#personally I think he always found beauty in some of the macabre but it wasn’t until he found a place in goth culture

[chaoticbuggybitchboy]

Narratively speaking, having Gerry be goth makes so much sense. Individualism, self expression, going against the accepted norms. Most importantly, the acceptance and appreciation of the dark, mystical, and the scary. Having Gerry be the sort of person who not only accepts the existence of the Fears, but who finds beauty in them.

This leads, of course, to how did Gerry become so identifiably goth? Did Gerry stumble upon it as a child and, once learning about the idea of finding beauty in pain, relate it to his own life, so full of fears and hurt? Did he find it and find it hard at first to find beauty in it all? Did he initially reject goth culture? Or did he fling himself into it, having found a word for something he’s always felt, a word that connects him to others who feel the same? And which came first: his alignment with goth ideas or his love for goth aesthetics and music? Were goth music and clothing the first things that Gerry found beautiful, so he decided to investigate and find that it fits him? Or did he find goth as a way to describe his habit of loving the things other people feared, and later used goth fashion to express those ideas and find a sense of community?

Gerry using goth culture, both the connectedness and the ideology, as an anchor and coping mechanism against the fears. Gerry having always found beauty in scary things because it was the only place he could look for beauty, so he found it. Or Gerry forcing himself to learn to find it beautiful, because he knows that if he can’t find the beauty in the fear, he’ll never be able to experience beauty at all. Gerry spending time at goth clubs and shops as an escape from everything. Gerry using goth culture to have an identity of his own, one his mother couldn’t control.

All of this, and his actions, lends itself to the idea that he’s not someone the fears can truly claim. Sure, he might be aligned with the Beholding, he might feed the fears and be fed by them to some extent, but he is not beholden to any of them the way we see other avatars being connected to their fears. Gerry is not the sort of person that any of the fears could ever fully own, not when he finds beauty in place of fear.

Just. Gerry being goth is brilliant because it’s something that most people would recognize and it’s something that grants a fairly deep insight into the character and it fits him so well.

[this is not to say that all goths feel this way or anything like that. This is a character analysis that dives into something that was probably meant as a mostly superficial description, but really does fit the character very well on a deeper level]

[I do, however, think that if you’re goth you’re much more resistant to the fears than the average person]

[tarrenterror25]

thoughts no one asked for but my mind has no mouth and must scream

This is purely self indulgent.

Alfred Pennyworth (Batman 2022) x Soft/Romantic Goth F!Reader

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.3K

Tags: established relationship, smut, PinV, fluff, mention of death/the macabre, body worship, petit/short reader, smidgen of brat behavior

Song referenced in moodboard is “For You” by HIM and song mentioned in blurb is “Until Eternity” by Blackbriar (Orchestral Version).

The two of you met through a chance encounter and it grew from there. At first, Alfred wasn’t sure what to think of your eclectic style, but your personality was so endearing that he was drawn to you. There was something humorous to him about your dark style with the contrast of your welcoming and almost bubbly personality.

You’re surprisingly shy and he can’t help, but say bold and sweet things that elicit a response from you like you trying to hide your smile behind your hands or turning away from him. Honestly, whatever comes out of his mouth, he’s just as surprised as you are!

“Are you always this brave when you flirt?” you ask.

“Only seems to be when I’m around you,” he replies.

Eventually he worked up the nerve to ask you on a date and then another one and another. He found himself falling more in love with you with each passing day.

Before Alfred says goodbye to you at your doorstep, he takes your hand in his. He had been nervous the whole night, but was ready to confess his love in a way that’s special to you. He was quick to learn your fondness for poetry and he’s no poet, but he wants to show you he is sincere.

“The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one,” he recites. “Yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying sun.”

The two of you are closer now, hardly any space between you as you look up into his eyes, hanging on his every word.

“The mind has a thousand eyes and the heart but one,” he continues. “Yet the light of a whole life dies-”

“When love is done,” you finish softly.

Alfred smiles. “My time with you has been some of the best moments of my life thus far,” he says. “I find myself thinking of you always and have come to realize that should our time come to an end, I would be quite miserable. Because I love you, dearly.”

Your lace gloved hand comes up to caress his cheek and he leans into your touch. “There are darknesses in life and there are lights,” you say to him. “And you are one of the lights, the light of all lights. I love you, too, Alfred.”

Your macabre interests are fascinating to him. There’s something magnetic about how you find beauty in the darkest of things. He’s not too put off by the decor in your home; the Wayne home has some rather dark decor as well so skulls and candles are not too out of the ordinary for him.

The two of you bond over books; exchanging titles is a love language between the both of you. He does blush a bit at some of the romance ones you hand him that have smuttier scenes and he’s smitten at how interested you are in his picks for you. Often the two of you just snuggle close to each other reading your own books or reading a book together.

Your music taste is your own, though. He appreciates it, really, but it’s not his thing. Artists like HIM, Apocalyptica, or Blackbriar he finds some enjoyment in and loves to dance with you to their songs. If you play more orchestral versions of songs you like, he’s very into these; brings out the melodies a lot more in his opinion.

A beautiful and haunting voice sings about a love through time. Alfred finds you swaying and singing to the music and holds out his arms to join you.

I loved you once I loved you twice I loved you in my previous lives I know your voice, I know your eyes You haunt me through my dreams at night

Your hand rests in his and his other hand is on the small of your back, holding you close, his eyes taking all of your beauty in. He gives you a spin and pulls you back to him. You didn’t know much about dancing before him and he enjoys teaching you. He loves seeing how happy it makes you that he indulges you in dancing to your music.

Oh, my love, we’ll meet again We always do in the end Our two souls destined to be You and I until eternity

Oh, the way you look at him, with such love and adoration. It melts him from the inside out. You are a romantic and you make him feel things he wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling anymore. The way you love is something out of a novel. It’s something only seen in dreams and heard of in songs like these.

We live on and on and on Death is weak and we are strong On and on and on Time is weak and we are strong

“I’m very lucky to have you, Alfred,” you say as he expertly twirls you, his arm coming over you, spinning you outward and then pulling you back to him.

“It’s quite the opposite, darling,” he says before slowly dipping you so that your head falls back and your neck is exposed to him. You let your arms slowly descend as your body drapes over his arm. His free hand comes up to caress your neck, his thumb brushing across your throat right under your chin. “I’m the lucky one,” he says moving his hand to cradle the back of your head and to guide you back up so he can kiss you.

I loved you once I loved you twice I loved you in my previous lives And when I die just keep in mind I’ll love you in another life

Despite different tastes in music for the majority, you do share a love of opera and classical music. Alfred enjoys taking you to the opera, theatre, or to the music hall for a concert. Other dates include places like the museum, both art and history. You have shown him many new things he either didn’t know or never noticed before. Your favorite date, that Alfred has also become quite fond of, is afternoon picnics in the park. The prim and proper butler was hesitant at first, but soon became more relaxed with the idea. Of course, you have a black picnic basket complete with all kinds of morsels inside. You retrieve two gothic goblets and he smiles; you are unabashedly you through and through and he loves it.

In his time knowing you before you started dating, your more revealing or accentuating wardrobe definitely had him blushing, but now that you’re his, oh, it still flusters him, but now he doesn’t feel so bad about looking. He adores your fashion sense; there’s an air of elegance to it while still reflecting your bright personality. You are shorter than he is and sometimes your shoes make you a little taller than him, but he doesn’t mind it at all. He just smiles, feeling proud of you for dressing in what makes you feel beautiful.

Alfred loves how you dote on him, always complimenting him on what a gentleman he is or how sweet and polite he is. It makes his chest swell with pride and inspires him. He loves how you help with little things like helping put on his tie; his eyes watch your black nails gently situate it properly on his neck and adjust his collar and you help him put on a coat or jacket and smooth it out.

His favorite gift from you is the cane you got him. The handle is a silver knob with a bat etched onto it. It’s so thoughtful to him and he uses it all the time now.

The first time the two of you are intimate, Alfred is taken back by what you’ve worn for the occasion; all the ribbons and lace decorating your body have him filled to the brim with desire. Despite how your choice of attire is dark in color, it is soft and demure in nature. He’s soft and gentle with you, but will take on a more dominant attitude if you ask for it. He loves you riding on top of him with your lingerie in full view. It’s too beautiful on you for him to ask you to take it off. He loves running his hands over your stocking clad thighs and watching how the fabric pulls and stretches across your body as you bounce on him.

He has you underneath him. He holds onto one of your thighs wrapped around him, using his grip to help him drive deeper into you. The soft mewls and whines you make are music to his ears. He’s thrusting slowly into you, his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes shut as he tries to focus on not just pounding you mercilessly.

“It’s so difficult to not lose control, love,” he says with a shaky breath. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

With his face held in between your hands, you utter a wish from your black painted lips for him to let go and to fuck you.

Who is he to deny you? He’d gladly do anything you ask of him.

He sits up and bends your knees as far as can towards you head and fucks you harder, deeper, and faster until you can’t form a coherent thought and you’re a mewling mess beneath him.

Alfred has a hard time actually keeping his hands off of you; he loves holding your hand, having your arm looped in his, his arm around your waist, or his hand resting on your thigh. He just wants you close to him at all times and loves showing you off as his. He’s not at all bothered by the stark contrast of you and him together.

Sometimes he does want to be handsy in other ways, especially when you tease by bending over further than necessary or brushing up against him. He’ll return the favor once the two of you are alone.

In the car, you lied about needing something from the backseat and proceeded to twist your body to reach a thing that he’s sure you made up as an excuse to put your ass on display for him. Your dress riding up and nearly exposing your backside. He quickly grabs the hem of your dress and holds it down to honor your modesty.

“Darling,” he says, “surely this can wait?”

“I’m sure I left it back here,” you call out.

As you shuffle through some things in the backseat, he’s very aware of how close his hand is to your clothed sex and occasionally you keep pushing back onto his hand making him brush up against it. And then inside of your place, you kept brushing against him, your chest against his front or your backside against the front of his pants. He knows what you’re doing, he can tell by the way you bite your black painted lip and the way you look at him from under those long lashes.

You’re so shy, particularly when it comes to letting him know what you want him to do to you and just as you love riling him up with your actions, he loves putting you on the spot, making you say out loud what you want.

He tips your chin up, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Use your words, darling,” he says. “What is it you want?”

So when he gets you alone, he returns the favor. He gets you in your room and stops your roaming hands. He gently instructs you to sit on the bed and he kneels in front of you. He makes sure his movements are slow, his fingers barely brushing your skin as they trail down to the little buckles of your heels. He helps remove them and then lets his fingers ghost further up to where your garters hold up your stockings. He undoes these next and slowly peels them off your skin, trailing kisses along your thighs and legs. He glances up at you, watching how you squirm under his touch.

“Stand up, darling, and turn around,” he says softly.

He’s kissing your neck and shoulders as he undoes the laces of your corset. Your back arching and your head tossing back to rest on his shoulder begging for him to hurry up and touch you.

“Be patient, darling,” he says. “I want to savor you.”

Once you’re completely undressed and with him still fully clothed, he’s worshipping your body; planting slow and soft kisses everywhere while his hands caress your flesh. It’s a slow build before he’s finally inside you, but he makes it worth the wait.

Alfred is extremely protective of you while the two of you are out and about. He knows your style of dress isn’t widely accepted and sometimes the looks you get from people get to you. He’ll soothe you as best as he can to help you feel better.

“You look wonderful, darling.” “Would you like to borrow my coat?” “It’s perfectly alright if you wish to go back home, I don’t mind.”

If you go out by yourself, he’s just as protective, but does his best to not be overbearing. Sometimes you like to go out dancing to places, that he admits, just aren’t for someone like him; places like the Iceberg Lounge or Gotham City Olympus. He only asks that you send a text upon your arrival and departure from your destination. He also implores you to not hesitate to contact him if you need anything.

Sometimes he’s the one who gets self conscious. The thought that you might like someone more like you does creep into his mind at times. But then he remembers that not once have you tried to change him, you love him as he is.

“Sometimes I do wonder if perhaps someone with interests closer to yours might be more suitable for you,” he says.

“I’m interested in you, Alfred,” you say before kissing him.

You are definitely an unexpected surprise in his life, but he wouldn’t trade you for anything.

[2lim3rz]

Warhammer 30k Emperor x Reader is quite popular but think about 40k Emperor x Reader. Many have said how the emperor, despite claiming that he was a human and not a god, behaved so much like the latter. So consider him rising from his throne after so many centuries, weakened and well… horrifying. Did people really think he was going to return looking like a normal person? Because he didn’t. He of course still had his charming voice (though raspy after thousands of years of not using it) and his golden eyes. But it wasn’t as beautiful when paired with the body of a walking corpse.

At least that’s what you thought. Nobody else seemed to care, they gazed at him and praised him and welcomed their ruler into their lives. Nobody seemed to give a shit that he was 12 foot tall monster, wasn’t he exactly like the beasts and demons of heresy that the inquisition warned us about?? Why did your neighbours flock to him when he paraded around the streets, why did they grasp at his hands with awe (even when one of them was just bone), and why did he look towards your direction (how could you even know he looked at you? He was so far away and covered in so much fabric and jewellery), and why did you see him smile at you?

The beginning is a reference to a little thing I wrote eons ago! You can find it here! [ LINK ]

Some warnings: Mild description of a panic attack

He knows. He knows that you had seen his gaze even from so far away.. He knows that you felt the instant gut wrenching fear and worshipful mania all felt when in his physical presence.

Yet you know. Your sane mind knows he wasn't looking directly at you, surely. For he is the Emperor. The God Emperor and Risen Savior of Mankind. All quiver before him, even his one of his most beloved sons, Roboute Gulliman (oh how many stories have you heard of him?)

However your instincts truly have knowledge in what your mind is hoping isn't happening. The long pause in his parade. The staring. The flesh-not-flesh crinkling in a macabre smile before you ran.

Your dreams were nightmares of eldritch things. Of colors so unknown and unseen that everything was grey in them. Of swirling colors and shapes.. of things that did not act the way they should nor shouldn't function but did. Touches, sensations. Feelings that should not happen.. Before there was a flash of gold.. As if you were thrown into a vat of cold water. You could breath and when you awoken..

You could breath. You were alive. Your skin was on your flesh, your flesh was on your bones, and your bones were of biological what-nots instead of painful needles. You were you. You were alive. You were human..

You knew what the gold was. The flash of bone encased in undulating flesh as it tried to stretch over its framework. You knew the reason of why every breath you took it was a blessing.

So you walked. It did not matter that you were in your night clothes, that your feet were growing raw and blooded. You walked. It did not matter that the Palace was miles away and the journey was treacherous; you walked.

Only when day arose did you return home to cry. Why? You wondered. Why was the terrifying so heavily worshipped. Why was it hard to breath? Why were you so lightheaded?

These why's began to grow, to multiply. Becoming multitudes until you could do nothing in your tiny home (that did nothing but make you feel even smaller) but gasp for air.

The onslaught only stopped when you found yourself waking up. Neck hurting from the awkward way you had curled into the corner. Everything ached, everything hurt.

Yet you had to leave. You dressed hurriedly.

You threw what credits you had left. Tossing practically everything away to get yourself to a spot you could view him best.

And sure enough. After his grandiose speech (was the talks of taking the fight to the enemy always so daunting?), he turned his head (was.. it always so corpse-like?) and looked upon you (Were you always so.. small?)

You felt it. Felt him. Felt the presence of a god touching the mind of someone feeble. Akin to the touch so doubt an insect felt when it was grabbed by a human. Small. So small. Fragile.. too fragile. Miniscule. Nothing.

Go.

Was that your thoughts? You swore your instincts said to run away and scream. Yet you moved. You had too. For too long those nightmares plagued you; hurt you even.

So you moved. Onward and onward as if a servitor upon its track. Unwavering.

It took.. quite some time (was everything always so.. large?) until you found yourself frozen stiff. Until you found yourself looking up into the purest gold.

It was not warm, as the Emperor was always said to be in some cases. It was not forthcoming. It was nowhere near kind.

You realized then, that perhaps everything was a warning as you stared up from your knees. Practically breaking your back backwards to look up at him. Even as he stretched out his hands to encase yours and gently pull you up even if it felt as if ice was burning your skin away.

He is the God-Emperor of Mankind.

And he was not the savior you all hoped he would be.

[aminiatureworld]

Damocles

Characters: Zhongli, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,211

Warnings: Hanahaki disease – depictions of a fictional illness with symptoms mimicking tuberculosis, mentions of coughing up blood, talking a lot about death

Premise: In which the reader thinks Zhongli doesn’t reciprocate their feelings, and fears the consequences.

Author’s Note: Ngl, I don’t think I’ve ever really heard about this trope before, except maybe in passing. So if it’s a little weird that’s why.

I ended up taking the story in a bit of a macabre direction. Hopefully not too melodramatic, but I kinda like how it turned out.

Zhongli

“Thank you for telling me, but I’m afraid I cannot return your feelings. I’m sorry to be a disappointment.”

 In truth you couldn’t decide whether or not you had expected your feelings to be returned. You and Zhongli had been friends for years now, and you had grown closer to him than you had to most of your previous friends and acquaintances. Indeed, you had grown closer to him than you had to many of the people you’d been in previous relationships in. You called upon him in some form almost every day, whether it be to discuss something of importance or simply bask in his presence. When there was something new you found about, whether it be a story in a book or a particularly funky looking shell, you almost immediately sought out Zhongli to share your find with.

For Zhongli’s part, he also liked to share experiences with you. At the very least you couldn’t say that your friendship was one sided. He often would be the one to walk up to you on the street, a new brand of tea written down on a piece of paper in his pocket, or a location where one could find particularly beautiful glaze lilies on his lips. He never seemed to mind when you peppered him with endless questions, or talked his ear off about your own day; something which you often asked if he found annoying. No, you were very sure that Zhongli wasn’t simply spending time with you out of pity.

In truth it was your friends who guessed the trajectory of your personal feelings before you did. Though you often found their poking and prodding intensely irritating, they had the common sense to keep the questions to a minimum – perhaps in hope their silence might guarantee that your affections would reveal themselves naturally one day. Now though you had to admit they had been right. You had fallen for Zhongli how long ago? It seemed so difficult to say when, so gradually had your feelings changed from viewing him as a confidante to viewing him as something more. Once you had finally come to terms with it you’d put off revealing your feelings as long as possible.

It wasn’t just the chance of rejection, something that would already cause emotions to run high. You had seen what sort of disease could ravage those who were unlucky in love. One of your own friends had suffered from such a disease, a fellow member of the Liyue Qixing had died from such a thing only a few months ago.

It was a terrible disease, everyone at least could agree about that. The origins of such an unfathomable sickness was much less understood. Most saw it as a curse from the gods, a punishment to the humans who would love a fellow mortal more than those who ruled above them, who gave their protection, their mercy, and their gifts to the people below. Others argued that it was simply a result of stress, for what heart could take the shock of a truly deep rejection. A rare parasite, a curse from malevolent demons, all these theories made little difference when it came to the actual disease. You were fairly sure anyways that people dying of it couldn’t care less why it happened, only that it was happening to them.

First came the coughing, easy enough to ignore in a land where the common cold truly lived up to its name. Then you couldn’t run as fast or as far as you had once, at least on the days were you weren’t fighting off crippling fatigue – the night sweats doing little to help you in your desperate need for rest. Then the fever set in, then the blood that stained the porcelain sink. By the time the first few petals would appear emaciation would already begin to claim your muscle mass and the precious body fat that kept you alive. Some people didn’t even get to the point of regurgitating fully formed flowers. Those people were usually considered lucky, for when one must deal with an incurable disease, well, surely it is better to go sooner rather than later.

You wouldn’t lie and say that wasn’t one of the reasons it took you so long to confess. After all, what you don’t know won’t kill you, right? You weren’t actually sure about that, but it sounded right in your mind, regardless of its actual veracity. However, as with most people in love, you’d found a growing recklessness inside you, paired with the sudden desperation for a happiness which you would certainly never obtain at this rate. So you’d made up your mind to tell him, deciding that perhaps the certainty would be better than the ever growing cloud of anxiety that surrounded your thoughts.

Now you’d been rejected. You had to admit that your first reaction was utter panic, the distinct feeling of having made a terrible sort of mistake. Oh sure, your feelings were undeniably hurt, but that was less important than the virtual death sentence you’d been handed. Why oh why had you decided to do this? The world seemed to swim in front of your for a moment, as simultaneously everything came into sharp focus and faded away into the recesses of your mind. What would you do now? There was nothing to do, you just had to wait for the inevitable, wait for the cold embrace of death to welcome you to its abode. You took deep breaths, trying to control yourself. Tears were forming in your eyes, but you knew that they weren’t from romantic distress. Ironically romance was the last thing in your mind right now.

“I, I see. Thank you for your honesty.”

It was all you could manage to make out. Turning around, head light from fear, you bolted down the streets of Liyue, desperate to be in your home, desperate to ignore the sword of Damocles that now hung dangerously low over your head.

 Zhongli watched you go, watched as you stumbled your way through the crowd that always packed the streets of Liyue in the daytime. He was fine, he was perfectly fine. He had seen it through, had done what he knew was right. There was no reason to regret. Surely the small stab of pain he felt was temporary, a pinprick compared to all that the ex-archon had suffered over the years.

Zhongli had suspected that a confession like this might’ve been on the horizon for quite some time now. Not that he was dreading it out of a personal inability to reciprocate. No, in his heart Zhongli already reciprocated your suspected feelings. He loved you, adored you even; within the stony heart that had atrophied over years of war, suffering, and personal duty, grew a love that Zhongli had not felt for a very long time. He cherished every moment with you, knowing that his long life would try to compress the memories that were so precious to them. Seeing you whenever he could, dragged out conversations as long as he possibly could, Zhongli was practically desperate for time with you. He was also intensely aware of how short that time would ultimately be.

How could Zhongli push the curse of loving an immortal being on you? For it truly was a curse, to both parties involved. His side was painful of course, the knowledge that your memory, you lifespan even, would slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He would always be wondering whether or not the two of you would be experiencing a “last”. Last visit to the sea, last time to climb up the Huaguang Stone Forest to watch the sunset together. Last, last, last. Always the shadow of death would hang over you, so palpable in Zhongli’s mind that he might almost reach out and grasp the gossamer veil that would eventually steal you away. Yes, it would be a truly painful experience. Not nearly as painful however as your own experience.

Zhongli had long ago come to the conclusion that mortals had no true concept of the passage of time. You were young now, the world was your oyster. Zhongli’s immortal status would be nothing more than a passing thought, an anomaly and nothing more. Then your 40th birthday would pass, then you 50th, then you 60th, 70th, 80th. By the time you reached the end of your life the difference between you and Zhongli would stretch out like a chasm between the two of you, something to never be reconciled, for the old rarely forgave the young for their youth. Not to mention the other scenario, the one that Zhongli would never allow the freedom to truly cloud his thoughts. Your death of old age would be a tragedy, the alternative a catastrophe.

He knew all this, had seen it time and time again. Zhongli was hardly the first immortal being to fall in love with a mortal, would not be the last. Adepti, archons, all walks of immortal life were drawn to humanity, drawn to the freedom that came with mortality. Humans did things because they died; they had no forcible tie to nature, no innate duty other than to themselves. Humans could be wicked or kind or cruel or merciful as they wished. To those who were chained by their destiny, well, there was something very anomalous in such a choice. Perhaps it was no surprise then that an immortal being would inevitable find themselves interacting with those supposedly below them. Perhaps it was no surprise that this often led to love.

All that being true, Zhongli still refused to give into his needless selfishness. He loved you, yes. Knowing that was enough. He wouldn’t push such a burden on you, wouldn’t cause you resentment or pain. It would be better if you thought that your feelings weren’t reciprocated, it would be less painful.

Nor would you have to worry about the curse to which many less lucky fell. Zhongli still loved you, still cherished you deeply. You would never have to worry about that, for archons and adepti do not move on from love the way humans do. Zhongli’s love for you would long outlast your lifespan, one which, the archon prayed, would be very long indeed.

Yes, everything had been handled well enough. Perhaps you would never wish to speak with him again, perhaps you would grow to resent him even, how quickly love can turn into hate. It didn’t matter though. Zhongli had shielded you from long, drawn-out suffering, and that was all that mattered. He should’ve been satisfied, should have felt relief. Instead however he only felt a great sadness pressing down, a sadness combined with the pain that accompanied a love that must never truly be realized.

 It had been nine days since you’d been rejected by Zhongli. Crossing off another square on the calendar which you had dug out of your old stationary you sighed. The nine days succeeding the encounter had been utter hell. At first you were convinced that the worst thing that could happen was the symptoms of the wretched illness showing up quickly, so convinced you were that the next day you would wake up with blood on your pillow. Soon however, you’d come to a completely different conclusion. There was nothing worse than waiting.

Every day was spent in the agony of anticipation, every day waiting for the coughing to begin, for the night sweats to begin ravaging your sleep, for the breathe to be stolen from your lungs. Yet every day you woke up with none of these things, though your fatigue was real enough.

You should have been relieved, should have been glad for the opportunity to live even a few more days. Yet instead of relief you only felt deep, unrelenting dread. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything, so crippled were you by morbid anticipation.

Not that your thoughts were particularly worthwhile either. Perhaps it would be one thing if your ruminations had brought up something profound, something that you could write down in a book for your family or your friends. Though it still would be poor solace, well, at least it’d be something. But your thoughts had all turned to mush, replaced by a paranoia so strong it confined you to your bed most days.

You thought that the death sentence would in some way be freeing, that you might be able to recklessly throw yourself at all the things you had avoided out of fear for so long. Instead you found yourself depressed, waiting for an inevitable so terrifying you found yourself disconnecting from the people around you. What did it matter anyways? You’d be dead soon enough.

This gross neglect of your wellbeing was at least somewhat allayed by the routine that had been drilled into your body from so many years working for the Liyue Qixing. Though you didn’t go to work, something you were sure you were going to hear about eventually, you still dared to venture out to the market. At the very least you would eat your fill in good for before the end was nigh. No need to worry about your health after all. Besides, your definition of good food didn’t necessarily always align with completely unhealthy.

Walking through the familiar streets you stared at the people around you. How odd it was to see people so close you could touch them but so far they might as well have been in Inazuma. Was there anyone else here suffering like you were? Anyone who could understand the thoughts that now flooded your brain? You stared at the ground, trying not to think about it. You’d be confronted with these thoughts the minute you got home anyways. Might as well delay it a bit.

Turning to find the fishmonger you spied a familiar silhouette. Stopping in your tracks you stared unabashedly at Zhongli. The man seemed to be carrying himself much as ever, but the unapproachable atmosphere which he’d blanketed himself in seemed somewhat more prominent. Perhaps it was your imagination, he seemed to be talking to the butcher easily enough. Not that it was any of your business. Zhongli wasn’t any of your business anymore. It would be better if you could forget him, if you could erase this feeling in your heart that refused to go away. Even now Zhongli was beautiful. Even now you wished to run up to him, to hug him, to make pretend everything was right with the world. You couldn’t do that though. Just as you couldn’t forget him, you couldn’t love him. Not in the way you wanted. Turning away you trudged back home, good food utterly forgotten.

It was day eighteen since Zhongli had rejected you, and by now your emotions were running almost unbearably high. You’d sunk into an odd reverie of adrenaline, anxiety, and utter disbelief. What in the world was going on? This was a familiar illness to you, something that had almost claimed the life of your friend and had felled your coworker. You knew everything about symptoms, timeline, etc.; and what you knew was you were supposed to be falling ill ages ago. Eighteen days between the initial rejection and the beginning of symptoms? It was unheard of! You didn’t know what to think. Were the rumors about the gods true, had Zhongli imposed some divine protection on you for the sake of your friendship? Were you somehow a superhuman who had the white blood cell coding to defeat the bacteria that caused this disease? Why hadn’t your descent begun yet?

You lounged on the couch, having moved out of your bedroom on the thirteenth day, three days after the latest possible showing of symptoms. Though you still felt deeply afraid, you found that curiosity was a surprisingly good deterrent when it wanted to be. Your fears hadn’t disappeared, but mixed with them was a disbelief so great that you often found your thoughts drifting to questions of how rather than questions of when.

Of course your initial instinct had been to seek out Zhongli. Pride mixed with fear however had kept you firmly at home. Really what was the point in even seeking out the answer to your miraculous reprieve at this point? It wouldn’t really change the outcome. Instead you might as well enjoy this unexpected extension of your life. Besides, you didn’t want to tempt the fates a second time.

 Zhongli stood at the window of your first story apartment, a glaze lily in hand. He hadn’t meant to do this, but the urge refused to leave him.

He’d noticed you a few times at the market, face drawn, eyes empty. Zhongli wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting, but certainly this wasn’t it. He knew you weren’t suffering from illness, your pace was strong, if slightly erratic, your general aura not that of the sick that Zhongli was all too familiar with. Why then did you look so terrible? The doubts that had plagued Zhongli began to rise again, jeering at the mistake he had made. He was supposed to protect you, right? Why then did you look as if you had experienced a total health collapse?

At first Zhongli tried to ignore it. You had not come to him for help, it was not his place to try and insert himself back in your life once more. The more he thought of you however, the more he found himself uneasy. He had to have some form of communication, some way to enquire about your health. At least one last time. If you explicitly rejected all forms of contact, well then Zhongli would leave. He would never defy your wishes in such a way. Until then however, he felt like he needed to ask.

The idea of walking up to your apartment and asking you was utterly off the table. Who knew how that might end? No, he wanted a subtler way. Glaze lilies had always been a favorite of yours, sneaking out into the evening to see them bloom even more so. He would simply leave one on your windowsill. If you took it, then he would enquire about your health. If you left it, well Zhongli would have his answer.

His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the windowsill, causing the gold ribbon tied around the lily to tremble slightly. At first Zhongli wanted only to give you the flower. He realized soon however that you might be confused, wondering if someone had not simply dropped a flower on your windowsill, or had the wind blown it there? The ribbon would hopefully clear things up. Even if it looked a little silly.

Slowly placing the flower down onto the open window Zhongli sighed. Turning around he did not dare spare a glance backwards. He would have his answer soon enough after all. Until then, well, there was no point in looking back.

 You exited from the kitchen, having finally felt the energy to make yourself that good food you’d been promising yourself. Going to look at the sunset you let out a soft gasp.

On your windowsill was a single glaze lily, wrapped in gold.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Did you have issues with students trying to hit on you when taught?

On more than a few occasions, though it was something I preferred to handle in private.

--

His phone buzzed with an incoming text at eight in the morning as he sat in his driveway with his keys in the ignition. The message was from one Evelyn Clarke, a student in his Insect Physiology class. He skimmed the lengthy message briefly until he saw the words “out for coffee sometime”, surmised that he was being asked on a date, and started his car without bothering to read the rest.

He found her studying alone in the library and confronted her there.

“Miss Clarke.”

The young woman jumped a bit, shooting a glance over her shoulder—when she saw him standing behind her, he noticed her posture straighten, and watched a tiny smile creep into her features. He found her face incredibly unremarkable, even with her makeup. Other parts of her, he liked.

“Professor Emory.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh no, you’re fine.”

He offered her a smile of his own, but not a very big one.

“I got your text, Evelyn.”

“Well, I meant it Professor, every word.”

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants and didn’t say anything for a beat too long. His smile was growing lukewarm now, getting colder.

“I can see that. Just curious, how did you get ahold of my personal number?”

She stared at him blankly.

“Oh — one of the ladies at the reference center helped me find it.”

“I see.” He let the smile drop from his face. What replaced it wasn’t cross, but it wasn’t very warm, either. “Miss Clarke, I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere private. Mind joining me in my office?”

He looked at her expectantly; in the noon light seeping in through the sunroof, Evelyn noticed that Mr. Emory’s eyes were a beautiful, thoughtful shade of very pale green.

“Sure.”

The young woman gathered up her belongings, pushed in her chair, and followed behind him without another word, the silence punctuated by the clicking and clacking of her heels.

In his office, he sat leaning slightly forward in his chair, his hands clasped together on his desk, watching her intently.

“I’m about to be completely honest with you, Miss Clarke. Do you think you can handle my honesty?”

Evelyn sat opposite the desk from him with her hands folded politely in her lap. She nodded slowly, as if she wasn’t too certain herself. There was wetness glistening in the corners of her big brown eyes. He knew if he was stern with her, he could have her mascara streaming down her painted face within the minute.

He began to tap his finger on the desk. The clock on his wall counted the seconds before he spoke again.

“What you did this morning was extremely inappropriate. I’m not sure what you were thinking, or how you got the idea that I would be okay with it.”

“I thought you were flirting with me.” Miss Clarke’s voice nearly broke.

He inhaled very slowly.

“When? What made you think that?”

“The other day, when you said you liked my dress. I thought you were—I’m not sure. Checking me out.”

He had been looking at Evelyn when she strutted past him on her way to her next class, undressing her with his eyes, thinking the same thoughts that had followed him since he was a much younger man. The fantasies hadn’t diminished as his fortieth birthday came and went; indeed, a macabre concept was taking root. It dominated his sketchbook and always lingered somewhere in the back of his mind.

“I did like your dress. It was a vintage brand I recognized. But I wasn’t hitting on you, Evelyn, I don’t date my students.”

Most of the time, when he looked Evelyn up and down, he didn’t picture himself being intimate with her; he found himself imagining how he’d like to arrange the more flattering parts of her on his wall.

Maybe he’d pick up some fresh paints on his way home.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Emory. I really am.” Miss Clarke clutched her book bag tightly, her voice straining. “Please don’t drop me from the class.”

He couldn’t drop her even if he wanted to, but he was alright with letting her believe that was a possibility.

He inhaled, straightening his posture.

“I don’t want to do that. I don’t plan on doing that. But you need to understand, Evelyn, I don’t have any real reason to believe you’re going to respect my privacy going forward.”

She sniffled, blinking hard, and there came the tears. He glanced briefly at the clock on his wall to satiate his curiosity. Just under a minute, then.

“What would I need to do to change that, sir?”

Sir. Endearing.

“How about a lesson, Miss Clarke?”

“What sort of lesson?”

“A lesson in respect.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to spank you.”

Her eyes went big. Her sniffling stopped and she suddenly grew very quiet. She stared at him until she seemed to realize that he was being dead serious.

He watched her face grow pink beneath her makeup.

“I - I”

“I’m not blackmailing you.” His voice had shifted down in tone, gone a bit softer. “If you don’t like the sound of that, you can get up and leave. You’re an adult, you’re capable of making your own decisions. But I’m telling you right now, if you stay, that’s what’s going to happen.”

She shifted in her seat a little, still trying to hold his eye contact, but her face wasn’t getting any less red.

“Is it going to hurt?”

He smiled at her. This time, for the first time, it was something close to genuine.

“Yes, Miss Clarke, it’s going to hurt. That’s the point of a spanking.”

Evelyn shuffled her legs, finally diverting her gaze towards the ground.

She didn’t get up out of her seat.

“I take it you’ve made your decision?”

She nodded, still not looking at him.

“Alright.” He clasped his hands together.

“Take off your skirt.”

She hesitated for a little moment. He unclasped his hands, and started to tap his finger on the desk again.

She stood, unbuckled her heels, and shimmied out of her skirt.

“Are you wearing a bra?”

Another nod. 

“Take it off too.”

She removed her shirt and then her bra. Her breasts were perky and he found he liked the shape. He drew a graphite pencil from his desk, and a short notepad. His hand flicked across the paper with a few long, confident strokes, occasionally looking up at her, jotting down a few things.

He put the notebook away, pushed his rolling chair out from the desk with his leg, and gave his upper thigh a few pats.

“Right here.”

She walked over, not looking him in the face, and lowered herself over his lap. His fingers dipped beneath her panties and he pulled them delicately down her thighs. He felt the curve of her round bottom. Goosebumps freckled up where he touched her.

He gave her backside three hard slaps.

Evelyn shrieked.

She gasped into his hand when he put it over her mouth, but didn’t try to remove it. 

“Volume, Miss Clarke.” His voice had softened to a whisper.

A short whine left her throat, but she nodded.

He spanked her quite hard for a few minutes. The little woman was ruined by the end of it.

She panted and cried, her chest heaving in his lap, her delicate fingers clutching at his thighs, spent. Her face was a bit prettier when her mascara was running. He ran his hand over the back of her head and pet her messy hair tenderly.

“I want you to stand up now. Get dressed.”

She listened. She pulled her panties and skirt gingerly back over her red bottom. He got her an alcohol wipe from his cabinet to tidy her face with. 

She left through the adjoining room to his lecture hall, where none of his other students had arrived yet, and made briskly for the exit.

“Miss Clarke.”

She froze in her tracks. Turning back around, she looked at him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“...to clean myself up, Professor.”

“My class is about to start. Wouldn’t want you to be tardy, now have a seat.”

“But, Mr. Emory—“

“But, nothing. I’m not asking. Sit down.”

The young woman’s face turned a shade of beet red. Turning back around, she climbed two steps up the staggered rows of seating, pulled out a chair, dropped her book bag beneath the long desk, and hesitantly took her seat.

Her expression twisted. She began to fidget in the chair like it was too hot.

Miss Clarke’s nose remained staunchly buried in her textbook as the rest of his students filed into the room, hardly flipping pages, reading a whole lot about nothing. He taught his lesson as usual, occasionally turning his gaze on her. Miss Clarke, although no longer keen to return his eye contact, squirmed beautifully in her seat for the duration of his lecture.

At home, that evening, he painted a theoretical version of Evelyn’s naked body, with her unremarkable head absent from her slender shoulders, and found his hunch had been correct; she was far more lovely that way.

[prose-for-hire]

Be still my spooky heart

Pairing: Giles x fem!reader

Request: Sorry this isnt a request for the halloween prompts but I wanted to request a female reader x Giles prompt where the reader is alternative/goth and they're bullied and find sanctuary at the library where they keep to themselves and enjoy the peace and quiet of the library where they can read about spooky things and catch up on their studies ...I'm requesting specifically because I start college again soon and there some people there that make me feel unwelcome and Giles is a current comfort

Requested by: @stardust-strange​ - I’m so sorry this took so long love💜

Warning: Discussion of bullying. Reader gets physically injured, but not at anybody else’s hand. Tiniest ever blood mention.

You had always had a love for the alternative. You had a love for all things dark and spooky. It was so fascinating. You adored gothic fashion and notions. It was a beauty that sometimes it felt that only you saw.  

Your clothing reflected this love of yours. You enjoyed wearing black, pairing different styles to your taste. You had always worn alternative clothing. It was the way that you expressed yourself. It made you feel good, made you happy.

You were happy with the way you dressed. It looked good. But other people didn’t really seem to get it. In fact, they took an almost instant dislike to you for it. Some gave you strange looks whilst others hurled insults at you.

You held your head high for the most part, you weren’t doing anything wrong. All you were doing was expressing yourself (and looking super cool while you were doing it). But some days it really got you down.

It got so bad sometimes that you had to hide. In the bathrooms or somewhere private you found on campus. Because the group grew in their hatred of you almost every day it seemed.

Some days you just left. Not turning up to classes, not daring to show your face. Less you face a fate worse than death itself. Your reality, that is.

Often, you could be found leaving the college campus and walking back there. To your safe space.

Your safe place was your old High school’s library. You could spend hours in there. You would read of such brilliant worlds. Both fiction and otherwise. You enjoyed reading about the goriest demons. The worst ones, with the most horrific pasts. Stories and myths. You loved it all. The creepier the better. It fascinated you. It spoke to your very essence.

This was where you were doing today. You were scurrying towards the library. You couldn’t explain it, but it made you feel safe. He made you feel safe.

Protected. From cruel eyes and harsh barbs that people threw your way. With him, it didn’t feel so bad. With him, you felt like you could fight another day.

Giles was your old high school librarian and you had fallen for him. Deeply. Your feelings increasing since you left the school. You barely ever stopped thinking about him. You were closer to graduating college now and yet you still snuck in the school when Snyder wasn’t paying attention.

He was always happy to see you. So welcoming. Warm and affectionate. More so than he was with anyone else, although you didn’t realise it. You usually slipped in, hiding between the stacks. Some days he found you and sat with you. A comfortable silence.

Others, he would let you have your space and wait for you to come and find him. You knew you could always talk to him. No matter what.

He loved your fascination for the macabre. That you would always tackle the heaviest books. Horror and life and death. Fantasy becoming alive in your mind.

He thought your style was brilliant. He would have worn the same should he not be attached to suits in the way he was now. He thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Your style only accentuating your distinctive features.

His heart soared when he saw that you were there, but when he realised that you were upset it hurt him. Almost as deep as it appeared to on your face. It cut worse than a knife through the chest. Than poison to the heart.

Today, was one of those days. A sad one. Your eyes welling when you arrived, his face that had been upturned into a wry smile upon your appearance in his day instantly dropped when he saw your demeanour. The way you curled in upon yourself. The way you hissed sharply at any wrong movement because of the pain.

You had embarrassed yourself, in front of them all. They had laughed, jeered. Shame had you in a chokehold. Their hatred for you cutting off your circulation. Sobs catching in your throat.

You had fallen over, stumbling over your own feet. In the middle of the lecture hall before the professor started.

They laughed. Whispered and jeered at you. Some clapped and shouted. Their voices becoming louder. You felt so humiliated. They spoke of how much of a freak you were. How much you stuck out from the crowd. How much they hated you for it without knowing you. Just because you didn’t fit their idealised mould.

You had skinned your knee. Blood running down your leg, ripping your tights even more than they usually were. You scooped yourself up, leaving the lecture room as fast as you could hobble away.

Tears stung the back of your eyes. Vision blurred. The heavy stream rolling down your face. You could taste it. Salty sadness almost drowning you.

His kind hand lead you to his office. His love cradled you, his deep-rooted care reaching every pore. Every inch of your being. He scanned your tear-stained face.

His jaw tensed, his eyes barely holding the anger that was hidden behind. He needed to know if someone had done this. Had hurt you in this way. He made sure to keep it below the surface, his care at the forefront. His tensing jaw barely hidden as he took your shaking hand in both of his.

“What happened, Y/n?”

“I-“ You shook your head, waves of sobs making your entire body shudder. His eyes shone, he had never seen you this way. You usually wouldn’t show him just how much they hurt you. It broke him. His hands soothingly rubbing against yours.

“If they have laid a hand on you, I will bloody well-” You shook your head quickly, words failing you. Eyes widening at his biting attitude. He was trying to push it under the surface, silencing it until he knew the facts. But when he cared this deeply, when he knew in his very heart that he would near fight the sun had it cast upon your face wrong - this anger could never dissipate.

You deserved the world. You deserved kindness and light. Compassion and adoration. Everything he had wanted to give you, to say to you. You deserved love.

As you began to explain, knowing there was no immediate physical harm waiting outside the walls he could relax. But only slightly. He sat you down and leaned to take out his medical box, opening it. You watched his fingers sort through the bandages and antiseptic.

He gestured, as if asking permission to assist. You nodded through your still burning tears.

He knelt before you, a soothing hand on your thigh briefly before he realised and reluctantly slid his hand from your skin. You leaned in further despite the discomfort at your slight pain, wishing to feel his warm, comforting hand on you again.

But he moved to focus on the now dried wound on your knee. It wasn’t so deep, but the wound was more emotional from what you had explained. Still, he wished to treat you as if you were the only person in the world. In his world.

He began to clean the wound, wiping the dried blood from your knee. He focused with such dedication. Every stroke a practice in devotion. He was so in tune with you.

He hated it when you hissed, his hand resting on your shin now. The touch soothing. With his touch, your tears began to dry.

He pushed his anger way down, deciding that he would save it for when you were gone. When he could ask Willow to hack into the campus register and find the names of those that cause you such pain. Find a way to make them hurt the way they had made you hurt.

No, don’t be rash.

Right now, everything was about you. It was always about you. You were in his every thought. Every movement. Such attention, such dutiful caress.  He rubbed your leg softly, his fingertips barely brushing your skin but you felt it in your very soul.

His mind would tell him later he had done too much. Been too familiar. When you may not feel the same. But he had such care to give. Such love to lay upon you. He had to show you this tenderness.

He bandaged your wound. The intimacy of this action made you sigh softly, your tears in your eyes but your mind now consumed by him.

When he finished dressing your wound with those nimble fingers, he didn’t move from where he was knelt before you.

He stared into your eyes, his words lost. He just gazed in awe. Even in your sorrow, you were strong. Even at a low he found you ethereal. A woman that would not be torn down by this. That could accept his assistance but still stand strong on your own. He admired you for it.

His touch had been tender and you felt yourself missing this contact. As if he read your mind, your most intimate thoughts he rose to his feet. But not before he leaned into you.

Pressing a sweet kiss against your forehead. Feather-light. You closed your eyes, again leaning into his touch. You wanted to grip him and pull him into you. Kiss his lips, allow him to know you. Feel you. But you couldn’t, not today.

Not after you had shared this moment with him. You were still dizzy from even the gentlest contact he had bestowed upon you.

Maybe one day. When you weren’t so reliant on what you already had now. You adored him, needed him. Couldn’t dare ruin this. Lose this.

You loved him and this was the very moment that you realised. You wouldn’t know for months from now that he felt exactly the same.

[wri0thesley]

Paperwork - Bruno x Fem! Reader (Kinktober Day #1: Toys Under Clothing)

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. Public play, slurs (slut), toys, cunnilingus. 4k.

You’re usually willing to indulge Bruno in whatever he wants. But with so much work to get done and a meeting with the Don to get through, can you really let yourself indulge him in this? (Spoiler: the answer is yes). 

You are always far too eager to be a help to Bruno. It had, you hope, been endearing when you were a wide-eyed underling to him who just wanted to assist in his ideals of making the city a better place even if you were working for the Mafia. Too, you hope he’d been endeared by - when he’d finally pushed past his code of ethics and kissed you despite being your superior - how eager you were to kiss him and touch him and go on dates with him. Sure, you were a little green and naïve and sure Bruno was the first person you’d ever loved so fiercely and given every part of yourself over to, but you hoped he’d thought that sweet instead of desperate. 

As time had marched on, some of your bright-eyed and bushy-tailed nature had gone awry. There were only so many drug deals you could bust and files you could give to Don Giovanna of men you knew he was going to have killed before some of the hope in you began to die. But Bruno remained a cheerful constant - cooking breakfast in the morning, picking you up for dates, kissing you sweetly when you two went your separate ways for a workday. Sure, he wasn’t good at cooking and he was worse at driving, but the romantic was always there. 

It had taken you a little while to see some of the stranger and more intense parts of Bruno’s personality, but even those hadn’t been much of a deterrent. You’d laughed at some of his more macabre jokes, and when he’d suggested bringing some . . . slightly less vanilla elements into your bedroom, you’d found that you rather enjoyed being helpless and at his mercy when he unzipped your hands and left them on the table as he edged you with his mouth. You weren’t a prude!

But this was too much. Your face is burning. 

“It’s very simple,” Bruno is saying, a smirk playing on his full lips, his dark blue eyes glittering with mischief. “You wear this all day, and I take this, and I get to watch you come apart at your desk.”

“I can’t,” you try and say. “I . . . we have that meeting with the Don today, and I have lots of paperwork--”

“Exactly,” Bruno presses himself a little closer to you in the cramped space of your bathroom. He breathes lightly into your ear. “We’ll be together all day, doing boring admin tasks. It’s a perfect opportunity for me to see just how good you can be.”

Heat floods your face. You always become a little useless when Bruno says you’re a good girl, or you’re doing well, or ‘don’t you look pretty like that, bella, with my cock in your mouth?’. Maybe it’s a praise kink, or a corruption kink - whatever it is, Bruno is perfectly aware of it and clearly not afraid to use it to his own ends. 

“I can’t . . .” You say, weakly, but Bruno is smiling that dangerous smile where one side of his lip curls up and you both know that you have lost this battle entirely. “Show me how it works.”

“Alright,” Bruno hums, and he reaches into the pocket of his suit to show you the toy. It’s a dark black egg shape with a long handle that you know is designed to curve around and press against your clit, and you know from looking at it that it will drive you over the edge and then some. Bruno does not skimp on anything. Your wine is decades old, his clothes are custom made, the cabinets he had installed in your villa last week are antique - and from the way he’s cradling the sex toy, he probably paid a fair whack for it. “I feel like I don’t really need to explain it to you, principessa. Your face is as pink as a sunset.”

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you breathe, but Bruno is still smirking. You bite your lip as he steps closer to you, and your breath catches as he sinks onto his knees and one of his hands travels up your stocking clad leg. 

“You’re going to look so beautiful, though, bambina,” he breathes. “When you bite your lip because it’s all too much, your fingers digging into your palms, your pretty lips pressed tight together as you try not to let yourself come in front of everyone . . .”

“Why does that sound so hot?” You ask him, and he laughs, the sound like sparkling. 

“You like the idea really, hmm?” His fingers play along the top of your stockings, stroking bare skin. When he slides his fingers over the gusset of your expensive satin underwear (bought for you by him, naturally), he hums to find it already slick with your neediness. “Ah. You really like the idea.”

“I . . . I just like being at your mercy,” you confess, squeezing your eyes shut tight. Bruno laughs again, and you feel the cool press of the toy against you as he manoeuvres it into place. The egg, it turns out, is shaped just so to gently press inside of you - as you feel it breach your entrance, one of your hands clings tight to Bruno’s shoulder and he makes soft, soothing noises as he settles it just right. You’re slick enough from the talk and the flirt and the promise of what is to come tonight that getting it inside you is no issue - but the sensation is still strange and different, and it takes you a few moments as he pulls away to get used to it. 

“You were dripping,” Bruno murmurs, stepping close enough to you that he can cup your chin in his hand and pull you into a kiss. He mouths hungrily at you, the kiss warm with the promise of all of the things he’s going to do to you later and all of the things you’re going to wish he was doing to you whilst he teased you at work. “You really do like the idea, hmm? Slut.”

“You’re one to talk,” you breathe. “When it was your idea--”

He laughs. 

“I’m not denying being a slut,” he tells you, as he kisses your forehead. You don’t see that one of his hands is in his pocket and he’s pressed one of the buttons until the toy buzzes to life and you bite back a whimper. 

“N-neither am I,” you say, and Bruno grins. 

The car ride to the office is torture, though part of that came from Bruno’s driving ‘skill’ - perhaps, if you’d been allowed to drive, the potholes and speed bumps wouldn’t have been quite so much of a rush. But Bruno had decided that turning off the toy was no fun, and so you’d sat in the passenger seat and bit your tongue every time Bruno had turned too sharp a corner to stop yourself from giving away just how much it was getting to you. 

Bruno comes around to the passenger door to open it, a hand proffered, and you’re grateful for the stability as it takes your legs a few moments to remember how to stand straight without shaking. Bruno is grinning as he looks down at you, and he’s grinning even more as the two of you walk through the door and immediately he’s rushed at by Narancia, who looks harried off his feet. You don’t catch all of the details through Narancia’s explanations, but Bruno keeps an indulgent smile as he follows the younger man. He throws a look over his shoulder that’s all helpless amusement. 

“I’ll catch up to you later for some of the paperwork,” Bruno calls to you, even as he disappears from view and you’re left alone. You stand where you are for a few moments, taking a deep breath - and you’re just about to go to your desk and begin working on the paperwork when you feel the buzzing between your thighs increase.

The bastard has turned it up. 

-

You struggle through some of the paperwork. Whatever Bruno is doing, he’s toying with the remote control every so often, and you find yourself shifting and sighing and pressing your thighs together through the blurring words and the sheets of white. Although Bruno didn’t say in so many words that you weren’t allowed to touch yourself, you’d rather gotten the impression - and you don’t want to ruin his fun. 

Besides. You have horrible visions of Sticky Fingers unzipping your hands and Bruno casually walking away, your hands in his pockets. When a fellow underling of Don Giovanna asks why he’s carrying his girlfriend’s hands around so brazenly, you imagine him raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. 

“Well,” the Bruno in your mind says, “she just couldn’t keep her hands off herself.”

You know Bruno well enough to know that’s not beyond the realms of possibility, and though the scenario makes blood rush to your cheeks, you think it’s one of those scenarios that are better in your head than played out in real life. You don’t think you could ever live that one down - better to not give him the ammunition in the first place. 

Every time you think he might be easing up, he surprises you by making the buzzing harder and faster. You suppose you should be grateful he spent the money on one that doesn’t make any noise - but the fact is, when Bruno comes in after helping Narancia, you’re bent double over your own desk and panting helplessly. 

Bruno stands in the doorway for a minute, blue eyes crawling over every inch of your body to take in the pathetic scene you’re making. You wonder if there are rivulets of your slick running down your inner thighs - certainly, you feel wet and needy enough that it might be the case. Your face is hot and flushed red, your lipstick all but bitten off, your pupils blown and wide. And Bruno stands there, drinking it in - and then has the nerve to laugh, low and dangerous. 

“I’m glad it was me walking in on you like this,” he says, lightly. The remote is pressed and the vibrating turns up a notch, your thighs squeezing reflexively together, useless little moan falling from bitten lips. “Lucky for you. Imagine if poor Don Giovanna had found you like this, helplessly splayed out on a desk like you were just waiting for someone to walk in on you and see you . . .”

The click of expensive leather shoes across the office. Bruno comes closer and closer to you, and your body reacts to the presence of your lover. Your channel squeezes around the toy, and you can’t deadfall the moan that breaks unbidden from your throat. Bruno chuckles again. 

“Mm, well, bella . . . you do make quite the sight like this, don’t you? Maybe I should feel like the lucky one. If anyone else had seen you in this state . . . why, how could they resist just letting you lie there whilst they fucked you? You’re tempting me something fierce right now, you know.”

“D-do it then,” you whimper. The idea of Bruno fucking you - even if it is in his office, even if anyone could walk in on him pounding into you and pulling your hair - is a welcome relief to the aching pound of your core. You know that the buzzing isn’t high enough to make you come (you’ve learnt your own tolerance very well, with Bruno as a teacher) but it’s still enough to have your nerve endings buzzing and your body wishing you were coming. 

“I’d love to,” Bruno murmurs, stepping behind you. His crotch presses into the soft curve of your ass, and you can feel the hard outline of his cock. He spends a moment there, grinding the hardness against you, teasing you - and then, sighing regretfully, steps away. 

“But we have a meeting to go to and intelligence to relay and the responsibility of keeping Naples clean at our feet, tesoro,” he says. You get the impression he’s fighting back a grin. “So you’ll simply have to live with it a bit longer, hmm?”

You lie there, gasping, for a few more moments, feeling betrayed that something with the power to stoke the fires within you was so tantalisingly close and yet still taken away from you. 

“You’re terrible,” you tell him, pulling yourself up delicately, trying to ignore your shaking thighs and the fact you can’t seem to stand straight. “You’re a horrible tease.”

“I’m the one teasing you?” He raises his eyebrows. He smirks, and your insides twist in awful need. “You’re not the one who had to look at you. You’re not the one who had to feel you pressing against my cock . . .”

You bite your lip. His eyes lazily trace your form, zeroing in on your mouth. You wonder if he’s imagining your lips wrapped around his aching shaft - and meanly, you hope the thought haunts him throughout the whole meeting. 

“Oh,” he says, casually, “that reminds me. You’ll need to reapply your lipstick before we go. And . . . well. Perhaps you should wipe down your thighs, principessa. You got the front of my trousers all damp.”

-

Bruno holds the door open for you as you walk into Don Giovanna’s office, and as you pass him you hear a soft click and the device currently snug inside you begins to move in a way you didn’t anticipate - instead of buzzing, it lightly begins to thrust, rocking against you like a smaller version of your boyfriend’s cock-- 

And it’s all you can do to keep upright as you press your lips together and give your golden-haired boss a smile that you desperately hope doesn’t give away that there’s anything wrong. He tips his head to the side, his bright eyes questioning, but he doesn’t say anything as his office door swings close and  Bruno pulls out your chair for you. His hand lingers on your shoulder for a minute as he sits, but it’s nothing more intimate than how he usually treats you at work. 

Everyone knows that you and Bruno are a couple, and perhaps a few people have seen you guiltily steal a kiss as you pass in hallways or have heard you discuss date night plans when you should really have been working, but you both agreed to not let it interfere with what you do in standard business hours. This line of work does creep into your home life, of course - but at least at Don Giovanna’s offices and expensive villas and anywhere with a desk and a filing cabinet, the two of you are professional as much as you can be. 

Still. You doubt people would look at you so fondly and whisper about how sweet you are together if they knew exactly what Bruno was doing to you now. It takes much of your grace to not rock into the thrusts of the toy, the egg rubbing your g-spot in a way that has your strangled response to Don Giovanna catching in your throat. He looks at you, concerned.

“Are you feeling quite alright?” He asks you, and you nod, forcing a smile. Bruno’s concerned hand lands on your back, and his voice is dripping with worry as he murmurs your name. 

“Do you need to call it a day?” He asks, the double meaning very clear. You straighten yourself out as well as you can and ignore the persistent buzzing, the aching low in your stomach, the fact that you have to keep digging your nails into your palms to stop the edges of orgasm blurring your vision. 

“I’ll be fine,” you breathe. “Just a late night, that’s all.”

Don Giovanna gives your boyfriend a look over his desk and Bruno has the decency to look a little abashed. Good. If people can’t know the real truth, they should at least know that Bruno is responsible for the predicament you’ve found yourself in. 

The meeting goes on as well as can be expected. Your hands shake when you pass Don Giovanna paperwork, your voice breaks a few times and you have to restart, and at one point you give up entirely. 

You do not mean to give up, of course. You had made a pact in your mind with yourself that you were not going to let Bruno win this little game. You were going to keep your cool - you were going to be very stern and professional and absolutely nothing was going to be obvious to anyone else who might see you today. Nobody was going to know about the little surprise that Bruno had nestled between your legs that morning. You’d convinced yourself that Bruno wanted someone to find out - that the thrill of your humiliation was going to get him off, or that he wanted to have an excuse to punish you. And though you certainly wouldn’t mind being punished in some of the creative ways Bruno had previously come up with, just this once you wanted to win at his own game. 

So you had done your best to stay firm and calm and together. And until that one moment, you’d been doing as well as you could possibly manage.

In that one moment, you hand your boss a piece of paper and Bruno must turn something up because suddenly it’s buzzing fast and violently enough you fear you’ll be pushed over the edge right there - and, unsure of what to do, you wrap your arm around your stomach and whimper, rocking forward to try and escape the thrust of the egg. 

“Are you alright?” Don Giovanna is asking, immediately, standing up and rushing around to your side of the desk. He repeats your name. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Just a stomach pain,” you say, softly, your face red. You know that Bruno must be looking at you and you wonder if he’s hiding the gloating on his face. “I-I’ll be okay, in a minute--”

“You should go home,” Don Giovanna says, earnestly. “Bruno, you should take her home--”

“We have so much to do,” Bruno is saying, but an arm is gently pulling at you, lifting you from the chair. You cling to Bruno’s familiar warmth, the weight of him good against you. “I’ll take her back to our office and make sure she has some painkillers, though--”

(He turns it up again, the bastard, and you moan aloud this time, unable to even attempt to hide it. You hope it reads to Don Giovanna as a moan of pain as opposed to one of pleasure, but thankfully your back has been turned to him and you don’t have to worry about it.)

You’re taken through a maze of corridors, face pressed against Bruno’s arm, panting and red and shaking. People shoot you worried looks, and you do not at all escape attention - but Bruno murmurs soothing words to you and you hear him occasionally whisper something about how you’re not feeling well, and you think that you’ve gotten away with it. 

When you reach the office, you’re let go of, and Bruno says, voice stern;

“Sit on my desk, bambina.”

Helplessly, you follow his orders. There’s a click of a lock and a noise that you think is him drawing a curtain over the small window in the door, something he usually only does when he has an important visitor to his office that cannot be disturbed - now, though, as he approaches you (slack and useless on his desk, fingers digging into the edges, thighs apart in the hopes it will make the buzzing stop being so noticeable), it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be disturbed for a different reason. 

He looks at you for a few moments, before that damnable smirk curls his lip and he shakes his head. 

“Oh, bambina,” he says, again. “You couldn’t last the whole day?”

“Bruno,” you pant out. “I tried my best, Bruno, please . . .”

“Hmm.” He reaches into his pocket, very deliberately, and pulls out the remote. You stare at it in his hand for a few seconds, as he seems to weigh up his options. “Well . . . I could turn this up even higher, and watch you come apart on my desk.”

“Bruno,” your voice is a petulant whine. You know you shouldn’t, but you bat your eyelashes at him and pout, and softly whisper in a way that has always led to him wrecking you in the past; “But I tried so hard . . . I just want to be good for you--”

His breath catches. His eyes darken. He steps closer to you, settling into the space made by your spread thighs. 

“You were a very good girl for me, bambina,” he says. “I suppose . . . you did do your best . . . .”

When he leans into you and kisses you hard, you know that you’ve won - and you feel even luckier when he puts the remote control on the side, pressing the red power button, and the toy powers down inside you. And when he sinks onto his knees, fingers prising the slick-soaked toy from your sex, your soaking wet underwear tossed to one side - well. Then you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. 

Bruno presses kisses to your inner thighs that make the muscles jump, teeth grazing you ever so slightly for a shock of danger before he kisses again. His fingers dig into plush skin, almost as if he wants to pull you against him and never have you let go, your thighs pillowing his head.

His breath ghosts along the hot, needy valley between your thighs and you shiver. Your fingers go to tangle in his hair instead of cling to the hardwood of his antique desk, and Bruno groans when you tug a little bit. Kisses are pressed along the slit, butterfly soft. 

“Please,” you urge, in soft little pants, twitching your hips towards his mouth. The curve of his lips fits against your sex. 

“Patience, principessa,” he murmurs - but as his tongue darts out to taste you, swiping your slickness up, you’re reminded that when it comes to you Bruno has none of that. 

He uses the flat of his tongue to tease you into whimpers and sighs, the point occasionally going to toy with the swollen nub of your clit, but never long enough to have you too close to the edge. You’ve been hovering on a slippery slope all day, though, and even the slightest touch of Bruno’s lips and tongue has you seeing stars. 

You’re soaking wet from today’s foreplay, and the noise of Bruno’s mouth and tongue is lascivious in how sloppy it is in the office, but you can’t bring yourself to think about that as Bruno’s tongue thrusts inside of you, circling the ring of sensitive muscles around your entrance that the egg has been teasing all day. You whimper out his name again, pulling on his hair so he’ll eat you out more hungrily - and Bruno, lovely Bruno, giving Bruno, horny, needy, insatiable Bruno . . . he makes good on it.

His tongue swipes over your clit, faster than you realised it could go, pushing you to the very top of the mountain until you feel like you’re about to fall off a great peak - and then, with the slightest suck of your clit, you tumble down into the pillowy snowbanks. You pull so hard on his hair that he groans in pain, thighs tightening about his head reflexively as your orgasm tears you into pieces and puts you back together wrong. 

It takes a few moments, cool aftershocks ricocheting through your body, until your thighs drop from your boyfriend’s shoulders and you look down at him, feeling dazed but satisfied. 

He’s on his knees on the floor, a satisfied smirk on his unfairly handsome face. 

“Now,” he murmurs, “wasn’t that worth waiting for?”

-

Three days later, you get into the office to find a letter on your desk. You recognise the golden wax seal, a rose engraved in it - this is from Don Giovanna himself. You open it, wondering what your boss could possibly want with you. As you scan the words enclosed, though, your face begins to burn. 

I have sent Bruno a fee for the dry cleaning of my office guest chair. You left a wet patch. 

Kind regards, 

Giorno Giovanna. 

[hostess-of-horror]

Danse Macabre

Finally! After so many days of writing, I have finally finished my biggest fanfic yet! It's another Phantom x Peach fanfic and it is a bit of a sequel to my previous one "Encore at Midnight". I had this really cool story concept for a little while and I felt like I just could not do anything else unless I write it down. It was a bit of an experiment since I had to do a little bit of research just to pull some things off (however, it is far from perfect, so please forgive me). Also, I have officially made some OCs for this fanfic, yay! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy what I have created!

Number of Pages: 17

Word Count: 9358

[Content includes: Themes of Death/Mortality and Some Suggestiveness (not smut though!), OC “Death”, Graphic Body Horror, and Slight Profanity]

For @salamifuposey, @kindpopstar, @jawaii-chan, and everyone else who wants to read this fanfic!

____________________________________________________________

My Dearest Princess,

Forgive my absence these past few days. I have been preparing the final touches in my newest masterpiece, and I have been dying to show you what I have created. It is something I have not done before; consider it an experiment of sorts. My excitement cannot be contained any longer! Tonight, I invite you to a performance unlike anything you have seen before. I have arranged a carriage to arrive at your castle at around midnight. It will take you to Spooky Trails, where I have made refuge, and you will be accompanied along the way. She will be your guide, and I assure you she will not lead you astray. I pray you receive this letter and that you accept the invitation.

Your Humble Host,

P

---

Princess Peach reads and rereads the letter. So many questions run through her mind. What does he mean by “experiment”? What kind of performance will this be? And who is this guide? She looks up from the letter, and across from her is an unfamiliar face. Sitting across from her is a woman looking out of the carriage window, admiring the night sky. Or, at least it seems like she is, for the bright reflection on her tea shades completely covered her eyes. Her guide is abnormally slender and taller than her, however she could not tell exactly how much. Her alabaster skin pops in contrast of her dark attire, which consists of a frilly ivory blouse and high-low trail skirt, a velvet violet corset, leather pants, and a long onyx black coat embellished with jewels. Her frizzy, unkept silver hair is pulled up into two buns with small strands of hair shimmering like a diamond. Peach had never seen anyone quite like her before; it’s like she came from another world entirely. The guide turns her attention from the view towards Peach and smiles. Peach averts her eyes and looks towards the window – it was rude to stare, especially at a stranger. “So, you must be the one my master has been interested in all this time? He has told me so much about you.”, the guide spoke. Peach brings her attention back towards the guide. “I am, miss.”, she responds, “And, he has?”

“Oh yes! He is simply infatuated with you! I dare say, obsessed, even. And now that I have a chance to see you up close, I can definitely see why.”

“Infatuated is a good word to describe him. He has shown his affection quite often since our first reunion.”

“Has he now?”

“Mm-hmm. He’s been nothing but a gentleman towards me, even if he does get pretty… excitable from time to time.”

“Consider yourself lucky, your highness. Having an enthusiastic partner makes the relationship a lot more interesting!”

“Well, yes, I agree… I- um…”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Phantom and I have only met a little while now; almost a month I believe. I’m not sure if I want to start referring to him as my partner.”

“Just yet, you mean?”

“Oh, please don’t get me wrong, I do like him! I just like to… take things a little slow.”

“Ah, I see. I completely understand. You want to get to know him a little bit more before you make any decisions. A rather smart move on your part.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t tell anyone this, but my master isn’t one to do such a thing. That is not to say he’s completely reckless, but whenever there’s something – or someone – he’s interested in, he becomes determined. Stubborn even. And personally, it is not his best quality sometimes. It makes him look like a moron. A blind one at that.”

“I guess you can say he becomes inspired. Phantom is an artist, after all. Art is meant to invoke emotion, no matter the medium. It would make sense that he himself is the same way.”

“Insightful! And right you are.”

“Not to mention, Phantom is an opera singer. Opera, of course, is highly emotional and very dramatic, and so is he.”

“That too. I know this might be a personal question, but your first reunion with my master…”

“Yes?”

“What happened that night? I ask because I remember seeing him wallowing in shame after his trip over to the Mushroom Kingdom. When he returned, he threw himself onto his fainting couch, murmuring curses, almost about to cry.”

“Oh my! Well, Phantom was in the ballroom inside my castle that night. He was singing this beautiful melody. When I found him, we talked for a bit and discovered we both have something in common.”

“And what would that be?”

“Companionship.”

“Ah…”

“As we talked, he told me about his life after that battle at Spooky Trails a few years ago. He was so lonely, unable to find friends to call his own. Soon he became… anxious. I cannot describe exactly what came over him, but it was obvious he was in pain. Then, his eyes turned red, and suddenly darkness. I fainted.”

The guide stares at Peach, her mouth slightly agape. Although her tea shades cover her eyes, her expression is readable. It is a look of shock – that look of knowing exactly what had just happened with Phantom on that very night. She sighs, “I see. That is not the first time he has done that. My master can be terrifying when he has his moments.”

“Everything was just so overwhelming. I was scared, yes, but afterwards I was more concerned of his well-being. I cannot bear to see someone in pain; being alone can take a toll on anyone… Oh, that poor thing! He must’ve thought that he harmed me when I fainted!” Peach exclaimed. Silence takes over the conversation. Peach’s eyes wander towards the carriage floor while the guide’s attention never breaks. Her eyebrows furrowed, Peach fidgets with her gloves. The guide adjusts her position, leaning over towards the worried princess. She reaches out and holds her hand; Peach stops fidgeting. “I’m glad that you care about him, your highness. Very few do.” she gently smiles, “There have been many times I believed that the only people who care about him is me and the others.”

“The others?”, Peach asks.

“The rest of my master’s theatre troupe. Just like him, we are all one with music.”

“…may I ask what is your name?

“My name? Oh-! my name, how could I forget my manners? How rude of me! I am Dolores, your highness.”

“And if I may ask as well, if you don’t mind, where do you come from?”

Before Dolores has a chance to answer, a flash of shadows sped by the carriage. Dolores motions towards the window, her head peeking out, looking over the view. Her pearl white teeth shows as she grins from ear to ear. “We’re almost there! Ah, soon you will experience the greatest show yet, Princess Peach!”, she exclaims with glee. Peach takes a look at her window. Memories flooded her mind like a rushing river coursing through the barren earth. Spooky Trails.She remembers now; it was all coming back to her. This was all leading to the very location where her battle with Phantom took place. She, alongside Mario, Luigi, and a few Rabbids, witnessed Phantom’s creation and fought him as he flaunted about on the old, decrepit stage. To think, he was an almost entirely different person. Phantom wasn’t as gentlemanly as he is as of recently, but since their first reunion, he has been wanting things to change.

He wants her. Her heart. Her soul. Her beauty. Everything.

To think it has come to this. To think the princess, who has been known for being saved by her plumber in shining armor and being in love with him, would fall for such a character. But has she truly fallen for Phantom? Or is it all just nonsense? If it was just nonsense, then why would she accept the invitation? Peach takes in the environment as the carriage rolls across the cobblestone path, driving through the dead trees and the old, seemingly abandoned village. Despite having never returned after the battle, Peach regains her memories of Spooky Trails, almost to the point of knowing exactly where Phantom resides. Dolores returns to her position, her shining grin still on her face. Peach turns her attention back at Dolores and asks, “What was the inspiration behind this performance?”

“I would tell you, but it would ruin the surprise! My master has ordered all of us to never reveal his masterpiece until it is time.” Dolores answers.

“Oh…”

“All I can say is that this is no ordinary performance. My master is quite the visionary, you know!”

“Very well, then. I won’t ask any more questions, if it’s going to ruin the surprise.”

“Are you excited, your highness?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not often that I get invited to such events.”

“Really? But you’re royalty! I thought you would be invited to all sorts of performances.”

“I do, but it just doesn’t happen that often, and I honestly don’t know why. I adore the theater!”

“We all do too. Our lifestyle is nothing but the theater… quite literally!”

“Gosh, that must be so wonderful, to be part of a theatre troupe. To perform for all to see, to entertain others through amazing plays! I’ve always wished to join when I was a little girl.”

“Oh! Would you look at that! We’ve finally arrived!”

After what it seemed like more than an hour, the carriage, at long last, finally stops. Dolores gets up from her seat, slowly crawling her way out of the carriage. Her elongated body almost struggles through the small door, but she succeeds with grace. She then offers her hand to Peach with a softer smile, “Your midnight show awaits, Princess Peach…” Taking Dolores’ hand, Peach steps out of the carriage and immediately she is greeted by a massive silver gate. The very gate that stands guard the entrance to Phantom’s stage. It is beautifully sculpted, shaped into swirls and patterns holding up an illuminating full moon, with two music notes placed on each side as the borders. Yes, Peach remembers now. Dolores walks up to the gate and peers through it. She waves at something or something – Peach could not tell – and opens it, allowing themselves to enter. Peach follows behind. She didn’t know how tall Dolores was when they were in the carriage, but now she could get a good look at her stature. Dolores was tall – taller than any human she has ever seen before. If Peach could guess, her guide was three to four (maybe five!)feet taller than her and was practically towering over her. Ever since they met, she had this feeling of uneasiness. Who is this woman? What is this woman? Where did she come from? So many questions. There was something off about Dolores, and it wasn’t necessarily her abnormal physique. There was something, but Peach couldn’t put her finger on it. Whatever it was…. Perhaps she doesn’t need to worry too much about it.

Approaching the decrepit stage, the two ladies are met by a small man wielding a large, glowing lantern. This man is the opposite of Dolores in terms of height and physique. He is a short and stout dwarf, donning a regal yellow robe over his slightly mismatched clothes. The light emanating from the lantern reveals his nicely trimmed beard, his long, curly chocolate brown hair tied back into a ponytail, his fluorescent amber eyes giving them a warm welcome. His smile grew bigger once Dolores waves again; he waves back. “Dolores, there you are! And you brought our special guest! Wunderbar! It is a pleasure to meet you, eure hoheit.”, the dwarf greets them, bowing in courtesy. “Are the others ready, Stefan?”, Dolores asks.

“We’ve been ready for a while now. Just making sure everything is perfect for tonight.”

“And what about our master?”

“He will not show his face. In fact, he wants me to tell you that no one must see him until he has shown himself to us all.”

“Ah, well that makes things interesting.”

“I agree. Anyway, enough chit chat! Let us proceed! We must not keep our master’s little freundin waiting.”

“Por favor, Stefan! Don’t tease… that’s my job.”

Stefan chuckles as he ushers them to go into the stage. Dolores follows Stefan, and Peach follows Dolores. They all walk deeper through the torn platform and dusty curtains. Damaged props, broken wires, hanging ropes, and mangy fabrics scatter the place. The further deeper they went, the larger the backstage seems to be. Peach looks in awe as she continues to follow her guides. Who knew that this abandoned stage held such secrets? After a few minutes of walking, Stefan places his lantern on the floor, lighting up the entire floor, and begins to crawl on his hands and knees. His fingers trace the nooks and crannies of the floorboards, mumbling to himself. He searches until he finds a small hole and grabs it. The hole turns out to be a handle, and Stefan pulls and lifts up the floorboards. He reveals a decent sized door leading to a much darker pathway – a long stone stairway stretching far into a secret tunnel. Stefan’s lantern gave light to the darkness, making the trip down into the underground refuge much less intimidating. Dolores holds Peach’s hand as they go down the stairs. This was such an odd way of attending a performance. Peach could not imagine what kind of performance involves having to venture underground in order to see it. What could she possibly expect from all of this? Part of her mind began screaming for help, pleading to go back to the Mushroom Kingdom. Part of her mind wanted normalcy, no surprises. It wanted her to stop and return to her chamber, to her castle, to Mario and her friends. However, the other part was curious. It was that familiar curiosity – the same curiosity she had when first reunited with Phantom. She could never forget that night. Never in a lifetime. Everything about him, whether it be music or shadow, is just so…. Alluring.

Alluring… Beguiling… Captivating… Enchanting…

Her mind finally gives in. She goes for the latter. How could she not? She has ventured too deep into this tunnel to start leaving. For once, she is able to take a break from her royal duties. To forget her troubles. To finally experience something new. For once. As for curiosity, she was more concerned about Phantom. Why would he not allow anyone to see him? Of course, it must be for the performance, but what exactly does Phantom have in store? The more Peach thought about him, the more impatient she became. Phantom. Oh, where are you, Phantom? Her mind falls into that familiar trance. She wants to see him again. She wants to hear him again. Perhaps Peach has become just as obsessed as he is with her. This must be an addiction. It must be. If it wasn’t, then she would never be where she is right now. Whether it be curiosity, obsession, or madness, Peach will continue to walk into shadow if it meant she will meet her friend again. Stefan, Dolores, and Peach finally reach the end of the tunnel, finding a wooden door decorated with gold etchings, which looked out of place amongst the cobweb-shrouded stone walls. With a strong push, Stefan enters through, allowing the door to creak wide open. Behind the door is a humongous hallway, adorned from wall to wall with a vast multitude of paintings, flyers and posters of plays and musicals, candles, and curtains. To think a dusty tunnel would lead to a beautiful makeshift palace! It’s like discovering a treasure chest inside of a dank, murky swamp. Is this where Phantom was residing all these years? Peach gasps. Dolores turns around and smiles, “Welcome to our humble abode, your highness. In this place, music is our lifeforce. We eat, we drink, we breathe, we sleep in music. Just like our master, we are not only creators of art – we are art itself. And tonight, we shall once again breathe life into another masterpiece. I cannot describe how immensely happy we all are. We are so glad that you accepted our master’s invitation, you will not regret it! Now, come along with me, let us go into the Ladies’ Dressing Room. Natasha has designed a wonderful costume for you to wear, and Ophelia will help you with your hair and makeup. I assure you they will make you absolutely gorgeous. Of course, that is not to say you’re not already beautiful.”

Stefan leaves the two ladies and heads towards the Gentlemen’s Dressing Room, which is across from the Ladies’ Dressing Room to the left, placing the lantern onto an iron hook built into the wall. “Well, I’m going to get myself ready and meet up with the others. I’ll see you all at the Gallery! Bis bald!”, he says as he closes the door. Dolores enters through the door to the right and holds it open for Peach to walk into the room. There sitting inside are twin sisters, both garbed in fine, flowy silk and chiffon gowns, working on their latest projects. To the left is a somber young lady sitting near a vanity, dressed all in Aegean and periwinkle blue, her pale pink hair intertwined into exquisite dreadlocks that reaches down to her shoulders. Wrapped around her head is a flower crown composed of lavender, Baby’s Breath, Fairy Foxgloves, and Forget-Me-Nots. To the right is a cheery young lady wearing a similar gown but in shades of fuchsia and rose, checking over the details of an extravagant costume, which is porcelain and peach in color. Her pale blue hair is also made of dreadlocks, as well as composed with the same flowers with the addition of small vines, but is pinned up into a lovely cornrow braided bun. The twin in pink looks up from her work and gasps, “Dolores, you’re back! And the princess is here! Ophelia, look! They’re here!” Ophelia turns around, her saddened expression softening into a weak smile, “Oh, hello again. And it’s nice to finally meet you, your highness.”

Dolores greets them back, turning her attention back to Natasha’s project, “Is the costume ready?”

“Yes, it is! I was just making sure everything’s perfect!”

“It looks amazing! Buen Trabajo!”

“Aww, thank you!”

“Alright, now we must hurry. I need to be in costume. I’ll meet you all in the Gallery, and don’t dottle please.”

“Don’t worry, Dolores, we’ll be ready as soon as possible.”

Dolores leaves Peach with Natasha and Ophelia, entering through a darkened room to get ready for the performance. Once she leaves, Peach witnesses what is perhaps the most amazing thing she has ever seen. The speed in which Natasha and Ophelia got her ready for the performance was astounding. What should have lasted for about a few hours or so ended up lasted for a few mere minutes! No human possesses this level of speed, especially with makeup. Any makeup artist would take their time getting every detail right. There would be no possible way anyone could apply eyeshadow, eyeliner, blush, concealer, lipstick, and every other detail really fast without messing up. But Ophelia proved that such an ability was possible. Natasha was no different. She helped Peach get into the extravagant costume without any struggle at all, as it fit perfectly onto her frame. How did she get her size just right? And it’s so comfortable too! “And… done! Oh, look at you! You are just beautiful, your highness! Don’t you think so, Ophelia?”, Natasha exclaims happily, proud of her job well done. “Oh yes, I agree…”, Ophelia smiles weakly again. Peach looks over to a nearby mirror. They were right; she is beautiful. Perhaps even more so, she thinks to herself, for she had never worn anything like this before. It is true that, being of royal blood, she is accustomed to an extremely elaborate (and expensive) wardrobe. But this… this is different from any other dress. It is a ballroom gown, completely encrusted with diamonds and pearls, with lovely black roses making a long trail from her waist down to the skirt. The white skirt is massive, flowing down towards the floor like a mass of billowing fog. Her shoulders and bosom are exposed completely, giving room for a glistening choker made of the same jewels. Her hair is done up in a high bun, lightly sprinkled with silver glitter, and tied together with another black rose.

She looks heavenly. Like an angel.

With everything all set and done, Natasha and Dolores begin preparing themselves. As they do, Ophelia pauses for a moment. “Oh, your highness! I almost forgot something. Before we go, our master wanted me to give you this.”, Ophelia says, handing her a small card. It reads: For the Princess. Before heading back to primp herself, her expression slowly turns gloomy, barely keeping up with her smile, “You are so lucky to be chosen…” Peach turns over the card as she waits for the twins to get ready and continues to read:

Tonight’s performance is a one-of-a-kind experience. You, my dear, will not only be the audience, but also part of the story! Everything and everyone around you will be interactive, so please do not be shy. Converse with your newly found friends! Eat, drink, dance with your heart’s content! And please, do not wait for me. I hope you enjoy my masterpiece.

- P

Ah ha! So, this is what Phantom’s performance is! It is a role-playing experience, and based on what the card says, it must be a party he’s hosting. What delightful news! Although, Peach must admit that she has never role-played before, especially in something like this. But wait – didn’t she say to Dolores earlier that being part of the theatre was her childhood dream? Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to try out her acting skills! Peach beams. She could not believe Phantom would make something like this. Whatever this role-playing party entails, she thinks to herself, she’s going to do the best she can. “We’re ready!” Natasha exclaims in a sing-song tone, “Are you ready, Ophelia?” Ophelia nods. Natasha excitedly takes both her and Peach’s hands, leading them out of the Ladies’ Dressing Room and into the Gallery. Peach almost could not keep up with the twins, for they have remarkable speed, as shown by their natural talents on makeup and costuming. How fast can could they possible go? If this is how fast they can walk, then how fast can they run? Natasha’s ecstatic giggling echoes through the hallway, and with every step they take, the upbeat tempo of music could be heard from behind the Gallery doors. The closer they went, the louder it became. The melody drifts in the air like a calm perfume for the ears, capturing Peach’s attention with its harmonious essence. A delicious delicacy for the senses. Just like Phantom’s voice. He must have composed this melody, for there is no way Peach could have been so immersed and entranced by its sound if it wasn’t. The three ladies approach the Gallery doors, the music muffled behind them. Natasha takes a glance back at Peach and Ophelia, unable to contain her excitement anymore.

She pushes the doors wide open.

What words could possibly describe the sheer extravagance of the Gallery? To think that all of this is completely underground! To think Phantom created this gargantuan chamber, big enough for him and perhaps one hundred guests! Maybe even more than that. Peach could tell, just by admiring the Gallery, Phantom is quite the fan of marble, silver, and velvet. Marble floors and pillars framing the chamber and silver-framed mirrors and portraits decorate the walls. Deep black velvet curtains cascade from the middle of the ceiling and down towards the floor, giving the appearance of one massive Bohemian tent. In the middle hangs a glamourous jeweled chandelier, giving a dim light to the darkness. Looking around, Peach notices there are seven rooms divided by the curtains, each one color-coded, with three rooms on both towards the left and right. To the left are the colors blue, purple, and green, and to the right are orange, white, and violet. The seventh room is located right in front of the ladies, right across from the Gallery entrance. Inside is completely shrouded in shades of red – wine, scarlet, crimson, garnet – and there sits in a shiny throne a crowned gentleman – a prince – with a glass of Amontillado in his hand. His wavy, champagne blonde hair falls delicately around his party mask and square facial structure. His rosy lips gently purse as he raises his glass to drink. He is accompanied by two other women, who are garbed to the nines in the richest finery, blushing and laughing amongst themselves. Every now and then, the prince would turn to one of them and whisper in their ear, making their faces turn into deeper shades of red. As Peach follows Natasha and Ophelia, she finds more guests, all conversing amongst one another in the color-coded rooms. The costumes they wear are vibrant in color and theme, ranging from jesters, to creatures, to knights, to fairies and pixies. These guests, including the prince himself, must all be part of Phantom’s theatre troupe. Peach begins to count: one… two… four… six… nine… eleven. Eleven members of the troupe. She wonders if there are any more, considering how large the Gallery is.

The prince turns his attention suddenly towards Peach, and so do the two women. Soon, almost everyone begins to stop for a moment and do the same. Simultaneously, Natasha and Ophelia bow, gesturing to Peach, “My Lord, we have brought you your special guest, Princess Morrigan of the Stygian Border.” The prince sets down his glass on a nearby silver platter, and stands right up from his throne, adjusting his vest and coat. “C’est magnifique, my loyal subjects! Now the masquerade can truly begin! Come, come! The night is young, gather around everyone! Let us celebrate all of our blessings and forget our grievances!” he declared, “May we prosper in these trying times, and may we never run out of wine to drink.” The crowd laughs and cheers, some of them raising their own glasses. He turns to Peach, his eyes wandering up and down, and smirks, “My, my… Enchantee, your highness. I must say, you look… ravishing tonight. I am Prince Fortunato, at your service. Why don’t you join me, my dear, in the Red Room? Surely, we can have some… fun together, what do you say?” Greeting her, Prince Fortunato places a soft kiss on her hand, his emerald eyes admiring her beauty. Or perhaps something else. Although Peach has to be polite, she immediately had no interest in him. Too cocky, she thinks to herself, too full of himself. It reminds her too much of Bowser. Then again, Phantom was that way, too, at least in the past. But she learned that he was not licentious. He never looked anywhere else but into her eyes. He never searched for anything other than her eyes. He ever seemed like he was after a particular goal other than seeing her whenever they meet. That is the one thing Peach was sure about. Ah, but remember! This is only roleplay; nothing is real. Prince Fortunato, as well as everyone else, is only pretending. In that case, this gentleman is an excellent actor!

Prince Fortunato leads Peach back to his throne, the two women still standing to accompany him. Envy fills the air. Their expressions turn sour as they watch Peach get even more attention than them. Peach could already tell that this is no ordinary masquerade. She has been to many royal revelries throughout her life, and all of them were filled to the brim with sophistication. Every guest, staff member, and host had class – anything that was considered less than classy wasn’t allowed. This masquerade is different in terms of the usual standards of hosting such parties. It was as eccentric as its Gothic décor, consisting of tables filled with silver platters of fruits, meats, bread, and desserts, goblets of beverages, and candles. Every once and a while, a few guests would stuff themselves and each other with this feast, disregarding etiquette for sheer pleasure. Peach isn’t used to the cacophony of this kind of merrymaking. All of this was nothing but pure, unadulterated debauchery – something she was taught never to delve into. She is a princess, after all, and princesses never do those sorts of things. However, did she not accept the invitation to let herself loose? Did she not agree to join this performance – this masquerade – to experience something new for once? For once? Feeling out of place just standing idle amongst Prince Fortunato and the guests, Peach goes over to one of the tables and picks at a plate of grapes. She watches as the guests gather around Natasha and Ophelia in one huge circle, clapping to the music’s rhythm as they frolic together. The fabrics of their dresses fly with their movements as if they were colorful wings dancing in the darkness. As she plops the grapes delicately into her mouth, her eyes continue to wander over the décor. Suddenly, she stops at a grim sight. There as the centerpiece sits three skulls, two of them from a different species, ones Peach isn’t familiar with. The skull placed in the middle, however, is human. She could not tell if these skulls were real. She hopes they aren’t real. Taking a closer look, an engraving is found on its forehead: Ars longa, vita brevis.

Without warning, the Gallery doors burst open! The music stops – the crowd jumps in surprise! Prince Fortunato rises to his feet, alarmed by this sudden interruption. Peach turns around. There standing in the doorway is an aged peasant woman in old, torn rags, her hair glowing bright red like a burning inferno. Her complexion is dirtied, her makeup is smudged, her eyes red-hot with fury. She scowls as she approaches the partygoers, her hands clenched as if she is about to attack. “For shame!Have you no shame?!” the peasant chants, flailing her arms with rage, “Have you no compassion for your people?! The plague lays waste throughout the land! And yet, here you are, surrounding yourself with wealth and whores! They are suffering! They are dying! There is no hope for us! For shame! For shame! Have you no shame?!” Peach watches as everyone else steps back, avoiding her filthy presence. Twelve. Twelve members in Phantom’s theatre troupe. Prince Fortunato steps forward, confronting her, “Who dares… who dares interrupts us?! Who dares trespass Fort Fortunato and speak against the Crown?!”

“It is your undoing that dares enter your home! This, all of this, will be your downfall!” she responds back angerly, gesturing to the masquerade.

“Leave this instant, or else I’ll have your head for this!”

“I have seen it, Prince Fortunato! I have seen your fate in the deepest of dreams! Doom is upon you all!”

“Ah, it’s one of those so-called soothsayers my people love so much… how lovely. They love having their fortunes told, don’t they? Superstitions and all that. Hmmm. Well, in that case, go on. Amuse us with your… dreams and visions, fortune teller. We do love to be entertained.”

“It will come, Prince Fortunato, in retribution of your indulgences. You and your party may hide all you want; it will still find you! Mortals cannot escape from what is inevitable. In the end, it shall visit us when our time comes… and your time is nigh.”

“Qu’est-ce que tu racontes? What is this ‘it’ you’re talking about? Whatever ‘it’ is, I am sure it will not ruin this masquerade. Princess, do you hear all this? She’s simply mad!”

“Our time is nigh!”

“Tu es timbre!”

“For shame! For shame!”

“Quitter cet endroit!”

“Have you no shame?!”

The peasant stops. Her eyes shift towards Peach. A look of horror falls upon her face. “You…”, she whispers, slowly raising a pointed finger at her. Peach watches as she approaches her, still pointing, terrified. Her expression contorts as if she is studying, searching for something. “You… are to be Death’s Bride… Yes! You are Death’s Bride!” she exclaims, falling to her knees, clutching Peach’s skirt, “Oh, you poor soul! So young… innocent… all to be swept by its dark embrace! I beg of you, your highness, leave this place! Forget these fools! Forget all of this! Save yourself!” With a swift grab, Prince Fortunato pulls the peasant away by the shoulder and pushes her aside. “Unhand her this instant! You trespass my fortress, you waste our time with your superstitions, and now you insult me and my guests?” he yells, “Everyone! Let us show this insolent wretch what it means to insult those higher than her! Bring me a chair! Bring me some rope! Let’s play a game with her, shall we?” Peach could not believe it. A prince sacrificing the well-being of his people for an elaborate masquerade! And now, he and the other guests have decided to torture this poor woman! She cannot stay silent any longer – she must act! “Wait!” Peach cries, making everyone stop in unison, “Have mercy on her! Please!” Prince Fortunato scoffs in amusement, “Why, and for what? She insulted us, you heard her!”

“Yes, but none of that would have happened if you attended to your royal duties as Prince and took care of your people!”

“E-excusez-moi?”

“This poor woman is in dire need of assistance, and you have all the wealth to help her! Maybe you should consider.”

“Ha! My dear, you jest! I have no need for peasants! Why should I dabble in their affairs?”

“Because their affairs are yours as well. They have relied on you for so long, and you rely on them. Without your people, you’re done for!”

“Do you not see the extravagance of this masquerade? The bountiful feasts presented on the tables? Our costumes? The wine in our glasses? I am rich, Princess Morrigan! Wealthy beyond imagination!”

“Wealth that came from people like her! Please, my Lord, have mercy.”

“Are you mad? Ha, you must be! Just as mad as the fortune teller!”

“If I am as mad as her, then I must be! Yes, that’s it! Perhaps your foolishness is just another wild hallucination, for what respectable royalty spoils themselves to the point of gluttony and greed?”

A crowd of gasps shatter the silence. The crowd glance at Peach, then at the prince, then back at her, awaiting another response. Prince Fortunato stands silent, completely stunned by her audacity. His face becomes flushed, his teeth gritting, his emerald eyes bright with anger. His fists clench. “Oh…. I’m a fool, am I? Am I a fool?! I am not a fool! I am Prince Fortunato, the next in line! Heir to the throne! I am as respectable as royalty can be!” he furiously shouts, “I will not be insulted like this! I will not be degraded like this! I need not your judgment, or hers, or anyone else’s! I am no fool, do you hear me? I am not a fool! I am a Prince, full of riches and beauty! I am perfect! I am powerful! I am untouchable! You think I’m a fool? You call me a fool, eh? Ha ha! Well then, let me entertain you all! Come, gather around, my lovely guests! Let me show you what a true fool really is!” With a whip of his cape, Prince Fortunato rushes from the crowd and goes behind the throne. Everyone watches as he switches his coat and cape with another coat and removes his crown with another accessory. In a matter of seconds, he reappears, this time donning a shiny blue coat and a mask in the shape of a rabbit’s face. Raising his arms, he presents his new costume to the crowd, “Here! Here! I am now a fool! But Prince Fortunato? Oh no, no, no! He is no fool! You imbeciles! He is a national treasure!” Has Prince Fortunato finally lost his sanity? What could he possibly gain from this? Peach is stunned, as much as the rest of the others. However, she is not as terrified as everyone else. She sees Natasha and Ophelia cradling each other, comforting one another despite both being in distress. She sees Stefan in costume backing away, almost seeming to run away and hide somewhere safe. She sees Dolores frozen in utter fear.

Peach remembers what she had said: “My master can be terrifying when he has his moments.”

No one could help but watch as Prince Fortunato danced along the ballroom floor, singing random songs in a mocking fashion. He flails his arms, waving his hands wildly as if no one is watching him. Is this even part of the roleplay? This moment feels too spontaneous to even be scripted. Peach could not imagine Phantom having his own theatre troupe mock him, regardless of whether or not it would be intentional. Whoever is playing Prince Fortunato must truly be a fool. Prince Fortunato sings in a sardonic tone:

🎶“Look at me!

Watch me float and gloat and show off my coat!

Watch me as I sing about plumbers – oh, how I hate them!

I hate them so much, oh what a bummer!

Watch me as I make sweet, sweet love to my precious spotlight

Under the moonlight!”🎶

Although the song is less than perfect, Peach admits to herself: he has an amazing singing voice! And he sings opera, just like his master! She wonders if all of the members of the theatre troupe can sing as well. Ah, no! Enough of that! Don’t get distracted now! As he sings, Prince Fortunato runs and leaps onto a nearby table, knocking over huge plates of food, skulls, and candles on the floor. Everyone else watches as he spins and taps his feet on the table, his arms still flailing around. No one in the theatre troupe tries to stop him – they’re all too shocked and afraid to even do so. They did not want to get involved in such mockery. Peach could. However, what would happen if she did? As much as she would like to stop him, she just couldn’t. For whatever reason, whether it be out of shock, or out of fear, or out of curiosity, she did not move at all. Still, the Prince continues:

🎶“Imbecile, imbecile, imbecile!

Everyone’s an imbecile but me!

Listen to me, listen to me!

My ego is as big as it can be!

Come, my Princess, marry me please

Or else I’ll cry, cry, cry!”🎶

Then, the sudden drone of a large bell rings! It brings everyone into a hush, sending an immense chill down their spine. No one moves. The drone continues. And continues. And continues. Is this what the peasant woman was talking about? The impending doom that is to fall upon this masquerade? The fate of everyone who stands here on this very night? This inevitability that will claim those who still walk on this earth? Whatever is coming for them… has arrived to make its debut.

The Gallery doors creak open. Seeping through the entrance is a cloud of fog, billowing across the floor like a massive white sheet. It surrounds everyone, almost rising up to their knees, and soon the entire chamber is filled to the brim with gloom. Prince Fortunato finally steps down, his eyes staring in fear at the entrance, and retreats behind Peach. As fate approaches them, soft murmurs of terror arise from the crowd. One by one, each and every actor and actress trembles in anticipation. Peach awaits as well, but more out of curiosity than the shock of terror. This feeling; she remembers it all too well. She has to know what happens next. She has to know what kind of resolution this entire roleplay performance is coming to. Although the resolution is frightening, it was the satisfaction of discovery that keeps her within the Gallery. She will not leave. Fear will not take over. Only curiosity. Only awe and wonder. Only fascination.

And lo and behold, there stands the face of Death in his newest and blackest masterpiece.

He stands tall, bejeweled and shrouded in crimson, emerging from behind the murky darkness. The sheer size of him is intimidating enough, but the opulence in which he had adorned himself gives him an almost divine presence in the masquerade. Out of all the costumes Peach has seen, this one is more magnificent – more vibrant and elaborate – than the rest. Blood red veils cascade down from his large cavalier hat and alongside his cape. His vest a skeletal ribcage, patterns of bones scatter his scarlet greatcoat, and in his paws is a colossal gold cane. Hidden underneath the shadow of his hat is a golden mask, formed into the shape of a skull. Everyone slowly backs away as this masked red-clad stranger approaches them. But not Peach. Instead, she stays, completely in awe. She has become too enamored by his Gothic glamour to even be remotely scared. Finally. After so many days, they finally meet once again. She could see his sapphire eyes peering through and meeting hers with a sign of notice. He stops for a moment. That look… that tender gaze! Although they had only met for a little while before this moment, Peach confesses to herself: she could never have enough of those bright eyes. Those gleaming sapphire eyes. Even through that skull mask of his, she could stare into them all night long.

Alluring… Beguiling… Captivating… Enchanting…

Phantom shifts his attention to Prince Fortunato, his eyes wide with fury. The partygoers cower as he floats over to the foolish prince, towering over him as he looks down. Prince Fortunato scrambles, quickly taking off his blue coat and rabbit mask, full of sweat, almost hyperventilating. His face is revealed with a terrified expression. His eyes look up at Phantom, awaiting whatever fate – whatever punishment – shall bestow upon him. Phantom twists his cane and slowly he pulls it apart, revealing it to be a scabbard with a long, sharp sword inside it. Peach gasps as he unsheathes his weapon, raises it up in the air, and points it down at a quivering Prince Fortunato. “Please, monsieur!” Prince Fortunato gasps and swallows, “Spare me! It was only a mere jest! I was only having some fun entertaining my guests! I-I am the host, after all! Monsieur, please… Have mercy…!” Everyone watches in horror as he pleads for forgiveness. Phantom takes in a deep breathe; music begins to play again. It is in minor key, deep and dramatic – the orchestral equivalent to an imposing force. Peach holds her breath. Finally. With a smooth, baritone voice, Phantom sings his haunting solo:

🎶“Fortunato!

Surrender to me,

Look upon the face of Death!

It is meant to be,

Now savor your last breath!

Fortunato!

Your time has come at last,

Take your final drink of wine!

For your sins in the past,

Oh Prince, your soul will be mine!”🎶

“No!” the prince cries out, “You cannot take me! I will not let you! My guests need me! My people need me!” What hypocrisy! What foolishness! Peach watches intently. What is going to happen next? Will this masked presence spare Prince Fortunato? Will Prince Fortunato’s mockery be forgiven? She anticipates what comes next, whatever that may be. But although she tries to expect the unexpected, there is one thing she is certain about: the masquerade was doomed from the very beginning. Phantom lowers his sword, just by an inch, almost as if in contemplation. A few moments of silence passes. Everyone watches him in anticipation. Peach. Prince Fortunato. Dolores, Stefan, Natasha and Ophelia. Everyone. Anticipating. Anticipating. Anticipating.

Phantom smirks, letting out a soft chuckle. His sword lowers even more, and finally inserts it back into the scabbard. A sigh of relief fills the Gallery…

Then sudden horror! It happened so swiftly. So much so that if one were to blink at that moment, they would miss it completely. A scream pierces the silence! It was Prince Fortunato, now on the floor collapsed to his knees! He screams in agony as his covers his face! Phantom had made a sharp wave of his hand, almost as if he were to slap him across the face. But no! It was much, much worse. A terrible fate had fell upon the prince.

Blood…!

Oozing from his face is a gush of crimson blood! His eye sockets, his nostrils, his mouth, his pores – all drenched in blood! Horrid blemishes begin appearing on his flesh, leaving opened, pus-filled wounds as they pop one by one! Tears and yellow fluids mix with the blood, staining the floor with a pool of secretions! And the screams! Oh, the screams! Prince Fortunato tries to hide his face once more, only to find that it hurts too much! His hands pull away from his face – and, oh God! His flesh, his flesh – it is rotting away! What was once the pristine beauty of a spoiled, gluttonous prince is now the face of nightmares. He coughs and chokes; he cannot scream anymore – blood has filled his throat! He falls onto the floor, panicking, suffering! To think that this is what his people had to endure while no one was there to save their lives. With eyes stained with tears and blood, he rushes over to his guests and reaches for help, but in vain, for who could ever touch a diseased man? With a final cry of fear, Prince Fortunato falls. There lays on the floor is a twitching corpse, the face mutilated by the worst of illnesses…

This display of gore puts the guests into a state of frenzied panic! More screams and sobs fill the Gallery, as well as the sound of footsteps running and chairs and tables knocked over. If they don’t do something, Phantom will come after them next! Anything to get away from this face of Death. Chaos ensues! All except for Peach. Peach stands still amongst the disorder of the partygoers. Her widened eyes are fixated on Phantom. Is it shock? Is it fear? Is it something else entirely? Of course, anybody would be frightened by the sheer grotesqueness of the prince’s death and the possibility of meeting the same fate. But strangely, it seems to not bother Peach at all, almost as if she isn’t aware of the situation. Perhaps she is still mesmerized by Phantom’s extravagant appearance? Perhaps she is somehow desensitized? Whatever is going on, Peach still remains, as well as the peasant woman. The two ladies stare as Phantom slowly turns to watch over the terrified crowd. He observes the scene quietly. All in unison, the panicked guests rush toward the Gallery doors. With a wave of his hand, he blocks the entrance, slamming it tightly shut. Ophelia throws herself on the doors, slamming her fists frantically, “Open the doors! Open the doors! Oh please, open the doors!” Everyone begins to do the same. But alas, their attempts of escape are futile, for their master – the Red Death – had already claimed their souls. Once again, Phantom sings:

🎶“Crowned with privilege and villainous

Bathe in the blood of your wickedness

Tonight, retribution is at hand

For this masquerade shall be damned

Mask yourselves to hide your shame

But in the end, they know your name

Into the earth, your corpses will sink

May your blood be the wine they drink…”🎶

And one by one, each guest fell, forming a massive pile of bloodied bodies in front of the entrance. Peach takes in what had just happened. She had never seen something so macabre before. Roleplay, she thinks to herself, this is all just roleplay. This is all just pretend. No one is hurt. They are all just acting. This is all just roleplay. But by the stars, it looks so… real! There is blood everywhere. Not just the red pool on the floor, but also smeared handprints on the doors too. How did Phantom do all of this? This must have taken so much effort and hard work to even pull off such a remarkably gory scene! Peach couldn’t help but wonder what exactly went through Phantom’s mind when making this performance. This was something she never expected, let alone how absolutely graphic it was going to be. But regardless, the entirety of the roleplay screamed Phantom. It was bold. Dramatic. A complete subversion from a usual masterpiece. There was grandeur, there was beauty, there was mystery, there was tension. Then finally the payoff – an act of karma against the avaricious Prince Fortunato and his hedonistic friends. Now only she and the peasant woman are left. Peach cannot imagine what this powerful reaper is going to do next. Ah, no – she suddenly remembers!

Death’s Bride. She is to be Death’s Bride…

Her thoughts are interrupted by another cry, this time from the peasant woman. She turns to find Phantom approaching her, his hand lifting up to claim another soul. But why must the good die? Death is inevitable, it is true. Life is short. Peach knew this. But what did this poor woman do to deserve such a fate? Why do bad things happen to good people? Perhaps it is meant to be, just like what Phantom said. Roleplay. It is all just roleplay. Should she stand by and let things take its course? Or maybe… what could she do? Roleplay…. Ah, of course! Peach dashes over and stands in between them. “Wait!” she says, defending the peasant woman, “Have mercy on her!” Phantom pauses, taken by surprise for a moment, but then resumes in character. “Young or old, poor or rich… Death waits for no one. Her time has come.” Phantom calmly responds, his voice low. “Can you at least give her enough time to live another day? Can you see she has suffered enough? Please, I beg of you.” Peach pleads.

“You stand in front of the face of Death… and yet you are not frightened. Are you… not afraid of me?”

“I do not fear what is inevitable. I just want to give her another chance.”

“Such compassion… and all of this for a stranger. However, as painful as it may be, you cannot persuade me to spare her.”

“If that is not enough, then I will offer a gift to you.”

“And what is this gift you speak of?”

“For this woman’s life, I offer you myself. You can have my soul. You can have everything, all of me, and I will not refuse you.”

Phantom is rendered speechless, despite staying in character. Do his ears deceive him? No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be! Deep down inside, he could not believe what Peach had just said. He watches as Peach ushers the peasant woman to flee the masquerade, and so she does, retreating to a small secret entrance hidden by the large curtains. Silence. As much as he tries, Phantom seems to be unable to speak. Now only he and the princess are alone. Together. Just like that one night. “I believe that is enough to persuade you?” Peach says with a soft smile. That smile. Oh, that sweet smile! He could stare at it forever! “I can be yours, and yours only. I will not leave. I will be not be frightened.” she continues, “It must be lonely, going around the world and reaping souls for those who’s time has passed. You don’t have to be lonely. You can have a companion! Someone who will join you by you side. Don’t you want that?” Companionship. Is Peach talking to Death or to Phantom himself? The lines between roleplay and real life begin to blur before his very eyes. He could not differentiate which is just acting or an actual confession. She must be playing a trick – she must be! This could not possibly be real! This is just too good to be true! Taking in a deep breath, staring deep into Peach’s pretty eyes, Phantom sings one last solo:

🎶“Oh, Sweet Maiden!

Surrender to me,

Look upon your paramour!

It is meant to be,

Together forevermore!

Oh, Sweet Maiden!

Your time has come at last

Take your final drink of wine

For this spell I shall cast

My Bride, your heart will be mine!”🎶

With a wave of his hand, two shiny, black feathered wings sprout from Peach’s back! Peach glances over in surprise, admiring her new wings. They sparkled under the light of the chandelier with iridescent glitter. Natasha must have added these in while making her costume. Once again, she continues to be impressed be Natasha’s work. Then her eyes glance over towards the Gallery entrance. Peach stops. Something has changed. Her eyes squints as she tries to make out what she is seeing. Confusion floods her mind until realization hits her.

The bodies… are those…. Mannequins?

Phantom places his paw on her cheek, delicately turning her face towards him. The softness of his caress fills her senses, and she is greeted by his tender gaze. What a tender gaze he has! As her eyes are locked in his gaze, Peach feels herself being gently embraced around her waist and leaning back into a dip. Her heart begins to race. Beat after beat it quickens its pace, her breathing becomes more and more shaky. It must be adrenaline – all of this is so new to her. Peach finds herself reaching out towards Phantom and, ever so gently, she takes off his skull mask, revealing his face. At long last, she finally sees him. Oh, how she missed him! “Did you enjoy the show, your highness?” Phantom grins, “I must admit, there were some things that weren’t… intended to happen, but as long a—” He is stopped, as Peach catches him off guard. Locked in a tight hug around his neck, he feels his lips being locked with hers. It was passionate yet gentle and warm. Peach, the princess he has adored for so many years, is giving him a kiss. A kiss! Is this a dream? Is this actually happening? So many thoughts went through Phantom’s mind. He could not process all of them at once; his head could possibly burst from excitement! His eyes flutter and close, letting himself melt into Peach’s embrace. If they could pull each closer than they already are, they could. But no matter how much closer they can be, it just wasn’t enough. They wanted each other. They craved each other. The unbridled desire for connection and companionship broke loose, and immediately they find themselves losing all control of their yearning. Their lips break apart, their hot breaths mingling with each other. They open their eyes; Peach grins and so does Phantom. They kiss again, neither of them wanting to stop. “Ah…!” Phantom gasps in between her soft lips, “Mon ange de la mort…!”

Overwhelmed, Peach swoons as Phantom dips her even further and surrenders herself to his kiss of death.

---

She woke up the next morning. The first thought that would have come to her mind was how she even managed to return to her castle without any notice. But no, the very first thought that came to her mind was what happened last night. She laid in her bed and, as stares up at the ceiling, touched her lips softly with her fingertips. Then up her rosy cheek, then down to her neck, and across her bare shoulders. She could still feel his touch. She sighs deeply – what a performance that was! Peach stretched her whole body and curled up, sinking back into sleep. A love stricken grin appeared on her face as she whispered to herself, “Until we meet again.”

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

Killer Knightmares:

@avictimofthejazz an au based off a KR season 2 episode of the same name & knight of the drones vibe.

Dr. Bonnie Barstow is dutifully diligent with all of her work. She obsesses over even the most minuscule and trivial details to achieve perfection. It’s one of the many reasons she’s been added to the staff at the University of San Francisco under the supervision of the reputable David Halston.

___

It’s virtually unfathomable how much damage an ill-programmed microchip the size of a finger-nail could inflict. A twisted sense of insatiable fascination clutches a bewitching grasp over her complete attention. The tiny chip captured under the view of the highly advanced microscope was an absolute marvel with it’s bright ridges of gold along with it’s small valleys and backroads paved in a far duller shade of silver. It’s a coded maze that Bonnie can easily interpret. One infinitesimal change to the programming can mean the difference between life and death. Bonnie’s searching, seeking out the one piece of the prototype keeping it from functioning as designed. She could never and would never give the go-ahead on anything that could be considered dangerous. Even more so given the incidents that occurred because of Karr.

“There’s a call for you on line four, Bonnie.” Comes Halston’s abrupt half-careless words. Placing indelicate hands upon the slopes of her shoulders, he continues. “I’m starting to feel like your personal secretary.” It’s a gripe he made in earnest. He’s been, in no uncertain terms, telling her former associates to stop calling for months now. That Bonnie’s happier here without them hounding her. He delighted in being able to get her to refuse their offers to have her return. Of course, David hadn’t bothered to asked permission to make those direct assertions. He just did. Dr. Halson needed her. Even if Bonnie wasn’t fully aware of it, she had become vital to the success of his and Margo’s operations.

He leans over her shoulder to take a non-committal glance at her progress with the microchip. “It’s quite strange really.” He cryptically starts. The rest of the explanation failing to come as an immediate continuance.

Skeptical, Bonnie’s turquoise orbs lift towards her revered mentor while he speaks. Worry warps her usually beautiful countenance as she discovers herself clinging to his every utterance. Every easy breath hinged upon what would come next.

When her attention is fully upon him, he reveals against the shell of her ear all that he’d been biting back. “It’s a hospital near Los Angeles. A nurse Langly from Hoff Medical Center or other. She ‘claims’ it’s urgent.” There’s a deep trench of sarcasm imbued when his lips reach the word “claims”. He is well aware that she has no real family in the city. At least no one she should want to have contact with, given all the bridges he’s helped her burn. The remnants of her family were located in Boston. His eyes befall her with the great expectation that she’d pass it off.

Halston’s blasé indifference to the potentially serious situation doesn’t settle right with her. It lays like a load of swallowed bricks and mortar, in the formation of a thick, impenetrable, unmovable wall might; uncomfortably heavy. “I...” She swallows thickly, “I’d better get that.” The brunette rises from the stool she had been occupying and brushes past him. “It’s probably a crank call.” Arrives her half-hopeful utterance as she moves towards the thick plastic phone.

Sweeping a buoyant wake of chestnut barrel-rolls from her face, she lifts the receiver to her ear. “Dr. Barstow speaking. How can I help you?” She answers. Her lower-lip tucking between her teeth as she actively listens to the other voice. Twirling her fingers around the curly-q chord, she attempts to sort her thoughts. “Wait? What?” Panic bubbles upwards in her tone. Her once lax stance stiffens against the nearest wall. Her grip on the phone tightens to prevent it from slipping from her hand. “Are you sure?” A pause. “Could you repeat that name again?”

Nurse Langly patiently repeats, “Michael Long.” After a few seconds, she adds, “you’re his emergency contact.”

The warmth and color that usually could be found in Bonnie’s features drains as the gravity of the situation is rapidly dawning upon her. This was either a twisted macabre prank or it was a genuine emergency. Hardly anyone outside the Foundation knew that name or the history behind it. To invoke that name was to tug at Bonnie’s heartstrings. She has no other choice but to go investigate. If it was Michael and he was in trouble, she would never be able to forgive herself for ignoring his call.

Was it possible that he still had her number in his wallet? That Michael had never gotten around to changing his ICE list? If he hadn’t- why?

“Keep him there as long as you can.” Bonnie tersely instructs. Her heart skips a series of beats as she continues, “I’m leaving now.” With a glance down at her own delicate wrist watch, she calculates the amount of time it’ll take her to get that location. “I should be there in a few hours.” As she puts down the receiver, Bonnie contemplates ringing Devon and the Foundation. But she doesn’t. Not until she can fully ascertain if this is a joke or not.

Halston snags the frantic brunette’s wrist as she races towards the door. Throatily he demands, “where do you think you’re going? I didn’t give you permission to leave, and I know class hasn’t been dismissed. If you leave in the middle of our project, you’ll be costing the University thousands of dollars. You’re potentially destroying any hopes you had of a scholarship.” His concerns obviously rest with their work.

She wrestles her arm back from her professor’s clutches. Turquoise orbs darken when they lock upon Halston’s. Her expression is obviously deeply wounded and yet, out of respect for her mentor, she delays. “I’m sorry. I have to go...” Her words leave no uncertain airs about them. “I’ll be back when I can.” Bonnie is well aware that her defiance of direct orders could potentially cost her this incredible opportunity. Yet, she does not care! The Foundation has and always would be a primary concern for her. It didn’t matter how much time had elapsed since her employment with them, they were her family.

Bonnie is keenly aware that Halston is beckoning for her, yelling intangible words in her wake. She doesn’t dare turn back now with her feet already set on a steady course.

----

Only one thought prevailed as the brunette lunges past other students and into the parking-lot. Michael Knight could be in real trouble, and he needed her. She can’t fathom any set of circumstances that would require resurrecting a name that should have been buried. In her gut, she knows something is terribly amiss. But what?

Seven hours of the endless highway and traffic sprawled between the former partners. Every minute of that time seemed to conjure up a fresh, new fear as to what the explanation could be. Internally, she had been running herself through an extensive list of people who knew Michael Knight before he was the man she’d grown to love. Stevie was murdered. Tanya walker died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Vernon Gray and the others were in rotting in jail.

With the review of every case, came the discomforting realization that Michael and the Foundation were in the habit of making ruthless adversaries. Some of them were worse than others.

A startling thought does occur to her. Garthe and Elizabeth Knight knew about Wilton’s pet project. He knew that his father rescued Michael Long from that cold Nevada desert. However, Garthe and Goliath had taken a swan dive off a cliff. He couldn’t be pulling a crude trick like this. He had to be dead. Or was he? Worse still, could this be the work of Garthe’s vengeful mother? No. Why would they call her for help and risk the Foundation foiling another one of their wicked plots? They wouldn’t. Not even if they were aiming for the absolute annihilation of Wilton’s every dream.

Could it be the Chameleon? No. The man couldn’t have uncovered Knight’s former life. As far as the skilled impersonator knew, Michael had always existed as Knight. His previous life was a mystery. Or so Bonnie hoped it had remained an unsolvable riddle.

Every trudged up possibility seems to leave Bonnie with more unanswerable questions. She returned, time and time again, to square one. Frustration wells up inside of her veins as the brunette settles on the idea that Knight’s run into deep trouble on an investigation. This had to be a cry for help.

-----

Whilst Bonnie Barstow was not known for speeding, her foot increases the pressure on the gas pedal. The rev of the engine increases. Tires find themselves turning over at a quicker and quicker rate. All four heated rubber tires give a squeal of relief when she finally pulls up in front of the Hoff Medical Center.

With haste, she abandons her car in the parking-lot and races inside. Flagging down the first nurse she can find, she spurts out. “Please, I’m here for Michael Knight.” Entreating eyes catch the vacuous look to the nurses eyes and she repeated her words. “I’m Dr. Barstow. I got a call at the University where I work. I’m here for my - Michael Knight...” Ah, that’s where the issue dwells. She cringes before correcting herself. “Michael Long.”

That name garnered the desired knowledgeable reaction from the nursing staff. “This way.” The blonde nurse instructs taking up the lead through the sanitized hallway, armed with her clipboard.

“Can... can you tell me what happened to Michael?” Bonnie fearfully presses. She swallows down every fear collecting inside of her veins and penting-up in her chest. Having a breath catch in her throat, she manages to choke out. “Is he -- is he alright?” The concern taking up residence in the concentric confines of her eyes is genuine. Lord knows, she wouldn’t be able to cope with losing him.

The nurse keenly eyes her. The sympathy evident upon all of her etched features. “We’re looking at a mild concussion and bruised ribs. He’s lucky that nothing is broken. He must be in really good shape. Built like a tank that fella of yours is.” Any other man would have been in far worse shape.

Bonnie is too taken aback by the diagnosis to correct the woman’s assumption about her and Michael. In fact, she nearly misses the correlation as she is ushered into the room.

“He’s a real charmer. Your Officer Long is.” The nurse adds casting a wink in her direction.

Officer Long? God. It still felt anomalous to hear that in a sentence even with their extensive history together. She knew about his past. She was there the day Wilton brought Michael under his care. Until today, it had been years since that name fell upon Bonnie’s ears. Now, all of the sudden, she couldn’t seem to escape the shadow of the vastly unused moniker.

“Tried to flirt his way out of X-rays and everything.” The nurse actively points out. Her amusement with the fact is fairly obvious.

A perfectly manicured brow raises as Bonnie seats herself beside the man she knows under a very different name. “He really is. Isn’t he?” She fondly agrees. That had always been a part of the problem between them. Hadn’t it? His natural charisma instantly endeared him to almost every woman on the planet. She vividly recollects that he had tactfully employed it on more than one occasion to get what he wanted. He was kind enough to polish his act every time he attempted to use it on her.

Until the moment Bonnie cast her eyes upon Michael, it hadn’t struck her how intensely homesick she’d been for his familiar presence. Her heart gives off a series of palpable pangs against her ribcage as if it was sending Mores Code. Rescue was not bound to happen. No one could heed an unspoken SOSes. Could they? Despite her efforts to reign the unruly muscle in, it kept barreling ahead like an out-of-control freight train down the tracks.

Why was it that only Michael could arouse such chaos inside of her even when she had striven so desperately to move on? She tried to replace him with Dr. Halston and many other guys. Yet, nothing could fill that awful void that Michael left behind.

In that moment, with his large frame half swallowed by the hospital bed, she uncovers a dangerous revelation. She still loved him. As loathe to admit it as she is, those deeply-rooted feelings exist. They dwell in the undismissable realms of shadows where buried emotions and feelings are destined to remain.

Bonnie’s trembling hand gingerly brushes a dark-chestnut curl from the expanse of his warm forehead. The fluffy texture under the worn-pads of her fingers causes a familiar ache to awaken inside of her. “Michael, sweetheart....” She coos the term of endearment with a gentle insistence. She dare not startle him awake after the hell he’s obviously been put through with his injuries.

Her own lips bend into a shaky smile. “I’ve come to take you home.” His home? Her home? The Foundation? It didn’t really matter so long as he was back with people who loved and would protect him. As long as he was safe, Bonnie would never issue a complaint.  

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part Fifteen of ??)

Goodness gracious, I’m back, and excited to be here. I just had the weirdest two weeks, so I apologize about not updating last week. Luckily, I just stayed home today and was able to write most of this chapter. Here is a link for anyone who’s new and wants to start over at the beginning: Part One.

A couple notes: I totally forgot I wanted to add a dream sequence to part fourteen, so I added it first thing in this update. It is a rewrite of part of Satan’s “The Search of Self” Devilgram so there might be some spoilers. I also missed you all so much! Honestly, I’ve been feeling kinda down lately and haven’t even had much motivation to play Obey Me (or do much of anything), so being able to hang out on Tumblr today and see all the posts has helped me get some of my inspiration back! I also bought a Chromebook and I'm still getting used to it. If the formatting goes weird, please let me know so I can fix it.

Tags for the beauties: @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling @oofthelazyweeb @mammonismyfirstman

Word Count: 3293

Warnings: Possible spoilers for the first season (though I think I’ve had some before so...), spoilers for Satan’s “The Search for Self” Devilgram story (it’s not the full story and I added a lot)

Mc followed Satan to a fairly large building. Satan, still so weird to say, had asked her if she wanted to go around the Devildom with him. The letters above the door were illegible, seeing as how the Devildom had their own language and alphabet, but she instantly knew where they were when they walked in, “You took me to an art gallery?!”

“Oh, seems like I made a good choice,” Satan looked a tad shocked, but then smiled, “I like to come here to get away from stuff and clear my head.”

“So, are these like human art galleries?” Mc asked.

“I think so? Naturally, they have older, historically significant paintings, but they also exhibit pieces created by young, up-and-coming artists. And they’re always holding interesting events. It’s a lot of fun… Are you interested in art, Mc?”

“Yeah, I am,” Mc answered.

“Ah, is that so? I’ve got a feeling you and I might get along, then. I really love art.”

Mc felt her heart thill at his words. She’d been interested in the blonde fourth-born the second she’d seen him, and her interest seemed to be well founded.

Satan continued on about why he loved art, and though there was brand new art for her to look at, all she could do was hang watch Satan and hang onto his every word. He wasn’t saying anything she herself didn’t think, but just being here with him was giving her butterflies.

“... If you’re nervous about coming here alone, then say the word, and I’ll join you anytime.”

“Ah, that’s so nice of you. Now that I know this place exists, I’m definitely going to need to visit often.”

“You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?” he was watching her, eyebrow quirked, but with a soft smile.

“Of course! Not only do I have a whole new history to learn about, but there’s even new art!”

Satan chuckled, “Well, I’m glad you’re actually interested in art. It really is important not to focus only on your outward appearance like Asmo, because the person you are on the inside has a way of showing through on the outside as well.”

“I agree. Too many people’s beauty is only skin deep.”

“Exactly. Incidentally, it looks like they’re having a contemporary art exhibit here today. Shall we go check it out?”

“Definitely. I hope demon modern art is better than, “Four Blue Squares on Canvas”.”

“Wait… Really?”

“Yup. It’s a real art piece I saw in my University’s art museum.”

“So, was it really…”

“Just four blue squares on a white canvas, all equidistant from each other.”

Satan blinked a couple times, “Well, I hope ours is better too.”

They entered an exhibit space. Mc found herself a little disappointed, as she saw some of the same stange, abstract, postmodern art she would’ve seen at a human art gallery. Satan noticed the change and hurried to explain, “This is the human art wing. Many of the “lost” art pieces you’ve heard about can be found in collections here in the Devildom or in some of our galleries. This gallery is curated by Lord Diavolo, as advised by Barabatos, Lucifer and myself. Right now I believe this collection was put together by Lucifer.”

“Ah. That makes sense,” Mc stated, lips pursed as she looked around, making Satan laugh.

The duo continued through the gallery, Mc stopping every-so-often to examine a piece that caught her eye. Satan knew the artist’s name and the medium of almost every piece, though there were a few that were new to him too.

“Check out this work here. The use of color is so novel, so original. It’s very eye catching.”

Mc leaned down to read the museum label, “You know, that reddish color really reminds me of… Oh…”

“Human blood? Yeah, I thought as much. Though the smell had been dampened, probably diluted with water, it’s still unmistakable,” Satan answered absentmindedly. Finally seeing Mc’s discomfort, he quickly tried to backpedal, “I’m sorry. I forgot human noses aren’t as... sensitive as demons. This artist makes pieces that stimulate multiple senses. She’s an acquaintance of mine. This piece in particular incorporates the blood of… Seven distinct creatures, demons included.”

“Oh… Which one is the demon blood?”

“The black. If I’m not mistaken, she used her own blood for this piece,” Mc nodded, the art more macabre than she’d originally thought, “Well, there’s a lot more to see than just this. Let’s see, what’s over here in this space?” They walked through an archway into a room that held a huge installation. A lot of strange items filled the room, some on pedestals, or the ground, while others hung from near translucent strings from the ceiling. The lighting in the room was generally low, specific spotlights or illumination obviously very strategically placed. A low glow on the floor marked a pathway that allowed the viewer to wander around the room.

“Wow! Now this is very interesting,” Satan breathed, eyes glittering, “See? Check it out. At first glance it looks like a bunch of random stuff scattered all over the place, doesn’t it? But actually, every piece of rope, string and crumpled paper has been arranged very meticulously. It actually depicts a war between a dragon and an army of angels. If you want proof, look at it from the side. It looks as if the dragon is over powering the army. Buuuut,” Satan continued excitedly rushing over to the other side of the room, “When you look from this other angel here, it seems the angels have the upper hand.”

“Interesting, because, from where I’m standing, I can see Earth.”

“Wait, really?” Satan moved to where Mc was and bent down so he could view it from her height, “Would you look at that. I don’t think I ever would’ve seen that. How interesting… Very nice find,” he complimented, his smile, words and proximity making Mc’s cheeks heat up.

They spent some more time in the room, though they didn’t find any other secrets. They both vowed to come back however to search some more. They then spent more time in the gallery before Satan suggested they head out to get some refreshments at a new cafe in the Devildom.

“Thank you for that Satan,” Mc grinned, “That was some much needed mental refreshment.”

“No, thank you Mc. It can be difficult to get any of my brothers to spend time with me in a manner that I enjoy, and even harder still for them not to annoy me in the process, so I usually end up going around on my own. It was invigorating having someone with me who also appreciates art,” He grinned at her again, making her heart flutter. She could definitely get used to spending time with the Avatar of Wrath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc blinked awake. That was the second dream she’d had that seemed more than just a dream. She could still remember the first in clear detail, though her dreams usually started fading once she woke up. The only other time she’d experienced something like this was her memory of being a Wanderer. But… This couldn’t possibly be like that. That was a memory, and these were just the result of finally being able to talk to and spend time with the demon she’d admired for so long… Right? She shook her head, the large questions the dreams brought up already giving her a headache. She grabbed her DDD blinking at the light it gave off. After her eyes adjusted she saw a new message alert. Opening it she smiled. Seems like he'd finally opened up her letter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dude, just read it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Belphie sighed and got up, grabbing the letter off of the kitchen counter.

“What are you doing?” Satan asked.

“Well, if you’re not going to open it, I will. I can’t believe you didn’t read and respond to it that night.  Honestly, you’re one of the most powerful demons in the Devildom and you can’t even-” he was cut off by Satan grabbing the letter from him, the seal already halfway broken.

“I will open it myself, thank you.”

“Then do it,” Belphie said, unaffected by Satan’s anger.

Satan narrowed his eyes, and turned back to the letter in his hands. Logically, he understood why he was nervous, and usually knowing the why behind a feeling would help him get it under control, but that had never worked with any feelings toward Mc. He had hoped this time around would be different, and he was almost more nervous than before. There seemed to be so much more riding on her returned affection than before. Cautiously, he broke the rest of the seal on the envelope, and pulled the letter out/

Dear Satan,

I would love to get coffee with you sometime! If I can be even half as engaging as last time, I’ll consider it a job well done. To help us plan that and talk more easily in the future, I included my number ;) Once you text me, I have a secret to share with you.

Satan blinked a couple times. He turned the letter over to see if she’d written anything on the back. No such luck. Was that really all she’d written?

“Forever the tease I see.”

“... Did you just read that over my shoulder?”

“Well, when you delay as much as you did, and then have that kind of reaction, who wouldn’t? Anyway, you should text her.”

“I… Yes, you’re right. I definitely should,” Satan said grabbing his DDD. He opened the messaging app, typed in her number and… just sat there.

“You good?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah. I’m just not sure how to start the-”

He was cut off by Belphie grabbing his DDD, typing something, and then tossing it back to him, “There you go. I’m going to go sleep now. It’s way past my bedtime.”

“Wait, what did you even-”

“Night,” Belphie called from the doorway before walking out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satan was reading when his DDD meowed that he had a message. He almost threw the book he was reading into the air as he lunged for his DDD which was on the table next to him. He didn’t even have time to be embarrassed at his over-the-top-reaction.

Satan: A secret? 

Mc: Yes :D

My name is not Jane Doe, though 

I’m sure you’ve already

surmised that much

Satan: I thought as much, though it really isan ingenious alias.

Mc: Thank you! I thought so too 

Satan: So… Do I get to know what you’re

real name is?

Mc: Hmmm… What if I want to go get

 that coffee with you before

 I divulge that information?

Satan: We’ll just have to go get that coffee then.

Mc:

When?

Satan: Whenever you’d like. I am free today.

Only if you want though.

Mc: Okay! Shall we say… 16:00?

Satan: As long as there’s no last minute RAD Student Council meetings called, that should be perfect

Mc: Well, if there is, I’ll just have to come

 tell everyone you already made plans.

I’ve been meaning to visit RAD anyway.

Satan:

Oh how I’d love to see Lucifer’s reaction

to that.

Mc:

Satan: Wait… Shouldn’t you be asleep right now?

It’s rather late.

Mc: I was asleep, but…

Satan: Bad dream?

Mc: No actually. Quite the opposite.

I just can’t stop thinking now.

Satan: Ah. I understand that.

Anything I can do to help?

Mc: Would you talk to me a bit longer? Maybe tell me about thelatest book you’ve been reading?

Satan: Of course.

Though he wished Mc would talk to him about what was bothering her, he figured this was probably the better option. They hadn’t met many times, and prying might upset her. So, he simply started telling her the basic plot of the new novel he’d picked up. Eventually, she stopped responding, and the messages stopped being shown as read. Satan smiled at that, texted her good night, and snuggled down into bed himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m sorry!” Mc’s voice brought Satan out of the book of poetry he’d been reading, “Not only did I fall asleep while texting you last night, but then I was late today and I set the meetup time? Ugh, I feel so bad and I’m so sorry!”

“You’re alright,” Satan smiled, not wanting to acknowledge how much anxiety had been eased up by her appearing.

“I woke up late, and I dropped my DDD bad enough that we have to get a new one all together, and then Michael was asking me about native Devildom fabrics and if he should get a new outfit made in one… It’s just been a day so far.”

“Like, I said, it’s all okay. I’m sure you would’ve messaged me if you could.”

“I would’ve. I still feel bad… But thank you for being okay with it,” the look of anxiety to joy that she gave him made every second he’d spent waiting worth it.

“O-Of course,” he got out.

“So, what were you reading?”

“A collection of Arabic love poems.”

“Ah, “... When I love, / I become liquid light,” and “... If the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent,” Mc sighed, resting her chin on her hand. Then, as if remembering her current company and current residence, she shot up, “Sorry! I just really love that line.”

Satan laughed, and then said a quote of his own, “My lips and fingers were pens on her flesh. / I memorized her in every alphabet and memorized my memories until they multiplied…”

“I look at you and I dream of snow, I look at you and I await autumn…”

“My temptations in your eyes, And the cities of your grief,” Satan quoted just then realizing they were both leaning in towards each other. He leaned back a bit abruptly and cleared his throat, “Anyway, I really enjoy Adonis’ work.”

“Me too,” Mc answered, leaning back as well. Fortunately, a waiter came up to them to take their order, helping resolve the awkward air his sudden retreat had created. He tried to collect his thoughts as she ordered. He could only think of one thing to talk about though.

“So… Your name is not Jane Doe.”

“Nope.”

“So... What is it?” Didn’t they have this conversation last night?

Mc looked disappointed for a second, but then she was back to normal, “It’s Mc.”

“Really? That’s a lovely name.”

She looked up, eyes measuring him, “You think so?”

“Of course! It suits you really well,” Satan said.

“Well, there’s actually an interesting story behind that. Usually when an angel becomes an angel, they receive a new name. Back in the past, they used to allow them the choice between their new name and their old one. This resulted in too many angels remembering their human life, so they stopped allowing it. I’m the first angel in quite some time to keep the same name as I had in life.��

“Really?”

“Yup. Apparently Sim and Luke were insistent on it. Luke didn’t have a ton of clout upstairs at the time, but Sim does. I promised I wouldn’t question them too much about my human life.”

“They were huh? That’s interesting…”

“Why?”

“Oh, uhhh… Just general curiosity. I’ve been trying to pin down what kind of person Simeon is since the first exchange program,” Satan scrambled, actually managing to sound convincing.

Mc just hesitated and then nodded, not keeping eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry. I’m just nervous that I’ll make a fool of myself and ruin this time like I have the other times we’ve talked,” Satan confessed in Latin, his brain still on the last language he had been reading. Saying the things that had been bothering him started when he became more comfortable around Mc the first time around. He found saying the things on his mind out loud usually released much of his nervous energy, helped him understand what and how he was feeling without doing things to make Mc uncomfortable, even if she hadn’t understood most of what he’d said. It had become something they had shared, causing her to work hard to learn other languages so she could catch the little embarrassing things he said.

Mc gave him a look before replying, “Well, you didn’t mess up last time.”

“Well, I-” Satan cut off when his brain caught up to his mouth. She had just responded. In perfect Latin. His brain flipped back to their discussion on Arabic poetry and he realized she had been quoting that in Arabic too, “I hadn’t realized… Of course you speak other languages.”

“I have to read it in its original tongue. Translations generally don’t do the original justice,” Satan was still trying to think of an appropriate response when Mc spoke again, “Question though: Why did you say that in Arabic?”

“I… I fell into that habit awhile ago.”

“I thought a lot of demons knew different languages.”

“Well, I don’t do this around other demons. I don’t care what most of them think of me…” Satan cut off as the waiter came back with their drinks.

Mc sat in thought for a second before realization dawned on her, “Oh, was it because of…” her face fell before she could continue her thought.

“Hmmm? Did you say something?”

“No, just a stray thought that slipped out.”

“Hmmm… Well, do you want to tell me more about yourself?”

“Only if you tell me more about yourself.”

“Sounds fair to me. We can trade off asking questions.”

“Okay,” Mc seemed very excited by the prospect, and Satan found it infectious. The questions were a bit stilted at first, but they slowly fell into a comfortable space. Though the answers Mc gave, it seemed she was the same person essentially, but a lot more educated, even more opinionated, and with a different upbringing. He found the fact her personality had remained intact very interesting as well as relieving. He found the fact she was now an angel not as terrible as he thought it’d be. Sure, she spoke about saving souls and bringing people to the light, but with what she’d done for him and his brothers, it seemed a perfect fit. He’d always known she was a really good person. At times it had almost made him try to give up on their relationship, not wanting to corrupt her, but also feeling it in his very nature too. Now however, he didn’t necessarily feel that for her. She was an angel and it took a lot to corrupt an angel. He didn’t feel any animosity towards her and found her to be a lot like Simeon in her regard to demons. He found himself thanking Simeon for keeping her intact. If they couldn’t give her back to me, this is probably the next best thing.

They were both surprised when Mc’s DDD rang, a call from Luke asking if she’d be back in time for dinner. While she was on the phone, Satan received a similar call from an annoyed Beel telling him it was time to come home. Lucifer wouldn’t let him eat until he’d gotten home. They both got off the phone at the same time.

“I… actually have to go. I hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten.”

“I didn’t either. I have to go as well. There’s a hungry Avatar of Gluttony at home and a stupid Avatar of Pride that won’t let him eat until I get back.”

“Well, I really had a good time tonight. We should do this again sometime.”

“I agree,” Satan smiled, “Today was amazing.”

Mc smiled and blushed a bit, “I’ll text you later then?”

“Definitely. Bye!”

Mc waved cutely and then started running off in the direction of the castle. Satan watched her until she was out of sight, smiling softly the whole time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, yeah. Arabic love poems make me live. I apologize if the translations are weird. I literally found them on a twitter post someone had posted on Tumblr. Here’s the link: https://twitter.com/rosewatwr/status/1292487129793208320?lang=en

Can we also take a moment to talk about how absurd it is that Satan, of all people, was having trouble eating properly with a knife and fork?! Are you kidding me?

Part Sixteen

[jasperwhitcock]

wait.. hold awn... your edward POV is so good??!! i honestly prefer your edward pov than stephenie's because you make his angst/humor not sound cringy at all, your also very descriptive and you make it sound so beautiful!! can you please write another edward POV, it can be about whatever you want!! whats on his mind?

thank you very much! ♡ also, i thought it’d be fun or interesting to tackle the scene in new moon where he leaves from edward’s perspective. spoiler: it was not fun. two or three days and 15 pages later, and guess what? i am sad <3

anyways, we’ll see how you feel about the cringiness of my edward’s angst now hehe.

warnings: midnight sun spoilers, mentions of depression, implications of suicide.

“For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.”

–– Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism.

"Come for a walk with me," I suggested, working to keep my voice unemotional and detached. Ever since Bella’d entered my life, I’d exerted so much energy into control. Controlling my dangerous impulses, both the bloodlust and the lust of desire. It’d been scarcely manageable, just enough so that I myself didn’t pose any substantial threats to the warm, trusting girl before me, though not without great effort. Of course, despite these efforts, my presence still constituted a great risk on her life, but that wouldn’t be an issue much longer. And yet, regardless of all the time I’d invested to mastering and willing my control to be greater than it was, the effort to feign the aloofness I needed now was far more strenuous than anything else I’d ever done.

I reached for Bella’s hand – the last time I’d allow myself to truly hold it within my own. I was excruciatingly reminded of the little restaurant in Port Angeles and the first time I’d allowed her to touch my hand. The pleasure of her summery touch, the way her gentle willingness had softened the stone man that I was. She’d thanked me then, very aware of the number of times our hands had met, and I’d warned her to not try for another. How lucky I’d been to receive so many more of those touches, many more than I ever deserved. Enough for the remainder of my existence, and yet not enough to satisfy me. Certainly not enough to make this last of touches feel right.

The exquisiteness of her tender hand in mine made this more insufferable than I’d anticipated, and I had anticipated this to be unendurable. It trembled slightly in my grasp. Her pulse thudded through my granite skin and up my arm, spreading throughout my body as though I too had a pounding heartbeat that scored my anxiety. How I wished we were truly leaving for a simple walk in the woods where I could hold her hand indefinitely.

A flash of intuition and panic spasmed on her face, and her already rapid heart fluttered, accelerating in alarm. In the genesis of our relationship, I’d wondered whether this reaction had been fear or attraction. Now, after the horrible, manipulative way I’d orchestrated the seeds for this goodbye, I didn’t need to question what it indicated. As always, I wished to console her, to pull her deep into my arms and ensure her everything would be okay.

But it would be wrong of me to do so, though it’d be the truth. Because now, for her, everything would be okay. Better, even. Her life would be critically improved. My inhuman arms could no longer be her safe haven.

Hesitance marked her unsure, clumsy steps as she trailed behind me. I stopped once we were a few steps onto the trail, not deep enough into the forest to lose sight of her quaint two story house or the senile heap of metal that was her truck.

Though it felt incredibly sacrilegious to do so, I released her hand from mine, surrendering to what I knew to be right. I no longer deserved her warmth.

I turned to face her, leaning against a tree indifferently as though I cared little for this conversation. The reality was, of course, the opposite. I coerced my face into an impassive mask, not allowing the absolute torment engulfing me to show in my expression as I studied her face. Even if my memory was infallible, I’d never be able to forget her face, and yet as though I might, I stared deeply at the smooth contours of her wide cheekbones, the point of her chin, the fullness of her pink lips, committing the gentle beauty to memory. Celebrating it. Mourning it. The last time I’d ever see her.

I wished to stay in this moment forever.

"Okay, let's talk," she finally said, taking this moment from me too soon. Her voice took on a note of determination and bravery that I hadn’t expected. I wondered what she’d been thinking the past few days of my abnormal and unacceptably rude frigidity. I convinced myself it’d be better this way, to allow that initial distance to emotionally prepare her for my disappearance from her life. Let her think of the coldness and nothing else. Let her begin to forget the intensity of the love I felt for her.

Let the distance torture me like the masochist I proved to be. There was no way to emotionally prepare myself for the violence of this heartache the way I did for her. It destroyed me to treat her this way. It was as though a knife had been plunged deeply into my impenetrable chest, and with every harsh, apathetic word, every step away from her, it’d been twisted painfully, still nestled within the incurable, hemorrhaging wound. Perhaps there’d be some sick, macabre relief when I finally finished myself off with this most dreaded of conversations.

Yes, I wished to stay in this moment forever. But Bella didn’t have forever. 

I sighed heavily, welcoming her enticing scent to wash over me rather than the worst of my afflictions. The way her fragrance triggered my darkest instincts was a reminder of her precious nearness to me and the time limit on that nearness. A reminder of the monster I was. A reminder of why I needed to leave.

"Bella, we're leaving,” I announced, unwillingly beginning to recite the lines of dialogue I’d been rehearsing and wrestling with in my mind ever since the party. Of all our years of deception and mirages, the part I was about to play was my most loathed.

Bella seemed nearly relieved as she sighed in response, and for a moment I considered whether she’d anticipated as much. Perhaps she’d reached the conclusion she should have long ago – that I should be unwelcome in her life. That our leaving was a good thing.

“Why now? Another year—” she began to argue, and I realized she’d misunderstood. Pain rippled through me, but I’d prepared for this question.

“Bella, it's time,” I stated with finality, nearly patronizing her like an imbecile. “How much longer could we stay in Forks, after all? Carlisle can barely pass for thirty, and he's claiming thirty-three now. We'd have to start over soon regardless.”

Admittedly, this wasn’t entirely untrue, and yet it was a lie. Outside of my family, Bella was the only person I’d ever desperately wanted to sincerely know me and expose every truth of myself to. And now, she was the recipient of all of my lies and dishonesty. Deception, again.

Bella’s forehead puckered as she contemplated my words. Once more, I longed to smooth the wrinkle between her eyebrows, to brush my fingers along her cheek… It took everything within me to hold onto the impassivity of my cold expression.

Suddenly, Bella’s beautiful cream skin became colored in a green-tinged white as awareness began to sink in. The chalkiness was so close to the tragedy of Alice’s vision of Bella with lifeless, red eyes that I warred against. The thought of this future empowered me with the reminder this was indeed the right thing. Her heart picked up yet again, and she swayed off-balance, but I remained frozen in place.

“When you say we—,” her voice came out quietly in a demoralized whisper.

“I mean my family and myself,” I miserably clarified to ensure that she understood completely what would become of her future, and how it’d no longer be intertwined with my own.

She shook her head back and forth, stunned. It was minutes before she spoke again, and I found myself desperate for more time as she processed this. Even as torturous as this was, I wished to stay in this moment and bask in her confusion. How many times had I longed to read her mind? It was nothing compared to the curiosity that agonized me now. But I could do nothing to satiate that curiosity. I could give her no indication that I concerned or longed for her thoughts.

“Okay,” she finally said stubbornly, still in denial. “I'll come with you.”

“You can't, Bella,” I disagreed. I’d prepared for her obstinance, for the argument. “Where we're going…” I used the plural, though I had no intention of being surrounded by anyone or anything but my own despairing thoughts. “It’s not the right place for you.” This much was true again. Hell was no place for the springtime that was Bella Swan.

“Where you are is the right place for me,” she protested.

She was entirely wrong, but the opposite was unquestionable. Where she was was the right place for me. But for her life and the value it had to my pathetic, limitless existence, it was the right wrong place for me to be.

“I'm no good for you, Bella.” In the midst of all my dishonesty, I could share with her this certainty.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she whimpered. “You're the very best part of my life.”

When considering if someone as perfect as Bella could see someone like me as worthy of love, I’d once wondered if a dead, frozen heart could break. When Bella’s life was endangered by a vicious hunter so shortly after I’d introduced her to my own world, I’d wondered the same thing. When Bella lay broken and beaten in a hospital as I watched the videotape that had captured the brutality of the torture she’d endured because of my irresponsibility, the same question haunted me. And now, as she cried out these words, I had my answer. It absolutely and irreversibly could.

I’d rushed into love foolishly, selfishly. And Bella had paid the price for my sins.

In that same chapel where I relived Bella’s torture, I’d prayed desperately, ferociously, agonizingly. Had I been human perhaps I’d have cried and sweat drops of blood like Jesus had in the garden of Gethsemane before his crucification. But maybe after all, my strength came from no god, no higher, benevolent power, but from the gentle fragility of this human girl whom I loved so much.

“My world is not for you,” I admitted, both to her and to myself, unable to keep the depression from bleeding into my tone. My face felt harder, colder, darker.

She was impassioned by this admission.

“What happened with Jasper—that was nothing, Edward! Nothing!” The words clumsily burst out of her as incredulity and hopelessness began to pump the adrenaline in her precious veins. Although it wounded me, I took no surprise to how easily she brushed aside the threats to her life.

“You're right,” I agreed bitterly. “It was exactly what was to be expected.”

She seemed to sense the thread that tied her to me weakening. As always, she knew exactly how to pierce through me, shouting the exact words that would break me.

“You promised!” She accused, nearly begging. “In Phoenix, you promised that you would stay—”

I didn’t allow her to see how her words affected me, the heaviness that was strangulating my broken heart. 

"As long as that was best for you," I corrected her, reminding her of the importance of that distinction.

“No!” She screamed her refusal. As I suspected, it’d be hours before she allowed me to leave. “This is about my soul, isn't it?" Bella shouted, infuriated.

I’d have froze if I wasn’t already completely still, stunned at this unexpected turn in conversation, shocked at how exactly she’d pinpointed the exact reason I couldn’t keep her with me forever. “Carlisle told me about that, and I don't care, Edward. I don't care! You can have my soul. I don't want it without you—it's yours already!”

Bella was always more well informed than what was good for her. I was already too overcome with more powerful emotions that I didn’t have the capacity to feel angry with Carlisle for sharing this with her. This is what was wrong. Despicable. Unacceptable. I’d inflicted so much damage onto her life already. Her instincts were always horribly, unfathomably wrong. Of course she’d willingly trade her precious, invaluable life for eternal damnation. But her soul wasn’t something she could give me nor something I’d ever take from her. I could never allow that. I took a deep breath, mourning how easily she’d throw her life away for someone like me, the dark affliction on her perfect life. I kept my eyes fixated on the ground as I fought against the soulless, red-eyed depiction of Bella in my head. It was wrong. Selfishness. A tragedy.

I should have anticipated that Bella wouldn’t accept the circumstances of my leaving if they benefited only her. I’d have to make her believe that leaving benefitted me. I’d have to convince her that the unconditional, inextinguishable love I had for her had been fraudulence, a fleeting summer romance I’d outgrown. A random short lived obsession I’d progressed beyond the desire for. I’d have to truly break her. I grimaced, breaking from the mask as my mouth contorted in anguish, but instantaneously I regained my former stoicism so she’d be unable to see the change in expression. Tearless sobs festered below my composure, threatening to surface, but I choked down the pain. Let me suffer later. I had the rest of Bella’s life to agonize over this.

This is where the strength I’d needed would be put to use. I looked up, commanding my eyes to be cruel, empty, lifeless. Willing myself to look at her like I had that first day in biology when I’d despised her for the upheaval she’d inflicted on my life.

“Bella, I don't want you to come with me.” I forced the words out slowly, scathingly, separating them so she would understand. I analyzed her face to ensure she’d grasp the meaning behind them, half hoping she’d immediately detect the blasphemy.

“You... don't... want me?” She sampled out the words, her forehead creasing as she tried to make sense of the absurdity of them. As if I’d ever want anything but her.

“No,” I lied.

She stared into my eyes. The depth of the chocolate brown entrapped me as she struggled for comprehension, searching for meaning as I searched again for strength.

“Well, that changes things,” she finally surrendered, accepting my sacrilege without hesitation.

I was outraged and demoralized by how quickly she’d accepted this contradiction to everything I’d ever led her to believe. How instantly she doubted the intensity, the irrevocability of how absolutely I loved her. Without this love, which was the most defining component of my existence, the foundation of all joy in this non-life of mine, I had nothing to live for. Nothing to hope for. Didn’t she understand that?

Suddenly, I was breaking the rules again. I couldn’t tolerate the idea of completely dismissing the importance of my affection for her, or rather, the importance of her life to mine. Cowardly, I looked away at the trees so that she couldn’t see the emotion in my eyes that would betray the gross understatement of my next words. “Of course, I'll always love you…” I longed to stop there. How true that was. I always would love her. Always, until her last breath. And always, until my own. “…in a way,” I added contemptibly to set myself back on the previous track.

“But what happened the other night made me realize that it's time for a change.” Again, my words were able to take on some authenticity. I’d been dreadfully waiting for the catalyst that’d send me far away from her forever, and it’d been inexcusably irresponsible to allow for another life threatening circumstance to be what reminded me that monsters had no place in her life. “Because I’m…” I hesitated, wanting to make her to understand the reality of why her life would be better without any interference from my own rather than these ridiculous lies. But in making this harder for myself, I could make this break easier for her if I led her to believe differently.

“–tired of pretending to be something I'm not, Bella.” This was laughable fiction. As if I’d ever grow tired of the way she’d made me feel more human than I ever had, eliciting my most unexpected, long buried instincts, making me feel alive. The way the beat of her heart seemed to shake through the earth as though it rocked faintly to the sound of it and through me, too. An electric hum through my body almost like I too had a pulse. The warmth of my own skin as I became immersed in her wonderful heat, and the thrill as her fingertips grazed along my skin, tracing trails of tingling, pleasurable fire. I could bask in these feelings forever and never grow tired.But I was pretending to be something I’m not by allowing myself to act as though I could be a real partner to her. Something I so desperately wished I could be.

“I am not human." I clenched my jaw as I admitted this ugly, loathsome truth. "I've let this go on much too long, and I'm sorry for that.”

There was so much else to be sorry for and allowing myself to impose on her future for these past few months was the shallow tip of the iceberg, but Bella didn’t have the time to listen to my endless list of pathetic, hopeless apologies. Bella didn’t have time at all.

“Don’t,” she whispered in perfect stillness, her quiet voice empty and hopeless. “Don't do this.”

Her pleading ripped through me like the blade again, sawing open the wound. Agony. I reversed the truth, knowing it was the only way to leave her.

“You're not good for me, Bella,” I lied again. This was the worst, the most deranged of the lies I’d told.

Her galloping heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second, skipping in its rhythm as cognizance drained through her. She digested this delusion. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but no sound came out. Selfishly, I wished she would.

She closed it again. I waited the longest moment of my long life.

“If…” she murmured, completely broken, “that’s what you want.”

I couldn’t make myself say the words to convince her further. I simply forced my head to nod once. That was all that I could allow myself.

She stood there, numb and subdued. Her remarkable brown eyes bore into mine.

With great torment, I warred with myself again. Finally, I acquiesced to the last of my self centered acts I’d allow.

“I would like to ask one favor, though, if that's not too much," I said though I deserved nothing from her. She’d already given me more than I deserved. Too much.

I stared at her beautiful face, watching as its exquisite color grew paler, sunless. An echo of the grey, lifeless vision Alice had seen her become in my absence. But she wasn’t like me. She could recover. She could heal. That lifelessness, that emptiness was nothing in comparison to the lifelessness of the paler, colder, stone version of her. Or the emptiness of the ashen, drained, and broken body in my arms. My face broke into a brief expression of mourning, but I composed myself again before she could see the grief.

"Don't do anything reckless or stupid," I demanded severely. This was the most crucial thing I could ask of her now. She stared back at me detached and dispassionate as if she were elsewhere far away from here. As if her life had already gone. I waited for a sign that she comprehended the significance of what I asked of her. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

She nodded weakly.

It seemed as good of a guarantee as I could hope for, though I longed to beg this of her. To fervently beg on my knees by her side that she understand how important, how critical her life was and do nothing to abuse that. How it was the paramount center of my being. But I couldn’t express that. I couldn’t impress upon her what she should have known already.

“I’m thinking of Charlie, of course.” Although this was also a genuine concern of mine, it wasn’t the factor on which I’d based this last imperative request. “He needs you. Take care of yourself—“ I paused, wondering if she could detect the depth of my emotions as they overflowed, heavily affecting the words, “–for him.”

Bella nodded again. “I will,” she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible.

I relaxed only slightly, trusting her sincerity. Bella was far too concerned for others. She felt overly responsible for the lives hers touched. That would be enough to give her the strength to carry forward. She’d never do anything irrational that could hurt Charlie.

“And I'll make you a promise in return," I spoke, dreading the next words, but wanting to present my last gift to her. The last thing I could offer her. “I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me. I won't come back. I won't put you through anything like this again. You can go on with your life without any more interference from me. It will be as if I'd never existed.”

I watched tragically as Bella wobbled in place as though she may lose her balance, her body trembling. Her heartbeat picked up significantly, racing. I ached to reach forward and steady her but couldn’t allow myself this touch.

And though I was drowning, I couldn’t help but nearly bask in this heartbreaking moment. Her suffering was pure excruciation to me, but this reaction was proof that she did love me in some way. A weak, human imitation of the fervency of my feelings for her, but still proof of their relevancy in her life. She believed them to be absolute. So in this pain, I found one minuscule moment of bliss that I could hold onto. Her feelings would change, they would fade, but in this insignificant second of time, they were real to her. I smiled a gentle, sad smile.

“Don't worry,” I comforted her. “You're human—your memory is no more than a sieve. Time heals all wounds for your kind.”

“And your memories?" She asked, nearly choking on the air as she breathed.

“Well,” I hesitated, thinking of all the memories that would haunt me over and over for the rest of my now expiring immortality. Memories irreversibly branded into my mind. The wounds that time would never heal. “I won't forget. But my kind…” my kind, whose perfection cursed us with the flawlessness of an infallible mind as much as we may try to forget. “We’re very easily distracted.”

As if any distractions could keep me from slipping into the misery and depression that awaited me, maliciously beckoning me forward, eager to asphyxiate me in a tailored kind of hell. But this melancholy, for lack of a more severe, accurate word, was a price I was willing to pay for having had Bella in my life at all. I smiled for her, wanting to substantiate the lie that I’d be at peace. That she’d no longer need to worry about me.

I willed myself backwards a step, eager now to cut the thread that connected us so that she may live the life she deserved. The action felt violent like the demon of my oncoming depression had wrenched me back, hungry and impatient to begin the second round of torture. “That’s everything, I suppose. We won't bother you again.”

Her eyes suddenly widened in fear and the realization that this was the end.

“Alice isn't coming back,” she exhaled so quietly that she only mouthed the words.

I shook my head slowly, watching as she absorbed this.

“No,” I confirmed. “They’re all gone. I stayed behind to tell you goodbye.”

“Alice is gone?” She repeated in complete disbelief as though she was only now comprehending the reality of the situation. I thought of Alice’s incredulous betrayal that I’d made her leave Bella this way. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to defend Alice, to make sure Bella knew I was entirely to blame for this abrupt departure. Alice would never forgive me if I didn’t. Though she already would never forgive me now. I almost grimaced thinking of her confidence that this was a ridiculous and cheap attempt to deviate from a future that seemed so inescapable. That in agreeing to this plan – though it wasn’t so much that she agreed, but that she surrendered – she was humoring me, if humoring was even the right word for something so harrowing. This was causing her grief and heartbreak, too. 

“She wanted to say goodbye, but I convinced her that a clean break would be better for you.”

Bella swayed as her mind slipped further from me. Her breathing was shallow and abnormal.

“Goodbye, Bella,” I murmured before she could say anything more. Goodbye, my love. My reason for existence.

“Wait!” She choked out the word in panic, stumbling forward with her arms outstretched towards me, her body overcome with tremors.

I reached back for her too, again longing to pull her against me. I’d never wanted anything more. But instead, I locked my hands around her wrists and gently pinned them by her sides. She shouldn’t reach for me any longer.

I couldn’t help myself. Selfishly, I permitted myself once last touch. I leaned down, pressing my lips gently to her forehead, inhaling her wonderful scent, wallowing in the warmth. This one last kiss.

I’d never allow my selfish temptations to hurt Isabella Swan ever again.

“Take care of yourself,” I breathed against her velvety, translucent skin.

Then, I was gone, leaving my broken, dead, frozen heart with her.

Every step away from her was heavier, dragging me down to the fires of torment as though gravity was pressing upon me more densely than ever before. I felt detached from my body as though my skin was violently melting off the granite bones, but I couldn’t find the desire to try and save myself. Bizarrely, simultaneously, I felt weightless as though I were helplessly floating in space with nothing to anchor me, no sense of when I’d be able to return to earth, and I cared little to. I watched as the sun slipped away, and with it, the brilliance of the stars Bella had lit on fire in the sky disappeared, returning me to midnight. I was blinded by the meteor that’d shot across the sky, and in its absence, found myself plunged into darkness. Twilight, again.

[sonderrow-moved]

ROY’S BIO IS FINALLY UP ! It is available on his about page, mobile about or under the cut !

♚ “AND LATER MY MACABRE JOY SOURS AND I’M WEEPING FOR MYSELF, UNABLE TO FIND SOLACE IN ANY OF THIS, CRYING OUT, SOBBING, “I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED,” CURSING THE EARTH AND EVERYTHING I HAVE BEEN TAUGHT: PRINCIPLES, DISTINCTIONS, CHOICES, MORALS, COMPROMISES, KNOWLEDGE, UNITY, PRAYER - ALL OF IT WAS WRONG, WITHOUT ANY FINAL PURPOSE.”

This man has lived too long. A classic concept written, imagined by artists. To comfort them about their mortality, explore the ins and outs of an alien narrative full of ifs. How would this even work ? Even the people with the best memories, to a genius level even, eventually forgets, for the brain can only retain so much. This feeling people gets as they grow older, the biased nostalgia of glorified items they saw through their pure, untainted, still developing eyes and the resentment towards new trends as they cannot see anything without any scum anymore. The yearning not for those movements, but for this soft sensation, of looking, admiring something and think, for a moment, that it’s idealistic form was real.

This sweet, unadulterated notion became only a distant, forgotten memory as time hardened the one known today as Roy. For years. Decades. Centuries. Millenniums.

A man who was born during another civilization, another time, long forgotten with only myths remaining of it. Not even a relic to be talked about, as everything had disintegrated, returned to earth for another life cycle.

♚ “THE PAST ISN’T REAL. IT’S JUST A DREAM,” I SAY. “DON’T MENTION THE PAST.”

Roy was born under another name, one he still remembers, but has long buried away, as it is not his name anymore. No one remembers it. It is not him anymore, as much as he might like to. It is only an appellation to let go of. As humankind developed its technology to a peak, so did their power, as they yielded control over nature people nowadays couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as clear as one making a motion to have the waves, wind and earth respond to it. It was a much more fundamental, rawer sense to it. Where the energy of the world could be used to build even new life.

Always the diligent person who only lived to serve, executing tasks exactly as he was asked to, Roy had been appointed to be the Right Hand of the High Priestess. A young female who had only recently bloomed into womanhood. So perfect in existence, like a bright, pale, white being given to their kind in exchange of their discovery over worldly power. She had embraced her role as a symbol since birth, and he was to accompany her every step of the way as she rose to an official position. To inspire and love. Untouched by anything, for her importance was too great as people shook the world order in their insatiable human curiosity. Nowadays, Roy could have been defined as a bodyguard, yet, in this time, there was no fear of another person’s mishap. Only was he to protect her from accidental injuries, get more menial tasks off her shoulder and, most of all, as they understood this aspect deeply, have her emotional and social needs satisfied.

The way she was so beautiful, the way she would only crack a laugh at his shenanigans, the way he knew how to soothe her and she, in her infinite kindness, learned to soothe him back when a crack of worry grew between his impeccable … how could he not fall in love ?

He loved the way she would recite poetry while he slowly got used to her wanting him to caress her head, and she loved the way he would sing her verses in his smooth, sultry voice. The way she would eye him while someone else was talking on stage with a soft smile while he was guarding the entrance and he’d let a smile crack.

It wasn’t a consummated love like you would see in the current, modern days. There were, of course, pairings who held deep affection towards one another and brought in the next generation, but she had a role where she would never have the chance to do so, for her symbolism was not to replicate, only to be a happenstance, a gift which mustn’t be tainted by an attempt to be artificially redone. She accepted her role with no issue, and so did Roy. And the two of them were perfectly happy with this.

This was a time before the continents even started to noticeably separate on Earth, or even before the initial ground became more and more flooded by the waters. A time where Roy’s kind felt so unified, at peace… until this built up, free of conflict power shattered in on itself.

Raw abominations started roaming, not in the form of creatures, not exactly. So ephemeral, yet spreading chaos and distortion at every corner, fueled by the abuse and infighting of those who had gathered too much and only yearned for more. Years and generations of peace had made civilization take harmony for granted, and the couple was powerless as they saw it unfold. As the world balance collapsed, Roy was approached by a group of pacifists, trusted people for outside the conflicts, everyone knew anyone, respect one another, grew with one another. And as sickly dear ones, growing tainted by the plague pleaded with him, for his position had him perfect for what needed to be done for the greater good: kill the priestess, so the good in her would spread across the land, calm the spirits through their weeps, and save them.

Someone like Roy, of unfathomable loyalty, had a decision to make. And despite the tugs at his heart, it was an easy one. For he believed that, if the Priestess was present, the choice would be simple. That she would understand, because, in her infinite goodness, she could forgive them, forgive him, in the end. And as his trust towards her was strong, it is during a bright morning, away from the war, in the beautiful temple they inhabited, up in the mountains, away from civilization, that he entrusted her with what the people wished of them… and like the great woman she always had been, she kept a serene, albeit slightly sorrowful expression as she accepted. If there was a chance the power built inside her since birth could save more than one person, she would die.

But when his blade pierced her heart, tainting her white, ceremonial clothing in the middle of the garden, she only clanged onto him, eyes wide with desperate sorrow, an expression she, and he, never ever witnessed in anyone before. Fear and betrayal spread across her dark eyes as they grew more and more obscure.

I don’t want to die. My love, I don’t want to die…

―were her last words before, as she wept and choked, the High Priestess expired in her guardian’s blood soaked arms, him wearing too stunned an expression for her to ever hear an answer for him.

Just like beliefs and idolization are made-up by man for comfort and, ultimately, are fake, so was the glorification that one death, from someone incredibly beautiful from the inside out, would be a solution to mankind creating their own demise.

And so, it was at his feet that Roy saw the last of humans slowly die out, first from their endless conflict, so harsh they forgot where it even started, and then to the unforgiving nature, taking back the life they had abused off her.

Only, as he himself felt like he was expiring, with all lifeforce living him in the deserted, now ruined temple he had taken cared of with his beloved.

♚ “THIS IS TRUE: THE WORLD IS BETTER OFF WITH SOME PEOPLE GONE. OUR LIVES ARE NOT ALL INTERCONNECTED. THAT THEORY IS CROCK. SOME PEOPLE TRULY DO NOT NEED TO BE HERE.”

And with the end of this first Humankind was the land so dry of its lifeforce that the cycle of resurrection immortality and resurrection ended. It was quite simple at the time, and helped with the utopia free of grief and unnecessary sadness for their knowledge-seeking kind. If happenstance had you gone, your aether would go back to the earth, only to rise again in the next year, century, no one knew, but they would rise again, the same people, to meet the ones they knew in another life again, with hazy memories, but just enough to recognize your loved ones, and find them again. The more time passed, the less did people come back from this dormant phase, millions and millions now sleeping under the crust of the Earth, never to awaken again. Only the one who had gathered more power could come back more quickly, not the servants, no matter how strong they were, like Roy, who was only, despite all his strengths, a support to a higher one.

Only, as their kind ended, in her last breath, was he given the last link to the cycle, to be connected to his brethren, when he wasn’t supposed to be the one to live again to better the world.

She gave it to him, as her last gift. As the forgiveness she could never give him while she clung to dear life so desperately.

For the greatest gift to give to someone where inevitable death surround them is to still live……… isn’t it ?

I have seen too little, did too little to be of any solace in chaos. You, my love, have seen, experienced. I cannot think of a finer person to carry out our legacy, for I trust that only the best will come out of you.

♚ “PEOPLE CAN GET ACCUSTOMED TO ANYTHING, RIGHT? HABIT DOES THINGS TO PEOPLE.”

Life went back to its natural course. Ancient structure became ruins as vegetation took over, and, strong as it ever was, mankind rose again from the ashes. At the dawn of a new civilization, an orphan would be found at a nearby river, taken in by farmers and eventually would be a child raised by the whole humble village… a child who hadn’t forgotten a thing, and worked towards the dawn of a new age where he could protect what was dear to him.

And so, the one these days called Roy, grew up like he did before, to train and refine his ways. Only, this time, he didn’t only focus on his personal growth, but on others’ too. Estranged from other children like he had always been, with adulthood reaching his mind too quickly, only devoted to his craft. Despite snarl from the youth, his reputation grew amongst the adults and elders, and the communities beyond. As soon as his body was barely out of its formative years, did the boy set home in the mountains. Out of the leftover ruins his past life would let him have. A strong foundation to not lose sight of his objective.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. Alongside harsh but fair mental and physical training, all from what he had been taught and remembered, Roy kept exploring martial disciplines he even hadn’t touched in the past, wanting to reestablish what had been lost, and, before he knew it, he was known nearly as a Sage Deity across the land. A man coming from another world, who set up his temple atop the mountains made of smooth boulders eroded with time, near a clear water source, in the middle of a blossoming garden full of colors and hybrid one never knew how such an abundance of different species naturally grew alongside one another in this location, like it was enchanted.

Often, the village elders sought Roy’s advice, which he hoped have given sparingly, in neutrality, since he couldn’t guide mankind every step of the way, only show them a flourishing path. Travelers would come from afar to seek both his teaching and words, with glorified stories growing slightly intimidating to the young man. Despite this, he did his best to carry on his duty, taking care of the new temple grounds he assembled himself, wearing flowing clothes he sew himself; all loyal to the form and aesthetic of the woman he cherished, adorning the same attire she did and flowing, long hair. He wasn’t hoping for them to meet again, only honor her memory. He had grieved and grieved, wept and wept before she gave him the gift of eternity. His salvation was throwing himself into his training, contemplating his sorrow, and so on and on again until he only felt peace.

Roy’s stories of a lady in white with the darkest of eyes became legends, tales of kindness, bravery and adventure. And, amongst his own legacy growing, did Roy decide, after much deliberation, to take in disciples. One, then two. People under his tutelage, who would, in return, vow to spread and defend what the temple fought for, alongside taking equal parts in temple duties. And as the young people he accepted under his wing grew, Roy would soon be surrounded by four bright students he deeply loved. Unable to truly have a father’s touch, he, at least, believed he was a good guardian, hoping that, with time, his students would become masters, and that humanity could flourish.

It was then that, surrounded by his disciples, minus one, actually, that Roy had just finished drinking light tea and eating some sweets. He sighed as a cloud formed in front of his thin lips, the cold air announcing the winter to come. Even as his eldest disciple spoke, Roy didn’t reply. He stayed still, unmoving, silent, for there was nothing to say about what he felt was to come.

He didn’t even groan when he felt the ornate blades of his disciples pass through him, all three at the same time, for they were bound to be guilty together. While the screeching pain enveloped his senses, he wondered if this was what she felt, when he betrayed her.

That night, the Sage’s remains were cut to pieces, scattered far and wide, while his head was burned in the courtyard bonfire, all in an attempt to stop the link he had with his brethren, to cease the “gift” he had been given and for the cycle carried by the billions sleeping to come to an end.

But, unlike what men thought, Roy’s cycle was only part of nature, and he was to rise once more.

♚ “MY NIGHTLY BLOOD LUST OVERFLOWED INTO MY DAYS AND I HAD TO LEAVE THE CITY. MY MASK OF SANITY WAS A VICTIM OF IMPENDING SLIPPAGE.”

It was always the same. Again and again. He would be reborn, train, work, bond, and die at the hands of the very ones he had linked himself. The only reliable companion Roy ever had was nature outside of mankind, harsh but fair, just like him. With a behavior he could coexist with peacefully. It started eating him from the inside out. This time around, Roy had come back from the dead a few decades after his murder, found stark naked in a rice field even farther East, still in a young adult form, regenerated. Mankind hadn’t been doomed yet, and so, he vowed to save it by himself.

Roy would travel far and wide as mankind spread its territory and the continents started separating, being the only one of his kind which could still read the flow of life, its remaining corruption, and how to neutralize them. He would never stay in one spot for too long, only focusing on what he had to do. Because if he didn’t do it, who would ? If he didn’t do anything, he would only be left seeing the same amount of suffering and death, all by himself.

He couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t lose hope.

But Roy’s respect for life took the better of him. As he helped others with his abilities, presenting himself as somewhat of a medium as others also showed special traits, he hadn’t seen how darker human’s hearts had become. So much more quickly than the society he had known in the past. People turned envious of his abilities, and, soon enough, he needed to fight and run for his own life, at the risk of being torn apart yet again.

This fight and flight narrative happened again. And again. Until Roy’s duty had no time to be done; if he wasn’t around, there was no way anything could be done. He had to survive. And as the world grew around him, his mind and memories became muddied, and the depravity surrounding his person slowly creeped into his mind, as any remainder of his initial purpose was muddled with a constant years of bloodshed. An age of decades where he was to be burned and tortured, captured again and again before he’d lay waste to entire villages for his own safety. So no witness was to remain, and less people were to go after him. His training was used in a way he had never done before. For a cause he couldn’t decide to stop. He learned how to kill as efficiently as possible, how to decimate communities, destroy morale through underhanded means. Jumping from one allegiance to another as he either killed or fled before they’d go after him. For the first time, Roy could see how much his raw abilities could be of use in carnage, with no ceremony, no cause behind them. Only death. The very somber death he swore to stop.

He didn’t even stop to wonder at the technology men came up with, using the growing devices as meant for an end, anger and rage creeping into his very soul, indulging in vices he was being offered by humans which morals he always despised. There was no relief in this life, no moment of quiet, only screams and chaos, and only sins could provide a moment of respite. Roy, actually, never remembered how he died, but he did, at some point, in some time, after all sane people had left the territory, and only savagery had roamed the land he had loved so dearly.

During this time, he had forgotten her name, even her face.

♚ “THE CONVERSATION FOLLOWS ITS OWN ROLLING ACCORD - NO REAL STRUCTURE OR TOPIC OR INTERNAL LOGIC OR FEELING; EXCEPT, OF COURSE, FOR ITS OWN HIDDEN, CONSPIRATORIAL ONE. JUST WORDS, AND LIKE IN A MOVIE, BUT ONE THAT HAS BEEN TRANSCRIBED IMPROPERLY, MOST OF IT OVERLAPS.”

At some point, Roy had no recognition if he had been in the same world, the same plane of existence amongst the cycles when he awoke once again. This time in a white, desperately empty desert. With no one at his side. He was still, somehow, a fully grown person, with the fresh memories of violence he had laid, and the scent of blood into all his pores, and the grotesque weapons he had used with no ceremony.

Yet, in this newly regenerated body, in this empty space by himself, his mind centered itself. His discipline kicked in between the silence and hunt for sustenance. He had spent so long a time by himself, alone, in the most chaotic of scenarios. With no one who remembered him, no one who remembered his loved ones, no one who remembered who everyone he even knew were.

After spending time and time, he couldn’t count how long, to rebalance his person, reshape his senses and skills yet again, Roy readied himself to reach civilization once more… yet when he started his journey again, he stopped, the sudden weight of his contact with humankind anchoring him to the ground, unable now to stand. His body was trembling, and everything he had packed fell to the ground. He knew what would happen if he gave up. What he would need to go through and experience. Again and again. He tried. He tried so hard. But no matter how good he could be, it seemed so… hopeless. However, even if it was an impossible endeavor, he couldn’t stop, or else he would have nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to, maybe, one day, see everyone again. How many times had it been ? His memory couldn’t bear so much, what important things could he not recall ? He could start counting, but there was no way to say if entire lifetimes were not thrown into the abyss, and if forgotten crucial knowledge would end up with yet another failure…

This is when, hunched onto himself in this deserted, white horizon, Roy held his head in his hand. He groaned of pain as his mind was strained to its limits, drooling as he agonized, and images faded far, far away as he life flow was being torn apart from him by his own hands. He could hear the screams of his brethren, their legacy being desecrated. Useless. Useless. He didn’t need to remember their names. He didn’t need to remember their faces. Everything deemed useless to the core of his mission was shred out of his very soul, making the pain, the worries fade away, for he only needed to focus on what needed to be done.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. For those virtues to lead mankind to a greater part. And maybe, just maybe, recover part of everything he had lost.

For it was the one thing she had not accounted for, for she saw this man as someone so perfect through her affection for him.

That, ultimately, he did all of this so he could see them, see her again if he ever succeeded, and mankind could doom itself if it wasn’t the only way he knew to move onwards. That he did what was needed of him, without taking it so much to heart, that, in the deep of his heart, laid a hidden, selfish reason for all of this. Yet, it may not be this one anymore, he couldn’t tell.

And as Roy literally lost his mind, all by himself, with not a soul around to witness his sorrow, he laid there, vegetable from the trauma, feeling but unable to move, in a haze of horror and pain, before, finally, dehydration took him, and he was back in the cycle again.

Only, this time, there would be no memories. Only physical ones. No loneliness, only fake memories pieced by the world to balance his existence. Only a man, his training, his virtues, and an impossible task that is his only defense against despair and insanity.

♚ “THERE IS NO TIME FOR THE INNOCENT.”

[jungkookiebus]

Petals | kth

Genre: hanahaki!au, ANGST Rating: PG13 Pairing: taehyung x reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: heavy angst, unrequited love, mentions of blood (and a fair amount of it), major character death Author’s Note: A kind anon asked, I had never heard of it, but immediately started googling and found the subject pretty fascinating. It’s short and sweet, but I think it covers the angst bases. 🙈

The first time you saw him was in spring. The cherry blossoms were blooming, and life seemed magical. Sun beat down on the campus and right onto him. He must have been a transfer; you hadn’t seen him this semester. His soft brown hair shone with strands of gold in the sunlight. His skin was equally as golden, and he seemed to shine. Whispers went around campus quickly. The new boy was beautiful, that much you knew, but the rest was a mystery. Rumors surfaced that he was some out of town rich kid. Others said he was some poor orphan from Daegu. Whatever he was, he was your new object of affection.

You learned his name when you found out you had chemistry together and his last name put him right next to you. He sat smoothly on the stool next to yours, his sweet scent wafting in your direction.

Taehyung. It rolled off the teacher’s tongue delicately because that was the only way one should say it.

You chanced a glance at him. He must have felt your gaze because he looked over at you and smiled. His smile was boxy, but it reminded you of a heart. His eyes were a deep, chocolate brown.

That spring semester was one to remember for you. Every day, after lunch, he was always happy when he sat down next to you. He’d tell you about the current video games he was trying to beat, the book he read over the weekend, or the strange antics him and his new best friend, Jungkook, got up to. Every now and again his hand would find your arm as he excitedly told you a story. Your face would heat up, but you don’t think he noticed. He’d go on talking like nothing had happened and would eventually ask you what you had been up to.

Your feelings for him grew as the months wore on. His touches would happen more often, and he’d keep his palm against your skin just a little longer than normal. You knew, in your heart, that he was beginning to feel the same way.

That was, until, the last day of the semester before summer break. You were making your way down the hall to your last chemistry class. You were excited to see him, but sad that this would be your last class together. Maybe he would tell you about his feelings? If not, were you prepared to make the first move? But those thoughts were quickly dashed when you saw him in the hallway with her. Your school’s sweetheart was oddly close to him as he stood against the wall. One of his hands was on the strap of his backpack while the other was stuffed into his pocket. She, too, leaned against the wall but her chest was nearly touching his arm and she was doing that disgusting thing that girl’s do when they look up at boys and bat their eyelashes. He was talking to her and smiling. It made your heart drop sickeningly into your stomach. You just looked at them, neither of them noticing, as you passed and walked into class.

Moments later, Taehyung was walking into the room, usual smile on his face as he sat down next to you.

“Everything okay, ____?” he asked.

“Yea,” you mumbled, looking ahead.

He merely shrugged and began rambling on as he usually did. You wanted to pay attention, to give him all you had, but you also wanted to be upset with him. Why was he talking to her of all people? Did he not feel anything for you?

Class went by as usual and at the end, Taehyung was extending his hand towards yours. Your heart flipped in your chest.

“Hey, put your number in here,” he said while handing his phone to you, “so when I finally beat Jungkook at that game I’ll take a picture of his face and send it to you.”

And then again, maybe he did like you? Hope bloomed in your chest like a flower and settled here. Nestled deep in your heart, the petals fluttering in time with your heartbeat.

You put your number in his phone that day and he waved a goodbye to you as you parted ways in the hall. But the joy you felt when you left campus would not be long lived.

Taehyung texted you once and it was as promised, a picture of a sad looking Jungkook. You replied and got nothing in return. The message was left as read in your inbox and there it sat. That was when you coughed up the first petal. Delicate and white, it traveled up your throat as you panicked, and out came the fragile thing. It landed softly in your hand and laid there as if it had just come from a flower. You quickly dropped it on your bed, but the burn in your chest was undeniable. Utter pain coursed out from your lungs and to the rest of your body. Heartache charted a course of hot fire to your nerves.

You cried, holding your phone, telling yourself just to text him, but if he liked you, he would have messaged you back. That whole semester was nothing to him. Your talks about art, music, and books was just filler for him before class started. He was nice and social to everyone, so what really set you apart? Nothing. You were as forgettable to him as the rest of your classmates.

Later that night, you’d cough a pink petal, just a tad bigger than the last. You placed it with the other on your nightstand. They delicately overlapped, seeming to have come from the same flower. Perfect matches. Most unlike you and Taehyung.

A week later and you gathered up the courage to text him. Not even five minutes later he replied to you. The ache in your chest subsided a little. The tickle in the back of your throat wasn’t quite as pronounced. He seemed happy that you texted him. Or, as much as the text could portray emotion. He told you about his family vacation, where he had gone, the things he had seen, etc. He began to attach photos and you were excited that he was wanting to share such intimate details about his life. The first few were some nature shots, a couple of squirrels, and then you began to get to ones of his family. His little brother was just as cute as him and you saw that the both took after their father.

The next one sent your heart plummeting into your stomach.

It was Taehyung and her. The girl from the hallway. The one batting her eyelashes so innocently at him. You felt instantly sick, bile rising in your throat. You dropped your phone on your bed as you began to cough. It lit up with text after text from him, but you couldn’t see through the blur of tears as you coughed. Your chest was on fire and it felt as if someone had stuffed them full of old wash clothes. For the life of you, you could not catch your breath. Something was travelling up your throat, but it didn’t feel like sick. You clutched at your throat as you tried to get any amount of air around what was coming up. In the last few moments when you thought you were going to pass out, it fell from your mouth. A small bundle of forget-me-nots lay in your bed as if they had just been plucked from the bush. You inhaled a large breath, throat burning as you did so, but the burn in your lungs worsened.

You grabbed your phone and unlocked it, wiping away your tears so you could see the screen. Taehyung had kept on talking as if he hadn’t just sent you a picture of him and that girl. He kept talking to you like he had in class; like you were the only person in the world. He had begun asking you questions, but his last message was that she had just arrived at his house and he had to go.

I’ll talk to you later, yea?

No. No, he wouldn’t. This burn in your chest was killing you. You coughed into your hand and blood was spattered on your skin. The metallic taste of it made you sick as you stumbled to the bathroom. Leaning against your sink, you pulled the glass that was sat next to it under the tap. You drank heartily but was soon coughing most of it up. It came out stained pink, mixed with your blood, as you struggled to breathe. You dropped the glass into the sink as you fell to your knees. You couldn’t stop coughing. Your lungs burned like paper in a flame. More blood dripped from between your lips. Something was coming up your throat again. Tears streamed down you face, mixing with the blood, and caused a horrid display of red lines down your neck, mapping out your death. Two bundles of forget-me-notes fell to the bathroom tile. Their various blue, pinks, and whites were quickly becoming stained in the deep red blood that dripped to the floor. You were on your hands and knees but were becoming weak quickly. Your knees wobbled and your elbows began to give way as more flowers fell from your mouth. Soon, you would black out and hopefully the rest would be painless.

Yet, you couldn’t quit thinking about him, his soft smile, those bright brown eyes, and the soft, deep tenor of his voice.

Your thoughts were filled of still images and moments with Taehyung as you collapsed to the floor. By now, it was littered with your macabre floral artwork. Your eyes closed as the flowers filled your throat, a whole bouquet waiting to escape.

And it was his voice that said your name one last time and it was his face that you saw when your body seemed to sigh its last breath, if you had any. Blood still dripped thickly down your cheek and on the flowers beneath you. Finally, you were freed from the pain. No longer would you feel his rejection nor the anxiety that plagued your mind.

The medical examiner sat in a soft crouch next to your body. She came in after evidence had been marked off, photographed, and toted away in sterile bags. Now, it was just her, and you lying on the floor, in the bathroom. She quirked her head to the side as she searched your face. Your parents had found you the next morning, so even though the color had drained from your face, something about your features seemed…bright. The flowers spilling from your mouth hadn’t been removed, but the rest around you had been carefully stored away. Despite the gruesome, bloody bouquet however, it almost looked as if you had died with a turn of your lips. A grisly smile. This death would follow her forever.

The girl with the flower filled lungs. What a horrible, beautiful death.                                                

[recentanimenews]

ESSAY: Berserk's Journey of Acceptance Over 30 Years of Fandom

  My descent into anime fandom began in the '90s, and just as watching Neon Genesis Evangelion caused my first revelation that cartoons could be art, reading Berserk gave me the same realization about comics. The news of Kentaro Miura’s death, who passed on May 6, has been emotionally complicated for me, as it's the first time a celebrity's death has hit truly close to home. In addition to being the lynchpin for several important personal revelations, Berserk is one of the longest-lasting works I’ve followed and that I must suddenly bid farewell to after existing alongside it for two-thirds of my life.

  Berserk is a monolith not only for anime and manga, but also fantasy literature, video games, you name it. It might be one of the single most influential works of the ‘80s — on a level similar to Blade Runner — to a degree where it’s difficult to imagine what the world might look like without it, and the generations of creators the series inspired.

  Although not the first, Guts is the prototypical large sword anime boy: Final Fantasy VII's Cloud Strife, Siegfried/Nightmare from Soulcalibur, and Black Clover's Asta are all links in the same chain, with other series like Dark Souls and Claymore taking clear inspiration from Berserk. But even deeper than that, the three-character dynamic between Guts, Griffith, and Casca, the monster designs, the grotesque violence, Miura’s image of hell — all of them can be spotted in countless pieces of media across the globe.

  Despite this, it just doesn’t seem like people talk about it very much. For over 20 years, Berserk has stood among the critical pantheon for both anime and manga, but it doesn’t spur conversations in the same way as Neon Genesis Evangelion, Akira, or Dragon Ball Z still do today. Its graphic depictions certainly represent a barrier to entry much higher than even the aforementioned company. 

    Seeing the internet exude sympathy and fond reminiscing about Berserk was immensely validating and has been my single most therapeutic experience online. Moreso, it reminded me that the fans have always been there. And even looking into it, Berserk is the single best-selling property in the 35-year history of Dark Horse. My feeling is that Berserk just has something about it that reaches deep into you and gets stuck there.

  I recall introducing one of my housemates to Berserk a few years ago — a person with all the intelligence and personal drive to both work on cancer research at Stanford while pursuing his own MD and maintaining a level of physical fitness that was frankly unreasonable for the hours that he kept. He was NOT in any way analytical about the media he consumed, but watching him sitting on the floor turning all his considerable willpower and intellect toward delivering an off-the-cuff treatise on how Berserk had so deeply touched him was a sight in itself to behold. His thoughts on the series' portrayal of sex as fundamentally violent leading up to Guts and Casca’s first moment of intimacy in the Golden Age movies was one of the most beautiful sentiments I’d ever heard in reaction to a piece of fiction.

  I don’t think I’d ever heard him provide anything but a surface-level take on a piece of media before or since. He was a pretty forthright guy, but the way he just cut into himself and let his feelings pour out onto the floor left me awestruck. The process of reading Berserk can strike emotional chords within you that are tough to untangle. I’ve been writing analysis and experiential pieces related to anime and manga for almost ten years — and interacting with Berserk’s world for almost 30 years — and writing may just be yet another attempt for me to pull my own twisted-up feelings about it apart. 

  Berserk is one of the most deeply personal works I’ve ever read, both for myself and in my perception of Miura's works. The series' transformation in the past 30 years artistically and thematically is so singular it's difficult to find another work that comes close. The author of Hajime no Ippo, who was among the first to see Berserk as Miura presented him with some early drafts working as his assistant, claimed that the design for Guts and Puck had come from a mess of ideas Miura had been working on since his early school days.

  写真は三浦建太郎君が寄稿してくれた鷹村です。 今かなり感傷的になっています。 思い出話をさせて下さい。 僕が初めての週刊連載でスタッフが一人もいなくて困っていたら手伝いにきてくれました。 彼が18で僕が19です。 某大学の芸術学部の学生で講義明けにスケッチブックを片手に来てくれました。 pic.twitter.com/hT1JCWBTKu

— 森川ジョージ (@WANPOWANWAN) May 20, 2021

  Miura claimed two of his big influences were Go Nagai’s Violence Jack and Tetsuo Hara and Buronson’s Fist of the North Star. Miura wears these influences on his sleeve, discovering the early concepts that had percolated in his mind just felt right. The beginning of Berserk, despite its amazing visual power, feels like it sprang from a very juvenile concept: Guts is a hypermasculine lone traveler breaking his body against nightmarish creatures in his single-minded pursuit of revenge, rigidly independent and distrustful of others due to his dark past.

  Uncompromising, rugged, independent, a really big sword ... Guts is a romantic ideal of masculinity on a quest to personally serve justice against the one who wronged him. Almost nefarious in the manner in which his character checked these boxes, especially when it came to his grim stoicism, unblinkingly facing his struggle against literal cosmic forces. Never doubting himself, never trusting others, never weeping for what he had lost.

    Miura said he sketched out most of the backstory when the manga began publication, so I have to assume the larger strokes of the Golden Arc were pretty well figured out from the outset, but I’m less sure if he had fully realized where he wanted to take the story to where we are now. After the introductory mini-arcs of demon-slaying, Berserk encounters Griffith and the story draws us back to a massive flashback arc. We see the same Guts living as a lone mercenary who Griffith persuades to join the Band of the Hawk to help realize his ambitions of rising above the circumstances of his birth to join the nobility.

  We discover the horrific abuses of Guts’ adoptive father and eventually learn that Guts, Griffith, and Casca are all victims of sexual violence. The story develops into a sprawling semi-historical epic featuring politics and war, but the real narrative is in the growing companionship between Guts and the members of the band. Directionless and traumatized by his childhood, Guts slowly finds a purpose helping Griffith realize his dream and the courage to allow others to grow close to him. 

  Miura mentioned that many Band of the Hawk members were based on his early friend groups. Although he was always sparse with details about his personal life, he has spoken about how many of them referred to themselves as aspiring manga authors and how he felt an intense sense of competition, admitting that among them he may have been the only one seriously working toward that goal, desperately keeping ahead in his perceived race against them. It’s intriguing thinking about how much of this angst may have made it to the pages, as it's almost impossible not to imagine Miura put quite a bit of himself in Guts. 

  Perhaps this is why it feels so real and makes The Eclipse — the quintessential anime betrayal at the hands of Griffith — all the more heartbreaking. The raw violence and macabre imagery certainly helped. While Miura owed Hellraiser’s Cenobites much in the designs of the God Hand, his macabre portrayal of the Band of the Hawk’s eradication within the literal bowels of hell, the massive hand, the black sun, the Skull Knight, and even Miura’s page compositions have been endlessly referenced, copied, and outright plagiarized since.

    The events were tragic in any context and I have heard many deeply personal experiences others drew from The Eclipse sympathizing with Guts, Casca, or even Griffith’s spiral driven by his perceived rejection by Guts. Mine were most closely aligned with the tragedy of Guts having overcome such painful circumstances to not only reject his own self enforced solitude, but to fearlessly express his affection for his loved ones. 

  The Golden Age was a methodical destruction of Guts’ self-destructive methods of preservation ruined in a single selfish act by his most trusted friend, leaving him once again alone and afraid of growing close to those around him. It ripped the romance of Guts’ mission and eventually took the story down a course I never expected. Berserk wasn’t a story of revenge but one of recovery.

  Guess that’s enough beating around the bush, as I should talk about how this shift affected me personally. When I was young, when I began reading Berserk I found Guts’ unflagging stoicism to be really cool, not just aesthetically but in how I understood guys were supposed to be. I was slow to make friends during school and my rapidly gentrifying neighborhood had my friends' parents moving away faster than I could find new ones. At some point I think I became too afraid of putting myself out there anymore, risking rejection when even acceptance was so fleeting. It began to feel easier just to resign myself to solitude and pretend my circumstances were beyond my own power to correct.

  Unfortunately, I became the stereotypical kid who ate alone during lunch break. Under the invisible expectations demanding I not display weakness, my loneliness was compounded by shame for feeling loneliness. My only recourse was to reveal none of those feelings and pretend the whole thing didn't bother me at all. Needless to say my attempts to cope probably fooled no one and only made things even worse, but I really didn’t know of any better way to handle my situation. I felt bad, I felt even worse about feeling bad and had been provided with zero tools to cope, much less even admit that I had a problem at all.

  The arcs following the Golden Age completely changed my perspective. Guts had tragically, yet understandably, cut himself off from others to save himself from experiencing that trauma again and, in effect, denied himself any opportunity to allow himself to be happy again. As he began to meet other characters that attached themselves to him, between Rickert and Erica spending months waiting worried for his return, and even the slimmest hope to rescuing Casca began to seed itself into the story, I could only see Guts as a fool pursuing a grim and hopeless task rather than appreciating everything that he had managed to hold onto. 

  The same attributes that made Guts so compelling in the opening chapters were revealed as his true enemy. Griffith had committed an unforgivable act but Guts’ journey for revenge was one of self-inflicted pain and fear. The romanticism was gone.

  Farnese’s inclusion in the Conviction arc was a revelation. Among the many brilliant aspects of her character, I identified with her simply for how she acted as a stand-in for myself as the reader: Plagued by self-doubt and fear, desperate to maintain her own stoic and uncompromising image, and resentful of her place in the world. She sees Guts’ fearlessness in the face of cosmic horror and believes she might be able to learn his confidence.

    But in following Guts, Farnese instead finds a teacher in Casca. In taking care of her, Farnese develops a connection and is able to experience genuine sympathy that develops into a sense of responsibility. Caring for Casca allows Farnese to develop the courage she was lacking not out of reckless self-abandon but compassion.

  I can’t exactly credit Berserk with turning my life around, but I feel that it genuinely helped crystallize within me a sense of growing doubts about my maladjusted high school days. My growing awareness of Guts' undeniable role in his own suffering forced me to admit my own role in mine and created a determination to take action to fix it rather than pretending enough stoicism might actually result in some sort of solution.

  I visited the Berserk subreddit from time to time and always enjoyed the group's penchant for referring to all the members of the board as “fellow strugglers,” owing both to Skull Knight’s label for Guts and their own tongue-in-cheek humor at waiting through extended hiatuses. Only in retrospect did it feel truly fitting to me. Trying to avoid the pitfalls of Guts’ path is a constant struggle. Today I’m blessed with many good friends but still feel primal pangs of fear holding me back nearly every time I meet someone, the idea of telling others how much they mean to me or even sharing my thoughts and feelings about something I care about deeply as if each action will expose me to attack.

  It’s taken time to pull myself away from the behaviors that were so deeply ingrained and it’s a journey where I’m not sure the work will ever be truly done, but witnessing Guts’ own slow progress has been a constant source of reassurance. My sense of admiration for Miura’s epic tale of a man allowing himself to let go after suffering such devastating circumstances brought my own humble problems and their way out into focus.

    Over the years I, and many others, have been forced to come to terms with the fact that Berserk would likely never finish. The pattern of long, unexplained hiatuses and the solemn recognition that any of them could be the last is a familiar one. The double-edged sword of manga largely being works created by a single individual is that there is rarely anyone in a position to pick up the torch when the creator calls it quits. Takehiko Inoue’s Vagabond, Ai Yazawa’s Nana, and likely Yoshihiro Togashi’s Hunter X Hunter all frozen in indefinite hiatus, the publishers respectfully holding the door open should the creators ever decide to return, leaving it in a liminal space with no sense of conclusion for the fans except what we can make for ourselves.

  The reason for Miura’s hiatuses was unclear. Fans liked to joke that he would take long breaks to play The Idolmaster, but Miura was also infamous for taking “breaks” spent minutely illustrating panels to his exacting artistic standard, creating a tumultuous release schedule during the wars featuring thousands of tiny soldiers all dressed in period-appropriate armor. If his health was becoming an issue, it’s uncommon that news would be shared with fans for most authors, much less one as private as Miura.

  Even without delays, the story Miura was building just seemed to be getting too big. The scale continued to grow, his narrative ambition swelling even faster after 20 years of publication, the depth and breadth of his universe constantly expanding. The fan-dubbed “Millennium Falcon Arc” was massive, changing the landscape of Berserk from a low fantasy plagued by roaming demons to a high fantasy where godlike beings of sanity-defying size battled for control of the world. How could Guts even meet Griffith again? What might Casca want to do when her sanity returned? What are the origins of the Skull Knight? And would he do battle with the God Hand? There was too much left to happen and Miura’s art only grew more and more elaborate. It would take decades to resolve all this.

  But it didn’t need to. I imagine we’ll never get a precise picture of the final years of Miura’s life leading up to his tragic passing. In the final chapters he released, it felt as if he had directed the story to some conclusion. The unfinished Fantasia arc finds Guts and his newfound band finding a way to finally restore Casca’s sanity and — although there is still unmistakably a boundary separating them — both seem resolute in finding a way to mend their shared wounds together.

  One of the final chapters features Guts drinking around the campfire with the two other men of his group, Serpico and Roderick, as he entrusts the recovery of Casca to Schierke and Farnese. It's a scene that, in the original Band of the Hawk, would have found Guts brooding as his fellows engage in bluster. The tone of this conversation, however, is completely different. The three commiserate over how much has changed and the strength each has found in the companionship of the others. After everything that has happened, Guts declares that he is grateful. 

  The suicidal dedication to his quest for vengeance and dispassionate pragmatism that defined Guts in the earliest chapters is gone. Although they first appeared to be a source of strength as the Black Swordsman, he has learned that they rose from the fear of losing his friends again, from letting others close enough to harm him, and from having no other purpose without others. Whether or not Guts and Griffith were to ever meet again, Guts has rediscovered the strength to no longer carry his burdens alone. 

  All that has happened is all there will ever be. We too must be grateful.

      Peter Fobian is an Associate Manager of Social Video at Crunchyroll, writer for Anime Academy and Anime in America, and an editor at Anime Feminist. You can follow him on Twitter @PeterFobian.

By: Peter Fobian

[sirmontgomery]

Such Beauty | Self Para

Title:  Such Beauty Timeframe: Three years ago.  Tagging: Alec York and Graham Montgomery.    Total: 1,642  Triggers: Terminal Illness. Hospitals. Major surgery. Death.    Notes: Complete.

"Are you scared?"

"Of a little surgery...?" Graham smiled. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Alec reached out and took Graham's hand, a small smile on his lips, which didn't quite reach his eyes. It was still a happy smile but Graham could tell that his husband was tired. The treatment they'd undertaken to shrink the tumor had taken its toll on Alec's body. It showed in his energy, which seemed to come in spurts.

"I've seen you reading that brochure at least a dozen times the past two hours." He chuckled. "You must have it memorized."

Graham realized he'd still been holding it in his free hand. The one not occupied by Alec's.

He set it down with a little laugh. Wiped his hand on his jeans. He realized his palms were a bit sweaty.

"I just want to be prepared," said Graham. It was partly his nature as a Dominant and a person. Ever since he was a young boy Graham always needed to have all the facts. His father had always been a responsible person and Graham fashioned parts of himself after Gregory. Another part of this preparedness was also military training. He wasn't a doctor, wasn't an expert, but that didn't mean he had to be useless. He wouldn't be the soldier on the front line but he could have the six of the soldier next to him.

Alec lifted his hand briefly from Graham's hand to stroke his cheek before closing his palm over Graham's again.

"Are you prepared?" asked Alec. There was something in his tone that Graham didn't like.

Graham blinked and stared. He was asking something Graham had kept at quite a distance for a very long time. "Well, the complications of the surgery...seem big..." said Graham carefully. "Though the doctor says these sorts of risks come with any surgery." Graham would be vague in his answer if that's what Alec wanted. "We're doing our part."

They'd chosen the aggressive therapies they had in order to attack the enemy. Cause the tumor to shrink. Get in with a scalpel and finish the job.

"Graham."

The Dominant stood. "The nurse should be by to check on your fluids," he checked on his watch. "Who is it today?" He went to a pile of his things and disentangled a planner from his coat and bag. There were many assorted personal items in that bag, from toothpaste, to deodorant, to dry shampoo and granola bars. "I think it might be Flores," he said casually over his shoulder, finger sliding down the pages.

"It's okay to be scared," said Alec. He had shifted his head on the pillow.

Graham felt his chest tighten. He shook his head. "Why should I be scared?" Graham asked. "I'm not scared."

Alec smirked. "Bullshit."

That's partly what Graham had loved about Alec. He wasn't afraid to call Graham out. He also gave him permission to feel the things he was afraid of feeling. It put Graham at ease to take action. To do all the reading. To keep up on the research articles online. To study the tips in all the forums at odd hours while Alec slept.

"I know you watch me..." said Alec. "At night. Like...it's intense." Alec swallowed. "Like you're waiting for something."

Graham never knew Alec woke in the night.

"Sometimes I watch you too."

He closed the planner and looked at the dark haired sub. "I'm listening," Graham said, finally. "Not watching." Graham held the planner in his hands as he walked back to Alec's bedside. "I'm listening to hear you breathing."

There were many fears that Graham had about what was happening and what was to come. The scariest ones were the things Graham pictured could happen that they didn't see coming. Alec not breathing in the middle of the night because his blood pressure dropped or because a tube wasn't giving him enough fluids or a million other things...all kept Graham up.

"I'm telling our kids that their father was a creep," said Alec.

Graham barked out a laugh. It was unexpected. Alec had the most unexpected talent for bringing Graham out of himself.

"Actually," said Graham. "I was looking at what work we might be able to ask the plastic surgeon to do on you whilst you're under. You know...combine cosmetic with medical..." His humor never would've been so macabre before. This seemed to lighten both of their moods.

"Oh please," Alec rolled his eyes. "You think I'm perfect. What could you possibly want done? God made me a work of art."

Graham smiled down at Alec and ran his fingers over Alec's scalp. His hair had thinned some because of the medicine but they'd had to shave it for the surgery anyway. "He did."

Alec grabbed Graham's hand again. He kissed it.

"If something happens..."

"It won't." Graham shook his head.

"If something happens..." Alec pressed forward. "I want you to...find someone. I want you to find someone."

"Alec."

"I mean, obviously they won't be like me." He smiled. "You know. I want you to be happy."

Graham sighed heavily. Looked down.

"I mean, don't be too happy."

Graham gave a watery laugh. Shook his head.

"Like obviously not as happy as you were with me." Alec smiled tiredly. "But it's okay to be happy."

"I won't be happy," said Graham. "I'll be grumpy."

Alec rolled his eyes.

"I mean think of the paperwork you'll have left me with."

Alec gave a belly laugh. It was enough to crinkle the corner of Graham's eyes. They'd avoided having this talk for so long that Graham felt like it was for nothing. All that fear. This was easy. This was like walking the elephant out of the room and remembering its presence as one did a fond trip to the circus. Amusing to think about but rarely revisted.

"I know you hate paperwork," said Alec. "God, remember that time in third year..."

"Krazinski," Graham chuckled.

"You were in charge of his detail for the duty day and that man couldn't keep out of trouble to save his life."

"How he ever made it to graduation day, I'll never know," said Graham.

"You spent an hour talking to the commander and then another two filling out all those forms saying what happened."

"It was testimony from the others I had to sign as well. It started with that vacuum bin full of the dust that never seemed to fully be clear from the duty hall. He executed a facing movement right into the drill instructor on his way to empty it."

Alec laughed again and held his sides. "Didn't he drop that trash bag too?" Krazinski had. Some of it got on the drill instructor's uniform after they both fell.

Graham smiled and turned on the dim lamp above Alec's bed. He turned off the overhead fluorescents and moved back to his seat. He could tell Alec was getting tired. Besides, his big surgery was the next morning and Graham had been adamant about a bedtime. He'd even set an alarm for it on his phone; it would vibrate soon to let Graham know. But Graham already knew.

“And you got out of having to sign paperwork. Somehow.” Graham rolled his eyes this time.

"Remember when we..."

Graham nodded. "Week before grad week," he knew what Alec was going to mention. "We spent that whole leave in that sweet little town. Our unit was the one with all those merits from the instruction team. You were happy to sign then."

Alec relaxed, as if soothed by Graham's remembering. "That whole time I kept thinking...you were holding something in." He smiled, closing his eyes. "You know I thought you were going to break up with me."

Graham's brows lifted.

"I remember some talk with your parents. About whether or not to invite that ex of yours. His father was going to come or something." Alec yawned. "I was worried...you two had been in touch."

Graham didn't know how to feel about that. Everything outside of this room had seemed eons away. Distant islands to what they were experiencing now in the present. The mention of Cassius' name caused a twinge in Graham's heart but he didn't know why. He wasn't sure what to say in this moment. Cassius was always a love present in his heart. Though his love for Alec had grown somehow beside it in Graham's heart, in the spaces around it. Something that was hard to explain if he should ever have a need to put it into words. Thankfully, Graham never needed to.

Strange how the strands of fate worked. He had once thought it his fate to be with Cassius. To have a family with him. To be his Dominant. Then that relationship ended. In the shambles of those dreams...in the fraying of that strand...he'd found another fate. The end of that relationship had led him into Alec's arms. Perhaps that might have been his fate all along. Though that didn't sit right in Graham's heart either, for some reason.

Graham brought Alec's hand up to his lips and gave their enclosed fingers a kiss. "It was that week on leave when I proposed to you..." he reminded the submissive. Graham remembered everything about it. The trip up the lake. A boat ride surrounded by swans. They'd made love in a clearing just after.

"I see now..." Alec whispered, eyes still closed. "Such beauty...such beauty you have brought me."

Graham's heart twisted. He felt his gut clench. He took Alec's hand though his husband was now asleep. Graham could tell by his breathing pattern.

"You have to be happy," he murmured.

Graham wondered if he was dreaming.

He hoped it was a good dream. As Graham turned off the light above Alec's bed he knew that he wouldn't sleep.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Graham silenced the alarm letting him know it was time for lights out.

He couldn't let go of Alec's hand. He didn't the whole night.

[marshmallowprotection]

do you do requests? if so, saeran, seven, and v's reaction to a male mc that seems very caring and understanding but is goth af, listens to heavy metal, and likes to collect creepy/cursed things in his spare time.

This MC is just Mod Haruka. Anon, are you aware that you’re basically describing my fiance? He couldn’t stop laughing when I told him this popped into the askbox. - Mod Kait. 

Saeran

Saeran is the man that will vibe with you like nobody else. 

He can't judge a book by it's cover because if he did that, he would be dooming himself to the very same fate. He's always been more lured to the darker, and gloomier side of things. If he had a choice, then he would be dressed in muted tones and in all black. He's not really going to put a lot of work into it, either. If he likes it, he slaps it on and that's nice.

That's not to say that he's totally what we all consider a true goth, though. He's just a very minimalist type who aims to blend into the big darkness. Just leave it to simple black sweaters or turtlenecks. He'll pop in the spikes and the collars and the chokers just for kicks when he feels like it. Just depends. He just likes the style and the aesthetic but that doesn't invalidate him. It's the thing that he used to freely separate himself from the rest of the damned cult.

So, he takes one look at this MC and he’s like, okay, I can vibe with this. It wasn’t what he expected but there’s not a problem in the world with that one, nope, he’s more than happy to be close to somebody that gets his aesthetic really good. 

You two have a lot in common from the surface, but there are some subtle differences on the inside that separate you. Saeran is hard on the outside but soft on the inside. He’s got more domestic hobbies and he really doesn’t listen to music. Whereas you’ve got a grungey vibe and enjoy the finer things in life, meaning the macabre and the fun. 

Yet, one glance at the two of you in public leaves people left to assume that you’re both just the same kind of grungey punks. 

Saeran is intrigued though by some of your hobbies. He’s always wanted to get more into supernatural things. He’s always an inkling of something inside of him but he’s never had the time to get to learning. He likes to learn and you’ve got a lot of things in your collection and disposal that he’s never seen before, and a lot of info that he didn’t know where to start from. He likes you to listen to you fixate and talk about your interests. Everybody else in the room may be cringing or looking away because the two of you get rather involved in your discussions and those with weak stomachs just can’t seem to cut it. 

He’s rather infatuated from the start. Saeran loves your vibe and makes no qualms about it. He’s got the same style. Though, sometimes he may like your jacket a bit too much and borrow it from you. There’s a lot of mixing and matching going on in this household with your shared wardrobe. 

Seven

Seven is a man of wild colors and bright patterns who looks like he walked right into the zany era of pop art color and crawled right back out of it to look like a vibrant hot mess discounted Ronald McDonald and somehow make it look really dope as hell. Seven has found something that works for him but he doesn't really have a set style that defines him apart from the mishmash he made for himself. He can put on anything and feel right at home in it without any worries. He's never had the option to have picky tastes so he's never really thought about it.

He's okay with anything. 

He really doesn't think hard. His life is a lot like his personal choices, a big swirling pot of outcomes that don't seem to twine just right yet somehow the puzzle pieces smash together. 

He takes one look at this MC from the CCTV and he’s a bit stumped. You’ve got such a cute face and you’re got an aesthetic that he hardly ever sees. Seven is unsure of how to approach you. He assumes at first that your tone and attitude may be more surly. Then, he talks to you on the phone for the first time and oh, oh my God, you’re the nicest and sweetest person that he’s ever spoken to in his life, and your laugh is enough to steal his soul.

You’ve just got interests that are a little different from everybody. He likes to cozy up to you, and when he stops being such a butthead, he takes every opportunity to get hugs from you. Everybody assumes right off the bat that you’re the one that they should fear crossing but it’s the other way around. The goofball is the one that has all the power and you’re such a sweetie. It’s kind of hilarious when you’re together because you’re always turning heads. 

Seven doesn’t mind that attention when it comes to turning heads. He’ll get more involved in your style when he gets closer to you, and he’ll often time ask you for your opinion on what he would look best in. There’s a lot of fashion shows in his closet when he’s just jumping in and out to try and enthrall you. He’ll playfully mess with you by borrowing your clothes, but he’ll make it even by tossing his jacket at you. 

He’s got his own weird fixations. He makes robots and AI for fun, just for the hell of it. So, he really doesn’t say much about what you like. He can be a little superstitious and uneasy around the supernatural but as long as you carefully reassure him when those are involved then he’s not bothered. 

He does like to listen to you talk about the cursed things that you own. He often ponders how things can get so cursed over time and if you two could find something modern that’s haunted. 

That’s kooky hijinks!  

V

V is also a big minimalist. 

In all parts of his life, he tends to keep things simple and not overbearing. He just thinks that things have order and he feels better when he knows where all the items are and there isn’t too much overbearing clutter to bother him with clutter. There isn't much he wants or desires and he keeps things neat and tidy. Be it from the way he keeps his house from looking any more than a spick and span museum, or the way that he tries

He tends not to think too much overall about the style choices he wears. 

V hasn't really changed his ways ever since he was a kid, the same could have been said for Jumin. He's got a simple but very relaxed look that he wears and it's nothing overall too flashy or too noticeable compared to the part around him. He's never really given it much thought and he just sticks to what feels okay to him and that's pretty much that. He’s just a simple man who doesn’t think too hard about the way he looks. 

Now, he comes to learn rather fast that not everyone is like that. You’ve got a style about you that he’s never really come across. He knows plenty of artists and photographers that have a personal brand of style, but he’s not had the chance to be around those that have a style like yours. So, he’s intrigued by your choice. He would be one of those to be unsure momentarily of you but wouldn’t show that on his face. He’s too polite for that. 

V comes to really appreciate you. You’ve got an energy that is somehow both comforting and imposing. You can draw people into you and you can keep those that you don’t like at bay. He’s always had nervous energy around others but when he’s with you, he finally doesn’t even think about that. He can just hold your hand and breathe in a sigh of relief. You even get him to think harder in appreciation of more colors that he’s never really considered. 

Being an artist, he’s always looking for that next sense of wonder, and you’ve captivated him like nothing else ever has in this world. You’re tough but you’re delicate, you’re sweet but you’re macabre, etc. He often compliments you very sincerely when you look like you’re radiating confidence. He sees that you feel more at ease in muted tones, and in ripped jeans. He may not get it himself but he loves that you’ve found something that works for you. 

V has really only ever been invested in the music that his mother held dear to her heart. Apart from that, he’s never gotten too in touch with it. You give him the chance to look into other avenues and find other messages in it. He’ll actually be really into it, believe it or not. Does that mean there’s death metal at the house? Yes, yes it does. 

He’s also kind of odd when it comes to hobbies. So, he really doesn’t judge you for what you’re invested in. He’ll listen to you give the story and history behind what you’ve got in your hands and he’ll nod mindfully. It’s important to you so that means that it’s important to him. He likes to learn and understand more about how you see the world and find beauty in places nobody else looks.