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moonlight-prose · 4 months ago

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angel of the morning

a/n: about a month ago i got an idea for a threesome fic and well it has lived in the back of my head since then. and normally i wouldn't write smut with wade, but this one actually made me feral. thankfully the promptober list this year gave me the perfect opportunity to bring it to life. so i give you a filthy and fun fic brought to you not from the execs at disney, cause let's be honest this would kill them on sight.

logan promptober: day nine - deadpool

summary: wade has a proposition to offer: he will sit quietly (a complete lie) as logan shows him how fucking you properly is done. only it's not up to logan...it's up to you. his sweet angel of the morning.

word count: 3.4k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader x wade wilson

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MDNI 18+ ONLY!!, threesome activities, voyeurism, bondage, wade wilson breaks the fourth wall, oral (m receiving), gags, coming untouched, p in v sex, fingering, cumplay, squirting, logan is rough with the pussy, gratuitous descriptions of filthy acts, biting, unedited + unbetad.

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME SERIES MASTERLIST

"Think of it as a learning opportunity peanut." A glass shattered on impact - ricocheting off the wall and lodged into Wade's chest. Neither the pain nor the blood could get him to stop talking though. "Possibly a way to work out those Hulk-like anger issues."

"No," Logan snapped, itching to rip the voice box out of Wade's throat. Maybe then he'd get an hour tops of silence as the fucker healed.

"You won't even ask her?" he whined. Truly the entire thing reeked of desperation. Wade knew how pathetic he looked right at this moment; whether he cared was an entirely different story.

"Shut the fuck–"

"Ask me what?"

They looked like two deer caught in headlights mere seconds before death. Wade's lips curled into a smile bright enough to rival the sunlight that poured in through the open window. Logan however looked as if he witnessed a ghost climbing out of the shitty painted walls to your right. You stopped inches away from the shards of glass that lined the floor—your eyebrows raised in disbelief at the sight.

How they both wound up in your apartment still remained a mystery to you. Logan went home before you even fell asleep, promising to return with your usual Sunday breakfast from Rosemary's. You came to the conclusion—given the food on the table—that Wade must have followed him. Intent on being a third wheel. Again.

"N-Nothing," Logan replied, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson.

You grinned, eyes trailing down to his jeans that sat snug on his hips. "Are you sure?"

"Sweet angel of the morning can I proposition you for a moment? Don't worry I'm not selling you a car. Although I could." Wade poured coffee into your new favorite mug—a tiny painting of Wolverine sat neatly on the front. "This is more of a learning experience."

"Learning what exactly?" You took the mug with a smile, entirely aware of Logan's eyes tracking your every step.

He thought you were going to run; you leaned into his side to prove you would stay. Whatever question Wade was intent on asking, it clearly touched a nerve. One you had to fix before another mishap occurred in your relationship. Logan wasn't the greatest at communication, but you could make up for his lack of talking in a language he understood well enough. Physical touch.

"Have you ever studied the art—nay the science—of a threesome?"

You choked on your coffee.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be enough of a warning for Wade to stop speaking. "There's classes dedicated to its research. I'd be a teacher, but have you met your boy toy over there? He's been alive for two hundred years. There's no way he's not danced the twisters tango."

"Twisters...tango?" Logan's hand patted your upper back as you forced the words out through a choked rasp.

"Twice the fun, three times the knot." He smiled, stepping so face you barely had a chance to stand upright before he was looking down, his finger tipping your chin gently. "Something tells me you'd be an expert."

"Get the fuck off her," Logan snapped, silver flashing in your peripheral.

You gripped his wrist in an attempt to stop the bloodshed from going even further. Cleaning broken glass from your floor was one thing. Scrubbing Wade's blood out of the carpet near your couch was another thing entirely.

The air around you grew tense as Logan's hand fell to your hip in a silent claim you felt curl at the base of your spine. Wade's smile never wavered, even as you felt your mouth dry. The offer circled in your head with a quickness that left you dizzy and gasping for breath. A threesome wasn't the most outlandish of propositions—hell your ex boyfriend had even asked at one point in your relationship.

But a threesome with both of them. Men who never faltered, never grew tired. Keeping up with Logan took the majority of your energy some nights—his insatiable need to have you became an overwhelming trait you grew to crave. Yet the thought of Wade joining in on that. The blood rushed to your head at the very concept, your heart ramming against your chest with each breath.

Logan tensed which gave you the answer you were looking for.

He wasn't worried about his own feelings. He merely wanted you to feel safe. There would never be another day you were put in harm's way because of something he caused. This was simply another one of those moments; a time where the choice remained entirely up to you.

"Drop it mouth–"

"How exactly would it happen?"

They froze, mouths gaping and eyes fixed on your inquiring face. What must have started out as a joke - something for Wade to relentlessly tease Logan over—became something else entirely. Before you could laugh it off, push past whatever awkwardness lingered in the air. Wade's smile returned—eyes alight in a type of joy you'd only seen come from him watching The Great British Bake Off.

Or cocaine.

"So glad you asked angel."

"God this feels like a teacher student porno. Except instead of me getting bent over a desk for being a bad boy I get to watch the teachers fuck." Wade practically leapt out of his skin as Logan tied the knot around his wrists. Pulling until a ring of white formed around the skin. He'd lose feeling in his hands, but something told you that remained part of the appeal. "Do I get to ask questions? In case there's a test?"

You smiled, sitting on the chair stuffed in the corner of your room. "I don't think the professor would like that, Wade."

A soft snarl emanated from Logan's chest, his hands chest heaving with each shift as he did his best not to look at you directly. The bulge on his jeans remained evident enough of what he thought of this. How he had to resist tearing through your clothes to get to what lay beneath.

Logan and self control never went hand in hand. Yet he held on by the skin of his teeth in order to help you settle into a familiar state of comfort. You silently thanked him for that - your nerves jumping with every second that passed.

"You're not gonna fuckin' talk," Logan replied gruffly, pulling out a spare leather belt he kept in your drawer for when he stayed over. "You wanted a learnin' experience. So that's what this is."

"But how am I supposed to learn if I can't–"

The belt went into his mouth harshly, yanking his head back as Logan pulled it closed with surprising speed. You began to wonder if he had done this before. Gagged someone with the efficiency of a pro who partook in sexual activities far more adventurous than what you'd been giving him. Maybe that's what this was all about. Dipping your toe in the waters to see if this experience was meant for you.

His thumb smoothing your furrowed brows pulled you from your thoughts. "You can say no honey. Don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"Logan–"

He shook his head, dropping to his knees before you. "If you say no I'll heat up the breakfast and Wade can put on a movie. Yeah?"

"And if I say yes?" you breathed.

"Then we take it as slow as you want."

The answer lay on the tip of your tongue, begging to be put out into the world. So you pulled him in for a kiss. Your fingers dug into his hair as you licked behind his teeth with a soft moan - the ache from last night building once more in the crevices and curves of your body. Wade echoed your sounds with a few of his own, body writhing to get closer to the edge of the bed. Logan however consumed you entirely.

He rose to his feet, hand cupping your chin to keep you in place. Spit trailed down your chin and for a moment you felt the urge to wipe it away. To clean your body in case that's not what he desired at this time. He cut you off with a growl, licking at the wet smear of spit before letting it fall back on your tongue. His thumb dragging the rest down the length of your throat.

"I want you fuckin' messy honey," he muttered. "Gotta show off my pretty little thing."

A gasp pierced the air, your body jolting at the command. This was familiar to you. Logan leading the dance as you trailed along with the hopes he'd see how good you could be. How much you longed to please him. Somehow the aspect of your relationship flipped when it came to sex. He was no longer tentative or worried there was a chance you might find him repulsive.

When it came to this Logan understood your love for him held no ands, ifs, or buts.

You'd never let him touch you if you didn't love him—that remained clear in his mind. It allowed him the chance to breathe.

"How about we give him a better view."

Whimpering out your unintelligible response, you let him move you with ease. He took the chair, spreading his legs wide for you to prop yourself on his thighs. Tugging at the t-shirt you slept in with a soft grunt he pulled it up and over your head—the softness of your skin on full display. He could practically feel you dripping onto your inner thighs, coating your body in that familiar tangy sweetness.

The thought made him dizzy—his fingers digging sharply into your hips. A stunted groan echoed from the bed, Wade's eyes flicking madly from your breasts to the shiny slick that covered your pussy. His cock strained against his gray sweatpants, a stain leaking into the fabric and turning it a shade darker. If his hands weren't tied Logan had no doubt he'd be fisting his cock to the sight of you naked and wanting.

And what a fucking sight that would be. Seeing this mouthy asshole finally grow quiet just from a mere glimpse at your body.

"What do you think honey? Should we free him?" Logan pointedly looked at Wade's groin—his chin hooking onto your shoulder as his hands slid along your thighs.

You whined, your ass pushing back into his hard cock. "He looks like he needs it, baby."

"Be a good girl and pull it out. Wanna see how wet he is."

"Okay."

Sliding off him, you dropped to your hands and knees, crawling the short distance towards Wade who looked ready to cum right then and there. He sucked in a broken gasp, his hips bucking up into nothing when your hands gripped the edge of his sweats. Your lips dragging along his clothed shoulder—fingers tugging down the waistband until it hung around his knees.

"Oh," you sighed, eyes fixed on the ruddy length of his red and purple cock. It practically dripped like a fucking faucet—spilling onto what sparse hair stuck to the base.

Blistering heat filled your body at the sight of his cock throbbing in your face, the length of it sticky and shiny. Wade never mentioned how much he wanted you. Or perhaps it was the fact that both you and Logan were giving him the show of a lifetime. Indulging him in a fantasy that felt like his imagination came to life.

"Give it a lick," Logan said. "Tell me how he tastes."

Hesitation was nowhere to be found in your body; the thrill of being told what to do shot through your stomach. Wade's eyes rolled back into his head when your mouth closed around the tip, suckling him in between hollowed cheeks—your tongue sliding through the slit.

A choked moan broke free around the belt, spit flying down his throat. You met his noise with one of your own, slick smearing across your thighs, your pussy fluttering at the salty tang of him spread across your tongue.

"That's enough."

You sat back on your heels—eyes meeting Wade's bleary gaze. The both of you were torn to shreds from the inside out. Pieces dispersed in a mess on the floor. Only for Logan to gather what remained—intent on putting you back together.

"C'mere honey," he huffed, gathering you back in his arms.

Logan's touch was relentless. Quick strokes along your bare thighs as you settled in his lap—teeth nipping along the line of your shoulder until pain bloomed beneath the pleasure. Each press of his hands made you melt into his chest, back pressing to his bare chest. The warmth of his arms became something you latched onto.

A constant source of comfort, of a promise to never let you sink below the waters.

You spread your legs over his thighs slowly in a show of revealing your pussy to the man across from you—his eyes practically glued to your pulsing hole. How it fluttered each time Logan sunk his teeth in. How you could feel it leak enough slick to drink down. You wanted to guide his face closer, see if he would like a taste, but Logan had other ideas.

The echo of his belt undoing seared a hole in your chest. Your body vibrated with anticipation—heart hammering a quick timed beat that left you breathless. He pushed you up, the slide of his cock pushing through your glistening lips drew a soft moan to the surface. Your fingers were a tight grip on the sides of the chair, and for a moment you felt a numbing sensation trickle into the palms of your hands.

"She's needy for it huh," Logan boasted, tapping the head against your clit to watch you jump. "So ready to be fucked."

You whined, loud enough to echo off the walls. "P-Please."

"So polite." His hand gripped your hips and in a swift thrust he pushed past your entrance, filling you until your mouth dropped in a pitiful moan. "And fuckin' tight. Don't tell me you like being watched."

A gasp tore from your throat, hips pushing back to take him right down to the base. The burning stretch only helped to drive you even higher. Wade's moans were a muffled chorus in the background, an audience member enjoying his free show. And for a brief moment you opened your eyes to find his gaze.

Tears streamed down his cheeks—agony glistening in his blown out pupils. But it was his cock that grabbed your attention. Purple and strained and aching for someone to touch him. Saliva filled your mouth, a high moan slipping past your parted lips.

"I knew it," Logan grunted, grinding up into you. "My dirty girl. Look at him. He's begging for it."

"L-Logan."

"Give your old man a kiss." He gripped your chin roughly, dragging your lips to his as his tongue invaded your mouth. Sucking the taste of Wade off your tongue with a hoarse moan.

He let you set your own pace, settling back into the chair to give you space and keep you steady. With stunted movements you lifted yourself off his cock and sat back down. A sharp cry bouncing off the walls, each thrust forcing the head of his cock right up against your walls. The slap of skin mixed with Wade's sounds—the wet squelch of your pussy sucking Logan back in echoed filthily in the room.

A sinful euphony of sex that had your toes curling and chest heaving.

Wade's eyes flicked between where the two of you were connected and the bounce of your breasts. The harsh thrusts began to force his cock to jolt—precum pouring into his lap and staining the sheets below. He'd never get tired of this sight. You entirely lost in chasing your pleasure as Logan watched proudly below.

"I-It's hard," you gasped, thighs trembling with each shift.

Logan tutted under his breath. "I know honey. Let me finish for you."

You weren't prepared for the ruthless pace he set. His hands became a vice-like grip on your hips with each pound of his cock into you, the sounds you made nowhere near anything you'd heard before. He fucked you without mercy. Every thrust punctuated with a biting growl—his cock slamming repeatedly into that perfect spot along your walls.

Nails ripped at the chair's arms, your body a shaking mess in his hold, and you could barely see straight in front of you. Wrenching your eyes open, you focused on Wade—your mouth forming a permanent shriek of Logan's name that closer you got to shattering. You watched him struggle to free his hands. His body trembling on the edge of the bed.

"Bet he can't fuck you like this," Logan spit, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Watch and fuckin' learn mouth."

"Logan!" you sobbed, the hot swell of tears spilling rapidly down your cheeks. "I'm gonna. Oh f-fuck–"

"Yeah you are." He yanked you back, his teeth setting into the skin of your shoulder, forming another ringed mark that would serve as a reminder to who you belonged to. A mark of his claim imprinted in your flesh.

The swift slap to your clit wrenched a choked sob from your throat, your eyes rolling back with the second hit. You held onto the edge by the skin of your teeth, your hands moving to grip his wrist. Breath became obsolete with each move and with a harsh third slap you broke with a garbled moan of his name. A wet gush splattered against your thigh, your body shaking viscerally in his tight hold as he came with a broken whine.

The harsh thrusts forced another wave of searing bliss through your body, a second stream of cum spilling onto the hardwood floors. Your eyes were blurred with tears, mouth sucking in sharp gasps, but Wade's pain muffled cry drew your attention back to the present moment.

His hips bucked up into nothing, eyes rolled back and spit drooling down his shirt. The veins of his neck were strained with each shift of his body—for a moment you worried he would choke. Until he came with a muddled shout, cum shooting up to his torso and splashing beneath his chin. The mere sight of it had you clenching down around Logan - your mouth parted in complete awe.

"Shit," Logan gasped, eyes wide and cheeks flushed crimson.

"C-Can I?"

He tapped your thigh. "Go on honey."

On shaky legs you practically fell to the floor and dragged yourself towards Wade. Your mouth immediately swallowing his cock with a hazy sigh—tongue licking up the heady taste of his cum. It slid down your throat, warmed the insides of your body. And Wade looked down at you with eyes full of adoration. A sight you'd never seen him wear in your presence.

Logan shuffled to his feet, quickly moving to undo the restraints. Only for Wade's hands to press against your head—shoving his softened cock down your throat with a soft fuck.

"You guys would make a fucking fortune on Only Fans," he grunted, another spurt of warmth spilling into your mouth.

Logan growled. "Count yourself lucky mouth. She may not want this again."

You grinned, pulling off to press a messy kiss to the still leaking tip. "This was fun." Your voice was hoarse, body covered in a sheen of sweat, yet they regarded you with an emotion you felt weigh heavy at the base of your chest.

A feeling you never believed might occur in your life.

"Logan?" The warmth of his hand spread down to your chest when he cupped your face, swiping at the mess on your lips. "How about that breakfast?"

"Anythin' for you honey," he vowed.

"You guys ever seen the movie Oklahoma?" Wade butted in, his forehead knocking gently against yours before Logan pulled you to your feet.

You laughed, dizzy from the high that still coursed through your veins. A flannel was draped over your shoulders, fingers working to button them up before he got frustrated.

"Might inspire a second round of teacher, teacher, student."

A breathy giggle was muffled against Logan's lips in a swift kiss. "Isn't that musical?"

"It's not just a musical sweet angel. It's a lifestyle. Literally for some people who live in well...Oklahoma."

Logan groaned, dragging you behind him in an attempt to stop the conversation short. You merely called over your shoulder in response. Wade stumbled after you buck naked—his shirt and sweats discarded on the floor in favor of giving the world a view yet to be forgotten. You eyed his chest with a smile, even as Logan palmed your ass to bring you closer.

"Play it." You grinned, hand sliding down to cup Logan through his jeans. "We'll see what happens."

"For fucks sake."

note: i don't even know if this is good. but i hope y'all enjoyed it. drink some water!

#logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader x wade wilson #wolverine x reader x deadpool #wade wilson x f!reader #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson x you #wade wilson x y/n #wade wilson smut #logan howlett #wade wilson #my writing

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gay-dorito-dust · 6 months ago

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I saw the Dad! Stanley, could you make the Dad! Stanford one? Like how his reaction come back after 30 years saw Reader already become responsible adult

-🐈‍⬛

Ford kept a picture of you -his life’s greatest achievement- in his pocket at all times during his time in the multiverse, reminding him of who he had waiting for him back home when he felt as though he was at his limit.

Being a father was never on the docket but the moment you entered his life he dedicated himself to raising you as best as he could, even going so far as to do extensive amounts of research in preparation for any and every vital moment of your life.

You had became a pivotal part of his life and made everything he did even more important for he was doing it for you and the future you’d live in. He wanted you to grow up prepared for anything and everything life would throw at you, along with how to handle yourself for the inevitable day where he couldn’t be with you anymore. (He hates it as much as you did)

He commemorates everything you did and dedicated parts of his journals to you and your growth or things that you did that made him laugh. (You wore his coat once and Ford was fighting the demons within him known as cuteness aggression because of how it swamped your tiny form.)

An excerpt:

‘They look at me like I’m something and I’m worried that one day they’ll grow up and not view me as such when they see what I’ve done when they slept soundly in their crib, but all I do, I do for them.’

However this desire to watch you grow and be apart of your important developmental stages would be cut short when he fell into the portal when you were just 8 years old.

His last words before the portal closed entirely to Stanley were: ‘no! Y/n! I haven’t done everything I’ve wanted to do with them yet! Go trick or treating with them on Summerween! Go Fishing! Watch them grow up! Stanley, don’t leave them alone, they really hate being alone!’

And raise you Stanley did as he would try his hardest to keep your memory of Stanford alive and well, thinking it was the best he could do after accidentally taking his brother from you. He’d even make a whole album for when Ford comes back from the day he fell into the portal.

Stanley didn’t miss a single moment to capture you doing something adorable (dressed up as a paranormal detective for the summerween he took you out on) or similar to Ford himself (becoming curious about about the mystery of Gravity falls after an incident with a bunny demon and even making a series of journals yourself)

Stanley made sure to capture every little thing he could from you helping him run the shack, to you making your first friends, your little experiments on how much food Soos could stuff in his face without getting full. Which was fun until he always threw up.

You were so much like Ford it hurt Stanley to look at you sometimes because all he could see was his brother in you that he had to look away sometimes, and he knew that Ford would be so fucking proud of the person you grew up to be but also knew that he would hate himself for not being there for it all.

So when the day came when Ford finally retired home, his first words as he stepped out of the portal were; ‘where’s y/n?’

Dipper, Mabel, Soos and Stanley could only watch as you, a full grown adult of 38, stepped forward with tears in your eyes when meeting face to face with the man who raised you before his brother took over, reaching out to him whispering ‘dad?’

Ford was shocked to say the least when he looked over at this adult calling him dad, only for his brain to work fast and connect the dots as he pulls out the picture of you as a child from his coat pocket and made the connection that you and the smiling child in the picture he held close to his heart were one in the same.

You were now all grown up and he wasn’t there to see it happen with his own eyes, something that broke his heart into a million pieces knowing that he never got the chance to see it himself! The coat that hung off of your frame was his, he could clearly tell but it didn’t swamp your form like it use to, it suited you and the makeshift journal Ford saw you had clutched in your hand and knew you were his child in more ways then one.

You had his curiosity and his need to understand the unknown to great but sometimes dangerous depths, god he missed you so fucking much, his sweet child and his sweet child you’ll always will be in his eyes as he watched as you quickly walked towards him and hugged his frozen form tightly as you wept in his shoulder.

‘Dad.’ You said. ‘I’m all grown up.’

Ford chuckled weakly as he too found himself unable to keep the tears at bay, ‘I can see that sweetie pie,’ he said as he held you tightly against him. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to see it.’ He adds knowing that this will be one of his life regrets until the day he died, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use this time to catch up with you and learn all about you all over again.

‘It’s okay.’ You reassured him, clinging onto him as though he’d disappeared again. ‘It’ll give me an excuse to talk your ear off about all my expeditions, my theories and my thoughts on everything that’s been going off here.’

‘They really are cut from the very same cloth as you.’ Stanley told Stanford as he watched you tuck Dipper and Mabel into bed that night. ‘They’re smart and even graduated from a prestigious college at the top of their class, they were even valedictorian just like you back in highschool, but they came back to gravity falls because they wanted to dedicated themselves to helping me in getting you back.’ He adds as Stanford looks at his twin with tears in his eyes.

‘And I wasn’t there to watch them walk across that stage…’ he mutters and Stanley pulls out a photo that he had taken during your graduation ceremony and gave it to Ford who could only smile weakly as he took you in. You had blossomed so much when he was away and it broke Ford even more when he realised that he knew little to nothing about you now.

‘I’m such a terrible father.’ He tells Stanley who grips him by the shoulders and looks him dead in the eye.

‘Hey! You are not a terrible father, they love you so much that they stay up late at night trying to decipher you work in hopes of finding a lead so that they could have their father back in their life. So don’t you dare say that about yourself when they’ve nothing but miss their father for the past 30 years!’ Stanley scolded him just as you walked into the hallway after bidding dipper and Mabel goodnight.

You heard them but decided not to speak up about it, after all today had been quite emotionally exhausting and all you wanted to do was sleep. ‘I’m going to bed, good night dad, good night uncle Stan.’

‘Hold it you.’ Stanley said as he walked over to you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, pulling away as he smiled at you. ‘Night pipsqueak.’ You smiled back before looking over at Ford, wanting to go to him and Stan could see the conflict in your eyes and pushed you towards his twin before retreating to his room.

‘So I was thinking that we could go monster hunting…you know like father and child. I’ve been trying to track down this dragon like creature that’s said to live on the highest mountain of gravity falls since its conception.’ You said awkwardly as Ford smiled at you and placed a hand on your shoulder.

‘I’d be glad too sweetheart, you don’t have to ask me to spend time with you because I’ll always want to spend time with my child.’ He replied and you couldn’t help but smile widely as you hugged him tightly again. Needless to say you and Ford made up for lost time in quick succession as you both ran away from being burnt alive by the massive dragon that was originally thought to be a myth.

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #stanley pines imagines #stanford pines imagines #stanford pines imagine #ford pines imagines #ford pines imagine #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader

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aixeko · 3 months ago

Text

──────<3 MINDFUCK ༺♱༻

WEEK 4 | SINNERS SAVAGERY + APART OF @edgeray EVENT

| Synopsis | Demons linger where shadows play; in silence, hearts betray, whispers echo, and desires catch fire in the haunting depths of the night.

With every kiss, a scythe may cut, in which terror envelops one's gut; together they dance on the edge of fate, finding beauty in a love that is too late.

So let the night weave its spell, for in the dark they know so well, and though demons are whispering fright, in their twilight, the lights are ignited.

| Starring | Slasher!Arlecchino x Investigative-Psychologist!Reader

| Setting | SLASHER/SERIAL KILLER AU

| Scenario | [ ONESHOT ] SMUT Porn with plot. Long Introduction. Dark romance. Intersex Arlecchino. Manipulation. Body worship. Dacryphilia. Obsessive & sadistic Arle. Cunnilingus. Fingerfucking. Degrading & Praise Kink. Implied cannibalism. Mastrubation. Unreliable character. Female anatomy for reader, pronouns are not mentioned.

► RADIO CHANNEL [ Author note ]

⚝ TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES, OH, BLESS ME, FATHER. ⚝ Ended on a cliff hanger lmfao, I will probably expand on it since this is only ⅓ of the ideas I have for Slasher Arle. ⚝ Anyway, thank you so much to Ray for letting me participate in this event <3 Even though it’s quite late but nonetheless thank you for accepting my work as a part of your event…! ⚝ This is how I imagine Slasher Arlecchino to look like or basically arlecchino from commedia dell'arte

[ Word count: 5147 ] | Art credit: Nut_nog on Twitter | Heart divider gif

"In and every heart that is meticulously dissected by my hand has its part in orchestrating the string of fates to bring you closer to me... and further away from life, my greatest tragedy."

Those were the exact words spoken to you during a mysterious call on the very first Halloween Eve when the infamous Mirthless Harlequin made her debut as a renowned and feared killer.

Frightened citizens have declared many titles for the Mirthless Harlequin, such as The Jester who doesn't laugh, The Living Embodiment of Demons, The Surgeon, and The Heart Collector.

Yet all these titles are of little to no comparison to the true identity of the beast that lies dormant behind that twisted, sinister mask.

The muted saturation of the walls is splotched in what is most likely the victim's blood; written on it is the detail of what had transpired before the crime scene occurred, and the freshest blood drips down the wall, spelling the name of the person responsible for the attack as if in pride or apathy toward the fallen soul.

At the centre lies a chair and a small table draped in a deep velvet cloth; an organ rests atop it, the very one that would become a trademark for the killer's distorted way of leaving a mark behind. A heart, perfectly preserved with it carefully wrapped in crimson ribbons, each twist and turn creating intricate patterns that speak volumes about the attempt at humanising the organ.

Around the table, papers of various poems and photographs of the victim's missing parts were scattered across, but even with those morbid aspects, one letter in particular has caught the eyes of the world. A letter in which a cryptic note rests inside, hinting at an obsession, not towards the killing but towards the person who will, no, whom she wants to investigate and find the truth behind the "Mirthless Harlequin."

The second paragraph was quite strange, switching from the gruesome details of the first to quoting a poet and novelist for children and young adults as follows:

Walls have ears. Doors have eyes. Trees have voices. Beasts tell lies. Beware the rain. Beware the snow. Beware the man. You think you may know.

But it wasn't until the very last paragraph that you would finally choose to be the one in charge of leading the case; there your name is written repeatedly, blood surrounds it like the base of a cake, and an unknown white substance decorates it like frosting, a substance you come to identify and regret upon investigation.

A mask which you dreaded oh so much, a mask which you wanted to rip apart, and yet when that day arrived, you prayed to the Lord above to take away the sight of what lies hidden by the mask, a sight of the unmistakable face your body and soul have fallen into the grasp of.

The aroma of caffeine envelops your senses, overshadowing the aching desire to rest. Although it keeps your consciousness awake, you cannot replicate the same for your body.

Your blinks began to weigh your eyelids heavily with their slow momentum, and at any second now, you feared your body could give out on you and you would fall face-first onto the office coffee machine.

Much anticipated, your body did give out, but the harsh feeling of the appliance never came into contact with your skin; rather, a calloused yet careful hand pressed against your forehead, strong enough to prevent you from falling over.

"It's no wonder you haven't answered my messages or calls," an inviting yet foreboding voice sounds beside you. "Working overtime isn't going to earn you an easy ticket to an ongoing decade-long murder case—"

"I know, I know, you don't have to lecture me like everyone else; I have heard it about a thousand times already," you grumbled, grabbing her wrist and using it to straighten yourself before your eyes made contact with her crimson-crossed ones.

Arlecchino's eyebrows are furrowed, darkening her expression further; her eyes, which are often alluring and enigmatic due to her ability to hide the complexity of human emotions, seem to take on a more dangerous underlining.

Whatever tiredness had anchored you suddenly disappeared as she pulled your hand off hers, switching it so that she would be the one gripping your wrist. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second tightening the tension in the air and reflecting her thinning patience. She leaned down, her head turned to the side to whisper into your ear, but when she parted her lips, no words sounded out—a rare occasion showing the intensity of her frustration.

Her jaw clenches. "But you still refuse to listen; how can they depend on their best investigative psychologist when the one in question has not a single sane cell left to think with?" she asks, a rhetorical question you noted, but her words come out more like a growl demanding an answer.

"I am sane enough to work, and excuse me...! I didn't study my fucking ass off for nothing; I will have you know that just because I let you have your way with me so often doesn't mean I am not independent; for fuck's sake, I graduated with high honors!"

You expected her to fire back a remark rebutting your claims, seeing the twitch of her mouth, but she quickly caught you off guard when she placed her hand on your knee and held you over her shoulder.

You let out a surprised sound, instantly yelling with fisted hands coming into contact with her back in a furious retort, "ARLE! LET ME DOWN."

"Stop acting like a child; this is for your own health."

"I AM PERFECTLY HEALTHY-" Arlecchino interrupted you, her voice booming throughout the entire police department. "Healthy is a word that perfectly describes the OPPOSITE of what you are; you have been skipping your meals and overworking yourself to the point of passing out."

You tried giving your two cents, but sensing your next moves, her voice increased in volume. "I WILL be taking you back home, and you WILL have a warm bath, eat a proper meal, and go to sleep; end of statement."

Like a cowardly dog, when its owner is disappointed in it, you can only soak in annoyed silence and mumble incoherent, derogatory language that Arlecchino chooses to ignore.

Arriving at your car, Arlecchino put you down in the passenger seat, buckling your belt and closing the door for you before going to the driver's seat herself.

You turn to look at her the moment she has settled down, leaning as close to her as possible with the seat belt wrapped around you.

"Peruere-! You don't get it, Halloween Eve is coming up in a few days, which means she will be committing her 13th crime this year! Thirteen victims-!"

Arlecchino slowly turns her head to you, her facial features clearly expressionless to the naked eye, but to you, this is the most enraged you have ever seen her.

"Do you hear how insane you sound right now? You're obsessed. To think a criminal has you acting this way; I would even dare say you sound downright in love with this murderer." Arlecchino leaned in closer, and instinctively you flinched away slightly. "Don't tell me that you would prioritise your parasocial relationship with a killer over the person whom you married." Although it doesn't sound like a question, it was phrased like one by her tone.

You bite your bottom lip and slump back into your seat with an audible groan; it wasn't because you couldn't answer the question, no, far from it. If it were any normal argument between you two, then you would've easily answered no; you wouldn't choose a killer over her, your lover, but the fact that she would assume such things from you has hit a spot you never knew she could. How can she think so lowly of me to presume the worst betrayal of all, obsessive towards THAT forsaken woman? Can someone not do their job without any intent of malice anymore?! The absurdity of the situation has your head aching, to believe that it all started because you wanted to make sure no one else would die from the 'Mirthless Harlequin' anymore, all because you chose selflessness over selfishness.

The ride back home would be in complete silence as you stubbornly refuse to apologise for your actions, nor would Arlecchino stoop so low as to abandon the facts and satisfy a brat.

"I'm going to prepare your bath; don't do anything unnecessary while I'm gone."

Arlecchino has calmed down from the argument during the quiet ride back home and is rather friendly now; monetarily, she places her hand on top of your head and ruffles it as she makes her way past you.

"I'm not your kid," you groan, running your hands through your hair to fix the mess that she made.

Your lover only glanced over her shoulder with a glare, a silent threat to your words, but nothing you couldn't handle, and thus she left for your shared bedroom to prepare a bath.

You stand in the hallway, confused about what to do next as you're not usually this free; it's not that you overwork often; it's that you're often way too engaged in what you are doing. Admittedly, you couldn't really say that 1 a.m. is early, especially for most people, as they are asleep by and/or before this time. You turn around for a split moment to make sure the door is locked before you take off your shoes and place them in the wooden shoe rack.

"Might as well analyse that data report Navia gave to me earlier."

You stifle a yawn as you walk up the stairs, turning the corner into the hallway that leads to your office and shared bedroom. The quiet of the night surrounds the house with the exception of the light sound of water coming from the bedroom, a perfect blend with the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.

You perk up and see the many portraits displayed across the hallway of you and Arlecchino, some of them including your friends and coworkers. For what seems like the first time in a long time, a curve is formed in the corner of your mouth.

You stand in front of your office door, eyes gazing at the portraits beside it featuring Arlecchino and you back when you first started dating one another; you still remember that day vividly. It was 12 years ago, a week before the infamous killer first appeared. Your eyes narrow slightly; what a coincidence, you think; life works in such mysterious ways, but it's still often shocking how different destinies are all tied together in the pathway of fate.

Shrugging it off, you grasp the wooden handle of the dark oak door leading to your workspace, twisting it before cracking it open slightly. Just then, a memory of the earlier argument between Arlecchino surfaces, piercing your thoughts.

"Don't tell me that you would prioritise your parasocial relationship with a killer over the person whom you married."

Now that you think about it, Arlecchino has been acting quite out of character today; when you usually have over time, she isn't as mad as she was today, but then again, you did ignore her messages and calls for almost 24 hours. However, in your utmost defence, you need to have your phone on silent mode so you won't be distracted and procrastinate. Coupled with the recent data, you and the rest of the Harlequin investigation team have been hard at work accumulating it over the last few months.

In one of the meetings discussing the various sources gathered for the infamous killer case, a single piece of evidence caught your attention: "A single white hair strand," you mumbled.

"What are you muttering about?"

A shiver runs down your spine, a moment of fear clouding your mind at the sudden sound of another voice, but you're quick to calm down once you recognize the voice belongs to none other than Arlecchino.

"Peruere..." You turn around and say, "Don't creep up on me like that again; it's scary."

Arlecchino raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms and shaking her head in disapproval. "You are standing in front of the door, mumbling incoherent words to yourself in the dark; if it were any other person, wouldn't you be considered the unsettling one?"

Blink, blink, blink. You couldn't even deny it because she's right, and the truth hangs in the air like a balloon waiting to pop.

"Arg... Whatever, forget what you heard and saw; I was thinking about work. By the way, you're done with setting up the bath, right?" You grab her hand, not waiting for a reply to lead her inside and into the bathroom.

"You wanted to bathe together?" Her voice softens, tinged with an unexpected apologetic tone for not considering this turn of events. "I'm afraid I can't; I need to prepare dinner for you since you have been eating only processed food lately, and it's detrimental to your heart."

"Ah..." A wave of embarrassment crashes over you as you realise how swiftly you had dragged her inside and assumed the fact that you would bathe together before even asking for her permission or if she was in the mood to do so in the first place. "I see... It's okay."

Seeing the flustered and disappointed undertone of your words and expression, Arlecchino devises a solution to improve your mood.

"If I am fast enough, I can join you later; is that alright with you?"

Much to your shame, you nodded way too fast for your liking, which in turn resulted in a light smirk from Arlecchino sent your way for the sudden clinginess. Her dark, tattooed hand rises and descends gently, resting on your head as she pats it lightly. The gesture is both comforting and oddly intimate, a soft reminder that you are her lover and the only one capable of seeing this side of her, seeing Peruere.

"Call me if you need anything."

"Mkay, I love you," you whisper, getting closer to the bath as you begin to take off your clothes.

"... Yes, I... love you too."

You didn't question the odd pacing of her words, assuming that she's still not used to saying those words back even after a decade of being together. The door closes with a soft click, and you're fully undressed, a sigh leaving your lips as you step foot inside the hot bath.

You allow your body to relax in the tranquil warmth of the softly cascading water, sinking deeper until only the features above your nose remain above the surface. The gentle flow conceals you whole, creating a cocoon of serenity, an occurrence that is rare for the likes of you. As you close your eyes, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving only the soothing sounds of the water and the faint echoes of your thoughts. In this moment of peacefulness, you allow yourself to let go of all the things that have weighed you down, allowing comfort to wash them away and ground you in a sense of much-needed peace.

Your thoughts linger on what food Arlecchino will be making for you, how pleasant her skin would feel against yours right now, and the upcoming Halloween Eve.

"A single white hair strand? How do I know this isn’t some sort of ploy she set up?” You question Navia, arms crossed in a vice-like grip, as you analyse the hair under the microscope. “Is it fake hair or from a doll?”

"Haha, it's simple, Dr. Snezhevna, because she herself stated in this letter that the hair strand belongs to her,” Navia replies, her tone steady and amused as she watches your demeanour shift dramatically upon seeing the familiar letter in her hand.

An audible groan escapes your lips as you snatch the letter and another from the pile of letters dedicated to the killer to compare the heart stamp and writing styles. As you read, the distinct vocabulary matches flawlessly, with not a single difference between her signature stamp and her writing style, confirming she deliberately left her own DNA behind.

“This woman genuinely pisses me off... Does she think I’m a fool? Or is she that cocky to be under the impression we aren't capable of matching her information with our extensive network database?”

Navia lets out a light chuckle, leaning back in her chair and looking drastically more relaxed than you do.

“I’ve heard Commander Wriothesley uncovered that the fresh blood she uses to spell out her name contains a secret, obscure code imprinted onto it and that it doesn't belong to the victims, though we don't know exactly who it belongs to as of now.”

“Seriously?! God forbid this damn criminal gives me a break!” you exclaim, frustration bubbling over. “The day I finally catch her, I’m going to give her a piece of my damn mind, alright.”

You open your eyes and rise from the water, leaning back against the bath as you take a deep exhale.

"Who are you, and why am I the one you desire so much...?" You said aloud to yourself, your mind foggy with the jester again, easily shattering the peaceful atmosphere that had settled around you.

"Who am I?" Arlecchino's voice echoes throughout the bathroom, causing you to yelp at the unexpected sound.

"Peruere...! Do you seriously have to always randomly creep up on me?!" You turn to face her, your heart racing as you look up at her with displeasure.

"It is not I who am the problem, but it is you who lack awareness, darling; I called your name countless times, and you keep muttering to yourself as always."

Oh.

"Ah, oh, my apologies... hm, wait, are you already finished with cooking? How long have I been here...?" you ask, looking down at your reflection in the water with much shame before raising your hands from under to see the pruney fingers caused by your prolonged exposure to aqua.

"Less than half an hour, the food has already been brought up; you can go and eat right now if you want."

"But—" you tried protesting since you still wanted to bathe with her, but, as always, she read you so easily and responded before you could even get a sentence out.

"We have an eternity before us; you should eat first lest you want an upset stomach, and you should also begin getting ready for bed."

"Sigh, if you say so," you stand up from the bathtub, the warm water dripping from your skin as you reach for the towel hanging beside the tub, wrapping it around yourself snugly. You glance at Arlecchino with a small smile that then turns into a smirk. "You should keep the door open while you're washing up."

As expected, the teasing remark made little to no effect on her, and you're left with her staring at you, unamused.

"So bland, my love, you could have faked your expression or agreed for my sake."

You leave the room with a laugh, and as you take in the sight before you, you can't help the soft smile that replaces the smug smirk that had once dominated your features moments ago. Clothes carefully selected for your comfort and a perfect amount of portion for you to relish are laid out before you on your shared bed; what a thoughtful soulmate you have, you mentally acknowledge.

You lie contentedly inside the soft blankets, the light of the waning moon illuminating your features through the window, painting your face in its most desired parts. You sink further inside, your body never wanting to leave this paradisiacal space; yet likewise, life often works against you, and a notification causes you to straighten yourself grudgingly.

Who would be texting you this late is your initial thought, but the moment your eyes land on the unknown caller who has sent you a voicemail, you nearly drop your phone. Rapidly, you scan the room for the calendar, completely forgetting the phone in your hand has a built-in one, and your heart nearly drops as you realise it's the 29th. Two days before Halloween Eve and two days before the woman strikes again. Another unfortunate soul is soon to fall victim to a killer whose identity is yet to be known aside from her details as a woman with a jester-like appearance.

Shakily, you search for your earbuds and pair them to your phone upon retrieval before you open voicemail and press on the recently sent one. A chill runs down your spine at the sound of the familiar voice beginning to talk to you.

"In the ticking shadows where time slips away, a hero stands tall yet fears the fray.

With every heartbeat, the clock's cruel hand counts down the moments that they both understand.

Time is a thief, relentless and cold.

As you chase the thrill, the stories unfold.

Yet in this chaos, a bond begins to bloom.

Two souls entwined in the depths of doom.

A hero and a villain, bound by a thread.

In the twilight of choices, where both may tread.

The dawn of your death is arriving, my dearest angel. I await the day we shall personally introduce one another, which happens to be only two days from now."

Tsk. You clutch the phone in your hand, slumping back onto the mattress with a hand over your eyes. How frustrating it is to be haunted by someone who is seemingly untraceable, and now you have suddenly received confirmation on who the next victim will be, which conveniently enough happens to be you. You feel calm; you look relaxed, yet internally, you would be lying to yourself if you said you weren't terrified of what would happen to you on that fateful day.

You didn't realise you had been crying until Arlecchino's gentle hands brushed away the tears that streamed down your cheeks in quietude.

"Peruere..." You murmured, the sudden feeling of everything around you crashing down.

You removed your hands from your vision and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her close as you began to sob uncontrollably; the warmth of her body brought comfort to what was left of you. Your lover didn't say anything, opting to keep silent until moments later when the clock struck two.

"She's going to kill you on Halloween Eve," Arlecchino said eerily and softly.

You froze in place, the tears continuing to fall unchecked, but the moment she uttered those words, something sounded incredibly hard to swallow; you had worn earbuds the entire time to prevent her from hearing the voicemail, and there was not a soul who could have heard the message aside from you and the sender, the killer herself.

"But how did you know...?"

Arlecchino looked at you like you were a lost dog, and without many words, she shook her head in yet more disappointment. "Why else would you be crying? It's an obvious assumption based on how you have been acting as of late, the sudden unease, overworking for the past month, and your muttering about some sort of finding."

Right, right, of course, that's correct; how foolish and frightful of you to think beyond the possibilities.

"Ahaha... Of course, I'm sorry, Peruere... I just need to relax; I am just... so scared. I have never felt such fear before, you know."

Arlecchino stared down into your glistening eyes in wordless moments, a long and slow pause of lifelong connection and understanding passing within those time frames. Slowly, she leaned down, her movements calculated and gentle, as if afraid to break your already fragile body.

Like second nature, your hands subconsciously trail her barely dry body to the nape of her neck, enveloping it and pulling her cooler frame to your warmer one.

Her gaze remained locked on yours, searching for the discomfort and fear lingering in your soul and how she, as your lover, could dissolve those worries into mindless tranquillity.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur in your ears, "you're not alone."

Multiple kisses follow those words, a few on the right side of your jawline to the left side, one here and there on your neck, and lastly on your collarbone, where she's blocked by the fabric of your shirt.

Simultaneously, Arlecchino pulls the cover off you and runs a hand through your hair, pushing back the strands that have obscured your beautiful features for her hungry eyes to feast on.

"Let me take care of you, little dove."

At the sound of the slight neediness in her raspy tone and that insatiable stare, you could feel a knot forming in your stomach and an aching feeling below it. You couldn't bring yourself to trust your own words, so, choosing the best possible option, you consented to her request with a nod.

Usually, the woman would say something about the lack of vocalisation, but today the air was of a different flavour because she took no time lifting your shirt just above your breasts.

She peppered kisses on every inch of your perfect imperfection, savouring the delicious taste of your body in her mouth; oh, how she wished she could devour it all.

"Peruere... please," you plead, desperate to cloud your mind with her rather than your impending doom.

"Patience," Arlecchino enunciated, her salivating tongue trailing your body but avoiding the part where you desire her the most.

Your impatience overwhelms you, and your hand goes to grip her wet hair, pulling her upward to your hardened nipples. In a weak attempt for her to fasten her pace, you let out a pathetic, whiny plea.

Through lidded eyes, her pupils direct to your face a prideful, almost invisible smirk that flashes on her lips at the sight of you breaking apart under her feathery touch.

"I have barely touched you, sweetheart, and here you are," Arlecchino pressed her knee directly on your clothed vagina, causing you to shamefully moan, "so eager for me."

Her hot mouth latches onto the right side of your perky nipple, making sure to give the left one the same attention by pinching it with her thumb and forefinger. A gasp is involuntarily ushered out of your lips, followed by more pleas for her to continue her relentless assault.

Pitying you this time, Arlecchino's pull at the hem of your pants causing a short cry of pain to be released from you and an unexpected whimper at the feel of the icy air against your womanhood.

"Naughty girl, such innocent looks but such perverted thoughts; you're already this wet," the tip of Arlecchino's finger touches your clitoral area. "And I haven't even started."

The slow progress of her foreplay obliterated to nothingness as she forcefully thrust two colossal fingers inside your aching cunt. A high-pitched scream pierced the room, but it would not be long until you were silenced by her mouth.

"How... adorable," Arlecchino groaned in between kisses, her eyes wide open to observe every twitch and change in your lascivious expression.

Like a starving animal, Arlecchino wanted more; she needed more, she craved more, and in a split moment of lost control, she decided to satiate her desire for your addictive melodies. Thus, she pulled away from your lips, increasing her speed and slipping in a third finger as your pussy morphed and fit her fingers like a puzzle piece.

You bite your lips, trying to muffle your sound as she plunges faster and deeper into you, and of course, this doesn't go unnoticed by her because how dare you try to get rid of the sound she's craving so much?

She manoeuvred you into a more advantageous position, pulling your legs over her shoulders, thrusting into the deepest part of your cunt, and rubbing your clitoris furiously with her thumb all the while she got to enjoy your pleasurable sounds up close.

"Good girl, fuck... just like that, sounds so good for me; you're so close, aren't you, doll?"

Arlecchino's hand comes to latch itself onto your hair, pulling it with satisfaction as an ominous grin creeps its way onto her once monotonic features. Her eyes seemingly take on a deeper vermilion hue at your face, filled pathetically with pleasure and fat with tears in those precious, mindless gazes.

"MMPH-AH," pant, pant, pant. "Don't stop! Fuck, fuck, fuck! I'm so close...! AH! PERUERE—"

Your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling back as you see a distorted reality comparable to that of heaven; so much pleasure and so much energy are used that the next thing you know, you are passed out on the bed while Arlecchino licks your cunt clean.

Arlecchino's thumb swipes over your lip in a tender touch, eyes scanning your serene sleeping form, and contrasting with the loving touch is a sinister grin spread across her features, a mix of admiration for her work of art and something darker that dances in her eyes during the dead of the night.

Her hand trails down to the aching bulge that's imprisoned in her pants as she studies the rise and fall of your chest. She pulls her hardened cock out, rubbing the leaking precum all over the base of her length like it is lubrication.

For a moment, she allows herself to bask in the sight of you all peaceful and unaware, completely vulnerable in your deep slumber. A mix of a moan and a groan sounds from her lips as she moves up and down her enraged member, the corners of her mouth curling higher as she considers the delicate line between protector and predator, each heartbeat echoing the thrill of the beautifully unknown night.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered, her words laced with a playful edge that held secrets only the abyssal night could understand. She masturbated faster, her climax coming quicker than she expected, but not one that was unappreciated. She pulled back slightly, that sinister grin never leaving her swollen lips, an unsettling mixture of warmth and foreboding in the stillness of the atmosphere.

She switched the same hand that was used to fuck you senseless to her mouth, and effectively, she came as she tasted your arousing scent and ejaculated all over you soon after.

A satisfied enough sigh emanates from her, opting to settle down on top of your chest after calming down from her high to feel the sound of your heartbeat against her ear. The smile that seemed to stretch endlessly expanded at the thought of your heart in her hand, devouring her mind. Soon enough, the beating of your heart shall be in her hands for her to safeguard until it can no longer pulsate without its host.

"My greatest tragedy."

#erisetober #erise film #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x y/n #arlecchino x you #arlecchino smut #arlechinno genshin #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin wlw #peruere x reader #peruere #arlecchino genshin impact

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dunmesh · 11 months ago

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can't stop thinking about dungeon meshi btw. how it comes down to being able to appreciate the hard and painful times because of the moments of happiness you experienced along the way.

it's about falin being able to forgive and look beyond the harsh way things were done- be it their father announcing he will send her away from the village or laios leaving her behind- partly due to her personality, and how she used to prioritize her loved ones' needs and emotions over her own, but also because of the positive impact that road eventually had on her. she knows her family was trying to protect her but what truly made it impossible to regret the path she had to take were the precious memories she made later on- it was learning magic and seeing new places and becoming friends with marcille and of course she couldn't hate it all, she was happy. it's about laios feeling so utterly miserable because on his end, it seemed like nothing good or enjoyable happened to him after leaving home, aside from the letters written by falin. but how long can a child be satisfied with another's happiness which he never got to experience himself?

so it really is beautiful that the series started off with him realizing that this journey allowed him to finally feel that happiness he was yearning for-

-and ended with everyone else realizing it too. when you first read chapter 11 it's just a funny gag about people not understanding laios, but it genuinely was too early for them to share his sentiment. they needed to come to terms with it on their own, with chilchuck opening up to them and senshi resolving the hovering mystery of his past and izutsumi freeing herself and joining their party and marcille facing her greatest fear. the winged lion was taking advantage of the loneliness and anger and pain lingering in laios's heart, but even it couldn't deny this. how, despite everything, he couldn't be satiated and his own happiness couldn't be complete without his friends' happiness too. how it was always about everyone enjoying a meal together.

and then there's marcille, who refused to admit it until the very end. it's in the way she had such a hard time fully accepting eating monsters despite how tasty she found them, not just due to how weird they were but also because she tried rejecting and burying her own pleasure and joy during this entire journey. from the very beginning, she was only willing to endure the pain and suffering.

as if she couldn't accept feeling an ounce of comfort, satisfaction, let alone happiness while falin was suffering on her own. and it might've been laios's reaction as well if all of this had happend a decade ago- i mean, that's exactly what he did back then. blaming himself for leaving her behind, being tormented by her loneliness and absence while falin was actually slowly moving towards a brighter future. it was him that was stuck, not her. but he kept focusing on her pain to ignore how deep the hole in his own heart had become, consumed by guilt to ignore his own agony, or to make sense of it- because maybe he did deserve it after all he had done.

and for that reason marcille was so terrified of admitting there was warmth in what she considered the depths of hell. because it would mean accepting falin going ahead of her and leaving her behind, accepting the inevitable she was trying so hard to deny and the end of her dream.

but it was learning there's joy even in her worst nightmare that allowed her to finally embrace those moments of pleasure that made her life worth living, however short they were. she realized that her pursuit would take away the things that truly mattered to her, that if she had succumbed to her fear of loss she would've been the one hurting her loved ones, just as happened to thistle. laios asking her to use ancient magic for falin's resurrection and then encouraging her to not give up on her desires during the nightmare chapter was a direct parallel to delgal being the one to push thistle down the road of destruction, while both marcille and thistle were trying to protect the people most important to their friends.

but in marcille's case, laios was able to understand her at the end, pulling her back just before she descended to complete ruin. it's truly fascinating how the story is not only about laios being understood but also getting to understand others properly, deeply- it's about mutual understanding, the balance between two people he never managed to maintain before. and i think it's only after seeing thistle's tragedy that he was able to fully realize what might become of marcille down the line. so while delgal put the weight of the world on thistle's shoulders, laios was the one to tell marcille she doesn't have to do that. because even if falin's resurrection hadn't succeeded, they both already know- there's happiness even in the dungeon's pit. and it's by preparing a hearty meal made of her loved one's remains that marcille was able to truly accept it- thus allowing herself to enjoy it to the fullest, embracing the cycle of life, no matter how weird or painful or grotesque it is.

#and chil was weirded out by how marcille of all people was truly delighted while eating falin 😭#the character development through mealssss #dungeon meshi #marcille donato #laios touden #falin touden

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opbackgrounds · 25 days ago

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The Romanticism of One Piece I: Definition

Part II Full essay posted on AO3 here

“Romanticism is the star which weeps” —Alfred de Musset

One Piece is a Romance. It’s the title of the opening chapter as well as the first volume, and was liked enough by Oda that he recycled it for the first chapter and volume after the time skip. Sprinkled throughout the story Luffy and others will declare certain moments to be romantic. But what does that actually mean?

If you go to website for Mirriam-Webster and scroll down to the fourth definition, you’ll read that romance is “a: marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized

b: often capitalized : of, relating to, or having the characteristics of romanticism”

It’s this second aspect of romance that I want to focus on today, because while One Piece is imaginative, and emotional, and adventurous, the roots of the manga dig much deeper than these superficial traits and tap into the much bigger movement that at one point dominated the Western World.

As with many things, Romanticism is a concept that at its face seems quite simple, but the more you try to pin down specifics the more it squirms into something amorphous and difficult to define. In his lectures on Romanticism, Isaiah Berlin described it as, “the greatest single shift in consciousness of the West” before spending an entire hour of his introductory lecture trying to distill it down to its purest essence. In the Romantic movement we find our modern ideas of imagination, childhood, and sentimentality. Its influence dominated everything from politics, philosophy, poetry, literature, art, music and architecture. From the Romantics was born the Nationalism of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, which would lead to tragic results in the 20th. It spanned Europe and America, the Western world alight with hope after the French Revolution only to watch with horror as it was followed by the Reign of Terror, Napoleon, and the wars he brought to the rest of the continent.

Pinpointing dates is difficult, but for simplicity’s sake it’s easiest to put it as lasting from approximately the mid 1700s through the mid to late 1800s. As Romanticism was a pan-European movement, it didn’t hit every place at the same time. It swept from France through Europe and eventually America at its own pace, blooming and dying independently of one another, with various precursor movements such as the Storm and Stress era in Germany, as well as holdovers lasting well after the golden age ended, the last embers clinging on until the First World War. Romanticism picked up the local flavor of wherever it went, the Romantic ideals of France related but not identical to the Romantic ideals of Germany, just as the Romanticism of William Wordsworth wasn’t the same as the Romanticism of Lord Byron.

When attempting to define Romanticism, it is perhaps easiest to see it in what it was trying to push back against. As with every movement, the Romantics were in conversation with the past, in their case the Enlightenment thinkers of the 17th and early 18th centuries. The Enlightenment as a movement is just as difficult to pin down as the Romantics, but on the whole it said that there was one, specific way men should live their lives, that there was a formula for happiness and improvement of the human condition using reason, science, and an appropriate methodology. While the various Enlightenment figures all disagreed what that methodology was, for the most part they all agreed that it existed. It favored cold, hard logic, a celebration of science and of learning, and was hopeful for a future where humanity could better itself through its own effort by understanding the universe in which it lived.

The Romantics looked at all of this, and said…no.

There are other factors to consider when discussing Romanticism, such as the increase in urbanization following the Industrial Revolution and the political instability brought on by corrupt, crumbling monarchies and the revolutions they spurned, but in my mind this defiant no is the beating heart of Romanticism. It’s a philosophy that emphasizes the self over all, prioritizing feeling over reason and experience over logic. In fact, to the Romantic, there was no knowledge without feeling.

Institutions such as the church lost some of their power even as the Romantics became more obsessed with spirituality and the occult. The idealized, pastoral past of their beloved romantic ballads was yearned for even as revolts broke out against the monarchies that ruled in those stories of old. There was veneration of the child and the so-called Noble Savage, who were free from the corrupting forces of society and civilization. Freedom was the rallying cry, with abolition, women’s, and animal rights movements all stirring within this time period, but there was no greater freedom than the freedom of self. To do what you wanted when you wanted to do it.

There was a preoccupation with individual genius, and there was little that could bolster one’s career more than living fast and dying young. The Romantic world was one where death was frightfully common, with the increased density of the rapidly growing cities leading to frequent breakouts of disease even as populations boomed. Nearly half of children didn’t live to see their fifth birthday, and for those who did survive to adulthood, the political instability of the time made the future seem uncertain. Better then, to reject the all-consuming industry of the modern age and the cities that seemed to destroy more than they built in favor of spending time alone in the glories of nature and their own imagination, living as they pleased, beholden to no one but their own conscience.

You’ll notice in the examples that I quote that most are white men and most of these men were well-educated. It’s a simple fact that the opportunities they were afforded were different than women and people of color, and their voices were amplified as a result. While there’s been increasing scholarship in recent years to diversify the canon, and there’s good fruit to be found in that regard, it must be acknowledged that the worldview shaped by the most famous Romantics is limited by this singular perspective.

That being said, there can be a more universal application to Romanticism, and One Piece proves that. The defiant no to the binding chains of society and the enthusiastic yes of personal freedom is something that we all feel at one point or another, and it’s what makes up the core of One Piece. Romanticism is a cosmic wanderlust, the ability to poeticize everything both great and small, the neverending search for, well…that depends on the person. But the important part is that they do search and they do dream. And it’s that search that I want to explore in more detail as I dig into specific aspects of Romanticism, and how One Piece applies.

#opbackgrounds #the romanticism of one piece #romanticism #one piece

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 months ago

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What if Skulker was Willis Todd all along? (Prompt)

Skulker is one of many ghosts who do not remember his time alive. In fact, it was odder for those formed from deceased beings to have memories, as their final moments shaped their ghost. Ember burned in a fire, but she could not remember where, when, or how that fire happened. Johnny 13 and Kitty were on a motorbike when they died, but they do not know where they had been heading or what had caused their accident.

Spectra feeds on human misery, but why that made her young and beautiful is a mystery to her. All Box Ghost could recall was the call of the cube-shaped spaces and the flashing word "Beware" before he popped up in the Realms.

Most ghosts hated not knowing, like Johnny 13, Young Blood, and Ember. This fueled their urge to run to the human world and find answers. While there, they desperately attempted to win the humans' acknowledgment.

Maybe they thought that if the living paid attention to them, they wouldn't fade away, even if none of them knew their names.

It was something Skulker never understood. He was dead. There was no changing that fact. Why would he pine for a life he could not remember and never hold? Why would he allow his eternal existence to be wasted chasing a light in an unknown darkness?

For the first few days, months, and years, time was strange in the Realms; it was aimless and meaningless. Skulker had formed as an unfinished ghost, barely avoiding being a blob ghost. He isn't sure why, and none of the very few medical specialists in the Realms understood either.

Millions of locations had doctors and medical knowledge, but most citizens of the Infinite Realms were not the kindest to outsiders. Skulker learned early on that one didn't just approach a territory for aid. Not unless you were the Ghost Child.

The only tribe that had a theory was the Far Frozen. They had allowed Skulker to consult them, but the Yetis were not exactly welcoming to Outsiders. They only spoke and aided ice-core ghosts, so even though they might have figured out what was wrong with him, the yetis had refused to conduct any treatment past some basic testing.

"You sent your Core Ectoplasm away." The large Yeti told him. They had refused to grant Skulker the honor of learning their names. He wasn't worthy enough with his barren core.

"What do you mean I sent it away?"

"Exactly that. You sent what should have helped take shape somewhere else when you were forming." The Yeti considers the charts with narrow eyes. "It looks like it was a last thought before you died. Pity, but this is what was left, and that's why you will look like this forever. You might have been powerful, but Fate had different plans."

Skulker had been trying to process that while the Yeti hummed. "Well, if anything else, we can put you to good use."

That caused his head to snap up. "What do you mean?"

"Our young need to practice hunting, and you will be the perfect target for the smallest ones." The Yeti's sharp smile was as cold as the land which it held from. "Do make the chase a good one for a being as little as you."

Skulker had barely escaped that hell hole with his Core intact. As the yeti's children howled and sneered behind him, he was suddenly hit with the thought.

The little guy is always the prey in this hellish existence. No matter how hard you try, how much you drink, gamble, or swindle, you can not rise above your station.

The words feel like a distant dream but are as real as fact.

It filled him with rage. He doesn't know where the resentment came from, but when Skulker reached the edge of the Far Frozen territory, he vowed to never be anyone else's prey again.

Skulker would be the Realm's greatest hunter, and no one would know his proper form. They would cower when they saw him, not snicker and dismiss. It took him years to build the perfect body, but he had plenty of time in the Realms.

He never allowed where his Core Ectoplasm went to cross his mind again as years passed and his prey grew more immense, dangerous, and fun to chase. Even the Ghost Child's insufferable ability to evade him did not make him think about it.

That was until the Welp ran off to another human city, and when Skulker had rightfully gone to claim his pelt, he found himself staring at a young man who held his Core Ectoplasm. There he was, walking on the street like the other humans, staring right back at the battling ghosts with an open jaw.

He was at the most in his mid-twenties, built similarly to Skulker's battle suit, but had soft blue eyes and the strangest white streak of white in his hair. He had no idea who the human was, as there was no way he was worth anything for a good hunt, but Skulker could feel his Core Ectoplasm holding the man together.

That was his existence, and that should have given him a proper ghost body being used as glue to a random human who wasn't even a Halfa!

Why had he sent it to him when he had died?

Skulker was so shocked that he hadn't even thought to dodge when the Ghost child threw back his mini-missiles at him. The explosion had sent him flying in the opposite direction of the man, which was just about the time the humans finally started to panic and run amok.

Skulker lost the stranger in the crowd, but now that he knew he was out there, he would stop at nothing to find answers.

(Willis Todd was not a kind man. He had been horrible to the mother of his child, to his son, and to his wife. He had been born at the rotten bottom of Gotham's social ladders, where the little guys were used and discarded like toilet paper. He tried to get himself out of it by any means but something always beat him back into place.

He grew bitter.

He loved his son and wife, but his anger could not be controlled. It was louder than his love ever could be. It always guided his hand and hurt everything around him until his son flinched whenever he entered his room, and his wife lost herself to the needles.

Still, Willis could not bring himself to let the anger go. He hated himself even more as days passed, and his rage grew bigger and bigger until he could no longer think without snapping.

He was arrested, slipped through the cracks in the system, and wrongfully marked for dead among the cells. He knew no more of his wife or son until years later when Jason's bright-eyed face appeared in the newspaper. Willis had been shocked to find out Catherine had died while he was aware and Jason had lived on the streets. Now, he was one of the sons of one of the wealthiest men alive.

Willis's anger was still there, but so was his heartbreak. There was something wrong with him. Something that would have choked and slaughtered Jason if he stuck around. So he folded the newspaper, put it back on the tabletop for another inmate to read, and swore to himself that he would never go near Jason again, even if one day he was released.

Years later, he reads a week-old paper to find out Jason had been killed in an explosion while overseas. His body was so severely damaged that Bruce Wayne had buried him in a fast funeral, and Willis hadn't even known his son was dead.

The rage had snapped.

It clouded his mind as he slammed his head over and over again on the wall until nasty cracks were heard. The blood dripping down his face and over his tongue drowned out the taste of his tears.

The guards tried to stop him, but it was too late.

His last thought before death took him was, "I would give anything to take Jason's place; if any Todd deserves to breathe again, it should be him. If I could just give him what he needed to live."

The second Willis' eyes closed miles away, Jason's snapped open within a coffin, and the gentle green glow of his skin brought the problems of a man who loved him but only as much as he could)

#dcxdpdabbles #Skulker's past #Part 1 #Anger issues #Talks of death #tw: mention of suicide #Skulker is the reason Jason came back #Willis is a terrible father but he did love his son #At some point

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shomatoriashi · 4 months ago

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10/02/24; 01:06pm

sung jinwoo x fem.reader

anonymous asked: Hi, I have brain rot hours. So, what about Sung Jinwoo who believes that his significant other is his lucky charm? For example, he kisses them every time before he leaves them for a raid, and always comes back with new soldiers, abilities, or something of the sort. Or, in general, comes out with zero injuries. I know he breezes through raids easily, but it's such a cute idea! >w<

ever since sung jinwoo chose to live his life as a hunter, wishing to provide for his family in the wake of his father’s disappearance-

he always knew you were his good luck charm.

even during the times where he was still labeled as the weakest in the world, he felt that your sole presence was enough to ward off the looming threat of death.

you were someone he had known during his high school years, a mere civilian who had normal parents and wished for nothing more than to live a simple life, even with the existence of gates. you stuck by his side, never once minding his average looks or the way he dressed meekly, wearing plain hoodies and ripped jeans.

jinwoo recalls the day he spoke to you about his goals of becoming a hunter; that even though his powers were a bit weaker and below average in comparison to everyone else, he still had to do something to care for his little sister and sickly mother. and yet despite the concerned eyes that look back at him along with your anxieties, you supported him unconditionally.

that was the moment jinwoo knew he had fallen for you, clinging to you while promising you how he would work hard to build a future together with you. your own kind smile was enough to cause a surge of confidence to go through him, giving him the strength to continue on as a hunter.

now, it became a bit of a tradition for him to embrace you tightly while sharing a kiss with you before attending any raids. your words of encouragement would always echo in his mind, giving him the courage he needed to face the dangers of each raid.

from nights spent tending to his every wound to comforting him each time the nightmares became too much to bear-

you were always there for him, even when he was at his worst.

and you sure as hell deserved him now that he was at his best.

following the events of the double dungeon, jinwoo was able to escape death, obtaining a second chance by becoming the sole player for the system. and through a series of well calculated events, he was able to shed his once meek and weak self, becoming stronger than ever.

now known as south korea’s 10th s-rank hunter, jinwoo quickly became a sought after hunter worldwide, with hundreds upon thousands of people wishing to have him join their guilds or attend certain raids with them.

yet even with this drastic change, one thing remained the same-

and that was you.

you were still his good luck charm.

before entering a gate or doing a mission for the association, jinwoo would still embrace you tightly while giving you a searing kiss, stating how it was for good luck, allowing all of his anxieties and fears to melt away as he basks in your loving embrace. after his kiss, you would always reassure him, telling him that you would wait for his homecoming.

despite how silly it felt to be jinwoo’s proclaimed good luck charm, your boyfriend still swears that you give him good fortune. from mining thousands of crystals that could sell for millions, to obtaining a rare key to a mysterious dungeon, and even having a significant increase in shadow soldiers-

every single one of his greatest achievements were linked to you.

and you prayed that you could forever remain as his good luck charm, especially now during his time of need. not long after jinwoo’s mother woke up from her slumber, a powerful gate appeared in the midst of japan, and jinwoo was torn at the thought of leaving you and his family behind to deal with the raid.

you knew that jinwoo said that the gates had nothing to do with him, that he would remain in seoul.

however, you knew him better than that. jinwoo left your place after lunch, wishing to check on his sister and mother while promising to come back home to you after dinner. you simply gave him your usual kiss and tight embrace, allowing him to go back home as you prepared some things for him.

later that night, jinwoo returns home to see various tupperware containers filled with premade meals that should last a few weeks. his grey eyes widen at the sight of it all, mouth parted in a slight gape as he steps into your kitchen.

“these meals are for you and jinho, when you head to japan.” you tell him without looking back at him, already scooping a new batch of rice into fresh containers with some seasoned side dishes placed within it. “i know you well, jinwoo, and there’s no way in hell you would leave innocent people in need.”

jinwoo remains silent for a few more beats before shaking his head, already coming closer to you. with his arms wrapped around your front, jinwoo pulls your back closer to his chest, placing you flushed against him while pressing a kiss against your temple.

“how could i ever live without you?” he asks you with a teasing tone, eyes filled with love for you. you smile and meet his gaze, matching his expression when you frame at his face with your two hands.

“hm, i don’t know…. but you need someone like me to keep you grounded.”

“damn right i do.” he admits to you with a grunt, leaning in to kiss you deeply. with a sigh, you open up to him, allowing him to deepen the kiss and taste you. he acts like today would be his last day on earth, kissing you like his life depended on it all while delving his fingers into your hair.

when you became dizzy, and the need for air became too much, jinwoo pulls away from the kiss first, smiling down at you before pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“a kiss for good luck.”

you giggle and finish with your usual sentence for him, “and i’ll be here, waiting for your safe return.”

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

#sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo x you #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo sung x you #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #jinwoo sung x y/n

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kquil · 2 months ago

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DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER SEVEN

07 : INVESTIGATIONS

CHPT. SUM. : you investigate the mysterious room you first woke up in while james, sirius and peter investigate where remus disappeared to.

LENGTH : 9.5k

TAGS : reggie baby is too precious ; the making of the marauders ; remus needs a hug ; remus' first transformation ; madam pomfrey is there for him ; madam pomfrey is mother ; reader is also mothering ; no orion because he's being served justice ; kreacher is in on it ; detail on reader's bcakground revealed ; walburga's plotting clues

CONTENT WARNING : dead animal ; impications of animal cruelty/abuse ; cancer diagnosis ; life-altering surgery mentions

← PREV. 06 : POTIONEER | SERIES M.LIST

Hogwarts | 5th September 1971

From very young, Remus has grown a habit of being well-prepared for things, primarily out of necessity and fear. Fear of himself and the necessity to keep others safe from the monster that he was. His parents were adamant in doing everything they could to vanquish the prejudice surrounding lycanthropes and even more determined to erase his views of himself because of his lycanthropy. He is their only son, the light of their world and the most precious being to exist in their lives. Remus will always be grateful for their efforts and unwavering love for him but the situation is bleak. It’s hard to escape the nasty whispers and unsavoury gossip that go around about his kind — not that he wanted to be a werewolf in the first place…

He’s lucky enough to be accepted into the greatest wizarding school in Britain by Albus Dumbledore. Despite knowing of his condition, Remus was allowed to attend Hogwarts on the condition that he be carefully monitored and cared for by the school’s established matron, Madam Pomfrey. The conditions were explicitly stated in a separate letter his parents received atop his letter of acceptance to the prestigious wizarding school. That day was a dream come true, Remus almost felt feverish holding the letter in his hand and reading about all the things he needed for the start of his tuition at Hogwarts. He couldn’t believe his ears when his parents assured his insecurities by stating they received a letter written by Albus Dumbledore himself in the caring for his ‘unique constitution’. The letter clearly stated that Remus was free to use an abandoned shack for his transformations, it was far enough from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade to ensure the safety of students and villagers of the respective areas. Madam Pomfrey was to escort Remus to the shack before every transformation and would be the first to fetch him after, ensuring that he was well taken care of throughout his academic career.

Remus worried that he might break through a window or door but Dumbledore’s clairvoyant nature accounted for that in his letter. It was explained how the shack no longer had any working doors or windows for exit or entry and that the only entrance was via a secret passageway under the whomping willow. That willow was planted to disguise the entrance of the shack and, due to its violent nature, would attack anyone that drew near and disrupt its many branches. The procedure for calming down the tree would be explained by Madam Pomfrey when Remus arrived and would be approaching his first full moon. Everything was taken care of and Remus, in his relief, was free to feel the excitement of every other student invited to attend Hogwarts.

Tonight would be Remus’ first transformation. A Sunday. The timing was poor, it meant that Remus would be missing his first few lessons of the day if the night proved to be especially terrible. Nevertheless, he’ll try his best to push through, the idea of doing catch-up work wasn’t a welcomed one, especially when so early on in the school term. The entire day, he had been especially antsy and quick to temper, unintentionally putting his close group of friends on edge. Every outburst was followed by a quiet but sincere apology and, although Sirius, James and Peter were put off by his strange behaviour, they couldn’t help but worry for their close friend. Their friendship was fairly new but there was already a brotherhood there that was undeniable and hard to suppress. The fact that they shared a dorm room only reinforced the bond between them.

Their concern was obvious and Remus was happy to indulge in it, it fostered a familiar feeling similar to the one brought on by his parents whenever the effects of his condition became particularly unpleasant. And, although it was comforting, Remus made sure to keep his distance. The entire day, Remus was tormented by his conflicting emotions. He was worried about his friends finding out about his condition, worried that his mood swings and irritable nature made the monster that he was obvious. His usually polite mannerisms took on a more brutish design, his movements were rougher, his jaw always ticking about, wanting to gnaw on something, his joints sensitive and tender, building up throughout the day. The unfamiliar environment pinched his nerves and made him highly sensitive, he was scared about any potential mishaps that could happen, many of which, many could occur as it would be his first transformation. He hated days like this but they were his most important days too; he had to be extra careful.

Although James, Sirius and Peter were perfectly justified to snap at Remus for being so ‘unlike himself’ —as Peter put it, a little too lightly Remus would argue— their levels of concern far outshined their frustration over his behaviour. He only hopes that after this is all over, they will be able to forgive him for the personality shift and things can go back to normal without too many questions being asked of him.

Earlier that day, Madam Pomfrey made sure to visit him, pulling him away from the group for a private talk although she kept their hushed conversation within view of many other students.

“How are you feeling so far? Is everything okay?”

“Just normal stuff, I’m fine,” Remus assured but his tense shoulders spoke the truth, exposing his internal worries and growing discomfort. He looks around, only to avoid the curious eyes of other students, especially his dorm mates and close friends. He wonders why their ‘private’ conversation was being done in the eyes of so many other people, when she first approached him for a quick but discreet talk, he expected her to take him someplace private too but that wasn’t the case.

“Honesty takes you a long way, Remus,” she eyes him sternly but there’s a softness to her gaze as well.

“…I don’t feel good. I never feel good,” he bites his lip in an attempt to keep his shaky voice steady and looks to the ground to disguise his watery eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his side, partially disguised by his large woolly jumper — an expression of anger at the unfairness of his state but Pomfrey’s caring hand against his shoulder settled his rage almost immediately.

“I’m very sorry, dear,” they share a brief but understanding look, “I wish you could do more for you but here,” she hands him a small note before promising to meet him for his transformation later that night and leaving with an elegant swish of her matron dress.

It was a purposeful performance, Remus quickly gathered after her leaving, something to show others, especially his close friends, that something medically related was wrong but should remain only between them. It was clever. He carefully tucks away the sick note she had given for him to use as the perfect excuse should Filch catch him in the hall out of bed.

Remus holds that same note like a lifeline while dressed in his pyjamas and piquing the curiosity of his dorm mates. He makes the excuse of feeling ill and insists that he go to the hospital wing alone. He stresses the word when his friends shuffle to the edge of their beds. James and Sirius were strong protestors, blocking his way when he tried to swiftly slip away. Their disagreements delayed his journey, pushing him close to snapping harshly but thanks to Peter’s shy input and hesitant smile, James finally conceded and held Sirius back with him. Finally, Remus could go with a small smile of thanks as James continued to hold Sirius back. Remus continued to hear his friend’s protests even through the door he softly closed shut behind him and began his search for the school matron.

Meeting Madam Pomfrey for the first time was nerve-wracking. Remus had made a point of seeking her out on their first-day tour of Hogwarts. He was nervous and remembered feeling so small under her gaze when he had first introduced himself, all while his friends and classmates remained preoccupied with a brief tour of the hospital wing around him. She knew what he truly was and dreaded the feeling of facing her criticism and repulsion. But he had no reason to be afraid nor so self-deprecating before her; when he looked up from his shoes, he was met with a kind and reassuring smile. There was understanding behind her gentle gaze and a silent promise to take good care of him through the warmth of her hand as she softly petted his head. He hears her soft whisper of assurance: you’re in good hands, dear. That was all he needed, all he needed to trust her. She didn’t judge him, there wasn’t a single drop of animosity or loathing in her eyes and gentle touch. He will remember that day, her acceptance, forever; he believed only his parents had the capacity to care for a monster like him but she refuted that without a single word.

“I am here to make sure you’re well taken care of, Remus,” Pomfrey comments softly as she leads him through an inconspicuous passage, bypassing most of Hogwarts’ stone halls and towering staircases. Regardless, the passage still stretched on forever before Pomfrey was finally leading Remus out onto a hill that housed the isolated cabin. As stated in the letter, it had no windows or doors, all traces of such entrances were boarded up and Remus felt the unsavoury feeling consume the depths of his stomach when comparing the shack to a private jail cell.

“I apologise for its sorry state, Remus” Pomfrey sighs in disappointment, her frown remaining despite his words of assurance. She carefully approaches a knot at the base of the gnarled tree before leading him down another tunnel, one with walls of dirt rather than stone, “I wanted to, at least make it more accommodating for you but to keep suspicions at bay and activity around the shack should be kept to a minimum, Dumbledore insisted that it remains unsightly,”

“It’s okay, really,” Remus musters a small smile and assures her again, unaware of how he makes her heart clench painfully. Such a young boy doesn’t deserve to experience this type of prejudice or mistreatment. She’d much rather patch up miscellaneous injuries from innocent falls and moments of misjudged hazards than treat a sweet, innocent child for such horrific injuries, caused by an affliction he did not want — something hatefully thrust upon him due to bitterness and vengeful desires. Pomfrey was informed of Remus’ situation well before the Hogwarts acceptance letters were sent out and, filled with heartache and sympathy, resolved to care for Remus as if he were her own son. The letter of gratitude she had received from the Lupin parents only fuelled her unwavering will. It was also soon established that she would send letters to them after every full moon reporting on the state of Remus’ conditions, to keep them informed and assured of his wellbeing. They were good people and they had a lovely son. It was horrible what had become of their family due to ignorance and the thirst for vengeance. Lyall Lupin will regret that fateful day until his last breath. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t blame himself for his son’s mistreatment and lycanthropy.

Stepping into the dust-filled shack, Remus takes a moment to look around, shivering at the low temperature of the room before moving to the centre and facing Pomfrey. The matron moves to the fireplace and lights it ablaze with a swift wave of her wand before facing him with a kind smile. However, Remus, seeing the lack of chains casts a worried glance at her.

“Are you sure I won’t be able to hurt anyone in here?” Remus asks before Pomfrey can say much else. And, again, the matron is astounded at the child’s strong character. Despite his condition and the prejudice he faces for it, he worries for others more than himself.

“Professor Dumbledore made sure of that, I promise,” Pomfrey goes up to Remus and kneels before him to get at eye level, “You have nothing to worry for. You are safe,” uncertainty remained in Remus’ gentle, brown eyes and it didn’t leave until Pomfry assured him of everyone’s safety as well, “everyone else will also remain safe,” That was all Remus needed to feel at ease and timidly wave her off as she leaves through the tunnel. Outside the willow comes to life again, swaying against the push of the wind and sensitive to the presence of unwanted strangers.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Screams rang out through the night, horrific and painful, that was what had woken Sirius up. Shaken by the disturbing sound, Sirius clambers out of bed to look out of the dorm room window. Like some sort of haunted picture, the full moon hangs suspended in the night sky, laying claim to its dominance over the vast expanse of space, outshining the stars and ousting all clouds that still linger. It glowed like the many poltergeists that roam Hogwarts’ halls but the moon’s presence was incomparably menacing.

“What is that screaming?” Sirius utters, his grey eyes searching the landscape through his window for some form of explanation.

“I don’t know but Remus still hasn’t returned,” James speaks up from the shadows, nearly making Sirius jump out of his skin.

“W-wait, Remus isn’t back yet?” Peter asks, also slipping out of bed and the three make their way over to their friend’s absent bunk. “Where could he be?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” James grins and holds up a cloak.

“How is that gonna help us find out where Rem—” Sirius begins, rubbing his eyes from sleep but stutters to a stop when James’ figure disappears beneath the fabric. The eldest Black brother shares a look of surprise with Peter before turning a grin back to James who was now a floating head.

“I like your thinking, James old chap!” Sirius jests and slips beneath the invisibility cloak with him.

“Will we all be able to fit inside?” Peter’s eyes swim with a healthy level of uncertainty, only to be pulled under the cloak despite his protests.

“We’ll fit, just keep in time with my pace and be very very quiet,” James warns and the two nod affirmatively, Sirius being much more enthusiastic compared to Peter’s hesitance.

“I hope we find, Remus soon,” Sirius comments under his breath, pressed against James’ right as Peter staggers along at James’ left.

“I know… with all that screaming outside, I hope he isn’t in any trouble.” The three make their way to the hospital wing but falter at a hallway junction. Which way was the hospital wing again?

“I-I think we should go right,” Peter helpfully stutters after some thought.

“I thought it was left?” Sirius scratches at his head as James gnaws on his inner cheek.

The three collectively decide to go right for the time being and if it’s wrong, they simply turn back and go the other way. Sirius didn’t anticipate having such an adventure through the halls in the middle of the night and, although it was underpinned by their concern for Remus’ whereabouts, he couldn’t help but feel exhilarated by the escapade. It was thrilling to challenge the rules and go against them. Sirius was well aware of this already but it’s remarkably more exhilarating when sharing the experience with other people, people that the young Black had formed a close brotherhood with. It was a bond he was quickly growing attached to. Of course, no one could ever replace Regulus as his real brother but Sirius enjoys not being the older brother for once. He enjoys having friends of the same age and not being weighed down by responsibilities or a pressing urge to protect them. They all stood on level ground, shoulder to shoulder and fuelled with equal trust for the other. Sirius quickly realised that, if he were to get in trouble for their misbehaviour, he wouldn’t mind too much.

“Damn it, I think it was left after all,” James curses and steers all three of them back the way they came.

“S-sorry you guys,” Peter squeaks and Sirius can just about feel the heat of embarrassment from his friend’s face against his shoulder.

“Mistakes happen, no worries, Pete,” James doesn’t seem bothered at all, Sirius and Peter can practically hear him grinning through his words.

“Yeah but, next time, we should go where I say first,” Sirius cheekily comments, getting a light shove from Peter and chuckles lightly.

Their search continues but ends early when they’re caught red handed by Filch. The halls had gotten too dark and doing ‘lumos’ beneath the invisibility cloak was useless so James had to tuck away their only cover to continue forward, only for Filch to round the corner and smirk wickedly at them. It was good night of mischief while it lasted, they just wish they managed to find Remus before getting caught. Their friend remains the prominent concern in their minds.

Filch had taken them straight to Professor McGonagall who now eyes them narrowly. “Why exactly were you three out of bed past curfew?” Filch remains in the far corner of the room, observing the scene and relishing in his deliverance of misery.

“We wanted to know what the screaming was about,” James fibs smoothly, not wanting to out Remus. Sirius nods along beside him after catching onto his friend’s intentions.

“But weren’t we—”

“Just heading back,” Sirius finishes and turns to Peter with wide eyes, pinning him to the spot, “we really didn’t stay out too long, Professor, can’t you let this slide?” Sirius smiles pleadingly but their transfiguration professor is unaffected and swiftly assigns all of them detention. “Filch will take you back to your dorms and you will stay there, understood?”

“Yes, professor,” they say in unison.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Hogwarts | 6th September 1971

It’s the next day and Remus still hasn’t returned. It was not lunch and the trio were beginning to really worry for their friend.

“We need to find Remus. We should skip History of Magic, it isn’t all that important anyway,” James’ words make Sirius wince ever so slightly, remembering your wisdom of the past providing the perfect lessons for a better future — it was an important subject to learn and Sirius had agreed with you.

“B-but what if we get in trouble?”

“Remus is more important than history, Pete,”

“I-I guess—“

“Wait! Look who it is, lads?!” Sirius points and begins to cheer at the sight of Remus hobbling over to their table with a crooked smile. The trio rise from their seats and immediately rush to his side, eying his awkward ambulation but don’t breathe a word.

“What happened to you? Where have you been?” James asks as Peter nods along, still pointedly looking at his hobbling.

“I was feeling sick remember?” Remus shrugs.

“Is that why you’re walking funny?”

“Y-yeah,” they finally sit back down at the table.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Peter begins to shake at the thought of hurting himself the way Remus seems to have done.

“Not really. Madam Pomfrey says it’ll go away through the day,” assured and satisfied with his answer they help him pile up his plate before continuing to eat.

“What have you been doing all morning?” Sirius asks through a mouthful of food.

“Making sure I don’t get behind on work and doing them in the hospital wing,” their jaws drop at his level of studiousness, “yeah, I asked Madam Pomfrey to get the assigned work from classes so I can do them without getting behind,”

“You’re the academic of the group then,” James comments and grins deviously, “hey, can I copy off you in class?”

“Shove off, James,” Remus smiles when James laughs good-naturedly. It was then that the group thought it fun to retell their adventure the night before, all of them grinning when Remus goes bug-eyed at the discovery of James’ invisibility cloak.

“I’m sorry you all got detention,” Remus feels more than guilty. He didn’t realise they would go so far for him and, although it was flattering to know that they would, he felt horrible that it ended in them getting detention. The brunette was surprised, however, when the group easily shrugged it off.

“We’ll be doing it again soon, anyway,” James smirks, shocking everyone but Sirius is soon grinning beside him. Remus laughs in disbelief but feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders — he managed to land himself a really good group of friends here; it’s more than he feels deserves. Peter seems to be the only one nervous about getting in trouble again.

12 Grimmauld Place | 12th September 1971

Today, Orion wasn’t present at the dinner table; his stomach had been too weak to hold much food. Not long after a meal, he’s having to make yet another painful, arduous, karmic trip to the toilet. You, unfortunately, had to reveal the truth to Regulus after having lunch without a trace of his father in sight. You didn’t give much detail about Orion’s condition, just that he was having stomach problems and would be occupying the toilet closest to his home office and to avoid that area at all costs. Your baby flushed a soft pink and immediately moved the topic forward, making you giggle. He’s such an upright gentleman, trying to keep the subject off unsavoury matters, especially over the dinner table. Conversation flows naturally and there are brief pauses where you both focus on your plates, providing the perfect opportunity for your mind to wander.

You can’t find that blasted first room anywhere. You’ve searched the entire house and… nothing. The troubling situation has you scratching your head; how can a room no longer exist? This is a magical world full of witches and wizards so you gather that magic may be responsible for the missing room. It’s probably similar to the Room of Requirement. Now, it was the question of why. Why does a dark, pureblood family need a magic room that can disappear? With a humourless chuckle, you realise you’ve answered your own question. The Blacks are a pureblood elitist family that dabbles in the dark arts, of course, they would have a secret room that can disappear. That’s probably the only room they allow themselves to practice the dark arts in. But why did you wake up in that room specifically?

Lost in thought, you barely register the way Regulus repeatedly calls to you. He’s seated directly to your right at the table so your distracted attention makes him furrow his brows. When you finally snap to attention and look at him with an apologetic smile, his darling features are crumpled into an expression of worry. His concern was sweet and your heart warms at being blessed with such a caring son. He’s truly an angel compared to his biological parents; it’s the world’s greatest mystery why Regulus Black was born to such a reprehensible pair of parents.

“Is everything alright, mother?”

“Right as rain, dear,” he looks spectacle but doesn’t press further, happy to flash you a smile before returning to his dinner. “…I do have a question, however, do you mind helping me with something, please, sweetheart?” perhaps knowing where to look would be better. Both Sirius and Regulus were witnesses to your appearance just before you fainted that day, he’s sure to know the location. Regulus eagerly nods his head, still chewing on his mouthful and not wanting to be rude, “Do you remember the first night I had that horrible fainting spell?”

“Yes, Mother?” he looks guilty remembering the moment he left with Sirius to the library, where they planned on getting through some boring, last-minute homework for their private tutors. They were upset at your dismissive words, claiming you didn’t have sons. It made Sirius snap rudely before stomping away as Regulus scurried behind him, not wanting to face more of his mother’s hurtful disdain. It isn’t until the morning after that they realise you were suffering enough to faint. Sirius stubbornly refuses to admit to his shameful behaviour but Regulus is drowning in guilt. He hopes you don’t look badly on him for that time, Sirius too. The relationship between you was much better now, brighter and warmer, it hurts too much to think of the past and it would be best to only look forward from here.

“Do you remember where I was at that time? I can’t quite remember,” you laugh softly, trying to make the situation appear unimportant, only curious. Regulus answers quietly, too quietly as he stares down at his plate, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, dear,”

“…you were down the hall from the library…”

“I see,” you nod thoughtfully, mentally committing to that area’s investigation, “thank you, darling,” dinner goes on as usual but there’s a tension in the air you can’t quite shake despite the changing topics of conversation. Regulus was also much quieter. “What’s wrong, love?” you ask softly, setting your cutlery down and focusing all your attention on your downhearted youngest.

“I’m sorry about leaving you there, I-I didn’t know you were hurting, Mother,” he apologises, not expecting you to reach over and lovingly comb your fingers through his hair.

“It’s not your fault, little love,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, “and I don’t blame you for what happened to me,” you angle your head down to smile warmly at him, trying to convey your assurance as much as possible, “besides, I’m all better now. I only have a few fainting spells here and there,” his smile is small as he nods and you both refocus your attention to dinner, the atmosphere gradually losing the earlier tension and becoming light again. Regulus remembers how cold and claustrophobic the house felt at that time, he didn’t feel comfortable thinking back to it; back then, it was a place that was hard to breathe in. He only had Sirius protecting him…

The house is much warmer now that he has you and Sirius. He much prefers the way things are currently. The past should stay in the past.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Later that night, you ask Kreacher for more information. The topic clearly made Regulus uncomfortable and you didn’t want him to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, which is why you didn’t ask any further questions, especially at the dinner table where the atmosphere should be lighter. Hopefully, you can fully dismiss all tensions from dinner when you tuck him into bed later on.

Seated at your desk, you suppress the groans of discomfort that were being conducted through the walls from Orion’s private office — you can’t believe he still hasn’t asked Kreacher for a healing potion. But you suppose it’s fitting that his ego is making him suffer more at this point. You savour the sounds of his pain for only a few moments more before calling for Kreacher yourself.

“Mistress has called for Kreacher?” the hunched house elf immediately asks after appearing before you with a pop. He remains ever-aged and wrinkled but his unruffled demeanour and, somewhat, contented expression certainly make him appear brighter.

“Yes, I was wondering if the house had any secret rooms, perhaps down the hall from the library,” Kreacher gives you a sceptical look, one that was doused with suspicions you immediately set about diffusing, “it seems my fainting spells are getting to me and tampering with my memories,” At this, Kreacher’s expression morphs into worry and he begins to clutch tightly at his ragged clothes while falling into rambles upon rambles of heightening anxiety for your health. It was a rather endearing sight, knowing someone cares so deeply for your well-being, but you think the poor elf might just self-induce a heart attack if you let him continue like this, “It’s okay though Kreacher, I’m okay. Please just tell me about that secret room?”

Kreacher takes a moment to catch his breath and flush away his anxiety before answering, “Ladies of the noble and most ancient house of Black were the only ones, Mistress, they be the only ones allowed into the parlour,”

“Parlour?”

“The private parlour, Mistress, yes,” Kreacher nods, subconsciously flattening the wrinkles of his clothes with his hands, standing a little straighter and subtly puffing out his chest, “the powerful, esteemed ladies like to talk in priiiivateeee,” he drags out the word in a low tone, which spikes your interest and reaffirms your speculation on the room being used for dark purposes.

“Is the doorway down the hall from the library, Kreacher?” he nods weakly, his curious eyes taking in your theorising face. “And you say that only the ladies of house Black have access to it?” Kreacher nods once more and you fear that, perhaps the house may be denying you access as you’re not a true lady of house Black. This is going to be a problem…

“The parlour can only open to the Mistress,” Kreacher affirms but you remain hopeless at it ever opening for you, “and only at a special time, yes — only then,”

“A special time?” you question, dismissing your earlier hopelessness when Kreacher shakes his head, trying to search for the right words.

“The clock face must look a certain way,” so a specific time…

“What time does it open, Kreacher?”

Not knowing the answer, Kreacher seeks refuge behind the sofa of your office’s seating area, “Only Mistresses of Black know, Masters of Black do not! Strangers do not! Kreacher does not! Only Mistresses!” not wanting him to work himself up, you quickly placate his high emotions.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” the house elf freezes in place and looks at you hesitantly but with rounded, hopeful eyes. Though, he almost seems to frown deeper at the sight of your warm smile, “You were very helpful, thank you,” he nods slowly, looking at his feet and silently accepting your gratitude. “You may rest for the evening now. Goodnight Kreacher,” Kreacher nods meekly and hesitates for a moment before disappearing with the same popping sound he had appeared in.

With a sigh of defeat, you collapse into your chair and ruminate over the frustratingly incomplete answers Kreacher had given. In the place of answers grew more questions. It’s getting late already but you don’t think you’ll be able to sleep with all the questions to keep you awake. But then you find your eyes transfixed on the desk calendar Walburga had been maintaining before you arrived. You find it hard to look away from the monthly timetable and eventually begin to reach for it.

Subconsciously, you flick back through the months, needing something to do in order to rest your overactive thoughts. Landing on August, you fondly trace August 1st with your finger. The day you had first arrived and given the blessings that were your two sons. Warm affection blooms in your chest at the thought of your darling boys and the privilege of being their mother. You almost miss the pearlescent ink marking the day ‘Ritual (P - 5 pm)’. The almost transparent words make you freeze up and all thoughts pertaining to the private room, return. They reach out to you from the page in their pearlescent, bold and shaking letters, screaming at you to pay them the utmost attention and to disregard the regular black-ink notations occupying other days. Shakily—you just realised it was your hand that was shaking the calendar—you flip back to July. Almost every day is marked with ‘P - 5 pm’.

What was that disgusting bitch doing?!

‘YOU WORTHLESS, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING MUGGLE!’ Walburga shrieks in her offence, triggering yet another skull-fracturing migraine, ‘YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED TO GO SEARCHING FOR THE PARLOUR! SOMEONE LIKE YOU IS NOT ALLOWED! I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE YOU WERE ABLE TO SEE THE INK! NOBODY SEES THE INK BUT ME!’

‘Must be some special-ass ink…’ was the last thing you remember thinking before falling into darkness.

12 Grimmauld Place | 13th September 1971

The following day, you awake in your bed and groan at the ceiling’s offending sight. You dread to look at your nightstand, already knowing there’s no escape from the magenta healing potion you would need to take. A slight tilt of your head reveals the phial in your periphery and you resolve to avoid directly looking at the disgusting concoction in hopes of delaying your need to drink it.

As you continue to lay in bed, the weight at your side becomes more and more obvious through the foggy haze obscuring the most conscious parts of your mind. When you finally look down to see the source, your face blooms into a warm smile and you have to keep yourself from cooing aloud. Cuddled up into your side was Regulus. He lay atop the blankets with another blanket to keep him warm. Kreacher must have done that for him after taking you to your room. In a whisper, you call out to the house elf whilst manoeuvring yourself to sit against the headboard. Under the glow of motherly affection, you allow your fingers to gently comb through Regulus’ soft curls. Kreacher was at your side almost instantly and didn’t waste a second to urge the phial of healing potion into your hands.

Shaking your head, you smile at the loyal elf and lean down to whisper your thanks before regretfully taking the potion from his grasp, “Thank you for making sure Regulus was taken care of, Kreacher,” the house elf doesn’t meet your eyes and simply nods at his young master.

“Young master Regulus told me he wasn’t to be sleepin’ in his room with the Mistress being ill. K-Kreacher worries too loud when the Mistress faints…” he shook his head, droopy ears flopping, as he emphasised Regulus’ decision to stay by your side after causing a ruckus.

“He’s such a stubborn child…” you voice with much fondness, eyes glittering as you look at Regulus’ peacefully sleeping form, “What a lucky mother, I am,”

“Mistress must drink her healing potion, now,” Kreacher urges in a slightly shaking voice. You hesitate, “for Kreacher? Please?” at that, you finally drink the potion you hate so much, muttering a vow to never drink something so disgusting again. It was odd to the house elf that you wouldn’t drink the potion for yourself but rather for his sake. He found that if he said those words and followed them with the magic word ‘please’, you would be willing to do even that much. The word ‘please’ wasn’t a spell to make someone do one’s bidding like the ‘Imperius Curse’ but Kreacher finds that the effects of ‘please’ are much more pleasant. He was taught this alongside the two young masters after your great fainting spell and change in demeanour. Kreacher learns a lot of new things from his Mistress every day and he finds that he enjoys it a lot. Unlike his Master Orion…

“Has my husband asked for his healing potion yet, Kreacher?” he shakes his head ‘no’, not really knowing what expression to make. On one end he detests seeing the suffering of his master as it means he’s being a bad house elf by not taking care of him well enough and that was ever house elf’s entire life’s purpose. On the other hand, Kreacher finds that he doesn’t care much for his Master’s suffering, at least, when compared to the Mistress and the two young masters, even Master Sirius. Kreacher finds it easier to be called upon by them rather than the patriarch.

Smiling to yourself, you reiterate a very important point, “When my husband finally does ask, make sure he says ‘please’ before complying, Kreacher. Make him aware of this and that I specifically told you to do as such. My husband needs to learn some manners,” the playful wink you send Kreacher before chuckling to yourself, confirms the house elf’s suspicions but he resolves to do nothing about it. He simply follows the orders of his Mistress, that is how he stays a good house elf after all. “Kreacher, can you fetch my calendar, from my desk please?” like now, Kreacher was away and back with your desk calendar with two snaps of his fingers. He watches you with rounded eyes as you flip to July and show him the blank spaces. “What do you see?”

“It is the month of July, Mistress,” Kreacher answers with some hesitance. It was a simple answer to a simple question.

“Nothing else?” you arch a brow, “No writing?”

“K-Kreacher’s eyes see nothing but blank days, Mistress,” Kreacher anticipates being hit for the first time in months when you reach out your hand and he shuts his eyes tightly in anticipation, shrinking into himself. But you don’t hit him. Instead, he feels a soft caress atop his head and his ears wiggle in delight. This was a nice feeling, “That’ll do, Kreacher. Thank you,” of course, his mistress wouldn’t hit him, he’s a good house elf! At your side, Regulus begins to stir and you quickly ask the house elf for a small favour, “Can you please make us some breakfast in bed, Kreacher? One for Regulus and one for me. Make it a yummy treat for my son, pancakes with cut up fruit and a glass of milk. I’ll have a Full English…” you pondered to yourself for a moment before asking that he make the portions big, “so we can share with each other,” Kreacher nods and vanishes to make the best breakfast he can, following your instructions for him to the letter and remembering the way you prepared breakfasts without magic.

Regulus slowly wakes to the comforting, familiar feeling of you gently stroking his head and combing your fingers through his hair. Peeking up at you, he smiles in relief at your kind eyes and warm expression. Even though he fell asleep from worry, waking up to his beautiful, kind mother like this made it all worthwhile. With a relieved whisper of ‘mother…’, he launches himself into your embrace and hugs you close, arms locked around your neck. The way your arms locked around his body gave him a feeling of completeness he didn’t want to let go of.

“I was worried you wouldn’t ever wake up, Mother! You haven’t had this bad of a fainting spell since that first time!”

“Never,” you whisper comfortingly into his ear, “I would never leave you like that, I love you too much,” your words have Regulus beaming brightly.

“I love you too, Mother! I was so worried last night. You didn’t come to tuck me in so I snuck out of bed to check on you but Kreacher told me you no longer slept with Father and redirected me to your new room…” he bit his lip, not wanting to recount the paralysing panic he felt at the sight of your motionless form in bed. He had never seen a person look so still and it frightened him that that person was you.

“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Regulus nuzzles his small face into your neck for comfort and his muffled voice can only be heard because he was so close to your ear.

“It’s okay… you’re all better now, right? That’s what matters most,”

“You’re right,” smiling softly, thoroughly warmhearted by his sweet words, you press a kiss to the side of his head, “Thank you for taking care of me while I wasn’t feeling well,” again, he muffles his response into your neck, unwilling to break away from your embrace.

“You’re welcome,”

“I have Kreacher preparing breakfast for us so we can stay in bed this morning,” at that, he lifts his face from your shoulder to smile brightly at you.

“Really?”

“Really really,” you nuzzle his nose with your own, you’re going to savour the privileges of being a mother before either of your two boys become rebellious, loud and angsty teenagers, “We have as long as it takes for him to make breakfast to snuggle in bed,”

As you cuddle in bed together, Regulus softly asks to be told a good story, not only to pass the time but to distract him from his worrying thoughts. He doesn’t like the potential implications of you experiencing a similarly concerning fainting spell to the first one you had suffered that fateful night. He doesn’t want you to be sick all the time. He only has one mother and you’re perfect now, he doesn’t want you leaving when he just got you…

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Breakfast in bed is a treat and you were happy to share it with your darling youngest. He had such good manners, even when having breakfast in bed. As requested, Kreacher prepared pancakes and cut fruit for Regulus and a Full English for you.

“Wow! Thank you Kraecher,” Regulus smiles at the house elf who shyly returns the kind expression, “The portions are really big too,”

“So we can have a bit of each other’s if we fancy,” you wink and Regulus giggles with a nod, immediately handing over a pancake from his plate.

The two of you spent an hour eating breakfast in bed, talking about nonsense. It was a moment you would treasure forever, you would remember the way Regulus’ eyes light up from the fluffiness of the pancakes and the way his smile never left his lips from the happiness he was experiencing while lost in the moment.

Once breakfast was over, the two of you walked to the kitchen and decided to tidy up, happy to extend your time spent together. You would wash up while Regulus would dry and you would help each other put the dishes and cutlery away. Kreacher almost has a heart attack at the sight of you but his concern only made you both giggle.

“Mistress is doing Kreacher’s job! Not allowed! Not allowed!” the poor house elf chants, tugging at his ears, staring at the scene with disbelieving, watery eyes, “Youngest master is not allowed to!”

“Don’t be so dramatic Kreacher,” you flash him a kind smile as Regulus giggles beside you and looks over his shoulder to smile kindly at Kreacher as well, “we want to do this as a ‘thank you’,” Kreacher is visibly unable to comprehend your words — he still has a long way to go when it comes to things like this.

“It’s to thank you for making such a yummy breakfast for us,” Regulus adds with a small nod of kind acknowledgement. For a moment, Kreacher appears to silently accept the gesture but just as you and Regulus share a smile, Kreacher rushes forward with the same flurry of panic. He doesn’t accept the gesture at all.

“No! No no no! Not allowed!” But Kreacher is unable to get past you or Regulus and goes to slam his head against the wall nearby only to be stopped by you. Patiently, you press his face into the folds of your skirt and that is where your poor house elf stays, muffling his soft whimpers and clinging onto your dress for comfort as you softly whisper for him to calm himself, assuring that he’s still a good elf and worthy of serving House Black. Regulus smiles appreciatively up at you and finishes off drying the plates so you can both put them away.

“Will Father be joining us for dinner tonight? I’ve hardly seen him as of late, surely he’s feeling better now,” Regulus comments after Kreacher finally leaves, assured by the small task you had given him to dust the Library.

“Oh…” you avoid his eyes to keep him from seeing the devious smirk tugging at the edges of your lips, “he’s still feeling a little under the weather, my darling,” Regulus observes you curiously, his interest piqued at the fact that you don’t meet his eyes and there’s a sneaky smile hidden behind your fingers. “His stomachache is persistent so he’s been sequestering himself in his room and his diet remains to only be soup and bread — something light but nutritious so he can sustain himself,” Kneeling before Regulus, you meet his curious eyes warmly, “please don’t worry, darling, your father is going to be okay…”

Regulus nods, accepting your explanation. “I hope father gets better soon,” Even though his father was horrible to him, Regulus is still so incredibly kind and his words make your heart swell with pride.

Cooing at his angelic image, you bring him into your arms and kiss his forehead, “How can a child be so precious? You’re so very kind Regulus, your father doesn’t deserve it after what he’s done to you,”

Pink in the cheeks, Regulus shrugs nonchalantly, “It’s okay…everyone deserves kindness, right Mother?” his words were from one of the last lessons you had given the brothers before Sirius had to leave for his first year and now, although Orion is the least deserving person, you’re still so proud of your baby for remembering your wisdom.

Regulus kept you company in your office as you waited for the grandfather clock to strike five in the afternoon. His lesson with Peony had already finished and he had just gotten done with consolidating his learning in the library. You had some letters to reply to as the Matriarch of the noble and most ancient house of Black while Regulus was eagerly writing his letter for Sirius. He was excited to use the colour-changing ink you had bought them during Sirius’ first-year shopping spree.

Replying to so many letters was getting tiring and your wrist was beginning to ache. You shouldn’t have procrastinated on responding. Hopefully, there was a spell you could do on the quill to make this easier, perhaps make it write as you spoke, the same way Rita Skeeter did.

The frequency of your sighs increased through the labour of writing but all you needed to do was look up and see the diligence of your youngest son writing his letter to feel re-energised again. Smiling to yourself, you savour his innocent image a moment longer before opening the next letter in the pile. The penmanship was rather rough and scratchy, leaning towards print rather than cursive, it was a breath of fresh air from the swirling, loopy handwriting of all the other letters you’ve had to read and reply to.

Opening the letter, you begin to read dismissively but your eagerness spikes when your wandering eyes glimpse the signed name at the bottom: Alphard Black.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Regulus reads his letter again and nods in satisfaction. This was his third draft of it but he felt his efforts to be worthwhile. Letters were a special occasion and something that made a person feel immediately special when they read a letter that’s addressed specifically to them so he wanted to put in a good effort for Sirius. He just hopes it reaches him in good time.

“Mother,” Regulus stands with his letter in hand, ready for postage, “my letter is finished, may I deliver it to Sirius now, please?”

You smile warmly and nod, slipping Alphard’s letter into the main drawer of your desk. With a small wave of your hand, you gesture him over to you, “Would you like to give it a wax seal?”

Regulus’ eyes sparkled with excitement, “I’m allowed?”

“Of course, little love, come here,” you pull him into your lap and gesture to the apparatus around you to create a wax seal. “First, pick out the coloured wax you want for your seal,” Regulus picks metallic silver wax, a perfect choice for the black envelope he was sending it in, a signature of the Black Family. “Now you put it in this little spoon and melt it over the candle,” with an eager nod, Regulus holds the spoon over the candlelight and the two of you wait for it to melt together.

“I think it’s melted now, Mother,”

“Let me see…” he shows you, swirling around the liquid wax to demonstrate its fluidity and grins at your approving nod, “good good. Get the seal ready,” he diligently takes the Black Family seal in his other hand, “now, when you stamp the wax, don’t wiggle it around or else the design will get muddled,” Regulus gives an affirming nod and waits for your instruction to pour the wax before stamping it. He doesn’t wiggle it as you’ve advised. After a few moments, you whisper that it was finally okay for him to take away the stamp and he gasps in delight at the beautiful seal that was left behind.

“Thank you, Mother!”

“Would you like to post it or ask Kreacher to post it for you?”

“I’d like to post it please,” his request pulls you away from your desk, just in time as it was nearing 5 pm already. You patiently lead him to the family owl and watch with a smile as he hands over his letter and waves off the owl with a cheer. “Sirius is going to love the letter, darling,”

“I hope he sends one back soon!”

“I don’t doubt that he will,”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You’ve stationed yourself down the hall from the library. The same location where you had first fainted after falling into the world according the Regulus who was practising the piano in the reception room downstairs. Hearing his piano melodies travelling through the walls and floating up the stairs made you awe at how talented he is. The repeated melodies comforted your racing heart and eased the ache in your head as you waited in anticipation for the afternoon to finally reach five o’clock. There was nothing to go off of when you set about searching for this magically disappearing room. Kreacher described it as a private parlour where only the mistresses and ladies of the Black family could congregate to discuss confidential particulars.

Only for the women…

It was a comforting thought, somewhat, that there was a sisterhood amongst the family. It makes you wonder how long the tradition has been taking place. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely for ill-intentioned meetings for dark magic. The optimistic part of you imagines the women of the Black family aching for a private room away from the men in their lives just to share a cup of tea and relax. Maybe meetings were held in contented silence, relishing in the calm and savouring the safety of the cliquish room.

tick…tock…tick…tock…CLANG!

The grandfather clock gives a discordant chime down the hall at the lower floor and your heart spikes once again. You spin on your heel and face the dark, elegantly embellished wallpaper of the house. For a moment your brows furrow in confusion and disappointment when nothing happens, even when the grandfather clock finishes its chime and begins ticking normally again.

Tick…tock…tick…tock…

You’re about to turn away in disappointment when a black door begins to appear on the wall before you. It rises from the floor as if answering a call to reveal itself by the grandfather clock’s afternoon chimes. The black wood it’s composed of shines like a black pearl as its glass components are decorated with iron embellishments that swirl over it in a symmetrical pattern. They keep the interior entirely secret. Once fully revealed, you awe at the grand entrance; it’s arched at the top and rather than a singular door, its double doors that open at the centre, pulled apart by swirling, gold doorknobs that appear recently polished. Only the best for the ladies and mistresses of the Black family, the noble and most ancient house.

You don’t have the time to tame your thundering heart and grab at the gold handles before the door can disappear again. At the simple touch of your hand, a faint click meets your ears. It’s very reminiscent of a key turning in a lock and allows you to pull the double doors apart. As it was when you first arrived in this world, the room is pitch black and you have to squint in the darkness, blinking as your eyes adjust to the shadow-veiled environment. Thankfully, the light from the hallway manages to seem through from behind you as your silhouette stretches across the room’s expanse. You’re about to take a step forward when a pungent smell meets your nose and you sharply draw back with a hand over your mouth and nose. Eyes wide and finally adjusted to the darkness, you take in the various elements of the room as your panic gradually rises inside you, your mind racing.

There appears to be a seating area for the prim conversations you had once imagined but the furniture was pushed away from its place at the centre of the room and the accompanying coffee table appears to have been thrown about, kept on its side on the far side of the room. In the corner, there’s a lady Chippendale English-style writing desk with its chair thrown down. Its desk space is cluttered, piled high with books with one at the centre, its aged pages ripped out and flung across the room. Brass artisan wall lights fitted with candles remain unlit on either side of a smashed mirror, victim to a fallen, heavy book below it, surrounded by its shattered remains. Black-out curtains that drape to the floor block out a window on the far end of the room, shielding the world from the parlour’s internal happenings. Two glass jars occupy the centre of the room, identically filled with unknown elements that cast the same dark silhouette within it. They’re stained with a mysterious liquid you were too scared to investigate further but the sight wasn’t as frightening as the avian-esque carcass rotting into the carpet at the centre of the room. The sight makes you choke and cough, realising the source of the sickening scent in the musty air. There’s an array of feathers that surround the skeletal remains and not too far from it is a knocked-over bird cage. It looks generic and indistinguishable from the one Sirius’ owl came it.

Your racing mind flashes back to the interaction you shared with the shopkeeper at the Owlery for Sirius’ first-year Hogwarts shopping.

“What happened to the last owl you purchased?” the shopkeeper asks suddenly, finally finished with preparing all the items and eying you warily. You feel Sirius and Regulus’ eyes on you from his question as well and hurry to make an excuse. This situation has grown very uncomfortable.

“Last owl?”

“Yes, the screech owl, from last week,”

Was this… was this the fate of that same owl?…

Unable to tolerate looking into the room further, you slam the double doors shut and collapse backwards into the railing beside the stairs. Your shaky hands grip the rails and try your best to keep your stomach still — you’re not going to be throwing up on the hallway carpet.

“YOU FILTHY, CHEATING MUDBOOLD!!!” Walburga screeches loud enough for you to feel the ache at the forefront of your brain and the tender spots of your ears. Not this bitch again… “HOW DID YOU GET THE PARLOUR DOORS TO REVEAL ITSELF AND OPEN?! IT ONLY OPENS TO ME!”

“Not anymore…” you snipe weakly, as an overwhelming migraine floods through your head. She must be really angry at you. “K-Kreacher,” you call weakly but are too occupied with clutching your head, trying to suppress the pain, to hear the faint pop of your loyal hope elf appearing at your side. He’s panicked and doesn’t know what to do with himself as he calls to you frantically. Quickly, he realises you’re unable to even hear him, spiking his panic all over again.

“YOU ARE NOT A TRUE MISTRESS OF THE BLACK FAMILY! YOU ARE NOT A BLACK FAMILY LADY! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TOUCHING THAT BLASTED RITUAL OR THOSE CONFOUNDED BOOKS!”

There’s a knocking at your temples that gets harder and harder to ignore atop Walburga’s grating, pic-squealing caterwauls. It rises in volume above your hammering heartbeat and feels like an intruder trying to smash their way into your door. It’s invasive and makes you cry aloud from the tormenting pain — it’s almost as harrowing as your first arrival here. Memories of your past life flash before your eyes like an old-fashioned image projector, torturing you with snapshots of your most heart-aching moments: your ovarian cancer diagnosis, the surgery, your depressive state, and your husband leaving. But then it captures you beating the odds and rising from the ashes, you made something from the remains of your old life’s trajectory, successfully creating an economic empire and practising philanthropy for many other women who had to face the same devastating diagnosis as you. It all ends with an image of a heavy truck barrelling straight towards you and then you’re consumed by darkness.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 08 : PASTRIES →

A/N: back to the below 10k chapters haha! i'm thinking of going back to proofread and edit this chapter again in the future since i don't feel like I've properly done it this time because of some personal things going on. nevertheless, i hope you darlings enjoyed this chapter! thank you always for all the love and support, this series has been able to grow so much thanks to you darlings x

#sirius black #regulus black #remus lupin #james potter #peter pettigrew #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fix it fic #marauders era #reader insert #mother reader #isekai au #walburga black #orion black #divorcing orion black series #the black family #the black brothers #sirius and regulus

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gallusrostromegalus · 6 months ago

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Ta-Ashi Neko (Many-Legged Cat)

A fun little Yokai to live in AEIWAM's Spirit World. Warnings for: Long Post, Animal Death Mention, non-graphic discussion of Carnivory

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Ta-Ashi Neko (多足猫) or Many legged Cat

The Ta-Ashi Neko is a Monstrous Cat that grows to enormous size and intelligence, and has multiple pairs of legs. It's more elongated and stoutly built than a domestic house-cat, with a thick and plush coat. While extremely rare, the Ta-Ashi that have been observed come in a variety of coat colors that also occur in Domestic Cats.

No one is quite sure what causes a Ta-Ashi to form but rather than the product of Ta-Ashi Neko mating, new Ta-Ashi are born in domestic cat litters. When born, the Ta-Ashi resembles an ordinary kitten save that it has no legs at all, and sort of wiggles around for the first 11 years of it's life, during which it will feed itself by suckling from any animal EXCEPT cats.

On it's 11th birthday, it suddenly sprouts a pair of legs- Like human handedness, 90% of Ta-Ashi sprout their forelegs first, and 10% their hind legs. It can now crawl around more effectively (or in the case of the hind-leg ones, walk about), and continues to do so for 22 years, when it sprouts it's second pair of legs, and goes about looking like a normal, if unusually large and somewhat elongated house-cat.

33 years after that, it's third pair of legs sprout in the middle. 44 years after that, the 4th pair, 55 years after that the 5th pair, and so on. As it develops more legs, it also grows: a 3-pair Ta-Ashi is about the size of a large dog or Lynx, a 4-pair the size of a Lion or other Big Cat, a 5-pair the size of a Horse, and a 6-leg the size of a small bus. Foreleg Ta-Ashi will sprout their 4th pair between their fore and middle legs, then their fifth between the middle and hind legs, alternating thusly. Hindleg Ta-Ashi alternate as well, but start on the middle and hindleg gap.

If a Ta-Ashi manages to live to be 1,001 years old, it will have 13 pairs of legs, and become a full Kami.

The Ta-Ashi is exceptionally intelligent from birth, and by the time they have 2 pairs of legs, they fully understand human speech, but usually don't talk before their third legs grow in. A Ta-Ashi with over 5 pairs of legs is at least 231 years old, and of superhuman intelligence, if peculiar feline priorities.

They are incredibly stealthy, and it's believed older ones learn to become silent and invisible at will, but the Ta-Ashi's greatest weapon is it's speed. Even a 3-pair Ta-Ashi can outpace a Shingami's Shunpo, and as it ages, it only gets faster and better endurance. Hayai Tatakai, a 6-pair Ta-Ashi that lives in the distant districts of the Rukongai, is said to be able to make a complete circuit around the outermost borders of the Rukongai in just under a month.

Ta-Ashi are exceptionally rare, due to both their apparently niche spawning criteria, and the fact that humans have a bad habit of 'mercy killing' what they think are 'deformed' kittens. Even if a Ta-Ashi makes it to Adulthood (The onset of it's third pair of legs), it still faces major challenges: Humans will hunt them out of fear, or for Trophy Animals, and it's diet is peculiarly limited:

The Ta-Ashi eats Other Cats and the Occasional Hunter.

It's a mystery* WHY Ta-Ashi only eat other cats and seemingly random game hunters, even to the Ta-Ashi themselves. Hayai described his desire for feline flesh and not hunger per se, but as an act of rage. The mere scent of another cat would send him into an irrationally furious fugue which would not be assuaged until he had hunted down, killed, and devoured his nemesis. In fact, he rarely felt hungry at all, at least not since he'd been weaned, but on the rare occasions he did, his craving was for milk and cheese, not catmeat.

This has caused some speculation that the Ta-Ashi is not a Cat-spirit at all, but a sort of ironic Vengeful Spirit against cats- not only does it's compulsion to devour include house-cats, but also big cats, bakaneko, two-tailed cats, catfolk, and in one particularly catastrophic incident, a member of the Shihoin clan.

(*The Secret is that Ta-Ashi ARE an Ironic Vengeful Spirit- When the Beast God of the Wilderkin cursed the Shihoin to live among the humans for killing for sadistic pleasure instead of having respect for their prey, the Beast God also created the Ta-Ashi specifically to antagonize them. The Shihoin clan took, and continues to take, immense pride in their strength and speed, so the Beast God created a Feline Yokai that would be faster and stronger than any Shihoin could ever hope to be, and that would spawn anywhere Cats or Humans were hunting without respect for their prey. Even if they don't originally spawn there, Ta-Ashi Neko are drawn to places with an overabundance of cats, or where trophy hunting takes place. This has lead to the peculiar phenomenon that Ta-Ashi are found in either the ass-end of nowhere where some idiot has introduce house-cats or taken a hunting party, or smack in the middle of cities where poor pet and livestock husbandry abounds.)

Despite their fearsome appearance and distressing diet, Ta-Ashi are surprisingly gentle and playful spirits. The vast majority of people living within the territory of a Ta-Ashi never notice and are untroubled by it's presence. Some like to rush by as a sudden gust of wind to tease unwary travelers, or play with laundry left out in an unattended line. When not being actively hunted, some have even proved to be gentle and protective of human children, going so far as to return lost children to the nearest village. They are notably fond of all canines, especially dogs.

Because Ta-Ashi are so stealthy and reclusive until they know they can trust the local humans, the strongest indicators that a Ta-Ashi is in the area are:

A sudden surge in the local population of songbirds, reptiles and frogs (the mice are no longer being hunted either, but the snake population also massively rebounded)

Sudden changes in weather including more intense storms and windy days (the Ta-Ashi traveling about At Speed)

Strange miasmas of absolutely rancid sour odors with no discernible source, especially on remote stretches of road (the Ta-Ashi Marking the borders of its territory)

Some exorcists have attempted to divine the presence of Ta-Ashi Neko by interrogating other local Yokai, especially Tanuki and Kitsune, who can be plied with Sake. However, this method isn't very reliable- given that Kitsune and Tanuki are both canine spirits that are often harassed by Bakaneko or Yokai Trophy Hunters, and often favorite friends of Ta-Ashi, they usually choose to keep the presence of their Good Friend Leggy Boi a secret.

If a Ta-Ashi appears in your area, the best thing to do is keep your cat indoors- Ta-Ashi are extremely reluctant to go inside of any kind of human construction, and it also limits how far the scent of your cat travels. Also, you should be keeping your cat indoors anyway have you SEEN the foxes around here? Not even the Kitsune, the regular ones!

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Yushiro Shihoin used to love visiting his Uncles Jushiro and Kaname and going Birdlistening (on account of Kaname being blind and Jushiro being utterly hopeless with the binoculars, they rarely saw the birds, but did have a good time listening to their songs) out in the Greenbelt of old Noble House Land Holdings in the middle of the city.

He came to visit in the mid 1970's after several years away at school at Jushiro's word of improved bird populations, only to feel an awful, intense paranoia that he was being stalked by something. Concerned about assassins, the two captains quickly retreated with him from the wilder parts of the Ukitake clan holdings to the main compound. He hasn't been back since, and soon after even visiting Auntie Soi Fon's heavily forested 2nd Division training grounds gave him a similarly awful case of Heebie-Jeebies.

Unbeknownst to nearly everyone, Mayuri Kurotsuichi had commissioned the capture of a live Ta-Ashi Neko for analysis. In 1973, bounty hunters arrived in the city with a three-leg Ta-Ashi who went ballistic at being exposed to even the faintest hint of Shihoin Reiatsu, broke out of the cage she was being kept in, and has been lurking in the Greenbelt and 2nd Division training grounds since.

Since her return to Soul Society in 2001, Yoruichi thinks that she ought to bond with her Surprise Baby Brother, and that a good way to do that would be for the two of them to sneak into the Kuchiki Compound in the middle of the Greenbelt and camp there while pranking Byakuya until caught.

Kazetsumi, as she calls herself, is over 110 years old now. Her fourth pair of legs has grown in nicely and she has spent the last 27 years learning every. square. inch. of her territory.

>:3c

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #Bleach #bleach fanfiction #Yushiro Shihouin #Yoruichi Shihouin #Yes I was watching My Neighbor Totoro #I was trying to deal with heatwave-related mental illness and it only sort of worked #ANYWAY #Catbus is the single most zoologically and ecologically bewildering creature of all time #Even Totoro himself makes sense in a broader anatomical and ecological context #CATBUS THO #Catbus ONLY makes sense in a metanarrative context and that compelled me to make it's Cousin #the giant many legged feline that makes sense within it's own universe #It came out... compelling

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averycutesalamander · 2 months ago

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Brighter than the Sun, Bigger than the Moon

wc: 8k. hurt/comfort, angst with a happy (kinda bittersweet?) ending, warning for vague mentions of sex. also up on ao3 if that's your preference

One of the greatest mysteries in the universe is that of soulmates.

They’ve existed for as long as history itself – perhaps even longer. No one knows if it’s the influence of an Aeon, or if it’s something stranger; the most recent theory is that Aha is behind it all, but it’s a joke to even think about getting a straight answer from THEM. Not every soul bond is the same, and they don’t even have to be romantic or sexual; plenty of them start and remain as entirely platonic, but either way, you have a partner for life. The details differ person-by-person as well; some have matching marks, some have a red string, some can't see color until they meet.

Shared dreams are on the uncommon end of the spectrum - even more so when they live on different planets. Such is the case for you and the boy who will later be known as Boothill.

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun.

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller.

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person.

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all.

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears.

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare.

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him.

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty.

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth.

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest.

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing.

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up.

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that.

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive.

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions.

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had.

Neither of you know that it will be the last.

They lose.

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win.

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride.

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke.

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink.

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know.

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief.

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky.

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself:

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you.

Two: he's going to slaughter that man.

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree.

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top.

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body.

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest.

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one.

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars.

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it.

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel.

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you.

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.”

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick.

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream–

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve.

And one of the worst things about it all?

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame.

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure.

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you?

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again.

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer.

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree.

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash.

Your dream is dead.

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach.

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking.

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then.

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss.

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you.

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling–

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt.

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway.

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time.

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed.

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body.

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway.

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again.

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest.

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart.

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual.

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint.

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it.

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him.

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt.

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them.

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod.

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head.

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying.

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes.

There's only one thing missing, now.

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold.

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it.

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after.

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair.

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add.

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person.

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek.

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her.

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises.

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand.

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy.

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips.

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream.

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are.

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face.

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree.

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash.

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

…it's that his love for you is brighter than the sun, and bigger than the moon.

#sal.txt #sal.bttsbttm #boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #gn reader #x reader #reader insert #this was meant to be a 100 word drabble. oops lol #if you saw this when the formatting was fucked up no you didnt #angst #hurt/comfort

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