#moon halo.. sobs

[luochas]

WHEN I TELL U I DIED FR

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 33

Part 1 Part 32

It’s only after he’s circled the house that he notices the blood trail. Droplets so black that when Eddie’s foot squelches into a particularly large puddle, he feels like he could fall straight out of the world.

The blood splatters continue, curving around the pool and into the forest, leading him inexorably toward Steve. His fallen angel.

 Behind him, Wayne and Hopper are following the blood, flashlight beams bouncing from drop to drop like bloodhounds. Eddie doesn’t need to. He lets himself be pulled, ever forward, toward salvation.

Vines pool on the forest floor, making careful steps necessary in the dim, red light.

Wayne lets his flashlight stray ahead, giving Eddie a little light in the darkness. It’s the first thing that halos Steve’s face, illuminating the grisly sight.

Eddie screams from his gut, throat wrenching with the force as he drops to his knees. Vines enshrine him, pinning him to the base of a tree by ribs and hips.

One has slithered up over his body and crawled into his throat in a macabre reversal of a breathing tube. Eddie wrenches it free, feels the pulpy flesh of Steve’s esophagus resist, doesn’t stop. He can’t. Steve needs that out of his throat. So, Eddie pulls. And pulls. And pulls.

It screams and writhes on the way out, trying to crawl back to someplace warm. It’s impossibly long and makes a wailing sound when Eddie finally wrenches it free, tossing it behind him.

“Oh, Jesus,” Hopper says, just before he starts shooting.

Eddie doesn’t look, can’t look away from Steve’s placid, unmoving face. “He’s not breathing!” he shouts, over the sound of gunfire, running useless hands up his cheeks and into his hair, like he can soak the warmth of life back into Steve through his skin.

Eddie is shoved unceremoniously to the side. Steve’s skin slips through his fingers as he falls, hard to the dirt. He bursts up snarling, an uncaged, wild thing, ready to bite and tear and rend. But It’s Uncle Wayne. Uncle Wayne who has crossed his fingers together and is repetitively pounding on Steve’s chest hard enough that it cracks. “Uncle Wayne?” he asks, small. Quiet. Like a little boy holding up a skinned knee and waiting for his Uncle to fix it. Uncle Wayne doesn’t turn his way.

Hopper falls to his knees, wrenching his helmet off and letting the toxic air in. He bends over Steve, pinches his nose, and breaths forcefully into his mouth. His heart is beating, and his lungs are contracting, and Eddie is fucking useless.

He crawls back over to Steve’s prone form – Steve’s corpse – to take his cold hand. “Come on, Steve,” he says, staring hard at closed eyes. “Stay with me, Stevie, okay?” Hopper breathes out into his mouth. Wayne snaps another rib. Steve stays dead.

Suddenly, Eddie is furious. His nails dig into Steve’s palm hard, crescent moon indents on the back of his hand. This fucking stupid jock saved his stupid fucking life and now he thinks he can fucking die? Eddie wants to hurt him. “You don’t get to do this, you stupid piece of shit,” he says, guttural. Barely language at all. “You should have fucking died day one if you were just going to do this.” Wayne’s hands beat, Hopper’s lungs breathe, neither of them pay him any mind. “Get back here right now or I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

Like the dramatic bastard he is, Steve choses that moment to be alive. He coughs, choking up black sludge until Wayne and Hopper roll him on his side, face toward Eddie. Viscous black fluid pours out of him as he coughs it out of his lungs like Hell’s first drowning victim.

“Stevie?” Eddie says, full-on sobbing as he crawls ever-closer, pressing his forehead to Steve’s own. His eyes are open slits and he doesn’t speak, but he quirks his lips up at the sides when he meets Eddie’s eyes, fingers feebly clutching at the lapel of Eddie’s rancid vest. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Wayne pulls his head back, just enough so Hopper can settle a mask over the bottom of Steve’s face, feeding him clean oxygen for the first time in a week. Steve slumps into the dirt, Wayne’s hands supporting his back.

“We need to move,” Hopper says.

Steve’s relaxed into the dirt, asleep or passed out, but alive. Eddie stares at his angelic face for a second, or a minute, or an hour more, before slumping Steve backward, settling Steve into Uncle Wayne’s trusted arms so he can stand.

“I’ll carry him,” Eddie says, stumbling to his feet and holding out his arms.

“Kid,” Hopper says, clasping his hand with a familiarity they’ve never had. “You’re shaking.”

Eddie takes his left hand, tries to manually stop the shaking of his right. But he’s just holding his own hand, shaking. And shaking. And shaking.

“I can carry him,” Eddie says.

“I know,” Hopper says. “You don’t have to.”

Eddie looks down at Steve, a deadweight atop Wayne. Steve who played bait and brat with the Demogorgon not once, but twice to save Eddie’s unworthy life. He looks at his sallow cheeks and limp hair and doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

Reconciled to not carrying his guardian angel out of Hell, Eddie leads the procession out of the woods for the last time.

Part 34

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Flights of Fancy

Fairies were not affected by the end of the world, or so they say. The spaces these creatures inhabited were neither here nor there after all.

A grassy hill that goes up forever until you trip and fall and find yourself by a well of crystalline water. The old woman asks you for a drink. Rings of fleshy red-topped mushrooms where the air smells dense with pollen and the sun is always on the cusp of setting. A penniless man will ask to share your rations, be sure you do. Stairs in the middle of the fields in the middle of the night with no door or walls or roof. You may climb them, if you dare, if you listen closely to the whispers, and do not mind how the stars stare back at you. You may even have your wish come true if you walk backwards down the way you came, keeping eye contact up above.

The people turned to old stories–for what more was there to lose? They came in rags, feet bound in loose ribbons, and bodies turned to slivers. They smelled of smoke and rot and grief and you could never tell if the fairy knew if it was the end of the world or not. They came the long way: parting the waterfall with an umbrella half-broken and half-open. Arriving on the full moon and wearing their dirty clothes backwards.

The ground was mossy and the air was thick with steam. A hot springs burbled endlessly, as it had since the beginning. She sits with her proud head back and black gaze slitted, eyes that have seen everything but a dawn or a dusk or a high rise built of cement. They staggered across her domain in twos and threes and stuck their feet in her springs. She is already devising curses.

Light streamed in from a skylight up above and highlighted their burns and scabs and hallowed eyes. The fairy sighs.

“Bring me my pearl necklace, please my dears. It is priceless to my heart.” She points to the halo of light within the water, and waits. The people looked on. She is both young and old, hair of twilight white and face both withered and ageless at once. The people pick up stones, and throw them.

She hisses an animal-hiss and curses their family lines. They beg. They sob. The people who have seen too much–too many dawns and dusks and rubble–and wish for the thing that fairies do. To change the people. Change them into 100-year sleepers or joyous dancers or girls that throw-up snakes. They missed snakes.

A stone cracks across the fairy’s cheek and dark blood spills across her front. She turns each one of them into birds: three blackbirds, a magpie, two house sparrows, and a handful of jays. They fly away through the skylight.

FIN

[yuanology]

Im back again👹, I’ve been thinking on fwb with suguru, and I believe that in some way Suguru would prefer fucking in the night, only the moon through the window as a source of light, yknow like i can’t get out of my head praising suguru, telling him how pretty he is but he can’t help it but feel not enough ,like not enough to be something more than a sexual partner

lowpropgeo my head is full of sad ideas 🐸(it’s a sad frog )

jesus fucking christ.

suguru lets out the prettiest noises when you're buried deep inside of him, thrusting into him lazily as if you intended to make love to him until the end of the world came and passed, leaving your skeletons still wrapped in each other's arms; a perfect mimicry of the lovers you were not.

he was shy about his noises. you knew that from the very beginning. he would cover his mouth with his hand, beg you to stuff his mouth full with your fingers. even so, you always taught him that there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about. you always caught his wrists, pinning them over his head, as you coaxed sound after sound out of his lips.

tonight was no different. the blinds were parted slightly, just enough for the moonlight to filter through. it was a pleasant reminder that just one wrong move was all that it would take to reveal everything unraveling here to the rest of the world.

you were always careful with him. this sight was just for you, after all—geto suguru in your sheets, his back arched and his lips parted, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull and his toes curling in his pleasure as you coaxed out pretty sound after pretty sound from his mouth. he was beautiful, always had been, and unlike most people, you had the privilege to tell him that straight to his face.

so you did.

"you're beautiful," you whispered. your voice was too soft, too loaded with such reverence and awe, but you had learned to stop catching yourself a long time ago. suguru was always the most beautiful when the compliments would filter through his ears, and the weight of your words would settle on his ribs.

true enough, suguru let out a sound that was akin to a sob. his nails dragged across the skin on your back, no doubt leaving red marks that wouldn't fade away for days. you only let out a low chuckle, the sound helplessly fond, as your mouth met the skin of his jaw.

"it's true," you continued. "you're beautiful, suguru. every inch of you." especially this way, bathed in the moonlight with his hair splayed all around him like a crown; a halo befitting a fallen angel

here, cradled in your existence, geto suguru was entirely yours—and what a thrill it was to hold him in your arms, to simply hold him as you fuck into him lazily without a care for the world. "so, so beautiful," you murmured.

he let out a ruined sound. "please," he choked out. it wasn't the first time he had begged you tonight, and you sincerely doubted this would be the last if you kept this up.

he was always so good to you, setting aside his pride and arrogance just so that you would hold him the way he deserved to be held—as if he was something precious, as if he was someone worthy. it was still nice, admittedly, to see suguru break and become a mindless being who just wanted more of your touch, your presence, your love.

"please what, gorgeous?" your lips skirted over his jaw.

his voice was strangled. "want more. not enough." he sounded fucked out, entirely braindead. you doubted he even noticed the way his hips were fucking against you, the motion steady enough that you could stop thrusting into him and he would barely notice.

"what's not enough, lovely?" you asked him. a customary question.

you expected the ordinary answers, the sound of his voice catching in his throat repeatedly before he managed to grit out his answer. please, you could already hear him say. please, this isn't enough. i want more. it was routine at this point, a predictable motion, a back and forth.

so you weren't expecting it when he choked out—

"you."

there were tears in his eyes. his nails were scratching down your back. his voice was ruined. this should all be the usual. this should be predictable.

except his answer was all the wrong ones.

oblivious to your internal struggle, suguru sobbed underneath you. his body writhed, clinging onto you tighter. "please, please, please," he babbled. "i want more. not enough. please, not enough."

not enough. not enough. not enough.

all thoughts of lingering quickly curdled into something sour in your stomach. you reared back, hips meeting his in one abrupt motion. a loud scream escaped suguru's throat, a sound that you would usually relish in but couldn't focus on now.

your motions were robotic as you fucked him, sharp and hard and fast the way suguru liked it when you ruined him. not enough, huh? fine. if suguru thought none of this was enough, then you would just please him the way he wanted to be pleased. you wouldn't linger any longer, wouldn't give him reprieve or a chance to be touched the way he deserved to be touched.

(and fuck, didn't that thought hurt? you thought you were both doing well; that something more was perhaps blooming. you must have thought wrong.)

suguru continued letting out slurred words under his breath, his pleas bleeding into the sound of his own choked moans. you disregarded it. instead, you fucked him as if you didn't care about him, fucked him as if he was just another warm body for you to get yourself off on.

suguru wailed, and you swallowed the heart beating in the back of your mouth.

not enough. not enough. not enough.

you leaned your forehead on his shoulder, feeling him shudder underneath you beautifully. you couldn't help the lump that formed in your throat, the gentle ache in your chest that you had learned to associate with geto suguru.

not enough.

it shouldn't be a surprise, really, that suguru woke up the next morning without you by his side for the first time in a long time. there was no letter, no message, none of your warmth lingering on the bed next to him. you were gone, just like that.

still, suguru thought as he clenched his fists. at least, if you were going to leave him, you shouldn't cook him breakfast and leave out coffee before you did.

[cyberslvts]

PAS DE DEUX || w.maximoff

Summary you grapple with the intensity with your feelings for Wanda and through a powerful dance your love and longing for one another are vividly unveiled

Warnings: angst, brief arguing, happy endings, kissing, forbidden love, allusions to homophobia, secret romance, my fav sappic balerinas, they r so cute im gonna sob!!

Pairing: ballerinaWanda! x ballerina!reader

WC: 3.5k

Note: this was sm fun to write i am obsessed

———

In the heart of the cold city, hidden behind a façade of faded grandeur, stood the enigmatic Thornfield School of Ballet. Within its dimly lit corridors and ornate ballrooms, the ethereal art of ballet was practiced with an intensity that mirrored the shadows that danced upon the walls. It was here that you found solace, your delicate movements and haunting grace resonating with the melancholic melodies that echoed through the grand hallways.

The Thornfield Opera House stood silent and grand, its vast expanse illuminated only by the silvery glow of the moon filtering through the tall, arched windows. The night felt like it swallowed you. The silence and loneliness of the dark gave you a heightened sense of focus. Dressed in a simple leotard and ballet skirt, you moved gracefully to the center of the stage. The empty red velvet seats, normally bustling with anticipation, now looked like slumbering sentinels in the darkness.

You were a brilliant and elegant dancer, the prima ballerina of the Thornfield Ballet School. Your every step seemed to weave magic, casting a spell over the audience with each performance. The years of training and dedication cultivated you so that you weren't just a dancer but a conduit for the very essence of the art form.

A sigh escaped your lips as you raised your arms, the opening strains of a haunting melody filled your ears. The music existed within the depths of your memory, each note etched into your soul. It was a melody only you could hear, a secret dance between you and the music of your heart.

With a deep breath, you began to move. Each step was deliberate, each extension of your limbs an expression of the emotions that swirled within you. The moonlight cast delicate shadows that danced along with you, a spectral audience that whispered its approval in the rustling of fabric

Your body twisted and turned across the stage and the opera house felt as if it came alive around you. The soft echos of your footfalls echoed throughout the grand hall, filling the space with a magical resonance.

The empty velvet red chairs surrounded you, blurring into a hue of gold and scarlet as you spun and twirled across the stage. The spotlight illuminated your form, casting long, enchanting shadows that stretched toward the edges of the grand hall. Your body seemed to merge with the haunting music, each note a whispered secret between you and the piano keys

You imagined thousands of eyes on you, each one locked in a mesmerizing trance that only you could break. You lost yourself in the dance, completely surrendering yourself to the music's embrace.

The final strains of the music echoed through the hall, and you froze in a final, breathtaking pose. The world felt like it held its breath for a moment before a figure emerged from the shadows of the audience.

“You know I don't like it when you come and watch me unannounced”

You spoke into the dark crowd. You didn't even need to see her to know who she was. A vibrant flash of red hair was illuminated by the spotlight as she stepped onto the stage.

“You’re glowing my love, How could I not stay and watch” she voiced, coming across the stage, wanting to be closer to you.

Wanda Maximoff, the embodiment of enigmatic allure, graced the Thornfield Opera House with a presence that demanded attention. With each step she took, the air seemed to shift around her, charged with an energy that was at once magnetic and captivating. A vibrant mane of crimson hair framed her face like a fiery halo, accentuating her aura of intensity.

As one of Thornfield's top dancers, Wanda's brilliance on stage was undeniable. Her movements bore the hallmark of a maestro, each gesture calculated and precise, cutting through the air like a sharpened blade. her performances left an indelible mark on the hearts of those who witnessed them.

The contrast between your styles was like a beautifully orchestrated duet: While you danced with the gentle grace of a waltz, guided by the melodies that flowed through your soul, Wanda's dance was a tempestuous tango, a dance with the shadows and the edge of passion. Her movements were sharper, her steps darker, and her presence engulfed the stage like a storm, leaving no corner untouched by her intensity.

Where your dance was a soothing balm, Wanda's was a consuming fire. Your elegance and grace resonated like a sonnet, whereas Wanda's movements told a story of calculated power. In your delicate pirouettes and fluid arabesques, there was a serenity that brought solace to the heart, like a gentle lullaby. But in Wanda's commanding leaps and controlled spins, there was a darkness that beckoned, a realm where passion and pain coexisted.

Wanda Maximoff, with her entrancing presence and mesmerizing dance, had woven her way into your heart in ways you never imagined. From the first time you saw her onstage, you were already hers. The secret romance that blossomed between you two was a delicate tapestry of stolen glances, secret rendezvous, and the softest of touches. Your attachment to her felt like poisonous vines, both intoxicating and dangerous. Squeezing around your heart until there was no escaping its grip.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the intensity of your feelings for Wanda began to stir a twinge of fear deep within you. The opera house, was a haven for your love, a place where you and Wanda could share stolen moments in the shadows. Yet, the world outside those walls was a different story altogether.

The truth was, relationships like yours and Wanda's were not welcomed with open arms within the confines of Thornfield. The Society's rigid expectations and conservative norms casted a long shadow over any love that dared to deviate from the conventional path. If your feelings were exposed, you both knew that you would face the harsh reality of ostracization. Given your elevated position within the ballet company, the fallout could be even more devastating. You yearned to dance freely with Wanda, to hold her close without the weight of hidden affections, but the thought of the world discovering your love kept you trapped in a ruthless cycle of avoidance.

As she began to approach you, you instinctively turned away, a motion that caused a flicker of hurt to cross Wanda's expression. Her smile faltered, and you silently crossed the stage, heading toward the speaker in order to switch to a different song.

“I need to practice, Wanda,” you spoke without facing her, hoping she would take the hint to leave you.

"You've been avoiding me," she suddenly declared, her voice ringing out in the open space. She came to a halt at the center stage, her gaze fixed firmly on your form. The intensity of her eyes holding you in place.

The intimacy you shared with her had grown to such profound heights that the mere thought of it sent shivers down your spine. Each stolen kiss and every whispered promise felt like a thread connecting you to a love that was becoming too powerful to be contained. And so, you found yourself avoiding her, retreating into the shadows like a fragile creature seeking solace from the storm.

In your heart, you knew that Wanda sensed your distance, your absence from her side even in a crowded room. The weight of your unspoken emotions was presence, that casted a shadow over your every interaction. She, with her intuitive nature, surely understood that something was wrong, even if the words went unspoken.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Wanda," you deflected, your voice tinged with a hint of unease.

“Yes, you do.” Her strides toward you were purposeful, carrying an air of frustration and longing

“You've stopped meeting me in the garden. you leave your door locked at night. You won't even look at me during rehearsal.” The light in her eyes dimmed, mirroring the distance that had inadvertently arisen. She, no doubt, grappled with the same intensity of your connection, the love that had burgeoned between you.

The guilt gnawed at you, knowing that Wanda deserved more than your silence, more than your hesitation. She deserved the world, and yet here you were, your heart caught in a tug-of-war between your love for her and the fear that had taken root within you.

"I've just been busy," you offered, your voice lacking the conviction it needed. The truth was, you couldn't bring yourself to lie, especially not to Wanda. Without meeting her gaze, you brushed past her, your eyes fixed on the sea of empty chairs as you prepared for the next song.

"Just as I said, I need to practice. I don't have time for this," you continued, your words slightly rushed, a veil of anxiety underscoring them. The show was fast approaching, and the pressure weighed heavily on you. "The performance is on Friday, and I barely have my part of the pas de deux down, and—"

"Fine then, I'll stay and help you," she interrupted, her voice carrying an unwavering determination. Wanda understood you better than anyone else. She knew that ballet was your lifeblood, your very essence. If that was the avenue she had to take to reach you, then so be it.

As the music began to fade in, she moved closer, bridging the gap between you. You stared at her, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty in your eyes. Was she serious?

Although Wanda wasn't your official partner in the pas de deux, her innate talent and brilliance made it easy for her to memorize the choreography. She had watched the routine countless times, During rehearsals, you'd often catch her gaze fixed on you, burning ache evident in her eyes. You wished it was her presence by your side, her soft, delicate hands on you, instead of the rough masculine ones whisking you through the air.

She took your hand in hers, her touch a warm reassurance that sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced at her one last time before the dance commenced, your movements seeming almost too deliberate, lacking the usual fluidity that came so naturally to you. Every step felt calculated as if you were trying to maintain a distance that your heart was struggling to obey. Wanda's gaze, however, remained fixed on you, unwavering and intense.

With each movement, her eyes searched yours, probing for answers to the questions you hadn't voiced. The emotions that played across her face were a silent plea, a desperate attempt to understand the reason behind your avoidance. Yet, even as you tried to keep your focus on the dance, the intensity of her gaze was a distraction you couldn't escape.

“Relax,” Wanda's voice cut through the tension, her hands on your waist guiding your movements. Your arms extended gracefully on each side, and your toes pointed delicately against the smooth wooden stage

In that instant, Wanda's movements shifted, becoming more edged and intense. She led you through a series of intricate steps, each one a silent declaration of her love and devotion to you. As the music swelled, your bodies came alive, moving in perfect synchrony. You began with a series of intertwining pirouettes, your movements mirroring Wandas with an effortless harmony. With every rotation, your eyes met briefly, a fleeting connection that spoke volumes beyond words.

You battled with your own emotions, your heart warring with your mind. You were determined to maintain the distance you believed was necessary to protect yourself and Wanda from the intensity of your shared feelings. The love you felt for her was a tempestuous sea, and you feared being swept away by its currents.

Yet, As you moved as one there was an undeniable chemistry, an untamed force driving you towards her. Her eyes followed your every move, filled with a love that yearned to be free from constraints.

Wanda's touch was gentle yet firm, her hands on your waist guiding your movements with a confidence that only came from a deep understanding. As you twirled and spun, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a realm where the intensity of your love was matched only by the beauty of your dance.

When the music built to its crescendo, Wanda's grip on you tightened her touch a grounding force in the midst of your internal storm. And in that final, breathtaking pose, as the music lingered in the air, your eyes locked onto each other's, a world of unspoken words passing between you.

As your heavy breathing slowed, the moment was broken when you turned away, walking out of her embrace,

“Why won't you just let me love you,” her voice echoed in the space, a plea that hung in the air like an unanswered question.

"Because I can't, Wanda," You whispered, your voice tinged with a hint of sadness. The reality of the situation weighed heavily, the knowledge that your love existed in a world that did not understand.

“Yes, you can” she countered, coming closer to you.

“People will find out. And when they find out theyll talk.” you exasperated, The weight of the world's judgment pressed down on you, suffocating the love that burned within you.

Wanda turned to face you, her expression determined. "Then hide me. Lock me away from the world if you have to," She breathed out, her voice carrying a plea that mirrored the depth of her feelings. She was willing to sacrifice her visibility, her place in the world, if it meant keeping your love intact. “I just want to be with you Y/n. Why can't you see that?”

It was your deep affection for her that filled you with guilt, knowing that she deserved better than waht you were giving her. You believed she deserved someone who would cherish her openly, free from the shackles of secrecy that bound your love. Wanda's passion, her unwavering commitment, made your heart ache with love for her, but it also filled you with an overwhelming sense of guilt. You loved her so much that it hurt, and you wanted nothing more than to see her happy.

“I can't do that to you, Wanda.” Guilt welled up inside you, emotions spilling over like a river bursting its banks. “You deserve to be with someone different. Someone who can love you without fear.”

“But I don't want that!” Her breathing was heavy and her, eyes burned with anger. "I am yours, Y/n," she declared, her voice sharp with passion. "All I want in return is your love, And you can't even give me that.”

You noticed how her bottom lip pushed out ever so slightly, just like it always did when she was trying not to cry.

The pain of your recent avoidance cut deep into her heart, leaving a constant ache that refused to subside. All she wanted was you, all she ever wanted was you, and your unmistakable withdrawal over the past few months had left her feeling lost in a suffocating pit of self-doubt. Why were you so eager to get away from her? Why couldn't she make you stay, even when she had tried her hardest? Was she not good enough to hold your attention?

These questions ate away at her and she had never felt so small, like an insignificant fragment in a world that once felt whole.

“You ignore me and push me away without any explanation.” Her voice was loud as it echoed across the stage. The hurt and insecurity painted on her face. “You're always leaving me. It's like you don't even care about my feelings!”

“Of course I care about your feelings” You turned to her, your own anger begining to rise up inside you. “You’re all I think about, everything I do is for you!”

Every choice you had made was for Wanda, every step you had taken was to protect her from the storm that could come crashing down upon you both. Your love was genuine, but the fear was suffocating, threatening to eclipse everything

"You think this isn't hard for me?" your voice cracked with frustration, your eyes blazing with a mixture of emotions. "I am terrified, Wanda. Every time I see you or feel you, it's like I'm drowning in the fear of what could happen.”

"You make me feel things I never wanted to feel," your breath came out in rapid bursts, as your vision became clouded by tears. "And I'm afraid that those feelings will be written all over me,” Your emotions began to feel overwhelming, the room closing in around you, suffocating you with its walls and the weight of your fear. “So this is the only way I know how to keep us safe, to keep you safe." Your words were punctuated by a sob, choked and raw. The walls you had erected were crumbling, and you were left standing bare before Wanda.

“and It's hard Wanda, it's so fucking hard. I miss you, all the time.” the confession tumbled out, your voice breaking as tears cascaded down your cheeks, the floodgates finally opening.

At the sight of your panicked tears, Wanda immediately rushed to you, her steps were loud across the stage until she caught you in her embrace, wrapping her arms around you in a warm, comforting hold, Wishing she could take away all the pain and fear you felt at that moment.

“Im sorry, Im sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to yell.” The tenderness in her voice was like a soothing balm, her arms holding you even tighter, as you fell into her body.

"I can’t-” You gasped, The fabric of her shirt absorbed the tears that fell from your eyes, “I cant loose you wanda”

The sobs that wracked your body were a release, a catharsis of emotions that had been pent up for far too long.

“You’re not. You are absolutely not losing me,” she reassured you, her words slightly muffled as she pressed kisses to your tear-stained cheeks. You instinctively clung onto her, worried she would disappear.

With her arms wrapped around you, Wanda's touch became your anchor. Her hands moved in tender circles on your back, a gesture of comfort that sent ripples of calm through your frazzled nerves. At that moment, the world seemed to blur and fade, leaving only the two of you cocooned in an intimate haven of solace

Your heartbeat slowed and your breathing relaxed against her. Her breath brushed against your ear, her voice was a gentle whisper, "I can't be without you, y/n" she admitted, spilling out the truths in her heart. “I know you're scared but please don't push me away.” The tenderness in her voice deepened as she continued, her words a balm to your fears. “I don't know what will happen in the future but I can swear to you that im not going anywhere.”

In those words, a sense of solace enveloped you, like a gentle embrace for your weary heart. With her by your side, the fear that had kept you captive began to lose its grip, replaced by a flicker of hope and the reassurance that you didn't have to carry the burden alone.

“Im sorry I avoided you” You whispered not bringing your gaze up to face Wanda as if you were hiding from your actions. “I was awful. I should have just talked to you.”

Wanda brought her hand to your chin tilting your face up until your eyes met hers.

"It's okay, I know you're trying to protect us both," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of sincerity. "But you don't have to do it alone. Whatever happens, We can face it together."

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting Wanda's words melt into your skin. The attentiveness of her understanding touched you deeply, and You started to wonder how you could ever be away from her.

“I love you, so much,” you confessed hoping she could feel your sincerity “And i’m so sorry that I ever made you feel like I didnt.”

Her relief evident in her smile. She cupped your face, her touch grounding you in the present moment. Wanda leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a sweet kiss.

“I love you, more than you could ever know.”

In that stolen moment on the stage, beneath the watchful eyes of the empty velvet seats, your love was a dance in itself – a dance of vulnerability and strength, of passion and tenderness. And as you held each other close, you knew that the opera house, with all its secrets and faded grandeur, held a space where your love could flourish, defying the boundaries of time and circumstance.

[the-ellia-west]

Fallen (Possibly may revive this WIP)

Dyn and Adémiah - Rustpearl

(I was inspired, have some Fallen)

-

Adémiah ran a hand along his shoulder, smiling with a melancholic grace in her eyes, the pearls and opals strung over her face. Gold tassled to her shawl and dress as her fingers stung across his neck.

"You are my sunrise, my daylight, and my light. The burning passion buried so deep in my heart I forgot what it was like to feel this. You are the reason I awake in the morning, and the reason I do not sob my prayers to the sky for shield in the evening." A strange electric shock racing up her fingers as she teased a touch to his jaw, where the finely groomed beard covered a portion of his skin. "The fox that tricks my dreams, you are my fire."

He glanced at her hand, stiffness trying to tense his muscles, but at her touch, his inhibitions melted, and he allowed her to cup his face in her smooth, elegant hand. Her long, delicate fingers wound into his fiery red hair, and he leaned into her, the same electric connection buzzing beneath his skin as his mind screamed at him to leave her on the sofa and run as far away as he could manage. Her fingers met the skin beneath his hair, cool but not icy, and he turned his face into her gentleness, kissing the heel of her palm softly, just a brush, nothing more.

His breath caught in his throat as she leaned closer, breaths gently caressing his neck as she drew close to his shoulder. "May I?"

He nodded gently, and she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, closing her eyes. She found his breath matched time with hers as he leaned into her, opening a space between them where they rested. And for a moment, she let herself forget it all. Let herself forget how much she loathed him. There was no anger in this moment, no hurt, no hate. There was only him.

Adémiah nestled into him, knowing he wouldn't want to return her affection, but she didn't care. As long as he let her have this one moment. It was all she needed.

She pulled back slowly, and locked her eyes into his, deep ocean blue lost in the green of the forest on an early summers day when the light drafts through the leaves. His face twisted in a look of joy and pain. They drifted closer together. Fire an inch from water.

"What is this?" She whispered, his breath more gentle than she could have imagined against her cheek. "What are we? Two lone wolves destined to die together? The sun and the moon, partners in a dance who never meet? Are we meant to be, or meant for loneliness? Are we a fated touch and a bittersweet embrace? Or a chain and pendant, a perfect match? Are we a whisper on the wind, or a prophecy a thousand years in the making?"

He leaned closer, darting her fingers from his hair as the air heartened, thickening into a heavy blanket between them, energy and unspoken thoughts racing from one look to the next. "A mistake." He whispered with the urgency of a man warning war, and he pulled her into a kiss.

They connected at a single point and the fizzling energy exploded into a flower, blooming all at once into a sweet scent that washed all around them, a feeling so complex neither remembered how to breathe. Tension travelled from her to him and back again, locking them together as his hand delicately found her shoulder. A million thimgs communicated in a single moment. Passion and desire, love and hatered, regret, and longing, fire and ice, all and naught.

In that moment he was all she knew. The fire inside him she'd seen the moment she first laid eyes on him, his hair as soft as down feathers haloing around her face in the space. His hot, rough skin as one of her hands wove back into his hair and the other found his arm. She smelled the faint wisp of pinesmoke in his hair, heard the loathing in him despite he did not speak, tasted the wine on him that he doubtlessly tasted on her.

"A misfire." He gasped against her. "A crack in our logic, a flaw in the universe. I hate you."

"And I never want to see you again."

But their lips met again despite the warnings tossed between them, a garden of weeds neither had dared to pick, now stuck between them like a magnet. She didn't remember how many times they repeated this dance.

Only that it ended with a scowl, as Dyn pulled away from her, loathing in his eyes and blood on his lips. He smoothed his hair back, glared down at her, and said, "No matter how much you pretend, I see you for what you are. A fragile raven with a silver tongue. She calls misfortune and manipulates the heart. She is afraid of emptiness, because she knows death by name. She lies and schemes to stave off the inevitable when the cold comes creeping in and she is left without love. And the end she calls upon will come for her at last with hollow mind and icy hands."

And with that, he left.

(This is my third time writing a kiss scene...)

Please Comment you thoughts!!! I WOULD LOVE TO READ THEM

(Read tags for extra context)

@thewritingautisticat @yolbert @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @ambersky0319 @lunaeuphternal

@an-indecisive-nerd @homelessnerd @vesanal @thebookishkiwi @write-with-will

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@tiredpapergirl @whatwewrotepodcast

[s0ulsice]

𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓹𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓾s

Part 2.

Spider is 19, Y/n and Lo’ak are 18, Neteyam is 19, Kiri is 19, Tuk is still 7-8.

‘Kxa’ran’ is a random na’vi name I made up. He is 18.

Disclaimers:

Mentions of uncomfortableness, trying to steal neteyams girl, lo’ak and spider being the y/n protector squad once again, Jake giving fatherly advice, Lo’ak swinging (it's called a punch, bitch) Neteyam and Y/n riding off into the sunset 💙👏😫  

Not rlly smut but gets a lil steamy at the end.

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*

Y/n was a shadow.

She hid herself within the corridors of a raincloud, gentle touches of droplets caressing her skin.

She hides in the whispers, gently singing through the flowers that stitched up the bark of a tree.

Her vision warped into a blur of sounds and colors. I suppose that's why she yearned for nightfall.

On occasion, the sun looms over us like a scolding parent. Fervid gazes and persecuting streaks of heat. A torrid spotlight refusing surrender. 

But oh, how she loved the night…

A veil of sounds, shapes, sporadically neon shaded by the incandescent bioluminescence of Pandora. 

Secrets and stories scattered among a sea of stars. The moon, a searchlight for souls. 

Alluring sirens of the dusk, dragging us to delirium.

If dark, if dreary, if dangerous, if endlessly indefinite, why so amorous?

She spoke to the stars, stole secrets from the sky, and wore moonlight as if a veil.

Sobs and sorrows for the forgotten stories. Requiems for rain clouds and silent storms.

Perhaps that's why she loved the night.

When the world became a shadow, she didn't feel so alone…

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*

Gathering in groups was a normality for the omaticaya.

Today, a group of na’vi was sent to forage herbs, pick fruit, wash away the dirt and grime embedded over time in things like bowls and objects for eating.

They left high camp a bit after morning, departing themselves from the clan’s rocky stronghold and descending below to the jungle.

Y/n sat perched under a tree, 

She gently traced her fingertips up the lines of a small white flower, curiosity and soft wonder embedded within the universe of her eyes.

Observation is a powerful thing. Hearing, sensing, seeing things past others grasp of understanding.

It's a binding freedom 

“Y/n?”

Shaken from her fortress of solitude, Y/n is met with another shadow.

This one looms. It stalks over what little light Y/n allowed in her small dwelling of dusk within the shade of the tree.

It's raining, but it's not the kind that nurtures.

Plants fall to their knees under the man’s thunder of a laugh, mercilessly triumphant, yet accompanied by no accomplishment. 

Kxa’ran.

Y/n peers up in recognition.

Kxa’nan earned himself a place in the flock of warriors Jake trained, Neteyam included. Neteyam and him were commoners of the same stability. Both warriors, neck and neck. Where the Golden Child stood, Kxa’nan rising behind him. One compared to the other. The silent rivalry of two warriors. 

Kxa’nan was a shadow. Not a shadow like Y/n. He was a void, it repels vulnerability and authenticity. 

Kxa’nan’s movements were rehearsed, not-so subtly flexing himself for Y/n's uncomfortable gaze.

You hate it when he flirts with you because he flirts with everyone. It's a cruel joke, really. Disguising something as binding as affection, to cradle someone's heart within the palms of your hands, to build it a home out of glass and shatter it.

“Kxa’nan.”

You greet politely.

You didn't like him. But you weren't an asshole.

He laughs.

What was even funny?

“Whatcha doing here all alone, huh? I'd thought you'd be with your little friends?”

You assume he's talking about Spider and Lo’ak.

Y/n shrugs, avoiding eye contact as best as one can. Trying to focus on the intertwining pattern within the sky, the dim golden halo that laid itself on the tree, leaking through the canopy-quilted and stitched with shades of green.

Kxa’nan dips his gaze down to Y/n's hands. Nimble, soft things. Drawing lines of tranquility in their wake.

His touch invades streaks of silent panic through your body when he reaches down to touch your hands, and the flower cradled within.

“Is that a flower? It's very beautiful..where did you find it?”

His voice is 

You felt exposed. 

Choppy, unfinished breaths tumbling from your lips.

His mere presence overbeared you, yet, Kxa'nan was nothing but a hollow shell.

His figure was made of pesky shadows and illusions of whispers that taunted you, like the laugh of a viperwolf.

He was a thief of trust.

He saw something, an interchangeable force the at spread like the roots to each person, tying us to this shape of vulnerability that appeared as a plaything that held no value to him.

Trust, to him, was a game. A continuance of an arousing match of case and capture, where you find yourself caged.

It's like a scythe when it hits, I panic.

Jake calls it anxiety.

Jake dragged his knowledge of it with him when he came to Pandora.

Jake taught you how to breathe. 

Funny enough from the man that once needed a mask. 

Taught you how to count your breaths from 10 to 1. How to count the leaves on a branch and wait for your chest to not feel so instantaneously heavy.

For a moment the stars fall. The shadow that once deemed itself an attendant of comfort is now a shallow pool of a storm. The ground feels cold, heat rushes to your wrists.

The words bombard your brain.

Leave me alone.

Leave me alo-

“Hey! Back off. I thought I told you not to bother her.”

A familiar five fingered hand finds its home onto Kxa’nan’s shoulder, yanking him back and standing in front of you. 

A tall na’vi with the sides of his head shaved and lazily tied off braids barricades you.

“Can you not fucking count? The 8th time this week I've found you bothering her. Don't you have something better to do?”

Lo’am shoved the boy backwards, his voice a low hiss of annoyance.

Lo’ak was an anarchist of his own recklessness. His gaze grazed with fire unapologetically unable to sit still. 

Sometimes the smoke and ash becomes a haze of intangible adrenaline. preservations for one’s safety wither away under the charred sky. Lo’ak’s anger was a shallow thing, much like his mother.

That's where people fail to truly see, Lo’ak

He was just as protective as Neteyam, if not more. Lo’ak and Neteyam were simply two sides of one stick, one sharp, one blunt. One can be applied as a knife, the other in aid as a crutch or to lean on.

Kxa’nan scoffed.

“I can't count? Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Kxa’nan taunted Lo’ak by jabbing at his “demon blood hands”.

A smaller, pale figure appeared next to you, grabbing your arm, pulling me to your feet, 

In the unwelcoming sequence of three na’vi, spider remains unwavering. 

His gaze stern, annoyed.

“Get lost, idiot.”

Spider glares.

Your wrists don't feel so hot. The ground doesn't sink, the shadows aren't so loud.

Always count on Lo’ak and Spider. As stupid as the two can be.

They were your boys. Your brothers. A type of love that was stitched together out of mismatched pieces.

They fit if you place them in the right position.

“Touch her again and i’ll punch your ass so far into the future you’ll meet the next generation.”

Lo’ak stands, fangs bared, chest almost touching.

Kxa’nan laughs. 

It's thin

it's fake

it's forced.

“Y/n, yawne, did you forget to leash your companions before leaving?”

He smirks at you, and you facepalm at the storm approacching

There's a silence. Worth 6 beats.

“The fuck did he just say?”

Lo’am rhetorically asks the jungle air, before turning to spider.

“Spider. What did he just say?”

“I think he called us animals, Lo’ak.”

“Should we let that slide?”

“Me personally? I would never.”

Spider sighs disapprovingly. Like a parent gently urging a child to make the right decision, clean up their act.

That's the beauty of Lo’ak and spider. 

They fail to see the true weight of any situation when the two face it together.

Everything dark and dreary dusts away under a bad joke and some back-and-forth 

“Guys. C’mon.”

You reach for Lo’ak, tugging him by his armband away from this quandary he's planted himself in.

Lo’ak follows reluctantly, sparing a lingering glare at Kxa’nan.

“Try that shit again, I dare you!”

Lo’ak calls over his shoulder. 

“He dares you!”

Spider fans the fire.

You groan, not expecting to be babysitting two idiots today. 

“For the love of Eywa you two-”

Your boys. You loved them anyways.

If you were a shadow, Lo’ak and spider were your clouds. Protecting you from looming notions that threatened to tear the darkness. 

Neteyam watched from afar.

Neteyam wasn't normally a very angry person. 

Inconspicuous glares and silent mumbles. Flicks of his tail subtly revealing his brewing emotions.

Other than that, Neteyam wore a mask. 

Accustomed to pleasantries, never daring to chase beyond the notion of familiarity. Having an audience, the constant need to entertain those even he swore to eywa he couldn't tolerate, was a burdening thing.

Eye contact. Smile. Sit up straight. Don't laugh too loudly. 

Some swore if they turned neteyam over and searched the right corners, you'd find puppet strings.

His mask grew with the years, cracking only in small fragments wear vulnerability leaked through the crevices, small silent outbursts of leashless emotions.

It's a rare sight.

But at this moment, Neteyam swore Lo’aks fire was spreading.

Loneliness came as a luxury for neteyam. It was the only time he allowed himself to truly become hers.

Some nights, all he dreamed of was her.

Her. Her. Her. Her. Her.

Oh, how he longs for her. 

If he kissed her, if he even so much as grazed her skin, he'd fear shed disappear back to the shadows.

Coaxing hesitance was a second-nature concept.

Yet, he's haunted by an insatiable compulsion to protect her.

Ghosts of daydreams, husks of lingering touches and reincarnations of longing gazes. Rain carries ghosts that cherish the fragments of their lives within the darkness of the clouds, because the vexatious luminescent antagonist we claim to be sunlight, provides no sanctuary to a ghost.

Perhaps that's why his daydreams abandon him. 

Perhaps the dissipate to his own negligence.

He was always yours. He didn't want you in the way Kxa’nan did. Your heart wasn't a game or an object to be used, then discarded.

You were a story. He would treat you like one of your flowers unless you wished otherwise. 

He would do anything for you.

He would steal every happy ending for you. 

You preferred small corners in which he couldn't fit. You preferred night to day. 

Neteyam was in sunlight.

You were a shadow.

And sunlight and shadow cannot touch. 

Neteyams attempts to dim himself always became futile. Dreams of touching you became glimpses. It lingers in a flurry of color, his palms longing for your warmth.

Vexation was silent.

It never screamed.

Until this moment.

Kiri, whom was rambling about the river crystals she planned on collecting, thanking neteyam for letting him use his basket as she waded in the shin deep Creek, 

Neteyam’s lne of focus scrutinized the sight a few trees ahead of him.

Kxa’Nan grabbing your hands, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles.

He couldn't hear, but neteyam could see your agape mouth, he sensed inaudible shallow breaths.

He was touching you.

He was touching you.

He was touching you.

He was touching you.

Aggression stirred beneath his skin.

How he watched Kxa’nan skip off like nothing happened, after Spider and Lo’ak made their grand entrance and not-so-swift escape.

“Pandora to Neteyam!”

Kiri chucked a yovo fruit at his head.

The man had been staring into space for the last 6 minutes. 

Kiri personally didn’t spare something as precious as brain cells on something as meager as the two unbearable creatures she called her brothers, but the occasional pestering that accompanied their relationship has become a necessity.

Kiri had found some feathers near the river on her hunt for crystals.

She was offering them to neteyam for his knife sheath (she’s been begging him for weeks. His sheath is just ‘too boring’ for her taste.)

  when she found her brother mindlessly wandering his gaze ahead.

“Ow-

What the hell-

Kiri!”

He glared at his sister.

Kiri huffed.

“Sxkwang. You’ve been zoned away for minutes now! Are you loosing your hearing?”

Neteyam rolls his eyes, his mood suddenly deflated.

“No. I’m fine…”

Kiri’s playfulness withers for a moment.

Kiri was a lot of things.

Kiri was modest, compassionate, candid and capable.

She spoke to the forest the same way Y/n spoke to the stars.

Kiri perched herself next to her brother, nudging him with her tail.

“You okay?”

He shook his head.

Something flickers past Neteyam’s features.

It’s soft, light, a thin layer but its presence isn’t going unnoticed. 

Something that can almost be mistaken as regret contorts  his features.  His confidence has fallen. Not completely, only slightly. A somber shade of gray dances past his face.

There’s a few beats of silence.

It’s not uncomfortable. It’s understanding. The two siblings find a common ground between this void of conflict.

“Do you think mom was ever afraid of Dad?”

Kiri stayed quiet for a moment, the question stilling her.

“Mom? Our mom? Neytiri Tskaha Mo’at’ite?? Afraid of our father? 

You humor me, brother.

If anything, dad should be afraid of mom.”

Kiri chuckles, leaning back against the tree.

Neteyam chuckles as well, but it sobers itself in a flash of memory.

When they were small, Neteyam and his siblings would curl around the fire In their families marui, neteyam would sit next to y/n, while Lo’ak laid his head on her shoulder, obnoxiously snoring into like the 6 year old he was.

Kiri sat on the other side, looking up in awe at her father as Jake spoke.

Jake told his children stories of a time that was before the marine learned to see.

He grasped the essence of life: the  immunology of pandora. The power, the secret to growth, a true appreciation for the relative importance of things, order, and balance. 

He told his children of the corpse of a life now forgotten, where the fallen hometree remains but memories rots.

Jake prayed to eywa his memories could rot with it.

He told stories of earth, as well.

Comparing his wife to Cupid, fond of arrows. How she stopped his heart without even grazing it.

Neteyam was an idiot for love stories. Especially as a child.

Particularly his parents’ love story.

How two people, worlds part find themselves together under the sky of pandora. The day they met. The day the stars aligned and two hearts disregarded the burdens of a cruel reality, and found a home within a war. Found intimacy through the most painful of grieving.

If Jake and Neytiri, a former human and a na’vi,

Why not Neteyam and Y/n?

Why not the sun and a shadow?

Kiri stilled for a moment.

“I guess..maybe there was fear of mom’s loyalties being internally tested?

Maybe she thought she would have been betraying her people if she mated with dad.

Remember the Cupid story?”

Neteyam contemplates it for a moment.

“But mom didn’t mate with dad till after his iknimaya? He was already one of the people. He claimed his ikran, and  through dreamhunt.”

Kiri shrugged.

“True. But he kinda got his na’vi card revoked when hometree fell. Don’t you think?

Are you suggesting you want a woman to shoot you with an arrow?”

Kiri chuckled.

Neteyam can’t help but snicker.

A somber stillness comes over him once again, his voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Do you think at one point they thought that..

That maybe they just couldn’t be together because dad was a human?

Because two people are so different, it’s never even a possibility? 

That our insecurities fester into doubt?”

Kiri stares with tints of concern for her brother, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He seemed to be getting a bit too worked up for a light conversation.

There was something about embedded underneath. Hidden.

“What if-“

“They loved eachother.”

Kiri interrupts Neteyam’s maddening anxiety for a moment.

“They loved one another.

It’s almost impossible to neglect when your so deeply in love with someone. Even if you convince yourself  conditional, unbinding. They were in love.

She held him even out of his avatar when he was dying in that shack.

They were always meant to be, Neteyam…what is this really about?”

Neteyam swallows thickly.

His deep, accented voice grazing the edges of a sharp concept, dripping with denial.

“Do you think the sun and a shadow can fall in love?”

Kiri is quiet for a moment.

She’s not confused.

For once, her brother's mask cracks. 

For once; the warrior needs protecting.

There's Something unguarded and raw behind his gaze. There’s something fragile. 

And most protect fragile things.

“This is about Y/n, isn’t it. What happened, Neteyam?”

Neteyam sighed.

“Kxa’nan.”

Kiri’s eyes thinned at the mention of his name.

He once ‘accidentally’ tripped her while she was walking, and refused to come clean when neteyam confronted him.

Jake didn’t even like him.

And Jake was the chief of fucks sake.

“What did he do?”

Kiri suddenly felt her own wall go up.

She thought of Y/n as much as a sister as she would Tuk. Memories of giggling and gossiping after the brothers and tuk were asleep and Jake and neytiri went on dates. Telling eachother stories and braiding each others hair.

You were a shadow, and Kiri was your Venus. 

“He touched her hands. Just like-

Grabbed them.

And then she had one of her-“

Neteyam makes a motion with his hands to indicate erratic breathing but ends up just deeming himself laughable.

“She had an…asthma attack?”

Kiri made her first guess.

“No-

She had like-“

Neteyam struggles to articulate himself.

“You know when her breath gets kinda shallow? And she just-“

Kiri spares him the embarrassment.

And herself a headache.

“Yes yes. I know-“

She freezes.

“Wait. You saw this happen?”

“..yes I thought I made that clear-“

“And you didn’t go and protect her?”

“….”

Kiri smacked neteyam upside the head.

“Ow! Kiri! That’s the second time you’ve hit me!”

“You skxawng! You fool! You dumbass!

You didn’t go to her aid!?

Eywa help us all. You’re right. You suck at this.”

Neteyam’s ears pin back and he winced.

“I was going to-“

“Bullshit!”

“Kiri I swear!”

“She’s afraid of me!”

The two are still at the brusk's confession.

“Neteyam. Y/n may not be…the most comfortable with everyone but she’s not afraid of you-“

“Yes she is.”

Neteyam cuts her off.

His tone is defeated and blank.

Acceptance is an essential part of grief.

“Neteyam….”

“Doesn’t she know I would do anything for her?

I would steal the night sky for her.  I’d make the whole world become a shadow so she doesn’t feel so alone-

It shut myself away so that she has nothing to fear. I’d never draw another breath again if it meant she’d smile.

It’s beyond precious. It’s beyond anything I can describe, sister-“

Kiri’s mind struggled to keep pace with the maddening reality of Neteyam’s violently clashing sentiments.

It hits Kiri.

“You love her.”

“Sister, I worship her.

There must be something wrong with me.

I swear the stars envy her.”

Kiri and him sit for a moment.

“You asked me if the sun and a shadow can fall in love?

Do you remember what norm told us?

Moonlight doesn’t exist. Moonlight is reflected by the sun.

When the world becomes a shadow, the sun provides what little light it can to the darkness so it doesn’t fall pitch black. 

She dwells in the dark? Give to her what you already provide.”

“And what is that?”

“Light.”

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*

“Should have just let me fuck him up.”

You groan at Lo’ak’s words.

You, Lo’ak, and spider were weaving a chain of leaves and branches for a hunt festival later that night.

Y/n didn’t like large crowds. She fared better with her two idiots, much to the dismay of other na’vi in the clan.

Spider snickers.

“Maybe if your little boyfriend showed up, he could have swept you off your feet and protected you.”

You roll your eyes.

“Neteyam was probably busy helping Kiri. He probably didn’t hear his maiden’s cry for help.”

Lo’ak and Spider both cackle.

“You two think you're funny? I don’t need neteyam to come defend me.

And he’s not my boyfriend.”

Lo’ak gasps dramatically.

Then he chuckles.

“Listen sis. Our existence is the height of hilarity. 

You're just mad that neteyam didn’t come and tell Kxa’nan off.

By the way, Can we get a thank you? 

We saved your ass back there.”

It’s roll your eyes, shoving Lo’ak, with a small mumbled ‘thank you’.

“Y/n? Can I get some help?”

Jake comes into view, tapping you on the shoulder.

You stand, following him back to the family marui.

You find yourself helping Jake repair a human object called a ‘radio’.

It played music and could record things as well.

Jake and Neytiri have a tradition. They’d dance the human way at a festival, out of sight from others.

You found it beautiful, really.

You didn’t have parents of your own to witness a growing relationship between. But watching Jake and Neytiri was far more interesting. 

Jake seemed to notice how quiet you were.

And not as quiet as usual.

To the surprise of many, you cling to Jake more than you did Neytiri as a child.

Not to say neytiri wasn’t able to take care of Y/n.

Neytiri adored Y/n. Considered her a 3rd daughter.

And well, she was the closest thing to a mom y/n would have after her own mothers death.

It was different with Jake.

Y/n has some flashes of memory with her biological mother.

With Tsu’tey? She had none.

Neytiri found herself in a place that once already held a shadow.

Meanwhile, Hake had to make his own shadow.

Reflections and reality, gentle whispers and ruffling her hair, Jake was gentle as he could be.

He considered Y/n and Lo’ak like twins solely because of their separation anxiety as children.

 y/ns shadow and Lo’ak’s fire was a constant contrast in Jake’s life.

Jake would pick her up, rest her in the crook of his elbow; whisper small, gentle things.

Jake was much more protective and diligent over Y/n.

He always thought she saw the world much larger than his other children did.

Jake realized Y/n liked flowers and plants because they were easily satisfied with company. 

They aren’t people. She didn’t have to raise her voice or embed herself in a state of stillness.

Jake heard the whispers.

“Does she even speak?”

“She’s a bit old to be hiding like that.”

“Maybe she’d like to play with my child-“

Rueful pesky whispers. That’s all he heard.

Jake didn’t speak. He didn’t raise his voice or even make a sound.

He places his hand on her shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down her back like that day all those years ago  under the shade.

Jake would always be your shade.

Your sanctuary for your shadow.

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*

The festival raged on below.

You were currently a bundle of nerves as it is.

You had lost Spider and Lo’ak in the crowd and retreated to one of the higher hills to search for them.

You'd think plucking them out of a sea of faces would be second nature, but no, your boys fancied the self of one-sided hide-and-go-seek.

Spider and Lo’ak were your clouds. The radical rebellion within a rain storm. And as you tried to dish out a shimmering reflection off of spiders mask that protected him from the unwelcoming atmosphere of the jungle, the sky grew darker and darker. Laughter run through the air, the fire accentuating features of those who danced with the flames and sang with the embers.

You didn’t hate people. That was a common misconception about you. 

You preferred plants to people, because one didn’t talk nearly as much as the other, and the stories within the roots and water, droplets weren’t as near as overbearing as the burdening shrills of overbearing questions. I’m nights like these were the clan gathered in large groups you would sit alone in a tree with  Spider and Lo’ak. You talked about everything you were going to do the secret and stars were going to steal for one another. 

On occasion, you talked to Spider about Neteyam. 

How do you fear this barricaded wall you’ve built around yourself was going to turn into something he could never climb. That may be this archer you dreamed of was simply out of your grasp. You dreamed of him as the sky struck midnight in the colors in the clouds, concealing the world of a shadow you dwelled in. 

Spider and Lo’ak made hesitance and patience deem itself as something worth only for baiting you into good behavior. That he would slip from your grass, that your life with slip away in a blink if you didn’t go and kiss him as the mere second. 

Nights were filled of him.

His eyes, a paradox of the golden hour. His strong figures sculpted like mountains, his words that painted the sky in the sea. 

He wondered if he tasted like sunlight and wind, if his lips were as gently roughed-edged and honed as his voice.

Or if when you touched him, the last salvageable stretches of the sunset would disappear under your lips. And you would return to recycled versions of his lingering touches..  

You loved him. You truly, truly loved him.

And what would the sullys think? His parents? His siblings?

You owed everything to them.

They didn’t have to take you in after your mother passed. 

Lo’ak was your fire. Neteyam was your sun. Kiri was your Venus. Tuk was your star. Jake was your wind. Neytiri was your mountain. Spider was your cloud.

But you? You were a shadow.

Finding your voice became more difficult as a child. 

This shyness, this shadow, this ‘anxiety’ as Jake called it.

This thing. This monster. 

Made out of  shadows and secrets and pesky loud whispers.

It’s tall with limbs like sticks.

It’s chained to your wrist like an unwanted prisoner. 

It sends strokes of dread down your back.

And it haunted you.

When you longed for Neteyam, but this chain around your wrist kept its barricade of darkness.

Even as a child.

You were a little voice who others assumed only cried for help. 

When you tugged on Neytiri’s waistband, gently signaling you were uncomfortable, when you hid behind Jake’s leg from prying eyes.

How a small Lo’ak followed you around, looked at you like you held the universe in your hands, you were his big sister. How you chewed on your lower lip, nervously holding Jake’s hand while Lo’ak clung to your arm.

How his fire and your shadow caused a collision within the Sully family, beautifully inharmonious chaos. 

You loved Lo’ak. But Lo’ak was your brother.

The closest thing you would have to a brother in this lifetime.

You longed for Neteyams sunlight.

You were a shadow.

Shadows didn’t belong in the light.

Much less to fall in love with it.

To lay beneath his soul, to feel the connection. It’ll always be there. Casting a shadow.

A starless night.

Oh how you longed for moonlight.

You peered down below, your gaze tugged away from your mission to find your two idiots.

You're lost in the beauty of the Omaticaya, people danced in their traditional garb, the drums ruminate through the thick air, and you swore it was the heartbeats of your people.

The fire and the night sky was a beautiful collision dancing off of azure skin.

Then. The rain returns.

“Y/n? Whatcha doing here all alone?”

No. No no no no no.

You whip around to see Kxa’nan.

Your breath leaves you in a soft surge of panic.

“You're always alone. I barely ever hear you talk, yawne. Need some company?”

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

 Neteyam was helping his dad cook the fish he hunted earlier over the fire, Neytiri and Kiri assisting with the spices and herbs.

Lo’ak was missing from the picture, nowhere to be seen the whole night since the celebration started.

“Where is your brother?

Neytiri asked, letting Tuk perch herself in her former spot next to Jake.

“You haven’t seen him?”

 Neteyams eyebrows raise. 

“Was he with Y/n and spider?”

 Tuk lifts her head over Jake’s shoulder.

Neytiri, more than displeased at the mention of the human boy, but concern for Lo’ak and protectiveness over Y/m arose.

“Was she with the sky boy and Lo’ak earlier? They went with the foraging group today-

Tuktirey. Stop poking at the dead fish.”

“Sorry mama.”

As if on cue, Lo’ak and spider entered the small tent.

“Lo’ak!”

Neytiri placed her hand on her son’s shoulder.

He was out of breath, looked like he just ran around the entire forest.

“Where’s Y/n?”

He asked in a short gasp.

Jake, now concerned stood to his feet.

“Y/n? Where did you come from, Lo’ak?”

“The festival? I dunno-

I can’t find her. And she hates big crowds like these. Spider had to go back to the lab to get a new mask on short notice, there’s no one with her.”

Tuk giggles.

“Lo’ak was probably too busy dancing with a girl…”

Jake’s eyebrows crinkled.

Neteyam stood at his feet as well.

He left the tent and set off to find you.

He searched the celebration, pushed past the embers and smoke, the thick air of peoples dancing and the sounds of laughter.

On a hill, a little ways off. Two shadows come into view.

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

“Kxa’nan..I wish to be alone.”

Kxa’nan groaned at your words.

“Your’e always alone, or you’re hanging out with those two freaks.”

Your shadow dissipates for a moment, anger simmered beneath your skin.

“Lo’ak and Spider aren’t freaks-

don’t talk about them like that.”

Kxa’nan scoffs and your left unhooded with no shadow at all for a moment.

“Don’t laugh. You’re the one always having a pissing race with Neteyam.

Maybe if you aimed your arrow  as good as you flexed your non-existent muscles, there’d be nothing to say.”

He hissed at you and grabbed your arm. Being compared to Neteyam was a jab.

A small wince contorted your features, you gasped.

A flash of lights invades both your visions, and a strong arm is wrapped around your waist, a familiar touch, a circle of safety. 

A familiar azure skinned archer appears beside you, a protective shield of a glare at Kxa’nan.

“Don’t touch her. Ever. Again.”

Kxa’nan scoffs, but a fortification of fear embeds itself In his eyes. Clearly intimidated by Neteyam’s presence.

Kxa’nan glares at you, unhappy with your savior and his impeccable timing.

His eyes flare yellow. Not a soft golden hour like Neteyam’s. No, and even in a clan where all your eyes share the same tint. At the moment this is a sickening shade of yellow. It flares so brightly you thin your eyes to look away.  Your breath hitches in your throat and your voice hides behind the threat of thought.

Neteyam takes a step forward and pushes him away, shielding you from his gaze.

His deep voice honed itself as a rougher edge.

“Don’t look at her.

Look at me.

Don’t come near her again. Got it?”

Lo’ak and spider come into view from behind a few trees.

“Hey! Get away from them. Back it up!”

 Spider’s small figure appears much less intimidating then the Sully brothers. But he remains grounded to protect you. 

“What the fuck did I tell you?”

Lo’ak grab’s Kxa’nan by his bicep roughly.

“Don’t bother her. And what did you do?”

Kxa’nan glares at you and your four tyrants.

“Y/n, did you really have to bring this whole freak show family with you?”

He bites.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then, Lo’aks fist collides with Kxa’nan’s jaw, hot, red liquid pools from his mouth.

“It’s called a punch, Bitch! Don’t ever touch my sister again.”

Kxa’nan tackles Lo’ak, and Spider body slams the Na’vi.

Tapping his elbow before placing his other hand on his bicep and flinging himself, jabbing Kxa’nan in the ribs with his elbow.

Jake emerged from a few trees away, groaning and trying to grab his son before shit actually got heavy.

Jake places a lingering touch on your arm to make sure you were safe,

Jake drags Lo’ak up by his arm, grabbing spider by his waist.

Spider explains the predicament, and Jake angrily drags Kxa’nan away to be dealt with.

No one messes with his kids.

Lo’ak wiggles his eyebrows at Neteyam, who’s held you close to him this whole time.

And then.

You’re alone.

Neteyam turns to you, his fingers dragging down your cheeks gently.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Talk to me, please..”

Gently cradling your face in the cup of his palms. 

A fire alights beneath your skin.

“I’m fine, Nete…he just made me…uncomfortable..”

There’s silence. 7 beats worth.

“How long has he been bothering you?”

Your voice peaks from behind your barricade.

“Awhile…”

“You never came to me, you never told me. Y/n I will always protect you. Why didn’t you come to me?”

 His voice was a labyrinth of desperation clinging to hope.

“I’m sorry..”

It’s a small fragile whisper.

And most protect fragile things.

Neteyam gently drags his hands down your neck, another hand gently tracing your rib cage.

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to know that I care for you. So deeply, Y/n.”

Is there another universe out there where I can spare you the pain of love?

Longing for someone so desperately you fear they’ll become aflame under your touch.

Does he taste like fire?

Is the plush of your skin sculpted from shadows?

This love was a painting you never had the courage to count the colors, in fear they would flurry away.

In this fortress of his arms, in this circle of sunlight, in this last surviving stretch of a sunset, there’s a flare.

Neteyam gives to others only to deny himself.

You reach for something made of glass only to see it shatter again.

But not here.

Not now.

You whisper hoarsely as his hands cradle your face.

“I don’t like big crowds.”

He smiles and kisses your nose.

“Then neither do I.”

The two of you sit there, under the canopy of the trees, watching the stars. 

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

Your head laid on his chest, the only music you two needed was the sound of your intertwining heartbeats.

You traced the lines on his palms, and he kissed your cheek.

Soft whispers and lingering gazes.

“What’s your favorite star?”

You ask him.

You.

He wants to say, but he holds his tounge. Eyes scanning the sky for the perfect star to satisfy your curiosity.

“That one.”

He points to one, it’s in the midst of a cluster of scattered flurries of white specks.

You leaned into his shoulder, his hand gently cupping the back of your head.

“What would happen if they started falling?”

“I’d catch them for you.”

You chuckled at his answer.

He closes his eyes and basks in the aubade of your laughter.

Your soul, gentle semblances of beauty in the space behind the sun.

Love is a sacrificial abstraction. He sees you in signposts and circles, and parallel lines.

Another beat of silence passes.

“Y/n.”

He breaths your name, dragging his finger along your pulse point.

You hear music in the distance.

Not the drums of the Omaticaya, or the flutes of your people.

You peer down over the hill and see two figures slow dancing to a radio in the family Marui.

Neytiris giggles are gently heard as the silhouette of her and Jake dancing comes into view.

You sighed in contentment. Sometimes, you, Neteyam, Kiri and Lo’ak would spy on them behind the tent flap. Observing them dance, Jake teaching her the way people dance on earth.

Neteyam smiles as well.

“I love it when they do that…”

You lean into his shoulder, and he finds himself lost in your eyes once again.

He wishes he could give you the whole world. A place where you can disregard burdens of reality, be tangled with her pages and plants, gardens made of clouds, and laughter, where you can trace the in patterns of her favorite flower, where you can touch the consolation within isolation. It is not loneliness you desire, you don't want the fixation of the introspection within your shadow.

Neteyam stands you both to your feet, Jake’s music dwells in the night air, the stars seem to twinkle in perfect rhythm.

“Neteyam, what are we doing?”

You laugh.

“Dancing, come yawne.

Put your hands here, and my hand goes-“

He pauses before placing his hand on your lower waist, just like he saw his father do.

“May I?”

You nod.

Before you can blink, he sways you with the music, you laugh and avoid stepping on his toes

For a moment, the shadows disappear. The sun burns out. It’s no longer so bright you are forced to shy away to the dark.

Custom, reason, temptation, it all fades behind the stars.

The moonlight traces his figure as you dance, the stars reminisce in your eyes.

You were composed of stories.

Captivating, euphonious stories. 

The same stories that you cradled in your pals when you held your plants.

Your souls dance but your gazes remain still.

He gently cups your face in his hands, lifting your chin.

“I see you, Y/n. I have never seen anyone but you, beautiful…”

Your breath hitches.

“I see you, Neteyam. I’ve always seen you..”

When you kiss him, the shadows and the sunlight collide, and soft gasps and and tangible emotions are torn. 

There is no barricade.

The distance was only ever created because distance was safe.

But you don’t want distance.

Neither does he.

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

He lays you down on the soft bed of grass, he yearns to kiss every inch of you from your hairline to your ankles.

“Y/n, oh my Y/n…my beautiful, beautiful y/n.”

He whispers your name like a mantra, as if you would wither away into the shadows again if he didn’t pray your name.

Your gasps serenaded him.

Your hands tugged on his braids as he kissed your neck,

“What do you wish for me to do, yawne? Speak for me, my good girl..”

Your leg wrapped around his hip. You couldn’t help but buck into him.

Love like this only haunts you with light that once existed behind the shadow, the one that surfaced behind the sun.

Eclipse is near.

He unraveled you like the universe was beneath your top and loincloth, stroking you with gentle drags of his thumb, his strong arm hooked under your thigh.

“Neteyam-

Eywa please…”

You begged for him to soothe the aching heat

“Shhh. It’s okay, my sweet girl. I’m right here…just keep looking up at those pretty stars. The stars are yours, my love,

Fuck-

Everything, the sky, the sun, the oceans, the shadows they’re all yours, my love. So am I.”

He reached around for his braid and you followed suit. 

You both stared into eachothers eyes. The pools of honeyed golden hour beneath the moon.

The sweet nectar dripping down your thighs, your curves traced by his touch,

“Tsaheylu, Neteyam..please.”

Who was he to deny you?

And as you connected the stars fell.

A flurry of colors, a blur of ecstasy, straddled, kissed, caressed, explored.

The drapes of the moonlight bathing you.

Every coherent thought withered into a static of white, 

This wasn’t sex. This wasn’t one body entering another for pleasure. This was a soul finding it’s flame.

He begged the deity to never take his shadow away.

“Do you feel it y/n, it’s always been there..I’ve always been here..don’t hide from me again.”

His rough accent voice honed your ears, his nose dragging along your pulse point, you whined in response. 

The heat faded away, tranquility returned.

He kissed you, your chin, your lips, your hair, thank you’s and praises whispered as his string arms encircled you.

You laid on his chest, and you faintly hear him whisper 

“I think it’s finally eclipse…”

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

-Sunofpandora

2023

“Diaphanous” 

Tag list:

@neteyamsoare

@yeosxxx

@lianna75

@jackiehollanderr

@6423btw

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩✧ ೃ༄

Im SCREAMING right now.

Im super insecure in writing smut but i kinda wanted to try it? It's not really smut tbh just like…really intimate?

Idk.

But I struggled with this fr. Writers block ate me up.

So idk how good this is. Sorry 😭

I hope everyone enjoyed. That request box is gonna be open in the next few weeks but I might be a bit busy so there might be a bit of a wait.

I wanted to include some parallels from the movie, and some references to Jake and Neytiri through Neteyam and Y/n, so I hope everyone caught those. 

I hoped you enjoyed “diaphanous” 🌀🪐

[suguwu]

ocean song

She waits for love on a rock in the sea.

pairing: surstromming x rum (food fantasy)

cw: pov second person shipfic, wlw, shipwrecks, near death experiences.

notes: this was written long before the characters were actually released and is likely very ooc (i stopped playing before surstromming released), i'm just putting this here because if i'm honest it's a favorite of mine.

wc: 1.3k

The sea always consoles. 

You return to it a forlorn bride - cheeks streaked heavy with salt and a mouth like a storm, your tongue thick with promise - and it swallows you down. Beneath the waves, you pull the small blue flowers from your veil and let them wash into deeper, darker waters. The sea shrouds you with thick ribbons of kelp, and you wait.

Sometimes, there is a woman in the deep with you. She darts to and fro like a minnow, sprightly despite her size. She peers at you through the murk of the sea, her eyes a pale yellow gleam in the twilight of the ocean, her knifed teeth snapping together like an echo of a laugh. 

Queen Conch watches you, but you pay her no mind. She is not capable of love. Not the way you are.

You wait.

You know the sea always provides.

The moon swells, heavy with light. As it rises over the thin line of the horizon, the tenderhearted touch of the rays illuminate the gathering swells.

You can taste the storm coming.

You have cradled yourself in a hollowed out divot of a seaside boulder, far past the edges of the tidal pools. The sea water is flowing thicker now, swirling at the base of the boulder, a hulking mass of stone cushioned with soft beds of plush, verdant green algae. It is slick beneath you. You curl your fingers into it and it squelches. You draw in a sobbing breath.

You pillow your cheek on your arm and nestle down into the hollow of the stone. The waves crash upon it, their pattern edging towards frantic, and the kiss of the salt spray makes your lips sting. It is the most faithful lover you’ve ever had. 

Water gurgles around you, the deluge of the rising tide. 

The moon climbs higher into the night sky, drowning out the stars in a steady halo of light. The sea sings to you, the chill water flowing around your fingertips. 

You are half in dreams (juice bursting across your tongue as you bite into the fruit’s flesh, dripping down your chin, a thumb nudging at your lips as it wipes the residue away - a choked off breath - the golden glow of a summertime smile - slender fingers tracing soft lines of fire up your thigh - skin slippery with blood and quickly cooling) when the ship slices through the last dregs of moonlight to cast a shadow upon the horizon. It sways with the rolling sea. Pinpricks of light flicker on the deck.

You prop yourself up on your elbows.

For a moment, you watch as the ship passes, the white sails full-bellied with wind, gleaming starkly against the void of the sea. It’s a fast-moving vessel despite its size.

The sea roils beneath your perch, ever-hungry. 

You sing.

The notes pour out of you like warm honey, each one flickering like a homecoming lantern, dancing across the water to reach the deckhands. The hush falls over them quickly. You sing, you sing, you sing, you call your suitors home to you with the melody embossed on your very bones. 

They answer - they always do, you always become their Polaris, their magnetic north - and the ship starts to turn. 

You croon to them, spilling your aching heart into the ocean’s depths. It spreads to them like oil, glistening black on the backs of the waves. Please, you beg them, heat gathering at your cheeks as your vision blurs with tears.  Please, won’t you love me? Won’t you let me love you?

There’s fire spreading in your lungs, but you’ve felt it before, this wildfire of pain licking through your chest, and you’ve yet to succumb to it. The sound of your song does not break; it falls from your lips like pearls, plinking into the ocean.

The ship creaks as it draws near. The deckhands shower you with affection, and you drink it in, letting their words soak into your skin and your poor, poor, aching heart. 

Somewhere, just under the blindfold of your song, you hear a woman’s voice snap out a command. 

The ship drifts closer, and your eyes flicker to the shadowed sea where the gravemaker rocks wait. Their mother the sea has whittled the gravemakers into a fine weapon, one that feeds the sea’s endless hunger. The deckhands have grown quiet, something like horror slithering across their faces.

The spell ends, and you know they will never truly love you.

You hide your face in a pillow of algae as your song twists into a wail. The fury of your tongue has the bitter taste of a curse, and the gravemaker rocks oblige. The ship tears open against them, the barnacled stones spearing deep through the hull.

That voice - her voice - comes again, and this time, it carries over the water.

It rumbles like thunder, growled low over the ship’s groaning aria of shattering bones. The ocean sinks its teeth into the ship, sinks them in deep, deep, deep. 

But you see her and you remember love.

Her hair is the color of sunshine but her eyes are the darker blue of a glacier. Blue like cornflowers, blue like the sea on a midsummer’s day, but with unmistakable ice. She moves like an ocean’s riptide, pulling people into the wake of her stride, her sword clinking at her side, and you have never wanted so much in your life. She has a mouth that you are made to drink from, you are sure of it.

And like so many before her, you know that you will lose her.

You love like waves against the sand: greedy, grasping, slinking higher against a heated body and dragging them into the salt cradle of your mouth, eroding them with your undulating kisses. You love, you love, you love, but they always seem to slip through your fingers like seafoam, to break apart in your arms like a ship succumbing to a storm. 

Her ship yields to the sea.

It takes her with it.

You vomit up a hurricane of sound, the jagged notes of the song smashing against the sea. You scream until it feels like your throat will never work again, scream until your shaking legs can’t support you. You tangle your fingers in the fishtail hem of your gown as you curse the ocean’s greedy mouth. The sea laps at your ankles as you wade back towards the shore as the sun rises, the orange glow of it reflecting in the outgoing tide. 

The barnacles cut into the tender soles of your feet as you pick your way through the tide pool. It hurts, you suppose. She has washed up on the far side of the beach. You leave a meandering trail of bloodied footsteps through the sand.

It takes you a long, long time to process that she is breathing.

Fuck, you gasp, hands fluttering against the faint rise of her chest. 

It can’t be that bad, she says. Her long legs shift in the sand; a low groan issues from her throat.  Feels that bad, though. 

You hum, the notes rising in your throat unbidden, your fingernails cutting into your palms. 

She blinks. She closes her eyes for a moment to listen, but she doesn’t fall under the spell. You swallow.

She opens her eyes and smiles at you - golden, gleaming, just a hint of pain tightening the edge of those lips - and you choke on air.

Let me help, you say, scrambling towards as she attempts to sit up. You catch her as she collapses. She is warm and damp against you, her strong back against your soft chest, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

Thanks, she murmurs, bracing herself on you and leaning forward to rest her forehead against her knees.  There was a ship - I need to - 

Rest first, you plead.  Just for a bit. I can help.

Just for a bit, she says weakly.  I’m Rum.

Surströmming.

Surströmming, she says, her lips shaping your name like she’s tasting it.  How lovely. 

Her voice is soft, and the sodden ropes of her hair are color of fresh butter in the light of the rising sun, and you know you will love her.

[herrscherofreasons]

#do you get how pivotal it is that we actively get to see kianas arc she means so much to so many people#kiana's character is follows that hallmark of coming-of-age stories where the character struggles w agency#and for kiana its because she was literally made as a weapon. she struggles even seeing herself as human but her humanity was never ever#questioned by the game itself. and thats so deeply important to me because kiana is an open lesbian who was made in a country that censors#her#sexuality. we see kiana struggle from feeling suicidal and deciding to live out of guilt thats transformed to an intense and purifying love#for humanity and those that have come before her and those that will come after her

reburn and lament of the fallen and graduation trip means everything to me because they treat kiana as a character so seriously. we see kiana crying and bending down to kiss mei's mech because even though shes running, she misses mei. we see the caption that says "i love you" in her family's native tongue. we see mei say over and over again how much she loves kiana. we understand that the fight between them tears at our heartstrings because kiana and mei love each other so so much. there isnt a frame of lament of the fallen that sexualizes their love. its said in the most blatant way it can be said. which is so fucking important bc again!!!! theyre facing censorship laws. in graduation trip mei and kiana hold hands and kiana narrates "this is a story about love. it will end with love" as we see the other canonical lesbian romances (durandal and rita playing with their cat, bronya and seele watching over the twins, sakura and kallen sitting under a sakura tree) and as this happens, the wedding ceremony song starts playing. do you understand how important that blatant reference to romantic lesbian love is to Me????? to so many people????

im gonna lose my mind this is just about her specific importance to queer people do you understand the importance she holds as a character whos so resilient and teaches us about hope in the face of nihilism?

Semifinals: Nahida vs Kiana Kaslana

(Propaganda under the cut)

Kiana:

TLDR: she's kiana kaslana what do you MEAN!!!! kiana is a beautifully written character who fully encapsulates what hi3 is about and she's so full of love and guilt and (most importantly) hope. she's a clone who struggles with her own identity/inhumanity and traumas extending from when she was a young child and her guilt but is so so resilient and so so so so compassionate which ultimately reinforces her humanity :)

kiana's character IS the honkai impact thesis statement. i don't even mean it as in she's the literal main character and face of honkai i genuinely mean it when i say she just IS honkai impact. she reflects every single theme that they portray [hope over nihilism (chapter 25 || the flame chasers and just. the previous era in general), having agency over your identity and your own story (himeko, her being k423 and being so linked to sirin, everlasting flames || the kaslana household name honestly, bronya, fu hua, mei, sirin), believing in the humanity's inherent worth (chapter 25, arc city || elysia <- important since as a current era herrscher, she is a successor to elysia AND as kiana kaslana, she is a narrative parallel of elysia), having faith in the youth (himeko, kevin || the other flame chasers! notably su), etc.] her character being so reflective is also sooooo OUGH to think about when you view it as a reflection of honkai's 50,000 year samsara because kiana is a representation of these themes coming full circle (especially since many of these stretch back to the previous era and elysia).

SHE FEELS SO MUCH. she's so full of love and guilt. she clearly prioritizes others over herself and part of her arc is her learning to value and love herself as well!!! she would give herself for the world ten times over because she holds so much affection for humanity!! (WHILE FEELING DEHUMANIZED BECAUSE OF HER IDENTITY AS BOTH A HERRSCHER AND K423) and it's actively apart of her character's growth :'')

dear god her growth… okok. so i think first you have to understand that a lot of kiana's growth obviously coincides w general maturity as she grows from a teenager to a young adult. but aside from that i think people often forget that younger kiana is incredibly self sufficient since her father literally left her with little to no explanation when she was like. what 8? the insecurity she feels at that! the anger she has to navigate while also balancing it with her own feelings of missing and loving him. basically: kiana has struggled a lot w instability and is thus kinda good at navigating it. ex: she isnt shaken by nagazora and literally tries again and again and again to save mei and convince mei to let her help. the thing is this fucks w her a bit though because a big thing that she does as a means to cope w instability is avoiding them (not reflective of real life of course, but in the fictional hi3 this is partially represented in kiana's repressed memories about her actual origins as k423). she can not stand the realization that she killed himeko that she's so deep in denial and doesnt truly realize it until more than 10 chapters after himeko dies! she's so horrified with her being a herrscher she actively tries to not use her powers out of fear, even when it puts her in harms way (the chapter XI-EX CG!!!!!! her literally trying to kill herself!!) she literally runs away from her friends and loved ones because she's so scared of hurting them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! which is why her promise to himeko to not run away is so important!! because it addresses one of kiana's biggest flaws!!!!! this is especially important bc her refusal to continue her avoidance feeds into her arc during the herrscher of dominion chapters where she both faces her own guilt/identity and deliberately chooses perseverance and hope over nihilism!! she is hope!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[beef-brisket]

✨️Stain Remover✨️

Adam could hear the commotion of the hotel being rebuilt. The very thing he worked so hard to destroy. Rebuilt. Like it was nothing.

His girls stopped screaming a long time ago, the cheers from the sinners as he was stabbed in the back, Lucifer ordering the last of Heaven's army out of Hell. It was playing over and over I'm his mind.

Adam stared at the Heavenly star in Hell's sky, a beacon of light in the cavernous sky of the Pride Ring, now his only comfort as he felt his body twitch and spasm.

"They're come for me. I'll be fine."

Blood pooled around him, running out of his mouth and nose, soaking into the dirt and staining his clothes and skin. His breathing was wet and shallow, like he was gurgling water in his throat.

At least he wasn't dying alone.

He didn't need to look at the Hazbin group or at Lucifer to know they weren't here. They didn't even hate him enough to make sure he was dead. Or maybe they hated him enough to make his last few moments torture.

But at least he wasn't dying alone.

His body was pulled and tugged. Getting lighter and bloodier as pale, disjointed sinners sunk their teeth into his flesh and tearing mouthfuls of skin and meat away.

"They're coming for me... I'll be fine."

Adam focused on the Heavenly star, the moon, the beacon in Hells blood red sky.

He wished he could fly to it, to land on it, to feel his father's grace once again, or at least a cheap mockery of it.

A harsh tug made his eyes water, but it didn't stop like it did before. Instead, tears started to fall. Broken sobs and breathes did nothing to deter the sinners that were feasting on him.

He could no longer feel the warmth of his halo, the weight of his wings, the comfort of Heaven, or the love of his father.

As his head rolled to the side, his golden eyes dimming, Adam couldn't help but smile.

Looks like he was dying alone after all.

[twig-gy]

they act like they’re so different, and yet when you pray it’s always the same response - you think he’ll answer to you? don’t make me LAUGH. a laugh more bitter than a sob could ever be - a laugh bubbling up with genuine mirth, it looks at you and through you searching for something it will never get. the other is happy to keep its head down, wide smile like some sort of secret, one you never wanted to know. don’t make me laugh - because if any of us deserve salvation it’s certainly not you, you with rope burns haloing your neck and a mask stitched to your skin, you with no depth but a shadow of what could be and hunger burning bright as the sun, hunger cutting sharp as the moon, hunger endless and eternal and useless. tell me, what do you think you’re getting out of this? it leaned against the wall, waiting for an answer you cannot find. hey, you like this, right? be honest with me. and before you could tell your lies, lies because that’s your nature, you are the lie, it took your arm and bit down. don’t worry, you don’t have to talk. i already know what you’re going to say. oh, you’re lying again, aren’t you? truth is holy, so you could never speak it and haven’t made an attempt to try. those nights, where you let the truth fall from your lips, staining them, those nights. they looked up at you with hope that shined in their fragile voices and careful words and unsubtle pleas. and then it went back to usual. usual usual usual usual u

you are not made for the truth.

hey, here’s an idea, what if you saved us just this once? reached out your hand, not to the sky, but to me. just me. pitiable ‘diseased’ me. imagine. and then you said, heart, don’t make me LAUGH.

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 10: Straight Through My Heart

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: war, violence, scary situation, blood and gore, death ❧ Word Count: 9.5k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In this Chapter: Alexandria and the Hilltop's forces besiege the Sanctuary, with three objectives: save the princess, kill Negan, and burn the place to the ground.

❧ A/N: I am so sorry I wasn't able to keep up with the schedule for this chapter, but I have been quite busy with school, work, and life, and this chapter was pretty hard to write because it was so action-heavy, and I am not very good at writing action scenes! So I wanted to make sure I was taking my time and not rushing through it. I really hope you guys like the second to last chapter, and thank you to everyone who waited patiently the last few weeks. I hope it was worth the wait. <3

The sky was stained violet in the twilight that married day to night. It was that strange time of transition, wherein the sun had set beyond the distant hills, leaving only a soft halo of light behind, while the moon still had yet to claim her dominion. 

And it was quiet, that uneasy kind of quiet. The kind that did not settle, but hung in the air with a heaviness, threatening at any moment to implode. 

But the silence in the Sanctuary provided you with the solitude you needed to do all that you knew was left to do: pray.

You could not pray to God, though, for the last time you had, you knew he hadn’t even bothered to hear you. Perhaps you were a sinner. Well, you knew you were. Everyone was a sinner, and you were no exception. In fact, you had more to answer for than most—you’d lied to your own father, lain with a man to whom you weren’t married, and, worst of all, you’d tried to kill someone. 

So why should you pray to God, who would surely not listen anyway? 

But you still believed in Heaven. You still believed that Daryl was in Heaven, even if he, too, had been a sinner. You had to believe he was there, where he walked amongst angels in perpetual bliss. So, you prayed not to God, but to him. 

Your weak knees wobbled on the cool, rough stone underneath you. A faint stream of the last light from the dusk outside crept in through the tiny crack in the old stone wall. You focused on that crack of light, its dying shimmer reminiscent of the sparkle in his eyes of cobalt blue. Just the thought of him, how you’d never see him again, brought forth the tears.

“Daryl,” you said quietly, squeezing your eyes tight as you sniffled. Lowering your head, you clasped your cold hands together, and held them below your chin, just like a prayer. “I do not know if you can hear me…” 

Another sniffle as you shook your head, as if embarrassed by how pitiful you must’ve looked—on your knees in a dark, cold dungeon, wearing only a dirt-stained chemise and a pair of once beautiful pinsons on your aching feet. You’d never felt more ugly than now, not only because you felt filthy, cold, and thin, but because you felt as though all your poise and dignity had been stripped from you, until you were bare. Though you weren’t naked, it very nearly felt like you were.

The lump in your throat could not be held back much longer. With a blubbering burst of tears, you sobbed against your hands, still clasped together in prayer. 

“Oh, my love… I—I do not know what to do.” The only comfort you had was in that last little sliver of blue, that crack in the wall. It was darkening now, almost black as night settled in. You still kept your gaze locked on it, that little bit of hope. “I have tried to be strong… I tried to k-kill that bastard, Negan. I did it because I do not want to feel like a prisoner ever again, but… now look where that got me.”

Your cry almost melted into a laugh at your own failure, but even that could not distract you from the grim situation you found yourself in. In fact, as you sat in momentary silence, with only the constant drip… drip… drip of a nearby drain to entertain you, you could only think of him. 

Though you knew in your heart of hearts that you could not be to blame for his death, you still felt as though you were the catalyst, the cause of your own woe, and the death of the love that you had just barely begun to feel. 

“Most of all… I miss you terribly, and I have not known such pain as this in so many years, to think of how you must have suffered, how you…” You swallowed back a strained gasp, shuddering to think of what had happened to him. “I never wanted you to die for me, Daryl. Never. I only wanted… I just wanted to be free. You set me free, and you did not have to. You did it because you were a good man. You are a good man. You always will be to me. I will always love you.”

Releasing a deep breath that shook you to your fragile core, you wiped your tears with the dirty sleeve of your gown. The pressure made the sensitive bruise around your eye sting. As silence settled in again, you thought of one more thing to say, one more utterance to release into the cool night air, surely never to be heard by anyone but the rats and the maggots that plagued this disgusting prison. Still, if there was a chance that your love could hear you, from wherever he was, you were going to be sure that it would mean something.

“My love,” you spoke again, “I am frightened… and I have often felt alone, before you, but now… I fear there is nothing left, that all that’s left for me is loneliness. All I’d need to believe otherwise is—well, it is silly, but… some kind of sign. Something to show me that there is still hope. If you could, would you show me something? Anything? Please, my sweet knight.”

But there was nothing. Only silence. You shook your head, feeling your tears welling up within you again. After all, what were you expecting? A beam of light, a prophetic vision, an epiphany? “Fool,” you muttered. “He cannot hear you… No one can.” 

As you began to rise to your feet, a sudden rumble echoed from somewhere outside the walls. It seemed distant, and quite faint. It was not a common sound you’d grown accustomed to over the past twenty-four hours you’d been locked away, but it was familiar. It reminded you of the cannon fire from that night, when the Saviors attacked Alexandria.

It couldn’t have been that, though. The cannon fire was much louder, and had shaken the—

Boom! 

You were sent back to the ground, not on your knees but on your side. The ground shook underneath you, while another round of explosions assaulted your ears. Reaching up to cover them, your eyes shot open when you realized. 

“We’re under attack!” a distant voice cried out.

When the shaking subsided, you heard racing footsteps from the floor above you, swords being unsheathed and men shouting at each other, barking orders and arguing in panicked hollers. There were no windows in that dungeon, but there was that sliver—that crack in the stone wall. You lifted yourself in a hurry to cross the cell, closing one eye to look through the jagged fissure. 

All you could make out for several moments was opaque blackness. The night had swallowed what was left of day in the time that had passed, but in the distance, coming over a gentle slope, was a sight you could not believe.

First, you saw the flames, the torches that some of the men carried as they rode on horseback. Much further in the distance, you could make out the silhouette of the bombards mounted on carriages, some being loaded by men in full suits of armor, others being pushed forward, making their assault on the keep. 

They’d already made it past the castle walls, it seemed, as the battlements were all but destroyed, with flames swallowing the remaining rubble. It was too dark to make out their alliance, but you knew it could not be Alexandria. The kingdom was too weak for such a siege, and you’d never seen such bombards before. No, this must have been some foreign faction… Perhaps they even could have been just as evil as Negan and the Saviors. 

You could not allow yourself to have hope of being rescued, but you had asked for a sign. Any sign. Though you were hoping for something more metaphorical, you supposed this would do.

As the armored Friesian’s hooves galloped over a fallen Savior’s writhing body, the knight raised his sword with one hand, and, in one swift motion, sliced the head of another’s clean off before rounding the corner of the keep. 

Through his armet, with only two thin oculariums allowing him to see, he could just make out the great entrance, raised high by a flight of imposing stone steps looking over the besieged castle grounds. The armored Prince Jesus and Duke Richard followed closely behind, each upon their own steeds and slaying every Savior that came barreling towards them. 

“We must go on foot now!” Jesus shouted over the warfare, men-at-arms all around them, some roaring battlecries, others wailing in agony as they writhed in the bloodied earth, Saviors and Alexandrians and Hilltop soldiers alike. “Onward to the keep! That is where your princess will be, and Negan.”

The three men dismounted before their horses ran off, over the debris from the fallen walls and towards the safety of the woods. Sir Daryl watched them as long as he could see them, before they dissolved into the smoky darkness of the night. 

Making their assault on the keep, the three fought through the crowd, knocking men from their horses to rid them of their helms before driving their blades through their faces without too much remorse. These men were all different degrees of evil, but they were all on the same spectrum. They all stole, tortured, killed, raped… There could be no remorse for the Saviors, who had shown no such remorse before.

With each step the knight and his companions get closer, climbing the steep hill towards the entrance to the keep, the other soldiers of Alexandria and Hilltop followed, preparing to assault the keep—Negan’s home. 

They were fueled by vengeance, rage at the ravaging of their homes and the murders of their loved ones. In the distance, Daryl could hear the king shouting above the chaos. “Surround them!” he said, wielding his own sword as he fought amongst the common men. “Push on! To the keep!”

But the mass of soldiers was too thick for the battering ram to get through without conflict, and that door was not going to open by itself. More likely than not, there were Saviors on the other side of that door—likely Negan’s most skilled, trusted guards. 

Seeing this, the king turned to whistle the signal. 

The beast was released from her chains, then, and with a roar, Shiva bounded towards the skirmish, her strong paws pushing the Saviors out of the way before she dug her claws into them, her teeth cutting through the steel of the armor to puncture their flesh. A few Alexandrians and Hilltop fighters were knocked over in the event, but the tiger kept the Saviors down long enough for twelve of the king’s men to run up the steps to the keep as they carried a long, heavy wood beam with the steel head of a ram on its end. 

The knight, the duke, and the prince stood by, their swords held high in preparation to fight the Saviors on the other side. 

The men with the battering ram heaved several times, each time making the door splinter until finally the ram broke through, destroying the door as the men plowed through, dropping the beam to lift their blades and fight.

Daryl went first in afterwards, with Jesus and Richard following behind. Sure enough, the place was crawling with Saviors, armored and wearing the black and red colors of House Smith.

The knight was faced with a particularly skilled Savior, who advanced towards him in a diagonal lunge, his sword swinging with intent to attack the weakest point—the underarm.

But Daryl was quick, parrying for a moment, only to regain his stability and counter the Savior’s next strike with his own. 

Though he had the perfect moment to slash at the briefly exposed skin between his helm and his gorget, instead he seized the opportunity to tackle the man with such force that his weapon clattered to the floor as he pushed him into a hidden alcove beneath the stone staircase, where the Savior fought for freedom from the knight’s attack, but Daryl was using all his strength to keep the man pressed against the wall.

He sheathed his own sword to reach for the misericorde strapped to his leather belt. With the dagger in one hand, he used the other to yank open the visor of the man’s helm, exposing two wide, frightened deep brown eyes. 

The knight was young, probably only just promoted from a squire, but Daryl did not have time to care. He’d already killed plenty of young men tonight, and one more wouldn’t make him any less damned. 

He lifted the blade to the Savior’s left eye, its narrow tip poised to puncture the young knight’s pupil as though it were the center of a target. In the confined space of his helm, he breathed heavily, the heat of his anger and adrenaline burning fumes in the back of his throat as he spoke three simple words, his voice louder than even he had anticipated, but he had no time to repeat himself: “Where’s the princess?”

“I—I know of no princess.”

A low, muffled growl escaped Daryl’s lips. He pressed his chest harder against that of the Savior, his grip on the dagger becoming at once firm and shaky as irrational rage overcame him. It was as though he was looking Negan in the eye right now. Though, this Savior had a kindness in his eyes, one distinctly different from the evil of Sir Negan’s serpentine stare. Still, there was deceit behind those eyes. Years of interrogating prisoners of war had trained him well, despite the psychological toll it had taken on him. At least he could tell when a man was lying. 

“Wrong answer,” he replied through lips tightly drawn into a snarl. He did not need to harm the knight beyond the suffocating weight he inflicted onto the young man’s chest, he only had to narrow his eyes in a freezing stare. “Wanna try again?”

The young knight swallowed hard as his defense began to crumble, though he still feigned ignorance. “Sh-she is here.”

Daryl huffed as he inched his dagger closer, the tip grazing the Savior’s eyelashes as they fluttered in nervous movements. The knight never did have much patience, and now, with your life and the lives of his men at stake, he couldn’t care less about the chivalry which was supposed to dictate his every action and every word, even in battle. In fact, he’d never been chivalrous enough to care about that before. When it came to war, every man was a savage, and Daryl was no exception. 

“You’ve got about five seconds to tell me where she is ‘fore you lose your damn eye.”

“No, please!” The Savior caved easily, and it was clear that, despite the fact that Negan trusted him enough to be one of his personal guards, he was not particularly loyal. Not if he surrendered that easily. From Daryl’s knowledge of war, a truly loyal soldier would lose his eye and maybe a few other body parts before giving in. “Last I heard she was locked away in the dungeon. Negan gave orders to put her in there just last night. I haven’t heard anything since, that’s all I know. I swear!”

For a good several moments, Daryl did not remove his blade, his lips snarling at the Savior as he processed his words, and contemplated whether or not to kill him. 

He wanted to. No Savior left alive, he repeated in his head like a mantra, but he wasn’t going to be the one to kill him. Something told him not to. Perhaps it was that last bit of gallantry, or perhaps he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“What’s your name?” he asked the young man, words which he’d never thought he’d ask of an enemy. The man seemed confused by his question, so he jolted him against the wall and demanded again, “What’s your name?”

“Alden.”

“Alden… This place is gonna burn to the ground. If you value your life, you’d leave now and never look back.”

The Savior nodded, his eyes softening as Daryl removed his weight and the knife from his face. As Daryl turned to begin his search for you, Alden said one more thing. “Wait!”

The knight turned, half-expecting the man to turn on him, just as a precaution. 

But he did not attack him. He only held out a large iron key, dangling from the ring in his hand. “You’ll need this.”

You paced back and forth the length of the cell, wringing your hands nervously before you tried again, though you were sure either no one could hear you, or no one cared.

But you had to try, even if every cell in your body was against it. Death seemed inevitable, and perhaps you truly had nothing more to live for, if the world was as dark and cold as it seemed, but you believed that fortune held you in its favor, somehow. The attack was a sign. A sign from Daryl. That’s what you had to believe. There was no time to stand idly by, you had to act. And the only way to act, in your current position, was to shake those bars that held you in your cell, and to scream at the top of your lungs.

“Hey!” you cried out, your voice drowned out by the sounds of warfare outside and above you. “Hey! What is happening?! Let me out!”

As they neared the dungeon, racing down the winding steps that took them underground, the four men plowed through more Saviors, the ones tasked with guarding the dungeon. Despite being nowhere to be seen, Negan must’ve sent extra defenses to protect the subterranean corridors. 

With the help of Jesus and Alden, the duke and the knight tunneled their way through the maze, each corner they turned revealing a new foe, until they found themselves nearing a great iron gate, beyond which Daryl swore he could hear your voice. The fear and confusion pierced his heart like a thorn, though the familiarity in your voice was like the sweetest rose. 

“This way!” cried Alden. “Hurry!”

The four men raced towards the gate, with Alden hurriedly turning the key in the lock. Daryl did not hesitate, throwing the door open with a great echo of the squeaking of hinges. He stepped in quickly, and the other three men followed, though Daryl pushed them back. 

“Stay out here,” he said. “Keep watch. If anyone followed us—”

“Go,” said the duke. “But hurry.”

For the first time in several hours, you heard the creaking of the opening door, the footsteps that echoed through the dark, winding halls of the dungeon. Though you could not see who they belonged to, you had more fear in your heart than hope. 

All you could see beyond the bars of your cell and at the end of the hall was that same glow of that same fire of that same sconce that provided the only light you had in this God forsaken place. As you stepped back, terrified of the slow, heavy footsteps growing increasingly loud, the shadow of the figure played against the stone floor, flickering with the light. 

Surely, you were to die tonight, whether by the hands of a Savior or one of the intruders. You could not see any other way for this to end, though you had wished so much for Daryl’s sign to be true. 

“Please,” was all you could muster, your voice shaky and delicate, close to shattering like thin, weak glass. 

He followed your voice, his vision obscured by his helm that he had forgotten to remove in the haste to locate you. When he turned the corner, finally laying eyes on you, his heart could not bear to waste another moment—he moved as fast as he could in his heavy steel armor, which you could not recognize at all.

It was not the armor of Alexandria, nor of the Saviors. No, it was the Hilltop’s armor, but you’d never seen it in your life. 

All you could see was an unfamiliar man in unfamiliar armor hurriedly jimmying the key in the lock of your cell door, while you cowered in the dusty dark corner, frightened. With nowhere left to go, you sank to the floor in defeat, hugging your knees to your chest for some semblance of comfort. 

“I—I am not one of them,” you stuttered. “Please.”

But the knight did not respond, himself too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. He stood before you now, frozen for a moment, until he kneeled to face you at your level. Between those thin, rectangular windows built into the cold shiny steel of his helmet, you could see a sparkle of cobalt blue, like the reflection of the sunlight that danced upon gentle waves of the sea on a bright summer’s day. For a split second, you swore you recognized that glimmer, the way it made your stomach do somersaults and your chest swell up with air when you’d forget to breathe properly.

Only now, you were sure it was fear that made your body react that way, not the eyes of your lover, so you thought. 

It could not be… And yet, he moved like him, he was built like him, he even very nearly smelled like him—a warm, woody musk. Perhaps it was only your mind playing tricks on you, though, or just wishful thinking.

“Wh-what do you want?” The words were so strangled by the tightness in your barren throat that he could hardly hear you, his helm dulling his senses. “Who are you?”

Just then, Daryl realized how negligent he had been in his stupor. He was still wearing that helmet, and you could not see him for who he was. He could speak, but he feared he’d just cry, and what kind of knight in shining armor would weep before his beloved lady?

You watched with bated breath as the knight lowered his head, his gauntleted hands rising up to either side of his helm. It took some effort to pull the thing off, with it the linen padding and chain mail that protected his head. Left behind was only a curtain of long, shoulder-length hair, chestnut in hue, with subtle streaks of sun-kissed brown and ashy flaxen laced throughout. 

His head still hung, you could not quite make out his face, as it was shrouded in sinuous ripples of hair that so much reminded you of Daryl, but you could not let your mind wander into irrational fantasies of seeing him again, though it was tempting to do so.

With a drag of his hand, he pushed back the hair that hung over his forehead, then lifted his gaze to meet yours, his face blotched with blackish-gray ash and gunpowder from the cannon fire that he’d fought through to get to you. 

But it was not dark enough to disguise him, his features clear as day. Gentle, deep-set eyes of blue shone brighter now without the obscurity of his helm. A short, rounded nose of button shape sat above a pair of panting lips. They were not plump, nor exceptionally thin—there was a softness to them. Around those lips, a smattering of a thin layer of facial hairs, which faded into high cheekbones, defined just enough to bring shape to the otherwise soft curves of his face.

The part of him that made you shudder, though, was the long, reddish scar that split above and below his left eye. You’d traced that scar over in your mind a thousand times, recreated it to perfection whenever the image of your knight’s visage lulled you to sleep in the comfort of your warm feather bed. 

Could it be some cruel trick, some strange sorcery, some facsimile that you’d conjured up in your troubled mind? Or perhaps, and most mercifully, you were dead, too, and this image was an angel sent to carry you into Heaven… Though you knew you were not bound for such a place. No, he was real. You could feel it.

But you could not believe it, not until you touched him, reaching out to hold his ashy cheeks in both of your hands as you leaned closer to him, feeling the heat of his body which you once thought was cold and lifeless. Yet here he was, alive, his heart beating fiercely, as though it yearned to tear itself from his chest and his armor and bury itself next to yours, where it belonged. 

“Daryl?”

When he spoke your name, you could not keep yourself from him much longer, your head dizzy with shock and your heart fragile with the sudden break away from grief and utter despair. Your body melted into his arms, your cheek held firm against the cool hard steel of his pauldron as your tears began to puddle on the surface. 

There were no words between you for a while, only the sound of your gentle cries against his shoulder, and the heavy breaths he panted out as his lips gently grazed your neck, one hand supporting your back while the other tangled in your hair. 

But you could not keep yourself from lifting your head up from his shoulder, letting your eyes dart frantically all over his face. Despite your tears, your lips curled into a smile, with something between a laugh and a cry escaping between sighs. 

He could not handle the separation, though. His eyes squeezed shut, he leaned forward to touch your forehead with his, then the tips of your noses were stuck together like glue, your lips tickling each other’s in featherlight grazes as your breathing synced and your heartbeats seemed to create a harmony from their natural rhythms. Of course, you could not hear it, but you both felt it, deep in your souls. 

“I thought you were…” Hesitation to even speak of the possibility of his death stopped you from continuing, your voice instead softening into a teary sigh, the breath of which he felt on his trembling lips. 

Just the sound of your voice had him in pieces, crumbling like a dried leaf in the palm of your hand, the hand which he held in his, his grip firm but so gentle. And in his arms, you were trembling, cold and tired and hanging onto him as though he was an apparition that could dissolve at any moment, and after everything you had seen, you feared that could be true.

“Are you real?” you whispered, still surrounded by him and his corporeal presence. “Am I dreaming, or are you really my knight, my Daryl?”

“I am real… I am your knight, and I am gonna get you out of here.” Now, he pulled away, the reality of the situation setting in, but his gaze was set on the purple swelling of skin around your right eye. Though you tried to lower your head, as if to hide it from him, he lifted your chin up with his armored hand. Tears trickled down your cheeks, squeezed out as you closed your eyes. 

A burning rage took him over then, that puffy, bruised flesh striking him like lightning that set him ablaze. As he examined you, you swore you saw his top lip twitch into a snarl. The anger was not at you, of course, but at the mark of your assault, and the hand which had committed it.

“He did this?” he asked. “He hurt you?” You had not known such intensity in his voice, or such a menacing fire of fury behind his eyes. Underlying it all, though, was concern. Concern for you. His soothing touch as he stroked up and down your arms proved that. “Did he touch you?”

Though a part of you wanted to lie, to forget about Negan and everything you’d gone through, you could not lie to him, not your love. 

“H-he… Yes.”

You did not have to say more. 

“I’ll kill him. Right now. Son of a bitch is a dead man.” He’d stood to his feet now, with you still clinging to him, and his hands still holding onto your arms as you shook your head. You could not risk losing him again. You’d already gone through the pain of losing him once, and now that you knew that pain, you could never go through it again. 

“No, my love. He is not worth risking your life, not again.”

Of course, he knew you were right—your safety was more important than his desire to kill Negan, and right now, in the catacombs of the Sanctuary, you were anything but safe. His priority now was getting you as far away from Negan and the Saviors as possible, and just hope to God that whoever found Negan killed him slowly, because that’s what he deserved for laying a hand on you.

At the very least, he’d see that you’d never be hurt again so long as he could help it. Pulling his dagger from his belt, he held it by the blade to offer you the handle. “Take this,” he said. You took the misericorde with a shaky, tired hand. 

Before you could speak, the duke’s voice called out: “Let’s go!” he cried. “Now!”

There was no time to even consider it. Daryl took your hand, leaving behind his helm in a hurry to lead you out of the dungeon. You were greeted by the three other men, two of which you had never seen before, one of whom was dressed in Savior armor.

But before you could even ask, the Savior led the way down the cavernous tunnels below the Sanctuary, where footsteps and screams and sounds of cannon fire echoed through the old, winding passageways.

“There’s an escape route through here!” said Sir Alden, pointing further down the underground tunnel, leading into darkness. “It opens into the woods!”

The Saviors, though, were following not far behind, a squadron of them rounding the corner to see the prince, the duke, the knight, the traitor, and the princess, all momentarily frozen to face the dilemma: either stay and fight them off, or keep running until you reached the other side. Either way, they would have to fight at some point. 

One strong hand pushing you back behind him, the knight withdrew his sword, as did the other men, standing firm against the Saviors, but Prince Jesus had another plan.

“Go,” he said. “We’ll keep them busy, you get the princess to safety.”

Daryl hesitated, looking between you and the prince, whose sword was about to strike one of oncoming attackers. “Go!” he called out, still feeling the knight’s presence. It was not honorable to leave an ally to battle alone, but then, it was even more dishonorable to put a princess in danger. 

With only a few more moments’ hesitation, the knight took your hand, spinning you around to pull you further down the tunnel, into darkness.

There was hardly a flash of light to guide you, but somewhere in the distance, a sliver of bright moonlight crept underneath the iron door that surely led out into the woods outside, far from the cannon fire and bloodshed. 

At length, you reached the exit, the knight only letting go of your hand to lift the bar that kept the door sealed from the outside, and to then break the link of the chain lock with the steel of his armor. When the door was thrown open, a gentle, cool breeze awakened you, into the relative peace of the quiet sylvan glade. 

You could only double over for a moment, panting heavily as Daryl closed the door behind you. When you felt his arms lifting you up, you stood upright, falling into his embrace. 

“We’ve got to keep movin’,” he panted, his armor weighing him down and forcing his breath to escape him more strongly. “Further we get the better… The horses aren’t far from here.”

Beyond the gentle slope of a hill, you could see the Sanctuary—plumes of gray smoke illuminating the crumbling parapets and the burning towers that once had stood tall and formidable. Even now, you could faintly hear the voice of your father, commanding the cannons to release more fire upon whatever rubble was left behind. The forces of Alexandria and the Hilltop did not retreat, not even now, but kept pushing, with the intent of killing every armored Savior man big enough to carry a sword. 

Frozen in fear, you were shaken by Daryl’s hands on your shoulders, his touch reminding you where you were, and that you were alive. Free. It was not unlike the feeling you had when you escaped through the tunnels that first time, stepping out into these same woods.

He spoke your name, drawing your attention to him. Wordlessly, you let him guide you, his arm wrapped around you as he practically held half your weight to move you with him. Somewhere in the darkness, you’d lost your slippers. Once you’d relished in the feeling of being barefoot in these woods, but now, your feet were tired, soar, and stinging with cuts from the sharp twigs that your soft soles dragged over. 

But his strength kept you upright, though gravity seemed to be working against you. Just for one moment you wished to stop, to catch your breath and to rest your poor, lacerated feet. “Daryl,” you said. “I—I must stop. Just for a moment.”

He felt your weight begin to sag as he nearly lost his grip on your waist, but he was quick to set you down upon a fallen log, coated with overgrown moss nearly soft enough to feel like some sort of cushion. It was a welcome relief as you struggled to stay sitting upright, despite your desire to lay down and sleep for an eternity or two. 

“Let me see,” said Daryl, lifting your foot by your heel to examine the sole. If you’d been more alert, you’d have been more embarrassed for him to see the state of your feet, bloodied and feeling as though they had been whittled down to the bone. “I will carry you… We can’t tarry long.”

“Just… just a moment, please.”

The pain in your voice carved a new fissure in his heart, your hand clinging to his shoulder, the other gripped tight around the knife at your side as you strained to control your tears. Though you screwed your eyes shut with the tension of your pain, the gentle feeling of his forehead against yours forced them to flutter open, his face a welcome relief from the agony that plagued your sore, tired body. 

It occurred to you again that he was alive, real, that this wasn’t some kind of strange dream. Or maybe it was. You could not tell, with the hazy glow around him as your tired eyes struggled to focus on his visage. “Daryl…”

All pain melted away for a moment as you lifted your hands to feel the warmth of his cheeks. You could feel his smile, both in the lift of his face and the depths of your soul, which you were sure now was tied unbreakably to his, for he was alive, and so were you. 

“I love you,” was all you could say, with so much more fervor and earnestness and purity than you had before, to anyone. You said it once more, this time through a weak laugh that made your voice tremble in delirious glee: “I love you.”

He did not need to reply in words—his soft, featherlight kiss conveyed more than words ever could. It was more coherent, more potent, more true. Your lips conformed to the gentle contours of his as you leaned forward, fully immersed in him and his love, his warmth embracing you like two strong arms of burning hearthfire. It was not an impassioned kiss, but one of comfort, reassurance, and the truest kind of love. 

As he pulled away, you ached to feel his lips once more, but his eyes entranced you. Even in just the light of the full moon, you could still see that crisp blue, enveloping you in his longing. 

“I never stopped thinking of you,” he said.

“Nor did I… Every second I was in that horrible place felt like the world ending all over again. All I wanted was to hear your voice again.” 

On his knees before you, he felt like a pilgrim at the altar of his Goddess, to whom he promised eternal worship and sacrifice—the only divinity he devoted himself to, the only saint worth sanctifying, the only idol he held to such exaltation that he would gladly be nailed to a cross in sacrifice for Her and Her alone. In the temple of your body, he felt your heartbeat against his chest, even beyond the plate of armor that separated him from you. At least, he swore he could. How he missed that feeling.

“I’m here now, princess… And I love you.”

For a while, the space between you seemed to be the entirety of the universe, the center of it all right where your chests met, where your hearts beat. In the bliss of the silent, cool night air, you smiled. “Oh, my sweet knight.”

But the peaceful darkness was broken by the harsh glow of a flame, creeping into your line of vision despite all your focus concentrated on the man before you. Behind him, a figure was silhouetted by the light, moving between the trees on the edge of the forest. 

It was a figure you knew well.

Tall, lean, almost slithering, but much too bold for that—he moved with more arrogance. It was more like a saunter, but with an unmistakable rage in his heavy, ominously slow step. 

Daryl felt the presence, shooting up from his knees to withdraw his sword, his body shielding you from whatever danger lurked. The minute he saw his face, that wide, chortling grin, a strange feeling overcame him. Though it was mostly abject fury, there was a hint of satisfaction, as though the perfect opportunity had befallen him. 

Bloodlust. He’d felt it before, but never like this. Never before did he have such a resolute desire to kill a man, and now the man was before him, he did not have to wish that he could’ve been able to kill Negan himself. He was right there, and just as he knew he would the minute that vile man set his filthy snake eyes on you, he was going to kill him. 

There was no question, no hesitation, no other option. Daryl would have his head for taking you from him, for hurting you, for even looking at you. 

In Negan’s hand was the lit torch from which the light had come. In the other, a sword. He was not heavily armored, only protected by a breastplate and loose chain mail draping over his arms, but the way he glowered at Daryl now, his smile becoming more devious and sinister by the second, you knew he was here to fight. 

With your knife behind your back, you stood to your feet, positioning yourself so you were nearly alongside Daryl, but he quickly moved in front of you, shielding you from the presence of Negan. 

But beyond his shoulder, you could still see the bitterness in his gaze as he approached, sauntering as he swung his sword by his legs. 

“Daryl, I presume?”

For the first time in his life, he made sure that his title was honored. “Sir Daryl.” 

Negan’s eyes widened in amusement and faux impress. “Pardon my inelegance… Sir Daryl, I believe you have taken something from me. Something that belongs to me.”

Behind your snarl was a momentary lapse of fear, only vanquished by smoldering anger and hatred. To think of any universe in which you belonged to that man was nothing short of abject horror. You only hoped that such a universe could never exist. Before you could think about it too long, Negan added another few words to his vile declarations. 

“And I want it back.”

The it in question was you, of course, and the insinuation that you were some kind of object to be passed around only fueled Daryl with more hatred than his heart could stand. Another word from that man might have been fatal to the both of them. 

“You’ll die first,” he said. 

Negan let out a hearty chuckle, underscored by a biting bitterness that cut through the knight’s armor, reminding him of the danger he was up against. Daryl might’ve been a good fighter, but surely Sir Negan was no amateur. He had been knighted once, after all, and he could not have made it to his position as a leader without some battle prowess. It was evident in the way he walked, his sword now held high in both hands, the torch he once carried thrown haphazardly to the dirt and illuminating the scene with the hellish glow of an orange flame. 

“Are you challenging me to a duel, knight?”

“No,” replied Daryl, swinging his sword upright with impressive swiftness and skill. “I won't duel a dishonorable knight… But I am going to kill you.”

As Negan held back another insufferable chuckle, you stood to your bare feet, one hand still holding the knife behind your back, the other upon the knight’s shoulder, as if to pull him away, but he was planted firmly. In fact, he nearly lunged towards the other man, if it weren’t for your touch. 

“Daryl, you do not have to fight him,” you said under your breath, your concern not for the other man, but for the wellbeing of Daryl. You had already believed him to be dead just an hour ago, and you did not possess the strength to face that reality again.  “He is weak now. The Sanctuary has fallen… He has nothing. He cannot take me again.”

But that was not good enough for him. 

Negan was ordered to be killed on sight, and there was no way in Hell he would let that man go with his head still intact. Not after what he had done. The evidence was on your face as he looked back at you, his sight beginning to practically blur with rage. No, it did not matter how powerless Negan was now. All that mattered was ridding the air of his filthy stench. 

“Princess,” Negan said, a bite to his teasing voice that made the bruised flesh around your eye sting. “When I kill your useless knight, you come with me.” There was a crazed desperation in his eyes, and a frantic adrenaline running through his veins until they bulged in his sweat-shined forehead. 

The powerlessness came rushing back, the feeling that you were nothing but property to be claimed by whichever powerful man came along and made his decree. But that would never happen again, not anymore.

You’d spent too long feeling trapped in a world that you had no control over, like a flimsy paper doll subject to the whims of a careless child. Though there was not much you could do now, there was the reassurance that you were ultimately in control of your own destiny—that you were free. 

And Daryl had freed you. Though you had the power in you all along, his love had changed you. It made you stronger, and now you stood in the face of that which threatened your destiny. With whatever power was within you, you would protect that destiny, and that destiny was him. 

“I’m gonna kill him,” Daryl said to you, his voice low and rumbling with the earthquake of fury that rose inside of him. There was nothing else to say, only a steady look cutting through the heavy air between you. With a nod, you clenched your jaw and straightened your back in an attempt to hold back the fear of losing him again, though above all, you had faith in him.

Only three words fell from your trembling, burning lips: “Yes, you will.”

At length, Daryl stepped forward, while Negan matched his movements to the knight opposite of him. As their swords swung up in unison, the tension between them was broken by their sharp blades cutting through to meet, the sharp, stinging sound of silver crossing silver ringing in your ears as you watched, eyes wide and unblinking for fear of one second changing everything.

There was no fear of going back to Negan now, only the fear of losing Daryl.

But he was a good swordsman—that much you knew. And as he advanced forward diagonally, he met Negan’s next swing with a front guard and a heavy step forward to push the lighter man back with his body weight, then striking again in an attempt to lacerate the exposed skin of his opponent’s neck. 

Negan was swift, though, fading backwards only to catch himself with the skill of a trained swordsman. He took a fierce lunge with his sword’s point aimed at the space between Daryl’s breastplate and his underarm, but Daryl blocked the attack with a short guard, his sword held with such force that it propelled Negan’s sword nearly out of his hands. 

Daryl’s movements were equally as swift now, his attack coming quickly as he lunged towards Negan with the offensive. He raised his sword high now, coming at the taller man with a window guard that poised his blade just above his own head, the point headed directly for Negan’s eye. 

If the strike had hit, you were sure you’d be sick to your stomach to see the steel penetrate his face, blood surely spewing in a geyser as the blade would tunnel through the brain and exit out the back of his head, but Negan was too cunning, once again. 

With a pivot, he swiveled himself to the right of Daryl, using his height to his advantage as he turned his sword at an angle, then used the pommel of his hilt to strike at the base of the back of Daryl’s neck, the pain of which elicited a grunt from the man who stumbled forwards. 

A fearful gasp escaped your lips, though only rage burned through you, causing you to grip harder on the handle of the dagger you still held behind your back, waiting only for the right moment to strike. You took to studying the man’s weak points—the spots at which his minimal armor allowed for easy access. His back was only draped in chain mail, which you knew to be weaker than steel plate. 

And the blade Daryl had given you was incredibly sharp, with its point small enough to penetrate through small crevices and weak spots in armor. If you could get through that chain mail, you might puncture his heart from the back… But he moved so fast, his feet conjuring a whirlwind of dust as he slid to and fro above the dirt ground. 

Though Daryl had caught himself before he could fall, he was winded by the hit to his neck. Negan only smiled, swaying his head in arrogant amusement as the knight returned his gaze with a glare. 

Had this been a true duel, Negan’s hit would have been unsanctioned, an unfair and unchivalrous move that would have had him disqualified. Daryl should have known, though, that a dishonored knight would not abide by any code, and that the only way he would be able to defeat Negan was to forgo any last shred of chivalry he could spare. 

A man of Negan’s ilk did not deserve such a privilege anyway.

“You see, my princess,” Negan called out over his shoulder to you, his eyes never leaving the huffing and puffing knight whose face grew more red and more strained with each second that Negan still breathed. As he spoke he swung his sword in haphazard circles through the air in front of him, a slight chuckle rumbling under his voice. “He’s pathetic, a waste of a good sword. How could your so-called knight keep you safe when he can’t even keep his balance?”

Daryl stood still, momentarily paralyzed by unspeakable anger as sweat soaked through his hair and trickled down the hot skin of his face. Heavy pants and an increasingly frantic heartbeat nearly drowned out the man’s loud, brash voice, but it cut through like a hot knife, scorching his burning skin as his words gouged a little deeper with each stinging utterance.

“Oh, but he could not even protect you when the Dead invaded your kingdom… He couldn’t protect you then, and he sure as hell can’t protect you now.”

The man turned towards you now, peeling his aways away from Daryl to saunter slowly in your direction. You stepped back, eyes wide and lips agape with quick pants. As fear overwhelmed you, you kept your hands behind your back, just waiting for him to get a little closer, though he never did. 

Daryl lunged towards him, taking advantage of Negan’s momentary lapse of attention to raise his sword and swing it down just as his opponent turned around. But Negan was quick, retreating with a backwards step and a block that pushed Daryl back too.

And Negan knew what he was doing—weakening Daryl with his words, drawing out his anger to render his technique sloppy and uncoordinated. So he continued, gesturing the tip of his sword towards the knight. 

“You know how this ends,” he said. “You know that I’m gonna win… Because people like me, we always win in this world. People who take what they want and get what they want.”

But none of those words meant anything to Daryl, who could not comprehend anything past the smug grin that split Negan’s face, and the boiling of his blood as he grew nearly faint with rage. 

Through heavy panting breaths, he spoke without even hearing his own voice: “I said… I’m the one who’s gonna kill you… And I am no liar.”

With a strong footing, he threw himself forward with a grunt so loud that it could have suited as a battlecry. His swing was fueled by pure hatred, to the point that he moved even faster than Negan could deflect this time. It made your heart jump in your chest, watching your knight seem to gain the upper hand again, his sword never relenting and his movements swift enough to dodge every stroke that came his way. 

Now, Negan was winded, his long legs seeming to almost shake underneath him as he struggled to keep his body guarded against Daryl’s blade. With a swift advance, calculated yet impassioned by another outburst of anger, he drew Negan’s attention with a false strike, his blade not following through with the swing directed towards his abdomen. 

Negan’s right shoulder was effectively exposed now, displayed for just a millisecond directly before Daryl’s eyes. Where his pauldron slipped, loosened by the movement, a sliver of aged leather was revealed between plates of shining black steel. In a split second, he made a hard strike, the edge of his blade slicing through the leather and gouging open the skin of his shoulder. 

Negan bellowed deeply, groaning in pain as he swung haphazardly while Daryl faded back, narrowly missing the edge of his blade. 

The cut was deep, digging through muscle and ligaments and nearly into bone. If Daryl had swung any harder, his arm might’ve been hanging on only by a thread of blood dripping flesh. 

But there was enough strength in his arm still to raise his sword again, barrelling towards Daryl as fast as his anger could carry him. Daryl deflected his strike with a front guard, but the second blow was strong enough to do the unthinkable.

Your eyes widened as a gasp escaped your lips, the edge of his sword cutting through the air as it flew a yard or two away from your knight’s outstretched hand. With nothing to block against Negan’s next move, Daryl was rendered defenseless.

“Daryl!”

The knight had fallen on his back, struggling to return to his feet just as Negan walked over him, planting his muddied boots on each of his wrists to keep him pinned down, despite his fingers flexing in desperation to reach the handle of the sword that lay just inches from reach. 

And your heart had dropped to your stomach again, your frantic mind scrambling to figure out what to do. There was that blade in your hands, and perhaps you could… No—not perhaps. 

There was no doubt in your mind now what you needed to do, the red cascade of blood beginning to pour over the silver steel of his greaves. Negan’s last swing had been strong enough to slice through the armor, into the flesh of Daryl’s thigh. Without his sword, and without the strength to free himself from underneath Negan’s feet, he could not defend himself against Negan. Even with the wound to his shoulder, he had the upper hand. The final upper hand. 

That fear showed itself again—that same confusion and uncertainty that overtook you and made you freeze when that herd closed around him, a feeling which you knew all too well. Now, he was not surrounded by the Dead, but something much more evil: a man whose selfishness and greed trumped any human decency he once might have had. 

But you would never feel powerless again. Not when you were in control, and that misericord in your trembling hands could put an end to the fear that had held you in its clutch for a decade. All this time, you thought freedom was in leaving the walls of Alexandria, but it was in something else, too. 

Freedom was in putting an end to that which kept you imprisoned in fear. 

As you moved forward, your aching, lacerated feet carried you slowly, silently towards the man whose back was turned to you. With your eyes narrowed on a ring of silver in the center of the chain mail draped over his back. Unblinking and barely breathing, you lifted the small blade, trapped in the clutch of your hand beneath your white knuckles. 

“You’re the one who’s gonna kill me, huh?” Negan’s head tilted slightly as he watched Daryl struggle to free himself, his face displaying the utter amusement that such a sight afforded him. “Now, I just don’t see that happening… You know, you really shouldn’t come to a duel without a sword.”

With a huff, the knight spat a glob of saliva at Negan. A futile exercise in defiance, but what else was he to do? 

“Now, because I am a merciful man,” he continued, the tip of his sword beginning to dig into the skin of Daryl’s neck, just enough to draw a bead of fresh blood onto the already bloodied edge, “I’ll let you make your peace with my princess, whom you so unceremoniously swept away from my castle.”

Without turning completely towards you, he called out your name. “My princess,” he said, “is there anything you’d like to say before I rid your knight of his weary head?”

For a moment, you feared he would turn to see you just inches from him, your knife poised to dig into his back, but just before you lunged forward, you answered him—with the only words you could think to say in response:

“I am not your princess.”

The closeness of your voice widened his eyes, and just before he turned, you’d felt the heaviness of the knife tunneling into his flesh, its sharp tip carving a path straight to his cold, evil heart. 

You swore you could even feel it beating, if it had ever beat at all. 

Negan stumbled backwards, taking you with him as your hands were still grasped tight around the handle of your dagger. 

And the weight was lifted from the knight’s wrists, as Negan’s grip on his own sword faltered and weakened. The blade fell from his hands, but in midair, the knight caught it by its hilt as he leaned up with all his strength.

In just a moment’s time, he swung.

The slice was clean, only a splash of hot blood stinging your cold cheek. Severed with ease, the head flew in midair only for a few moments, landing in the dirt not far from the knight’s fallen sword. 

Negan’s headless body sank to the floor, almost with an eerie consciousness, as though even his body insisted to stand his ground until the last possible moment. With only the distant crackling of the torch and the heavy breaths back and forth between you and him, the silence of the night swallowed the tension that had once lingered in the air. 

Now there was only relief, and whatever was left of the fear you had began to crumble away. 

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Part ➳

[pandamorphic]

Beneath the salty waves, a young dragon cried.

She swam, fighting currents and undertows she didn’t yet know, her tears indistinguishable from the home she fled. Fear and sadness and uncertainty dragged her drowning mind ahead until finally she crashed to the surface and coughed away the waves that filled her mouth. She blinked at the sky and seethed with indignation.

It wasn’t fair. The placid ocean gently released her to the beach as little stars twinkled in the clear blue expanse. Why weren’t they angry, full of righteous vengeance on her behalf? Why didn’t the waters rage and churn and spew into black clouds pounding with lightning? As she collapsed into the soft sands, she tried slowing her merciless heart.

“Oh, my dear, sweet Siren. Why do you run from me?”

She froze. She frantically searched the ripples for the telltale glow of scales. But there was nothing.

Why couldn’t she just get away from him? From them all? Even when she managed to leave, he still whispered in her ear, taunting her. She backed away from the water, sand sucking her talons as if they wanted her to stay. The light fractured around her as something blocked the moons. Clouds were gathering quickly, coming from the mainland and clawing towards her. She ran with a strangled wail—

—straight into something solid. She collapsed, the forest that edged the beach spinning around her. She looked up to find a looming figure haloed by moonlight. It had a strangely alluring presence wreathed in the scent of… was it dried coral? Or saltwater taffy? She realized she couldn’t pin down the smell but she knew it as soft and beguiling, like the rare days her parents let her play around the Wobbegong Carpets with the servants’ dragonets.

The world began to settle into its rightful place, and as it did, she realized the figure was a dragon. A huge NightWing, in fact. What was a NightWing doing around the SeaWing kingdom? she wondered.

“Oh, hello there, little one,” the dragon rumbled.

(Cut for insta)

Her eyes stretched wide as she tried hiding her fear.

“That’s it, sweet Siren. Never let them see your true feelings. Chin up and smile. You belong to the palace. To me.”

A sob escaped before she could catch it. Then, like a dam bursting, the onslaught of tears came.

“Ah, shhh,” the NightWing soothed, immediately wrapping herself around the dragonet. “What troubles you, dear?”

The dragon was warm. Not at all like the deep waters she hatched in, or the stiff royals who planned her every move. There was something tender and motherly in the way she caressed the webbing along her back. It was a feeling she never knew herself.

“My— they—“

She couldn’t stop hiccuping and could taste the familiar sharpness that would follow whenever she stuttered or flinched in front of her parents. However, no slap came, and instead the strangers pale eyes held concern rather than anger. So she swallowed and tried again.

“My… my parents. They were upset, and… they hurt me.”

The dragon tutted quietly. “When parents harm their own children… Is there no greater injustice?”

She buried her head in the stranger’s side and whimpered.

“Child, what if I told you I could help?”

She looked up slowly, confused.

“If there was anything, anything you wanted in the whole world, what would it be?”

She paused. What did she want? She was sick of being told what to do, what to say, how to properly act among which dragons. She hated that her parents treated her few friends poorly just because they were servants and commoners. No one listened to her. And she wanted him gone.

“To tell others what to do.”

“A simple enough wish. I can make that happen, little one. I just need something from you…”

———

WHEW this took me a while 😭 first real attempt at a lil comic thing!! Also more oc lore YEAH!! This is the origin of Siren’s power (and how her eyes changed as a result) and another connection with Lady Sybil 👀

[sordidpsychick]

Angel Numbers

1 - Escapee

Reigen and CO. find an escapee from the local hospital rumored to be doing illegal human experiments.

Ao3 | Tip Jar | Next

Content: Reigen/Fem!OC, MDNI, eventual NSFW, I am cringe but I am free, self-indulgent, perv Reigen, human experimentation, OC can see ghosts, chubby OC, short-lived Dimple and Reigen rivalry, blood & injury

7.3k words

Reigen Arataka, self-proclaimed Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century, was currently on a call about some mysterious moaning and groaning coming from the woods surrounding said client’s house. 

“Talk about creepy,” said Dimple, the non-threatening evil spirit that always tailed Mob, Reigen’s trainee. 

“Yeah,” answers Mob quietly while looking around, shoes crunching on leaf litter. 

They were here at night when spirits were the most active, but that meant the forest was dim and little light from the moon descended through the fall foliage. Foggy too; the client had warned them about the small lake that resided in the middle of the forest. 

“Hmm.” Reigen rubbed his index finger and thumb from his chin outward to his jaw as he looked around the gloomy foliage. “I don’t sense any particular spiritual energy.” He paused as he took a few more moments to look around. “What do you think, Mob?” Reigen stopped and turned, one of his hands resting on his hip where his belt held his light gray slacks while his other arm was bent in the middle with his palm turned to the sky. The pose combined with his calm expression exuded confidence, putting everyone at some level of ease.

Mob looks towards his master, mouth opening, but is interrupted by an echoing sob that causes a few birds to flee from the treetops. The three of them tense, looking towards the sound that came from deeper in the forest, toward the lake. As the sound dies off, Mob speaks. 

“I don’t sense any evil spirits, master.” 

“I can’t say I do either, so whatever made that sound…” Dimple side-eyes the direction the sound came from. 

“Is not an evil spirit, I agree,” Reigen finished with a nod. He took a breath and looked at Mob firmly. “Mob, see if you can lure out the spirit with your energy. My ability is too strong and I could accidentally scare it further into the forest.” Reigen crossed his arms and walked to stand by his student, observing the forest around them with caution.

“Right.” Mob nods and closes his eyes. Silently, he raises a hand, dark hair picking up in some unseen wind. Another sob rings through the forest, this one more guttural than the last. 

“Woah, it’s working!” Dimple floats higher towards the foliage to see if the spirit is nearing. 

“No.” Mob drops his hand to his side, ability dormant once more. 

“Huh? Whaddya mean ‘no?’” Dimple floats back down immediately. 

“I mean; it’s a human.” 

Reigen put his hands back on his hips and stepped out from the group, cheap loafers crunching on the leaves lining the forest floor. “Come on out. If you’re trying to startle us you’re sorely outmatched.” He began to look around closer into the tree line, trying to catch a glimpse of someone hiding in the dim evening light.

“Um, master?” Mob calls meekly, suddenly looking paler than usual. He points to the ground. 

There, speckling the leaves, barely visible in the moonlight, is a trail of blood that leads into the dark forest ahead—towards the lake. 

“AWHH SHIT-“ Reigen jumped back at an alarming speed, nearly stumbling onto his ass as his face contorted with fear. He stood straight seconds later and cleared his throat as he adjusted his tie, “Ehem, yes well, let us proceed with… caution. I have the unfortunate feeling that this is who our client wants us to take care of.”  

Reigen was the first to step forward and continue.

The infrequent sobbing became clearer and unfortunately, the blood trail thickened the further the three delved into the forest. Soon enough, a glimmering lake came into view between the tree trunks. 

There was a shape up ahead, haloed in the white light of the moon, slumped on the bank of the lake. 

“It went quiet…” Dimple whispers, squinting at the shape. 

It’s without a doubt the thing that was making the creepy noises from before — the blood trail led right to it. The figure shifts and things start to make more sense. 

“It’s a-“ Mob opens his mouth but is immediately interrupted by Dimple. 

“HOT BABE!” The floating green spirit darts towards the shape, which seems to be trying to sit up. 

She originally looked like some strange glowing rock, but now it’s clear that the moon’s light was just reflecting off the white of her hospital gown. Her shoulders tremble violently, miniature versions of the cries from before tumbling from her paling lips. 

“Dimple, wait!” Mob calls from the tree line, but it’s no use. 

Moments later a gray flash pushed past Mob; Riegen. “No fair, Dimple!” He hissed as he ran with all his power towards the glowing figure, slowing as he approached with his hands cautiously out. “We mean you no harm, alright?” He assured the figure.

“Woah, crap! She doesn’t look good.” Dimple says, meaning all the blood. 

Soon, Mob catches up to them, heaving from the exertion. “I found some wire back there. I think she might’ve gotten caught in it and that’s what’s caused the…” he goes pale, turning his back at the sight of the wound that runs jagged around her calf.  

The woman lets out a shriek when the three of them crowd her, scrabbling on the pebbled shore towards the water. “G-get away!” She spits, pale eyes crazed with delirium and blood loss. 

“Hey babe, chill out! We’ll get your leg fixed up in no time.” Dimple floats just in front of her face and makes sure to wink to sweeten the deal. 

The woman just screams louder, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“Dimple, you’re scaring her!” Mob shouts in a shaky voice.

Reigen quickly swats the green spirit away with his hand in the air, “Mob’s right, give her some air,” he said as he ignored his own words and crept closer.

He silently examined the wound. Shit… that's a lot of blood she will probably pass out soon. He took a moment to examine her outfit, trying to piece things together. Calling an emergency vehicle is the obvious thing to do here, but something is telling me she is trying to stay out of hospitals. Reigen knelt down and hovered his hand over the wound. “Mob, you wouldn’t happen to have healing capabilities would you?” He asked as he turned over his shoulder to look at his student.

The woman hissed in pain when Reigen’s hand put pressure on the wound but didn’t seem to have the strength to fight him. 

“N-no, I don’t think so.” Mob slowly turns around. “Oh! I do have…” He rummages through the pockets of his school uniform and produces a singular bandaid. 

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Dimple manages to manifest arms for a sheer moment to shake Mob violently. “A hottie’s life is on the line and you’ve only got a single bandaid?!” 

“S-Shouldn’t we call for an ambulance?” asks Mob amidst Dimple's shaking. 

“NO!” The woman digs her nails—which are already caked in blood—into Reigen’s wrist. Her scream is ear-piercing and full of terror. “They’ll find me! I don’t wanna go back!” She shakes her head, white hair sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks. 

Reigen frown nearly stretched off his face, nostrils flaring as he took a sharp breath and fought back tears while holding in a scream. “N-no!” He managed to speak out through the strained urge to yell.  He got a grip on himself and took a few more breaths before shaking his head. “We have to carry her back to the road. Mob, call the cab and tell them to come back and get us.” He crept around her figure on his knees, the rocks crunching under him as he looked into the pale eyes of the mysterious woman. “I am going to pick you up, alright?”

Mob is quick to fumble for his phone, walking off to the treeline while mumbling to the person on the other side. Dimple follows, shouting this and that. 

The water laps at the shore, stained pink from the woman’s blood. “Don’t take me to the hospital,” she sputters. “I can’t go back there, please.” She looks up at Reigen with teary eyes, loosening her grip on his wrist. Then, her eyes seem to roll for a second before her head falls back on the pebbles. She’d passed out.

Reigen had been moments away from assuring her that this was not his intention when he watched her lose her grip on consciousness. He was grateful, in a way, it would make carrying her easier. He scooped his hands underneath her lower back and the backside of her shoulders as he stood. “Hhf-!” He took a small step back as he adjusted to the weight, forgetting how long it had been since he had last worked his upper body this hard.

Slowly, he began to walk her back along the path, not stopping to talk to Dimple or Mob who had just finished his conversation on the phone. Reigen knew if he stopped walking he might not be able to start again. 

“Master, let me help.” Mob jogs to catch up to Reigen. He holds his hand out, lifting some of the woman’s weight with his ability.

Dimple floats about, checking the woman’s wound and then inspecting her hospital gown. “Hey, this logo is familiar,” he says, pointing at a little gold symbol sewn into the chest of her gown. 

Mob gets on his toes to peer at the woman in his master’s arms. “I think I’ve seen it online somewhere. Isn’t that—” 

“It's that creepy hospital! Weren’t they exposed for doing human experiments?” Dimple fishes Mob’s phone from his pocket and starts typing madly on it. Soon enough, a grainy image of a long, square, white building with the same logo is floating in front of Reigen’s face with the news headline in bold underneath. 

“I thought that was just a hoax…” Mob trails off.

“Me too.” Reigen, now with the help of Mob’s telekinesis, was able to stop to look down at the woman's body in his arms. “We can’t take her to a hospital. They will identify her and probably try to transfer her to that other hospital when they finish treating her. It would be best to take her back to my apartment. I have food, medical supplies, and a place for her to sleep.” They had traveled back far enough now to be able to see the dark road, barely visible through the fog.

The headlights of the cab approach in the distance. They shine through Dimple’s ghostly shape as he floats in front of Mob’s face after returning his phone. “Mob, are you sure Reigen can be trusted with this kind of thing?” He squints at Reigen challengingly. You think I wouldn’t notice, huh? You just want a hot girl in your house!

The middle schooler looks up at Reigen, and then at the woman. “Yeah. Master is a good guy. He knows how to handle this sort of thing better than I could.”

Reigen’s smile reached the corner of his eyes as he smirked proudly at Dimple for a brief moment before closing his eyes and calmly nodding. “That's right. I have more experience with this sort of thing than Mob, not to mention more space in my room, so naturally, I am the top choice.” Reigen was relieved to see the cab. Even with Mob and Dimple around to warn him about spirits, the forest had really started to creep him out. 

“Speaking of handling,” says Dimple as the car pulls to a stop. “What are you gonna tell the client?”

--

The three of them got the mysterious woman to Reigen’s apartment after an hour or so. Reigen, of course, had lied to the client and said it was just a simple banshee—an easy exorcism. Now, the three of them were peering over her pale, sweaty form lying what looked to be close to death on Reigen’s couch. Her wound was cleaned and bandaged, so really, all that could be done here was to wait for her to wake up so she could be given food and water. 

“Well, if she dies I hope she becomes a vengeful spirit. Then that’ll be my department, eh-heh.” Dimple floats away, smirking. 

“Dimple! She won’t die…” Mob looks up at the spirit before looking back down at the woman, sweating. “...Right, master?” He looks to Reigen for reassurance.

Reigen was busy holding Dimple by the end of his ghostly form’s tail and swinging him in circles throughout the air with a building speed until releasing Dimple, sending him shooting through the wall.

Reigen dusted off his hands and then turned back to Mob. “Sorry, what? …Oh! No, she will be fine Mob, don’t worry.” Reigen gets on one knee in front of the young boy and calmly places a hand on his shoulder in assurance. “Everything will be alright. Now, it’s late. Why don’t you head home for the night?” His hand moves from Mob’s shoulder to his head where he ruffles the boy’s pin-straight black hair.

“Right.” Mob nods. “I’ll come by tomorrow if that’s alright,” he suggests while heading towards the door. When he gets a nod from his master, he gives a small bow before slipping out the door. 

Reigen places his hands on his thighs and stands to his feet, sighing tiredly. 

He liked Mob and appreciated how much easier he made most jobs with clients, but keeping up the constant ‘esper master’ act around him was getting to be a pain. 

Reigen slowly undid his tie while looking down at the young woman.

Her hospital gown was thin and looked rather uncomfortable. He wondered how warm it was. 

“Maybe I should get her a blanket in case she gets cold,” he muttered as he walked over to the only standing cabinet in his room, tossing his pink tie on his messy bed as he opened the bottom doors. Neatly folded on the bottom shelf was a spare blanket. Standing, he gently laid the soft fabric over her body, pausing to take a closer look at her now that Mob wasn’t analyzing his every move.

“You will wake up tomorrow, won’t you?” He softly asks as his hand lingers where he holds the blanket over one of her shoulders. “It would be a shame if I never got to hear your name.” He pulled away and stood, fishing out a box of matches and a cigarette from one of his pockets. He mumbled something about needing to cut back on some work hours as he walked out of the apartment briefly to smoke.

When Reigen returned, there was a ghostly apparition standing in the middle of his apartment—wait, that was just the strange woman. The blanket he’d laid over her was draped over her malnourished shoulders and she stood, trembling, weak, and terrified in the unfamiliar room—not to mention, she was putting way too much pressure on that freshly bandaged wound. Her adrenaline must be spiking through the roof once more, which wasn't good for someone who’d lost as much blood as she had. At the sight of him, she backed up against the furthest wall.

Reigen shut the door and upon seeing her, quickly raised his hands, dropping the lighter with a small, metallic, clunk on the floor. “Hey, woah, woah, deep breath okay? I'm the guy who found you, remember? All I've done is treat your wound, but I'm no doctor; you need to lay back down.” Reigan slowly approached her and gestured over to the couch pressed up against the singular window in the tiny apartment.

She seemed to recognize him after a moment, evidently after hearing his voice, and slowly inches back towards the couch, keeping a keen eye on him all the way. Eventually, she sits with a little wince and hugs the blanket tighter around herself. “Where am I?” she asks, voice hoarse from all the screaming and crying she’d been doing all night. 

“Seasoning city, in my apartment. Don’t worry, I haven't called the police or a hospital or anything. No one knows you are here, I promise.” Reigen slowly walked around her to sit on the edge of his bed, trying to appear as harmless as possible.

The woman lets out a breath and seems to relax immediately, shoulders slumping. Blinking blearily, she glances towards him. “...Thank you, um…” she gives him a little tilt of the head, clearly probing for his name.

Reigen smirks, fishing out a business card from the unbuttoned blazer he had yet to take off. It flips in his fingers as he extends it towards her with a wink, “Reigen Arataka, but please, call me whatever you would like.”

The woman gingerly takes the card from his hand and reads it over. “Psychic…? You’re a psychic?” She blinks up at him.

He crosses his legs, hand rising to his face to stream through his strawberry blonde hair. “That's correct!” He exclaimed with a smirk as his hand moved down to rest with the other one on top of his knee. “I mostly perform exorcisms, but I also have experience reading one's future as well.”

“Oh,” she trails off, blinking owlishly at him. Then, a corner of her lip seems to quirk upwards. “Heh… heheahah!” Then she’s laughing. It’s light, hesitant, and a little playful. The beauty of it ends with a dry cough and a painful swallow from the woman. “Could I have some water?” She croaks, touching her throat lightly. 

Reigen was stunned by the sound of her laugh. It sounded so lighthearted and angelic coming from someone who had moments ago been trembling in fear. He sat there for a moment, collecting all his thoughts before slapping his knee and nodding. “Right! Of course, yes, right.” His words trailed off into a mumble as he stood and approached the water jug beside the arm of the couch facing his desk. He grabbed the glass that he kept to the side of the taps and filled it with cool water, handing it to her. “It's a clean cup, don't worry.” That was a lie, it definitely was not clean, but he was too tired to walk down the hall to where he kept his scarce amount of dishes. Besides, some germs never harmed anyone. 

If she drinks from that… that's like an indirect kiss right!? Hah, Dimple will be so jealous that she indirectly kissed me first.

Reigen stood over her still, watching her with a blank face as she took the cup.

The first sip she takes is light. But then, like she’d gotten a taste for blood, she chugs the whole thing down before pulling the glass away and wiping her mouth. “Thank you,” she says behind the back of her palm, wiping the ravenous look from her eyes as well when she hands the cup back to Reigen. 

He takes the cup and stiffly sets it back down, face pale. That… was better than I ever could have imagined! So she likes some gentleness before getting rough huh? It was kind of scary but I can't pass a chance with a chick this good-looking, beastly tendencies or not! He cleared his throat and all emotions were wiped clean and replaced with new positivity. “So! You going to give me your name?” He asked as he sat back down on his bed and removed his blazer.

The woman looks nervously to the side. “Um…” She fidgets. “I… I think…” Her brows furrow as if she’s thinking hard. “… Seven, Seven, Seven.” She looks at him, clearly knowing that ‘name’ is not a name but instead a series of numbers, far too similar to common test subject numbers.

Reigen is surprised at first but doesn't ask questions, presumably piecing together that—with a name like that, her fear of hospitals, and her garments—she was some sort of experiment. He strokes his chin with his fingers, mumbling, “Seven, Seven, Seven,” when suddenly his fingers snapped and he smiled. “Self-growth! It's an angel number referring to one’s personal exploration, discovery, and growth. No wonder it sounded so familiar.” He sighed with satisfaction, obviously pleased with himself for being able to identify the correct meaning of the number.

The woman tilts her head, some white hair falling into her eyes “Angel… Number…? You must know a lot about those kinds of things, Reigen.” His name rolled off her tongue rather softly like she’d been practicing it in her head for a while. 

Reigen twitched at the casual way she had slipped his name in, heart sputtering with pride. He cleared his throat, marking a transition of tone. “Listen, no offense but I don’t really want to say ‘seven, seven, seven’ every time I want to get your attention, alright? So for the time being… how about I just call you ‘Angel?’” He tilted his head slightly to one side and gestured to her. “You have white hair and when we found you, you literally looked like you were glowing! Of course – it is up to you.”

“Really?” She leans forward, blushing. “That’s such a nice name. No one’s ever bothered to give me one. Thanks…” She smiles. “… I love it.” Immediately following her last sentence, Angel gives a big yawn. It was nearly one in the morning, after all.

“Right!” Reigen says as he claps his hands together. “You should go to sleep,” he said as he stood. “The bathroom is before the big locked door down the hallway, i'll be in the bathroom for a little while but after that wake me if you need anything.” The self-proclaimed psychic grabbed his pajama shirt off a hanger by his standing cabinet and disappeared down the hall.

--

In the morning, when Reigen rises to his alarm, there are two pale eyes and a growling stomach that greet him from the couch. Angel is bundled in her blanket and tries to casually look away when their eyes meet as if she hadn’t been watching him snore and drool all over his pillow.

Reigen groans and sits up, yawning and stretching his upper body, arms reaching into the air before coming down to wipe at dried drool in the corners of his lips. His alarm was still going off as he stood up and padded over in tall white socks to where his flip phone was charging underneath the TV. He unplugged it from its chord and flipped open the device, drowsily muttering things as he pressed buttons until the sound stopped. He tossed the device carelessly onto his bed and finally looked at his guest. “You are uh… probably starving, huh?” He said as one of his hands scratched around in his hair.

Silently, the woman on his couch nods. It's followed by another loud growl from her stomach. “Can I have some clothes?” She speaks up from the blanket. The hospital gown was probably chilly, especially if she had nothing on underneath. Quietly, she adds a ‘please.’ 

Reigens eyes go wide as he slowly pivots to count the four long blazars hanging on a small rack against a wall of the room. “Uhhh…” He slowly walks past it and opens the cabinet beside it, combing through an even scarcer collection. “Here, you can wear these exercise clothes for now,” he said as he tossed a thick-strapped, dark green tank top and a pair of plain running shorts at her. 

“After I make breakfast we can go shopping,” says Reigen. Then, under his breath, he adds; “Hm, I’ll have to tell Mob I won't be in the office today.” He walked groggily down the hall, hand reaching back carelessly to scratch where the fabric of his boxers rested on top of his rear. 

“Thank you,” mutters the woman. She leaves the blanket rumpled on the couch, heading quietly to the bathroom at a limping pace. The bandage that wrapped her calf had just barely bled through in the night, the front of it stained a dark brown. She disappeared with a click of the door and some muted rustling was heard. 

By the time Angel emerged again—hair brushed and cleaned up and wearing Reigen’s clothes—the scent of food caught her nose. She peered into the small kitchenette, staying shyly in the doorway like a wary stray. 

Reigen stood in the small kitchen at the stove holding a large pan. In it; scrambled eggs with some sort of meat that looked like ham. He shook the pan around, making sure to cook everything evenly, stirring with a spatula occasionally. A toaster in the corner of the kitchen contained four pieces of crispy toast, popped and ready to be grabbed. 

He poured the meal evenly between two ceramic plates then placed the toast to the side. He set the still-hot pan in the sink and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Done,” he said to himself.

Angel had watched him with silent fascination for a while before she spoke up. “Um, where should I put my old clothes?” 

They weren’t really much in the realm of clothes, honestly. Torn in places, speckled with dried mud and blood, and left crumpled on the floor of his bathroom.

“Hm?” Reigen pulled a towel off from where it had rested on his shoulder and wiped his hands before hanging it on a small hook. He stared up at the ceiling as he thought. “Uhhh…” Would she be offended if I told her the trash can? “...How about you just leave them there until we buy you some actual clothes?” He hoped that was polite enough. His dark brown eyes met Angel’s pale ones as he grabbed both plates and held one out to her.

“Okay.” She nods and takes the plate from Reigen’s hand with a muttered ‘thank you.’ She’s quick to return to the couch, where she sits cross-legged to eat. Like the night before, with the water, Angel started with polite, small bites before delving into ravenous hunger.  

Reigen took a seat on his bed’s edge, facing Angel as his mind swam with various pick-up lines he had used at the local bar on girls for years. The current one echoing as he watched Angel eat was; ‘I like a woman with an appetite.’ But saying something like that was out of the question. She was clearly neglected and traumatized in her previous living situation and was in no state for the stranger who took her in to suddenly start hitting on her. Instead, Reigen pushed these thoughts aside and focused on finishing his own meal. 

“What is this?!” Angel’s voice picks up louder than it ever had—except for her screaming in the forest last night. She holds up the meat with her fork, eyes dazzled with excitement. It’s scarfed down seconds later, leaving her plate entirely clean. 

Reigen gripped the plate nervously, startled by her raised voice, and let out a breath after her question was asked. He calmly turned his dark eyes upwards to her. “That is the miracle meat… Spam.” The hand holding his fork raised into the air and the fingers that were not holding the utensil waved about he was performing some magic trick. “It tastes and has the texture of ham, but it has an infinite shelf life! It doesn't even need to be kept in the fridge. Saves me on money and space.” He winked at Angel, pointing his fork at her before bringing it down to collect the egg spam scramble on his plate.

“I like it.” There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes for a moment there as they tick down to his plate. It’s easy to tell what she’s thinking, and yet, she seems to have self-composure because she doesn’t try to steal off his plate. Instead, Angel sets her plate aside on the couch and scratches at her bandage. “Who’s Mob? You said that name earlier.” 

“Mob is my student, he works alongside me as a psychic-in-training. He was there yesterday when we found you, but he kept his distance. Blood tends to make him a little queasy sometimes. I suspect an unpleasant memory.” Reigen stroked his chin, balancing his plate on top of his crossed legs. He realized he had strayed off topic by accident. He took a bite of food and resumed with his mouth full. “Weird blafh hair, gooffhy haircut – mmmh – dead eyeffs, hard to miff him.”

“Oh, him. And…” Angel looks to the side, rather pale. “What was… that green thing…?” Her voice darkens considerably like she’d really seen something truly terrifying. 

Reigen’s mouth fell open, eyes wide like some cartoon as a mush of chewed yellow egg and pink spam fell from his mouth and landed on his plate. Moments later, and without any signs of embarrassment, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and scoots closer. “You mean you can see ghosts?” 

At the word, Angel goes bone pale and stiff and she stares at Reigen like he might be the police. “I guess.” It's meek like she’s scared. “That thing was a ghost? It wasn’t very big, so I thought it might be something else…” 

Reigen was about to explain that he wasn't sure what Dimple technically was but realized that it would make his position as a psychic less believable. Instead, he leaned back. “Yeah, that’s just Dimple. He is sworn to help Mob or something. The two of them come on jobs with me and he’s pretty harmless so don’t be too scared of him.” Reigen shrugged, trying to stay casual and calm as he tried to figure out how she could see Dimple. She can’t be an esper, right?

“Dimple?” Her posture seems to relax and she’s starting to smile. “His name’s ‘Dimple?’” A short burst of light laughter is covered up by her hand. “Oh, sorry, that was rude. Um, I guess I’ll have to say sorry for screaming at him the next time we meet.” 

Reigen smiles, plate finished as he stands and stacks Angel’s on top of his and heads to the kitchen. “Don’t stress too much, he is not entirely deserving of an apology,” Reigen says with an irritated smirk as he sets the plates in the kitchen and walks back. Guess I wasn’t any better than him last night. I wouldn’t deserve one either, honestly.

Angel tails Reigen, watching from the doorway again. “Um, before we leave… I don’t have any shoes.” It wasn’t just shoes she needed. She needed a bra too. It was a little obvious that she wasn’t wearing one—if one looked long enough, that is. 

Reigen nodded, face turning red as he watched the slight bounce from underneath his gym tanktop. Yeah, he wouldn't be washing that for a while and he knew he would never look at it the same again. “Right,” he said with a nod as he brushed past her and handed her a pair of rubber slides. He slipped on a pair of slacks and turned his back to pull off the white t-shirt he had been using as a pajama top. He pulled on a white button-up and tucked it into the pants, finishing the outfit off with a simple leather belt and a pair of leather shoes. No tie or blazer today it seemed. Grabbing his phone off the bed and his wallet off the coffee table, he turned to Angel and gave a thumbs up. “Ready?”

“Mm-hm.” She nods, standing by the front door, twiddling her fingers around the drawstrings of her shorts.

--

Angel looks a little overwhelmed standing in the women’s section of a discount clothing store. It’s easy to say that she’d never gotten to develop a sense of style coming from wherever she’d been—and however long she’d been there. After a mere two minutes, she seems to look at Reigen for help.

Reigen looks just as unsure as she does, cheeks pinkening every time he looks at one thing for too long. “I-I suppose it would be best if we built your closet from the ground up… like a business! No point in buying shoes if you don’t have socks to go with it.” He pointed at her with a smirk, as if his business logic actually had a genuine application in this situation. He tried to remain calm as he walked past the shelves and assorted hangers of shirts to a more secluded section containing a variety of socks, bras, and panties. He cleared his throat and awkwardly looked around. “L-lets start with socks.”

Angel nods in agreement, bending down to look at a small pack of plain white socks. She takes them and places them in the handheld basket Reigen had. Then, her eyes trail over to the bras and underwear. This one’s a little more confusing. She tilts her head at two separate packs of underwear, both of the same coloring, but of different sizes. “I… I’m not sure what size I am.” She looks at Reigen. “What size are you?” 

Reigen is red and stiff as she turns to him so innocently to ask. “I-I don’t wear that kind so I wouldn't know.” He awkwardly cleared his throat and pointed to a few stalls hidden between the shelves. “Th-the dressing rooms should have a tape measure to measure yourself.” He put a hesitant hand on her back and slowly guided her over, holding the door open and peering inside. Sure enough, a plastic tape measure was waiting on a small stool. 

Angel stumbles inside and the door swings shut. There’s some rustling… and then a long moment of silence before the changing room door swings back open slowly and a sheepish Angel peers out at Reigen. “Can you help me…?”

Reigen goes completely red, quickly looking around and moving to cover the crack she caused in the stall door as if protecting her from passing eyes. He nods and closes his eyes as he rushes into the small room and shuts the door, locking it. His eyes opened looking down at his shoes as he took a deep breath. “Wh-what do you need help with?”

“My chest. I can't hold the measuring tape properly.” She holds out the plastic instrument to Reigen, lifting and holding her arms out once he’s taken it.  It made sense. It was the roll-up kind so getting the thing to unroll while holding her arms in such an awkward position must’ve been difficult. Not to mention… her breasts weren’t small. 

Reigen’s heart beats in slow-motion, throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously and reached shaky hands out. He had to look up, he had to look at her as his hands slid past her back and to her front, one on each side of her torso. Try to think of… fruit! Grapes, blueberries, apples, oranges, pomegranates, cantaloupe, w-watermelons – this was not helping ease his mind at all, in fact, he realized it was only spurring him on – watermelons, melons-!

He quickly shut his eyes and took a breath, exhaling on the back of Angel’s neck as he pulled out the rewindable tape measure and held its end on one of her breasts at the ‘0’ mark. He, as lightly as possible, continued to wrap it around her chest with the other hand and adjusted when the band came back around so he could see. “O-one hundred ten centimeters,” he muttered as his eyes glanced up to the chart hanging by the mirror, eyes wide. “S-so your bust is probably a double-D.” His hands pulled away and lowered to where her rib met the bottom of her breasts. He needed her to hold them up so he could get the plastic measuring device underneath for complete accuracy.

“One ten…” She memorizes the number. With a slight nod of understanding, Angel scoops her hands under her breasts and lifts them so that the flat, lower portion of her ribs is exposed.

Reigen swore his nose was seconds away from bleeding. There was no way this was real; this was just some dirty dream, a fantasy he would totally be stuck with for the rest of his life. His hands followed down her rib, finger holding the edge of the tape as his other hand ran along the hot underside of her plush breasts, relieved when he came out on the other side and was free from the strenuous torture of keeping his cool. He quickly reconnects his hands, glances at the number, and mutters, “Eighty-six,” before pulling back and taking a breath, turning to face the wall. 

He made it. He had made it with no suggestive comments or inappropriate lingering. If he wasn’t still stuck in the small stall with her, he would be patting himself on his back. 

“One ten, eighty-six,” Mutters Angel as she squints at the chart on the wall. “You’re right, I am a double-D.” Then, she hums and brushes past Reigen in the small space to unlock the door and step out. “Thanks, Reigen.” She’s quick to dart back to the underwear section, muttering under her breath. “My hips were a hundred-four, but I’ll probably be gaining weight now that my diet isn’t restricted so maybe I should get...” 

The door swings back shut, hanging open just an inch or two ajar as Reigen slumps down against the wall and slides to sit on the stool. He takes a few breaths, trying to take his mind off the sheer amount of heat his body was beginning to put off. The hardest part is done, now I just have to try and not pick out the things I find sexy when she looks at me all helpless. He stands, fixing his collar and hair in the tall standing mirror before leaving to find where Angel had migrated.

When Reigen returns to her side, Angel sets a pack of underwear and two cream-colored bras into the basket. “Umm… we built the foundation, like you said. So now… pants?” She looks at him curiously. Shopping seemed to be relaxing her. Angel was becoming more talkative and confident in taking initiative. 

Composure regained, Reigen is back to his normal self, pointing to Angel with a proud expression written on his face. “Exactly, you get it,” he said in a praising manner as he turned and carried himself, along with the basket, back to the more clothing-oriented section of the women's section.

Angel followed along, a small smile playing on her lips as they passed rack after rack. Soon, something catches her eye and her pace slows to peer at the rack of jeans. They’re pretty plain, but she seems to like a couple of pairs. They’re half off anyway, so Angel slips three into the basket. 

“Then, shirts.” She speaks up, walking ahead excitedly to pick through rack after rack of colorful shirts. Soon, she presents three to Reigen. One is a knitted, blue sweater, another is a plain gray tank top, and the third is a low-cut short sleeve that's white with green flower patterns.  “Do you like them?” She asks, peering over the hangers. 

Reigen streamed his fingers through his short hair as he let out a held breath, wondering how to answer. Looked to the side as he spoke, shrugging. “Yeah, they are pretty cute,” he said with pink cheeks. He held the quickly filling basket out to her, still not making eye contact. “Now you only need shoes, right?”

“Mhm.” The basket gets slightly heavier when the three shirts are set inside. 

After grabbing a box of shoes—some plain black buckle-ups—the both of them found themselves in the beauty aisle. “Uh…” Angel stares up at all the products nervously. They were just here for some soap… but she was getting kind of overwhelmed by all the options. Reaching out, she picks a pretty-looking bottle off the shelf and pops the lid to sniff it. Floral and sweet. Angel holds it up to Reigen’s nose. “Do you like this one?” 

He took a sniff, thinking about the smell. “It’s nice, but it has a heavy chemical smell. He grabbed the bottle and read the list of ingredients. “Aha, see this?” He pointed to one of the long-worded unpronounceable ingredients, “this will dry your skin and cause dandruff.” He set the bottle back down and took charge as he wandered further down the aisle and gestured to a collection of six pastel-coloured bottles from identical soap brands each with different scents. “See if there is one of these you like.”

Angel followed, leaning in to read the labels before she picked a creamy lime-colored one. It smelled like citrus and apple. “This one,” she says, depositing it into the basket and picking out a matching scent of conditioner. Briefly, she looks up and her eyes meet with the razors that hang above the soaps. They go wide for a moment and she side-eyes Reigen before leaving the aisle entirely. 

Reigen said nothing as they left the aisle. He understood that razors were probably highly intimidating for her. He wasn’t even sure if she would know what to do with one. “Anything else you can think of?” He asked her while simultaneously asking himself the same questions. His brain thought over a multitude of things: a hairbrush, toothbrush, condoms, a pillow and pillow case, and deodorant. All of these were great ideas he probably needed to voice, which he would have if it wasn't for how fixated he was on trying to imagine what the outfits they were planning on purchasing would look like on Angel.

There’s a clack in the basket as if she’d partially read his mind: toothbrush, hairbrush, and deodorant. “I think that’s it…” Angel taps her chin and looks towards the ceiling in thought. “… Clothes, bathroom supplies… yeah, that’s it.” 

Despite it being a discount store, the total on the register is enough to make Reigen’s wallet cough a little. Angel peers over his shoulder, mumbling out an apology for all the trouble. 

Reigen passed over his card and turned back to Angel with a smile. “It's fine, these are just a one-time buy kinda of thing, plus it was sort of inevitable. I only have so many shirts.” He shrugged and took his card back, trying not to sob internally as he slid the card back into his wallet and gripped the paper bags containing the newest transaction on his credit account. 

“Still… I could always use help in my office if you wanted to pay me back somehow,” he tapped his cheek in thought. “Something like… a secretary.”

“You’re offering me a job? Really?” Angel seems strangely excited about the idea, a smile rounding her already round cheeks. “What kind of things would I do?” She asks while following Reigen out of the store. 

“File paperwork, arrange my schedules, take phone calls while I’m out, write sticky notes on my desk, oh, and make me tea, of course!” Reigen led Angel out to the street, confidently walking to a curb and setting one of the bags down to raise his hand into the air and call down a cab.

“Okay,” she says enthusiastically, looking at him. “That sounds fun.”

When a cab pulls up to the curb, Angel is quick to step forward and get the door, seeing that Reigen’s hands are full. After that, they plop down inside and head home.

Next

[nero-vanderwolf]

Yet again, Junpei found himself having that dream. 

It was always the same- him falling asleep next to Makoto and Kotone on the rooftop, then waking up surrounded by coffins in the convenience store. 

Usually, he would get up and find himself on top of Tartarus, watching as the twins disappeared into the heart of Nyx. Then the moon would return to normal, and he’d look down to see them in their beds surrounded by flowers. Untouchable, yet touched by one. A boy with a yellow scarf, pressing his hand over their hearts, and leaving a spider lily on their chests. 

Tonight, he looked up expecting to leave on his own- and saw Makoto. He grabbed Junpei’s wrist and dragged him outside- and the sun was shining brilliantly, casting everything in a warm glow like honey. This wasn’t part of the dream. 

The trees were in full blossom, with cherry petals falling around them like the snow back in January. Makoto’s smile was bright as he looked back over his shoulder. His hair was tucked behind his ear, revealing one of his irises had turned a bright green. 

It was as though he was glowing in the daylight, the sun forming a halo around his dark hair. He stopped walking and released Junpei’s wrist. 

“Thank you, Junpei,” he said, but his voice sounded far away, as though he was speaking through some old, shitty phone. Or across a canyon, for how echo-y he sounded. 

He reached out, and pulled Junpei into a hug. Makoto was cold and lightweight, like he wasn’t really there. Junpei expected as much- the guy had disappeared off the face of the earth after that day on the rooftop. 

One day he had fallen asleep and Aigis had carried him back to the dorms, and the next he was gone. He wasn’t in the dorms, the hospital, or (Junpei loathed to even think about that place) the cemetary. He was just... Gone. 

“Where’d you go, man...? Why’d you have to leave?” Junpei asked, feeling tears prick his eyes. None of this was part of his usual dream, but if it meant being able to hold Makoto again, he wouldn’t complain. He would relive his dream again and again if it meant eventually he could hug Makoto and hear his heart and voice and see him breathing, awake and not surrounded by flowers. 

“...I had to leave, Junpei. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back. I’m lucky, though- I can still see you all and how happy you are. I’m happy, too, you know. I... never thought I’d be able to say that, but it’s true- you all have made me happier than I’ve ever been. I love you all. I love you, Junpei.” 

Junpei hugged Makoto closer, sobbing now. He was happy, he would promise a thousand times that he was, but hearing Makoto again... 

He felt like his heart was being ripped out all over again. 

Makoto gently lifted his head, tilting it to the sky. “Look. The petals look like snow, don’t they? And the sun shines so brightly- almost like gold... I feel as though I could reach out and touch it. Don’t you?” 

Junpei shifted his gaze to the boy in front of him. He looked blurry now, as though fading away. Flower petals fell around them in thicker sheets, beautiful as snow. Junpei wished they’d stop. 

“Yeah. Why don’t you try? I bet you could- you can do anything,” he suggested, trying to keep his voice steady. He knew what was coming, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Makoto here for much longer. He had to let go eventually- but that didn’t mean he wanted to. No, he wanted to hold on forever, keep Makoto there with him. Safe and sound and awake, not laying in a bed surrounded untouchable by flowers touched only by one cold, pale hand. 

Makoto smiled, stepping away. He looked serene like this, his face tipped up towards the sunlight. Slowly, he extended his hand up, and 

He stood beside his sister in the heart of Nyx, their friends’ voices shouting encouraging around them. Everyone, all of them, were counting on the two of them, they couldn’t die here- not yet. Not now. Not when they had a promise to fulfill. They had to live to see Graduation Day. That was what they had told the others. 

With the power granted to them by everyone, all the bonds they had formed together and separately, they reached their hands to the sky, the others interlocked, fingers pointed to the heavens. They would live to Graduation Day, but everyone else would go farther. 

Makoto leaned back, eyes closed, and flower petals fell around him like a blanket. He was falling, falling asleep on the rooftop, falling into a flowery grave, falling, falling, falling. 

Junpei saw him, tried to reach out and hold him close one last time, one last hug before he disappeared, tried to hold him, but he was falling too far away, he couldn’t hear them as he disappeared into the heart of Nyx, he couldn’t hear Junpei as he fought back an aching sob as he faded into the flurry of cherry petals. 

He was pushed by something, a red spider lily in his pocket. He was pushed by someone, a sad smile and a yellow scarf the last things he saw. He was falling, surrounded by flower petals. Falling beside his sister, her hand in his grasp. Falling to where their friends smiled and laughed, falling to where he had spent the last of his sunlit days beside his sister covered in flowers in a warm bed, falling to where the sun was golden and bright, falling to where the flower petals were soft and sweet. Falling, falling, falling. And he had been pushed. 

Junpei woke up to a cherry blossom on top of a tear-soaked pillow. 

WHAT THE FUCKFHGGHAGH WHY DID OYU DO THIS TO MEEEE??????????? oughhhhh the makojun angst. junpei losing another person he loved... first chidori now this... this poor guy doesnt deserve all this happening to him he's just a silly guy :< not only that but he has his dreams to torment him. i mean i bet its nice to see him in his dreams but. god... the constant reminder. the feeling of seeing them again only for it to be a dream, you can't feel them... aaahhghhh..............

[birgittesilverbae]

mmm mary seeing ava again and getting tackled, feeling that halo-bearer strength in ava’s grip like a ghost. thinking of all the nights she spent in the dark dreaming of shannon’s hands, her mouth, her sighs against mary’s skin. in the dark dreaming of sunrise and all the hours that have passed between them.

mary holding ava, listening to her sob and apologize and watching bea over her shoulder. looking so grown up. looking like shannon and that calm she always carried with her, turning to light and air as memory unravels her. until she’s sketches and the scent of cedarwood and a hand gripping hers, prising the motorbike helmet away and thumbing at a split lip. a kiss that felt like coming home for the first time.

and there, the hum of the halo in ava’s chest. singing along with her sobs, with her hands gripping mary’s shoulders. wondering if the halo remembers, if it loves mary in some small way.

sometimes shannon reminds her of when the moon steps in front of the sun for a second, brilliantly illuminated, shielding everything in front of it. she thinks of shannon painting with her hood pulled up, humming to herself, paint smeared on her forearms from testing the shade on the canvas of her skin, or balancing a brush. she loved to be precarious.

ava, and bea, and this is as close as i’ll ever get to you

bea and mary having sat for weeks in their mirrored hurt as the world fell to pieces around them. bea thinking of lilith and of michael and never quite losing hope as mary steels herself to catch her in what she can't help but see as the unavoidable outcome. warrior nuns, they never last. warrior nuns, they leave deep trenches carved out in people's chests with their passing.

only there's ava and she's limned gold in the sun, gold in the halo glow, with eyes only for beatrice, barreling into her arms, bea barely able to keep them both upright. a burn in her chest at the kisses, chaste and then heated and bea's cheeks bright red when they pull apart gasping for air and weeping. and then bea's motioning towards her and ava's turning and mary's eyes are veiled with tears. clutching at her like a life raft, like a reliquary, bearing the thing that shannon had guarded so dearly that she'd died for it, that last physical remnant of her brought home.

and it's not enough, it could never be enough, but there's a looseness in bea now as she steps towards them, an unfurling of muscles that have borne so much weight, and carried it so alone. and she watches beatrice take a breath, hand hovering at her abdomen, watches beatrice not shy away from reaching out for ava's hand, and watches shannon live on in her.