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meiguicha · 1 month ago

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Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?

Mydei x Reader - Reincarnation AU

No matter how, where or when, you'll always be his greatest love.

Extra

cw: major character deaths, descriptions of wounds and illness, spoilers for Mydei's backstory, mild allusions to sex, cussing, ten million liberties taken and written pre 3.1

//happy cny have a borderline thesis. reader has like three thousand past lives/j so i named them for my own convenience (and symbolism but who cares in this economy). n e ways. mydei really reminds me of mobe-- *im immediately knocked out and taken to the back

The inability to die is oftentimes the answer many offer when asked that ridiculous question.

It's easier to sensationalise it, to imagine the feats one could achieve without the fear of death rather than consider the suffering and agony of a feeling body. Though the flesh is willing, what occurs to the mind is far more detrimental than the sensation of pain.

Perhaps for those with a weaker will that is so, but Mydei is not the kind to linger on the hopelessness nor the what-ifs of impossibility. He can endure the hardships those cannot, so even if he has experienced ten thousand deaths, he will keep pushing on.

Though, just like a man, and no matter how much they might spin the tales, he is still a man, within his damned beating heart springs forward a doubt at every turn of the decade.

In countless lives, on countless battlefields, it is always you who wrests that uneasy hesitation from somewhere long forgotten.

Soldier, healer, scholar.

Kremnos, Okhema, Aidonia.

He could count the lives you spent by his side, the names you have taken, the forms you have borne. Yet such trivial things did not matter, inevitably you would learn of him and you would return to his side. And somehow, perhaps through some ancestral wiles, you would coax his very soul around yours, make your very being an integral pillar to his life and cruel as you are, it is only you who could make his head bow.

The first of your lives was advantageous to your nascent mission, the child of a Kremnoan sergeant who served as a childhood playmate. Androphonos, your mother named you. Androphonos, your father declared you.

Fleet footed and much so of wit, he remembers those eyes that bore the flames of day, bands of gold decorating lean arms and that voice akin to the howling wind. Your smile that could assail a thousand men, your parents named you well, for even the sight of it seemed to thrust a great lance into his heart. And yet still, he will never forget the look you gave him when he bested you in combat, the joy and relief on your face when it was he who pinned you unmoving, for that was what struck that final blow of this battle they call love.

“I’m glad it's you,” Admitted to him in the quiet of the afterglow, you had pressed a soft kiss to his palm just before, and though the years have passed, he still remembers your warm breath against him.

He kept his own voice murmuring, carefully returning your affections with a cradle of your jaw, “You are? What kind of people have you been surrounded with that you’d prefer me?”

Your gentle touch was so foreign to him, he couldn’t understand what you saw in him. There was nothing but conflict that predated and awaited him, and if you joined him, you would only scorn this life. The extent of your affection seemed cursory, a kind of obligation rather than true desire. It had troubled him at first, but your words truly held a persuasion unlike any other.

You had only laughed at his response, the ends of your eyes crinkling together as you bared teeth and mirth. Like a teenage boy, the scene of you bathed in warm light, draped in crimson robes and hair undone, had made him feel ever more aware of you, of himself.

“I’ll take no one else, I’d rather die than to be deprived of you.”

Warm as the great skies and embracing as so, the eyes in which he looked upon you could no doubt be described as nothing more than reverent as you pressed kiss after kiss along muscle and sinew. You yielded to him once more, providing little protest as every breath from your lips were more like whisperings of greater divine.

Hands that have ripped the flesh of mortals clawed and drew blood, yet what you left were not scars of shame but that of pride, proof of your conquest. No matter that they were temporary, you merely left more in their wake. He pushed and prodded until even the stars of Kephale bore themselves in your vision, wherein just the sight of your dishevelled and splayed bliss had him comprehend Nikador’s infatuation with Bepsis.

No, though he has never laid sight upon her, he knew you were more beautiful then.

Androphonos they called you, and were it possible, he’d lay dead at your feet for even the thought of your returned ardour was more powerful than any weapon.

Androphonos, a name he thought of within that cell.

The jail of the palace was decrepit, damp and worn. Prisoners did not remain here long, and though he remained undying, that did not mean he did not worry for those beyond it. He has grown weak from weariness and exhaustion, now even copper could restrain him without fault.

That man has gone mad with delusion and paranoia, it seemed he was keen on following after their god along a treacherous path.

From afar his ears picked up on rushed steps against stone, fabric rushing along the wind before all that filled his senses were the swift fall of armour clanging against the floor. The cry of slain guards accompanied the symphony of combat and perhaps to another, this would not be a sound as comforting. But the winds favoured one, the fleet footed and the lean armed.

It was you who appeared before him, a shield and spear in arm with eyes blazing with fury. Breaking open the door with a simple slam of your shield, you had rushed in with little explanation and set to work.

“There’s arrangements for you outside the walls,” Your voice was harsh, yet still you refuse to let your affections be absent. As you released him from his binds, your hands moved swiftly as you wrapped your cloak around him. “I’ll remain here to buy you time.”

To stay there would be the same as a death sentence, and though glory only awaited those who perished in battle, he did not wish for you to pass on away from him. Not in such a dishonourable place, not if he must leave you like a coward to fight his battles.

“Do you think you're invincible?!” Mydeimos retorted back, pulling down your spear as he forced you to face him.

He had not seen sorrow so palatable on your face before. Though tears did not fall from your flaming eyes, the severe furrow of your brow and the grip of your calloused hands were all he needed.

Your free hand, wet with the blood of faithless men, held his face. This body of his cursed to suffer a thousand deaths, his path bathed in blood and fraught with hardships, he should have foreseen your own would be drowned with it. Yet even then, you will hold him as though the most precious thing in this world.

A smile tinged your lips, flesh pulling wide like a mockery of joy. “My love, I will not be killed so easily.”

“Your people need you, you must go.”

He doesn’t know when you dropped your weapon, but the clatter of it meant little in comparison to your touch. So gentle, you were so gentle with him no matter the strength you bore. Chapped lips pressed against his own as iron filled his taste buds, yet you would not let him have this moment any longer, pulling away before he could even convince you otherwise.

“I’ll be with you soon, and if not, I will not join Nikador until I find you in my next life,” your last words to him were whispered against his lips, a quiet promise.

Your laughter is the last thing he hears before you shoved him away, howling in the rushing wind as you bear your spear and shield once more.

Mydeimos would not let you have that last word, and before he escaped, he had yelled, trying desperately to reach you in your fervour, “You won’t die, don’t say as if it's so!”

You did not hear him.

Killer of men. The historians will not write down your name nor your feats, but he will chisel your very being into his memory.

The second of your lives tucked you away in the steppes of Cypris, a healer amidst the townsfolk fleeing from the black tide. Eleemon, the children dubbed you. Eleemon, the soldiers cried for you.

Slender handed and poison tongued, you shielded yourself with a veil, legs akin to a hind and a temper to match. Your reputation preceded you, but nothing could have prepared him for the fire in your eyes when you first forced his gaze. It was not humour that greeted him, not even curiosity, nothing but pitiful vexation.

“You are a fool,” Spat to him in your private tent, you had sat him down atop a makeshift bed to conduct a checkup. Even now he remembers the cool of your palm, nails dragging along his skin as you surveyed his form.

Mydei only retorted back, and in that time he had not known why he found himself unwilling to let the brash bite of his words stain his voice, “And so are you for thinking I need your help.”

He had never met a healer as audacious as you, uncaring of class nor occupation and critical of all. With the detachment only having just been born, taking in the survivors of Cypris was foolish but the sight of your shrouded form enticed the final decision. It was purely logical but not even logic could explain the familiarity in your eyes nor the weight of your speech.

“Not so much as you,” Sneering, your acerbic spite was bared through teeth and a slight mirth. And as you regarded him with a glare that could only rival Nikador’s, he felt some part of Kremnos remained with you.

“Only the foolish think themselves unnecessary of rest.”

The days of travel grew weary on all, wearing down on morale yet you would not allow for even a minute of complaint. Your own pouch of water hung noticeably lighter than the soldiers’ when rest was needed, portions of rations smaller than the children’s, yet you denied the care of your elder and your assistant.

In a past life, he promised to care for you as you would him, so no matter that your lips spewed poison upon each proprietary act of service, he could ignore the flush on your ears for the sake of your fragile pride. If you did truly mind after all, you would not hunch yourself so protectively over his form when the rest hours fell.

He knew you meant it when you declared that you would find him in your next life.

Eleemon they called you, if the gods above were anything like you, perhaps Amphoreus would have no need for Chrysos Heirs like him.

Eleemon, a name he thought of when a youth handed him a cup of wine.

The goblet was made of copper, he remembers, a knuckle’s worth of deep red wine sloshing in the vessel. Your elder had decidedly presented it as celebration when the bright light of Kephale’s gifts grew ever closer. Not even you were immune to the solemn look of the older man, perhaps you had long known he wouldn’t be able to bask beneath the warm sun once more.

You were quiet when your assistant handed him the cup, eyes narrowed at the contents before they directed themselves to your own.

There was that look in your eyes, spiteful and vexed, yet you said nothing, merely pursed your lips and set your drink in front of him. Instead, you busied yourself with pushing his own further and further away from his grasp, and when he shot you a look, you persisted.

“Do you want to deprive me of drink?” Mydei snorted at your almost feline display.

With a sneer, you simply hissed, “Don’t touch it.”

He followed the direction of your gaze, and when all he was greeted was with the back of your assistant, you snatched the copper goblet from the makeshift table to dump out its contents. There at the very bottom were ground up leaves, stained red and certainly not part of the wine if he considered your unusually irate expression.

You never told him what it was, but for the rest of that meal, you spent it staring at that youth.

Far sooner than he imagined, he was left bereft of your snarky comments and acerbic smirk, slinking away from his side with nothing but a tap of his arm. Though he supposed when the target of your withering glares disappeared in the afterglow of festivity, you would be foolish enough to give chase.

Yes, foolish indeed.

When he had finally managed to follow after your tail, you were already in your tent, voices raised to a pitch that even from afar he could hear your enraged roar. You who was so often described as mercurial and high-strung, whose words were already armed with barbs, was truly and utterly wrathful. Tearing into whoever was idiotic enough to incur your already short impatience without care for reason.

Yet, with how grave your expression was before you left, even though he knew you were more than capable, worry still crept up on him. The last time you ran off, far away from his sight, from his grasp, you left him. And now? Hearing the shuffle of limbs and the crash of items, something roiled in his veins.

If anything happened while you were just within reach, he thought, he really would have failed you again.

As he stepped closer towards the entrance of the tent, a familiar voice threw accusation after accusation at you without recourse. Muffled by the light cloth, it did nothing to hide the disgust in their tone, dripping with palatable odium.

“Even now you defend him? What has that patricidal coward done to you?”

Though he couldn’t see your expression, he imagined you were sneering again, baring teeth and pride, “Says you! What have you to your name beyond attempting to kill the man delivering us?!”

“Just because you laid with him does not mean we are happy with this!” They hissed and as though picking up something, you rushed to hinder their path. Even then, this person pleaded, begged, “Don’t you see that it is their god that harms us?”

“Elis!”

That person barely managed to enact their rampage before being swiftly put down, knife thrown off to some distant place and arms dislocated. What happened to them, he doesn’t remember more so than the thudding in his chest, his heart attempting mutiny on his ribs as he rushed into your tent.

He hated that you were always quiet about your grievances. You never let a peep out when you were lacking in food or drink, injured or exhausted. If something bothered you, you’d merely up and leave to sort it out yourself.

Mydei hated it most at that very moment.

He could care less what others did to him. Cut his stomach open, leave hemlock in his cup, curse and call him every name under skies. Nothing could possibly hurt him more knowing that you would take that same suffering in stride, that you would not even tell him.

Even in this life, you were the one protecting him.

Hand held limply over your abdomen, you sent him a weak jibe, devoid of any actual mocking. Your anger and your regret melted away as easily as your strength.

“It's too late, don’t bother,” Murmured through your obvious pain, you made a weak attempt at batting him away as he approached.

“You’re a fool,” He gritted through his teeth, arms desperately scooping your limp form into his embrace. The ceding heat of your limbs was too quick, the spillage of your life more so. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shaking your head, you refuted him again. “Elis wouldn’t have listened otherwise.”

“I have suffered through worse, a stab would be nothing.”

If he had not known you as well as he did, he could not have possibly discerned what emotion blinked in your glassy eyes.

Sorrow. It was always sorrow.

With a strength that did not belong to you, you squeezed his arm as you forced him to look at you, forced him to look away from your organs spilling out. Still so stubborn in the face of death, he still doesn’t know why you were so wilful, why you refused to even let him help.

“Don’t let them burn my body,” your voice waned.

“They won’t, there will be no body.”

“I wanted to see Okhema, bury me there.”

“You’ll be there to see it, just shut up and stay awake.”

“Mydei.”

That simple call of his name snapped him out of whatever delusion he had entrapped himself with.

“I really….” A strangled laugh wheezed from your throat, your fingers loosened their grip from his arm and even then he could not find the strength to let you lie so defeatedly, holding your hand in his as he watched your eyes cloud. “..liked you.”

And as you reached out to cradle his face, sticky with your own blood, he let himself lean into the last part of you he had. You were gentle, so gentle. He didn’t deserve your gentleness, he’d rather your anger and your poison once more. Maybe then, it wouldn’t have hurt that much.

A tear he had not even known existed fell on your mouth, your lips lifted as you used what little energy left to curse him one last time.

“... don’t look so sad, I’ll be back to torment you before you know it.”

The merciful. Cypris is a name devoured by the black tide and the sands of time, but you will live on in the prayers of countless.

Your most recent life placed you closer still, an Okheman scholar who found the research of Castrum Kremnos life work. Ambologera, your peers sighed. Ambologera, your neighbours laughed.

Fair faced and soft hearted, you bore the mind rivalling Cerces, fingers littered with rings and form almost vulpine like in movement. He heard your name first before all else, the moment the detachment returned to the eternal city, the exasperated groans uttered alongside the call was all he knew of you. And from the roofs of red tiles and billowing silks was you, as though a gift from the heavens presented straight to his hands.

“To think you all would keep me from seeing him!” The incredulity of your tone was exaggerated, offended even at the idea. How could anyone possibly think of stopping you on your endeavours when you…

…when you could only bring blessings upon those you favoured?

With little care for the procession of homecoming, you leaped down from your perch to squeeze your way to the front. Dancing between the tight lineup of armoured soldiers, it proved such a simple task for you to emerge in his vision, effortlessly keeping up with the pace despite one trait he had neglected to consider.

You appeared older, noticeably so. Light wrinkles decorated the ends of your eyes, grey hair peppered amongst your bound braid, and yet he could not tear away that image of you. It had brought such an odd giddiness that for a sparse minute, he believed himself poisoned.

“My lord, it would be my honour if you would spare me some of your time!” Offering a bright smile, the excitement on your face was like pure adrenaline through his veins. A joyous lilt tinged the end of your words as you mused, “I wish to hear everything of the Castrum Kremnos, everything you know!”

Involuntarily, the corner of his lips had quirked at your antics. You were so spirited, for a resident of Okhema to not only greet the Kremnoan procession with little more than genuine enthusiasm but to approach the very leader of it as though little more than a random stranger on the street. It was still you.

At that very moment, just before he could reach for you, a youth rushed out from the alleys to pull you away, then another and another. Despite your age, it seemed as if an entire village was required to hold you back. You would not even allow them to take you back quietly, chiding them for not respecting their elders and still desperately trying to catch the prince’s attention.

Yet, they had such a striking resemblance to you that in that very moment, fear struck far more lethal than any possible mortal weapon. Was it possible that this time, you had finally decided to give up on him? Or had he taken too long?

A treacherous thought surfaced then, whoever it was that married you, could they possibly be more powerful than he?

Within a few days, you appeared before him again, furiously scrawling notes above the marketplace. The sight of him returned the levity of your mood far swifter than any arrow, far swifter than a stranger should. You forced him to join you, and without any more delay, set to questioning on this and that, who takes on the dominant role in households, what materials were most abundant, how trade operated without much farm land. He could have talked of the number of steps in the palace and you would have still made him tell you the exact floor plan of the room.

Odd. You really were odd. But you meant it, you meant your curse.

As if to make up for the lost time, you would find some manner of requesting his presence at all times of the day. Dragging him to here or there, yapping his ears off with talks of your research and any idle old topic, smiling and laughing at him so sweetly that every night he’d dream of you. Your nieces and nephews could have glared at him until Okhema fell to the darkness and still then he believed he would have rather been struck dead that very moment than leave your side.

Torment was a light definition for the ache that lingered at every thought you occupied.

Ambologera they called you, and were it possible, he’d have liked for it to be true if only to spend more of this odd life with you.

Ambologera, a name he dreaded to hear when he returned.

He had been set to engage in another campaign, and though he worried, no, all but agonised over the state of your health, you would not let yourself be part of his hesitation. Mydei took your energy for granted, he hadn’t thought that though the threat of external conflict was absent, there was one foe even he could not defeat with his own hands.

Your house was quiet when he returned, devoid of your usual chaos filling the rooms, and though your nephew had greeted him with a solemn nod, it was cold comfort. He wasn’t used to it, to the silence that seemed to cling to the white walls or the tidy corners of every room he passed. Your bedroom loomed closer and closer, and though he had seen sights that would turn the stomach of even the most grizzled of soldiers, seeing you so weak, so helpless, brought a sliver of despair onto the fortress of his affections.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm sunlight to wash over your form. Your hands, still adorned, lacked the strength to even wave at him, all you could offer was a tip of your head and that smile of yours. Beckoning him over, he could do nothing but indulge your request, more so when you asked to see the marketplace from the roofs once more, the same roof you leapt off of, the same roof you admitted your illness to him.

You were so light, bundled even in blankets and coats, you were so light. And when you tugged them closer to your form, he simply held you closer. Even as he trekked past curious bystanders, your silence was deafening.

Having settled you comfortably, he watched your hand pull out a small vessel, and when you struggled to open it, he took it off your hands to pop the cork off. The smell that greeted him was acidic, cloyingly sweet and burning his senses all at once.

Mydei scrunched his nose at the item, directing a furrowed brow and grimace at your grinning face. “Should you really be having alcohol in this state?”

“I haven’t had wine in forever, least of all my niece’s,” You just laughed, gesturing for the bottle and taking a swig from it as carefully as you could.

A swig was an understatement, you drank from it as if it was the life-giving waters, anymore and he worried you would have tumbled down from the heights in drunken confusion. You let him snatch the copper vessel away with little protest, and suddenly the action felt so wrong.

“You can’t have more than this.”

“I’ve got the whole amphora in my kitchen, give it to your men, they’d like it.”

He didn’t have the heart to look at you after that exchange, and were it not for the hushed breath ridden with rue, he wonders even now whether you would have known how much it pained to even see you lose your will to fight with him.

A light poke at his arm pulled him from the momentary lament, and your eyes, your bright eyes that had still yet to lose its brilliance crinkled together in an approximation of reassurance.

Reaching back into the depths of wherever you pulled the wine from again, you hummed, “I have something for you.”

“Is it more wine?”

It was not more wine, but rather a hefty bundle of letters, tied up in golden thread. Your handwriting littered the outside, detailing dates and times neatly at first until he got to the last few, lines shakier and less steady. The dates started the day he agreed to help you with his research, but your eyes rifled through the bunch until you pointed out a few.

“Could you read these first? You can read the rest when I’m gone.” He listened, gingerly removing them from the rest and unfurling it.

Parting hour’s second quint, tenth month

‘I dreamt of Kremnos last night, I don’t know whether it was a part of my dream but it felt like it was. I was younger, I could run so much faster and I could do so much more. You were younger too, but you were chained up in a cell and I had to come to your rescue. Could you believe that? Me? Saving you?

You looked so angry but I couldn’t hear you. I can’t remember much but I remember crying a lot, cursing while I fought off guards? I think they were guards, you’ll have to tell me what Kremnoan guards wore when you come back. My back hurts a little bit, my body probably thinks I was actually hurt.

Praise be to Kephale, wishing you safety upon your journey.’

Entry hour’s first quint, tenth month

‘I dreamt of you again. Maybe this is a sign of me missing you? This dream felt real, I think I’ve had it many times before but this was the only time I could recognise who was there with me. Did you know I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger? I only curse my vanity for my being a scholar now.

You were holding me so tightly while I said things, I don’t remember but I know you kept telling me to stay awake. I wish you were here, maybe I could see how you would react to these ridiculous dreams. Would you tell me I have a hyperactive imagination? Only the gods know how many times I’ve heard that from Potnia in my youth. I have a feeling you would indulge me just a little bit though.

Praise be to Kephale, wishing you a most swift return’

Curtain-fall hour’s fourth quint, eleventh month

‘I can’t sleep and I hadn’t the energy to write this morn so I thought to do so now, funny because Skotia keeps telling me I need to do more than sleep the day away. I remembered hearing a debate between my peers arguing on the matter of the afterlife back in my schooling days. One of them said all souls join our gods but another said that souls must return to the living, otherwise our lands would grow barren of life. They argued like that for about an hour until they were forced to leave. I completely forgot about it but with so much time alone, I couldn’t help but to think about it.

I keep seeing you in my dreams, myself as a warrior or a healer, but you remain the same. I dreamt of marrying you beneath the warmth of Kremnos one night, and I dreamt of carrying a young child through the mountains with you on another. The details are consistent, and I can only surmise that perhaps my peer had been correct about reincarnation.

When you come back, I want to know about the beaches of Cypris and the courting traditions of Kremnos. You should know, right? It's okay if you don’t remember, I just want to talk to someone for longer than an hour again.

Praise be to Kephale, I wish to see you most soon’

Gripping onto the furled scrolls, he managed to meet your eyes, gentle. Still so gentle.

“How did you know?”

With a wistful sigh, you dropped your gaze to your hands, flexing them as your rings glinted in the light. “I recognised the architecture, it really was as beautiful as you say.”

“My third life huh… Who else can say that?”

“I want to have more time with you. Maybe fourth time’s the charm.”

“Maybe next time you won’t get a wrinkly old thing like me,” You sounded so amused, yet your voice carried that undertone of remorse.

Next time? He never knows whether there’ll ever be a next time.

Outrage– no. Rage was an emotion too simple for what he felt then. It was fear, desperation, regret and guilt all honed into one lethal lance to be thrust into him, and such a wound was not one that could be utilised against the wielder, for one could not tear the machinations of death.

His voice trembled, and those walls crumbled ever more in the face of your acceptance, “Don’t say that, no matter what form you take, I’ll–”

“You don’t have to lie to old me.”

“You’re not that old,” Mydei insisted, pulling you closer when a shiver wracked through your form. He wanted to bring you back to your room, how the mildest of winds could dissuade you, but even now he knew you would have fought him on this one decision.

As though playing along with a young child, you shook your head and smiled, “Yes, yes, I’m as youthful as you and beautiful as Bepsis.”

“You are,” He insisted once more. “There is no one more beautiful than you.”

It was clear you still didn’t believe him and maybe if you’d have more time together, he would have spent more effort convincing you otherwise. He settled for the softening of your features, even after the passing of the years, you still looked as radiant as the day you fell from the skies.

Resting your head against his shoulder, your voice grew quieter.

“I feel like I could make you do anything now.”

“Will you find me? Next time we meet?”

“No matter where you are, I will bring you back.”

“Then, will you marry me when you do?”

“If you wish so, we can get married as soon as I find you.”

“Will you–” Usually so eloquent, your words lodged in your throat as you turned away from him. “Would you really keep loving me? Even if I change?”

He took your hands in his own, pressing a kiss to each of your palms and drank in the sight of your widened eyes and parted lips.

“I will sooner die than ever stop.”

For all his years in your presence, that rendered you speechless. And so you resorted to merely lying against him, muttering in rambled pace as you asked him about cremation or burial, on eulogies and your will to him. When the descent hour eventually fell, and so did your last words from your lips, Mydei could only tuck you closer into his embrace.

Delayer of old age. Your work will be tucked away in the shelves of great libraries, but it is only your most private writings that will remain immortal.

This time, he’ll be one who searches for you. He had nothing, for all he knows, you could have been reborn in Janusopolis or some long thrown region like Cytheri. Even then, he was willing to traverse the whole of Amphoreus if it meant he would be able to see you once more.

But Mydei finds you, far easier than he had expected, in the depths of the Marmoreal Palace just as the crimson thief star falls. That feeling that tugged at his tendons and played with his heart grew harder to ignore as he wandered sleepless amidst the ivory halls, and though he knew what it meant, he did not know where to go.

Tucked away amongst shelves and shelves of records with the hum of flowing waters to accompany him, that rush in his veins came to a stand still all of a sudden. Hunched over a random table and multiple open scrolls, he supposes that he’ll have to keep his first impression of you drooling onto what seemed like important accounts to himself.

It was endearing, he had to admit. Lashes fluttering as you babbled some nonsense he couldn’t quite hear, he took a few steps closer and your hands swatted at the dust around you. Anyone could have just snatched you away and you would have none the wiser. He stayed, somewhere further of course, otherwise who knows who might come to rob you naked.

And if the sight of seeing you resting so peacefully helped his own slumber, he won’t tell.

Child of Aidonia, follower of none, sharp witted and deathly reticent. Eye bags hanging ever present, arms constantly holding onto baskets of scrolls and ever ready to abandon your duties for a quick nap, the chief accountant is a position few envied and for good reason.

There was only one matter that troubled him, and that was exactly the nature of your job that meant seeking you out would be out of the ordinary. For what reason could he possibly devise to approach you? You reported directly to Aglaea and the council elders, all inquiries were directed to your subordinates and unless it was a matter that was urgent and required utmost discretion, you hid yourself away within the confines of your work desk.

He had once debated requesting your services to directly manage the accounts under his name, but when he thought of your drowsing form still writing and babbling about your work, he decided against it.

As the entry hour welcomes the new day, Mydei thought he got his chance when he saw you scampering towards Demetria with your basket, hair half done and the scowl on your face all but indicative of the current state you were operating in. The transaction is quick, barely any words exchanged as the older woman drops two pomegranates into your basket of scrolls while you drop a sack of balance coins by a crate.

Your scampering grows louder and louder, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been so entranced with even that sight of you since his first real, proper greeting is a hard thump into his shoulder. The contact does little but to send the contents of your basket flying, and though he has the reflexes to catch a few of your documents and the fruit, not everything is so lucky.

Dropping to your knees, your hands flew across the ground to gather everything back as you yammered, “I am– I am so sorry. I wasn’t– I haven’t–”

And when he offers what he has on hand, you snatch them back just as quick, blanching at him before rushing off, at least not before wheezing out a pathetic, “Sorry!”

You’re skinnier, he belatedly notices. Your face should not look so gaunt, nor should your grip be so weak. It was as if the mildest of winds could have drifted you away if you weren’t paying attention.

The thought of how to approach you lingers in his thoughts even as the Chrysos Heirs gather to discuss the state of their mission. He can’t even properly retort when Phainon says something ridiculous, offering a weak remark about how he’s not a single good thing in that head of his rather than scathing snark.

There isn’t much information recent nor shocking enough that he feels the need to fully push you away from his internal contemplation. Tribbie is about to say something when there’s a rhythmic thump that cuts through the air, and yet despite the interruption, no one pays you much mind when you all but slip yourself to the front, arms still filled with that basket.

“Lady Aglaea, I apologise for my interrupting but I have the reports you required.” Your voice is soft, marred with some elements of sleep but still reaching the ears of your intended. “I will leave them by the table if that is okay.”

“It is quite alright. Now that it has come to this, I believe we can bring this meeting to an end.”

Though everyone else trickles out of the room with varying levels of enthusiasm, he finds that he can’t tear his eyes away from you, even as an aggrieved expression crosses your face, the sight a fleeting minute but more than enough to spark a streak reserved for you. The grimace barely lasts, but it doesn’t diminish the desire to remove the source of your troubles yet still.

As you’re looking around, shiftily, as though you’ve done something wrong, your eyes meet his in a misplaced act of carelessness. In an instant, your tendons and ligaments shrink as you visibly tense at the brief eye contact. He wants to apologise, but then the thought of scaring you even more springs up on him far more shameful than any trap and so he doesn’t.

The goldweaver is quick to usher you away to somewhere more private, your tucked in shoulders only further highlighting the difference in your states. It was as if you were trying to make yourself smaller, trying to make yourself near unobservable to anyone else.

An approach of familiar steps is what ultimately snaps him out of his foolish trance, humour and some hint of disquiet seeps into a man’s voice, and when he brings himself to consider another presence beyond your own, he is graced with the deliverer’s amused grin.

The young man muses to no one in particular, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “This is the first time you’ve lingered so long after a meeting.”

“That’s none of your business.” Biting back, he averts his gaze from your now laxed form. The diversion lasts but a second, before from the corner of his perception, he catches how the resigned breath that leaves your lips as you slip back out from whence you came.

Phainon follows after his abandoned trail with ventured interest. “Who knew that you of all people could get so googly eyed at…” Yet it is only when he gets a proper look at who exactly has captured the attention of his companion, his voice trickles off to little else but confusion, “The chief accountant?”

A huff escapes him, now that you have left, there was no point remaining here. “I’m leaving.”

Metal thumps against marble floors, for someone to slink out of his awareness so quickly, let alone you, would be impressive if not for the fact that he really still has no clue how he was going to talk to you without somehow upsetting your seemingly skittish senses.

“Hey! Wait!” Chasing after him with the fervor of a loyal dog, the only clue of how far exactly his search for you has taken him is by Phainon’s unprepared wheeze that even he has to admit, forced an even smaller snort out of the Kremnoan prince.

“If you really want to talk to them, I can get you just that.”

Mydei has the decency to face him, a brow cocking up in disbelief as he urgently suppresses that ugly feeling he only knew existed a few decades ago. “You? How would you even be able to do that?”

“You’d be surprised by the kinds of deals they cut,” The youth smiles, still panting as he slaps a friendly hand over his shoulder, a move that he doesn’t push off as the younger man begins his ‘master plan’.

Phainon’s plan sucks.

The warm light from hanging vessels of ever flame shine upon your features, bound up hair absorbing the light as you lead him through desks and shelves of sprawled books and people alike. Hands move at a pace bordering languid scrawl and eyes heavy with listlessness scan across multiple rows of work. Yet when they notice his towering form following after yours, their idle activity picks up to a peak, a notion that seems to surprise you judging by your raised brows.

You’ve exchanged little else but pleasantries the moment you saw who had called upon you, and once more he curses that white-haired idiot in his head for not even telling you. For someone so brilliant, this was the best he could come up with? He could have sworn he was lying but when he insisted up and down, swore on his name that he was telling the truth, far more desperately than he’s ever seen now that he looks back in hindsight, he relented.

You keep a steady stride despite the way your hands pick at your nails, and though you remained silent for what seems like the entire walk, you deign to give a younger man some matter of note as you draw closer to what appeared to be your office.

As Mydei is ushered in, the feeling of being trapped closes down onto him before anything else. The room is upsettingly small, made only more so with the looming bookshelves filled to the brim with records and books. He barely has the space to fully stretch out his limbs unless he wants to knock some important matter or two out of its place, and if he does, he has no doubt you would boycott any further interactions with him for life.

Beyond that, this pathetic excuse you called an office only had one other chair, a poor little thing he had to shift baskets upon baskets just to sit properly on.

You couldn’t seriously live like this, could you?

You don’t seem to mind any of it, settling down into your own seat as you hum to yourself, “Having someone they actually respect is the only way they’ll listen nowadays, they’re certainly doing much better with you here than when Lord Phainon offers his services.”

“You make it sound as if you’re being tortured,” All he manages is a brash riposte, and for a quick moment he almost believed you would shirk from his presence again.

Yet, you do little else than to bark out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you murmur some incomprehensible vent. Glancing at him from beneath your lashes, your attention now fully directed to the sprawling scrolls across your desk, you tip your head to the side to urge his heed.

“Anyhow, I have food on the platter by my desk if you get peckish and an amphora of water on the shelves.”

“If you’d like, you can wander around though there isn’t much to see.”

For the next four hours, you’ve essentially shut him out from your perceptions as you pour over documents with names that did not belong to you, calculate matters as big as annual tax rates and small as the price of the ambrosia served in the palace.

There’s little else for him to do beyond reminding you to drink water, a notion you only mildly indulge him in, and glaring at any slacking fool that comes looking to dump more work on you. The only person who he lets come in is the youth from before, a young blond who only periodically drops by to take baskets of completed work off your hands.

The distress of your working conditions, and living conditions now that he’s been privy to many more of your little life within the marble walls, haunts him for days. It appeared that you weren’t the only one plagued with such woes, but you are certainly the one most affected by the inefficiency that infected your department. And yet, you did nothing to counter it, allowing your meagre office to grow so encroached with the faults of others all the while you smile and suck it up.

Another issue that can’t be solved with his hands.

When the hours grow late and the thief stars threaten to race across the bright skies once more, he finds the opportunity to ask you. The response hurts him more than he would like it to, and he wishes more than anything that he could take this suffering from you.

“Does it not bother you? That you have to do all the work?”

You smile at his question, the corners of your eyes crinkle together as a sardonic smile tugs at your lips. The flames of light dances within them, infusing your weary features with a spirited edge. In these quiet little moments where your every expression belongs only to him, no matter what emotion you present to him, he selfishly indulges in every inch of annoyance and mile of rue.

Vexation of the utmost resignation falls from your lips, droplets of water clinging to the soft skin. “I have little say over it, and it seems like with every new person that gets added to my team, my pay gets lower and my work gets heavier all because some old coots want their perfect little children to have the joy of a prestigious job without any of the miseries.”

“Do I look happy?” You hum.

Of course you don’t. He’s known you couldn’t possibly be happy the first time he’s laid eyes on you. But foolishly, he had hoped that you could find some sliver of joy from your work.

You are about to return to your work when he gingerly rises from his seat, offering an open palm to you. Your face twists, but it brings your hand to a standstill.

Mydei offers once more, “Come.”

“What?” Despite your confusion, you put down your pen and take his hand. Your palm is warm, slotting perfectly in his as he waits for you to straighten yourself out.

“I’m going out for something other than recycled air, and you look like you need a break from your self mutilation.”

A smile, one devoid of your neverending complaint or your heavy burden, blooms across your lips. And so he spirits you away from these walls of shelves and marble, jewellery and fabric dancing behind your rushed steps as though two lovers eloping from the eyes of the world. When you are eventually unable to keep up with him, he hefts you over his shoulder with nothing more than a brief stop, returning back to your fleet-footed journey.

The squeak that leaves your lips and the giggled mirth falling as easily as rain against him sends pleasant shivers through his bones, and he’s certain that he’ll think of those sweet sounds when you must eventually part.

He only sets you down when you’ve reached a garden hidden away from anyone who could possibly disturb you. Surrounded by the virtue of life, basking under the grace of heavenly light, free from those confines, he thinks he’s fallen in love all over again.

There stands you, leaning over marble railings and smiling at him, and now he’s all too aware of every movement he makes, every little twitch of your fingers and every inflection in your voice.

“I think I would’ve fallen dead over my desk if you didn’t drag me out here,” You laugh, joy and relief flickering in your eyes as you urge him over.

He listens. Of course he does. You could have him leap off this ledge and he would have done so if it means pleasing you.

You talk of everything and nothing. Your work, your meals, the pleasant conversation you’ve had with Phainon, how sweet the cloying wine you sneaked one night was. You spoke as if given a deadline on your life, and he held onto each and every piece you would give him, even as you devolved into petered silence.

That wretched star appears across the west, Mydei leans closer. “If there’s anything you want done, tell me.”

You only brush him off, as if indulging a child, “I couldn’t, you’ve done so much for me already.”

How can he tell you that he wants to be your shield and your spear? How can he tell you that beyond anything else, he wants to ensure that every waking day you spend, it is one that is filled with nothing but felicity. And if you would let him, how can he tell you that he wants nothing more than to lay by your side once more?

“Okhema would probably collapse if you die, and I can’t have that,” He continues, and you only laugh once more.

Perhaps not Okhema, but he would.

That too, he keeps to himself.

‘Got the day off and they’re doing a promo on those pancakes, you want?’

When Mydei’s teleslate lights up with your name decorating its screen, he scarcely has to even read before he’s racing off to your side.

The face you give him when he does appear, in front of a plate of golden honeycakes and a chalice of what he knows is apple juice, could only be described as incredulous. No matter that this must be the thousandth time he’s done so, you always act as if it was the first.

“You’re here fast,” You hummed with a pleasant squeeze of your eyes.

“You asked me out, and knowing you, you’d probably have to abandon ship to get back to work.”

He delights in the mock offence that immediately twists your features, the dramatic show of your arms, you even go so far as to hold a finger up, sipping from your cup before continuing. “Don’t curse me, I’m really looking forward to these.”

It's cute, he is certain you don’t realise that your dramatics are something he looks forward to even now.

Picking up your fork with poorly hidden anticipation, the metal surface spreads an even amount of sweet fruit syrup over the tower of cakes, and as you cut away a small piece, your teleslate rings to life upon the table.

A glower pulls onto his face, and what feels like the nth time, he understands in his gut how annoyed you must have been the first time this happened. His own irritation could not possibly compare to that of your own, the sheer chagrin that manifests in every limb is only masked by the sufferance you’ve honed so long ago.

As you pick up the call, your eyes close and your fingers press against your temple. “Hel– Hey!”

Still careful to not accidentally yank too hard, he snatches the device from your hand and checks the contact. Not Adon. Free game.

“They’re with me, if you have anything important it can wait until tomorrow,” Hissing into the speaker, he hears the person on the other end sputter out some remark about ‘unfinished reports’ and ‘mistaken data’ before he merely snorts and hangs up.

As if you were the one making some asinine mistakes easily fixed, you leap out of your skin, stealing your teleslate back before rushing to pack up. “I don’t even know who that was! Shit! I have to go back, I’m sorry but–”

Mydei has to grab you by the arm before you start running off on him again, an act that has you staring at him wide-eyed and betrayed.

“You said so yourself, you have the day off. And you’re spending it without worrying about what some freeloading idiot’s dad thinks,” He says, as clear as day and obvious as the skies.

“If anyone has a problem with that, they can talk to me.”

It takes a little more than that to convince you to stay, in fact, it requires footing your bill and being fed more than half of your pancakes for you to not go running off without his discretion again. But, there’s a noticeable lightness to your shoulders, and watching you eat so well is more than enough for him.

The descent hour has fallen upon this day, and your eyes keep glancing between him and the passing folk, then lower and back to the streets. You tense again, shrinking within yourself when he meets your gaze with little more than a raised brow. Acting as if you’ve been caught stealing, your ears flush hot as you rush to break the eye contact between you two.

Mydei leans closer to you, he notices some remnants of red syrup clinging to your lip, “What?”

“Nothing! I was just…” You swallow hard. “...just thinking about what to gift my cousin for their wedding.”

Somehow, he doubts that but he’d sooner drop dead than get you to admit what goes on in that head of yours. Instead, he settles for wiping off the stain of sweet fruit from your bottom lip with his thumb, licking it off when he pulls away. That only worsens the burning beneath your skin, and for the rest of your time together, all he gets from you is wide-eyed stares and rambled sputtering.

The Kremnoan leaves you at your doorstep that day, pomegranates pushed into his hands and a very, very oddly, high pitched farewell.

For the days following up to an annual get together, your actions have only gotten more and more odd to him. It isn’t quite the same in which you used to be, bothering him for this and that despite being able to ask anyone else, no. This course of mannerism you have chosen to go with is odd in the sense that it's confusing.

Although Mydei still joins you in your office whenever he has the chance, your voice doesn’t fill his ears quite as much. He has grown so used to your hushed mutterings of percentages and one sided conversations that now, he absolutely hates only being able to hear your writing. Every now and then, you would glance up at him and look away, murmuring beneath your breath before you’d squeeze your non-dominant hand tight.

He writes off your new behaviour as the effect of an overloaded workload. You’re still asking him to join you on your days off, you’re still staining your hands red with fruit to give him, you’re still welcoming his presence. He can accept that.

Your absence from his side during said get together is the only thing that worries him most, the glimpses he gets of you from afar just barely satiates that hunger to see you, to be near you. There’s still that flush aglow beneath your skin, your eyes crinkling together as you smile and laugh along to whatever it is that blond assistant of yours said. The warm lights cast a radiance onto your features, onto the valleys of your chest and the curves of your shoulders, a sight that once belonged to only him. Your lips wet and plied with drink, your tongue swipes over them but even that sends a heat through his form.

It's an ugly feeling, worse than anger or regret. Those had reason to exist, could be made into something bigger than petty disgust, but this… whatever this emotion is, can only be left to stew. He thinks he hates it more than anything else.

The prince must force himself to look away from you, an agonising feat he hadn’t even thought was possible until now. He makes that treacherous mind of his listen to the conversation to be had, endures Phainon’s teasing and the curious looks, anything to shift those thoughts of you out of his head. He makes himself smirk at snide remarks and offers advice, he makes himself ignore the intrigued look on that white-haired idiot’s face when he follows after his meandering gaze.

It doesn’t work, of course it doesn’t work. It is as if every part of him was made to search for you, and just sitting here knowing that you are but a few metres away is a torment he would not wish on anyone. He would rather you claw his heart with your own two hands than this, at least then you would be pouring your undivided emotion into him, at least then he would be the only one to have this part of you.

You’re the last remaining by the time the gathering dies down, with Adon trying and failing to pull you out of your seat, your hands waving him away as you mumble out something. And as he approaches you, you seem to perk up at his presence, a matter that he preens at internally.

Smiling at him, baring teeth and joy, you gesture for him to come closer with little care for your assistant’s nagging. “You’re here.”

A glance is all it takes for the blonde to throw in the towel, shrugging his shoulders before slinking out. Mydei takes this opportunity to bask under your gaze far swifter than logic should dictate, his form sidling to sit beside you and yet, you are faster, pressing yourself to his side as a strap upon your shoulder slips down.

“And you’re sitting here like you’ve been abandoned, because?” He manages a response, shooting his eyes upwards as he tentatively pulls up your fallen strap.

You don’t seem to notice, your arms drape around him as the weight of your body slumps, “I’m sleepy. And wine makes me say things people don’t like.”

He can feel your chest pressing into his arm, he can feel everything if he was to be honest with himself. Your gentle touch dancing on his skin, the warm breath from your lips, his every vein and bone, he’s so keenly aware of it all that he’s certain that a weaker man would have been rendered dead by your feet.

Your wide eyes meet his, watery with slumber and fiery with something distantly related to reliance.

“...come, I’ll take you back.”

Just like a time long before, he scoops you into his embrace and carries you through marble walls and flowing waters. Your feet dangle and kick along your mirth, and when you shiver from the wind, he simply holds you closer. This pleases you ever more, and knowing that even that could elicit such sweet sounds from you forced a flush of his own onto his cheeks.

With you like this, he can pretend that you’ve accepted these feelings for you the moment you met. He can pretend that he’s carrying you back to your shared home where he can place you into your sleepwear and lay next to you. He can pretend that what you feel for him is more than cursory friendship.

You wave at those sacked with the late shift all the while you babble about this and that, of your increased salary and the new flavour he must try when you get your next chance. There was no rhyme or reason to your rambling, but it is still yours, and so selfishly, he takes it. The Kremnoan man tries his best to respond, humming along to your prattle or offering an answer to your rhetorical questions, and even if your pace simply outpaces his own, he can’t help but to indulge you.

“Y’know, my family keeps asking me when I’m going to get married. But they don't even know that the only people I see consistently are my staff, Lady Algaea and you and I can’t possibly get married to any of you!” Your voice is louder than usual, as though scared he wouldn’t listen.

“And sure sometimes I dream of you and we’re always doing some sappy bullshit but those are dreams y’know? I’m pretty sure it's some weird past life thing but that feels worse. So there’s no way you could possibly love me when you have a face as handsome as that but every time I wake up it feels so nice so when I see you in my office I pretend you really are in love with me.”

You close your eyes, he’s not sure whether the glow on your cheeks is from the alcohol or emotion, and you giggle into your hands, “I had this dream you even took me once! No way is that happening!”

He can barely believe his ears at this moment, barely process your speech. His brain has almost likened your drunken chatter for a different tongue that he can’t even muster a response. All he manages is a choked out, “You…”

“Ahh, it's fine. I’m sure you’ll get tired of me one day, they always do.” Resting your head as casually as if uttering the weather rather than implying he could do anything other than love you, you turn those watery eyes onto him again, and like a death sentence, he feels his heart ache. “If I fall asleep, can you stay? I’d feel bad if you didn't.”

Mydei doesn’t get the chance to respond, still too struck with the weight of your words to realise you’ve fallen to slumber in his embrace.

‘...I pretend you really are in love with me.’

Pretend. How foolish of the both of you, that two separate minds would both desire the other’s love yet be too cowardly to seek it out, to pretend that the other is in love with you.

Then the next part fully registers in his head, and then the last.

He opens the door to your house, closing it behind him as he settles you into your bed. The prince is half tempted to steal into the night, but when his eyes inevitably drift to your sleeping form, drool leaking onto your pillow as you mutter nonsense to yourself, he can’t bring himself to leave you.

How could he ever grow tired of you? If anything, with every passing day he spends in your very existence, he falls deeper into the abyss called love. He can scarcely remember what your past lives looked like anymore, in his memories they all have your face and your voice, and he wonders now how much of it is because of this ache in his chest.

Your gentle touches, your barking laughter, your sharp remarks, your rambling speeches. The way you look at him as if he is nothing more than a mortal man.

In your befuddled slumber, his name falls from your lips, again and again until something he never thought he’d ever hear comes tumbling out, “...I love you too, Mydeimos.”

He wants nothing more than just to be a mortal man who loves you.

That him of the past that once said torment was to be in the same room with you yet unable to be by your side could not possibly have known that there is greater affliction.

He awoke in your house with the sunlight streaming through your window and your blanket carefully draped over him, the smell of your soap clinging to the fabric and his senses. There was a cup of water on your bedside table, left there with nothing to accompany it. He half expected to hear you shuffling back in or your faucet running from somewhere, and yet there was no one but him left alone once more.

Every morning he passes by the fruit vendor, Demetria is bound to ask about your wellbeing and not even he can find the heart to tell her. So he affirms her theory of your rush and takes your pomegranates, leaving the exact amount needed to pay despite her protests.

Every morning he is barred entry from your office, and all he can do is leave your fruit in Adon's hands.

You’re cruel. To have offered all your love onto a golden platter then snatched it away the moment he thought he could finally have it. He’d rather never have your love than to never see you again.

Since becoming so keenly intertwined with your life, he waits until the thief star appears upon the eastern skies to find you. He knows there won’t be anyone, and foolishly, he hopes that means you’ll be honest with him.

“As I’ve said, they aren’t currently taking visitors right now. Not only that, but it's literally the crack ass of curtain-fall, go back.”

But as always with you, it seems that Adon is somehow always there to be his obstacle. The youth is obstinate in his insistence that Mydei not even be allowed to leave a message, and for a man who has rarely ever wished violence on those undeserving, he’s starting to wonder how much you pay him if it means that lap dog would stop his path so earnestly and whether its worth it.

With closed eyes and an exhausted sigh, you emerge from your office reprimanding the blond, “Adon, who the hell are you arguing with? Just because Lord Mydei hasn’t been h–”

You must have been expecting someone else to so easily hang his name by his lips, but it's clear that his appearance is not one you appreciate right now.

The first thing he notices is the tear tracks down your face, akin to fiery magma when illuminated by the torches hanging above. They’re fresh, still dripping from your lashes as you gape at him. Your lips have been bitten entirely raw and bloody, crimson staining beneath your nails.

Your assistant scowls and twists to shove you back in, but you catch him before he can do so, averting your eyes as you hiss, “Let him in.”

Only then does the blond relent, still sending him a nasty look before you send the youth one yourself, effectively hushing Adon.

Your office somehow feels even smaller than it did when you first met. You seemed to have abandoned the thought of organisation as now even the floor is littered with scrolls and baskets. He, and you, have but a small patch of clear space, an arm’s length away.

There is no pomegranate by your desk, not even the carcass of one at this late hour.

Faced with your back, with your clear sorrow and misery, the thought of spilling his most vulnerable emotions vacates.

“You’ve been crying.”

“You’d cry too if you had to do what I’m doing.” You only retort, voice barely above a whisper as though to not betray that facade you always put up, “Is that all you came to say?”

You won’t look at him.

Mydei calls your name and your shoulders shrink onto themselves, a repressed weep wracking through your form. He calls for you again, “Is someone bullying you? Who is it?”

You still won’t look at him.

He wants to throw his pride off this ledge, he wants to lay his head by your feet, he just wants to bring your face into his hands and take your suffering from you. Because if Nikador has cursed him with this undying body, then let him put it into good use for you.

Not daring to reach for you, his voice fractures at its very foundations, “Please. Tell me what is bothering you, if I have done anything to wrong you–”

“Wrong me? Mydei,” You rasp, words all too shaky as your eyes spill more of your salient despair. “It is exactly because you didn’t that I can’t stand looking at you.”

You’ve never been particularly eloquent, not with him, not now. Not as you choke on your own emotion and words, pawing at your bloodshot eyes and clawing at your scalp. “I– I can’t– I’m not– why are you—”

Your knees weaken, and before they can give out on you, he reaches forward to soften your fall. Mydei pays no mind to the brief shock of pain that comes from the sudden action, instead focusing on how much harder your chest heaves and your desperation for breath as you collapse into yourself. It only worsens when you see him by your side, when you realise what he’s done for you.

“Breathe, you have time.” He forces you to sit up, keeping his distance despite how badly he wants to hold you.

You shake your head, trying your best to speak as clearly as possible, “I can’t– I’m not– the kind of person people like you should care about.”

“And why not? Do you think I would be so cruel to you?” He asks, like an idiot.

“I don’t know!” You snap, because really, your patience for him should only go this far. “I can’t throw myself into glorious battle for you, or protect you. I can’t do anything for you! For all I know, the only reason you’re even here is so you can fulfill what a version of me wants.”

“But guess what? That me is dead! Every single version of me you love is dead! And all you have now is a pathetic fool who thought they could have that too!”

He stares at you, your wet eyes and wet anger, your humiliation he now understands burning at every single rational thought that could possibly cross your mind.

Mydei has failed you.

You’re finally looking at him but your sorrow shrouds you, you still won’t look at him.

He doesn’t know what to say, he knows that at this very moment you might not believe him but you have time, you have time together and that’s all he needs.

Inching closer, he takes your lack of movement as a sign of acceptance.

“I could care less about what you can or can’t do for me, I love you no matter who you are, regardless of who you were.”

They’re warm, he finds your hands and cradles them within his own and he can feel every line and scar that has marred the soft skin. The soft act rips another flinch from you, but you don’t move away, staring at him with wide eyes and quivering lips.

He presses his lips to your non-dominant hand, littering gentle kisses along each and every bloodied mark as he murmurs, “You could tear every tendon from my body and I would still crawl back to you.”

Your dominant hand, the one that wields a weapon far more lethal than any lance, is most deserving of this. “If you think my love for you is that shallow, I am willing to spend the rest of our lives proving otherwise over and over again.”

More tears only streamed down your cheeks when he finishes, but the way you lean closer into him, it is as if you’re all he can see and all he will know. He would like that, for the world to fall away for just this moment so that he can show you how much he adores you on his knees.

“Would you…?” You don’t finish your question. You don’t need to.

‘You’re beautiful here, under warm lights and with wet eyes, in your too small office and your undone hair’, Mydei thinks, selfishly, ‘and in his arms’.

He holds you against him as tight as he can, as if slackening his hold would let you slip away from him. The arms that drape themselves atop his shoulders seem to share that very same fear, and when a hand of his slings itself on your hip, a soft sob escapes your sweet mouth. Your body is still twisted in some odd angle, spine trying to compensate for the distortion before he simply shifts your legs proper himself.

Your eyes upon him, reflection bearing only him, you’re looking at him. Before he can say anything, you lean in for a clumsy kiss.

Teeth clack together as the taste of your blood and tears fill his senses, his lip catches on your canines at times but you’re quick to correct course, adjusting your head to avoid nipping him anymore. He responds in kind, squeezing his arms around you harder as he presses into the kiss.

You kiss like a starved man, taking everything he gives you as if he’d take it back the next. The prince yields to you, providing little protest in a way he will only ever for you.

Murmuring against your bloodied lips and sharp teeth, he promises to you, “...over and over again, as long as you let me.”

Adon received the title of vice-chief the day a few days after your honest confrontation. You had vouched for the young man in an effort to reward the new talent but based on the youth's horror struck face, you’re half certain that he’s been cursing you out in his head since the revelation.

Anyhow, with Adon being able to exercise a higher degree of power and the threat of actually being sacked hanging above some staff’s heads, you happily filed a request for leave and immediately took off the moment it got approved.

At least, that must be what your love was hoping for.

Kneeling by the desk of your office, you gestured towards a few baskets surrounding it as your eyes darted between the documents on the table and Adon’s dying hope. “These need to be done and in Lady Aglaea’s hands before I get back, if not, we’re all going to get it.”

“Yeah, yeah, congratulations on your wedding too, don’t die I guess,” Without wasting a minute, he rolls his eyes as his hands start the first few stages of preparation. And as if you were deaf, he mutters under his breath, “What kind of world are we living in that you get married within three months?”

“A nice one that rewards people who get work done.”

The blond just sneers, “Pah, if I didn’t know better I’d ask which old bag you shacked up with to be looking like this.”

There was a kernel of truth to such an acerbic statement, truth be told ever since your feelings have been pitched down by the weight of your lover’s clarity, you’ve had the excess time to put more effort into your appearance. Well, effort is an understatement as now you’ve been receiving and wearing the many gifts as per customary of the wedding process. Golden hairpieces, necklaces with deep sapphires, rings to adorn your fingers, robes of smooth sheen draped over your shoulders, to the untrained eye, you appeared more of a nobleman’s spoiled wife than the chief accountant of the Marmoreal Palace.

“And if you did know better you wouldn’t have said that,” Your voice comes out a hum, less interested in disturbing the boy from his work than waiting for a certain someone.

When the sounds of chatter die and the scrawl of writing starts, you still feel lightheaded at the thought of him, at the sight of him. Striding amidst the now hard at work, a smile breaks onto your face as you urge for him to come closer.

“My love!”

Mydei sends a triumphant glance at the now grimacing Adon as he enters the cramped room, ignoring the fake gagging and retching with an open hand offered to you. “Have you sorted everything? Or will you leave me high and dry for the palace’s ‘negative’ cash flow again?”

“That was one time!”

“Of course, as you say,” He only raises a brow and grins at your rebuttal.

You’ll dig yourself out of any grave for him. Thanatos will have to fight you tooth and claw for you to consider ever leaving him again. How could you possibly leave him here? Even thinking about it spirits you.

You want to spend the rest of your days with him under the bright light of day, you want to fuss and talk his ears off as he looks at you with those lovestruck eyes, you want to return to his homeland and learn all there is about him. You want to be a person who loves him more than ever.

Taking his hand into yours, you bring it up to press a soft kiss to his palm, gentle and cherished. A small smile is all you can muster, “You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to get rid of me now.”

“As if I could ever.”

Mydei leans closer, as though fettering himself to you for the rest of time untold.

“Can you two get out?!”

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr mydei #mydei #mydeimos #mydei x reader #x reader

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riahreadz · 4 months ago

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Okay ideal Teen Wolf fanfic pack Take 2! 🎬 Sterek✨️

If Derek is Alpha, then obviously Stiles is Pack Mom and Alpha Mate.

All the good fics have Peter as a good little wolf or at least relatively good to the Hale Pack whilst protecting them doing some dirty work as the Left Hand. Peter and Stiles, as best friends, 🤌🏼✨️ is just t it's golden. Derek honestly gets scared when they team up - he knows it'll never end well, especially if Erica is involved. Peter supplies Stiles with all the family heirloom books and artifacts or from his own personal collections.

Stiles just has a habit of collecting Hales, first Derek, then Peter, Cora, and even Malia.

And in the rarity that I read a fic where Ell isn't Stiles's son well Stiles took one look at the kid (maybe before he even knew Eli was Derek's) and filed him under Lost (Hale) PuppyTM Derek is particularly fond of Stiles's seemingly sixth sense when it comes to protecting the Hales. Despite also yelling at the younger man who can't get it through his thick skull that putting himself in the line of danger won't help Derek losing him anymore than losing another Hale.

Somewhere along the way, Peter gets back together with Chris cause, yes, they dated as teens with an unfortunate near 20-year pause due to the Argent/Hale shit show extravaganza. They are raising their teen/young adult daughters Allison and Malia as sisters - bonus points if Jackson and Malia are twins.

Now I can't for some reason ever really see Allison and Isaac being romantically involved after her death and resurrection. Usually, Stiles figures some way to bring her back,and going forward, she gets back with Scott, Issac becomes dependent on Chris as a father figure, so Allison and Issac are just good friends once she's back. OR he sees Derek as a brother or father figure kinda situation being the Alpha that originally turned him, and skips over the emotional attachment to Chris all together.

Malia and Kira make for an interesting side ship that I never saw coming but a cute addition lol

Boyd and Erica are mates, obviously. Erica is a little shit just like Stiles and especially teaming up with Stiles, but Boyd balances her crazy. Crazy fun that iS.

I do love a good fic with Cora being involved. The dynamic of her and Derek finding their footing once again as siblings just makes me super emotional, okay? Plus, Cora and Isaac make for a good couple/mates.

Given that I love a good bad friend Scott fic, Isaac has pulled away from following Scott like a lost puppy. His lost puppy status belongs to Cora or Derek, depending on whose good side he's trying to get on that day. But back to Scott - his main roll usually is to tear down Stiles or attempt to anyway. Usually, Allison is there to gather his wits back together and reel him back into being a good friend. I'im game with a good redemption arc for him, but it ain't required.

Lydia and Stiles make a good team, and she makes a damn good motivational ass kicker when Stiles needs one, which is usually at least once in every fic, let's be honest. She's either with Jackson or just a bad ass that doesn't need a partner to ground her. Jackson is still an asshole - it's why we love him. But he and Stiles develop a pretty decent friendship when they bond over healing from losing control from the Kanima and Void. He'd kill to protect Stiles. They all would. He's with Lydia, Danny, or Ethan.

Now we can't forget Sheriff Stilinski, rather his name is Noah or John, he's a big player in this pack. Despite being only human, he has a lot of sway when it comes to this rag-tag group of puppies and puppy adjacents. Derek and him make for a good team in the fics. Derek is a deputy. Or just the Sheriff adopting Derek as an unofficial Stilinski once he realizes his son won't ever let go of the Hales but especially one Derek Hale - plus it's easier to expain to his across-the-street-neighbor that Derek is family rather than filter through the panicked 911 calls of astrange man in a black leather jacket climbing once again through his son's bedroom window. Cause the Hales don't know how to use front doors - a trait they passed along to the whole pack like a worst kept secret family tradition.

Oh, and it's recently been brought to my attention that the Sheriff is in a secret relationship with his deputy Jordan and eventually gets exposed by Stiles seeing them on a date. Bonus points if it turns into a double date. Didn't know I needed this one until I needed it. However, I'm down for seeing him with Melissa or even a thropple with Chris and Peter. If he's with Melissa, then Scott has to have a redemption arc, or he was the good best friend/step brother all along.

And last but certainly not least, Eli Hale or shall I say Eli Stilinski-Hale or Hale-Stilinski? Doesn't matter as long as we all can agree that Elis Stiles's son. l'm not picky on whether it's adoption, mpreg, or Stiles and Derek got together after Eliwas born. Stiles. Is. Eli's. Father.

If some of this seems repeated from my Steter Ideal Pack - well, that's cause it is, lol. I wrote this first but finished Steter before Sterek. I'll probably rewrite this cause it's rushed, but I need to get it out to link for my Secret Santa in the Sterek Exchange.

✋️🛑 Now, all of this is just my personal preference on fics I've read. A lot of these obviously stray from the actual character on the show but 🤷🏻‍♀️ show canon meet 🫱🏻‍🫲🏽 one person's fanfic canon. All respect and rights for the cast and crew in bringing these characters to life, though. Also, I'm not saying that I won't read fics that don't include this stuff - like I've mentioned just some stuff I've read over the years and liked. ✋️🛑

#teen wolf #sterek #derek x stiles #stiles stilinski #derek hale #peter hale #chris argent #isaac lahey #lydia martin #allison argent #scott mccall #cora hale #malia tate #jackson whittemore #erica reyes #vernon boyd #eli hale

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imaginesmai · 1 year ago

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His precious treasure - Eris Vanserra

First time writing for Eris! Let me know what you think

Plot: Beron manages to ask the right questions at the wrong moment, making Eris suspicious of your safety. His hidden treasure in the forest, where he cannot get fast enough.

Warnings: mention of torture, death and blood.

His steps resonated through the long corridor, servants and guards bowing to his presence. They never met his eyes, not even when he was just a young prince who barely reached their waists. He used to fool himself thinking it was out of respect, out of fear. But Eris had learned that it was easier to ignore the problems of their loved court, the abuse, when they didn’t look at him.

Countless times he had walked down those corridors with blood streaming down his face, bloody nose and bruised eyes. Burned flesh and peeled skin. It used to bother him their indifference, but that day, he barely paid them any attention.

All his focus was set in leaving the palace he called home as soon as possible without looking suspicious, without letting anyone know the terror that threatened to paralyze him.

Eris could feel his eye bruising, the burn marks on his back and chest from his father later outburst. He didn’t mind the abuse, could endure it just fine. What was breaking his soul in two were the answers his father looked with that abuse, and that he had managed to hide. But Beron was asking questions he shouldn’t have been formulating.

“Tell me, my son. Why do I keep receiving notices of your disappearances? Why are my guards worried that you might be lacking in your efforts to keep this court standing?” Beron had asked before backhanding Eris in his office. “Should I be worried about your not-so-subtle trips to the forests?”

The excuse had fallen from his mouth naturally, like he had always planned. Testing the borders for possible threats, assuring the outer posts were functioning correctly, searching the ground with his hounds.

Eris had swallowed every hit and humiliation with a tight jaw, only answering when he was spoken to. He had closed you off the bond and hoped to be strong enough for you not to notice. Then, Beron’s had asked him that damned question and his resolution had cracked.

“You look distracted lately, maybe that’s why you keep forgetting to update me about your whereabouts” Beron snarled, as if the sight of the blood spilled by his hand unsettled him. Then, he locked his eyes with Eris and fire danced behind them, and he smiled. “Maybe it’s the recent lack of servants what has your mind busy. Strange and unexplained disappearances, right?”

He was sure Beron had bought his indifference, or he wouldn’t have let him go. But he still raced through the hallways, a bad feeling twisting his gut. Running would catch too much attention, yet he knew leaving after his father’s questions was an answer by itself.

Eris prayed to the Cauldron, to whoever had unanswered his prayers through his life, that he arrived to the cabin with enough time to make things right. If Beron was asking about missing servants, he could only be talking about you. The kind-hearted lesser fae who had the misfortune of being his mate.

Three years ago, Eris had almost burnt down the entire court one of his brothers got a little too handsy with you. As a servant, you were supposed to endure it and be thankful for his attention. But your heart belonged to Eris Vanserra in secret for almost a century, and you had denied his unrespectful advantages. That earned you a beating that had left you unconscious in the middle of the backyard, where Eris’ hounds had found you.

After weeks of healing in secret and convincing him not to slaughter his own court and find death at the hands of his father, only the promise of your safety had kept him still. He had taken you away to his hidden cabin, where you had been staying part of a cozy side-town, where no one recognized you.

Thoughts of the last three years flooded his mind as he jogged the last steps of the castle, quickly hoisting himself up in his horse and riding off into the forest. He pushed his mare to her limits, until the ground and the trees were nothing but blurry colors.

He wouldn’t waste time thinking why his father hadn’t acted yet, why he had been granted those few minutes to try and save you. The answer was clear when he smelt the uncharacteristic trace of blood in the quiet village.

Eris dismounted without stopping, his mare moving restlessly in the familiar cottage. His heart pushed furiously against his chest, blood rushing to his ears when he noticed the door hanging open by an unnatural angle. Male scents and horses’ prints were all over your hidden cabin.

“Y/N!” he screamed your name, not caring about anything but your safety. With everything about to change, he could throw secrecy as the last of his priorities. “My love, where are you?”

No answer came from the outskirts of the house, and Eris all but threw himself inside. The beating he had just endured almost sent him stumbling to the ground.

The insides of the cabin were a mess, just like his soul. Scattered papers and wooden furniture, broken plates, shattered windows. Fire embers started to fill the messy space as his laborious breathing turned panicked. He leaned against the wall where pictures lay now crooked, and tried to think what to do.

Where to look, who to kill, how to survive knowing his worst nightmare had come true. Eris had always feared having a mate, having someone to love and that loved him back, because he knew the world would take it away cruelly.

What he didn’t expect was the stairs creaking under your weight, and your disheveled head poking through the stairwell. Your eyes widened, at his state, his presence, or his blood. But he didn’t consider much apart from the fact that you were still breathing, somehow, and alive enough to be standing.

His body gravitated forward until you collided into his arms, the composure he had kept during the last hour crumbling like paper against water.

“Eris” you whispered against his chest and his breath hitched, your voice so concerned and soft against his worries. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“You’re alive. You’re alive” he repeated, twice, and willed himself to believe it. “I thought – the door was open, and you didn’t answer. Why didn’t you answer? I called. Didn’t you – didn’t –“

“I didn’t know if it was you. It’s been…”

You trailed off, it wasn’t necessary to acknowledge the obvious mess. Eris pressed you tighter against his chest. Just like those nights where nightmares consumed him, where his father’s reign of terror was too much, he hugged you so tight that your bones creaked under the pressure. You didn’t mind when it was the only thing holding him together.

It was silent for no longer than three seconds, the amount of time it took for the first and only tear to roll down his bruised cheek. If he let himself any more time, if he let his guard down, none of you would make it out of there alive.

Eris ignored the rough phantoms hands he could still feel on his body, the feeling of his father’s fingers tugging on his hair and crushing his throat. His touch was soft and careful as he pulled you away and inspected you with bright eyes. Only a gash on your cheek and a light limp on your left foot. Even if your dress was stained, he didn’t find any threatening injury.

He pushed the anger once more down his chest, until he turned it into resolution.

“How many?”

“Three of Beron’s personal guard. Rookie heard them before they came and I could hide” you motioned with your chin to the enormous dog that guarded the back door, on four and alert. “She took care of the first one, and the other two… it was them or me”

“You did well” Eris whispered, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb under the bleeding wound. “Where are the bodies?”

Those deaths would haunt you for a while. His innocent, kind mate who had been the only one brave enough to risk sending him pain tonics after his father’s beatings. Who took care of his dogs when he couldn’t leave the bed, and stubbornly stayed by his side as he pushed you away.

Eris followed you silently to the first floor, to your bedroom. Where you had spent so many nights tangled together, now three bloodied bodies stood. He could identify which one had been finished by Rookie, their face unrecognizable. His father’s personal guard embroidery stood bright on their uniform, and it threatened to make him vomit.

He fished their bodies for weapons, ignoring the urge to kill them all over again slower a crueler. When he finished gathering what was worthy, he guided you out of the room, his arm around your shoulder.

“Don’t look” he advised you, pressing you tighter when your body trembled. “We’ll be okay”

You had talked about that outcome for three years, and you had spent each borrowed minute like the last one. It wouldn’t be forever, you understood, so you had crafted a plan. An emergency plan that you needed to carry out.

Eris didn’t let you take anything and you didn’t stop to grab your belongings as he lit fire to the cabin behind you. Each step you took made your knees tremble, knowing that Beron had once more managed to drown any hope in your life for your relationship.

Heat scorched both your backs as you exited the cabin, now full ablaze. Eris’ mare was dutifully waiting at the entrance, with the dozens of neighbors that were gathered in a half-circle. They all scattered when Eris walked out, and didn’t get to see how your knees finally gave out. With just one arm, he managed to keep you standing against his chest and grab the reins.

His whole body tensed under the weight of your sobs, that racked your body in sadness. Twice now, he had seen your life crumble because of him, because of who you loved and loved you back. Until Beron was dead, until his body was cold and forgotten, there wouldn’t be a place in Prythian safe from his hands.

And no matter how much it pained, only one was safe enough to last until he killed his father. Or died trying to.

“Y/N” he whispered against your sobs, against your desperation. He held you firmly as you shook your head in denial without looking up from his chest. “It’s time, my love. We don’t have much time”

Maybe his father was stupid enough to think three men were enough to kill you, but they hadn’t returned and Eris had left – and, surely, his father himself would come to end with his son’s happiness and will to live.

Shadows gathered around his feet, but he didn’t look to the owner nor acknowledge the new presences in his court, in his forest. He had long ago granted them access for that day, had supplied them information for his part of the bargain.

Rhysand and his court had kept their promise.

“I don’t want to” you cried, so hard and fearful that his resolve shook. Yet your safety, your life, had always been his one priority.

“It’s for the best. Look at me, Y/N” his voice didn’t harden, he didn’t slip into the mask he wore around them for your sake. “Y/N”

His own voice was broken too, with despair and agony. He too dreamed for a world where he could hold you freely, where he didn’t need his worst’s enemies help to keep his mate alive. But those dreams were not for people like him. Still, he held onto that thread of hope that he would make it through tonight. That, tomorrow, he would comfort you like you deserve, endure your berating about his selflessness and kiss your tears away.

When you finally looked at him, he smiled, ignoring the surprise radiating from his unusual partners. Eris waited until your sobs subsided and you calmed enough to accept the next step.

In silence, he let his eyes tell you everything he didn’t allow himself to say. How grateful he was for your soft hand when no one else dared to help you, for your patience words against his lashings when you helped him. How sorry for each and every scar you carried from his court, his brothers and father, and for not being able to give you the life you deserved.

How much he loved you, witch every fiber of his being, until he was nothing more than embers and ashes, and beyond.

Eris pressed his lips wordlessly against your forehead, his hands holding your head in place. Your own circled his scarred wrists. With the glamour off, everyone could see the scars and marks on his body. You caressed the rough skin and held him tight, until he tore apart.

“I love you. And if I die tonight, know that your love was what has kept me alive for so long” he watched your glossy eyes, your shaky lips. “I only burn for you, my little fox”

“They’re here” Azriel talked, his voice breaking your daydreaming.

A soft spark of proudness lighted in his chest when Azriel tried to gently guide you back and you brushed him off with a stern look. Your eyes, kind and loving for him, were hard and unforgiving for the spymaster. Eris knew they would treat you well, would take care of you, and was sure you would give them hell for him.

You looked at him one last time, sad resolution in your eyes, and kissed the edge of his lips before stepping away. With your torn dress and blood over you, you looked like every inch of mate he adored and cherished.

Azriel finally gripped your wrist with an annoyed frown, and shadows swarmed both your beings just as the first group of soldiers rounded the edge of the town. They wouldn’t be the problem, but the High Lord who rode behind. Eris didn’t allow any of his fears or worries show when he kept eye contact as you disappeared with Azriel.

“Come back for me” you begged him one last time, cracking once more his already broken heart. “Please, my prince. Come back”

“I love you”

He let those words be the last thing you heard from him. Eris was powerful, but his father could crush him like a leave under a boot. Maybe Rhysand would keep to his promise and keep you safe – and still loose you against his father’s armies. Eris was just happy knowing he would die knowing what being loved by you felt. How your arms felt around his shoulders, your breath against his neck.

Eris would die happy because you had chosen him when even he hadn’t chosen himself.

The sound of horses and men screaming got more intense when you disappeared, and the prince prepared himself to face one last battle. His fists lighted up with bright fire, his body vibrating with energy.

He expected a wave of angry soldiers from his right.

Not a stony-face Rhysand looking at him with a raised brow.

“You do love” he proclaimed, his voice laced with curiosity and something else. “I was tempted to believe she was just another one of your tricks. One that assured you your climb to the throne”

“I have business to attended, in case you can’t tell” Eris grumbled, letting loose the rage and anger. “So if you would be so kind, please fuck off”

The first round of autumn males broke through the left with raised swords and angry scowls. Some of them had fought by Eris’ side in the last war, some of them had been by his father’s side as he beat him.

Neither of their faces was marked in Eris’ memory, as they all vanished away to a terrible darkness that swept them off. As if they had never existed at all. The prince’s fire died down a bit as he looked at the High Lord, who had taken his hands out of his pocket and whose violet eyes were shinning dangerously.

For all explanation, Rhysand shrugged and gave away no intention of leaving with Azriel and his court.

“I made a bet on you when we made that bargain. A bet on a new high lord that would change things with me” Rhysand stared at him and Eris didn’t break eye contact, too stunned to speak. “Wasn’t certain it was the right bet, but now I am. I hope we both get to withdraw the price”

Without another word, the world was consumed in a wave of darkness, Beron’s power emerging not so far away. Eris let himself become fire in the dark, brighter than ever, and with the memory of your last smile and the possible hope of a world with you, he launched himself into battle.

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

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bradleysass · 10 days ago

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Five - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 1k - i apologize this got away from me.

CW: grief, loss

Regulus never imagined he would end up here. Not in a million dreams did he think he'd be sitting in a circle of five strangers, in the dimly lit basement of some community center, discussing loss as if grief could be measured and dissected. Yet, here he was—knees together, hands clenched, his brother sitting stiffly beside him, as though he were ready to bolt at the first opportunity.

Sirius hadn't spoken much since they arrived, which was a relief. He had his own grief, but his presence alone made Regulus feel as though he weren’t drowning entirely. The others had spoken in hushed voices, sharing stories about mothers, fathers, siblings, lovers. And Regulus? He had remained silent, staring at the empty chair next to him.

Because James Potter had claimed it as his own.

No one else could see him. No one noticed the way James lounged in the chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest as if he were meant to be there. His posture was lazy, effortless—like he wasn’t a ghost, like he wasn’t supposed to be dead.

Regulus refused to look at him.

"Regulus," the group leader said softly, drawing his attention away from the impossible weight beside him. "Do you want to share?"

He didn't. He wanted to stand up and walk out, but Sirius' presence held him there. His brother had dragged him here in the first place, thinking it would help, and maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to disappoint him.

Regulus exhaled slowly. "I lost someone," he said, voice rough. "A long time ago. But it doesn’t feel long. It feels like yesterday. It feels like right now."

James hummed. "I like that. Poetic. You always had a way with words, Reggie."

Regulus' hands clenched, nails digging into his palm. "I thought it would get easier. I thought time would make it better. But it hasn’t. It’s only stretched out the pain, made it something I carry every single day."

The woman across from him, the one who had lost her husband, nodded sympathetically. "It doesn't get easier. It just gets different."

Regulus nearly scoffed. Different. Sure. Different in the way that James was still here, still a presence lingering at the edge of his vision. Different in the way that he could still hear him, still see his crooked grin and those damned glasses perched on his nose. Different in the way that Regulus could never let him go because James refused to leave.

Sirius shifted beside him, uncomfortable. He had no idea. No one did.

James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that if he had been real, Regulus could have felt his breath against his skin. "Tell them about me."

Regulus inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I can’t. I don’t even know where to begin."

The group leader frowned. "Can’t what?"

James tilted his head, amused. "Can’t tell them, or can’t admit it to yourself?"

Regulus' throat felt tight. He stared down at his hands. "I can’t forget him. I don’t know how. I don’t think I ever will."

The group was silent for a moment, absorbing his words in the way only people who have known loss could. There was a kind of understanding in their eyes, but none of them could truly know. None of them had to sit next to their ghost every single day.

James smiled, gentle and knowing. "I know." He leaned back in his chair, utterly at peace with his place in Regulus' life. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Regulus swallowed past the ache in his chest. He already knew that. He had known it for years, ever since James had died and left a chasm in his life that no amount of time could fill. He had tried everything—distraction, denial, even outright anger. But nothing ever made the weight of James' absence any lighter.

The group leader gave him a small, encouraging nod. "Holding on to the memory of someone you love is natural. Sometimes, our grief takes form in ways we don’t expect."

Regulus almost laughed. If only she knew.

"He’s here," he whispered before he could stop himself.

Sirius turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "Regulus—"

James, unbothered, smirked. "Go on. Tell them."

Regulus swallowed. "I mean, it feels like he’s here. Always. Everywhere. Like I can still hear him, still see him, still feel him next to me. As if he never left at all."

The woman who had lost her husband gave him a knowing look. "That’s normal," she said gently. "Sometimes, love is so strong that it doesn’t leave us, even when the person does."

James snorted. "See? I’m not a ghost. I’m just persistent."

Regulus clenched his jaw. "You’re not real."

"I’m real to you," James countered, grin softening. "And isn’t that enough?"

It should have been. It should have been comforting, having James so close, so unchanged, so effortlessly present. But it wasn’t. It was a cruel reminder that no matter how much he held on, James would never be truly there. He would never laugh the way he used to, never ruffle Regulus’ hair, never pull him into his orbit with that same gravitational force.

And yet, Regulus could not bring himself to let go.

He let out a shaky breath. "I don’t know if I want to move on."

"Then don’t," James said simply. "Not yet."

Sirius, beside him, had gone still. He knew that look on Regulus' face—had seen it before in the mirror when he had first escaped Grimmauld Place, when he had left behind the ghosts of his own past. But this was different. This was Regulus still carrying a ghost on his shoulder, letting it guide him, keep him from moving forward.

"Regulus," Sirius said, his voice quieter now, cautious. "He wouldn't want you to be stuck like this."

James smirked. "How do you know what I’d want, Pads?"

Regulus sucked in a breath at the old nickname, at the way James' voice was so full of fondness, the way he still spoke like he belonged here. Maybe he did. Maybe Regulus wanted him to.

The session continued around him, people sharing their stories, their pain, their longing. But Regulus remained trapped between what was real and what wasn’t, between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go.

James, ever patient, just sat beside him, waiting for him to decide.

@accio-sriracha @leeny-leens @rosiesangel

#black brothers microfic #marauders #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #microfic

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atoltia · 6 months ago

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We all make our choices (don't go too far)

Eiland finds the farmer injured and bleeding at the entrance of the mines.

TW: blood, panic attack

Tags: angst with good ending

Eiland x gender neutral farmer

-0-

It was his fault.

He didn't know it would come down to something like this, didn't really think about the consequences of his decisions.

It was just so exciting at first. They'd finally have a chance to open the mines again. It just made sense in his mind. Despite the destruction the earthquake caused, it also shifted the land so much that artifacts and hidden ruins that were once completely hidden were much easier to find.

And that was great, no? Their museum needed that, needed new things to make it a place where people all around Aldaria would come to visit and be happy. Mistria definitely needed it, needed that sort of attention since he knew how much of a challenge it was just to get some of the scraps from the Capital, even with their mother and father's influence.

He just wanted what was best for Mistria, wanted what he knew would bolster their renown tenfold. It was for knowledge, it was for truth. It was selfless.

He was selfish.

He should've known, should've known, should've known. Should have listened to Errol when the man aired his concerns. Should have done more research about the mines that they had. Should have asked Olric about the things that lurked there.

But he didn't.

And you had to pay for it.

-0-

It was like any other day for you.

You did your morning chores, did your daily greetings, did your daily deliveries. You remembered spending a few minutes hanging out with Reina at the inn, with her talking about the latest recipe she was developing.

She gave you some, of course. She always made sure to save you a serving to take to the mines since it wouldn't do anyone good if you went hungry there.

And it wasn't like you'd ever refuse, even though you did think it was unnecessary. You know that you have a good head on your shoulders and wouldn't put yourself in any needless risk. Yes, accidents can happen but you've assured Dr. Valen multiple times that you'd get out of the mines the moment you get into trouble.

Yeah, you were in big trouble this time.

You remembered a rather peculiar mound of dirt at the thirty-fifth floor of the mines the last time you were there. It wasn't like you didn't see mounds of dirt anywhere else, but you knew, just knew it in your gut that there was something special there.

An artifact, maybe? It's been a while since you've gotten a legitimate artifact. The Caldosian sword that you've given to the museum was the last one and it's already been several months since you've found another one like it.

You hoped to find another one, even if it was a small piece of pottery or a broken stone tablet. You like seeing the museum fill up with artifacts from a different time, a different age. It was wonderful.

(And it also didn't hurt that it made Eiland ridiculously happy.)

It took a while for you to admit it. You didn't even want to think of it the first time you had the smallest inkling of it. You didn't come here for romance, not really. Retirement. That was the plan. To have a place to call your own, to earn an honest living without the stress and dangers of mercenary life. The mines provided enough thrill for when you needed it, anyway.

But there was something, a tiny little thing, whenever you see Eiland smile. There was that shine in his eyes that just blew away all the shadows that lodged in your heart. There was a melody to his laugh that you found you couldn't get enough of, couldn't get out of your mind. It made you go insane.

And you tried, didn't you? Tried so damn hard to just forget it, forget him, and just focus on your damn self.

Of course, we both know just how weak you are to such things.

He was just so goddamned earnest whenever he talked to you, whenever he rambled on about the history of an artifact that you've brought, of the history of this place, of the several nuances in the transitions from age to age - you didn't stand a chance.

So there you were, deep into the mines with a shovel and brush in hand, carefully extracting a broken piece of pottery engraved with words that you didn't understand.

Really, it was your fault for not fully clearing the area before you decided to dig.

You barely noticed it, barely heard the sound of the... blob? slime? heading straight towards you as you still had both hands deep into the dirt. But you felt it, though. You sure as hell felt it when a projectile the size of a fist hit you straight in the chest, hurting like a bitch.

Your sword was in your hand, quickly parrying the projectiles to send them back as you know it to be the most effective way to kill those blobs. But the throbbing at your chest distracted you too much, the blinding white of the pain making you blind.

You didn't see the other one.

It happened so fast you barely even felt it. You just knew that you fell back into the rocks, knew that you couldn't see a damned thing, and knew you had to get the fuck away.

The handles for the elevator levers were slick. It took several tries, several pulls before you were able to jumpstart the mechanism, wincing as several more projectiles hurled at your already battered body.

It took a minute. Sixty agonizing seconds before you finally reached the top of the mineshaft. Just get out, just get out, just get the fuck out and get some help.

You made it a few steps, one foot after the other, which in itself was a testament to your strength of will. Breathing was difficult and you could barely see as the world kept spinning, swaying, doubling and tripling.

You swore as your leg gave way, and once again you fell down, down to the ground as the cavern kept moving under your gaze, your hand the only thing to catch your fall. Just needed to get back, needed to get help, needed to -

The sight of your hand perplexed you.

It was like as it was normally, more scratched, dirt underneath your fingernails. But there was a slick to it, trailing down, down, dripping onto the floor.

You didn't realize your breath pick up, didn't realize the way your heart started beating wildly as you turned your eyes from your hand to your waist.

And then you saw nothing else.

-0-

He didn't know what he would have done if he didn't convince Errol to take that walk with him.

It was a cool night, the crisp autumn air a refreshing sensation against their skin as it blew away the slight inebriation they had after a few glasses of wine at the inn.

It wasn't all that late into the evening. The other townspeople would most likely still be at it for a few more hours yet. He knew that Adeline wanted him to take another hour more to just enjoy the merriment of the place, but he was just so ecstatic at the find he and Errol unearthed at the Western dig site.

Errol humored him, as he always did, and he did admit that he also wanted to get in a few more hours of work on the thing before heading to bed.

"I can't believe winter's coming around." The wind blew at Eiland's cape, rustling against his covered body. His soft, bubblegum pink hair dancing amidst the evening chill. "Adeline's already started with the logistics for this year winter festival with Nora, so we'll probably gonna be busy in the next couple of months."

He laughed, playfully nudging Errol at the next gust of wind when he stopped, raised a brow.

Eiland looked around, his brows furrowing as he turned. Errol stopped along with him, frowned as his companion did.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I think I saw something." Eiland kept turning, looking, his hands now pulling his cape closer to his body. "I think-"

He gasped, blinked, when he thought he saw the wind and leaves assemble themselves into the visage of a dragon. It held his gaze for a heartbeat, and then another, before rushing into the cave entrance.

Eiland followed without a moment's hesitation.

And almost gagged.

He saw you on the ground, eyes turning glassy as you weakly attempted to staunch your own wound.

There was blood, there was blood, there was so much blood as he stood there, eyes wide, body frozen. It was so dark, so dark and yet he could still see the glint of the one eye that peaked out from beneath your hair, the shine of it dulling by the second.

He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to do, didn't know what to do please someone help, he didn't know what to do-

Eiland was pushed aside rather harshly as Errol stepped into the entrance, already pulling out a clean kerchief from his coat pocket. "Pull yourself together, Eiland!"

Dazed, still confused, Eiland stumbled forward to where you laid, choking in a sob when those blinking eyes of yours focused slightly the moment he got into your space, your bruised and bleeding lips quirking upwards into a soft, somewhat cocky smile at the mere sight of him.

"Don't look too good there, Pink."

"Don't talk," Eiland whispered as he desperately tried to apply pressure onto your wound. "Please." He tried hard to concentrate on the task at hand, pointedly ignored the heat of your blood on his hands. "Please just don't talk."

"Let's get them to Valen." And in one swift motion, Errol muscled you onto his wide, wide shoulders, marching as fast as he could towards town.

And still, the thick scent of iron never left his senses.

-0-

It was close to dawn when Eiland came back to the manor.

Yet the sun hasn't peaked through the horizon yet, hasn't broken the tight clutches of the night.

There were bags underneath his eyes, a paleness to his otherwise rich brown skin. His soft, pink hair mussed from being tugged at too many times that night.

The usual bounce that pepped his step was gone. That bright, enigmatic energy that bounded with him whenever he walked was nowhere to be seen.

It was touch and go, the doctor said. Minutes. It all came down to minutes. If he and Errol were a mere five minutes too late...

His legs buckled, his exhausted body hitting the wall with a loud thud, his elbow rapping against the stone when his hand wasn't fast enough to brace him.

The sharpness of the pain jolted him, woke him, pulled him back to reality as he felt the burn of the bile that he's been holding all night tickle at the back of his throat.

You almost died. He saw it clearly on Valen's face when she tended to you, saw the way her eyes turned stony when those deft hands of hers worked on you.

There was a grimness to it. Those first two hours were the slowest of his life as he waited for Valen's word. As he waited with baited breath, waited, prayed to the dragon that oversaw the ancient people of the land from a time long gone.

The dragon was there. He saw it. So he prayed to just- please, please, please wherever it was, he just pleaded for it to watch over you.

He clutched his chest, those long fingers of his tugging, his hands pushing at his chest with the heel of his palm as he just couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe-

Eyes, bright with panic, looked around desperately, looking for something to hold on to, something to help, someone to help. But there wasn't. He was alone, he was alone, he was alone and there was no one else there everyone else was already asleep he had no one there at the time oh god please please please just help him up just help him up please it was his fault it was his fault it was his fault he knew that it was his fault that you almost died please it hurts it hurts it hurts so much please-

"Eiland!"

He choked, tears falling down his face like a violent torrent as slender arms reached over, encircling them around his waist. Smaller, firmer hands pulling him into a comforting embrace as the other rubbed at his back.

"A-adeline?"

"I've got you."

She lowered his head onto her shoulders and just rocked him, rocked him until his body unclenched, until his breathing evened out. It didn't matter how long. Didn't matter how hard he clawed at the carpet. Her brother was in trouble. That was the only thing that she needed to know.

She smelled like the plum blossom perfume that she loved, the sweetness of his evident on her being. And yet it couldn't replace smell of iron on his nose, couldn't distract him from the shaking of his hands as he remembered your blood, slick and hot, painting them with a horrifying red.

It was there, it was there, it was still there no matter how hard he scrubbed them away to the point where his hands were rubbed raw.

Not even the visage of his beloved sister could take away the image of your broken body laying just a few feet away from the mines elevator, your blood pooling around your body as your one visible eye stared at him as if it was you who came to save him instead.

It was his fault, it was his fault, it was his fault.

"No," Adeline said as she shushed him, maneuvering his body into a more comfortable position while they sat on the floor, the light of dawn slowly breaking through the massive windows. "No, it's not."

"I pushed for the mines to open, it was my fault. I almost killed-"

"You did no such thing!"

"How do you know?" His voice was barely a whisper, a pathetic blow of air as he drenched his sister's shoulder with his tears. The hands that were clawing at the carpet, now ruined with his own blood, gripped at Adeline's dress. "How do you know?"

"I just do." The way his brother cried devastated her. In all the years that they've lived together, in the years that they grew up together, she's never seen him this way and it just tore her to shred.

She tugged him up. "You need sleep."

He didn't resist. Not even when she hauled him to his bedroom, not when she removed his cape, not when she urged him to take his boots off, not when she tucked him under the covers.

"I'll be here, " she assured him as she pulled a chair over. "Just go to sleep."

He fell asleep in seconds.

-0-

Eiland sprinted to the clinic by mid afternoon.

He just woke up and without any other thought, just bolted out of bed to go to you. He didn't know what time it was, found that he didn't care. He just knew that he needed to get to you.

He quickly rapped at the door, his bandaged fingers stinging, as he looked around the window, trying to see if he could get a glimpse of you.

Valen opened the door, and Eiland noted the bags under her eyes, but she smiled at him as she let him in, chuckling as he headed straight towards the single private room she had at the clinic.

He did his best to be quiet as he peered through the door, fully expecting you to be fast asleep.

You weren't, to his dismay, if the flutter to your eyes at the sound of his footsteps was an indication.

You've been in and out of sleep for the past few hours. Doctor Valen assured you that everything was going well, though you weren't sure if that was the truth or if she just didn't want to scare you any further.

There was barely any memory of that night. You remembered that you were getting artifacts, remembered that you got attacked. But other than that? Nothing.

So to wake up at the clinic was a surprise, if a little terrifying. You weren't really the type to be fond of clinics and hospitals, even though you should have been used to it given the requirement of it ordered by your guild.

You just had to suck it up since you were already there. You weren't stubborn enough to ignore an injury, especially when said injury left you bedridden for the whole damned day.

It was boring here, too. Maybe you could borrow a book from Valen later, but other than that, there was nothing else that you could do except for maybe sleeping another ten hours away.

So to have Eiland peep through the door was a welcome distraction.

And yet you frowned. His hair was in disarray. Exhaustion was evident on his face and there was a hollowness to his expression that upset you.

You didn't like that expression on his. Didn't like it one bit.

"How are you?"

There was a smile on that tired face, and you were a little relieved to see that it reached Eiland's eyes.

"I wanna go home," you said a little cheekily. "I hurt like hell and I wanna sleep on my own bed."

The chuckle that Eiland gave was all the lift you needed, ecstatic that it seemed to push the dark cloud over the man's head away. But it seemed to have come back just as quickly.

Eiland tried to hold it together, did his best to not show you just how terrified he was. But seeing you on the bed, with flecks of dried blood on your face and fingers, with bruises that littered your body, was very close to breaking him.

He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes as his fingers clutched at your bedsheets. His lips trembled so much that he bit it. Hard. But still it didn't stop the tears from flowing.

"I'm sorry."

You frowned. "What for?"

"It's just-" he looked away, tried to reach for the composure that was ingrained in him since a very young age. "I'll talk about it later, okay? After you've been discharged."

It upset you to not know what was hurting him like this, but seeing how he seemed like he was only being held together by a single thread, you let it go.

"Come here," you said when Eiland kept quiet. You took his hand when he reached over, tugged him closer to you, holding his trembling hand in yours.

"I was so scared," Eiland murmured as he massaged the back of your hand. "I was so scared that I-" He caught himself, inhaled. Looked away.

"I thought I was going to lose you."

You blinked at him. And it clicked.

You smiled.

"You won't. I promise."

And you held each other's hand even though the day grew long, even when Valen asked if Eiland would stay the night.

He did, of course. He wasn't going to leave you anytime soon.

---

Check out my masterlist! and feel free to send requests in if you like haha

So I thoroughly enjoyed writing the entirety of this lmao

angst is just so fun to write.

#fields of mistria #fields of mistria eiland #fieldsofmistria #fom #fom eiland #fields of mistria farmer #fields of mistria eiland x farmer #fom eiland x farmer #fields of mistria errol #fields of mistria valen #fields of mistria adeline #my writing #atoltia writes in mistria #angst #angst with a happy ending

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hiraethwa · 1 year ago

Text

one summer day

06 saturn ii. where ushijima’s words take you by surprise.

<< 05 saturn i. | >> 07 sun and moon.

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x reader a/n: i am back from my trip now, i will be posting more regularly again, thank you for staying! i loved reading the tags on your reblogs of one summer day, they make my heart go WAHHH! my inbox is always open if you want to chat <3 - ave word count: 1.5k warnings: angst, childhood trauma, parental neglect/verbal abuse, past death of a family member

april, second year

“you don’t have to be the person in your house with me.”

since he stayed with you that night, there has been a medley of conflicting feelings swirling in you. you had felt embarrassed in the morning, but also relieved for his presence. and this burning shame in your chest whenever you see him and his eyes seem to ask, are you alright?

you could tell he wants to ask so many questions, but he is holding himself back, waiting for you to tell him yourself. worst of all, you wanted to tell him, consequences be damned. but you were afraid he would see you differently. you don’t think you could bear the person who’s seen you at your worst decide you were not worth his time. but if you wait any longer, perhaps he would decide that anyway.

“what i mean is, you can be yourself around me, always.” you know that. deep down, you feel it.

“ushijima–” you start, staring down at your shoes, thinking about how to explain that day to him without trauma dumping on him.

he corrects you, “wakatoshi”

your cheeks color, testing the way his name rolls off your tongue, “wakatoshi… i owe you an explanation…”

you decide it is easier to start from the day everything changed. so you tell him what you haven’t been able to tell any of your friends since that day eight years ago. about your sister, akiko’s death anniversary. that she passed away in an accident, and that it was your fault for leaving her outside the house when your mother tasked you to look after her. that even though eight year old you went in to get some water for the both of you playing outside, it was still your fault. that she had ran out after a stray cat and did not see the car coming. that it was your fault.

“am i a terrible person?”

and then you hold your breath, knowing there is a possibility that he would have that accusing look in his warm brown eyes. beautiful with tiny flecks of greens and golds. you think those are your favorite features of him. and fuck, it would hurt like hell if that is the way he looks at you from now on. but you had taken a leap of faith, all you can do is hope for the best. hope that the feeling in your gut is not wrong.

“and your parents, why weren’t they around?” for their daughter’s death anniversary goes unspoken. of all the questions he could have asked, he sure did pick the most difficult one, you thought.

“let’s just say we all cope in our own ways. akiko’s death… it changed our family for the worse. my father threw himself into work to forget about it… my mother… her grief made her meaner, colder, it changed her.”

he gives you a concerned look, causing you to hurriedly explain that your mother is not abusive. “she’s just different than the mother i had when akiko was still here. she cared less about us, her words became sharp, like knives designed to hurt, especially when it comes to me, but she never laid a hand on us. i think her grief morphed into anger, and she never stopped blaming me for that day.”

“it isn’t your fault, you know that, right?” he grabs your wrist, turning you around to look at him.

your next words comes out in a whisper. “i know, but if i hadn’t left her, akiko would still be here. if i had done what i was supposed to, my parents wouldn’t have lost their daughter, and we could have been happy,” your voice cracks.

“you were a child. it wasn’t your fault. do you understand?” his strong grip on your shoulders forces you to look into his eyes. there was no judgement in them. no accusing look, no blame, only resolution. and they made you feel safe. “you cannot be blamed for your parent’s decisions, and it was their responsibility to look after their children’s well-being, not an eight year old child. your only duty was to grow up.”

an unidentifiable feeling overwhelms you, welling up tears in your eyes. what is it about me and crying in front of ushijima? you had been fine, just fine before he came along and messed up your coping system. every year before this on that day, you wouldn’t even cry, believing that all your tears had been spent when you were eight. that all you could do is feel empty and sad and self-destructive on that day while lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

oh gods, you were eight, and you had believed that it was your fault your family lost a sister, a daughter, and your mother let you believe it. she never let you forget it. all the hurtful words hurled at you. all the pain you swallowed and carefully locked away in a box.

your home stopped being a home that day.

home should feel safe. home should be a place you long to be after a long day, not somewhere you dreaded. home should feel like a warm blanket on cold winter days, not a house that is a place to eat and sleep. home should feel safe. but it doesn’t.

you had known it for a long time. but you had been running away, refusing to face the fact. that maybe if you pretended hard enough, it would all go away. all this heartbreak that you had hidden away would vanish.

“i don’t think my mother fully forgave me for it. i don’t think she forgave herself either.” but you were only a child. and all you wanted was her love, and approval, and support, and presence in your life.

you look up at the stars shining in the dark sky, wondering if your sister is one of the millions smiling down at you from a far away distance. “she would have been in junior high if she was still here.” you smile sadly at the stars, thinking of the life that she could have had ahead of her. all taken away in one unfortunate moment.

“your sister would want you to be happy, to live for yourself. i think she would find solace in that.”

you turn sharply to look at ushijima. “i–i have been doing my best to survive.”

his voice turns gentle, “but not truly living.”

“have you spoken to anyone about this?” he inquires, though you think he knows the answer.

you clench your fists, looking away, a rising feeling in your chest that you identify as discomfort. oh, he is safe, but he is not afraid to tell you the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “you’re the first.”

no one would understand anyway. not your parents, if they even cared enough to listen to you. not your brother, who had pushed you to open up, he lost his sister that night too.

“then you no longer carry the burden by your lonesome. live, y/n, for you and your sister.”

live. he says it like it is so easy. as if living in that house doesn’t make you gasp for breath. if only your house did not also feel like your prison. if only being alive when your sister no longer breathes does not feel like a sin. as if everyday does not feel like being trapped in the past.

and then with excruciating realization, you admit it. “i don’t know how.”

the recognition leaves your head spinning, and you seek the comfort that you had felt in his arms. looping your arms around his torso, you bury your head into his chest. how do i do this how do i do this how do–

“you take it day by day. one foot in front of you at a time. and you keep looking forward.” he tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. “i will be right next to you.” he promises.

“don’t say things you don’t mean.” please don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“y/n, i only say things i mean.” you hope he sees the gratitude in your eyes. you really hope he means it. because you think you can make it, with him by your side. when you’re with ushijima, you can truly breathe. with him by your side, you can see a glimpse of your future tonight. maybe not tomorrow, not a month from now, but one day, you could be happy.

akiko, did you send him to me? thank you. i love you. i miss you. i miss you so much. but i think i need to learn to let you go now.

reblogs and comments are appreciated!

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rollinouttahere-writes · 9 months ago

Note

Listen in my defence Garp is a Dilf or a Gilf depending on the time line XD

Maybe Garp (or Sanji if writing Garp makes you uncomfortable) S , K , I , W , H

Congratulations! You got six letters because I accidentally did V instead of W at first!

Also I will write for any character from One Piece (barring child characters given that this alphabet is inherently more mature) so long as I've gotten to them in the show, so you don't have to worry about me not wanting to write for a certain character. Like I would write for Blackbeard if someone requested him.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Given Garp's insane strength, it would be very easy for him to hurt you even just accidentally. He never sets out to hurt you. With his power and his connections, there's no real need for violence. However, if you catch him in a bad mood and really push your luck, he might grab you too tight and effortlessly break your arm. He realizes what he's done the second he hears the snap and immediately regrets it. You'll be hauled off to see a doctor immediately and he spends the next month spoiling you in an attempt to make you forget about what happened. All that being said, upsetting him to this point is borderline impossible, so this is very unlikely to happen.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

All that he wants is someone to have by his side for the rest of his life. Ideally, someone that isn't going to raise his blood pressure like the rest of his family does. He just wants to be able to relax and have fun with his darling in his down time. You guys are going to get married, but it'll likely be no more than a marriage certificate unless you really push for a wedding. He's too old and set in his ways to care that much about ceremonies and "superficial shit", as he puts it.

Don't worry about children. This man has adult grandchildren. He's good. He really does not want to be starting over with a baby at his age. Not to mention the fact that everyone in his family is a damn criminal. He does not want to see another descendant on a wanted poster before his deathbed, thank you very much.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Presuming that you two have a significant age gap, Garp is usually mistaken for being your father. He isn't a particularly romantic man (no one in this family is), so very little about his behavior would make people think that you're a couple. In public, he'll be walking beside you, but usually isn't touching you beyond brief touches to get your attention. He's talking loudly (usually lightheartedly complaining about his family) and making dumb jokes.

In private, he's a bit more affectionate, but most of the time it's in an annoying way. He's like a young boy that thinks the only way to get his crush's attention is by being a nuisance. Except you're married and he's in his seventies. He'll be pranking you and going out of his way to do things that'll get a rise out of you. He can be normally affectionate with quick kisses on the cheek before he leaves the home, or by picking you up in a hug and spinning you around.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Desperation for a normal family member combined with his devil-may-care attitude. If he finds someone that he likes well enough to pursue a relationship with, why shouldn't he go after them just as strongly as he would a pirate? What's so wrong about him wanting to have some company on lonely nights? He's a marine. He's a good man. You'll come around and learn to appreciate this arrangement.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

You have three options with Garp:

1: If he isn't bringing you with him on his ship while he's working, you have all of that time to make a break for it. It might be tricky giving the marine base he keeps you at the slip, but it's much easier than trying to run away from him directly. These escapes will be short lived. Maybe a week into your freedom, Garp will rock up wearing a hawaiian shirt and carrying a suitcase while asking why you went on vacation without him.

2: You have three step-grandchildren that would be eager to get involved. You don't even need to convince them that you're here against your will. All you have to do is ask if they want to piss off their grandfather and they'll be on their way to wherever you are to begin the game of darling-keep-away.

3: Assuming there's a big age gap here... you could also just wait him out. Sure, it'll probably take a couple of decades for him to finally kick the bucket. He isn't the type of yandere to kill his darling so he can "take them with him", so you'll still have the rest of your life left. It'll be easy to afford a therapist for everything you went through after you cash in on your late husband's pension and life insurance policy, so at least you have that to look forward to.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

As discussed in H, yes, but it's accidental. He genuinely has no desire to harm his darling. His attitude is too carefree and lax with you to become violent without several other extreme factors being at play.

#monkey d garp #monkey d garp x reader #one piece #yandere one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #yandere #yandere alphabet #reader insert #x reader

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ego-sum-deus-fractus · 1 month ago

Text

Nero's Imperial Household HCS

⚠️ Anything about the Gods that are written about here refers specifically to the RRverse. I am in no way talking about the actual deities themselves.

• Son of Hermes

- I'm calling him Dolios for now because it's an epithet of Hermes and it makes it easier to remember him.

- Son of Hermes, either one of the athletic epithets or the Psychopomp epithets.

- About 18 years old? Honestly what even was the age limit of Nero's stepchildren?

- Ok so I'm still confused as to what his powers would be but I'm leaning into the psychopomp side of Hermes. Although I'm also leaning on him being stronger than the average person because there's no way Nero didn't teach his step children to defend themselves without using their powers (Also Hermes is the god of Athletes sooo)

- I headcanon the Hermes kid as the oldest, partially because I don't know who else to make the oldest stepchild of Nero, and partly because I have a feeling that Nero would make the "calmer" cabins (AKA Cabin 11 and Cabin 7) really really feral just so he can showcase his strength in a "Hey I made the kids from the calmer cabins really feral HAHA IMAGINE WHAT I CAN DO" kind of way and also because he's an asshole and can't let kids be kids. Also because Nero's a furry.

• Nero definitely gave all of his stepchildren jewellery that represented their godly parent btw. I headcanon Dolios to have something like this.

Because why not? (And no this is not an excuse to show literally every piece of jewellery I have saved in my pinterest board) Meg has half-moon shaped rings that turn to scimitars but I have no idea what weapon these earrings would turn to so if y'all have any ideas tell me!!

• Lucius

- Nero really wanted the entire world to know who his step childrens' godly parent was huh 😭 Anyways onto his character!

- Son of Apollo, specifically Apollo Nomios.

- 16 to 17 years old (probably).

- LISTEN. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT THERE AREN'T CHILDREN OF APOLLO WHO HAVE SHEPHERDS AS THEIR MORTAL PARENT. HOW DARE RICK FORGET ABOUT BRANCHUS MY BABY. Anyways in my head Lucius's mortal father was a shepherd which is how he attracted Apollo. Again, I'm not sure what powers he would have but he definitely knows how to fight (because like I said, there's no way Nero didn't teach his stepchildren to defend themselves without using their powers). Also he can talk to ravens. And crows. And sheep. Because how come Percy is the only one that can talk to his father's sacred animals? That's unfair!

- I'm pretty sure he is one of the oldest demigods in Nero's Imperial Household? In my mind he's the second oldest out of them all.

• His jewellery is probably something like this bracelet.

It turns into a Gladiator btw. Not sure how that works but then again we have no idea how Meg's rings work either so yeah.

Also a bow and arrow seemed way too basic to me. Like may the Gods forbid that their children use anything other than the ones their godly parents use.

• Aemilia

- At first I got really confused over what godly parent she could have but then I searched up the meaning of her name and.... yeah.

- Daughter of Athena, not sure which epithet tho.

- Same age as Lucius, about 17 years old.

- Oh gods I know damn well that Nero made this girl suffer. Like you already have people having high expectations about Athena kids and then your step parent is NERO. Like this girl was probably given some big ass sum to solve at the age of 7 or something ( WISDOM IS NOT THE SAME AS KNOWLEDGE NERO). Oh my poor little girl. We know next to nothing about her but I'm gonna make her and Lucius my pookies.

- Either the third oldest stepchild in Nero's Imperial Household or the same age as Lucius.

- Not sure what jewellery Nero would give her tho. An owl necklace? Something that looks like this?

What weapon could this even turn into? A shield maybe? Y'know the thing with Medusa? (RR messed up her myth so bad in PJO that now I'm confused as to whether it's following the Greek or Roman myth).

• Hunter of Artemis

- I have absolutely no hcs about her whatsoever because I'm still confused as to who her godly parent could be. Like we know that Meg is supposed to replace Demeter which means that his other stepchildren are also mostly the children of the god they're supposed to replace.

- Still, I'm gonna have to make her a daughter of Diomedes and an ex hunter of Artemis otherwise I don't know how it'll work. I'm not sure about her name either.

- Younger than Aemilia and Lucius by a year or two, so that makes her 15 to 16 years old.

- She and Lucius are probably always paired together since Artemis & Apollo are twins. I'm not sure what power I want to give her so I'd love to know what you guys want her powers to be!

- Third oldest stepchild of Nero.

- Her jewellery turns into a bow and arrow because that's usually the weapon that the Hunters of Artemis use. I HC it to look something like these two.

How would this turn into a bow and arrow you ask? I have no idea!

These are only for the four oldest demigods, if you guys want I'll make one for the others too! (I've basically divided it into 3 parts, there are 4 children in each group and the groups are -Oldest, Middle and Youngest, the same way Apollo divided them)

Tagging- @actual-gremlin @arihuntress @humburgercheeseburger @sahebro-apollosangel @lesbianbanana @whats-a-lester @please-be-nice-im-sensitive me if any of you want me to remove you next time!

, ╱|、

(˚ˎ 。7

|、˜〵

じしˍ,)ノ

I'd really appreciate it if y'all actually read it tho....

Please don't let this flop I beg you pls

#spirit posts ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･#spirit does not know what she's saying જ⁀➴ ♡#spirit yaps 𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊 #trials of apollo #toa #lester papadopoulos #pjo hoo toa #pjo #Nero's Imperial Household #the tower of nero #tower of nero #the dark prophecy #meg mccaffrey #Lucius pjo #Cassius pjo #Aemilia pjo #gods they make me so feral #please don't mind the jewellery part

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bittiebunnie9232 · 2 months ago

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Merry Christmas @evacrazyfandomlover !!

TW: Mental illness, mentions of Dazai-typical suicide, self harm, guns (not used, mentioned)

@bungostraydogs-secret-santa

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Winter was always an awful time of year, and Christmas was the worst of it. Never once did he understand the “holiday cheer” everyone always droned on about. Everything was done up in pretty lights and covered in snow but… it wasn’t right. The whole holiday felt so artificial, so utterly pointless. As lackluster as the metal of his shipping container, the whole concept of Christmas seemed like a distant shiny dream- like suicide. So far beyond his grasp, but right there, brushing the edges of his finger tips but never within reach. It was like life taunted him with the things he could have, what could make him want to live, but dangled them just outside of his reach to lead him by the nose into misery.

Melancholy came around this time of year, everyone knew it. Seasonal depression (or in Dazai’s case, just depression) didn’t go away because of the twinkling colored lights, and warm drinks. The cakes were always better this time of year, the apples were too. Yet he couldn’t stand to stomach such menial things, the only time Osamu ever really ate was when Odasaku forced him to- and even then it wasn’t much. It was like his body just rejected winter, it rejected care and loving and he was stuck with the cold of the season. The warmth of the holidays was a fleeting dream that haunted him as much as this stupid shipping container he called a home.

The whole thing was another reminder that he wasn’t human- just a crude mimicry of something he was born as. Nothing could be more of a slap in the face as being faced with his own inhumanity every year when people were the most outwardly cheerful. How could something actually inhuman be more human than him, and at the same time enjoy the warmth and light of the season where he could barely hope for a draft to not enter his shipping container. Osamu would rather be at work than in this damned drafty lump of scrap metal, freezing and shivering in what little heat his blanket provided, but he couldn’t. Mori gave everyone the holidays off, as a gift for the year- it was more like a facade of an excuse so he could spoil Elise with no one around for the next three days, the greedy bastard.

Walking about the warm stores sounded good, until he had to take into account having to act all cheerful like everyone else so no one would approach him. All the people and their happiness was like a poison, it made him want to die more than sitting here in the cold with nothing but a lamp to light up the space a little. Maybe he could spend the next several days sleeping away the time off he had, at least he wouldn’t feel so cold then.

Laying down, curling up and keeping the blanket over him, Dazai closed his eyes and tried to will sleep to overtake him. Nothing would be better than simply being unconscious right now. Sleep wouldn’t come either, memories taunted him instead. Memories of his early childhood, before the mafia, always flooded him. Flashing images of people he’d much rather forget completely, times in his childhood where he was certain that he was nothing more than an after thought. His mother, and how coldly she looked at him, she had no love for him and it was obvious. Father wasn’t any better, he may as well have left them behind, even if he was around he was like a ghost in Osamu’s life. The times he was around weren’t any better, it was easier when he was a living phantom.

Warmth trailed his face, over the ridge of his nose and down his cheeks leaving an icy chill in its place. Curling in on himself tighter, he tried to drown out the pain spiking in his chest. It wasn’t real, it was just the cold. Maybe if he abandoned his impossible quest for heat, there would be enough cold to just disengage entirely. Trying to numb himself inside would help by being numb on the outside too. He could be as weak as to be crying over something as silly as a stupid holiday that was all saccharine smiles, trees and stupid multicolor lights in the darkness of winter. Damn Mori, damn winter, damn holiday… a soft sob left his lips, the palm of his hand scrubbing at his closed eyes. The stinging of tears was too familiar, as much as he swept a blanket of snow over his emotions, somehow the holidays came to stab at his chest with everything he could’ve had.

Why did it hurt so much? He should have been numb to it all after so many years. All the hurt, was usually gone, stuffed away to the back of his mind in ice where it chilled him from the inside out. The ice helped him, it numbed all the emotions, and it made him work better. The colder he was inside, the more demanding and cold he could be on the outside too- it made sense, after all keeping up his demon prodigy persona was difficult. It wasn’t easy to keep up a cold uncaring act unless he truly was cold and uncaring- and sure, he didn’t understand people despite being able to predict them, he didn’t understand emotions or anything beyond how to make someone feel them, but it worked. Results were all that mattered, and the one place he wanted results was the place Dazai always failed the most. Suicide.

When the blanket of ice didn’t help, the melting of his frozen inside would always be a dreadful thing, the heat helped. As much as he tried to feel the cold nothingness inside of him, the void of a snowy landscape that contained his emotions prickling at his skin with annoyance, sometimes the ice wasn’t strong enough. The pain consumed his mind, until it was pushing pushing pushing at every button it could get its sticky little fingers on. How many times had the ice melted and he cried until he threw up what little was in his stomach? The prickling pain poked needles into his brain until it was too much to bear, sometimes heat washed it all away. The heat that filled his body with warm euphoria every time he did it, every bit of hot red linings his thighs, his arms, the evidence left on his chest. As much as they stung and itched and pulled on his skin later the relief, euphoria, numbing heat always made the prickling stop until the ice helped again.

CLANG

Freezing for a split second, Dazai listened to the sounds outside his little slice of hell. Sometimes the wind would make things bang against each other, and when everything was made of metal and pure silence drifted over the yard of containers any small noise was amplified. So far, he could only he hear his breathing and soft sniffles, only silence awaited him in the dark of the outside world. At least the noise had broken him out of the spiral that his mind let whirl until he crashed. Taking a breath, he tried to force his body to relax. Despite his paranoid mind, there was probably nothing outside, nothing was ever outside. Anyone who knew about him living here avoided him like the plague, and Mori would just call him. Maybe a stray dog was walking around or something.

After a few more moments of silence, he finally tried to close his eyes and let his breathing level out. Nobody was around, so the sinking shameful feeling that came with crying wasn’t as heavy. There was no one to hide the fact he actually had feelings from, what harm could be done from crying in the dead emptiness of his own home? That’s what any rational person would think, but Osamu wasn’t being rational. Instead the disgust he always felt with himself writhed in his chest, a snake made of his flaws that always coiled around him to whisper every sin his ever committed in his ear. Maybe-

CLANG

Something wasn’t right, there was no way in all the silence and cold that was this time of year that something would be banging around outside! Clearly, the wind was messing with him, some dumb kid must have thought it was funny to hang up a stick by a container so it would make a banging sound every time the wind blew. Honestly, what stupid kids decided to even come here?

BANG BANG

That wasn’t the same. Sitting up quickly, Dazai came to the very easy conclusion that this noise- as it repeated again- was someone knocking on his shipping container. Who would venture all the way out to this dump, and dare to knock on his (was it even a door? Entrance? Wall?) door? Hearing a voice just outside of the thin metal sheet grumbling about something- he could have sworn he heard his name- Dazai got up. Abandoning his blanket on the mattress, and scrubbing off his face the best he could- which was to say his eyes were still red rimmed and he looked like shit- he grabbed his gun, and went up to the door.

Swinging open the entrance to a cold chill he had been trying to keep away, Osamu’s hand gripped the pistol a little tighter. What he hadn’t been expecting to see at his door, was a bright head of red hair. The boy had something in his hands, though he was clearly a bit warmer than Dazai, bundled up in a coat and scarf.

“Chuuya?” His fingers loosened on the gun, clearly there wasn’t a threat. Sure, his dog could be annoying, but Chuuya wasn’t actually going to hurt him. Ignore that- who told the shorty where he lived? He had kept that hidden on purpose, it wasn’t like he wanted visits from his partner at random! The burning of shame flushed through his stomach, churning around in small spirals.

Chuuya looked at Dazai in shock, as if he couldn’t believe he was actually seeing him. When he had been told that the great demon prodigy lived in a shipping container in the middle of nowhere, he was sure the whole thing was a prank. He had come so close to just punching the guy, until Ane-san confirmed herself that Dazai lived here. What kind of dumbass would go and decide to live in a shipping container in the middle of an abandoned area? Looking at the boy he knew something was off immediately- Dazai always looked kind of wrong but this time it was more obvious. He looked too thin, especially without that overcoat, but now that he was down to his usual button up and a very thin pair of sweatpants it was more obvious. Surely this must be a hallucination, there was no way Dazai was shivering- the subtlety of it was astounding, but Chuuya could tell. Had he been crying?

Seeing Chuuya now wasn’t expected- though it wasn’t like Dazai was expecting much of anything right now. How was it that a boy managed to make snow look so beautiful behind him? The bright warm red looking like flames in the low light of the moon bouncing against what little snow dusted the ground. He was beautiful, like an angel in his element, his beauty glowing against the dull world that Osamu hated. Salvation wasn’t what he was looking for, he was far too much of a sinner- the kind of sin that taints your skin and spreads to blacken your heart- but perhaps he could let himself believe if just for a moment that Chuuya was an angel sent to save him.

“Damn Dazai, you look like shit.” Yeah, that thing he thought about angels? Take it all back, the boy was nothing more than an ill mannered pet, there was a flaw in Dazai’s brain if he thought the boy would be angelic. Even if he knew the chill was setting in- he was so cold that his bones hurt- there some odd heating flooding his chest.

“Hah? What are you doing here?” Snarky, as always when it came to the other mafioso, Dazai tried to hold up his facade. The ice came back in a whim, but it was like the first frost over a lake. Thing and creaking ice that could shatter at any moment and threaten to plunge him into the deadly waters beneath. Even Chuuya could see the growing cracks in his mask, it was first time he’d seen it. Usually when Osamu let his mask fall a little, everyone was far away from him, an arms length away.

“I’m here to give you a gift dumbass!” Looking around, Chuuya caught a glance of inside the container. It was desolate and lifeless, metal walls with no pictures on the walls, no space heater, just a futon and a blanket piled on top of the bare mattress. A table and a lamp were the only things besides what little things were thrown haphazardly in the corner. Was this how Dazai lived?

“Chibi got me a gift? What is it?” His usual saccharine cheer fell a little flat, the usual void of his eyes sparking with something that couldn’t be placed. Everything felt wrong, nobody had ever given him a gift before, not even his parents (who forgot the holiday existed). Dazai leaned side to side to try and see what was in Chuuya’s hands, held behind his back to keep the wrapped box hidden.

“Are you gonna invite me in first? Kind of rude to have me standing out in the cold.” Damn it; this whole thing was a source of shame. Damn Mori, damn this shipping container, damn his parents. There was nothing more Dazai wanted than to send Chuuya away- or better yet to have him never arrive. Standing back, he sighed and dropped the handgun on the table. He waved the short mafioso in, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, as if this whole thing wasn’t a great hurt, not that his living situation was truly a secret.

Once Chuuya stepped inside, he glanced around and realized that what he saw from the door was all it was. Dazai really lived inside a sad little shopping container, with a lone futon, a lamp on a table with a laptop on it (but no outlet to plug it into) and a small pile of clothes in the corner. Inside of the metal cage it was slightly warmer than outside, only thanks to the fact the wind wasn’t directly hitting their skin. How did Osamu live this way?

“So… who told you where I live?” The question was awkward, as if he didn’t know exactly how to ask. For a boy who was always so blunt when he wanted things, even if he always did in that stupid mess with mind way. The ominous creak of ice that was about to shatter echoes in the far reaches of Osamu’s mind.

“I asked around.” All the ginger could get through his mind was the fact that Dazai didn’t look good- not that the bean pole ever looked like the picture of health to begin with. The barely-there trembling of his whole body, his pale face with red rimmed eyes, and the streaks of faint lines down his cheeks, it didn’t feel right to see him so… fragile.

There had been times where Chuuya outright sobbed into Dazai’s chest, gripping at his shirt with such desperation that he was sure the cold mafioso would push him away. Even if he hated to share his own emotions, the mystery of a boy could be exceedingly soft at times. He may be uncomfortable with anyone else, but Chuuya pressed all those buttons. He was more than willing to return the favor. How many nights had he relied on a short phone call to the boy he said he hated? How many times had he had a break down in the privacy of his own apartment only to have Dazai there to drag him back up from his own misery?

“Fuck who snitched, you’re coming with me.” A split second decision that left Dazai fumbling. First Chuuya had shown up out of nowhere, and now he was being taken somewhere with no warning. Honestly, he had expected to do what he usually does during the holidays for the next three days- wallow in his own misery and pretend it doesn’t exist while sobbing his heart out into a very well worn pillow.

“Where-“

“Shut up and put on your shoes and coat, idiot. I’m taking you somewhere.” Confused, Dazai put on his shoes- he was already wearing socks to keep his feet at least bearable levels of cold- and threw on his usual black overcoat. A thin thing that Mori had given him years ago, yet he didn’t own a coat. He looked odd and mismatched, wearing his usual attire except with faded blue pajama pants.

Being dragged- mostly by foot mind you, everyone was off for the holidays- through town in the snow with nothing but two thin layers, and pajama pants was embarrassing. Normally Osamu wouldn’t have cared about such trivial things- he was the demon prodigy he would wear whatever he wanted and no one would say anything- but the dam was crumbling. Seeing all the lights in person, all the chattering, couples out at night, while freezing his ass off… it hurt. Ignoring it all, Dazai kept his eyes on Chuuya until they arrived at his apartment- one of the nice ones in a building owned by the Port.

It was warm inside, not the warmth he got from a blanket or stepping into a shop whose door was always letting in cold air, actually warm. The whole place lacked Christmas lights, but that was so much better than having to be taunted by the things inside too. Taking off his overcoat and shoes at the door, he just raised a brow at the shorter boy, who was doing the same thing. The nice interior screamed of Chuuya’s doing, there was no one else he knew who would choose such a nice couch in black, with smooth touches that showed care. Not to mention the slowly growing collections of little knickknacks along the walls, each and everyone reflecting who he was as a person.

“Go shower, it’ll warm you up.”

“… huh?” Usually Dazai was more one for elegant and well thought out responses. Had the snow froze his brain too? Chuuya had to try his hardest not to laugh, though that feeling faded when he saw the dullness in Dazai’s eyes.

“Go shower, I’ll get you a shirt that’s more comfortable too.” Something soft stirred in Chuuya’s chest, seeing how distant his friend was. He knew the boy kept everyone at an arm’s length, but this was like he was retreating inside his mind. Pulling himself together, he turned around and let Dazai figure things out while he prepared something.

Slowly, Dazai’s thoughts began to settle the moment hot water touched his skin. Chuuya was right, it was a great way to warm up- and it also forced him to wash up since he continually stole this shower, or Oda’s. The whole walk here, even starting the shower and stepping into it felt vague in his mind. His thoughts had been pulling him under too hard, freezing the outside world but leaving his brain a torrential mess of barely frozen water. As he began washing himself off, one thought that repeated through his mind, {Chuuya shouldn’t have to see me like this}.

His shower was fairly quick, the sensation of water pouring down his back and over the healing scabs over his arms and thighs was quickly too much. Especially with how they burned in the head of the water, it was clean, it felt clean, but it still tainted him in a way he refused to look at. Carefully he wrapped the bandages around his body, winding them tight enough to be snug. Going to grab his clothes, he noticed that his typical button up had been replaced- when had Chuuya opened the door?- with a loose band-T.

Opening the door, Dazai was greeted with Chuuya’s empty bedroom, with a perfectly made bed and the sound of humming from the next room over. Walking to the living-room in a mild daze, the first thing he saw was Chuuya sitting by the low table in the center of the room, humming some kind of Christmas song. It didn’t sound familiar, but then again Dazai didn’t know any of the songs, just that he hated them. Sitting on the table was two cups, and a bowl, both with steam coming from them.

“What’s this?” Chuuya’s eyes flicked over to Dazai, scrutinizing him until something unknown in the mafioso was satisfied. He had no clue what the ginger could possibly be looking for, but it seemed he had it.

“Crab and cider. Eat and we can chat.” Why would he bother? Chuuya didn’t like crab that much, it was crazy he even had any. The moment he took a bite, his stomach rumbled. How long had it been since he ate? Dazai never caught the little smile the ginger gave when he started eating. Tapping his hand on the table, Chuuya couldn’t help but ask a few questions. “Are you doing okay?”

He could have facepalmed the moment the question left his mouth. Obviously not, but it wasn’t like Dazai would ever say it. There were so many other ways he could have asked, but he wasn’t going to take any of Osamu’s bullshit. Dazai’s furrowed brows made him swallow, he knew where this was going.

“‘M fine, chibi.” Muttering around a mouthful of food, his eyes never met Chuuya’s. After the shower his face was less obviously tear-stained, but the image of a red eyed Osamu tiredly standing in an empty shipping container, shivering in the cold, wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Don’t bullshit me, Osamu. You’re hiding it, but I know you’re upset. You can talk to me, you never tell anyone anything. You’re there for me, let me be here for you now.” The chopsticks froze midway to his mouth, everything about him holding still- even his breath. The creaking sound growing louder inside his mind, the currents beneath the ice rocking and growing stronger.

“I just don’t like the holidays.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the response was just what Chuuya expected. Something vague, with the way that he always evaded real answers, but clearly making him talk about it was only going to make it worse. The two sat quietly while Dazai finished his food, the peace a little strained.

Whenever Dazai got like this, Chuuya knew he wouldn’t say anything more. For someone who knew so many words, it was like they were locked away in his brain. The best thing Chuuya could do was what they always did when he knew Osamu was feeling sensitive- movies and no pressure. Even if words were never said, he always knew what the other boy needed.

A few movies in, and Osamu hadn’t said a word since dinner. They were pressed together, Dazai’s head laid on Chuuya’s shoulder, his eyes tiredly closing for longer and longer. Their silent harmony more comforting than any words or gestures that anyone could come up with, his soul was more at ease with Chuuya. Being near someone who human, who was so adamant he should live and be human too, was a balm of cool moss over his mind. The churning waters of his mind slowed to steady waves, the thin ice healing the cracks.

“Dazai, do you want to open your gift now?” He had forgotten about the thing Chuuya was trying to hand him at the beginning of the night, the offer was tempting. Rubbing his sensitive eyes, he nodded slowly, the call of sleep just starting to fade.

The gift was shoved into his hands, something small and rectangular wrapped in bright red and gold paper. Tearing the paper, Dazai was hesitant to see what was inside, gifts he had gotten were never truly gifts. Yet, seeing the red peak through, his heart started beating rapidly.

The paper was set aside, and he was holding a book he had wanted for so long in his hands. The thin book with a red cover, the Complete Guide to Suicide. How had he known this was the only thing Osamu wanted? The creaking of the ice finally reached a critical point, the only gift he had gotten since he was a child, before then even, and it was so warming. Unlike the melting that he felt earlier, the ice shattered with a rush of water.

“Dazai! What’s wrong?” Chuuya put a hand on his shoulder, and that’s when it finally hit him. Heat was streaking down his cheeks, his breath was wavering and unsteady- small huffs of air left him in a way that shook his shoulders. Crying, or rather sobbing- tears dropped down as he set aside the book, loud sniffles only making the tears worse.

For the first time since they had met, Dazai was crying in front of Chuuya. His hands gripped the soft fabric of an old T-shirt, his tears and sobs bring muffled by the warm chest of a boy shorter than him. Everything he had been numbing and shoving away finally hit him, and all Dazai could do was sob while steady arms held him close.

For the first year, maybe Christmas was worth sticking around for. He’d have to get Chibi a gift too, eventually.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bunnie post #secret santa #bsd secret santa

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harpershigh · 1 month ago

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@bhaalurged Cont. from here

"How could I not tell?" she replied Duri's question with a low voice, carrying a hint of sorrow. "It's in the way your shoulders carry a weight you can’t explain to others, the way your eyes flicker with guilt before you even understand why. It’s in the way you hesitate, like every choice feels heavier than it should." She paused, studying Duri with an intensity that could cut through stone.

"I’ve seen it before. Abdel had that same look — the one that screams you’re at war with yourself. A fight you didn’t ask for, against a darkness that whispers it owns you. And you don’t just see something like that once and forget it. No. I’d recognize it anywhere." Her tone grew firmer, unshakable. "But I’ll tell you what I told him: you are not defined by the blood in your veins or the shadows clawing at your soul. You can fight it — and win."

“He resisted? He was good?”

There was no short answer to this. Not an easy one. Jaheira’s jaw tightened as the memory clawed its way to the surface, unbidden and sharp as a dagger’s edge. She could still feel the heat of the fire she’d summoned to defend herself, the scorch of betrayal hotter than the flames. Abdel, in his worst moments, was not the hero she’d fought beside but a creature consumed by his father’s curse — the Slayer's claws as merciless as the rage in his eyes. He’d struck her once, a blow meant for an enemy, and in that instant, it wasn’t pain that gripped her but a bone-deep sorrow. She had called his name, pleaded for him to return to himself, but all she’d seen was the shadow of Bhaal twisting his features. It wasn’t Abdel who attacked her — it was what the Lord of Murder had tried to make him become. And yet, even then, she’d never stopped believing in the man buried beneath the monster.

"He was a hero," Jaheira started, a smile forming on her lips despite the heaviness in her heart. The kind of smile that came with a thousand memories — each one a piece of someone no longer there. "He was kind, selfless, and — by the gods — so stubborn. He fought tooth and nail to forge his own path, to stand apart from what was expected of him. And he did."

Her voice faltered for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the horizon, where the sun dipped low, painting the world in hues of gold and red. "He wasn’t perfect. No one ever is. But Abdel made a choice every single day. He didn’t have to, you know. It would’ve been easier to give in, to become what everyone feared. What his father expected. But he didn’t."

Jaheira turned back to Duri. "That’s the thing, Duri. Blood doesn’t define you. Not the blood of gods, not the blood of devils, not even the blood you spill. What defines you is the choice you make with every breath you take. Abdel proved that. He lived it."

Her hand reached out, resting lightly on Duri’s shoulder, firm but comforting. "It won’t be easy. It never is. But you don’t have to walk this path alone. I’ll be here." The unspoken part burned in her chest like a brand: because Bhaal be damned. If Jaheira had her way, the Lord of Murder would never claim another soul. Not one. Not ever.

#[ ❧ — interactions 》 duri ]#justbrcathe

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faustianbroker · 7 months ago

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TIMING: Recent LOCATION: The Jones residence PARTIES: Leviathan (@faustianbroker) & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: Levi finally emerges from the basement, and runs into Emilio in the house. They have some things to discuss. CONTENT WARNINGS: none.

—

If it was the type to be dramatic, Leviathan would complain that it'd been down in that basement for what felt like an eternity… and actually, it was, so it had. Eventually though, the demon did conjure the strength to return itself to its human form, and not finding any remaining wounds that would threaten its life, it finally walked up those stairs on two legs instead of four.

Opening the door, Levi squinted against the light. It was early evening and a warm golden glow filtered in through the large living room windows that faced the sea, and the sight brought a smile to its face. Unsure about who might be around in the home, Levi made its way toward its old bedroom to get some clothes, slowly climbing the steps to the second story of the home, pausing halfway to rest.

As it crested the top of the staircase, it heard a sound. A lazy glance was thrown down the hall, away from the double doors to the master bedroom in front of which it now stood, hand sitting still on the handle. That blank stare turned into something more like a smirk as it saw a familiar silhouette moving out of Teddy’s room and into the hall, stopping when it was noticed. “Emilio,” it said in a friendly tone, pushing down on the handles and letting the doors swing wide as it stepped inside.

The room was just as it had been left nearly a year ago, and Levi moved to the dresser, pleased to find that its clothing still filled the drawers. Grabbing a few items to help make it a bit more decent, it was pulling the shirt on over its head when it heard that uneven gait come to a stop in front of the open doorway. It looked Emilio’s way again, wondering how much Teddy had talked to him about… everything. Would he still be as mad as he was when Leviathan had left? There was only one way to find out.

“Enjoying the fruits and comforts of my labor?” it asked him with another knowing smile, something dark flashing across its expression. It certainly wasn't ever going to be above giving someone a hard time, least of all the hunter that had threatened it several times.

—

Since Teddy’s announcement that Levi was back, Emilio had felt a little like he existed upon the backdrop of a ticking clock. It wasn’t that he thought Teddy’s father was going to kill him — they might have had their disagreements when Levi had left, but at the end of the day, Emilio liked to think they both understood that those disagreements had come from a place of wanting what was best for Teddy — but he doubted that his life would remain as it had been for the last few months.

Moving in with Teddy hadn’t been a plan so much as a quiet manipulation, with Teddy insisting upon its necessity while Emilio’s apartment was trapped beneath goo and both of them pretending not to understand that it was no longer necessary when the goo dispersed. From where he stood, it felt a natural thing. But from Levi’s point of view? It was probably a little jarring to come back to your kid living in your house with a guy they’d at least pretended to hate the last time you saw them.

So, he figured it was only a matter of time before Levi sent him packing. It was lucky he’d kept the apartment in Worm Row; he wouldn’t mind going back there, even if it was saddled with memories of things he’d probably be better off forgetting. He hoped Teddy wouldn’t feel the need to move with him; they’d be better off staying with their father in the nice, big house. He really hoped they wouldn’t try to convince him to move onto their boat with them. Emilio loved Teddy, but living on that damn boat certainly sounded like a level of Hell he wasn’t ready for just yet.

In any case, it was probably easier to rip off the bandage quickly rather than dragging it out. When he heard Levi moving around out of the basement (which he’d largely been avoiding under the illusion of giving the demon space), he made his way dutifully towards the noise. Levi called his name and he hesitated, hanging in the doorway as it made its way into its room. He watched it pull a shirt over its head, made note of its movements. It was clearly in some amount of pain. He wasn’t entirely sure on the details of its return, but the fact that it had spent the time since in the basement instead of bothering everyone in the main house probably spoke of some physical damage there.

In spite of everything, he raised a brow as it addressed him. “What labor? I don’t think much work went into all this.” His tone was flat, though there was the slightest hint of amusement to it. He was trying, in any case. Even if Levi evicting him was unavoidable, he’d like to keep things as civil as they could be for Teddy’s sake.

—

It really wanted nothing more than to go out the back of the house and down to the edge of the sea. While changing its form again was going to be off the table for a while until it had fully recovered, it could still enjoy the waves and salty breeze that came off of them. But in due time, because there were more pressing matters standing in its doorway right now. Turning to face Emilio fully, Leviathan held a hand over its chest in feigned offense.

“Excuse me, I’ll have you know it’s very tiring work talking people out of all their worldly possessions,” the demon answered with a grin, allowing the humor to shine through whatever antagonistic reflex had been there before. “But it’s a burden I’m happy to bear. Only the best for my darling Teddy,” it added with a hint of challenge in its tone, its dark gaze raking over Emilio like it was sizing him up and determining if he was best for the spellcaster. It stepped toward him, still very obviously casting some unknown, silent judgment in its head.

“I asked you to take care of them for me… I see you took your duty very seriously.” It narrowed its eyes at the hunter, but there wasn’t any malice in that gaze. Quiet curiosity, maybe… trying to figure out what had changed their relationship from barely tolerating one another to… whatever it was they liked to call themselves these days. To the hunter moving in with Teddy. To Teddy confessing their intent to marry him. While Leviathan was loath to deny Teddy anything that they wanted, it did want to make sure that Emilio was earnest and honest about this relationship. After all, the hunter had been a bit more loose the last time they’d crossed paths… and even though it’d been over a year ago, Levi hadn’t forgotten that night at the bar, or how the two of them had ended up here that night, in this very bed. As much as it might want to, now that Emilio was sharing a bed with its child.

—

Levi seemed to take to the humor well enough, and Emilio wondered if he ought to be relieved. He didn’t particularly want to make an enemy out of a demon — the still-healing scars on his arms and legs left by Aesil itched at the thought — but he certainly didn’t want to make an enemy out of Teddy’s father. It was clear, in every word Teddy spoke about their father, that they both loved and respected Levi. What would they say if it disapproved of Emilio’s presence in their life? They loved him, he knew that. But their father’s displeasure would weigh on them, and Emilio couldn’t imagine that he was capable of outweighing a thing like that.

Levi’s mention of Teddy now sewed more tension between Emilio’s shoulderblades, uncertainty clinging to him in a way that felt utterly unfamiliar. He’d never been in a situation where he needed to impress a significant other’s parents. The only real committed relationship he’d had before Teddy was Juliana, and her father had been mostly indifferent. Emilio had had a last name that carried enough of a reputation to satisfy him. But if anything, that same name worked against him where Levi was concerned. He had no idea if his family’s reputation was a thing the demon was aware of at all but if it was, it probably wasn’t something it viewed positively. Only the best probably wasn’t the kind of thing that Emilio fell into. He knew that.

He shifted his weight, defensiveness crawling up his back as he tried to force it down. Snapping at Levi probably wasn’t his best bet here. “Wouldn’t have let anything happen to them either way,” he said carefully, and he meant it. Even if Teddy had never returned his feelings, even if they decided to end what was between them now, Emilio would do everything he could do to keep them safe. That wasn’t because of any promise he’d made to Levi, though he thought it might be better not to reveal that part. “I know this probably isn’t what you wanted for them.” Flora had never gotten old enough for Emilio to even consider worrying about who she might one day decide to date, but he imagined he’d have wanted the best for her, anyway. Someone better than him, in any case. But… “I think they’re happy. With me. For… whatever that’s worth.”

—

Levi only hummed at Emilio’s insistence that he’d still have protected Teddy either way, not fully believing him, but deciding it wasn’t worth bringing into question. Hypothetical situations served no purpose here, and Emilio had taken care of Teddy, which was all Leviathan had asked of him.

It moved around Emilio, very much like a shark circling its prey in the water, brows rising when the hunter admitted that he knew he might not be what Leviathan had envisioned for its ward. The demon clicked its tongue, coming to a stop in front of Emilio again. “That remains to be seen,” it offered, cocking its head to one side and listening as the other tried to explain that it felt like Teddy was happy.

“It could be worth a lot,” Levi responded, turning its back on Emilio to move to the dresser again, snatching up an elastic from the top of it and pulling back its long hair. “Are you happy with them? Do you feel content to be the keeper of their heart? Only their heart?” It sighed. “I know it’s a long-standing human cliche for the parent that still needs convincing to threaten violence, and while I don’t like being predictable, I think we’re both already well aware of… situations that could arise.” It looked at him hard, expression stoic for only a few seconds before it smiled again. “But I don’t want to get caught up in hypotheticals. Just tell me how you feel.”

–

It was hard not to tense as Levi circled him. Emilio turned his head, following it with his eyes as best he could to avoid having his back turned on it. He wasn’t sure whether or not he genuinely thought Levi was an active threat. Paranoia played up every look the demon gave him, reminded him how easily it could get rid of him if it wanted to… but logic dictated that it probably didn’t want to. He had done what it asked, after all, and it wasn’t as if Teddy didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. They loved him; no part of him doubted that.

The question, of course, was about what Levi felt. It seemed willing to at least give Emilio a chance, which felt like some relief. There was still the matter of the living situation — the slayer found it doubtful that Levi wouldn’t kick him out of the house, even if just for fun — but that was less important than the rest of it.

The fact that it turned its back on him offered some relief, too, some quiet idea that it must at least not distrust him enough to assume he’d make a physical attack against it. Emilio relaxed a little, though it was impossible for him to relax entirely. He considered Levi’s question, weighing it in his mind. Happy was a big word. Over all, he wasn’t sure it was one he could apply to himself. But where Teddy was concerned… “There’s nobody else for me.” Teddy was it, as far as Emilio was concerned. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, nodding. “I won’t bullshit you,” he offered. “Never been one for that. Can’t say I’ll never do anything to upset them. We both know who I am. What I am. We both know I’ll be the one going out before they do, and we both know it’s better that way. But… I’d never break their heart on purpose. That’s a promise I can make. When it’s something I can control, I want to give them what they need.”

—

It was a good answer, as far as these things went. Clearly honest, as it didn’t paint Emilio as a glowing beacon of light when they both knew there were shadows that enshrined him (and his ilk) that would never be shaken off. But Leviathan was nothing if not used to the shadows, and by extension, Teddy was too. It was one thing to have to impress a guardian that was lawful and good, but a greater demon? Honestly, Emilio had a better shot with Levi than he might have with anyone else. It was just that the stakes were higher, if he were to fuck up. Instead of angry phone calls, it would be annihilation. You win some, you lose some.

The demon nodded. “I believe you,” it said in a low, even tone. “And I want you to remember that I am what they need. They said it themself, down in that basement.” It lowered its chin. “I am the paterfamilias. I had to leave to protect them, and now I have come back to protect them.” From what, it would not — could not — say. But the sentiment was what mattered: Leviathan would not be separated from Teddy again, come hell or high water. And Emilio, though the demon had no reason to believe he would attempt to separate them, would suffer the same fate as anyone else inserting themselves where they did not belong. That was the message, and it hoped that it was conveyed clearly.

With that out of the way, Levi slipped into a familiar role, one that was easier for all those around it to engage with. It cleared its throat and clapped Emilio roughly on the shoulder, letting out a short, barking laugh. “Well then, Cortez—welcome to the family. You know, I half expected to have to kick the both of you out of my room,” it added, gesturing at the bedroom they were standing in. “But I see Teddy was far too sentimental for that. That’s good. It could have been awkward.” It raised a brow, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man still expected to be removed from the household. And it would let him continue to think that for as long as the charade amused it.

—

He watched the demon’s face, trying to determine if his statement had been well received. It was difficult to tell, with Levi. It had had centuries upon centuries to perfect its poker face, after all, and while Teddy might have known it well enough to see through the smooth, careful expression it wore, Emilio didn’t. All he could do was guess at the thoughts that might be going through the demon’s mind, and he’d never enjoyed guessing. Emilio liked to have clear, concise answers. Anything less made his palms itch.

So it was a relief, the way Levi stated its belief in his claim as a simple matter of fact. He wasn’t sure he liked the follow up — Levi being something Teddy needed around wasn’t a thing he could argue with, but he didn’t like the idea of needing to trust the demon to stick around when Teddy needed it. He kept that uncertainty to himself, though. If Levi was telling the truth, if both leaving and returning had been designed to keep Teddy safe, then it had proven it would do what was best for Teddy. Emilio was reckless, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the demon and risk his death in this hallway, even if only because he knew Teddy would feel guilty for it.

Then, Levi seemed to relax. It cleared its throat, it clapped his shoulder, it laughed, and Emilio surmised that the ‘threat’ part of the conversation was over. He still didn’t relax entirely, but then, he rarely did. He raised a brow at Levi’s statement, eyes darting to glance to the room behind it. “Yeah,” he said flatly, “I wasn’t really looking to move in there.” He had no desire to share a bed with Teddy in their father’s room, for… many reasons, really. Looking back to Levi, he sighed. It was probably time to bite the bullet, in any case. “Look, you give me to the end of the day, I can be back in Worm Row. Not like I’ve got much shit to pack.”

—

He was jumping right to it then. Not leaving much room for vague interpretation, confusion, or worry. How dull. How practical. Still… maybe the demon’s fun could be salvaged. “Kept the old place, did we? Hm… lots of ways to interpret the fact that you’re living here, but still paying rent there… fear of commitment? Difficulty letting go of that bachelor lifestyle? A backup plan, in case things go wrong? In case I ever came back?” Leviathan smiled knowingly — these were all shots in the dark, all things that it was more or less certain were untrue, given what Emilio had said and done thus far. All but the last one. That could still very well be true. It let the accusations hang in the air for a moment before speaking again, interrupting Emilio as he no doubt went to defend himself. “Never you mind, never you mind! You can stay…” It raised a brow, clearly enjoying itself in this new dynamic they shared. “For now.”

Moving back into the room to pluck a pair of sunglasses off of the dresser, the demon gestured broadly with its hands after situating them on its face. “Well! Now that’s settled, I am going to go park my ass on the beach out back. Please tell Teddy where to find me if you see them first, hm? There’s much pondering to be done and work to consider…” It ought to check in with Ichabod and see how things were operating in its absence. Like a well-oiled machine, it suspected, but nevertheless… confirmation would go a long way in helping it relax.

It moved toward Emilio again, that satisfied grin never leaving its face as it stepped past him and called down the stairs. “Oh Gabagool!” It looked over its shoulder toward the slayer as it walked over to the top of the staircase. “Have you seen the little gremlin? I missed him something fierce.”

—

Of course Levi would question the reason behind Emilio keeping his old apartment. The detective scowled, crossing his arms over his chest as the demon cycled through different excuses, focusing only on the ones that made Emilio look bad. Well… except the last one. Maybe, subconsciously, some part of Emilio had considered Levi’s return a possibility but mostly? He’d held onto the apartment for Teddy’s sake. So that if Teddy ever wanted him gone, they wouldn’t have to grapple with the idea of kicking him out on the streets, wouldn’t let him stay out of guilt or obligation. There was a little more to it, of course; with an apartment in his name, anyone who was looking for him would likely go there before they showed up at Teddy’s, giving an added layer of safety to the house. But before Emilio could say any of this, Levi was barrelling forward, clearly not concerned with the possibility of interrupting Emilio’s explanations. And, surprisingly… not kicking him out. Emilio’s mouth, which had been open in preparation of defending himself, snapped shut in surprise. The for now was a clear threat, but it was still a step above being kicked out entirely, he supposed. “All right,” he said cautiously, eyeing Levi carefully. There would be a catch. He was sure of it. He wasn’t looking forward to learning what it might be.

He watched Levi saunter back into its room, grabbing a pair of what he’d often described to Teddy as asshole sunglasses and rambling on about the beach. If that was where it planned to spend most of its time, Emilio thought, it at least lowered the risk of the two of them running into one another often. The slayer wasn’t much of a fan of the sand or the sea. “Sure,” he replied good naturedly. “I’ll let them know.”

Relaxing a little, he moved back towards the bedroom he shared with Teddy, only to falter when Levi asked after Gabagool. Shit. There was no way that little asshole wouldn’t do everything in his power to sully Emilio’s good name here. “Ah, haven’t seen him,” he lied smoothly. The little shit had been napping in the living room with Perro when Emilio walked by. He’d have to get to him first, find a way to bribe or threaten him into keeping himself from spreading shit with Levi. “Probably off doing whatever he does.”

—

“No? Hm, right… must be out gathering gossip for me. Such an eager little beaver, always looking to please papá.” Leviathan smirked, having little reason to not believe Emilio, though it did recall that he and Gabs were perhaps not the best of friends. Ah well. Maybe Levi could convince the badalisc to be nicer, now that it was home. Perhaps he was just feeling sad in the absence of his father figure, and was lashing out. It served Emilio right, anyway. He hadn’t given the poor thing any of the lamb he’d been promised while being babysat.

With a nonchalant wave of its hand, Levi drifted down the stairs to the main level of the house, moving past the large, open living room and toward the wide glass doors that led out to the patio, and beyond, to the beach. It spotted Gabagool quite quickly, but the fuzzy ne'er do well was napping happily with that scruffy mutt that’d been clicking around Emilio’s shitty apartment when it last visited, so the greater demon went on quietly so as not to disturb them. It unlocked the door slowly, pulling it open and slipping outside, sucking in a deep lungful of salty sea air. Its gaze was drawn to the horizon, settling on a distant point where storm clouds seemed to perpetually hang over the ocean. Those dark eyes narrowed for a moment, the whisper of an eldritch curse on its tongue before it pushed away the negative thoughts and forced itself to smile again. No. Not right now. Focus on the warmth of the sun, the coarse sand underfoot, the feeling of home. Focus. Just for today.

#. thread ;#. with ; emilio cortez #. hello again ;

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