#VERSE┆first abandon kindness‚ you need to learn to hate. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anyoneseenadam · 3 years

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The Moon Spirit - three

Dorian x reader, Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

Description: When you’re taught to be a queen from such a young age, nothing could go wrong. But when the king starts to fear your growing power you find yourself thrust into a world of faeries, evil magic and powerful men, learning to stand on your own can be harder than it seems.

warnings: Fenrys being cute, badass reader but like a shit ton of angst, allusions to sexual assualt (Fenrys canon stuff), mentions of weapons? idk if that counts

word count: 4.4k

a/n: so this took a while but it’s finally done, please comment it genuienly keeps me going cause it’s super easy to get unmotivated, hope you enjoy <3

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After he left you, Fenrys begrudgingly found himself back at the palace, bowed on one knee in front of Maeve. She looked cruelly beautiful as always but there was something more sinister sparkling in her eyes today, remaining quiet as he stood back to his full height, meeting her gaze with wavering confidence.

“Who have you been with?” she finally broke the silence and he cursed himself for thinking he could ever get away with that.

“I just walked a young girl home, she was new, and I was afraid someone may take advantage of her if she was alone,” he spoke truthfully, allowing Maeve to push into his mind as she searched for a hidden lie.

He watched as she drew in a sharp breath, something like fear flickering across her face before her tightly drawn lips spread into a wide smile.

“Come here,” she commanded, and he went to stand in front of her, close enough to smell her sickening perfume and to see the flawless texture of her skin. “Do you love this girl?”

He shook his head, no, and she ran a hand down his face in a motherlike way. “Good, you will be recruiting her.” His eyes widened and he had to put his energy into not flinching away.

“What?” he spoke with an incredulous tone and Maeve glared at his lack of respect making him bow his head. “Sorry your majesty, I’m just slightly confused. She was just a young girl and didn’t seem to have any former training.”

“And that’s why I’m in charge, you men are too foolish. That was a powerful girl, and I would rather she remained on my side than any other.” He frowned, powerful? She had seemed kind, lost and strong enough to hold her own – but not powerful.

“I need you to see her again, convince her to join.” Fenrys physically felt the command go through him and he stood taller again, nodding gruffly as she waved her hand in dismissal.

Your first few days of work had been harder than expected, and you had gone home with aching muscles from lifting books and sore cheeks from plastering on smiles. Albert had made your days easier, drinking hot tea with you as you slowly revealed more and more about your past to him, his kind, old eyes lulling you into a comforting state.

But you didn’t receive rest when you got home. Ploughing through books on spirits and practicing using the limited magic you had found until the early hours of the morning, getting barely two hours of sleep a night unplagued by nightmares. By your fifth day Albert had handed you a pot of cosmetic product to hide the circles forming, commenting on scaring the customers away as you stuck your tongue out at him but smearing some on regardless.

On the second Saturday after your arrival you had a day off and used it to venture into the market, your empty shelves no longer sustaining you, let alone Amaris. Your basket soon filled with colourful fruits and vegetables, and you were browsing the fish section when a shadow fell over you.

“Let me take that for you,” you turned to see Fenrys standing over you with that same easy smile, his head tilted slightly. You rolled your eyes, trying to block out the feelings expanding in your chest at just the sight of him.

“And here I thought I had lost you,” you muttered, and he laughed, taking your basket from you, and paying for the wrapped salmon you had just been passed. “You don’t need to do stuff like that,” you told him, and he took your arm as he led you out of the market.

“Can’t help myself, I see a pretty girl in need and boom, I have to help.” He joked and you laughed lightly.

“Oh yeah, the damsel in distress disease, I’ve heard that’s a nasty one to cure,” he smiled down at you with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Not really, all I need is a kiss,” he tugged you closer and you squealed, shoving him away as he laughed.

“As I said, nasty.” He dramatically put a hand to his heart, throwing his head back in distress.

“You wound me darling,” he complained, and you laughed, hating how much you genuinely enjoyed his company. You reached your apartment in no time, and he stood at the bottom of the steps leading up to your door.

“So no invitation of tea, a glass of wine, a home cooked meal?” he asked, and you rolled your eyes,

“I’m afraid I reserve that for people I like,” he raised his eyebrows, hopping up the steps two at a time.

“Even if I have genuine cause to talk to you?” he asked and the sincerity in his eyes made a shot of fear run through you. He couldn’t know, could he?

“What is it?” you asked, and he smiled softly, a little pain shining through his loving eyes.

“The queen has a proposition to make.” His voice quietened and you straightened your posture, your entire demeanour switching in a second.

“Come in.” you opened the door and stepped in, allowing him to duck as he followed.

The first thing he noticed was how barren your apartment was, a simple kitchen, connected to a room with a pale blue sofa and worn coffee table. Your shelves were bare, and he sneaked a look into your room as he passed the open door, your mattress on the floor covered by only a thin blanket and a few cushions, one incredibly expensive looking gold dress on the floor, stained dark red. But before he could venture further in he heard you cooing in an impossibly soft voice.

He turned the corner and blanched at the sight he saw, “What the?”

You turned from were you were feeding small bits of salmon to a pure white bundle of fluff that hissed as soon as it saw him. “Amaris, be polite!” you scalded, and he surveyed the cat with a wary look, untrusting of the small creature.

“You have a cat.” He stated, suddenly completely unsure of his taste in women.

“No he’s actually a spider,” you deadpanned and Fenrys pouted.

“But I thought you’d be a dog person,” he complained, and you laughed, moving to throw open the curtains in the room before you started putting away the food you had bought, boiling a pot of water over your stove.

“I just like animals, why does it matter?” you asked, and he threw his arms up before transforming into his wolf form. You gasped and Amaris meowed loudly, scampering to hide behind your legs.

“You’re a wolf.” You stated and he turned back with a smile.

“No I’m a spider,” you flipped him off as you turned to put the rest of your food away.

“I prefer you as a wolf, they’re one of my favourite animals,” you told him and he smiled, sticking his tongue out childishly at Amaris who just sauntered of to doze on a pillow.

“So, what does the queen want?” you asked, pouring the hot water into a pot you had prepared, and he sat down on your worn-down sofa, cringing as it creaked under his weight. You followed suit soon after putting the pot and two mugs down, curling your feet underneath yourself as you looked at him.

“Well, she has told me that you’re actually extremely powerful and because of this she wants to recruit you. She wants you to join the Cadre.” He spoke surely and confidently but his eyes shone with wariness.

“Okay first of all, I’m not at all powerful, secondly how would she even know if I was, which I’m not! And third, what is The Cadre?” he laughed slightly and moved forward to pour himself a cup of tea.

“Well you clearly are because she recognised you and always knows these things, trust me. She’s never wrong about this. And The Cadre is a group I’m in, elite soldiers sworn to protect Maeve.” He explained and you shook your head.

“Fenrys I barely know basic self-defence, I’m not a soldier. And I don’t want to be sworn to royalty.” Your hands were shaking slightly at the thought of being sworn to another tyrant, “Plus in all honesty I only found out I was Fae on Monday, so I’m not exactly well versed in this shit.”

“How did you not know before?” he asked – frowning.

“The country I… come from, there was no magic. The king wiped all magic out years ago.”

“Why?” It was an understandable question but still made you panic, he couldn’t know.

“I don’t know, all I know is he did, so those alike me – with magic but born into a magicless world – never got to know.” You were good at concealing emotions, that much Fenrys could see. You seemed to have iron walls built into the clouds around your heart, protecting it as fiercely as you would Amaris.

“Well, Maeve wants to meet with you soon, so let me know when you decide gorgeous,” he stood, and you smiled at him gratefully for not prying further.

“I’m really sorry Fenrys I just don’t think it’s a good idea. As I said I’m not a soldier.” He nodded but his eyes still conveyed a sense of worry.

“Well keep in mind you would get to train with me, probably shirtless.” He joked as you opened the door for him, grinning when you laughed loudly, shoving him through the door.

“Bye Fenrys,” you said, eyes sparkling as he waved, whistling his way down the street comically.

You closed the door as your smile fell, a weight settling on your chest as you already knew why he looked so wary – Kings and Queens didn’t understand the word no.

You practically ran to the library the next day, opting to bring Amaris with you as he peeked out of the small handbag you had found stuffed into the back of your closet. When you flew into the library you instantly sought out Albert, who took one look at your flushed, shining appearance and abandoned the pile of books he was putting away, motioning for you to sit down.

You sat quickly, huffing out a breath as Amaris crawled out of his makeshift home and started exploring the new territory of the small backroom reserved for staff only.

“What bothers you child?” Albert’s voice was steady as always and his dry, warm hands grasped yours gently as your eyes filled with unshed tears.

“I just – I needed to talk to someone,” you stuttered out, your breath coming in harsher pants as he shushed you.

“Take a minute and allow yourself to breathe first dear,” he commanded, and you pressed a hand to your heart as you tried to slow its pounding. “Start from the beginning, tell me what’s wrong.”

“The man I loved, his- his name was Dorian, Dorian Havilliard.” You said quietly and Albert let out a small chuckle.

“I presumed as much, I visited Adarlan once, and an old man never forgets the face of a princess.” You looked at him through blurry eyes, confused.

“You knew?” he smiled sadly at you.

“I was 90% certain, but I would never have pressured you to reveal secrets like that.” He passed you a tissue, “But I sense that’s not all that weighs heavy on you?”

You shook your head, “Queen Maeve has made clear that she wishes me to join the Cadre.”

Albert’s face changed with the clear shock, and you bowed your head, shamefully.

“And what did you say?” he asked slowly.

“No, of course! I don’t have any desire to be another monarch’s puppet.” You stated and he shushed you again.

“You need to remember that people always listen.” He scolded, repeating one of the first things he had told you when you started working. “I agree that you should be cautious, but perhaps gaining the queens protection would be beneficial. Plus you would become an extremely skilled swordsman.”

“I am not a man, nor do I wish to be.” You said through gritted teeth, “And I vowed that I would become skilled on my own and go back to Dorian.”

“Yes but if you join, you will be more skilled than ever before,” Albert reasoned and you shook your head, tears welling up again.

“I thought you’d be on my side for this, you are the one who told me to be careful around powerful people.” You felt unjustly betrayed as he spoke and his shoulders slumped slightly, sighing before grasping your hands lightly again.

“I am dear, and I urge you to do what you think is best. But I am simply reminding you that if you truly want to beat this king you are being offered power on a silver platter right now, and perhaps it would be foolish to deny yourself it.” You let his words run around your head as you worked overtime trying to figure out a plan.

“Say I joined – what do I need to do to ensure I don’t become another puppet?” you asked, and he smiled at you.

“First of all, she will offer a blood oath and you must refuse it with everything you have in you – she came to you remember you hold the power. On that note you must summon all those queenly powers of yours and ensure when you speak to her, she is meeting you and she is trying to win you over. Never the other way around.” You nodded, pocketing the information in your head. “When in the palace you are always being watched, always being listened to, so keep your wits about you. But I’m sure you’re used to that by now.”

You laughed under your breath, “It’ll be just like going home,” you commented, and he smiled.

“Sadly yes, now take this money. Go but a new dress and tomorrow you will take a carriage, you can’t walk there.” You thanked him softly, placing the gold in the purse you held, “You’re a kind girl, that is what makes you strong and that’s what will make you a good queen. Don’t let them take your heart.”

Your throat tightened and you nodded due to the lack of trust you held for your voice, standing, and collecting your bag in one hand and Amaris in the other. Albert stood to take you to the door with a smile, and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“You can have tomorrow off work as well, however I feel our work together is already coming to an end.” You smiled softly, allowing him to pet Amaris’ head softly before he kissed your cheek gently, ushering you out the door.

“Have a good night Albert,” you said, turning to see him watching you with sorrowful eyes.

“Remember what I told you dear, don’t let them take your heart.” Your smile was sad as you spoke,

“I won’t.” You both heard the lie but, neither of you decided to correct it. Not tonight.

Of all the things Fenrys expected to see the next morning, you were the one he hoped for. But as he looked around at the powerful men surrounding the room he felt white-hot panic seize him as he realised what you were about to do. You hadn’t even looked at him when you walked in, keeping your eyes trained solely on Maeve, not even dropping them as you dropped in a low curtsy.

He was even more shocked by the blood red dress you adorned, the v-neck deep and skirts long with a slit up either leg, high enough to reveal the halter you wore with a silver dagger and a ruby encrusted hilt secured into place. Every man, woman and mouse watched as you walked through the room – head high and shoulders back, revealing enough to entrance everyone in the room but covering enough to keep them wanting more and he felt his anger grow as he watched you.

You waited with a soft, but condescending, smile on your face, allowing Maeve to regrasp some power by speaking first – every movement so calculated and precise. As he watched you he saw the power and understood the fear and lust building in the room.

“So I guess you heard my offer.” Maeve finally said, drawling low with relaxed posture.

“I did.” Your statement was short, to the point but you saw it grate Maeve’s nerves and smiled as sweet as spun sugar, “Your majesty.”

“And?” he watched as Maeve grew more agitated and was surprised she hadn’t killed you yet, usually not standing for even an ounce of insubordination.

“I am willing to accept on one condition – I’m not taking a blood oath.” He had to fight jumping in the air with glee as you spoke, so afraid you were going to get tangled in the mess he was in. Maeve’s face grew dark, but you held your ground, never letting your eyes stray lest she see your weakness.

“Well that’s simply not viable,” she stated, glaring you into the ground but you just smiled again, nodding with a polite laugh.

“I see, well this was a lovely meeting, gentlemen.” You raised your hand politely as you moved to leave, your eyes finally flittering over him and the rest of the cadre. You bowed once again to Maeve, making to leave when Maeve raised her hand.

“We are not finished.” She stated.

“Well I’m terribly sorry your majesty but I’ve made my terms extremely clear, and since you refuse to budge - I believe we are done.” Your voice was still sweet, but he watched your face change slightly, every bit a queen looking down upon her people. He couldn’t help but wonder were you learned to speak this way, but Maeve simply laughed.

“Yet here you are,” she spoke with a mocking tone, and you smiled with your teeth this time.

“Need I remind you that you sought me out, if I have terms it should be in your best interest to meet them if you wish me to join your miniature army.” Fenrys heard Lorcan snarl lowly next to him but gripped his arm in warning.

“Oh your training is impressive princess, but I’m afraid it will be of no use.” Your face didn’t budge as Maeve spoke, but Fenrys watched as something flickered through your eyes, “You see, I learn of misdemeanours in other courts very easily and I wish to show you what I learned of Adarlan.”

“There’s nothing you could show me that I won’t have seen before,” you said, and he watched the two of you laugh like you were mingling at a party instead of standing of in a court.

“Oh I’m afraid this is relatively new, you might reconsider your terms after this,” you stood straight as Maeve walked down the steps and moved to whisper something the rest of them couldn’t hear in your ear, her hand pressed lightly to the base of your neck.

She pulled away after a few minutes and he took in your now shaking hands, eyes filled with tears you clearly refused to let fall. You took in a steadying breath before speaking, “You’re lying.”

“Oh I wish I was princess, but I can only show the truth and it appears your prince had moved on rather quickly, what use is there going back to a country where you can no longer rule.” She stroked your hair condescendingly and you chewed the inside of your lip as it quivered. “But here, here – under my control – you have power of your own. Men will no longer hold onto you like a prized pony, you will become something they fear, you will be my perfect princess, the daughter I never got to have.”

Fenrys inhaled sharply, he knew Maeve never planned to relent the throne, especially not to a woman from another country. She looked at you like you were a doll, something for her to reshape and change. You must have seen it to, but through your blurry eyes everything had changed.

“Okay,” your voice was smaller than before, and he wanted to tear Maeve limb from limb for having broken you down so harshly with just a few words. She smiled cruelly at you as she cut a small line along her forearm and you bowed your head in pain, before falling to your knees – graceful even as pain consumed your entire being. You brought your lips to her wound and drank as she repeated the words that he remembered all too well.

When you rose your lips were sparkling red, and your eyes were glistening with tears still unshed – but you raised your head like a queen and Maeve smiled.

“I believe you have already met Fenrys, he will be training you as the training you have received is not proficient, I’ll have all your belongings brought to a room here.” Maeve waved her hand to some guards, but you stopped her.

“I only need Amaris brought here; the rest can burn.” You muttered.

“And for your new wardrobe?” She asked and you smiled looking down, wiping your mouth slowly.

“Make it red.” You finally met Fenrys eyes, and he stepped forward, desperate to drag you far, far away.

“Shall I escort her to her new room?” he asked Maeve and she flitted her eyes to him, then to the hand he had pressed to your back.

“Yes and then afterword’s come find me,” she smiled cruelly at him, and he felt you stiffen under his hand, but he just nodded and began to lead you out of the room.

He led you through the corridors and up the stairs in silence, angry at you for accepting and at himself for not putting up more of a fight. When he reached the room he presumed would be yours he opened the door for you, following you in as you sat on the bed, your usual lightness replaced by the weight on your shoulders.

He watched you bow your head and came to sit beside you, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise; this was my choice.” You said and he reached an arm around your shoulders, but you quickly shrugged him off.

“I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, if you and the queen are…” you trailed off and Fenrys bowed his head in shame.

“It’s not like that, she, she makes me,” he muttered, and you inhaled sharply, turning to him with those watery eyes.

“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” you whispered, instantly looping your arms around him neck and holding him tight. “She’s a monster.”

Fenrys huffed a laugh, pulling away, “You’re telling me.”

He reached a hand for your face slowly, wiping under your eyes where a tear had escaped, “how did she change your mind?” he asked, dark eyes searching your face for clues as your bottom lip quivered in pain.

“She showed me home,” was all you said, and his shoulders dropped. He would leave it for now, you were young and clearly not ready to speak – and now, they had all the time in the world to speak.

“Sleep tight, training starts at seven tomorrow,” he stood and kissed your head lightly and you nodded, words getting caught in your throat. He left quietly, walking away as quickly as he could to avoid hearing the soft sobs that erupted as soon as he closed the door.

You could barely contain your tears until you got to your room, repeating rule thirteen over and over in your head, crying in public is only appropriate at funerals and weddings. But as soon as Fenrys left your room you sobbed into your hands, wailing, and crying like a child throwing a tantrum as you let out the emotions, the screams that have been locked inside of you for so long.

You had done everything for Dorian, changed every part of yourself and become the perfect princess, girlfriend, fiancé – and he, mere weeks after you had to run, was already moving onto a new girl.

As hard as you tried you couldn’t get rid of the image of him and the blonde girl out of your head. How he kissed her softly, his hand on her lower back where it always used to rest on yours. The smile when he pulled away, the way he laughed with her, the way Chaol smiled at his brother when he was happy. You had been forgotten, replaced, almost instantly, the warmth you used to feel when you thought of home, of your princes’ arms replaced by a tight chest and a cold feeling encompassing your heart.

“I’m sorry Albert,” you whispered into the air as you stood looking out on your balcony, gripping tightly to the rail as you feared your legs would give out, “She already took it.”

You were interrupted by a quiet knock on your door, wiping your eyes as you opened it – taking Amaris from the tall guards’ hands as a flurry of women pushed in, filling your drawers with clothes and cosmetics, candles and hair pins, books and plants, a million supplies for Amaris and then some. You smiled politely at them as they left without saying a word, in and out extremely quickly as you stared at a knot in the floor.

Another knock sounded soon after and you turned your head to see one of the Cadre staring in with piercing green eyes. You motioned for him to come in and stood, tilting your head up to meet his gaze as he took in your messy, tear-stained expression.

“You’re the first female member of the Cadre, ever.” He stated and you blinked slowly.

“Lucky me,” your tone was sarcastic, voice rough from the crying but the man smiled.

“I’m Rowan, it’s good to meet you.” He reached out a hand and you met it, allowing him to kiss the back gently.

“(Y/n)” you returned, with a slight curtsey.

“I look forward to fighting with you (y/n),” he stated, releasing your hand and turning to leave, stopping right before he reached the door, “Oh, and don’t lose that dagger, you’ll find a shocking number of men dislike powerful women.”

“First I’m hearing of this,” you deadpanned, and he chuckled.

“Goodluck kid.”

#fenrys moonbeam x reader #fenrys moonbeam #fenrys x reader #dorian havilliard x reader #dorian x reader #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #tog #rowan whitethorn

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poormeowmeowcollector · 3 years

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Let me give you my life

Pairing: Loki x Tesseract

Warnings: Major Character Death, Mourning, delusions, mental illness, alcohol, Original Character Death, Odin, fantastic racism

Summary: After Frigga's funeral, Loki starts hearing a voice. It changes their life completely.

Chapter 3: Verse 3

Chapter warnings: math, fantastic racism, death (not graphic)

Chapter summary: the orders

Previous chapter, AO3, next chapter

If I'm a pagan of the good times / my lover's the sunlight

Loki storms the library once again, this time searching everything about the Tesseract and this Entropy they call him all the time.

Entropy still remains a mystery, but there are even more writings about the space stone than the ones they've seen before.

"It says here that they worshipped you," Loki says, but only internally. He's in public, speaking to the walls would make him appear mad.

"People express loyalty in different ways," they answer, always softer since the deal.

"Is that what you want? Loyalty?"

"Among other things, yes. But mostly trust that I will not hurt you, cause I won't," they promise. Loki already knows this.

Can't break something that's already in pieces.

"Brother!" Thor yells as he walks in. Loki's shoulders tense, this idiot never warns them.

"Tho-thor," he answers, eyes on Thor as they drab a chair and side beside him. "How come you be i-i-in here? You ha-ha-hate books," they raise an eyebrow at their brother.

"I'm here to see how you're doing. You've been acting oddly lately," he answers, those blue eyes scanning Loki.

"People grie-grie-grie-grieve in different ways, Th-thor. I a-a-a-assure you, I'm fi-fine," he hums, turning back to the book.

"Loki. After all this, just remember that I'm here for you, eh? You needn't face anything alone," Thor insists, placing a big and steady hand on Loki's shoulder.

Loki's body nods, and smiles, watching as Thor smiles back before leaving. Loki's mind wonders if this is all a mistake. Thor was, is grieving too. Maybe this is all too much…

But Thor wasn't there when Gæirasson offended Loki, neither time. In fact, Thor has been a ghost since Frigga's death.

"You have my trust and loyalty, until the end," Loki decides, feeling in their core how relieved the Tesseract is by the answer.

"Allow me to show you another secret then. Look at your hands but don't touch anything and don't let it spread," they answer.

Loki lets the book and brings his torn from the picking hands under the table, always watching them. Black ropes start appearing and tangling themselves on their fingers, creating a calming sensation and demanding more ground, but Loki doesn't allow it. Out of all kinds of magic, this is by far the most powerful one he has ever seen.

And the most chaotic.

To keep the Goddess on my side / she demands a sacrifice

Like every day, the official Tesseract session is late at night, while Loki should be sleeping. Signs of their decreasing amount of sleep are becoming more and more visible, but they don't care.

"The o-orders?" he asks.

"You need to know some things first. In order to keep you from dying, King Laufey made a deal with one of us. Your life for acts of service. You need to do some things before being free," they do speak like they did on the first days, but somehow still softer.

"Acts of s-s-service?" he questions. So, the stone just needs hands and will borrow theirs?

"Yes. There are things that will keep the stones safe from those who seek them to do harm. Asgard has two, and you need to make sure that some things are set to their protection. It's just one thing, really. But you need to use your new powers to do so,"

Loki nods, the movement small and cut, like a soldier's.

"Ready to-to comply,"

Drain the whole sea / get something shiny

"First order. Free yourself from everything, good and bad," the Tesseract says. Loki blinks in confusion.

"H-how?"

"What bad do you carry into you? The possessiveness, the jealousy, this ego you named pride, all this fury… you don't need them from now on. Let them go," they insist.

"L-let them go?"

"Act as if they don't exist, don't give them your attention. The same thing goes for your bright side. You faith in your moral compass, your deep feeling for everything you care about. Both of those sides will keep you from moving on. You mustn't listen to them anymore," they explain, as if it's something easy.

"So… y-y-you want me to be-to be your li-little m-m-minion?" he raises an eyebrow. Is that what they agreed on? Being a tiny pawn but just on a different chess board?

“No. Not exactly. You are not to abandon them for my own good, but for yours. The acts might hurt these sides of you, you need them in one piece,” their voice softens.

Loki takes a breath, in and out as slow as possible, and nods again. “What-what sh-sh-should I-I do?” even though the stutter stays, he refuses to let his voice break.

They swear they can feel the stone smiling.

“Listen to me, and don’t act upon them. Also, learn how to control possibility magic,”

Possibility magic? Is that what the black ropes are?

“Learn how Midgardians think of possibilities. It’s close to how your new abilities work,” they advise him. So, this is what being under the orders of a stone is like? Homework and pretending? it’s nothing they don’t know how to do for hundreds of years…

“And after the-the week?”

“the fun starts.”

Loki smiles wide, wider than he has ever smiled even before Frigga’s death.

something meaty for the main course / that’s a fine looking high horse

The week passes peacefully. Loki doesn’t have to worry about how to do what, the Tesseract is there to help them with it and lets them just decide how to do what and, oddly enough, the Midgardian science was calming.

At least, more calming than war theory. And less graphic.

He was chilling on the training grounds and working on the newfound magic, until the Tesseract came.

“It’s time,” they say moments before a blinding blue light covers Loki.

With the blink of an eye, they’re at a castle’s yard, hiding behind a bush.

“Prevent the war, you know how,” the Tesseract says again.

On the contrary, Loki has no idea where he is and what he has to do.

At least not until a guard passes by, near the bush, their armour bearing Gæirasson's symbol.

They smirk, moving from shadow to shadow and into the castle, where they cast an invisibility spell to navigate without worrying about getting caught.

What you've got in the stable? / We've a lot of starving faithful

In the grand hall, Loki finds the old lord. They're discussing an attack, in which he is the main character, of course. They're to strike tomorrow evening.

Loki has to hold himself not to laugh. Instead, they sit and wait. Wait until Gæirasson ends the council and heads to their bedroom. And Loki follows. Until the corridors make a room, with six doors to navigate through.

It would be such a shame if they suddenly closed shut, locking the two foes inside.

The old fool chuckles. "I know you're here, Frost Giant. I can smell your people's blood," he looks around.

Loki chuckles back and drops the spell, standing right in front of the man.

"Is it this? Or do your aged joins hurt with the cold?" he titles his head, showing his signature mischievous smile.

"Why are you here? To negotiate? We've been past this part," they growl. Loki doesn't break the smirk, but lets a glow pass their eyes. Green, but with icy blue undertones, and a pitch black shadow.

"No. We are here to talk about monsters. For, as you can smell, the blood of my siblings who you slained are screeching for it"

That looks tasty / that looks plenty / this is hungry work

"Do you know anything of my people's belief regarding the Norns?" Loki asks, circling around the man like a predator waiting to strike.

"Why should I care about the opinions of monsters?" he spits, trying to mimic the glare.

"Oh, because it's interesting. We believe in the norns, like you do. But they don't create the strings, they knit them. Twisting and turning and combining and separating people, and letting us choose where to go on each knot. Fascinating. Oddly enough, the mortals have a similar way of thinking, at least the ones who are closer to science. They name it possibilities, and write it with numbers,

"Let me give you an example. There's a fifty percent possibility that I will continue this conversation with my normal face," Loki speaks, letting the Æsir glamour fade and rising to his Jötunn height. "But I won't choose this path because your ceilings are low and I would have to bend my neck," they continue, after walking a few steps and letting their horns scratch the ceiling. The glamour appears again, bringing him to his Æsir skin.

"And there's always the possibility that you die, because of your old age and the stress of the war you created. And the only reason people remember you is as an example of why not to piss me off," he grins, the black ropes tangling around his wrists.

"And the possibility, in Midgardian terms, is one hundred percent," they leap closer and grab the old man by his collar, staring right into the fear in his eyes.

"I have a message for my people in Hel, deliver it when you see them. Tell them to rip this old cunt apart, yet keep one piece for me for when I arrive," he spits, watching as the ropes tangle around their throat and mummify them in front of his eyes, making the fear and anger burn out.

They throw the corpse on the floor and open the doors as the Tesseract casts another light, revealing Loki's chambers as it fades away.

"You shouldn't have scratched the ceiling with your horns," they say, worried.

"And? I laughed at the face of one old fool already, what's a second one? And if I am to join my family, let at least my exit from the hypocrites be dramatic," he laughs, ready for the guards to storm in and take him to the dungeons.

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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 3 years

Note

Dick and Jason are Robins at the same time

(titans ‘verse. au after 1.06)

(tagging @superohclair and @cautiousamber!)

dick has to admit that it’s not the worst arrangement: jason continues to be robin in gotham, and dick travels across the country with his little family while running from a homicidal cult, wearing the costume every now and then when he has no choice but to fight. this way batman is covered, dick still has access to some advanced gear and weaponry now that he needs it, and internet sleuths are kept on their toes when robin shows up in different ends of the country on the same day.

so what if reading news coverage of batman and robin in gotham feels like being punched in the chest, or hearing jason’s stories about learning new things from bruce everyday makes dick want to scream into a pillow? he is fine with this.

he. is. fine--

(kory knows he’s fraying at the edges. she watches, and she says nothing.)

the fight to help rachel and defeat trigon is long and hard, and involves painstakingly unravelling kory’s memories. they manage to find her spaceship, and it becomes their base for a good long while. they stay there long enough that dick loses some of the tension that’s had him on edge for... well. the better part of the last five years, to be honest.

dick begins training rachel and gar in earnest. kory is able to coax some memories of tamaranean cuisine and culture out, and dick is reminded more and more of the team that he lost everyday. despite his best efforts he’s invested now. he cooks and dances with kory (good thing he’s so flexible because the tamaranean version of a waltz is like a particularly sadistic game of twister), teaches rachel algebra and does yoga with gar. he even manages to forget about bruce for a bit.

jason shows up quite often when he figures out where they’re based, and after some initial tension, he becomes an unofficial member of their team (though at this stage dick is still reluctant to use that word). dick and jason patrol in the nearby city some nights, then go for ice cream later. dick’s even starting to see the strategic (and frankly comedic) potential of two robins on the same patrol.

time and familiarity softens how dick perceives jason: less reckless asshole and more bright young kid full of curiosity and a need to prove himself. he continues to tend towards gratuitous violence, but dick learns his triggers and helps jason recognise them as well. he soaks up the info on alien cultures and battles on kory’s ship faster than dick himself could hope to, and there is a terrible sort of tenderness to how he talks to the people he saves while on patrol. terrible, dick thinks, because he doesn’t know if he comes across like that now at all: soft and empathetic instead of aloof and shaking, too caught up in his own neuroses.

here’s the thing, the crux of it, the faultline that’s always threatening to break dick apart: he’s so afraid that he’s taken robin, his legacy, the ideals and persona that he modelled as a tribute to his parents, and made it into something so dark and broken that only batman could pass it on. jason showing up as his replacement one day only seemed to affirm that fear. but now, swinging through the skies with this kid who’s taken robin as an opportunity to learn and grow and be better, dick’s reminded of the best of his early days in the costume.

for the first time in what feels like forever, dick feels good about putting on the robin costume again.

(are you asking if dick tried to call home? of course he did. he chickens out and cuts the call to bruce after only a few rings, and feels a sad sort of vindication in noticing how bruce never attempts to call him back.

alfred picks up his call on the second ring, and dick feels like the smallest person in the world when he hears the genuine warmth, joy and relief in alfred’s voice as he greets him. there’s no excuse for dick refusing to talk to the man that practically raised him after his parents died and he knows it.

they talk for an hours while skirting around anything to do with bruce, which is an impressive feat all in itself. they finally talk about jason, and there’s a wistful sort of fondness in alfred’s voice as he says, “you’ve been a good influence on master jason.”

dick laughs. “he’s been a good influence on me.” it’s the first time he’s said it loud, but it feels true.

“you mustn’t underestimate the ways in which you change people, master dick,” alfred says. “you have been a light in our lives for so long.”

dick’s jaw clenches. all his memories of batman smudge together in never-ending shadow; when he thinks of bruce, he can only remember that remote expression on his face, that expression dick can project all his disgust and loathing and disappointment onto. maybe people should start considering how they influence me, dick wants to say. sometimes i can’t recognise who i’m seeing in the mirror every day and other times i hate him so much i want to--

“i miss you, alf,” he says instead, softly.

“my dear boy,” alfred starts, but he sounds choked. it’s ok. dick understands.)

things get worse, quickly. their enemies find and destroy their spaceship base, and they’re not nearly ready to take on trigon yet. they’re on the run again, alternating between motel rooms and empty warehouses.

the cult finally catches up to them; they are kidnapped and tortured for days in an abandoned asylum. they eventually escape, the building and the organisation in flames behind them, but the scars from the experience are deep: rachel is anxious and tearful almost all the time, gar’s usual cheer is replaced by a quiet, simmering self-loathing, kory refuses to talk about her experience but flinches at every touch, and dick... he feels like he’s been flayed, his mind and body laid raw and bleeding until nothing recognisable, nothing human is left. he can’t think, he can barely feel. half the time it feels like he’s observing what’s happening to him like it’s happening to somebody else entirely.

they’re a mess. he can’t do this, not when he feels like--like this. he resists calling anybody for help, but one night he breaks down and calls donna. he doesn’t remember what he says on the call, but wakes up the next morning, eyes raw, tear tracks on his face, and a text from donna that says: i’ll be there in a day. stay put, bw,

“wow you’re a mess,” jason says from a corner of the room. any other time, dick would be on his feet, demanding to know how jason found them. now though, he’s feeling out of his body again, and so he says, “i kind of am, aren’t i?” and watches the words float, parting the air above him.

jason sighs.

being with donna helps get his head on straight, even though at first her appearance threatened to bring back even more traumatic memories. she’s a soothing, sobering presence not just for him, but for the others as well. they continue to motel-hop as they prepare for their big final battle against trigon.

jason continues to find them, somehow. (dick wouldn’t put installing a tracker on one of them beyond him, but he’s much too tired to feel angry about that.) he chats with dick and sometimes they bond by watching a movie together or swinging from buildings in the chill, crisp night air, jason’s cackling laugh echoing in dick’s ears.

jason always leaves as quickly as he appears, but dick is grateful for his presence.

they defeat trigon, and there’s a party. even hank and dawn show up. jason is conspicuous in his absence.

after several unanswered texts and calls, dick bites the bullet and calls alfred. “hey alf,” he says when the man picks up, “is jason there?”

there’s a long pause at the other end of the line. then: “did master bruce not tell you?” his voice sounds uncharacteristically hoarse.

dick’s stomach starts to sink. he steps away from the others and into a quiet room. “tell me what?”

“master jason...” alfred sighs. “he--he was killed by the joker two months ago. the funeral was last week.”

dick stumbles back to sit on the bed. the phone threatens to fall from his numb fingers even while his heart thunders against his ribs. “that’s impossible,” he manages. “i saw him five days ago. we saw--” there’s a hysterical laugh building in his chest, howling like a thunderstorm, “fuck we saw moulin rogue together. he told me how much he fucking loves musicals, i--”

alfred’s voice is suddenly distant and tinny. dick looks down to see his phone on the floor. he’s suddenly very, very aware of the dryness of his palms, the hot flush at the tips of his ears, the tears that are starting to slide down his cheeks, the way his lungs are burning with shock and grief and rage--

“hey, dickie,” jason says, smiling at him. “glad you finally caught up.”

( send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons! )

#this got completely out of control #yikes #titans #my fic #dick grayson #jason todd #a byronic cupcake #a tragic jalebi #cw mental illness #ptsd #please let me know if i should tag/warn for anything #sillierthanasillylaugh

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chocoholicannanymous · 3 years

Text

...As Stupid Does (Teen Wolf) 19/19

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – except for a red hoodie...

This is the final part of this story, and this ‘verse. A bit bittersweet, but honestly? So much relief too. Because as much as I never wanted to abandon this story I was worried that I’d never pull together the focus and energy to connect scattered paragraphs and thoughts into a complete ending.

Here it is though. I hope those of you reading this enjoy it.

Part 18, Part 17, Part 16, Part 15, Part 14, Part 13, Part 12, Part 11, Part 10, Interlude, Part 9, Part 8d, Part 8c, Part 8b, Part 8a, Part 7, Part 6, Part 5,Part 4,Part 3, Part 2, Part 1,Not Stupid, Stupid Is… and pre-verse ficlet I’m Stupid (Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me)…

Epilogue

Here's the thing: Stiles is a lucky guy. He's smart enough to realize exactly how lucky.

He's three years through a four year college degree, with a job waiting for him after graduation. His relationship with his dad is stronger than ever. He's got a home also waiting for him, one that's surrounded by two packs full of 'wolves.

He's also got Derek.

And the thing is, he and Derek? They're good together. Like really, really, almost disgustingly good. They weren't back in Beacon Hills. They kind of weren't when they decided to try again, for real this time.

They had spent their first year together fucking up, and god, the amount of times Stiles had questioned not just his sanity in doing this but also his intelligence. But during that year they also started working together, begun healing old hurts and smoothing down their rough edges, and found a way to fit together.

Once that year was over they'd sat down and talked things through.

Okay, they'd screamed some too, and once Stiles had even walked out. But the important thing is that he'd done so in a mature way. He'd told Derek that he was walking out, why he was doing so and that he was coming back once he'd cooled off. And then he'd kept his word.

And they'd done it on their own. No prompting, no mediating, no one coming in to send them to separate corners or patch them up. Stiles is still hella proud of that.

It's been three years now, and as far as Stiles is concerned he's got an amazing boyfriend that he fully expects to spend the rest of his life with.

If anyone had told him this years ago, when Scott had just been bitten and they were scrambling to keep their heads above water – at one point literally – Stiles would not have believed it. At one point he'd have taken violently offense, even without being told said boyfriend would be Derek.

Things have changed. He has changed. Derek has changed. But most importantly? They've changed together.

These days Derek has enough of a handle on himself to not need magic or therapy to make it through a visit. He's still seeing Dr Bianchi occasionally, as is Stiles, but they're both down to a handful of times per year.

And it's not just when it comes to the two of them that Derek has improved. Stiles gets regular reports from Scott, and it's obvious that Derek's a good Alpha these days. Sure, he will only stay an Alpha for a little while longer before handing it over to Cora, but that doesn't diminish his accomplishment. Everyone in a pack benefits from a good, steady Alpha.

Just like Cora benefits from a brother who is all these things.

Yeah, life is good.

The only dark cloud on Stiles's horizon is that he's going to have to go back to Beacon Hills.

Returning to Beacon Hills is, yeah okay, it's not the last thing Stiles wants to do. Reliving the Alpha pack, the kanima, Kate, Allison, Gerard, Peter (though that one's a firm “against” on returning too), reliving his mother's death, living through his dad's death, killing someone, almost killing someone, losing his pack, losing Embry... There are a lot of thing that Stiles wants even less.

But returning to Beacon Hills, even for a weekend, does come very low on the list. Distance has not made Stiles' heart fonder. Returning sadly isn't exactly optional.

Sure, no one's forcing him, but that doesn't mean staying away is an alternative. Not this time. Because Scott is getting married. Scott, who's still only 21 for another couple of weeks, and who used to think that werewolves were the worst (or second worst depending on how angry he was with Derek that day), who believed that he didn't need an Alpha and that Allison had hung the moon, is getting married to a werewolf, one that's not only Derek's sister, but also his soon-to-be Alpha.

And of course said wedding has to take place in Beacon Hills.

Now, Stiles has done his best to talk Scott into eloping, has tried since Scott called him with the news that Cora had said yes, but. Apparently Scott can't see the brilliance in eloping, not even with Stiles's excellent arguments.

“You, me, your mom, abuela Delgado, Derek and Cora. Just the family. No douche pack.”

“What about Peter?”

Seriously? The last thing Stiles had expected to need to justify is why leaving Peter out of, well, everything is a good idea.

“No uncle psycho either. He doesn't qualify as family.”

There's a sound that Stiles knows from years of being Scott's friend means he's nodding in agreement.

“Okay, true. What about dad though?”

“Oh, you know, I figured he'd be my plus one.” That came out flippantly, because he knows there's no way Scott wouldn't invite his dad regardless.

“No, Stiles, what about my dad?”

“He doesn't qualify as family either.”

The words come out before Stiles can filter himself, and he kind of wishes he could take them back, except...

“Look, can I be brutal here? I mean, we both know I'm going to be honest so... When's the last time you saw agent McCall?”

“There was a thing junior year, he came here to investigate.”

Not what he was asking, but a very telling answer.

“Okay, and when's the last time you saw him in his capacity as your dad? Hell, when's the last time you spoke to him? Does he even know about Cora?”

Scott evades the questions, which again: telling.

“He's my dad though, doesn't that kind of mean I have to invite him?”

Stiles snorts. As if.

“I don't see why. Sure, he's 50 % of your genepool, but is he really your dad? I mean, I can't remember the last time he and you shared anything other than your last name, and we both know that's not going to be true for much longer.”

“Yeah, okay, you have a point. He's not getting an invite. That doesn't mean we're eloping though, Stiles. Cora deserves a proper wedding, and I'm going to give her that. Now, you convince her that eloping's a good idea and we can talk about it again, but I'm not risking making her mad at me just because you don't want to subject yourself to Isaac. At least Jackson won't be invited?”

“Small favors, man. Small favors.”

There's another one of Scott's agreement noises before the conversation had moved on.

Of course, Cora had been an even tougher nut to crack than Scott, and Stiles had retreated ungracefully once she'd started threatening his balls.

Really, there was no need to go there. If for no other reason, well, shouldn't she leave the goods intact for Derek's sake?

Of course, Stiles can understand why she's unwilling to let go of the only Hale tradition she still can have, namely getting married in the preserve and in the presence of pack. Every Hale has done so for over 200 years, before they were even called Hale.

(Stiles listens to Derek explain, haltingly, and decides to admit defeat. At least Derek's willing to bypass that tradition, should they one day decide to marry. He'll take that win and stop pestering Cora.)

So, anyway. There's no talking the lovely couple into eloping. Which means like it or not – and trust him, it's not – Stiles is going back. Because it's Scott.

There's also the fact that in a strange way Stiles has waited for this wedding as long as Scott has. When he and Derek had gotten back together the plan had been for Cora to graduate, then take over the Alpha spark and the pack. Two years had felt long, but doable.

And then Cora had asked for more time.

She'd gone straight from school to working at the Beacon Hills sheriff's department and had felt she needed to adjust a little better to that before taking on something new. It'd been reasonable, and more importantly: Derek had been almost unable to deny his sister anything after getting her back from the dead (except you know, figuratively speaking, unlike a certain other family member).

So they'd talked it over and agreed to give Cora another year, moving the transfer to after the wedding. It makes, Stiles thinks, for one hell of a wedding present. If that's good or bad, eh. Who knows.

He'd taken on more classes in order to have a distraction, had worked himself to the point of exhaustion more than once, and nearly driven the people around him crazy. It'd been more than a little overkill, he admits now, but it had kept him from missing Derek too much. It also means he'll be able to slow down a little his final year.

Or take on whatever shiny but totally unnecessary new class catches his eye, probably, but. He pretends he'll take it easy. Derek pretends to believe him. Derek's also made it clear he's going to move to Seattle once he can leave Beacon Hills, and stay there as long as Stiles does. They both pretend it's not partially to keep Stiles from studying himself into the hospital.

Anyway. He's just, you know, going to have to count small favors. The first one being that Jackson really isn't invited. The second is that Lydia, who was, isn't coming either. Once Stiles had gotten over his crush on her he'd kept a measure of fond respect for the person he'd learned existed behind Lydia's facades, even though they'd never really become friends. That didn't change the fact that her not coming was a relief – she's too smart, sees too much, and he would hate for her to figure things out.

Another person not coming is Danny who's transferred his allegiance to the pack near his college where he's, completely coincidentally Stiles is sure, dating the Alpha's grandson. He'd been invited as a courtesy, but told he couldn't bring his boyfriend, and had wisely chosen not to accept. Cora hates him, and he apparently knows it, and Scott isn't to fond of him either.

Those really are small favors though.

A slightly bigger one is the fact that Deaton isn't coming. Not only does he no longer live in Beacon Hills, but he hasn't been invited. While no one had been able to prove that there had been magic on Scott, his opinions on both Derek and Deaton had changed a little too much for comfort after first moving away and then beginning to meditate. Even Scott had noticed, and gotten suspicious.

In the end there had been no protests from Scott as Derek and Cora had ended Deaton's lease of the land for his practice – land he had been granted use of as the Hale pack's emissary and then had kept using free of charge since the fire, knowing he wasn't keeping to the agreement. Once he'd been called on it, Deaton had packed up, sold his home, and moved away.

No one misses him – not even Scott.

However none of that changes the fact that Beacon Hills still has Peter Hale, who is most certainly both invited to the wedding and attending, and who Stiles still sees as a threat. Because, well, he's not stupid.

Peter Hale will stop being a threat the day he dies, and maybe not even then. (Next time, Stiles has promised himself, he's going to make sure Peter gets the Aiden treatment.)

And Stiles is going to willingly place himself within striking distance from said threat, without a protector on hand.

He hadn't even thought about it at first, just assuming he'd have Embry to keep him safe, but it hadn't taken long to realize that bringing Embry to Scott's wedding wasn't an option.

First of all there's the fact that while neither Derek or Cora can feel the supernatural in the LaPush 'wolves unless they're shifting Peter might. Peter, who's not only older and has had the kind of training Derek never got but who also has access to a lot of the Hale pack's lore which Derek had thought lost in the fire. Stiles isn't willing to take a chance on that knowledge not containing something to help Peter identify the LaPush shifters. (This is, incidentally, one of the reasons Stiles is happy Deaton is gone. He too knows too much for Stiles to trust he wouldn't be able identify another kind of shifter.)

Second there's the fact that every single pack member is visibly Native American, and there are only so many tribes. Peter – or Danny for that matter, even though he's not going to be present, but he's more of an annoyance – could locate Stiles far too easily easily with that kind of information.

There's also the fact that Embry would be on a hair trigger simply because Stiles will be, and might shift and expose them.

Most importantly though is that bringing what would look like a plus one to Cora's wedding would be an insult. Not just to her, who's only just gotten to the point where she accepts that Stiles is in her brother's life for good, but also to Derek. Yes, everyone who matters knows that Embry's relationship with Stiles is as platonic as can be, but that doesn't change anything. They smell enough like each other for wolfy noses to know they're not casual acquaintances, and chances are there would be quite a bit of ribbing and speculation. Derek shouldn't have to listen to that, or for that matter look at Stiles walking around with another man when he himself has to hide what they are to each other. Desire for protection or not, Stiles just isn't willing to do that to Derek.

It's possible that Embry could have skated by as the son of John Stilinski's fiancée – and wow, Stiles still hasn't gotten used to referring to Tiffany Call that way (and damn, does that make him glad that he and Embry are platonic, because that's a little to incestuous even as is). Scott would have been okay with both of them coming, had even brought it up, but everyone involved is aware that it'd make Melissa feel uncomfortable. Regardless, Tiffany's not coming either. Like with Embry there's no way of hiding that she's native, making her too easily identifiable. There's also the fact that it just isn't safe.

Tiffany is many things, and a stronger woman than most, but she's not a fighter. If things go wrong she would be vulnerable, and a liability.

Bringing someone other than Embry means the same risk of discovery.

So instead of a werewolf bodyguard or ten Stiles has his dad.

Yeah.

There's also the fact that in the interest of keeping secrets Stiles can't even use the silver lining of more time with Derek. Letting anyone from that pack know of their connection is bad, but the thought of letting Peter know makes Stiles's blood run cold. That means he's going to be within minutes of his boyfriend for days, and yet he's not going to get hugs, or kisses, or a bedpartner. He's going to be at a wedding along with his romantic partner, while pretending he's single.

Yeah.

It's going to suck.

O--o---o--O

The wedding is missing a lot of traditional parts. It's understandable, really, and not just because both bride and groom along with several guests are werewolves. It's just... Cora doesn't have a father to give her away, or dance with her. She doesn't have a mother to support her, an inherited dress or heirloom jewelry. She doesn't have a best friend to be her maid of honor. What she's got is a brother whose Alpha she'll be within days and an uncle that she doesn't trust as far as she can throw him. Or well, as far as Stiles could throw him.

So they adjust.

No one gives Cora away. Instead she and Scott walk up the isle – isle, forest path, same thing – together. Neither of them have attendants, and Melissa McCall's wedding dress stays in its garment bag.

The wedding is small and intimate, with only a handful of guests outside of the pack – Stiles, John, Melissa, abuela Delgado and two 'wolves from Cora's South American pack. It takes place in a glade just on the edge of the preserve and the only decorations are wild flowers and boughs of leaves.

It's scaled-down, but also beautiful in its simplicity, because no one can doubt that these are two people who love each other deeply.

Stiles has to blink away tears at more than one time. His friend, his brother, is promising to love, cherish and honor his girl, and is being promised the same in return. There's not a doubt in Stiles's mind that when they swear to do so until death do them part they mean it. This, he knows, is Scott's life now. It's the life and future he deserves. It's enough to make Stiles's heart swell with love.

And then it hits him. With a little luck that'll be him in a not too distant future. He has to look away not to betray himself by staring lovingly at Derek.

Stiles walks through the door to the cabin he's sharing with his dad. He's tired, both because of emotion and vigilance. His dad's still back at the wedding, catching up with Melissa, but Stiles doesn't have the energy. He's spent the day keeping one eye on the pack, and Peter in particular, and generally hating that he's back in Beacon Hills while loving that he's able to be here for Scott.

It's been exhausting.

Just about everyone else is still celebrating, but once Scott and Cora had left to change clothes and go on their honeymoon Stiles had left too. Pretending that he doesn't want to kill Peter, or kiss Derek, has taken it out of him and he can't do it any longer. He's going back home tomorrow and he can't spend another minute being that close to Derek without being able to be with him. That it'll be at least a month, probably two or more, before he can see Derek again is making it even harder.

As far as everyone but him and Derek knows Scott and Cora are going on an actual honeymoon, for a whole month. The truth is that they'll be gone for a week before sneaking back. The rest of the time will be spent in recovery and training after Derek transfers the Alpha spark. Cora will come back as the new Hale Alpha, but that doesn't mean Derek will be free to leave.

There will be unrest in a pack with a new Alpha, even under the best of circumstances, and these – as so often for them – are not. Cora will need Derek by her side, to support her and calm the pack. Maybe she'll also need him to help take down threats thinking to take advantage of a novice Alpha. Maybe they'll have to deal with Peter...

It'll be a little while yet before Derek will be free of Beacon Hills.

So Stiles is sad, and he's got a headache and he just wants to take some pills, text Embry some and then sleep.

After he's re-ringed the cabin with mountain ash of course.

Stiles pulls his phone out of its pocket, takes off his jacket and goes to throw it at the chair before thinking twice. It's a decent suit jacket and if he treats it right he won't need to go suit shopping again in years. Coat hanger it is.

He turn towards the clothes rack, his brain three steps ahead, and hits a wall, his phone clattering to the floor.

Only there's no wall there.

He scrambles backwards, trying to put as much space as he can between himself and the threat and swears. The door is out of reach and he's trapped.

“Hello Stiles.”

Fuck.

“Peter.”

He flicks through scenarios in his head, trying to figure out how to get out of this, but he keeps running into mental walls.

Stiles is a lot better trained than when he left Beacon Hills, in ways Peter knows nothing about. Under the right circumstances he might have a chance.

These are not.

He's in close quarters with Peter, unable to reach the door before the 'wolf can get to him. He's mostly unarmed due to being dressed for a wedding, and what he does have isn't as easily accessible as he'd like.

Plus it's Peter.

Stiles is going to assume that everything he thinks he knows about Peter's skills and strength is wrong. To do anything else would be to sign his own death warrant. Derek might be clouded by memories of “uncle Peter”, but Stiles has never forgotten the psychopathic killer he'd first encountered.

No, training or no training, Stiles's one real advantage is having a pack, and what being part of it means. Unfortunately he has no idea if it'll be enough.

“Shouldn't you be with the pack, or, I don't know, in your own home? Not breaking and entering somewhere you're definitely not welcome.”

“Oh, but it's not breaking and entering if you have a key.” Which, fuck, did Peter kill someone to get his hands on a backup key? “Besides, I didn't get a chance to talk to you earlier. It's been so long, Stiles, won't you humor me? We're practically old friends, are we not? It'll be like old times.”

“You're crazy.”

“Now now Stiles. That's not very nice of you.”

Stiles snorts, because nice? Not really in his wheelhouse.

“You think I care? When it comes to you? Come now, I said crazy, not stupid.”

Because unfortunately Peter is anything but, making him even more dangerous. Still, the wolf just smirks a little at Stiles's defiance.

“I'm afraid that answer just isn't acceptable. See, I really do need to talk to you. Or well, I need you. I'd like it if you talked to me, but I'll manage either way. You however... You really would do well to humor me.”

Then Peter looks at him, and oh shit. His eyes are flashing back and forth between the electric blue that had looked so good on Derek and a sickly red.

It takes nothing to figure it out.

Peter had called him the clever one, and meant it in a mocking way. But the reality is that Stiles is clever, and knows how to put puzzle pieces together.

And these particular puzzle pieces... Peter came back to life using not only Lydia but also Derek – had drained Derek of life and strength and power, and had tried to steal the Alpha power too.

And afterwards Derek had changed. Had grown more volatile, more likely to hurt someone – more unstable.

Stiles is willing to bet Peter had had a bit more success than they'd realized, that he'd managed to siphon off some of the Alpha power and keep it.

That would explain why Derek had acted the way he had. Why he'd been so easily influenced by the pack's negativity. Why Derek had sometimes acted more like Peter than like himself.

It would definitely explain how the Alpha power had become this unstable, negative force in Derek that he felt was fighting him. He is sharing it with Peter. And apparently Peter is done sharing. Stiles is uncomfortably aware of exactly how little defense he has to put up in regards to a Peter who is no longer hiding his power, who is no longer playing weak and damaged.

The only reason he's still alive is so Peter can use him against Derek.

Because even holding a part of the Hale Alpha spark Peter isn't going to just challenge Derek for the rest of it, or meet him in a fair fight. It's not how he works. Peter doesn't believe in fair, and wants the odds as weighted in his favor as possible. Using Stiles as bait, or whatever, is a way of doing that. There's also the fact that Derek has been getting stronger and better as an Alpha, leaving Peter needing every advantage he could. Even an ambush might not give him the upper hand.

Well, Stiles is going to do what he can to even out the odds a bit.

It helps that he has no reason to believe Peter will let him go after killing Derek. He'll either be dead too, or bitten without concern for his wishes, and forced to obey Peter. His dad will probably be used against him – or, again, killed outright.

Not fighting won't save him – it'll only make it easier for Peter.

“You kept some of the Alpha spark after using Derek to come back to life.”

“Ah. You really are clever. Too bad you've always wasted that cleverness on my failure of a beta and my useless nephew. Yes, I kept some. It should have been mine altogether, but something went wrong.

“Doesn't matter though, because I'm getting it back. I'm getting it all back tonight.”

Stiles stiffens. That sounds really not good.

“I was willing to be patient. To wait for it. Derek isn't made to be Alpha, and I've always known that sooner or later he'd get himself killed, especially the way kept attracting hunters. I could wait. After all, I had enough power to get through most. Especially after getting a little boost.”

That's what happened to miss Blake, Stiles thinks. He doesn't say anything though. It's not time to upset the balance. Not yet.

“It was possible one of the others would have had enough and killed him, but chances were the Alpha spark would have gone to me either way. If not,” Peter shrugs, “a new Alpha, who doesn't know how to deal with the change in their senses? Easy to kill.”

Stiles can see it happen just like that too, unfortunately.

“Everything was going according to plan too, with Derek growing more and more unstable. Given a little more time I might even have been able to talk him into giving up the spark voluntarily.” Like hell he would have. “And then my dear, dear niece came back to life.”

There's something in Peter's voice with couple with the moue he makes that gives Stiles another flash of insight.

“You resent Cora for being alive. You resent her for surviving the fire.”

Peter almost slips into a roar.

“She abandoned me!”

“She was a child! I know you were trained to hide from hunters, to go to ground and stay there until the threat was over. Are you blaming her for doing what she's been told?”

“You go to ground, yes. And then you come back. You don't abandon your pack.”

And wow, hearing that shit from the wolf who killed one niece, tried to kill a nephew, and had just explained how he had been waiting to try again... Yeah, Peter Hale is a hypocrite on top of being fucking insane.

“She abandoned us, and then when she comes crawling back,” which, totally not how it had actually happened, “that useless weakling wants to reward her for it by passing the Alpha spark to her. And they expect me to just take it?”

Fuck. The biggest flaw in the plan had always been the risk of Peter finding out and getting mad. There are contingency plans, sure, but none of them counted for quite this.

“I should have been Alpha after Talia. Laura was just as weak, just as unsuitable, as Derek. She didn't have it in her to take vengeance for our family – she just ran. It should have been me. It would have been me, had I not been burnt so badly.”

Peter's eyes are flickering between red and blue again, but the light in them has nothing to do with the 'wolf. It's insanity, and Stiles makes a quick judgment call.

He's never going to be able to outfight Peter. What he needs is to keep him of guard, while hoping for help to reach him. And as dangerous as it might be, the best way is to go after Peter's ego.

He's calm and collected in a way he rarely is as his brain starts listing sore points to hit.

He starts off by laughing, startling Peter out of his self-righteous rant.

“I might have to take back what I said about you not being stupid. You really think you should have been Alpha over Laura? Dude, you are delusional. You not becoming Alpha after the fire had nothing to do with you burning, and everything to do with the fact that you're a monster. Hell, the only way you had a shot at Alpha-hood was to steal it.

“Derek's fucked up plenty, yes, but even on his worst days he's better than you. He at least is sane.”

His words are working, Stiles can see it, and he continues to taunt the 'wolf.

“In fact, should Derek die today? You're not even in the running to become the next Alpha. It'll be Cora, or Scott if she's not an option either. Hell, even Isaac is a better candidate for Alpha than you and I really don't like that guy. No, you're going to have to kill the rest of your family and the new Hale pack along with them to even have a shot.

“Fuck, if I was that Alpha spark? I'd leave the Hale line – hell, existence even – completely over settling in you. You're simply too corrupt.

“You speak of Derek and Laura not being worthy of the Alpha spark. The truth is that you're the one that's unworthy. The world truly will be a better place once you're dead.”

Peter's eyes flicker back and forth and Stiles is actually kind of surprised he's not already dead. Maybe Peter still thinks he can get something out of keeping him alive.

“Brave words, Stiles, but that's all they are. Words. You don't understand what it's like to be a werewolf, what it means to be in a pack. But I'll make sure you do. Before the sun rises I'll be the Alpha, and like it or not you're going to help me. And as a reward I'll give you what you wanted but were afraid to say yes to all those years ago.

“Once my useless nephew is out of the picture you'll be my beta. Part of my pack. And you'll be good to me, won't you Stiles? After all, you have...experience in being good to your Alpha, don't you?” Peter's voice is silky-sweet around the words, and Stiles shudders with disgust.

What Peter is hinting at is never going to happen, not even if Stiles has to kill himself to make sure it doesn't. Yes, he's made some pretty harsh statements about what was between him and Derek, but not even at the lowest point did that make him feel as dirty as Peter's mere words are doing now.

At the same time Stiles is willing to put money on the fact that Peter doesn't really mean what he's saying. Oh, he might follow through, especially if he leaves Derek alive, but this isn't about any kind of want or desire. This is about scaring Stiles, about rattling him, about making him beg.

He's not going to do that.

“Fuck no.”

“Tsk, tsk. You'll sing a different tune once you're in my pack.”

Stiles laughs again, short and sharp, putting as much mockery as he can muster in it.

“Your pack? You don't have a pack. You'll never have a pack. All you've got, Peter, is two people who shares blood with you and who pity you too much to put you down like the animal you are.

“Really, where's an Argent when you need them?”

That does it. Peter's claws pop, his teeth lengthen and his eyes shine like lasers. Only one of them will walk away from this, and Stiles has finally managed to tip the scales enough that it just might be him. Of course, even almost out of his mind with rage Peter does have some control – he hasn't howled, for instance, keeping it in as to not warn anyone. Stiles's chance is tiny, and it mostly depends on outside factors, but unlike five minutes ago it exists.

Now he just has to be right about a number of factors.

Luckily he is.

The window breaks, glass splintering and flying across the cabin. Peter jerks back as a big furry shape follows and Stiles hurries to to put his back against a corner. Chances are that Peter will win this fight so he's not safe yet, but he's certainly safer than he was a minute ago.

No one had been happy with Stiles going back without Embry. Hell, Stiles hadn't been happy about it. Had it been an option he would have brought the entire pack with him – preferably both even. Jake'd been on the verge of laying down an Alpha order about Stiles and John not going on their own for weeks, the only thing stopping him being the safety of LaPush. Instead he had had to stop basically the entire pack from sneaking off to follow them, same for Sam.

The compromise had been one 'wolf. There had been a fight over who got to go, and even Leah – who still think Stiles is being an idiot – had wanted to go. Of course, Leah is also finally pregnant and no one wants to put her and the baby at risk. (Plus, she's not feeling that great. The phrase “sick as a dog” takes on a new light when you've seen a horse sized shape shifter with violent morning sickness, Stiles decided after seeing Leah sick up to the point where she phased out of her wolf form and fainted. Yuck.)

Embry still hadn't been allowed to go, and Stiles knows why, knows that Jake has a point in claiming Embry's bond to Stiles would cause him to be on edge and risk exposing them in more ways than one. That doesn't make it easier to deal with though.

Stiles wishes with all his being that it could have been Embry.

Instead it had been decided that Collin, as the most harmless looking one, should go and play hapless tourist. He had arrived in Beacon Hills a couple of days ago, and as far as Stiles knows no one's picked up on anything strange about him or his story.

Of course, with Collin being one of the youngest and least experienced 'wolves he's not the one Stiles would have wanted in a fight against Peter Hale.

All he really is is a distraction, but it does gives Stiles a chance. While Peter's attention is on the giant 'wolf Stiles slowly eases the hidden blade from his sleeve and then carefully rips open his cuff.

The mountain ash concealed in the cuff does as it's meant to and falls into his hand. Now he's got a chance.

Provided nothing has gone to hell in the last couple of hours there is at least one other 'wolf near, able to warn others. If it has and they're on their own, then there's always howling.

All Stiles needs to do is get up a barrier and they'll have some breathing room. He just needs some distance between Collin and Peter.

At first the giant 'wolf is causing Peter to be cautious, but it doesn't take long for the man to realize he's the strongest of them. The wolf shape is excellent for fighting and killing vampires, but less so when it comes to another type of werewolf.

Collin yips in pain and Peter strikes again. This time he lands a powerful blow that throws Collin across the cabin. He lands heavily, with a whine, and doesn't get up. Stiles swallows as he sees blood pooling out from the still body.

A 'wolf can heal just about anything, given time. Peter won't give them that though. He's already stalking across the floor with blood dripping from his claws and a sadistic smile on his face. He's fast enough that he could have crossed before Stiles knew what was happening. This slow walk is just a show, meant to intimidate Stiles.

Too bad it just gives him the time he needs.

“You've been keeping secrets. I'll enjoy dragging them out of you.”

It's a promise, meant to invoke, and it works. But Stiles has gotten used to pushing down his fear and working through it, and so he looks Peter straight in the eyes and quips.

“Didn't your Alpha teach you not to play with your prey?”

And then he throws the mountain ash.

He's practiced this very moment over and over until he doesn't need to walk the perimeter, or to have “enough” ash. All he needs is a little bit and his belief.

He's never believed anything this hard before.

“Mountain ash? Always the clever one, aren't you? But your little trick won't save you, or your friend there. You can only hold the barrier for so long, and I can be a very patient man.

“It would be wise of you not to test that patience though. Sooner or later your father will walk through that door, and I would hate to kill him just to prove a point.”

Like he'd let any of them live either way.

“Here's the thing, Peter. You would be wise to leave now. Who knows, run fast enough, far enough, and you might even live to regret your actions here tonight. Because Game of Thrones might be shit about a lot of things, but they're dead right about: 'the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives'. And you, Peter. You're all alone.”

“You think you're pack? You, my useless nephew's even more useless fucktoy? Don't make me laugh.

“Since you're apparently too stupid to realize, I've got you trapped in here. You've got no way to call for help,” and he steps on Stiles's phone, grinding it to components to make a point, “your supposed savior is out like a light, dying as we speak, and your mountain ash barrier is weakening by the minute.”

It's not. Stiles can feel that it's still just as strong, but it's a good tactic, trying to shake the belief holding it together.

“That poor fool is even more of an idiot than that useless beta of mine. He didn't even howl for help. Not that he would have gotten any, but he didn't even try. Pathetic.”

Stiles smirks. No, Collin hadn't howled. But with the LaPush pack mind he didn't need to, not being shifted.

“Peter? This is the 21st century. Proper 'wolves use cellphones just like the rest of us.

And then in a show of timing almost too good to be true Seth and Brady jumps through the broken window as Derek – followed by Cora – break through the door.

Stiles almost sobs with relief. Having Collin arrive had been such a help, but it hadn't really made him feel safe. Not when up against Peter Hale. The same goes for Brady. They're his friends, yes, but they're the most inexperienced of the 'wolves and they're Sam's. Seth is, well, he's not that much more experienced but he's pack. That matters.

It's not the fact that they're four against one that calms Stiles, or even that Derek is there – it's the presence of pack.

He still wishes Embry was with him, but now he dares to believe he'll see his 'wolf again.

Peter is actually looking stunned, faced with another two giant wolves. And is that a hint of fear Stiles sees? It could be. After all Peter has to realize that while Derek and Cora might be swayed to spare him out of sentimentality, these new and unknown wolves have no such compunctions. Stiles wonders if the crazed 'wolf sees his death in their arrival.

He hopes so.

The four circle Peter, cutting of all routes of escape. If he wants to leave he'll have to go through them, and that's not as easy as fighting Collin might lead Peter to believe. They don't attack though and Stiles can't help but think his 'wolves are holding back out of consideration for Derek, and to a lesser degree Cora.

Seth and Brady both know that Peter needs to die, but Derek has had a hard time reconciling with the fact that killing Peter had been necessary the first time. He hasn't even wanted to entertain the idea that it might be needed a second time, and might want to give Peter a chance to surrender.

Or it's just about waiting for the right moment. Regardless Stiles finds himself unable to watch what is about to come. Strange. He'd had no problem watching Peter die the first time, had thrown Molotov cocktails at him and watched Derek rip his throat out without regret. He has been certain Peter needs to die again since about 5 seconds after finding out he was back.

And yet he finds he can't watch.

As Peter lounges, desperately, towards Brady – either having identified him as the easiest target or unwilling to attack his remaining blood family – Stiles burrows his face into Collins fur and tries to shut it all out. They're safe behind the mountain ash barrier, and their friends will take care of Peter without them. They're safe, the barrier will hold, their friends will live, and Peter will die.

Stiles's world shrinks down to those four things, trying to will it into existence.

They're safe. The sound of a large body hitting the wall.

The barrier will hold. A grunt as claws strike flesh.

Their friends will survive. A high-pitched whine and the smell of blood.

Peter will die. A howl rises, then cuts out and is replaced by silence.

Derek and Cora are curled up together, shaking and crying and laughing all at once, both their eyes flashing between red and beta blue or gold. Stiles looks at them and feels a sting. Not jealousy, precisely, because he's got Seth, and Brady, and he's pretty sure Embry is a lot closer to Beacon Hills than Jake really likes, just...

Derek won't be coming back with him.

Stiles knew that already, knew that Cora would be vulnerable after the transfer of power, and that having Derek essentially break away straight after wasn't going to happen. They'd talked about it repeatedly and made their plans accordingly.

It's even more true now, with the added trauma of Peter's betrayal and death, causing her to lose a pack member already that day along with half of her remaining blood family.

For her to lose Derek on top of that... No. Stiles doesn't wish that on anyone. Cora needs to stabilize herself, find her balance again, and both siblings need to be allowed to grieve.

Again, it's no surprise that Derek will be staying in Beacon Hills for a while. It's just... It was abstract before. Now it's right there in his face, and Stiles realizes he wasn't prepared.

Looking at Derek and Cora he also realizes that regardless of what they've said, what they've promised, there's a possibility that Derek will change his mind now that the moment is here. It's possible that Beacon Hills without Peter will be tempting enough that Derek will start seeing it as his home again. It's possible that he will decide that staying with Cora, and the pack he started, is more important than being with Stiles.

If he does... It'll hurt. It'll even hurt like hell. But if it's one thing Stiles has learned it's this: he can live through that, can heal from it, because he won't be alone. Even if he doesn't have Derek he'll have Embry, and his pack.

But that's not how Stiles sees it happening. Not after everything they've been through to get to where they are.

Derek is going to grieve with his sister, and help her settle, and when he's ready he'll leave Beacon Hills, leave their own personal Hellmouth, and come back to Stiles.

Because that's where they're headed, full circle. When they're both ready things will be different. This time around it'll be Derek joining Stiles's pack. There will be no begging, no miscommunication, no posturing, no self-hatred and no Alpha crap. It'll just be Stiles and Derek, healed and happy and together, trying their very best to love each other and not do anything stupid.

It'll be great.

Stiles believes it with all that he has and is. And his belief? Is magic.

~ The End ~

#chocoholic fics #...asd #teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #twilight crossover #...as stupid does #in 2021 we finish our wips #stupid 'verse

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shreddedleopard · 3 years

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Suns, Moons and Songs.

My favourite. The soundtrack is littered with songs that allude to Historia and Levi’s part in the plot. I’ll just bring up some of the major ones.

Okay, first biggie - Zero Eclipse.

This song is purposefully vague in a lot of places, in that a lot of the lyrics could fit to Ymir, and I believe the sentiment is genuine. Ymir was a huge part of Historia’s life before she left. However, there are a lot of similarities between her and Levi, which is handy for Yams. Same for the bond Erwin and Levi shared. Clever, clever.

The first verses could work for either on the whole, but the lines about jealousy and blades doubling and the use of kid absolutely reminds me of Ymir when she joins the survey corps with Historia.

When we get to the bridge, the first lines about never hearing the person sigh of ecstasy likely suggests that Ymir wanted to get to that point with Historia but they never did. And of course the chorus very much reflects Ymir’s speech to Historia about living a life she can be proud of, and not doing silly suicidal things to be the hero, like she did with Daz.

Okay our next verse is where it gets very interesting!

Every single line fits Levi perfectly. Seeing the fallen? It’s that image at Shiganshina of Erwin surrounded by their fallen comrades. Still we have that question, what will Levi do with those sacrifices? A recurring theme, but now we should have a pretty good idea of the answer.

Next we have a direct reference to the Beast Titan - which conveniently also links perfectly to Historia’s childhood bullies - both threw stones to ‘make us go away.’

‘It was only the face of anger, and kindness, it lit my way’ - well this has soo many connotations. So firstly, Historia and the bullies. Because Frieda taught her to be a good, kind girl, Historia understands that the bullies were only acting out of anger, and kindness is the answer here. Hmm ... who else right about now in the story could do with realising anger and revenge won’t solve anything - but working together might, even if you’ve been pelted by stones at the hands of this person? It’s Levi and Zeke. And Historia’s influence on Levi - the idea of kindness lighting his way - will mean he makes the right decision. It’s also worth noting very briefly here, because I will explore this more later, that in the manga, we have that removed scene of Levi behaving aggressively towards Historia, although she later puts this aside. Originally, Isayama also wanted to parallel Levi with Historia’s childhood bullies, but he changed his mind for the anime. We’ll look at this more when we check out an interesting interview by Yams.

‘Ain’t no picnic to be abandoned’ - again, such a simple line, so many meanings. Historia and Levi’s childhood parallels are uncanny, and both were abandoned by parental figures in their youth which we see in Uprising had lasting impacts on them. So much so, they work together to open an orphanage, saving children from within the walls and even the underground.

‘It led us here, we had to share the pain.’ I mean, I’ve said this so many times, but how could they not end up bonding over all this!? But wait, there’s more. Shiganshina happens, and Levi looses Erwin. Historia has not so long ago lost Ymir, and we see how upset she is when she receives her letter. Remember that scene though where Levi arrives and she wipes away her tears? Yep. They were both abandoned again in a sense, and so, it only serves to push them closer together. They mourn for what have been pretty much their other halves since the start of the series, and they do it together. Yams is screaming at us to read between the lines for these two, while he drops just enough surface hints to keep the trail warm, so to speak.

Okay the next lyrics ‘Now you are a part of me, I will defend and honour thee’ ... what do they remind you of? I get knight protecting Queen vibes. And this literally used to be the role of the Ackermans according to Kenny's grandpa - the sword and shield to the crown. Levi is virtually back in that role for Historia, and we come full circle after the years of persecution.

NEXT. ‘Did you think that you could die a hero?’ Kenny tells Levi everyone is drunk on a dream in order to keep moving forwards. He asks Levi, what are you? A hero? Everyone expects Levi to go out fighting, taking out Zeke and finally fulfilling his vow to Erwin. But that's not the message of this story. We need to break the cycle of revenge and hate, remember? Kruger said so himself - love someone within the walls, it's the only way to stop this cursed history. Levi won’t choose revenge. He’ll give up on his dream to go out like a hero, because now he has something to return home to.

‘Our awakening means less than zero.’ And just in case you were wondering, it’s not because of any Acker-bond crap. It’s the real deal; just like Zeke told Eren in chapter 130. Being an Ackerman has nothing to do with either Levi or Mikasa’s feelings towards their respective loves.

Let’s look at that chorus again, while I start to blush in the corner. ‘You’re trembling, we share a kiss, our worlds eclipse.’ Heck, I never knew SNK could be so ... ahem, yeah. It gets raunchier further on, by the way. But besides the obvious suggestion of passion here, we have the symbolism from the song’s title - the eclipse. What happens during an eclipse? Well, depends what sort to be fair heh, but for a solar eclipse, we have the moon moving in front of the sun, blocking it’s light. And we see the Dark Side of the Moon. Wait!? Isn’t that literally the title of Levi's character song ...? Oh, shit. We’ll check out those lyrics later. Historia is often associated with dawn light, which of course means the sun. The eclipse here is her pregnancy. The two solar bodies appear to become one. Not to mention the literal shape of her stomach! We had those lyrics about ‘letting our worlds collide’ earlier too. Not just referring to the pregnancy, but their supposedly different ideologies around violence/revenge and love/kindness/forgiveness.

Now for the best bits.

‘Black sugar, keep it, up til the dawn.’ Told you it gets better. Black sugar is apparently something very addictive. So Levi and Historia are engaged in something very addictive here, keeping them up until the dawn ...? Ah. Yes. Makes sense, considering her current condition.

And then my very favourite line, that hit me right in the gut when I first listened to this. Because the words sounded very familiar, but not for Historia.

‘Make a promise that I cannot regret.’ Levi’s whole theme is not regretting the choices that you make. It’s repeated over and over. He makes a promise to Erwin in his vow, but he comes to terms with the fact that fulfilling this is no longer what he really wants - we’ve just seen that realisation in 136 when he talks about how he’s never bungled one of Erwin’s orders, but yet his last one ... He knows attempting to keep that promise will mean he likely won’t ‘get back out alive,’ so instead, he will make Historia a promise that he can’t regret, because he just can’t ‘learn how to let you go.’ I’M NOT CRYING - YOU ARE. Do you remember the two letters - from Petra and Ymir - about marriage? I think we know what Levi is going to dedicate his heart to in the end. Note also the, ‘as long as I can see you, but in secret.’ That just gives us that final confirmation that the relationship alluded to here in Zero Eclipse is one that has been hidden from us - this fits neither Historia/Ymir or Levi/Erwin, although there are elements of both of these in the song.

Okay, here's the lyrics to Levi’s song. I’m not going to rip it apart like I did with Zero Eclipse, because a) I think a lot of it is self explanatory, and b) the next chapter comes out soon and like, I’d love to have got through everything I want to say before then. So some quick (ish, knowing me) notes:

Okay so this second set of lyrics is the one I want to draw attention to - cleverly nestled in the middle of the song. We’re going to ‘someday’ see the dark side of the moon ‘revealed’. Yeah, when there is an eclipse. This is the only time you see the dark side of the moon. Literally. So we’ll see Levi’s other side when he finds Historia, and they create this eclipse - this child. His true nature will be revealed, and he will not choose violence or revenge.

‘Persuasion by memories of pain an essential lesson.’ Okay, I can’t really go hugely into this without the Akatsuki no Requiem video, which we’ll look at in a bit. Because then things will mind-bogglingly make sense. If you’ve already seen it and know the theory behind it, then you’ll get what I mean. But essentially, our ending for Levi is going to be bittersweet, because while he ends up with a family of his own finally, he is also plagued with regret and sorrow for what came to pass before, and the huge role he played in it.

‘Just being without regrets, is my own decision.’ Such a simple line, so many powerful meanings. Levi will make the ultimate choice with no regrets in his promise to Historia, and their child. He cannot regret either of them. But he has to make that decision, and we know it will be difficult, because it will mean failing to execute Erwin’s last order. It will probably look likely that he will make the wrong choice up until the very last moment. This again too links in with the ackertalk between Zeke and Eren. Levi is confirming that his decision to be with Historia does not stem from duty or something in his genes. It’s the real deal.

More Fun Song Facts.

Here's the lyrics for Before Lights Out:

Freedom! Freedom! Forgive Me! Retake Maria! Victorious, triumphant! All of my kingdom For your return I will let it burn! I will let it burn! Dear departed I’ll cry for you in a dream Now I must rise to be queen Be worthy Be worthy

The song that is a different version of APETITAN - the soundtrack to Zeke’s Beast’s first appearance. Before Lights Out plays when Erwin leads the suicide charge towards Zeke, after Levi makes his vow to ‘take down the beast titan.’ He watches Erwin and the scouts charge to their deaths and whispers, ‘I’m sorry.’

Because he’s never going to fulfil that vow, is he? And we know why when we read the lyrics of the song.

HOLY MOTHER OF FORESHADOWING I have chills.

Ahhhhh I need to talk about Akatsuki no Requiem I guess. This one definitely needs it’s own post.

You still with me? I have drunk a lot of coffee at this point.

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bookspined · 3 years

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❝ that’s all history is after all: scar tissue. ❞

{ cis-man, he/him } huh, who’s FROY GUTIERREZ? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually SCORPIUS MALFOY. he is a TWENTY-TWO year old PUREBLOOD wizard who is A HEALING APPRENTICE. he is known for being CAPTIOUS, RETICENT, FACETIOUS, DISMISSIVE, and DRAMATIC but also RESOURCEFUL, CONSCIENTIOUS, FERVENT, INNOVATIVE, and OBSERVANT, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song IN DREAMS BY BEN HOWARD. i hear he is aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, so be sure to keep an eye on him. { merry, 24, gmt, she/they }

CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (MCU), Simon Tam (Firefly), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Harley Keener (MCU), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)

pinterest [blood, medical imagery tw]

wanted connection ideas

Full Name: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him Age: Twenty-three Birthdate: January 20th Parents: Draco Lucius Malfoy & Astoria Céline Malfoy (née Greengrass) [Not biologically Astoria’s due to her health, if you ever point this out he’ll flay your eyeballs] Siblings: N/A. Birth place: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England Height: 5’11” Weight: 56 kg Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic Bisexual Nationality: British Body Alterations/Marks: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat.

Blood Status: Pureblood Hogwarts House: Slytherin Wand Arm: Right Pet: His pet toad, Jarvis, recently passed away. Patronus: Arctic Fox Wand: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.

Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.

Personality Traits: Brilliance, innovative, empathetic, individuality, openness, social consciousness, inventive, logical, practical skills and self assertion; lack of attachment to people outside his circle and the “real world,” over-intellectualizing of the emotions, dismissive, anxious, crotchety tempered, facetious, rigid, prone to self-isolation, intellectual arrogance, and stubborn. Zodiac Sign: Aquarius/Capricorn Cusp Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Core values: Loyalty, Knowledge, Hope Four temperaments: Melancholic

HOGWARTS HOUSE ANALYSIS

Slytherin Primary and a Burned Ravenclaw Secondary.

Slytherin Primaries prioritize their own selves and loved ones first. Slytherins don’t feel guilty or selfish about this– they feel righteous and moral. The most important thing is to look after your own. Abandoning or hurting one of your own is the worst thing you can do.

A Burned Ravenclaw Secondary might want to be skilled, curious, and prepared, but they feel like they are (or like people think they are) limited, clumsy, or inconstant. Gathering knowledge, hobbies, skills, or tools is the right way to achieve their goals, but Burned Ravenclaws know that’s not going to work within their capabilities. So they take other paths and use other tools– maybe a Gryffindor’s bluntness, a Slytherin’s flexibility, or a Hufflepuff’s slow and steady dedication.

You may have a Hufflepuff Secondary Model.

Hufflepuff is the House of grit, reliability, and determination, and Hufflepuffs use those values to help live, act, and succeed. If you model Hufflepuff Secondary, you also value these things and like to live by them. You like to be hardworking, dedicated, and consistent– but you wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning those values in the service of other, higher priorities. If there’s another, easier way to get what you want– you’d take it. You think hard work provides valuable rewards– and those rewards are why you work. The work doesn’t have persuasive value in itself.

Despite his very best resistance he’s always been pretty empathetic in nature, he tries to rule his emotions as well as he can but fails more often than not. He was always one of those toddlers that if another kid started crying he’d be right along with them, not because he wanted attention but because he just couldn’t not. A bit of a crybaby, has researched how to magically seal up his tear ducts. Obviously managed to keep the family’s flair for the dramatic there as well. After a few years he leant into the sarcastic vague-snobbishness to hide the core of overwhelming anxiety.

Just managed to scrape through his schooling with nearly all top grades, this isn’t really due to him being a model student. He has always accrued information with a voracious appetite. Any knowledge he could find, even if most people would consider it entirely useless. His mind clicks into that place? You can’t keep him away. However, when there is not an immediate stir of interest on his approach to a topic he has to fight with himself tooth and nail to carry on.

Predictably found exam season highly stressful, was never open about it but was quietly competitive and silently smug over his good grades. Could comprehend well above his reading level from an early age and would often look into experimental research and complicated magic but found himself lost in OWL level History of Magic when chapter upon chapter lay ahead of him about something that didn’t catch his interest. Some people he beat just to spite cause he hates them. It worked, whatever.

Tends toward introversion and finds himself tired sometimes quite easily by a large amount of social interaction. Witty and big-mouthed when he feels comfortable or is in the presence of those that embolden him and very likely to get flustered and snap at people when things are becoming a bit too much. Especially if he feels however unjustly that someone is blocking his escape. Has matured slightly in this since leaving school but it happens still, he’s just anxious. Quite fickle and can at the drop of a hat decide that he’s done with you for the day once his Give Me Attention Meter is maxed. Could be an absolute bloody brat when he felt like it but feels he has grown out of it, which he mostly has.

Always been very, very aware of many people’s distrust of him and his family, he used to sneer and play it up if anyone tried to bring up his dad and go on the offensive but was genuinely affected quite deeply by it all. In his early school years, despite his weakness to the cold, he constantly had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that his blank forearm was bared as a statement to just about everyone. I am not marked, I never will be. Now he’s older he has more of a handle on things and can be diplomatic in situations where people are clearly discomforted by his presence and his family history.

Even though the war culminated far earlier in this verse I imagine Scor would have had to have been relatively sheltered as a child if not for how emotionally sensitive and prone to periods of ill-health he was, it was definitely for his own safety. He is still the grandson of a known high-ranking Death Eater and that made him a media target and put one on his back for anyone else that might happen to be watching.

Never produced much of a talent for offensive magic and wouldn’t resort to those methods unless he had literally no other choice, not a front line fighter by any means. His talents with strategy, potion-making, healing and his perseverance with defensive magic are what define him to the Order. While everyone kind of knows who he hung out with at school and who his friends are he is deliberately very mischievous with releasing rumours and misleading people. He deliberately keeps his cards very close to his chest so most people don’t know that he is aligned with anyone, he usually uses glamours or a scarf to conceal his identity if he has to.

While he is knowledgeable about healing and anatomy, he is the WORST at taking care of himself. The literal embodiment of Healers make the worst patients, tends to forgo sleep and basic bodily needs if he’s locked into what he’s focusing on. Sometimes needs reminders to sleep and eat, like a child.

Healing is the most satisfying part of his life and he would never give it up, he likes to experiment as he has a fascination with magic and muggle science and where they might intersect. A fucking nerd honestly. While he thinks he’s being fairly subtle about it a large part of his academic life has been doused in research into blood maledictions, for obvious reasons. He does his best not to flutter too obviously around his Mum. She is capable and ten times stronger than he is.

Lives in a small studio flat in Diagon Alley that is mostly stacks of books and makeshift shelves.

the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.

Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm, his existence is an endless heat seeking mission.

Went to one Slug Club meeting and used his time to verbally berate and or challenge most of the contacts in attendance, he was not asked to return.

Potions Club, Charms Club, used to sometimes be willing to be dragged to Dueling Club but didn’t enjoy himself.

Plays quite a bit of chess.

Bruises like a fucking peach and scars so easily.

Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled.

Is a very skilled pianist almost entirely due to his Grandmother’s tutelage.

Surprisingly great with children/toddlers/babies, no one including himself expected this, he mostly feared them beforehand.

Bit of a mummy’s boy in that he practically GLOWS when people talk of Astoria’s achievements.

When he has time off from healing he will have chipped black nail varnish on.

Highly intelligent but rarely manages to match a pair of socks, chews his quills but no one else’s.

While very eloquent and well spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

When he isn’t prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.

[ CREDIT : CHARACTER PSD template by @karmahelper (defunct url) I tried to find a current social this week by messaging around but couldn’t find anything unfortunately. Forgot to copy this over from the google doc! ]

#potterintro #finally #sorry if this is missing anything

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revunant · 10 months

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POV: You are on a roof.

He is also on the roof. It’s likely that neither party expected to have company up here, and it’s clear from body language alone that he would have liked it to stay that way. But he doesn’t leave, even though with those wings folded on his back he probably could, easily. The armoured stranger looks sideways at the person he’s sharing his space with for a few awkward moments, before making the decision to approach.

“Look, if you’re here to jump...” His voice is clear enough through the mask, but also clearly being processed through some sort of modulator. “I think it’s probably my job to try and stop you. So, uh...don’t?”

#┆open.#┆ic.#im doing another one for this verse i just had to get This out of my system #suicide implied /#VERSE┆first abandon kindness‚ you need to learn to hate.

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just-horrible-things · 4 years

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Have I worked on any of my WIPs and abandoned storylines? Nope. Have I been writing in a completely different ‘verse instead? Why yes, I have.

Cowritten with @khalwrites, whose ‘verse and characters (other than Ariadne) this features.

---

Maliq’s Revenge

“Ariadne,” Maliq smirks, “You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t you want to catch up, after all this time?” “Ah, my least favourite crybaby,” Ariadne acknowledges him. “What do you want, Maliq?” His face darkens. “Who’s the crybaby here? I’ve heard you screaming down there. Forever the little rebel.” That smug smile creeps back into place as he talks. “You know… she screamed too. But he never healed her, just let her suffer. Days and weeks on end…” He lets the thought trail off, grinning. “I see you still don’t have anything better to do with your time than spew bile.”

He’s clearly trying to provoke her, but she doesn’t have the energy to do more than snap tiredly at him. And she knows full well how bad an idea it would be to lash out. Punching his stupid smug face would be… not even slightly worth it.

“I just wanted to let you know,” he sneers on, false friendliness paper-thin over the barbs, “what happened to your former good friend. You could ask our King, he would agree that Jojo’s screams were musical.” “I’d watch out then,” she retorts, “Yours sound about the same. Better hope he doesn’t start missing them.” “Big talk from the King’s favourite toy.” She snorts derisively. “You used to squeal all the time, I haven’t forgotten.” All she can do is bark at the end of her chain, but she’ll take her satisfaction where she can. For instance, in watching his face twist with upset and humiliation. “I’ll show you squealing,” he growls. And to her surprise, he goes for a knife.

The movement isn’t subtle. She’s shifting her weight before the knife leaves the sheath. It’s not difficult to sidestep the lunge. Her forearm intercepts his to stop him changing angle. She thinks of stepping past him and breaking into a run, but she doesn’t really have room. Her feet move to open up the possibility of tripping him. He pulls back, then slashes sideways at her. She grabs for his knife hand, unafraid of the blade - he hasn’t put enough force into it to do her real harm. She feels it catch in her clothes, feels the sting of a scratch across her shoulder. Irrelevant. Maliq drops the knife in a panic as she spins him and pulls him in close against her body. She didn’t even have to twist his arm. “Guards!” he shouts, struggling, “Unhand me! Guards, guards!” “Still scared of me?” she asks in a low voice, close to his ear. But she lets go of him with a bitter chuckle. “You’re scared of him,” he huffs, straightening his clothes as he backs away in a hurry.

And then he is turning to the guards as they arrive, with a very familiar expression of wounded indignance that makes him look like a snotty ten year old all over again. “She attacked me!” he proclaims melodramatically, “She tried to kill me! Arrest her at once.” Ariadne sighs. “I did no such thing,” she refutes. But she puts up no resistance as the guards lay firm hands on her shoulders. Dread is heavy in her chest. Fighting won’t do her any good. But she holds her head high, looking down her nose with disdain at Maliq.

His obnoxious smile is back in place. “Have fun,” he sneers.

---

She is merely confined to her room, but fear feels like chains, twisting through her ribcage and wrapped ice-cold round her limbs. She tries to take it out on a pillow, imagining Maliq’s face under her fists. But, surprise surprise, it does nothing to ease the fear.

The King won’t believe Maliq’s ridiculous accusations, will he? He knows that she wouldn’t dare, doesn’t he? Surely he knows her better than that, sometimes he seems to know everything she thinks...

It’s not a relief when the summons finally comes for her. But at least she’s escorted to the King rather than dragged.

She bows low for her liege, and waits for his signal to approach. Then she kneels at his feet and bows again, all the way to the floor. Shivers crawl across her skin. She doesn’t sit up until he orders it, and then she looks up obediently to meet his eyes. “You are aware,” he begins, “That Maliq is training for command? He is a powerful mage and I am highly disappointed that you have such dislike for someone so important.” Highly disappointed. Anxiety solidifies into bleak certainty. “I will curb my dislike, Your Majesty,” she is already promising. But - “I didn’t attack him.” I swear. I wouldn’t dare. “Of course you didn’t. I trust that.” Relief floods Ariadne’s body. It’s not as bad as she feared.

“But what I don’t trust,” the King continues, “is your commitment to proper conduct. You made the decision to show disrespect to someone important to me. Am I next? Will you forget your manners around me, forget to respect me and address me properly?” Ariadne exhales. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I did not realise I was to show him deference.” She lets her shoulders slump. There will be punishment. “I would never dare to disrespect you, Your Majesty.” But perhaps it won’t be so bad? “I... failed to understand how I was to act towards Maliq, I am sorry.” She doesn’t know whether the flicker in his eyes is good for her, or bad. “Do you believe a lesson is necessary for you to understand why your actions were incorrect?” “I won't repeat the mistake Your Majesty,” she tries anxiously. Is she supposed to beg, here? Can she get out of punishment altogether? “I - I believe I've learned…” “It shouldn’t have happened the first time.” No, no she cannot. “Yes, Your Majesty. I u-understand, Your Majesty.”

The guards step forwards with the usual smooth discipline that makes it seem like they start moving almost before the King’s gesture. She’s been dragged enough that she can move with them as they take her by the shoulders and lift. This time they let her take some of her own weight, a small mercy. She lets her head drop, cheeks hot. “Take her to the cells,” the King orders. “Put her in chains. I will be there shortly, Ariadne, to have a discussion about respect.” “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees, but she is already being marched out.

She knows the dungeons well. Simply descending the stairs shouldn’t have so much power to terrify her. But the first lungful of frigid air saps the strength from her legs and twists her gut into knots. She wants to dig her heels in and fight and try to run. But she’s tried that before. She’s tried pretty much everything. Maybe this time won’t be too bad?

So she doesn’t need to be thrown into the cell, doesn’t fight the hands that pull her wrists behind her back and cuff them, doesn’t protest when she’s pushed to the ground and shackled to the wall. She is a well-behaved toy, and she hates herself for it. The door closes with a clank that she must have heard a hundred times before, but that still manages to make her stomach drop.

They leave her sitting, but she knows that she should be on her knees. ‘Shortly’ could mean anything, and when the King walks in he will want her on her knees. The chain between her wrists and the wall isn’t so short that she can’t shift her position. They could have been much crueler with the chains. Another reason to hope, perhaps.

But despite everything she tries to tell herself, she is terrified.

To her utter humiliation, tears well up, and she can’t stop them from streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t even hurt Maliq. What was she supposed to do, let him stab her? She holds her tongue for King Edwyn, all the time. Why can’t she have a shred of satisfaction? It’s not like she even threatened the little shit. How stupid of her to think she’d be allowed to speak to him as an equal. He claims that she is an ‘assistant’, a ‘favoured servant’. He pretends she is important in his court. She should know better.

Her tears are hot on her cheeks, and cold where they land on her thighs and soak into the fabric. It’s such a tiny thing to be upset about. She should be used to this by now.

In time her tears dry up, but the suffocating fear persists. She shifts and fidgets, but time drags its heels in the perpetual gloom. She could be here for days, he’s done it before. Or he could stride in at any moment, expecting her alert and contrite and ready to grovel for her worthless skin. Her nerves are taut as bowstrings, and like a bow left strung too long, she can feel her mind cracking under the tension.

She cries again, and stops, and starts again. How pathetic she is.

When he finally comes for her, his footfalls outside the door are enough to make her heart pound in her chest. The tears redouble as she straightens up her posture. As soon as she sees him, she bows forwards as far as she can, pulling against the cuffs until the metal bites into her wrists.

The King lets her tremble for a few long seconds before telling her “You may sit up.” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she murmurs reflexively as she straightens. She’s acutely aware of how pitiful she must look, gazing up at him with reddened eyes, shivering from cold and fear. Her cheeks begin to warm again, despite the chill air. “You shouldn’t be in trouble Ariadne. Maliq was incorrect to try and harm you, try to provoke you.” Hope is unwelcome, almost painful, closing her throat. She knows the ‘but’ is coming. “Unfortunately it did open my eyes to your inconsistent respect for authority.” He steps forwards, revealing the whip in his hand. “I don’t intend to be cruel to you. I intend for this to be quick. I’m even considering avoiding the whip.” He paces as he talks, letting Ariadne track him with her eyes. She tries to keep her focus on his face, but the coil of leather tugs insistently at her attention. “You are a quick study Ariadne. Talented. You learn. You adapt.”

“Thank you, Majesty.” Ariadne tries to wet her lips, but her tongue is bone dry. “I'm - very sorry I've misunderstood how I should be acting, Your Majesty. Thank you for your kindness. Please, tell me who I should be deferring to, I want to do better.” The words barely take thought. Just empty platitudes. Tribute to his expectations, his control. “Ten lashes?” he asks, still using his disarmingly friendly voice. “Ten burns? Ten breaks? You choose Ariadne, you are learning quickly and I must repeat that I don’t believe this lesson should be dragged out past what is necessary.” “Thank you, Majesty, lashes please, Your Majesty.” The choice is so obvious that she regrets it as soon as the words are out of her mouth. It must be the wrong choice. It’s never that easy. “Very well.”

It’s an effort not to flinch from his approach. She hates how hard she is shaking. Hates how terrified she is even when he is promising her that it will be mild. But there are no surprises, not yet. He unlocks her hands, and she waits for permission before moving an inch. His touch on her shoulders stops her breath and sends shivers across her skin, but all he does is guide her -- into the centre of the cell, turned to face the back wall, and then back onto her knees. “Take your tunic off,” he orders. She doesn’t hesitate to obey, half-folding the garment before setting it aside with shaking hands. “Hands above your head.” He chains them above her head, but he doesn’t pull them so tight as to hurt her shoulders. She has room to struggle. The thought is almost laughable. “Look ahead, and count.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” She expects him to get straight to it. But he isn’t done making her wait. So she listens to him pace behind her. The air seems to fight her, catching constantly in her throat.

“You are very respectful,” the King praises her, “very good at your job. This will only help you improve, do you understand?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” More empty words. Please, get on with it. “And I promise, ten lashes. And I will not inflict any more pain on you.” “Thank you, Your Majesty. I-I’m grateful for the-the lesson, Your Majesty.”

He keeps pacing. More tears well up in Ariadne’s eyes. She doesn’t understand. Why is she so fucking scared? Ten lashes is nothing. The pain won’t even be that bad. She hates it, she didn’t used to be so afraid. He has broken her. A sob catches in her throat. “Ariadne,” the King chides mildly, “it's a promise to keep the pain as low as possible. Control your trembling.” She takes a deep breath in, humiliation only fuelling the tears. “Ten lashes of the scourge.” Wait - scourge? “And don’t lose count.”

Ariadne yelps with the pain - white-sharp at first and far worse than the simple whip he showed her - right across the centre of her back and up to curl around her shoulder. “One,” she gasps, breathless. The pain is still building, heat flaring along the line of torn skin. She knows the scourge he must be using, with the shards of glass woven into the leather.

But the bait-and-switch is almost a relief. If this is the catch… it’s still - she can cope. If this is all. Is that enough?

She thinks she’s ready for the second blow, but she cries out just as loud if not louder as the scourge comes down directly along the same line, redoubling the pain. “Two!”

Her hands catch the chains that hold the shackles up, and her fingers find a firm grip. Pulling hard to distract from the pain. The third strike snaps across her lower back and she doesn’t scream. But before she can count ‘three’, she’s cut off by a fourth -- no, that’s not fair, how is she meant to -- and again and now she’s missed two counts and her back is criss-crossed with fire and she can’t breathe--

“Don’t forget to breathe and count.” Ariadne’s lungs unlock and she manages a gasp, then a deeper breath. “Thre-ee -” her voice wobbles “--nnh--hhh?” She can’t find the words to ask what she desperately needs to know. “Do you not want the other two to count?” She opens her mouth to answer, but only ends up yelping under the next blow. “--four--” she gasps. Oh, she’s getting it wrong but now it must be too late to backtrack-- “I told you not to lose count.” “-- sorry --!” Another stripe of burning pain - was that six, or seven? - oh dead gods, she really has lost count and it’s only been six - or seven? - why is she panicking? “Well?” “Please--!” she stammers frantically, “Please -- may I try again, Yo-our Majesty?”

He pauses. Ariadne gives up on trying not to whimper. Why bother withholding the satisfaction he’s looking for? He’ll take it one way or another.

“Back to the beginning, it seems. Do try to stay on top of things this time.” Ariadne cringes, expecting the next lash. “Yes Ma-ajesty,” she agrees. He’s kind enough to let her take a few more deep breaths before he brings the scourge down again. “One,” she counts through gritted teeth. She’s depending on the chains for support now, unable to keep upright on her own. “Remember to breathe.” The reminders are so condescending. But what’s worse is she does need them.

Another lash, and she cries out again, voice cracked with stress.. “Two.” “And breathe.” She gets three deep breaths, then he makes her yell again. “Th-three.” Breathing deep without prompting, this time.

One deep breath. Two. Three. Another lash. He hits so hard, his strength is unbelievable. Each impact slams her forwards against the shackles and drives the air out of her. “Fo-our -” “Don’t forget to breathe.”

Thank you Your Majesty, she thinks, and she hates that it’s ingrained even in her thoughts now. Each breath is shuddering. The sound she makes under the next lash is breathless and broken. “Five.”

Tears are streaming down her face. She forces herself to keep taking those deep breaths. There’s a tiny measure of calm in it. At least he’s not pushing her too fast now.

On the sixth stroke she screams. It lands right across the worst of the pain, tearing deeper into the existing wounds. She wonders sickly if the bone is exposed yet. She can’t speak instantly and the panic starts to rise again. “Si- six-!” she chokes out desperately. “Breathe,” he tells her. Her hesitation is forgiven. She’s doing well enough. She breathes. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale - shuddering - and hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale - and the lash falls - she knows it will - while her lungs are full so that she can cry out loud and clear for him. “Seven.” Inhale. Hold.

“I hope that you appreciate the time I spend on you.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” she agrees tearfully, “Thank you for -- teaching me, Your Ma-AAAHH!!-aaahhnnn -- E-eight, tha-ank you, Majesty.”

Inhale, exhale. Sob, hold. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Shudder. Inhale. Pain to make her cry out again. “Nine.” Whimper. “Thank you, Majesty.”

Inhale - ragged, shuddering - no, inhale deeper. And hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale again. Can’t hold, loses the breath to another fit of shuddering - her bloodied back ripples with pain every time -- and no, breathe. Inhale.

She whimpers, expecting the next blow, but it doesn’t come. “Control yourself, Ariadne,” he chides. Hate stirs in her chest, but it’s dim and distant. The pain is bright and real and now. She inhales. Controls the urge to sob. Holds and exhales.

The King starts pacing again, footsteps loud in the bare cell. Slow, unhurried. “Keep your eyes forward,” he reminds her. “Yes Majesty,” she agrees miserably, clinging to the chains, trying to focus on her breath and not on the sound of the scourge dragging, the distinctive scrape of glass on stone.

“Have you learned the necessity of respect?” Still pacing. “Have you learned why it is important to trust me, to trust my lessons?” “Ye-es Your Majesty,” she answers hesitantly. Can she say she’s learned, when she’s still due another lash? “I, I trust your wisdom Your Ma-ajesty,” she hedges, “Thank you for te-eaching me…” Can’t go wrong with ‘thank you’ and with flattery, she’s learned that much at least. “Only one more, you’re handling this well Ariadne. Do you trust me? Trust what you can accomplish under my command?” “Thank you Majesty - yes, yes Your Majesty, I tru-ust you.” “Good.” But he still doesn’t give her the last lash.

Back and forth, his measured, steady footsteps go. Back and forth the tip of the scourge drags. Ariadne looks only at the wall, as ordered. She trembles, and breathes, and tries not to cry. Her britches are soaked with her blood and cling stickily to her skin. Her fingers are freezing, she can barely feel her death grip on the chains. Back and forth the King paces, and Ariadne waits at his pleasure.

Lightning-quick the scourge moves at last, startling another loud, high wail from her throat. “Ten,” she is finally able to say, and the relief is a heady wave that sweeps through her from the whitened tips of her fingers right to the soles of her feet. “Tha-ank you for teaching me, Your Majesty, I-I won’t fo-orget, thank you for your mercy.”

His hands at her wrists cue her to try and take her own weight again. She pitches forwards, moaning in agony as the movement curves her shredded back. The King doesn’t help her, which is a small mercy. Every twitch of the torn muscles in her back is pain, but she’d still prefer it to his hands on her shoulders, possessive, moving her like a ragdoll.

While she’s panting and whimpering, the King picks up her now-blood-spattered tunic, and tosses it into her lap. “Return to your room, Ariadne.” His tone is cold. “I will heal you in the morning.” “Thank you, Your Majesty, you a-are generous.”

She staggers to her feet with difficulty, clutching the tunic against her chest. The world swims and her ears fill up with hot, wet noise. Her knees hit the stone again and she almost collapses. But she’s trying again even before her vision clears. And on the second try she manages to stay up.

She doesn’t want to put the tunic back on. But there’s an implicit order in giving it to her. And even if there weren’t… the choice is between that, and letting the whole castle see her like this. So she stumbles to the doorway, where she can brace a hand against the wall, and she struggles painfully back into the garment, sobbing as the fabric pulls across the raw swathe of pain that is her back. And with a quick glance back to make sure she isn’t doing the wrong thing, she steps out of the cell and into the corridor.

Her head is spinning. Just putting one foot in front of another is an effort. The King follows her, pace leisurely as she stumbles on. She looks back again, eyes pleading. Did she miss an instruction? But he’s just smirking and watching her struggle. Just entertaining himself with her suffering. Leaning heavily against the wall, she makes her shaky way to the stairs.

She’s made it up a few steps when he clears his throat, and she freezes. Has she done something else wrong already? “I expect you to get some rest,” he tells her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees uncertainly. Begging internally -- please, please just let her go, isn’t she doing everything she’s told? “I will see you in the morning to heal those wounds,” he smiles. “Don’t want them getting infected.” “Thank you Your Majesty,” she repeats, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He lets the silence stretch for a few more uncomfortable seconds.

Then he simply dismisses her. “Go get rest now.” “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees breathlessly, “Yes, I-I will, thank you.”

What was the point of that?? Just to enjoy one more look at her fear? She hates him. She hates him so much. But she turns away as bid, and forces herself up the next step, then the next.

It’s a long way back to her room, and she knows she won’t sleep. But at least she gets to rest.

Small mercies.

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yeoldontknow · 4 years

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Hi hi🌸 I'm loving the whole request-an-au thing. I love your writing a lot, so I'll be requesting one myself. I'd like Hero Chan in a road trip au. Thank you in advance💜

eeee hello!! yes here you go!

Verse: Hero + Road Trip Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female; hero!reader) Rating: NC-17 Warnings: sexual themes; light gun play; dark language; depictions of blood; discussions of death and murder; descriptions of guns; its hero so like...you know what this would be but also - absolutely do not read if under the age of 18 - you know the drill anything with hero is a dark time Word Count: 1,036

Chanyeol grips the wheel like he remembers how it feels to be alive.

The midnight darkness of the sky infiltrates the car, the night a moonless void that creeps inward. This kind of night is hungry, waiting. Around you, the earth is seething, eager for your bones and your ash and your dust, the land and sky growing teeth. In a different life, you’d be terrified of this kind of darkness. You’d run from it - in parking lots, in fields, and in your own driveway you would hurry away from it, looking for the light. Back then, you didn’t want to be warm. It was never about warmth.

This kind of darkness triggers the primal urge in you to survive, an old urge. The kind of urge that was born from when humanity was new and small, living in caves and wondering if their homes would eat them. This kind of darkness consumes. But Chanyeol glimmers, flesh like moonlight and smile placid. Chanyeol brings the light, illuminated not by the car console but by the fire he keeps within, man’s first success story caged within his sternum. His heart does not beat, but the fire burns - Chanyeol grips the wheel like he remembers how it feels to be alive.

You fondle the Baretta M9 nestled in your lap, turning it over and over like it’s some kind of toy, an item of pleasure. Today, you pulled the trigger and your wrist did not ache with the kickback. Today, you pulled the trigger and you smiled after you blinked, your shot still imperfect but lethal. No one offered their praises - you did not need them. Not really. These days, your heart has become a cabinet of weapons, and you laugh each time your spirit sharpens a new blade. Chanyeol did not make you this way. You think, perhaps, you had always been this way, a night creature forced to live in daylight, smiling prettily, and waiting for someone to accept your worth.

Chanyeol grips the wheel like he remembers how it feels to be alive, and he does not look at you, the blood on his cheek dried down to a brown smear. He accepts the death you have laid before him, accepts the woe and the horror, and does not expect anything less from you. Black trees pass outside the window, dark streaks that make his red hair glow and glow, an impossible trick in the absence of light but the blood on his fingers, those ugly stains, have become majestic in the night.

You wonder when he learned to drive. Who taught him. If he took to it the same way he takes most things - all the way down to their core until there is nothing left, his thirst always unconquered. You wonder, too, who taught him how to fire a gun, how to kill without shedding tears. When Chanyeol was alive, he was soft. You’ve seen it. You remember it.

Chanyeol grips the wheel like he’s twenty-eight, not old enough to eat the sun, relaxed and reclined. Seven men lay broken and bleeding, dead, soiling the concrete and the fabric of their trousers, the distance between your car and their contorted corpses growing and growing, but he smiles softly, sweetly. Chanyeol smiles like the night drive was his idea, something spontaneous, something fun. You suppose it is.

On a whim, you raise the gun to his temple, safety still on and you’re certain he knows it. But you hold it there, wondering if he’d laugh, if he’d get hard, if he’ll take your life for your indiscretion. You press it against his skull, waiting for him to react, pushing and pushing.

He simply keeps driving.

‘Let me go,’ you tease, already knowing the answer. JinSoo is still alive, and your end of the bargain has yet to be repaid. Still, you try the question on for size, wondering if this is a shade of darkness you could fit, wondering if you could kill the thing that amplifies the horrors you’ve kept buried in your soul.

‘You know the rules,’ he drawls, bored and unfazed.

You turn the safety off, the click barely audible over the hum of the engine. ‘Who says I want to obey them?’

In the silence that follows, his cheeks warp his lips into a wide smirk, eyes still on the road. Using his right hand, he holds your hand in its position, stable and unwavering. His hand on your skin is cold steel, iron wrapped around your bones to keep you in place, a shiver running along your nerves at the touch. And then, all at once, he turns to face you, abandoning the road for the sight of your clenched jaw and knotted brow.

The road stretches before you, empty, open, and you don’t really feel scared that he isn’t looking, but it lingers in your blood like a slow reaction, a chemical response that itches deep in your muscles. He probably doesn’t need to look, likely does simply because he wants to, but you hate that he still pulls the human out of you. That even now, you still look from the corner of your eye, wondering what danger will emerge from the dark. You hate that he does this, because he looks so beautiful, subjected to your will. You hate that he looks beautiful, submissive, wetness pooling into your underwear and thighs clenching, wanting all of this inside you, held there, trapped.

With a laugh, he turns back to the road, lowering your hand with ease. You don’t put up a fight, still too human and too malleable to win him over.

‘If you wanted to, Hero, you would have,’ he advises, jaw set and eyes stern. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, and the flush of blood up your neck infuriates you. You want him to see. You are always wanting him to see. ‘You’re still soft like a massacre.’

Running your fingers over the barrel of the gun, you consider his words. It feels like him, all unyielding metal and elegant contours. You stroke the metal over and over, watching him as he drives, as he blushes, as the sun burns violently beneath his flesh, and you finally, perhaps for the first time, recognize him as your cold mirror. He is your beginning and your ending, the human and the monster in you merging, forever entwined.

#chanvember drabble game #chanvember 2020!#heatofmyexoheart

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s0ngsforliam · 3 years

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the lovely @onthewrongsideofthebed tagged me to post 5 of my favourite lyrics, thank you very much <3

i'm very, very indecisive so i picked these kind of at random

am i pretty? - the maine

my fav song by the maine. i love all of the lyrics in this song but these lines in particular. it's just very comforting to me

there's beauty and grace in the flaws of your face

all candor and style in the crook of your smile

backstreets - bruce springsteen

yes. i copied two verses. but look at these lyrics and tell me how i'm supposed to copy less. i don't exactly have a fav springsteen song but if i had to make top 5 this would be in there. i love this song so very much. especially this part. i recommend listening to it because the lyrics hit differently when you hear him sing it (particularly the first line) i could honestly write essays about this song. it's so honest and desperate and sad and the story is so vivid. i feel like it perfectly depicts the messy feelings of losing someone and the rage of feeling abandoned

blame it on the lies that killed us, blame it on the truth that ran us down

you can blame it all on me, terry, it don't matter to me now

when the breakdown hit at midnight there was nothing left to say

but i hated him and i hated you when you went away //

laying here in the dark, you're like an angel on my chest

just another tramp of hearts crying tears of faithlessness

remember all the movies, terry, we'd go see?

trying to learn how to walk like the heroes we thought we had to be

half the world away - oasis

you can't give me the dreams that are mine anyway

funnily enough while typing this spotify started playing it. i just love this line so very much. i can't even articulate it but the entire atmosphere of the song and this particular line always pick me up

scar tissue - red hot chili peppers

i'll make it to the moon if i have to crawl

in fact i love this so much i got it tattooed. i know technically this is a song about drug addiction but this line to me means doing everything to get where you want to be and it's always able to give me back some motivation

mother love - queen

i know this wasn't written in the same sentiment but as an ace person this part just speaks to me on a spritiual level tbh

i don't want to sleep with you

i don't need the passion to

i don't want a stormy affair

to make me feel my life is heading somewhere

yes i'm going overboard with this but i simply do not know when to shut the fuck up okay so from the same song:

this part is sung by brian may bc it was recorded after freddie passed away. his voice in this never fails to make me cry. lyrically i love here that the statement "i can't sleep" is followed by saying that dreams are what's keeping him company. quite frankly it makes me go mad with feelings.

my body's aching, but i can't sleep

my dreams are all the company i keep

i'm hesitantely tagging my love @mansgotalimit if you're around and feel like it i'd love to know

#tag game

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ethelphantom · 4 years

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The Rose Speaks of Love Silently

So yeah. Back again. This is the second part of the Soul Rose story, the first being Crimson as a Rose. I hope you enjoy this! And like, I don’t know what happened, but this turned out to be like 3k. Oops and all that I guess.

This will not be the last of this series, so like, don’t worry about that. I just have exactly no ideas for it. If you have anything you’d like to see in this verse, hit me up. Heaven knows I need help with ideas.

This is Maribat, ship being Jasonette. Don’t like, don’t read.

Ao3 || Part 1 || Part 3

______

As long as she could remember, her head had been filled with noise. Loud, loud noise. It didn’t matter that everything else around her was quiet — the voices in her head never left her alone. At least they weren’t malevolent but rather kind. It didn’t help with her life though.

The more she could find fallen soft petals around her, the louder the voices inside her head grew.

She had once been told it was because she carried the rose and the creation miraculous — the single existing miraculous that could only be wielded by someone with a Soul Rose. Few people with one existed these days, and even fewer were suitable for one since over half of the living Rose Souls were corrupted due to their lack of empathy and love.

Of the few Rose Souls that were alive, she was the only one capable of love even after having lost most of her petals. No empathy left, that was sure, but somehow all of her love was stored in that one petal still hanging tight.

Or, perhaps, that petal was still hanging tight for she refused to give into her wrath.

She cradled her rose closely to her chest, tears falling down her cheeks and staining the dry ground. She wished for her capability of empathy to be back, but nothing she could think of could heal her.

“It’s not that you were broken from the very beginning — no, dear, they broke you.”

Those were the words that her master had told her before he had been murdered. Her own partner had murdered her master, their master. He had been the only one that knew about her Soul Rose aside from her parents who rejected her once they found out she had been fighting the evil that controlled their city, their lives, and because of that, she now had no one left.

There was no one left that she could go to.

Her only friends had forgotten about her. Perhaps that was for the better. As far as they were aware, she was a liar, a jealous bitch, someone who only wanted to manipulate all of them. All of them had told her they could not survive without her, that she was what kept them all glued together, but now it seemed like it didn’t matter to any of them.

They had accepted the new girl in without a blink, without a second thought, and then they had given her — the one some of them had known for most their lives — spot to the new girl, the stranger none of them knew anything about.

In class, in life, in their hearts, in their souls.

Because Marinette could see their souls...

...She knew that was exactly what they had done.

And so, there was now another everyday Ladybug sitting next to them, laughing alongside them; they ate her words from her palm like it was the sweetest nectar. It wasn’t like any of her words even held any truth to them, but somehow all of the people following her didn’t mind, didn’t care that she would never give them anything like Marinette had. Her replacement seemed to mean more to everyone than she ever did even though all of her words were just beautiful lies, but even so Marinette stayed. She decided she couldn’t go anywhere else — she still needed to be there to save them from the evil each new day.

She didn’t want to stay. She hated— no, she loathed being there for there were memories everywhere in the city. But, while that was true, she could understand why it was important she had them. Marinette knew that she could learn from her past. She knew that she needed to stop trusting people so blindly. While being able to trust was beautiful, she knew she was not supposed to let her trust destroy her.

And so she slowly learnt to value herself. She deserved better than them.

And she would find something better than them, there was no question about that.

At least she had all the kwamii with her. The kwamii, and the ever-present voices in her head. At least they loved her and cared about her when no one else could bother.

Freak!, the people she once considered her friends screamed at her when they saw her speaking with someone when they could see no one.

It’s alright, love, they don’t deserve you, the voices in her head said. Tikki said they were the ghosts of the previous Ladybugs. Marinette smiled through the hate she got.

You’re just jealous of Lila and all her achievements, they justified their actions and themselves as they denied her her right to defend herself and drove her away from everyone she could have once considered her friend.

Don’t worry, there will one day come a person that sees you for you and your worth and they’ll love you more than anything in this world. On that day those people will regret ever letting go of you, the kwamii told her as she cried, wiping her tears away and cuddling up to her.

But, even as the voices were kind to her, and even as the kwamii tried to love and comfort her, Marinette fell. She fell to her sadness and pain, she fell to her need of someone else. As the days passed by, she finally let go of her hope to find someone else, someone that could accept her and love her for her and not for what she could give them.

Or, so it was until that day anyway.

Marinette was wandering around, her small bag filled with different kinds of snacks she had made in case she found someone upset so she could make sure Papillon couldn’t get to them. She would rather not fight anyone today, thank you very much.

Once she went home — a small cottage at the border of the forest — to get a refill of her snack stocks, she spotted a rose with no petals near it. It was clear to her from the very second she saw it that this was a Soul Rose. It screamed crimson to her, and she was sure that one day long ago its petals had been a beautiful crimson, just like blood was.

And, for it indeed was a Soul Rose, it was clear that the Rose Soul it belonged to needed it. Badly. The Rose wasn’t dead, so that meant its Soul was still alive as well. Rose Souls were never supposed to be apart from their Roses, and definitely not for as long as this Rose and its Soul had been.

Thankfully, being a Rose Soul and the Soul of Creation meant that she was allowed to speak to Roses, even those that weren’t her own. Marinette asked the Rose where its Soul lived and how long they had been apart, and she got her answer as soon as she picked up the Rose for it could sense she was a safe Soul to talk to. As soon as it sensed that she was going to help, that she wanted to help its Soul and return it to them.

Marinette followed the Rose’s instructions and walked always deeper and deeper into the forest until she finally saw a hut there. A man hit its wall and pressed his head against it, clearly frustrated. Marinette lifted the Rose to her heart, listening as the Rose got excited when it could sense its Soul near, and she smiled. She had finally found a Rose Soul, the Rose Soul that needed its Rose back.

She walked closer. A stick cracked under her feet, and the man whipped around to see her, staring as though he had seen a ghost.

Marinette held the Rose close to her chest tightly but was careful to not harm it, and against her white dress, the rose with no petals stained in blood created quite the contrast.

The man glared at her, looking like she was the filthiest scum of the earth, like he was somewhere between punching her, taking the flower from her and murdering her. She stretched her hand out to him and handed him the Rose gently, knowing he must have been anxious to find it.

She still had to admit, he was gorgeous — and that was a lot to say considering she had once known Adrien, the man Parisians called the sex appeal personified. She would have felt bad for him, but she couldn’t bring herself to care — after all, they weren’t friends. But perhaps… Perhaps this man in front of her with black locks, some of it dyed white, and the most icy blue eyes she had ever seen could be someone she could call a friend one day.

She was allowed to hope even if the past seemed to say it was a bad idea.

“Excuse me, I believe this belongs to you,” she said with a quiet voice, putting on a smile to make herself look less threatening. She couldn’t afford to have herself look like she was a threat to him, not what with her holding his Rose, his greatest weakness, his soul in her hands.

The man yanked it from her hands, causing the flower’s thorns scratch her and draw blood. She said nothing about it, only pressed her other hand against it in hopes she could stop the bleeding. She didn’t want to anger him by mentioning he had hurt her when he had only been protective of his Rose. It was understandable anyway.

“How did you find it or this place, and how did you know it was mine?” he snapped, clutching the flower in his hands like it was his lifeline. Maybe it was.

She stood up proud and looked him straight in the eye even as he seemed to be trying to intimidate her. It was kind of working. Marinette was not about to let it stop her. So what if he was much bigger than her, so what if he looked like he could snap her in half without even trying? She was Ladybug, she wasn’t that easily driven away. She’d seen much scarier opponents in her life.

Besides…

He was lonely.

His Rose had talked about him to her. It had told her a little of his life, of him being abandoned and left behind, of his family not caring about him. How people drove him away and called him a freak. He had no one. He couldn’t even talk to his Rose. She wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t know how to, or if he didn’t even know it was possible if he learnt the right technique.

Besides, Marinette needed the presence of another human in her life. He had a Rose, and his Rose — while corrupted and sorrowful — was not evil. He was not necessarily a good person in the sense everyone thought of it, but he most certainly was also not a bad person.

“Great. Now, get out of my sight, girl.”

She was not about to give up this easily.

Marinette reached her hand out and grabbed him by his hand. “Wait, what’s your name?” she asked, giving his hand a light squeeze. She wanted to know at least this one thing before letting go.

He froze in the place and slowly turned around, staring at her.

Marinette watched as words formed on his lips but no sound came out. Why do you care? He seemed to ask.

Because no one else does, she wanted to reply.

She didn’t have any time to react before he had already grabbed her wrist and lifted it above her head so high that she had to stand on her toes to touch the ground. She refused to let out a sound. He scowled at her, but she kept the eye contact.

“The hell it concerns you. Go away, now. Shoo,” he said and let go of her wrist. She fell down, her Rose falling out of her bag. Marinette watched as the man stormed inside and slammed the door behind him shut so hard the walls shook and the forest echoed. She left a few snacks next to the door, safe for even animals to eat so even if it wasn’t him that took it, an animal could get a meal.

Then she left, hoping to meet him again. As she rubbed her wrist, trying to ease the aching in it, she quietly swore to herself that she would befriend him and not let him be lonely anymore.

It took a few days before she saw him again. She was sitting in a park watching the children play and run around when a man came and started harassing one of the mothers there. She waited a little, wanting to see if the woman would defend herself, but when she didn’t, Marinette stood up and started making her way to them.

Only, the Rose Soul she had met earlier came in between and told the man to fuck off (to put it kindly, anyway). He helped the mother and asked if she was alright, but all she did was call her children to her and scream at him before leaving. Tell him that she didn’t need his help, that she didn’t need help from some creature that came from hell — a freak, a monster.

Marinette was seething. This woman had no right to call him that no matter what he had done before (unless he had directly hurt her, then possibly) because right now he was helping.

People were despicable.

But, as much as she would have liked to go tell the woman just what she thought about it, the Rose Soul mattered more. That was precisely why she instead went to the Rose Soul, addressing him.

“Are you alright?”, she asked, smiling at him with gentle eyes as he turned around. He seemed shocked to see her, and Marinette wasn’t sure whether that was because she was there or because she had asked how he was doing. The latter option sounded horrible. Had no one truly asked him that in such a long time? Had it truly been that long since another living human being had cared about him?

“None of your business, kid. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not a girl though, I’m an adult. And yes, it is very much my business — I saw your Rose. You’ve been hurt so much you’ve lost yourself.”

He seemed to be fighting himself, trying to decide whether he should tell her everything or leave right that second.

“Why are you so damn persistent about this?”

“Because I want to be your friend. Now, what’s your name? I’m Marinette.”

“That… that’s such a horrible decision, wanting to get close to me.”

“Oh well, would not be my first horrible decision,” she told him sneering quietly as she remembered how she had decided to be friends with untrustworthy people. Then she dug out a small box of colourful cookies, offering them to the man. “Do you want a macaron?”

The man reached out his hand before jerking it back, unsure of whether he should take one or not. Marinette shook the box lightly, still in front of him, urging him to just pick one. It took him a while to actually take one and even longer before he took a bite, but when he did, she could just almost see his Rose glow with warmth and joy it had not gotten to experience in a long time.

Marinette beamed as he ate the rest of the macaron, happy to see him enjoy it.

“Do you like it?” she asked, tilting her head and kept her smile on her face. Marinette wanted to step closer to him and touch him, maybe hug him as it seemed he had not gotten positive human contact in a long while, but consciously forced herself to stay back. She needed to respect his boundaries that she didn’t even really know yet, she didn’t know where he set them. That’s why it was all the more important for her to make sure she didn’t disrespect him.

“Yes… It was good,” he responded, eyeing her closely. She hoped that whatever it was that he was looking for in her turned out to be positive. Heaven knows both of them needed another human being near them.

Marinette felt Tikki nudging her leg from inside her bag. Yes… Tikki was there for her. No matter what happened here, Tikki would still be there and Marinette wouldn’t be left alone.

Unlike this Soul.

She clapped her hands and squealed. “I’m so glad you liked it! I was afraid you wouldn’t, but it seems my worries were unfounded.”

And finally, finally Marinette could see a smile forming on his face. It was small, barely there, but she counted it as a victory. And besides, he looked absolutely gorgeous when he smiled. It was much better than she could have ever even hoped for.

“So, what’s your name?” she asked once more, looking deep into his icy blue eyes, looking at the corruption that was his beautiful soul. She took a rose with only few crimson petals, all of them looking like she had dipped them in the blue of the sky and presented it to him. She knew he recognised it immediately as one of the few roses that held someone’s soul on this earth.

Because indeed, she too was one of the very few souls that were personifications of roses, and she decided the best course of action was to trust him with her secret without really even knowing him. She trusted him with her greatest weakness.

After a long, silent while, the man took his eyes off the rose in her hand and looked at her instead, eyes wide. “Jason,” the hesitating, broken voice said. How long had it already been since he last time told someone his name…? How long had it already been since someone last time asked for his name?

But regardless, Marinette already loved his name.

Marinette reached out her hand to him, waiting for him to take it. When he hesitatingly placed his hand in her own, his Rose appeared in the air in front of them, and she watched in wonder as a crimson petal took from and reattached itself to the petalless Rose.

A tear rolled down Jason’s cheek as Marinette smiled. He repeated his words, told her his name with the barest hint of a faint smile on his face, and at that moment, Marinette was sure she couldn’t have been happier.

“My name is Jason.”

____

@18-fandoms-unite-08 @todaylillypads @kris-pines04 @thethirdwheelfriend @daminett4life @dur55

#jasonette #jason x marinette #Jason Todd #marinette dupain cheng #maribat #miraculous ladybug #ml x dc #ml #fanfic #fanfiction #ethel's writing

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ironxkid · 3 years

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🎧🎧🎧

SEND “🎧” AND I’LL GIVE A SONG THAT REMINDS ME OF MY MUSE WITH A REASON WHY!

under a readmore because it’s long gfdshjdfkj

regular verse

Learn To Let Go by Kesha

this one is pretty straightforward, because the song is about taking control of your life and not lingering in negative past events! It’s honestly really fitting for Carter, because that is something she needs to learn (and does later down the line), and she does encourage others to do just that without... exactly doing it herself in the beginning dsfgjhgsdfhj

Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson

also another straightforward song tbh dfgjhkdf

the song is about pushing forward and to just keep breathing, which is definitely something Carter has to push herself to do a lot

Perfect by Hedley

mmmm, I’m gonna post a chorus verse before I explain because it’s pretty obvious dfghjfdh

I'm not perfect / But I keep trying / 'Cause that's what I said I would do from the start / I'm not alive if I'm lonely / So please, don't leave / Was it something I said or just my personality?

Carter has a fear of abandonment, which I know I’ve talked about before, so her being alone (and, more specifically, left alone by the people she loves) is terrifying, and... not something she would handle well if it happened. So the lyric “I’m not alive if I’m lonely” is hella fitting

and, I actually have this song in both playlists, because this is especially fitting in the ikau, but she is afraid of chasing people away because of who she is. And, there is a lyric that simply goes “Was it something I said or just my, just myself?” which... pretty much covers Carter’s fears dgffdskj

ikau

Eight by Sleeping At Last

this song is literally on the nose dfjghdfgjk - I mean: “I was just a kid who grew up strong enough / To pick this armor up / And suddenly it fit”

the whole song just perfectly covers Carter growing up under Obadiah’s thumb after her father’s death, and her taking on the Iron Man mantle way too young. She shut herself off from everyone around her and became cold to protect herself, and she pushed herself way too hard to try and be something perfect when... it was impossible. She was trying to mold herself into a twisted image of a legacy of her father Obadiah had painted for her, and it nearly killed her

but she wants to let someone in - she wants to be able to trust someone who isn’t going to hurt her, but she’s terrified to do so

Whiskey Lullabies by Janet Devlin

also another song that’s quite on the nose! The first verse is “When I was a child / They'd ask me where it hurt / And wipe the tears from my eyes / Sure embraces / Gentle forehead kisses / Making sure that I was alright / As I grew older and the nights grew shorter / I no longer cared where it hurt” which is perfect regarding baby Carter - she was loved and cared for when growing up, and then... her father died and she was put under Obadiah’s care, and everything changed

the second verse is: “Scars they heal in time / The raw wounds on my mind / They aren't so easily fixed / You can't mend what isn't broken / Kind words are rarely spoken / In time I will learn this / But I grow older / And the nights grow shorter / Drowning as I sink or swim” which fits her growing up under Obadiah’s thumb, and her realizing just how much things have changed, and she’s struggling to get by

the bridge is fitting as well: “Please be my saving grace / Please be my saving grace / How to answer all my prayers / Please be my saving Grace” and I tend to associate the “Please be my saving grace” lines to be her doing... basically stupid stuff to either prove herself or to try and make her situation better. The last one, in particular, I usually picture to be it directed towards the Ultron project (before Ultron actually came to life), because while Carter is very reluctant to actually pursue it despite Obadiah’s insistence, she truly does hope it could be something that could allow her to step down from being an Avenger and just... let the Iron Man mantle go, while also making her situation with Obadiah better. And... it does make her situation with Obadiah better but... in a way that still hurts her, considering it results in his death, but makes everything else worse

FAULTLINE by STARSET

ngl this is basically the only song I like off of Divisions

so, to get this out of the way first, Genius is making it sound like this is a toxic romantic relationship which is a hard fucking pass on what the relationship between Carter and Obadiah is - it’s toxic and abusive, yes, but it’s familial. He fills in the role of a father figure after Tony’s death, but there’s nothing else to it, and I just wanna mention that first just to be on the safe side in case this confuses anyone

anyway, this is definitely a song that is more around Carter’s PoV and directed towards Obadiah, and expressing her frustrations with him. Part of the first verse goes: “First you gotta know / How to play the victim / Hate to tell you so / But you repeat the symptoms like an aftershock / And I only want to make it stop”, and it works because Obadiah... definitely pulls a “woe is me” card regarding Carter. He’s manipulated it so Carter seems to be an extremely broody kid that he can’t get through to at all - he’ll get her upset to the point where she snaps at him, but only does so when, say, around the other Avengers. So, they see an old man trying to help her, and then they see Carter turning on him and lashing out at him in response. He plays the victim, when that’s far from the case, and Carter just... wants him to stop

the song is just very fitting for their relationship overall! And a part of verse two goes: “You don’t wear a scar / While I’m the one in stitches / And I don’t know why / You point the finger every time”, which is perfect considering whatever Obadiah does, Carter ends up taking the fall for it, and he is quick to blame her. But, he does so in a way that makes it seem like he cares - so, as an example that’s more fic!Carter based, she actually encounters the twins in the Sokovia base (like, face-to-face) but lies about it to the rest of the team. Obadiah knows this, and when Ultron comes to be and attacks them before leaving the tower, Obadiah asks if the twins had hurt her while in the lab with the other Avengers when they’re discussing Ultron’s motives. Since she lied about seeing them to the team, this only furthers their disappointment and frustration with her. He had told her he wasn’t going to say a word about it if she worked on Ultron, but he did so anyway (which is something she’s not sure why she’s so surprised about afterwards because she knew he’d do something like that). So, he points the finger at her every time - he throws her under the bus, putting her at the center of a blame game, and she doesn’t... understand why

#asks #((I used an rng to pick out songs for me bc I'm indecisive and I have too many dfghjfdj))#death tw #abuse tw #((also the other ask you sent with this meme has currently disappeared from my drafts but it should be popping up here pretty soon gfdjhdfgs #bc tumblr is totally a functioning website! fgsdjsdf))

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dantesinfcrno · 4 years

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trigger warnings !! suicide, suicidal thoughts, drug use / overdose, body horror, death, blood, violence, self harm, abusive relationships. most importantly, bad writing!

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈 ：𝐇𝐘𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀 .

frigidity, heartlessness ╱ the absence of love ╱ virgin mary, corrupted .

winter child with shards on its mouth –– the snow quivers before khione, goddess whose lips do not tremble. cataclysm upon birth, no life to be seen as monster opens its eyes. before words could be uttered, before a name could be given to beast, untamed, it knew of fate. worthless creature, undeserving of shedding a tear. void big enough to fill any mansion, all touch lost –– who would cradle an interrupted demon, a fallen angel? who would wipe the anguish that never created roots inside tiny body, broken?

( … )

one vivid memory: it sitting down in the floor a living room ( no house is ever the same: all empty in a pantheon of different ways ). it is invisible, as Father dreams of his own tales, as Mother unravels the world. no one holds it up. –––– galatea? –––– it calls for Her, voice too firm for a child, first words incisive ╱ poignant knife. She stares into its eyes, peering at the chaos She created –– and turns Her back.

( … )

verses wrote themselves against its skin, fairies would whisper secrets into its heart. before it could walk, small deity devoured books –– in search of a love he did not know of, this powerful feeling it could never obtain. the titans who gave birth to lucifer ╱ lilith, anew, could spare it no sweet nothings. the tutors brought in could not hold down treacherous creature, could not embrace it, could not understand it. oh, the gentle kiss that would break the curse. oh, the sweet princess that would awake humanity inside tainted guts. the choirs sang of redemption, absolution –– but they also snarled at child born with a target on its back, holy water falling at its feet. you were never meant to receive tenderness ; you shall not know what love entails. it all echoed inside this fortitude: melancholy the only tune beast ever knew ╱ maddening: to never be touched ; to never be loved without worship, without loathing.

( … )

poignant claws would drag themselves over a violin, and he interrogated the stars. who else, who else. can famine become savior? can ferocious teeth learn to taste another’s core without devouring it whole? i can try, i can try. boy, blizzard –– locking itself in the garden of eden, mortality discovered as fingers bleed, as thorns find home in the anatomy of god, interrupted. –––– you can be anything you desire, vessel. –––– serpent hisses, crawling up its core. –––– i choose to live. i choose to love all monsters, made out of darkness & concrete alike. –––– dante replies, half-smothered, half-breathing, apple tasting sanguine on his lips. ophidian smiles, knowing this end will be self-made. –––– you can’t be helped, child, you can’t be helped.

–––––– 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 . ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈 ：𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐀 .

resentment, anger ╱ agape ╱ your presence soothes me .

to seize the adoration one was never deserving of: a sin, an addiction. bringer of nightmares, a king crowned with madness –– and all he wants is all he can never have, prince amongst commoners, crawling through cobbled streets in search of scraps. there is relief in the tender stares he receives from older women, insisting him to turn back and find home. i don’t have one, i never had one. bones of a boy, muscles of a boy, but he –– savage, feral, bleeding life into a world that despises him.

( … )

this is what he knows of love: he must give it, even when it hurts –– somebody must be willing to rip their own flash, gift it away, and remain lacking forever. with hate, he learns this: puncture your flesh in order to feed the mouths that bite your legs ; turn your head to receive double the punishment, as it might turn you palatable ( they all want to break you, and if you shatter prettily enough, you might find gilded dregs to store inside your ribs ) ; swallow what no one wants to hear & drown in it.

( … )

being made entirely of open wounds, there is no deity capable of dragging him back to the fiery pits that gifted him life ╱ gifted him curse. lucky vessel, so close to a heart of his own. he rips one off a deer ( unfortunate as all that cross his path ) ; does not recall his face as he becomes other. the horror of inevitability is the only beauty he knows of, as he undresses, carrying only skin & blood. summer child ╱ crooked teeth, crooked smile. eris lies underneath ophelia: sweet, poisoned honey. there is an empty space, and there is laughter by its side. lord shiva, this is all i have, this is all i am. is there any other way to love, but to turn into madness? dante’s shrines are always filled with silence –– but he still brings limbs, lungs, livers as offerings to friends, lovers, foes.

( … )

light quivers through the cracks –– through the smile always perched on his lips, meaningless. he embraces the world: atlas, knee-deep in dirt, bound to shackles rooted in tartarus. he bears the weight with joyous laughter, bullet-wound on his throat. unconditional love to all but himself. –––– this is how my salvation will come. –––– he mumbles, wine-drunk, licking aphrodite’s mouth. oracle, foolish in his hopefulness. –––– i will love, love, love, until the point of murder. i will love the unlovable ; and i won’t ask for anything in return. –––– as he kisses madness into a stranger’s lips, as his body becomes a one night miracle for those who need it most. –––– i can give, and give, and give, and you won’t hear my voice begging for anything else. –––– as he lays in a bed that is not his own, as he wraps his tongue against quickened pulse, as he becomes one with a galaxy that had long disowned him. dante holds the unknown in his arms, and promises to adore it ( sweet, inescapable destiny ╱ ouroboros: we therefore commit this body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, beast to beast ).

–––––– 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐛. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 . ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ：𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄 .

withering hope, abandonment ╱ philautia ╱ unfading love .

there is a limit to what forsaken hands can do. dante has picked stars, reached burning celestial bodies, cut his palms while tending to flowers with more thorns than petals. maybe i will encounter the lacking piece ; maybe there is half a soul to be found. a possibility is all that drives him forward, as skies turn grey and greyer. death is served, and young piece of sunshine ╱ corrupted shard of blood moon refuses to take it. i will keep on living –– i refuse to pass, i will not become more ghost than i already am. he moves around life, life runs right through him –– a sword lodged below his collarbone, forcing him to cough up blood. he is not a memory anyone can have. dante thinks about his absence in a world that already feels much like nothing: everchanging figure with a thousand names, an opaque face, a hidden mouth.

( … )

merciless crow weighs heavily on his shoulder –– that, a haunting dante can’t run away from. he pledged the remnants of his tortured soul ; promised to bloom flowers inside of his guts ; swore he would not howl when the thorns slayed him. –––– how do i love without feeling it flow in my body, how do i love without receiving it in my bloodstream? –––– fallen next to thanatos, locked away in a luxurious bathroom, he wonders and wonders. foolish messenger, victim of hubris ╱ icarus, aware the sun would burn his wings, but taking the leap of faith & crashing, drowning in saltwater. –––– who am i to challenge the gods? –––– he murmured, anguish sorrow rising and falling in the rhythm of his chest. dante remembers rain falling endlessly –– but, most of all, he remembers silence. –––– oh, dear. i am alone, aren’t i? –––– he questions a ghost, tears rupturing his flesh. what he tried to hide meets sunlight in its last breaths. miserable boy, crestfallen human –– he discovers himself once he uncovers death. soothsayer full of shame, guts filled with medicine, wrists torn by ache. what prophecy could he utter with such a defiled existence? no one will come for him, is his last rational thought. no one will remember him. dante: nothing, no one, infinitesimal. –––– all i have tried to give is all i do not have. –––– the veil falls from his face and the earth quiets.

( … )

he wakes up, bittersweet taste lingering in his body. my bones have finally shattered, he muses, not entirely awake, i have nothing else to give. his tutor does not spend the night by the side of his hospital bed ( white, everything pearlescent, pristine, sickening ), and dante doesn’t expect his parents to come –– and they don’t. ordinary, meaningless existence. he should have passed to another realm, but he had vowed to keep on living. –––– fate is anything but forgiving. –––– is what he mumbles to a kind nurse: the one individual worried for him, but only because it is her job. he holds her by the wrist one day, mouth opening and then closing. can you stay with me? can you let me go? –––– thank you. –––– and there are no other words he is able of uttering throughout his stay. alone, is all he’ll ever be, no pink hues to enlighten his days. he notices his age in a file, wrong by two years, but does not say anything about it. who cares? who cares but you? do you at all?

( … )

his scars do not turn into bird wings. what should i fear, if not death, if not desolation? the torment of being devoured –– no, that is what he loves the most. in one of many nights ( lustful, adoring, fickle ), basile fast asleep by his side, dante’s fingertips caress exposed skin –– brutal tenderness, a blade he could never inflict upon himself. –––– i think i can only ever love whatever part of me when i find it mirrored in you, mon cher. –––– he confesses, obsidian irises shining. to hold on, to make room for fragile things, to fracture in the same crevices, even with leaden bones. –––– dragons and butterflies are one in the same, aren’t they? –––– dante whispers, cherry lips dragging across basile’s ears as emerald cradles carnelian closer, closer.

–––––– 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 . ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐕 ：𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 .

unfortunate attachment ╱ philia ╱ i have lost all .

grief supposedly works like this: denial ; anger ; bargain ; depression ; acceptance. dante has never fell into the latter –– there was not a day he felt his mother’s absence as an axiom. galatea died in his arms, no last breath redemption gifted to her only heir, but her number remains his emergency contact. perhaps–– this is the closest he will get to love: half-ghost, half-illusion ; one he can confess all his sins to ; one that will not reprimand him no more ; one hollow image ╱ sacrilegious saint he can pour his most selfish desires onto. once her body is laid five feet underground, dante kneels. –––– i would have done you a favour, mother, had i died before you.

( … )

dante’s dismay is always reminiscent of a forest, petrichor, and a bonfire put out during the night. galatea by his side, barely addressing his existence. miles deep into the woods, birds were singing once he heard mother, titaness, whimper. dante reached for her, cradled her, hugged her –– for the first time, for the first time, for the last time. intact arrows were lodged on her throat, on her chest. what could he do? –––– stay with me, please. –––– dante begged and begged, but galatea’s eyes were no more. trembling hand holding cold fingers, desperate cries as he forced himself to walk, to search for an exit he knew no longer existed. his feet were cursed with blisters once he found a small village, his cheeks marred by dried tears, his arms covered in matriarchal blood. catatonic emptiness –– and each new fracture of his soul was a new explosion, sharp, dangerous, lost. he remained by her side, acute desperation as the reality crashed upon him, a rogue wave. –––– come back to me. –––– as he curled his body next to hers. always freezing, you were always this cold anyway. –––– come back. you have to come back. –––– as he clung to her limbs, as his eyes sunk in sorrow. does this pain have a name?

( … )

poppy’s empty room and the vacant space left by galatea were one in the same. dante lingered around her bed, head throbbing –– grief never leaves, it only evolves into smothering shadow. dante places a small bouquet atop her pillows, mumbles a prayer in a faint voice. –––– i never had much. –––– he whispers, and hopes poppy can hear him, feel him. –––– but i had you. and i will find you, baby girl. i promise i will. –––– there are no smiles to brighten up his complexion, no light shining through his ribs. this night, like many others, is spent entirely on research. who can i reach next? what can i sell of my soul to have you back?

–––––– 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕 ：𝐂𝐘𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍 .

departure, resignation ╱ pragma ╱ all good things come to an end .

spring child, full of heartache. oh, how he wishes he could give it back: so many lives lost as he aimed for a pulse of his own, and dante now chases numbness. bodies become a blur, just in time for him to turn into a ghost. cheap whiskey and smoke mix themselves in his tongue, there are pills dissolving in his mouth, there is a stranger pressing him up against a wall. why is it not enough? why must i crave what i can never have? oh, to grow yourself a heart only for a friend to pull it out, for a friend to crush it beneath their feet. foolish boy. you should’ve been grateful for the void i gifted you, is the echo growing inside his brain, his mother’s voice a tortured ghost. to believe one could truly love him –– the most reckless of all behaviours, the pain that could extinguish him into dust. what is heavier than this emptiness? what is more consuming than this void? –––– she … she told me she was going to find someone else to go home with. –––– hollis’ words can’t be erased from his mind, and dante finally crumbles beneath their weight.

( … )

his eyes are swelled up once he reaches london. perhaps, there is a limit –– even for a demon, even for a grotesque creature. perhaps, as he crawls atop galatea’s grave, he meets his end. knife wound, love wound: it bleeds all the same. his body is freezing, even when the night is still –– there is an image replaying in an infinite cycle behind his eyelids, frozen tears clinging to reddened cheeks. –––– was saying ❝ i love you ❞ my undoing? –––– he murmurs into the night, the claws of a demon resting upon his shoulders, smothering and lukewarm, and shivers caress his spine ( tiny spiders, nails across a chalkboard, vermins crawling through a corpse ). –––– he asked me to find him, and i did. –––– there is no humour in his laughter. such unforgivable stupidity, and he can only punish himself for it. unsheathed talons lacerate his scalp: apathy as a life-threatening poison, as he sinks rotten nails inside of his flesh and hopes to come up with a crown, reborn. there is no rage as perished daisies become his halo, as dead mother becomes dead son, on his knees, forehead to the ground. cold rain soaks up his bones: a preferable fate to succumbing to loneliness –– suffering, but religious ( i am only holy when broken, i can only adore as a morgue does with a corpse ). can rose taste him in basile, he wonders? is he too fleeting to be felt, even by a tourmaline angel? –– the one that loves him, loved him, somehow. melinoe whispers in his ear ( mother of madness, but he trusts her –– who else does he have? ) : that was a lie. what does one gain from worshipping you? –– hell, fervent kisses, languid hands, consuming touch, everything, too much, nothing at all.

( … )

jester, conquering his way through pleasing his majesty’s body, filling his bed. oh, to be aware of one’s low worth –– never good enough, even when it came down to being used. tiring illusionist, shuffling the same cards, over and over and over… could he blame anyone for forsaking him? ares, begging to be forgotten. no more pain, no more. the heavens are deaf, however, and it continues: plague in his bones ; hunger in his chest ; torture in his skull. if he stays down for long enough, perhaps no one will bother to look for him. pitiful dead boy turns blind man, hearing his last heartbeat, moonlight on his tongue, constellations on his lips. what is there to be said at his tombstone? unknown, unloved, unmissed. this, the only way he’d ever be able to go. you may have broken my heart, but only i hold the power of shattering my own soul. water springs from his eyes: weeping angel, at home in a cemetery. –––– not even your ghost is capable of loving me, mother. and still, you’re all i have. –––– he whispers, restless, plunging prayers down the earth. love me, you should’ve loved me, love me, please.

–––––– 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞: 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 . ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈 ：𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 .

you will be my death ╱ eros ╱ poisonous calamity .

eros finds him –– no mercy, no mercy. mercutio picks him up from the ground, dirty and paralyzed, says nothing. dante wakes up in his bed, undressed, filthy, sore. –––– you always come back, don’t you? –––– the emerald’s voice reverberates in his head, each syllable another nail on his coffin. phobos & deimos are also children of aphrodite, is what he learns with mercutio –– standing tall, smile of a hunter, canines of a wolf. –––– i am really everything you have, huh? –––– his laughter is haunting, and the desai becomes child, forgotten –– once more, once more.

–––– i never had you. –––– dante mumbles, looking out the window. the abyss stares back, offers no answers, vanishes. –––– never had anyone at all.

( … )

when the morning comes, mercutio presses dante against a wall –– hand around his neck, vicious. dante does not blink as breaths become shallow, as lights seem to fade. –––– i’m not scared of you, fool. –––– melancholy in defiance, tone dripping in dark blue. –––– kill me. I’m all yours. –––– and he smiles only after his feet touch the ground, a slap across his cheek. bitter glory. thanatos is always lingering in his spine, never daring to break him. untouchable, even by death. sobriety in nothingness, in madness: mercutio looks inside his soul, and realizes he is messing with a demon with nothing to lose. –––– you have stepped over my guts and claimed the beast inside of me as yours. you have more reasons to fear me than anyone else, and you better start acting like it. –––– dante bows, and leaves. always an actor leaving a stage –– trickster, villain or tragedy? he doesn’t know anymore.

–––––– 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚) 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐛) 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐜) 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 ? ––––––

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈 ：𝐀𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐋 .

my regrets follow you to the grave ╱ memento mori ╱ remembered beyond the tomb .

dante comes back at midnight, after four long days. there are finger marks against his trachea, there are new quicksilver lines against his body, there is new darkness pressed underneath his eyes. quiet –– inside his heart, white noise. inside his mind, an ocean in which he’s drowning. for poppy, he muses, for poppy: he must move onward for her, if not for anyone else. he can barely hear his own heart, beating, struggling. just until i find her, and then...

#𝑿𝑰𝑰 : REFLECTIONS .#𝑽 : DEVELOPMENT .#body horror tw #suicide tw #blood tw #violence tw #abusive relationship tw #?#drug use tw #overdose tw #self harm tw #suicidal thoughts tw #i couldnt fit in ludus and storge in this #but #yeh

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