#I want to curl up in an open grave and rot away

[milo-is-rambling]

Hahahahaha love when trying to talk about my emotions with my mother and why I’m struggling to connect with her and I’m spending every day in my room and not with her it turns out the reasons she doesn’t want to be around me are bc she doesn’t want to talk about feelings and I remind her of my dad and she is sick of not being happy and I am apparently one of the only reasons why she feels like she can’t be happy and also I need to clean up around the house more and find other friends because she can’t be my everything and she also told me to just back off and I am pmsing and just want to curl up into a ball and cry for like six hours. My mother only likes me when I am ignoring my feelings my mother only likes me when I am keeping the house clean my mother only likes me when I am on the verge of killing myself. I feel like I’m working my way up to being a normal person and obviously I’m stalling but once I get a job and start saving and move out I will be locked into the capitalist nightmare where I will work until I am in pain and old and sick and dying and only then will I have real free time again and I’m trying to savor it because I didn’t go to college and I dropped out of high school and I’m probably never going to get a job that will pay me enough to actually retire or even spend a month off again. Like. Fuck. The world is a nightmare and my mother won’t shut up about sex and strange men and I am thinking of my father today because it’s the fucking haha funny weed number day and I am just like him and our neighbors (dads friend) mom said “doesn’t she look just like him?” the other day and I don’t think I’ve been normal since. I am just like my father and mother resents me for it. My brother is just like my mother and she wants nothing to do with him. I said something about maybe he’ll move back in with us after graduation and my mother was all like don’t say that we don’t want that and like girl I fucking do want that for the first time in my fucking life I like my brother and all you can say is how badly you don’t want him to move back in with us. Maybe I want a family? Maybe I want people who fucking like me or at least pretend to like me. Maybe I just want someone in my life who will joke around with me and watch tv and do shit without mentioning the seventeen fucking men they’re flirting with or talking constantly about going on dates and not being home and yeah I’m fucking happy for her but can’t you just shut your mouth for one fucking day and not talk about what guy you’re going out with when and maybe don’t make jokes about having your fuck buddy come over and smoke weed in the hot tub on the day I associate so fucking heavily with my father can you just not make jokes about replacing the one fucking man in my life who knows how it feels to be like me. Can you just not. Can you fucking not. God. Fuck. I feel like I’m falling apart and isolating and I’m fucking miserable and at the same time I’m the happiest I’ve been in months and every time I want to be around my mother she wants to talk about men and I am just so fucking over it and she keeps saying well maybe this is the new normal for me and it’s taking everything in me to hold back from saying that I don’t want anything to do with that. Can’t she separate her children from her love life. Like fucking hell. I just want a mother who is only my mother again. I miss when she was just my mom and now we are both real full people and it feels like we have nothing in common anymore except our shared grief over a shitty man and it is just exhausting. And now she’s all happy and I feel like when I think about dad I have no one to talk to about it bc I don’t want to disrupt her fucking growth and she doesn’t even know that I’m falling apart and I just can’t do this shit anymore with her something has to fucking change and she would be happy if only I was different so the change that needs to happen is with me I need to change in order for her to like spending time with me again. Fuck. I’ll shower and get dressed and go to office depot and try to get a job. Fuck.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them. 

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight. 

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest. 

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley. 

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes. 

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home. 

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter. 

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs. 

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream. 

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way. 

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone. 

[pansexualkiba]

"'Don't you want to be married, Katsuki?' 'It's like you don't even care, Katsuki!' 'Learn your VOWS, Katsuki!' RAAGH!" Katsuki mocked, kicking a nearby stump. "Maybe I'd be more open to the wedding if it wasn't arranged, ever think of that?!" Katsuki raged. He took out the ring from his breast pocket and flipped it around his fingers.

"Haaah... Nobody even asked if I wanted to get married in the first place. I especially don't want to marry that rich girl... Cheap fucking parents springing for the first wealthy family they can find, ugh." Katsuki huffed.

A crow startled him, and the shock grounded him again. Somehow, in his blind rage, he'd managed to run deep into the woods, where the nearest road was only a suggestion through the treeline. The full moon shone down on the snowbank, illuminating the small clearing he was in in an unearthly pale blue.

Katsuki wasn't one for Romanticism, but it was a glacially beautiful night, in his opinion.

The chill of winter midnight further cooled his head, and Katsuki grumbled as he stared at the ring. "Learn your vows... Learn your fucking vows... As if they're at all difficult." Katsuki growled. He then stood up, taking on a more affected accent, an apery of the Yaoyorozu patriarch if anything. "I vow to stay by your side, as your loving husband." He easily recited, ghosting the blocking of the ceremony with a nearby tree.

"With this candle," He snapped an icicle off a branch. "I shall light your way in the darkness." The tip of the icicle was placed to a small sapling growth, as if to mimic the transference of flame.

"Your cup shall never empty," Katsuki mimed sipping from a wine glass. "For I shall be your wine. And, most importantly," Katsuki rolled his eyes, and placed his wedding ring on an outstretched root.

"With this ring, I take you to be my bride."

It was as if the world froze, in that deep winter chill.

The wind began to pick up, crows began to shriek and the snow began to move.

"What the hell-" Katsuki took a reflexive step back, and suddenly, the root he had placed the ring around curled in on itself. Four other offshoots became known, and Katsuki realized with some small amount of horror that it wasn't a root - it was a hand, entirely skeletonized and buried haphazardly in a shallow grave.

How shallow it was was soon brought to light, as the hand clawed at the ground before a second, more fleshed (but still rotting) hand sprung out of the ground and joined its mate. The forest sod gave away, snow and dirt and moss erupting from the ground, and Katsuki shielded his eyes to keep the soil from blinding him.

The sounds of movement ceased.

Katsuki slowly opened his eyes.

The figure was ethereal. What color the skin once had was utterly removed, being so pale that they reflected the blue glow of the night forest. Owing to their semi-decayed state, their body was slim and slender, but certainly masculine. This masculinity was undercut by the utterly gorgeous, almost impossibly expensive wedding gown the figure was wearing, stained grey and brown by its time in the earth, and certainly eaten through by insects and worms. A horridly matching veil covered much of the bride's face, but there were waves of dark hair falling around the back of the dress.

The bride lifted their veil, revealing an almost cherubic face, ruined by the passages of time having sunken their cheeks sallow, their teeth showing through a hole in the left cheek.

"I do." The bride whispered.

Katsuki did the one thing he could think of, when faced with quantifiable proof that the dead walked the earth.

He attempted to tackle the bride.

The bride, however, seemed to giggle at the attack, and caught Katsuki, redirecting him into a deep bow with strength almost (and quite obviously) supernatural in its extremeness.

"I, Izuku Midoriya, hereby take you as my lawfully-wedded husband, in the eyes of God." The bride - Izuku - continued, voice barely a whisper but so, so happy, as if it was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world.

Katsuki shoved himself out of the corpse's arms and hit the ground hard. The bride made to follow - Katsuki scrambled to his feet and broke for the treeline, for the bridge into town, for his actual life away from walking corpses and sham marriages and-

And a hand was gripping his arm. With a disgusted cry, Katsuki grabbed the hand and threw it over his shoulder, not looking at what could be behind him.

(Unseen, Izuku Midoriya, the living bride, easily caught his hand, as delicately and tenderly as his own bouquet.)

Eventually, Katsuki broke through the trees, despite the foliage's apparent determination to hinder his escape. The moon illuminated the dirt road into his town, and the bridge shone light blue in the snow.

It was so familiar, oh-so familiar, that Katsuki couldn't help himself but to lean over the side of the bridge, catching his breath.

There was no sound, nothing to indicate danger, so Katsuki allowed himself a second to absorb the moon's light. He turned to head home-

The bride was standing there.

With his back to the wall of the bridge, Katsuki was trapped. The corpse slowly stalked forward, and Katsuki made futile efforts to move back.

"You may kiss..." Izuku Midoriya, the corpse bride whispered happily, eyes shining in the night, "The bride..."

Izuku Midoriya pulled in close.

Katsuki Bakugou knew no more.

[lost-girl-2021]

Maybe Spider will go with his father and the squad to Paz's grave? There they could reminisce about old times and tell Spider about his mother as their friend, maybe the stories of meeting her and Miles Sr.

Here's a lil one-shot :)

Spider had never been to a cemetery before. His mom was buried on the other side of the city, an hour's drive from the McGregor's house, more with traffic. Mrs. McGregor had made promises of taking him more than once, but there was never any time.

He wasn't sure if there was a dress code, but his new uncle, Lyle, had shown up to the apartment wearing another Hawaiin shirt (this one was black and gold) and grass-stained jeans. Spider slept most of the car ride, nearly forty-five minutes with his face pressed against the leather seats. His father and uncle talked quietly in the front seat, the music thumping low in the background.

Spider was tired enough when they arrived that he hadn't even realized the car had stopped until his father opened his door. He wordlessly helped the teenager out of the car, a hesitant hand pushing some of his curls from his face. The boy yawned, following the men through the winding paths of the graveyard.

It was a big place and most of the tombstones looked identical, but his father and uncle seemed to have no trouble navigating through the maze. Maybe they'd been arranged alphabetically? Spider didn't really want to ask, it was probably a stupid question. He wondered if tree roots ever made the headstones fall over? How slowly would that even happen? And what if—

"We're here."

Oh. Spider stopped two steps away from where his father was, staring at the stone. P. Socorro, loving mother, lovely person.

Spider wondered how heavy the stone was. What if someone just broke in and started rearranging them? How would they know?

"You can come closer, son." Quaritch spoke softly, brushing leaves from the— what was that, cement? Some type of boulder?

"I don't want to step on her." He muttered, frowning down at the grass. "Kiri says it's rude to wake 'em up."

Kiri also said he should hold his breath so he didn't accidentally inhale a spirit, but he'd only lasted a few steps before inhaling.

Lyle snorted. "I think she'll understand."

Spider didn't want to risk it. He crouched down, pulling up a few tiny weeds that were starting to sprout. He mouth felt dry, like all the moisture had gown straight to his sweaty palms.

He wasn't really sure what to say. He thought about the picture he'd seen of his mom— smiling, happy. He couldn't really imagine her rotting six feet below.

"You know . . . " His father cleared his throat. "You know, when I met your mama, I kind of hated her. We were at each other's throats for the first . . . at least the first three months."

Spider raised an eyebrow, as if to ask how he'd ended up happening if such a thing was true.

"One night, we all ended up getting drunk off some shit we'd bought off the natives. Moonshine, we'd thought, but it ended up being a lot stronger." He laughed, sending Spider's uncle a look. "Your uncle Lyle ended up passed out in a bush and I think Paz was the only other one sober enough to help me carry him inside."

"Thank God for my low alcohol tolerance, really." Lyle said with a laugh.

Spider rolled his eyes. "What happened after that?"

"Well, we ended up babysitting drunken soldiers most of the night and by the end of it . . . well, I stopped hating her by the second round of cards."

"Did you two actually . . . did you actually love her?" Spider asked quietly, looking down at the grave.

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. "And I only loved her more after we had you."

Spider nodded, throat tight. He took a small step closer, almost leaning against his father. His ribs felt too tightly pressed against his organs, but he took in a deep breath anyways.

Paz Socorro. Loving mother, lovely person.

[euphoricfilter]

Devil That I Know (Part 9)

~ Oddly Human

Pairing: Demon! Jungkook x Human! Reader

Genre: (Inaccurate) Historical AU || Strangers to lovers AU || Supernatural AU || Smut || Fluff || Angst

Summary: A step back into time— and how Jungkook ended up at the palace. (takes place between the end of chapter 5 and beginning of chapter 6)

Word count: 10k

Tags/ warnings: the tiniest hint of fluff at the end, angst, kinda graphic descriptions of murder, blood, self inflicted injury, mild violence in comparison to other events of this chapter (a slap to the cheek), jungkook feeling human emotions, kidnapping, there's some kinda morally questionable scenes (he bathes with her while she's passed out, descriptions of fantasies-- not sexual- where she's passed out), the rise of king yoongi, i think that is all?

Notes: this whole chapter takes place between the end of chapter 5 and start of chapter 6, all written in jungkook's pov this time. i only proof read this once so if there are mistakes, no there arent.

my full masterlist || devil that i know masterlist

+ + +

(1865- 33 years before you wake in the palace)

Jungkook watches as his home burns, heat of the fire caressing his skin. Wispy flames curling into the claws of a beast as it rips through the structure he’d worked so hard to build. Countless memories he’d made, fizzling into a pile of ashes. And years of hard work crushed within minutes of the villagers’ arrival.

The outside of what was once Taehyung’s room, stained red with the blood of the humans reckless enough to trespass onto his property, hands soaked in ruby red that he wipes down the front of his shirt. The crackling of their fire louder than their cries for help, begging the demon for his mercy as he rips their hearts right from their chests.

And he thinks it’s ironic, begging him for his pitiful charity when they had been the ones to start this fight. Pitiful that they thought for a moment he would spare their sad little lives when they’d been the ones to waltz into his house and destroy it.

If he wasn’t so worried about you, then maybe he would have taken his time killing them. Maybe let the beast they unleashed sear their skin until they were unrecognisable, and he could skin them alive and watch them bathe in their own blood.

And maybe Jungkook would have thought it was amusing. How such low beings could try and kill him with a few nasty flames—though he sees the tail of the beast over the bridge that connects to his bedroom, jaw ticking as he takes one final glance at the scattered corpses at the foot of Taehyung’s grave. Stone charred and soil saturated with blood.

And briefly he wonders if Taehyung’s dead corpse is finally warming up six feet under, rotting away at the expense of Jungkook’s selfish needs. Or if his old friend was laughing in his grave at his misfortune, maybe angry that his only refuge had been painted red.

With one last gentle nod to his former friend, Jungkook takes off towards the corner of the Hanok, only praying that the fire hadn’t been able to reach where you were as he had to make a pitstop before the two of you would make an escape.

His legs take long strides to one of the back rooms, what was once an empty room turned library with all the books, he never wanted you or Taehyung to ever see. The door barely holding onto its hinges as he yanks it open; all four arms shoving piles of paper out of his way until he reaches the chest of drawers in the back corner of the room.

“Pieces of shit” he grumbles, crackling of the flames devouring the surrounding area. Though he had no worries of his prized possessions crumbling to ash; the small room having been enchanted years back when he’s first built the place—impossible for anyone but himself to enter, and no natural force being able to destroy the near perimeter.

Maybe if he had honed his powers sooner the rest of the hanok would have been saved, the thought slipping his mind once Taehyung had entered his life and then evidently, you as well.

He grabs hold of the book he’d been looking for; his saving grace in helping you live for eternity—his gateway to entwining your souls, bonded for as long as the earth turns, and stars twinkle in the sky. And Jungkook will continue to love you until the day both of you can no longer walk, until each of your last breaths shall be taken, he’ll love you in life and death and although it may be selfish the thought of you aging beside him is enough to swallow the guilt of lying.

He shuts the door to the room before he’s taking long strides back towards the bedroom.

His hand flies over his mouth as he inhales thick, black smoke, the wooden bridge creaks under his weight as he pushes through the flames, skin flushing red as he swats at his clothes as they catch alight. Annoyance laced in his features at the trouble of this all.  

Jungkook catches sight of you, slouched on the floor and he can’t help but run his eyes over your body, checking for any sign of injury. His tongue darts out to wet his lips when all he’s met with is the top half of your body covered in your flimsy little undergarments. And if the both of you had been in a different setting, where your home weren’t—well not a home anymore, he may have indulged you a little, always ever so pretty without even trying that he can’t help wanting to spoil you a little, until all you knew was his name.

He falls to his knees besides you, all four arms reaching to pull you into his chest. You fall forwards into him, hands grabbing onto whatever was left of his shirt. Your body trembling in what he can only assume to be both fear and adrenaline as it courses through the veins, thrumming underneath your skin.

The dull thud of his book dropping to the floor is nothing but a whisper behind the hissing of the flames. Jungkook can’t help but run his hands over your body, a silent reminder that you were there—that you were okay. His head drops to your shoulder, lungs squeezing a shaky breath through his windpipe as he feels the skin of his chest damped with what he can only assume to be your tears.

He wonders if you’re scared. Curious where he’d been, why he’d taken so long. Wonders if you’d let the boiling questions drip off your tongue, and maybe he’d just kiss them away because for once, even Jungkook didn’t know what to do.

This had never been part of his plans. Never an issue he thought he’d need to deal with. Jungkook was always 2 steps ahead of everyone else and albeit not that many, he always had a head-start. Always knew what was coming because he made his own path, never stuck to the original plotline of the tragedy called life. And for the first time, Jeon Jungkook had walked himself to the edge of a cliff, tips of his toes over the edge, moments from falling into a fate that he had no control over and that scared him.

Jungkook pulls you away from his chest, watching as shiny tears slip down your cheeks like liquid gold as they reflect the yellow of the flames.

Both of your heads turn when you hear the large tree in the courtyard crack, the fire clawing its way up the trunk. And uses that as his cue, Jungkook takes a hold of your wrists, pulling you from the ground. He crouches down, picking up the book he’d bought in the capital before he pulls you towards the gate.

Neither of you say anything. And maybe it’s because neither of you know exactly what to say. What is Jungkook meant to tell you? That everything was going to be, okay? Because he didn’t know if it was, and he hated lying to you.

The both of you turn back towards the hanok once you’d passed the fence, and Jungkook slips his fingers between your own, sending you a reassuring squeeze, but you don’t turn to look at him. Both of you just watching as your home burns, the fire never-ending as it consumes what had become so familiar.

Jungkook licks his lips, all the years he’d spent there suddenly gone to waste and he thinks the sadness of it all is finally starting to sink in at the sight of what was once so precious to him. All the books he’d collected, the rooms he’d constructed himself, the house he’d built from nought, amounting to nothing more than ashes and broken memories.

“What about Taehyung’s stuff? His grave?” you ask, hand coming to cover your mouth as you cough. And Jungkook frowns because he can’t even offer you any water to soothe your throat. The sinking feeling of failure settling in.

Jungkook hums, “I’d assume it’s all burnt”

The sigh you let out is shaky, hand coming to push the stray hairs out of your face; though you don’t cry, and Jungkook wants to reassure you it’s okay to do so.

“Let’s go” Jungkook tugs at your hand, not daring to look at your face.

Maybe he would cry if he looked at you. How could he look at you when he had failed you once again?

Everything was meant to get better, not worse. You were meant to live your secluded life together; in the home he had built. He would have found you another pet, watched as you danced around the courtyard in the spring, and during the winter months, he’d have an excuse to hold you extra close. You were meant to watch the world change together, laugh about the past and make plans for your infinite future spent together.

You were meant to have the perfect love story, written by the best poets. A story told of two beings whose love was magical—nights spent cooking with one another, watching the world develop, watching people you knew grow, having a separate house by the sea for the summer where kisses were sea salty and skin was kissed by the sun, only Jungkook would kiss you twice as much. Neither of you would have to rush with kids, all the time in the world to bask in each other’s company before you decided to try for a baby.

How was Jungkook meant to look at you when he clearly couldn’t give you the world?

“Where?” you ask, little resistance coming from you as he pulls you down a familiar path.

“We can’t live here anymore, my love”

You take one more glance, diverging your gaze to settle on Jungkook’s back as the two of you made your descent from the mountain.

+ + +

Jungkook hadn’t known where to take you. He only really had 2 options, neither he particularly liked—but with nothing but the moon as his light and your limbs slowly giving up on you, Jungkook knew this was the only safe place he could take you. Even if your memories of this village weren’t fond ones, at least it gave the two of you shelter for now.

The village was a ghost town, anything living having been eradicated all that time ago by the disease, that to this day no one had a cure for. Rumours of the land inhabitable, and ever so perfect for yours and Jungkook’s temporary stay.

“Did the people of Namjoon’s village do that?” you motion towards the mountain that loomed over the village you both stood in. And Jungkook can see how tired you are; feet dragging behind you with every step you took, eyes sunken and he only hopes you can hold on for a little longer.

“I think so” he briefly turns his head to look at you, “This village and Namjoon’s are the only two close to the mountain. I know my kind aren’t well liked anymore but I doubt anyone would travel more than a day just to do this”

You nod, feet bringing yourself to a halt when you both reach the centre of the village.

Jungkook turns to you with furrowed brows, opening his mouth to ask you why you’d stopped. You just tug your hand from his own, and Jungkook watches as you take a step towards a large wooden pole stood upright.

“Y/n?” Jungkook asks, coming to stand beside you.

You turn to look over your shoulder, and Jungkook feels his heart skip a beat.

You were ever so pretty in his eyes, skin almost glowing in the light of the moon. A silver halo cast over your head like you were an angel. He wonders if Taehyung’s art would have done you justice in that moment. If he would have been able to capture something so ethereal that Jungkook’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. An overflowing amount of love too much for his cold heart to handle. An overflowing amount of love for you that seemed to grow with every second in the day, because Jungkook just couldn’t seem to ever get enough of you.

His fingers itch by his sides, your skin drawing him on like a moth to a flame; body his temple to worship and soul his love.  

“You remember I told you about a friend?” you say, expression turning a little sour.

Jungkook nods. An emotion akin to jealousy plaguing his mind at the mention of the friend you still clearly hold dear to your heart. But Jungkook didn’t feel fickle emotions like jealousy, not a demon as great as he was. And he thinks the only justifiable way to rid of this illness in his heart is having to erase those insignificant memories from your mind. Slowly but surely clawing his way in, until the only man you can think of is himself.

“They killed him here, tied to that” you point to the thick pole, “And they locked me up in there” you use your thumb to point to the structure behind you.

“I’m sorry. This was the only place I could think would be safe for us” no actual remorse in his tone, because what else was he supposed to do?

“It’s okay” you wave him off, “They all look dead by the looks of things anyways. I know a good place we can camp out in”

Jungkook follows behind you, nodding in satisfaction as you open the door to the village chief’s house.

“This should be spacious enough” you nod, cringing as a spider scuttles across the room.

“What are we going to do for food?” Jungkook kneels on the floor, running a hand over his face, “And money?”

Jungkook can feel you watching him as he fiddles with the pockets of his pants, a few coins jingling as they knock against one another. And he knows that they won’t take the both of you very far, but he hadn’t exactly been prepared for this situation either.

You drop yourself in front of him, “We’re really fucked this time” and he can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Because maybe you were right, maybe the both of you really were fucked. But at least you were together; that, he was the most grateful for.

Jungkook just watches as you fidget, the dusty floor less than ideal; “I’ll see if there’s anything we can eat”

+ + +

For the first time in all his years living, Jungkook finally knows what panic feels like.

He can feel it fizzling uncomfortably under his skin; heart squeezing so uncomfortably in his chest he’s moments away from ripping it out—letting whatever desperate creature that dares lurk the village chew on the muscle until it’s been digested and shat out, so he doesn’t have to feel what he can only describe as impending dread consume his entire being.

What if you starved to death? He knew damn well that there wasn’t anything left in this town. What if you froze, the nights still a little too chilly for what you’re wearing without a proper fire to keep you from catching pneumonia.

He pushes open a door to what he assumes to be an old home. Family name painted on the door, though it was half eaten by mould. The door creaks, off-tune welcome accompanied by a sneeze as a wave of dust caresses his face.

He wanders into the kitchen, prominent frown etched onto his face when he sees there’s nothing for you to eat. His fingers clasp around the handle of a woven basket, the bitter taste of defeat on his tongue as he’s met with the sight of a family of maggots.

He continues his search, hoping that at least one of the baskets had something edible for you to eat until he came up with a better plan.

Although the thought was a fleeting one, he takes a moment to consider sending you to Namjoon’s village. The young man and his mother probably more than happy to house you until Jungkook could figure out where the two of you could go.

However, that would mean leaving you out of his sight for too long. He wouldn’t be able to stay with you; not when the men of that village had probably marched home in victory of slaying a demon.

He knew his fate if he were to dare step foot in that village when they had announced him dead. Burnt at the stake if he’s lucky, and that’s only if they’re feeling particularly generous.

Jungkook was selfish—selfish enough to possibly let you starve if it meant he could stay by your side.

The thought of leaving you alone—with another man—too much for his fragile little heart to take in that moment. The thought of you not being within arms’ reach, a thought he couldn’t stand.

His jaw clenches when all he can find are a few forgotten tea leaves; dried to be preserved. His gaze travels down to the book in his hands, and briefly he wonders if now is really the right time. But when had it ever been the right time to convert you?

It doesn’t take long for him to weigh out the pros, ignoring the consequences if anything were to go wrong. Even if it meant you’d sleep for a while, this time for however long, food wouldn’t be an issue. His blood enough to sustain you until you wake. Your body would finally get the rest it so craved, so if anything, he was doing you a favour.

It’s as he’s walking back through the centre of the village that his eyes flit to look at the chief’s house, no movement from you inside.

Even better if you’d dozed off, that would make his job a little easier.

He stops outside the blacksmiths, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he pushes open a window at the back of the shop. Silver light of the moon his only source of light as he rummages around for what he needs, smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he drops the piece of flint into his pocket. Muscles in his arms flexing as he picks up a slab of steel.

One of his free hands grab a bucket, ears picking up the sound of the river.

The stream is cold between his toes, numbing them as the water splashes against the bare skin of his ankles. The tight grip he had on the bucket loosens, almost falling off the tips of his fingers as he tilts his head to look up at the moon.

He lets out a shuddering breath, air rattling his lungs as he takes a moment to just breathe.

He felt… oddly human.

Petty feelings consuming his thoughts and selfish desires driving his actions. He could feel ever new wave of water that brushed against his feet, and he could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. Body oversensitive and mind overactive that he couldn’t think straight with the voices that plagued his mind.

He could feel all the ugly, sad little emotions a human would feel when nothing seemed to be going their way, and panic was clouding his vision. Hands a little shaky and air a little hard to breathe, never enough but too much all at once.

He wished everything was nothing but wished he could feel things all at once. Thoughts he’d never had too much, but so intriguing he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Jungkook was starting to feel human, and he didn’t like it.

Stupid human emotions that he had no interest in feeling.

Because humans felt minor things like guilt and pain and Jungkook had no interest in either of those. He couldn’t be guilty when he knew what he wanted, guilt an invisible wall that prevents you from pursuing your dreams.

And Jungkook wouldn’t be stopped. Not when every passing day is a step closer towards his ideal world. A paradise he’s so close to reaching where you and himself could live in freedom with no worries. A place of love and happiness and your smiles and giggles. And just you you you. Because Jungkook could never get enough of you.

And that’s why he’s doing this—because of you. Because he loves you. Adores you more than any other insignificant morsel ever could, and he can’t wait to show you his paradise.

The grass tickles his legs as he wanders back into the centre of the village. Lips tugging up into a smile when he spots the pole that your friend had died on.

He drops off his supplies a little further away from the chief’s house, wary that you’d be able to hear him shuffling around if he were to work too close.

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze when he pokes his head through the door, “I found some tea, pass me that pot”

He watches as you push yourself off the floor, legs shaky as you stagger to the other side of the room.

“Thank you, doll” he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Get some rest, I’ll be back soon”

He waits until he hears the door slide shut before he gets to work. Frustration tickling his spine as he tries to light a fire, annoyed grunt dripping off his tongue as he slowly starts to lose patience. He freezes when he hears shuffling from the room you were in, lips tucked behind teeth as he waits for you to settle down.

He swallows thickly, nimble fingers chipping the flint against the steel. A laugh bubbles up his throat when the pile of dry wood catches alight, orange flames illuminating his face.

He balances the pot of water over the fire, fingers tapping against his knees as he watches it start to bubble.

He turns away from the flames, digging into the pocket of his trousers to pull out a dagger. He flicks open his book, chewing on his bottom lip as he skims over the few words written on each page before he stops, fingers tracing the intricately designed circle.

He doesn’t hesitate as he slashes his hand open, no wince of pain or cry of agony; he simple dips a finger into the pool of red gathering in his palm before he begins tracing the same design from his book onto the dusty floor. His blood soaks into the ground, almost black from the light of the fire.

One pair of hands fall onto his hips as he stares down at his work, eyes flicking back to the book. Checking he’d drawn it out right.

Humming, he nods. Fingers tracing his jaw as he wanders back to the boiling water, tipping the jar of tea leaves into it before he bends down beside the remaining water in the bucket.

He watches as the water swirls red, deep gash in his palm gone as he throws the evidence into a nearby bush before he pulls the pot off the flames.

+ + +

“Are you not going to have any?” you catch Jungkook’s attention, voice so soft he almost missed it. But Jungkook simply shakes his head, not daring to look up at you. He thinks he would confess if he were to see the look in your eyes; tired from the events of the evening and body a little bruised and battered.

He can see the gentle nod you send him from the corner of his eyes, and he swallows the growing lump in his throat.

He dares look up when he thinks you aren’t looking, only his eyes meet your own and as much as he wants to look away, you draw him in, “Is there something wrong? You’re acting weird” you ask him as he just shakes his head, eyes flitting down back to his book.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” he asks after noticing you’d finished your tea.

You shake your head, “I’m not really tired after what happened”

“Pretty thing… you really should get some rest” he encourages, and he winces when you flinch as he closes his book with a force he hadn’t intended, the thud echoing off of the walls, amplified by the lack of furniture. An apology on the tip of his tongue but you beat him to it.

“I’m really okay”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion when he stands; long legs helping him saunter towards you.

“What are you doing?” you lean back when he crouches at your side and Jungkook feels his fingers itch by his sides. A pang of hurt grating at his heart as he watches your eyes flit over his face, wary of what his next move was. That hurt morphing into annoyance the longer he watches you try and scoot any from him; far from subtle as your eyebrows furrow—you were scared.

You were scared of him.

Scared of Jungkook?

He can feel a laugh crawling up his throat at the mere thought of you fearing him.  

Didn’t you trust him?

“Can’t you just listen for once?” his voice drops as octave, hand coming to hold your face.

Seemingly unaware of his own strength, Jungkook’s hand tightens its grip, and he wants to scoff as you wince. Is this what you really thought of him? Some lowlife that was willing to hurt you?

How dense did you have to be?

He pushes your face away, hard enough you fall backwards; head slamming against the hardwood floor. Though he doesn’t seem to take any notice as his mind races. Thoughts on how he was going to get you outside consuming him. He didn’t mind playing your games but not today, not when he needed you to just listen to him for once. 

“What is your problem?” you glare at him, trying to push yourself to sit up once again. And when he sees this, Jungkook straddles your waist, first pair of arms coming to hold your own hands above your head.

“Jungkook?” you wriggle, and he only lets out a grunt. Patience slowly waring thin the more you struggle. Was it really that hard just to sit still why he thought for a moment? Was it really that hard just to cooperate when he clearly needs you to calm down?

“I’m sorry” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss between your eyebrows. No real remorse behind his eyes, calculating his next move.

“Jungkook, please” you cry, so pitiful and weak that his resolve crumbles briefly.

The grip he had on your arms loosen, heart pitter patting so loudly he can hear it in his ears. And in a moment of weakness, he second guesses himself. Because maybe this was wrong.

It’s the glint of your pocketknife that pulls him out of his reverie, wisps of guilt brushed away as he takes a hold of his dagger.

“I’m so sorry” he whispers, watching your mouth fall open in pain, his hands shaking as he thrusts the knife in a little deeper.

“Baby, I’m sorry” he bites back a sob, “So sorry, you’re doing so well for me. It’s all okay”

He watches as blood gathers at the corners of your lips and that’s when the tears fall, his chest releasing a stuttering breath as his tears fall into your cheeks; swirling pink as they mix with your blood.

A sob wracks up his spine and he really does try to wait. Hoping, praying, that if you had a moments rest, it would hurt a lot less when he finally brings you outside.

Bile rises up his throat at the pained sob you let out, and suddenly waiting doesn’t seem like any good. He winces when you let out a particularly loud cry, his arms jostling you too much that he can only imagine the searing pain that paralyses your body.

He steps into the circle, fire barely holding on as he lays you in the centre of the circle. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand as he flicks through the book, mind unable to comprehend what he was reading so he starts spewing words that seem right, hoping that your suffering would end soon.

“No no, baby. Don’t close your eyes just yet” he taps your cheeks, “It’s almost over just stay awake a little longer”

+ + +

You lay motionless beside Jungkook. His arms slung over your waist as the two of your lay there. His shirt flung loosely over your chest, soaked in your blood but he had nothing else to keep you warm with.

The sun caresses his skin, a gentle kiss that he’d much rather have from you. His thumb skims over the skin of your cheeks, rough from both of your dried tears, blood painting your skin a cracked red. He hadn’t bothered cleaning you up yet, though he thinks you still look pretty even like this.

Red really did suit you.

The gentle rise and fall of your chest is enough for him to close his eyes, head tucked into your neck as he lets his lips skim over your bare skin. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pulls you further into his chest.

It must be gone mid-day when he finally decides to get up, muscles aching in protest as he lets you rest, picking up the empty bucket and wandering back towards the river.

He crouches down beside you minutes later. Hand cupping to gather some water, he doesn’t mind his hands staining red as he washes your face. Thumb running gently over your cheek as a lovesick smile takes over his features.

He kisses your cheeks when he deems them clean enough, the sun drying your damp skin before he’s peeling back his shirt from your chest, throwing it somewhere behind him before he picks you up.

He finds an old, tattered bed, enough to keep you cushioned and comfortable for a few days.

He takes one final look at you before he’s sliding the door closed to the bedroom.

He takes one final look at where you rest before he’s making his way back up the mountain.

It takes him until nightfall to reach the hanok, or what was once the hanok. He wanders through the grounds, standing before the centre room where you, Taehyung, and himself would spend most of the day.

It didn’t resemble a building anymore. Charred wooden frame mocking him as he stands there.

One of his hands brushes against his cheeks, confused grunt the only sound in the courtyard as he wipes away a stray tear.

His feet fall into the river, bridge having been swept away after the structure had broken. Though wet feet wouldn’t stop him as he wanders towards the back of his land; the only building left standing his only sanctuary.

He pulls the door open, eyes adjusting to the darkness before he’s rummaging around for clothes. He couldn’t show up to Namjoon’s village half naked, nor did he think he could show his face. His clothes would be too big for you, but it would have to do as all your belonging were now gone.

His eyes catch sight of a candle, forgotten on the floor from the last time he’d couped himself up in this room to study without Taehyung disturbing him.

He’s unsure how long he spends back at the hanok, the sun shining bright in the sky when he finally decides it’s best for him to get going. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to leave you alone without it becoming an issue. And the last thing he needed was you dying amongst all this chaos.

He runs a thumb over his bottom lip, humming in satisfaction when he finds the specific spell he was looking for.

“Illusion huh?” he smiles, the perfect way for him to make it through Namjoon’s village without them figuring out it was him.

+ + +

Was kidnapping Namjoon the most conventional way to get him to listen? Maybe. Jungkook felt his options had become quite limited and if he wanted to get his way then a little force on his part seemed justified. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t in control of his own life, and the last few days had tipped him over the edge.

Jungkook wasn’t all that bothered with what it would mean for the village boy, not when he didn’t know how long the illusion spell would last and he really needed to get back to you. It had been a simple job, his body part of the shadows and footsteps carried by the wind; no one knew he was there.

Especially not poor Namjoon who had been cleaning the stables. Horses restless as Jungkook lurked in the dark corners, finger twitching by his sides.

It had been a quick job. In and out with no issue. Namjoon’s muscles more for show, his strength no match for the demon as he knocks the village boy out with a brass horseshoe.

Jungkook’s foot taps impatiently against the floor, his fingers running through your hair as he watches Namjoon; body tied with rope so he wouldn’t try to run the moment he wakes up.

It must have been hours before Namjoon had gained consciousness, afternoon sunlight spilling into the room through the open door like the floor had been painted with gold.

“Make a noise, and I slit your throat. Got it?” Jungkook whispers, wary of your resting state.

Namjoon nods. Eyes flitting to you, shallow rise and fall of your chest enough for him to know you were still breathing—still alive.

Namjoon wonders if you knew what Jungkook was doing, what he had done. Wondered if you knew your friend had kidnapped a man. Had threatened to kill him. He doubts you’d be sleeping so comfortably if you knew. Though you make no move to wake up when Jungkook stands, footsteps heavy as he wanders towards where Namjoon is sat.

“You’re going to do something for me” he crouches.

Namjoon scoffs, “Over my dead body”

Jungkook smiles, “Come on, Namjoon” he pouts, “You don’t want her to die, do you?” he motions towards you.

Namjoon looks behind Jungkook where you lay, “Die?” he whispers, you didn’t look ill.

“Yes. We need to get to the capital otherwise my sweet little darling might die. I would carry her, but your carriage is faster”

“She doesn’t look sick” Namjoon meets the demon’s eyes, swallowing thickly when he sees them darken; narrowed, challenging the villager to argue with him.

Jungkook stands at full height and Namjoon feels his lungs constrict in his chest as the demon looms over him. He watches Jungkook slink towards where you lay, hands fisting the front of the shirt you were wearing, tugging you until you sat up.

You fall lax in his hold, head tipping forward so Jungkook tugs you up by your hair. Namjoon’s eyes dart between the two of you, evident confusion written on his face.

Namjoon winces when your face flies to the right, harsh slap echoing off the walls of the empty room.

Jungkook lets go of you, and Namjoon watches as you flop back onto the floor with a dull thud. Though you make no move to wake up.

“What?” Namjoon laughs, “What have you done to her?”

Jungkook’s eyes stay glued to your face, cheeks flaring red from his hands. A sign to Jungkook you were alive, that there was still blood coursing through your veins. He looks down at his hand, a trickle of guilt plaguing his mind.

“What had to be done. Bring your horse and carriage here by sunrise” Jungkook pulls the rope from around the human’s hands, “Don’t show up and I kill your family, okay?” and he watches as Namjoon runs, scrambling towards the gates of the village without daring to look back at Jungkook once.

“My baby” Jungkook whispers when he falls beside you, lips brushing against your red cheek, “My poor baby”

+ + +

Jungkook stares down at Namjoon’s dead body, mouth open in the harrowing pain he’d experienced before death. He had meant to make it easy for the village boy, a quick kill. Nothing too messy that he would have to stray away from your side for too long. It was a shame Namjoon had to put up such a fight, almost catching the attention of a few passers-by with his annoying shrill voice.

He’d considered gutting the human and feeding his insides to the strays that hung around the area; a deserved punishment for all the shit he’d tried to tell you during your little trip. But his patience had worn so thin he ended his life without much joy on his part, a shame but he supposes will be other opportunities to have his fun in the future.

The woman at the front desk of the inn had gone to bed by the time Jungkook had finished cleaning up Namjoon, so it wasn’t all that hard for him to lurk back upstairs with bloodstained clothes and red-painted hands.

You lay peaceful on the bed as Jungkook runs a bath, pretty scented soap softening his skin, and after he’d bathed himself, he takes the time to strip you of your clothes and let you soak in the water as well. He pulls you closer between his thighs, head falling onto your shoulder, and he wonders if you’d be giggling right now; his wet hair tickling your bare skin, the silence deafening.

His arms tighten around your stomach, his eyes squeezing shut. Deft fingers skim over the skin of your chest, heart beating languidly behind the rough skin, body working overtime to heal the wound he’s inflicted on you.

“I killed one of your friends again” Jungkook admits, “Are you mad?”

“You’d never be mad at me, would you?”

“Answer me” he begs, tears wetting his cheeks when he feels your head fall onto his shoulder, “Y/n, answer me, please”

The image of you scared, wanting to get away from him burns behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. He can hear you begging him to stop, his hands coving his ears as he sits in the corner of the room. You covered in your own blood, chest stuttering as you gasp for breath. Even as Jungkook watches you from the other side of the room—alive, okay, breathing, safe. He can still see it all. Hear it all.

And maybe the first twinge of regret he’s ever felt burns, because even just looking at you haunts his mind. Too loud, though the room held no sound.

+ + +

(1868- 30 years before you wake)

Jungkook wonders how he got here. All four of his arms itching to throttle the baby that won’t stop crying.

A bastard child from the late queen—killed by her husband for birthing a boy with a servant that worked on the grounds.

A useless kid in the king’s eyes. A perfect project for Jungkook.

Not much else was happening with you asleep and Jungkook had no idea when you’d wake up. He’d moved from inn to inn in the capital for three years and pickpocketing was only getting the two of you so far.

Jungkook’s first order of business before you woke up was to annul the shitty rules about the demons that roamed the lands. If he had complete freedom then the two of you travelling shouldn’t be an issue, and maybe just maybe humans would be stupid enough to spare their extra change in hopes that said demons will bless the lands they grow crops on.

For now, however, he planned to weave his way into baby Min Yoongi’s life.

It hadn’t been hard to sneak into the baby’s bedroom, a little shed in the far corner of the palace where the king didn’t have to see the child of his lover who had no interest in the thrown; too consumed with a serving boy that she committed adultery with the hopes of not getting caught. What she failed to understand was that the king had eyes and ears in all corners of the palace, and one meagre whisper from a lady in waiting about the queen’s untimely pregnancy while the king had been away was all it took for the woman’s downfall.

Unfortunate for her she’d slept with a young foreign boy, shipped overseas per the king’s request, the product of their affair a precious little boy with hair that looked like thread made of gold, features that of his mother but there was no doubt it hadn’t been the son of the king.

It’s a mystery as to why the king had decided to keep the boy alive, but alas Jungkook couldn’t give a flying fuck. Not when he had the light of his future wailing in its cruddy little crib. The room damp with mould and air too musty for such a small child. None of the serving staff had been in to check on him all day either and Jungkook wonders if the tiny human was hungry.

“Don’t cry now” Jungkook whispers, “One day, you’ll be king. And a king shouldn’t cry”

+ + +

(1875- 23 years before you wake)

“Why can’t I tell anyone about you” Yoongi asks, kicking his feet in thee dirt. And he must have asked Jungkook this question every time he came to visit.

“Because I said so” Jungkook mutters, eyes narrowing at the kid, “You want your father to accept you right?”

“Yeah” Yoongi nods, grin toothy. And he’d proudly shown Jungkook his lost tooth the morning after, though the demon hadn’t been able to school his expression—utter confusion written on his face as to why the tiny being had wanted to show him something so gross.

“Then you don’t say anything, to anyone. Got it?”

Yoongi nods, “Why do you have four arms? No one else in the palace has as many arms as you”

“Because I’m a demon”

“Demon?” Yoongi tilts his head and Jungkook sighs, fingers pinching between his eyebrows.

“Yes. That’s why no one must know of my existence. You don’t want me to disappear right?”

The boy shakes his head, “Why do you always come and visit me then if you could get in trouble?”

“Why do you always have so many questions?”

“Because you always keep secrets and never tell me anything fun”

Jungkook tips his head back against the trunk of the tree, “Because someone I love isn’t very well. And I want them to be happy when they wake up. And you might be able to help me when you grow up, okay?”

“Your friend?” Yoongi sits in front of Jungkook, legs crossed and eyes eager. It wasn’t often Jungkook spoke about himself, and Yoongi didn’t really have any other friends so it was always exciting when Jungkook would come to play.

Jungkook looks down at the boy, head tilting because he wasn’t all that sure what the two of you were. You’d never explicitly told Jungkook how you felt. He’s made it clear how he felt about you. But he supposes he had never thought to ask either; the two of you existing in one another’s lives without a second thought as to what you actually were.

“No…” he shakes his head, “More than friends”

“Your wife?”

Jungkook smiles at that, “Not yet, but she might be when she gets better”

“Can I meet her?” Yoongi rocks back and forth, toothy little grin tugging Jungkook’s lips to reciprocate the young boy’s joy. And maybe it was because he had an excuse to show you off.

“One day. When you’re the king, I’ll let you meet her”

“When I’m the king? I thought brother will take the throne?”

Jungkook only shakes his head, “Nothing for you to worry about right now, kid. Just grow up fast, okay?”

Yoongi hums, “Do you have any more candy from the marketplace?”

+ + +

(1883- 15 years before you wake)

“When can I finally become king?” Yoongi looks up at Jungkook, the demon sat on a chair in the corner of the boy’s room.

Jungkook looks up from his book, “When you’re an adult”

“Why not now?”

Jungkook looks at the 15-year-old, a scrawny little kid. Nothing like his brother, a few years older and years away from taking the throne. A shit bag as well, even if Jungkook hadn’t met him personally. His ego so big that his head looked moments from exploding just because he was meant to rule over the country. Nothing like his little brother who cried when he would step on insects and cling onto Jungkook when he thought monsters lurked in the shadows of his room.

The irony being that he should really only be afraid of Jungkook.

“You’re not ready yet”

“I train with my sword every day” Yoongi complains, flopping onto his bed, facing the ceiling.

“You’re built like a stick. We still have a lot of work to do before you can take the throne and be king.”

“What if I fail?”

Jungkook meets to young boy’s eyes. He blinks, lips downturned in a frown.

“Failure isn’t an option, kid. You fail, you die. And it won’t be by my hands”

“Who then?” he tilts his head to look over at Jungkook.

“Your brother”

Jungkook watches Yoongi’s face morph into confusion. “Why would my brother want to kill me?”

And Jungkook wants to laugh at how naïve the child was. And he thinks maybe he’s been too soft on his over the last 15 years. That the next 3 years of his training were going to be absolute torture, so the kid toughened up a bit. He couldn’t have him second guessing himself not what he’d been drilling this dream into his head since he could talk.

Jungkook’s eyebrows crease in worry. If Yoongi was unwilling to kill his father and brother, there’s no way he’s rising to power. And if Yoongi isn’t king then Jungkook can kiss goodbye to ever having the freedom he wanted so badly. And he wasn’t about to let some gangly little kid ruins his way to paradise.

“Because no one likes a bastard child” Jungkook hums, “But don’t worry, you’ll take the throne, and my darling will get better”

“Will you leave after that?” Yoongi pushes himself to sit up, watching Jungkook’s stoic expression as his legs swing back and forth.

Jungkook turns his attention back to his book. “You won’t need me once you rise to power” he shrugs.

“But you promised I could meet your friend” he whines and Jungkook’s lips quirk at that.

“If she gets better”

“She’s still sick? It must be really bad if she’s been sick this whole time”

“She’s stable, so I have hope she’ll wake up soon” Jungkook smiles, “And then I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to meet you”

“When I become king, I’ll get the best doctor in the country to help her, okay?”

Jungkook hums, “It’s not something a doctor can fix. I like your ambition though”

+ + +

(1886- 12 years before you wake)

Yoongi stares down the stairs, the courtyard a bloodbath. It’s odd how he feels no remorse, his father’s eyes still open staring up at him though there’s no life behind them. His brother wasn’t fairing any better. And Yoongi can still see it, the brief moment of approval from his father’s eyes as he watched his first son die at the hands of a bastard child.

And Yoongi thought he’d feel overjoyed at the fact his father had finally recognised him, though the brief approval in his eyes made Yoongi feel sick. And so he killed him soon after his son with no remorse.

“Good job” Jungkook claps from behind where Yoongi is stood, sat on the golden throne.

And Yoongi feels a shiver run down his spine at the image. As he’d grown older Yoongi had become acutely more aware of Jungkook’s aura, a thick black smog that plagued the air around him until you choke on it and succumb to his power.

As a child he’d been fascinated with the fact a demon had chosen him, that he wasn’t alone in that shitty little cabin where he’d be lucky to get a meal a day with nothing but what lurked outside his window as entertainment. Resenting the birds that flew so freely when he was the one caged in a room, verging on insanity. Watching Jungkook now, Yoongi understands why tales are told of demons, why the world shunned them. They were cunning, there for their own personal gain. Why you shouldn’t involve yourself with such foul beings, because once you’re entwined with their lives there is no escape.

Yoongi’s fate set in stone the moment Jungkook had snuck into his bedroom 18 years ago.

“What are you going to do now?” he dares ask.

Jungkook hums, running a thumb over his bottom lip in thought, legs spreading as he makes himself comfortable in the king’s chair. “I’m not sure. I have one last favour to ask of you and then I’ll be out of your hair”

“And what is it?”

“Nothing you need to worry about for now. My darling hasn’t woken up yet, and I suppose you’ll be busy now that you’re king”

“Why don’t you move into the palace? I’ll spare a room for you and the lady” Yoongi offers, wiping his cheek of blood, eye squeezed shut from where his half-brother had slashed him, a gnarly scar sure to be his prize, a reminder of the events that had taken place on this day, one that will be written in history books for years to come.

Jungkook’s lips quirk into a smile, “Is that really okay?” and Yoongi knows that Jungkook isn’t actually concerned, faux worry easy to miss if he hadn’t known the demon for so long.  

“I know you’ve been hopping from inn to inn with the money you’ve stolen. Stay here for a while until your friend wakes up and then we can sort out that favour you need”

“You’ve been following me?” Jungkook laughs, a hearty one that shakes his shoulders. And he thinks he must be getting old, suddenly becoming unaware of the boy—no, man—that had been lurking in the shadows, blending in with the darkness.

Jungkook feels a sense of pride, his hard work stood before him. A brutal king that didn’t think twice before he murdered his family, a man hungry for power that nothing could have gotten in his way. Years of training shaping him into something so perfect that Jungkook hadn’t even noticed him when he’d been sneaking around behind his back.

“You have too many secrets, Jungkook. And I hate it”

“Shame” the demon drawls, “You don’t need to know about me, all you needed to do was rise to power. And you did it”

“That’s it? So what?” Yoongi scoffs, “So I could fulfil your little wish? I’m not stupid, Jungkook, I know you want me to set you free. I know what your kind are like, I know how those people beyond this gate see you. You can’t hide everything from me”

“And how do they see me?”

“A monster”

Jungkook leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees as he tilts his head at the human, “But you let this monster raise you, control you so you could help him. You knew and still kept me around, you knew and yet you still killed your father. For what, Yoongi? Because I told you to?”

The boy’s mouth falls open, only to close. Because he was right. Today had been acted out on his own accord, though he knows Jungkook is partially to blame. Feeding him a fantasy all those years that his mind was power hungry, and the sad part was, he hadn’t felt an ounce of regret either.

“You could have told someone. Could have told that little friend of yours—what’s his name? Seokjin? He had the favour of the staff, he could have said something; I could have been dead years ago, but you kept me around.”

“No one would have believed me” he scoffs and Jungkook laughs.

“Bullshit, Yoongi. Just admit it, if I’m a monster what does that make you?”

“You piece of shit. I’m not a monster”

“Neither am I” Jungkook shrugs, “I’m a demon. People are scared of monsters Yoongi. Look at the palace staff, they’re terrified of you.”

Yoongi turns towards where his father’s serving staff all stand, hands all shaking by their sides, eyes wide with worry as they all look up at him—perhaps waiting for a similar fate to their master. All seemingly ready to die by his side by the bloodthirsty king that now ruled the land.

“People aren’t scared of my kind anymore, kid. They despise my people—don’t look at me like that, use this power to your advantage.” Jungkook waves him off, “I didn’t raise you to be soft, this is your time. Your victory.”

Yoongi watches as Jungkook pushes himself to stand. Rolling his shoulders as he saunters towards the young boy.

“My offer still stands, about you staying in the palace” he look up at Jungkook, only a few inches taller than him but Jungkook seemed to loom over everybody.

“I’ll pack my stuff up then. Make sure the room faces the east, my Y/n likes it when the sun rises outside the window of a morning”

+ + +

(1898)

Jungkook spent most part of the last decade hauled up in the bedroom on the far side of the palace. The less rumours that spread about him around the palace the better, and slowly the news of the new king housing a demonic entity had dwindled to overexaggerated fables that no one really believed. His body could go months without food, and it wasn’t all that difficult to wanders the halls at night when all the serving staff had wandered off to bed. Luckily no one seemed to notice the little bits of food that would go missing either so it was an easy life he was living.

With each passing day the sliver of hope Jungkook had of you waking up was fizzling to embers. And it was getting hard to convince himself that you were going to finally wake up one day. You never moved in your sleep, face never changing from the relaxed expression you held. The wound on your chest had healed over a decade ago with the help of Jungkook’s blood but you’d made no sign of any other recovery.

He’d visited the library, begging one of the elder demons to help him. Begging them to explain why it has taken so long for you to wake up because you’d never been out for this long and he just needed to know you were okay.

They’d simply shrugged, unable to answer any of his questions before he had to leave—the worry of leaving you alone in the palace too much for him that he couldn’t go out to buy you gifts anymore without the thought of the king slipping into your chambers plagues his mind. He doubts Yoongi would be stupid enough to harm you, not when he knows how much Jungkook adores you. How his head would be balanced on a stick for the whole capital to see if he were to even lay a finger on you.

But Jungkook was slowly slipping into insanity, tugging at his hair as he paced back and forth around the room. He couldn’t enjoy reading, eyes flitting up to check if you were still breathing ruining the plot of his favourite stories. He hated going into the bath house because he couldn’t bring you with him that he just began to rit in the bedroom in hopes that you would wake up and he could get some normalcy back into his life. Jungkook was slowly starting to give up but he continued to hold on, praying that soon he would be able to look into your eyes again, hear your laugh, listen to you speak and dance and just anything. He would take anything.

Jungkook curls his body tighter around yours, tangling his legs with your, relishing in the fact that he could still feel the heat of your body warm his skin. And even if it was only for a moment, Jungkook could pretend that you were really here with him; that you were just sleeping and that as the sun rose you would slowly start to wake up too.

The this would all feel like a bad dream, and everything could just go back to the way it was.

He’d thought about what it would mean for him if you were to stay like this forever, stuck in an eternal slumber. He supposes he wouldn’t mind it; some days would be harder than others, but his imagination would surely keep him entertained. He would have to get used to the fact you couldn’t answer him anymore, though he supposes he could still kiss you, your lips still warm, though pale. He could still read to you and tell you stories of his adventures. Could still brush your hair and make you look all pretty as he hums you a song, watching your serene face through the mirror, careful not to pull on your hair too hard.

Jungkook shoots to sit up in bed when he feels you shuffle around, ripped from his own little fantasy world as your hands tug the sheets further over your ears, and Jungkook feels his heart in his throat. Wondering if this was a sick dream, one where he would soon wake up and see you still in the same position, he had put you in years ago.

His fingers find their way to the top of your head, dreading the headache you’re sure to have after such a long nap. He bites his bottom lip, smile hard to contain as you lean a little into his touch.   

He watches as you peek out from behind the blankets, eyes a little bleary from sleep, your eyes meet his own, but it seems you’re unaware of who you’re looking at. And Jungkook’s heart momentarily sinks at the thought of the memory loss this time round, how you could have completely forgotten about his existence.

He swallows thickly, watching as your eyes squeeze shut. You let out a strained groan, and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat—you were awake.

He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek through the sheets before he’s pushing himself up off the bed. A skip in his step as he rummages around for a cup, he can’t imagine how parched you must be after such a great nap.

“The window is shut, pretty thing. Your eyes shouldn’t hurt as much now” Jungkook whispers, aware that you must feel groggy as you just shuffle under the blanket, pulling it further over your head. This time, you curl your body around his, hoping that somehow, he’ll heal your pain.

“My head hurts” you tell him, voice hoarse and scratchy from where you clearly hadn’t been using it.

“I can’t help you if you hide from me, love”

And Jungkook feels his heart swell, all his love for you overflowing as he watches you, heart so full he thinks he might explode.

And phase two of his plan was complete, though it had taken three decades that was the least of his immortal worries—you were breathing, alive, ever so pretty and perfect and now he could work towards phase 3; his own freedom and bringing you one step closer to immortality.

[callsign-bunnie]

look i know im annoying but can i have more ghost whump 🙏 also learning that’s he’s 24 hurts. he’s so young. imma need you to hurt him bad bc currently i need to feel something so whatever you do will be appreciated 🫡

Look, I'm gonna be straight with you guys, if I don't wanna answer, I just delete the ask. Trust me, you guys are so far from annoying. The only thing that gets to me is how many Konig asks I get and when people as for Noncon/Rape and phrase it as BDSM, even there, just be honest as to what you want, I'm probably still gonna write it.

—

Ghost had been captured and was now stuck in a box of some sort. It was too small, making him have to curl at an odd angle to fit. An ache was spreading through his bones and he started to kick desperately at the wood. 

Faintly, he thought he heard digging and had to resist the urge to scream. He was pretty sure it wasn’t real, that it was all in his head, but he couldn’t focus. The walls were closing in, threatening to crush him. Reduce him to atoms.

No one was coming. The last conversation he had with Johnny was him brushing him off. Price’s was a list of orders on what to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to any of the others. 

Would they even notice he was gone?

Would anyone notice? Or would he just be a shallow grave?

Would they think he just stopped coming? No one knew where he lived. Would he be marked as a deserter, all while he sat there, rotting away while still alive?

He clawed at the wood around him, ignoring the burning sensation behind his eyes. He knew by now he wouldn’t cry. It wasn’t something he was capable of anymore. 

Digging his teeth deep into the flesh of his hand, he tried to calm himself. It felt like Roba all over again. He just hoped this person wasn’t into experimentation the same way. 

Ghost’s nerves were on fire despite the freezing cold creeping from the grave to reclaim him and he gave in to the urge to scream, hoping his captors would hear him and do something. Anything, just take him out of the box. 

They were speaking in a language he didn’t know. Couldn’t piece together. He wanted far, far away. 

Soap shook him awake, holding him tight. “Hey, hey, you’re okay.” He was warm against him, shaking away some of the feeling. 

Ghost touched his face, realizing he wasn’t wearing the mask. Normally he wouldn’t wear it to bed but something about not having it that night got to him. He grabbed it from the nightstand and shoved it on, not wanting to be Simon at the moment.

“Ghost, what happened?” Soap looked tired, holding on to him.

“I was in a box.”

“A box?” Soap mumbled when it was clear Ghost wasn’t going to explain further. “You screamed.”

“I don’t… want to be in a box again.”

Soap sat up, realizing he had an opportunity to get some information. “When were you in a box?”

Ghost sighed and leaned into him. “Roba put me in two. He used to put me in the a box with a scorpion in it when I wouldn’t go all out in the fighting ring. I’d sit there for hours, trying to stay still so it wouldn’t sting me as much.”

Soap hugged him to his chest, letting Simon hide there. He decided not to ask about the fighting ring today. “And the other?”

“He buried me alive with my captain’s body. They dug him up… Roba told me I should try teaching him what its like to be a man.” Simon sniffled a little. “They shoved me down there. It’s cold. It really is freezing. I had to crawl out of the earth. Tear through the ground until I saw the moon again.”

Soap held him closer. “I’m so sorry, Simon.” He held him close, kissing his face. 

Ghost hesitated, but this was… an opportunity. A chance to tell Soap more, in the quiet of their own room.

“They did other things to me… Experiments. They did… things to my hands. Did something to my ligaments or something so they’d bend more. It makes them ache in the cold. And they cut me open and rearranged my insides so many times and….” He buried his face in his neck and held on to Soap.

“Simon, you don’t have to…”

“No. I… want to . I need someone to know. Someone to believe me. No one every believed me…” He held on to him tight. “I got to the border. I got help and they said some of it looked self inflicted. Or like a botched surgery. Said I shouldn’t have went to Mexico. One asked why I’d want to change my figure anyway. They were so clearly blaming me. I tried to tell them about…”

“About what, mo chridhe?”

“I told them I had been raped. They only cared that a man had raped me, they ignored they had women do it too. And they only cared because they needed to do a fucking std test. I told my brother that they had a woman rape me and he said that must’ve been the best part… He didn’t mean it that way… but it felt like one more person blaming me. So I just…. Didn’t bother telling him the rest. I never told anyone. I’m dirty. It feels like the grave dirt is in my cells, packed in every single organ.”

Soap held him tight. “I believe you. I believe you.” 

Ghost sobbed, frustrated that no tears fell. He wanted the emotions out of him. “I can feel their hands sometimes. I fought back. I promise I did.”

“Simon, that doesn’t matter. Even if you didn’t fight, it wasn’t your fault. You were… captured. You couldn’t protect yourself then, but you can protect yourself now. And I’m going to protect you too. Keep you safe with me.” Soap put him to his chest, feeling his LT fall to pieces. He held him tighter, trying desperately to keep him together. 

“I hated it. I didn’t want anyone to touch me for so long. I want… I want to be normal again. I want touch to be safe.” 

Soap frowned. “Is my touch okay?”

“Yes. It’s so good. But I… I just…” 

“You don’t have to explain.” Soap reassured, pulling him so he was laying down. He curled around him as best he could despite Ghost being way too damn big to wrap all the way around him like he wanted.

“Do you… think less of me?”

“No, of course not.” Soap felt his heart squeeze. He’d kick those doctor’s asses one day. 

“Love you, Johnny.”

“Love you too, Simon.”

[darlingamidala]

Obianidala Week 2023

Day 1 prompt: Canon Divergence

First of all, thank you so much to @obianidalaevent for putting on this event!!! I've been waiting for an obianidala event for literally years, so naturally I wanted to post something for every day. Unfortunately due to life/work, I was only able to do one new piece for it. But thankfully, I have a years long backlog of WIPs that have been lurking in my drafts folder, so this is the perfect opportunity to let some of them see the light of day!

I wrote this scene in 2018, which is part of an AU that I was never able to fully flesh out enough to write. Basically, obianidala are together during the Clone Wars, but everything still goes to shit in RotS. Padme survives the birth of the twins, and she and Obi-wan, believing themselves to be widowed, go into hiding. You can also read this on ao3

___________

Obi-wan came out of his meditation and pushed himself to his feet. He had a bad feeling about… something. It was ominous, but elusive. But then, the last thirteen years had been full of bad feelings, and for good reason. The twins were safe, at least for now, tucked into their bunks on the ship that they called home.

He sighed as he made his way down the hallway towards the bedroom he shared with Padme. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed in the half-lit room. She was tense, curled in on herself, and looked up at him with wide eyes that glistened with unshed tears. He gave her a sympathetic look as he quietly walked over to sit beside her. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She rested her head against his shoulder, burying her face against the fabric of his shirt.

They both had nights like this, where the loss of their husband would suddenly hit them hard and the pain of what had happened all those years ago felt like a fresh wound all over again. It had been several years since he had seen Padme cry over it though.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Are you alright?” he murmured.

Padme took a shaky breath as she pulled away. She pulled her arms in towards herself with her hands curled protectively in front of her stomach as she tried to blink her tears away. “Obi-wan..” she whispered, uncertainty and… fear? in her eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

She said the word like it was a death sentence, as if she had contracted some horrible illness. And it may as well have been, for the way Obi-wan stilled, how he gripped her hands tighter as he looked away with his lips parted in a silent denial of her statement.

“It was a dream… Like the ones I used to have about my mother, just before she died.”

Obi-wan had been silenced by his own guilt about his inaction in response to those dreams.

“And?” Padme coaxed. She had always had such a way of helping where he couldn’t, when it came to Anakin.

“It was about you.”

“Tell me.”

“It was only a dream… You die in childbirth.”

Obi-wan frowned in concern as he stepped over to Anakin and placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

Padme’s hands had come up to cradle her stomach as she asked about the baby. Anakin had said he didn’t know what would become of their child.

Obi-wan opened his mouth to say something, but he still didn’t trust himself to say the right words.

“It was only a dream,” Padme dismissed with a reassuring smile, taking Anakin’s free hand in her own.

“I won’t let this one become real,” he replied with grave determination.

“You’re certain that that’s what you saw?” Obi-wan asked, having finally found his voice.

“I’m certain, Obi-wan.”

Obi-wan reached up and tucked Anakin’s hair behind his ear before resting his hand on his cheek, his thumb just brushing the scar upon his brow. “Then we will do what we can to keep it from coming true.”

It hadn’t come true then, though neither of them believed their husband’s drastic measures had been to thank for that. But now… she was older, more susceptible to complications. And they no longer had access to Core-standard medical facilities; they went to Rebellion medics when they could, but mostly they relied on a medkit they kept in their ship.

Neither of them said anything, but they both knew they were thinking the same thing: Anakin’s vision could still come to pass. She may have survived the birth of the twins, but now... her odds were not as good.

“Oh, Padme...” Obi-wan sighed, gathering her back into his arms, holding her tightly as if that would be enough to save her. One hand came up to cradle her head, his fingers digging into her dark curls, much shorter now than they had been back then.

She choked out a sob as she pressed her face against his chest and brought her arms up to return his embrace, clutching at the back of his shirt.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” he murmured reassuringly against her hair, absently rocking her as he stared out into the middle distance. Another sob wracked her body, and he continued to whisper empty platitudes, wishing that he could truly believe she would be okay.

He was choked up as well, a sob caught in his throat and tears threatening to well up in his eyes, but he willed himself not to cry. They had made a silent agreement when the twins were very small, that when the grief welled up in one of them, the other would do their best to give them someone to lean on, to not get dragged under as well. He needed to be strong for Padme.

Her tears began to die down, and she sniffled as she lifted her head to look at him. “What are we going to do?”

“What can we do?” he asked hopelessly.

“I’m worried about the twins,” she confessed.

“They’ll be fine,” he reassured her. That, at least, was something he felt fairly sure of. He did not want to take care of them alone; they were supposed to have three parents, and it would break his heart if they got down to one. But they were growing up. They weren’t babies anymore, and before long they wouldn’t even be children.

Anakin hadn’t been a child when he lost his mother, and it had still devastated him.

“I can take care of them,” Obi-wan promised. “I will keep them safe.” I will love them enough for the three of us. The last thought went unspoken. He wasn’t ready to commit to the idea of her being gone.

Padme slowly returned to leaning against him, until he was supporting her full weight. “Hold me,” she whispered, barely audible, and he did.

They sat silently for a long while, trying to gain comfort from each other’s presence and closeness as they came to terms with their new situation, until Padme pulled away to finish getting ready for bed.

[damaskrose345]

"We Will Be Warm"

If you find this letter, I am dead, and our God and Devil turned out to be one and the same.  

I lost count of the prayers and pleas we had amassed for the Lord. So much wasted breath employed in begging a deaf deity for deliverance, so much finite vitality spent beseeching God to pass us away from that darkness and into the light— that of the grave or rescue, it mattered not to our frost-addled souls. We only wanted warmth, and if that warmth could only be found under pilings of soil, then let it be. All of our energy, that precious ambrosia that, once lost, can never be recovered, was blasted away in barren begging. We knew no heroes would break through the ice like Christ resurrected. As we starved and shivered, huddled tight in flocks of wind-worn leather, blistered flesh, and vacant voids of hopeless eyes, we knew this place was far beyond God’s reach.

Sun dogs refracted above our frames, washing us in sunlight devoid of true heat. It bore down like the eye of a cruel beholder, some verily depraved spectre who saw us rotting upon the floes of ice and took amusement in the scene, showering us with false warmness so that we could delude ourselves into feeling its kiss upon our skin, only to glance down through frosted lashes at where such a kiss was placed, and see a patchwork of stony flesh numb to all sense. Skin so mangled by the cold that it mocks you, unfeeling as iron and the color of pitch, of the coals that haunted our frigid dreams. We dreamt so viciously of heat that it became a part of our bodies, even as our souls glaciated. 

A small boy, having not even graced his thirteenth year, lay beside me one night on the tundra. The others were scattered about the site. Some were dead, some, one could not tell. But all was silent, save for the savage howl and snarl of wind and the laborious breathing of our cadaverous camp. The boy was pressed to my side. I could feel him shiver. I could feel every shaking breath he took. I could practically feel the life seeping out of him as the endless night marched on, forging ever onward across the wasteland, the moon the only lantern to be found. 

The silence broke. The boy’s voice creaked past his rocklike lips. 

“Is heaven this cold?” he whispered. The wind nearly stole his words from me, but I heard him well. 

I hardly possessed the spirit to answer. “No,” was all I could reply. 

Another lapse of iron silence. I awaited the boy’s next question. I knew he had one. All children are curious; even the frozen reaper could not change that. 

After an age, he spoke once again. “Will God warm us when we die?” he asked. 

My eyes were fixed on the sweep of stars above. They glimmered freely, for no cloud was there to bury them. One vastness above, one below. I knew no warmth existed in the open wild of space, yet I did not believe any wildness could be more desolate than the tundra. 

My tongue blotted at my lips vainly, trying to wet them so that my words did not share our fate. “Yes,” I told the boy softly, weakly. “The stars. They are warm. God puts us among them like….” Exhaustion leadened my mind, but I battled. “A hearth. We will be warm.” 

 Frost clung to my lashes. I would have wept, but my tears had been hardened to stones within my face. I watched the stars dance and scamper like children across the inky sky. Then, an interloping figure broke into my vision. It rose slowly, ever so slowly, and swayed in the same manner as a tree in a storm. The small branches of the tree emerged, curled and trembling. The trunk was wrapped in old leather and wool frayed by exposure, and with a sick wrenching of my gut, I realized whose arm I gazed at. 

The boy reached up to the stars. Against the backdrop of the heavens, I was reminded of just how delicate his frame was. How young. How moribund.

His fingers did not grasp at the sight in the way an infant might do so for its mother. He could not, for such a meager action would cause his fingers to snap clean off. No, he could not. He kept his arm raised high with his little hand edged in black. 

I know not when, but I eventually drifted into sleep. 

In the morning, when I awoke like a corpse recalled to life, the first thing my eyes beheld was the arm of the boy, remaining in its stretch towards the sky. His hand was virginal white and pallid blue, his fingertips the color of onyx. I looked at the boy’s face and saw only a youthful face leached of all life and hue. His eyes were closed, tucked into slumber behind his frosted lashes. He was dead. 

Myself and a handful of the surviving men spent the following day burying the child. Had we possessed our usual strength, the affair would have been done in less than an hour, but death loomed over us all, and thus one child’s burial cost us one full day. The grave was shallow, and as we laid the boy into the hardened earth, an obstacle appeared before us. 

The boy’s arm. 

It remained upright as it had been when he died and was all but cemented that way by the elements. The grave, I recall, was not deep enough to cover the child without all of him lying completely flat. The arm had to be lowered to entirely bury him. We had to either snap the arm to settle it or bury what we could and embark further on toward the mainland. 

I reached towards the corpse, clasping my own frostbitten fingers around the arm. It was so thin, I remember, so fragile like the wing of a songbird. I imagined the splintering crack breaking it would create, a sound that would echo in my mind for all my days remaining. I could not do it. I released the boy from my grasp, affirmed my fellow undertakers, and covered the small boy with snow and gravel. 

God forgive me. God forgive my cowardice and my cruelty. We left the boy as he died, arm eternally reaching up towards the high heavens and the God who was not here. There was no marker upon his grave, only a frail arm sprouting from the snow like a lily. 

The arm watched us as we turned and staggered across the wasteland, and each time I turned back to cast another look, it kept shrinking until, at last, when I turned, it had vanished entirely into the white nothingness of the tundra. 

My heart is heavy as I write this. My mind is forever preyed upon by the image of the child’s dead hand and the horrific sound of the mercy I could have shown had I simply snapped it. But mercy does not exist in this place. As I write this, I know my time on this earth is swiftly coming to an end, and I hope only that my final words to that boy ring true. 

I pray God will put us among the stars when we finally pass. 

I pray God will warm us. 

I pray we will be warm.  

[rozcdust]

Blame it on me

Pairing: Hanma Shuji x f!reader (platonic)

Genre: Angst with cracky elements

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Canon divergent, ooc, profanity, drug abuse, drug overdose, needles, alcohol abuse, suggestive, reader is a terrible person

pt. 1 | previous | pt. 3 | next | playlist | original story

“You know, I met death once.”

Hanma and you were laying on the floor, eyes tired and barely open, scratching an itch that wasn’t there until your arms bled, words slurred and heavy.

You moved your head to look at him.

“Yeah? What was that like?”

He smiled softly, staring at the chipped paint on the ceiling.

“There were too many grams in the needle, I overdosed. She wore white.”

You looked back up as he licked his dry lips.

“She had flowers woven in her hair, and she was kind, but her fingers were freezing.”

You snorted.

“Sounds like you were tripping.”

“No one’s ever held me that softly.” He whispers, like a prayer, like a curse, wistfully staring into the ceiling, “She said she wishes we weren’t so fragile.”

You dragged your body closer to his, slumping on the floor next to him, curling up into his touch as he turned on his side, engulfing you in his warmth.

“Shi, what did you want to be when you were a kid?” You asked into the fabric of his hoodie, closing your eyes.

“I didn’t think about it.”

You hummed.

“Expected, you probably knew you’d amount to nothing. I wanted to be a lawyer.”

He held you tighter, letting you talk.

“I even studied hard for it, you know? Had all A’s in school.” You nuzzled your nose into his neck, breathing in the scent.

His heart ached.

You were rotting alive here.

But you were all he had.

“And then everyone left me, all my friends. Said I was too toxic or whatever the hell.” You scoffed, moving away to look him in the eye.

He glanced down at you, carefully analysing the tired expression, your lips bruised and buried from where you bit them until they bled and where the filter of your cigarettes divided from the paper, leaving burns, analysing the angry hickeys and bite marks covering your throat, as if someone wanted to put their teeth through it.

“You could still do it doll, you’re young.”

You shook your head, scratching at the bottom of your jaw until it was angry and bleeding.

He frowned, softly grabbing your wrist, clawing through his hazed mind to find the words.

“You could go anywhere, you could do anything. You have a life to live. Why do you insist on staying here?”

He hoped you’d say because you loved him as much as he loved you.

He hoped you’d say it was because he was your lifeline as much as he was yours.

He hoped you’d say it was because you wanted to.

“I don’t know, Shi.”

He felt his heart shatter.

“I mean, I don’t have a future Shi. Neither do you. Fuck, we’ll both be dead in a year. What does it matter?”

The furrow between his eyebrows smoothed over, his teeth gritting.

“We’re just junkies,” You laughed, humourless and bitter, “What the fuck do we matter to anyone?”

Hanma felt like someone cracked open his ribcage and plucked his heart out, crushing it until it was nothing but a piece of pale, mangled flesh.

You won’t die like this.

He won’t let you.

Not if it’s the last thing he does.

He held you softly, and promised himself he’ll get you out of here.

“You sure you don’t want to go with me?” You ask, opening your mouth to spill out the words carefully, eyes closed as Hanma drags the eyeliner wand across your eyelids.

“No, I’m visiting a friend today.”

You frowned, moving your head away to look at him.

“Friend? I didn’t know you even had anyone but me.”

Hanma laughed, leaning closer to finish your eyeliner.

“Close your eyes. And I don’t, he died a while ago. I’m going to visit his grave.”

“Oh. What will you even do there?”

Hanma capped back the eyeliner, giving you a confused look.

“Wash the grave, offer him a beer, talk to him for a little bit?”

You gave him an equally confused look back as he started blending the foundation on your face.

“Wash the grave?”

“Yes? It is a custom. Has no one taught you how to visit a grave?”

You shook your head.

“Never visited a grave before.”

Hanma whistled.

“Damn, your parents are shit. I’ll take you to visit Kisaki one day, you can’t not*** know graveyard customs.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Okay, dad.“

He grinned.

“Don’t come home after midnight, young lady.”

“Oh, fuck you Shi.” You shook your head, softly punching his shoulder.

His face suddenly turned serious.

“Y/n, those friends you’re going out with… You’ve known them for what, a month?”

“Yep.”

“You like them?”

You quirk an eyebrow in question, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Are they good friends?” His eyebrows are furrowed as he applies powder to your face, carefully following your own natural bone structure.

“They are, better than you for sure. They’re nice. They don’t really like it when I drop by high out of my mind, but that’s to be expected.” You shrug, and when he says nothing, you choose to let him finish what he was doing.

“Your hair’s a fucking mess.” You frowned as you stood up, looking down on him, gently pulling on a bleached strand, “Wait here, I’ll put it in a braid for you.”

He shrugged as he nodded, lighting up a cigarette as you went to the bathroom, coming back with a hairbrush, and dragging a chair, you placed it behind his back.

Sitting down, you carefully tilt his head back, starting to brush his hair, careful to not pull on the tangles and knots.

It was peaceful like this, when the two of you just existed in each other’s company, the only noise the hum of the air vent and the hairbrush passing through his hair.

“You know, you’re my lifeline.” He hummed softly, letting you maneuver his head however you pleased as your fingers started to braid a simple French braid, “The only person I have.”

You said nothing, concentrated on your work, concentrated on his calm breathing and the sound of your own heartbeat, soft and steady in its path.

“I know.” You kissed his forehead as you tied off the braid, letting it fall down his back.

You look around the club, your mind gazed yet clear, broken yet taped back together, courtesy of that bright pink pill that went down your esophagus half an hour ago, and as you push past the bodies at the edge of the dance floor, you search for familiar eyes.

You spot them in one of the booths, accompanied by two men, holding each other. You frowned as you approached.

One of them looked too familiar for comfort.

Slipping next to Chifuyu, he offers you a quick hug as a greeting, grinning at you. You don’t respond when he asks you questions, too distracted by the two men now looking at you curiously.

“Y/n, this is Mitsuya and Hakkai.” Kazutora introduces as Chifuyu slumps into his seat, annoyed.

“Hi.” Mitsuya smiles, waving at you slightly.

Hakkai only shyly nods, hiding his face in Mitsuya’s neck.

You click your tongue, mildly annoyed at whatever the fuck he was doing, but Kazutora shoots you a warning look, motioning you to shut the fuck up.

Before you could retort back to his warning, a guy approaches the group, clearly nervous even through the frown on his face.

“Hey, Souya!” Baji greets him, grinning and waving, his cigarette tightly held between his teeth, “Long time no see!”

“Hi.” He replies shortly, through gritted teeth, before turning to you, fidgeting with his hands in his pockets.

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Uh, I wanted to ask you for a dance?” He asks, politely despite the pissed-off look on his face.

“Scram.” Was your short response as you lit up your cigarette, barely sparing him a glance.

He clearly wilted, nodding disheartedly , turning to return to the guy who looked exactly like him, but with a smile on his face instead.

Everyone at the table threw you a disapproving look, even Hakkai, and you only raised your hands in a defensive manner.

“That was fucking rude, Souya is a great guy.” Chifuyu huffed, lightly smacking your head.

“I don’t give a shit.” You turn to Hakkai, “You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”

He was frowning, nervously biting on his lip as your too wide pupils bore into his.

“Uh, maybe? I’m a model.” He managed to get out, receiving a pat on the back from Mitsuya in support.

You knew that wasn’t it.

There was something familiar in his face.

But you let it go for now.

Hanma stood in front of the restaurant, all too aware of how he looked with the dark circles under his eyes and skin more akin to a bleached skull than a breathing human, but none of that mattered, not when it came to you.

He needed to find Taiju.

🔖Taglist (open):

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[3rdgymbros]

— title; in this world of horrible misfortune, i just want you to smile again.

— pairing; kaeya alberich x younger sibling! reader (platonic)

— summary; in which kaeya has a zombie for a younger sibling, but he loves them anyway.  

— notes; special thanks to @valberryy​ for proof-reading !!

❋ your return to life consists of you waking up from what you assume is a long nap, only to find yourself in a small, enclosed space, with a darkness so black and thick that you feel like suffocating.

you hadn’t known it yet, but that had been your coffin. you also hadn’t known how your brothers had held onto your broken body for two days, laying it at the foot of barbatos’ statue at starfell lake, hoping, praying, that you would be saved. you hadn’t. or so they’d thought. two bodies to bury, two graves with fresh dirt, two glistening silver headstones.

❋ kaeya’s the first one to find you, wandering the streets of mond, confused and disoriented after you’ve literally clawed your way out from your coffin. he thinks it’s a trick of the fatui at first, but you soon convince him otherwise. the lack of memory, the pyro vision clutched in your bloodied hands, the clothes you’d been buried in – there’s no other possibility, really, except that his prayers have been heard by barbatos after all.

❋ for the entire time diluc is away, kaeya is basically your main caregiver. he doesn’t like the idea of you remaining cooped up in the mansion, with nothing to do, and no one to talk to. he props you up upon his shoulders and takes you for walks so that you can reacquaint yourself with the city and the people in it. he might also spoil you a little bit, buying you toys and sweets and whatever your eyes linger upon for a tad too long. part of it is due to guilt for his part in your death, and part of it is simply because he just wants you to smile again.

❋ the light finally floods back into your eyes one night as kaeya is telling you some wildly exaggerated story about his pirate family to soothe you into slumber before he leaves to ply himself with alcohol. why are you being so nice to me, you ask before he can leave, one of the rare times you’ve ever opened your mouth to speak. kaeya looks at you and settles for honesty. we’re family. and it’s as if those two words breathe new life back into you; your eyes widen and for the first time in weeks, months, you seem a little bit more like your old self.

❋ kaeya’s the one who discovers your new quirks, and makes a mental note of them. how your memory is now unreliable (albedo is asked if he has any solutions, vitamins or potions you can take to improve your memory), how you flinch away from dark, cramped spaces (your room is now filled with lamps so that you don’t have to spend the nights alone in the dark, and kaeya is not above spending the night with you if you clutch wordlessly at the hem of his jacket), how you seem to wilt whenever the temperature is too hot (and how you inch closer to him on particularly hot days), how your limbs grow stiff and swollen if you don’t move about (he reminds you every day to do your exercises).

❋ although he knows of your intolerance to heat, kaeya doesn’t realise how bad it actually is until he hears you screaming, and he feels pure, unadulterated panic sear through his veins as he rushes over to you. maybe you got caught up in one of klee’s bombs, or maybe you tried to use your vision, but whatever the reason, your wounds are charring, the skin turning grey and dry, you’re screaming, and the air is filled with the smell of broiling flesh and rot.

you’re twitching on the ground, curling into yourself like the child that you are. when you raise your head to look at kaeya, trusting, looking for all the world as though he’ll be able to stop the pain from consuming you, kaeya feels something ache in the pit of his stomach as he scoops you up and brings you to barbara.

❋ kaeya doesn’t sugarcoat things when he finds out that diluc has returned. the staff at the mansion have probably already told him how his younger sibling has been resurrected, if rumors haven’t been spreading across all of tevyat already. in fact, he has no doubt that diluc will deem him unfit for caring for you, and will demand that you come and live with him. 

kaeya tells you quite simply that your other older brother has returned, and that you’ll be living together with him from now on. he answers your questions as best as he can, but makes sure to emphasize that though the three of you can’t live together, he’ll always be there for you if you need him. he doesn’t cry. not even when you throw yourself into his arms and tell him that you love him, with a quiver in your voice and tears pricking at your eyes. and so, he takes your hand and brings you back to the dawn winery, inwardly dreading when he will have to let it go.

[unohanadaydreams]

DAMAGE DONE FOR KENPACHI SOULMATE CAN YOU IMAGINE THE A N G S T AND CONFUSION

 I know ppl who follow this blog have taste because you were the the first of four ppl to ask for this exact combo jdhdjsjs. We are all Kenpachi brain rot compliant.

Features: Cutting/self harm, a real shit start to a relationship, and angst.

Bleach Your Soul: Ask Meme

Kenpachi Zaraki + Damage:

So much of your life was defined by isolation. A patient treated terminal. Everyone paid you the same attention they would a ghost, fleeting smiles and tears that fell over your bed as though it were a grave.

How could you not feel tortured and angry, to be saddled with a soul mate determined to drag you through hell with them? There were times you truly believed were your last. Stabs too close to your guts. Slashes peeling open to far towards your heart.

There was little room in your thoughts to worry about who suffered with you, other than to curse them. Whether they struggled to live or delighted in violence, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything while laying in your deathbed. Through childhood, your heart withered like the flowers always dying on your window sill. If only they’d throw you away for good, as well.

You garnered hobbies to keep busy rather than to enjoy them. Your stitching, calligraphy, and precocious little drawings stained in blood more often than not. The 4th division was your jail. Your soulmate, your warden. Keeping you there, always.

For years, you begged them. Desperate to be heard--to have a modicum of fucking control--, you carved words into your skin. Were they scared the first time you did it? Did they hate it? Did it hurt them?

Vindictive, you hoped all your horrible thoughts were so. When you cut ‘stop. stop. stop. stop.’ you did it on your side and hip, so it would reopen. Again. And again. And again. And--

They never responded. No matter what you wrote. ‘Please stop.’ ‘It hurts.’ ‘Doesn’t it hurt you?’ ‘I hate you.’ ‘Who are you.’ ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Kill me.’ ‘Die.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Slowly, then suddenly, the damage that had been near daily stopped for so many years stopped. Your family settled you back in the home, a living urn. They said your name and stroked your cheek and smiled too small when you spoke.

Your skin buzzed with the absence of what had plagued your entire youth. Was it sickness or shame that drove your blade through your skin still? Did you just miss it? Was the violence boiling you alive with no where to spill out anymore?

There were times you swore minuscule nicks would appear, healing too fast to smooth over, but staying long enough to feel. Older, able to be among people, you realized what that could mean. What kind of person you’d told to die as a pithy little tween.

Were they alive--really alive? Did anyone else care or were you the only one?

‘Songbirds.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Work sucks.’ ‘Too hot.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Hotpot.’ ‘Cut words.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Shinigami.’ ‘13th.’ ‘Rank?’ ‘Rukongai?’ ‘I’m sorry.’

@

Retsu Unohana, the only woman he couldn’t quite look in the eye, was there to smile all serene-like over him. After he’d lost. Figures she’d be there when he fucking lost.

She asked him all those annoying questions about how his body felt and told him all the things he needed to heal from. He wanted to shake her like Yachiru did when he wasn’t paying attention enough for her liking. Who gave a shit about all that--he lost and got what he deserved. He had to get stronger. Just because she’d abandoned her pride didn’t mean he would. 

“Your soulmate is here, too.”

Kenpachi couldn’t ignore that one. He never ignored that one. Not that they let him, with all their fucking writing. Saying the strangest shit sometimes too.

When he was young, he’d been paranoid, not knowing what the fuck was doing the writing. He’d swing his sword over his calf or side or thigh, expecting to lob and invisible arm off. Running, Kenpachi would try to out pace the fucker.

 Yumichika explained it like having one was exciting. Ikkaku had yelped for Yumichika to knock it off as the man with beautifully kept hands had given himself a paper cut.

“See? It means the person you’re meant for feels everything you do on the battlefield.” His colorful eyelids narrowed, sights shifting between his captain and Ikkaku. “Or in the file cabinet, if either of you would bother to help out.”

The more he understood--and thought about it--the less he wanted to meet them. His soulmate. Kenpachi wasn’t a person who forgave weakeness and anyone meant for him wouldn’t either, right?

He’d been consumed by sleepless nights, futile attempts to nap, and brutal training sessions, trying to keep his failures out of mind after the realization. What if Yachiru had been forced to take every blow the same as he had? Whenever he tucked in his lieutenant, the question ate at him further.

With time, there had come some form of solace--one day he’d find the thrill of a horrible battle again, to drown the thoughts out. But what Ichigo Kurosaki had offered hadn’t been horrible in the way he’d imagined. And here he was, face turned away from Unohana’s thinly veiled impatience, his feelings too complicated to bother with fully.

“Well?”

Unohana stood, like she was disappointed and Kenpachi couldn’t help but snap at her, “Fine. Whatever.”

She smiled, soft as she’d gotten, and went to the door. “Fine to what? I only told you they’re here. But if you’re so determined to see them, Captain Zaraki, follow me.”

@

Grumbling about how much he hated ‘that sneaky shit’, Kenpachi did follow her, and went through the door she gestured at before being closed in with your recovering body. Your body hadn’t healed as fast as his, but that wasn’t a surprise--you’d be a captain for sure if you could pull that shit off.

Worst of all, you were awake, the scar lining one side of your face as thick as his own. No one else was in the room with you. There were no flowers or cards. And your mouth was hanging open.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah well,” Kenpachi didn’t know what to say, trailing off as one of his fingers brushed over his thigh.

“Everyone is talking about your fight,” you said, filling his silence with a light shrug. “I figured it was more than coincidence that I ended up like this at the same time. I’m glad it was you and not the ryoka.”

“You thought that kid was your soulmate?”

“How was i supposed to know? No one’s seen him since your fight, or so they’re saying.”

“The scar’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“Uh, I’ve never seen you before and it’s not like you’re ever in the Seireitei Bulletin or...or wandering around where people could find you!”

Kenpachi winced, not because of your words, but because the closer he got, the more your sweat and shaking arms showed. You must’ve been like this for a lot of your life. A worming feeling of guilt he seldom felt curled in his belly. Now that he had a person to pin to the thought, it swelled large.

Maybe if he were a softer person, someone rounded out like the long gone Yachiru turned Unohana, he’d say something comforting or concerned or even charming. But his hand was still on his thigh and his mounting frustration at himself, all revolving around his lack of strength, felt thick on his tongue.

“This mean you’re gonna stop with the fucking words?”

You pulled your head back slow, looking up at him like you couldn’t decide between succumbing to exhaustion or lunging at him.

“What if I don’t? What if I just keep going till you respond?”

“You’ll keep going until ya die.”

“Well, great! There’s you’re answer,” you scoffed. “You’ll have to kill me.”

It was a shit start, all things considered, and the silence that took over the room as Kenpachi sat on the nearest chair, so hard it almost cracked, felt as horrible as his zanpakuto refusing to answer him.

“The name’s Kenpachi Zaraki,” he said, resolved to at least get your name.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Damn right, you do. Now tell me yours.”

You wouldn’t have introduced yourself if he hadn’t looked so...well, you couldn’t quite tell what he looked like. Tired, maybe. Tired and wanting something.

So you gave him your name, your relief that he was alive, that you hadn’t wished him to his grave in your youth, outweighing your anger. An apology for putting you here was like grasping at the sky and hoping to hold a star, if his reputation proceeded him. So you let it go as best you could.

And Kenpachi settled back in the chair, grunting in acknowledgement. He didn’t think learning your name was gonna make him stronger, but it felt nice to hear someone talking to him like a person and not a beast.

If he was being honest, it’d always felt nice to be given your words, when so many people refused to give him any. A bit awkwardly, he stayed while you fell victim to sleep, your breath slow before he spoke again.

“Thanks.”

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 20, Story #2 is by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: Dittany Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Neville/Hannah Prompt: Bravery Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Discussion of maternal death, mentions of violence. 

Hannah's mother had been a muggleborn, and that had been her death sentence. 

Or rather, she had been a muggleborn with the audacity and bravery to be proud about it. 

Most muggleborns ended up slipping entirely into wizarding society, and as much as they might say that they would keep in touch with their roots, the magic took over. Jeans became robes, electronics didn’t work in their homes so their pop culture references grew stale, the effort involved in keeping the statute of secrecy for extended family and old friends was too exhausting to sustain, so they saw them less and less and eventually… 

This had not happened for Mum, even though the Abbotts were a very old family, well rooted in the magical community. She had agreed with Dad to live in Godric’s Hollow, because the Abbotts had lived there for many generations, but she had insisted on Hannah attending the local primary school, where she could make muggle friends. She was adamant that they make regular trips to Liverpool, to visit her side of the family, who believed that she worked in HR (which she did, but for a potion manufacturer, not for a haulage company as they believed) and that Hannah had received a scholarship to an exclusive boarding school, and that Dad owned a pub (which he did, but they neglected to mention that it was frequented by witches, wizards, goblins, the occasional hag and a half giant). And when the Stephens side of the family came to visit, they would have a flurry of activity where they would hide away anything magical-looking, and from the loft they would bring down the big television, and they would speed read some muggle newspapers so they could give their opinions on Tony Blair or Men Behaving Badly or Charles and Diana’s divorce or whatever else they thought might come up.  

That was life as Hannah knew it, and it never felt complicated or brave or shocking or daring or any of the things she later found out it was. 

She remembered certain details from the day very clearly. She’d been easing sneezewort plants out of their pots, the last repotting before winter, her fingers shaking at the long, pale roots, creating a rain of soil. The last of the cream coloured petals, curled and brown at the edges, fell onto the potting bench. There was a sudden shock of cold air, a breeze from the door opening that hit their faces and whipped through their hair.  

‘Professor Dumbledore’s here,’ said Susan with surprise, and Hannah had glanced up to see him closing the door to the humid greenhouse, his long white beard tucked into his belt, Professor Sprout hurrying over to him. 

Hannah looked back down at her plant. The roots were all tangled together. Professor Dumbledore was probably here for Harry Potter, there were all sorts of rumours flying around about secret meetings between the two of them. 

The plant needed a much bigger pot, but the roots were strong, there was no rot there. 

‘Hannah.’ 

There was no hiding the bewilderment on her face. She had never had a direct conversation with the Headmaster before, and here he was, speaking kindly, gently, softly, one hand touching her shoulder and the other, black looking, gesturing to the door. 

‘I need to-’ she started saying, as he led her out. Everyone was staring. 

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Professor Sprout, and her voice sounded so strange, ‘I’ll finish up here for you.’ 

Perhaps part of her had known then. She knew it was something terrible. She was too afraid to ask. No one was ever pulled out of class for a good reason. She walked up to the castle alongside him as though in a dream, her heart beating up through her throat and into her mouth.

She was not sure how it happened, but suddenly she was in the warmth of his office, staring at Professor Dumbledore’s grave face, his lips moving, without really hearing, except for that first, terrible, world destroying little phrase. 

‘I’m so very sorry to tell you that your mother has been found dead.’ 

There would be no worse event, no greater loss, no stronger pain in her entire life. 

There was still dirt under her nails and in the creases of her palms, she noticed, as she reached into the silver box of floo powder. 

It had been so long since she had seen Godric’s Hollow like this, golden and red in its autumn. Fallen leaves tumbled and floated down the river that rushed through the village, or collected in the gutters along the cobbled roads, damp and heavy. The sun stayed a little lower each day, casting long shadows across the beer garden of The Lost Owl, and the wind ruffled the sign on the door which read ‘Closed due to family bereavement.’ 

During the days, she wondered what to do with herself, stuck between boredom and terrible, overwhelming grief. When she could cry no more, she wondered if there was something wrong with her for wanting to find something interesting or fun to do, but when she tried to read, she could not focus. When she tried to listen to the radio, she would fall asleep. She could not bring herself to ask her weeping father to play cards or chess or anything with her. She thought of going back into school, but how could she see other people? Now that the world had ended? She wanted to tell people about it, wanted to say the words enough until they made sense to her, or until someone found the right words to say back that would make it OK, but she did not want to do this to her friends. 

At nights, she would cry herself to sleep, and her whispers, please come back please Mummy please come back, would grow and grow and grow into sobs, begging into her pillow as the agony of it tore at her, the desperation, the feverish thought that there had to be something, that this couldn’t be it, there had to be a way, a special way, just for them, just for her, because it was her mother and there was no way she could live without her. Mum wouldn’t leave her like this, there was no way Mum would allow it, she would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that Hannah was happy, she had always said so, she had always promised… 

But Death was something parents could not protect their children from, it seemed. The more Hannah thought on it, the more she became crushingly devastated, horrified to realise that each and every human on Earth had to endure this at some point. In different ways, at different times, with different feelings, but the mere act of bringing a child into the world was to condemn that child, one day, to the unbearable pain of loss. Every person she passed, she wondered, have you suffered as I have? Or is it yet to come for you? She wished she could spare them from it.

The aurors said she was probably targeted because she loudly and openly discussed her muggle heritage in the pub, and it must have been heard by the wrong people. That was what passed for bravery these days. 

In the church of St Jerome, the stained glass window pattered with rain, and Hannah looked up at the colours of red and yellow and green rather than looking at the coffin with the splay of lilies, and she wondered when this nightmare would end, when Mum would come back, and tell her that everything would be all right. 

***

Months passed in unbearable agony, worse than she could have imagined. But there were glimmers of light there too. 

Here, at the school she thought she would never return to, in the place that was filled with unimaginable horror and oppression, she had purpose again. More purpose, in fact, than she had ever had in her life. And with it, new friendships that ran deeper than she had ever expected. 

‘This way,’ Neville whispered, and they ran low across the lawn of the grounds. Some of the windows in the castle behind them blazed with light, so that she thought for a terrible moment that they must be visible from the Great Hall, but, of course, the windows would be black with night to anyone who looked out from them. 

It was the summer term now, but the air was still cold as they panted, as though Dementors were close, which, she reasoned, they might be. She could feel the dew of the grass, left to grow long since Hagrid had left, soaking the bottoms of her jeans, seeping through her ratty trainers. 

Following the dark shadow of Neville’s figure, she ran through the grounds until she heard the crunch of gravel underfoot, and, ahead, the slight shine of starlight reflecting off the greenhouses. 

‘They’re in greenhouse three,’ Neville muttered, and her stomach dropped. 

He did not notice, and continued to hurry along the garden path, past the raised beds for the hardier plants and herbs, and she followed, but at a walk now, dread gnawing at her. 

He stopped at the door, holding his hands up to the glass to peer in. ‘OK…’ he said, still breathless from the run. ‘OK, looks clear… Now, while I talk to the venomous tentacula, you grab a tray, and fill it with perlite and only a few handfuls of compost, it’s a mountain plant so it likes it nice and rocky.’ 

‘OK,’ she said, and though she thought she sounded normal, he turned to her. She could barely make out his expression in the darkness. 

‘Are you all right?’ 

‘I… I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t been in the greenhouses for a long time… especially not this one. I should have thought before I volunteered, I'm sorry.’ 

She felt immediately embarrassed for blurting it out, and she had no idea if Neville would even grasp what she was getting at. He had been in the class, yes, but did he even remember that day? What had been the worst day of her life had been a perfectly ordinary school day for the rest of her classmates, and so many terrible things had happened since then. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t leave you out here.’ 

She thought he was telling her off, or saying that they had to go back, but before she had the time to feel hurt or ashamed, he was holding out his hand towards her. 

She swallowed, and then placed her trembling hand in his. She was not unaccustomed to physical touch with him, or many others. Over the past year, she had tended wounds and comforted people as they cried, she had grasped hands and arms and knees under desks to soothe people or tell them to control themselves, she had passed secret notes and morsels of food and whatever else needed smuggling, slipping it nimbly from her fingers into their palms as they passed in the corridors.  

But now his fingers pressed firm and reassuring against hers, and there was something very different about them holding hands. 

She let him lead her into the greenhouse; the humid, warm air surrounded them at once, like an odd sort of hug that sat heavy on their lungs. Tall, leafy plants towered above them, brushing the domed glass high above their heads, which magically reflected the brilliant stars above them and lit the place in glorious silver. 

Now that she was in here, she felt a little better. The dread that had stopped her ever returning here, that had caused her to drop herbology and pretend that this part of the castle no longer existed, had not come to pass. It was, after all, simply a greenhouse, and Mum could not die again. 

‘Are you all right?’ he said gently. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’ 

He nodded, and reached for some gloves on a nearby bench. She missed his hand around hers. ‘Let’s move quickly, and get you out of here,’ he said, donning some goggles and a thick leather apron.  

She went to the potting tables where Professor Sprout always stood, and seized a large seedling tray. As she took handfuls of compost and perlite, she could see Neville wrestling with the venomous tentacular, saying, ‘I’ll bring you doxy granules tomorrow - I’ll move you to a sunnier spot - I already checked with Professor Sprout - come on, you knew this was part of the deal, we agreed-’

Eventually, when he had tied enough of the writhing vines together with garden twine and stroked the shoots into calmness, he gave a nod to Hannah, and started to remove his protective gear as she hurried over and they squeezed behind the plant

There, on a table surrounded by blue lanterns to make up for the blocked light caused by the tentacula, were long, deep pots, stuffed with dittany. Their slender, arching stems were clustered with pleasant green leaves, with a dusty sort of whiteness, and they were dotted with pink flowers. She had never seen the plant as it was before; she had only ever remembered the little vials of dittany kept in their first aid kit, good for scraped knees and cuts from any broken glass in the pub. Mum had always said it was good to be prepared in an emergency, it had been one of her funny little things like that, along with being a bit of a hypochondriac, and so Hannah had had a vial in the bottom of her trunk when she returned to school. That, combined with her good potions knowledge, had helped her stumble into a kind of mothering role that she found had rather suited her. 

‘I just need the flowers, the book says,’ she said, as Neville started gently pulling some up by the roots. 

‘Yes, but I think it’d be good if I can grow another set somewhere, as a back up so we don’t have to keep sneaking out here. It’s just me and Seamus in the dorm, I don’t think he’d mind if I put them in the window between Harry and Ron’s beds. Here, take these, cut the flowers where the stem splits off - yeah, there - so it’ll grow back.’ 

‘It’s really pretty,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so pretty. It’s usually that the most useful plants are the ugliest.’ 

‘It is,’ said Neville absent-mindedly. ‘It’s from Crete. The healing properties were only discovered in the 17th century - people used to think it was an aphrodisiac, and it’s still used in some love potions.’ 

She looked at him, and though the light in the greenhouse was white starlight only, she could still see his cheeks burn red. 

‘It’s… it’s not, though,’ he mumbled. ‘Well… a little bit, but I… I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Because it’s interesting,’ she said quickly, as he busied himself repotting the seedlings. He nodded rapidly, and cleared his throat a little, and she cast around for something to say. ‘You… you should be careful, growing these in the dorm. If you’re caught-’

‘There’s no rule against growing plants,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plants up there loads of times. Especially my mimbulus mimbletonia, that’s had pride of place for a while.’

‘You know they don’t need an explicit rule,’ she said quietly. ‘They do what they want. If they think you’re… doing anything good, anything kind. That’s enough.’ 

He nodded, looking down at the delicate, thin roots of the dittany. There was a reason that he and Professor Sprout were growing such an innocent plant in such secrecy. ‘I know… but… it’s worth the risk.’ 

‘That’s very brave.’ 

‘Is it? Just growing a plant? Is that what passes for bravery these days?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said honestly. ‘Anything good does now. And it’s not just that.’ She paused, still cradling one of the delicate, rose pink flowers in her hand. ‘I mean… what were you thinking in muggle studies the other day? I hated seeing you screaming like that.’ 

‘Well I had to say something. It was repulsive, what she was saying about muggle children.’ 

‘No one believes her, no one really thinks-’

‘We don’t know that. Maybe some people might start believing her, because it’s easier. And anyway, it’s not just about that. Remember Umbridge?’ 

‘I try not to,’ she said dryly, and in the pale, washed out starlight she saw him grin. 

‘I know it’s stupid, but as Ginny and Luna haven’t come back, and Harry and Ron aren’t here, or Dean, or loads of other people… I’ve been-’ he sighed, as though frustrated he couldn’t find the words, ‘I’ve been trying to think about what they would do. I can’t afford to be Neville Longbottom, I’ve got to be someone braver. And Harry used to just completely go off on her, used to tell her straight in lessons that You-Know-Who was back, and, yeah, it got him more trouble than it felt like it was worth at the time, but you know what? I always found it really inspiring.’ 

‘I did too,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember thinking… well… why would he stick to a lie through all that?’ 

‘Exactly. He had principles, and if he was here he wouldn’t stand for any of that rot. There’s a lot of times over the past few months where I’ve just tried to…’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘pretend that I’m Harry. That I’m brave.’ 

‘I don’t think you’re pretending at all,’ she said. ‘You are brave. You always have been. You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?’ 

‘Somehow.’ 

‘No somehow about it. You’re the bravest man I know, and that includes Harry.’ 

‘How on earth does it include Harry?’ he asked, and he sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. 

‘Because he’s had to be,’ she said. ‘I’ve grown up in Godric’s Hollow, you know, I’ve seen the ruined house that he lived in. He’s had to be brave all the way from when he was a baby. But I didn’t. You didn’t. You’ve chosen to be brave, you’ve chosen to channel him. You're a pureblood, you could choose, every day, to keep your head down and get on with things, but you don't. You stand up and call her a bigoted liar in class and get tortured and you never back down. I find that more inspiring than anything.’ 

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said quietly.  

‘And you were brave lots of times even before. Don’t you remember winning those points all the way back in first year?’ 

He beamed, and looked at her directly, for the first time since he had blurted out that dittany was an aphrodisiac. ‘You remember that?’ 

‘Of course I do. Dumbledore pointing out about standing up to your friends - he was so right, that does take a lot of bravery. I tried to do it next year, when Ernie was telling me that Harry was the heir of Slytherin. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t as brave as you, but at least I tried, I suppose.’ 

‘I think you’re very brave too,’ he said. ‘Looking after everyone like this, handing out essence of dittany, running out here with me to get more… I’m sorry that you’ve had to come back in here. I didn’t think.’ 

‘I didn’t either,’ she said, and she started cutting more flowers. ‘I was just so focused on the idea of more, I didn’t really think about where I’d be getting it from… But, you know, I’m OK, actually. The thought of it was worse than the reality. It’s just a greenhouse.’ She looked around. The white starlight bleached the dark greenery into shades of silver, bounced off the watering cans, sparkled in the droplets of water from the sprinklers. ‘A very beautiful one.’ 

‘I like to think so,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘I always found this whole place beautiful, but now it… sometimes feels like only the greenhouses still are. They’re the only place I haven’t seen people being tortured.’ 

She paused. ‘I’m secretly thankful my mum isn’t alive to see this. Is that awful? I’m just glad she never had to worry about me being here. I feel bad enough for Dad.’ 

‘It’s not awful,’ said Neville. ‘I know what you mean.’ 

‘Do you?’ 

‘My parents don’t know anything about what’s going on, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad,’ he said, and for some reason his words seemed to surprise him. 

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and without thinking she put down the little secateurs and touched his arm. He breathed deeply, not quite meeting her eyes, pressing down one of the seedlings quite firmly into the tray, before finally turning to her.

‘I live with my gran, because… my…’ He took another deep breath, and suddenly there was a clanging from outside. 

They froze, and heard a low voice swearing. 'Bloody wheelbarrow…' 

Hearts thudding, they ducked down and stayed silent, Neville silently mouthing for Hannah to get onto the large empty shelf under the potting table, where bags of compost were usually kept. He reached up, fumbling for the secateurs, and then started crawling along on his belly. 

'What are you doing?' she whispered, horrified. Alecto Carrow was opening the door to the greenhouse, still muttering and swearing about the wheelbarrow he had tripped over. 

He put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at the venomous tentacula, which had begun to writhe against the twine. The snip snip snip of the secateurs seemed unreasonably loud, but from the other side of the greenhouse Carrow did not appear to hear them, rifling noisily through the plants and shrubs, sending terracotta pots crashing to the floor. 

'Anyone in here?' he demanded. 'I saw your footprints in the gravel. Hello?' 

The vines of the tentacula waved threateningly, and Hannah watched with trembling fear as one of them reached out to Neville, still prone on the ground, and started to wrap itself around his throat. 

'Don't be cheeky,' she heard him mutter to it, and he calmly prodded it with the secateurs until it released him. 

It kept one tendril around his ankle, but Neville seemed to allow it as a compromise, and instead watched through the vines as Carrow upturned a table, still shouting and swearing. 

After several, agonisingly long minutes, Carrow came close to them. The venomous tentacula silently released Neville’s ankle, and raised it's spiked tendrils. 

'OW! Son of a bludger-' 

A long line of expletives followed, and the venomous tentacular shook noisily, whip-like noises echoing through the greenhouse as it reached after Carrow, now bolting from the room. 

'Grab the tray,' Neville told Hannah. 'He'll be heading straight to the hospital wing, we should have a clear path back. Quickly, before the tentacula gets over-excited and turns on us-' 

She did so at once and he held back the spiked vines as she squeezed past the plant, and hurried safely out of range. 

She stood there, holding her tray of little dittany plants and the heads of the flowers. She watched as Neville easily unentangled himself from the tentacula, patted it, said, 'thanks mate,' and grabbed a clear cover for the tray. He came close to her as he fitted it over the dittany, protecting them from the cold night air they would have to hurry back through.  

His face was inches from her own, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat a little as she looked up at him. There was a slight clunk as the lid of the tray found its place. For a moment, they were perfectly still, just their breathing in that humid place, and his eyes, shining light blue in the pale light, lifted from the tray of dittany to meet her own. 

'Do you really think I'm brave?' he whispered. 

She nodded, and he seemed to be steeling himself for something. Please, she thought, please make this place good for me again. Her hands gripped the edges of the tray.

Very gently, very slowly, he leaned closer over the tray. His hand moved as though to softly move her face to meet his, but he didn't need to, for she was already naturally tilting her head, and her heels were lifting a little off the ground without her bidding them to. 

Their lips met, soft like the petals of the dittany between them, sweet like the fragrance. His fingertips were trembling slightly as they caressed against her cheek, but then they calmed as the kiss deepened. 

The tray pressed into them as he tried to move closer, and it reminded them where they were. They broke apart, panting and gasping as though they had just finished the run down from the castle. 

She had never kissed anyone before. She was glad, unbelievably, overwhelmingly, joyfully glad, that her first kiss had been with Neville, in this place where the warm air was scented with damp soil and sweet flowers. 

'We… we should take these back,' he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘Let - let me take them.’ 

He took the tray from her, and in her happy daze she allowed it, and let him lead the way out of the greenhouse. Joy had returned to her again, beneath the fogged glass, amongst the green plants, bursting with life. 

[dameronology]

never doubt me {cassian andor}

summary: after falling into the hands of the empire, a situation of life and death forces you and cassian to finally talk about your feelings {for @megmeg-chan and i am sO sorry it’s taken me so long to do this}

summary: language, mentions of injury, talks ab death/loss in a canon kinda way 

enjoy!! i haven’t written for cassian in so long and i forgot how much i loved him, so expect more of him in the future😌

- jazz

Cassian Andor was a filthy liar. 

No, deep breath. He wasn't that bad. 

The situation was just really fucking irritating and, in all likelihood, making your anger towards him a little more irrational. It wasn't really even his fault either. He'd told you incessantly that the mission was going to go well, and that you both going to be fine. Like, totally fiiiine, and that you would both get into the base without trouble and reunite in the middle, near the Imperial comms system. It was just that neither of you had planned for or expected stormtroopers to be present -- he'd gotten away in one piece, but you hadn't been so lucky. 

That brings us to now: a cell, with two stormtroopers parked outside and quite literally no sign of Cassian anywhere. You knew he'd be looking for you; in fact, you didn't doubt it once. There was a sort of unspoken pact between you that you would always rescue one another; always have each other's backs and never leave the other behind. It was born from the fact that friendships were hard to forge in your line of work, and what you and Cassian had was rare. Not even just in the Rebellion, but rather life in general. On the surface, you teased and ripped into one another to no end. The chemistry was almost suffocating for the people around you, because they could never get a word in edge ways. Then, if you dug a little deeper, there was something more. Something sweeter, something more supportive. You knew him better than he knew himself and in return, he could read you like his favourite novel (though, admittedly, it did sometimes feel like you were missing a few pages. Human complexity and all that).

‘Do you feel like speaking now?’ The modulated voice of one of the stormtroopers came from the other side of your cell door.

‘I’ll die before telling you jackshit.’ You muttered. Hopefully that was more of a statement and less of a prophecy.

The trooper snorted. ‘Okay, sweetheart-’

‘- call me that again and I will shove that blaster sideways up your ass.’ You spat.

‘The only thing you’re doing is rotting here.’ 

With that, he turned his back to you again. 

You slumped further down the wall, ignoring the feeling of the cold concrete etching through the thin fabric of your shirt. It was cold in here. Really, really fucking cold, and Cassian had said you wouldn’t need a jacket. Then again, he’d said a lot of things. And again, none of it was his fault, but you cursed yourself for so blindly listening to him. It was nice that you took everything the other said as gospel, even if it came back to bite you in the ass every so often. 

‘A word of advice-’

‘- I don’t want any advice.’ You turned away from the trooper, pulling you knees to your chest. 

‘The sooner you talk, the less painful it’ll be.’ He ignored your refusal. 

You didn’t need to ask what he meant by it. You’d been part of the Rebellion long enough to have heard stories -- stories of torture, stories of war and the the kind of horrors that people often took to the grave.  You had a fair few of your own, and so did Cassian. That was probably why he’d become so important to you. He was one of the only people in the galaxy who truly understood the downfalls of being a Rebel spy. Your cause was more important to you than anything (well, almost anything) and you wouldn’t have changed it for the world, but there were times like this where you wondered if it was all worth it. Would there ever come a day where the Empire truly fell, once and for all? And would you even be around to see it? Would Cassian? 

Speaking of the devil, where the fuck was he? He never usually took this long. A few hours at most, but you’d long surpassed that. You could only very barely see the sky through the tiny window, but the sky had faded from powder blue to a dark navy, signalling it had been well over half a day. That was bad for multiple reasons -- the first being that the longer you were here, the more likely Cassian was to assume the worst and stop searching. Secondly, and perhaps most hauntingly, was that each passing second brought you closer to the Imps dragging you out the cell and taking you for questioning. And questioning, in their books, didn’t involve much talking. Go figure.

The injuries you sustained in your capture were bad enough; a bust lip, bruised eye and twisted ankle never made for much comfort. Even less so when you couldn’t get medical attention. The fact you knew it would be the least of your problems in a few hours made it all that much worst. 

You’d never doubted Cassian Andor before. Not once. Couldn’t even fathom it, truth be told. He always came through for you; always saved your ass, whether it be from yourself or from Imps. He was your person. That’s the only way you could have put it.

But, above all, he was a human being. Not a super hero, or a miracle worker. He could only do so much and you knew he would. He would follow every lead and every clue to try and get to you, but that’s all he could do. If he couldn’t find you, that wasn’t him on him. You doubted that he would think the same, and when you heard the lock to your cell open, you could only hope and pray that he knew that. That you weren’t going to blame him for what was about to happen, or hold it against him. 

‘It’s time.’ The stormtrooper announced. ‘Hope you can handle a bit of pain.’

You took a deep breath. ‘I can handle anything.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ He guffawed. ‘Hands out.’

‘C’mon, man.’ You murmured. ‘My legs gone, my lips bust and my head feels someone’s dropped an iron anvil on it. You don’t need to cuff  - ouch!’

You let out a squeak as he grabbed your wrists, tugging them forward and shoving a pair of metal cuffs on them. Was this really it? The end? Was your name gonna be the next one on the list of people lost in the Rebellion? That was if anybody even noticed. 

Cassian would. Of course, Cassian would. It hurt your heart to think that you wouldn’t see him again, or get to say a proper goodbye. The last time you’d seen him, you’d been dragged away from him kicking and screaming. He’d been so close, and if he’d been just a little nearer when they’d got you, he might have been able to save you, to stop you from falling into the hands of the Empire. You always figured that if you were gonna die in the field, he’d be by your side. The dumbassery you so often found yourselves in usually happened together. 

The walls of the Imperial base were dark - as if you’d expected anything else. It was hardly like the place was going to look like a bright, airy Ikea showroom. The only light came from the thousands of tiny red and blue buttons flickering on the wall, illuminating the hallways in what would have been a pretty glow if the circumstances weren’t so fucking miserable. Talk about a high way to hell.

You took another left, the trooper’s grip on you tightening as you neared some double towards the end. Yep, here it was. This is where you met your maker.  And from what you’d heard, the six-foot-something guy in a black mask did not take prisoners. Not that he was the one you were thinking of. No, that was Cassian. Completely and entirely Cassian; just his face and his presence and his everything at the back of your mind, the last thing you could think of before you were about to die for your cause-

-you let out an oof! as the stormtrooper suddenly pulled you to the ground, practically using you as a human shield against the blaster fire and smoke grenade that had just come from behind you. You tried to use your elbows to push him off, but with the cuffs and your already existing injuries, he easily overpowered you. Also, you were too busy coughing from the smoke to even think about making a getaway.

Tumbling forward, you fell onto your hands and knees. The trooper’s gun clattered to the ground, and you used your good leg to kick it further out the way, eyes not moving from the cloud of smoke that come out of the grenade. The red and blue lights were beating down on it, casting a purple glow over the shadow of whoever had thrown it, acting as a guide as they finally emerged. With a blaster in one hand and the other curled into a fist, your best friend had never quite looked so handsome, especially under the violet illuminations.

‘Cassian!’ Despite everything, you couldn’t help but grin. 

‘Duck.’ He demanded. 

You did as he said, flopping back to the floor. Squeezing your eyes shut and covering your head, you stayed there for a moment. There was another blast, and then the trooper’s body fell beside yours with a dull thud! 

Then, in what must have been two of most contrasting feelings ever, a warm pair of hands found yours. Cassian’s, undoubtedly. You would have known them anywhere. He pulled you up from the cold ground, warm palms finding your face as they ghosted over your cheeks.

‘It’s okay.’ His voice was soft. ‘You can open your eyes.’

You took a deep breath. ‘I know. Thank you.’

‘How badly are you hurt?’ He asked. ‘Because we need to move fast.’

‘My foot’s pretty wrangled.’ You said. 

Without another word, Cassian threw an arm over your shoulders, tucking it under your arms to support you. 

‘Lean against me.’ He instructed. ‘The exit isn’t too far-’

‘- what about the other troopers?’ You asked.

‘I dealt with them on my way in.’

And dealt with them, he certainly had. The men were practically laying in unconscious piles (he only ever intended to maim, but never kill), working as some kind of fucked up map out of a twisted and horrible maze.  The pain in your leg only grew worst as you moved, your good leg beginning to ache from carrying all the weight. With all your attention focused ahead of you for potential enemies, you didn’t even notice how close you were to stumbling over -- not until you fell back onto the cold lino floors. 

‘Hey.’ Cassian dropped beside you. ‘Look at me, okay, just...look at me.’

You glanced up, tired eyes meeting his warm, brown ones. ‘It really hurts, Cass.’

‘We’re really close now.’ He said. ‘Two more minutes. Can you do that? For me?’

‘Yeah.’ You took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I can.’

(Because really, for him, you’d do anything.) 

Cassian helped you back up, pressing one of his blasters into your hand. His arm returned to hold you by the waist, gripping you a little tighter this time. Your leg was practically screaming in pain, a dull ache shooting from your ankle up to your knee. You had to remind yourself that in a few minutes, it would all be over - and not in the way you thought it was going to be over an hour ago. Over, as in this whole ordeal would simply be something to report back to your bosses at base, and not your final moments. The fact you ever let yourself accept that fate and think that Cassian wouldn’t come for you was something else entirely in itself. 

You almost cried with relief when you saw his battered old ship docked outside the base. You normally cried for other reasons when you saw it - usually ones to do with the rusty old engines and creaking sound it insisted on making whenever it flew - but right then, you had never been happier to see it. Even if the insides smelt weirdly of petrol and oil, and the seats in the cockpit were made of uncomfortable cracked leather, you practically threw yourself on board. 

Neither you nor Cassian said anything for a while. His attention was completely on getting away from the base and avoiding TIE fighters - something he did without ever moving his hand from your thigh - and yours was on steadying your breathing and heartbeat. It had been a rough twelve hours to say the least. 

Once the ship had lurched into hyperspace, he turned in his chair to face you. He held your gaze for a moment, before opening his arms out and letting you flop from your own seat and into his chest. They tightly wrapped around you, one hand softly your head to his body and the other gently rubbing up and down your back. You had to squeeze your eyes shut to stop your tears from spilling. 

‘I’m sorry.’ He murmured.

‘For what?’ You peered up at him with a frown. 

‘Not finding you sooner.’ He replied. ‘Or for even letting you get caught in the first place-’

‘- Cassian, stop.’ You pulled back and tangled his hands in yours. ‘Once I get some bactaspray, I’ll be totally fine.’

‘But you almost weren’t.’ He shot back. ‘If I was just a few minutes later and you could have been a thousand times worst, or even...gone completely.’

‘That’s beside the point.’ You softly sighed. ‘It’s doesn’t matter would have beens or could have beens. I am here and I will be okay.’

‘You’re right.’ He nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I just...I want to protect you, you know? And I failed.’

‘You don’t need to protect me, Cass.’ You shook your head with a soft smile. ‘Actually, no, today I did but you pulled through.’

‘I don’t need to, but I want to.’ Cassian murmured. 

He’d done a pretty good job at sitting on his feelings for the last few years. Pushed them down when he felt the urge to tell you, and ignored them entirely when they got really intense. But that had been when the threat of completely losing you was just that: a threat. A distant possibility, and one that you were both too busy living your lives to fully consider. Now, however, you’d come close. Too close. Cassian had come face-to-face with a reality where you were gone, and one where he’d never actually told you how he felt. 

‘You know I love you, right?’ He quietly said. 

‘Yeah, I know.’ You nodded. 

‘No, I mean I love you.’ 

You peered up at him, realising what he was getting at. You did know. In fact, it had very much been an unspoken thing between you for a very, very long time. It was really just a matter of saying it - but that was always the hardest part, right? 

‘I know.’ You repeated. ‘I love you too.’

‘You do?’

You softly laughed. ‘Of course I do.’ 

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple and pulled you back against his chest, chin resting atop your ahead. ‘Good.’

You stayed like that for a few minutes; it was undoubtedly a deeper conversation you were going to have later on, but it felt good to have it out in the open. So good, in fact, that it momentarily made you forget the last day entirely. Instead of pondering on it, you let yourself get lost entirely in Cassian’s presence, and the feeling of his body against yours and and his arms holding you. If you could have it your way, you would have stayed like this forever. The rest of the galaxy could wait. 

‘I’m sorry if you thought I was going to make in time.’ He said quietly. 

‘I didn’t.’ Your voice was slightly muffled by his chest. ‘Not once.’

‘I love you.’ Cassian said it more firmly this time. It still completely felt weird to say, and even more so to see you smile and say it back.

‘I love you too.’

He dipped his head down, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss. The feeling of your lips against his was familiar and foreign all at once; it was something he’d gone over in his head a thousand times, but it was nothing like either of you had imagined. It was better. Sweeter, in the kind of way that gave you butterflies in your tummy and made you feel giddy. It was worlds away from the usual dread and bloodshed that came with being in the Rebellion. 

But that was quintessentially Cassian. He was everything that the war wasn’t: sweet and constant and warm. Somebody as beautiful and as caring as him both did and didn’t belong in the Rebellion. Did, because he was a good man who wanted to fight for the right thing. Didn’t, because he constantly risked his life for the greater good and you couldn’t quite stomach that idea. 

‘I’ll always come back for you.’ He lightly brushed his hand against your cheek. ‘Never doubt me.’

‘I won’t.’ You promised. ‘Not ever.’ 

tags: @megmeg-chan @karasong @bb8sworld @marvelinsanity @poestardust @etherealsanakin @bo-kryze​ @punkbach​ @phoenixhalliwell​

[onecanonlife]

for thine is the kingdom

This isn’t quite what he wanted, but it’s something, at least. He’ll make do. If he closes his eyes, perhaps he can pretend that this is a grave, and he is nothing but a corpse that hasn’t yet learned that it’s time to stop moving.

Wilbur dies in a dark room, rubble pressing in around him, his father's sword through his chest. Wilbur wakes in a dark ravine, dust pouring from the wound and the stone beneath him trembling with his fear.

Wilbur wakes when he's certain he shouldn't. Wilbur wakes, and nothing feels the same.

(Or, in which Wilbur becomes tied to Pogtopia after his death. Nothing at all changes, and yet everything does. And there are still people who don't want to let go.)

(next chapter)

(chapter word count: 4,184)

--------------------

chapter one: here the stone images are raised

“It’s kind of funny, how this works.”

It’s Dream’s voice, cool and light, indifferent, floating down from a long way away, and it is Wilbur’s first clue that something is wrong. Because Wilbur is dead, and Dream is not, and Dream’s voice is not supposed to be here. Because Wilbur died with a sword in his chest, heart still pounding in selfish terror and inexorable relief, so very cold and no one there to hold him and no one who would. Because he died, and the void came up to embrace him, and he imagined himself in the camarvan one last time—the symphony finished, finally finished—and then he was supposed to be gone, at rest, at peace, no one left for him to hurt or to hurt him back, the ordeal finally over, and that was what Dream wanted. Him dead. L’Manberg dead.

Their goals aligned perfectly. Different sides of the coin, they two, though perhaps not of the same, and Dream a more conniving puppet master than he could ever hope to be. He played right into his hands and didn’t care a whit, walked into the shackles with his eyes wide open, knowing full well it would be the last thing he ever did.

Why, then, does he hear Dream now?

“I’ve never seen it happen,” Dream continues. “I honestly wasn’t sure if it was possible. But here we are, I guess. I dunno if I should congratulate you or not.” He pauses. His voice changes. Sharper, more smug, more sure. “Huh. You’re awake, aren’t you? C’mon, time to rise and shine, Wilbur.”

He moans. Or at least, he thinks he does. He can’t feel himself. Can’t feel his fingers, his toes, his face, his heartbeat. And yet, he is aware of himself. Aware of his body, that he has one when he shouldn’t. When he should be in the void, reduced to nothing but emptiness and starstuff, returned to the universe. No mind to think with, no voice to scream with, no memories to remember or weep over, no hands to curl into fists.

He doesn’t want to be here.

But Dream’s voice comes again, right by his ear, soft and hard and cruel.

“Wilbur.” Dream says, “wake up.”

Wilbur wakes up.

And screams.

The world collapses in on him all at once, and gods, what a world it is, because it’s so much, too much, and he can’t even begin to process any of it, because there is the stone against his back and the darkness pressing into his eyes and the dust in his lungs, and there are the walls rising to the vaunted ceiling and the buttons ground into the rocks and the path shattered and broken and the potatoes dying and rotting and the motionless pistons and the pit still blood splattered and the echoes painting every moment, the whispers that refuse to die, the cries and the shouts and the screams and the tears and the desperation and the fear and the sweat and the pain and the words that swarmed from unforgiving mouths and he feels all of it and he is all of it and it rips through him and he rips through it and he loses himself in this deluge, in this bombardment, and he tries to lash out and feels the very walls shake, and he cannot separate himself from the stone, cannot forge himself an identity through this, cannot think when all he knows is every atom of every block and every particle of dust that floats on the air, and Dream is laughing.

Dream is laughing.

“Oh, come on now,” he says, loud and delighted, “this is nothing! Are you really gonna tell me you can’t handle it?”

He opens his eyes.

He has too many eyes.

He sees from a thousand angles, every inch of the ravine, every tendril of darkness and weak flicker of light, every abrasion on the stone and every lingering footstep, and somewhere in all of that, there is him, splayed out on the ground, Dream standing over him, but he sees from both within himself and a hundred times outside himself, and he slams his eyes shut again.

And it doesn’t work. He still sees. Everything, too much, and it’s impossible to focus, impossible to function, impossible to shut it all off, this feeling, this seeing, the whispers that have settled into his bones, the deep despair, the mourning, the haunting.

Dream slaps him across the face.

It’s a pinprick, a speck in the grand scheme of things, and he barely registers it. But it’s a human pain, familiar, not—whatever the fuck is happening to him, so he grabs it, clutches at it, grounds himself against it, and the rest recedes for a moment, and he’s settled into a body with arms and legs and lungs, not corridors and still-living ghosts.

He sits himself up, and feels like he’s piloting his body rather than moving it.

“There you are,” Dream says, sounding satisfied. “How do you feel?”

“What—” he manages to start, and has to stop, because his voice rebounds and doubles and echoes and sounds like caverns hundred of feet deep and like secrets that will never see the light of day and like rocks that grind on rocks that grind on bones that grind on hope. And it hurts to speak.

“I bet you’re confused,” Dream says, still satisfied. But then, when is Dream ever not? “You’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

He doesn’t. And Dream wants to make him ask, the prick. He thinks he might try to deck him if he thought he could accomplish it, but the merest twitch sends him hurtling out of his body and into the walls again, into every wall, his consciousness expanding into the earth, down to the bedrock, and it’s awful and nauseating and overwhelming until he manages to force himself back to his flesh again.

“I’m glad I decided to hang around here,” Dream continues, easily, blithely. “Or else I would’ve missed this.”

He stops, expectant. Wilbur can practically feel his anticipation, and Wilbur owes so very much to this man, would have been his vassal if so allowed, but he does not owe him his pride. It burns to give it. But then, the rest of him has already burned, has it not?

“Missed what?” he grits out, and once again, his voice sends shockwaves rattling through him, because the voice is his and yet it isn’t, and the shockwaves aren’t just through him but through the ground below him and beside him and down the corridor, and he can feel all of those as if they’re fractures in his skin and not in solid stone.

“Every so often,” Dream says, sounding pleased, “someone makes a place, right? And sometimes, someone puts so much of themself into a place that the place takes on a life of its own. A pulse. A breath. And that place doesn’t let that someone go so easily, right? So sometimes, someone becomes the place that they’ve created.”

The words, individually, are understandable. Together, they make no sense.

“I kind of figured you’d be the type for it,” Dream goes on. “I mean, you’re always making things. Except for when you destroy them. It’s almost like you make things to destroy them, or maybe it’s just that everything you made was destined to go wrong. And then you made this place, and you took all of that ugly stuff that’s inside of you and you poured it all in. You completely destroyed L’Manberg, and this is like, the embodiment of that. All the darkness and the suffering that you caused everyone else, it’s all here. And then you died, and I wondered if this was where you’d end up. And I was right.”

This much is true: Pogtopia is a dark place. This much is also true: he hurt people here, became someone who hurt people, who lashed out and took everyone down with him and laughed. Or perhaps he was that person all along, and this ravine just scraped off the varnished exterior to reveal the rot of him lying beneath. But what Dream is saying still sounds like nonsense, because places aren’t—well. They aren’t people in the literal sense. They can represent people. Can represent what they truly are. L’Manberg was an extension of him, was the vehicle through which he proved his value, and when that went south, it became the opposite.

There is a reason why he had to go out with it, and it with him.

“I still don’t know what you mean,” he says, though even as he says it, something pulses within him, another expansion of his awareness, and all the stone in Pogtopia vibrates below his skin, paralyzing him.

Dream scoffs.

“I think you do,” he says. “You’re just being obtuse. But here, sure, I’ll throw you a bone.”

He extends a hand. Wilbur regards it. Dream sighs, and then, faster than Wilbur can react, lunges forward, grabbing his chin and jerking it upward. He tries to shake him off, but the grip is strong, and moving still sends him hurtling away from himself, and so—

And then—

There is everything.

He is every blade of grass and every blooming flower and every tree extended toward the sky and the roll of the sea against the shore and the tunnels that twist below the ground and the buildings erected and still standing tall and the mobs that creep from their holes at night and the lava that crackles and spits and pops and the life and the death and the sunrise and the sunset and the living, breathing heart of this server, the pulse of the world cradled against the murmuring universe, and what is he in the face of that, what is he to—

He finds himself again, chest heaving, gasping. His vision is blurred. He scrambles back and away, back from Dream, and the stone beneath him rumbles and shakes with his distress, and he can sense the ravine as himself but he was a fool to think it was vast, because that, that was vastness, and it was, somehow, Dream.

“Do you get it, now?” Dream says. He stands, confident and sure and powerful, looking down on him, and Wilbur does not like to be looked down upon, but he can’t stand. Every nerve in him is alight, quivering. If he stood, he would topple, and he might bring the ravine down with him.

“How?” he says, and he thinks that he may not actually speak the word aloud, thinks that his voice may be lost somewhere between his own shuddering and the tremble of the walls and this terrible, dawning understanding, but Dream seems to hear him anyway.

“I am this server,” Dream tells him. “I made it. It’s mine, and no one will ever be able to take that from me. What I say, goes, because I am it. And now, you’re Pogtopia. You’re a ravine in the dark, far underground. You’re the thing that hurt all of your friends, where you planned the total destruction of the home that everyone loved so much. This place is literally you. It’s the embodiment of everything that you are.”

The truth sinks into him like a sack of stones into a river, tied to the feet of its victim. He lets the last of his air escape willingly, allows the water to come rushing into his lungs, because why should he fight that which is so clearly before him? It is a sensation impossible to describe, still, impossible to be accustomed to, but he feels this ravine as if it were his own body, can affect it like working a muscle, is almost certain that his skin now covers more than flesh and bone. And is this not what he is? He created this place, created the darkness and created the ghosts, and all of the sorrows that happened here can be laid solely at his feet. He declared himself the villain here, realized his true purpose here, understood himself here for the first time. Saw himself for what he truly was, and now will forever be. Here.

And he thought that he could be afforded peace. He should have realized that villains receive no such happy endings.

And now, here he is. A thing with too many eyes, with a self that extends far beyond his human form, with a heartbeat pounding within him that is no natural rhythm, but the tempo of the stone and the whispers and the echoes that still linger, cold and crying. And now, here he is, perhaps the thing that he was always meant to be. Perhaps not even human any longer, though perhaps that shift happened a long time ago. He has known for so long, now, that he has lacked all his life the intrinsic worth that everyone else seems to possess. Perhaps this is only the final indication.

Perhaps this is right.

This is right.

“So, have fun with that, I guess,” Dream says. He’d forgotten he was still there. “Welcome to godhood.”

Is that what we are? he doesn’t ask. Gods? He does not think there is any divinity in a creature like him.

Dream is moving toward the stairs, the stairs without handrails, the stairs that lead up, to the world above and the sunlight and the rest of the server that Dream is, and Wilbur wonders how they ever managed to win L’Manberg at all, against the power that Dream holds.

“I may come by again later,” Dream says, pausing on the third step. “But then again, maybe not. I’m about to get pretty busy.” A few more steps, and Wilbur realizes that he can feel Dream’s footfalls, physical impacts against him, against the stone that he is. “So, see you later, I guess. Bye, Wilbur.”

And then, Dream is gone. Dream is gone, well and truly, and he hadn’t realized that his presence had been grating on him, another physical sensation, like a bug had been squirming underneath his skin and only just now dug itself out. He can no longer sense Dream, because Dream is no longer within him.

What a strange thought. Once, he would have made a very dirty joke about that phrasing. Right now, he’s not in the mood.

If Tommy were here, he would make the joke for him, or groan as if he did. But it’s better that Tommy isn’t here. Tommy never belonged here, never belonged in the darkness and the corruption that spread to all of his efforts. None of them did, of course, but Tommy especially, and Tommy also didn’t deserve the way that he so desperately tried to keep him by his side, so sure that Tommy was the only one he could trust, could rely on, so the best thing to do for him now is to put him out of his mind. It’s the only apology he can offer, his complete and utter removal from Tommy’s life. From everyone’s.

They’ll be able to live happily, now. Will be able to move on, to make new lives. Something that actually lives up to the ideals that he once hoped to embody, the safety and freedom he once hoped he could attain.

And he will be here. Or at least, he will be far away from them.

He stands. It is a difficult motion, his legs trembling beneath him, as unsteady as a newborn fawn’s. He places his hand against the closest wall to steady himself, and he shudders; he can feel his hand from the perspective of the stone, and it is nothing at all like what human touch feels like. But he is not human. He is not human, and he should not try to cling to his former state, because that will help no one. His refusal to let go of anything is what led him here, after all.

He wonders what it would have been like, if he had taken Tommy and left after their exile, after taking an arrow through his throat. But it’s a moot point; that would never have happened. He never would have left, and Tommy would never have agreed to go, and so they came here, to this ravine, which was lying in wait as if it was always going to be here, arms outstretched, eager to swallow them whole. As if this, of all things, was meant to be.

He walks to the stairs, strides cautious, and looks up. He can see the top from here. There is no sign of Dream, though he did not need to check to confirm that. He is the only thing that exists within this place, though he cannot say that he lives. He thinks that if he held his breath, nothing would come of it, that there would be no surging need to take in oxygen. He died, after all, and dead things do not breathe in truth.

He blinks. And he begins to climb.

The steps shiver beneath him. He could make a handrail, if he wanted to, could command the stone-that-is-him to rise up in the shape of one, just to have something to hold. He doesn’t. He thinks that if he falls, he might not even be hurt, because he would be falling back into himself, and dead things don’t hurt in any case. And he thinks that if he falls, it might be exhilarating on the way down, if only for a moment. He thinks he might be able to feel.

He has three steps left. He can almost see out. He takes another step forward. He wants to see outside, to get the lay of the land, to decide what he will do next, now that he is—what he is. Perhaps he’ll be able to get a better grip on himself in the sunlight.

He can’t move.

He can’t step forward.

He wills himself, strains all his muscles, but accomplishes nothing. His body does not so much as twitch. His mind opens again, expands to feel the stone, to be the stone, and—

He can’t leave.

He can’t leave this ravine.

Perhaps he should have anticipated as much. If what Dream says is true—and it is, it is, he knows—then he is Pogtopia, has tied himself to it, has become this ravine’s—soul, for lack of a better term, though he has never known whether he believes in souls or not. The idea discomfits him.

But the rest of the world is right there. Right within reach. And it is barred to him. Barred to him by his own choices, barred to him by what he has made of himself. The rest of the world is barred to him, is lost to him, and he will not be able to see the sun again. Will not be able to hear the wind, or piping bird song, or smell the grass or the rain. And that’s all right, because it’s what he wanted in the first place. He intended to die, to go to whatever awaits people like him, people who hurt and tear and destroy and have never been worthy of anything at all, and he ended up here, and he should not be affected by this. Will not be affected by this. Because he was never going to see the sun again in any case.

He turns. Walks back down the stairs. His mind is blank. The stone moans and creaks.

He trips halfway down, and feels nothing at all.

He hits the ground hard. There is no wind to knock out of him. He lays there, blinking up at the ceiling far above, breathes in time with the echoes that still ring, the voices that are not truly there but that will not leave, as caught in this place as he is. He levers himself into a sitting position, glancing himself over—and he was right. He is not hurt. No part of him so much as aches.

No part of him.

And now that he is looking at himself, he sees what he did not before. The lighting should be too dim to see the way his skin has grayed, has taken on the pallor of the rocks that surround him, but he sees with a thousand eyes rather than just two, and this time, it feels almost natural, to see with the eyes of the stone. And from that vantage, he can see the tear in the front of his shirt, the open, gaping wound, and the way that it is not blood that flows from it, but rather dust, in a constant, steady stream. He brings a hand up to touch it, raises it to his human eyes, and watches in morbid fascination as some dust drifts in the air and some clings to his skin.

Not that it makes a different where it goes. All the dust in the ravine is him. The wound will never stop flowing, because there will always be more dust. He is made of it, now. Dust. And soot, even, from fires that burned out a long time ago, or perhaps this morning.

He feels his lips quirk upward into a smile. Soot. Fitting. He chose that name long ago—who knew it would be so prophetic?

And that’s when it hits him. Suddenly, and without warning.

That’s when he realizes that he’s trapped here.

He’s trapped here.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrong and gravelly and doubled and tripled and echoing and not his. And then, he is outside of himself, and he is screaming with everything he is, and the ground is shaking, and caves are collapsing and others are being formed as he thrashes and convulses, all of him, and the stones are shrieking, he is shrieking, cacophonous agony, because he hates this place, and he’s going to be here forever, is going to be it forever, and it really is fitting, isn’t it, just as Dream said, because he hates this place, so of course he should become it and of course it should become him, because he has always hated himself, so this is just the natural conclusion, is only what he deserves.

He will be here forever, shielded from the erosion and the danger of the world above. He will be here, with his twisting tunnels and blood-splattered walls, his groaning, discordant songs. He will be here, harmonizing with himself, alone and unworthy and undeserving of respite, and he will eat himself and choke on the dust and laugh through it because there is nothing else to do, and he did not want this, but what does it matter? He chased oblivion and it evaded him, and now there is nothing left to do but to curl into himself, to try to dig at whatever chains him here and try to pull it up by the roots, to try and pull himself up by the roots, to unmake himself.

He tears at himself, and the stone screams, and for a moment, he thinks he can almost feel it, can feel whatever it is that holds him, that binds him up in the wailing and the haunting and the hatred, and he picks at it, bucks against it, and—something comes loose. Something, but not enough, and before his vision, there is a flash of—yellow sweater dripping blue shocked eyes that are his and yet not and a kindness that cannot ever have been his because he is not a kind thing and this place proves that this place in all its cruelty—before he snaps back into himself. He hadn’t realized he’d left, hadn’t realized—

He’s not sure what he just did. But it didn’t seem to change anything at all. The dust from his thrashing has settled, the stones stilling. His body is sitting on the ground, hunched over, nails puncturing the skin of his arms. He releases them, slowly, and watches as dust drifts out from the rents. There is no pain.

He feels numb.

The futility sets in. Why did he try to struggle? What did he think he would accomplish? The void has rejected him. Death, it seems, does not want him in her realm. He poured himself into this place, showed the world all his ugly, truest colors, and now it is keeping him, and he must keep it. There is nothing left to do but resign himself to it, to let the dust coat him, to listen to the whispers and the echoes and the memories, because they are all that he will be afforded, now. And perhaps that’s for the best.

This isn’t quite what he wanted, but it’s something, at least. He’ll make do. If he closes his eyes, perhaps he can pretend that this is a grave, and he is nothing but a corpse that hasn’t yet learned that it’s time to stop moving.

He sighs. Dust plumes from between his lips.

Pogtopia is dark.

[seaswalllow]

sbi? awesamdad? my current brainrot is eret actually fuckin adopting fundy and giving niki a space to heal and providing a neutral, chill space for ranboo to heal and chill too

man, i would even say let them adopt jack too. please. they would be such a feral family, between fundy and eret’s pranks, and niki and eret’s eye for builds and aesthetic, and jack’s ferality

hmm

i have a lot to write but honestly i might write this soon because it is not gonna get here soon enough in halcyon

this. this got long. again.

in the meantime i’m just. thinking. i’m thinking about fundy coming back from his travels. and for the most part- nobody seeks him out, so he seeks out familiar faces in turn. an empty house lined with flowers wilted with neglect, a grave long overgrown, and finally, an empty castle and a crown slung across a dusty throne. the cape is folded up too neatly, worn from disuse and not from battle, not from struggle. 

so that’s that, then. everybody’s moved about their life; and to be fair, so has he. but it’s the difference between knowing that it’s going to hurt when you have a tooth pulled, and running your tongue over the aching gap constantly. 

but that’s that. 

despite it all, he doesn’t leave. 

he opens chests whose hinges squeal with rust and rot, and tucks the few valuables that haven’t been plundered into his jacket, and he walks until the callouses on the pads of his feet crack; but on the edge of the server’s known boundaries, he drives a stake into loamy earth proclaiming the unexplored lands, and another into the gravel bordering the nearby stone with his name carved into it, and hacks a house into the side of the mountain. 

because despite it all, he was born on these grounds and he can’t bring himself to cut out his roots just yet. (is it a family curse? unable to cut himself free until he chokes?)

utilitarian, it serves as little more than storage; it’s hardly a house, let alone a home. that’s fine, because he wanders more than he lingers. there’s vines pulsing in the server grounds that need to be cut back (and oh, does it ever feel good? gunpowder has long been this server’s curse, but a blade can cut two ways and it’s with a vicious sort of satisfaction that he beats back the oozing crimson with the same thing that’s destroyed so much of their lives), and there’s life to breathe back into little clay figures. 

there’s life to be had outside of those walls. (he refuses to live out the same tale, bitter and paranoid and isolated. this will not be a family curse.)

so when he stops outside his house, and stares at the freshly tilled dirt and the saplings poking up out of the rich earth, he takes a minute to identify the feeling knotting itself up in his chest. 

it leaves a bitter tang on the back of his tongue; he doesn’t think that that’ll ever change. nor will the coppery fear ever dissipate; not when they all live and die by the sword too often in this server. 

it’s lighter around the edges, though. and so it propels him to nudge open the door left ajar, and stare at the figure humming as they pot another rose and leave it on what could barely pass for a windowsill. 

“eret,” he tries, the name rolling off his tongue, syllables heavy with disuse. “eret? what’re you doing here?”

they turn, rolling their shoulders back and straightening; the surprise melts away moments later to make way for something warmer. 

“fundy! i wasn’t sure when you’d be back- i wasn’t actually aware that you were here until i stumbled across perchance. so i figured i’d leave a little welcoming gift, and... say hello.” 

a beat of silence passes, and then two. fundy’s aware that he’s letting it stretch. fundy’s aware that he’s saying exactly nothing that wants to bubble up, and out of his chest, and eret falters in the face of it. 

not for long, though; they never seem to falter for long, always moving forward, forward, forward. such grace. some things never change, he thinks, even though there’s something more careful about their movements. 

he thinks that maybe they’ve learned the price of breaking something too many times. it’s in their hands and their hair, the way they spend their days patching things together tirelessly.

“it’s been a while. you look...” they trail off, and he waits for them to find the word. “more at peace,” they decide. 

“a year and a half does wonders for settling your ghosts.” he tries for a wry smile, and it seems to land as eret smiles in turn. 

“time and space does do that.” 

and the distance between them is awkward, and a single hand outstretched is never going to bridge that chasm on its own. 

but goddamn if it isn’t more of a start than fundy’s ever had from anybody here. he’s tired of curling his lip against the bitter tang on his tongue and knotted in his chest; tired of the worthlessness and ideals that have been projected onto him. 

so when eret asks “come walk with me? there’s a cottage near here that i’ve been fixing up,” and when eret says without asking if you’ll let me, still, i’ll be here for you and when eret leaves the doors open, silently, for him- he steps through the threshold. 

that little cave will barely ever be a house, let alone a home; but as eret opens a window for the sun, and fundy cackles as the vines drooping from the roof tangle in their unruly hair; there’s a space for this to grow otherwise.

[thisisgonnafuxkinkillme]

Pro Heros Find You Crying

Warnings: tw for body image, mentions of death of pets

Yagi Toshinori/All Might

You were home, alone, when you found out. It wasn’t a particularly big issue, and it wasn’t something that someone else would necessarily care about, but to you, this was the final straw. 

An actor from your childhood, someone who you watched constantly as a child, someone who, albeit from a screen, saw you grow up, passed away. You never got to even meet him in person. The closest you’ve ever gotten was him noticing your comment on a livestream of 12 other people, and smiling.

You never got to thank him. For everything he’d done for you. 

Tears fell from your eyes uncontrollably, dripping from your eyelashes and dropping onto the floor, your clothes, the keyboard. 

Soon, though, you felt dreaded sobs making their way from your core all the way through your vocal cords. They shook your body like an earthquake. Sobs don’t care what they break inside you. They just need to get out.

What no one else would understand about this, though, was that your tears weren’t just being spilled for the actor you never got to thank. No, these represent so much more.

Your childhood is officially gone.

Just as that actor will be grieved, buried, and will rot in the ground with dusty fake flowers above his grave, your childhood will be filled with maggots and worms.

The thing about childhoods, though, is that they still live inside you, even when they’re over.

You always found this fact a cruel one. Even now, you could feel the worms burrowing into your childhood, eating away and destroying all the memories you’ve tried so hard to keep in tact for all these years. 

You sobbed for him, yes. But you were still grieving your loss as well.

Cold, bony fingers met your shoulder. You jumped, yelping at the sudden touch.

“What?! What do you want?!” you screamed. You aren’t usually this ornery, but the embarrasment of being this upset over something so menial, plus the shock of someone else being home with you, caused you to snap.

"What happened?" He gently asked. He met your seemingly angry tone with nothing but pure kindness and sympathy.

"I-I'm so sorry, Toshi...I didn't mean-"

"I know, pumpkin. I know."

He took you in his arms, pulling you towards him.

In between sobs, you explained what happened.

"oh...I see... That does sound like a lot for you to be dealing with."

He stroked your tear stained cheek.

“But...I hope you know that just because you’re older, it doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to be a kid sometimes. You can still get excited over stuff, and cry over things that seem silly, and have wonder about new things. As long as you keep a piece of your childhood with you, you never have to say goodbye.”

Once you calmed down, he took you out for ice cream: something you haven’t done since you were barely 10 years old. 

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

You quickly clicked your heels into the staff restroom, closing the door behind you and shakily letting out a sigh of relief. You knew you didn’t have much time left before the tears started coming once you got that text, so you decided it’d be best for you to go ahead and have another teacher deal with your class for a few minutes while you let yourself deal with this, alone.

You re-read the text one more time. Maybe it wasn’t what you thought it was.

Y/n... I’m so sorry, but your dog was put to sleep today. 

You shook your head. No, maybe she meant to say that he was taking a nap. Maybe he was still waiting for you, at home, in his little bed...

A sob escaped before you had the chance to control it as you pictured his little black and white face peacefully sleeping on his doggie bed. 

You had that dog for years. He’d been there for you when no one else had, and though he couldn’t speak, you always knew he silently understood what you needed when you needed it.

Now, he was gone.

You covered your mouth, trying your best to supress the sounds of sorrow escaping your lips. Maybe, you thought, if I don’t acknowledge it, it’s not real.

But deep down, you know that’s not true. 

The door to the staff bathroom begins to creak open. 

“Hey, someone’s in here!” you croak out, the tears were even audible in your voice.

“Yeah, and now I’m in here too,” the teacher replied, shutting and locking the door behind him. Something you had forgotten to do.

It was Aizawa, the very teacher you had just asked to watch your students ‘for a moment’.

Before you could ask about them, he mentioned, “They’re fine. I put on a movie for em... but you, on the other hand, are certainly not.”

He took his place next to you on the dirty tile floor of the school restroom, against one wall. He handed you a tissue, noting but not mentioning the fact that you were a mess of tears, ruined makeup, and snot. You gladly accepted, blowing your nose.

Neither of you said much for a good five minutes. You forced yourself to calm down, as to not embarrass yourself in front of him, but the tears were still there, festering below the surface.

“So, what’s got you so upset?” 

That little question was all it took for you to break. You tried, unsuccessfully, to say it. The three little words, “My dog died,” but no matter how much you strained, all that came out was a mess of choked up sobs.

You shakily handed him your phone. His eyes darted to the text, and he instantly understood. 

Aizawa was not one for any physical touching, ever. Even though you had been dating him, he still never really enjoyed holding hands, hugging, or anything like that. 

Today, however, was a totally different situation. He turned to you, opening his arms wide, gesturing for you to ‘come here’.

But you didn’t need anything more. 

You did, and he silently cradled you, rubbing your hair. 

Truthfully, he didn’t know exactly what to say. What could you say? 

Once you began to calm down, he stroked your jaw lightly.

“What was his name?”

“...Theo.” you answered plainly. 

“You loved Theo a lot, didn’t you?” 

You nodded.

“You know, what’s so funny about losing a pet is that...it’s incredibly hard,” he sighed, “Even harder than losing humans.”

Aizawa continued, “It’s because we don’t have anything to gain from lying about loving them. We just do. Animals love their owners completely unconditionally, never needing any reassurance that you love them back a hundred times over. That’s not something that many humans have.”

You nodded.

“ I just hope you know that...you did your best for him. He couldn’t have ever asked for a better owner to share his life with. You did good, y/n,” he whispered. You shot him a shaky smile. Really, your heart was aching more now than ever. 

“You don’t have to do all that. I know you’re not doing well, still. Please, go ahead and go home for the day. I can take on your class, no problem,” he assured.

“...can you...come over after work?” you asked. He nodded.

Taishiro Toyomitsu/Fatgum

It’s been almost a year since this pandemic began. You wonder to yourself, how long can that be an excuse for you? 

You had gained weight. A lot of it. You suffer from secret binge eating, indulging yourself greedily in all your favorite comfort foods. Usually, you did this at night, which worked out even better for you, since your boyfriend usually had night watch and was not at home. 

Stretch marks were always a normal sight for you, ever since you hit puberty, but the ones on your stomach have started to move upwards, like vines trying to find the sun. They stared back at you in shades of purples, pinks, and browns. 

You ran your fingers over your now bumpy skin.

Other girls don’t look like this. Other girls are happy with a miniature bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, a granola bar for lunch, and maybe a tiny serving of pasta for dinner. They are the beautiful ones. They must be happy, right?

Your fingers unrelentlessly pinch and pull at your stomach, your thighs, your love handles. All fat.

Each tiny action reminded your body that you hated it. 

Did you even ever love your body? Even when you were ‘skinny’? 

Your eyes met with your face, staring back at you in your mirror. You saw flashes of the girl you once were, tiny memories of a once happy girl.

You couldn’t hold back the wail of grief that racked your whole body. You turned away from the mirror, curling up on your floor. 

That wasn’t any better.

The remanants of last night’s binge surrounded you. Wrappers from your favorite ice cream bar, discarded chip bags, and candy containers scattered your floor.

You suddenly remembered that he’d be home soon, and scrambled to collect all the evidence through your blurry eyes.

Each piece of trash reminded you of your failure, your lack of self control. Your uselessness.

You sobbed harder. 

“Y/n, darling, I’m home!” that peppy, familiar voice announced from the entranceway. You took a deep breath, scooting all the trash under your bed and wiping your face.

You greeted him, a faux smile plastered on your face.

He began to speak, but when he got a good look at you, he paused.

“What happened here, sweetie?” he asked, touching your face. His hand was chilled from the outside air.

“N-nothing. I’m fine,” you lied, forcing the smile a little more.

He squinted his eyes, sitting down at the kitchen table. 

“Go ahead an’ tell me what’s going on with ya,” he offered, patting one knee.

“Baby, it’s nothing. You need to go to bed, I know you’re probably exhausted.”

“The only thing exhausting me right now is you. I’ll go to the bedroom if that’s whatcha want, but I’m not goin to bed until you tell me what’s wrong.” 

Fatgum made his way into the bedroom, quickly slipping into his house clothes before sliding into the bed you both shared.

Before you could join him, he paused, adjusting himself.

He then pulled out a popsicle stick that you neglected to remove from the bed when you made it this morning. At the sight of it, you turned away from him and covered your face.

He was now wholly confused, but ready to deal with whatever it was that was upsetting you. He reached out, pulling you to him. You wanted to protest, but you couldn’t find the strength to anymore.

He rubbed your back in small circles, cooing, “let it out, babydoll...that’s it, good...”

Once you had calmed down quite a bit, he tilted your chin up towards his face, making you make eye contact.

“What have you been hiding from me, love?” he delicately questioned.

You said nothing, but slid out the pile of trash from the night before.

“This...is from last night,” you stated plainly.

You tensed your body, ready for the ridicule, the mocking, the ‘i’m just concerned for your health’ comments. 

You looked up, to see if he could actually see what you’d just shown him. He did. His eyes were dewy yet understanding.

He stood up, placing his arm around you and pulling you towards him.

“I understand,” he whispered into your ear. You clenched your fist.

“No. You can’t understand.” 

You looked up at him, with now angered eyes.

“You’ll never understand, Tai. Never.”

“What do you-”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO STAY FAT FOREVER! I DO!” you screeched, covering your face. You never yelled at him before, or anyone else for that matter. But this issue you’ve been dealing with was one that no one ever saw from you. It was a raw, bleeding subject, one that you felt as if you’ve just poured a great deal of salt on.

“Darling...” he whispered, pulling you close to him, “What’s wrong with being fat, honey?” 

“Are you kidding?” you spat, “I don’t look good like this, Tai. I don’t fit into my clothes anymore, I-”

“Number one, you most certainly do look good like anything. Number two, I will buy you new clothes.”

You were starting to get frustrated.

“Tai! I’m telling you, I fucking hate myself, okay? I hate my body! And, sometimes, I hate you for pretending to love something that I know you hate, too!”

He pulled you away from him, looking you in the eye. He was serious now.

“Don’t you be puttin words in my mouth. I have never ever, not even once thought about hating you or your body,”

“That’s a lie, Tai! How could you ever love me when I look like this?”

“How could you ever love me when I look like this?” he retorted, gesturing to his fat form. 

You gasped. You didn’t really have an answer.

He knew you wouldn’t, either.

“So, now tell me, y/n... what’s so wrong about being fat?”

You clung to him, apologizing in between sobs.

He hushed you, cooing,” There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, it’s okay. I love you, sweetie.”

You sniffed, “I love you, too.”