#and that mean drowning in grief and pain for a VERY long fucking time

[cultpastorkevin]

Kevin Day & Grief:

how can you grieve the loss of an abuser?

aight let’s just get right into yet another psycho-analysis of Kevin Day and his messed up life; I’ll be using quotes from the EC

“Kevin does not react well to Riko's death at all, and this is a problem for a while considering what Riko's done to the Foxes. But Kevin & Riko have a long and complicated history.”

It is a very heavy and sharp type of grief to carry, when the person you mourn is someone who did terrible things to you and others. It’s not easy. It makes you feel guilty for missing them, makes you full of regret and “what ifs”. Grief is not rational, it’s something that tries to drown and take everything it can with it. Kevin is aware of what Riko was like, was well versed in the things he did and said. But he knew Riko before it all, he knew Riko when they could barely put their own shoes on. He saw Riko’s changes firsthand. He’s grieving everything that Tetsuji stole from the both of them. He remembers Riko in ways no one else ever will. The burden of seeing someone you love turn into the very thing you’re afraid of, is a heavy one to bear. It is even more heavy to know that everything that was good about them, dies with you.

Anger is always quick to rear its ugly head after the initial shock and the tears wear off, and it’s an emotionally bloody affair. Anger caused by sadness is one of the most gut wrenching kinds of anger, because there’s really nothing you can do about it but let it pass. You’re stuck feeling it, you have no choice. So yeah, Kevin was definitely angry. Angry at what Riko did to him, angry at the fact he’s outliving him, angry that he’s gone and angry because fuck, he shouldn’t be feeling this way, it’s not fair to everyone he’s harmed. For the first time in his life, he might’ve even hated Exy. All it has done is take from him the people that he loves, and playing is an eternal and constant reminder that he has succeeded Kayleigh and Riko. Picking up that racquet reminds him of his hand, and in turn, of Riko, who even at his worst was still loved by Kevin. And at the lowest points of his grief, seated in a bathtub and drunk off his ass, sorrow sometimes made Kevin wish it had been him instead.

“Wymack has to send the rest of the team back to South Carolina with Abby. Kevin is too numb to be moved yet.”

Kevin was so devastated he could not be moved; whether this is meant literally or in a “he didn’t have the energy to leave the house” kinda way, it’s still sad. Being so crippled by an emotion as heavy as grief that you cannot leave the home is hard. It’s painful. You’re dissociated and everything is a blur. You don’t register time passing. Eating, drinking, doing basic things all go out the window. And we all know what Kevin is like. He’s a routine oriented, night practice, calorie counting health nut who lives and breathes exy. He was so distressed that this man did not move and that means most likely, he did not fucking practice either. Kevin’s life ground to a halt for a second time because of Riko.

“It's a problem for a while because the Foxes' knee-jerk reaction to his devastated reaction is ugly. It'll take time for them to try and understand where he's coming from. Even Aaron has an awful opinion on the matter since he knows Riko was behind Drake. Renee attempts to play peacekeeper, but Wymack is the one who has to break his rule to stay out of their personal lives so he can try and fix things. He, Abby, and Betsy bring the Foxes to Abby's place two & three at a time to let them react and tirade in private. It's not enough, but it's a start.”

Kevin is not allowed to grieve without being guilted or punished for it in some way. He has never known a grief experience where he was completely supported during it. When his mother died, he was stuck with Tetsuji and Riko. He never learned how to grieve properly or healthily, and being attacked by the foxes for even feeling something didn’t fucking help. Wymack is the only (and probably first) person in his life who stayed by his side for this. Wymack went to the funeral, he stayed until Kevin could handle going back home. Wymack saw Kevin shatter and knew that he needed time to try to glue himself back together before the team inevitably caused him to crack again.

Wymack, Abby and Bee having to step in is all kinds of upsetting. Imagine having to basically set up impromptu vent sessions for your entire team because they cannot keep their personal feelings to themselves and can’t let a teammate grieve in peace. Granted the foxes aren’t exactly pinnacles of emotional regulation or maturity, but the least they could’ve done was leave Kevin alone (and let Neil and Andrew handle him)

“By the time they meet up again in the fall, the Foxes have attempted to forgive him his issues, because they understand from a logical standpoint that it's conditioned devotion.”

The foxes have every right to not grieve Riko, they have every right to hate him. They didn’t have the right to take it out on Kevin and isolate him even further from the group. It is a jarring feeling to be looked down on for mourning a loss. He did not need to be forgiven for his mourning. He did not need to apologize for missing Riko. His grief wasn’t something to be loathed. At the end of the day, Riko and Kevin were everything and nothing to each other. They operated on a delicate line of balance that shouldn’t have been able to be created. Their push and pull dictated every breath both of them took. Yeah, it was conditioned devotion in the end. But it didn’t start that way.

“Kevin Day goes on to be hailed the best player in the sport, the striker all future generations are compared to. The Jackie Robinson, the Wayne Gretsky, the bend it like Beckham. When the ERC constructs a Hall of Fame, Kevin Day is the first player to be honored.”

When Kevin received this honor, for a split second, he wished Riko was alive to share it. They started this dream together, after all. Only one of them being alive at the end is perhaps the biggest anguish of all.

[its-the-sa]

I'd love to hear your interpretations on those dreams at the end of artificer's campaign, the ones where you're trapped in a hallway with a scav and you have to kill them.

Personally, it's very interesting to me that in some of them, the player is the one controlling the scavenger (imagine a dream where you're someone else and it's you that's the killer, that's fucked up). I like to imagine that they began as basically arti's bloodlust carrying over to her dreams, but over time they got more complex, more detailed. Less of a violent fantasy and more of a reoccurring nightmare, maybe a symbol of her regret or a general disgust for senseless violence.

I have a headcanon where the dreams eventually make arti so sick to the stomach at the idea of violence she decides to give it up entirely, only fighting to kill something to eat. It's how I felt after finishing her campaign- I was so exhausted from the fight with the chieftain that once I won, I didn't have it in me to go around killing any more scavengers. I just felt bad for them and watched them run away from me. I couldn't do it anymore.

THIS THIS THIS!!! seriously, so many people seem to think that arti just genuinely enjoys murdering scavs, and... i mean i kinda get where theyre coming from, but to me it seems pretty clear that she is just constantly re-traumatizing herself.

like yes, she is consumed by rage, and im sure she does get satisfaction from killing them in the heat of the moment. but afterwards, i think it definitely haunts her. i imagine she tries to tell herself that 'they're all the same' and 'they deserve it', but she knows deep down that isn't true. she just keeps choosing violence because it's easier than accepting her loss. just like some people try to drown their sorrows in drugs or alcohol, arti tries to drown hers in blood. it's a self-destructive coping mechanism. as long as she is out there fighting for her life, finding enemies to hate and kill, she doesnt have to sit with her pain. but, once she goes to sleep, she cant run from her demons anymore. she has to relive her trauma and her grief, and she has to face the twisted monster she's allowed it to turn her into. theyre called 'nightmares' for a reason, after all-- they aren't fantasies about something she enjoys doing. even in the ones where she is still 'herself', she is trapped as surely as the scavenger is. theres no going back at that point. she has already dug herself into a hole where there is no choice but to keep killing.

and the ones where she is dreaming from the scav's point of view? that is like... the most perfectly brutal representation of repressed guilt i have ever seen. it shows that she on some level sympathizes and identifies with the scavengers she kills, that she's horrified at what she has become, and that she is inevitably destroying herself. all just by simply changing who the player is controlling. its freaking brilliant tbh.

anyway, i think that ultimately arti just feels guilty. she blames herself for not protecting her pups. she didnt watch them closely enough, she dropped them when she was running away, she didnt realize the blue pup got left behind at first, and she couldn't dive in the water to save the green pup. she feels like she failed them. so i think that once she took revenge on those toll scavs, the only person she had left to punish was herself. and she did it by going on to project her guilt onto every scavenger she saw. she chose to become a monster because thats what she felt she deserved to be treated like

[winged-paki]

Since my previous analysis wasn’t enough to satisfy my burnt-out lit student heart, have some more prattling about death and narrative horror devices in the DracuDaily!

August 15th’s update is distressing as fuck. We’re given Lucy’s mother’s death sentence here - a fright will kill her for sure, and with all the terrifying stuff Lucy is doing, being subjected to by Dracula, and will theoretically start doing in a completely new way as the vampirism sets in… yeah, RIP old girl, I’d die too if my daughter fell prey to horrors beyond our comprehension. So here’s what I’m seeing today:

First, a critical horror mechanism in this novel is that Dracula doesn’t only affect those he is preying on. Death/vampirism isn’t the only awful thing he inflicts. He has long-ranging ripple effects on the loved ones of those he hunts - Lucy’s mom will die from it, Mina is growing deeply worried from it, and Lucy’s husband and other suitors will inevitably be affected by it too. The fact that you don’t need to be targeted by Dracula to still have your life upended by him is blood-curdling. And it harkens back to when Jonathan first met all those concerned Romanian villagers, who wept and offered him protection - they’ve all been harmed by Dracula too, by the horrific ripples his vampirism causes. They live in fear, in grief, on a timer ticking towards zero - and that’s how Mina and all of England will be living soon, too. It’s clearer than ever that Dracula’s hunts have several victims, which makes him even scarier than before.

Second, there are some very interesting implications wrt Lucy’s mother discussing how she’s grieving her daughter. Obviously, the explicit meaning is that in Victorian marriages, the bride left her birth family and effectively became her MIL’s daughter, integrated into the new family, etc. But Stoker emphasized this sentiment for its double meaning: Lucy is bitten. Lucy is a vampire. Lucy is dead, and her mother is grieving the daughter she used to have. And she doesn’t know that’s what she’s grieving. Lucy’s mom doesn’t even know how right she is to grieve, to miss her daughter, to wish for her protection - because her daughter will never be the same again, and all Mina can do is try to keep Lucy safe from further attacks, from even more corruption and pain. She’s grieving only half of what she needs to grieve, and that’s possibly more tragic than having to grieve at all.

And finally, I see a gradual shutting-down of Mina’s immediate allies. Mr. Swales is dead from mysterious circumstances. Lucy’s mom cannot be kept in the know of what is happening to her daughter. Jonathan is mentally unwell. Mina is all alone in her observations of these strange supernatural happenings, just like Jonathan was all alone, just like the First Mate and then the Captain of the Demeter were all alone. And that loneliness? That inability to tell, to strategize with someone else, to seek comfort in a friend? That’s terrifying. That’s what drove Jonathan mad. That’s what drowned the First Mate and bound the Captain’s corpse to his ship. For the fourth time now, someone is experiencing these horrors and they’re all alone.

But Mina won’t be alone for long, I don’t think. Arthur will be back for Lucy shortly, and she might be able to get in touch with the correspondent who detailed the landing of the Demeter, and Lucy’s other suitors might join the party as well. And once Mina has allies, perhaps that’s when the horrors become a little more bearable. A little more beatable.

[erisenyo]

Hi again! I adore the way you portray Zuko and Sokka. The differences in how they cope with their grief? Immaculate. When Zuko stood up and ran away from having to separate the games?? I was like EXACTLY!!! Listen. If I was desperately in love with my best friend? I'd move too. Like??? You think Zuko has the fucking confidence and willingness to make a REALLY good relationship potentially even a little awkward? Much less make it so the love of his life feels UNCOMFORTABLE around him?????! Absolutely not. Girl, I'd bury my feelings and run for the hills too. The way you show him trying to push through this long goodbye with as little pain as possible but still just trying to get OUT. Like fuck dude!!!! It hurts my little heart but I would do the exact same thing. "maybe it isn’t so much that Zuko needs to leave as that he doesn’t see how he can possibly stay." The fucking PAIN in that sentence!!!!! I am mentally shaking you by the shoulders and begging you to put my poor man out of his misery! Ole yeller his ass. (I'm joking, pls don't. The agony is DELICIOUS) Then we have Sokka who is holding onto every second like it's his last. Pushing away deadlines, ignoring what he needs to plan, even the little details about him eating out to keep food in the fridge??? He is kicking and screaming his way through this goodbye. The domestic vibes of "what do you mean you’re not coming home for dinner?" makes me wanna go FERAL. They are literally married!!!!! I hope you know that those bold ass doomsday markers that tell us how many days are left? Feels like a kick in the stomach every time. Especially after a sweet memory where everything is good and the end is far far away. The emotional whiplash of it all. And can I just say that world seems so real?? Like there's so many characters and stories they reference! Like wtf happened at the game??? I am out of the loop and so is Sokka, help us. Also!!! Frothing at the mouth over the intricate rituals. The dinner making, the wrestling, the knowing each other without having to think about it, the game nights, fuck it the looking at the other disrespectfully. Ma'am I am going to mourn this relationship and I'm not even in it! GOD. I am not ready for when Zuko has to leave. I have no idea if this even makes sense lol it's 3 am. Tell me if these are too long??? I feel like I write too much but there's so much I wanna highlight!!! Like "I saw that!!!! And I loved it!" And idk how to express that I want to simultaneously skip to the happy ending and also drown in the yearning for as long as possible, ya know? Anyways have a good day!!!!! You deserve the absolute BEST!!!! 💖

Anon! You are back with more very kind words!

I am THRILLED that you love how I portray the boys so much and that their grief feels so different and distinct! And Zuko running away and not wanting to make Sokka uncomfortable or knowing how to endure any awkwardness with him let alone being uncomfortable himself--EXACTLY! Right to the heart of it, you and Zuko, pack the bags and start sprinting.

I'm so happy him trying to push through the long goodbye (great description!) is so relatable and that all the emotions of it are hitting so deep and that the agony is so tasty!! And Sokka! Who is absolutely clinging with every bit he has, kicking and screaming is exactly right he would be throwing a full-on tantrum if he could bring himself to upset Zuko like that.

I am doing a little dance that you are feeling all the domestic vibes. They are basically married!! And they're maybe the only two people who don't realize it haha

And it's so odd to say but I am grinning so much that the doomsday markers are punting you in the gut each time, especially after the sweet memories when the end is so so far away! Emotional whiplash let's go!

And that the world seems so world and fleshed out!! I'm so thrilled all the references and characters and stories feel so real, there is a LOT of timeline and a LOT of moving pieces and development between all the friendships, not just theirs, so this has me over the moon! (And the baseball game was a day out with Hakoda and Bato (dating), Aang and Katara (dating), and Sokka and Zuko (...whatever they're doing). Kind of a quiet everyday thing that at the same time is so special and natural and easy (and might feel, for Zuko, like the way it *could* be, when he lets himself think about))

And YES to the intricate rituals! They have TRULY so many. Just layers and layers of rituals built up all around their feelings. Keeping themselves nice and cozy under there.

You aren't ready for when Zuko has to leave and neither are either of them, really (least of all Sokka). So much mourning, so much angst, I love that you're enjoying all the yearning so much! And these are absolutely not too long (I mean, I'm not exactly concise myself lol), I adore seeing all the things you noticed and loved!! It truly makes my day!!

[misanthropiccacophony]

hey um. why do you feel embodied by euthanasia? i’m pretty sure it’s one of wills most straightforward, literal songs so like. it’s just about dead pets. no hate at all btw i’m just curious about your interpretation.

you're all good mate! actually, thanks for asking!! ^^

this is gonna be a long post that's pretty personal, so I'm gonna put my explanation under the cut.

this will include an overall connection, and analysis of lyrics and their relation to me

i know it's just about dead pets, which is partially why i feel so embodied by it. the lyrics themselves are a majority of my connection, but the delivery of the live version is also a big thing for me.

there's a rawness in the live version that really just,,, hits me. the ability to perform such a sad and personal song feels like both a cover up of emotions and a confession of them at the same time. i'm pretty easily overwhelmed by my emotions and shit, but i tend to keep them to myself cause i feel like a burden and leech on others when i try to share them.

because the performance is live. you can hear every string squeak clearly, too. i generally love this sound in music, but when paired with the song? it reminds me of choked sobs, like when you're full on sobbing and breaking down. it evokes that feeling of pure grief like what you'd get at the loss of a loved one. it feels so familiar for me.

sometimes i feel like a dead pet. i feel like a foggy memory that's being forgotten more and more, fading out as the person forgets my memory. i feel like a ghost. people see me, people see things about me that are glaring and obvious. but they still stare through me. sometimes that's all they do. maybe i'm a beloved memory to some, maybe i'm just a faint memory with too little substance to hold any emotional feelings, maybe i'm a raw topic that still causes the heart to bleed and ache, maybe i'm drying tears and the reason someone lashes out in pain and hates being alone because of the void i've left maybe not. that's ok either way. the live version of Euthanasia by Will Wood really resonates with me, and i feel like it and all of the feelings it invokes in me <at the very least> embodies me.

now, for song meaning. for clarification- the song is about euthanasia <obviously>, more specifically when Will had to euthanize one of his pet rats, Bert. that's the literal meaning of the song.

i've had to have pets put down before, and had others just pass in general. so in the literal way, i know the feeling; i've lived it

in general though, there's something about having to put a pet down to end their suffering peacefully that resonates with me. to put it bluntly– i both wish someone could do that to me, and i also know the guilt of having to do something that feels do horrid and awful to a loved one so fucking intimately.

both the owner—grieving and guilty over their actions—and the pet—terrified and suffering—are things that i've lived with for way too much of my life. i've spent countless hours drowning in those feelings and trying my damn best to escape and recover.

moving onto lyrics, i'm not gonna go over every single one, but i'm gonna cover a good few of them. i'm gonna put the lyrics in color so they're a bit easier to identify <and cause i feel like it> "I was right there, while you fought tooth and nail Gasping in the gas mask, thrashing 'til you disappeared"

this could go one of two ways. 1) i've had pets go, and i've had to do shit i thought was for the best but still really hurt. sometimes it feels/felt like i was watching hopelessly as it happened. 2) i feel like both of these at once. putting myself down, euthanizing myself, believing with all of my existence that it's for the best. i'm also fighting for my life, desperate and clinging to anything i can because i don't actually want to die, despite believing i do. "Say you're not scared That you know it's because I cared and Say you know I love you, and that hope was just not there"

i've hurt <and scarred> people i love because i thought it was for the best, because i loved them, because i honestly believed that there wasn't any hope. and often i wish to hear that they know it was an act of love, and they also felt that hopelessness so i can pretend i'm justified. "And I know, I know that I'm wrong That when you're gone, you're gone And I can't bring you home"

i know this denial so deeply. i also know the painful truth that i'm wrong in that denial. i've lost some people, through death or just losing contact or whatever. some days, though, i sink into that denial thinking i can see them again, that they'll come home. they won't, and i know it. "But I want, I want to believe That you'll remember me When you're just memory"

i like to think that people i've loved deeply in any way will still remember me when they're just a memory to me. that i've made enough of a difference that they'll remember me <fondly, i hope> when they're just another memory for me. "And sorry, I would take it back if I could, but I know" there's so much i wish i could take back. there's so much, even if it was for the best at that time, that i would undo if i could. the regret of that is something i might just die with. "But I want, I want to believe That you can still hear me When you're just memory"

to people i've lost in any way, i hope you can hear me apologize for not being there more and not doing more for you. i want to believe that those i've lost can still hear me say how much they meant to me.

" Said, "It's okay" "And it'll all be over soon" "I'd never let a bad thing happen to you" "Now, goodnight, I love you!" " i like to think that the harm i've caused isn't actually that bad. that it's for the best. it's not bad, it's actually good, because it was the best choice i had. i like to think that... for those i've left behind... that i could've said this to them or communicated it to them in any way "And every, everybody dies Fighting for their lives Just trying to survive" i don't wanna go too much into this. but. i relate to this line on such a deep level it almost physically hurts. sometimes i could swear to you that i'm failing to survive. some days i expect to die from how desperately i'm fighting for my life. "And I know, I know it's not true There's just no more you But as long as there's no proof Then I choose, I choose to believe That we'll meet in sweet dreams After you're put to sleep" i like to think that all of the people i've loved and lost still exist somehow. they're still there somewhere. whether they died or we lost contact in any way. they're still out there, and maybe i'll see them again. maybe i'll get to meet them in a sweet, comforting dream. because there's no way it will happen in reality. maybe, when we're both gone, we can meet again and catch up. maybe when we meet up, it'll all be okay. sometimes i wanna be put to sleep to see if that's the case. sometimes i wanna go to sleep to see if that's the case. either way, i'm always longing for the people that aren't in my life anymore. the ones i loved, anyway. i just think it'd be nice to see them again. wouldn't it be lovely to see their wonderful faces again? wouldn't it be beautiful to be in their glorious company again?

i think it would be.

[ellecansee]

Learning to live with it.

Being royal.

Not knowing who you are. But only ever knowing that you like everyone else born into life. Must die.

It's the difference between can die/will die.

It's a brutal truth that makes admission, something that others die over. I read somewhere of students killing themselves by shoving pens up their noses. By slamming their heads into their desks and the pens. Hitting their brains.

The pressure. Oh, the pressure. Too much pressure.

Everything must die. Whether it means, we come back in forms we always wanted. With nicer breasts, or smaller waists, thinner thighs, white versus brown. Or darker, perhaps.

We are still boundless. It is the risk that makes drowning seem like a sandpit rather than a vast expanse that leaves you stuck at the very bottom, lifeless yet weightless.

We kill things to eat them, to adorn them onto ourselves, or just because we think they are a pest.

Others do it, because of the immensity of the gravity it takes to live in a body that has been twisted into a form that is too painful it has to exit, rather than exist.

We learn to stay alive, keep ourselves well. But we feel the immensity of the grief. That is placed onto us, by new forms that may take place, by this choice. The uncertainty. The surprise.

Hands. Took up so much of my mind for so long. All the things that consumed parts of me that I had yet to know but felt drawn to.

Entire series's, books, people knowing I existed while I watched them through a screen. But they had been told about me, instead. That other people consumed and loved. But will never know, the immensity it took to simply, be, find, l(o)/i-ve out, being me.

It takes a lot of time and effort to place the things inside of us that are anchors that mean we stop swimming in the sea and just let it run its ways through us.

I drowned at the pool in Jamberoo, once. I still taught myself how to swim after it. My mum had burnt the skin off her leg. In a tabogan accident. I don't like to discuss it.

I jumped off the slide height and thought I'd just wade my way out of the water, even when I hadnt really swam before. But I drowned. For a bit. And had to be dragged out. By someone else. The other girl, didn't even notice or helped.

It wasn't a conscious choice. I was just a 4 yr old, hoping for the best but getting served the worst.

I think being royal, is a bit like that. Unless you are a coward. Who feigns death. And instead would rather exist rather than, coexist.

It's the denial. The way they make their platitudes. In front of others, take their photos, project their hopes and dreams. But they are cowards. Hurt/Kurt.

Kresta Blinds - something you don't see. But a light so bright it blinds. I don't know, where I got this, deep seated courage. It must be my Dad. He didn't want to keep eating himself. Like everybody else was doing.

Selling their sperm and blood for 10 bucks. Then letting their kids fuck each other. In different bodies but with the same blood and genes all the same.

Was he a fucker that had to die? Or was he a fucker that made sure, a lot more other people had to die instead?

It's a two faced coin that spins. And spins endlessly. With us, caught in the middle. Still learning to jump swiftly off the things that scare us the most. To stop those other people, from eating themselves, repeatedly.

It is easy to die for the things we love based on the previous narratives we hear of hero's. But when your Dad already did that for you. Then, does that mean, that we all must die, faster? When people kill others unnecessarily all the time.

I don't understand why the Kennedy's chose to die instead of trying to fix the electoral Commission? Like flying when they didn't have full clearance to fly that night.

It was a completely unreasonable decision to make. My Dad didn't get shot in the head, he tried to prove a point regarding myths attached to royalty. But if we must all die for being royal then who stops everybody else, from eating themselves?

Cos this current lot, haven't been able to do anything but just keep killing everyone else that could've.

We have an entire subculture of people dressing as emos. Commemorating the unbearable truth attached to being a person. That is, that they must die.

But when you only ever try to celebrate it. Rather than live it. Did you do it, properly?

The pressure box makes everything bad seem worse than what they are. I smoke because I am addicted to consistent unrequited love. It is an association I had chosen to make after almost dying and not having my lover, return to me.

Smoking, is, my crutch. Like a third leg. I pop on when one of the other of the two gives out. Or is far to tired to stand. It kills me. I convince myself that the love I want will also kill me too. Since every love lost is a death.

To be killed by your lover, knowing that, even before you had ever met. It was aligned that they were going to be a love lost. So a death.

All the lasts and the firsts mesh into white sand. At this point. Cos you can drown a few times I think. You can also love differently, everytime. So since love is an addiction. Have we all become addicted to the idea of the person we love or have we instead become addicted to them rather than smoking, alcohol, sex and drugs?

I need to take a long break from social media. This is my window. For now.

[meraki-kintsukuroi]

okay so i looked up the meaning of kazuyo's name (kageyama's grandfather) and i--

*SCREAMS*

[saintshigaraki]

ONE DAY WE’LL REVEAL THE TRUTH (THAT ONE WILL DIE BEFORE HE GETS THERE)

title: youth by daughter

pairing: dabi x f!reader 

words: 1.7k

excerpt: But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief? 

a/n: dabi my beloved (derogatory). this fic is my love letter to parentheses.

tags: angst, toxic relationships, explicit s*xual content, light choking, dabi is a bastard but he is a needy bastard 

in case you’d rather read it on ao3!

MDNI

He’s just outside the door. He hasn’t made a sound, but you know he’s there. You can feel it; in your blood, in your bones, in your marrow. 

(You’ve always been able to feel him, monstrous and cruel beneath your skin. An itch. An awful taunting itch. You’ve wanted him out since he first stuck his claws in you and buried himself deep, but he’s near impossible to shake. He won’t leave until he’s hollowed you out, until your flesh is no longer your own, until all that’s left of you is him. Until all that’s there, is what he believes there should be. 

He’s a self-important bastard like that.)

When he finally decides to open the door, he does so with a slam. It would’ve made you jump if you hadn’t been so focused on the skyline. Tracing the buildings, looking for stars you know you won’t be able to see. They get swallowed up, this deep in the city. Drowned out by light. 

(When you were a child, you didn’t quite understand how stars could vanish in the night. Weren’t they the brightest things in the universe? Burning and brilliant, even light years away? 

You understand it better now. How mankind has this nasty habit of ruining, of polluting, of blotting out things of wonder and then desperately trying to remake it in our own image.

It’s never as beautiful as what was, but it’s far too late for us to admit defeat now.)

He’s mad, burning up with fury. You can feel the heat of it, cutting straight through the heavy chill of the night air. It’s stifling, your balcony so small that he’s practically breathing down your neck with how close he is. Accompanying his presence, always, is the faint smell of burnt flesh he can never quite mask, no matter the amount of cheap aftershave he tries to drown himself in. 

He’d texted you, and you’d ignored him. For a week, you’ve ignored him and if there’s one thing Dabi hates, it’s when he gets ignored. 

He’s the one that ignores you, it should never be the other way around. 

You know that, of course. You know all his little unwritten rules. 

(Don’t ignore him is at the top of the list. Except, of course, during those nights when he thinks you’re asleep and he clings to you like a child, his tears burning where they touch your skin. Even his grief, you can’t help but think, is scorching.

On those nights, you’ve found it’s best to stay quiet. He wields his grief like rage and you’d rather not be caught in the crossfire.)

He’s waiting for you to talk, to stumble over your words, make some sort of vague attempt at an apology. It’s what you would usually do after you’ve broken one of his rules. 

But you say nothing, content to sit in the too-heavy silence. You’re tired. Of him. Of whatever it is you two have been doing. It’s the same stupid story, the same vicious cycle. A snake cursed to eat its own tail. 

He’s using you. He has been for a long while now. If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, he most likely has been since the beginning. And God, it’s exhausting work, being used. 

Although, really, you’re not all that much better than he is. In the beginning, you were with him purely because he fascinated you. All his grief laid bare, and so vulnerable. So obvious and painful. Undeniable in its brutality. 

(Rage, he’d say, it’s righteous rage, not grief.

But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?) 

It didn’t take long for you to realize he’s chasing something. And it took you even less time to realize that whatever he’s after, is probably going to kill him one day. 

(You wonder if he knows he’s chasing his own death. You wonder if he’d care at all. 

He reminds you of Eve, eating the forbidden fruit. You think she’d take a bite of the apple, again and again and again if ever given the choice, even knowing the consequences. Even with intimate knowledge of the suffering to come. How could she not? How could any of us hold our fate in the palm of our hands and choose not to sink our teeth into it?)

He’s growing impatient beside you, burning up with it. If he touched you, you’re sure he’d melt your flesh straight to the hollow bone. 

But you don’t break. Just once, you want him to fall apart first. Just once, you want him desperate. 

(He’s always been so good at making you desperate, with a hand around your neck, just tight enough to leave you gasping for air, your back to his chest and his staples drawing blood, as he pounds into you so hard all you could do is dig your nails into his arm. 

His lips are right by your ear, you’re mine, he says. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine. 

And God, with his cock hitting all the right spots in your cunt you’d believe it. You’d believe anything he’d said to you as long he just kept going. 

Say it, he hisses, say you’re mine. 

You don’t answer him right away, mostly because you can’t, not with the way he’s fucking you. You can’t catch your breath enough to form a sound, you can’t get your bearings enough to collect a single thought that isn’t Dabi Dabi Dabi. 

Annoyed at your lack of answer, he brings a searing thumb down to your overstimulated clit. You keen, arching, desperately trying to get away from the sensation that at this point is more pain than pleasure. 

Say it, he says again, there’s a strange sort of edge to it. Looking back you think it might’ve been desperation. Say it. 

When he presses down just a little harder, you finally crack. 

Yours, you gasp. I’m yours. Yours. Yours. Yours. 

He laughs, so deep in his chest that you feel it in your own. 

It echoes in your head for weeks afterward.)

“What,” he grounds out, low and furious, “the fuck.” 

It’s not a question. 

You turn towards him, at last. Though you can hardly see him, surrounded by shadows. There are glints of his piercings in the polluted light, a gleaming flash as he runs his tongue along with his teeth. But it’s his eyes that you lock on. Bright and a brilliant blue. Glowing and monstrous in the dark. 

(You’re reminded, once again, of the stars. Burning and burning and burning.)

With no preamble, you say, “I think I love you.” 

The air around you quiets. Like the city itself is holding it’s breath. 

It’s not a sweet confession under the moonlight. In the week since you came to the realization, it’s already started to fester, to rot straight through your bones. 

It’s a curse more than anything. You love a man whose chasing his own death. You love a ghost. Or, you suppose, a ghost in the making. 

Before you can say anything else (though really, what else is there to say) he cuts in sharply, meanly, “No, you don’t.” 

You can’t help but tilt your head at that. You don’t really know what to say. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything. His lips are pulled back, teeth bared, he’s gleaming and sharp, pulled so taught with tension you wonder how he’s even breathing. He reminds you, vividly, of a cornered animal. A scared one. Though he’s trying to mask it with annoyance, with a type of anger that toes the line of fury. 

He’s always doing that. Masking his fear with rage. Masking his grief with rage. Hiding any part of himself that might be perceived as weak, as soft, as vulnerable, under the guise of rage. 

You can’t imagine that it’s anything less than exhausting. 

Though you have to admit, you didn’t expect this response. You didn’t expect fear. You thought he’d be unbearably smug about it. Proud of himself for finally sinking his teeth into your heart. Ready to chew you up and spit you back out. You were ready for him to move on. 

You didn’t expect him to deny it. 

(He could be right, though you doubt he is.

You wonder what it means to love, you wonder how you’re supposed to love. You wonder if you can only love someone if you’ve seen the cruelest parts of them first. 

You suppose if that’s the case, then he might be right. 

You’ve never actually been able to force yourself to look up what exactly he’s wanted for. What exactly it is he’s done. 

Mostly because you’re afraid that even if you knew every last gory detail, it wouldn’t be enough to make you walk away. And how would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, after that? Knowing exactly who you let share your bed? who cried scorching hot tears into your shoulder? 

Ignorance is bliss, they say. In your case, it could very well be your only hope for salvation.

But, you don’t really think there’s a set way a person is supposed to love. It’s what makes it so terrifying. It’s an unknown. And it’s so hard to not fear the unknown.)

“Dabi-” you start. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he spits out. Eyes flashing, his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

You want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, of him trying to tell you what you do and do not feel, but you think he’d turn you to ashes for the slight. His pride has always been so easily shaken.  

“Dabi-” you try again. 

But he’s two steps ahead of you. He always is. 

He’s already turned around, hiding his face from view, opening the door. And you don’t stop him. You don’t see why you should. 

You can’t shake him from the path he’s on. You don’t think anyone can, really. 

Grief is all he has, it’s all he’s let himself have. It’s fundamental to him now. It’s all he is. And you’re sure he believes whatever he’s chasing is going to fill the hollow void it’s made of him. 

It won’t. You’re sure of that, at least, because even if he does succeed, what will he be left with then? 

You don’t say any of that to him, because you’re not his fucking therapist. And because you’re not so sure he wouldn’t kill you for it. 

It’s anticlimactic, watching him disappear into your darkened apartment. 

But all you can think about when you hear the click of the front door closing behind him is how honest his fear was, almost childlike. Remnants of a poor, grief-stricken boy. 

What a monster it’s made of him. 

a/n part two:

thinking about adrianne kalfopoulou’s ‘grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there.’ 

i could not tell you why this took me over two weeks to write. i had a lot of fun with it though. dabi my beloved. go to therapy please. also i know dabi can’t cry but....let me have this.

[joannasteez]

Hey!! So, I have an idea. Could you write a fic about EZ and the reader’s wedding night? With smut of course 😏. I feel like he’d be so sweet and he’d be giving so much praise. You’re a wizard at combining fluff and smut, so I know you’d do amazing with this! Sending you lots of love 😁🥰

Short Summary: You and EZ turn in earlier than planned from your wedding reception.

Gif Credits @losaslut

Taglist: @my-rosegold-soul @appropriate-writers-name @est1887 @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @brownsugarcoffy @elektriknachosss @queenbeered @sesamepancakes @superhoeva @witching-hour @noz4a2 @withmyteeth @rae-gar-targaryen @cruzwalters @rose-bliss @youlovetkay

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒

It was a quake in his belly, ravenous, spreading wild and untamed, free, like fire, just a hairs breadth away from desperation. Starvation. It was hunger, jolting tingles prickling, crackling the tips of his fingers, an electric feeling of desire, need. He knew then, knows now, in his soul he’s got to have it, reach out to it, grab at it. Hunger, it’s a shift in his breath, his whole life stuck on the upturn of an inhale but now, finally, feeling free enough to fall, to breathe. And then without wait, breathe again. The body, his body, aches for it --always has-- needs it, this little thing called love. Craves it, so much so that it trembles, forlorn in the way that it lays, stands, sits, exist, till it has it. Till he has it. Has love. Till he can touch it, hear it, smell it, feel it, taste it, hold it gentle in the palm of his hand because... 

“Remember Ezekiel, love is a vulnerable thing, don’t waste it”. Felipe’s voice always so mellow and coarse. Reminiscent. “Don’t waste it son, don’t waste it”. 

“Can you go three weeks without me Reyes?” You were such a damn tease, even if he could hate you he wouldn’t. 

He felt like a madman for saying yes. Just a heel - toe away from insanity. 

Three weeks of sweet faint kisses, the taste of your lips ghosting, melting no where else but the very tip of his tongue, and barely felt touches, like a breeze born at dawn too busy moving, flowing, to cascade along the leaves that live for its graceful feel, all because you wanted him needy for you. Hungry. 

He couldn’t say “I do” fast enough. “Lets get out of here”. His whisper breathy and warm at your ear. Feet shifting with his, fingers in each others embrace, dancing beneath a chandelier sky. 

You’d said “I do” so perfectly. The phrase rich off your lips, dripping like honey, so bright, warm and embracing, a promise. Like some sweet summer melody. It was heavenly. 

“You still with me?” The question just above a whisper, your fingers ruffling aimlessly through the hair at his chin. 

“Of course”. 

“What were you thinking about?” His lip becoming the object of your thumbs affection. The rosy pink flesh so demanding to the eyes, tantalizing. 

“How much I need you”. 

But it’s a painful longing Ezekiel has, burdening him more than he’d ever be able to tell, one that aches well and deep at the heart of him, melting away bone and wearing the strength of his nerve, leaving him open to the air of you, raw and helpless, but it’s good all the same. He’s weak in love. It’s exhilarating nonetheless, the type of yearning he works tirelessly to sate but begs also never to leave him for fear that he would never feel so wholly, so deeply for another this way again. Finding such pleasure in this love stricken pain, he realizes as he stares into your eyes, only you could do something like this, possess him to feel such an adoration for the way you weaken him. And the silk dress helps him none, the soft white fabric draped along your body drawing him in, persuading his fingers to ruffle beneath, the dig of them measured as they stretch over your thighs, inching towards the sweetest place he knows. 

His gaze never leaves you, the straps of your dress slim and dainty as you slip them away over your shoulders. 

The shake of his head is a mixture of wonder and disbelief. How were you so beautiful, and he so lucky? “Goddam”, he whispers, the white lace accessorizing your skin calling him, pleading for his strong, gentle touch. 

You slip easy into his lap, the end of the plush bed dipping. 

Your lips feather over his, breath as soft as your caressing hold along the sharp edge of his jaw. So close you could taste him. “I know how much you love me in lace”. 

He groans, placing a hand at your back before he turns to lay you at the heart of the bed. Present himself properly your beauty. “You’re incredible. So perfect”.

Drowning, after three weeks of nothing you’re neck deep in a passion far too great just to be your own, the faint taste of champagne running fresh, swirling on your tongue from his. Three weeks, and finally, he gives you a breathless kiss. Deep, demanding, and addictively unbearable in a way that makes you want to fall into it, wander into the heart of it till you’re lost forever. But what does it all mean?, to be so unearthed in this moment, to fall and fly at the same time? Delve face first into heaven and earth, what else does it mean if not becoming weak in love too.

“I missed you”, his lips lazy at the lace dressing your breast, tongue drawing slow till they’re twisted hard and aching, but he doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t, because when has Ezekiel ever given up the opportunity to tease you? Cause your body such an alluring grief. “I missed this”. Wet kisses swirling and melting into your skin till he’s suckling hard at your lace covered slit, wetness pooling in an instant. “She missed me too”, he chuckles, before it slips into a moan at the roll of your hips. Rosy lips traveling, mapping the underside of your thighs. His eyes blown, glazed over with want as they peer into yours. “You’re so pretty baby”, a small kiss to the peak of your right knee. “So beautiful”. Another just above your navel. “All mine”. 

“You can stare and admire me later. I need you now”, you fight the whine threatening to wrap smooth over your words. Fingers reaching for him, wanting him close. 

He’s at your ear in seconds, the weight of him pressed well into you, hand strong as he takes one of your legs to wrap secure around him. “How do you want me hermosa?. Tell me”. 

“Slow. Make love to me”

He’s moving like the earth has stopped so generously for this moment, calloused fingers relieving you of all the beautiful lace like you’re some precious gift, and then his bottoms are gone, clothes forgotten like everything else that isn’t you. If nothing else in the moment, it’s his sudden affinity for patience that’s most agonizing, but deep down you know you deserve it, leaving him touch starved for three weeks was a bit low. But even patience, with the right touch, wears thin quick, the heel of your left foot settling at the base of his back, both legs now warm at his waist. It’s the creeping roll up his spine that gets him, like a call to action, a firm hand that makes him fall to you with a fluidity, such grace in motion you haven’t seen in weeks. ‘Again... three weeks... why’d you make him wait?’, the small pieces of you wonder, till he’s sinking in hard, hot and thick inside you. 

“That’s it”, he encourages. Reveling in your tight fit, utterly dazed in the way it satiates the heat reddening his skin. “Let me in baby”. Another groan escaping all drawn out into the hot skin of your neck when he bottoms out. 

“Oh fuck”. Your moan slurred in that delirious way. Eyes daring to roll, your jaw clenched, hiss smooth sailing out and into the air. 

He’s moving slow like you asked him, but his hips are digging deep, really giving you the type of passion that glazes your eyes, ears heating, whimpers broken as your fingers press into him. He’s as close as can be but you need him closer, but you’re not really sure what you’re looking for with your fingers, what you’re digging for. Maybe some grounding? Yeah, that’s what it feels like. That’s what shuddered breaths and parted lips tell you anyways. ‘You need grounding’, because he’s determined to imprint himself inside you, mold you to him, make your tight heat recommit him to memory till it’s unrecognizable where you end and he begins. 

He’s heavy, within and without, a strong, uncompromising force rocking into you so perfect every time. Your wetness pooling with every filling push of his hips, sounding sweet. “You make me feel so full baby”. 

He’s fluid still, the delicious grind he works into you at a steady pace. Thats it, that’s it, that’s it, a mumbling chant parting off his lips, close to yours. They meet and fall off your own, tongues slipping lazy, coming together with every push of his length, walls slick and warm as they hug him in, pulling and sucking so fucking good before his waist rears back, lips breaking for just a moment, before he’s home again. Your foreheads are a resting place for the other, right hand of yours meeting his chest, the other nailing gentle at the nape of his neck. “You’re always so good to me”. He’s at your ear again, whispers soft, but still ringing so loud, your thigh gripped in his left hand, his body anchored on the weight of his arm at the right, the digging turned into a brute snap. “So good for me”. His hearts pounding hard, matching the beat of yours, you feel it, like thunder under your touch. “Fuck”, the slim ring of golden brown in his eye meeting yours. “I’m never letting you go”. 

A tear slips slim off to the side of your cheek, pressure in your belly building strong. “I love you EZ”. 

He thinks it’s enough, hearing it the one time. It rises, saturates his skin, breaks him down, builds him back up, makes him whole, and then it dissipates. He needs it again. “Say it again. Tell me you love me”. 

You hold him close, lips brushing. It’s sweeter this way, always has been, always will be. “I love you baby, I love you so much”. 

A tear and a whimper, but it isn’t yours. Another kiss brushing your lips, thigh tight in his hold. “I love you so fucking much”, trembling between the gentle intensity of another whimper and the soft sincerity of a whisper. Either way, it’s truth all the same. 

His hips rear back again, hitting once, twice, and then a third final time. The coils winding in your bellies unraveling sharp. Bodies burning in white hot bliss. 

Falling and flying face first into heaven and earth. It’s amazing. 

[daddyissuesyo]

Monsta X Yandere Headcanons

tw: implied sexual content, non-sexual consent violation, murder, suicide, emotional and physical abuse, harm/endangerment, severed ties with family, vulgarity

seriously guys this is intense

Shownu: The Protector

- you pique his attention and he asks you out, seemingly normal

- becomes obsessed after the first date and captures you on the second

- avoids physical harm unless absolutely "necessary" to keep you in line. manipulates you until feeling as though you failed him.

- reckless, unconditional love

- you can't help but reciprocate a little; he's just so caring & attentive

- vanilla sex, because he loves you

- funds EVERYTHING you could possibly want: fluffy comforters and a massive mattress, personal maids, deluxe coffee maker, stuffed animals that he doesn't let you name, etc.

- you thought your dynamic was normal until you caught him dragging the limp body of the postman that accidentally saw you changing into a shed

- from that day forth you feared him, yet didn't stop loving him

- "you are my entire world. my everything. we need each other. forever and then some."

- will not kill you unless he convinces himself others will and death by his hands is the better option

Minhyuk: The Deluded

- i n f a n t i l i z e r

- pities you, oh so much

- thinks you are a helpless baby in dire need of rescuing

- treats you like a porcelain doll & refuses to let you make even the smallest decision for yourself

- convinced you are just as infatuated and dependent on him as he is you

- on good days, he will draw bubble baths, play card games with you, and play G rated movies, pausing every minute to explain what happened

- on bad days, he will yell at you, bind your limbs, and carve his name into your flesh

- simply doesn't understand your disobedience and grief and takes it out on you, hoping to "knock sense into you"

- unlike many yandere archetypes, he enjoys parading you about like an accessory. has friends come over to admire you

- "i know it's too much for you to understand, but you need my care. where is this behavior coming from? don't you love me?"

- you'll kill yourself before he can, driven to the point of insanity

Kihyun: The Jealous

- no pets. no friends. no contact with the outside world aside from media he approves.

- shelters you like mother gothel

- insists you cut off all male contacts, even family (if you are lgbtq, it's best not to reveal this to him because then you won't even be able to speak to female family members)

- doesn't hesitate to murder any man you won't cut off. forces you to watch.

- comforts you afterward in a sick way

- you have to PLEAD to go anywhere

- if he allows it, you must wear a face covering and stay by his side

- tends to be rough in bed; he lets loose all his pent-up frustrations on you

- isn't COMPLETELY out of touch with his humanity; treats you well on birthdays and holidays and even permits a supervised phone call with your mother

- "you overwhelm me. you fill me with so much joy and so much rage. you'll never know the effect you have on me, sweetheart."

- inevitable murder-suicide in the end. i give it no more than 5 years.

Hyungwon: The Sadist

- it's all a game of cat and mouse to him; he kidnapped you while you slept after stalking for quite some time

- keeps you in chains in his basement

- decorates his home with your missing posters like a real sicko

- will torture the living shit out of you with no remorse. inflicting fractures, head trauma, slicing you open, digit dismemberment, drowning, strappado

- gets off on your fear more than your pain

- unlike the others, he recognizes when you're suffering; he just doesn't care

- destroys your self-worth and self-esteem by berating and insulting you. it's your fault you can't tell he means "I love you"

- sex entails bondage, degradation, and cruel laughter. incorporates pet names like: "bunny," "little lamb," "kitty," etc.

- may get bored of you and seek out a new victim, leaving you inexplicably desperate for his attention (which is all part of his game)

- always comes back to you after he's maimed and fucked who knows how many people. and you let him every time, holding out hope that he'll stay

- "you're never going to escape me. i hope you know that."

- would rather almost kill you and keep reviving you. you're in it for the long haul.

Jooheon: The Two-faced

- like shownu, things begin typically

- gradually shows his hand over time, but you're blinded by your feelings for him (he's a very good faux boyfriend)

- waits until your most vulnerable moment to attack

- strict and often overbearing; will beat you black and blue to the point of unconsciousness

- will actually apologize, but he doesn't stop

- tries to keep things around that you enjoy and allow domestic hobbies (congratulates your accomplishments but doesn't want to fuel your ego too much because then you'll leave him)

- struggles with internal conflict over how to treat you. wishes he could be more lenient but can't bring himself to

- allows you to have family and friends over while he's present

- very good at acting normal, it's scary. will flash you a psycho smile after they leave.

- "i'm sorry things have to be this way. if only you could see... i really do love you."

- kills himself in the end due to guilt

Changkyun: The Unhinged

- yes, yandere are psychotic, but changkyun is another level

- if you try to escape or resist him, he just stares at you with round eyes, slowly growing a grin that turns into a crazy laughing fit

- protects you from outside forces, unaware that he's the greatest danger in your life

- only upside is he takes you out on the town

- slaps across the face. sometimes at random, just to let you know he's in control

- you live on eggshells, unsure if he's in a loving or violent mood

- a strange dichotomy of worshipping you and craving your attention, yet feeling like you should be the one begging for him

- fucks hard and often, but can't look at you after

- owns an industrial freezer and locks you in there until you collapse from hypothermia III

- "w-were you trying to escape? FUCK no. what don't you understand, hon? you're my fucking property."

- will stab you repeatedly in the end, smiling with tears streaming down his face

Would anyone be interested in me developing these characters/storylines further?

[barnesbabee]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx - ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ

WONDERLAND MASTERLIST ⇜ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ - ꜱɪx-  ɴᴇxᴛ ⟿

CHARACTER LIST:

White Rabbit - Choi Jongho Absolem (Blue Catterpilar) - Kang Yeosang Cheshire Cat - Kim Hongjoong Mad Hatter - Choi San Haigha (March Hare) - Jung Wooyoung Tweedle Dee - Song Mingi Tweedle Dum - Jeong Yunho Bloody Red King - Park Seonghwa

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @myunvillage @mirror-juliet [Send me a DM, an ask or comment to be added to the tag list]

“Would you listen to me!? You can’t physically leave Wonderland. You can’t go back. The Wonderland is the wasteland of every other lands. You’re here forever.”

Everything from the moment the King said those words was very blurry. You remember getting dizzy, yelling some more, and then being carried to the bedroom you were now in, sobbing uncontrollably with Seonghwa by your side, sitting on the bed's red silk covers, unsure of what to do.

"I'm sorry Y/N..."

The only reply he got was ugly sobs. He gently placed his hand on your head and caressed your hair. The King wasn't sure of what he was doing, but it seemed to calm you down ever so slightly.

"E-explain it to me... Please..."

"Explain what?..." He asked, not quite understanding what you meant.

"What is Wonderland."

"Well... As far as I know, Wonderland is supposed to be the wasteland from other places. Unwanted people are sent here: criminals, freaks, people who displease Kings and Queens... It used to be a lawless land, anyone who came here would be met with a grey land of death and despair. Everyone scavenged for food and for hideouts, trying their best to survive. A lot of beings just killed themselves, tired of living a life of running and hiding, but most starved, or perished in the claws of the Jabberwocky."

"Jabberwocky?" You asked, as you sat up on the bed and crawled over to sit next to the King.

"Hm hmm, a hideous monster, with a dirty, scaly green skin, several rows of sharp teeth, an enormous tail, wings, and feet with claws so long it could grab you while flying high. He was the reason people sent the unwanted here because they were being sent to a slow, painful death at the hands of a monster. However when my dad was sent here he met my mom, by accident, and he fell in love. He couldn't bear to see my mom hurting and afraid, so he slew the Jabberwocky. My dad was severely injured, but he was able to make a speedy recovery, and everyone in the land recognized him as their King. And with the Jabberwocky dead, people were able to bring Wonderland back to life. It's a story with a happy ending, but I'm afraid yours," he paused, gently placing his hand on your thigh "doesn't have one of those."

Your sadness and grief turned into sudden anger and disbelief. The Hatter, Cheshire, Absolem... They all lied to you. They promised you something they knew they wouldn't be able to accomplish, for their own gain!

You wiped your tears and got up from the bed roughly. You looked over your shoulder and stared at a confused Seonghwa.

"I'll be back. There's someone I need to talk to."

Seonghwa didn't want you to go, he was afraid you wouldn't come back. But he knew that if he stopped you from going, you'd certainly feel betrayed by his actions, and would change your behavior towards him. The King didn't want to lose you, physically or emotionally. However before his conflicted mind could make up a choice, you were already gone, on your way to find those crazy bastards.

The second you saw the large table in the distance you sped up the pace, even though your legs already hurt from walking so much.

When the hatter heard the sound of dry leaves being stepped on, he turned around, and greeted you with his usual big smile, heart thumping out of his chest at the sight of the lady that caught his eye. He jumped out of his chair and walked towards you, immediately embracing you in a big, tight hug.

You wiggled your way out of the hug and shoved him away. The Hatter's wide smile turned into a frown, as his eye's colour faded away slightly.

"You motherfuckers! You lied to me! The King told me the truth about Wonderland! You lied to me so I could do your dirty fucking work! Looks like the King isn't the untrustworthy one here."

Angry tears formed in your eyes as you yelled every single word. You pushed your index finger harshly against the Hatter's chest at every word you said.

"I- I... Y/N please, I'm sorry, you must understand I had no choice but to agree with them! We need our freedom."

You messily wiped away your tears with your forearm and titled your chin up.

"I don't ever want to see you again." You said, in a bland, emotionless voice.

Even the March Hare had stopped laughing. You turned around and were about to walk away when the Hatter grabbed your arm.

"Y/N, please! Where will you go?"

You freed yourself from his grip.

"I'll be staying with the King. And if I were you I'd stay far from the castle, if I see any of you walking around I'll tell the King about your plan."

The Hatter watched you walk away, as your pompous dress followed your body's movements.

"Hmm seems like you really messed up this time." Chesire mocked, in his usual mellow tone, as he inspected his claws that had been long replaced with nails.

The Hatter's face scrunched up in anger.

"It's Absolem's fault."

Cheshire scoffed.

"Oh yes, and he will be oh so upset by finding that this absolute stranger is mad at him. You're the one who has a little crush."

"Nonsense. I feel bad for her, that's all. The second she got here we lied and used her."

Cheshire laid on his back and played with his purple strands of hair.

"Too bad. From what I've hear Y/N and the King are getting along quite nicely..."

The Hatter's eyes got as big as two strawberries.

"Chessie how do you know!?"

Cheshire shrugged and vanished into thin air, leaving the Hatter alone with his two mad friends, as he watched you disappear in the horizon.

It was pitch dark outside once you stepped foot in the garden. The cards, although emotional, somehow seemed to be relieved. You pushed open the big, heavy, brown doors, to find Seonghwa pacing back and forth in the entrance. As soon as his eyes landed on you he smiled, a wide smile you weren't so sure you had ever seen. His teeth were beautiful, pearly white and straight, and the way his eye sparkled and turned into a crescent moon was amusing to watch. The male embraced you immediately, as a sigh left his mouth.

"Oh, my dear, I was so afraid you wouldn't come back."

You smiled faintly and looked into his eyes.

"You won't have to, not anymore."

The King tilted his head cutely as if asking 'what do you mean?'.

"I'll be your Queen."

Seonghwa smiled widely, just like before, and you could swear the little heart under his eye twinkled. His large hands grabbed your waist and spun you around.

"Oh, this is what happiness feels like! Oh my... It feels like a million fireworks are exploding inside of my chest! I want to feel this feeling forever, and I've only ever felt it with you."

It was the right choice. You were sure. You had only met a handful of people, and 90% of them lied and betrayed you, and this one man had offered you everything, had showed you support, promised to change, and showed true happiness around you. Yes, the choice was clear. He'd keep you safe and he would give you a good life, at least good enough to drown your tears at night and make you forget what you left behind unwillingly.

You placed your hand on his cheek and smiled.

"I like to see you happy."

You stood in the hall, looking into each other's eyes. Seonghwa was new to affection, he didn't know what was happening, and you could see it in his eyes. You got on your tippy-toes and placed a soft kiss on his red lips. Seonghwa stumbled back a little. His cheeks grew considerably red, and his middle and index finger touched his own lips.

"I... liked that. A lot. Can you do it again?" He asked, getting close to you once more.

"How about you do it to me?"

Seonghwa pursed his lips and looked to the side, trying to work out in his head how he'd do it. Slowly, he cupped your face with his hands and bent down slightly, placing his lips on yours, for a little longer than the previous kiss.

"So?" You asked, wiggling your eyebrows.

"I really liked it."

You chuckled at the supposed tyrant blushing like a teenage boy right in front of you. You embraced the man, your ear to his chest, listening to his fast heartbeat.

"Teach me..."

You looked up at his fearful eyes.

"Teach you what?"

Seonghwa hesitated, afraid of his own request.

"How to be a better man, how to have mercy, and compassion."

[delirioushrimp]

Salvation is found in pain(ful pleasures) [Your Boyfriend AU]

Once more, I truly have no self control when it comes to @harbingers-appointed and his boys. Be happy Flauros, you finally get to steal the show from the King.

Hope you’ll like it Vee !

How many ? How many times did he kill you since the beginning of this twisted game ? How many times did you come back to him asking, craving, and begging for the punishment he was always so eager to bestow you ?

He cut your throat, watched you drown, let you bleed out, broke every bone in your body so many times you wonder how he hasn’t grown tired out of you yet. After all, no matter how satisfying and amusing it must be to kill a person -one yearning for death so ardently- over and over again, one has to get bored of seeing the same face dying by their hands, right ? You’re just a toy to him, an interesting one -maybe-, but a toy, nonetheless.

You’re not stupid enough to believe he genuinely likes you.

Still, you always come back to him, knowing he’s the only one able to give you what you want, what you deserve. You hate it when he does it in the front of the King though, because watching the pain and self-hatred in those gorgeous blue eyes as your life fades away to hysterical cackles, truly breaks your soul. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to suffer so horribly when all he’s done is love you earnestly and wholeheartedly, and most of all he doesn’t deserve loving someone as broken and ruined like you. You curse God for doing this to him, knowing you’ll never be able to return his feelings because you’re not worthy of his love. You’re not worthy of anything but pain.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair !

Lately though, you’re starting to notice a few changes in him. His knife lingers longer than it should, leaving shallow cuts on your skin before piercing you to the bone. His eyes which were usually narrowed in sadistic glee appear distracted, deep in thought as he observes your dying body. It’s strange, you’d never thought you’d get to see him so pensive; he always appears so confident, happy go lucky and in control of everything.

At first, you think it’s because he’s finally growing annoyed of your presence and constant pestering for pain. Maybe he found another, newer and more amusing toy to distract himself with. You would understand if that was the case, it was a wonder he actually “played” with you for that long. But that means you needed to find someone or something able to give you what you sought.

The next time you wake up after another of your “play sessions”, you don’t go to him. Instead, you ignore everyone and everything as you try to come up with a new alternative to your lack of executioner. You manage to evade Samael without much trouble, knowing the castle like the back of your hand after how many times you died there. You’re terrified of gazing into his eyes, terrified to see the absolute grief and agony in them.

You roam around the halls for a while before you manage to find a good enough hiding spot, a small balcony, away from prying eyes. You sit there for who knows how long, time perception long lost ever since the start of this never-ending game. What would happen now ? With nobody else willing to waste their time on you, what are you supposed to do ? Kill yourself over and over again until God decided to take pity on you and finally send your soul to where it belongs ? You remember the bastard’s words after the eighteenth time he cut you open, looking at you with that all-knowing smile.

“His Highness is the only who can end your misery. You could always ask him but- ah” he tilts his head to watch your life spilling away into a red river. “I doubt he’ll agree to it,” he ends with a dark chuckle. “But hey, no harm in trying, right ?”

He’d wanted you to do it, only because he knew of how much pain and agony your words would induce to the King. You had doubted his words, -you always did- fully aware that if he had lied to you, you’d have made Samael suffer for nothing. And you couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to bear the thought.

So you hesitated, waited for a miracle to happen, for the sadist to admit he was fucking with you, anything so you wouldn’t have to take the risk, like the coward that you are. And of course, he noticed, relishing in your growing  paranoia and dread. God ignored your pleas once more, and you began to understand why Samael rebelled. You’ve never been a fervent believer after all.

God is not a benevolent being , merely the leading puppeteer of this world.

You gave in after seven more deaths, despair finally overtaking over fear, and went to find the King. It felt disgusting, seeing him smiling so earnestly at your mere presence when you only came to use him for your own, selfish and self-destructive wish. You felt it to your core, invading your soul, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You wish he hadn’t knelt before you with such devotion, you wish he hadn’t kissed each of your trembling fingers so tenderly, you wish he hadn’t whispered your name so fervently. The words that left your mouth on that day felt like the vilest of poisons.

“You…would do anything for me, right ?”

“Anything !” you flinched at the desperate, borderline hysterical tone of his voice. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you !”

You wondered briefly if watching you die so many times is what caused him to say those words, clinging to your body so pitifully, or if his adoration truly ran that deep from the start. You wished to never have an answer because whatever of the two it’d be, it would only make you more guilty.

“So…” your lips were dry. You felt your sins crawling on your back. “Kill me. Kill me please.”

The  gut-wrenching look of pure horror which crossed his face told you two things; it told you your executioner had not lied to you, and it told you that no matter what you did, Samael would never be able to grant you your only wish. You knew that no matter how much you tried to hurt, destroy or even hate him- something you never believed to be possible- he could never bring himself to end your suffering. And you could not blame or despise him for that, he had waited so long for you and the only thing you gave him was pain and torment.

You deserve this, you deserve this punishment.

“Are you done moping around  ?” you hear that familiar, bone-chilling voice calls for you.

You don’t even turn around to face him but knows what awaits you if you refuse to answer his question, as rhetorical as it may seem.

“I’m not mopping around,” you flatly say. “Just here to think.”

You hear him take a step closer, but don’t flinch or try to move away while he stands right behind you, and you wonder how long it’s been since you got used to this.

“Really ?” he asks a bit more cheerfully. “So, you’re not avoiding me ?”

You frown and remain silent for longer than you should as you try to find the meaning behind his words. He doesn’t seem to mind though as if he was waiting for your half-baked excuse.

“Avoid you ?” you retort back in a slightly sarcastic tone. “What are you even saying ? I know you’ll always be able to find me.”

He hums in agreement, taking no offense of the fact you still refuse to look at him, instead you think he is pleased by your admission.

“You don’t seem very happy to see me though.” He almost sounds hurt at the idea and maybe you would have bought it if it was one of your first interactions. “Did I do something to upset you sweetheart ?” The innocence in his voice is sickening.

You never bought the cute pet names or the honeyed words of concern though. You recall how you cringed the first time he used them on you, which was strange. You had never met him, and yet somehow, you’d been able to tell this behavior was not natural to him. He was attractive -at least to your standards- , his voice was rich and smooth, and his gaze had been solely focused on you; you should have enjoyed the attention from such a charming being, or at least, feel mildly flattered. But instead, your mind and body recognized the eager executioner that he was. Maybe it was because you refused to believe someone could have a genuine interest in you, or maybe it was because you’d unconsciously compared him to the King. Whatever it was, you never fell for it, and you never will.

“No,” you answer in a detached tone of voice. “I’m just staying out of your way.”

You’re not sure if he is confused, amused or irritated by your words but it feels like you’re suffocating. You’re used to the mockeries, twisted chuckles and fake flatteries but this silence, it’s not normal.

When were things ever normal here ?

You can’t help the gasp leaving your lips when you feel a hand grabing you by the hips and a cold breath tickling your neck. You easily guess the smile against your skin, and it takes everything in your power to repress yourself from kicking him in the ribs. You’re not afraid of the pain that might follow after that, but the other types of punishments he must have in mind.

“You think I don’t want to play with you anymore ?” His voice drops by a few octaves, sending vibrations across your skin. You still manage a small nod, voice stuck in your throat. “Aw…how sad. I must have done a terrible job lately, haven’t I ?”

“It’s just-“ You don’t like how your voice waver at his freezing touch. “You seem distracted and well…bored.” You hear him whisper a small oh ? against your flesh. “I thought you got tired of killing me.”

You realize how fucked up this sounds, and a sense of relief washes over you because it means you still haven’t completely lost it. But the moment is short lived when you feel him chuckle darkly, sending goosebumps along your skins. You really, really don’t like this.

“How awfully observant of you dear.” You feel his teeth graze the juncture of your neck, but you don’t move an inch, instead wondering if he intends to cut your jugular with his sharp incises. He’s never done that before, at least from what you can remember. “But don’t worry, I’m not bored of our little game…yet.”

You believe him for once, it would be rather strange for him to come here if he didn’t want to spend time with you anymore. But his voice, the way he stands so uncomfortably close, tell you he wants to change the rules and you’re almost sure he’s happy you noticed the changes. In fact, all of this might have been part of his plan, for you to notice the little hints he dropped during your last sessions and break from the usual pattern the both of you had created since the first day.

He’s always five steps ahead of everyone after all.

You let out a frustrated sigh, knowing that no matter how this conversation will end, you won’t like what will come out of it. But it’s too late to turn back now, not when he’s literally clinging to you like some damn leech.

“What do you want ?” you curtly demand.

“Ah, don’t be like that sweetheart,” he whines to you, but you can feel his smile growing wider. “I just want you to enjoy this as much as I do.”

What the fuck is he saying now ? Maybe you should just kick him after all, then jump and, if you’re lucky enough, break your neck against the cold pavement below, if not you’ll just break every bone in your body and wait until you respawn like some videogame character. It’s nothing you haven’t experienced before, though the demon freak is more into using his knife -you think it’s always the same- than his own hands on you.

“We both know you’re not getting out if this cycle, not for a very long while at least…” he trails off, as if you had somehow forgotten why you were here in the first place, as if you weren’t living with the constant reminder that you couldn’t die. Is he trying to make you cry or something ? “And well…I know you’re not getting off of the pain, you’re not that kind of freak.”

“Just get on with it, the floor below us is starting to become more interesting than you,” you grit between your teeth as you take a step towards the edge for emphasis. He lazily takes another step as well, completely unbothered by the situation. He must know you’re not joking.

“Don’t interrupt me, that’s very rude,” he scolds you, like a parent trying to reason with their unruly child -the idea both amuses and creeps you out- but you don’t miss the cold authority behind it. The warning is clear. “Like I said, you’re not getting anything out of this and I’m starting to feel like the bad guy here.”

You take another step forward and grip the stone railing as tightly as you can as a sign for him to hurry but also to keep yourself from sending your fist in his face or his stomach. Can’t he just break your neck or bleed you dry ? Starting to feel like the bad guy ? Well, he’d fit the role if this was a classic fairytale, although as sweet and devoted Samael was to you, he would not make for a very good prince charming -or a very twisted one- while you’re all too aware of how terrible of a damsel in distress you’d be. One could almost say the purple freak is the only one playing his part right.

“Don’t you think you deserve some award for going this far ?”

Your eyes narrow. Why does he speak as if you had a choice in this ? Why does he speak as though there is anything to be celebrated expect for you to have fallen as low as only finding some sense of peace in dying brutally to the hands a psychopath ? Is this what he wants to reward you for ? Does he really think you’ll agree to it ? You refuse to believe it.

“Ah you’re right, that was a poor choice of words,” he admits in a childlike voice as if he’d heard your thoughts, but it’s not the first time he'd done that. “Rather, I think you’d enjoy our playdates much more if you indulged yourself a bit…” His voice grows huskier as the hand holding your hips moves lower and lower, somewhere he’s never been. “I promise to make it feel so good you’ll forget your own name…” he whispers sensually to your ear before his tone suddenly shifts to sadistic glee. “And then…I’ll watch that beautiful blissful expression of yours turn to absolute agony !”

His revelation turns your body to stone as you attempt to process what he just suggested. This can’t be real. All of this just because he wanted to fuck you  ? No, it was not just about sex -not when he could do so much better than you-, this was about the additional control he’d have over you. He’d already gained ownership over you once he became the only one able to give you pain, and by becoming the only one able to give you pleasure, he’d have complete control of your strings.

“I’m not interested, get off of me,” you try to sound calm, much calmer than the inner chaos that your mind is right now.

“Really ?” How could a word carry so much darkness ?

Before you can react, you feel  a hand grabbing your hair in a tight grip then violently yanking  you aside, in a soundless cry till you’re forced to look at him. You close your eyes on instinct, refusing to submit to his gaze. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes but you ignore them, instead focusing on the sensation of his cold face against your own.

“I have to admit, it’s been a while since I found someone so pathetic and hopeless. Kinda reminds me of…” he ponders while you try keep your breathing steady. “Oh no I shouldn’t speak of him when he isn’t here,” he seems to mumble to himself. “But really, you have nothing to lose here, cutie,” he finishes in a sing-song voice.

“You’re only doing this to hurt the King,” you finally manage to breath in a cracked voice.

“And what of it ?” he says in a surprisingly flat tone, which causes you to stop struggling. “You’ve only hurt him since you arrived here.”

You don’t want to hear it, not from him.

“You ignored him, didn’t even try to spare his feelings or spend time with him because you were too engrossed in the only thing that mattered to you .”

How dare he lecture you about feelings ? Him, out of everyone you’ve met ?

“And when you asked him to kill you ? Oh, that was beautiful !” He laughs heartfully. “Trying to use his own words against him so shamelessly…I’ll remember this for a while haha !”

“Stop…” you whisper weakly.

“Stop fooling yourself Darling, you’ve never cared for him,” voice full of poison slipping into your already sick mind. “Maybe you actually like to see him so miserable.”

“ That’s not true !” you cry out. “I never wanted him to suffer because of me !”

But have you ever done  anything to prove it ?

“I never-“ you struggle to form a coherent sentence. “I didn’t-“

“Didn’t even give him a chance, went straight to me instead. How fucked up is that huh ?”

You’re trembling, trembling from the truth of his words, trembling from the coldness of his body, trembling from realizing you’re the villain of this story.

“After all,” he murmurs right into your soul, “monsters recognize each other, isn’t that how the saying goes ?”

He lets go of you, and you crumble. You barely register your body falling to the ground as you feel your nails dig into your skin. He sighs.

“Come on sweetheart, you know I’m the only one who can make you feel better. It’s only going to get better from now on. “We’re gonna have so much fun you and I =)”

 [ACCEPT HIS OFFER]           [RUN AWAY]           [JUMP OVER THE EDGE]

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

Okay, so there are three endings to this fic, I intend to do them all but I’m really interested in which one you’d like to read first. I’ll regulary check to see what people want during the next few days.

Pick your poison :)

[kayr0ss]

Hands that Remember [AO3 Link]

[Horizon Zero Dawn, Elisabet Sobeck Lives, Found Family, Mother-Daughter Feelings, GAIA is recovering, Ereloy]

Summary: Aloy saw the recordings, felt their grief over the death of their culture - the loss of their identity. Ted Faro had blown away the light meant to guide humanity through darkness - but she was willing to risk it all to take it back. To bring APOLLO back.  It wasn't the first time that the world asked her for a miracle, but it bargained with a miracle of its own: This time - she didn't have to do it alone.

[Wherein Elisabet Sobeck returns, GAIA is recovering, Erend is done waiting around, and Aloy discovers a family she's never had before to help lift the weight of the world off her shoulders.]

---

Chapter 1: Resurfacing

It was endless.

The dust and sand reminded him of the canyons north of Meridian—but it seemed harsher.  Endless, expansive. Flat. He’d lost sight of All-Mother Mountain days ago and soon even the icy northern peaks of the Cut had fallen behind the horizon. All that was around him were rocks and packed earth.

Clouds of dust rose from under his footsteps, caught in a wind swooping over from further west. He wondered if they would reach the end of the world before the end of this desert. Did it just… stop? Was there an edge where everything ceased to be, a void down below ready to consume anything unfortunate enough to travel just a bit too far?

He grunted at his thoughts. Way too poetic. Been hanging around too many Carja these days—and not enough ale to drown out all the needless chatter.

What was Aloy doing out here anyway?

Still, he pressed on with gritted teeth, pulling up the fabric of his scarf above his nose. There was shelter up ahead. The faint purple glow he was following led him straight down its path: a ruin of the Old Ones full of rusting metal and crumbling rock. There were a few trees in the vicinity, tall and shooting straight up from the ground as though they were arrows.

“Must’ve taken shelter here,” he grumbled to himself.

It was a short trek to reach the threshold of the ruins. There was an archway holding a dilapidated sign, looking as if a strong kick to the base would be enough to knock it over. For a minute he entertained the thought, but what for?

A pile of metal junk lies near the perimeter of the building—one of those rectangular containers, similar to those dumped by the Old Ones in the scrapyard near Free Heap. The building itself was covered in vines and… flowers? That’s when he noticed the grass by his feet. It was lush and green, much like in the Embrace, and where plant life thrives it means—

“Water.”

He picked up his pace, falling into a jog. The journey had taken a toll on him. He was glad to have kept some empty water skins on hand—a fresh refill and his store of dried meats would be more than enough to last him the walk back. It was a small comfort against the mounting restlessness that clawed at the back of his mind, the feeling that he was never going to catch up with her at the rate he was going. He wondered if he’d tracked Aloy down this far west only to have her meet him on the road—already on the way back.

At least he hoped she was. Coming back, that is. He shook his head. Not the best time to think about that.

Further inspection revealed no machines in sight. Odd. Did Aloy clear the way already? Or was there something else, something that kept them away? The thought was unnerving, but he kept his hammer stowed away at his back. Couldn’t pick up any threats, anyway. No mines either, he nodded to himself. Stalkers could be ruled out.

He looked up towards the building. It was worn down, only the haunting twisted metal of its skeleton left standing, rubble littered at the base. “Probably fed a whole thunderjaw into a forge to build this one.” He chortled. “Great. Now I’m talking to myself. Right. Water.”

He followed the way to a patch where the growth was thicker. “Huh.” He paused, frowning. There were purple flowers arranged in a triangle too perfect to be natural. Some sort of stone seating structure was in the center and—

“Fire and spit!” he sputtered out, war-hammer pulled at the ready while he awkwardly regained his footing after nearly tripping. For some reason, even in the heat of battle he decided he didn’t want to step on the violet blooms that seemed so dainty and beautiful.

Was that… a person?

His frown deepened, brows knitting together as he looked over some sort of machine suit. It reminded him of the material Aloy had crafted over standard Nora leathers. He gently prodded at the suit with the end of his hammer’s grip. No movement. The overgrowth consuming it was an indication that it’d been sitting there for, well, a while.

He stepped in a little closer, laying a hand along the suit’s shoulder to dust it away. Cold. He recoiled.

Cold as death.

For a second or two he considered scavenging the strange machine-suit for parts, but quickly dismissed the thought when he realized there might be someone… inside. He stepped back, putting down his hammer. Oseram were delvers, not grave robbers.

I should probably go. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling intrusive and out of place, but one last look over the suit made him shake his head. Was this their home? He tried to imagine what the ruins might have looked before. Like Meridian, perhaps?

The person looked peaceful. Content. But it looked like a lonely way to go.

“You, uh…” he set a heavy gloved hand on the suit’s shoulder. “Have a good rest.”

The stillness didn’t last for very long. As he lifted his hand a cloud of cold, frigid gas began to leak from the small slits along the suit’s shoulders and joints.

The focus Aloy gifted him began to buzz, in sync with the deep onset of frantic panic at the pit of his stomach. By the forge did he break something? He stumbled backwards, hand coming up to tap his focus. Purple lights sprung to life—a spattering of odd blinking symbols and words that were enough to disorient him. Circles of light hovered highlighted portions of the suit, bringing up numbers and flashing words—counting down with urgency.

[WARNING:  Ultraweave Terrestrial Suit Atmospheric Seal Compromised]

"Seal?" What was that supposed to mean? He frowned. Too sober for this.

A disembodied voice buzzed into his ear—eerie and inhuman, like how the Shadow Carja’s god HADES sounded, except not quite as threatening. A woman’s voice.

[Ultraweave Terrestrial Suit Oxygen Supply—Depleted. Ultraweave Terrestrial Suit Potable Liquid Tank—Depleted]

There was a chilling pause.

[External Personnel Detected. Assessment: User of FAS Standard-Issue FOCUS Unit Number ZERO-ONE-ONE-THREE - Assistance Required. Please attend to personnel within UTS Unit Zero-Alpha-Psi.]

“What am I—?!” He looked around in a panic, feeling out of his element. Was it talking to him? This was the sort of thing Aloy was good at! “What am I supposed to do?!”

[Please attend to personnel within UTS Unit Zero-Alpha-Psi.]

“You already said that.” He grumbled back, frustrated. Does that mean this thing—this…Old One—was still alive? Upon closer inspection he could see it: frost crawling out of the vents. Cold. Still as cold as death.

He couldn’t believe it. Frozen in time.

[Stand-by for assisted reanimation.]

He reached out towards the blinking lights across the rectangular badge on the suit’s odd chest plate. It responded to his touch with purple lights blinking into living words floating across his fingertips. He gasped.

He recognized that name.

[Disengaging Cryostasis Protocol. Stand-by for assisted reanimation. Projection: ninety-three minutes to thermal homeostasis.]

--

“Captain, what happened?”

Voices. Too far away. Or were they nearby? Damn. She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t even open her eyes. It was cold. So fucking cold—colder than Nevada had any right to be.

“Get blankets! Anything! Beladga, got any shirts you can spare?”

Why was everyone in a panic? Had she fallen asleep in the control center? Huh. She didn’t recall Travis sounding nearly as gruff as that.

Travis? The others—

She… she had a job to do. A mission. What was it? Everything felt distant—disconnected. She vaguely realized she that she was shivering but why? She tried to call out but realized that she was physically unable to speak, her throat feeling dry as sandpaper. Coughing erratically, she noticed that she was partially intubated with a sort of breathing apparatus.

[Seventeen minutes to thermal homeostasis. Please prepare for disengagement of auxiliary respirator.]

An automated voice was buzzing into her ear through her focus. She could feel her senses turning, along with the slight mobility of her limbs. It seems she was being carried—or rather, being laid down onto something soft. There were footsteps. Movements. The voices were hushed, secretive and confused. There was a soft yellow light through the ambiguous blur of color that swam around her vision.

[Auxiliary respirator disengaging.]

The machinery abruptly detached the mask from her nose and mouth. The sudden brightness made her recoil, her face feeling exposed. She fell into a fit of violent coughing—as if she had forgotten how to breathe. It was painful. God, it fucking sucked.

“Take it easy now,” said the voice from earlier. It was a man. He—He was speaking with her through his own voice. How is that possible? No one could survive out here without a suit. The atmosphere was too—

A sudden wave of nausea overcame her.

Memories of her last excursion came flooding back: the bunker door failing to seal. Her last transmission to the Alphas. Project Zero Dawn. GAIA—the Swarm!

Coming home.

Dying.

I’m supposed to be dead.

“I—” she rasped out, voice hoarse and jagged. Panicked.

“Whoa there,” there was a steady hand on her shoulder, helping her turn to her side. She felt something press against her mouth almost forcefully. “Drink this.”

“We got to get her out of that suit, captain.” There was another voice, female this time.

“I think—” the captain, she assumed, replied “—I think we need to wait a few more minutes. The device is telling me that—”

Everything was fading into black again.

--

“—else to go follow her trail, or just hope she comes back. She has to… she needsto see this. I just… Oh. She’s awake, I think.”

There was some shuffling. Once again, she was offered water. It was sweet this time. Did they mix in sugar? She tried to ask but she was so, so tired and…

--

Sobeck Journal, 1-27-66

I wasn’t going to see any of it anyway.

Best I can do is hope, I guess. The landscape is barren now – I’m kind of glad the other Alphas don’t have to see it this close up. Stings. I’m half-expecting to hear Patrick patch me in via holo, asking why I haven’t dragged my feet to the conference hall for the scheduled status briefing. He’ll take good care of the younger kids, him and Charles both. ZD and the Swarm seem so small and faraway now that I’m walking away from it all. Quite literally. Hauled my ass all the way to Nevada.

Glad mom isn’t around to see the ranch like this. When I close my eyes I can almost imagine it: the tall pine trees, the grass. Maybe I’ll get to see things the way they were before on the other side… wherever that might be.

I’m tired.

Time to rest.

--

She woke up with a jolt.

“Hey.

He was still there, sitting on the ground across from her and looking just as confused as she was. Her vision was clearer now—and every detail she managed to catalogue drove a spike of panic and confusion deeper into the hollow of her chest. They were in a leather tent lit by a small gasoline lamp in the corner. They seemed to be in the outskirts of an encampment, faraway enough to not be disturbed.

“I’m guessing this is freaking you out a little.” He scratched at the back of his head, unable to meet her eyes. He pointed to a waterskin laid down beside her bedroll. “Maybe get some more water in before you speak? I’ve got some dried meats too. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in… a while.”

On the matter of guesses, she had a vague idea what might be going on. It was equal parts terrifying and exciting and a hundred percent something she did notask for.

She had an unfortunately stellar track record for hypothesizing, though. Chances of her guess being wrong were dreadfully slim. The cold. The scenery. Even the clinical tone and instructions of her Ultraweave Suit’s reanimation module—a system she helped develop herself, back when the prospect of sleeping through the disaster was considered an option.

It wasn’t. Not consistent enough to use en masse—not enough foresight to secure species continuity.

She took a drink of water, willing to steel her nerves before panic caught up with her executive faculties. She needed to orient herself with wherever it was she woke up in. Hell, forget where, the real question is—

“When… is it?”

He blinked. “Uh, today?”

“What year is it?”

The man’s expression softened—a look that didn’t quite fit with the rest of his character. He was big. Towering—even while seated on the floor—with broad shoulders and a figure strong enough to walk around with enough steel to build a car door, apparently. “You sound so much like her.”

“I don’t follow.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming along. She needed to eat.

“Sorry I—” he scratched at his beard. “It’s the reign of the 14th Sun-King, Avad the Liberator.”

Kings? Again?

“I’m Erend, captain of the King’s vanguard.”

He paused.

“You’re Aloy’s mother, aren’t you?”

-

fin

-

A/N: I'd like to acknowledge Tototops for doing an amazing job beta-reading this! It's always a pleasure, and my writing is always pushed to grow better with every suggestion and correction you help me with. x) And to my friends Sleepy, @theguardiandragon1, @saltypyrotato, @tanuki-pyon and Fridge for listening to my HZD manic fever ramblings and helping me make sense of the plot I had in mind.

Just finished the game about two weeks ago and read a bunch of fanfic. I consumed Writerly's Second Dawn (which is absolutely amazing!!!!), which is my foremost inspiration for even attempting to write fanfic of this wonderful franchise. I base a lot of my characterizations and format of story telling in this fic from their work, and hope to do so in a way which is still true to the unique plot I've set for it. I am very excited to be trying something new and to learn and get better along the way. Hope you all enjoy. :)

[thefanficmonster]

Never Satisfied [Chapter 5]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: !!DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF A PANIC ATTACK!!; Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

Note from the authors: Hello dear readers! This chapter, as mentioned in the warnings above, has a detailed description of a panic attack which might be highly triggering for some individuals. That being said this chapter is NOT A MUST-READ. You can understand the further progression of the story perfectly well without reading this chapter. If you decide to skip this chapter, which we recommend if you are easily triggered, we’ll be seeing you in the next chapter. If you’re sticking around for the ride, enjoy 🖤🖤🖤

“headed for a breakdown“

“I’ll catch you later, feel free to text me anytime.” Cora smiles warmly, standing outside Corpse’s apartment complex, where they’ve spent almost half an hour just talking in his car before she finally mentioned she had to get going which led to them both stepping out of the car and into the late afternoon air. At first, Corpse thought it must have been something he had said or did but before the panic could start eating away at his calmness, Cora was quick to reassure him, promising she had a client meeting her in about two hours which is why she needed to get going.

Now he finds himself standing in his apartment, feeling cold and alone. He feels like a huge chunk is missing from his life now, despite that very chunk not even being a part of it just a few hours prior. He allowed Cora to bring him some happiness, relief and ease for those few hours, and now that she’s gone, he realizes how unprepared he is to be dealing with his loneliness again. He’s aware he shouldn’t get this attached to someone he barely knows, or to anyone really, but she made him feel so much, and none of the feelings unpleasant: she allowed him security, safety, comfort; she gave him some of the most genuine laughs of his life, managed to speed up his heart because of excitement and joy, not anxiety or insecurity. She provided him with what he’s been longing for for so long, and she did all that in less than a day.

With all that taken into consideration, one would find him missing her more than reasonable, but Corpse isn’t so easy on himself. Quite the contrary actually, he’s scolding himself for it in this very moment as he paces the living room. 

He shifts from one foot to the other, tipping his head down as he carefully toes off his shoes. He stops in one spot suddenly, feeling himself consumed by the deafening silence, a lump starting to form in his throat as well as tightness building in his jaw. The telling sign. His eyes sting, burning red and painful. His head is swarmed, buzzing statically like a TV on a dead air channel.

I fucked up

I fuck everything up

I am a fuck up

These thoughts begin to cloud his brain with such intensity there is no way of him even having a chance at fighting them or pushing them away. They take firm hold on his brain and refuse to let go. He’s no stranger to them but that doesn’t mean he has any defenses ready for when they show themselves. He’s helpless and hopeless even after all the times he’s had to deal with them though it seems like they get progressively stronger instead of weaker.

This time, they appear the strongest yet.

Tears burn his eyes so he covers one eye with the palm of his hand in a hopeless attempt at keeping them at bay, choking out a soft noise from his throat as everything starts welling up in his heart, causing him excruciating pain in his chest. 

He’s sure he did something wrong. Said the wrong thing. Had the wrong reaction. Messed something up. 

He plays every second back in his mind over and over again, searching between the lines of conversation, skimming through each word they exchanged for something, anything that would indicate that his worries and anxiety are grounded and concrete. His heart is galloping, his mind is going haywire. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to defend himself against the raging storm that has taken over his head and the incoming waves of negativity that are for sure to attack him in the horrible, painful minutes to come.

He wants to sit down, lie down, anything just to get off his shaking feet and relieve his knees that are threatening to give up on him any second now. However, he simultaneously wants to punch a wall, a mirror, break something, ruin something as a piece of evidence that he always ruins things for himself and others. That he is exactly what he claims to be - a fuck up.

You aren’t worth it

You aren’t good enough

You are never good enough

People deserve better than you

They don’t want you around

She doesn’t want you

AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

His mind races, spins, betrays him, leaves him to drown in the darkness that is slowly consuming him. The room feels both too big and too small at the same time, suffocating yet he feels so small in comparison to it. His knees finally give, let him down just like his mind has and he drops down to his knees, clutching at his chest. Breaths come at a rapid pace as he starts hyperventilating, wheezing and sobbing with each passing moment, barely able to squeeze enough air into his lungs as to not pass out. He digs his nails into the carpet in desperate attempts to ease the pain or just to keep himself awake and stable, as stable as he could possibly be during a panic attack.

Pity Grief  Loneliness Disgust  Sorrow Dread

His checkpoint isn’t here and the demons in his head are telling him she’ll never be again. Telling him he isn’t worth it, telling him she deserves better and shouldn’t be wasting her time on him anyway. 

He forces himself to his still and even more so unsteady feet, swaying dangerously before finding some weak stability to carry himself to his room to avoid being any more miserable than he already is by lying on the floor. His body doesn’t seem to agree with him though, flashing warning signs at him that he shouldn’t be standing up right now. He ignores all the warnings, the clouded and then vignetted vision, the much harder process of breathing and the retching that is steadily climbing from the pit of his stomach up towards his throat.

All signs telling him this is not a battle he can win.  

                                                               *  *  *

Corpse wakes up on the floor, having dropped before he could reach his bed, vomit beside him. His breathing is shaky, almost as much as his hands. Ignoring the warning signs yet again he pushes himself in a sitting position, causing his head to spin even worse due to the sudden movement which is the last thing he needed in this state the panic attack has left him in.

I blacked out. I can’t even have a panic attack right, He thinks to himself, the toxicity remaining in his mind just to pollute it for the next couple of days or so.

He’s trembling horribly yet he still chooses to not allow himself the rest he so desperately needs and instead gets up onto his feet to clean the mess on the carpet he’ll probably need to buy a stain remover for. His jaw clenches, his shaking hands doing a poor job at making anything better, actually worsening the situation he’s trying to fix. With another fail added to his list of fuck ups, he gives up on the carpet, removing his stained sweatshirt with force and throwing it across the room before he climbs into bed, wrapping the blankets around him like a safety cocoon.

Just as he thinks he’s about to drift off to sleep, his only refuge, his phone chimes, startling him more than it probably should’ve.

Out of instinct, he reaches out and fishes for it among the many items littering his nightstand. Finally feeling the rectangular device under his touch, he retrieves it and checks what the chime is alerting him of.

It’s a text from an unknown number but the message’s content clears up the identity of the sender right away.

Digital Checkpoint activated. Reply to save progress. 💜 — Cora

With minimal contemplation he replies seconds later.

Corpse: save

Cora: your progress has been saved. Thank you for choosing A.S.S. - the Automated Save System. You are now free to activate the digital checkpoint at any time. 

Cora: I had a nice time. Text me whenever you need to. We’ll hang out again soon, deal?

Corpse: thank you

Cora: anytime sugar ;)

Funny how a text exchange so simple and short can turn so much around for a person. Funny how a huge weight lifts off him the second he locks his phone, suddenly finding it easier to breathe, to move, to blink, to function - to live. She gives him that kick he needs to be reminded to live and not just be alive. He’s still not comfortable with how much he’s relying on her but seeing her effect on him is nothing but positive, the most and best thing he can do for himself is go with the flow and let things happen. No overthinking, no planning, no shooting guesses, just facing things as they come face-to-face with him. He may never get used to it, but he won’t know that until he tries, will he?

@fockingwhore  @vixenl  @annshit  @wineandionysus  @wiseflamingoqueen

[ophiuchus-interactive]

Hi, darling! ❤ "i’m finally ready to be with you, but you’ve finally moved on from me, and i’m too late" please?

Am I gonna regret this? Absolutely.

Oooh!!! Nobody specified means everyone gets some pain!!!

Thank you dearie!!!

(TW: Death, growing old, regret, mention of grief, slight mention of blood)

Valerian-

“Was it worth it?”

It was like an itch.

No matter how many times over the years Valerian fought with himself to ignore your last words to him, he couldn’t. It crept up on him, crawled under his skin like a memory made of carrion beetles and worms. The question wouldn’t die, it decomposed- fertilizing nightmares of days long gone by. It turned his heart rotten.

He wakes up sometimes with his hand reaching out across the bed, the coolness of his empty linens sending Valerian drowning amongst the currents of time and misfortune again. Giving his decision the moniker of “mistake” would hardly encompass how much of a fool he was, how he thought so assuredly he had you, that you had all the time in the world to wait.

Just one more job, he would tell you, one more bounty. And all there would be left for him, was you.

But you were gone. And your words stung and scraped and dug at his skin. And he scratched and scratched and scratched at the fading memory of you.

Peter-

People talk about the five stages of grief like it’s a process, but really, it’s a map. It’s a state you find yourself in, a sick and twisted path of destinations and crossroads that path themselves in and out of hell. You find yourself there. You hardly ever leave. Some people are lucky; some find themselves in acceptance of their loved one’s death. Some lose themselves in their anger. Some people, desperate to cling to the memories, never make it farther than phase one.

Peter’s destination was bargaining. He never got any further than that.

Desperation. Helplessness. Despite any and all appearances of the cheery, capable man, you saw more in your time with him than most. And he was hurt.

Peter tried many times to get through these feelings, the past clawing at his heart and mind, ripping- always ripping- him back to where he left off. He was so beside himself in his worry for you every time you got hurt, there were times you thought it better to not go home at all. If only to quell the pain. If only to stop his hurt.

And maybe it was bad. Bad to let him go like you did. But how much more could you stomach watching him hurt? Ghosts haunting him, tormenting him, his face twisting at the sight of you coming out of a battle alive.

Be okay, for me. Please be okay.

You hated promises you couldn’t keep.

You hated the thought of breaking his heart even further, if one night you came home, and you weren’t okay.

Rosalie-

Love isn’t perfect. It was an epiphany she had working on a dock, years after she’d left you. She was older, wiser, but still remembers you the way she liked you best: smiling. Your voice had faded from her memory, your words probably twisted by time, but it was your smile that she recalled with perfect detail. It was good, this way. Better.

Rosalie tries not to think about the moments where it wasn’t flawless, and always to her surprise, those memories are nothing more than blunt daggers in her mind. Tears, anger, regret- those feelings surface, dull and subdued, but they don’t affect her the same way it does with your smile.

Where did it all go wrong?

Rosalie doesn’t know. She doesn’t expect it, either. She broke her finger slamming her hammer down, missing the nail when she came to this realization. The shattering sound of her ring finger was a dull, monotone noise compared to the blood that rushed in her ears;

Did I not try hard enough?

It was you, smiling. The crystal clear sound of your laughter. The mute sounds of your anger- the blurry visions of your tears. Faded arguments. Jokes that sound so familiar. Her memories weren’t perfect. Her love for you wasn’t, either.

But it was real.

Real like the fractured bits of bone and knuckle. Real like her scream. Real like the hot, furious tears that poured down her face, the pain- the pain.

Intangible. Imperfect.

Like her memories of you.

Thane-

“You’re lucky you’re not dead, you know,” Thane’s voice was steady, like scolding was part of his profession, “if they were any closer to you-”

“I know,” You say, your eyelids slamming shut. You did your best to hide your frustration, lest Thane suddenly decides he was going to start bitching to you about that, too, “but I’m alive. It’s fine,”

“It’s reckless,” He corrects, and the familiar feeling of your heart dropping to your stomach throws you off. You were over him. His words shouldn’t sting this much anymore.

“Foolish, really,” Thane continues, and his cold, sterile needle seems bury itself deeper into your skin, “but, given your proclivities for practically throwing yourself at death’s doorstep, I’m not surprised,”

You scoff, throwing back your head in disbelief. Is he being serious?

“I jumped in front of the damn gun because you weren’t moving fast enough! Any slower, Thane, and you would’ve been dead.”

He stops. The needle sat still against your skin. The sutures pulled taut- your wound was almost closed.

“What?”

“He was aiming for your effin’ head,” You spit, tired, tired of the damn man in front of you. Never so much as a thank you for the amount of times you saved his ass, and he’s still giving you shit? Still grating on your fucking nerves?

“I…” He sucks in a breath, “I didn’t know that,”

“No shit,” You huff, “you never do.”

That seems to be enough to snap Thane back out of his daze. His piercing, cold eyes met yours, and you were surprised to see that they seem to mirror your irritation. Your fury,

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

That you're loved, you fool. I loved you.

Why couldn’t you see that?

Why couldn’t you see me?

There was so much at that moment you wanted to say, so many words that turned stale on your tongue. It was bitter, finally seeing the realization on his face, to watch those very lips that you’d only dreamt of tasting, turn until tight, thin frown. Confusion and worry and shock painted his face a pale, pinkish gray. It was the color, you realized, of regret.

Of his regret. Not yours.

Ophelia-

When Ophelia found your first gray hair, she almost cried.

It’s started. The clock is ticking.

You soothed her horror with laughter, plucking the strand of hair straight from your head and throwing it to the side, like it was garbage. Trash.

“You stress me out,” You say with a laugh, and Ophelia finds it in herself to smile. She doesn’t notice at first, how the laugh lines deepen.

You complained of pains in your back. Your hips. Riding a horse has become too much of a pain for long distance travel.

Your head of hair is now silver. Ophelia pays the color little mind.

She insists on riding into town herself more and more, much to her quiet, naked distress.

You slap her shoulder playfully, shrugging off your discomfort like you were twenty-three again,

“And miss out on the candy restock? Perish the thought.”

Ophelia now loves the contoured lines of your face. You’ve laughed a lot. It’s pretty.

You sit at home now, keeping your hands busy as best you can.

Ophelia does her best to ignore the gossip in town. She’s older, and yet they call you the pervert.

Does she really look so young? Has she really not changed? Will there be no sign of growing old with you?

You smiled sadly as she said these things late one night. She’d be crying again,

“Be still, my heart. I am always with you.”

She misses it.

She left for town only a day ago. The tulips were in bloom. Ophelia thought it a good idea to surprise you.

Doc greeted her in town. He shook his head, eyes cast to the ground.

The tulips were ruined in her haste, and Ophelia cried herself into exhaustion.

It was a terrible day. A feather unnoticed on her neck, had turned a light shade of gray.

Javier-

Javier was cold. Dying was a frigid feeling.

His chest heaved slow, shallow breaths. With each rise and fall of his chest, he could feel his own blood fill up his lungs, his own chest caving in. Dying was an uncomfortable feeling.

He held your hand like it was his lifeline. Javier didn’t want to look in your eyes again, he knew the light was gone.

“Re-remember when,” he starts, and the force of his breath alone causes him to gag and heave. For a brief second, he wonders if this was it- he couldn’t even say goodbye, before he said hello again. Javier was okay with that. But his breathing slows and calms down, and it was enough for him to start again,

“R-remember when I first met you?” It was a favorite of his; you looked so wild back then, so free. Years have passed and times have changed, you along with it, but the way you looked then?

It made him believe in such a thing called love.

Javier tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choked, wet cough. His hand still held onto yours tightly,

“...you...made me feel alive. And...and scared, a-and brave, and- oh, god, I love you. I-I love you.”

Javier took a breath. Dying was a tiring feeling.

He held your hand. Dying was a lonely feeling.

But he’s coming, and he’s sorry that he’s so late.

Sergio-

“Thank you,”

He laughs. It’s a hollow sound. Sergio was three fingers deep into his rye when you finally spoke up, and of course, it makes him laugh,

“Is that what divorced people say to each other? Thank you?”

You shrug, gulping down a glass of your own poison. Divorce decrees took more out of you than gunfights. Is it any wonder why one happens more than the other?

“You were my husband,” You say quietly, your eyes never meeting him, “You loved me, for better or worse...thank you, for that.”

“You’re an amazing person,” Sergio says without hesitation. His fingers were cold as he clutched his whiskey glass, raising it high into the air, “I...I mean that. Truly.”

What more was I to do, if not love you?

You smile, gulping down your sorrows, lest they escape your lips. Crying was for later. You’re saying goodbye, now.

“I, ahem,” Sergio clears his throat, his free hand going to wipe his reddened eyes, “I hope that whoever they are, they treat you good and proper, and that you are loved…” He pauses, “...that you are loved, as I’ve loved you.”

Say it more. Mean it. Husband, what words are these, when I’m no longer meant for them?

“I don’t hate you, Sergio,” You blurt, and they were words that demand repeating, “but this...I’m not...we, we’re not-”

They are only meant for you.

“-I know,” Sergio says, giving a wave of his hand, “I know. And thank you,”

“For?”

“For allowing me to love you,” Sergio says unevenly, and he takes a moment more to finish his drink.

????/Hope-

So this is agony.

Another’s hand upon your cheek.

You looked happy in their arms. You wore the same smile that made them realize what love was for the first time- what it could truly mean. Those feelings only grew inside them as time went on, bright and fluttering and bursting, so this is love.

It felt good.

But you never gave them that look you’re giving your lover, now. There’s no light in your eyes when your gaze finds them- you grin, you always grin, but it’s the same look you give Valerian and Peter.

It hurts. But why?

They should be happy for you- you're happy. You have someone to love. If this is what you’re feeling, being in your lover’s arms…?

They’ll have Rosalie run a diagnostic on their systems- surely this is a glitch that needs to be fixed. If you’re happy, they’re happy. Rosalie can fix this pain, and Hope will be normal again.

It hurts, being like this.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: Ructare florem tristitiae

Summary: Allen Walker’s feelings bubble up his throat, flower petals spilled on his father’s grave, for the Akuma, who will never get proper burials. Ructare florem tristitiae, Cross Marian diagnoses, grief flowers.

Parasitic type Exorcists never live for long; carries of Hanahaki should die even quicker.

Allen is determined to make the best of it.

Rosa bracteata

His name was Allen, his father was dead, and he’s choking, drowning in his grief, spilling his guts in the graveyard. His shoulders shook and he heaved until he collapsed, fingernails clawing at his skin until they left red scratches. Metal in his mouth as he vomited roses that, under all the blood from thorns tearing up his throat, were white.

“You want me to retrieve Mana Walker?” the grinning clown asked, curiously staring down at him.

Another rose petal fell from Allen’s mouth as he screamed his father’s name.

Ornithogalum umbellatum

Cross was too late.

His mistake couldn’t be any clearer, standing in front of Mana’s grave, holding a casket that was bound to be empty, looking at a child that was meant to disappear. Allen’s face was covered by blood, and thus Cross did not pay any attention to the flowers surrounding him as he picked Nea’s host up and carried him to safety.

The little brat never should have been caught up in this war of theirs and Cross almost wanted to laugh at the irony of a Noah’s host being so deeply connected to Innocence, it took over his body. Laughing, drinking, and sex would certainly be better distractions than screaming in rage and lashing out at a kid that couldn’t be blamed for any of this, but right now, Cross couldn’t afford to do either.

All he had left were the curses he could hiss under his breath as the child screamed himself hoarse from the pain, choking until Allen threw up on him, the remains of lunch and flower petals ruining his shirt.

“Fuck no,” Cross exhaled, fingers twitching for a cigarette. “Since when does the brat have fucking Hanahaki?”

Mother only huffed. “Why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you know since you watched him?”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t spitting up little snowdrops when he was running around with Mana!”

No, when the two clowns had been traveling together, Mana had been the one choking on the same red poppies he’d always cried for his brother. Fucking Nea, this better be worth it. From a scientist to an Exorcist to a nanny for traumatized little Noah hosts, who pissed their bedding.

“Those aren’t snowdrops,” Mother said, picking at the few flowers Cross had cleaned off the blood. “Aren’t you a bad priest that you can’t even recognize these?”

“Why the fuck should I recognize any flowers—”

“Stars of Bethlehem!”

Cross turned to the door where Barba was standing with Allen’s clean sheets, pointing excitedly at the little flowers. “Those are stars of Bethlehem. I’ve always wanted to decorate with them for Christmas because of the name, but they’re pretty sad flowers.”

Sad flowers, huh? “What do they mean?”

“Atonement,” Barba replied. “And reconciliation, guilt, and fear.”

Sighing, Cross leaned back in his chair and grabbed the entire bottle of wine. “Of course, the brat has grief flowers.”

Parasitic Innocence and Hanahaki? Nea better woke up soon, or the boy might die before he had the chance to erase him.

Calendula officinalis

Allen’s new Master was a bastard, so unlike Mana that he wanted to scream and return to his grave, spill more father’s day gifts and stars. But if he returned to Mana without having saved a single soul, he could never forgive himself.

And thus Allen stayed, carried his bags, found a routine with his Master, wondering when he’d finally learn how to use his Innocence against those Akuma.

“Hurry up, stupid apprentice, we’re going to be late.”

“Late where—” Allen froze as his gaze stopped at a lone man in the crowd and his left eye suddenly exploded in pain as his vision changed, shifted, and the man turned into a shadow, a skeleton wrapped in chains and guts, screaming, tearing at their constraints, begging for salvation.

Allen fell to his knees, his father’s screams echoing in his mind as he began coughing, struggling for breath, orange blooms landing on the dirt road.

“Allen— what are you doing!?”

His Master’s voice thundered through the air, commanding and another note he couldn’t identify.

“The man,” he stuttered out, swallowing down the bitter taste, the copper. “The man, Master, he’s like— like Mana!”

Cross’s head whipped up just in time for the man to see them.

And then all hell broke loose.

Tagetes erecta

The marigolds continued to haunt Allen until he learned to swallow down the blooms even as he fought against the Akuma.

No matter the Akuma’s level or origin story, orange petals always begged to leave his mouth. It made their stay in India more taxing than any other, marigold garlands covering the streets at all times. How strange that a flower that had always represented pain and grief to him was celebrated here so. Allen had met quite a few people suffering from the same ailment as him, though the taste of their hurt was a different one; unrequited love, fear, hopelessness – the number of emotions that could evoke Hanahaki seemed to be as varied as the stars above.

Allen had never known which one Mana had suffered from, but his flowers had also never changed, blooming for the same purpose and person.

He stared down at the abandoned bowl, his arm still aching. He had been so careful that any of the marigolds he brought Narain were not stained by those expelled by his body. But now, covered by the Akuma’s blood, it hardly seemed to matter.

They looked just the same.

Mentha arvensis

Allen’s introduction to the Black Order was chaotic. From his meeting with the angry Japanese Exorcist he absolutely did not want to work with ever thank-you-very-much to the confusing words and touch of the guardian Hevelaska. Komui, his superior, seemed like a fun and kind man, one Allen wouldn’t mind working alongside.

This place truly felt like it could become home if one were to believe Lenalee. Allen even had his own room that was his to do with as he liked, given that he didn’t destroy it. That certainly was an entirely new experience.

Allen hadn’t really had a home in a long while, though, when he was just feverish enough, feeling more like a child than an Exorcist, he would consider his Master’s coat on his shoulders shelter his home.

Not that he’d ever admit that to the man out loud.

“Is there anything else we need to know?” Komui asked, looking over Allen’s file, hopefully not cringing too much over Allen’s handwriting. Just because he had gained dexterity didn’t mean that his handwriting was particularly great. “Your personal data isn’t exactly precise.”

Allen tried to keep his smile in place, but he was well aware that his life had gaps. The entire first half of his childhood was one giant black hole, and as much as Allen sometimes wanted to solve that particular mystery, he was sure he hadn’t forgotten for no reason.

Mana’s memories had been full of empty spaces, and that for a good reason too.

Allen still remembered his screams when his nightmares overwhelmed him, begging for his brother to save him, forgive him, stay by his side eternally.

“I’m sorry,” Allen apologized regardless. “I know my background is not that easy.”

Komui only smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Allen. We care more about your own welfare now than anything else.”

His throat tickled and he desperately wanted to believe Komui, perhaps a bit naively too as his childhood self would condemn, but he tasted mint and knew it was for naught. Komui might care, God, the man had given everything so he could be here with his sister, but that didn’t speak for the entire Order.

“There actually is one more thing,” Allen admitted. “I have grief flowers.”

Komui’s eyes widened, fear and pity flashing through them. “How long?”

“Since General Cross took me in,” Allen said, knowing that for most, that would mean he was as close to death as he could be. “But I have it handled. My Innocence keeps me steady and heals my lungs.”

It was probably not as good of a reassurance as the man was hoping for, but it was all Allen could give. As always, he was lacking.

Lathyrus odoratus

Dealing with Innocence always interfered with his sickness. His own shard kept him healthy enough to continue on even if the number of flowers he’d displaced over the years should have long since killed him.

“What the hell, moyashi?” Kanda shouted as Allen doubled over in front of Lala and Guzol, covering the sand with blood, baby’s breath and sweet peas. Baby’s breath was nothing new given the presence of Innocence. Allen had filled Maria’s casket with it multiple times already, but he knew the sweet peas were for Lala, the sentient doll, and her dearly beloved human, her accommodator.

“Let her sing,” Allen begged through the pain, wheezing, still pathetic and weak. “Let her sing, please.”

And they remained as they were.

Gypsophila paniculate

God’s true apostle was a little girl that made Allen freeze. No matter how much he wanted to fight, to protect the world he had learned to love with his father’s smiles and jokes, he couldn’t anymore, his eye destroyed, bleeding.

Time running out and out and out until—

Rewind.

Miranda’s Innocence, baby’s breaths on his tongue, was as cruel as it was kind, giving Allen more time to fight, to understand, to choke down the marigolds as Road ordered the self-destruction of the Akuma and he watched that screaming soul disintegrate.

He knew there would be a price to pay.

The Noah’s door, a checkered form that seemed so familiar, closed and Allen stumbled back to Miranda’s side. Sweet reassurances were all it took to get her settled, to allow time to return to them.

Allen blacked out with a cough so deep, he thought he was crying at Mana’s grave again.

Papaver nudicaule

Lavi was curious by nature. It was the reason Bookman had picked him in the first place. Their kind needed to be curious, interested in the world, but only ever as its silent observers. Bookman Junior could recite his entire lecture on the topic, the ever repeated ‘know your duties’. Junior knew that he wasn’t Bookman’s first apprentice, and given how much Bookman insisted that Lavi stayed impartial, he knew there was a story to discover, history to inherit someday.

But for now, he had to chat up the Destroyer of Time.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Lavi said with a mild smile. “Yu-chan already told me so much about you!”

Kanda had been unusually chatty, complaining about Allen Walker for minutes, which was as good as ranting for an hour for normal people. Lavi had learned a lot about Allen during that time, mainly his sickness being of interest to Junior. The number of people suffering from Hanahaki was low enough that they had yet to find a proper cure or cause.

There were enough speculations, the church was particularly fond of going on about Eve and Lilith, Eden’s curse, but it was as good an explanation as a shrug and a disinterested ‘I don’t know’.

Although, perhaps, remembering the glass of flowers in his coat pocket, a cure had been found, just not one readily available for the masses.

“Here! Miranda collected them for you. It’s tradition in Germany to save them.”

Lavi handed Allen the glass full of yellow poppies before the youth could protest, waiting to see what his reaction would be. He had already gathered that Allen was used to his sickness, had learned how to live with them.

These flowers should not surprise him.

And yet they did, the boy almost dropping the glass when he saw what was inside.

“Poppies,” Allen breathed, his face twisting into shock, the kind of which Lavi had never seen before. “But they’re Mana’s—”

Mana Walker, the father that had been turned into an Akuma.

Lavi had to hold back a grin.

This was bound to be interesting.

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus

Roots took ahold of Allen’s heart and lungs and he reminded himself repeatedly that Mana loved him, that he had friends now and a home, that he was cared for. His father may have cursed him, but only so Allen would have something to live for so that he’d continue and not plant his roots at his father’s grace and let his body decay to feed the soil.

“I never wondered if Akuma could love,” Allen confessed to Lavi while Krory was still knocked out, head resting against the window of the train. “I thought them incapable of forming positive relationships unless they were modified.”

“Modified?” Lavi echoed, keen eyes, fake smile.

Took a liar to find another.

Eliade had felt something for Krory, even if it might just have been possessiveness, staking her claim on her victim and prey, waiting for the Innocence to get strong enough that its destruction would be interesting.

I love you, Mana’s words rang in his ears.

The flowers settled.

Glaucium flavum

The Exorcist cheated them right out of their money, and if Tyki didn’t feel like there was something familiar about the boy, he would have ripped his Innocence and heart out right there. He’d learned restraint, how to curb Joyd’s hunger. It had been insufferable when he’d still been a child, giving in to pleasure much too quickly.

But the three Exorcists right in front of him were taunt and temptation.

And still, Tyki resisted, especially once he got close enough to that white-haired menace to catch his scent. He’d excused himself after one round, saying he needed to freshen up. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth.

“You smell like flowers, menino,” Tyki commented, watching as the boy quickly wiped blood from his mouth, something yellow disappearing down the drain. “Hanahaki?”

Fraude A flinched, looking like he’d been caught in the act. The cheerful if devious demeanor from before had all but faded away, leaving behind an exhausted teenager. The bags under his eyes were heavy, and the Innocence in his hand must be sucking away at his lifespan as well.

What wouldn’t Tyki give to turn that crystal into dust, play savior for this damned child.

“It’s not contagious,” the boy said immediately, probably thinking that Tyki was one of those fools who avoided flower bearers like the plague.

“I know,” Tyki said. “Don’t worry about it, menino. You seem to be doing as well as you can. I want to ask about your sickness if you don’t mind.”

The boy eyed him suspiciously but nodded.

“The child we have with us, Eeez, he has Hanahaki as well. His family threw him out because they could not afford to care for his health.”

Not that Tyki and his friends could afford his treatment either. Whenever Eeez, Momo, and Clark slept, Noah’s third disciple reached far into the lungs of the boy and ripped out the flowers stealing his breath, drenched his fingers in blood to see the child take another pathetic breath.

“Oh.” Understanding flashed over Fraude’s face. “Which kind?”

“Fear,” Tyki replied and there was so much to fear for weak little human boys in a world as cruel as theirs. “And you?”

“Grief,” the boy said, almost apologetic as if he’d trade his variant for a chance to help Eeez. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you any help. My method of coping won’t work for him.”

Flores de tristeza and an Exorcist, the boy was truly detested by fate.

“I understand.” Oh, he did. That parasite leeching on the boy’s lifespan kept him alive, healed him over and over again so he could keep fulfilling its cursed mission. Tyki wondered what his lungs looked like, whether they were entirely scarred over. “Thank you still, menino.”

Aquilegia atrata

Lenalee was excellent at reading people, even if she couldn’t keep up with Lavi. It was a skill she had learned out of necessity during all her attempts at escaping the Order, searching for weaknesses in her guards, moments where their attention slipped just enough for her to throw herself out of the high towers they kept her in.

No matter how much Allen lied and cheated and smiled, Lenalee could see that it wasn’t true.

And that he was putting too much pressure on himself.

Surrounded by all the Akuma, hunting down Allen’s Master, the fall was inevitable.

Lenalee just hoped she would be there to catch him when it was the time as Komui had been there for her.

Dianthus caryophyllus

Innocence was good and holy.

God’s dearly beloved crystal, sent to save humanity.

Allen had known this deep in his heart, had clung to it when the appearance of his arm had still made him insecure because it gave him purpose. He was not so foolish as to think himself special, one of God’s chosen, but he chose to believe that Innocence mattered.

That it was kind and protected.

“I’m sorry,” Suman Dark apologized under tears he could not cry as Allen kept on screaming, begging him to live and go on, no matter how much the Innocence was eating away at him.

This couldn’t be true; it shouldn’t happen. His own Innocence would never do this to him, had it loved and protected him even against his own father. Yet it was failing him when Allen tried to dig through the violet butterflies, the violent pain. His shoulders trembled terribly as he swallowed down the sharp taste of carnations burning him as much as the artificial insects left nothing of Suman behind.

Cercis siliquastrum

“Fraude A?” Tyki exclaimed, surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. He had known that the tristeza boy had been an Exorcist, these plagues liked to flaunt it after all, with their shiny expensive uniforms, and he’d known that they’d eventually clash on the battlefield.

He had just, foolishly perhaps, hoped that it would be a fair battle, one where the boy could give it his all despite his failing, scarred lungs.

Allen Walker.

How pitiful that his name was on Tyki’s list.

“Don’t worry,” Tyki told him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

His words weren’t even a lie, and Tyki knew he could very easily put the boy to rest without him feeling a thing, and yet, he couldn’t help explain his work, act it out, because he wanted to leave his mark on his victim, have Allen Walker grieve flowers for him.

So Tyki crushed his hand, his Innocence, destroyed it with Dark Matter, let the Tease bite into his heart, and left the boy in tears.

Taking his dying breaths, unable to spit any flowers for Tyki. With a grin, he reached deep into the boy’s lung, retrieving judas tree blooms and a silver button.

How sad.

Tyki had hoped for poppies.

Bellis perennis

Allen lay on the ground, his Innocence above him as mist as he struggled for breath. It had never been this bad before. He couldn’t remember a single time where his flowers had been coated in so much blood, he couldn’t tell which kind it was right from the bat.

“You can’t overdo it,” Fo told him, rolling back on her feet almost playfully if not for the severity of the situation. “Your Innocence isn’t healing you anymore.”

I know, Allen wanted to reply. I know, I know, and it is all my fault.

He only wanted to continue on, do as he always had, push through the pain, and fulfill his purpose. Why was it so difficult, why did he struggle so much? Did his Innocence think him a betrayer, nothing worth saving anymore?

Please, he begged into the quiet, his flowers for the first time since he’d started blooming posing a  threat to him. I just want to do my duty.

He grabbed his bloodied flowers with his one good hand and thought about springtime and Mana teaching him how to make daisy chains.

Tagetes lucida

Marigolds were comforting, almost. Allen could feel his throat put itself back together, healing as his body still decided to punish him. He wondered whether the other parasitic Exorcists had felt like this as well, torn between being weapon and host, beloved friend and tool.

He wondered what it might have been like for Maria to be the host of Innocence and spit flowers whenever she needed her throat to sing.

He wondered what her Innocence’s name had been once upon a time before it had become nothing more than Grave of Maria.

(Wondered whether his Master loved him enough to turn him into a doll to be used for battle as Allen would want.

Whether Cross Marian loved him too much to do so.)

“Tell me where my friends are,” Allen ordered and the Akuma complied, truth tasting like marigolds and poppies.

Rosa bracteata: Macartney rose – white rose, typically given to fathers

Flower list

Ornithogalum umbellatum: Star of Bethlehem – atonement for crime, reconciliation, guilt and fear

Calendula officinalis: marigold – pain and grief

Tagetes erecta: marigold

Mentha arvensis: mint – suspicion, lack of trust

Lathyrus odoratus: sweet pea – goodbye, departure

Gypsophila paniculate: baby’s breath – innocence, pure at heart

Papaver nudicaule: poppies

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus: Rosanne from canon

Glaucium flavum: poppies

Aquilegia atrata: purple columbine – driven to win

Dianthus caryophyllus: yellow carnation – disdain, disappointment, rejection

Cercis siliquastrum: judas tree – betrayal, unbelief

Bellis perennis: daisy – innocence, purity, new beginnings

Tagetes lucida: marigold