#scythe of sorrow

[catluniscia]

The Goblin Queen marked

Goblin Queen aka Madelyne Pryor, the genetic clone and then some of Jean Grey...comics are complex. She finally was shown in 97, and it's kinda cool to be honest. Wondering if the series goes on what she will be doing. Her character is interesting, and aparently in comics right now she has a Scythe called "The Scythe of Sorrows." And we know my weakness for a Scythe wielder with a dark aesthetic. You know when I wrote the blurb for the sketch for those who are subbed to my behind the scenes. (which I highly recommended if you wanna help support me as an artist) I mentioned I would do Green fire...uuuuh well I will be honest it has been a bit of time between sketch posting and finish product, like a few months cause I thought this would be a cool halloween month art. I did normal fire fire...and I am way too lazy to fix the fire. This was a pain to color and plan lighting and blah and To be honest I think it looks fine, and like maybe the fire changed or something, I don't know. Please enjoy this art.

[metalby]

Scythe of Sorrow [Raven's Cry of Despair]. 2023. Bandcamp, Spotify, Facebook, Amazon, Youtube. Twitter(metalone). MMM(Review+Interview)

[im-a-loaf]

@ghostertoasted ALKJKGALHJSKF

... car

[mudvi]

rrraudonos, kad prrravirrrkt gali

[surgeryie]

⠀ ི Lovesick（ ✙ ） NPTs．

Lovelace ﹐ Amorette ﹐ Anais ﹐ Valentin ﹐ Aillys ﹐ Coronet ﹐ Scylla ﹐ Ambrosia ﹐ Belladonna ﹐ Daffodil ﹐ Heartstrings ﹐ Vurity ﹐ Belladonna ﹐ Daffodil ﹐ Nymphe ﹐ Balvenie ﹐ Myrette ﹐ Axelie ﹐ Bloodibelle ﹐ Devoure

Heart ) Hearts ﹐ Love ) Loves ﹐ Sweet ) Sweets ﹐ Sin ) Sins ﹐ Trick ) Tricks ﹐ Bite ) Bites ﹐ Ax ) Axe ﹐ Bleed ) Bleeds ﹐ Gore ) Gores ﹐ Cu ) Cure ﹐ Scy ) Scythe

The Devoted Lover ﹐ Their Obsession ﹐ Their Sweet Sorrows ﹐ The Longing One ﹐ The Angel of Love ﹐ Their Beating Heart / Their Bleeding Heart

[theveil-and-thepath]

Mini PAC n° 2: 3 things to happen in the next 3 days.

Pile 1 - Pile 2

Pile 3 - Pile 4

You can pick more than one! Just follow your heart!

What will happen in the next 72 hours of whenever you find this reading?

*This is a source of entertainment, your destiny is in your hands.*

Pile 1

1 - Nine of Cups , Wheel of Fortune , Seven of Cups. Garden , Clover , Coffin. - LION: Time to act.

2 - The Star , Four of Swords , Three of Swords. Ring , Child , Fox. - BOOT: Increase your efforts if you want to achieve your goals.

3 - Ace of Wands , Six of Pentacles , Two of Pentacles. Clover , Garden , Letter. - LILY: Spiritual love.

You will take action regarding a wish of yours or something you have been only thinking of doing for a good while; you will take action. There will be the right place or opportunity, or simply, the time is now because it is. I believe it's you putting an end to a situation. It can be the end of a relationship, but I feel more that it’s you actively putting an end to a feeling or a situation so you can move on. This is a deliberate move of yours; you do it willingly, and it will bring more luck into your life.

You had expectations that something would happen, or high hopes for an outcome, but it will be postponed or you won't hear back from a person, until you realize this promise was false or that it won't be as you expected it to be. You are disappointed by this, but maybe more so by a person who made you a promise that they could make something work, but they didn’t do their part of the agreement. You may feel like you were taken for a fool or someone sees you as naive. I don’t think it’s a big matter, though. I think it’s work-related or related to something in your studies where someone said they'd give you their part of the work but didn’t. I don’t see it as a big disappointment in a close connection. But someone will let you down regarding something.

The first and second events may be related, but they could also be about different situations (I feel it's two different things).

Despite this previous event, you will feel better when you receive an invitation to a place you didn’t think you could be invited to. Maybe you needed a ticket to get in, and a friend will give it to you. A good person will do something nice for you, and you know their intentions are pure.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Pile 2

1 - Page of Pentacles , The Hanged Man , Two of Swords. Tower , Bear , Scythe. - DESK: Pay attention to your work.

2 - Six of Wands , Temperance , King of Pentacles. Heart , Letter , Coffin. - TEARDROPS: Great personal sorrow.

3 - Justice , Wheel of Fortune , Seven of Pentacles. Stars , Rider , Child. - COINS: Money will be coming to you.

You may say "no" to your boss or to someone who wants you to do something for them because you already have a lot to do. You will prioritize yourself and your tasks, no matter how high up the other person is. You may fear you will fall sick because of your work. Maybe your boss will take leave or give you extra responsibility temporarily, and it can be heavy on you for the next three days. For some, your boss/an authority/an institution may say they cannot meet you or talk to you now, and you'll have to wait.

You may receive the closure you want from a past relationship. If you want to break up with someone, it’s a good time to resolve it peacefully. There is both a sense of victory, maturity, and spiritual intervention, so this closing of a connection will feel good.

Work-wise, you may receive the news of a raise or a change in position that was long earned and well-deserved. An offer of a prosperous new beginning for you; it will be long-lasting as well. It may not start immediately, but you will spot this opportunity.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Pile 3

1 - The Lovers , Knight of Swords , Seven of Swords. Birds , Dog , Sun. - KNOT: Unsuccessful plans.

2 - Two of Pentacles , Two of Wands , Page of Cups. . Snake , Child , Ship. - LEG: Stepping into a new experience.

3 - The World , The Tower , Page of Wands. Key , Ship , Dog. - CLOUDS: Temporary problems.

If you have something scheduled with a friend in the next three days for leisure and fun, know that your friend is truthful to you, but your plans may be postponed, or the person may be delayed when arriving.

You will start something new that will make you feel like an adult, that you're growing, or simply makes you realize you've come far in your personal transformation. It may be related to a new job, new place of study, a solo trip, or going abroad to study. These themes are favored in the next 72 hours.

Related to the previous message, I think anything that was blocking it will be removed, and this new thing will come to you. A helpful person will help fix it; don’t worry. You will have support during a meaningful transition phase in your life. You will also feel free.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Pile 4

1- Three of Swords , Page of Wands , Judgement. House , Sun , Birds. - DARK WOMAN: Dealings or relationship with a woman with dark complexion or hair.

2 - The Fool , Four of Wands , Eight of Cups. Tower , Heart , Book. - DIAMOND: Gift of jewelry.

3 - Three of Cups , The Sun , Ten of Swords. Birds , Man , Fox. - TARGET: Goal-oriented person.

You will make peace with your mother or a family member. For some, it can be reconciliation with a friend, but I think the person is older than you. A boss is more likely than a friend. For fewer of you, your family will be supportive and make you see things about a relationship that only brought you pain, and now you’ll make a decision to move on with their support. For most people, I just see reconciliation.

Someone will make a sweet gesture toward you and reveal their feelings for you. It is not a love confession, but an action or token of affection that shows sentiment—maybe more sentiment than you thought existed. This will make you let go of an old situation or person that no longer suits you. Maybe this gesture from the person will remind you of your worth.

For some, after some realization, you will let go of the past—let go of someone who doesn’t open up about their feelings, even if it is a peaceful and stagnant relationship—and you will move on from that. You may read or see things online that give you insights into your sentiments and help you deal with your emotions.

You will hear gossip or third-party confirmation about someone's true intentions. You will end a fling or flirting situation to chase your goals.

You may say "no" to your friends so you can attend to work matters or study.

[mytheoristavenue]

SE Spirit Albarn x Reader 🍋 - Love By The Hour

Kinktober 2024 - VI

Prostitution + Fully Clothed

Summary: You aren't making enough as a hostess at Chupa Cabra's so you decide to give your favorite customer a discreet treat in exchange for an extra hefty tip.

Warnings: Prostitution, protected sex, sub!Spirit, soft dom!Reader, fem!Reader, slight angst, soft sex, mentions of Kami/Maka, super fluffy ending, fully clothed, riding, intoxication

You sighed, leaning further on the bar. "Has it been this slow all day?" You complain to the bartender. He nodded in response, wiping down the countr. "Any reservations?" He shook his head. "Can I get my shift drink?"

"What do you want?" He sighed, rolling his eyes. You grinned, leaning over.

"You're the sweetest! Can I get..." You thought for a moment. "Sangria?" To your delight, he turned around and went to work. Beside you, Blair slid onto the barstool to your left.

"It's been so dead today..." She whined, leaning on your arm. "But at least I've gotten a few clients, you've been here for how long?"

"Three hours," You groaned. "And not a single one."

"Well," She smiled up at you. "You can have the next one, 'kay?"

You softened, taking your drink from the bartender. "Thanks, girl, you're the best."

"Besides, you never know. Your luck could change." She giggled, ear flicking as a mischevious grin cracked across her face. "Maka told me she got into another fight with her dad. You know what that means..."

"Death Scythe! Of course!" You laughed, the idea sparking your enthusiasm. "He always spends loads of money when he comes in!"

"And he always comes in after a fight with Maka." Blair adds with a giggle.

"What time is it?" You asked rhetorically, glancing at the wall clock. "Four thirty, school just let out. He's probably on his way right now!"

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed, signaling the entrance of a customer, interrupting the victorious fit of giggles you and your coworker were sharing. "Death Scythe!" You both cheered, hopping down from the barstool to greet him.

You couldn't help but notice how downtrodden he looked. It must have been a nasty spat, you realized, beginning to feel a bit bad for what you were about to do. "Hey, girls," He smiled softly, a stark contrast from the lovesick expression he usually wore.

"How's little Maka doing?" Blair asked, clinging to him affectionately. You frowned at her familiarity with him. He was your client, not hers. You quickly shook off the envy, hugging close to his arm, laying on the charm thick. But he hardly noticed.

"I was actually hoping to ask you the same thing." He confessed sheepishly, tucking a strand of rusty hair behind his ear. "She uh... won't talk to me."

You finally got the hint. He wasn't here to drown his sorrows in alcohol and attention for once. He simply wanted to talk to Blair since she lives with his daughter. Bitterly, you retracted yourself, sitting back down at the bar, pouting.

You idly listened to their chatter when suddenly, your colleague piped up with an idea. "Oh, I got it!" She chirped, looking over at you with a wink over her shoulder. "I'll go home and talk to Maka and see if she'll talk to me about it, then I can tell you how to make her feel better!" She suggested cheerily. "In the meantime, you can stay here and destress from such a hard day! That way, when you talk to Maka, you're all relaxed!"

He appeared to be considering it, replenishing your hope as you spied on the pair. Suddenly, sky-colored eyes flickered over to yours as he caught you staring. Your face flushed and you quickly shifted your gaze to your glass as you stirred the crimson liquid in it. "And my friend (Y/N) here is so excited to sit with you!" Blair beamed, leaning close to whisper in his ear. "Between you and me, I think she has a bit of a crush on you!"

With that, the deal was sealed and you didn't miss the tinge of pink on his cheeks. You quickly pulled him over to your cubical, taking his drink order. You made sure to catch Blair on her way out to thank her for being such a great friend when you went back to the bar.

When you brought his beer back, you couldn't help but notice how depressed he still looked, though he quickly hid his melancholy when you set the glass down in front of him, stepping over his legs to sit beside him. "Somethin' on your mind, Mr. Sycthe?" You cooed, laying your head on his shoulder.

He chuckled a bit at the name, sighing as he nervously fiddled with the end of his tie. You'd never seen a side of him that was timid, so you worried a bit that he didn't like you, and might request a different hostess. "You uh-" He swallowed dryly, peering up at you with a sheepish smile. "You don't have to call me Death Scythe, that's just my title at work." You blinked up at him. You knew at some level that, surely, he wasn't born with that name, but the fact that he had another one never actually crossed your mind. Blair had never called him by anything else, and you are relatively new to this club, so this was the first time you were serving him one on one.

"What would you prefer I call you?" You ask sweetly into his ear.

"Spirit," He answered with a small smile. "Spirit Albarn, that's my name."

"I love that name..." You soothed, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Spirit..." You repeated, and unbeknownst to you, it melted his insides the way his name sounded coming from your painted lips. "Well, Spirit, penny for your thoughts?"

He sighed, shivering a bight as you played with his flowy locks. "It's uh... my ex wife." He admitted with an exhausted sigh. "My daughter's birthday is next month and she was supposed to visit her but..."

"But...?" You pressed, leaning forward and grabbing his glass for him.

"She called me this morning and told me there's no way she'll make it. Too busy, she says." His words tugged at your heartstrings a bit.

"Maka's your daughter, right?" You ask, sympathetically. He hummed approvingly. "Well... I don't know anything about her or you or your ex but... from what Blair's told me, she's a wonderful little girl." You offered softly, nuzzling into his shoulder. "And if your ex's been absent for a while, then that means the person she is now is a product of your influence..."

Spirit's head hung low and his breathing hitched a few times, making you panic a bit. Your job was to make him feel better, not worse! "I-I'm sorry, I never have been the best at consoling people..." You stammer nervously. Suddenly, you froze when his hand dropped on your knee, soft and warm.

"No, no, you're so sweet, don't think that." He flashed you a sad smile and blinked away a few tears. "It's me, I'm just a mess."

"No, you're not..." You sighed, beginning to lose hope of making any money off him. But a part of you didn't mind, despite your rent recently increasing and being in dire need of the income. You could recognize when a human needed a human. "Nobody's perfect but, you love her, don't you?"

"More than anything," He answered in a somber laugh.

"And you take care of her? Keep her fed and housed, keep her as happy as she'll let you? You're there when she needs you?" You ask with a bit more fire than you meant to.

"Always," He confirmed again.

"Then that's all you can do." You smile reassuringly. "Teenage girls can be so complicated, she might have to decide for herself to come around but... I know she will with a father as amazing as you."

If he wasn't falling for you already, he definitely was now. Sweet, doting, passionate, not to mention gorgeous- how could he possibly resist? "Do you have kids?" He asked before he could stop himself.

You softened, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "No, but if I had a husband like you and a daughter like Maka, I'd never want for anything else." That wasn't entirely true. You were well aware of why he was in hot water, and you didn't blame his ex at all for filing for divorce. But business was business, and that was what he needed to hear at the time.

Finally, you had him wrapped around your finger, back to his silly, lovesick self, which relieved you a bit. Not only were you assured he liked you enough to stick with you as his hostess, but now you could clean him out without feeling guilty. Suddenly, a devious idea struck your mind. "Spirit, you're not a buy guy, you're just lonely, arent you?"

"Yeah..." He muttered, pulling you close, burying his face into your neck as the half a glass of beer he'd already had began to loosen him up.

"I don't usually offer this to my clients but..." You coo, petting his hair softly. "Blair was right, I do have a little crush on you..."

"What is it?" He asked and you smirked, knowing you had him on the hook. "Anything, I'll pay whatevcer."

"How would you like to..." You cup your hand around his ear, whispering conspiritorily as if sharing a secret.

"H-Here?!" He whisper-yelled back, obviously flustered, even more so when you simply smirked and nodded, pressing your finger to his lips.

"But we have to be discreet, we'll get in trouble if we're caught..." You teasingly batted your lashes. "Just tip me extra well, m'kay? So...?"

"Y-Yes!"

-----

"A-Are...you sure about this?" His breath fell out of his lips, heavy against the shell of your ear as you shifted in his lap, hiking up the skirt of your cocktail dress.

"You got cold feet?" You giggled as he rolled a condom onto his hard-on, hissing at the sensation of stroking it through the rubber.

"N-No," He murmured meekly, resting his hands on either side of him. "I want it so bad, it's been so long."

You softened a bit at his candidness, pulling your panties to the side, reaching between your legs to guide him in. You could feel him tense when you playfully rubbed his covered tip over your slick core before alligning him and sitting on hit fully.

"Oh shit..." He sighed against the back of your neck, forehead resting against your back. "So tight 'n warm..."

His pleased whispers made your stomach stir as you adjusted to him. He filled you perfectly, which you hadn't expected. "Mmm... baby, you feel so good..." You breathed, rolling your hips languidly in a way that made his heart skip a beat. You could feel his hands immediately grip your hips, stilling you.

"F-Fuck, not like that-" He begged, breath ragged in your hair. "I-I'll cum so fast, you don't even know..."

"That's the point, isn't it?" You giggled, prying his hands from your hips and guiding them upwards to your breasts. He gladly took the bait, groaning into your shoulder blade, pressing kisses to the bare skin there as he groped you needily. Despite his protests, you continued to lazily grind your hips into his not even allowing your thighs to leave his with how shallow you were going.

You'd never seen a man so deprived that he'd go so wild for anything less than a bounce, but here he was, coming undone beneath you with just the slightest friction. You couldn't wrap your head around it. But to him, there was a very specific reason.

You began to grow concerned when you felt his tears wet your spine. He was still slowly thrusting up into you, matching your subdued pace, so what could be the matter? "You okay back there?" You asked in a breathy whimper as his tip pressed into your cervix.

"Y-You feel just like my wife..." He sobbed lightly into your hair, brain fogged by alcohol, sorrow, and lust. His words made your blood run cold, especially when you noticed the lack of the prefix 'ex'.

"Oh, baby..." You softened, wondering if you should stop, but his insistent humping convinced you not to. You felt a bit cheap, being a stand-in for who he really wanted, but then again, you were using him for money, so you couldn't complain.

"F-Fucked her just like this that night..." He rasped, abandoning the distraction of playing with your breasts in favor of fully hugging you from behind, squeezing tightly. "T-The night she got pregnant."

That's when you finally understood. He was reenacting how his daughter was conceived- but with you instead of her mother. A part of you felt increadibly special to be the one to help him relive what must hae been such a wonderful moment, but another part of you felt uncomfortable for how emotionally invested he was in you, over a cash grab no less.

"P-Please cum for me, baby..." He begged, swallowing hard as he rocked into you with such care. "P-Please, I'll do anything..."

Without hesitation, you reached between your legs, digging your fingers into your tightly closed legs, rubbing tight, unsatisfactory circles on your clit. To your surprise, his feet separated your ankles, forcing them apart to give you more space. You dropped your head back against his shoulder, fingers moving more insistently as he took over thrusting into you solely.

With this arrangement, you both were doomed to finishing fast, your cubical full of heavy breaths and the sound of shifting fabric. "C'mon, please, please..." He pled, eyes squeezed shut, only opening them to let them roll back into his head.

"A-Ahh... Spirit, just like that..." There was his name again, sang so sweetly from the lips of an angel, he was certain.

"S-Say it again, say my name, please..." He begged, voice cracking with need. "Oh, fuck, I'm so close..."

"C-Cum with me, Spirit, please..." You wept so sweetly, beginning to climb to the summit.

As if on command, he finally gripped your hips, fucking into you with sloppy, shallow strokes, drunk on how his name dripped from your lips, coated in praise. You could feel his seed spurt into the condom, warming it against your gummy walls as you constricted him, finally capturing your own high. "S-Spirit, a-ahh! Y-Yes, cum with me, oh fuck..."

After catching your breath, you lifted off him, unceremoniously readjusting your soaked panties and shimmying your dress back down while he carefully slid the condom off, making sure not to spill its contents. He tucked himself back into his slacks, smiling lazily up at you as he rested for a moment, preparing to head out. You tossed the rubber in a small trashcan nearby, reminding yourself to throw out the back before anyone could find it later.

"Thank you..." He sighed, standing up and stepping over to you, affectionately stroking his thumb over your blushed cheek. "How much do I owe you?"

"It's on the house," You sighed, knowing the decision could mean being late on your rent, but you were happy you could help soothe a man down on his luck.

"You're too sweet." He cooed, pressing a kiss to your other cheek. "Think I... could take you out sometime?"

"Sure," You replied with a playful smirk, not taking his offer seriously. He simply smiled peacefully and made his way up to the register to pay out.

Later that evening, after you'd cleaned your cubical, ensuring the evidence of your misdeeds was in the dumpster, you went to collect your tips for the day. Imagine your surprise when you were tipped out an amount that easily rivaled your weekly wage.

"I don't know what you did to that guy," Your manager laughed, handing you the cash from the drawer. "But I've never seen him spend that much. Must really like ya."

"M-Maybe," You smiled nervously, taking the money and hiding it in your purse, silently reminding yourself to call Spirit the next day. He just paid your rent, he deserved a date, at least.

-----

"Honey, did you stop by the store?" You called from the kitchen, removing your wedding room and setting it on the window sill to wash the dishes.

"You know it, pretty mama." Spirit flirted, grocery bag in hand as he hugged you from behind, pinning you to the sink. You rolled your eyes at his antics, breaking away to check the roast in the oven.

"Now you behave. " You warned, taking the bag from him. "Maka and Soul will be over any minute and-" As if to punctuate your statement, the doorbell rang and he waltzed over to answer it. Immediately, Spirit began fawning over his daughter as she stepped through the door, rolling her eyes at his attention.

You couldn't help but melt at the sight, feeling your heart swell at the little family you'd procured. In five short years, you'd gone from working as an entertainer in a scummy club, struggling to keep your head above water, to being the pampered housewife of one of the strongest demon weapons of the present day. You suddenly had a beautiful, intelligent, fiery daughter who adored you as much as she did her biological mother and a very sweet soon-to-be son-in-law who treated her like royalty.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, prompting the father-daughter duo to stop bickering, to check on you. Even Soul glanced up at you from the couch where he'd planted himself immediately after entering, concern written in his crimson eyes. However, what really choked you up was when Maka stepped closer, her big green eyes shining with worry as she asked an unnecessary question. You couldn't wait to reassure her that you were just fine.

"You okay, momma?"

[cloudss-space]

My sunflower

( adwd ) casper x reader ... fluff - hurt/comfort ...

author's note: does contain spoils for the "beyond the bet" dlc, you are warned !! This is my take on the "sunflower" ending.

trigger warning:

slight gore

Casper was once a shadow, a whisper in the dark, a figure draped in the inevitability of endings. Now, as he stands before you, solid and whole, his awkward movements reveal his past life. The weight of mortality is new to him, and he is still learning how to carry it. His skin, pale as marble, is no longer the lifeless shade of death, but it's still translucent, as though the veil between worlds hasn't fully lifted. His eyes, once hollow and empty sockets of the eternal, have begun to glisten with the subtle spark of humanity, though they carry the secrets of ages lived beyond time. Each breath is a symphony to the newness of life, the steady rise and fall of his chest a sound that comforts and unnerves him. He clutches his hands tightly at times, as though fearing they'll slip through his fingers, as though he might return to the void without warning. There are moments when his gaze lingers on his own body, tracing the shape of his ribs, the pulse beneath his skin, the blood that flows in endless circles. He is bound to this flesh, this frailty, this inevitable decay, and yet he seeks you, your warmth, your presence, as if your touch might remind him that life can be something more than a fleeting breath.

When he walks, his steps are hesitant, as if the earth beneath him might suddenly break apart, sending him back into the abyss where death is final and unrelenting. He has experienced the sensation of weightlessness, the gravity of souls, and the coldness of passing from one life to the next. But now, he feels the soft press of dirt beneath his boots, the familiar crunch of gravel, the tactile proof that he is here. He had been the one who guided the lost, the one who bore the scythe, severing the threads of existence with a swift swing. And now, as you both sit together under a sky painted with the dusk's bleeding hues, he wonders at the simplicity of it all. The very concept of living, of existing without a time limit, is strange to him. His fingers, once sharp and deathless, now tremble slightly when they brush against yours, as if afraid he might damage you in some way, as though his touch might extinguish the fragile light within you. His laughter, rare, soft and unexpected, sounds like the crackling of firewood, a sound foreign in its warmth. He is amazed at how your hand fits into his, as though they were always meant to be together, even in a life so different from the one he had once known. But the ache within him, the gnawing fear of losing this, of being taken back, lingers like an open wound.

There are moments when his hunger for death rises within him: a deep craving that clawed at him when he was a reaper, a need to return to the silent cold of the graveyard. But now, with flesh and blood, he cannot indulge it. Instead, it turns into a deep sorrow, a longing for something he cannot name, something he doesn't know how to satiate. You see it in his eyes: a quiet storm brewing, the part of him that was once pure darkness, now tamed but still restless, still seeking. It pulls at him like the gravity of his old existence, that pull toward inevitability, the desire to return to a world without pain or joy, without the sharpness of love or the sweetness of touch. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks as though he might crumble into dust. But then he turns to you, and your presence is a tether that keeps him from floating away, from losing himself again in the deep abyss of endless endings. His fingers find yours and his touch sends a tremor through you, as if every touch, every feeling, every heartbeat is a revelation to him.

The first time he tasted food, it was a revelation. He had been used to the absence of hunger, to the stillness of his non-life, so the sensation of eating—of needing to consume—was terrifying. The texture of bread, the warmth of soup, the sweetness of fruit; each bite was a gift and a curse, a reminder that this life was fleeting. He stared at the food on his plate, his gaze faraway, as if he could feel the clock ticking away somewhere in the distance. But you had fed him, guiding his hand and helping him find pleasure in the act. For a brief moment, the gnawing emptiness that had once defined him was sated. But there's something unsettling about the way he eats. He's slow and careful, as if he's afraid of tasting too much, of consuming too deeply. His eyes flicker between you and the food, as if looking for permission, as though he is unsure if this part of humanity is something he can truly embrace.

Casper speaks now, his voice still rough, like a forgotten melody that hasn't been sung in centuries. It's soft, hushed, and when he speaks, there's a clear tenderness, but also an undercurrent of regret, of something broken. When he was a reaper, he didn't need words; silence was his companion, and he could navigate the world with nothing more than a glance, a wave of his hand. Now, as a man, his thoughts are tangled, his desires more complicated, and he searches for the right words to express what he feels. He stumbles sometimes, unsure how to speak without the cold, clipped finality of death, and yet, when he looks at you, his words flow like a river that had been dammed for far too long. When he tells you he loves you, his voice trembles, and there is something so raw and unrefined about it that it cuts through the space between you, reaching deep into your heart. He didn't know love like we do, didn't know what it meant to desire someone with all his soul. But now, with every touch, every word, every shared glance, he is learning. And he is terrified of losing it, because love is so fragile; it's like the breath of a dying star.

His touch is undeniably gentle, yet there's a palpable urgency to it now, as though he's struggling to accept your reality, your presence here, and that you won't disappear as quickly as you came. He lingers too long when he touches your skin, as though he might slip through his fingers. His gaze is intense and quiet, as though you are both a miracle and a mystery, something too beautiful to hold for long. The scars of his past, of being a grim reaper, are still there, hidden beneath the surface, but they are less sharp and less consuming. When you kiss him, there is a sense of hesitation, a fear that he will undo all the progress he has made, that the death that runs through his veins will rise again, pulling him away from you. But you remind him of the earth beneath him, of the life that pulses in his body, of the love he has learned to hold. He will fall deeper, letting your presence tether him to this new world of fleeting moments, of beauty and pain.

When night falls, Casper is often restless. He wanders the house or the fields beyond your shared home, searching for something he cannot name. The shadows still speak to him, whispering of the world beyond the veil, reminding him of the eternity that once stretched out before him. He has learned to fight it, to remind himself that he is no longer the keeper of souls, no longer bound to the endless cycle of life and death. He seeks reassurance and comfort from you in those quiet moments, his body close to yours. You are his anchor, his tether to this fleeting world. He chooses life with you, despite knowing all about death. He holds you close, his hands brushing your hair, as though afraid you might disappear, as though his very touch might shatter the fragile peace that exists between the living and the dead. But you are here, and you are real, and that is enough for him—for now.

Casper rarely speaks of his past. The memory of the scythe, of the souls he harvested, of the endless procession of endings, lingers like a shadow behind his eyes. When he is alone, you can hear the faint sound of chains rattling and the scrape of bone against stone, because he is remembering. But in the mornings, when the light spills through the windows and the warmth of your body against his is all that he needs, he is human. And that is enough for him, for now. He looks at you, and you see the eternity in his gaze — the years of death, of existence beyond life — but you also see the softness, the yearning for something he never thought he could have. Something simple. Something beautiful. A life with you, here, on this earth, as fleeting and fragile as it is. For the first time in an eternity, he knows what it means to live.

Casper finds Casper's humanity strange and unfamiliar. It is like an unfamiliar rhythm that he is trying to learn. At times, it's a soothing hum that wraps around him, drawing him close to you, grounding him in ways he never thought possible. But sometimes, it's a discordant echo, a constant reminder of everything he once was, everything he once controlled with the swing of his scythe, the cold finality of it all. Now, there are choices to make, paths to take, and that uncertainty weighs heavily on him, pressing against his chest in ways he cannot quite explain. He feels his breath catch in his throat when he considers the future, his future with you, a life unmarked by the certainty of death, but full of unknowns. He gazes at you, seeing you as the answer and the question. His heart pounds with a quiet desperation to hold on to this new reality, this life, this love.

There are moments when he feels like a stranger in his own skin. The skin that was once as cold and empty as the tomb now flushes with warmth, with the pulse of life he never thought he would experience. When he wakes in the morning, the sunlight feels strange against his face: hot and soft, unfamiliar in its touch. At first, it makes him wince, but then he remembers—he is alive. He stretches, feels the pull of muscles that ache, that tighten with the effort of movement. The sting of soreness is new to him, as is the creaking and cracking of his joints and the way his body demands rest and food. He had never thought he would have these experiences again, and yet here he is, learning to adapt to a body that seems to belong to someone else. When you kiss him in the mornings, it's as though you are both waking from a dream, as if the kiss itself is the only thing that truly feels real. His lips tremble, unsure of this tenderness, unsure if he can truly hold onto it.

The first time he felt a tear fall down his cheek, it broke him. Death had never cried. It had never known sorrow the way humans do, never felt the sting of emotion so sharp it could pull the soul apart. But as he sat with you one evening, gazing out into the vastness of the world, he felt it—an ache that filled his chest, a weight too heavy to bear. He tried to hide it, but the tears came anyway, slow and quiet, rolling down his face like forgotten rivers. You held him then, as his body shook with the force of grief, a grief that was unfamiliar to him, a grief for all the lives he had taken, for all the souls he had guided into darkness. He had never been the one left behind, never been the one to mourn. But now, as he wept in your arms, he understood the depth of loss, the terrible beauty of it, and he hated it. He hated the vulnerability it brought, the human fragility it revealed in him. Yet he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop himself from feeling.

Every laugh that escapes his lips now is a gift; he holds on to it tightly. The sound is nothing like the hollow whispers of death or the cold laughter of a reaper that never touched the soul. His laughter is warm, rich and full of joy. It vibrates in his chest like a long-forgotten song being sung again, and it makes his heart feel heavy with wonder. When you make him laugh, the tension in his shoulders relaxes, the sharpness in his gaze softens, and for a brief moment, he forgets that he was once a servant of the end. He forgets that he had once ruled the passage of life and death with an unflinching hand. He becomes something else, something new, something entirely human. He becomes himself, something raw and tender and wholly yours.

He feels disconnected from the world around him. It moves too quickly and recklessly. It lacks the weight of finality he once knew. It makes him anxious, his mind whirling with the idea that time, that precious, fleeting thing, is slipping through his fingers. The world is full of noise, people and events that seem meaningless and monumental all at once. He doesn't always know where he fits in. When he was the Grim Reaper, everything was simple. Time had no hold on him, and every soul he claimed was another mark in an endless chain of existence. Now, he is bound by time, and it eats at him, gnawing at his thoughts, reminding him that every moment is a drop in an ocean that will never return. It leaves him restless, pacing late into the night, staring at the stars and wondering how long he will have to hold on to this new life. Will it last forever, or will it, too, fade like everything else? You hold him, pressing your body against his, and tell him that for now, this is enough. This moment is enough.

He is learning the small things now. He is learning to savour a meal, to hold your hand, to say goodbye without the weight of eternity behind him. He is soft and innocent. He has moments of clarity where he understands the beauty of life—its fragility, its grace, its impermanence—and it moves him in ways that the harsh finality of death never could. He sees the world differently now, taking in the colour of the sky, the rustling of leaves, the way the wind moves through the trees. He had never seen the world like this before, never truly experienced it in all its complexity. Now, every moment feels like a gift; a treasure to be cherished before it slips away. When he looks at you, he feels this strange sensation of wanting to hold on to you forever, wanting to trap time in amber and preserve every single second. But he knows that's impossible. And yet, he holds you anyway, as though holding on to you might slow the inevitable tide of time, if only for a moment.

There are days when the weight of his past presses down on him, when the echo of the scythe, the cold grip of death, calls to him in the deepest recesses of his mind. On those days, he withdraws. His gaze is distant, his movements slow. It is as though he is caught between two worlds, two selves. He struggles with the memory of who he was, the certainty of who he had been, and the uncertainty of who he is now. But when you are near, when you are close, he feels the pull toward life, the pull toward you, stronger than any shadow that might rise within him. You become his anchor, a beacon of light in the darkness, reminding him of who he is becoming, not who he was. He touches you then, with a gentleness that betrays his internal chaos, his hands seeking reassurance in the warmth of your skin, the steadiness of your heartbeat. In those moments, he realizes that letting go of the past, learning to be human and embracing the beauty of life is the hardest part. It is a struggle, but it is a struggle he is willing to face, as long as he has you by his side.

The silence between you both speaks volumes. Words are unnecessary to explain it; you both feel it: the pull toward each other, the shared longing to be more than the past allows. There is an intimacy in this shared vulnerability. Casper no longer hides the darkness that lingers in him; he shares it with you and trusts you to help him navigate it. This trust is a gift, a delicate thread that binds you both together. The shadows may still whisper to him and the echoes of death may never fully leave his bones, but he knows one thing for certain: with you, he is human. With you, he is alive. For the first time in his long existence, that is enough.

The day you opened the flower shop was remarkable: there was a strange, almost violent beauty to it. The air was thick with the smell of earth and damp stems, the sharp tang of fresh-cut flowers mingling with the heavy scent of sunlight streaming through the windows. Casper, still getting used to his new humanity, stood quietly at the counter, his fingers brushing over the edges of the sunflowers, tracing the vibrant yellow petals with the care of someone who had never touched such warmth before. The flowers, bright and bold, pulsed with life, their heads heavy with golden joy, their roots thick and sturdy beneath the soil. You saw the way his eyes softened as he looked at them, as if they were a reminder of something he had lost – something that once belonged only to the living. He had never known the delicate care required to nurture a plant, to see something grow with your own hands. But now, as he touched each stem, he felt something new stirring within him—a desire to protect, to tend to life with the same care he had once offered death.

The sunflowers became his anchor. Their boldness and resilience reminded him of the beauty in life's fleeting moments and the strength to be found even in the face of inevitable decay. As you worked together, arranging the flowers in bright pots and creating bouquets that would soon find their way into the hands of strangers, you could see how he had transformed. His touch was gentler now, the rough edges of his past smoothed over by the tenderness of the petals, the softness of the stems beneath his fingertips. He no longer feared the fragile life around him; instead, he reveled in it, his movements slow but sure, his hands becoming more confident as he nurtured each bloom. You would often catch him staring at the sunflowers, his gaze fixed intently on them, as though they were a mirror reflecting everything he had come to understand about himself: bright, alive, and on the edge of something darker.

The shop was a place of quiet chaos, a blending of scents and colours that seemed almost too alive for one space. The flowers piled high, a sea of soft petals and rough leaves, and there was always a certain tension in the air, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. You and Casper worked together seamlessly, moving between the rows of plants, arranging and re-arranging, each sunflower finding its place in the intricate tapestry of blooms you both created. You looked up from your task and saw him standing still, watching you with a kind of reverence in his eyes. This simple act of caring for life was the most sacred thing he had ever known. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up each plant, but there was something fiercely protective in the way he handled them, as though he was guarding them from something unseen. It was as though each flower, each sunflower, was a promise—one he had made to himself, to you, to life itself.

The windows of the shop were always filled with sunlight. As the day wore on, the sunflowers grew taller, their heads turning toward the light as if they, too, were learning to bask in the warmth of life. It was a strange thing, watching them grow before your eyes, knowing that these flowers—these sunflowers—were as alive as you were, as Casper was, as the world around you was. There was a rhythm to it, a silent hum that filled the space as the sunflowers stretched and bloomed, their petals heavy with the weight of their own existence. Casper often stood by the window, staring out at the sunlight as it filtered through the glass, the golden glow casting shadows across his face. He gazed at the sunflowers, his expression pensive, as though he could hear their whispers, the stories they carried in their seeds, in the fragile life they bore.

He was often to be found at the counter, his hand resting on a sunflower as if it were something sacred, something too precious to be lost. His fingers, once so cold and lifeless, now brushed against the petals with the gentlest of touches, as if afraid that the warmth of the flower might burn him. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like a person who had never known death, who had never carried the weight of eternity in his bones. You would watch him then, the way he became part of the space, part of the shop, as though the sunflowers had become a part of him. The world around him settled into a rhythm, a pulse that matched his own. For the first time, he belonged to this world. He was no longer the reaper who had once taken it all away, but someone who was allowed to experience its beauty.

The sunflowers became your shared language, the bridge between you and Casper, a constant reminder of how far you had come together. Every time he brought in a new batch, his face lit up with something almost childlike, a joy so pure and unexpected that it left you breathless. He would stand there, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, his gaze fixed on the bright yellow heads as though they were the only things that mattered in that moment. You smiled, knowing that these flowers had become more than just plants; they were symbols of your journey together, of the life you were building, step by step, petal by petal. His devotion to them was palpable, as though they were the only thing in the world that would never leave him, that would never betray him. The boldness and fragility of the sunflowers reflected the life he had never thought possible. Now they were all around him, filling the space with their golden glow.

The flower shop was a haven. Life and death coexisted there, the scars of the past fading into the background, obscured by the vibrant colours of nature. The sunflowers, with their thick stems and towering heads, were the crown jewels of the shop. Their brightness pulled customers in, inviting them to touch the earth, to feel the pulse of life beneath their fingers. You and Casper worked in tandem, moving between the rows, arranging the blooms just so, creating a harmony that only you both understood. There was a tenderness in the way you worked together, a quiet understanding that had grown between you over time. It was a dance of sorts, a primal rhythm, and the connection between you both deepened by the act of nurturing something together.

Casper would often stand by the sunflower display, his fingers running along the rough edges of the petals, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He watched the customers marvel at the blooms, at the life they carried in every stem, and pride radiated from his eyes. This pride wasn't just from the success of the shop, but from something deeper: the realisation that he, too, could be a part of this world. He used to be a harbinger of death, a force that guided souls into the afterlife with unfeeling hands, but now he is a caretaker, a creator of life. He often looked over at you during these moments, his eyes filled with awe and quiet reverence for the life you had built together.

The days passed in a blur, each one melding into the next, and as time moved forward, the sunflowers bloomed and faded, just as life and death always does. With each passing bloom, Casper learned something new about himself, something that tied him to the world in ways he had never imagined. The weight of his past life—the cold, unyielding existence of a reaper—had become a distant memory, something he could still feel, but no longer fear. He had found a new purpose, rooted in the earth, in the simple act of nurturing, of giving life to something beautiful. In the sunflowers that grew tall and strong beneath his care, he had found something that transcended death itself—something worth living for. The shop, with its soft glow of sunlight and vibrant blooms, was a testament to that love, to the life you both shared. It was a place where the past and the present coexisted, where sunflowers represented the joys of a life that, despite everything, had become beautifully, tragically human.

Casper knew the sunflowers were more than just plants; they were lifelines. They reminded him that life could be tender, could be messy, and could still bloom despite the harshness that came before. Each new batch demanded his attention, challenging him to live as fully as they did. And though there were moments of doubt, moments when the weight of his past felt like an anchor around his ankles, those moments were becoming fewer, slipping away with every new bloom that reached for the light. There were days when he stood at the window, hands on the cool glass, watching the world pass by as if it were all new to him, a landscape he had never been a part of until now. He smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, and in that moment, he felt the reaper he once was fall away entirely. He was alive and breathing, caught in the simple wonder of the world he was learning to love.

He looked at you in a certain way, with a gaze that lingered for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to grasp the enormity of what you had together. It was a connection that transcended the finality of death, forged by the fragile, beating heart of life itself. When he touched you, his hands were reverent, his fingers gently brushing against your skin. He was careful not to be too rough, because he didn't want to break something precious. And yet, there was a hunger in him too, a deep-seated desire to hold you close, to feel the pulse of your heart against his own, to cement this fleeting moment of warmth into something tangible. Each day with you, each hour spent nurturing the flowers together, felt like an impossible gift, and he didn't want to take a single second of it for granted. In the sunlight-filled shop, the golden glow of the sunflowers reflected the warmth and delicate balance of life between you both.

As you worked alongside him, the shop became an extension of both your souls. You moved in perfect tandem, communicating without words, your hands touching with shared understanding as you prepared the flowers for customers, arranged the sunflowers into perfectly imperfect bouquets, or simply admired the way the light danced off their petals. Each sunflower felt like a piece of something larger, a piece of a world that had once seemed distant, unreachable. The way they stood tall and proud, their yellow faces almost brash against the soft green leaves, spoke to the resilience both you and Casper had cultivated together. For him, every sunflower taught a lesson: be patient, be tender, accept that life can be both beautiful and cruel, but choose to live in the moments that make it worth it.

There was always a shadow in the corner of the shop. It was a quiet reminder of Casper's past life. On quiet days, when the air seemed still, you would catch him standing by the sunflower display, his fingers lightly stroking the petals, his expression distant. In these moments, you remember—you remember the way he had once been, the coldness that had defined him, the endless reach of death that had never once allowed him to experience the softness of life. But now, even in his silence, there is warmth in him, something slowly unfolding like the sunflowers before him. You approached him, standing beside him in the silence, and without a word, you reached for his hand. The touch was everything: it reminded him that he was not alone, that the world around him was not something to be feared, but something to embrace.

Some mornings, when the mist from the night before clung to the ground and the shop opened early, you and Casper would sit among the sunflowers. The air was cool and damp, and the world was still waking up. You watched as the first customers wandered in, their faces surprised by the unexpected beauty of the sunflowers that filled the shop, their brightness pulling them in like moths to a flame. Casper stood behind the counter, watching them, his lips curling into a small, almost shy smile as they complimented the flowers. It was an expression of something new in him—something you hadn't seen before, a quiet joy in giving something beautiful to the world. It was strange seeing him, someone who had once been a harbinger of endings, become a creator of beginnings, of beauty, of life.

You both learned the rhythm of the shop, the pulse of the flowers that seemed to beat with their own energy, a silent song that echoed through the shop as each day passed. Customers came and went, and the shop settled into a peaceful routine. Yet, even in the stillness, there was always a sense of movement, a sense of growth—much like the sunflowers that lined the shelves, their faces always seeking the sun, always reaching for something more. With each new bloom, Casper became more attuned to the world around him. He learned the art of patience, watching something grow from a tiny seed into something magnificent. He had once been a keeper of the end, but now, he was a keeper of the beginning—a keeper of life.

In the evenings, when the last of the customers had left and the shop was quiet, you would sit together. The sunflowers cast long shadows across the floor, the light slowly fading as the night crept in. It was then that the weight of the day settled on him, and you could see it in his eyes. He would show the fleeting recognition of everything he had become, everything he was still learning. He would look at you, his gaze searching, as though he needed to remind himself that this—this life—was real, that he hadn't imagined it, that it wasn't just another fleeting moment that would slip through his fingers like the souls he had once carried. You would hold him close, grounding him, as the quiet hum of the shop and the faint rustle of the sunflowers became the backdrop to the soft warmth between you.

Every night, the sunflowers whispered in their own way, their petals closing as the dark settled in, their seeds silently holding the promise of new life. With each new day and each new flower that bloomed in the shop, Casper's transformation was clear: the man who had once walked alongside death now walked alongside life, growing and learning with every petal that unfurled. The flower shop, with its warmth and light, was the stage for you and Casper to learn what it meant to be alive. You felt the weight of joy and sorrow, and knew that both were part of the same beautiful, painful dance. The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, stood as silent witnesses to this transformation, their golden faces shining like a beacon of hope, of renewal, of something that never truly died.

As time passed, the shop took on its own character, shaped by the quiet energy of the flowers, the rhythm of the seasons and the delicate balance between you and Casper. The sunflowers were always the centrepiece: tall and proud, their yellow heads like beacons in the warm glow of the shop. They had become more than just flowers; they were symbols of everything Casper had come to cherish. Each sunflower represented something he had learned: the strength of life, the resilience in the face of adversity, and the quiet beauty of beginnings, no matter how small. Watching him carefully tend to them each day, it was clear to everyone how his hands had learned to nurture rather than take, and how his heart had softened, no longer bound by the coldness of death. He worked with the flowers as though they were a reflection of his own rebirth, tending to each petal with a reverence that spoke to the depth of his understanding of what it meant to be human.

At sunset, the light filtered through the shop's windows in a soft, amber hue, casting a glow over the sunflowers. This made them look almost ethereal, as though they were glowing from within. At these moments, Casper's expression revealed a deep sense of wonder, as though he was experiencing the warmth of the sun itself. He would stand beside the sunflowers, his eyes tracing the curve of their petals, as though seeing them for the first time again, each one a reminder of the simple joy that comes with being alive. In those moments, you could almost see the weight of his past fall away, the memory of the reaper who once guided souls into the afterlife, leaving only a man who had learned to embrace life with both hands.

Customers often remarked on the sunflowers' beauty, marveling at their size, vibrant colour and the life they radiated. But it was more than just their beauty that drew people in; it was the warmth of the shop itself, the sense of peace that enveloped them as soon as they entered. There was something in the air that spoke of rebirth, of second chances, of something soft and true, and it was all wrapped up in the quiet presence of Casper. Visitors, drawn in by the sunflowers, left with more than just a bouquet; they left with something lighter, something that stayed with them long after they had passed through the door. The energy of the flowers and Casper's transformation touched them, reminding them that beauty can be found even in the darkest of places.

Every morning, you and Casper would stand side by side, preparing the shop for the day. The sunflowers, heavy with dew from the night, leaned towards the windows, their faces turned towards the light, always seeking it out. This daily care and quiet tending to the life around you both was a ritual. There was something almost sacred in this quiet partnership, and yet there was also something intensely human about the way you and Casper worked together. It was the kind of intimacy that comes from working together, from creating something with your hands, something that requires your attention, your love, your care. Each stem you trimmed, each flower you arranged, felt like you were creating something greater than the sum of its parts. The shop was more than just a place for flowers; it was a living, breathing entity, shaped by your hands, your hearts.

Casper's passion for the process was evident with each new batch of sunflowers igniting something human in him – his capacity for hope, love and joy. In the past, when he had been a reaper, he had seen only endings. He had moved through the world like a shadow, cold and distant, never knowing the warmth of life. But now, working alongside you, he is learning that life isn't just a series of moments to be endured. It is something to be celebrated, to be lived with intention and care. The sunflowers taught him the value of simplicity, the strength of stillness and the beauty of existence itself. As he worked with them, tending to each one with care, he clearly blossomed alongside them, unfolding like a flower reaching for the sun.

The shop was always full of laughter, with customers regularly coming in to request bouquets for special occasions or simply to brighten their homes. On those days, the sunflowers grew brighter, their golden faces reflecting the joy in the room. You and Casper worked together, arranging the flowers with ease, finding the perfect balance between colour and texture, between the delicate green leaves and the bold yellow petals. It was a delicate dance, this process of creation, and it became second nature to both of you. The space between you both seemed to shrink, as though every moment spent together, every act of creation, brought you closer. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way his fingers brushed against yours, the quiet connection that had grown between you. The flowers, especially the sunflowers, became part of that connection, their beauty weaving its way into the fabric of your love.

But there were also quiet days, when the shop was empty except for the two of you and the steady hum of the world outside. On those days, you would sit together in silence, the sunflowers casting long shadows across the floor. On these days, you would catch Casper in moments of reflection, his gaze fixed on the sunflowers as if they were the key to understanding the world around him. He had come a long way from the reaper he had once been, and yet there were moments when the past flickered in his eyes, a reminder of the darkness that had once consumed him. But these moments were short-lived, quickly overshadowed by the quiet joy of being alive, of being human. In those moments, you would sit beside him, your hand slipping into his, the two of you sharing a silence that spoke volumes, a silence filled with everything unsaid.

The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, mirrored this unspoken accord, their faces oriented towards the light, their roots deeply anchored in the soil. They became a symbol of all the things that could be found in life: beauty, growth, fragility and strength. As the days passed and the seasons shifted, you and Casper grew alongside them. You learned together what it meant to care for something, to nurture it, to allow it to bloom. And in turn, you found that you too had bloomed, your love for each other growing stronger with each passing day. The shop, once a quiet corner of the world, had become a place where life was celebrated in all its messy, beautiful glory, where sunflowers stood as constant reminders that even in the face of death, there was always something worth living for.

The day had been long. The air was thick with the scent of sunflowers and the remnants of laughter left by the last customer. You feel the weight of the day in your bones, your muscles sore from bending and reaching, from the endless arranging of flowers that felt like they could bloom forever, only to wither by the next morning. The shop has closed. The last of the sunlight slipping through the curtains. The world outside seems too large and too harsh compared to the warmth inside. You make your way to the small corner of the room and find Casper already there, sitting on the couch. His body is relaxed but his eyes are tired, as if he too carried the weight of the day, though in a quieter way. There's a tenderness in the way he looks at you, something raw and unspoken that invites you to come closer, to melt into the space between you both.

He opens his arms, inviting you to enter them, and you fall into them as if they were the only thing that could ever hold you. His warmth envelops you immediately, his body a soft and familiar anchor that stills the chaotic thoughts in your head. The faint, persistent scent of flowers clings to him, a reminder of the day spent together amidst petals and stems. His arms are around you, holding you close, and you feel like the weight of the world could fall away, like nothing exists beyond this quiet, shared space. His breath on your head is steady, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and with each exhale, you feel a quiet rhythm, as though the world outside has ceased to exist for just a while.

Casper's hands are warm now, tracing slow circles along your back as though trying to map the contours of your body, to ground himself in the softness of you. His fingers are pressing into your skin as though he is not only touching you but also acknowledging that this is a privilege. You can feel the tension of the day slowly bleeding out of him, the sharp edges of his past fading away with each gentle stroke, each soft press of his palm against you. His body tenses for a moment, as though the memory of his former existence – the cold, the death, the shadows – has made an unwanted return, but then it passes, as if washed away by the warmth of your embrace. You hold him closer, a silent promise that the darkness has no place here, that you are the light in which he can find peace.

His head rests against yours, and you both become a single entity, a blend of warmth and comfort. The quietness of this moment feels like the world is holding its breath, even the flowers in the shop pause to take in the sight of you two intertwined in each other's arms. Casper's fingers slip through your hair, his touch careful and tender, learning to be gentle and to love without fear of the unknown. His thumb brushes against your ear and you shiver, the sensation sharp and electric against the softness of the moment. The space between you both feels infinite and fragile; at any moment, it could break and send you both tumbling into a world too cold and distant.

Here, in the cocoon of your shared quiet, distance is impossible. There is no end. There is only the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the steady, familiar pulse that keeps time with your own. His lips press a kiss into your hair. It is warm and gentle. It is an apology and a promise. The silence between you is a language all its own, full of things that don't need to be spoken, things that can only be felt. You can feel his breath against your skin, the subtle tremor of his body as it learns to relax into this softness, into this life he now shares with you. He has always been careful with you, hesitant to fully feel, but now, in this moment, he is all warmth, all openness.

Your hand slides across his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage, the deep breaths he takes to steady himself after the weight of the world has been lifted for just a while. His skin is warmer than before, as though his humanity is slowly taking root in the very marrow of his bones. His body responds to you now: his muscles soften, his heart beats in the rhythm of life. With every passing moment, you sense the reaper that once was slipping further into the shadows. He is no longer a part of him, no longer a thing he carries.

As his lips brush against the top of your head again, you feel a shudder run through him. It's the kind of shiver that comes when someone is learning how to be loved, how to belong. His hands hold you tighter, and in the quiet of the room, you hear him sighing deeply, as though releasing a weight he's been carrying for too long. It's a quiet, almost imperceptible sound, but it's there, and you know it's a sign that he's letting go of something—something old, something dark. In that moment, you feel the gravity of it, the weight of the years he spent as something cold, as something feared. Here, in this space between you, there is no fear. There is only warmth, only the steady pulse of your hearts beating in sync.

Casper presses his forehead to yours, and the closeness of your bodies offers an intimacy that words can't touch. You can feel his breath mingling with yours, the heat of it rising between you like steam. He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into this moment of peace. He is learning how to be human all over again, how to embrace the warmth of connection without the shadow of death hovering over him. The memory of the reaper's cold touch, of the weight of souls, has slipped from him; now he feels only the tender warmth of this love—this life that he now shares with you. His hand gently touches your face, the gesture conveying a quiet inquiry, a silent plea for reassurance, a reminder that this is real, that he is real.

You do. In the quietest way possible. Your hand lifts to his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin as you stare into his eyes. There's a softness there now, a glow that wasn't there before, a spark of something alive that flickers in the depths of his gaze. It's a look of gratitude, of wonder, of disbelief that he has found something so beautiful, so real, amidst the shadows of his past. In this moment, you both feel alive, and that is all that matters. There is no need to rush or speak, because the language between you is woven in touch, in quiet moments like these, in the heat of his skin against yours, in the pulse of his heartbeat that matches yours.

His lips find yours in a slow, tender kiss, the kind that lingers in the air long after it's over. This kiss speaks volumes, conveying everything you need to say without words. It reminds him he's alive and loved. When the kiss breaks, he rests his head against your chest again, his body settling into the warmth of yours, and you both breathe together. The shop is quiet now, the sunflowers resting in their vases as the night stretches out before you. In the quiet room, wrapped in each other's arms, you realise that this moment of peace is all you need.

[phighterss]

Not the same anon who asked about ur opinion about periods BUT good FUCKING GOD THIS BITCHASS CRAPMS ARE FUCKING KILLING MEEEEE. May I request a short headcanons onhow teal trio deal with a reader who's dying. Ples. For my poor pitiful soul.

DYING???!!???! uhm as you wish 😭😭🙏🙏

scythe is devastated. she tries not to let her sorrow show but she is sure enough in the most pain she’s ever been. if it was somebody who did this to you, she’d waste no time making their death slow and painful— she’ll show them hell, a little piece of what you’re going through. if it’s something like a disease or illness she’d be at your side through it all. she wouldn’t leave you for the world.

medkit is just as miserable as scythe. he tried to maintain a calm composure but his sadness does leak through from time to time. he doesn’t want you to see him in a sorrowful state, similar like scythe. if it’s someone who caused this, he’d see it to it they die— he wants to be the one to kill them— not scythe, not the broker— him. if it was by a disease or illness, when I tell you he is determined to find a way to cure you— I mean determined. he’s a doctor and an ex-scientist— surely he’ll find a way. he won’t let you die like this. not in vain.

the broker may not show it through his whimsical facade but he’s really fucked up in the head. he would contribute to any way he can help you recover. he’s not necessarily good in the medical field and while he does fight well he doesn’t do it often— so he probably wouldn’t be of much use and that kind of eats him up inside a lot. but if it helps, he’ll stick by your side for the he entire time. wants you to feel happy and safe even if you’re dying. it’s the least he can do.

OK I GOT CARRIED AWAY THESE AINT SHORT BUT

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Nerull, The One Who Sorts The Bones

It's said they found the god in the old tombs, in that forgotten quiet where long eras had worn away all the epitaphs. They drew in a breath of the still air and on their exhalation the god took flight into the world on vulture's wings. -The Silent Testimonies, book 1

A god not of death, but of the dead, Nerull presides those aspects of the mortal coil that lay beyond the Raven Queen's domain of mourning and memory. Someone must keep vigil for the departed long after their names have passed from the memories of the living, and so that duty falls to Nerull, who's chosen people are the spirits that have lingered in the world far longer than they were ever alive.

Beyond the dead, the vulture’s faithful are an eclectic lot. Itinerant gravetenders, scholars of forgotten tongues, Bonesetters who's experience with embalming helps them minister to the living.  To Serve Nerull you must first die, though this is often symbolic.

Unlike his fellow carrion-bird death god, Nerull's following does not frown on the use of necromancy, or the existance of undead. Ghost stories, whether vengeful or sorrowful are considered holy for the way their memory transcends time. The exception to this reverence of course are those trapped in suffering, and the "hungry" dead who feed on the living. Pain and want are after all the purview of life, and Nerull dispatches hunters and psychopomps to ease such spirits along their way.

Adventure Hooks:

While out on their travels the party encounters a procession of grey pilgrims, masked and shrouded, all silent save for the leader of their procession who carries a staff jingling with bells and welcomes the party to sit by his fire. He tells tale of conflicts across the realm, new and old, shared with her by her flock, and invites the party to walk along with them the next day if they wish to see something splendid. Should the party agree to such unsettling company they will walk until sunset when they come to a hillside dotted with loose stones, where one by one the pigrims will walk out and begin constructing their own cairns. The procession leader will thank them for their observance, not many are so kind to the unnamed dead, and will reward them with answers to five questions before departing on pallid wings.

After inexplicably befriending one of Nerull's agents (and possibly his daughter?) during one of their adventures, the party are liable to be put out when they don't see their favourite psychopomp for a while. Queue sightings of a foreboding spectre that's knocking one by one on the doors of the city at night, sending people into a panic. Imagine their surprise when it turns out this wraith has a message for them... their favourite omen of doom has been kidnapped by a necromancer and her boss (dad?) wants them to get her back.

The Vulture's work is never done, and this time he's decided to enlist the heroes for aid. Perhaps there's an undead spirit that needs to be quieted, perhaps there's something sinister at work in a ruin once consecrated in his name, perhaps it's just making sure they clean up after themselves after their latest stint of tombrobbing. Regardless, Nerull can offer the heroes something far beyond coin... closure with the dead, ensuring visitation with a loved one for some much needed closure.

Titles: The Vulture, The Bonesorter, Dead Ned, the weary reaper, the vagabond end.

Signs: Plants too dry to rot, the voices of the departed carried on the wind, skeletons rearranged into trees or gardens.

Symbols: A scythe or sickle entwined with flowers.

[joemama-2]

when death loves, death loves hard. death loves beautifully. death loves dearly. but death loves horribly.

death doesn’t deserve love, is what most people think. why would that be the case? death is everyone’s fear, it haunts and follows you until your last breath and last blink. they call it the Grim Reaper.

such a nasty name for something so beautiful, is what suguru thinks. suguru thinks he’s seen death before, he has honestly. has come face to face with death. but the death right in front of him, with a pretty smile on her face and sunlight highlighting every gorgeous detail, suguru begins to think that this is really death, the Grim Reaper.

and what’s worse? you don’t even realize it. suguru is a smart, perceptive man. he can see a sheep in wolf’s clothing. or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

it’s bad, he knows. getting close to death when in the end, it’ll be him next. but he thinks he gets small peeks at what his demise is like, when he finally will be reaped, when he sees you interacting with people other than him. other men touching you, you touching them back. your smiles sent their way instead of his.

yeah, this is death.

you use, steal, lie. he does too. it’s a continuous cycle. one that will never end, he assumes. but for some reason, he likes it. he almost craves it as much as he craves you.

loving death is horrifying. but death loving him is even more.

because is death loves him, why does death hurt him? oh right, because you’re death. and death only wants one thing in the end.

suguru blindly follows what you tell him to do. it’s a complete contrast to how he treats his cult members. but death can change anyone and everyone.

he’s your scythe, and for that, he’ll always cherish you. because death does not just allow anyone to be hers.

he can hear your whispers in his ear, guiding his hand to swallow whatever curse, mutilate any body. yet all he can think in that moment is how good you feel against him. how your warm, soft skin pleases him and makes him smile.

when you tuck his hair eyes from his eyes, when you brush your thumbs across his cheeks, when you kiss him softly. everything. he embraces it, welcomes it because if he doesn’t he’ll be casted down to hell. at least, that’s what he thinks.

who loves death? only people who crave it, wishing that they’re next.

but that’s what you do, isn’t it? collect souls on their last day, when they’ve accepted defeat and when they’re ready to move on from this horrid life.

suguru has been waiting for that day for years now.

when it finally comes, he’s happy. he’s relieved, he’s freed.

and because suguru loves death so much, he tears up in delight as your figure stands before him before kneeling down. you brush hair away from his eyes like always and kiss his lips.

he knows it’s time go. and you know it’s time to take him.

“i’m ready.” he whispers against your lips, voice hoarse from blood loss.

and you just nod, smiling like an angel. when you’re anything but.

“i’ve been waiting.”

your hand lingers on his chest and there’s a foreign sensation that runs through him. like he’s being sucked away, his soul being torn from his body and dragged to who knows where.

it doesn’t hurt, instead it feels wonderful. it’s freshening. his last thoughts are “finally.”

the ending sight he sees is his best friend crouched down to his left, once bright eyes full of sorrow and longing.

[weirdbeancurd]

Flash Flood Under My Bed- Chapter 1

A Poolverine Fanfic

Thank you guys for being so patient, and sorry it took so long haha. Also gonna tag @icarusredwings (hopefully im not bothering you, but I love your writing and thought you might enjoy)

@thecuntcakeweveallbeenwaitingfor it's finally here yaaaay

Ao3

Logan’s done this whole song and dance before. He knows the melody by heart, the hopeless hope, the enticing push and pull of “will they, won’t they.”            

And time and time again, he falls victim to their alluring display; a moth to a flame. Died, abandoned, betrayed- it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, he stood alone. The only thing he could always count on for company was the bottle. 

“Love” is just a fantasy which preys on the naive, he learns. Logan on the other hand, is perfectly happy (a gross exaggeration) bar hopping ‘til the damn sun explodes.

Then Wade-motherfucking-Wilson waltzes into his life, squeezes past his carefully built walls, and makes himself at home in his heart. This ain’t so bad, he mumbles, half-asleep on the couch, watching tonight’s 6th episode of Jeopardy. Wade’s passed out on his right, and Logan can’t resist tracing his scars with wandering eyes, taking in every little detail as if he could vanish at a moment’s notice. He sees past his brash nature, his poorly timed quips, and his inability to take anything seriously- because Wade is so much more than mouth. Hidden behind a convincing veil of dick jokes and sass, he cares, probably more than Logan deserves.

Love emanates from the way Wade arranges the cabinets for Althea- everything within reach, complete with braille labels. It doesn't stop them from bickering like children, but the sentiment is there. And it's not just Al that gets VIP treatment. A thoughtful gesture here, a subtle reminder there, and Logan feels his core bloom with warmth. The man starts getting handsy with him (in a wholesome, platonic way), noticing how he craves touch without ever voicing it. Their knees brushing together on the couch makes him feel things he can't describe. He tries anyway.

 Adoration, perhaps? No, that can't be right. He's spent so much time alone; he's forgotten what that feels like.

You're just jealous that Wade’s a better man than you'll ever be, he decides.

So Wade himself isn’t a problem, far from it. Though he gets his nerves, Logan begrudgingly admits that he considers Wade-motherfucking-Wilson to be his one and only friend. Now there’s his problem.

The last time he gave friendship a chance, it didn't end well. In fact, it went fucking awful. 

He took out his sorrows on the innocent, slaughtering anyone in his way, and in turn, slaughtering any hope of human and mutant coexistence. The X-Men had worked on building their reputation for years, decades even. Some campaigns were beginning to take off, gaining loyal supporters, few as they were. But Logan threw it all to the wind. They gave him food, shelter, love, a purpose; and how did he repay them? He ruined their life’s work in a single night, irreparably tainted the image of mutants across the globe just because he couldn't handle his own damn grief. He retires his suit. A cloak and scythe would fit him better.

His mere presence is a deadly premonition; he destroys everything he touches, death following in his footsteps, wilting the once green grass. He is salt to the earth: an everlasting threat to life itself. No flora grows in his presence, no friend can live through his innate ability to bring about devastation. So it’s better this way, Logan tells himself. He repeats it, like a prayer. It's better this way. 

 No one is safe, not if they're with him. 

He tries kicking his friend to the metaphorical curb, keeping him at arm's length. Turns out, Wade’s a persistent little bastard. No matter how much he insults, ignores and stabs him, he just keeps coming back. Claims he's like “William Afton,” whoever the hell that is. And god, it’s a dick move, he knows. Wade welcomed him with open arms, saw Logan at his absolute lowest and still said, yes, I want that one. It's everything he's ever wanted-

But happy endings have always been a delusion of his. 

The Wolverine does not believe himself to be a smart man. A skilled fighter, sure. Stubborn as a mule? Absolutely- but never smart. It's a uniquely cruel fate to have loved and lost, in a world where there is so little love given to people like him. If Logan Howlett was a smart man, he’d take the fucking hint instead of falling for the same old ploy over and over. Whenever he meets someone and feels that terrifying spark of chemistry, he senses danger approaching like an oncoming storm. The air pressure drops, the sky turns red, the clouds loom over his shoulders like a threat. Every instinct is yelling at him to run, take shelter and wait it out. And when rain finally strikes the earth, the thunder is gunshots in his ears, screaming I told you so, you idiot. I told you so.

Like he said in the time ripper, the merc will still have his “world in a photograph;” a world that will keep on turning with or without Logan- because he was never a part of it in the first place. Leaving it behind should be easy. 

 Or it would be if Wade would stop draping himself over his shoulders every time he sits down for breakfast. It's near impossible to ignore him when he's making morning coffee look like a scene from The Notebook, but Logan can't say he minds. It doesn't mean he won't complain about it, though.

“Wade.”

“Mhm?”

“Get the fuck off’a me.”

“No can do, sugartits.”

Asshole, he thinks, leaning into the touch. Wade rests his head atop his, and Logan shivers when his morning voice rumbles through him.

“Soooo, I was thinking-”

“Congratulations.”

“Oh, ha ha,” the merc removes his arms from his shoulders. Logan mourns their loss. “I was thinking about taking another job. A killy-killy-stabby one, of course.”

The gruff man doesn't spare a glance as he raises the mug to his lips.

“And why did you feel like this was something you needed to tell me?” It's not like this is news to him; Wade’s mercenary income is the main reason they aren't living on the streets. He won't let them forget it either, going on and on about being the “breadwinner” of the household. He once referred to Logan as his “caring house wife,” and received three surprise piercings as a result.

“Well, this one's a two man job. Gotta scout out a sketchy abandoned building, but they want someone to go with me to cover more ground. What do you say, peanut?” 

That…actually sounds like a pretty good time. Logan's job search has been uneventful so far (getting hired with zero government paperwork is a bitch), and he's been getting kind of antsy cooped up in the apartment all day. Plus, Wade's making those stupid puppy dog eyes at him.

“Pleeeease? We get to kill anyone we find inside!”

“...Fine. When is it?”

There’s a suspiciously long bout of silence. 

“Wade. When. Is it.”

Said man is looking anywhere but his face, darting his eyes around until he rolls them shut with a sigh.

“It's, uh. It's in an hour.”

“The fuck you mean it's in an hour!?”

“I-ugh! I forgot, okay! I was gonna ask you yesterday, but you fell asleep on the couch at nine, Rip Van Winkle!”

“I'm two hundred years old, you- you know what, fuck you.”

“...”

“...”

“...Does that mean you're coming?”

“...I’ll be ready in ten.”

“Wooo, baby! I knew you'd pull through for me, my sweet mustelid-matey! I could kiss you right now-”

“Don't.”

“Alright.”

He flees to his room, towards the cabinet tucked in the corner. It's covered in a fine layer of dust. He takes the time to brush it off despite the rush they're in, running his fingers over a crack in the wood before sliding it open. Inside lies his suit and cowl, still here after all these years. After most of it was destroyed by the time ripper, he was understandably distraught. Logan thought he hid it well, but Wade must've seen the longing within his walled-off self and decided to take action. A week later, he presented Logan with the suit. It looked exactly like the day he’d first received it, seams clean cut, colors bright as they are ridiculous; he never thought he’d be so happy to see the damn thing again. Apparently the rat bastard knows how to sew. And apparently, the only way to get him to shut up is to be bear hugged by the one and only Wolverine. Neither mention Logan’s misty eyes when they part.

He shakes himself out of his trance, there’s no time to dwell. Emotional constipation wins this round- but only because he’s got a mission to complete. Logan tucks the suit under his arm.

“Wade?!” He calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“How long’s the drive gonna take?”

“Maybe…an hour?”

Oh for fucks sake.

The ride over is mostly uneventful. Despite Wade’s overly-enthusiastic air guitar getting on his nerves, minimal blood was shed during the hour-long trip. Key word: minimal. While singing along to a love song on the radio, Wade had tenderly jokingly rested his hand atop Logan's, startling him and nearly causing him to crash the damn car in the ensuing one-armed slap fight. Unsurprisingly, the man with three steak knives down each sleeve won. 

All in all, a successful journey.

The given address turns out to be an abandoned hospital, a splendid place for two men with fucked up medical trauma to be.

“Huddle up, Wolvie. We gotta discuss our game plan. Says right here that we should split up, but…”

They eye the building with apprehension, neither making a move. It feels like minutes before Wade speaks again.

“You know what? I think it’d be a great idea to explore together. For a thorough search, of course.”

“...Yeah. Lets.”

The two enter through the not-so-automatic doors and pass the front desk. Logan immediately recoils at the smell; the scent of rubbing alcohol seems entertwined with the very soul of this place. The inside’s surprisingly intact, like the staff up and left one night and never came back. Empty syringes peek beneath tissues in the trash, betrayed by the sinister glint of their needles. PSA posters line the halls, preaching the benefits of hand washing though there are none left to hear it. Even the hospital beds are in place, a layer of dust blanketing the sheets. All that’s missing are the patients. Their absence is striking; it almost makes him miss the annoying drone of a dozen heart monitors if only to smother the silence. Every step feeds into his paranoia, and Logan's not alone on the matter. Unease is written in the way Wade keeps making unsubtle glances at him. When Logan asks if he’s alright, the merc answers with a question.

“Pfff, why wouldn’t I be? I’m so alright. Like, unbelievably alright, right now.”

“...Let’s just get a move on.”

 Logan sticks even closer to him after that. Thorough. That’s all he’s being.

It isn't entirely clear what they're supposed to be searching for. Something about intel on a trafficking ring? The request was too vague for his liking, but hey, it pays well. Yet after twenty minutes of slogging through empty rooms with zero leads, Logan is thoroughly bored out of his mind. Likewise, Wade “ADHD Incarnate” Wilson is practically vibrating with pent up energy. He can't help but notice the lack of people to beat up, and Wade says as much.

“Okay, this place is a major snooze fest. And here I was, thinking we’d get to make some minced meat confetti.” He brightens momentarily. “Oh, oooh! I know what we should do-”

“No.”

“-we should play 21 questions!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, I’ll go first! Alright, let's see…”

Logan groans, but the distraction couldn’t have come at a better time, because he’s starting to suspect Wade's catching on to his odd behavior. The man’s got a knack for sniffing out his friends' problems; like a bloodhound, but for daddy issues. Noble as that is, Logan prefers to wallow in misery by his lonesome, thank you very much. 

“Oh, I got one! How about this,” the souring of tone makes his heart drop.

“The fuck’s been up with you lately? Don't think I haven't seen the way you've been avoiding everyone- like the time you snuck out of Laura’s birthday party? Or what about the fact you’ve been ‘too busy’ to join game night five weeks in a row? You’re not even trying to hide it!” 

God-fucking-dammit.

“I don't know what you mean.” He tries keeping his voice steady, but it comes out more as a growl.

“Do you?” Wade tries getting his attention by tugging on his shoulder, only to be violently shrugged off. He takes it in stride, not even pausing his speech. “Because it seems like you know exactly what I mean.”

“Wade, drop it.”

“No, I don't think I will, actually! Because every time I try to peek into your fucked up little mind, you push me away. You're starting to hurt my precious feelings.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“Look, sweetcakes. Honeymuffin. Light of my life, subject of my wettest dreams; I care about you. You know that…right?” His tone teeters on the edge of concern.

“...I can't imagine why you would.”

 In the silence that follows, he senses that he might've said the wrong thing.

“Logan. Look at me.”

He scoffs, if only to hide his growing discomfort. 

“Wha-no. Wade, I am not a goddamn child. I don’t need you to baby me like-”

“Don’t you dare give me that. I'll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one. This talk’s long overdue, mister.”

“Just leave me alone, dipshit. God, is this why you wanted me to come along? So you could interrogate me? Fuck off.”

“No, dumbass, it's because I genuinely enjoy your company!! Is that so hard to believe?!” Wade takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales.

“I get it,” Logan loudly disagrees, but Wade plows through. “Your brain’s being an asshole and won't let you enjoy basic shit. Been there, done that. So whatever those mean thoughts are saying in your head? Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, I’ve never heard anything more wrong in my life.”

The “mean thoughts” protest at this, trying every trick under the sun to convince Logan otherwise. 

You're a murderer, they say.

“‘But Wade,’ you might be saying. ‘I’m an irredeemable monster!’ Uh, no, shut up. Newsflash asshole, we all fuck up sometimes. Move on and be better. Hell, you already have. At the very least, I haven’t seen you drink actual, fucking rubbing alcohol for a hot minute.”

You'll get him killed, it's only a matter of time, they insist.

“And I swear to god, if you tell me you're ‘fine,’ I will shove you into a meat grinder, and not the fun kind of meat grinder. Everyone needs some TLC, even grumpy old men like you. Your healing journey will be full of the tenderest of care, and I’m gonna be there every step of the way to make it happen. I hate to break it to you, Wolvie, but you’re stuck with me now. I’m like a wart. I’ll grow on ya, and I’m not leaving without a fight.”

Gentleness isn't in your nature, you beast.

“I can't say my merry gang can ever replace all you've lost, but we love you just the same,” his voice pleading. “Come on, peanut. Talk to me. Whatever it is, I’ll listen. I can even get Yukio to make us friendship bracelets. Doesn't get more official than that.”

Logan is struck silent. Under the many layers of self doubt and the war raging in his mind, a new voice wonders-

Would it really be so bad to just let go?

If there's one thing Wades good at, it's eating away at Logan's resolve.

He slips off his mask to flash a modest smile. 

“You gotta forgive yourself, peanut. Because they would absolutely forgive you.” 

His breath hitches sharply, cutting through the silence. 

Would they really?

He wants nothing more but to melt into the comforting embrace he’s offered, to collapse and let someone else take the reins for once. Fat tears threaten to roll down his cheeks. The sobs are fighting their way up his throat and he knows it's only a matter of time before he breaks. Perhaps he can shatter, just this once, and-

Two hands grasp his shoulders in what is meant to be a friendly gesture, but his mind interprets it as anything but. Animalistic terror surges through his body. Deep in thought, he failed to notice Wade approaching. Suddenly, it's a hundred years ago, he's fighting a war he can barely remember, and an enemy is trying to drown him in a river. His stomach feels like it's eating itself and his entire body aches; being on your feet for four days straight will do that to you. The man presses down on his shoulders, dunking his head below the freezing rapids. In his weakness, they gain the upper hand, and Logan gasps for air. He finds none, instead met with water rushing to his lungs. It's cold, too cold. There's frantic splashing, and he can't breathe, and his throat filling with liquid, and so he lashes out-

“Aghh!”

A cry of pain thrusts him back into reality.

“W-Wade?” He blinks. There is no enemy, no river, no war. Just Wade, pinned to the ground by his claws through his throat. He gurgles, grabbing at his wrists to pry him off. Logan feels like he's drowning again.

He forces his hands to work, retracting his claws and immediately putting pressure on the wound- just as the army taught him. 

“Wade! S-shit. I'm sorry, I’m so sorry. I wasn't- I didn't mean it, I swear, please don't-”

The man pushes him away, cradling his neck with one hand. He holds up a single finger with the other, as if asking Logan to wait. Wade eventually makes a noise that sounds like an asthmatic frog and sits up.

“Ugh! God. You got me good there, tiger. As I was saying,” he blanches at the shell-shocked expression on Logan's face.

“Woah, hey heyheyhey! Hold on, Wolvie, it was an accident! I know you didn't mean it, honey badger,” he holds up his hands, palms facing outward like he's placating a wild animal. “Look- see?” He gestures to his throat. “Good as new, no harm done! I’m fine, really.”

But it’s not fine. He’s done it again; once with Marie, and now with Wade. One of these days, he’s going to actually kill someone he loves (I already have, he thinks). 

The question is not if, but when. How long until history repeats itself?

“No, no, I can’t. I-I can’t do this. Not again,” Logan gasps.

He tugs on his hair, trying to ground himself. The air’s too thin; he can't breathe. He tries sheathing and unsheathing his claws, but that only reminds him of the carnage he's committed. Wade’s saying something; he doesn't hear what. 

“Just go away. Just go!” And then it dawns on him; if he leaves, Wade will follow. The dumbass can’t recognize a lost cause when he sees one. Logan needs to prove how utterly repulsive he is, needs to show him that he isn’t worth the effort. The words that leave his mouth feel like retching up shards of glass.

“I…I never wanted to be a part of your freak show, anyways.”

Wade straightens.

“You don’t mean that.” 

He doesn't. God, he doesn't.

“I do. And you know what? I should’ve stayed in my own damn universe and drank my sorrows away. At least then I wouldn’t have to listen to your sorry ass- at least then I wouldn’t have had the misfortune of meeting you! Seriously, do you ever shut the fuck up?” 

 Logan basks in the fire he spits, imagining he’s talking to the mirror, because Wade doesn’t deserve it, and because he doesn’t deserve Wade. Hostility is an old friend of his. He falls back on its familiarity, revels in its security. How could he have hoped for this to end any differently? I told you so, you idiot, I told you so.

“It’s a miracle your friends haven't left your ass behind. But just you wait, bub. Just you fucking wait. You’ll end up alone again, because of your frankly insufferable personality- and because it's what you fucking deserve! So for the sake of everyone around you, I pray they find a cure for immortality.”

He decides he hates the unstoppable force that is Wade-motherfucking-Wilson. He hates Wade’s selflessness, he hates how easy it is to relate to him, he hates his stupid fucking smile- and he absolutely despises how Wade believes in second chances. 

“-So just, just stay the fuck away from me, dammit!” 

Logan barely registers he’s been backing towards the door, unconsciously trying to leave. It’s become a habit. 

The second he steps into the next room, the door slams shut.

“Wh-”

Logan stares as Wade presses himself up to the glass portion, frantically jiggling the handle. He ultimately gives up on that approach and reaches for his katanas, but a metal plate erupts from the floor and seals him off. It's a total lockdown- they’ve been separated. 

“Wade? Wade?!” Only his echo responds. 

He unsheaths his claws to brute-force his way in. Each strike is accompanied by the hellish sound of metal on metal, but he’s barely made a dent despite his best efforts. Adamantium, he mutters. Fuckers must've reinforced it with the shit. 

Logan suspects an ambush, immediately confirmed by the not-so subtle chatter of about a dozen guards huddled by the room’s only exit. One of them tosses a black disk through the doorway. Whatever it is, it's not a grenade, and it's too far away to do any real damage if it did go off. Attention straying from the strange device, he stretches his senses to listen for their approach. They’re quiet for the most part, save for someone fiddling with a controller of sorts. Odd, he has time to think, right before his head explodes with agony.

His sensitive hearing is assaulted by electric screeching. It hurts, and boy, is it loud. It feels like steak knives are being shoved down his ear canals, and he can’t help but slam his hands over them, folding at the waist. Logan yelps when the sound intensifies. Sharp pain pricks his neck and he snaps his attention to the source. While he was distracted, a man dressed from head to toe in tactical gear rushed him, wielding a sharp-looking rifle that he cocks to shoot again. The noise isn’t affecting him; either those helmets are noise-canceling, or humans can’t hear this frequency. To the detriment of his eardrums, Logan pries his own hands away from his head to sidestep the shot and launch himself at his attacker. His head screams with pain even as his body sings with satisfaction at the kill, blades skewering the other man. He has no time to gather his bearings, a dozen more men storming the room. 

The mutant shreds through a couple, squinting in pain, before he spots the source of that awful screeching. The innocent disk he once ignored lies on the ground, LED flashing radioactive green. Bingo. Logan grabs a rifle from the next agent he kills, chucking it (with a little more force than necessary) at the device. It shatters upon impact, drawing a sigh of relief. The torment over, he stabs one man through the heart, using his body as a projectile to knock out another. The action throws him unexpectedly off balance. Huh. Logan brushes the thought aside, whipping around to grapple with an agent who'd almost gotten the jump on him. He shoves them back, the other reaching for their gun, and actually manages to pistol whip the wolverine. Must be getting rusty, he thinks, returning the gesture with a friendly impaling. 

By the time he’s mauled his way through eleven guards, he realizes all too late that something’s very wrong. His breathing is labored, posture slumped. A couple of the men got some pretty good hits on him, for god's sake. The last one standing proves to be particularly hard to take down, not because he's a skilled combatant, no, but because the room won't stop fucking spinning. He’s struggling to keep his claws extended, so he opts for the less dignified approach. The Wolverine grips his opponent's shoulders and tears out their jugular with bloodied teeth, winning him the fight. Needless to say, Logan doesn't exactly feel like a winner right now.

He nearly collapses before their body hits the floor, steadying himself on a lab bench. He’s taking in as much air as his lungs can handle, greedily, like a drowning man. Feeling a strange stiffness in his neck, he reaches for the source- and pulls out… a syringe? His nausea thickens, barely able to keep both knees from buckling. He turns the item between shaking fingers. The barrel is short, containing a brightly colored serum that's nearly depleted. On one end is a neon-yellow tuft of downy. Fuck. He wasn't shot with a gun; he’s been shot with a tranquilizer gun. 

Logan grunts and chucks it somewhere. Whatever that stuff was, its creator accounted for their victim having a heightened metabolism. He's being targeted. Double fuck.

It’s a battle to keep his eyes open, using the wall to take most of his weight as he stumbles along. It occurs to him that he has no idea where he’s headed. Higher brain function has officially left the building.

Eventually the drugs run their course and he crumples, tipping onto the tile with a metallic clunk. 

The next moments are but a blur in his mind. It could’ve been seconds or days; both seem just as likely in his delirious state. Logan feels himself being dragged across the tile, blinking his eyes open to a different scene each time. At first, he’s on the floor. Then he’s staring at the ceiling. Next, he’s being hauled up. If he was coherent, he’d pity the poor soul trying to lift his five-hundred pound adamantium-infused dumbass up the stairs, but he doesn't feel capable of anything but groaning at the moment. His brain feels like jello. He hates jello. It’s too sweet, and the cold hurts his teeth, and- what was he talking about again? Oh, right. He’s being kidnapped or something.

The man awakens to the chilling sensation of cold steel pressed against his bare back. He recognizes it instantly; he’s laying on an operation table. His mind flickers through dozens of encounters with needles and scalpels, gloved hands poking and prodding him like a science experiment. Logan tries to yank at his unrestrained limbs, but it’s as if they’re deadbolted to the table. The sedative must still be in full effect. It sure feels like it- his mind is full of static and the air is thick like tar. 

His eyes frantically search for an exit, but he can barely lift his head. The corners of the room appear shrouded in darkness, like an unnerving vignette. He lets his head fall back onto the table with a loud clang. Ow. That did not help his headache.

A flash of white consumes his vision. Now that really didn't help his headache. Fluorescent lights bore into his skull, piercing his eyelids. He can barely make out the silhouettes of faces hovering over him, squinting at the man in front. His vision is just beginning to focus when he’s grabbed roughly by the jaw. There are hands on him; his wrist, his chest, his face, everywhere. He only manages a flinch, muscles hardly putting up a fight. The gloved digits turn his head with smooth, practiced motion, but pay no heed to his discomfort, forcing his neck at odd angles. It takes a moment for him to spot the man’s face mask and put two and two together: he’s being inspected.

His heart races at the thought, and the scientist catches the way Logan’s eyes widen. He starts his observations, not caring if his assistant can keep up with his rapid-fire remarks.

“Healing factor is greatly reduced. Pupils are reactive to light. Subject appears semi-lucid, but its movement is still severely impaired by the injection.”

It. They called him an it.

“F-Fuck off.”

“Ah. So it speaks.”

He gives a defiant grunt. 

“How succinct. I’d expect nothing less from a dirty animal.” Logan bares his teeth, showing off his impressive canines. In hindsight, that probably didn’t do much to dispel the “dirty animal” allegations. The man rolls his eyes, turning to his paperwork.

“Subject displays signs of aggression. Reprogramming may be necessary.”

The word makes him freeze. The Wolverine’s been robbed of enough memories to know the process well.

He tries to control his trembling, but his weakness betrays him. 

The doctor looks absolutely delighted at his reaction.

“Oohoh. So the beast can feel fear!” He goads. “And here I thought you were just an emotionless killer.”

“Look, bub. I don't know what you want, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Oh no, I know exactly who I'm talking to. Murderer.”

“I didn't do shi-” He jumps when they slam their hands on the operating table, fists landing inches from his head.

“I know your kind. Violent, uncontrollable, dangerous- every one of you.”

“...We’re not like that.” and then a smaller, quieter, “I-I’m not like that.”

He scoffs, a stiff grin holding back his frustrations like a dam. 

“And that’s where you’re wrong. Turns out your kind is stupid, too.”

“Well, what have we ever done to you?”

The dam breaks.

“What have mutants done? You-you things killed my FUCKING brother!” His eyes are full of emotion, nothing like the distant, well-spoken professional he awoke to. Anguish churns in his gut, hatred oozes through his clenched teeth. 

“We were colleagues, working on a project we'd dreamed of for years. It would've revolutionized the pharmaceutical industry. We would’ve been set for life. But then one of you mutant freaks escaped containment. That bastard could breathe fire. It burned him to the fucking ground.”

Logan feels sick. He remembers the smell of burnt flesh, remembers how it stuck with him. 

“He was my best friend, practically family. And I watched him scream out my name before he took his final, soot-filled, dying breath!” He gets up in Logan's face, shoving a shaking finger at him. 

“I grew up with that man. I was in the room when his first son was born. And I was the one who had to tell his child that his father is dead.”

Logan bites his tongue. He feels like a kid again, who knows the best chance at avoiding his old man’s wrath is to shut the hell up.

They settle after a bit, taking a moment to breathe and adjust their glasses.

“...I appear to have lost my composure. Apologies, I didn't mean to stoop to your level.” Nevermind, fuck this guy. Time to poke the bear.

“What's your brother’s level, huh? Six feet under?” It was a low blow, but Logan still revels in the snarl it evokes. And then his scowl grows into a grin. Cold fear washes over him. Logan has the feeling he's going to regret ever opening his mouth.

“You know, word around the block is that you’re not from here.”

He knows where this is going. He tries to turn his head away but jumps when the doctor grabs his chin and yanks it back. The hand lingers, grasping his jaw firm enough to bruise.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Logan stubbornly avoids his eyes. The mutant flinches when he reveals a familiar instrument: a scalpel. He doesn't have time to ponder its significance before the doctor plunges it into his thigh. Now, he’d be the first to tell you that his pain tolerance is pretty high. It’s got to be, when you’ve been fighting tooth and nail for over two centuries. But this, this is a whole different beast. There's something about the artificial light flooding his vision, the iron grip on his chin and the chilling steel of the operating table that unsettles him to his very core. While he doubts the drug cocktail is helping, the real kicker is the horrors of his own mind- those, he can’t escape. 

The terror of past procedures makes itself known through shaking hands and muscles taut like tightrope. The sedative limits his movement like a set of leather straps, and he panics when his limbs don’t feel like his own. It’s an assault on the senses, amplifying them to the point where even the smallest touch burns like he's being branded with a red-hot iron. It feels too much like adamantium flooding his body. Logan barely holds back a whimper, nearly biting off his tongue when the pain claws up his thigh. 

It’s all too much and there's no end in sight. Who knows if Wade is even looking for him. 

“I said, look at me when I’m talking to you, brute.” 

He does as he’s told.

“Good. As I was saying, you have quite the reputation back home.” 

Shut up shut up shutupshutup-

“It’s a long story, I’m sure you remember. My intel was frustratingly vague, but If I'm not mistaken, you fled to a bar, tail between your legs, and came back to a massacre. They burned everyone you ever loved to the ground.” His voice is rife with sadistic glee.

“Good riddance, I say; the only good mutant is a dead mutant. Really, I should be thanking you for aiding in their demise.” 

Logan feels himself slipping into the past, trying to resist the pull, but he knows it's futile. The carnage is fresh in his mind, forever etched under his eyelids. 

Bodies of students he recognizes but never got to know beyond a name lie at his feet (God, they were just kids). There’s too many to count, too many to mourn. A blanket of silver catches his eye and he rushes to turn them over. Logan recoils at the sight of Ororo, lifeless and pale. He ducks down to hold her close; flames lick his ankles but he couldn't care less. He goes through body after body, one by one, begging, pleading that this’ll be the last, but the deaths keep piling up. Jean, Jubilee, Hank, Scott, Charles. He never thought he'd see the day where Kurt manages to sit still for two seconds. Gone are his high energy shenanigans, his animated personality snuffed out for good. Logan searches the acrobat’s eyes for answers, praying the gymnast would spring to life and say gotcha, mein freund! You should’ve seen the look on your face! He wishes this was all just a joke. It'd be the world's worst joke, but he’ll take anything over this.

He wonders if he’ll ever smell brimstone again.

Logan counts the dead. And again, and then a third time, hoping that maybe someone escaped. After his fourth time doing the rounds, his face contorts with a devastated sob and he falls to his knees. Fate is cruel to have left him the last one standing. He tries swiping at his eyes, but his gloves are slick with blood, and fuck, there’s so much blood, there’s just so much fucking blood. 

How fitting, for it to be on his hands. 

He cries and cries until the moon deserts him too. The sun rears its ugly head, and Logan stares right at the center in hope of blinding himself (because all he sees is them, cold and dead). It peeks over the horizon as his voice finally starts to give out. Screams fade to whimpers.

It’s hard to believe that the bustling school is now ruin and rubble; it was supposed to be a safe haven for people like him. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Once a sanctuary, reduced to nothing but tinder.

And oh, how it burns.

Logan is yanked back to the present by the scalpel ripped out of his thigh. He gasps, feeling his throat pinch. Air struggles to reach his lungs, ears deaf to whatever his captor’s asking him. Playing along with the doctor’s little game of “21 questions” isn't really his priority at the moment; not that they care.

“Were you even listening?” 

He grabs a fistful of his subject's hair and tugs, hard, baring his neck. His breath catches when the scalpel lowers dangerously close, making him go cross-eyed as he watches its deadly approach. Logan resists the overwhelming urge to squeeze his eyes shut, keeping them glued to the blade's edge. His vision blurs with tears. The doctor huffs, loosening his grip just a little. 

“Fine. Ignore me if you want, your memories will be rewritten regardless. But really, think about it,” His eyes snap open at the voice suddenly inches from his ear, hairs standing on end. “-this is for your own good. Hell, it’s for the greater good. You’ve done enough damage.”

Part of Logan wants to enthusiastically agree, wants to be put down like a mad dog who can't be homed. He wants to forget all the pain and suffering that he's inflicted and have been inflicted upon; let surrendering to erasure be the one good thing he ever does in his long, miserable life. And yet, he can't help but think of happier times: when the sound of children fades into comforting white noise, or the familiar, gentle prodding of a telepath silently asking to explore his mind. He’d quirk a smile at the friendly banter he shared with his team- no, his family. He thinks of Jubilee's luminous smile and Charles's kind words, and that he doesn't want to forget. And Wade, oh Wade. The merc built him back up, an impressive feat, considering he only had rock bottom to work with. Logan would tell him how grateful he is, but he only knows so many words. He wants to be able to remember the time they spent together, however short. 

Being wiped clean would keep everyone he loves safe, but God, if he isn't a selfish man. He always has been. 

In one last desperate act of defiance, he snaps his teeth at the doctor's fingers. Of course, the sedative makes him miss by a mile, his attack far too slow to catch them skin-in-teeth.

They wrench back their hand, scowling hard. He palms Logan's forehead with a gloved hand, grabs a fistful of hair at his scalp, pulls forward, and slams his head back on the operating table. He feels his teeth clack together, the blow reverberating throughout his skull. The room tilts as his agony blossoms, and he thinks he hears someone cry out- possibly himself. In his disorientation, Logan barely registers the syringe that creeps into sight.

“Down, boy. Wouldn’t want you thrashing about during the procedure.”

He feels his head being tilted to the side, but his muscles are null to stop it. The shit they jabbed him with had to be potent stuff, because he can’t even tell which way is up. They flick the syringe twice before positioning it above a vein on his neck.

His eyes flutter shut. He finds himself thinking of Wade in what could very possibly be his last moments alive, mourning a friendship that will never get the chance to flourish. This is what he gets for hoping. Hope is a dangerous thing, and so is Logan.

Whatever the devil's got in store for me, he thinks, I’ll accept with open arms.

Bam.

He’s robbed of his fate by Wade kicking down the door, very bloody katanas hand in hand. The guards immediately train their guns on him. The doctor withdraws, attention stolen by Wade’s appearance. Shoulders hunched, breathing ragged, he looks ready to tear someone apart. Judging from the blood, he probably already has. Logan sometimes forgets Wade was, and still is a deadly mercenary (how scary can a guy who makes three sex jokes a sentence possibly be?), yet he certainly fits the part now, stalking his way to the center of the room.

“Alright fuckers. You’ve messed with the wrong dynamic duo.” 

His tone foregoes its usual breezy, devil-may-care attitude, the dangerous rasp in his voice sending shivers down Logan's spine.

“But lucky for you lot, I’m feeling generous today. I bestow upon each of yooouu- a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet your maker!” Wade spins his blades with deadly flourish, flicking blood in their direction. He narrows his eyes. “So you assholes better say your prayers-”

“-’cause I ain’t accepting apologies.”

Feel free to leave comments or tags telling me what you think! I love feedback and chatting about my writing lol

[raisunomii]

today, garroth ro'meave.

[a drabble preceding garroth faking his death, as i see it.]

The castle is silent. The castle has been silent since Garte left. Garroth didn't ask where he was going. He didn't care, as long as the shouting stopped.

The silence screeches like a wyvern.

RO'MEAVE ROYAL RESIDENCE, O'KHASIS, 5 A.M.

It's cold, Garroth thinks the moment his eyes snap open. He's always been an early riser. His feet against the cool stone-brick that comprises his bedroom floor is familiar, but is never welcome. He makes his way across the room regardless, stumbling to the bathroom. He strikes a match, his oil lamp lighting seconds later.

Stubble is the enemy.

He drops his blade on the sink when he's finished.

Sometimes Garroth wakes before the servants. Today, however, is not one of those days. The halls are as lively as ever- that is to say, stray whispers echo through the walls, but one can never be sure if they come from the wind or some creature.

And his mother has never been one to talk to herself.

RO'MEAVE ROYAL RESIDENCE, O'KHASIS, 6 A.M.

"Mother," Garroth says, maintaining his distance. "Did you sleep well?"

Zianna does not face him. She hasn't seen him, these past few weeks, not for lack of physical closeness. Garroth is sure the cityscape is a more favorable view than him. The sunrise is always beautiful.

He takes a few steps forward and guides his mother away from the window.

"Back to bed," he whispers, but he's sure she hasn't slept. He ignores the purple mottling her left cheekbone. Dad's gone now.

Breakfast is hearty.

THE TRAINING GROUNDS AT O'KHASIS, O'KHASIS, 8 A.M.

Slash, parry, pass. Slash, parry, pass. Again. Slash, parry, and if he's lucky, he won't think of Nicole.

Garroth can't remember the last time Irene favored him with 'luck'. His brother's always had that honor.

"Brother."

And he shall appear.

Garroth sheaths his blade. Zane is in full attire, Garroth notes. Wonder who he killed today. Must've been clean- his robes are still white.

"Well? Speak if you will," Garroth instructs, jutting up his chin for a mere second. Zane's gaze is full of disgust. Another day.

"A letter from Scaleswind found its way to my hands," Zane pauses to take in Garroth's expression, carefully taking in the slightest twitch of his brother's brow. "Nicole is set to come in a week."

Garroth nods. "I look forward to it."

He turns back to his craft, hoping Zane will leave, or at the least, be mindful enough not to stab him in the back. Slash-

"Mother slept the night," Zane says, "or at least some of it."

"I sent her to bed this morning." Parry. He can feel Zane's spirits drop. Pass.

Zane's boots crackle against the dirt as he leaves.

RO'MEAVE ROYAL RESIDENCE, O'KHASIS, 6 P.M.

Gnawing hunger is quickly welcomed once one realizes it keeps the mind off of unwanted betrothal. This is why Garroth has delayed dinner to stew in his own sorrow. Quite literally- the bath is much too hot today. What were the servants thinking?

His skin is red. Lady Irene.

The doorknob to the bath jiggles and Garroth has to fight back a groan.

"Bathing!" He shouts, though it doesn't make a difference, because the door swings open anyways. "Must you harass me while I'm in the tub?"

"I find you're less prone to fits of silence like this," Vylad says smoothly, dragging up a chair to the side of the tub. "Odd. Should I be cornered in a bath tub, I may refuse to speak at all."

Vylad is met with an eye roll. This does not deter him. He prattles on for about twenty minutes until Garroth demands he leave, at which point he wanders to the dining room to wait for Garroth to get dressed for a shared dinner.

Vylad often forgets to eat.

RO'MEAVE ROYAL RESIDENCE, O'KHASIS, 2 A.M.

Slowly and quickly does he in patterns scurry, as a mouse avoiding a scythe during harvest. His boots make soft noises on the brick which thunder in the silence of the O'Khasis morning. Moreso, in the temporary silence of the Ro'Meave Residence.

His bag is heavy and his sword clatters with movement. Every noise is detriment.

"Garroth?"

He whips around.

"Mother," Garroth says, standing what may be miles from Zianna, but he's sure is only a few meters. Their eyes do not meet, but he sees confusion all the same.

"What are you doing? It's late, too late for you to..." Mother trails off, making way for more screaming, intolerable silence.

It is the first time they've spoke in weeks.

"Training. Early morning training."

He can see his mother force back a scoff, because for all her despair, she's never been daft. Garroth knows that she doesn't have the energy to deal with his antics at the moment. She knows this as well, and sighs, turning away.

"Be safe," she calls.

"I will!"

[non-binaryweirdo69]

(SIDESTORIES/DRAWING IDEAS): The villain series By @scythe-the-problematic-audio

Only the beginning

(WARNING SENSITIVE TOPICS)

So After V left Cheeky with L and Wilder Cheeky is heartbroken and genuinely crying herself to sleep. Feeling she was never good enough and that she's always used no matter what she does, she feels like she's nothing but something to use and get rid of. So she goes into deep depression and has trust issues, she drinks to get rid of the pain but it just doesn't go away even when intoxicated which leds to SH on her wrists and thighs. This whole time L and Wilder didn't know what Cheeky was doing to herself but they watched as her smile faded away and she rarely came out of her room, locking herself inside of it and not coming out unless it's for alcohol or food, they couldn't do anything about it and it was scaring them. One day Cheeky was doing the usual, Crying after SH and telling her intoxicated self she deserved it until she saw a shadowy figure in the corner of her room, slowly looking up at her, as a red eye stared back at her. In a heartbreaking tone she says "if you want to end my life do it now.. the world would be so much better without the pathetic excuse of a woman I am." The only sound was her weeping in the dark room until a deadly, familiar voice spoke up "Wipe Your tears little light" she froze staring at the figure as it walked closer towards her, It was none other than the Monster, the embodiment of evil, The Atrocity. Pure rage filled Cheeky "What do you want you monster!? I have nothing left to give! If you want V find him on your own because he doesn't bother with me anymore." She yelled. Atrocity didn't reply he simply stood there grinning. "Why are you even here!? You're supposed to be dead, you were the only reason why he was with me! So thank you, thank you for shattering my blind love, my delusion and showing me why he kept me around..." She said as tears rolled down her cheeks.…"do you even know how painful it is to have someone you genuinely loved betray you!? To love someone just to find out you were a toy ,a game to them, something to use! HUH DO YOU!?"she said clinching her chest where her heart was. Atrocity's grin faded hearing these words... Seeing her like this reminded him of his past. He walked over to her kneeling down different level as she sat on the floor, he wiped her tears, still with a unsettling look on his face.. she looked at him shocked confused, wondering why he do something like this, this isn't like him. "Shedding tears and wasting energy on sorrow isn't going to fix anything" Atrocity said in a stern tone.

Cheeky didn't know how to respond but to have someone with her in this moment in time overwhelmed her heart and she hugged him. Atrocity expecting this ,didn't hug her back but rubbed her back slightly as she cried into his shoulder..

"You aren't here because you want something from me are you?"

Cheeky asked through the tears. "I enjoy sorrow but I am more than kicking you off your feet when you're already down, little light" with that Cheeky continued to cry into his shoulder.

[lesoldatmort]

Among gardens of sorrow limned by pale light Death’s shroud flutters, hand grasping a scythe of bone-white In cemeteries overgrown Or crosses made of stone Not a single soul will be spared from Death’s might

| OVERGROWN CEMETERY | Drawtober day 1-5 

Happy October, I hope you'll enjoy my series of illustration this year as well!

💀 PATREON | bsky | X | IG | Prints&merch

[askruimizuki]

The bar is open.

Tell me your sorrows while I pour you a drink.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Unsure of what to ask?

Here’s a small list of ranked things you could consider sending in to ask Rui. They will be categorized based off of levels of comfort Rui must have with you before he considers answering topics. If something isn’t listed, feel free to ask but consider where it may fit in the ranking below.

Please note, these are general guidelines and you can ask other things that aren’t on this list. They may just fall into a category of ‘need to be closer’ before he’ll consider answering them.

♥︎ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

These are topics that Rui would be willing to answer if anyone asked him. So long as it’s not wildly inappropriate. He may joke or deflect at this stage.

♰ Mixology

He runs a bar and, while it’s alcohol free, that doesn’t mean Rui lacks knowledge concerning mixology and fun party tricks.

♰ Gardening

Taking care of anomalous plants, Rui has learned a thing or two about their care and what best works for different plants.

♰ Cleaning

Having cleaned up after Ed and Lyca, Rui is a bit of a housekeeper and has a few good cleaning tricks up his sleeves.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♡ ♡ ♡

At this point, Rui recognizes you and is willing to go a bit more in depth about his own personal interests or hobbies he may have picked up. He might even open up a bit about some of his minor worries such as Ed’s sock mountain.

♰ Housemates

Rui cares for his housemates but has a few gripes about them. Feel free to ask him what living with the other two Obscuary members is like.

♰ Passing Time

Unable to sleep, Rui may have picked up many hobbies and interests. He’ll be more open to chat about these things if asked.

♰ Dating

Rui considers himself quite the romantic so he may have a thing or two to share about dating and any tips involving it.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡ ♡

By now, Rui would consider you a friend. He may open up a bit more about his thoughts and feelings on more in-depth topics.

♰ Artifact

He’ll happily share information regarding his artifact at this point in time. Whether it be about how he obtained it or his thoughts and feelings on it being a scythe.

♰ Stigma

Rui will talk a bit more about his stigma and how he feels about it now versus how he felt about it when he first got it.

♰ Other Houses

He will share more information on how he feels towards other houses at this point in time. He won’t go too into detail. But he’ll openly talk about them with you, now.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡

You’re a regular occurrence in Rui’s life. Which is rare. Congrats! He considers you close friends and will share his thoughts on heavier topics.

♰ Former House

Rui will talk to you about his former house assignment and life there before his move to Obscuary.

♰ His Curse

He’s aware most people already know about his curse. Now, he’ll talk to you about how he personally feels about his curse or how he wound up with it. If you’re willing to listen to his woes, that is.

♰ His Pact Wish

Rui will feel more comfortable with answering any questions you may have about his own pact he made with his demon.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

If you’ve made it this far, it means Rui trusts you enough to tell you his inner most thoughts. Don’t take this for granted. He’s a very private individual who keeps his personal struggles to himself. Now, he’s willing to spill them with you.

♰ Death

Rui has a very complicated relationship with death and what it means to him, at this point in his life. It’s only a topic he’ll talk with others if he feels he can absolutely trust them.

♰ Darkwick

Being quite restricted is not lost on Rui. His personal thoughts of Darkwick and how they handle non-humans is something he will only confide in those he feels won’t betray his trusts.

♰ Loss of Humanity

A bit different on his curse, Rui will confide in the way his life has changed since he was cursed. How it affects him. And his deeper thoughts on the matter.

Things not to ask

Asks that involve life-ending touches will not be tolerated by Rui. This is a sensitive subject for him and one he simply just doesn’t talk much about.

NSFW

Under cut

Rui will answer NSFW questions involving how his sex life was pre-curse versus now. All of these questions will be 3 or more hearts.