#subtle reminders of your humanity. you are a human and you are alive. all humans bleed red right?

[chuluoyi]

✎ heaven's fury

- gojo satoru x reader

sometimes you forget that your husband has burdens as the strongest sorcerer alive. when he goes back home from a bad day and you're the first person he comes contact to, you're made aware of it once again

genre: angry!gojo, a bit of hurt with looots of comfort and fluff !! it’s self-indulgent too🤭

note: i knooow i said i'll post gojo angst next, but i forgot i have this in backburner too so... this hurt/comfort goes first :') based on an anon's request. loosely takes place after baby!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

“Sukuna's vessel is a threat— he must be executed as soon as possible!”

“The more we put this off, the greater the risk he poses to society!”

“Gojo, you can't delay his sentence any longer—!”

Weak. All of them. They always make excuses. Trying to pin blame on someone else.

The jujutsu world he lives in… is wretched. Gojo Satoru thought he knew that well already, or at least knew enough to not get riled up over it.

Apparently not.

“Gojo-sensei? You look scary...”

Typically, he would mask his clear disdain with sharp-witted jibes, but he reached his limit this time. Especially since they had been pressuring him relentlessly to execute Itadori Yuji for at least five times a week, each week.

. . .

“Satoru, oh, you're home already!”

At the end of it all, he went home with the worst of moods. It served as a reminder—of his deep-seated contempt for weakness and how burdensome he found the task of protecting the insufferable to be.

“Satoru...?”

And it's because of their weakness that Suguru—

“Satoru, are you—?”

“Just fucking shut it!”

And that was when he saw you, standing before him with wide eyes, cradling your—his—precious baby in your arms, who was sound asleep.

“Huh…?”

Satoru immediately tensed up, realizing his mistake. And what hit him even harder was— is that a flicker of hurt he saw flashing across your face?

If so, then you quickly blinked it away because in the next instant, your face lit up with a warm smile— kind of forced, to his dismay. “Welcome home, Satoru.”

Something inside him churned, his heart started to ache, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth then.

There you were, as accepting as ever, and he cherished you for it.

But not tonight. Not for this. You didn't deserve any of his misplaced resentment.

Damn it. Damn it all!

In response, he offered you a subtle nod and headed to the bathroom, thinking a shower might help clear his foul mood away.

Contrary to what Satoru might think, you didn't really hold anything against him.

You were surprised, yes, because he was usually such a ball of energy even when he got back from intercity missions, but more than the hurt, you would understand if now, he was pissed some way or another.

Your husband is still a human. He is entitled to be upset on some days.

After ensuring your son was comfortably asleep in his cot, you returned to your bedroom to find Satoru already in bed, facing away from you. Hmph... now that you thought about it, this silence between you was unacceptable.

“Satoru.” You poked his side, but he didn't budge and still had his eyes shut. You arched an eyebrow. “Satoru? You can't be asleep.”

“…” No answer. Okay, let's try something else.

“Honey, talk to me? Hmm?” you decided to swallow the heat on your face as you addressed him more intimately. Mind you, you didn't usually call him that. He was the one in charge of pet names.

“…” This shithead. That's it.

“Satoru, my tummy hurts—”

“What?” In an instant, he flipped over, abruptly sitting up. “What hurts—”

Seizing the opportunity, you tugged him by the neck, and both of you tumbled onto the bed, with him landing on top of you. Satoru instinctively held himself up and cushioned the back of your head with his hand so you wouldn’t crash into the headboard—his blue eyes wildly flickering, searching for any sign of discomfort or harm.

“You good?” he made a face upon realizing your ruse.

“You won’t talk to me otherwise,” you noted with a hint of annoyance. But then your eyes softened into a concerned frown. “Satoru… what’s wrong?”

Once again, Satoru felt hollow. You were worried and it reached him. “It’s nothing,” he replied, looking away, trying to downplay his fury.

You pulled him close, his head against your chest, and though he was stiff and taken aback at first, he released a reluctant sigh and instinctively snuggled closer, finding comfort in your embrace.

“There, there…” you soothed with a smile, gently running your fingers through his hair. “Feel better now?”

He let out another sigh against you, returning the hug and nuzzling his face against your chest. His body heat enveloped you like a blanket.

And after a while...

“...’m sorry for yelling at you...” he muttered with such regret it made your eyes widen. “Didn’t mean it.”

The slight prickle in your heart dissipated at once, hearing his muffled voice.

“Mm-hmm, I know.”

“Really.”

“Mmm, really, really.”

He held you a little tighter, breathing in your scent, and you kept stroking his head. He looked so despondent it warmed your heart, and made you want to pet him. “Our baby loves being held like this too,” you giggled fondly. “You big baby… you’re just like him.”

Your husband let out a soft grunt against your chest, exhaling deeply.

“Whenever you’re ready, talk to me, yes?”

And so after several more pats on his head, Satoru finally told you everything, about how the higher-ups were relentlessly pressing him to put an end to Yuji, the new kid he recently enrolled to the jujutsu school.

“They're just some paranoid old fools—”

“Mm-hmm.”

“—stinky, cringey, looks depressed most of the time—”

“Heh— now that's just plain disrespect.”

“Yuji is just clueless and just has a lot to learn,” Satoru grumbled sullenly. “They didn't even teach him a thing and incapable to— how dare they? To keep him ignorant and then murder him?”

...oh.

And at that moment, you found clarity. Why he got so worked up, why he got irate this time whereas he was usually insensitive.

First, it was because of your tragic youth. No one protected Haibara from his unfortunate incident and was there for Geto when he needed it the most—which still haunted him to this day.

And secondly, because he himself is a father too. No one deserves their youth being taken away. That has been his moral compass, and the sense grows even stronger ever since the baby was born.

It made something inside you flutter.

“Satoru...” you breathed out, smiling, squeezing him affectionately. “You’re ... a kind person.”

“Huh?”

“You take it upon yourself to mentor those kids,” you mused. “Just look at Megumi and Yuta; they've turned out just fine.”

Truthfully, Satoru didn't consider himself as kind as you made him out to be. At times he felt like he was doing it because it was right, sometimes he thought it was for fun, and at other times, he simply didn't feel like seeing more deaths or wrong paths. And he was sure if you had asked Megumi whether he was a good teacher or not, the grumpy boy would only roll his eyes.

But then, just as he looked up at you, the prettiest smile blossomed on your face, and you said to him—

“And as your wife, I’m... proud of you.”

The way you sincerely told him that made his breath catch in his throat, and his heart pound a little faster.

The woman who has become his everything. This unabashed, pure love you show him.

“Sweets, I—” he suddenly rose, back to on top of you. But his voice faltered, remembering the way he coldly snapped at you earlier. “I...”

You looked up at him innocently. And he swallowed the shame because he had to tell you too.

Because you were so, so incredibly precious to him, and he wanted you to know that.

“…love you,” he mumbled, his beautiful eyes meeting yours with no hesitation. His cheeks were burning, tinted with a shade of pink—and you out of all people knew best that him being embarrassed meant as good as him not being horny—

But before you could point it out, he leaned down towards you, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. There was no trace of the man who was hungry for your body— it was just a long, chaste kiss that contained his feelings for you.

And when he pulled back, both of you were panting slightly, trying to catch your breath. Then, he pursed his lips, his eyes glittery—somehow reminding you of your baby's face just before he cried out for his milk.

“I wanna pay for my sin. Wanna cuddle you too.”

And so you let him. He held you close, his arm under your head and you traced lazy lines on his chest, feeling contented and somewhat giddy.

“You feel that bad, huh?” you chuckled, noticing his continued gloominess.

“I am,” he puffed out his cheeks before pressing a kiss on your forehead. “Because if anyone else dares to tell you off like that, I'll wreck them on the spot.”

“Hmm, how romantic. But come to think about it... you did look a little scary though...”

At that moment, he felt his heart drop, his eyes instantly rounded in alarm, looking at you with dismay.

“No, no, I'm not scary! Wifey, I'm your devoted and loving husband!”

Epilogue

Your morning started with your baby's cries. When you glanced over, Satoru was gone from your bed already. Curious, you made your way to the baby's room, and what you saw there caused you to raise an eyebrow.

"Satoru... what are you...?"

He turned to you with an expression so heartbroken as he rocked his wailing baby. "He keeps crying, I don't know why..."

However, your attention was drawn more to his disheveled appearance. Messy hair, slitted eyes as if he hadn't brushed off sleep, and most of all, the dark eyebags under his eyes.

"Uh, Satoru... give him to me."

When he did, your baby calmed down almost instantly, his sobs turning into light sniffles, and your husband could only scratch his head in confusion.

"Why...? When I tried to look at him, he cried even harder—"

"...no offense, but if I were a baby and someone who looks like a panda holds me up, I'd get scared and cry too."

Satoru let out a theatrical gasp, clutching his chest as he hovered over your baby—

"Nooo! Papa didn't mean to scare you—!"

...but to his horror, your baby turned away from him, hiding his face in your chest instead.

[nothomegal]

"Kiss. Teach. Love!"

(Mr. Crawling x GN! Reader)

No way, NotHomeGal actually revived? Yup, I did. Homicipher brought me back to life from the depts of my creative burnout (o゜▽゜)o☆

This game really scratched a part of my brain I didn't know was there, but I'm not complaining!

And no, I won't be abandoning the slasher fandom, but I must say it will take some time to come back to write those right now, but I'll do my best to rekindle that spark!

Okay, enough of my yapping. Hope you enjoy this Oneshot (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Summary: after learning that sometimes objects from the human world may fall into the realm you're currently stuck in, it became a common activity for you to scavenge around the junk to pass time, and your ghost companion always seems so curious about it!

Warnings: none really just fluff, Mr. Crawling being too cute for a mortal soul to handle.

Side note: yeah just like in most (basically all) of my fics, MC (or Y/N) will be Gender Neutral! So everyone gets to enjoy the story with their favorite ghost man :]

AND! Here's the link of the dictionary I used for the fic to put ghost words heheerhkj.

Word count: 3.6k

It's been so long, they think at least. Time feels stuck in place, yet in the deepest part of (Y/N)'s conscience they know it's not true, that the time and everything outside these lifeless concrete walls is very much alive.

Life goes on, it keeps moving regardless if they feel it or not, time is passing just like it always did... Yet, they feel stuck. Numb. It's like their mind and soul are slowly melting, becoming one with this dimension they begrudgingly started to call "home", even if it's not... This is not their real home!...

It's not!...

It's not...

It's not...?

—"☨ д つ 々?"— (Sad)

A quiet gasp left (Y/N)'s lips when suddenly something brushed against their leg as that soft voice spoke next to them, that "something" being the very long, dark hair of their ghost companion.

They turn their head, almost flinching at the sight of how close Mr. Crawling was to them. Shoot, sometimes they forget how unnerving his appearance is, especially when he creeps up on them like this, though unintentionally.

—"ત ટ д ☨ д つ 々?"— (You Sad)

He repeated the question, his usual smile now replaced with a small frown. His voice quiet and soft as always, but with that subtle quiver at the end that appeared whenever he's concerned.

(Y/N)'s breath almost hitched from that little but oh so sweet display of care. Even after all the time spent side by side with Mr. Crawling, they still periodically wonder what the hell did they do to deserve such kind perso... Ghost, in their life.

Before the entity's worry could grow, (Y/N) flashed him with a smile, shaking their head a little.

—"I'm alright, just a little distracted."—

Their answer did seem to soothe the ghost's worry a little. However, he leaned closer, more of his hair falling into (Y/N)'s body, sending small shiver through their form as the black locks brushed their legs, sensation that resembling a small breeze of air running across their skin. An odd, chilly feeling... But one that became very comforting and grounding for the human over the time, as it was like a gentle reminder of Mr. Crawling's presence, that they weren't alone.

—"つ ત บ บ λ ป こ ৺ נ ८ ک ટ ? つ ત บ บ つ ኟ บ ટ ?"— (Not Bad Feel Not Scared)

Their smile faltered for a brief moment, knowing exactly what he was talking about...

Even if it's been quite a while since (Y/N) had one of those episodes of fear and hallucinations, the memories of them are still haunting the human in one way or another, leaving this uncomfortable sensation under their skin. It's like feeling hands, snaking all over their body, slowly slipping under their clothes, creeping through their skin and flesh, trying to dig deeper and deeper, right to their very core, trying to reach something so deep inside of them and rip it away from them...

Their essence?

Their soul?

T̵͉̗̒ḣ̴̻̱̂ȅ̷͓͘i̵̤͙̐͝ȑ̶͈̖̏ n̷̳̻̬̮̯̟̗̙̩̻̮͊͋̾́͐͌̏͒̿̏̆̑͜͠ä̴̢̧̡̦͕̻̙̻͕̳̟́̊͊̾̄̈́ḿ̵̡̢̛̜͉̗̗̞͖̟͈̬͈̻͍͌̋̓̐̅͘͠e̵͇̹͈̤͕̮̺͉͚͈͔̭͇̔-?

The human then simply hums, shaking off the heavy feeling off their mind. Their gaze soon focuses back on Mr. Crawling's face, their smile creeping back on their features, but now brighter, happier.

—"つ ત บ บ λ ป こ ৺ נ ८ ک ટ . つ ત บ บ ጉ ሰ ટ נ."— (Not Bad Feel Not Together)

They replied cheerfully, confidently using the otherworldly language to make sure there is no room for doubts left.

Upon hearing their answer and seeing that smile he absolutely adored, Mr. Crawling himself smiles back, letting that characteristic high-pitched giggle of of his. And just like (Y/N) expected, the crawling ghost reached out and gently patted their head, ruffling their grayish hair a little.

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป ! ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (Glad Glad)

(Y/N) giggled as well, already used to Mr. Crawling's joyful chirps at whatever little thing they do. Once satisfied, the ghost slowly retires his hand from their head and leans back to his previous position right next to the human in a raincoat, his dark locks trailing behind and sliding off (Y/N)'s legs as he gives them a little bit of space.

They hum, that happy smile remaining on their lips, brightening a bit their bandage-covered face, returning some of color and life to it. The human soon shift their attention back to what they were previously up to, which was scavenging and going through all the junk and rumble that fell down here from the human world.

While (Y/N) is the one going through the numerous items, Mr. Crawling remained focused on them. Staying next to their crouched form and curiously watching the things they periodically picked up and inspected, sometimes even picking something himself and asking what it is and what humans do with it.

The activity was simple, but it was like a huge breath of air for (Y/N) and a great way to distract their mind from the decay this world was putting them through, helping them remember who they are and what are supposed to be. A human, an unfortunate human that found themselves in this place of absolute madness...

(Y/N)'s train of thoughts stopped when their eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of something bright and colorful under a small pile of old, messed news articles. And after carefully pushing aside all the trash, they get a clear sight of what it is.

A manga cover!

(Y/N)'s eyes widened and their smile grew as they reach out and grab the manga book, picking it up and instantly flipping through the pages.

—"No way, it's actually in good, readable condition!"—

They exclaimed excitedly, eyes wandering through the pages with interest.

Mr. Crawling simply observed, curiously watching them inspect the book. He noticed that (Y/N) would always get super excited whenever they saw one of these colorful pictures, and it made him happy to see them happy! As well as to keep a mental note to find more of these to make them even happier.

However, as the human paused on one of the pages, probably to check if the paper is holding up alright after getting a little wet. Something completely different caught the ghost's attention.

Slowly, Mr. Crawling reaches his hand again, pointing at a particular drawing with his finger while tilting his head to the side, like a confused puppy would.

—"נ บ ਦ ኟィд ⊔ ટ ৺ ㅗ?"— (What They Do)

He asked, gently tapping the picture with his finger.

(Y/N) glances at the spot their ghost companion is pointing at, their eyebrows rising slightly as they see an illustration of two of the characters kissing. Oh, did they just spoiled themselves one of the subplots?...

—"This?"—

They asks, eyes flickering between the comic and Mr. Crawling's face.

—"π々⊔ λ ک つ ત コ ጉ ک こ?"— (Why Touch Mouth)

The ghost asked again, genuine curiosity lingering in his quiet voice as he taps the paper again, his head turning to the side to look at (Y/N). Despite half of his face being covered by his dark hair, they could practically feel his curious stare, almost like a kid waiting for his parent to answer.

—"ک  ጉ ㄷ π π々⊔ ?"— (Teach Why)

He asks, now his attention completely casted on (Y/N), patiently waiting for their answer.

The mentioned human stays silent at fist, seemingly surprised the ghost actually doesn't know what a kiss is and why people do it. However, the more they think about it, the less he can blame Mr. Crawling. After all, this world is not built for affection, and considering all the dangers that lurk here on daily basis, it's not too surprising that some residents of this place don't even know what affection is.

—"Well. This is called a kiss, 'kiss'."—

They explain, pointing at their lips as they spell the word for him.

—"K- K̴̻̍-K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾-?"—

He attempts to repeat, though the sound comes more as a hiss rather than an actual word... Still, (Y/N) was proud of him for trying! And expresses such joy with a soft giggle.

—"Yeah, kiss. Uh..."—

They paused, thinking over their wording before continuing.

—"☨ บ п ป Kiss ત λ コㄷ ک  ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ."— (Human _ Desire Teach Love)

They finish, scratching their cheek with a sheepish smile, knowing that their explanation probably sounded wonky a weird, especially with that little mix between languages.

The ghost, makes a small "oh" sound, actually understanding their answer even with the odd wording.

Suddenly, Mr. Crawling's face lightens in puppy-like joy as he leans closer, his face just inches away from the human's when he starts to chirp back.

—"ત λ コㄷ ک  ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ! "— (Desire Teach Love)

(Y/N) raised their eyebrows at his words, their cheeks suddenly feeling a little warmer.

(Hold on, is he asking me for a kiss?!)

As flustered as they were, upon seeing that excited, happy smile of the ghost that they grew so attached to, they couldn't find the heart to tell him no even if their life depended on it. Beside, it's just a kiss, and they both like each other! So why not?

—"Eh... Hehehe. Okay, okay. You kiss like this."—

They answer, before suddenly leaning forward and pressing their lips against the cold skin of his cheek.

A soft, quiet gasp escaped the ghost's lips, the difference in temperature between his and (Y/N) body never failing to make his chest feel all funny, though not unpleasant type of funny. But now with the added softness of their lips and the hot breath casted on his face, it created a sensation he haven't felt before.

The human leans back a little, chuckling under their breath at the ghost's reaction. However, their smile begin to fade when they notice how still he suddenly got.

They go silent, patiently waiting for Mr. Crawling to say or do something, but he remained perfectly still and dead silent, like some kind of creepy statue. Did they just cross some boundary they didn't know about?...

—"Mr. Crawling?..."— you ask eventually, voice quiet. —"Are you alright? Did I-..."—

(Y/N) paused when he finally does move, slowly lifting his hand from the opened manga book and brushing his fingers against his cheek, right on the spot they kissed him a second ago.

Suddenly, another high-pitched giggle escaped the ghost as he immediately launches forward, forcing (Y/N) back and basically tackling them to the ground into that famous overzealous hug of his they came to secretly adore.

—"K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾ ! K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾ !"—

He cheerfully exclaims with his broken human speech, before mimicking (Y/N)'s action and pressing his lips against their cheek. Though, more than an kiss his gesture resembled a nuzzle, like big dog gently bumping his favorite person with his nose.

—"৺ ጉ נ ⊔ λ ત д ک  ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ! "— (Me Want to Teach Love)

(Y/N) just couldn't help but laugh at the sweet action of the ghost, their cheeks turning much redder and warmer than before. With their hands no longer being occupied by the manga book, they reach and rest their hands on Mr. Crawling's back, basically hugging him back as the entity continues to joyfully express his liking through the newfound gesture.

—"You're doing it pretty good! But this is not exactly a kiss..."—

They eventually say, sliding their hands from his back and instead resting them on his shoulders. At the sound of their voice, Mr. Crawling's affectionate nuzzles pause and leans back, tilting his head to the side with curiosity.

—"Yeah, you need to press your lips, not caress with them. Ehm..."—

They fall silent, their gaze adverting for a brief moment as they try to find the needed words to describe what they're trying to say, but all they get is a reminder of how poor and limited the ghost vocabulary is...

Mr. Crawling remained quiet, patiently waiting for (Y/N) to figure out their wording. He didn't mind the wait at all to be honest, patience being one of his biggest virtues after all. Beside, seeing the human mumble and emit noises under their breath while making funny faces, such as pushing their lips or furrowing their brows, was a very cute sight to witness!

When realized that words, human or not, won't cut it. (Y/N) decided to use actions instead, as their head was starting to hurt at this point from this damn language barrier. So, with a soft sigh their eyes flicker back at Mr. Crawling, who was still patiently waiting for them to figure out their wording, or maybe taking the chance to look and admire their face, or maybe both...

—"৺ ጉ נ ک  ጉ ㄷ π ત ટ д Kiss."— (Me Teach You)

They finally said, a hint of determination in their tone, though it was mostly directed to (Y/N) as they try to push through their own sudden rush of shyness and fluster. How comes they can be all giggly and cuddly when Mr. Crawling literally tackles them, but then turn into a blushing mess from a little kiss?! Ugh, even they start to make less sense the more they stay in this world...

At their words, the ghost seemed almost ecstatic. He already was eager to get any sort of attention from (Y/N), let alone affection. So the mere thought of feeling their lips pressed against his skin again made his whole body almost shake.

(Y/N) could feel the ghost's body grow tense from the overwhelming joy, and it was such a strangely endearing sight to witness; an otherworldly entity acting like an overjoyed puppy about to receive his favorite treat.

They giggle again, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze before speaking.

—"Okay hehe... Eeh... Look, you kiss like this, 々ኟп৺."— (Look)

They say before leaning closer, the distance between their and Mr. Crawling's face growing smaller and smaller, until their lips finally come in contact with the ghost's other cheek.

They can feel him shiver, clearly still not used to the new sensation, but he was definitely loving it judging by the way his long arms slightly closed around their body, almost hugging them and pressing their smaller form against his taller one.

(Y/N) leans back a tiny bit, taking the chance to simply look at the entity who was holding them in it's embrace so tenderly. Of course, this is not the first, nor last, time they'll be held by Mr. Crawling. But... Right now, there's something different, they feel different. Their heart is pounding like crazy, yes. But they no longer feel flustered or embarrassed, they feel strangely in peace in fact.

There's always been something captivating about the crawling ghost, even with his unnerving traces. The way his long, black hair surrounds them, a void that's isolating both from the outside world, covering them like a veil, making each the protagonist of the other's gaze. For a monster-filled place like this, the moment felt almost romantic.

The human let a soft exhale, their lips parting ever so slightly. And before their brain could even realize it, (Y/N) was already leaning forward again.

They don't know what came over them, but their mind, their heart, and even that little voice was telling them the same thing...

{Do it.)

They press their lips again, this time against the tip of his nose, getting one of these little "eh" sounds out of him.

They didn't stop there however, instead starting to pepper the ghost's face with more kisses. His cheeks, his forehead, his jaw...

(Y/N)'s movements were slow and delicate, keeping in mind the comfort of their otherworldly companion as they shower him with this new, intimate affection. They weren't quite sure what he was thinking about all of this, if he was getting overwhelmed or not, if he truly enjoyed or understood how much this moment meant for humans... But by how his arms seem to close more around their smaller form, how his fingers flex around the fabric of their raincoat, how his body seemed to gradually relax and even lean into the new, loving gesture...

Yeah, they knew he understood.

However, as (Y/N) was about to reach his lips, an inexplicable wave of hesitation came all over them, freezing them in place and incapacitating from moving back of forward, their heartbeat getting surprisingly, almost painfully loud.

(What's going on?)

(Why am I feeling so... Self-conscious?)

(No... No. I want to do it, I need to do it! Come on body, move! Move god damnit!)

They screamed inside of their mind, yet their body still refused to move, regardless of all the mental berating they were putting themselves through. Their grip on Mr. Crawling's shoulder tightened a little, like a silent attempt to ground themselves and remember just how close the ghost was, how he was waiting for them to continue, how he was waiting for them. But... They... They just couldn't move.

However, after a few beats of silence and inactivity had passed, is Mr. Crawling the one to finally break the tension and lean forward, his cold lips pressing against the warm ones of the human.

And just like that, all the doubts and hesitations had melted away in (Y/N), and everything felt alright again. No, more than alright. This felt perfect, intimate, sweet, and surprisingly innocent. Holding nothing but the affection, care and love the two beings felt for one another, now in it's purest way.

A human.

And a ghost.

Together, connected to each other not just in a physical way, but now in a deep, emotional way...

The kiss itself probably didn't last even 10 seconds, but in (Y/N)'s and Mr. Crawling's mind it felt like two eternities had passed, and many more would if they'd decided to keep going.

After breaking the kiss, the two just stay like this for a while, looking at each other as their minds clear from the haze and feeling of drunkenness the sweet exchange left behind. Mr. Crawling still on top of (Y/N), but instead of just hovering over them like he always did, now his arms were tightly wrapped around their frame, keeping them securely in place right between the ground and his body.

(Y/N) couldn't explain it, but right now they feel like they're falling again for the ghost. Just by being held in his embrace and hidden underneath his larger body, they felt so safe and at peace... So...

It's like they were home.

Their home...

He became their home, their safe place, their happy place...

Him...

—"λ ک ሰ ৺ ટ ?"— (Are you okay)

Mr. Crawling suddenly asked, his smile faltering as his embrace on them tightens a little. It was almost like he was concerned he did something wrong and broke them, what a sweetheart.

(Y/N) blinked, noticing they were probably staring and zoning out with this little realization of theirs, realization that their real home was not in this or their world.

It was with Mr. Crawling.

Or at least, that's what their heart told them.

—"I'm fine."—

The human said in a soft voice. Their body leaning forward while speaking, snuggling closer to the ghost's chest, the action feeling like a little dejavu to the time he hid them from the man in red.

Ugh... The sole mention of that guy is still sending shivers through their body, so let's not think about him.

—"৺コኅ ጉ ሰ ટ נ ৺ ጉ נ ሰ ኟ つ ጉ."— (Us Together Me Happy)

Mr. Crawling didn't take long to let yet another high-pitched giggle, his head coming to rest on top of (Y/N)'s, nuzzling gently against their hair and raincoat hood.

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป ! ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (Glad Glad)

He chirped cheerfully, his arms tightening just a little to give the human a gentle squeeze.

—"ત ટ д ሰ ኟ つ ጉ ৺ ጉ נ ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (You Happy Me Grateful)

—"৺ ጉ נ ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д !"— (Me Like You)

—"৺ ጉ נ ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ጉ ሰ ટ נ ત ટ д !"— (Me Like Together You)

All (Y/N) could do at the moment is giggle and attempt to keep up with his excitement. Jeez, they forgot how talkative Mr. Crawling gets when excited. They reach out at some point, affectionately rubbing his back like a quiet request to slow down, which the ghost quickly complies by stopping his speech and instead resorting just to the nuzzling.

The two remained like this for quite a while, just enjoying this precious moment of having each other close. Even if they knew that the next time (Y/N) needs to take a nap, they'll be in embraced again.

—"Alright, that's enough for now.—

The human muttered, giving the ghost's back a few gentle pats like a way of saying that they wanted him to move.

Mr. Crawling doesn't try to protest at all, surprisingly. And after giving one more squeeze, his arms loosen around (Y/N)'s form and he slowly lets go, his body getting off them and instead settling right by their side. That's probably the reason he didn't complain about letting go, knowing he'd be next to them one way or another.

(Y/N) chuckled again at the ghost's sneaky antics, finding them pretty adorable. And after reaching out to pat his head again, the human settles into a more comfortable position and grabs the manga book they previously dropped from Mr. Crawling's surprise-tackle-hug.

—"Okay, let's see what this is about..."—

The human muttered to themselves while opening the book and starting to read the story, deciding to go blind into it and discover the plot as they progress with the story.

Mr. Crawling in the meantime had found his comfortable spot by placing his head against (Y/N)'s shoulder, with one of his arms resting across their waist, keeping them in this half hug.

Even if the ghost didn't understand a word, the illustrations of the manga were very helpful and allowed him to follow the story along with the human. Though there were things he also didn't quite understand about human behavior, it wasn't a big deal since (Y/N) would always chive in and explain him things.

As the two lay there, reading, Mr. Crawling suddenly lifted his head and pressed his lips against (Y/N)'s cheek gently, this time actually kissing them.

—"৺ ጉ נ ک  ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д ! "— (Me Teach Love You)

He said in a sweet, happy tone that nearly made (Y/N)'s heart explode. Ugh, seriously who gave him the right to be so cute!?

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป."— (Grateful)

—"ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ৺ ጉ נ ?"— (Like Me)

(Aaand there he goes again. Yup, high-maintenance type...)

(But he's my high-maintenance type.)

—"ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д."— (Like You)

They replied warmly, planting another kiss on top of his head, gaining yet another lovely giggle from the entity before returning their attention to the manga. The ghost soon following their example, settling back into his previous position, occasionally nuzzling against their shoulder like an affectionate cat. They could swear he'd be purring if he could.

And while reading the manga, (Y/N) couldn't help but smile, but also dread a little at how the next days would go now that Mr. Crawling learned about kissing and what it meant...

...

They're going to get tackled A LOT.

"Won't they?"

[raining-anonymously]

i really really appreciate how much the mouthwashing gameplay emphasizes that curly is still a feeling human person after the crash. he reacts to every single thing that happens around him. he makes decisions. he changes his behavior as the game progresses. these subtle details are everything to me. he’s not a prop.

CW for discussion of medical abuse, forcefeeding, torture, gore, autocannibalism, basically everything curly experiences in-game

“he doesn’t want to keep still any more.” our first line in curly’s presence. anya doesn’t say “he won’t keep still anymore,” she says he doesn’t want to. this diction provides a sharp contrast to jimmy, whose only acknowledgment of curly’s desires comes up when he puts words in curly’s mouth, while anya observes curly’s body language to extrapolate what he actually wants and needs. she considers him a person, just as the player is meant to; jimmy does not.

the progression of the pills scenes. in the first one, he’s in about as little pain as we see him. he just chokes it down.

in the second pills scene, anya is late on giving him the pills and he’s clearly in great pain, crying, tossing and turning even though that probably just hurts him more. i do think the way the crying can be heard through the entire ship is jimmy’s auditory hallucination, but it was loud enough to wake jimmy up from the lounge. when jim actually does give him the pills, curly briefly resists, but after that first hit, he cries out in pain and then gives this strangled “huh?” before the beating continues. he cries out a couple more times before realizing jimmy wants him to be quiet, and he stops crying out, lets jimmy give him the pills, and sobs quietly before going silent.

in the third pills scene, curly seems to be trying not to make noise or resist. he still sobs after the pills go down and falls quiet after.

after anya’s and daisuke’s deaths, curly lies so still and quiet that i’ve witnessed multiple players be shocked that he’s still alive when his chest moves.

and the infamous laughter… that’s definitive proof that curly isn’t just reacting to stimuli like pain (which would not make him less of a person, for the record) but actively observing and thinking about the events around him.

when jimmy picks curly up. despite the fact that having his burns pressed against another person would be excruciating, curly does not react. just breaths hoarsely and keeps his eye locked on jimmy — until he ends up on the table surrounded by the corpses. then, and only then, does his breath get panicky, and he starts to cry softly.

cutting the leg. my goodness, those screams. incredible voice acting, first of all, but it really stands out to me that it isn’t a terrifying, inhuman scream. it’s very human, very desperate and pained, mixed with heaving, awful sobs. and afterward? curly’s so shaken that he’s visibly moving his jaw on his own as he gasps for breath. and the look in his eye…

in the force feeding scene — which, in my mind, was a hallucinatory version of real events — curly is silent and still. he only moves or cries out when he’s forced to via vomiting or the wheels turning (though the latter is likely imagined). he doesn’t react to anything else. doesn’t even hold up his head. but he gives these pained cries when the wheels turn, and this draws awareness to how he’s being treated as a prop here with intention. he’s being dehumanized, reduced to an object, but we as the player are painfully aware that this is a person. he’s not reacting more because he’s shutting down from all the trauma he’s experienced.

and i have a lot in my head about the juxtaposition of curly POV scenes with jimmy interacting with post-crash curly scenes. they’re often perfectly timed to remind you that the person on the cot, on the table, or in your arms is the same man who you were a minute ago, and vice versa.

just. man. mouthwashing emphasizes curly’s humanity at every corner, and that makes his story so much more horrifying.

i really like this game and i really like that it displays a disabled character being dehumanized by the player character while also emphasizing to the player that this is not right.

[vampireimiko]

Since it's spooky month, can I please request headcanons for Leon Kennedy(RE2) with a male! zombie! Reader that acts like a normal human?

Leon x Male! Zombie!Reader

warnings, none!

note, this was actually so fun to write hello?? anon YOUR MIND >>> i would've never thought to do something like this, enjoy!

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Leon never thought he'd see the things he saw that night in Raccoon City, so you can imagine his surprise seeing you! A zombie who looked and still acted like a human.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Leon was obviously very cautious of you, rightfully so he almost shot you when he first laid eyes on you. Instinctively raising his weapon, finger twitching on the trigger. You threw your hands up in surrender, eyebrows raising in mock surprise.

"Woah, woah, easy there, officer," you said with an unsettling grin, voice steady, almost too human. "I’m not like the others."

Leon’s eyes narrowed, gun still trained on you.

“That’s what they all say.”

“Can they talk this well? Or at all?” You tilted your head, an amused glint in your eye that didn’t belong on something...dead.

There was a moment of tense silence. Leon’s grip tightened on his gun, the weight of the night’s madness pressing down on him. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the absurdity of a zombie that not only acted like a human but sounded like one, too.

Leon’s instinct screamed to pull the trigger, but something held him back. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the faint flicker of humanity in your voice. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot.

“Fine. But if you try anything…”

You held up a hand, mocking a gesture of peace. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be a good boy, officer.”

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° After that first meeting of yours, you and Leon stuck together for the rest of that night trying to figure out what had happened to the city and what the next step was.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Despite your quick and witty personality, traveling with you had its perks, you basically acted as a zombie repellent when you were close to Leon. Though you didn't appear dead to human eyes, you did to the literal dead. Every time a pack of undead stumbled your way, they would hesitate, sniffing the air in confusion before shuffling off in another direction, unless they saw Leon directly first. Leon noticed it first.

"You’re like a walking shield," he muttered under his breath during one of your quieter moments. You glanced at him, amused.

"Hey, I’m useful for something after all," you teased, flashing him that same unsettling grin. "Stick with me, officer, and we might just make it out of this alive...well, you might."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° As the night went on, Leon started to care for you more than he'd like to admit, he knew you were dead and there technically was no reason to protect you, he couldn't help it.

At one point, after narrowly avoiding another horde, Leon leaned against a wall, catching his breath. “You know,” he began, glancing at you, “I’ve met a lot of survivors tonight. But you—you’re something else.”

You smirked, not missing the subtle compliment. “What, starting to like me now?”

He giggled slightly, pushing himself off the wall and giving you a side glance. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still figuring out what to make of you.”

“Take your time, officer.” You shot him a playful wink. “I’m not going anywhere... well, unless something eats me first.”

Leon shook his head with a smile, despite himself.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Every time a stray bullet whizzed past or a stray undead got a little too close for comfort, his instincts kicked in. He’d shove you out of the way or pull you back, as if he could protect you from the inevitable. He hated how natural it felt, like you were more than just some undead anomaly.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° You reminded him time and time again that he didn't have to worry about you. Still that didn't stop him. It was the cop in him, to protect and serve.

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know,” you said quietly after he yanked you back from another stray zombie's path. “I’m already dead. You’ve got enough on your plate without playing hero for a corpse.”

Leon looked at you for a long moment, something flickering behind his tired eyes. “Maybe. But... I guess it’s hard to break the habit.”

You held his gaze, something softer in your expression now. “Yeah, well, careful. You keep saving me, and I might start to think you care.”

additional note ! PLEASE request more monster!reader or monster! character fics IM BEGGING

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

[shiftthemoon]

THINGS YOUR DRS REMIND ME OF ✷ sunlight, or moonlight?

✺ TABLE OF CONTENTS :

harry potter dr. fantastic beasts dr. percy jackson dr. fame dr. mermaid dr. f1 driver dr. httyd dr. game of thrones dr. hunger games dr. marvel dr. spider-man + spiderverse dr. marauders era dr. arcane dr. vampire dr. pirate dr.

psssst!!! post's layout was ib hrrtshape!! my fav mootie ever,, ♡

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ harry potter dr.

your hogwarts reality feels like rainy afternoons, where clouds cling to the sky like an unspoken promise. it’s libraries that smell of leather and parchment, the kind where you breathe in and suddenly remember things you’ve never lived.

• it reminds me of the soft hum of the cranberries’ “dreams” or the low ache in radiohead’s “exit music (for a film).”

• it feels like the gothic spires of edinburgh, dark green scarves blowing in the wind, and the cold stone streets of york.

• movies like dead poets society and stardust carry the same weight, that blend of whimsy and melancholy, where magic isn’t just magic—it’s rebellion, it’s survival.

• this dr smells like earl grey tea, sharp with bergamot, and the flickering glow of a candle dripping wax onto an old oak desk. it’s virgo sun with scorpio moon energy: structured, mysterious, aching with purpose.

• autumn is your season—cool winds, warm fires, and leaves crackling underfoot.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fantastic beasts & where to find them dr.

this dr is gold filigree and vintage maps, the kind you get lost in, only to discover yourself in the borders. it’s the delicate art of understanding things bigger than you—creatures, love, alchemy.

• it’s the nostalgic drawl of jeff buckley’s “hallelujah” or fleetwood mac’s “the chain,” songs that sound like they were written by ancient souls.

• feels like london, fog rolling off the thames at dawn, or somewhere quieter, like oxford or canterbury, where history whispers to you in cobblestone cracks.

• watch the theory of everything or midnight in paris, for that subtle sense of chasing something you’ll never quite touch but will die trying to understand.

• it smells like leather gloves and ink-stained fingers. it feels like cancer venus — taurus mars — gemini mercury energy: tender, protective, but a little guarded.

• winter. always winter. the kind of cold that bites, but you endure it because it reminds you you’re alive.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ percy jackson dr.

camp half-blood hums like cicadas at twilight, drenched in summer heat and the salt of the sea. it’s friendship forged in battle, love found between cracks in the earth.

• this dr is nirvana’s “come as you are” and smashing pumpkins’ “1979.” chaotic, nostalgic, but alive.

• it’s greece in all its ancient glory—the ruins of delphi, the waves crashing at the cliffs of santorini. but it’s also the rugged coastlines of california, where myths could hide in the spray of the pacific.

• the movies the perks of being a wallflower and the goonies echo this vibe: coming-of-age stories tied with adventure and heartache.

• it’s that faint copper smell of blood and the earthy scent of olive trees. sagittarius rising — aquarius mercury — aries mars energy: reckless, bold, chasing freedom with no map in hand.

• summer. long days, wild nights, golden sunsets.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fame dr.

this dr is glitter in your veins, like electricity is the only thing keeping you moving. it’s the hum of the spotlight, the chaos of dreams colliding with reality.

• this one is björk’s “human behaviour” and radiohead’s “high and dry.” a little experimental, a little tragic, but undeniably iconic.

• it’s new york city, obviously—broadway lights cutting through the smoke, or maybe los angeles, a city burning with ambition.

• black swan and whiplash—these movies carry the same brutal hunger, the obsession that eats you alive but makes it all worth it.

• it smells like sweat and perfume and cigarette smoke, all blending together under flashing lights. aries moon — leo sun — gemini venus energy: fiery, intense, unapologetically raw.

• spring—the season of beginnings, of things growing, of chasing what could be.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ mermaid dr.

this dr feels like the ocean’s lullaby, where the waves carry secrets and the moon pulls your heart like a tide. it’s otherworldly and yet familiar, like a dream you wake up from, still tasting salt on your lips.

• it sounds like enya’s “sail away” or the cure’s “lullaby.” haunting, ethereal, but grounding.

• the turquoise waters of the maldives, or the dark, stormy coasts of cornwall, where cliffs meet an endless horizon.

• the shape of water and ponyo—love stories where the sea breathes life into forgotten places.

• it’s the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sting of ocean spray against your cheeks. pisces sun & neptune — taurus moon energy: dreamy, fluid, a little lost but beautifully so.

• late summer, early autumn—those blurry in-between days when the air holds onto its warmth just a little longer.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ f1 driver dr.

your f1 dr feels like adrenaline in your veins, the roar of engines, and the wind whipping against your face. it’s speed, competition, but also the camaraderie of shared obsession.

• it sounds like oasis’ “champagne supernova” and the killers’ “all these things that i’ve done.” songs that echo triumph, heartbreak, and everything in between.

• monaco glitters in this dr: yachts anchored in the harbor, the narrow streets drenched in sunlight. but it’s also the neon-soaked nights of singapore and the deserts of bahrain, where the air hums with tension.

• movies like rush and ford v ferrari capture the heart of this dr—rivalries, passion, and the pursuit of perfection.

• it smells like burnt rubber, sweat, and the metallic tang of engines. aries sun — capricorn mars — aquarius uranus energy: fiercely competitive, always chasing the next thrill.

• summer, specifically those late august days when the air is electric with possibility.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ how to train your dragon dr.

your how to train your dragon dr is wind-tossed hair, wild laughter, and the freedom of flying. it’s the untamed beauty of a world that doesn’t quite exist but should.

• it’s muse’s “starlight” and florence + the machine’s “dog days are over.” songs that feel like they could lift you into the clouds.

• it smells like the briny ocean, dragon scales warmed by the sun, and the smoky scent of campfires.

• the cliffs and fjords of norway, the volcanic shores of iceland—this dr is rugged and alive, filled with places where magic hides in the landscape.

• movies like spirit: stallion of the cimarron and brave echo this vibe: freedom, connection, and the push against expectations.

• it feels like sagittarius moon & jupiter — aquarius moon energy: wild-hearted, always exploring, always yearning for more.

• spring, where the world blooms and feels untamed, uncharted, and full of life.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ game of thrones dr.

your game of thrones dr is fire and ice, betrayal and loyalty, the sharp edge of power balanced with the fragility of hope. it’s a world where survival is its own form of poetry.

• it’s joy division’s “atmosphere” and led zeppelin’s “stairway to heaven.” haunting and raw, filled with the weight of kingdoms rising and falling.

• the ancient castles of scotland, the desolate beauty of the sahara, the twisting streets of dubrovnik—places where history feels alive, where whispers of power still linger.

• movies like gladiator and kingdom of heaven hold the same pulse: grand, epic, and dripping in drama.

• it smells like blood, snow, and the faint sweetness of wine. scorpio rising — capricorn mars & mercury energy: intense, strategic, magnetic, but dangerous if crossed.

• winter—long, harsh, and unforgiving, yet filled with moments of beauty that steal your breath.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ hunger games dr.

your hunger games dr is survival carved into your bones, rebellion written in the ashes of the world. it’s the quiet rage of the oppressed turned into a wildfire.

• it’s nine inch nails’ “hurt” and linkin park’s “in the end.” desperate, raw, and relentless, but with a thread of hope.

• the forests of appalachia, the industrial grit of detroit, the sprawling deserts of utah—it’s a patchwork of places where survival feels elemental.

• movies like children of men and the road share this dr’s heart: bleak and brutal, but deeply human.

• it smells like damp earth, gunpowder, and the acrid scent of fire. capricorn mars — virgo venus — leo rising energy: unrelenting, ambitious, and forged in hardship.

• autumn, when the air turns cold, and the trees burn with color, reminding you that beauty exists even in endings.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marvel dr.

your marvel dr is the blur of action and humanity, larger-than-life stakes grounded in the intimacy of love, loss, and choice. it’s heroes who bleed and villains who cry.

• it’s u2’s “with or without you” and audioslave’s “like a stone.” powerful, aching, and utterly cinematic.

• new york city pulses through this dr: the skyline glowing at night, the chaos of people, the hidden corners where stories unfold.

• movies like the dark knight and logan carry the same weight: gritty, emotional, and built on moral gray areas.

• it smells like leather jackets, rain-slick streets, and the metallic tang of battle. aquarius sun — leo mars — gemini moon energy: visionary, a little distant, always fighting for the greater good.

• spring and fall—transitional seasons that feel like the calm before and after the storm.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ spider-man + spiderverse dr.

your spiderverse dr feels like swinging between skyscrapers, the air electric with possibility and purpose. it’s chaos and connection, a kaleidoscope of choices and the weight of responsibility.

• it’s the strokes’ “reptilia” and gorillaz’s “feel good inc.”—gritty, pulsing, and full of edge.

• the streets of brooklyn, the neon haze of tokyo, or the rooftops of chicago, where the city is a character all its own.

• movies like blade runner 2049 and tron: legacy carry this vibe: sleek, emotional, and larger than life.

• it smells like rain on pavement, fresh paint on a graffiti wall, and the ozone tang of lightning. aquarius mercury — gemini mars — libra moon energy: inventive, unconventional, and sharp-witted.

• spring—when the world starts to bloom again, full of fresh starts and untold stories.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marauders era dr.

your marauders dr is all late-night laughter and whispered secrets, rebellion scrawled in ink and moonlight. it’s the ache of youth, of moments that feel infinite but are fleeting.

• it’s pink floyd’s “wish you were here” and fleetwood mac’s “rhiannon.” bittersweet, timeless, full of soul.

• feels like the hidden alleys of london, the rolling hills of wales, or the misty forests of the scottish highlands.

• movies like the breakfast club and dead poets society carry this dr’s energy—complicated friendships, rebellion, and nostalgia for a time that might not have been perfect but was yours.

• it smells like old books, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of butterbeer. libra moon — cancer sun — pisces venus energy: romantic, thoughtful, and deeply tied to relationships.

• autumn, when the world feels crisp, nostalgic, and alive with change.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ arcane dr.

your arcane dr is a masterpiece of contradictions—gritty streets juxtaposed with glittering innovation. it’s a world of broken dreams and endless ambition.

• it’s placebo’s “every you every me” and radiohead’s “no surprises.” raw, haunting, and brimming with unspoken emotion.

• zaun is the heart of this dr: neon lights cutting through the smoke, the underbelly of progress. piltover looms above, all gold and power.

• movies like v for vendetta and ghost in the shell share this vibe: revolutionary, futuristic, and deeply human.

• it smells like oil, soot, and metallic sparks. pluto & mars in aquarius — scorpio moon energy: transformative, innovative, and unapologetically intense.

• winter—the cold amplifies the tension, the longing for warmth, the fight for survival.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ vampire dr.

your vampire dr is velvet and shadows, the allure of eternity balanced with the weight of it. it’s beauty that bites, darkness that whispers, and immortality that aches.

• it’s bauhaus’ “bela lugosi’s dead” and depeche mode’s “enjoy the silence.” moody, sensual, and timeless.

• feels like prague at midnight, the foggy streets of victorian london, or the endless forests of transylvania.

• movies like interview with the vampire and crimson peak embody this dr—hauntingly beautiful, filled with danger and longing.

• it smells like old wine, wax-dripping candles, and the iron tang of blood. scorpio sun — libra venus — pisces mercury energy: intense, magnetic, and deeply tied to the unseen.

• late autumn, when the world is cold and still, and the nights stretch on forever.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ pirate dr.

your pirate dr is salt spray in your hair, the endless expanse of the horizon, and the reckless freedom of a life untethered. it’s treasure maps and tempestuous seas, loyalty forged in fire.

• it’s the rolling stones’ “paint it black” and led zeppelin’s “immigrant song.” wild, untamed, and unapologetic.

• the caribbean islands, the rocky cliffs of ireland, or the misty coasts of the azores—where the ocean feels infinite and alive.

• movies like pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl and master and commander echo this dr: swashbuckling adventure, grit, and loyalty.

• it smells like saltwater, rum, and the wood of a well-worn ship. sagittarius mars — pisces rising — aries sun energy: adventurous, daring, and always chasing the next horizon.

• summer, especially in the golden haze of dusk, when the ocean glows like molten gold.

[cece693]

No Feelings Allowed (Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Just something that came to me unexpectedly—Hannibal destroying his first romantic interest because he fears being human and doesn't exactly know how to love without it being destructive and ending in pain. This idea came from this small excerpt from Hannibal Rising: 'his heart died with Mischa. What is he now? There's not a word for it yet. For a lack of a better word, we'll call him a monster.' So something similar to how he feels with Will, but without cannibalism or murder. Hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Hannibal seeks to destroy his feelings because love was something the little boy from 1945 knew all too well, not the monster that had replaced him.

tags: no murder, cannibalism, Hannibal bad with feelings, hurt reader, no happy ending

The chain tightened slowly at first, a gentle pull that Hannibal could have ignored if he chose. It was metaphorical, of course, but it was there—a reminder that the monster within him was not so free after all. For years, he had lived by his own rules, indulging in his appetites when the urge struck and discarding his one night stands as one would a used utensil. There was no permanence, no attachment, no risk. Hannibal Lecter was a solitary creature by design, his life as controlled and meticulously crafted as the art on his walls.

Then there was you.

You were a subtle disruption, introduced by Jack Crawford as yet another promising agent with potential. Hannibal's first assessment was clinical: your appearance was pleasing, but not distractingly so. It was your mind that struck him, sharp and unrelenting. You approached cases with a clarity that he found rare, peeling back layers of evidence with a precision that reminded him of his own dissections. And then there was the way you looked at him—not with admiration, as so many others did, but with curiosity. You studied him, and for once, he felt the heat of a gaze that saw more than his surface.

That was his first sign of destruction.

The chain grew heavier each time you met, though Hannibal refused to acknowledge it. He dismissed the subtle tightness in his chest when you entered a room, the way his mind lingered on your sharp observations long after you'd left. It was harmless, he told himself—a fleeting fascination, born from the monster’s hunger for something extraordinary amidst the sea of mediocrity. But when his thoughts began to envision you standing beside him, bathed in blood and wearing the thrill of the hunt like a crown, Hannibal grew afraid. You were different. You weren’t just another piece to manipulate and discard.

You could be his equal.

His undoing.

Hannibal’s instinct was clear: eliminate the vulnerability, extinguish the flame before it burned him alive. It was better this way, safer to remain alone. Love was chaos. Love was weakness. And Hannibal Lecter was never weak. He planned the moment with meticulous precision, as he did all things. The next time you met, he would carefully dismantle this growing connection, severing the thread before it became something unbreakable. He had the perfect line rehearsed, a cold dismissal that would cut you down without leaving a trace of the conflict raging within him.

But then, you kissed him.

For a moment, Hannibal froze. It was as though the air had been sucked from the room, leaving only the sensation of your lips against his. Soft, yet insistent, they pressed into his own, igniting something deep within him that he thought he had buried long ago.

And then the monster stirred.

Euphoria was a word Hannibal rarely entertained, but it was the only word that fit. Your kiss was a narcotic, coursing through his veins and leaving him intoxicated. He didn’t just kiss you back; he devoured you, his hands gripping your waist as though you might vanish if he let go. For a fleeting moment, the chain around his neck loosened. The monster and the man inside him reached a fragile truce, united by the sheer intensity of what you had awakened in him.

But euphoria, like all highs, came with a crash.

Hannibal, unable to handle such revelation, sought to extinguish the fire burning within him. The wine had flowed too freely that evening, its rich aroma mingling with the tension that hung heavy in the air. Hannibal had invited Alana over under the pretense of discussing a recent case, but his true intentions were far more insidious. He needed to drown the inferno raging inside him, to snuff out the fire you had lit within him before it consumed him entirely.

Alana, ever gracious and unsuspecting, had accepted his invitation with a warm smile. They had sat in his living room, the conversation drifting from philosophy to the complexities of human emotion. Hannibal was as composed as ever, his words measured and precise, but by the third glass of wine, the monster had taken over.

It was mechanical, the way he leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of Alana's hair from her face. She had paused, a hint of surprise flickering across her features, but she didn’t pull away. Perhaps she saw it as the culmination of years of subtle flirtations, of unspoken moments between them.

Hannibal told himself it was necessary, that this act would sever the chain that bound him to you. But as their lips met and the night unfolded, he felt nothing. No passion, no joy—only emptiness. The fire within him roared louder, refusing to be extinguished by such a hollow gesture. The next morning, he was woken up by sunlight streaming through the curtains and the faint sound of Alana stirring beside him. He rose quietly, dressing with meticulous care as he always did. By the time Alana woke, he had prepared breakfast, his movements precise and practiced. She smiled at him, her eyes searching his for some sign of what the night before had meant.

Hannibal offered her nothing.

Not only had the fire refused to be extinguished, but the collar around his neck still tightened uncomfortably. The monster and the man were overcome with immense guilt—an emotion he had never allowed himself to feel until you came along. Hannibal couldn't—wouldn't—face you after his mistake. Yet, when you arrived at his office the next day, he knew you had found out.

Nobody knew about your kiss with Hannibal, so naturally, Alana would be the one to reveal her supposed "relationship" with the doctor to anyone willing to listen. Poor, trusting you had been one of the first to hear it.

Anger engulfed you immediately. Had the kiss meant nothing to Hannibal? Had you not been open about how different he was compared to others? But that anger quickly morphed into resignation. Of course Hannibal would think nothing of the kiss. Sure, it had been passionate, but in the grand scheme of things, you were nothing. And what did the man owe you? The kiss didn't mean anything—he wasn't tethered to you nor owed you explanations. So even if you were hurt by his actions, it was entirely your fault for falling for the unreachable.

“Congratulations, Dr. Lecter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging within you. “I wish you and Alana the best.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw something—regret, perhaps, or even guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the mask of calm he wore so well. “Thank you,” he replied, his tone measured, almost cautious.

You nodded, unable to trust yourself to say anything more. And what else was there to say? Words wouldn’t change what had happened, wouldn’t undo the hollow ache in your chest. The longer you stood in the presence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the greater the pain became—a weight pressing against your ribs, threatening to break you from within.

So, without so much as a goodbye, you turned and left his office.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and Hannibal’s carefully crafted composure crumbled. His posture slumped forward, the elegant mask slipping away as his hands rested heavily on the desk. He had prepared himself for your anger—your lashing out, demanding answers, shouting accusations. That would have been easier, even expected.

But your acceptance? That quiet resignation in your voice, the hollow look in your eyes—it was worse.

You believed the kiss meant nothing to him. You believed that you meant nothing to him. And that belief, that silent acceptance of your supposed disposability, tore through Hannibal in a way he could neither anticipate nor endure.

He wanted to open the door. He wanted to call you back, to stop you from walking out of his life. He wanted to tell you everything—tell you that the kiss had meant everything to him, that it had shaken him to his very core. That Alana had been nothing but a cowardly attempt to run from the vast, unfamiliar emotions you stirred within him.

He wanted to confess his fear: fear of the vulnerability you had awakened in him, fear of how much power you held over him. Fear of the love he had sworn never to feel again.

But the damage was done.

Hannibal remained seated, his gaze fixed on the door you had just walked through. The chain that had once bound him to you had been broken, but the severance did not bring the relief he had hoped for. Instead, it left him with an emptiness that consumed him.

The monster, silent for once, offered no solace. It was the man—what little remained of him—who mourned.

In the quiet of his office, Hannibal Lecter sat alone, surrounded by the life he had so meticulously constructed, and felt the unbearable weight of his loss. You were gone, and with you, the faint glimmer of humanity he had so foolishly tried to destroy.

[girlkisser13]

dating jeremy gilbert would include

• jeremy gilbert is the kind of boy who would give you his whole heart even if it was already cracked down the middle.

• but let’s be real— jeremy’s whole heart is held together with duct tape and grief.

• when you first get together, he’d try to convince himself that you’re just another person fate is going to rip away from him.

• but the more time passes, the more terrified he gets— not because he thinks you’re going to leave, but because he knows he’d never survive losing you.

• you’d catch him staring at you sometimes with this haunted look in his eyes, like he’s already mourning you— and when you ask him what’s wrong, he’d just shake his head and kiss your forehead, whispering, "nothing… just making sure you’re real."

• jeremy is such a golden retriever boyfriend— soft-hearted, loyal to a fault, and always looking at you like you’re the best thing to ever happen to him. even when you’re just sitting there doing nothing, he can’t help but smile at you like a lovesick puppy.

• golden retriever boyfriends who will burn the world down for you >>>

• he’d bring you coffee exactly how you like it without asking, every single morning. even if he’s barely slept or dealing with his own issues, making sure you’re okay is always his top priority.

• when you’re having a bad day, he’d show up with one of his old flannels and wrap it around your shoulders without a word— because he knows that sometimes comfort isn’t about fixing things, it’s just about being there.

• he'd always let you wear his hoodies without even asking— honestly, he prefers seeing you in them. they're a little big on you, and he melts every time you show up in one with sleepy eyes and messy hair.

• he’d totally make you mixed cds with handwritten tracklists like songs that remind me of you.

• he is 100% a forehead kisser. anytime you’re worried or tired, he’ll press a soft kiss to your forehead and just linger there for a second, like he’s trying to pour all his love into that one little gesture.

• jeremy is incredibly protective in that quiet, subtle way— not overbearing, but always making sure you’re safe. walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, standing just a little bit closer to you in crowded rooms, slipping his hand into yours when he senses you’re anxious.

• he would never try to keep you out of the supernatural mess— he knows better than anyone that pretending something isn’t dangerous won’t stop it from killing the people you love.

• instead, he’d train with you— teaching you how to shoot a crossbow, how to use vervain, how to spot a vampire before they spot you.

• but even if you’re capable of handling yourself, he’d still put himself between you and danger without even thinking about it.

• he’d pull you behind him in a heartbeat if something supernatural walked into the grill— one arm out like a human shield, eyes flicking toward the exits, mind already calculating how to get you out alive.

• if you ever got hurt— even a scratch— jeremy would blame himself completely. he’d sit by your bedside all night, fingers wrapped tightly around your hand, murmuring apologies into your hair even after you’ve told him a hundred times it isn’t his fault.

• he ALWAYS walk you home— even if you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself. when you tease him about it, he’d just shrug and say, "i’d rather be safe than sorry."

• he leaving his hoodies at your place on purpose just so you’d have something that smells like him when he’s not around.

• he would absolutely tuck your hair behind your ear during conversations without even thinking about it.

• he keeps one of your hair ties on his wrist at all times— partly because he likes having a little piece of you with him, partly because he knows you’ll always forget to bring one

• you become his favorite thing to draw without even realizing it. he’d sketch you in moments when you weren’t paying attention— curled up in bed, laughing at something on your phone, biting your lip while you’re reading.

• one day you’d find a whole notebook filled with little drawings of you— some half-finished, some perfect— and he’d get all flustered trying to explain it. but the truth is, drawing you is his way of keeping you with him, even when you’re not there.

• he memorizes all your little habits without even realizing it— how you like your coffee, which book you always reach for when you’re sad, the exact song that always makes you smile.

• he pretends not to notice when you fall asleep on the couch during movie nights— but the second your head hits his shoulder, he’s pulling a blanket over you and tucking you closer like you’re the most precious thing in the whole damn world.

• jeremy’s love language is physical touch— full stop. he probably doesn’t even realize how touch-starved he is until you’re in his life, giving him all this soft, gentle affection he never thought he deserved.

• he always has to be touching you somehow— pinkies linked under the table, his hand resting on your thigh while he’s driving, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back while you’re curled up on the couch together.

• he likes to take you on midnight drives down empty roads, one hand on the steering wheel and the other laced tightly with yours, just needing to feel you close.

• jeremy is the type of boyfriend who wants to build a whole little life with you.

• you could be brushing your teeth together in the morning, both half-asleep, and he’d just lean over out of nowhere to kiss your temple because he can’t believe he gets to have this with you— something soft and normal in a town that steals every good thing away.

• he tries so hard not to let his darkness touch you— but there would be nights where he’d wake up gasping for air, hands shaking as he reaches for you in the dark.

• and you’d always be there— brushing his hair out of his face, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, whispering, "i’m here. i’m not leaving."

• jeremy wouldn’t just love you— he’d worship you in this quiet, aching way that would absolutely ruin any other person for you. <33

[satori-runa]

—A while in eternity

Summary: You reunite with your husband but Sebastian believes it's just another hallucination and gets frustrated.

Tags: Established Relationship, slight angst, fluff, comfort

Words: 2,1k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Time lost all meaning in the depths of the Hadal Blacksite. Your diving suit was torn, exposing your skin to the freezing water that clung to you like a second skin. Cuts marred your arms and legs, the saltwater biting into them with every movement. Yet, you kept moving, slinking through the narrow corridors like a desperate creature in search of survival.

Numbness crept through your limbs, and exhaustion clouded your mind. You cursed yourself for ever accepting Urbanshade's deal—it had seemed like the only option, but now it felt like a death sentence you couldn’t escape all over again.

Three days had passed, or so you thought, though time had become a blur of endless, grueling moments. You’d tried to rest once in a side room, but the lurking threats made it impossible to stay put. The Blacksite was alive with danger, and pausing for too long invited it to find you. So, despite the agony coursing through your body and the weight of fatigue dragging at your thoughts, you pushed forward. There was no stopping. Not yet.

You pressed your hand to the cold, damp wall, wincing at the sharp pain in your side. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you knew you had to keep moving. The Blacksite was an unforgiving place—if the environment didn’t kill you, Urbanshade’s forces would.

Every now and then, distant sounds reached your ears—footsteps, the low hum of machinery, the occasional drip of water. Each sound made your pulse race, a reminder of the threats constantly stalking the halls. You replayed Urbanshade’s offer in your mind, the deal you’d made to come here. It had seemed like a lifeline at the time, a desperate chance for survival. Now, it felt like a trap.

But you couldn’t give up. Not when you were this close.

As you rounded a corner, your blurred vision caught a flicker of movement. You froze, holding your breath as you tried to make out if it was a threat. The movement was subtle—a faint shift in the shadows ahead. Then, a soft metallic clink reached your ears, and your tense muscles relaxed slightly. It wasn’t an enemy, not in the way you’d feared.

A vent cover had come loose, hanging open. Curiosity sparked through your tired mind. There was a chance it could lead somewhere—a way out, or at least a temporary refuge. You approached cautiously, sliding the vent door fully open. The passage beyond was tight, but manageable. Crawling through, you ignored the sharp edges of the metal as they scraped against your already battered suit.

After what felt like an eternity, you emerged into a small room. Your knees buckled as you dropped down, landing hard on the floor. Blinking against the dim light, you took in your surroundings. It was a storage room, but something about it felt different. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with supplies and broken devices. It looked more like a makeshift shop than a mere storage space, hidden away in the labyrinth of the Blacksite.

You moved cautiously, scanning the room for danger. Then you saw him.

For a moment, you thought exhaustion had finally driven you mad. But as your eyes locked onto the tall fish-like figure hunched over a workbench, everything else faded away. His familiar dark hair fell over his face, obscuring his features, but there was no mistaking him. Despite all the…new…parts, you could still recognize the man you loved the most.

Sebastian. Your husband.

Your breath caught in your throat, disbelief hitting you like a wave. You had grieved him, convinced he was dead, killed by human hands after his arrest. But here he was—alive.

You took a shaky step forward, your voice barely a whisper. “Sebastian?”

He froze, his body going rigid at the sound of your voice. Slowly, he turned to face you, but his expression wasn’t one of relief or joy. His now fluorescent eyes, glowing and filled with exhaustion, were twisted with irritation and anger. There was no recognition in them—only frustration.

“Not again,” he growled, his voice rough. He snatched a small tool from the table and hurled it toward you. You flinched as it clattered against the wall behind you, missing you by inches. “You’re not real! I know you’re not real!” His voice cracked with desperation, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists. “You think I’ll fall for it again? You think I don’t know how this place messes with my head?”

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his gaze darting wildly between you and the corners of the room, as if expecting the illusion to unravel at any moment. “It’s not you.” He cried, his voice raw. “You’re not here. You’re gone. I won’t fall for it.”

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of him—this broken, haunted version of the man you loved. He had been alone here for too long, tormented by the isolation and the tricks his mind played on him. You wanted to reach out, to tell him it was really you, but words felt useless in the face of his anguish.

Instead, you stepped forward, wordlessly closing the distance between you. He barely noticed, lost in his own torment. When you reached him, you gently placed your hand on his arm.

Sebastian flinched at the touch, his breath catching. His wide, frantic eyes snapped to where your hand rested on him, disbelief flooding his expression. For a moment, he just stared, frozen. Then, slowly, something shifted in his gaze. The wild panic faded, replaced by confusion and, finally, recognition.

“It’s… really you?” His voice was small, trembling with the weight of his uncertainty. His fingers hovered near your hand, too afraid to believe.

You nodded, tears filling your eyes as you finally found your voice. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m real.”

The fight drained from him all at once. His form buckled, and he collapsed against you, his head falling to your chest as his hands clung to you as if you might disappear. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, the dam of his loneliness and grief finally breaking.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered, his voice breaking with every word. “I thought I was alone.”

You held him tightly, your own tears falling as you whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.”

Your arms wrapped instinctively around Sebastian as he collapsed into you, his body trembling with the force of everything he'd kept locked away. His breath hitched against your chest, ragged and broken, and you felt his tears soaking into your torn suit.

For a moment, you just held him, your fingers gently threading through his hair, your own tears slipping silently down your cheeks. The realization that he was here—alive, breathing, and real—settled in like a shock to your system. You had lost hope, convinced that the cruel people had taken him from you forever. But here he was, the warmth of him in your arms dispelling the icy grip of the Blacksite’s horrors.

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. “I tried,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “I tried to find you, but I thought... I thought it was over. I thought I lost you for good.”

You held him tighter, your own voice still too shaky to form words. You had your questions—how he survived, what happened—but none of it mattered in this moment. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he was here. Alive.

“It’s me,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m right here.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his tear-filled eyes searching your face as if still needing to convince himself that you were real. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, tentative touch. “I thought I was going insane.” He muttered, his voice wavering. “I thought it was just another hallucination.”

You shook your head slowly, pressing his hand closer to your face. “It’s not. I’m real, Sebastian. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since you’d seen him, a flicker of hope passed through his exhausted features. His hand cupped your face fully now, his thumb brushing away a tear. He swallowed hard, trying to gather himself, but the emotion was too raw, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know how you found me,” he whispered, “but I’m so damn glad you did.”

Your arms wrapped instinctively around Sebastian as he collapsed into you, his body trembling with the force of everything he'd kept locked away. His breath hitched against your chest, ragged and broken, and you felt his tears soaking into your torn suit.

For a moment, you just held him, your fingers gently threading through his hair, your own tears slipping silently down your cheeks. The realization that he was here—alive, breathing, and real—settled in like a shock to your system. You had lost hope, convinced that the cruel waters had taken him from you forever. But here he was, the warmth of him in your arms dispelling the icy grip of the Blacksite’s horrors.

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. “I tried,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “I tried to find you, but I thought... I thought it was over. I thought I lost you for good.”

You held him tighter, your own voice still too shaky to form words. You had your questions—how he survived, what happened—but none of it mattered in this moment. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he was here. Alive.

“It’s me,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m right here.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his tear-filled eyes searching your face as if still needing to convince himself that you were real. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, tentative touch. “I thought I was going insane,” he muttered, his voice wavering. “I thought it was just another hallucination.”

You shook your head slowly, pressing his hand closer to your face. “It’s not. I’m real, Sebastian. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since you’d seen him, a flicker of hope passed through his exhausted features. His hand cupped your face fully now, his thumb brushing away a tear. He swallowed hard, trying to gather himself, but the emotion was too raw, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know how you found me,” he whispered, “but I’m so damn glad you did.”

You didn’t respond with words, instead, you pulled him closer again, feeling the warmth of his larger body against yours. You could sense the weight of his fear and loneliness beginning to lift, replaced by a sense of safety in your embrace.

As you sank to the ground, you drew him down with you, resting against the cool wall of the small storage room. His head nestled against your shoulder, and you wrapped your arms tightly around him, wanting to shield him from everything that had tormented him.

“I missed this.” He murmured, his voice muffled against your fabric. “I missed you... so much.” He began to cry again, soft sobs that reverberated in your chest, each one a release of all the anguish he had endured. “I missed your touch, your smile... everything.”

You stroked his hair gently, your heart aching at his words. “I missed you too, Sebastian. I never stopped thinking about you. I was lost without you.”

He pulled back slightly to meet your gaze, his tear-streaked face showing a mixture of pain and longing. “I thought I’d never feel your warmth again. I thought... I thought I’d have to go through this alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.” You promised, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m here, and I won’t let you go again. We’ll figure this out together.”

Sebastian closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as if committing your presence to memory. “Just hold me a little longer.” He whispered, his voice trembling.

You nodded, adjusting your hold so he could nestle closer. As you both sat there in the dim light of the storage room, the horrors of the Blacksite faded away, replaced by the warmth of each other’s presence. The outside world ceased to exist, and for that moment, all that mattered was the gentle rise and fall of each other’s breaths.

“I’ll always be here,” you promised, wrapping him in your arms as you both found comfort in each other. “No matter what happens, we’ll face it together.”

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. It was a soothing melody, one that brought you both peace amid the chaos of the Blacksite. As you held him close, you knew that no matter what lay ahead, you had each other—and that was enough.

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II PART III

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

Word count: 10,000

In the weeks that followed, the praise from the villagers and your parents, once a source of comfort, became a burden that weighed heavily on your chest. Their approval had been your comfort, your reminder of why you were doing this. But now it was only a reminder of your betrayal. You were unworthy of praise. You were selfish. Greedy. And the shame you felt, immeasurable.  

The murmurs that passed between you and Fyodor went unnoticed by your mother, slipping past her vigilant gaze. They were brief, not much more than whispers shared in the church's corners or behind the early rays of the sun. And still, they echoed within your head long after he had left, sounding louder than the prayers you were meant to say.  

You stopped visiting your usual place to pray. The holy sites that once brought you peace now felt suffocating, their silence accusing you of sins you could not deny. You went to him instead—the one individual your mother had told you not to even think about. His presence starkly contrasted with the rituals that governed your life. He did not ask for your obedience or your sacrifice. He just provided his silent, unsettling comprehension.  

The slap your mother had delivered still stung, an open wound of her rage and dominance. Her words had bitten even more sharply than the blow, etching guilt into your breast like a knife. But in spite of the throbbing in your cheek, you welcomed the pain. 

But alas, you required something she couldn't provide—something the community could never provide. You needed to feel more than a lamb, a vessel, a holy thing to be given and consumed. You needed to feel human. Alive.  

And somehow, in his presence, you did.  

He didn’t turn away. He didn’t ask for anything. He simply existed beside you in the stolen moments you shared, as if your burden was not too much for him. It scared you, how much you wanted those moments. How much you wanted him.  

The sun hung low in the sky, a pale golden orb casting its warm rays over the field. The tall grass waves around you, touching your legs as you walk through it. With every step, you are further from the distant drone of the village, from the pressure of responsibility that bears down on you. Here, the air is different—cleaner, freer, as if the world has stopped to allow you to breathe.  

Underneath a giant oak tree, Fyodor sits, waiting. His back is to you, his body at ease, hands supporting his weight behind him. He doesn't turn as you walk up to him; he never does. It's as if he can feel you approaching, the way he always manages to know.  

You sit down next to him in the grass, silent, your actions slow. The grass beneath you trembles with life, dotted here and there with daisies and buttercups. Their pale colors provide a subtle sort of beauty, one that is at odds with the strain that runs just below the surface of this encounter.  

You let the silence sit between you for a while, extending it to the point where it takes on a form. His eyes dart to you, and even though he doesn't say anything, you sense the heaviness of it. You glance at his profile, the soft bob of his dark hair, and your own eyes soften. He looked so delicate. Beautiful.

Your hands seem to move of their own volition, reaching out to his hair. It's soft under your fingertips, the strands sliding through them with ease as you start to braid. Every movement is slow, the simple action centering you in a way that words never would. He doesn't shift or pull back. The wind rustles the branches overhead, the leaves whispering secrets you can't quite hear.  

You pick a tiny flower from the grass and braid it into the strands, your hands cautious, almost sacred.  

"You know," he speaks at last. "You are more than this."  

Your hands stop for a fraction of a second, the flower still clutched between your fingers. You look at him uncertainly before resuming the braid. You know what he's getting at, but you ask anyway, "More than what?"  

His words are gentle. "More than the sacrificial vessel they view you as." There is no judgment in his tone, just a silent intensity. "You're not here to purify them or bear their loads; you're here for more."  

Your heart beats faster, his words weaving through you and taking root in the places you've been trying to neglect. The soft ring of the village bells is carried on the breeze, a far-off whisper of the life that's waiting for you—a life cut out by other hands, mapped out long before you were ready to mold it for yourself. But here, beneath the oak tree, with your hands knotted in the gentleness of his hair, that life seems infinitely distant. Almost nonexistent.

The words linger, heavy. They stir something deep inside you—a want you never knew existed. A want to trust him. A want to feel something for yourself, beyond fulfilling the destinies of others, beyond the limits of what they have deemed you to be. The thought flits just beyond reach, like sunlight slipping through your fingers. You cannot argue with fate. With duty. 

You glance at him, searching—for what, you're not sure. Reassurance? Understanding? His eyes are steady, unwavering, and something in them starts to pull you apart from the inside. A darkness rises—nameless, unfamiliar. Not quite fear, not quite hunger, but a twisting, insatiable thing that tugs at you, daring you to look closer. 

You force your gaze back to his hair, to the flowers still cradled in your hands. The fragile petals tremble under your touch as you weave them into his braid. The motion soothes you. His hair slips through your fingers, each steady movement quieting the storm thrumming beneath your ribs. 

Silence settles between you again, sprawling and vast. You have wished for many things. More than anything, you wish your worth wasn’t tethered to your role. That your mother had accepted Fyodor. That Abel wasn’t dead. But those were thoughts you could bear later, not now, not here in your peaceful escape. For now, it’s just you and him, still beneath the oak, the woods whispering a soft lullaby as you finish the braid. 

“Thank you,” Fyodor murmurs, voice low, quiet, as if speaking any louder might shatter whatever fragile thing lingers between you. The simplicity of the words doesn’t dull their weight. There’s something beneath them—an emotion you can’t quite grasp. “For this,” he adds, his gaze holding yours.

Your breath catches. Your hand stills midair. 

“Do you think it’s possible?” The words slip out before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper. “For me to be seen as more?” 

The moment they leave your lips, you want them back. Too raw. Too exposed. 

Fyodor tilts his head, studying you with an unreadable softness, as though turning your question over in his mind, weighing its shape. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm, the gentleness edged with something unyielding. 

“I do,” he says simply, a small, almost nostalgic smile ghosting over his lips. “But only if you let yourself believe it.” 

His words hang between you, unspoken truths coiling in the silence. The leaves above shiver in the wind, their rustling filling the space where neither of you speaks. Your fingers linger on the braid you’ve just finished. For a fleeting second, you allow yourself to dream of something else—of a life untangled from expectation and sacrifice. 

“They’d never allow it,” you murmur, your voice unsteady. “My mother would never allow it. She’d call it a sin.” 

Fyodor’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens. He exhales, slow, and his smile softens—not in defeat, but with the quiet understanding of someone who has long made peace with impossible things. 

“Perhaps,” he says, almost fondly. “But having something worth living for is a sin far lesser.” 

He leans in, and you freeze as his lips brush just below your ear. The kiss is warm, lingering—a whisper of defiance, a quiet promise. The touch sends a shiver skimming down your spine, and suddenly, you realize you’ve forgotten to breathe. 

“Then so be it,” he murmurs against your skin, the words settling deep. “I would plunge into hell gladly, having held heaven in my arms.” 

His confession presses into you, heavy, inescapable. You feel it curl around your ribs, sinking into your bones. It’s not what you expected. But maybe it’s what you needed. 

The thought of stepping into hell has always been too much. But for the first time, it feels like the only way forward. 

Your gaze drops to the flowers in your lap, fragile and fleeting, yet somehow still reaching for something greater than themselves. The silence between you thickens, the world beyond this moment fading, and you find yourself caught—balanced between fear and the pull of him, undeniable. 

Every year, the sacred festival of the harvest returned. And every year since you could remember, you were the centerpiece.  

At first, it felt like an honor. You were important and needed. Their reverence was their thanks for your sacrifice, praise for making the cops yield, and you basked in it, too young to see the truth beneath their worship. But as you grew, you began to notice the way their eyes lingered, wide with devotion yet blind to the weight they placed upon you. You saw the way your mother ruled—not just with faith, but with careful calculation. You saw everything. And you had no choice but to accept it.  

The festival, despite its grandeur, felt like a small offering to you, a shallow way to acknowledge your sacrifice. A reminder that, in return for your devotion, you were fed, clothed, and cherished. That your family—your entire community—prospered because of what you gave.  

You knelt at the altar, their perfect, untouchable vessel, the hem of your ceremonial cloak pooling around you as the High Priestess began to speak. Her voice was steady, even warm if you didn’t listen. You felt their belief in you as tangibly as the chill in the air.  

You wondered if they would call you selfish for giving them your flesh and blood, yet wanting to keep your bones.  

The blade gleamed faintly, calling your name as it was placed in your hand. Your fingers curled around it with practiced ease. The movement was automatic as you pressed the edge to your arm. The cut was shallow and precise. Crimson welled up, gathering in perfect droplets before spilling into the waiting chalice.  

The murmurs of the crowd rose like a prayer, a low hum of approval and devotion. You didn’t flinch. You never did. For them.  

When the ceremony ended, the High Priestess lifted the chalice to the heavens, offering a final blessing. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring their amens as the torches flickered in the growing night. You rose slowly, your arm throbbing faintly beneath the bandage that was already being tied around it by an attendant.  

As your blood was spread on the edges of the field, your father approached. His figure was familiar, a steady presence amid the flickering warmth of the torches. But there was something restrained in his movements tonight, a careful deliberation in the way he stepped forward, his hands outstretched—not demanding, not forceful, just… waiting. 

“Let me see,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet patience, the kind that made it impossible to refuse. 

You extended your arm, watching as he carefully unwound the bandage. His touch was gentle, yet you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his grip hesitated for just a second before continuing. The fresh air stung against the wound, but you made no sound, only watching his expression as he examined it in the shifting light. 

“You were strong tonight,” he murmured, his voice laced with something close to admiration. “I’ve spoken to your mother and she was pleased.”  

You nodded, though the words felt insignificant. “She always is.”  

For a moment, he was silent, his hands deftly securing the new bandage. Then, after a pause, his voice took on a different tone—thoughtful, almost hesitant.  

“I remember when I stood where you did,” he said, his gaze fixed on your arm. “Not as the one kneeling, but as the one watching.”  

You blinked. Your father rarely spoke of himself, even more so in relation to the rituals. He was always present, always steadfast in his role, but he never reflected on what that presence meant.  

“You don’t talk about it much,” you said, keeping your voice low.  

“There isn’t much to say.” He spoke as his fingers worked quickly, knotting the bandage with quiet efficiency. “But I remember the first time I watched your mother perform this ritual. I was younger than you. She wasn’t the High Priestess yet, just an acolyte. But she was... unwavering. I remember thinking that faith like hers could move the earth itself.”  

You studied him carefully, searching his expression. “And do you still think that?”  

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I think faith is powerful,” he admitted. “But power is... complicated.”  

“But you love her,” you said, not a question, but a quiet realization.  

He looked at you then, his gaze softer than you expected. “Yes, I do.”  

Your chest tightened. “Even though it wasn’t your choice?”  

His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their work. “Love is rarely about choice,” he said. “At least, not at first.”  

You thought of Abel—of his warm, reverent gaze and the future laid out before you. A future you wouldn’t have to share with him. One where you didn't need to love him. But you knew they would choose another in his place. It was only a matter of time. 

“So it came with time,” you pressed, needing to hear something—anything—that would make your own path easier.  

Your father offered a faint smile, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced, though sadness lingered beneath it. It always did. “It came with understanding,” he said. “With years of standing beside her, of learning her strength, her fears, her burdens.” He hesitated. “It came with duty. And duty, in its own way, becomes love.”  

You swallowed hard, your thoughts tangling with his words.  

“Do you ever wonder?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “If you had a choice, would you have chosen differently?” 

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The festival sounds seemed distant now—the music, the laughter.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “And perhaps that’s for the best.”  

He gave your arm a final pat, as if sealing the conversation along with the bandage. “Enjoy the festival child,” he said, his voice lighter now, but you heard the weight beneath it. “Tonight is meant to be a celebration for you.”  

He placed a gentle kiss in your hair before he walked away, leaving you with your thoughts, you knew this conversation would stay with you. And you weren’t going to let yourself wake up years from now, bound by duty and telling yourself it had turned into love.  

You had to do something about it. You must do something about it.  

The air hummed with the melody of celebration, a soft, lilting tune played on wooden flutes and delicate stringed instruments. The village square was alive with joy: children darted between the tables, their laughter ringing out like bells, while the elders clustered together, their faces aglow with satisfaction. The villagers, draped in their finest, wore simple but elegant fabrics, embroidered with patterns of wheat and sunbursts—symbols of the life they revered.  

And despite the merriment around you, the festival felt like a cage. It was meant to be a celebration, yes, but to you, it had been a performance. Their eyes—those expectant, reverent eyes—followed you everywhere, a suffocating reminder of what you were meant to embody.  

They smiled as you passed, hands reaching to touch your robes, murmuring blessings under their breath, but the smiles never reached their eyes, and the whispers were too loud, too eager to be heard.  

Tonight was no different.  

Except for him.  

Fyodor stood near one of the tables, dressed like one of them yet so unlike them. His sharp features, the deliberate grace of his movements, the quiet intensity that clung to him—he was a presence, a shadow in the midst of light. The villagers around him laughed louder, gestured more animatedly, as though they too were drawn to his stillness, to the mystery that hovered around him.  

When the music shifted to a haunting melody, the villagers began to gather near the center of the square. This was your cue. Traditionally, this dance would be performed alongside your betrothed. But tonight, you were alone.  

You stepped forward, your movements slow, deliberate, each step measured, as though the very earth beneath your insolent feet was part of the ritual. When was the last time you went to pray instead of meeting Fyodor in the woods? The crowd fell silent, even the children stopped laughing, instead stopping to watch you, their eyes wide with wonder and admiration.

The music cradled you and you closed your eyes, the rhythm carved into your bones, into your heart. You felt the subtle pull of gravity, the soft whisper of wind as you moved. Each turn, each sway, was a memory woven through your very being. With your eyes closed, the world fell away. There was only the music, the murmurs of the flute, and the pulse of your breath.  

The villagers watched, their breaths caught in their throats, the weight of their stares settling over you. And when the final note faded, you opened your eyes, the applause crashing through the square like a wave.   

You could see your mother at the head table, she looked pleased. That was good.  

You also saw Fyodor for a second, but he was swallowed by the crowd soon enough.   

You inclined your head, a gesture of acknowledgment, though the adoration that rippled through the crowd barely touched you. It was not like you deserved it anyway. You retreated into the shadows at the edge of the square, once more a spectator in your own life.  

Your dance gave way to their revelry, their laughter louder now, their movements more carefree. The music swelled again, lighter, more playful. But for a moment, everything seemed to blur, the sound of their joy distant, muffled. You almost felt dizzy.   

And then...  

You found Fyodor standing beside you, his presence pulling at something deep inside you. Something your father’s words had stirred to life, something that had always been there, a whisper of rebellion that had never truly been silenced. You knew, with startling clarity, that you could still choose.  

“You danced beautifully,” he said, his voice soft, intimate—like a secret meant only for you. 

You turned your head, surprised to find him so close. Instinctively, you shifted slightly away, ever mindful of your mother’s disapproval. You were not under the oak anymore; here, you had to act accordingly. His dark eyes remained on the crowd, his expression unreadable. 

"Thank you… but it’s a ritual," you murmured, your voice quieter than intended, as if speaking more to yourself than to him. "I’ve done it every year. It’s nothing special." A quick glance at your mother—her gaze wasn’t on you. Good. 

His eyes flicked sharply to yours. "The villagers would disagree. They looked at you as though you were the one thing that kept the sky from falling."  

A breath escaped you, almost a sigh. "That's the role."  

His lips quirked up into a faint smile, a smile more knowing than kind. "I know. You play it well."  

As the conversation lingered, the music changed again, becoming gentle and slower, calling the villagers to pair up. The moment felt weighty now, a palpable tension threading through the air, as if the very atmosphere held its breath.  

"Will you dance with me?" Fyodor said abruptly, the sound of his voice snipping through the air between you.  

You blinked in surprise. "You don’t dance."  

His smile deepened as a flicker of mischief made its way into his dark eyes. "Not often. For this... I'll manage."  

He offered his palm up in invitation.  

In silence, you considered it for a long moment. The weight of the crowd's gaze upon your back felt almost like a thousand unseen hands pushing you. You glanced back at the center of the square, couples swaying to the music with elegance and practiced ease, and then back again at him. His hand still stayed there, unyielding, still waiting for you as if it had always been meant for you. Perhaps, just once, you could take the consequences, knowing you made a decision in your life, the decision to dance with him.  

With the utmost caution, you let your hand slide into his.  

There was a sudden rising of whispers, like a disturbed hive—soft yet insistent, like a buzzing surrounding you.  

Fyodor led you into the middle of the square, with calmness, slowness, and deliberation. The villagers parted before you, their eyes fixed on you both as if you had become the very pulse of the celebration.  

The dance itself was simple—each raised an arm and met hands to press lightly against one another while moving around. The tempo of the music was slow enough to keep all present eyes staring at you, you felt a tightening in your chest.  

Fyodor's movements were elegant, though slightly rigid, hinting at inexperience, if not a reflection of his fragile physique. Yet, his gaze never wavered. His eyes were steady, bright with concentration, fixed on you alone as though no one else existed in the world.  

"You are trembling," he muttered, low but perceptive.  

Somehow, you'd not noticed it until this moment. But now it was difficult to ignore the distant tremor in your fingers as they pressed against his.  

"It's nothing," you replied quickly, forcing a little smile that felt steadier than you were.  

He arched an eyebrow, the tiniest of smiles nestled on his lips. "Is that what you say to yourself every time?"  

You did not answer but studied your own feet, then the song's steady beat, and the slow, controlled motion of your body as you moved with him and turned, widening the circle with each turn.  

"Forget them," he said sternly, yet keeping his voice low. "Forget their eyes, their whispers, their expectations. For once, just dance."  

For a heartbeat, your steps faltered, then the rhythm enveloped you once again—music disregarding you, guiding you, and urging you on till anything outside the circle of your mutually shared movement ceased to exist.  

For the first time that night, you closed your eyes and let yourself be carried—not by your strength, but by his. There was only the dance, the quiet press of his hand against yours, and his steady pull of his gaze as you turned and turned in measured circles. Only him.  

Just as the music dimmed, applause started swelling through the square: loud now, more intense than before. The villagers' acclaim washed over you like a distant echo from another world. They didn't even know half of the burden you carried, the weight of expectations and unspoken rules pressing down on you.   

You eased away, arms crossed in a futile bid to regain control. Now the whispers climbed, louder, more insistent.  

“It looks like a match.”  

“They smiled at him. Did you see that?”  

“He's perfect for them.”  

A knot in your stomach twisted tighter. You turned towards the high table, where your mother's gaze pierced through the crowd. Her smile was serene as ever, but you knew that she held her goblet in a way that could leave marks. Her eyes were clear, too, staring right at you with that cold, calculating look that made your stomach drop.  

"Are you marrying him now?" 

The crowd chuckled, their whispers swelling like a tide on the verge of swallowing you whole. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears; you wondered if the little girl sitting there could hear it too. Anxiety coiled tight in your chest, making each breath feel like a struggle. You pressed your fingers against your body, grasping for some form of reassurance. Slowly, you turned to your mother again, searching for a flicker of approval. 

But her expression remained unreadable—a carefully worn mask that failed to fully conceal the simmering fury beneath. 

Fyodor lowered himself to the child’s height, his gaze gentle yet firm. "Marriages can’t be decided so easily," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that somehow still held authority. "But I thank you for your blessing, little one." 

The girl beamed, clutching her flowers tighter before scampering back into the crowd.

"They're perfect together." 

"They deserve each other." 

The murmurs shifted, rippling through the villagers like an undercurrent, their admiration for Fyodor ever growing. And with it, so did your isolation. 

Torchlight flickered as night deepened, and the villagers began to disperse. You lingered in the shadows, unwilling to follow. 

Laughter—chilling and excited—faded into the distance, swallowed by the night. The hushed conversations grew faint, words dissolving like embers carried off by the wind. 

And then, silence. 

A dull ache pulsed in your arm beneath a loosened bandage, a quiet, insistent reminder that wounds—both seen and unseen—never truly healed. Your gaze swept over the square, now left to the aftermath of joy: overturned cups, crushed garlands, ribbons fluttering,  forgotten. 

Despite the hush, something heavier remained, pressing against your chest. A presence that silence could never soothe. A visage: your mother—serene, poised, but with eyes cold and unyielding, promising consequences for defiance. 

You stirred, fingertips grazing the fortress around your heart as you glanced down at the bandage, grounding yourself in the reality of your role and what lay ahead. 

"You're bleeding again." 

Fyodor's voice barely broke the quiet, yet it sent a ripple through the air. You turned sharply, your tattered cloak trailing behind, finding him standing close enough for his warmth to brush against you. 

His gaze flickered from your arm to your face, steady yet brooding. "Will you let me help?" 

You hesitated. The answer lay between you like an unkept promise. He made no demands—only waited, because he already knew. The damage had been done; perhaps, just this once, vulnerability was warranted. Perhaps you could allow yourself this moment—because home would offer you nothing of the sort. 

Slowly, you extended your arm. 

His fingers brushed yours, light but firm, as he unwound the fabric. The night air rushed over the wound, the sting sharp against your skin. He didn’t speak, only watched, studying the cut with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver through you. 

Then, without warning, he leaned in. 

Warm lips pressed against your skin, just at the edge of the cut—soft, lingering longer than necessary. A kiss. Or something like one. Or something else entirely. 

Whatever it was, you lacked the strength to question it. Only to accept. 

He met your eyes, and within them, a quiet understanding lay. 

"They take so much from you," he murmured, his voice barely reaching your ears. 

You said nothing. There was nothing to say. The truth needed no argument. 

Calmly, deliberately, he wrapped the bandage back into place. Every movement precise, as though even this—a simple act of care—was its own form of defiance. 

Silence stretched between you, not awkward but heavy with meaning. The kind that required no words. 

"You are afraid." 

Your breath caught. You didn’t deny it. Fear had been creeping closer all night, and now it had finally sunk its claws deep. 

"She'll be waiting," you admitted, voice quiet but certain. "You don’t know my mother. She doesn’t... let things go." 

For a second, his hands stilled. Then he continued, his touch careful. "She wields fear like a weapon," he murmured, each word deliberate. "But weapons can be broken." 

The last of the villagers had gone, leaving the square in a near silence. Only the last torches remained, their light burning low, casting elongated shadows across the deserted space. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves—a final murmur before settling into the quiet embrace of night. 

Fyodor stepped back, giving you space you hadn’t asked for. He held your gaze, steady and unreadable. “Goodnight,” he said softly, his voice wrapping around you like the night air. “Rest, little lamb. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”  

And with that, he disappeared as silently as he came. You were left alone in the dim light, cradling your arm against your chest, the faint pressure of his touch lingered, a ghost of warmth you couldn’t shake... or perhaps didn’t want to. 

Walking back home was suffocating. The village square emptied save for the barely perceptible sway of the wind and the ebbing scent of trampled flowers. Your mother walked ahead of you. Her silence was palpable, each exact step sharper than words could have been.  

Your father was trailing behind her, quieter still. His gaze was on the ground, his presence like a shadow—there, but not truly present. He'd glance up at you now and then, his eyes burdened with something unreadable. Guilt? Sympathy? Or was it understanding? You wouldn't look at him. You kept yours fixed on the bumpy path ahead, taking each step and, bracing for what was to come.  

With every step, you were getting closer to the house, closer to her, closer to what you knew lay in store.  

Your ribcage tightened as the door creaked open, the heat of the hearthfire seeping out into the chill of the night. The room, though familiar, felt unsettling, its shadows deeper, its corners more stark. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but the room itself was cold—colder than it should have been.  

Your mother stopped halfway across the room, standing before you with a serenity that was much more terrifying than anger.   

"We need to talk," she said softly, her voice unyielding but threaded with silent steel.  

The air froze around you. You nodded, your throat too tight to reply, your hands clenching on the fabric of your cloak.  

Your father was near the door, his fingers twitching at his sides. He opened his lips, but before he could say anything, your mother broke the tension in a single look.  

"Go to bed dear."  

Her voice was soft, almost kind, but it was unmistakable as a command.  

Your father hesitated, his eyes darting towards you. For a moment, you hoped that he might stay, that he would say something, do something, but then he nodded and disappeared into the back room. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you alone with her.  

Your mother’s eyes flicked back to you, her head cocked to the side, her sharp gaze narrowing to pin yours. "Come here."  

Your legs felt foreign as you took one reluctant step after another, each heavier than the last. You halted a few paces from her, your hands shaking at your sides.  

"You disobeyed me tonight," she started, her tone light, chatty, as if she were inquiring about the weather.  

You swallowed hard, your own voice weak as you fought to answer. "I'm sorry—"  

"Do you know why I was angry?" she interrupted, still in a low voice.  

"Because I danced with him," you managed to whisper, but it came out more like a question.  

She moved closer, her presence menacing, her gaze unyielding. "No, my dear child," she murmured. "Not because you danced. Because you allowed him to touch you."  

Your own breath caught.  

"These hands," she continued, extending to take your own in hers. Her fingers cold, her grasp firm but not unkind. "They belong to the divine. To this congregation. Not to him."  

She turned your hands over, fingers expertly unwinding the bandages—the very same ones he had wrapped up with such care. Her fingers were clinical in their movement, and as the fabric peeled away, her eyes went black. She studied your palms as if they held some sort of filth only she alone could see, her mouth twisting into a disapproving thin line.  

"I saw you," she whispered, eyes glancing back into your own. "Saw the way you looked at him. Do you think I don't see what's going on?"  

Her words were knives, cutting to the quick.  

“He’s pulling you away,” she continued, her voice tightening along with her hands around yours. “Away from your role as their protector, away from your purpose to serve our people. And you, foolish child, are letting him.”   

Her hands slipped away from your own, and then turned from you sharply, her robes billowing down behind her as she walked to the fire. You stood frozen, your heart hammering in your chest as she crouched down.   

Your stomach twisted with dread as she reached for a thick rag, wrapping it around the bail handle of the small iron pot. The wax inside was molten, its surface bubbling faintly, catching the firelight in a way that made it seem alive.   

“Mother, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I—”   

“This is not punishment,” she said, interrupting you yet again. Her voice was calm, almost tender. “This is love.”   

She straightened, lifting the pot with careful reverence, as if it were holy, and placed it on the table beside you. “I must cleanse you,” she continued, her voice gentle but resolute. “Restore you to what you ought to be.”   

Then she turned back to you, her expression serene, her eyes ablaze. “Kneel.”   

Your knees buckled before the word fully registered. The splinty wood of the floor rubbed against your skin as you knelt before the hearth, the heat of the fire burning against your face.  

“Hold out your hands,” she said, stepping closer.   

Your fingers trembled as you obeyed, lifting your palms toward her.   

Her gaze lingered on your hands, her lips pressing together in a movement of pity. “You must understand,” she whispered, dipping a ladleful of molten wax. “Everything I do is for you.”   

And then the first drop fell onto your palm, and a hot, searing pain shot up your arm. You gasped, your body jerking automatically, but her other hand flashed out, catching your wrist in a surprisingly firm grip.  

"Be still," she commanded, her voice soft but firm.  

The second drop came. Then the third. The pain throbbed blindingly through your skeleton, stripping your lungs of breath. Your eyes welled with tears that rolled down your cheeks, but you bit down hard on your lip to prevent yourself from screaming. You should have listened. You deserved this, didn’t you? She knew better than you. But why did it feel so wrong, so painful? Was this truly love, or something else entirely?   

When she finally stopped, the wax cooling in thick, uneven layers across your palms, she released you. The pot was set aside, and for the first time, her expression softened.   

“There,” she said, her voice gentle. “You’re clean now.”   

You stayed where you were, your hands trembling in your lap, the stinging pain consuming you.   

Her hand reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek with startling tenderness. “You’ll thank me one day,” she murmured.   

She turned and left the room without another word, the soft rustle of her robes fading as she disappeared into the shadows of the house.   

You remained kneeling before the dying fire, your palms throbbing, gasping for air. The room was silent, save for the faint crackle of the flames and the distant groan of a door closing. The weight of her actions settled heavily on your heart.   

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You didn’t dare to. The pain in your hands was sharp and unrelenting, but the ache in your chest cut deeper still.   

The clearing was quiet in the early morning, the air still cool and damp from the night’s lingering mist. The first light of dawn filtered through the trees, bathing dew-wet grass in soft golden light. You were on your knees in the middle of it all, your hands folded in prayer. 

It was where you belonged, as your mother had lovingly taught you.  

You softly spoke the words of your prayer from between your lips in silent cadence, each of them branded on your mind after years of practice. Your palms pressed tightly together, the faint sting of the wax cleansing still a raw reminder of your disobedience. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the ache to subside, both in your hands and in the hollow space within your chest.  

For the past few days, you had done everything right. You had avoided Fyodor’s gaze, his presence, and even the echo of his voice in your thoughts. Each time his words crept into your mind, you pushed them away, scrubbing them from your consciousness as thoroughly as you had sought to erase his touch from your skin.  

You couldn’t bear to feel the harshness of your mother’s love again.  

And yet, when you heard the faint crunch of grass beneath careful footsteps, your heart sank. You gripped your hands tighter, the sting of your palms grounding you in the moment.  

“Leave me, please,” you whispered, your voice soft over the silence of the morning. "I need to be alone in prayer." You also wanted to avoid your mother seeing you conversing with him again. 

The footsteps did not go away. Instead, they grew louder, slower, deliberate, until they halted a few paces away from you. 

There was no reprimand in his voice when he finally spoke, only quiet curiosity. “Isn’t praying meant to bring peace?”  

You stiffened, keeping your eyes shut, shoving him away with silence. 

“Strange, then,” he continued, his voice thoughtful, on the edge of gentleness, “that you look as though it pains you.”  

The morning air felt colder against your skin after those words.  

“Tell me,” he breathed, inching nearer, his words slipping past the crevices in your resolve, “is it solace you seek? Or permission to suffer?”  

Your gasp caught in the back of your throat, fingers pressing against the raw skin of your palms. You looked over your shoulder at him, scowling. It wasn't directed at him, but at your own abject misery. 

“You needn’t answer,” Fyodor said lightly, though the tone in his voice betrays that he already knew. “But if you wish to pretend I do not exist, then perhaps you should stop trembling.”  

You turned your head away, unable to keep meeting his gaze, pressing your lips together to keep the words from spilling out. He had this hold on you, this hold of untangling you and twining your threads of purpose so that they might unravel and break. 

“I don’t want to speak to you,” you grumbled, even though it did not sound sincere. 

“I know that you are wary... But do you truly mean those words?” he asked softly, stepping closer. His voice dipped lower, his tone laced with quiet understanding. “What took place that night?”  

Your let out a soft breath, visible in the chill of the morning air. How could his presence slip past every defense you tried to build?   

He walked around you so you faced each other, then he crouched, bringing himself to your level. “Let me see,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to your clasped hands.  

You hesitated, gripping your fingers tighter against the sting.  

“Please,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Let me see what she did.”  

The gentle plea in his tone made your chest tighten. Against your better judgment, you slowly separated your hands, turning your palms upward.  

His gaze landed on them, and for an instant, he remained still. The tender skin was now rough and hardened; some of the wax remained on your skin, and it hurt too much to remove it all. Your palms were numb for the most part now, except for when they ached, a dull, persistent reminder of your mother’s love.  

Fyodor remained silent, his fingers brushed against the surface of one palm in a habit-like manner. He took his time, concentrated, pondering something. The touch was so gentle, yet even the slightest pressure jolted you. 

His hand closed gently around yours, his touch delicate, as though he were holding something fragile. His thumb brushed over the hardened skin of your palm, soothing almost, a movement so careful.

“You shouldn’t have to bear this alone,” he said quietly, his voice low but steady.  

You froze, the words hitting you somewhere deep, somewhere you didn’t want to acknowledge.  

“I’ve been doing this alone all my life Fyodor,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Why should now be any different?”  

His grip tightened ever so slightly, grounding but not constricting. “Because it doesn’t have to be.”  

The quiet conviction in his voice made something inside you twist. You pulled your hand back sharply, cradling it against your chest, as though his touch had hurt you.  

“I don’t need your pity,” you said, your voice breaking. “I don’t need anything from you.”  

“Pity?” he mused as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his head tilting to one side. “How small you make yourself.” His voice softened, almost reverent. “No, it is not pity. It never was.”   

You swallowed hard, your breath uneven, the weight of his words pressing against the silence between you.  

Slowly, he stood, his movements unhurried, his presence still steady. “You don’t have to take anything from me,” he said finally, his tone quieter now. “But you can let me give you something.”  

You didn’t respond as you looked up at him. He took a step back, his gaze still locked with yours. “Tonight,” he said, his voice soft but deliberate. “At the lake. Promise me.”  

“You’re always asking for promises,” you murmured, still cradling your hands.  

“And you’re always giving them,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  

You hesitated, the air between you heavy. “Why should I come?”  

“Because I can dull your ache,” he said simply. “You are breaking,” he continued. “And I would rather be the one to catch you.”  

His words landed, simple, honest; and you wanted to refuse, to push him away, but the look in his eyes made it impossible. The promise. His promise, spoken mornings ago under the tree, still echoed in your mind. Would he walk through hell with you?  

“Fine then, I... I promise I will come,” you whispered, the words trembling in the still morning air.  

He smiled down at you, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”  

And then he turned, his steps soft against the grass as he disappeared into the trees, leaving you alone in the clearing once more.  

You sat there for a long moment, staring at your hands as the sunlight grew brighter. The ache in your chest hadn’t dulled—not yet—it didn’t feel quite so heavy after his visit. 

The moon hung low in the heavens, its silver light casting an ethereal glow over the village, as if watching over it with silent vigilance. The torches that usually circled the pathways had long since gone out, and the world was dark. 

You stood at the edge of your family’s home, your breath frosting in the cold night air. The folds of your cloak were weighted in your trembling hands, pulling it toward you, the fabric creased in your fingers. 

The words you had spoken to your parents earlier replayed in your mind, binding you to the person you were about to leave behind.  

"I'll rise early tomorrow for morning blessing," you'd told your mother, your voice steady although your stomach twisted. “I’ll spend the day helping prepare for the next ceremony.”  

Her approval had been clear in the way she cupped your cheek, her slight smile a silent benediction. But it was your father’s lingering gaze that stayed with you now—the quiet concern lined into his features as he’d stood in the doorway.  

“You seem restless,” he’d said softly. “Is something troubling you?”  

You had smiled, a brittle thing, and replied, “No, Father. Just... reflecting.”  

Now, as you stood beneath the chilly sky, the recollection of his face caused you a pang. Lying to him was a betrayal, yet it was a betrayal that you had to live with. 

The soft creak of the wooden gate as you opened it seemed to echo loudly in the quiet. The frost beneath your feet crunched softly, each step sounding out louder than it should. The night swallowed you whole, thick and silent, as though the world itself held its breath in anticipation. 

You walked quickly, your heart pounding in your chest, a rhythm too loud in the quiet.  

The lake was a short way outside the village, a pane of liquid silver reflecting the pale moonlight. The air here was chillier, crisper, the wet cold seeping into your skin.

As you reached the lakeshore, you saw Fyodor standing there, a solitary figure against the shimmering backdrop.  

He was at the water's edge, his black coat a discordant note in the shimmering scenery. Moonlight caught the planes of his face, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp angles. He turned as you approached him.

Fyodor watched you closely, his eyes intent but unreadable. He did not say anything for some time, and the silence that stretched out between you became tight with everything that was left unsaid. 

“They’ve marked you,” he spoke finally, his voice low.  

You flinched at the words, but he stepped closer, his proximity stifling but oddly grounding. His fingers brushed against your arm lightly, and you shuddered—not from the cold, but from the restrained intensity of his touch. 

“They made you believe you were nothing but a vessel,” he said, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, as if memorizing every detail. “A body to carry their burdens, a symbol to uphold their lies.”  

You didn’t respond, his words settled in you, stirring something raw and painful.  

“You don’t need them,” Fyodor murmured, his voice soft but certain. “Not anymore.” 

The words struck like a spark to dry kindling. Your chest tightened as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Fyodor... I...I don’t want to be this anymore,” you said, your voice trembling. “I want to break free from what they’ve made me.”  

He unclasped his cloak, then yours, letting the fabrics slip to the ground and exposing the white supplicant robes beneath. A shiver traced your skin at the gesture. 

His expression softened as he then reached for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “Then let me help you,” he said, his gaze holding yours. “Just as you’ve been a savior for them, now it’s time for someone to save you.”  

He waded into the lake with you, the water freezing cold as it climbed up your legs. The sensation was bitter, shocking, but Fyodor's hand in yours kept you upright. 

“Forget,” he murmured as you waded deeper, his voice low and hypnotic. “Forget their chains, their demands and expectations, their hollow love.”  

The water reached to your waist, the cold stealing your breath, but you kept moving, his words guiding you like a lifeline.  

“They took everything from you,” he continued, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “Now you give it back. Leave it here. Let it sink into the depths.”  

When you stopped, Fyodor turned to face you fully. He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his gaze unrelenting. Then, without a word, he bit down on his thumb. 

The blood flowed quickly, red against the pallor of his skin, drawing your eyes wide in shock.  

Your lips parted, a quiet breath escaping you as he reached for you, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate mark on your forehead. The warmth of his blood against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.  

“You bleed for them no longer,” he said softly. “Tonight, I bleed for you.”  

Before you had a chance to respond, his hands moved to your cheeks, cupping your face, firm but not forceful. He met your gaze, his eyes intense and unflinching. “Forget,” he whispered once more, the word heavy with meaning that seemed to seep into your very marrow. 

And then he submerged you.  

The cold enveloped you whole, the world disappearing into darkness and silence. For an instant, there was just the feel of Fyodor's hands cradling your cheeks and the water—its weight bearing down upon you, its cold seeping into every corner of your being.

Fyodor’s voice reached you even here, muffled and distant. “Forget.”  

The single word resonated, swallowing you up like an order, a promise, an invocation. 

You, creature of innocence. You, fundamental to their faith. Adored, worshipped, owned by those too blind to see you, too unworthy to understand you.

Loved by people who do not deserve you.

When he pulled you back up, the air rushed into your lungs, icy and aching. You were gasping, reaching toward him, toward his solidity. The night spun around you, but Fyodor’s hands steadied you.  

“Look at me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.  

Your eyes met his, and for an instant, everything else faded to the one point of contact between the two of you. The lake, the cold, the village—everything went out of sight. 

“Forget,” he said one last time, his hands still framing your face. “Leave it all behind.”  

The words landed in your chest, a mix of relief and something darker. His eyes trailed the water drops clinging to your skin, the veins clutching the fluid that consecrated you, but you had not been consecrated to him, no... You were just you. And that was better than you could have hoped for. 

You don’t know why, but without thinking, you offer him your arm, just as you did days prior during the harvest festival.  

His gaze flickers to it, and for a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. But then, with a look of languor, he leans forward. His lips touch your skin, over your pulse, and you can feel the tip of his teeth graze you. It’s soft, controlled, but there’s an undercurrent of hunger in it—something that sends a shiver down your spine.  

It’s not a bite, not yet. But a promise of what could be. You can feel it in the air between you, in the way his mouth lingers just above your skin, as though he’s holding back, as though he’s waiting for you to decide.  

You don’t pull away.  

For a moment, his lips stay pressed against your skin, and you realize, in sudden, vivid detail, that this is more than a kiss; it’s power—his over you, and yours over him, wrapped in the still, silent intimacy of the moment. 

You remember the kiss under the tree. You never understood why his lips on your neck felt so profoundly intimate, until now. You realize that, at the time, he could have torn your throat wide open—could have taken your life in his embrace. Yet, as it is, he kissed you, left you for life. 

It's not an admission, not a confession, but at that brief moment, you understand all that he never said aloud. 

And there you stood, water dripping off your hair and clothes, his warm blood against your skin, as something began to change within you. The burden of the past did not leave, but it eased, its hold on you lessening. And where it left, there he was—a presence so overwhelming, so complete, that there was room for nothing else. 

After the night in the lake, what was done could never be undone. A bond forged in darkness, in the deep, cold current of water. You had reached for him then—desperate, and in turn he had reached for you. The moment you had touched him, your worlds had crashed together. In that touch, in that desperation, something irrevocably changed. 

You had felt yourself slipping in the undertow of this thing you had started, the feeling of being drawn deeper into a world that you didn’t fully understand—his world. 

Perhaps he could save you from all of this, from the life that had condemned you. Maybe if you asked him, if you were bold enough, he would want to leave this place behind. Would he run away with you if you asked?  

But the questions hovered in your mind like delicate threads, too tenuous to touch, too heavy to refuse. 

In morning's quietness, where the weight of the world could neither push you away nor pull you together, you asked. The safety of the forest surrounded you as your head laid resting on his lap, and the soft hum of the morning stillness cradled you, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. The forest seemed untouched, like a world in limbo—a place half here and half there. Fyodor’s fingers brushed through your hair, slow, almost absentminded, as if to calm you.

The warmth of his hand on your scalp, the roughness of his skin against your strands felt grounding yet distant. You wondered what lay beyond the suffocating ties that bound you here. You wanted to understand the world he had touched, the world that had let him slip through the cracks, the world where you could maybe breathe.  

“You have been outside, in the world...” Your voice was barely above a whisper, tentative, like stepping on fragile ground. “Fyodor, would you describe it to me?”  

There was a pause. His fingers didn’t stop moving in your hair, but they slowed, as though contemplating the question before answering.  

“Why would you need to learn about the world beyond the village?” His voice was steady, but there was something in it—something hidden, as though he was testing you.  

You opened your eyes and glanced up. He was not looking at you—his focus was elsewhere, drifting over the treetops, past the sunlight dappled leaves, somewhere far away, a quiet ache made you feel smaller, as if you were being swallowed by a world you couldn’t leave. The words were stuck in your throat, but you forced them out despite it. 

“I... I just. I don’t know.” You blinked, the thoughts running over in your mind, but they didn't fit. “I suppose I wanted...” Your voice faltered as you fought to regain your sense. 

The reality was, you struggled to find the words to ask. Not when the urge to leave was so fresh. The feel of his fingers running through your hair was the only thing that grounded you in the present, and yet it seemed to taunt your silence, tugging at the seams of the world you had known, leaving you exposed.  

“Do you wish to leave your home, family, and duty behind?”  

You had to choose between the life you knew and the uncertain future with him. The familiar shallow love they offered or the unknown depth of his love. Your mother’s will, or your own.   

His question sliced so finely it pierced your chest. When he phrased it that way, it was horrible, unthinkable. And yet you understood, way deep down in your own heart, that you had no choice. They had nothing for you. Only obligations. 

His hand stilled in your hair, and for a moment, you wished he would keep touching you, as if his hand could soothe the storm inside you. But he let go, and you lifted your head, the weight of his gaze on you now. You silently cursed yourself for not being able to grasp his thoughts and feelings as effortlessly as he seemed to understand yours.  

You stretched out your hands, your shaking fingers wrapping around his and placing them on your heart. His skin pressed to yours, you could feel the warmth of his pulse burning through his veins. "Fyodor... flee with me." 

Your breath came short, a plea caught in your throat. Was it fear of rejection or acceptance that had your heart racing so fast? Either way you knew you were running out of time.   

“Please...” you whispered it into the space between you, soft, but heavy with meaning. A plea for more than just escape—a plea for a life that wasn’t dictated by a cruel fate.  

His eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it wasn’t a reassuring smile. It was something darker. Something that made your stomach tighten, but also made you long for him in a way that terrified you.  

“Then we shall leave at sundown,” he said, his voice a murmur of calm assurance.  

Your heart skipped a beat, and your eyes flew wide. "Tonight?" 

"Mm... Yes." His head tilted ever so slightly, amusement flickering behind his gaze as he studied you, measuring you. "Ah, but surely you aren't hesitating now, are you?" 

“N-no!” You shook your head, words tripping over each other as you stared at his hands in yours. “I didn't think we were leaving so soon.”  

But now there was no turning back, was there? You had asked it of him. You had asked for this—for the first time in your life, you had asked for something that wasn’t a duty, something that was yours and yours alone.  

You looked up at him again, your gaze hesitant but determined. The fear didn’t go away, but it was laced with something else now. Something deeper.  

“Tonight,” you repeated, the words tasting different on your tongue. A vow, a question, a promise—your life was no longer your own, but it was his too. And you couldn't help but wonder if this was freedom or yet another chain. 

The village was now gone, swallowed by the dense arms of the forest. The torches and watchful eyes that once loomed above you had retreated into memory, to be supplanted by the quiet rustle of wind threading through the trees and the silent crunch of earth beneath your feet. The only light came from the faint glow of a lantern in Fyodor's hand. The horizon ahead of you, muted but steady, promised something better. Right?

You walked in silence, each step carrying you further from the weight of expectation, the crushing certainty of your role. The night wrapped around you, and for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating—it felt vast.  

Your conviction had settled, not as an epiphany, but as a quiet, unshakable truth, like the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. Love wasn’t what you had been taught. It wasn't about giving yourself over to be poured out like blood to satisfy others until none was left of you. No. Love was supposed to consume you, to engulf you entirely, leaving you bare and vulnerable in its wake. That was what you needed. That was what you wanted.  

And Fyodor understood.  

He had known you in ways no one else ever did, no one else ever could. He had seen you—not the lamb, not the messiah, but the person behind all that. The one who longed to be more than a vessel, more than a symbol. He had reached for you, plucking you from the weed-infested garden where you had been planted, and you hadn’t resisted. You had let him.  

You hadn't merely let him. You'd wanted him to. 

The trees grew thinner, peeling away to reveal a vast expanse of sky. Constellations greeted you. The stars yawned above, faint pinpricks of light scattered across the heavens, their glow unwavering against the night’s darkness. You stopped at the crest of a hill, the ground sloping downward into shadows that stretched beyond the eye.  

For the first time, you realized how far you had come. And for the first time, you realized you didn’t know where you were going.  

You turned to Fyodor, your gaze meeting his. He stood just behind you, his expression calm, his dark eyes reflecting the faint light of the lantern. There was something in his presence, something steady yet consuming, something like the inexorable pull of a tide to which you were helpless to resist. 

“What now?” You whispered, your voice thread-thin over the emptiness of the night. 

“We keep walking,” he said simply, his tone unshaken, as though the answer had always been obvious.  

“Where?”  

“Whatever direction we choose to walk—though at this moment, it can only be forward, no?"  

Forward.

You looked back at the valley, at the horizon stretching endlessly behind you. The place you had known all your life, the only world you had ever been given. It felt smaller now, distant, as if you had already begun to drift beyond it.

A part of you expected something—regret, hesitation, even the urge to turn back. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of uncertainty, pressing against your ribs like a question without an answer.

“Are you afraid, my dear?” His voice broke into the quiet.

You hesitated, blinked once, then looked at him, truly looked at him. His features were gentle, almost reassuring, but that was the danger of him, wasn’t it? The way he could make surrender feel like safety. The breeze wove through his raven-black hair, tousling it just enough to make him look almost human. Almost.

He was asking if you were afraid. Of what? Of him? The road ahead? Of what you had just done—what you could not undo?

Or perhaps the fear that, for all the running, for all the choices you had convinced yourself were your own, you had simply traded one fate for another?

No, this wasn’t destiny. This wasn’t divine intervention, some carefully orchestrated decree from a higher power. This was something far more deliberate.  

Fyodor had wielded this.  

He had taken the threads of fate into his own hands, bending and twisting them until they spelled your name. Each moment that led you here was part of his design—each word, each caress, each whispered promise he orchestrated. He had seen you, chosen you, and remade the world in his image, pulling you into the center of it.  

And although you knew this, although you could sense the force of his will, you didn't step back. 

Your gaze dropped to your hands. The scars were faint now, their edges softened by time, but they would never truly fade. They would remain, etched into your skin like echoes of the love you had been taught to obey. Love that had taken and taken until there was almost nothing left.  

You flexed your fingers slowly, the motion still awkward against the hardened skin. These were the hands of someone who had been forged in fire, broken and remade. But they were still your hands, weren’t they?

You exhaled, letting the thoughts pass, letting the wind carry them somewhere far, far away. “No, not anymore,” you said quietly, though the words felt like a fragile truth.  

His gaze lingered on you, sharp and unreadable. And then, with a ghost of a smile, he held out his hand—not as a command, but as a gift. 

You stared at it for a long moment, your chest tightening. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, his grip steady, grounding. Side by side, you began to descend the hill. The shadows lay long behind you on the trail. Your life left behind for something new.

You thought about your mother, your father, Abel, and the people who had surrounded you all your life. Each had offered you love, or at least, what they believed love to be.

Your mother’s love had been the sharpest—unyielding, possessive, a sculptor’s chisel carving you into the shape she had chosen. To her, love was not something given but something controlled, something molded. She had loved you fiercely, but only in the way one loves a creation of their own making. And when you strayed from her vision, she did not grieve—you were not meant to stray. She would break you, burn you, cleanse you, until you were hers again. Until you were right.

Your father’s love had been quiet, steady. It had been genuine in a way that made it almost painful, because in all its softness, it had never been enough. He had watched you suffer, whispered his regrets when no one else was listening, but love without action is just a shadow of what it should be. He had held you when you were small, bandaged your wounds, and yet when it truly mattered, when you needed him to stand, to fight, to choose you—he had stayed silent. His love had not been cruel, but it had been powerless.

And Abel. Abel had loved you as the village did—with wide, devoted eyes and reverence that felt more like worship than love. He had loved you the way they all did, as something sacred, something above them, rather than with them. His devotion had been absolute, his faith unwavering, but there had been no knowing in it. No understanding. He had loved the idea of you, the symbol, the offering, not the person behind it. And perhaps that was why it had never been enough.

Love. Their love had bound you, shaped you, kept you caged within their expectations. But it had also led you here, to this moment, to this road.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. You didn’t know if you would ever be free, or if freedom itself was just another illusion.

And so, you walked forward—not because you were free, not because you weren’t.

But because now, he loved you.

Now we will return to our initial question.

What is love, exactly?

And did you, creature of innocence, get what you desired? 

Dividers: saradika-graphics

A/N: Extremely special thanks to my dear friend @rottenstawberrygirl—a kind, amazing, and endlessly supportive person. She’s been with me from the very beginning, always cheering me on. I’m so thankful for you Berry.

This has truly been a journey, and I’m also so grateful to everyone who patiently waited for me to finish this.

The truth is, multi-part stories have always scared me. I remember being a young teen, scrolling through Wattpad, Quotev, AO3—falling in love with beautiful stories that sometimes never found their ending. And I understood that, in a way, because I’ve left stories unfinished too—whether from a lack of inspiration, dissatisfaction, or simply the fear that they wouldn’t live up to what I envisioned.

Finishing this was my way of facing that fear. It may be small, just a little over 25,000 words, but it’s complete. And for that, I’m proud.

And if you’re someone who writes—whether it’s full-length stories, small scenarios, headcanons, or just thoughts scribbled down in passing—I want you to know that I’m proud of you too. Because putting your ideas into words, no matter how big or small, is something worth celebrating.

[ohwolfling]

Gale, Mystra, and Abuse as Mentorship

(author’s note: this is part of what I hope to be an eventual video essay on godhood/coercion/consent in BG3 - you can see my other work and help fuel this efforts via my ko-fi :) if you're so inclined - and I will of course highly consider suggested deep dives from supporters, as you help me stay alive. I still have not actually finished this game so please go easy on me in regard to spoilers and note that some of what I’m discussing is from lore & knowledge I have as a little DnD gremlin for a decade before Baldur’s Gate 3, thank u, ily)

It’s really something to go through Act I and II of Baldur’s Gate 3 and hear Gale speak about being Mysta’s chosen. The way that Gale speaks of it, of his relationship with the Weave, the way the Weave feels to YOU if you have that moment of magic with Gale… 

You feel that Mystra’s Chosen, however perilous, however imbalanced, is a term of endearment.

And then you see Gale meet with Mystra… and the context of everything Gale has shared with you shifts.

Religious trauma holds obvious weight with most characters in BG3, in subtle and unsubtle ways, but what resonates with me beyond even the queer experience with every flavor of Christianity and Evangelicalism is the way “mentors” use it to mask their own abuse. And yes, some of those mentors are gods. 

Mystra is cold and formal with Gale in a way that reminds me of the abuse typical in art spaces specifically. A mentor who crosses lines of intimacy at their convenience, but is cold to you if they’re in any way displeased. The focus always comes down to YOUR GIFT and how YOU FAILED YOUR GIFT.  This is an easier parallel for me to make because ultimately Gale reads as much as an artist as he does an academic. He’s not just interested in magical academia, he loves the ROMANCE of it. Even the way he speaks of his connection to the Weave smacks of inspiration and artistry, not rigid study and observation, “[...] could not only control the Weave, but compose it, like a musician or a poet.”

I suppose there is validity in interpreting Mystra as a reliable source, maybe she is just like this all the time and Gale was clouded by his service to her, maybe she means everything she says to and offers Gale. But that is not my interpretation (and I think that even in that interpretation there is no redeeming Mystra because she is still wholly uncaring of the serious power imbalance and just… TIME and EXPERIENCE imbalance between herself and a mortal man). 

She tells Gale that what he lacked was patience… What exactly was patience meant to get Gale? Enough magical prowess that he would no longer want to be intimate with her or please her in a human way? Enough knowledge that he would stop requiring a sense of partnership from his god, who first connected to him as a child, who returned from her presumed death (assuming a rough DnD timeline here this is the best case scenario) to take either the initial special interest in him or an increased special interest in him, to teach him with special instruction, to feed off of his own skill or potential, to take him as a lover? Gale did not wish to prove himself to the public at large. Gale wanted to be enough for her. Gale wanted to give to Mystra as Mystra (per her claims and his interpretation) gave to him so that she would take Gale further into her world and be a real partner to him. There is not a level of patience that makes a man seeking an equal partnership with a GOD able to like… be chill about what that must require of him if a lifetime of devotion and proven skill doesn’t? 

This is not to paint Gale as a man without mistakes. Of course he is flawed. Of course his choices are reckless and dumb. But he doesn’t intend to raise himself ABOVE Mystra until the Crown presents itself as an option and Gale sees that he could both save the world- particularly this new found family he cares about in a context outside of the pursuit of Weave academia, I imagine very new for him- and in his mind finally feel a sense of agency outside of his abuser, even if he still can’t really identify her as that*. Gale’s craving for validation and power is not- in my reading of this as a survivor of various DV/CA situations, salt and personal perspective to taste- inherently selfish. It exists BECAUSE of Mystra. Even some of Gale’s stories about chaotic childhood stories, depending on what he means by being connected to it at a young age, could still be from that influence. To modernize this, theater kids dramatically backstabbing theater kids via tattle-tells or sabotage is very often about the atmosphere and choices the drama teacher has on offer. They’re kids adapting to the space that was given to them. 

“But such is Mystra’s Will” - Elminster the Enabler

Elminster provides such a specific frame for this dynamic, too. He is the kinder, more reasonable, more accessible mentor theoretically… but it’s like the “nice” parent in a narcissistic household as far as I’m concerned. Any kindness, leniency, or leveling with Gale is ultimately not about showing Gale kindness or teaching Gale. It is about enabling and supporting Mystra. “Just blow yourself up, you know how she gets.” “Well, you did remind her of Karsus and that hurt her feelings.” That kinda thing. 

If your Tav pushes back the second time Elminster crashes your camp, he says something along the lines of, “yes, her actions seem cold and tyrannical but that’s because you’re a mortal. She’s a god, you can’t judge her actions.” If you made the narrative choices to get that response from Elminster, you and your Tav know that that is, for lack of a more graceful term, complete horse shit. Even the way Elminster approaches Gale and delivers the news is in service of Mystra’s coldness. Elminster appears as more of an equal to Gale, but he twists the knife in ways that Mystra can’t be bothered to. I do not interpret ambushing Gale, demanding comfort and catering, and then delivering the news that Mystra wants Gale to die with half-truths, guilt trips, and tsk-tsks as general wizard eccentricity. That is dickhead behavior. Elminster is not pained to deliver this news. He is honored to be the one chosen to do it. 

Gale’s motivation in pursuing the crown and wielding it himself, as he expresses in the Act III boat scene- and again, I can’t believe people read Gale as blindly ambition or egotistical- is that gods shouldn’t have the power that they do, shouldn’t be able to make us live for them and die for them. He speaks of gods using Ao as a shield or an excuse and in DnD lore I believe Ao is truly the only god that would outrank Mystra. 

If Gale’s orb is truly a fragment created from Karsus’ attempt at godhood, I think we have to question Mystra’s relationship to Karsus. Early on both Gale himself and the game paint parallels between Gale and Karsus. Perhaps being chosen and the power imbalance and grief that entails is implied. For me, the narrative weight is better if it is. She speaks of allowing the orb to feed on the Weave as some sort of temporary measure, some gift to Gale, some great thing she is giving up… but if it is born of the Weave, ultimately, it is enabled by Mystra. 

I don’t mean to imply that Mystra is walking around as a figure of deliberate cruelty. I’m sure in Mystra’s mind she thinks she is fair, measured, and even doting of her “chosens”. But that is not unlike any abuser- particularly in religious contexts, particularly in mentorship contexts- who grooms and crosses lines because they see “potential” in their victims. For Mystra, the potential of her Chosen does not offer them protection. It simply justifies (to her) that she can harness, wield, consume, and control them. Why else would they be so magically inclined, so skilled, so bright, if not for her to do with them as she will? In her mind, as both a goddess and arguably the Weave itself, Mystra may not even think of what she does as harming those below her for her own gain. She may see it as reasonable and necessary sacrifices to preserve magic. I won’t try to summarize 3e to present DnD here, but Mystra has died and been reborn several times, in questionable ways. She is a fractured entity, whatever you consider her, and could very well have indoctrinated HERSELF into the religion of herself, essentially. Mystra is arguably her own cult and cult leader (though almost always aided by Elminster).

Karsus and Coercion

Mystra knows anything and everything that touches the Weave. Gale tells you point blank that Mystra would know he accessed the Karsus text, that just freeing it and reading it would be like shooting up a beacon. How does this interpretation stand if Mystra saw no signs of what she was doing to Gale, did not see him researching her prior death and fracturing? Could the same be true for Karsus?

The Karsus fragments devour the Weave, but why? Do they intend to harm her? Are they desperate for her? Does it feel like agency? Is there an additional parallel between Karsus and Gale here - meaning, as Karsus sought to make himself god-like, to stand above Mystra, perhaps in some way Gale thought bringing Mystra lost fragments of her former self would at the very least mean that Mystra needed him, controlled him, fed off of him in whatever way less? 

By Mystra’s own admission (I have not found this in game, I’m going from some Candlekeep lore and deity guides in 2e to now), those who use the Weave are to love the Weave, to do magic for the love of magic, to constantly explore and create new magic, anything to preserve and empower magic. So assuming that somehow Mystra legitimately has no idea when a Karsus or a Gale is setting out on a precarious path of potential godhood or at least hubris and hamartia, how then is Gale’s pursuit of the lost fragments of Mystra herself a violation? How even is Karsus' invention of his relics doing so? Mystra has the ability to cut the Weave off entirely for people, just as she had the ability the entire time to give the orb within Gale access to the Weave directly. This has me theorizing that perhaps, just as she condemned Gale to die when him EXACTLY FOLLOWING THE PHILOSOPHY SHE HANDED DOWN upset her for whatever reason, perhaps Mystra is why Karsus was pursuing higher magics in the first place, seeking to make up for some access he may have been denied after being suddenly cut off from her? Mystra does not set boundaries or make things clear. To be her Chosen does not seem to be a process of understanding and consent. It is thrust upon mortal men, in Gale’s case a mortal man she pursues a deeper emotional and sexual connection to, and then they are meant to “be patient” and anticipate what is or isn’t acceptable to her. 

And ultimately, I want to end with this, in regards to some middling discourse I keep seeing around Mystra that I think is well-intentioned but disastrous if we apply it to the reality of imbalance power dynamics, abuse, and trauma with any sense of realism** -

Grooming is not just sexual - Mystra being the provider of the magic Gale is naturally inclined to is enough of a power imbalance from the jump. The man repeatedly responsible for enabling new forms of Mystra being a close mentor to Gale and possibly responsible for his education is in itself a gateway of grooming. Institutions and systems use grooming as a tool as well. 

There is not an age at which you become immune to abuse or at which abuse is less abusive. Grooming and harming a teenager is neurologically different from doing so to an adult, but both are still incredibly common, and again, see number one. 

Abuses within any system- be it a church, an outright cult, an educational system, a dojo, a theatre, a volunteer organization- are significantly harder to escape because the isolation and indoctrination are built in. Group-think, the affects of trauma on the brain, etc, legitimately stunt a person’s cognitive development in relationship to the subject. A god waiting until a wizard is of age to fuck him when said wizard has been attuned to and charmed by the magic that is a part of herself since childhood would certainly fall under this category. 

There is not a way that Gale- or any real world person harmed on a scale of toxic relationship to outright abuse- can respond to abuse that legitimizes the introduction of abuse and coercion in the first place.

*note - depending on your Tav’s relationship to Gale, I DO THINK this is something Gale is beginning to identify… His comment when in a romantic partnership with Tav are that essentially everything he thought Mystra was is fading away because she condemned him to die when giving up the crown to her was always on the table, done after a year plus of shutting him out for his “folly,” and he speaks of "tenderness" and "feeling" from Tav, the subtext there being he knows now he never received that from Mystra but I want to leave room in this conversation for folks who didn’t romance Gale or didn’t romance him in service of the Gale the Man is Enough narrative to explore this topic

**Pretend is pretend and a valid way to explore so many things but as a survivor of various kinds of abuse who lives with C-PTSD every day, I think it’s important we apply some level of weight and realism to portrayals of these dynamics, even when the metaphor is literal magic, because 1- how we speak about abusers and the abused in fiction historically reflects our real world feelings on them, often to the point of LEGISLATION and 2- trauma should not be a sandbox for the unscathed to play in more than it should be a space for exploration, catharsis, and perhaps even healing for the many of us who have survived or are trying to survive those dynamics. If you don’t agree with that, that is technically legal but my interpretations will annoy you until the end of time always. 

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

you should make a donna x reader where donna has a dream about y/n and becomes obsessed with her, thank you!!!

Yess!!!! Thank you for your request!!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))

Dreams

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, slightly dark themes, Donna's POV, Donna being Donna, happy ending

Word count: 7,782

Summary: Were you real?

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

“Dreaming is a third part of our life”

It was a phrase that always seemed curious to me. I had been alive for a long time, and a number of days, months, and years were insignificant to me. I was no longer a woman, a person, a human being. I couldn’t count the time passing around me. I had lost count for years.

Sometimes I remembered those more difficult, but different times, when time mattered, when days had a meaning, when dreaming was nothing but a waste of time, a silent theft from the countdown of my existence.

But that was no longer the case, my existence had no end, it was like an eternal sentence, like an unlimited time that was granted to me by the grace of the Black Gods. I couldn’t blame Mother Miranda for turning my life into a succession of days and nights, into a constant reminder of better times. What nonsense, there were never better times.

Stripped of the only thing that made me human, my mortality, the limits my life would have, I became a ghost, an erratic soul that stopped looking for its place, it already had it.

Being a Lord was just a nickname, a nickname that served just for the purposes of the same witch who turned me into what I am now, a monster. A monster they said had no feelings, a wounded, sick monster, one more doll of my creations, a puppet that dances to the tune of this horrible village.

Donna Beneviento, a feared woman, repudiated and turned into a terrorizing machine, making people feel the real fear, that was me. I couldn't say that I didn't like having that power over the people who one day laughed at me, who forced me to isolate myself from the world, who believed themselves better for not having scars.

I had gotten my revenge a long time ago, and I liked doing it. Loneliness was a common thing, another companion, like Angie, like my dolls, a dark shadow that surrounded me, that crossed my body day after day, that reminded me of who I was and how I had gotten there. However, there was something that Mother Miranda had not managed to take away from me, something that the Black Gods could not prevent: I continued dreaming.

I wonder if my siblings also dream, if they are capable of traveling to a different world, if they are happy dreams or horrible nightmares. I suppose their personality has something to do with it, that mine forces my subconscious to torture me when darkness is not just a metaphor, when I want to sleep, to make time pass more quickly, even knowing that the next day, nothing would change.

The nightmares were just another routine, the crises, the tremors… Everything imprisoned me even more in myself.

 Why, Mother Miranda? Why save a sick woman like me? No matter how many times I asked myself, I was never able to get an answer.

If I look back, I even dare to miss those horrible dreams, those memories that torment my disturbed mind; screams, terrors, helplessness, all of that was replaced in a moment by something else, something that made me want to keep dreaming, and at the same time stop doing it.

“If you could choose, what would you do? Where would you like to go?” you asked, playing with my hand, looking into my eyes, looking at my face that was not deformed, at what I never was, nor will I be.

“I don't know,” I answered with a smile, letting myself be carried away by those soft caresses, by the sensation of your skin on mine, by the subtle touch of our naked bodies like every night. “Anywhere, as long as it were with you.”

Your laughter lit up my face, your soft voice, your sighs made my heart want to jump out of my chest, it wanted to feel, just like me, the warmth and softness of your body.

“Are you always that romantic?” you asked, snuggling into my chest, sighing again, making me feel like the luckiest woman in the world, in this dark world.

“Only with you,” I said, leaning down to kiss you, to caress your lips with mine. I don't know why I kept trying…

“Hey, hey, Donna, wake up, wake up!” you said in a gruff tone, shaking me by the shoulders. It was another ending.

“Hey, hey, move your lazy ass and wake up!” an irritating voice pulled me out of that scene, out of that feeling of having you near me. Of course, Angie always took care of ending my dreams, forcing me to return to my horrible reality.

“Angie…” I murmured in a sleepy, angry voice, annoyed by the light that illuminated my room, with my faithful doll, my only friend, jumping on my body in a comical, but annoying way.

I pushed her away with a slap as I sat up, glancing sideways at the other side of the bed, where an empty, cold space reminded me that I had dreamed again, dreamed of you.

Sighing, I rubbed my only eye, wishing to return to that alternative world, one in which you were with me, in which I was not completely alone.

“Wake up, wake up!” the doll shrieked, with a mocking laugh, which disappeared with my furious look, with my furious growl at her attitude.

“Oh, Angie…” I sighed, uncovering myself and approaching the dressing table, where the reflection of that cruel mirror revealed my deformed face, revealed my true nature, my true appearance, the appearance of a monster.

I combed my hair slowly, avoiding looking at myself in the reflection more than necessary, remembering that pleasant dream before my mind forgot it. Well, forgot part of it. There was something I couldn't forget, that my head still kept intact: You.

“Buongiorno…” the doll sang, irritating me even more.

“Angie, I dreamed about her again,” I whispered, closing my eye, hoping that, when I opened it, I could return to your arms. I couldn't, I never could. It would never be real.

“Oh, the mysterious girl,” the puppet commented, with a mocking but understanding voice. “Was it a nice dream?”

“Yes, it was,” I whispered, leaving the comb on that horrible dressing table, getting up to start another day, another day of terrible and anguishing loneliness.

It hadn't been long since I started dreaming about you, since your figure appeared in the middle of the fog, dissipating it, making way for you with the light of your beauty.

I didn't know who you were, what you were, I didn't know if you existed, but I wanted you to. There were many possibilities. It could be that my head had created you just to relieve me, so my madness wouldn't get worse, at least during those hours of sleep.

A warm smile, silky and shiny hair, the perfection that I could never have. At first I thought that maybe it was a coincidence, that the nightmares had managed to give a break to my tormented soul, but it wasn't like that; you kept appearing in my dreams, you kept talking to me, telling me that I was beautiful, caressing me...

If you didn't exist, why did I feel you? If you were just a creation, why did you always look the same? Why did my heart beat the same way when I saw you? I never knew how to answer, I never wanted to answer. If you could live in my dreams, at least you would live. If you didn't exist, at least you would do it in my mind.

But the passage of time worsened that desire, that desire to dream, that desire to be more and more disconnected from reality, where you didn't exist, to live in an unreal world where you did. The first few times I took it as a relief, like a balm, a warm bath in the coldness of my dark life.

Little by little, it became an obsession, and I knew it, but... How could I become obsessed with someone who didn't exist? Did you really exist, or were you just like another one of my dolls?

“Have you tried asking her name?” Angie asked, after I got dressed, preparing to live another day without you, a vigil that was torture, just because you weren't there.

“No,” I said dryly, reading a book while eating breakfast, desperately searching for an explanation for your presence.

“I think that's important, don't you?” the doll said, looking at me over that old essay on dreams.

“Get off the table, you know I hate when you get on while I'm eating,” I ordered the puppet, who grumbled, changing the table for my lap. “Angie…”

“Let's see, let's see…” she murmured, turning the pages in an unpleasant way. “Look, Donna, it says here that it can be a recurring dream.”

“Of course it's recurring,” I said, laughing nervously, impatiently, frustrated for not getting answers to all the questions in my mind. “I don't dream about anything else.”

“Okay… Look, it says that it can also be due to sexual dissatisfaction,” the doll joked, making my cheeks turn red-

“Don't talk nonsense,” I whispered, turning that horrible page.

“Nonsense? Tell me, Donna, tell me, tell me… What do you think about when you kick me out of your room at night?” the doll mocked, which made me push her angrily off my knees, terribly embarrassed.

“What do you care? That's private,” I said furiously, pretending to read, pretending not to have your image in my mind.

“Bah,” the doll sighed, with an amused gesture. “You think about her, huh?”

I stopped reading, closing my eye and the book at the same time.

“I can't stop thinking about her,” I admitted, passing a hand over my forehead, holding my coffee cup with a trembling hand. “I think… I think I'm going crazy.”

“Well, that’s not new,” the doll mocked, with an unpleasant tone, with that independence that I gave her and that I sometimes regretted.

“You don't understand... I... I...” I said, gritting my teeth, hitting the table with my fist. “I can't be like this... I... I don't even, I don't even know if... If she's real.”

“In your dreams she is,” Angie said, with a more serious tone.

“That doesn't mean anything,” I murmured, trying to relax, trying not to let my demons force me to break everything, to hurt myself again. “Maybe, maybe I can, I can ask someone for advice.”

“Who?” she asked curiously, with a tone that I didn't like at all.

“I, I don't know... Alcina, maybe,” I said, shaking my head, crossing my arms, scratching the fabric of my dress with my nails.

“Do you know what Alcina is going to tell you?” Angie said, with an ironic tone.

“She'll offer me a poor girl to play with,” I sighed, head down, knowing that Angie was right, that no one could help me.

“Maybe that will help you,” the doll commented, giving me a shiver. No, I could never do that.

“I've already told you…” I hissed, denying to myself that it was one of the reasons for your presence, that I needed a body to have fun with, that then, you would go away, you would leave me alone again “… That it's not about sex. Cazzo, Angie, I haven't even been able to kiss her…”

“But you can talk to her, right?” the puppet asked. I nodded.

“More or less,” I said thoughtfully, letting myself be carried away by my obsessions again, thinking about you, always about you, always about your look, about your smile, about one that I couldn't, didn't want to know if it was real.

“Then ask her name,” she said finally, just as she had advised me at the beginning.

It seemed like absurd advice, stupid, but little by little I began to consider it.

In one of those books something that made my hopes suffer appeared, something that perhaps explained my obsession, the games my subconscious played while I slept. Apparently, a person could dream about someone they had seen once in their life, or had just passed by. The brain, the human mind is incredible. It was designed to torture me with an unknown girl.

Thinking that maybe you were that, a ghost from the past, a random village girl I saw once and whose image stayed inside of me forever was not good news. I wanted to think, to believe, to know that you were real, that somewhere there was someone… Someone who could love me.

There was only one way to get out of doubt, to know if I already knew you: by listening to Angie, by knowing your name.

“It's a beautiful day…” you said, walking hand in hand with me, with that smile so real and so ephemeral, so… You.

“With you every day is wonderful,” I said blushing, enjoying your caresses, your hand in mine, the feeling that could disappear at any moment. “W, wait…”

“Mm?” you murmured, leaning on me, without losing that smile.

“I want, I want to know your name,” I said unsure, not knowing what was going to happen, if I was going to wake up, if I would lose you again.

“(Y/N)” you whispered with an almost imperceptible voice.

(Y/N)…

“(Y/N)? No, it doesn't ring a bell,” Angie said when I told her your name, when I was finally able to name your presence, when you were more than just a beautiful girl, when you seemed more real…

I frowned as I worked on my dolls, an increasingly insignificant hobby, one that I thought would make me forget you for at least a moment. I couldn't do it, once I knew your name my mind only repeated it over and over again, only projected your smile, I could only see your eyes in those porcelain dolls.

“Doesn’t it?” I asked, delicately painting a head, a head with your eyes, (Y/N). “It's not a very common name.”

“Did you know it?” Angie asked, taking me out of my thoughts and ramblings again, making me concentrate unintentionally, not wanting to know if you were just part of my past, if you were someone who really existed but were unreachable for me.

“No, I don't think I've ever heard it before,” I said with a nervous voice, with the trembling of my hands ruining your porcelain face, once again.

“Curious,” the doll said, holding my hand so I would stop ruining her companion, something she hated. “How can you dream about someone you don't know? I mean, you can't know her name if you've never even heard it before...”

She was right, and her question had a possible and horrible answer.

“I think it's pretty obvious,” I whispered, leaving that head in a safe place so my messy strokes wouldn't deform her face, your eyes, your smile... “That's because (Y/N)... doesn't exist!” I said furiously, feeling how the darkness loomed over me, how it forced me to kick the floor when hitting the table, losing control.

“Hey, hey, Donna, no, no!” Angie interrupted, trying to stop my outburst of anger, trying to uncurl my fingers clenched in a glass jar before the rage of knowing that I could never have you shattered it into a thousand pieces. “Don’t do that! Silly Donna!”

“Non ne posso più!” I yelled furiously, losing control, losing my mind, not bearing the true reality of my discoveries, knowing that your name, that you, were just an invention of my mind, that I could never have you, never. “I can’t take it anymore…”

“Donna, Donna, basta, basta!” Angie said, trying to calm me down, fighting my attempts to scratch my ugly face, to pull my hair, to hurt myself for being so stupid, to want to stop existing in a world without you.

Surrendered, unable to even hurt myself, I buried my head in my arms, crying inconsolably, crying for having lost something I never had, and will never have.

“Angie, I… I… L’amo…” I confessed, I confessed a shameful truth, a truth that shouldn't exist, a truth that couldn't be, that didn't make sense, that my mind forced my heart to feel. I couldn't love you, I couldn't, but I did.

“What?” the doll said in an exaggerated tone, patting my back to try to comfort me, stopping as soon as she heard that terrible and delirious declaration. “You can't, you can't love her,  Donna.”

“I do… I… I’m, I’m in love with her…” I said again, sobbing, noticing the absence of Angie, who had retreated with a furious sigh.

“No, no, no, you can't, Donna,” she said with an unsure tone, knowing that what she was going to say would hurt me. She was not wrong. “Come on, come on, you can't love someone who…”

“Say it,” I said raising my head slowly, stopping crying, changing the sadness, the crying for pure anger, for rage, for the pain that such a horrible truth produced, for the dagger that common sense slowly sank into my chest.

“Um, Donna, I…” the doll said with a different attitude, surely due to my cold, dark and dangerous gaze.

“Say it!” I shouted, getting up from the chair, making Angie run away from me, making my madness terrify her again. “Say that I can't love her because she doesn't exist! Say that (Y/N) is nothing but a name I read in some book and she's not real! Say that I'm so disturbed and lonely that even a dream can make me fall in love! Say that I can't love a dream!”

Angie fled under a table, looking at me terrified, unable to say that truth, which I knew and didn't want to see, which tortured my mind, the love I felt for you, the love I felt for something unreal, for a dream.

“Porca puttana!” I screamed, kicking the chair, clenching my fists tightly, hurting myself, injuring my body as well as my mind.

Angie was right, I was disturbed and nothing could cure me, nothing but you, nothing but that non-existent presence I could only enjoy while sleeping.

“Of course… Of course… That's it, right?” I rambled, passing a hand over my forehead, my body shaking, my hands moving erratically. I had lost control and you could never help me. “Donna is a stupid crazy woman, a disturbed woman who will never have someone who loves her, who is so lonely that she can only love in dreams, she can only be loved by women who don’t exist, because, because she is a monster, right?”

“Do, Donna, calm down,” Angie said, hiding behind a table, shaking from my anger, from my nerves, from me. “Nobody, nobody said that…”

“But they think so,” I said, mad, pointing at the doll with my finger, starting to walk aimlessly through the old workshop. “Yes, it's surely their fault. They're the ones to blame! They’re always so elegant, right? With a perfect face, with maids who would do anything for them, with charisma, with… With possibilities of being loved… Donna can't be loved, she can only dream, right? Well, fuck you all! Fanculo a tutti!”

“Come on, come on, calm down,” Angie said, coming out of her hiding place with her hands out in front of her, fearing my reaction, that my madness would hurt her. I couldn't blame her.

“Lasciami!” I protested when her wooden arm reached my leg, shaking her to get her to move away.

“Donna…” Angie said in a sad voice, getting up from the floor because of my push. At that moment I collapsed again.

“Angie…” I whispered, sorry for my attitude, for taking out my frustrations on the doll, on my only friend, a real one. “Gods, I'm, I'm so sorry…” I said, helping her up. She shook her head, understanding as always, too understanding.

“You should calm down, Donna, nobody hates you, I'm sick of telling you that,” the doll said, with a cocky pose. I shook my head, sitting on the floor, leaning my back against a wall.

“I can't stand it,” I murmured, crying again, calming my heart, my breathing, my madness. “I can't stand the idea that (Y/N) doesn't exist… “

“She exists in your dreams,” Angie said, in a more casual tone, sitting next to me, as always. I don't know what I would have done without her.

“I can't live on dreams... I, I can't... But I can't forget her either, she appears every night, every time I fall asleep she's by my side, she hugs me and... She, she loves me and... I... It doesn't matter if it's crazy or if I can't do it, I know what I feel and, I, I love her...”

Angie sighed comically, resting her hands on my knee, letting the silence flood the workshop, the thoughts echo in my head, recognizing my irrational obsession, my stupid love, my heart's inability to stop getting upset just by thinking about you.

“Phone!” Angie shouted, when the screeching sound interrupted my silent crying, my lament.

I nodded, returning to the reality of my sadness, to my duties, to my only purpose in life: to serve the Black Gods, and Mother Miranda.

“Donna, is everything okay?” a soft voice on the other end of the phone asked, my sister, Alcina.

“Y-Yes…” I lied, stifling my sobs, not wanting pity, compassion. No, it wasn't for pity, a crazy woman did crazy things, felt crazy things, it couldn't be understood, it couldn't be helped. I could never change.

“I've been calling you for a while, dear…” Lady Dimitrescu murmured.

Yes, probably the thoughts of you had silenced my hearing, my senses. I could only feel, see, hear you, (Y/N), even if it was only in dreams, in memories…

“I'm sorry, I was… Busy…” I apologized, with Angie tugging at my dress, offering herself as an interlocutor. No, it wasn't necessary. My sadness overshadowed even my fear of communicating with others.

“Mm,” my sister murmured with disinterest, snorting. “Mother Miranda has summoned us for the monthly sermon to the Black Gods. I know it's a hassle for you, but I'm afraid that...”

I sighed. No, being surrounded by the villagers and the rest of my siblings was definitely not what I wanted at the moment.

“I know,” I whispered with a broken voice.

“If you're not feeling well, I can tell Miranda that...” she said, feeling sorry for me, like everyone else.

Poor Donna, she's so crazy...

“No, I... I'll go,” I said abruptly. “I need some fresh air.”

After that, I hung up the phone, telling Angie to bring my black veil, my curtain, my wall that blocked me from the world, that prevented me from being seen, that allowed me to hide that... I was a monster.

The church was too crowded. The whole village was there, everyone was looking at me, judging me. I could hear their criticisms, their thoughts. It was a simple paranoia, but a torture nonetheless, one almost as horrible as the idea of ​​not being able to have you.

“Is everything okay?” Mother Miranda, my creator, my savior and my executioner asked. She was the woman who put an eternal sentence on my existence, an eternity without having you…

“Yes,” I answered dryly, with a voice so low that I doubt the rest of my siblings heard it. Besides, as always, they fought among themselves.

“You don't look well, Donna,” the witch repeated to, putting her golden claws on my shoulders. I moved so she moved away. I didn't want pity, I only wanted you.

“I'm fine,” I said abruptly, clenching my fists tightly, causing the priestess to frown and Angie to squeeze one of my hands, reassuring me.

If Miranda got angry and finished me off, I wouldn't be able to dream of you again. That was a punishment worse than death, than the condemnation of immortality.

“Mm,” the priestess murmured, distrustful, sighing, possibly tired of putting up with a fool like me, disgusted by having such a stupid daughter, a daughter who had fallen in love with a ghost, with a dream…

Then there was silence.

“Children of the Black Gods,” Miranda began, spreading her wings elegantly, moving away from me, standing in front. “I welcome you.”

“In life, and in death, we give glory…” the faithful crowd repeated, like an obedient and sinister flock. I sighed tiredly, wishing that this torture would end, that I could dream of you again.

My ears didn’t hear her words, her untouchable mantras, her prayers and proclamations of salvation and glory. Nonsense, no one could be saved, I could never be saved. My eye wandered absentmindedly through the crowd, watching those perfect faces, imagining them disappearing, those pews empty.

My heart stopped when I looked at the back of the chapel, when I saw a figure that my mind recognized before my gaze did. A young girl leaning disinterestedly against a wall, arms crossed, bright eyes, silky hair, you.

It couldn't be possible, I even blinked several times, shifted in my chair, closed my eye, opened it again. No, I wasn't imagining it, my obsession hadn't overcome my madness. It was you, (Y/N).

The same clothes, the same face, a different expression but with the same affectionate touch, with a tender but tired look, those same hands, those playful fingers tapping your arm impatiently. I wasn't crazy, you were there. You existed. It wasn't a dream.

But the little rationality I had left screamed to be heard, to make me understand that, even if you were real, it wasn't you. Yes, it could be a coincidence, it could be someone who looked a lot like you, too much. I got nervous, I wanted to believe it was you, I needed to believe it.

The sermon ended before I could make sure of the reality of what I saw, before I could know who you were, if you were the girl of my dreams, the girl I had fallen in love with. It seemed crazy, it surely was.

Without saying goodbye to my siblings, I walked away from the altar, pretending to want to leave, to want to go home. Of course my steps weren't as hurried as other times. My walk was slow, opening a corridor of people who lowered their heads when they saw me. They feared me and... I liked that, deep down I liked it.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” a voice caught my attention, a voice addressing that mysterious girl, you, a voice that called you by your name.

(Y/N), that was your name, it was you, there was no doubt.

“We are going to go to Luiza's house to have tea, it's Irina's birthday and we have bought a lot of food, are you in?” that annoying villager asked, talking to you, talking to the owner of my dreams and my broken and disturbed heart.

I stopped without wanting to. I turned my head towards your perfect figure. You smiled, so did I. Your smile was the same, it was you, there was no doubt. I had found you.

“Of course,” you answered with a kind tone. Your voice, (Y/N) the voice that sounded in my dreams filled my ears, calmed my heartbeat, made me sigh. You were real. “But first I have to do some chores at home, I will meet you later.”

“Oh, perfect, perfect,” the boy said, turning slowly, paling when he saw my dark figure looking at him. I wasn't looking at you, stupid. “Oh, Lady Beneviento…” he said, bowing in respect.

Then it happened, your eyes looked at me, your expression relaxed, changed to one different from my dreams, to a worried, thoughtful and nervous one.

I ignored him, I could only look at you, you could only look at me. It was a strange moment, perhaps too strange. I dreamed of you, but you… You couldn't know.

Scared by my own behavior, I turned around, looking at you one last time before leaving the chapel. I could feel it, I could feel your eyes fixed on the back of my neck, that shiver you always gave me when you came close in my dreams.

“Angie…” I whispered, walking slowly, discreetly separating myself from the crowd. The doll, which rested peacefully in my arms, nodded.

“Yes, yes, it's her, it's her,” she said with a slightly lower voice, jumping comically in my arms.

“Yes…” I sighed, not being able to help but smile, to feel happy. I had found you. “Wait, this isn't a dream, right?” I asked, scared, thinking that I would wake up again with the emptiness of your absence at my side. “Ow!” I screamed when the doll hit me hard in the stomach. “Angie!”

“It was just for you to check that it wasn't a dream,” the doll joked, getting off of me and peeking through a nearby bush. “Look, look, Donna, she's there!” she said excitedly, pointing at you.

I approached nervously, watching you from afar, seeing how you chatted with what seemed to be your friends, how you gave them that beautiful smile. I felt jealousy invading me, absorbing the joy of having found you.

“Donna, Donna,” Angie called me again, waking me from those horrible images of me not being your company under the sheets. “What are you going to do?”

It was a good question, the best one, in fact. Now that I had found you, that I knew you were real… What should I do? You were you, but you weren't the same as in my dreams, you didn't recognize me, you didn't know you were part of my life.

But you had to be. I had been dreaming of you for so long, of having you by my side. What you thought didn't matter. All I could see was you, all I could think was that fate made you mine even if you were incapable of knowing it.

I couldn't let you go, let you get away from me, let me stay dreaming of you again, conforming to your distant image in a mass, with your smile that wasn't directed at me. No, my rage increased, darkness loomed over my skin, over my hidden gaze. You had been in my mind for a long time, I couldn't, I didn't want you to disappear again.

“Come,” I whispered to the doll, with a sinister voice, camouflaging myself among the bushes, following your steps, waiting for the moment, the moment when you were alone, defenseless. I don't regret thinking like that, you had to be mine, you already were.

“Are you going to be bad, Donna?” Angie asked, making me rethink my intentions. She didn't succeed, the darkness dominated me. Your body was the only thing I was looking at.

“I need her,” I whispered as I walked slowly, chasing you without you knowing. You, who seemed as intelligent as in my dreams, turned around several times.

Could you do it, (Y/N)? Could you feel me stalking you? Could you feel my gaze following you? Sure you could.

You turned around, frowning, blinking in confusion. You didn't see anything, I wasn't behind you, but you could certainly feel me. As expected, given my subtle harassment, you walked faster, towards the part of the village where you seemed to live, a lonely path, perfect for me, unfortunate for you.

“Who's there?” you asked nervously, scared by my presence, by one that you could only sense. Nothing, I didn't answer, I didn't reveal myself. I simply went a little closer, just a little closer. “Shit, shit...” you whispered, running, scared by something you couldn't see.

I followed you, I ran after you, without worrying that you could see me. I didn't care anymore, you were mine.

“Shit!” you shouted again, turning around, watching how I chased you slowly, without running, knowing who I was, but not what I wanted. I wanted you.

You screamed again, as Angie ran after you, making you trip loudly in the snow. You turned on the ground, dragging away from my slow walk. I didn't want to scare you, but I wanted you, I needed you. I couldn't lose you now that I knew you were real, and not just another dream.

“Hey, hey... I... Let me go... Don’t, don't come closer...” you moaned in pain from the fall, looking at me with eyes of terror, with the fear that I was supposed to generate in the villagers.

You had the sight of a monster slowly approaching, crouching beside you, placing a hand on your forehead and closing my eye so I could concentrate.

“No, no, please…” you whispered, losing the strength of your voice, rolling your eyes as my powers acted on you, making you faint, making you collapse in my arms.

“KO, good job, Donna,” Angie said, while I held your unconscious body, taking some time to caress your hair, to check, once again, that your beauty was real. “Now what?”

“I'll take her home,” I whispered with a cold look, picking you up in my arms, lifting you off the ground, keeping you very close to my body.

“Home, home!” the doll sang, surrounding us, surrounding my dark figure, my figure carrying yours, hugging your body, holding you against me.

You were so beautiful… Even asleep, unconscious on a sofa, I could feel your warmth, your beauty, the one that lived only in my dreams. I, sitting next to you, played with your hair, caressed your forehead. I cried, laughed with joy. I had found you, and now you were mine, you had to be.

My caresses seemed to move you. You groaned confused, frowning, waking up little by little. I wonder what you were dreaming about.

You opened your eyes slowly, focusing on me, knowing who was next to you, moving back weakly, almost agonizingly, causing my hand to stop touching your perfect skin.

“No… No… What…?” you murmured, pressing your temples with your hands, confused, scared, trembling. I only laughed, I could only laugh, cry with love.

“Ciao, bellissima…” I said in a whisper, with a smile that you couldn't see, helping you to sit down.

Hearing my voice confused you and you shook your head, looking at me, as if something I had said had surprised you. It shouldn't have, I was used to adoring you in my dreams.

“That voice…” you whispered, almost without a voice, with that same expression, one that changed instantly, surely when you remembered what had happened. “Oh, my, my…” you said scared, pushing my hand away, trying to get up from the sofa, something that I prevented with a hand on your shoulder, forcing you, perhaps a bit roughly, to sit down again.

“Sit down,” I whispered in a tender voice. Your eyes were still terrified. I didn't see love, only fear in your gaze. It was too late to back down, to consider the terrible possibility that my love for you was not reciprocated.

“Lady Beneviento,” you sighed, shaking your head, blinking several times to situate yourself, to know where you were. Deep down, you knew. “What…?”

“I have finally found you…” I sighed, caressing your face, unable to reason, to do something to calm you down. No, I couldn't, I only wanted you. I wanted everything from you. You pulled away in an unpleasant way, which produced a knot in my stomach. Your gaze didn’t leave its fear.

“What? I, I don't... What am I doing here?” you asked, trembling from my innocent caresses. I sighed. I wasn't going to let you go, no matter what you said.

“You're with me, (Y/N), you have nothing to fear,” I said softly. You blinked again, shaking your head.

“What? Why do you know my name?” you asked, shifting nervously on the couch.

“I know more than your name, tesoro...”  I said with a tender, but terribly dark voice.

“Oh, shit...” you sighed, closing your eyes. “This, this is because of what my friends said about you, right? I, I promise you I didn't say anything. Besides, I've never sneaked onto your property on a dare or something like that and... Shit...” you stammered, more and more nervous.

I started to think that you really didn't know who I was. You didn't know you lived in my dreams.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said in a serious tone, slowly losing my patience. I wanted to hear your sweet voice, not swear words, you never said them. You weren't like that.

“I don't know what I'm doing here either, I mean... Why?” you asked, gripping the fabric of the sofa tightly, shaking with fear. I didn't want you to shake.

“You know why,” I said simply, sighing at your passivity.

“No, I don't know, have I done something that could offend you? If, if so I apologize but please...Don’t, don't kill me...” you said, putting your hands together, lowering your head and squeezing your eyes tightly.

“I'm not going to kill you,” I said in a dark tone, nervous, more nervous than I would like. “I've spent so much time thinking about you...”

“About me?” you asked again, pointing at yourself, unable to stop me from caressing your cheek, from feeling the softness of your skin again. “I… I…”

“You are even more beautiful than in my dreams… I can’t believe you are with me,” I said in a delirious sigh, one that scared you even more.

“Dreams? No, I… Please, let me go, please,” you said, stabbing a dagger deep into my heart. You didn’t say that in dreams. I had found you, you were mine… You weren’t going anywhere.

“You can’t go, (Y/N), not when I’ve spent so much time dreaming of having you,” I murmured. Your expression stopped being terrified, your eyes darkened. I could only see disgust in your gaze, disgust towards me.

“No, no…” you said, getting up slowly, scared but confident. “You, you're wrong...I, I don't know what's on your mind but...I , I have nothing to do with it, I'm just, I'm just a villager, I've never hurt anyone, I've never messed with you... Let me go home, please, I’m begging you.”

“Cazzo…” I hissed, moving away, frustrated, disappointed with the long-awaited meeting. “Stop denying the obvious! You are the girl of my dreams! You are going to stay here, with me!”

“You are, you are sick in the head…” you whispered with a pitiful voice, walking slowly, taking advantage of my loss of control. “I have nothing to do with you!”

“Do you think that by insulting me I would be able to stop loving you? I could never do it,” I said, frantic, unable to believe my own reality, that the dreams were casual, a projection of my desires, not yours. You didn't love me.

“Love me? No, no, this is not happening…” you murmured, moving nervously, looking around. “Help me!”

“Don't yell!” I screamed furiously, preventing your escape with a strong tug on your arm, one that made you hiss in pain. Still, you didn't give up, no matter how hard you tried, you wanted to get out, you wanted to leave me, to get away from me. You couldn't do it.

“Let me go, you crazy bitch!” you screamed, trying to offend me. Nothing you said could hurt me. Only losing you could.

“Shut up! Don’t, don't say those things to me...” I protested, pulling you tighter. “Don't insult me, amore mio...”

You growled furiously, pushing me, making me let you go, so you could run away.

“Get her, Donna, she's getting away!” Angie shrieked, pointing at you when you had already reached the hall.

Suddenly, you stopped, staring at my portrait, which hung on the stairs. You were confused and nervous, your gaze fixed on mine, one that you could see.

 I ignored your sudden stop. I just threw myself furiously at you, knocking you to the floor, with my legs on either side of your hips, fighting with your hands, which were struggling to defend themselves.

“Stop! Stop... Resisting!” I screamed, straining with my hands. “Why don't you love me?!”

“Leave me alone! Let me go!” you screamed.

“Fight, fight, fight!” Angie encouraged, among grunts and sounds of effort. You were strong, my love, but I was much stronger.

Without thinking about the damage you were doing to me, you moved your head forward, giving me a painful blow to the forehead, knocking me to the floor. Still, the pain of your blow, of your betrayal, was not enough to stop me.

I roared furiously, reaching out my hand to pull on your ankle, knocking you again as you kicked to get rid of me.

I dragged you across the floor, using all my strength to reason with you, to make you understand why you couldn't leave.

“You can't leave, you can't leave me alone... you can't!” I screamed, pulling you. You took advantage of my weakness again to pounce on me. Running away was no longer an option for you, you wanted to fight. I was falling more and more in love with you.

Your hands fought against mine, moving with me on the floor, with my back pinned to the wood. You were winning, and that only meant I would lose you.

“Damn it...” you hissed when you saw you couldn't do anything against me, that, even immobilized, I was much stronger than you. I always would be, you were my only weakness. “Fuck!”

With that last scream, you managed to free yourself from my grip, moving your hand furiously, managing to grab the black fabric of my veil, tearing it from my face, leaving me exposed. You shouldn't have seen me like that.

Far from continuing to be furious, from continuing to move, you stopped, open-mouthed, catching your breath, losing yourself in my face wet with tears in my eye that shone with rage and desperation.

You ran a hand over your forehead, shook your head and let me go, with a confused and strange look.

“No, it just can't be...” you murmured, also with tears in your eyes, covering your surprised mouth with your hands. “It's, it's you...”

I didn't answer. I limited myself to hating you for a moment, hating myself for living in dreams. I didn't even pay attention to your confused look.

“Gods…” you said in a calmer tone, getting off my body, dropping to the floor, not being able to stop looking at me. A strange smile formed on your face.

I sat on the wood, confused, sad, sobbing, wishing you wouldn't try to leave again. It seemed that, for some strange reason, you didn't want to.

“Oh, it's you…” you sighed again, crawling towards my position, putting an unexpected hand on my cheek, looking at me, then at the portrait. “I can't believe it…”

“It's you, it's you. What are you talking about, stupid?” Angie interrupted, helping me deal with that horribly confusing situation.

“Gods, I… I've been, I've been dreaming about you for months… I… Oh my Gods…” you said as if you had gone from hatred to euphoria. My crying stopped, and my gaze darkened once the voices in my head let me hear you.

“You…?” I asked in a weak, distrustful voice. It could be a trick. “Have you dreamed about me?”

“Yes, I…” you said with a smile, getting a little closer, with a happy glow in your eyes. “Well, I, I didn't know it was you, you know because…” you said, changing your mood completely, gesturing towards your face. “Because, because of that veil and… Well, because, because, you didn't have much clothing on so…”

“What? Are you kidding me?” I said nervously, incredulously, taking your hand away from my face. You cringed again.

“I, I… I don't know why but… I'm telling you the truth. There isn't a night in where I don't see you with me… In fact, when I've heard you talk I… I can't believe it, it's you…” you sighed with a sincere, surprising smile.

“I dream about you too,” I whispered more calmly, looking at the floor, not letting you see me, not letting those dreams you had be tarnished by my ugliness. “Every night. I, I didn't even know you were real and when I saw you, I…”

“You froze,” you finished my sentence, just like you did in my dreams. “I, I understand you, I… Me too.”

“I, I didn't want to hurt you, (Y/N)…” I sobbed again, regretting my attitude. “I just wanted, I wanted… For my dreams to, to come true…”

“I wanted mine,” you sighed, sitting next to me staring into space, like me. “What a coincidence, huh? I didn't even know what you looked like.”

“I'm sure you find me disgusting,” I murmured, pointing at the portrait. “You were expecting something like that, weren't you?”

“The truth is, no…” you said in a low, confused tone. You were nervous too, I could see you trembling. “I saw you just like right now.”

I laughed nervously, scratching the back of my neck, not knowing what to do with that information, with that cruel coincidence. I never believed in destiny, but it was never too late to start doing it.

“It's incredible... It was you,” you repeated, making me more nervous.

“Will you stop saying that?” I said nervously, confused and upset. “How the hell was I supposed to know that...? Cazzo...”

“How was I supposed to know that you existed? I thought I was going crazy,” you said amused, looking a little more like the (Y/N) of my dreams.

“Me too,” I whispered, looking into those beautiful, bright eyes, looking at the reality of your beauty.

“Donna, um… Can I call you Donna?” you asked, touching my hand, grabbing it, interlacing our fingers like in my dreams, like in yours. I nodded. “There's something I've never been able to do in my dreams...”

I looked at you as you approached, fearlessly overstepping my personal space, grabbing my face, looking at me before closing your eyes. Then you did it, you kissed me, your sweet and soft lips landed on mine.

You sighed, I sighed, we kissed slowly, enjoying that unattainable, pleasurable feeling. I cried again, grabbing your body, kissing you deeper, not wanting our bodies to separate.

“(Y/N)…” I sighed, pulling away against my will, overcome by emotions. You looked at me confused, caressing my skin, as if you were feeling the same, something that seemed impossible. “You are definitely the girl of my dreams…”

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

10. 𝓐 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓐𝓰𝓸

She looked down. "Where are we going?" She repeated, desperate to change the subject.

He let go of her hand and reached into his coat to pull out two tickets that he handed her. After studying the writing on the tickets, (Y/n) looked up with a curious expression. "An art exhibition?"

He acquiesced with evident delight. "Indeed," he confirmed. "If fate is on our side, we might even be able to acquire some of the masterpieces on display."

She hummed in response, her interest not overly piqued, yet not repulsed by the prospect of the outing either. As they got off the carriage, the duke opened a sleek black umbrella as they walked the streets of London, a stark contrast against the backdrop of the setting sun casting an orange hue across the horizon.

"Aren't you protected by your ring?" she asked under her breath as she observed the scenery.

Passersby, less fortunate people, were looking at them with interest. There was something so striking about that. Here she was, dressed in lavish garments fit for royalty when all her life, she had simply been a peasant girl. Months ago, (Y/n) would have walked the same streets without anyone batting an eye.

"I am," he replied, revealing his adorned ring with a subtle flourish. "But the feeling of its rays against my skin is still unpleasant."

As they entered a grand beige building in the city, the duke gracefully presented their tickets to the attendant at the door. A quick survey of the room revealed a vast exhibition hall, bustling with people. They were all aristocrats, but as she observed everyone's mannerisms, (Y/n) became fairly certain that these men and women in elegant clothes were human.

A hopeful smile graced her face as her heart quickened its pace. This could be her chance to escape. Perhaps, she could scream for help. Yes, (Y/n) would scream for help at the top of her lungs and surely someone would come save her.

"He—" Before she could utter a sound, a hand was placed firmly over her mouth, stifling any attempt to scream. Panic surged within her, eyes widening with fear as the reality of her situation.

As she excitedly explored her first art exhibition, some onlookers shot her peculiar glances, but they refrained from commenting. In a gentle voice, the vampire remarked, "I understand this is your first art exhibition, but there is no need to express your excitement so loudly, dear." Speaking audibly for those nearby, he then leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear, and whispered, "There are about thirty humans here, most inexperienced in combat. I'd venture to say the odds are in my favor. Care to take the risk, my daughter? It could be an amusing game, though I'd hate to stain the exquisite art on display."

He paused before adding, "This is your second warning today, doll."

The air seemed to constrict as the weight of the vampire's words settled in, an unspoken tension lingering in the space between them. (Y/n) felt the chill that accompanied the subtle shift in atmosphere, a reminder of the power the vampire possessed. She tensed up at the second threat he had given her today and the vampire's hand retreated. (Y/n) bit back a snide remark, knowing retorting wasn't a good idea now.

Realizing she had no way of winning this time, the human continued on with the vampire who navigated the place, marveling at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures. The vampire occasionally lingered, absorbing the descriptions offered with an air of discerning appreciation.

Much to his dismay, most of them weren't for sales, still, the nobleman often tried to bargain and offer astronomical amounts of money for simple art pieces. (Y/n) huffed. With such wealth, her family could lead a life of comfort for generations. If they were still alive, she reminded herself bitterly.

"So much money," she commented in a hushed tone, her eyes flickering over the priceless pieces. "Is there some secret rule stating that vampires must be super wealthy?"

He laughed at that and shook his head. "No, but I would argue that any of us who isn't, simply is dimwitted," he admitted with a confident smile. "After all..."

He trailed off, seemingly having noticed something important. (Y/n) followed his gaze until it landed on a tableau—an inconspicuous painting, beautiful yet seemingly no different from the others. It depicted an old man, almost god-like with wings, holding a child's wings and attempting to remove them with a scythe. A grim sight, indeed, but it still didn't explain the vampire's peculiar interest.

"Saturn Clipping the Wings of Cupid," he whispered wistfully what appeared to be the name of the tableau.

"You got it right, good sir," announced the man next to the painting proudly. "From the late Ivan Akimov himself. The original."

The vampire hummed as he arched a sly brow. "Oh, is it really? " he asked with a look of interest.

The enthusiastic salesman nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes," he assured. "Only for 30 pounds*."

(Y/n), bug-eyed, stared at the price tag. It was expensive—too expensive for her comprehension. Her incredulity deepened when she witnessed the duke pull out his checkbook, seemingly unfazed by the ridiculous large sum.

"30 pounds for the original one does sound reasonable," the duke commented and the salesman smiled at that. However, the vampire's demeanor shifted as he paused and sneered, his tone cutting through the air. "But, a fake is worth nothing."

The salesman's face flushed a deep shade of red. "Are you insinuating that this is a fake?"

"Oh no, I am not insinuating anything," the vampire chuckled, shaking his head. But the humor dissipated rapidly, and his expression turned sour. "I am saying that people like you shouldn't dare enter these places to try to swindle money with mediocre copies."

Whispers and snide comments rippled through the bystanders as they watched the confrontation unfold. The salesman, now sweating bullets, struggled to maintain composure amid the growing anger. The salesman, now faced with the exposure of his deception, stammered incoherently, attempting to salvage what remained of his credibility. The onlookers, once drawn to the allure of the artwork, now regarded it with a newfound skepticism.

The vampire stepped forward, approaching the portrait to scrutinize it closely. (Y/n) just watched like all the others. "The scythe is too small," he critiqued, crossing his arms with an air of authority. "The beard isn't quite the right shade of grey, and any connoisseur of the arts of the era would notice the muscles aren't defined enough. This is a pathetic imitation."

The salesman practically leaped in rage towards the duke, his face contorted with fury. Yet, the vampire, possessing a supernatural grace and speed, effortlessly sidestepped the attack. The mansion's guards were summoned to intervene, ensuring that the confrontation didn't spiral into chaos.

The charlatan, now surrounded by vigilant guards in imposing uniforms, found himself escorted out of the grand estate. The vampire sent him one last disgusted glance. As the guards guided the disgraced salesman away, the vampire turned to face the onlookers, his demeanor shifting effortlessly. With a practiced charm, he sent a captivating smile to those who had witnessed the unraveling drama. It was as if he had performed a well-rehearsed act.

As the noblemen and women continued to admire the vampire aristocrat with fascination, (Y/n) couldn't suppress the twist of disgust within her. If only they knew what he truly was, their admiration would turn to fear and horror. All vampires were nothing more than monsters cloaked in a convincing human disguise, a disguise that concealed the horrifying nature that lurked beneath. His charismatic smile, the graceful movements, and the impeccable manners were a well crafted mask.

They left the grand estate shortly after the vampire had acquired something to his liking - an authentic tableau this time - for 40 pounds. The carriage passed through the evening landscape as they left the city and a chance for her to flee.

As they left in the carriage, (Y/n) couldn't help but voice a question she had. "You really remembered so many details about a specific painting?" she inquired.

He smiled, a reminiscing glint in his eyes. "Of course, I was there with Akimov at the time he was making it. It was around fifty years ago, I believe," he replied.

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

*30 pounds at that time = 3651,90 pounds today = 4652,52 US Dollars

£1 in mid victorian era would cost £121.73 today according to what I've read. Don't quote me on that though. XD

Also, here is the painting mentioned.

[lilacxquartz]

Don't Make Me Feel Alive I Chapter 11

kenjaku x f!reader

chapter summary: as conflict stirs, you learn a troubling truth.

a/n: followed the manga/late season 2 for this chapter but the main focus is still their relationship.

< Previous Chapter • Final Chapter >

11. Broken

Mahito continued to dig at the ground, clawing at stone and earth alike as though begging for help. A young man with sharply cut pink hair and a battered body followed the desperate spirit, pausing when confronted by the sight of someone else.

You reluctantly kept at Kenjaku’s side, flinching ever so slightly (and not subtle at all) as he summoned cursed spirits out before your very eyes, pointing and spilling a collection of beasts ready to serve him in what appeared to be an imminent fight.

Steadying yourself, you assumed a defensive stance just in case you had to fight as well.

You grimaced along with the boy before you as his body was soon enveloped in writhing centipedes that twisted and tightened around him. Mahito tried to act next, although his intentions were unclear. Perhaps this was his human side, spewing something irrational as his own mind grew afraid. Fear is what makes people unpredictable, dangerous and Mahito replicated it perfectly.

You watched on, with slowly rising unease as the silver-haired spirit sputtered nonsense, half begging for salvation as well as almost demanding, or even attempting to fight for answers.

He spoke in an erratic tone, mumbling something on and off about the fear of death; his words boring you. You didn’t listen all that much, since Mahito’s words weren’t something you were ever so interested in and so when Kenjaku interrupted him, you considered it to be a blessing.

But then you realised exactly what he was doing to him.

(And just how horrific it all truly was.)

You stalled for a moment as your eyes drifted off to the side, gulping away the discomfort that emerged. He warned about using uzumaki on you before, so seeing him use it in action felt just a little too personal. The way his hands met at parallel ends, whisking at the air, forcing you to bear witness as Mahito’s very being started to crumble. It was as though his soul was getting syphoned; pulled and torn apart, writhing around like a fleshy rubber band—looping, whirlpooling into gushing disintegrating tissue, finally compressing himself into a glowing sphere.

Shuddering, you continued to process the sight as it burned fresh into your memory, locking onto the look that Kenjaku fed Mahito just moments before, the split second from when he threw him a lifeline (only to take it immediately away).

You were involved with someone, or perhaps something, you weren’t so sure at this point so terrifying and it was beginning to mess with you in a way that you couldn’t quite comprehend.

Watching on, the remaining colour on your face continued to drain as he began to explain his technique as he used it, seeming almost happy to talk about exactly what it could do. You gagged a little as you then watched him ingest the sphere; the smell of what gathered and festered within that orb smelled violently and yet he took it in without even a single visceral protest.

The intruding thoughts returned as you were reminded over and over again of what it was that he was capable of.

So this was what he meant by absorption.

To extract the essence and soul of a cursed spirit, to take away everything that made it alive and to store it away for good. Effectively a husk of whatever it could have been and that could have been you…?

It was then that you were pulled away from such troubling thoughts; a threat of something greater closing in behind you. Someone else? You instinctively casted a surge on them, manifesting your technique in the only way the binding vow allowed which in turn didn’t quite stop them but Kenjaku was quick to do so either way. He effortlessly snapped the blade that the attacking force swung, attempting to feed what appeared to be a blue-haired girl to one of his curses but to no avail. Quickly, the girl was rescued by someone else.

All of those uniforms around you that were worn by the teenagers at the scene.

You recognised them immediately.

These were sorcerers in training.

So that must have been a teacher that leapt to her rescue, meaning that the opposing forces were not only determined but some of them were also experienced.

Momentarily losing your balance as the attempted attack brushed past you, you were immediately grounded by his sweeping arm that glided to your rescue. Despite your comeback though, you felt a flutter of energy jerk at your core again, flickering a series of jittering sparks that plucked at your heart, making you feel just a touch worse than before.

What timing…!

Kenjaku’s eyes flicked towards you, glancing at you up and down. He acknowledged that you were doing poorly yet again, but he still incorrectly took the blame for it thinking that it was the cause of his actions.

Taking his sights off of you, he then made the conscious decision to act colder to you on the battleground. Refusing to even show you a shred of care (despite knowing you didn’t interpret his actions towards you as such at all) but strategically so; because he was being careful for your sake. If he showed too much interest in you, then you would be more of a target than you already are which would be a problem for the both of you.

So, for now, he had you safely stationed right next to Uraume who had by now caught up to the vicinity. This way, he could move you away from the spotlight of the action and take the fight away from your direction. He didn’t get the best along with Uraume with his involvement being strictly professional at best, but Uraume would do well to protect the common goal and would keep the foes from breaching the area at the very least.

(His main concern after all, was you wasting away from needlessly using your technique. He would drop the cross if needed, but he didn’t want to do it so soon, especially not knowing whether or not the pendant could sustain you well enough to keep you going. It was all a risk and too much of a big one to gamble on the spot.)

Soon, his attention was planted onto the death painting, Choso, who came marching into the scene with a sense of demand heavy on his words, insisting that Kenjaku answer for his crimes.

You personally chose to listen in, wondering exactly what type of person Kenjaku truly was. You knew that he wasn’t good, that he did a lot of wrong but you didn’t know the full story of why or when or how or what have you; he was a mystery to you—even after all of this time.

Choso continued to move forward, quickly closing in the gap where everyone stood, hatred rolling off of his tongue as he announced his findings, “I know the truth now, all those bodies, all of what you have done and my existence, I-I…”

You squeezed your eyes in recognition as the death painting continued on to naming one of the past identities used by the entity occupying Kenjaku’s body. You have heard that name before back in your school days; the stain on the Kamo clan who committed crimes against humanity.

(Immediately your mind fished out a memory of him not wanting you to befriend Choso, could this have been why…?)

Your mind continued to search for relevant information, remembering the exact very things that his past identity did so. He was taught as a subject in history as a means of prevention. You recalled some of it. How he carried out inhumane experiments on unwilling participants, so vile that the clan had to have the recorded attempts destroyed and yet… the person who supposedly was responsible stood right beside you…?

“…And the way we were created,” Choso continued to announce, detailing the way that the death paintings came to be.

Something knotted in your stomach, as if your guts were twisting and churning upon the discovery of his actions. In some ways you were partially unsurprised, given exactly what he did to you. In other ways, it hit you with just how completely and utterly vile it all was.

What he did to you, how he orchestrated the death of innocents, the technique he used to further his life and just how easily he seemingly sealed the six eyes user.

It was nauseating, dizzying even and yet to some some sort of miracle, you held on. You were still conscious rather than blissfully asleep from such overwhelming news dished out at you continuously.

Was it because of fear…?

…Or was it because nothing surprised you anymore?

Perhaps both?

You were so struck in the exact sort of mess you found yourself entangled in, that you had no choice but to accept the words that the death painting continued to unload onto your unwilling ears. Escape wasn’t an option, dying apparently wasn’t either and so the only option leftover was… acceptance?

In the light of it, you sank your sights directly to the ground. Avoiding eye contact with everyone else was your top priority now, because with acceptance, followed shame and you were full of it—overflowing, in fact.

Thinking back to Choso and your discussions on humanity, the feeling of it manifested stronger. Maybe it was indeed for the best that you didn’t get closer, because what complete and utter betrayal that would have been from you.

Choso continued on, seeming to acknowledge you, “Are you ever going to wake up from those lies, [name]?”

Kenjaku, noticing your expressions with subtly thrown looks at your whole demeanour was quick to reply on your behalf instead, intending to deflect the hatred right back at him (and to keep you out of it).

“Oh? But it’s only about time that you found out, no?” Kenjaku asked in a mocking tone, forcing Choso to reflect on his own ignorance. In truth, he didn’t care about being found out, he wanted for people to acknowledge his hard work. No regrets in what he’s done, as he always thought.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Choso seethed, continuing to reveal more and more about this messy situation; how he was in fact the half brother of the pink haired teenager, who you now came to understand was called Yuji. The finger-eater. That was him…?

Sighing again, you internally cursed at yourself wondering what exactly you got yourself into. You supposed it did make sense though; if Kenjaku was truly so old, then the weight of his past crimes must have been too heavy for one person alone to carry. It felt just mostly overwhelming as the list never seemed to end, leaving you confused as to why an entity like that had bothered even saving you before remembering exactly the reason.

Everything he ever did was for himself, right?

All of the attempts to restore you properly were out of self interest, but you knew that already, if he restored you the way that he intended… then, you would have been quite the powerful weapon with your technique.

So why did he still keep you alive when that much failed?

It couldn’t have been because he cared.

Regardless of what it was, it wasn’t like you had a say in this whole thing to begin with. In your original plan, or whatever you could call it, you were set to die. The limited amount of time you had in this world ran out long ago. All he did was delay it.

Selfish minded, indeed.

All he did was continue to make you feel worse while he continued to keep you around for his own sake.

Had he truly cared about you, he would have let you go long ago by now.

(But he couldn’t. Not when he found someone he actually could tolerate in such a close proximity. You were more important than you knew; more important than he was willing to admit.)

So no matter what Choso would ask you, there was no truth for you to wake up from to begin with.

You were doomed from the second his eyes met yours.

One little thing did leave you feeling a little uncertain though. This was how he treated his own blood; his family.

So what hope did that leave for someone like you?

(You were involved with him weren’t you?)

Kenjaku in the meantime could very much tell that you were internally conflicting with something in your mind, not feeling too good about how you might be processing it. If you were plotting yet another attempt to distance yourself from him, then you had a good opening due to the opposing company circling in on the two of you.

In the heat of the incoming battle, he could be forced to successfully let you go.

And just then, Choso pulled the two of you out of such distracted thoughts, firing a scarlet red beam of gushing tendrils that wisped pointed spears towards Uraume who then blocked it with their hands. Kenjaku stepped back ever so slightly to avoid the splash damage, quickly pulling you off to the side so that you didn’t suffer a hit either.

Choso’s technique was annoying to deal with, after all. His blood manipulation could be easily blocked off through just hand to hand combat, especially with his form of fighting style (the very same that he passed onto you), but it was the issue of even a mere graze causing more damage than it was worth fighting him.

As a result, he tanked the fight, leaving you behind with Uraume just as he had originally planned to do so.

Throwing himself forward, he kept the flurry of the blood manipulation user’s attacks at bay as Choso ascended into the skies along with him in an offensive pursuit.

You watched on as he didn’t seem to break a single sweat during the battle, cutting down and stalling all attempts that Choso unleashed upon him. During some moments of the fight, you could even swear that he was enjoying it.

With continued unsettled feelings, you were beginning to understand just how much he actually held off on you. The display of strength that he actively demonstrated in the midst of combat was already telling enough with such swift and decisive movements that you wouldn’t have been able to go against. Not at all. Even if you were in what was your peak condition from your glory days facing him with your technique, you likely wouldn’t have gotten close at all.

In the midst of your awe however, Uraume sprang into action to keep the approaching attackers at bay from where you both stood.

Such an action however temporarily separated you, giving the opposing forces a very clear opening on you.

As you anticipated the attack, some sort of flowing energy could suddenly be felt flowing through your veins as though the entirety of your cursed energy was unlocked, spilling away from the vow he locked into you.

(“—you’ll stay under the control of my strings and I’ll occasionally drop the cross for you to use your technique.”)

That’s what he told you before, wasn’t it? The terms of your binding vow.

So that must have been him dropping the cross, giving you a chance to defend yourself as needed.

As such, when the next wave attacks came rolling forward, you acted based on memory alone. Fighting back both with what you knew as well as standing your ground with defensive blocks. The clapped flickering waves of lighting did its part to jolt the attackers back, immobilising them in their tracks which you continued to dispense. However, while you were distracted with the freedom to fight, you didn’t quite notice that the pendant light was jittering, its light waning the longer you kept up the fight; the light beginning to fade.

It was quick as it happened too; suddenly your body simply just felt heavy, anchoring itself to the ground as your sight blurred, plunging you into the all too familiar darkness that you had been yearning for all this time.

And yet this time you didn’t want to let go.

At least not anymore.

Not when it was all finally starting to make sense.

[misc-obeyme]

Hey cc

So in the vampire pop quiz I think it was Dia who said something very interesting "looks like they are fixated on mc because mc is the manifestation of their desires" now that did align well with my effort to understand why would all 7 of them be this obsessed lol

Anyway in my head mc goes like guys that's just my idea of how a proper human should be lol pretty sure if any other human ended up here who kinda like hot demons you all would be obsessed about that human too

Anyway, can I request a drabble about this kind of mc not insecure, just not understanding why mc deserving all this attention

Barb would be interesting to drabble about this since it took him sooooo looooong to open up to mc a bit

happy to see you are still having fun with Barbs thirst trap 😎

-🐆

Hi there, 🐆 anon! I apologize for the delay on this - it's been taking me a little longer than I anticipated to get through the drabble requests...

Augh the Barbatos shower picture is going to be the death of me, I swear. I'm still thinking about a nsfw drabble based on one of his lines lkasdfkjfj it's a problem, I swear.

Anyway, here's a Barb drabble with MC not getting why the demons are obsessed with them! I thought it was a cute little scenario. And Barb is just being super romantic as always lol. I can't help it, I am but a humble fluff writer.

Barbatos could see it on your face - a subtle expression that the others might not pick up on. It told him the story of how you were trying your best to hide your own confusion. It was something that happened every time one of the brothers complimented you, when they fought over you, when they expressed this need to always be near you. A slight furrow of your brow, the tiniest downturn of your lips, the fleeting uncertainty that flashed through your eyes.

Ever since your first day in the Devildom, Barbatos had seen this look. He was always watching you. The more he did, the more it became clear to him that you didn't understand why everyone seemed to think there was something special about you.

Perhaps he waited too long. Perhaps he should have mentioned it to you sooner. But you didn't seem distressed. All he ever saw was bafflement. So he let it be for quite some time. Until he finally found himself alone with you when it displayed itself.

Barbatos had been pouring you a cup of tea as he heard about the brothers' latest antics. You were telling him that they had been arguing over who got to work with you on an upcoming school project.

"And then Levi got involved and I had to calm everybody down before Lotan was summoned," you said.

You were looking down at the table, your mind clearly elsewhere, when that expression flashed across your face.

Barbatos put down the teapot. "Does it make you uncomfortable, MC? When they argue over you this way?"

You met his eyes, seemingly startled by his question. "No," you said. "It's a little silly, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable. Why do you ask?"

"It's only that I've noticed the look of confusion you sometimes have in moments like these," Barbatos said. "As if there's something that troubles you about it."

You frowned in thought for a moment. "I guess I just don't understand why they care so much? Why do they think I deserve this much attention? I just act like a regular human would. Why are they so… obsessed?"

Barbatos chuckled. "Do you truly not see? This is exactly what makes you so fascinating."

"I don't know what you mean," you said.

"Despite being a totally unique individual, you still believe you are ordinary," Barbatos said gently. "I have been alive for a long time, MC. I have met many humans. No two are alike. You are not 'regular' because there is no such thing. You are yourself and that is why we love you."

Barbatos was pleased to see that confused look replaced by a soft blush. "You…?" you couldn't finish your question.

Barbatos took your hand and kissed the back of it. "Indeed," he said. "Even I have fallen under your spell. I will remind you of how special you are for the rest of your life if I must."

You laughed, a little taken aback. "I don't think that's going to be necessary."

Barbatos only smiled, your hand still clasped in his. He was content to see such a soft and sweet expression on your face, a glint of happiness in your eyes. Despite what you said, if he ever did see that confusion there again, he would do everything he could to bring your smile back instead.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Cassie: Friend, Soulmate, and Self-Regenerating Muse

One of the ongoing themes of my multi-book series is The Muse: the consciousness, archetype, and ways of moving and being of the Muse, who is the Muse and why this energetic matrix is important for every femme to embody for her aliveness and manifestation potential. I made a major edit in this chapter after randomly meeting someone one warm day in Amsterdam recently. The chapter now opens with a story about her.

Cassie is her name and she is stunning. I don’t know what it is about Amsterdam but I rarely—meaning—never —meet people I feel a deep soul kinship with. To be fair, I spend more time biking in Amsterdam instead of walking because the weather is often trashy. But walking is my favorite exercise and I tend to walk a whole lot more in other cities when I’m traveling because, hello, beautiful weather. But on this warm beautiful Sunday in Amsterdam, I joyfully walked everywhere. That’s how I met Cassie, an Indonesian and Surinamese (Black) 38 year old Goddess as she was lightheartedly and confidently sashaying down the street in her short denim dress with peak-a-boo air holes cut out on the sides which illuminated her waist.

She was alone with no cell phone or bag, casually strollin' to her own rhythms while licking a vanilla ice cream cone and delighting in her own innocence and pleasure after walking through the city for hours I would later find out. That is so me—walking for hours in a city and getting lost without a cell phone on me. It was like seeing myself and one of my favorite Minnie Riperton album covers come to life in full-size, "Perfect Angel," the one where she is holding a dripping ice cream cone while smiling so sweetly. Suddenly Cassie made a u-turn and sat on the bench directly across from me. I knew I had to say something to her.

The first thing I said was “you must tell me what you do to have that kind of body.” She responded “you must tell what YOU do to have that kind of body.” She reminded me of me so much—it was dreamy and surreal as watching a Maya Deren “black and white” film yet it was as real as human flesh and a beating heart. You know what her answer was?! “I don’t workout my body. I just workout my mindset and emotional body.” I responded with all manners of celebration “you magical neuroscience quantum theory Gawddddd.” We both laughed! We ended up talking for 4 whole hours— nerding out on everything from quantum physics and metaphysics to speaking about our dreams, love, farm life, and why high-quality, non-extractive penetration (when mutual love and reverence are present regardless of the 'relationship status' between the two) is essential for the healthy shape of a woman’s body and to liberate the deeper coiled wisdom living in her female tissues that no male guru in India could ever possibly understand or teach. It felt like Cassie and I had only been sitting there for only 30 minutes. She was my muse and I was hers. We went on a real journey together.

To open yourself up to The Muse and allow this regenerative consciousness to be your lighthouse in the world requires devotion and a kind of playful endurance and resiliency where you begin to hold a quality of self-worth that does not allow you to give up before the miracles start to happen in your life. Being able to follow a dream -your heart's desires and big visions, capable of trusting the process of what is being divinely asked of you to do and not give up, truly embodying the mindset of a divine being, yield a greater energy of pure power. And what I know about energy is that everything is sourced from it, even though it appears physical to our eyes.

Of course, if you desire to work through the physical/3D world/matter, those things you can logically track and measure, you can. But the truth is that you access more infinite power to shift your body and whole life when you begin to tune into E-N-E-R-G-Y, the subtle, immaterial, and invisible, the spirit that lies beneath the surface, like blessing your food and directing it to travel to the parts of your body you’d like for it to energize or nourish, to make more shapely or healthy. Also, getting into energy work and metaphysics, the essences of your chi, makes you prettier like a beauty ritual, more naturally attractive, magnetic, and wiser. I can’t wait to finalize this chapter and share a snippet here. Yum!—India Ame’ye

[novasjaneway]

Unimatrix Zero Parts I & II. This two part ep (like many other episodes) has me thinking about the subtle intimacy between Janeway and Seven. The ending of Unimatrix just gets me so good I just can't help sharing my thoughts about them.

Janeway: "Ooh, the doctor removed my spinal clamps but it will be awhile before I'm playing hoverball again." A playful Janeway is making jokes about recovering from the assimilation but meanwhile, a concerned Seven reaches out to hold her arm and steady her as she loses her balance. Repeat that, Seven is initiating contact with Janeway. I rarely see her do this with anyone. Janeway is so unguarded with her in this scene. Her vulnerability and trust with Seven seems to continuously grow.

Janeway: "If I ever imply its been easy on you these last few years, remind me about today."

Seven: "Noted." And she smiles with playful amusement at Janeway.

Janeway: "Unimatrix Zero might be gone but it looks like the resistance is alive and kicking. With any luck the collective may never be the same." Janeway says this as she casts a peculiar, perhaps seductive, look at Seven.

Seven: "Korok said he would try to maintain contact, keep us informed." Seven seems very pleased that Janeway is satisfied with the outcome and is behind her 100%. And then suddenly, Janeway is curious about something....

Janeway: "Have you heard from your friend?" Janeways voice drops down several registers and her eyes get super heavy, she practically whispers these words to Seven. She doesn't even speak his name. There seems to be alot of trepidation coming from Janeway about the outcome of Seven and her "friend". Is she concerned, or slightly jealous? The mood has definitely changed from playful business to intimate relations.

Seven: "No, but I don't expect to. Axums vessel is in a remote sector of the beta quadrant."

Janeway: long silent pause with an understanding nod. Why the long pause here Janeway? She's looking her over (perhaps waiting for something else to be said or considering her own feelings?) Janeway is rarely this quiet omg she's breaking my heart with her longing. She nods in understanding that Seven will likely never see Axum again, but there seems to be something else going on behind her eyes, some other kind of feeling that she's trying to supress...is it relief, curiosity, her own desires? Just ughghghgh...the long pause. I can't seem to get over it bc she is so quiet about whatever she's thinking and feeling. It's the way the camera lingers on her too, there is a whole story in that expression.

Seven: "If I ever imply that he was nothing more than a friend, remind me about today." There is a noticeable drop in Sevens register as she says this to Janeway. Also note that she is mirroring the phrase Janeway just recently used. Mirroring is a form of intimacy. There is also a hesitation in her soft spoken words that seems to echo back to earlier in the episode when Janeway asked her who Axum was. A trepidation of her own?

Janeway: THIS LOOK. What is she saying to us, to Seven, to herself? Seven has just revealed very personal information to her trusted friend. She IS capable of romance. Janeway, Kathryn, ma'am, captain...just go ahead, kiss the girl.

Clearly they both have feelings for each other and this scene feels like they're exploring those feelings together, treading very carefully. I can't forget that both of them, without hesitation, were on board with Janeway entering into Sevens psyche to even be in unimatrix zero. That's pretty intimate. All through this episode I kept picking up on intimate vibes between these two. A little bit of jealousy from janeway when she was commenting oh how Annika was enjoying her human side. (Was she jealous that Seven was enjoying her human nature with Axum and not with her?) A little bit of guilt coming from Seven when she remembered the true nature of her relationship with Axum. (Were her feelings for Janeway the source of this guilt?) Janeways startled look of surprise when seven first mentioned Axums name. Seven telling Axum that her name is Seven of Nine when he called her Annika. The way Seven and Janeway both look at each other when entering the mind meld. The fact that Janeway tells chakotay she will not pass up the opportunity to see unimatrix no matter how many headaches she gets from doing the meld. The mind melds themselves are intimacy! Without a hitch Janeway beats down the borg to protect seven, while Axum just stands there. Seven visits her in sickbay. The whole episode has me thinking about them very deeply and I'm in my comfort bay alcove.