#my poor little broken-inner -child man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kallulovesu · 4 years ago

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Heyooo :) can you do headcannons for a platonic yandere allies ?? Am aroace so that's the kind that floats my boat, also do you ever feel tired of writing ?? Like .. ur so productive, it's awsome but like .. I hope ur doing it cuz u have energy not cuz you have followers waiting 😬 take care Plz ❤❤🥺

For the anon that asked that yandere reader ask, thx u inspired this ask ur idea is rad :3

(A/N:) ahh thank you for the worry anon, but it’s no problem really!💞 I wouldn’t be making as much content if I wasn’t having any fun, since it’ll probably end up feeling more like chore...and I hate doing chores 😭

That one protective friend that makes sure to check up on you every second (but it’s turned up to the extreme and downright becomes unhealthy in some cases)™

It was ironic to him. Out everyone that he had gotten to know over all these years— hell, perhaps even Arthur; you were the only one he felt like understood him the most. Not many seemed to notice what was going on beneath the surface of his facade, which was why he appreciated you being there. You still liked him despite the many flaws that he had, and tried your best being with him even if it became downright tiring. Alfred would be heavily dependent on you because of this, often going to you to cheer him up— or before he was going to make a rash choice.

So it was only natural that he couldn’t see himself being without you.

You were like a best friend to him; Alfred would even go as far as to say that he felt a familial connection between the two of you. So the deep desire to protect you was normal, wasn’t it? Even when he felt himself worrying for your well-being at even the slightest approach of a stranger, it was just his instinct telling him that there was something wrong. It wasn’t anything unhealthy. Thus, would usually drag you away from anyone that he found to be suspicious; even those he was already familiar with. This would probably result in a lot of arguments, with him trying to say what was ‘best for you’ and with you denying that you needed this much...protection. You swore that it almost felt like he was just isolating you from the others, to have you purely depend on him for whatever reason you couldn’t make up.

Alfred can’t handle being apart from you— nonetheless the idea of you being angry with him, or even hating him . It truly didn’t matter if the reason was rather ridiculous or not, the idea of you hating him just...made his stomach churn uncomfortably. You were his best buddy, and basically one of the only ones he could trust with his inner worries; and the risk of it all being taken away from him because of a silly, childish mistake was all it took to send the poor boy into a state of panic. Please don’t leave him, he’d do anything to keep you there with him. Begging, gifting— you name it.

Arthur didn’t completely seem to realize his feelings at first, confusing it with romantic attraction for a little while— before quickly seeming to realize that it was all purely platonic. He did feel a bit protective of you, maybe even possessive...but it had nothing to do with romance, nor lust. It was just him wanting to have someone beside him, someone that he could call a friend. And someone that would never leave his side.

It won’t be hard to notice how...bad his communication skills were; with him often saying things that he didn’t really mean and slightly setting you off. Arthur is stubborn, so it may take some time (and slight teasing at how much he hesitated) for him to actually apologize. You’ll probably get used to it after a while, since he’s one big tsundere.

Saying this out loud was an absolute no-no for this man— but you being around Arthur was often enough to make him the slightest bit happier. It felt a bit lonely at times, especially with less and less people being around him these past few years. So having you as a friend almost felt like a breath of fresh air.

He’s very critical of those you choose to be around with, often analyzing even the smallest of things so he can determine if they’re actually worth being around you. Which more often than not ends up... not being the case. Arthur will tell you to stay away from them; saying that they were suspicious, and probably had something bad in mind. He’ll resort to isolating you if you were to disobey him, trying to take as much of your attention— and perhaps even kidnapping you if the extreme were to happen. You were his one and only best friend, and he had to make sure you were safe. Always.

Totally the big brother type...well, he usually proclaims himself as being one, so it isn’t that much of a surprise.

Francis will make sure to absolutely pamper you with his attention; hanging out with you, sending letters whenever he was too busy...and simply sending gifts from France. He simply couldn’t let you go off feeling unloved!

He adores talking about you; usually going off on a mindless ramble whenever someone even mentions your name, like a proud father showing off his child. Others will usually compare him to one due to how much he adores talking about you— or simply the way that he treats you. Which would quickly be disregarded with a: “oh, I’m no father! They’re just such a nice little friend to have around, who wouldn’t want to praise such a delicate person?”

On a second note....he actually did feel like a father figure to you. Huh.

Francis will often suggest helping you out with your love life, perhaps even gushing over cute guys together that you found on a random dating app— before quickly realizing that he didn’t really want this. Those silly moments were fun and all, but having you talk with someone that could just be out to use you made him a bit angry...and paranoid, mainly the latter. He will make sure that anyone that even so much dares to get close you first gets his approval first. The feeling of a broken heart was all too familiar to him, and he didn’t want you to experience such a thing.

This may result in him checking up on you...an awful lot, making sure that those around you were only the best of the best and wouldn’t end up being bad influence to you. Yes, he truly was like a father.

A sibling-like person in his life that he didn’t feel insecure against and acknowledged him as his own person? Fuck yes!!

Jokes aside— Matthew really does care deeply for you. Perhaps it was due to the Canadian barely having those that he could...truly call close friends, so having you around almost felt like a blessing. Unlike Francis, he won’t really show you off or talk about you much, especially around his brother. The American had already stolen enough from him, so why would he let something like that happen again?

He’s extremely wary of anyone that even so much tries to make a move on you. It’s just...you were someone that he held extremely dear; and having you potentially getting hurt due to some lowlife that managed to slip into your life would absolutely break his heart. Matthew didn’t want to fail in protecting you, he would never forgive himself if something like that were to happen.

Losing you is something that he wishes to avoid completely. He’ll even go as far as kidnapping you if it came down to it, Matthew just couldn’t see himself living happily without you by his side.

Yao likes cute things...and you’re a cute friend, so it’s a perfect match!

But seriously, he thinks that you’re absolutely adorable. Whether it be because of your personality— or your appearance, it really doesn’t end up mattering in the end. You’re his cute little friend, and that’s all that matters!

He’ll often treat you with more, yet gentler care than most of the others around him. He knew that you were well capable of taking care of yourself; but he just couldn’t help but see you as something fragile, something that he had to protect. So you can already imagine how frustrated he gets when someone treats you with even the slightest bit of disrespect— Yao will often confront them immediately, while you awkwardly have to sit back and watch it all. Almost feeling pity for the person that had to endure your friend’s seemingly never-ending complaints.

Oh, he probably doesn’t quite realize how he comes off as a father at times; seeing how much he’ll scold you for the smallest mistakes (while making sure to correct you of course!) and how he usually made decisions for you, making it hard to refuse his gestures due to his pushy nature. But it’ll probably become a normal thing for the two of you as time progresses, since it’s just...how Yao was, you assumed.

His controlling behavior will also reflect on how he treats your personal life. Yao is very selective of who he lets you be around with, so he’ll often look at your acquaintances and friends with a very critical eye, immediately expressing his distaste in them if they were even to do the smallest thing wrong. “Such a brute isn’t worth being around, (y/n).” Yao will warn you to stay away from them, but won’t bring it up any further if you decide to do what he says. If you don’t then...well, he had special friends to help him out with his dirtier work.

Yao might consider kidnapping you if this behavior keeps on repeating, but won’t feel compelled to actually do it unless something bad were to happen.

Ivan will always try his best to be there for you! While it most likely won’t quite work with him being a rather busy person; a country, nonetheless, but he’ll do his upmost best. It was extremely hard for Ivan to make friends that...weren’t scared of him or secretly disliked him, so having you was such a relief!

Being his only friend, he’ll make sure to be absolutely devoted to you— perhaps in a way that wasn’t too healthy in a friendship, and would often be looked down upon by those looking at your relationship from an outsider’s perspective. But could one truly blame him? Ever since he was born it felt like everyone around him were either toying with him, or were utterly terrified of the boy expect for his two sisters. It was lonely...so it isn’t hard to imagine how overjoyed he was once having you in his life; someone that didn’t display the usual fright whenever he approached them, nor did you look like you were out to hurt him.

Ivan appreciated you a lot.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that you’d most likely become the target of a few other countries, your connection with Ivan wasn’t extremely hidden from the outside world... (from how much he’d senselessly mutter things about you when daydreaming, and the many times he stuck by your side) and so, others would take it to their advantage. Those like Alfred will probably try convince you to leave Ivan’s side, spewing terrifying stories of the man to try and stir up something inside of you so you could leave him. It was mainly for your own safety, yes. But it was also to make the Russian weaker. It was obvious that he was depending on you heavily, and losing you would...god forbid if that would ever happen. Ivan would completely lose himself, perhaps even snapping completely.

So don’t hesitate to tell Ivan if someone was bothering you! Ivan will make sure to get rid of the little parasite from your life in an instant, giving them a short warning whenever the two come across each other...and making sure that he got his point across! It’s better to ignore their sudden disappearance after that day, since someone like them wasn’t worth lingering in your mind.

#help me why do I always write america this dramatically #dilf France? 😲#CANADAS PART IS SO SHORT IM SORRYYYY #yandere #Yandere hetalia #hetalia x reader #Yandere allies #Yandere aph america #Yandere aph france #Yandere aph england #Yandere aph canada #Yandere aph China #yandere aph Russia #platonic yandere #platonic Yandere hetalia

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eden-regained · 2 years ago

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It’s happening again. I’m channeling my inner cringequeen.

BUT HEAR ME OUT

A multicrossover AU in which the characters are an Addams-esque family living in a big victorian gothic mansion

1) Murdoc is the horribly dysfunctional dad. He was born in 666 and made a deal with the devil to become immortal, making him outlive every wife of his by a long shot. He usually sleeps inside the guest room’s gigantic fireplace (feels just like home), yes, even when visitors are over. The man needs his comfy bed! His favourite meal to both eat and prepare is Lamb Chop, when served he and his kids refer to dinner as “sacrificing the Lamb of God”.

Also I decided he’s a grandson of Chang’e and Hou Yi because why not.

2) Sans and Papyrus are the cool uncles who come to visit for every family gathering, though for different reasons. Sans is always super chill. When he watches the kids he lets them eat all the hotdogs and sweets they want and they’re allowed to watch movies all night. Plus, he's basically got every pun known to man up his sleeve and that’s always a win.

Papyrus on the other hand is energetic and actually plays with the kids, preferably videogames. He’s really bad at Mario Kart but has fun either way. He’s also convinced he’s THE GREATEST cook “alive” despite not even having tastebuds or a digestive tract for that matter, the spaghetti just falls right through him and he’s still shook every time).

3) Remilia Scarlet is the eldest child. She’s moved out to live in her own mansion on Corsica, though she comes to stay over every weekend. While she might appear to be a poised, well-behaved little girl she’s an absolute rantipole deep down who made Murdoc’s life a living hell when she still an actual child. Changing nappies? Kid just literally flew off the changing table and Murdoc had to try and catch her with a bug net and should he be unlucky enough to not get her in time she’d make herself at home in the attic’s ceiling beams and sleep there like a bat. Bottlefeeding? Vampires prefer... fresher sustenance, intravenous so to speak. Lullabies? Nah man, bring out the pipe organ. Remilia is a handful and she knows it.

That being said, Remi deeply loves and cares for her family, if anyone dares to do harm to one of her relatives she will unleash her wrath and woe to the poor fool who will not see the moon rise the next night.

4) Flandre Scarlet is the second oldest, though like Remilia her vampiric curse makes her look younger than her siblings. Despite being equipped with cosmic-horror-levels of destructive magic and raw strength she’s probably one of the family members least prone to violence. Her closet is filled to the brim with frilly dresses that would make every fan of lolita fashion go green with jealousy and she's accumulated a ton of toys from all over history, the half broken and grimy victorian porcelain dolls with clothes dyed with arsenic “Scheele’s Green” are her most prized possessions! (She does not let Papyrus even near them in fear he might break them)

Ironically Flandre is the only one in the house who adores the sun and everytime the family goes on a roadtrip they slather the poor kid head to toe in sunscreen to the point where she looks like a snowman and she’s only allowed to leave the horse carriage with atleast two hats and a ginormous parasol and yes, it’s the kind you find standing outside restaurants and cafès, Murdoc definitely stole it, don’t ask me how.

5) Mami Tomoe is the third child. She got beheaded in a witch trial and can now attatch and detatch her head at will. Well, kind of, sometimes she wakes up to being body-less and being placed in some random spot of the house “as a prank”, and that house it huge, imagine how long it takes her to put herself back together again. Yikes!

Don’t let her eloquent and gentle demeanor, her room with the cheesiest floral patterned wallpaper and the pastel dresses fool you, tea and biscuits aren’t the only thing she’s handy at. After all, that closet full of rifles from the 17th century isn't just for show...

6) Homura Akemi is the second youngest. She quite literally has skeletons in her closet and no, I’m not talking about Papyrus playing hide and seek again and not getting the memo that maaaaybe he’s been in there for two weeks not because the kids couldn’t find him. Homura is a witch and she’s not afraid to show it; pointy hat, black flowing dress, a greenhouse with bizarre plants from all around the world (though the Red Spider Lilies are still her favourites) and of course a big spellbook on her nightstand. Her specialty is time-based magic which she learned from their head maid. To use it she needs a special hourglass which Sans gave her as a gift for her 60th birthday that she has integrated into a shield and a mixture of the finest red sand mixed with cremated remains (fun fact, in canon Homura’s full witch form in Rebellion IS a skeleton. Kind of.)

7) Kaori, though better known by her nickname; Noodle, is the youngest of the bunch. She’s probably the most normal person in the house, weren’t it for the fact that she is a genetically engineered human born from Grandpa Gaster’s basement lab. As a result Noodle’s an extraordinarily fast learner, already being able to speak 26 languages fluently at the age of 10, she and Remilia love to curse like sailors in french just to piss of their dad.

Her martial arts skills are also someting to behold, Noodle is the only one besides Flandre who can take on Homura’s magical plants once they “go rogue” again under the full moon (the girls made their own task force to deal with the green ire called “Rose Busters” pun intended, Sans is proud!)

8) Sakuya Izayoi may look like an ordinary, albeit somewhat old-fashioned maid, but she’s actually been the family’s highly renowned head servant for generations thanks to her ability to control the very flow of time. As Murdoc’s neglectful and unloving mother Katherine cut all ties with the family Sakuya became the closest thing to a maternal figure in his life.

It’s become sort of a running gag in the house that Sakuya can conveniently appear everywhere. One time she nearly gave Murdoc a heart attack when the guy sat on the toilet cursing about the lack of paper when out of nowhere Sakuya plops up next to him with a toilet roll in hand and a deadpan expression just going “You’re welcome Milord.”

9) Flowey is the most feared plant in the greenhouse and Homura one day decided it’s for the best to lock that beast up in a lion cage. Murdoc especially is freaked out by the thing, quote: “Yeah no, I’m not touching that chlorophyll-cunt with a ten foot pole!” Weirdly enough Mami is the only one who Flowey allows to water and repot him without making a scene and by "scene” I mean transforming into an eldritch abomination.

10) Napstablook is the household spirit who gets to live in the attic so they can watch the stars at night.

11) In honor of the tumblr sexyman battle I’ve decided that Reigen is the neighbourhood conman who goes from door to door to sell his shady products. He’s made multiple attempts to sell the family some bogus-magic-knockoffs, even going so far as to disguise himself so they’d let him in again but he just got the boot everytime.

12) Gaster, the malformed and enigmatic grandfather, lurks in the catacombs deep beneath the mansion. He’s locked himself away so he can be undisturbed in his quest to get to the bottom of the universe’s mysteries by studying magic and experimenting with various arcane forces. His sister, great aunt Patchouli, is the only one who can still communicate with him as he’s gone mad from centuries, if not millennia of exposure to creatures and knowledge not meant for a mortal brain.

He’s the creator of the Lapis philosophorum. Turns out that stone is not only able to turn things to gold, it also attached itself to Gaster’ soul like a parasite, keeping him alive as a half melted, only vaguely human being so it can feed off the magical energy he accumulates. Patchouli has made multiple efforts to destroy the stone with the help of her coven but the thing cannot be destroyed, atleast not for now.

#edenregained #puellamagiofeden

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dangermousie · 3 years ago

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Here it is - the moment my heart switches from like to love, for Crichton and the show, on every rewatch.

It is such a little moment. Aeryn and John escaped and Aeryn made contact with Crais, her superior officer. Of course, neither John nor Aeryn know that Crais wants to kill John because of the accident which killed Crais' brother (And this is so the Farscape ethos - John is doomed and hunted for a moment of pure bad luck that happened the moment he ended up here, a moment he did not know about and cound do nothing to change. As he said in a much later episode, they’ve basically found the map to the cruelty of the universe.)

And there is the scene. John is captive, peacekeeper guns all around him. Crais circling him like his personal piece of property (Poor John. This is only a start. This is not the Aurora Chair, not Grayza, not Scorpius, not Scarrans, not Harvey). John watchful and realizing the wrongness (and OMG his innocence breaks my heart) and Crais telling him he'll dissect him. And Aeryn speaking up and telling Crais (and I love this. She didn't have to say anything. She didn't have, she should know it's a risk in such a society) that she didn't believe John was capable of killing Crais' brother because he is not intelligent or brave enough. And Crais, crazy Crais, fixating on her and asking her in this tone 'just how much time did you spend with this human?' And. And. And. This is the moment I fell in love with John Crichton all over again. He gives this quick, intense glance at the situation and he speaks up (to Crais), quietly and a little bit desperately: 'Not much, not much at all.' Why? It's so hard to put into words. I think because in the middle of all this (where there is the probability of him being killed in a gruesome fashion) he speaks up for Aeryn automatically, without the second thought. Maybe because even though as an alien he has no idea what is going on, he catches on so quickly, judges it so quickly, recognizes the danger to her, before she does herself. Maybe it's the seriousness, and the intensity, and the reassuring little nod he gives to her. Even utterly helpless himself, he tries to save Aeryn. This Crichton is not yet the Crichton that will literally turn the galaxy upside down to save the woman he loves, not someone who will make impossible choices and bear it all, but it's all in there already, all the qualities, and you can see that. In a way, knowing how all of these people will end up makes it even more delicious. Seeing Crais, all neat and orderly, before he went so crazy and AWOL (and his dishevelment definitely paralleled his fall from grace) and way before he redeemed himself. Seeing D'Argo as a self-concerned, immature, angry being. Seeing Aeryn as Peacekeeper Aeryn Sun, not a complex evolving human being yet, not a woman, not a being of her own will. But the seeds are still there. I cannot imagine other peacekeepers speaking up for John, trying to save him a bit. When John says 'You can be more' that is the thing. There is a 'you' in her to be more. There is something to start with. She has a soul that is not warped past return. And the chemistry between the two? Amazing. Even in this first ep, where they are nothing more than reluctant allies at first, disdain on her part and confusion on his. Btw, that first meeting? I love it love it love it so much. I watched 'pilot' after I've seen S4 and I remember going, as Aeryn threw him against the bulkhead and hit him and then demanded his rank and serial number. 'John, meet the future mother of your child.' Heh. God. It amazes me how far the two will come and yet how organically. And it's so true about all the relationships. Watch D'Argo and Crichton interact here: the anger on D'Argo's part the 'he is crazy' on John's. They don't even tolerate each other and yet by the end they are the best of friends. I love that Farscape, even though its romantic relationship was so crucial (didn't David Kemper or someone describe Farscape as a 'love story') also had all these incredible, well-developed, organic, fascinating other relationships: friendships, familial. Another thing I love? John saves the day with his brain. God, how much do I love that. He is a scientist, not a military guy, not a 'space jockey' like his Dad. He is a scientist. And that is why he can never get used to collateral damage, to killing, no matter how much of it he does, he is forced to do. And the show never forgets that. Farscape is one of those rare fictions (because I am not just talking about shows, but movies and books as well) where I do get convinced that John is indeed brilliant. And that he loves the science, he loves discovery, he loves the work. Despite wormholes being tainted so much with everything else, he is genuinely excited, involved in working on them. I keep remembering the S3 finale where even though he is pretending to work for Scorpius, he can't help but get into it, where equations literally pour out of him in scribbles everywhere, on windows, on pieces of paper, writing on his own arms. John is an obsessive. Here it is yet small: he wants to prove his theory. And even in the middle of the escape he is excited that it's proven. His obsessiveness will of course be brought out spectacularly by his stress later on, and his feelings, but it's already here. But to get back to what I was saying: I just love that he gets to win with his brain. And that is consistent. Because that is why he becomes the defacto leader of Moya. Not his amazing fighting prowess. He becomes quite competent in the later seasons, but he will never be pure warrior the way D'Argo or Aeryn are. It's his brilliant, crazy, completely creative plans. That, and the power of his conviction. John's conviction is an utter, absolute, contageous thing. It's not brought out fully yet, but I am struck by the foreshadowing of when he tells Aeryn to come with them, tells her she can be more, changes her life. It's the same conviction that will later have him walk into a Scarran station, unarmed, most wanted man in the galaxy, to get Aeryn out. And getting the Moya crew to come with him. But then, all of John is already here, just not forced to the surface yet. His crazy humor as way of coping with the insane universe about him. The core of steel (he is lost and dazed in this new word which is great because he is in a way proxy for the audience, but he doesn't bend before D'Argo e.g. and he is adamant to D'Argo about taking Aeryn with them or no one escapes), the inner decency and basic kindness (that kindness will be almost beaten out of him but shadows will always remain) when he tapes up the broken eye-stalk of the DRD - “merely” a mechanical critter on Moya. Oh. GUH.

@mousieta I am so glad we are doing this!

#farscape

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ichor-and-symbiosis · 5 years ago

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Subject of Sin - Part 1.

Incubus Shigaraki x Nun reader; NSFW

Warnings: noncon, dubcon, somnophilia, possessive behavior, desecration of religion, monsterfucking.

Word count: 2,520

A/N: A huge thank you to @shigamothki-vs-the-lamp for beta’ing and inspiring me to finish this fic!

Your innocent forays into temptation and sin catch the attention of a demon.

Part 1| Part 2

‎

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‎‎‎“He sleeps inside my soul ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‎And sometimes wakes up in the night ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎And plays with my dreams.” ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎— Fernando Pessoa

Demons lurk within our minds, not in the crevices of forgotten places. If the darkness ebbs and flows, it is merely a reflection of our innermost desires — a manifestation of sin that refuses to be held at bay any longer.

You kept Father’s teachings close to heart and steadfastly studied the scripture. It was the only hope you had to cling to, having been hidden away at a monastery since childhood. Life was kind and peaceful, and you spent your days deep in prayer and tending to the ill and destitute alongside your sisters.

And yet, one way or another, something began to stir within you. It crept up on you throughout the years in the form of innocent temptations — a yearning to explore the local village for just a while longer, exhilaration after allowing a baker to slip a sweet roll into your satchel as thanks for helping his daughter, despite knowing you were not allowed to accept gifts from others, unrecognizable melancholy as you stared out into the sea of rolling hills on a crisp autumn day and admired the endless blue sky — so many little temptations that doused the bright flames of your spirituality and allowed the darkness to spread.

It was difficult to notice the change. Even when you found yourself restless and cursing the pain shooting up your knees as you knelt before a pew, you quelled your inner conflict with prayer and fasting. But adulthood brought about new challenges. The cracks within your restless spirit had spread like ivy and primed you for your first mistake.

Your day started like any other. Winter ensnared the grounds of the monastery in blankets of glimmering snow and stinging winds that proved difficult to overcome. The villagers were kind enough to send provisions to the monastery, ferried up the winding hills of gnarled oaks by a gentleman who you had seen many times. He was handsome and friendly, his inky windswept hair plastered across his forehead and cheeks nearly as red as his eyes. Father had the pleasure of speaking to him more often than not, but you still attempted to catch a glimpse of the man under the pretense of unloading the cart. Your heart always stirred at the sight of his warm smile.

You should not have entertained your silly whimsies. You should not have gone to bed with impure thoughts after a hasty Hail Mary, staring into the flames of the hearth as you huddled beneath your blanket and slipped a hand between your quivering thighs, watching the glowing red and orange hues of burning cracks within the firewood and remembering those beautiful eyes. The experience was so humiliating that you hurried out of bed in the dead of night and ran straight to the church, letting the sharp pain of cold snow against your bare feet guide you ever further towards your only chance of salvation.

The imposing silence of the church did little to soothe your nerves. Towering walls of barren stone and creaking wooden pillars surrounded you, devoid of hospitality in the dead of night. You took a few meek steps towards the altar. Unable to meet the solemn gaze of your savior, you scurried off to find Father’s private quarters instead. Your loud knocking had clearly startled the man into wakefulness. The poor priest looked just as frazzled as you felt, and you made sure to apologize profusely for your rude behavior as you dragged him to the confessional with tears streaming down your face.

Father had been so deathly silent while you told him about your infatuation with the villager that you were certain he would scold you good and proper. But no, he had been as compassionate as he always was, offering words of comfort and forgiveness.

That should have been the end of it. You did not see the villager for days after your shameful act. The mundane tasks of everyday life kept you busy. So busy, in fact, that you managed to work yourself to the brink of exhaustion one day, and you fell asleep in the alcove of the library like some kind of child.

You did not remember dreaming. Consciousness trailed on the edge of a feeling that stirred you from slumber — a barely-there touch brushing along your bottom lip, followed by a short puff of cold air that fanned across your face and startled you awake. The candle beside you innocently flickered and waved in greeting, and the shadows around you mockingly mirrored its dance.

This game of ethereal cat and mouse continued for weeks. Every so often you would feel lingering sensations trailing along your face whenever you let your mind wander, growing only bolder once you removed your constricting habit within the sanctity of your bedroom. With your hair freed from its confines as you brushed through the soft strands, sometimes you imagined a hand trailing after the brush with each downstroke. It reminded you of how your Mother Superior combed her fingers through your hair to prevent tangled knots from hurting you.

All of this, you could attribute to your imagination … until the sharp divide between fiction and reality steadily grew muddled.

A particularly strange encounter occurred one evening. You opened your small window and pensively stared out into the snowy landscape, a singular thought daring to escape your wicked mouth, where none but God could listen to your act of rebellion.

“I want to be out there,” you had whispered solemnly.

A breeze rolled through in answer, and you marveled at how the air caressed your cheeks and smoothed unruly strands of hair away from your face.

It had felt so tender and comforting. You froze in shock for only a moment before something spurred you to hurriedly close the window and hide yourself in bed.

If only it had been that easy — the following night proved to be more tempting than the last. You were woken up by a tingling sensation on your lips, and a new feeling altogether.

Something firmly cupped your breast through your nightgown. Or could it simply be your blanket tightened around you from thrashing in your sleep?

Your nipple hardened into a stiff peak, begging to be played with. You kept your eyes firmly shut and blushed at your wanton display, modesty briefly overtaking your lustful urges. Yet try as you might, you could not resist bringing your fingers ever downward. Your nightgown had ridden up to your hips, and as the blanket caressed the sensitized skin of your inner thighs and tightened around your breast, you buried your face in your pillow and gently eased a finger through your slick folds.

Your efforts were clumsy and inexperienced. It was utterly frustrating, your hips canting upward to try to find the right angle and failing miserably at it. Your brows furrowed in anger and concentration, and in your delirious frenzy to reach your peak, you found yourself arching your back into that strange grasp on your breast. A gentle swipe along your hardened nipple elicited a breathy gasp, and the feeling of fingers carding through the hair at your temple made you whimper and tilt your head in search for more.

Something slid along the back of your hand and coaxed it into a new position. Your mouth opened in a wordless cry as you finally hit a perfect spot deep within you. The tingling sensation tickled your lips again, and for some odd reason, you felt compelled to stick your tongue out just a little bit, your breath hitching as something soft and warm glided along the wet muscle.

It should have knocked all sense back into you. It nearly did, if not for your cunt pulsing around your fingers as you moaned and chased the aftershocks of heady pleasure with each roll of your hips. Liquid exhaustion flooded your body, urging you to slump back in relaxation. You had just enough energy to carefully remove your sticky hand from beneath your sheet and lay it on the edge of the bed before sleep overtook you. In the morning, you would find your fingers mysteriously clean.

You kept that night a secret. Overcome with shame and disgust, you could not bring yourself to admit to Father that you had broken your vows once again and strayed from his guidance.

“None will know, and therefore it never happened,” you angrily muttered to yourself as you strutted through the snowy grounds of the garden and tightened your wool cloak around you for warmth. “My sanctity is worth more than my foolish pleasure.” A stray rock caused you to nearly trip, and you had to suck in a deep breath to keep yourself from losing your calm.

The more you distanced yourself from the truth, the more you were drawn into the darkness. You kept your secrets safely guarded, playing the part of a devout sister while your aching loneliness was soothed by the balm of an unseen force that played with your senses.

Sometimes you imagined a glimmer of shifting light at the edge of your periphery, but you dared not look. Not ever. The gentle caresses were more than enough to satiate your desires.

Or so you told yourself.

A winter storm was in full effect tonight. Not a soul dared to prance around the cold corridors, which meant you had no chance of being interrupted by a wayward young initiate or an unruly sister with a penchant for late-night gossiping. You were freshly washed and warmed by the fire, your unbound hair fanned out across your pillow and your nightgown scandalously discarded over the back of your chair.

For the first time in your life, you did not bend the knee to pray before rest. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest as you stared at the golden cross hammered above your doorway, its edges aglow from the light of the fireplace.

“God forgive me,” you quietly uttered, and closed your eyes to banish the cross from your sight.

For a while, all you could hear was the sound of howling wind and crackling fire. You were half-tempted to begin all by yourself, but you had learned to be patient. Your visitor always made itself known when you were tethering on the precipice of sleep. Perhaps the delirium that followed exhaustion played tricks on you. Perhaps that had been the culprit all along.

Either way, you wanted it.

And so you let yourself slip free from anticipation and restlessness, the tension in your muscles dissipating as your breathing gradually slowed and you could no longer hear the wind or fire. All you knew was peace. All you perceived was stillness.

It was quiet. Far too quiet. Something felt different tonight.

You were overcome by the sensation of falling, and your body jerked lightly in response. It roused you from the precipice of slumber, and in your hazy confusion, you had enough common sense to keep your eyes closed. Ever so patient, you waited for what would come next, despite the goosebumps forming on your skin that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the feeling of being watched.

A light weight pressed down onto your chest, as though a kitten had curled up there. You focused on your breathing and parted your lips, allowing your soft sighs to slip through. It always liked when you did that. Your mouth tingled a bit. You slowly licked along your bottom lip, and the weight on your chest became incrementally heavier.

A pulse of wetness gushed out of your cunt in anticipation. You rubbed your thighs together for friction and accidentally bunched your bedsheet at your feet, making it slither down your body to expose your breasts. The cold air caused your nipples to harden, and an even colder puff tickled one nipple before an altogether unique sensation followed — soft and textured, like a velvet ribbon, gliding around the stiff bud and ending its journey with a teasing flick.

You moaned quietly as you gripped the sheets beneath you. This time, something sighed against your mouth, trailing along your tongue and all the way to the back of your throat. Before you could make sense of the new experience, a firmer pressure settled over your lips, far more solid and real than any tantalizing tingle had ever felt.

You were delirious with need. Completely and utterly lost to your impulses, and you hadn’t even touched yourself yet.

Something was kissing you, and you were too far gone to consider the implications. Nevermind that you were in a compromising situation and forsaking your vows to the Lord.

Right now, all that mattered was how rough that touch felt against your lips, how slowly it guided your mouth into a deep kiss that smothered your whimpers and gently sucked at your lips with a lewd wet sound. Velvet glided along your tongue, twining like a serpent and licking every crevice of your mouth. It was overpowering, toe-curling, intoxicating. You were swept away by the myriad of sensations, moaning as your nipple was twisted and pinched, and the hair at your temple was lovingly, tenderly brushed through.

Familiar. You knew that touch. You craved it, and you wanted more. No one had ever made you feel like this before. No one ever would, not within these sacred halls.

What if —

What if you dared to look? Just this once, what if you stepped out from the protective embrace of your religion and just …

As though reading your mind, the firm pressure on your mouth disappeared. You opened your eyes, and forgot to breathe.

God help you.

Scarlet eyes. Redder than blood, oh so familiar in their beauty, yet entirely devoid of life. They burned like hellfire, slashed through by slitted pupils that honed in on you with an unyielding stare.

And the skin. You had never seen anything like it on a living creature, this sickly gray shade among numerous cracks and scars that marred the entity’s torso and face. Your gaze trailed over the strange markings around those serpentine eyes, your stomach churning uneasily as your worst suspicions were confirmed — the striated grooves winded and merged into the graceful arch of a pair of horns that curled back into sharp tapered ends.

You were consorting with a demon.

He looked corrupted, as though his very essence carved its demonic aura into his flesh. In a moment of bewildered hysteria, you honed in on the scars etched into his face, briefly noting that he had a mole just below the corner of his mouth, of all things —

The demon readjusted his position, comfortably resting his weight on top of you as his arms caged your head and his hands cradled your face. His fingers carded through your hair in a mockery of affection, and he smiled at you, all sharp teeth and cracked lips.

You wanted to throw him off of you. You wanted to kick and scream and beg the Lord for forgiveness and protection.

You were frozen in place instead.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki/reader #shigaraki tomura/reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: somnophilia

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exquisitley-obsessed · 4 years ago

Text

Fiances, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 8

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault/abuse/rape + abusive families

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Eight: Sisterly Love

Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch. He had everything Lucien had ever wanted and then decided to fuck it all over. And for what? Because he was too much of a privileged idiot to care about anyone other than himself? Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Lucien’s knuckles were bleeding, but it was safe to say that the poor tree seemed to be faring worse. The Autumn male had walked into the woods until a healthy distance was between him and the manor (and all beautiful, flower-growing females within it) and then he had begun his search for the largest tree he could find. The trees in the human lands were nothing special, especially not compared to the endless auburn forests of Lucien’s home Court, but it wasn’t too long before found a red sequoia that had a thick enough trunk for his needs. It was a solitary tree which Lucien guessed was at an equidistance between the Manor and the home which he and Tamlin had bought for Nesta and Elain before going under the mountain. The home in which Elain had been stolen from. Another thing to be furious about.

After shedding his jacket and tying his hair back with a strip of leather, Lucien had begun to brutalise the tree. His hits were neat, and he moved with the trained precision of a courtly solider. He hadn’t learned to fight like the Illyrians, in cold camps, throwing punches as though they were a lifeline. Lucien had been trained to fight within duels which had rules and manners. It had been Eris who had taught him, the only one of his brothers who’d even bothered to speak to him, and that was mostly because their mother demanded it of her eldest.

When Lucien was little more than a kit, Eris had taken him into the endless forests of Autumn where they were hidden from the prying eyes of their father’s guards. It had been Eris who had given him his first sword, Eris who had taught him how fighting can happen via the mouth or palm. That to cut into someone with your words could be just as effective as the edge of a blade.

Eris had never lowered his guard, had never been kind, had never praised Lucien, but he had helped him when no one else would. Even if it were because he, like Lucien, couldn’t resist the pleas of their mother. The two of them were sensitive to her, particularly as Lucien had gotten older and this somehow catalysed their mother’s mind to unfurl like a ball of yarn. Eventually she’d been declared mute to the court. She wasn’t, of course, but their father didn’t want the courtier’s hearing of her nonsensical ramblings of wyverns and sunlight.

But even as Lucien hit the bark with enough force for it to splinter and fall to reveal the lighter spongey wood beneath, it was evident that he was not entirely an Autumn soldier. Going to Spring had meant there was also something beastly in the way he fought. The flames that licked up his forearms didn’t heed to ideas of conformity; those were wild and untamed. It made sense his fighting style was not truly Autumnal considering he had never honestly fitted in there. Well, he didn’t truly fit in anywhere. It was like he was not made of one Court, or one blood, but rather something messy and diverse.

Right. Left. He hit the tree with enough power to send shudders rippling through his bones. Right. Left. Above the beating of his fists he could hear his breathing, even and undisturbed, even after two hours of relenetless beating he had not yet broken into a sweat.

Unlike the Illyrians, for Lucien, fighting was about control. It was about taking something that was not disciplined and sharpening it into something dangerous. The Illyrians were brutal and raw, they fought with emotions, Lucien fought to bury his.

Right. Left. It had been some time now and Lucien could begin to feel the tree moan. He’d beaten through a large chunk of its mid-section so that it was now in danger of toppling. He needed to stop but, he couldn’t.

Right. Left. Just a little longer, he just needed to get his bottomless anger towards the boy under control, so, a little longer and then he’d turn back. His flames still begged for release despite their unleashing that morning. It had always been that way; his fire had been the one true thing to protect him from his older brothers. Even when he was a child, barely tall enough to meet his mother’s knee, he’d responded to his brother’s teasing with undisciplined spurts of light.

It had been a problem. He didn’t remember much of it, just that his unnaturally strong display of power had sent his mother into a nervous spiral. Eris had appeared, again, to deal with him.

Lucien had been trained by a strange man who he could only meet after the sun had gone down, and he had to meet him at the astronomy tower of the southern houses. The man was quiet and painfully old, especially for a fae. Old enough that there had been grey hairs in his mane of chocolatey hair. He’d wheezed his words as he taught Lucien to suppress elements of his powers, and Lucien had hated him mainly because he would dress in these strange white cloths that were bundled around his torso and legs, making him look like a babe.

That’s how Lucien had learnt to lock and compartmentalise his powers, which appeared to him now as circular panels. The outer most layer being the most trivial of tricks: heating up cold tea, warming the sheets on a chilly night, lighting lanterns with a wave of his hand. Below that were the displays of strength, such as the flames on his arms. Then there were the layers of the affronts: streams of fire, explosive sparks, even the fire runes he’d learned which he could mark on the floor so that when an enemy crossed them they would turn to ash. Down and down it went like the skin of a snake, the animal of his mother’s blood house. The inner most layer wasn’t a layer at all, but what he’d been taught was the heart of his power. When Lucien closed his eyes and focused, he could see it, glowing in his chest. A ball of pure, golden light that thrummed with raw power.

The lessons had ended abruptly, before Lucien was even tall enough to meet his mother’s shoulder. Just like that, the old male was gone, and Eris had appeared instead.

Lucien was weary. There was no reason for Eris to speak to him unless he’d done something wrong. That’s how it went for everyone, and Lucien could never understand what he did exactly to provoke them all. Sometimes it seemed reasonable, when he wandered too far from the grounds or was found reading forbidden books. Other times he didn’t understand why the beatings came, such as when his brother’s had pulverised him when he was on the forest trails looking for flowers, apparently males didn’t care for flowers, apparently his misdoing was worthy of a broken femur.

Lucien was on time, wasn’t he? He was always good with time, he could read the sun, moon and stars as though they were a second language. He’d come back to his room after dinner, dressed in his night clothes and laid in bed pretending to sleep whilst counting to 1000, then he rolled on his back and looked out his window and waited till the moon was hovering over the oak firs, then he would sneak out.

But he must have done something wrong, right? Because when Lucien had climbed the steps to the astronomy tower and entered the room in which Dracon was usually pre-seated and waiting with a soft smile, there had been Eris instead. He was standing behind Dracon’s empty chair and holding onto it’s back, looking bored as he glared at the telescopes.

“Dracon isn’t going to come here anymore. Your lessons are done.” Eris was a full grown male now, all of Lucien’s other brothers were close behind but there was something still unfinished about their scruffy hair and cruel eyes. Eris had the grace of a full grown fae male, and Lucien silently wished that he could be more like him, all elegance and cunning grace. Not the meaty bulk of Travis or Ruadiridh.

“Have I done something wrong?” Lucien couldn’t help but ask in a small, quiet voice. If he were to be beaten, he had developed a small routine to distract himself, to pull himself far away from his body so that he couldn’t really feel the hurt as it happened, only after did he feel the pain. Eris looked irritated by his question, and Lucien pushed himself against the tower door.

“Have you? Is there something you wish to tell me?” Eris’ eyes blazed as he looked at him. Lucien shook his head furiously. “Good.”

“W-where is Dracon?” Lucien stammered and hated himself for it. Stammering in front of his family was like offering a pork chop to a starved hound. He waited for Eris to pounce.

“Gone. He’s not coming back,” Eris said instead in a cold, emotionless voice. Lucien’s hands shook with disbelief at his luck.

“Gone? I-Is he okay?” Lucien was pushing his fortune. Never before had he tried to ask one of his brother’s so many consecutive questions, but something about the moonlight was making him reckless. That, and the tiredness of his brother’s stature. Eris was barely a grown male, and yet he seemed as old as father in his worry.

“No,” Eris said, and his face turned enigmatic as he looked down on his littlest of brothers. Eris seemed to assess him for a moment, taking in Lucien’s cropped auburn hair and browning skin. His face turned cruel, cold. His eyes turning into dark stones that gave away no emotion. Lucien steeled himself for his brother’s insult, but it still rattled him all the same.

“No, Lucien, he’s not coming back. He’s dead…and it’s all your fault.”

***

Right. Left. Right. Left.

Eris. Another thing to be angry about.

It had taken years of living with Tamlin for Lucien to begin to understand that the way his family had treated him was abnormal. That true brother’s taught each other strength and friendship, not how to practice mental mind games so that Lucien could escape his body whilst they cut him up and put him back together.

Right. Left. He’d been out for so long that he’d over run his time. He was supposed to meet her at 10.

Right. Left. The drumming of the blood in his ears was so loud that Lucien didn’t hear the slight ‘pop’ of a figure winnowing behind him. Nor did he turn quick enough after hearing the raw yet feminine battle cry.

“You bastard!” A small yet strong form collided into him, sending him back against the mutilated tree trunk. Lucien didn’t even fight back, not when the braided crown of pale brown hair told him all he needed to know.

“NESTA!” Lucien looked above the wildcats crown to see Feyre, dressed in simple black shirt and pants, reaching out for her wolf of a sister.

“You stole her! You ripped her away from us you-” The following language Lucien had not heard in a long time, and yet it was certainly not the first time an angry female had called him such names. Lucien just leaned back against the tree as Nesta’s small, yet sharp arm dug into his guts, and she pressed a blade to his throat.

Just for the hell of it he cocked his head and smirked, trying to look unbothered and arrogant – because doing so made him feel like he had some form of power, even though he was clearly at the Archeron sister’s mercy. God, this really shouldn’t happen as often as is it does.

“Nesta I have told you time and time again that Elain left of her own volition-” Lucien felt a pang of pity for his friend as she sighed and rubbed at her temples. Feyre was a new mother, and it seems that it’s not just Nyx that has needed babying the past few days.

“And I’ve told you that I don’t believe a word of it!” Nesta snarled. Lucien just glared down at the female before taking in her fitted Illyrian leathers, the new ropes of muscle that curved across her thin and sharp body, even the siphons on the back of her hands, glowing violet. Lucien snarled.

“Who the hell taught her how to wield a knife?” Nesta’s returning grin was nothing short of feral.

Nesta had always reminded Lucien of a blade, or something worse, something infinitely sharper and more dangerous. She held herself like a queen, one whose cruelness may have been on par with Eris’. She was taller than Feyre and Elain and was all sharp edges and bones. Feyre had been lither in her figure, after building muscle she appeared more cat-like in her grace. Elain…

Lucien couldn’t dwell on Elain’s figure for too long, or at least of what he imagined of it through her long skirts. All he knew is that she was shorter than her sisters, with a softer jawline and a bigger chest that was often bound and hidden from sight. Right now, Lucien really couldn’t be thinking about how he imagined her to have a hefty swell at her hips, or how her thighs might look spilling out from the top of stockings, or the…Lucien mentally slapped himself.

An erection right now would get him stabbed in the throat.

“Get off me,” Lucien growled, wrenching his hands up and pushing on Nesta’s shoulders. Despite Nesta clearly having been honed into a warrior, he still did not push hard, he could not find it within him to act aggressively towards a female, not even one with a knife to his throat.

Not after his mother.

“You will take us to her,” Nesta just growled, standing agonisingly straight and glaring at him with ice in her eyes. Lucien wasn’t convinced her powers had completely vanished, and a small shiver ran the length of his spine at being so directly under her focus.

“No, he will not,” Feyre just sighed, running a hand over her head.

“What are you doing here hellcat? I don’t remember inviting you,” as Lucien spoke he shot a glare at Feyre who just sighed for a third time.

“She figured out Elain was gone and has been tearing the Night Court down ever since. I thought if perhaps Nesta could come and see that there’s no danger then maybe my people might be saved of her wrath.”

“Poor Night Court,” Lucien cooed, brushing down his pale drawstring tunic and fitted brown pants.

“Have you two lost your minds?” Nesta just scowled, her fury now turning (thankfully) to her sister. “Elain is not safe in the mortal lands, are you forgetting how the humans treat the fae? What about the one human who may have a particular reason to not want to have her around.”

This is why he couldn’t despise Nesta. Despite all she had said and done. Because at the end of the day, Nesta had a fierce loyalty that Lucien not only admired, but could see within himself. Perhaps there would never be a day where they could consider one another as friends, but they both were bitter, both believed the worst of people and weren’t easy in trusting. But beyond the apparent mess of a relationship between them, they’d both go down fighting to protect Elain.

Not to mention they were the two first in line to shiv the Nolan boy.

Maybe that would be the thing to tie them together, planning a secret mission to infiltrate the Nolan manor and slit the boy’s throat whilst he slept. Nest might actually respect him for a night.

“I don’t know what the hells’ going on, but Elain is vulnerable and the only place she can be thoroughly protected is in the Night Court.” Nesta seethed, her glare feeling like steel.

“Elain’s vulnerable?” Lucien asked in a low voice. Feyre’s note, the one which Elain had arrived with had been incomprehensible with the rainwater. What if there had been a message informing him of Elain’s safety? What if Elain was in fact seeking asylum in the mortal lands. Lucien swore at himself internally. When it came to his mate there wasn’t much else he could do but protect her, and even that he seemed to fail at.

“She’s no more vulnerable than the rest of us,” Feyre shrugged with a roll of her eyes. “There’s some concern with the Cauldron reaching for Elain but she hasn’t had a vision in two years, and she knows to notify us if that changes.”

“But yeah besides the threat of Koschei there isn’t too much to worry about,” Nesta sneered, folding her arms protectively over herself. It was a tell of hers Lucien had picked up on. For a female who was full of steel and wit, her body language said that she was guarded and well…lonely.

Elain leaving must have hit Nesta hard, Lucien realised. He’d noticed how Nesta treated Elain, almost protecting her too much after the Cauldron, as though by taking enough care of Elain she could make up for what she failed to do for Feyre. Elain leaving randomly, in the night, without notifying Nesta, must have re-awoken that feeling. Nesta’s drive to protect, as though she wanted to protected her sister from the pain she’d been through.

That’s where Nesta was wrong, Lucien couldn’t help but think bitterly. Nesta had ultimately infantilised her sister, had refused to let her walk without holding her hand, how she had in some twisted way trapped Elain on a leash.

I care for you, I protect you, I provide for you. You must love me. Please love me.

When Elain had strayed too far on that leash, Nesta had recoiled, she’d gone of the edge. If Nesta couldn’t overprotect her sister, then she wouldn’t protect her at all.

Lucien ultimately felt sorry for the viper. Again, because he saw so much of himself in her. Lucien didn’t know how to love in small quantities, he had to devote himself fully, to everything.

Love or death. Lucien physically shuddered as the phrase stumbled through his mind. It was a stupid, stupid promise he had made when he was young and full of hope. A stupid, violent, costly promise.

“I promise you Elain is safe within my protection. I would give the whole speech about how we could make a bonding pact over my protection of her, but I know you know I’m being serious.” Lucien picked at his nails, still leaning against the tree and tucking his leg up. The image of boredom.

“And do you really think you’ll be enough to protect her?” Nesta seethed, whilst Feyre looked him up and down curiously.

“If you want to have a little wrestle in the mud Nesta, just say so. I’m sure you’ll find me more than capable of handling myself.”

“Oh I don’t doubt you’re capable of handling yourself, given it’s all you’ve got.” Nesta sneered, evidentially agitated by his taunts. That’s where Nesta needed training, Lucien couldn’t help but think, and for a moment he realised he sounded like Eris. Eris would take one look at Nesta and roll his eyes – “You wear your emotions like a fool. You’ll never be good enough to be a courtier. One look at you and everyone could tell what you want. It’ll be your greatest, most haunting weakness.”

“Rather scandalous, Nesta, I must say. You thinking about me handling myself? I thought you had a mate-” Nesta roared and charged for him. Feyre threw a casual shield between the two of them which the hellcat promptly bounced off. Lucien just focused on staying relaxed. When he was relaxed, he was in control.

“Children please!” Feyre barked, holding a palm up to both of them. Lucien just chuckled as Nesta seethed and Feyre sighed. “Surprisingly, we’re not just here to engage in pitiful threats and stupid insults, we did actually have a matter at hand to discuss.”

Fear coiled in Lucien’s gut. He’d almost forgotten. With the rhythmic almost meditative training and the distraction that was Nesta’s fury, he’d been blissfully unaware for a moment of why he’d called the remaining Archeron sisters to the mortal realm. Lucien stood straight, pulling on his jacket and tying his cuffs.

“You said it was urgent?” Feyre said softly after a moment, still maintaining the shield between himself and the hellcat.

“And private, if I recall,” Lucien flickered his eyes to the viper.

“I can send her home if you’d like.” Nesta went to complain but Lucien silenced her.

“It’s fine. In fact it…it might be better for you both to hear it…” He was getting nervous, he knew it. Turning into the male that he became whenever he went to the Night Court. But they were on his territory now. God, how ironic was that.

“Is it…is…are you okay?” Feyre looked alarmingly concerned, even Nesta’s anger seemed to have settled into a soft simmer.

“I’m fine,” Lucien said quickly. Too quickly.

“Elain…” Feyre trailed off. And Lucien sighed deeply.

Then he began. He told them both of how everything had been fine between himself and Elain (promptly skipping over their minor capture in an Ashwood trap) and there had been no problem till last night where, after talking about Graysen and his new engagement – Feyre gagged, Nesta swore – Elain had dreamt of a memory and had unwittingly sent that memory to Lucien.

“So…what’s the problem?” Nesta probed, her anger now having well and truly given way to a steely determination. Feyre’s shield had even dropped.

“It’s the dream isn’t it – what was it?” Feyre asked. Lucien hesitated.

“I…I don’t know if I can say.”

“Oh no, nuh uh,” Nesta clipped, “You did not drag us across Prythian, tease us with something threatening our sister only to back out now.” Lucien sighed as he glared at Nesta because, well, she was right. He’d called them for a reason and that reason was he didn’t know what to do. The bond forced delicate information of Elain’s to be forced into his lap, but he didn’t yet see himself as someone with the clearance to deal with such things. But that didn’t mean they should just be ignored. Elain needed someone. She needed her sisters.

Right?

“The dream was a memory, and it was of her and Graysen, they were running through some woods. They were engaged and…and…” Lucien grimaced.

“What?” Feyre asked, her concerned High Lady voice coming out. Lucien just looked at her, at them both. What he was about to tell them, well, it was going to change things.

“The two of them were enjoying each other’s company and I did all that I could to not intrude-”

“What? You just stood there and watched as they, as they…” Nesta glared at him, disgust in her eyes. Fury coiled in Lucien’s gut.

“I assure you Nesta if there was a way for me to stop witnessing as my mate was lain, spread and taken by another man, I would’ve found a way out.” The words were cold, harsh, and both Feyre and Nesta recoiled slightly. They had mates. They understood.

Lucien took a deep breath and tried again.

“That wasn’t the problem. I would not have have called you if that was all,” he began, now finding he was unable to look them in the eye, “They weren’t…they didn’t actually do anything besides some mild fondling. At some point Graysen began to force himself on her, after she refused several times he got angry with her-”

A sharp intake of breath from one of the sisters made Lucien wince.

“It was then that he began to…manipulate and coerce Elain into giving ‘consent’” Lucien used his fingers to form brackets around the word. “Graysen wouldn’t stop until Elain agreed to meet him in a barn near a Eucalyptus-”

Another gasp had Lucien looking up. He regretted calling them immediately.

“Look, I don’t know how human judicial systems work and legislation differs between the Courts, but in the majority of the Courts’ eyes Graysen could justifiably be trialled for rape.”

Both sisters froze. Nesta turning to ice, her features somehow becoming more pointed and severe. Feyre looked…emotional. Her hands were shaking as she brought them to her mouth.

“Rape?” Feyre eventually gasped.

“It…it does differ between courts. In Autumn, no, it wouldn’t count. Spring legislation hasn’t been updated in centuries given how underdeveloped the Court has been with its weak bloodline, so it’s a no there too.” Lucien knew laws of Spring. He’d researched them endlessly after Calanmai. “I used to assume the Night Court was the same but, given Rhysand’s stance on sexual assault survivors I’d believe that yes, Graysen could be charged. All other Courts, Summer, Winter, Dawn and Day could all put him on trial. The exact charge is generally defined as forced or non-consensual sexual contact. It was coercion, and therefore not consent.”

Lucien had felt lifeless as he spoke. He had to. He had to take all his emotions and bury them in the deepest recesses of his mind. If stopped to think even for a moment about the fact Graysen could be charged for raping Elain, the air started to leave his body and he felt as though he’d start to have a panic attack. He hadn’t had one of those since before he met Jes.

“I don’t know if she…if she…”

“She did,” Nesta said in a cold, unfeeling voice. Her eyes were glazed and far away.

“She came back in the morning, and I found her in the gardens, she wasn’t wearing shoes and her dress was buttoned wrong and she was just wandering. I…” Nesta’s voice broke and she cleared her throat, still not looking at anyone. “I took her in for a bath and she was fine, after that. It was like it took her a moment to be convinced that she had enjoyed it. After that, she was glowing and happy. Graysen always seemed to make her so happy…”

Lucien cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I…I brought this information to you because I didn’t know what the human standards are for any of this. I don’t know how the humans would prosecute-”

“They wouldn’t,” Feyre said solemnly, a hand still covering her mouth, “Human judiciaries don’t really do…rape…the only time people are trialled and convicted is when it’s wealthy women of a certain bloodline who were clearly raped in a brutal way with a direct witness.”

Fury once more coiled through Lucien’s gut. Elain had been taught to expect this. She’d been taught that Graysen touching her like that, talking to her like that – she’d been taught that that was love.

“I see,” Lucien grappled with the beast within, “I…the bond between Elain and I has shown me this, but I feel it is not yet my place to-to-”

“We understand Lucien,” Feyre stepped forward taking his hand, and Lucien found himself leaning into the touch. As pitiful as it was, he needed Feyre to take over, to take this information off his hands for the time being. He just couldn’t – he didn’t know how – it wasn’t his place and yet –

“She’s our sister and we’ll find a way to deal with this, to broach the subject with her and find how she feels.” It was as though Lucien could see Feyre switch from concerned sister to High Lady of the Night Court, Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lucien could only nod at her solemnly.

“Lucien,” Nesta started and as he looked at her, he could practically see the internal war raging on inside those icy eyes. He just waited until she found the words. “Thank you…” She spoke at last. Lucien nodded, and that was that.

Nesta went to speak to her sister when she paused and looked down at the siphons on the back of each hand, glowing a violent shade of purple.

“I-shit…I was supposed to be back in time for training.”

“Go,” Feyre said, still holding Lucien’s hand, “We’ll talk later.”

Feyre and Nesta seemed to share a certain sisterly stare with one another, almost as though they were conversing without speaking. Eventually Nesta nodded, and with one more steely yet grateful look at Lucien, she winnowed away.

Feyre turned to Lucien.

“Thank you, Lucien, for telling us about this. I know you’re trying your hardest given the circumstance.”

Lucien nodded. Yes, the circumstance being that despite him and his mate having not truly accepted the bond, nor having truly struck up any kind of relationship, the bond has deemed it appropriate to reveal to him incredibly intimate and difficult scenarios of Elain’s life without her knowledge nor consent.

“Thanks,” was all he could mutter, though he truly felt he did not deserve her praise. A small silence settled over the two of them and when Lucien looked up again, Feyre was giving him a peculiar stare. She seemed almost…amused.

“What you were doing with Nesta, teasing her like that-”

“Sorry,” Lucien interrupted, “I understand I may have overstepped my bounds I-”

“No,” it was Feyre’s turn to interrupt, “No, that’s not it. I just meant to say that well, for a second there you seemed like the old you.”

Lucien cocked his head.

“The old me?”

“You know, the git who was horrible and snide to me for weeks on end even though he was High Fae, and I was an enslaved mortal,” Feyre was grinning as she spoke, her hands resting on her hips in a very motherly manner.

“Oh,” Lucien nodded, “That old me.”

“Is it her or being here?” Feyre asked outright and something in Lucien’s chest stumbled before he sighed, deep and long. Now that Nesta was gone, he could relax with Feyre. She was like Vassa or Jurian – as close as a friend as he had.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “She’s…I mean she’s…”

“Mhm,” Feyre grinned knowingly.

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes. Feyre burst out laughing, and when her laughter had rung out into the forest a slightly awkward silence stilted the conversation.

“It’s not…” Lucien grimaced, “It’s not perfect though. I felt her through the bond when she found out Graysen had gotten engaged. It wasn’t…she…”

Feyre shrugged as though this meant nothing.

“I suppose she’s entitled to respond a little poorly. But I understand what you mean. You have it difficult Lucien, don’t doubt that for a second. Most mates get a chance to fall in love before the bond even makes itself known.” Lucien frowned.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s common for mates to feel the bond upon first seeing one another-”

“Yeah, yeah, when I said most mates I was talking about myself and Nesta, you know, the only two examples of a mating bond that Elain knows?”

“Oh,” Lucien nodded.

“You know how it is for us, we used to be human. When you’re human falling in love isn’t something that has anything to do with fate and attitudes towards casual sex are, you know, only positive when you’re a man which – not important – what I’m trying to say is that for Elain, Graysen was a big deal. Falling in love was a big deal. Having someone choose to love her with their own Mother-gifted violation, was a big deal.”

“I know,” Lucien said softly, “I’m not trying to take that away from her. I just…as much as Elain had certain customs growing up, so did I. It’s not exactly usual for two mates to ignore a bond for two years. Rejecting? Yes. Ignoring…not so much.”

Feyre, to Lucien’s surprise, nodded.

“Like I said,” she began, “You two have it tough. I don’t think either of you are necessarily at fault. Elain hasn’t just been ignoring you these past two years, she’s been healing, finding herself. You’ve been incredibly patient but at the same time, you’re allowed to be upset at the way things have gone.”

“Right but-”

“Lucien, I love you, but everything you’re saying right now is exactly what you need to be saying to Elain,” Feyre half-laughed as she squeezed his hand.

“Right, right…” Lucien nodded, and Feyre finally let go of his hand. Though, the loss of her touch didn’t take away any of the weight of his discovery, that still hung over him like a black cloud. Feyre moved back a few paces before giving a quick shake of her body as two giant leathery wings protruded from her back.

“Rhysand says I need to keep using them,” she smiled at him, “Though I think once I get past Spring I might just cheat. Don’t tell him though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lucien laughed, holding up his hands.

Lucien watched as Feyre prepped herself for take-off, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“Feyre wait!” He called, just before she took off.

“Yeah?” Lucien paused ever so slightly.

“I did the right thing, telling you, about what I saw?” Feyre cocked her head and seemed to genuinely consider his question.

“I don’t know,” Feyre answered honestly, and something inside Lucien shuddered. “These kinds of things are sensitive, and each individual reacts differently. I would bet that Elain doesn’t understand that what Graysen did was wrong, she certainly wouldn’t consider it as rape as in her eyes she technically said ‘yes’”

“But-” Lucien growled.

“Yeah, I know, don’t worry. It is rape. I know. But in her eyes she gave herself willingly and…” Feyre’s eyes became dazed, “Just think about what this will be like for her, to find out the one person she loved most in the whole world didn’t just turn into a bad guy when she turned fae but was a bad guy all along. Imagine finding out your first love had raped you and you’d never even realised.”

Lucien shuddered and for a terrifying moment, he wondered if he might cry. With Ianthe he’d known. Every step of the way he’d known, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was better or worse to be ignorant. If he could be oblivious to what had happened in that cave, would he choose to be?

Elain’s choice had somehow fallen into his lap and in some way, this meant she had no choice at all. To tell her nothing would be making a choice, as would be telling her what Graysen had done. It wasn’t fair, for either of them.

“You better get going,” Lucien said after a moment with a quick glance to the sun placement, “Rhysand might think I’ve kidnapped you again.”

Feyre tipped her head back and let out a joyous laugh that filled the forest with magic.

“Oh Lucien,” she clutched her ribs, “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, and…” she suddenly looked nervous.

“What?”

“Promise me you and I will still be friends, no matter what happens with Elain, promise me you’ll stay.”

Feyre was looking at him with so much shy hope that Lucien couldn’t help but nod without even considering her question. Without another word Feyre took off into the skies, steering away from Lockhart Manor as to not accidentally cross Elain’s line of vision.

Lucien watched her go with a heavy heart.

Tag List:

@ladyelain @chloepereyra @exiledelain @bow-dawn

#elucien #fffaf #elucien fic #elucien fluff #elucien fanfiction #elain #elain archeron #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien #pro elucien #pro elain #pro lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #elain/lucien #lucien/elain

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strawberrylemonz · 4 years ago

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January 20, 2021 - DSMP

Here is my review of what happened on today’s stream! Keep in mind that I was only watching Tommy’s POV, but will be analyzing any other viewpoints that I come across (Mainly Tubbo’s)

I’m going to be honest with everyone, I was unsure as to whether not any of our boys would make it out alive. I went into the stream preparing the worst.

Tommy and Tubbo talking each other up, preparing to leave made me feel all kinds of thing. Like I stated earlier, I was prepared for the two to end their adventure today. I vibed with them when they walked down the prime path, and froze up when I saw the first person in line. I’m not ashamed to say that I nearly sobbed when I saw everyone line up to say their goodbyes to the boys (I’m sensitive, shut up).

The way Sam kept giving them stuff??? Loved that

The way Tommy and Quackity’s voices quivered when they spoke to each other? Punch to the heart?

Tommy telling Eret that she was always the true king??? YES!!! POP OFF!!!

The entire trip to where Dream was both made me happy and broke my heart. Here, we saw these boys, children forced to grow up quickly to be used by those they trusted, do their best to be kids for a moment. They were kids for, what they believed, could be the last time. They had their serious moments where Tommy kept reminding Tubbo that it was okay to not feel okay about the situation. Where Tommy didn’t want Tubbo to hide his inner thoughts from him just to try and make him feel better. The moment that they watched the sun together made me all sentimental and shit. Tommy preparing to die and have Tubbo leave and tell his story broke me.

“Why did you tell me to bring Tubbo?”

“Because, it’s always been you and Tubbo against me, remember? Ever since the beginning, Tommy and Tubbo against Dream” (paraphrasing)

I actually got hyped up when Tommy got the disc. It reminded me of Tommy’s clutch the time he dropped the disc down to Tubbo and knocked Dream off the tower using only planks. I had let my hope for them grow. And then I had my heart broken.

Dream using Tubbo against Tommy was something that I expected would happen, but I still wasn’t prepared for it to actually happen. I don’t think I’ll easily forget about how Tommy gave up the disc to Dream, even when Tubbo begged for Tommy to keep the disc and go. My heart nearly dropped to my stomach when I saw Dream break that first dirt block. It dropped when he told the boys to put their armor in the hole.

I have to admit, I was kinda confused that the homeless man had an evil lair and not a home, but pop off I guess??? The elevator was pretty cool, ngl

When I saw the two discs on the floor, I thought, “Bitch, you better be polishing this fucking floor every 30 minutes. Disrespect Nicki Minaj? What?” My second thought was, “why tf did you make two giant ass shrines for these discs??? Didn’t even center them, wtf dude.”

When Dream was monologuing and showing off the stolen goods and pets (and Skeppy) he stole from everyone, I knew he was on something. Him calling Tommy the key confirmed that Dream was overthinking everything and seeing things in places they didn’t belong. Did Tommy initially bring these bonds? Bring all the things Dream said he did? Yeah, I’ll admit it, he did. But it was the people in the server that kept that going, kept it alive. If not Tommy, someone else would have started that chain. The way Tommy look horrified and uttered with a horrific tone, “how do you not hurt?” when Dream mentioned how he cut off all his attachments was hnnnnnnnn

Tubbo actively trying to protect Tommy from going to prison while Tommy was actively trying to protect Tubbo from permanently dying was-

Man

Man, that broke my heart.

“You wanna be the hero of this server? Every hero has an origin story. Batman had his parents, Spider-Man had Uncle Ben. You have Tubbo.”

The look of complete horror/terror that came across Tommy’s face the instant those words were spoken. He genuinely looked scared. He kept trying to defend Tubbo, despite Dream repeating how defenseless Tommy was against him. Dream telling the boys to say their good byes hurt me in more ways that I can describe. Tommy was panicking, actively trying to come up with ways to get Tubbo out of there, no matter the cost or price that he had to pay. Tubbo telling him that it was okay, everything would be okay, he would be okay. The way Tommy was desperate to hold onto his best friend, his Tubbo, whilst saying, “You can’t be okay with this! Why are you okay with this?”

My heart nearly stopped for a second the moment Tubbo said “goodbye, Tommy”

My mind flashed back to Tubbo saying those exact words whilst exiling Tommy, his best friend, for the sake of everyone being safe. Now, here he was again, saying those exact words to the exact same person. The only difference? He wasn’t sacrificing his best friend for the sake of everyone and Dream. No, he was sacrificing himself for the sake of his best friend, his only true friend, Tommy.

“Get away from them”

“Punz?”

“I’m sorry Dream, but you should have paid me more.”

Literal chills. I cannot. It’s the “On your left” of the DSMP. The way everyone came through the portal to line up against this tyrant that manipulated them all. The way I imagined everyone coming through to see this decked out dude with a god complex about to murder a bloody and bruised child, said child’s best friend (also bloody and bruised) was watching, begging to have his friend spared. Imagining how they saw the tear streaks down the boys’ messed up faces as they accepted their fates. As they saw their fear turn to hope as Tommy got Tubbo behind them for safety. How Tommy entrusted them to keep Tubbo safe. How they all came, decked out, to defend these two children.

How Quackity came in nothing but his yeezys because he just fucking knew that Dream wouldn’t put up a fight. The way Dream was so confident that he had power over everyone because he rid himself of his bonds towards objects and friends, only for that to be his downfall. The way Sapnap, Dream’s old friend, his buddy, was the one to give Tommy the pickaxe. The way Puffy was there to protect the two boys she renounced his duckling title for (and the nation).

The way Tommy dug a hole, without any protection or weapons, and had Dream throw his stuff in. The way he didn’t blow any of Dreams shit up, like he had happen to himself, and, instead, used Dream’s things to protect Tubbo and everyone else. The way Tommy took away Dream’s first two lives, paralleling the times Dream took Tommy’s two lives. The way Tommy boxed him in, like Tubbo was at the festival, and the way Tubbo held a bow to Dream. The way Tommy screamed at Dream to tell everyone what he had done. How Dream was the one to blow up the community house. How Dream tormented the poor boy in exile. The way Tommy didn’t spare him because he liked him, or wanted to play mind games with him. No, Tommy spared him because he had a chance to get his brother back, his family.

“Let’s make Wilbur proud. SUCK IT GREEN BOY!!!!”

“SUCK IT GREEN BOY!!!!”

The way the boys sincerely thanked everyone for showing up, fully knowing that they didn’t have to do shit. The way that Tommy said to go to Tubbo’s vc, obviously warming Tubbo’s heart. The way they made it to bench, and finally had a chance to breathe. How they could sit their, listen to their discs, and be kids again. No wars, no going against Dream, nothing. They could just be Tommy and Tubbo, like it’s always been since the beginning.

Then Wilbur fishfucking Soot had to crash the moment like the older brother he was, lmaooooo.

“You didn’t die”

“Ghostbur?”

“I’m not Ghostbur.”

I sucked in a breath, not knowing how the interaction was going to go. Was Wilbur still in the mindset he was whilst blowing up the nation he and his younger brother created? Was he in a mindset before that? Was he sane?

I must admit, their bickering match, along with Tubbo’s dancing, made me realize how much I missed their dynamic. I realized how much I missed Wilbur being in the picture. (Tommy whispering to Tubbo how he liked Ghostbur was hilarious)

Wilbur complaining about being stuck with Schlatt in the afterlife was hilarious. Wilbur admitting that he was preparing, waiting, for Tommy, his younger brother, to join him in the afterlife had me gripping my plushies. Wilbur telling Tommy that he’s proud of him put a sledgehammer into my fragile dam.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

THEY. ARE. BROTHERS!!!!

It was just so refreshing to see these two get the happy ending they deserved in this arc. The pain and suffering these two children went through at the expense of others, how they were forced to grow up quickly because of their situations, all of that was finally pushed towards the path of recovery. And although they’ve been through hell and back, it’s still them. Although the future will be hard for them, throwing more trials and difficult choices, they know that they’ll make it out, because that how it’s always been. And if their strengthen bond after today can tell them anything, it’s that it’ll always be like that.

It’s always been Tommy and Tubbo.

What I want/what I predict

FOR GEORGE TO BE AWAKE FOR FIVE FUCKING SECONDS

Everyone complimenting Niki on her new fit better fucking happen, I will manifest it

Dream will use his favor from Techno to break out of prison

Connor playing a bigger role in the SMP

Foolish revealing that they don’t need Dream alive (hopefully)

Ghostbur to say a proper goodbye before Wilbur is revived

GLATT

GLATTBUR

SBI reunion with every alive for more than five fucking minutes

Wilbur ignoring his dad Phil and zooming over to little brother Tommy so that he can hug him and tell him that he’s safe now and that he’s so proud of him

THERAPY ARC!!!! FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYONE LOVELY, PLEASE

JUST GET EVERYONE INSIDE THE THERAPY GROUP SECTION AND TALK ABOUT THEIR TRAUMA AND FEELINGS SO THEY CAN ALL CLEAR UP THEIR MISUNDERSTANDINGS!!!!!

The egg will start to negatively affect people, causing those not affected to fear for their home and friends

SBI + TUBBO AND RANBOO VS EGGPIRE????? POG?????

Tubbo nuking L’manhole to get rid of the spreading red

Techno/Phil to come to an understanding with Tommy; vice versa

Those unaffected teaming up to safe those affected

Someone (preferably Ranboo) unintentionally activating the End Portal lmao

The rest of the SBI + Tubbo saving Tommy from being murdered by Jack and Niki

Jack and Niki learning that killing the child is not the fucking answer to their problems (If it didn’t work for William Afton, it won't work for y’all. Stop trying to be the man behind the slaughter)

Techno and Tommy rebuilding their trust and friendship with each other

Tommy giving Techno the Axe of Peace

Sam being influenced by the egg and becomes corrupted

Ranboo being free??? Pog???? Pog

Puffy and Niki having a one-to-one conversation about their personal opinions and goals

Puffy visiting Dream whilst he sits in his cell

Skeppy and Bad to be okay again :(

Everyone infected to be okay again :(

Tommy bonding with Eret

Big Q continuing to hold Clingy Duo close to him

Schlatt coming back but instead of trying to run for president and mess with everyone, he’s just everyone’s drunk uncle that somehow gives wise advice to every situation

Wilbur coming back but he’s that angry older cousin that only allows the favorite family members(Tommy)/friends to stay in his room

GIVE ME MEXICAN DREAM AND GIRL DREAM!!! ONLY HETERO RELATIONSHIP I SEE THAT IS BEYOND POGGERS

Lani and Drista to make a comeback at the same time

Tommy meeting more family members

The kids being able to be kids

Lani selling yeezy

Drista w/ bedrock

Drista laughing at Dream’s imprisonment

Everyone finding peace within each other’s chaos and living in harmony

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boxoftheskyking · 4 years ago

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Something Good, Part Fourteen

This chapter was so hard, you guys. I hope it kind of works. If it doesn’t, feel free to write your own version. That’s what fanfic’s for, after all.

In which Wei Wuxian experiences A Reckoning

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen

Wei Wuxian sits in the dark, under a tree, and tries to meditate. Inhale (he knows, he knows, he knows). Exhale (a low buzzing, a rushing like wind through the Burial Mounds).

There must be order. He cannot shake apart, he can’t be driven mad, he’s not that wounded, starving boy anymore. He will approach it like a complicated talisman he wants to recreate. Break things down.

Lan Wangji knows. It stands to reason that the rest of Gusu Lan knows—or at least the Sect Leader and Grandmaster. And they agreed to his punishment, bore him as a shame to the sect. Made him a commoner.

You made yourself a commoner. A cultivator without a core is no cultivator, therefore not nobility, therefore common. That’s the mathematics of it. Who took your core away? You did.

So what’s the problem, really? The Lan Sect has broken nothing, betrayed nothing. They have treated Wei Wuxian as a villain, deemed him a villain based on all the information possible.

The Lan clan are learned, virtuous, just. Lan Wangji is learned, virtuous, just. And if Lan Wangji sees him as a villain, then…

Then he’s a villain. Fine. He doesn’t mind being the villain. It doesn’t mean he’s evil, it means—

It means you were wrong.

A night bird screams somewhere behind him, and he flinches.

There it is. There’s the nerve.

Under everything, every laugh, every tease, every clever sidestep, the root of it all is this unshakeable belief that he is right. He can play anyone because he knows something they don’t—that Wei Wuxian is always right. Even after everything he’s been through, he hasn’t had any regrets, because what he did was right. He saved his brother, he defended himself. That was right.

And raising an army of corpses, and cultivating as far down the dark path as you could before they caught you, all of that was right?

He never needed to be a hero, a genius, a beauty. Anytime someone flattered and admired him when he was younger, it never felt right, felt like an itchy shirt in the wrong size. It wasn’t flattery you wanted. You never needed anything from outside. You’ve just always needed to be right.

And be honest—the voice inside him spits it at him like venom—the whole time you’ve worked here, lived as a servant, it’s not the dishonor or the work that hurts you. They want you shamed, but you aren’t, not really. It’s that it wasn’t your idea. If you’d just decided to walk away, gone to live as a farmer somewhere, wouldn’t you have been proud of yourself? Wei Wuxian, who fooled them all. Wei Wuxian who walked away.

His hackles raise, his mind springing so typically to its own defense. (What else was I to do? What would they do, if they were in my place?) But the root of that defense, the “what else could I do”—it still comes back to his fucking pride.

He doesn’t like to look at that inner spine of pride. Never has. (I never needed anything from anyone.) The defensive voice is small, but stronger, finding its feet. (How can I be proud if I never needed anything from anyone?)

That makes it worse, the venom leaks from between his teeth, over his lip, staining his skin with invisible truth. So proud that you never valued anything outside your own mind. The only standards that matter are your own.

(It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a choice. Things just happened to me.)

It takes pride to be a martyr too, Wei Ying.

He’s been telling himself that all the ugliness inside him came from the Burial Mounds, came as the result of his sacrifice, but what if he’s been wrong? It was there earlier, the whole time. That horrible, vicious pride. The pride that made him take an extra beating, even though he knew it hurt Yanli and Uncle Jiang to watch. The pride that never let Jiang Cheng win, even when he saw how much he needed it. The pride that only ever let him tease Lan Wangji during that perfect summer, made him push and push and push beyond what any reasonable person could take, but never ask for what he wanted, never offer anything true. The pride that drove him to the edge of his abilities, raising corpses without provocation, testing the boundaries of what he’s capable of, just because he can. Just to see what’s possible. It’s a blade without a handle, this pride; it cuts him too.

(Attempt the impossible.) The defending voice is a child, learning the motto for the first time. (I didn’t have a choice, it’s how they raised me.)

Poor Wei Ying. Nothing is his fault. Nothing is ever, ever his fault.

The whirlpool opens up inside him, an Abyss leading him down, down, howling in his ears. Creatures move around him in the dark woods, snapping branches, breathing in the dark. The venom voice grows like a dog inside his mind, and the child shrinks back, desperate for something to hide behind. He can’t breathe; his lungs are stone, his bones are iron, he’s going to sink into the earth and leave no trace behind, and no one will miss him.

Get up.

It’s not the defender, and it’s not the accuser. It’s familiar. It’s—

Get up, Wei Ying.

It’s Madam Xiao.

Get up, Wei Ying. There’s work to be done.

No, it’s Madam Yu.

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re no good to anyone crying in the dark.

It’s Cangse Sanren.

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re still alive, aren’t you? You survived the ghost mountain, you climbed your way with bleeding feet to the top of a pile of corpses and conquered them all. And this is where you give up? What, will you be chewed to death by rabbits? Get up, you silly boy.

Wei Wuxian gets up.

---

He is rolling up his one spare shirt and pair of trousers when Lin Biming finds him. If he’s surprised to see the bag on the bed in front of him, he doesn’t show it.

“Where will you go?” he asks, and in the half-light of the empty sleeping quarters he looks old, sad.

“Wherever you like. Send me anywhere, sell me off, trade me for someone competent. Someone who doesn’t scorch the laundry, eh, Master Lin?”

Lin Biming doesn’t smile back.

“Surely another sect would take me. It’s not fair that Gusu bears this shame alone. The Grandmaster was right about that.”

Lin Biming goes to a chest in the corner and pulls out an extra blanket. He rolls it neatly and holds it out. Wei Wuxian takes it and turns to pack it away, blinking hard against the sweetness of it.

“I—” he starts, but he’s cut off.

“I’ll need to speak to the Sect Leader. If I just let you go, that’s a diplomatic issue.”

“Of course.” There’s so much more to say, to apologize for. The man deserves an explanation, but Wei Wuxian can’t think of where to begin.

“Get yourself some leftover dinner from the kitchen. I’m not sure how long your trip will be.”

Wei Wuxian slings the bag over his shoulder and follows him out the door. He tries not to think about the weight of little Lan Sizhui on his back as he ducks away towards the kitchen. Before he can enter, a hand grabs his elbow.

“Wei-qianbei?”

“Wen Ning? What are you doing here?”

“The little ones can’t sleep, so I wanted to find you. Why do you have a bag?”

Wei Wuxian looks around, but can’t find a way to stall. Take the pain, you’ve earned it.

“I have to leave.”

Wen Ning’s eyes go wide and round, his dear little mouth falling open. “Why? Did we— What did we do wrong?”

Wei Wuxian throws his arms around him. “Nothing, nothing at all. Never, ever, ever. It’s all big world things, nothing to do with you.”

“But we need you.” Wen Ning’s hands grasp the back of his shirt. “Please, you can’t leave.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s like being cut open again, things removed from inside his chest. “Wen Ning, I—”

“You have to say goodbye to them.” Wen Ning lets him go and steps back, jaw set.

“I can’t.”

“You have to. None of the others ever said goodbye. But you’re different, right? You have to be different. For the little ones, at least. They won’t understand.”

“They’ll forget soon enough. And you have your jiejie. Isn’t that better? She’ll take care of you, and you’ll forget all about this one servant. It’ll be better with her. Aren’t you glad she’s here now?”

I’m right, I’m right, agree with me.

“I am, but . . .” Wen Ning’s brow is furrowed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t think, when she got here, I didn’t think I’d have to choose.”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Wen Ning nods once, growing a year in that one gesture, and leaves. Wei Wuxian is numb, no feeling in his fingers, no heartbeat.

He stumbles away from the kitchen (away, away, away echoing in his mind), heading for the main path down the mountain. Lin Biming can find him here, or they can send guards to capture him, he just needs to keep walking. His skin is nailed to the wall of the kitchen, and every step pulls another inch of it away.

He’s just stepped out under the trees when he hears “WEI WUXIAN” shouted with a full burst of spiritual energy, echoing and reverberating off the stone beneath him. Sparks fly past his ears and he freezes, shocked out of his despair.

He turns around gingerly to find Wen Qing staring him down, her hair loose and one red robe hurriedly thrown over her sleeping clothes. A few white clad figures are hurrying down the path behind her, but Wei Wuxian can’t look away from the fury on her face.

“Wen Qing?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to. After what you said. They know, and I can’t stay here if they know and it makes no difference.”

“What difference is it supposed to make? What does it matter?” He’s never heard her so angry, and the part of him that isn’t legitimately frightened is downright proud.

He can see the figures behind her now, Lin Biming, Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji.

“Just let me go, Wen Qing. It’s fine. I was only ever going to get in the way—”

“You made my little brother cry!” she bellows, and a hot wind blows his hair back from his face.

Lan Xichen reaches out to touch her arm gently.

“Lady Wen, if I may?” He turns to Wei Wuxian, looking tired but patient. “Wei Wuxian, I understand that today was difficult. Wen Chao’s reaction was . . . regrettable. And if you cannot stay in Cloud Recesses, we respect your wishes. You have more than earned that.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, confused. “It’s not about today.”

“It’s not?”

“All this time, I—” Wei Wuxian looks around at all of them, at a loss for words. “All this time I thought you didn’t know the truth. About my golden core. I thought if you did, then you might— but I was wrong. And I don’t know what that mean; I don’t know what I am anymore; I don’t know what I’m good for, and I can’t figure that out here.”

“Why not?” It’s Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian covers his face and groans into his hands. Because of you, and the way you’re looking at me right now, because your hands are so big and warm and your eyes are so soft, and none of it means anything, and I can’t handle it.

“We all know you lost your golden core,” Lan Xichen says gently.

“You can’t tell Jiang Cheng.” He’s a moment away from falling to his knees. “Please, you owe me nothing, but please. It will destroy him.”

“I don’t understand,” Lan Xichen sounds like he is really, truly trying. “What does Jiang Wanyin have to do with—”

“Because he’s the one who has it!”

“Wei Ying,” Wen Qing says, grabbing his hands. “I’ve told no one. I swore to you I wouldn’t.”

“But you said—”

“I swore to you.”

“You said he knows. You told me that Lan Zhan knows.” His hands are the only real part of him, tethered by hers. The rest of him is smoke, looking for a shape, a container, floating around as nothing. His vision is blurry, like the moment before fainting.

“Wei Ying.” She grabs his face and shakes him a little. “I meant that he knows how you feel about him. I thought that’s what you were saying. Everyone knows. You’d have to be a blind fool not to.”

The complete reversal of Wei Wuxian’s entire life is interrupted by a quiet gasp to his right.

“How Wei Ying feels . . . about me?” Lan Wangji is staring at him, eyebrows furrowed.

Wen Qing sighs. “And clearly I was wrong anyway.”

“And clearly,” Lan Xichen says, “there is information we are lacking.”

Wen Qing looks over at him for a long moment, then nods. “Wei Ying, it’s time to tell them.”

“Can I sit down?” He doesn’t wait for a response before he drops down into the dirt, legs kicked out like a half-crushed spider. Lan Wangji rushes over to kneel beside him, one hand hovering an inch away from his forehead.

“Are you all right?”

“You’re not the doctor,” Wei Wuxian says faintly. “She is.”

“Is he sick?” Lan Wangji asks the others.

Wen Qing smacks Wei Wuxian’s face gently. “He’ll be fine. Wei Ying, I’m going to talk to Lan Xichen. You talk to Wangji.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You invented a new type of cultivation while living off corpse potatoes and carrion. You’ll figure it out.”

Without another word, she turns to Lan Xichen and nods, gesturing him back up the path. Lin Biming, looking as stressed as ever, grabs Wei Wuxian’s bag and hurries after them.

“I guess I’m staying,” Wei Wuxian says, and somehow that sets him off laughing. “I think I’m going mad.”

“What did you mean. Wei Ying. When you said ‘he has it.’ What did you mean?”

Finally, Wei Wuxian’s eyes focus, and he can’t stop a smile at Lan Wangji’s worried face. How strange that he used to think he had no expression.

“I don’t think I can stand up right now, Lan Zhan. Will you sit by me?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate, he sits down in the dirt, white robes and all. They must make an absurd picture, white and grey sprawled out on the path like cast off clothing.

“Lan Zhan, I’m going to tell you a story. But you have to promise—”

“I promise.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan! You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter. I promise.”

The promise is a building. A house for him to live in. He stops drifting and feels the ground underneath him, and then he begins.

Part Fifteen

#something good #assorted writings #the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #ughhh this plot stuff is too much for me #climb every freakin mountain indeed

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evandearest · 4 years ago

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The Garden of Eden Explanation

Series Masterlist: The Garden of Eden Series

Warning: Read After Part Two: Reflection!! SPOILERS AHEAD.

Hey guys, it’s Emilie (@evandearest)! So I’ve just decided to pop in here and make a post about my current James March x reader series, The Garden of Eden. This is just something that I’ve decided to do just to clear things up, both for any readers and for myself <3.

This series was requested by @etoile-writings , who is now one of my good friends here on tumblr :). This post will contain spoilers, so if you haven’t read part one and two I suggest you do! After I finish writing the entire series, I will do a separate review post to explain the symbolism and references in depth with the entire story. This post will just contain an explanation for the concepts and symbolism in the events so far.

JUXTAPOSITION:

The original request was juxtaposition, which is basically just an idea: the fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect. It’s just simply a comparison - a contrast between two objects. In this story’s case, the two things are the reader and James. The contrast is revealed as the story goes, but it’s basically the fact that the reader constantly looks at everything in a religious view, while James is completely against religion, as we’ve seen in the show. This will get more prevalent in part three, which at this point in time is still being wrote.

READER’S DARKNESS:

As the story goes on, this will be revealed further, but there has already been multiple instances in which the reader has seemed passive towards violence/physical hurting, the seriousness of the situation seeming to go over her head; no empathy shown. This occurred in two instances: when James killed her husband, and when the man in the hotel was in pain. As I said, this will be explored further, but is to be kept in mind, as it ties in with the juxtaposition concept.

WHITE ROSES:

Now let’s talk about the flowers, which were included as part of the request as well. They mainly tied into the whole “Garden of Eden” biblical concept, which we will get into next. I specifically chose white roses as the flower of interest because of their symbolism:

“ White roses often represent purity, innocence, and youthfulness. White roses are sometimes referred to as bridal roses because of their association with young love and eternal loyalty. White roses can also symbolize a new beginning and everlasting love. ”

In part two, you find out the origin of James’ and the reader’s love; how it all started in the garden, with the roses. However, the roses are very prevalent throughout the entire story, as well as what the owner of the garden said about them: “if you kill the rose, the rose no longer profits you.” (keep that in mind)

They are what is known as a motif of literature.

The first and simplest symbolic thing about them is the fact that they are the readers favorite flower, which is explained in the flashback in part two. Since they symbolize purity and innocence, it’s only right for them to be the reader’s favorite flower, as she is the same symbolic representation.

So far, they have briefly appeared in part one when James arrives at the reader’s house, and then again throughout most of part two.

To recall to part one:

“ Before you knew it, the man you had dreamed of for so many years was standing before you. You gasped as your eyes met his, the same dark brown framed by his sharp masculine features. It was as if you had seen the sun after years in the dark. Your eyes took in his features before shifting to look at the object in his hands. A bouquet of white roses lay clasped between his hands; your flowers. He had remembered. He really had come back for you. Finally, you had your James again. “

Since white roses symbolize a new beginning and everlasting love, I thought it important and fitting to include them as a symbol of just that. James and reader have always loved one another; everlasting love. James has come back for reader and they are starting their relationship again; a new beginning. The new beginning symbolism also applies to when the reader and James first met, or began.

BIBLICAL REFERENCE:

Now here’s where ideas collide a little bit. The Garden of Eden idea intertwines both of the previous topics into one another. First I want to establish what the real Garden of Eden story from the Bible is for anyone who doesn’t know. (Disclaimer: There are many many many interpretations of this story, and I just tried to find the simplest one.)

The Garden of Eden was essentially paradise. God placed an innocent Adam and Eve in the garden and tells them that they can eat freely from all of the trees in the garden, except of a tree of the knowledge of good and evil. When they are coerced by snakes of evil and eat the fruit, they gain the knowledge, and God banishes them from the garden as punishment for disobeying him. They were both sent down to Earth as God’s representatives. In some interpretations, Earth is often thought to be hell. So in a way, they were sent to hell.

That being said, here is how that fits into the story. James and reader meet in a white rose garden when they are young, which implements both the roses as a symbol of youthfulness and the innocence that is said to come with that, as well as a comparison between James & reader and Adam & Eve. When James and reader get older and gain more knowledge, they are forced apart, are no longer together in love, and their paradise is lost. This compares to Adam and Eve’s banishment to hell, when their paradise was lost. So in a biblical way, James and reader have been forced apart (losing paradise) to live in hell (which is just living without one another) as a punishment or consequence for gaining knowledge, or getting older. (Read that a few times to process it lmao)

As a side note, reader’s mother had also warned her of this. In the flashback, reader recalls her mothers words, “One day when all the distractions of young age are gone, you’ll realize why you need to be prepared.” You can assume that she had known that reader would be married off by her father, signifying that the same thing happened to her (it was common in the time), which ties into the “cycle of life“ concept (more about that down below). This is also basically saying that when you get older and become no longer oblivious (gain knowledge), you won’t live life the same carefree way. You loose your inner child. Reader’s mother was just trying to prepare her for that.

GOD CONCEPT:

Now we get to the reader and James’ new beginning, where all James wants is to recreate that paradise for the reader. The reader in turn views James as a God because of multiple reasons: he saved and freed her from hell, returned to her, he’s always been the one she can rely on and always loved (chose) her, made her feel like she was invincible when by his side, and also the fact that he went from being a poor boy to a rich man and built an empire (the hotel) on it.

And from here I’d like to talk about just a few more things; first being the last little bit of part two. I just feel like I need to explain the meaning of that part’s ending in conclusion to everything, to wrap everything up.

To recall once again:

“ You smiled once more at his words, thinking back to that day in the garden once more, and to your mother’s words. The feeling you had now was a reflection of the feeling you had then. He’d always made you feel so incredibly self-assured. You felt like no matter what happened to you and James, nothing could break you at this point and time. And your mother had been right: gaining the knowledge was important.

Now that you’d ate the fruit of the garden and survived hell, what could possibly stop you?

You felt invincible, so long as he was by your side. You no longer feared the past or the future; you were completely centered present, all cycles broken. And it had took James less than a day to make you feel this way. Your excitement soared as you thought about your future with James. You knew that so long as you had him, you were unstoppable together. You were gods.

You didn’t need the garden, after all. Paradise lost stood no match to you, because with James, you could survive anything. “

I’m going to specifically talk about the bold parts. Okay, so “eating the fruit of the garden” means gaining knowledge, as we’ve discussed, and for James and reader that represents their separation when they got older. So it’s basically saying that now that the reader and James have survived everything (from being separated to surviving without one another {hell} to then finding their way back to each other), what else could they possibly face that would break them? And the last line is similar: the reader realizes that they have survived so much already, and feels that they can take anything. They don’t need to “go back” to anywhere; they can survive in any circumstance; they do not need the garden or paradise.

More about the god concept: since the reader views James as a god, and then feels invincible by his side, she feels as if they are now gods together.

CYCLE OF LIFE:

The cycle of life idea was not apart of the request, but upon approaching part one, I just kind of threw it in, as it added to the story quite a lot. The cycle of life ties straight into the whole reflection part of the story, with the reader having flashbacks to the past events that seemed to almost mirror the current events. This happens mainly in the two situations in which it was pointed out: when the reader was being abused by James father in the past and her husband in the present, and the feeling the reader had when she first met James being the same as she feels for him now in this new beginning. It’s a repetition. In the beginning of part one, it also begs the question: do the lessons we’re really meant to learn in life recur without us noticing?

END NOTES:

And that’s it! I hope that cleared some things up if you were confused! Let me know any questions you may have and I will certainly reply as quick as I can! I’m so unbelievably excited to finish part three! Thanks so much to everyone for the support <3. Happy Holidays if you celebrate! Sending love to all~ xoxo

#the garden of eden series #james march #james imagine #james x reader #james march imagine #james march x reader #james march smut #james patrick march #james patrick march imagine #evan peters imagine #Evan Peters #evan peters x reader #ahs #ahs imagine #american horror story #american horror story hotel #american horror story imagine #ahs hotel #hotel

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sugamoonv · 6 years ago

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I’ll Still Stay

Hello! Can I please request a Poly!Mate Hybrid!BTS OT7 x Mate human!female reader imagine where she goes to the shelter, planning on adopting one hybrid, but then when she sees how badly the poor hybrids are treating, she ends up bringing home 7 hybrids (BTS). BTS are all each other’s mate and see that she’s there mate too. She takes care of them and they take care of her, lots of love to go around! All 8 fall in love! They are all very protective of her + hugs + kisses + cuddles and love.💜🤟

Pairings: Hybrid!BTS x Reader/ OT7 x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Preface: Wolf Hybrid!Namjoon / Rottweiler Hybrid!Jimin / Siamese Hybrid!Yoongi / Golden Retriever Hybrid!Taehyung / Bear Hybrid!Jin / Bunny Hybrid!Jungkook / Red Fox Hybrid!Hoseok

A.N: I know this took a while, so I hope it’s good. I may have turned this request into a gateway for a series/multipart because I love poly hybrid fics. So yeah- here’s the first installment.

Masterlist > Next

“I’m going to adopt a hybrid.”

Your friend's eyes widen and they scramble as they get out of their chair to follow you.

“Wait, what? Now?!”

“Yeah. Why Not?” you look at Hoshi with innocent eyes as you grab your jacket from the hanger rack in the entrance of the office you work in. Small conversations and the clicking of keyboards play over yours’ and Hoshi’s conversation.

“Because we’re still at work? And you literally just decided you wanted a hybrid. Are you even ready for one?”

The company you worked for paid its employees well, especially those that specialized in specific sectors. You and Hoshi worked in public relations and as younger employees, you were in charge of helping create ads that appealed to your age group. It was a difficult company to get hired into and was still competitive while working, but was one of the most lucrative jobs available where you lived, and because of this, that meant that most of the people here had lots of disposable money. A majority of them eventually decided their extra money would be best going to getting a hybrid and now you were joining the ranks.

“Chill. I haven’t used any sick days in months, so I doubt they’re really going to get mad if I leave early today,” you negate as you shrug on your jacket. “Vernon told me about this really nice adoption center he got Dino at and he said that lately, they’ve been getting a lot of hybrids. So I figured I might as well go now.”

Hoshi sucks in air between his teeth. “Fine, but if you get in trouble with Mark, that’s on you-”

“Obviously.”

Hoshi’s eyebrows straighten as he tilts his head and gives you a deadpan look. “IF you really are serious about this, there’s a couple of non-profit shelters that you can go to too. And I’ve been hearing that a lot of people are putting their hybrids up for adoption to get new ones. Go to one of the shelters and save money by adopting a hybrid. It’s going to be better considering you’ve never had a hybrid before and the hybrids at the shelters won’t need as much adjusting to having an owner.”

It was true. The adoption centers that typically ran for profit offered hybrids that were fresh out of training school and had never had an owner before. There were even a few places that had hybrids under 18 for adoption for those that weren’t able to conceive and wanted to raise a child.

You nod, “Gotcha,’”.

You beam at Hoshi, “Next time you see me, I’m going to be a hybrid owner.”

“I’m already praying for the hybrid.”

You slightly glance at the GPS mounted to the dashboard of your car as it gives you the next direction. You still had put in the address from the place Vernon recommended but as you pulled up to the red light, Hoshi’s advice mulled about in your head. You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel before curling them around the wheel and squeezing. You stared at the GPS screen, gnawing on your bottom lip.

You jump as the person behind you lays on their horn, tearing you away from your inner thoughts. The light has turned green and the lane beside you has already cleared so you press on the gas. There’s a small gas station that you pull into. You ignore your GPS repeatedly telling you to make a U-turn as you search for the nearest adoption center and upon finding one, you input the new address into the GPS and begin driving again.

From first glance you can tell this place doesn’t have much funding. The parking lot is all gravel and the grass away from the actual building is overgrown and has been left to its own devices. In the lot, the large adoption building stands alone with its dull paint, broken concrete sidewalk, and faded wooden pillars, making it look lonely. There are only a few other cars parked alongside you, most likely the employees.

The receptionist looks as though this is the last place when you walk into the building. There’s a man in a stained, muscle shirt waiting in the seated area. His stomach slightly pouches and the skin visible shows the sun and age has not been favorable to him.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist has noticed your presence and addresses you.

You give a polite smile and step up to the desk. “Hi. I’m looking to adopt.”

The receptionist clicks on their computer, “Do you have an appointment?”

“Oh! Uh- No, I don’t.” You try to sound positive though you’re sure the dismay sneaks into your voice.

“Okay, that’s fine. Go have a seat and someone will be out shortly,” they say all without taking their eyes off of the computer screen.

You twist your upper body to look at the seats where the man is. The building itself is huge, but most of the space must be dedicated to housing the hybrids because there are only at most ten chairs bunched together.

The sound from your heels on the linoleum floor draws the man’s attention to you and you ignore the way his eyes scan over you. You nearly bolt out of the door to go to upscale hybrid adoption center like you originally planned, but the corkboard on the wall with pictures of hybrids smiling with their owners as they’re freshly adopted catches your eye and you hesitantly sit.

The man sighs and shifts in his seat. “How much longer are they going to be?” he loudly calls out to the receptionist.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Bastards took my damn hybrid and I’m trying to get him back.”

You peek up from your phone to see that the man is talking to you. Your cheeks blush and you shuffle back in the chair and cross your right leg over the left. “I’m sorry.”

He rubs his hand over his face, “Yeah, been waiting for a little over an hour and they still have yet to bring him out.”

It’s twenty minutes before anyone comes into the waiting room. At the door opening, both you and the man looked over to see two guards escorting a hybrid out. The man stands and speedily walks over to them. The hybrid flinches in the guards' hold but says nothing as the man throws his arms over his shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

You’re too distracted to see the woman standing by your chair at first. When you finally so take notice of her, she gives you a kind smile and holds out a hand for you to shake.

“Hello. You’re here to adopt?”

You nod.

“Fantastic! If you just follow me to the back, I’m going to ask you a few questions and have you fill out some paperwork and then I can show you some hybrids.”

You gather your jacket and bag from the chair next to the one you were sitting in and follow behind her.

Nervous energy bubbles in your chest as you hear the chatter from the hybrids growing louder as the woman leads you into the housing section of the center. The rooms are set up in rows, similar to a prison where you can look into the rooms through the glass windows in the door. As you glance in the rooms, you mainly see the hybrids laying in their bed, finding ways to busy themselves. You stop when you reach a portion that opens up to accommodate lunchroom style tables and two food serving stations and sit at one of the tables, the metal cool beneath your legs.

“So, most of the hybrids we have here are older but we do have a few in your age range.” The woman shuffles through a pile of paper shes brought with her. “Is gender something important to you?”

“Um, no.”

“Oh that's good!” the woman seems relieved. “I will go get the first hybrid for you.”

You watch her walk off, left alone at the table with the papers. Part of you is curious to see what is written on them but you know it’s not your place to creep. Instead, you get up from the bench and walk to one side of the room to glance into the bunks. There are a few that are empty and as you walk down the line, the hybrids in the room, at most, glance at you passively before returning to their book or falling back asleep. All but one.

His hair is pitch black and it weren’t for his tail, you would be questioning if he was even a hybrid because his ears blend in with the rest of his hair. You can tell his hair is knotted and the plain clothes on him are baggy and loose. As you look in, he turns in his bed from having his knees to hugged into his chest to having one hanging off and the other tucked under him. The breath is knocked from you when you see how beautiful he is; a button nose paired with plush lips, round cheeks, and almond eyes.

His head tilts as he observes you back and he carefully steps from the bed and walks to the window. Your heart starts racing when his face comes directly in front of the window so the only thing separating you is the smudged glass. His eyes widen and he brings a hand up to the window, pressing his palm into it and you see his ears perk up.

“Y/N?”

You’re head snaps in the direction from which you’re called and you lower your hand. The woman’s returned and standing next to her is a hybrid. The hybrid’s hair is as dark as the hybrid’s you were just looking at, though this one’s ears stand straight from his head and have a slight point rather than drooping flat. You can also see the hybrid’s long tail behind him as he keeps his head down. You look back when there’s a whimper from the hybrid in the room you’re walking away from and when you look back at the hybrid being presented to you, he’s looking directly at you.

“This is Min Yoongi. He is a Siamese, twenty-six, and he’s had three previous owners. He IS older than you but I believe he should be a good fit for your particular lifestyle.”

You watched Yoongi the entire time the woman was speaking and couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw clenched at the mention of his previous owners. His tail was also rapidly swishing back and forth, slow enough for you to catch a glimpse of a bald patch on the underside.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you politely smile at Yoongi. His eyes are transfixed on yours and despite his wide pupils showing his excitement, he keeps a scowl on his face.

“His name is Jimin.” Yoongi carefully watches as your brows furrow in confusion. “The hybrid you were talking to, his name is Park Jimin.”

“Min Yoongi, that’s enough,” the woman interjects through gritted teeth.

“If you’re going to adopt a hybrid, adopt him, or Jungkook or Taehyung. Not me,” Yoongi says with complete conviction and at the mention of Jimin, you look over your shoulder at the door to said hybrid’s bunk. Now that you listen closely, you can hear a quiet whimpering coming from his direction.

“Min Yoongi!” The woman explosively reaches out and yanks on Yoongi’s ear. He loudly yelps and scurries on the bench away from her and the whimpering from the door becomes louder as Jimin begins kicking the door.

“Hey!” You’re half standing in the bench now, leaning your body over the table as you try to put your arm in front of Yoongi as protection.

Footsteps indicate that a few guards are approaching and one has taken to banging on Jimin’s door with a baton as a warning. Yoongi’s eyes are focused behind you on Jimin’s door but as two guards grow closer to you, his lips pull up in a snarl, ears completely flat against his head and the hair on his tail standing straight up.

“Stay away from them,” Yoongi hisses.

And they do. The guards instead walk around the table and roughly grab each of Yoongi’s arms and hoist him up before beginning to drag him off. You lock eyes with Yoongi as he looks back at you, getting further away but you’re too in shock to interject and a few moments after he’s gone from sight, you hear the slamming of a door.

The woman clears her throat, “I apologize for him. I thought he had learned that he should never try to sway potential owners but it seems I was wrong. He’s usually not aggressive and we will make sure he never behaves in that manner again.”

You just now look at her.

She smooths her clothes as though she was the one dragged off. “Now, I have another hybrid I can show you and I can assure you that he will be far more pleasant-”

“I want to see Jungkook and Taehyung,” you cut her off with a steely gaze.

Her lips thin and her nostrils flare. “Jungkook and Taehyung are both unavailable due to some misconduct, but we do have some other lovely hybrids. If you are interested in adopting in pairs, I can show you our predator hybrids, Seokjin, and Namjoon who are both mature and would also be a good fit for your home.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you contemplate your next move. Yoongi seemed so concerned about the two hybrids but the woman is most likely not going to give in and allow you to see them, and she’s the only one here that can ensure you don’t walk out of here alone. One last glance at Jimin’s door to see him shyly looking through the window quells any doubts you have that make you want to leave. If you were able to help one hybrid leave this place, then you felt that was worth it, and so you nod.

There are far more guards in the section that the predator hybrids are housed in. There are also bars on the windows of their doors and instead of the conversations you overheard in the last place, it’s deadly silent.

The woman gestures to the guards standing by the door and the one by the handle pounds on the door twice with his fist before opening it. One hybrid is sitting at a small desk with a book in his hands and the other is standing behind him and turns from the window looking outside to you as you walk in. Both of the hybrids ears perk up as their eyes scan over you.

As soon as you fully step into the room, there’s a series of clicks and grunts coming from the older looking hybrid with the round ears and stubbed tail. He lowers his head and steps away from you before completely lowering himself to the ground. Your eyes are on him so you don’t see the other hybrid until he bumps his body into yours, sending you stumbling and he follows to nuzzle his nose into your neck. A bright red colors your cheeks and your heart leaps into your throat.

“It seems they’ve both taken a liking to you.” The woman’s tone somehow sounds sarcastic. “The wolf hybrid is Namjoon,” she flicks her hand at the hybrid now whining into your neck, “and the bear is Seokjin.”

Namjoon becomes lost in his own ministrations and grabs your waist to pull you closer causing you to gasp in shock and the for the guards to come into the room. At the sight of them, Jin begins huffing and stands, puffing out his chest to seem bigger.

“Why don’t we go look at some other hybrids?”

Jin makes a deep noise in the back of his throat that sounds similar to a growl when the guards step forward and pry Namjoon from you. Namjoon bares his teeth at them and his ears lower back but he remains compliant. Both of their eyes are pleading as you follow the woman back out of the room and you find yourself feeling guilty for walking away from another hybrid.

The next room is right next door to Namjoon’s and Jin’s, though there’s only one person occupying the space.

The orange haired hybrid doesn’t look up when you enter the room, focusing on folding the white clothes perfectly. His room is the cleanest you’ve seen so far, both of the beds are made and the sheets are straightened so there are no wrinkles and the pillows are fluffed, his tennis sneakers are tucked neatly next to his desk which has a neat stack of papers on top, pencils lying to the side.

“This is our red fox hybrid, Hoseok. He would normally have a roommate, but we had to let the other hybrid go, unfortunately.”

Hoseok lifts his head at the woman talking and his whole body stiffens. His hands pause folding mid-air as he assesses the situation with a cautious demeanor. He’s intimidating, even when his face breaks out into a grin and he bounces over to you.

His large hands cup yours and bring them up between your bodies. “Are you here to adopt?!” Hoseok’s eyes light up as he excitedly asks you the question. His personality is infectious so you find that despite the way your heart pounds in your chest, you’re smiling along with him.

“I am.”

If it’s even possible, Hoseok’s smile grows larger. The glow of his skin and the whiteness of his teeth are almost blinding.

Hoseok brings your hand up to his face and leaves a few gentle nips on the inside of your wrist. “You’ve already met Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon.” You feel his lips curl upwards on the delicate skin of your wrist. “If you don’t adopt me, I hope you adopt one of them,” he stares into your eyes with a soft intensity.

You swallow heavily and you pray that he doesn’t feel your hands becoming clammy. You faintly hear the woman call out Hoseok’s name in warning but both of you ignore her as you keep your eyes locked. And at long last, you exhale a shaky breath and gently remove your wrist from Hoseok’s hand and look away. Your cheeks feel warm so you’re sure he can tell the effect he has on you.

“Hoseok has had three previous owners. The last was actually an instructor at a well-known dance academy, so he is technically trained if you’re looking for a hybrid that’s able to provide entertainment for yourself or any guests you may have.”

The woman gives you the rundown of Hoseok’s past like she’s done with every hybrid you’ve seen. Namjoon and Jin have both only had one owner and were put up for adoption because they were getting too old. You’ve spent nearly four hours listening to her speak about different hybrids and following her from room to room, and though your heart goes to all of the hybrids you’ve seen, only Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon, Jin, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook stay on your mind, even though you haven’t met the former two.

You stare at the single adoption form in front of you pinned to the clipboard in your lap, pen in your hand. The main lobby is empty and there’s a different receptionist than the one from when you arrived. The setting sun casts the chairs in a golden hue. Most of the form is filled out though your pen hovers above the line asking for the name of the hybrid.

You rest the pen in your fingers and look up from the paper, eyebrows upturned and you continuously glance over at the receptionist working before you make your decision and walk over to them.

“Hi! All set?” the receptionist pleasantly asks.

“Uh-” you place your elbow onto the tall desk and gingerly scratch the bridge of your nose, “No actually. Is there a way I can get six more adoption forms?”

A single person is legally allowed to own up to twelve hybrids at a time.

The receptionist's eyes widen. “Umm, I’m...not...sure,” they answer uncertain, “Let me go talk to my boss and I’ll get back to you, okay?”

“There’s no need to do that,” you muster up a smile to seem convincing, “We already talked about it and said it would be alright.”

The receptionist hesitantly sits back down, looking warily at you and for a second, you think that they’re able to see through your bluff but luck is on your side because they spin to the filing cabinet and pull out extra adoption papers to your request. You quietly thank them and rush back to your chair to fill them out.

The sun had completely set by the time the receptionist puts all of the paperwork you filled out through the system and now you wait impatiently for your hybrids to be escorted to you. Your leg bounces nervously and your eyes never once leave the door. You hold your breath when the door clicks as it’s opened.

Jimin is the first to walk through the door, his tail wagging fast behind him and he slips from the guards escorting him and jogs over to you. His cheeks swell with the smile he has on his face. He hugs your entire arm to his chest and rests his cheek on your shoulder.

The others were in single file behind him, starting with Yoongi and then a hybrid with pure blonde hair, Jin, Namjoon, Hoseok, and finally a bunny hybrid with large ears and hazelnut brown hair. What baffles you is the handcuffs around the wrists of the bunny hybrid. You curiously watch as one of the guards removes the cuffs and the hybrid rubs his wrist and rolls them to crack them. There’s a faint brush of pink upon his cheekbones and his ears twitch when he looks at you and he shuffles so he’s half hiding behind Hoseok.

Yoongi’s looking at you in shock and you find him completely adorable with the way his eyes are big and vulnerable and how his lips form a pout. Namjoon’s tail is wagging behind him yet his face is neutral and Jin steps beside him, lips pressed together to contain his smile. The blonde hybrid that you’re not sure is Taehyung or Jungkook, has a scowl on his face but one ear is raised in interest.

“Ready to go to your new home?” You try to not let your nerves seep through your voice. Jimin’s tail thumps on the back of your leg.

“Did you really adopt all of us?” Yoongi is scared and hopeful all at once. You’re standing in front of him, one of his loves latched to your side and your sweet scent faintly mixes with Jimin’s and Namjoon’s before meeting his nose. He can tell the others are just as affected as him because he’s only ever seen them react the same when they met each other upon first arriving in the shelter.

“If that’s alright with you?”

You’re terrified. You have no idea if they will get along; if they even know each other. As your heart starts racing and your throat closes up, Taehyung bounds over to you at Jimin whining, a similar noise being vocalized.

Taehyung has his ears lowered and tail tucked in submission in front of you, peeking up at you with big eyes. You want to feel the locks on his head despite the tangles and flecks of dirt, the wavier hair that covers his ears. You’re not given a choice because Taehyung nudges his head into your stomach and your hand reflexively comes up to Taehyung’s head as one foot goes back to catch you.

“Please take me home.”

Tags: @detectivebourbon @omgsuperstarg

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nukyster-blog · 5 years ago

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Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me.

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down.

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable.

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation.

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice.

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees.

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation.

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded.

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable.

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached.

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried.

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men.

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe.

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror.

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian?

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore.

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later.

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face.

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet.

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him.

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away.

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat.

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him.

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly.

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back.

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole.

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull.

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth.

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing.

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it.

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now.

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him.

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all.

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is.

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby.

Xoxox Nukyster

#ivar fanfic #ivar the boneless #viking fanfic #ivar as a slave #karma

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iris-ymir · 4 years ago

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The Torment of L’zetta - Part 5 : I love you, L’zetta Medrawt...

The cool winter months were slowly breaking towards spring in the North Shroud, where the Carnival of Broken Dreams had set it’s campsite. And with the coming spring also came L’zetta Medrawt’s coming of age. The little girl playing alone by the stream had bloomed during the years, and grown up into a stunningly beautiful young miqo’te woman, with olive skin and long, black hair, tied onto a thick braid. Celebrating namedays had never been much of a thing in Lizzy’s life. It had always been just L’zily making some food, and the two of them eating alone in candlelight, listening to music. This year was different though, as L’zily had invited Rougan to eat dinner with them. Lizzy knew her mother had been growing closer to the current leader of the carnival, and Lizzy’s tormentor. She had tried her best to tell L’zily about the things Rougan had done, but the man kept whispering sweet lies into the woman's ear, making all Lizzy’s words empty. It felt almost like Rougan had brainwashed the woman, which wouldn’t be a surprise, with the inner circle around the man starting to resemble more of a cult than a family of carnies. When L’zily told Liz who they would have the honor of eatingdinner with today, Liz had pulled on her boots and walked out of the tent, without sacrificing a word to her mother. They had had this conversation before, and Liz already knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. She would spend her nameday with Adamgar instead. L’zily did not exactly like the idea of her young daughter spending so much time with a man 15 years older than her, but Lizzy did not care. What was she so worried about? After the day he took care of Lizzy’s burn, Adam had been nothing but kind and caring towards her. Adamgar was waiting for L’zetta by the trees outside of the camp, raising his hand in greeting as soon as he saw the girl, walking out from the circle of colorful tents. “...Why is my beautiful Lizzer in such a hurry? Where’s the fire?”, the man asked, as L’zetta walked up to him, taking support from a tree trunk, to calm her wildly beating heart. “...M-Mom, she...”, Liz took a deep breath. “...S-She had invited Rougan to eat with us... I-I cant stay there, Adam... I just... I can't... Wait, d-did you k-know about this?”, the miqo’te woman rose the gaze of her crimson pool, up to the man, who moved his gaze away, like he always did. Liz had tried to ask Adam why the man never looked her in the eyes, but the only explanation she ever got was that the man was still feeling guilty for what happened years ago. Adam let out a deep sigh, shaking his head, so his long braids rocked from side to side. “No... I had no idea. I'm sorry your special day got ruined, Lizzer. But...”, the man glanced towards the forest. “...Maybe we could still try to save some of it, what do you say? Want a piggyback ride? Lets go see, if we can find some lilies of a valley? You like lilies, right?” The man kneeled down, to let Liz climb up onto his back. but the girl shook her head. “...Am I not... a b-bit too old for a p-piggyback?”, she said, pursing her lips. “Hah... Nonsense!”, the man got up onto his feet, dusting his pants, which had gathered some dirt. “...You are never too old for a ride. And on top of that, I just can't let you run around the forest with that poor heart of yours, can I? Now stop making excuses and get here, beautiful...”, Adam stepped up to Liz, sweeping the girl off her feet, like she was still a child, and lifted her onto his shoulders, heading out into the woods. The two walked through the woods, as the sun rays peeked through the leaves, painting the forest bed with pools of light. The warm wind blew gently from the south, and Liz leaned onto the neck of her trusty steed, who had remained oddly silent for almost the whole walk. “I-Is something b-bothering you, Adam? Hm?”, Liz finally opened her mouth, leaning over the man's shoulder, and wrapping her arms tighter around his neck. She could feel the man swallowing hard, before breaking into a sigh. “I-Its nothing. Don't worry about it...”, the man muttered in a weird tone. “I have just... I have wanted to ask something of you, Lizzer... Don't laugh at me, okay?” The man stopped onto the edge of an opening in the middle of woods, helping Liz down. The opening was covered with tall grass and wildflowers, and somewhere in the middle of that, rippled a small stream. Two dragonflies danced in the air, riding on the currents. Adam placed his huge hand on Liz’s shoulder, and to Liz’s surprise, for the first time, looked her into eyes. There was a weird glimmer in man’s eyes, and something in it, made Liz feel uneasy. “Liz... I...”, the hrothgar grunted, clearing his throat. “Yes? You what..? Talk so we can all hear it old boy?” L’zetta gasped, and turned around swiftly, as she heard a familiar voice from behind her, only to see Tristan, walking out of the woods. In his footsteps, followed a couple of young lads, who had joined the Carnival a couple of years back, and had rather quickly climbed their way into Rougan’s inner circle. A million thoughts crossed L’zetta’s mind, but on top of everything was panic. Normally, she would have counted on Adam in these kinds of situations, but the weird glimmer in man’s eyes had left a seamy feeling lingering in her guts. Liz turned around, and sprinted towards the woods, but she had never been much of a runner, and it did not take long until someone gripped her from the back of her dress. “Hey, hey, hey... Where such a hurry, Deadeye? We haven’t given you your present yet! You only bloom into maturity once, you know?”, Tristan croaked, while dragging Lizzy back to the opening, and throwing the woman onto the ground. The two men, who had followed him, stepped up with ropes, and tied the kicking and screaming miqo’te’s hands, holding her down.

“I... I did not want this... I did not ask for this...Please, believe me, Lizzer..”, Adam maundered, now sitting under the tree, and rubbing his seemingly bulging crotch. Tristan threw a rope over a stern-looking branch, reaching out, towards the opening, and jerked the rope hard. As he had made sure the branch was hardy enough, he proceeded to tie the end of the rope onto a noose. Lizzy’s scream was cut, as one of the men ripped off a piece of her dress, rolled it in his hands, and forced it into the miqo’te’s mouth, and taped it shut. The men made sure the ropes were firm and tight, before lifting the helpless miqo’te woman off the ground. They walked under the tree branch, and Tristan slipped the noose around L’zetta’s neck, while Adamgar got onto his feet, and slowly walked up, standing behind Liz. L’zetta could feel as the man rolled up her dress, and proceeded to rip apart her panties, letting them float down into the grass. A blind horror washed over Lizzy, and she tried to worm herself free, only to soon come to realize, fighting was useless, and only managed to hurt herself. She could hear the hrothgar, spitting onto his hand, and feel the man’s fingers, as he rubbed the saliva onto her crotch. Spreading Lizzy’s thighs, the man stepped closer, and after a couple of failed attempts, forced himself into the girl, with a low grunt. At the same time, Tristan pulled on the rope, and the noose around Lizzy’s neck tightened. The miqo’te man walked up to the girl, holding the rope tight, and tilted his head, to look Liz in her eyes. “Do you see your father now, Deadeye? Can you see your daddy..?” The tears ran free from Lizzy’s eyes, and the piece of cloth and tape couldn’t fully muffle out her animalistic screams, as the huge man behind her kept thrusting himself in again and again. Lizzy felt like she would soon tear apart. Somewhere deep inside, she realized how she almost wished for it. Anything, to put an end to this nightmare. Warm blood ran down her thighs in crimson rivulets. “T-Tighter... Tristan? Little tighter...”, the hrothgar panted, and Tristan proceeded to pull the rope, making the noose dig deeper into Lizzy’s neck. She couldn’t breathe. The world around started to roll like a twisted merry-go-round. “Ohhh, fuck yes... Damn... I... I love you! I love you, L’zetta Medrawt!”, Adamgar’s booming voice rang in Lizzy’s ears, as her vision started to grow foggy... turn black. Love? If this was love... there was nothing beautiful in it. Love hurts. It hurts so bad, you want to die. Never trust a man... All men are animals... ...Never fall in love. < Part 4 : Lizzy and Adamgar

Epilogue >

#the corpse weaver; Liz Morgue #the torment of L'zetta #storytime!#my writing #tw; abuse #tw; rape #tw; misandria

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thenightgazer · 5 years ago

Text

A Dead Body Revenges No Injuries

It should’ve been another good time for Vergil and Lyra to read some books at The Literarium, but one of the guests is suddenly dead. The devil and the librarian must team up to find the truth, since the dead can’t tell tales and its body can’t revenge the injustice.

“He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.”

-Sigmund Freud

Someone’s dead, and it wasn’t Vergil’s fault.

It’s Spring. It should’ve been the season of rebirth. It should’ve been a divine moment to be cherished, when the embroidery of colourful plants and calming breeze comes to life again. Everything blooms after enduring from winter for so long. A new beginning has come.

It was meant to be beautiful.

Everyone who strives after gain in the perishable world will necessarily come to regret it, at the time of separation and the moment of non-being.

The line from The Epistle of Forgiveness sums everything he had gained from his pursuit of power and it craved agonizingly in his heart. Weeks after learning and contemplating about what it means to forgive himself, Vergil finished his reading of the eschatological literature book and now it’s safely stored in his private bookshelf at his bedroom. It relieves him how easy to let go of his nightmares and it gives him a better sleep without the fear of any illusion anymore.

I’m intrigued by what a book and a little of miracle can do to a sinner like me.

It’s hard for him to think about book and miracle without thinking about Lyra.

Like a carousel, the thought about the witty librarian spins around Vergil’s head and that annoy him in the most unique way. He should’ve hate it, for that makes him oftenly distracted. If his head was a mind palace, Lyra would be the random variable that always pop out from nowhere in every thought that Vergil tried to focus on.

Yet he chooses to be here now—sitting on his usual corner at The Literarium and reading Lyra’s another recommendation; Beowulf. That remind him of the demon he once fought years ago with the same name. Such a disgrace for this masterpiece became the name of a filthy demon, he thinks. Beowulf was on Vergil’s reading list since he was a boy, but he never had a chance to fulfill his list until now. There’s a gleeful sensation everytime he reads the passages, feeling his inner child deep down inside him exclaiming in victory.

The hybrid glances at the woman who sits across him. Vergil has recommended Lyra to read The Turn of The Screw, since she’s fond of horror and mystery. He marginally surprises that there’s still people who hasn’t read this illustrious work of Henry James, even the bookish Lyra. The librarian’s eyes scan through the page seriously, examining every words. She has been quiet since 20 minutes ago without moving or even glancing at anything.

This view isn’t too bad, Vergil quietly grins.

He turns his focus back at his reading.

Beowulf is the oldest and longest epic poem with more 3000 lines long, written by an anonymous in Old English. Nobody knows for certain when the poem was first composed, but some scholars have suggested that the manuscript was made in the early 11th century, which makes the manuscript approximately 1000 years old. It exploits the tale of Beowulf and his battles with a monster and a dragon which was guarding a hoard of treasure. Basically a poem of hero who seeks for glory, Lyra said to him. That confuses him since Vergil doesn’t want to seek any glory at all, yet the librarian picked the book for him.

“I once defeated a demon named Beowulf,” Vergil says. “It was too easy.”

Lyra nods slowly without breaking her gaze from the book, “When?”

“Years ago, when I raised Temen-ni-gru. It was one of the demons that guarded the tower.”

“Uh-uh…” Lyra nods again. “Was the demon… look heroic like the fictional Beowulf?”

“Not at all. Too noisy. But I acquired a strong Devil Arm from its corpse. It wasn’t in my possession again since I jumped to Underworld.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Lyra mutters, “Oh, sad.”

Vergil holds himself to not rip off the book that steal the focus of his dear friend by bringing his cup to the receptionist table to refill his coffee. Since the end of winter, Mr Steiner gave a new instruction for the guest to refill their own cup at the receptionist table. We don’t want to intrude the guests when they read. Privacy matters, Lyra said. Though Vergil can’t comprehend why Mr Steiner didn’t give that policy since the first time he decided to serve free coffee. He nods to Nate, who gives him a friendly wave behind the table as he speaks on his phone. Vergil doesn’t have many interactions with him, but he tolerates Nate’s existence since the young man never get Vergil on his nerves.

When Vergil turns his back after get his refill, he almost bumps to two women who just entered the library.

“Sorry!” a woman in floral dress cheerfully apologises to him without giving Vergil a chance to reply. The other one who wears white dress and looks fragile smiles at him as an apology. They immediately join a blonde woman who sits at the Fiction reading section. They greet and hug each other like old friends, then starts chattering. The hybrid rolls his eyes at that sight and continue to walks to his corner, only to find that Lyra still fixates on her book.

I’m literally going to rip off that damn book.

“These people…” she murmurs suddenly.

“?”

“… are idiot.”

What?

“Why do they always following and calling the ghost around?” Lyra complains. “Like, I don’t get why people shout ‘Hello?’ everytime they see something.”

“Curiousity can be infuriating sometimes.” Vergil silently grins while opening the pages Beowulf again. He peeks over his book to see Lyra’s reaction—she glares at him like she realizes Vergil is being sarcastic to her own habit of curiousity.

They continue to read in peace. The doorbell rings, a sign that there’s another guest entering the library. When Vergil hears giggles and babbles from the women at Fiction, he knows that the new guest is their friend. Their steps are a little bit too loud for his enhanced ears, but thankfully it’s soon over as the women go to take their seats and lower their voices.

Once again, all is well, at least for the next five minutes.

Because now Vergil catches coughing sound from the Fiction section.

The sound is getting worse until Vergil has to look up to see who interferes his seclusion. It’s the same floral-dressed woman who apologised to him earlier. The woman excuses herself to the toilet. Even with Vergil’s enhanced senses, he can hear the cough turns into vomit.

“You might want to ask your customer if she’s alright,” Vergil grumbles.

Lyra put down her book and glances at the toilet, “I should never let Nate to brew the coffee again.”

She leaves her chair as the woman comes out from the toilet, still coughing. Her breath is rougher as she grabs her chest hard, like she’s suffocating.

“Clarissa? What happened?” the blonde woman approaches her and tries to lead her back to her seat.

“I’ll get water.” Lyra hurries herself to the office after exchanging words with Nate to look after the woman, Clarissa.

“Is she alright?” Nate asks panicly after spotting rashes on Clarissa’s skin.

“Of course she’s not!”

“Did she eat something weird before she came here?”

“Do I look like I know?!”

But Clarissa never make it to her seat. She collapses.

The scream gets louder as Vergil immediately stands up to approach the crowd. The woman’s friends are too scared to even touch their poor friend. Clarissa’s face turns blue as her body convules greatly.

Cardiac arrest?

There’s a sound of broken cup. “Clarissa!!”

Before everyone could even make any movement, the tremble stops. The woman’s eyes dilate before it stops moving again.

Vergil can sense the life is leaving her body.

“OH GOD WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

“Someone help her please!”

“Call the cop! Now!”

Police?

But Vergil’s suspicion elapses as he spots Lyra.

In the middle of the tragedy, tears, screams and panic, he watches Lyra who’s standing not too far from the crowd. She brings a glass of water on her right hand, yet something’s off.

The hybrid’s direct experience with human emotions might not quite much, but he knows something about human emotion in hysteria. These people are in panic situation, they’re all consume with sadness and can’t even think clearly. All those emotions can affect human’s body. Panic can cause tremor to their body. Sadness can cause their tears stream down on their faces. Disgust and disbelief can make them feel nauseous.

But the librarian stands still. The hysteria affects nothing to her. The water in the glass doesn’t move, not in the slightest.

For a human, her calmness on this situation is… disturbing.

Vergil tries to deny the chill in his spine when he brushes off Lyra’s emotionless reaction from his head.

The ambulance and police are already in the library. Nate flips the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Close’. The library is supposed to be a peaceful palace, but today it turns to be a nightmare for him. He has been a librarian in The Literarium for years, but he never imagined that someday he’ll see a guest die in front of him. This is shocking, of course. They’re already send Clarissa’s corpse to the morgue to be examined. Polices are busy doing investigation and asking witnesses. This fuss makes Nate almost having a nervous breakdown.

“Hey, Lyra,” he calls Lyra who’s standing beside him. “What did the cop ask you?”

She shrugs, “Standard things like where was I when it happened, how was the victim’s state before she collapsed.”

“They asked me the same thing. Man, I feel like we’re in some kinda crime movies.”

“Ah, they also asked me who made the coffee.”

“What?”

“I said it was you. Didn’t they ask you about the coffee?”

“Not a word! God, they’ll suspect me!”

“Relax, Nate. We drank from the same coffee pot and we’re alive. If there’s someone to blame, it must be her friends.”

Nate lets out a relief sigh, “You’re right. Anyway, is it okay with your friend? He looks like he will kill the cop who interrogates him.”

“To be fair, he always look like he wants to kill someone.”

“Yeah that. To be honest, your boyfriend scares the hell out of me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No shit!”

“What?”

“Dammit Lyra! Don’t you notice the way he look at you all this time?!”

“Don’t talk out loud next to my ear, Nate. You’ll lower my IQ. And no, we’re friends. He already has a son.”

“So what? Did he tell you he has a wife?”

“… as far as I can remember, no.”

“Then you are more than legal to be his girlfriend!”

Lyra gives him a disbelief look, “Shame on you, Nathaniel Steiner. Your father took a long holiday and entrusted you this library, yet you’re gossiping in the middle of someone’s death!”

“So what?! Honestly, I have a good feeling about this. Imagine this case spread to the whole city, it will attract more guests to come! And don’t try to change the subject!”

It’s no use for Lyra to reply Nate’s babble. She rolls her eyes in boredom, leaning herself on the wall. A smile curve on her lips when she sees Vergil’s interrogation is done as the hybrid approaches her. She can tell he’s in his cranky mood—the crease on his forehead crumples and he looks like he’s ready to use his sword anytime to stab anyone.

“Bad day, isn’t it?” Lyra greets him.

“You bet it is.”

“Did you tell them that you’re a devil hunter?” Lyra whispers after Nate excuses himself and gives Lyra a mischievous wink.

“Of course not,” the half-devil grunts. “I told them that I’m a delivery man. That’s the safest fake occupation for mercenaries, since any higher and crucial occupation requires too much further identification.”

Lyra bursts in laugh, “I pity that police. He seems scared to even look at you.”

“That I didn’t beheaded him should tell my effort to spare his life.”

“Well… that’d be more corpse to clean.”

Vergil has to admit that he’s confused with Lyra’s drastic mannerism. The woman who stands beside him is the Lyra he knows all this time, unlike the woman who stood still with soulless face an hour ago. Was she just shock to see a corpse in front of her? But she looks calm and even unbothered with the fact that there’s someone died in the library. Since Vergil is a hybrid, he can easily sense people or demon’s anatomy and micro expression better than normal human. It almost impossible to fool him. Yet with Lyra, it’s useless.

From the tail of his eyes, he quietly observes her saying something about the polices and the women.

“They’re weird,” she comments. “What’s the use of calling police? Shouldn’t they call ambulance first instead?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Really? But seriously, I was going to call ambulance before she shouted. I think it’s the first thing to do if you find someone who suddenly collapse.”

“Unless it wasn’t an accident.”

“… could it be murder?”

“Probably.”

Vergil can use his supersenses and his prodigious knowledges to find the perpetrator, but he’s not in the position to easily do the investigation. He’s son of Sparda, older twin brother of Dante the infamous Legendary Devil Hunter. Any reckless movement can reveal Vergil’s true identity. While Dante is proud of his reputation all over the world, Vergil doesn’t share the same excitement. He prefers to keep on low profile, invisible from public. Clearly, going to and fro to investigate won’t be his best choice at the moment.

“You could just go, you know, the moment they called police,” Lyra says. “You said you don’t want anyone knows that you’re a son of… that war hero.”

“And that I am.”

“Why are you still here then?”

“Can’t let a friend facing adversity on her own.”

“All I need to do is just cooperating and let the police do the hard work. It isn’t really an adversity.”

“Call it what you want. I know you’re aware of the anomality in this case.”

Lyra giggles, “You got me there.”

The hybrid sighs and cross his hands on the chest, “From what I can sense through those women, I have my own hunch.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I think one of them has something to do with Clarissa Watson’s death. All of them are anxious and terrified, but their behaviors are unusual, like they keep something from the police.”

Lyra watches the three women; The blonde woman is the one who shouted to call the police. Her face shows a great grief, but surprisingly her behavior is unnaturally calm. While the woman in white dress is constantly crying since Clarissa’s death. The last woman, who has red hair and looks older than the other women, is the one who seemingly the most normal between them. She cries, but still manages to calming the other two women.

“Miss Martha Ventham,” Lyra points the blonde woman. “Mrs Holly Smith,” her fingers points the red-haired woman who Vergil assumes is the one who comes late, because he hasn’t seen that woman before. Then Lyra turns her finger to the woman in white dress. “And that’s Miss Elena Roberts.”

“How did you know their names?”

“I’m a librarian, Vergil. I have records of everyone who visited this library.”

“Or maybe you were eavesdropping when they were interrogated.”

Vergil doesn’t even have to look at Lyra’s mischievous smirk to see that his words are all true. “Typical.”

“Tell me Vergil, can hybrids die because of poison?”

“No. Our bodies have demonic immune to any kind of viruses, bacterias, and poisons. In a huge amount, we can still get hurt by the pathogen and poison, but it won’t critically damage us. We would heal eventually.”

“So… hypothetically speaking, poison won’t have effect on you.”

“True. But I presume your insane idea of having me drink Clarissa Watson’s coffee to make sure whether it’s poisoned or not isn’t really hypothetical for you, am I right?”

“I… haven’t even say a word—but yes! It takes time for the police to decide whether this is accident or murder. Look, they haven’t sent the forensic team.”

“… you’re right. It’ll take too much time to wait for the forensic team, if this is really a murder.”

“So, let’s split up, shall we? You go collect some evidences. Let me do the most difficult part.”

“Which is?”

Lyra glances at the group of grieving women. “Socializing, of course.”

It’s quite hard to tip toe and get away from the sight of the police, but Vergil has a practical idea. He leans his back on the wall, pretending to be bored, while quietly sends his doppelganger to investigate the crime scene. He measures his energy to make the doppelganger as transparent as possible to be unnoticed. With this, he doesn’t have to be directly hanging around the crime scene and catching any attentions.

From his doppelganger, he can see the Fiction section is already empty from officers, but they keep the place as it is for now to be further examined by the forensic team. Vergil’s doppelganger passes through the police line and spots three cups of coffee on the table, along with four books beside each coffees. One cup is shattered under the table, leaving stains of the coffee on the floor. He remembers the woman in the white dress, Elena Roberts, dropped the cup out of shock. That remind him of Elena’s dramatic behavior—she can’t stop crying and sobbing to the point Vergil finds it unusual. It looks like she’s very close with Clarissa, since she takes Clarissa’s death like the end of the world.

His focus turns to the cups on the round table with four chairs. Vergil remembers their seat positions. Clarissa was sitting between Elena and Martha Ventham. That makes it almost impossible for Holly Smith to do anything suspicious, since her seat was right in front of Clarissa’s. But that doesn’t mean she’s free from suspicion. She was the latest person to join the group. The doppelganger shadowy fingers touch the books on the table; Pride and Prejudice on Holly’s side, The Language and Poetry of Flowers on Clarissa’s, The Great Gatsby on Elena’s, and I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings on Martha’s. There are no sign of unusal things from the books. No dust, no stain or anything, but it’s important for Vergil to take notes at everything because it can be useful.

Now the coffee. Aside from the broken cup, the other cups are all half-emptied. Poison might have no effect on him, but he has a profound knowledge of toxicology and can recognize it if there’s any poison in the cups. He examines the cups, even the broken one, but find nothing unusual. If there’s poison inside the coffee, even the doppelganger can smell it.

But why did Martha Ventham insisted to call the police?

Thinking the crime scene is clear, Vergil almost send off the doppelganger to spy the police before he catches Nate stares at the doppelganger dreadly. His eyes and mouth are wide open as if he sees a ghost. Technically, the doppelganger is a spectral created from Vergil’s demonic power. From human eyes, it could be seen as a ghost.

Poor man will never forget this haunting moment.

Nate holds his breath and fasten his steps away after the doppelganger vanishes.

Vergil grins in amusement. It’s funny to see people afraid of something they don’t understand yet.

“Clarissa was a good person. The kindest one. I’ve never thought…” Holly Smith sighs as her teary eyes meet Lyra’s. “I just can’t believe…”

“Did she have a heart problem?” Lyra asks, wrapping Holly’s hand with her own hand. “The way she collapsed, I think she—you know…”

“She had mild arrhythmia. Usually it’s not dangerous. I don’t know, she was just fine—completely fine before it happened. She still laughed with us. But then she said she had a sudden headache and nausea. I thought she would be okay after she vomited but…”

“Poor lady… did she take her medicine today?”

“I don’t know. I just saw her drinking her coffee. I know because I sat right in front of her. She usually took digoxin to stabilized her heartbeat. I guess she forgot to take her medicine or she had too much dose of it, who knows…”

“I see… that must be horrible,” Lyra mutters sympathetically. “How long have you known Miss Watson?”

“About three years. She was my wedding’s florist. She was all lovely and kind. Her customers adore her. It’s hard to dislike such a person.”

“It must be hard for you and your friends.”

“Of course… but I can’t imagine how Elena’s and Martha’s feelings… they were close with Clarissa since high school.”

Well, that’s new. “The police said you were the last one to join the group.”

“Yes, I need to check my husband first before I came here. He got lung cancer and need to be hospitalized.”

“When you arrived, did you see anything unusual from your friends?”

“Unusual…? No, no. At first I didn’t see them because I took my coffee first, then I spotted their bags and cups on the Fiction section, so I put my coffee and my bag there and searched them between the shelves. I found Clarissa and joined her to browse a book.”

Holly lowers her voice. “I have to say… I—I don’t how to put it into words… but Clarissa told me that she had an argument with Elena before they came here. She didn’t exactly tell me the details and I didn’t ask her further because they seemed to have resolved their problem. It must be hard for Elena to take this matter. I can understand why she cries like that, you know, you fought with your best friend and a minute later you found out she’s dead.”

The librarian nods. “Your voice is getting sore, Mrs Smith. I’ll get you water.”

“Thank you.”

Lyra walks to the office, quickly pour water inside three glasses. She contemplates on Holly’s words. She had arrhythmia. Could that be the main cause of the death? But arrhythmia is generally not too dangerous as long as the patient regularly takes their medicine in appropriate dose as prescribed by doctor. Perhaps she took too much of it? Or maybe one of them intentionally gave the wrong dose? Since the police hasn’t declare the result of the autopsy yet, it will be difficult to find out the true cause of Clarissa’s death.

Lyra lifts the tray and passes Vergil, giving him an understanding smile. The hybrid gives her a sly smirk in return. Lyra spots a subtle of his demonic power around the police. It seems that Vergil uses his doppelganger to eavesdrop the police. And he called me typical? That sly devil.

“Here you go, Mrs Smith.” Lyra gives Holly Smith a glass of water.

“Thank you. You’re so kind.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lyra excuses herself and approaches the other two women who sit a bit far from Holly Smith. Elena Roberts is still crying, leaning her head on Martha Ventham’s shoulder. Lyra presents the water on the table in front of them and take a seat beside Martha.

“My condolences for your loss,” Lyra says.

“Thank you,” Martha sobs. “We’re sorry for causing commotion here.”

“It’s alright.”

Elena drinks the water almost hurriedly before she sobs again. “I-I can’t b-believe—Clarissa was just fine when we were heading here—we knew this library from internet and we thought it would be nice if the four of us v-visit—“

“I know, dear, I know.” Martha pats Elena’s shoulder.

“I—I need to get out for a while. I can’t stand it—“

“Of course, Miss Roberts.” Lyra answers politely.

Martha helps her friend to stand up as she and Lyra watch her walks shakily outside the library and closes the door abruptly.

“Elena is always the most sensitive between us,” Martha explains as she wipes her teary eyes with handkerchief. “She can cry almost all the time if something touches her heart deeply.”

Lyra nods in understanding, “I can understand her feeling.”

“All of this… is just… unexpected. We were here to having fun. I came early because I was too excited to meet my friends again. Clearly I never expected to see my best friend died in front of me. She didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Did she show any kind of sickness before she collapsed?”

“No. Not at all. As I said, I came here first, then we browsed the book together. About ten minutes later, Holly joined us. Nothing happened before Clarissa suddenly coughed and… you know the rest of the story.”

“Mrs Smith told me that Miss Watson was a florist.”

“Ah, yes! She was a proficient florist. She had a flower shop at Carrington Street. She loved flowers as it was her own soul. Since our graduation from high school, she always wanted to be a florist.”

“By the way, Miss Ventham, I need your opinion, since you think there’s something wrong with this case.”

Martha’s eyes are narrowed, “What do you mean I think there’s something wrong with this?”

“You shouted to call the police. Then you must know that something’s off. Otherwise, you would call the ambulance first instead of police.”

Martha gulps as she straighten her back. It’s obvious that she knows something. She scans through the room, making sure that no one will hear them before she whispers to Lyra, “It’s personal. I can’t tell the cop because Clarissa made me promised that I won’t tell everyone. But I feel like I have to call them, see if they found something suspicious from her death.”

Lyra nods as she wraps her hand on Martha’s, giving her reassurance, “I know that promise is a sacred thing. It just… I’m afraid police will get suspicious to you, Miss Ventham. Everyone has already witnessed that you’re the one who shouted to call the police. And to be very honest, that’s a rather suspicious thing to do. The police might have come to their conclusion that you have something to do with Miss Watson’s death.”

“For the love of God, no!” Martha’s whisper sounds desperate. “I won’t ever hurt my best friend! Nonsense!”

“Then you must tell your own story about this… a small thing to help the police to finish this case, and who knows it might help you free your worries.”

Martha considers Lyra’s words seriously. She closes her face with her palms, feeling extremely drained and frustrated. She takes a deep breath and murmurs, “Clarissa said she was blackmailed.”

“Blimey!”

“A week ago, she asked me to come to her house. She sounded terrified. She told me there was a bouquet of dark crimson roses at the front door of the house. I saw the bouquet; it was so dark that it almost like black roses. You know, in the language of flowers, black rose means—“

“Death.”

Martha slowly nods, “Exactly. I was going to tell Elena and Holly, but Elena was still in grief because she recently had miscarriage and Holly’s husband is hospitalized. Besides, Clarissa made me promised to not telling this to anyone. After the day she received the bouquet, nothing happened until today. I wish… I wish I could prevent her death. This madness drives me mad to think that Holly might be the one who threatened her, because she has a garden of roses at her house and she was jealous for Clarissa’s attention to her husband when she visited him at the hospital. But Clarissa was always kind to everyone! I know it was just a blinded accusation. It just a crazy thought in crazy situation. Holly is my friend. I should’ve never pointed my finger at her.”

She wipes her eyes again, “I’m sorry. I think you’re right. I should tell the police about this. It’s no use anymore to keep it as secret. At least this is the only thing I can do to help Clarissa.”

“I hope your testimony will help to finish this case.”

“Thank you. Anyway, would you do me a favour to look after Elena while I talk to the cop? She can’t be let alone or she would making scene.”

“Sure thing, Miss Ventham.”

“Thank you so much.”

Lyra’s eyes follow Martha’s steps as she heads out from the library. She suspects the police will change their direction of the investigation after they hear Martha’s explanation. She watches Nate gives a cigarette to Elena Roberts as they smoke together.

“Nate!” Lyra greets her co-worker. “I was looking for you!”

Nate blows the smoke out from his mouth, “I need to evacuate myself outta that hellish building.”

“Why so?”

“I saw a ghost! A real ghost!”

Lyra snorts. He must’ve seen Vergil’s doppelganger. “Nate, you work with your father for almost your entire life at this library. I work here for only two years, and I never saw any ghosts.”

“Ouch, that hurts! You don’t believe me, right? Then wait for your turn to be haunted by that frigging transparent ghost.”

“You’re exhausted, Nate. Relax.” Lyra approaches Elena Roberts who says nothing since Lyra’s arrival. “Miss Roberts? Are you alright? Your friends are waiting for you.”

Elena Roberts looks weary as she lets the smoke out from her mouth. Her makeup looks messy. It must be a horrific burden for her, to had miscarriage and the death of her best friend all of sudden.

“I-I’m sorry…” she sobs. “This is too much for me…”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry… I broke the cup.” She mutters and wipe her tears. “I don’t know what to do. I saw her and—and I still can’t believe it!”

“It’s fine, Missy. A cup is replaceable.” Nate tries to cheer her up.

“I regret that I had a fight with her before we went to this library. But it was all over. We apologized and we made fun of our earlier argument. Everything came back to normal. It was all fine.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I heard from the police you had miscarriage, and now your friend…”

Nate coughes as he drops his cigarette, “—dammit! I’m so sorry, Missy. Couldn’t imagine how hard it’s all for you.”

Elena nods and gives him a weak smile, “Thank you. It was just a month ago, and now my friend died in front of me. I must be cursed!”

“I believe it just an unfortunate event.” Lyra says.

“Then why do these miserable things happened to me? They all left me—my baby, my fiancé, my best friend! She was just fine when I picked her up, even when we arrived and browsing books along with Martha before Holly joined us. Then after she drank the fucking coffee—for Christ’s sake!”

Lyra and Nate exchange a pitiful look.

Elena begins to tremble again and panicly holds Lyra’s hand. “Martha brought us our coffee because she came here first. My heart tells me it was her doing. Who knows she put something to our cups? Clarissa told me that Martha borrowed a large amount of money from her to pay Martha’s rent, but she hasn’t pay it while Clarissa needed her money to return. Yet Martha scolded her for being arrogant and heartless! I know it must be Martha! That greedy, ungrateful bit—!”

“Whoa, whoa, Missy! Calm yourself down! You’re not serious with your words, right? It’s your friend we’re talking about!” Nate cuts the accusation.

Elena starts to sob again. “Oh God… what have I done?”

Nate gives her a cigarette again to calm herself down. Lyra decides to leave them alone because it seems like she has all the necessary informations from the women. She enters the library and walks to the Rare section where Vergil is already waiting for her.

“The forensic team comes to take samples on the crime scene,” Vergil says. “Because they found out cardiac glycosides inside Clarissa Watson’s blood, and they assume it could be murder.”

“According to Mrs Smith, Miss Watson had arrhythmia. It explains why her blood contained cardiac glycoside. She took digoxin regularly.”

“That I know. But they also found a large amount of some glycosides from convallaria majalis plant inside her blood.”

“Convalla—you mean that lily of the valley flower?“

“Correct. All parts of the plant contains at least 38 known cardiac glycosides. Convallaria has been used to treat congestive heart failure and some types of arrhythmias. However, the safe amount of lily of the valley is still debatable and if ingested in uncontrolled dosages, the effects on the human heart can be catastrophic.”

“So... if combined with digoxin...”

“It will cause more irregular heartbeats and increase the side effects of those glycosides. And there’s more than that. The plant contains non-protein amino acid called Azetidine-2-carboxylic acid. It’s incredibly toxic to humans even in small doses. Misincorporation of that acid into humans proteins can alter collagen, keratin, hemoglobin, and protein folding. Basically it changes human body function on a molecular level.”

“... that’s a terrible way to die.” Lyra contemplates. “Miss Watson was a florist. She must had a bunch of lily of the valley at her shop. It could explain why there’s convallatoxin inside her blood. But I think it’s impossible for a florist to do reckless thing such as intentionally consume lily of the valley.”

“Then it leads us to one conclusion; someone intentionally poisoned her. This person knows her illness and the medication she was taking regularly. But that’s the problem. I found nothing in Watson’s cup. It’s just a coffee.”

“Oh, bugger!”

“Miss Lyra Clayton?”

Lyra looks up to see the man who calls her. It looks like the man is from the forensic team, “Yes?”

“I’d like to ask your permission to collect the coffee cups as the evidence to be examined.”

Lyra smiles politely, “Of course.”

The officer hurries himself to join his team to the crime scene.

“Clayton,” Vergil emphasizes. “All these months, you never told me your surname.”

“Is that important now?”

The hybrid shrugs, “At least you could tell me.”

He looks adorable when he’s sulking like that. “Alright then. My name is Lyra Clayton. Nice to meet you.”

“I didn’t ask you to re-introduce yourself.”

“Well, I’m just emphasizing my name to you.”

“… I prefer your first way to introduce yourself.”

“With a riddle? For real? I thought you hate riddles!”

“It just seems natural,” Vergil looks away. “I just… I don’t like the idea of not knowing you entirely.”

“…”

“Nevermind,” he blurts. “Now tell me what you find from those women.”

She tells him everything, from Clarissa’s illness to the women’s personal problems and accusations to each other. Vergil keeps silent throughout the librarian’s explanation. He almost think that maybe this was a mere accident, that maybe Clarissa Watson accidentally consumed lily of the valley. But that sounds forced and too… incidental. The timing, the place, the blackmail that Clarissa received a week ago, the mental condition of Clarissa’s friends… It just not right.

Vergil recalls his memories of the broken cup. He didn’t taste the coffee—of course it’s humiliating to lick the coffee stain on the floor. He’s not a mindless animal. Yet he believes he saw something. Not unusual, but quite noticeable and looks completely normal.

“… none of them wear red lipstick.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I think it’s normal for women to wear lipstick.”

“Sure. It’s normal. I wear it sometimes too. What is it, Vergil?”

“It just… strange.”

“Why so?”

“The broken cup. There’s a red lipstick mark on it. I remember Clarissa Watson wore red lipstick. That makes it possible to someone to switch their own cup with Watson’s cup without raising any suspicion. Each of them are not always sit still to read, sometimes they searched for a book at another section or refill their cups. And when Watson collapsed, they switched back the cups and dropped it on purpose; to erase the suspicion.”

“But the police must’ve found the poison container already when they searched their belongings.”

“… you’re right.”

“But I agree with you. They all are suspect now. But first, we need to find the container. That’s the only way to find out the true killer. They have motives. Money problem, jealousy, and the unknown argument… Their accusations towards each other are not reliable.”

“All of them had a chance to put the poison. We need to look closer to their motives and the remaining evidences.”

Vergil sighs frustratedly and turns his head to the group of women. The case shows the light at the end of the tunnel, but they haven’t reach its end. They need to find the evidence; the poison container, if it really existed. The container must be still with one of them. But what could it be? Who brought it?

“The necklace.” Lyra murmurs.

“Pardon?”

“The necklace is gone. See?”

Ah.

Foolishness, Vergil. How could you miss that?

MURDER IN THE LIBRARY

Clarissa Watson (35), a florist and owner of Persephone Flower Shop died after collapsing at The Literarium, a small local library at Michelangelo Street on 11 March. The police declared that Watson’s death was caused by lily of the valley (convallaria majalis) poisoning. The library served free coffee and the cardiac glycosides from the lily of the valley flower was found inside Watson’s cup. According to the police, Watson had arrhythmia and she had to take digoxin regularly. With the digoxin combined with convallatoxin, both cardiac glycosides lead her to death. It was revealed that her friend, Elena Roberts (35) was the one who poured the poison inside Watson’s coffee. To cover her action, she dropped Watson’s cup that she switched earlier to erase the evidence when Watson collapsed.

At first, Roberts objected that she was too panic and can’t think clearly while dropping Watson’s cup, thinking it was her own cup. She also claimed she didn’t possess the poison. It was revealed that Roberts’s fingerprints are also appeared on the broken cup. The police also found Robert’s necklace from her clothes. The necklace contained residue of liquid convallaria majalis inside its removable tube-shaped pendant.

According to another of Watson’s friends who were present at the moment, Martha Ventham (35) and Holly Smith (37), Roberts was depressed because of her recent miscarriage. Roberts herself finally admitted that she thought Watson took part of her miscarriage by giving her chamomile and ginger tea when she visited Watson’s house three weeks ago. Roberts didn’t know she was pregnant until the miscarriage happened. She claimed she was devastated and it was hard for her to not blame Watson for the miscarriage. She put a bouquet of dark crimson roses at Watson’s house a week before this tragedy happened as a threat that she could never forget Watson’s mistake. Ventham confirmed this statement since she saw the bouquet when Watson told her about the blackmail, but she never thought that it was Roberts who sent it.

“Clarissa made me promised to shut my mouth about it,” Ventham stated. “But when she collapsed, I remember that bouquet and I couldn’t help myself to not call the police. Something’s wrong, and I have to find the truth for Clarissa’s sake”. Smith also confirmed that Watson and Roberts had an argument before their arrival at the library. It was then revealed that Roberts confronted Watson about the miscarriage, but Watson denied it.

Roberts said that the idea of murder just popped on her head since two weeks ago and she chose lily of the valley because it was Watson’s favourite flower.

“Lily of the valley means return of happiness” Roberts stated. “I know because Clarissa told me that. I thought with her death by her own favourite flower, it would return my happiness after I lost my baby, but I can only feel nothing. I lost everything, and maybe I deserve that.”

12 March, 02:00 pm

Lyra closes the newspaper and turns her eyes to Vergil, who continues to read Beowulf, “Do chamomile really can cause miscarriage?”

The hybrid grumbles, “Do I look like I’m capable to answer that?”

“You know, it’s rude to answer question with question.”

Vergil grunts. “All I know about miscarriage that it could happened by many factors. Too much chamomile might trigger the miscarriage, but that’s not always the case.”

Lyra nods slowly as she puts the newspaper down and picks up The Turn of The Screw. “At least that explains Miss Roberts’s over-dramatic reaction. I guess she feels guilty after murdering her friend, realizing that it was all to late and she can’t redo everything. But we can never really blame her frustration. She wasn’t in the right state of mind.”

“It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning,” Vergil recites the line from Beowulf. “It’s strange what human could do in devastation.”

“Yeah, such as stabbing themselves with a magic sword and split them into two different beings.”

Lyra laughs when Vergil gives her his usual deadly glare.

“Well, at least we have more customers thanks to Miss Roberts,” Lyra chuckles as she observes the guests. “Nate was right about that. Though Mr Steiner stopped giving free coffee. No more murder in the library, he said.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I don’t have to smile like Joker to tell you that I’m happy.”

“You’re funny guy, you know that?”

“Don’t call me funny.”

“And you’re the best partner in crime!”

“Silence.”

Even though Vergil dismisses her words harshly, Lyra still can see the subtle warm smile on Vergil’s lips. She flips the page of The Turn of The Screw and tell herself to finish the book today. There’s a long pause before she realizes that Vergil stares at her with unreadable expression. Uncomfortable with that kind of gaze, Lyra chuckles, “You know it’s rude to stare, right?”

“Pardon me. I was just trying to recall.”

“Of what?”

“Remind me again, what did exactly you tell the police once we found out the disappearance of Elena Roberts’ necklace?”

“Well… as we agreed, I told the police that Miss Roberts’ necklace could be the evidence they’ve looked for. As we know, the necklace has a tube pendant which could contains approximately 1-2 ml of liquid inside it. It was odd that she suddenly removed the necklace out of the blue, for we know she wore it since her arrival here with Miss Watson. It was a gamble, but the police confirmed that the tube contained residue of convallatoxin. It was easy for Miss Roberts to pour the poison inside Miss Watson’s cup and quickly removed the necklace right before she joined them to browse the books. We know that Mrs Smith might have turned to be the suspect since she was the latest to join the group, so she didn’t have any chance to witness Miss Roberts’ position before her arrival and she sat at her chair first to put her coffee on the table before she joined her group.”

“And Martha Ventham had witnessed that Holly Smith has a garden of roses at her house, which could indicated that she was the one who brought the bouquet of dark crimson roses as a threat to Clarissa Watson.”

“Correct. That strengthen Miss Roberts’ alibi.”

“So all the pieces of puzzle was collected,” Vergil leans forward and taps his fingers on the table. “But there’s a major plot hole.”

Lyra tilts her head, “And what is that?”

Vergil deeply gazes at Lyra’s eyes, his voice is almost gentle. “How did you know that Elena Roberts wore the necklace since the first of her arrival?”

Vergil has read too much micro-expressions and even if just a slightest, he can senses a fight-or-flight instinct from the librarian as her face turns pale and her eyes dilate before she quickly collects her self-control and pretending to be confused with Vergil’s question.

“Because I saw it. Don’t we all, Vergil?”

“I saw the necklace because she and Clarissa Watson almost bumped at me near the receptionist table. When the murder happened, the necklace was already gone. You were reading seriously all the time before you stood up to get some water for Clarissa Watson when she vomited at the toilet. That means Elena Roberts had already poured the poison before that moment happened and she already hid her necklace. Panic and sadness consumed them all and that made them unaware of menial thing like a necklace.” Vergil stops his finger’s movement. “In conclusion, Lyra, you never saw the necklace. But somehow you recognized the disappearance of the necklace. How did you know that?”

“I… asked her friends, of course.”

“That would be invalid, because they must’ve suspected it too and would immediately confronted her about the necklace, or at least they would report it to the police. But no, they all gathered up and crying for the loss of their best friend.”

That statement edges Lyra to her loss. She sighs deeply in defeat, looking around her like she’s making sure that no one heard their conversation. She slowly bites her lips and looking at Vergil’s eyes, seriously considering something.

The hybrid knows this is the time he finally get his answer for his long unsettling feeling to Lyra. He waits patiently all these months to find out, even hoping for Lyra to tell him in person. When he said that he dislikes to not knowing anything about her yesterday, he means it and deep down he wishes Lyra to understand it. It’s obvious that he likes her a little too much, but there’s still a border between them that he finds it hard to completely trust her.

I want to trust you.

“Stardust,” he lowers his voice. “You accept me for who I really am. You consider me as your friend despite my flaws. Please understand that I intend to do so to you.”

The feeling of grateful and relief fill his heart when Lyra finally nods in agreement at him. Her smile blooms again, now it’s brighter and sincere than her first fake smile. She still has her own doubt, but finally she takes a deep breath and grins.

“You’re right, it’s not fair. You told me everything and I’ll return the favor. I believe you can keep it a secret.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She giggles.

“My head is full of ghosts,” Lyra says. “It’s a metaphor, because it sounds like whispers, then it turns into pictures.”

What’s she talking about?

“I don’t remember since when I possess this, nor how I acquired it. It just happened automatically. It’s… mostly frustrating. It mentally drains me, to know things I should not and never want to know. At least before I met you. Whenever you’re around me, it’s always stop. It goes normal just like everyone else doing. You don’t know how relieved I am to be with you. You stop the ghosts.”

“I am honoured,” Vergil says. “But I’m afraid I still don’t follow—”

“I can’t read your mind, Vergil.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the thing, because I always can read everyone’s mind, whether it’s humans or demons. But not you, and not when you’re around me. It seems like your presence disables my ability. But yesterday, when I touched those women’s hands, I realized that I still able to read mind when you’re around if I touch them. Now you know how I recognized Miss Roberts’ necklace, as well as the fact I know that she’s the killer all along. But I can’t just tell you all informations I acquired from her head. That’s why I have to discuss it with you. To guide you to the answer.”

Ah. The realization comes to Vergil’s head. She’s a telepath.

The librarian touches Vergil’s hand and grab it softly. It surprises him and he almost pull his hand off, but he restrains himself. He won’t lose to his own fear of physical contacts.

Slowly, she releases Vergil’s hand. “Yet… even if I touch you like this, I still see nothing. I wonder if it’s Sparda’s protection on you. I don’t dare forcing myself to look inside your head. I fear that would make you aware of my ability. Besides, I respect your privacy. I see too much. That’s why I like it when you’re with me. You give me solitude.”

I was wrong all this time. The voidness that Vergil always see whenever he watches Lyra’s eyes is the burden of the eyes that see too much. The eyes that exhausted and always wander to find peace and calmness. Sometimes it’s hard to see the truth behind the unfamiliar eyes, especially the eyes like hers. But now he understands the meaning of it. Vergil knows that knowledge can be a curse—she suffers silently with her ability to read mind.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he states. “You should’ve tell me earlier.”

“I thought it would make you uncomfortable.”

Nonsense. Of course I won’t feel uncomfortable whenever I’m with you.

“Will you try to read my mind again?” he asks.

“I told you already, I can’t. I’ve tried.”

Vergil reaches out his hand, “Just try it. I will allow you to read what’s on my mind at the moment.”

Lyra grabs his hand and trying to focus on Vergil’s head instead of his icy, alluring eyes. At first she gets nothing, just a static darkness, then she sees some blurry images that she can’t perceived. It seems that whatever protection in Vergil’s mind, it will endure itself if Vergil allows it, but although Lyra tries her best to clear her vision, the pictures are getting hazy, in fact, the more she tries to break Vergil’s mind, the darker it goes.

Then she hears it. It’s not quite like Vergil’s voice, more like a brainwave, but she can clearly interprets the meaning, and that makes her smile gets wider as she realizes that Vergil also awares of her presence inside his mind.

‘Our minds are connected!’ she exclaims.

Vergil still tries to adjust the new experience, ‘This is… curious. Have you done this before?’

‘No. This is the first time. Must be enchanced by the power of Sparda, eh?’

‘Could be.’

‘This is wicked!’

‘Even without opening your mouth, you’re still a chatterbox.’

‘And you’re still a grumpy devil.’

A sudden thought comes up from Vergil’s mind, but he hastily holds himself before Lyra could interpret it. That breaks their mind connection. He seems flustered, gripping his book tightly. Knowing that Vergil hides something, Lyra eyes the hybrid in front of her in a playful manner.

“You know no one can hear us, Vergil.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then you know I won’t tell it out loud, whatever thought you just hold before. I’m the only one who can hear you.”

“That’s precisely why I won’t tell you.”

Lyra shrugs and pick up her book again. For a moment they don’t talk to each other. But when Lyra almost finishes her book, her head jolts a little as she receives a thought from Vergil.

‘Places among the stars,

Soft gardens near the sun,

Keep your distant beauty;

Shed no beams upon my weak heart.

Since she is here

In a place of blackness,

Not your golden days

Nor your silver nights

Can call me to you.

Since she is here

In a place of blackness,

Here I stay and wait.’

Vergil gives her a quick glance and small grin after Lyra nods to him as a confirmation that she gets what he thinks. She knows that Vergil has a hard time to uttering his feelings and prefers to recite poems as his odd way to express whatever inside his mind and his heart. She knows that the poem isn’t exactly what Vergil wanted to tell her earlier, but she knows that this is the other way to tell her his intention. It’s still too subtle for her, but the poem warms her heart. It’s like a promise that Vergil will keep her secret and he accepts her the way she is, not even asking how could she possesses such a power, for Lyra is just a human.

Because Vergil will wait for her, and perhaps Lyra should never underestimate his patience.

‘Thank you, Vergil.’

List of recited poems and quotes

Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis by Sigmund Freud

The Epistle of Forgiveness by Al Ma’arri

Beowulf by Anonymous

Places Among The Stars by Stephen Crane

The title of this story was quoted from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake

Tagging @drusoona @queenmuzz @shiranyaaww @harlot-of-oblivion @andieperrie18 @lovemadnessharleyquinn @rubixa-seraph

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