#thread: even dead gods still dream

[generalsangonomiya]

Kokomi can see the understanding in his eyes, and some tense, defensive part of her relaxes. It's always a gamble, telling that part of Orobashi's story, never knowing for sure how someone will react to her directly questioning Celestia in such a way. And what he tells her of the sky...makes all too much sense.

Celestia's false sky as both a prison and a shield. No...a fortress. They built Teyvat into a fortress, letting none enter, and none leave.

And yet, now, the 'guards' are asleep at Their posts - or slain, with none to replace them.

She'd been instantly wary, once the news of Fontaine's prophecy being overturned reached Watatsumi. She'd felt the shift in the world as the Hydro Throne crumbled, felt that shockwave of power resonate through her bones; and it hadn't taken her long to figure out what it meant. She'd been watching every scrap of news anxiously, waiting to see if history would repeat itself - Orobashi had been executed simply for knowing too much; Celestia's wrath at the destruction of a Divine Throne would be world-shattering. And yet, nothing. No divine nails fell from the sky, no vengeful gods descended upon Fontaine to destroy and ruin.

If anyone in Fontaine were to take note of that and understand its meaning, it would be the Hydro Sovereign. And if he'd trusted Dan Heng with that information...that, by extension, makes the outlander someone she can trust with certain truths.

"Recent events do support that conclusion," Kokomi says, as they approach one of the wards. With careful, practiced motions, she reaches out and connects to it, scrutinizing its energy flow for any abnormalities. "When I heard that Fontaine survived the Prophecy, and...felt the destruction of the Hydro Throne...I suspected They were somehow inactive, but could not confirm it."

Her inspection of the ward reveals something just as interesting: the ward itself remains intact and fully functional. What has changed, however...

"The ward is intact," Kokomi reports, and steps away from it, staring up at the great skull looming above the island. "And, as best I can tell from here, the others are still mostly functional. We'll have to investigate the source of the corruption," she adds, and starts walking towards the path heading up to the Serpent's Head, mentally calculating likely rifthound pack locations and summoning more hydro energy to her hands in preparation. "This corrupted remnant isn't the Watatsumi Omikami, not anymore, and to my knowledge it can't truly come back to life - but it's beginning to stir. Perhaps it, somehow, knows that the one who killed it has fallen silent."

As they keep walking, Dan Heng listens carefully to Kokomi's story, registering each and every word to note down later - it would be quite rude to have her stop and shield him from the rain while he attempts to write it down, he believes.

His eyes wander between her, the serpent skull, and the road ahead of them. The electricity in the air becomes more and more palpable as they continue on the path.

He is silent in deep thought for a moment, before letting out a quiet sigh. "It is just as they say, isn't it? History is written by the victors, and who was a hero or a villain always depends on who you ask."

He knows that well, too, after all. And his previous incarnation would have known that even better. A hero, a sinner, a friend, an enemy - never a person in his own right who may have had reasons for doing what he did.

And it is not as though Dan Heng himself treated him any better.

He gives Kokomi a nod. "Thank you for telling me this story. I don't imagine I would have been able to hear it from most others I could have asked."

As she speaks of the sky, his eyes wanders upwards, towards it. After a moment of hesitation, he turns back to her.

"Your sky appears to be a barrier of sorts. It surrounds this world, and it's why Teyvat had gone undiscovered for so long. Recently however, that barrier has grown weaker, and it became possible to cross it... and to learn of this world's existence in the first place."

The unrelenting rain and thunderstorm make it hard to see, but still, far away, he can just barely make it out - a gray dot in the sky, a floating archipelago of shattered islands.

"I spoke recently to... someone, back in Fontaine, who was knowledgeable on this matter. He told me that he believed this barrier is meant to both imprison this world, and protect it from outside threats - as you also said, it has been attacked in the past, but it would also seem that the control of its current overseer is slipping. He told me that they seem to be sleeping or inactive, because of how unresponsive they are. Otherwise, outsiders such as myself would have never been allowed entry."

A flash of purple ahead of them catches his eye.

"... Is that one of the wards just ahead? We should probably check its condition."

[blxxdsex]

"The genius, Michael Gavey." - Michael Gavey x Reader.

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

[ghost-proofbaby]

IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse. 

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him. 

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless. 

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings. 

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival. 

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles. 

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery. 

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating. 

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of  mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own. 

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him. 

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy. 

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.” 

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.” 

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him. 

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?” 

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun. 

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.” 

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl. 

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization. 

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault. 

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life. 

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal. 

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence. 

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town. 

Come to me. 

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence. 

Come to me. 

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems. 

“Why are you here?” 

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him. 

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible. 

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…” 

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you. 

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give. 

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.” 

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch. 

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own. 

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths. 

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness. 

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-” 

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep. 

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns. 

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away. 

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs. 

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.” 

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down. 

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him. 

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.” 

“So why are you still in pain?” 

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other. 

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.” 

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps. 

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…” 

“Different?” 

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind. 

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night. 

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.” 

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger. 

“What was the cost?” 

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing. 

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now. 

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey. 

Blood shouldn’t be sweet. 

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow. 

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you. 

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance. 

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration. 

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed. 

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?” 

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him. 

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees. 

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?” 

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.” 

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.” 

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance. 

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it. 

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them. 

“Don’t,” he lowly warns. 

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?” 

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches. 

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment. 

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger. 

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were. 

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s. 

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you. 

He could almost taste you. 

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.” 

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable. 

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger. 

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone. 

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch. 

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.” 

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer. 

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone. 

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him. 

He’s losing control. You’re losing control. 

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation. 

A road to your hunger. 

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease? 

Probably. 

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge. 

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs. 

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising. 

Come to me. 

“Please.” 

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out. 

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.” 

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now. 

You’re so close. So close. 

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. 

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat. 

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.” 

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him. 

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance. 

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push. 

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-” 

He breaks. 

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you. 

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure. 

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment. 

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper. 

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you. 

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them. 

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly. 

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being. 

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you. 

I need more. 

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his. 

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously. 

Then take it. 

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt. 

My pleasure. 

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. 

Sweet as honey. 

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words. 

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” 

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with. 

“Yes, please.” 

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to. 

And you most certainly did not want to. 

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control. 

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.” 

Yes. 

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.” 

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously. 

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this. 

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.” 

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy. 

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters. 

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts. 

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure. 

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.” 

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical. 

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him. 

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed. 

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine. 

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood. 

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin. 

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?” 

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.” 

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry. 

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you. 

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity. 

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance. 

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you. 

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself. 

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.” 

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares. 

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his. 

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth. 

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him. 

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure. 

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.” 

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it. 

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed. 

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you. 

Eddie. 

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire. 

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter. 

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours. 

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done. 

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.” 

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.” 

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.” 

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough. 

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough. 

Of course, lover. 

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them. 

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

join my taglist!

[getobitchs]

What You Took From Me - R. S.

✧.* content warning : angst, fluff ig?

✧.* w/c : 1.07k

✧.* n/a : nothin

✧.* tagline : @sugurus-thoughts ; (text me to be on the next tagline)

₊ ⊹🪻 ✧ ˚i

The Heian era was a time of elegance and tradition, where the beauty of the cherry blossoms mirrored the fleeting moments of happiness that mortals clung to. For you, life had once been simple, your days spent tending to the small garden by your family’s home, your nights bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Until him.

Sukuna.

You had met him by chance — or so you had believed. A man of devastating beauty and an aura that sent chills down your spine, he was both terrifying and magnetic. Sukuna wasn’t just a man; he was a force of nature. A god among mortals, cloaked in an ever-present air of danger and power.

Yet, despite the fear he inspired, he had chosen you. Out of all the women in the land, it was you who had caught his eye. And in an act of defiance against both his nature and the world that feared him, he had married you.

At first, you had been afraid, unsure of his intentions. But Sukuna — when he wasn’t reigning over curses or instilling fear — had been a surprisingly gentle husband. He brought you rare flowers, sat beside you while you worked in the garden, and listened as you spoke of your dreams and fears. He wasn’t one to smile often, but when he did, it was like the sun breaking through a storm.

You fell in love with him, despite the warnings whispered by the wind and the shadowy aura that clung to him like a second skin. And for a time, you were happy.

But time was unkind to mortals.

Your health began to wane, your once-strong body betraying you as the years passed. You tried to hide it, to keep the growing weakness in your limbs and the ache in your chest a secret, but Sukuna knew. He always knew.

He watched helplessly as you grew weaker, his frustration manifesting in the crackle of his cursed energy. He could destroy entire villages, topple kingdoms, and command legions of curses, but he couldn’t stop the inevitable march of time. He couldn’t save you.

You died one spring morning, the scent of cherry blossoms heavy in the air. Sukuna had held you in his arms as you took your last breath, his four crimson eyes fixed on your face as though he could will you back to life.

“I’ll find you,” he had murmured, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before. “No matter where you go, I’ll find you again.”

And then you were gone.

Centuries passed.

For years after your death, Sukuna clung to his memories of you, reliving every fleeting moment of happiness he had shared with you. He tried to forget, to bury your image beneath the blood and chaos of his reign, but no matter how much he destroyed, no matter how many lives he claimed, your face always lingered in the corners of his mind.

When he was eventually sealed, he welcomed the silence. If the world had nothing left to offer him, perhaps oblivion was the only answer.

But fate is cruel, and the threads of destiny are never truly severed.

In 2018, Sukuna awakened, dragged back into the world through forbidden sorcery. It was a strange new time, filled with loud machines, flashing lights, and a world that had forgotten his name. He should have reveled in the opportunity to spread fear and reclaim his throne, yet his mind was elsewhere.

The centuries had dulled nothing. He still thought of you. Your laughter, your touch, the way you had looked at him as though he weren’t a monster. He had lost you once, and the thought of living without you again filled him with an ache he couldn’t name.

Then, one ordinary evening, he saw you.

You were standing outside a café, bathed in the soft glow of a neon sign, your laughter carrying over the hum of the city. Time seemed to freeze. Sukuna’s crimson eyes locked onto you, his heart — something he had long believed dead — thudding painfully in his chest.

It was you.

You looked different, your modern clothes and styled hair unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking you. The shape of your smile, the way you tilted your head as you laughed — it was the same as it had been centuries ago.

For a moment, he could only stand there, staring. He had spent so long believing he would never see you again that the sight of you now felt like a dream.

You didn’t notice him at first, engrossed in your conversation with a friend. But then your eyes flickered toward him, and the world shifted.

You froze, your laughter dying in your throat as your gaze met his. There was no recognition in your eyes, but something passed between you — a spark, a faint pull that made your heart stutter.

Sukuna crossed the street without hesitation, his movements as smooth and predatory as they had been in the Heian era. He stopped in front of you, towering over you, his presence commanding your full attention.

“Can I help you?” you asked, your voice polite but wary.

His gaze softened as he took you in, his crimson eyes scanning your face for any hint of familiarity. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, his voice low and resonant.

You blinked, startled by the question. “I… I guess?”

His lips curled into a smirk, though it lacked the malice it usually carried. “You should.”

Your friend nudged you, murmuring something about him being strange, but you didn’t move. There was something about him that felt… familiar.

“Have we met before?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

His smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by something more vulnerable. “In another life, perhaps.”

You didn’t understand what he meant, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest ache, a strange and inexplicable feeling of loss and longing.

Sukuna didn’t press further. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to frighten you or risk losing you again. But as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll meet again,” he said, echoing the promise you had made to him centuries ago.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd, your heart heavy with an emotion you couldn’t name.

And for the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt hope.

[utilitycaster]

I like that the Raven Queen, who made the decision to take on an immense and (at least to her understanding at the time) unending responsibility is the one who calls Bells Hells out on their endless indecision.

It's been...interesting, shall we say, tracking this "party of NPCs," and tracking the fandom response throughout. The initial reception to "party of NPCs" was actually a rather cold one. This took place early in the campaign, prior to the Gnarlrock fight, and at the time a lot of people who shipped Imogen and Laudna were actually extremely resistant to the idea that Imogen was the "main character" of the campaign (as seen in the fallout from the gnarlrock fight, in which the bulk of attacks from the fandom were on Imogen). I've had complicated feelings on Taliesin's reads of this campaign specifically - he tends to have a very good understanding of his own characters that doesn't necessarily expand beyond them - but that phrase was indeed pretty valid. I think about the WBN interludes, in fact, in which the cast plays using NPC statblocks, and what a true party of NPCs for Bells Hells would look like, since it would be quite simple to draw up.

Allied NPCs in TTRPGs rarely act without guidance from the PCs. I've cast a critical eye in the past towards certain meta (particularly romantic in nature, regarding Yeza or Essek or Gilmore not making moves) for this reason, because while villains and antagonists move throughout the world generating obstacles, allies exist to be directed. They have their limits, of course; they have their own priorities and motivations and cannot be persuaded against their nature, but they can be guided at oblique angles from the GMs initial intent given enough work from the PCs. They're still people with thoughts and feelings and dreams, to an extent, but rarely do they make decisions that would conflict with those of the PCs.

That's the problem with a party of NPCs. NPCs take direction. They serve as support, but they're not in the driver's seat. And the Raven Queen has noticed.

The attitude within the fandom towards "Party of NPCs" became far more positive over time, and I wonder if it should have. People began to lean perhaps too heavily on how Bells Hells were people from nothing and nowhere, discarded. This is of course objectively false when comparing across parties (can we really say Imogen had a worse childhood than Vex? Chetney to Caleb? Even Ashton to Fjord?) but were it true, that in and of itself wouldn't be a problem. D&D backstories are often tear-stained and blood-soaked, full of unjust accusations, dead or neglectful parents, failure and regret. D&D is a game about coming from very little but a disproportionately good stat block for a commoner. It is unavoidably about amassing power. Starting off as a party of NPCs is fine. You should not still be a party of NPCs at the endgame.

I mentioned the gnarlrock, and I've mentioned an emphasis (or overemphasis) on this party's lack of agency and I think that remains the problem. Ludinus's villainy is rich, complex, and multifaceted, but a consistent element of it is his eternal false insistence that he - Martinet, founder and head of the Cerberus Assembly, Archmage - is just a little guy, chaff in the wind of the will of the gods, without free will of his own (he says, as he places his thread outside the reach of the Matron). That too is a theme in fandom discourse: free will and intent. Is Imogen justified in being angry at Laudna for breaking the rock if that wasn't Laudna's intent? (yes.) Is Orym on a quest of vengeance, with a death wish? (no, but if he were it wouldn't matter.) Was it wrong to pressure Fearne to take the shard instead of letting her make her own choices? (yes.)

Did any of you, perhaps in preschool or kindergarten, since that's about the age when this happens, have someone pull your hair and for adults to say "it's because they like you?" I find this is a good way to convey the importance, or unimportance, or intent. Because when your hair is being pulled, at least if that is the extent of the problem, it doesn't matter if it comes from the misguided affections of a four-year-old admirer who doesn't know how to use their words, or a six-year-old who just grabbed the most obvious material with which to test the limits of the safety scissors, or an eleven-year-old bully. Your hair is being pulled and you want it to stop. It doesn't matter if the person secretly likes you or if they want to hurt you; it matters that no matter the intent behind it, they are doing so. And if you reject the affections of your fellow preschool classmate because you think they might pull your hair, that's a fair consequence.

Bells Hells' indecision is some sort of cosmic hair pulling. They have reasons for faltering, and some of those reasons are understandable balking at an immense weight placed upon them and some of those reasons come from a deeply self-centered place in which their individual pain is used to blot out the suffering of countless others. But in the end, even that doesn't matter. Their histories don't matter. We don't need another series of introductions of where they come from and what they've done. We need people who can make decisions and who will act.

The Raven Queen seems to have been convinced they will. I'm not sure. But I think we are in agreement that inaction is, regardless of the intent behind it, no different than active harm. It would be irresponsible to continue to be a party of NPCs; if they truly are lost and forgotten fuck-ups, they have a responsibility (as the god of death once did) to abdicate and find a replacement.

[exo-raskreia]

hey.... i wanna know your honest Thoughts on the jjk ending? Give a rating out 10. Honestly i'm ranting. I mean the good things in the chapter were sukuna's conclusion, the flashback with gojo , queen utahime being alive yay and the nice art with everyone at the end. Usually i would wait for a story to finish before ranting/judging but my god this kinda sucked. I don't want to be too critical but god I am just disappointed and kinda mad. Overall it is an okay/mid manga ;). Gege is not worst writer but ughh. Aot or mha sure they have their flaws but my god..These should never be compared to THIS. so now we could really say that gojo stayed south. With the full chapter, this does not change my opinion cause it still kinda sucks overall even with the whole north vs south meaning. Nothing really changed in the society or lessons maybe except for yuji and sukuna. The kiddos all really went back to missions huh after everything. I have alot to say with relationships and bonds, wasted potential on many aspects but that is a whole other discussion. i totally understand we can't write a backstory for every single character but that is not what i am insinuating here and yes there should be room for a little literary interpretation . That a whole different topic... Anyways I agree with alot your rants. i would like to hear your opinions. In the end we never got to see a gjhm flashback unfortunately. Ok so let say gojo is dead dead I find it hard to believe no was like remembering or acknowledging not even his comrades ( examples shoko, utahime etc_ or the students (i mean i am pretty sure these characters would but i would like to SEE it you know) and so many hints were gearing for gojo's revival but it is meaningless... and was used for pr ngl that's sad. Maybe the anime would do better at some aspects but i will be salty anyways. i will see uta's dance ;) animated so that i looking forward to and ig the maki's massacre. it looks like it's open ending but really!? They are some loop holes but HEY FEAR not we will probably see answers to our questions in the q&a segment! sigh. I lowkey do not want a "jjk part 2" it is draining. Gege when i catch you. I think gege intended this story to be short oh well. I have alot to say but this gonna be a novel lol. Sorry for errors i was in a moment and i hoped you understood what i wanted to say. Hope the gojohime fandom would not die and looking forward to see some nice content.

Thankyou

I already went on a mini rant here. If I have to rate the ending, I'd say maybe 2-4 out of 10?

JJK really did turn out kinda mid. It has an easy anime to get into (the anime carries it mostly 🫣), to recommend for newbies, but that ending will make one hesitate to recommend it now. Maybe wouldn't even bother to.

I'm also disappointed & mad. I don't even wanna consider that Gojo is fully dead (cuz Gege went about it so terribly). Gege skipped Gojo's whole month after his unsealing then killed him off-panel a few chapters later. The north & south thing was pointless. We didn't even get to see Gojo make a choice. There were so many hints about his potential revival but they amounted to nothing.

Summed up in this image:

This Tweet sums up the terrible mishandling of Gojo's character too 😡. This other short thread pretty much says that his "death" didn't make sense for Gojo either; accepting to stay at the airport is him regressing to his teen self. It doesn't properly conclude Gojo's character arc at all. He was meant to MOVE ON from the loss of his "springtime of youth" & continue to strive for a better future with his comrades & students; the future that HE DREAMED OF 😤 (oof, don't wanna rant further on Gojo; don't wanna make this longer 😅).

Honestly, the fan theories made the story seem much better than it actually was. At least with this ending, people can finally start seeing & admitting that Gege isn't a great writer. I've certainly never thought he was 😒; I once went on a rant here about most issues with this manga, one of them being how terribly fast-paced it is. This story is the definition of wasted potential. So many missed opportunities.

Whatever Gege comes up with for the databook, it'll be infuriating. He'll try to fill in the plot holes but man, I don't think it'll be satisfying. He might not even answer the burning questions everyone has (just like Kub0 never answered everyone's burning questions about the Bl3ach ED, or more like, no one dared to ask. Maybe he himself didn't allow those questions for his interviews 😒). Hope ppl don't give him any more money, especially cuz he's still milking Gojo, such as with that Hidden Inventory movie no one asked for.

I kinda wanted a Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 ending (lol) & then on to the supposed JJK part 2, esp cuz of this sketch here but Gege fumbled hard.

Wonder if Mappa could deliver but we'll see. I only care about GojoHime's 200% Hollow Purple now. Gege made me lose most interest I had for other things getting animated. Just thinking about that ending will mostly ruin my experience... 😞

I also hope the GojoHime fandom continues to thrive. We've always lived off of crumbs... Hope ppl continue to make headcanons, fanfics, fanart, etc... I wouldn't want ppl to leave such a beautiful ship with so much potential 🥺 (I've been thru this type of thing before with Bl3ach, so despite the disappointment, I've stuck around in my ship fandoms only. I don't engage with anything else in that series. Another beloved series of mine also ended terribly but unfortunately, the fandom kinda faded or became inactive cuz it's a manhwa 🥺; if it at least had a proper anime adaptation, then...).

Let's stay strong, GojoHime fam! 🥹❤️‍🩹

[blkgirl-writing]

Refuge for the Wicked

"Sharing a Blanket" from flufftober (In march)

Gale Dekarios x Durge!reader

Summary: You can't escape the faded memories of your haunted past, and sleep is nothing but a nightmare. Gale can't seem to sleep either. Maybe some extra warmth will help.

A/N: Prompt from @flufftober

(spring), I started late so I just started on 6! I might go back and write the first few. Also writing alongside my wonderful friend @ficbrish who made this fic happen, thank you! Also thanks to Jane Eyre for being my background audiobook and reminding me of big words.

TW: Dark Urge reader, (vague morbid thoughts, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of anxiety attacks), fluffy overall dw.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

In the dead of night, when the fireflies and stars lit up the sky, the air was too quiet to stand. Your head buzzed like frantic bees in a fallen hive, trying everything to get out, the brutal bloodied images flashing across your vision. No refuge for the wicked, You'd told yourself over and over, when sleep couldn't take you. But, You had been proven wrong.

Gale hadn't had the best rest either, used to the comforts of his tower, his warm tressym on his lap, and endless books to ease his mind into sleep. He had seen you turning in your sleep, and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, whispering an invitation to his own tent. You had refused, worried about your cruel hands during slumber. but gods above, any sound had to be better than bitter silence, and one thing you knew about Gale, was that there would never be stale air.

It became pattern, after a few nights. The others would sleep, and you'd sneak away to his cozy corner, and Gale would talk. About anything, really. Gale shared his fondest memories, read a chapter from his small stash of literature, and even teach you a few simple spells. Your favorite was when he'd recite the most romantic poems. They felt warm, somehow. stirring something deep within you. Those nights, you'd rest peacefully, no dreams or nightmares, just darkness. Gale's voice became the only comfort in your world. And even nights he could sleep effortlessly, you found yourself wandering into his tent, curled up in the opposite corner from him.

This night, however, neither of you could sleep, and yet there was still quiet. It felt like hours,

"It's certainly cold tonight," Gale muttered.

"I can start another fire closer?" You offered.

"No no no, let me." At a snap of his fingers, a flame appeared in the dirt just in front of his tent. Never wavering and never moving, just taking the edge off the nipping air.

A few more moments passed, and you tucked your knees to your chest, hands cupped over your mouth to stop the numbness from climbing further up your fingers.

"Come here, you're freezing to death," Gale pulled the blanket over, opening up a space for you right next to him. Maybe he saw your hesitation, or maybe he wanted you next to him just as much as you wanted him, but he outstretched his hand to yours, his soft but calloused fingers wrapping around your frozen ones, and ever so gently pulled you towards him. Knowing it wasn't just an empty offer was enough for you to settle into him, his arm wrapped carefully around your waist, your head nestled into his shoulder, and finally, warmth enveloping your body underneath his big, heavy blanket.

"Thank you." This...was nice.

"Any time." His fingers played with a loose thread on the blanket, just by your hip. "You're more than welcome to keep your things here."

"Oh," Was all you managed, eyes fluttering away from his face for a moment. this closeness was something to be afraid of, you knew deep down you were supposed to be alone. But in his arms, you felt a calmness that you'd never known before. But you felt like you didn't deserve that bliss. "I don't need a tent or anything."

"I'm very sure you could manage on your own, but you don't have to." Gale spoke softly, almost like he was telling a secret, a small smile forming"You've spoiled me, I can't quite sleep right without you next to me."

You blinked, staring into the flicker of the fire before you. All you could think about was the soft fabric on your skin, so opposite from the biting that ran through your blood, and the warmth he brought from his touch, his body comforting and steady against yours. "Are you saying you miss me, Gale?"

"Quite a bit, actually." You could feel his eyes on you, but you hadn't dared to look, not yet. You knew there was kindness in his stare, it sent shivers down your spine, a sign that you didn't deserve the caring offer he implied, asked of. Your body rejected that but gods above did you want nothing but it. Because with him, Your mind was free, heart full, body light.

"I would really love that." You replied. Finally, a smile, from happiness, and not morbidity. You leaned further into him, intertwining your legs with his, Gale resting his head on top of yours, placing a barely noticeable kiss on your forehead.

"I'm glad you spoke to me."

'Hm?" Gale spoke, voice low and gravely, clearly between the realm of wake and sleep.

"I'm glad, that you spoke to me, to come to your tent that night."

"Oh," Gale rolled further into you, getting more comfortable, "I wish I had sooner." and with that, he drifted into sleep, the fire extinguishing in a wisp. Leaving you to think about his words, and your thoughts. You truly did love, that he invited you once, and again to stay, and he really meant it.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

just before sunrise was when you silently awoke from more night terrors. Astarion still off in the woods, surely feeding. otherwise, everyone was sound asleep. Or so you thought.

You had a few minutes in your own thoughts, sitting up and staring blankly into the dim glow of the distant campfire. Gale, with his big heart and smart mouth, won you over, no denying it anymore. It was clear when your small respite of nightmares, dreams filled with him, almost fighting to keep you sane.

"Good morning." Gale leaned on his hand, looking at you with a groggy fondness, like you were the sunrise and sunset, beautiful and full of life. His eyes nearly glimmered when he looked at you through his sleepy eyes.

"I thought you were asleep." You smiled, cozying back into the warm blanket, the cold morning air still too crisp, or you just used it as an excuse to be close to him again. And as if he read your thoughts, he drew you closer to him with a gentle touch.

"Stay" He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, oh gods above his voice sounded like warm whiskey and the smoothness of turning new pages. "-please"

Well, there was no denying that. You couldn't pry yourself away from Gale. You held him tight, as if he'd wake up and realize his mistake, you had mistaken his words and actions and never felt this comfort again. His warm breath tickled your lower neck, his head on your chest, eyes barely open, but fixated on you. under the blanket, shielded from the light of the day, heavy eyes not daring to look away from his.

He smiled. A soft smile, but full of light. His lips were slightly chapped, eyes tinted red, details you missed upon his face at a distance, now fully on display as you tilted down. lips inches from his.

Your eyes flickered closed as he sank further into you. Gale enveloped you, body and soul, connecting in a sleepy haze, melting into a kiss. Only stopping for air, a mumbled word, and another kiss. Countless kisses, ending in peaceful slumber.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

TAGLIST

Please reach out if you wish to be added!!

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

[kami777]

Sneak peak of Chapter 1 of Zombie!CheongMyeong fic!

———————————————————————-

Darkness.

An all encompassing void was all that Cheong Myeong could see. His senses had long dulled, and there was only an echo where his body used to be. He couldn't bring himself to care, even the beating in his chest was but a distant memory,

‘I'm dead now, why do I need to bother with things like that?’

A jolt.

‘Huh?’

Something stirred and awakened in his mind, a collection of strange sounds reverberated in his head, almost unbearably loud after not hearing anything for god knows how long. The creaking of a heavy door, then the slam of it shutting, distant, unintelligible muttering, speaking slowly with a tone so sad a strange nauseous sensation settled in his skull.

‘Who is that? What are they saying?’

The sound of steady footsteps on stone, walking, walking away from him.

‘Hey, Wait, Where are you going? Why are you walking away?’

Light fills his mind, the scenery blurring on the edges, like a dream. He can see people in front of him, maybe 5? 6? They all blur together as they walk away, slow and steady, down a path that feels all too familiar.

‘Hold on, don't leave, why are you leaving?’

Something desperate gripped his heart, as if something dear was being ripped away from him, but the feeling was suspended, without direction.

Something dear?

‘I have already lost everything dear to me’

Images of his sect brothers fluttered through his mind, the blood, the death, the countless mangled bodies as far as he could see. Pain ripped desperately at his heart.

‘If only I was stronger, then maybe some more would have survived’

‘There is nothing more I can do’

Cheong Myeong felt himself sink, the darkness of earth encompassing him once again, it was comfortable, familiar. A memory echoed in the back of his mind, the strong hands of his sahyung laying his small, not yet scarred body, gently into his bed, the warmth of the blankets descending and wrapping around him, comfort, safety. The light of a single candle illuminates the room, flickering over the lines of his sahuyng’s face, ever so softly, fingers brush through his hair, and a light melody reaches his ears.

‘Ah, my sahyung is singing to me’

His body is warm and the pillow under his head is soft and cold, he thinks this is the most comfortable he has ever been. The candle light flickers again, through the shrinking cracks of his eyes he can see the red-pink edges of the embroidered plum flower on his chest, the light lines of thread glowing in the light.

‘Mount hua…’

His consciousness fades slowly, but something in his mind fights it.

The blinding image of people on a path fills his brain again. He strains his vision, looking desperately, for something, anything. One man, in the back of the crowd, falters in his steps, slowing to a stop.

‘Turn around! look at me! do anything!’

The man hesitates, the world goes silent, he turns slowly to glance back, the wind blowing gently through his robes, lifting them lightly off his chest.

Pink.

Five petals, embroidered together, the string fraying slightly at the edges. The craftsmanship is poor, and the robes are old and weathered, but he could recognize it nonetheless.

Mount Hua.

His home.

The place he gave his whole life to protect.

The smell of plum blossoms and the taste of wine.

A fire lit in his soul, something that had laid long and dormant. The will to fight.

But something else still resided within him, a reminder of all that he had lost, a compressing grief, the knowledge that he cannot change the past no matter what he does and who he kills. The urge to give up and rest.

Two thoughts battled in his mind, one shining brighter and brighter until the other fades away entirely.

‘I want to sleep’

‘No’

‘I want to go home.’

————————————————————————-

This is my very first serious fic ever so feedback is welcome and encouraged! Please let me know if anything is difficult to understand 😭

[julik0vatay]

Hollow Knight keeps my attention in background while Im busy with other things so I am once again writing for sake of getting it all out of my head.

There's 3.7k words result under the cut.

Time loop with all endings smashed together, with some fix-it post-game speculations. Mainly focuses on The Knight and their journey, the Void, and finding hope in others. Not all characters appear, but its implied most characters survive. Alot of things are vague on purpose. Somewhat open but still happy ending.

Also posted on AO3!

Fool's errand

***** They walk the road under their feet like an ignorant fool first time. Everything fresh in its decaying glory, and they don't recognize a thing in their path. There is only vague need to go, and unfamiliar faces telling them they have places to be, and they follow, getting lost in the process.

They die a lot for their ignorance. They get used to it.

They end up their journey chained for cause they don't quite understand. And when they see no way out of that… Void (nothing but misery and regret) swallows them whole.

---

They wake up with a sense of deja vu accompanying their every step. They walk the road careful and methodic, noting every crossroad on their path. They listen carefully to words of not-so-unfamiliar faces now, but it seems like all roads lead to their demise, one way or another. And they could live die with it but it seems fates of others aren't much better no matter how careful they thread their steps.

They let their frustration out on the damned, bitterly think their fate is already sealed (ha!), and prolong the inevitable with wandering this cursed place. They get some insight for their troubles at least. There is a bigger picture they're trying to puzzle together but its not quite working yet.

When they exhaust their excuses they reach their end. They end up damning another along with them. And Void (full of guilt) swallows them whole.

---

They wake up and question their sanity. There is familiar road under their feel and friendly bugs who don't recognize them. Familiar weight of their nail gives them no hope for way out. They find lighter weapon to wield. This one feels heavy on their very soul instead.

They can carry that weight. They will carry everyone's regrets if they must. This place belongs to them by birthright after all, and they refuse to damn anyone else still lingering in these paths. They've seen more than enough deaths they couldn't prevent.

And when a crack in armor is presented to them they don't hesitate to slip their weapon in. There is bittersweet satisfaction of finally reaching source of their sorrows (some of them anyway).

There is other one by their side, restless and tired of fighting. They all can finally find piece. And yet… Void (full of hopes) drowns what is left of them.

---

They wake up and don't do a thing the way they're told. There are places to be and things to do and maybe they can find another way, save more than just a dozen lost souls if they try. Call them selfish and stubborn but there are bugs they don't want to see dead again. Call them fool for playing with fates against gods. They won't even try to deny.

They make their way in dreams and wonder if they leave a trace. Would someone remember their face when all is done? Would they want to be forgotten instead?

Climbing up is something they've done for half of their life (other half would be digging deeper). They're good at that. But this climb is harder than anything they've ever done, taking everything from them to keep their focus sharp on the goal.

At what point do they loose themselves in fighting?

Sight of their doomed siblings fills them rage. This is what was taken from them, and their judgement will be the price.

They rise and Void follows. They win and they loose themselves. They tear old light apart. Void (rage) swallows them both.

And Void is hungry in its wake and they can't do anything but watch as they're swept away in this sea of darkest tears. There is no voice to scream that this is not what they wanted.

Void (heavy and numbing) lulls them to sleep.

---

They wake up. They think for a long time.

They will try again. But this is not how they want things to end. They want to leave behind seeds of hope, not destruction. Even this damned trice over place deserves hope. They all deserve some hope.

They find new quest for themselves.

They're no gardener but leaving flowers behind seems like good idea at the time. They think of bugs they now hold dear in their mind. It is a good place to start.

Not everyone they succeed in finding. They still leave flowers behind. Even those that fall appart in their clumsy hands may one day grow. They desperately hope it's enough.

There are bugs who refuse their offerings. Sister, scolding them for stalling. Dear friend, looking too lost in thoughts. Cheerful miner they're afraid to approach. Troupe master, only smiling at them before offering another dance. Lady they hesitate to call mother, offering a warning they don't understand. Snarky nailsmith, threatening to trash it.

But they still leave flowers behind.

They leave them on graves and in bugs hands and in places noone visits and they hope.

They give one to Elder bug, their first friend here. He's happy with present and it fills them with satisfaction of a job well done.

They leave one on kingdom's edge. They leave one next to road leading to fallen palace. They leave some for dreamers still sleeping.

They leave one next to their doomed still sealed sibling. Like a promize.

They give one to Seeker who calls them names. For giving them hope. And just as much - for themselves. If they fail again, this will be their grave. They already accepted that.

If there's nothing but demise waiting for them then at least they could try to save everyone else.

They try not to think about how they're their father's child, biting more than they could swallow. But. They're full of Void and Void is always hungry. They'll manage or die trying. And then try again.

They walk fallen kingdom's dreams. They can almost feel more unseen eyes on them. Not just seekers but bugs sleeping and dreaming of them. They wonder how others see them in their sleep. Do they see shadows creeping under their feet, looming over their mask? Do they see Void's countless eyes blinking back?

Sometimes they almost convince themselves they can hear their friends' voices calling out to them, cheering on them. They aren't sure it's wishful thinking or results of their efforts. They hold onto them regardless. This is what they are fighting for.

Their sister's dream is as sharp as when she is awake. Name freely given, name reluctantly accepted, name now cherished sounds harsh and true with her voice. They're nothing but Ghost and this will be enough. They decided so themselves.

Their lost kin is but a lingering wisper.

Their doomed sibling still standing tall and proud. Not loosing battle yet loosing war. They're here to change that. Even if it hurts every time they try.

They make this climb and they walk these stairs and they know what is waiting for them and they feel Void following their every step. And bright old light ahead can try to blind them all it wants. That won't stop them. Just watch.

They rise. They fall. Void (full of everything they ever loved and hated) welcomes them in.

They're storm within themselves. Sea current drags them along familiar path but this time they refuse to go under. It's not enough. Just by themselves it's not enough to lift sorrows of many. They try anyway. This is what they came here for. Hope.

Somewhere some part of them finds a speck of light.

And everything goes still.

*****

Hornet thinks they stalk her dreams sometimes. She can never quite catch their facemask anymore, only a shadow hiding in shadows. Footsteps fading in rustle. Clank of metal against stone. Ghost of a ghost.

But never in waking world. This one is full of dealing with survivors. Which there are surprisingly many considering circumstances. She blames Ghost for that.

She isn't quite sure what her place in this mess should be. She's survivor and fighter and self-proclaimed protector and yet she's restless and can't find her footings with so many bugs moving in and out and about.

And then there is her somehow still alive half-sibling. Not a vague figure in her memory but a breathing half-broken living thing. How to deal with this she doesn't know either. She did her part helping with what she could but wounds of mind are harder to heal than wounds of body. This is not her battle to fight.

She looks at what is left of crumbled kingdom and for the first time wonders if this one is not her fight either. There are bugs still standing and willing to build new life. They don't need her that much even if she is willing to help sometimes.

She decides to think about this later, when her mind isn't busy with more important things like survival.

---

They no longer have a title or a name they could call their own, even in the quiet of their mind. The mere fact that it is now QUIET there still leaves them baffled. They forgot it could be like this.

It gets noisier sometimes, when there are many things to keep track of, bugs coming in and coming out and none of them they recognize. Even princess (sister…) looks much older and stands much taller than they could recall. Then again their memory is patchy at best and painful at worst.

The one they recognize only stops by their dreams. The one who answered their silent cry for help. The one they never saw with their own eyes after waking (at least they think they didn't?).

Their mask is a mirror to their own, long outgrown. Their face is now marred with scar deep crack right in the middle, making two halves, held together by sheer force of will. They don't hide the damage even if it's not quite real. Shadows cling to them like cloak, long and ever changing, trail under their footsteps, wispy fog over their head. They never stay for long, only check on them and then fade away in shadows where they came from.

They appreciate visits being short. It's hard to decide how to act with someone who is your saviour and not-quite-but-not-quite-not a new God.

Still, they wish they could reach out. But when they try they can feel only Void wispering back. They aren't sure if they're deaf or just forgot how to listen.

And when they wake they're busying themselves with sights of everything and anything and there's much to think and they do just that - watch and listen and think.

They have life to live. They never expected to have that chance. They will not let it slip out of their hands. It is a promise in a form of a flower and they will try their best to keep it. Price for this was way too high.

This line of thought almost sends them down the spiral but they catch themselves. Not again. They did not survive this long going down that road.

One day at a time.

---

Quirrel finds himself lost in quite uncomfortable way. He was this close to calling it quits on this whole adventuring thing (and more than that but he's not going tell another living soul how close he was to the edge of water that day).

And now there is someone he expected long dead - awake and just as confused as he is - and he's running errands like a young fool again. And quite frankly he'd rather be elsewhere. He is too old for this! Life he was sure he left behind bites him in new ways every day he's here and what is worse he can't find one person he wants to see the most!

How come on all their journey over Hallownest they've met so many times but now that apparently infection is over he can't find a single trace of them?? Did they really meet their demise? He was really doubting that, after personally watching them fight.

But the longer he searches the more he looses hope. Everyone he asks gives him same answers - they've met his wandering friend before infection was wiped out (And wiped out it was!! Leaving no traces to examine but corpses!!) but never after.

He's sure lost wanderer is behind that. It's the HOW that confuses him more than anything. Last times he saw them were when they hesitated to break the seal - he could understand that, there were always things to prepare beforehand - and then when he wentured for blue lake, too tired of waiting for their return.

This one memory is a bit hazy, but he thinks they tried to give him something… Some pretty thing that felt too fragile in his rough tired hands so he gave it back with polite shake of head.

He regrets not holding onto it now. What was it that they offered him? Was it somehow important?

Could it be answer to their fate?

He finds half of an answer in place where he started his descend. Eldery bug, holding onto precious looking flower. It stirs his memory enough to ask. Elder is more than happy to talk but there is melancholy in their voice.

– Amazing flora, isn't it? It is a gift from a friend. I haven't seen them travelling through this old town in awhile… It got much livelier here since then. Doesn't feel like ghost town anymore. Too bad my friend isn't here to see. I wonder if they are wandering farther somewhere now…

That night Quirrel dreams of his silent companion. They're sitting on the bench in hotspring on the lake's edge next to him. They're holding pale looking flower, nothing but memory of a real thing. They don't look at him but still offer it to him. This time he accepts. It hits him like a blow that this could be second time they're saying goodbye.

Words feel wrong when he finally forces himself to say:

– Is this truly your end? Somehow I never expected to outlive someone so resilient as you, my friend..

They turn to him and breath catches in his throat as he looks at their mask, tracing with eyes deep crack running down right between their eyes. No ordinary bug could survive injury this bad. But they're not ordinary bug and he did see them survive similar looking wound.

He tries again:

– Surely that couldn't be it? I've seen you healing cracks before.. Unless this one runs deeper than that?..

They stare at him, as if thinking. Then shrug. He's not getting answers that easy.

When he wakes up there is a petal on his face. But he can barely remember his dream.

---

They linger in dreams for a sole reason of not finding a way out. Seeker no longer here, swept under raging storm they created and with that voice quiet they can't find an anchor.

Dreams of bugs come and go and they cannot manage to do much more than watch.

It makes their hands itchy for action. Pantheon stands quiet without Seeker to channel it.

Familiar faces are the only solace they can find.

They watch from shadows their sister's battles - with herself and the world they left behind. They don't go any closer. No reason to add another problem to already growing pile of them. She'll manage just fine without them, she did so long before they came back here.

Their taller sibling dreams rarely and all their dreams are a patchwork of pains long ignored. They don't hide themselves here because Void has no reason to hide from Void but they don't stay for long. Their fate won't be another burden on battered shell of their sibling. Let them heal.

Many bugs blink on their awareness, some more often than others. It warms their non-existent heart that they left something behind to be remembered by. That there are bugs still alive to remember them.

Nightmare flame visits once in a while with a polite bow. They can't decide if he appoves or not the fate they choose for themselves. They bow back regardless. It's nice to feel heat radiating from him. They don't mind another dance.

Void below their feet is quieter now. Storm passed and parts of it, of them, vaporated into nothingness. Maybe they found peace. But still they linger.

Some part of them, selfish and stubborn, still wants to live. There are siblings they want to see again. There are bugs they want to visit.

They wonder if their shell is still out there, unscratched, waiting for their return.

*****

That faithful day the infection disappeared all of them woke up from the same dream. Dream of blinding light setting into inky stormy sea. Of night falling over endless day, with only stars blinking, mirrorred on sea surface.

This peaceful night all of them fall asleep to the same dream. Rain falling down, disturbing calm waters, storm brewing. There is someone lost at the sea with no anchor and no shore in sight.

---

Horner finds herself dreaming of sand under her feel. There is tide coming and she knows not to touch black waters below yet she stays where she stands.

Her red cloak and tall mask could be a beacon on its own but in case its not enough she calls out to the endless sea.

– Ghost of Hallownest!! Are you still there??

---

They dream of Void calling them in and have no choice but to answer.

They have a debt to pay.

They drop down into blackness below without hesitation and let the current drag them along.

Somewhere out there a cry of frustration sends waves over black surface. It is enough to give them direction.

They reach out.

---

Quirrel dreams of walking rocky tunnels under the lake. Claustrophobic feeling weights him down and he watches dark droplets slide down the walls as he walks.

There is pale flower in his hands and it's the only source of light guiding him in the dark. He holds it just a bit closer.

He knows somewhere out there is his lost friend. He just has to find them again.

---

Elderbug dreams of beautiful garden he wishes to grow. He hopes one day his friend will come to see it.

He's okay with waiting. They can take as much time as they need.

---

Nightmare can offer nothing but flickering firelights. They appreciate the sentiment even if it gives them no help in finding a way out.

They cry out send out a spell full of frustration before setting down again. It comes off of them in waves as they float on the surface of endless dark sea. No matter where they look they can't find solid ground anymore.

… Maybe they're approaching this all wrong.

They look back into themselves and search for something, anything. They can find nothing they haven't seen before, countless eyes looking back into themselves.

They keep looking.

They see countless lives cut shorter than blink.

They keep looking.

They see every step they made overlapping, ever-changing yet changing nothing.

They keep looking.

They keep looking until they realize some lights blinking don't belong to them.

They reach and find shiny petals swimming, shimmering in the dark.

They reach and hear voices calling for them, looking for them, waiting for them.

They reach and anchor themselves.

And then they wake up.

*****

Hornet wakes up with a feeling that certain someone did something that would result with more mess she'll have to deal with. Again.

She reaches for her weapon. She sees her taller sibling creep out of their nest towards the well leading down. She sees them drop down and curses under her breath.

She follows.

---

They know not what changed in the Void but its something they can feel. It calls them in, somewhere down there, no longer urgent but now more solid than before.

With energy they didn't realize they had they move down, down, down, towards source of disturbance.

They have pretty good idea what and who they're going to find.

---

Several bugs wake up feeling like they missed something important, unable to pin down what it was. And Myla, one of them, can do nothing but sing herself back to sleep.

Surely tomorrow she'll remember.

Surely.

---

The Teacher is frantically writing down notes when Quirrel finds her awake. Before he can even raise his voice there's a paper showed in his hands and he's walked out of the door he just came in.

– We have new readings and a direction! Go check it out, would you? We have no time to waste!

Scratching his head he looks at the mess in his hands. It's a rough map with several places marked for checking and he can't help but think that his friend's maps were far easier to understand.

Well, he was about to say he's leaving anyway. Latest dream left him aching for another search attempt. He might as well see what all this noise is about on the way.

---

They wake up.

There is headache coming in waves and everything swims before their eyes.

But they're awake now and it's all that matters.

They attempt to get up. Their body feels weak. Weaker than at the very start of they journey. With aching limbs they push themselves from the ground. They feel heavy. They are heavy. In fact they can barely fit into their old shell and they feel Void almost spilling over.

They feel pressure building behind their eyes.

They make first reluctant step.

*CRACK*

Thin line runs down their eye and they can do nothing but hold it down.

They're fragile. They will destroy their shell from within like this. This just won't do.

In attempt to release the pressure they try to heal. It helps nothing and leaves them drained instead. Well, so much for that.

They think about dreams. They let themselves spill into shadows under their feet. There, that will work for now. There is now a moving, horned, blinking puddle of Void looking back at them from the floor. Technically, still part of them. But it feels lighter this way.

They let themselves rest for another moment before trying to move again. Void clings to their feet and follows. It dances and thins and creeps like normal shadow would. Just much darker. Much longer. They can work with this.

They need to get out of here and deal with that crack before it gets worse. They have a sinking feeling it will leave a mark they won't be able to fix.

Its okay. They survived worse.

And most importantly…

They will see everyone soon.

[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 2: never go that way.

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader, soobin x yeonjun, jisung & fem!reader, soobin & fem!reader. series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: abandoned in the desert sea, you take your first steps into your quest where you meet challenges that put your patience to the test and meet a collection of unusual folk - from a frustrating man with quokka-cheeks to a sweet tall blonde and his mysterious seal-fur caped partner. warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, some violence, pixies get squished, some mild injuries, anxiety, world building!!, strong language, faerie lore!!, amnesia, best boy han jisung being a fae menace!!! (we will learn his name later promise but thats Him!) soobin/yeonjun from txt cameo, selkie!yeonjun, changeling!soobin, goblin!jisung. let me know if there is anything else i should tag! word count: 7.3k first chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

The desert sea felt endless. She wasn’t sure how long she’d trudged through the dunes; all she knew was that her shoes (which had thankfully appeared on her feet when she’d been transported) were full of itchy sand. Grains in-between her toes, they scratched at her heels and her soles. It was annoying, but what was more annoying was that every step towards the walled maze didn’t seem to make it appear any closer. In fact, it seemed like it was still so, so far away. It was like an optical illusion; the little walls growing further and further despite her continuous walking. Was this some sort of torture? A brain game? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she was growing more and more frustrated.

The area around her was dark; the sunspot she and the King had been transported to was only so large, and the rest of the Underground was dark. Cool and dark. There was a haunting ruddiness in the distance that reminded her of the orange-red glow of fire. As if there was an ever-glowing inferno just out of reach. It was mostly from the floating candles and large roaring fires in the tall look-out posts high above the Labyrinth, she was sure of it. But it didn’t make it less strange.

This whole place was strange. Glancing around with a sigh and a wipe of her brow, she noted the dead twisted plants that spotted the landscape in brown, dry patches. Cacti with withering pink flowers that looked like they would crumble away with a single harsh wind and the odd-shattered stone obelisks jutting out of the sand dunes every so many feet. She paused in her walking, harsh sand squelching in her shoes as she stood and stared around her.

The rockwork she had seen so far were crumbling things, mostly piles of rounded rubble as if they had been destroyed millennia ago. But the further she got through the dunes, the more they began to become sturdy and full things. The one beside her even had an engraving in it – in a language she couldn’t decipher. The letters were curling forms, intricate by design as they crawled down the rock. It didn’t look like any language she had ever seen before.

Everything felt like a dream. Eerie and off-putting with illusions too grand to be real, but standing staring at this tall rock formation… it felt real. It felt like it was historic. Was it a tombstone? Was it a boundary marker? Was it a monument for an old ruler or god? She didn’t know. She just knew it was here, chipping away under desert sand.

Glancing away in the direction she came, she had to admit she had made progress. The sunspot she had left was far in the distance and the once far away walls of the Labyrinth were finally not despairingly far. This was when she noticed another thing: everything crawled towards the Labyrinth.

Dead vines, piling rocks shimmering with magic, withered tree branches, and even the stray night flowers curled and twisted, pointing towards the maze awaiting her. She wondered why. Was it magic? The wind? It was strange there was even wind down here. She shivered as a rush of cold air caressed her skin. Her white long sleeve tunic wasn’t made for the chill of the Underground – it was just enough for the warmth of her heated house. Wrapping her arms around herself, she continued her trek towards the walls. 

Once she got there, she had to find an entrance. Surely, that had to be easier than it seemed. But even approaching the thing felt like a mindfuck. As she got closer, she noticed how tall the exterior wall towered above her. It was made of thick slabs of grey rock that didn’t seem magical. But it did seem ancient. The rock was cracked everywhere, aged by the harsh sand and winds it blocked out. The higher the walls grew, the less she could see of the interior maze. She could only hope she could figure a way once inside what seemed like a never-ending twisted path.

There were also watch points every so many feet yet she couldn’t see any guards patrolling. Maybe the King sent them away? Not one of these look-out points looked to be special. They all were of equal height with a roaring flame within the columned center of the watchpoint. Nothing to hint that she should go towards it rather than another.

Just get to the wall, Y/N.

The closer she got to the Labyrinth, the more she saw evidence of civilization. Rather than loose sand, it was packed down by foot traffic and even remnants of what looked like carriages or carts. A post stood beside some sparkling, shimmering rocks – with too many signs to count crawling up the wooden thing, pointing this way and that. Chaotic. Some of the signs had been hand-painted and eroded away until the words were unreadable. Others were carved pieces of wood that were written in that strange language from the obelisk. There was one that read, in red paint, ‘TURN BACK’ pointing towards the Labyrinth.

Great. Very reassuring.

And then, there was a well with sparkling, cracking stonework with once-intricate tiles making up its molding. The thing was full of water, teetering at the edge of the stones, but it didn’t look appetizing. It was murky dark with green algae and clover-like lily-pad structures jutting out of the surface. Small glowing blue creatures that looked like some sort of moth with transparent wings danced about the water, making ripples. 

She swallowed – her mouth felt dry. She had to have been walking for an hour?

Squatting down, she looked over the well. It was the first thing she had stumbled upon that wasn’t fully dead. The tiles were aging, but still sparkling with the magic stardust that seemed to radiate magic. Their sparkle gleamed even in the dark cave-light of the Underground. Reaching out, she wiped the dust away from a tile, the grime falling into the water and startling the glowing blue creatures away. There was a hissing sound coming from them like they were cats.

Ignoring them, she looked down at the first tile, realizing it wasn’t just a pretty tile, but a painting. Each one of the stones were a painting she noticed, telling some sort of story. The art style was loose and dreamlike with cool blue and purple tones making up the color scheme. It looked like from the only full tile that it was about a girl and a boy from different worlds. One from the blue, one from the purple.  When she blinked, it almost looked like the loosely painted figures were moving.

Scooting over, she tried to figure out the story, but each tile was too cracked and shattered. Each crack revealed a shimmering jewel like substance, almost like diamonds. It was beautiful, but definitely destroyed. She couldn’t tell if it was from the harshness of the desert sea or if it was intentional.

Pushing herself up by her knees, she stood once more and looked over towards the wall only for the thing that was once still a good 15-minute walk away to be right there, only a few feet away! Her eyes widened in surprise, stumbling back into dead foliage that crunched like dead bones beneath her feet.

She wiped her hands off on her pants as she looked back where she came and back at the Labyrinth that now towered over her. Flickering flames painted the area in a warm golden light, almost a mimicry to sunlight. But it never lost its fire-smoke hue, the world painted in an orange-red sunset haze like a filter on a movie.

But it was less dark now and she was glad for it. Walking closer to the wall, she saw no entrance. The thing was cold to the touch with no discernible entrance. Just cracking rockwork with some rotting plants crawling up.

(It made her wonder if this place ever was once flourishing. How could there be so many plants if there wasn’t once water? What had happened she wondered?)

She began to follow the wall, trailing a hand across the cool rock. Dodging white night-flowers and harsh sharpened vines, she continued onwards, hoping to find something, some clue, that would lead to an entrance to the Labyrinth.

The Runner walked on and on, her eyes not leaving the wall as her hand trailed over it. Feeling for something that would feel like a door or a secret. There was nothing, just a cool rock wall with creeping plants. She didn’t know how long she had walked onwards. Her toes felt rubbed raw from the sand but she had to keep going.

It wasn’t until she heard a noise – like someone noisily eating - that she finally looked back over at the desert sea.

There, beside a water well with red stonework rather than purple-blue sparkling tiles, sat a man. A satchel was beside him, with some sort of bread loaf resting on the fabric like it was a make-shift plate.

Someone else! Maybe they knew where to go. He looked humanesque, not a tiny bug like the blue creatures from before. There were no rules with getting help from others.

“Excuse me!” she called, rushing over to them. Optimism flashed through her.

The man turned his head, and she could see only full cheeks. Big food-filled cheeks like a chipmunk. Crumbs of honeyed-bread rested on his pouted lips. And his wide eyes blinked owlishly. Like he had been caught red handed.

“Oh,” he smacked his lips as he chewed and swallowed. “It’s just you,” he said before grabbing his food and shoving the entirety of it in his mouth before standing from his crouched position.

“You know me?” she queried, her voice stuttering.

He began to walk away, loudly chomping. She trailed behind him, brows pursed. He wasn’t super tall, but he definitely held himself with an air of someone who was tall.

He snorted, crumbs tumbling from his pout and falling to the sandy floor.

“Yeah, little human. I could smell you the moment you fell to the Underground.”

Smell? Her hand rose to her nose so she could smell her own skin. It didn’t smell like anything to her, maybe hints of her perfume or soap?

“You can smell me?”

He rolled his eyes as if she was dreadfully dumb.

“Yes, we all can.”

His foot steps quickened as he continued trekking past the wall. Her eyes flickered from him to the wall beside them. God, he was quick.

“Wait!” she called.

He wasn’t extremely tall, but he somehow took wildly long strides. Stumbling over stray rocks, she tried to catch up to him.

“What, Runner?” he sighed as he continued walking. 

“My name isn’t Runner – What does that even mean?”

“Do you need everything to be explained to you? Your scent, your title, your-“

Suddenly, small creatures, their size no bigger than a butterfly, flew out of their hiding spots (behind old dry ferns and the lily pads of another tiled-well.) Transparent milky-white wings and glowing trails of what looked like dandelion fluff trailed after them as they swooped down upon the fae-man. Tugging at his long hair, his clothes, scratching at his cheeks.

“Ugh,” the man spluttered out, hands going to swipe at the things. “Damn pixies!”

They crawled and flew over his form, five of them. A soft chittering giggling sound bubbled from the things. He flailed and whacked at the things until with they fell off him with violent ‘ugh’s.

“Fucking pests,” he cursed as he crushed one with the heel of his leathered boot.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, horrified as he smeared the magic-remnant on the dirt floor with a squish. His eyes flashed to meet hers with a raised brow. He looks oddly young with his brow pursed in such a way. Innocent, like a misbehaving kid being scolded before a scowl replaced his soft-eyed expression.

“What?” he grounded out, whacking aside another stray pixie that had tugged at his ear.

“They were just playing!” she defended, a hand going to shield one of the fallen pixies. Her gaze flickered from the smeared sparkling lavender-azure remnants of the squished pixie to the one that she shielded.

It didn’t look as human as she imagined a pixie to look. It had whisp-y white hair that faded off into blue translucent tube-like strands, the appearance resembling glowing fiberoptics. Its wings were paper-thin and an off-white shade that had small bones making up its structure. Instead of humanoid features, its face was flatter with no prominent nose bridge. Their eyes were a glassy fluorescent blue, wide and bug-like. A spider-esque mouth with black tipped pincer-like fangs bared themselves at her before biting the hand that shielded it, right at the juncture of her thumb and forefinger.

“Ouch,” Y/N yelped, jumping away from the creature that hissed out a gargle of a giggle. More monstrous than humanistic. The fae-man silenced the biting pixie with a well-place kicked, making it fly off into the distance.

“Just playing,” the fae-man repeated with a low scolding chuckle. “Are you okay?”

Her non-injured hand held the bitten hand close to her chest. It stung with the same ferociousness as a mosquito bite. Droplets of red blood pearled to the surface but it wasn’t a bad bite. His hand reached out to grasp her wrist, his skin was warm like a furnace. Not hot enough to burn but, certainly enough that if he was human, he’d be running a high fever. He looked over her hand closely and, if she had been focusing on his face, she’d noticed the fascination blurring in his eyes at her red blood. But she wasn’t she was hissing a bit at the wound’s sting.

“I’m fine… I thought they’d be sweet like a fairy?” she admitted. “Pixies are usually playful in stories, mischievous, but I didn’t think they’d bite.”

His eyes rolled before he wiped at her hand with his thumb. She noticed his nails were a painted lacquer; a black shimmering color that had long been chipped away at the edges. There was a beat before he simply looked at the bite’s holes inquiringly before dropping her wrist easily, his cool gold rings grazing her skin.

He laughed. “Sweetness? From pixies? They’re nasty creatures. Mean vermin.”

A noise of acknowledgment hummed in her throat before he turned away once more.

“Wait.” She called, grasping his wrist desperately.

He paused this time, head tilting back as he brought his free-hand dragged through his hair.

“Yes, Runner.” He answered before gently tugging his hand away.

“My name isn’t Runner; it’s Y/N,” she retorted with a furrowed brow.

“I thought so,” he grimaced as he continued to walk along the perimeter of the Labyrinth walls. Another pixie jutted out in front of him, and all he did was grab it and crush it before tossing it aside. As if it was nothing but a bug.

It was startling and a bit frightening. Everything here was like that – if she was being honest. The way he was able to do something so violent when he looked well… so sweet.

The man had a round face with softened cheeks. His doll-like eyes were the strangest shade of blue – in the flame-light, it turned a purplish shade, glistening like a jewel in sunlight. His lips were a pouty thing – with a strong ‘V’ of a cupid’s bow and puckered lower lip that was a soft pink shade. His cheeks even had a prominent glaze of the magic remnant that everything seemed to be made of. Constellations of pink, yellow, green, purple, and blue glittered through his skin, sparkling when it caught the light.

His hair was dark, long and, unlike the Goblin King, it was long in a more un-styled way. Like he simply hadn’t had the time to cut it. It laid in loose waves down his neck, covering his forehead in soft curls. Some curls were damp with sweat and plastered to his golden skinned forehead.

Hidden beneath his blue-black curls, she could see small teardrop earrings sparkling with golden chain and red rubies. But, his clothes lacked such wealth. They were simple – he wore an orange-tan vest that had been patched haphazardly in red, purple, yellow threads over the years, a white flowy tunic that was open chested and pushed up to his elbows to reveal his toned forearms that were shimmering innately with that magical dust as if someone had painted him in body glitter. Rings decorated each finger in a golden halo, sparkling in the firelight.

His pants were a paler sandy color with clear wear-and-tear on the knees and edges. A belt of some sort of leather clung to his slim waist, cinching his form in. It acted as a purse of sorts, holding what looked like a dagger with a rubied hilt in between its leathered folds, a black-woven purse he had been using as a plate moments ago, and, most prominently, a collection of vibrant jewels. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, moonstones, and amethysts. Some of the jewels were hung by worn rope; others strong-linked chains of gold. But each one of the jewels were pretty, sparkling in the overhead firelight.

How did he come to attain them she wondered? He didn’t have the appearance of a king or a prince or any sort of royalty – despite his handsome face. He just didn’t have that magnetic lure that the King had. Power that was unspoken. Walking tall wasn’t the same as a powerful walk.

He felt. . . reckless. Like how a wolf in the wild was nothing compared to a dog kept as a pet. He prowled forward, scavenging onwards and swatting at the remaining milky-white pixies that hovered about him. One reached out to tug on his jewels, making a low growl escape his chest like he was some sort of alligator.

She reached out to swat the pixie away, not squishing or squashing it like he did but just shoving it away. His jewel-toned eyes flashed to meet hers from under his dark oil-slick blue-black curls.

He didn’t thank her, just looked at her with simmering eyes.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” she started.

“Well, you are.” He retorted quick. “You Runners are always so slow to the game.”

“Runner – you said it was my title, there have been other Runners? Are they the ones who make deals?” she queried.

“You’re catching up,” he acknowledged.

“I’m a quick learner,” she retorted back. “Just—do you know where the door to the Labyrinth is? That’s all I need to know. I need to get inside.”

“Hm,” he hummed absent-mindedly. “Oh no, do I know.”

Under his breath, he huffed and shook his head.

“You know?” she repeated.

“Know,” he agreed with a shake of his head again.

It all sounded the same ‘know’ and ‘no’, his head was shaking ‘no’, but did he actually say know? And now, Y/N was even confused.

“Gosh, it’s hopeless asking you things!” she huffed as she turned away and looked up at the sky – the reality she was in another world striking her as she saw the dark cavern stalagmites high above them.

Cracks of sunlight beamed through – shining over the Labyrinth. She realized she could faintly see… flowers. Yes, there were flowers blooming high above them. Those flowers had vines that creeped outwards through the sunlight veins of the Underground’s ceiling, crawling in and out of the stalagmites.  Hope in the middle of the darkness.

Her gaze settled back on the rock wall in front of her. In its own thousand-year-old cracks, she could see budding blooms of what looked like magnolias, peach blossoms, and desert poppies. Hope in the middle of darkness.

She needed some hope right now.

“Ask the right things maybe,” the man suggested as he sighed and leaned against the rock nearest to him. A hand rose to wipe at sweat on his brow – how could he be sweating in such coldness?

“How do I get into the Labyrinth?” she mused.

The man paused, a flicker of a grin coming onto his round face. “Now, that I can answer,” he smirked, glancing over at her before pointing with a finger.

“There,” he said simply.

Her eyes followed his pointing finger to find there was a grand gate beside two empty watch towers. The gate’s exterior was decorated with intricately carved vines, twisting, and twirling over the heavy wooden doors.

“See, not a door, a gate,” the fae man chortled.

“That’s so stupid. How was I supposed to know?” she whined.

He laughed again, the thing sounding playfully song-like. “You’ll have to ask the right questions. Think closer next time.”

Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes. It was like walking on egg-shells in this place. Taking a deep breath, she walked closer to the gates.

“Is there a key?” she murmured.

“Yes,” the man retorted, casually as he leaned against one of the watch towers. He looked awfully amused now, rather than itching to get away like before.

Glancing away from him, she looked over the gate to see an itsy-bity key hole.

“Do I need the gate’s key?” she asked again.

“What do you think?” he queried, looking at her blankly. But the corner of his lips twitched, he was about to grin.

Creeping closer, Y/N pressed a palm against the wooden gate door – and pushed.

With a puff of smoke and the twinkle of sparkling magic-remnant on the gates, the carved vines bloomed their pure-white blossoms before the doors heaved themselves inwards open to reveal the Labyrinth.

Cobwebs tore away with the motion as the plume of smoke tumbled over her and the stranger’s feet. His eyes widened with mock surprise at her before turning to crush a pixie under his foot with a stamp. There was a smear of chromatic glitter when he removed his heel.

The Runner took a soft breath in as she peered curiously into the labyrinth, not yet fully stepping onto the cobblestone path of its interior.

“You’re really going in there?” the stranger prompted, crossing his arms. A brow raised into his curled bangs.

“I have to,” she replied, licking her lips. Glancing towards him, she offered a smile. “It’s the only way to gain myself back.”

Now, that seemed to strike something in the handsome man. His eyes widened genuinely, and he swallowed, poutful lips pursing. His cheeks looked chubby, and for a moment she could understand how fae could be described as cherubic.

“You’re brave or stupid,” he muttered, ruining the moment.

She sighed out. Head falling back in exasperation. He really was pushing her buttons. Regardless, she took a step in, half-ignoring the fae-man for the time being.

Looking left and right, she couldn’t help but feel the creeping tell-tales of anxiety. Sweaty palms, heart rushing, shakiness. It looked endless. Abandoned forever-passageways that seemed to never curve or turn. Their interiors were shadowed occasionally by the flickering of the grand fire-pits high above in the watch towers and the sea of floating candles high above the Labyrinth. The light made sparkling cobblestone walls and floor glimmer and glisten.

“Left or right?” the fae man’s voice piped up again, chuckling as he leaned in and glanced one way and then the other.

“Which way would you go?” Y/N prompted him.

He was of this place – maybe he’d know.

“Neither for me.” The long-haired man snorted. “I don’t know – no point in it anyways,” his fingers reached out to pick up a sparkling rock resting on the uneven floor. Glittery and shiny, he wiped at it with his linen vest.

“You can just leave if you’re going to be like this.” Y/N snapped.

Why was he being like this? Purposely spiteful and misleading one moment, helpful the other minute. She huffed a bit as she tried to find clues to which way to go. Footsteps, signs of life, something.

“Listen,” the dark-haired creature said, taking a step into the Labyrinth after her. “I’m just trying to level with you. Even if you made it there, you’ll never escape. No one escapes the Labyrinth - or the King’s rule for that matter.”

“So, there has been others?” she queried, brows crinkling as she turned her gaze to settle on the man.

He shrugged not even looking at the Runner, his gaze locked onto the rock he found. It was certainly not a jewel or gem of beauty. It did gleam a bit and had something akin to fairy dust trapped within its glassy texture.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He seesawed.

“Have you tried to leave?” she countered, her gaze not leaving him.

It was odd, he was the only person outside of the grand labyrinth she had seen up close. And he was locked out? Far, far away from the castle. Yet he didn’t know which was to go. Was he stuck here too? Had he done something? Was he once in her shoes?

He froze at her words. The fine muscles in his throat tensed.

“No.” he answered solidly. Topic shut. “I’m not a Runner. Listen, all the others failed – I’d give up now; he’s kinder to those who admit weakness.”

The King wanted to be the all-powerful King, she saw that now as the man continued to gather this and that from the walls.

“Well, thanks for nothing.” She trailed off. “I never even got your name.”

He almost looked at her pityingly. He sighed. “You don’t need to learn names down here with your fate.”

It made gooseflesh rise on her arms and neck, and she resisted a shudder going down her spine. If anything, that only proved how she had felt in her bedroom with the King. That her wish was a mistake.

She had to win.

“You’re not very helpful.” She commented again. “Just discouraging.

“I’m being realistic, little human,” he retorted with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve seen many yous before. They all end up with the short-end of the stick.”

She frowned at him purposely. Staring with cruelly hurt eyes.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The fae-man said, hands raising in defense as he backed out of the Labyrinth.

Y/N looked back at him for a moment. He hadn’t stopped looking at her and she couldn’t help but notice the glimmer in his eye. A furrow of his brow. Not in disdain or anger but something contemplative. Before sighing a soft huff and walking off, his jewels clanking with every step.

Her own lips stretched into a gentle grimace. What a strange man. But she couldn’t worry about that now, no. She had to keep going onwards. Looking left and right again, she chose to go right. As soon as she took a few more steps inside the Labyrinth, the gates heaved shut with a groan.  

The cobblestone was raised and uneven in places like it had been laid centuries ago and never repaved since. Broken stones rested here and there in stacked piles. The same dried, dead greenery outside of the Labyrinth poked through the cracks here as well, withered roots of dead crawling up the rockwork.

Mushrooms of varying sizes burst forth from the cobblestone walls, finding their homes in the dark corners. They looked unlike any mushroom she had seen – seeming to breath with shuddered breaths of sparkling pollen.

She kept walking.

There were no entrances to other parts of the Labyrinth. There were no doors or corners or parts in the walls from what she could see. It was just a straight path. Forever. She began to run after some time as if that would help make it go faster. Her feet ached from the scratchy sand that still occupied her shoes. It was quiet here; there was only the sound of the soles of her feet hitting rock.

She ran for a while. So long that it almost felt like she was in the optical illusion this time rather than viewing the castle grow further and further. Everything felt like it was repeating. The same crippled plants. The same mushrooms in the same dark corners. The same aching feet. The same pitter-patter of footsteps.

Until she finally came across something different.

In the distance, Y/N could see it. Something in the path. Something on the ground curled over. Panting, sweat dripped down her temple as she paused a few feet away. Her stomach churned.

Lying against the wall of the Labyrinth was a skeleton. A human one she assumed. Curled in on itself as if frozen in time. If she blinked, she could see the muscles, tendons, skin, forming a shell around the stuck skeleton. It looked like her, young and female. They were hiding or sleeping or afraid.

And they were dead.

Cobwebs clung to the skull and she could see caterpillar-like creatures making the eye cavity a home. It made her shiver and run faster.

She couldn’t end up like that.

No, no, no, she had to find a way out.

Running onwards she didn’t see a skeleton again – the only reassuring thing so far. It meant maybe this wasn’t a looping path. As she continued on more and more cobwebs decorated the walls. Huge spiderwebs with intricate patterns were ahead. Sparkling shimmering quilted spiderlace that whistled in the wind. If she wasn’t feeling so frustrated and frightened, Y/N may had stopped to appreciate them or ducked under them. She just swiped at them and continued onwards.

Another spiderweb appeared a few hundred feet away.

She kept wiping at them, avoiding the spidersilk from getting into her mouth as she did so as she ran onwards.

Her arms felt sticky with webs; her feet hurt; her head ached from the repeating cobblestone. She let out a yell as she finally stopped. Panting, with a reddened face, she covered her face with her hands and screeched.

“This place is hopeless,” she scowled as she stopped. It’d been minutes of running straight and straight and straight!

Kicking the brick wall petulantly, she yelped before stumbling to her knees. Her hands went to cup her foot, rubbing it a bit as it throbbed in pain. Tearing her shoe off, sand from the desert sea tumbled out in a cup-full. Her big toe throbbed as she held it close, massaging it with her thumb. Toeing off the other shoe like an over-stimulated child, she kicked it away, making it hit the opposing wall with a thunk. Sand from it tumbled out as well into a small pile.

Wiping strands of hair away from her sweaty face, she leaned back against the wall behind her and looked to the side, heaving and panting as she felt a tell-tale pressure building behind her eyes and nose.

No, no, she won’t cry. She felt like a child. It was humiliating.

It was then she saw a plant staring at her! A plant with a million tiny eyes instead of petals and blooms. She yelped scooting away, her hands scrapping against the rough cobblestone beneath her. All the eyeful plant did was blink, all at once, eerily but not dangerous.

Tugging her hands up from the stone floor, she saw the faint scrapes and inkling of blood rushing to the surface. Another injury. Her eyes burned in frustration before she buried her head into her knees.

First, she walked ages in the desert alone, filling her shoes with sand. Then, she met a rude fae man where she watched him hurt pixies. After that, she got bit by a pixie. Now, she’s stuck walking on and on in one direction nowhere close to getting a real stab at the Labyrinth. And she’s hurt her hands after getting scared by a creepy eye plant.

It was frustrating. She didn’t know what to do and it all felt so so pointless. The scales were stacked against her. How did anyone win?

“Annyeong!”

A cheerful voice chimed and, in that moment, she looked up to see a figure, shading her from the dull light of the Labyrinth.

He was tall, far taller than the Goblin King and certainly taller than the fae she had met outside the Labyrinth walls. He had almost frightened her with how his blonde hair reminded her of the king, but the tone of his voice and the smile on his face was far different from the King’s. In fact, the man looked happy. Gentle. Dimples lit up his face as he outstretched his hand for her to shake. Or to take to stand?

“Huh?” she mumbled.

His smile didn’t cease, and he glanced at his hand with his brown eyes.

She took it to shake tentatively before he yanked her up with a strength that didn’t seem possible in his lanky form. A ‘ugh’ pushed its way out of her.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” he breathed. His smile was sweet she noted as she took him in more now that she was standing. His eyes were a deep chocolate color, and they didn’t seem to be cruel or sparkling or ethereal like the others she had met so far. They were brown, gleaming a bit in the faint golden light of the Labyrinth, but otherwise normal.

“Annie-yeo,” she tried to begin to repeat before he let out a bubbling laugh.

“No, no, annyeonghaseyo – or hi, which is close enough,” he corrected.

A gentle breath left her in relief, glad there would not be a language barrier between the two of them.

“Hi,” she repeated.

“Hi,” he breathed again. “We’ve said hi a lot now. Maybe we should continue to something else,” he teased. He buzzed with an energy, almost childlike in nature. “I haven’t met anyone in so long.”

His admittance didn’t ring alarm bells – like she thought it should. Instead, she felt… sad. His entire form seemed to be desperate in some ways. Desperate to talk to her.

“That’s alright.” She reassured. “I’m Y/N.” Her hand reached out properly to shake again.

“Y/N,” he repeated with a smile as he took her hand and shook it. “You can call me Soobie; my friends do.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, too.”

His smile was charming and gentle. The dimples made him look younger and, in some ways, she wanted to protect him. Why…? Her eyes danced over his face. He didn’t seem… well, ethereal. Not like the king nor even like the dark-haired fae outside the labyrinth. Sure, he was handsome and coated in the sparkling dust that seemed to be engrained in everything here. But there was something utterly human about him. His eyes weren’t some fantastical thing; the way he held himself didn’t feel off-putting and otherworldly. And if she looked closer, she noticed that sparkle wasn’t engrained in him like it was for the King or the Fae-From-Outside-The-Labyrinth. It almost looked like make-up?

“I’m trying to make my way through the Labyrinth; do you know the way?” she asked after a moment, glancing down the path she had been heading.

“The way through the Labyrinth… I used to know,” he muttered, gaze following hers down the path she was headed before looking back at the way she came. There was a moment as he thought. And she saw how distant his eyes became. Like, he wasn’t all here with her. In fact, his eyes looked sad, distant. As if lost in a maze. His face fell into a pout, curved lips softly parting as his breath shuddered.

His blinking slowed and she swore for a moment his breathing stopped before he blink, blink, blinked at her. His smile slowly reappeared and his eyes warmed from the deep sadness and confusion that consumed them moments before.

“Soobie?” she asked inquiringly.

“What was your name again?” he queried. As if she hadn’t given it only moments before.

The Runner smiled softly – though a bit tentative. Something was going on.

“Y/N,” she replied. “You don’t know how to get out of this Labyrinth either?”

“Y/N, pretty name,” he hummed pleasantly. Cheery, happy, content.

“The Labyrinth is my home.”

It was said solidly, truthfully.

“Your home?” she queried once more. “Has it always been your home? You spoke in Korean, right? It sounded Korean. Are you from there?”

What if it hadn’t always been his home? The Fae-From-Outside-The-Labyrinth said every Runner failed. She had seen bones, and countless dust, and what if Binnie was another remnant of a Runner.

“Korea. . . “, he breathed. She watched as his eyes faded into the distance. His long eyelashes fluttered. “I-I was from Daebu Island. I lived near the water.” His hands shook as he went to grab the necklace around his neck. It was a beaded necklace around his throat, the thing made of wrapped twine and iridescent shells, seven teardrop-esque gems, and dark-silver pearls. It complimented what looked like a hand-made white sweater. He was dressed all in white she noticed, all soft clean fabric. Like he never was walking in the dirt and grime she was now covered in. How was that possible?

His lips trembled as he continued to fiddle with the necklace. Twisting it around and soothing himself by rubbing the smooth shells and pearlescent gems between his fingertips. Anxiously, his eyes fluttered once more as he moved a hand away to wipe at his face. Glitter shifted on his skin in a streak of golden silver dust. It wasn’t underneath his skin like she had thought.

He was from her world. She knew that now. Was he human? She couldn’t tell completely.

“How could I forget? But-but Junie is here–“ He was talking to himself, rubbing his cheek back and forth. His eyes shifted to look at her again. Wide and gentle and confused. “The Labyrinth, it’s been home for a long time – come inside,” he gestured to a brick wall, that now with a closer look did resemble a door. There was even a latch and door handle made of ivy. His smile was shaky but genuine. He smiled brightly as he thought of something that seemed to distract him from his previous anxieties. “We can have tea together! Junie and I! I make a great cup of tea. It’s from night-flowers!”

“Oh,” she felt genuinely sorry. He seemed kind. There was a manipulative tone or even condescension. He was just desperate. Eager to talk to someone else. Naïve maybe. His thoughts were befuddled for some reason.

“I can’t; I’m sorry.” She apologized.

His eyes grew even sadder like a kicked puppy’s.

“I’d love to but I must find a way out of here. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“A way out,” he repeated. “But—”

“Soobin,” a voice called from within the doorway and out popped a dark-haired fae. He had something about him that felt magical – like the Goblin King. The world lit up as soon as she saw him. His gaze felt magnetic. She couldn’t help but turn towards him, focus on him.

“You’ve made a friend,” he hummed. His words felt like honey on her ears and she couldn’t help but stare. Hypnotized.

His hair was a midnight black, short, and trim in the back but swooping over his face daintily. His face was almost as beautiful as the Goblin King’s. His eyes weren’t a winter-esque blue or jeweled purple, but instead a water-soaked green as though his eyes were salt-frosted sea-glass. His lips were kiss-swollen, a softened red pout.

While Soobin wore a soft, hand-knit sweater of cream, this man wore a heavy fur-like cloak over his shoulders, hiding his shirtless form she noted as it shifted with his movements. He had remnants of magic in his skin but, unlike the crushed starlight of the King, his looked glossy wet like it was liquid honey and sunshine mixed together. If she reached out, she swore it’d stick to her.

He captivated her.

“Yeonjun-hyung,” the blonde-haired man lit up at the sight of him as well. A hand reached out for the forgetful man, and Soobin took it easily.

He hugged the fae man, and the motion sent the smell of salt-water her way. The ethereal man smiled fondly at the other before looking at the Runner again. There was that sharpness, almost an animalistic look. Like a predator hunting a prey. His fingers wound themselves through Soobin’s protectively.

“I’m looking for the way to the castle,” she repeated to the new fae, her head tilted towards the blonde. “Soobin was helping me.”

There was a flash of something dark in Yeonjun’s sea-glass eyes. Something she couldn’t quite place as he licked his plump lips slowly.

“He is helpful,” he said steadily. “Did he mention things aren’t always as they seem? The walls may seem one way but they may lead another.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, one that Yeonjun tracked with carefulness.

“He hadn’t.”

“She was going straight,” Soobin teased under his breath.

It made her roll her eyes a bit, huffing. Yeonjun smiled as he exhaled. His shoulders loosened a bit as he glanced both ways. Down the right and left of infinity.

“Things aren’t what they seem here,” Yeonjun stated simply. “So, you can’t take it for granted,” he looked back at Soobin who had leaned more and more into the older man. His chin rested on the tip of the older’s shoulder as he stared directly at the wall behind her. He smiled raising his brows before gesturing with his chin towards the wall behind her.

The Runner glanced back at the wall opposite of their ‘house’, her brow raising.

“Walk through it!” Soobin encouraged.

She turned and fully stared at the wall in front of her. It looked like a wall. No gaps, no nothing.

“But it’s… a wall,” she breathed.” She took a step forward, trying to trust these strangers. Her hand reached out slowly to find… nothing. It just looked like the wall continued for forever. Stepping through the hole, she could see clearly now. It was an opening! There was another path beyond its bricks, and surely another one somewhere else. These walls were all illusions.

She just had to look closer.

“Thank you! That was incredibly helpful!” the Runner beamed at the others as she turned to face them once more.

Yeonjun’s smile was careful, and Soobin’s equaled her beaming grin. She quickly went to grab her shoes and slide them back on, grimacing at the loose sand grains still in them, but even that couldn’t dampen her mood that was gradually lightening. This was a start - finally!

“Thank you!” she repeated gratefully as she turned to right to begin to walk onwards through the maze.

“Miss,” Yeonjun called out, the tune something so enticing she couldn’t help but pause in her step. “Don’t go that way – never go that way.”

The warning was paired with a shake of his head that Soobin copied.

“Oh…. Thanks,” the Runner grinned at them before heading in the opposite direction, finally feeling like she had something of a start.

Soobin’s sad eyes watched her leave. “I was excited to see someone,” he commented lowly, dejected, and droopy almost like an ill-watered flower.

Yeonjun sighed, his hands going to pass through Soobin’s hair sweetly. “I know, sugar, but we have to keep you safe.” He glanced back at the castle and the shadow it cast over the land. “If she had gone the other way, she would have gone straight to the castle – and the King would be at our doorstep.”

The mention of the Goblin King made Soobin’s eyes focus just a tad.

“Can’t have that.” He murmured, and Yeonjun smiled proud.

“Exactly, coileán,” Yeonjun praised as he moved one hand to release his seal-skin fur cape’s clasp.

The silky soft thing fell off his shoulders, leaving his upper body bare. It revealed what appeared to be spotted grey and white dots over his toned stomach. He pressed a kiss to Soobin’s nose, lovingly, before he draped the cape over Soobin’s shoulders protectively.

“Let’s go inside and make tea, hm?”

[skeletorrito]

NSFW 18+ aged up 🌶️Itafushi fic wip

⭐️ For the purposes of self-indulgent smut, this is a Jujustu College AU. Characters are aged-up, but other canon events remain the same. Thanks for reading! 😁❤️

Megumi always wakes up early. It doesn’t matter if he’s had eight hours of sleep or eight minutes, his body never lets him sleep past 7 AM.

Yuji, on the other hand, would probably sleep until noon if didn’t set at least fifteen blaring alarms. He sleeps like the dead, too, which Megumi, an incredibly light sleeper, always feels a little jealous about.

When they share a bed, a frequent occurrence as of late, their mismatched sleeping patterns usually don’t bother Megumi. On their days off, he’ll shimmy out of Yuji’s grasp (he was a cuddler, too, no surprise there), make coffee, and read, play on his phone, listen to music, or sometimes even crawl back into bed and do these things while watching Yuji sleep peacefully.

Today, however, they both have classes in a few hours and Megumi never wants to listen to the same siren alarm playing on repeat until Yuji finally rolls over, smacks his phone, and springs out of bed. The problem is… Yuji’s incredibly difficult to wake. Megumi often times restorts to punching him or furiously shaking him just to get any sort of reaction out of him. Violence seems to be the most effective way and it’s frustrating. Yuji doesn’t care, but tired, grumpy Megumi does.

And, well, there is one other way to get him up.

Yuji likes this particular way the most.

Megumi wakes with Yuji’s stiff morning-wood pressed against his ass… which happens almost every single morning they’re in bed together. (Megumi doesn’t really mind this, either.) He flips around in Yuji’s weak hold and palms his arousal over his boxers. Yuji stirs slightly, letting out the softest of groans as Megumi teases him through the fabric. His fingers slip inside, stroking him and watching curiously as Yuji’s eyebrows pinch together.

He looks really cute like this… Megumi thinks, pressing a gentle kiss to Yuji’s lips. Yuji moans, still unconscious, and tightens his grip on Megumi’s waist. His hips start to roll into his hand, becoming louder and more animated yet still just as asleep. Megumi sighs, expecting that this wouldn’t be so easy. At this rate, he’ll only give Yuji a 4-D wet dream and why would he want to wake up from that?

Megumi pries Yuji’s hands from his waist and slides down the mattress under the duvet they share until he’s eye-level with Yuji’s sizable erection. He yanks Yuji’s boxers down to his knees and licks a stripe up the length. Yuji groans sleepily, rolling onto his back and spreading his legs open. Megumi takes him into his mouth, tongue toying with the leaking tip, and Yuji finally blinks awake.

“Huh?” He murmurs in a haze, disoriented and aroused, which is even more confusing for him. He feels a hot tongue flick against the head of his cock and moans loudly, pulling the covers off of them. “Oh fuck, Megumi,” he groans, his sleepy, foggy brain finally realizing what’s happening to him. Yuji weakly threads his fingers through Megumi’s soft, dark hair, and Megumi looks up at him in a heated gaze, jade green eyes locking onto honey brown ones.

Yuji comes undone as he watches Megumi take his cock and, in return, Megumi watches him lose his mind with prideful amusement. As he’s moaning and babbling nonsense, his grip on Megumi’s hair grows tighter and pushes against his head. Cheeks hollowing, Megumi sucks and slurps with renewed fervor now that Yuji is a conscious participant in this game.

Yuji’s a talker in bed.

Sometimes it’s kind of annoying but, most of the time, Megumi finds it entertaining and endearing.

“Oh my god, it feels so good, your mouth is amazing,” he cries, his words stringing together lazily, “Oh, Megumi, yes, keep going I’m so close, fuck.” He pants as he rocks his hips up into Megumi’s waiting mouth, eyes rolling back and head thrashing against the pillow.

Megumi bobs his head in time with Yuji’s shallow thrusts, nearly choking as he attempts to take him all the way in. He pins Yuji’s hips to the bed with his hands, trying to keep him still, but it’s only wasted effort as Yuji continues to fuck his mouth with more intensity. Megumi’s eyes sting as Yuji’s cock rams at the back of his throat.

“Megumi, I’m gonna- ah! Fuck!” He shouts in warning, feeling Megumi gag around him as he comes. Megumi swallows with a shudder, gasping and coughing as he pulls off. “Are you okay?” Yuji asks with immediate concern, pulling his boxers on and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Aside from nearly choking to death on your cock, I’m alright,” Megumi jokes dryly with a smirk, crawling up Yuji’s body to straddle him. Yuji flushes and murmurs a sheepish apology, and Megumi leans down to kiss him in response. “Good morning, by the way. Took you long enough to wake up.”

Yuji grins, all dimples, as his hands come to rest on Megumi’s thighs. “Can you wake me up like that every morning?” He stretches up to kiss Megumi again, fingers sliding up to Megumi’s hips and toying at the waistband of his boxers.

“Don’t be greedy,” he chides playfully, returning the kiss and deepening it, his tongue swiping along Yuji’s bottom lip. Yuji can taste himself in Megumi's mouth. He’s a little embarrassed by how much it turns him on. “Class starts in 90 minutes, by the way,” he warns as he feels Yuji growing hard again underneath him. He grinds his own half-hard erection into him, moaning softly.

“That’s plenty of time,” Yuji murmurs into Megumi’s neck as he kisses and sucks at it. He pays special attention to the tender spot just above his collarbone, giving it a gentle nip.

Megumi stifles a moan in his throat. “You’re going to make us late again, idiot,” he grumbles, but doesn’t attempt to climb off, and Yuji knows it’s because Megumi wants this just as much as he does. “Gojo won’t let us hear the end of it if we’re late for the third time this week.” He closes his eyes and sighs, leaning into Yuji’s touches.

“He’s always late to everything, anyway. So we’ll be just on time, right?” Yuji argues, unbothered, because time stands still when he’s with Megumi. His fingers slide into Megumi’s boxers, taking a firm hold of his ass as he continues to latch onto the porcelain expanse that is Megumi’s neck.

“Keep it below the collar, asshole,” he snips, groaning softly and tipping his head to the side as he melts into the feeling of Yuji’s lips and hands on him.

They’re definitely going to be late. Again.

But, fuck it, because Yuji’s touch is so, so addicting.

Gojo can deal.

[doyouremem8erme]

I just wanna let you know this blog feeds me marcy content even after the fandoms been dead and I can't be more thankful. GOD this show has such a special place in my heart, it really means a lot to know that there are still people who care about this series to the extent that I do. :)

I have many personal gripes on amphibia /LOVING, but mainly the missed potiental of a kids show by Disney that had to play back a lot of implications about the series to make it more palatable to the executives. I can't help but still respect that they got a way with a LOT, I also can't help but be sad there wasn't more darker scenes in s3 or for implications on true colors/the core/the girls grief as a whole. I can dream....,,,, that's why I live on fanfic and have a whole separate revised series in my head that I think of instead ❤️

Anyways I'm not really sure why I had the motivation to do this, I just think this blog is pretty great. I can't wait to hear more!

hehehe tysm!!! my hyperfixation got super suddenly reawakened right after i moved away to college and so im super nostalgic for the time i spent in this fandom back in high school now... this show really is closer to my heart than any other ive watched and i highly highly doubt ill ever feel the same way about any other show. it will always always be special to me. i said that abt other shows i hyperfixated on like steven universe but even that pales in comparison to what amphibia means to me!!! and marcy angst is ofc the best part of the fandom and i am not biased at all . these characters and their world are so incredible but tbh the fandom is even more special than the show. the true colors hiatus will always be incredibly nostalgic and idk if ill ever feel that same community in another fandom. hell i met my beloved partner of almost 3 years through this fandom and i see us lasting a lot longer. if i met my future wife because of amphibia then it really shows how much this show shaped myself and my life.

that really got away from me but yeah fanon is always there to fill in the gaps of the show. i never wanted to demand anything from this show that a disney cartoon wouldnt go through with but hey. the o&y anniversary is in two days. i sure never thought they would do THAT but they DID and it was horrible and fuckin AWESOME. and maybe thats why amphibia has always scratched my author brain more than any other fandom. the year and a half or so when my amphibia hyperfixation was totally dormant i spent just in the homestuck fandom and while thats easily one of the greatest pieces of media i have ever consumed in my life and ive written a decent handful of fanfic for... i have 80 published works for amphibia. thats so many!!! getting back into amphibia has gotten me writing so much again because theres something about it that is so compelling on its own but leaves enough loose threads open for fanworks to play within its structure and add in things that it feels like its missing.

to further treat ur nostalgia check out my fanart archive blog @3-stones-deity and my 3rd anniversary s3 rewatch project community which i got behind on running because of schoolwork but will certainly be catching up with before o&y!

[lyrebirdgore]

I dream every so often - an unconscious desire for you in my arms, holding you close and squeezing you.

I imagine your scent, I imagine your feel, I imagine your voice. I imagine you.

Our love, it goes both ways. I crave your violence - my skin is unblemished and clean. Never a mark besides the small scars of childhood. Your blade against my skin, cutting your name into my waist and pressing against my neck - my life in your palms. I can hear my screams, my pleas for life and your taunts against my heart, but we both know. We know that you’d never, not for a long while anyway. I dream about your palms gripped around my neck, my skin turning blue and tears slipping from my eyes as I gasp and hiccup for air, your eyes burning into me. But again we know.

I hope and burn for your violence, carving your name into my thigh - slamming my head into the walls, I’ll take anything. My love, my heart, my Master.

And yet, there are times I know you want nothing more than to lay by my feet and pray to my very existence. Give thanks that I even bothered to shine my light down upon you. I know you sometimes want to be praised for simply existing by me. You crave my existence, my presence and it fills my mind until it’s rotted with nothing but you.

I crave you, your flesh between my teeth, your hands on my waist, my lips fitted in your neck, your nails carving down my skin. You make me want to slit my fucking rib cage open and hand you my heart - still beating - for you to do with whatever you wish.

I’ve long since given up on my plans of moving out of country. If you want me to stay then stay I shall - after all nowhere will be a home without you. I do what you want of me, stay home, cut contact, anything. I’d be nothing without you. You listen to me, take every secret and whispered word in stride. You promise me that one day we’ll hold each other, feel each other, be able to hear each other’s hearts beat. I crave you. All of you.

I wish for your voice, I wish for you - my dreams relay warped scenes of us living happy, I need this to be real - I wish for you, in the dead of night. Call for you under every title, My Acolyte, My Love, My dear, My Darling, My Master. Anything, as long as I may one day have you.

You hear my woes and share your own with mine. You let me rant and ramble - you allow me to be me. Something that is a rarity in my eyes, having to hide behind masks like that of a jester. You slip them off my face and hold my chin, assuring me that I’m perfect, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

My sniffling, my sobbing, I hope they are music to your ears. My wailing and pleading, my begging and crying. I hope my screaming and rage are like that of art. That my anger and frustration fill you with glee. I hope my smiles light up your life, that my grins and laughter make you smile as well.

I need your hands to bruise me, to punch and kick me, make me scream and cry. I need your hands in my hair, your gun in my throat. I need your hands to draw blood, paint me black and blue. Let me thread my hands in your skin and rip you to shreds. I need to gut you as you stab me, tear you as you punch me.

I need you. I crave you. Tears almost slip from my eyes as I think. Think of you. Long for you. Whine for you. Keen for you.

I can be your God, your slave, your pet, your savior. Anything my Acolyte. Anything my Master.

Anything for you. 🖤

[littlesparklight]

The commentary on Euripides' Alexander is giving me many feelings for Paris and his parents - well, especially Hecuba since she's the one that gets the focus here. (Which is definitely a bit misogynistic, that it's always the bereaved mother who will grieve the most/be shown to grieving most in tragedy.)

The funeral games installed for Paris were started sometime shortly after his assumed death; they're ongoing, perfectly encapsulating both parents' grief and guilt.

Like, they know they didn't do it frivolously - this isn't even about, say, just Priam alone. If there should ever be a more "understandable" reason to have an innocent infant (or an innocent individual at all, no matter their age) murdered, it'd surely be for the safety of a whole city/country.

But they feel guilty and grieve anyway.

Hecuba especially is both still grieving and feeling some sort of moral responsibility for the assumed/intended death.

And this is definitely a thread you can see throughout several sources; in the Iliad Hecuba simply doesn't (get to, for whatever reason) answer Hektor, either to agree or disagree with him when his request for her to lead the matrons in supplicatory prayer to Athena ends with his comment about going to Paris and he wishes he was dead. In the Trojan Women, others (Andromache especially) certainly blame and repudiate Paris, but we see not a word of anything such from Hecuba herself. Of course there's the agon with Helen, but even outside of that Hecuba doesn't talk ill of Paris, or blame him.

(Perhaps interestingly, even Kassandra doesn't, despite that she in many other sources is one of either call for Paris' death or otherwise be an obstacle for him wrt her unheard prophecies. In TW she instead spins Paris and Helen into something positive for Paris and Troy.)

Slightly less weight to it, because Quintus undermines it (~morality~ I suppose), but before he undermines it he does have Hecuba lament Paris' death, with no narrative fiat to reveal during it that it's for other reasons (like with Helen).

Priam, too, has something similar to this, if less straightforwardly so. In the play we know at least he led (as he needs to, being the leader of the community and the family it involves) a ritual cleansing/lament for the dead infant, and he, much like Hecuba, welcomes Paris back at the end of it. Two art pieces that gets assigned to be Paris reuniting with his family has both Hecuba and Priam happy to welcome him.

In the Iliad, Priam leaves before the duel between Paris and Menelaos because he doesn't want to see Paris die in front of his eyes. He only blames the gods when talking to Helen, not his son, and in the Book 7 assembly, while he does put the weight of "we're not returning Helen" on Paris' refusal to do so in the message to the Achaeans, he also implicitly backs Paris up exactly because of that. He cuts the argument off and closes the whole assembly down as soon as Paris refuses, and that's that. Later, of course, Paris is among the sons Priam is repudiating, but he's not singled out, and certainly not in the capacity of his responsibility for sparking the war.

These parents didn't actually want to kill their infant, even when it was for the "greater good". When he came back, unharmed and alive, they ignore the reason they had him exposed and welcome him back with open arms. And long after it's proven that Hecuba's dream was probably entirely correct, they still love him.

[aladaylessecondblog]

the voices beneath (gortash x good tav pt 5)

Previous chapter here

Tw: Gortash is having nightmares, Cazador makes threats, and Tav finally gives birth.

--------------------------

When Tav woke, it was with one head on her chest and another, furrier one on her legs.

There was no question of why Scratch would be at her feet, but it took a moment for her to remember why Gortash would have his head on her chest when he'd never done it before. Even more recently when they'd sleep in the same bed it would be her facing the edge of the bed with him either spooning up or turned in the opposite direction.

Right, she thought, last night. She'd told him someone--Raphael--was dead, and suddenly he'd been all over her. Naked, too, which had been the bigger surprise. In the entirety of their marriage he had never shed all his clothes to lay with, or even just beside, her.

Now, though?

He was bare as the day he was born and that messy head of crow-black hair was on her chest as if this were the most normal and natural thing in the world. The covers and blankets were thrown to the base of the bed, and--

My dear, you're his wife. Of COURSE this is natural. Astarion's voice laughed in her mind. We were scared of this man? Look at him! Sleeping like a psychotic baby.

You could end all this right now, Halsin's voice was next, You could even claim it was an assassin. No one would know but the dog.

Gortash shifted slightly, and started to shiver.

A thorn through the eye or the throat. You could end this misery you've made Baldur's Gate suffer.

His heart was beating faster, and his face was sticky with sweat.

He moved just slightly and with a glance Tav saw him grimacing. His body jerked once and then a second time, as if he were being struck by something.

At that moment she did not see the man who had caused her and her former friends so much trouble, so much pain and suffering. She'd seen something like this several times before with Astarion--it was obvious he was having some type of nightmare.

Gortash's head moved up as he shifted, and after a slight pain in her side Tav realized he was trying to curl up--and her ribs were in the way.

What could have caused HIM to act like this?

All men have demons, Halsin's voice said, If he suffers, then he is among those who would find his end a mercy. Give him what he needs. Give all of Baldur's Gate what it needs.

Tav squirmed a bit and was able to bring her hand up to his throat. His pulse beat rapidly against her hand as she held it there, and with a deep exhale, she moved her hand up and threaded her fingers through his hair.

Help all who hurt, no matter who they are, she thought then, remembering one of the books on Ilmater she had read. But he is nothing if not a tyrant...which is very much against the--

Really, my dear? Astarion's voice returned, Religious rules, how utterly dull. You want to help, you always have. You need no god's rules.

It could simply be a normal nightmare. The thought surprised her, and then she felt foolish for not thinking of it sooner. A tyrant fears losing his power, and sees enemies in every shadow.

But still, she was almost certain it wasn't THAT. Fear of losing his position wouldn't result in the--

"...belong...belong...to..." The words came weak and low from his lips, just above a whisper.

Again, Gortash's body jerked, and Tav was on the point of waking him up when it suddenly happened on its own.

She pretended to still be asleep as he bolted upright.

"A dream," he said, breathing hard, "It was only a dream."

There was a long, hard exhale, and Tav expected him to get out of bed, to start the day, perhaps simply get his trousers on, go to his desk, and work. But he didn't. He lay back down beside her, and lay a hand on the bump of her belly.

"It will be different for you," he said in so low a voice it was almost a whisper. "It WILL be different."

Tav moved slowly beneath his hand, trying to mimic how she usually woke up. She shivered slightly and gave a half-sleepy look up as she mumbled, "...good morning...what'd you do with the sheets?"

She could hardly think on what she'd just heard--but she wondered, what did he mean? What was it Gortash was so insistent on being DIFFERENT for the child she carried?

"I found the room too warm," Gortash said, "But I see the dog has other ideas."

"He's been like that since I...well..." Tav gestured at her belly. "A natural thing, I imagine. Scratch, are you awake?"

The furry head perked up.

"I'm sure you're hungry...now we're both awake you should go down to the kitchens and see what the cook will give you."

She gave him a good petting and after she stopped Scratch hopped off the bed. He moved straight to the door and gripping the ring attached to its knob, pulled it open enough to give him space to leave.

"The animal is too clever for his own good," Gortash mused. Then he looked back towards Tav. "And as for you..."

"What about me?"

"Indeed...what about you?" he gave a brief smirk, and pulled the covers back up over her. "As you will be taking the next few days to rest and recuperate, perhaps you should sleep a bit longer. A lady in your condition needs to think of her health."

"Very well, then," Tav said, imitating his way of speaking, "If my lord desires it, then he'll have it."

Gortash left the bed, but cast a backward glance at her with a strangely soft expression. An expression which was quickly masked over with his satisfaction a second later.

-------------------------------------

The several days largely consisted of sleeping and eating--something Tav was almost glad for. Fatigue had come as if from nowhere, but the midwives and older servants told her this was normal. Her body was swelling with a child who would be drawing its strength and all it needed from her, so to be tired was only natural. And because of the pregnancy she could take nothing for the fever that had made her so mindsick--so it was better to rest as much as possible anyway.

(She did not say to anyone, not even to herself, that one of the nicer parts of this seclusion was waking up with her husband curled close. Nor did she want to think about what that meant.)

After a tenday she was declared healthy again. Life proceeded for three months in much the same way as it had since her pregnancy had been confirmed--with the slight difference of Gortash's eagerness being less intense. Things to tend to in Rivington, talks with those of the Open Hand Temple or with several refugees she had tasked with seeing to certain aspects of her efforts.

Some were now beginning to call the refugee camp, which was rapidly filling with shacks and small houses, a proper village. Certainly there were some outspoken sorts who still didn't care for the presence of these refugees, but Tav reminded herself that if they refused to be civil, there were ways of dealing with them.

Dangerous thoughts, came Halsin's voice, the first time she thought such a thing. To be rude is not a crime.

But to speak violence IS, she thought in reply.

The issue passed. For now, the rudeness stayed just that. She had other things on her mind anyway--like the last public event she was to attend before her confinement. At seven months gone she felt entirely too large for so fancy a gown, but Gortash insisted on it as he always had.

"You are a Duchess, my dear, and that means looking the part. How many times must I remind you...or are you trying to irk me?"

That came in reply to her complaints about the needless excess of lace work on her split sleeves, as they descended the stairs that lead into the ballroom.

"Why would I want to do that?"

That seemed to satisfy him.

Tav danced only four times that evening, and rested after each of the first three. The first two were with certain bothersome nobles who wanted Gortash's favor and did so by praising her efforts to the "lesser" of the city, and how charity began at home, and many other pointless flatteries. What they wanted was his favor in one way or another--one wanted some sort of tax break, and the other wanted a contract of some kind with the Gondians. Both seemed to speak over her, as though she couldn't understand the subject matter, and she played into that belief in the interest of politeness.

And advantage. She realized months ago that when one appeared dim at court, especially if one was a woman--that with the right prompting, those who thought themselves above her would practically run at the mouth.

She was refreshing herself with some of the fruitier drinks (lamenting her inability to drink the wine) when Cazador appeared at her elbow.

"You are stronger than you look," he said, "To be up and on your feet all night in your condition."

"Thank you, Lord Szarr," Tav replied politely. "Perhaps you come to sample the wine?"

"Wine is but the first of the things I wish to drink," he replied evenly. "Might I have the next dance?"

Tav tensed, but accepted. If he thought her dim, too, there might be a few hints to be gained by conversation with him. Some weakness, or failing, or...something of that sort.

"You never struck me as the type to enjoy dancing," Tav said, keeping her eyes on Cazador's despite the glower.

"I have an image to maintain...a thing which you seem not to understand. That display in Elfsong has gone all over Baldur's Gate."

"I was very ill that day, Lord Szarr, and ended up lying in for more than a week. Fortunate it was that nothing worse happened. And fortunate am I for having so attentive a husband."

"But you didn't want him, did you?"

"Of course I do," Tav replied with an edge in her voice, "And I resent the implication otherwise."

"We both know you still yearn for the imperfections of my wayward...son," Cazador drawled, "And judging from the scars on your neck...his inadequacies are not all you indulged. I did try, you know, to keep him from doing such things...but he was always disobedient. Willful."

"He did only what I allowed." A twinge in her gut had a wave of nausea rise into her throat. "But of course, I would never allow it from anyone else."

"Your compliance is not necessarily a factor."

"Any fanged beast who put his teeth on me would quickly find themselves without the tools of their trade," Tav replied.

"Astarion has been a terrible influence on you. Or perhaps you were on him...perhaps YOU are to blame for his loss. Perhaps I should seek reparations."

Another slow series of turns.

"If a fanged one thinks to come to me hoping to reclaim what he thinks is his," Tav replied, fighting back the nausea, "I would do to him what I did to the army of the Absolute. What I did to the cambion."

Quiet fury burned in Cazador's eyes.

"You should remember your place," he said in a dangerous tone, "You are merely a vessel for the Archduke. A tool to be used, and then likely discarded when he has what he needs of you."

"Not all masters are so cruel," Tav said as the dance ended. "And some collars are more pleasant to wear than others."

She started to turn away.

"It's terribly rude to walk away without thanking your partner for the dance. You should avoid it in the future."

"Quite a thing to hear YOU say that." She paused, and added, "And I am not one of your...bastards. You don't own me."

Gods, it was thrilling to speak so. Tav knew she wasn't untouchable, but seeing the shifting of Cazador's face as he struggled to contain his anger was too amusing not to prod at him.

"I could."

He said it to her back, and she didn't reply.

---------------------------------------

Gortash, naturally taking the last dance, was furious to hear what had gone on.

"Say the word," he leaned in as close as he could, and said the words through his teeth. "Say the word and I will have his head on a platter for you tomorrow. He's already a dead man walking, but if you want him gone now--"

"Not now, my dear," Tav replied, loud enough for others to hear before lowering her voice again. "In this state, what would I do with it? I assume you will be investigating him anyway...and bringing me that infuriating head later on when you've taken everything from him."

"A desperate man will do desperate things," Gortash replied. "Surely you understand that?"

"I'm so glad I have you to instruct me on these things. I understand, yes. But I only thought...that he does not fear death. None of them do, I think. Orin certainly didn't. Which is why I wouldn't recommend it...at least, not swift death."

"Vengeful, aren't we?"

"Only to those who deserve it."

Gortash smirked, then leaned forward and whispered, "We decide who deserves it."

A sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her like a shot.

And Tav realized that maybe, perhaps, the last ember of resistance to all this was finally burning low.

------------------------------------

The babe had been so quiet the entire pregnancy that several times Tav had worried it was ill, or sick, or that something else was wrong. But from what the healers had had to say, it was perfectly healthy...just not inclined to move.

"It is not common," one of the midwives had said, "But it does happen, my lady. Sometimes a babe simply does not move, or it moves so lightly you think it is nothing more than a spasm in your stomach."

A month after the ball, as the spring rains were coming down, the babe seemed to do a complete switch. She was napping in her own room, and was awakened by a bolt of pain ripping through her belly.

At first she thought it merely indigestion, or some ailment of the stomach. But twenty minutes later, just as she was beginning to doze off, it happened again. When a third time came, she stumbled out of bed and headed for the door.

A guard halfway down the hall came running when she called after him.

"Call--call the midwife," Tav groaned, "I think the babe is coming."

It took ten minutes, but things were sorted--more pillows brought to help prop her up, water boiled, and many other things she was in too much pain to care about.

"It's too soon," she said, as another painful contraction moved across her belly. "It's--"

"Don't think on that," Berlina said. She'd been tasked with both fetching things and general moral support, as she had birthed four of her own children. "Just push, my lady, like they tell you."

"My husband--" Tav took in a deep breath, to attempt to steady herself, "--has anyone told him?"

Lightning flashed out the window, like the storm outside was mirroring her own turmoil. She didn't hear the reply, if there was one.

This is what he wanted you for. Any woman could do this...so that means...you can too. She tried to reassure herself, but with the contractions getting closer and closer together, it was hard to do it. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine, this is natural, this is normal...

Thunder struck, loud and angry. She gave a sudden sob--and yielded to the sudden overwhelming urge to weep as the pain suddenly worsened. It hurt, worse than any wound she'd ever received.

In this way did the next hour pass, with both the storm outside and the pain in her belly growing ever worse--like she was being split in two, from the inside out. The storm seemed almost to mirror her pain, and had she been able to listen she would have heard two of the midwives' assistants saying it was the worst storm in years.

The hard labor was even worse. No matter how much they reassured her, how much they praised her for doing well, that she was pushing just fine and need only keep it up--she felt this could go no other way but wrong.

It seemed an eternity spent in unbearable torture, in a horrible ever-changing mixture of numbness, exhaustion, and suffering before she heard the words of sweet relief.

"I can see the head, my lady. I can see--a few more pushes, and you will be done. Just a few more!"

With hands clenching at the sheets beneath her, tears streaming down her face, with every fiber of her being swearing she'd never let Gortash touch her again--Tav managed the last few pushes.

Little praises fell from Berlina's lips as the dwarf woman wiped the sweat from her brow and the tears from her cheeks.

But Tav heard not a word of it. All she heard were the cries of the babe.

"A boy, my lady!"

They lifted the babe for her to see before they cleaned it, and she reached up her arms at once.

A male. Weak. This voice was haughty at best, but whether it was Astarion or Halsin didn't matter. Tav ignored it in favor of the overpowering urge to hold the babe. Her son.

They wiped his face, ensured he was well, and then lay him on her chest. It was an incredible feeling she was entirely unprepared for, but all her focus centered on that purplish face, the wispy light hair, the fingers, the toes, the whole small world she now carried in her arms.

"He's--so beautiful--"

She sobbed not knowing why, only that she was overwhelmed with SOMETHING, and despite the crying could only be happy. It was over, she had done what was required of her--and yet this little thing in her arms was her son, HER son...

I'm a mother now. I'm a mother. Why is it hitting me so hard?

Tav could only barely make herself cooperate to allow the midwives to clean up both her and the babe, and despite the rising exhaustion, fought to stay awake. She was determined not to miss a moment of anything done, and in fact demanded they do everything they needed to within her sight.

Ten fingers, ten toes...he was all drow, except in the face, where it appeared his father's influence had mostly won out. The nose, the cut of his tiny jaw, and--she found herself sobbing once again as she looked at the little face.

How could anyone think something so precious to be weak?

He opened his eyes.

Dark, like his father's.

Despite herself, she smiled.

They urged her to feed him, and she moved the babe to her breast. The pain wasn't gone but it was mostly numbed, and now she felt a rush of rightness. Despite all the ills that had brought her here, despite the pain that had lead her to marry his father, she knew instantly she would never regret having him.

"As nature intended," she mumbled, finally beginning to relax.

(After she finished feeding him and then burping him, one of the midwives not so subtly cast a sleeping spell on her. It was clear she would not do it on her own.)

--------------------------------------

Tav woke to the feeling of no infant in her arms, and immediately panicked. She looked around the room, wondering for a horrible moment if she had dreamed the whole thing--but her belly was well reduced from what it had been before, so it MUST have been real.

But where was her baby?

"You should be quiet," said a voice from the corner. Gortash was seated there--and if the past months had not been enough to soften her towards him, the sight of him now certainly would have.

As it was, the sight of him with the tiny blue bundle in his arms was making her feel things she couldn't quite articulate.

"I slept, and..."

"The midwives said you needed it," he replied, without looking up at her.

For a moment she worried he was angry. Then that since she had given him what he needed, surely now he would simply be rid of her. Perhaps even have her killed.

But he didn't give so much as a hint that he was considering ANY of those things.

His focus seemed to be wholly on the babe in his arms, and even when she moved shakily out of bed and moved over in his direction, he didn't meet her eyes.

"Have I--done anything wrong?" she asked softly. "What are you doing?"

Gortash looked up at her, with an almost desolate expression on his face. Then he looked swiftly back down at the sleeping babe in his arms.

"Trying to figure out why."

And he said no more.

[shuuenka]

haino steampunk au notes

ex kingsguard, now bounty hunter Cyno x librarian Alhaitham Cyno who became a vessel for ancient god when he was still a kingsguard. Alhaitham, a ticking bomb that tries to uncover the secrets of the gem embedded in his chest. They meet at cementary and team up to uncover secret government project that they both have ties to.

Cyno's backstory:

*warning: character death, kinda

He was a captain of kingsguard, very thorough and capable. But due to that, he also got many enemies on his back - even in those who worked closest to him.

He started getting suspicious of one of the King's consultant's - Azar, doings and started in secret investigating the man. It seems that Azar was informed about it.

Once his team was investigating ancient ruins as they got a tip that something illegal and of high risk was happening in there.

Upon investigation, nothing turned up. It was a trap. Trap for Cyno alone, as he ended up in the middle of conspiracy against him. Afterall, he was too through, too much for certain parties to stomach. And on that moonless night he died, a blade to his throat, bullet to his gut and a bullet through his heart.

He died, bleeding out in the middle of ruins. But something happened, and he opened his eyes again. After a while he would recall the dream state he found himself just few moments before. He, small against glowing jackal golden eyes.

He was offered a deal by the guide of the dead himself. To stop brewing calamity and he will be offered life back again. And Cyno agreed, if he could enact justice again, live again he would do it.

Hermanubis showed him one hint of the god's true intention for Cyno - to follow the thread he started plucking when he was still the captian. The one that got him murdered in the middle of the night.

Cyno obviously couldn't go back to the Kingsguard. His death was announced as a sacrifice for the country, his funeral most grand. He became a bounty hunter - he needed new life, new resources, new network to start working again.

And oh how terrifying hunter he became. With Hermanubis blessings he was quicker, swifter, stronger. His senses sharper, his movement more agile and precise. As he was proclaimed dead and his physical appearance changed a bit - previously he sported dark hair and equally dark eyes, now his hair turned white and his eyes red.

In just but a few years he became urban legend.

Alhaitham's backstory:

He was just a gifted kid, attended prestigious school, then stopped and was homeschooled. The he came back to study ancient languages at university. During that time he got asked if he could help with translating some ancient texts for some sort of academic research one of proffesors was involved with. With a promise of this allowing him to pass classess fot the year he took on the challenge. Especially since this would allow him access to many interesting for him writings.

He didn't know what the research was about tough, the text were concering stuff like alchemy, philiosophers stone and things like that. But he delivered on the promise of translating the text to his professors - prof. Azar.

Once when he was staying in the university's library for research purposes, deep into the night, he got little too curious.

He overheard a conversation about the philosophers stone - the very essence of the study he was translating for; and followed the voices into underground laboratory, nobody knew about before.

Very unfortunately for everyone involved there was accident in the said laboratory. Azar was very sure he was on a breakthrough with the philosophers stone, but he only caused big explosion underground the university.

There were some casualities in the close knit research group.

As for Alhaitham a shard of the stone got stuck into his chest. Deep. He shouldn't be alive - yet he was.

Breathing heavily, bleeding, he escaped the underground before anyone could find him.

The incident got covered up by the University - a pipeline gone wrong in the underground causing the explosion.

He recovered on his own. Suprisingly, unless he intentionally tried to remove the shard, he didn't feel any discomfort. As if the shard got safely tucked in his chest, as if it was supposed to be there.

Alhaitham did graduate - with honors no less. He didn't hear anything else about the project, his professor only wrapped things up neatly at the end and thanked for his contributions.

He inherited a library from his Grandmother, a library he now keeps open and maintains. In meatime he keeps researching the gem and tries to put clues togheter.