#[ v ;; atop the world beneath the heavens ]

[distortsverity]

@gogogobarry​ whispered : "Um, Hika...I think I lost you! Hello? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me? Where did everyone go...go...go..." Barry's brave front is breaking, his voice echoing bizarrely in this nightmarish realm, nervous tones twisted by the hellish ambiance. The blond walks, floats just ahead of Hikari, yet he seems completely unaware of her presence. Suddenly, he whirls abruptly to stare daggers at his friend with eyes of glazed hazel (as if just noticing her), and the angry, warped voice that hisses from between clenched teeth is not his own. "You. Your fault. Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave me behind?!" Despite his accusatory tone, Barry doesn't move after snarling his queries, as if frozen in place with an unnatural scowl fixed on his lips. Why? Because none of this is real--it's just another one of Hikari's nightmares, courtesy of the Distortion World. And--thank Arceus--it's almost time to wake up.

                      "Um, Hika...I think I lost you!“

❝ C’mon Barry, I’m literally standing right here! ❞ Lost her? Lost his eyes and ears, more like it.

Besides . . . where exactly is “ here ”? And how did they end up “ here ”?

There are so many telltale signs of a world that isn’t quite right --- how both teens move across sheer black nothingness, how this alien space distorts the boy’s tone and pitch into something half-recognizable at best, how the atmosphere feels dreadfully sterile, how insidious vibrations ripple around Hikari’s body with every stride she takes --- yet there are no blaring sirens in her head to jolt her awake. She never realizes she is dreaming, never even pauses to gauge her surroundings.

After all, she’s too busy running, straining to catch up to him. Her legs are getting tired. Barry’s getting anxious --- frightened, even. 

                      “Hello? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?“ 

❝ Yes I can hear you, I’m right here!! ❞ 

Why is he always just a couple arm’s lengths in front of her?

Has he always been this fast? She’s running and she’s pretty sure he is not so why can’t she overtake him? 

                      “Where did everyone go...go...go...”

❝ OH FOR ARCEUS’S SAKE, ❞ Hikari snaps with a scream, ❝ BEHIND YOU, IDIOT!!! JUST TURN AROUND!!! TURN --- ❞ 

And turn he does, as if on command, taking her aback ( surprise quickly morphs into fear great uneasiness, for his face --- that condemning glare --- is not the face she’d grown so fond of after more than a decade of knowing him ).  

How odd. He never looked at her like that. Where’s Barry’s brand of zestful joy? Shouldn’t he be happy to see her? Wasn’t he scared just now, frantically calling out --- 

                      "You. Your fault.” 

. . . . . . What? 

❝ . . . What? Barry, what in the hell are you --- ❞ 

                      “Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave me behind?!"

If he were just about anyone else, Hikari would already be scrambling to defend herself. Hah, she’d probably even send herself into a swiftly-climbing rage in the process ( oh the nerves it must take to attack her out of goddamn nowhere ). 

But he is Barry. She knows for a fact that Barry wouldn’t glare such sharp daggers at anyone --- not like this, not without solid justification. Although his accusations are terribly vague and curt, Hikari foolishly reads into them, perceives meanings where there ought to be none, pronounces herself guilty for crimes the real Barry never confronted her about until now.

. . . So whatever she’s done, she did end up leaving her lifelong best friend behind. How dare she. 

❝ I . . . . . . I’m sorry, Barry. ❞ If only she’d stopped there and let him go ( who knows why she thought it was a good idea to continue ). 

The first apology slips out a feeble whisper, but with each iteration, her voice crescendos until she is borderline shouting at him ( shut your mouth, Hikari! saying it over and over again means nothing, proves nothing, changes nothing so can’t you accept there’s no returning to “ Before ”? ).

❝ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry please forgive me you know I didn’t mean to --- !!! ❞ Didn’t mean to leave him behind ( not your fault, it is the Heavens’ Will ). Didn’t mean to soar past the clouds and into the stars while he was still earthbound ( millions want and need you up there, embrace it ). Didn’t mean to accept a pedestal that’d prompt a hasty metamorphosis, a kind of withdrawal, closing parts of herself off from even those who’d known her for a lifetime ( that is for the best, you are not just a girl anymore ). On and on and on she rambles and pleads in a woeful attempt to salvage their friendship, but in its futility, all it accomplishes is to humiliate and degrade --- ❝ I’ll make it up to you just tell me how I can make it up I won’t leave you again I promise --- ❞ Poor Barry. He must be tuning her out at this point ( as he should ). Pay no mind to this overly emotional display, lest you succumb to fatal second-hand embarrassment.

Hikari moves her hands to conceal her face, as much of it as physically possible, childishly praying that if she can’t see him he can’t see her. No use. He isn’t moving away, he’s still glaring at her like she had stabbed him in the back and she still feels the full brunt of a hatred that she never ever thought would be crushing her of all people. To her dismay, the first drops of water start trailing down her cheeks. One after the other after the other, they build into a cascade she can’t screw her eyes tight enough to stop ( oh for Arceus’s sake why is there a flood, who turned on the waterworks, where has the dam gone, how were so few words capable of ruining her composure? ). 

Don’t look at her, oh please don’t look at her when her dignity has scattered with the ( nonexistent ) winds! Cast those damning eyes elsewhere, they’re burning her alive! ❛ Hold strong! ❜ her mind demands of the rest of her body. ❛ Hold strong! ❜ . . . yet in defiance, her knees choose to give out from beneath her ( she is sent falling falling falling to the cold dead invisible earth ).

Those hateful, hazel eyes follow. Nowhere to run.

Stupid pathetic child, why do you demean yourself by groveling on your knees? Why do you avert that stone-hearted gaze by turning your face to the emptiness below? Why do you grieve so violently that your sobs wrack your body and reduce every sentence you try stringing together into incoherent blubbering? Shame shame shame on you. Get a grip! Stand back up! Look your old friend right in the eyes and bid him a solemn farewell!

Because where you’re headed, there should not be a single person whose support and company are a necessity.

. . .  . . .  . . . 

She ultimately accomplishes none of that --- doesn’t even begin to try --- because she stays right where she is, doubled over on the ground, hands muffling her cries, writhing in agony like some accursed disgrace ( a meek, final ❝ I’m sorry ❞, but this one is not so much for Barry as it is for some unseen, unknown audience ).

. . . 

All is growing deathly still. If she wasn’t so deep in mourning, she’d realize just how reminiscent it is of an unearthly domain. 

. . .  

. . . Thank Arceus, it’s almost time to wake up. 

She fails to notice how her former BFF’s neither made a peep nor budged a millimeter this entire time. She fails to notice that the scowl he wears is half his own and half that of □ □ □ □ □ ( this nightmare, this place wouldn’t be complete without □ □ □ □ □ , and coming from □ □ □ □ □ , those claims of “ leaving me behind ” are suddenly very true ). She fails to notice when Barry’s figure begins to dissipate into the blackness that engulfs them both, as though he is being steadily consumed, piece by piece, head to toe --- 

And when he leaves, so too does Hikari. 

. . .  . . .  . . . 

Reality is kind in how it welcomes her back. 

Her eyes flutter open to the picturesque scene of a winter night, familiar and comforting like home. Gentle snowfall. The sprawling, starry canvas of the Milky Way. Twisting, snow-laden branches overhead that bend under the mounting weight. So beautiful, so quiet, so serene --- but for perhaps the first time in her life, she finds little solace in the Sinnohan winter environment.  Her distress follows her here, lingering even long after the nightmare’s end ( through her body trembling with heart-aching repentance for a betrayal she had only imagined, through her hands reaching up and clawing deep into her hair in a frankly baffling effort to either recompose or punish herself ). A strange sight it must be, the breakdown of the unbreakable. She knows that too. She hates it so much.

❝ What’s WRONG WITH ME!! WHY WHY WHY WHYWHYWHYWHY --- !!! ❞

There’s the unexpected click and flashing white light of a Pokeball opening by itself, then another, and another, and another --- until her entire team is wide-awake and surrounding her on all sides. She’s barely registered the sheer panic and concern on their faces when she is suddenly enveloped by a Togekiss’s wings, her cries now melting into his chest feathers rather than ringing out across the otherwise silent landscape. 

Had to go ruin their nights too, huh? Get a hold of yourself. 

There, in the safety and comfort of Bubosca’s hug, the world stops, spacetime freezes, and Hikari, Savior of Sinnoh, is just a girl again.

[chrollogy]

v. MISUNDERSTANDINGS

miya atsumu x f!reader

series masterlist

synopsis: A drunken conversation with Atsumu leads to a cascade of events that has your mind practically exploding with endless questions, and with the way Atsumu has been acting, you want clear answers, and you’ll get them one way or another—even if it meant arguing in the twins’ shared apartment on a late Thursday afternoon.

chapter content warning: college au, mentions of alcohol use, intoxicated characters, cockblocker suna (rip), angst, hurt/comfort, awkward tension, atsumu & reader are dumbasses, arguing, light smut (mdni; nothing too explicit), nsfw, implied unprotected s*x, fluff towards the end yay, kita graduates from uni!, mutual pining, slow burn, requited unrequited love, friends to lovers, not beta read.

word count: 6.1k

notes: AAACKKKK last chapter!! also happy 1 month to this series !! i’m surprised i got to finish this in less than 2 months lmao considering how slow i am w writing :< divider: cafekitsune.

Light. Everything felt light—your head, body, voice, heart.

It felt like all the weight of your shoulders had been lifted, and you could be as carefree as a bird soaring through cerulean skies to be one with the wind. Because right this very moment, nothing mattered at all, not even the fact that you stood before the person you’ve been trying to avoid since the new year rolled around.

Tucked neatly at the back of your mind like a silent reminder, you knew you shouldn’t trust your intoxicated self right now—whether it be your thoughts or feelings but the urge to stop wasn’t there, and you felt extremely optimistic about this—all thanks to the burning alcohol that clouded every bit of your judgement.

Everything felt right.

As you met his caramel gaze, your vision tunnelled, everyone, and everything that surrounded both of you slowly turned into nothing but a mix of hazy hues, upbeat music that spilled from the speakers fading into the distance as you, and Atsumu entered your own world—even the orange-haired male with the bright, doe eyes melted away from your view.

Just you, and Atsumu, exactly how it was supposed to be.

With a bated breath, Atsumu wordlessly nodded, and awaited your next move, as if shackled in a hazy trance. He was fully aware of the thundering heartbeat that rang in his ears, the way his slender fingers ever so slightly dug into the scarlet plastic cup in his hand, cheeks burning with unexplainable emotions.

“Let’s talk somewhere else.”

It took all the effort for Atsumu to ignore the feeling of your bare skin against his, the searing touch of your fingers around his wrist as you hurriedly whisked him away into the intimate space of their kitchen, as if to shield you both from everyone else’s prying eyes. Despite a stained judgement, the blonde was sure no one gave a single damn if you were to talk it out in the living room, everyone was in their own buzz anyway.

Nonetheless, Atsumu let you take the lead, whatever you wanted, he obliged. As though he was floating on cloud nine, his body became lighter with each step taken, head lightly spinning, warmth that radiated from your palm seeped into his flushed skin, prickly, miniature kisses engulfing his body.

“I’m okay now.” Resting your lower back against the ivory granite countertops, you stare up at Atsumu through your lashes, not noticing your lingering fingers curled around his wrist. For a brief moment, your breath hitched, stomach churning at the sight before you. The lighting behind Atsumu made him look like absolute heaven, flaxen strands glowing like the first rays beneath the warm illuminant, casting an ethereal halo at the back of his head. It didn’t help how he stared down as if your eyes held the cosmos in them, completely awestruck.

Whatever, you chalked it up to his intoxicated state. What else could it have been?

For a brief moment, Atsumu wracked his brain for context behind your words, and as the invisible lightbulb atop his head switched on, he was reminded of the situation at hand. It definitely pulled his consciousness into sobriety. Just a tad bit.

“A-are y’sure?” A breathless, almost dainty whisper slipped past his rosy lips. He took note of the way your gaze shifted ever so slightly downwards, eyes crudely lingering on the plush of his bottom lip as his tongue briefly swiped against it.

Atsumu’s Adam’s apple bobbed at your not-so-subtle stare, stomach churning with want. He knew this feeling all too well—it visited him whenever he was alone in his room, mind wandering over to thoughts of you which filled every corner of his mind; sometimes the feeling was too strong, other times he could bear it. Tonight, though, Atsumu wasn’t sure if he was immune to this feeling, let alone erase any impulsive thoughts from his intoxicated mind.

What pulled you into this decision was something you’d never figure out; maybe it was the fact that your yearning heart grew tired of the icy distance between the two of you or maybe you’ve truly come to terms with his unreciprocated feelings—you didn’t know. All you knew was that nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations, especially when it involved feelings. But this could be an exception, right?

“So . . Does that mean we can be friends again?”

It was weird. Atsumu’s voice brimmed with a sense of hope—as if he’s been waiting for this very moment for the past two weeks—but the strange glint in his caramel eyes betrayed the blonde entirely.

Despite your better judgement, you chalked it up to the warm light that casted a soft shadow upon his features; maybe you were too dizzy to see things clearly, or maybe you were looking too deep into Atsumu’s expression—hoping to find some sort of sadness upon hearing your decision to move on, and accept his rejection.

Atsumu watched as your eyes traced his features, closely observing them as if to find some kind of answer; as selfish as it seemed, the intensity in your eyes gave him a tinge of hope that perhaps you could let yourself pine over him just a little longer because he wasn’t sure what he’d do with the knowledge that your heart would no longer yearn for him.

The situation was a double-edged sword, really.

You let out a puff of breath, “Yeah, of course. We’re friends again.” Friends. That word should have given you more relief than sorrow but could you really blame yourself? It felt like a bitter reminder of cold rejection which resembled salt pressed against an unhealed wound, a searing itch that left your skin feverish.

Even if it meant selling yourself short.

Avoiding his eye contact, you swiftly unwound your fingers from his wrist, mentally cursing yourself for not noticing any sooner. A cold embrace engulfed Atsumu’s wrist, where your fingers were mere seconds ago, he tried his best to ignore how his body yearned for your warmth. He gave a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, you stood in each other’s silence like two predators sizing up one another, eagerly waiting for one’s move before pouncing, the silent hum of the fridge making up for the lack of conversation between one another.

How strange, this agreement should have cleared the unsettled air between you, and Atsumu but why did it feel like the complete opposite? As if the air turned into something more uncertain. You both knew you could feel the uncanny tension rising up, up, up but not one dared to address it.

Swiftly burying it under the rug, Atsumu spoke, thinly slicing through your trance, “You’ll find someone better.”

God, he must’ve really matured this new year because he didn’t know how he was able to say that straight to your face. Being one to wear his heart on his sleeve, this was completely foreign for Atsumu—or maybe he just got better at masking his true emotions.

You closed your eyes upon hearing his response, as if doing so would help you brave the weight of his words. It didn’t. That was the last thing you wanted Atsumu to say to you, ‘someone better’, it was brazen of him to think so poorly of himself, as though he wasn’t that certain someone. It was entirely unfair on your end because who was Atsumu to determine which person was for you?

Even just thinking about it had you fuming, rejection was one thing but completely disregarding the reason behind your feelings for him was another because in your eyes, Miya Atsumu was that ‘someone better’; he was the one who understood you the most, the one who always looked out for you, the one you fucking wanted.

And despite your mind telling you to nod along, and suck it up, the alcohol in your body was stronger; so, you opened your eyes, and furrowed your brows at him,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“But I don’t want anyone better, Tsumu. I want you.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened, the desperation in your voice was something he hadn't heard before, it definitely pulled at his heart, guilt gnawing at his skin for being the sole reason for your drunken actions. He may be drunk but he wasn’t stupid, Atsumu knew you should’ve kept that one to yourself, he could practically see you brimming with temerity but he’d be lying to himself if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

I want you, too. God, he wanted to say it back badly. The words were lodged in his throat, unable to slip past his lips despite the best efforts to do so.

It dawned on him—right then, and there—the severity of your feelings for him, the immense weight of it. Now, guilt really ate him away; he could only imagine how the past two weeks were for you. Did you cry while thinking about him?

That was the last thing Atsumu wanted.

Though, amidst the guilt, something else blossomed in his chest, it made him feel like he stood upon the highest pedestal. Atsumu didn’t know whether it was pride or greed; as fucked up as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to push the impulsiveness away as though you’ve infected him with your own. His heart hammered at a thought that formed in his mind, even just thinking about it stirred his chest.

Despite Atsumu’s better judgement, he held onto the feeling with a tight grip, and opened his mouth, tongue nervously swiping at the bottom lip,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“Is . . Is it bad that I really want to kiss you right now?”

You sucked in a breath, heart pounding at Atsumu’s sudden confession. If you were sober, you’d have a million thoughts racing through your mind right now, questioning the feelings he really had for you but unfortunately, only one thing was on your mind—how badly you wanted to kiss Atsumu too.

Dragging yourself further down, down, down the void of uncertainty, you shook your head in a daze,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“What if I say I want to kiss you, too?” 

Barely audible but Atsumu heard it just fine over the pounding of his heart, over the incoherent conversations beyond this kitchen, over the muted bass music because as long as it's you, he’d always listen, even if it meant drowning out the entire world.

Then, there was a heartbeat, a passing second, a dip of a finger to test undisturbed waters; the funny thing was that even a minute disturbance could cause a ripple effect for miles, and miles, awakening the dormant creatures that lay beyond the azure surface.

It was swift, as though Atsumu had been waiting for this very moment to happen—one second you were locked in a trance, the next his lips were pressed against your own, a shared warmth of intimacy searing both bodies in an eternal blaze like a blue flame that dangerously destroyed everything in its path.

Shy. Warm. Soft. Rosy. Like it was meant to be. The list could go on, and on but it was as though your thoughts came quickly before your mind could register them, leaving you in a white, empty haze. With the plastic cups long forgotten on the counter behind, you closed your eyes as Atsumu’s body eagerly pressed against yours, strong arms coming up to rest on the granite countertop behind you, fingers digging into the material to ground himself.

For a moment, everything was still, lips unmoving against each other, a time to bask in this newfound intimacy—the foreignness of one another’s body. The earth felt like it spun on its axis way faster than usual, as if day, and night merged to become one; hues of late dusk, and early dawn intertwined like your bodies.

Bitterness from Atsumu’s rosy lips lingered on your own; you never liked the taste of beer but oddly enough, you didn’t mind it at all.

Your hands cupped Atsumu’s jaw, fingers gently digging onto his soft skin, eager for more as your lips moulded together. Slowly moving his mouth against your own, you followed suit to match the sensual pace he had set, falling deeper, and deeper between the hazy boundaries of friendship, and something a little more. Low whimpers slipped past between each feverish kiss as a drunken greed gradually controlled your bodies.

The initial softness of the kiss dissipated as each second passed, slowly turning into something more carnal, and passionate—breaths becoming heavier, and faces eagerly pressed against one another, angled in a way to grant more access.

Was this what cloud nine felt like? Exhilarating? Euphoric? As though there was no one else—

“Oh!—Holy shit. Did I interrupt?”

A familiar voice violently pulled you, and Atsumu back into reality, swiftly jumping away from each other’s hold, and looking over to the owner of the voice. Suna. The brunette stared at both of you—looking like a deer caught in headlights, chests heaving—his expression was unreadable, almost like a mix of shock, and amusement. You, and Atsumu kissing in the kitchen was absolutely not in his new year bingo card.

Well, this encounter certainly was enough to strip you into sobriety.

Your head spun a little, lungs severely deprived of oxygen. Shame, and realisation settled deep in your bones—shame because Suna just caught you, and Atsumu almost sucking the soul out of each other, and realisation because everything about this whole situation was so wrong; a million questions formulated in your mind as each awkward second passed.

On the other hand, Atsumu was equally as horrified, albeit annoyed that he didn’t have the chance to kiss you longer. The thrumming of his heart pounded in his ears, his mind trying to come up with anything to say just to stop the thoughts formulating in Suna’s mind—oh, he knows that look on his friend’s face very well.

Your view became obstructed by the expanse of Atsumu’s back, a subtle attempt to block you from the brunette’s gaze.

“W-what the hell, Suna?! Don’t jus’ barge into the kitchen, ya scrub!” Atsumu tried his best to act tough but miserably failed with the shakiness in his voice betraying him.

As if to make matters worse, Suna didn’t back down, a smug look painted on his flushed face as the blonde shamelessly blamed him,

“Well, how was I supposed to know that you two were sucking each other’s faces in the kitchen?!”

Did he have to word it like that?

Atsumu opened, and closed his mouth, trying to think of ways to deny Suna’s accusations but his mind went blank, even with just the brunette mentioning your kiss had him blushing like a mad man. Silence yet again occupied the kitchen, low bass music spilled from the speakers, and incoherent chatters from beyond the space making up for the lack of conversation.

Before the situation could get even more awkward, you spoke up, “I . . think I’m just going to go . . ” This gained both their attention, carefully watching as you navigated past Atsumu, and out the kitchen.

The blonde watched as you staggered past him, and Suna; he wanted to go after you, and talk about what just happened but the soles of his feet stayed rooted on the ground, too heavy to lift, even the words he wanted to say were lodged in his throat.

So, Atsumu decided it was best to let you go.

Monday. 

Everyone’s enemy but also a day to gather around the campus coffee shop with friends, and be productive for a while. The calming aroma of coffee engulfed your senses; low chatter from other customers, faint jazz music, and the occasional hum of the coffee machine filled the table from the lack of conversation. Despite the café’s light ambience, it didn’t do much to hide the growing tension that surrounded the group, specifically you, Atsumu, and Suna.

Kita was the first to notice the subtle shift of aura that emanated from you three, especially after catching a glimpse of Suna’s narrow eyes trailing from you to Atsumu over his laptop screen; though, he had much more things to worry about than to indulge himself in whatever tomfoolery this was. He’d ask questions later.

On the other hand, Osamu was more than curious, especially after his older twin started acting out of character—Atsumu wasn’t one to engulf himself in thoughts to the point where he’d be staring at an inanimate object, in a complete daze but lately, Osamu has seen him behave as such.

The latter could practically feel the weight of awkwardness pressing against his skin as he subtly watched the three of you. Of course, he did his best to pry off information from the blonde only to no avail; Osamu didn’t know why Suna was even caught up in this but he suspected it was from the party a few days ago.

He remembered seeing you stumble out of the kitchen when he was on his way to grab more drinks from their fridge, the younger twin thought nothing of it until he was met with Suna, and Atsumu awkwardly standing in the kitchen. Normally, Osamu would’ve asked questions that night but the alcohol in him couldn’t care less about the situation.

Staring at the untouched document pulled up on your laptop, you ducked behind your screen to avoid Suna’s wandering gaze, and Osamu’s not-so-subtle curiosity. This was hell. You didn’t even know why you decided to turn up today after that shit show at the party—maybe because you thought you could shove down that memory especially after telling Atsumu that you were fine or maybe you craved the closeness you two once had, and now you were here to rebuild that.

As easy as it sounded, you feared it might not be so with the way Atsumu has been avoiding you like the plague. First, it started when you walked into the café at the same time as the twins, Osamu greeted you at the door before heading inside leaving you, and Atsumu outside. Now, that would’ve been fine if the latter didn’t make a show of taking a couple of steps back to let you go first as though you carried some kind of incurable disease.

The second time was when Atsumu realised the only vacant seat was next to your own, thus, asking to swap with Osamu just so he could sit farthest away from you. And the third was when you had asked him if he was alright while waiting in line to order only to be met with a mindless nod before returning to his phone in his hand.

You tried your very best to ignore the blooming pain in your chest; sure, being sad about Atsumu possibly avoiding you was reasonable but then again, you were the one who told him you were okay now—how Atsumu decided to act after the party was beyond your control.

God but it pissed you off. Swallowing one’s pride, and making effort to rekindle a cold friendship was not an easy feat when the other doesn’t do the same. It shouldn’t work you up this much but it did, and now you were second guessing yourself that maybe it was an irrational decision to abruptly tell Atsumu that you’ve come to terms with moving on.

That night at the party, were you lying to yourself just so you could be around him again?

Whatever. It was too late to take it back anyway.

The days ahead were monotonous, and boring; you, and Atsumu remained orbiting around one another, careful not to get into each other’s path of trajectory but it was tiring. Not only did it feel like navigating through eggshells while he was around but the constant questions from your friends tested your limits. Though, it wasn’t their fault for simply being curious, and getting left in the dark about the whole situation but the prying felt like endless jabs of sharp needles along your skin.

From their point of view, you, and Atsumu were stubborn about the whole situation. None dared to speak up about it, acting as though everything was fine, so your friends were left with very little to work with.

It felt like a game of cat, and mouse where you were the feline chasing Atsumu around. The longer the days dragged on, the more thoughts formulated in your mind, and they all involved the blonde in some way or another. And just like everyone else, you had your limits too; you were tired of Atsumu acting like a stubborn idiot.

When you confessed to Atsumu, sure, you expected an awkward phase but this was even worse. There wasn’t just distance between the two of you, it felt like you were strangers.

He was known for brashly saying the sharp truth, so why couldn’t he be straightforward with you? Was he disgusted by the kiss, and deeply regretted it? Did he think you were weird? You didn’t know, but you were bound to find out even if it meant knocking at the twin’s apartment door at 5:45 PM on a cold, rainy Thursday.

With the sun hidden behind the looming grey clouds, the late winter afternoon was even darker; the roads were packed with vehicles while the sidewalks occupied students, and company workers alike trying their best to shield themselves from the heavy downpour. Despite the streets being illuminated with a tinge of warm yellow from cars, and streetlights, it did nothing to brighten up the gloomy day.

Funny, it was as though the universe knew how you felt today.

“If yer lookin’ for ‘Samu, he won’t be back until 8 PM.” Greeted with Atsumu’s shocked face as the ivory door to their apartment opened, you couldn’t help but visibly roll your eyes at his stubbornness. Yeah, like you’d be here at their apartment looking for Osamu—you knew each of their timetables like the back of your hand.

Flaxen strands that sat atop his head were unruly, a sign that he must’ve been taking a nap sometime ago. Atsumu donned a light blue hoodie paired with black sweats; you tried your best not to ogle the man, after all, you were here for a sensible talk.

“I’m here for you, Miya.”

Atsumu gripped the metal handle a little tighter, the coolness of it seeping into the warmth of his skin. He tried not to flinch at the sudden formality of the conversation. Nonetheless, the blonde pulled the door wider, a wordless invite to their humble space. Giving him a small smile before walking inside, you tried not to think about the last time you were here, and how you found yourself drunkenly kissing Atsumu in their kitchen.

The sound of the door closing shut behind Atsumu reverberated throughout the walls of their apartment, followed by a deafening silence. Met with his honeyed stare, you awkwardly coughed, and played with the hem of your jacket, “I’m not going to take up too much of your time . . but I do just have one question.”

There was a momentary silence as Atsumu waited for you to proceed; he had so many questions running through his mind right now, and it took all his willpower to hold them back, and let you speak instead. It was getting harder, and harder to focus as each second passed with the pounding of his heart—Atsumu didn’t know what to expect.

“Did you—Did you regret that kiss . . ?”

Your skin burned as the question lingered in the air, a beat or two before Atsumu finally spoke up, “. . N-no, why’d ya ask?”

Sighing, impatience prickled your feverish skin. ‘Why’d you ask?’  What the hell does he mean by why would I ask? We made out for fuck sake, that’s something friends don’t do! Why is he acting so casual about it? 

“God, this just made it a lot worse. I have so many fucking questions that my mind wants to explode right now,” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you slowly paced back, and forth, the floors beneath silently creaking with each step. So, Atsumu didn’t regret the kiss but he’s acting like you’re strangers—fucking hell, why did he even kiss you in the first place?!

Your mind was a complete mess.

Trying to calm yourself down with slow, deep breaths, you decided to address the elephant in the room first, “Then why have you been avoiding me, Atsumu?—I’m sorry but I’m the one who got rejected, I cannot think of any reason why you should be avoiding me like this.” Atsumu hated that look on your face—the desperation, the sadness, the frustration. He never thought that he’d be the one making you feel all these negative emotions, and it pained him as much as it pained you.

Atsumu let out a sigh, carefully formulating the right words into a coherent sentence, “I’m just . . trying to be careful, okay?” His stomach dropped as your face contorted with more confusion.

Did he say something wrong?

“Careful about what, Atsumu?! You—ugh! It’s so hard to talk to you when you’re giving me all these stupidly vague answers! I’ve already told you I was fine. I don’t care anymore that you don’t like me back. I just want us to be back to normal again.”

Now, it was Atsumu’s turn to be upset. He couldn’t bear the thought of you moving on so quickly, and that’s why he’s been acting distant lately; it annoyed him how easy it was for you to talk to him like nothing happened but Atsumu knew he couldn’t tell you the reason—why couldn’t you just try, and understand his situation? Rejecting wasn’t an easy task to do, especially if it was the person he had been hopelessly pining for.

“Well—maybe things aren’t meant ta back ta normal!”

What?

You stared at him for a second, brows furrowed as you tried to comprehend his words that lingered in the cold air of their apartment. Silence engulfed the two of you, the distant sounds of Hyōgo’s late afternoon rain seeping through the slightly opened window.

“Do you feel uncomfortable around me after knowing the fact that I have feelings for you? Is that it?” “God, no—I could never feel that way.”

It took all of Atsumu’s patience not to wrap his arms around you—he wanted to hold you against him badly; that defeated look on your face broke his heart but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Maybe Atsumu was the coward after all.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, ‘Tsumu!”

“It’s hard f’me as well, y’know?!” “What is?”

Atsumu closed his eyes, the words he’s been wanting to scream at the top of his lungs lodged in his throat, threatening to slip out. A wave of adrenaline rush coursed through his veins, heart pounding like crazy with this newfound high, it made him feel as though he was invincible—as if he could say anything, and everything without a care for its consequences.

Fuck it.

“Fuck—It’s because I like ya back, okay?! I always have! And rejectin’ ya was so goddamn hard f’me because I’m still not over ya. God, I think about ya every single second, and it pains me so much because yer already movin’ on, and ‘m still stuck here.”

What?

Flabbergasted, you stared at Atsumu all wide-eyed, the thrumming of your heart becoming increasingly loud against your ears as each slow second passed. Did he just say he liked you back? As though mother nature was watching, the rain outside poured harder; sounds of droplets of heavy water against the roof filled the silent apartment, pulling you back into reality.

“Then why—If you feel the same way then why did you reject me?”

When you knocked on the door to the twins’ apartment, you expected a sincere conversation with Atsumu, not him confessing his feelings out of the blue. You were absolutely speechless—you didn’t know whether to jump for joy because he actually does like you back or whether to massage your temples from pure confusion.

“Back then during the trip, ya told me ya weren’t ready for a relationship yet, and that ya only wanted ta confess ta get rejected n’ move on. I wanted ta respect yer decision, so . .”

Flashbacks of said conversation from the trip quickly came into mind, and how you told Atsumu about not being ready for a relationship yet.

Oh.

Oh.

The weight of frustration from your shoulders slowly dissipated, the pent up annoyance you held in your heart was gone too. Suddenly, you weren’t so frustrated anymore after learning about the whole truth behind the situation. You were able to breathe better with the bad air finally cleared between you, and Atsumu.

Looking at it now, you felt absolutely silly. The whole situation turned out to be one big misunderstanding, it was almost laughable—now, you truly understood the essence of communication is key.

You let out a humourless laugh, “You’re so stupid, you know that?” Taking a few steps toward the blonde, you leaned your forehead against his chest, a hand coming up to curl into a fist to lightly hit it; a faint scent of his musky cologne lingered on the fabric of his hoodie, effectively invading your senses. Atsumu didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around your torso, pulling your body flush against his before resting his chin on the crown of your head.

For a beat or two, you, and Atsumu remained in each other’s hold, basking in the cosy atmosphere. 

“Would I be more stupid if I tell ya I want ta pick up where we left off at the party?”

Before you knew it your lips were sealed in a searing kiss—this time, it felt raw, all things passionate, and eager. Hands impatiently roaming each other’s unexplored bodies, sounds of wet kisses slowly filling up the apartment. The atmosphere shifted from cosy to something more sensual, light groans, and moans slipping in between each kiss.

Your hands rested on Atsumu’s golden strands, fingers gently tugging at it as he worked his lips down the column of your neck, teeth lightly nipping at the feverish skin. Atsumu focused on a certain spot just below your ear, nipping, and sucking at it which pulled a dainty whine from your lips.

“‘T-Tsumu—Ah!” You gasped, his tongue leaving trails of goosebumps beneath its sinful licks against your skin. He cursed under his breath, the dizzying tone of your voice awakening the slumbering carnal beast that resided in his core. With each dulcet moan that slipped past your swollen lips, Atsumu became greedier, he wasn’t going to settle for mere kisses on your skin—he needed to hear more.

Pulling away from your intoxicating scent, Atsumu looked down at you with parted lips, and hooded eyes, caramel gaze clouded with nothing but pure desire. “I think we should take this ta my room.” He panted.

Nodding at his proposal, hurried footsteps padded over to his room as though each second wasted was crucial. As soon as the door behind Atsumu slammed shut, his lips were on yours once again, strong hands deftly working on the layers of clothing you wore, slowly slipping them off of you one by one; Atsumu could practically feel himself shaking with nervousness, and excitement.

Discarding your top on the wooden floor beneath, Atsumu stared wide-eyed at your torso, both hands coming up to cup your breasts through the fabric of your bra, earning a low moan from you. The air of the room felt cold against your skin but Atsumu’s touch was enough to ignite you.

“So beautiful . .” He absent-mindedly gasped, a lovestruck look in his honeyed eyes.

Hands eagerly tugging at the hem of his hoodie, Atsumu swiftly pulled the fabric off his torso in one movement, golden strands tousled from the action. Goosebumps formed upon his sun kissed skin, bare torso met with the cold winter air; your eyes raked Atsumu’s physique up, and down, shamelessly ogling his muscled chest in all its naked glory. God, you used to just fantasise about this, and now it was served right in front of you on a silver platter.

You decorated each other’s skin with endless love bites, sinful hues of dark red, and purple peppered along your chest, and neck. Atsumu took his sweet time to savour every bit of you—your taste, your scent, your sounds, everything. He made sure to bask in your serene beauty, the gentle glow of your bare figure before utterly devouring you like a starved animal, ravaging your purity with carnal desire.

Atsumu let himself go at the raw intimacy of your bodies, the feeling of your sweet warmth brought tears of pleasure in his eyes as he pushed, and pushed towards the newfound ecstasy you both shared. The chant of his name slipped past your lips like a sinful melody, mere fuel to the relentless drive of his hips. But Atsumu held you dearly against his naked body through it all, fingers intertwined with your own as he keenly chased both your pleasures, choked out moans of your name whispered hotly against your sensitive skin.

And as you both tipped over the edge, Atsumu didn’t fail to tell you how much he loved you in between each pathetic moan as he painted your insides white, the dizzying pleasure contorting his handsome face in pure ecstasy. You held him in your arms, nails digging crescent-shaped marks on his skin, whispering saccharine praises to him as you let go, and emptied the words of your heart.

As the gentle aftermath of the passionate exchange rolled around, Atsumu held you in his arms, hearts beating as one, and lulling you both to sleep. The last thing you heard was a faint ‘I love you’ before passing out from exhaustion.

“‘Tsumu, what did ya want for—Oh my god! What the fuck?!” 

A familiar voice abruptly pulled you, and Atsumu out of your sleep, followed by the loud bang of his door slamming shut. Muffled expletives from outside the room could be heard as you both stirred beneath the ivory sheets. “‘Tsumu, what the hell?! Ya should’ve warned me before I went into yer room!” Osamu yelled from the other side of the door.

Atsumu groaned, rubbing his face before turning to the door, “Shut yer trap! Ya should’ve knocked!” At his twin’s silence, he let out a sigh, and slung a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his naked body before closing his eyes once again.

You let out a soft chuckle, “We really need to stop getting caught. First, Suna, and now Osamu.” Atsumu hummed in response, too sleepy to even think or form a coherent sentence. Snuggling closer to him, you closed your eyes, and went back to sleep as well.

Oh, you could get used to this.

Winter slowly turned into spring as March rolled around—the end of the academic year.

Trees that were once bare slowly blossomed with flowers, hues of yellows, and browns were replaced with endless greenery, and frigid air became more welcoming like a warm embrace. Most importantly, the cold distance between you, and Atsumu no longer existed, instead, it was replaced by fluttering heartbeats, and fluffy moments that hinted at a sweet forevermore.

“There he is! How does it feel to be a fresh graduate!” Suna whistled as Kita walked over to the group, clad in a black academic gown with a matching trencher propped neatly on his head, the golden tassel on the cap swayed with every step taken; he donned a warm smile, one hand holding his well-deserved degree.

The buzz of excitement outside the venue was high, the graduation ceremony having finished just a few minutes ago. You were all surrounded by graduands, all with heartfelt smiles on their faces as they conversed with family, and friends alike. 

As your friends fell into a merry conversation, a warm hand interlaced with your own, giving your hand a comfortable squeeze. Atsumu. Looking up at your boyfriend, he cheekily leaned into your ear, whispering an ‘I love you’ before slowly blinking at you, mirroring a cat’s action. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at his antics.

“Are you two lovebirds done, now?” Suna coughed, pulling you back into reality.

Met with amused expressions plastered on your friends’ faces, you, and Atsumu returned a sheepish smile before joining in their conversation. “Anyway, we were talkin’ about how we should celebrate Kita’s graduation. It can also serve as a treat for us for makin’ it through another academic year.” Osamu explained, earning a hum of approval from you, and Atsumu.

“How about a spring trip to Kyoto?” —

tags: @ushijimaschubbs @tsumudoll @startlitsawamura @littlemiyastars @h3art-ablaz3 @eggyrocks @integers @rrosiitas @food8me @schelamski @honeytwo @nyaaa-cat @cherribxio @aloesstuff @bontensh0e @willshebloved @yogurtkags @hyori2 @hibernatinghamster @theepitomeofswag @yawnjjunz @animesimpingismyjob @acowboykisser @rntrsuna @rjreins @prodhyuka @loonalockley @cheesypuffkins87 @kos-misch @iluvaquaphor @stunie @cathyket @empress-pug-pug @plutoxxxworld @sunawhore @jaegerfiles

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum !

© chrollogy 2024 | don’t plagiarise, repost or steal my header.

[queenendless]

🔞🌃Nights (Adult!SatoSugu x Fem!Reader)🌃🔞

A/N: This is a short smut piece, serving as the follow-up to Moving Day.

CW: MATURE 18+ CONTENT INSIDE. NSFW, P in V, P in ass, double penetration, MMF, threesome, throuple, polyamory, short smut.

I'm no master at writing smut so sorry if it's not longer and stuff but writing short pieces means more often posts.

All credit for the characters/show goes to Gege sensei.

* Please DON'T plagarize, translate, or repost my FANFIC content. Reblog, like, and follow instead.

I hope whoever reads this enjoys.

Gojo boastfully laughed as he regaled with tales of pissing off the stingy higher ups, Geto whisking his drink about in his hand with a wry grin and invested eyes, and you sitting in between them.

Sushi dinner with your two loves. What a way to celebrate this newest chapter in all your lives.

You resting your face in your folded arms as their banter rang richly to your ears, lulled by their shared warmth. Feeling cozy, at ease, and entranced in ways you didn't think you'd ever receive. With them, it was like you three were in your own little world.

It had gotten late. Leaving the sushi joint with leftovers in bags, you three were heartily full, light-headed and happy. Driving back home in your five seated cozy car with Geto at the wheel. Gojo leaned his head back in the passenger seat while you kissed them both on the cheek, making small talk with Geto while Gojo zoned out to nap.

Honestly … you felt on top of the world.

Like right now.

In the comfort of your newly shared bedroom.

As your soaking cunt gobbled up Geto's shaft with such ease as he lowered you down slowly enough to slide it in; his giant hands squeezing you from your hips to your thighs.

"Fuck~" His raven hair fanned out beneath him, panting heavily already. "Honey, you are heaven sent~" Geto's lovesick smile made your bud tingle at his girth stuffing.

"Aaah~!" Your erotic moan made Geto swell up even further. His cheeks turned more red, sweat trailed down his enamored face and his flexing muscles; his veins popping out in the process.

Scratching your nails down Geto's ribs elicited rough hisses from him that made you carefully lay down atop him so you could smooch him. "Sugu~" Your shortened nickname for him made Geto smile further as he opened his mouth to let you two French kiss sloppily.

The moment you felt Gojo's lean warm presence lay atop your back, his girth throbbed as he jerked off in his hand whilst rubbing his dripping head in between your peaches.

"Nngh!" Geto grinded his hips forward just to get friction stroking his balls against Gojo's.

"Mmph!" Your lips broke off, head reeling as your arse swayed in the air, just begging to have Gojo's girth stretch you out. And that's what he did, your scorching wet caverns sucking him up just as greedily. "Ha – Aah … Toru~" Your shortened nickname for him, panting needily, had his hips jolting into yours, kneading your cheeks roughly, leaving scratch marks in their wake.

"Fuuuck~! Tight as ever, sweetie~ You've really missed me, huh~?" His head plopped down on your back as his hand fondled your right tit from behind simultaneously with Geto massaging your left tit.

"Missed us both, honestly~" Geto drawled, flitting his tongue along your neck, suckling your collar bone, grinning at the red welt marks now imprinting you. "The feeling's mutual~"

With Suguru's left hand gripping your right hip, and Satoru's own left hand grabbing your left hip, you felt somewhat anchored through your heated mindset. Your hands dug into Geto's broad shoulders for steadiness, your hips rotated upwards as they together lifted you up only to pull you down to take them in further, striking every nerve ending ingrained inside.

When they thrusted upwards, you jolted forward. When they pulled back, your walls fluttered, squeezing their cocks desperately.

This addicting pattern was quickly escalating as neither man was not even close to fully truly releasing. And so, their now frenetic rhythm had you a moaning yelling mess as familiarity of times before began racing through your memory. Them pounding into your soaking tightness specifically.

"God, this feels right~!" Gojo buried his face in your neck, kissing and biting you insistently enough to leave marks as much as possible in every inch of skin there. "So fuckin hot~!"

Geto took in a mouthful of your bountiful breast that he was just twisting your nub with his fingers, now tracing patterns with his sizzling tongue as he nibbled on your bud starvingly, his lips curling on both ends up at you. "Agreed~ Such a fine tasting angel~"

God, their teething, their burning mouths, their firm-built hands fondling and rubbing your skin, everything drove you up the wall. Their touch. Their taste. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

Dopamine jutted through all three of you.

FWOP!

Pushing yourself off Geto as you raised your hips frenzy in tune with them pulling away just as swiftly.

FWOP!

Only to SLAM yourself down on them both, earning lustful swearing yells from them, amorously smiling looking at their squeezing eyed, panting, sweating flushed beauty. Up and down you went, rewarding you with unreasonable pleasure and their deep enriching symphony of moaning.

"Horny little lady~" Gojo hissed as his hand released your abused red boob to grab your chin and turn you around enough to kiss you savagely; your surprised mewls mingling with his growls as he won supreme exploring every inch of your mouth.

SCHLICK!

Pulling your hands off his shoulders to intertwine with his, the squelched sounds of Geto popping out your breast heard loud and clear; a line of drool connected his tongue to your drool covered hill as he pushed up on his elbows, dark lust coating his eyes. "Satoru, let me take the lead here."

"Aw~! But taking her from behind is heaven~!" Gojo's whine as he parted from your swollen slick mouth was accentuated by thrusting in one fast thrust up said ass, having your loud squealing self lean back against his front; your horny tongue out expression had their dicks twitching.

"So is this." Geto's devious smirk was your only warning as he quickly pushed off the bed, situating yourself straddling him, when his hand released yours to grab your right thigh and heaved it high enough and far apart to stretch your pussy to go with another angle had you crying out. "Well~?"

Pulling your left thigh enough apart to drape over his hip from behind, Gojo followed his lead, earning him the same result, seeing your wanton crying self hugging Geto around the neck.

"Huh … not bad Suguru~" Gojo chuckled before leaning over your curling whimpering self to kiss Geto deeply.

"I try~ Now Satoru, shall we~?"

"W – wait~!" Your breathless plea had both men watching and amazed that you turned around to tug on Gojo's black blindfold, pulling it off to let his hair down and his eyes be free. "Beautiful~"

Gojo blushed darker, his heart felt struck harder by Cupid's arrow, and his eyes brightened with unbridled love before he kissed you his thanks, smiling cheekily as he rubbed noses with you. "Kawaii~!"

Holding your legs up from under the knees in one hand, lifting you higher off the bed, you were blown away by their sheer strength electrifying your nerves in this new angle, taking turns thrusting in and out, tugging your legs further apart in tune to their spasming pegs.

Burying your face in Geto's thick neck as your boobs aligned against his boob like pecs, you chewed on them luscious builds before biting hard enough to leave teeth marks. "Goddess~!" Geto gushed, dazedly smiling at you marking him as yours.

Shaking the bed insistently enough had the headboard smacking the wall a lot as one slid in and the other slid out, shaking you back and forth between them as they sucked and bit every inch of you they could reach, further claiming you.

The cacophony of profane, raunchy yells and screams served as the melodies to your ears, bouncing off the walls from the overwhelming sensations rendering you unable to spot when blue and brown gazes made eye contact.

Both slid out until only their tips remained inside. Then they struck in unison. Your tender flesh stretched to its limits until they reached that right spot. You then saw blinding white, popping off Geto's pec to breathlessly gasp. Your cunt and a-hole slick and swollen enough for another double pining.

Grinding as one, their composure long lost, all that mattered now was carnal release. Your breath hitched at the overwhelming high, your nails dragging down Geto's back; his pained growl giving you goosebumps before devouring your open mouth, swallowing your cries.

Blood rushed to your core chaotically. The air between you all got so smothering hot, difficult to breathe calmly. You barely able to pull free from Geto's swollen wet mouth before Gojo's head swerved around to entrap you in a deep tongue fuck.

Your hair stuck to your forehead, gleaming from sweat, you were losing composure. You felt muscles tighten as you were literally pressed in between their built chests, bruising left on your knees from their grip digging in painfully.

"T – Toru! S – Sugu! I – I'm – !" You struggled to utter against Gojo's perfect lips as you felt yourself about to reach the precipice.

"S – Same! Sh – Shit!" Gojo gritted through his teeth before going back to sucking and nibbling roughly at the back of your neck.

"Come, love! C – Come for us~!" Geto croaked out as narrowed brown eyes blazed with vigor; his furrowed brows and set jawline evident signs of him barely keeping it together.

The same was said for you as your continued insatiable clenching around their lengths had them pegging you in their hardest drive. Combined, it all drove you over the edge.

All you saw and felt was that same white hotness, wailing out loud as you unraveled. Drenching their abdomens, their thighs, the bedsheets covers. A lot really.

Your obscene wail was what set their beings spasmodic; the trigger warning, as their guts tightened in unison as they convulsed hard, roaring out loud, bursting the dams, painting your insides with their essence, leaking out of you, down their lengths and mixing with your own.

Dissolved into pleasure, you all came undone, the highs coming in waves of heaven. Wanting to chase that high, the chaotic duo kept at it, their cream coated loads still hitting your deepest crevice just to get the rest out, grunting whilst you were an exhausted mewling wreck.

Finally, their own highs in the clouds faded off, leaving their once stiff dicks now softened up. They lowered you down, releasing your knees, setting your legs draped against the soiled sheets.

Gojo collapsed against your backside, resting his sweaty warm face against your right shoulder while Geto draped himself over you up front, his face buried in your tits. You shuddered as one hand draped through Geto's ruffled raven locks while your other hand brushed back Gojo's snowy locks stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"Y/n-chaaaaaan~" Gojo cooed teasingly despite the fatigue, no doubt smirking. "Hands on practice, success~"

"Quite the memorable lesson, indeed~" Geto's soothing voice also teemed with wry humor as he looked up at you with his nose lodged between your hills.

Of course, they'd be smug about making you cum hard.

"J … Jerks." Your halfhearted jab was overshadowed by you nearly fainting sideways, instinctively triggering their sudden boost in reflexes, having them grabbing you before laying you gently down on your side.

"Maybe we pushed her too far." Gojo hinted at.

Geto raised a questioning brow at his crazy bestie lover. "Maybe?"

Still, they chuckled weakly at the night's events as they laid on their sides, keeping their shafts inside your comfy self; the bump in your tummy being sheer physical evidence of them in the womb. Their arms encased you, flushed between their glowing drenched selves, their legs entangling with your own.

"Love you two." Your nearly silent murmur added to your overall allure as your hands balled up against Geto's abs, your cheek pressed up to his scar covered chest as your own pillow for the night, dozing off leisurely to la-la land.

Gojo kissed your free cheek, using your shoulder as his pillow, whispering into your ear, "We love you too, beautiful~"

Geto kissed your forehead, smiling looking at your precious self snuggling into him. "Always."

As the iconic sorcerer duo kissed each other goodnight, they too conked out, leaving cleaning up to the morning.

For now, three being one, in their own little world, was like and will be like many more nights to come.

Literally.

[ancientpathwayswitchcraft]

Discover the ancient wisdom of tarot illuminated through the eyes of the divine Hera. This unique reading delves deep into the messages of The Sun, II of Pentacles (reversed), and V of Pentacles, guiding seekers on a journey of enlightenment and introspection.

[idanwyn-et-al]

Modryb.

Overhead, the great, upended blue bowl of the summer-sky heavens curved around the seas below,  dwarfing a group of ships that sailed the indigo deep. Waves crashed against each hull of the mighty fleet of Lluantoum the Depth Charge, whose Summermender sailed at the front of the sprawling V; migratory folk, these were, their shanties looping through the air like birdsong, keeping them tethered and familiar to all others in the flock. 

Idanwyn, just a sennight shy of her twelfth nameday, crouched on the starboard midship railing. She was shirtless, her legs wrapped in threadbare trousers, barefoot and grubby, a wiry pale thing with a great untamed shock of two-toned hair, the indigo roots slowly giving way to ember-red ends. “Ye said this ship could fly one day, modryb. Papa t’inks ye’re full o’ shite...an’ sae do I. I dinnae see any wings.”

Hymlbyrta Lluanswysta, the ‘modryb’ in question, turned amused yellow eyes to her niece. “I thought I told you to curb that brogue, lass. You’ve but a few summers left where you can cling to the masts like a blue-spined urchin.” The Captain of the Nixie ruffled Idanwyn’s hair, and the girl grinned broadly, swaying with the movement of the waves easily on her precarious perch, listening as her aunt continued. “My dear brother does not believe this ship can fly because he is bound by tradition that has long-since outlived its usefulness.” She enumerated Lluantoum’s flaws on her gloved right hand. “He adheres to our outdated language; our outdated method of earning income; outdated methods of sailing the seas.” 

She filled her pipe with cinnamon fogweed, lighting it with a flint; the ritual and smell of this enthralled Idanwyn, how her aunt always managed it so effortlessly. None of her Captain’s finery ever caught aflame --- though it did when Idanwyn and Styrnwyn had tried to mimic their aunt’s behavior; an episode of dress up that was never to be repeated. 

“Weall. If it cannae fly wi’ wings,” Idanwyn began, then checked herself, trying to speak properly. “If she does not fly wi’ wings, how else would she fly?” Her aunt was the lone bastion of civilization Idanwyn clung to when the clan was on the high seas. Autumns in Kugane had her friends and their parents at the docks, teaching her their language; Limsa Lominsa offered a chance for herself, Styrnwyn, and their cousins to run free like landbound children, giving their parents a reprieve for the winter moons while the ships underwent maintenance. The rest of the year, however, was limited to the same bland meals day in and day out, scampering amongst the rigging, never sleeping soundly in her hammock tucked beneath the foredeck of the Summermender. When she was able to visit the Nixie, she felt as if she were transported to another world entirely. It had a proper library, gardens, a stage dedicated to the arts, and always seemed to have a new cabin somewhere in its twisting, ponderous belowdecks. To Idanwyn, her aunt, her modryb, represented the height of Sea Wolf culture: with her watered silk Captain’s coat cut just-so and trimmed with scalloped lace from faraway Ishgard; her tricorn hat and polished black leather heeled boots; her smell of blood oranges and dark ale and fogweed. 

Hymlbyrta exhaled a perfect smoke ring that immediately stretched into a line of grey fog as the ship continued her fast pace through the waves. “Ceruleum, Lluansgeim. The way of the future. The Admiral Merlwyb knows it; she’s already making quite the stir in Limsa. Your father is a stubborn auroch’s ass, and willnae bleedin’ do wha’ is th’ best, ye ken?” She paused, a smile blooming across her broad lips. “Hmm. It seems I still have to temper the brogue, as well.”

Idanwyn hopped down from her perch to chase an errant blue crab that scuttled across the deck. Plucking it from the boards, she let it run over her hands and arms; it didn’t pinch her, which was a novelty. “Ye a’ready have sae much, modryb. All yer books, an’ yer fine t’ings. Papa says ye could retire lit’ a pirate queen. Why d’ye need cer...surrul-the-um?”

The Captain reached out, laying the back of her hand against Idanwyn’s left forearm. Hesitantly, the blue crab climbed into the woman’s leather-gloved hand, and she tossed it over the starboard railing with a casual underhand. “Ceruleum. To fly, little urchin.” She took another drag from her pipe before tapping the spent bowl into the waves below. “To see what is beyond this endless blue and the wallowing we do atop it before our corpses are within it.” Giving her niece a gentle pat on the shoulder, she turned on her heel and was off with a quick stride to give one order after the other. She was always like this; with you for a brief, intense moment, and then off to give someone else their own brief, intense moment. 

Idanwyn was used to it. She scampered belowdecks to place her hand on the glowing, seething core of her aunt’s ship. Her father said the vessel was cursed, that her mainmast was overgrown with something misshapen. When Idanwyn laid her hand upon it, though, she could only see her aunt’s proud, bold stride; her fine silks; her indomitable will. These things permeated the Nixie herself, to the point that sometimes Idanwyn wondered where her father’s sister ended, and where the ship began.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 01

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, allusion to anxiety

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Next chapter

Masterlist

There is nothing quite like visiting a bookshop on a rainy autumn day, walking the pavements that will soon deepen in their shade of grey as the scarlet and burnt orange leaves will be decorated with tiny watery crystals. The fierce wind preludes to the sorrow of the gloomy clouds overhead, the chill creeping beneath the navy trenchcoat cooling the little skin bared by a simple ink black V-neck shirt. Caffeinated bordeaux sneakers hasten their step when leaving the district ruled by busy city life and entering the artisans district on the east side of town, where the boroughs are ruled by artists, individual shops, cafés and independent bookstores that each have their own vibe.

For a while now, a specific one has yet to be visited, intending to drop by ever since that long walk that lead through many a cobblestone street lined with brownstone houses and not a single business anywhere in sight. Except for Paper Souls, a hidden gem tucked away at the edge of the area where homes and commerce just meet and have resulted in a small store disguised as a proper worker’s house. As can be judged from the window display, the shop sells both well-known titles alongside more obscure ones, bound in editions fresh from the press and those having lived a ready life on someone’s shelves.

A second before the first tears of the heavens fall and make their presence known by ticking against the window, the bookstore is entered with a low sigh of delight. Nothing comes remotely close to the distinct scent of books, this specific combination of mustiness and ink laced with the fragrance of the weather outside and perfumes of customers. Or, in this case, solely the owner’s.

Here and there, a rumour about the man ruling the paper kingdom has been picked up and it is safe to say not all have been positive. A subject that has been frequently touched upon, oft causing more of a stir than the overall intimidating attitude, are the differently coloured eyes. One brown like hazelnuts at the end of the year and the other as blue as the ocean far outside the harbour.

The ones belonging to long blonde locks with dark roots looking up from the current read behind the counter and which are briefly met with a polite nod and casual greeting. At least one aspect of the groundless gossip is true because the disgruntled stoicism on the handsome face acknowledging the professional meaningless acquaintance silently makes the heart race and constricts the throat. It awakens the need to run and hide somewhere among the chestnut shelves, become a character in a tale so as to vanish and thus avoid upsetting the clerk by merely being present. Which might be the biggest problem, considering today’s goal of staying inside and spend it as is habitually done.

Don’t be silly. Just find a book and settle down somewhere to read a few pages. As long as you’re quiet, nothing’s gonna happen.

Thus, mayhaps repeating the self-chastisement once or twice, the creaking worn floorboards are walked upon as ghostlike as possible though every step makes the Body cringe due to the loudness disturbing the silence. 

And him.

The young man whose gaze is momentarily met before fleeing to the vintage couch in an incline with a gorgeous Penguin hardcover copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, which has been found in the poetry section across from the counter. Breath was held while standing on the tips of the toes while reaching for the thin volume on one of the highest shelves, hoping to not attract attention and refusing to use one of the nearby dark-wooden stools to climb atop because such acrobatics would likely not sit well with the person causing the hairs at the back of the neck to stand on edge.

A sigh of relief cannot be helped when loosening the buttons of the trenchcoat and tossing it over the arm rest before snuggling up in the corner of the sofa. Finally a moment devoid of stress, a chance to be carried off by the works of a beloved poet and artist embodying the truth of childhood and adulthood.

But being brought back all too soon from criticism on the corrupt Catholic Church by the oppressive presence of loose ripped jeans which are perceived just above the edge of the mustard cover. Despite being barely able to gather the courage to look away from the page, lashes nevertheless look up to hands tucked into denim pockets and non-matching irises peering down. Curiously, though it is also alarming, the gaze from above is awkward as if unsettled by the mere presence of a well-meaning bookworm which confirms the assumption about being a nuisance.

Although, the paradoxically misplaced inquiry spoken in a husky voice undermines the deduction. The lowering of broad shoulders does too, allowing personal defenses to waver a bit in the pursuit of kindness. ‘’How do you like your coffee?’’

Bewildered yet finding no clear reason for the kind question in the stoicism of two-toned locks, the simple reflex of asking for a repeat is acted upon with a sheepish tongue that does not know what to make of the situation. ‘’Sorry, what?’’

‘’Coffee. How do you drink yours?’’ A gruff slightly chubby thumb points toward the door, the glass decorated with autumnal tears. ‘’It might be raining, but I still need caffeine. Figured I might as well buy you something too. So, what should I get?’’

What do I do? Do I accept the offer? I mean, he offered it, but declining would still be polite. Then again, it’s free coffee.

‘’Oh, uhm, that’s very sweet of you.’’ The bundle is put down in the lap, flabbergasted shy hands tucked between the thighs while trying to stay as small as possible. It is a silly instinct, but the closeness of the intimidating bookshop clerk calls for it. Moreover, the deep slightly hoarse tone that sounds both as if still recovering from something and being exhausted with the world does not make matters better. 

However, albeit for a split second that is not credible enough, little will-o-the-wisps illuminate the entrancing wildness of an ocean and hazelnut forest as a quicksilver smile flashes over roseate lips. A beautiful fleeting sight which might never have arisen from the solemnity resting like a mask on the youth’s face.

A daydream.

Indeed, surely that is what it must have been. What other reason could there be to show a sign of being pleased with someone who does not feel particularly welcome and at ease in this paper kingdom?

Led astray by the unfocused train of thought, distracted by what may or may not have been witnessed, the actual answer comes out on a mumble. All the while boldly looking back, wondering. ‘’An iced vanilla latte... would be nice.’’

Acknowledging the order with a mere low rumble similar to a wolf’s, the clerk sets off on a caffeinated journey and leaves an affected soul behind. 

While still being highly uncomfortable with the lad’s presence, the thought of what just happened and the offer of a drink that was not in the slightest reluctant imprints a warm impression on a racing heart. Yet, before any ungrounded fantasies arise, the poetry bundle is quickly picked up again and later exchanged for a thick volume of Keats’s poetry that has been picked up in a rush to seemingly have never moved from the leather couch. To not leave a single trace of chaos which might trigger the wrath of the bookshop keeper and perhaps end up in being drenched by cold coffee. 

All the fear is evidently in vain because, when being once again engrossed by poetry, the ghost of a touch over the cheekbone breaks the spell. As if awakening from a dream, the suggestion of the outstretched cold drink passes unnoticed. Instead, it is replaced by a look at ripped jeans beneath a loose tartan blazer, resulting in the novel discovery of a little gem embedded in the right nostril. 

The rattle of ice entrapped in plastic fully awakens the senses as well as the sharp rustle of a paper bag bearing the logo shaped like an apple out of which a bite has been taken. ‘’Here. It’s on me. Don’t think anything of it, I just don’t want you to get dehydrated or hungry.’’

‘’Right.’’ With trembling hands expecting to have the food carelessly thrown into the lap and drink pushed into the palm, the surprising meal is accepted. Without the slightest sign of pushing. ‘’Still, thanks.’’

Once again, a beastly grunt is all that is received in return before checkered trainers retreat to the front of the establishment. Strangely, they soon return with the current read which was enjoyed behind the counter alongside the cold brew that was picked up to battle the fatigue that noticeably laces demeanour. Because, when sinking back into the sofa after having been gestured at to scoot over and haphazardly making room, lashes flutter shut for longer than a mere blink. Notwithstanding, they are awake enough to notice the shift in reading. ‘’Keats?’’

‘’Uh, yes. He’s one of my favorites alongside Blake, Donne and, on occasion, Wordsworth.’’ Personal enthusiasm takes over when mentioning the last poet with whom there is a love-hate relationship, erasing any anguish at being close to the keeper of the kingdom and thus making it possible to ignore the few centimeters of space between bodies. ‘’Even though he’s basically a fraud by turning his sister’s experiences into poetry. It makes one wonder whether he had any talent to come up with something himself. Now, I do believe some of his works are genuinely his, but not all. Sorry, I’ll- I’ll shut up.’’

Questioning chestnut and water reintroduce the silence disturbed by autumnal rain accompanied by howling winds, stretching out over the empty streets. Nobody likes a blathering fool, least of all the stoic who surprisingly has decided to join one’s company. 

Or, so was the original thought that is now nullified by a sliver of a smile and something inaudible smokily mumbled beneath breath. There is no courage to inquire about what was said nor ask for a reason for being evidently entertained, simply rapidly picking up the volume again to resume reading with an overheated, ashamed mind.

Here and there, however, sneaky peeks are thrown in the direction of bleached locks thoroughly enjoying Dante’s Inferno, a work that has been on the to-be-read list for the longest time and somehow has never been crossed off.

Come on, you can do it. Ask him how it is, whether he likes Dante. Don’t be a marshmallow. Okay, one, two... fuck.

‘’How’s Keats?’’ Beating the barely daring tongue to it, the young man interrupts the hardly focused enjoyment of poetry that maybe lasted about fifteen minutes.

‘’Good.’’ More wants to be added to the opinion, but cannot be shaped nor voiced due to the bafflement at seeing sincere interest pierce through an unwavering expression. On the other hand, another unnameable sentiment underlines attitude too, floating ever so slightly beneath the surface. 

‘’You haven’t touched your food.’’ Lips slightly pout when glancing at the paper bag that rests on the trenchcoat that had hastily been draped over the other arm rest when bleached locks sat down, colourful irises dimming. 

Worry.

Why does it affect him? What does it matter if I eat or not?

To hopefully grant a bit of reassurance, an absent-minded promise is made before diving back into the misery of a nightingale. ‘’I’ll eat in a bit. Just one more poem.’’

As fast as lightning, the volume flies from hapless palms and the scent of books mingled with musky mint suddenly leans over to grab the purchased treat, fingertips pressing against the side of the thigh. Every muscle tenses up at the new form of intimacy, inwardly praying for the tartan blazer to return to his place as soon as possible. ‘’No, it’s already two o’clock and I’m sure you had breakfast early. You should eat. Where’s your coffee?’’

A trembling finger points to the untouched iced vanilla latte on the floor, put just in front of the sofa. Hands rise even higher when the bookshop keeper’s heartbeat and heated broad chest can be temporarily felt when slightly chubby digits lean over to grab the plastic cup. ‘’I’m not…’’

‘’What?’’ Clearly not understanding the need to keep looking away, unsteadily focusing on the sides of the nearest bookshelf, the question comes out agitated as the retrieved items are pushed forward, unmistakably intended to be taken. The shift in behaviour is as little comprehensible as the likely appearance of warm rosy cheeks going paired with a fist pressing on the lips, tongue-tied.

Mentally chastising oneself for the awkward display, courage is forcibly gathered to face the puzzled grumpy young man and answer with a whisper. ‘’I’m not comfortable eating in public.’’

‘’We’re not in public.’’

‘’Or with people I don’t know.’’

This revelation is clearly unexpected, eyes widening when reluctantly elaborating on an irrational fear with folded hands tucked between the thighs. For a second, there is nothing but an uncomfortable hush in which the worst outcome is vividly painted in the mind. Fortunately and oddly, it is broken as the stoic’s attitude shifts to something that has not been witnessed before and which goes against any rumour floating around town. 

A gentle smile plays around the corners of the mouth as the tense grip on the food and drink loosens, gently putting the rustling bag in the lap and a warm palm grabbing one hand to place the lukewarm cup in it. ‘’There. I’m Jaebeom, JB for short. Now, can you please eat something? And I promise I won’t judge you.’’

‘’Shouldn’t- Shouldn’t you eat something too? You look like you could use some energy.’’ Up close, the fatigue has become visibly noticeable outside the moment of sitting down and closing eyes for a little bit longer than would suffice for a blink. Affected by the niceness of the gentle acquaintance and thoughtfulness, the croissant in the bag is torn in half to offer a part to the current company. ‘’How about we share this?’’

‘’You don’t have to.’’ A low breathy chuckle rolls forth at the gesture, strangely elating the heart and stirring up a storm of butterflies in the stomach. Again, the same unintelligible phrase that was muttered under breath earlier seems to be repeated.

A penny for your thoughts. What did you say?

Putting aside curiosity to not prematurely cross any boundaries of politeness, what wants to be asked is suppressed and reformed into a request for sharing. After all, the lack of energy outlined by vague dark circles beneath non-matching irises is truly a cause for concern. ‘’Please? I don’t have that big of an appetite.’’

With a resigning sigh, the offer is accepted. Much to the strange delight of the soul who still is not entirely trusting of the bookshop keeper yet already has the mental defenses down a little bit more than before. ‘’Alright, if you insist.’’

What follows is an absolutely adorable though also surprising scenario as the pastry is enjoyed in one bite, the food disappearing without any trouble. Nibbling on the other half, staring cannot be helped as a sip of coldbrew is enjoyed to wash the treat down. However, the unintended impolite mannerism, of course, cannot pass under the radar. Hence is why dark brows furrow in puzzlement when remarking upon being a point of attention. ‘’What?’’

‘’Nothing. You just…’’ a moment is taken to try and find the right word yet failing to think of one which accurately describes the eating manner, ‘’you just wolfed that down.’’

‘’Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I can be a bit, well, unmannered at times.’’ The gaze focusing on the iced black coffee adds to the sorrowful side profile, unwillingly nostalgic, but unapproachable for comfort. ‘’I try not to be. I’m trying to, no, never mind.’’ Another sip. ‘’Forget it. Just eat and stay as long as you like.’’

‘’Jaebeom?’’ In a reflex, after swiftly wiping fatty fingertips on the coarse paper napkin, the bookshop keeper is grabbed by the sleeve as he tries to move away. Alarmed by the sudden bold move, non-matching irises briefly flare with an odd mixture of fear and annoyance before seemingly realizing something and thus calming down. All this goes hidden behind a badly enacted tolerating low hum. ‘’Can you, I mean, only if you don’t mind, could you... could you stay here? For a little while? At least sit down for a few more minutes. I promise I won’t stare as I did and actually read.’’

‘’You want me to... stay?’’ Dark brows furrow in a strange confusion, uncomprehending of the normal request. Although, perhaps it is not so casual seeing as it needs to be thought about. ‘’Stay? Here?’’

‘’If you don’t mind? I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I really didn’t mean to.’’

‘’You didn’t. I should be the one apologizing for being so distant.’’

‘’I don’t blame you. You barely know me.’’

‘’I don’t know you.’’ The observation hits hard, the sternness of the reply crucifying the heart and constricting the throat. How odd a fact should have this result. Withal, the misplaced hurt is a little soothed by the promise that follows. ‘’I’ll stay. But I’ll be closing in about two hours.’’

And thus, for one hour and a half, the paper kingdom falls quiet. Solely the tinkering tears of heaven decorating the glass of the windows, howling winds stirring the richly warm leaves into dance and occasional wandering lonely umbrella break the silence. Inside, the only noise to disrupt the hush is the turn of a page or sniffle that may or may not prelude to a cold. 

However, all tranquil beauty knows an end for Time always runs out. Henceforth, it is at half past four that a light tap goes paired with the barely audible comment “you have to go”. Likely due to the aftermath of being pulled from a world of poetic Nature into gloomy Reality, there is a wrong perception of Jaebeom’s voice. Surely, the sorrowful reluctance is imagined.

As you said, you don’t know me.

The mere thought pains Body and Soul when grabbing the navy trenchcoat off of the faux leather arm rest, stepping towards the bookshelf where Keats was found and the exit afterwards. No chance of wandering a little longer between the books is given, the clerk following closely behind and unconsciously guiding feet towards the entrance.

‘’Y/N? Will you, uh…’’ Restless trembling palms hover in the air like two bent paws failing to illustrate something, a rosy flush spread over the cheeks, ‘’Can I put your jacket on? I mean, let me help you put your jacket on. That’s how you say it, right?’’

With an affirming hum, big palms with slightly chubby digits are allowed to help dress into the piece of clothing.

Glide over the side of the neck when collecting hair to make it flow over the collar instead of being tucked beneath it, leaving a trail of goosebumps and sharpening breath. 

All the while maintaining eye contact, both our faces distorting with timidity. It is then that glances are haphazardly thrown around the empty store to avoid each other for a second wherein composure is hopefully found. 

And it would appear that the buff tall blonde youth is the first to do so, speech matter-of-factly when voicing an unspoken suggestion while holding on to the upper arms. ‘’I haven’t even asked your name.’’

Bashfully, the answer is uttered in a proper vis-á-vis with entrancing two-toned irises though the urge to bolt out the door remains. Nevertheless, the rapid loss of contact is disliked, JB realizing how the intimacy might come across when glancing at the fingertips digging into fabric, almost begging to stay. ‘’It’s Y/N.’’

The instinct to flee is lessened by the step forward thoughtfully repeating the name, carefully feeling out the syllables as if comprehending a siren’s song. ‘’I had a good time, Y/N.’’

‘’Me too.’’ It is true because, despite the distance that was endeavoured to be closed with food, reading and shallow conversation, the time spent together was actually quite enjoyable. Notwithstanding, too much of the clerk remains unknown to say whether all has been out of politeness or if any sincere trust has been shown.

‘’Even though you’re still scared of me?’’

‘’I’m not!’’ A sigh rolls off the tongue at the sight of a smug grin on roseate lips knowing better than to lie about genuine sentiments. ‘You’re just... just kinda intimidating.’

‘’Kinda? To me it seems like a whole lot more than ‘just kinda’. You almost seem eager to go even though you were hesitating earlier.’’ Bright hazelnut and the summer sea are overcast by lonely grief putting on the airs of suppressed rage, painfully re-establishing and enhancing the distance that was briefly shortened with a step backwards. ‘’To get away from me. Make up your mind.’’

‘’Yes, I’m intimidated by you. A lot.’’ The renewed cold emptiness is warily bridged, planning out the words to say to not make matters worse. ‘’And, to be honest, I don’t want to go. Still, it’s because you intimidate me I might seem uneasy and glad to go, but I can assure you I’m not. I really had a good time. We might not have talked a lot, but I still had a splendid afternoon. With you. And for that, I’m grateful. I’m sorry I confuse you, make you feel awkward because of my behaviour.’’

The waterfall of a confession catches the bookshop keeper off guard, but also manages to make tense broad shoulders lower their defenses as colourful eyes calm down. Digits rise from the pockets of loose ripped jeans to envelop the upper arms once more, this time rubbing them reassuringly and let the personal walls crumble too. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me nor apologize. Look, we’ll talk about this another time. For now, you have to go and I have to close the shop. Get home safely and don’t catch a cold.’

‘’You too.’’ 

‘’Don’t worry. I won’t.’’

With a last nod and gentle smile relieved at the prospect of good health, warm palms are stepped away from.

The watery autumn chill cools the heat from being seen off by blonde locks.

I couldn’t get sick even if I wanted to.

When the enchanting scent of summer citrus, autumnal blackberries and juicy peaches has faded, the two volumes that were touched by it are picked from the shelves without a clear understanding of why. Neither is there a sense of comprehension when it comes to the sheer curiosity about what it is that the adorable shy doe so likes about these specific poets. Notwithstanding, both books are picked up and put on the counter alongside the current read to take upstairs after sweeping and properly closing the shop.

Which does not take long, soon after already stumbling up the metal stairs to the apartment above the establishment with a famished stomach and tense muscles, watching the oppressive concrete clouds slightly give way to the lilac dusk before heading inside. Fortunately, dinner has been prepared in advance so the various side dishes solely need to be warmed up in the microwave just like the rice in the cooker. The hair dye job, however, will have to wait until tomorrow. That is, if it is remembered like the face of the local historian who seems awfully fascinated by the affliction distorting identity.

Shedding off the weight of the day, clothes are removed and tossed on the couch to be replaced by the bathrobe that was put there in the morning after yet another long night filled with amnesia. Afterwards, bare feet trod to the kitchen to retrieve the cold dishes from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave to heat up. 

It’s getting late, but at least there’s still some time to read. Funny how my last thought is of you.

Just as the melancholic thought arises over a big bowl of bibimbap accompanied by William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, the screen of the phone on the counter lights up after a brief buzz. When getting up to check, the message appears to be from the supernatural scholar.

“Good luck tonight. I’ll be at your place around 7. Hopefully, you’ll be yourself again. If not, I’ll wait outside. Jinyoung.”

As always, the text is signed with the young man’s name to help ease the recovery of ever-fading memory. Even after living around three years among humans again, the ability to recall actual names alongside how to enact civilized behaviour remains hard.

And becomes more difficult with every passing day.

For now, I want to try. I want to speak to you at least one more time and explain myself. Part ways on good terms, let you know what I am.

A smile cannot be helped at the sight of the bowl next to the mustard poetry bundle, vividly re-imagining how it was held by small hands on the faux leather sofa this afternoon. 

How those same tiny digits tore off half of the croissant without hesitation and offered it to an animal, nibbling adorably on theirs while endeavouring to put on a human act and failing due to the hunger always preceding hell.

But a fantasy never lasts.

Time never stops. 

It solely ticks.

Runs out.

Hopefully, I’ll remember you.

And the moon cannot be sworn by for She cannot stay away nor remain the same. 

That night, the name of the bookish fawn is the last powerful word to recall before losing a grip on the world in the cold dark illuminated by artificial light. 

Naked and shackled beneath the concrete ground.

Hoping for a memory. 

Y/N.

[johnjankovic]

MJÖLNIR

When the thousand years are over, Satan will be released from his prison and will go out to deceive the nations in the four corners of the earth—Gog and Magog—and to gather them for battle. In number they are like the sand on the seashore. They marched across the breadth of the earth and surrounded the camp of God’s people, the city he loves. But fire came down from heaven and devoured them.

Revelation 20:7-9

Christendom inspired by the Son from Galilee who tramped about on roads and fields to lift the masses endures as the seedbed for modern civilization. The paradox of this faith from classical antiquity which is the progenitor of the West is how the lot of Jesus made Pontius Pilate who condemned Him a slave rather than a viceroy and vice versa — sacrifice being greater than the power to kill. Such an anomaly in the lore of the time belied what was then the prototype of polytheism like the many paeans to Zeus who chained Prometheus for gifting fire to mankind or effigies of Jupiter who led men to a premature end for their hubris. If in some hypothetical these same gods were racked by agony in the throes of martyrdom would their folklore be the definition of blasphemy thus pagans from Roman stock took umbrage at Christians whose exegesis of life begged the question: How are the bedfellows of pain and suffering any index of power? The answer to this enigma would be nestled nowhere else but in the cradle of a new religion still in its infancy: For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world but to save the world through Him (3:17).

Crucifixion so scandalized Romans and Jews that its minutia survives in a single eye-witness account as discrete from the New Testament’s Synoptics. Harrowing details anathema to civilized company would have otherwise stayed a black-box left to oblivion had they not been recorded for posterity. Because of the sadism endemic in these processions were they hence confined to wastelands beyond city walls away from polite society. Even Christians alive in the Middle Ages when freighted with the gravity of such a death practiced discretion as they were loth to recreate its gore on pictograms until the advent of the Renaissance when a more sober account was elected. The Son hanging limp on a hill so became the cynosure of our faith whose gesture of a cross was ritualized by practitioners in prayer. Even pariahs orphaned by society were keen on finding solace in Jesus who died so others may live. At the crown of Golgotha would ultimately be where the most binding of covenants between Father and Man was wrought to reveal the very kernel of existence for creation: God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him ([1] 4:16).

This pearl of wisdom in search for meaning answered the many secrets sought by philosophers over aeons. Sitting cross-legged in meditation with the ambiance of singing bowls and the incantation of hums is no substitute. Pain purveys perspective and the rarest relic of love is a tonic to buck up the souls prostrate with hurt: The love of Father who coos in your ear to carry on is nirvana; The fraternal love from a phalanx of young sappers at the Somme in a hellfire of lead is nirvana; The love of the Son whose lungs were collapsed by Man’s schadenfreude as a billboard for gawkers is nirvana. Love of this kind is a balm for those bloodied by the ranks of evil amidst a war of attrition between heaven and hell since Original Sin. Each event sources its inspiration from a common well of how ‘there is power in the blood’. The debt borne by Jesus in a semiotic way thereby comes to epitomize something like ironclad armour in the lives of ordinary Christians. Over a series of seasons and cycles between birth and decay have the faithful mounted great feats and forays into the unknown for the betterment of their brethren with the same pugnacity seen atop Golgotha.

It is this pledge of service to others which subverts the narcissism of so many creeds that was itself a fillip to the flourishing of the West. Self-denial by abstaining from life’s wish-list would be roundly mocked by outsiders as meek but it was a gateway to humanity’s most productive years in the spectrum of existence. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends (15:13). A stoic lives under this cardinal rule not for reward but rather to honour the love inherited from Jesus which passes down from one generation to the next like an heirloom until a scion comes of age to assume its burden. Why burden? To love thine enemy who is beneath contempt as he rams a spike into your wrist summons a crie de coeur for a species of strength alien to this world. And yet at this very juncture do all the stars align to jolt the sinner from his stupor in breaking free from Satan’s seduction akin to Paul the Apostle who killed scores of Christians before his own conversion. The said burden therefore is knowing evil can only be defeated by the blood of a peacemaker however masochistic it may sound to the layman.

What eventuates is a schizophrenic split allowing for one’s conscience to take stock of its wayward ways long enough to defect from a history of wrongs. The primer to this epiphany is the ugly deed itself which in the universe of celluloid compares to sunlight upon the cursed who wilt in its path. Much like popular culture’s caricature du jour of dualism does the reality of being born again manifest likewise in the renewal of a soul. The introspection breaks the spell just enough to restore agency in knowing right from wrong. So the war between good and evil is carried about in the open as much as it is waged inside of you. Each person in her own right decides who she wants to be whether good or bad though the pity is most opt for vice rather than be an instrument for what is holy. Why? The road is a solitary one. Being good is heresy when the greater part of the world indulges in those acts and lies indigenous to Babylon. Being a persona non grata becomes a birthmark as the rest shun you for your ethics. So the path we plod is not one for the faint of heart neither is it for the weak of mind.

Christendom is inherently contrarian and has been since its formative years. Christians themselves are birds of a different feather who spurn the world’s rehashed idolatry which sycophants are so eager to adopt in earnest. Those cut from our cloth knowing the real world stakes do not shirk from the truth that like Jesus who fell at the behest of sin does this dynamic survive to this day in the highest reaches of power to the lowest alleys of pimps. By analogy we can do more than merely read the hours and minutes of a timepiece — we are the watchmakers. The esoteric wisdom therefrom beseeches us to see the world for what it truly is: a pockmarked battlefield laid to waste by two camps. Scarce few bother to stray from the smoke and mirrors of everyday monotony but behind them are forces aligned to different stripes in service to separate causes. A firefighter who barrels into an inferno to save a pregnant wife versus a rapist who sets his victim afire are a microcosm for the humanity and lack thereof on this earth. Love and hate are the root of Man’s checkered history and Christians are shrewd enough to be skeptical of any authority he purports to dispense.

[virmillion]

Ibytm - T minus 43 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 2,994

If you were to ask Logan, straight faced, no pomp, no circumstance, why he’s waited so long to tell Virgil about his promotion, he would probably do one of two things. Tell you the truth, or walk away in silence. Whether that silence is ashamed is up to you.

He’s hidden the new position for a couple months now—working closely with Mr. Jolenta all the while—and he still hasn’t told Virgil about it. Never the right time, never the right place, maybe he forgets, maybe Virgil doesn’t ask. His only saving grace is how many extra hours he was already working before the promotion—Virgil seems to have hardly noticed his increased absence. Maybe not the best outlook on the situation.

So when Logan leaves work even later than usual, some three aught months after his talk with Miss Katie-Lee, and finds himself caught in a thunderstorm, he wonders whether it would be the worst idea in the world to take it as a sign. If he were the type of person to read into those things, maybe he would.

As it stands, he waves back to Roman, who turns right and away as he leaves for the day. Logan absently thanks his lucky stars (not for the first time) that the old intern never told the news to Virgil. It probably helps that Roman got his own boost—from intern to full timer—but Logan will take what he can get.

He sighs to himself when he sees the apartment building shining between the raindrops. An easily overcome distance never looked so good. Logan picks up the pace, bolting for the stairs as soon as he reaches the complex. It’s a wonder his soaked shoes don’t slip out from under him on the concrete steps. Kicking the main door shut behind him as he enters the main room, he zeroes in on the couch and allows exhaustion to take him over. The new position, while nice in terms of the raise, is more than a little taxing.

A couple hours later, Logan wakes up to his phone pinging with a new message. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and unlocks the screen. Your Boy wants you to look at the island, it reads. Roman’s name scrolls across the top of the display. Said you’ll know what it means.

Logan sends off a thanks to Roman and yawns, glancing at the floating counter in the kitchenette. A travel mug of coffee atop a torn sheet of lined paper covered in dark blue ink awaits.

Lifting the mug to his lips, he reads over the note out of the corner of his eye. Meet at the photoshoot park. V. He hesitates, taking another pull of coffee and wondering what a photoshoot park could be. Slowly but surely, an image floats into his mind of Virgil beside a pond, showing off a cardigan that Logan hasn’t seen in ages.

He’s out the front door before the minute hand on his watch can tick over.

Miraculously, the storm has passed, which does nothing to ease Logan’s nerves as he wonders what this all could be about. Maybe Virgil found out about the promotion and got pissed that Logan didn’t tell him sooner. Maybe Roman told him, and he’s mad about having to hear it secondhand. Maybe he started picking up on how much extra wiggle room they’d had in their wallets lately. Admittedly not very much, as most of it goes toward bills that Virgil pretends not to notice, but an extra candy bar in the cupboard is nothing to scoff at.

The whole way to the park, Logan swerves around shrinking puddles that gather in holes burrowed through the sidewalk. With the abating rain and the moon trying to peek through the thinning clouds, his spirits lift enough for his mind to make a decision it has no business making. He’s going to tell Virgil about the promotion tonight, and maybe ask him a certain question that’s been hovering unspoken in the air between them, heavier than he would’ve thought possible these last several months. His hand instinctively flies to the lump in his jacket pocket, the contents of which he’s been carrying around for something to the tune of a year now.

He slips his hand around it as he approaches the park entrance, doing his best to look natural. Remarkably difficult a task, given his train of thought right now, but still. Careful to stay on the least muddy parts of the dirt path—an incredibly low bar to clear, mind you—Logan follows the trail into the heart of the park, taking vague note of how empty it is. Granted, very few self-respecting parents would bring their kids to a park so late at night like this, but the lack of other people is still unnerving.

A wave of relief washes over him when he sees Virgil’s familiar silhouette hunched in front of the pond. With one leg curled up under his chin and the other resting on the ground, Logan might believe he were asleep, were it not for the way he drums his fingers on the red and white checkerboard blanket beneath him. Actually, if the fringed texture is anything to go by, that might just be a beach towel.

Spread across the mat is an assortment of tupperwares with various maroon-tinted lids, each lightly capped and boasting basic picnic food. You’ve got your usual suspects—hot dogs, potato and macaroni salads, orange slices—and then you’ve got what looks like a valiant attempt at pasta. Maybe. It’s definitely a yellowed white, but that’s about all the investigation Logan manages before he notices the plastic tea lights set up around the corner of the blanket. Moreover, he notices the thing absorbing most of their artificial light—his glasses case, resting against Virgil’s side. Would he—? No, he wouldn’t, not with a glasses case.

Would he?

“What’s all this?” Logan asks, feeling the damp grass squelch underfoot as he steps off the path.

Virgil hardly flinches at his approach, not even turning around to address his question. “Just something special I wanted to do for you, since you’ve been so busy lately.” So he did notice. “You gonna sit down, or just keep standing there like a creep-o?”

After planting a kiss on Virgil’s head, Logan tucks his legs beneath him as he takes a position on the other side of the blanket. The glasses case rests between them. He runs his hand over the blanket and nods to himself. Definitely a beach towel. “You really did all this just to give me a nice night? All of it?”

“All of it.” Virgil indicates the various tupperware with a general wave, not looking away from the pond. “I couldn’t find, like, a picnic basket or anything, and this towel ran me a solid nine bucks at Target, but I think I did a pretty darn decent job of making that fettuccine alfredo like you taught me. All by myself, too. Can’t believe you slept through all that prep noise.”

“I’m so proud,” Logan says, scooting closer to wrap an arm around Virgil’s shoulders. “What are the chances you thought to bring along utensils for this little outing of yours?”

“Pretty high, I would say.” Virgil produces yet another tupperware filled with plastic forks and knives and, knowing him, at least one spork. Priorities, people.

Logan follows Virgil’s gaze to the pond as he fumbles around for the nearest tupperware, content to watch the ripples skate across the surface in silence. Granted, they started those cooking lessons a while ago, but Virgil still managed to pull off some objectively impressive work tonight.

As the moon makes its slow trek across the sky, chasing away the last brave clouds into mist, Logan’s mind argues with his mouth over whether now is a good time to tell Virgil about the promotion. The best time probably would’ve been a couple months ago, but still. Just as he resolves to bring it up, Virgil decides his own voice should take priority. Perfectly fine by Logan.

“See that huge moon up there?”

“Yeah?”

“I still want you to bring it to me.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about that. I’m just working out a contract with my people selling me the stars. The moon isn’t cheap, you know.” Virgil nods, quirking his mouth to the side and glancing at the heavens above. No time like the present. “Hey, um, I actually did have something I wanted to talk to you about. Kind of regarding the stars, actually.”

“Well, heck. I had something I wanted to talk about, too. Not regarding the stars, though.” Virgil glances from Logan to the glasses case and back, and if Logan didn’t know better, he might think that was a blush creeping across Virgil’s face.

Maybe he doesn’t know better.

A moment’s pause, and they both say in sync, “You can go first. No, you. Really, it’s—you can—okay, I’ll—” Virgil stops first, pretending to zip his lips. The glasses case stares at Logan. He stares back. The stars, the park, the picnic, the secrecy? What else could it be?

He waits for Virgil to talk again, but his boyfriend merely fixes him with a pointed stare. Logan swallows around the lump in his throat. “So, um, you remember that meeting I had? Like, a few months ago?”

“Oh, right, that huge interview deal or whatever. You never told me how that went down.”

“So as it turns out, um, I got the promotion, and it put me even higher than they told me it might.”

“What! Babe, that’s fantastic news! When did you find out? When do you start?”

Logan sucks a sharp breath through his teeth and winces. “Um. The day of the meeting? Same day offer, next day start.”

Virgil goes stiff under Logan’s arm, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “That, um, that’s great. Really, really good. Why did you not tell me sooner?” Logan can’t bring himself to look at Virgil’s face. He doesn’t want to know if this comes off as bad as it feels. It probably does. It’s probably worse.

“I didn’t, um, I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. It meant more hours, a heavier workload, more things I have to oversee, not to mention that I’m being considered for training to become an actual, legitimate, genuine part of the aeronautic branch of the company.”

Virgil remains silent long after Logan forces the truth out all in one breath, not looking away from a growing ripple on the pond. It bumps up against a rock, rebounding across the surface before dithering to hide in the reedy grass. “I’m happy for you, really, I just—it’s just really sucky that you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“I know, I know, and that was a super bad move on my part. I just didn’t want you to worry, since astronaut work is obviously way more dangerous than basic intern stuff, not that I have to, y’know, tell you that.” Logan laughs uncomfortably. Virgil does not laugh back.

“Yeah, well, no shit, Sherlock.” Virgil finally moves out from under Logan’s arm and whips his head around to stare at him. Logan can’t tell whether he’s mad or hurt or both. Maybe both. Probably both. “You not wanting to hurt my feelings doesn’t make it suck any less that you didn’t tell me about something so big. Do you have even the smallest sense of how crappy this feels for me?”

“I just—no, I don’t. I don’t because you’ve never put me through anything like this, and it’s cruel and unacceptable on my end, and I wish I’d told you sooner, because you being mad at me is just about the worst I’ve ever felt, and that’s not even slightly on you, and I’m so sorry. I know that’s not enough, but I am, and I just wanted you to know that. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I sprung it on you like this. Truly, I am. I care about you so, so much, more than any promotion or any picnic could say.”

Virgil hesitates, working a few muscles in his jaw. “Maybe not just any picnic.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Virgil scoots closer to Logan and shifts his gaze to the stars, looping Logan’s arm back over his shoulders. For fear of seeing tears there, Logan doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s okay, just—it’s just a lot. I mean, I’m happy for you. Had to happen eventually, right, so you could work on getting off-planet? That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Yeah, I—it is. It really is.”

“Plus, it might be a little easier for you to get me my present if you can actually, physically go to space.”

“Your present?”

“The moon.”

“Right, right, the moon. How do I keep forgetting that?” An awkward silence falls, during which Logan finds his eyes drawn to the glasses case. There’s no way he’s misreading this, the situation is just way too obvious. Why else would Virgil go to all these lengths to set this up?

When Virgil moves to grab the glasses case, Logan nearly chokes on an inhale.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

“What?” Virgil hesitates, his hand freezing a few inches above the case. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just—just finish whatever you were about to do.” Logan is trying very hard to maintain a passive expression. He is failing miserably.

“Okay, weirdo.” Virgil shifts his body to hide the contents of the case as he pulls it into his lap and stares at whatever rests inside. Silence. And more silence. And more.

“So,” Logan says suddenly. His voice very much cracks. “Um, so earlier, you said you had something to talk about? Not regarding the stars, I mean.” His heart leaps out of his chest as that familiar pinkness spreads across Virgil’s cheeks.

“Right. Yes. Um.” Virgil hems and haws a good while longer, glancing between Logan and the glasses case. “Well, I mean, I guess this is kind of hard to say—not that there’s any easy way to put it, I guess, unless I wrote it on a piece of paper or something like if I had a script, but—”

“Just spit it out, love.”

Virgil swivels the case around to face Logan, who swears he can see a sparkle reflected inside from the tea lights. His heart is now firmly lodged in his throat. “I was reorganizing some stuff earlier, and I think I may have accidentally broken your backup glasses. Sorry about that.”

Logan can only stare in flabbergasted silence as Virgil places the case on his knee, and sure enough, his old prescription rests inside, snapped along the bridge. His heart finds a new forever home somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. “Are you kidding me?”

“I know, I messed up too, but I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“ That’s what all this fuss was about?”

“I’m not sure I understand your confusion.” Virgil looks at Logan, then down at the case, and immediately straightens his back as his mouth drops into a surprised ‘O.’ “Oh. Oh. You thought—oh my god, you thought that I was gonna—”

“Yeah, yes, I did think that you were gonna. I really did.”

“Well, if I were to do, you know, that, I certainly wouldn’t be so tacky or nervous about it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Logan’s hand falls to the familiar rounded cube in his pocket. “Great, so tell me how you would do it instead, then.”

“Well, y’know, I think I might do it a little something like this.” Virgil leans away from Logan, reaching for something in his back pocket. Logan’s heart is steadily making its way up his spine. He starts shaking his head, slowly at first, then faster, faster faster faster. Virgil produces a little velvet box. Oceans of goosebumps race from Logan’s shoulders to his trembling fingers. When he thought he knew what to expect, he sort of believed it, but seeing it actually happening? Forget it. Out of the question.

“Logan Marcus Walders,” Virgil says, shifting to one knee.

“Oh my god.”

“These last few years have easily been the best of my entire life.”

“Oh my god.”

“No other geeky little shortstop has ever caught my eye so quickly as you did.” His voice cracks on the word ever. Logan’s heart is hovering somewhere near the upper limits of the atmosphere right now.

“Oh my god.”

“Would you stop saying that and just let me get through this before I lose my nerve?” Virgil flips open the box and holds it closer to Logan, who is shaking his head faster than ever. He isn’t even certain he’s still breathing, and his heart has left the scene entirely. “You mean the absolute world to me and beyond, Logan, and there is absolutely no one on or above this planet that I’d rather explore it with. You promised me the moon at my price of the stars, but I would sacrifice all of that and more in an instant if you would do me the honor of marrying me.”

Logan shakes his head harder still, unable to form words as tears bead up at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t—”

“Fine, I’ll say it again, but this is the last time, okay?” Virgil licks his lips and gives a hollow laugh. The box trembles in his hands. “Logan Marcus Walders, notable soon-to-be space explorer, ambassador to the stars, will you marry me?”

“I don’t—I don’t know what to—”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Virgil whispers, his voice wobbling more than his hands holding a box holding a ring holding the promise of their future together.

“Yes,” Logan finally manages to choke out. “Yes, yes, a million times over, a million worlds away, yes.”

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/amanda-kloots-shares-videos-and-photos-from-late-broadway-star-husband-nick-corderos-phone-daily-mail/

Amanda Kloots shares videos and photos from late Broadway star husband Nick Cordero's phone - Daily Mail

Amanda Kloots, the widow of Broadway star Nick Cordero, is continuing to memorialize her husband on social media – this time sharing photos and videos from his phone after unlocking it for the first time since his death on Sunday.

On Tuesday, the fitness instructor uploaded a montage of heart-warming photos and amusing videos to her Instagram story that were captured by Cordero in the final months of his life. 

‘I just looked at Nick’s phone today [for the first time] and I’ll share some of the gems I found with you,’ Kloots told her 533,000 followers.

The slideshow of images she shared begins with a selfie of a smiling Cordero and his son, one-year-old Elvis, who is also beaming towards the camera.

Dated March 16, the image was taken just over two weeks before Cordero would be admitted to the intensive care unit at Los Angeles’ Cedars-Sinai Hospital amid his battle with coronavirus. 

Amanda Kloots (above), the widow of beloved Broadway star Nick Cordero (left), is continuing to memorialize her husband on social media 

On Tuesday she began sharing photos and videos from his phone after unlocking it for the first time since his death. Cordero  (seen right) died Sunday morning aged 41, following a long and turbulent battle with COVID-19 that left him hospitalized for 94 days

The 41-year-old died Sunday morning following a long and turbulent battle with COVID-19 that left him hospitalized for 94 days. 

On Monday, Kloots thanked her followers for helping to make her husband’s dream of becoming a rock star a reality after joining her each day at 3pm during Cordero’s health battle to sing his original song, ‘Live Your Life’, in a bid to will him to recovery.

And in her posts Tuesday, Cordero’s love for song writing is made abundantly clear. 

In a succession of videos, the 41-year-old riffs the blues on an orange electric guitar, crooning ‘You only love me when I say goodbye. Only the heavens above me know the reasons why’, improvising as he plays.

Cordero, who starred as Sonny in A Bronx Tale, is also seen performing an acapella version of ‘One of the Great Ones’ from the Broadway smash-hit show in a birthday tribute to one of his friends.

In another musical video, the performer amusingly improvises a song as he stands on a New York sidewalk.

‘You can make a song about anything,’ Cordero sings, proceeding to list and rhyme the objects and sights he can see around him.

The actor even makes himself laugh on a number of occasions. In one instance, he attempts to incorporate his dog, Freddie, who he is holding, into the song but the pooch is being ‘camera shy’, he chuckles. 

The slideshow of images she shared begins with a selfie of a smiling Cordero and his son, one-year-old Elvis, who is also beaming towards the camera. Dated March 16, the image was taken just over two weeks before Cordero would be admitted to the intensive care unit at Los Angeles’ Cedars-Sinai Hospital, never to leave

In a succession of videos, the 41-year-old riffs the blues on an orange electric guitar, crooning ‘You only love me when I say goodbye. Only the heavens above me know the reasons why’, improvising as he plays.

In one image, Elvis sits atop Cordero’s shoulders as they both pose joyfully in front of their ‘first car’

Intersected with Cordero’s vlogs, Kloots included a number of family photos. In one image, Elvis sits atop Cordero’s shoulders as they both pose joyfully in front of their ‘first car’.

Another shows a family picnic in a California park from earlier this year, with Cordero sprawled out on a blanket next to Kloots, who has Elvis nestled into her shoulder.

Throughout his battle for life, Kloots maintained a constant presence on social media, updating her followers on his ailing health since his hospitalization in March, until tragically confirming his death Sunday.

And in the days since she has continued to share memories of the Broadway star in celebration of the time they spent together.

Kloots’ Instagram story was preceded by a video montage she uploaded to her page earlier Tuesday, chronicling her five-year relationship with the Broadway star.

The video, compiled by Kloots’ sister Anna, features a variety of photos from 2015 to 2020.

‘Another video from [Anna Kloots] documenting Nick and I from day 1 till now,’ Kloots wrote on Instagram. ‘Nick always said we were completely different people that normally would never be together. We challenged each other and in doing so caused each other to grow and change.’

The montage, focusing on the years before Cordero’s sickness, is full of videos of the pair dancing together, enjoying date nights, vacations, Broadway shows, and even includes celebrity cameos from the likes of Zach Braff, whom he and Kloots starred alongside in Bullets and Broadway.

In another musical video, the performer amusingly improvises a song as he stands on a New York sidewalk. ‘You can make a song about anything,’ Cordero sings, proceeding to list and rhyme the things he sees around him

Intersected with Cordero’s v-logs, Kloots included a number of family photos

Kloots and baby Elvis feature in a number of the photos and videos. In one clip (right), baby Elvis is heard chuckling as his mom sings ‘Jump Around’ to him, as  Nick watches on, just days before being hospitalized

It also includes sweet photos of the couple enjoying their engagement, wedding and caring for Elvis.

 Kloots and Cordero began dating shortly after meeting one another while appearing in Bullets on Broadway. They became engaged in March 2017 and married in September the same year.

‘We pushed each other’s buttons in the best of ways,’ Kloots wrote. ‘He would always look at me and say, “I’m the luckiest.” Well darling, I was the luckiest to get to spend five years with you and to share a son that will always remind me of you.’

Kloots took to Instagram live Monday to perform a heart-breaking rendition of Cordero’s original song, Live Your Life’, for a final time.

As part of Monday’s broadcast, she also thanked her followers for their support during Cordero’s months-long hospitalization, crediting them for helping to make his ultimate dream of becoming a rock star a reality.

‘We played this song a lot yesterday in Nick’s room with him and we were singing to him and I kept telling him that he had the whole world singing his song and knowing who he was and what kind of an amazing person he was,’ a tearful Kloots said, wiping away tears beneath her sunglasses.

‘I just wanted him to know that his dream of becoming a rock star happened. And sometimes your dreams happen and you don’t get to fully embrace them, but Nick’s dream of becoming a rock star definitely happened and it was because of you guys.’

Kloots and Cordero (pictured in 2019) began dating shortly after meeting one another while star in Bullets on Broadway. They became engaged in March 2017 and married in September the same year

 Cordero’s death was announced by his wife Kloots in a heartbreaking post on Instagram

She added that the daily tradition ‘always’ provided her with a sense of comfort too, helping her through her darkest of times.

‘There were days when I did not think I could get on social media and sing but I always felt better after I did. … It always made me feel better. Singing and dancing is an amazing way to have some therapy in your life,’ she said.

Less than 24 hours earlier, Kloots announced the tragic passing of Cordero on Instagram.

In her emotional statement, she said she was still in a state of ‘disbelief’ and called Cordero a bright light who she couldn’t believe who no longer be in her or Elvis’ life.

‘Life throws so many things at you,’ Kloots reflected Monday. ‘It could be this awful virus like Nick had, you could lose your job, you could fight with a family member … all these things in your life that could give you hell. … Keep fighting, keep singing, keep dancing, keep living.

‘Thank you so much for all your support. I really, really, really appreciate it,’ Kloots concluded, struggling to hold back tears.

‘Nick left this earth with people around him that he loved, listening to music. I don’t think he would have wanted anything else, so I think we gave him a good send-off. I’ll miss him every day of my life, that’s for sure.’

[jarmes]

Birdcage Chapter XII

Masterpost -  Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Origin, or: the man who killed God

All of Squad V stood at the gate, weapons in hand, ready for the fight of our lives. In the distance, the sun slowly disappeared behind the mountains to the north, drowning Cieleta in darkness. “Prepare yourselves,” Cross said. “It’ll begin soon.”

Squad V wasn’t alone that night. Half of the Knights were stationed around the wall, ready for war. The other half either guarded the palace roamed the streets, making sure everyone was inside. Firebrand stood alone, fifty yards from the gate, the first line of defense against the horrors of the night.

“Can I ask a question?” Pollux asked.

“You just did,” Cas said.

“Okay, may I ask a different question?”

“Again, you just-”

“What is it, Pollux?” Cross asked.

“What are we waiting for? This morning, the King told everyone to hide in their homes and ordered us to guard the gate, but no one’s told us why yet,” Pollux said.

“Today is, to the day, the tenth anniversary of the Purge,” I said.

“And that is relevant because?” Pollux asked.

“It means that the Vampire King is back,” Cross said.

“Okay, follow up question: Who’s the Vampire King and what does he have to do with us?” Pollux asked.

Cross sighed. “It’s surprising that someone could be as old as you and know so little about the world,” he said.

“I mean, I don’t want to harp on this point, but my parents died in front of me when I was six,” Pollux said. “I didn’t exactly have the most informative upbringing.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Cross said. “We’re on guard because we fear that Camazotz, the great and terrible Vampire King, is going to launch a raid on the Capital tonight.”

“The Vampire King was an ancient evil and father of monsters,” I said. “For years, he commanded his minions to attack cities, destroying them in nightmarish raids.”

“If he’s so dangerous, why haven’t I heard of him?” Pollux asked.

“He’s been dead for ten years,” Sterling said.

“So we don’t have to worry about him?” Cas asked.

“This isn’t the first time he’s died,” Cross said.

Pollux and Cas gave each other confused looks and Cross sighed. “I suppose I should start at the beginning,” he said.

And then Cross told the long, tangled history of the Vampire King and the seven Golden Gods. A story I’d heard many times before from my Grandfather and Sister Nancy. The story of our world. Or, more accurately, what we thought was the story of our world.

In the beginning, there was the Dusk, an endless plain of darkness ruled by Zero, an incomprehensible entity of death and destruction. No grass grew in the Dusk. No wind blew, no fire blazed, no lightning arched across the sky. It was a world free of magic, a world free of everything but Zero.

But, in the heavens far above the Dusk, a sliver of light broke free into existence. The light grew, transforming into the Hall of Light, a glorious kingdom untainted by the Zero’s malice. From the energy of the Hall came seven Gods, flawless beings born from light.

The seven descended from the hall and killed Zero, burying his corpse beneath a great mountain range. The seven Golden Gods returned to their hall and rested, recovering from their great battle.

Unbeknownst to them, their battle had changed the Dusk. Zero’s blood and the light of the Gods mixed, creating magic. From this magic, man was born.

Humanity first sprung force in the mountains lying atop Zero’s corpse, inhospitable peaks of ice and stone. Dark clouds surrounded the mountains, preventing man from leaving. For centuries, humanity hid on these peaks, dreaming of something greater.

One day, the leaders of seven tribes climbed to the top of the tallest mountain and prayed for salvation. The seven Gods, awakened by these prayers, descended from the heavens and greeted the tribe leaders.

The Gods summoned a great blast of light and destroyed the dark clouds, revealing to man the endless world that had lied out of reach. The Dusk, free from Zero’s wrath, had flourished, turning into a utopia. Each of the Gods took a tribe and led them out of the mountains to new homes.

The Lyvela tribe, led by the Tinkerer, settled in a lush valley north of the valley. Their patron taught them to dig through the soil and harness the metal and gems hidden deep beneath the earth.

The Forenz tribe, led by the Sage, settled in a tundra to the southwest of mountains. Their patron taught them to harness the forces of magic to fend off the icy wind.

The Verir tribe, led by the Lorekeeper, settled in a wetland to the northwest of the mountains. Their patron gifted them with ancient knowledge they used to construct bridges and cities.

The Dolgen tribe, led by the Adventurer, left the continent of Magpur entirely, sailing off in search of a new home. Their patron guided them to the northeast corner of the world they found a large, crescent-shaped island with tall cliffs and endless forests.

The Thernorn tribe, led by the Warrior, settled in a peninsula to the north of the mountains. Their patron taught them to protect themselves from the dangers of the world.

The Cieleta tribe, led by the Holy Mother, settled in a large country filled with forests and lakes to the south of the mountains. Our patron gifted us with healing magic tasked us with protecting the world.

Finally, the Abrum tribe, led by a God whose name has was lost to time, settled in a desert to the southeast of the mountains. Before their patron could bestow a gift upon them, the Abrum tribe rebelled, attacking their God to steal her power. Camazotz, strongest of the Abrumian warriors, cleaved off the God’s head.

As the God’s head rolled away, something began to change within Camazotz. The power of light and creation, an energy that could not be destroyed, seeped into his body, transforming him. Camazotz was reborn as a demon with pale skin, red eyes, and sharp fangs and claws. The power within him was greater than anything possessed by any other human, but still came with weaknesses. His flesh burned every time he stepped into the sunlight. To keep the power within him from destroying every fiber of his body, Camazotz was forced to drink the blood of his fellow humans.

Still, Camazotz used his new power to his advantage. He gathered armies of monsters and the people of Abrum bowed before his godly might. For years, Camazotz ruled over Abrum, content to only crush his own people beneath his heel. Then, one night, he decided to move on to greater things.

The first raids began in Cieleta. His vampires, twisted monsters built to resemble him, descended on villages, tearing men and women limb from limb. Soon, the vampires spread to Forenz and Lyvela, then to Dolgen and Verir, and finally, to Thernorn.

The six nations came together, combining their skills and manpower to fight off the vampiric hoards. After a grueling five year campaign, a swordsman from Cieleta finally managed to slay the Vampire King, bringing peace to the world. For a time.

Ten years later, to the day, the Vampire King rose again. The light energy inside him had bonded to his soul, keeping him bound to the material plane. Reborn, the Vampire King built a castle in the Southern Seas and resumed his onslaught.

For centuries, this cycle continued. Mankind would spend a few years battling Camazotz, we’d kill him for ten years, then he’d come back and attack again. The warriors who put the Vampire King to sleep for ten years, like my grandfather, received unmatched praise and glory.

After Camazotz abandoned them, the people of Abrum were forced to figure out a way to survive in the harsh desert without the teachings of a patron or the strength of a King. They invented dark magic, a cursed art allowing the wielder to unleash large amounts of power via sacrifice. Legend has it that this power was somehow connected to Zero, the fallen lord of death and darkness.

Eventually, the people of Abrum joined in the battle against Camazotz. That’s where the trouble began. Their dark magic, born from pain and rage, was a weapon of unmatched power. The allied nations began funding research into unlocking the full power of darkness.

Enter Jericho Darkholme and Nathaniel Black. A high ranking magic researcher and nobleman turned vampire hunter respectively. The two of them teamed up to carry out a plan to destroy Camazotz once and for all.

Eight months before I was born, the raids began again. Black and Darkholme dove into their research, spending years creating the perfect spell. Then, when I was seven, they activated it.

The spell worked like a snowball rolling down a mountain. It used some of the energy created from a single life to kill another life, and that energy to kill another, and so on and so forth, increasing exponentially as it spread through the world.

Black and Darkholme planned to absorb the energy created by the Purge, becoming strong enough to effortlessly slay Camazotz. That didn’t happen. The two were left as powerless as before, with an army of corpses lying at their feet. We ended up calling this event the Purge. You know the rest.

One good thing came out of the Purge: the Vampire King’s raids stopped. Some speculated that the spell had malfunctioned and fired the excess energy at him, or perhaps that he was one of the ones drained by the Purge. No one knew why, but we did know he was gone. I guess Black and Darkholme were successful, in a way.

Cross finished up his story. The twins stood there for a moment, unsure what to say. “Damn,” Pollux finally muttered.

We spent the rest of the night waiting for the vampires to come. I think that if they had, things would have gone differently. We would have known that Black and Darkholme’s actions were pointless, that the two of them were irredeemable monsters. Because if the vampires didn’t come, then they would have done something good. Our hatred, which gave us the strength needed to keep moving after the purge, would be misguided, if only slightly.

In the end, the sun rose. No vampires came that night, or any other night for that matter.

[distortsverity]

@cruentu-s​

distortsverity asked: “ quite hideous bags under your eyes, red. ”

「 ❄ The little spoon he was using to stir his coffee stops dead, eyes flicking up with a serious pout. Not angry enough to be an earnest grimace, but his nose is wrinkled up something fierce.

"Gee, thanks." Swipes at said bags, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Could say the same for you. Hikari. You working long hours for the love of the game, or."

No, no he could not say the same for her. She gazed into the mirror this morning --- face is immaculate as always, not a single hint that she’d slept only two hours last night in sight ( or so she’d like to believe ). 

Stupid Red! You won’t ever detect fatigue on Hikari Donnager Berlitz.

❝ You know it, ❞ she confirms his guess with a twitch of a smile ( love of “ the game ”, of the pedestal. love of importance. love of being her ).  ❝ Last couple days were hectic. Conferences and debates, mostly. But I’m free now. ❞ And he’ll never know she tuned the hell out of a few of 'em. Politicians can really drone on and on and on about the stupidest, most frivolous things. Too many numbers tossed around the room as well. A quick glance down, her eyes moving from his to the cup of coffee he’d been stirring before she so rudely disturbed him ( c’mon, what kind of person just saunters up to the legendary Red and calls him out on the “ hideous bags ” before even saying “ hello good to see ya how’s your day been ” ).

That tiny smile grows into a slightly more overt smirk. ❝ Lets bring the focus back to you . . . So have you been running --- ❞ little nod towards the cup --- ❝ on that, lately? ❞ One can almost hear the smirk. 

[darkmyne-blog]

A Future Darker

The coordinates are 40° 48′ 7″ N, 124° 9′ 49″ W. Rented by birth pains as he is driven from Mother Earth’s meridian rectum. The Old World. The old life, still in the rear view, shatters away like broken stained glass. His mind driven by pain and blinded by agony and horrific images. The rage and the machine. The collaboration of thunder and lightning from the black skies strikes the precise point on the planet. A magnetic charge from both Heaven and Hell spawns the perfect sphere from beneath the surface. Inside is the vicious cycle of Revelation and Genesis as the sacred seed is sowed. 60 years since the last. Now. Here. Battlefield Earth. The year is 2078. A Darkmyne is Born Again. A man once named Mykhael Dymock. Broken down to the bone in perpetual pain. The pain of fiber-optics, poly-alloys, and Element 115 throughout his new flesh, like the Roman whip of Jesus Christ, across his dark mind as the perfect storm shatters his soul. Torrential currents, mixed-emotions, moments of anguish, and rip-tides of rage, from a hard life once before.

Rage grips the man who was once Mykhael Dymock, his mind fueled and scanned by feral short-circuits amalgamated with broken flashbacks from a life of human struggle and the horrors within. He doesn’t see the light, only his own tormentor. A drunk. An abuser. A man who uses his fists to reset his passive-aggressive frustrations. A working middle-class poor in rent-domes on the moon’s darkside. A slave of slave wages. The life of a man whittled away with each mechanical second into the godless spectrum of the Void. 

And the young boy Michael. Watches the man beat his mother and sister until the black and white floor is covered in blood. The fists, the screams, the scarlet scars, the broken bones. The gun falls to the floor and he grabs it. Then, the Big Bang.The flash of the Ironstar. The spray of blood and fragments everywhere. Now the anger. The tears of fear and the dire straits of relief with no cure of remorse. Now that his father is finally dead, there is blood on the dancefloor. Blood on his soul. Cold and comfortably numb.

Anger rises like hot bile from Mykhael’s dark mind. Memories of rage. Deep, black, and terrifying. Voices of the past, demons and spirits webbed in the necro-fibers of his new shell - - chanting and screaming of murder and death. Feeding and feeding on Mykhael’s darkest corners of his mind. Most of his bones are still shattered, unleashing anger so raw, so dark and merciless, that the pain begins to become heavy mental words of encouragement. His conscious is fractured, his soul stained with redrum agony. As Mykhael’s inner structure begins to rebuild itself, he feels each broken piece come together. The magnetic forces of Heaven and Hell. The anima chains, pulse and slash like tendrils laced with razors and hooks, tearing and ripping deep into his body of flesh, mind and soul. The horrific pain of all his past experiences inflicted at once. The agony. The terror. A tidal wave of godlessness so unspeakable that it shatters everything in its path, except for one memory. One memory that he regrets. One memory that repeats itself through the loophole of time and space. The pure pain of infinity. Life to death. Death to life. He hears its laughter. It knew he wasn’t ready. It knows he will promise anything to remove the images of pain. It promises it won’t hurt anymore. It knows he’s had a son - - and for how long. The memories of his old world and now, as he screams aloud, here in this place of death, on a world in the throes of a thousand year war with Hell itself, as the protective sphere that he was reborn in slowly evaporates into thin air.

Curled up in the fetal position in his new natural state, the physical and mental pain continues to flash blinding visitations of his past. Fragments of Mykhael as a teenager. In and out of juvenile detention centers and jail, a stand alone complex. An outcast. A thief. A killer.

Attacked again and again all his life by gangs of haters and bullies who thought they owned the planet and everyone on it. Scum living by the sword of intimidation. Yet no one has dared to stand against them - - until now.

They jumped him. Tried to slit his throat. Their last mistake, as Mykhael finally reached a point within himself to take a stand, grabbing the large blunt stone. One of the two haters would soon become a crimson mess, as his shattered remains of his face would soon stain Mother Earth for decades to come.

Mykhael screamed in agony as the fragment of his childhood memory disappeared into the abyss of the neosol. The nucleus of every Darkmyne. Cold truths intertwined with slabs of memory of pure pain and suffering as he tries to crawl his way out of the scorched crater from which he was just delivered. But not before the rasping whispers. Whispers of doubt. Whispers of pressure. Whispers of fear. Whispers of hate. As the Darkmyne makes it to the surface and recovers himself, the voices rise again. A devilish angelic chorus of singular black thought drives his instinct to keep crawling as he screams aloud for the voices to stop. And again the memories rape his soul with flashbacks of damnation and pain of the past. Another incarceration of violence as Mykhael, a veteran of imprisonment, is dragged to his latest house of pain and punishment by the OCP cybercops. 

Then she came into his life. And with her, an offer of something he thought long lost - - a future - - and something else. Love. Their time together. So rare. So incredibly precious. He inhabited each others’ thoughts and dreams. She brought life to him. A last chance to believe in something simple and good. How could it possibly last. Slaughtered Michael. Gutted. Like all the rest. Your fault. They killed her. Because of you, Mykhael! They killed her! The neosol laughs from it’ dark abyss as it holds Mykhael’s fate and soul in it’s mental grip.

When consciousness returns, Darkmyne finds himself surrounded by T.A.L.O. super-soldiers, foot soldiers in the U.N.’s Mars Wars campaign of World War V on Earth. At attention, and ready to be unleashed at Darkmyne’s command. Far above, there’s a rumble beyond thunder. The commands of 1 LT Aabaddon, , one of Omega Sector’s lethal weapon. His voice alone is like the timbre of an apocalyptic onslaught as the angelic-demonic anti-alien fleet swarm. Awaiting the assault to come.

High atop the ruins of a dying world, two officers in the N.A.U’s Hell-Heaven Earth’s Grand Army gaze across America’s battlefield. Factions of alien-hybrids driven before a mass of human and A.I. T.A.L.O. super-soldiers. The radioactive winds blow ash and metal with the scent of burning bones, as the rivers flow with endless blood. Now with Mykhael Dymock as Darkmyne, a man who has seen no mercy in his life, gazes upon a population of humans, aliens and hybrids - - gridlocked and trapped in a hopeless battle for their very souls - - against the indomitable forces of angelic evil.

Darkmyne trudges through a blood-soaked killing field in the heart of apocalypse now warfare. Humans, A.I. cyborgs, aliens and hybrids alike. Blood and bones. Metal and mesh. Flames and flesh. The world burns as it slowly turns in its dark downward spiral. Merciless and godless. Psi-hits of heavy mental head-bombs rends flesh and metal with heinous ease, delivering fragmented flashes of Darkmyne’s searing rage deep into the soldiers’ minds and dying souls. 

<Get them Mykhael. The liars. The abusers. The betrayers. The haters. Do them like Regina. Hahahahahaha!!! This is your time, Mykhael. Go on! Do it! Dish it out!>

It comes so easily.

Death. Blood. Dust in the winds. He feels it. The power, the darkness, the unholy intoxication. Finally, to be on top. To stand unchallenged. No longer fighting just to keep from struggling  at the bottom of life’s pyramid. Then he sees them.

Mykhael shudders. Remembers another time, when a scared boy protected his younger sister from a monster. Used his bruised flesh to shield his sister Justine. After the monster’s death, P.P.C. officers came for him. Mykhael Dymock, age ten. Shackled, convicted, and branded for life.

Flashes of memory like shards of stained glass slicing through tender flesh. Darkmyne screams from a place of naked anguish. The place where his soul succumbs to the flaming sea of damnation. Dark and light. Good and evil. Horus and Set, in a tireless gun-fight for his very essence.

<Yesss - - remember your promise, Mykhael. But not to your sister. Not to your mother. But to the archon of the thirteenth level. Your Lord and Master. Your butcher, your baker, your candlestick maker - - Demiurge. This is your world you wanted. You made it - - you eat it, Michael-Mykhael - - remember? So stop the screaming and crying of no more, and stop, and take the responsibility of your responsibility!>

More death ushers in, as the T.A.L.O. super-soldiers fire their nanoparticle C.O.D.E. lasers. Darkmyne dives into the line of fire. Doesn’t hear his own pained cries. He absorbs an agonizing barrage of pulse energy. Enough to fuse and vaporize the bones and souls of a small village. The UV energy rises from his depths on a tidal wave of rage, pain and the instinct of survival. Surges forth in a wave of Aminordarkness - - a force of pure darkness and light that shatters and destroys everything in its’s path. He feels it now. Welling up. The power. So seductive.

<Good boy, Mykhael! Use that power. Abuse that power. Look! Look! Look! Take a good look. Your gonna love it!>

Mykhael Dymock feels a piece of his soul darken, rot, and falling down. Gone forever, as the pure darkness and light of Heaven and Hell has collected its debt. Darkmyne rips away at his black and red shroud-like-skin. He needs to see what he’s become. He needs to see who he used to be. For once in his life of misery Mykhael needs the cold, hard truth. Mykhael stares at the reflection of his godless visage, and now understands why the Neosol laughs and taunts him. The joke is on him, it always has been, and it will be for eternity.

<A legacy of pain stretching back generations culminates with you, Mykhael. The fires of apocalypse burned into your bones. Seared into the blackest recesses of your grimy, disreputable soul. And now know this, my son of my flesh - - the more you talk to me, use me, use your power of the Aminordarkness - - the more you become the soldier of darkness you are meant to be. Your soul becomes pitch black. Your soul becomes mine. So use your power, Mykhael. You must. There is no avoiding it. Your fate is already sealed. It has been for centuries now. So stop fighting it - - and get with the fucking program!>

He wants to cry. To surrender. The walls are collapsing all around him. So easy to give up. To give in - - but the soldiers give him no time to wallow. Darkmyne tries to stay clear of the humans, but the crossfires catch him across the apocalyptic ruins. The dead laugh from the Neosol, in deafening agreement.

<What are you waiting for? Kill them! You’re so weak. So pathetic. All this power and you do nothing. You deserve to be trampled upon.>

Darkmyne hates the laughter. Shatters skulls in anger then circles on his closest attacker. It would be so easy for Darkmyne to snap the alien-hybrid soldier in two with one hand. He feels it’s hatred. Wants to give it back a hundredfold. He’s been spit on his entire life by society, cops, soldiers, people in all different uniforms, and even his own family. Now he has the power to make them all pay for the pain, the suffering, the misery, and the humiliation. And now it all comes down to this. He makes his decision. 

Darkmyne lays waste to the soldiers, as he enjoys killing them one after another. Dozens upon dozens. In the midst of his death dealing, Mykhael suddenly accepts what he really is. A criminal. A killer. Dammed by God. Accepted by Satan. Trained by the prison system and the streets of the Matrix of this dying world. Hell on Earth. But here, right now, on a graveyard world that once exiled him forever, he takes a stand, as he begins to fire his semi-automatic assault riffle with sporadic Aminordarker head-bombs. He kills alien, hybrid and human soldiers until there is nothing left.

In the aftermath, Abaddon crosses the crimson red battle field. He preys upon the charred and shattered remnants of the mortally wounded, dragging and feasting on the steaming entrails. Dipping into their eye sockets, rib cages and ripping out their spinal columns. The endless, weary, screams is music to his ears. Darkmyne turns his back to Abaddon voicing his opinion sternly as he walks away, but not before the bodies of the slaughtered now become new servants of the darkness. Infected by Abaddon, and his pestilence of death, these once faithful soldiers of all breeds of life now are ready to continue waging Hell-Heaven’s war on Earth. Abaddon’s laughter echoes off the bones of the freshly risen. Darkmyne races and fights his way through the ruins and undead, overwhelmed with panic, as Abaddon’s laughter grips his mind. And in a rare moment, Darkmyne is afraid. Afraid of what, he does not know, but he feels it.

                                     to be continued...

[alexandraburton-x]

@zachwinthrop​

    a braided whine rinsed her throat. ❝ fucking hell, zach! fucking hell. ❞ the toe of her louboutin collided with jagged brick. she snapped at the knee, lily - white digits twisted into golden waves, knuckles going rigid. zach glanced at her. perspiration peppered her brow, her eyeliner sinking further and further down her face. ❝ you look pretty fucked up too, ❞ he countered blandly. she peered at him, tears glistening upon throngs of lash extensions. ❝and who’s fault do you think that is? ❞ zach screwed his nose, staring back out into the barren alleyway. somewhere in his ( muddied ) mind he understood that she blamed him. his shoulders twitched. a string of beats resonated through the walls, vibrating in his bones, clacking them together. a small smile ghosted his lips. ❝ i like this song. ❞ faith’s hands clawed together as though she were preparing to hit a volleyball, only they landed harshly upon his shoulder, toppling him sideways. ❝ are you being serious?! why can’t you ever be serious with me? why won’t you fucking talk to me? ever? about ANYTHING? ❞ he propped himself up on his elbow, his wrist wiping beneath his nose. zach shook his head. ❝what do you want me to say? this isn’t real. it never was. you know that. ❞ tears began to track her cheeks, but he didn’t notice. she slumped against the wall beside his sprawled stature. ❝ how can you even say that? ❞ zach remained silent, laying flat against the rubble, eyes closing. his head spun. he felt as though his body was ascending, separating from itself until he started to become nothing but air. ❝ zach? ❞ still, he was soundless. she felt so far away from him now. he smiled to himself. perhaps he was dying. that would make for aworld - bending headline.       cold liquid spattered his countenance. he spluttered, sitting upright, eyes wide. faith stood before him, arms folded. he had no idea how long he’d been out. ❝ i had to make sure you weren’t dead. ❞ he smiled at her, clambering slowly to his feet. ❝ well, surprise, ❞ he croaked. ❝ i’m still kicking. ❞ zach enveloped her in inked limbs, resting his head atop hers. she struggled half - heartedly. ❝ what are you doing? ❞ she mumbled, muffled by the material of his shirt. ❝ making up with you. ❞ he held her by the shoulders, arms - length away. ❝ all better? ❞ she frowned, eyes immense and desperate, looking right at him as though he wasn’t her demise. ❝ whatever. yes. just please stop fucking around with her in front of me. please. ❞ he patted her on the head as though she were a domesticated pet. ❝ her. right. ❞ zach pivoted, hand splayed on the door to turn back inside, when his phone buzzed on the ground. they both averted their gaze to the illuminated screen vibrating against gravel. ❝ don’t forget that, ❞ she asserted. it was a statement they both understood. if someone found it, it would mean a lot of ugly drama for a lot of people, should the contents leak. zach collected the iphone and glanced at the notification. a text from domino’s pizza.alex. he opened the notification to an ambiguously un - lit photograph and a vindictive caption. zach squinted, re - orienting, and eventually made out the unmistakeable visage of his unadulterated obsession and his friend, luke. his fingers went rigid around the device. he’d forgotten he’d started a WAR; one he was absolutely not equipped to initiate, much less partake in. he felt faint for a moment. ❝ what is it? ❞ she harped, attempting to peer over his shoulder. he shoved inside, neglecting to even offer faith a parting glance. ❝ nothing, ❞ he grunted. she stood stationary in his wake, her arms leaping from her sides in exasperation. ❝fucking - seriously? ❞       he found alex tucked away at the bar, slotted between luke’s thickset extremities, peering up at him. gratuitous jealousy S W O L E his veins. his head pulsed. he remained unseen in an un - lit corner, watching her flaunt herself like some remiss strumpet. his blood singed, burbling at the back of his throat. the hazed memory of him whispering to her that he’d fuck her in front of a crowd if she asked him to swilled his thoughts. he wanted to now. he had half a mind to storm over there and do it just to show everyone exactly how out - of - bounds she was. he LOATHED sharing. but still, he watched, willing her to make a move. to play her trump card.

        alexandra spilled amber tresses over her shoulders as she swilled the piquant elixir, the cloying taste of cranberry paling against her tongue. the helix of her back flattened against the lux slab of marble, delicately embellished limbs adorning either side of her as he stifled her within his clutches. umber halos drifted from his charming, cerulean gaze to dance upon the features of the contiguous patrons in search of her darling truelove. perhaps he’d succumbed to his potions, fading into an abeyance in an ill – lighted alleyway. there was ( no way ) he’d taken kindly to her perspicuous message. he could read between the lines – this was a campaign of retribution. & her choice of ammunition? E N V Y. heaven forbid the self – indulgent sovereign share his trinkets. ❝ so, this party’s going to die down eventually, ❞ he reputed, fringing his alpine tenement upon hers. her salacious tinctures polished over each start muscle, a coy smile decorating her porcelain visage. really? why were they all so calculable? alexandra lifted the crystalline glass toward her plush pout, burning another mouthful. ❝ is this the part where you try & desperately fail to take me back to your place? ❞ she rolled her eyes, but was met with resistance as his fingers hooked beneath her chin. ❝ fail? i haven’t even tried yet, but i’m sure i can change your mind. ❞ luke edged gently between her legs, hunching forward to glissade his blush muscle between her tumid petals. alexandra didn’t dispute his advance, at first. his solid digits traversed her thigh, scowling the hem of her dress & summoning her from the perverse reverie. she parted from the embrace, collecting his hand before nudging it against his stomach. ❝ fail, miserably. ❞

[distortsverity]

@gogogobarry whispered: ✘ "Do you ever regret going into the Distortion World with Cynthia? I could've gone instead, Hika. I /should've/ gone..."

The instant Hikari registers her friend’s words, she snaps shut the novel in her lap with a sudden thump. 

❝ Barry, please. ❞ She refuses to shoot so much as a glance at the blonde seated across from her, on the other side of the sofa ( he sounds so remorseful, she doesn’t wish to see Barry so unlike himself ). ❝ You shouldn’t dwell on that. A whole year’s gone by. ❞ Exactly one year, she realizes. Today’s the first anniversary of the so-called “ Battle of Mount Coronet. ” She contemplates dismissing Barry’s inquiry as if he’d never uttered it in the first place ( all she has to do is reopen the book and resume wherever she left off ), but . . . 

She can’t just ignore him when he’s feeling dejected, that’s impossible.

Oh Barry, why must it be you who poses such a distressing question! Had it been to most anyone else, she would’ve felt no qualms replying ( lying ) with her trademark confidence: “ Of course I would never regret that. ” Indeed, she’s endeavoring to fully embrace her own lies --- the same lies she tells the public --- so they may become truth, to twist the ordeal into some kind of benefit for herself ( ❝ The Galactic Plot, the greatest trial of all, proved my strength unfaltering and my will resolute. ❞ ). Unprecedented hardships did good for her, carrying unprecedented burdens did good for her, she was already great but her ordeals made her legendary, made her the Savior of Sinnoh ---  

Alas, this is Barry she must answer to . . . Barry, her closest friend since forever, and forever that he shall be. Barry, whose keen perception she has sadly underestimated, for he must’ve already glimpsed the invisible cracks in this facade she’d begun to cultivate.

So for Barry, she will lay bare a truth that she would’ve much preferred to take with her to the grave. In a soft, barely audible voice : ❝ And to your question . . . Yes, I do regret it from time to time. ❞ 

Goddamn it, she loathes herself now! Arceus, just strike her down where she is! This day’s turned into shit within mere seconds!

Oh poor pathetic Hikari, you believe yourself mighty but where, then, was your will to smother those words and churn out a lie in their stead?!  So what if Barry could detect your deceit right off the bat? So what if it’d pain him to see you unwilling to confide in even those who are dearest to you? Surely he values your comfort first and foremost! He would’ve concluded you weren’t ready to talk, he would’ve waited patiently until you were because he’s a good friend, the best!

Now, blatant backtracking is definitely out of the question, but “ clearing things up ” ( read : asserting that she isn’t nearly as regretful as Barry may believe ) isn’t. There is still time to remedy her error.

❝ B-But you gotta know that I’m glad I went with Cynthia, okay? I was called upon to stop the Renegade, l had to stop It to save this world. The Lake Spirits, they beckoned me forward, too, and I’m honored they believed that I was capable of calming It. And besides . . . ❞ 

A deep exhale, then Hikari finally looks up at Barry to present a forced smile. ❝ I’d go back a thousand times, if that’s what I have to do to keep you from setting foot there yourself. You shouldn’t have gone, and you didn’t, and I’m thankful to the heavens for that. ❞ 

Oh Barry, you must know! She’s immensely thankful that your team was already tuckered out by the time Giratina manifested! You haven’t the slightest clue what horrors she and Cynthia had been subjected to, and she’s thankful you will never be able to understand! A miasma of dread and despair, hanging over both their heads and hindering their senses ; the oppressive weight of those omnipresent eyes of crimson, judging the intruders’ every thought and action ; an otherworldly serpentine figure of shadows and spindly limbs and talons, whose memory haunts Hikari to this very day --- gaze upon your childhood friend and look at just how well she’s dealt with it all!

So Barry, if you were in her place, or if you accompanied her and Cynthia . . .  how would you have turned out? 

❝ I don’t want to imagine what that place would’ve done to you, Barry. ❞