#"the moth reaches endlessly for the flame. it knows it will burn

[kitkat-cantdraw]

q!aimsey would be a person who obsessively wants to find "light" in a situation

always the optimist, always finding the good side of things

half glass full kinda guy, y'know?

q!aimsey would think a place is too dark and light it ablaze

then they'd feel bad for ruining something even if it made them horribly afraid

q!aimsey, the firebug.

[pocket-sized-nightmare]

like a moth to a flame

happy @mcyt-yuri-week! this is for the day 1 prompt, "sun/moon" <3

Saint Pearl has always been a protector.

Back when she was mortal, she guarded the other rulers of Empires from Xornoth’s corruption. She worked tirelessly to rescue her friends, cure curses, and fight the forces of evil that threatened Gilded Helianthia.

Until it killed her.

She tries not to think about the last day of her life — her grief over her friends and her empire, the burning pain running through her veins as she withered away, Sausage’s futile attempts to save her — but the memories sometimes resurface anyway. Pearl supposes that’s the nature of trauma. The memories come in waves that try to drown her, but she’s learned to keep her head above water.

Besides, she has just as many memories to seek solace in. Many of her friends survived and healed from the destruction. Nature recovered and grew over the wreckage of her empire, creating a thriving ecosystem where there once was only despair. Sausage dedicated the rest of his life to finding a way to bring her back, and the magic he gave to her is the only reason she’s alive, using her newfound powers to shape the world and protect her friends once more. She’s endlessly grateful for her second chance.

And of course, there’s the thought of one particular survivor. Pearl once explored her new magic academy as a ghost, and it felt like home. Her flame-red hair and gilded antlers have never changed, and she still has the sharp-tongued wit that made Pearl fall in love with befriend her in life. Gem, healed and safe once again, has never looked more beautiful.

As her friends grow older, Pearl finds herself wondering how to repay them for the love they’ve shown her. They deserve a safe place to thrive, one where they can discover their unique strengths and learn the intricacies of their code. They deserve a place where every failure means a second chance and a fresh start. They deserve a world where the universe is kind.

With all the magic she can muster, Saint Pearl creates the world of Afterlife.

She loves watching her friends adapt to the new world. They study their new powers, change their style to fit them, and form new alliances. They don’t remember Empires, of course — she could never hurt them like that — but they’re still the same friends they once were. They’re safe and sound, and Pearl takes comfort in watching them from afar.

As much as she misses them, though, there’s one thing she can’t bring herself to do.

She can’t reach out to them.

She isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s that she’s worried her presence will break the spells keeping them safe. Maybe it’s that she’s afraid of being forgotten.

If she’s being honest, though, she knows the reason. She’s afraid her powers aren’t enough. If she tries and fails to reach her friends, she’ll know that she can never see them again. It’s better not to know. It is.

Gem is no longer a wizard, nor a deer, but she’s still just as beautiful as before. She lives as a villager, then a robot, and Pearl is proud of her every step of the way. 

When she dies once again and regenerates as a moth, Pearl knows it’s a sign from the universe. Saint Pearl has always loved moths. She’s always found hope in the way they thrive when the world is at its darkest, but they still reach for the light anywhere they can find it. Gem’s fuzzy pink and yellow wings are a sign of everything good and safe in the world, and Pearl misses her. She selfishly hopes Gem feels the same about her.

Afterlife is safe and perfect, until the day it isn’t.

Saint Pearl is in her home, watching glow squids swim in an ocean cave on her television, when her worst nightmare happens. 

Gem mines the wrong block, finds herself on the receiving end of a waterfall’s force, and falls into the ocean depths.

Pearl gasps at the sight. “Gem?”

The water drenches Gem’s wings, dragging her down to the bottom of the cave. The suddenly-useless weight on her back stops her from swimming back up. She’s too small to fight it. She’s drowning, and there’s no way to save herself.

Pearl’s mind goes blank. “Gem? Gem, no, please survive…”

Gem coughs. Water rushes into her mouth. If she tries to breathe at all, she knows she’ll suffocate. 

Another wave of memories hits Pearl like a wither skull. She’s suddenly surrounded by the scent of smoke and wither poison. Her whole body burns. She can’t think of anything anymore. There’s nothing she can do. She’s dying, and she’s helpless, and she’s terrified…

“I’m not there anymore,” Pearl whispers, trying to turn her attention back towards Gem. “I’m not there anymore, it’s over…”

Gem kicks harder, reaching desperately for the surface, but she can barely swim a pixel higher. She’s freezing. She’s exhausted. Everything hurts so badly, and there’s nothing she can do. She’s completely helpless. She’s going to drown.

Pearl’s heart aches, and she can barely catch her breath. The worst moment of her life is playing out in front of her, but this time, she’s forced to watch the player she loves more than anything die slowly and helplessly. It can’t happen again. It can’t. She can’t let it happen again.

If Pearl fails, she’ll know she can never reach her friends. Their realms are impossibly distant. There’s no way she can save Gem.

Still, Pearl shouldn’t be alive. Her very existence is impossible. And if Sausage could save her life all those years ago, maybe she can pass that magic along to someone else.

Saint Pearl closes her eyes, summons all her power, and disappears in a flash of golden light.

Gem is running out of hearts, and it hurts.

She isn’t exactly afraid of death — she’s got a few more lives ahead of her, after all — but this one is slow and painful in a way she isn’t used to. Her wings drag her deeper and deeper as she hopelessly struggles to swim. Water stings her eyes, mixed with the tears she knows are falling. She wants to scream, but she can’t. There’s nothing she can do—

The cave shimmers with golden light. Gem is lifted into strong, kind arms, and she realizes she can breathe again. She clings to the glowing figure as it lifts her out of the water, out of the cave, and back to sunshine and solid ground.

“Oh, love,” someone whispers. “Let’s get your wings dried off, alright?”

Gem looks up and sees her mysterious rescuer. She has shining brown hair, sapphire eyes, and a sunflower crown, and she glows with golden light. She’s beautiful, and there’s something so familiar about her. Gem looks closer, tries to remember, and–

magic spells and potions and wither roses and explosions and corruption and love, so much love–

Gem’s eyes fill with tears. “Pearl?”

Pearl can’t help but cry, too. “I missed you, Gem. It’s so good to see you again.”

Trips to Afterlife take all of Pearl’s energy, so she doesn’t visit much. She occasionally stops by to say hello or to leave a secret gift in someone’s mailbox, but most of the time, she’s just a quiet guardian watching from afar. That’s enough for her — she knows her friends are safe, and if they’re ever in true danger, she’s always ready to lend a helping hand. Most of the Afterlife members are still without their memories of Empires, but a few are recovering them: Shrub transformed back into herself for a moment, Sausage still remembers Pearl clearly, and ever since Pearl’s first visit, Gem remembers everything — her trauma, yes, but also her friendships and her love.

No server can last forever, and after a while, Gem reaches her final life. She’s half-dragon, with scaly arms and powerful wings that remind her of baby Violet (who she knows has grown into a majestic teenager). It feels like a sign from the universe – just like on Empires, the appearance of a new dragon is an end and a beginning.

She’s ready. It’s time to go.

She leaps from her roof, uncertain of what awaits her, and–

Something whisks her through the air. Her feet touch the ground in a field of sunflowers, surrounded by sunshine and clouds. She’s at rest in the sky, which means…

“There had to be an easier way to do that, Gem,” a voice teases from behind her.

Gem turns around and leaps into the arms of Saint Pearl, who kisses her softly on the forehead. “You look beautiful that way, Gemini.”

Gem blushes. “It’s my favorite Origin so far.”

“It’s perfect for you.” Pearl takes Gem’s hand and leads her back towards her golden house, now a safe place for all her loved ones to stay. 

Saint Pearl smiles. “Welcome home.”

[lu-is-not-ok]

hmm if we’re still discussing E.G.O can i ask for your thoughts on Ardor Blossom Star? I know you already talked about Ishmael’s Roseate Desire so I won’t ask for that but I’m interested in the way that it’s a wrath E.G.O despite her non-corroded line being rather passive.

by the way, how do your interpretations of gluttony and lust differ? Is it the way that the motivator of greed (or desire) is expressed?

I'm gonna answer the second question before the cut, so that people don't have to scroll past another whole analysis if they're curious.

To me, the main difference between Lust and Gluttony is whether one's actions are towards an Actual End Goal.

Lust represents actions done to indulge one's desires or for the sake of personal fulfillment. By such definition, the End Goal is already stated, that being either reaching that fulfillment, or satisfying one's desires.

Gluttony represents actions done out of hunger, which Limbus gives us two interpretations of. The starving hunger of Survival, and the endless hunger for More. Notably, neither of those types of hunger have an End Goal, they are all a kind of process that would go on and on without stopping.

In the case of Hunger of Survival, there is no clear Stopping Point to trying to survive. You either struggle to survive endlessly, or you eventually fail and die. Likewise, there is no clear End to the Hunger for More. It is, by its nature, endless, constantly reaching higher and higher, towards a better and bigger More than one already has, with no set Goal beyond constant progress.

Hope that helps make my interpretations a bit clearer!

Now then, onto the analysis you asked for.

As always, we're starting with the abnormality. Ardor Blossom Moth only exists as a Mirror Dungeon Event, and it's not as explicit in its themes as some of the other event-only abnos, but I think there is something to be read into here.

The main idea Ardor Blossom Moth carries with it is that of warmth that is as beautiful and enticing as it is dangerous. The balls of light the moth is found among are described as dancing, enchanting, tempting.

At the same time, the Moth is described as burning to death. It scorches whoever it touches, and its warmth is described as dubious if one decides to resist the urge to reach out.

I think there's an easy way to interpret how that translates to Ishmael. On the surface, she's calm, collected, and reasonable. She's the type of person one would be tempted to listen to and follow after in lieu of a leader figure.

However, that's all just a facade. Internally, Ishmael is a mess who's controlled by her emotions and obsession. Trying to reach out and learn about that part of her is bound to burn someone, regardless of whether she means to or not.

There's something else about the Ardor Blossom Moth I want to point out that seems to parallel Ishmael quite closely if you think about it.

When reached out to, the Moth quite literally attaches itself to the person who did so, the burning lights clinging to their body and engulfing it in light and flames. On the other hand, if the Moth is rejected, the person feels coldness crawling up their spine in an instant. The inviting yet dangerous warmth is immediately snuffed out.

I think this serves as a good parallel to how Ishmael acts in general. She clings to reason and to people that seem to follow reason like she does. However, it is extremely easy to lose her trust and for her to start holding a grudge, just like how the Moth withdraws its warmth the moment it's slighted.

Now onto the fun part, the Sin analysis!

Ardor Blossom Star's Sin damage is Wrath. In my interpretation, Wrath as a sin represents actions done out of self-rightousness or defiance, the belief that something should be different just because you wish it so. While it does often correlate with the feelings of anger, it's not a requirement.

In Ardor Blossom Star's case, I think this is very much the kind of Wrath that does not necessitate anger. Specifically, I think the usage of Wrath here is meant to symbolize Ishmael acting in defiance of herself.

Just like the Moth tries to defy its own nature of hurting people by seeking to be touched, Ishmael is defying her own nature with the way she acts. Though she can't guide with pure logic, as emotions and obsession paint her thoughts, she's still trying to embrace reason and offer it to others.

To quickly touch upon her Corroded dialogue line, this interpretation gives it an interesting hidden meaning. Her trying to act with reason and logic is a struggle, and she hopes that the world around her is as reasonable and logical as she is trying to be.

Onto the Sin requirements. Ardor Blossom Star requires Wrath, Lust, and Envy.

Wrath, as mentioned above, represents Ishmael's defiance of her own nature. It's a reality she doesn't accept, and so she does what she can to act in a way that doesn't align with it.

Lust as a Sin represents actions done for the sake of indulgence or personal fulfillment. There's a few ways one could interpret this E.G.O requiring Lust, in my opinion.

One way to interpret it is that Ishmael refusing her emotional nature and acting calm and reasonable is fulfilling to her. It makes her feel better about herself than if she were to let her emotions take charge.

However, there is another way to interpret Lust here, one that is unique to Ishmael. In the case of Ishmael's E.G.Os, Lust can also represent her indulging in her compulsions. Perhaps, despite wishing to act in spite of her obsessions, those very same obsessions are a part of what drives her to act that way.

This, in my opinion, would be very fitting with Ardor Blossom Moth's themes. Though the Moth is trying to act in spite of its flames, their warmth is the main way it tempts people to touch it. Likewise, though Ishmael wants to act in spite of her emotions and obessions, those compulsions are in fact partially driving her to act with only reason and logic.

Last requirement here is Envy, which represents actions done as a reaction to other people's actions. I think this means that a small but significant part of why Ishmael acts the way she does is due to how other people acted on her voyage. After all, some of her dialogue lines imply that she has more than enough knowledge of what happens if someone makes a mistake on board.

Having been around people who make bad decisions due to emotions (Ahab likely included), she decided that it's better to follow logic and reason at all cost.

...I guess we'll find out how much of that I got correctly in like, what, a few months? Kinda wild to think that Ishmael's Canto isn't that far into the future.

[rosalineandrosemary]

he reached for the sun, and the sun took his hand.

Ao3

There are benches both inside and outside of their school, even without counting the cafeteria, but they’re all encompassed by the hustle and bustle of their school. And so, when Marinette starts walking away from the school after the lunch bells ring, Felix follows like a moth to a flame. She walks past her house, waving at her maman through the windows of the bakery, and he waves too, stiffly. Her maman smiles at them, and points to the display cases to ask if they want anything. Marinette shakes her head and raises the bag she’s holding, to which Mme. Cheng nods, and they keep walking.

Marinette stops them at one of the benches in the park, and sits down in the shade. He sits down without prompting, and Marinette beams at him, a smile that could challenge the sun. He freezes and looks away, trying to hide the warmth growing in his cheeks, and pulls his lunch out of his bag. 

“Did you hear what Lila was saying in class today? Talking about her latest trips to far off places but all the images she showed you can find online with five minutes of searching. Like, it’s nice to sit by you during class, but sometimes I wish I could still sit by Alya in the seat we earned, you know?” 

He hummed in agreement, perfectly content to let her talk while he ate his lunch, but she instead let the statement hang in the air before pulling out her own lunch. 

The silence was companionable, broken only by remnants of conversation from other small student groups and the laughter of some of the playing children. Around halfway through their allotted lunch time, Marinette puts away her containers with a content noise and a full body wiggle before pulling her sketchbook from the confines of her backpack. “Do you mind if I sketch? I have a couple ideas for some outfits that I really want to get down!”

“Feel free.”

“Thanks, Fe!” She smiles again and he’s lost in it, left staring even after she’s turned away. It’s as if her smile is burned into his eyes, an entoptic phenomenon that steals his breath from his lungs. By the time he pries his eyes away, Marinette is already immersed in her designs, her tongue poking out from between her lips. He reaches into his bag to pull out his book, but none of the words stick in his mind, eyes trailing back to stare at Marinette’s quiet joy. 

Eventually he gives up, placing his book back in his bag and sitting there, staring into his own personal sun, sitting right next to him. The ice in his chest is melting into a pooling ocean and it feels like he’s about to overflow with it, surface tension being the only thing keeping his feelings from spilling out and he can’t bear to stare at her for any longer. 

He tears his eyes away, trying to turn the water back into ice, to freeze the feelings back in his chest and keep it contained, but there’s too much water and too many feelings and even if he can turn some of them into icebergs it doesn’t change the amount of water and finally everything comes spilling out. 

“It hurts to look at you sometimes, Marinette.” His words, soft as they may be, break the silence between them. She turns to look at him, endlessly blue eyes piercing into his skin, eyebrows furrowing with worry, an expression he’s seen time and time again: when he gets too close to akuma fights, when the bags under his eyes are darker and he forgoes his usual coffee order for something with more caffeine, or when she’s worrying about other people and he gets to watch the all-consuming flames of her care. 

“Felix?” Her voice is soft and confused, and it takes everything within him to not turn to look at her, to not let the words freeze on his tongue, to not shove everything he’s feeling back underneath his infamous “ice prince” persona that she so carefully took apart. 

He watches her out of his periphery, continuing to stare ahead and try to figure out how to melt the ice in his chest that he had tried so hard to freeze. He can’t take this back now. He can’t leave her with just that phrase, not with the twists and turns and dark corners all throughout her brain. “You’re incandescent, a sun of your own volition, and I fear that I am forever just going to be orbiting you at a distance.” He tightens his grip around the strap of his bag, white knuckled and shaking softly, before releasing it and stretching out his fingers. Felix sees her move, place her hands down on the bench, moving to get up, to stare him in the eyes. Her mouth is opening, an indignant cry of his name on her lips, and he feels like he’s going to burn from the inside out. 

“Please,” he croaks, voice unsteady. “Please, let me finish, Marinette.” His tone is worrying her even further, and so are his words. It’s written plain on her face, a book she never chose to lock. Her emotions are her strength and it’s awe-inspiring to see from inside his several layers of ice, carefully frozen to keep everything locked inside. She continues to melt it with ease, leaving him scrambling, but he needs to tell her.

 “Try as I might, I can’t keep this in any longer. I feel as though I am bursting at the seams, combusting. You melted the walls and pillars of ice I formed for years, nosing your way into every nook and cranny of my being, and I believe I have fallen for you.” Marinette lets out a soft gasp and he turns away, lacing his fingers around the strap of his bag once again. 

He can’t bear to see the look on her face when she rejects him. Disgust? Horror? Her quiet kind of upset, where her eyes fill with tears and she tries to stifle it, to push away her own feelings over and over again? 

He keeps talking, a desperate bid to keep himself away from the truth for as long as he can. “I apologize for the hastiness of my confession, and I hope I didn’t upset you too much. I’m sorry if I did, I truly had no intention to, but I understand if you reject me and I’d even understand if you never wished to see me again, I just wished to--”

“Felix.” Her voice stops him in his tracks, body tensing. “Felix, do you mind if I touch you?” Her voice is soft and her words kind but he flinches regardless, giving a jerky nod. He didn’t expect her to want to touch him, not after he ruined their friendship, but he tensed further as he thought of all the power contained in her body and prepared for backlash. He knew, intrinsically, that someone as kind as Marinette could never hurt someone maliciously, but that knowledge fell into the chasm of fear in his chest, and all he could hope was that she would choose to spare him, even a little. 

One of her hands enters his line of sight and he flinches, closing his eyes, before her warm hand is placed softly on his cheek, slowly turning his head to face in her direction. “Felix, I could never be upset with you for that.” Her tone is impossibly tender, her hand is still cupping his cheek, and he exhales slowly before opening his eyes. 

There are tears dripping down her cheeks, rolling down to the beaming smile stretched across her lips, and she raises her other hand to hold his face like he’s something precious. “I adore you, did you know that?” She smiles even brighter, looking him in the eyes before continuing. 

“Each pen has a specific place in your pencil case, and you change which pen you use each school period. You take your coffee with cream and sugar even though you say it’s black when anyone asks. You pretend you’re made of ice because it’s everything you’ve known, but you still care even if it’s not in your best interests. Everything about you is something to love, and I do. And you’re here. Despite everything, you’re here, not orbiting some foreign sun or wasting away in a cavern of ice. You’re right here, with me, and I am holding your face in my hands and you are beautiful.” She’s still crying, tears catching the sunlight, and she presses her forehead to his but it’s just warm. Nothing burns and she is so close and she’s not a sun, she’s simply Marinette, and he loves her more than anything he’s ever known. 

“Thank you, Marinette.” Those words, choked out his throat, try to compact everything he’s feeling into one simple statement. The love, the awe, the feeling of reaching something he never thought he would be able to reach, the pure joy filling in every gap where fear laid just moments before, like the sun rising over Paris. But instead of being that sun, Marinette is here and she is right in front of him and she is watching the sky turn pink and the darkness retreat and it may be noon but he thinks this is the prettiest sunrise he has ever seen. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for, Felix.” He smiles at her, leaning against one of her hands, placing his own on top of hers. He feels ridiculous holding his own face but she brightens impossibly more and there is blush flaring on his cheeks and he tries to look away but she’s still right there.

“Well then, how about saying I love you instead?” He tries to put confidence in his voice, but he is putty in her hands and she can tell, her smile turning from something big and beaming to something small but so fond it almost makes his chest ache. 

“I love you too, Felix.” And she locks eyes with him and looks down and he tries to nod but forgets that she’s that close and bumps heads with her instead. 

Marinette laughs and it’s joyful and he just stares at her and hopes that she can see the fondness building in his chest when he looks at her. She stops laughing and her cheeks flush to a pink color that he thinks could be his favorite color. Every part of her is his favorite color. The blue color of her hair in the light, the blue color of her eyes, the color of the faint freckles on her cheeks and the pink of her blush and he’s staring again, he knows he is, but she just smiles and places her forehead back against his. 

“Can I kiss you?” She whispers it, like they’re in their own little world, and he presses forward and kisses her first. Her lips are soft and she tastes like a fruit flavor he can’t quite recall, not with her hands on his face and her lips on his.

There aren’t fireworks, or sparks. There’s no burning or fire or hurting. There’s just him and there’s Marinette and a feeling of home and rightness like everything he’s ever wanted. 

He breaks away first, offers another whispered “I love you” against her lips before she pulls away too, far enough away that he can actually see things beyond her eyes and her cheeks and her hair. 

She moves one of her hands and he lifts his so she can take it back, and she puts on a mock-serious face that can’t hide the joy in her eyes. 

“If you ever talk about yourself that way again I’m going to fight you.” She waggles one finger at him, lips curling to conceal her laughter, and he raises his eyebrows even as he melts further into her remaining hand.

“You’re going to fight me?” 

“Yes! With love and affection and pets.” He doesn't get a chance to ask what she means by pets before her nails are scratching through his hair, and he wished he could deny the way that his eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“You make a formidable opponent, my dear.” She giggles, moving to scratch behind his ear before the alarm goes off, telling them that they have to make their way back to school if they don’t want to be late.

She reaches her hand out to him and he takes it, lacing his fingers between hers. 

[literaryfic]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: 빈센조 | Vincenzo (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong/Hong Cha Young Characters: Hong Cha Young, Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, vincenzo leaves, set five years after he left sk, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, vincenzo and cha-young are exes, they were in a relationship before, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Exes, Getting Back Together, Not Canon Compliant, i wrote this before ep 20

Summary: Sipping on his third — or fourth, he’d stopped counting a while back  — whiskey of the night, Vincenzo fantasised about snapping the neck Cha-young’s fingers were delicately wrapped around. 

To Vincenzo, regret was like an old friend. He’d become accustomed to its familiar weight over the years, learnt its intricate shapes and colours. More than that, he’d learned to welcome the intimate ways in which regret accompanied his every step. 

The blood on his hands, his mother, her… Yes, it seemed regret was the recurring theme of his life. Alas, in spite of all the years he’d spent acquainted with it, he could not silence the wails of anguish of his heart. 

“Mmh.” A simple sound had sufficed to sink his soul to slumber.*

He’d always known this was a possibility. He’d thought about it endlessly, convincing himself that he wouldn’t care, that being in her life was enough. But Vincenzo was a greedy man, and he’d never desired anything more than he desired her.

Her. Cha-young. His Tesoro. 

Rarely did Vincenzo say or even think of her name when his mind wandered back to her. He treated it like a jewel, a precious gem meant to be tucked away in the corner of his soul, only to be let out under extraordinary circumstances. 

Her name on his lips would not be said in vain, for he was a pious man and her, a Goddess. He’d converted to her cult the moment she’d kissed him, her lips initiating him to her worship. 

And so, he prayed to her. When he’d reached the edge of the cliff, the troubled waters calling out to him, whispering in his ear that drowning would put out the fire that consumed his being, he prayed. 

He’d go to a small Catholic church in Milan, high ceilings and stained-glass windows glimmering in the evening sun, and he’d sit in the last row, his hands clapped together. He’d recite his prayers, confess his sins and plead. I love you. Forgive me. Wait for me.

The Goddess, however, was a capricious being, and it seemed she had not heard his pleas. Or maybe she had, but had deemed him unworthy. 

Vincenzo had wondered if she had found someone else, if she had been happy without him. Wasn’t human nature so contradictory? He had been sure that leaving her was the most selfless act of love he’d be capable of, yet that ‘Mmh’ had set his soul on fire. 

He had promised himself that if it were to happen — if Cha-young had forgotten about him, if leaving really had been the gift he’d first thought it was — , he would be content with just seeing her again. Even if all he’d get was a furtive look, that alone would be enough to satisfy the thirst he’d been dying of for the past five years. What a naïve thought. He knew the moment he’d seen her again, that night on the beach. He needed her. 

Now, watching her slow dance in someone else’s arms, Vincenzo thought about torture. He’d inflicted it on many of his enemies before and knew the myriad of ways in which the human body contorted itself when in agony. 

Vincenzo reaches for the gold lighter in his pocket, the reassuring clicking sound helping him organise his thoughts. 

He would start by pulling out his teeth one by one. Then, he’d move on to his fingers. It’d make a mess, but he wouldn’t die right away. Vincenzo would be able to enjoy the fun for quite a while, actually. Would the man scream until his vocal cords bled? Would he convulse, his body distorted by tremors, eyes rolling back?

Sadly, the only one getting tortured is him; the only cries of pain, his heart’s. 

Sipping on his third — or fourth, he’d stopped counting a while back  — whiskey of the night, Vincenzo fantasised about snapping the neck Cha-young’s fingers were delicately wrapped around. 

 Like moths to a flame, Vincenzo’s eyes were inevitably drawn to the pearly white of her thigh, revealed by the split of her long, form-fitting dress. She looked otherworldly tonight, her hips swaying to the slow beat of the love song playing in the background. Here she was, with her straight, shiny hair reflecting the dim lights of the ballroom, her red lips complimenting her flushed cheeks  — a fallen angel gracing them with her presence. 

The man holding her in his arms was in his late thirties, and while he was the same height as Cha-young with her heels on, he had broad shoulders and large hands. He looked down at his feet whenever he laughed, which made his glasses slide off his nose ever so slightly. After a while, he’d readjust them and run his hand through his short hair, the start of an endless loop.

He wondered what she saw in him, if it was something in his eyes or in his voice. Did she kiss his knuckles whenever he was working on some paperwork, lost in thoughts yet reluctant to let go of her hand? Did she kiss his neck and whispered ‘I'm here, it’s okay’ whenever he had a nightmare? Did her fingers trace ‘I love you’s’ on his shoulder blades while they were laying in bed? 

And if she did, was it because he looked at her like she was the most precious thing on this earth? Was it because he had secretly learned her favourite recipe, the one her mom used to make when she was sick? Was it because he held her tight when she cried, stroking her hair and murmuring comforting words against her skin? 

He looks harmless, Vincenzo thinks. The alcohol is getting to him.

‘Is he a good person?’

‘Mmh. He is.’

He shakes his head, banishing memories of yesterday’s conversation from his mind. That’s a relief. Cha-young deserves to be with an ordinary man who lives a righteous life, away from all the murders and the evils of this world. Yet, his heart aches every time she smiles at him. 

Him, who is everything he’s not. Him, who’s making her laugh, and smile, and blush. 

The man leans in to whisper in her ear, and Vincenzo can’t take it anymore. He pays for his drinks and leaves, the sound of his lighter not enough to ground him anymore. He needs to get away, far from the sway of her hips and that man’s hand on her lower back. Before he knows it, he’s out of the hotel, on the beach. 

Stuck in his own personal hell, Vincenzo considers atoning for his sins. Surely, the fire blazing inside his body, boiling his blood and heating up his skin is worse than the Inferno he’d ineluctably be condemned to. 

Without thinking, he takes off his shoes, his trousers and his shirt, and dives into the ocean. He needed to put out the fire before he got burned alive. It’s a warm evening but the dark waters feel ice-cold on his heated skin. He swims until the cacophony of the waves crashing against the shore lulls him. He swims until he’s about to drown, limbs too heavy to float. How he manages to get back on the beach, he doesn’t know. He collapses in the sand, exhausted. The distant moon looks down on him, her inquisitive eyes strangely offensive. Tonight, the heavenly body is mocking him. Look at this fool, she laughed. Did you really think she’d wait for you?

Vincenzo wants to scream at her, or maybe at himself, but instead he cries. He doesn’t have the energy to fight it, or to feel ashamed. He is guilty of leaving her and he has no one else to blame. Regret might be an old friend, but guilt is his greatest foe. 

He forces himself to get up, knowing he’d get buried under the weight of his conscience if he stayed any longer. Putting back on his trousers only, Vincenzo carries his shoes and his top until he sees the hotel lights. Were they still dancing together? 

He stops before going inside, lighting a cigarette. He’d taken it up again after going back to Italy, another one of the nasty habits he indulged in. He stood near a huge palm tree, just at the entrance of the main building, probably why he didn’t see him. Cha-young’s… someone was standing there, smoking on the other side of the palm tree. Vincenzo holds his breath, not sure how to react. The man is on the phone, and although it isn’t his business, he can’t help but overhear his conversation. 

“No, no… I told you, nothing’s going on with her...Yes, I promise. I told you, she paid for all her employees, it’s a group thing. Mmh. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon. Me too.”

Forget torture, Vincenzo is killing this man with his bare hands tonight. 

*‘Sink Not Yet My Soul To Slumber’ is a Christian Hymn SINK not yet, my soul, to slumber, Wake, my heart, go forth and tell, All the mercies without number That this by-gone day befell: Tell how God hath kept afar, All things that against me war, Hath upheld me and defended, And His grace my soul befriended.

[writerbyaccident]

Celebration (Yandere Shouta AizawaxReader)

           “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Shouta, happy birthday to you!” his friends sang enthusiastically, Hizashi in particular nearly deafening him with all of his earth-shaking riffs. Aizawa himself couldn’t help but smile slightly at the display, even as his heart ached in the absence of you, the one person he wished were here more than anything. Still, Nemuri and Hizashi knew to be grateful for even the smallest sign that Aizawa was happy, having had experienced his increasing despondency over the past few weeks. Truthfully, Aizawa had never really expected himself to fall in love with anyone, considering himself far too busy and closed-off for that sort of thing. When he had first seen you though, that had all changed. Instantly he was drawn to you, drawn to you like a moth to a flame, like an addict to their fix. He hadn’t recognized it as love at first, but as he watched you, drank in each and every aspect that he could at such a distance, Aizawa realized the truth. He was in love with you, he loved you more than anyone else ever could, but that epiphany alone did not bring you to his side. And so, his love, with nowhere to go, was beginning to break his heart. But that was part of the reason why they both had prepared this surprise for Aizawa. It was hardly a secret that Aizawa wasn’t exactly the type of person who enjoyed big parties, but Nemuri and Hizashi thought a small celebration would do him some good.

           “Are ya one? Are ya two? Are ya th—ow!” Hizashi started to continue overly eager smile, only stopped when Nemuri elbowed him in the stomach.

           “Sorry dear, but I don’t think Shouta wants on encore,” she teased.

           “Are you kidding me? Of course he does, the man’s my biggest fan!”

           “Trust me,” Aizawa interjected quickly, “I don’t.” Nemuri chuckled at that, and even Hizashi gave a sheepish grin, and for a moment Aizawa could almost pretend that things were normal. For just a split second, he could almost imagine that he had never seen you that day, had never gotten to know you and fallen for you the way that he did. But even as he tried to throw himself into the façade, he could still feel how his heart burned for you with the darkest flames. No, he thought with an internal sigh, he couldn’t forget you, not even for a second, no matter how hard he tried.

           Noticing the lonely, lovesick distance in their friend’s eyes, Hizashi and Nemuri exchanged a fond look tinged with just the slightest bit of exasperation. They had wanted to wait until after eating the cake Hizashi had so obsessively prepared, but it appeared that they had no option but to do things a bit out of order.

           “Well,” Nemuri began as Hizashi slipped out of the room, “I have to say, Shouta, normally you are so hard to shop for, but this year it was a hell of a lot easier.”

           “Oh?”

           “It’s true,” Hizashi called from the other room, where it sounded as though he was trying to move something heavy. “I never know what to get you, but this time Nemuri and I knew exactly what you would want.” Intrigued despite himself, Aizawa shot Nemuri a questioning look. They couldn’t have…could they?

           Just at that moment, Hizashi reentered the room, wheeling in a truly enormous box on a dolly cart. The box was wrapped elaborately with purple and silver striped paper, with gigantic silver bow on top. Hopes stirring inside of him despite his best efforts to keep himself from being disappointed, Aizawa approached the present slowly, pressing his hand firmly against it as if that would tell him what was inside.

           “Uh, you do know that you need to open it, right dear?” Nemuri asked worriedly. But Aizawa didn’t seem to hear her. He simply stared at the box before him for another moment, and then, taking a deep breath, he began the process of opening it.

           Tearing through the wrapping paper, ripping apart whole chunks of it at a time, Aizawa almost failed to notice the clearly hand done air holes peppering the cardboard box. But when he saw them, his whole being lit up, already feeling happier and more energetic than he ever had before. Ever nearing possibilities and daydreams swirling in his mind, he wasted no time in shredding the box itself apart. And there, underneath it all, tied tightly to a folding chair and gagged with purple ribbon, was you.

           “Happy birthday!” Nemuri and Hizashi exclaimed in unison. An almost disbelieving smile on Aizawa’s face, he reached out towards you, needing to make sure that this all was real. When his hand met your cheek, cupping it softly, he nearly cried in relief. Aizawa didn’t know what he would have done if this had simply been a dream, if he couldn’t feel your soft, warm skin against his. But now, after watching you from a distance for so long, you were finally here with him. It was such a beautiful, overwhelming moment, in fact, that he didn’t even see the way you flinched at his touch or the fear in your eyes as you stared at his unfamiliar figure.

           “I don’t know what to say,” Aizawa murmured, not taking his eyes off of you, as if he were afraid that you would disappear if he looked away for even the briefest of moments. “Thank you so much. This means the world to me, you have no idea. Just, thank you.”

           It was true, what he said, even though you didn’t know it yet. Receiving you as his gift, finally having you here beside him, did indeed mean the world to him, for you were his world. Touching you, having you, was a joy Aizawa had worried he would never feel. He had been plagued endlessly by all of the cruelest nightmares and darkest possibilities of what might happen to you so long as you were kept by him. Attacked by villains, grown sick, stolen by some other man, all of those and countless more ate away at him. But now, now you were with him, and with him you would stay.

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[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

still to hear her tender-taken breath

[cross-posted to AO3]

Pairing: female Daken Akihiro/female Johnny Storm

Rating: Mature

TW: manipulation, mentions of past abuse (Daken’s canon background)

*****

Joan was magnificent.

It was ridiculous, really, how Daken kept flitting towards her, like a moth endlessly fascinated by the stunning brilliance of fire. Joan was radiant, iridescent; always smiling, always welcoming, but with shadows hidden behind her eyes. Jealousy, perhaps, for her much smarter sister, or maybe just the knowledge that she was the weakest link in the “fantastic” family, so young and trusting, liable to be exploited in order to worm one’s way into the family. And yet she persevered in her almost childish positivity, in always believing the best of everyone. She was too kind for this world.

She was infuriating.

She was stunning when she flamed on, majestic when she took flight… crowned with licks of fire, her eyes bright supernovae that burned into Daken’s soul. She was exquisite, a queen in the sky; there was an exhilaration in her breath when she touched down after flying high. She belonged to the heavens – she was a thing of beauty, unburdened by earthly matters.

She belonged in Daken’s arms.

She’d been, oh, so easy to get close to, so easy to manipulate into finding Daken’s company indispensable. Too easy. She should be more careful, take better care of herself. She shouldn’t be so trusting.

She shouldn’t allow wolves to nuzzle her. They still bit, afterwards.

Daken had yet to.

She told herself she was just biding her time, cultivating a relationship that would be more useful in the long run; she told herself that she had all she needed. But already she’d let opportunities go, already she’d let go of her original goal of pocketing a few of Richards’ creations. She’d had plenty opportunities; more than once she’d stayed the night in Joan’s room, more than once she could have slipped out undisturbed. But Joan slept so peacefully, her features so soft in the dark. She illuminated everything, left Daken in a haze.

Daken was a smart woman. She knew what was happening – what she was doing. She was making the most dangerous mistake in the books: she was falling for her prey. Decades of training and hard work should have beaten such foolishness out of her, but just one glance at Joan’s gentle gaze was enough to rein her in, to make her forget everything she’d learnt with blood and tears.

She still asked herself why. It wasn’t purely physical; even though she was a sensualist, first and foremost, and Joan was truly stunning, luscious golden locks and full lips and the bluest eyes Daken had ever seen, deep and wide, pools to swallow Daken whole. Joan was the stereotypical white american beauty, the kind that won country-wide pageants, the kind that was revered and coveted, and Daken shouldn’t have fallen for such a bland picture-perfect mix. Beauty was the currency of this world and Daken could navigate it with ease; a pretty face shouldn’t make her weak in the knees.

No, it wasn’t Joan’s face. It wasn’t even Joan’s body, lean and just the right amount of soft, with lovely breasts and long legs, the small of her back seemingly made for Daken’s palm, her nape an exquisite arch Daken loved to explore with her fingers, drawing shudders and sighs out of Joan’s perfect mouth.

It was Joan’s peculiar expression, that spoke of someone with a keen mind and a capacity for greatness that still chose to stay close to the earth. It was Joan’s kindness, not saccharine but genuine. It was… perhaps it was just Daken’s new weariness, her newfound discovery of her place in the world. Perhaps she was just tired after decades of lies and abuse, and she’d clung to the first arms that had welcomed her. Perhaps it was Joan’s distinct lack of malice, how surprised she’d looked when Daken had first cradled her face. How she always focused on Daken’s pleasure instead of chasing her own, when people had always taken what they wanted from Daken’s body.

Perhaps it was the way Joan’s lashes had trembled when she’d looked up the meaning of Daken’s name – and how delicately she’d let the matter go when Daken had asked.

Perhaps it had been that. The fact that Joan had bothered to try to learn a bit of Daken, but had taken a step back when she’d seen Daken’s expression.

What Daken knew, with a certainty that scared her, was that she was done for. Every instinct screamed to turn on her heels and leave. Every nerve chafed at the vulnerability she was showing, at the knowledge of the many ways to hurt her that she was leaving open to anyone willing to try.

But Joan’s arms were warm and safe and her smile could soothe even Daken’s old, rotten soul. Joan was a balm, a haven, a beacon. A white-hot star, blazing high and bright; a compass.

Daken wondered if she was idealizing the woman. She wondered if this was just a midlife crisis, or if Joan would tire of her eventually. Certainly she would chase her away if she were to discover what a monster Daken really was; but every small revelation, every minuscule piece of herself that Daken had so far revealed, had been met with patience and quiet interest and understanding. It was disquieting.

It was, oh, so welcome.

Joan wasn’t a fool. She was soft and kind and trusting, yes, but she was also fierce; a tigress, wild and primal. She fought with unparalleled ferocity when provoked. She was incredibly perceptive. She just chose to turn the other way, but she struck with incredible precision when needed.

Was this just a fragile flight of fancy, a dream that could only shatter in the end?

The covers rustled and Joan flung her arm around Daken’s stomach.

“Can’t sleep, babe?” she mumbled, her arm a furnace against Daken’s naked flesh. Joan’s body run hot; it made sleeping together an interest experience.

Daken rolled to the side, searching Joan’s eyes in the dark. They were half-closed, fixed on Daken’s silhouette.

The deepest, brightest blue. They truly were startling.

“Babe? You all right?” Joan propped herself up on an elbow, her arm tight around Daken’s waist, searching Daken’s gaze and failing in the darkness. Her eyes were wide now, alert, and Daken’s heart clenched.

I don’t want this to end, she thought with sharp clarity. She reached up, cupped Joan’s cheek. “Yeah,” she murmured, and she felt the tension disappear from Joan’s muscles. “Everything’s fine, dearest.” The endearment came unbidden out of her mouth.

Nonetheless, it was true.

The revelation was so stark it took the wind out of her. She wanted Joan; she wanted this, her smile, her scent, her warmth. She wanted Joan’s sweet, gentle touch.

She could only lose herself in Joan’s bright, bright eyes and regain her breath. Joan however had noticed how still she’d held herself, and she rested her forehead against Daken’s, their noses brushing. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Oh, oh, the irony! Daken felt a surge of tenderness, tinged with shame. She reached up softly, searched Joan’s mouth. Joan sighed and melted, their lips brushing gently, their hands lazily roaming their bodies. Joan’s gaze was sharp, questioning, worried, but she’d relented once more, and Daken’s chest ached so.

She’d tell Joan. Tomorrow, in the light of day, she’d lay herself bare and face Joan’s judgment. She hoped for forgiveness.

Tonight, she’d take what she could, knowing it could be the last.

[valiantthewriter]

Gemini

Can be found on AO3.

CW: Angst, Infidelity, Time Skips

He wanted nothing more than to shake him, to say "We are the same. We are the same."

If he could, he would hit the ground running after the boy. He would stop him, turn him around, take him by the shoulders and say, “We are the same. We are the same.”

-----

It was like looking in a mirror. Mirrors never lie but they can break.

-----

What they were doing was wrong. It was wrong and bad and it felt perfect. It was easy between them, the quips exchanged over brunch, the feel of their bodies intertwined, the way he looked in the setting sun. It was perfect and easy, but it wasn’t.

They lied. They had so many lies to keep up with.

I need Peter with me to work on his suit.

Peter needs to come to the compound for one-on-one training.

What are you talking about, Pepper? Nothing is going on between me and the kid.

But there was so much going on. It didn’t matter right now though as he was fucking Peter’s face.

-----

“I don’t understand. What do you mean by this isn’t working? Pete...baby…”

“You know why. I have to leave for MIT. I have to go.”

And the door was shut.

-----

They had so much in common but were so different. Both bright, both snarky, both loved Thai and shawarma. But Tony was bitter and Peter was sweet. Tony was rusty and Peter was shiny and new. The were so similar but so different.

Birds of a feather in a cage together.

-----

“Pete, you did it! You got in!”

“Really?! I was too scared...too scared to look…”

“I’m so proud of you, my sweet boy. Come here.”

Peter came and came again.

-----

Love looked different with Peter. It looked like bubble baths with bubble beards. It looked like confetti on the dance floor. It looked like Peter dancing in the kitchen wearing Tony's favorite shirt, singing along to some pop tune while eating cereal.

Love looked beautiful. It looked tangible.

-----

"I can pick you, Peter. I want you. You."

"You're a genius, Tony. You know this isn't plausible. You have a daughter on the way. We can't...this…"

"I need you."

-----

We are the same.

Two ships at sea.

Two burning suns.

-----

"It was fun. We were fun."

"I love you."

Peter was silent and silence in and of itself is an answer.

-----

His boy's giggle could bring Tony to his knees. He was doing just that currently, face buried between Peter's cheeks, earning him those coveted giggles and moans.

"Mr. Stark! That tickles."

More laughter, then a sharp cry.

"There, like that. Oh fuck!"

-----

We are the same.

Two turtle doves.

Two moths to a flame.

-----

It started slowly then came all at once. They made eye contact and in the next moment he had Peter pressed against the work table with a hand between his legs.

"Is this okay, Peter?"

"It's all I ever wanted, Mr. Stark."

That was enough for him.

-----

There are no more giggles and his baby bird flew from the nest.

"You look down, Tony. Is this some sort of empty nest syndrome? The kid is only in Boston."

A bitter laugh escapes him.

"I don't know, Pep."

Tony didn't know and his boy was far beyond his reach.

-----

We are the same.

Two wheels on a bicycle.

Twin stars in the sky.

-----

"We are the same, Peter," he whispered into the phone.

"Tony, it's midnight. What...we agreed…"

"We are the same, Peter. You and I were made in the same mold. I can give you anything in this world. I can give you...I can give you me. Please, Peter."

"You're drunk. I'm hanging up now."

-----

One chance to get it right.

One man standing on one foot.

One finish line.

-----

"You and I, kiddo...we are gonna conquer the world."

Tony grasps Peter's palm, tracing the lines. He saw two freckles on his wrist and Tony couldn't help himself, he had to kiss them.

"Is that so, Mr. Stark?"

-----

Tony sat in the empty bathtub alone, drinking whiskey out of the bottle, a picture of Peter in his hand. He was crying without tears. He was opening the wound over and over and over again, ruthlessly. Endlessly.

Bereft.

-----

A man stands on one foot, trying to reach his destination.

One bird in the hand.

Two in the bush.

Three is a crowd.

Alone, the man stood.

-----

"We are the same, sweetheart, my boy. We are the same."

"Goodbye, Mr. Stark."

The white noise of the aftermath consumed him.

"But we're the same."

[feralchangkyun]

lonelier

we’re stagnant, for now. somehow butterflies and moths feel the same in the out of my stomach, but when they flee from my mouth the orange flutters remain bitter and the tanned ones remind me of citrus fruits. how can i love you all again? for you to be wrapped around my finger so endlessly. to be held tight and within the palm of my hands you remain safe. our tongues draw like swords, ready for battle in words we seem to regret later. in words like crimson ink stain the clothes we wore, hidden in the symbols remains a code not yet figured. kinda to filled with anger and sadness, frustration and disgust in which all the ways we argue. you could be mine if you want to come home. the locks remain the same and the sunsets haven’t changed, but the loneliness grows older and quieter.it’s been harder to piece infatuation on a short string, the letters scrambled across the floor don’t make any sense. it’s funny how someone means nothing and something all at once, as if the very core of my brain is trying to tell me something. maybe my tongue knows better in taste and familiarity. you taste like a god, i’m not sure which deity runs beneath your skin, sweet as candy and beneath the closed fist lies the flower that refuses to grow from the palm of your hand. a storm resides in your mouth, yet like pride you swallow it keeping it still. the faintest touch has me trembling, the fear of storms and the night sky wrap its child arms around me. is this what love feels like? so painful, so endless. i’ve made you a map from the stars, but it’s difficult to see where you are. i’ve created flashing lights from highways to lead you to me. but in the end, it seems to fail endlessly. come home to me again. come home to me once more.it’s currently 9:15 in Osaka; and my breath smells like a distillery. i couldn’t take the distance or promises shelved with untouched spines, letting you go seemed like the easier way from this, whatever we were from the beginning. your presence empty just as the last bottle left among the seal glass colors covering the coffee table. paper cranes are half folded, tell my mother i’m sorry i never made it to a thousand even in the lives i chased after you.[ voicemail ] 12:07 am where are you? please call me back. i’m worried about you. 12:22 am i haven’t seen you since last night, you aren’t answering my texts either, please just call me back. 12:54 am this isn’t funny, pick up the phone please. it’s getting closer as fall comes and greets us with her kiss, maybe that’s why you’ve runaway again. since you kissed me once, you were reminded of what the cold was. something you couldn’t stand even years later. i know you now, you were written in the journals of many before me and passed through. it wasn’t until the cards connected my memory to the missing tangent, sinew to sinew i remember you entirely. i don’t know what happened before, and i don’t want to know. but something for certain is i want you back home, cradled in the arms as sleepy eyes stare at each other until one of us collapses into such slumber. it’s empty with you and it’s only been a few hours since your disappearance. where have you gone? are you safe? have you kept warm beneath the August sky? my fest hurt from walking end to end, north to south and in the circle of east to west to search for you. i’ve asked the elderly couple who sit outside, your face is familiar but our tongues speak dialects unfamiliar to each other. come back and i’ll tell you. come back and collapse into slumber with me again. Tokyo is lonely again. The crowds of people and their busy minds racing before their bodies reach the end of the journey. A single mother cradles her only child, fingers graze over the child’s face and stares admiringly. The lonely boy who fears foreign soil beneath his feet, he’s venturing off to somewhere he hadn’t been before, waving his goodbyes to his father and grandmother. An elderly woman sits in the least busiest place, clutching her purse tight and her Japanese doesn’t fall smoothly. She tells a story to the other about how she hasn’t been home in years, feeling displaced in America. She’s connecting again with someone she loves and I wish for that to be me too. But it’s lonely without you, it rains and rains and pours into my home. Water reaching at my ankles and nothing feels right anymore. I want you here, your arms wrapped around my waist and your head in my lap. We whisper things in foreign languages so nobody knows what our tongues speak, but know that in our hearts good intention lies and burns like flame. Tokyo is lonely again, because you aren’t here. See Less