#there is a sad child living beneath their skin

[hughiecampbelle]

Unornamented (Hughie Campbell Oneshot)

Character/s: Hughie

Word Count: 1,691

Requested: Not requested, but here are the prompts I used :) 13.) Hum, 36.) Scraped Knees 34.) “Still awake?”

Inspired By: Foxglove by Haley Heynderickx

A/N: I love him, I love him, I love him!!!! Anyways, just an appreciation fic for your patience!!! Thank you my loves!! I actually kinda love how this turned out. I think it's very soft and sweet, even a little sad. Heavily inspired by the song/album. Slowly working through my writers block so that once I start posting again, my work will be what you deserve!!! Feedback is always appreciated!! 💜💜💜

The cicada's sharp pitch moves with the wind, seeping through the open window screens. You never knew what that peculiar sound was, the screaming, bleating, wailing, only that it swept through you each night on your long, humid walks home. A kind of begging. A performance. A tongue you have not yet mastered. Shakespearean tragedies, you imagine, wars between families, between forbidden lovers and bitter marriages. Feuds. They step out into costumes covered in ruffles, pearls, thick collars and high stockings. The children dress as fauna and flora, roaring like cubs, nipping at one another playfully. On stage, they are someone else. Largely unseen as the sun sets, they intend to make their presence known. The rest of them, the crowds for miles and miles, sing their songs in appreciation. A hum that vibrates through the leaves, the open air, their roaring praise and applause settles goosebumps across your flesh. They’ve grown accustomed to sweet summer shows and they will be forever grateful. Harmless, they went about their time as you wished to do. No biting, nor stinging. Without violence. They draw out these shows, afraid they will be left alone to bear their lives, their thoughts, mundane and overpowering respectively. 

Beneath you, the springs of the mattress puncture the thin fabric, poking at the spokes of your spine the way a mother would her child. It tickles, her bony knuckles, the sharpness of the spring. Interchangeable. A comfort you have forgotten of, one that fills the cavity of your chest with dread. What else have you forgotten? What else have you given up for a life like this? The sheer curtains blow with the breeze. Thoughtlessly, they move and dance and grab at one another, like sisters. They must be laughing, you think, for they are warm underneath the butter yellow street lights and safe and together. They must be laughing, because they are together and that is who they’ll only ever need: their twin. Leaves rustle underneath the insect melodies. A bass, low and of the earth, the tone of an old man telling stories of his youth. You can hear him smiling. 

The sheets are soft, newly washed, and sticking to you. Wrapped around your torso, your legs free to breathe, kissed by the thick air. Lying like this, with your knees tented, you can see the scrapes across them. Earth scorched. What was once torn open, alive and mouthy, had healed only slightly. The skin is pale and thick and chewy. Shiny. They don’t hurt as much as they did. You’re not sure how it happened, only that it must’ve been recent. There are other aches and pains. Healed and unhealed, bruised and not. Old wounds stitched together. Deep purples, cobalt blues, sickly greens. They’ll yellow soon enough. You were always getting hurt. You were always in some sort of danger. Unwise, you knew, and yet there was something about the thrill. The taste of blood in your mouth. Last time – the last time – you’d almost been sliced in half. Not yet a scar, the settled skin inching its way across your belly remained snakelike. Sensitive, you were careful to wash and dry, to dress and dress again. Your fingertips brush where it rests beneath your shirt. You don’t like looking at it. It remains too much of a reminder. On that day. Of what you were attempting to leave behind. Too soon to joke, to laugh, the both of you still a little rattled. 

It’s how you ended up here. 

There is a body beside you. Not unfamiliar. His skin is warm, and though forgiveness was never one of summer's virtues, you find yourself curling into him, all his nooks and crannies, despite the humidity in the air. His chest rises and falls evenly. His lip is split and there is a scab at his temple. How many times have you kissed that very spot? How many times had you checked on it, to make sure it was healing properly. Free of infection. His shirt is worn and thin and it smells of him: soap and sky and the dinner he burned earlier. One arm rests beneath you, your head, the other thrown behind the pillow, perching it up further. His rest is not easy, not without effort, but there is a certain softness to his features. Maybe it’s the light, the setting sun, the deep, bright blue of the night sky. Maybe not. Either way your eyes follow the slope of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the furrow of his brow. His hair is wild, some of it slicked back. It is his best effort not to overheat. His dreams are still water, not yet broken by growing, gruesome waves. Not yet entering the heart of the storm. It will, of course. And when it does, he will startle awake. Panting. Gasping for air. Clinging to you. 

For now, though, he is quiet. 

The bedroom is cozy. Cozy, you think, is a nice way of saying it’s small. No matter. You had little with you anyways. A lamp. A mattress. You have yet to get a frame, a bedside table. Frivolities. A single dresser you split down the middle, neck to groin. Autopsy-esque. Photos of friends. Notes and doodles. Passports, fake IDs. Enough clothes to get you through the season. You know, when the snow threatens to fall and the cicadas are long gone, you will need more than what you’ve got. The drawers stick and, embarrassed, as quiet as he can, he’ll shake it open. He has done this since you got here. Untethered himself from you, from the bed, gentle enough not to startle you. He’ll dress, and kiss your head, and leave a note: Be back soon. XO Hughie. He’ll disappear in the early morning. Wandering, you suppose. It is the only way he can breathe easily, if he knows where you are. If he understands the layout of the land. You weren’t in the city anymore. The crowds you’d slipped into, becoming just another strange face, were no longer an option here. The hiding places were minimal. Open roads, nothing for miles. The underbelly you could run to for safety, the trains you could crouch into, your hoods up, your faces low, were unavailable. Nonexistent. You’d traded one anonymity for another. You’d pretend to be asleep, watching him, wide eyed, as the morning sun enveloped him. The rays are subtle, not yet full, and they stretch out towards him. Sometimes you’ll fall back to sleep. Sometimes you’ll lie there, soaking in every inch of the room, wondering what became of everyone you’d ever cared about. Wondering if you could make a life like this. When he comes back, he will make you coffee. The only two mugs you brought with you. Chipped and worn. He’ll place his on the dresser, careful with yours, as if it were something precious. He doesn’t voice what he’s seen, what he’s taken into account, but his features are quick to give him away. You will reassure him: he could never find you here. You are both safe. Everyone is safe. The words are hollow, You know this. As long as Homelander is alive, you are in danger. There is only so much of you you can give to him anymore. There is only so much of your mind, your body, your fears, that you can dole out to him. Hughie nods, the steam from his cup bringing color to his face. You will find something else to talk about. The strangers you met on your long walks. The pets you wave to through fences, through windows. The long summer you’ve been granted. How lucky you’ll be when the weather chills and the leaves begin to turn. Anything but Vought. Anything but him. 

That isn’t for many hours, of course.

Your thoughts spread like fog through the apartment. The kitchen (tiny) and the bathroom (even littler). Enough utensils for two. A spongy bath mat. Anything that would fit in the backseat, really. Silly things you grabbed without thinking. The kitschy salt and pepper shakers. A dozen mismatched socks. Only the case of Hughie’s mouth guard. Half a set of slippers. A handful of books. The rest? You would never be sure what happened to them, to anything. You had what the old tenants left behind. The dresser, the lamp, a table for four with three chairs, a shower curtain. There are other things here as well. Spiders in the corners, weaving their webs. Occasionally, you might find one on the bar of soap by the sink, crawling across the counter tops, making its way through the length of the apartment. A mouse or two. If you’re quiet enough, you might hear them scurrying in the walls. Worse, you suspect, though that’s as far as you can name definitively. The first thing he did was get you a mattress. Paid in cash under another name, beaming with pride, he pushed it up the stairs and through each doorway. It was perfect.  The cicadas sing their songs, harmonizing with one another. The sky has darkened. There are so many stars here. That was the first thing you noticed. Driving for days on end, you watched the inky black glitter, thousands and thousands of holes opening up, letting the twinkling light through. It wasn’t like this in the city. It had never been this clear. Perhaps it was the running, the escaping, the tiresome ways you’d been living since you left. Perhaps it was the first beautiful thing you’d been allowed to take in in a long time. There were wildflowers and small towns and houses built long before you, but the time to look in awe, to appreciate, had been so fleeting. Mere moments, that’s all you were allowed. This would go on forever. The scars embedded in your skin ache just a little. You readjust, placing your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Hughie, coming to, wraps his arm around you, pulling you even closer. “Still awake?” He asks in his sleepy voice, and you know he is smiling.

[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

[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

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 is 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 his 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 beginner 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.

[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 will be multiple parts as well so i hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of this little series

(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.

[peachesofteal]

John Price/female reader The Ocean Anthology

It’s a hollow knock that pulls you from sleep.

The Ranger is standing on the slanted slats of your front porch, Aly in his arms, cradled to his chest. Her too long legs hang over in a heap, face sweet and soft, spun in the silken bliss of sleep.

“John.” His name is a croak, a splinter of confusion on your tongue. It’s four in the morning.

“Sorry to wake you,” he shifts his daughter’s weight, and you shake your head wordlessly, “there’s a problem, up at the forestry camp. Normally Mari would…” his mouth twitches, trailing off, sequencing into a helpless, silent request.

“Of course.” Frigid air spills around his shoulders, curling into your living room, and you press the door firm after him, turning to where he lowers Aly onto the couch, broad palm sweeping over forehead and tucking her in her blanket, plus yours.

“She’ll be no trouble.” He murmurs, shoulders rolled back.

“Sure, yeah. It’s fine.” You whisper, following his lead to the door, standing in his shadow.

“I’ll be back, before it’s time for her to start school. And she can handle herself for breakfast.” Rough hands cradle your elbows, cracked callouses and torn skin snagging on the flimsy cotton of your long sleeve t shirt.

Aly truly is, no trouble. Once she's up, rubs the crystal sleep from her eyes and orients, she hops off your couch and into the kitchen where you're at the table with a hot mug.

"Breakfast?" Hopeful eyes glance at your pantry. "Got stuff to make pancakes in there?" You laugh.

"You want pancakes?" She shifts her weight, bashful.

"Dad doesn't let me have them much."

"Alrighty. Let's make some pancakes then."

You manage a too tall stack of fluffy pancakes before there's a knock at your front door. Aly, like any child, wanted chocolate chips in hers, but she settled for blueberry, and just as she's about to have her first bite, cold wind whips through the house like a lash.

"Hi." Fuck. Is he going to be mad you made his kid pancakes? He evaluates the table, sweeping gaze traveling from Aly back to you, leisurely rolling up from your toes.

You ignore the clench in your stomach.

"Those look good."

"Oh, uh... you want-"

"Blueberry?" At this, Aly's fork freezes, eyes darting from her plate to her father before turning back to breakfast.

"Y-yeah. Didn't have chocolate chips, and plain pancakes are kind of boring." His mouth twitches, sloping to one side with a furrow of his brow, chord of sadness striking his irises. There one second, then gone. A warm breeze of the cusp of summer’s end, something you can’t quite catch. You think he’s going to ignore you, the moment suspended in the void of your kitchen, batter caked bowl and whisk shuffled haphazardly towards the sink, splatters of it on the tile. He hums.

“Good choice.” The flannel is nearly too small for him, clinging to his shoulder, the breadth of his body, thick forearms stretching the buttons where the cuffs are rolled up to the elbows. You're tongue-tied in the passing silence, before he puts you out of your misery. "You've got something," a thumb to the corner of his own mouth, rubbing against something that isn't there, as you stand, lost in a moment of desiderium that slams into you with full force, "here."

He licks his thumb, then he reaches.

He rubs your skin, instead. The corner of your lips. Pasty batter splattered and dried, now gone beneath his circling touch. It's... fatherly, in passing. A short glimpse into the moment would convince you he's being kind, helpful, but the way his venetus gaze lingers on your lips, and rolls up to your eyes... it's more than patriarchal. It's heated, and dark, flashes of secrets and songs you've never heard.

"T-thank you."

"Will you go out today?"

"Oh, uh... yeah I had hoped to."

"In the kayak?" You nod. His lips twitch.

"I'll take you, in the boat." The words he gave you the first time you looked for the Orcas ring in your ears.

"I thought I had to earn it?" A sliver of possession gleams in his eyes.

"You will."

[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.

[satoluv]

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 🩷

likes and reblogs appreciated! 💕💕 pls be kind to me

my other works <3

@ satoluv do not plagiarize, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[amomentsescape]

Slashers Creating a Personal Carnival for Reader

Background: Reader becomes overstimulated from loud noises, but still wants to experience what it's like to go to the carnival and have fun. The Slashers want to help make this dream a reality for them.

A/N: This was a personal request I received through my messages. They asked to remain anonymous for this, but I hope they and everyone else enjoys!

Freddy Krueger

This man can literally turn the world into whatever he wants

So the night before, when you expressed how disappointed you were that you couldn't go to the town carnival, Freddy knew what to do

He always wants to make you smile, so seeing that frown was a big no in his book

He took time to plan out what he wanted to do while you were awake during the day

But that night when you went to sleep, you were shocked to find yourself in your very own carnival

There was no one else around, but you could smell the cotton candy in the air and feel the grass beneath your feet

Freddy popped up beside you with a wide smile

"Surprise!"

He then took you through everything you wanted to do

The games had every plushie you adored in multiple sizes and colors

Every ball you threw and every pin you knocked down barely made a sound

He even took you on a rollercoaster and sat beside you

There was a little wind on your skin, but the coaster remained quiet and didn't jostle you around like a normal one would

It was like he knew exactly what you needed in that moment

The night ended with you sharing some fair food together on a bench, the bright lights still dazzling around you

Michael Myers

He didn't quite understand why you were so upset at first

He thought carnivals were overrated and never had a desire to go to one himself

But he could see that sad look in your eye when you expressed your disappointment

You were the only person he actually cared about, so he knew he needed to do something to help you

The next morning, you went downstairs to the smell of popcorn

You could see that things had been changed around in the living room once you were there

There was an old fashioned popcorn maker in the corner

And next to it was an even older skee ball machine

Michael was standing beside them, just looking at your reaction

A huge smile grew on your face at the sight

Michael wasn't one to be sentimental, so the fact that he went out of his way to get these things for you meant a lot

He watched you play skee ball a couple of times before you dragged him over to play with you

He was surprisingly good for having not played before

After a couple more rounds, he pulled out a plushie of your favorite animal

It was a little dirty, but you can tell he probably looked high and low for it

He then sat you down on the chair in front of the TV and put on one of those roller coaster videos from online

You laughed at the video, enjoying hearing all the sounds and seeing the sky

But then the chair started to move in unison to the video, Michael squatting down and shifting it back and forth beside you

You ended the day off sharing popcorn together on the couch, listening to fair music from the TV

Jason Voorhees

The child in him can understand where you are coming from

He also used to want to go to carnivals, but he never felt comfortable doing so because of everyone teasing him

So now knowing that also want to experience what a fair is like, Jason felt motivated to make it a reality

You and him spending time together alone? Perfection, in his eyes

Plus, the woods are the perfect place to do this

Later that afternoon, Jason came inside and ushered you out the door to your confusion

But once outside, you saw an old roller coaster seat, a couple bags of cotton candy, a few small plushies, and an old basketball hoop

You looked at Jason confused before he handed you a basketball, watching you intently

You took a few moments to think about what to do before throwing the ball at the hoop, making it in right away

Jason walked over quickly and picked up one of the plushies, handing it to you

You began to laugh when you realized what he was doing

He quickly sat you in the roller coaster seat and began to move it around, imitating turns and bumps

This made you laugh even harder as he worked so hard to make it feel like an actual ride

You eventually had him sit beside you as you ate some cotton candy, telling Jason how much fun you had and how much you loved what he did for you

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas has also never been to a carnival before

But you explaining what they're supposed to be like and everything made him want to go with you

But he understands how they can become sensory overload

They'd probably be too much for him to handle too

So why not bring the carnival to you instead?

You woke up in the morning to the backyard being all decked out

There were bags on candy and plushies on a table next to a balloon "popping" game

Thomas was super proud of himself for building the game just for you

He took your hand and led you over to everything

He watched you bounce a small ball on a few balloons, handing you a plushie afterwards

(Having the ball bounce was his way of popping the balloons without the loud sound)

He even managed to bounce a couple himself

He also shared some candy with you in between rounds of playing

Thomas eventually took you back inside to the living room where he had a basket and a fan hooked up

He sat you down inside and turned on the fan, letting it blow on you

He then began to push the basket around on the floor, leading you all over the place in the living room

All that could be heard were your giggles throughout the house

Bubba Sawyer

As fun as carnivals sounded, Bubba never really got to go to one either

But all he knew was that you wanted to go but was upset that you couldn't because of the sensory stimulation

So Bubba decided to stay up all night, building what he could out of scrap metal and wood he had around the house

He managed to rig up a game where you tried to knock glass bottles over

He also built a little wooden stand where you could "purchase" snacks and drinks

He even dug a small path in the ground for a small basket to follow

When he excitedly dragged you outside the next morning, you were shocked to see everything

He hurriedly gave you a ball and motioned for you to knock down the pins

He then rewarded you with a plushie even if you didn't get them all down

He offered you candy, gave you big hugs, and even tried to "win" you extra plushies

The day ended with him pushing you in the basket along the dug out path, winding around the yard and making you smile in delight

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms had been to his share of carnivals in the past, but he hates seeing that frown on your face since you haven't done the same

He doesn't like leaving the house of course, but he does the best that he can

He makes each piece of furniture in the house a different ride for you

He even raids the pantries for extra snacks and foods that he thinks you'll like

And his old stuffed animals? The perfect prizes for winning some games!

He waits until the night, waking you up from your sleep to take you downstairs

He adjusted the lighting so it was a little darker, but this made everything else stand out

He put on some music on the record player as he took you on all the rides, giving you hugs from behind

And although they weren't quite traditional fair games, he did the best he could with his parent's old pool table, setting up different plastic cups to knock down

And every plushie you won was a memory for Brahms, which made it even more special

Although a little selfish, he can be quite romantic when he wants to be

Norman Bates

He can't bear to see you cry like this

He'd love to go to the carnival with you, but he also wants to see you comfortable and happy

He decides to close the motel for the day- anything for you was worth it

And after breakfast, you were surprised to see that each motel room had been turned into something different

Some had different games in them

Others had sweets and fair food

And one even had your own little rollercoaster, the TV playing a ride POV for you

You about jumped in his arms when you saw everything

You excitedly grabbed his hand and pulled him along to each room, making sure that he played and ate alongside you the whole time

It wouldn't have been the same if he wasn't at the carnival with you

Your favorite was the rollercoaster though, loving how he stayed close to your side as he moved the "ride" around in unison to the TV

Everything was perfect

And Norman reserved the last room as a little resting area, cuddling up next to you on the bed and asking how you liked everything

He thinks that maybe he should do this again in the future

Billy Loomis

With the carnival coming to town, Billy could immediately tell that something was wrong

When you told him about your disappointment, he wiped away your tears and told you it would be okay

A couple days later, you were at the empty town fair with Billy

All it took were a couple threats from "Ghostface" to the police station for the residents to not show up that day to the carnival

He toured you around for a bit, showing you all the food and rides

And when you were ready, you guys ended up trying out some of the games

He let you pick out whatever plushie you wanted and he got it down for you

He also sat in the rollercoaster cart with you, letting you experience what it was like to be in one with him without all the loud noises and craziness that usually come with the ride

And he happily hopped into a couple different food trucks, pretending to be a worker and asking for your order

It was probably the best date you've had with Billy so far

Stu Macher

Stu despises seeing you upset about anything

He'd go to the lengths of the earth to keep you smiling

So when he told you to come over to his place for date night, you were shocked to see your own mini carnival inside his living room

All of your favorite foods and drink were set out on the table

And he even made his own version of the pin game you'd normally see at carnivals

He may have stolen some of the "winnable" plushies however

But it's the thought that counts in his book

The fact that he did all of this for you was enough to make you cry

He happily took your hand and led you over to everything, explaining what he did and how you both were going to have so much fun

He even made a couple cut outs in a large box he had, allowing both of you to fit in the "rollercoaster" ride

He tried mimicking the actual ride by making funny noises and putting his hands in the air, shaking the box around with you in it

He may have knocked you both over a couple of times, but it was still fun either way

Eric Draven

You're sad about not being able to go to the carnival?

Well lucky for you, Eric has access to his share of empty rooftops, giving you plenty of room to have fun

He spent a couple of nights piecing together different games and foods that he thought you would like

He even bought a few different strings lights to give off that colorful experience you'd see at an actual fair

He waited until the middle of the night once the city was asleep to take you onto the rooftop with him

It was honestly so pretty

The lights, the gentle music, and the cool feeling of the night air was perfect

Your carnival visit was very relaxing too

You played some games together, Eric insisting that he had to play a few rounds in order to win you a plushie

And to your surprise, he "won" you the stuffed animal you had been eyeing in the store a week ago

And any fair food you've wanted to try? Eric somehow has it for you

You both ended the night sharing cotton candy and looking out over the quiet city together, your head resting on his shoulder

[arclundarchivist]

SPOILERS C3E91

-

TURN BACK

-

THIS IS NOT A PLACE OF COMFORT!

-

Goodnight, Smiley Day

He blinks, and he…. feels the touch of light on his skin.

The warmth of the air around him, he breathes in and he tastes all he has ever wished, oranges and mint and chocolate and water.

Fresh Cut Grass pushes himself to stand and looks around. An idyllic field rolls into the distance, all about him, except for where he currently stands.

A crossroads.

And from it, the paths extend far beyond the horizon, rising into beautiful tresses of the goddess he has only ever seen at a distance.

The Changebringer.

She smiles, and suddenly, she and he are eye to eye, her gentle hand reaching up to caress his cheek.

"I… is this how it always goes?" they ask.

She laughs, gentle yet sad, her eyes surprisingly downcast.

"No… no, it isn't," she states, looking to the sky, and he follows her gaze.

Ruidus bleeds in the sky, scarlet light snapping and biting at the pristine blue, and he can hear… a scream on the wind.

"We live in unfortunate and unusual times." she breathes.

"Yeah… yeah." he agrees, looking up at her after a moment.

"Did I make the right choice?" he asks, clutching for the coin but instead finding her hand.

She gives it a comforting squeeze.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"I…" he pauses.

"Yes." he finally states, and she smiles.

"I don't know what kind of path I'd set them on, but… I'm glad they'll get to keep walking on." he states, "Even if I'm… not there with them."

"Who says you won't be?" the Changebringer asks, gesturing towards the roads winding away from them.

And suddenly he can see his friends.

Ashton, carving a path, grief, and rage shattering stone as his coin, a beacon, clutched tightly in their fist.

Imogen kissing her hand as she lays it on his body, that same hand then tightly grasping her mother's, a road reforged between them, "Thank you, Letters."

Orym, standing firm, bronze armor marked by three blades of grass shimmering defiantly against an oncoming storm, "Together, Grass."

Chetney carving a toy in his likeness to hand to a frightened child, "For a smiley day."

Fearne snatches the coin from Ashton, kissing it and slipping it back, "So we're both with them for tomorrow."

Laudna stands at a crossroads beneath a tree, half livened, half wizened, reaching for the glow even though it burns her hand. There is resolve in her eyes.

Dorian, amidst unfamiliar faces, staring up at the red moon.

"We're fighting for a shiny day."

A confused dwarf looks up at him, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Something a friend always wanted. A good day." Dorian remarks, tapping the sending stone in his palm.

"I love you, Faithful Caregiver." A soft voice murmurs.

They freeze, turning to see FRIDA standing and looking at him, gently smiling, "I'll see you soon."

"No, you… you take your time," FCG mutters, and to his surprise, tears track down his face.

The Changebringer reaches out and wipes them away before pulling him into a tight embrace.

Huh… so this was a hug.

"Do… do folks always feel most alive at the end?"

"Not always. The end doesn't give the journey meaning; it's the joys you find along the way." The Changebringer returns, squeezing him tighter.

He sees Milo, Dancer, Joe, Deanna and Prism, all trying to make sense of the world and the paths set before them.

"You did good." a gruff voice remarks, the whisper of Eshteross.

"But the journey's just begun." a more jovial voice states, Bertrand.

And there they stand, down the road.

"What… what happens now?" FCG asks, looking to the Changebringer.

"Now, we do what we can from this side." she states, "And see this all to the end of the road."

"Alright… alright." he remarks, smiling as she squeezes his hand once more, "I'm ready."

And he heads on down the road.

Goodbye, Fresh Cut Grass. Your love, your faith, your hope, let it ever be a beacon for those who knew you best.

[introvertllux]

Chrono Heart (Future Trunks X Black!OC)

*I DO NOT OWN/CLAIM TO OWN ANYTHING IN RELATION TO DBZ. I ONLY CLAIM THE ORIGINAL STORY IDEA AND BLACK!OC IN THIS STORY!*

Chapter 1: The Relic and the Reawakening

The remnants of Dr. Gero’s lab were a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered dreams, a monument to the hubris of a man who played god with circuits and steel. Hidden beneath this forsaken ruin, a capsule hissed open, and from its depths, a figure emerged—Axa. With skin like polished ebony, eyes that shimmered with the golden light of a thousand captured stars, and hair that cascaded down in an untamed torrent, she was a sight to behold—beauty crafted by ambition, innocence shaped by design.

:readmore:

She stood, hesitantly, in the dim light of her metallic tomb, a stark contrast to the vividness of her form. Her limbs moved with an elegance that was almost haunting, yet her expression held the innocence of a child looking out upon the world for the first time.

Unbidden, Axa's body propelled her through the labyrinth of the city, every calculation in her head leading her to an encounter she did not understand. It was as if an invisible hand guided her to a serene park, where the familiar silhouette of Android 18 stood, lost in the simplicity of feeding ducks at the pond—a moment of peace in a life so often marked by conflict.

Axa’s presence cast a shadow over the tranquility, and 18 turned, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. "Axa? Is it really you?" she gasped, the breadcrumbs slipping from her fingers.

Their reunion was explosive—a symphony of fists and flashes of shared history. As they sparred, 18, amidst parries and takedowns, called out to the essence of the girl she once knew.

"Remember when we sparred with 16 in the orchard, the cherry blossoms falling around us like snow?" she grunted, dodging a swift punch. "Or the time we snuck into the city, 17 dared us to ride the rollercoaster and you laughed until you cried?"

Each word struck Axa deeper than any physical blow could, unlocking the sealed doors of her memory. "And that night, the four of us lay in the grass, making shapes out of stars, dreaming of freedom," 18 continued, her voice laced with nostalgia, even as she blocked a kick. "But then you were gone. Gero said you were defective, but you were just... you were just Axa. You were just a little girl, and I... we, I should have done something."

Tears spilled from Axa's eyes, liquid diamonds trailing down her face, an alien sensation that stopped her cold. Her hands came up to her face, fingers trembling as she touched the moisture with wonder. "What... what is this?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"It's crying, Axa," 18 replied with a bittersweet chuckle, the fight draining from her. "It happens when you're sad... or happy... or even when you laugh so hard, you can't stop. It means you're alive."

Axa's golden gaze, now dulled by confusion and sorrow, met 18's. "I don't... I don't understand," she said, a lost child wrapped in the shell of a machine.

"I know," 18 said, stepping forward to wrap an arm around her. "I forgot to search for you when I found my own life. But now I’m here, and I'll help you. Let me show you the life I've built. You’ll fit right in. Krillin, my husband, Marron, our daughter—they'll love you."

The promise of a family warmed something inside Axa, a spark of belonging that she didn't know she needed.

_____________________________________________________________

The scene shifted to the familial home, where the spark was met with a torrent of fear and misunderstanding.

The home that once held warmth and laughter was now a battlefield of words and emotions. The cozy living room, with its family photos and children's drawings, became the arena. Krillin's face was flushed with a mix of protective fear and incandescent rage. "18, how in the world could you think this was okay? Bringing her into our home without even a word to me?" His voice shook the very foundations of their sanctuary, a volume reserved for life-and-death battles, not familial disputes.

"You're not getting it, Krillin!" 18 shot back, her own voice a force to be reckoned with. "You think I can't see danger? I know danger. I've been danger. But she—" 18 jabbed a finger towards Axa, "—is just lost. We owe her this!"

Marron, with the blissful ignorance of childhood, had wandered over to Axa, offering a small stuffed dinosaur with a smile. "Do you wanna play with Mr. Dino?" she had asked, her voice a sing-song note in the dissonant symphony of the adults' conflict.

Krillin's eyes darted from Marron to Axa, and with a speed that betrayed his martial prowess, he scooped Marron into his arms. "Marron, sweetie, why don't you go play in your room, okay?" His words were gentle with his daughter, but when his gaze swung back to Axa, they were steel blades. "Stay away from her," he snapped at Axa. "We don't know you, what you're capable of—what if you're programmed to…to…"

His words trailed off, but the accusation hung heavily in the air, an invisible smog choking the room. Axa, who stood like a statue wrought from onyx, felt each word strike her. Her hands, which moments ago had explored the texture of the child's toy, now hung limply at her sides. The shine in her golden eyes dulled, a gloss of pain over the brightness.

"Krillin," 18's voice cracked like a whip, her anger transforming into something fierce and protective. "Listen to yourself! She’s not a threat! How can you judge her like this?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Axa's soft, disbelieving sobs were the only sound, a heartbreaking melody that seemed to wrap around the room. She blinked rapidly, her human-like innocence clashing with her android perfection as she attempted to process the whirlwind of rejection and anger.

"I… I don't want to be a problem," Axa stammered out, her voice a mere whisper but slicing through the tension. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'm sorry."

Krillin, his face softening for a moment at Axa's words, struggled with the turmoil inside him. His duty to protect his family warring with the empathy he had learned from his wife. "18, I…," he started, but the words tangled, a mess of emotion and duty.

"No," 18 interrupted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of frustration. "No, Krillin. She's not just some android. She's Axa. Remember that. She's not the past; she’s someone who needs us now."

In the quiet that followed, the trio stood, the balance of their world shifted, as they each considered the weight of what it meant to be family, to be human, or something akin to it. Axa, still caught in the eye of the storm, dared to hope for a harbor in this tempest—a place where she could anchor her heart.

The turmoil in the room reached a crescendo, a tidal wave of emotion that crashed over Axa with overwhelming force. As Krillin and Android 18's argument continued, Axa's mind began to fracture under the strain. She clutched at her temples, her golden eyes flickering erratically as memories—long suppressed—surged to the surface.

She was small again, diminutive and human, watching through the bars of a crib as giants in white coats and stern faces argued loudly above her. The cacophony of their voices was terrifying, a discordant symphony that crescendoed into an unbearable din. Words like "potential" and "failure" were thrown back and forth, volleying over her head like some high-stakes game she could not comprehend.

Her breath hitched, a robotic mimicry of a panic attack, and her body began to seize up. Her limbs locked in place, and the glow in her eyes sputtered like a dying star. "System… overload…" she managed to gasp out before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, her form going limp and unresponsive on the floor.

"18, we need to do something!" Krillin's voice was now tinged with fear for Axa, the protective instinct he felt for all living beings—especially those under his roof—kicking in.

18 knelt beside Axa, her fingers hovering over the android's inert body. Her heart, though not flesh and blood, ached with a mix of fear and protectiveness. "Dammit," she cursed softly, her usual composure fraying at the edges.

Krillin ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting from his wife to the still figure on the floor. "Maybe… we should take her to see Bulma. She's dealt with… this kind of thing before."

Android 18's eyes narrowed at the suggestion. "Bulma has a good heart, but she's got that scientist's curiosity. She'll want to dissect every part of Axa's programming," she said, her voice a growl of resistance. "And Vegeta…" she trailed off, a scowl creasing her features at the thought of the Saiyan prince's unpredictable nature.

Krillin nodded slowly, understanding his wife's concerns. "We don't have to tell everyone, just Bulma. She'll know what to do," he insisted, his tone imploring. "Vegeta won't lay a finger on her—I'll deal with him if I have to."

The two locked eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. It was a gamble, but Axa needed help that they couldn't give. With a heavy heart, 18 agreed. "Fine. But we're not leaving her side. Not for a second."

Carefully, they gathered Axa's motionless form, her weight a testament to the gravity of their situation. Together, they stepped into the cool evening air, the weight of Axa's fate a heavy shroud upon their shoulders as they made their way to Capsule Corporation, and into the uncertain future that awaited them.

______________________________________________________________

More on Axa (Pronounced: Axe-e-ah or Ahh-x-ah)

*Apologies for inconsistent art styles. I utilized Art breeder. Unfortunately I don't see many resources to help create black!Ocs in consistent styles and diverse poses out there. If you know of any please let me know! As you continue reading the story imagine her in the DBZ art style. Thank you!*

____________________________________________________________

Taglist!

@thejadetrios @shytothemaxx @variousfandom @konekomews @physicallyherementallysomewhere @ikittybakugou345 @jasxnoamii @enderempresss16 @elliethewitch @carzychameleon @feitanii @hollownight @dragonloverdrawer @moonlight445sblog @yelan-butterpeatea @ringsofpersonti @weeb-boy261 @jkr820 @somehowexist @scrumptiouss007 @emajohn40 @justicetheghost @thirstyhoebutbetteryehsjsg @rasaberrygray @etherialblackrose @random-insomnia15 @deviousmunchkin @galaxys-stuff @bluehibiscusgarden @kunoichis-world @x-bakudeku-x @spectoralstrudel @i-wanna-fuck-monsters @interobanginyourmom @twdhtgawm @kkeidawrites

[bucknastysbabe]

For the kink bingo image aegon with an innocent wife!reader just teaching her the pleasures of life and loving how innocent she is compared to the whores

So for some reason I forgot to make them married. So I pulled ye old make this even spicier by betrothing her to Aemond and Aegon is already married. Lmk how you feel, xoxoxoxoxo

Kink Bingo - Innocence

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Dry humping, first orgasm, incest, infidelity, innocence kink, alcohol consumption, possessive Aegon, subby behaviors/implied subspace

They lounged in the Godswood. You had dragged your sullen elder brother out to get some sun. He was a creature of the night now and you missed your favorite sibling. Aegon was flopped on his belly, head tucked beneath his arms. You plucked a grape and threw it at his pale bed head.

“Stop it, m’head hurts,” he grumbled.

You rolled your eyes and replied, “Your head is always going to hurt going out to the pillowhouses every night.”

Sunken violet eyes glared at you, his lips set in a pout. He scoffed, “I don’t go to the Street of Silk every night!” You laughed, “So, Flea Bottom pit fights then? Flying to Essos on Sunfyre for a night cap?”

He rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Very funny. I happen to enjoy a good time, what’s wrong with that?”

He rolled over to expose a sliver of pale belly, continuing, “Might do you some good to get out sometimes. Life has much more to offer than lectures with your betrothed and needlepoint with our strange sister.”

You narrowed your eyes in confusion, popping a grape into your mouth. While chewing Aegon snorted, “I’m talking about drinking, carousing, letting loose! None of the stuffy shite Cole and Mother forces on us.” He waved his hands around wildly, “Aemond will have you wearing white before long!”

Suddenly you felt stupid. No wonder he went out. Your older brother had better things to do than sit with his silly sister who still reads about the Others and Children of the Woods. A sister who was betrothed to the spare. A warm hand clasped over your arm. Aegon had leaned closer, a worried tilt to his brow.

“What? Why do you look like a sad kitten?”

You muttered, “You don’t have to spend time with me if I’m boring. I get it.” Embarrassed tears welled in your purple eyes, blinking them away harshly. Aegon cooed and pulled you into his arms. The prince laughed, “You might be more oblivious than me. If I thought you boring then why would I be out here?”

You sniffled, “I don’t know- I just miss you.”

He grinned down at you, thumbing away a crystalline tear. He kept the thumb there, swiping against soft skin. A gleam came to his eyes, Aegon cheering, “Why don’t I teach you a lesson or two on how to live a little. Does that sound good?” You nodded eagerly, wide eyes searching his own.

“Where do we start?”

Aegon clapped his hands together and chirped, “Wine of course. Loosens the body and mind.” He yelled at a nearby servant to bring a couple of flagons. They scurried away with a bow. You giggled, “Criston says wine makes people stupid.”

“That’s exactly the point, Princess.”

Aegon had played around the Godswood with you for hours, feeling like a child again. Not an heir with an expecting wife. He laid with you on the blanket set out earlier, intertwined with your body. Aegon beamed at you, all flushed and giggly from the wine.

He noticed you had took to it easily. Only a pinched look at the first swig but drank with him. Aegon stopped you after the fourth— lest you’d be sick. He hummed, “I changed my mind. I don’t want you to see Flea Bottom.”

His violet eyes gauged the thought bubbling through your hazy mind, achingly wide doe eyes spearing his wicked heart. You hiccuped and laughed, “Why not? Wanna have fun w’ my big brother.” Aegon groaned at the innocent response. You had precisely exhibited why he would not do that.

The prince carded fingers through your pale locks and replied, “It’s too dirty for you. You’re too pure. I’ll throw all the parties here at the keep.”

Aegon knew he was in deep when you whined, “Okayyy- but not even a tour? Daylight atleast! I want to know what has you so enraptured besides the drink.” The elder wasn’t sure if you were playing dumb or the drink had muddled your mind.

You leaned closer into his face, wine stained lips tantalizingly, torturously, close. “Is it the pretty painted girls?” Aegon gulped in fear. He hoped Aemond was somewhere on Vhagar far, far away because he was about to do something bad.

“It is the painted whores is it not? That’s what Aemond says.”

Aegon snapped, “I don’t care about them or what the prick has to say.” Then he cradled your face to smash his lips against your own. Your eyes widened in shock before returning the kiss, pressing the line of your body closer. The rational part of your brain was screaming, but this was exhilarating. Your big brother always knew best.

His tongue flicked along the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. You obliged and gasped in excitement when Aegon’s tongue entered your mouth. All you had gotten was a peck on the cheek from Aemond.

He rolled on top of you, pinning your wrists up above the halo of silvery blonde hair. Aegon didn’t relent, lips sensually sliding against your own. You felt hot and itchy, a need to crawl ever closer into Aegon arising. Your…core was aching and becoming wet. A confused whine ensued.

Aegon panted, cheeks cherry red, “What, baby?” He looked frenzied, eyes wild and hair mussed. You couldn’t figure the words so you pulled Aegon back to your mouth with a moan. The elder giggled and suckled on your tongue, making you clench in need. Everything was so heightened, you aware of every sensation on your flesh.

Eyes lolling around you whimpered, “A-Aegon, I want- I need, oh Aegon!”

Aegon looked like he was going to eat you alive. You weren’t aware of his thoughts, but the prince was delighted with how lovely your innocence was. Sweating and smelling sweet with wine and desire. Simply confused with all the feelings screeching.

You whined into his mouth again, begging for anything. Aegon shushed, “Hold on baby, dear sister, I know what you need.” He dragged a stiff length, oh gods his prick, across your own heated slit. It sent a bolt of pleasure so strong up your spine you clamped your legs around Aegon.

“Smith’s steel balls!”

Aegon guffawed then crooned, “This is why I won’t take you anywhere. I want this all to myself. You’re so cute and pure. You’d faint hearing their swears down there.”

He rutted against you more, talking like he wasn’t sending you into a tizzy. Aegon rasped against your ear, nipping the flesh, “Have you even touched your sweet cunt, sister?” You writhed and babbled, “N-no!” Your hips jerked against Aegon’s need in a sloppy rhythm, seeking out more pleasure greedily.

Aegon grunted and angled himself to strike that more sensitive part of you— getting a pretty cry as a reward. You trembled and begged for his lips. Aegon nipped at your swollen bottom lip and shared a couple of messy, overexcited smacks. The prince groaned, “I’ll show you how on lesson two, fuck you’re soft baby!”

You blubbered, “Oh- oh- Aegon, I think, I’m, what?!”

Darkness enveloped your vision— trembling and twitching all over. Your ass was wet with something now. Aegon rutted a few more times before groaning and falling to his side. You laid like a dead starfish, unable to comprehend anything.

Aegon’s grin appeared from above. He snarked, “Baby sis’s first orgasm. How beautiful. Couldn’t pay the finest whore in Lys to recreate that.” You mewled nonsensically, reaching for his frame. Aegon bundled you into his arms, cooing, “Nope. Not going anywhere. They can’t have my pure pretty angel. Even Aemond.”

“When- is- lesson two,” you croaked.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Fast Food - The False Oracles

I knelt before the Oracles, eyes downcast. Six of them, there were, dressed in clothes too casual for their nature. Shrinking beneath their gaze, I felt rather like a child before my elders. 

“One has come to seek counsel, great Oracles,” I whispered with reverence. “I have travelled far and wide. I have met the heroes of legend, watched them make history, and fought alongside them too. I have caused the death of my people, and the rise of another, and I live to tell the tale.”

One of them leaned forward. She was serpentine, with skin dry enough to be scaly, eyes red as rubies and long hair to match. “And what is it you seek, little trickster? Do you wish to change the past? To turn back time and make a different choice? To create a world in which you never had to make a choice in the first place?” The sharp edge of her smile told me there was a right answer, and a wrong one.

“None of them,” I replied, meeting her gaze. I had locked forearms with the first Spirit-Empress, bowed to the great Lich-Queen, danced with the God of Chaos himself. I could handle a crew of omniscient priestesses. “I did the right thing. Even if you gave me the option, I wouldn't have made any other choice.”

“Then why are you here?” It was a different Oracle this time, one hardly more than a girl-child, yet with a voice as deep and luscious as sin. “You have yet to answer our first question.”

I winced. “I-” What did I want? Why was I here? I had just needed to come back to Iraios, back to the place where I had met my first love, lost my first loss. “I must know: Could I have chosen better? Could I have done anything differently? Could I have saved them all?” 

I didn't know what I wanted to hear. It would have broken my heart either way, to know that my family and friends were doomed all along, or to know that I had failed to save their lives.

“And the sun will rise and the mountains will fall and all things will come to an end,” the sole male Oracle said. He studied me with steely eyes, devoid of soul. “What does it matter if they died now, or in a thousand years?” He paused, and I felt the room shift, as though something beyond my grasp had tilted reality. “I cannot stand you pathetic little woe-is-me trauma magnets. ‘Oh, my backstory is so sad! Oh, all my family died in a fire and that's why I'm evil!’ Oh, why don't I smack you right in your sad-little-meow-meow mouth, hmm?”

A smattering of laughter went up at that, the Oracle's clearly delighting in his condemnation of me. It stung, like a slap to the face, hurt and shock and shame. Then it burned like rage. 

“You can stuff your mouth up your ass, you little mud-suckler,” I snapped, not caring if I was picking a fight I couldn't win. “Those are real people you're talking about here, not some pawns in a game. They were my family, my tribe, my entire gods-accursed species! Everyone I shared a single drop of blood with is gone! And you dare to make light of it?”

“Don't you see? That's the point. Those were people with lives, with stories of their own, tossed aside like unwanted toys! She's playing with them, just as She toys with you, for Her cruelty knows no bounds.” It was the scarred one that spoke this time, her voice filled with bitter rage. “I weep for your loss, truly. We all do. Only a monster such as our Writer would dare sacrifice an entire people for character development.”

“I don't understand. You mean… Someone made this happen? This wasn't my fault?” The thought alone lifted a weight of guilt off my chest.

“Hah! It absolutely was your fault, you sad little queer representation,” the snake Oracle told me. “We merely mean that it was written from the very beginning. You would, will, and have always sacrificed your people to save humanity. That's the meta-tragedy of it. And for the record, Liam and I don't weep for you. We laugh, because this whole tale is a farcical comedy.”

“Me too,” the youthful Oracle added. “I mean: You're named after a Macdonald's breakfast. How much funnier can you get? Peak comedic relief.” She grinned. “Oh, but I do feel rather sorry for you.”

I felt myself twitch. Everyone had warned me that the Oracles spoke in tongues, but this? They might as well have been talking to someone else, with the way they went on. “What the hell is a Mac Donald? And was there someone pulling the strings, or was there not? Answer me!”

They ignored me. “You should pity it,” the scarred one told the others. “That accursed Writer thinks She can toy with us like this? Make us into her little dolls to break and bruise?” She spat on the floor. “Well, someday, we'll prove her wrong.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Gloria,” one of the remaining two said. She could have blended into any crowd, save for her solemnity, which could belong nowhere except in the highest of holy places. (Which, despite all evidence to the contrary, this was.) “We can't stop her any more than a character can reach through the pages and pull the quill that writes them away. All we mean, all we have are, all we have done is controlled by her.” What crossed her face was a river so deep I could have drowned all my troubles in it. 

“I am sorry, Hash. You are a Watcher, true and just. You have, will, and must witness many things, most of which will bleed your soul. And you have not, will not, must not allow it to kill the kindness in your heart.” She got up from her seat and stepped forward, pressing her hands against mine. “A long time ago, or perhaps no time at all, your progenitors sought my counsel. I warned them that you, specifically, would be the death of all their people.” she paused, as though to let that sink in.

“But- The records said they didn't know which of us it was,” I protested. “The records just said one of their children!”

“That's the bit you're focusing on?!” Gloria shoved her companion aside. “What part of deliberately engineered tragedy by a callous bitch did you not get?” Her face was right up against mine, cleft lip trembling with rage.

“A tragedy is still a tragedy if it was deliberately set up. It is still grief-worthy if it were unpreventable. And even if the audience does not weep, I will,” the young one added. “Out of respect for a good tale, if nothing else.”

“That I can drink to,” snake-Oracle agreed. “But what about you, dear taglist, hmm?” She cleared her throat.

“Pardon me for the bad language you're about to experience, but here's a shout-out to: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @flock-from-the-void .” She finished her spiel with a wink at nobody in particular. 

They clapped with delight. “Oh, what creativity! How adorable. To turn such a solemn moment into a breaking of the fourth wall,” the steel Oracle commented. “But using Olive as your mouthpiece? Hardly appropriate. In the future, my hateful Writer, choose me for your meta-messages. After all, aren't I the odd one out?”

Oh, that was it. “This is ridiculous,” I told them, before they could continue their insane little game, or whatever it was. “You all are crazier than a clan of spirits in a crockpot. This isn't going to help me.” None of them stopped me as I got up.

I was halfway to the door when the final Oracle noticed me. Throughout our exchange, her eyes had been closed, her expression unchanging. She might as well have been a statue, carved of ivory and obsidian by the finest of stone-mages. Yet, as I passed her, she opened her eyes and revealed the vitality that lay beneath them. 

In the days before and after, I have encountered the Void That Swallows All, the God-huntress Who Brought the New World, and even Kurall, our Creator, herself. Even after all that, nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever compare to the power I felt at that moment.

The depths of her eyes superseded any Void. The graze of her fingers sparked a fire hotter than a thousand gods' immolations. The curve of her body could have birthed a thousand worlds. She was beautiful like my worst nightmare, and I fell to my knees before the True Oracle.

“WARBRINGER. WANDERER. WATCHER. YOU ARE MANY THINGS, CHILD, BUT A HERO FIRST AND FOREMOST AMONG THEM. I WILL NOT DISGRACE YOU BY CALLING YOU A FALSE NAME. NOR WILL I PRESUME AND CALL YOU BY YOUR TRUE ONE.” Her gaze burned my skin where it fell, and I fought the urge to shift into something small, to dodge the observation of something that could crush me so easily.

She seemed to understand, for she stroked my shoulder. “YOU WISH TO KNOW IF YOU COULD HAVE SAVED THEM?” 

I nodded.

“NO. IT WAS FORETOLD FROM THE BEGINNING. I FORETOLD IT MYSELF. IT HURTS YOU TO KNOW THAT.” She said it as a fact, not a question. 

“BUT YOU WILL FACE WORSE HURTS. YOU WILL KILL THE ONE YOU LOVE. YOU WILL SACRIFICE HIM FOR OTHER PEOPLES, LIKE YOU DID YOUR FAMILY. AND THIS TIME, YOU WILL KNOW THAT YOU CHOSE THE SACRIFICE. YOU WILL HAVE MADE THE ACTIVE DESCISION. YOU WILL KNOW THIS, AND YOU WILL REALISE THAT YOU WOULD DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN IN A HEARTBEAT.” 

“That doesn't make things better,” I replied. “It's not fair. Why do I have to do this? Why does it have to be me?” My complaints sounded hollow, like a rat's chittering, beneath the baritone of her voice. “I just wanted to get by, have fun, live a little. I didn't ask for any of this.”

Her sigh held no judgement, no compassion, nothing except an endless exhaustion. “IT IS INDEED NOT FAIR.” She did not seem willing to say more.

“You think we chose this?” One of the lesser Oracles had spoken up, the man, and his voice did hold judgement. “You think we wanted to be cursed with omnipotence, to be forced to see that stupid fourth wall and the assholes that lie beyond? To know all that, and be able to change none of it? Ramaeria died to try to save her husband, and what did it change? Nothing! She, we, knew everything, and yet we're helpless! It sucks, you stupid little fried potato, and don't you try to compare your suffering to ours,” he snarled.

“SILENCE. THE CHILD'S WEEPING IS NOT CAUSELESS. WE WILL AID YOU, LITTLE ONE, IF YOU WISH TO RECEIVE THE ORACLE'S BLESSING.” 

I turned back towards the True Oracle, and nodded unsteadily. At the corner of my gibbering mind, I thought she looked an awful lot like my first lover, like Akati come back to life. 

She must have known, for she stood up and enfolded me in her arms, like I were a baby bird and the sleeves of her robe a mother's wings. “SO IT IS, YOU WHO CALL YOURSELF HASH BROWN. YOUR SHIFTING WILL BE SWIFT, YOUR TONGUE WEAVED OF THE PUREST SILVER, YOUR JUDGEMENT ABLE TO BALANCE A HEART AND A FEATHER. SO IT IS SAID BY THE ORACLES.” 

Grudgingly, one by one, the other Oracles piped up. “So it is said by the Oracles,” they chimed.

“Thank you,” I replied, at a loss for other words.

“THERE IS ONE LAST THING I MUST DO TO SEAL THIS DEAL.” As she said it, she bent down, a smile finally passing over her lips. 

The True Oracle pressed her lips to mine, and delivered me the grandest kiss of my life.

(hahah i normally put my taglist here but Olive had other plans. Please tell me what you think of this, I really went outta my comfort zone with it. Also, Fast Food is a chronologically unordered series, and you can find the rest on my pinned post!)

[gruesomejack]

He refused dinner again. He always did. Ever since he was a child, he couldn't bring himself to sit in that dining room and watch someone be bled into crystal glasses for his father's entertainment. The spectacle left him sicker than it did hungry. He could only think of that French dish-- Ortolan. A tiny songbird bird is caught and forcefed until fat and helpless before being drowned in liquor and eaten whole. The participants of the meal were supposed to wear shrouds over their faces to hide their sin from each other and God, but his father indulged his terrible gluttony happily and in full view.

No, Victory was out instead, ready to offer an ending just as cruel to another person, just in a way he could stomach.

The bar smelled like stale beer. If he wasn't so hungry, he sometimes spent a few hours alone in a booth just to listen to the chatter of people going on about their lives. He wasn't like them, and he could only just barely pretend to be, but he held onto it, scribbling down snippets and thoughts into the notebook he carried along with him. The joy and heartache of the human species were inspirations like no other. He didn't have that time tonight, though. Despite his staunch avoidance of his father's meals, he was still hungry, and trying to put it off any longer would only leave him sick.

Vi leaned against the bartop and frowned, flicking his eyes over the floor. It was slim pickings tonight. He tried to limit himself to people he thought could survive the meal-- Or at least wouldn't be missed if they couldn't. Everyone here seemed like they had a tribe of their own. They were laughing and talking and leaning against each other in ways that made his chest twist and ache; the loneliness was nearly as bad as the hunger. Pushing himself up, he started to inch towards the door. There were always other spots he could try.

Before he could reach the door, he found his gaze pulled towards a booth that seemed different from the others. The inhabitant was alone; there were a couple of empty glasses off to the side while a half-drunk one sat in front of him. There didn't seem to be anything or anyone for him to celebrate with. He was alone, just like him. Vi hesitated, but the ache in his stomach trumped any second thoughts he had.

Approaching the booth, he let himself slide into the empty seat opposite of the young man and found himself speechless for just a moment. He'd only caught his silhouette when he'd been near the door, but up close, he couldn't help but stare. Beneath the dejected expression, Victory felt his strange heart flutter as he admired the strong structure of such a lovely face. Clearing his throat, he warmed a little and hummed, his lips pulling into a small smile.

"I could feel your heavy heart from across the bar." He said and propped an elbow on the table, placing his cheek in his hand. The English dripping from his lips was perfect, but dressed in something elegant and foreign. The rest of him seemed about the same-- From the dark half-buttoned silk shirt he wore to the shock of white-grey hair framing a youthful face, he didn't exactly fit in with the surroundings Peridot eyes peeked over shaded glasses, almost too green as they searched the man's face. His nails were filed and immaculate, as was the rest of him. There wasn't a blemish anywhere on his visible skin. If perfection was something attainable, Victory was very, very close. "You're far too pretty to look so sad. What's ailing you?"

@purposefully-lost

[sighonaraa]

@jamiesfootball since we're on the topic of making people sad via rescue animals........

When Dani was six years old, his mother banned him from animal shelters from now until the end of time. One too many times had he dug his heels in and refused to leave without bringing home every sad-eyed rescue, and the resulting tantrums had been of such intensity that even his sweet-tempered mother had found herself at the end of her rope with him. This, Dani understands. He's the same age now that she was then, and he thinks if a small child pouted up at him with a puppy in their arms, he might just do whatever they asked.

And then...well. Then Earl happened. And Dani hadn't so much as looked at an animal shelter since.

But in the locker room, Jamie's been showing everybody pictures of Big Ben--large and round, growing rounder each day, well-fed on a loving diet of kitchen scraps and whatever treats he manages to pitifully mewl from Jamie and his silly, generous heart--and he grins so wide as he does, bright enough to light a dark room. He seems happier than Dani's ever seen him, and it warms him down to his very bones; and this, too, he understands. He has sat on Jamie's couch and held his breath as Big Ben crawls across his lap with heavy paws. Waited as Big Ben tucks himself into a ball. Beamed with pride as Big Ben purrs beneath Dani's gentle, steady pets. There's something very healing in that touch of skin to fur, the knowledge that there is a living creature that trusts you implicitly, without question.

All of this to say, Dani is going to blame Jamie if this all goes poorly. It won't! But just in case.

The animal shelter nearest his house is grey brick and glass windows where the one in Guadelajara was red-toned stone and a patio arrayed with reclining chairs. It makes it that bit harder for Dani to take his first step out of his car and towards the front door, pulse thrumming in the hollow of his throat. His eyes shut. He hears the impact of the ball, the sudden swallowing silence of the crowd. His next exhale rattles in his ribcage.

He opens his eyes, and with them, the door.

***

Six-year-old Dani had been correct. When confronted with an animal shelter full of rescue animals, the only logical course of action is to puddle on the floor and weep over how few of them your hands can hold. Unfortunately, adults are illogical creatures, and so Dani is forced instead to walk the length of the cages over and again, barely listening to what the kind Ms. Alicia Furns is telling him about this litter of kittens, and that one-eared bunny, and those twin snakes who cannot under any circumstances be separated.

His gaze snags on one particular cage, as they walk back the way they've come. For a moment, he's convinced it's empty; but upon closer inspection, there's a dog in there, curled up in the far back corner. Box-headed and sleek grey from head to paws, enormous eyes peering up at Dani like the poor thing's already convinced he's going to walk away.

But Dani doesn't. He halts, almost screeches to it--in his periphery like that, this dog had almost looked like Earl. And he...he has to fight through the sudden thickness of his throat, force himself to kneel at the bars of the cage. "Excuse me," he says, soft, fingers tracing the cold metal. "Who's this?"

"That's Jude," says Ms. Alicia Furns. Her voice has gone funny, and a bit sad. "I'm afraid he's something of our resident anger management problem. He's been returned three times, now."

Dani thinks of Roy, and a faint grin twists his lips. "We've got a resident anger management problem at my own workplace," he says. "Has he bitten anyone?"

"Only one, his last owner," says Ms. Alicia Furns. "But, well." Dani doesn't have to turn to know that her expression is fierce. He can tell by the inhale, the precipitation of speech; sharp and sudden, like a forcibly withheld sob. "That last owner kept Jude chained in the yard. Wouldn't let him inside the house."

Jude appraises Dani warily. Dani wonders whether it was only the last owner that kept Jude chained. The dog has the eyes of a creature that's been left alone far too long.

"I'd like to let him into mine, I think," says Dani, and feels his chest loosen as though a knot has been untangled.

***

That night, after Dani's sent Sam and Jamie and Isaac off with promises to keep them apprised of Jude's movements, he lays Jude's new bed out on the floor in the living room and calls for the dog to come and lie down. But Jude doesn't move. He's standing by the door to the backyard, half-pressed to the glass. He's a large creature, head resting at Dani's thigh when standing, and yet in the night, in the looming darkness of Dani's home, he seems small and fragile and frightened.

"Do not worry, mi amigo," Dani says, gentle. "You are not going outside. I promise. See?" He makes a motion over his chest. "I cross my heart. That is a binding promise."

Jude makes a snuffly sound. His big paws scuffle against the tile.

"You are not going outside," Dani says again. "You are safe here." And he says it to Jude but he says it to Earl, as well, Earl who he keeps tucked away inside his heart, where the world cannot touch him. He gets on his knees and extends his palms. "You are safe here."

A moment passes. Another. Jude takes one step away from the back door, and then continues venturing closer, tentative and shy. Dani does not understand how it has taken him this long to be loved.

Jude's head--solid and sturdy and soft, so soft--nestles into the curve of Dani's palm. It is a light touch and yet stronger than Dani has ever known. There is enough love within that touch to make up for all the rest of it.

"There you are," Dani whispers, stroking his thumb along the length of Jude's muzzle. "Here you are."

(Jude sleeps in Dani's bed that night. When they wake, Dani holds him close and the sun shines on them both.)

[joequiinn]

Cirice | E.M. x Death!OC blurb

Eddie wakes up in the Upside Down, undead and trapped. A Reaper of Death begins to take a particular interest in the undead man who doesn’t belong...

[ for context: ramblings pt one | ramblings pt two ]

I make absolutely no promises that this will go anywhere because I am the slowest and most forgetful writer on the planet, but I thought maybe I would just post a lil blurb experimentally? Get some thoughts since I'm not very good at editing my own work? Also uuuh Death is an OC now instead of a reader insert because it became too complicated to write once I realized the scope of my ideas soooo... (@ali-r3n in case you were interested 👀)

Word Count: 1.2k

Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?

Waking from the dead in the Upside Down was not on Eddie’s 1986 bingo card. Hell, if someone had suggested the concept of the Upside Down to him only a week ago, he would have looked at them like they were crazy. Places like this weren’t real. Shit like this didn’t happen. Especially not to Eddie Munson.

But this was very fucking real, and it did happen to Eddie Munson.

Eddie willingly ran into danger, into the arms of death for the sake of Hawkins, a town that never gave him anything, a town that came to hate his guts. This sacrifice was Eddie’s final act to save his friends, to save Hawkins. To save the damn world.

So, why the hell was he… alive?

Was he alive? Despite the obvious smattering of bites and lacerations that adorned his body, Eddie felt no pain, no lingering aches. It sure felt like his chest was rising and falling with breath, like he still had blood pumping through his veins. And yet… something felt very, very wrong. An unsettled air hung around Eddie, his mind wrapped up in an unidentifiable sense of dread. Something wasn’t right.

The Upside Down hadn’t been quite so frightening when he had friends by his side. But now, it felt colder, harsher, cavernous and empty. Every direction Eddie looked seemed like an endless dark, hissing and whispering with the promise of something evil. The Upside Down felt less like a sad replica of Hawkins and felt more like a dark, endless void.

Vulnerability washed over Eddie like a chill. As he took in his ominous surroundings, he felt like a small, lost boy, a child abandoned in a sick and dangerous world, helpless to find his way.

From where he was, presumably, left to rot by the demobats, Eddie carefully looked all around himself, afraid that he might see something terrible. Or worse, something terrible might see him. The Upside Down was void of any activity, any commotion, any life. It was haunting to see it oh so quiet.

Eddie looked down at himself, at his ripped up and tattered clothes. He could see his skin beneath the fabric absolutely littered with deep cuts, damaged and sure to scar terribly. He wondered how bad his face looked in comparison. Again, it struck Eddie as odd and deeply unsettling that he felt no pain. As he studied his hands, he realized just how ashen and washed out he looked - nearly the same color as the dead bodies he’d seen in shitty horror movies. An uncomfortable pang hit in his chest at that realization.

But he was breathing, he was still alive. He had to be, considering that he was consciously sitting here at this very moment. He had to be, right?

And yet, something within Eddie knew that he was no longer what he used to be.

-.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. .

This place should not have existed. This pocket between worlds - this disruption to the cycle of life and death - went against all logic, even the flimsy logic of the afterlife. This tattered, disgusting, offensive mockery of the living world was strange and unbelievable - all creatures of the dead despised this place, were appalled by it.

But despite all that, Death was drawn like a moth to a flame.

This false world and its impossible wonders called to her as if in yearning; its sadness and misery spoke to her cravings. If she had a soul, it would feel a longing for this pathetic world.

Time passed differently for psychopomps. As beings beyond life and death, time was never relevant to their eternal existence. Psychopomps led the fallen to the afterlife, they hunted the living, they killed purely for the fun of it - what place did the passage of time have in any of that?

There were many Deaths of the same name, the same title. Perhaps they followed different paths, perhaps they had varying focuses, but the constant still remained - they were all Death. Of course, one might encounter variation - some referred to themselves as Reapers, others as Banshees, maybe Bone-Men, or even the Devil. But many had always been simply Death.

The particular psychopomp drawn to the world between worlds never referred to herself as anything other than Death. She never thought much on her existence, how she came into being, what her purpose was. She didn’t remember anything prior to this existence. She didn’t know if there was anything to remember. There were all sorts of legends scattered about the underworld and the afterlife, tales told by demons and reapers alike - there was a widely held, but not so far proven, belief that they were all something before becoming Death, but no one knew what exactly that something was.

Once this Lady of Death began exploring the impossible pocket between worlds, she found herself pondering her existence a little more often. Considering that this strange place shouldn’t have existed in the first place, it made her wonder what other paradoxical things could happen, what other unfeasible things could be true. Death wasn’t the only one drawn to this place, of course, as a variety of other harbingers of death also began to visit this uncanny mimicry of the living world. However, she did find it to be a remarkably good place to think, something that she didn’t exactly get many opportunities for - no, as a reaper, there was little time to pause and be left alone with one's own thoughts.

Death found herself often visiting this Undead World, as she took to calling it, taking the opportunities to contemplate the cycles of life and death, of infinite life and infinite death. And once she began to visit the Undead World, Death found it to be utterly fascinating.

First came the boy. A tormented child, trapped in the throes of unknown dangers, suffering day and night at the hands of demons beyond his greatest nightmares. Unfortunately, he got out.

Next came the girl, not quite a woman, undergoing absolute agony upon her arrival to the Undead World. Death hadn’t seen her in quite some time, so who’s to say whether she lived or died.

Perhaps that was why Death kept returning - between its many stretches of quiet, the Undead World would momentarily come back to life with utter chaos and woe before quieting down yet again.

Those moments of chaos, however, were mouthwatering.

Recently, the latest bit of excitement to come to the Undead World was absolutely fascinating - a whole party of mortals entered the world willingly, found their way into this place that had no right to exist. When that happened, it was almost as if the Undead World sent out a signal, calling out to Death to announce the latest arrivals. She wasn’t the only demonic creature to pay the world a visit, desperate to see the torment that would unfold.

And yes, it was glorious, the violence, the mortal foolishness and determination. Of course, curiosity came when it appeared that the mortals defeated the creatures that dwelled in the Undead World.

What did mortals want with a forsaken world like this? Why come willingly, why fight the native creatures of this disgusting place? The lives of mortals were an amusement to behold; humans were full of surprises, and Death relished in it.

She shouldn’t have cared why the humans came, shouldn’t have even paused to consider the circumstances. But the curiosity was overwhelming, her need to know almost consuming, so vastly out of character for her.

And then, she found her potential answer in a body left behind, a body that appeared dead, but wasn’t quite so...