#who will devour it with single-minded devotion???

[beneathsilverstars]

ok u know what makes me feel like an old adult more than anything else? i still haven't eaten all of the candy from my christmas stocking last year. and yes i bought all of it myself.

[cbeargyu]

Hii, I love your writing so much, I just discovered your account and omg I just binged the entirety of it!!

Would you ever write a period piece, like something inspired by medieval times. Because, imagine Mark as a lowborn knight devoted to protecting the court's only female alchemist. They have mind-boggling sex and fall in love, duh. But, the reader's accused of performing witchcraft. So, she's sentenced to death. AND Mark's ordered to excecute her!

the mercy in his life

summary: accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death, you face execution by the knight sworn to protect you. but what the crowd doesn’t know is that he’s hiding a dangerous secret — and a desperate plan to save you.

pairing: knight!mark x alchemist!fem reader

genre: historical, romance, drama, angst, smut, forbidden love

warnings: explicit sexual content, public execution themes, religious and political persecution, emotional distress, betrayal, sacrifice, mention of blood, decapitation, manipulation of identity for escape.

you belonged in the shadows of the stone walls, where the air smelled of burnt sage and old parchment. where your hands, stained with crushed herbs and soot, crafted remedies for nobles who never looked you in the eye. you weren’t a lady, not by their measure—you didn’t wear silk, didn’t smile for men who thought your intelligence was a novelty. you were a necessity. useful. quiet. invisible.

until he came.

sir mark lee wasn’t supposed to speak to you. he was a knight—lowborn, yes, like you, but carved into legend by the steel in his grip and the loyalty in his gaze. they said he once felled a man twice his size for threatening the prince. they said his sword was blessed by god himself.

but he didn’t look like a legend when he stood in your chamber that night, armor scratched from battle, blood crusted at his temple. he looked human. lost.

“the healer’s too far,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “they told me you could help.”

you remember the tremble of his body beneath your fingers as you cleaned the wound. how he watched your hands—not your face, not your figure, but your hands, like they held power.

“it’ll scar,” you told him, not knowing why you felt the need to speak softly. “but you’ll live.”

“then i owe you my life.”

he meant it.

after that, he returned often—always under the pretense of bruises and shallow wounds, always after dark. sometimes he didn’t even knock. just appeared in your doorway, breathless from training or battle, eyes searching the dim room until they found you.

“it’s quiet here,” he once said, the first night he stayed too long. “i can breathe.”

you didn’t touch each other. not yet. but the air between you grew heavy with want. every word he spoke lingered too long. every glance left your skin hot. he began to bring you things—dried rose petals, rare vials, broken relics from the battlefield. once, he placed a single golden pin in your palm. “it reminded me of you,” he said, and didn’t explain why.

you never wore it.

but you kept it in a drawer, where your fingers found it on restless nights.

because there was something unspoken between you—something dangerous. it curled beneath your skin like flame, threatening to devour you whole. you knew what it meant to be seen by a man like him. you knew what the court would say.

a knight and a witch, they’d whisper.

a blade and a curse.

they’d burn you for it.

but still, you let him return.

you let him look at you like that.

you let him touch your hand one night, when neither of you spoke, and the fire burned low, and the only sound was the trembling of your breath.

you didn’t stop him when his lips brushed your knuckles.

you didn’t stop him when they found you.

the night he kissed you, you thought it was a mistake.

he was half-drunk on pain and exhaustion, slouched in the wooden chair by your hearth. his armor lay discarded by the door, his tunic undone at the collar. the firelight carved golden edges into his face, highlighting the bruise along his jaw and the shadow beneath his cheekbone.

you stood beside him, grinding herbs in a small stone bowl, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed you.

but you did.

“you should sleep,” you said, not looking at him. your voice was soft, too soft.

“i should,” he agreed.

he didn’t move.

you turned. “mark—”

“say that again.”

you blinked. “what?”

“my name. like that.”

you swallowed. “mark.”

his lips parted slightly, like it surprised him. like he hadn’t realized how much he wanted it.

“it sounds… holy. when you say it.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and you could feel the shift in the air—thick, charged.

“don’t say that,” you murmured, heart pounding.

“why not?”

“because i’m not holy.”

he smiled, slow and reverent. “i know. that’s why i come back.”

his fingers brushed yours. just barely. but it was enough to make you ache.

you could have pulled away. you should have.

instead, you set the bowl down and let your hand rest on his.

“this is dangerous,” you whispered, though your body leaned into the gravity of his.

his other hand came up to your waist—hesitant, warm, trembling slightly. “so is war. i still ride into it.”

you stood between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him. his gaze dropped to your lips. lingered.

“tell me to stop,” he said. “and i will.”

you didn’t.

so he kissed you.

slow at first, like a secret. his lips moved gently against yours, searching, learning. he tasted like wine and fire and something softer—something only you had ever touched.

your hands curled into his hair, pulling him closer. he stood, lifting you with him, mouth never leaving yours. your back hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. your breath caught when he pressed against you—his body solid, needy.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured against your throat. “i dream about you.”

you gasped as his hands slid beneath your layers of cloth, palms hot against your waist, your hips.

“i think about you when i train,” he whispered, teeth grazing your collarbone. “when i’m bleeding. when i’m praying.”

his voice broke slightly. “i want you more than i want heaven.”

you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in his warmth. “then take me.”

he paused, forehead pressed to yours. “are you sure?”

you kissed him like an answer.

and he unraveled.

he lifted you easily, carrying you to the cot as if you weighed nothing. his kisses grew desperate—needy—his hands shaking as he undressed you. he looked at you like you were something sacred and forbidden, something he should fall to his knees before. and when he finally slid inside you, slow and deep, you swore you saw stars.

he held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. moved inside you like he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every tremor in your body.

“look at me,” he whispered. “please, look at me.”

you did.

and what you saw in his eyes was not lust. it was devotion.

pure. aching. terrifying.

like he’d burn the world for this.

like he already had.

he undresses you like he’s learning you.

his fingers move slowly over the laces of your bodice, undoing each one with reverence, his eyes fixed on your skin as it’s revealed inch by inch. he doesn't rush. doesn’t speak. he only breathes—deep and controlled, as though he's afraid the moment will vanish if he moves too fast.

“you’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing your bare shoulder with the back of his hand.

“so are you.”

his lips press to your collarbone, warm and tender. “i’ve never wanted anything this much.”

your chemise slips down your arms and pools at your feet. he steps back for a moment—not to admire, but to steady himself. to feel the weight of seeing you bare in front of him for the first time. your nipples are hard from the cold, your thighs pressed together in shyness.

mark steps in close, his hands finding your hips, his mouth returning to yours—hungrier now. he kisses you like a man who’s been starved. tongue sliding past your lips, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other slips down, down—

until it finds the heat between your legs.

you gasp into his mouth.

his fingers are rough from swordwork, but careful—featherlight as he brushes through your folds, slow and teasing.

“fuck,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are. “is that all for me?”

you nod, breath shaky.

“say it.”

“it’s for you,” you whisper. “it’s always been for you.”

he groans, sinking to his knees.

and that—that sight alone nearly makes you come. the court’s golden knight, down on the floor, pulling your thighs apart like a man possessed. he looks up at you once, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“hold on to something,” he says. “i’m not stopping.”

and he doesn’t.

his tongue finds your clit instantly—circling, sucking, flicking in just the right rhythm while two fingers slide into your dripping heat. the stretch is perfect, obscene, your body grinding against his face without shame.

you cry out his name. over and over.

“mark��mark, please—fuck—”

he moans into you like he’s savoring the taste. his fingers curl inside you, stroking your sweet spot until your thighs shake around his head. you come fast—too fast—your body clenching hard, legs trembling, and still, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it with his mouth and fingers, coaxing every drop of pleasure out of you until you’re whimpering, begging—

“please, mark, i need you inside me. now.”

he’s already halfway undressed. you help him push his pants down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

you reach for him, wrapping a hand around the base.

“you’re big,” you whisper, almost dazed.

he chuckles low in his throat. “you can take it. i’ll go slow.”

he lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds until your hips buck.

“ready?”

“yes. please—mark—”

he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you open so deeply, so sweetly, your head falls back against the pillow. your mouth drops open in a silent cry. he groans, gripping your thigh.

“fuck—you’re so tight. so warm.”

he bottoms out, stays there for a second, trembling above you.

“you feel like home,” he breathes.

you lift your hips to urge him deeper, and he starts to move—slow thrusts, deep and measured, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. one of his hands slides under your back to pull you closer, chest to chest.

“look at me,” he says again. “i need to see you.”

you do. and it nearly breaks you.

the way he stares—like you’re salvation and sin all at once. like he’d die in your arms if you asked.

he picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, your bodies slapping together as your moans fill the room. you wrap your legs around his waist, and he fucks you deeper, faster, panting against your neck.

“i love you,” you whisper, breath caught between sobs of pleasure.

he freezes for half a second.

then he slams into you—hard—and groans against your throat.

“say it again.”

“i love you,” you repeat, louder this time. “i love you, mark—”

he thrusts faster, wild now, hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. it takes seconds before you’re coming again—clenching around him, gasping as your vision goes white.

“gonna come,” he growls, voice wrecked. “inside you. can i—?”

“yes,” you gasp. “mark, fill me, please—”

he groans your name as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically, cock pulsing deep inside. he kisses you through it—your lips, your cheeks, your temple—as if trying to brand himself into your skin.

when it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, your hearts beating like war drums.

he stays buried inside you, still hard, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“i’ve never had anything this real,” he whispers against your skin. “not until you.”

he stayed until morning.

you woke with your leg draped over his hip, his nose buried in your neck, his hand still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even in sleep. the fire had burned out hours ago, but the warmth of his body—solid, steady—wrapped around you like a promise.

you stayed quiet for a long time. breathing him in.

you didn’t want to be the first to speak.

“i thought it was a dream,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “i’ve had so many.”

your fingers moved slowly through his hair. “this one’s real.”

he shifted, just enough to kiss your shoulder. “then let me stay in it. just a little longer.”

and he did. he stayed the whole day.

he made you tea. kissed you between sips. traced the curve of your hip with calloused fingers while you told him about the healing properties of dried rosemary. you watched the way he listened—truly listened—as if every word you spoke mattered more than any prayer, any sword, any oath.

you didn’t say the word love.

but it bloomed quietly in the room. in the touch of his hand on your back. in the way he kissed your ankle before laying you down again, mouth warm and reverent on your skin.

he knelt between your thighs like a man come to worship.

his tongue found you slowly—wet, careful, patient. he groaned when you moaned, gripping your thighs as if the sound alone undid him. he didn’t stop until your voice broke on his name, until your legs trembled and you begged him—desperately, breathlessly—to come inside you.

and when he did, it wasn’t rushed. it was slow, aching. he slid in deep and held your face in his hands like you might shatter if he didn’t.

“you feel like sin,” he whispered, “and i’d choose you anyway. every time.”

you kissed him to quiet the sob that rose in your throat.

because you knew. even then.

love like this wasn’t meant to last.

after that night, he returned as often as he could. not just with bruises or offerings—but with longing. with need.

“i missed you,” he’d whisper, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands. “days feel longer when i’m not inside you.”

and you’d undress him by candlelight, kiss the scar by his hip, feel him grow hard against your belly as you whispered your own confessions.

“i wait for you,” you’d admit. “i sleep in your shirt. i read your letters again and again.”

he’d bury himself in you like he could protect you from the world. he’d fuck you slowly some nights, eyes locked to yours, hand between your legs, breath hot on your ear. other nights he’d take you against the table, desperate and rough, your skirt bunched at your waist, his mouth muffling your moans.

but always—always—he held you after.

as if his body was your shield.

as if he could keep the world away.

but the world was not kind.

not to people like you.

you noticed the whispers first. the way the maids avoided your eyes. the way the king’s advisor lingered too long outside your door.

one morning, mark arrived later than usual. blood on his sword, panic in his eyes.

“they’re watching you.”

your hands trembled. “who?”

he stepped forward, gripping your shoulders. “the council. they’ve seen the relics you’ve been studying. the salves you’ve made. they think it’s unnatural.”

“it is natural,” you said, voice cracking. “it’s chemistry. observation. logic.”

“they don’t care.” his voice broke. “they’ve seen the burn marks on your fingers. the powders. the symbols in your notes.”

you stared at him. “you think they’ll accuse me?”

he looked like he was about to fall to his knees. “they already have.”

the night before your sentence, he came to you in secret.

the guards let him in without a word. his rank allowed it. no one questioned why a knight would want a final word with the woman he’d been ordered to kill.

you were sitting on the floor, your ankles shackled, your wrists raw from the chains.

he fell to his knees in front of you.

“don’t speak,” you whispered. “just hold me.”

and he did.

his hands shook as he undid your binds. his lips found your temple, your cheeks, your mouth. he kissed your tears away and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear the distance. like his arms were the only place you had left to live.

you kissed him back—desperate, hungry, grieving.

when he lifted you into his arms and laid you down on the stone floor, neither of you cared that the world was ending outside that cell.

his body hovered over yours, his eyes soaked in pain and reverence.

“if this is the last time,” he said, voice cracking, “i want you to remember how i loved you.”

“show me.”

and he did.

his hands moved over you feverishly, like he needed to memorize every inch before they took you away. his mouth worshiped you—biting, kissing, licking everywhere he could reach.

he fucked you with a kind of despair that bled into every stroke—slow, hard, deep. he held your face the whole time. kissed you between every thrust. whispered your name like it was the last word he'd ever speak.

your nails clawed down his back, your bodies slapping in a rhythm more desperate than gentle.

“come for me,” he begged. “i need to feel it. please—please.”

you did, gasping, sobbing, breaking open beneath him.

he followed with a cry—buried inside you, body shaking, moaning your name like a prayer that wouldn’t save him.

after, he didn’t move. just held you.

and when dawn broke, he whispered three words into your hair:

“i have a plan.”

the air in the square feels carved from iron.

it’s barely morning, but already the sky is bruised, heavy with smoke and dust, the sun hidden behind low, churning clouds. the crowd gathers thick around the platform—commoners, merchants, guards, even a few nobles lining the edge in muted colors, whispering beneath their veils. no one dares to speak too loud. no one dares to look away.

up on the scaffold, a girl kneels.

she wears only a thin, off-white chemise—something that might’ve once been undergarments, now soaked from the morning dew, clinging to her body like a final insult. her hands are bound behind her back, and a coarse burlap sack has been pulled over her head. it covers her face completely, as if even in death, the sight of her is too much to bear.

beside her stands a knight.

armor polished. back straight. face unreadable.

mark.

he looks at the girl in silence for a moment longer than he should have.

his grip on the sword tightens.

then he speaks.

his voice carries across the square like a knife’s edge—sharp, clear, final.

“by order of the royal council, for the crimes of blasphemy, defiance of divine law, and the practice of forbidden arts…” he pauses. just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath. “(y/n), the court’s former alchemist, is hereby sentenced to death.”

some gasp. others cry.

but mark doesn’t blink.

he raises the sword above his head, perfectly still.

for a second—just a second—the wind seems to die.

and then the blade comes down.

a thud. a sharp cry from somewhere in the crowd. the body slumps forward, lifeless.

blood stains the wooden boards.

“the sentence has been carried out,” mark announces, stepping back from the fallen figure. “the accused is dead.”

the crowd erupts.

some cheer. some cross themselves. others simply watch in stunned silence as two guards approach to drag the limp body away.

mark turns, slowly, descending the scaffold with heavy steps. his face remains hard. unreadable. dutiful.

but behind his eyes, something burns.

and far beyond the square—beyond the walls, past the fields, deep in the cover of the forest—

a single horse races down a dirt path.

its hooves hammer the ground with desperate speed, mud flying, breath steaming in the cold air. tied to the back is a plain wooden carriage, bouncing wildly with every turn.

inside, hidden beneath layers of cloth, you lie curled on your side.

your fingers tremble as you pull back a layer of thick linen. the scent of earth and damp wood fills your lungs. the sky outside is blurry through the slats—branches whip past, wind howling like something feral. you clutch a dark cloak to your chest, still warm from the body that gave it to you.

from him.

you blink rapidly, eyes burning.

outside, a voice yells above the storm.

“hyah! go! faster, damn it—go!”

you know that voice.

donghyuck.

you remember the way he came to you in the dead of night, face pale, breath fast. don’t speak, he’d said. just trust him. trust me.

you hadn’t asked questions.

you’d only run.

and now you’re here, hidden among herbs and straw, body aching from the cold, alive—alive—while the crowd back in the village still believes you’re rotting on the scaffold.

you press a hand over your mouth as the realization strikes.

he lied.

he gave them a body. not yours.

he gave them a sentence. not your death.

he gave you a chance.

you gasp, swallowing down a sob, but it’s too late—the tears come hard and fast, hot against your cheeks. your fingers dig into the fabric of the cloak, desperate for something to hold onto, something that still smells like him.

you twist slightly, pulling the curtain back with trembling fingers.

and through the trees, barely visible in the distance, you see it—

the dark spire of the church tower. the same one that watched over your execution. the same one that now rings hollow bells into the sky.

you stare at it, eyes full of tears, heart breaking.

“mark…”

you whisper it like a prayer. like a farewell.

you know you won’t see him again.

you know he gave everything to save you—his oath, his honor, his life as he knew it. and he stayed behind, sword still dripping, face still carved from stone.

for you.

the carriage races on, carrying you further and further into the unknown.

and you, hidden beneath it all, turn your face to the past.

and cry.

[mahgyu]

Nanami is the kind who devours you while one of his hands is intertwined with yours in complete devotion.

His face is buried between your legs, Nanami's tongue wanders all over your dripping cleft, alternating between playing with your throbbing hole and suck your sensitive clit.

Your mind is completely disoriented, unable to even remember how many orgasms you've reached. But still, Nanami doesn't seem to be anywhere near stopping.

He has his eyes locked on you, not missing a single one of your expressions. His strong, thick fingers taking place inside your moist pussy, feeling how it squeezes them. Nanami loves how you react to him, how your body responds to his slightest touch.

Your faltering moans are so stimulating for Nanami, the way you grip his blonde locks, pushing Nanami's face closer to your pussy as another orgasm threatens to approach.

"That's right, sweetheart, give it all to me" he encourages, speaking greedily close to your little pussy. Nanami's cock is so hard it almost hurts, so desperate to plunge between your folds and feel your warmth enveloping him. But he still feels the need to finish savoring you, he needs to feel your juices making a complete mess on his face once again before fucking you immediately.

 And when your body surrenders to the brink of the limit, Nanami intertwines his available hand with yours, just as he always does. For Nanami, this simple gesture shows how intimate this situation is, it shows how much Nanami values and appreciates being with you. You are the person he admires and loves the most in the world, and the simple act of holding your hand, regardless of the situation, is Nanami's subtle way of saying that he is entirely there for you.

So, when your orgasm hits you strongly and you're squeezing Nanami's hand as calling out for him, Nanami is savoring all of your liquid while he sweetly caresses your knuckles and thanking you with his hoarse and sensual voice for you being so good to him.

I feel things for this man and I can't contain myself ૮₍ •⤙•˶

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

⠀

[just-some-user-hunny]

Alucard headcanons...

I loved @shinjisdone writing on this particular character, and I've just started watching Hellsing Ultimate and all the characters are so yummy to analyse, so that's brought me here...

Please go check out @shinjisdone ! they have lots of incredible stuff written up!

✧ He responds so passionately to the sounds of your voice beckoning him by name. Alucard, Alucard?, Alucard!

No matter the tone; tender and gentle, curious and soft, fearful and timid. It makes his dead heart tremble. Fills him with fire. He's a rabid dog, your dog. Integra may hold the leash, hold command over him, but you have something else much more unnatainable and devoting. His love. No matter how twisted and dark it is, it's yours. Yours to burden. So please... Angel... Call for him again, won't you?

✧ There's always a part of him mindful of your whereabouts, the beat of your heart and the rush of blood in your veins, even your breath caught in your throat. He can sense every little tiny detail about you even if he's far far away. It always seems there's another presence in your shadow. It lurks behind you, your shadow dwarfing your actual size. Likes it's not really yours, like something is occupying it...

Even when he's not some lurking entity, and he's standing eerily tall and gaunt in the same room as you, his eyes are often focused on you. He observes you through the tinted coloured glass of his lenses, and if your eyes ever meet his, he smiles. He thinks your skittish curiosity of him is adorable. Endearing. He's found he likes your eyes on him. His are always on you, so would you grant him the pleasure of your reciprocation?

✧ Whenever you find yourself in danger, your shadow grows oppressive and dark. You feel it press into your back, clutching at you like a snarling creature. You're so fortunate to not be able to see the nightmarish visions that lurk right behind you, the jagged teeth and blood red eyes that stare from the abyss. You swear you can hear something growling and snarling, like a wild dog by your feet. The fearful entity pressed against you, pushing and pulling seemingly lulls you. Whatever is frightening you seems nothing like a scattering bug now, ready to be crushed and devoured by your devoted monster.

✧ You may also find that your time will be consumed by his presence. Whenever he is not beckoned to Integra's heel to go maim and kill whoever she desires, he finds himself by yours instead. He desires all of your attention, to be the audience of your mere existence- to engrave every part of you into him, so that he may not ever forget a single detail for when he inevitably keeps living and you are all but beneath the soil and lovingly cradled in soft silk and your favourite flowers. But let's not get ahead of that...

✧ As he becomes burdened with his growing infatuation with you, the more bothersome he'll make himself to you. Sweet soft coos of pet names are used often to refer to you, and he can never get enough of the way you fluster and fidget aimlessly. The rapid beat of your heart is a sweet melody to him, he loves hearing it sing whenever he unabashedly refers to you as his love. His beloved. His dear, his darling, his angel. His possessiveness is not kept quiet, as you can plainly see. There's no bashfulness to him either. No shame, no embarrassment. He will very proudly acclaim you as his beloved, no matter who is there to witness his devotions. He loves the drama, the pride, his own bragging.

✧ He'll always be nearby. By your bedside, watching you sleep. In your shadow, as you creep the dark hallways at night in search of a glass of water. He's in your footsteps, in the flicker of shadows by your candle-lit bedside, always ready to hear your call for him.

The most damning thing you can do is show him any type of love. Either it is meant to be taken in a heartfelt way, if you offer him a word of assurance or kindness, you're done for. Even if you just call for him if you're scared, it sets off this flame within him. One that'll soon turn into an uncontrollable blazing wildfire.

✧ Because now you've gone and done it. You've fed a starving dog, and now he's forever yours. Foolish. Stupid. You don't understand, do you? The weight of this ordeal? For you to refer to him so gently like he was something precious... Like he was something capable of loving... You've started something that you'll never be capable of finishing. So please... Keep giving him your goodness. Your gentleness and softness. He'll lap at it like a man dying of thirst, gulping it down and aching for more. Your voice, your breaths, your hands, your thoughts of him... He'll gulp it all down.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Playing With Fire - Cooper Adams X Female Reader

Title: Playing With Fire

Cooper Adams X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Riley (Mentioned), his son (Mentioned), Rachel, and a news reporter

WC: 2,926

Warnings: Mentions of murder/killing (none take place), slight change in canon storyline, very brief mention of affairs (none take place), single dad Cooper, arson mentioned, mentioned of mental illnesses, age gap (40's/20's), possessive Cooper (but not too much), nicknames, banter, slightly suggestive, mini angst, italics, and fluff

Cooper Adams had made it out. He had made it out alive and well, and his family - and all the people at the concert, including police and FBI - were none the wiser that he was The Butcher. He'd admit that they indeed made it difficult for him, but Cooper was smart. Intelligent in a way that allowed him to stay three steps ahead of everyone else, usually.

His ability to blend in, to become just another face in the crowd, was unmatched. The persona he had cultivated over the years, that of a loving father, a devoted husband, and a trustworthy firefighter, was nothing more than a well-crafted mask. Underneath it all, the real Cooper thrived in the chaos, satisfying the monster inside him.

He had managed to avoid arousing suspicion, maintaining his calm, collected demeanor even as the authorities closed in on others. He must've blacked out or something, he didn't remember how he and Riley had escaped - well, how he escaped. Riley still had no idea who or what her father was. And he’d like to keep it that way. 

But, a week after Lady Raven’s concert, his carefully constructed world began to fracture. His wife thought that he was having an affair; he wasn’t. 

The revelation came out of nowhere, after a quiet dinner that was too peaceful to be real. The kids had already gone to bed after devouring their dessert, and Cooper had felt a strange calm wash over him, knowing that his double life was safe. But then that all changed.

“I want a divorce.”

Rachel’s words hung in the air, colder than the untouched dessert of pie in front of him. For a brief moment, Cooper felt as if one of his lives was cracking, a sharp splintering sound reverberating in his mind. The mask he had worn for so long threatened to slip. But, he was Cooper, after all, and he had survived worse. He could gain control over most situations, and he'd gain control of this one. Just a bump in the road.

‘A divorce would be for the best,’ He reasoned with himself. He could play the part of the heartbroken husband, the loving father who still wanted to be in his children’s lives. He’d get sympathy, not suspicion. “Yes,” He said slowly, calculating his next move. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

His wife’s face softened, perhaps expecting resistance, but instead finding a man resigned to his fate. She had no idea she was giving him exactly what he needed. 

She moved out, and into an apartment that following month. The divorce was finalized a few months later.

He was supposed to stop, he had planned to end his life, but his kids… He needed to be a part of their lives. This divorce was needed, but it changed his overall plan. And then, on top of everything that was happening, the concert happened. 

He didn't know how they knew he was going to be there. His mind raced with the possibilities. But, it didn't matter in the end. He was stepping away from The Butcher’s legacy forever. 

Cooper had always been the master of his own fate, and he intended to end his reign as The Butcher on his terms before the risks eclipsed the rewards. He was acutely aware that, sooner or later, the law would close in, or he’d slip up. 

Overall, he wanted to step away from being The Butcher, to spend more time with his children. He didn’t want them to grow up with a father who wasn’t there for them.

And he escaped. He escaped, and no one knew he was The Butcher. Not the police, not the FBI, not even his family. Now, it was time. Time to step back, to retire from the darkness that had consumed him for so long. Time to slip back into the life he had built, the life of a father, an ex-husband, a firefighter - an ordinary man of everyday society. 

He thought he would just go on with his life - spending time with his kids every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, going to work, and coming home to an empty house. Life carried on as before, just without his now ex-wife. The routine was supposed to be enough, a return to normalcy.

But, then he met you...

A year later, Cooper was at work when the sirens blared - there was a fire at a college dorm. It was just another job, another fire to extinguish. But as he arrived at the scene, hopping out of the firetruck, his attention was immediately drawn to you. You stood a safe distance from the blazing building, wearing worn-out Converse, shorts, and an oversized hoodie; with your college emblem on the back of it.

There was something unsettling about the scene before him. And then, as if sensing his intense gaze, you turned your head and your eyes locked with his. At that moment, something shifted within him. But before he could process the feeling, he snapped out of it and returned to work. Soon, the fire was manageable, and not even two hours later, it was extinguished. 

After the flames were put out and the smoke had begun to clear, Cooper found himself drawn back to where you had been standing. He approached you and you looked up at him, and he had a chance to introduce himself. It was a brief exchange, but it was enough to spark a connection. A connection that he hadn’t been expecting.

~~~

Cooper had never expected his life to take such a turn. What started as an unexpected spark at the scene of a confirmed arson fire had blossomed into something deeper. He and you had been dating for a few months, and Cooper found himself surprisingly content. Your presence in his life brought a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

Cooper often found himself marveling at how well you fit into his world. The age difference seemed insignificant compared to the happiness and stability you brought into his life. It was clear that you weren’t just a fleeting presence. Plus, his kids loved you; Riley had already seen you as a role model.

Yet, despite the joy and contentment, Cooper’s need for control never fully dissipated. His controlling tendencies extended into every corner of his life, including his relationship with you. He needed to know what you were up to when you went out, and he often texted and called you while you were at college, checking in on you with a frequency that some might find overbearing to those outside of the relationship. But you found it endearing. It was his way of maintaining control, of ensuring everything was as it should be.

When you were together, and he wasn't working, Cooper took it upon himself to handle everything as well, often insisting that you relax and not lift a finger. Whether it was managing household chores or planning outings, he was always there, ensuring you were comfortable and well cared for. To him, this wasn’t just about showing affection; it was a means to exert control, to keep every aspect of your shared life under his watchful eye.

Again, you didn’t bat an eye. You understood his need for control and found comfort in the way he took care of you; it gave you a routine. His meticulous nature was just another part of what made him who he was - and you loved who he was - it brought a sense of security and warmth to your relationship that you valued deeply.

His ex-wife, Rachel, never truly understood him. She noticed his obsessive tendencies and his need for control, but she often saw them as quirks rather than deeply ingrained aspects of his personality. She would sometimes dismiss his need for order and control, urging him to 'relax' or 'let things go,' which only heightened his anxiety and need for control. Their relationship eventually strained under the weight of these misunderstandings, leading to a growing emotional distance between them.

With you, you don’t just tolerate Cooper’s need for control; you seem to intuitively understand it. You recognized that his constant checking in, his insistence on handling everything, wasn’t just a desire to take care of you - it was a way for him to maintain a sense of stability in his world that he originally didn't have.

To keep a long story short, there was something about you that captivated him - perhaps because he had never met anyone who seemed to understand him as deeply as you did.

~~~

Keys jingling in the lock, Cooper opened the front door. The lights in the house were dimmed, only a couple of lamps leading to the living room. Shrugging off his jacket, he carefully folded it, placing it on the small table by the stairs; so he could easily bring it upstairs to his closet when he was ready for bed.

Searching, he found you on the couch, typing away on your laptop. Even though you and Cooper had only been dating for six months, he had practically begged you to move in with him. The thought of you staying in the college dorms didn’t sit well with him, especially after the fire that had occurred there nine months ago. It wasn't just the threat of fires that concerned him though; there were dangerous people out in the world - monsters - and the idea of you being so exposed made him uneasy. In other words, he wanted you for himself, and he knew that he was strong enough to protect you, if needed.

Living together gave him peace of mind, knowing you were safe and under his protection.

Looking up from your computer, you gave him a small smile. "Hey, Coop," You began, your voice warm. "How was work?"

Your attention drifted back to your screen, but Cooper knew that there was genuine interest in your question, the way you always cared about the little details of his day. It was one of the things he loved about you - how you made him feel important, even in the mundane moments.

"Busy as usual, paperwork mostly," Cooper replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched you. "But, it’s better now that I’m home." He walked over to you. Leaning down, he cupped the back of your head with a hand, placing a kiss on the top of your head before sitting beside you on the couch. "What are you working on?" He asked, his gaze flicking to your laptop screen.

"History," You answer with a sigh, saving your work and shutting the laptop, "But, you're home now, so I guess I should take a break." You joked lightly, placing the laptop on the coffee table. 

"Hmm," Cooper hummed thoughtfully, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck as he began to massage it. "You’ve been working hard, sweetheart. A break would be a good idea." His touch was firm yet soothing, a mix of care and control that you’d come to recognize as uniquely his. 

You sighed, shutting your eyes, relishing in the feeling of Cooper's fingers working all the knots before running through your hair. "Want to watch something?" You muttered, fluttering your eyes open as he finished his little massage; settling more comfortably against him, tossing your legs over his lap, his hand instinctively resting just above your knee.

"Yeah, sure," Cooper agreed as his free arm traveled down to wrap around your waist. "What do you want to watch?"

"I don’t know…" You trailed off, "We could just scan until we find something mildly interesting."

Cooper nodded, before scanning through the channels. You were half paying attention to the TV screen, more interested in fidgeting with Cooper's hand on your leg. Cooper’s hand was large and strong, the kind of hand that seemed made for the work he did. Solid, capable, with slightly calloused fingers that spoke of years of hard labor. His skin was warm against yours, a comforting presence as his thumb occasionally brushed against you. The veins on the back of his hand were prominent, a subtle reminder of his strength - power - yet the way he held you was tender.

Your drowsiness vanished as the words "Breaking News: Ninth Arson Attack Strikes City, Possibly Linked to Serial Arsonist," filled the room. You straightened up, your attention fully captured by the screen. The images of a blazing warehouse played out in stark contrast to the comfort of the couch, the flickering flames reflected in your wide eyes. The newscaster continued the urgency in her voice. "In a shocking development, authorities are investigating a devastating fire that broke out late last night at a local warehouse, marking the ninth suspected arson attack in the city in recent months. The fire, which quickly engulfed the building, required multiple firefighting units to bring under control. Fortunately, no injuries have been reported, but the damage is extensive, and the warehouse is considered a total loss."

"I was there for that. Took hours to get the fire out." You heard Cooper say, his own eyes watching the scene before him on the screen. “Do you think they'll catch him?”

You hummed softly, "They might, but it’s not going to be easy for them."

The newscaster continued, "-Investigators are working tirelessly to piece together evidence from the crime scenes and are appealing to the public for any information that might lead to a breakthrough in the case. In the meantime, the city remains on high alert as the search for the arsonist intensifies."

As the newscaster continued to report, you leaned back into the couch, your hand stopping its ministrations to cover Cooper’s on your leg. "Well," You said casually, your tone carrying an eerie undertone, "He’s definitely made a name for himself. You know, it’s almost poetic, makes you wonder what drives someone to turn their pain into something so... Powerful."

Cooper glanced over, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Poetic? That’s an interesting way to put it."

You met his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. "Yeah, well, it’s like he’s creating a masterpiece with every fire. Some people just have a way of making their mark, you know? Even if it’s through destruction." As the newscaster’s report droned on, you shifted slightly, your eyes never leaving the screen. You spoke with a casual air, but your words held an unsettling edge. "For example,.. Serial killers and serial arsonists..," You trailed off, your tone almost contemplative, "They're not so different, really. Both are driven by something deep, something they can’t quite control."

There was a pause, and Cooper’s eyes narrowed, staring at the side of your face. Did you know? Did you know about him? And with the way you spoke, so intimately about the mindset of someone who causes chaos and leaves destruction in their wake, felt eerily familiar. It was as if you were speaking from a place of experience, not just observation.

Suddenly, the memory of that night - the night he first saw you at the dorm fire, standing so calm in the face of destruction - came rushing back. The pieces fell into place in his mind.

You weren’t just intrigued by the arsonist’s actions; you were speaking from the perspective of someone who knew all too well what it was like to manipulate fear and destruction. The recognition was there, behind the facade of your own calm demeanor, and Cooper couldn’t shake the feeling that you were hiding a darker truth about yourself.

Cooper leaned in closer, his honeyed gaze intense but measured. He kept his voice low, “You seem to have a pretty deep understanding of what drives someone to create chaos.” His words were carefully chosen, probing but vague, designed to test the waters without directly accusing you. He maintained a steady, almost casual demeanor, hoping to gauge your reaction without revealing his own suspicions; he turned in his seat, facing you, his arm slipping from your waist to rest on the back of the couch.

You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, your eyes reflecting a mixture of amusement and something darker. “Well, not only do I take a Criminal Justice class, but…” You paused smoothly, your voice carrying a hint of playful menace, “I’ve always found that understanding the darker side of human nature can be quite enlightening. After all, everyone has their dark sides and secrets. Some are just better at hiding them than others. Don't you agree, Cooper?" You tilted your head.

‘Yeah… You knew. But how?’ He stared at you, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of recognition. “Yes,” He murmured slowly, his dark brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “I do agree.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his hand on your leg moved up, his fingers gripping your inner thigh with a possessive yet tender pressure.

"Well," You began, voice back to its usual lighthearted tone, "I don't know about you, but I am exhausted," You stood from the couch, only to bend down, your hand cupping his stubbly cheek, tilting his head up to meet yours, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, "And I would love nothing more than to snuggle with you."

Yeah… You understood. Cooper looked up at you, his dark eyes softening as he felt the warmth of your kiss.

He smirked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he stood. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get some rest."

---

Main Masterlist | TRAP Masterlist

[astro-break]

I've been sitting on this ever since the chapters came out but Kiriwo vs Iruma and Azz was actually a really good section? Both from a technical and a storytelling standpoint it was top notch and is an excellent case study of how far Osamu Nishi's writing has come

First off, its the first time both Iruma and Kiriwo are meeting face to face after the events of the Battler Party. And it only took 300-ish chapters. Of course its going to be impressive, but I kind of want to focus on what I really really love about these two chapters.

From a technical analysis, I absolutely adore the double page spread with Kiriwo breaking the panel to lean over and devour Iruma. Demons are the most powerful when they are their greediest and not even the foundations of the medium can stop Kiriwo. I also absolutely adore how the hand pointing into his mouth lands right over Iruma's terrified face, the outstretched hand as well boxing him in with no way to escape. It breaks the natural flow of reading manga, forcing readers eyes to jump from the first panel to the last immediately. Even the speech bubbles which also break the panels to bleed into the next are boxing Iruma in, leaving only Kiriwo as the only option. He's right. Right here. Into his mouth. That's the only direction the manga allows him to go. Not even Azz, who is logically right behind Iruma on the other side of the barrier, can't be seen. Its just them.

One thing that Mairuma likes to emphasizes is eyes. Nishi likes putting in a lot of close ups of the face but eyes specifically is something she puts a lot of focus on. Of course, eyes are the only reliable way to tell if someone has returned to origins but eyes also change according to wicked phase. They are the windows to the soul, and whenever a hype moment occurs, the eyes are almost always a focal point to enhance the action.

The latter half of 303 really ramps this imagery up as eyes become one of the main focus points of the sequence. Iruma's watery eyes when he asks if its really Kiriwo, the concealment and subsequent focus on Baal's eyes as he looms over Princes Shura revealing his motives (also Shura covering her face up till Baal "saves" her is an interesting symbolic choice i might write about), the ever present return to origin markings on Kiriwo's eyes after declaring his intentions, and that final page is all about eyes. My favourite is the hiding of Azz's eyes as he breaks the barrier only to reveal them as he boldly says he'll stay by Iruma's side, eyes finally coloured in when up till that point in the chapter it was left white.

Speaking of panels though, Kiriwo is allowed to break past the gutters and invade other panels. His single minded devotion to consuming Iruma allows him to bend the laws to manga and lean right over. So logically, the next page where Azz saves Iruma, Azz who is consumed by devotion and is perhaps even more enamored with Iruma would do the same, no?

Nope.

Despite everything, Azz is still trapped within the story and its confines. Not even his words break through the boundaries. The best he can do is close the gap between the gutters, squeezing the panels together as close as he can. He still lacks critical information and Kiriwo has and no matter how much he tires, without that he will always be a step behind his senior. Even all the power in the world will not change that Suzuki Iruma is a fragile, fragile human.

As if to rub salt into an already gaping wound, Kiriwo's speech bubble at the end of the chapter literally shuts down Iruma's protests. Kiriwo is in control of the situation and his words take over the page. He's also drawn to be taller than Azz who is canonically about 10-15 cm taller

Control seems to also be a big theme/determining factor for whose words are allowed to transcend the metaphysical boundaries boxing them in because who else would be the one to quite literally dominate the next climatic moment than the unpredictable agent of chaos, Clara herself? The ringtone from her call quite literally cuts both Iruma and Kiriwo's words in half, drowning them out in her silliness. I remember seeing that a lot of people were upset that Clara interrupted Kiriwo but I argue that Clara is the perfect person for this? Master of funtimes and such a wildcard that she managed to seduce Raim through pure innocence? You can not tell me that you didn't laugh at the stupid fonts that Misfit Scans used for Iruma's ringtone. (Thank you Flare, whoever you are. Because I laughed. So hard.)

Also KiriAzz's faces when they look at Iruma? Peak visual comedy

Clara calling is also just the breather that the story needed. Yes, she inadvertently protected Iruma's secret, but she also the most emotionally mature out of the Love Trio which I think so many people forget. Clara is super smart when it comes to her boys, she knows that off on their own, they're bound to get caught up in their own heads worrying and agonizing in silence. Clara knew to call her boys after the Devilculum because it would had undoubtedly been stressful mingling among the upper ranks. Of course she was lonely and wanted to know how her soulmates were doing but even if she knows it or not, she is their emotional center and grounds them when they drift too far into their own self flagellation. But more importantly, she grounds the story in its genre. Lets not forget, Mairuma is a comedy series. Devilculum Arc was quite uncharacteristically somber for the series which runs on comedy of errors and misunderstandings galore. Sure, the beginning of the Arc was kind of funny but once everyone stepped into the venue, comedy became secondary to the plot.

Would it have been interesting to see what would have happened if Clara didn't call? Of course, yeah. But I think thats better left explored in fanfiction. At the end of the day, they're the Love Trio, they are a tripartite. Do not separate. And even unknowingly, Clara's protecting Iruma in her own way. And because of that, she is given the power to take over the page, filling it with images of Magitools Batara and her own silly creations, flower shaped speech bubbles framing the members as they work towards their own ambitions. She is the one that reminds Iruma of his own goals, who reminds him that there are demons at home who are waiting for him, and who he too is waiting for.

On a more aesthetic note though, I do like how Iruma's necklace this arc mirror's Kiriwo's collar. Its a very nice parallel but also acts as a way for Iruma to be connected to the people he's attending Devilculum with. The frilled collar on Ameri's dress and the Amosdeus Clan's rose brooch that both Azz and Amu have on their suits.

Idk how to end this ngl but I am completely normal about ch 303+4 the writing and set up is so so so good. I remember Misfits being so mad that others were translating the human part and I agree. Its so vital for the Love Trio and their relationship that their secrets are theirs to tell and not anyone elses. And the way these dynamics are portrayed through diegetic story telling is just perfect, I will never get over how good the KiriIru double spread is. Like those two pages specifically is my Roman Empire. I think about those pages on a hourly basis. I love that spread so much but 90% of what makes it so great is the surrounding context and the proceeding events. One day Nishi will probably top this and make me slobber all over her artistic storytelling but for today, I will continue to be consumed with thoughts about these two chapters.

One last thing but the fact that Iruma's secret got cockblocked from being revealed twice because of a phone call is just hilarious. Once is good enough but Narnia prioritizing a work phone call over warning his brother about what he sees as a great evil? He's so silly actually.

[queer-n-here]

u already kno wassup !!!!

eldritch abomination reader who has come to originally destroy the world, but was enchanted by their 'one', ( aka sigma, atsushi, and mushitaro or someone of ur choice ) and instead devotes their entire time stalking and invading their lovers mind, pulling them into the readers all devouring aura.

( ur honor they are madly in love ) they dont quite have a proper form but has slowly been constructing one bc their lovers coworkers/friends don't believe they exist "you always go out on dates with this mysterious person and you always rant and rave about them, but not once have we seen them. are you just making them up or something?"

so eventually reader finally constructs the perfect form and comes to their workplace to get them for their date ( that involves tentacles, mind fucks, and breeding ) . Reader basically envokes primal fear in everyone and will kill anyone who hurts what is theirs ♡. major weird ask but it is a random and specific Need i have

~ 🕸

Long time no see 🕸️ bro! Btw, thank you, this just made my writer's block evaporate.

Is it weird that I totally loved every single part of this?

Also, I had no fucking idea what an eldritch abomination is, so I did some research bout them!

This ended up becoming 100% fluff, hope you like it!

Contents: Eldritch abomination reader who sees Atsushi and goes heart eyes

Warnings: Fluff, powerful reader, mind manipulation, shit ton of stuff that doesn't fully make sense but whatever, it's Atsushi even if I haven't mentioned his name (because I felt like the Eldritch would be like 'that's too simple a name for me to address my love with')

EDIT: Soooo, I may have confused myself on what an Eldritch horror is 😅 I kind of imagine smth like Dormamu from Dr. Strange tbh hehehe

You had arrived at that small universe to satisfy your thirst of destruction, to watch it crumble under your power as faces of fear and misery looked up at you, their lives at your mercy. And yet, you found yourself thinking of that vision less and less.

It was not going as you had expected.

Nowadays, you were focused more on that boy that you had started watching. His house was located quite close to the woods you had chosen as your home.

You were everywhere, and always watching everything, but you needed a headquarters of sorts to concentrate your power for it to be more effective, and that was why you had chosen the woods.

You had expected him to be the first of your victims, yet now you found yourself growing less and less fond of that idea. He was not meant to be killed. He was meant to be taken care of.

Not only was he so incredibly small and three-dimensional (like most of these 'humans') he was also wonderfully precious, like a small-sized treasure that slowly began meaning everything to you.

So after months of watching him, you finally gave into your desire of meeting him in person. You changed your form to the one with the simplest dimensions, not wanting to make him lose his mind the way you did others.

He had stepped out of his house to gather firewood, that little thing. When he saw you, he dropped it all, stumbling backwards and attempting to run.

You were not pleased.

You guided the trees of the forest to block his way, and when he had no way left to escape, you spoke to him in the language he would comprehend.

"Do not be afraid." You said, your voice low and guttural. "I do not stand before you with intentions to harm."

He had fallen to the floor in his attempt to scramble away from you, and now he looked up at you with fear in his eyes.

It was not an expression you wanted to see on him.

So you eased into his mind, calming his small brain with the likeness of a sedative. His breath grew steadier, and his eyes returned to their normal size. His instincts were clouded now, and he could not help but be drawn to you, standing up and stepping closer.

"Closer," You told him, and he obeyed. He did not need your words, you could control him fully if you wanted.

But some part of you was reluctant to do it. You wanted him to... Like you? Perhaps, you yourself were not entirely sure yet.

You moved closer, wrapping your form around him, encasing him into yourself, away from the rest of his world, where he would be the safest.

You let him be curious, freeing the part of his mind that you knew would ask questions... You wanted him to know you.

"What are you?" He asked, his eyes wide again as he turned to look at all of you.

"I have many names," You said. "But you will be able to use none of them; they are too powerful."

His wide eyes reflected the kaleidoscope of colours of your form, and you felt his brain grow appreciative of your form.

Pride. It was an emotion beneath you, and yet you could not help the swelling of colours in your form when you saw that he liked it.

"Then... What should I call you?" He asked, looking as though he was still unsure who he was talking to.

"Anything," You presented before him a makeshift form. It was a mirror image of his own, something he could look at while talking and not feel awkward.

He gasped. His fear had long since been subdued by your charm, and he did not hesitate to reach forward and his doppelgänger's shoulder.

"Wow," He whispered, and your colours became brighter again.

Later, when returned back to his house, his senses finally returned to him, and he realised the danger he was stepping into.

And yet, could he resist the urge to go back to you? Not when you had so easily planted it in his head. Hence, after resisting for a whole day, he returned to you the very next.

You let him look for you in the forest, hiding in a dimension his eyes could not perceive. You let him run around, growing more and more desperate when you wouldn't show yourself, calling out to you, but unsure of how to do so since you hadn't told him what to call you.

When he collapsed, tired, on the bank of a small lake in the woods, tears dripping from his eyes as he sobbed, you decided that your game had lasted long enough.

And so you showed yourself, making it look as if you had emerged from the lake itself. He looked up with a gasp, eyes wide and wet as an ecstatic expression broke through his face. His arms rose, reaching for your form.

You let him touch you; today you had taken a four dimensional form, and it was way easier for him to get wrapped up between your colours.

"I thought... I thought you l-left," He said, sniffing.

"I would never," Was all you said, and yet his face lit up. It was not your doing, you had already relaxed your control of his mind when he had entered the forest.

Weeks passed, and his human mind slowly developed romantic feelings for you. You perceived them, and yet never expressed it. He would be the one to tell you, and on his own accord.

You waited, but not for long. Soon, he brought you flowers, handing them to you as his cheeks flushed, looking away and shivering slightly. You wrapped around him; humans got cold painfully easily.

He froze in your embrace, he had learnt some of your ways to show affection. His blush spread gradually, and his muttered confession felt like something with even more power than you.

Joy. Yet another emotion beneath you, but when it came to him, you were reduced to a mere human teenager. You cared not of status or immortality anymore. Destruction of his world? You had long since abandoned that plan. This was his home, and you'd protect it with your life.

You would protect him with your life.

A month passed, and he visited you everyday, bringing with him small presents of the like you knew humans appreciated. You took them all, preserving them with your power so they would never spoil and hide them away in the most complex dimension you could find.

And every time he visited, you gave him the thing you thought was best: a little bit of your own immortality. He did not know yet; you did it without his knowledge. But you did not think he would mind if he found out.

Now he sat on a tree branch as you watched him, leaning against the trunk for balance. You had lifted him up there, and he was speaking of the view. You could not help but move upwards, closer to him.

He watched you, a smile on his face as you changed forms again.

Being three-dimensional was difficult for you. Not only did it weaken your power incredibly, it also could not store your abilities. The closest you could reach was four-dimensional, and that itself took its toll on you.

And yet you were always four-dimensional with him, knowing that this was how he could see and touch you best.

You sat on the branch next to him, wrapping around his small frame.

There was a comfortable silence, and you slowly lulled his brain, sending him to sleep.

You loved it when he was defenseless, when all his safety was you, when the only one that he trusted was you, and not his human friends.

It was another one of those days where you were watching him as he went about his day, keeping him safe from any danger that might come his way.

He was talking with his friends, and they appeared to be teasing him.

"Come on, you've never even shown us a picture..." One of them said, sitting so close to your human that you had the urge to crush her insides. "Or even told us their name!"

He flushed slightly, not knowing how to respond. "W-well, their name is... Very complex."

"A nickname, then," Another said, wrapped in bandages and leaning back casually against the couch. "Or what? You just call them 'honey bun sweety pie'?

They laughed, and you bristled. Your human was getting flustered, and no one but you was allowed to see that expression on his face.

You took shape immediately, condensing your power so much you felt its strain. To make it three-dimensional was like trying to contain the ocean in a glass jar, and yet you attempted your fullest, anger fueling your movements.

You appeared on the doorstep of the building, your speed phenomenal as you climbed its small staircase and appeared at the door of the room your human and his friends sat in.

You pushed open the door, and stepped in. They all looked up, and his eyes widened.

Your power needed your three-dimensional vessel to be big, and you were as tall as 6'8", your shoulders wide and arms thick with what looked like muscle but was actually energy. Your hair was a light brown, and covering your body was what seemed to their eyes a suit.

He recognised you immediately; one glance at your multi-coloured eyes and he knew. This was you, the one he loved.

You walked up to him, throwing him a well-practiced wink as you greeted him the way you had seen lovers greet each other, leaning down to place a kiss on his cheek.

"I came to pick you up," You said to him, your voice low as you ignored everyone else in the room. "Your work has almost ended now, right?"

A long-haired man lowered his glasses to look at you. "And who are you?"

You could not help but grow irritated, and you triggered fear in the minds of everyone in the room but the one who was yours.

"He's..." Your human seemed breathless. "He's my b-boyfriend."

One of the humans, the insignificant ones, whistled as he stood up. He was scared, you had made sure of it, but was putting up a front.

"Damn, Atsushi," He said, taking in your carefully constructed human form. "He's biiiig."

Your human blushed, his cheeks reddening in that way you did not want them to see.

"I don't see why you didn't show us his picture before," A female said, her house quivering slightly. "He's not bad looking at all. Not that I thought you were, just so you know."

You looked at her, sending her your appreciation for praising you in front of your human by tickling the part of her brain responsible for pleasure.

She squirmed in her seat, her eyes slightly wide.

You turned back to what was yours, holding out your hand. "Shall we head home?"

His blush spread; he still hadn't managed to take his eyes off you. "O-okay..."

He let you take him away, his cold hand clasped in yours. You put on a burst of speed, and the two of you were back in your forest.

The moment you two were alone, he took your face in his hands, his eyes shining.

"You look..." He could not go on, but you knew what he meant.

Another burst of pride. He made you feel things you had never thought significant before.

You leaned down and kissed him, pressing his plump red lips against yours and, unknown to him, transferring more immortality to him.

He responded in the affirmative, letting you wrap your arms around his waist and bring him closer.

You opened up dimensionally, creating a fourteen-dimensional barrier around you two, freeing your power and protecting him at the same time. A part of you still remained three-dimensional before him, embracing him and kissing his lips.

When you pulled away, his eyes were slightly moist.

"I love you," He whispered, and you smiled.

Your love was such that it could not be put into words he would comprehend, and yet you did not want him to think that you did not reciprocate his feelings.

"I love you, too," You put energy into the phrase, making sure he felt the intensity of your feelings.

[npookie0]

A Massacred Lover.

Ronin X reader, bloody ending for a killer romance.

Tws: blood, slight gore, this isn't angst but it's a little fucked up romance :p

You were standing at the very end of purgatory. Your eyes glued to the body parts splattered all over the alley, graffiti covered by blood, rubbish mixed with guts and flesh. It was a horrifying view for sure.

But not for you, you came there knowing what is waiting for you. After all, the devil himself invited you into his small haven.

Ronin was nowhere to be found when you first entered the alley, it was just you and the gore. Finally a whistle was heard from your side, and the sound of something metalic being dragged on the concrete ground.

"Well, well, look who's here, my little writer themselves." He said, crackling when he stopped in front of you. "Hah, you look way better like this. Eye to eye, breath to breath." He added in a hushed voice.

"Couldn't pass on an invite from the Devil himself." You replied, studying his face. He was smirking, the void of his eyes locked on your eyes, his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

"Awh so devoted." He titled his head to the side and pushed you against a wall.

Your breath hitched in your throat when he brought a knife to your neck.

"Makes me want to open you up, curve your heart out all filthy and hot and leave you here to rot. Watch as your body becomes one with my alley." He whispered, these words sounded like a confession of his devotion, or maybe you're just too deep into this madness?

Your heartbeat fastened when Ronin leaned in closer. His lips just inches from yours.

"Would you let me do it? Would you let me take your last breath?" His words brought destruction.

You knew it.

He knew it.

You desired it

He knew you desired it.

"Yes." A simple response, filled with more emotions that anything else you could say.

Ronin looked into your eyes, his smirk rezonish when he realised just how madly you desired it, how ready you were to pledge your whole self to him.

"Oh darlin', such a lovely sight. I will enjoy it, and then I will replay this moment in my mind for eternity." He kissed you.

It wasn't gentle, it wasn't sweet nor was it tender. His lips were crashing into your, like he wanted to devour your whole self in a single kiss, like you were supposed to become one.

You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, trying to get as close as you could to him.

Then, in one moment, you could swear that you would snap his neck when you felt the sharp pain of a knife cutting through you chest.

Your breath hitched, your eyes opened wide. The dark void met you once again. He was studying your reaction, you felt his lips form into a smirk and you could see it when he broke the kiss. Holding you by the back of your head while he still kept the knife deep in your chest.

"My, my, you're so beautiful like this baby. Dying and rotten." He whispered, planting a kiss to your forehead, holding you closer when he pulled the knife out. "I'm going to make you into s beautiful bloody massacre, your death will be truly artistic, my divine darling." It was a vow, a vow stronger then any other he could make you in that moment.

Ronin looked down at your body, the same body he was curving a masterpiece out of a few moments ago. Your chest was cut open, the flesh wrapped around your ribs. He cut a hole in your ribs and reshaped your lung to make it look like it was a place for the missing heart he was now holding in his hand.

"You're absolutely beautiful." He whispered, kneeling in front of you. He planted a kiss to your lips, basking in the last bit of warmth still present on your body.

You are now going to rot.

You will be truly as rotten as he is.

Or maybe you were already the same rot?

Let us all burn in hell.

N

[bunnyreaper]

Demon Gaz, who's looking for a pretty little plaything to corrupt. Maybe a priests daughter, or someone who (somehow) has never sinned before.

<3

hopefully you enjoy this crime against christianity <3 cw dubcon, religion.

looking like such an angel, kyle finds his job incredibly easy. his beautiful brown eyes look like they're incapable of hiding a single sinful thought, never mind an entirely devilish being.

his smile is so bright the local god-fearing women think it could ward off any ill fate that could befall the town--if only they knew the reason for their downfall was their darling local charmer. 

you and kyle had been friends for a while now, he was new in town and took a shine to you immediately when you sat next to him in church one day.

from that moment on, he knew that he would make you his. 

it was easy to get you alone, under the guise of bible study, of reinforcing your father's teachings. the sessions started with quiet, companionable reading. kyle would keep you company, answer simple questions you had, and ask you about your life. 

no boys, no parties, no sin. 

he couldn't ask for a prettier, more innocent little thing to corrupt. 

your descent started slowly, in a way he couldn't have even planned. he didn't have to seek you out, as you followed him around like a lost lamb, unknowingly leading itself to slaughter. you tried to spend as much time with him as possible, obsessed with the way he looked at you like no one had before. 

you could sense his desire, even if you thought it to be something simple and innocent--the kind of love and admiration your parents' marriage was built from, the kind of devotion you had for your god. 

you had no idea of the lust that lay within--the corrupting, all-consuming need. kyle garrick was a selfish man, used to turning girls like you on their heads and feeding off their sins before moving on to the next. 

something about you was different. 

perhaps it was because he'd never met one so pure and untainted, or maybe it was because, unlike the others, you had no sense of self-preservation. it could be that you always had this look in your eyes like you wouldn't really mind if kyle led you astray, you'd follow him anyway. that was something he quickly became addicted to.

the poking and questioning followed soon after, kyle subtly guiding you to question the gospel, your father, and everything you've ever known, all for him. he pretended to struggle with his faith too, though he supposed it wasn't a lie, as once upon a time he had. 

you were quick to follow, enamored by your guardian angel in every way, believing he could never steer you wrong. 

after all, questioning is normal, natural, why we were given free will--that's what kyle always says. and with the sweet way he says it, so earnest and everything... there's no way the two of you are doing anything wrong.

so when he pulls you into his lap one day, bible in hand, you don't question it. when he asks your interpretation on a particular verse, and leads you to a certain conclusion, you don't question it. 

when he takes you on a walk through the churchyard flowers and kisses you under the flower-filled pergola, lips against yours like he's devouring you, you don't question it. 

from there, the rest is easy. coaxing you into sneaking out late at night, straight into his arms, getting you to give up your vow of chastity, your commitments to the church, your devotion to god.

instead, you worship him. his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he drives inside you, taking you for him forever. spoiling you for other men, breaking all your oaths. 

he stretches you out, shapes you to him, claims you with his cock, his cum, his fingers, the way his nails scraping down your body carves his name into your soul.

you cry out for him when your pretty mouth is on the end of his cock, you cry out for him when he's gone--tears beading in your eyes either way. 

and when they try to take you away from kyle, to make you 'see the light', 

all the lessons you've been taught about vengeance and grace fall away, and you search for a new beginning--disavowing your church, your family, your upbringing. 

and with your fall complete, when it's time for kyle to skip town? there's no way in hell he could leave you behind.

[stvrdrops]

eternal eclipse ☆ | drolta x fem!reader (castlevania;nocturne)

to share only night together was not enough, only an eternity could quench your thirst for drolta.

warnings : talk of death, kissing, vampire stuff

word count : 1.5k+

note : soooo, it's been a while since i've posted any fanfic. not gonna lie life been really kicking ass and i struggled to write for my normal shuri stuff cause i lost my fixation. but i hope this little niche fanfic finds those who enjoy it :)

.

p.s. i recommend listening to "no ordinary love" by sade :)

"why don't you ever stay the night?"

"i stay every night." drolta says to you, licking her lips and recalling the fresh taste of your magnificent blood.

"or rather, morning." you whisper out, finding yourself a little too frail to sit up all the way. your dress falls as you sit up slightly. an exposed bite causing blood to run down your chest. drolta watched through pink eyes. the dark surrounding them was something so hypnotizing that you always found yourself falling into it. it was like some kind of inviting abyss.

"mortals and their silly questions. how you grovel for my touch and teeth among your skin is ever so amusing."

"i grow older drolta!" you weakly yell out to her. this grabs her attention, not once have you ever yelled at the higher powered being. you shed a single tear, letting out a sigh of utter desperation. "i age with every sunrise and dawn. my bones grow weaker and some day you will come to see me only to find an old woman in my place. i know i am young now, but i've aged over the last couple years and nothing about you changes. you're still as beautiful as the day we met and you will forever remain this way."

drolta's eyes drop away from yours, taking in your words of anguish. she knew you were right, because she'd have other companions before. she had bed women and men far before you were ever born. she'd watch them go and come, their children or grandchildren sometimes even becoming her next fling. it was a cycle she had grown oddly accustomed to, not feeling any certain emotion for one or the next. she liked the fact that she aged and grew more powerful in the search of the vessel for her goddess while others perished. it made her feel the power she knew she had within her.

your hand finds her exposed arm. she turns to look at you.

"drolta, i envy that some day i will be too old for you and yet someone will be just young enough. it is not fair that you help me to discover such deep emotions. not ever will i feel for someone the way i feel for you. all this feeling, just for it to one day end once i can no longer serve you."

"there have been some before you and there will be many after you. i am a soul that walks this earth with no true claim anymore. you have a purpose, and warm blood to keep you living in the way your story speaks."

"what if my story is simply for me to serve you? i want to be your companion in this feeble mortal life that i share with my human counterparts. then, have that companionship follow into a new world my soul can not comprehend. i do not want to age among the rest, i want to have a face that is young but a mind that is aged by love. your love."

drolta had heard many a confession, but this one did something different to her. she swore that if she had a heartbeat she could feel it perhaps skip a beat.

"do you know exactly what it is that you're asking of me? what that means to be my partner eternally?" drolta asks, clearly enticed by the idea.

"i don't now what all it means, but i'd have an eternity to learn. i want to devour the sunlight with you, devour the world alongside you. what if i am the vessel that you desire?"

drolta's pink eyes lock onto your dark ones. for the first time she thinks she can feel a devotion to someone other than her goddess. or, perhaps, for her goddess in a new twisted discovery. this shocks her, renders her unable to think properly. she had spent so long devoting her life to a woman that she didn't know what it meant to have true devotion back. her body tingled, and her pink hair began to flame up from the idea.

you were the vessel for her messiah.

"you will devour the sun, me alongside you. first, i shall devour you."

the word devour sent chills through your body.

she extends a hand out to you. you gracefully accept the invite. she uses her enhanced strength to pull you up, your warm body next to her cold one as she spreads out her wings. the two of your exit out of the french doors and onto the balcony that your family's wealth had graciously provided for you. it was where you first met drolta.

her wings flap and for the first time you find yourself floating in the air. your eyes grow wide and a childlike smile spreads across your face. drolta gives you a devilish smile in return.

oh, to be in love with something so unholy as she.

no angel could ever look this beautiful.

"romantic, isn't it?" she asks, licking over the neck wound. it sends you into a euphoria, as your blood sends her into a similar one. you can feel the heat from her inflamed pink hair grazing your skin.

"i love you, drolta."

your lips find hers as you're both suspended in the air over a lake. your eyes are closed but you can still see the pink hues from among your eyelids. as if you were stuck in a trance, she kisses you harder and faster. you can taste your own blood in her mouth, ever so addicting. now you can see why she can't seem to leave you alone.

a moan escapes from inside of you, one out of the millions drolta had heard before. she had come to see you every night since you met, which was three years ago. some nights she'd stay for a chat or a simple couple of minutes. others she would ravage you and drink you almost dry just to do it again the next night.

"take me!" you beg to her, causing her flame to grow bigger and eyes to grow wider. god, how she craved your mortal being. your naivety and free outlook. anyone else feared death, and yet you welcomed it, knowing the transformation may not even work with how powerful drolta's blood truly was. she had turned others before. you were just the first in a very long time.

she stops her feverish and hungered kisses, diving for your neck. sharp teeth overtake you, a pain echoing from your neck to the rest of your body. it was a familiar pain, but it never got any easier to get accustomed to. you welcomed the pain and the feeling of being drained entirely. you enjoyed the feeling of her tongue sweeping over the blood seeping from your neck. just as you loved the way her tongue swept over your feminine autonomy. the devil was draining you and you desired it to never end.

it didn't matter that you were losing the color in your body. nothing mattered anymore. as you could feel your life force being drained from your very being. she was bringing you death, but she was also bringing you to a new life. an eternal one.

your hand fell from her neck, losing all of its feeling. drolta senses that you're near the end and rips her teeth away from you, finding it hard to control herself. your blood was unlike any other that she'd ever tasted. it was blood good enough to compare to the likes of her messiah.

the moonlight shone on the two of you, bouncing off of the tiny ripples that existed among the waters below you. it was beautiful, a perfect end to a beginning. your eyes closing slightly, drolta being the last thing you see. she was smiling at you, but not out of love, more out of accomplishment.

"drink." the words slither out of her mouth. she rips into her own wrist, causing a new blood to seep from within her.

surprised in yourself, you don't waste any time reaching fervently for the blood of your lover. your mouth clings onto her wrist and suckles in any blood she can spare for you. your eyes are closed as you fall into a bliss. her moans filled your ears every so pleasantly.

she pulls you away from her wrist, knowing that if you get any more you may kill her.

when she sees your face again it is still the same shade she's always adorned. yet, your eyes are different this time. no longer a dark brown, but a light one, almost a shade of gold. it reminds her of egypt.

it reminds her of sekhmet.

your fangs are dripping with her blood.

"my bringer of death!" she shouts out to you. you don't register what she's saying due to the unfamiliar new being you seem to find yourself as.

her lips once again collide with yours. there's a newfound hunger shared between the two of you. something much deeper than anything ever felt before. drolta did not know what it meant to love, you did. yet, somehow this seemed like something so unfamiliar to the both of you. was it lust? or was it something much deeper that transcends both vampire and human?

it didn't matter, as the two of you kissed deeply and passionately in the air above the lake. the sight so beautiful that even the sun not dared to come up in fear of interrupting the moment. for a second, it seemed as if the night would be eternal, just you and drolta suspended in the air for an eternity.

an eternity you were sure to bring, as the vessel for the new messiah.

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°✩☼⋆｡°✩☽

[blakeswritingimagines]

Dear Y/N

My dearest love,

From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that my entire existence had been leading up to that moment. You are the light in my dark soul, the breath in my dead lungs, and the reason that I fight against the forces that seek to devour me. I will tear down the walls of Heaven and Hell itself to keep you safe and by my side. You are mine, forever and always. Whenever we are apart, I feel like a piece of me is missing. My heart aches for your presence, my soul yearns for your touch. I find myself consumed by thoughts of you, my every waking moment filled with visions of your smile, the sound of your laughter, and the beauty of your being. You are the one true love of my eternal existence, and I am forever bound to you, body, heart, and soul.

I am consumed by thoughts of you. Your smile, your laugh, the scent of your hair, it all drives me wild with desire. I crave your touch and your voice, it is like a drug that I cannot resist. I would do anything to hear you say my name in that sweet, sultry voice. I would rip out my own heart and lay it at your feet if it meant that you would look upon me with even a modicum of affection. My darling love, I cannot stand the thought of you being touched by another person. The mere idea of another's fingers on your skin fills me with a blinding rage. No one else is worthy of your attention and affection, only I can truly make you happy. I will destroy anyone who stands in our way, whether they be an angel from heaven or a demon from hell. I will do whatever it takes to keep you in my grasp. Never forget that.

I dream of the moment when I can hold you in my arms and never let go. I imagine the taste of your lips and the feel of your body against mine. I want to explore every inch of you, to map out every curve and crevice, to possess you utterly and completely. I would give up everything, my power, my soul, my very existence just to spend eternity with you. My love for you is a fire that cannot be extinguished, it burns hotter than the flames of hell itself. My love, I cannot sleep at night. Every second that I am apart from you is agony. My mind is consumed with thoughts of you, it is as if the entire universe has ceased to exist and only you remain. I hear your voice in my head even when you are not around, it is a sweet melody that I cannot resist. You are the reason I continue to exist, the beating heart in my lifeless chest. Without you, I am nothing, a hollow shell of a soul.

I would give up everything for you. My power, my immortality, even my soul. All I want is your love and your acceptance. I would crawl through fire and brimstone a thousand times over if it meant that I could feel your lips on mine. With every breath you take and every step you take, I will be there watching over you and protecting you. I am your guardian, your knight in the darkness, your loyal servant. All I ask is that you return my love if only a little. Every waking moment, my thoughts are consumed with images of you in my arms, your body pressed against mine in an embrace that will never end. I yearn to hear your voice whispering sweet nothings in my ear, to taste your lips upon mine in a kiss that will leave us both breathless. All I want is to give you the world and everything in it. I will make all of your dreams come true if only you will allow me to love you and worship you as the goddess that you are.

There is no limit to my devotion to you. I would slay a million demons and fight a thousand angels to keep you safe. I would travel through the depths of the underworld, searching for the key to my own freedom, just to be able to stand beside you in the light. My love is all-consuming, my desire for you is unquenchable. I will do anything to make you happy, anything to see a smile on your face. I swear this to you on all that is holy and damned alike. I would suffer a thousand deaths to be reborn by your side. I would walk through the void for eternity to spend even a single moment with you. My love for you is endless and unshakeable, a flame that burns eternally hotter than any fire of hell. Nothing will ever come between us, not even the might of heaven and hell combined. You are my weakness and my strength all at once, and I am powerless to resist you. You are my everything, my obsession, my reason for being. Please, my love, hold me in your arms and never let go.

My adoration for you has no bounds. I would spend eternity in darkness, enduring endless torment, if it meant that I could live a single day with you. Your existence ignites a fire within me, a fire that burns hotter and fiercer than any flame. I would lay waste to worlds and tear apart the very fabric of reality itself if it brought you even a taste of happiness. My love for you is stronger than any weapon, any force, any magic in all of creation - it is truly unbreakable. The thought of losing you is more than I can bear. I would rather burn in the flames of hell for eternity than live a moment without you by my side. I long for the taste of your lips, the touch of your hand, the sound of your voice. I am nothing without you, a mere shadow of a creature, without any purpose or sense of direction. You are my world, my sun, my moon, my everything. I love you with every fiber of my being and would do anything to keep you here, in my arms.

I will forever be yours, my love. Always and completely. I will fight for you, die for you, and live for you. With all my affection, Your forever devil.

Spawn

[malsticate]

> verse : the eternal beauty.

tomie is not a sorcerer — she is a special - grade curse. scholars in jujutsu society have debated for centuries whether she was once human or if she was born from humanity's ugliest emotions, a living embodiment of obsession, desire, & envy. unlike most curses, she is sentient, free - willed, & functionally immortal.

legends claim she was originally an ordinary girl, but after being brutally murdered in a jealous rage, her grudge against humanity manifested into a curse of eternal rebirth. every attempt to destroy her only resulted in her multiplication — a single drop of her blood, a strand of her hair, a sliver of flesh, all capable of regenerating into a full - bodied tomie. the more she is killed, the more she spreads.

tomie is a walking nightmare, an entity whose existence challenges the very nature of exorcism & cursed energy itself. unlike sukuna, who thrives on destruction, or kenjaku, who seeks domination, tomie's goal is much simpler : she just wants to be adored.

CURSED TECHNIQUE : " KISS OF MULTIPLICITY "

tomie’s cursed technique is not based on direct combat, but rather manipulation, regeneration, & psychological destruction.

irresistible presence – tomie exudes a passive cursed energy that subtly influences those around her. people become fixated, drawn to her like moths to flame. the attraction is not always romantic — it can be envy, hatred, or worship. regardless of the form, the compulsion is overwhelming.

self - replication – if tomie is wounded or killed, her cells rapidly regenerate, but with a terrifying twist — each severed piece becomes a new tomie, independent yet identical, all with their own will. the more she is " killed, " the more versions of her exist.

possessive corruption – a single kiss from tomie can seed her essence into a victim. over time, their body begins to mutate, distorting into something grotesque as they either become another tomie or are consumed entirely.

cursed persuasion – tomie doesn't need brute force. she whispers, tempts, & twists logic until her victims are doing the dirty work for her — murdering each other, fighting for her favor, or even offering their own lives just to please her.

DOMAIN EXPANSION : " GARDEN OF NARCISSUS "

tomie's domain expansion is not an arena of battle, but a labyrinth of self - destruction. within it, those trapped inside see her everywhere — every reflection, every shadow, every turn leading to more versions of her. the only escape ? to resist her entirely — which is nearly impossible.

mirrored madness – the victim's own identity starts to erode, their mind clouded with hallucinations of tomie. they begin to forget who they are, believing they exist solely for her.

endless tomies – the domain amplifies her multiplication ability, causing an infinite number of tomies to emerge from every surface. there is no way to tell which is the real one.

devouring love – the longer one stays in the domain, the stronger the compulsion becomes. the victim is forced to destroy themselves, whether out of devotion, jealousy, or sheer madness. those too weak - willed willingly tear themselves apart just to be closer to her.

JUJUTSU SOCIETY

tomie is feared, but not well understood by jujutsu society. she is classified as a special - grade curse, but traditional exorcisms have failed to contain her. every time a team of sorcerers has attempted to eliminate her, she has only multiplied, spreading her influence further. some believe she pre - dates jujutsu society itself, while others think she is the ultimate result of humanity's self - destructive desire. the higher- ups want her contained, sealed, or erased. the zenin clan once tried to " tame " her — every attempt ended in massacre. there is no known way to permanently rid the world of tomie. to her, death is just an inconvenience.

[belovedstill]

no one more devoted (ao3) tgcf, hualian | ~4k, major character death, angst with an unhappy ending, amnesia, ruoye doing his best

Time and time again, Hua Cheng swore that he was Xie Lian’s most devoted believer. He was right. Then, not even he remained. (aka Hua Cheng is bitten by a monster; it erases Xie Lian from his memory)

written for week 2 prompt: devotion and/or inconstancy of the @multifandommatch event, representing team angst 🌧 beautiful people from my team created bonus works for this fic! thank you to: Sapphie for the Spanish translation, CarCrash for the playlist, Dylan for the formatted pdf , and Ace for the recorded podfic ❤ my team is the best, guys 🥰

It started with absence. One day, unexpectedly, Xie Lian awoke in his Puqi shrine with no Hua Cheng next to him, no barely-legible note left on the table, and no silver butterfly to keep him company in Hua Cheng’s stead. That this hadn’t happened before wasn’t enough to make Xie Lian worried, though.

What unsettled him was this:

The absence went on for days with not a whisper of explanation.

He could not reach the other gods to ask whether they knew something about it.

When he entered Hua Cheng’s spiritual communication array, his voice was met with startled, tense silence, and then he was forcibly shut out. Further attempts were blocked.

After the last one, he hurriedly pulled a set of dice from his sleeves, shook them in the palm of his hand, and threw them on the table. They landed on single dots.

With bated breath, he waited.

Hua Cheng did not appear.

He hurried to the Ghost City, but there, too, Hua Cheng was absent.

The overheard gossip said that some peculiar life-devouring monster encroaching the realms had appeared a while ago and had stirred trouble in Hua Cheng’s territory, even dared to attack the Lord himself, and so the Lord chased after it to teach it a lesson it surely wouldn’t forget.

Just as Xie Lian was becoming more and more worried, the ghosts rejoiced - the City’s Lord had returned!

Hua Cheng strode through the streets towards his manor with a dangerous expression, a fading bite mark on the palm of his hand; without a command, all the ghosts immediately scattered to the sidelines, making way.

Xie Lian breathed a sigh of relief and hurried over, falling into step beside him. He had just parted his lips to ask what had happened, to offer help, when—

“Scram,” Hua Cheng snarled towards him, with only a passing look that froze Xie Lian in his step. There, and then it was gone; Hua Cheng’s pace never even faltered.

It was a single word, a short glance, but in that fleeting moment, Xie Lian understood. The absence, the lonely days, the rejection—

Hua Cheng did not know who Xie Lian was.

The thing about life-devouring monsters was that they fed on the life essence of the living. Ghosts, however, were not alive anymore; the most life they had to offer existed in the source of their most precious memories which most of them had long forgotten, anyway. If such a monster were to attack a ghost, all they would manage to do was sample a feeble memory or two, then perish from hunger if they didn’t look for another prey.

Hua Cheng was not a low-level ghost, however; the most a bite from that monster could do was temporarily lock his memory away.

Hoping that interacting with him would speed up the recovery of Hua Cheng’s memory, Xie Lian decided to show up wherever he got wind of the ghost king’s whereabouts. The mere sight of him seemed to agitate Hua Cheng to the point of reaching for his sabre, though—and for the first time since they had met, Xie Lian tasted the bitterness of being seen as distrustful.

Was it surprising, though? In Hua Cheng’s eyes, Xie Lian was now an unknown cultivator poking his nose where it didn’t belong. He had always been suspicious of anybody who wasn’t Xie Lian; now, he had nobody to trust at all.

With a heavy heart but a resolved mind, Xie Lian returned to the Puqi village and decided to wait.

The bite’s side effects would go away soon.

The first time Xie Lian noticed something about himself was amiss, he was in the middle of sending home a low-level ghost who had escaped into the mortal realm to stir some trouble. The day seemed ordinary and Xie Lian’s borrowed spiritual powers weren’t depleted just yet; however, right as he was reciting the last words of the send-off, a flash of overwhelming, restraining darkness took over his eyes, sudden and long enough to break his concentration.

When he came to, the building was vacant, the ghost had escaped, and he was hunched over on the floor, arms braced against the ground. His heart was racing with exertion.

What… happened?

Did something attack…? Was something hiding, was somebody in there?

When Xie Lian, trembling and covered in cooling sweat, looked around and examined the surroundings with a careful eye, there was nobody there.

Don’t worry.

“I’m not worried, San—”

He broke off his words again and covered it up with a small cough. He patted his wrist. “I’m not worried, Ruoye. You don’t need to worry, either.”

The ghost had still escaped, though.

Ah, what a mess, Xie Lian thought, carefully keeping his words internal as he got back on his still-shaking feet. That’s alright, that’s alright. It can’t be helped. I’ll fix this right away.

But finding the little ghost took no less than three days, and during that time, it wreaked havoc all around the village, spoiling merchants’ produce, turning large patches of soil barren, contaminating the nearby stream… Not only that, but it also sucked some of the locals’ cattle dry of their blood, leaving behind only carcasses and people’s uncertainty about their nearest future.

The people from the village had prayed in his little shrine in the past, asking for favours, small and big alike. Even when Xie Lian could not grant most of them, the people would come back. This time, no struggling local showed up with requests for help even in such dire times.

Had they finally decided I wasn’t dependable? Xie Lian wondered with a sigh on his way back to the Puqi shrine. He hadn’t waited for the villagers to come and ask for his assistance—the ghost’s actions had been his fault in the first place, after all—and he had drained nearly all his remaining spiritual powers to fix the mess until mere crumbs remained. He could not help the spoiled produce, the dead cattle, nor the crops that had already suffered, but he managed to purify the source of the waters and urge unaffected plants to bear fruits much sooner.

It’s just my luck that this happened when San Lang is unavailable, he thought. That ghost wouldn’t have dared bother the villagers if Hua Cheng had been around. His powers wouldn’t be almost gone now, either.

That was fair, however; Xie Lian had gone centuries without an ounce of spiritual power and managed to survive, living the life of a mortal. This time, he could do it, too.

Just as he thought it, one of his legs grew numb and he lost his balance, then stumbled on the even path and fell straight into the thorny sideroad bushes. He tried to get up, but his arms turned weak to the point of numbness. Any struggle on his part made the rough thorns and nimble twigs tangle with his limbs further.

Ruoye loosened around his wrist and brushed against his skin, but as it uncurled, thorns scraped against it and it retreated with a shudder instead, disrupting a lone butterfly perched nearby.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry,” Xie Lian murmured, stroking Ruoye’s trembling body with his thumb. “Just my luck, ah, I’m getting up, see?”

He didn’t regain control of his limbs until long after the sun had set.

As he entered the Puqi shrine, there next to the empty offerings table, leaning against the wall, stood—

“San—!”

He immediately clamped his lips shut. Hua Cheng’s appearance was of the red-clad youth he had met a long time ago. Did he remember? One look at his face told Xie Lian everything he needed to know.

On Hua Cheng’s face, there was a strained, fake smile.

“Daozhang,” he said, his voice as pleasant and smooth as ever, “I believe you have something of mine.”

Xie Lian’s heart sank. His face, however, showed no signs of upset.

Amiably, he asked, “Pray tell, what could it be?”

If Hua Cheng remembered even just a bit of him, even just their first meeting, be it on Mount Yujun or on the Zhongyuan Festival, that fateful ox cart ride among the reds of sunset and maple leaves, he would surely use this moment to tease, so free-spirited he was. But Hua Cheng simply pushed himself away from the wall and approached him, slowly—on guard—and paused several long steps away from him.

“That thing on your neck,” he said with a nod. Xie Lian’s hand instinctively flew to the cursed shackle hidden underneath the white bandage, but Hua Cheng’s eyes flicked to something resting lower. “Where would Daozhang come across something as rare as this?”

Cursed shackles could be considered rare, but Xie Lian knew already that it wasn’t what Hua Cheng was asking about. He looked down and let his hand fall to the ring resting underneath his robes. As his fingers brushed against the delicate chain on the way down, Hua Cheng’s mouth tensed.

“Yes,” he said. “This.”

Xie Lian took a small breath and gently pulled out the ring, letting it rest in the palm of his hand. The dying, flickering candlelight reflected in the smooth edges of the diamond. “It was a gift.”

“From whom.”

It wasn’t a question. The voice still held the impression of politeness, but it sounded sharper.

Still, could Xie Lian ever leave any of Hua Cheng’s honest questions unanswered? He lowered his eyes.

“From you.”

Hua Cheng arched his brow. “Whatever reason.”

“I don’t know. I woke up with it around my neck.”

Oh, his luck… Of course, it had to sound this way—wasn’t that just so convenient? ‘I didn’t steal your special steamed bun, I just so happened to have an identical one in my pocket!’, ‘I didn’t shatter this vase, I turned around for just a moment and when I looked back, it was already in pieces!’. Xie Lian wouldn’t have believed his words himself, either.

“That’s a curious thing to just appear out of the blue in Daozhang’s hands,” Hua Cheng said. He titled his head. “In any case, if it was truly given by me, I have a request.”

For a moment, Xie Lian’s heart stopped.

Please, don’t—

“I ask Daozhang to return it to me.”

Despite the wrappings around his neck, Xie Lian’s skin there felt cold without the steady presence of the delicate chain. Only when it was gone did he realise just how comforting the weight of the crystal ring had been when it used to rest against his heart.

Of course, he gave it back—a ghost’s ashes were a precious thing, meant to be kept safe, protected against dangers lest they be harmed. That Hua Cheng no longer believed him secure, as temporarily as it would be (please, be temporary; please remember), was a different weight that grew heavier and heavier on his shoulders the longer he ruminated on it, but—in the end, it made perfect sense. Had he refused to return the ring, it would only have worsened Hua Cheng’s opinion of him. It was best to part with this treasure.

Once Hua Cheng’s memories returned, he would perhaps see the ring again; that, he chose to believe.

….Please, remember soon.

The days slowly passed by. With nothing to do and nobody to talk to, Xie Lian busied himself with strolling the nearby villages and forests, picking up junk that looked perfectly useful for his little shrine, and foraging the morsels growing between the grasses.

The shrine seemed even more abandoned than before he first moved into it. Everything Hua Cheng had not touched broke or fell apart completely within days of their last meeting.

The stove was too damp to light a fire. When he would try to start a fire outside, any embers would die on a sudden gust of wind or trickle of rain. With nobody to be mindful of feeding properly, Xie Lian simply gave up and munched on the mushrooms, roots, and berries raw. In the past, no matter how bad the food poisoning, it was still easier to handle than hunger, and his cultivator body worked through the side effects faster than a mere mortal’s.

This time, though, when it came, he got inexplicably ill.

Hot. Unbearable. Ache. Cold. Empty. Too full. No more. Is that—swords? Sharp, no—

Wet cloth on his forehead.

San Lang? San Lang—

“Sa… La…?” he mumbled deliriously.

No reply. The cloth disappeared. Silence, then a resounding splash!, near-soundless faraway flutter, water droplets falling into a water bin, wet rag dragged on the floor, and silence, and—

Cool, heavy wet fabric dragged against his arm, then shoulder, then cheek, and slumped heavily on his brow.

With difficulty, he opened his blurry eyes.

Ruoye wiggled slightly back and forth on his skin. Through the friction, a cooler part of Ruoye’s fabric briefly brought a shade of relief.

There was no one else in the shrine.

On the day Xie Lian realised his body refused to lift him from the straw mat, he had to admit that something was very wrong. This had never happened unprompted. In the past, being unable to move his body was caused by any number of unpleasant things—being stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, buried and impaled to the bottom of the coffin, trampled by horses and soldiers alike—but never without a reason. Last night, the most exertion he had gone through had been trying to fix the crumbling wooden beam and a broken wall in the shrine, with no great results anyway.

Hua Cheng’s painting of the shrine god had fallen together with the wall. Of course, he had to fix it.

“Ruoye,” Xie Lian breathed, and the band of white silk uncurled from around his wrist, “help me up? I need just a little pull.”

Ruoye did. With one end still wrapped around Xie Lian’s wrist, it flew deeper into the room and tugged, but only Xie Lian’s arm moved; the rest of him stayed lying.

“A bit more.”

Even when Ruoye curled around Xie Lian’s shoulders and pulled him up til his upper body sat propped up, his head rolled lifelessly to the side.

His eyes fell towards the shrine—he was supposed to continue working on the wall today—when he noticed the painting he had put aside last night.

His pupils shrank.

In the body of the painting, there was a large, ragged hole, impaled through a crumbled shard of the rotten-through wooden beam. It must have broken during the night and fallen apart while he was unconscious.

“No…”

No no no…

His ears started ringing,

If Hua Cheng had been there, he’d definitely have soothed him and said that it was just a painting—Gege, I’ll paint you another one, it’s nothing to be upset about. I’ll give you an even better one this time. Look, I’ll do it right away—

But he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there for over a month now and it wasn’t—it wasn’t getting easier.

“I’ll fix it,” Xie Lian mumbled to nobody in particular, eyes blurring as he kept them fixed on the last keepsake of San Lang he had in this realm. “I’ll fix it.”

Xie Lian was a patient man, the most patient man—had to learn to be patient over the centuries of his life. He didn’t mind time passing. But this—oh, this was truly too cruel.

He didn’t even notice that Ruoye had gently put him back on the straw mat, his eyes unseeing. All he felt was the white band leaving his body and heard it rustle in the air as it chased some kind of fluttering insect around the room.

A feeling of gaping loneliness filled Xie Lian’s heart. He wanted somebody to— he wished that San Lang would—

He swallowed down the tightness in his throat and closed his eyes.

Staying away this time was really too painful.

…But maybe—as long as he didn’t cause trouble and didn’t make himself known…—maybe he didn’t have to stay away…?

The Ghost City was as loud and chaotic as he remembered it. All around him, the red streets were full of shouting ghostly merchants with their stands full of inhuman produce and peculiar trinkets, but Xie Lian didn’t pay them any mind. His sights were on the Gambler’s Den.

With a sturdy stick in hand to help his balance, he walked through the streets. The crowds wouldn’t disperse and only grew thicker the closer he got to the place in the city he remembered. Fatigue crawled up his legs and arms and he stumbled once—twice—thrice, before Ruoye tapped at his wrist, tightened, and pulled in a direction that was less populated.

Alright, alright, Xie Lian thought with resignation, and let the little spirit guide him away to rest. Only for a moment.

Now that he was here, impatience coursed through his veins. Hua Cheng was probably there, lounging behind the red curtains, half-heartedly listening to the gamblers’ bets and offers and finding their miserable attempts at winning amusing. If he was truly there, Xie Lian could just hide in the crowd and simply take a look, just a glance would be enough. He’d make sure he wasn’t noticed—after all, it wasn’t hard to do at all; these days, no one seemed to pay him any mind.

The little side path Ruoye led him into was deserted enough for Xie Lian to sit down and have a rest, but his companion kept tugging on his wrist and leading him further away. Putting most of his weight on the stick in his hand, Xie Lian followed—

—until, all of a sudden, Ruoye jerked in his hold, froze in the air, and started frantically tugging him in the opposite direction.

Xie Lian frowned and finally looked up. “What is it? Ruoye, what did you—”

But the rest of the question died on his tongue.

Before him, was the Qiandeng Temple of the Ghost City, its doors open and the name of the place which used to be engraved into the stones paving the path towards it—destroyed.

The inside of it was deathly dark, but in the dim, smoky red of the Ghost City lights, Xie Lian noticed—and knew immediately it to be true—the building was completely empty.

Where scrolls upon scrolls of practice lines he wrote himself used to cover the jaded bureau, there was nothing.

Where endless offerings and an incense burner used to be laid out on the altar, there was nothing.

Where thousands of lights used to blanket every corner of the building in golden warmth, there was nothing.

The little air that was stuck in Xie Lian’s chest left his lungs as if it were his very last breath.

This was the temple Hua Cheng had built himself and showed him, bashfully, all that time ago. This was the temple which he had sworn would worship Xie Lian, his god— what god, what god ?— no matter how ‘dirty’ and ‘unworthy’ the place of its location was. This was the temple in which Hua Cheng had lit three thousand lanterns in his name and, lovingly, sent them up into the heavens.

Nothing was left. Everything was gone.

Ruoye tugged at his arm more forcefully.

This time, he let it lead him away.

He’ll remember, he whispered to himself in his thoughts as he took step after numb step away from what used to be a miraculous divine shrine. Soon, he will.

…he will.

In the end, when he tried to sneak into the Gambler’s Den, the same ghosts that usually welcomed him as their lord’s cherished guest sensed him from a mile away and raised an alarm for a suspicious cultivator trespassing on Ghost Realm.

With the light of a single curious silver butterfly flickering in and out of the corner of his eye, he fled.

Hua Cheng didn’t show up again. 

Xie Lian had heard in the past stories about gods forgotten. For many centuries, he had believed himself to be one of them.

He’d never wondered back then why he was still around - weren’t forgotten gods supposed to disappear from the world like dispersed ghosts? What kept him there, more or less alive, coming back and coming back and coming back, still strong enough to keep going even at his weakest?

He knew the answer now—now, that his mortal body was clearly giving out, any leftover or borrowed spiritual powers gone as if they had never been there.

It had all been thanks to Hua Cheng.

How could a single person—a single soul, a single ghost—keep a god alive all those years?

San Lang could.

It was true what people said; one really didn’t know what they had until it was gone.

Xie Lian faded out on a cold autumn night, collapsed against a tree on the outskirts of the nearby forest, an almost empty bag of scraps he’d managed to find that day abandoned on the ground next to him. Under his last breaths, he kept whispering soothing nothings to Ruoye; the silk band quivered under his numb fingertips, tightening, uncurling, shifting and wrapping around his whole body, as if to embrace, as if to support.

As if to keep him together.

It’s alright, Xie Lian thought to his only companion when he could no longer speak, it’s alright. I’ve existed long enough.

The world grew quiet, numb, then blurry as Xie Lian’s senses gave out one after the other. As the night lost any remaining colours, his eyes burned with achingly bright blurred-out silver lights rapidly dancing in his dying vision.

How beautiful, was his last thought, unconscious, delirious as the smallest of the lights fluttered close to his face, distraught, almost brushing against his forehead. Thank goodness for San Lang.

If I only could—

Then, it all went dark, and Xie Lian’s soul dimmed until he was no more.

The silver butterfly found no surface to perch on; as a sudden tremble overtook the world, it shattered into a thousand specks of dust.

There once was a god; a kind god, a merciful god, the only god that mattered. A beloved god.

A forgotten god.

A god who was remembered, but remembered too late.

And there was a believer; a powerful ghost, unyielding, devoted, always searching, always waiting.

They had met once, at the beginning of their lives, and then once more, when fate crossed their paths again. Ominous powers, long since destroyed and made an example of, meddled in fate’s plans and forced the god’s and the ghost’s paths apart, parting them forever.

If his god were to disappear, the ghost had always planned to leave the world with him. After all, without the god, there was no purpose, no meaning, no life. 

…But as there was no banquet in the world that didn’t come to an end, there also was no separation that lasted for eternity.

And so, against his deepest wish to disperse into nothingness—in anguish, in penance, in shame—the ghost held onto the hope in his still heart and waited for his god to come back.

He’s still waiting to this day. They say he uses millions of disguises to walk the world in search of his beloved. The disguises have nothing in common. Some are children, some are men, some are women. Some look rich, some poor.

If you want to spot the real face of the ghost, look for a band of white silk wrapped around his wrist. Don’t approach - both the master and the silk are stained with the blood and resentment of those who have wronged the one they’re looking for. Just let them pass, and search, and wait.

And if the god ever comes back—

Why would he come back? Please, come back.

—tell them.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

April - Maedhros & Maglor

Ah, MoonLord my dear reader has come up with quite an interesting batch of prompts for me!

So, after all the smut, have some gen stuff :D

Pairing: Maedhros & Maglor

Prompts: Sibling relationships, Babysitting, war, musical instruments, heat

Words: 2005

Warnings: Sadness, regret, loss

“Don’t,” Maedhros said automatically as something whizzed past his head. It was only when he saw the charred bone—a bleak, white accusation—roll down the hill that he remembered where they were.

Long gone were the days when the twins would throw clumps of dirt and paper-thin skins filled with water at one another and their older siblings in mischievous glee.

His heart ached as he thought back on those blessed days of carefree annoyance; their mother, dutiful and devoted, would sneak off with his half-uncle’s wives to gossip about their husbands and unruly children, and he’d be left in charge of a whole pack of feral youngsters.

Back then, he'd been the oldest, but he hadn’t been able to fathom yet how terrible it would be to feel old.

“Food shall be ready soon,” Celegorm declared in a voice so hollow, that it was clear to everyone that he didn’t care whether his brothers would devour the spoils of his ruthless hunt like wild animals or shun them like petulant children.

Once upon a time, his steps had been so light that it had been impossible for anyone but Huan to hear him approach, but his dark deeds and bitter regrets had weighed him down so much that his every movement seemed to set his surroundings atremble with cold dread.

Habit drove the old-familiar words onto Maedhros’s tongue, “Come on, children!”, “Food is ready!”, “Wash your hands!”, but he didn’t speak any of them aloud—what for?

They were elflings no more, and the blood on their hands could never be rinsed off.

It felt to Maedhros as if he already sensed that terrible, blazing heat that had taken their father lick at his ankles, and he thanked the Valar for his prodigious height. No matter how voracious the flames of their Doom were, they’d have a far to go yet before consuming him whole.

Surely, it was also that secret fire’s pervasive, poisonous smoke that made his breath come in shallow, ragged bursts and drove tears into his bright, gentle eyes.

There was no place for pity or nostalgia in a war camp, and if he missed Caranthir’s rare fits of raucous laughter or Curufin’s earnest devotion to crafts of beauty rather than of violence, it was a small price to pay in the pursuit of Fëanor’s expectations.

Suddenly, the dutiful, unerring uncrowned king wondered why their father’s wrath and single-minded determination felt shockingly alive when everything else—their hope, their joy, their very vivacity—seemed to have died so long ago.

These things were not for him to consider or to know, though, and he turned his attention back to the gaggle of brothers, all beloved and regretted already, who closed in on the fresh kill like hungry wolves.

He wished Fingon could be there—he’d always been so good at distracting them by making a witty joke or feigning interest in the various interests that kept the infamous sons of a genius enthralled.

No, Maedhros corrected himself harshly, he was being unfair to one whose heart had ever been more generous than he himself could even fathom—thus, Fingon had probably genuinely cared.

He’d cared so much that he’d died for a cause that had never been his own, many times over, and Maedhros welcomed the crippling pain of loss and guilt washing over him like a wave of sharp-toothed darkness—he deserved to be denied even the comfort of mourning the death of his best friend and true love.

Some of his brothers might have wailed and raged, others would have curled up around the throbbing core of their suffering, but he was allowed neither.

The one person who might have understood and had wise words of comfort to impart was Turgon, and Maedhros knew that he’d probably never hear that calm, grave voice again.

That, he also more than deserved.

“Will you not eat something?”

Maglor appeared with a shallow, cracked bowl in his famed hands. He resembled their father’s family much more than their mother’s on the surface, but he had inherited Nerdanel’s gentle, calming smile and the look of indulgent fondness they all missed so desperately.

“I’m not hungry; give my portion to the…”

“Little ones?” Maglor laughed mirthlessly. “Do you know that, for the longest time, I was convinced that you abhorred sweetmeats and treats? You’d always pass on your cake to me, and I believed that it was due to a personal dislike rather than a sincerely stupid act of self-denial.”

Kneeling gracefully before his older brother, he held out the simple meal stubbornly.

“You need to eat, lest you fade completely. We need you—and I know how cruel and selfish that sounds, but we cannot do this without you. I cannot do this alone.”

And, because he remembered what his interim kingship had done to his creative, wild-hearted brother, Maedhros accepted the proffered bowl wordlessly, nodding his thanks.

“Eat, brother,” Maglor insisted; he’d known Maedhros for too long to be fooled by his courteous manners and his uncanny ability to dissimulate how much he was buckling under the burdens put upon him. “I shall sit with you and make sure that you’re honouring Tyelko’s effort appropriately.”

Grimacing, Maedhros took a tentative bite—the meat was chewy and tasted like wet coal, but he forced a smile onto his lips to assuage the swirling worry in his brother’s eyes.

“It’s not very good,” Maglor whispered conspiratorially, “but it’s warm and nourishing—that’s all we can ask for.”

Maedhros heard the “all we deserve now” even though it was not spoken, so he bowed his head in agreement and went on spooning the tasteless sludge into his numb mouth mechanically.

“Come over, sit by the fire with us,” Maglor went on as he took the empty container back. “Surely, you won’t refuse a bit of comforting heat out of petulant brooding and self-flagellation?”

Not sure whether his wickedly witty sibling was referencing the warmth of the reluctant but unbroken brotherhood or the mundane effect of the small campfire, Maedhros cocked his head and waited.

“I could play the harp,” Maglor went on, unrelenting. “Like in the old days when I’d help you babysit the horrors.”

Out of habit rather than real annoyance, Maedhros sucked his teeth. He might have been prejudiced, but he’d always staunchly claimed that none of his brothers was even half as terrifying as their female cousins.

Indeed, he’d ever believed that Finrod had been dealt the trickiest hand, but the mere thought of his former flippancy on these matters made him now flinch as if struck.

Too many of their kinspeople had perished, and he felt terrible for ever having had a single ungracious thought about them.

“Nobody wants to hear your howling,” Caranthir hissed, but—as per usual—nobody paid his ill-tempered outbursts any heed. Moreover, his two oldest brothers hadn’t forgotten the seemingly endless period when that little red-faced boy had only been able to fall asleep in Maedhros’s arms while Maglor hummed lullaby after lullaby.

“Father would not want you to isolate yourself,” Curufin agreed in Fëanor’s voice, mirroring Fëanor’s grave mien, moving his strong fingers in a perfect imitation of Fëanor’s gestures.

“I…I can’t stop seeing those who are no longer there,” Maedhros replied, shielding his sensitive eyes from the flickering light of the fire—he’d grown to dread the devastating element that had robbed him of all he’d held most dear.

If his brothers understood his words as a thinly veiled reference to their parents, he would not correct them, but he knew that his mazy thoughts comprised others whose very names had become anathema to the precarious survival to which they clung with despairing obstinacy.

Their Flight, the Ice, the burning of the ships, the confrontation at the feet of King Thingol—there had been too many incidents that had torn them apart, but—just for one dark, bleak night—Maedhros allowed himself to miss the children he’d watched grow up in the Blessed Realm until his chest hurt with suppressed sobs.

It was generally accepted that the Oath had erased all other considerations in their crazed minds, and—once again—he wouldn’t correct anyone who believed so, because the truth was so much worse.

He remembered everything: every ephemeral sandcastle, every scraped knee, every impromptu nap against the narrow, bony ribcage of a young, hopeful prince of yore.

How he wished that he could forget that he’d held, defended, comforted, and loved them long before they had righteously started loathing him! If he could excise those memories from his heart, he might well have reclaimed the Silmarils by now; instead, he was torn to pieces by contradicting loyalties until every minute movement made his body and soul writhe in agony.

Maglor had unpacked the battered, old harp he carried around in a worn, oiled skin as if in defiance of their present situation and their hopeless quest.

Little by little, the conversations died as the initially random, mournful notes melted into a variation of an old lullaby, overwhelming in its simplicity and never-changing beauty.

Eyes closed and lips pursed, Maglor conjured up visions of lush gardens and mellow, silvery reveries which stung and soothed their hearts in equal measure.

With every stroke of his calloused, weary fingers, the melodies grew more intricate and enchanting, and even the dead trees around them seemed to bend towards the life-giving solace flooding the barren clearing like a wave of pure light.

The last time his brothers had heard this piece performed, there had been many different instruments interweaving their precious song with Maglor’s flawless harp play, but the stark absence of a supporting accompaniment felt oddly fitting now as it perfectly mirrored his solitary, desperate effort to dispel the omnipresent, suffocating gloom miring them down.

Cruelly aware of how tense and unmoving his forcibly dispassionate mien must have looked, Maedhros tried to let the music drown out the painful knowledge that, had they lived, neither Fingon nor Finrod could have resisted joining their skill and voices to this pitiful concerto.

Alas, they had fallen, and no fire or flame in all of Arda could have replaced the healing, cheering warmth they might have dispensed.

“You have everything you need to succeed,” Fëanor had said as he’d lain, broken and burned, in the loving, trembling arms of his oldest son, and Maedhros had nodded, ready to swear any oath if only his words could soothe his father’s evident agony.

He’d been right, the disenchanted, weary minder of his quasi-orphaned brothers now realised; at the moment of his demise, Fëanor could not possibly have foreseen the terrible, devastating losses his sons would have to face and bear in the single-minded pursuit of their ill-fated vow.

It might well have been a wilfully naïve stance, but Fëanor—having himself left his beloved wife behind in the Blessed Realm—had been convinced that helplessly, uselessly yearning for those who were happy and safe within the keeping of their ungracious jailors was counterproductive and needlessly distracting.

Maedhros wondered how their father’s tune might have changed if he’d known his wife, his brother, his very followers to have died miserably.

In many a way, it was a mercy that he’d died before learning of Fingolfin’s arrival or his subsequent death—despite all his bitter words, Fëanor might not have stomached that knowledge as comfortably as he wanted to make others believe.

Through a veil of flickering flames, Maedhros caught the knowing, understanding gaze of his favourite brother, and his mouth curled into a genuinely fond smile as Maglor intoned a simple song he’d learned at Maedhros’s elbow so long ago.

For the first time in what felt like ages, comfortable drowsiness descended upon the camp as their younger brothers pulled up their bedrolls around their shoulders, bowed with grief and unspoken fear.

They’d sleep soundly tonight, and that alone was worth the terrible loneliness of the two elders whose wakeful watch would not end until the merciless sun came up once more.

-> Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics: I am still on it :D

[a-queer-seminarian]

From iconographer Ian Knowles' notes:

"I first came across icons while visiting Athens as a young 18 yr old... I particularly remember a very small and ancient church, dark as a cavern, where sunlight cast shafts of intense light, catching the fragments of the candle smoke as they drifted upwards like fireflies. The icons had not been anywhere near a restorer, and the layers of the oil varnish had greedily devoured the smoke of the incense and the passage of time until the images beneath were more like ethereal shadows, devoid of colour apart from the jewel-like glimmer of gold which even the soot and grime couldn't entirely diminish. At that moment, in that place, before those icons, I encountered God. I prayed. You can write a lot about icons, many people have. But really, you don't need commentaries. You need, silence, stillness, attentiveness not around you but within you. Every icon, every single one has one common feature. No matter who it is, what angle or poise they are in, whether in joy or sadness...their mouths are small, and closed. The icon is stillness, that Divine, warm stillness that listens, waits, just is and invites us to do the same. They are vessels into which we pour our prayer, our devotion to God, our sadness, our penitence, our sufferings, our desires, our hopes for ourselves and for the world. ...God embraces us through them, just as we are. Quite simply, whatever our interior or exterior state, the icons are still there. It is, I suppose, the inverse of the phrase, 'out of sight, out of mind'. It's God with us, whether we feel like it or not. ..."

[delilahsbabyaccount]

~Blurring Lights~

♥︎ pairing: anon x him

♡ summary: descriptive pining

♥︎ warnings: inappropriate language, vivid imagery of affection, one-sided

♡ word count: 662

♥︎ inspired song/s: Kill For Your Love - Labrinth; So High School - Taylor Swift

a/n: this was requested by a friend of mine, I hope you enjoy it! Just take in consideration that everything I write is a work of fiction unless stated otherwise <3

The boisterous music blared in my ears, lights were circling under the swaying feet of the equally rambunctious teenagers attending the fleeting and unimportant event that is high school dances.

With my green lace corset pressing into my ribs and the bass of the dark speakers single-handedly keeping my heart pumping, I push my figure through the stuffy, sweaty bodies in hopes of reaching the exit.

Having always enjoyed getting ready for the event rather than attending it, my mind was already restless in the boredom of the repetitive dancing and uninteresting conversation.

Finally reaching the fresh air, my posture relaxes at the familiar scent of salt and sea. My breath evens out as I allow my eyes to scan the expressive faces around me.

It was not long before a certain group gained my attention.

Gathering around the plaster-wood camping table situated closest to the silver railing, deep in conversation, the trio overviewed the school courtyard.

My eyes trail and circulate their structures in the faintly golden lantern lights. I was acquainted with all three of them, but his shaking figure captured my interest.

Clutching onto the edge of the table, the boy with the messy brunette curls loosened his long black tie, shaking his head with dizzying laughter.

His lashes were dark, twittering down to his flushed cheeks as he effortlessly brushed off the sweat from vigorous dancing. I watched as his chest heaved up and down trying to trap more air into his tight lungs.

My own lungs seemed to forget their purpose, my eyes fixated on his peach tinted lips as he smiled abashedly at something our mutual friend had stated.

He was pulchritudinous.

I was fucked.

.

Four months blew past me like a 40 knots wind storm, landing me in the colourfully decorated café sitting with my eccentric blonde of a friend.

I had succeeded in occupying my bare life with gigs, exams and family affairs but I had failed to pull my brain away from the mouth of all my focus.

My dreary weeks have been barely acknowledgeable as frustration held its carrot in front of my scrunched up face. This torturous creature is not as easily dismissed as before.

It is somehow different this time. Burning through all of my distractions, devouring all of my attempts to soothe it, slowly reaching an agreement only for the source to appear right in front of me.

The boy with the messy brunette curls waves his silk hands as he approaches our table in a completely calm fashion.

Having learnt where his affections lie all those weeks ago, my heart has - with great effort - found it most applicable to cage itself behind my golden-painted ribs.

And yet, I would not be able to recall what was spoken about unless the words sounded from his disgustingly pleasant voice, my attention unable to leave his vibrant aegean blue eyes.

Despite my most greatest efforts, I was addicted to him. I could not get enough, hear enough, know enough to be satiated and meanwhile; the charmolypi will chew and grind on my insides.

.

In retrospect, the possibility that I may have wasted my time is a reality that represents itself in the form of a obscenely large pill.

It threatens to consume me in the heavy, harsh moments I find myself in but when I allow myself to open the cage and remember...

I would recall how he retained a level of respect for everyone. How he listened. How he devoted himself to who cared for. How he flushed when asked about his passions.

He was soft, gentle-natured and affectionate.

He found no reason in harming others and brought warmth to people's lives.

So warm, in fact, that he scorched his place in my life forever.

.

In my dizzy, disorienting dreams he is holding my arms, tracing my face and I am grateful because he is brilliant.

He deserves to be blissfully happy, even if it is without me.

*Credit to the rightful owners of the pictures used <3

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