#the just... desolation. desperation? it feels so alone. calling out into the void

[uniquezombiedestiny]

come on

please tell me

[suguru-getos]

Fleeting - Part I

Summary: Broken and bruised, is what your heart feels after losing the love of your life - Geto Suguru, in the hands of someone you barely know. Isn't it your duty to have Gojo Satoru dead at your feet?

Author's Note: Gosh TIS is ANGSTY>!!! I almost cried while writing this part :((

Chapter Summary: You have been told that Suguru is no more, how you cope up can be utterly frightening when there's nothing else to lose anymore.

You stood at the kitchen door, frozen, numb, eyes widened with the sheer panic of everything that befell. The environment around you just felt akin to pure desolation, the very marrow of your bone shattered, broken apart in endless pieces and it was impossible to bring you back. The endless void that Suguru created in your life, the deteriorating feeling of emptiness, hollowing you, sucking your soul up. "Where is he?" You managed to fight from the endless pit of anxiety that grew like a black hole. Mimiko and Nanako are scared to meet your gaze, the woman who's not much older than them but they still consider her as the epitome of love. For both of them, and, their precious Geto Sama.

Your eyes are not allowing the pent-up grief to escape, not a tear shall be shed for this. Never will. You can't wash off all the feelings of being notoriously tainted by Suguru's intensity, by his love. Your mind isn't thinking straight, you want answers, need answers. "I asked a question, Miguel." You asked someone else in the 'Family' that cherished you as much as they cherished Geto. "Please.." Manami, the woman who helped him do his due-diligence being a Cult leader cried out. She knows you will break apart, and they are not sure if they can handle a living corpse after losing Suguru-chan.

"Where is Sugu?" You asked again, desperation of clutching for the fleeting hope of him returning back, evidently smiling with his ever-so-loving, signature smile and warmth ensuing with his hugs. He couldn't… he shouldn't. HE COULDN'T!

"Y/N Sama" Nanako sniffled, running to you and hugging you tightly, loud sobs and wails of torment echoed the room as she fell to her knees. As if she's apologizing. Why is she apologizing? Where is Suguru? You just asked a simple question - where is Geto Suguru? The love of your life, the biggest piece of your heart, the reason of you existing and not dead at your own actions all those years ago.

"Y/N Sama- please don't ask this, you know he's gone… he said he would be the first to come home didn't he?"

You want to kill everyone in this room, you want to kill every sorcerer to exist, you want to kill yourself.

He did… he did promise you. Hugged you close and whispered how grateful he is to have you, over and over and over and over and over and over and-

Why did he have to leave you forever?

Why could he not let his heart beat for you?

"This- is mine." The flashback of Suguru's silky voice haunts you, as his looming, large hands point at the left side of your chest. "You have my heart, and I, have yours." He smiled, holding your hand and softly placing it on his naked chest. "So if this stops working -" He nuzzles against your chest, "Which it would never, because my heart would never give up on you… but if it does, know I've failed to protect you as a man."

"Gosh, so intense and for what" You push him away, rolling your eyes. "Both our hearts wouldn't stop working. You know why? Because - in this world, you bring out a smile in me."

Suguru was right, if his heart was in you - he didn’t fail to protect you, but you did. You're all alone now, the only shred of comfort if ever, in the grotesque way your heart is tattered apart, is the words of Suguru where he calls that 'his heart'. You know that's not true, you know better. Still, what else could you do?

You can't think of anything else, can't speak, can't eat. Time is a construct when it's your other half that you’ve lost.

You don't even remember that a week has passed with you staring at the wall, sleeping in the same bed that has the scent of your person.. fleeting… just like him.

You cry on the eighth day, you roar, you scream, you let the world know that you're here. Even if Geto Suguru is not, you're here.

What's worse than a lion? The king of the jungle, the apex predator?

An injured lion.

You.

All you can think of is how to make the ache in your heart settle, how to breathe again. Or perhaps, how to be worthy of death that you can grant yourself and re-unite with Suguru. What would it take to meet him again…

You drag yourself up from the bed, going to his closet and taking his perfume out, the whisking sound of it spraying all over echoes as you close your eyes, pumping it over and over and over and over and over- you can't afford to not smell like your lover. You are losing your mind- why doesn't everyone else die? Who killed him-

Right, who killed Suguru Geto?

Frantically, tear-stained and in an absolute mess, you opened the door. Stunned to see 'everyone' standing outside. You know why they were there, your screams and sobs were unimaginably painful. You were crying out in utter devastating, soul churning pain after all. None of them knew how to console you after all. How would you tell someone to be okay after they lose the light of their life?

"Who killed him?" You asked the question, looking at everyone.

"Gojo Satoru." Larue responded.

"Gojo Satoru.." You repeated, as if writing his name in red in your broken, bleeding heart. Writing his name in… blood red.

"His best friend?" You snorted, the denial turning you furious and unimaginably dangerous.

"We have a new mission, my family." You smiled. If it's revenge that can keep you alive, so be it.

[forthedancingandthethriving]

(Context)

Wanted to like,, almost make it a story.

○●○

Long ago, there was nothing. Nothing but the empty void, and it's howling wind. There was no light, no darkness, no sound. Just the void.

Until, one day, a spark came. Then a second. A third. A fourth.

All four growing into beings.

The first was elegant. He wore an outfit befitting that of a king, with its color ever-changing. His color was ever-changing. The only thing that ever stayed the same was the golden headpiece that rested on the back of his head, representing a rising sun.

The second was as elegant as the first. She wore an outfit befitting that of a queen, her color too ever-changing. The only thing that ever stayed the same was the silver circlet she wore that had a crescent moon.

The third was monstrous, dangerous in appearance but kind in personality. He was that of an anthropomorphic dragon, his color too ever-changing with his outfit befitting that of a knight's. The only thing that stayed the same were the purple cuffs on his wrists.

The fourth was less monstrous but still dangerous in appearance yet kind in nature. She was that of an anthropomorphic lamb, color ever-changing. She wore an outfit befitting of a priestess. The only thing that stayed the same was the blue veil that rested over her face.

The first named himself Adminstrator.

The second named herself Moderator.

The third named himself Virus.

The fourth named herself Program.

The Four quickly formed a tight and close bond. They talked and laughed, filling the once quiet and desolate void with sounds of joy and companionship.

However, it didn't take long for loneliness to settle in. The Four knew that they couldn't be alone forever, left in a void that no one else would ever know of.

So one day, Moderator arose and spoke, "I say we make a world of our own!" She declared. "I say we start making this world into something new, something beautiful.. something us."

The others agreed, and they began to work. Using their vast powers, they created a world where code reigned supreme. Where all beings of code could reside.

Then, together, Program and Virus began to make entities. Entities to live in the world, to expand and inhabit.

However, Program was not pure or corrupt, and neither was Virus. Those that came from their did not always have the good hearts their creators did.

This lead to clashes. Battles. Wars. Things the Four desperately tried to stop, but they soon realized they never could. So, together, Adminstrator and Moderator began to create spaces. Spaces where Viruses and Programs could be separate if they wish, but could join together should they feel like they can.

As the years went on, the Four found themselves often lonely. Though, that loneliness soon vanished when a brave little Program approached them one day.

He called himself Sparks, and the Four found his bravery admirable. Very rarely did any creation come to them merely to talk. Even rarer was any of them finding the nerve seek them out.

They enjoyed his company, and he enjoyed theirs.

However, one day, they noticed cracks.

Virus was the first to point them out, how they ran along the walls of the world. Cracking and splintering. It soon got worse, and they were able to realize why.

The world was far too small, there were far too many inhabitants, and not enough Moderators and Admins.

While thinking of a plan to try and save the realm, Program was able to see a small glimpse of a future. So too was Virus.

A fight, a Virus, Four Founders, and a Space. Filled with Admins that would survey the world of code, keep things in order, and keep everything safe.

So, the Four began their work.

Program and Virus made more of their creations. Made ones tough, strong, hard to defeat but not impossible. (One Virus named Worm, and he knew deep down that this would be the one.)

Administrator and Moderator began expanding the spaces. Simplifying the qualifications needed to be overseers of Spaces. Together, they even created some Admins and Mods. Not too many, and some of them the duo pushed to always look out and beyond.

By the time they had done, the world of code was larger than ever, yet no longer cracking. However, the Four were exhausted. Their code frayed and sparking, hot to the touch. They knew that they needed to find a way to rest, and fast.

That is when their dear friend came and said a simple word, "Fuse."

The Four did not question how he knew, but they knew it was the only way. So they individually said their farewells before they joined hands and fused.

It was a bright spectacle. Able to be seen throughout the entire world, and from the merged code arose one being and one being alone; Database.

Their body massive, towering over all, their color ever-changing. A blue veil rested over their face, obscuring their eight white eyes. Purple cuffs rested on their arms, keeping the long sleeves of their dress from swaying as they moved. Their crown, mimicking a rising sun coming over a crescent moon, often glittered in the light, just as their cape did. Large wings of a dragon rested on their back, with small clouds of what seemed to be wool floated around them.

Database thanked Sparks once more, before they departed. Only their friend ever knowing where they went.

A secret he intended to keep until the day came that he deactivated. Though he would honor them.

There's a reason his establishment is called the Ever-Changing after all.

[fertile-void]

Issue #317 / March 2025

I was recently listening to Skeleton Tree and realised all these years I’d misheard one of your lyrics. I always heard…’but the echo comes back EMPTY.’ This line always struck a chord in my heart. I’d recently lost my wife to cancer, left to cope with two beautiful young children and I often imagined calling across the water to her but the echo coming back empty. I’d never dare suggest that my lyric is better, but would you agree that it might be almost as good as yours?

Dear Russell,

A dark cloud hangs over the album Skeleton Tree. I have always felt it to be a record that possessed a shocking, premonitory energy, like a curse. We began recording the album just before Arthur died and completed it shortly after, and I haven’t listened to the record properly since – I prefer not to go back there.  I remember it as such a raw, unadorned and desolate thing. Songs like ‘Jesus Alone’, ‘Magneto’, ‘Anthrocene’, and ‘Girl in Amber’ felt like they possessed a malevolent force at their core, foreshadowing the devastation that would visit my home. The song ‘Skeleton Tree’ itself was added later. It was the first song I wrote after Arthur’s death, so it was with some trepidation that I listened to it to check on your supposed mishearing of the lyrics.

I played the song and was genuinely surprised by how lovely it was – a gorgeous, lilting piano line and a beautiful vocal melody resting on a strange, mismatched chord structure. It is full of demonic imagery, yet also beautiful – A jittery TV glowing white like fire. The title, ‘Skeleton Tree’, was a bleak crucifixion image, the tree upon which no one is redeemed. It is a desperate song, filled with desperate images from a desperate time, yet touched with feelings of hope that I could not begin to see back then. As I listened, I thought of you, Russell, new to grief, navigating a life without your partner, a life you did not anticipate or choose – a father dying daily in sacrificial love for his beautiful children. Your reading of the lyric was correct.

I call out, I call out

Right across the sea

But the echo comes back empty

Nothing is for free

Ultimately, I found the echo I had thought to be empty was not empty at all, it was simply drowned in the roar of grief. As the grief retreated, I came to understand that the presence of the departed resonated through those left behind. Your children, Russell, carry their mother in their bones, in their souls and in their cells, the maternal bond never truly severed.

When I wrote ‘Skeleton Tree’, I could not perceive any hope in the song at all. It was a vacuum, all nihilism and void. Listening to it now, years later, I can hear its insistent beauty loud and clear. The echo is not empty, Russell, not in the slightest – we call out, and given time, the echo comes back bearing the entirety of the world.

Love, Nick

[quills-of-freedom]

Slow dance with ~

Reiner Braun ❤

If this song doesn't sum up Reiner, his situation and his feelings for you, I'll eat my hat & shoes.

My actual heart, though.

"I'll be there as soon as I can, But I'm busy mending broken, pieces of the life I had before... Before you..."

"You could be my unintended choice, to live my life extended, you, could be the one i'll always love..."

Reiner didn't know which was worse; the fact he betrayed you all those years ago, or that he was still desperately in love with you. Not once did you leave his thoughts for longer than a day at a time, no matter what he had going on. Still plagued with haunting nightmares of you trying to kill him in Shiganshina, he didn't think he'd ever have the honour of speaking with you again. But with everything that's happened and the world now at peace... maybe now he can bring his retribution to an end - because the last four years have been nothing but torment.

The burden of guilt weighed heavy on his back and more than once has he wanted to just end his suffering by his own hand.

He's seen a lot over the years. Pain. Suffering. Death. Betrayal.

But nothing scares him more than the idea you had no love left for him, that you still couldn't forgive him for what he did. He wouldn't blame you, of course. But nothing terrifies an atheist more than the concept of death, and without you, there was nothing after it all. It was all for nothing. Without you, it's just a desolate void.

He remembers falling for you so hard back in cadets. What started as a little crush catching fire and smouldering into full blown love, the inferno like a whirlwind out of control as he tried to calm his racing thoughts about you, knowing all too well it wasn't going to end well. But when he started to forget; when everything mushed together into one reality or the other, was when he had totally gotten lost within himself. And there you were, always there to hold him up when the weight was too much. So of course he was going to call out to your out-reached hand of unconditional admiration and adoration.

The celebrations at the palace were bitter-sweet. Yes, the war was over. Yes, an age of peace had finally begun.

But to the loss of so many lives.

One including many of your friends.

The cruel irony that you could now experience true freedom, by the death of your best friend, of whom, you'd promised you'd both traverse the world together. The innocent childhood glint behind your eyes forever extinguished - replaced by grief.

Eren was dead.

Mikasa. Gone.

No one knew where she'd went. But all that was left now was the gratitude from the people you'd saved. A pointless goal of nothing awaited you. No more fighting, no more dreaming.

You'd all been granted your medals of outstanding service at a ceremony and now as the party begins to extinguish of voices and laughter, Reiner was alone on the terrace. The floor-to-ceiling grand windows illuminating his back as he leans upon the stone balustrade, the cold nip in the air not deterring the exhausted veteran.

"Reiner?"

His heart skips a beat.

He recognised that voice, and would for the rest of his days.

The voice he was terrified of forgetting the sound of. The sweet song of praise that were your vocals.

He turns to see you in your beautiful dress standing at the grand over-the-top door to the ballroom.

"Sorry, I didn't think anyone was out here. It's so bright in there I couldn't see outside." You explain as you go to join him for some fresh air.

"It's alright." Is all he can manage to vocalise over his now trembling body.

He was a fine sight in his suit although the night had taken its toll, his blazer gone and tie loosened, white sleeves pushed up his large forearms. He gazed ahead into the inky blackness of the evening, the dark void where all traumas and nightmares lay in wait.

"I guess a congratulation is in order." You hum. "The fighting is finally over. And you're no longer a titan, right?"

"Right." He affirms with a nod, nervously twiddling his fingers over the balustrade.

"It's strange. We should feel happy, right? So, why don't I feel happy?"

He glances at your pleading eyes, pleading for some wisdom he didn't have. He didn't have it because he was in the same boat.

"I don't know." He swallows, returning his head to face ahead of him. "I guess the loss was too great."

His heart was breaking all over again.

He could feel your pain seeping from your being. That empty pain behind your eyes much like the pair he sees in the mirror everyday. You had always been too precious for this world. And now it was finally all said and done, you couldn't even enjoy it. He knew how much Eren and Mikasa meant to you.

And Sasha.

And Marco.

"y/n, i'm sorry." He mutters. "I'm not the best person to be talking to about this."

"You promised me, right?" Her tone quivers as the song inside changes to a slow-paced tune to begin to draw a close to the evening. "Five years ago. That you'll always be there for me?"

His lips part and he turns to face you, his equally pained orbs searching yours for any hint of a cruel joke.

But there wasn't any.

All he could see were the burning cinders of innocence cruelly pillaged by events that were not by your own doing.

"And you're back now, aren't you?" You continue, filling in his silence as he is lost for words. "Aren't you?"

A tear streams down your cheek, the lachrymose proving to be too much.

Without a word, he pulls you into his chest, his arms that have longed and ached for you for so long, now finally holding you once more as he holds your head against his solid chest, holding you up as you crumble.

"The world is cruel. But it's also beautiful..." You whisper in memory of your friend, your eyes clasping shut as the pain in your chest becomes more intense.

He inhales you before resting his cheek on top of your head, his eyes pleading as he slowly cradles you from side to side. Your skin. Your heart. Your scent. God he'd missed it all.

You had always been the one to hold his chin high when all was lost. And now, he can finally do the same for you.

With a sniffle, you slide your hands up and over his shoulders as he continues to rock slowly, his hands instinctively resting upon your waist as you both begin to dance slowly to the low tune bellowing from within the palace.

His warmth radiates over you; he may no longer hold the power of the nine titans, but you could still feel his great strength and iron will beneath his flesh, as he holds you as if you would be snatched away if he let go for a second.

"I still love you, y/n." He whispers with a dry mouth.

What did he really have to lose?

"I know." She breathes. "I still love you too."

The indescribable amount of pain that has stripped you bare over the years did not show any signs of relenting anytime soon. But now at least... you have Reiner back. Maybe you could begin new dreams. Together.

[onfallingapart]

I think bird box was probably a pretty good movie if you separate it entirely from the book. Solid cinematography, suspenseful, engaging. But it’s like they totally missed the point of the book, and the things that made it good. 

It’s the slowly encroaching dread, the isolation, calling out into the void past the point of desperation and well into tedium. It’s about the wild kick of hope when you manage to reach someone, and all the impossibilities and gutting losses that stomp it down to ash. It’s about the true depths of desperation, and how that sometimes swings the pendulum back into something that almost resembles hope, because you simply have no other option, and the only way out is through. About dragging yourself forward inch by inch blindly through the impossible. It’s about how you can try so meticulously to determine the rules to survive your new catastrophic existence, and still fail over and over again, no matter how careful you are. It’s about the goddamn scientific method, testing hypotheses and hoping you’re getting closer to the truth. It’s about what defines madness, about how a dive off the deep end is more or less catastrophic depending on where you started; how for some people, it’s hardly a fall at all. About madness, but not just about its potential explosive ends—also about the insidious way it can creep in and taint the desperate and lonely. It’s about the fear to connect because everything has been taken from you and you’ve had to harden your heart to survive. About the desolation of raising children like that, crushed between regret for what SHOULD be and resignation about what HAS to be. About carrying that burden all alone, both the literal child rearing and every choice therein, AND the awareness of how devastatingly wrong everything is. 

I feel like they just missed, like, the whole thing. They took the bare bones concept and painted it up like a blockbuster action horror extravaganza, but they lost the heart of it. Maybe I’d feel differently if I saw the movie first and wasn't constantly making comparisons and squawking about changes. But usually I can separate the two entities and appreciate an artistic interpretation, when the discrepancy isn't quite so glaring. I feel like they just don't GET it, and that's a real shame.  

tldr: I recommend the book. 

[foodieforthoughts]

Empty Nest

Pairing: Sy x Reader

Warnings: Angst, TW: loss of a child, TW: death, TW: Mention of road accident, lots of sadness

A/N: I'm not okay today, had an overall f*cked up day and I'm only projecting. Sorry Sy. 🥺

Title: Empty Nest

Sy had no idea what time it was, he could barely keep up with his life anymore. He turned on the bed to lie on his back, sensing the onslaught of a headache. Massaging his temples he felt drained even if he had just woken up from a dreamless sleep.

Faint sounds of sniffs and sobs travelled to his ears, rippling through the silence of the night. It was only then that he noticed you weren't on your side of the bed. The soft glow of the bathroom light cracked through the slightly ajar door, casting a thin column of yellow on the edge of the bed.

Sy was sitting up in a hurry, walking to the bathroom and pushing the door open without hesitation. His heart sank when he saw you sitting on the seat of the toilet with your face in your hands, unaware of him standing by the door.

"Baby," Sy called out, whispering to not startle you. Crouching in front of you, he placed his hands on your shoulders, ignoring the way you flinched. He waited for you to answer, look up to him even if he knew he would be shattered when he would meet your teary eyes.

Prying your hands away from your face as gently as he could, Sy gulped when he saw your crestfallen face. Red rimmed eyes stared back at him, cheeks soaked with rivers of tears with your hair astray and lips swollen. Willing himself to fight through his own grief, Sy blinked back his tears and smoothed your hair, wiping away the tears with his hands. But you never stopped weeping.

"Let's get you to bed." He offered, desperately trying to put on a strong face when he was crumbling inside.

You had turned into a shell of a person. Sy knew you were growing distant with every passing day, but all he could do was try to be strong for the both of you. Somedays were extremely hard, like today, when in the middle of the night he was tucking your inconsolable soul under the blanket, whispering to you everything is going to be okay. He sat next to you, running his hand through your hair, trying to lull you to sleep.

When your sniffs turned to a steady breathing, Sy placed a kiss on the top of your head. He couldn't remember when was the last time he had embraced you, the feel of your lips on his now only a phantom sensation. Silently walking out the bedroom, he made his way to the room on the other side of the hallway. His hand hovered over the doorknob, debating with himself if he could enter the room and survive through the pain.

But he had to, because come morning, that room was going to be void of everything and he had to say goodbye.

Switching on the lights, the former captain of the military felt lonelier than he was when he was in the desert. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the nest him and you were building. Sy picked up the teddy bear dressed in a camo outfit and placed him back in the toy basket. He looked at the wall by the changing table, the birds that he had attempted to paint and you had later corrected. On the dresser, the framed picture of you and him on the day of your gender reveal party, glared back at him. The armchair by the small bookshelf had the throw blanket Sy's mother had knitted for you, draped over the armrest with the seat occupied by a penguin soft toy he had won for you at the town fair.

But what shattered his resolve was the crib, empty and desolate. Sy ran his hand over the wooden frame, remembering the day he had spent building it with you sitting on the armchair and keeping him company by reading a children's book out loud. He closed his eyes, reliving the moment when you had told him over the SAT call that he was going to be a dad soon. He had never been eager to go home like he was that day. Luckily for him, he was on a short overseas mission and before you had entered your third trimester, he was home.

Taking a deep breath as desolation and despair cracked his walled resolution, Sy couldn't help but let himself cry. He had consoled you so many times over the past months, when you apologized for driving out to the grocery store alone. He knew it wasn't your fault, you could have never seen the drunk car driver jumping the red light and crashing into you sideways. Everyone knew you had been barely alive when they had taken you to the O.R and there was no way your unborn child could have survived that crash.

Dropping down to his knees, Sy felt his heart clench at the memory of seeing you hooked to IVs and monitors, unconscious and unable to breathe on your own. He had stayed by your side, holding your hand in his and waiting for you to open your eyes. He was supposed to be the one driving to the store that day, but instead, he had decided to go fishing with his friends.

Letting his guard down, allowing the emotions to overflow, Sy slumped and wept over the death of his baby girl and his splintered marriage. He had noticed how you would pull back when he touched you; how even if you never said it, he knew you held him accountable for the loss of your child. He knew there was no going back for the two of you. He knew, even if no one was voicing it, he was soon going to lose you too.

[blueprint-han]

ex.

↪ so many what if’s. who would give you those answers?

— where in you stumble into your ex at a friend’s wedding, and the subsequent conversation leads to new hope blooming in your relationship.

pairing: chan x reader

genre: ex au; angst with a fluffy ending.

⇥ warnings: themes/mentions of break up/make up, mentions of alcohol, please let me know if I miss a warning. please note that i, by no means condone any toxic relationships. this fic here with bang chan and Y/N is NOT an example of a toxic relationship or an implication of bang chan’s actions in real life. please take it as fiction.

word count: 3.3 K

type: one shot.

⇥ disclaimer: this fiction does not represent the activities of the real Bang Chan, nor is associated with JYPE in any form. Events are pure fiction. ♡

↯ note: I decided to merge your request with the prompt because it’s angst and guess who’s the queen of angst? You !! 😌 This was picked up from ex, as you can see and again your url ~vibes~ so uwu hope you enjoy it, this is my first time writing angst tho so please go easy on me. <3 Love you mom <333  ⇥ dawn.☀️

The dance hall’s fairly crowded when you take another shot of your martini, drowning in its essence as you make a desperate attempt to disconnect yourself from your vicinity. You wanna believe you’re drunk, though it’s not true in the slightest — you can still feel, hear, see everything around you clearly — the alcohol’s clearly not having its effect today. You wish, oh so dearly wish it did, because the man standing about two tables away from you really doesn’t deserve the attention you’re giving him right now.

The last thing you’d expected when you entered the hall to attend your friend’s wedding was to stumble right into the one man you’d been trying to avoid for the past two months. At that very moment, you cursed all the odds for making you face the man of your nightmares, the one who broke your heart.

Bang Chan.

Sure enough, just like when he’d dropped the news on you, all the butterflies in your stomach drop dead one by one, gloom and desolation taking over. The mere sight of him is enough to send you into a frenzy of confusion — you feel the flutter in your heart to know that he’s doing okay, but you can also feel that pit of sadness, anger and heartbreak mixed to wash over as one of the most conflicting feelings ever.

“O-oh, hi there, Y/N.” Chan had waved a hand and bowed down, but you shakily nodded your head, not bothering to give him any words of acknowledgement as you stumbled into the hall. How is it that you didn’t notice him until half the wedding was over? How could you forget that he was supposed to attend, because he was the bride’s friend alike? 

Was it wrong that part of you still wished that you could be standing next to him, watching him as he introduced you to his friends, calling you “his girlfriend”?

You wondered what the look on Chan’s face would’ve been when you left his greeting hanging in the cold air like that. Was he broken on the inside too? Or did he simply not care? He’d been the one to end it, after all. He looks smart right now — adorning a luxurious black suit, his brownish hair slicked neatly to the side and parted. The delicate silver chain you’d given him on his birthday is oddly still on his neck — you promise yourself to not think about it much, because you know it’ll give you hope — and hope’s a dangerous feeling, at least for you.

When the music starts blaring through the speakers and the couple start dancing together, you sigh, straightening your posture from where you’re leaning against the shot table. Your friend has the prettiest smile plastered onto her face — it comes naturally to her, you figure, seeming as to how she’s married to the love of her life right now. They both seem lost — almost peaceful — as they stare into each other’s eyes. Soon, more and more couples join, until the whole hall is filled with everyone dancing on their heels, twirling and smiling and dancing gracefully. Everyone except you, of course.

You sigh, fixing the hem of your swan-white dress. Way to go for your mood to be ruined — all because you happened to stumble upon your ex boyfriend, and thoughts consumed you as a whole. Was it so wrong of you to wish that you could go back in time and change his decision? You’d moved on from this — you’d told yourself you’d moved on a month ago. You wiped him out of your memory — all the things that reminded you of him — but what if you’d only patched up the wound, not healed it in the slightest? What if the person who held the key to repair your broken heart was held by a person who you’d let go, and by all means, couldn’t reach out now?

So many what if’s. Who would give you those answers? He surely hadn’t, when all he did was just break it out to you over a meeting at the park that he’d fallen out of love with you. 

You never understood what happened. It just started with the less frequent messages and meet ups, the excuse of always being busy, and that slowly morphed into him ignoring you for days, until one day he broke the news and ended it, on good terms. Or at least you thought so.

You sigh again, asking the bartender to lend you one bottle of the drink — which he does without question — before you walk over to the staircase that seems to lead to the terrace. Away from the risk of your eyes landing on him and your thoughts going all over the place again. If only you could walk away from the pit of emotions in your heart the same way. If only.

When you kick the almost rusted door open, the fresh blast of cold air that hits you makes you sigh in relief. You tuck several strands of hair neatly behind your ear, walking to the edge as you glance at the view. Leaning against the concrete, you let the lights coming from the night cityscape blur your vision, along with the faint, distant echoing of horns coming from the roads fill your ears. It’s a distraction, after all.

You pop open the cork of the bottle, letting the fizz bubble down before pressing your lips against the rim. One gulp, two, you then gaze up at the night sky. Rinse and repeat, until the whole bottle is almost finished. You ignore the void in your heart, filling it with the essence of alcohol and ignoring the feelings bubbling in it right now. 

Chan was like a drug — so addicting and so hard to get rid of once you got into the habit of consuming it regularly. You wanted to reach out and hold onto those memories you shared with him — he was the first person where you let your heart do the talking, and all it took was a look at another person to change lanes, leave you alone in the dust of your crushed heart — only to come to the disappointing note that you’d lost those memories forever. They existed merely in a place you couldn’t reach, couldn’t see, but could only recall. It was pure torture to you, but you’d ignored it all for so long, certainly you could ignore it again.

“Need a refill?”

Your head snaps back in the direction of the voice. A familiar, one soothing voice that now brings pain to your heart, now threatens to bring back the wave of emotions you’d kept at bay. 

Your eyes meet the hazel brown orbs, and not diverting from their strong, fierce gaze; you scoff, turning back around to stare off into the distance. 

Chan frowns, tilting his chin as he tries to soothe the burn from your two reactions. He doesn’t back away though, because now he maybe understands what you felt like when it all fell apart, when he wrote your ending with a shaky hand.

He walks front to where you’re leaning against the concrete, silently drinking out of the glass he holds in his hand.

Should I say something? He thinks. He should, right? When you ended it, you did end on peaceful terms, even though your reaction felt like you were more affected by it. Even after three months, he still feels the warmth that flowed through him whenever he looks at you — you who clearly don’t want to speak to him. He feels crazy now, for wanting to let you go. 

You hadn’t even bothered to curse at him that day — just looked at him with eyes that honestly pierced through his soul, and hurt him more than any of your words could’ve. But maybe that was what he deserved, right?

“Why did you come here?” You ask, swirling the almost empty bottle in your hand. Oddly enough, you don’t feel like walking away, feet frozen in position. You’d ended it on good terms, didn’t you? You’d promised to each other you’d be good friends.

“I noticed you were alone.” The man feels himself say.

“Didn’t you bring your girlfriend along? Isn’t she alone right now?” You counter, taking another sip of your drink. Again, the alcohol is having no effect on you. Why did your tolerance have to be so high when you needed it to be low?

“I-” He takes a deep breath, tilting his head to either side to relieve the tension in his neck. “Broke up with her. About three weeks ago.”

You only chuckle. Somehow, your feelings are strong when he’s away, but when the cause is right in front of you, somehow they fail to make an appearance.

“Did you come here so you could win me back?” You ask, straightening up as you avoid Chan’s firm gaze on you, and his face goes gloomier and gloomier with every statement you spew at him. But then again, who could blame you for being angry? You had every right to.

“No.” He shook his head, fixing his position so his shoulders are about an inch away from yours. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m alright.” You say, softening at the edges at his concerned tone. You don’t know why you’re listening to him and not going back into the hall, but your legs are still frozen in place, something in you, your heart, doesn’t let you move.

Why do you feel like it’s your first time meeting him all over again?

He’s your ex, a part of your life you’re supposed to forget. Instead, you’re here, reminiscing it with the very person who left you in the first place. The situation you’re bound in is so weird — you almost don’t know what to do — but nonetheless, you just stand there, ignoring the slight flutter in your heart — just like the first time again.

“How are you doing?” You give yourself the liberty to ask him that question — just to know how he’s doing. Just another way for you to answer your countless what if’s, another method to try and fill the void in your heart.

Chan sighs, straightening up himself before looking at you. “I missed you.”

At the simple admission, you soften around the edges some more. It was wrong, so wrong that you were giving him to permission to get into your heart again — but what if you never wanted him to leave in the first place? 

Hope — the dangerous feeling — starts resonating through your chest. It’s the tiniest emotion, one you can’t quite sense, but still feel. You can feel yourself grow warm, feel his gaze burn into the side of your face as he awaits a reaction.

“I-I don’t know what to say to that.” You reply, tucking some of your hair behind your ear again, before curling it with your index finger. You don’t look into his eyes yet — you’re not so brave to do so — focusing your bored, almost sad gaze as you count all the lights flashing at you on a skyscraper. Anything to distract you from this feeling.

Chan notices your stare, and sighs again. He’s battling himself too, right now. Should I say it? He thinks.

“I-I’ll be honest and confess to you, okay?” Chan turns to face you properly, while you bite your lip, waiting for his next words. Oddly enough, you feel more nervous now than you felt that day when Chan ended it with you. It’s so weird to feel it all over again.

“I’ve missed you and… I truly regret what I did that day.” He runs his hands through his chocolate brown hair, which seems to look particularly soft today. It reminds you of when you’d casually back hug him when he was working, pecking the back of his neck as you’d comb your fingers through his hair. 

“Chan, no.” You feel your voice crack, the sadness overflowing out of its cup, spreading to all your senses as you close your eyes, letting out a single tear. 

“Y/N…” Chan places his hand on your shoulder. You don’t flinch.

“Y-You l-left me.” You feel your brain cloud over, having no control over yourself as the words start spilling out of your mouth, piercing Chan’s heart bit by bit. “Y-You l-left me when I thought you’d stay… And you left me alone.” You feel his thumb rub against the bare skin of your shoulder, and this time, you stare up, looking straight into his eyes.

“I loved you,” You stammer, inhaling deeply as you take note of Chan’s expression. Surprisingly, he’s crying too. The rims of his eyes are filled with tears, his whole face goes red as he tries not to violently sob. “I love you.” You correct yourself.

“But you left me. You left me when I thought all I had was you and - and, what? Three months later, you tell me you miss me? Is this because your girlfriend broke up with you? You wanna win me back?” You spew, slamming your hand against his chest as you shake in his arms. 

He wordlessly pulls you into his embrace, and you don’t complain — you don’t know if it’s because of your brain being cloudy and your eyes being all itchy from crying, or if it was because you missed his hugs, but you feel yourself clutch onto the material of your shirt as you cry, cry and cry until you feel like your tears don’t remain.

“I’m so sorry…” Is all he can say, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he tries to comfort you.

“I hate you, Chan. I hate you so much.”

Something in him shatters when he hears your words. He wordlessly mouths “Alright.” and doesn’t bother controlling his tears anymore, letting them flow down his cheeks and settle into your hair, not bothering to hold back the sounds of brokenness he makes either.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He pulls away, holding your chin to force your gaze into his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that to you, it was so wrong of me. I regret it now, so much.” He curls his lips inwards, and watching him cry is soul-crushing. You should be hating him for leaving you, screaming, crying, but you hate yourself for reaching up to rake through his hair, sliding your hand down to his soft cheek before gently swiping your thumb against it. Wiping off his tears.

“We’ve already forgiven each other, right? It’s okay.” You take deep breaths to calm yourself down. Leaving him behind seems hard enough, but seeing him cry in front of you seems impossible. Are you still in love with him?

“I’m still sorry.” He mutters softly, gazing into your eyes as he takes hold of the hand that rests on his cheek. “I was so horrible to not know that I had you beside me all along, and instead I turned my back at you and left you. It was so wrong of me.” he breaks into tears again, and this time, before you can pull him into a hug, he grabs both your hands in his own. Holding them in between each other. 

Yep, you’re still in love with him.

You look at him, absorbing all his features, and suddenly you’re thrown back to the first time he ever asked you out. It seems all too familiar — all too real. You find yourself holding your breath once again, waiting for what he has to say. He rests his forehead against your grasped hands, sighing brokenly as he speaks up.

“I won’t ask you to accept me again, Y/N.” He says as a matter of fact. He understands that the things that happened may not allow you to let him into your heart again. “I won’t ask you to date me either, because I know what I did isn’t that simple to forgive.”

Chan feels so stupid now. You were there for him all the time, yet he left you for someone else. You were beside him to help him when he felt desolated, but somehow he became a cause for your desolation. It shocks, confuses him and makes him seethe in turmoil.

“But,” he begins, holding his breath. “I still want to try. I wanna try being the person I couldn’t be when I was with you. I-I wanna change and win you back, b-but…”

“But?” You ask mindlessly, totally overwhelmed and dazed out by his honest words, the newfound emotion thrums to your chest. It’s love, for sure. But it isn’t that special kind of love, at least not yet.

“But I wanna do that only if you let me. It’s your choice, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen as you try to grasp his words, noticing how his warm hands holding onto yours still, only grow warmer and tighter. 

“I r-really love you Y/N, a lot. And… well, I know you may not be able to make this decision soon. But please, just give it a thought?”

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you look up into his eyes again. They’re red and puffy by now, but they’re still gorgeous, they still remind you of the time you’d gently kiss over his eyelids whenever he cried like that.

You roll your eyes to the back of your head in deep thought, before tucking your bottom lip under your teeth and nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay…?” He asks, hopeful. You can almost feel his nervousness in the way his palms sweat, but you simply smile.

“We won’t date yet.” You said. “But I’ll allow you into my heart one last time. Don’t break it.”

And at your acceptance, Chan beams, feeling more tears roll down his eyes as he pulls you into a hug. This time, you don’t spare any restraint, wrapping your arms around your waist as you press your cheek against his chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” Chan keeps mumbling and repeating, to which you only shush him gently, telling him it’s okay and he doesn’t have to thank him.

He still does. You only smile to yourself, and for the first time in three months, you feel somewhat at peace. There’s a long way to go — you have to adapt to this relationship, let your heart join back bit by bit and build each other’s confidence again. But you’re certain you can do it together. This story deserved a happy ending, and you were going to give it one, no matter how hard you’d have to try.

“Hey guys!” You hear someone walk through the door, immediately parting away and clearing your throats. 

“Yes?” The both of you say at the same time, tensing up and then laughing at each other. If Chan’s tears were crushing, Chan’s giggles were truly healing. The way his eyes would scrunch up into the cutest crescents and his dimples would make an appearance always made you want to peck his cheeks. Now wasn’t the time though.

“Dinner’s being served, so Y/F/N told you to come downstairs.” The person at the door says, immediately running downstairs, as if to not interrupt your moment any further.

“Alright.” You laugh, taking Chan’s hands in yours as you intertwine your nimble fingers with his long, slender ones. “Let’s go shall we?” You don’t bother picking up the alcohol bottles, because you’ll be coming back here with your friends later anyways — they can be tended to later.

“Of course,” Chan pulls you along with him, running to the door — both the ones that lead to the diner and the ones that signified your new start.

Curse at me all you want, as long as you let it all out, and we can go back to how we were.

*:･ﾟ✧ find the other fics here !

[chipper-smol]

Pale Jester Chain

Prompt: PJ descends into Hallownest to find the mysterious pull of his king soul charm

Ya’ll can finally stop asking me about what WL and PJ think of each other

this one hurts

( @meatbunattack​ https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917989 )

Pale Jester’s descent They had been called to this old, forgotten kingdom when a flame was lit. The troupe had yet to meet their summoner but they would arrive in due time, they could feel how the summoner scurried down below among the caverns. Until then, the troupe would remain at the surface and provide entertainment for those who wished to visit the troupe during their performance nights.

Pale Jester, one who created the props for the show, stood in his workshop that had been provided by him by Master Grimm. Very generous of the Master to entrust the Jester with his own space.

This place, this kingdom of Hallownest. It made something uneasy stir in the Wyrm’s chest.

As he tried to focus on his work, he continued to get fleeting images on what he imagined the kingdom below to be like. It was in ruins, of course since they were called, but he could imagine buildings that reached far up into the sky, roads that stretched far and wide, a network of tunnels. 

Whenever he thought of the name of the kingdom, another vivid imagery entered his mind. It was like the name of the kingdom brought out a sense of adventure that he never believed he would’ve been capable of. He wanted to see what was down below, how glorious of a kingdom it could’ve been in its prime.

It felt like he had heard of the name, and that must surely mean that it was once a great enough kingdom for the name to spread far and wide! 

Despite his curiosity there was still something in him that made him stay in his workshop for the day.

At least, most of the day. For when he noticed how many deadly contraptions he had created rather than the simple set he had hoped to create, he knew that his mind had been taken by the prospect of exploring this kingdom. These were too dangerous to use in a proper performance, unless the person who performed had experienced the Jester’s ire enough to experience such. He would need to dismantle them later.

For now, he grabbed his coat that hung on the wall and put it over his shoulder as he walked out. If this Hallownest kingdom were to occupy his mind enough to distract him from his work, then he would need to take a small peak at the kingdom. Enough to satisfy his curiosity!

His gut twisted uneasily as he walked towards the exit.

He stopped briefly as he passed Brumm, who was ever so faithfully playing his accordion to fill the air with music, and gave him a cheerful wave.

“I will be out on a walk, it won’t take too long I’m sure.”

Brumm stared at Jester while he continued to play his instrument. He was about to say something, but before the quiet man could do so, Jester had already walked past him towards the exit of their tent.

The white charm in his pocket pulsed briefly.

Jester Walked confidently through the town of Dirtmouth towards the well that would lead into the large kingdom down below. Of course, he could take the stagways that had opened but he would rather walk on foot. He gave an extravagant bow towards Elder bug as he passed, simply to be polite of course. He knew other bugs found the Grimm troupe unnerving so Jester wished to display they weren’t as bad as they might believe.

A polite gesture could go a long way, and it was his job to bring people towards their troupe for performance nights. Perhaps Elder bug would decide to join in seeing their performance from such a simple gesture! If that was possible then he would, of course, bow to anyone he came across.

The caverns below were… different than what he expected. He expected to see rows of cultivation or houses, signs of life at least. But this, this was a desolate road. A road that stretched as far as he could see in the darkness below to both the left and right.

Perhaps the road would lead to something more extravagant. So he turned left and hummed softly as he walked along the path. If he had brought his trusty spire with him perhaps he could’ve practiced his performance as he walked. Alas, he forgot to bring it in his haste to venture down. 

But no matter, he could still amuse himself by watching his surroundings with one pair of his arms clasped behind his back while the other pair was used to closer examine the few curiosities he came across. At least within that area. It all became a lot more interesting when he ended up by a shaft with platforms that were held aloft by metal wires. 

He easily conjured a small red dagger to pierce the small bug that wished to attack him. A vengefly he believed it was called. Details didn’t matter for there was a certain doorway that peaked his interest in this shaft. An opening that had vines growing out from its entrance.

The charm in his pocket pulsed once more.

Seeing the green foliage as he entered this new air brought him a sense of nostalgia. What for? Well he certainly had no clue! But it was enjoyable nonetheless to walk through this green landscape with no destination in mind. Simply letting his feet take him wherever they wanted to go. 

He traversed downward through the green landscape and came upon strange moss creatures. All of them plagued by this orange disease his Master Grimm had told them all of. It was an easy task for Jester to dispose of them if they came in his way, they were all just small fry and he wished to enjoy his walk. This is so far the most interesting area he had come upon so far and he was eager to see what else there was.

Blooming flowers, thorns, bushes, no matter the greenery Jester immensely enjoyed walking amongst them as he hummed a happy tune to himself. It all felt really calming, he had never been around nature before. At least as far as he could remember. Which truthfully wasn’t much! But that hardly matters, what does matter is how much he was enjoying his walk. Yes, he certainly was.

The charm visibly glows in his pocket.

No no not now.

Jester let out a soft laugh as he rode on the mindless spiked bugs that traversed back and forth across the sea of acid. It was very handy to have such bugs who just went back and forth back and forth! With no other goal in life than to travel back and forth. It was easy to shift around the spikes on their backs and traverse from bug to bug to get across. He even struck a pose! These creatures might be useful for their performances, yes, certainly. Perhaps he should tell Master Grimm about them once he returns.

Despite being mindless, Jester still gave the bugs a bow of thanks for bringing him across and he continued on his way with a wide smile.

Too wide. Too wide. Calm down calm down calm down.

His surroundings had now changed. There were more solid structures than there were greenery and soil alone. A nice change of pace, why he was getting tired of the uneven paths! Even though the metal platforms fell under his weight he was quick enough on his feet to jump onto the next one. The bugs in his path were just as weak as the other ones from prior, one knife and they fell from the sky. 

It was laughable how weak they were! Laughable! Why did the Troupe Master even warn him from traversing down here? They were all feeble and weak, nothing he wouldn’t be able to handle on his own. Why, he was doing perfectly fine! It was a simple, comfortable walk for him, really. 

When did he start running? Why was he running?

Where is he running to?

Then came a difficult predicament. A barricade stood in his path that he hadn’t seen before, a wall of pure black energy. After observing the contraption for a while-

His hands were shaking. Where was he going?

Before he found a hidden switch and quickly pressed it to turn off the wall of void that stood in his way. He stood up and stepped through, no he wasn’t rushing, why would he do such? No, this was simply because he was excited to see whatever could lie before him. Surely.

Surely that was it.

He jumped from platform to platform and climbed up down up past thorns- 

They caught on his cloak and made rips in his clothing a few times. He needed to get there he needed to get there.

and gracefully landed at the very top of this thorn maze with a pose befitting one of the troupe. That was when he allowed himself a brief pause, chest heaving-

Why was he breathing so hard, he didn’t run that fast did he?

from excitement as he looked at the room he now stood in. Glass lined all walls and it allowed the beautiful greenery to be seen from inside this building. It was a beautiful sight, truly. Truly! 

But he couldn't stay and admire it forever, no, he had places to be! New sights to see. A whole kingdom to explore and this was only his first location!

…

He slowly took out the charm that had been glowing in his pocket for a long while. His hands were trembling as he stared at it, he felt a sharp pain in his chest but he couldn’t understand why.

He clutched it tightly in his hand and walked forward, down the hall with his back straight and faced forward. He could not shame the troupe by looking like a grub scrambling in panic. No! For he was the Pale Jester, whatever laid before him, wherever he wished to go, he would not make himself seem as if he was desperate to see it. That would be more like Divine! Not Jester, surely.

He stopped briefly as he saw a large circular structure. Almost like an egg with beautiful roots that sprouted out from it.

Roots. Roots. My. My… My…

Before he could properly prepare himself he had already entered the hole that led deeper into the egg. Surely it was out of excitement, yes. Surely. He wasn’t eager to see whatever it was. No, why would he be eager to see something he didn’t know what it was or why he was even there or what he had come running to see.

But no. 

His chest hurt as if his whole being had shattered once he laid eyes on the being before him. His body ached and his limbs trembled.

This being, this-... Her roots spread out into the roof above her and into the ground below. Her body had cloth around her, cloth that Jester could immediately tell was a seal. 

And it. Hurt.

Like any time he hurt for no reason, Jester started to chuckle softly, which brought the woman’s eyes towards him. They were a deep blue, the most beautiful blue he had ever seen. Now that he was noticed, he stepped further into the room with that glowing charm still clutched in his claw. Still letting out a sound similar to a giggle, he bowed low towards her with two of his arms spread out behind him while the other two rested on his chest. 

He was shaking. He was shaking so badly the clacks of his shell echoed throughout the room. And his voice had a similar wavering to it as he spoke to the being before him. The woman before him. The most beautiful and wonderful and generous and loving and-

“Greetings! Terribly sorry to disturb you. haha. It seems I have completely forgotten the reason I even came here. May I know your name, my lady? It would be an honour to know the name o-of someone who holds such beauty.”

The woman kept quiet for a few brief seconds. And when she spoke, something broke inside of him. Her voice was soft, like the smoothest of silk. Her tone was soothing like the feeling of a warm flame during a chilling night. Her eyes, even if they were clouded, shone with such kindness and- and-

And sadness.

“Wyrm…?”

The white charm piece in his hand pulsed once more.

( @lidijadraws​) 

( @payasita​ )

The path was all uninhibited vegetation and gnarling, thorny overgrowth, twisting in its conquest of all the still-shiny metal and delicate machinery below. Nature had long since won its battle with what was built by mortal hands, and rendered the walkways here mossy-soft. Foliage grew unchecked over yet more, ever creeping, clutching whatever was in the way in roots and brambles while plants outpaced other plants in their bid for space. The former garden now only had itself to be at war with, near silent in its ongoing, wild expansion.

But there was something more here, hidden away in its depths. He could feel it.

Something that shone bright enough to cut through the comforting haze of percussive red that filled his dreams and pacified his thoughts. Something that pulled at him from deep deep down, like it too had taken root and clutched him tight enough that the stem could pull him about like a leash. Like a weed, invasive, choked around one of the many, funny little pieces of him loosely strung together. 

A piece that the Heart would not take from him, no matter how he asked. Perhaps severing those tiny roots would simply cause what was inside to crumble, like old, packed soil. Thoroughly reclaimed by nature. 

How lovely, how lovely, the way these plants might burn. There was so much green here, and so many thick tangles of bark and dry nettle that would make perfect kindling. The Master and his kin could play to the crackling tempo of it, could dance and laugh and sing along to the ecstatic roar of that cleansing inferno until there was nothing left but ash; until the land was left warm and desolate and sated.

The thought made him want to vomit. It made him want to tear his eyes out, pry his scales, to reach a claw down his throat and yank, spill his own heart, burn that instead, how could he do that, how could he hurt her?

Her?

...Who?

Already the thought slipped away like fine sand. Already it dissolved just out of reach when he tried to chase it. He did not try very hard. It was easier, so easy, to let it recede from his mind. To listen to the throb of the Heart so much louder in his skull, comforting like a lullaby. He listened, felt it under his shell, until the pain ebbed. 

And when the pain ebbed, he could not particularly remember what in the world had caused it. He thought, maybe, he'd been thinking of someone. He supposed it didn't matter. But whatever it was, it had certainly made the pretty red haze so very bright in his mind. 

The Jester stood with an airy giggle-- When had he fallen to his knees?-- and advanced. Past the nettles, past the remnants of glass and machinery, and past the feeble critters that hopped and flitted about unsteadily. Many were still clumsy for their rocky recoveries from that peculiarly angry disease that had all but ruled this land a short time ago, if they were lucky enough to survive it at all. He passed the old, brittle husks of those who hadn't, and of other long-fallen, one of which gave and cracked easily under his feet and nearly tripped him. 

Bother. He often envied things that could fly, whose wings were not just costume. Certainly they could get around much more easily. And wings themselves were so pretty on a bug, so enviable on their own. Had he been lucky enough to have any of his own, he would have liked them to shine, he thinks.

He was snapped from his daydreaming at the sight of a roughly globose structure, and at the huge, snaking branches that burst forth from it, all dug into the surrounding rock and soil. Not branches, then. Roots. 

So very many corpses lay scattered about in front. Something awful must have happened here. It was a shame he hadn't brought his lantern, and so could not collect the nightmares that must linger from the strife. Nothing wrong with a bit of errand-running while he was away from home, after all. But strangely, the thought of doing so, here, had felt… wrong. And so, on a whim, he'd left it.

He spared a jolly salute to the white warrior's corpse guarding the structure's entryway, and went inside. 

Down he went, into the dark. The fool on the card, finally falling off the cliffside, trusting that he won't be impaled by something in the drop. But the Pale Jester fancied himself a rather more professional fool, and so knew very well the proper time and place for a prat fall. When it would be funny, first of all. And secondly, one should at the very least have an idea of where they'll land before they attempt one. And as the Jester did not know where he might land, or if he'd do so with safety, he elected to venture carefully. 

Very carefully. The pulse racing under his shell, now, was only his own. And it just about sent his blood scrabbling to his extremities, his movements growing frenetic. He felt half mad. Desperate. 

Why? Calm down, breathe. Whatever was at the end of this nerve-wracking knotted knoll, it would never be more important than the burning embrace of what he served. Even if he was a fractured thing, even if he was in pieces, the shards of him ultimately still belonged to the Heart. To the Nightmare King. He belonged to the Master.

And then he saw light. White, cold, gentle light. It squeezed him inside, not unpleasant, and slowly he entered the chamber that housed its source.

And there she was. 

Bathed in the enchanting light of her own soul, bound in wrappings of cloth, and further imprisoned by a crushingly powerful magic seal all around her body. Eyes closed, silent and serene. For whose protection was his sleeping beauty sealed away? 

Oh, no, not his. Her magic pulled strong, but he'd never even met her before. How horribly rude.

But by the Heart, she was beautiful. Unbelievably so. A being like her couldn't be of this world, was clearly something so much more. A being like her could easily be someone's entire world. He stepped forward, and as she opened her eyes, he had that same thought again, nearly breathless.

"One approaches," came her voice, like a knell. He shuddered. The sound set him alight.

"One is approached," he took the opportunity.

She did not say anything else, for a few seconds. Only stared down. From the tracking of her eyes, and the foggy blue he saw there, he guessed she was at least mostly blind, and perhaps hadn't always been. He spoke again, if only for an outlet for the near manic energy roiling in him from shoulders to tail. 

"Do pardon the intrusion, madam. But I believe I was searching for something. I pray you take no offense."

"... No," she began, slowly. "For I know your kind, and the paltry morbidity of their goals. Your clan and kin exclusively go where they are unwanted, and do not heed the bids of any local sovereign nor law."

The Jester's head tilted, just so, as he considered her, feeling safely anonymous behind the mask while he mused.

"... Sovereigns and laws. Had this weeping land either of those before, it certainly does not, now."

"... It does not," she assented, equally unreadable.

He had the sense that this creature must have once been someone very important. It was the least he could do to respect that, even for how fate had clearly laid her low. The Master found most observances of status unnecessary, and even sometimes enjoyed poking fun at him for being prim. But the Jester found propriety comfortable, and so swept back into a scraping bow, demure and proper, and she watched him.

"May I know your name, my lady?"

Another pause. 

"... There is nothing left to know. Once, I had those who would fear me, and they called me as a Pale Being. Once I had devoted, and they called me as the White Lady. Once I had a husband, and he called me his Root." 

He listened, not noticing how his arm listed down from where it was extended to her. 

"But in this place, there is little use in a title, and none in a name."

"It is a pleasure, my lady, either way," he implored.

"One defiled has already completed its business with me. Would that the second might now make his known."

Another "one defiled"? A previous visit from another troupe member, perhaps? Though, that didn't make much sense. Either way, how quick to dismiss him. He supposed he did have very little to offer, and she must have known that in an instant. A fool before a goddess, before a lady, before a prisoner. 

"...As I said, I believe I had been searching, perhaps," he hummed, "though I could not say for what with any certainty. I would say for answers, my lady, but that would require questions, on my end, would it not?" 

The Jester's fingers tapped together to a familiar beat, restless, while he blathered on.

"And I even had little in the way of those, my lady, before I found you. A few come to mind now, though. If you would be so kind as to forgive a poor fool his curiosity, my lady."

So few things outside of the circus ever felt right to him. But calling her "my lady" did, and so he would continue to indulge. It sounded so suitably silly in a place like this, anyhow. 

She said nothing, only waited. Even if he preferred hearing her voice, at least he hadn't been told to just bugger off. 

Maybe she found him entertaining. He hoped she found him entertaining.

"What has made you a prisoner here? The old laws of the land? Perhaps a great beast to be slain, for the fair maiden's freedom?" He spread two arms, with the others' hands clasped under his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. 

"By my hand alone, I have ordained my own sealing," she tolled. His arms fell.

"... For what do you wish to atone?"

She took another moment to think, or maybe to word it right. Or maybe however many years of silence and introspection she'd been here had simply slowed her reactions to outside requisitions for her attention.

"... No atonement shall be found, for my part in facilitating the ancient sins of this kingdom. Nor do I seek it. My fate is penitence and precaution, only."

"But what was your crime?" It was barely above a whisper.

"The scope of some actions can be vast enough to transcend laws, wretched one. Ruin such as this goes beyond crime. I am no convict, for the word would be too trivial. There is no name for what we wrought, though the closest I can offer you in definition would be 'sacrilege'." 

She spoke so softly, almost kindly. But too far away for that. Too lonely.

And she'd said 'we.'

"...You had a husband, you said," he realized. "What of him?"

"... He was to be locked away in a similar fashion, though less permanently." She shifted a little under her bindings, a faint rustling of bark, and spoke slowly.

"Though a recent transaction has led me to understand that my beloved ultimately chose escape from the regrets that plagued him. Opposite me, he chose to ensure that he no longer had to suffer his own mind."

Oh, dear. How unfortunate. What nightmares that couple might have offered. 

And what a stupid, selfish creature the other half of it must have been, to abandon his wife to now bear them all alone. And to force her to suffer even more by choosing to die at his own hand. That was not the sort of nightmare that ever truly left a person. And to inflict it upon a goddess, who even diminished felt like home and hearth and sweetest sanctuary?

Good riddance, then, the Jester privately thought. Callous thoughts spared for some callous corpse. 

"... I am sorry for your loss, my lady," he offered out loud.

"Your offer of pity is an unwelcome one," she intoned. Her voice was gentle, quiet, and cold like fine jewelry. "And I bid you cease pretending your propriety. I am no one's lady, now."

The Jester brightened.

"How very fortunate, then. For I happen to be just that: a no-one!" He waved his arms out in a flourish, fabric wings bouncing with the motion. "A jester is meant to be a mirror to reality, you see-- a funhouse reflection of polite society, and all the frightfully frivolous foolishness found therein." 

He held up a finger, triumphant, and took a step forward. 

"Ergo, I believe I definitively possess little enough identity of my own, that by your own words, I can call you 'my lady'."

Her silence was a bit different this time around. It wasn't contemplative, nor dismissive, nor even angry.

Only sad. 

Silence and sadness. He stood watching it on her for only a second, and was struck by the urge to scream. He didn't. But how long must she have been living in only silence and sadness? It oughtn't matter to him, but she had such a lovely voice, and he bet her smile might be a thing that could light up the whole damned kingdom, should it ever grace the world again.

He couldn't imagine her laugh. Seeing her now, bound and bemoaned and bereaved, it was difficult to imagine that she even could. 

But the Jester looked at her, and he bet it was a sound like bubbles and bells. He bet it was like coming home, like coming warm together under the covers and healing. He bet it could doom any poor fool hopelessly into her possession, heart and soul, with no effort on her part. 

He needed to hear it. He needed to make her laugh. He was a clown, that's what he's for. He needed to hear her laugh.

"I've a riddle for you, my lady," he blurted, all in one breath. "Forgive the banality, my lady, but I promise I am rather good at those. I can sometimes be something of a riddle myself, you see."

He placed a hand over his heart. The Master would chide him for improvising like this-- the Jester was, admittedly, not terribly good at it. But practice makes perfect, does it not? 

And either way, the Jester found his mouth was running just a bit faster than his brain, at the moment. Nothing for it but to go along for the ride, then.

"How many pieces does it take to put together a fool?" He peered up, trying to glean anything from her face. She seemed vaguely surprised that he'd spoken up so abruptly, at least. He held out a finger.

"Here are your hints. A big piece of him belongs to what he serves, and remains safely tucked away in its possession. One is held by a grave-eyed, broken toy soldier, who comes 'round to see him sometimes. One was taken by a quiet little shadow, who won it with force. One is found near the nimble warrior in rose-red garb, who eyes it rather rudely with distaste. And one is held by the land's fairest mourning damsel, who pulled him to her, by it, on strings of plant fiber."

The Jester had long since learned that he had a mysterious talent for oration, and it always served him well. No one would guess from his declarative diction that he'd no idea where he was going with this. And yet on he spoke.

"Those are not all of them, my lady, he's quite sure there is more to him than just those few shards. But perhaps, my lady, the answer to their number can be found in why those pieces in particular seem so very important. 

Why is it, my lady, that the toy soldier fusses with him so? Why, my lady, did what the little shadow took hurt so horribly to give away, even if the trinket had always pained him to look at? Why does the rose-red warrior avoid him, my lady, and why should that disquiet him? Why, my lady, does the Master seem to have so much trouble deciding whether to laugh at the fool, or comfort him as if he were grieving?"

His hand trembled where he held it aloft, and the one at his heart now clutched the ruff of his costume like a lifeline, tight enough to poke holes. The other two, at some point, had wrapped around each other in a bruising grip. And the Jester smiled through it all, delivering his terrible joke of a riddle with a taut, warbling brightness in his voice.

"Why is it, my lady, that I know for a fact-- my lady-- that you, my lady, are the most beautiful creature that I will ever lay eyes on, even if I were to live for a hundred thousand years more? Why, my lady, why do I want--"

His voice finally broke on the last word. He hiccuped, and wrapped all his arms tight around himself in earnest, now, holding himself together. He bowed his head, not seeing how or if she had any reaction to him. 

He took a few sharp breaths, until his words could again come out beyond a choke. The result was little more than a slow, pathetic rasp.

"...I can almost feel it. I do not know … I do not know it, but... I can…" a shuddering sigh, while his tongue searched for something just out of reach. 

"You… My… my rhh… my..."

"I have given you the word. You do know it. Or else the chains around your mind are so strong that you will remain shielded from any core memories, no matter the reminders."

The Jester slowly looked up, and found that he still couldn't see her expression. He tried to blink away the tears to see a bit better, but made little progress beyond just making his eyes sting.

"... You said it…?"

"I did."

"... Tell me again. Please."

"... I do not know that it would be of any help, my Wyrm. You have accepted the Nightmare's call so thoroughly into yourself. You have given it your soul. What once beat for your people, your own dreams, and for me, cannot be heard under the beating of its loathsome Heart."

"Please," he repeated. He wanted to beg for so much more, but he had no idea what any of it was.

"... I was your Root, when you were my Wyrm. But the being I sense before me now, I do not know. I do not recognize any of the familiar light that once shone so beautifully within you."

"My Root," he breathed, mind buzzing, shoulders aching. "My Root. My… my Root. My… rh... my…" 

"One defiled, who are you now?"

"...My... My what…? My…? What was I…?"

"...So indeed, then, he did take his own life."

"I… I had it, did I not…? I had… something... Hadn't I…? What was… My…?"

"Servant of the Nightmare. Tell me your name, that I may preserve it as the site of his grave."

Confused, dazed in scarlet fog, and barely processing anything beyond the thundering heartbeat beneath his mask, he had to think very very hard in order to obey her.

"...My kin call me as the Pale Jester. I… I serve for the Heart... And I play for the Master," he mumbled out, at length, feeling just a bit of strength returning.

"... Then go. Return to your play, and to what calls you to its domain. There is no sense in allowing yet another sacrifice to go in vain."

Slowly, legs numb, he stood up from where he'd again collapsed to his knees, and cradling his head. The haze beckoned him out, beckoned him home. 

A voice that was like stained silk sheets, that was like a warm body pressed to his on a freezing night, that was like a lingering hand on his cheek, followed him in a vague echo.

"... My current state bars me from visiting any tomb of my own volition. So I thank you, wretched one, for allowing me this final opportunity to say goodbye to him. It is more than I ever would have hoped to have."

The Pale Jester shuffled out, lured by the gentle thrum underscoring the crooning of an accordion, that together scrubbed his mind mercifully blank for a time.

The first sober thought he had was about halfway to the surface. He remembered meeting someone unbelievably beautiful, and he remembered bits and pieces of their talk. 

And he remembered trying to make her laugh, but instead, having made her cry. That pretty voice, and how it went thin and quavered, as she tried to keep it level. Low and all alone, with no comfort ever again to be offered. Lost to him.

His own heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

The one he served gentled it back together, threaded it with its own patchwork arteries and cauterizing flame, now finally taking care of it where he no longer could.

And the Jester felt fantastic.

( @cataegus-draws​ @cataegus​ )

( @a-mild-case-of-eccentricity​ )

Darkness.

Then… a light. A… white light?

The jester opens his eyes, suddenly wide awake. That’s… odd. The last thing he remembers was turning in for the night after a rather grueling performance. His tail was nearly sheared on one of his new buzzsaws. Perhaps a few adjustments are in order, he thinks idly. 

But for now… where is he?

He looks around cautiously; a forest, it seems. Ancient, looming trees stretch above him for what feels like miles, casting dappled patterns of sunlight against the lush foliage below. They join together high above, creating a sort of sheltered dome. Flowers of every size and shade carpet the forest floor, swaying in a gentle breeze. This place radiates life, he can feel the strength of it thrumming in his core. In the quiet, he swears he can feel the space breathe. 

The jester suddenly feels very, very small, but somehow in the best of ways. Like being held in the embrace of a loved one. It feels… familiar.

Surveying the rest of the room, he finally lays eyes on her. He doesn’t know how he missed her; she’s seated in the center of the garden, bound by vines but oozing elegance nonetheless. She is pristine, ethereal, and positively radiant, both literally and figuratively. She is the source of the soft white glow illuminating her hideaway. The jester is starstruck, speechless with the beauty of the being before him. He steps closer.

The woman raises her great head with her crown of branches, sitting upon her head like a halo. She had started at the sound of foliage rustling beneath the jester’s footsteps; she hadn’t heard such a sound for some time now.

“Hello? Who is there?”

Gracious, that voice, those eyes. Her shimmering blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight, but the jester feels his heart ache upon seeing how fogged over they appear, and how she struggles to stand with her restraints. Something deep within him whispers.

This is wrong. It’s not supposed to be this way.

“Hello?” She calls out again, louder this time. Her sights narrow onto his blurred form. “Ah, there you are. My apologies, my eyes are not what they used to be. Who are you, little one? How did you come by this place?”

He draws in a sharp, shaking breath. Touching his face beneath his mask, he’s startled to find his hand stained with black tears. The sight is beyond unsettling; the growing pit in his stomach becomes a void, threatening to engulf him completely. He raises his head, forcing a smile behind his painted visage.

“I am a jester with the Grimm Troupe, and I am afraid I do not know how I stumbled upon this oasis.” He spreads his arms with a painful laugh, more tears beginning to stream down his face, dripping past his mask. “What an odd situation we’re in, my Lady!–”

He freezes, jolting as if someone impaled a lance through his thorax.

M-my… my Lady? No, my... Rr… M-my R-Root… My Root…

The pain that shoots through his head is excruciating. He cries out as his upper set of limbs grip the edges of his mask; his weeping only serves to stain his hands further, irreparably. The lower set squeezes his middle, desperate for something solid to cling to. He can barely make out the frantic calls of the woman as she cries out for her “Wyrm” and strains against her bindings. Her cries drive the lance deeper into his heart, and he swears he feels his mask crack.

It’s that deafening crack that finally rouses him from his slumber; he bolts up in his cot with a scream. His face is damp with tears that only grow as the pain from his dream settles into reality. Grimm is bursting through his tent curtains before he can blink, rushing to his side as the smaller bug hunches over and cradles his head, struggling to subdue his pained gasps.

“Jester,” Grimm starts calmly, the barest hint of urgency in his tone betraying his worry. “You must calm down, I promise you’re alright. It was only a nightmare; it wasn’t real…”

“I-I…” the jester barely chokes out. “I f-felt her… M-my… I-I don’t understand, master… I-I don’t understand…”

The troupe master gazes at his jester with a gentle, pained look. Grimm knows. Of course he knows. But he cannot say, for the king’s sake.

He resigns himself to stroking the back of the jester’s skull, murmuring little nothings to try and calm him. When the smaller presses closer, Grimm allows him to crawl into his lap. He wraps him in his cloak, settling the jester against his warm chest.

–––

After many moments of soft words and gentle touches, Grimm finally manages to lull his jester back into a fitful sleep. He shifts in the other’s meager cot, settling onto his back; he might as well stay, he thinks. He’ll do his damndest to dissuade any further nightmares from his jester’s subconscious, even if it means losing sleep himself. He nuzzles the edge of the smaller’s mask. After all, Grimm reasons as he closes his eyes, no one likes a sad clown, now do they?

( @sweetdreams-hollowknight​ )

( @monomon-s​ )

The Pale Jester might not know much about the troupe, but he did know this: they traveled. Traveled far, and often, too. Grimm always told them it was places that ‘needed the Troupe’, though that was vague if you asked PJ. He knew he’d be there to entertain, of course, and help with the flame, as he had to. Part of being in the Troupe, essentially, was helping with the flame. 

PJ also knew this: compared to other troupe members, he had not traveled many places. Maybe in comparison to the bugs that he saw in dying places, he could say that he’s been everywhere, but that would be a lie. 

So, whenever the troupe traveled, he felt that odd ache of familiarity that he didn’t particularly enjoy. How could some foreign place be familiar, when he had so much yet to see of it?

And that familiar feeling didn’t ever go away.

When he was tasked with capturing flame from the kingdom below— how novel, a kingdom below ground— that ache, and feeling like he’d seen this all before did not leave, no matter how he tried to distract himself, and, when he reached where the flame was supposed to be, that tug on his mind only grew stronger. 

A lovely garden, flushed with vibrant colors; greens, whites, blues, a whole spectrum of pretty colors that met him and made him feel just a little out of place in his stark red troupe attire. Everywhere he looked was beautifully alive, and yet somehow filled him with some terrible dread. How was this kingdom dying, when it contained areas which looked like this? Why did this feel so familiar, so comfortable, and yet so very unfamiliar and uncomfortable at the same time?

PJ didn’t get very long to dwell on it, not before something would pull him from his musing reverie. What looked like a root, white and winding, curled at his feet. Had that been there when he had stopped? When had he stopped? The white root trailed, and when he followed it, it only led to more and more, leading to the seeming heart of the garden and all of its greenery. He did his best not to step on any of them, even as it became harder and harder to do so, some distant part of him deemed it rude.

In the center of it all, a tree. Or, what looked like one. It was wearing some sort of sweater, which was odd if you asked him— 

And then she turned and looked at him. He didn’t know how he knew that she was a she, but he knew. His heart stopped and all at once that familiarity-turned-dread turned into what felt a little bit like loss when she looked to him. 

And she spoke.

And it felt like he could feel her pain. 

“My wyrm?”

It was painfully familiar like he’d heard it a thousand times before, and yet he’d never been here before, never heard it before, couldn’t remember. He didn’t know how to respond. He might have formed some kind of response, but something cold and wet and horribly bitter was on his face and oh, he was crying, because liquid couldn’t get under his mask and yet, here he was, and she was crying too, a white root catching his tears, but nothing to catch her own. 

The way she looked at him hurt, all of this did; these tears, seeing hers, the lingering feeling like she was mourning and that he was blind as to why. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her as she most dearly needed, because that was what she was doing for him and he felt like he needed to return such… affection. So much of him felt like he should know more, and his mind only drew up a blank, aching in the way he’d begun to find familiar. 

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to say, but almost reflexively he stumbled and stepped forward, holding the stained root at his cheek like it was all he knew. And when he did his best to hug, he felt her return it, and the embrace felt like a certain kind of peace finally settling over him. 

Distantly, deep within the nightmare realm, the Nightmare King realizes a slight oversight in his plans. The wyrm, in his old territory, in the garden. Where the wyrm’s wife lives. Where the wyrm will most certainly dredge up old memories. Ah. 

( @darkautomaton​ @darkautodraws​ )

( @tornbutterflywings​ AND @confusedhost​ )

The leaves of the healthy brush blew lazily in the soft breeze, uncaring for the events that would transpire in the middle of the clearing. Light left bright splotches of colors splattering across the dirt flooring. The two in the clearing were locked in an intense gaze with the other. The gardens silent before a soft voice broke the silence, her words digging deep grooves in the jesters heart that left him more confused than anything else he could quite remember.

“I know you,” the woman he recognized whispered. “I know you, and I have missed you so much.” 

She knelt down, pressing her head to his, hands coming up to curl around him. “I’ve missed you so very much, my wyrm.”

The white shelled bug felt roots curl around him in such a familiar way, as if calling out for him; as if searching for something that was lost long ago. He couldn’t place where these new, strange feelings were coming from, though tears slipped down his face. Absently, he recognizes that he should feel something more when looking at this odd creature.

Before he could stop himself, his hand had grazed her cheek, before he jumped in his shell and flinched away. The creature's expression shifts from a soft and happy smile to unreadable.

"I… Apologies, I do not think I know you-" His voice is a tad higher pitched than usual as he steps away from this strange creature.

“You are my wyrm,” she whispered, putting emphasis on a word he didn’t know, but recognized so clearly. 

The Jester laughed, the sound echoing throughout the large clearing, as it was all he could do when faced with this idiocracy. “I am not a worm,” he said, ignoring the lump in his throat. “I am the jester to the Grimm Troupe, and that is what I’ve always been.”

The woman looked down upon him as if she could see through his soul. “And yet you are so familiar to me,” She whispered, pulling one of his arms into her palm. “You look much like my husband,” she explained, running a delicate hand over the fabric of his sleeve. “Four arms, like him. Your mask, like his.” Her voice could have lulled him to rest. 

She pressed a finger to his crown. “A crown of horns.” She peered down at him, white eyes blank from any emotion. “Much like his.”

His migraine that had been just shy of being a bother, broke through the barrier. 

"I am not your husband." He stated with a certainty he didn't feel, even as his throat tightened around the ball from before. Was he even breathing anymore? "I already told you! I am the jester of the Grimm Troupe, that is what I shall always be. It's what I have always been." He couldn't keep the distaste out of his voice as his eyes narrowed at the lady in front of him.

The look that crossed the White Lady's face made some part of the Pale Jesters' heart yearn to reach out and comfort her, yet after a moment the feeling seemed to be erased from existence. He pulled his arm out of her grip and stepped away from her. Every step away made his heart call out in pain as he kept one of his hands to his chest.

(The Jester didn’t like how he noticed the tension in her knuckles around her fist and felt a need to stop and please her. He didn’t like how he saw her lean forward and wanted to move to meet her, to cup her head in his hands and whisper something, like a small secret between them, like lovers would.

He didn’t like how he knew her without knowing her.)

He stopped, a ways away from her, yet close enough to feel too close. Close enough to talk. 

“Your name,” he said, voice quiet. 

This was a bad idea, this was a horrible idea, he should stop, he should stay away. Or tell the master. Or-

“You know who I am… So, out of curiosity, I demand you tell me who you are.” How strange of him to wonder. Very rarely did he care for another’s name. The troupe had little time for connections. It was as if a part of him thought that she knew a part of him that he, himself, did not. 

And perhaps there was a part of him that wanted to listen to that little call.

Her voice was almost a breath of wind, all too soft yet noticeable nonetheless, “You have called me your White Lady." The name she gave him echoed in his head, burning him. Her eyes had a twinkle of hope, a soft shimmer, and below that, something deeper that the Jester couldn't place. 

Her expression turned crestfallen when he had yet to speak. She sounded on the verge of tears, her voice shaking and oh so quiet in the wind that he almost didn't catch her words,"I... Oh, my love, whatever did he do to you? Why couldn't you have simply come to me instead?”

Any sort of sympathy the Jester held for her disappeared, eyes wide with hurt shock as his heart, beating side by side with the Nightmare heart pulsed with rage. “Come to you? For what? For assistance? For help? For freedom? To get me out of a situation that I am perfectly fine in? I do not need you,” The Pale Jester roared with a voice that felt less like his than ever and yet more like his than he could remember. “I do not need you. I do not know you! I have never met you before and I have never been here before-” 

Lying, you’re lying, stop lying-

“All I need,” the jester hissed, words low, tired, forced. “Is my master.” 

The white lady didn’t make a sound for a long moment.

The silence that fell over the clearing was suffocating as the Lady stared at him with what could only be described as disbelief and hurt. Her light eyes looked over what had become of the man she loved. She felt sick. 

"Is..." A hard swallow,"...Is that what you truly believe, Pale one?"  There was a harshness to her voice, the tone falling cold in a way that only put him on edge.  She felt the sadness wash over her, however she couldn't show that here. Not yet.

No, The Pale Jester thought.

“Yes,” he said, voice leaving little room for argument. “I am of the Grimm troupe and I don’t-“ He choked on a sob, but pushed it down. He was a jester, and jesters do not cry. “I do not need anyone else.”

The white lady stood to her full height, and the Pale Jester froze as she towered over him. “Then why did you come to my gardens,” she took a step forward. “Why did you come to me...” The Jester took a step back, “if you do not need me.” his chest clenched with fear of what she might do, mind screaming at him to scramble away, yet he was frozen in fear. 

The root stepped forward, softly cupping his face and leaning her face next to his own. Her soft voice, filled with pain and care, whispered into his ear,"Come back to me my wyrm." She closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to escape.

She missed her husband, it was clear. From her soft tone that trembled, yet still held so much love, to the tight squeeze around the Jester’s mask, not enough to be painful, but from a need to hold on to something, someone. Even if it was just a scrap of the man she missed so dearly. Her palms curled around his face in such a familiar way. In a way that, at one point, must have filled someone with comfort, and yet all the Jester felt was fear.

He shuddered, trying to keep as still as possible. It was cold. He was cold in a way that felt so familiar, and yet it gripped him in ice claws and froze him to the core. “Please,” he whispered, taking a step back, a step away from her and her warm hands. “What’s wrong with me?” He bent down claws gripping the sides of his head. “Please...Please, I just want to know what’s wrong...”

The While Lady had taken some paces back, and her gaze had hardened. 

If the king was cold before, then white flash of mortification that ran through him only served to make him freeze.

"That is for you to find out. Return to me when you are finished playing this game." And with that she was gone, and the hole that started worrying itself in his heart only widened. His gaze followed her retreating form without a word escaping him. He watched her walk away as tears raced down his face, and even the burn from the Nightmare Heart was not enough to warm his cold heart.

The pale jester tucked his head in, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh. (Not a sob, no, not a sob. Jesters do not cry.) It’s not funny, none of it is, and yet he cannot stop. His chest hurts as he cackles, he feels numb. 

Still, he continues. 

There’s nothing else for him to do, anyway.

( @jklpopcorn​ )

[seokoloqy]

No Face | myg (m)

➳ PAIRING: demon!yoongi x reader

➳ GENRE: supernatural!au, smut

➳ WORD COUNT: 11k

➳ WARNINGS: mentions of hoseok in a car accident and in a coma, mentions of jungkook overdosing, blood, choking (not sexual lmao), fingering, dirty talk, wet dreams, voyeurism, masturbation, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, creampie, Yoongi’s dick... has ridges :)

➳ SUMMARY: Desperate to save your comatose brother, you make a deal with an ancient demon who wears the faces of his previous masters. When you refuse to wish for anything else, what does a demon do when he no longer has orders? He learns how to be human.

➳ A/N: this is my @bangtanarmynet partner collab w @softjeon!!! As always lemme know what you think!!! Maybe now y’all can get over hades yoongi lmao

—

The woods this time of night should be petrifying in the harsh dead of winter. Darkness entraps everything in the forest. You've been wandering through the desolate woods for an hour now, trying to find the exact location you were told about. The tree you’re in search of has been rumored to be a site where people's wishes can be granted for a steep price. Only meant for those who are brave enough to sacrifice everything for one wish.

And you are dumb enough to sacrifice everything. 

You have to do this. Even if it means sacrificing your soul, your life, to save someone else's. You have to save your brother, Hoseok, and you’ll do anything—absolutely anything. 

That’s how you stumbled across Jimin, an expert on all things supernatural, in a desperate attempt to find a miracle. 

Of course, you thought the eighty dollar price for Jimin’s absurd secrets meant it was a hoax, especially when he started explaining how this deal you were about to make works. 

“A demon,” the man said cheerfully, plopping down the thick book in front of you. 

“A demon?” you echoed, becoming more and more wary of the man. “Like… Like the devil and stuff?” 

If you weren’t so desperate and had exhausted all your ideas of helping Hoseok, you would have run out once he said demon, calling him crazy. 

Jimin nodded, excitedly flipping open the book for a specific page. “This demon grants wishes. Anything you want, as long as you’re willing to pay the price.” 

That sends chills through you. You look down at the yellowed pages, skimming through the text, none of which you understood because it was all written in a different language. “What kind?”

“Ten years. That’s all it gives you.”

You had a feeling after ten years nothing good would happen. Jimin flips the page and on it is an ink drawing of a haunched creature, grotesque claws, and the face was nothing but a black smudge. 

“After ten years the demon will consume your soul and steal your face to make it its own.”

The whole time you wander through the woods, boots crunching against the thick blanket of snow, pushing aside dead branches. The day has come to rest over the horizon and the moon rose over the valley, you feel like you've ventured even deeper into the void and there's no going back to safety now.

  The deeper you wander into the abyss, the more you feel something eerie watching over you. Its eyes crawl over you, stalking your every movement like it wants to steal you away and trap you in its grasp. It must be the demon watching over you, hoping you must be foolish enough to come looking for it. 

The tree Jimin told you about is supposedly easy to spot. Twisted branches, ancient text carved into the trunk of the tree that was all dead language. The area around it is untouchable not even the freshly falling snow can touch it. The tree is timeless, years will pass and it will remain the same even as generations live and die. 

Your boots sink deep into the snow with each stride you take, pulling you deeper into the forest. 

There is a low hum, a haunting call echoing through the trees and ringing in your ears that guides you towards the edge of a steep ledge. At the bottom, you get a glimpse of the twisted branches, scarred trunk scrawled with carvings, a perfect dark circle around the tree that remains untouched by the snow. 

You carefully move down the slope to the tree, nearly sliding down and falling in the fluffy snow below. Once you step into the circle it’s warm, almost like summer heat. You look back at the blanket of snow, taking off your glove and sticking your hand outside of the circle to feel the cold biting your fingers. The drastic change in temperature is startling. This is definitely the right tree.  

The backpack on your shoulder slides off and you crouch down to retrieve the knife you brought along, carefully tucked away in the pocket of the bag. The intimidating silver blade gleams and reflects beneath the moonlight as you inspect it. 

Should you really be bringing a deadly weapon to meet a demon? 

It doesn’t seem like the brightest idea, but then again none of this is a good idea. You’ve gotten this far, so desperate to save Hoseok you don’t even care right now if the demon will take your life in the end. 

"Here goes nothing," you say, taking a deep breath in before running the blade across your palm. The burn of your open wound is temporary, stinging at your flesh is cut open and blood flows freely and meets to open air. Red blood pools in your palm, your other hand wiping away tears that have sprung in your eyes. "Fuck this. Fuck all this shit."

The tree seems to glow, sensing the new sacrifice about to come. You hesitantly lift your bloodied palm, blood freely flowing down your wrists and dripping off your elbow, tainting the dirt ground below.

There's no going back if you choose to press your hand against this tree and tie the demon trapped in it to you, but you won't let that fear hold you back from saving your brother. 

You press your hand against the trunk, wincing when the rough wood touches your open wound. Blood drips down the wood, sinking into the slits and crevices. Your hand tingles with warmth and you no longer feel the pain in your palm. When blinding light emits from the tree, it forces you to clench your eyelids shut and turn away.

Soon the light fades and you're left in the chilling darkness, but not alone. The hairs on your arm begin to stand as a warning. You're afraid to open your eyes and be met with whatever creature you've just summoned.

"Why so afraid, master?" The voice, not a singular voice, more like multiple distorted voices speaking at once, calls out to you. "You're trembling. Is it because of the cold or are you just afraid of me?"

You bring your hand back from the tree, still refusing to open your eyes. "The cold."

"Liar," the creature says, monotone voice lowering to your ears. "You're a liar."

"No," your voice betrays you by cracking and you wince, afraid that its volatile personality will snap at you.  

"Then look at me, master.”

The oil lamp flickers in its glass case creating an ominous atmosphere surrounding you. You force yourself to peek one eye open, seeing the tree bark stained red with your blood. Slowly, you turn your head, met with the horrifying creature. The face you're met with is no face at all. Just a black abyss looking back at you. It takes everything to hold your tongue and not scream out.

"Are you afraid?" It asks again.

"No." The wavering in your voice remains the same and the no faced creature scoffs.

"You’re a liar, but then again, they all are."

You cross your arm, refusing to let the creature control your feelings. "Maybe I am a liar, b-but you’re supposed to answer to me.”

The creature stands taller, mimicking your crossed arms. "You're right, master. So what is it you want?"

You wet your lips, "I need you to save my brother."

"Save?" It sneers. “I’ve never had to save anyone.” 

You find the strength to explain, “M-My brother, Hoseok, he was in a car accident. The doctors said he might not…”  

You didn’t need to hear the dreadful news from the doctors when you went to first visit Hoseok. You could see him through the glass window at the hospital hooked up to wires and tubes and it was clear to you that he was on the brink of death. He looked so lifeless. You could hardly stand the sight of your brother that way. You were too afraid to go into his room—afraid you’d feel death lingering by his side waiting to take him away from you forever.

The demon inches closer, curious now. 

You resist shutting your eyes to block out its dark ghostly face. You’ll never be able to stand in the dark without imagining it lingering in the corner, watching and waiting to drag you into the darkness with it.

“Fine,” the demon sighs, lifting its hand. A hand that looks so real, not the grotesque claws you saw in Jimin’s book, if you hadn’t seen its face you would have believed it was human.

You flinch in fear it will grab you, steal your face early, or rip you to shreds. Instead, it snaps its fingers. You don’t feel muscles being pulled to shreds, your insides boiling, or anything physically painful happening to you. 

“He’ll wake soon,” it says, dismissively shrugging its shoulders. “So, when are we going to have real fun, master? What do you really want? Money? Power? Name it. I’m dying to know.”

“I don’t want anything else,” you say resolutely. 

“Nothing?” it says, despite the distorted voice, you can tell it’s shocked. “You’re a liar. There has to be something. All you humans are greedy, pathetic creatures.”

“I won’t make any more wishes.” 

It shakes its head, moving to the edge of the ring. It looks down, although you can’t see its face when it sticks out its hand to feel the snow for the first time in years you sense that it is remembering what it feels like to be free of its cage. 

“Let’s go.” 

It steps out of the circle and into the fresh snow, looking as its feet sink in. You trail after it, as it glides through the snow with ease while you’re lagging behind, trudging through the deep snow. You feel out of breath trying to keep up with its fast pace, nearly falling over a few times. 

“C-Can you slow down a little?” You call out. 

It turns its head, unsettling inky darkness looking back at you, teasingly saying, “if you can’t keep up why don’t you wish for better speed?”

You grimace and don’t reply. Luckily, it stops walking to let you catch up to it. You try and run through the snow to get to it faster because the feeling of that darkness staring at you is frightening. Running blindly through, your foot snags on a branch buried beneath the white blanket and you nose dive right into the freezing banks.  

The creature laughs. Its laughter hauntingly echoing through the woods with its distorted voice. 

“Poor human,” it mocks.

You look up from the snow, your entire face numb from the cold. You’re beginning to hate this demon. 

You pick yourself up with no help from it, wiping off the snow and marching on as if nothing happened, quietly simmering behind the sauntering demon. You walk behind it once again, staring curiously at the back of its ‘head’. It’s not really a head, just darkness shaped like a human head. 

"Is that your… normal face?" You pipe up. 

"Yes. Does this face frighten you, master?” The demon stops, turning around to face you. “Would you like a new one? I have taken many over the years, and soon yours will be added to my ever-growing collection."

The thought of this demon taking your face and using it to cause harm is unsettling. 

"Maybe you'd prefer a sweet innocent face," the demon says. His face begins to smoke and a real human face appears in a matter of seconds. The doe-like features of the young man would almost make you think this demon was an innocent human. "You might recognize this face.”

You’re surprised to see a familiar face. One that was plastered over billboards and television screens daily, a world-famous star that died suddenly. 

“J-Jungkook?” 

A roguish grin appears on the star’s face—one you never thought you’d see up close. 

Jeon Jungkook was a household name, a boy that seemed to come out of nowhere and shook the world with his talents. You were a fan at the start of his career when he was just a humble musician that rose to stardom through the Internet. 

“Ding ding ding,” he laughs, an all too familiar laugh you heard through the television during interviews countless times. “Bet you never thought you’d see this cute face again.” 

“B-But you… you’re not him, right?” 

It’s impossible. He died nearly three years ago due to an overdose, at least that’s what the media said. 

“Yes, I’m not the golden boy you knew. He’s long gone.” 

So the demon is just wearing Jungkook’s face. 

“He made a deal too?” You couldn’t understand why he would want to make a deal with a demon. He had everything—the talent, personality, looks. It was hard not to love Jungkook. 

“Do you think that video of him singing would have gotten recognition without my help? He wanted to be a famous singer so I gave him everything he desired. He was humble like you at first, then he began wishing for drugs, alcohol, and lovers. By the time I took his soul, it was like there was nothing left of it. He was too consumed by his own greed and became an empty shell.”

 You know Jungkook’s story, the downfall of one of your favorite singers, publicized by the media. Not a day went by without hearing about Jungkook caught up in some drug scandal. You had no idea it was all because he wished for it. 

Near the end of his life, you could tell how tired Jungkook was through the screen, he was no longer the energetic, lively kid you saw on talk shows. The dark circles under his eyes and bar fight bruises couldn’t be concealed with all the makeup in the world. 

It broke your heart to see him that way. All because he couldn’t stop wishing for more. The circumstances of his death become clearer to you now. It wasn’t an overdose, he made a deal with a demon and paid the price. 

What if that happens to you? What if you become too greedy? The thought of being consumed by selfish desires scares you. Who would you be in ten years if you were to continue making wishes? Just an empty shell like Jungkook, making wishes to fill the unfillable hole in your chest. 

“I wonder what sins will eat you alive, master."

You shake your head, “No! No, I won’t be like that. I don’t want to.” 

The demon scoffs, rolling his eyes as if to say ‘sure’. 

“I guess, his face won’t do out there anyway. Too recognizable, I don’t want to cause a frenzy. Think of the headlines: Jeon Jungkook risen from the dead?” He laughs again. 

It’s unsettling to see Jungkook’s face, knowing how tragic the end of his life must have been. Now he’s being used as a puppet by a demon who’s laughing as if his death was something to joke about. 

What you’re really looking at is a mirror. This will be you in ten years time. The demon will take your soul, your face and parade around, wreaking havoc. A chill runs through you. 

“Let’s try Yoongi’s face, shall we? I haven’t worn him in centuries.”

Soon the beloved singer, Jeon Jungkook, molds into a stranger. You watch in amazement as his features morph easily. Even his hair shifts colors, dark brown roots bleeding into bleach blonde hair. 

“How about this one?” His voice is different—lower, much more mature. But whoever’s face he takes on doesn’t change what he is. He is still a demon. You can’t forget that no matter what face he wears. 

“He’s fine,” you dismiss. You just want to get out of the forest and back to someplace warm. The cold is beginning to numb your fingers and bite at your cheeks. 

“Yoongi it is.” 

—

Your eyes dart nervously around the bar. It's not so busy tonight, unusual for this bar, but you're glad there are no roaring voices. This chance gives you time to think about what you've done.

Before you even got out of the woods, you received a phone call from your parents, tearful voices exclaiming that your brother woke up from his coma. Yoongi really had given your brother a second chance. But as soon as your joy had worn off, the realization came crashing down around you. 

Sitting here, staring into a shot glass, you dare to glance over at the lounging demon haunched over the bar with his own drink. You're not sure what he ordered, your thoughts a bit clouded at the moment, but his glass is tall and filled with a clear teal liquid and topped with a maraschino cherry.

His finger drags up and down the stem of the glass, a bored sigh escaping his mouth. You eyes move from his hand and hesitantly drag up to his face. You nearly jump out of your chair, hairs standing up on the back of your neck when you realize he has been staring at you the whole time. 

His eyes are brown, nothing like the vermillion red color they frequently flash whenever he feels up to no good. 

"So," he drawls, picking up his martini glass, having a small sip. "What's on your mind?"

There are many racing thoughts going around your head right now. You've just signed the rest of your life away to a demon, saved your brother, and are currently sitting and having a drink with the demon that's going to end your life in ten years.

"Nothing," you lie, turning your head back to your drink.

"You really like to lie to me, don't you?"

You don't reply, glancing to the side and catching the eye of the bartender staring at you. He looks away, flustered that you caught him staring, continuing to wipe down the counter.

You, in a sort of dizzying state from alcohol, are keenly aware of how cute the bartender is. Your eyes trail down the name tag on his shirt. Taehyung, it says. 

Eventually, Taehyung reaches your side and casually wipes down the area next to you.

"How's it goin' over here?" He asks.

"Good," Yoongi answers gruffly before you have the chance to open your mouth to answer.

You attempt to laugh Yoongi's curtness off, "Oh, yeah, everything is great."

"Well, you look lost in tonight, just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm just feeling a little conflicted."

From the corner of your eye, Yoongi looks betrayed that you chose to confide in the bartender instead of him even though he asked you the same question just two minutes ago. In your defense, you'd rather speak to the cute bartender than the demon who eats souls and steals faces. What kind of advice could a demon offer you?

"Feel like talking?" Taehyung asks, throwing the rag over his shoulder and leaning against the bar. 

"Hey, cutie," a drunken slur comes from behind you and takes a seat to your right.

You involuntarily lean closer to Yoongi to get away from the stranger's alcoholic breath, grimacing when he smiles and winks in a sad attempt to flirt.

"Hi," you politely respond, turning your head to look back at Yoongi's now empty martini glass, the stem of his maraschino cherry sitting on the counter. You try not to give the stranger the opportunity to talk any further with you, but he's persistent.

“How you doin’ tonight?” he slurs. 

“Great.” You offer him a close-lipped smile and that’s all he gets out of you.

You do your best to ignore the stranger continuously pestering your right ear, turning to occupy yourself with the Taehyung and Yoongi. Now, you'd rather talk to the demon on your shoulder than some creep at the bar.

It’s clear the stranger doesn’t appreciate you ignoring him. 

“Hey,” the man barks, reaching over to grab your arm. You flinch away, consequently pressing yourself against Yoongi who instinctively wraps an arm around you. 

"She said she's not interested," Yoongi interjects, holding you closely. He's more annoyed than he was with the bartender and the energy radiating off of him is burning. If he wanted to he could decimate the man with a snap of his fingers, but he doesn't. He doesn't even let his gaze waver as he stares down the drunk.

"What you gonna about it?" the man challenges

"Look, buddy," Taehyung says, "How 'bout one more drink on the house and then I call you a cab."

The man mumbles a disgruntled 'fine' and Taehyung pours him another drink. He slides off the barstool with his complimentary drink and stumbles over to another undeserving girl minding her business.

You let out a relieved sigh, "God, I wish guys like that would just drop dead. They’re so annoying."

"Interesting." Yoongi smiles and you blanch, sensing exactly what he’s about to do. He brings his hand up and snaps his fingers.

Easily, the man that you had just been talking to crumbles over, groaning in pain, eyes clenched shut. The agony on his face terrifies you. You wished for him to die and now Yoongi is granting that wish. You're the one who's killing the man. 

You shouldn’t have let your words slip out so easily. You didn’t mean it literally. A note of carefully phrasing your words better is placed in the back of your mind. 

Taehyung immediately runs around the counter, calling out for someone to call the police as he goes to aid the man. 

You grab onto Yoongi's shoulder, shaking him and try to plead with him silently. "I didn't actually want him to die! Don't kill him, Yoongi!"

"This is what you wished for though," he says calmly, watching in amusement as the man suffocates on his own tongue. "I'm only granting your wish."

"I take it back! I wish he wouldn’t die!"

Yoongi rolls his eyes and already the man is taking his last breath, face turning a light shade of blue from lack of oxygen. You cling onto the smallest shred of hope that Yoongi will spare the man's life. You wished for him to live so he should obey, right?

"But I didn't really like him that much either," Yoong shrugs, "maybe I want him to die."

"You can't do that," you nearly shriek, "Y-You're supposed to do what I tell you!"

Yoongi sighs, eyes rolling over to the gasping man. “I hate when they say that,” he mumbles, but you can hardly hear it over the choking and patrons screaming for help. 

It takes a full second before he snaps his fingers again and the man takes a deep breath, the air finally returning to his lungs and color bringing his face back to life.

Your shoulders slump, face clasped in the palm of your hand. Your hands tremble against your cheek, despite relief flooding your system, you know the man's fate could have turned out worse.

"You seem to care a lot about whether or not a scumbag like him gets to live to harass another girl."

"It's not like that," you whisper, "I-I can't kill someone."

Your thoughts are conflicted. Maybe Yoongi is right. Maybe the man will go on to hurt someone in the future and this is your chance to stop it from happening. But you can't kill someone because they might be guilty. You can't know if this man would go on to do despicable things or if he was just some old drunk in a bar. You don't want to play God and decide who lives and who dies. You shouldn't get to choose. This power that Yoongi gives you is too much.

“Let’s kill him, master, make him suffer."

"No." You won't take a life. You already told yourself won't make another wish ever again. 

Yoongi frowns, disappointed in your choice. “I was so sure you’d ask me to kill him.”

You slide off the stool and grab your bag to fish out money. "Well, I won’t be like all your other masters. We're leaving."

—

You both arrive at your apartment near eleven while the moon is slowly falling towards the horizon. It was a quiet ride on the bus. You tried your best to sit as close to the window as possible while Yoongi lounged lazily in the orange plastic seat, a content grin on his face.

He quietly commented on the city as it passed by in a blur, the subtle scent of musk, and how he preferred this mode of transportation over teleporting. He spoke as if the mundane parts of life were a luxury to him. 

You didn't speak once, letting him ramble to himself while you were lost in thought. You didn’t seem to care much about how much the demon seemed to be enjoying the peace.

When you reach your house, you head straight towards the couch. 

"You're too quiet, master," Yoongi notes, looking around your apartment and comparing it to his previous masters'. He must have seen much more lavish looking ones than the humble one-bedroom apartment you own.

"I don't feel like talking," you mumble, moving to throw yourself onto the couch. You grab a decorative pillow and bury your face in it to muffle a sigh. The familiar smell of fresh cotton eases your nerves until Yoongi falls down next to you. Too closely for your liking.

You remove your head from the pillow, surprised by how bleary your vision is from the tears building up. 

"I think your face will be a wonderful addition to my collection."

You gulp, shifting away from the demon lounging too close for comfort. You're glad he is wearing a face and it's not just a black abyss you were first met with. Somehow the handsome face he is currently wearing lessens your fear, but it brings you anything but comfort.

Yoongi slouches into your couch. "I haven't been able to relax like this in centuries. My previous masters always had orders, something they wanted and couldn't wait for. I was a dog at their beck and call."

You shy away from the arm that slings itself over the couch, holding your breath as his fingers loop through your hair to entertain themselves with the loose strands. 

"I’m sure you had to grant bad wishes but I don't want anything else from you. So, you can relax as much as you want.”

"Oh, you will want something. I guarantee it," he says confidently, "maybe not today or the next five years, but eventually, you'll give in."

The plan was to get help for Hoseok, that's it and you got your wish. No way you're going to let yourself be tempted to ask for more. 

But maybe one thing won’t hurt. Paying off Hoseok’s hospital bills would be a big help. Maybe even paying off your college debt. It doesn’t sound too bad… 

No! That can’t happen. The more money you ask for the more you won’t be able to resist begging for more. 

You push yourself off the couch and away from Yoongi. It feels as if the more you're around him, the more you feel the desire to succumb to those deep desires.

“I said no!” you yell, unaware of the demon’s rising temper. 

Yoongi’s hand darts out to grab your wrists, pulling you back down eye level to him, eyes turning the deep shade of red. You twist your arm, but he refuses to let you go. His anger radiates through the air, you can feel yourself begin to sweat. 

“Stop denying what you want, you foolish little girl,” he snaps, “just make a wish, go ahead, ruin your life! Just like they all did before! You’re already going to hell, make the most of your dwindling years.”

You don’t want to stand here and listen to him remind you of how long until you’re going to die. Instead of fighting, fearful he might lash out further, you speak curtly, "I want to go to bed." 

He releases you and you nod goodbye, skirting off to bed, worrying that the demon will follow.

Lucky for you, he doesn't move an inch from the couch, remaining there for the rest of the night even as you toss and turn in bed, whimpering from the nightmares plaguing your dreams of a faceless demon.

––

When the sun rises promptly over the horizon the next day, it's Yoongi who hovers over you silently waiting for your eyes to open.

"Good morning," the demon coos, surprisingly softly as if he were trying to wake a child from a nap.

"M-Morning."

"Any wishes today?" His lips curl into a devious smile, taking any softness he held away. His finger runs down your chin and traces your collarbone, touching your skin gently. 

"N-No," you answer, hoping this question doesn't become a daily occurrence. You swat away his hand, getting off the bed.

He moves away from the edge of the bed, letting you get up and start your morning routine while maintaining a safe distance. He quietly stands in the background while you brush your teeth and wash your face, but doesn't leave the room when you change. You settle for making him turn around while you strip into work clothes.

"I can snap my fingers and make you rich. You’ll never have to lift a finger ever again. Don’t you want me to help you? Isn’t that why you sold yourself to me?" he says, eyeing a spoonful of golden cereal flakes. 

He asked if he could have some of your breakfast so you poured him a bowl of cereal. You're not even sure he needs to eat it. He's more curious if anything.

"I-I didn’t sell myself to you!” 

He makes it sound so scandalous. 

Yoongi smirks but doesn’t say anything else. 

“I don't want anything else," you groan. "What do you want me to say? After you nearly killed a guy yesterday, there's no way I'm going to make another wish. Like you said most of your masters were awful people who became greedy and selfish and I-I don't want to become that."

You stir your milk around, watching as the leftover, soggy flakes of cereal swirl around the ceramic bowl. You promised yourself you'd never make another wish, no matter how badly you want to. If you ever became as sick and twisted as Yoongi's former masters, you'd end your contract early and have him kill you.

You look up at Yoongi who has been quiet for a while now, odd for him to sit and not taunt you about something. Staring at his face, you wonder about the person he’s wearing. Yoongi isn’t the demon’s real name, just the name of the person whose face he’s wearing. You wonder if Yoongi, the human, felt pain when he died. 

“How will you do it?”

“Hm?” 

You swallow, letting your spoon go and watching it sink into the milk. “In ten years, when you have to… take my soul, will it hurt?”

Yoongi blinks, cocking his head a subtle amused grin on his face. “I don’t know. They never scream if that makes you feel better.”

It doesn’t. 

“So, you’ll wear around my face after that?” 

"I will,” he says. The reply is short and you’re not sure you want to hear more about what he’s going to do once he has your face. And after that, he adds, “this cereal is really good.”

Blinking, you gape at him, not expecting that. "Uh, yeah, d-do you want some more?"

"Mhm."

Yoongi follows you to work—in fact, he follows you everywhere. He never leaves your side, always glued to you and making comments about your mundane life and how he can make it more exciting if you just make a wish.

“Why do you never leave me alone?” You ask, finally fed up with the sound of his footsteps pattering behind you incessantly. You feel like he’s doting on you. Without any orders or wishes to grant, he has nothing to do. He can’t entertain himself by wreaking havoc because you won’t allow it. 

Yoongi sips on his fruity beverage, blinking at you tiredly. He waits a beat to answer, “I have to protect you until the day you die. Your soul is mine to have and no one else’s.”

His words are heavy on your shoulders. It doesn't make you feel better. You'll never get away from him, huh? You'll always be reminded of the clock counting down on your life. 

Yoongi moves past you as if the brief conversation was nothing to him. 

“Come on let’s go visit your brother. I’m dying to meet him.”

—

"H-Hi, Hoseok," your voice barely comes out as a whisper, afraid you might break down and cry if you speak any louder.

"Hey! You finally came!" Hoseok smiles brightly, opening his arms wide to gesture you in for a hug. He’s sat up in his hospital bed, light blue gown on and disheveled orange hair. You're startled for a moment. The last time you saw your brother he had a tube stuffed down his throat and IVs running through his arm that all connected to beeping machines.

Pale and cold, that's how you remembered him and how you would have remembered him if you had let him die. He was on the brink of death, but you brought him back. Now he's returned to the brightest ray of sunshine you always knew. The hand you touch is warm, full of life, just like his smile. 

The cost of what you did for him will always be there, lingering in the back of your head. But you'd save Hoseok again in a heartbeat no matter the cost. There is no price high enough that would make you give up your brother. 

"You weren't here when I woke up and you barely answered up my calls and texts," he pouts and another pang of guilt hits you. He must think you were neglecting him. "I think you owe me an explanation. And..." He pauses, eyes darting over to Yoongi lingering near the sliding door. "Who's the guy?"

Hoseok is asking too many questions and he always has a way to get you to spill your guts. If he finds out you made a deal with a demon, he'd try everything to reverse it. You're not sure how he could, but you don't want to risk it. 

"Just… just," you struggle to find an explanation for Yoongi. 

"Her boyfriend,” Yoongi speaks from his place near the door. 

You can’t believe the words that just came out of Yoongi’s mouth. Where the hell did that come from? You certainly didn’t prompt him to say that.

Hoseok’s brows raise, his lips form an ‘o’ shape. He looks between you and Yoongi. “I missed a lot, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah you did, but I’m here to see you! I wanna know how you’re doing!” You try and divert the conversation away from Yoongi. If he starts asking how you met him, you’re going to let something slip. 

You pinch his cheeks, laughing as he swats you away. 

“Come on,” Hoseok chuckles, “you don’t visit me for almost two weeks and then turn up with a boyfriend out of the blue. I gotta know what my little sister has been up to.”

“Forget him, Hobi, seriously,” you groan, stepping into his view of Yoongi. You wish that the demon listened to you when you asked him to wait in the cafeteria or the hallway, but he always insists on staying close to you. 

It’s like he watches every detail of your life closely, mimicking the way you speak to others, do things like ordering food or going about your day. You assume he’s trying to learn about life.

“Can I at least say hello?”

You begrudgingly take a step aside and gesture Yoongi to come in. The demon crosses over the threshold with a wry smile. 

“Hi, I’m Hoseok,” your brother greets your ‘boyfriend’, extending his arm out for a handshake. 

“Yoongi,” the demon says, “I’m glad to see you getting better. It’s like a miracle.”

You laugh awkwardly, ignoring Yoongi’s last comment. 

“I know, I’m so thankful to be alive right now. And glad ___ is finally here to keep me company.”

“You’re lucky to have such a dedicated sister, Hoseok. I hope you never forget that.” 

Yoongi sounds far away, raw and more… human that you’ve ever heard him. The longing in his eyes, now disguised as a warm brown, burns dimly, but it’s there. 

You wonder what the demon with no face yearns for. 

—

You came to the conclusion that if you only have ten years to live your life, you were going to live it to the fullest. You try and go places you’ve always loved and end up taking Yoongi places he's never been, and for an immortal being that has existed for centuries, there are a lot of places he's never been. 

You first start with the amusement park where he discovers cotton candy for the first time. His sweet tooth is automatically attracted to the sugar coating his tongue and he continues to buy more and more. You can't help but smile at the joy in his eyes when he receives his fifth bag of cotton candy and he can't help but smile back.

And when he takes your hand to pull you towards the ferris wheel, your heart beats a little faster. 

Even on casual days when you stroll down the street with Yoongi while he follows you to the grocery store and ask him if there’s anything he wants which causes him to stall. You were the only one of his masters that had ever really cared about him and it gave him a weird feeling in his gut. He can’t remember a time a human bothered to ask him what he wanted.

He was only meant to serve, nothing else. He helped others indulge in their selfish desires, but what about him? Here he is, given the chance to be free, to do what he wants without human orders controlling his every move. And he finds that all he wants to do with this freedom is spend it with you. 

On a separate occasion, you have a day off and choose to stay up till midnight watching Titanic with him. When Yoongi sees you crying over the human sacrificing himself to save his lover, he feels an ache in his chest and wonders why you would willingly watch a movie that makes you cry.

He just doesn’t understand it. You tell him that it’s because it feels good to cry sometimes, that it’s cathartic. He can’t say that he’s had much experience with human emotions, but he knows that he doesn’t enjoy seeing you cry. It makes his chest tighten when he sees the way tears streak down your face and the way your nose reddens when Jack sinks to the bottom of a freezing ocean, leaving his lover behind.

Sacrificing yourself for someone you love to live. 

Where has he heard that story before? 

It doesn’t take long until he looks back at you to realize. You sacrificed yourself to save Hoseok and he was just the iceberg that ruined everything.

“Stop staring,” you chuckle, wiping away the falling tears. You can’t help, but cry every time you watch this movie and Yoongi being here to judge you doesn’t make you feel any better.

You hold your breath when his hand reaches out to brush a tear away. His hand cools off your heated skin as he tenderly caresses your cheek. 

“I’ll always be a monster, won’t I?” he mutters under his breath, a sigh following after. "I'll never really be like you—no matter how many faces I take, no matter how many souls I consume."

It never occurred to you that the demon with no face longed to be human so badly.

"Yoongi..."

"I accepted it a long time ago," he brushes it off. 

Yoongi knows he shouldn't, but he moves closer, pulling you into his chest. He wants something—someone—to hold. He desperately wants to be human and feel normal—to allow this pain in his chest to be normal. 

Your heart hammers in your ears. Normally you’d pull away from his touch, but now it only brings you comfort. You stay like that through the end of the movie where Jack and Rose reunite once again in the afterlife. If there is an afterlife, would you ever be able to meet Yoongi there?  

He rests his chin atop your head, sighing, "yeah… I've accepted it."

Somehow you doubt that.

—

You visited Hoseok once again where he continued to grill you about your mysterious boyfriend. You never let anything slip, letting Yoongi take the lead on explaining how you two met and fell in love. The tale he weaves together is surprisingly romantic and you wonder if he’s been watching romcoms without you to better understand humans. 

The air once you step out of the hospital is a refreshing break from the strong sanitary odor of medical supplies and the lingering chill of death on your spine. 

You said goodbye to Hoseok, making a promise to visit him again soon. After tonight’s visit, you feel… good. 

“You seem happier,” Yoongi notes.

“You know what? I am.”

“You should,” he says, pulling his hoodie over his bleach blonde hair.

“This is all I could ever wish for. Hoseok’s happy and healthy thanks to you.” You pause, letting Yoongi take a couple of steps further before he realizes you aren’t next to him. “You know… I never really thanked you for saving him.”

His brows raise, furrowing when he realizes what you’re saying and how genuine you sound. 

“Thank you?” He repeats as if he’s never heard the words or spoken them. “No human has ever thanked me before.”

You’re not surprised to hear it. You’re not sure what crazy person would ever thank a demon. But you can’t help but feel thankful for him. He brought your brother back to you, and no matter what price you’ll have to pay in the end, you’re glad to have him. 

“Then I’ll be the first.” 

“That makes me feel…” he looks to you expectantly, silently asking you to fill in his blank. 

“Good?” You try. 

He mulls the word over in his head as if trying to remember what it means and what it would feel like. Then he smiles, “yes, that’s the word.” 

“All I’ve ever done is cause pain and suffering. I’ve always expected my masters to ask for selfish things, but these past few weeks I’ve learned what it’s like to be human. To not have orders.”

Yoongi looks up at the stars, shining in the darkness. He’s looked up at this unchanging sky so many times throughout his existence. It stays the same just like him. 

“I like this freedom. I like what you’ve given me. Thank you,” he smiles at the stars. “Thank you, ___.” 

—

“Goodnight, Yoongi,” you say, retreating into your room, waving at him awkwardly as he settles down on his usual spot on the couch. You don’t know why you feel so different. He thanked you tonight. Something he’s never done before, you never thought he would. You had no idea he felt that way. You were both thankful for one another which sounds impossible, but it’s true. 

“Goodnight, ___, sweet dreams,” Yoongi replies, falling onto the couch with a content sigh.

You disappear into your room and settle into bed. 

That night instead of the usual nightmares about a faceless demon ripping your soul away, you find yourself lost in sanguine eyes, rich as wine and a raspy melodious voice echoing your name and writes fire across your skin.

The heat in your core ignites at his slightest touch over your bare chest. You have no idea how you got undressed or why you felt so breathless in this darkened bedroom. A face comes out of the shadows, the features you know all too well. 

“Yoongi,” you say, but it comes out as a whine, so desperate and wanton it hardly sounds like you. 

You say his name again, but it’s muffled by his lips, soft and gentle. It’s not what you’d expect, but you don’t fight it. You simply melt under his touch and his hands do the talking. 

His fingers brush the underside of your breasts, admiring the shape before fondling one, fingertips coming to pinch your hardened bud, rolling the tip between the rough pads of his fingers. You bite your lower lip, taking his hand in yours, pausing his motions. You slowly begin to lower his hand, allowing it to press against your navel, hoping he’ll understand what you want. 

It’s so hot, your body is on fire, scorching as he touches your skin and ignites it even more. You just yearn for him—his touch, his body. It’s like an addiction and you have to have him now. 

“I’m here to serve you, master, to please you in anyway I can. What would you like me to do?” 

He speaks, but his mouth doesn’t move. Your pleasure is too heightened to care. You want him, you want every sinful part of him that he can give you. 

“I want it all. I want you. Please, Yoongi,” you beg, looking into his deep red eyes glowing with ardor. 

“Anything for you.”

Yoongi uses both hands to part your legs, spreading you open for his eyes to feast upon, a hungry predator starving for a taste. His finger runs up and down your folds first, gathering up your wetness, teasing a finger past your lips. 

“Yoongi,” you whine, grasping his hand and guiding him deeper between your folds. He allows you to use his hand to get yourself off without resistance. Your hand pulls his fingers into your clenching walls. 

The intrusion feels like three fingers instead of one, you aren’t complaining, it stretches you so good and fills you up nicely. “Mhm, Yoongi,” you moan, releasing your grip to let him continue pleasuring you on his own. Your hand moves above your head where you clench the sheets beneath it, almost writhing. 

Yoongi remains eerily quiet while your moans fill the room, crescendos of your helpless cries echo in the dark. He continues to assault your pulsing cunt, drilling his fingers deeper with each rough thrust. Every motion has you hurling towards a quick end.

Your breathless voice rasps his name, nothing else on your mind but him and his fingers. You shut your eyes, focusing on the feeling. Your back arches, hips grinding against his fingers. 

“Wake up.” The voice sounds like Yoongi. What is he saying?

Your brows furrow, but your eyes don’t open, ignoring the voice to focus once again on your pleasure. 

“Master,” his voice teases, “you must be having a pleasant dream.” 

Dream? 

Suddenly the hands on your core fade into nothing and you’re left empty, just on the edge of orgasming. When you open your eyes again, you’re in the dimly lit bedroom, sanguine eyes hovering above you. The sheets damp with your sweat. You can feel the heat and slick between your legs that pooled from your dream and an ache in your core that was never relieved. 

Oh god, that dream. 

Yoongi blinks, red eyes flashing at you and reminding you of whose fingers made you so wet while asleep. 

“You were moaning,” Yoongi states.

Your cheeks burn from embarrassment. You bring the blanket higher to cover half your face. You’re praying you hadn’t let his name slip out in your dream state. 

“Care to tell me what your dream was about?” 

You lick your chapped lips, finding the courage to speak, “I-It was you.”

Perhaps you’re still feeling the effects of your dream, that desire manifesting itself right now, hoping that the true version of Yoongi could finish what dream him had started. 

Yoongi cocks a brow, taking a seat on the side of your bed. As it begins to dip under his weight, you shift and sit up, ignoring how your shirt dips too low over your chest. 

“Explain.”

His hardening gaze makes it difficult for you to think about anything but the way he looked at you in your dream, ready to devour you. A rush of arousal goes straight to your core and you cross your legs. 

“Y-You were in it and you were t-touching me.”

“Touching?” He echoes, his eyes drift from your face down to your low neckline. “Touching you how?”

You really don’t want to explain it in detail. Doesn’t he get it already? Does he really not understand or does he want you to say it out loud? 

“Well,” you wet your lips, “I was naked and you were above me.”

“Oh.” Is all he says. It doesn’t sound disappointed nor disgusted, that’s good at least. He nods his head as a sign for you to continue. 

“A-And then your fingers… your fingers…they…” You clam up, suddenly recalling how deep and real they felt inside you, filling up your walls and making you scream. 

Your eyes cast down, unable to look at him anymore, but that’s a mistake. His hands rest against the bed, propping himself up. The blue veins that run across his hands and slither up his arms, catch your eye. That hand, those fingers—your legs clench beneath your blanket. 

“I should stay with you tonight,” his voice raspier than before. You’re not sure if it’s what you said that brought this on. All kinds of elicit thoughts run through your mind. In the same bed, beneath the same sheets, those veiny hands roaming your body once again. You’re dying to know what it feels like for real. 

“It could be an incubus plaguing your dreams.”

And suddenly the fantasy is cut short.

“Incubus?” You've never heard of one. 

“A sex demon that preys on women while they sleep.”

Well, that would explain the dream, but why would it appear as Yoongi? Did you really want Yoongi so badly a demon had to take the form of him to trick you? 

“O-Oh, you really want to stay with me?” 

“I won’t let anyone else have you, especially not another demon.”

With that, you allow Yoongi to stay with you for the rest of the night. The throbbing and want in your core never subsiding. He lays down next to you and suddenly you feel shy, scooting to the very edge of the bed until you’re threatening to tip off.  

You know he doesn’t need to sleep, so you’re wondering if he will just lie there the whole night listening to the sounds of your steady breathing, or possibly more moaning if the dream returns. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

Your entire body tenses, “y-yes.”

You don’t dare to turn over. 

“Did you cum?”  

“No.”

The bed shifts, his body moves to press against yours, molding together, fitting like a puzzle piece. His warmth envelops you, calming your erratic nerves. 

What is he doing? 

“Would you like to?” 

Yoongi’s fingers sneak around your abdomen, trailing down slowly to cup your heat. His middle finger brushes against your clit beneath thin shorts and underwear. You chew on your lower lip, fighting back the urge to rub your legs together and whimper.

“I liked hearing you moan. I almost didn’t want to wake you. But now I wonder, what do you sound like when you cum?”

He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, hot puffs of air emphasizes every word he lowly whispers. 

“Will you let me hear those sweet little whimpers again? I’ll fuck you good, sweetheart, I promise.”

“O-Okay.”

He takes his hands away to allow you to willingly roll onto your back. You watch as he moves to hover over you, his knees on either side of your thighs, his finger intertwined with a strand of your hair. 

“Don’t be nervous, ___,” he whispers, oddly comforting. “I’ll take care of you.”

Those words remind you of his promise.

“I’ll protect you until the day you die. You’re mine to have and no one else’s.”

Your shoulders relax under his words like a spell cast over you. His finger releases your hair to drag down your face tenderly. 

“You’re already wet, aren’t you? Did that dream take care of you well?”

His hands fall away from your face to the waistband of your shorts. Teasingly hooking around the elastic and tugging to get a peek at your baby pink panties. 

“Answer me, baby girl.”

“Mm, y-yes, I am,” you answer, beginning to feel warm under your clothes despite how thin they are. 

Yoongi snaps the waistband back and slides his hand up your shirt, tugging it off your body. Your breasts are exposed to him now and suddenly it feels real. This isn’t another dream. You’re really agreeing to give yourself to a demon. 

His rich, sanguine eyes roam your body, memorizing each fine detail of your skin. You fight the urge to hide yourself. No one has ever seen you so intimately before nor looked at you as if they were ready to devour you whole. 

Yoongi’s hand moves to touch your chest, but your reflexes force you to flinch away. You’re nervous about him touching you, thinking he’d be disappointed that you’re not everything he lusts after. He’s a demon, he must have been with—corrupted—countless humans. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks, pulling his hand back.

“I’ve never…done this before,” you admit, looking anywhere but his face. Your eyes travel downward, the column of his neck, the deep pools of his collarbones, his loose-fitting wrinkled shirt, to his crotch. His bulge is prominent in his dark jeans, begging to be freed. You wonder how big he is. What if he doesn’t fit? 

“Don’t worry, ___, I said I’d take care of you. Uncross your legs.”

You do as you’re told and Yoongi bends down slowly, pressing a kiss to your neck while his hand caresses your waist. He moves a hand up towards your breasts and brushes his thumb over your erect nipple. You squeak, a hand coming up to rest on his shoulder and squeeze out of nervousness. 

“Don’t be shy,” he rasps, nuzzling his nose up to the shell of your ear. “I just want to make you feel good.”

His thumb rolls over your nipple again as he gets back to work marking your neck. You sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut, but still keeping one steady hand on his shoulder for comfort. 

He sucks bruises into your skin that will stay as a reminder of this night and you don’t care what he leaves. You’re just enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. They’re so warm. You can feel yourself slowly getting addicted to his touch. It leaves you growing wetter than before. 

His lips move wet kisses down your chest down to your navel. His hand leaves your breasts, trailing towards to your waistband once again.

Your hand falls from his shoulder and you rest it against your chest, feeling the pounding of your heart. You can feel it beating—boom, boom, boom—you’re so nervous about having someone so close.

“Will you show me how wet you are?” He looks up at you with a mischievous smirk. You can feel your heart racing even faster. One finger runs down your clothed slit, earning a quiet whimper from you. “Touch yourself. I want you to coat your fingers and show me.”

“Y-Yoongi,” you stutter, “I-I…”

“Don’t tell me to haven’t touched yourself before.” 

You have touched yourself, but never in front of anyone else. Touching yourself in front of Yoongi sounds more and more appealing the longer his finger moves against your slit. You just want some relief for your aching core. 

“Okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. Your hands move to slowly slide your shorts off, panties going along with it to the floor. Now you’re completely bare, left vulnerable to Yoongi. 

He sits between your spread legs, watching your hands move. Enamored by your trembling hands, he can hardly wait for you to finally touch your wet slit. It’d be so easy for you to do it. You’ve probably done it many times before. 

Yoongi could imagine you lying in this bed in the middle of the night, shrouded in darkness with quiet whimpers while you pleasured yourself. You’d think of faceless men, only focusing on their cocks filling you up, pounding into your cunt the same why your fingers did. 

He feels himself get harder beneath his pants, the strain beginning to get uncomfortable. 

Your finger brushes over your slit, gathering just enough of your arousal on the tip for it to shine in the light.

“You’re dripping already,” he groans, “fuck, I can’t wait to have my cock in that tight little cunt.”

You almost gasp at his sudden vulgar words. It’s nothing like your dream where he was silent through most of it, letting his fingers do all the talking. But you like this version better—much better.

“Bend your knees,” he orders. “Put that pretty pussy on display.” 

You do as he says, the way his words sound like growls has you clenching, the throb in your core becoming unbearable. Your hand moves to your clit first, running over the sensitive bud. At first touch, you softly gasp, already feeling the jolts of pleasure running through your body. 

“Want you to put a finger in.” Yoongi can’t look away, 

You force your finger from your clit, running your fingers up and down your slit to collect all the juices that leaked out of you. Then, you ease your middle finger in, your walls already clenching around it. 

Your mouth falls open with puffs of hot air coming out as you gasp. When you begin moving your finger in and out, you bite down on your lip to prevent any loud whimpers from escaping. 

“Faster. Fuck yourself with your finger.”

Once you pick up the pace and move your finger in and out of your soaking pussy, you begin to need more. You want to be stretched full—so full of him. 

“More, I-I want more, Yoongi,” you mumble.

“Slip another one in.”

You immediately respond to that and stretch yourself with another finger. Your mouth hangs open becoming parched and a moan almost escapes you, but you catch it in your throat before it becomes any louder.

Yoongi shakes his head, “I like hearing you. Go ahead and moan.”

“B-But the neighbors.”

You’re sure they wouldn’t want to be woken in the middle of the night hearing you moaning through paper-thin walls. 

“If they like what they hear we can just invite them over,” he smirks, “and if not, I’ll take care of them for you, babygirl. So don’t be shy and let me listen to how good you fuck yourself.”

Yoongi takes hold of your hand, guiding your fingers into your soaked walls. His thumb presses against your clit and moves in circles, heightening your pleasure. 

You whimper, releasing a breathy moan when he presses harder. Your hips buck, grinding helplessly on his thumb. 

“There it is. What a good girl,” he praises while coaxing your fingers from your pussy. You whine when he refuses to let you stuff them back in, feeling his grip tighten around your wrist as a warning. His other hand fingers your slit, easing two digits in suddenly.

His fingers are much longer than yours and they feel amazing, prodding your pussy deeper than before. Your back arches, head falling to the side as you let out a wanton moan. 

Squelches and obscene noises coming from your wet pussy fill the room along with your uncensored moans. Drilling his fingers faster, Yoongi releases your wrist to rub your clit. 

“Ah, Y-Yoongi,” you whimper, digging your nails into the sheets. 

“Do you like my fingers buried in your sweet virgin cunt?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, rolling your hips against his hand. “I like it. P-Please keep going. It f-feels so good.”

Tension knots in your abdomen with each thrust of his fingers, curling inside your walls. Your forehead is damp, hair sticking to the sides of your temple. Your legs fall open wider.

“You gonna cum all over my hand, babygirl?” 

Whimpers and a simple nod of your head tells Yoongi what he wants to know. His voice is enchanting, a low hum, instructing you to meet your release and you do. 

You feel yourself gushing and squirting all over his fingers, your entire body tense while your walls clench and unclench. His name falls hoarsely from your lips.

“You’ve made a mess,” Yoongi tsks, pulling his fingers out of your abused hole to play with your dripping cum. He traces your outer lips, rubbing cum all over. 

Yoongi runs a finger along your thighs and over your abdomen to paint your body with your own sticky cum. “You’re all prepped and ready for my cock now.”

Your breath catches in your throat when his hands move to unzip his jeans. You’re anticipating the feeling of his cock sliding into you. How will it feel for the first time? You know it must hurt from all the stories. Nevertheless, you’re ready. You feel ready.

When he finally frees himself from his pants, throwing them off to the side,  you’re left speechless, unable to think of what to say. 

He’s big, so much bigger than you imagined. His fingers are nothing compared to his girth. It’s almost jaw-dropping. You’re afraid he won’t fit even with how wet you are. 

And it’s not just how thick he is that’s causing you to do a double-take. Along his shaft, are smooth ridges dotting his length. You’ve never seen anything like it. 

Your hesitant hand dares to reach out and graze one of the ridges. It feels just like skin, raised like a hard bump. Your hand flinches back when he gasps. You look up at him, a silent question hanging off your mind. 

“It’ll hurt, I won’t lie, but I’ll try to go slowly,” Yoongi says, hoping to reassure you. 

You lick your lips, glancing back at his hard xoxo once more. Your body is on fire and there is no denying how badly you yearn for Yoongi to be in you. You need this demon with no true face to fuck you. 

“Go ahead.”

Yoongi pulls on your hips, aligning his rigid cock head to your swollen pink lips. He pushes himself in, the thick head of his cock entering your walls for the first time. He forces himself not to bury himself into you, reminding himself how untouched you are and how he doesn’t want to hurt you.

“Yoongi,” you whimper, grabbing onto one of his hands on your hips. “S-Slower, please.”

You lay there, breathing shallowly as he watches you carefully. You move your hips experimentally around his cock, trying to adjust to the thickness as it steadily pierces you. You can feel the ridges of his cock as it enters you. The ache is uncomfortable and you wince. 

There can’t possibly be any more, you think until you choose to look down to where your bodies are connected. He’s just halfway in and you gasp. Not even with all of his length in you, you feel incredibly full. 

“Such a tight cunt,” he hisses, pulling out partially and thrusting back in, keeping up the slow rhythm to help you adjust. 

You’re beginning to feel pleasure instead of the uncomfortable pain and with each of his thrusts, he pushes himself deeper until you can take his whole cock. 

“So… hng, full,” you moan, feeling him hitting your cervix. Your back arches off the bed. You can feel every ridge sliding against your walls. Sliding your hands from his, your nails rake up his back, making red scars that will remain until morning. You anchor onto his shoulders. 

He drills into your cunt, no longer concerned with your pain, only focusing on giving you pleasure. With each of your whining moans, he rolls his hips until you’re flushed and panting. 

“S-Shit,” he hisses, “you like this, babygirl? You like being fucked?” 

“Yes, yes!” you cry. 

“You can feel me all the way in here,” he smugly remarks, pressing a hand flat against your abdomen where you can see the bulge of his cock moving inside you. His cock feels like it’s stretching you open, each thrust threatening to split you in half. 

You whine, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in closer. You can feel your second orgasm approaching quickly. Your toes begin to curl in absolute ecstasy. 

“I wanna-”

“Cum? You need to cum, babygirl?” He groans hotly into your ear. 

Your fingers move to lace in his blonde hair, tugging at the locks. Your hips buck to meet his in a hurry to finish. “Yes! I need to!” 

His finger moves between your bodies to flick your swollen bud causing you to shudder releasing a choked sob. His finger rubs your clit in circles. 

Your muscles tighten, stomach and eyes clenching as all your nerves light up. 

“Cum then, let go.”

You cry his name as you cum, back arching and your sweaty chest meets his. White leaks from your used cunt, gushing around his cock, and you’re absolutely spent. 

“Good girl,” Yoongi coos, almost out of breath but not quite. Being a demon means plenty of stamina. “Such a good girl.”

Your eyes open, blinking—once, twice— and realizing he’s smiling down at you. His blonde hair pushed back, revealing his forehead and glistening sweat. You’re wondering how he’s feeling after this because you’re definitely confused. Do you love Yoongi, the demon, who only wants to be human? It’s hard to say. 

“I might love you,” you admit. You might as well say it. You have nothing to lose anyway. 

That forces his smile to fall. He has nothing to say in return, he can’t say anything. This is wrong—all wrong. His mouth sets in a hard line.

You're forgetting the inevitable. The inevitable moment when he's forced to take your life. Even if years do go by, even if he does allow himself to fall in love with you, it won’t end happily.  

“And maybe I could too.”

[canonconspiracy]

Blood (Ulquiorra x Reader)

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: Ulquiorra x Reader

Fanfiction By: @rmorningstar21​ 

Part of: Halloween Prompts Day 2 (Late Post). 

Warnings: Not a happy ending.  Blood. 

WC: 1044

Cross-posted to my AO3 - same username. 

You faced the man with the green eyes, what felt like countless times.  Calling him a man could have been a compliment, or even an insult, depending on your point of view.  Often, you grew close to running your zanpukto through him.  Countless times, you watched as your own blood painted the desolate world.  Together, and yet alone, blood spilled for a purpose at one point.  Now, you wondered what purpose the two of you still fought.  

Still, with y/e/c eyes locked upon his green orbs, you felt a pang in your chest.  Did you even have a true, beating heart in your chest?  Did he?  

The gaze he held for you typically was void of emotion, as much of a void as those jet black locks of his that framed his pale face.  In this moment, facing him on the battlefield, though, you could question whether he was void of emotion.  With the slightest softness those green eyes held, you wondered if this had been the final battle for the two of you.  

"What cause do you even have to fight for anymore, Ulquiorra?" You questioned through tight lips, your zanpukto clentched tightly in your hands as you drew nearer to him.  Aizen had been gone, his plan right along with him.  "Why do we have to be on opposing sides?" 

"You know the answer to that," he replied dully, though his lips neither rose nor fell as he spoke.  His voice had practically held a monotone, though he drew near you with no weapon, cooly walking closer and closer.  Green eyes studied you as he drew closer.  

Your lips downturned at his words, the pain apparent upon your face.  "Yeah," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.  Moving your hand to caress his cold cheek gently, you forced a smile upon your face.  "I just...wish things were different."  With each word, your heart ached more, the desire to steal the forbidden fruit of his lips growing to be too much for you.  Each time you were at odds with him, you desired nothing more than to throw your zanpakto down and run into his arms, a pipe dream, if you will. 

He moved a slender hand, so gently, to touch where your hand rested upon his face.  Softness radiated in those green eyes for a moment, and for just a moment, you could feel him drawing you in.  "I do as well," he murmured softly, before the two of you separated with haste.  

Once more, your blood spilled, though you retracted quickly enough to avoid anything major.  Your zanpukto was raised once more, running through the espada the way you knew you needed to.  No matter the way your heart ached, you had to press on.  Each blow you sustained called closer to his defeat, or your own.  

Never had you finished a battle with the espada, though it had not been due to your own inability.  The two of you knew your attraction, feelings so deep within.   At one point, he had asked you what a heart was, and yet, he proved more than once that he had the capacity.  

Even so, you found yourself at odds with him, blood splattered from him as much as it had you.  Each slice pained you, no matter if it had been your own skin or his.  Drawing to the end, you knew this time you would need to finish this fight.  He would not simply defect, and neither could you.  

You found yourself so close to him, his breath radiating off of your lips.  Drawing nearer, you decided this would be the only time you would ever taste the forbidden fruit.  With a heavy heart, you pressed your lips with haste to his own.  What had shocked you the most was the moment that he melted into your lips, a hand moving to caress your y/h/c locks.  

Tears welled in your eyes as the two of you separated, staring face to face with those green eyes.  Desperately, you wished the tides of fate would turn into your favor, and yet, you hadn't been daft.  Breaking the cycle had been impossible, and loving him would simply end in blood.  

"Why did you…" he questioned, moving a free hand to his lips as he pressed his fingertips softly against them, already missing the warmth of your own.   

"Because I can't help loving you," you replied with no hesitation to your tone.  

You were drew nearer once more, to taste that forbidden fruit again as his green eyes closed.  With his arm wrapped around your waist, you found yourself melted into his lips as much as he, experiencing a taste unique to the espada male.  As your eyes closed, he had been all that had filled your senses.  Instead of gasping for air, though, you found your lungs filling with blood.  

Sorrow crossed those green eyes as he lied you down upon the sands of Hueco Mundo.  Gentle, slender fingers trailed your face as he leaned down beside you, a single tear in his eye.  "I'm sorry," he murmured softly, his normal monotone filled with true emotion as he watched you gasp for the air you could no longer receive.  

Upon the sands of Hueco Mundo, your limp body lied in a pool of your own blood.  The espada sheathed his zanpakto as he took another glance back to your figure, lips curled into a frown.  I suppose this is what the humans called love, he mused in his mind as your body drew further and further away.   Each step he took retreated away from the bloodied sight of your dying body, y/h/c locks lain askew upon the sands.   

Your dance with Ulquiorra, the constant battle the two of you possessed, had drawn to a close.  He was sure that once he faced Ichigo, he would meet his rightful end.  For you, he wished to put you out of that misery of loving him the way he had you, knowing you hadn't had the strength to complete the battle.  The two of you would finally be at peace, gone from this world and all others.  It was a pity that all of it needed to end in blood.  

[luca-moreno]

void

Luca word vomit idk

--

“You’re so fucking weird, Moreno,” one of the squad laughs as they haul on their packs.  

Earth isn’t at all what he expected.

Bootcamp isn’t either.

The hills in the distance look far away and the day is already hot. Luca feels sweat beading on the back of his neck, runs a hand over his freshly buzzed hair. He used to be so pale, now his skin turns darker shades he never realized could belong to him. He hates this harsh sun, the way its rays bite into his skin like tiny needles. It’s burning him, he thinks. He’ll wake up tomorrow red and sore. How did humans survive this long, on a planet trying to kill them daily?

He flashes the others a tight grin and a shrug and tries not to show on his face how the words bother him. “Yeah, I know.”

--

The wards weren’t friendly but neither was Earth or the Alliance.

But Luca puts his head down and he works. He runs the tracks, he climbs the walls, he shoots and swears and rolls and he keeps his head down and he’s just another inductee that his barely sixteen sol years flies under the radar to their eighteen. He’s baby faced and green and alone.

Nobody notices.

--

Wide hands gripped his shoulders and a smile flashed. “It’s not that long, Luca. You just gotta survive two more years. You can do it, I know you can.”

It was hard to hear over the din of the departure lounge. Luca’s throat grew tight as something akin to panic crawled its way up his throat. “I don’t... I know if I can. Not without you.”

Kiosho grins, mismatched eyes under a messy mop of blue trimmed hair. “Sure you can. Just don’t let them give you any shit. And Luca… even if you don’t feel it, bluff. They can’t tell the fucking difference anyway.”

--

He didn’t make the two years. He barely made it to one.

Code skittered across the screen of the terminal. His heart thumped so hard he could feel it in his ears. He cracked the firewalls like they’re nothing, swooped in and manifested a whole new reality and hoped it wasn’t a mistake.

It was… and it wasn’t and it still didn’t get him what he wanted.

--

The other boy notices Luca long before Luca notices him.

And why would he? He was just another tenderfoot, another one of the crowd, another pair of boots falling into line and pounding the pavement, another body in the mess hall trying to dig their way through the slop that’s considered to be their meals. Luca listens with half an ear as the gaggle of recruits around him bitch and moan about the food, picking at it unhappily but Luca remembers what it’s like to be hungry. He never protests.

The boy slides into the seat opposite him but Luca doesn’t look up.

“It’s your accent, you know,” the other boy tells him conversationally.

It takes a long moment before Luca realizes he’s talking to him. He looks up. “What?”

“Your accent. You probably don’t even realize it, but you do this weird little burr thing with all your words. Like drell and turians do.”

Luca lowers his fork slowly. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to say it now. “I didn’t grow up here.”

“I know,” the other boy smiles. He has blonde hair, and eyes the colour of earth’s skies when they’re running drills in the daylight. “Neither did I.”

It’s hardly unusual, lots of the recruits where from all over the terminus systems, most shuttled back to Earth for training. Luca holds himself short of leaning into a kindred spirit, if that’s what he even was. He takes a closer look at the boy in front of him - pale skin, long fingers, lean limbed.

His mouth clocks it before his mind does. “Spacer.”

“Yep. I’m Saxon, by the way.”

“Um. I’m… I’m Luca.”

Saxon picks something off his tray and eyes it critically. He glances around before he shrugs and pops it into his mouth. “Sure beats keleven nutripaste, huh?”

Some of the tension around his shoulders seems to ease. “Yeah, it does.”

--

There’s a lot Luca finds he likes about Saxon, and some he doesn’t.

But mostly it’s how he doesn’t feel so… alien… when he’s with him.

Music croons in the background, some old earth song Saxon had dug up from the archives and Luca strums along on the battered guitar he’d scraped all his meagre credits together to buy. Smoke curls around them, a dusty tobacco that makes Luca’s nose itch and his limbs feel weak. Don't you want to be free? Do you like girls or boys?

“So, do you?” Saxon asks one night, slowly taking the guitar out of his hands. The clouds are rolling in, Luca can taste something in the air that leaves him shivering. The rooftop is his sanctuary.

“Uh, do I what?”

Saxon looms closer. “Do you like boys or girls, Luca?”

Luca’s skin prickles in awareness. In heat. “Boys,” he whispers.

Saxon’s teeth flash in the darkness, and he pulls Luca in.

--

Luca wakes up alone, head throbbing and thick with something that was once sweet now turned bitter. His body aches, sore in places that he didn’t want to acknowledge and marked with splotches that make him double take when he sees his refection in the mirror.

He runs a hand over the marks and smiles to himself.

The smile doesn’t last.

“Saxon, wait up!”

The gaggle of recruits don’t stop but Luca only focuses on one blonde head. He jogs to catch up, still calling out. “Saxon!”

Finally they stop and Luca can feel their eyes on him. “Uh. Wait, so. I just wanted to-“

“Hey, it’s the duct rat,” one of the men laugh. Barely a man, but solid enough to pass. “That’s what they call ‘em, isn’t it?”

Luca’s gaze swings to Saxon, willing him to look at him. He doesn’t.

“Sax-“

“Give it a rest, Luca,” Saxon shifts on his feet. A glance over his shoulder, a shared laugh and almost an apology but not directed at him. Luca isn’t always great with signals but he can feel the sudden unfriendly prickle in the air, the hostility.

You’re so fucking weird, Moreno.

He opens his mouth.

Saxon walk off.

--

It happens more than once.

--

It’s confusing, like trying to hold onto sand slipping through his fingers, up until it isn’t. He finds his space, amongst the twisted wires and loose threads, in the circuitry and flow of an electrical current. He always had an affinity for machines, for tech and code. There were no nuances to wade through. 

On or off, I or O. Luca always knew where he stood with his tech.

He chose a path and followed it to the end.

“Hey, Luca.”

Luca’s head snaps up. Saxon is a black shape blocking out the stars in his quiet place. He tenses as Saxon steps into the paltry ring of light thrown off his datapad and sits beside him on the threadbare rug.

“What do you want?” Luca asks flatly. His face still burns from being rebuffed. His ears still ring with the sound of their laughter.

Maybe the first time he might have been able to convince himself it didn’t mean much. A misunderstanding. A misstep. He’s had so many of those here. But by the second and the third it wasn’t possible to kid himself anymore. And Luca didn’t know what else to do, kept going back, pinging like a moth against the light. 

On or off. On. On. On.

“Come on, don’t be like that, Luc.” Saxon leans close. He smells like dried sweat and beer, smoky and apologetic as he nuzzles against Luca’s neck.

Luca tries to lean away. “What, so you suddenly remembered I exist?”

“Aw, like I could forget.”

“You tried pretty hard.” Luca tries to climb to his feet but Saxon’s hand snaps out to curl around his wrist. He grips tight.

“Luca, wait.”

“Let go, Saxon.”

“No, Luca. Come on, I’m… sorry, ok? Jesus, just… wait.”

The inside of Luca’s chest is desolate enough not to shove him away. Not yet. He hesitates, allows Saxon to draw him back down onto the rug. Stars slide overhead, a sparkle in the sky that leaves Luca homesick. He wants to curl into himself but he draws his knees up instead.

“You know, you’re kind of a dick, Saxon.”

“And you’re too much, Luca,” Saxon sighs. He slides closer, hands on Luca’s face. Heavy hands that Luca can’t twist away from. “You’re like a puppy trying to hump my leg whenever I turn around. You’re… loud.”

“I am not loud.”

“No, I mean,” Saxon rocks back and waves his hands over Luca, his face twisted into something pained. “This. You. Loud. You can be… suffocating.”

That stings. Luca scrambles back and Saxon lets him go. “You gotta give people a chance to breathe, Luca.”

--

On or off.

Flick, flick, flick.

Off.

--

His messages scattered to the four corners go unanswered for months. He doesn’t understand. He came all this way, sold his soul to get here and Kiosho was nowhere to be found.

Luca hunches over the terminal. Frustration squeezes his throat. He’s starting to unravel when he’s never been together in the first place.

“Hey, are you okay over there?”

The sob gets stuck as he sucks in a breath. Blue eyes skim him, kind and warm and more than he probably deserves.

“Sure,” he forces out brightly. Happy face, he tells himself. Squeezes away the dampness. Don’t let them see. “Guess I’ll try again tomorrow.”

--

Tommorow.

[No new messages]

And so on, and so forth.

--

Sand shifts under his feet. It doesn’t do that on the Citadel. The walls might shift, but the ground was never knocked out from beneath him.

He wheezes painfully as the screams echo. Dust, that every present choking dust billows up around him and there’s pressure and pain and something wet at the back of his throat. He tries to sit up but his body won’t listen to the signals his brain sends. There’s another boom, another shower of debris and screams and Luca’s world goes dark.

--

When he wakes up, it’s to silence.

The nurses lean over him, lights shine into his eyes, their mouths move but there’s no sound. No hum of the recycled air, no rustle of leaves as the wind brushes them, no stomp of feet on the sealed paths.

Just horrifying, terrible silence and Luca’s own thoughts and the desperate, sudden urge to claw his way out of his own skin.

He doesn’t realize he might be screaming until the prick of the needle slides through his skin.

Then he doesn’t feel much at all.

--

It takes him three months to heal his leg and adjust to his new ears. Some days are better than others and the headaches are somehow the worst part. He gets fast at signing to the OT’s and the doctor’s although they’re unimpressed at his mastery of signed curse words and not much else. For a while he’s angry but that takes too much energy and he can’t maintain it for long.

And stupidly, he waits.

The day they tell him they’re going to release him, he finally plucks up the courage to ask. “Did… did anyone visit?”

Where there any messages?

The nurse is sweet, green eyed, red hair and freckled all over her nose like stars in the black. She shakes her head, a smile that smacks too much of pity on her mouth. “No, I’m sorry, honey.”

“Oh.” Luca sinks back against the pillows. “Okay.”

--

The Alliance took his hearing and replaced it with something half baked, but it’s better than the silence so he doesn’t fuss. They haul him in front of the brass where the truth comes out in incriminating shades of glowing orange and textured lines. A deep dive that wasn’t deep enough, or too deep, depending on how you looked at it.

“Your ID is fake,” they tell him and Luca wants to protest because no, not really. He’s still him. He’s still Luca, some kid from the wards, too loud, too much to hold everything that vibrates inside his bones. It had taken the ride to Earth to be noticed and then the spat in the medical wing to be diagnosed. The meds helped. For the first time Luca’s world evened out.

“Altered,” he’s brave enough to say. “Sir.”

There’s a snap of brows over the datapad. Another officer with a chest full of medals coughs nearby.

“He’s two years in on his training. He’s the legally the right age now.”

“There has to be a consequence. What he did-“

“We’re short on bodies as it is. And with what’s coming... Well, this kid was determined enough to get here all on his own. We should use that.”

All eyes turn on him. “Is that true?”

Luca swallows. “Uh. Yes, sir.”

“Why? Why not just wait until you were of age?”

“I was trying to find my brother, sir.” I was trying to find home.

“And did you? Find him?

“No, sir.” Not yet.

There’s a rolling beat of silence that has Luca’s throat feeling thick. His stomach churns.

“Verdict?”

If they send him away, he has nowhere to go. The Alliance wasn’t home, but it was a purpose.

“Let him stay, but hold back that promotion.”

--

They send him to the edges of Council space. Too human for the wards, too alien for earth. The things that made him stand out under Sol’s light become useful out here. Batarian, Turian, Drell, even Krogan, familiar to his tongue, to his hands.

He’d almost laugh about it, if it didn’t fucking hurt.

--

It’s not the glory the recruitment posters promise them. Its blood and guts and screaming and the desperate search for the quiet space in his mind to give himself a moment to just think-

But bullets spray, shields go down, the turret jams.

They die.

They save the colony, but they die.

“Did you see that?” Checo wheezes from beside him. In the distance there’s the booms of biotic explosions and the flash of figures in armor he doesn’t recognize. They’re not alliance, he knows that much. He presses down on the hole in his side and wonders why it doesn’t hurt. It should hurt, right? The bullet tore right through him and blood leaks through his fingers.

He doesn’t know if he’s cut out for this.

--

Funny how the fates shift. How time and circumstance and one insignificant little moment can set him onto a path he has no comprehension of where it will lead. One second of hesitation, one shred through his flimsy armor that knocks him down but doesn’t kill him and leads him to this.

He’s shuffled into a new squad. Sometimes he’s loud, but they’re louder and Luca doesn’t need to squeeze into the places left behind because they make room for him. Fold around him like he matters. His commander even kisses his forehead like the mother he never had never did.

--

On or off.

Flick, flick, flick.

On.

--

The reapers wipe out so much of the fleet. Names of those lost scroll endlessly over terminal screens. A memorial wall crops up in the docking bay and in the ship. Thousands and millions gone.

Two names typed into a search, one the name that had started it all, the other he wonders why.

Too much, too loud.

He was never very good at letting go.

The terminal blinks.

[Personnel unknown]

But unknown was better than dead, right?

 --

[allyvampirelass29]

Killing Time

A HEROES Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins

He loved that he could touch her, even from across the room, that as long as she was in his sight, she was never gone from the reach, the caresses of his mind. Sylar turned his head towards his shoulder, and felt the weight of hers, the silkiness of her wispy curls, as he grazed the air, yet felt the fluttery sensation of her hair. The soundproof glass between them, kept him from saying what he needed to say, kept him from possessing that flooding power in hearing her breath quicken, and knowing he was the cause. But he could watch his effect on her through the one way glass, her head turning towards his phantom projection, and as she clinged to the air around her, he just knew....... As smoothly as he could turn a phrase with his silken tongue, his talented fingers were far more eloquent.

He smiled as he watched her own delicate hand reach up, search the air, and he felt his whole body seized with chills, that irresistible feel of her thumb stroking his dark brow over and over, and the tension in his back slowly released with his exhale. "God, I love when you do that," he spoke to the glass, and felt her melt against his hand as he placed it gently on her shoulder. To anyone watching, it would look like he was touching his own shoulder, but it was definitely hers, he could feel the feminine curve of it, and he imagined the tiny freckles dotting it like stars.

His heart panged, as he watched her lips move, speaking to the air, and he imagined the music of her laugh, as he watched it soundlessly. He'd give anything to know what she was saying to him. "You're a doll, Ally," He whispered painfully to the glass, releasing his hold, to edge himself closer to it. He watched her eyes shift from happy enchantment, to sudden fear, when she couldn't feel him anymore. "Hey, no, don't be scared I'm right here...…" He whispered, tapping on the glass, like he'd done every day since they'd been captured. If he hadn't been dosed up with enough brain paralysis to kill a baby elephant, he'd have shattered that glass by now. But with his powers leashed, and his body considerably slowed, all he could manage was the tapping, the weak reach, the projected touch. He couldn't save her, but as long as he could feel her, there was hope.

"Don't cry, no, Baby. Stop, you're killing me." The tears stung Sylar's eyes, as he watched her hug her knees, and sob quietly, her hair catching the light and veiling her face. He felt the pain of his own tears stoke the fire, the anger inside him, and using all of his strength he pounded the glass with his fist, harder and harder, over and over, his sadness becoming pure rage. Again and again, he watched his knuckles bruise and then heal, melt back into perfect skin. So he hit harder, the glass shuddering beneath his relentless attacks, and still, Ally could not hear him, and didn't so much as look up from her desolate sorrow.

"You're only making it worse, on the both of you." The Senator's voice was the match thrown into the dangerously full gasoline barrel, and Sylar hurled his whole body against the glass with a seething, animalistic yell.

"That glass, just this one piece, cost 20 million dollars, Buddy. You'd better believe it's bulletproof, blast proof, and 100 percent SYLAR proof. If I'd had the funding, you'd be in a box of the stuff right now. Wasting good drugs on you, makes me sick."

Sylar's eyes smouldered, his dark brow slanted, screaming murder, and his mind burned black with threats, too many to pick just one. Torture beyond anything he'd perpetrated before, horrendously bloody acts that would give even himself, nightmares. But his lips could only utter three words after the energy syphoned off from his intense physical exertion, and he felt his body fading, with the single, desperate plea still on his lips.

"Let. Her. Go."

"Can't do that friend."

It was all Sylar could do to steady his breathing, his heart pounding relentless against his chest with wounded rage, that wild, almost primal hunger to kill, and for the first time in months, he actually felt relieved Ally couldn't see him, blinded from the monster he was about to become. His very soul burned with bloodlust, the sleeping danger awakening. The killer emerges.

"SAVE IT!!!!" He snarled, nostrils flaring as he fended off the invading drugs that chained up his powers, his anger yanking on the mental restraints with an unhinged force. His forehead still rested against the glass, as he turned it slowly, methodically, toward the door, his eyes flashing with obsidian fire.

"Save your damn campaign speech, Senator, I am so not your friend. You play the benevolent leader, Mr. All American with such shocking deception. You put on a tie and a fake smile, and you HIDE behind that door and enact the horrors that you speak out against. As much as I love cruel and unusual punishment, you've just lost my vote. You're a monster, Nathan, you're worse than me, because at least when I kill my own kind, I don't pretend to care. I don't pretend that I'm going to save them."

The silence that followed was deadly in of itself, a cold void spreading through the sparse, empty room but when Nathan finally gave the order, it was edged with a severity that even Sylar had never thought capable of him.

"Open the door."

"Sir, we'd strongly advise against engaging the hostile."

"Oh yes, be a good boy, Nathan, and listen to your pathetic excuses for bodyguards. You've never experienced HOSTILE, until I've got you alone, locked in a room with me. You're going to need more than fancy drugs, and a twenty million dollar piece of glass to save you. You can use all the confiscated narcotics you want, if it'll make you feel safe, but I don't need my powers to kill you."

"You really think I'm scared of you?"

"No, Senator, I KNOW you are. But by all means, open the door...…. Let's play."

"Please, you've been so heavily sedated, hell, you should have OD'd twenty times over by now. You couldn't kill time."

"Haha that's good, I like that...… Killing and Time are my two favourite things. Even high, I can still do more damage than you can ever do to me. Whatcha gonna do, Buddy? Send me to death row, can I request the chair, that might be fun.”

"Don't you get it, Sylar? You're on Death Row."

Sylar froze as a red dot appeared on Ally's bare shoulder, as she sat, hugging her knees, and a low growl escaped from deep within his chest, his fingers starting to tremble.

"Alright, easy, white flag!" He fumed, throwing up his hands. "Fine, I'll play nice, just call off your sniper."

"Back against the glass, hands on your head, you son of a bitch."

"You're making me miss Bennet with that kind of sweet talk. Good times......" He snickered, turning his cheek inward playfully, brow raised, his eyes intensifying.

"Shut up! I'll shoot her, I swear to God. It's amazing, really, how many ways you can shoot a person and still keep them alive, just long enough, so that they feel each agonizing moment."

Sylar wasn't laughing anymore. He tentatively backed into the glass, and interlaced his fingers, as he put them behind his head, taking one last glance over his shoulder, and he didn't start breathing again, until the red dot threatening her pale skin, disappeared.

There was a loud mechanical sound, and the door slowly opened, as Nathan strode in, surprisingly unaccompanied, and it took every bit of Sylar's resolve not to tear into him on sight.

The young, square-jawed Senator regarded the tall, dark, and dangerous man before him, as though he were approaching a rabid animal, looking at him sideways, with great disdain.

"What now, Nathan, come to pat me down? You gonna rough me up a little?" He looked over his shoulder at the brown haired girl, her hands searching the glass in front of her with stricken eyes. He almost reached out to put his hand where hers was, when he remembered she couldn't see him. "You even think of doing that to her, I'll kill you. Nobody touches her, got it? Nobody but me."

Nathan's eyes narrowed as he ventured closer. "I'll do whatever the hell I want with her. She's the property of the United States Government now, you both are."

Sylar smirked at him, flexing his bent arms behind his silken head, his dark eyes dancing. "So, I'm like an acquired weapon of mass destruction?"

"More like Enemy of the State, an apprehended terrorist. Congratulations Gabriel, with a little help from the FBI, you no longer exist. There is no Gabriel Gray, meaning I can do whatever I want to you, hold you without trial, kill you without cause."

"So do it." Sylar snarled, his eyes snapping back to cold and impenetrable. "Kill me, Nathan. End it. Be the hero, everyone thinks you are. What are you waiting for?"

Nathan laughed without feeling, the hatred between him and Sylar rising like a scorched heat. "You think I won't do it? I was an officer of the United States Navy, I know HUNDREDS of ways to kill a man, and I'm pretty sure, you only know, the one." Nathan swiped his finger mockingly in front of Sylar's face, and Sylar smirked back, his gaze deadly.

"Just because I have my favourite weapon, doesn't mean it's the only trick up my sleeve. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. No, I'm going to kill you, Nathan, for doing this to me, to HER. I'm going to kill little brother, and Ma, and only after you're out of your head, seeing their bloody mangled bodies, their heads viciously ripped into, I'm going to make you beg me to kill you, and only then, will your little Superman charade end."

"You dressed up in my brother's face and tried to kill me, you SICK bastard!!! Who does that!? Did you really think I wouldn't retaliate?  You tried, and you failed. You used someone I loved against me, and you still lost. Don't be surprised when I do the same, go dark, and I follow through for the win."

"Look, I get that you're pissed, I know, I ruined your little ball and tricked all your big, fancy Senator friends. You want blood? Take it. Take it all...…. Torture me, kill me, bring me back, just to kill me again, maybe I deserve it, maybe I don't, do whatever the HELL you want, even let Peter get his, but don't punish her for my sins. My blood for hers. You already have me, you don't need her anymore, so, please...… let her go. You do that, and I might just let you live."

"Look at me, Gabriel, look right into my eyes. Never gonna happen."

Sylar could feel his skin prickling with the chills coursing through his body, the coldness of a killer, creeping into his dark features, his voice like ice.

"I said...… Please."

"No deal. You see..... I'm not going to do any of that to you, Gabriel. Because I know that whatever punishment I inflict, government sanctioned or otherwise, nothing is going to hurt you worse, nothing is going to make you behave more than the constant threat of what could happen to her. Why do you think I designed the glass so that you could see her, but she can't see you? Because I want you to see it, what I do to her, every time you get out of line. You so much as look at me a way I don't like, I'll take action, and it won't be me, hurting her, it will be you, your hand. I don't want your worthless blood, hers is so much more valuable. I'm going to take as much as I need to replicate that power, increase it enough to protect entire armies. This is a whole new level for our military, and on behalf of the United States Government, I thank you for your generous contribution."

Sylar's rising anger chilled into paralyzing fear, and he shook his head incredulous. "You're insane. She doesn't have enough electricity for that kind of scale, or enough blood for such rigorous testing...…You'll kill her."

Nathan smiled, his teeth gleaming, looking every bit the congenial politician. "If that's what it takes. I guess, we'd better get started." Nathan made a motion with his hands, and Sylar dropped his arms, failing to hide the abject horror flooding his eyes, feeling sick.

"What did you just do? She's- She's an innocent girl!!!!!"

"Wrong. She WAS an innocent girl. You stole her innocence. YOU ruined her, and got her all mixed up in the MURDER plot of a US Senator!!! She'll PAY for your sins, because they're her sins too, she deserves what's coming."

Sylar shook his head, his brow pulled back, as he sank desperate to his knees. "Nathan, listen to me, she didn't know, I swear!"

"Ever hear of guilty by association?"

Sylar whirled his head around, just as two fully equipped S.W.A.T. members stormed into Ally's side of the room, one of them roughly tackling her to the ground, the other taking a long needle from a cylindrical container.

"NOOOOOOO!!! Nathan, GOD, Nathan, don't do this, I'll do ANYTHING you want, I'll kill whoever you want me to kill, I'll be a damn saint, just don't- Don't hurt my girl." Sylar's tears streamed freely now, his chest so tight, he couldn't get air to his lungs and they burned, as he watched with blurred vision, Ally screaming without a sound, fighting back and sobbing. He bristled as the one holding her down backhanded her across the face, and felt his own jaw sting with the assault.

"Not My Baby...…. Don't hit her, don't hit my baby!!!!" Sylar's voice was hysterical, failing to suppress his sobs, his emotions heightened because of the drugs. Nathan had never seen him like this, and he liked it. He liked it a lot.

"You want it to stop? Fall at my feet. Beg like the pathetic creature you are."

Sylar started to scowl, his lip quivering with both rage and pain, an emotion swathing him that was more dangerous than anything he'd ever felt before, Self Sacrifice. 

"Never."

"Hey Tom, I'm going to need you to bleed her." Nathan spoke calmly into his earpiece."

"Like HELL you are!!!!!" Sylar's rage burned through the pain, engulfing him and Nathan in the catching flame like wildfire, as he hurled himself at him with murderous intent. But the drugs had dulled his reflexes, and Nathan slammed him hard into the glass, grasping his jet black hair, and holding his forehead against the glass, as Sylar struggled against him, growling.

Ally was still fighting hard against her attackers too, but they overpowered her, one of them returning the needle to the container, retrieving, instead, a scalpel and silicone cup. Sylar released the full force of his scream into the glass, feeling the vibration against his lips, the sound reverberating through the room, echoing through the entire space, as the blade sank into Ally's pale skin, dark red blood trickling down her forearm, into the waiting cup.

His body couldn't take it anymore, between the drugs and the horror he broke...…. Sylar sobbed bitterly, and Nathan loosened his hold on the back of his head, letting him fall, helpless, to the ground, legs crossed, looking like a frightened little boy, instead of a cold blooded killer.

"You really do love her."

"Please," Sylar breathed the single word, his voice frail, his eyes sincere.

"Fall at my feet, and I make it stop."

Sylar gritted his teeth, his cheeks shiny, wet with tears, the image of Ally's silent scream haunting him, begging him. He couldn't take it. He'd been compromised, and it terrified him what he'd do if it meant keeping her alive. Sylar got all the way down on the floor, revolted by the utter degradation, hating Nathan, and even more, hating himself.

"Hey Guys, that's enough for tonight. Get the girl bandaged up, and get the sample to the lab."

Nathan looked down at Sylar like he was a loathsome thing, an insect on the floor, and Sylar held his breath, as Nathan stepped directly onto his fingers, digging his heel in. 

"Look at you, The Big Bad Wolf...…. Now, you're just a whimpering pup. I own you."

Sylar had to bite his tongue to keep his scathing response from escaping his lips, and he seized up, his back arching, as he felt the pin prick in the back of his neck, a new rush of drugs flooding his system, his eyes going blank.

"Sweet Dreams, you Psychopath."

Sylar passed out on the floor, unable to fight off the heaviness of the newly introduced drugs mingling with the lingering effects of the ones previously administered, his mind paralyzed, and his body exhausted. Nathan strode out of the room, and the mechanical sound echoed through the space, as the door locked itself behind him. The lights died, darkness washing over Sylar's still form, his arm outstretched.

Silence.

Then.... the intercom crackled, as someone turned it back on, a bit of feedback, and a voice filled the room.

"Sylar!? Sy? Baby, can you hear me?"

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[thegoodprincess]

Together We Are Apart, but Apart We Are Together | KTH Ch. 3

Author: thegoodprincess

Pairing: Kim Taehyung | Original Female Character

Genre: romance, fantasy, action, forbidden love, human KTH | angel of death OC, supernatural au

Word Count: 1.7k [series, ongoing]

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of blood

Summary: After admiring a handsome boy from afar, an Angel of Death reluctantly rescues him from his own demise. As a result of going against her better judgment she inadvertently invites him into her world.

Author’s note: A character named Malachi appears in this chapter. His dialogue is italicized for the purpose of demonstrating that he has the ability to telepathically communicate with the main female OC. Just thought I’d point that out. 😉

Together We Are Apart, but Apart We Are Together

Chapter 3. Rescue

'Cause all I need is the love you breathe. Put your lips on me and I can live. — Mika

In an instant I was completely submerged with a few feet of water above my head. I was met with the piercing feeling of the water right away. It was so severely cold that I was sent into a brief state of shock from the almost unbearable pain. Every muscle in my body simultaneously tensed, my throat felt as though I was being asphyxiated, and my eyes burned.

As ironic as it sounds, I took a few moments to ground myself. I tried as best I could to endure being suspended in the water. All four of my other senses were completely numbed out, forcing me to feel the full extent of the water.

Willing myself to focus on something else, literally anything that would momentarily distract me from the pain that had activated my fight or flight response, was when I noticed how eerily silent it was underwater. It was so much more strikingly different than it was on land.

The silence above the surface felt like being alone; blissful, refreshing, and introspective. But underneath the water it was lonely; pressurized, desolate, and suffocating.

Being beneath the darkness of the ice only amplified the absence of sound. This in turn made it seem as though the frantic thoughts in my head were the only thing I heard; they were deafening.

Once the initial shock wore off, I identified the pain as being equivalent to repeatedly being stabbed by a million extremely sharp blades all at once. The pain only intensified as I moved through the water. Every stroke of my arms and kick of my legs transformed each penetrating stab into an agonizing slice that tore deep along my skin from what felt like the inside out. Although I could not die, the sensation was excruciating as it traveled through every nerve ending of my body. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for him.

Fighting through my discomfort, I adjusted my eyes in the dark water so that I could search for him. I spotted him slowing sinking further and further down, making no effort to swim. His eyes were closed and his face was serene as if he were sleeping. The water surrounding him was tinted scarlet from the blood oozing out his wound. It was safe to assume that he blacked out on impact from shock. If I didn’t get to him quickly enough, he was going to drown.

Using all the force I could muster I aggressively swam to him and was able to grab ahold of his wrist. After tugging him towards me, I did the only thing I could think of that would save his life. I kissed him, giving him my breath. Upon my lips meeting his, a blindingly bright light was emitted and my wings came around him engulfing him in a bubble of my aura. I closed my eyes and we ascended upwards near the surface of the water. Both of our heads broke to the surface. I took a big gulp of air, but he remained unconscious. Tucking my arms under his and gripping him tightly to keep his head above water, I swam to the edge of the river. Once I reached the edge I hauled the both of us up out of the water.

I dragged his limp body back to the cold pavement. I tried as best I could to find an area that wasn’t coated in a copious amount of snow and gently laid him down on his back. In an instant my lips were back on his to breathe life back into him. I then pressed his chest to push out any water that he may have swallowed into his lungs. Immediately he began coughing up water, sputtering out between choked breaths. He was just barely conscious. His eyes flicked rapidly beneath his heavy eyelids. He barely managed to open them after I gently slapped at his face, but he only looked at me with a glassy stare. He wasn’t fully aware of what was going on or of my presence. His body was only instinctually taking in oxygen to fight for survival.

Taking a moment to assess his state, it was the first time I was able to fully take in his appearance. His skin was pale white, it almost looked translucent. His lips were already tinged blue and ice was beginning to form on his eyelashes. His hair was completely drenched and sticking in clumps to his face and scalp. I moved his bangs off his forehead.

He was shivering. I placed my hand on his cheek. His skin was ice cold to the touch. The water had gone through every fiber of his clothes despite the layers, throughly soaking his body down to the bone. The air around him only intensified the heat loss, bitting viscously at him. He was softly moaning and whining in pain.

It was then that I noticed the snow that was near his shoulder was beginning to stain crimson. Anxiously I brought my hands from where his collarbones were up to my face. The opaque ruby fluid clung to my skin thickly coating my fingers. His clothes were not only soaked with freezing cold water but an excessive amount of his blood. The wound was bleeding at a rapid rate now.

The odds of him surviving were stacked highly against him. Even though I had saved him from drowning, my efforts were going to be in vain. If I didn’t act soon he would imminently die in my arms from either hemorrhaging or hypothermia.

Taking two fingers I palpated his neck to check his pulse. It was sluggish, indicating his health was rapidly declining. His breathing was slow and labored. He was beginning to slip in and out of consciousness.

I used up a lot of my aura already saving him under the water, but had enough to temporarily mend the wound. However, it came with a catch. On the condition that I did heal him, it would result in me not having enough energy to teleport us back to my home where I could finish reviving him. Going on foot would take too long as it would surely run the risk of him dying before we even reached half way there. And on the off chance he did survive the journey, I’d first have to restore my own spirit before I could properly attend to him. Time was of the essence.

Weighing my options I decided to tackle one task at a time, that being to heal his wound, then worry about effectively warming him up after. Placing the palm of my hand gently against his shoulder, I closed my eyes concentrating, willing the golden light energy to flow out of me and into him. In my mind I could see the threads of his being fixing themselves, my aura weaving together the broken pieces. Thankfully his bleeding stopped, but he was still shivering. I felt weaker but it was important that I stay focused. Now I needed to call for help.

“Malachi!!!” I screamed using a little more of my aura to reach out to him, summoning his aid.

Suddenly the shadows that surrounded us quickly came together rising up from the ground and morphed into an intimidating silhouette that towered over us. Before us stood a figure shrouded in what could only be described as the shadows of darkness. They wore a oversized hood that covered a majority of their face. Using their blacken fingers, they removed the garment allowing me a clear look at their face. A boy’s daunting face was revealed.

He had ashen skin that looked as though he rubbed soot into it. Despite the gray coloring of his skin his face was handsome with sharp angular features like his nose, cheekbones, and jawline. All made him appear traditionally masculine. His chin-length hair was straight and the color of the midnight sky missing the glimmer of the moonlight. It fell haphazardly over one of his pale gray eyes, one of his only “light” features. Long billowy black silk robes cascaded down his lean frame further cloaking him in the shadows. Some may have easily mistaken him for the grim reaper, but he wasn’t such a being. He looked at us bemusedly stunned trying to assess the situation. Pity swam in his usually aloof abalone irises. His eyes nervously moved between the two of us as I laid embracing the mysterious boy’s body.

“Please Malachi, I don’t have enough energy. You have to get us home so I can help him. Hurry, he’s dying,” I yelled panicking.

Malachi looked at me confused. His hauntingly beautiful voice echoed in my head. “Mistress you are not allowed to get involved in human ordeals such as their death. It is against our nature.” He cautioned, but his warning was laced faintly with sympathy.

“I know but he wasn’t supposed to die tonight. Death was meant for another. He just so happened to get involved,” I defended hastily. The longer we spent discussing the events that unfolded tonight, the more this boy’s life force ebbed further away.

“Then that is his doing, we must not concern ourselves—,” Malachi argued coldly before I abruptly cut him off.

“Malachi! I beg you. Please.” I groveled in distress at his feet. I don’t know what convinced Malachi. It may have been the way my voice had cracked at the end of my plea, the continuous tears that brimmed over my eyes obscuring my vision and left trails down my cheeks, or how my body curled in anguish as I desperately clung to the boy in my arms, but he reluctantly succumbed.

“Fine. But if there are to be repercussions, you are to take responsibility,” Malachi negotiated bluntly, void of almost all emotion. Wearing a somber expression he knelt down, encircling us both in his arms. The shadows that had previously flowed around him had stretched out towards us. Swiftly they began to envelop us, shielding us from the scene of the river before us. With that we were transported home.

[aquaticibex]

-The Vow-

Alex, in all of his observational prowess, still somehow got separated from Valarian as they passed through the large cave system. His mother's lab was elusive, and she wanted it that way. He pressed on through the dark, and began to feel a peculiar odor infiltrate his senses. Everything grew fuzzy as he stumbled through the blackened corridors, moving forward on will and instinct alone. At last, he found that he had arrived in the familiar, empty tiled room.

The same room he had seen once a week since was a boy. It made him shiver to hear how silent it had become. In his memory, there were faint voices in the distance, guards at the dyoors, the brewing of concoctions and dull humming of devices, but now... now there was nothing. Dead. Still. Empty. Not even equipment remained in the room.

He couldn't wait for Valarian here, but after locking eyes with the cold golden orb that had appeared before him, he knew it wouldn't matter. “Mother...” he growled, “...what have you done?”

She shifted from the familiar throne-like chair that he was often chained to. The low scent of blood making him dizzy. He shouldn't be here like this, he knew this. Yet he couldn't move.

“My dearest son, I knew my husband was going to tell you, and yet you are too late,” she sneered. A sinking feeling rose in his gut as she stood over him. She held a chalice in one hand and a syringe in the other. “Your father had a good reign, but I fear its time for one of my own beautiful creations to take over, don't you agree!” Her voice was as chill as a desolate, frozen cavern; lifeless and hollow. “You two were always meant for this, destined for it. To fight to the death.” She ran her fingers along the rim of the chalice. “I raised you both so well, so methodically, so carefully, and this, my son, will be my greatest achievement.”

Suddenly, Cigfran swooped in, breaking her concentration, clawing and pecking before being struck away. She fell to the ground, breaking one of her delicate wings on impact. She slinked away in pain as Alex used this chance to free himself of her grip, readying his magic. His glare was met with a soured expression from his mother. “You are an insult to our family name and have betrayed all that our house stands for,” Alex cursed. “This marks the end of your wicked farce! Face me!”

With that they took into a clash of blades, ultimately ending in his sword driving deep into her side as her fist made sharp contact with his chest, knocking him back with surprising strength and precision. Everything ached, and she began to reach once again into the recesses of Alex’s mind.

“So you've bested me...” she huffed, blood dripping from her lips, “I’ll not die here. No. You will wait here and act to my will. You can hear me, you are bound as my fledgling, duty bound to my word and whim. I have won my child. Relax, embrace me, you can see me, I am family.”

Worn from the fight, Alex found it harder this time to resist her influence. He winced as he felt her voice creeping into his thoughts.

“I must say it took a lot of work to learn how to manipulate such an ancient bond... but I've finally done it. And it only took driving you deeper into your vampire nature.” She readied the syringe as Alex dropped helplessly to the ground. “A fair trade that I hold all the cards in.”

He couldn't think as a fire consumed his mind. Everything hurt, but he couldn't scream. He felt the needle pierce his skin, and the dreadful sensation of losing to the dreadfully familiar beast looming in his mind. The last remaining strings of rebellion cut, Alex dropped into unconsciousness while his body moved completely under her will. He stood, and sat in the throne to wait, much as a puppet on a string would, drinking from the cup in his hand. His mother slid away into the long dark caverns, leaving the room once again silent. Alex, or what was left of him, sat, silently waiting.

Beneath the foundations of the castle, Valarian waited patiently for Alexander’s return. He had told him that he would scout ahead, and would only be a moment, but that moment had come and gone five times over, and uneasiness was beginning to brew in Valarian’s heart.

His eyes, now gilded with dhampir sight, were not burdened by the darkness. He could make out every shape and shadow, and realistically knew he would detect anything that approached him, but just the knowledge that he was sitting in pitch darkness roused a kind of primal fear his humanity left in him.

“I should search for him...” he reasoned to himself. “If everything is truly alright, he’ll be able to find his way back to me.” Valarain ran his fingers tenderly over the ring that adorned his finger. “He always does.”

He stood up and began tailing Alex, following the twisting tunnels and caverns, searching for their conclusion, but it seemed the deeper he delved, the more they opened and sprawled.

He wandered awhile longer, beginning to worry they’d truly been separated when he felt a tingling sensation crawl through his senses, familiar and fond.

“Alex!” he whispered, detecting his scent.

Then it was like a trail had been laid for him, the scent in his mind manifesting into a whispy path that pointed directly through the caverns. He turned and followed, his pace quickening.

At long last the path led him to a narrow corridor, at the end of which stood an ancient iron door. Valarian braced himself against it and pushed it open, the harrowing creak echoing down the tunnel behind him.

He recognized what lay inside immediately. It had been rifled, the strange equipment had been all but stripped bare, but he knew it.

This was the queen’s laboratory, and in the grand seat opposite him, sat Alexander, appearing limp and unconscious.

“Alex..?” he whispered, approaching him cautiously. “Alex... can you hear me?”

Alex raised his head slowly at the sound. A voice. It grated on his senses and made him grit his teeth. He held his hand up to stop whoever had been approaching from coming closer. How long had he been there?

"Who are you?” Alex glowered, disdain crossed his features as he sat up. There was so much pain. Everything hurt, and did nothing for his mood. Something whispered to him that he hated this being before him.

Valarian halted in his tracks, perplexed at the question and visible hostility in Alexander’s stare.

“It’s me, Alex, it’s-“

He felt a chill through his body as his senses picked up another scent. A cold one, icy and forsaken. The scent of the queen. She was near... or rather, she had been until very recently. Valarian put together the pieces and looked into Alexander’s eyes, now burning with hatred.

“Alex... whatever she’s done to you...” he said, gentleness in all his tone, “...I know you’re still in there.”

This thing knew him, Alex thought. How? Had it always been this way? He wanted to stand, but when he tried, he stumbled down to his knees, pain ripping through him. His head was aching. He still couldn't push through this fog. Talking seemed to help. “Just tell me who you are!" He was frustrated. Don’t let him get close.

The sight of Alexander as he was now was ghastly. But the way he stumbled. The way he convulsed, the way he struggled to breathe and speak... this was a transformation. He’d felt that way before when Alex turned him all those years ago... but this was far more sinister. Alex had been there for him while he struggled to regain control. Valarian could barely remember the transformation itself, but he remembered Alex. He remembered his voice calling to him, telling him to hold on, to come back to him, and had it not been for that voice, he would have gotten lost in the void.

And as little experience as Valarian had with vampiric ailments and transformation, if he had to be that voice for Alexander, calling him back from the void, he would do it gladly. Without hesitation.

His resolve strengthened as he approached him.

“Come now. You know me, Alex,” he coaxed, laughing gently, “After all we’ve been through together, I don’t think you could forget me...” Slowly, he reached a hand out to him. “...and I certainly couldn’t forget you. Even after five years of trying, I couldn’t forget you.”

Alex charged forward, whipping his arm across Valarian’s body, digging his nails into his skin with a deadly grip. The force from his blow pushed Valarian backward, almost toppling him to the ground. He gasped in agony as the claws sank through his skin, but the pain only fueled his determination to burn brighter.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked, regaining his breath. “When we crafted that salve together, and I doubted the recipe, you told me to trust my heart.” His flesh quivered under the stabbing pain of Alexander’s grip. “You told me... to trust my heart then, and I’m trusting my heart now when it’s telling me that you aren’t a monster, Alex.”

He brought his hands to where Alex latched onto him, trying to ease his grip.

“Do you... do you remember when we went scavenging for pearl agates along the riverside?” Valarian winced, focusing completely on Alex, “It was in the heart of winter, and it was frigid. When I slipped on the rocks and fell into the water? And you-you dove in after me... and you brought me back... and that was the first time I felt your lips on mine, breathing life back into me, and I didn’t even notice how cold they were because I was nearly frozen myself... but you warmed me... you saved me Alex. You brought me back. And I think I fell for you that night, Alex. Beside that fire, warmth coming back to my bones... do you remember?”

Alex let go, his throat burning being so close, fangs aching as his....(his mind?) pushed him.

“Drain him. Let him lay.”

Releasing his claws, he laced a hand forcefully around Valarian’s neck, drawing his head back in one motion. His other hand wove into Valarian’s hand and held it tightly.

"Val....Please help me... I can’t get her out."

His words slurred, dizzy and desperate. His memories came and went as brief, incomprehensible flashes. This person was his friend? His name was Valarian. They've know each other a long time. He seemed to know him... to love him. And perhaps... he loved Valarian too?

She wanted him gone. His mother would get rid of him. His master. Her commanding voice flooded his thoughts once more:

“Do as I say. End it. Don’t push for him to kill you here and now. Do not give him that chance.”

His face drew closer, breath dancing over his long hair as deadly daggers threatened to rip every ounce of life from his prey. His scent was like home, each ragged breath pulling in the intoxicating smell. In the brief moment the voice in the back of his head was silent, Alex’s eyes caught sight of the face he had pulled back. Gold eyes met brown as they locked on to one another.

Valarian’s eyes widened with terror as Alexander grabbed his hair and pulled back his head, exposing his neck. One of his hands gripped predatorily in his hair, the other clinging desperately, pleadingly to his hand. He whimpered, gripping Alex’s hand back with all his strength, gathering all his courage to continue.

“S-see?” Valarian assured him between breaths, “you-you do remember me.... I knew you would,” he trembled, chuckling lightly. He continued:

“Alex, do you remember when-when you told me... you loved me?” Valarian could feel Alex’s fangs nearing his throat. “And you tried so hard to hide, but I knew what you were going to say before you said it... and I know... even though... even now, you’re hiding in there, I know you’re not-I know you’re not going to hurt me. I know...”

Valarain brought his other hand up and caressed Alex’s face.

“Alex...” he swallowed, “You always came back to me... even after I ran... like an idiot, I ran from you, and I hid for years and years and you still found me...” He sighed remorsefully. “Oh Alex... my Alex, such pain you must have been in, but you found me, Alex... you fought and fought and you found me... and you brought me back. You always brought me back. Just like you vowed you would.” Valarian stroked his face tenderly with the edge of his fingers, feeling the hunger and heat of the breath on his neck. “Our vows Alex? Do you remember? That day on the bridge... we took shelter from the rain, and you-you promised... I remember.” He traced Alex’s face with the back of his hand, running the solid texture of the ring across his skin. “I remember our vows, Alex.”

Alex grasped his hair threateningly tight. Valarian covered his hand with his own and squeezed it. He took a deep breath, grounding his voice, and ceasing the trembling.

"I say these words...” he recited, “...with the hope that one day... we may be bound forever in a complete union of souls...”

A growl came from Alex’s throat, but Valarian continued.

“In this most sincere vow one heart can make to another. Should we ever be parted, I will seek you with every part of my being.”

He closed his eyes tightly.

“You... shall never... be left to suffer the lasting pang of loneliness, nor the ever-flowing passage of time. I will be your sword and sheild, call and I will answer. This is a vow by lifelong devotion....”

He gripped Alex’s hand tighter, feeling his fangs graze his neck.

“My love is true, by my blood do I swear this to you... Alexander Vallentyne...”

His recitation closed with devoted finality. Under the deadly besiege of Alex’s grip, Valarian’s face was a picture of absolute peace.

“...I love you...”

A beat, a breath, Valarian felt the fangs lift from his throat.

"By this vow I am bound..." Alex mumbled closing his eyes. He rested his forehead against Valarian. The voice was purged from his mind, and he knew he only had moments before he was released back to the troughs of agony.

Lifting his head from his shoulder he caught the other’s lips in deep but short kiss, having to tear himself away lest his control faltered again.

"My love,” he gasped, “I’m so sorry... I... Have I hurt you?" His voice was still shaking. Never had he felt so out of his own control. So entrapped. So Defeated. He was tired and could no longer stand, and expending the last of his strength, he dropped to his knees. Valarian hurried to his side, shifting his weight to support him.

“No... of course you didn’t! Alex, I’m fine! I’m here!” He cradled him, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m here...”

He held him like that, shielding him, sheltering him, as Alex had done for him so many times before.

Alex leaned into him. A light, pained laugh slipped through his clenched teeth. "I didn't realize... how much it hurts to die."

Valarian felt a lump forming in his throat. He knew he wasn’t losing Alex, but the grief was swallowing him all the same. It hurt, but nonetheless, he held him tightly, squeezing his hand through his spasms and convulsions. Every time Alexander winced or gasped in pain, Valarian would grip his hand, and whisper gentle words to him, assuring him, staying with him till the very end.

After awhile, the pain began to subside. Alex fell limp with an expended numbness allowing him to relax his body. "I am... I am so glad you are alright,” he trembled. “I don't even want to think... where I’d be without you.” His eyes fluttered, too exhausted to focus. “You've done so much... driven me to be so much better. To do what for years I hadn’t strength to do. Valarian...” His hands traced along his lover’s face. “Thank you for staying beside me."

Valarian continued to hold him, bringing a hand up to his face to meet Alex’s. He laughed sweetly.

“I told you when you found me, Alex, after I ran, after I hid, after I made it so very difficult for you...”

He pressed a kiss against the prince’s hand.

“I’m never leaving your side again.”

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #10

Leave all hope behind: Eurydice, on the walk out. (Orpheus/Eurydice, Eurydice & Hades; G)

When Eurydice comes up from the underground, she counts out all the things she'll do when they're up there, each wish a step on her way to the top. She can’t help counting her future, now that she feels close to it, now that she remembers herself again. Her memories come flooding back to her as they cross out of Hadestown: past the mines, past the mills. Past the high-high walls of the river Styx, and the river itself.

It’s there that it hits her: they’re really doing this. She smiles, her body suddenly warm, despite the perpetual chill of the underworld – drunk on love for Orpheus. He came for her. He will take her home.

She thinks about him as they walk together, Orpheus singing to himself and her enjoying the song, walking behind. His song has fixed the universe; they will be together, a lifetime if they wish it. They will laugh with ruddy cheeks, she thinks, at the top, at all they have conquered. They will not think of what lies ahead. They will eat food that tastes of life; they will drink their fill from a cup that is always filled enough. They will provide from one another.

She listens to Orpheus music and feels it warm her as they walk past one river, then another: soon, soon, soon. Perhaps one day they will return to the underworld, but today is not that day.

She falters a step; one day, they will have to return. And what will wait for her there?

She thinks of Hades, standing in his office, watching her sign her papers with a hungry, wolf-mouthed stare. When she comes back a second time, will she be back on the line? The wind picks up, and she brushes her hair out of her eyes. Don’t think about that. A lifetime to think about that. Not now.

She doesn’t make it much further before the doubts come back, though. She is leaving her job here, and it is a relief, for what Mr. Hades offered was not so much a job as eternal slavery. But she had no job up there, and neither did Orpheus. Will Mr. Hermes allow her to tend his bar, knowing what she has done in the world below? She thinks: of course he will. She thinks: he was kind to us. But the Gods, she has learned all too clearly, are only kind until they are not. What if they get up there, only to starve again, and this time there is no choice? Orpheus won't let it happen, right? He couldn't have come down here just to leave her alone and starving again? It was just the holy need to finish his song, that was the only reason he’d ignored her. A blip. It couldn’t happen again. He would provide for her. She took a deep breath, then another. He would.

She hears a strange harmony in the back of her mind; it’s discordant, and she doesn’t like it. She tries to ignore it, focus on Orpheus’ singing instead. Orpheus' song hits a high note, too high; she grimaces, but tries to sing herself to keep him calm. Can he hear it? She does not know. Still, she gives him her encouragement as she can: his gift was his song, and so too, shall hers be. She hears the workers - her colleagues and something more - echoing in her ears. They are traveling behind her. Every rock her feet strike, their feet strike a second later. She hears their chorus. She tries to draw strength from it.

Have to keep on keeping on. Past more rivers – she counts three more, though she isn’t sure the third, full of fire instead of water, technically counts – and past more rocks. So many rocks. The underworld is vast and empty past Hadestown and the emptiness is so much worse than the hum of the machine. The desolate harmony in the back of her mind croons; who are you?

Eurydice, she thinks. I am Eurydice. Doesn’t matter if she’s wearing a worker’s gown: she is Eurydice. She is Eurydice, and she may be in hell, but she is coming out, and she has a god in front of her and a chorus behind.

This leads her to her third worry, as they wind up a rocky path that she's never seen once in all her days of minding the mines and the mills. What about the other workers? Will they be able to find jobs? If they don't, will they blame her or Orpheus? How is it Mr. Hades is willing to let them all go? Her heart sinks, thinking of the man who gave her that sharp-toothed smile promising he'd give her and all the rest of them everything they needed: food, water, beds. True enough when he had it within his power to ensure they needed none of that. Now they will have to find their own way—and she has no doubt that her compatriots were in as desperate a situation as she was, before Orpheus. Will they blame her? Will they be violent? She wonders if she can glance behind, and is tempted, but does not. She cannot remember now, if Mr. Hermes said that it was only him who could not look behind.

A trial, she thinks, and shakes her head. For a while, she listens only to the sound of Orpheus' steps ahead, keeps herself focused by counting them: every step one more out of the underworld. So close, so close!  She's glad to be going second, the job of being able to see his back endlessly comforting. Orpheus, she thinks, has been so brave.

Her next worry comes on the heels of that thought, comes fast and furious even as the rocky soil changes to a strange forest and another river. How many rivers have they passed? What if Orpheus won't trust her, when they get up to the top? What if he turns around at any point? Her life is in his hands, and it has been in his hands before, and he let her go last time. He may not have known she was starving, but she told him often enough.

What if he didn't listen to Mr. Hermes, blows it without even meaning to? She is spiraling, thinking too much. She shakes her head.  "I'm right here, I'm right here!" She shouts into the void; it' so dark down here. How can anyone stand this forever? How will she stand this forever? Already her memories of being dead are fading; already she cannot quite remember just what happened to her in that office. She shivers. She feels cold. But she feels cold!

They have to be close.

"Is this a trap?" Orpheus asks, ahead. "Being laid for me?" She hears the wobble in his voice, and her heart turns to coldness.

"Orpheus!" She tries to shout, but he cannot hear her. She steps faster, closer. They are at the stairs now, stairs that seem to go on forever just like everything else in this miserable place. Stairs that she is afraid of; will he look at her and see her, as she is, behind? The wide spiral goes up so high she cannot see it. Orpheus is all but running up the steps.

"Is this a trick being played on me?" Orpheus whispers. She swallows, tries to hold out a hand. Stops. Can she touch him? She doesn't remember the rules exactly. Best not to. She withdraws her hand, tries to give him her strength with her song. Can he hear her? Please, please, let him hear her.

But the wind picks up again, and if he is singing, she can no longer hear it. The discordant chorus in the back of her mind is loud, louder than loud.

"Orpheus! You are not alone!" She shouts; he is ahead of her now, far ahead, many steps up, and she runs to catch up. The wind is howling in her ears. The wind is howling so strong and it all sounds so wrong, but there is light up ahead and all Orpheus has to do is walk those last five steps.

One. He takes the step, and Eurydice thinks: almost. She think: we will make it. She thinks: keep going.

Two. Orpheus waivers, and she hold her breath.  wide C'mon, c'mon. Three steps. Four. SO CLOSE! She feels it; feels her heartbeat as it "Orpheus, it's always darkest!" She sings. "Darkest hour comes right before--"

They are at the doorway. The doorway is a and stone archway, without anything holding the door closed. They are in an alley she recognizes, behind Hermes' bar. Her heart is beating fast; her heart is beating! She is alive, wholly alive, for one shining second wholly alive! Orpheus' foot is at the doorway. He stops. She wants more than anything to push him through the door, more than anything to run through it herself, but she waits.

Orpheus takes half a step, she is taking hers behind him – and then, all of a sudden, the world ripples, and it is is gone. She feels all the life go out of her, and she  feels like nothing, like nothing, and she realizes in that moment that he has turned, that he has turned and he is looking at her. And her heart is not beating. And she is not cold. And the chorus in her mind dissolves into laughter.

"It's you..." Says Orpheus.

"It's me," she says, and she feels herself sinking, and she feels herself sinking down, and the world beneath the world is all she sees, the bar and the alley gone and gone and gone, and the skies if one can call such things skies are dark and empty, and then she is crossing one river, then two, and then she is so falling so fast that she does not quite know where she is, the scenery going so fast past her fingertips, and she just keeps falling, falling, falling, until she arrives, slam, loud, back in that terrible office. And she feels nothing as she falls right back into that chair in Mr. Hades office.

She feels his eyes on her, but can’t quite bring herself to look at the being occupying this office with her. She swallows her tears, tries hard not to cry in front of him.

"Damn," says Mr. Hades, who is sitting at the very same desk. She looks up. He looks no worse for wear than the last time she saw him, still in his satin shirts and fine silver-threaded pants. He has two whiskey glasses set out on his desk; one of them is on his side, one of them on hers.

She has never felt so mad. One doesn’t prepare for someone to drop in if someone isn’t expecting them.

He expected her and Orpheus to fail.

"Is that it?" She asks.

"Afraid so." He nudges the drink toward her. She does not take it, not yet.

"You don't seem surprised," she notes, venom in her voice. He expected her to fail. What was the point of the trial? To get up her hopes and dash them again? To be cruel beyond cruelty, just for fun? Gods are kind, she thinks. Until they’re not.

"Never am." He takes a long pull of his drink. If he had any hopes of them making it through at all, he certainly doesn’t say.

“This happen to you a lot?” She spits. She wonders, really: is she just one in a long line? Or is she special in some way.

“Life’s full of disappointments. Love is one of the larger ones, in my experience.” His voice is sad. Maybe he’d had some hope; maybe they snuffed that out too. He sighs.

“So what happens now?”

He doesn’t answer. Takes another drink of his whiskey. Pours himself a second.  

“Just enjoy a moment, songbird. Won’t have the option not to soon enough.” He doesn’t tell her why, but she feels it start to tug at her: the pull of the underworld, the rivers. The workers, oh god, her fellow workers, all doomed with her, surely. She should ask, but she doesn’t want to know, can’t live with the idea that she would doom us all.

Us all. Oh gods; it’s starting already.

He slides the bottle over towards her, his eyes sad and set. Eurydice takes it, and drowns her defeat while she still can still feel the burn of it as it slides down her throat.