#there is a sad child living beneath their skin

[impossible-rat-babies]

the desire to explain how eyrie’s echo works v. how the fuck do you explain that. like funny guy feels love like god feels love is not even scratching the surface. like how do you say that

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME!"

Vodou or Voodoo!reader x platonic Yandere batfam

You haven't gotten out of bed in days, lying there rotting away like a bone. Your amulet, once vibrant purple, is now dusty and dark. Your bedroom is cold, and your altar is neglected; the candles are out. You haven’t put food there, fixed the tablecloth, or done anything. You haven’t prayed or performed a ceremonial dance. You've never been this depressed, this sad, or this angry; you're in despair. Ever since arriving at the mansion, you've felt your life and soul being sucked out, which is strange—you were so lively before. You feel dead, yet you can hear the chatter and laughter downstairs seeping through your thick walls. Usually, you drown it out, but today you listen. You can feel their smiles, their joy, their anger—everything, yet you're not present.

“Why don’t you go down there?” a spirit says, its ghostly hand caressing your shoulder.

“They don’t want me there; you know that already,” you say, your voice cracks. Of course it did; you were crying for hours, maybe even longer, but better not count. “Don’t be like that; they’re your family.”

You scoff at what the spirit says. You want to slap its hand away, but you obviously can't touch it; you can't even feel it, just the cold air that caresses your dark skin.

“I’ll only ruin it,” you say, hovering overhead, letting your despair consume you. If you continue like this, how will you become a great Priestess? Your altar has no gifts, no offerings. You haven’t fixed your hair in days; you haven’t sent us anything, and we love your voice. “Please, my child,” the spirit pleads, “you do not want to go down there. At least do something.”

You don’t answer again. You curl up into a ball. The spirit sighs. “As you wish, young Priestess,” and they disappear into purple smoke. But all you can think about, deep in your head, is that it just isn’t fair. You’re a nice kid; you’re sweet, you’re kind, you’re honest, you’re polite—the nicest of them all. Even if there was a niceness contest, you’d come out on top, leaving everybody in your wake. But your father seems to favor the ones who are cruel, mean, and rude. Your younger brother, Damian—a little devil, held you at swordpoint, threatened to kill you, called you a bastard, and you’re supposed to forgive him with open arms? What kind of idiot does Bruce take you for?

And your older brother, who prides himself on family, barely even knows you—the sucker might have to look up your middle name, maybe even your birthday, on some celebrity website. He’s always spending time with the little devil; you have no clue why. You’re way more fun to hang out with than him. But who cares? And your second eldest brother is rude, scary, and he smells like pure death, as if he crawled out of his grave, clutching dirt from the ground beneath him. It makes sense—his eyes are naturally green, just like Damian's, but he’s alive. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe Papa Legba, but him cross without knowing.

And the brother who is the same age as you, Timothy, makes you snore when you hear his name. He’s intellectual, so smart, and yet so stupid, so dumb, and so hypocritical. He’ll find everything and anything to correct you on, even if you’re right, just to ensure that you’re slightly off the mark. The brother you thought you would have an unbreakable bond with is so tight he cut off blood circulation; yet, this bond is flimsier than a piece of string. He’s always talking with Cass, and you're never invited. You have more in common than they think, but to them, you’re just another bastard of Bruce Wayne—Cass, Steph, and Babs are your sisters. You’re supposed to gossip, talk about boys, play hand games, and hold each other, but they are only close with each other and not you.

I mean, trios were never meant to be broken; who even wants a quartet? You pray to Bondye every night. You expel all the darkness within your amulet, and your wishes are always the same each night: “Please, Supreme Lord, let them greet me with open arms; let them see me as their kin; let them love me; let them notice me.” But each night, you are met with nothing but silence. Bondye is quiet, and so are the loa. They always talked to you, but whenever you beg for this family to see you, they can never answer; they can never give advice. At first, you thought it was a test—a series of trials you had to go through to prove that you were worthy of their love. So whenever you were met with hostility, it was like the sharp end of a blade. You opened your arms to them; the trials got harder, and it started to become impossible.

Maybe I have to go in a different direction; maybe meet force with force. But then you get scolded. Maybe you just don’t fight back, but if you don’t, then you will be forgotten. So what next? How do you pass this test, these everlasting trials? You have no clue, no idea, and in fact, you feel lost, and you start to lose faith. Maybe you were just not meant to be loved; you weren’t meant for affection, you weren’t meant to be held, dear. So you let that bitterness and anger swallow you whole as you wallow in your own sorrow and self-pity. This young High Priestess is filled with hurt.

[lucyrose191]

BROKEN DECISIONS: HEALING| T.WOLFF

Pairing; Toto Wolff x fem!Schumacher!reader

Summary; You had learned to channel the pain from Toto’s actions into the need to protect and love your child. You were healing but will that be affected by Toto finding out the reason you suddenly disappeared?

Warnings; Age gap mentioned but not specified. Fluff.

Author’s Note; I know I said I’d post a Seb fic before this but this was so much easier to write and I had a lot more motivation for this. Possibly a part 3 if you want.

F1 Master List, Part 1 , Part 3

September 2024

The pain that had consumed you so overwhelmingly all those months ago had seemingly disappeared as you stared down at your daughter who lay in your lap, eyes closed as she slept peacefully, subtle puffs of air released as her chest raised every few seconds.

The thick tufts of bright white hair that sprouted from her head marked that little Alina Elisabeth was most certainly a Schumacher.

Maybe you should feel guilty for the relief that settled in you at the lack of resemblance she shared with her father but the love you felt in your heart as you stared down at the person you cared the most for in this world shrouded any negative emotion you could possibly feel.

The loneliness you had felt was also no longer lingering in your chest, your family had been your rock since the moment you arrived in Switzerland, your mother especially. Mick ensured her was there for you too, even though he was busy with the world endurance racing, he made sure he called frequently and tried to visit when he could.

You sent him a photo of his new niece as soon as you could after giving birth to her and he was already besotted and excited to meet her.

The pain from birthing her had also long been forgotten, unlike the memory of holding her for the first time.

It was hard to describe the rush of emotions that were bursting beneath your skin. You would go to hell and back again if just to experience this for the rest of your life, to continue living in this bubble of warmth and completion.

There was the slightest bit of lingering sadness towards the knowledge that Toto hadn’t been by your side yesterday and witnessing his daughter being brought into the world, maybe it was even unfair that he had been robbed of that opportunity but then you remembered how you had tried to tell him the news of your pregnancy before you left and how he refused to listen.

You weren’t going to beg and plead for him to listen to what you had to say, no matter what there news was.

You had a lot more respect for yourself than that.

It didn’t matter anyways, you didn’t need him and you’d ensure that Alina didn’t need him either. You have full confidence in your ability to raise her alone and give her the best life she could possibly have, a life that would provide her with opportunities others could only imagine having.

November 2024

Alina Elisabeth Schumacher was now two months old and each day it felt as though your love for her multiplied.

Even through the rough patches where you seemed lost in knowing what she needed or what was wrong, it didn’t deter you in the slightest. You had smiled more in the last two months than you had in the last ten years and it felt riveting.

Never would you have thought that a child could fill a gap in your life that you didn’t even know existed but here she is and your heart is full.

Your life felt whole and complete and you owed everything to her, to your little girl who had fixed your healing heart without even trying, just by simply existing.

Today was an important day, Mick was coming home after finishing the world endurance season, which he had performed amazingly in, and it was going to be his first time meeting his niece in person.

You had FaceTimed so much in the last few months, Mick hadn’t wanted to miss any part of his niece growing and so every night at around six he’d ring so that he could say goodnight to her, no matter what time it was where he was at.

Alina loved her uncle already.

It was around 2pm when you heard the front door open followed by the sound of bags dropping to the floor and Mick walking into the kitchen.

You didn’t waste any time in wrapping him into a hug. "Hey, how are you?"

Mick tucked his head into the crook of your neck and tightened his arms around you. "I’m great, it was amazing but how are you, are you okay?" He asked, pulling away and holding onto your shoulders as he looked you up and down.

You smiled at him in pure happiness. "I’m amazing, she’s amazing. Come and see her," you told him and grabbed his hand, pulling him upstairs to your room.

Alina was napping which is all she ever did at her young age but you didn’t care if she woke up because the look of awe on Mick’s face as he set his eyes upon her would make it worth it.

"She’s tiny," he whispered, reaching a finger inside the cot and smiling as she wrapped her fist around it. "She looked so much bigger over the phone, she’s beautiful, Y/N, really." He looked up at you and smiled.

"That’s because she takes after me," you smirked and he rolled his eyes, slowly pulling his hand away before turning to you.

"Do Mum and Gina know?" He asked.

You didn’t need him to emphasise, you both knew what he meant, the unspoken topic that neither of you brought up throughout your entire pregnancy and even after.

"No," you replied honestly, swallowing uncomfortably.

"Y/N-" he sighed.

"Don’t," you cut him off. "He didn’t want to know, Mick. He didn’t care and I’m not going to beg him to."

The sympathetic look he gave you in response to the defeated words you spoke filled you with the need to cry but you didn’t.

You simply stood there for a moment before sighing. "I think I’m going to quit."

Mick gave you a look of horror. "What!?" He whisper shouted. "You can’t, you’ve been with Mercedes for nearly a decade!"

You shrugged. "I don’t want to work for him anymore, not when he is adamant on acting as though he didn’t give me the wrong impression, as though I don’t have his daughter at home who he doesn’t know about because he didn’t care enough for me to tell him."

He didn’t say anything, knowing that your point was completely reasonable. He just hoped this didn’t ruin everything you had worked for.

December 2024

You walked side by side with Mick through the pits of the Yas Marina circuit in Abu Dhabi, drawing quite a bit of attention to yourselves, not only because this is the first glimpse anyone has seen of you all year but because of the three month old you held in your arms.

You walked into the Mercedes garage as though you weren’t about to reveal why you hadn’t participated in this season, pretending you didn’t notice how everyone paused what they were doing to stare as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Their stares burned into your skin but none more than Toto’s, you felt the trail his eyes left across your entire body and the way they settled on the sleeping baby in your arms.

You ignored the burning sensation he was leaving on your skin, instead focusing on the mechanics and other team members that were approaching to speak to you and introduce themselves to Alina.

It was around twenty minutes later before you were left alone, Mick took this opportunity to take Alina to go and show her off to anyone who would give him the time of day, you loved how much of a proud uncle he was.

"Can we talk?" His voice was low and gravelly in your ear as he spoke in a hushed whisper, startling you momentarily.

You scoffed and shook your head. "You weren’t up for talking in January, I’m not up for talking now."

"It’s important," he tried to reason and you laughed.

"What I wanted to say was important but you didn’t care, what was important to me wasn’t important to you. It’s not nice being on the receiving end of that, is it?"

You had hit the nail on the head with that one and by the stunned silence Toto was confined into, he knew that as well.

"Please, I know I don’t deserve it but can you please just come and have a civil conversation with me in my office," he pleaded, knowing that he really had no leg to stand on because he was the one that was completely in the wrong.

You wanted to make a comment about how poetic it was that he wanted to go and talk in his office, just how you did all those months ago and yet you had no luck but you didn’t.

You relented and agreed but that did not mean you were going to be easy on him.

You sighed and stood up from your seat, following him to his office.

You refused to speak first as he shut the door which resulted in a thick, heavy silence for a couple of minutes as you both stood there, Toto staring at you whilst your eyes strained on the ground.

"What happened in Abu Dhabi last year-" he started causing you to look up at him, not expecting him to even bring that up considering how certain he was to avoid it before.

"It wasn’t a mistake, I just- I spent two years fighting my feelings for you because you deserve so much more than I am. The baggage I come with- I’m divorced twice and I have kids and I’m so much older than you and you deserve so much more than to be with a man that comes with all that and can’t give you everything."

You stared at him blankly though you were surprised that he had supposedly felt something for you for an entire year before you noticed anything.

"I never thought of you as anything but my boss and a friend but then last year, the way you looked at me and the way you acted, I thought you liked me and it confused me, my mind was baffled the entire season but no matter what you caused me to feel, I fought against it but then with how forward you were in Abu Dhabi, you made me think you actually wanted me and even if you didn’t then that’s fine but what isn’t fine is leading me on with your stares and your touches and then leaving me alone in a hotel the moment I gave in and even after that when I tried to speak with you, you ignored me and dismissed me. Do you know how used and disgusted I felt?"

You knew the look of guilt on his face wasn’t fake but that didn’t change anything, his guilt was nothing compared to what he had put you through.

"I thought I was doing what was best for you," he replied defeated, knowing how pathetic he sounded and how weak his response was.

"I couldn’t look at myself without feeling the urge to throw up after the way you left me there and it was all down to your insecurities which are ridiculous by the way. I can’t believe you think I’d care about how many times you’ve been married or how many kids you have or how old you are, I only ever wanted someone who loved me and treated me right, you could’ve done that but the man that spoke to me in January, I’ve never seen you like that and that man is not someone I would ever be with."

"You didn’t deserve that," he replied in agreement. "I was overwhelmed by the guilt I felt for leaving you there and trying to ignore my feelings for you which I thought were wrong to be feeling but it is not an excuse for the way I spoke or dismissed you, it was wrong of me. I’m sorry."

"I know," you shrugged. "But I don’t forgive you, not right now at least."

Toto shook his head. "I’ll earn your forgiveness." He said confidently.

"Okay." You whispered.

The air between the two of you shifted as Toto looked at you apprehensively, shifting on his feet. "Your baby-" your heart thumped loudly in your chest. "Is she?" He asked, not needing to continue.

You weren’t going to deny the truth and so you replied honestly. "Yes, it’s what I tried telling you in January."

The look of anguish that appeared on his face was heartbreaking to see because you could tell he truly regretted his actions but it was simply the consequences of his decisions, he was still able to make up for it.

"What did you name her?" He asked quietly.

"Alina Elisabeth Schumacher, Elisabeth after my grandmother."

"You chose well…. Could I meet her?" He asked carefully, not wanting to overstep with you but of course you would allow him to see her, not only because your daughter deserved a chance to have a father but because you knew he was a good father and he would’ve been there had you been given the chance to tell him of her.

"I’ll go and get her." You told him, swiftly walking passed him and out of the door.

It was George that happening to be holding her as you re-entered the garage, the man looking up at you with a pleased smile. "Y/N! I’m happy your back, am I getting my engineer back next year?" He asked as he handed her over to you.

You smiled weakly and shrugged your shoulders. "I’m honestly not too sure yet, George but I’ll let you know."

"No worries," he waved you off. "She’s beautiful by the way."

You thanked him before turning away and heading back to Toto’s office.

Alina was wide awake now and her dark eyes were looking around curiously as you walked through the small corridor.

As soon as Toto’s eyes laid upon her you practically saw how he immediately fell in love with her, his eyes softened as they took in her features, probably trying to find anything that resembled himself.

"I think she has your eyes, but that’s about it," you commented lightly causing him to laugh.

He stepped forward and held his hand out for her, smiling and laughing as she reached out and grabbed his finger before shoving it into her mouth.

He looked at her in awe, as if he couldn’t believe she was a part of him. He reached out with his other hand and tickled her cheek with his finger causing her to gurgle around his hand.

"You can hold her," you told him, lifting her out towards him. He looked at you unsurely but you encouraged him with a nod and that was everything he needed to take her into his arms.

Alina threw away her grip on his hand as he held her and instead pressed both of her hands into his cheeks and pressed her face up against his causing you both to burst out into laughter which resulted in her copying you.

"She’s so small," he muttered almost to himself but you heard him.

"She didn’t feel it when I was pushing her out but she does look it," you joked but also serious, it had hurt like hell.

The mention of her birth spiked a sudden interest. "When was she born?" He asked.

"September 3rd, she was two weeks late, didn’t want to leave I suppose so I had to get induced."

He looked at you worried. "You didn’t do it alone, did you?"

You shook your head, "No, don’t worry, my mum was there with me."

"That’s good," he replied, pulling away from Alina’s grabby hands and instead brought her into a hug, resting the side of his head against hers.

God did he look good holding her.

Alina cooed and babbled as she lied her head on his shoulder and reached her hand up to grab his ear and pull on it.

The immediate connection between the two was impossible to miss and it was sad they had both missed out on this but you refused to let yourself feel guilty about it.

"Thank you for this," Toto’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. "I know I don’t deserve it."

You shook your head. "You deserve a relationship with her, no matter what I wouldn’t have kept her from you."

He smiled and tightened his hold on Alina, still struggling to believe she was really his.

He had four kids. Wow.

He did not want to think about how he was going to explain this one to them.

"We should probably go back out there, there’s still a race that’s about to start." You mentioned, hating to break him out of his bubble but he had priorities.

After much coercing, you managed to get him out of his office but he kept his hold on Alina, he didn’t think the team would suspect anything, they probably just thought he wanted to hold her but even if they did have suspicions, he didn’t care.

Everything felt right as he held her, now he just needed to make it up to you and he would do everything needed for you to forgive him because he wanted this, he wanted you and this family you had created, no matter how long it took.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

People who asked to be tagged or asked for a part 2:

@pear-1206 @luckyladycreator2 @urmotheris @lightdragonrayne @viennakarma @woozarts @carolloliveerr @nuggetvirgo @myescapefromthislife @minkyungseokie @oatmealandsugar @hc-dutch @arieltwvdtohamflash @grayxiu @bigsimperika @emilyval1 @eternalharry @msbyjackal

[rooksamoris]

💞 — 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄.

💞 — in which you teach malleus a new phrase and he grows somber about your inevitable death.

💞 — malleus draconia x reader

💞 — warnings: hurt/comfort type fic. some descriptions of gore to emphasize heartache. reader does catch a cold. malleus is sad </3 mentions of death and mortality/fragility.

💞 — 1.2k words. various arab groups tell their loved ones 'taqburouni' meaning 'may you bury me' affectionately. i thought of malleus when i heard it again recently, since he very well would be stuck burying his loved ones. eid mubarak my lovelies!!

Taq-bu-rou-ni.

Malleus’s brows knitted in a bit of interest as he replayed your word in his mind, splitting each of the syllables to pronounce it the way you did. It was a foreign word, and for someone who knew bygone languages, this was a word he had not heard. You said it with a look of affection in your eyes. It was your way of being romantic, well, with the way you drawled the final vowel, that much was obvious.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, his bright green eyes following the shape of your silhouette as you walked. Those slitted pupils of his dilated. 

“Taqburouni? Ah, it means ‘may you bury me,’” you said, innocently. The words spilled from your lips like sugared blades, so sweet yet so painful. It clung to his skin and when he tried to pull away, it tore his skin.

He paused his walking for a moment, stopping you with him. Those words reminded him that he could spend a century dwelling on that term, while you could not even spare a minute. 

Taqburouni.

That phrase you had taught Malleus planted itself into his lungs and wrapped around his esophagus. He knew you meant it affectionately. It was your way of wishing him a long life, one long enough that he would get the chance to bury you. You had known all sorts of romantic sayings that bordered on being eerie and strange. The vines you were growing wrapped around his lungs and sunk their thorns into them greedily, causing sweet blood to splatter onto his ribcage.

He knew he would get the chance to bury you. His child of man was too frail to live as long as he.

His pause caused you some worry and you squeezed his hand, pulling it closer to you so that his knuckles hovered near your chest, “It’s weird, isn’t it?” you joked, your brows furrowed in concern, “It’s an affectionate way of wishing that someone you love has a long life… I get if it’s not your thing—I just—I—”

Malleus silenced you by placing his free hand on your head. He let it slide over your hair and behind your head. His long fingers threaded their way through some of the strands as he gripped the back of your head. They were like stubborn blossoms in a valley of wilting roses, desperate to keep you close and alive, “It is lovely, a fine way of showing affection,” he told you. 

The future king decided against telling you just how uncomfortable that term made him. It infiltrated his body like a strong virus, poisoning his body and eating away at his flesh from the inside. Just like the vines that you planted in his lungs, tearing him apart beneath the layer of flesh, muscle, and bone.

A smile came to your face at his reassurance and you kissed his knuckles, “I’m glad you think so, Malleus,” you told him. 

Taqburouni. He found it anything but lovely. Malleus understood the purpose of such a term, and he knew you were just being lovelorn, but Sevens. Each vowel was like a threat, each one getting closer to him losing you. Taq—and you were cut, bu—you were sick, rou—bedridden, ni—and suddenly he was back in the Briar Valley, standing before another tombstone. To him, it was purely unromantic. 

It was violent and it was cruel.

You shivered due to the cold breeze and his gaze hardened, “Let us return you to the dorm, beastie. You’ll freeze if you’re out any longer,” he said, taking his uniform blazer off to drape over your shoulders. This body of yours was so delicate. Too delicate.

“Oh, Malleus… but you’ll get cold,”

He laughed, “I think you forget who you’re speaking to,” he said, his eyes watching your body tense up slightly. That delicious blush covered your cheeks and he was tempted to freeze time right here. Surely there was a spell for that, that way he could keep you forever and your words, your plea that he buries you, would never come true.

Bashfully, you averted your gaze and kept walking beside him. Oh, how he wanted to pounce.

Days later, that poisonous word was still on his mind. 

It came up in particular when you caught a cold. The illness had been traveling around the school, your favorite duo from Heartslabyul had gotten it, but not nearly as bad as you. People had been coughing in class, sniffling as they walked through the halls—Malleus blamed himself for worsening it due to all the nights he dragged you away on romantic walks where he showed you the secrets of the campus.

Now he was sitting at your bedside in Ramshackle dorm. It was not nearly as dilapidated as it used to be. You had cleaned up a lot, bleaching whatever you could to kill sickness, and it still managed to sneak in. There were cracks in the windows… it probably made the nights even colder for you.

One of these beams could fall and kill you.

“Taqburouni.”

The blasted word repeated itself in his mind as he watched you squirm in your bed. Your breathing was shallow, you were sweating—he could end you with a raise of his finger, “Too fragile. Like a bird’s eggshell. All it would take is to push you out of a nest and then…” His brows furrowed as the back of his hand trailed down the side of your sickly face.

Your skin looked much less vibrant in this state.

This moment and thousands of others would pass him like a dream. One day he would bury you and then take the throne. Your bought of romance would end up being a dream. He would wake up with a crown on his head, black robes draping every inch of him, and the flickering memories you made here.

His fingers trailed down to your throat for a moment and he tapped the dainty skin with his sharp nails. Just the tiniest bit of pressure and you would bleed. Not even the strongest swords would break through his scales.

“Malleus,” you muttered, breathlessly as you tried to open your eyes. The light was too bright so all you could do was blearily squint at him before shutting your eyes again, “I feel so weak…”

“You look it too,”

“Huh?”

He stared at your face for a moment, taking in the way your eyes drifted back shut. Your brows knitted softly, and it made him want to kiss that space between your eyes, “Rest,” he whispered, his hand turning to cup your face. A bit of his magic traveled from the tips of his fingers to your skin, forcing you to inhale a green mist that would temporarily put you to sleep.

Malleus felt the urge to keep you in this state of sleep for one hundred years. Instead, he settled for leaning in and kissing your forehead, “May you bury me,” he whispered. He promised to find a way to keep you alive with him for good. He would find a way to keep everyone and everything he loved alive with him till he breathed his last flame.

[thatnightlamp]

BIG THANK TO @thevoidscreams for giving me permission to write a continuation of this fic aaaaaaaa I really love the concept and all <333333

Time passed differently now. The soul once woven from starstuff, once vast and adrift in the tides of the immaterium, now existed in a fragile shell of skin and sinew. Where once you drifted freely among dreams and warp-winds, now you sat, walked, breathed, trapped within the steady tick of Terran time.

The Emperor no longer visited every day. His time was taken with his sons now. His projects. His plans.

His Primarchs.

You felt them before you ever saw them. Bright motes in the distance of your perception, echoes of what once was born from the fragments of your joined soul. Twenty lights flickering across the surface of a darkened world. Their resonance sang to you, even through the walls of your chamber.

They were beautiful, each in their own way. Born of both of you, but shaped in his image. Your own touch, subtle and soft, still lingered within them, like moonlight caught in a pool of gold.

At times, you’d press your hand to the cold stone of the chamber walls and whisper to them, hoping some echo might reach them in dreams. My sons. My stars. I remember each of you before you were shaped into warriors.

But they never answered. Not directly.

They weren’t allowed to.

The chamber the Emperor gave you was deep beneath the palace. Few were permitted to enter. Golden-armored Custodians stood watch in silence. You had come to know some by the quiet rhythm of their thoughts, though they never spoke to you. The Emperor had forbidden it.

You begged to see them. The boys. The ones who had grown so tall and bright and strong.

“They deserve to know,” you whispered one evening, sitting cross-legged on the floor, your back against the polished obsidian of the wall.

The Emperor looked down at you as if weighing whether the request itself was a crime. “They do not need to know. It would distract them. We cannot afford that.”

“But I remember them. I know their lights. I gave of myself to create them.”

He touched your cheek then, with the hand that had both created and destroyed countless lives. “And that is why they must never know. You love them too much. That weakness could destroy everything I’ve built.”

Weakness. That’s what he called it.

But it didn’t stop you from loving them.

Some nights, you’d sense them walking the halls beyond the sealed doors. They never came to you, not fully. But occasionally, just for a flicker, the door would open, a mechanical misfire, or a moment of forgetfulness on the part of a Custodian, and in that fraction of a second, you’d see one of them.

A giant in armor. A golden god of war. Your child.

Each time it was a different one.

The first was Lorgar. His eyes caught yours as the door hissed open and closed in the span of a breath. Soft brown eyes with a questioning sadness, as if he already knew who you were. He hesitated for just a moment, then moved on, the door swallowing the space between you.

Another time it was Sanguinius. You felt your breath catch at the sight of him, wings folded, his face the spitting image of sorrowful grace. He looked back over his shoulder as if he could feel your gaze. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either. That was somehow worse.

Once, when you were crying softly in the corner, you felt someone stop outside the door. Not move, not pace, just stop. You felt the pressure of their soul, enormous, ancient in its own way, trying to understand. You knew that presence. Magnus. You felt his curiosity clawing at the edges of your mind, gentle and yearning. But then he was gone. Like all the others.

They did not speak of you. Not aloud. But you knew they carried the echo of you within.

You began to dream again. Not the same as the dreaming you’d known before, when you were part of the warp itself, but dreams as humans knew them. Half-formed, blurred by emotion. Often you dreamed of your children gathered together, all of them sitting in a circle around you. Laughing. Listening. You were telling them stories. You always woke up crying.

Once, the Emperor came after you woke from such a dream. Your pillow was soaked.

“You’re hurting,” he said, as if observing a stranger’s affliction.

“Yes,” you said, voice quiet. “They were mine too.”

“I know,” he replied. “And that is why I must ask something difficult of you.”

You looked up at him, your expression hollow. “What more can I give?”

“I need you to stay hidden. Forever.”

That word shattered something in you. Forever.

“I can’t even speak to them? Not even one of them?”

“No.” He looked away, guilt not present, only determination. “It would endanger them. And you.”

“Then why did you let me live at all?”

He was silent for a long moment. Then: “Because I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

It became a kind of haunting, your presence in the palace, known but never acknowledged. A myth among the Primarchs. A shadow that passed behind the Emperor’s throne in rare flickers. A soft sigh caught in the whir of the air filters. Some of them would see you from afar in their youth, and wonder.

Who is the woman the Emperor hides in the depths of the palace?

They dared not ask. The Emperor was a force beyond reproach, even for them.

And so they kept the secret between them.

Guilliman once caught a glimpse of you kneeling in a garden no one else seemed to use. He saw you touch the petals of a rose as though the flower was a miracle. He turned to ask, but the moment shattered, guards ushered him away. Later, he wrote of the encounter in his private log, calling you Mother

Jaghatai Khan, wandering through forbidden corridors by sheer will and disobedience, once found himself at the door to your room. He stood there for almost five minutes, unmoving. His hand reached out to the panel once. But he didn’t press it. Something stopped him. Not fear, but reverence.

Even Angron, in his moments of lucidity, felt a ghostly pang when walking past certain walls. He would grow quiet then, as if trying to remember a lullaby from a dream long since faded.

Each knew in their own way. But none dared voice it.

Except Horus.

The favored son.

He was the only one to look the Emperor in the eye and ask, “Who is she?”

The Emperor’s voice had been cold. “No one you need concern yourself with.”

But Horus had seen you. Just a flicker. A glimpse in the throne room, when your form was reflected in a golden mirror for the span of a breath. He never brought it up again. But from that day on, his light felt different when it passed near yours. Protective. Watchful.

You tried to reach out to him once, in a dream. You whispered his name: Horus.

He paused in the dream, as if he had heard it, but you dared not push further. You had been forbidden.

Your only solace was in the records. You learned how they lived. How they led. How they warred.

My sons, you thought, reading through the pages of their triumphs. Forged for conquest, but born of stars and silence.

You loved them. You always had.

The Emperor came less and less. He had his throne now. His great device. His final plans. Your usefulness to him was, for now, concluded.

But he had kept his promise. You would never be lost again. You were kept.

A star in a jar.

A mother in silence.

And sometimes, late at night, you felt one of them near. Their light would pass close to your chamber. Sometimes fast, like Rogal Dorn, walking with purpose. Sometimes slow, like Vulkan, pausing at your door, hand pressed gently against the cool metal, never pushing through.

None of them spoke.

But you knew.

And they did, too.

One day, maybe, one of them would be brave enough to say it out loud.

Mother.

But not yet.

Not yet.

[b14augrana]

Kiss of Strife

Football has always been your safe haven, but your home life gradually starts to manifest in different ways away from home, which doesn’t go unnoticed by your captain

Alexia Putellas x teen!reader

masterlist

Warnings: this story contains depictions of family issues associated with emotional unavailability and forms of abuse. read at your own discretion

A/N: an alexia x teen!reader angst fic was requested so here it is!! i decided this maaayyyy be multiple parts as well so i hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of the series (if it’s ever published)

(i wrote this pretty late at night and it isnt proofread so please excuse any mistakes regarding the tense, grammar etcetc)

Everything is perfect.

You’re scoring goals for your club and bagging assists. Your name is no longer a strange string of consonants and vowels but a recognisable word within the community of Cataluña, and it is only because of an ambition you dedicated the rest of your life to pursuing.

That’s just in the face of football though.

At home, there is a drought. The four walls of a family house are meant to behave like a dam which stores love and affection in the place of water, but your house is devoid of that.

Your house fosters a bitterness that doesn’t go hand in hand with anything along the lines of love and affection. The drawings on the fridge, created by a 5-year-old you, have faded over time, the ink being nothing more than splotches in some areas — a testament to the lack of care and attention your efforts received.

Relationships are barely surviving on simple greetings and empty ‘I love yous’. You crave something that is dangerous to want, but in your heart burns a desire to get the hell out.

Your lullaby is the faint yelling from the living room as you shut your eyes and focus on the gradually increasing volume of both voices, contradicting each other and trying to stab each other with no blade.

Your little sister crawls into your bed, her body flush against yours, another little arm wrapped around hers. Beneath your covers, there is warmth. Beneath your grip, there is safety.

During the school holidays, a child is supposed to savour every waking moment they spend at home and appreciate every day of it. You find yourself asking God why that isn’t the case, as you walk to practise with your sister’s hand in yours.

She sits on the sidelines picking grass as you train with your teammates, dreading the inevitable passing of minutes as you practise skill after skill. When you retreat to the bench for a quick water break, she runs up to you, bunches of chamomiles clutched in her hands that she begs to insert between the weaving of your braid.

From the day of your first training with the team, Alexia was drawn to you. She blamed it on her captain instincts, seeing as you’re the youngest on the team and therefore has the most potential, but now it’s gone beyond her captaincy. She’s known you for months, almost a full year now. She isn’t just your captain anymore.

She isn’t aware of the reality of your home life beyond the telltale signs such as the slightly sunken skin below your eyes or the bruises that taint your skin and are allegedly caused by your ‘clumsiness’. She knows there is something more to the extra effort you constantly put into training and games — she doesn’t know yet that it’s the pent up anger, sadness and fear manifesting in more productive forms.

You pour your heart and soul into the movement of the ball, in hopes that you can pursue your dreams of running away from what is restricting you from pursuing even greater dreams, an actual dream.

School starts back up for your sister. Things have been looking up for you, a huge burden off your shoulders. The house hasn’t shaken with another argument for a while and for once you get to know what silence is while you sleep, really sleep.

With every passing day, you find your memories with your father to resemble a garden; you can’t have a garden without flowers, just like how you can’t have memories of him without doing anything with him. When you were young, your garden was comparable to a rainforest, a new species in every corner, a kaleidoscope of beauty..

Until there was no more new species to plant and nurture, and the ones that already existed were getting neglected because all that you receive when you look at them are sour memories of what once was — the gardener you used to be, how rich the soil was, how steadily the flowers grew and how proud you were of your garden.

Your garden is dead now. It has gotten to the point where he doesn’t care about planting new flowers or watering the plants that already exist, leaving them to die of thirst. He’s absent and his emotional unavailability killed your flowers.

The little girl in you that wanted nothing else but love from her parents, loved that garden with her whole heart. She would’ve done anything she could to plant one more flower, she would’ve used the last drop of water in a drought to water her plants.

Alexia noticed something different about you today. The way you bounced around rather than the usual trudge… you had actual, sleep-induced energy.

Your sister also isn't with you. Alexia later asks you about it while you two are getting water and she learns that your sister is at school, and there is a smile on your face that she didn’t even realise had been absent for days until she saw it again.

Alexia has always been nice to you. The others treat you like a teammate, but she treats you like a friend. It feels like a special privilege, knowing ‘La Reina’ personally. She’s obviously a pillar in women’s football but to you, she’s much more.

She harbours a soft spot for you in her heart that becomes evident when she asks you if you need a ride home, and who are you to turn down such an offer when the ache in your legs is close to becoming unbearable?

“You’re talented, chica,” the woman says as you slink into the passenger seat of her car. “I haven’t had the chance to say it, but there hasn’t been a player like you for quite a bit.”

Her praise is so much more than just a couple of words from your captain. Though you smile and say a shy thank you, your heart races because you’ve just been called talented by one of the best players in the world, and there is no feeling greater than that. It gives you a tiny sliver of hope for a brighter future than what you’re already living, and for a moment, escaping your four walls seems possible.

The joy you experienced during the whole car ride is short lived once her car pulls into your driveway. Perhaps she can see the way your expression drops and your demeanour falls, because her hand finds your shoulder and squeezes it in a way that comforts you. “Do you want me to walk you to the door?” she asks, and though you really wish she could, you shake your head for the better.

There’s a slight frown on her face before she nods and drops her hand. You think about the possibility of her knowing that there’s something going on behind the closed doors of your home, and a big part of you hopes so, but no words besides a ‘gracías’ and ‘adios’ manage to find their way out of your mouth despite the pleas for help and support bubbling in your throat as you shut the door of her car.

When you reach the patio, the door opens to bombard you with the raucous of an argument happening around the corner of the hallway.

Your limbs are barely functioning and your eyes are struggling to stay open which is an obvious sign of the exhaustion soaring through your body, hence why you skip right past seeing your parents and beeline towards your sister’s room.

For as long as you can remember, arguments have been a consistent part of evenings spent in your household. Sometimes violence finds itself becoming the last resort, leaving you stuck to bear the brunt of a heavy hand. It’s what happens when two sides of the same coin try to work out — two negatives can’t make a positive, it’s impossible for them to get along and there is never a last word. That’s the unfortunate reality of your parents’ relationship.

You sink into the soft mattress of your sister’s bed and beckon her from the desk to lay beside you. She flips her paper over and abandons the seat to run over to you, her little body falling into your embrace. When she asks you what they’re talking about this time, you tell your sister that they’re just having a little disagreement, and if she sleeps it off, it’ll go away. It’s a promise, you say, before you proceed to tell her all about your training and your teammates. It’s her favourite thing, and she says it’s better than a bedtime story.

In no time, little exhales slip past her mouth as her eyes flutter shut, and you roll her off your body, tucking her into the butterfly printed duvet. With tentative steps across the hardwood, you find yourself at her desk and your fingers ghost over the piece of paper as you squint to read it in the dimness of her nightlight.

‘Mi papá hermana guapa

My sister is strong. She plays fútbol and she is good at it. My sister takes care of me and takes me to her pracktise, I like going with my sister. She helps me sleep and when I am with my sister, I am not scared. I am proud of m–…’

And the rest trails off. The body remains incomplete, but there’s one last sentence at the bottom of the page.

‘Amo a mi hermana.’

You place it back on her desk as you fail to combat the tears flooding your waterline. ‘She must’ve been instructed to write a poem by her teacher… for Father’s Day���, you think to yourself. Turning away so you don’t ruin her writing with your tears, you wiped them with the back of your Barça jacket sleeve and flipped the page around before making a dead silent exit. The house was completely still beside the low noise of talking from the TV and light snoring.

Your tears are not because of happiness. No, they stream down your face because it’s then that you realise something, and it opens up a whole new portal of questions.

As the streak of silence is broken and you’re forced to fall asleep to the low humming noise from the living room and a restless mind, you wonder what twisted realm of anger and bitterness your father lives in that forbids him from showing the smallest signs of love to his kids.

But, you already know the answer to that question, deep down. Instead, you wonder if you’ll see Alexia tomorrow, stretching in her usual spot, and you wonder if she’ll look up and smile at you again and invite you over.

You hope that’s what will happen. You pray for it.

[aventurineswife]

“You were a wonderful experience... You were everything”

Tags: March x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Alhaitham x Reader, Childe x Reader, Immortal!Reader, Unrequited Love, Bittersweet Romance, Emotional Angst, Character Introspection, Complex Relationships, Fleeting Moments.

Warnings: Angst, Heartbreak, Unresolved Feelings, Mentions of Mortality, Emotional Distress.

March sat quietly in the corner of the Astral Express, her camera resting gently on her lap. The soft hum of the train and the distant stars outside felt oddly calming, but a deep, lingering sadness hung in her chest, gnawing at her despite the outward cheer she usually displayed. She turned the camera over in her hands, her fingers tracing the cold metal as she thought about you.

It had been years since you’d joined the crew, but you remained an enigma to her. Your immortality — your ability to live on while the rest of them changed — intrigued her, but it also terrified her. She didn’t understand how you could bear to watch everyone around you age, lose themselves, and eventually fade. March was young, vibrant, full of life, and yet, she knew deep down that time would claim her, just as it did with everyone else. You had time to spare, but that wasn’t a gift. It was a curse.

"Why do you look so sad?" she asked, her voice as playful as ever, yet her eyes held a softness, a vulnerability she'd never shared with anyone else.

You met her gaze, your eyes betraying your pain, but you smiled as you always did for her. "Just thinking about the future."

March hummed thoughtfully, her lips curving up. "The future, huh? I’m not much of a planner myself." She slid closer to you, her camera in hand. "But I think, no matter what happens, I’ll always have a picture of today. Just like I’ll always have this moment with you."

"You were a wonderful experience," you murmured, your voice breaking the silence that had fallen between you. "A bright, beautiful moment that will never fade."

March blinked, her expression shifting. Her usual bubbly demeanor faltered as she processed your words. "I..." She hesitated, her lips trembling. "I’m not sure if I want to be a moment for you, though."

You reached for her hand, your thumb brushing against her skin. "Then, You were... everything," you whispered, unable to hide the sorrow in your voice.

She pulled her hand away, her gaze shifting downward, as if the weight of the universe had suddenly become too much to bear. "But you can’t keep me, can you?" she asked quietly, her voice heavy with regret.

"You don’t have to worry about that," you said, smiling softly. "But I’ll never forget you."

March looked up at you, her eyes filling with unshed tears. "I wish I could be the one who stays."

But you knew, deep in your soul, that nothing could change the truth. Time would always be against you.

Sampo leaned against the wall, his eyes flicking between the treasure in his hand and you, standing in the moonlit alley. His eyes shone with that mischievous gleam, but there was something in his expression now that seemed different — hesitant, even. For once, he was at a loss for words.

"I never thought I’d see you like this," you said softly, your gaze studying him carefully, as if trying to unravel the layers beneath his smooth talk. "Still scamming, still running, still avoiding the inevitable. I’m surprised you even stopped to talk."

Sampo let out a light laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Hey, I like to think I’m a man of action. Never standing still, always looking for the next big score." He paused, his fingers playing with the silver cuff on his ear. "But you… you’ve always been different. You never change."

You stared at him, the weight of your immortality pressing heavily on your chest. "And you never learn, do you?"

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "You think I’m running away from something? Nah, I’m just living my life. People like me don’t get to worry about eternity. They just… keep moving."

You sighed, your heart heavy with the knowledge of your endless existence. "You were a wonderful experience, Sampo," you said softly. "I thought you might be the one who could keep up, but I see now… you’re just running. You’ll run until there’s nothing left to chase."

His smirk faltered, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his armor. But it was fleeting. "What’s it matter to you? You’re immortal. You don’t need anyone." His words were sharp, but the underlying pain was unmistakable.

You met his gaze, your voice barely a whisper. "But I wanted you, Sampo. I wanted to be the one thing that didn’t slip through my fingers."

Sampo’s eyes darkened as he stepped back, his face unreadable. "I can’t be that for you," he said quietly. "I’m sorry."

"Why?" you asked, your voice breaking. "Why do you always have to leave, even when I’m still here?"

Sampo didn’t answer, his gaze sliding away from yours, as if he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye anymore.

The silence between you and Alhaitham was thick, heavy with unspoken words. He sat at the desk, his gaze focused on a book, but you could tell he wasn’t really reading it. His mind was elsewhere. And you knew exactly where it was: with you.

"I’ve seen your eyes before," Alhaitham said quietly, not looking up from the pages. "The way they seem to carry centuries of sorrow. You’re the same as the others. Detached. Unchanging."

You smiled softly, the weight of your immortality pressing on your heart. "You’re right. I never age. I never forget. I never move on. But you..." You leaned against the doorframe, watching him closely. "You’re different. You challenge me. You make me feel something that isn’t just… the endless void."

Alhaitham closed the book with a quiet snap, finally turning his gaze to you. His eyes were sharp, searching, yet filled with a quiet sorrow. "I know you, and yet I don’t. You live forever, but you don’t really live, do you?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. Not really."

"You were a wonderful experience," he said softly, his voice betraying a rare vulnerability. "But I’m not the one who can give you what you need."

"I don’t need anything from anyone," you said quickly, but the words tasted empty in your mouth. "I’ve learned that lesson long ago."

Alhaitham stood up, his movements measured. "But I can’t be your answer, not when I know that one day, I’ll be gone, and you’ll remain. You’ll outlive me, just as you’ve outlived everyone else."

"And yet," you whispered, your eyes softening, "I would have wanted to share those moments with you. Just once."

Alhaitham’s expression remained stoic, but the flicker of regret in his eyes was unmistakable. "I’m sorry," he said, the words colder than he intended. "But you were everything… and yet nothing I could ever truly hold onto."

Childe’s laughter echoed through the empty space, but it felt hollow. He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the warehouse.

"I’ve fought countless battles, seen countless victories and losses," Childe said, his tone growing more somber as he spoke. "But I’ve never fought a battle like this. The one against time."

You met his gaze, your heart aching as you tried to find the right words. "And what does time mean to you, Childe? When you’ve already seen so much and know that nothing lasts forever?"

Childe’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "Everything ends, eventually," he said quietly. "But you… you’re different. You never end. You never fade."

You sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. "You were a wonderful experience, Childe. A fleeting moment of warmth in my eternal life. But I know that I can’t hold onto you."

He moved closer to you, his presence imposing, but his eyes softened with an emotion you hadn’t seen before. "I didn’t think you could, but I hoped… I hoped I could be the one to make you feel something real."

"You were everything to me," you said, the words tasting of bittersweet finality. "But I’m not the one who can give you what you want. Not when you can’t have me."

Childe’s expression hardened, and for a moment, the bravado faded. "Maybe it’s better this way," he muttered, as if trying to convince himself. "You were everything, but nothing that I could ever truly keep."

"You were always too far out of reach," you whispered, the pain in your heart echoing in your voice.

Childe took a deep breath, his eyes flickering with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance. "Maybe so," he said quietly, before turning away. "Maybe so."

[boom-bada-boom]

of the old religion

there are consequences to being a creature of magic, of the old religion, of power and energy given form.

merlin is not human, no matter what he thinks. the body he has is just a second skin, a coat over the tumultuous magic beneath, so that it had shape, form. he looks human, he thinks human, he feels human. but he is not truly human.

it’s why shapeshifting spells work so well upon him. he’s not changing himself, just the look of the skin he’s wearing. the magic beneath has no true form, and thus cannot be changed when it is everything everywhere all at once.

(the magic that makes merlin is the magic that makes the world, so it has no shape and to look upon it with mortal eyes would be a headache inducing, nauseating ever-shifting thing, that moves through different features of different magical beings like the water of a lake rippling.)

OR

someone with a deep connection to the old religion can see that emrys is no true human. just a creature of magic wearing a human skin, a shapeshifter that refuses to show its true form. (because people say emrys is magic, but no one truly understands the roiling thing living and breathing inside his skin. so obviously there has to be a true form of emrys underneath the image of merlin.)

so they decide to rip that human skin off. force the shape beneath to show itself. tear away the visage of merlin to leave behind only emrys, the creature that will bring magic back to the land or so help them.

it takes a lot of energy and power, and the use of ancient artifacts of the old religion that have been slowly gathering magic for centuries. but they manage it, they bind the human skin to an object, and tear the object away, to leave behind only emrys.

…

except emrys is not made for mortal eyes. especially not the eyes of someone who had hurt them and tore away their shape, their form. (because emrys, as a creature of magic, is still heartbreakingly young. a child, really. maybe that’s why merlin is still so wide-eyed all the time. still young at heart, even as his body looks older.)

so they look upon emrys and burn.

and emrys, lost and confused and hurt and not understanding— where is their body why do they hurt what is wrong with them they are constantly changing shapes and cannot control it and theyre so scared— flees to the only thing they know for sure. and behind them, amongst the mess of ash and scorched earth that once was alive, the object holding their skin lies abandoned, forgotten.

OR

arthur finds the embodiment of magic huddled up against his bedroom window. he doesn’t recognize it immediately as such, but it glows golden and cannot seem to stop subtlety changing shape and growing features that were not there before while losing others. and really, he picks up on the fact eventually.

to reiterate, arthur pendragon, son of the magic-hating king, a young man who had not yet decided if he would hate it the same, has the embodiment of magic hiding outside his window.

he shouldn’t open it. shouldn’t let the pathetic, forcing-itself-to-be-small thing inside.

it howls and cries without words, a sad and fearful air pressing down on him, begging begging helphelphelphelpsomethingswrongsomethingswrongtheytookawaymybodyarthurarthurarthurhelphelphelphelphe—

arthur opens the window.

as the magic flies in, it takes a more solid, in the loosest form of the word, form, dragon-like and small. young. it hides in the crook of his neck, tucks its head in close and shivers.

arthur feels almost like he has let in a frightened bird, it is so small and fluttery.

merlin’s gone missing and there is something small and magical and highly illegal hiding against the small hollow between his neck and shoulders.

he leaves it there.

OR

arthur holds a power he does not quite understand in his hands. he knows it is greater than its form, can feel the pressing weight of something that belies the tiny body.

he knows it is magic. perhaps that is all he really needs to know.

and then he does something that feels exceedingly foolish.

“i’m looking for merlin, my… manservant,” he begins, and the golden thing ripples like a lake in the wind, “can you find where he was taken?”

at least seven eyes blink into existence upon the roiling magical creature, all of them looking up at arthur. another blink, and then they vanish. in their place, wings sprout, some of them draconian in shape, others more bird-like and feathery.

a tail, tiny and yet impossibly strong, wraps around his wrist, and the thing takes flight, pulling him along.

the knights startle, when arthur appears, being seemingly dragged behind a creature no bigger than a songbird, and so breathtakingly magical in spite of it.

“well?” arthur asks, acerbic. “prepare your steeds. we’ve finally gotten a lead on merlin.”

OR

they find a wasteland.

there is nothing left alive in a large circle, all of it surrounding an ancient building now nothing but rubble. the life is not burned away, or diseased into nothing, or anything that could be argued as natural.

instead, it is a wasteland that magic had abandoned. that intrinsic thing within all things, alive and not, had fled this place, ushered out by a fearful and terrified little godling ripped away from the only skin-home it had ever known.

nothing lives here and nothing will ever live here.

it is an ill omen indeed.

and then they discover the sorcerer’s bones, and the fact that said sorcerer was not in fact working alone.

“you,” the only other living being in about a mile spits out like a curse, upon sighting the king, “what have you done with them? where is the being below the skin?”

none of the knights nor the king understand. the little creature of magic had hidden itself in the folds of arthur’s cape, another golden draconian insignia among the rest.

“the what?” arthur asks.

“where is emrys?” the sorcerer spits, summoning a stream of fire heading directly for the king.

magic itself, given form, bursts from the camelot red cape, all golden edges and vengeful anger, the tiny thing no larger than an arm suddenly expanding rapidly. it forms a gigantic serpent, or something like it, lithe and long, but with the beak of a bird of prey, eyes like a feline, a unicorn’s horn on its head. it eats the fire whole, and the giant form bears down on the suddenly cowering sorcerer.

“but—but we freed you,” they mutter, afraid, “we released you from the human shell containing you. how else… how else could you bring back magic…?”

the thing cannot speak, it has no way to do so. what it can do is press feeling into your head. whatever this is, it is so powerful everyone there can feel it, and perhaps even some that are much further away.

G I V E I T B A C K.

it feels nothing like the helpless pained crying that arthur had heard from outside his window, like a yowling alley cat. this monster is nothing like the little bird-like afraid thing that had hidden in his collar, tucked against his throat. this beast of dripping fangs and deadly edges is almost completely separate from the creature of fluttery wings and wide eyes.

and yet he can hear something distinctly afraid in the wailing howl.

it is still desperate and afraid. it’s just angry enough now to cover it up.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Frostbyte

Pairing: Four x Reader

Warning(s): Yandere behavior, slight mind break, so please scroll if any of this triggers you <333

Notes: Written for @heroesrest64's Haunted Heroes AU. Enjoy you wonderful person <33

Masterlist

Death, you decided, was a warm affair.

It came slow; like the tentative dipping of toes in the rolling ocean waves upon a rocky shore, or the soft laving of a child's tongue across a sweet treat.

Like something to be savored. Like something to die for.

Except you were cold; so dizzyingly cold that not even a night in the freezer could force your body temperature a degree lower, though nothing said it wouldn't further aggravate your frostnipped fingers, curled against your palm in a sad attempt at conserving warmth.

Your eyelids cracked open, flicking back and forth across the blurry landscape. It was a living room, nondescript at first, hazy glance, but you knew better. Your fingers twitched at the scratching sensation of rough fabric made itself known beneath your cheek, as though your body was reminding you that death, however likely, wasn't around this particular corner. In the center of your vision, the TV flashed a myriad of colors, igniting something close to terror in your feeble mind. What time was it? What was the date? What insanity would you face today—

Your thoughts stuttered at the gradual cool enveloping your ankle. Like a hand. Like a shackle.

"W-Who's there?" your voice cracked in your chest, throat, and tongue as the sensation ebbed and flowed—like someone had poured a vat of liquid nitrogen over your skin and... held it there—despite knowing full well who it was.

He was the coldest of them all; the one who touched you like you were something so preciously discardable, but oh-so-necessary. The one who lingered on the heels of tragedy, stalking the line between torturer and savior.

Four, you'd learned to call him.

For a split second, the touch faltered. Then, like a stab, it returned with full, frosty intent, until your foot kicked out, making sickening contact with the couch's arm, and the sweet kiss of freefall enveloped your body as it flew from the upholstery to the carpet.

Thump!

Pain exploded across your shoulder as it made contact with the floor, but it was more than welcome in the wake of the fading chill. Your nerves thrummed with adrenaline-tainted warmth—breathing heavy, muscles tense, ribs tight in your chest—and you scrambled to a half-sitting position, eyes glued to the empty spot on the couch.

If you stared hard enough, you could see the invisible glimmer of a man's silhouette, if it could be taken as anything but the terrifying ramblings of an overwrought brain.

Four, you'd learned to fear.

You'd seen him once; lips blue and eyes bluer, a thin coat of ice crystallized over his pale skin, gaze sharper than an ice shard. Even frozen, he was as quick as a whip, and neither here nor there at the best of times. It was a feat unto itself not to remember chilled fingers brushed your face In the darkness of the night, or the terrible notion of someone who was just as incorporeal as the flowing breeze.

But Four was here. Four was watching you.

Your knuckles scraped against the carpet as you scooted back against the wall, fingernails digging crescent indents deep within the sweaty flesh of your palm. Another wave of cold seemed to fill the room, swirling through the air like the invisible clutches of an impossible storm.

"What do you want?" you croaked, voice scratchy from seconds, minutes, hours, years of disuse. How long had it truly been? Did you want to know?

Nothing was said, but it didn't need to be. The faint indent in the couch popped to its normal position, and you shut your eyes in preparation for the stinging burn of his touch. Running was no longer an option, not when the muscles in your calves were tighter than rope or the curve of your shoulders could have broken down whatever feeble walls kept the incorporeal so impossibly untouchable.

The lights flickered. The TV screeched. Something shattered in the kitchen. The small clock on the wall began to spin. A scream echoed through the hallway. The puddle of water at your feet felt less and less like a figment of your imagination.

And, somehow, the cold-burned touch on your shoulder was the worst of all, searing through layers of fabric and flesh to brand itself into your very bones, taking roost within clustered marrow and scintillating blood.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he wanted to be inside you. One with you. So connected that your body was his and your thoughts were hardly your own.

The chill ramped up. The chill threatened to consume you, all you had to do was let it.

The carpet was rough as your body fell on its side, left shoulder stinging as it made contact with the unvacuumed floor. Dropping like a fly. Dropping like you were dead. Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't.

The touch returned, just as freezing as it traced down the length of your side, only jabbing down when the ghost found the spot he was looking for. A broken whine filled the space as you curled in on yourself, trying to escape the incorporeal shard buried between the cradle of your bottom two ribs, digging in as Four sought a reaction. It was like he fed from your pain, your fear, your hopelessness, even from the first moment you laid eyes on frostbitten skin and eyes just as cold.

The lights flickered again, with far more violence than you remembered Hyrule ever possessing, and Four's touch was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Relief was nothing short of a drug as it coursed through your chilled veins, igniting every nerve with a warmth that was just as punishing as it was welcome. Pins and needles pinpricks set your fingers and toes alight, and the pain forced your eyes to unscrew, only to snap open at the disposable cup sitting a few inches from your face.

Drink me, was scrawled on the recycled paper surface. It seems Wild's twisted humor had overcome his crazy once again. You never should have let him watch Alice in Wonderland.

It was a battle unto itself to force your stinging body into the barest semblance of a sitting position, reclining against the wall like someone too tired to continue. But that wasn't an option, not when Wild had the strength to force your jaw open to accept his food or Hyrule had the power to control your phone or Twilight could make anyone and anything do his twisted fucking bidding. Not when their anchors meant nothing. Not when you could feel them nestled in your very bones.

You took the cup with the certainty of a newborn deer, downing it in one magnificent gulp. Wild liked his creations savored, but it was better to just get it over with before he decided to get 'helpful'.

"Thank you," you croaked to the empty room that couldn't have been more full. It was polite. It was coercion.

Bedtime was a second terrible affair.

The night was cool, with just enough of a breeze that you could justify cracking your bedroom window open to breathe just a sliver of fresh air. A large shirt—so large that it hung on the pointed cusp of your right shoulder—covered most of your frame, complemented by a pair of ratty shorts that you were half sure even the ghosts slightly disapproved of.

Flopping onto your unmade bed felt like a lesser form of death, as swathes of cotton and polyester enveloped your body in a hug that felt worryingly real. You were almost concerned. Almost.

Head on the pillow, cheek smothered in contained faux goose down, and you still had no idea what or who you were. The ceiling was white and popcorned, and so was the window you'd cracked open. Maybe you could paint it blue. Or green. Dark forest sage or eye-bleed lime, it all looked the same to you.

A soft rustling of sheets caught your ear, and it was to your infinitesimal horror that the opposite side of the bed dipped and a familiar chill tugged at the edges of your sanctuary.

He was here. Four was here, and you didn't dare make a sound. Not when icy fingers fit so well over your mouth, or you could so vividly imagine what the ghost's palm would feel like as it pressed close to your jugular, feeling the structure bob up and down with each terrified gulp.

"Hi," you croaked; half alive, all dead. It was polite. It was survival.

The sheets rustled some more. The chill shifted closer. You wondered why sharing a bed with Four was worse torture than anything else, or why the thought of his ice-bound body against yours was the stuff of nightmares.

Hero of Hyrule? More like Hero of Harrasment, but you supposed it was better for everyone to keep that to yourself, not when you couldn't decide who you hated more: them or yourself.

Not when you let the dead into your bed and the ghosts of Heroes past into your heart.

You wanted to scream when something patted your shoulder, leaving a stab of incorporeal ice in its infinitesimal wake, braising the exposed skin in something you dared call a brand and realistically called a fucking birthmark from hell. Sleeping outside in the rain would be better. You'd rather have homeless autonomy to whatever fuckery this was.

Eyes screwed shut, mouth pursed. Would it matter if you looked? If you cried out? Wild would be on you in a second, pressing too-wrong fingers to your mouth, and life would seem all the more unlivable, though you knew the sweet kiss of death would only drag you deeper into this madness. You didn't want to be united to these psychos in death.

A whisper of breath fanned over your lips, and you snapped your eyes open just in time to catch bright-burn blues.

You inhaled.

You screamed.

Poor Reader :((

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[kurikive]

💽 vinyl pressed | part one | word count: 4.2k

you like gloomy days. there’s not a lot of people out, the sun does not blind you nor burn your skin and the weather isn’t usually that bad before the remains of the sun start setting.

the best part is getting home right before it starts raining, and just in time to cozy up with a cup of tea, a book, and music playing in the background (but you’re not that sophisticated, so you usually just end up falling asleep on the couch).

your body automatically relaxes at the memories of being a young girl, laughing and dancing with your mom in the kitchen and around the living room, one of her vinyl records playing just beneath the sound of your giggles and laughter. just the thought of it sends you into slumber, and your subconscious makes a wish to dream about it.

after you had moved into your new apartment, you tried your best to simulate the liveliness and essence of the home you grew up in. you turned the whole place upside down, from a dull box of concrete walls, to a cozy abode full of life.

the only thing missing, however, was the music. the melodies you hummed along to, the rhythms you made up dances for.

you could easily just listen to music through your phone and headphones like any other person, but the feeling of being surrounded by sound as a small child is an experience like no other. an experience that you know you can never replicate, but are willing to go through countless methods to get the closest feeling.

you had recently bought a record player specifically for this situation, but you only now realize you had forgotten to bring the most important thing from your mom’s house. the damn records.

although you had moved to a different city, your hometown wasn't too far away. it was around an hour and a half by car, and if it wasn't too late you could always make a quick trip back and forth to just borrow a few records, surprise your mom too.

and just when you start getting excited it hits you. you don't even own a car. and you also can’t afford one.

defeated, you slump down on your newly bought couch. a sad groan leaves your lips as you take out your phone to check out the nearest record store in your area.

the last thing you wanted to do was buy the records, especially since your mom had what could be considered a library of them. not to mention, they got more expensive with each passing day.

but you had no choice. the time was too perfect. if you wasted any more time, the moment would pass on by, and who knows if you'll even live to see the rain again (you probably will, and probably tomorrow according to the weather forecast).

so you grab your wallet and a bag and head outside. it was a twenty minute walk from your apartment, thankfully.

you could see yourself heading there whenever you found yourself in the mood for something more recent, or in need of something you couldn't find back home.

ah, the privileges of the big city.

as you embark on your journey, you recall the events of the past few days. your trip to ikea and getting lost with 5 candles in your hands. seeing your university in person for the first time and getting lost in the massive campus grounds. making new friends, who you bonded with over being lost, and getting even more lost with them.

hopefully you don't get lost on your way to the store.

and thanks to the grace of god, you were standing right before it. “ditto records”. your reflex is a giggle when you read the name and think of the pokémon.

you look through the windows of the place and you can't see a soul inside. it's either going to be a nice experience or your hands are going to start sweating by minute two. it all depends on how the worker interacts with you.

considering you've been on a rampage of nice interactions with people in public (you asked for help with directions at ikea), a little bit of small talk with a middle aged man won't be so bad.

the soundtrack of your entrance is the jingle of a bell played by the door opening. the sound catches the attention of a girl at the register, who had her head pillowed by her own arms in the register counter.

she looks up to see you walking into the store and greets you with a small, tired smile. “welcome to ditto records. is there anything in particular you're looking for?”

her voice is soft and sweet, and it sounds like she's said that greeting five thousand times in the (assumed) short span of her life.

she's also extremely pretty, you notice. her face is small and round, her eyes are shiny yet tired, her lips are plump and the perfect shade of pink, and there's a red mark on her forehead possibly caused by having her face pushed up against her arm for a long period of time.

you smile, half of it out of manners and the other half because of the big red circle plastered on the girl's forehead, “hi! just gonna take a look around, thanks.”

the girl nods, “alright. let me know if you need anything.” with that, her smile fades and she goes back to her original position, only this time it's her chin that rests on her arms.

when your eyes track back to the absolute feast of records in front of you, you realize it's time to get to work.

you're not gonna leave this place empty handed, but also not planning to pack your bag full and spend what's left of your money (although it's really tempting).

you've made up your mind on the things to find. something jazzy and nostalgic, something recent that you can brag about owning, and something older that your mom doesn't own.

you look through the shelves of your favorite genres, smiling when an album you recognize falls on your hands, memories of listening to it in your childhood home replaying in your mind.

while searching through piles and piles of vinyl and cardboard, a question falls on your mind that you had never really bothered to look up.

you look back to face the employee, she's in the same position you last saw her in with her eyes now closed. hopefully she's not asleep, you think a few seconds before calling out.

“hey,” her sparkly eyes open, looking for you as she sits up straight, you pause for a millisecond longer than expected, “how do they even get the music in these?” you ask, record in hand.

it's a dumb question, yes. but how were you expected to know the answer to it? when you were born it was already the CD era, and you're also not a musician by any means.

your mom would probably know the answer, and you could probably just ask her. instead you've made a fool of yourself in front of the pretty record store worker girl.

at least your hands started sweating by minute seven.

she raises an eyebrow, slightly, but you notice. she's clearly dumbfounded by your question, probably thinking ‘let me know if you need anything’ was only a figure of speech. before you can assume and overthink more about this poor girl's life, she speaks.

“you can't be serious…” she scoffs as quietly as she can, but you hear it anyway. you're strangely not offended. “i- do you know how they put the music in CDs?” she answers with another question.

truth is, she doesn't know either, but she knows what burning a CD is, and vinyl LPs are the same shape but bigger, so she assumes it's a similar process. can't say the same for yourself.

“now that you mention it, no, i don't. wow.” this is a big moment for you. an existential realization about the things that bring you most joy, and you don't even know how they're made. something to reflect on later, or now, i guess. “do you know how that works?” you ask her again, as if she gets paid for it.

more than dumbfounded, the girl now just looks concerned, “i… don't know ma'am. it's not like i make the records. i just work here.” and with the tone in which she speaks it sounds like she's tired of it. or maybe she's just tired this particular day. maybe it's the weather.

you could stop terrorizing the girl with your questions, but one particular word has you rewinding the last 5 seconds.

the girl looks about your age, maybe younger, maybe older, you can't really tell from far away. but there's an obvious non-age-gap in between you two.

what the fuck is ma’am about.

more than offended, you're horrified. “ma’am?” you exclaim, heartbroken, “i am not that old…” you speak with exaggerated pain in your voice.

the girl is visibly not amused, if anything she just looks scared, but on the inside she's so happy she has something interesting to tell her roommate when she gets back home.

“i'm sorry! i just- i don't know what else to call you.” she says with a little bit of guilt and a big bit of confusion. it's not everyday you get customers this dramatic and, well, interesting.

“y/n’s fine!” you smile. it's so over for everyone. you successfully introduced yourself to a complete and also very cute stranger. the demon of social anxiety has been defeated. you're on top of the fucking world.

“okay, y/n. do you have another question i probably can't answer?” the girl behind the counter hates to admit it, but you have a contagious smile, and she's mildly interested in this conversation and where it's going.

she's probably never going to see you again, and you're introducing yourself like you're her new coworker. she wonders if you're going to tell her your social security number next.

“nope.” you calmly answer as you turn around. conversation over. you came here to do one thing, buy records, and small talk was turning into grande talk, which could only turn into venti talk.

you hear the girl behind you go “oh, okay.” and you fight your instinct to turn back and find out whether she went back to her previous position, chin resting on her arms, or changed it once again.

but you give in anyway, and you see her, this time the side of her face rests against her arms. her cheek molded to the shape of her arm as she looked out the window. the soft music in the background and the soft lighting of the gloomy weather remind you of the softness of her voice.

you look out at where she's looking, and realize the weather has only gotten worse, and you need to hurry the fuck up if you don't want to return to your apartment completely soaked.

you run your hands through the hip-hop shelves and find your last target. holding three records in your hands, you make your way back to the register. the girl sits back up for the third time since you entered the store when she hears your footsteps coming closer.

you hand her the albums one by one. etta james’ ‘at last’, dijon’s ‘absolutely’, and slum village’s ‘vintage’.

you were subconsciously looking for clairo’s most recent album. you'd thought it'd give you bragging rights, and the songs were perfect for the weather in your mind, but you couldn't find it anywhere, so you assume it's out of stock. wouldn't hurt to ask the one person who works here, though.

“clairo is like, gone, right?”

the girl looks at you and turns her head in confusion. you avert her gaze and look anywhere else, eyes landing on her nametag. oh, cool! great timing!

hanni.

cool.

“oh, the new album? yeah, it's all gone. every single record got bought.” hanni says as she recalls the first day it was in stock. lots of gay girls and twinks came in that day.

this is horrible news for you, though. you're only a few days late to the party, and every copy is gone? since when was clairo so mainstream? is this clairo shade?

you pout your lips in disappointment and frown, “are you gonna have it restocked?” you ask as your last resort of hope.

“uh, yeah! i think so.” she says, and it reassures you a bit, but her “thinking so” isn't gonna cut it. you need to be sure.

“you think so?” your eyes twinkle like a puppy that's been left without food.

hanni doesn't really get what you want from her. it's really not the end of the world, the new copies are gonna come in a few days and the earth will keep turning. so why are you looking at her like you've been punched three thousand times in the face? “...yeah.” she can only wonder.

this isn't it, you think. this can't be it. you need that record, and you need it bad. you're not taking any chances. so you swallow your pride and ignore the way hanni is looking at you and speak up.

“do you- um. can you like… like tell me… when it gets here?” social anxiety has gotten back on the ring, and it's swinging. “please?”

hanni is seriously contemplating if you're a new local stand-up comedian who's practicing her characters on her without her consent, because the y/n that was asking dumbass questions cannot be the same y/n stuttering her way through a sentence.

and then it clicks.

“are you asking for my number?” hanni is so sure she's caught you red handed. and she's so proud of herself, until she sees you frown.

“well, no.” what. if you ask her, hanni really isn't disappointed, she's just, well, disappointed. and also confused when she sees you start scribbling on a piece of paper you found god-knows-where.

“i was gonna give you mine. but that's honestly a really smart way to do that. i didn't even think of that.” hanni’s even more confused when you sound honest. she was expecting to be flirted with, and not even that she can expect from you.

but that doesn't mean it's not fun to tease.

she snickers as you write, “you're still giving me your number, though.” you look up at her with a raised eyebrow when you slide the paper across her side of the register. “are you sure you're not flirting with me?”

enough!

“please, i just really want that clairo album! please!” you say almost begging, slamming your hand on the counter and resting your head beside it, knees going weak in desperation.

amused at the reaction, hanni laughs and takes the piece of paper, giving one look before stuffing it in a pocket of her jeans. “i’m joking.” she says in between giggles, “i’ll call you when it gets here.”

you get up from your position almost immediately with the happiest smile you've ever given a stranger. contagious, hanni thinks again. “yay! thank you, hanni!”

“how do you-” confused, she hands you your records.

“nametag.” you simply say as you stuff them into you bag. “gotta get going now, it's raining soon.” your words end with a zip!

hanni can barely get her words out from the smile that's plastered on her face, “yeah- i- okay.”

“see you when those copies get here!” your words end again with a ding! and you wave at the girl before the door closes on you. your next mission? making those twenty minutes back home at least fifteen.

“sure… bye…” hanni mutters to herself. this has been her most interesting shift in the 2 years she's been working at ditto records. danielle is going sit through the whole retelling of it.

it's been about 5 days since your first visit to ditto records. you had already told your new friends all about the situation. in fact, you had told them almost everything about you in just a few days. you had even invited them over a few days back, gaining many compliments at the state of your home.

(“no wonder you chose interior design. i never wanna leave this place!” jinsol had said, boosting your ego.)

you sat at a café near your university with your friends kaede and jiwon. ricky and jinsol had already left due to their schedules but the conversation never got dull.

“no, i swear i’m really good at bowling. it all just depends on the ball itself.” jiwon desperately defends, but neither you nor kaede were convinced, the latter even more so.

“unnie, you're making excuses. the ball is not at fault, it's your skill. you just need to admit it.” the younger squeezes jiwon’s shoulder in reassurance, and it only makes her even more defensive.

“i have thick fingers, kaede!” her voice comes out louder than expected, and only a second goes by before jiwon hides her face in her hands.

you take a good look at her hands since she was already holding them up to her face, “you literally don't but okay.” for some reason it offends the girl even more.

“we're going to have to go bowling together to prove myself to you.” she says, you laugh but welcome the idea.

“sure, miss ‘man-hands’.” kaede laughs loudly at the nickname, and you realize she probably won't let it go for a good two weeks. sorry, jiwon.

you let the girls argue a bit more and take out your phone that you only now realize had vibrated at least two times in the past 3 minutes. when you turn it on you see two text messages from an unknown number.

confused, you open your messages to find out who had contacted you.

you’re getting up from your seat before you can begin to say “guys, i have to go.”, leaving your two friends, who had been just watching you panic, dumbfounded. you quickly take out a bill from your wallet and slam it on the table before running out of the café. “see you guys tomorrow!”

“girl, bye.” kaede mumbles. jiwon just stares and waves, but you're already on the other side of the windows when you see her from your peripheral vision.

you've never ran this fast in your life, not even 5 days ago when you were racing with the rain. you pass through buildings and people like a racecar, careful not to bump into anyone.

you start seeing streets you recognize and know it's a good sign. the smell of bread of a nearby bakery tells you you're only a few blocks away. this has to break some record.

you start running out of stamina about a block away from your destination, and you start regretting giving up on track in high school. nonetheless, you push through and use your last turbo power-up. zooming through people until you can see the “ditto records” light-up sign.

when you get to the door you can barely catch your breath, you can't even touch the door to at least get inside before your hands are on your knees and you head lowers. on the other side of the window, hanni watches as you struggle to catch your breath and she struggles to not chuckle.

you swallow down the last breath you take before opening the door to the store, and hanni greets you from the register with a brighter smile than last time, “welcome to di-”

“where's clairo?” you cut her off. you're gonna get the closest you can get to those vinyls before you pass out. at least your unconscious body will serve to ward off anyone who tries to touch those copies before you.

“over there.” she points to the ‘new releases’ shelf a few steps away, or at least that's what your blurry vision lets you see, and you march your way over. you do your best to catch your breath one last time when you get there, somehow you're still struggling to breathe and hanni notices.

“how long did you run for?” she asks, now slightly concerned.

“i don't know, but i need a medal for it.” you finally find a stable breathing rhythm and stand up straight, “usain bolt, you're so over.”

hanni giggles quietly as you take a copy from the stack, “my sweet baby.” you say to the piece of cardboard, yet refrain from kissing it as you've still not paid for it, so it's technically not yet yours.

you're about to make your way towards the register, but as you take a look around you realize some records have been changed. and well, you're already here, might as well leave with something extra.

you rummage through every shelf you hadn't paid attention to last time you were here, from punk rock to classical. it's quiet apart from the sounds of the background music. neither you nor hanni talk, even though you feel her eyes on your back.

you usually wouldn't care too much, but for some reason her gaze made the back of your neck a little itchy.

as you make your way through every hall and corner, you find yourself a hidden gem in the japanese music section.

“no way you guys have this!” you turn around to face hanni with the most excited smile she's ever seen from you (she's seen you two times) as you hold up 1986 omega tribe’s ‘navigation’ vinyl.

“i guess we do!” hanni shrugs. she doesn't recognize the album, but the fact that you do and it makes you this happy makes it hard for her not to smile.

“i couldn't find this anywhere! not even online!” you do a double take the album to check if it's real and search for a clock near you to check if you're dreaming. “this is insane.”

“glad we could be of service.”

when you make your way to the register, you hold three records in your arms, just like last time. the aforementioned two records and the 1975’s ‘i like it when you sleep, long-ass-rest-of-the-title’ which you recognize can be quite controversial, but you only do so when you're about to hand it to the girl.

“just so you know, i do not like matty healy.” you feel the need to announce. “like, at all.”

hanni gives you a look, raised eyebrow and a smirk, “yet you're putting money in his pockets?” she got you there. but you can't be the only one at fault here.

“you’re the one selling the record.” you try and shift the blame onto her, or well, the store.

and hanni’s convinced, “yeah, i guess that checks out.” success. but you don't feel too good at this success. so you think it over quickly before the scanner can get anywhere close to the plastic wrapper around the vinyl, and you suddenly snatch the record from her hands.

no words said, you walk back to the section where you found it and put it back in place, only speaking when you're back in front of the girl. “i reflected on it.” you say, “i am a pirate before i am a consumer.”

you felt like a social rights activist hero, a leader in the moral and ethical high ground, and you're quickly shut down by hanni's confused expression. it says it all, really.

i guess your words weren't clear enough, because hanni’s brain is running a montage of images of you with an eye patch and peg leg with a parrot on your shoulder.

“like. pirating music.” you explain and her expression softens slightly, “i'm gonna pirate his music.”

“i got it.” she holds back a laugh as you scratch your head awkwardly, “so just two then?”

“yeah, that's it.” you made the calculations in your head and take out some bills that'll leave you with a bit of change. you slide them across the counter just as the girl speaks.

“okay, that'll be $56.20” hanni says as she puts the scanner down. you must've heard that wrong.

“what? that's way too cheap!” you argue, yet the girl seems unfazed. she's either playing or she forgot to check out one of the two records, which is weird to say the least.

“you got the funny discount.”

“what the hell are you talking about, hanni.”

“make me laugh and i’ll cut down the price!” the way she says it so casually makes you debate whether she's telling the truth, but you quickly realize that cannot be a real deal. and if it is, what the hell?

“that's not real.”

“well it is now. here's your change!” right. that's what you get for getting ahead of yourself. you take the change she gives you reluctantly and stuff it in your wallet, then similarly stuff the two records in your bag.

“you're messed up hanni. you're real messed up…” you say as you walk away.

“come again soon!” she waves at you with a bright smile, which you immediately return as you open the door to step outside.

part two. [soon]

🗒️ you can barely tell i started writing this in october 🤣sorry abt that

[melpomenelamusa]

Live bait

WoW´s Birthday Whump Event DAY 2: Bait for a non-human/Fishing with live bait

CW: Non-human whumpee, mer whump, child whump, used as bait, live bait, “It” used as a derogatory pronoun.

"It's a mermaid," said one of the sailors, stating the obvious.

In the middle of the deck, trapped in the net, was a mermaid. It was quite small, with bluish skin and shimmering scales in shades of green, turquoise, and blue.

"It's a child," someone else said, watching the creature struggle uselessly against the thick ropes of the net that immobilized it arms and tail.

A thin man with a monocle stepped forward, observing carefully.

"Indeed, it appears to be a child. A female, if I’m not mistaken. At this age, it’s much harder to determine gender."

"Move aside, I want to see!"

The sailors stepped aside to let their burly captain through. The man had a long, tangled beard, weathered skin, and a pair of cruel eyes.

"Why is it so small? We won’t get much money for one this tiny."

Meanwhile, the mermaid kept squirming. When it realized it couldn’t get free, and finding itself out of the water for so long, surrounded by strange and menacing creatures, it began to cry. It voice was almost human, a sad and frightened wail.

"Someone bring the muzzle and shut it up before its magic takes effect," the Captain demanded.

"Actually," the man with the monocle commented, "it’s just a child. Its song has no deadly power yet, not until it becomes an adult." Then, speaking more to himself, he murmured, "What would such a young mermaid be doing so close to the surface?"

That was when the Captain had an idea.

"If there’s a child, then there must be a mother nearby. We’ll use the little one as bait to lure the mermaids. Prepare the nets and harpoons!"

The sailors got to work. They pulled the little mermaid from the net only to immediately tie it up with ropes. The rope slid over its slippery skin and scales, so they had to make the knots extra tight to prevent it from escaping. Then, they hung it from the ship’s bow, just as a fisherman would place bait on a fishing line.

The creature writhed like a worm, suspended several meters above the water’s surface, crying and screaming louder in an unintelligible language. Some sailors retreated below deck or stuffed their ears with plugs, tired of listening to the constant wailing of the mermaid.

"Can’t we just gag it?" someone asked.

"Not if you want to attract the mermaids," the man with the monocle replied.

"But nothing’s happening," the Captain complained, frustrated, peering through his spyglass at the calm, unchanged sea after hours of waiting.

The man with the monocle lowered his gaze to the still water below. He knew mermaids were highly protective of their kind, especially their young. Sooner or later, one would appear. He only hoped that they wouldn’t end up attracting a much larger sea monster as well. Although this area wasn’t known for monsters, one could never be too sure. The ocean remained a mystery, even to those who had sailed it for years.

After another couple of hours, beneath the ship’s shadow, ripples formed, and a head emerged from the water.

"Captain, there!" a voice called.

Suddenly, another head appeared from beneath the waves, then another, and another, and another. In the end, there were twelve in total, all with long hair and skin of different colors, their voracious eyes fixed on the poor child still hanging from the bow of the ship, burned and dried out by the relentless sun.

"It’s the mermaids! Quickly, the nets and harpoons!" the Captain shouted.

The sailors sprang into action; however, the man with the monocle remained glued to the railing, staring at the fascinating creatures. How he longed to study them, analyze them, dissect them, and examine them. He wasn’t worried about the sirens’ song—he had made sure to cover his ears well. Mermaids in the water were dangerous, deadly, but as long as they remained safe on the deck, there was nothing to worry about…

Suddenly, a loud thud was heard, and the ship shook.

"What was that?" someone yelled.

There was a second impact, and this time, the ship rocked harder. The man with the monocle peered over the railing again. The waves licking the ship’s sides were growing larger. Something was happening beneath the water.

"Quick, capture the mermaids before they escape!" the Captain demanded.

Then came a third impact, and this time, the ship tilted sharply to one side. The deck erupted into screams and chaos. The sea’s surface seemed to rise closer and closer, and with it, the furious mermaids.

Suddenly, the man with the monocle felt someone grab his shoulder, and in an instant, he was flung backward. He hung in the air for a moment before crashing into the sea. The water struck his back violently, flooding his nose, eyes, and mouth.

He kicked desperately, searching for the surface and precious air. He broke through the waves, sputtering out water. Once he managed to open his eyes, despite the burning salt, he froze as he watched the ship sinking into the waves and chaos, like a stone vanishing into a river.

Mermaids are stronger than we thought, he realized.

Then, a melody reached his ears. He hadn’t noticed until that moment that the earplugs he had worn had fallen out.

The song clouded his mind until his consciousness sank as well, deeper and deeper.

A few minutes later, the sea was once again calm and silent, without a single ripple disturbing its surface.

I want to write a mermaid story one day QwQ

[al-1-na]

𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭 (𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐩)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rafe x Reader

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: Years Later / Domestic Bliss / Toddler!Cameron / Soft Ending

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

The late afternoon sun dipped low through the windows of your living room, casting amber warmth across the wooden floors. Everything was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock and the distant hum of music playing low from the kitchen — the kind of quiet that only came with peace.

You were curled up on the big, overstuffed couch, knees tucked beneath you, wrapped in the cardigan Rafe always teased you for stealing.

And in your lap… the photo album.

That photo album.

Your fingers turned the worn pages slowly, carefully — eyes catching on old Polaroids, little scribbled notes in Rafe’s messy handwriting. Snapshots of dates, holidays, beach days, blurry selfies, sleepy kisses.

But it was that one photo that made your chest ache.

The one you took on the dock, right after your worst fight.

Right after Rafe broke down, and you let him in again.

The first time you both chose to stay.

He had his arm around you, your cheeks were blotchy, eyes red — but you were smiling. Both of you. Small. Soft. Hopeful.

It was the start of everything.

“Mommy?”

A small, sleepy voice pulled you from the memory.

You glanced up to see your daughter — tiny, curly-haired, cheeks still warm from her nap — toddling over in her little socks, dragging her favorite stuffed bunny by one ear.

You smiled, setting the album aside just enough to open your arms. She climbed onto your lap without hesitation, head resting against your chest like it belonged there. Like she belonged there.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?” she mumbled into your sweater.

You kissed the top of her head. “Old memories.”

“Pictures?”

“Mhm.” You flipped the book slightly so she could see. “This one’s you daddy and me. From a long time ago.”

Her little fingers pointed to the dock photo. “You look sad.”

“We were a little sad,” you said honestly. “But we were also really in love. And really brave.”

“Why?”

“Because we decided to fight for each other. Even when it was hard.”

She was quiet for a second, then whispered, “I like when you and Daddy are together.”

You felt your throat tighten — love blooming heavy in your chest.

Just then, a pair of arms wrapped around you from behind, warm and familiar. Rafe leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before sliding onto the couch beside you, tucking your daughter’s small feet into his lap like it was second nature.

He looked at the photo album, then at you.

“You found it again,” he murmured.

“I always do,” you whispered back.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just reached out and ran a slow finger along the edge of the old Polaroid, then looked at your daughter.

“You know what I told Mommy that night?” he asked, voice low.

She blinked up at him sleepily. “What?”

“I told her I wanted to make more memories with her.”

He looked at you then, eyes soft. “And I think we did okay, huh?”

You nodded, tears prickling gently behind your eyes. “Yeah. I think we did.”

Your daughter giggled suddenly, standing up to plant a kiss on both your cheeks. Then she bounced off the couch, muttering something about needing to find her bunny’s “jammies.”

You and Rafe sat there for a second, watching her toddle down the hallway in her little footie pajamas.

Then you leaned into him. He pulled you closer, pressed a kiss into your hair.

“She’s the best thing we ever made,” you whispered.

He nodded. “Right after that pancake sex.”

You swatted him gently, laughing through your tears. “Idiot.”

He smiled against your skin. “But I was right, though… wasn’t I?”

You looked back down at the photo — two broken people, trying their best.

And then up at your life now — a home, a child, a love that had lasted.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You were right.”

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @daddyrafeslittleslut @psychocitylights

[nightlyrequiem]

The Canary Cage

Chapter 1. Inertia

Masterlist AO3 Next

w/c- 3,436

One meeting in a dingy bar on the cheap side of town. One sighting of you. The raw sadness in your eyes drew Valeria in. A parasite attracted to the taste of your tears. She'll chew you up and spit you out, but what she doesn't realise is you bite back.

A/N: Tags will be updated as chapters progress. Original plan was to outline each chapter but I think if I do that I'll never actually start writing the fic. So I'll just wing it. Also, I rewrote this like four times. Also also, listened to a bunch of Massive Attack - specifically songs from Mezzanine. Teardrop is my personal favourite. Also merry Christmas

Tags/Warnings: Tags Will Be Updated as Story Progresses, WLW, Mental Illness, Unhealthy Relationships, Angst, Violence, Referenced Self-Harm, A Healthy Amount of Self-Hatred

༺☆༻༺☆༻༺☆༻༺☆༻

Manicured nails pick at the delicate, sensitive skin on your lips. Grabbing ahold of a small sliver of it and peeling it away to reveal the rawness beneath. The voice of a siren carries through the smokey bar. Tauntingly caressing your ear drums. In the shadows of the hall leading to the stage you stare up at the woman singing. Harlow. Unblinkingly and jealously. Low bass reverberates through the wood-paneled walls.

In the dim yellow lights Harlow still manages to look angelic. Impossibly soft yellow hair brushed over her dainty shoulders. You tear your gaze away from her to survey the crowd tonight.  It's smaller than usual. Not by a lot, maybe five or so people less than usual. A majority of the patrons are men. Eyes flash in the corner and you meet them momentarily before quickly looking elsewhere. Those eyes aren't for you anymore.

On stage, Harlow bows and blows a kiss.

"Thanks for coming tonight." She calls out in her stupidly soft voice. It grates on your nerves. Subdued applause rings out as she turns heel and walks towards the hall - towards you. You don't look at her as she passes, bumping your shoulder as she does. You straighten out your dress and gloves and walk forward, stepping onto the stage and taking your place Infront of the microphone.

The Fireflower, like most of the older businesses in Las Almas, is old and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. It's had the same owner since you were a child. It's on the west side of town and it's frequented by people that live there too. People who lack much money and choose to spend what they do have on illegally homemade beer that is guaranteed to fry their livers faster than regular alcohol. It is cheaper to produce, however. And when you live in a 'protected' neighborhood where the cartel demands a 'security fee', you have to find ways to get creative with money.

You flash your teeth in a smile at the crowd. Pretending that they're more interested than they really are. One of them is. Peter. He's also been here since you were a child. Often seen slumped over in front of the doors next to a puddle of his own vomit. He whistles and raises his drink in support. Your smile is a little more genuine when it reaches him. You don't bother with introductions. None of the faces here are new anyway. Three songs. Get through three songs then you're free to leave. Go back to your dingy, one bedroom apartment and cry yourself to sleep under the obnoxiously loud AC unit.

It's not that you don't enjoy your job. You like to sing, like being on stage and admired. It's just doing it here sucks out any possible joy that could be found in it. The bar is grimy and falling apart and its loyal patrons match that. You glance over at the corner. Where the eyes were. They aren't on you anymore. Their owner, a tall dark-haired woman, are gazing deeply into Harlow's eyes. Your grip on the microphone tightens, your voice weakening at the sight so you look away. Object impermanence.

Halfway through your second song the doors open and a woman walks in. She's notable because there aren't many women in the bar as it is. She's also openly carrying. She looks around, eyes briefly settling on you before shifting to a man in a far corner. You don't pay much attention to her as she strides over to him. He and the woman begin to engage in what looks to be a very serious conversation. It's not one that lasts long, she jerks her head to the side and he reluctantly rises to a stand. One few too many beers making him unsteady on his feet. He walks out, leaving the woman alone.

She finally turns her attention on you. You're used to being stared at, that's just what happens when you sing on a stage. People have looked at you in all manner of ways. Lustful, indifferent, judgmental. Some people have really intense stares. Ones that you can feel like a hand firmly planted on your shoulder shaking you. Demanding your attention. Demanding that you stare back.

You finish your second song and begin your third and final of your set. You sing it with a little more conviction. More passion. Because a face comes to mind whenever you hear or sing it. Downturned eyes and arched brows. Your eyes shift to the corner where the tall woman is. You don't know how many times you've traced the slope of her nose or brushed her unruly mane of hair away from her face.

You finish the song. Glad to have it over and done with. You bid the audience a farewell before walking off stage. Into the dark hallway. One of the lightbulbs along the wall has burnt out, leaving a dark patch of vague ominousness. You walk back to the dressing rooms. Passing a few of the girls smoking. They don't speak to you, something you're fine with. In the group dressing room, you grab your coat and purse from your locker. Slipping your arms into the cheap, water damaged leather.

You walk back out into the bar.  Weaving around the tables.

"Hey!" A slurred voice calls out your name. A heavy hand claps you on the back and you grimace.

"Hi Peter, enjoy the show?" You ask.

He smiles at you, sun-damaged cheeks dimpling. "I did, come have a drink. Come." He ushers you towards the bar. Reluctantly, you follow. Peter doesn't have many friends.

He pulls out your stool for you and you take a seat. Having to shift to get comfortable. The padding has worn away over the years. Leaving barely any protection between your ass and the hard wood.

"What will you have?" He asks. Scratching his unkempt beard. "My treat."

"Um... just coke." You say. Smiling nervously.

"Coke? C'mon sweetheart this is a bar, you have to drink!"

You shake your head. "Not tonight." You say. You don't like drinking. It doesn't make you fun or sociable. Just angrier and more bitter than you already are.

Peter shakes his head back at you like a disappointed father.

"Alright." He concedes. "I remember when your father used to bring you around here." He sighs.

"Hm. Yeah." You nod. The Fireflower was your father's main haunt and maybe that's part of why you hate it so much.

"He was a good man." 

"He was." You reply. Good, if you weren't his daughter or his girlfriend. Peter claps you on the back again.

"He and your mother would be proud, you've grown into a fine young woman. Too good for this town."

You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. Your mother couldn't find the time to be proud of anything you did, and your father was incapable of being proud of anyone but himself. Peter lifts his drink in a toast, you lift yours back although you aren't sure what you're toasting to. While drinking, your spine tingles with the feeling of eyes watching you. Discretely you turn to see who it is but can't notice anyone outwardly staring.

The bartender comes back around with a whiskey lemonade and sets it in front of you. He goes to leave but you stop him with a hand, concerned about being charged for a drink you didn't order.

"I didn't order this." You tell him. He nods understandingly. 

"I know, it's from the woman over there." He nods his chin over at the back corner. You tilt your head to see. It's the woman who walked in earlier. She's not looking at you, instead her eyes are on the stage, focused on the other girl singing.

Turning down drinks always makes you feel guilty but it's a necessary evil. Not only do you try not to drink, but you've come to learn that accepting them from strangers leads to expectations. The bartender leaves before you can give it back so you slide it over to Peter.

"If I were given free drinks, you best believe I'd never turn them down." He says, happily taking the glass.

You smile lightly. "They usually come with a price, Peter. Just not one that's monetary."

Peter replies with a low hum.

You stick around for a while longer. Keeping Peter company. You finish your coke and set down your empty glass on the counter.

"I should be getting home now, goodnight, Peter." You say. Your farewell is lost on him as he has already passed out. Head resting on the rough wooden counter. You get up and head towards the exit.

It's cold out. As cold as it can get in Las Almas. You walk to your bus stop and check the app, hoping you didn't just miss the bus. You didn't. A small win for you. You put your phone back in your pocket and wait. Watching a piece of litter drift by aimlessly in the wind. Something glass shatters in the alley across the street and a drunken yell rings out. Somewhere else a girl laughs at something. Down the street Dolly stands. Dark purple dress and extravagant fur coat on display. You watch discreetly as a truck pulls up to her. Watch her walk up to his window and chat. After a couple of seconds, she gets in and they drive off.

It gets to a point where you begin to shiver. Wishing you brought pants to wear over your dress when your bus finally pulls up. 'El Sin Nombre' has been spray painted over its side. Ominously red, the paint having dripped before it dried. You step on and pay the 13.95 peso fee. There aren't that many people on board. One of the few pros of working the night shift is not having to deal with crowded transport. You walk past a slumped over man and take a seat at the back.

It's only a five-minute drive, a fifteen-minute walk if you're fast, home. However, it's not safe to be out past dark. You had a colleague a few years ago, a sweet girl who lived in your building used to walk home. Her weathered missing person poster hangs up on the front of the worn brick apartment complex. You fish out your key and open the door, walking inside and slamming it shut because if you don't it won't close.

You almost trip over a little girl on your way up to your floor.

"Jesus. Maria, what are you doing pout here?" You ask, frowning. What is she still doing up is another question. Maria simply shrugs. As usual she doesn't speak or look you in the eye. You sigh and reach for her hand, which she promptly gives you. The two of you walk down the hall to her door. You brace yourself for what you're going to have to deal with next.

You knock on room 20 and one of the sickly green-blue lights flicker. There are a few seconds of cherished silence before muffled stomping draws closer. Maria tightens her hold on your hand. The door swings open, revealing a very short woman.

"What?" She barks. Glaring up at you.

"I found your kid." You reply, gently ushering Maria towards her mother. She scowls and pulls Maria inside. 

"¿Qué te conté sobre tocar en la sala?" She hisses. There's no idle chit-chat or thanks. The woman slams the door in your face.

When you finally make it back to your apartment, you're exhausted. You've done what you could with the place. Paintings you made yourself to hide the holes, cracks, and stains in the wall. Saved up to purchase fluffy pink rugs to cover the water-stained floors. Fake plants to decorate the counters and shelves because the real things seem to die regardless of how much care you provide them. Still, despite the pink and colorful nature of your living space, it somehow still seems sad and dull. 

You drop your bag down by the door, soon followed by your coat. You promise yourself that you're going to pick them up later, but you know you probably won't until you need them for tomorrow. Tomorrow. You shove the thought of tomorrow out of your head. Shove the fact that you're going to have to wake up, do your hair and makeup, put on a cute but uncomfortable outfit and go back to that sad little bar on 8th Street.

You wander into the kitchen and look around your cupboards for something easy to eat. You find a dubious bag of nuts that you forgot about. The milk has gone bad and you're out of eggs. Looks like grocery shopping is on your to-do list for tomorrow.

You peel off your dress and let it fall to the tiled floor. The water is cold as it sprays your nude form. You hurry your shower. Using up the last of your favourite body wash. You feel like you'll never get warm when you step out. Forcing yourself through your usual routine. Brush your teeth, wash your face, moisturize your body. Finally, you get to stumble into your room and crash into bed. Enveloped by soft pink pillows and sheets, watched over by your childhood stuffed animals. You reach into your nightstand for your pills. The bottle is almost empty. One refill left.

The cycle repeats. You stare out at the crowd blankly before over correcting yourself with a large smile.

"How's everyone's nights going?" You ask. "Good I hope, I know mine is." You broke down into tears ten minutes before this. "This next song is Valerie, one of my personal favourites, always a good time when I get to sing this." You begin the song. Voice far more enthusiastic than you feel. Each note burns your throat and the smell of smoke is worsening your headache. "Won't you come on over stop makin' a fool out of me. Why don't you come over Valerie? Valerie, Valerie, Valerie."

You're on closing shift. Helping the bartender wipe down sticky tables. There's a puddle of vomit in the corner. You pretend not to notice.

"Hey, can you go to the back and get a couple bottles of Smirnoff?" He asks. Lazily wiping glasses behind the bar.

"Sure, Tony." You reply. You set down your rag and walk past him into the back. You watch your step as you head down to the cellar. The wooden stairs are rotted.

Grabbing two bottles you go back upstairs, setting them on the counter for him. You turn away but he stops you.

"Oh, hey, someone left these for you." He says, placing down a vibrant bouquet of roses. You raise your brows. 

"For me? Are you sure?" You ask carefully. Even Harlow, with her angelic vocal cords and appearance to match doesn't receive flowers. Tony pushes them towards you. 

"No other girls here with your name." He replies.

You grab the bouquet with care. Inspecting it. The roses are real and look expensive. You gently trace your fingers over their petals, feeling the smooth velvety surface.

The bus is running late. You shift on your feet impatiently. You really need to get your license. However, you don't make enough to afford a car. Or the car insurance. The distinct tapping of heels approaches you and look over, seeing Dolly approaching you, diamonds glittering around her throat.

"Public transport is so unreliable." She rasps. She reaches into her bra and pulls out a cigarette carton, offering you one.

"No thanks, I'm trying to quit." You say. Dolly shrugs and lights her own. Taking a deep inhale and coughing roughly.

"That's a beautiful thing of roses you got, sweet girl." She says, eyeing the bouquet clutched in your hands.

You smile timidly.

"Thanks, got them from work." You reply, feeling a little proud.

"Wish my customers would give me flowers." She sighs, shaking her head. "Who're they from?"

You shrug. "Not sure. Tony said someone left them for me."

Dolly gives you a knowing smile. "Maybe Tony is the one who gave them to you. He's always been a shy boy."

"Ah, maybe." You say. Looking away. It wasn't Tony. He doesn't play for your team.

Dolly blows out smoke rings.

"Did you hear about the man found in the canal this morning?" She asks.

You frown, feeling heavy. "No. Cartel?"

"That's what the police think." Dolly says. "The man had twelve pounds of coke in his apartment, my guess is that he stole it from them."

An engine rumbles as the same truck from last night creeps towards the two of you. It stops and the window rolls down, revealing the man inside.

He's older than you, younger than Peter and Dolly.

"Thirty minutes with you and your friend." He says gruffly. Before you can even respond Dolly storms up to his window.

"Get the fuck out of here you good for nothing trout." She snaps. "Don't show your face around this corner again. Or I'll have my boys cut off your balls."

"Your boys?" He laughs.

"Eric and Thomas."

His laughter stops abruptly. He narrows his eyes at Dolly, expression dark and cruel. However, the threat that Eric and Thomas must pose seem to mean more than his pride. He rolls up his window and speeds off.

Dolly curls her lip in disgust.

"You have lipstick on your teeth." You murmur.

Dolly swipes a finger over her teeth. "He didn't pay me the agreed amount last time." She says angrily. "His excuse was that I'm old."

You frown. "What a pig."

Dolly sighs, turning to you. "My advice, Sweet girl," She says as your bus pulls up. "don't ever do this line of work."

The next night is the same. As it always it. As it always will be. Walking back to the dressing room you bump into someone.

"Oh, sorry." You mumble.

"Hey."

you look up, downturned eyes, arched brows. "... Erin." You greet stiffly. Erin's gaze lingers on you for a few seconds before she brushes her hand through her dark hair. She nods once and moves past you.

Something venomous coils around your heart as you put on your jacket and pull on some sweatpants. Speaking to Erin has ruined your night completely. Why was she even back here? Probably for Harlow. You scowl and storm out of the dressing room, purposefully knocking into another girl.

"Hey-" She exclaims angrily at you.

You clench your fists as you leave the bar. You lean against the foreclosed building in front of your bus stop. Avoiding the trash littered along its side. You check the app, seeing that you just missed the bus. You feel like crying. You feel angry. You punch the brick building and immediately regret it. Hissing in pain and cradling your throbbing hand to your chest.

"I'd hate to be that building." A smooth voice says. Your head whips up. The woman it belongs to looks vaguely familiar. Dark hair cut into a layered bob, severe brows. She's wearing a dark turtleneck and coat, hands tucked into her pockets.

Your face heats with embarrassment.

"I was just, like, I slipped." You mutter.

Her lips twitch up in amusement. "I broke my hand once by punching a wall." She tells you, leaning beside you.

You flex your hand, worried that it may be broken. It's stiff and sore. "Oh."

"You have a lovely voice." She complements. "Shame you're wasting it on the Fireflower."

You feel slightly defensive at her jab. The Fireflower is rundown, and you hate working there but it's where you've made most of your childhood memories, good and bad.

"It's not that bad." You reply.

"Sure." Valeria nods. "But you're still only making 7,500 pesos, no?"

You don't reply to that. It's not like minimum wage is exclusive to the Fireflower.

"I didn't mean to be rude." The woman says. "Valeria." she raises her hand. You look at it. Tempted not to shake it. You grab it gently, surprised when she lifts it to her mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

You stare, caught off guard. You're not sure if you're flattered or weirded out. You give her your name and she repeats it, then nods her approval.

"I'll be seeing you around, chula." 

Valeria walks off into the night. Disappearing into an alley. The interaction leaves you feeling disrupted. It was weird. She was weird. But that doesn't stop a butterfly from emerging from it's cocoon within your stomach. 

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hi how are you doing I happy you’re open could I request a yandere perfect cell x female android reader, she was created by dr briefs and was base on an butterfly insect humanoid, he made her to bring joy to the world and helps those in need, she is basically his opposite and he begins to feel a huge attraction toward her wanting to make his perfect mate

-He was perfection, he was powerful, he was everything, he was… lonely.

-Cell couldn’t help but scowl softly, annoyed by this nagging feeling inside his body, the desire for companionship, to have someone else to be by his side. He had researched the humans and found that there are things called wives, female partners in a relationship who stand with their husband- mates was a similar way of putting it.

-The thought of being with a human made his skin crawl, as they were beneath him, lowly creatures who should be worshipping the ground he walks on to let them live on his world.

-Perhaps there was someone else that would be worthy of his mate…

-Just as he thought this, you were heading down a nearby road, holding a basket of fruits for delivery, a smile on your face as you couldn’t wait to see the smiling faces of those you were delivering this basket to!

-Your creator, Dr. Briefs, wanted someone who’s sole purpose was to spread joy to the world around them, in a world filled with danger and sadness, someone who could make others happy.

-Sensing the movement, Cell had turned, seeing you first then hearing your beautiful voice as you were singing. His eyes widened, watching you, unsure of if you knew that someone very dangerous was nearby.

-He was quick to realize that you weren’t human, you were an android, much like the androids that gave him the power he needed to become perfect.

-As he listened to and watched you, he realized what an unusual person you were, you were so cheerful, so bright and warm. He didn’t even know he was following you until you stopped at the house you were traveling to, and he ducked behind a corner, peeking out.

-The people in the house were so happy with your gift, thanking you and he saw a child hugging you around your knees as you seemed so happy.

-It was strange, you were so happy doing things for others, gifting them things instead of just taking them, not demanding them of anything in return. Why were you doing this then? Just to be nice??

-When you started back, you passed by Cell, not noticing him at first, as he was researching you, trying to understand you but he couldn’t, and it was frustrating to not be able to understand.

-He stepped out and called out to you, “Hey!” you turned, your hair flowing around you, your eyes wide before they softened as you instantly smiled sweetly, “Hello there new friend!”

-Okay… you were little odder than he originally thought as you came over, smiling up at him, “Are you lost? Do you need help or directions?” you were trying to help him, a total stranger, a dangerous stranger! How could you be so trusting?!

-Cell’s thought process froze when you cupped his cheeks, your eyes sparkling, “You’re so many shades of green- that’s so cool! I’m Y/N, what is your name?”

-Okay it was official; you were definitely weird.

-However, your touch was so gentle, so warm as he felt himself leaning down into you touch a bit, “What a strange little being you are? Why is it that you’re so happy and willing to help others?” you were a bit confused, looking like you had been asked a trick question.

-You bounced back, smiling up at him as his hands lifted to cover yours, “I like making people happy, I’m willing to help anyone however I can so I can make their day just a little bit brighter!”

-Cell was confused, not understanding this and you noticed his confusion before you smiled, “Would you like me to help you? I could teach you how to be happy!”

-He chuckled softly, feeling already happy by just speaking with you and being with you, perhaps he could convince you to stay around, that way he would always be happy. It would be your duty as his wife after all.

[ffleurist]

2PM LOVE

synopsis in which you had a crush on yuta okkotsu since young.

note: # mentions of divorce. angst to comfort fluff! wc 1k +

Love. 

An intense feeling of deep affection for someone. As a child, you didn’t understand the meaning of love. Back then to you, love was books and books were your love. Sure, you received ample love from your parents and loved ones. The sneaky glances your parents throw at each other during family gatherings, the way your father opens the door for your mother like a gentleman, the way he soothed the goosebumps on your mother’s delicate skin with his calloused hands whenever she got cold. It’s the way their hips sway to their ‘anniversary song’ that echoes your humble abode across your living room, looking at each other with so much love. 

That, to you, was love; your parents' love for each other. Not that you’d say it out loud, of course. But someday, you will find love like your parents.

Growing up on the outskirts of Tokyo, you had a lovely childhood and you couldn’t ask for more. But it was all in vain. After 20 years of a blissful marriage, along with 3 children, your parents had a divorce. You weren’t quite sure what happened because they felt really in love. It also hit you when your father had to move out alongside your two siblings, leaving you and your mother alone on the outskirts of Tokyo. 

You wanted to be mad when you found out that just after 2 months of being divorced, your father had found himself a newer and younger lover. Never had you felt so betrayed. You felt angry and sad, for your mother who hides her pain with a sweet smile, assuring you that she’s not affected by it. But in reality, you know it’s a facade when you can hear her muffled sobs every night. 

From then on, you didn’t believe in love and promised to never fall in love. Thus, you grew up finding solace and comfort deep inside your books.

After 2 years of your parent’s divorce, you met a boy.

In front of your mother, you pretended that falling in love was a sin, you confidently vowed to never fall in love but why does your heart skip a beat whenever you see the boy with disheveled black hair and dark blue eyes? Why does your hand get so sweaty whenever your fingers brush his? When you told your mother about the situation you were in with your big doe eyes, she couldn’t help but laugh saying you have developed a crush. 

A crush on a boy named Yuta Okkotsu? 

You first met Yuta at a local bookstore not too far away from your neighbourhood. Every day, at 2pm, without fail you’ll catch him reading in the corner of the store, giggling to himself. What a weird boy. Perhaps he was reading a comedy series? You didn’t know what came to you that day, the ground beneath your feet swept you towards that young boy’s direction. He slowly shifted his gaze from the book to you. 

Embarrassed, you struck up a conversation “uhhh hi! what book are you reading?”. 

You have been friends ever since. He’d meet you outside your door, waving your mom goodbye before racing each other to the bookstore. You visit there so often that the owner recognizes you two. Once, you fell asleep on Yuta’s shoulder while his cheeks were on top of your head with a book in hand. The owner, Ms Belle, cooed at the adorable sight.   

He spent so much time with you that he’s grown attuned to you and your little habits. The way you stomp your feet when something exciting happens – like when the main character decides to finally confess to his crush. He knows you like to run your fingers along the shelves. He knows how you hate folding the edges of your paper so for your 8th birthday, he got you a bookmark with your name engraved.

One word to describe you and Yuta would be inseparable. You’d do things together. You’d have a sleepover at his house on some nights, and some at yours. He knows how much you hate crowds, so he would hold onto your pinky while he leads you both to a more quiet, and safe place. 

You were 9 years old when you finally realised that you had a crush on Yuta Okkotsu. However, you were also 9 years old when you had your heart broken, by a boy besides your father. He had to move to the other side of the world, far from Tokyo, Japan. His absence left you all alone again. The worst part of all, you didn’t have a chance to tell him that you liked him.

Perhaps you were right. You won’t believe in love and promise to never fall in love. Although deep down behind closed doors, love –your parents once shared, was all you craved for.

10 years later. Everything has changed. You grew taller, no longer the shortest in class. Your voice matured. Everything changed, even the the childhood bookstore closed down when you were 11. You no longer have a crush on Yuta Okkotsu. Lies. You’ll remember him forever.

Glancing at your Apple Watch, it read 2pm. You had to meet your friends at 2.30pm at the train station but since you were already early, you decided to stop by the newly opened bookstore.

The distinct aroma of earthy with a hint of vanilla from the pages of books that were stacked neatly on a wooden shelf instantly made you relaxed, like you were at home. Like a muscle memory, you run your fingers along the shelves, a habit of yours while trying to find a book that catches your attention. Abruptly, your fingers came to a stop. Your eyes lingered on a certain book. You were so deep in the thought you didn’t realise someone coming up to you. 

“The Love Hypothesis, huh?” 

That voice. His voice was honeyed yet soft spoken.

You shifted your gaze to your right where the stranger is. He’s taller than you, but not that tall, his hair no longer disheveled. Black hair and dark blue eyes carrying a radiant gentle smile that could probably light up the sky. —the same smile he carried in the past.

Your eyes lit up. “Yuta Okkotsu?”

fml i really really dont like how this turns out but i just had to clear from my drafts. i love yuta sm.. and i m so sleepy rn happy 2024 my loves 🩷

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