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thewickedjazzy · 9 months ago

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“Stay with me, milaya”

➵Pairing: fyodor x afab! reader

➵Summary: fyodor searches for you across countless lifetimes, witnessing you die in his arms again and again. Yet, fate continuously brings you both back together with each of your rebirths.

➵Tags and word count: 5.3k words. sfw, angst to comfort, slight fluff, hallucinations, vivid memories, delusions, shifting scenes, mental health struggles, dissociation.

➵want to read more of fyodor ?

"There is a cruel irony in the fact that you are bound to return to this world, only to be torn away from it time and again. Seven lifetimes, each one a fleeting moment in the endless passage of time. But even as you are reborn, your fate is always the same—a life cut short, a soul never allowed to rest."

The sky is a deep, unforgiving gray, the snow falling gently around him. He stands alone in the desolate landscape, a faint figure against the blanket of white. His breath is visible in the frigid air as he stares down at the burnt-out edges of an old photograph clutched between his slender fingers. The image, though charred, still reveals traces of a face—your face, the one he’s sought in every life.

"Milaya... even now, your features begin to fade from memory, like everything else in this world. But I will not allow time to erase you completely—not when I am so close to finding you again."

His whispers drift on the wind, barely audible but there is an unwavering resolve in his eyes. He carefully traces the faint outlines of your face with his thumb, trying to capture every detail, every curve, every hint of the life that once was. Yet, he knows the futility of it—each reincarnation is a shift in memory, altering your essence just enough to make you a stranger once more.

"This time, my dear," he murmurs to himself, "I will not let you slip through my fingers. I have searched for you across centuries, manipulated the lives of others, all to find you. I will not be denied, not by destiny, not by anything."

Fyodor tucks the burnt photograph back into his coat, his expression stoic as he surveys the snow-covered ground. He is nonchalant, almost detached, but beneath the surface lies a storm—a desperation that he cannot fully suppress.

He begins to walk, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he heads toward the place where he knows you must be. His heart, though often cold, beats a little faster at the thought of seeing you again, of hearing your voice, even if you do not remember him. But he is nothing if not persistent. He will make you remember, one way or another.

Yet there you are, gazing at the sky above you as it transforms into a canvas of burnt orange and fading blue, cinnabar streaks bleeding through the clouds like a watercolor painting. Your thoughts drifted back to a time you thought you'd forgotten—a memory of the day you first met him. It felt distant now, yet the details were so vivid.

He had been unlike anyone you'd ever known. some how he stood out in ways most people didn’t. His features were strikingly beautiful, but it wasn’t just his looks that caught your attention—it was the quiet mystery that followed him wherever he went. His pale skin, almost alabaster, contrasted sharply with his dark clothing, and his eyes—those glowing, enigmatic violet eyes—held depths you couldn’t quite reach. There was often a flicker of pain in them, so subtle it disappeared as soon as it surfaced, leaving you to wonder if you had imagined it.

Which makes total sense. His father 'Mikhail Dostoevsky' was well-known for his austere and viciousness—well after he was granted a nobleman's rank of course— contrariwise, Fyodor was something of a benevolent despot.

The gardens of the palace stretched out before you, a haven full of flowering fragrances, nooks, and crannies of sheer delight.

You caught sight of him standing beneath the glow of the moon, his posture composed as he conversed with his elder sibling. The moonlight cast a soft halo around his figure, making him appear almost ethereal. He seemed unbothered by the festivities around him, his attention focused solely on the conversation. Even in this elegant setting, he exuded a calm detachment, as though the world itself was just an intricate game he was patiently observing.

The path before you was lined with gravel, your footsteps muted by the soft crunch beneath your heels as you made your way through the evening’s parade of guests.

Delicate fairy lights hung in the trees, casting vibrant hues that danced across the faces of those gathered. There was laughter, the clink of glasses, and the hum of casual conversation, but your attention never wavered from him.

As if sensing your gaze, Fyodor glanced your way. His eyes met yours across the distance, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the lights, the music, the crowd. There was something paranormal in the way he looked at you. His lips curved ever so slightly into a familiar smile, one that seemed to say he had already anticipated your approach long before you had made up your mind.

Without thinking, you moved toward him. The space between you disappeared as you stepped into his world, where time seemed to slow. He turned to face you fully, his elder sibling excusing themselves from the conversation as you approached.

“Good evening,” his voice was smooth, a touch of amusement hidden in the depths. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

You hesitated, momentarily taken aback. “You knew?”

“Of course,” he replied, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve been watching me for some time now.”

His words made your heart skip, but you steadied yourself. There was always something about him that made you feel as though you were always a step behind, as though he had already calculated every move before you even realized it.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” you said, finding your voice again. “You stand out, even in a crowd like this.”

His smile widened, but it never quite reached his eyes. “Perhaps, but it’s not the crowd I’m interested in.”

There it was again—that flicker of something deeper, something unreadable. You could sense the burden he carried, a burden of his past, his family’s legacy, and the expectations placed upon him. But beneath all of that, there was something else, something that drew you in even as it warned you to stay away.

“Shall we walk?” he offered, extending his arm toward the gardens.

You nodded, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm as you both began to stroll along the moonlit path. The evening air was cool, and the soft glow of the fairy lights seemed to follow your every step.

“What do you think of all this?” you asked, gesturing to the grand event taking place around you, the celebration, the laughter, the excess.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “It’s fleeting. Moments like these… they’re beautiful, yes. But they fade, just like everything else.”

“But not everything fades,” you ventured softly.

He stopped, turning to face you fully once more. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, reading your thoughts before you could speak them. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the way he just stood there gazing at you said everything.

“Perhaps,” he finally murmurs, his voice low, “but that’s what makes it dangerous, am I right?”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the night, about the fleeting beauty of the moment, or about something else entirely. But in that instant, you realized that with Fyodor, nothing was ever simple. He was a puzzle, a mystery, one that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to solve, but one that you found yourself wanting to.

As you walked beside him, the moonlit scenery unfolding before you, his appreciation for beauty became evident. He had always been drawn to those who possessed a rare allure, and tonight, it was clear that you were his focal point. You were a vision of rare beauty, a one-of-a-kind presence in a world of fleeting appearances.

The scene before you blurs, in an instant, it felt as though time had slowed, and a piercing ringing filled your ears, making you gasp, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of memories.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” he murmured as he tilted your chin to meet his gaze.

Wait.. when did you get here? Where do these memories come from, and why do they haunt you so persistently?

“I’m just following orders,” you replied slowly, bringing your eyebrows together in a slight frown.

“Stay away from this,” he imploded, sighing. “Please, lyubov.” He places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But fedya...why now? We’re on the brink of ending your father’s relentless corruption,” you argued. “Why give up now?”

But you knew... you know he wants to protect you from the malignant influences of his father’s world. Yet, the very opportunity to dismantle the chains binding him to this sinister system was slipping away. His father’s grip was a malignancy that threatened to stifle all hope.

“Close but no cigar,” he murmured, his chin resting on your head as he inhales your fresh scent.

But he was right. You should've stayed away from those morons ages ago. You made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

In that moment, the same familiar searing ringing in your ears swept across you, pulling you from the depths of your reverie.. it's happening again.

"Fuck, I am such an imbecile." blood spilled from your abdomen, splattering across your trembling hands as you pulled the dagger free. Your back pressed against the cold, damp wall, every inch of movement sending sharp, jagged pain rippling through your body. And slowly but surely, all you can see is the orange sky getting fuzzier and fuzzier as the pain intensifies.

You reached out with a shaking hand, desperately trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, but your limbs refused to obey. Instead of crying out for help, all that escaped your lips is the metallic taste of blood.

“Ah...fuck, not now…” you gasped, the light behind the man standing in the distance, widened with each passing moment. Is this it? Is this how it all ends for you?

You blink, once, twice, trying to focus as everything around you darkens, and just as quickly as you are pulled into this chain of nightmares, you find yourself back in the present as the persistent ringing stops.

Gasping, you sit at your desk, drenched in cold sweat. Your fingers instinctively press against your abdomen, but there’s no blood. No wound. The dagger, the pain, it’s all gone, as if it never existed.

You press harder against your stomach, feeling for any injury, but your skin remains unscathed.

"I need a mirror," you mutter, voice trembling as you push away from the desk and hurry toward the mirror in the entrance. Your reflection stares back at you, eyes wide with panic, face pale, but undeniably yours.

“It’s me,” you whisper in relief, leaning closer, bracing yourself against the cool surface. You reach for the pill bottle on the nearby shelf, your fingers fumbling with the cap as you swallow a dose, desperate to calm the storm inside your mind.

You sit back at your desk again, hands still shaking as you breathe deeply. "It’s fine. I'm okay. It’s all delusions," you whisper, trying to convince yourself.

But you somehow memorise all of these memories like the back of my hand. You call them memories, despite knowing you never actually lived through them, yet they always feel so incredibly real.

They never really leave, do they?

Even now, the phantom ache in your abdomen remains, a cruel reminder of something you’ve never lived through but can feel so vividly. The sky outside your window returns to its soft twilight hues, but you can’t shake the feeling that reality itself unravels around you. Each time you are pulled into those visions, it becomes harder to tell what is real and what is imagined.

While you're sitting there, managing to steady your breath, you wonder—how much longer can you hold on to what’s real when your mind keeps dragging you into a world that feels just as tangible?

You exhale a long, relieved sigh finally calming down as you try to regain your focus. What were you doing again? Ah, yes... finishing your new book.

You type the final words of the epilogue, fingers hovering above the keyboard for just a second longer. The ending comes together, but still, something doesn’t sit right with you... the title. The book is finished, but how can it be complete without the right name? You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, eyes scanning the screen with tired satisfaction.

You aren’t just any writer, though. Hidden behind your pen name, you’ve become a literary sensation, with fans desperate for even a glimpse of who you really are. But anonymity suits you; fame has never been the goal. The words are the only thing that matter, and the world you’ve built between the pages feels more real than anything else—maybe too real?

Despite finishing the epilogue, something feels unresolved. Titles usually come easily to you, but this one, this book demands something special. Inspiration eludes you. You need a change of scenery... somewhere that can kickstart the creative process again.

With a resigned sigh, you dress quickly, grab your notebook, and head to one of the few places that has become your sanctuary when ideas won’t come: your favourite café.

The café sits nestled on a quiet street, its warm glow inviting you in like your old home. There’s something about the atmosphere, the soft hum of conversation usuallybetween elder people, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the soft clink of cups against saucers—that always seems to loosen the knots in your mind. You order your usual, find a quiet table in the corner, and set your notebook down, flipping it open to a fresh page.

"The War of Sakura," you scribble, only to strike it out immediately. "No, no, that’s terrible!! Ugh," you mutter to yourself, tapping the pen against your lips in frustration.

You take a sip of your coffee, leaning back in your seat as you stare out the window, hoping for some stroke of genius. Come on, Kurasu Café, work your magic. But the more you stare at the page, the more the words seem to evade you.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice someone sitting down across from you until you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Startled, you blink and look up, eyes widening as they land on the man before you.

It’s him.

For a moment, you’re convinced your mind is playing tricks on you again. The man in front of you has the same striking features, the same quiet mystery, the same piercing gaze that seems to see right through you.

The same man from your memories—the one you’re certain is nothing more than a figment of your imagination, or perhaps a character you’ve written into being.

But no. He’s here, in the flesh, sitting across from you in Kurasu Café.

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly blink, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, as though he can read every thought running through your mind.

“Excuse me…?”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You looked like you could use some company,” he says with the same silky smooth voice."You seemed… preoccupied."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, still trying to reconcile the fact that he’s real. The man in front of you is every bit as captivating as the one from your memories, as though he’s stepped right out of the story you’ve been crafting in your mind.

“I—uh,” you stammer, your fingers tightening around your pen as though it can somehow anchor you to reality. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His smile deepens the same one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he says simply,“but I know you.”

Your heart stops beating for a second. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. How can he know you? And why does it feel like he’s not just referring to surface-level details of your life, but something deeper, something far more intimate?

You glance at your notebook, half-expecting to see the story you’ve just finished reflected back at you, as though it’s somehow come to life.

He leans forward slightly, folding his hands on the table between you. “You’re searching for something, right?”

You narrow your eyes, “And what makes you think that?”

He shrugs, a graceful gesture that seems too perfect, too practiced. “I can always read your eyes, my dear” he replies. “You’re chasing after a truth that eludes you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s something about the way he speaks, the way he seems to know things about you that you haven’t even told yourself. You should feel unnerved, but instead, you feel drawn to him—just like in those memories, you can’t escape.

“Who are you?” you finally ask, hoping it's not one of your delusions playing tricks on you.

His smile softens, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze, it's the same flicker of pain that's so fleeting you almost miss it. He stands smoothly as he places a card on the table.

“Call me when you’re ready to stop running from your life,” he says, turning to leave.

You watch him go, your mind racing as you stare at the card he’s left behind. No name. No details. Just a single word, embossed in gold.

"Remember."

The café around you blurs, the noise fading into the background as you stare at the word on the card, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

And in that moment, you know—this isn’t over. The story isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

It's now 1:25 am as you sit at your desk, the dim light of the lamp doing little to coax you into sleep. Your eyes fixate on the card that lies on the desk, the single word "Remember" still taunting you. It feels surreal, like the whole encounter earlier today had slipped from reality into something else entirely. Your fingers brush over the card, tracing the embossed letters, as your mind races to make sense of what happened.

Should you call him?

You hesitate, holding the card between your fingers. Who was he? Could he really know you, or was he just one of your creepy fans, trying to unnerve you by dressing up like the protagonist of your story? You’ve heard of fanatics going to great lengths to mimic characters, but this felt different. Something about the encounter stayed with you, gnawing at the back of your mind.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss it. Maybe it was just an elaborate prank, you think. Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Or worse, trying to manipulate you into thinking your own creations are coming to life.

But even as you try to convince yourself, it doesn’t sit right. No fan, no matter how obsessed, could have pulled off what you experienced earlier. The way he looked at you, as if he had known you forever, made your skin prickle. His words had hit too close to home, and the feeling that he understood something about you—something you barely understood yourself—makes it impossible to shake off the encounter.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you finally make up your mind. Your fingers hover over your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark room. You type in the number from the card, each digit sending a shiver of doubt through your body.

Placing the phone to your ear, you close your eyes as the ringing begins. Once. Twice. Your heart pounds in your chest, every nerve alive with anticipation. What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

Just as the ringing starts to stretch into a third tone, there’s a faint click. You hold your breath.

“Hello?”

His voice is calm, like the same smooth, familiar tone from the café.

You pause, unsure of what to say, gripping the phone tighter. “It’s me,” you finally manage to say.

He chuckles softly, as though he expected your call all along. “Ahh my dear...I was wondering when you’d call,” he says, his voice oh god his voice is so soft. “Did you figure it out yet?”

Your heart races. “Figure what out? What’s going on?” you ask confused. “Who are you?”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice low and steady. “You already know who I am,” he says. “You’ve always known, milaya.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The room seems to close in around you, the silence pressing down as you try to piece together the meaning behind his words. You want to argue, to demand answers, but something stops you. It’s as though the truth is right there, just beyond your reach, but you’re too afraid to grasp it.

He continues, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “There are no coincidences. I didn’t come to you by chance. I came to you because we both have known each other for way too long.”

Your head spins. What does that even mean? You glance at your manuscript, the story that had felt so real, so vivid—too vivid. The lines between fiction and reality begin to blur, and the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to separate the two.

“What do you mean we know each other?” You whisper, voice trembling.

On the other end, he chuckles softly, a sound that’s too familiar, as if you've heard it a thousand times before in some forgotten dream. The sound pulls you out of your racing thoughts and back into the moment, grounding you in an unsettling way.

"You’ll understand soon," his voice is calm, though it does nothing to ease the knot forming in your chest.

Before you can protest or demand more answers, he continues, "I’ll come to your place, darling. We can talk then."

Panic flares inside you. Your eyes widen as you shoot up from your chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “What? How do you—” you begin to ask, but before you can finish, his voice cuts through.

“I know where you live,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “What… are you a stalker or something?” The question tumbles out, half-accusation, half-fear.

But his response is immediate, eerily calm, “No,” he says. “I’m no stalker. I know because no matter how many things change, no matter how the world twists and turns… the place you live, it always remains the same.”

Your heart races, your mind scrambling to process his words. The place you live… always the same? How could he know that? Why does it feel like he’s speaking of something far deeper than just the physical space around you?

“Please, my dear don’t worry about the details right now,” he interrupts your thoughts. “Just know that I’ll be there soon. And when I arrive, we can talk more about what’s really going on.”

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the phone in disbelief the world around you seems to tilt on its axis, and the comforting normalcy of your room suddenly feels alien. You sit in silence, the unanswered questions swirling in your mind as you hear a soft knock on your door.

You rise from your chair with trembling hands, each step towards the door feeling heavier than the last. When you open it, he stands there—just as enigmatic as before, with that same stoic, detached expression.

He smiles when he sees you, and the smile feels almost out of place with his otherwise stoic demeanor. In his hand, he holds a bouquet of red roses. “Good evening, Malyshka,” he says smoothly. “I thought these might brighten your night.”

Confusion knots in your stomach, but you take the bouquet from him, stepping aside to let him in. The roses are fresh, their scent a heady mix of sweetness and subtle spice. “Thank you,” you manage to say, “Please, come in.”

He moves past you slowly, navigating the living room with the familiarity of someone who’s been there more than a few times.

“I didn’t expect you to show up so soon,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “How did you find my place so quickly?”

He turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar look. “As I mentioned earlier, some things remain constant, no matter how much else changes. I’ve always known where to find you.”

“And what exactly do you want from me?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice steady.

He sits on your couch, smiling softly “I want to help you understand the connection we've always shared,” he says. “There’s much to discuss, and I believe it’s time we begin.”

You nod, slightly anxious of what he's about to reveal, “Alright. I’m listening.”

He relaxes his posture, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let’s start with the basics,” he begins. “You’ve been searching for answers, and I’m here to provide them. But first, you need to accept that the boundaries between a life and another are not as rigid as they seem.”

With a deep breath, you take a seat across from him silently waiting for him to continue.

“This is probably the sixth time I’ve been through this,” he continues. “my dear...you have an ability—one that makes you reincarnate. It happens every seven lifetimes, and this one is the seventh and final life.”

You stare at him, your mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his words. “Reincarnation?” you echo, incredulous.

He nods, “Yes. I’ve witnessed you die in my arms time and again. Each time, you lose your memories, and I find you again. No matter how many lifetimes pass, I have always been there. In every life, I have been your one and only—your husband.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he speaks. “But… but how? I’ve been experiencing delusions lately, slowly disconnecting from reality. I- I even went to a therapist, thinking I was going insane, but…”

“But what?” he prompts gently.

“But now I’m starting to think those memories were real,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe the writing affected me, that I was imagining things. But if what you’re saying is true… I’ve been recalling memories from past lives?”

He nods, his gaze compassionate yet firm. “Those fragments were memories from your past lives. The feelings of detachment, the disconnection from reality—it’s all part of your ability’s process. Each lifetime, you’ve struggled with this, but you’ve always managed to find your way back to me.”

You sit back, feeling overwhelmed. “So, all this time, I’ve been recalling memories from past lives? And that’s why I felt so disconnected and unsettled?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “It’s why you’ve felt like something was missing, even when everything else seemed to be in place. Your soul remembers our connection, but the details slip away with each new life.”

Your eyes search his face, trying to find the truth in his words. “Are..are you immortal?”

He sighs softly, a look of resignation crossing his face. “Something like that,” he admits. “I’m not exactly immortal, but I endure through each lifetime. It’s not without its own pain.”

He stands and moves closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His touch so tender making your heart flatter subconsciously leaning into it, his eyes filled with profound...it's heartbreaking. “You have no idea how much I miss you, milaya,” he says quietly. “How much it hurts me to see you slip away from my arms each time. Every time, you’re taken from me by an ability user. The first time, it was my cruel father who killed you. The second time, it was an assassin with an ability. And so it went, one after another.”

His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “But this time? I will never let you go, moya lyubov. I won’t let anything take you from me again.”

Slowly, he leans in, and you find yourself lost in his half-lidded amethyst gaze, the slight glance of pain in his eyes is now gone. You brush a strand of his slightly long hair behind his ear, your knuckles grazing his cheekbones.

"Milaya," he whispers, closing the distance between you, his cold lips gently brush against yours, The moment your lips touch, a warm, relaxing spark ignites deep within you, spreading a soothing glow through your entire body. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home, like finding the missing piece of your heart.

Your body reacts instinctively. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He lifts you gently, your feet barely touching the ground, as he holds you close. His hands rest on your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as his kisses start to get sloppier with a sweet, heartfelt heat. It’s as if he’s trying to savor every moment, every touch, to make up for all the years apart.

He gently pulls away, his breath mingling with yours as he murmurs, “You should get some rest, darling,” His words are a tender reminder, and his touch lingers as he softly caresses your cheeks, jaw and chin.

You keep your arms wrapped around his neck, “Please don't leave.”

The Russian man, ever devoted, cannot bear the thought of leaving your side now that you are once again in his arms. With a serene nod and a tender, otherworldly smile, he whispers,

"I will forever be by your side, moya milaya."

A/N: I know this isn’t my best work—I've been dealing with writer’s block lately, especially after spending the last few days working on Kinktober fics. Apologies if any part feels rushed. I also made sure to use past tense for the memories and present tense for the current events, in case you noticed that. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this!

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internet-rat · 11 months ago

Text

Illumi x wife!reader

Just a bit of fluff because my scary boy needs some love

No warnings~

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You had been sleeping when you felt silky hair graze your cheek. You opened your eyes and saw the pale figure stare down at you with his large dark eyes. To anyone else it would seem like a scene from a horror movie. A pale being with long dark hair hovering over someone who was sleeping. But you smiled, because you knew your husband was home from a contract. You reach your hand up and stroke his soft cheek.

Illumi's large, unblinking eyes continued to bore into yours, yet no hint of malice or aggression tainted his gaze. It was almost as if he could see into the very depths of your soul, understanding every nuance of your being. His stoic visage didn't change at your touch, yet the slightest softening around his eyes might indicate that he welcomed it, appreciated it even.

"Missed me?" Illumi's voice was a quiet murmur, the words a velvet whisper against the silent backdrop of the night. It was difficult to tell if the question was rhetorical or if he was genuinely curious about your feelings.

His hand, slender and almost ghostly pale, reached up to where your hand caressed his cheek. His fingertips brushed against yours, a surprisingly gentle touch from someone so skilled in the art of killing. He seemed to contemplate your hand for a moment before bringing it to his lips, pressing a chill kiss to the back of your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

His soft kiss sends the good kind of chills through your body. He was strange, your husband. It was like he was more like a creature than a human. He was the kind of person who would dig a hole in the ground to sleep in if he needed rest on a mission. He could use his needles to turn people into puppets, and he could use needles to transform his appearance too. He was unnerving and uncanny, but you loved him for it.

"Of course I missed you... I always do when you are gone," you softly reply. It was the truth too. You did always miss him.

"I see," Illumi responded, his voice maintaining that same monotone yet carrying an almost unseen layer of warmth within its timbre. The idea that you missed him seemed to lodge itself in his mind, a concept both foreign and intriguing.

He slowly withdrew his hand from yours, his touch lingering like a ghost as he moved. Then, with movements that were methodical and deliberate, he allowed his long body to hover just above yours as if he was cautious not to disturb you more than he already had.

His inky black hair, a stark contrast to the softness of the pillow and the pale moonlight spilling into the room, fanned out as he lowered his head closer to yours. "When I am gone, do you think of me?" he questioned, the pupils of his eyes swallowing the irises, making them seem like endless pits of curiosity.

As he asked the question, his hand moved to rest against your cheek, almost as though he was memorizing the feel of your skin against his own. His closeness was both intimidating and intimate, a duality that only Illumi could embody so perfectly. "Because when I am away, completing contracts... I think of this. Of returning to you." The notion seemed to please him, a sliver of satisfaction hidden beneath layers of his enigmatic facade.

His gaze remained locked with yours, as if trying to see beyond the physical, to understand the essence of the emotion you had expressed. It was a silent exchange, one where words were cumbersome compared to the volumes spoken in the silence.

You could not help but to blush and smile at how sweet he was being. "I think of you all the time when you are away, and when you return to me it makes me so very happy," you reply earnestly.

The faintest trace of a smile seemed to threaten the corners of Illumi's stoic mouth at your words, though it never fully manifested. His expression remained an almost impassive mask, yet there was a subtle change in his eyes – the black pools that might have been cold in another context now appeared deep and contemplative, as if your happiness had become a puzzle he yearned to solve.

"Happy..." he echoed your word, as if tasting it on his lips, considering its meaning. His hand shifted, the long fingers threading through your blonde locks, a faint sense of wonder lacing his movements as he explored the silky texture of your hair. "Your happiness is... important. I understand that now."

He leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, the cool breath from his words brushing against your skin. "I will continue to return to you. Each mission, each assignment... they are but interludes. You are where my path concludes."

Illumi's gaze bore into yours, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he was peeling back the layers of his calculated exterior to reveal a glimpse of something raw, something undeniably human. "I am not skilled in expressiveness, but know that your presence... it anchors me."

And with that rare admission, Illumi's lips found your forehead in a tender kiss, an action devoid of any nefarious intent, simple yet profound in its sincerity. It was clear that, in his own way, the assassin who could manipulate others so easily was, in turn, wholly affected by your mere existence.

#Illumi fans come get yer slop #a scoop o slop for yall #hxh illumi #illumi zoldyck #illumi zoldyck x reader #illumi x reader #illumi x you #illumi imagine #illumi headcanons #hxh x you #hxh x reader

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r3starttt · 10 months ago

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KISS ME

PAIRING: Jackson! ellie x reader

CW: request. outbreak | tlou universe.

SUMMARY: Ellie takes care of you after patrol.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | - ellie taglist: @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages

The night sky stretches above you, a deep canvas of blue-black, with only a few stubborn stars daring to puncture its vastness. The moon, however, shone with an almost ethereal glow, casting a silvery light that softened the edges of the night. It illuminated your path home. Yet, its light did little to ease the weariness clinging to your body. Every muscle ached, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your tired limbs.

The ground beneath your feet felt distant, as if you were walking on shattered glass, each step a jagged reminder of the day’s relentless toll. It felt as though the very bones in your feet might shatter with the weight of the exhaustion that clung to you, heavy and unyielding.

From the moment you left the safety of yours and Ellie's shared walls, it was a relentless march through the wilderness, every mile weighing down on you like a stone.

The hours went by in a haze of heat and sweat, the sun’s unforgiving rays beating down on you until you felt as though your very essence was melting away. The memory of that heat still lingered, a phantom pain that sapped what little strength you had left.

Your legs had carried you far beyond what should have been your limit. Every patrol was a test, pushing you to the edge, but it was always the final stretch—the steps that brought you back home—that hurt the most. The pain of a long day wasn’t truly felt until you stood on the threshold of safety, when the body, sensing the nearness of rest, began to unravel, finally allowed to release.

The night was quiet, the crickets were quieter tonight, their usual chorus subdued, as if they, too, were tired. Instead, the usual symphony had been replaced by the distant air, a murmur of voices- the sound of the town coming alive in the evening.

People greeted the returning patrols, their voices carrying a mix of relief and fatigue, like echoes of a world that still held onto some semblance of normalcy. Your own group had been particularly weary tonight, the day’s struggles etched into the lines of their faces as they shared tired smiles and half-hearted jokes. Last voices you heard were tinged with exhaustion, drifted to you, words that blended together in a chorus of shared fatigue.

But the sounds of the night could not drown out the ghosts that clung to your mind—the groans and cries of the infected, the hollow echoes of what once were human beings. Their twisted forms a grim reminder of what awaited those who let their guard down.

A smear of dried blood clung to your cheek, the crimson stark against your sweat-streaked skin. Every inch of you was covered in the grime of the day, the sun having left its mark in the form of a relentless burn that sapped your energy and left you feeling hollowed out.

The bruises and cuts scattered across your body throbbed with a dull ache, a heavy weight that seemed to settle in your stomach, twisting it into tight knots. It felt like you’d been running on empty, forcing yourself through sheer willpower, and now that you were so close to rest, the pain was finally catching up to you.

Your fingers brushed against the rough wood of Ellie’s porch door, the familiar texture grounding you for just a moment before it was pulled open. The door swung inward with surprising ease, and there she was—Ellie. The first thing you saw was her eyes, green orbs filled with worry as they drank in the sight of you. She had been waiting, her anxiety palpable in the way her fingers fidgeted nervously, tangling together as if she could knit away her fear.

Without a word, she reached for you, guiding you inside with a gentle hand on your arm. You stumbled through the doorway, the weight of your body dragging you down, but before you could even think to shrug it off, Ellie was there, the moth tattoo peeking out from beneath her sleeve as she motioned for you to turn around. Your body moved on autopilot, dragging itself to obay her command, sluggishly.

Ellie had barely waited for you to move before she was easing the heavy backpack from your shoulders, her fingers deftly undoing the straps as if they were second nature. Too enveloped in the warmth, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights adorning the room and adding to the feeling of safety that she always manages to create around you- barely registering the weight of your backpack being lifted from your shoulders.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was soft, a quiet melody tinged with concern, though you could only manage a nod, your throat too tight to form words. The day had stolen your voice, leaving you with nothing but the heaviness in your chest. But Ellie’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing in its familiarity.

The space enlightened in a gentle, golden hue. It felt like a safe haven, a sanctuary where the world outside could not reach you.

You stumbled toward the couch, your hands fumbling with the laces of your boots. On your ears echoed the faint rustle of fabric as Ellie hung up your—her—jacket on the hook by the door, the simple act somehow grounding you even further.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmured, her gaze lifting to meet yours, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Despite the exhaustion pulling at your very soul, you found comfort in that smile, in the way she always knew how to take care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Yet the calm faded with a frustrated groan that escaped your lips as you encountered a stubborn knot, the simple task suddenly insurmountable in your current state. Ellie noticed immediately, her eyes softening with sympathy as she was already there, kneeling down in front of you, "Stop, you’re gonna make it worse,” she chided gently, her hands brushing yours aside with that lopsided smile you knew so well.

“Let me,” her whisper insisting once again, preventing you from even thinking on fighting her back. Ellie's tone low and husky, a sound that always sent a shiver down your spine. Her fingers worked deftly at the knot, untying it with ease, her touch careful and deliberate. As she did, she glanced up, her voice dropping to a softer, more husky tone, as if trying to coax a response out of you. “Did you hear what I said?”

You managed a half-hearted reply, more of a mumble than anything else. “Get me cleaned, yes.” her fingers finally loosening the stubborn knot, helping you out of your boots. It felt as if the weight of the day begin to lift, replaced by the comfort of knowing that you had her with you, in this very moment to finally provide you safeness.

She would never say it, but you could see the relief in her expression, the way her worry eased just a fraction realizing the same thing. After a long day, she had you there, safe.

"Come on," you groaned, tilting your head back as you sighed deeply. Inside your mind, you counted down from five before finally taking her hand and standing up.

The stiffness in your feet began to ease as you pressed your feet against the cold, hard concrete floor. Its coolness and firmness, in contrast to the warm flesh, added just enough pressure to make you feel better.

Ellie led you into the bathroom—it was only a few steps, really. Her hand was a steadying presence, her fingers resting gently on your opposite arm with each step you took. The small space was dimly lit, a single candle flickering and casting soft, dancing shadows on the walls. Ellie’s bathroom was simple but functional—a small tub, a sink, and a water system. A barrel of water sat near the ceiling, connected to a series of tubes that fed into the showerhead, sink, and toilet. It wasn’t much, but it worked, and in this world, that was everything.

The absence of her touch contrasted with the tender atmosphere. From your viewpoint, you could see her hair, messily tidied into a bun, with a few baby hairs and stray strands adorning her neck and the area behind her ears. You wanted to kiss them.

She knelt by the tub, her movements loud as she filled a bucket with water. The sound of the water splashing into the bucket was soothing, a gentle reminder that you were finally safe—finally home.

Ellie set the bucket down next to the tub and looked up at you, only then realizing you were already looking back. It was quiet, aside from the sound of the water, but everything felt blurry in her presence.

You shifted slightly, resting the back of your arms and elbows against the sink to keep your composure, making enough space for both of you and allowing her to stand up.

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the dried blood that clung stubbornly to your skin. "Arms up," she said with quiet determination, an unspoken promise that she wouldn’t let anything else be a struggle tonight.

You nodded, too tired to do much else, and let her help you out of your clothes. Each piece of fabric that left your body and fell to the floor felt like another layer of the day’s grime and exhaustion being peeled away. By the time you stood there, bare and vulnerable, you felt lighter—still weary, but no longer weighed down.

The tub was cold and stiff, making your bones ache. But it was all easily forgotten. Ellie dipped a sponge into the bucket and began to gently cleanse your skin. She worked in silence, her touch tender and methodical as she wiped away the dirt, blood, and sweat that clung to you. The water was cool against your overheated skin, soothing the burns left by the sun and the aches buried deep in your muscles. The sponge moved across your body with a kind of reverence, as if she were handling something precious. In that moment, you were—precious to her, and safe in her care.

When the sponge had done its work, Ellie carefully poured the dirty water over you, rinsing away the last remnants of the day and ensuring your hair was thoroughly wet. The water cascaded down your body, carrying away the grime and blood, leaving you feeling half-clean—both physically and emotionally.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling as though the water was rinsing away more than just dirt. It was washing away the tension, the fear, and the exhaustion, leaving you with nothing but the comfort of being home, of being with her.

Ellie reached for the soap, lathering it between her hands before gently running them over your skin. The smell of it—something mild and earthy, a scent she had traded for a few weeks back—filled the small bathroom. The soap felt comforting against your battered skin, and Ellie’s hands moved with the kind of care that came from knowing just how fragile you felt in that moment.

She repeated those same motions later, with the soap on your body, her fingers careful not to apply too much pressure whenever there was a cut, bruise, or anything that could cause pain.

“Let me know if it hurts,” Ellie murmured, her voice a low, comforting hum that resonated in your chest. You managed a weak nod, closing your eyes as you surrendered fully to her care. The world outside ceased to exist, reduced to the sound of water splashing against porcelain and the feeling of Ellie’s hands moving over your body in a slow, rhythmic dance.

Finally, she reached up and pulled the chain that controlled the flow of water from the barrel, letting a gentle stream of water fall over you from the showerhead. It wasn’t much—she had to be careful with how much water was used—but it was enough.

"Here," she whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead as she handed you a small towel. It was barely enough to properly dry your hair, but you always managed to make it work.

Too focused on the wet sounds in your ears coming from your hair being dried, you barely noticed the commotion Ellie made while searching for a proper towel for you. She swore she had a clean one left—or maybe she had just convinced herself earlier to avoid doing laundry today. But you didn't know that, so she had to hurry.

When she finally appeared in the doorway, you tilted your chin up, meeting her hands first and then the towel she held. "Come here," she murmured. In a matter of seconds, she had the towel wrapped around your shoulders and was guiding you out of the bathroom and, much to your relief, into the very desirable bed.

She knelt in front of you again, her hands busy with the towel, drying you off with the same care she’d shown throughout. As she worked, her eyes kept flicking up to meet yours, as if she needed to reassure herself that you were really safe, here.

"Can I?" she asked, her fingers lightly grazing the skin of your thighs. Her hazel eyes, dilated pupils, focused on all the bruises, all the wounds. And again, you didn't reply verbally but simply moved the towel aside, exposing yourself before her and allowing her to reach every inch of skin that needed the tenderness of her touch.

It took some pain, hisses, and a kiss here and there. The needle was probably something no human could ever get used to, nor the sensation of the thread between your skin. But you made it work; you had to.

Ellie was gentle, helping you into a clean set of clothes—something soft and warm that smelled faintly of her. You could barely keep your eyes open by this point, the weight of the day catching up with you now that you were finally clean and comfortable.

"Hey," Ellie called softly, taking your hand and gripping it just enough to reassure you. You turned your chin up, meeting her pretty eyes and that sheepish smile. "Let's go eat, come on."

As you did every morning, you forced yourself out of bed. Just as you had done with the couch when you first came in, you took a deep breath, counted to three, and stood up.

Dinner most nights was something she threw together while you were out on patrol. Today, the aroma of a hearty stew filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of herbs.

Usually you’d joke about her cooking, mocking her “chef talents”—she wasn't the best. But tonight, the words stuck in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion and the thought of simply touching the bed again, it looked so inviting.

You slid into your seat at the table, the day's exhaustion making your limbs heavy. Ellie chuckled, her usual dorky grin present but softened by concern. "It's not fancy, but—" she said, sliding a plate in front of you. "It's edible."

She watched as you took tentative bites, her hand resting on your back, offering silent encouragement. As usual, she didn’t touch her own food until she saw you eat.

The silence between you was comfortable, the warmth of the stew seeping into your bones, grounding you after the chaos of the day. Yet, as the meal progressed, your appetite remained low. You gave small glances at Ellie, considering your usual reluctance to eat her cooking.

"I know you’re tired, but you haven't had proper food since breakfast."

You knew that if you refused again, she’d let it slide, waiting until you were sound asleep before eating anything herself just to avoid an argument.

But after all she’d done to take care of you tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to fight her on this. "I’ll wait with you. We can eat together.” With a quiet nod, you picked up your spoon again and took another bite.

Relief. Ellie could only stare at you with relief. The adrenaline of every time you went out on patrol never really fading until next day- for her, it wasn't only the thoughts of you getting hurt, but killed, taken by anyone and being hurt. She feared humans mostly.

And then, seeing you in front of her- yes, hurt, but nothing else- it was like all the anxiety finally made any sense. What would it be if any day you didn't come back, how could she ever manage to eat dinner herself, alone.

Having you in front of her, so close. Feeling the warmth of your skin under her hoodie- the fact that you're the one on her clothes, right next to her. The fact that she's having to force you to eat. It's always a relief, to know you're here, with her, that she has you.

It wasn't until her brain finally realized it was all good that she started to eat.

You always finished first. Only waiting for your stomach to feel full enough, with a gentle move, you pushed the plate away slightly to let her know you were done. Ellie always replied with a nod and a quick glance. Her hand on your thigh as she finished the last few bites of her meal.

The usual banter and teasing were absent, replaced by a quiet understanding—a silent agreement that tonight was about more than just food or sleep. It was about taking care of each other, about finding comfort in the little things. Like—no dishes to be washed tonight. That's future you both's problem.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to your tired mind.

You didn’t argue, letting her lead you to the small bed you shared. The sheets cool against your skin as you slipped under them, Ellie sliding in beside you. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you in a comfortable and tight enough embrace that felt like the safest place in the world. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your back lulled you.

You could feel the rhythm of her breathing against your neck. It all creating the most desirable sanctuary. And after hours that felt endless, you could close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of normalcy—the simple, precious moment of being held by someone who cares deeply, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brings, you'd wake up next to her, ready to face it together.

#( 𓍼𓈀A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ⨟ 𓍯 ellie )#( 𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ Ellie ❫#ellie x reader fluff #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #ellie x reader #ellie fluff #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x reader #jackson ellie #A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( ellie )

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theskywithin · 2 months ago

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There’s More to the Houses Than You Think

Twelve Doors Into the Soul’s Memory

✨ Author’s Note: In my first book, I explored the birth chart through a classic, psychological lens, grounded in human experience and practical meaning. But the more I worked with astrology, the more I began to hear the voice of the soul beneath the structure. This post is a glimpse into the second book I’m now writing, one that deeply explores the chart from a soul-centered perspective. Together, both books offer two sides of the same truth: one helps you understand your human path, the other guides you through your soul’s remembering. I hope you like it ✨ Stay Tuned! 🪐

✦ First House

The 1st House is the starting line of the soul, the moment your essence chose to return. It’s the place where you re-entered the world and agreed, once again, to exist in form. This house shows both where and how you began this life, where you landed, and how you chose to appear. The sign on the cusp describes the energetic style you needed to embody in that first breath, not just physically, but spiritually. It holds the imprint of your earliest instinct: the moment your soul said, “I am here.” But this isn’t necessarily your truest self. It’s the version of you that could survive the landing. The shape you had to take. The armor you wore before you were safe enough to soften. The way you moved before you were ready to feel. From a soul perspective, the 1st House is not just a mask, it’s a memory. A memory of separation. Of stepping out of the infinite and into a single identity. Of agreeing to be seen even when you didn’t yet remember who you were. This house carries the imprint of your karmic threshold. The edge you crossed when you said: “I’ll try again. But this time, I’ll begin like this.”

✦ Second House

If the 1st House is the moment the soul says “I am,” then the 2nd is where it asks, “Can I stay?” This house is the soul’s relationship with presence, permission, and permanence. Permission to take up space. Permission to trust the body. Permission to receive without proving you’ve earned it. From a soul perspective, the 2nd House carries the imprint of embodiment, not just living in a body, but belonging to it. Feeling your feet on the ground. Knowing you are allowed to have needs. Choosing to build something slow even after lifetimes of instability or survival. The sign on the cusp and the planets in it show the test your soul willingly walked into. The environment it chose to re-enter in order to unlearn what it once believed was true. Perhaps that safety must be earned. That stillness is dangerous. That having too much leads to loss. That value comes from sacrifice. This house becomes the field where you rewire those beliefs, slowly, gently, in real time. Not to become better. But to come back to yourself. The 2nd House is about what you slowly allow yourself to trust. It asks you to come back into the body not just as a vessel, but as a place worth living in. And to remember that you don’t have to earn what’s already yours.

✦ Third House

This is where the soul wakes up to thought, perception and meaning. The 3rd House holds the soul’s first real conversation with contrast. This is where the world begins to contradict itself, where things stop being simple, and start being interpreted. Here, the soul is surrounded by complexity: early voices, rapid thoughts, competing beliefs. A fast-moving environment of influences that don’t always align. And from that confusion, something begins to form: a personal narrative. A structure. A system of thought, not always true, but deeply familiar. This house holds the tone of your inner voice, the one that speaks when no one is listening. The one that loops. The one that learned early how to make sense of noise. From a soul perspective, the 3rd House is about mental awakening through contradiction. The environment the soul chose to sharpen perception, to question the obvious, to learn how to separate pattern from truth. And the sign on the cusp shows how you process complexity: whether you organize it, absorb it, filter it, challenge it, or whether you’re still learning how to quiet the echo of thoughts that were never fully yours. This isn’t about speaking clearly. It’s about thinking clearly in a world that taught you to do the opposite.

✦ Fourth House

The 4th House is the energetic basement, the root system of the chart. From a soul perspective, it’s about what you carried in with you. This is where the soul stores emotional memory, the deep, quiet kind. Not memory in words, memory in feeling. A kind of energetic USB, holding all the data your body doesn’t remember, but your nervous system never forgot. Here lives the imprint of lifetimes: The ache of having been abandoned. The fear of being invisible. The longing to be held or the decision to never need holding again. This house tells you what still lives inside you from where you’ve been. It holds the climate of your inner world, your unconscious reflex to retreat, to protect, to collapse inward. And the sign on the cusp shows how you manage that emotional archive: whether you wall it off, wrap it in softness, bury it deep, or try to clean it until it disappears. The 4th House isn’t about the home you have. It’s about the home you are. And whether your soul feels safe enough to return to it.

✦ Fifth House

The 5th House is where your soul came to feel light again. This is the part of you that remembers life isn’t just a test. It’s a vacation for the soul. A rare chance to taste strawberries. To dance in sunlight. To kiss someone and not overthink it. To create something beautiful that doesn’t need to prove its worth. From a soul perspective, this house isn’t about performance. It’s not about winning, competing, or collecting praise. It’s about returning to the childlike part of you that once knew how to love boldly, express honestly, and play without wondering who was watching. It’s about presence. About sensation. Because the soul didn’t just come here to evolve, it also came here to experience. The body you live in is a suitcase you brought along to feel everything this life has to offer. The five senses are how your spirit stays grounded in the beauty of being here. This house resists the noise of modern life, the comparison, the urgency, the pressure to always be doing. Here, your soul detoxes from all that. It remembers that joy is not a reward. It’s a right. The sign on the cusp shows how you reclaim that joy: with music, with movement, with curiosity, with warmth. This is about being alive. Present. Sensing. Free. The 5th House is where your soul says: “This is what you came for. Don’t forget to enjoy it.”

✦ Sixth House

The 6th House is where the soul learns how to stay in the body, in the moment, in the motion of daily life. This is not the house of fixing. It’s the house of tending. Of showing up not to perfect yourself, but to care for yourself and the world around you, bit by bit, breath by breath. From a soul perspective, this is where devotion becomes embodied in the way you pour your tea. In the way you care for your nervous system. In how you meet your own needs without shame. This is also where the soul learns how to cooperate with other souls. To walk beside people, not ahead of them, not behind them. To contribute, to support, to serve out of remembrance that you came here together. It’s not about sacrifice. It’s about shared rhythm. About learning how to move in harmony with life, with others, with the version of yourself that needs patience, not pressure. The sign on the cusp shows how you offer your presence: with structure, with softness, with discernment, with sensitivity. The 6th House doesn’t ask you to do something grand. It asks you to do something real. To tend. To stay. And to remember that even the smallest acts, done with care, can become a form of light.

✦ Seventh House

The 7th House is where the soul meets its mirror. Not to find a missing piece but to realize it was never missing at all. This house holds the space where “I” becomes “we.” But from a soul perspective, it’s not about finding the one. It’s about seeing what gets reflected when you stand close to another. What you admire. What you fear. What you hand over without realizing it was yours to begin with. The 7th House is not about romantic endings. It’s about recognition. A place where the soul enters into relationship not for comfort, but for integration. To reclaim the parts of itself it once projected onto someone else. This is where connection becomes a kind of soul work. Where love becomes the mirror that shows you your strength, your shadow, your softness, your patterns. Where you learn that intimacy doesn’t mean merging. It means choosing, again and again, to stay present with another soul while still staying whole. The sign on the cusp reveals how you relate and what you’re still learning to own within yourself. It may show the kind of energy you look for in others because you haven’t yet allowed it to live fully in you. From a soul lens, this house isn’t about losing yourself in someone else. It’s about finding yourself through the act of meeting them. And it asks only one thing in return: Let the mirror soften you, not define you.

✦ Eighth House

The 8th House is where the soul goes to burn. Not in punishment, in purification. This is not the house of endings. It’s the house of unraveling. Of shedding what no longer fits. Of releasing what was never truly yours. From a soul perspective, the 8th House holds the energy of karmic entanglement. The bonds that don’t make sense, but feel ancient. The grief that shows up without a story. The power dynamics you didn’t choose but somehow repeat. You don’t need to understand them. Your soul remembers. And it came here to transmute. This is where the deepest work happens, where silence becomes a language and what’s hidden begins to rise. Shame, obsession, longing, control, all surface here, not to hurt you, but to free you. The 8th House is also where the soul learns to merge without disappearing. Where intimacy becomes ritual. Where sex becomes more than flesh, it becomes a form of soul-speak. A way for two beings to share memory through the body. To move energy. To say, “I see you,” without needing words. To feel truth move between skin and spirit. And the sign on the cusp reveals how you enter this transformation, with intensity, fear, silence, trust, hunger, or resistance. But no one leaves this house the same. Not because something is taken but because something false is burned away. The 8th House is not about death. It’s about what survives it. It’s where your soul walks into the fire, and walks out whole.

✦ Ninth House

The 9th House is where the soul looks up. After everything it’s lost. After everything it’s survived. This is where the soul wants to understand. From a soul perspective, this house holds the pull between escape and awakening. It’s the restless urge to go elsewhere and the deeper invitation to see more clearly right here. This is the soul’s classroom. Not one with walls, but with windows. Here, it learns through instruments: through books and myths, rituals and ruins, distant lands and quiet teachers. Through every story that feels strangely familiar. Every culture that reminds you how similar we all are even when we speak in different tongues. Because in this house, truth isn’t singular. It’s layered. It speaks in symbols. It repeats itself across continents, scriptures, centuries. The soul doesn’t want one belief, it wants a constellation of meaning. A high enough view to see the thread connecting everything it’s been through. The 9th House is the soul’s desire to stretch. To grow through experience, not theory. To learn that every story you encounter, every road you walk, every truth you translate, is just another version of the lesson you came here to live. And the sign on the cusp shows how you seek that wisdom: with fire, with humility, with openness, with doubt. This isn’t about certainty. It’s about faith without finality. Wonder without walls. It’s where your soul remembers: There are many names for the divine but the lesson is always the same.

✦ Tenth House

The 10th House is where the soul emerges from the quiet. From all the internal work, the shedding, the seeking. This is where it asks, “What am I here to give back?” Not for applause. Not for recognition. But because the truth it holds has ripened and it’s time to offer it. From a soul perspective, this house is not just about legacy. It’s about alignment. The moment when your outer life begins to reflect your inner wisdom. When what you’ve carried for lifetimes finally meets the moment it can be received. This is the house of sacred visibility. Where your presence teaches. Where your lived truth becomes a light for others. It’s not about being above them, it’s about speaking from where you’ve been, so those still on the path can hear something familiar and remember their own strength. Imagine this house as a conference room of souls. You are the speaker now. Not because you’re better but because you’ve lived the lesson. And others came here to learn what you now hold effortlessly. You’re not here to perform. You’re here to pass it on. And the sign on the cusp reveals how you lead, with quiet authority, creative truth, steady devotion, visionary insight. The 10th House doesn’t ask you to become something you’re not. It asks you to embody what you already are and trust that when you do, the world will feel it. Because your greatest impact isn’t what you build. It’s what you leave behind in others once you’ve spoken your truth.

✦ Eleventh House

The 11th House is the house of resonance. Not popularity. Not fitting in. But finding the ones who recognize your frequency and say, “I remember you.” This is where the soul steps beyond the self into the field of shared vision, collective growth, and cosmic collaboration. From a soul perspective, the 11th House is where you meet the people you’ve been carrying in your field for lifetimes. The ones you made promises to before you got here. The ones who arrive not to mirror you, but to build with you. It’s the space of soul contracts, both old and new. Where energy introduces itself before names do. Where something inside you softens because, finally, you’re not dreaming the future alone. The 11th House is also the place of the next horizon. Where you stretch toward something bigger than yourself. A vision. A mission. A frequency you can only hold fully when you're surrounded by others who feel it too. It’s not about belonging to the crowd. It’s about finding the current you belong to. And choosing to move with it. The sign on the cusp reveals how your soul connects: with rebellion, with devotion, with innovation, with care. And how you magnetize the ones who are meant to walk beside you, not because you try to be like them, but because you finally dared to be fully yourself. This is the house where the future begins in soulful company.

✦ Twelfth House

The 12th House is not where things end. It’s where they unravel. Where names fall away. Where roles dissolve. Where you remember: You are soul, not skin and bones. This is the soul’s secret room, its sanctuary, its silence, its soft return. From a soul perspective, this house is a spiritual echo chamber where your truth speaks, not in words, but in symbols, dreams, and knowing. A language not made for logic, only for those who remember how to feel without needing proof. Here, solitude becomes communion with the unseen. Stillness becomes prayer. Surrender becomes the softest kind of power. You don’t always know what’s healing here but something is. Quietly. Behind the curtain of the conscious mind. The 12th House holds the energies you carry without knowing. The karmic threads, the ancestral dreams, the emotions that don’t seem to belong to this life, but live inside you all the same. And the sign on the cusp shows how you listen. How you retreat. How you dream, dissolve, and disappear. This is not a house of isolation. It is a place of return. A whispered reminder that before you were anyone, you were everything.

🔍 Decode your chart from the inside out. My first book is a deep dive into how your mind, identity, and behavior are written in the stars.

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curatedbyondrea · 1 year ago

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The Art of Rest: 7 Invitations to Recharge Your Feminine Energy

Ah, rest. The very word evokes a sense of tranquility, a sigh of relief as we sink into a haven of rejuvenation. But in our busy lives, rest can often feel like a luxury we can't afford. Yet, true well-being hinges on this precious practice.

Just like a beautiful flower needs a variety of nurturing elements to bloom, we as women require different kinds of rest to flourish. Let's explore seven invitations to cultivate a deeper sense of rest and radiate your feminine energy from the inside out.

1. The Invitation to Physical Ease: Imagine yourself nestled in cozy blankets, the soft weight of sleep gently cradling your body. Physical rest is the foundation, allowing our muscles to mend and our energy to replenish. Grant yourself the gift of sufficient sleep, gentle stretches, or a warm bath – acts of kindness your body will surely thank you for.

2. The Invitation to Quiet Your Mind: Our thoughts can sometimes feel like a relentless current, pulling us in a million directions. Mental rest is about creating a sanctuary within. Curl up with a calming book, step outside for a mindful walk, or simply allow your breath to be your anchor. As your mind quiets, a sense of peace will naturally wash over you.

3. The Invitation to Sensory Solace: Dim the bright lights, put down the phone, and allow yourself to truly listen to the world around you. Sensory rest is a gentle retreat from the constant stimulation of modern life. Create a calming ambiance with soft music, or step outside and feel the earth beneath your bare feet. Let your senses savor the present moment.

4. The Invitation to Unleash Creativity: Sometimes, the most creative ideas spark when we allow ourselves to simply be. Creative rest isn't about forcing inspiration, but rather letting it flow freely. Engage in activities that bring you joy, like dancing to your favorite music, or simply daydreaming with a cup of tea.

5. The Invitation to Nurture Your Emotions: Just like delicate flowers, our emotions need tending to. Emotional rest is about creating a safe space to process your feelings, whether through journaling, spending time with a trusted friend, or simply allowing yourself to cry. By acknowledging your emotions, you create space for inner peace to blossom.

6. The Invitation to Embrace Solitude: While connection is vital, social rest allows us to fully recharge. Take an afternoon for yourself, curl up with a good book, or simply enjoy the quiet company of your own thoughts. In this solitude, you'll discover a renewed capacity for connection when you return to social spaces.

7. The Invitation to Connect with Something Bigger: Spiritual rest allows us to connect with something that transcends the everyday. This might involve spending time in nature, practicing a form of meditation, or simply reflecting on your values and purpose. By nurturing this connection, you'll find a deeper sense of peace and grounding.

By embracing these invitations to rest, you'll discover a wellspring of renewed energy, a blossoming of creativity, and a radiant inner glow that exemplifies the true essence of feminine energy. Remember, dear friend, rest is not a sign of weakness; it's the foundation for a life overflowing with grace and strength.

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whoopsyeahokay · 10 months ago

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October Sun

summary: after you'd sent Xavier a text that told him not to meet you, you'd ventured to the school at dawn, alone, bouquet in hand as promised. Xavier, however, hadn't taken well to being dismissed.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.24

It was barely 6AM. You'd hardly slept after Dave had returned you to the house. He'd watched you climb the stairs to the second floor, ever the persistent warden, before you'd heard him slink down to the basement he and Aurora had converted into their private apartment.

Besides the numerous big reveals that had unfolded last night—Ajay's odd friendship with your sister, Maddie's soul penetrating the field of your cosmic artery, the soul-tie you and Wally somehow shared—besides all of that, something, a feeling of profound unrest, had kept you up. Had you staring at the green stars on Aiden's ceiling until your alarm began to chime.

Sharing a soul-tie with Wally should've been the thing that terrified you most amongst all that'd transpired. It was unheard of, curious, downright impossible in nature. Soul-ties were as fragile as they were strong and required both souls to be alive, together in the same lifetime in the world of the living, to exist.

That Wally was extremely not alive should've made you question the validity of the connection you and he had. Especially given there was evidence of spiritual tampering on school grounds; a spiteful, bitter essence sickened into the ether that surrounded Split River High.

And yet, that nor the symbol etched into the tree had been what you'd kept ruminating about from the moment you'd laid down until dawn. No, it'd been Dave. Something about how he'd come out of the trees, friendly to a fault, though it'd been clear he'd been nervous. Almost as if he'd been afraid of the shadows around him. Jittery.

You pressed your fingers into your eyes and groaned. There was no use thinking about it further. Not now. You had a bouquet to put together and two friends to save. Dave's shady behavior had to wait. With a grunt, you rolled out of Aiden's little-kid bed and shuffled into your room, not daring to check your appearance in the mirror. You could feel the bags under your eyes. Heavy and dark like someone had injected squid ink beneath the delicate skin.

Showering was a groggy, clumsy affair, appendages weak and a step behind your brain's transmissions. You did what you could to make yourself presentable, hoped to conceal the fatigue behind a cute outfit: A thin, loose, autumn-orange destination sweater tucked partially into a slim, black denim skirt with opaque black tights underneath. You applied makeup where you needed it to hide the sleep deprivation and called it at that, unable to muster the strength for much else. It was going to be a long, long, l o n g day.

But worth it, you reminded yourself firmly in a voice not unlike Wally's, because you were going to find a way to help Simon and once Simon was helped, you'd both find a way to get Maddie back on the right side of the veil.

A sweep of berry-tinted lipgloss and you dragged yourself outside to your Nanna's garden, brandishing a pair of pruning shears from the mud room you'd passed through on your way out.

As you walked across the garden to the first flower bush, you noticed Dead Grandpa John sitting with the morning newspaper on the bench. He folded the top of the newspaper down as you swept by, his eyes following you.

Emboldened by that fact that you hadn't experienced smitings or storms or anything that Ginny and your mother had threatened would happen should you ever speak to the dead, you did something you'd never before risked doing. You stopped. Turned your head. And nodded at Dead Grandpa John.

You expected he'd at least be surprised by your sudden acknowledgement, but he wasn't. Not that you picked up on, anyway. Rather, he continued to stare at you, a twinkle in his eye, and then straightened his newspaper to disappear behind it once more.

Still no swarms, storms, or squalls, you noted.

Setting about your assigned task, you clipped a variety of flowers and piled them on the bouquet paper you'd liberated from the stash Nanna (and now Aurora) kept at the house. Once accomplished, it was time to head out.

You sighed in regret that you'd texted Xavier to sleep in, telling him you wanted to be alone that morning to center yourself before having to face your classmates after yesterday's ordeal.

It wasn't entirely false. It couldn't have been. You didn't lie to Xavier on principle. But it wasn't entirely the truth either and you felt queasy from it. You sucked in a deep breath and forced yourself to move forward.

Nanna was in the kitchen when you walked in with the bouquet, sitting at the table as she waited for the kettle to boil. You could smell the floral tea blend Nanna, Aurora, and Dave drank. That you couldn't believe you used to drink.

Even dry the scent was potent, overwhelming the herb and warm spice aroma the kitchen usually held. You nearly gagged as you passed the open teapot, the concoction inside like a punch to the nose when you got too close.

"Good morning, Maypie." Nanna smiled warmly, patting the table in front of the seat beside her. The nickname irritated you, too close to the one you'd scolded Xavier for using yesterday, but it was Nanna and you couldn't find it in yourself to say something.

Instead, "Morning, Nanna," you greeted with a yawn, setting the bouquet on the counter as you traipsed toward the sink to fill a glass of water. "Can't sit. Gotta get to school."

Nanna hummed and you could tell she was checking the time on the stove before she turned to face you in her chair. "Awfully early, isn't it?"

"So early," You agreed with a sob of disdain as you brought the glass to your lips for a sip of cold water. Your skin began to feel warm and wherever you rested your gaze seemed irrationally farther than where it should be. Shaking your head to dispel what you assumed was a lack of sleep, you took a deep drink from your glass.

Nanna tilted her head and raised a snowy brow at something near your elbow, "And who are those for?"

For a brief moment, you didn't grasp the question, casting about to understand. When your eyes landed on the bouquet beside the sink, you blinked slowly at it, lids like lead. The floral aroma itched your nostrils, traveled into your skull, a thick fog dampening your mental processing.

Sedate, you panned your head and stared properly at the bouquet, told Nanna, "It's for Maddie," confused as to why you'd believed you shouldn't. That desperate, nagging feeling you'd had earlier when thinking of last night—last night?—growled in warning in the back of your mind, but it was so far away you easily ignored it.

"Oh, how lovely," Nanna replied, standing to put her hands on your shoulders and rub your arms kindly, "I'm sure she'll appreciate the gesture when she comes home."

"Who will appreciate what gesture?" Ginny croaked from the doorway, slugging into the kitchen in a silk robe and thick, knitted socks up to her knees. You knew she wore them to keep in place the gauze she slathered in anti-aging creams and wore overnight. Grumpy and rumpled, she questioned, "Who're the flowers for?"

You huffed a laugh as you watched her pull out a chair and drop into the seat, seeming as ill-suited to the morning as you.

"They're for Maddie," Nanna explained and, immediately, Ginny straightened, her glazed eyes turning sharp as they landed on you.

"She's back?" She asked.

You shook your head, "No," and you were tired, so tired, and couldn't quite seem to formulate the words to explain why you were taking flowers to school for Maddie who hadn't actually returned from wherever she'd run off to in order to accept them.

"Are they building a shrine already?" Ginny asked.

A feeling of awareness clawed through the mist that had filled your head. You felt an insidious tickle in the back of your nose, gasped a breath, and then released a cathartic blast of a sneeze, expelling that horrible, heady floral scent.

You blinked several times as you recovered your wits, glancing at the bouquet and then between Nanna and Ginny, at last able to think clearly, "No, nothing like that. Principal Hartman said he'd pass along whatever we bring in to Maddie's mom." And there you were, feeling like yourself again, able to map out a plausible lie to keep Wally (and, by extension, Maddie's half-ghost) safe from whatever Ginny or your mother could do if they discovered you were conspiring with the school's dead.

Ginny returned to a slouch, propping her head on her fist, "That's nice of you." She looked halfway back to sleep when you gave her a kiss goodbye, patting your thigh limply and muttering a slurred farewell. As you shrugged into your leather jacket, you heard Ginny scoff at Nanna, barking, "Don't you bring that nasty stuff near me, I don't know how you drink it," and couldn't help but snort because, truly, not even a man dying of thirst should accept a cup of that tea.

"Yes, seems you've rubbed off on your grand-niece, because she's not drinking it anymore, either," Nanna mused and you heard Ginny bark a laugh.

"I'm taking mom's car." You announced, peeking back into the kitchen.

Your mother was on what constituted for her as a work trip; taking money to perform a ceremony that had no bearing on the ghosts—if they hadn't already crossed over as many of them had—at all. The concept was as stupid as it was a scam and you were revolted that someone in your family, who you'd once respected, was capable of performing such a farce.

Fucking. Ghost weddings.

You pressed your lips in a line in an effort to control the disgusted expression you knew you'd make upon thinking about it. Without looking at you, Nanna and Ginny gave their assent and carried on bickering after wishing you a pleasant day.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"So," Maddie said in a neutral tone which set Wally's teeth on edge, "You and my friend, huh?"

It was just him and her outside, lingering by the door waiting for you to arrive. Wally leaned while Maddie sat on an empty bike rack adjacent to the entrance, looking out over the parking lot like watchmen on duty.

The others were inside. Ajay had vowed to coax Mina down from the rafters while Charlie and Rhonda had simply wanted to witness how that interaction went after learning Ajay and Mina were entangled in their own version of a relationship. Strange and unconventional and, apparently, wholesome though Wally had no idea what that meant coming from Ajay.

"I was wondering when you were gonna give me the shovel talk." Wally said, ducking his head sheepishly and rubbing the back of his neck. He lifted his gaze to Maddie, "Yeah, me and your friend."

Maddie's brows raised, "No shovel talk. I'm just surprised. Kind of." After a few moments of silence, Maddie spoke again, a smile in her voice, "She talked about you a lot."

Wally's heart fluttered at the information, unable to repress the feeling of giddiness that burst through him. He tried to play it cool, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She always said her 'ghost was so hot' and that she was 'saving herself for her ghost'." She paused, chewed her lip, and stared down at her lap as she thought about what to say next. "Looking back, I guess she thought she could hide in plain sight." And then, with a snort, "And it worked. None of us believed her for a second. It never even crossed my mind that it could be true until I got here."

Wally nudged her side in a friendly motion. "Was she right?" He snickered, teasing, "Am I hot?"

Maddie shoved his head down playfully with a laugh, "You're an idiot." Another comfortable beat. She hummed quietly before she revealed in a gentle tone, "You two are cute together. If it means anything."

"It does," Wally said truthfully. It was more reassuring than it should've been to have someone on the outside see what he saw. Cemented it somehow.

Another few minutes passed before a car pulled into the parking lot. Maddie jumped down from her perch and followed Wally toward the spot you pulled in to.

"Hey guys," You said, eyes automatically finding Wally's, his heart beating that much harder in his chest.

Wally treaded around the front of the car you'd driven and scooped you up, one arm under your thighs while the other clamped at a diagonal on your back, his hand tangling in your hair. Looking at you closely, he could see the exhaustion beneath the surface and felt a pang of guilt for agreeing with everyone (including you) that you should come as early as permissible by school standards.

"Hey, baby," He uttered, pressed his forehead to yours with a lopsided, affectionate grin, and hinted greedily for a kiss that you supplied without complaint.

He almost groaned as your lips yielded under his, the simple touch striking a match low in his belly. Fuck, he wanted you. Like, always. Was hardwired at this point to get aroused whenever you were within arm's length. It was driving him half insane that he couldn't climb into the back of the car with you, have you straddle his lap, and show you how affected he was by you.

"Charley's right," Maddie commented from the sidelines, "You guys are gross."

You pulled away from Wally with a cackle, prompting him to place you back on your feet, and said, "Oh, like you and Zav aren't just as bad."

Twirling around and bending (very nicely) into the backseat of the car to collect your things, you didn't see the look that flashed across Maddie's face—one of hurt and betrayal and anger—but Wally did and it made him want to grab you by the shoulders, and shake you until you stopped thinking the world of Xavier Baxter.

He wouldn't dare do that, of course, you were too precious. On the contrary, he'd proudly do things to Xavier that would earn Wally a spot on a Most Wanted list if he'd still been alive.

He pushed those thoughts down when you straightened, lifting a lush, full bouquet into your arms which you handed over to Maddie in a way that signaled to Wally you and she were familiar to each other's rhythms. Again, you reached into the car, grabbed your backpack, and hoisted it out of the backseat. Wally noticed that it seemed to weigh more to you than normal and took it from you, slinging it over his shoulder with a broad grin.

"Such a gentleman," You teased, though Wally could see how much you enjoyed the gesture by how you pinked up so sweetly. He slung his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side as you and he walked, stamping a kiss to your hair and openly breathing in the scent of musky vanilla and coconut.

"Wait." Maddie said, just as you and Wally were about to reach the door. You and he paused, turning to look at Maddie as she regarded the bouquet in her hands and then the backpack on Wally's shoulder, an intense cast to her features. "How..." She squinted at you, "Where are the originals?" Scanned back to the car, then you, then the bouquet.

"Originals?" You asked, completely lost, though Wally realized what Maddie meant. It hadn't occurred to him how unfeasible it was that he'd handed you your phone the night before last. Or that he still had the notes you'd given him stashed away in his private, just-for-him corner of the school. None of the resets between now and then had vanished them like resets did everything else.

"Yeah, the originals." Maddie repeated.

Wally stepped in, taking over the explanation since Maddie appeared to struggle with how to phrase that every object they, as ghosts, picked up was just a clone of one that stayed anchored in the living world. He did his best to describe it, beckoning both you and Maddie to follow him so he could show you an example with a piece of chalk in an unlocked classroom. He lifted it, of course wielding the copy while the original remained in place, untouched, not even a sign that it'd been tampered with.

You cocked your head, lifting the original and handing it to Maddie who took it without issue. Experimenting, Maddie placed it back on the chalk ledge, left it there for multiple seconds, and then instructed Wally to, "Pick it up now."

Wally did.

As in he actually did. Picked up the original, no immense, herculean emphasis of energy required (and that very, very rarely worked, normally resulting in a brief flicker of an already on-its-way-out lightbulb). How had Wally not noticed before?

"Gnarly," Wally laughed, tossing the chalk in the air and catching it. "Do you think the living see it floating if I'm holding it?" He began to zoom it around like a toy airplane. "I wonder if it works the other way."

"What do you mean?" You asked.

"Like, things that we brought with us into the afterlife," Maddie clarified, "Do you think you could make them real on your side?"

You shrugged and admitted, "I didn't even realize I was doing this until you guys pointed it out." You glanced between them, "I mean, I know you guys can't affect the living world, but I didn't realize I could affect the metaphysical one like that." You chewed your lip as you thought about Maddie's question, "I'd need someone who can't see you guys to confirm whether or not it works both ways."

Wally strode over to you, putting the chalk back down on the ledge as he went. He adjusted the weight of your backpack on his shoulder so he could cradle your face in both of his big palms. "One thing at a time, baby," He said, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, "Let's check off giving Mina the flowers and then go from there, okay?"

You slumped, thankful, and slanted into him so that your forehead was pressed to the center of his chest, "That sounds like a good plan. I don't know why, but I'm even more exhausted than I was when I got up."

Together, you, Wally, and Maddie strolled to the theater, passing Mr. South who welcomed you with a friendly wave and a short hello. His eyes seemed to flicker this way and that, as if sensitive to the school lighting, as he watched you walk by, Maddie close to your side, Wally a half-step behind and falling farther back as he studied Mr. South.

Vaguely, he heard the man mutter, "Mm, dahlias," but that was about as much fuss as he expressed. Nothing to indicate Mr. South saw a puppeted bouquet or levitating backpack drifting down the hall of their own volition.

Wally caught up to you and Maddie quickly, his hand finding the small of your back on instinct. Rhonda and Charlie were already outside the theater when you, Maddie, and Wally arrived, Charlie rising from where he'd been seated on the floor as Rhonda pushed herself off the wall, today's lollipop stuffed into her cheek.

"Well, Ajay got her down," She announced, rolling her eyes, "But she refuses to talk to us. She won't even answer Ajay if he asks because she knows the questions aren't his." Belligerent, Rhonda shook her head, "And I thought Janet was a diva."

Charley shook his head, "I'm sorry, but that," He hooked his thumb over his shoulder to stipulate Mina's behavior, "isn't anywhere near as bad as Janet was."

Rhonda conceded with a bob of her head, pursed lips, and raised brows. Upon noticing the flowers, she remarked, "Huh, you came through, strawberry pie," her tone impressed, "Next time you should bring lover boy a new wardrobe," a smirk at Wally and a coy look at you, "He looks pretty good in jeans."

Wally cleared his throat and squeezed you to him tightly, his gaze soft and imploring as he said, "Ignore her, you don't have to bring me anything," then to Rhonda, "She's not our personal gofer."

Rhonda raised her hands in surrender, glimpsing at Charley in amusement, "No need to blow your jets, superstar, it was just a suggestion."

Charley added, "And a joke," as he gave Rhonda a sardonic side-eye. "So, should we get this over with? See if our Split River Phantom has anything useful to share?"

You patted Wally's chest to signal for your backpack which he handed over with a pout, disliking the idea of you hauling it around when you were so tired.

"You guys go do that. I'm going to steal Ajay and see if we can figure out what these symbols mean." You looked at Maddie, "If you guys find anything, let me know."

"How?" Maddie wondered. It wasn't as if she still had a means of communication in the afterlife; the decoy phone had been with Xavier when she'd been thrown from her body, and, as far as Wally knew, her real phone was in pieces. Even if she did have a phone...would it have worked? Wally had heard Dawn brag about her 'socials', but she wasn't actually capturing or uploading selfies...was she?

Before he could fall too far down that rabbit hole, he felt your hand grasp his, fingers twined, skin smooth under his thumb. You grinned at Maddie, "That's the best part," you brought your and Wally's joined hands up, "If Ajay and I don't get back before you're done, just manipulate the connection between me and Wally."

"You think that'll work?" He asked, unsure. So far the connection had only summoned him when you'd been feeling intense negative emotion.

You gave him a slow, confident smile that made Wally's heartbeat quicken. "Yeah. Soul-tie, big guy. We have one." And that confirmation of what Wally figured out last night sent him into orbit.

He returned your smile with a megawatt one of his own, his eyes softening as his whole fucking soul melted. He didn't know how or why whatever higher power had decided you two were meant to be whatever you were meant to be, but he felt all the more compelled to preserve the connection.

The amount of devotion he'd developed toward you in such a short time was proof enough that you were or had been or were going to be someone profoundly important to him and he didn't want to lose that. Didn't want to lose you. A feeling he could only convey by pulling you as close to him as possible.

Rhonda twirled her lollipop, whistled in surprise, "Magic is in.sane."

"It's not magic," You stated mildly, "It's connectedness. I promise there is a difference." You sunk into Wally's embrace, turned your head to hide a yawn, and then seemed to try to shake yourself awake.

In response, Wally, cupped the back of your head and kissed your hair, rubbing his hand up and down your arm while holding you closer. "You gonna be okay?" He asked, concerned that you might not be able to stay upright much longer.

"I'll be fine," You said, however, the assurance you'd meant to offer was dimmed by another yawn you couldn't suppress.

It was then that Ajay appeared. He held the door to the theater open for Charley, Rhonda, and Maddie who waved their see-you-laters to you. Wally released you in measured degrees, careful and considerate, so you wouldn't fall into the space he left behind.

"I'm coming to find you as soon as we get something, okay, baby?"

You nodded, a forced smile on your face that made Wally want to carry you home and tuck you into your bed. Innocently. Innocently. But he couldn't help himself, dipping in to capture your lips in a gentle kiss that still somehow made his breath catch and his heart pound and his belly coil tight with desire.

"Okay, we get it, you're hot for each other, can we go now?" Ajay's voice cut through the muggy atmosphere that now permeated between you and Wally, exasperation pitched shrill as a school bell.

Wally extracted himself from you, hated having to do it, but understood that it needed to be done in order for both you and him to focus on what was important. That was finding clues or proof that Mr. Anderson was involved in Maddie's out-of-body situation and pointing the police away from Simon.

Right. Wally was an independent, capable guy who could do what it took to help. He just didn't want to do it without you plastered to him in some way.

"That face is exactly why you two can't be around each other right now." Ajay stated flatly, all but shoving Wally aside and ushering you back down the hall.

With a chuckle, Wally called after you, "I'll see you later, baby!"

"If either of you say 'I'll miss you', I'm boycotting this relationship until I can cross over." Ajay declared, not allowing you to stop and respond.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier sat behind the wheel of his truck, nervous, jittery; inching toward full-blown paranoia after having stopped at your house to pick you up. He'd received your message earlier, the one that had gently told him to stay home and sleep in since you weren't going to crusade after evidence against Mr. Anderson until a more appropriate hour.

But he hadn't been able to get back to sleep, had instead sat in bed contemplating how fucked up everything would inevitably get. And he was scared.

Your newfound friendship with Simon made Xavier's veins clog with cold, slimy fear. He had no idea if Maddie had read the message he'd accidentally sent her ("i'm alone. lmk if ur still in the mood, babe🔥"). Had no idea if she'd told Simon about Xavier and Claire.

Simon hadn't outright accused Xavier of cheating on Maddie—not to Xavier's face, anyway—but, if Simon did know, it was only a matter of time before it came up and Xavier lost you forever.

Fueled by anxiety and desperation, Xavier had dressed and left the house in a flurry, drove over and at the speed limit in frenzied intervals as he'd forgotten and remembered it by turns. He'd arrived at your place faster than ever before only to discover that, according to Abigail, you'd left about forty-five minutes earlier. Granted, you hadn't explicitly said you'd want to spend the morning by yourself at home, but Xavier couldn't shake the feeling that something was utterly and profoundly wrong.

Why go to the school alone? Why leave him out of it?

An agitated growl ruptured from his throat as he smacked the steering wheel, tears springing to his eyes unbidden. He pulled in huge gulps of air to stop himself from tipping into a panicked breakdown, begged the universe or God or whatever was out there that he was overthinking it, that you weren't slipping away from him and everything was okay, it was all going to be okay.

Except it wasn't okay. He'd fucked up and fucked around and made you participate by sending texts about band practices that'd never been scheduled, lies about how you'd needed help around the house and Xavier was family so he'd been obligated to assist. Jesus Christ, what had he done?

He couldn't breathe, a balloon in his chest that expanded the closer he got to the school. When he pulled in and saw your mom's car, he was already one foot into a mental crisis.

He parked beside your mom's car and sat for a moment, filtering through a litany of excuses and reasons and apologies to retch at your feet in libation. Xavier couldn't. lose. you. Not you. The only person left in his life who fucking mattered. Hurt and anger and grief and hopelessness funneled into him, a tornado of self-deprecation howling insults that ricocheted inside his skull, the torment building and building and—

"FUCK." He belted, smashing the steering wheel over and over again until his body collapsed forward and he heaved a thick, wet sob.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The other vertices in the barrier projected outward from symbols that varied slightly from the first you'd found. Two were etched in stone, one in a tree planted on the same alignment as the other, and the last had been burned so thoroughly into the dirt that you couldn't dig under it or dig it up. What was interesting—perhaps only to you—was that, upon closer inspection, you could tell that some of the lines had been added to the original symbols after-the-fact. Perhaps years or even decades later.

"Can we call it magic now?" Ajay folded his arms and thinned his lips in a dour line as he watched you dog-dig at the dirt from a new angle. "Because this feels like magic."

You huffed and let yourself fall back on your bum, mopping the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your sweater. "I mean, it's harnessed energy," you countered, still reluctant to call it something so fantastical when you had dirt caked under your fingernails and math class in twenty minutes. So mundane and ultra-ordinary, it made it difficult to reconcile the existence of something Harry Potter fought a war with.

Ajay wasn't having it, "Girl, just say it. It's magic."

A squawky noise of denial later and you snapped a picture of the symbol on your phone, finally standing and returning to your backpack which you'd left at Ajay's feet. You dug out the notebook you'd used to scribble down the Futhark alphabet last night before tiptoeing back into Aiden's room and compared the symbol in the dirt to the runes on the page.

"It's like the others," You observed, "It has all the binding elements, except this one also has an extra line here..." You indicated, chewed your lip in thought, frustrated when nothing jumped out at you. Whoever had created these symbols and performed the ritual that accompanied them had either not known anything about the Futhark runes or they'd known too much. And they or someone else had come back to adjust it.

That meant that you had no way of decoding the bastardized symbols by yourself. At least, not without major effort.

"An extra line?" Ajay echoed, "To make us extra trapped?"

You slanted him an unimpressed look, "No, Sassy McQueen...but also kind of yes."

Ajay flashed a victorious grin then crouched to look over your shoulder at your notebook. "Why would someone want to trap ghosts here?"

"Maybe they didn't." You considered as you brainstormed aloud, "Maybe they wanted to trap something and didn't realize the effect their spell—"

"Which is magic."

"—Nghyah," You declined and then continued, "The effect their spell would have on the different planes within the parcel they created."

"I know English isn't my first language, but I can tell that wouldn't make sense to anyone."

You rolled your eyes, clapping your notebook closed and filing it away in your backpack. "Think of the spell like a box. Whoever cast it brought that box down on this specific location, trapping everything in this location in it. But it only affects things outside of the physical world because it's not a physical box."

"...Have you ever seen the Witches of Eastwick?"

"Have you?"

You straightened, bowing your back to loosen the stiffness that had collected in your spine. Ajay took responsibility of your backpack and together you and he walked back toward the school.

After a short silence, Ajay spoke, "You know, Wally mentioned a cult that used to practice around here. He's really into that spooky-ooky, creepy shit." He emphasized with spirit fingers.

You stopped and stared after Ajay, eyes round and mouth ajar, "Wally? Golden retriever, football bro, Wally?"

Ajay turned to walk backward, smiling, "Oh yeah. He was into it before he died, too. A real savant of the deranged history of Split River." He pondered you for a moment and then muttered, "You know you two are allowed to talk when you're alone, right?"

Kissing your teeth, you resumed your stride, waving Ajay off, "In our defense, we haven't actually had a lot of time to be alone since we started talking."

Ajay snorted, but merrily settled his pace to match yours, his gait slower and longer, "Funny enough, I found all this out because of your sister. She was doing a project on something, and I brought the topic up with Wally. He was alive during the rise of the Satanic Panic. If I'm remembering right, he told me about a cult called the Something-Something of Dagda."

"Very helpful."

"They were established before Milwaukee was founded and then faded out of history for awhile."

You sighed drearily, having heard similar tales through the family grapevine as well as your own special-interest research, "Let me guess, the Something-Something of Dagda made a comeback in the '20s when it was fashionable to be associated with the occult?"

Ajay nodded, "I think that's what Wally said. Apparently, they crawled back into the shadows, never to be heard from again."

"Typical," You chuckled, shaking your head, "You join a resurrectionist cult and then leave when—"

"How do you know it was resurrectionist?"

"I'm assuming." You confessed, "Dagda is a Celtic god whose staff can resurrect or kill whoever he clubs with it." When Ajay acknowledged your answer with a low oh, you expanded on your previous point, "I guess the members didn't like that they couldn't avoid economic depression or a war no matter how much they chanted." To put it crudely.

Unfortunately, that was the reality of many cults borne from the spiritualism boom in the 1920s. People either got bored or got bitter when their prophet couldn't stand and deliver in the face of catastrophic events.

You and Ajay entered the theater from the side door to avoid the students who began to flood the halls as the morning trundled toward the first bell. You found Maddie appearing like the second coming out of the center of the stage, followed closely by Wally, then Rhonda, Charley, and lastly, Mina who turned and closed the trapdoor behind her.

"You find anything?" You inquired as Wally neared you, eagerness writ all over his features.

"Yeah!" Wally grinned, planting himself in front of you to band his arms around your waist, "You?"

"The symbols are definitely based on the Futhark alphabet and they're all designed to keep energies in." You said, snuggling into his front, happy to let him take your weight. He shifted you around so you and he could walk toward the stage, everyone gathered around a spot at the end of the center aisle. Rhonda and Charley sat on the edge of the stage, Ajay joined Mina who leaned beside Charley's legs, and Maddie stood with her back to the door, facing everyone.

As soon as you were within reach, she held out a piece of paper, informing you that, "It's a receipt for new band uniforms signed by Mr. Anderson." You scanned the paper, trying to absorb where it fit in the puzzle, but your brain was rapidly losing steam. Seeming to read your fatigue, Maddie interpreted it on your behalf, "I think he's been stealing money from Booster Club. He's got a whole operation under the stage to sew new patches onto old band uniforms."

You didn't know how to respond apart from, "Holy shit."

"It doesn't prove he had anything to do with what happened to me," Maddie went on, "But I think it'll help Simon."

"Maddie this is awesome." You smiled encouragingly and shambled forward to hug her. With your arm still around her shoulders, you and she looked over the receipt again, particularly the cash amount at the bottom, "Is that how much you figure was in the closet?"

"Not quite. There was some missing. Probably whatever he gave me." She answered, her gaze turning a trepidatious sort of hopeful, "It's Friday, so there's a staff meeting tonight. If we give this to Simon, he can prove that Mr. Anderson is guilty of something and then we can try to figure out where my body is. Together."

"Together." You repeated with a grin because, finally, you felt like progress was being made. While not the kind of progress you'd hoped for, it was something, and now that you knew Simon could see Maddie, you didn't have to swerve around landmines in conversation to hide your abilities; you could let him in instead.

It was one step closer to bringing Maddie home.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier hated himself more than he had before his breakdown, having succumbed to the siren call of his vape in the dissociative aftermath. He skulked into the school, shoulders up and hands stuffed in his pockets in an effort to make himself invisible.

He wasn't going to his first class, wasn't entirely aware of where he was going, but he followed his feet nonetheless. Since the blissful first hit, his mind had quieted some, though his nerves were still ragged, eyes puffy and bloodshot, hair rumpled, a scab on his lip where he'd bitten it too hard to redirect the emotional pain he'd inflicted on himself.

He was distantly surprised to find himself standing in front of the theater when he eventually lifted his gaze from the ground. Without giving it too much thought, he reached out and opened the door, stepping into the shadowy space beyond. For a moment, a cotton-candy static fuzzed across his brain and made it hard to process whether or not what his eyes saw was real.

It couldn't be, could it?

At the end of the center aisle, you stood, body wilted from exhaustion. Around you were incoherent silhouettes that phased in and out of focus, nothing substantial to them, just distorted shadows that seemed out of place against the direction of what muted light filtered into the theater. What made his breath catch and the balloon in his chest swell bigger wasn't you, standing in the dark, or the uncanny shadows, it was—

"Maddie," He croaked, voice reedy and tight, "You came back."

The fuzziness in his head was instantly replaced by fear when his gaze slid to you, an expression on your face—wide eyes, parted lips, furrowed brows—that Xavier readily interpreted as betrayal. The darkness crowded against him, the rampage of wailing curses picked up within him again, screaming at him for how worthless and stupid and vile he was to do what he'd done.

"I-I'm so sorry," He choked out, pushing the words past the balloon that had expanded from his chest into his throat.

Maddie's expression didn't change, something akin to alarm or hate or defeat or all three, he didn't know because his vision was beginning to cloud. "I'm so, so sorry." And then he stumbled sideways, falling into one of the empty seats, curling himself into a ball as if he could make himself disappear. Everything would be better, so much better, if he could just...stop being.

Xavier didn't realize he was crying until he felt your hands on him, pushing his arms away from his head, forcing him to kneel on the ground with you.

"Zav? What's happening? Are you okay? Zav!"

Your words sounded spoken through water and he couldn't get his head above the surface, couldn't breathe, couldn't answer, his body wracked violently with stinging sobs as he kept trying to apologize. He grappled at your back, pinned you against him, a buoy to keep him afloat as the waves crashed over him and threatened to pull him down into the cavernous abyss below.

"I'm sorry, please, don't leave me, I'm so sorry," He begged you, but couldn't hear himself, so he repeated it louder and louder until his throat scraped.

This is the moment, a facsimile of Maddie's voice told him, this is the moment you lose everyone.

And then another voice, unfamiliar, louder than Xavier's, louder than Maddie's, began to roar:

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-THREE - PART TWENTY-FIVE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #zed necrodopolis #Disney Zombies #October Sun

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k-nayee · 9 months ago

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Death Wish Love Epic: The Musical

wc: 1k a/n: Song Inspiration: Death Wish Love by Benson Boone; recommend you listen while reading!! This is a Penelope!Reader btw!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

Odysseus had never known a battle more grueling than the one he faced now—fighting the distance between him and his Penelope.

The Gods had thrown everything they could at him: monsters, wars, storms. But none of it compared to the war he waged within himself.

It wasn’t just the bloodshed or the pain that kept him going, it was you—your face, your laughter, the way you looked at him as if he were the only man in the world.

He’d seen so much death, so much destruction. And yet every time he closed his eyes the thought of you was stronger.

In every battle he could hear your voice, soft but commanding, urging him to come back to you.

That was what he held onto. That was why he survived.

But sometimes the love he felt for you scared him. It wasn't just love anymore.

It had become something dangerous, something that had the power to tear him apart.

If he lost you—if the Gods took you away before he could return, Odysseus knew it would destroy him.

He felt fragile in that love, like it held the power to break him in ways no sword or spear ever could.

Even now as his ship rocked on the waves heading toward Ithaca, all he could think about was you.

The memory of your face; the way your eyes shimmered with a warmth he couldn’t find anywhere else.

You had always been his anchor. Even when the world around him was falling apart you were the steady ground beneath his feet.

He clenched his fists watching the horizon as the faint outline of Ithaca came into view.

His men were talking and murmuring about home, but Odysseus was quiet as he stared out at the sea.

His heart raced. What if you had moved on? What if after all these years you no longer waited for him?

The very thought of it made his chest tighten. He had faced monsters that would drive any man mad, yet it was the thought of losing you that truly terrified him.

Odysseus cursed the Gods for how long they kept him from you. Every day spent away from you had felt like death.

He could face a thousand wars—a thousand enemies. But the pain of not having you by his side was unbearable.

He longed to hold you again, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. It was a love that consumed him entirely, a love that bordered on madness.

As the ship drew closer to the shore his heart pounded louder than the crashing waves.

The moment the ship docked Odysseus was off. He barely heard the cheers of his men as they celebrated their return, his mind was already racing toward the palace.

His steps were quick, fueled by the fire in his chest that had been burning for years.

He reached the palace gates, and though his breath was heavy from the run his heart lightened the moment he stepped inside.

He could already sense you—your presence, the very essence of who you were lingering in the air.

And then he saw you.

You were standing on the terrace. Your back was turned to him, the soft light of the setting sun casting a golden glow on your figure.

For a moment Odysseus couldn’t breathe. It was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

Every inch of him ached for you. But he stood frozen, too overwhelmed by the sight of you after all these years.

It wasn’t until you turned around and your eyes meet his did he moved.

“Penelope...” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely audible. It was like a plea for you to recognize him after all this time.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment he feared you didn't.

But then you broke into a run, throwing yourself into his arms. Odysseus caught you, holding you as tightly as he dared.

His fingers tangled in your hair, his breath catching as he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Odysseus,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “You’re here. Y-you...you came back to me.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his heart swelling as he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks.

He wiped them away with his thumb, his touch gentle as if he were afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard.

“I’m here,” his voice was thick with emotion. “I’m finally home.”

Home.

It was a word that held so much meaning now. It wasn’t the palace, or the island, or the throne.

It was you. You had always been his home.

Odysseus pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closing as he savored the moment.

He had waited for this for so long, and now that he was here he didn’t want to let go.

You were everything to him, the reason he had fought, the reason he had survived.

“I love you,” your voice shook as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back as if you were afraid he might disappear.

Odysseus smiled, though it was laced with pain. He knew the dangers he had faced were nothing compared to the dangers that lay in loving you.

But he didn’t care. He would die for you. He would face the Gods themselves if it meant staying by your side.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “And I’ll love you until there’s nothing left of me.”

You pulled him closer, your breath hot against his neck as you whispered, “Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice breaking as he held you tighter. “Never again.”

And as the sun set on Ithaca, Odysseus knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them all for you.

Because this love—this dangerous, all-consuming love—was worth every sacrifice.

Even if it was a death wish, even if it meant losing everything, he would love you to the very end.

#knayee traveler #epic: the musical #penelope!reader #penelope x odysseus #the odyssey x reader #the odyssey #odysseus #x reader #odysseus x reader #fem reader #epic the musical #epic the ocean saga #epic the cyclops saga #epic the troy saga #reader insert #epic the musical x reader #epic the wisdom saga #epic the thunder saga #epic the underworld saga

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sugurusladyknightt · 4 months ago

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➺ satoru x gn!reader

satoru feels a feeling beyond himself, beyond his own understanding.

the kind that can only be helped by your touch, your company, your voice, your presence whatever form it may take. the kind that can only be relieved by being held in your arms. his larger frame curling into yours with his head resting so closely to your chest the steady beat echoing in his ears and his strong lengthy arms around your back, holding you close, just so close.

he wants to become a part of you, you know?

the two of you an extension of one another.

the way how anglerfish do it.

to merge. to fuse. to be so closely interwoven into each other it's impossible to tell where you begin and he ends. that is the way he feels for you in his soul anyway, it would really only be a physical representation of it; how interconnected the two of you are.

the perfect symphony. two notes floating together in the air, dancing together, mingling with one another in perfect harmony. of course there were a few off keys, but that hardly had an impact on the sound of your shared song, if any thing it only emphasized how resilient a song you two prove to be.

you breathe life into each other.

you do.

but your not here. not anymore anyway. your gone. the warm softness of your skin was replaced by an icy cold he's never felt on you before. the color drained from your face. all the shadows and colors that you were made up of fading into nothingness, slipping through the spaces between his fingers.

satoru tried to catch them, to secure the pieces that were you in his hands, to protect them, to keep them from slipping away, to carefully weave them back together and return them to you in full. after all the two of you were nothing if not for your ability to bounce back.

and so it was revealed that you are nothing. a nothing that managed to get by on his everything.

your life was slowly leaving you, draining from you, being taken by something he could not fight, taken by a force of something he cannot defend you from until there was nothing left you.

it was no longer yours. your life no longer yours, it's become only a life.

lost, just as the billions that have been before and the billions that will be after.

he heard screams and cries. they sound pained, oh so horribly pained. screams and cries that tell the story of the greatest horrors one can know. his chest aches, and his hands tremble. and the screams are his.

he hears them even now in the quite of the cold room he once laid in with you. he's on his side of the bed and you in the earth. you, beneath the very ground that is walked on everyday. taken for granted and forgotten forever as it takes on the role to guard the very essence of you.

his hand reaches for your side of the bed, it's cold, he remembers your skin, how it turned blue, how he believed he could save you. naively so.

he could. he would. there was no room for an option with the uncertainty that 'could' brings. believing he was so close.

satoru's throat burns, and his hands fall. he's reaching for what is not there. the glowing crystalline blue of his eyes a dark murky color that always seem to be looking beyond whatever it is that can be seen. his eyes cannot focus on anything anymore. the skin below painted in a dark that melts into that of the room.

he's a yet to dry water colored painting, a mere portrait of who he once was, and it's all flowing out of line.

he hasn't showered in a while. he hasn't done anything in a while. do ghosts do things? he doesn't really ponder the question, simply asking to it to the nothingness.

the way he is right now, the state he is in, makes it difficult to believe he could be anything but a ghost. but a lifeless form, floating around aimlessly until it can be freed from the tortured inbetween state it finds itself stuck in.

tomorrow he'll have to go out again, to work, to teach, fulfilling his duties as the strongest despite the fact that he feels utterly disconnected from the title. for he is a man of many obligations. well, man is a long shot, he isnt one to them, weapon or tool of many obligations is more fitting. the world cannot go round with out him, in his absence they are wholly doomed, left to fend for themselves. his world has spun of its axis when you took your last breathe.

he feels he's floating, the can't feel the sheets crumpled beneath him, he has nowhere to rest his aching bones and exhausted mind. satoru curls his body closer into itself, his arms hugging his legs close to his chest. close, and closer, then closer still.

it doesn't hurt, hurt is what he feels in his chest, a heartache he feels all over his body. but he continues, he figures if he pulls himself close enough, squeezes tight enough, he might explode and it'll all disappear in the aftermath of it.

he wanted to become a part of you, not to ripped away.

once again the heavens have managed to fail him. to misunderstand him. to be the cause of a gaping hole in him. one that leaves him unable to just be; one that is scheduled to consume him in his entirety.

the voices in his head reduced to only one, it is your voice left to be narrating his thoughts to him in the limitless chamber of his mind. the voice is even and monotone, you never spoke like that. it is a cheap copy formed by his subconscious, created only to torture him endlessly.

satoru's throat is dry, although he speaks no words he feels it as it cracks under the weight of your absence. the weight of your loss. but really, the greatest, loss was his own.

you did,

you breathed life into each other.

divider by @saradika-graphics

#gojo satoru #gojo drabbles #gojo ff #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo angst #jjk angst #gojo imagine #jjk gojo #jjk satoru #angst angst angst #angst again #you died #idk abt this one :/#&. knightt writes ''─ .⟢

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sinaeter · 2 months ago

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Acheron is so incredibly attracted to her girlfriends, that it sometimes physically PAINS her to look at them. Thus, averting her gaze when she can - however, bringing it back to fixate upon them with each word they speak to her. She will give them her full, undivided attention, allowing herself to feel every AGGRESSIVE thump in her chest with each passing moment.

#hc*#returning your essence to the ground beneath*

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ninibeingdelulu · 1 year ago

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"I missed you"

plot- he finally come back home CLICK ME

The empty house had felt suffocatingly hollow these past six months with Simon's absence.

Each day stretching into an agonizing purgatory devoid of his steadfast presence, his rich baritone rumble, the casual brushes of his sturdy frame against yours in passing...

But today, the emptiness at last lifted like a shroud of dread finally unraveling.

Today, Simon was finally coming home.

You busied yourself feverishly preparing his favorite dinner, fussing over every detail down to the pristine place setting - desperate to rekindle an atmosphere of long-coveted warmth and domesticity upon his return from the battlefield.

Nervous energy thrummed beneath your ribcage as you strained for the slightest herald of his arrival.

Then, the moment you'd been breathlessly awaiting finally graced reality - the unmistakable creak of the front door swinging wide accompanied by the measured cadence of those combat boots you'd know anywhere.

Whirling with a breathless gasp of pure elation, your gaze instantly drank in the familiar silhouette of your husband etched in the wavering daylight spilling through the entry.

Even beneath that ever-present ghastly skull mask, you'd recognize those powerfully squared shoulders and that signature languid prowl in an instant.

"Simon..."

His name slipped forth in a tremulous whisper misting with the first prickles of joyous tears blurring the edges of your vision.

In the next breath, you found yourself hurtling across the scant distance separating you - instinctively propelled into his outstretched embrace blissfully caging you once more in those unyielding arms corded with wiry muscle and sinew.

Your own slipped around his neck as you buried your face against the fever-warmth of his skin finally within reach again, gulping in heady lungfuls of his richly musky scent you'd been so painfully deprived of.

You barely registered his dexterous fingers working to hastily peel away the obstructing balaclava, desperate to reunite his lips with yours at last.

Only once that cloying barrier fell away did the first crystalline tears at last streak your flushed cheeks - overwhelmed by the sight of his beloved visage after so many months isolated behind the stark veils of that skull facade.

"Oh God, I missed you so damn much..." he rasped in that honeyed timbre reverberating straight down to your very marrow.

The reverent brush of his calloused palms cradling your face with the utmost gentleness somehow contrasted with the intensely smoldering ardor blazing in those grounding sienna spheres searching yours.

Unable to bear resisting a moment longer, you surged upwards and seized his mouth again in a searing, desperate kiss as if to physically reclaim the vital essence of his very being into your own.

Simon groaned into the searing exchange with unapologetic need - his powerful frame arching possessively into the swell of your curves as if intent on liquifying your very bones against his own.

"Never again..."

He growled the fervent oath between fevered brushes of your commingling lips.

"Not a single day goes by where I don't count down to the moment I can come home to you again. To see that smile...to breathe you in and feel that heartbeat against mine...it's the only thing that grounds my sanity on those desolate battlegrounds."

Chest heaving with emotion, you could only nod and clutch him nearer - your own fingers burrowing wantonly through those silken sable tresses with ravenous wonderment you still held the miraculous privilege to caress them once again after so many eternities torn apart.

Simon exhaled a shuddering breath, momentarily staggered by the unsurmountable tidal wave of affection and sheer relief to be encapsulated within your sanctuary once more.

Here, wrapped in your fearless devotion and profound reverence, his battered warrior's soul at last found the absolution - the inimitable tranquility - nowhere else could grant.

The scorched battlefields and merciless atrocities of the forsaken lands he traversed so frequently faded into insignificance next to the profound grace you embodied.

Merely bearing witness to the incandescence of your empyreal spirit glimmering behind those infinitely fathomless eyes was the only benediction Simon would ever need.

Until that inevitable summons to the clarion once more beckoned, commanding his return to the cursed shadows, Simon vowed to cherish every fleeting moment subsumed in your splendorous embrace - your ardor furnishing him the unbridled fortitude and singular anchor to withstand any depravity fate hurled towards him.

For your unassailable love and pride was the only talisman he truly required to confront the hellish devastations still lying in await.

That alone would be enough to see him safely through each arduous mile until the moment he could finally return to bask anew in your resplendence again...

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whereforarthur · 10 months ago

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I Didn't Know Punk Girls Blushed

Request: Can you do a Chrismd imagine where he’s into an edgier girl? Like maybe she has tattoos and piercings and is the complete opposite of him? Idk how i want the story to go so you can have free range lol

Pairing: ChrisMd x Reader

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3k

*****

Chris sauntered into the dimly lit vinyl record store, his eyes immediately drawn to the wall of albums that seemed to breathe the very essence of London's vibrant music scene. The sweet, nostalgic scent of old records filled the air, a stark contrast to the bustling street outside. He was on a mission to find the perfect gift for Arthur Hill's birthday, something that would make his old pal's face light up like a Christmas tree.

Behind the counter, a girl with a shock of different streaks of colored hair and a smattering of tattoos peeked out from under her beanie. She was the epitome of edgy, with a piercing gaze that could cut through the fog of a London evening. Her name tag read 'y/n', and she looked as if she'd rather be anywhere but here, serving customers in a store that seemed to be a relic of a bygone era.

Chris approached, a smile playing on his lips, "Hi, I'm looking for something special for my mate's birthday. He's into some old school stuff, you know?"

Y/n nodded, her expression unchanged. "What's his taste?"

Chris thought for a moment, "Arthur's a classic rock kind of guy, but with a bit of a twist. Nothing too mainstream."

Y/n's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the rows of records. "I've got just the thing," she murmured, slipping behind the counter and disappearing into the labyrinth of vinyl. The sound of her boots tapping against the wooden floor echoed through the store, and Chris couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement. There was something about her that was different from the usual girls he encountered at games or in the pubs.

When she reemerged, she held a vintage-looking album with a faded cover. "This is 'The Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd. It's a classic, but it's got that edgy vibe to it." She placed it on the counter with a gentle thud. "Your mate Arthur might like it if he's into something with a bit of depth."

Chris's smile widened. "Perfect! I think he'll love it." He watched as she pulled out a dusty record sleeve and slid the album into it with a practiced ease. Her hands were adorned with rings that glinted in the soft light, hinting at a hidden creativity beneath her tough exterior.

As she worked, y/n spoke up again, "What's your name?"

"Chris," he replied, watching her closely. "ChrisMD."

Y/n looked up, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. "Ah, the football YouTuber," she said, her tone flat.

Chris's cheeks flushed slightly. "Yeah, that's me," he said, trying to keep the conversation going. "What's yours?"

Y/n rolled her eyes and tapped her name tag. "It's right there."

Chris felt a twinge of embarrassment and leaned in closer. "Oh, right," he chuckled. "So, y/n, do you work here often?"

Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, he saw a spark of something—amusement, perhaps? "It's not the worst gig," she replied, sliding the record into a paper bag with the store's logo stamped on it. "Keeps me in vinyl and coffee."

Chris felt his heart flutter in his chest. He wasn't usually one to get flustered around girls, but there was something about y/n that threw him off his game. Her edgy allure was like nothing he'd ever encountered before, and he found himself desperately trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make him sound like the cheesy, over-eager fanboy he feared he was coming across as.

He took a deep breath, willing his cheeks to return to their normal color. "So, y/n, do you like football?" He cringed internally, knowing it was a cliché question, but he was desperate to find some common ground.

To his surprise, she looked up at him with a smirk. "You know, I've been known to kick a ball around," she said, handing him the bag. "But I'm more into the indie scene myself."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "Indie music and football? That's an interesting mix."

Y/n shrugged. "Life's full of surprises."

Their conversation was interrupted by the jingle of the shop door as it opened, letting in a gust of cool air. A customer walked in, and y/n's demeanor shifted, her eyes focusing on the new arrival. "I've got to get back to work," she said, turning away from Chris.

Chris felt a pang of disappointment but nodded, understanding. "No worries. Thanks for the help." He took the bag from her outstretched hand, feeling the warmth she had transferred to it. "Maybe I'll see you around?"

Y/n glanced back at him, a hint of curiosity in her gaze. "Maybe," she said noncommittally before returning her attention to the new customer.

*****

The next few days passed in a blur for Chris. He found himself counting down the hours until he could return to the vinyl record store, hoping to catch another glimpse of y/n. He'd never felt this way about a girl before—his usual type was more of the cheerleader variety, not the edgy, tattooed girl who seemed to see right through him. But there was something about her that drew him in, a challenge that he couldn't resist.

On the third day, he mustered the courage to return. The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, and y/n looked up from the stack of records she was organizing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes that made his heart race. She didn't look surprised to see him, just… resigned, as if she'd been expecting his return.

"Back again?" she asked, her voice holding a touch of amusement.

Chris felt his cheeks warm, but he held her gaze. "Yeah, I had to come back. That Pink Floyd album was a hit."

y/n nodded. "Thought it might be." She paused, her hand resting on a nearby record. "So, what are you looking for today?"

Chris shrugged, playing it cool. "Just browsing, really."

y/n raised an eyebrow, her piercings glinting in the soft light. "You're not here to see me, then?"

Chris's heart skipped a beat. "Well, that's not entirely true," he admitted, a grin spreading across his face. "I just wanted to, you know, say thanks and maybe get to know you a bit better."

Her expression remained neutral, but he could see the corners of her mouth twitch. "What's there to know?" she asked, a challenge in her voice.

Chris took a step closer, leaning on the counter. "Everything," he said, his eyes scanning her tattoos, trying to decipher the stories they held. "You're like a walking mystery, and I'm a curious guy."

Y/n's smirk grew into a small smile. "Alright, what do you want to know?"

Chris's mind raced with questions, but he decided to start simple. "How did you get into vinyl?"

Y/n's eyes lit up, a softness coming over her features. "My dad," she said. "He had a collection that was his pride and joy. When he passed, I inherited it all. It's how I keep him with me, you know?"

Chris nodded, feeling a sudden kinship with this girl who had, until now, been a complete enigma to him. "That's really cool," he said, his voice earnest. "I bet he had some amazing records."

Y/n nodded, her eyes misting over slightly. "He did. Some of the best." She paused, then took a deep breath, as if deciding whether or not to let him in further. "He taught me to appreciate the artistry of music, beyond just the sound. The feel of the vinyl, the smell of the sleeves, the way the needle hits the record… It's all part of the experience."

Chris found himself drawn into her world, a place where the music wasn't just background noise but a living, breathing entity that connected people in profound ways. "That's beautiful," he murmured, genuinely moved by her words.

Y/n's eyes searched his, as if looking for signs of mockery or insincerity, but all she found was genuine interest. "You get it," she said, sounding slightly surprised.

Chris nodded, unable to tear his gaze away from her. She looked so pretty when she talked about something she was passionate about, her features softening and her eyes lighting up with an inner fire that made his heart race. He'd never seen a girl transform so completely when discussing something she loved. It was mesmerizing.

"I do," he said softly. "I think that's what's been missing from my music experience. Just playing it on my phone or computer doesn't quite capture that… magic."

Y/n leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Exactly! That's what makes vinyl so special. It's not just about the music; it's about the connection to the artist, the history, the culture."

Chris nodded, feeling more at ease now that they had found common ground. "So, what's your favorite record?"

Y/n's eyes sparkled as she thought. "It's hard to pick just one," she said, scanning the shelves. "But if I had to, it'd be 'The Queen is Dead' by The Smiths."

Chris nodded, scribbling down the name in his phone. "I'll have to give it a listen," he said, his thumb hovering over the screen. "You know, I've got a turntable at home that's been collecting dust. Maybe it's time to put it to good use."

The conversation flowed easily between them, a dance of shared interests and laughter. Chris found himself drawn to her sharp wit and her ability to challenge him. He'd never felt this way about a girl before—like he was discovering something new and exciting, something that made his heart race just a little bit faster.

Finally, as the shop grew quiet and the last rays of sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting patterns on the floor, he took a deep breath. "So, y/n," he began, his voice casual but his heart hammering in his chest. "I was wondering if you'd be up for grabbing a coffee or something, maybe show me around some of the local indie music spots?"

Her gaze remained on the records she was sorting, but her hand stilled. "Why me?" she asked, her tone teasing.

Chris felt a thrill run through him. She was playing hard to get, but he could see the curiosity in her eyes. "Because you're the vinyl whisperer," he said with a grin. "And I've got a feeling you know all the hidden gems of London's music scene."

Y/n finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "Flattery won't get you far," she said, but her voice held a playful note. "But okay, I'll bite. How about tomorrow night?"

Chris felt his heart soar. "Really?" He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, not wanting to scare her off.

Y/n nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, really. But don't get your hopes up, football boy. I'm not going to make it easy for you."

Chris chuckled, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. "Fair enough," he said, trying to play it cool. "Where should we meet?"

Y/n thought for a moment, her eyes scanning the ceiling as if the answer were written there. "How about The Lock Tavern?" she suggested. "It's got a decent selection of records, and the coffee's not too bad either."

Chris nodded eagerly. "Sounds perfect. What time?"

"Eight," she said, her eyes finally meeting his. "Don't be late."

Chris couldn't believe his luck. He'd scored a date with the edgy vinyl goddess of his dreams. "I'll be there," he promised, trying to keep his voice steady.

*****

The following evening, Chris found himself pacing in front of The Lock Tavern, his heart thumping in his chest like a drum. He'd chosen his outfit carefully, aiming for a look that was casual but cool—a nod to her indie style without completely abandoning his own. He glanced at his watch. 7:58. Two minutes to go.

As if on cue, y/n appeared around the corner, her hair a riot of color in the streetlight. She was wearing a vintage band tee and a leather jacket that made her look like she'd just stepped off the set of a music video. She spotted him and raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips.

Chris took a deep breath and walked over to her. "Hey," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You're early," she said, sounding slightly surprised.

"I didn't want to be late," he replied, his cheeks reddening. "So, shall we go in?"

The Lock Tavern was a cozy, dimly lit pub with a distinctly vintage vibe. The walls were lined with shelves of records, and the air was thick with the scent of beer and good music. The jukebox in the corner played a mix of indie hits and obscure tracks that made Chris feel like he'd stumbled into a secret club.

They found a table in the back, the light from a flickering candle casting shadows on y/n's face. She ordered a black coffee, and Chris went for a pint, hoping it would calm his nerves. They talked about music, her favorite bands, and the history of vinyl. Chris found himself hanging on her every word, her passion for the subject contagious.

As the night wore on, the conversation grew more personal. y/n talked about her life growing up in London, her love for the city's underground music scene, and her dreams of becoming a music journalist. Chris shared stories from his childhood, his love for football, and his journey to becoming a YouTube sensation. Despite their differences, they found common ground in their shared love for the art of storytelling—whether it was through music, videos, or the written word.

Their laughter grew louder with each shared anecdote, and the tension between them grew palpable. When the topic of tattoos came up, y/n leaned in, her eyes locked on his. "Do you have any?"

Chris felt a shiver run down his spine. He'd never considered getting inked before, but the way she said it made him want to show her something only she knew about him. "No, I don't," he admitted. "But I've always been curious."

Her smirk grew. "Well, if you're going to keep hanging around these parts, you might want to get one," she teased. "It's practically a rite of passage."

Chris swallowed, his heart racing. "Maybe I will," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But only if you come with me."

Y/n's eyes searched his, and for the first time, he saw something other than amusement or challenge in them—there was a softness, a hint of vulnerability. "Alright," she said, her voice just as soft. "But only if you let me choose the design."

Chris nodded, feeling a strange thrill at the idea of letting her mark him in some way. It was a bold move, but he was ready to step out of his comfort zone for her.

The night grew late, and the pub began to empty out. They lingered over their drinks, the conversation never waning. It was as if they'd known each other for years, despite their stark differences. But as they sat in the warm glow of the candlelight, sharing stories and laughs, it was clear that they had a connection that was more than just skin deep.

When y/n suggested they head out, Chris couldn't hide his disappointment. But as they stepped into the cool London night, the buzz of the city seemed to energize them both. They strolled down the cobblestone streets, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet. The stars above were obscured by the city lights, but the magic of their evening was undiminished.

As they approached the tattoo parlor, y/n's hand slipped into his, and he felt a jolt of excitement. The shop was small, nestled between a vintage clothing store and a tattooed bakery, the neon sign flickering in the dark. The walls were lined with flash art, a kaleidoscope of images that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the punk rock playing in the background.

The artist, a burly man with a gentle smile, took one look at the nervousness etched on Chris's face and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't worry, mate," he said, his voice gruff but kind. "You're in good hands."

Y/n whispered the design into the artist's ear, and he nodded, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're sure about this?" he asked, turning to Chris.

Chris looked at her, her edgy beauty illuminated by the neon glow. "Yeah," he said, swallowing hard. "I trust her."

The process was surprisingly painless, the needle a gentle hum that seemed to sync with the rhythm of his racing heart. As the artist worked, y/n held his hand, her grip tight and reassuring. When it was over, he looked down at the fresh ink, a simple but meaningful design that represented their shared love of music and their blossoming friendship.

They stepped out into the night, the cool air soothing the sting of the tattoo. y/n turned to him, her eyes shining. "So, what do you think?"

Chris smiled, feeling a sense of belonging he hadn't felt in a long time. "I think it's perfect," he said, squeezing her hand. "Thank you."

Their walk back to the tube station was filled with a newfound ease, the awkwardness of their first meeting a distant memory. As they parted ways, the promise of future adventures hanging in the air, Chris couldn't help but feel like he'd found something special in this edgy, pierced girl who'd turned his world upside down.

In the weeks that followed, they explored the city's hidden music venues, discovered new bands, and shared quiet moments that felt like secrets whispered between friends. With each passing day, their bond grew stronger, the lines between fan and crush blurring into something more substantial.

Chris found himself looking forward to their meetups with an anticipation that was both thrilling and terrifying. He knew that the girl who had once seemed so unattainable was now someone he could see himself with, not just for a fleeting romance but for something real.

The tension grew with each shared smile, each brush of their hands. And when y/n finally leaned in and kissed him under the glow of a streetlamp, the music of the city fading into the background, he knew that he was falling for her—for the girl who had shown him that sometimes, the most beautiful melodies were found in the most unexpected places.

*****

@gvf23

@xxkatxgracexx

#fluff #british youtubers #imagines #chris md x reader #chrismd x reader #chris md #chrismd

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tired-truffle · 7 months ago

Text

Even the Gods Cry For Us

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 3k

Part 5/17

Tag list: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @potatointhedirt (if anyone else would like to be tagged with future updates let me know!)

"I have survived everything but I fear that I cannot survive myself" - Cynthia Chapman

Masterlist

Vines twisting, writhing around your ankles, your wrists, tightening around your neck as you struggled against their hold. Suffocating, dying by your own magic, too weak to fight against it. Why couldn’t you have just listened to Viktor for once in your—

Where it had once been darkness, a faint, white light blinked into existence, the dark transforming into a star-patterned sky, dim except for the small dot above you. Before you could examine it, the dark exploded into a sea of little lights, smaller than the first, but moving, like a disturbed colony of ants. The vines ceased squeezing as your limbs relaxed, a sense of ease falling over you, calming you with its comforting sway. The bright light pulsed again, pulling insistently on your magic, and though it had just betrayed you, you found yourself opening up to it anyway.

Flowing from you and over the vines, your magic poured forth in soft, effervescent waves, the luminous wisps snaking through the twisting plants. As each thread wormed its way under wood and mortar and brick and into soil, you could feel the earth's heartbeat, the deep thrum of life carrying on unseen beneath the surface. Your senses expanded outwards, unfurling like gossamer wings as you witnessed the intricate map of souls walking above.

In the distance, a familiar presence stirred, its essence unmistakable. Viktor. You sensed his deliberate movements, each footfall resonating through the woven matrix as he made his way toward you. Though you couldn't see him, you traced the path of his energy from Piltover - the energy in that area screaming poise and class and condescension - vibrant and unwavering, a beacon cutting through the darkness.

Overhead, the celestial canopy swirled, luminescent spots swirling in an endless, hypnotic waltz. You drifted in that dreamscape, lost between worlds, content to simply bask in the warmth of Viktor's nearing presence until the moment he returned to you.

When he made it to the house, you at least had the good sense to be embarrassed about your predicament. You could only imagine what it would look like when he crested the stairs, but the vines were still too tight around your jaw and you couldn’t shout to warn him or let him know you were okay.

His footsteps creaked up the stairs, slowly, as if he was trying to be quiet lest he disturb you. It was sweet, though you doubted that any amount of noise would have awoken you had you still been in the deepest throes of your illness.

The sound of items clattering to the ground and a sharp gasp signalled that he’d seen your sorry state, a mummy made of magical plant matter. One step, two steps, and his fingers were grasping and pulling at the vines around your face.

“Milá,” he breathed, panic as you’d rarely heard colouring his voice.

You hummed your response, adding a lilting inflection, almost like a question, hoping it would calm him if he knew you were not in distress. But even if he understood, he continued his insistent tugging, and soon, like a flower blooming, the vines gave way around your eyes.

Squinting against the sudden onslaught of light, you heard Viktor breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Are you alright?” he asked, though you were unable to answer.

When you were finally able to see again, your eyes darted from the concerned frown marring his lips, to the crease of worry between his brows. Despite your magic assuring you that he would return safely, a lingering sense of unease had gnawed at you, wondering what condition he would come back in. His skin had lost its healthy flush, the dark circles under his eyes had deepened, and his cheeks looked gaunt. How long had you been unconscious?

You hummed again, shifting weakly beneath your leafy shackles. Viktor, understanding what you were wordlessly trying to communicate, tugged once more at vines. But they refused to budge.

You huffed, your magic silent beneath your skin for once. Irritating that it didn’t respond when you needed it, but seemed to have no qualms about ruining everything else.

“Please,” Viktor implored, gaze darting across the vines, “it would be most appreciated if you released her. I have medicine she requires, and I cannot administer it should you continue to restrain her.”

Any lingering confusion over his statement was instantly dispelled as those damned sparks pushed out from between the tangled vines, pulsing lowly as they sat abnormally still in your lap - like minuscule dogs on watch duty. Of course they had something to do with this.

Whereas you were about at your wits end with these little…creatures, Viktor seemed to have an abundance of patience.

“Allow me a moment,” he addressed the sparks as though he could understand them.

Viktor turned and strode back towards the top of the stairs, where he'd dropped whatever he'd been carrying in his haste to reach you. Bending down, he rummaged through the abandoned bags and pouches, finally retrieving a small glass bottle, no bigger than his palm. Cradling it gently, he straightened and made his way back over to you, the sparks immediately swarming around the new object with an excited buzz.

As Viktor held the bottle out before him, the sparks zipped and darted in disorderly orbits around it, their glistering trails leaving streaks of light in the air. You could see Viktor's lips moving, though his voice was too soft to make out the words over the shrill barage of the sparks' shrieks. After a few trying minutes, the frenzied swarm slowed, the individual sparks drifting closer to inspect the bottle's contents with rapt curiosity.

The bottle itself was unassuming, a simple glass vial with a cork stopper, yet whatever was inside seemed to utterly entrance the sparks. They ran their tiny forms along its curved surface, tracing the outline of the pills within with an almost reverent awe. One particularly bold spark alighted on Viktor's outstretched hand, creeping up his wrist and forearm in a winding path until it reached his shoulder. There it paused, tilting back and forth as if weighing some great decision.

You held your breath, the moment stretching out into eternity as the spark remained motionless on Viktor's shoulder. Just when you thought your lungs might burst, it loosed a piercing trill, one that set the rest of the swarm into a burst of echoing shrieks and chitters.

As if responding to a direct command, the vines binding you suddenly convulsed, unravelling in a whirlwind of twisting green ropes. You collapsed forward with a gasp as the constricting coils abruptly released you, only Viktor's swift hands catching you prevented you from tumbling to the floor. The sparks swirled triumphantly overhead as you clung to him, trembling with relief, exhausted from both your fight and the illness still clinging to your skin, clammy and cold with sweat.

“What happened?” Viktor asked, concern in the wide set of his eyes, his hand slipping into yours and squeezing gently.

“I’m not great at following instructions.” You gave him a sheepish grin, eyes darting towards the door that hid his note on the other side.

He followed your gaze, shaking his head and sighing. “I was pretty specific.”

You shrugged, though you were barely able to get your shoulders to move more than an inch. “I was pretty beside myself when I woke up and couldn’t find you, and I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

“And your solution was to cover yourself in vines?” Viktor picked up a torn tendril, raising an eyebrow at you with a dubiousness that bordered on comical.

“It wasn’t my solution,” you paused, “at least, not consciously.”

He placed the back of his hand against your forehead and your eyes fluttered shut at the feel of his blessedly cool touch against your overheated skin. “You’re still feverish. Here, take this.”

He held out what appeared to be a large pill, giving you time to eye it warily, before ultimately taking it, popping it into your mouth and accepting the bottle of water he pulled from his bag to help wash it down. How long had he gone without water? Or food for that matter. Guilt churned in your gut, not only because you’d been unable to summon the basic necessities of life in your sickness-induced haze, but because your first thoughts upon waking had been selfishly centred on your fear of him abandoning you. Shouldn’t you trust him enough by now?

Before you could dwell on that thought any further, you were unexpectedly suspended in the air, Viktor’s arm beneath your shoulders and under your knees. You squealed your surprise, the sparks mimicking your noise like a hundred tiny out-of-tune music boxes.

Viktor chuckled and had the fever not already reddened your cheeks, your blush would have diffused across your skin.

“Proud of yourself?” You clutched at his cloak, heart hammering in your chest.

He smirked. “Something like that.”

And you supposed that was fair, he would have been hard-pressed to not only pick you up but to carry you as well prior to his new metallic additions. While he looked exhausted and waned, the strength he possessed soothed an anxious part of your soul that you didn’t think would ever truly stop fretting about him.

The rough surface of the wooden floor was what you were expecting as he gently lowered you down. But to your surprise, instead of the expected discomfort, you found yourself placed atop a bed of soft blankets - the fabric plush and welcoming. When had he done that? You couldn't remember him getting up from his spot crouched in front of you, but then again, your memory was clouded by fever and delirium.

“Soft.” You spread your fingers along the blanket, relishing in its fluff. “Where did you get this?”

“I will tell you all about it once you are feeling better.” He brushed away the hair plastered to your sweaty brow, tucking it behind your ear. “The quicker you recover, the sooner you’ll find out.”

“I know you went back to the Academy.” Some instinctive part of you rebelled against his assertions, his motivation for you to get well.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow as you yawned, not bothering to cover your mouth - and you weren’t sure you would have had the strength either way.

“The vines told me.” Even after having experienced it firsthand, it sounded silly to your ears.

Viktor humoured you with a patient smile. “Then we shall exchange stories when you are well enough. I will tell you the details of my journey to Piltover, and you may tell me how it was exactly that the vines told you of my whereabouts.”

You gave a grunt of affirmation, words lost in the haze of your tired mind.

Eyelids growing heavy, you sank deeper into the plush bedding as Viktor's soothing presence surrounded you. His faint silhouette swayed in and out of focus, his gentle touch - cool hands brushing against your forehead, the rustle of fabric as he adjusted the blankets - lulling you to sleep.

Two days of mystery pills and rest, and you were feeling much improved. Your fever had broken the morning following Viktor’s return, and your energy had slowly begun to increase. You were confident in your ability to move about the house, and even summon food when the supplies that Viktor had brought back started to run low, but he was less than convinced.

“You could at least tell me how it was to be back there,” you prodded when he denied your use of magic to summon food again, stating he would simply lower his portions. But you saw the way his strength had depleted over the past few days, and he needed all the nourishment he could get. Besides, you didn’t recall asking for permission.

“I will concede on that.”

You resisted the urge to fist pump your victory, instead, throwing a blanket over his shoulders, and using the ends to tug him closer, nestling up against his side as the sparks sighed happily. Much to your chagrin, they’d refused to leave you alone since the incident with the vines, and when you’d explained it all to Viktor earlier that morning, all he’d done was hum and talk about how curious they were. Irritating was more like it. But you couldn’t deny that sometimes - very seldom, mind you - they were rather adorable.

“I have told you that I’m not cold, yes?” Viktor tilted his head to the side, making no move to extract you from his side.

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved your hand dismissively, the sparks leaping off your finger, scampering up his knees and into the folds of the blanket. “Stop stalling and tell me already.”

“If you insist.” Viktor’s arm wrapped around your shoulder and the magic within you purred with contentment, sending a pleasant tingle through your limbs.

“I had only meant to search through the Undercity for the supplies we required, but, when I found a passage to Piltover that had long been forgotten on this side of the city, I thought it prudent I acquire you some medication.” As he spoke, his fingers trailed up and down your arm, bringing goosebumps to the surface of your skin. “I had been hoping to avoid detection, and I would have, had Jayce not been asleep in the lab when I arrived.”

You remained silent, allowing him space to gather his thoughts. “He has spent the time since the explosion thinking us both to be dead, and he was relieved to hear we had survived, though dubious about the disappearance of the Hexcore and my…current form. He attempted to convince me to stay, he was planning to resign from the council, and when I turned down his offer…” Viktor pursed his lips. “He did not take it well, though he did not try to block my departure.”

“I’m sorry, Viktor.” The words paled in comparison to the solemnity of Viktor’s story, but it was all you could offer.

“As am I,” he sighed, resting his cheek against the top of your head. “I only hope he comes to understand one day. We could not stay in Piltover like this.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I’m glad he didn’t try to stop you from coming back.”

“Nothing could have stopped me from returning to you, miláčku,” he whispered into your hair. You smiled against the metal of his neck and felt him return the expression in the form of what you could imagine was a rather impish grin. Oh gods, what now?

“Jayce had pitchers of water and plates of food under glass domes and hooked up to our testing equipment,” he began, and with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you had an idea of where this was headed. “You know how I cannot resist a conundrum, as this no doubt was, and through the vigorous scientific inquiry of asking Jayce, I discovered that his food and water have been disappearing, seemingly by some magical force, for, eh, around a week now. Perhaps as you yourself are a mage, you would have some insight into this predicament?”

You groaned, your face reddened and hot, though not a result of fever. “I’ve been stealing from Jayce this entire time?”

“You’ve been stealing from the lab,” Viktor corrected. “Less targeted, but it does appear that he has been spending most of his time there.”

“Maybe he should get out more,” you said, halfhearted in your critique. “How…” you swallowed hard, “how were the council members? Did you hear anything?”

“If the gossip I overheard was correct, they are all alive.”

As relieved as that made you, tension bleeding from your shoulders, you couldn’t help but notice the very specific wording he’d used.

“But they were injured.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. You were too well versed in Viktor’s tactics to avoid and distract.

“There was remaining debris that fell after your barrier disappeared. At the time, I was much too concerned over your well-being to realize, but yes, there were some injuries.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you balled your hands into fists around the fabric of his cloak. A scream of frustration lodged itself in your throat. You’d tried so hard to save them, to prevent the damage, but for all your pain and suffering, they had still been hurt.

“They - we - are alive because of you, do not forget that.” Viktor smoothed his hand over the back of your skull, a repetitive motion meant to soothe.

He was correct, but it did little to assuage your guilt. “How bad is it?”

He was quiet for a moment and you did your best to wait, but the headache building behind your eyes was only thinning your patience.

“Councilor Salo no longer has the use of his legs, and Councilor Kiramman…she is in a coma.”

You saw it then, a statue, golden and muted beneath the cloudy sky, rain pattering across the three figures forever immortalized in honour of their contributions, in remembrance of their tragic deaths. Councilors Bolbok, Hoskel, and Kiramman. A daughter, angry and mourning her loss, bent on vengeance and violence. Was a coma better than death? Never knowing if she’d awaken, if they’d have to watch her slowly slip away until she became a living ghost. It was a different type of grief, to lose someone who was still alive, but no less potent.

Slipping peacefully back to reality, you kept your eyes shut. Your visions had always been jarring, like something was ripping your consciousness out of your body and throwing it into the abyss. Yet this time, it had felt like flowing down a slow, meandering stream, drifting you from one place to the next. You weren’t sure you would have noticed if not for the extreme change in scenery.

“Three of them were supposed to die,” you said, “I am glad they did not.”

“That is a good thing, I think.”

You remained firmly in his arms, time slowly ticking by and a low simmer of worry spreading through you. Heal and recover, and then you could figure out how to move forward, and help save Piltover and the Undercity like Soraka believed you could. But first, and most importantly, you had to figure out how to stabilize Viktor.

Smut Chapter

Next Chapter

A/N: There is a smut chapter linked to this one that I will add here once it's complete (likely today or tomorrow) but you don't have to read it if you don't want to!

Let me know what you think!

#angst with a happy ending #fluff #viktor x you #viktor x reader #machine herald viktor #viktor arcane #hurt/comfort #eventual smut #tooth rotting fluff

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