#the hopelessness of it all. the coldness the cruelty of asking him to sit on the sidelines and let his dad die

[mangoisms]

also i know i said i’d talk about my thoughts and never did and there’s still Too Much BUT. i will say. spoilers ahead. that i think the whole canon thing is bullshit. just because with miguel, he replaced a dead man. right. the miguel o’hara of that universe died. and he came and replaced him. and i think if we wanted to give any kind of stock to the design of the universe, then miguel’s death was supposed to happen and another miguel replacing him was not and that’s maybe why that universe collapsed.

but for all the others? like inspector singh? he didn’t actually die. and they didn’t go back in time and bring him back, miles just saved him. for all the foreboding black stuff we saw, i think that was just spot’s influence/leftovers from him using the collider. because he was obviously messing with some stuff that could very well screw with the fabric of reality.

and as far as canon goes… it’s literally lyla making an algorithm. it’s a little like correlation does not equate causation, i think. some stuff happens to them so frequently they think it becomes canon. like losing someone they love. and apparently, losing a police captain (which is a whole other thing). they compare notes and it’s like oh wait… this is canon! but it’s just so weird how miguel extrapolated what happened to him (not a canon event?) to everyone else.

like i may be misremembering here but…. it sort of seems like. his universe collapsed. obviously. because he replaced a dead man. and then he… what? started to realize the ways spiders’ lives overlap in terms of defining moments? started to consider it canon? it’s just. it’s a Big Leap. and it really really really is so so so insane when miles asks, so am i supposed to let my dad die? and the way miguel looks at him says, yes. like. man. that is so bleak.

miguel really reminds me of bruce in a lot of ways. not that bruce would be okay, i think, with such an overt admittance of letting someone die without trying to intervene but… setting up such a stringent system and refusing to diverge from it. being so set in what he thinks will happen. and i mean. who knows. if pushed to that kind of decision where it does seem like the multiverse vs. one person…. i don’t know. i’d like to say no, he wouldn’t allow that but at the same time…. the greater good and all that. just food for thought i guess

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

31st Story

Part 2

TW: Captivity, implied past torture, blood mention, restraints, mistrust, starvation mention, defiant whumpee, corrupt system, knife

Heyyy! Long-time no see. I blame college 100% because it takes up all my time, seriously. Happy New Year tho 💙

Villain could tell himself he was already used to the cold, hard embrace of the dull rock of his cell, to the claustrophobia-inducing lack of windows, to the fact that the only times he ever got to see the light was when someone walked in to beat him senseless, a feat made incredibly easy with the help of the chains that shackled his wrists and ankles, not allowing for much movement.

He could pretend that being covered in blood and filth, dazed and starving, was nothing to him, that the maddening urge to find out what time it was wasn't gnawing at him torturously.

"In here, wishful thinking is all you are capable of," a sunken-faced, old prisoner had told him before he was thrown into his personal hellhole. He hadn't said anything, but he'd believed the old hag to be weak and hopeless, and thus so was her sentiment.

Right now, all he wondered was if he'd break even faster than that woman might have. The villain screwed his eyes shut, hoping it would stop the chain of thoughts poisoning his mind, but all that did was make him think clearer, every disturbing image he tried so desperately to expel growing clearer and more vivid by the moment.

It was bad enough handling the physical pain, where every time he so much as shifted his form slightly, the tormented muscles in his back would scream in protest. But the physical side was tolerable, compared to being left at the mercy of his mind; a cruel, sinister thing.

So consumed he was in his own reverie, he hadn't even noticed as the door to his cell was unlocked, at least not until the light skirting around the corner had him snapping his eyes open and sitting up.

"This doesn't look good on you," a silky, almost serpentine voice called out.

"Superhero?" he asked, despising the note of trepidation in his voice.

"No. Just her lacklustre twin," she scoffed.

"Vigilante," he deduced with a slight fall of his shoulders in relief. It's not that he believed Vigilante would treat him well, it's just that no one could rival Superhero in cruelty.

"Still ever the genius," she responded dryly.

"What do you want?" he asked, almost desperate. If she was here to torment him, he wanted her to get over with it. It was becoming progressively more difficult to bear the state in which he was in, the one chock-full of waiting and thinning patience, of hoping the pain would start so it could end, that this time would pass faster.

Except it never did.

"It's strange seeing someone normally so high and mighty like this," she attested, dodging his question.

The older version of him would have let out a frustrated snarl and cussed her out for annoying him, but now all he could do was bite his tongue and stare at her with his new resting face, broken and defeated.

"Well, I'm not here to hurt you," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

That was a response, albeit an indirect one. And of course, she wasn't here to hurt him. She was here to make sure he was comfortable, that he was enjoying his five-star stay in this resort in hell.

Sucks to have an army of enemies and not a single semblance of a friend.

He and Vigilante hadn't really had any direct bad blood, but he was a villain locked up in here, so by default, he was supposed to be her enemy, right? It didn't matter who walked in here or whether they knew him or not. They just loved to see him break, to see him, once so relentlessly powerful, reduced to less than nothing. Perhaps it brought them a sort of sick satisfaction, but he didn't know much about satisfaction anymore to judge.

"I'm going to get you out of here," she said casually, like promising him the impossible was some sort of small punishment, nothing to tear himself up about. Maybe she could rival her sister in cruelty.

Without warning, a hysterical laugh escaped his throat, only for him to bite his lip and stop abruptly, trying to clamp a hand over his mouth only for him to remember he was chained up.

Vigilante's face fell, and his own had silent tears streaming down it. He felt as though he couldn't breathe, as though bricks were raining down on his shoulders and crushing his bones into nothing. His whole being seemed to itch with dread.

"Villain?" Vigilante called out, looking a mixture of confused and horrified.

"Just get over with it! Torture me until the floor runs red with my blood, tell me how death is a mercy above vermin like myself, and tell me to take it with a smile. Hit me harder when I can't bring myself to do it. Hit me until I feel all the pain of death but never attain it. Remember my current words as defiance, as another crime I've committed. I think watching me be humbled to the nothing I truly am will entertain you as any show would," he spat, only for regret to colour his features just as fast.

"Damn it. Villain, I don't want to do. . .any of this to you," Vigilante started, careful, trying for a semblance of gentle, something she was never particularly good at. "Like I said, I'm going to get you out of here," she continued again, hoping the stern tone indicated she was serious and not somehow going to torture him.

She'd never particularly liked him, mainly because he'd always been ice-cold, calculated to a point he seemed inhuman at times, no emotion whatsoever showing up on his face, besides a cool smugness. And by virtue of all the terrible things he'd done, all the blood on his hands. And yet, he was far from the worst thing out there, and most definitely not the villain in her story.

"And let's pretend you're telling the truth, which is completely fine by me because any mercy I've ever had here has always been a pretence, a figment of my imagination, you know. What could you possibly gain from this?" He raised an eyebrow, bearing a small resemblance to his usual self. Well, at least there was a slight amount of fight left in him, even if he was clearly holding back tears now.

But the villain's question wasn't completely outlandish. Vigilante did want something from him, but it wasn't a favour he would ever come to hate. "I need your help. My sister may seem like the goddamn tooth fairy to those who don't know better, but we know what her regime is really doing. This isn't about fighting crime, it's about her insatiable addiction to power."

"And where do I belong here?" The villain's voice still held the same disbelieving tone, his shoulders managing to tense even further.

"You're one of the few people who challenged her, Villain. And as much as it pains me to say it, you're a good strategist," she explained, even though she knew she'd barely convinced him in the slightest.

"I can't be the only one fitting that description, but I can be the only one owing you a favour too," he answered. Even if he didn't look half as confident, half as untouchable as before, the criminal was still just as clever. But it also meant he wasn't believing her anytime soon. Still, he wasn't wrong. The villain may not have smelled like roses all the time, but he'd be loyal to make sure they were even; a man of his word.

"What's it gonna be, Villain? Come with me or stay here?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest, growing impatient.

Well, it didn't make sense for her to give him a choice if she was going to torture him, but sense no longer governed things in his mind, letting a fearful apprehension replace it, no matter how humiliating. The choice could easily be an illusion, another cruel joke in this comedy skit from the filthiest parts of hell.

But it could be a chance, and he was desperate. So desperate he'd risk feeling even further degraded when she laughed in his face and put him through whatever torment she'd have planned.

"Fine," he answered, looking up at her with trepidation in his eyes. He could already feel the regret tasting like salt on his tongue and the burn of acid at the back of his throat he recognised as shame.

So when the sound of his chains being unlocked rang in his ears, and the vigilante helped him up, the feeling of surprise was palpable.

"I just need to handcuff you while they can see us," she explained, noticing how slowly the villain nodded, mistrust still burning in his eyes.

She didn't like how weightless he seemed against her, barely able to walk. She hadn't fought him much, but she clearly remembered that while his frame was somewhat slender, the villain's build still used to be athletic. It was no surprise he'd deteriorated, but that didn't make his fate any less cruel.

"I'm moving him to the other facility," she announced, practically dragging the half-starved villain with her, the only response being curt nods from the guards.

They were lucky that no one here would dare question Superhero and by default, her sister, if they could even tell the difference between both.

And sure enough, there was an entry documented into the other facility, done with the help of a few handsomely paid workers. And while Superhero wouldn't buy into the lie for long, it would at least make sure she didn’t notice immediately that something was up.

✨️Break✨️

The drive to Vigilante's house was almost torturously long and reeking of the tension of two people who weren't used to each other. The villain ran his fingers over his wrists, now free of handcuffs, but they still hurt. All of him hurt, a constant, dull pain that he was almost used to, but that didn't mean he didn't miss the times where he could remember moments without aches all over his body.

That was only the least of it anyway.

"I think you'd want to clean up," the vigilante had suggested when they'd got to her house.

Instead of an off-hand "yeah" like he'd meant to, the first words that foolishly came tumbling out of his mouth were: "I can?"

This wasn't an option they gave him back there, and soon enough he'd stopped caring entirely.

"Oh," Vigilante had responded, giving him a solemn look. "I mean, yes, of course you can," she corrected hastily.

He nodded, quite literally shoving himself into the bathroom and swallowing down the awkward shame in his throat.

He'd grown so accustomed to pain that he'd barely even noticed the sting of the hot water on his open, practically fresh wounds, or how the shower water underneath him turned a dull pink. He was a lot more focused on how his sore muscles relaxed with the heat, how he seemed to get lighter with all the dirt off him, good sensations having become foreign to him in the time of his captivity.

He walked out to find a change of clothes (his clothes) on the bed in the room outside, catching his reflection in the mirror, bruises lining his cheekbones and jaw and heavy, dark circles underneath his eyes. The villain simply ignored the old memories of himself taking the time to style his hair and care for his skin, his mind hardwired for survival, looking around the room for anything he could use in case he had to defend himself.

Not that Vigilante was stupid enough for that.

Still, if she wished to hurt him, she could've done it faster, could've done it earlier. Maybe the villain wouldn't trust her blindly, but so far, he hated her less bitterly than he hated everyone else.

"How'd you get these?" he asked, walking out, looking down at the black zip-up hoodie and black sweats.

Vigilante shrugged. "From your place."

"You broke into my- whatever." It wasn't the strangest part about the situation now. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I think you need to rest," she suggested.

And she was entirely correct, given his exhaustion and how the shower had made him somewhat sleepy, so he nodded his head, walking into "his" room and waiting until she walked up to her room, waiting until he could walk out and check if she'd slept, and once he was sure, he walked into the kitchen, picking up a knife and bringing it to his room.

The villain knew it was scummy, but he wasn't about to risk being hurt again, and if the vigilante truly had good intentions, the knife would never be put to use. Still, the villain had managed to fall into a fitful sleep, still better than any night he spent curled up on a cold, hard floor.

Trust is never easy, especially for those who have been hurt one too many times. But people were not made to live forever encased in solitude, a safe option to the blind and foolish, but never a permanent solution. And while taking a risk in times of suffering might seem like a wretched fate, sometimes it is the lifeline you need to breathe again.

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[naprawxmnie]

a daughter’s perdition || viktoria petrova

“Your mother is dead, Viktoria.”

Ten years had passed. Ten years and not a day went by when the girl did not think of the warmth of her mother’s embrace. The comfort of her voice. Both the love and the pain in her eyes. All the precious memories gathered in the bare eight years they shared together; memories she did her best to guard and preserve, despite the dust of years blurring them sometimes to the point of being unable to tell if they were real or a dream born out of desperate longing.

The darkness of the graveyard was almost impenetrable, if not for the faint light of a lit cigarette resting in Viktoria’s mouth as she sat on the ground in front of her mother’s grave. In the first months after her mother’s death she thought the gravestone was useless, as no one ever got the chance of retrieving the body. However, when that most important person is brutally ripped from your life, you learn to be grateful even for a piece of cold stone with their name.

Tatiana Petrova beloved

Three words. For some reason, the existence that spanned over a millennium could be summed up in just those three words.

And they were enough. There was nothing to add.

For how could you fit such a rich existence on an ordinary gravestone? How could you fit the centuries of torment, the endless acts of both kindness and cruelty? How do you sum up lifetimes that had been equally bloody as they were compassionate? Viktoria sometimes came to the conclusion that even if given enough space, she would be unable to find the words to describe it.

As the cold winter wind blew through the cemetery, Viktoria shook off the remnants of those thoughts. What use were they now? Letting her mind wander off in such directions was like asking for her rage to take over her once more.

The rage was constant. Even right after Tatia’s death, her daughter learned to cope by allowing the passion and anger to engulf her in flames, burning off any of the other unwanted emotions that followed her mother’s passing. The sorrow, the hopelessness, the solitude. If she cultivated her fury, adding more fuel to its flame, all those other emotions would eventually burn away, right?

Right?

~

“Who is that?” the six-year-old girl ran to her mother with a wide grin on her childish face. At that time it didn’t matter to her that two of her front teeth were missing, her hair was a tangled mess, and the skin of her bruised knees was still sore. Viktoria didn’t pay it any attention even as she kneeled right on those bruises beside her mother.

Tatia turned her head ever so slightly from the boxes she had been packing to check was sparked her daughter’s interest. Upon seeing the old photograph Viktoria held, Tatia couldn’t help but smile softly, taking it into her own hands. Age may have not been kind to the photo, taking away its sharpness and biting at the edges, but she’d recognize it anywhere.

“And where exactly did you find that?” was her first question as her gaze moved to rest questioningly at her daughter. Such photos were kept away in a place Viktoria shouldn’t even be able to reach.

“Who is that?” despite the blush slowly blooming on her cheeks, Viktoria was relentless. However, in that moment it was more important to her that her mother focused on something other than the old box at the high shelf in the closet. A box that had been ‘accidentally’ knocked over by Viktoria and her trusty broom when she’d been playing there.

Tatia could already guess the vague outline of events that led Viktoria to her discovery, but she decided against pursuing the matter. Instead, she took the child in her arms, making her sit at her lap so they could both have a good view of the old photograph.

“This is Uncle Mike. I’ve told you some stories about him when you were younger. You probably don’t even remember them by now.”

“Is he the one who lost a bet and had to perform as a lady in an opera?”

A rich laugh erupted from Tatia’s lips.

“You do remember him!”

What Tatia chose not to tell her daughter was that he only did it because Tatia tricked him into a drinking contest, knowing well that she’d lose it; but not before Mike was drunk enough to actually keep his word and compel the theatre director to let him onto the stage in a makeshift female costume.

“Is Uncle Mike dead?” a logical question to ask, surprisingly. Most people from her mother’s stories were dead, with only stories and an occasional photograph to leave behind.

“Oh no, Uncle Mike is still very much alive. I should take you to meet him someday,” the only reason why Tatia hadn’t done that yet, was because she vowed not to let her daughter near any vampires until she was old enough. Even though she had trusted Mike with her life, she did not trust the world that surrounded him. “I’m sure he would love to meet you.”

In the six years that Viktoria was alive Tatia and Mike crossed paths a couple of times already. He knew about Tatia being a vampire, about Viktoria. But those meetings were usually rare and prematurely cut short due to whatever external supernatural circumstances hung over them at a given time. Yet another reason why Tatia thought it best to wait before introducing her daughter to her best friend.

“You know, before Uncle Adam took me in, it was Uncle Mike that helped me when I was pregnant with you. He was the first person I told and the one I trusted most with that knowledge.”

Although Tatia kept most of her stories to herself for obvious reasons, she tried to be as open as possible about he struggles of her life with Viktoria. She may have been young, but Tatia believed that children were much smarter and durable than people often gave them credit for. And so Viktoria knew, even at the young age of six that her mother’s trust was not an easy thing to gain.

If Uncle Mike was truly such a trusted friend of Tatia… Viktoria understood just how important he had to be.

~

Small particles of dust danced in the air against the light of the sun setting outside.

Same boxes that Viktoria remembered helping her mother pack those few times they were forced to move places, for whatever reason; either someone trying to track Tatia down, a suspicious hunter/supernatural activity, or simply people getting suspicious of the young woman who seemed not to age a single day.

It’d already been years since Viktoria dared to go near them. A collection of photos, journals, and other objects her mother gathered in her fruitful life. As a kid, Viktoria didn’t even bother to question how could someone condense a millennium of experiences and memories into a few old boxes. But going through the journals, it was clear that Tatia never liked to keep things for the sake of keeping them. Only things she cared for deeply would be deemed worthy of keeping.

The journals were what Viktoria was most thankful for. They allowed her a glimpse into the true life of her mother. The one she had been too young to be told when Tatia had still been alive. And things so intimate, Viktoria sometimes felt guilty for having read them. But it was only thanks to them that she came to understand who her mother had really been. Not just the motherly figure who told her impossible stories full of wonders, but a warrior of a woman who fought every day of her life not to let the darkness inside her spill to the world and people she cared for so deeply.

That’s why it hurt so much more that among the things Tatia decided to keep and take with her wherever she moved held some connection to that one man. The one who ruined everything.

~

“You look so much like her… Has anyone ever told you that?”

Viktoria heard that a lot, actually. The uncanny resemblance to her late mother was clearly both a source of amazement and horror to most people who had known her. Viktoria didn’t find it surprising in the slightest; experience taught her that only an elite group of closest friends had known Tatia as she had really been.

Everyone else? They had only known the legend of the bloodthirsty demon feasting on blood of humans and supernaturals alike.

“Has anyone ever told you how flattery will get you nowhere?” Viktoria’s tone had been cold as she walked through the witch’s house, assessing thoroughly. She was grateful for the witch’s apparent affinity for hanging mirrors on seemingly every bare surface of the walls. It was details like these that helped her make up for her lack of supernatural senses. After all, most humans would ignore that fact and fail to notice the witch reaching for a knife laying on the worktable.

Most humans wouldn’t even need that kind of skill.

“I’d leave that alone if I were you,” Viktoria muttered in a low tone, not sparing a single look at the witch as she made her way to the chair in the living area of the house. It was only as Viktoria sat that her gaze returned to the bewildered woman.

“How did you…?”

“You’re not the one who’s going to ask questions today,” Viktoria’s eyes narrowed as she examined the witch, trying to assess whether another attack was coming or not. Luckily, the witch had been well aware of Viktoria’s reputation, if the crippling fear in her eyes was any indication.

Good. Fighting would mean less time for answers.

“My sources tell me that years ago you belonged to a coven. One that aimed towards restoring ‘the natural balance’ of the world,” the venom was dripping from her voice as she said it. Of all the supernatural beings in the world, witches might have been her least favorite. Always on their high horse, failing to notice their own wrongdoings. “My question is,” Viktoria schooled her voice to a calm lethality, carefully keeping her temper on a leash. “What do you know of what happened on the night of 22nd February ten years ago?”

The witch visibly gulped, having correctly guessed the purpose of the visit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Despite trying her best to keep her composure calm and collected, even Viktoria’s human eyes could see the sweat slowly gathering on the witch’s forehead.

Only the years of training kept Viktoria from releasing an animalistic growl. “I assume you do not fully realise the severity of your position. Allow me to shed some light then,” Viktoria got up from the seat. “Your house is now surrounded by, I’m guessing… over two dozen vampires? All of them ready to be invited in and rip you to shreds if you continue playing ignorant. So I’m going to ask this one…” a step forward “more” another one “time.”

Three steps. That was all it took for her to close distance between her and the witch. Standing mere inches away from her, Viktoria realised how pathetic this woman was. She had to be nearing forty, which meant that she had plenty of time to develop her magical and non-magical skills, but just knowing whom she had in front of her was enough to make her freeze in her place without even trying to harm Viktoria. What must have been decades of experience rendered useless by an appearance of a teenager.

“What do you know?”

Underneath the thick layer of fear, Viktoria noticed something else brewing in the witch’s eyes; anger. Anger at her utter helplessness.

“My coven may have had a hand in your mother’s death. But she did not die by the hands of a witch. The hand that drove the stake through her heart was the hand of a friend.”

Viktoria should have shown some type of shock. Unfortunately, the witch’s words were just a confirmation of what she had already suspected. For the past two years Viktoria sought answers to the specific circumstances of her mother’s death, as none of her mother’s friends could ever give her a straight answer. Although the involvement of witches’ was undeniable, the actual culprit responsible for dealing the fatal blow remained at large.

“Who?” was Viktoria’s only question.

The witch hesitated at first, but the ice in Viktoria’s eyes seemed to convince her that it was better to help Viktoria than to suffer at her wrath.

“Mike Reed.”

Keeping a cool expression seemed impossible at that moment. Although Viktoria never actually got the chance to meet her mother’s best friend, she spent so much time going through Tatia’s journals and old photographs. She believed she’d had a decent understanding of their relationship. But knowing this, that her mother had been murdered by him… How could that be?

Momentarily Viktoria was inclined to call the witch out on her lie. The Mike Viktoria knew from her mother’s stories, both told in person and kept in the form of journal entries, would sooner end himself than willingly hurt his mother. But at the same time… all those loose ends Viktoria tried to tie into a coherent version of events suddenly snapped to place by themselves, in the light of this shocking revelation.

Mike had been the one to kill her mother.

Viktoria did not say another word to the witch. All she did was move past her, towards the door.

As she opened them, a group of vampires stood at the entrance, ready to follow her command, whatever it may be.

Still standing on the inside of the house, Viktoria regarded them for a moment. Some of them had been her mother’s friends. Others were her training companions, some vampires that she helped rescue. Either way, all of them willingly joined her in her path to revenge, letting her take the lead.

“Come in,” she said; and before her foot touched the ground of the other side of the house, the vampires were already inside, circling the witch like hungry vultures.

“You said you wouldn’t invite them in!” she could hear the witch’s voice from behind her back. This time there were no mirrors to help her assess what was happening where her gaze couldn’t reach, but Viktoria didn’t feel any need to turn around to investigate.

“All I said was that if you continued to play dumb, I would invite them in.” a smile sprouted on her face as she looked towards the sky. “But who said that telling me the truth would spare you that fate?”

~

The ground beneath her was cold, but Viktoria refused to leave her mother’s gravestone. Winter had barely started, but snow has already begun falling scarcely from the sky. If she wanted to be in her best shape for what was to come, she should get up. How pathetic would that be if her revenge was postponed due to something as plain as a cold?

Still, she hesitated.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

It was only when another figure came to the gravestone that Viktoria moved. There was no need to turn her gaze to the man; she would recognize his voice anywhere. Mark had been one of her earliest training companions and the closest thing she had to a friend.

Which didn’t mean he always approved of how she approached the subject of revenge.

“Who cares if it’s good or not?” she asked him in return, taking out an old album from her bag. “It’s necessary.”

Given how many old photographs Tatia used to keep, one might think she had a lot of photo albums to keep them organised. But the truth was, most of the photos were stacked together tied by a string. The albums were mostly reserved for Viktoria’s childhood photos… or for him.

That one old album was the only thing Viktoria took from their old house. Most of the time she treated her mother’s belongings like relics of a Saint. To be analysed, admired, but ultimately left alone. As if she might one day come back to reclaim them.

Even though Tatia would never be coming back.

Not with her soul scattered to the wind.

The thought usually brought tears to Viktoria’s eyes. The thought that even if at some point she would encounter a witch powerful enough to bring someone back from the dead… her mother’s soul had been lost. Despite many attempts, no one could locate her. No matter the spell, no matter the sacrifice, her soul had been lost. Even if the barriers separating the living from the dead had been destroyed, Tatia would not be back. A devastating thought.

Most of the time it was devastating. But at that moment it gave Viktoria courage to throw the album in front of the grave and take out a bottle of gasoline and a lighter. Her mother would not come back to gaze at the album again.

And the man in the pictures did not deserve it anyway.

As soon as the fire came in contact with gasoline, the album erupted into flames. Pages began darkening, curling into themselves before disintegrating and flying towards the sky, carried by the winter wind.

“So what now?” Mark asked, not taking his gaze away from the flames.

“Now,” Viktoria’s breath was a cloud of mist in the winter wind. “I’m going to hunt him down.”

[tulipwritings]

Let you see the heart that's inside ✧ I

Pairing: The Darkling / Aleksander Morozova x Reader (Sun Summoner)

Trope: Enemies to lovers.

Warnings: Mention of sexual assault.

(Gif's not mine)

You wrapped your kefta closely around you as you stumbled through the hallway of the Little Palace. You felt like crying but the numbness of not fully grasping what just had happened stopped you from sobbing and screaming.

You had liked Pyotr. He was your closest and only friend ever since you arrived at the Little Palace after the Darkling found you — his Sun Summoner. Your stay turned out to be a tough time, barely finding friends since most of the other Grisha held grudges against you, envying the Sun Summoner who the Darkling was so keen on, even though behind the closed doors of the war room, the both of you kept fighting, divided by disagreement on how to act regarding the Shadow Fold. He wanted to use it as a weapon which you highly disagreed with. Once the Darkling realized your stubborness and that he couldn’t simply wrap you around his finger, his behaviour changed towards you, being distant and not hiding the fact how annoyed he was in your presence. Probably the only reason for him to not simply get rid of you was that he needed a Sun Summoner and you were the only one around. Oh, how you'd love to make room for those other Grisha, there was nothing to envy about bearing the bad-tempered Darkling.

You've been on your own your whole life, the loneliness had been such a familiar feeling that it didn’t feel lonely anymore at some point. Until you met Pyotr and you got used to him being around. But now you felt sick to your stomach only thinking about him, his stupid face and red kefta. When you visited him in his room this evening so you could go to the great hall together where dinner is served, he grabbed you by your wrists, starting to kiss your neck and once you tried to push him away, he slowed down your heart rate, making you defenseless. Now, stepping through the hallway trying to get to your room as quick as possible, you could still feel his hands on your body and hear the echo of his words over and over again. "Come on, (Y/N). You've been so sweet and kind, you showed me that you want me for quite some time now..." His powers of a Heartrender stopped you from objecting, all you could do was watching him touch and kiss you.

"Dinner is that way" a cold and yet soft voice said. The Darkling seemed to have a good day, at least that's what the rare softness in his voice gave away.

"I'm not hungry, get out of my face" you spat, not looking at him as you tried to pass him, but his hand shot forward, grabbing your wrist and pulling you backwards until his body blocked your way.

"I beg your pardon?" The softness in his voice was gone, there was a dangerous edge to it now. His touch made you panic and all of a sudden the numbness lost its fight against the tears, making you sob right in front of him, which made all of it even worse, since the least you wanted was showing weakness in front of the Darkling, who'd use it against you as soon as it was of use. "Let go of me! I'll never be kind again!", you shouted, knowing your words must sound ridiculous without any context, before your voice broke and your tears stopped you from saying anything else. The Darkling let go of you without even blinking. He was slightly startled, almost sorry once he noticed your shattered reaction.

"(Y/N)... wha- what happened?" he asked troubled, raising his hand for a second, wanting to touch your back to comfort you until he realized his touch had made you panic just seconds ago. He bowed forward, his face only inches apart from yours, as his raven eyes locked with yours. "Tell me."

He waited patiently until you gathered enough strength to gulp back your sobs, shakingly speaking up about what happened. Once he heard what Pyotr had done he stiffened, clenching his jaw and protectively looking up and down the hallway, checking if there was any sight of the Heartrender.

"Go to your room and take a bath.", he ordered, "I'll check in on you later."

✧・✧・✧・✧

You were sitting in your nightgown on your bed, your hair still damp as you heard a soft knock on your door.

"Come in..." Your voice was barely a hoarse. You had took a hot bath, eagerly soaping your body and hoping to wash off the feeling of Pyotr's hands on your skin. It's been hopeless — you felt used, dirty even. If you could, you'd shed your skin, leaving the unsolicited touch behind.

The Darkling stepped in, a tray in his hand that he placed in front of you. "I want you to eat something, (Y/N)."

You sighed, thinking about food made you feel like throwing up already.

"I'll leave the Little Palace tomorrow, I can't stand to see him again." And you couldn’t stand the thought of your only friend betraying you, the thought of fighting with the Darkling when there was no one around to rant about his self-centered, greedy behaviour, the thought of being among other Grisha and still being all alone. You had lost your only friend — if he had ever been a friend. You felt empty and lost. Unlovable, worthless. As if Pyotr had stolen your value.

"You won't leave the Little Palace..."

"So, I'm a captive now?" you snapped.

The Darkling took a deep breath. You could sense that he was annoyed with you interrupting him, but for once he was patient and remained soft instead of threatening you as he did the countless times you were arguing in the war room.

"You’re not held captive, Pyotr is." he stated, now sitting down on the edge of your bed, still giving you space and respecting your boundaries.

Your eyes went wide. "You... you believe me?"

"Are you fucking with me?!" There he was — the annoyed Darkling, angry with something you said. This time you couldn’t be mad at him, his reaction felt nearly soothing.

"I want Grisha to be safe." he went on. "The Little Palace is supposed to be a safe place for Grisha, I won't tolerate any kind of violence that isn't at my command. Speaking of...", he frowned, "I don't want you to have breakfast with the others tomorrow. You'll eat in your room, I'll have servants take care of it." He got up from your mattress, but stopped as soon as he reached your door. "And (Y/N)... don’t let the cruelty of others take away your kindness. It can be strength too." He left before you had a chance to ask any further questions.

Once he had closed the door, he left you behind with the unknown feeling of wanting him to come back. You hated how commanding he was. Yet, it was the first time you wondered who he was besides the leader of the Second Army that you couldn’t stand. You wondered if there was a side of him you might actually like.

Once he had closed the door leaving you behind, a pool of shadows surrounded him. Now that he was on his own again he stopped suppressing his rage about somebody touching you and the waves of darkness were its outcome. Nobody would harm you ever again.

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This is my first attempt of publishing my stories, I hope you like it. I'd be really happy about some feedback. ♡

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[pomegranates-and-blood]

Lips of an Angel

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Danish!Reader, Ivar/Freydis, Reader/OC

Summary: “Well, I had this idea of Ivar x reader based off the song Lips of an Angel. (If you feel like a Modern AU works best that's fine) Where Ivar is with Freydis, but Ivar never let go of his feelings for the reader and she never let go of hers, and you can decide how you want it to end.”

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Angst, lost love, implied sex/cheating, mention of polygamy

A/N: This is the closest I’ll get I’ve gotten to writting 5b Ivar, and it still is ooc probably. I feel like a horrible writer for ignoring canon like this, but istg that season almost made me give up on Vikings altogether and I just can’t write it, or any of the characters as they were then.

Anyhow, hope you like this, I was on the fence about making it a modern!au or not, so I decided to write both a Viking times version and a Modern version. Different story completely, of course.

You can find the Modern!AU version of this request right here

Kattegat is still the same, you realize, it is as if Aslaug still sits on that throne.

In a way, you think she still does.

Álfarr’s hand is a comfortable weight on your back, and his warmth helps you thaw from the cold of memories and regret that took a hold of you the moment you crossed those walls.

“You cannot leave me!” His voice is an enraged snarl, his hand is gripping tight at the axe on the table.

You know it is madness to turn your back on Ivar the Boneless, you know it is madness to ignore the rage in his eyes. Still, you walk out of that worn-down church, and surprisingly, you survive.

And because the man you are travelling with, the man that claims to love you and to know you love him too, is too smart for his own good, he notices the way you wish for nothing more than to leave this place you just returned to.

And so he tries reminding you of what you have returned for, of the life you will be able to have once you spend one winter in Kattegat.

“I was thinking, after this, we could travel to Ribe,” Álfarr offers casually, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, “The Danes are sure to welcome you back.”

“Hmm,” You reply, nodding your head, and because he deserves it, because you can’t forget what made you left Kattegat or what has made you return, you offer a smile, “I don’t know if they would welcome you, though.”

“I fought against Angantyr once,” He reminds you with a chuckle. After a moment, he brings you close and presses a kiss to the side of your head, “Besides, more than a year ago I was convinced-…”

“Convinced? You make it sound as if-…”

“I was convinced by a beautiful Danish woman to leave those wars behind,” Álfarr continues with a knowing smile, ignoring your glare of protest. “And I don’t regret it.”

“Well let’s hope she doesn’t regret this, eh?” You try around a deep breath, a smile that feels fake.

One winter. Only one winter in Kattegat, and then Álfarr will be at your side wherever the Gods will take you. Such was the pledge he made, and the deal you agreed to.

____

Long before the night that now envelops you had settled, word had reached you that the King calls for you, and all you’ve been able to do since that thrall delivered the message was to consider the cost of running away, cowardly as it may be.

Reminiscent of those last weeks before he drove you away, before you left him behind.

“Ivar calls for you.” Hvitserk tells you with a sigh, taking a seat at your side with an exhaustion that is more than physical.

“What for? He listens only to his own voice lately.” You quip bitterly, but still stand up and with a soft touch of the Prince’s shoulder, you answer a call that hurts your pride, your hope.

Álfarr’s steps approaching you take you away from the dangerous lull of memories.

“Are you going to go?” He asks without preamble, taking a seat in front of you.

You sigh, “If the King calls for me-…”

Álfarr chuckles bitterly, interrupting you, “Ah, of course. The King summoning a Völva, nothing more. Surely not your ex-lover wanting to see you again.”

“Do you want me to say no? Not many survive denying Ivar.”

“You survived leaving him.”

“Yes. I left him,” You repeat pointedly, not intending to withstand foolish jealousy. But because what the years made out of you isn’t happy with the way he is soothed slightly at your reminder, you add, “I left him when he tried keeping me chained.”

And Álfarr was always a smart man, it was one of the reasons you first trusted him. So in response to the threat you don’t voice, he only shrugs, “You wouldn’t leave me.”

Your eyebrows raise at the unwavering certainty, “What makes you think that?”

“Nothing could make you wish to return to Kattegat until me,” Álfarr offers you a smile, that you almost start returning, “I still consider it a feat, to have been able to sway you.”

You drink down the last of your mead, tilting your head back and trying to chase away bitterness with the honeyed drink.

“You swayed me the moment I found you dying and chose to save you, you fool.” You quip, betraying a fond smile that he returns.

Without any more words, you stand up. Your hand traces the outline of his shoulders, strong and familiar, as you walk out the door.

____

Ivar waits for you sitting in what looks like an adjacent room to the throne room.

You wish you could say he looks the same, you wish you could say he still has the face, the eyes, of the man you once loved.

But his face is darkened by shadows and something more sinister than that, his eyes are colder and crueler than you ever had the misfortune of seeing them.

It still makes a pang of pain travel to your chest, to the place where your heart ought to be if you hadn’t carelessly given it away years ago, to see him before you, in the flesh, not a dream or a memory.

“My King.” You bow your head.

“Say my name,” Ivar orders gruffly, and at your startled expression when you lift your gaze to his, he amends, “We’ve-…Don’t act like we are strangers. Call me by my name.”

“Alright, Ivar,” You concede, the familiar sound of his name on your lips still managing to make your chest tighten. You take a seat in the chair across from him that was offered, and fold your hands over your lap to keep yourself from fidgeting. “Why did you call for me?”

“You arrive at a Kingdom and don’t dare visit the King, hm?” He taunts without missing a beat, “You used to have better manners.”

And you used to avoid playing these games with me, you think, but bite back the words.

“I needn’t bother any king with an announcement of my arrival,” You remind him, “I am no one of importance, of fame.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” A soft and dainty voice says, making a chill run down your spine even before you see the blonde approaching from the shadows. She offers a smile, but the eyes of the Queen of Kattegat are as cold as the King’s. “You’re the Völva that granted the Black Danes many victories, aren’t you?”

You watch, frozen in your place, as she approaches Ivar with ease, resting one delicate hand on his shoulder, standing by his side.

Trying to keep your eyes from following the movement of Ivar’s hand that goes to touch hers where it rests on his shoulder, you reply, “I have granted no man any victory.”

“The Gods did, but in no little thanks to your work, your magic. I have heard of you,” She insists, and you frankly do not know what to do with her false warmth. Looking into her eyes feels like watching a flame from the other side of a glass window, an illusion, a façade. “And I am honored you’re here.”

You bow your head in acceptance, “Thank you, Queen Freydis.”

She betrays a wider smile, a more feral smile, and your blood runs cold.

“Ah, you know my name. You have heard of me too, then?”

You feel like you’re being ambushed, so instead of giving her an answer, you return your gaze to the King.

“Why was I summoned here?”

Ivar regards you in silence, eyes slightly narrowed and a cold cruelty in the slight curve of his smile.

Still, he gestures with his hand, dismissing his wife, ordering her to leave the two of you alone.

“Word is you aren’t here to stay.”

“Just for the winter.”

“A Völva, and one always close to the sons of Ragnar at that,” He lists, leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on armored knees, “I could have use for you.”

You feel cold creeping over you, and lean back.

“Use?”

“It is a matter of time before Freydis becomes pregnant with my child,” Ivar comments with what to anyone else would look like nonchalance, but you hear the cruelty behind the words. “I could use a witch weaving her magic to protect my child and wife.”

It hurts, it hurts at a deep part of your chest, so much so you almost want to look down to see if there’s a gaping wound where your heart should be.

“There’s many that would be willing to do so, but not me.”

“Why not?”

“My home isn’t Kattegat.”

“Where is it, then? With that blacksmith?” He accuses without missing a beat. The anger in his tone, the accusation, the vitriol, the rage, it is all so familiar.

It is all you left behind, with reason to do so.

“I will put word that Kattegat is in search of a Völva to protect the King and his family,” You say around the foolish and hopeless knot of pain at your throat, “I’m sure someone will be of help.”

Standing up from your seat, you mutter a goodbye and turn your back to the King.

His voice, loud and enraged as he calls your name, makes all of this a familiar scene, and it makes you stop dead on your tracks.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave.” Ivar snarls at you, the sound of a crutch stabbing the ground as he stands up as well.

You take a deep breath, but don’t turn around.

“May I leave, then?”

“No,” He sentences, walking closer, “Not now, and not when winter is over.”

You gasp, “What?”

“I’m keeping you here in Kattegat,” Ivar states, intimidating, venomous, unfamiliar as he towers over you, “I’m King, I can do as I wish with you.”

“I am a free woman,” You remind him, “Only my blood would rule over me, and they are all dead. My blood or my husband, and you, Ivar, are neither.”

“You cannot command me!” You insist with a laugh, defiant even as you tilt your head to the side to let him continue his thorough exploration of your neck with his lips and tongue.

“Hm, you forget who leads the army you fight for, witch.” He teases, a breathed laugh against your neck when you pull on his hair, offended at the title

“No one but my family commands me, Ivar.”

“They are all dead.”

“Not all of them,” You quip, a foolish knot on your stomach tightening at the conversation you’re about to start, “Family isn’t just blood. One day I will be married, and my husband will be my family.”

“So, no one but your blood or your husband would dare rule over you,” He intones, pulling back and searching your eyes, “Why do I have the feeling it wouldn’t be so easy to make you surrender?”

“Because you have good judgement?” You offer with a tentative laugh.

Ivar only smiles, and leans down to capture your mouth in his. His kisses never fail to make your heart beat so fast you hear it in your head.

In the way his hands tighten over whatever part of you he has a hold of, in the way his tongue demands entrance to your mouth, in the way you feel the soft sounds he cannot keep trapped; you find yourself gone, enthralled, his.

When he pulls back, his eyes, darkened and burning, linger on your kiss-bitten lips for a few moments.

“With those lips of yours, love, it would be very easy to make any man surrender.” Ivar confesses in a hoarse whisper, and past the pang of heat his words and the way he’s looking at you send through you, you smile.

“My lips?” He hums an agreement, and in the few moments you have him enthralled, your smile turns devious, “Where?”

Ivar grits his teeth at the reminder, and the flash of pain you imagine seeing for a moment could make you believe he remembers the same moments you do, the same life you wish you could have lived till your last breath, the same world you wish you had never left behind.

“That blacksmith you came with.”

“He’s a warrior, and you know his name.” You tell him, aware you’re prodding a dangerous beast but still doing so with an arrogant tilt of your chin.

“Does he know about me?” Ivar asks, voice low and dangerous, “About us? About what you promised me?”

“Does she?” You ask, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone.

Ivar’s reply is immediate, “Yes.”

And with a simple word weighs on you the realization that either she means much more to him than you ever imagined, or you still do. You aren’t sure you want to know the answer.

“I have to go,” You tell him, stepping back and lowering your gaze to the dark wood under your feet. “Tell your brother I would love to see him. I’ve missed him.”

“You’ll just leave?”

“No, I will stay until winter passes. I-…”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean, and you know it,” He accuses, furious movements of his crutch as he approaches you again. “You’ll leave me again.”

The words tug at a pathetic and foolish part of your heart, a part of your heart that you never got back. A part of your heart that was left behind in some old church in York.

Still, you offer truth, a truth that lacerates at your throat on the way out, “I never returned to you, Ivar.”

His free hand grabs roughly at your arm, and his breathing is fast, his eyes are searching yours desperately.

The furious glint in his eye, the twinge of madness in his scowl, the phrase he would repeat over and over as if he could make it truth by will alone, “You will not leave me.”

“You are here, Fate brought you back to me.”

“Fate brought your wife to you,” You remind him, pain interwoven in your every word, “Fate brought Álfarr to my side. Fate pulled us apart, Ivar.”

But he shakes his head, stubborn and desperate. For a moment, in the way the snarl in his lips trembles, in the way he blinks quickly, you see the man you love.

“No.” Is all he says, before he brings you to him roughly, and claims your mouth.

You have been familiar with magic all your life, and you know it is something other than it, but it feels like magic when you let yourself give into his kiss. It feels like something stronger than magic when you find yourself giving in to Ivar, breaths quickened as you watch him answer the command of the gentle push of your hand and sit on the chair at his back.

Kissing him, it is anger, it is anger and lust and grief and love, you won’t deny it. It is biting and demanding and rough and him.

Getting lost in the feel, the smell, the taste, of him was always easy. Terrifyingly easy, once.

And so you lose yourself in the push and pull of your bodies moving as one, in the way he demands with bites and kisses and soft sounds breathed against your lips the surrender you refuse to give, in the way he lets you try and lure him to that same surrender with your lips on his skin and the intonation of his name on your lips that still makes him tremble.

His hands are rough and demanding as they grip your hips, and he makes you move above him with a punishing pace. And it feels like he is trying to punish you. For leaving him. For returning.

Your own hands grip onto his shoulders, nails digging into the skin and drawing blood, traying to dispel the touch of any other with each drop. So that there’s a bit of you left with him, a proof. Of how you once were his. Of how he’s still yours.

____

You lay in the quiet that lets you pretend you never left that world you once loved so much, in the peace that makes your chest ache for the unsaid vows you broke.

Ivar’s head rests against your chest, letting you every once in a while feel the drag of his mouth over your skin, lazily retracing a path he bit and kissed his way through earlier. Your fingers, aching to be once again familiar with the feel of his skin, the softness of his hair, travel wherever you can reach, ceaselessly.

It is as if in each breath shared, in each moan that trembled past parted lips, in each moment of ecstasy and of pain; the anger and the resentment and the hate gave way, let the world that once was take a hold of the moment you live -bask- in now.

The quiet is broken by a soft murmur of your name, and your chest pulls tight at the sound of it in Ivar’s voice, at the return of the fragile softness, the hidden gentleness, you once were the sole recipient of.

“I have…dreamt of you, these passing years,” He tells you, even a confession such as this traced by underlying anger. He presses yet another kiss to the skin above your heart, “I have missed you.”

“So have I, more…more than I could ever say.” You offer, closing your eyes to keep tears from filling your eyes.

“I don’t want you to leave me again.” Ivar whispers, voice so, so quiet.

You release a breath that shakes and trembles past your lips, “You and I are fated to say goodbye, I think. Always were.”

He lifts his head, strikingly blue eyes meeting yours.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“You have a wife, Ivar, I can’t-…”

“You can be my wife too,” He offers, making your heart both soar and break. “You wouldn’t be queen, but you never minded for pow-…”

“Ivar,” You interrupt, voice shaking, “Listen to what you’re saying. You’re asking me to be your second wife. To take Freydis as my sister-wife.”

“She won’t object,” He says it with such certainty that it sickens you, and you scramble to stand, to part from his embrace. “She’d do anything I asked her to. She will accept.”

You are shaking your head, putting the shield your dress serves as back up over your skin.

“I could never accept,” You tell him, and because you want to linger for a moment longer in the sun, in the brief paradise where you’re allowed to see the real him shining in his blue eyes; you walk closer one last time and let your fingers trace the side of his face lovingly, smiling even if it is a goodbye, “No woman that loves you would settle for half of you.”

Whether you speak of her and her faults, or you and your hopeless heart; you don’t know.

____ ____ ____

Hope you liked this! Thank you so much for reading!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​ @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​ @chibisgotovalhalla​ @fae-sedai​

[spencers-renaissance]

To Look On Tempests and Not Be Shaken

Summary: In the wake of a blazing row and an empty apartment, Aaron finds Spencer's well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's sonnets and recalls the morning after their wedding, when Spencer sat on his lap and read Sonnet 116 to him. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Tags: angst with a happy ending, fighting and making up, married hotchreid, relationship dynamics, introspection, fluff, shakespeare/literature

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

(Set in S11, AU in which Haley/Aaron divorced in S1 and Aaron/Spencer married in S4.)

It wasn’t really either of their faults: work was relentless at the moment and they hadn’t had any real time for one another in weeks. That’s not really a consolation to either Spencer or Aaron, however, when they’re in the middle of a blazing row that has them both drowning in flames of anger and passion, unable to see one another for the smoke filling their apartment. 

“Aaron, this is the fourth case in a row that you’ve stayed at  the office past 4 in the morning to wrap up the paperwork,” Spencer shouts, frustration rising in his chest as he tugs at his hair, already feeling far too overwhelmed. Aaron is looking as unbothered and stoic as he always does during their fights, and even though Spencer is fully aware of the emotion that will be stirring under his carefully constructed mask, it doesn’t make it any less exasperating. 

“You know as well as I do that this sort of work load is completely unavoidable,” Aaron says lowly, anger finally audible in his voice. It’s not as satisfying as Spencer had hoped. “We can’t keep rehashing this same old argument. I’m the Unit Chief of a team in one of the most prestigious FBI departments. I have a responsibility.”

“You have a responsibility to me and Jack as well,” Spencer cries, fury bubbling over as he thinks of Jack and just how much he deserves. “We deserve your time just as much as fucking serial killers do.”

Aaron visibly flinches as Spencer swears, an occurrence rare enough to indicate serious emotion. “This is exactly the argument I used to have with Haley, Spencer,” he says harshly. “I refuse to have it with you, too. If you can’t handle it then maybe you should leave, just like she did, hm?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe that means there’s an element of truth in it then, Aaron?” Spencer asks, voice breaking slightly as the scale tips away from uncontained ire towards hopeless misery. He turns away from his husband, trying in vain to conceal his crumpled face and damp eyes. “And you know I would never do that to you; don’t you dare throw your unresolved issues back in my face.”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Aaron says, voice and face hardened; Spencer can almost see the walls he’s building up again, the stubborn refusal to concede any point. “You’re not being rational. I’m going to bed.”

His stomach twists with the desperation of the situation as he says quietly to Aaron’s turned, retreating back, “What happened to never going to bed angry?” He doesn’t turn back around. 

⭐️

Aaron waits in bed for Spencer to join him, fully intending to feign sleep the moment he enters the bedroom but nevertheless longing to know he’s safely tucked next to him in bed. When he hears the quiet click of the front door and checks the time to see he’s been waiting for almost 25 minutes, though, a panicked feeling fills his chest. He throws the covers back and treads out to the living room, only to be met with a decidedly empty room. If he was a more spiritual man he’d say he could still feel the angry aura of their previous argument lingering over the furniture. Really what he feels is the inevitable, empty vacuum a home without Spencer in it is bound to house. 

He sits down on the sofa, just on the wrong side of too cold in his threadbare t-shirt and underwear, and buries his head in his hands. The problem is that he knows Spencer’s right. He and Jack both deserve better than this kind of life, of course they do. Jack deserves a father, Spencer deserves a husband. Admitting such a fact, however, requires humility, vulnerability, failure almost. It means telling his boss that he needs reinforcements, that he can’t continue with the 80+ hour weeks, that he’s not as strong as he used to be. 

That sort of thing takes a courage that feels so far out of reach, though, and he’s left defending a place he doesn’t want to be in against people he loves more than anything in the world. 

Forcing himself out of his miserable carousel of thoughts and regrets, he pulls his head from his hands and catches sight of a note on the coffee table, his name scrawled across it in Spencer’s handwriting. Immediately, his heart sinks: it’s unlikely a love letter. It’s far more likely it’s a note of good riddance, an announcement of abandonment. 

Turning it over in his shaking hands, he reads: 

I’ve gone to stay with Derek and Penelope for the night. I will pick up Jack from Jessica’s in the morning, on my way home. I love you. Spencer 

He immediately feels guilt at ever having thought that Spencer would be cruel enough to leave him in the same way he’s been left himself one too many times. His husband has an incredible amount of love filling his heart, and he’s simply incapable of such cruelty. It’s been a fear of his for many years, that Spencer would grow unhappy but be too kind to leave, prioritising Aaron above himself. He knows it’s Haley’s fault for embedding such fear and doubt in his heart all those years ago, but he can’t help but berate himself for ever doubting Spencer. 

It’s not like they’re about to break up. When he considers the situation logically, he knows that. He loves Spencer, Spencer loves him, and ultimately, he’s going to relent. He’s going to draw on whatever shreds of courage remain in his tattered and beaten soul and do whatever it takes to make his family happy, to give them what they deserve. He just has no idea how to cross the gaping chasm that stands in the way of reaching that eventuality. 

He goes to place the note back down on the coffee table, but his eyes land on the book it had originally rested on: Spencer’s well-loved copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He picks it up, sort of absent-mindedly, thumbing the pages the love of his life has read countless times, holding on to the book as an emotional connection to Spencer. It’s travelled their entire relationship with them; he remembers it laying on his spare bedside table back when Spencer visited his apartment in the dead of night, terrified of anyone finding them out. He’d read the poems over and over again, long into the night. Aaron can’t help but smile at the memory of Spencer’s unique quirks. 

Eventually, his absent fiddling lands him on a page Spencer’s visited time and time again. A worn leather bookmark Aaron recognises as one of Diana’s gifts marks the page titled Sonnet 116. Tired and lovelorn, he begins reading.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare 

((Modern Translation, if you’d prefer:

I will not admit that interferences are possible in the union of two people In love. Love that changes when circumstances do is not love, Nor if it bends when someone tries to destroy it: Oh no! It is an eternally fixed point, Which may watch storms but is never shaken by them; it is the guiding star for ever lost ship: Its distance may be measured but its quality cannot be. Love does not fall victim to Time, though features of youth Are eventually entrapped by him; Love doesn’t change as hours and weeks race past, But endures until death. If this is wrong, and I’m proved incorrect, Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.))

The words come rushing back to him as soon as he reads them: it had been a contender for Spencer’s chosen poem at their wedding. He’d eventually gone with I loved you first by Christina Rosetti, the perfect compliment to his own choice of I love you by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, but on their first morning as a married couple, laid in their warm and comfortable bed, Spencer had pulled out this very book and straddled Aaron’s thighs, reading it to him with an earnest expression. He remembers the air being punched out of his chest as he’d looked up at a bright-eyed 27-year-old Spencer who had been through so much already but still held all the grace and innocence he did on his first day at the BAU.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear runs down his nose and splashes on the page. What really tips him over the edge is reading Spencer’s small, chicken-scratch annotations around the poem, noting different points in their relationship, events between the two of them that prove the words of an Englishman born 400 years earlier.  

It’s so easy for him to doubt how much Spencer loves him - insecurities and the trauma of his separation from Haley consume him far too often - but he’s holding the tangible, physical proof. This is undeniable, this is the evidence his doubtful, damaged heart yearns for, and the furious, raging, endlessly tumultuous waters inside him settle for the first time in weeks.  

⭐️

The second Aaron’s alarm goes off at 6am, he gets started on the plan he’d formed as soon as the words of Shakespeare’s sonnet had sunk in. The email he’d composed the night before is the first thing his laptop screen displays when he powers it on, and he presses send on the uncompromising, demanding letter he’d addressed to Cruz. Finally feeling good about the entire situation, he turns the coffee maker on and gets dressed; Spencer’s an early riser but he’s determined to get to Derek and Penelope’s before he leaves. 

The relief is freeing, and he feels light for the first time in a long time. He hadn’t quite realised just how much it had all been weighing on him until he’d finally found the courage to cut it free. 

Armed with two coffees and Shakespeare’s sonnets, he heads downstairs to the taxi he’d ordered the night before. The city races past in front of the slow and steady sunrise, dawn marking a new chapter in Aaron’s life that he’s determined to make worth it. Slowly the thick of the city fades into the suburbs, and the taxi slows down as they wind through the maze of identical looking streets until they arrive at Derek and Penelope’s home. 

He pays the taxi driver as quickly as possible and sighs in relief at the sight of Spencer’s car still on the drive as he climbs out of the vehicle, carefully balancing his two coffees, still warm in their thermal mugs. Fully aware that Derek and Penelope are absolutely going to chew him out the minute they lay eyes on him, he hesitantly rings the doorbell. 

“Man, what the hell?” Derek exclaims, clearly exasperated as he swings the door open, revealing a sorry looking Aaron Hotchner standing sheepishly on his doorstep. 

“I know,” Aaron replies immediately, trying to portray as much regret and understanding with his body language as is possible when holding two coffees with  your husband’s most prized possession perched precariously under your arm. “I know, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I need to see Spencer.”

Derek looks thoroughly put out just being in Aaron’s presence, but after a moment or two of hesitation he relents, opening the door wider to let him through. “Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll ask if he’s okay to see you.”

He parks Aaron in the living room and then leaves to go and find Spencer. Only seconds later, he hears the hurried click of kitten heels on the wooden floor and internally cringes; if facing Derek was bad, facing Penelope will be infinitely more painful.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Penelope shouts before she’s even fully entered the living room, “I have never, and I mean never been more disappointed in you. I don’t think you fully appreciate how lucky you are. You may be my boss but that does not mean I will not chew you out when you screw up this bad. Anyone who makes my Spencer cry is in my bad books for at least two weeks. You are in the dog house, you understand me? The dog house.”

She’s thankfully cut off from continuing her rant by Spencer’s shy, hesitant appearance at the doorway. Penelope immediately rushes over and gives him a hug, whispering something in his ear that Aaron doesn’t catch but makes Spencer giggle. She reaches up to ruffle his hair before patting his cheek fondly and casting a furious glare in Aaron’s direction as she vacates the living room. 

“Hi,” Aaron says softly, breaking the silence left in the wake of Storm Penelope. “I bought you a coffee.” 

“What are you doing here, Aaron?” Spencer asks, clearly a little confused but still accepting the drink. 

“I know you said that you’d come home this morning but I had to come and get you,” he replies, standing up from his seat on the couch and taking a few steps forward. “Look… your note last night, it was on top of this book. And in my absent-minded cloud of misery I was looking through it and came across Sonnet 116.”

A flicker of recognition lights up Spencer’s eyes as his face softens a little at the sight of his beloved book.

“Do you remember? Climbing into my lap on our one day wedding anniversary and reading it to me? Back then I was partly distracted by the gorgeous man in my arms but last night… Spencer, the words hit home in a way I haven’t felt before. Not to mention your annotations; I felt like I was reading a journal of our love story, which I know was probably your intention all along.” He shakes his head, trying to get back on track. “I’ve been an idiot, a rotten fool, and I’m so sorry. I emailed Cruz this morning. 

“You did?” Spencer looks up, surprise filling his features for a second before a small, hopeful smile takes over. “What did you say?”

“That I couldn’t continue with the workload and I needed reinforcements. That I would work the same hours for two more weeks to allow them to find an adequate solution, but after that I’ll be reducing my hours to align almost directly with yours,” he says, tentatively gauging Spencer’s reaction. 

It’s made pretty easy for him when Spencer’s hesitantly hopeful smile blossoms into a wide grin, relaxing his posture as relief overtakes his body and he throws himself into Aaron’s arms. Aaron buries his face into his husband’s curls and lets himself breathe easy, feeling infinitely better with Spencer wrapped up in his arms again, just where he belongs. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Aaron whispers as he pulls Spencer impossibly closer. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Spencer sighs, nestling his face further into Aaron’s neck. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. But, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

“I love you, you know that?” Aaron murmurs, pulling away slightly so he can look Spencer in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity as well as possible. 

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you, too.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aaron says, patting Spencer’s side gently. “Let’s get out of here before Penelope comes to stab me with her high heels.” 

Spencer giggles at that. “I don’t know, maybe, I’d like to see that,” he teases, digging his finger into Aaron’s ribs for good measure. 

“Oh, stop it you,” Aaron smiles fondly before kissing the top of Spencer’s head, feeling happier in this moment than he’d ever thought possible again last night. Peace is finally restored in Aaron Hotchner’s heart, all thanks to one rather ancient English playwright and an academic for a husband. “Let’s go and get Jack,” he says, longing to have his whole family back together, to restore the equilibrium of a tumultuous few weeks. 

Spencer leans down to kiss his shoulder as they walk out of the Morgan-Garcia household, and it’s enough to keep him warm the whole way home.

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.VIII: These Paths We Walk

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatural!AU, Dark Magic!AU, heavy Angst, light Fluff, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, mentions of death and murder, violence, gore and blood, some satanic themes, etc. 

word count: 7,1k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

Necromancy is a form of spiritual divination in which the executioner acts in the summoning of and communication with the lost souls of the dead. Its origins date back to the ancient Greeks, as the word necromancy is composed of Greek terms νεκρός (nekrós), "dead," and μαντεία (manteía), "divination." During the European Middle Ages, necromancy grew to be associated with black magic by traditional witches. As a result, its practice became strictly forbidden due to its disruption in the balance of nature. History recalls only one powerful witch ever held the ability to raise the dead at will—

“Still doing research for that special project?” Your mind snaps back to reality at the sudden inquiry. Tearing your gaze from the textbook, you look up to find none other than your favorite student in front of your desk. Hyunjin offers his usual crooked smile at your newfound attention and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

You can’t help but roll your eyes before answering, “You know the point of a study period is to—I don’t know—study? Preferably by yourself?”

He snickers. “I have a question that requires your extensive mastery in the literary arts, Ms. (L/N).”

“I’m sure you do.” You release a heavy sigh, not bothering to voice your annoyance at the use of your surname. Instead, you deliver Hyunjin a shake of your head before gesturing his continuance with a wave of your hand.

“I’m a little confused by the ending of The Grapes of Wrath,” Hyunjin pauses, “okay—a lot confused. I mean, why would Rose of Sharon breastfeed a stranger she literally just met? It’s weird…” 

You chuckle at his scrunched expression. “You’re right. It is pretty weird.” 

“So why’d she do it?” 

“Well, Rose of Sharon knew the stranger was starving to death,” You begin, leaning back in your chair to better hold Hyunjin’s gaze, “so you could say she wanted to give him a second chance.” 

“But why? She doesn’t even know him.” 

“Maybe not, but if you had the ability to save another person’s life—be it a stranger—wouldn’t you?” 

“But even after all her and her family went through, I don’t understand how she was able to find it in herself to do that. Especially after the loss of her baby.” 

“Humanity is a complicated, yet beautiful force, Hyunjin.” You hum gently, “Even among all the cruelty, hatred and hopelessness, it still manages to find a way to prevail—that ending is proof that against all odds, humanity will always win.”  

“I never thought about it like that…” Hyunjin shakes his head in disbelief, “Thanks, (Y/N)...” 

“It’s what I do, kiddo.” 

While the student grows silent to scribble down his realizations, you take the time to skim over your own notes—or lack-there-of, that is. 

After Youngjae agreed, albeit rather reluctantly, to assist you in your mission to return Jackson Wang to the land of the living, you spent the past few days cornering the bookstore and mausoleum’s supply of resources about raising the dead. But just your luck, every text thus far has proven to be less than helpful. According to the siphoner, necromancy is one of the more rare magical arts that is only practiced by specialized, powerful witches, which, unfortunately, also means there is limited access to such information. Neither you nor Youngjae have been able to find a spell or ritual that can guarantee Jackson’s resurrection without some kind of dire consequence. 

Who knew magic could be so complicated? 

“You know, you’ve been out for the past week…” You lift your head to meet Hyunjin’s gaze once again. “Is… Is everything okay? I don’t mean to pry, but it’s just so unlike you to miss any classes…” 

The typical university student probably wouldn’t give a damn about a missing professor, much less an absent TA. Hyunjin’s visual apparent concern spreads warmth throughout your chest—you are powerless to hold back the small smile that stretches across your lips. 

“A couple of my roommate’s friends disappeared out of the blue last week, so I just needed a few days to help her out.” You raise a playful eyebrow, “Don’t tell me you missed me?” 

“What? No way.” Hyunjin scoffs, “Though I did have to use Sparknotes for the past few reading assignments and barely passed Wednesday's quiz—” You burst into laughter, reeling your companion into the same fit only seconds later. After a brief moment, Hyunjin manages to collect his composure and finish, “—I am glad everything is okay… and that you’re back.” 

You nod with a smile. “I appreciate that.”

Aside from the daily meetings with Youngjae and nightly cry-piles with Sana, the past few days have proven to be quite uneventful. Jackson has not appeared in your bedroom since that first night, and true to your word, you haven’t told Mark about your quest for his revival. God knows what kind of Hell would break loose if that were to happen. You also haven’t visited the Prime residence since the day you caught Jaebeom with his drop dead—mind the pun—gorgeous vampire conquest. You’ve been meaning to call Jinyoung, but between your hours pilfering through useless research texts, comforting your distraught roommate and attempting to track down your M.I.A. best friend, you haven’t quite found the time. 

And though you’d never admit it to anyone, you needed some time alone—to think.

A rather obnoxious bout of laughter tears you from your thoughts, which is quickly followed by a scold from Professor Park. In an attempt to find the source, you peer past Hyunjin’s form and the sea of other students to the very back of the classroom where a group of young girls are utilizing the period as social hour. Amongst the familiar faces sits a pretty female student you don’t quite recognize, having never encountered her around campus before.

And although you can barely see her, something about her demeanor seems… off. 

“Hyunjin? Who’s that girl back there?” 

Hyunjin turns to examine the subject of interest before returning with a shrug, “According to my sister, she’s some exchange student from Taiwan. I haven’t met her, but I think Yeji said her name is Tzuyu.”

“And she transferred here this week?” 

He shakes his head. “Actually, today is the first day anyone has seen her.”

You go to inquire further, but the booming call of Professor Park announcing the end of class beats you to it. Hyunjin bids you one final thank you and a goodbye before sprinting off to meet his friends at the classroom exit. It is not until him, Professor Park and the remainder of the students are long out the door do you return to your research. However, the moment you manage to relocate your place, a sugary-sweet voice commands your attention once again:

“If I could bother you for a moment, Ms. (L/N), I need your help…” 

“Of course.” You mask your annoyance with as genuine a smile as you can muster and turn your gaze to the student. “What can I do for…” Your smile immediately falters at the sight of the young woman from earlier in front of your desk—only in this instance, you can definitely recognize her… 

It’s none other than Miss Aphrodisiac herself from the Project Estate. 

She offers a radiant smile, but the feature seems less than friendly. 

“Hello again, (Y/N). I don’t believe we properly met during our last meeting… I’m Tzuyu.” 

“Yeah, um, I-I wasn’t expecting to see you in my class…” You chuckle nervously, cautiously sliding your notes inside your book before closing the cover. “What… What are you doing here exactly?” 

“With how much the student body rants and raves about their newest teaching assistant, how could I pass up the opportunity to see you in action?” Tzuyu elegantly takes a seat on the edge of your desk before running her fingers through her flawless, auburn locks. Something about the dexterity of her fingers sends goosebumps budding across your skin. “Plus, it’s not everyday I meet one of Jaebeom’s… human companions.” 

“It’s not like that.” You insist, “Jaebeom and I barely know each other—”

“Ah. Right.” She giggles, “You’re close with the other brother. My mistake.” 

You bite your tongue, holding back the snide comment that would likely lead to the dismembering of your head from your body. Instead, you swallow what little remains of your pride, rise from your seat and ask stiffly, “You said you needed help with something?...” 

“You’ve read Macbeth, haven’t you?” Filled with both anxiety and confusion, you watch as Tzuyu takes a pencil from the container of writing tools perched on the surface of your desk. She twirls the utensil between delicate fingertips, gazing at it as if it is the most interesting object on the planet. You don’t need your gut to remind you something is most definitely off with her behavior.

“There’s this one piece of advice that Lady Macbeth tells her husband before he goes off to commit murder: ‘Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t’... ” She pauses, “Tell me, Ms. (L/N)... What exactly could that mean?” 

Your blood runs cold when she fixes her dark gaze on you. No longer interested in the pencil. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, attempting to ground the frantic beating of your heart before it literally leaps from your chest and into the palms of your company. Out of instinct, you chance a quick glance at the door—you may not have a mug, but a nine-hundred page, hardcover book to the face might make a pretty good distraction. 

“Hm, I suppose you’re more of an expert with prose.” Tzuyu says, lowering the pencil into her lap before hopping to her own feet. “Let’s try a bit of Frankenstein then…” 

She begins to stalk toward you, her eyes still locked onto yours like a vice. Your body immediately shuffles backward, attempting to keep as much distance between yours forms as possible. You only get so far—your back meeting the surface of the wall behind you as Tzuyu centers herself a few mere inches away. You can feel her crisp breath on your face as she murmurs:  

“‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, then I will indulge the other’...” 

“What are you—” 

Before you can finish your thought, a searing pain paints your vision white. The agony spreads through your veins like wildfire, stealing every ounce of oxygen from your lungs and rendering your knees weak. With a trembling hand, you’re able to save your form from buckling completely to the floor—but not before catching a glimpse of the same pencil impaled in the side of your waist. 

“Poetry is much more tasteful, in my opinion.” Tzuyu sighs, licking the blood from her nails as she backs away. You want to say something—scream and call her a plethora of less than appropriate names—but your mind is literal mush between the shock and the excruciating pain. You collapse to the floor with a breathy gasp, cupping your bleeding side with your opposite hand.

The vampire saunters toward the exit. Just as she makes it to the doorway, she whirls around to throw one final innocent smile in your direction: “Do us both a favor and stay away from Jaebeom… I wouldn’t want to scar that pretty face.” 

With that, she’s completely gone. If it weren’t for the pencil in your midriff and the blood seeping through your clothes, you would have thought you’d dreamt up the entire encounter. 

“Shit…” You gasp, attempting to dislodge the wood from your flesh. It doesn’t budge, deeply embedded between what you assume to be your ribcage. A pained wheeze spills from your throat as you reach for your bag, paying little mind to the bloodied prints your fingers leave in the fabric. After numerous attempts and anguished movements, you manage to fish your cell phone from its pocket. Crimson smears across the screen as you pull up the first contact you can think of. 

You really should have taken the rest of the week off.

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

From his perch behind a tree, Jinyoung silently stalks the movement of a burly stag as it parades across the forest floor. The creature, unknowing of the predator that hunts from a far, approaches a wild berry bush and begins to feast off its bearings—unknowing that its end is fast approaching. 

Jinyoung usually does not like to draw out these moments and would have killed the deer by now. Whether it is due to the absence of his physical strength or the tornado of thoughts tearing through his mind, he simply cannot bring himself to end the animal’s life just yet. There’s something so pure about watching the stag go about its existence, he realizes—he must allow its innocence to prevail a little while longer.

It’s been days since his recovery from the huntress’s attack, but he can still sense the weakness lingering in his bones. While Jaebeom’s blood chased away the fever of the wolf venom, it was not enough to regenerate his body to its full power. If he were to do so, he would need human blood… but that can never happen again. Not in this lifetime.

Animal blood keeps him mobile, and that is more than enough.  

A loud snap of breaking branches returns Jinyoung to reality in time to watch the stag tear off into the trees. He makes no move to chase after it, not desiring to waste his strength. After one final glance to his escaped meal, Jinyoung turns and greets the approaching figure with a tight frown:

“I already told you, hyung. I have no interest in accompanying you on a hunt into town.” 

“You know, it would be a hell of a lot easier than tracking down food out here…” Jaebeom snickers, “Not to mention, one human equals a dozen squirrels.” 

“And as I said, I much prefer the squirrels.” Jinyoung meets Jaebeom’s gaze with a heavy sigh, “I am perfectly fine, hyung.” 

“You’re a shitty liar.” Jaebeom shakes his head. “You need human blood.” 

“What I need is to find a new fare.” Jinyoung pushes off of his perch to traipse deeper into the forest, but the appearance of a hand on his shoulders halts his pace. He allows Jaebeom to maneuver his form back against the trunk of a tree, welcoming the slight relief the support brings to his muscles. He makes sure to keep his expression blank to mask his instability. But like always, Jaebeom sees straight through him. 

“You’re weak, Jinyoung…” 

“Nothing a nice rabbit can’t fix.”

Jaebeom purses his lips. “You can’t deny it forever. At least try a blood bag—”

“Why did you give me your blood?” Jinyoung interrupts his companion’s lecture, peering at Jaebeom with unwavering, unblinking eyes. “I thought you wished to punish me?”

“I was going to—I mean, I wanted to…” Jinyoung watches Jaebeom very carefully, noting the frivolous nature of his typically cocky features and hidden message behind his gaze. If he knew any better, Jinyoung would actually believe there to be some shred of humanity left behind those dark irises. 

“But you couldn’t.” He finishes.

“Don’t think it means you’re off the hook for working with Tuan.” Jaebeom huffs while taking a few paces backward. Jinyoung opens his mouth to respond, but the hybrid’s hushed murmur emerges instead, “(Y/N) came by last week… to see you.” 

Jinyoung holds back a smile. “Did she now?... I suppose you told her about your change of heart then.” 

Jaebeom remains silent. 

“Jaebeom-hyung…” Jinyoung’s eyes flutter shut as an audible exhale blows past his lips, “You need to tell her.” 

“It won’t change anything.” Jaebeom says with a frown, “She made it very clear that she already hates me.” 

“(Y/N) is much different than others, hyung—” 

“What do I care anyway?” The hybrid tsks, his sullen expression transitioning into one of indifference. “She can hate me as much as she wants. I don’t give a shit.” 

“Hyung, please—”   

The shrill ring of a cell phone introduces a bout of silence. Jinyoung has never been so annoyed by modern technology since now, grabbing his phone with a less than pleased sigh. He eyes Jaebeom while lifting the device to his ear, wordlessly communicating that the conversation is far from over.

“Hello?”

“Jinyoung?... H-Hey, it’s me.” 

“(Y/N)?” Jinyoung’s annoyance completely dissipates at the sound of your quivering voice. He notices how Jaebeom also reacts to your audible presence through the stiffening of his broad shoulders. He shakes it off as unease from your previous encounter and focuses back onto you, “Are… you alright? You seem a bit stressed.” 

“Yeah, you can c-call it that…” Your inhale picks up over the line, and Jinyoung cannot help but grow concerned by its unusual heaviness. “You are not going to believe the shitty day I’ve had.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well, the barista at my campus cafe accidentally made my usual decaf, my boss is seeking revenge for my time off through hundreds of ungraded essays… and I was stabbed… with a pencil.” 

Jinyoung’s eyebrows furrow. “I apologize, but I don’t think I understand…” 

“Long story short, Jaebeom’s scary, yet incredibly sexy girlfriend paid me a visit and literally stabbed me with a fucking pencil—” Your explanation cuts out into a yelp, which is followed by an array of stuttered curses, “And it—shit—hurts like hell.” 

“I’m on my way right now” Jinyoung, heart racing and head spinning, forces himself to his feet and hurries back toward the manor—Jaebeom hightailing close behind, having picked up the entire conversation. 

Before Jinyoung can inquire more about your condition, Jaebeom snatches the phone from his grasp and lifts it to his own, “Where did she stab you?” 

“Jaebeom?... My-My side… The pencil is wedged between my ribs, I can’t get it out…” 

“Don’t worry about removing it. Just try to control the bleeding as best you can.” Jaebeom explains, “Jinyoung and I will be there soon.” 

“Wait! Why are you—” Your voice cuts out as Jaebeom ends the call. Jinyoung notices the whiteness of the hybrid’s knuckles as he silently returns his phone. If it were any other situation, Jinyoung would have brought up their chat from earlier, but your wellbeing is on the line.  He delivers his companion a dark glare. To his surprise though, Jaebeom’s expression mirrors that of pure, unadulterated anger. 

Jinyoung pinches the bridge of his nose before releasing a sigh, “Do I even wish to know why your mistress attacked (Y/N)?” 

“I’d like to know too,” Jaebeom scoffs, running a hand through his jet black locks, “considering I told her that (Y/N) was off limits.” 

“You find out then.” Jinyoung hisses, “Or I will deal with her myself, and I won’t be as kind.” 

“Oh, trust me.” Jinyoung can practically sense the murderous lust spilling from Jaebeom’s pitch black irises—far from the light of humanity. “Kindness is the last thing on my list right now, Jinyoungie.”  

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“—and then she just acts all innocent! As if she did absolutely nothing wrong! I mean, what kind of self-serving, sadistic bitch does she think she is—Mark? Are you there?” 

“Huh?” Mark flutters his eyes open at the sound of his name. He blinks at his surroundings in confusion, still dazed from his abrupt wake-up call, before remembering his phone and the person currently speaking on the line: 

“Mark? Don’t tell me I put you to sleep?” 

“Nope, nope. I’m here.” Mark replies hurriedly, wiping the remnants of his nap from his eyes. “Luna’s a complete and total bitch, I got you.” 

Lia sighs, “Yuna, Mark. Not Luna.” 

With a silent yawn, he lifts his arms over his head and expels the kinks from his shoulders. Once his muscles are taunt and stretched, Mark releases a heavy exhale and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Lia. It’s just… been a long week.” 

“I get it, Mark.” She hums softly, “But I wish you wouldn’t stress so much about this. Minho made his choice, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“I don’t believe that.” Mark rises from his chair before pacing across the room to the mausoleum’s lone window. He pulls the curtain aside, peering out at the vacant hills of the graveyard. “If he would just talk to me, then I’m sure we could figure something out.” 

Hundreds of phone calls later, and he still hasn’t spoken with Minho since the night he claimed to be leaving the coven. No one has. Not even Jisung. And Mark can’t figure out what’s bothering him more: the fact that Minho won’t pick up his phone, or that you have been purposely avoiding him for the last week. 

He’s trying to give both you and the young witch time—truly—but Mark can’t help but feel as if something is off. 

“Minho needs to figure out what he wants himself.” He forces himself away from the window, receding across the room to lean against the lectern as Lia goes on, “You can’t be there to hold his hand every time he goes through one of his moods. It’s not good for him or for you.” 

“What am I supposed to do then?” 

“Nothing, Mark. You do nothing.” 

Mark shakes his head, “You know I can’t do that.” 

“Just give Minho some more time to get it together.” Lia says, “He’ll come around eventually.” 

“I hope so.” Mark goes to grab his coffee mug from a nearby table, but accidentally knocks his elbow against the corner of the lectern. A mass of papers and books slide from its surface, crashing to the floor in a rather vocal descent. He releases a quiet curse, tucking his phone against his shoulder before lowering to the floor to begin tidying the mess. 

…How long does he have to wait until you come around?  

Lia continues to speak as he gathers the escaped pages, “Have you talked to Yugyeom lately? I heard that one of their wolves just up and disappeared.” 

“Yeah. That kid, Changbin.” He says, “Gyeom thinks he probably took off after our fight with the huntress. Remind you of someone?” 

“In this town? A lot of someones.” 

Mark goes to respond, but the title of a particular document clears the thoughts from his mind. Pushing aside a couple other pages, he grabs the flimsy packet before raising it into better view. At first, Mark is confused, unsure why this type of reference would be out and about. But as he surveys the other fallen objects, his confusion gradually shifts to realization… 

Then rage. 

He doesn’t bother to look up as the door opens, nor does he spare the puzzled newcomer a glance. Still clutching the document, Mark rises to his feet and takes the phone from his shoulder with his free hand. He pays his companion no mind as he quietly murmurs: 

“Do you mind if I call you later?” 

“Not at all. Just try to think about what I said.” 

Mark bids a final farewell to Lia before disconnecting the line. He takes a moment to drag a hand down his face before turning to a wide-eyed Youngjae. As soon as Mark raises the document into view, his expression immediately shifts to a panic. 

“So…” Mark tilts his head with a tight frown, “You want to explain why the hell you’re looking up resurrection spells?...” 

Youngjae shakes his head, “Hyung—”

“Explanation, Youngjae.” Mark watches the siphoner’s face shift through a rainbow of emotions. From terror, to anxiety, to dread, before finally settling on guilt. Keeping his gaze to the floor, Youngjae eventually delivers a shrug and whispers: 

“...To try to bring Jackson back.” 

Mark’s heart practically splits open. 

He stares at the younger witch with incredulous eyes. “Are you fucking stupid, Youngjae!?”  

“It looks bad, I know—” Youngjae hurries forward to stand in front of Mark and lifts his hand in good faith, “—but I’ve been doing a lot of research and experimenting with a couple spells and I really think that we can—”

“You aren’t thinking shit.” Mark spits, rounding toward the siphoner until their noses are a mere inch apart. “We don’t screw around with necromancy, Youngjae… It’s dark magic.” 

“We just have to find the right spell! (Y/N) and I are searching—” 

“(Y/N)? What does (Y/N) have to do with this?” 

Youngjae immediately closes his mouth, his eyes growing glassy in the evening light. 

It takes a second for the puzzle pieces to fit together—your inquiries about Jackson, Youngjae’s daily trips to the bookstore, your evasion—but once the realization hits, Mark feels his entire body go numb. 

Youngjae rushes forward to grab Mark’s arm, “Hyung, I’m so, so sorry! (Y/N) thought it would be better not to tell you, so I just—” 

Mark shrugs his hand away, refusing to meet Youngjae’s pleading gaze. “Get out.” 

“Just let me explain—”

“Get the fuck out!” A loud crash echoes throughout the mausoleum as Mark flings his mug across the room, causing the object to meet the opposite wall before shattering to a million tiny pieces. Youngjae doesn’t persist, grabbing his bag and beelining straight out the door. Mark pushes the sounds of the younger’s sobs from his mind as he goes, unable to see past the anger boiling inside his body. But even against all the rage, a sense of sadness remains at the forefront of his mind. 

His best friend betrayed him—again.

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“You find and take care of (Y/N).” Jaebeom commands, slamming his car door shut with a little more force than necessary. Then again, he can’t seem to bring himself to care above the red-hot fury coursing through his veins like venom. He ignores the curious stares of a nearby group of female students and proceeds to move around the car, “I’ll catch up with you later.” 

“And where exactly are you going?” Jaebeom bites back a glare as Jinyoung halts his movements. His entire body thrums, as if physically yearning for vengeance, but he masks his temper with a sharp inhale and a promise to release his frustrations out later. 

He nods at his companion, “I’m going to do what I should have done before.” 

Jinyoung merely stares at him for a moment, and Jaebeom can only hope he can’t see past the bloodlust in his gaze. Fortunately, Jinyoung doesn’t question him further. He releases Jaebeom’s shoulder and delivers one final nod before turning in the direction of what both can only assume is your classroom. Jaebeom allows himself a moment to watch Jinyoung—his noble brother—sprint off to save the day—to save you. Again. 

Jaebeom swallows the bitterness accumulating in his chest and heads in his own direction. It won’t be hard to track her. He can already smell her Chanel perfume—she’s close by, he realizes. 

She wants him to find her. 

Sure enough, Jaebeom recognizes her silken auburn hair and Louis Vuitton coat beside a towering oak tree, staring down at her phone. He doesn’t bother to check if those students are still watching him and speeds over to his target’s perch. Even when he’s a mere few inches away, she continues to mindlessly scroll through her phone. Jaebeom’s anger grows when he notices the amused smirk etched across her pink lips. 

“It’s about time you showed up.” Tzuyu says, “You know how much I hate to wait.” 

“Give me one good reason not to rip your fucking head off right now.”

“Not even a ‘hello’?” 

Jaebeom growls, “You think this is a game?”

“Perhaps.” She raises her calm gaze to his own before offering a sultry smile. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” 

Her flirtations only add fuel to the outrage raging through his body. He speeds forward again, snatches her wrists and slams her smaller figure against the trunk of the tree behind them. Tzuyu winces at his aggressive movements, but Jaebeom feels no sympathy. Your trembling voice and pained breathing echoes in his ears like a siren, tempting him closer to the point of no return. 

It would be so easy to plunge his hand into her chest, to squeeze her heart until it's nothing but bloody ash. Or maybe he should tear her limbs off one by one, make her suffer until she’s begging him to end her—

“You really do care about her, don’t you?” Jaebeom awakens from his imaginary rampage at the question. Her usual smirk is no longer along her face, but instead replaced with a thoughtful frown. 

He growls, pressing her wrists further into the bark of the tree. “I told you to stay away from her. You said you wouldn’t touch her.” 

“I never thought I’d see the day the big, bad hybrid, Im Jaebeom falls for a human.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” His tone is quiet—murderous. “I’ll kill you.” 

“No. You won’t.” 

“Yes. I will.” 

“No, Jaebeom.” She shakes her head with a sigh, “If you kill me, (Y/N) will never forgive you.” 

As if she had taken a red hot iron and plunged it through his heart, Jaebeom lets go of the vampire and stumbles backward. He barely catches himself before he collapses to the ground, and even then, his legs feel like they’ll give out at any moment. 

Tzuyu, still leaning against the tree, tilts her head with a hum, “She’s a good one, Beom. I feel it… that aura that carries around her.” 

“Stop it—” 

“And it’s because she’s good that she’ll never belong to you.” She murmurs, “But you already know that… don’t you?” 

“You’re fucking sick.” Jaebeom hisses. 

To his surprise, Tzuyu’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Jaebeom.” 

There’s too many emotions swirling through his mind. He can’t think—can’t breathe. His chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, and his hands won’t stop shaking. He can’t get your face out of his head—your beautiful eyes looking at him with such betrayal and hatred. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why won’t his hands stop fucking shaking? It’s too much. It’s all too much—

He can’t help it… He has to turn it off. 

A switch flips inside of his soul, immediately locking out every ounce of pain. His lungs inhale each new breath smoothly, and his limbs remain as still as a cat. With a clear head, Jaebeom returns his eyes to Tzuyu, who is still gazing at him with such tenderness and understanding. For a moment, the warmth of her gaze reminds him of you. 

Tzuyu cautiously takes a step forward, “Jaebeom…?” 

“You’re right.” He nods, “I’m not gonna kill you.”

“What are you—ah!” Her inquiry elevates into a scream as Jaebeom whirls forward and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. His fangs plunge through the fabric of her expensive coat before piercing deep into her flesh. She attempts to struggle, but he is stronger… and the damage has already been done.   

He pulls away, licking the blood from his lips as Tzuyu collapses to the ground. She clutches her wounded shoulder, staring up at him with eyes of betrayal, confusion and fright. 

“You… You bit me.” 

Jaebeom smirks, “I suggest you spend the next day or so wisely… it’s going to be your last.” 

Tzuyu’s expression turns rabid. She scrambles to her feet before sneering at the hybrid, “The sooner you learn to accept your fate, Jaebeom, the sooner you’ll find peace—” 

“Meh. Fate’s overrated.” 

“Just remember this—” The vampire growls, “—after you turned me, you murdered the love of my life… at least I had the kindness to keep yours alive.” 

He snickers, turning to leave. However, just before he takes a step, Jaebeom throws one final comment over his shoulder, “Thanks for all the sex.” 

With that, Jaebeom smirks to himself and saunters off into the glow of the setting sun. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jinyoung rushes down the hallway, careful not to speed for fear of running into a professor or student working after hours. The fragrance of your blood builds with each step, and he can’t help but grow more concerned with that knowledge. At the very least, he can still hear the faint beating of your heart. 

He follows the scent past a couple corners and down another long corridor to a massive, dim lecture room. Fearing the worst, Jinyoung quickly steps through the doorway before immediately spotting your incapacitated form through the darkness propped up against the opposite wall. He doesn’t hesitate to speed across the room and kneel in front of you. You’re unconscious, he realizes, but breathing—that’s enough to lift the heavy weight from his chest. 

“(Y/N)?” He calls gently, lifting his hands to cradle your face in his palms. “Come back to me, my dear… Please.” 

“Jinyoung?...” He’s never been more grateful to hear the sound of his name until now. Your eyes flutter open and dart around the area before drowsily settling on Jinyoung. The vampire in question breathes a sigh of relief, caressing the apple of your cheek with his thumb. 

“There you are.” He murmurs, “How do you feel?” 

“Like I was stabbed…” You raise an eyebrow before peering down at the pencil protruding from your abdomen, “Well, would you look at that.” 

Jinyoung holds back a smile at your sarcasm, appreciating that even wounded, you still manage to bear your usual fiery charm. His own eyes turn down to the object jabbed within your waist. He carefully analyzes the damage, determining the best possible solution to its extraction. As you said on the call, the pencil itself is trapped inside your ribcage. Jinyoung will have to be careful not to accidentally fracture your bones. 

He bites the inside of his cheek before returning his attention back to you. “I need to remove it, but it’s going to be painful. Very painful.” 

You roll your eyes, “It will also hurt a lot less when it’s out. I can handle it.” 

“I know you can.” 

Jinyoung keeps his gaze connected to yours as he wraps his fingers around the wood of the pencil, taking extra care not to brush against the swollen skin of the lesion. Your expression remains fatigued, yet indifferent during his preparation. He waits for your nod before he continues. 

In order to prevent as much further damage and to make it as painless as possible, Jinyoung removes the pencil as quickly as he can. Your furrowed brow and teary eyes slice at his soul, but he doesn’t stop until the object is completely taken out. Once it's free, Jinyoung tosses the pencil into a nearby trash can, pulls the sweater from his body and utilizes the garment to cover your slightly bleeding wound. He ignores the crimson of your blood staining his fingers, instead lifting his clean arm to his mouth before biting down. 

“What… are you doing?” 

“My blood will heal you.” Jinyoung answers, offering forth his bloody wrist. “It’s how I saved you after your assault in the alleyway.” 

“If I die with your blood in my system, won’t I become a vampire?” 

“You aren’t going to die.” 

You shake your head, pushing away his wrist. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not risk anything.” 

“At least allow me to bring you to the hospital then.” He insists, “You’ve lost quite enough blood for one day.” 

Jinyoung curses at the mischievous smirk that spreads along your lips. “You have got to stop saving my life.” 

“Stop putting yourself in danger, and there would be no need for me to.” 

“Last I checked, I had no idea Vampire Victoria Secret was gonna show up and stab me with a fucking writing utensil.” You snort, gesturing over to your desk, “Grab my stuff before we go, please.” 

Just as you requested, Jinyoung goes about gathering your laptop and assorted belongings before sliding them into your bag. One book, however, catches his attention. For a moment, he pauses to stare at the title, then flips open the cover. His mouth runs dry when he discovers numerous pages of notes in your handwriting. 

Jinyoung closes the book before turning back to you, who is struggling to climb to your feet. He moves to help you, stabilizing your body against the wall while asking, “Why are you researching necromancy?” 

“It’s a long story.” You inhale deeply, “But to keep it short… Youngjae and I are going to try to resurrect Jackson Wang.”

At the mention of the alpha werewolf, Jinyoung’s muscles grow stiff. He stares at your face, attempting to read the stars in your dreary irises. After what seems like a long moment of silence, he eventually speaks, albeit quietly, “You understand resurrecting someone from the dead is no simple task… Why would you even attempt such a thing?” 

Your expression softens. “Because Jackson didn’t deserve to die, Jinyoung. The pack lost their leader—Mark lost his best friend.” 

“Resurrection is a dangerous craft, (Y/N).”

“Not if we find the right spell.” You argue, throwing your bag over your shoulder with a sharp inhale. “I know it sounds bat-shit crazy, but I have to try, Jinyoung. For Jackson and for Mark.”

Jinyoung inhales a heavy gust, before releasing an even heavier breath. He curses himself at being so affected by the hope in your eyes. Your determination is too alluring—you are too alluring. 

“I have a collection of grimoires kept by a coven of Dutch witches who specialized in necromancy back in the 15th century.” He finally says, “I will gift them to you as long as you grant me one request.”

Your eyes immediately brighten. “Of course. What do you need me to do?” 

Jinyoung grabs your hands. “I want you to forgive my brother.” 

“Jinyoung—“

“After you left, Jaebeom fed me his blood.” He explains, “He cured the werewolf venom, so I wouldn’t have to suffer.”

Your face first contorts to confusion, then to Jinyoung’s surprise, guilt. “He didn’t tell me…” 

“As I told you, Jaebeom has a good heart.” His lips upturn into a sad smile, “He just… has difficulty revealing that side of himself to others.” 

With that, Jinyoung carefully gathers your body into his arms. He manages to cover your soiled clothes with your jacket before heading for the door. 

“It is your choice. I will give you the grimoires no matter what you decide.” 

Jinyoung’s heart leaps when your head collapses against his chest, right over where his heart proceeds to race. Judging by your silence, he expects your mind to have descended into unconsciousness once more, but is pleasantly surprised when your slurred voice reaches his ears, “Hey, Jinyoung?” 

“Yes?” 

“Thanks for saving me. Again.” 

Jinyoung smiles, “It was my pleasure, (Y/N).”

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“Such a fucking idiot!...” Youngjae hisses, stomping his way past gravestones and monuments through the light of the setting sun. Usually, he would stop to appreciate such a beautiful moment in nature, but his mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of remorse and anger. 

Youngjae knew better than to keep something like this from Mark. His heart immediately drops when he thinks back to the older witch’s furious outburst—Youngjae hasn’t seen him that angry in a long time. Not since Jackson was alive.

He shakes the thought from mind. He should have never agreed to your idea in the first place. Jackson Wang is dead. And he can’t be brought back. End of story. 

A faint murmur of voices awakens Youngjae from his self-loathing. He hadn’t realized how deep he has traveled into the forest until now, so deep that he’s very close to the shore of the bay. His curiosity expands when he notices a strange light emitting from behind a group of closely placed trees. Against his better judgement, Youngjae decides to investigate. 

The nearer he approaches the site, the louder the voices grow. With a closer view, Youngjae can barely make out two figures conversing in front of a large bonfire. Due to the shadows of tree cover, he can’t recognize their faces, but something about their voices seems familiar to him… 

“You’re sure this is going to work?” 

“I’ve been planning this for years. There’s no way it won’t.” 

“Doesn’t this spell need a crazy amount of power?” 

“There will be a blood moon tomorrow night.” Youngjae watches as one of the figures retreats to the opposite side of the fire. If he is a bit closer, he might be able to catch a glimpse of his face. “I will have more than enough power to complete the transformation.” 

“And it won’t kill me? The transformation?” 

“You sound like you’re having second thoughts…” 

“I’m not!” The second figure insists, “The Primes deserve to pay for what they’ve done.” 

“And pay they will.” Youngjae’s blood runs cold as he finally gains sight of one of the figures. “The Primes and Mark Tuan.” 

“Holy shit—” Youngjae moves to make a mad dash back through the forest, but just as he takes a step backwards, his foot catches a large divot in the earth. He crashes to the ground with a faint yelp, cursing the new ache in his ankle. Panic skyrockets through his veins at the sound of approaching footsteps. Even against the slight pain, Youngjae manages to force himself to his feet, ready to make a break for it, but a broad chest halts his movements. 

Youngjae’s heart stops when he meets the gaze of Changbin, the temperamental omega from the werewolf pack. 

He smirks, “Your mother ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?” 

Youngjae hisses, “Screw you.” 

Changbin remains unbothered. “What should we do with him?” 

“Well… we can’t have him warning anyone of our plans.” Minho comes into view, wearing a similar smirk to that of the werewolf. “And besides, he might turn out to be pretty useful to us.�� 

“Why are you doing this!?” Youngjae demands as Changbin shoves him back to the ground. “Are you that desperate for revenge that you’d actually kill Mark-hyung!?” 

Minho shakes his head, “I’m not gonna kill him. That special gift is reserved for the Primes.” He chuckles, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m just gonna take back what I rightfully deserve…” 

Youngjae sneers at the witch, “You’re a fucking traitor! A sick, selfish—” 

The siphoner immediately grows silent when Changbin lands a harsh hit against his cheek. At the heavy impact, Youngjae goes flying to the earth and doesn’t rise again. 

Changbin glances at Minho, “You sure about all this?” 

Minho only smirks. 

“I’m dead sure.”

[savethelastdan]

Sesskagu "The tears of an astral descension, Derived from her moonily dimension. Of somebody's fading to obscurity. So my wings will carry me far away from home, Bring... me...To my final rest!

Hear a goddess cry. A silent, hopeless sight. From a sanctum divine!

Hear a goddess cry. When astral angels die. In a sanctum divine!"

Kagura doesn’t know what she was before. 

She knows that she was spawned of Naraku, yes--but as he himself is but a collection of devil-made deals and twisted schemes, there must have been something to start with. Sometimes, when her feather carries her so high that the air turns cold, Kagura thinks she hears the faint whispers of a past truth, echoing in the chasm of her chest. 

Even if she asked, Naraku would never say.

Sometimes, she thinks Sesshomaru might know. In the few moments when she accosts him that he deigns to actually look at her, there’s a flash of something in his eyes that could be recognition. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it parting of the lips, before they firm again into expressionlessness. 

Whatever he thinks Kagura is, she must have lost all look of it; for he convinces himself all too easily that it is untrue. 

-

She sits alone, tending to the wounds from their latest battles and Naraku’s tantrums. Wind rings in her ears, like the cries of the dead. 

Kagura presses a hand to her chest, hating its emptiness. Hating that she can’t remember what it feels like, to have her heart at home again. 

Moonlight shines down, making a river of light in her lap. She turns her face up to its shine, and the longing in her burns brighter, harder. 

When Sesshomaru finds her, not even the plain cruelty of his words (if you continue like this, you will die) will turn her face from it. 

-

He says her name like it’s a prayer.

But only after she’s already flown away. 

-

When Kagura dies, heart nestled in the cradle of her ribs and blood pooling in her lap, she does not go to Hell.

Instead, she awakens to a sea of light and stars, shifting like waves beneath her. 

In this holy place, the divine are made whole, the wind sings in her ears. Take your throne, goddess.

But, this time Kagura remembers. 

And she cries. 

-

“You are back,” Sesshomaru rumbles. The wind threads through the hair at the back of his neck. It follows him most days, but only when Jaken is not near does he acknowledge it. 

Tenseiga’s refusal can only mean two things. Either Kagura is more damned than he could have imagined (one cannot resurrect a being with no body) or she is blessed beyond that which he is able to reach (a sword wielded by a mortal creature cannot shift the fate of a divine being). 

It is not his place to make a judgment on which is the more deserved. And even if it was, then there is no being to which he could plead his case. 

The air brushes his lips. 

“Are you tired,” he murmurs, “wherever you are?”

Do you smile? 

-

If she descends again, Kagura has been told, then she may not remember any of it. 

Naraku. Her imprisonment. Sesshomaru. 

She is told that she will be cursed with yearning, every time she looks up at the far-off moon. 

She is told that this circle of time will be final--when she dies again, her throne will remain empty. 

Kagura clears her throat; it is always raw from crying. No amount of holy water will heal it. 

She falls.

-

Sesshomaru carries his mortal wife as high in the sky as he can. 

The frigid air turns her bare toes blue, but still she smiles. 

-

send me song lyrics in the ask box + a ship and I’ll use them to write a short one-shot

[nastasyafilippovnas]

40 and 45 for santhony :)

I did the 40 one. If I do the other, I'll tag you. I hope you like it!

santhony + exes meeting again after years AU, post-canon, wc. 2.1 (ao3)

Siena wouldn’t lie, over the years she had imagined many scenarios for meeting Anthony again. He would attend one of her performances, she would spot him among the crowd and miss the next note, making the audience gasp collectively. Or they would cross paths down the street, with her coming out of Genevieve’s shop and him coming in with his mother and sisters. They would freeze for a moment, caught in each other’s eyes, then she would run as fast as she could in the other direction. Or maybe, just maybe, she would finally attend one of Anthony’s balls, in the arms of another gentleman, and he would stare helplessly at her as she waltzed the night away. 

But soon a year passed and they didn’t meet each other once. She left for France with her new protector and, shortly after, Genevieve wrote to inform that, just in case she was wondering, the Viscount Bridgerton had finally married. Genevieve enclosed a sketch of the wedding gown she had designed for the bride. Siena understood her friend’s message loud and clear. It wasn’t cruelty. It was simply time to let go.

Of course, as much as she told herself that, her heart wasn’t as easily convinced. And sometimes, in the dark of night, she still indulged in fantasies and dreams. He would come to France on business and their paths would cross at a Parisian café. Or his wife would die of consumption and he would finally come running back to her. This one left her so horrified at her own selfishness that she found herself back in church, lightening a candle and praying for the Viscountess’ health.

Then time passed, as time ought to. Ten years went by in the blink of an eye. She went from Paris to Vienna to Milan. From Le Théâtre National to the Theater in der Leopoldstadt to La Scala. She was famous all over continental Europe. She was adored. And she had accepted that Anthony belonged to her past. She would remember their time together fondly, instead of tormenting herself with what ifs and regrets. 

And now, here he was, hat in hand, standing at the door to her grandmother’s house, in the Tuscan town that carried the same name as she did, twelve years after they had parted ways. Older, yes, with some gray hairs and rug lines that the boy she had known didn’t possess, but equally handsome. 

Siena couldn’t hide her astonishment as she openly stared at him, without knowing what to do.

“What…what are you doing here?” 

“I stopped by the theatre first.” He answered simply, as if it was the most common thing. As if they had an appointment to meet for tea she had forgotten about and now he came to remind her. “Signore Maldini told me you were here.”

Siena bet he did. Signore Maldini, who managed the day-to-day affairs of the Milanese theatre, was the biggest gossiper she knew. He must have been delighted to tell Anthony where she was staying. And by now, the whole cast of La Scala - and probably half of Milan - already knew that some English gentleman had come looking for her.

“He mentioned you were sick.” He kept moving the hat in his hands in worry. “Are you feeling better?”

“It was just a cold that wouldn’t leave.” It had been a bit more than that. It had kept her from performing. Siena had remembered how scared she had felt when week after week went by and she couldn’t sing an aria without having a coughing fit. “The doctor recommended a change of airs and warmer climate.”

Anthony nodded, but the worry still clouded his eyes and she didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand any of it.

“My lord, why are you here?”

“Do you think I could come in?” Anthony asked and Siena noticed then they were in the same position as when they had last seen each other. Her at the door, and him in her steps. All that was missing was the other man. “That is, if you don’t…” 

Siena stepped aside, showing him inside. “I’m sorry for my manners. I guess I was a bit surprised.”

“It’s understandable. Is this your house?” He looked around the place curiously.

Siena supposed that compared to his usual lodgings, it wasn’t much. The house was a good size, and it even had two floors, but it was in desperately need of repairs. The living room only had one couch, a writing desk and a chair on one side and the fireplace occupying the other side. At least she had fixed the leaking in the roof before Anthony arrived. She would’ve been mortified if he had seen that.

“It's my grandmother’s. Well, it’s mine now. She died last year and left it for me.” 

Despite all the conditions, Siena had never been more relieved to have this place than when she had gotten sick. Leaking or not, it ensured she at least had a roof over her head and, with the money she had saved over the years, it was enough to live comfortably for some time. And although the house was far from the city center, which meant long walks to the market whenever needed, it also had a huge backyard and a great view of the Tuscan hills which had done wonders, if not for her health, at least for her soul.

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

Siena shrugged her shoulders. “It's okay.”

“Siena…”

They were still standing on the living room, she realized now. And whatever Anthony had to say, she didn’t want him to say it here.

“Come.” She said, already walking from the living room to the kitchen and taking the tea set she had left there for her afternoon tea and adding another cup to the tray. “We can sit on the patio and you can say whatever you have to say there.”

Anthony nodded and moved to follow her. 

Siena opened the garden doors and felt some of the excitement over Anthony’s arrival leaving her, the calmness she had grown used to here returning to her. This was her favorite place in the house, probably in the city. The patio had a set of iron chairs and a table where to she directed Anthony and set their tea. It was spring and the whole backyard was blooming with flowers she had tended to herself. It filled her with pride to know she had turned the garden around all on her own, and maybe she wasn’t creating art, but at least she could help nature give and nurture life.

From their seats at the patio, they could also see part of the road and some of the Tuscan hills so many painters had tried and failed to capture the beauty of.

“It's beautiful here.” Anthony said in amazement. 

“I know,” she answered, smiling. “I’ve been here for six months and it still takes my breath away every time.”

“Thank you for bringing me back here.”

She poured the tea for them. It was one of the few English habits she still kept, drinking a cup of tea while watching the Tuscan sunset, though she hardly ever had any company. 

“You're welcome. Now…why are you here, Anthony?”

During all the time they spent together, she hardly ever used his name. But, after so many years, and inside her own idilic corner of the world, she felt she was finally allowed to.

Anthony let out a small chuckle, “I guess the scandals of the ton don’t make their way to little corners of heaven in Italy.”

“I'm afraid we don’t yet receive Lady Whistledown’s papers, no.” She said and, because she also worried about him, added, “Is everything okay? Is the Viscountess well?”

Anthony smile grew bigger at her question and he laughed. “The Viscountess is very well. She is currently enjoying herself to our country house with her lover. Female lover.”

“Oh.” That was certainly unexpected. Siena snorted. “I'm sorry. I’m sure that must have been most distressing for you.”

“Not as much as it should’ve been.” He answered seriously, staring directly at her.

Siena bit her lip and turned away from him, looking at the garden. “I see.” She paused and took a sip from her tea. “Are there any kids?”

The last news she had from Anthony were of his marriage on Genevieve’s letter. Afterwards, she never asked and, if she knew of anything, her friend never mentioned it.

“No. None.”

The answer didn’t shock her as much as how unbothered he seemed by it. That had always seemed so important when they were together, to have an heir. It had been his duty, after all.

“You could always get an annulment and marry again.” 

When he didn’t offer any reply, Siena looked back at him. “But you won’t.”

Anthony sighed and drank his tea before answering it. “It seems…unkind to separate the Viscountess and the woman she loves, doesn’t it? Why should they suffer for being in love?”

She smiled softly. Anthony Bridgerton. She had always known he was a hopeless romantic.

“And the title?”

Anthony shrugged. “Benedict has two boys and so does Colin. It shall pass to one of them upon my death. Though, hopefully, a long time from now.”

“You seem to have made your peace with it.” It amazed her he wasn’t right now back in England attempting to perform his duties to perfection.

“Did you know I had never left England before?” Siena shook her head, though it didn’t come exactly as a surprise. She had travelled all over Europe like a gipsy, but he had stayed, strong and steady, since becoming head of the family at twenty. “Simon left to see the world and so did Colin. But I stayed. I never even considered leaving, except…” 

He paused and looked away from her as both of them remembered the one time he was talking about. He didn’t finish that sentence, he didn’t need to. 

“When the rumors started, the Viscountess left for the country and I didn’t see the point of staying in London, hearing the catty comments about my failed marriage.”

Siena nodded in understanding.

“You should know,” he continued, “I didn’t set out to see you.”

“Is that so?” She didn’t know if she should feel offended or not at that when he ended up at her door all the same.

“I went to Spain first. Not Italy. Not France.” The no country that would’ve reminded me of you was implied, but she understood it.

“That's a beautiful country too. I performed there for the King once.”

“Of course you did.” He smiled fondly at her. “So, I was walking down the streets in Barcelona one day, seeing all these marvelous things around me, and I realized there was only person I wanted to share that experience with. One person I wanted by my side. The same person I have always wanted. And I was wasting my time. I was letting my injured pride and my fear of another rejection prevent me from pursuing her.”

He looked directly into her eyes through the whole speech. After all this time. It was preposterous and fantastical and her heart was beating so fast it felt like it would leave her chest.

He raised his hand to her face and caressed it softly, tracing the contours of her lips and her chin just like he used to do. Siena closed her eyes and focused on the sensation of his fingers on her skin once more.

“Then you went to Milan?” She asked.

“No.” He answered with a little laugh and she opened her eyes. “As far as I knew, you were in Paris. So I went there. Then to Vienna. And finally to Milan. Every place I went, you had already left. It figures I would have to come to your city to find you.”

He grabbed her hands into his and dropped a kiss on top of it. She could hardly believe what was happening.

He had gone through quite the journey. For her. Back to her.

“I don’t know if I can sing anymore.” She blurted out before she could stop herself. 

“What are you talking about?” Anthony looked back at her in confusion but didn’t drop her hands.

“Ever since I got sick, I can’t… The coughing was too bad. I’m better now, but… I’m afraid of trying and not being able.” It felt good to finally confess her feelings to someone. “And, to be honest, I don’t know if I want to go back. I miss singing but I don’t miss the stage.”

He kept caressing her hands through her confession, providing her support. 

“You should do whatever makes you the happiest.” He said simply.

Siena got up from her chair and sat on his lap. Her hands on both sides of his face, looking directly into his eyes as she asked, “And you?” 

“That’s also up to you. I will stay for as long as you will have me.”

Forever, Siena thought. Then she kissed him, again and again.

send me a ship + a number from this list and i'll write a short story

[stusbunker]

Lie to Me in Melody Challenge

Stu’s Masterlist’s 2nd Birthday Writing Extravaganza

When: May 22 - July 30th 2020

Where: Tumblr (or a Tumblr post with a link to AO3)

What: A Supernatural Song Lyric Writing Prompt Challenge with a Twist!

Last year I asked you all to Break My Heart, well this year, I am asking you to lie to me. But make it convincing. I need you to weave something so well that I won’t know where the lie is coming from until it is too late. It could be a big lie, it could be a little lie, good or bad, but there must be a lie!

How: Please send me an ASK if you would like to participate.

Include the prompt you’d like and a back up. There will be a two blog limit per prompt this year.

Write your masterpiece! Use the lyric as best you see fit (theme, dialogue, description, etc), but please list it in your A/N so I know what to look for.

Post your fic and tag me!

Include ‘#I lied to Stu’ in the first five tags so I can organize things later.

I will reblog your fic once I’ve had the chance to read it. Likes come from my mainblog @stunudo. 

Interested? Okay, well, there’s still the nitty gritty to worry about!

RULES:

NO WINCEST, incest, or underaged shenanigans. Bobby and Jack are both related to the Winchesters, don’t @ me.

No real people, please and thank you.

Any pairing is acceptable (beyond the above).

Tag your fics! I don’t care what your kinks are, but tag them! (I am not going to shame you. I just may gloss over certain parts.)

Minimum 300 words. No Max.

OCs/ series/ AUs are all welcome!

Deadline: July 30 (My actual birthday)

I would love a follow if you’re joining, but I doubt I am everyone’s cup of tea.

Keep Reading link on anything longer than 500 words. Seriously, don’t be a savage.

Song Lyric Prompts:

Jewel

1. And you try to find yourself In the abstractions of religion And the cruelty of everyone else And you wake up to realize Your standard of living somehow got stuck on survive

2. There is this hunger This restlessness inside of me And it knows that you're no stranger You're my gravity @thewhiterabbit42​

3. Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill You got social security, but that doesn't pay your bills 

4. I feel your tongue Telling me I'm dirty And licking my bones A surge against silence A knife across a plate Makes the sound Of need on hate @thoughtslikeaminefield​

Train

5. You're hopeless 'cause you tell the truth The stars are jealous of your shine @67midnightwriter​

6. There's nothing in between us knowing where we're going is inside. Every letter that I wrote, every dress you never wore under your coat

7. Together can never be close enough for me To feel like I am close enough to you You wear white and I'll wear out the words "I love you"

8. These bruises make for better conversation Loses the vibe that separates It's good to let you in again

Billy Joel

9. I believe I've passed the age of consciousness and righteous rage I found that just surviving was a noble fight I once believed in causes too I had my pointless point of view And life went on no matter who was wrong or right @a-winchester-fairytale​

10. They showed you a statue and told you to pray They built you a temple and locked you away But they never told you the price that you pay @awesomesusiebstuff​

11. You had to be a big shot, didn't you All your friends were so knocked out You had to have the last word, last night @idabbleincrazy​

12. For the promises our teachers gave If we worked hard If we behaved So the graduations hang on the wall But they never really helped us at all

13. I know I'm searching for something Something so undefined That it can only be seen By the eyes of the blind In the middle of the night @deanwanddamons​

Carole King

14. Sometimes I think I'm a prisoner of fate Doomed to find out things a little too late And so I must play this broken man's role

15. I feel the earth move under my feet I feel the sky tumbling down I just lose control Down to my very soul @fangirlxwritesx67​

16. Tonight you're mine completely You give your love so sweetly Tonight the light of love is in your eyes But will you love me tomorrow @phantomwarrior12​

17. As I watched in sorrow, there suddenly appeared A figure gray and ghostly beneath a flowing beard In times of deepest darkness, I've seen him dressed in black

Now my tapestry's unraveling - he's come to take me back @dontshootmespence​

Modest Mouse

18. Talking shit about a pretty sunset Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon I've changed my mind so much I cant even trust it My mind changed me so much I cant even trust myself

19. Working real hard to make internet cash Work your fingers to the bone sitting on your ass I know now what I knew then But I didn't know then what I know now

20. When you’re living your life, well, that's the price you pay Whenever I breath out, you're breathing it in Whenever I speak out, you're speaking out

21. Blame it on the weekends. God I need a cola now. Oh we mumble loudly, wear our shame so proudly. Wore our blank expressions, trying to look interesting. Blame it all on me cuz God I need a cold one now.

22. Well you were spitting venom at most everyone you know If you truly knew the gravity you'd know just where to go Well let it drop @there-must-be-a-lock​

^*^*^*^

Tagging: @dontshootmespence​

Slackers: @mskathywriteswords​ @fangirlxwritesx67 @itmighthavebeenintentional​ @there-must-be-a-lock

Shout out to MJ @thoughtslikeaminefield​ for the banner!

[utanoprince-imagines]

When the Cherry Blossom Fades

Prompt: Your last date with Masato

Character(s): Masato/Reader

Genre: Angst

Word count: 1,645

Warnings: None!

A/N: Hello! I decided to challenge myself and try a hand at writing angst! I’m usually all for writing fluff since it makes me happy, but I decided to branch out a little! I hope you enjoy reading this! Thank you!

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958646

You weren’t sure when it all started. Gradually you noticed your relationship with him slowly slipping away. Both of you stopped texting each other in the morning, you no longer found the motivation to meet up with him after work, choosing to spend your dinner time alone in front of the television instead of your boyfriend. Your weekends were filled with appointments - but they were for yourself only. 

Once in a while the two of you would sit at a cafe after lunch together, sipping on coffee. But the entire date was in silence, with words barely exchanged between the both of you. It wasn’t like you ran out of things to talk about, the usual you would have told him every small detail about your day - how your morning toast was slightly burnt beyond your liking or how you met a stray cat on your way to the office.

It was as if the two of you became complete strangers. 

Eventually, you knew it was time to call it quits, and you knew your boyfriend thought the same. 

You dropped him a text, basically telling him that your relationship was going nowhere and it was better to break up. You stared at the screen for a moment, waiting for a reply. Somehow it brought upon a bitter feeling, despite knowing that your relationship was close to hopeless.

“Can you promise me one more thing?” came the reply, leaving you confused.

You replied with a “yes, what is it?”

You knew your boyfriend wasn’t a bad person. He never hurt you out of spite, and even if he hurt you unintentionally, he always immediately apologised. He always meant well, he always had good intentions. 

It really made you wonder - where did it all go wrong? 

A couple of minutes later his reply came again “Just the two of us, one last time, I want to see the cherry blossoms.”

~~

Going to see the cherry blossoms every spring was something the two of you had been doing together for the past three years. It was a date you constantly looked forward to, the both of you would happily try to catch any falling petals. When you got tired from walking, you would sit on a bench beneath a tree and talk about the things you wanted to do in the future, from going overseas together to getting married.

Nothing of that sort was going to ever happen. It was going to be your fourth and final time looking at the cherry blossoms together.

You let out a deep sigh as you opened your wardrobe to find a sweater to wear. Though the weather allowed for you to dress lightly, you knew the spring breeze would eventually pick up later in the day, and you didn’t want to end your last date trembling from the cold. 

Shuffling through your clothes, your eyes landed on a particular knitted sweater. It was a gift from your boyfriend when the two of you were in the early stages of your relationship. It was some time in autumn, and you had gone out to catch a movie with him. Not knowing that the temperature was going to drop during the night, you left the house underdressed. The moment you left the mall to walk home together, you felt the chills and instinctively tried to wrap your hands around yourself to provide your body with the needed warmth. Your boyfriend saw what you were doing, and immediately dragged you back into the mall to buy you a new one. 

Today wasn’t exactly the right occasion to wear a piece of clothing which carried so much meaning to you, but you weren’t given much of a choice, looking at how your other sweaters were either too thick or too thin.  

Grabbing your bag and keys, you stepped out of the house. 

~~

It was a silent commute to the park, with the only sound being the soft music playing through your earphones. 

You had the time to think about your relationship. No matter how you looked at it, you couldn’t comprehend where everything turned sour. Despite both of you being introverts, you managed to click well with one another, and every silence the both of you had was never awkward. You never had a major fight with him, and small arguments were always resolved as quickly as they appeared.

Was it just the gods above telling you that it was not meant to be? Was this the cruelty of fate that you heard so often of from your friends?

Reaching the park, you had caught sight of other couples already there, walking along the pathway, hand in hand, wearing the brightest smiles on their faces. You felt a pang of jealousy in your chest - you used to be like that. 

You took a seat at one of the benches near a convenience store, waiting for your boyfriend to come. Looking at the breathtaking scenery in front of you, you weren’t sure if you were to feel happy or upset that the relationship was ending like that. You hoped that you would be able to enjoy the cherry blossoms without your feelings getting in the way. 

~~

Not more than five minutes later, you spotted a familiar figure approaching from a distance. Standing up from the bench, you forced a small smile on your face as you greeted him,

“Hijirikawa-san.” 

Likewise, Masato greeted you politely, a similar smile seen on his face. His gaze fell onto the sweater you were wearing, and it looked as if he wanted to say something, but held back. 

You then felt him look at your hands and you realised it was because you were wearing a bandage on one finger. You had hurt yourself earlier in the day while trying to fix one of the loose buttons on your shirt. Pricking yourself with the needle was never a problem when you lived with Masato, he was always good with his hands, while you fell more on the rough side.

He looked concerned and you shyly told him that it wasn’t serious and that it would heal up in no time.

You hated this. How the two of you went from lovers to seemingly two people who first met on a blind date. But you also knew that at this point, it was unavoidable. 

Walking side by side, silence hung between the both of you as you directed your gaze at the cherry blossoms slowly cascading down onto the pavement. Masato was the first to break the silence, asking you if you had been well recently. You told him that work had been a lot more manageable recently, and that you were getting along well with your colleagues.

“I’m glad.” He replied.

There wasn’t much meaning in the conversation shared between the both of you, just small talk here and there. Once in a while the both of you would reminisce about things that happened when you were dating, but those conversations didn’t last long, it appeared that the both of you didn’t want to touch on that topic. 

Before you knew it, you had reached the end of the pathway, the last cherry blossom tree just right in front of your eyes. It was coming to an end - the day, the date and the relationship. Both of you stopped in your footsteps, simultaneously looking at the tree in front of you. 

Somehow, both of you never wanted the day to end. 

“(y/n)-san.” Masato called out gently.

Reaching into his front pocket, he pulled out something small, like a charm of some sort. He took your hand and gently placed it in your palm.

It was a happiness charm, and at first glance you could tell that he had personally made it. The stitching pattern was all too familiar to you.

“I know it was a difficult request, but thank you for meeting with me today. I hope this charm serves as a proper parting gift. I still love you, and I’m sorry things didn’t work out. I hope that in the future, you’ll be able to find the happiness and comfort that I couldn’t provide you.”

You bit your lip, trying your hardest not to let a single tear slip.

“Thank you, I love you too. Please be happy and healthy from now on.” You replied, your voice shaking slightly.

Reluctantly, Masato bid you farewell as he walked off. You stood frozen in your position, looking on as you saw the figure of the man you once loved so much leave, your hand still clutching on tightly to the charm he gave you.

He was out of sight, but he wasn’t out of your mind yet. 

You placed the charm inside your bag, your legs picking up the courage to finally make your way home. Cherry blossoms continued to fall, decorating the path in front of you.

~~

Reaching home, you took out the happiness charm from your bag and held onto it as you slumped in front of your room door. You looked at the charm in your hand, your fingers gently running over the soft fabric.

And then, you cried.  

You let all the tears you’ve been holding back out, you buried your face into the sweater, your chest hurting more with each wail you let out. You missed him, you missed him so much, and you felt helpless that there was nothing you could do to mend the broken relationship. In your mind, you already knew that there was no way you could love another man like him ever again, your relationship with him was the most precious one you have ever had and yet it didn’t work out. 

You prayed, with all your heart, you poured your entire soul into it, that when the cherry blossom fades, your lingering feelings for him would disappear too.

[walkingshcdow-a]

@tinfoiltemplar | in response to [this]

He wasn’t asleep, not really. He couldn’t sleep in the hospital, more often spending hours in silent vigil. Nowadays, Finnegan slept during his lunch break or else when Victor was engaged in treatments he couldn’t sit with him during. Those treatments had stopped; the doctor insisted no more could be done but to make Victor comfortable and make the arrangements. 

Lying beside his husband in fugue state, Finnegan couldn’t think of what those arrangements were, nor could he dwell on the happier times that he and Victor had once known, nor could he stubbornly cling to his conviction that Victor would recover and they would be happy again. Instead, he could only settle for the vague happiness that Victor was warm to the touch and near. It almost made him peaceful enough to sleep, but instead, Finnegan squeezed Victor’s hand. 

It struck him as ironic that even now, everything Victor did, he did with some kind of gentle reverence, like he feared to break Finnegan. Somehow, Finnegan was sure such gentleness would only break him more than indifference or cruelty might have. The grooves and cracks in his soul where the love poured in and out were all Victor’s doing. It had been a long labor of love, breaking him open as Victor had. It culminated in this quiet, fierce tenderness. These last few hopeless days had few moments of peace. No amount of bargaining or arguing or begging could change Victor’s dismal prognosis. The doctor said there was nothing to be done and so Finnegan could only kiss Victor’s thin shoulder. Any day, it could be their last kiss. It would be someday. Most husbands had longer to contend with that reality.  

Maybe that was why he woke fully and took Victor in his arms. Awake and smiling, eyes burning with unshed tears, Finnegan held his husband. He murmured soft things in his ear and held him fast in his arms. He waited for Victor to sleep. He listened to his breathing, He heard him stop. 

When did the crying stop? When did he accept that it was over and his husband was gone?

It stopped. It had to stop. Someone took Victor’s body from Finnegan’s arms, someone roused him from the hospital room. He had a funeral to plan and friends and family to notify and a company to run and a life to live. 

It wasn’t until he returned to their bedroom some days later - the alien, stale room that had once been their sanctuary - that it occurred to Finnegan that Victor had used his last words to say he loved him and to call him by his given name, which Victor only did when he was totally pleased. It occurred to him then that he couldn’t remember whether he’d said he loved him back. 

The crying began again. Harder, more privately.

Only the friends Victor would have wanted there were invited to the funeral. There was a Mass and a wake and someone - not Finnegan - had organized catering. He accepted condolences quietly, gracefully, much as he had at his mother’s and, later, his father’s funeral. It didn’t feel the same at all, though. When people touched his arms and said they were sorry, Finnegan believed it, even if he didn’t know the other person very well. He had known Victor so well that he couldn’t imagine why anyone would be anything but sorry that he was gone. He was good and kind and everything the eulogies said and more. Finnegan delivered his own speech, kissed Victor goodbye even though he couldn’t believe that the cold body was the same man he’d held a few days ago, and bore him to the grave. He waited until he was home to drink and sit with Evan, who had spent days looking for Victor in various rooms. He took calls from Edie and from Jane and once from Frankenstein, although his heart stopped when he’d first seen his name flash up on the phone: Victor. Mostly, he worked - long hours so he could trick himself into thinking his Victor would be home when he finished for the night. He took Evan for long walks - unreasonably long walks for his bulldog-legs - so that they were both tired enough to sleep without noticing how empty Victor’s side of the bed was. Life continued, hobbling along at half-speed, half-meaning. 

“Do you think he knew I loved him in the end?” Finnegan asked Edie when she came to London to check on him again a month later. They sat in the park - the one he and Victor used to meet in - and Evan lay at their feet. 

“Darling, of course he knew.”

“Then why was it so hard to say? I have a thousand things I should have said to him before the end and now he’ll never hear any of them.”

“It might do you good to say them anyway,” Edie said. “Victor would have wanted you to put that love somewhere.”

“It feels more like despair.”

“Michael-” Finnegan flinched. “- whatever makes you think you can tell the two apart? Give yourself time for it to feel like love again.”

[mercurymetals]

someone to feed, someone to bleed

I admit, I planned to work through the requests in order, but when I saw this ask I just had to sit down and write it. That's some yummy ideas you've got there, anon. Took some liberties, but hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence and death. Lots of blood. Power play dynamics. Borderline psychological horror. Actually, probably straight up horror as well. Have fun!

Blood. The smell of it is thick, almost oppressive as it fills your nostrils. You never thought you'd call this process familiar, and yet that's exactly what it has become to you. Ordinary. Routinely, even.

The heavy tang of iron, pools of red blooming beneath you, exposed flesh and torn up arteries - these things should scare you. They should horrify you.

And they did, once.

The first time these very sights and smells penetrated your senses, the shock was enough to nearly make you faint. Your knees gave out under you and you crumbled down to the ground. Nausea and helpless panic overwhelmed your senses, causing your whole body to shake violently. You gasped in breath after uneven breath, each punctuated by a pathetic whimper at the back of your throat.

You don't know why you were chosen. You don't know what about that display could have intrigued him. You don't know why he cut down everyone that night except for you.

All you remember after the massacre is the way he lifted your chin with the tip of his blade, forcing you to look up at him. There was a sadistic glint in his eyes as he watched you, and even then you could tell each of your cries and quivers pleased him. He smiled slowly, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

"Yes. You'll do," he had said, and thus your fate was decided.

It took you weeks, to get used to your new duties. You wanted to refuse his demands, but fear compelled you to obey.

Your first kill left you changed. To this day, you are convinced it hurt you more than it hurt your victim. As the days passed, vivid images of faces twisted in agony burned themselves into your mind. When you managed to fall asleep, you'd get nightmares, and when you woke up in a cold sweat, they wouldn't leave you. Memories flashed before your eyes minute by slow minute, demanding your attention. Demanding you answer for your crimes.

But that was then. You have surpassed that version of yourself.

Now, you grip the blade steadily, watching with trained patience while the woman before you writhes, her hands desperately clawing at the mask on her face. You hear her shriek out pleas, but the words don't even register in your mind. She groans as the tendrils dig deep into her brain, her struggles growing weaker, until finally she lays still on the floor of the chamber.

You carefully remove the mask, placing it back on its pedestal with a performative reverence, and then go back to watching her. You know the process can take anywhere from a few seconds to a minute, and this is the most dangerous part of your task. But if you time things right, everything should proceed smoothly.

Priest. That is your title. The one and only high priest, ordained with the honour to serve a god among men, a life form so far evolved your petty human brain could never hope to comprehend it. Yet you know your hands are soaked with death, your heart speaks only of sin, and repentance is not a relief you can grant to anyone, least of all yourself.

You've come to terms with that, though. You've come to accept that the only thing that matters in your life any more is servitude.

You must have been chosen for a reason, after all. There must be something special about you. You are not like the humans whose lives you assist in taking. You are more than just a meal waiting to happen. And you are helping them, too. By continuing to do this dreadful job, you're sparing someone else from having to do it in your place. That has to count for something, doesn't it?

But as the seconds tick by, the woman remains perfectly still. You frown, and wait, and wait, and she does not stir.

Have you done something wrong? You're sure you saw those tendrils pierce her head. Should you keep waiting? No, out of the question. You feel your master's expectant gaze on your back, and you know you don't have the luxury of making him wait any longer. You crouch down and reach out to check the victim's pulse, wondering if you took the mask off too early.

And that's exactly when she strikes. With an inhuman screech she throws herself at you, slamming you to the ground. You feel her clawed fingers dig into the skin of your bared arms. You thrust your knife towards her, but she easily slaps your hand aside, knocking it out of your grasp.

She opens her mouth wide, her fangs ready to tear your face open--

You hear a scream, but it's not your own. Her weight vanishes off you, and a sick crunch resounds in the chamber. You sit up in time to see her crumple to the ground beside you once more. Kars, your master, is standing over the two of you, but your eyes remain glued to the woman.

Part of her torso and abdomen are missing, her flesh and insides melting off her like liquid. She spasms violently on the floor of the chamber, her body buckling as if overcome by a seizure. You've seen so many horrors play out before your eyes, but still you grimace in disgust. You know well that Kars could have easily finished her in one strike, but he chose not to, and now you are forced to watch her die a slow death for a second time.

This time when she grows still, you are certain she is done for. But it's not until the harrowing scene comes to an end that the gravity of the situation hits you.

You've never messed up on this scale before. When you first started out, you were expected to learn fast, and even then Kars had hardly been tolerant of even the smallest mistakes. He made you do things over and over until you got them right, your abhorrent duties a punishment of their own right.

But now... You don't even know how you could possibly salvage this. The silence between you and your master is stark, and it's all you can do to shift yourself to your knees before him.

You hear him sigh. "Not only do I have to do your job for you, but you've made such a mess of my meal." He sounds sincerely disappointed, and you find yourself upset for it. He caused the mess by your side, but still you feel accountable for inconveniencing him. That he was the one who forced you to do these things in the first place seems trivial - he's displeased with you, and that's entirely your fault.

"I have allowed you to participate in something of such importance," Kars continues. "I have given you training, a place by my side. You! A mere human. And still you fail me." He steps closer, causing your body to twitch reflexively. You dare not look up at him. "Well, I suppose that's to be expected. What should I do with you, I wonder?"

Your breathing is still uncomfortably fast, and you find yourself at a loss. You have overcome the you who snivelled at the thought of taking a life. You fought past your repulsion for blood and gore. You have steeled yourself to perform your duties swiftly and efficiently. You have, by all accounts, embraced death.

But with his unnerving glare boring into the back of your head, you feel utterly hopeless. Your master is the only one left who can stir any emotion out of you, but the only thing you feel towards him is a mind-numbing fear.

"I-- I apologise," you stutter. "Please, a-allow me to get you another meal..."

Kars scoffs. "Is that your answer? You're looking to run away from me?"

You shake your head fervently. "No, I... I'm sorry." You don't know what else to say. You want to beg his forgiveness, but you are afraid you're only going to make things worse.

"Hmm."

You hate that noise. That relaxed hum he makes whenever he's debating on some terrible decision. You stay silent, knowing he is enjoying dragging this out, letting you ferment over the fact he's contemplating your fate. Your life is but a tiny thread weaved around his finger, and he could make the decision to snap it in an instant.

You hear him shift. "Your hand."

Confused, you lift your head and peek up. Kars' arm is outstretched towards you, his large palm open. You hesitate, but slowly raise your hand and place it in his.

The second you do, his fingers clasp around it and he drags you upwards in one smooth, effortless motion. You yelp, suddenly finding yourself almost face-to-face with your master. You're standing on your tip toes, trying to relieve the pressure from him holding you up, but still you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

Kars is holding you close enough that your bare chest presses against his. The sensation is oddly intimate. The outfit you have been donned with is scarce, made to match his - most of your body is out on display, save for the linen skirt around your waist and the ornaments around your wrists and neck. Chains obscured by gold, as you've come to think of them.

But it is not his physicality that catches you off guard. He's towered over you from the start - you're well aware of his greatness. It is his face, where you never dared to steal more than a glance, that momentarily stuns you.

His thick eyelashes, the smudge of purple on his eyelids, his still-smiling lips, and that dark hair framing his sharp features. It's embarrassing how much it overwhelms you for a moment, being this close to it all. He's so... lovely to look at.

You soon snap out of it however when you realise the look in his eyes is one you have seen before. Back on that fateful night when he found you, and through a blur of tears you saw it then as you see it now - wanton cruelty.

You open your mouth to say something, plead with him, but his other hand snaps shut around your throat, silencing your attempts before they could even begin.

"Not a word,” Kars says, observing you with smug content.

You try to gasp for air. Your lungs contract painfully, but to no avail. You can't breathe. You can’t breathe! You can't breathe!

Your free hand wraps around his wrist, but it does you no good. You claw at his skin, but he doesn't let up, keeping your airways tightly sealed. Your lungs are burning, and pressure rises in your head like water against a dam. Soon your vision of Kars becomes blurry and distorted, a muddled disarray of purple and tan. Black spots join the fray as they start to cut into your sight, threatening to sever your consciousness any second.

Then the pain starts to feel distant, and your awareness of your own body becomes muted. It's almost like you're falling asleep. It's... a strangely peaceful way to go, you think distantly. If this is how you can escape your wicked existence, then maybe it's not all so bad.

But the moment Kars lets go, you instinctively gulp in several large breaths, and your vision winks back in place. You're dizzy, the pressure in your mind worryingly high, and then the pain hits you. Your chest seizes, and your heart thuds so fiercely you wonder if it's about to give out anyway.

The only reason you're still up and not splayed out on the floor is because Kars is still holding you. And, to your alarm, he reaches for your neck a second time. You squirm in an attempt to get away, hysterical at the thought he's about to do that to you all over again.

Kars grasps your throat, but not hard enough to block your airways. Instead, you feel a strange sensation of something dipping under your skin.

You want to protest, but all your damaged voice manages is a croak. You feel a kind of pull, your blood seeping out of you and straight into his fingers. As your rapidly pumping heart continues to work overtime in an attempt to get oxygen to your brain, it inadvertently feeds Kars instead. The hand that had been stealing your air supply seconds ago is now stealing your very life force from inside of you.

You don't feel good. Dazedly you cling onto his arm, wishing you could do something to alter your fate. Surely even death would be kinder at this point.

But maybe that's precisely why your master has left you alive.

You don't know how long it takes, but finally you feel his fingers pull out of your throat. You're not even allowed a moment of comfort as he immediately drops you to the ground, and your head crashes painfully against the stone floor of the chamber.

You lie there motionlessly, feeling exhausted, sickened and used. Closing your eyes makes it worse, so you keep them open. The image of the woman right next to you steadily comes into focus. You become aware of the wetness against your cheek, and wonder if it's her blood or liquefied flesh you're lying in. You don't care. More than anything, you'd like to drift off to sleep. Better your nightmares than this reality.

When you hear Kars speak, you force away your own desires and concentrate on his words. "I expect this place to be cleaned up by the time I come back."

You hear his retreating footsteps, and the relief you feel is enough to make you want to cry. The chamber doors creak open, and there's a few seconds of silence. You wait with baited breath.

"Don't disappoint me a second time, my precious priest."

The doors close with a resounding thud.

You lie for some time. Eventually, your vision returns to normal and the world stops swaying. You still feel feverish and weak, but you make yourself sit up. You turn your gaze to the corpse of the woman again, taking in her severed form, her face twisted in a death mask of horror.

Maybe you and her aren't so different, after all.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Maybe We Meet Again

My Masterlist

In Another Life (prequel to this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: The first part (of two) of the sequel of In Another Life, set in a Modern!AU.

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Mentions of death, descriptions of violence and death, major character death (past), nothing else I can think of.

A/N: Hi, idk what you guys were expecting when it came to the follow up for In Another Life, but I hope you like this. Thank you so much for your support in that work and all the others, none of this would be possible without you guys keeping me sane motivated. Love ya.

Taglist: @1950schick @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​

Ivar’s gaze is focused on his phone, awaiting his brother’s answer to finally know how much longer will it be before he gets to the café, but something makes him lift his gaze, looking out the window.

He sees you looking positively overwhelmed on a street corner, eyes squinting at a sign, trying to read the name of the street.

Ivar doesn’t know what it is that makes him adjust the crutch in his left arm and stand up to approach you. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t deny the pull, the whisper that if he doesn’t at least learn your name he will regret it.

“Do you need help?” He asks as pleasantly as he is able to, and based by the grateful smile you offer, even if twinged with embarrassment, he isn’t quite the mannerless grump his brothers make him out to be.

“Is it that obvious?” You huff a laugh at yourself, and continue, “I’m trying to find…”

Your eyes lower to your phone, and with an adorable frown in your nose, you give up on whatever it is you must say, and just show him the screen. The name of the university is familiar, but you are very much lost, it seems, for it is almost on the other side of town.

He tells you that, and tries not smiling at the expression on your face. Gods, you are cute.

“You are not from here.” He states, and you shake your head.

“Here on a scholarship, I’m going to be an assistant investigator in…” Your words die again, as you seemingly try to remember the name of the place you are supposed to be at. But you shake yourself out of that soon enough, and offer a smile, “I’m Y/N.”

The name makes something in him react, awaken. For a moment he tries to remember why, to understand, but it feels like trying to run in a dream, in feels strange and hopeless and out of his reach.

Before you can think him too strange, he tells you his name, and desperately tries thinking of something to say in the awkward silence that follows.

He finds himself asking if you have time for a coffee, motioning absently to the shop behind him, and by some turn of his luck, you say yes.

Ivar finds out soon enough that it is incredibly easy to get you to talk. It works for him, he doesn’t always know what to say, and he knows to most people he seems cold.

But you, you are warm and alive and expressive, and soon enough you are moving your hands excitedly, speaking of finally being granted the opportunity to assist in a dig on a ship burial site. Ivar frowns, and interrupts you with a mumble of your name, still not over the strange thrill that goes over him when sounds out the syllables.

“There’s no sea nearby, how w-…”

“A ship burial doesn’t mean one at sea,” You interrupt softly, eyes shining. After a breath, where it seems your smile trembles on your lips, you add, “Things are not as literal as you think they are, Ivar.”

He tries returning the smile, but his lips part and his breath stutters out.

Why does it feel like he’s forgetting something?

He shakes himself out of it, and leans forward on the table, resting his elbows on it and looking into your eyes.

“So, why all this? Why chase a love story all the way to Bække?”

You shrug your shoulders, a smile that Ivar tries not finding devastatingly adorable playing on your lips, “I don’t like secrets.”

“I don’t think they are keeping it particularly from you.”

“Still. I…it’s a story no one else knows, something that can change how we see the world.” Your eyes are shining in a sort of wonder, of excitement, he has never seen before.

Still, because he cannot help it, he reminds you, “How we see one man.”

“A man that changed the world,” You argue without hesitation, gesturing with your hands as you continue, “Strip away the atrocity, the cruelty, the…otherworldliness of those who are remembered as monsters, and the tale we tell changes, the world changes.

You place your hand over the worn book he saw you carrying, that when he asked you told it was your favorite copy of historical and archaeological records detailing the last years of the Golden Age for Vikings, your eyes fiery as they meet his,

“All we have to remember him by is the legend, the war stories, the chaos he sowed and the death that followed. Even his grave is one of magic, of superstition.”

“But not this one you are working on.”

“Not this one. If I can prove that she was his wife…” A breathed laugh leaves your lips, and Ivar clings to the sound. You bite your lip before insisting, “I just need her name to be the right one.”

“The right one?”

You shrug your shoulders, moving both hands so they are wrapped around your cup of coffee, though your fingers are anxiously tapping at the plastic covering. “His last breath was a whisper of a name. It may not mean anything, but it’s the one lead I have. He may have been a monster, but…he died with a name on his lips.”

“The name of his wife.”

You correct with a shake of your head, “Presumed wife, Rus records only speak of a shieldmaiden that was found dead in his room, before he tore the Rus apart from the inside. Sentimentality makes you think he was avenging her. Logic, on the other hand…”

When your words die with a gesture of your hand, Ivar finishes for you,

“Makes you realize he killed her.”

You nod, a twitch of sadness, a shine of grief in your eyes, before you shake your head at yourself with a sigh.

“The night the world ended.” You quote with a smile that trembles on your lips.

____

If someone were to ask him how life turned out this way, how he got to be here with you and have you love him and let him love you back, Ivar wouldn’t know how to answer.

He’s told you before that maybe it is Fate, that maybe, just maybe, you two were meant to be. Each time he speaks of it, you smile softly, usually shaking your head or kissing him to shut him up, but he sees the tremble in your smile, the curiosity in your gaze, the wondering.

Regardless of how he got here, he for once refuses to overthink this, refuses to let himself be twisted into knots by his own thoughts.

So, because he finds himself missing you -because he wants to, because he can, because he asked you to move in and you said yes- Ivar goes in search of you.

He finds you on the couch, your eyes closed and breathing deep even if your laptop is still open on the coffee table, expecting you to continue work you probably fell asleep doing.

More than a year you’ve dedicated to this dig of yours, this investigation. More than a year, you’ve A part of him torments him with thoughts that you may look elsewhere -both when it comes to a home and when it comes to him- when it is done, but he tries not dwelling much on it.

He whispers an endearment as he presses a kiss right under your ear, a gesture and softness a year ago he never would have believed himself capable of.

“C’mon, wake up, Princess. I can’t exactly carry you to bed.”

“There’s a…bed right here,” You make a vague gesture to the tiny space you leave for him to apparently sleep in, “And there’s a me, and a you.”

Ivar tries replying with a whisper of your name, but Gods, you have him wrapped around your pinky, and your smile stops whatever he was going to insist with.

With a sigh, he sits on the small space you leave, and discards the crutch on the floor at his side. Trying to move you so he can lay down and have you rest on his chest, he once again meets resistance.

“No, no, no,” You mutter sleepily, and stiffen so he can’t maneuver you. “I’m comfy. You leave me be, Lothbrok.”

Our arms lift weakly, inviting him to lay partially over you with his head on your chest. It is inviting, especially with the promise of your fingers running through his hair.

So, he desists and settles in place, pressing a kiss to the center over your heart and laying his head on your chest, his arms going underneath you and wrapped tightly around you.

Ivar closes his eyes, and he can hear it beating under his ear, can hear its rhythm as if he could know it by memory.

He turns his head, and presses another kiss to the skin over your heart.

What he wouldn’t do for that heartbeat.

____

You wake him in the early morning whispering excitedly about the chance to finally go to the site, and insisting that he has to come with you.

“It’s her.” You whisper, and your smile is fucking blinding. When he apparently dwells too long on the warmth of that smile, you insist with an excited pitter-patter of your feet that he gets up.

He does, and gets in the car with you, around curses about the cold that you giggle at, an annoyed furrow in his brow you kiss away, and grumbles about how far away it is that you soothe away with soft kisses.

You get ahead of him when you walk towards the stones embedded on the ground you said are in the shape of a ship, and Ivar limps behind you as you approach the biggest of the stones.

Your hair flows everywhere in the wind, and your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself to ward off the cold.

“The one thing that made him human is here,” You say, and he watches as your left hand raises as if to press your palm against the old stone, before you stop yourself. “The one proof that he wasn’t a…a monster. Just a man.

You chuckle, but it is bitter, sorrowful, pained; and your gaze lowers to the ground.

“Or…he was, until he killed her.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, to that look in your eyes, to that pressure he feels deep in his chest. So, Ivar grabs on tighter to his crutch and moves closer to the pillar.

“‘She will return victorious’.” Ivar reads slowly, feeling a pit of dread at the base of his stomach, like he’s at the edge of a cliff and about to fall, like he knows what it feels to have the world end, like…like he-…

Those that followed him, those that chose their Viking roots over Oleg’s Christian ways, stay quite a distance away, they know better than to approach.

Ivar doesn’t know how much time he has spent sitting on this cold grass engraving with shaking hands the words he tries remembering how to spell.

He knows he’s lost a lot of blood, can feel it, sticky and colder by the minute, pooling underneath him. The one blow that managed to land on him, he wishes he could remember who it was, how it happened.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened between your lips breathing a last kiss over his and the light dying in Oleg’s eyes as his body surrendered to the torture.

Even his hand is bleeding, Ivar notices. He remembers faintly of holding on to a small statue when he was told his father died, he remembers the feel of it breaking the skin.

He could die here, he knows.

If he doesn’t let them approach him, if he doesn’t let them stop the bleeding, he will die here, tired and worn and alone, under a pool of his own blood before a monument of his worst mistakes.

He can close his eyes and he can still feel the fathom touch of your hand on his cheek, can still taste the warmth of your smile pressed against his own lips, can still see your gaze filled with love and the promise of forever.

He can still hear your voice, soft and gentle, the whispered hope that maybe Valhalla is another chance to meet again, that maybe in another life there’s hope for…hope.

He finishes the last of the letters, and he sways forward, brow resting against cold stone.

It would be easy, he gathers, to close his eyes and give in to the lull of the memory of your voice, your touch.

But he refuses to.

Because he can also feel your hand giving one last caress before you sentence you both to die, can still taste the tears in your lips as you promise only death will stop you against his own, can still see your dead eyes staring back up at him, his knife deep in your heart.

And so Ivar drops the blooded iron tool before the words he will pray to his very last breath are true: She will return victorious.

He vowed once he would make the world remember him, but the world ended the night he put a knife through your heart. The world -his world- ended, and he finds with cruel clarity that he wants them all to know what it feels.

He will still be the most famous Viking who has ever lived. He will make them all suffer and pay and die. And they will remember the pain and death and chaos. And he will be a legend, if only one they will whisper in fear for the rest of time, if only the legend of a monster in a man’s skin.

Ivar crawls away from the boat made of stone, certain many will try to stop him, even more will try to kill him. Certain they will fail.

They can’t kill him, don’t they know who he is?

“Are you okay?” Your hand on his back, touch making him realize how quickly his breaths are coming out of him. Bu the can’t-…he can’t get his breathing back under control, he can’t…

He moves back, away from the stone -the monument, the grave- and his hand doesn’t grip correctly at the crutch on his side. Almost all his life with these things, he’s never failed to use them, they work as an extension of him by now.

And he realizes with dawning horror he wasn’t reaching for the forearm crutch he’s used to, he was expecting to find a rougher one, wooden and metal and…Gods, he can feel the pain of those iron braces, he can feel the pressure of the bones that try to break under unfitting contraptions.

He cannot keep the scream from leaving his lips when they set the bone back into place, the pressure building from the inside of his leg and the pain threatening to pull him under.

He feels faintly of your hand on his face, trying to help him feel anything other than pain; hears choppily of your voice by his ear, trying to drown out the beat of his own heart.

He can’t tell how much time passes, all he knows is that your touch and your voice prove to be the only thing keeping him conscious.

“I hate those things.” You mutter sometime in the night, and he opens bleary eyes to watch you gritting your teeth at the iron braces that lie somewhere on his left.

“Necessary.” The word leaves him in a gasp, and is all he can say. Still, the Gods would sooner sew his mouth shut for him to refuse arguing.

You have the look of wanting to argue, he knows it, he knows that fire like he knows himself; but you say nothing.

The fire is a different one, but still scalds, when you press your hand over his chest.

He hears you say his name, or…or he thinks he does, and when he looks at you, your eyes are the same. And…how didn’t he know?

His lips form the shape of your name, but he only rasps out grief, horror, regret, his regret.

Your expression falls, your eyes fill with tears. He knows that look, that shine of devastation in your eyes.

You look at him and he sees it written in your eyes, the plea that he doesn’t ask you to make this choice.

But he cannot go on while the threat of them taking you away from him looms over him. Either he loses you for good now, or they do.

A part of him dreads your answer, and another is already certain what your choice will be.

“I’ll stay,” You sentence, and it feels like breathing for the first time in a century, when he fills grateful lungs with air. “Out of love for you, not for the world you want to build.”

But he cannot keep the coldness of his voice, he cannot keep the venom from his lips. Because even if your choice was to stay, he wants to punish you for even thinking about leaving him behind.

“A world where you happen to be one of the most powerful women. Convenient, isn’t it?”

But even as ice cuts and bruises and breaks the skin, your smile is warm.

“I choose this world not for power, but because I cannot fathom a world without you in it.”

“You remember.” Is all you whisper. And he recognizes that expression in your face too, all he knew was the feeling behind it once. You have the look of someone whose world just ended.

____

Sooooo, what do you think? I’m sorry there isn’t much fluff, I’m not good at it. And I’m sorry it ends in a cliffhanger, that isn’t nice, but the last part (which takes place from the Reader’s perspective) will hopefully come soon.

Thank you so much for reading, I would love to know your thoughts on this one!! Love you!!

Maybe Death Gives Up On Us (sequel to this)

[firebirdsdaughter]

Random Writing Tidbit Someone Fed the Angst Monster…

… So…

@dekolkampak made the mistake of showing me this Zero-On fanart by @Shirou_Makes on Twitter.

I apologise for the results. The Angstbird had a field day.

Note: I started this before episode twelve came out. I considered altering it to remove Ansatsu-chan from the beginning, but since we’ve still got a version of him wandering around, and the actor was at the movie premiere party, I decided to leave it, just in case.

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Horobi’s visual display was in chaos, glitching and blinking with a multitude of different alerts. There was a strange, buzzing static underneath all the other sounds. His memory was fuzzy, too, and his body felt stiff and heavy. There was wetness on the side of his face, and, according to the internal alerts coming from his system, a severe laceration in the side of his abdomen.

After what seemed like an eternity, he found his arms, fumbling around him, trying to rack his memory. He felt cold stone and… Bits of rubble? More exploring gave way to larger hunks of rock, then burning hot metal. The buzzing was beginning to fade, and he heard something else—hissing, sparking. His searching fingers brushed something else—a smaller, rectangular shape. His fingers closed around it, and he heaved his arm upward to get it into his slowly clearing vision.

It was the Dodo Zetsumerise Key. Face completely shattered. Smoking.

Something clicked. A thing truly unthinkable had happened. He had calculated that humans would fight back. Zero-One had exceeded some expectations, but nothing that couldn’t be handled. He’d been very careful with his preparations.

What he hadn’t anticipated was for them to simply bomb the Daybreak site.

Equally surprising had been the speed of Ansatsu-chan’s reaction. Tackling him sideways out of his chair, snapping the Key into the Zetsumeriser at the same time at the sound of the first hit, his younger creation had pinned him to the ground, shielding him with his MaGear form until the final blast brought down most of the roof.

Slowly, agonisingly, he rolled over onto his side, squinting towards where his computer station had been—and found nothing but a pile of broken stones, the remains of the monitors just barely poking out from amongst them, cracked and sparking. Useless. Any and all data on them, and everything they had connected him to, lost with them. The Dodo MaGear was gone for good—a realisation that felt like a cold stab through his chest. His fingers clenched tighter around the Key, hand shaking, surrounded by nothing but the groans of shifting stone and settling dust and the remains of a senseless sacrifice.

“…  Ho… Horobi…?”

No.

The weakness and terror in that voice was more than enough to make his body move, scrambling upward, casting about the ruined room. His legs very nearly gave out beneath him, but he staggered through, grabbing hold of piles of rubble for support, searching frantically.

No. Not him. Not him.

Limping, clutching at the wound on his side, blue dribbling over his fingers and down his leg to leave a small trail on the dusty ground, he made his way across the room as best he could. His vision was still hazy, he could hardly walk, the short distance across the room feeling like an eternity. The warnings about damage to his system blaring even louder as he continued to ignore them—but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but him.

Not him. Please, not him. You can’t take him, too.

Then he reached the opposite wall, where the couches and shelves had once been, and found his pleas had gone unheard.

“… Jin!” His voice burst from him suddenly in a frantic cry, his son’s name the first thing on his lips. Jin lay sprawled face down on the stone floor, in pool of blue that was far too big, shelves capsized on top of him, his body spasming and sparking like the ruined computers. Horobi didn’t so much rush to his side as collapsed toward it, crawling the rest of the way. Frantically, he felt for Jin’s hand, clasping it in both of his to try and still the twitching, even though his own hands were shaking. “Jin!” The only response was a choked sound like wheeze, a faint gasp that might have once been his name before it trailed off.

More terror gripped him. It shouldn’t have been possible, in his injured state, for him to wedge his shoulder beneath the shelves and leverage them off his son’s body one at a time, knocking them crashing on top of the rest of the rubble—his system protested vibrantly against the exertion, flashing and beeping, but he managed it, moving without a single thought. But the scene they revealed was even more horrible; even through the glitches and alarums, even with only a cursory glance, the severity of the damage was painfully obvious. Even as he bent forward, gripping Jin’s shoulders to roll him at least partially over to see his face, to try and examine more closely, the icy blade of hopelessness in his chest only sank deeper and twisted around in its wound. By the time some of Jin’s bearings returned to him, and his eyes fluttered open, Horobi had seen enough to know that there was nothing even he could do.

“… Horobi…?” Jin’s voice was as plaintive and thoroughly terrified as before, only slightly louder, now that he was free of the weight of the shelves.

At the sound, Horobi’s hands flew back up to cup his son’s face in his blue-stained palms, fingers smoothing Jin’s hair away from his forehead in a poor attempt at comfort. “I’m here.” He whispered anxiously, leaning his face close to make sure his son heard him. “I’m here, Jin, I’m here.”

Jin’s panicked gaze roved for a moment, his face spasming like the rest of his body, until it finally found Horobi’s face—instinctive relief welled in his eyes, mixing with the fear, and Horobi felt like he finally understood what it was to be sick. “H… Horobi…” Jin rasped again, then, as the confusion and shock began to fade—his lip quivered and his fingers, trembling as well, smudged and leaking blue, fumbled aimlessly for Horobi’s sleeves, his eyes wide, “I… I…” His voice was pitching, full of tears he couldn’t shed, “I… I’m scared…!” Most of his fingers on both hands finally found the other HumaGear’s arms and latched on, curling to hold on with incredible strength, despite his condition. “P… Please…!”

Horobi had thought he was starting to become numb to the pain, that it couldn’t get worse—but the fright in his son’s eyes, the desperate way he was clumsily clutching at his arms, and the shake in his voice, and the earnest plea; a genuine belief that if he just asked, Horobi could fix this—brought it back with a vengeance. He had failed the only person in the world who mattered. Uselessly, he ran his hand over Jin’s hair some more, thumb stroking his son’s cheek. “… I know. I know. It’s alright.” The words sounded as empty as they were, but he prayed Jin couldn’t hear that in his delirium. “It will be alright.” It was the first lie he’d ever told, in his entire existence.

And it would be the last, it seemed. Somewhere down below, his audio system picked up the rumbling sound of many feet, shouting, and even the click of guns. They were no longer alone, and there wasn’t much time.

His grief began to morph into an even deeper fear. Jin’s wounds were irreparable, but they would not kill him, not for a long time. If the humans took him… Horobi knew he would likely be destroyed on the spot, but Jin… Jin was different. A HumaGear like they’d never seen before, created by one of his own kind, the result of a singularity… Jin, even broken and dying, they would want to study. Study like they had studied Horobi when he’d first shown signs of thought: tear his mind and body apart, picking through him bit by bit to search for the secret of his system, all while he was wide awake, to see how his insides worked. He had barely survived the first time—or perhaps he hadn’t even managed that, just morphed into a monster of cold rage and hatred to match their cruelty, a beast that had consumed the person he’d once been. The thought of Jin, his precious son, going through that… Of human hands torturing his child the same way they had him, and corrupting him with their very touch…

He couldn’t heal Jin. But he could still spare him that.

Slowly, cradling Jin’s head in his hands, he dragged his body around to sit against the pile of debris, arranging to tuck one leg beneath Jin’s head, murmuring meaningless comforts. He got one hand free of his son’s grip, still petting Jin’s hair with the other, and searched through his pocket for Sting Scorpion, then for a piece of one of the Zetsumerisers, an uninstalled scanner. They weren’t made for the Progrise Keys, but it should be enough—he only needed a partial activation, after all. He felt the armour form around his arm, resting it on the knee that wasn’t supporting his son’s head as he continued patting Jin’s hair, making soothing sounds.

“… It’s alright.” He whispered again, and this time it wasn’t so completely a lie, but only in a terrible, twisted way. “It’s alright. I won’t let them hurt you.” The stinger on his arm reached out, slipping around behind him to stay out of view. Horobi moved the his hand from Jin’s hair anyway, gently covering his son’s eyes, closing them. “It’s alright. Just sleep.” As the stringer poised, Horobi finally broke, anguish and guilt spilling over into his voice and face. “… I love you.” Below his hand, he caught the faintest of smiles.

Jin didn’t feel the sting. The last thing he heard was his father whispering he loved him, right before the venom disabled his core processor. His body twitched a few more times, then went still, the lights on the sides of his head going out.

Horobi was frozen for a moment, then tossed his Progrise Key aside, the armour on his arm vanishing as soon as he let go. Moving his arm, he wrapped them both around Jin’s shoulders, pulling his son further into his lap, no longer having to worry about hurting him. There, he took Jin’s head in his hands again, going back to stroking his hair and cheek, hands trembling once more, even worse than before. The shaking spread to his shoulders, and soon he was bowed over his son’s body, filling the heavy silence with loud, wretched sobs.

Jin never saw his father cry. Not while he lived, at least.

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What Horobi is referencing in this is a small theory I had that he might have gone singularity and humans assumed there was something ‘wrong’ w/ his code/system that needed to be ‘fixed,’ so they started trying to study and analyse him—only bc they merely viewed him as malfunctioning technology, they weren’t thinking about how he would feel, being treated like a lab animal, and even did things like take him apart and such while he was still conscious so they could see how his interior hardware was running etc. So. Basically. Not pleasant. And he realises that they will likely do the same to Jin—and he knows exactly what it turned him into, so…

[sunshinewhale]

selfless [3/5?]

maybe, most of all, he hates himself for loving so selflessly.

pairing: onesided hyungwon x reader, kihyun x reader  words: ~770

*optional* follow-up to [ selfish ]

In his carelessness, he drops a glass. 

Hyungwon sees the way the glass shatters onto the white tile floor in slow motion. Completeness, a whole, then imperfect, unmatched fragments, breaking into pieces and parts, parts and pieces— 

In a million diamond pieces, it glitters with breathtaking beauty and hidden cruelty, and in that beautiful cruelness, he cuts himself on the shattered shards. 

Don’t broken pieces combine into completeness? Aren’t shattered shards an imperfect piece of perfection?  

Rich redness dribbles down his palm, and he follows the blood flow, but his mind is lost to wonder. 

A whole is a sum of its parts. How are parts summed together to make a whole? 

A gasp.

“Hyungwon!” 

He turns to the kitchen doorway, and she stands, struck, face colourless with concern.

How can you fix broken perfection when you’re missing shattered parts?

.

.

.

“You need to be careful, Hyungwon.”

“It’s just a small wound,” he protests, indignation sparking alive, “it’ll heal in no time.”

She huffs, blown up and adorably miffed as she blots the liquid redness away from the bleeding cut on his palm. It’s not like he wants an injury on his hand either, but Hyungwon can’t help but lift the corners of his mouth upwards.

“It will heal,” she sighs, “you don’t need to get stitches, at least. But why were you letting yourself bleed out all over the glass?”

He laughs a little nervously.

“I got lost in thought for a second...maybe?”

“...Maybe you need to ween off your coffee addiction. I think too much caffeine makes you lag.” 

In mid scoff, he lets out an involuntary hiss as she dabs alcohol over the wound. She looks up with a playful frown on her face, “Does it hurt, you big baby?”

“You’re being mean,” he jokes, “my heart hurts.”

But she agrees, humming nonchalantly, almost too nonchalant. “The worst wounds are the ones you can’t see, and the ones that hurt the most are the ones that others can’t help heal.” 

He falls quiet, because he’s not quite sure how to respond. There’s too many secrets and too many doors, and Hyungwon doesn’t want to knock too hard and suddenly find himself an unwelcome intruder. She cradles his hand gently as she twists white bandages around the curves of his palm and the valley of his fingers, and she finishes with a clean knot. “Well, that’s done.”

Hyungwon rises to clean up the mess still on the floor, but she scrunches her nose and huffs at him to sit back down. He’s too tired to argue, so he does, and swallows the little bit of guilt that lingers. He watches her pick up the glass, one cautious shard by shard, and he thinks she looks like she’s collecting broken pieces of herself. His heart squeezes, he takes a deep breath, and—

“The gossip. Those rumors. You don’t have to take that kind of behaviour from his exes, strangers, staff, whatever.”

She hums, noncommital, “I’m fine, really. They’re not asking the wrong questions, either.”

She sweeps up the remaining minuscule cuts on the floor, invisible to the eye but still shining, sparkling, glittering in the passover of light. 

Softer, like a little secret told out loud, “They’re asking the same questions I ask myself.”

It’s the fact that Hyungwon knows she fully means every single word she says that makes his simmering emotions burst.

“Why? Why are you letting them hurt you? Why don’t you tell Kihyun?”

“It doesn’t hurt me—”

“You should tell Kihyun anyways, he would want to know!”

If I were Kihyun, I would want to know. I would need to know.

“I don’t want to worry him when it doesn't bother me, and,” she stops, blinks once, and exhales the tiniest quiver in her voice away to calmness—

“I’ll just be another goodbye in the end, anyway.”

It’s absolutely absurd to Hyungwon. He doesn’t know much about love, but he knows Kihyun.

“I’ve never seen him love anyone like he loves you,” he confesses, “you have nothing to be afraid of.”

She looks at him, and his breath loses itself to the glint of soft tragedy in her eyes. He sees hopelessness at peace, he thinks she’s too restrained for a heart that Kihyun’s so careful not to shatter—

Hyungwon realizes she’s been shattered all along, by her own hands.

Like broken glass pieces, sadness sparkling on cold tile floors.

“I’m not afraid he’ll leave me,” she whispers, barely, and it’s the only thing that falls from her lips with complete certainty, “I’m waiting for when he will.”

Something stirs in his chest again.

This time, it aches.

.

.

.