moving mask. An all consuming mind, seeing danger at every corner, only ever knowing peace while in the emptiness of the skies.

A woman who wills herself to be blind to her harsh reality. Portraying herself with an energetic and bubbly attitude, while miserable inside, refusing to speak of her past. Silencing herself for the sake of her and her daughter. Pretending she doesn't see that her daughter looks nothing like her ex husband, pretending she doesn't see the resemblance to her neighborhood milkman. Staying quiet, eyes and lips sealed shut. Keeping her secret away from even herself.

An uncaring, boring man to the public eye, who secretly relishes in the silent chaos he's caused for numerous marriages. Going about his day, hiding his sadistic smile behind a mundane lifestyle and tired eyes. Knowing the effect he has on unsuspecting and lonely housewives, it does wonders for his ego. He keeps it inside, not showing his twisted delight for home-wrecking.

It goes on, many doppelgangers seeing people's true colors and proudly putting them on display.

A miserable seamstress, a model with an fake smile and endless hunger for fame, a reporter melting under the pressure of his journalism- having to do stories on these monsters day in and day out, exposed to endless horrors.

Many may look at these mimics, call them lazy, say they don't understand what a real human looks like. But they know better than anyone what's in your heart, their depiction more accurate than those only portraying what's on the surface level.

A button is pressed, the curtains fall, and their performance is done as a siren mocks the sound of applause.

[dekusheroacademia]

I love how much of the Togachako chapters and ending of Ochako in MHA mimic the first ever yuri manga published.

I have been on a shojo kick and tried to read all manga that kickstarted GL and BL, and especially the Year 24 group authors (go read Moto Hagio... her work is wild). Among the Year 24, the author Yamagishi Ryouko who wrote the first yuri manga: "Shiroi Heya no Futari".

This post will have full spoilers for this manga!

The manga follows the story of Resine, a very sweet girl who is also very naive, and her new roommate Simone, who is a rebel, often laughs and can be kind of mean. Simone is much more open with her feelings, she loves freely as well and she soon falls in love with Resine and declares her love openly.

Resine tries to forget about Simone by dating Rounaud but he is not what she really wants.

Resine is not ready to accepts Simone's love - not because she does not love her back, but because she is afraid of the rumors around them, basically of society's reaction. She decides to leave the school.

Later she finds out Simone has been killed and she laments that she was at fault for it - because Simone was killed after goading a man, telling this man that she was in love with someone else when he tried to flirt with her. Simone is stabbed to death and dies because of blood loss, smiling and thinking of Resine:

The end of the manga sees Resine reading a poem Simone wrote about her and for her, and she decides to love Simone for the rest of her life and never love again, always mourning Simone.

The ending sets the scene with Resine alone on a cliff/in the forest, crying about Simone while Rounaud (the man Resine tried to fall in love with to avoid being queer) runs towards her to console her.

This is just like Deku reaching for Ochako while Ochako is mourning. We can see Resine and Ochako both curling over each other's in pain, to cry about Toga-Simone.

Their regret is also similiar, it is not only pain but guilt. Both Resine and Ochako think their loved one died because of them.

I thought the similarities were quite a lot. Maybe it is by chance, maybe it is just because of how influencial the first yuri was in determining the standards of many subsequient GL work, but it is still interesting.

Resine and Ochako are both positive girls, naive girls experiencing love for the first time. Both try to fall in love/fall in love with a boy (Deku, in the case of MHA) which is the socially acceptable choice for them, the choice that society would not mock or shame.

Both characters are put in contrast with another (Simone and Toga) who is open with her feelings. She is not afraid of acting freely, she wants to be free and she keeps her freedom even if that leads her to her death. The "teaching" experience is the same for both Simone and Ochako: live freely, declare what you love without shame.

Many expected that this meant Ochako would declare her feelings towards Deku, and instead Horikoshi uses this lesson to allow Ochako to mourn for Toga and to feel pain.

In both manga, Ochako and Resine end up living for Toga and Simone. Resine declares that she will always love and mourn Simone, while we see Ochako dedicating her life to never allow someone to be abandoned by society like Toga was:

[rottiens]

SHADE OF BLUE | GŌJŌ SATORU

✮ WC. . 2.6k

✮ tags. . canon au, yan gōjō, fem reader, blood, fluff (?), the descriptions could imply that the reader is depressed (tho I don't think so), suggestive. 18+ mdni. divider creds: cafekitsune.

Your vision is tinged with red, just like the sunset that paints the clouds above your head. However, this color is not as intense as the fresh blood that stains Satoru's hands, part of his arms and blue shirt. It seems that the violently inflicted wound caused some drops to reach his cheek, leaving a silhouette that would mimic the stroke of a wet brush. In the distance, as if planned, a bird squawked, causing your muscles to twitch as the cold breeze bites at your bare legs.

At first you fear for the blood being his but that doesn't make sense, you quickly cross out that idea.

"Wh-"

"May I come in?" his voice interrupts you, tired, raspy.

His white hair is wet like he's been running to get here or like he's been standing in the drizzle that started falling a few minutes ago.

"What happened?" Initially, the voice you hear is unfamiliar, echoing distorted in your eardrums.

"Please?" your fingers expose your unsure thoughts as you squeeze and cling to the doorknob. Satoru takes a fleeting glance at your chest made transparent by the pink fabric of the bathrobe hugging your figure, only to snap back into your eyes. "You're not afraid, are you?"

You take a deep breath of air; the rusty iron smell of blood stirs your insides. Finally, you exhale your doubts and push the door a little further to give him room and allow him to enter the cozy cabin, still with the thought hammering at the back of your neck that this is a mistake.

Satoru tilts his head down as he passes through the doorway, his long strides taking him straight into the heart of the cabin without pausing to look back. The cabin, which you rented to be close to the mountains and escape the horror your life had become a few weeks ago, has a rustic and cozy atmosphere, splashed with brown colors wherever you look.

The wooden floor creaks softly under Satoru's feet as they pause in front of the lit fireplace, while the dim light from the lamp overhead dances across his broad back and the walls.

Satoru turns to look at you. The tension from earlier when you opened the door seems to have disappeared from his face, his cheeks pale from the cold and his rose-tinted lips grateful that you have given him shelter.

"It's a cozy place." Satoru is playing with the silver ring on his finger as he holds your gaze. Your lungs empty, you should have known it wouldn't be so easy for him to explain what happened. With Satoru nothing is easy.

Your folded arms press closer to your chest, hiding your hard nipples from his all-seeing eyes.

"Thanks," is all you say in regards to his compliment because after all, why pretend this is a normal visit.

"That's funny. We could have both been here together."

A smile laden with irony stretches your lips. Your arms fall to either side of your body showing him your vulnerability. "It's funny indeed, considering it was you who broke up with me."

His laughter echoed with a sarcastic tone full of disdain, as if he was mocking the situation. "You know what…"

"Whose blood is it, Satoru?" You get right to the point and he grins now, combing back strands of hair that immediately take on the red color trapped in his fingers.

"I need a shower first." His long strides catch up to you as he slips past you, his eyes scanning you up and down undisguised before he turns his gaze back to the front. You call out his name turning on your heels only to catch up to see him disappear up the small steps that would take him toward the second floor and the bathroom. "Don't worry! I know where the bathroom is…after all, I was the one who sent you the pictures of the cabin, remember?"

You want to just sit there near the fireplace, feel its warmth on your hands, face. Sink your fingers into your forehead, massage your temples and finally wake up and realize that this is nothing but a dream… no! A nightmare. What was Satoru doing here? It was just one of dozens of questions bombarding your head, your temples beginning to throb with pain.

You command your feet to walk over the Persian carpet, its soft cells massaging your feet guiding you towards the steps previously trodden by your ex-lover. As you enter the hallway the rope that suddenly began to bind your temples like a rubber band tightens with more intensity, the floor is covered by the trail of his dirty clothes: shirt, pants, socks, boxers….

In front of the bathroom and thanks to the half-open door, you hear the water running. Your fingers push unwillingly the door relieving in front of you a completely naked man smelling the shampoo you had left on top of the sink, even without looking at you, Satoru could recognize your scent at least ten kilometers away so seeing him smiling when you stand still in the door frame is not a surprise for you.

"Satoru."

"I was missing hearing my name in your voice." His long eyelashes close as he utters these words, fluttering as he squeezes the bottle of shampoo to release the scent of coconut and vanilla. "Damn." Smells like you. His grip on the plastic bottle grows tighter before he finally sets it aside. He contemplates himself in the mirror for a moment before speaking again. "Come closer," he tells you, disguising his command as a request.

You don't know if it's because you don't feel like fighting that draws you toward him like a sailor to a siren's song, or if you really miss him and would be willing to do anything he asked of you to have his attention on you again. The only thing you recognize at this moment is his presence, which makes you feel overwhelmed and nervous, just like before when you were together.

Satoru turns to acknowledge your presence. "I asked you a question earlier." He stretches out his hand, and though your body tightens from the inside, you don't move a muscle. "Are you afraid of me, angel?" His fingers, which were hovering over your collarbone without yet touching you, descend along your sternum, brushing a nipple that hardens further by his presence as you try to pretend nothing affects you.

"No."

"Good." Satoru licks his lips. "Because I would never hurt you." As he continues to amuse himself with his fingers making circles you can't feel on your chest, your attention focuses on the details of his face; his pale skin and the red spot on his cheek that breaks the harmony of the color palette. "Now. Ask me."

You weren't prepared to hear what she had to say. Whatever his answer or justification, you could feel the weight of guilt of being complicit. Still, you dare to ask directly, "Whose blood is it?"

"I had to clean up," he replies with an exhausted sigh, then pulling his hand away from you and causing you to whimper almost like a wounded puppy. "The higher-ups," he finally adds, punching you in the lower stomach.

Immediately, something acidic pours into you, burning your insides, your esophagus, filling your mouth with saliva.

"Satoru?" you mumble barely audible, horror marking your frown and a brief pout warped by dismay. You needed him to tell you it was a joke. He took the hem of the blindfold and pulled it over his head like a bandana, only to let it rest beside you over the sink.

"Hm?" He's not looking at you, and you desperately look for him to continue the conversation.

"Did you kill them?" It's the question you don't want him to answer, even though deep down you already know the answer; you just need confirmation.

"Come with me."

Instead of answering your question, Satoru entwines his still-cold fingers with yours and guides you toward the shower that continues to spill water onto the tiles. You, on the other hand, don't move a muscle; your feet cling to the floor like roots as adrenaline floods through your bloodstream.

"Did you?" you insist.

"Just a few," he replies with the same relaxed expression.

"Just a few?! You can't…"

"Oh, but I did. I can, as a matter of fact. And I'll do it again if they dare speak to my future wife like that again."

In a matter of seconds, a lot happens. His fingers squeeze yours, proving to you that this was real; unlike the dreams and nightmares you've had about him over the past few days. His blue eyes finally stay locked on yours, burning your heated self with their icy presence as he tries to decipher what exactly is going on in your mind. You stumble over your own breath as you struggle to inhale deeply, rushing oxygen to your brain.

Something warm spills down your cheeks, descends into the depths of your belly and finally settles in your pelvis, riotous and intense, as subtle as the wings of a butterfly.

"I don't understand," is all you manage to say, your brain trying to process hundreds of stimuli at once. "Did you do it for me?" Guilt. Guilt.

You should feel guilty, your inner morale accuses you.

Once again, Satoru ignores you and pulls your hand to walk you towards the shower. This time you don't insist on standing still; your legs obediently respond by automatically moving toward the glass cubicle, giving his fingers permission to remove your clothing. Your tense body is grateful for the warmth of the water that immediately drenches you, for before he came to break what little stability you had managed to create, you were about to step into the shower.

For his part, he grabs the sponge and offers it to you, and it takes you a few seconds to accept it amidst the disheveled blinking that chases away the tears that threaten to spill. Then he drops a stream of the liquid soap and turns his back to you.

Moles and freckles hug it, from his broad, strong shoulders to the small of his back. Memories lash you; you remember tracing those moles when neither of you could sleep, you remember kissing them, you remember your fingernails creating red moons on it.

You carefully round his waist, your forehead rests right in the middle of his shoulder blades and the rain from the shower now falls directly on your head, making it a little difficult to breathe, but you stay there, tucked in your safe place. You remain silent like that for a while, feeling the warmth of the water wash away the dirt into the plumbing as everything he has said sorts itself out in your head like a jigsaw puzzle.

Last month, your life and everything you knew as stable came crashing down after a mission gone wrong. The bloodied faces of the civilians who died because of you haunt you every so often at night. This resulted in your demotion in rank as a sorceress and a six-month suspension. No missions. You couldn't set foot in the academy, which equaled no financial stability, not being able to help your parents pay for the house, much less pay for your own apartment.

You thought things couldn't get any worse until, a few days later, your boyfriend of two years broke up with you, leaving you adrift in a sea of unpleasant emotions that you couldn't control. So having Satoru here in front of you after days of not going out to see sunlight and having no contact with other human beings, feeling his presence under your body is overwhelming, almost unreal. You allow yourself to sob quietly, being cradled and coddled in his arms as he turns you to press your body much closer to his.

He cooing to you, murmuring sweet words that only he can say and that you long to hear.

"I'm sorry I left you when you needed me most. I had to pretend that the disappearance of a couple of higher-ups wasn't related to you. I would never put you in danger," he says once you've finished your shower and the jet of water has stopped.

Satoru holds your cheeks, looking at you as if you were the most precious thing to him. Inevitably, more tears spill down your cheeks and he hurries to wipe them away with his thumbs.

"Sh. I'm here now," he murmurs, keeping his gaze fixed on you, on your lips. "Can I kiss you?"

Your throat is still in a lump, but you nod slowly giving him the permission he needs and Satoru doesn't wait to place his mouth on yours taking you into a trance where you feel only his soft lips molding yours, purring as he pushes his mouth against yours. You feel him exploring every space, roaming every nook and cranny as the kiss intensifies accompanied by a soft chant of moans that grow louder each time.

Your ribs are pressed into his palms, his fingers defining the contours as he slowly pushes you against the wet wall.

"I missed you," he admits between kisses, finally pulling away to rest on the line of your neck and leaving a mark with his teeth.

. . .

Silently, Satoru guides you into the room, holding your hand the whole time. He helps himself by the dim light of the night lamp to move naked around the room. Seeing him act the way he used to, when everything was fine, fills your chest with nostalgia.

After a moment, he gets an extra towel from your suitcase along with essential oils that you always carry with you and with a kiss on the forehead followed by a brief giggle, he asks you to sit on the floor next to the bed to help you dry your hair. It's the first time in a long time that you don't have to worry about feeling guilty or sad, because all you can feel is him, his fingers, the way he interrupts his massages on your skull to kiss your face.

Satoru holds you against his chest all night. Your naked bodies melt as one under the silk sheets, he presses you against him as if he fears you will run away. His legs entwined like vines keep you safe.

In the middle of the night satoru turns his back on you releasing you from his prison and letting you be the one to protect him now, you circle his waist and hide your face in his silky clean hair, the strands tickle your face but you refuse to move away from the safety this moment brings you, the smell of your shampoo on him has never smelled so good.

"Satoru." You call out to him in a whisper so low you wonder if you've woken him. You don't want to interrupt his sleep and are surprised when he mumbles a Hm? Are you okay? "I didn't mean to wake you," you reply.

"I wasn't sleeping." This time he turns his body to look at you, holding his face with one hand while the other is on your waist, keeping you still. From the tired look and the slight dark circles under his eyes that begin to form, you wonder when was the last time he had a good night's sleep. "What's wrong?"

What you're about to say to him makes you embarrassed for some reason.

"You mentioned you wouldn't let anyone talk to your wife like that…" you blurt out the sentence, letting it float into the room unfinished. Hearing your words immediately makes him smile and you feel his fingers tighten on your skin.

"Yeah. I said that," he states proudly.

"You were serious?"

"There's nothing that would make me happier. So yes, you will one day be my wife when you're ready."

You are driven by emotion to throw yourself on top of him, pressing your body to his and melting into an embrace that neither of you wants to break first.

notes. yeah, he kills people but he's my little meow meow and have you considered that he's a good husband too? yeah that's what I thought.

[trulyumai]

Oh, Mr. Mosses (Series) III

Synopsis: You were fine with the job, the steps were easy enough but the secret  of the D.D.D was getting harder and harder to contain. Each night a new entity would enter the building, each with its own horrific look and intentions. Just as you debate on leaving, a new resident has entered the premises; Francis Mosses who is absolutely entranced by your being.

Will you be as smitten of him as he is of you? Only time will tell.

Taglist: @tfamidoingwithmylife @mariaflor873 @fandomfeind @greycloudsy (Let me know if you want to be added!)

Warnings: Blood, Violence, Death

Oh, Mr. Mosses III

He shook under her touch. She lightly padded her fingers across his chest, going lower until they were right above his trousers. “You're so cute, Francis.” She mumbled, fumbling her hands with his belt, moving his undergarments lower and lower. He puffed, ignoring the comment, he could feel his face getting warm again. Lowering his hands, they met the underside of her thighs, so plush, so very soft. 

“Please- ah! Please sweetheart,” He whispered, staring up at her lovingly. And although it came out as a beg, he began moving her clothes away himself, not waiting for an answer. 

“Ah, ah, ah, patience darling.” She tutted, skirting his hands back to where they once were, each on one either side of her hips.

He groaned, letting his hands reside there as the warmth in his chest got unbearable. She was gorgeous, the moonlight peaked in behind his window, falling down and mirroring her gorgeous image. She was like an old painting, sitting there staring down at him. A nymph, a goddess. 

And if it wasn't for the incessant beeping, he could have came right then and there just staring up at her. Those eyes, that slender neck, her chest-

Jolting upright he cursed. So fucking close, yet so far. With a sigh he leaned his legs over to the side of his bed. Covered in sweat he grimaced, ever since his meeting with the darling receptionist he's had these dreams, visions. He'd wake up in the same state; desperate, sweaty and needy. And oh so close to release. 

With his elbows on his knees he sighed once more while looking at the clock, just beside his bedside. The red numbers mocked him and read out 4:30AM. 

Today was going to be a long day. 

“The reports my dear, were utterly ruined I tell you! Such an incompetent assistant I have, truly.” Mr. Gauss was a loud man, too loud for the poor receptionist to handle at the moment. He spoke of his job, his reports almost every meeting they would be unfortunate to have. With a sigh she handed his papers once more, yet it went unnoticed as he rambled on about his assistant. The poor lady who had spilled coffee over his reports this morning. 

“Mr. Gauss,” She shook the ID in her hands once more, in case this time he would notice. He didn't. 

“I'll tell you, the job couldn't be easier I mean, you should know shouldn't you darling? It's just a simple desk job!” 

“Mr Gauss!” With a firm tone she pursed her lips, finally getting the older man's attention. 

“Your papers, sir.” 

“Oh how silly of me, thank you sweetheart! Listen, I'm getting a call but I'll see you soon my dear!” With a wink he was off, his attention already diverting to the phone that he pulled from his gray and black suit pocket. 

Groaning, she slouched back down on her chair. Easy, she wished it was as simple as he made it. With no screaming residents, bloody faces and hands being slammed in her direction. Just the other day a mimic cried to her, screaming she was a murderer. It begged to be let in. “I'll die out there, please you don't understand!” Its tone was racked with fear, it shook with plenty of emotion and if it wasn't covered in someone's blood, she might have thought to let it inside. It went out with a fight too, one of the guards bodies had to be dragged out, their yellow hazmat suit stained in maroon. Everytime she blinked she could see his body, crumpled up in the corner of the lobby, limbs hanging limply at their sides, mask torn.

It was getting late, and soon she could go home, take a nice bath, forget about the color red for a while. 

“Excuse me,”

“SHIT!” She jumped, not noticing the man standing just in front of the window. Holding her chest she cried out. 

“Francis, jesus christ you startled me,” 

With a light frown he reached out, letting his palm splay over the clear glass. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, are you okay?” Sweetheart? That was new, she thought, calming her chest as quickly as she could. 

“It's okay I was just- I zoned out it seems,” she smiled, it was light, a comfort to the man in front of her. 

With a small smile of his own he grabbed his forms, sliding them through the slot per usual. 

“You're early, no one wanted any milk today?” She blinked up at him, grabbing the forms while staring blatantly at the taller man. His uniform was normal, the hat laid atop his black hair and his eyes were as tired as ever. 

“You could say that,” The milkman mumbled, leaning comfortably over the counter, looking down at her as she compared the forms. 

She began reading his ID, slowly as practiced, mouthing each number as she went. 

235569-

“Hey.” Looking up she noticed how close the man got, closer than ever before. His face was practically touching the glass. 

“Hi?” She looked at him confusedly, tilting her head to the side unconsciously. 

“I'm free now. For the coffee?” 

That's right! The date, she had nearly forgotten after the day she had. It slipped her mind, she would have worn something cuter, more revealing than this old sweater she's had stuffed in her closet. It was cold today, lightly sprinkling with rain from time to time so she grabbed the next best thing to keep her warm, not even thinking she would see Francis today. 

“Oh! Um, yeah I have some back here if you'd like?” Skipping over the numbers she started comparing them.

23556941989-

BANG. 

Francis hand made contact with the glass, his pale fingers flexed as they made contact, nails digging lightly into the material.

Noticing her hesitancy he laughed. “There was a bug, didn't mean to startle you. Again.” 

Where was she again? At nine? No, perhaps the eight.

“Everything looks in order,” she mumbled, slowly glancing back up at the milkman. Smiling, she slid the papers to the side, fumbling for the keys around her pocket. 

“One moment and i'll open the door okay?” 

Francis said nothing but nodded, flexing his hands as she made her way towards the wooden door just to his left. With a click the door was open, Francis was already on the other side by the time it unlatched. Maybe he was just eager, she thought. That would be cute, no man had been eager to see her before, so the newfound feeling was exhilarating. 

Standing aside she gestured him in. My was he much taller face to face, she only came up to his shoulders, if that. He stepped in, walking just past her towards the room on the side, where the little kitchen resided. 

Closing the door she followed, humming a little tune as she grabbed coffee cups just past him. “How do you like your- oof!” Turning to talk to the man she was met with his chest, when had me moved so close? 

“I'll get that, sweetheart,” He mumbled lowly, his voice just barely above a whisper. So quite, so low. 

“Oh, um, okay” Without thinking she passed him the mugs, not even realizing she forgot to tell him her coffee preference before walking towards the door once more, to the front desk. 

“I'm gonna make sure no one needs any help, I'll be right back!”

With a hum, the man got to work on the drinks, it was only then she noticed his hands. Veiner than normal, his nails were a little longer too, had they always been so sharp? 

Turning her head she padded her way to the desk, to the forms residing on her desk. 

Francis form stared back at her, along with his ID. Dusting her fingers over the numbers she read again.

235569418995

Now the other one 

235569418895

No, she had to be mistaken. Reading it again, and again, the paper was starting to crumple with the amount of force she exerted from her fingers. 

The numbers, she noticed, the numbers, there off by one number. How did she miss it?! Biting her lip she looked back towards the kitchen. The room had gone silent, she prayed she still had time. The D.D.D had to act fast, she still could live, it couldn't be too late. Glancing back in front of her she reached out, just before her hand met with the phone she felt it. 

The pressure of someone standing behind her. 

A breath on her neck.

Light nails digging into the side of her hips. 

“Don't spoil the mood, pretty girl,” Francis sneered. 

“Our night has just begun after all.”

She couldn't help but shake, she didn't want to die, this creature whatever it was wasn't prone to showing mercy. Any kindness whatsoever. 

“Your coffee will get cold,” He teased, lightly reaching his hand up, playing with the hair around her face before displaying itself on her cheeks, tightly grabbing them until her lips protruded with the pressure. 

“Such a daft little thing,” He tutted.

“Cute, but oh, so daft.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt tears spring loose, dribbling down her cheeks until they made contact with Francis' hand. 

He laughed, a deep somber one before he craned his neck down, licking the salty liquid from her face. His slimy tongue stopped just before her eye, where she finally opened it to see him smiling at her. 

His teeth. Jesus Christ they were so sharp. All of them pointy and white, each one more jagged than the other. 

“I'm tempted to keep you, you’d be a good little listener wouldn't you?” With a mocking tone he squeezed her cheeks harder, until little red crescents were indented on her face. 

"You're so good for me, so obedient." He moaned, rubbing his other hand around her body, going lower, and lower.

“Ah-!”

“Quiet!” He seethed, glancing now to the front desk. The window. It was then she noticed, a silhouette peering over the desk. A resident waiting to be checked in. 

“Please,” She begged, more tears streamed down her soft face.

“Don't hurt me.” 

Looking back over his squinted eyes, his pupils were dilated and his mouth slightly open and set in a frown.

“What the fuck did I say-

“Hello?” A masculine voice rang out. Francis. With widened eyes she gripped the hand covering her mouth, felt the roughness of the hand and shook. 

The other Francis heaved, with anger he gripped the receptionist's face once more. Hands bloody he slid his thumb over her lips, lightly parting it and pushing the digit forward.

The taste of iron invaded her senses, wincing she tried to pull back but was only met with resistance. 

“I'll be back, sweet thing.” He promised, pulling his finger back he looked at it with wild eyes. Putting it up to his own lips before sucking them clean. 

“You be a good girl, you here?” He laughed, lightly smacking her cheek before entering the back. Towards the kitchen.

Without thought she ran to the desk, meeting the eyes of Francis, the real Francis. 

Noticing her wide eyes and bloody mouth he looked with concern, eyebrows leaving a frown mark on his face.

“Are you alright?”

She wanted comfort, wanted help. With a light shake to her fingers she took his ID, not bothering to compare the numbers. 

The rules. If she uddered anything about the mimics, the D.D.D, she would face even more backlash than she faced now. How was she supposed to bring this up to management, let alone Francis. 

Gathering her thoughts she passed the ID back through. Putting on her best face she smiled at him, though it looked more like a grimace. 

“Yes, just… A long day. You're free to pass,” With a touch of a button the elevator was left open. 

Francis eyed her once more. 

“Mmh, okay. You can call me if you need anything. I'm just a floor away.” Grabbing his ID he shifted uncomfortably. His tongue felt heavy and the words he wanted to say seemed to get stuck on the top of his mouth. With a tired gaze and small wave, the receptionist moved out of his sight and he couldn't help but feel disappointed.

Maybe he'll ask for a coffee next time.

[umbran6]

An Error In Divine Bureaucracy

It all starts when Odin's scheme backfires. There are disadvantages to going incognito, after all. Taking the role of 'X' (which personally speaking, sounds foul considering Twitter's still trying to fall into that brand) means that although the King of the Gods can view the workings of Hotel Valhalla, he cannot influence how his hotel is run. Sometimes, that makes the battles a bit too bloody. Sometimes, the thanes decide to overreach their authority. And there was one time they all decided to break convention and make a mock high-school Prom (to the death).

One of these slip-ups is more unconventional: Gunilla decides to patrol Long Island when rumors of a deadly conflict behind the shadows spread to Hotel Valhalla. If Odin was, well, Odin, he could've stopped it. However, Odin, acting as X, cannot keep his lone eye on his Valkyrie Captain.

Thanatos is overworked. He needs to catch up on hunting down all the souls that escaped the Greek Underworld. So, despite his best efforts to keep all the Giants and monsters dead, he can't be perfect. He can't be there when Leo is burning to ashes as he and Festus soar ever higher.

Octavian is a bit slower and more hesitant. Maybe Will's words get to the legacy's head for a few precious seconds, or maybe Nico's aura of death puts fear inside his soul before he steels his nerves. So when he fires himself at Leo and Gaea, it is far too late. Leo has enough time to finish the job.

So when Gunilla spots a boy with flames so bright they mimic a second sun riding a bronze dragon and fighting a monstrous earthly hag, Gunilla doesn't hesitate. The second Leo's body crumbles to ashes, she flies his soul to Hotel Valhalla with Festus as both his luggage and the weapon he died holding. Olympus doesn't catch on to what's happening, which is for the better.

Leo, of course, is extremely bewildered. He's heard Percy and Annabeth's story of how they went to the Underworld—the lines of dead waiting to be judged, Cerberus waiting to chew any and all trespassers into his next meal, and Charon's desire for garish Italian suits. He did not expect to be handed a rune stone, given a mini-bar key, and shuffled into a luxury suite that would make his section of the Argo II look like a shady motel room while his body suddenly looked fit AF. If it weren't for the fact that he had read up on some Norse mythology during his time in the streets, he would've been completely clueless. For fun and convenience's sake, I'll put him on Floor 19.

Like Magnus, Leo thinks he's hallucinating. His room is like a mix of Bunker Nine, Charles Beckendorf's room in the Hephaestus Cabin, and his old room in the apartment he and his mom lived in, all smashed together. For a second, he grounds himself in the familiar — playing with the inventions in his tool belt, petting Festus, and cooking himself some food. Only when he inspects Festus and finds the physician's cure fully intact does he realize something has gone horribly wrong.

Odin, of course, is aware of Leo's arrival at Hotel Valhalla. He only really understands the nature of the hotel's newest guest once Leo's heroic feat is displayed in front of everyone. The thanes, Helgi, and Valhalla's warriors cheer Leo's name. Only the Norns and Odin are silent, both realizing just how exactly things have gone FUBAR.

See, here's the thing about pantheons worldwide when they interact with their divine neighbors: They don't. We're talking about beings functioning under several different rules of reality and their own brands of magic and godly firepower that could tear apart continents and perhaps even the world if they get too sloppy. Syncretism and divine fist-fights have sprouted either differing degrees of bad blood and conflict. If a pantheon chooses to mess with another's favorites, you can be assured the rest of the divine mafia will be out to get them.

Though Leo did the feat with support, he single-handedly masterminded the death of a primordial being. In the Greek Pantheon's view, he should enjoy a peaceful life in Elysium or even join the ranks of Olympus. Leo being chosen as an einherjar is like your favorite athlete getting kidnapped and pressed into military service by another country. Though Leo is getting physical upgrades, the Olympians would see this as an attempt to subvert their sovereignty by kidnapping a hero under their noses. And Odin knows that he and the rest of the Norse gods will need as much einherjar as they can get- losing them in a possible war between pantheons would thin out their numbers.

So Odin decides to break the masquerade, albeit in a limited fashion. Using his ravens to summon Leo and Gunilla, he sheds the disguise of X and reveals why he hid himself from Hotel Valhalla and just how exactly things were screwed up. He apologizes to Leo for essentially kidnapping him, explains to Gunilla just why Leo's recruitment shouldn't have happened, and that touching another pantheon's demigods was a tremendous faux pas.

So he proposes two different possibilities - they can send Leo back to the mortal world and pretend nothing is wrong, or he can stay in Hotel Valhalla until they find a way to spin things so Olympus isn't sending out its best and brightest to do their best to merk the rest of Asgard.

And, well, Leo accepts the second choice. Mainly because he has a bit of an agenda. First, he knows he can't precisely break Calypso out of Ogygia in the state he's in. His master plan to simultaneously kill Gaea and help her relied on the fact that he was dead while Festus brought his body to Ogygia's airspace. He knows it's too much of a stretch, but perhaps the Norse pantheon will have a solution to bypass the magic surrounding Ogygia and allow him to free her.

Aside from that, Leo just wants some peace. He worked himself to the bone, building the Argo II and then maintaining it during the entire month and half-voyage. Most of it had been a thankless job with several near-death experiences. The least he could do was treat himself to a vacation despite the constant TO THE DEATH! experiences Hotel Valhalla had to offer. Heck, maybe he could make some friends here.

Thus begins Leo's stay at Hotel Valhalla. Of course, such a start involves him being impaled several times after the rest of the hotel's guests gang up on him after they make it through Festus during battle training. But he gets used to the constant bloodshed and conflict throughout the hotel, using it to sharpen himself in the ways of combat that Camp Half-Blood didn't entirely teach him. He also learns of the runes, which leads to him scheming. If he can learn how to wield the power of the runes, he can begin conjuring a magical solution to circumvent Ogygia's barriers.

So, for the months Leo is in Hotel Valhalla, he learns. He picks up knives as his primary weapon, second to the hammers; he refines his inventions and upgrades Festus. He low-key (lol) pesters Odin in his X form to teach him the runes. Odin, of course, is having none of it. He would have been willing to teach a knowledge seeker a few tricks in a different situation. But he knows that different pantheon's magics either work beautifully or have disastrous results. One need only look at the Serapis Incident.

Of course, he also makes his own friendships within Hotel Valhalla. We learn another side of Gunilla as Leo tries to get along with the Valkyrie Captain (which is expected because of all the pranks he pulls). He makes friends with TJ and Mallory while trying to get on Odin's good side by showing that he can keep up with the Valhallians (I'm punching myself for that pun).

Then, Sword of Summer comes along, and things get interesting because Mimir tells Odin about Magnus's role. He knows that Magnus will need all the help he can get, and though Blitz and Hearthstone are servants that Mimir trusts, he wants to reinforce any and all chances of winning. He can't help directly since he still wants to maintain the façade of X. However, Leo can. An einherjar demigod who has experience in fighting threats larger than him? Already saved the world once? Seems like the perfect candidate to help stop Ragnarok.

So he sends Leo in—of course, it's not without a price tag. Although Odin may be the king of the gods in Valhalla, he's still ordering a demigod from another pantheon to essentially act as his hand. One that could quickly turn tail if things went to crap or become a turncoat if someone tried to give him a strong enough bribe. Or, you know, alerting Olympus the second he steps on Midgard. Odin knows what Leo wants but not why he seeks it. So, he reluctantly offers to teach the demigod how to wield the runes if he aids Magnus Chase.

Leo is more than happy to accept the task, not only because of what he gets out of it but also because Odin is offering him a deal. He's not going about this like the prophecies that demanded attendance or the apocalypse would come about. He even gets a guaranteed reward once the mission is completed.

So Leo, with help from Gunilla, enters Midgard. He easily fits into the clique of homeless people Magnus is a part of—Leo lived on the streets for most of his life when he wasn't in the foster home system, after all. Festus is with him in his suitcase form, slyly hinting to Hearth and Blitz that he is in the know. Leo is essentially turned by Odin into his divine 007 if 007 lived on the streets as a homeless guy.

He does his best to gain Magnus's trust. He befriends him, proving himself reliable without betraying his awareness of the mystical cloaks and daggers behind the scenes. And, well, he connects with Magnus more than he expected. Maybe it's because he understands Magnus's bitterness and cynical outlook on the world - he went through the same thing when he was younger. Leo just hides it better with a smile. Part of him just wants to protect Magnus.

In the meantime, Magnus is a bit shocked that beyond Blitz and Hearth, another guy his age is willing to look out for him and be his friend. This is most likely something Magnus has never had since his mother died. The first thing that we notice is that during the beginning chapters of Sword of Summer, Magnus is alone. Hearth and Blitz have a few moments in which they show up, but Magnus himself has no one close to his age that he can connect with. This means that despite Leo being the one to do the attaching, Magnus is quite happy that they're attached to the hip.

You guys can probably guess the direction I want to take their relationship. I've read The Homeless Demigod Club. It's one of those fics that lowkey made me realize that crossover ships can be magnificent if you are willing to put in the work to make it work and show how two characters can connect. I would've added this as a spiritual successor to that fic. I will link it here so everyone can read it. (Link)

And then the promised day arrives. Annabeth Chase and her father set foot in Boston, and Leo does his best to hide from their presence while helping Magnus. He discourages Magnus from breaking into his uncle's house but is still willing to do so either way. He follows Magnus's decision because he believes that Magnus has been jerked around so many times that he deserves his own sense of agency. So when Magnus decides to follow Randolph, Leo follows Randolph even though the guy has enough red flags to rival the CCP.

Then Magnus calls forth Sumarbrander, Surt appears, and everything happens. Blitz and Hearth try to intervene and are just as quickly curbstomped like canon. Leo watches, forcing himself to stop and examine each action Surt takes. Then, when Surt entirely focuses on Magnus does he step up.

Magnus POV

"You know, Mr. Volcano, I thought you'd just go for the head. I wonder why you're wasting so much time." Leo stepped forward, suitcase in hand.

"Leo, go away. Get in there and get Hearth, but you don't need to get involved." I protested.

For a second, I was wondering just what all of my homeless friends were smoking because they were suddenly getting all these courageous ideas. Hearth had shot his arrows, Blitz had swung his watch out for ducklings sign. Now Leo - stick thin and somehow not fainting because of the heat - was apparently willing to go mano-a-mano with a guy who was taller than he was.

"Blitz was right, though. It was their mission to protect you. As for me, it's my duty." Leo dropped the suitcase.

I expected it to melt like the cars nearby and the asphalt beneath our feet. But then it grew. Parts started to jut out, panels began to unfold, and Leo's luggage grew despite the laws of physics that were screaming this shouldn't be happening. At first, it was a pure mess, but then a pair of wings sprouted out. A reptilian head somehow appeared from the chaos. Before I knew it, what was once a suitcase my friend dragged around was a bronze dragon that was as tall and wide as a semi truck.

It let out a roar into the sky that made the entire bridge vibrate. Right beneath it, Leo pulled out a pair of knives from that blasted tool belt with an ease that told me he'd done this before. Those brown eyes scanned the entire bridge, and I could feel the air near me dropping a few degrees. If anything, the area around Leo started to blur as if he was absorbing all the heat the 'Black One' radiated.

Surt's gaze turned severe as if satan had dissed one of his takes on fashion. "What are you?"

"You could say I'm a bit like Maggie here — a demigod from a slightly different brand." I was a bit too shocked at the fact that my friend had a mecha dragon to even snark at that.

Leo smiled, but the killing intent it radiated made me want to flinch. "But if you want my full name, you can have it."

Leo beckoned Surt with one of his knives. "I am Leo Valdez. You messed with my friend. Prepare to die."

End POV

The conflict nearly destroys the entire bridge. Leo and Festus's time in Hotel Valhalla has yielded fruit. Though it can be laconically described as a Jujutsu Kaisen-level gang-up, the demigod and his mechanical mount are in sync to the point they can rarely be matched. While Festus is physically stronger than Leo, Leo is faster and has more variety in his attacks, which combine to keep the King of Muspelheim off balance.

However, Leo is still a demigod. No matter the power upgrade being an einherjar and the combat experience he's earned at Hotel Valhalla, he doesn't have the physical might to permanently disable Surt, even with Festus. And although the Jotunn can't burn Leo, Leo can't overcome Surt's own fire and make it non-vice-versa. It is a stalemate until Leo cannot keep up, and Magnus can see that. He awakens Sumarbrander and intervenes, still cutting off Surt's nose. Surt still seizes the chance to kill Magnus, impaling the unknowing son of Freyr with his scimitar. It is only Leo's own reaction that prevents Surt from seizing the sword.

History repeats. Samirah chooses Magnus and brings him to Hotel Valhalla. Blitz and Hearth confer with Mimir on what to do next, while Gunilla returns Leo to the hotel so they can scheme with Odin. When Magnus is fully resurrected, Leo is the familiar face amongst a crowd of strangers, one Magnus can still rely on. Magnus's body is still recovered. Everything seems perfectly in line with canon.

Until it isn't.

Annabeth POV

I've seen my fair share of mortal panic. There was that time at the Gateway Arch during my first quest with Percy (and boy, did part of me want to go back to those days). Then there was the time Kronos and Morpheus broke the chronological sleep bubble that covered all of New York, leading to a human stampede.

So when Dad (I was still getting used to calling him that) got a call from the BPD stating that they found my uncle Randolph in a rabid panic close to ground zero of an explosion, I defied all convenient laws of mortal logic and ran toward the sirens. And the fire truck engines. And probably all emergency services that are known to man.

I will admit that part of me had a raging hatred for my uncle at the moment. It was bad enough that whatever he did had apparently led to the entire mortal side of my family imploding into what was described by my Dad as essentially a nuclear meltdown, with us being split into chunks. Then there was the fact that he somehow hid the death of the only aunt I liked and that the only cousin I trusted was now homeless for two years. And last but not least, the disgraced professor of Harvard called us at midnight saying Magnus was in danger, leading to us getting the closest red-eye flight to Boston.

When we arrived at the scene, I did my best not to pay attention to the people who were hurt. The best I could describe them was that everyone was burnt—some easily mistaken for sunburns, others who would probably need a visit to the hospital. Medics nearby were doing their best to triage the scene while cops were doing their best to get statements out of people who were clearly still shell-shocked from what their eyes may have witnessed.

I quickly spotted Randolph and marched through the chaos, vaguely hearing Dad follow me. He looked physically spared, though a bit shaken up. Which part of me noted was bizarre since, according to Dad, BPD told him a couple of weirdly dressed homeless dudes had dragged him from the epicenter of the explosion.

I had no sympathy, so I got right down to business. "What happened?"

He kept rambling to himself, and I could barely hear his hushed words - sword, black, beast, machine, giant - before I grabbed his shoulder and pinched in a way Chiron taught me would make anyone scream.

"Focus. What the T-" My mind flipped into a Tartarus flashback before I caught myself. "Hell happened?"

Thankfully, Randolph didn't scream, which meant he was either brave or still drunk on adrenaline. But something must have happened because the man's wrinkled face focused on me. "I found Magnus in my home accompanied by another boy. I was bringing him over to you when the meteor struck the bridge-"

My mind was already poking several holes in his discussion - he could've called Dad if he had already found Magnus and the bridge where the explosion took place was farther away from us. Still, I pretended to follow along and nodded.

"What happened to Magnus?" I asked, and Randolph turned pale.

"He - he fell out of the bridge. The meteor hit us head-on. I somehow got lucky, but Magnus got launched out of my car and - "

"Randolph." My father's voice turned deadly serious. "I saw your car in a twenty-minute parking lot. Already ticketed. So if I may speak so frankly, let's cut the bullshit and tell us the truth."

I winced at that. Mainly because my father rarely cursed - he had been giving off an air of wholesomeness when I stayed with him. The fact that he was willing to start cursing showed just how far things had gone wrong.

Randolph surrendered at that and started talking — about Aunt Natalie's death and its supernatural causes and how he thought Magnus was the next in line to die. How he believed Magnus was the son of a Norse god and that his birthright was apparently an all-powerful sword. Then he stated he found Magnus in the Chase mansion with the other boy and how the boy had insisted on sticking with Magnus. He told us how he urged Magnus to claim his birthright and that my cousin had succeeded before a man claiming to be Surt appeared.

Then, I learned how some of Magnus's homeless friends had tried to defend him before the other boy stepped up. "Wait. This guy claimed to be a demigod?"

Randolph nodded at that. "Yes. I didn't believe it either - the kid was so thin I could've folded him into my drawers and still have space for my clothes."

"But he still stood up. He and that blasted suitcase-monster of his. He matched Surt, if only for a while. Then Magnus got involved and he was - and he was -"

Randolph shed a few tears, and I almost had to recoil at his words. Still, I soldiered on. Death had always been part of a demigod's life, whether they were victims, witnesses, or causes. I would have time to mourn for the cousin that my family had failed.

"Can you describe what this guy looked like? He may be able to tell us about his relationship with Magnus. And what he knows about the truth." I asked, doing my best to keep the conversation going.

Randolph vibrated, clearly still shaken up. Yet he kept talking. "Of course. Give me a second. Frederick?"

My dad pulled out a few tissues from the pocket of his suit jacket, which Randolph blew into so strongly it reminded me of an elephant. Disposing the tissues into a nearby trashcan, my uncle looked at us.

"Yes. Very recognizable fellow. He disabled all of the electronic alarms I put in there. Thin, of course. Kind of looked like - what do teenagers call pretty boys these days? Never mind. He looked like one of those. Light brown skin. Curly black hair, brown eyes. Magnus probably had a crush on him, considering how he looked at the boy."

I rolled my eyes. "Clothes?"

"Yes, yes. White shirt with a bit of a collar. A green jacket that was too big for him - probably a woman's? Blue jeans. He also had a tool belt."

Suddenly, I felt like I had taken a dip in the Boston River. I had been willing to dismiss the initial description because anybody could've had a similar face and hair. I would've ruined the search if I just looked for the most likely person. But the tool belt was too much out of left field to ignore.

I seized his jacket lapels, almost tempted to lift him up. I could do it, too. Because there was no way the person Randolph was describing to me could've been in Boston, much less alive.

"What was his name?" I whispered out.

"Pardon?"

"What was his name," I repeated myself, tempted to pull out my knife.

"Oh yes. Thankfully, he was upfront about it. Who the hell quotes The Princess Bride?" Randolph gave a small laugh about it before he looked at me straight in the eyes and flipped my world upside down. "His name was Leo Valdez."

End POV.

The Sword of Summer is also flipped upside down because it is no longer just a mission to stop Fenris Wolf from being unleashed upon the nine worlds. With Annabeth finding the truth about Leo's location, nearly all the members of the Argo II crew (Frank and Hazel can't drop their posts in New Rome after all) do their best to get to Boston ASAP. They had never heard any whispers or truths about Leo's circumstances - you know, because Odin needed to keep everything in the DL. Finding out a guy that they believed was dead for six months was actually chilling with homeless dudes in Boston is a recipe to make your friends both pissed and worried at the same time.

Unfortunately, this also puts a kibosh on any plans to follow canon because Leo is now being hunted by his friends in a situation where staying incognito is vital. Of course, they can't break into Asgard or Valhalla because they don't know how to get there. Any attempts at Iris-Messaging Leo go horribly wrong because Iris needs a cross-dimensional roaming plan for her services to work in this situation. When Leo returns to Midgard to help Magnus, the gloves come off on the search.

Leo's involvement doesn't just add spice; it force-feeds the plot enough Carolina reaper peppers to set its mouth on fire and cause diarrhea that needs its own fallout zone. The crew of the Argo II chases him down when Annabeth meets Magnus, leading them to accidentally stumble across the Nine Realms when Percy tracks Magnus and Sam after their encounter with Jormungand. They each end up getting scattered across the Nine Realms - Jason into Jotunnheim, Piper into Svartalfheim, Annabeth falling into Folkvanger, while Percy gets the short end of the stick and is stuck in Midgard.

The Seven think that Magnus and Co. are holding their friend against his will. Magnus believes it's people from Leo's past who want him dead. Leo can't get a single word about the truth as things erupt too easily into conflict, and Odin's mandate for secrecy stops him from giving the full story. Regardless, he tries to keep the peace as he, Magnus, and the rest of the crew run into each other through the realms.

It all accumulates at Lyngvi. Surt arrives. Fenris Wolf tries to break free. The warriors of Floor 19, alongside the Valkyries, actually join up with Magnus and co because Gunilla has been briefed by Odin as to what exactly is going on. And the crew of the Argo II makes landfall right in the middle of the fight. They're all quick to realize that the fire giants are their opponents, and the tide of battle is turned with the sudden influx of reinforcements, no matter their origin.

Having an additional four out of seven heroes who also had a hand in saving the world? One of them, you know, having powers over the ocean in the middle of a freaking island? That's no longer a battle; that's the opposing side being Amazon-delivered to the closest morgue with same-day shipping.

When things are settled, and everyone is tired from simultaneously kicking Surt to the curb and imprisoning Fenris Wolf, things finally get cleared up. Odin reveals himself early to explain to the Seven what happened to Leo on August 1. Of course, Odin does his best to spin things in the best possible light for the Norse Pantheon and portray himself as doing his best to help Leo recover from the post-death experience. Leo is always welcome to stay at Hotel Valhalla or return to Camp Half-Blood, but he urges the rest of the Seven that they will have to keep their experience secret.

The Seven think Leo will go back to Camp Half-Blood. After all, in their eyes, Camp is the place that Leo is most familiar with. It's the place that he should belong. This is his chance to take a clean break from his stay at Hotel Valhalla and return to Camp Half-Blood. Only Odin knows differently, while everyone on the 19th Floor, alongside Magnus and Co., is wondering if Leo really is going to drop them like a flaming bag of turd.

And Leo declines. In another lifetime, in another set of circumstances, he may have joined the Seven and returned to Camp Half-Blood. But now? Well... he would admit, he has grown to love Hotel Valhalla. Though he gets bodied daily, he feels included compared to the months he spent in Bunker Nine hammering away at the Argo II. He has friends with which he can actually be friends, compared to his time being the only person in a sea of couples. And maybe he's gotten attached to Magnus, but they didn't need to know that.

He doesn't say goodbye. With enough time, they can genuinely be friends instead of the coworker dynamic he always felt he had with the rest of the Argo II crew. So, instead, he hands Piper the last invention he made before his world was once again dominated by a quest to save the world. For a second, she thinks it's a remote. And in a way, it is. His name is written on it in ancient Greek. But it only has a single button, with a single rune.

ᛗ

Mannaz (For those more knowledgeable, please excuse me if I'm wrong and correct me) is the rune of humanity as a concept—of society, friendships, individuality, and a person's willingness to help one's fellow human. The intention is clear—he's always a button press away if they ever need help.

With that, the two pantheons go their separate ways. And hopefully, things should be at peace now. Right? Right? ... Right?

But as everyone knows, they aren't. The sun hasn't reached its final verse, Ragnarok still has many triggers, and people scheme to bring everything down behind the shadows. Peace is still a long way off. And Ragnarok will eventually eradicate the world. All everyone is doing is staving off the inevitable.

But then again, isn't that just part of being a demigod?

FIN

P.S. @pjowasmy1stfandom- I've cooked. Hope you enjoy the meal.

[soliarus]

Prologue: The Loss

A/N: Heyyyyy. Don’t know if this counts as coming back. But I’ve been scheming a new series, not sure I should turn it into one…but I’m open to any opinions on the story!! We can work on it together

???!Tzuyu x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: vampires, DEATH of mcs, indicators of homophobic time period??, blooood, angst

Year: 1924

Tzuyu can’t help the smile that forms on her face at your drunken giggles. As you lean onto her, the slight tipsiness in your step pushes a soft pink tint on her cheeks. You gripped the back of her dress to keep yourself stable, and she slid her hand around your waist.

“And! And–” You start. “The way he was like, ‘Ladies, you need a fine gentleman to walk you home'"—the way you deepen your voice is so cute. “And then he trips over his own two feet!” You laugh out loud, “What a clutz!”

“Look who’s talkin',” Tzuyu mumbles, sarcastically rolling her eyes.

“Hey!” You stop walking, pointing a finger at her face. “I. Am. Not. A. Clutz!” Tzuyu grabs your hand, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“Yes. You. Are.” She mimics, giving a kiss between each word. “But, you’re my clutz” Her gaze is soft, looking into your eyes, it’s as if her stare makes you go down under. Your stomach fluttering with the sweetest of butterflies.

“If I could, I would make you my wife, my everything”

Oh, you wish the two of you could stay like this forever.

But like all things, it comes to an end.

“Looky looky!” A group of men, (three) walk towards the two of you, the one in the middle smirks; a sinister look. “Two lost little lambs,” He mocks.

“We aren’t lost, sir, don’t mind us” Tzuyu takes initiative, pushing you behind her.

“Aww, why don’t you dainty things let us join you” His voice deepens, tainted with terrible intentions. He tilts his head back under the street lamp, and what Tzuyu notices is a gleam of red in his eyes and two pointy fangs aligned with his teeth, his skin deathly pale.

“You clearly didn’t understand what I said, I’ll put it for you simply, fuck off.”

The man’s face ticks and his brows crease, “Fine then… guess this won’t go the way either of us wants.” He snaps his fingers and the two from behind him move towards you two.

“Tzuyu…” Your hand tight on her tense shoulder, “We need to run, you won’t be able to fight them off.” Tzuyu clenches her fist, her mouth in a thin line, her hand reaches for yours and she books it.

You quicken your pace, hand tightly gripping Tzuyu’s, but it only lasts a few minutes, a harsh pull at your shoulder as you reel backward, straight into the chest of the man who yanked you. A choked gasp falls from your lips from the whiplash, from the speed. Tzuyu stops the moment your warmth is gone. Turning back she notices the same snarky man holding you against him, bearing his teeth as you struggle against his hold. His grip bruising on your arm.

“Let go of her!” Tzuyu marches towards the two of you, taking off her coat. The man scoffs snapping his fingers and in mere seconds the two men hold Tzuyu tightly by the arms.

“Such a fine girl…god, your blood” The man shudders as he sniffs your neck, his eyes roll back, and your’s tear up in horror. “It smells so good…it must taste so-”

“Get the fuck off her!” Tzuyu yells struggling, kicking at the men holding her.

“Shut her up would you?” The man sneers, “Keep her quiet and the two of you can have her”. Tzuyu feels a hand over her mouth, her yells muffled.

“Tz-Tzuyu–” You whimper out, your eyes locked with her. The sound of your name is muffled as Tzuyu tries to get it out of her lips. Tears stream down her face as she shakes, as she cries, as she begs.

“Aww, how sweet, don’t worry sugar this will end just as fast as it will start,” he bares his fangs and a pained gasp leaves you as his teeth sink into your neck. Tzuyu wails, eyes wide. You bite your lip, not wanting to satisfy your attacker by letting him hear your cries. Tzuyu watches as life is drained from your strength, from your skin, and finally your eyes.

The man wipes his mouth, and your blood splatters on the ground. Tzuyu stares into your lifeless eyes searching for anything other than darkness, watching your body, slumped against the wall as the man lets go of you. The last thing she hears is a snap before she feels two stings on her neck.

—

Tzuyu gasps, as her eyes snap open. It was dark. Dark and suffocating. It pressed against every inch of her body, a heavy weight that seemed to crush her chest. The air was stale, thick with the scent of earth and decay. She felt she didn’t need the air, but—argghh— why is it so suffocating? For a moment, she lay still, disoriented and confused, the fog of sleep clinging to her mind like a shroud.

Slowly, consciousness seeped back into her senses, and with it a gnawing sense of panic. Her limbs felt heavy, and sluggish, as if they were weighted down by chains.

Up.

The thought echoed in her mind.

Up!

Heart pounding in her chest, the dark doesn’t seem so dark anymore. She can see the rough wooden groves above her. She pushed against it, muscles strained. At first, the lid resisted, stubborn and unyielding, but gradually, inch by agonizing inch, it began to give way.

A sliver of gray light filtered through and she pushed harder, adrenaline coursing itself straight into pure strength right into her weary limbs. She clawed through the layers of dirt and rock until her fingers scraped against the night air. She felt it, but it didn’t feel cool, it felt like nothing.

Her gasp for breath felt displeasing. She collapsed onto the ground, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the vast expanse of the night sky, the stars twinkling overhead like distant beacons of hope.

She huffs as she lays on the ground, fingers grasping the dirt and grass around her. And then a puddle. She gets up looking straight into the pile of water. The moonlight shines. Her hair disheveled, her skin pale, dead. Her eyes bloody red, she trails her hand on her face, to her lips two fangs poking out. She stares for a couple of seconds her eyesight almost blurry.

Disoriented she looks around her eyes coming face to face with a stone, a stone with her name on it. Her eyes trail past it, and it lands on another stone. A stone with your name on it.

“No…” the whisper is broken, dry.

“No…no… No! No! NO!” She cries, throwing herself onto the stone, her arms wrapping around granite like it was your body. Her broken and dry sobs echo into stale air.

“please…please…please…” her whispers die, floating into the black night.

“my love” a breathless sigh.

[arthurflecksgirl]

"Halo"

Word count : 3000

TW : Quick mentions of injury/Jail life

Summary : This scenery is inspired by some scenes from the teaser trailer but Harley free. Reader is visiting Arthur in his cell, comforting him which ends up being a healing experience for both of them.

The smell of garbage and hopelessness was hanging in the air like thick smoke. The instant chattering of the inmates impossible to keep you from feeling it in your bones. You begged for some white noise, for a sound less tormenting. Soon you will be able to hear his voice. Soothing, even if it was cracking. Only a few more steps down the stained hallways, passing some more guards, hearing some more screams and shouts. Laughter coming from a cell nearby. It wasnˋt him but you could tell it was some other inmate trying to mimic his cries. They probably didnt even know it was a cry. In here, he was the man who laughs. Always. The mocking sound send shivers down your spine. It  hurt you deep down in your heart, which was so full of love for this man, it didnt had any capacy left for anything else. You could tell by the way they tried to imitate his laughter, that they didnt knew about the painful source it was emerging from. That he had to fight it all his life. To endure it when he felt it crawling up his throat when in reality he was begging for a single tear to run down his cheek. Sometimes the tear would come but only from fighting so hard against the laughter. To them he was the man who never cried. Humiliation? He would be the man who laughs. Tasting someones fist and his own blood? He would be the man who laughs. Eletroshock therapy……

You fought for a long time to be allowed to visit him in his cell. Without the cold, stained glass between his skin and yours. Sometimes when the glass got all foggy from his breath you envied the surface for being covered with what was part of him. You wish it was your skin feeling the moist fog coming out of his mouth after he was cracking a joke that would only make you laugh.

You didnˋt notice your fingers starting to crumble the letter you were holding. The one you wrote for him  a week ago, so he had something to hold on to when you were back home again. Home. Who were you even kidding? Home was where he was, and if that meant home was a filthy cell in Arkham state hospital, then so it be.

 You would take off your clothes, fold them and put them under his sleepy head at night. Arthur rarely had been sleepy before,insomnia was holding him tight in itˋs claws, but the doctors made sure to keep him calmer. They made sure the man who laughs isnt laughing all through the night.

Even though it was never quiet in the hallways. Never a moment of rest, you knew that on his side, with your sweater functioning as a shared, tiney pillow it would work out somehow to find some peace. Even if only for a moment, even if only for a lullaby long. You would hum and sing him to sleep while youˋre touching his unwashed, curly hair. And his tiney body would soon stop shaking underneath your loving hands.The shakyness would come back in waves with every glimpse of a nightmare but you would be still awake,making sure he will be comforted by your hand on his forehead. A sweet, warm kiss or two or countless to make him drift back to sleep, even though he promised not to fall asleep to not miss a minute with you.

 But sleeping in your arms was not wasted time. It was the most precious gift under the sky. Especially in here. Your arms, a shelter within a cell. A tent within a harsh reality that wasnˋt able to effect him as baldy anymore. He knew that if he reached out to his own head he would find your hand. He would have proof the sensation of a hand in his hair wasnˋt just a dream. There was an arm and a shoulder to lie on. There was you.

„Miss,you now have an hour with Mr. Fleck.“ The Guards voice woke you out of your thoghts and you realized what you did to the letter in your hands „Dammit, what was I thinking?“ you cursed as you tried to even out the paper. The letter was important. It was something real, something physical to touch.

The door made a heavy sound as it opened. You could get a glimpse of Arthur through the small window which said „E258“.

Was that all he was to them? A number? While his name sounded like a poem to you, this number written on the door of his cell seemed like an insult which tried to strip him off his personality. You wondered who the other inmates were before they had been put in here and given a number. What their story was and what dreams they had before they ended up sounding like one pile of unbearable noise.

You wondered about if anyone in here was treating Arthur nicely. If he made some friends.

„Miss?“ the guard nodded as he pointed inside the claustrophobic space.

Then you saw him.

His gloomy eyes deperately searching for something that feels real. His tiney frame cradeling itself back and forth. There was so comfort here except a vivid dream world in your own mind. The memory of a song you used to love when you  were still able to see the blue skies whenever you wanted to.

 You hoped that he still had this amount of imagination. To make the black and greys his favourite colors. To make the mocking laughter coming from the other cells his favourite songs. You wondered if he ever danced around his cell on sleepless nights , imagining you between his arms. You craved to be the ghost of Arkham staying with Arthur night and day. Less like a spirit but more like an guardin angel wrapping him in golden, protective light.   

When the door fell open Arthur was barely reacting. He doubted it to be happening like everything else around him, including himself. The guard told you something else but you  werenˋt listening. All you could hear was Arthurs silent hum. Quiet as it was,to you it seemed more dominant than the arguments and fights going on a couple of feet away. It was like the place was filled with Arthur. His hums and heavy dreams, his sweat, tears and breath.

„Hey, my love“ you said, you could barely stand to be still a couple of steps away from him, but you wanted to give him a moment to realize you were real. Arthurs white undershirt was hanging loosely on his skinny body. He must have lost even more weight since last time you saw him.

Arthur was looking at the dim light that came from the ceiling. As if your voice was coming from there. He looked exhausted from always dreaming but never sleeping.

„Darling?“ you carefully kneed down beside him. His hands still wrapped around his knees, while he as sitting on the floor beside his so called bed. For a moment you thought that seeing him in his cell was actually worse than getting to see him behind the glass window. Wittnessing the reality of his every day life in here was unbearable. You desperately wanted him to get out of here. To bring him dinner to a sun flooded kitchen table, to wrap him into a fuzzy blanket.

„….is love, sweet love…“ he hummed quietly as he finally looked at you. His eyes trying to adjust his new reality.

„Y/N?“

„Yeah, its me. I am here now, Arthur. Do you hear me? Itˋs okay. I am here“ You placed the letter on the small table.

Arthur closed his eyes and smiled as if he was trying to absorb the information. To see if it would still be real when he opened his eyes again.

You started at him, waiting for him to do so. Desperately longing for looking into his eyes. He still kept them closed.

„…its the only thing…..“

He continued cradeling himself

„….there is just…….“

„Arthur? „

„….too little of….“

He quietly chuckled as he re opened his eyes. An emerald green universe of dreams. He opened his arms , waiting for you to get into his embrace. Eyes awkwardly focused on nothing. But his grin spoke more than words. He knew. He knew it was you.

You threw yourself into his arms within a second but yet you felt weightless, almost non existend as you fell onto his body. Did you become a dream the moment he held you? Part of his wold that was created out of imagination and hopes? Arthur was still hoping. For colors, for music and love. He was still craving after all he had to endure in here. Craving to be held.

His hold was surprisingly strong despite his weak body. You felt it while your own body seemed to disappear. You wanted to be real for him but if you were a dream……oh boy, if you were a dream you could stay with him forever and never had to leave for a single moment in time again. Time, space, cellar doors or rules……Nothing could effect you anymore. A dream can stay with you in every situation. Asleep or awake. You so desperately wanted to be his.

„Youˋre…here?!“

He needed this to be real.

You needed this to be real.

For once.

You coudnt talk as you opened your eyes. Can dreams talk back to you? You bet they can.

He needed your body to be something to touch. Not just a shilloutette of light standing beside his bed at night. Like an angel. Like something heavenly he made up in this hell that was these four walls.

The light coming from the ceiling crowned his head like a halo as he adjusted his position to hold you tighter. How ironic that this place which treated him as a dangerous criminal made him look like a saint.

Arthur shifted into your arms. The halo was gone. He wasnt standing in the light anymore.

But he was the light. He was tenderness. Holding him might have lasted a minute or an entire lifetime. It didnt matter as long as it lasted. Arms around bodies and  souls merging. Time is nothing.

After a little eternity of holding his little frame he stood there with his arms hanging from both sides of him. As if he didnt knew what to do with them anymore, now that they didnt held you.

„Arthur?“

„Hmm?“

„Could you….maybe take a step to the left side?“

He looked confused

„Is there something wrong?“

„No, ist just….I wanna see the real  you“

And as your right hand gently pushed Arthur  into position, the light  coming from the ceiling was crowning his head, making his curls look lighter in color. Making his halo shine.

Arthur smiled. Every single line that was carved into his handsome face moved, getting deeper.

„Perfect“ you whispered.

Arthur didnt even ask. He trusted you. He didnt move until you came towards him and hugged him again. This time you wanted to hold him tighter but you didnt dare to. Fragile as he seemed you were afraid to hurt him. Telling from the exposed skin on his chest and arms he suffered multiple bruises and cigarette burns.

„Who did this to you,love?“ it was hard to hold back the tears now.

Arthurs hands didnt move,lying on your back like they had always been there.

„I….um…I….canˋt remember“ he mumbled into the crook of  your neck.

„…but ist….fine…Iˋm getting…I think I am getting better. You know i´ve been thinking of some real good jokes. Of songs even. I was wondering if I could mix the two? Music and comedy and come up with a funny tune to make the days go by easier….and…I was wondering if….“

His voice cracked

„If what, Arthur?“ you losened the embrace to hold his face in your hands.

He swallowed hard „….Nevermind“

„You can tell me“

„I know“

„But itˋs okay if you canˋt right now“

Arthur nodded gratefully. Somehow all he needed was silence shared with you. The chattering down the halls became ore and more distant. Mutet even. By the music he was hearing when he looked at you. He wonˋt tell you. Not for now. But one day he will. One sweet day he would tell you about the song that was you.

„I wrote you a letter. Its actually not even close to what I have to say. But…“

„I am sure ist just perfect“ he muttered with a crocked smile. Eyes more focused now. „Thank you“.

You noticed a small wound on his temples ,placing a gentle kiss upon it.

„You know they say laughter is  the best medicine“ he said „But I disagree with them here. This is.“

You started kissing every inch of his face. Every wrinkle, every pore, the scar on his upper lip. You felt his mouth forming a smile when you did. And even if it was just wishful thinking, it felt like he was healing in your hands. Arthurs hand searched for yours while he hesitated about kissing you back. He was not used to this. The two of you had kissed before but he still remained rather insecure about being physical. He wasnˋt sure about how to act around someone he  was in love with. What if the way he was talking to you was not the way he was supposed to? If he said something wrong that would make you like him less? But then again….he knew deep inside that if there was one person in the world he could be himself with, it was you. If only he knew himself better. Sometimes he didnˋt knew what to do, how to act or who to be. But with you he felt like you truly saw something in him. And he wanted to be this man you saw when you looked at him.

The man with the halo.

Arthurs hand was holding yours inside his palms now. Carefully at first until it grew into a tight grip.

„You came“ he breathed into your face.

„Of course I did, darling.“

He let go of your hand „Iˋve made something for you“

Arthur nervously turned around to reach for a small object lying on the floor underneath the tiney window which barely let any sunlight in. He kept it in his left hand while he lit himself a cigarette.

„Oh, what is it?“

Arthur exhaled some smoke as he opened his hand.

„Um…we are not allowed to keep a lot of stuff in here….but….Iˋve collected some stones and Iˋve been carving this one here until it looked like a ….um…heart. Well…It was more like Iˋve been rubbing it against stuff because obviously we canˋt keep any sharp objects here. So….it….does not even look like a real heart… I am sorry….Itˋs….probably just some random, fucked up stone…Iˋm…“

You took the small object and kissed it. It was the most beautiful gift youˋve ever receiced.

„Itˋs beautiful…“

Arthur laughed. It was a geniue laugh.

„ Y/N? Are you crying or what?“

Now you had to laugh too.

„I guess I am“

„Iˋm glad you like it but itˋs really not that special“

„Oh, Arthur, belive me. It is.“

You carefully put the stone that had been carved by Arthur very own hands into your backpack. You will keep it under your pillow, once you arrived  at your apartment that should be the apartment of the two of you. The home that kept him save and sound. The kitchen that tranformed into the perfect venue for a waltz at 3 am. The smell of home cooked meals and tangerines filling the air.

„Will you lie down with me for a bit?“ Arthur puffed away his cigarette as he pointed to the dirty bedsheets „Iˋm sorry itˋs not that cosy. I wish I could offer you something more…“

As you crawled under the sheets with him, he lay on his back, his head turned to the side so he could face you, watching as you took your sweater off to place it gently under his head. He twitched when you accidentally touched his wound.

„Oh, Iˋm sorry my love. Better?“

„Yeah“ he whispered, as he pressed the cigarette butt into the ashtray lying on the worn out bunk bed.

He buried his face into the fabric. It would be so much easier to cope having a piece of you to sleep on.

You worried about how it was probably not allowed to gift him a sweater you brought but for now his lovely head was resting on it while a peaceful look crossed his exhausted face and that was all that mattered.

You lay down beside him, using his chest as your own pillow, able to feel his sharp ribs sticking out. His hollowed out belly rising up and down with every breath.

„Did you eat something today?“

He didnt answer, afraid to worry you even more.

„Do you think I am allowed to bring you home cooked meals?“

Arthur sighed „Umm…I donˋt think so…Itˋs okay. Iˋm not even hungry“

A silent tear rolled down your cheek. Half of worry half of happiness to have him near.

„I like my new sweater pillow. It smells just like you“ he smiled, trying to hide his own concern that it might be taken away from him soon.

„You know, Iˋve got a lot of time in here. To dream I mean. To work on jokes in my head and think of songs. Sometimes I can hear the music coming out of the lamp on the ceiling. But only when the lights are on. Strange isnˋt it?“

You combed his hair with your fingers „Arthur, when you are out of here…One day you will be telling all these jokes in crowded comedy clubs and singing all those songs in Gothams most famous Jazz clubs. And I will be there clapping along with the audience before you go off stage to grab my hand and go home to our kids who watched it on live tv and are so proud of their dad.“

Arthur started humming  an unknown song that he made up in multiple versions . Each song lyric with a different kinda ending. There were so many options to choose from and he liked that.

„This sounds like my favourite version“ he whisperd bewteen the hums.

And for a moment you could have sworn the light coming from the ceiling started flickering and flooded the grey cell in golden spotlights.

[achaotichuman]

What you became instead

Hi everyone!!! This is the third and final chapter for my fic What You Could Have Been for @sjmvillainweek !!

I have had a lot of fun with this fic, please let me know what y'all think of it. I particularly enjoyed the style of writing I used here. Tell me if you guys want to see more short stories like this one in the future!!

Summary:

He's something she could never be. Somehow, everything she hates and wants woven into one being. Soft, kind, loving. Everything a leader shouldn't be. Everything she's spent her life cutting from her being. Yet, when she sees it in him, she cannot help but want it more than anything.

A short story of Amarantha and Tamlin, two polar opposites locked in eternal orbit of each other.

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

Telling myself I won't go there

Oh, but I know that I won't care

Tryna wash away all the blood I've spilt

They sat apart from each other. He loathed to touch her and she felt it in every fibre of her being when he did. His gaze was blank now, empty, devoid of the warmth and life she had been drawn to. 

Everything she had wanted. Lusted after. Craved. 

It was gone now. His eyes were hollow and the only emotion he felt was seething rage, festering beneath his skin, so sick with grief he barely slept. He refused to eat. His body withered with the depths of his anger and hatred. 

Everything about him, everything she was drawn to was gone just like that. The light shining from his skin had dulled to a muted grey, the splendour of his free, wild blond hair was now straw-like pale strands that clung to his skin. The warmth he once radiated was replaced by the same coldness her skin possessed. And the powerful body he had spent so long honing was bone and skin now. Worthless to him, just the drag of the mortal coil, the thing that prevented his nightmares from ending. 

He was just like her now. 

He could not drag her up from the darkness she had sunk to, so she had to drag him down with her. It was that simple. 

Now, she truly had nothing left to gain. This was all there was. 

She was done. 

They sat apart. 

This lust is a burden that we both share

Two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer

Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt

On the velvet lounge, looking at nothing as the fire crackled. Their hands folded in their laps, his legs curled up beside him. She watched the flames flicker, he stared at his hands. 

The gap between them was enough to fit two fae, and it felt like a void was beneath them. If she reached out she risked falling down into that endless darkness and then she’d truly never see light again. 

But she didn’t have anything else to do, so she reached out anyway. 

“Hybern has given me reign over the Mortal Lands attached to this continent now.” She said, her voice lacking the smug victory it should have. 

“Mhm.” He hummed. He did not want to hear it. She knew that much. 

“I will be heading off there at first light, you are to remain here.” She said, but he already knew that. It had been so long since she had seen him in the sun. 

“Mhm.” Tamlin did not care to entertain her. 

“Do you miss it? The sun?” She asked, probing, taunting a little, perhaps mocking or simply asking. She didn’t know. She just wanted something. Anything. 

“No.” He replied with. 

“Why not?” 

“What worth does it have to me?” 

There's darkness in the distance

From the way that I've been livin'

But I know I can't resist it

That…

Amarantha swallowed hard. 

She sat back, looking into the fire once more. 

Those words were near a perfect mimic of a response she would have made to that. 

It… 

It frightened her. 

Well, at least that was new. The all-consuming feeling of fear that spread from her lungs down to her fingertips, her skin beginning to tingle and her stomach dropping like something was hunting her. As a sense of dread and shame began to wash through her body, her cheeks grew hot and her skin felt too small and the room too big. It was all larger than she could handle. All of this had gone too fucking far. 

Tamlin didn’t respond. Didn’t acknowledge whether or not he was aware of her predicament, and the feelings washing over her. He just stared. He seemed lost. 

Lost entirely. 

Stupid girl, she thought, her lips quirking up as she began to hear her mother’s voice. 

Stupid, stupid girl, you never gained what you did not have.

You just lost him in a different way than death. 

A way worse than death. 

Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time

You and I drink the poison from the same vine

Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time

She stared at him for a good long while, he did not look back. He did not care. 

He truly. 

Truly did not care. 

“The fifty years begins tomorrow.” She said suddenly. 

He didn’t flinch, he didn’t take a sharper breath, he didn’t so much as look at her. He just stared at his hands. 

Always staring at his fucking hands. 

“Did you hear me?” Amarantha repeated, waves of anger coursing through her skin, drowning out the fear, the grief. 

“I did.” Tamlin confirmed, finally turning his eyes to her. To see her. To look at her and all she was. She felt naked. Like he could peer underneath her skin, through the muscle fibres, down to her bare bones. 

She and every worthless, rotting thing about her was fully visible to him. It always had been. 

The difference now was the look in his eyes when he saw every single part of her was no longer hatred and disgust. It was no longer that rejection of the horrifying thing she was that she had been drawn too. 

It was indifference. It was emotionless. It was nothing. 

Because she had really, truly stripped everything away. 

He could put up a mask, of course, he could hide the nothingness behind pleasant smiles and wider eyes and straight spine. 

But underneath it all, there was nothing. 

He was

Just

Like

Her. 

Hidin' all of our sins from the daylight

From the daylight, runnin' from the daylight

From the daylight, runnin' from the daylight

“Do you not care?” She asked, though the question was futile. 

“Why would I? What is out there that needs my saving?” His words were a stab, each and every one of them. 

“You were so… so,” She struggled for words when she stared into those unblinking eyes, “So desperate to protect before.”

“That was when I had things to protect. What is there now? My people that you haven’t killed are either on their deathbeds or tortured to the point of begging for release from this world. You killed Lucien as punishment for my defiance, you tortured him in front of me until he bled out. Rhysand is God knows fucking where to be found anymore.”

“We had a bargain of our own.” Amarantha said quietly, “I let him go free. He will never return.”

Tamlin went on, “The High lord’s are either dead in ditches somewhere, or buried so far deep into this hell hole, kept under such heavy lock and key, that they might as well be dead. The earth has stopped calling for me, and I can never hear the windsong. The sun doesn’t shine on my people, and the magic has long turned rotten with my withering. Really, Amarantha? What is there to care about? What is there to protect?”

She did answer. She just stared at him. 

Tamlin didn’t cry, he didn’t grieve anymore, he’d done enough of that in the three centuries they’d spent under the mountain. 

He leaned in closer to her, and murmured, “Everyone and everything I loved and wanted so desperately to protect is on the other side of the veil now. I will join them soon.”

Her heart thumped against her ribcage, her lungs were full of glass, her throat was choked up and her skin was on fire. He moved across the lounge, his too thin hand rested on hers. She stared into the fire as he rested his head on her shoulder. 

He stared at their hands. 

Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time

[mathanlin]

// physical injury, emotional neglect

Actor AU where Tommy is hired as actor!Wilbur’s stunt double. 

It’s the jump-start to Tommy’s career — no wonder his manager accepted without asking Tommy. Still, he’s elated. 

Until he reads the script, and sees just how much pain he’s going to take. 

No wonder his manager had a hundred waivers to sign. There’s fight scene after fight scene. Car crashes. Falls from heights — which makes Tommy’s gut flip at merely imagining it. 

And still, meeting Wilbur almost makes him forget the fear. 

Almost makes it worth it. 

The first thing Wilbur does is toss a coat into Tommy’s arms.

“Gotta dress like me, right?” he says. No wonder he’s a star, that grin is brilliant. “I’ll get your wardrobe set up. Come by later, alright?”

Tommy just nods, wordless — there’s a reason he’s not the actor.

The first day of filming only solidifies that fact.

Wilbur’s on set, Tommy’s on the sidelines, manager at his side. Wilbur spits lines — a hero’s, quick & snarky. Tommy fights back a laugh at each. 

And then Wilbur laughs, too. “I should probably get hit after that line, huh?” 

Silence.

It’s… not in the script. Wilbur’s just improvising, they won’t— they won’t add *another* hit to Tommy’s list of injuries. 

But Tommy’s manager pipes up, setting a heavy hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, we can do that.”

Tommy doesn’t speak. It’s not his job to.

But he still hopes that this’ll be it. The only scene Wilbur “adds his little flare to,” as his manager says — “He’s the actor. You do everything he wants. Everything.”

It’s a futile hope.

Wilbur’s relentless.

“Our character’s a right prick,” he says one day, throwing an arm around Tommy’s shoulders & grinning. “Should beat him up a lil more, huh?” 

Tommy can’t mimic him. Not when he’s imagining being thrown further, hit harder, dropped from higher.

And when it’s Tommy’s turn to film, Wilbur never shows up.

A good thing. Tommy can always paste makeup over the bruises, shade his eyes from the stage lights with each concussion.

And cry when he hits the mat.

At least then it’s only his manager who mocks him.

“Come on,” they spit, as Tommy wipes blood from his nose. “Good stunt doubles don’t get hurt, Tommy. You know what you need to do?”

Tommy shakes his head, dazed by the lights. Another concussion, probably.

But he can still see his manager grin.

“Practice the falling scene.” 

Tommy goes still.

“What?” 

“You’ve read the script,” his manager says, eyebrow raised. “The final scene? The *most important* scene?”

*The scene where you’re thrown three stories down?*

Tommy shudders, already dizzy from terror at the thought of it. Of plummeting, smacking the unforgiving mat. Of having to jump off himself.

So his manager’s right.

He does need practice.

The set’s empty. Tommy’s alone.

That doesn’t make it easier to stare down at the mat thirty feet below.

To sway, dizzy from fear & one too many concussions. To force his feet forward, off the edge—

“Tommy?”

Tommy falls.

He— he knew he’d have to, but he’s not ready, he’s flailing, screaming, tearing through the air—

And hitting the mat shoulderfirst, head whipping to the side.

“my—Tommy, oh god, Tom—”

It’s… Wilbur, who falls at his side. Who gently picks him up from the mat as Tommy’s head spins. Who tries to haul him to the medical office, before Tommy bats his hands away.

Who rasps out, “What were you *doing,* Tommy?”

“My job?”

Wilbur stares, mouth moving silently. Like he… can’t think of what to say.

So this time, it’s Tommy who says his lines. “I— I was just practicing, Wil. I’m not *actually* hurt, that’s— that’s the whole point, right? I’m not—”

“Then why are you covered in *bruises?*”

Tommy’s gut goes right back into freefall.

He’s not wearing his coat. *Wilbur’s* coat, the one he’d given him that first day. Warm. Soft-scented. 

Long-sleeved, to hide the bruises. He hadn’t thought Wilbur would be here.

He never has been.

“You actually get hit?” Wilbur says, voice hushed & shaky. “You actually fall? I thought— I thought it was for show.”

“It’s not that bad. I get hit *lightly,* it’s not like—”

“And I told them to hit you more.”

The realization is quiet.

Wilbur pulls away, shaking his head. Tommy stumbles, trying to stand with him, to get up as the lights blur—

“I need to go.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not a line.

Wilbur leaves.

(He doesn’t care. He can’t act in this role — not if it means every hit is directed Tommy’s way. 

But he doesn’t fire Tommy. He doesn’t have the power to do that — but he can still stop the hits Tommy’s forced to take. 

By quitting himself.)

[mara-xx217]

Ending H (Fear & Hunger) Ch.7- 'Til Death Do We Part

It was a matter of survival in both of your eyes yet it was he that gained everything while you lost it all... It would have been kinder to have died a swift death but still... you fear the dark and the quiet as much as despise the man.

Warnings: Rape/Noncon, Necrophilia, Voyeurism, Enki is a Prick, Anal, Threesome, Magical Sex, Body Horror

His face did not waver as he spoke. Like he didn’t just tell you something so objectively horrifying, so utterly despicable and disgusting. Your mouth was like cotton and black specks began to invade your vision. The ringing in your ears was nearly deafening but his words were still clear in your mind:

“It’s rather simple: perform a marriage with my servant and I. Isn’t it you that said there was safety in numbers?” 

It wasn’t what you meant and he knows this! But… What other choice did you have? You will die here, you just know it. There is no safety, there is no salvation…. The non choice before you made you ill but the thought of dying to something else here trumped the visceral revulsion you felt in the moment. 

It… will be over soon, won’t it…? 

You hang your head as you begin to remove your armour. The dark priest seemed unbothered, perhaps even bored, as you undressed with trembling fingers and uneven breaths. His undead ghoul stood at his side, its glassy eyes staring not at you but somewhere to your left. It unnerved you greatly, even more when you watched it so shamelessly scratch at itself for the umpteenth time as its master leaned against a nearby wall.

“Only you are making this difficult.” You grit your teeth at how amused he sounded.

“...shut up.” It came out far more loud than you intended but the dark priest did nothing other than smirk as you removed your trousers. You hated how he leered at you, with his darken, deep set eyes that seemed to pierce straight through you… Somehow, he made you feel more vulnerable than you previously believed yourself to be. When your hands reached your shirt, you began to hesitate. 

“Oh? Having second thoughts, are we?” His tone was of mock concern. Silver white locks pool over one of his shoulders as he cocks his head to the side. His ghoul mimics its master’s movements. Your face is somehow both draining of colour yet also incredibly flush. You feel faint- 

“N-No- I- I don’t-” You ball your fists into your shirt. He sighs, feigning exasperation. 

“Here, allow me-” You furrow your brows. 

“W-Wha- W-WAIT-!” 

Your voice catches in your throat as the ghoul grabs you by your collar. Panic was already setting in and you fight instead of taking flight. 

“S-STOP-! I- I’M NOT-!” You didn’t even know what you were trying to say. The strength of this undead creature was uncanny and supernatural. It threw you to the floor with ease, swiftly falling after you so that you hadn’t the opportunity to rise to your feet. 

A flowing black robe invaded your peripheral as the priest moved to get a better view of the scene before him. The ghoul straddled your hips and had you pinned down by the back of your neck. The cool, slightly moist floor of the dungeon had your skin crawling and your body involuntarily reeling from its touch.

“L-Liste- L-LISTEN! I’ll- I’ll do it! I’LL FUCKING DO IT! J-Just don’t-!” The hairs on the back of your neck began to rise as a hardness began to press into the small of your back. The dark priest clicked his tongue and sighed softly.

“A little late for that, don’t you think? I believe it easier this way… It is difficult to have second thoughts halfway through if you are no longer under the illusion of having control.” Your blood ran cold. 

“W-What…?” He didn’t answer you. Perhaps he shrugged, as you heard him shift in place, but it mattered not the moment the ghoul began to clumsily feel around your behind.

“N-NO! WAI-! EEEH?!” An undignified squeak leaves your lips as the undead creature’s fingers slipped between the cleft of your ass. For a brief moment, you stiffened, unable to act in any way whatsoever. But your struggle quickly renewed and you kicked your legs out and tried to push up from the floor with your arms.

“T-That’s-! N-NOT THERE-!!” You become unstable as filthy fingers and broken nails prod and rake against your puckered hole. The ghoul wasn’t perturbed by your screaming and flailing in the slightest. It groaned and drooled against you as its forefinger firmly pressed against your asshole, penetrating it in spite of your best efforts to clench your muscles in a vain attempt to keep it from sodomizing you. 

Tears welled in your eyes as the true reality of your circumstances began to sink in. This really is about to happen, isn’t it? You really will be raped by a dead man, and its master will watch this torture unfold. You felt sick as the ghoul’s hard cock rubbed into your back. It didn’t seem to be moving its hips- at least, not intentionally. With every harsh, uncoordinated jab of its finger, it slipped farther and farther into you with more and more ease. The dark priest, while bemused at your cries and the way you struggled under his thrall, began to grow bored with each passing second. He began to remove his gloves, unbeknownst to you.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we? I already grow bored of this affair.” Huh? No- No, no-!

Your breath catches in your throat as the ghoul pulls its finger out of your ass suddenly. You thrash and cry out but it's all for naught. The undead being groans and snarls above you as it frees its hard cock from the scraps of cloth that provided it with the barest amount of modesty and jerkily bumped its hips against the softness of your ass. Your voice hits a new pitch as you scream at the top of your lungs.

“J-JUST STOOOOP!! STOP IT!! P-PLEASE STOP-!!!” Your cries for mercy fall on deaf ears. The dead will not heed you and its master is just as cold and uncaring. No, maybe not as uncaring as the dead, but perhaps worse in that he found your struggling to be a rather enjoyable sight to behold. 

“The more you struggle the more unsightly this scene becomes…” He drawls as the ghoul comes close to actually penetrating you. It doesn’t have the motor skills to handle so many tasks at once and alongside your struggling it left it with an impossible task. The Dark Priest knew this and sighed to himself.

“I suppose it can’t be helped…” What-?! You can’t rise off the floor- not with this damned creature keeping you down!! But the moment you free yourself, you will fucking kill-!

“H-Huh-?! HUH?! D-DON’T-!!” The priest actually knelt beside you and took its undead creation into his hand and guided it to your puckered entrance! You kept struggling, kept your muscles stiff! But in the end you couldn’t stop the dead man from ramming his cock balls deep into your tight and mostly dry asshole. 

A scream you didn’t recognize as your own left your mouth, surely deafening to any around but you couldn’t stop the panic and revulsion that surged up from your guts and ejected from your mouth with a ferocity that threatened to drown you as the back of your neck was held firmly down by cold and stiff fingers. 

No discernible pace was set as the ghoul clumsily humped into your prone body. It hurt-! It fucking hurts! Physically, emotionally, spiritually- Never. You never thought something like this possible. Not in your wildest nightmares, even after delving too deep into the dungeon of Fear & Hunger, was this a possibility in your mind. But here you were, sobbing and pulling away in vain as a corpse raped you while its master just stood by and fucking watched. The Dark Priest pulled your sweat and saliva and vomit and tear stained hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear so he could see how your face twisted in anguish at every thrust of his ghoul’s hips. But it wasn’t enough for him or for the goddess. They needed more. 

Under his direction, the ghoul began to pick up its pace. Your eyes go wide and your hands search for something in the dark. Maybe your weapon, maybe an object of comfort. You find nothing but the unforgiving stone floor and you rake your nails against it as the burning, splitting pain begins to subtly shift into something that makes your loins ache and your face twist in shock.

“Ah. Now you are feeling it. Good.” You couldn’t hear the priest’s words over the sound of both your moaning and the ghoul’s snarls and grunts of effort. The flat of your palm finds the bony protrusion of the ghoul’s hip but any amount of pushing did absolutely nothing to either slow its speed or ferocity. 

Your screams of pain began to morph into keens of pleasure. You hate it. You hate how it feels, how cold the ghoul’s body is in comparison to yours. You hate the feeling of being pinned in place. You hate how easy its cock slipped in and out of your stretched asshole and the wet sound that accompanied the crashing of its balls against your ass-

“NNNGGGH-!! N-NOOO…!!” Its thrust went deeper. The ghoul was now rocking into your body, flush against the curve of your ass, and ramming its cockhead into something that had your body jerking and your voice rising in pitch. Your head hits the floor over and over again as you struggle to keep up whatever fight was in you. 

“AH-! A-AHH-! N-NNGHH! MMMM-!!!” A thin, black robe falls somewhere and the ghoul is suddenly pushed flat against your back. The ghoul’s pace becomes far more erratic as the Dark Priest breathes sharply out of his nose.

From behind, the priest had pinned the ghoul in a similar manner to how it pinned you down. It was easy to slip into the dead being’s soft, rotted flesh, and it wasn’t wholly unpleasant in spite of the cold in the ghoul’s bodily cavity. He kept it focused on fucking you as he fucked it from behind. It shouldn’t take much more… Perhaps he was lucky in finding you as a ‘willing’ participant in this little experiment of his. Who knows what would be gained from such a union…

The slapping of flesh and moans and snarls of pleasure and effort echoed deep within the bowels of the dungeon. Soon enough, you could no longer deny the pleasure that the ghoul brought you with each time its cock rammed against your insides, much as the Dark Priest couldn’t deny that he found great pleasure in both witnessing and participating in your rape. The ghoul was undead but still willing… It didn’t react as he slammed his cock harder and faster inside of its now ruined and gaping asshole but the priest found this pleasant nonetheless. 

Almost- A-Almost…! 

Just as you hit your breaking point the Dark Priest did too. The ghoul released its emissions on command, just as its master filled its insides were filled with hot seed did it release its colder and thicker cum that had the last thin cord in your core snapping in half as a rushing torrent seeped inside of your asshole. Your own release was imminent and you cried out as the more intense and wonderful sensation washed over you as all three of you cummed at the same time. 

Your cries, the ghoul’s growls and the Dark Priest’s grunts all blended into one sound of wanton pleasure. For a brief moment, just for a fraction of one, did the warm and soft sensation of pure, unabashed love blanket you. It wrapped you in its embrace, pulling you back and settling you into something that made you feel whole. You didn’t feel fear, you didn’t feel pain, you just felt… right. For the first time in your life, you felt like you were right… 

It wasn’t so bad… The embrace was warm and the dark of the dungeon wasn’t so scary now that you will never be alone ever again. You were never acknowledged but you didn’t need to be. After all, you didn’t need his love when Sylvian gave you everything you would ever need… 

Ending H- ‘Till Death Do We Part

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine

[worlds-best-adventurer]

“Grave robber? I haven’t been called one in years!” Amused by the notion he’s still mistakable for a scampish little thief, Illinois slides off most of the desk in a fit of laughter. Grave robbing is what thieves did when they were bored. Coming back with shattered pottery they glue back together and sell at auctions alongside seized cars.

“If your collection is anything like this, I may want to prepare for it. Charms and protective measures, maybe even some curse breakers if I’m that unlucky. I lock up my more volatile artifacts in the attic.”

[DOPPELGANGER] with a twist... It's the splitting image of Illinois that's behind him. -@blood-falling

Another cave, another companion already lost to the traps still active, another artifact he sought out and brought back home. Practically the same as what he’d found back in the abandoned mineshaft three months ago. A fish carved in brilliant glass, glowing in the flickering lightbulb of his office. That one was still a work in progress. Both heads of the fish stare and gape at Illinois in disbelief that they’ve been brought into a museum.

Wrapping it into a secure case, he turns around to grasp randomly at the table behind him in search of tape. Not expecting the solid form he ends up hitting instead. A spirit accidentally released from the fish? A guardian following him back to steal it back? Leaving the artifact on the table, Illinois turns to see his doppelgänger. Admittedly not the worst sight to suddenly see, but unnerving. “Good..evening,” he slowly remarks, watching to see if it repeats itself.

[professor-amaryllis]

:{ A video file is embedded. Amy walks through a deep forest, it's dark, much darker than is should be as the thick canopy above blocks out any light, making it a bit hard to tell when exactly this video was taken. The camera follows behind them, looking around now and then as the professor stops here and there to take notes in the notebook they carry, inspecting various plants and pokemon tracks.

You never notice the noises of the wildlife until they're gone. The sudden silence that falls over the clearing is almost deafening, though somehow the professor doesn't seem to notice it. Instead they seem to pause, shaking their head and rubbing their temples a moment. They blink a few times, taking their glasses off and inspecting them before trying to clean them in their shirt, mumbling something in Johtoian that isn't quite picked up.

There's a rustle from... somewhere that the professor again can't seem to notice, they seem almost confused, though Echo within the camera pans right and left, trying to focus in on the source of the sound. It only takes a moment for the source to reveal itself, dropping down so quietly from the canopy above. The air shifts around it; warping like ink or blood in water. What can be seen is coal black hair pouring off it like smoke and unsettling red eyes that almost glow from the stark contrast. It moves too smoothly, too silently, the hair around it swirling in a non-existent breeze. As it takes a step forward you can see a glint of teeth bared in some mockery of a grin. Whatever it is; it's wrong.

The thing seems to shift and change as it moves behind the professor, it's head tilting as it's hair seems to take a mind of it's own, writhing and twisting around itself as it forms a new, familiar silhouette. The colors too begin to shift, like fiber optics a rich brown seeps like oil from the ends of the hair and into the bulk of the form until a twisted approximation of a Tauros stands in the clearing, heaving and pawing at the ground, the brilliant red eye of the creature still visible on the thing's chest like a burning heart.

It's far too late when the professor sees it. Turning toward the new noise their breath catches in their throat but before they can even truly react the creature, the thing charges towards them, too smooth, too silent to be real, the expected sound of hoof beats simply soft padding over the dirt. It's as if they can see, can hear something we cannot though. They panic, an anguished cry ripped from their throat as they are forced back, pinned against a tree by the bulk.

One horn seems to sink into their abdomen, just above their weak hip, scarlet pouring from the wound as it slams him harder into the tree, holding him there. His hands go to the wound, sinking into the now crimson fur that mimics and mocks the most horrific day of their life. It's all too real to them, tears streaming down their face as they cry out, looking now past the 'bull' towards... something.

Whatever it is isn't picked up on the camera, some part of the greater illusion only in their mind. In that moment it seems that the Tauros, the blood, none of it matters as they desperately reach out to the unknown something, begging, pleading in Kantonian sign for someone to run, to get away, Please. I can't lose you again.

It seems these pleas are too late. Amy devolves into sobs, pleas, begging screaming for help. He needs help, please, anyone.

The clearing is so, so deathly quiet as those cries echo out into the dark forest. Whatever they see is simply not there.

A reflection can be caught in the shimmering reflection of Amy's eyes.

Flickering red and orange flames growing ever brighter.

The sound of a gunshot rings out just as the video ends. }:

[paranormals-of-ilvermorny]

Chapter 7

Wednesday the tenth was cool and crisp, which carried the promise of a chilly fall in the same breeze that carried prematurely dead leaves. Whenever there was a Quodpot game the same day as classes, it was always scheduled after the last bell rang, usually three o’clock. Unfortunately for Robin, that meant going the whole day with excitement running through her veins at the prospect of playing later. So, because she knows her best friend so well, Lorelei took it upon herself to make extra notes for Robin to copy later when her brain wasn’t off in the clouds flying on a broomstick.

The day was shaping up to be quite uneventful. That is, before Claire decided to throw any possibility of a good day out the window.

It happened in first period potion, just as Lorelei was stirring the cauldron of Mulberry milk, Goosegrass, and Sage making sure to not let the leaves burn. As she stirred and waited for the mixture to reach a simmering boil, Lorelei was busy thinking about the waffle she had for breakfast until some noise caught her attention. Looking across the classroom, Lorelei saw Claire and her friends surrounding Robin who was trying to mind her own business, finely cutting some dandelion root, but the frustration on her face was apparent. Looking into the still lukewarm pot, Lorelei charmed the wooden spoon to continue its ministrations while she stepped away for a moment.

“Or maybe its from too many drops to the head as a baby, and some blood got stained— oh hi Lorelei,” Claire said as she approached the table, her signature sneer making an appearance. “We were just telling Robin our theories as to how her hair got to be that ugly color.” Her two friends, Julia Talpin and Grace Gosling, laughed to show proof. “My favorite is her mom picking her from a carrot patch when she was born! Because who in their right mind would pick someone as dumb as her.” At the sound of the trio’s laughter, Robin slammed her hand onto the table out of pure aggression, clearly ready to snap.

Lorelei, needing to diffuse the situation before her friend gets sent to Boarwood Prison for the criminally accused. She placed her hands on Robin’s shoulders, massaging a bit to calm her down. “As grateful as we are that you decided to grace us with your presence this morning, Claire” began Lorelei, slowly helping a seething Robin to her feet and steering her back to their cauldron, “I think I speak for the entire school by saying we would have been happier contracting fungal worm plague.” Hearing Robin let out a quiet chuckle, Lorelei almost missed what her once friend said back.

“Well, at least my dad is still in a job. I don’t know if you can say the same thing, can you Lei?” She asked in a menacingly mocking tone. It wasn’t very easy to get under Lorelei’s skin, usually the one to bring others down like she just did for Robin. But, on the off chance a comment is made about her family, Lorelei can get mad. And right now, she was seeing red.

“What?” She asked Claire over her shoulder, impossibly calm. “You heard me, your Muggle dad got canned from his Muggle job. Time will tell, but my guess is it’s genetic.” Without thinking, Lorelei pulls out her wand and points it at Claire, finally getting her to shut up. Although fear was written on her face, it is soon replaced with a trying glance.

“You wouldn’t. Little Miss ‘I make every attendance’ is really gonna hex me? I’d like to see you try.” She remarked with a smirk, something Lorelei decided to mimic. “How are you gonna be able to see without eyes,” she muttered, a shocked yet somewhat excited Robin was able to hear, which only made her want to watch what happened next even more. But, for better or worse, before the tip of her wand could even ignite Professor Teagarden was walking over to diffuse the situation.

“Ladies, ladies, what is going on here?” The older woman asked, apprehensive yet still trying to maintain her role as teacher. Unfortunately for the professor, her question only made the girls erupt into five different voices trying to tell her what happened, each with different stories. In the end, she didn’t follow a word of it. “Alright!” She said, effectively stopping all five girls’ ranting, “Why don’t we do this? Claire,” she asked, looking at the dark haired girl, “will you please apologize to Robin and Lorelei for interrupting their potion making?” With a roll of her eyes, she gave an unenthusiastic apology, which Professor Teagarden found adequate. “And Lorelei,” she questioned, turning to the other side, “were you really going to hex Claire?” With a huff, Lorelei gave a begrudging ‘no’ which seemed to be the right answer. “Well then, I hope this doesn’t happen again or there will be consequences. Now, you girls go your separate way so you don’t cause each other any more trouble.” The professor stated, her voice laced with an authority that she rarely ever used.

Lorelei and Robin left the nauseating trio to go back to their cauldron, providing ample space between them. After a moment’s silence while Lorelei stirred the mixture, she said, “I like your hair. It shines gold in the sun.” As she picked up her minced dandelion roots, Robin responded. “Thanks. And I know your dad is a hard worker, he gets it from you.” This caused Lorelei to laugh, a feat not easily done after such an intense fracas. She doesn’t know how Claire found out about her father and his job, but it probably has something to do with what her mom does for work.

For the rest of class the girls went back and forth sharing their theories as to how Claire got to be so vile and dumb enough that she couldn’t even turn her cauldron’s burner on, somewhat brightening their moods.

Finally, it was three in the afternoon and the first Quodpot game of the year was moments away from beginning.

From where she sat, Lorelei could see the starting circle a little farther down and the scoring circle that contained the pot. She was sitting next to Poppy and Jordan on her left, and Quinn on her right, atop one of the two viewing stadiums. The stadiums were the best places to see the game, and safest due to how high up the seats are, and that they are located behind the pot containing the enchantment potion. So if the Quod goes off, the students and faculty are safe.

The rules of Quodpot are simple: there are two teams, seven players on each, and players have to pass the Quod to each other all the way across the field from the starting circle until a player throws it into the pot before it explodes By making it into the pot, that team gets a point, and a new Quod is brought onto the field. The first team to reach ten points or lose all players wins, but no points are lost if the new Quod explodes, the only caveat is the player who was in possession of the Quod when it exploded must leave the field until half time. And to make it even harder, all of this is done on flying broomsticks. As mentioned, Robin is an esteemed chaser for the Thunderbirds, although she is known to be a backup chaser if the need arises. She’s one of the best the school has ever seen, getting numerous trophies and awards etched in her name, along with her signature move dubbed The Copper. Lorelei can attest that all she wants to do when she finishes school is to try out for the National Quodpot League and join her favorite team, the Williamsburg Wyverns. The only way Robin was able to pass last year’s final history exam was by remembering the only death in professional Quodpot was also the same year Wizarding Britain chose Lorcan McLaird as Minister of Magic.

As the school waited for the teams to make their entrances, Lorelei was sending a mental message to Robin hoping for a good and safe game. Just as she finished the well wishes, the voice of Grant Rook could be heard throughout the entire field thanks to the Sonorus charm.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN IN HONOR OF THIS AFTERNOON’S QUODPOT GAME GIVE US A ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR OUR COMPETING TEAMS!” His enthusiasm for his job as speaker of the Quodpot matches definitely showed through his performance. “LETS FIRST HEAR IT FOR THE THUNDERBIRDS!!” As he announced the team the loud sound of music could be heard around the arena. All eleven players, including Robin, flew out and around the field while pumping their fists and pretending to raise the roof as their chosen song continued. After a little while of them flying around, all players lined up midair so they could face their opponents. “AND NOW,” continued Grant, “MAKE SOME NOISE FOR THE WAMPUSES!!” Just like the team before the flying players swooped in and around the stadium, some even flying low to high-five a few audience members.

When the two teams finally faced each other, the flying instructor Professor Catkin flew between them and went over the rules. “Remember, no grabbing another player's broomstick or body part, that is an immediate penalty.” She told them with a stern expression and voice. “No crossing the boundary, fly as high as you need to but keep in mind the fall. Goalies,” she stated, and both goalies flew forward a bit, “you know you can’t leave the scoring circle, but again, fly as high as you want. Are we ready?” She asked both teams, getting nods and grunts of agreement. Then, from her pocket the professor pulled out a Sprinkle to flip heads or tails. The Wampuses chose heads while the thunderbirds chose tail, and the professor flipped the coin up into the air, catching it in and revealing it on the back of her other hand. “THUNDERBIRDS GO FIRST!” She yelled into the air, the stadium going crazy to the news.

The first Quodpot game of the season about to begin, it felt great to be back at school for Lorelei and Robin.

The game was set, waiting for Professor Catkin to charm the Quod and thus beginning the first round of the day’s game. With adrenaline running through her, Robin was ready to go at the drop of a hat, but you would never be able to tell from her extremely calm demeanor.

At the ready, Professor Catkin pointed her wand at the Quod, a round leather ball with three large divots resembling the Quaffle in the British game Quidditch. “Ready?” She was met with nods, all seven members had their eyes on the Quod. “GO!” Without wasting any time, Professor Catkin casted ‘Bombarda’ onto the ball, and the players were off.

Flying fast and high, a seventh year Thunderbird player had the Quod in their possession first, quickly flying through and around the various Wampus players that were trying to distract them. As they continued to fly their way to the pot, a Wampus player sufficiently blocked their way, but luckily a fellow Thunderbird was open for a pass.

“AMAZING! MAYWEATHER TAKES THE QUOD FROM COIL MIDAIR! NOW HE RACES TO THE POT, OOOH RAMMED BY BOLTON! AND HE DROPS THE QUOD! BUT WAIT, WHAT’S THAT?”

As the simmering Quod fell quickly to the ground, flowing strawberry hair could be seen chasing it gaining speed. Like magic, Robin catches the Quod right before impact, and whizzes to the pot. “AND…AND…SHE’S DONE IT! COPPER SCORES THE FIRST GOAL OF THE YEAR!!” The crowd cheered wildly for the goal, an out of breath Robin reveling in the short lived victory, knowing there would be many more to come.

With the now extinguished Quod sizzling away in the pot, two pukwudgies came running out to carry the pot away, add a new potion, and bring out a new Quod, all while the Wampus team players got ready for their turn at scoring a goal. All seven players surrounded the Quod, ready to be enchanted by Professor Catkin, ready to even the score.

“Ready? GO!”

“HERE WE ARE, 4:15 ON A SEPTEMBER WEDNESDAY, AND THE SCORE IS NINE TO EIGHT, WITH THE THUNDERBIRDS IN THE LEAD. THEY HAVE TWO CHANCES TO WIN, UNLESS THEY MAKE IT TO THE POT. WHAT A WAY TO START THE YEAR!”

The summer sun has made a good backdrop for the afternoon’s game, a last kiss goodbye from the summer that passed. So far, like Grant had just announced, the Thunderbirds were leading by one point and only needed one more to win. They either had to score a goal during this next round, or keep the Quod in the team’s hands long enough for it to explode, which has only happened twice all game. Once was when poor Connor Balton had his glasses knocked off so he couldn’t tell who was on his team or not when the Quod exploded on him. The other occurred when Robin's teammate Madeline Coil was blocked by six of the Wampus defenders, practically forming a barrier around her, the Quod exploding. The blow to both players wasn’t too bad, Madeline getting hit worse, but Nurse Darling was on the sidelines ready to bandage them up.

Grant had commented on the injuries and various plays that were made, like when team captain of the Wampus’s carried the Quod in his legs like a bird, or when a sixth year Thunderbird faked an opponent out by throwing the Quod up high only to catch it feet below and drop it into the pot. Lorelei had paid little attention to when Robin would go on and on about what the game plan was, she was too focused on writing her herbology essay. What she does vaguely remember is that the finishing move had Robin carrying the Quod from start to finish, with her other teammates playing defense to any interfering Wampus’. All Robin had to do was hold on tight and fly as fast as lightning.

The seven Thunderbirds surrounded the starting circle, exactly as before, with Professor Catkin holding the yet-to-be enchanted Quod. Up above, Lorelei could spot the several Wampus players flying around waiting to strike when the moment came, like vultures surrounding prey.

As the professor gave the go, Robin took the Quod and flew incredibly fast, almost a blur of navy and rusted hair. The crowd cheered and applauded, with the opposing stands cheering on the Wampus’ hoping for a victory, or at the very least a tie. With Robin getting closer to the pot, and the Thunderbirds mercilessly blocking the Wampus players, it looked like she was in the clear for the winning score. People were standing now, jumping and screaming for Robin to go faster, faster.

But something happened, something caught Robin’s eye out of the corner of her vision. From where she was, flying close to the ground, she started to slow down making the stadium yell louder at her to go faster. To her left, she could see the edge of the forest that surrounded the school’s pitch, but there was something more than just trees lurking there. A figure, fairly large from where she could see, but very dark in contrast to the brown and green of the trees around it. The figure almost looked like what a child might believe to be a monster in the dead of night, only to discover the monster was an old coat hung on the front door. But this was no hanging coat, or even a lack of afternoon sun, for as Robin continued to look a bit too long, the dark figure ran back into the woods.

It happened so quickly, with sweat in her eyes and adrenaline in her veins, but Robin was sure of what she saw.

Robin and her broom were now fully stopped, a mere five feet away from the pot. The screams of the crowd were deafening, even more so when Gale Waterhouse was able to evade the Thunderbird blocking him off and flew down fast to Robin. Noticing the large figure steadily approaching she realized where she was and what she was holding. With the very last drops of her focus and energy, Robin soared to the pot with the Quod practically jumping in her arms.

“AND……SHE MAKES IT!! AFTER CLEARING HER HEAD OF THEEBLES, ROBIN MAKES THE GOAL! THUNDERBIRDS WIN, TEN TO NINE! WHAT A GAME!”

The whole stadium erupted in cheers and applause, hollering their heads off at the victory. Likewise, the entire Thunderbirds hopped off their brooms and ganged up on Robin, hugging her and patting her on the back. Lorelei too clapped her hands until she couldn’t feel them anymore, thinking of how she’ll have to ask Robin what made her slow down and almost lose the game.

Wednesday night, and everyone was gathered in the dining hall for a delicious feast of potatoes, sausage, and green beans. The whole room had the echoing of what a perfect game it was, and how the Wampus’ will take the win against Pukwudgie in a few weeks to make up for the loss.

Even Lorelei, who wasn’t much of a sports fan, magical or not, couldn't stop chattering to Poppy and Jordan about the amazing plays. “Oh,” said Jordan around a mouthful of potatoes, “and when that Wampus got around that Thunderbird and went after Robin! Wow! I actually held my breath for a minute, I thought they were a goner for sure.”

“Ugh can you please chew your food before speaking, I’m losing my appetite.” Poppy declared to Jordan who was filling his plate with more potatoes and gravy. Turning to Robin she then asked, “Hey, what kept you stalled up from making the goal? Did you see a bee or something?”

Robin, who for most of the meal was unusually quiet, looked up from where she was slowly eating her green beans to answer. “Uh, yeah. Just a bee, didn’t wanna get stung on my nose ya know?” This seemed to be enough for Poppy, who went back to telling Jordan how he can’t inhale his food unless he wants to receive CPR from a Pukwudgie.

Lorelei took notice of her friend’s quiet nature, and decided to gently check in. “You okay? You’ve never gotten a win against Wampus without verbally berating them for hours afterwards.” She commented.

With a nervous look on her face, Robin decided to put her trust into Lorelei. “When I was flying towards the goal,” she said, dropping her voice causing Lorelei to lean in, “I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was like a black figure, tall enough to almost reach the tree’s pine needles.” The tree’s surrounding the school didn’t have branches that sprouted until about six feet above ground. This caused Lorelei to stop eating and look her friend in the eyes, only to find the same weariness and confusion her voice held. “I think there’s something living in the woods.”

[fmpcamerondavies]

Mockumentaries and found footage

a modern development in media has been fake documentaries and found footage films, most often used in horror and comedy which are two of my favorite genres. for my third pitch i mentioned making my own found footage style hoax video where in I (or whoever is behind the camera) encounters something malicious in the dark stalking me (them) only being from the POV of the camera giving it a feeling of authenticity.

Mockumentaries are fictional films or television programs presented in the style of a documentary. They often mimic the format and conventions of real documentaries, featuring interviews, archival footage, and narration, but with the intention of satire or parody. Mockumentaries typically employ humor to explore and comment on real-world subjects or events, a good example of an acclaimed mockumentary is "What We Do In The Shadows" a 2014 film and a 2019-2024 series both being horror-comedy slice of life style mockumentaries each surrounding a respective coven/family of vampires, their day to day lives, petty internal squabbles, the politics of the larger supernatural world all from the perspective of a camera crew following them around, who we never really directly see. I have a deep love for "What we do in the shadows" having first watched the film and falling in love with its concept of splicing horror and comedy in a mockumentary style, something about seeing vampires which are often depicted as blood thirsty, soulless, solely evil creatures however "WWDITS" ( What We Do In The Shadows) humanizes them giving them personalities as well as (often warped) consciences even making them likeable and to me loveable. Another famous example of a mockumentary is "This is spinal tap"(1984) is a mockumentary comedy film directed by Rob Reiner. It humorously follows the fictional British heavy metal band Spinal Tap on a disastrous tour of the United States. Through a series of mishaps and absurdities, the film satirizes the music industry, delivering laughs with its witty humor and mock interviews.

Found footage films, on the other hand, are fictional narratives presented as if they were discovered recordings of real events. They are often shot from the perspective of one or more characters using handheld cameras or other recording devices, giving the audience the impression that they are witnessing authentic footage. Found footage films aim to create a sense of realism and immediacy, often within the horror or thriller genres. A lesser talked about example of found footage is "Cannibal Holocaust" (1980) an Italian horror film directed by Ruggero Deodato. It follows a documentary crew in the Amazon rainforest whose footage reveals their brutal encounters with indigenous tribes. The film gained notoriety for its graphic violence and rumors of on-screen deaths and the alleged killing of animals for practical effects, this sparked controversy and legal battles. Despite its shocking content, it has become a cult classic in horror cinema. A more well known example of a found footage film is "Paranormal Activity" (2007) is a found footage supernatural horror film directed by Oren Peli. The story revolves around a young couple, Katie and Micah, who are haunted by a demonic presence in their home. As they set up cameras to document the strange occurrences, the terror escalates, leading to a chilling and unexpected climax. The film's minimalistic approach and suspenseful atmosphere made it a huge success, spawning a 'popular' franchise, myself and many others feel like the franchise like many 'Popular' franchises became overused and underproduced with vary little care for the original idea or concept.

While both mockumentaries and found footage films blur the lines between fiction and reality, they differ in their approach and tone. Mockumentaries use humor to satirize real-world subjects, while found footage films aim to create tension and suspense through the illusion of authenticity. However, they share a common goal of engaging the audience by presenting fictional stories in a format that mimics reality. I am going to list and explain a few found footage and mockumentary films that i have a particular interest in and or relate to my third pitch:

"Troll Hunter" (2010) is a Norwegian found footage mockumentary film directed by André Øvredal. It follows three students investigating bear killings who stumble upon a secretive government agency tasked with monitoring Norway's trolls. They join Hans, a government-employed troll hunter, as he reveals the truth about these creatures and the government's efforts to conceal them. As tensions rise, they face dangerous encounters and must decide whether to expose the truth to the world. The film blends fantasy, horror, and satire to offer a thrilling and entertaining exploration of Norwegian folklore.

"The Blair Witch Project" (1999) is a groundbreaking found footage horror film directed by Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez. The story revolves around three student filmmakers—Heather, Mike, and Josh—who venture into the Maryland woods to make a documentary about the legendary Blair Witch. As they delve deeper into the forest, strange occurrences begin to unfold, including unexplained noises at night and the disappearance of their map and supplies. As tensions rise and their fear mounts, the trio becomes increasingly lost and paranoid. The film's suspense builds as it blurs the lines between reality and fiction, culminating in a chilling and ambiguous conclusion that leaves viewers questioning what truly happened in the woods. "The Blair Witch Project" is celebrated for its innovative approach to horror storytelling and its ability to evoke genuine fear through minimalistic techniques. One of the tactics used by the marketing team to generate mystery and hype for the film was by listing most of the actors as dead or missing, giving an air of mystery to the film and considering its initial release was at the 1999 Sundance film festival, where it gained major popularity with attendees, after which it had a limited theatrical release would make it hard for a majority of people to see making it even more mysterious.

"Rec 2" (2009) is a Spanish found footage horror film directed by Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza, serving as a direct sequel to "Rec." The story picks up immediately after the events of the first film, following a SWAT team and a medical officer as they enter the quarantined apartment building infected with a mysterious virus. As they navigate the dark corridors, they encounter aggressive infected individuals and horrifying supernatural phenomena. Along the way, they discover the sinister truth behind the outbreak and the demonic possession plaguing the building. With its intense atmosphere, relentless suspense, and visceral scares, "Rec 2" continues the terrifying journey initiated by its predecessor, offering a thrilling and chilling experience for horror fans.

Sacha Baron Cohen's filmography also includes "Bruno" (2009) and "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" (2006), both of which are mockumentaries. In "Bruno," Cohen portrays a flamboyant Austrian fashion reporter who travels to the United States to pursue fame and success in the fashion industry. Through Bruno's outlandish antics and confrontational interviews, the film satirizes celebrity culture, homophobia, and the superficiality of the fashion world. "Borat" follows Cohen as the titular character, a fictional Kazakhstani journalist traveling across the United States to make a documentary about American culture. Presented as a mockumentary-style film, it humorously captures Borat's interactions with real Americans, showcasing cultural misunderstandings and social commentary on various issues. Both "Bruno" and "Borat" utilize the mockumentary format to deliver biting social commentary through exaggerated characters and absurd situations, showcasing Cohen's talent for satire and his ability to push the boundaries of comedy.

The "V/H/S" series, is a horror anthology franchise that utilizes the found footage format to deliver its scares. Each installment of the series consists of multiple short films, often directed by different filmmakers, with an overarching narrative framing device. The found footage format is central to the "V/H/S" series, as each segment is presented as if it were discovered footage filmed by characters within the story. This technique creates a sense of immediacy and realism, immersing the audience in the terrifying events unfolding on screen. The films within the "V/H/S" series typically explore a variety of horror subgenres, including supernatural, slasher, and psychological horror. They often feature a mix of visceral scares, disturbing imagery, and creative storytelling techniques to unsettle and frighten viewers. The use of found footage in the "V/H/S" series allows for innovative storytelling possibilities, as the format lends itself to unconventional camera angles, raw cinematography, and a sense of voyeurism. By presenting the horror through the lens of amateur filmmakers or unsuspecting characters, the series creates an atmosphere of dread and uncertainty, heightening the tension and suspense. Overall, the "V/H/S" series utilizes the found footage format to push the boundaries of horror storytelling, offering audiences a unique and chilling viewing experience with each installment. Here I'll list and synopsize a few segments from a couple of the films;

Amateur Night (from "V/H/S"): A group of friends bring a mysterious woman back to their hotel room, only to discover she's not what she seems, leading to a horrifying confrontation.

Safe Haven (from "V/H/S/2"): A documentary crew investigating a cult's compound uncovers dark secrets, culminating in a nightmarish climax filled with gore and supernatural horror.

Slumber Party Alien Abduction (from "V/H/S/2"): Teens staging a fake alien abduction are terrorized by real extraterrestrial beings during a slumber party, resulting in chaos and terror.

Gorgeous Vortex (from "V/H/S: Viral"): A magician discovers a mysterious cloak granting him incredible powers, but as he becomes obsessed, he faces a deadly price, descending into madness. Each segment offers a unique and chilling experience within the found footage format of the "V/H/S" series.

[waterfallswords]

;

"You're not, though. I just laugh so you don't get embarrassed." Tyler returns, unable to hide his grin as it widens at the sight of Rosie's pout. His hands are on his hips like a disgruntled dad at a BBQ grill taking too long, but it's purely while he considers his girlfriend's words. "I'm not gonna be getting drunk. That'd be insane. I don't know anyone properly, what if I puke?" Tyler responds with utmost seriousness, his shoulders lifting in a shrug as if it's common sense. There's a slight comfort in regards to Bella's intuition, however and he chuckles easily. "Is that a witch thing or a family thing 'cause you're pretty intuitive." Tyler says and then nods to a sprawled out Zenobia on Rosie's bed. "And you." he adds to the cat who blinks slowly at him before resting her head down again.

The sound of Rosie's laughter brings out his own, but he waves his hand near her face again in a mock show of an impending attack. "Hey!" he mimics her, nasal voice and mocking tone included for effect. "What!?" Tyler laughs out again at the question, shooting Rosie an incredulous look. "No, she doesn't have a pussy. That'd be the dumbest crush." he quickly continues, scoffing as he returns to packing. He's eased into the idea of the trip, slowly but surely and the way Rosie seems unbothered only helps him relax further. Tyler pretends to be eager to hear this so called secret, giving the witch a sarcastic nod and gasp. "Ohh, okay. Wasn't sure if you were like Cultists or anything. Good to know." he teases, and falls straight into more when Rosie reassures him. "What are your exes' accomplishments? Just curious. What about their social security? Dates of birth? Addresses? Names? Blood types?" Tyler rattles off simply before his laughter breaks his jokes and he's back to packing again. "Your dad is like an English teacher? Because er...my english teachers hated me. All of them. Miss Mendoza literally said I should be the poster boy for advocating corporeal punishment."

"i am hilarious." rosie states, smirking at ty's reaction. the way his brows knit together brings out a quick laugh from the witch and she teases him with a pout. "no, it doesn't feel that serious to me." she says sincerely, thinking more of it as a congregation and celebration than an official meeting. "if it was like dinner with my mom and dad, then it'd be serious. but getting drunk around the pool and stuff with everyone?" her nose crinkles as she shakes her head. tyler's theatrics make her laugh again, arms stationed at his shoulders while she's lifted off the ground slightly. rosie bends her knees, chuckling at the way he sways them side to side. "bella is like weirdly intuitive, that's enough for her to know whether she likes you or not." she says confidently about her cousin, who at times feels more like a sister she never had.

a squeak of a laugh escapes when tyler drops her back to her feet, rosie having no time to defend herself against the shove to her face either except for flailing her arms. "hey!" she exclaims out with mock offense, hitting his wrist away without any vigor to the movement. "did you have a crush on ariel when you were growing up? be honest." rosie challenges him with a grin, but quickly reads the genuine concern within tyler's concern. as much as he jokes, rosie remains mindful that all of this, all of everything, is like a new world to him. which would be a great joke if it was a song from the little mermaid instead of aladdin. "you wanna know a secret?" rosie beckons ty closer with her finger, grinning. "my dad hasn't been able to tell me who i should date for a while. like years. crazy, right?" she mock whispers before laughing. "plus i think an olympic gold medalist kinda tops...every one of my exes' accomplishments. you're overthinking this. aaaaand...felix is there. he has someone to do the whole 'the curtains were blue to represent melancholy' thing."

[missmeinyourbones]

TOOK THIS DAGGER IN ME AND REMOVED IT

TW: blood, injury, mentions of stitching an open wound, touya is hurt and reader has to help him, probably inaccurate medical terms and procedures bc im not a doctor

Blood has a certain stench, one that never fails to make your heart sink to your stomach. 

It smells hot and metallic, like an iron rod being glazed over an open furnace. It’s foreign. Like you shouldn't be smelling it in the first place, like it knows it shouldn't be intruding on your senses but still does so carelessly. It’s a heavy scent, one that lingers in your mind long after it's been rid of your sight. It's a scent you don't forget. It smells thick and tepid and wrong. 

Chemically, Touya’s blood is all the same, so it should smell no different. But it does. 

It smells ten times worse—it smells like fear, like the bone-crushing feeling of realizing that your flying has turned into falling. It reeks of hopelessness, of being frozen in place and not being able to do anything but idly watch. It doesn't smell like the burning of his skin or the smoke of his cigarettes. It smells like death. 

You never want to smell it again, but realistically, that can only successfully happen in one of two ways.

One, you stop it. Stop his current bleeding. Stop him from giving his all to a cause that wears him away to skin and bone. Stop the fire inside of him from catching any further, the one that’s kept him warm and full of hatred for the past ten years. 

Or two, he dies. He takes away the opportunity by not having any blood left. Can’t smell what’s not there.  

As the familiar scent fills your nostrils, you remind yourself that now is not the time to be weighing your options. Now, is time to act. 

“Touya, that’s—that’s a lot of blood,” your voice quivers.

You watch his frame shudder at the loss of warmth in his veins. Eyes raking over his body at the speed of light, he slumps against the wall beside your door.

“Thanks,” he somehow still finds the energy to tease, “s’exactly what I wanna hear right now.”

The cheap first aid kit you’d put together sits beside where you kneel, the red plus on the cover silently mocking you. You had bought a cheap one a few months ago, adding your own items after being unprepared the first few times he’d caught you off guard with a late night visit and alarming injuries. 

You remember the first time you pulled it out, how he’d teased you for going soft on him—as if you haven’t been, as if you always weren’t. 

You tear a fresh needle from the packaging before searching the plastic box for some thread. This isn't the first time you've stitched him up, and while you hope it's the last, something about it feels different this time.

You shove that thought to the back of your brain. 

Not now, you tell yourself. You've done it before. You’ll do it again.

Your hands tremble helplessly as you begin to bring the needle closer to the end of the string. For a split moment, they align and you push them together—only to be a second too late and miss the opening. The string curls in on itself and around the needle.  

“Okay, okay, okay it's fine. You—you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine. I just—just have to—”

His slurred speech finishes your thought, “Thread the needle.” 

You lick the end of the string in an attempt to smooth it and aid your shaky hand. The twine trembles around the tiny metal opening before barely missing—once, twice, three times. As if mocking you, it sticks to the side of the needle before jumping off and forcing you to try again.

“Yeah,” you barely whisper beneath a sigh, not wanting to breathe too loud in fear of the slightest breeze playing a role in your struggle.

The string laughs at your desperate and feeble attempts. As if it knows that every second you take to thread the needle—the needle meant to stop Touya from bleeding out on your floor—is a second lost in saving him. Its laughter mimics the sound of a ticking clock. One that refuses to stop, no matter how many times you pull the string away from the hole and try, try, try. 

Your breath quickens as you lick the end of the thread once more. You’re losing time. He’s dying in your hands. 

“Yeah, don’t worry. It’s fine, just stay awake, okay? Just keep, fuck—!”  

Your fists clench in panic after missing for the umpteenth time, nails digging into the palms of your hands and leaving crescents that you don't even feel through the heat of the moment. The cry comes out pathetic from the back of your throat. A pure guttural groan of frustration and terror and complete incompetency. 

You can’t do it. You can’t thread the measly needle that could save his fucking life. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry. M’sorry, my hands. My hands won’t stop shaking, I can’t. I don’t think I can—”

“You got it,” Touya enunciates the syllables slowly, and you don't know if it's so you hear him clearly or if it’s because he’s struggling to get them out.  

“I don't, I—”

His hand softly grazes your knee, before fully resting its weight on top. 

“I believe in you,” he bleeds, not from his wound but from his mouth. And not of blood, but of an ever-flowing trust that feels a lot like love. But even dying, Touya is guarded—so he catches himself and recovers with a lame, “Or whatever.”

His words make you still for a moment—a moment you can't afford to be idle for. 

“What—?”

Touya audibly laughs at your reaction, immediately wincing at the sharp soreness oozing from his abdomen.

“Yeah, I know,” he mentally scolds himself. “If it feels weird hearing it, imagine how fuckin’ weird it feels saying it.” 

Something in Touya’s words changes something in you. Now, instead of hyperventilating, you’re holding your breath. But it doesn't feel suffocating, like you’re gasping for air. It feels like a moment of stillness, peace. 

As if his tongue works magic, your still hands thread the needle.

A shaky exhale shrugs your shoulders. You readjust your positioning so you're closer to his torso. “I don't think it’s weird,” your voice is merely a ghosted whisper. “It just caught me off guard.”

Touya takes a pained inhale. “Me too,” he admits without a hint of shame, “didn’t really believe in people anymore, ‘til you came and fucked me all up.”

You laugh, a snotty teary giggle from the back of your throat, and Touya feels like he’s on fire in the best way possible. In a way that cleanses him of all sins and allows him to be reborn from the charcoal of his own ashes.

“Sorry,” you whisper with a shaky smile. Your nose is sniffly and your labored breathing almost matches his.

He immediately retaliates, “Don’t be.”

He feels more awake now, more aware. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from all the blood he’s lost, or perhaps your laughter truly breathed that much more life back into his lungs. 

“Okay,” you sit up straight, leaning over his frame and bringing your hands closer to where he bleeds, “okay just, talk to me. Keep talking.”

You don't mean for it to come across as a plea, but it does—both of you can sense the desperation behind it. You don't know whether you beg for him to talk so he can stay awake, or so you can stay distracted from the weight of the situation at hand. 

You decide through ragged breathing that maybe it can be both of those things. Maybe everything doesn't have to be so black and white. Grey can be nice, too. 

Touya does what he does best, and he puts up a fight. 

“Really?” he glares, one that's far too familiar and far too inappropriate for a time like this. 

“Yes,” the demand is hushed through your clenched teeth. Your eyes remain on the shredded skin of his wound, needle now aligned in preparation to begin stitching. 

“Fine, come here often?”

His smug response gives you the courage to push the needle through the skin by the edge of the wound. Touya groans at the immediate sting of the intrusion, wincing at the dragging of the thread. 

“Too often,” you pull the string taut, resulting in another flinch from him, “but that's not what I meant.”

“Should’ve specified,” he grits through a clenched jaw. 

The needle is now moist with Touya’s blood. Every time the string is pulled through his skin in an attempt to close the wound, it comes out red, red, red.

You feel yourself getting worked up again. Your adrenaline can only carry you for so long, you can feel it withering away as anxiety replaces itself back into your veins. 

“This is really fucking deep, Touya, I don’t know if—if I can—”

“When I was younger,” his voice is strained, as if it hurts him to speak, “I used to love the fall.”

Your eyes flicker up from his cut and to his stare—he’s already looking at you, not caring that he’s been caught admiring your misty eyes. After a moment, his gaze finds the ceiling with another shaky exhale.

He continues, “Counted down the days ‘til October came around every year.”

His tone is a bit dreamy, like he isn't reliving a memory but instead telling a story—one that never got to fully be his. 

Your hands busy themselves with closing his wound again, “What’d you like about it?”

“The trees,” he answers seamlessly, “the way they change colors.” His pupils grow in size as he imagines the colors in his mind. “Green. Then yellow and orange. Reds and browns.” 

You say nothing, but nod in encouragement—so he knows you're listening, knows you want him to keep talking. Though just a mere tilt of your head, Touya knows to read it as a desperate ‘thank you.’ 

“My mom said somethin’ one time, about how they reminded her of my hair. Changing.”

His words make you think of a tiny Touya Todoroki. One with white frayed locks that bleed with shades of red randomly drizzled across his scalp. As if he were a painting and the artist delicately danced a few single brushstrokes of scarlet onto his canvas. 

“I like how they change, but I think—”

He pauses and you think it’s because you’ve hurt him. You expect him to sharply inhale or groan in agony as you near the end of sealing his wound and tying the string. 

But he doesn’t, he just stops. As if he’s thinking to himself, his eyes return to you. 

“I think my favorite part is how they always grow back,” he decides. “Every Autumn, they fall off and die. But every Spring, they come back.”

You nod back to him, because you understand him. Maybe not fully, maybe not at all, the more you think about it. But you try to understand him, you always try. And that’s more than he’s ever been given.

After a moment of silent staring, he merely shrugs off in embarrassment the topic—now no longer on the brink of death and suddenly embarrassed at the vulnerable overflow of word vomit.

“I dunno, I jus’ like it,” he concludes.

The wound is now closed—poorly, but closed all the same. The red blood he’s covered in is no longer fresh and oozing from the cut, but is now dry and flakes into a deep burgundy on his torso. 

You straighten your back, having been hunched over on your knees for the past twenty minutes. “It’s not great, but it stopped the bleeding,” you conclude with the ability to finally breathe.  

Touya rolls his eyes at your humble statement, “It does the job.”

It saved my life, is what he means to say. You saved my life, with more than just a needle and thread.

He brings a hand to your cheek. You grab his wrist with both hands, keeping it in place against your skin. He watches you lean into the touch, and he comforts you by tapping his fingers against your blush a few times.

Your eyelashes flutter against his fingertips, “Make me do this for you again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Touya smiles, a lazy one, but you decide it still counts. You’ll take what you can get. 

“Sorry, doll.”