#evil and despicable but alas | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acupofqueercoffee · 2 years

Text

“A healer, a lover, a killer”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

wc : 6700+

cw : arranged marriage // sexual assault towards the very end // ***non-con is NOT between reader and retsu*** // blood and gore // graphic description of corpses // hurt-comfort // fluff and fluff and fluff and fluff // flirting // wives // minazuki is a gentle-giant 🥺 // murderous milf // older woman x younger woman

ffs i just want to spoil my mommy rotten (and be spoiled rotten) is it too much to ask for ಥ◡ಥ i’m desperate to do her justice but bruhh she sure is difficult to write 🥲

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Marriage, in essence, is a sacred binding of two people, or rather two lovers during which they vow as one to cherish the beauties, to endure the burdens of life.

There may have been a time when you have fancied such foolish fantasies, entertained little hope of finding a love so profound that it will bleed colours into your lonely, miserable life.

Alas, fate does not favour you. But of course, it never does. Likely will never do.

You were born earning the resentment of your father, for his beloved wife perished as you came to be. She was the apple of his eyes, the one possession that he dearly cherished, and swore to cherish in perpetuity. With fingers entwined and two hearts as one, they had endured the burdens of life in tandem, and just when it was beginning to thrive, a promising future stretched out ahead of them like a perpetual sunrise, a curse befell them in the form of you, oh evil, despicable you.

Bearing the brunt of the mother’s death is the child as your father treats you with much hostility. Within him resides not a dot of affection for you, and he makes a point of rubbing salt into your wounds, reminding you in every possible way that you are a murderer, an abomination, a hellspawn on a sacred land. Your life is no better than a slave’s, easier perhaps without the need to exert yourself, but certainly not kinder without anyone to converse with, much less to confide in. Even a slave has companions whereas you who is abhorred and forsaken by your own flesh and blood, have no one in this world but yourself.

Thus, in your father’s resentful hands, the flickering light in your heart eventually, completely dies.

When you have finally come to terms with your life as it is, marriage comes to you in the form of a cruel joke.

If you have been none the wiser, you may have believed it to be a chance at a better life, a crack of sunshine through a sky full of gloom. And for a while, you have. Naive enough to hope. Foolish enough to dream. All it takes is a flick of your father’s merciless tongue, and the fool’s paradise, in which you have been taking sanctuary, comes tumbling down.

“You do not deserve to feel happiness as ephemeral as it will be. So, listen to me. And listen carefully. The Gotei 13 wanted me to hand you in saying that while you may not presently look the part, you are a menace to soul society. You should have never been born to begin with. Instead of her, it should have been you.”

“Despite everything, in the end, I very generously agreed to relinquish you under only one condition. That you will be wedded to one of the captains. Such an outstanding opportunity is hard to come by and apparently, they were desperate enough to get their hands on you whatever the cost. I requested that the wedding be held to the nines for the sake of publicity. People need to witness it with their own eyes in order for them not to talk foul of my family.”

“I can’t have the whole boat going putrid because of a single carp, can I? So, enjoy it while it lasts, dear daughter because I can’t promise that you’ll come out unscathed once they’re done with you.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Your soon-to-be other half is a stranger. You know about her as much as you know about the outside world: in other words, next to nothing. Except that her eyes are reminiscent of azurites, and her hair, a moonless night, the woman with whom you will be spending the rest of your life is merely a stranger to you. But then again, with their motives kept under wraps, you will be lucky to survive through the night.

Fleeing is out of the question for you understand the extent of your capabilities, and to flee right now will be tantamount to dicing with death. Despite your father’s despicable attempts to trap you in despair, you decide that playing docile is quite possibly your best bet. Come rain or shine, you will survive. You have not endured the torments of your wicked father after all this time simply to be trampled like a weed. What an insult it will be to your painstaking efforts.

So, when you are asked if you will take the stranger before you as your lifelong partner, without hesitation, you say, “I do”. Legions of people bear witness to your false union as your wife echoes your words; her dulcet voice, like the first trickle of rain, slakes your drought.

“Won’t you seal the deal with a kiss, Captain Unohana?”

Amongst the circle of people who are uniformly dressed in white overcoats, the one whose voice has sounded mischievous has been a man with a straw hat and an additional pink garb.

Unohana. Unohana. Unohana.

A pretty name indeed, as befits a pretty woman.

The first half of his statement is entirely lost on you as you repeat the name in your mind over and over and over again. It is the delicate crawl of fingers on your face that rectifies your lapse of concentration. First thing you notice, once you have blinked the haze away, is her violet gaze that is caressing your features and her face that has unexpectedly appeared under your nose, leaving little to no space to the point that your breaths mingle.

The warmness of her breath that ghosts along the apple of your cheek smells faintly of wild flowers and herbs; then comes the silky press of her lips atop the corner of your mouth. Given the circumstances, the kiss is not entirely unpleasant. If nothing else, it is kind, and although you loathe to admit it, your heart sings under her touch.

You fail to mention before that she has rose buds for lips, and now, upon departure, they bestow upon you a beautiful pink blossom smile. It is serene, strangely soothing, and you feel at peace with the woman who is your wife, all kind eyes and saccharine smiles, but whose full name you have yet to learn.

As inclined as you feel to assume that the kiss has somehow irreversibly put you under her spell, the more logical part of you know that neither your mind nor body is tampered with; your admiration for her beauty is born purely of your unadulterated self. Since the dawn of your life, it is ironically in the hands of a stranger whose intentions with you are still unclear that you experience tenderness for the very first time. Some semblance of affection has visited you in the form of a palm cradling your cheek and lips caressing your skin, and although you know it to be nothing more than a performance, it is undeniably the closest that you have ever felt to being loved.

Her gesture has understandably moved you in the warmest of ways, and it is only given that, as she continues to drench you in gentleness and swaddle you in kindness, you will grow to forget the true nature of your marriage.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“Follow me.”

Such has been your wife’s first words to you, a command that leaves no room for rejection, as she comes to meet you in her, or rather your shared quarters. In her absence, unsure of what to do with yourself, you have been sitting on your heels by the side of a tea table, anxiously awaiting her arrival, but immediately on her command, you arise to your feet. And then, follow her you do as she leads you outside.

In the middle of the veranda, a wooden tray lies in wait, holding on it a ceramic pot and two ceramic cups. The side of the veranda, towards which the pair of you are heading, lacks the railing, and it overlooks the other buildings in Seireitei. When she goes to take a seat beside the tray, you silently watch her. Only upon being motioned to do the same do you mirror your wife. The night is tranquil and the sky, brimming with tiny twinkles. The flickering lights from the buildings below and the glittering celestial bodies above; together, they give you the illusion that you are being swallowed into an infinite pool of stars.

In the quietness of the night, she speaks with a gentle lilt that is carried to you by a zephyr.

“You have questions for me, I take it?”

Simply sitting still in leisurely contemplation of the stars, she oozes charisma, and you cannot help but admire her. Due to the moon bathing her in its silver glow, her long hair that is tied loosely around the small of her back shines with an otherworldly sheen. She is the juxtaposition of darks and lights as the charcoal of her strands that elegantly frame her angelic face accentuates the milkiness of her skin.

“Am I that dangerous of a person for you to willingly go through with this folly?”

It is more or less a slip of your tongue. There are many questions to which you seek answers, and at the first chance, without really thinking, you end up blurting out the one thing that is on the forefront of your mind.

When her eyes seek your face and your eyes subsequently are greeted by her face, to your surprise, a smile crawls onto her lips.

“My, what gives you the impression that this marriage is a sham?”

“I was told by my father that I was to be surrendered to Seireitei, and that all he had asked in exchange was for a captain to wed me very publicly, because he hated the idea of his family name being tarnished by the likes of me.”

“The likes of you?”

Tea is poured equally into two cups; one finds itself in your hand whereas the other is taken into elegant fingers. The warmth of the liquid as you take a delicate sip thaws the chill in your bones. By the time your voice makes an escape from your lips, it is accompanied by the billowing steam from your cup.

“A menace to soul society.”

“Hmm, is that what he said?”

Your response has been a nod, and she receives it with a hum.

“I see.”

Cradling the cup in your palms, you twiddle your thumbs over the rim, lips caught between your teeth.

“Is it true?”

“Partially, that is.”

At her words, confusion reigns. However intrigued you are, you wait patiently, poising for elaboration as she takes a languid sip of her tea.

Once again, she holds your stare before she speaks. The tilt of her lips that settles back into a line indicates solemnity.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential, but since it concerns you, we’ve come to a collective agreement that it wouldn’t hurt to inform you of it. That, and we necessitate your cooperation.”

“You are not inherently a peril, although if fallen into wrong hands, you will inadvertently prove hazardous to Soul Society. You have innate powers that, while you may not be able to use them, make you a catalyst of sorts. It is not Reiryoku as Shinigami possess which therefore makes you a peculiarly. Even amongst the Gotei 13, only four of us is made aware of this phenomenon, meaning that your father, too, was kept in the dark. We thought it best to take you under our wings before any of the risks become a reality.”

“Simply put, after thorough investigation of your father, we exploited his hatred for you so that you will be relinquished to us without him making a fuss. Additionally, in order not to arouse suspicion, we’ve made a false announcement to our fellow captains and subordinates. They know you to be my longtime lady-love whom I’ve decided to tie the knots with. A flourishing merchant such as your father would surely lust for publicity. He was only playing right into our hands by stating his one condition.”

Even though the bombardment of information is too much to process, now, you know with certainty that you are not necessarily rotten to the core, and that your stranger wife alongside her companions harbour no ill will towards you.

As she takes another dainty sip of the tea in her cup, you silently mirror her, mesmerised all the while by the grace and elegance with which she carries herself.

“Although an apology is in order for my sudden behaviour at the altar, as I’ve explained to you, displays of affection and physical touch are mandatory for the believability of our story. This marriage isn’t merely for show in that we have to talk and act as married couples do. Do try to put up with it.”

Talk and act as married couples do?

The implication alone has your cheeks ripening into cherries, the redness of which is only amplified by the unexpected words that go tumbling down your lips.

“I didn’t particularly mind the kiss, so an apology isn’t necessary.”

“Is that so?” The delicateness of her voice has a playful lilt to it, and it pleasantly tickles your ears. “Then, my dear wife, I’ll be counting on you from now on.”

“I- I’ll do my best.”

“My, my, aren’t you a good girl.” She wears a smile on her face that drips delight while you are painted red to the tips of your ears.

Good Girl.

Those two little words alone has single-handedly put you in a trance that the rest of the night passes in a blur. As far as you remember, the pair of you sip tea in silence until when she suggests retiring for the night, like a lost puppy, you follow her. Her quarters become your quarters and her futon, your futon because, as far as a married couple is concerned, living separately is out of the question.

Suffice to say, on the night of your wedding, you lie awake in bed, unaccustomed to the warmth of another body just inches away from yours. Amidst counting the tiles on the ceiling, you peek a look at your partner to find her at rest. Even asleep, she truly is a sight to behold. However, unbeknownst to you, she shares the same sentiment, and it is proven soon by the voice that calls out to you in the death of night.

“I’m surprised that you took me at my words without the faintest hint of scepticism.”

“Call it a gut feeling if you will but you seem to mean me no harm. Besides, I have nothing to lose by taking a chance.”

On the night of your wedding, you wear a smile to sleep.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

your chance at a better life, after all, is not entirely an impossibility.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Unohana Retsu.

The name of your wife which you have forgotten to ask her directly has been revealed to you by her Lieutenant in the name of Isane Kotetsu.

Captain Unohana, as her subordinates address her as, is surprisingly a natural at playing lovers.

Likewise, touch-starved and thirsty for endearment, aside from shyness that stems from inexperience and her offhand compliments, you take on the role of a love-struck wife with much ease.

“My, my, darling, is that a proper way to see your wife off? How cold.”

She does a convincing job of sounding crestfallen as you walk her out of her estate, sending her off to work with only a wave of your hand.

Upon hearing her sigh, you walk up to her, letting your palms glide over the chest of your finely-dressed Captain. A kiss is demanded of you, and so, in the presence of her Lieutenant and a few other subordinates, you drop your lips to the apple of her cheek, murmuring your utterances into her fragrant skin.

“Do your best, Hana. I’ll be awaiting your return.”

Genuine surprise can be found in the widening of her eyes, albeit lasting only for a fraction of a second. And then, her lips are curving skyward, settling into a saccharine smile.

If the kiss that finds you on the tip of your nose, like the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings, is not enough to sweep you off your feet, then the pad of the thumb that caresses the bone of your cheek certainly is. Ample, in fact.

“See you later, little flower.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Your wife has an unusual way of styling her beautiful long hair.

She tends to wear it in a thick braid, but instead of letting it dangle behind her back, she lets it hang below her chin almost in the form of a necklace. You will go as far as to say that it is one of her idiosyncratic features, for without it, her attire for work is incomplete. On idler days when she remains at the estate, her hair can be seen tied loosely at the small of her back.

When you have noticed how difficult it is to care for a hair of such thickness and length, you have expressed your desire to do it for her. To your delight, she has let you, and so, here you are, gingerly applying essential oil to a mane of dark hair as you comb it with great reverence.

You admire the way she sits, spine always straight, perfectly poised. The same goes for the voice that softly caresses your ears, warm and tender.

“How was your day?”

“Infinitely better than what I was used to,…” For an answer, it should suffice. And yet, “…but I’ve missed you, Hana.”

It may just be one of your flaws; you never know when to keep your mouth shut. Thankfully, she receives your divulgence with a sweet smile.

“My, you’re quite the charmer.”

Cheeks painted pink and heart thrumming giddily, you continue combing her hair. Surely, she is graced by the gods themselves; lush and healthy, her charcoal mane slips through your fingers like expensive silk.

“You called me Hana.”

“Oh! I- I did, yes. Since we’re supposed to be long time lovers, I thought it was only fitting for me to call you by a unique name. If you don’t find it agreeable, I’ll refrain from-”

“None of that. I’ve never been called a pet name, is all. It’s refreshing.”

Then, after a beat of silence, she chuckles. Until now, you have only seen her smile, having never heard her laugh or chuckle for that matter. It is the most wonderful sound, rich, warm, and the culprit behind your breath that has suddenly been stolen.

“Yachiru would like you.”

You do not know whether to rejoice or lament that such a precious sound stems from the thought of someone else. In the end, you settle on savouring it all the same.

Yachiru, whom you have the pleasure of meeting during your visit to your wife’s Ikebana Club, is quite the boisterous little lass. You feel silly and selfish in equal parts; silly for going green because of a child and selfish because you want to be the sole reason behind all the lovely sounds that she makes. On the other hand, as your wife has expected, the pink-haired girl takes an instant liking to you, sticking like glue to your side. Meanwhile, instead of paying attention to the real task at hand of arranging flowers, you end up being entranced by your wife’s gentle cadence and her distractingly gorgeous face.

When the name which you have uniquely chosen for your wife leaves your lips, Yachiru mimics you.

What you have not been expecting is for your wife to intervene.

“If you could refrain from calling me by that name Yachiru, I would appreciate it. I don’t mind you giving me a new nickname but this one is reserved for my wife. She alone calls me Hana, and I would like for it to remain that way.”

“My, Captain Unohana is very romantic!”

If you are not mistaken, the dreamy sigh comes from Matsumoto, the Lieutenant of the 10th division.

“I understand, Captain HaHa. Can I call you Captain HaHa?”

“By all means. As long as it isn’t Hana, I don’t mind.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

More often than not, your wife’s placating smile is the testament to her benevolence as a healer, but there are times when she wields them as a weapon.

Having cultivated the habit of preparing lunchboxes for your wife and her Lieutenant, you deliver the homemade meals personally to her division. One of the things that you look forward to every day includes admiring your wife in her elements. Such little glimpses into her work life allows you to understand just how much of an influence she has on her subordinates.

Soft-spoken and kind-faced as the Captain of squad four is, even the rowdiest of Shinigami fear her; they regard her with much respect. You have yet to hear her raising her voice to someone, and even still, she has never had to repeat her will more than twice for the other person to obediently comply with it. There are people from the 11th division, who, according to the information that you have gathered, are supposed to be the most battle-hungry Soul Reapers in Seireitei, that at your wife’s gentle warning and excessively sweet smile will flee with their tails between their legs, leaving a trail of apologies in their wake.

“Oh my, treating me as if I’m some kind of ghost.”

Puzzled, she has wondered aloud, and you have found her expression heart-meltingly adorable.

During one of your visitations to her squad, you have also had the pleasure of befriending a special someone.

You remember marvelling at the giant sage green creature that is aloft; its form, very reminiscent of a manta ray. However, when you see someone climbing effortlessly down the back of the creature, you have been surprised, to say the least, to be greeted by the unmistakable voice of your wife.

Upon striding towards the pair of them, you fall prey to the surprise attack of an extremely wet tongue. Even though it leaves you resembling a drowned rat, what simmers inside you is the farthest from annoyance. If anything, you find the one-eyed giant quite lovable.

“Why, will you look at that.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, sweet girl, that she likes you.”

Before you hug the bizarre creature, you peek a look at your wife. Only when you see the nod of her head do you advance.

“Oh! Right back at you…?” Another questioning look at your wife earns you her name. “Minazuki.”

“Miki, you adorable little munchkin!”

At your words, she emits a crooning sound that you are inclined to believe is her way of purring in pleasure.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

When your wife has some time on her hands, she has a habit of climbing mountains. It is as much a recreational activity as it is a hunt for medicinal herbs. Having been longing to accompany her during her excursions, you have, after much consideration, raised the question, only for her to readily agrees.

“Can I come?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The silence that cocoons the two of you is anything but unbearable as you amble abreast. Taking it as your opportunity, you voice the query that you have been mulling over for some time now.

“There’s something I’m curious about.”

“What are you curious about?”

“Why you?” When you steal a glance at her, you find her eyes on the track, face impassive. “There were four of you who were privy to the truth, correct? So, how come you were the one to marry me?”

Her response does not come until after a while, voice sounding serene as it usually does.

“The Captain-Commander is out of the question, and among the three of us, I was deemed the most suitable candidate. One doesn’t go out much due to how sickly he is and the other is- well, it’s unthinkable that he’ll settle for one person.”

“And what about you, Hana? Have you got no qualms?”

“Whatever the Captain-Commander asks of me, I do without question.”

Oh.

You have asked, and so she has answered. It certainly is not meant to hurt.

And yet,

“I see.”

“That, and I also happened to be the first person to learn of your existence.”

At this, you perk.

“You did? How?”

“Purely by chance, but that’s a story for another day. Now, come. The herbs I’m looking for are just up ahead.”

She teaches you about different herbs and you help her collect them, preening under her complimentary head-pats when you find the right plants, and becoming all the more hell-bent on seeking rarer herbs, for only then will you be rewarded with honey-dewed whispers. Upon stumbling across one such plant, in your excitement, you fail to see a hole in the ground as you briskly make your way through the thickets.

Needless to say, your recklessness leaves you with a strained ankle. It is your pained grunts that garner the attention of your wife. When she finds you limping, the discomfort apparent on your face, she helps you to a tree trunk. You are thankful for the arm that is stably wrapped around your waist for it halves the effort that you will otherwise have to exert.

No sooner has she sat you down onto the mossy trunk than she is kneeling before you. Taking your wounded foot into her hand, she gingerly lets it rest atop her thigh. Forefinger and thumb pluck your sock, peel it down, and doing so reveals your ankle where a bruise is already beginning to bloom.

As she works on your wound, you can feel the pads of her digits ghosting across the naked base of your calf. Her fingers, dainty in appearance, have strength in them along with callouses that you suspect are the by products of her years of sword training. Speaking of which, Minazuki, her Zanpakuto as she has taught you, Miki as you like to call her, is slung over one of your shoulders. Since her Lieutenant is absent, for today’s trip is you and your wife’s alone, you have happily taken the role of the Captain’s blade bearer.

Due to the injury that you have sustained, despite your reassuring that you are fine, your wife does not take no for an answer, and so, the expedition is cut short. Soon after the pair of you have mounted Minazuki, you fall victim to exhaustion, surrendering yourself to the clutches of sleep.

The first thing you notice upon opening your eyes is the shimmering sea of stars, with the first thing you hear being her voice that pulses warmly in your ears.

“Are you awake?”

“Hmm, where are we now?”

When you shift, you discover that your head is cushioned by her thighs.

“Not very far from home.”

You are suddenly awestruck by the vision that appears in your line of sight. Backdropped by the starry sky, she is truly a sight for sore eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“My eyes feel hot.”

A palm finds home on your forehead. You cannot help but sigh dreamily at her cool touch that seems to instantly soothe the ache in your head.

“You have a touch of fever, I fear. Rest. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

You can only hum, ready to succumb to slumber again. However, when you feel the withdrawal of her hand from your forehead, your fingers catch her wrist, emboldened by a feverish haze. You press it against your neck where the coolness of her flesh offers you sweet reprieve from your body’s heat. If you are not mistaken, you have felt the faintest sensation of a fingertip tracing the length of your nose before you drift.

She does, in fact, not wake you.

By the time you open your eyes, you are already under the comfort of a futon that smells distinctly of her.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

You do not know when it changes, but at one point, it does. Your marriage stops being an elaborate masquerade and starts becoming something more by the time you no longer need reminders to exercise intimacy. A kiss on her cheek, a palm on the small of her back, sweet-nothings dripping with honey; they come to you as easily as breathing, and she responds to you in kind as she always has. But then again, to be unreservedly honest, your actions, from the beginning until now, have never been absent of sincerity.

From sleeping entwined in each other’s arms to walking with your fingers intertwined, even in the absence of onlookers, in the privacy of your quarters, you behave as lovers do. Neither of you seem to notice the change, and if you do, neither of you bother to comment on it. It simply is the way it is.

“Oh, Hana, you’ve returned! Come here. Sit.”

“What is this?”

“I just thought that your feet could use some pampering after walking around all day.”

“My, you need not trouble yourself-”

“But that’s what married couples do. They look after each other.”

“Very well, then, if you insist.”

Adoration, ardour and nothing in between; that is how you sink to your knees before your deity. Raising her feet off the floor, you gingerly place them atop your thighs. When you slip the socks off her feet, you exercise both care and tenderness, barely suppressing the urge to press delicate kisses to her exquisitely dainty ankles. Once her feet are completely bare, you guide them into the bucket that is sitting in front of you. Under the warm water, you trace the little notches of her bone, run your fingertips along every dip and hill the way you want your lips to caress them.

Then, all too gently, you gather them once again into your lap where a towel awaits. You take your sweet time petting them dry, the desire to drench her porcelain skin in kisses now coming back with a vengeance. As if possessing a mind of their own, your hands slips beneath her uniform, fingers leaving playful caresses along the length of her shin.

Suddenly overwhelmingly thirsty, you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue before chancing a look at her. There is a silent question in your eyes, and she answers you with a nod of her head. As soon as the green light has been given, you carefully hike the skirt of her Shinigami uniform over her knee, allowing your fingers to knead the muscles in her calfs without interruptions.

It is true that when you have decided to give her feet a wash and a massage, you have no ulterior motives.

But now,

Now, it is entirely a different story.

The collision of your gazes sparks a flame in you.

Has the blue of her eyes always been this dark, you wonder.

*Knock*

“Captain Unohana, may I please come in?”

Hastily scrambling to your feet upon hearing Isane’s voice has you tripping over your own two feet. Your forthcoming fall is prevented by willowy fingers that latch onto your wrist. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, following a breathless “oomf”, you find yourself seated on the pillowy thighs of your wife.

Seemingly unfazed, she commands, an arm around your waist cradling you close to her chest.

“If it’s nothing important, Isane, I suggest you leave us be. My wife and I are currently in the middle of some important matters that urgently need attending to.”

“U-understood!”

It is beyond your control; your hands finding purchase on her shoulders, even more so the amicable slap that you deliver to her arm.

“Did you really have to phrase it like that?”

“Like what?”

Ah. There is no denying it. From the very first moment you behold this woman, you have fallen irrevocably in love with her.

“Hmm? Care to enlighten me?”

You do not. Care to enlighten her that is, for your lips have found hers, sampling her smile to see if it tastes as sweet as it looks. You have taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, and there is no going back, although when you feel no reciprocation from her part, you pull back with a heavy heart.

The look on her face is indecipherable; she has always been difficult to read. Completely at a loss, you are tempted to blurt out that it has been a momentary lapse of judgement even though you know very well that it is anything but. The loudness of your rampaging thoughts is instantly lulled as soon as her lips seize yours, the fervent collision prompted by the hand that is holding you at the peak of your nape while wandering digits curl deliciously into your hair.

Likewise, greatly galvanised by the ravenous mouth that is feasting upon your lips, your fingers wander beneath her braid, and further still beneath the lapels of her uniform. It is as you are ghosting along the jut of her collarbones that your fingertips feel a patch of uneven skin just below the dip in her throat. As if electrocuted, she jolts, subsequently discarding you in the process of rising to her feet.

“You should leave.”

Leave? Leave where?

After all, this has become as much your home as it has been hers.

“Hana, I- did I do something wrong?”

“You should leave.”

Ah. Never have you thought that you will find yourself at the receiving end of the generous Captain’s genuine irritation.

As the last vestiges of warmth is entirely replaced by the chill of her stare, you decide that you will smile. You will smile for the both of you, as wide and as big as you can, a farewell to what could have been.

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Delivering your utterances in the cheeriest voice that you can muster, you smile at her. You smile so broad that the uncomfortable stretch of your lips hurt your face.

But as soon as the door to her chamber closes with a thud behind your back, the first droplet of tear begins to fall.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

In a wicked twist of fate, you fall into the hands of malicious men who have all the intentions of maiming you beyond repair. It is drizzling, a night befitting your mood, as the cold droplets mingle with your warm tears.

There are hands, hands everywhere, tearing your clothes haphazardly off your body, hitting you when you struggle; your foot has caught one of your assailants in the crotch, and his payback comes in the form of kicks to your ribcage. Blood is leaking out of your nose from being brutally backhanded across your cheek. It forces you into a daze.

A whore. A wench. A witch.

Awful names have been called.

Four versus one; you are helpless against them. Your suffering is their satisfaction, but a rag doll in their heartless hands, as they manhandle you with a single minded purpose of ravishing you.

You feel hands on your thighs that are manipulating your body as they see fit.

You hear the rustles of fabric, frantic and foreboding.

In the face of danger, it is her face that you picture.

And then, you hear screams.

Alas, the raindrops are red, eerily reminiscent of blood.

Hands are retreating. Feet are scrambling.

And suddenly, you are alone.

With much difficulty, you sit up. When you bring your palm up to your face for examination, you find blood. Your eyes follow the scarlet trail on the ground only to be greeted by the lifeless eyes of the man who has kicked you with wild abandon. His body lies a few steps away from his head. Scattered messily across the ground are his companions, and mixed within them are parts of their bodies; a leg here, an arm there. In the middle of it all stands she, holding her blade with a head impaled on it like a grotesque skewer.

Ah. So, this. This is your Hana in her purest form, who has butchered them in cold blood as though they are mere cattle.

Such empty eyes. How merciless. How magnificent. You are not so much surprised as mesmerised. Such macabre display should scare you except that she has killed in order to save, and if nothing else, you feel cherished, you feel protected.

Sore all over as you are, you attempt to stand, immediately shaking on your legs like a newborn fawn.

“Hana.”

It is but a feeble croak that manages to bring her eyes to you all the same. In an instant, she is by your side.

Her hair is unusually undone, and it leaves the scar in the middle of her chest exposed. Surprise colours your features when her sword is unceremoniously dropped to the ground in order for her to slip free of her Captain Uniform. The white cloth is then gingerly draped over your frame which is as good as bare. Your clothes are in tatters, tears and bruises marring your features, and for once, she seems to be at a loss for words.

Although her mien betrays nothing, behind those unfeeling eyes, you can practically see the cogs turning in her head. While she appears to be in a dilemma, you take the initiative to approach her, fingers gripping the dark fabric of her Shinigami uniform white-knuckled tight.

Your forehead collapses onto her shoulder before you whisper against the hummingbird flutter of her pulse.

“Hold me, Hana. I need you to hold me, please.”

And hold you, she does. Oh, how she does, as you weep and weep and weep until with the drying of your tears, your consciousness, too, fades.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Only because I thought she’ll be trea-”

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Please. Please, spare me. I beg of you. Please.” The man before Unohana grovels at her feet. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

“Whatever I want?”

A series of frantic nods ensue. She cannot care less if he looks a crying mess. His state of dress: posh and pristine, his state of being: without a nick, only reminds her all the more of you, bloody and bruised, and her blood boils. Oh, how her blood boils!

“What I want is your head!”

“What I want is your heart!”

“What I want is you sliced in half!”

Looming over the cowering excuse of a man, she sinks her sword into his chest, inch after inch of blood-drenched blade penetrating his flesh.

“Well? Do you think you can give me what I want?”

“Please. I- I’m sorry. Have- have mercy.”

“Mercy, you say?” The moonless night echoes with a maniacal laughter, dark and haunting. “How laughable!”

“No matter, you will die at my hands. And you will die tonight. My bloodlust will not be sated unless you die. So, die you will whether you like it or not.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“I received a letter this morning.” You speak into her chest as you lie cocooned in her arms. “Father has passed.”

“Does it upset you?”

A fervent shake of your head should suffice for an answer. Still, you voice your reason.

“He may have been my mother’s devoted husband but he was never my father.”

Silence reigns. Her fingers trace patterns on the small of your back while your face nuzzles the little notch of her throat.

“Thank you, Hana, for being my sunshine after the rain.”

In a show of sincerity, you press a delicate kiss to the scar beneath your lips. When your face is brought out of its safe little cocoon, it is only so that she can take a bite out of the sweet, succulent fruit. She conquers your lips in the same way she has conquered your heart, and all too happily, you let her consume you. Body, mind and soul.

By these hands that are no stranger to bloodshed, you have been healed. In more ways than one.

In these arms that are capable of destruction, you have found solace.

A healer or a killer, Retsu or Yachiru, she is your beloved wife all the same, and you intend to cherish her for all that she is.

In sickness and in health.

In good time and in bad.

In perpetuity. In tandem.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

306 notes · View notes

oh1thehorror · 7 months

Text

So…Hi tumblr. This is a fic that I’m posting here so… enjoy it? Eheh.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandoms: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson, The Glass Scientists

Relationship: Edward Hyde & Dr. Henry Jekyll

Characters: Edward Hyde, Dr. Henry Jekyll

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Self-Harm, Blood and Injury, Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Toxic Co-Dependency, mentions of mental institutions, Disassociation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Non-Graphic Gore

Language: English

Words: 3,603

Not beta read

Summary: Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

OR The aftermath of Hyde murdering Carew, but I mashed it with Glass Scientists.

OR OR Can I really call Jekyll my favourite character if I haven't torn him apart first?

Reap your self-destruction

Fuck.

This is atrocious, and despicable, and really in no way good for him at all. Dead- there on the street, sights for all to see; dead. Dead. Rotting and never coming back, hacked to the pulp of an unidentifiable, red mess, there in the street, half way in the moonlight.

Bloody, and messy, and all over him because he’s a murderer now.

Shit.

This is only half the issue; the fact that he’d murdered a man and that man is never ever ever going to come back to life, and that he’d see it, all the gore, and it was undeniably him who had done that-

He’d done it all with Lanyon’s cane. The cane he got gifted for his birthday some years back from his closest friend, such a tender memory, was the very same cane he’d used to beat Danvers’ body to fine, scarlet mush as it screamed. The thing had snapped with the bones and he’d lost it in the wreckage, carrying back with him the bloodied other half, all the way to Soho. There were no officers on his trail, at least, but he could not go back to the Society- not like this.

No; he’d rushed to his apartment, hands surprisingly steady, breathing calm as possible, (he is a psychopath, a madman, really. He was breathing so normally when Danvers could never breathe again, lungs collapsed in and it was all his fault, and he’d done it with Lanyon’s gift and-) uprooting notebooks and papers from dusty draws, feeding the fire to feed his desperation and ensure there was not a splotch of evidence against him.

Jekyll’s voice stuttered frantically in his ears, the entire time, and Hyde was distinctly aware of his incoherent rambling, no doubt consumed by the gruesome sight they’d both caused. He is only Jekyll’s anger, after all.

In any case, nothing was being helped, but he’d prefer it over silence. He did not want to be alone with what they’d done. At least Jekyll could provide the understanding they’d never get in the gallows-

No, no; they’re not there yet, they won’t get there, he promises, he promises, he promises!

The papers were stained with his fingerprints, bloodied with impressions of scarlet blood that didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t think too much about it, or he’d stop what he’s doing and get caught red-handed (literally) by the police. He didn’t have time.

With this thought, he threw the remainder of the papers to the fire, watching the angry thing rise with a defiant cackle and eat away at his sins. He’d doused the other half of the cane with gasoline- ‘reserved specifically for emergencies,’ Hyde had said when he’d brought it and right now was a fucking emergency- and fed that to the monster too.

It had flared madly, but there were only ashes left of his crimes. He’d killed the flames with water- pure, clear, safe; something he’d never be ever again- and not thought once before downing that wretched draught in his pocket. It’d swirled bright red then purple then green in mockery and he’d taken every last, bitter drop until he’d felt himself heaving.

Now, everything is too tight and too bloody, and the glass has shattered onto the floor and he’ll have to clean it or that’s proof against them and he’s putting them all in danger, all over again because he’s so reckless-

His bones pop disgustingly into place, bringing with them the sickly nausea that comes with the unnatural feeling of his insides turned out and replaced to make an entirely new man. Innocent, he could claim with this face and this voice. Innocent-

But his hands are still bloody! He has to get the blood off; just so it won’t stain Jekyll’s clothes, he tells himself- certainly not because it’s stifling and spreading and unstoppable.

Of course, he is completely logical, and sane; so he scrubs his hands over a basin of cold water hard enough that he thinks the skin will start to crack. The water is red. Not pink- not just stained- but so fucking red that he thinks he can dye something with the water and it’ll come out the deepest maroon.

That’s bad.

He needs to get rid of the water. It’ll stink up the place if he leaves it- well, it already is; the air is shimmery with a metallic scent that he swears to heaven will haunt his dreams. He doesn’t plan on coming back here, it’s not really his problem anymore; but the thought of leaving the water to go stagnant and rotten, with such a pungent odour as to tell the whole world what he’s done, makes his stomach churn.

So, he dumps it over the ashes in the fireplace, now clumped together, and watches the dirt drink up the river of red he’d made. It was all him, always him, every single part- the anger, the blind rage, the stab through the body, the cracking of the bones; every last bit of it is all him.

It might still smell, but at least the basin of blood is out of sight. At least it’s masked with the scent of something long burnt and no one can tell where the smell would’ve come from because there is no obvious source, no liability. Just that the room is a mess, and the fire has been put out with too many ashes, and some human is clearly missing from this place.

But that is not his issue ever again: he is human- he promises- not an animal, not a madman, not the devil. No; he is Henry Jekyll, in the blood-stained, ruined clothes of Edward Hyde- with whom he is in no way associated- and the tightness of his shirt makes him want to scream. Frantically (there is no time to waste, no time to waste, Hell is at his heels), he flings the doors to Hyde’s wardrobe open, shifting through the few clothes to find the only ones that could possibly fit him.

Again, safety measures- he kept an outfit of Hyde’s, Hyde kept an outfit of his. Just in case.

But, here, he had to be careful. If he left his clothes in a mess, he might give the police reason for suspicion.

‘Calm down.’ Hyde urges, though his voice is anything but calm, stuttering at every other vowel like a nervous child. ‘Do this logically. Don’t give the coppers a reason to suspect anything other than an escape.’ Yeah- that made sense! He could do that.

Henry’s hands shake quite violently when he looks down at them- they have been the entire time; it’s a surprise he didn’t spill the water earlier- but he’s sure he can do it. Just; take the clothes he’d messed up and fold them coherently and properly. It feels wrong doing such a mundane task when, not even an hour ago, he had murdered a member of parliament.

‘But it’s ok.’ Hyde pacifies, trying to keep his own voice calm. ‘You’ve done this before- it’s not difficult.’ No- he certainly hadn’t murdered someone before, thank you very much. ‘Folding clothes. Focus on folding the clothes.’ And he does. It’s messy and disorganised, but it can be arranged in a way to make the closet seem untouched. He heaves the biggest sigh since that body lay in moonlight, as he closes the closet doors. Nothing was taken. These clothes are his, he is fine.

‘The glass.’ Hyde hisses, just so Henry doesn’t forget. How could he? The shattered remains of the phial drip with hot, green formula, glittering in the streaming light like explosive stars. Where would he put the glass? He had pockets- pockets. The police wouldn’t suspect Jekyll to have proper connections to the murder- not after that fire.

Ok. This would all be ok.

He kneels on the carpet, just where he’d stood last as Hyde- the last time ever as Hyde. He would never come out again; Jekyll couldn’t afford it- neither could his other. Or the Society. Or everything else relying on him surviving this night. Then, with careful hands because he doesn’t want to nip himself (‘That pain would be inviting? The punishment we need. The punishment we must-’) on the glass and get even more blood stained to him, he’d had enough of the accursed substance tonight, he starts picking the shimmering shards from the ground.

Collecting the glass off the floor is easy- he just hopes to God (‘If God will listen to us anymore.’) that nothing about the few drops of potion on the carpet gets noticed. Otherwise, his pocket gets steadily heavier with the tinkling of the glass as it drops in, and soon enough, the last piece is in his hand (it’s shaking again, shaking with his breath, shaking because he knows there is only one way forward, one way to run, but he should be in the gallows, hanging like the murderer he is, all to Hell).

It’s no use. He can drop the last piece in with the remainder of the phial, but the edge cuts his fingers, slices clean into the skin and stings as red starts welling at the wound.

The careful facade of his calmness, of fixing his breath just until he’s out of Soho, shatters like the phial in his pocket.

There is blood on his hands. It’s red- it’s everywhere because he’s just murdered someone. He’s just murdered someone and they bled so much. He was a doctor- he knows how much a person can bleed before they die, that they bleed after they die too, that blood gets everywhere and never comes off and it won’t come off him because he’s bleeding and he’s a murderer and he’ll always be a murderer and nothing will ever change that.

Red. On his hands. He needs to stop it. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Hyde informs him, in some vain attempt to wake him up. ‘It’s your blood. All you need is a handkerchief.’ Right. A handkerchief to press to his finger then he can get out of here, leave this place forever and go home-

(‘The walk to your punishment?’)

No time to be hysterical. Just remember that. Hysteria gets you killed- or you end up in Bedlam. You don’t want that, Jekyll. I don’t want that. No.

He fumbles for a moment at the desk, searching for one, and finally breathing that shaky sigh of relief once he pulls one from the drawers. He presses it to the cut, watching as the scarlet invades the white of the cotton, trailing up and up through the fibres until he thinks the thing is doused.

Ok. Now, he can go home. Just- ‘My clothes are still on the floor.’ Mutters Hyde, somewhat urgently. Jekyll clenches his fist, squeezes his eyes shut as he nods- cannot force his breath to calm at all- and scoops up the bloody pile. He can take it outside to throw away somewhere. Yes.

It’s all so simple, if only he was calm-

He bundles the soft cloth between his arms; it’s drying stiff in the patches that are far bloodier. The roughness is a horror- instead, he tries to keep the softer parts running between his fingers, just to calm him until he can discard the wretched garments. Besides, the therapeutic feeling helps with the steady pain from his cut finger, handkerchief still clenches around staunching the blood.

For the last time, Jekyll turns his back to the room, surveying the wreckage he’d left behind, eyes shimmering in the fractured moonlight slipping in through the window. A wreckage like the body, discarded for the rats and writhing maggots, all done with such a holy gift that he had ruined. How dare he?!

There were still papers scattered to the ground, the last frantic writings of a madman. ‘Not enough to take us to court.’ Hyde promises; something softer, a hint more certain in his voice. Jekyll trusts him; blindly- what more can he do? For now, Hyde is the only one who knows, who will ever understand, who will ever get the feeling of his disgust and anger and pathetic self-loathing. When he hangs, Hyde is the only thing left to say goodbye to.

But with that, a murderer leaves his room, and stalks out into the thick mist of London night, hands bloodied beyond reparation.

He is breathless when he arrives at his street. The clothes (Hyde’s clothes. The last clothes Edward Hyde would ever be spotted in) have long since been abandoned in the back alleys of the city, a good distance away from his apartment in Soho. He’d stalked out of the borough on brisk legs, not risking getting a cab until he was rid of the wretched weight of ruined cotton in his arms. Besides, the walking had helped. Cold air in his lungs whilst it rushes through his hair was the blessing a sinner like him did not deserve, no matter if he found it polluted like the inner clockwork of his soul.

Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

He takes his key from his pocket, hand grasping the cool metal press of his door handle, a grounding weight to the inner dwellings of panic still clutching at him because there is still blood on his hands, he is still a murderer, Danvers is still dead. What is changing that? What is changing-

With a snap and a click (the breaking of bones, the snap of a cane, the click of his brisk footsteps away from the scene of a mutilation), the door stutters open uneasily, and, thankful at last for this one small shelter from the eyes of the world, for the heaving anxiety lifted off his shoulders of the police following him down, he steps in with a breath.

‘To your punishment.’ Hyde’s voice curdles sickly, reassuringly in his mind. After all, Jekyll knows he is right, has seen this coming from a long way. It was one of the genuine reasons he’d rushed home (does a reprobate have a home? In hell, perhaps? With the moulding images of rotten, unrecognisable bodies, ever consumed by mycelium and fungi?), with the throb of the cut gently increasing, Jekyll had- at some point- become desperate to inflict the harm on himself purposefully.

There had been a moment of respite between the cut and his loss of composure, between the initial slash and the blood flooding through, skin opening to his darkness, inviting all other monstrosities to peek in and cower at the evil in himself. Of course there had been. There always was this feeling of pride, of calm. Knowing you did well because you punished yourself, you got what you deserved, without bothering someone else to do it for you.

That is all waiting for him now, in the depths of this cold house, with his cold blood and rotting heart ever consumed by illogical fear. Who must he be afraid of? He is the murderer, after all.

He unclips the cloak around his shoulders, maybe the last thing holding the faint lines of his soul together in a clutch of vile tendrils, moving through the shadows to his room, and only then letting it drop when the door clicks behind him. With the stuttering of some broken, sick thing, he, frantically, stumbles to the ground near his bed, no longer desperate to keep the emotions threatening to consume him trapped in, no longer concerned with anything besides raw truth and the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, and the wretched voice in his head.

He looks down, at the bloodied cotton pressed to his hand, focuses on the sting of it when he presses too hard. But, this is all he does in the moment, all he can bring himself to when he is the spluttering mess of a last breath gone wrong. ‘Now, you know what we must do, Henry?’ Hyde mutters, and it's all Jekyll can do to make himself nod along, to lift the sleeve of linen from his forearms, a patchwork of silver spider webs stalking up it on the underside, from days when he’d been obsessed with the concept of human pain and what it truly was.

No need for morbid curiosity anymore, not when he was intimately familiar with the causes of human pain, and how to make it, and what it did to one and his mind. ‘It sends someone to Bedlam. They should’ve done that to you so long ago, because look where we are now. Henry, isn’t the glass of our broken phial so pretty?’

To Bedlam. He doesn't want to go to Bedlam, he doesn't want to be locked up with the horrors he deserves because they are the horrors he’s caused. At the end of the day, he supposes Hyde is right- a man, human and whole, would never have reason to wonder about something so horrid as suffering, lest he was mad, and Henry is far past that.

He takes a shard from the heavy pocket at his side, with those ever shaking hands, and looks at it cradled so softly in his palm like it was something new and innocent and fragile and all that he never ever would be. It was pretty, he supposed, with the way the moonlight caught it, filtered in through the windows, making it sparkle like the last wings of an angel, and with its sharp edge gleaming in the anticipation of smooth skin. It would, obviously, look a lot more prettier doused in red, dripping down to the floor, stained with all the sinful stuff inside of him.

With a shaky breath, and a screaming desperation, he brings it to press cooly against the delicate workings of his veins, and closes his eyes stained with glass tears, wrists quivering because he knows he can't do this, can’t fall back into such a habit that had eaten away so hungrily at his life.

‘Having second thoughts? Then give me the control, give me your hand. What awaits us but the punishment you cower from, coward?’ That voice spits, in all its stuttering truth.

Jekyll knows he should be fighting for control, he knows he should be doing all in his power to deal logically with this, to not hurt himself, to lay his head down and sleep and hope that will fix the wrongs he’d caused. But none of this fixes Danvers’ body, lying still in the streets, blood splayed around him, left for the rats; none of this fixes the phantom feeling of blood under his nails and ribs cracking beneath his hands. No, logic is not for him to take right now, sleep is not his luxury, the only thing he must do is this.

So, he lets Hyde do it to him (lets him do it to himself), sits idly in his body, staring as the impressions of far rougher, crooked hands ghost his, and guide the edge of the glass down words into a sloping arch. Blood blooms from the cut with intricate pain, red and the last drips of green hissing into each other as they run down his arm in a careful rivulet. It’s not enough.

He brings his hand down, Hyde following his every move, once more on his skin, watching the edge of the glass get coated in thin scarlet. An adjacent cut mars the flesh, and tingles with the delight of sweltering pride in his chest. His heart clenches at the thought of this being his downfall, of this being the thing that finally snubs his disgraceful flame from the face of the world. He’d frowned at the thought of death, but musing it now, as Hyde cuts again and again and blood pools steadily into wood with each droplet, brought by hands that are (deniably) undeniably his, it is a simple thing. Maybe even right.

Again, the heavenly edge (a devil-send) of that curved blade comes to quietly stained flesh, where his tears fall and mix with the pain of his fear and rot and peace all slipping away from him.

Another cut befalls him (he brings the blade on himself). ‘Is it not so easy?’ Says Hyde, the haze in Jekyll’s mind too sweet and simple and painful to ignore the way his words curl like the body of a snake on its latest kill. And would a death like this, for him, not be so simple? All it would take was the careful positioning at the one place he’d been avoiding, to carve the final breath from his deceitful lungs. He could fall to hell so easily, he could destroy it all now and not have to reap the consequences because he doesn’t have to look to the future.

He can die, and rot here alone for days, with a body unfound and all his blood drained. It would be so easy.

The haze grows thick like honey, seeping into the crevices of his thoughts and clogging them with undeserved, unnerving peace. He can’t feel the pain anymore. Why can’t he feel the pain anymore? Why isn’t Hyde speaking to him?

Why is the floor so red?

With the quiet plink of a shatter, in the earliest depths of a winter morning, a shard of glass splays into ten, bloodied fractures.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the glass scientists fanfiction #the glass scientists #tgs #tgs jekyll #tgs hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #dr jekyll and mr hyde #writing

27 notes · View notes

bloody-wonder · 2 months

Note

do u have any book recs for morally bad characters? not grey or ambiguous or whatever. i think id use ianthe as an example of what i mean

far be it from me to decide which character is "morally bad" or merely grey so for the purposes of this rec list i focus on characters who do bad things for selfish reasons. however, ianthe, beyond just being a villain-esque character, has that iconic persona(lity) which alas only few of the characters mentioned here share. so keep that in mind in case you wanted a list of ianthes😅

okay so when i think ianthe i think unhinged girl books, specifically boy parts by eliza clark. ik ik i keep mentioning it in every rec list but truly there's no other character who reminds me of ianthe more than irina sturges, minus the sword. boy parts is sometimes described as american psycho for girls and while i haven't read that book yet i can confirm that characters in bret easton ellis' other works (less than zero and the rules of attraction) are quite morally bankrupt and entirely unlikable, especially compared to the cast in the secret history by his fellow bennington graduate donna tartt who are themselves toeing the line between grey and irredeemable. that is, if such finer distinctions matter to you🤷‍♀️

dark academia typically features protagonists who are more or less evil which is true for joanne harris' gentlemen and players as well as its sequel different class. cracks by sheila kohler is another example - it's a short and weird book about girls in a boarding school commiting shocking atrocities. aside from we have always lived in this castle by shirley jackson, which i have already mentioned, books like tender is the flesh by agustina bazterrica and we need to talk about kevin by lionel shriver are bridging the gap between litfic and horror and focus on people who range from morally ambiguous to utterly despicable and frightening (yet fascinating). if you want to go all in with this latter vibe you could try killing stalking which is an extreme horror/dark romance bl manhwa. needless to say: always check the trigger warnings.

if hannibal lecter is someone who fits your understanding of "morally bad" you should try the og book series by thomas harris. fair warning tho: they are not queercoded like the show😅 two more series following the crimes of a nasty but compelling guy are the joe goldberg books by caroline kepnes and the tom ripley books by patricia highsmith. in the latter series i will admit i only like book one which stands on its own pretty well and after it i'd rec trying highsmith's other books instead - for example, strangers on a train. another thriller author to check out is christopher rice whose melodramatic and somewhat depraved early works feature deliciously problematic side characters. start with the snow garden and see if you like his style. my last thriller rec is for your own good by samantha downing which is about a bad teacher abusing his power to punish students he doesn't like.

switching the gears to historical fiction and classics. perfume: the story of a murderer by patrick süskind is the life story of a man who by all accounts is bad but if so why does his perfume smell so good? what does he put in there?? another perfect example of a character blurring the line between morally grey and black is the protagonist of thomas savage's the power of the dog. both books have very good film adaptations which i recommend as well.

if you want to try and tackle a dusty tome foregrounding wicked antiheroes consider reading vanity fair by william thackeray or dangerous liaisons by pierre choderlos de laclos. if you'd rather start with something shorter look no further than the picture of dorian gray, who i personally think is "darker" than just grey (ha), but if you already read it consider revisiting the classic via the uncensored edition. still shorter? then you might like another work by oscar wilde - lord arthur savile's crime. it's much more humorous and satirical, as is lieutenant gustl by arthur schnitzler - a hilarious stream of consciousness novella following an odious imperial army officer as he contemplates how to restore his damaged manly honor in the wake of another man touching his sword - not a euphemism but definitely a metaphor😅

i really struggled to choose sff recs☹️ the thing is, in your typical fantasy characters like this will either be pretty one dimensional villains or side characters with not a lot of screen time, whereas those on the main cast are rather what you would probably describe as morally grey. nevertheless, here are three recs i'm not very satisfied with: first of all, empire of the vampire's jean françois gives me ianthe vibes. so far he's a character in the frame narrative only but i expect he'll play a bigger role in the final book of the trilogy. secondly, there is a secondary villain character in the winnowing flame trilogy by jen williams who is honestly my favorite part of it and they do bad things etc by virtue of being a villain but,, maybe they're just misguided? maybe their friends and family didn't love them enough but the main villain did? i mean, who's to say🤷‍♀️ finally, the main character of lynn flewelling's nightrunner books has an evil ex who has a fun poor little meow meow arc in books 4 and 5 - you decide if it's worth reading the entire series bc of it. i mean it's pretty good old queer fantasy so it's worth it for other reasons too but yeah. you see what i mean when i say it's difficult😭

#book tag #hope this helps

16 notes · View notes

wexarethewalkingxdead · 6 months

Text

What Is Your True Role In The Story?

the antihero

ah yes, hello edge lord. it is lovely to see you again. you my dear, are the incarnation of duality, and you might think of claws and venom mixed with grace but alas, nothing near as poetic. you my friend, are mixture of what is seen as right, and what is questioned. you follow the path of your own two feet, you know the twists and turns of life's forests quite well if I do say so myself. and you can meander along them wonderfully. you strive to stay true to a certain sense of principles you might call your code, but whereas in reality, those would be your morals. people tend to see you as strange. sharp edged and glinting you hide behind a cloak of chain mail but really you just prefer to show off your imperfections first. unlike many who scramble to make it as if their flaws never existed, you proudly raise yours up. saying, "this is me, this is the worst of me, now you know what to expect." and might I say, it is quite an intriguing mindset, for truth be told, the ones that love your spikes and craters are the ones who appreciate your softness the most. you wish not to be loved as something lovable, but as a monster. for aren't we all just beasts in human skin? you are brave, but you are lonely. you know quite well how to scare off most, making even the heroes with the boldest bravado creep away with their tails between their legs. you are not a villian, sometimes you play the part a bit too well. but nevertheless you are no hero either. you put yourself first, but if one wins your trust then may the gods have mercy on those who might wrong them. you long to be a poetic mess of sorts, and well, if the ink sets in long enough you might just become that sooner or later. but for one who is so dead set on truth you sure do hide a lot don't you? please, step out of the shadows, there is a difference to not making your flaws visible and to simply acting as if you're the most despicable person in all the realms. it's because you're afraid of attachment is it not? well let me tell you a little secret, everyone is. you say you wish to be left alone for eternity but than why are you craving connection. you wish to be known and understood truly, but you snarl and push the ones that might be trying away. please little wolf, accept you are lovable. you are not some ravenous beast that terrifies the multitudes, sure, you are not for the faint of heart but that does not make you an inkling less perfect as you are. young antihero, step into the sun. you would do better actually reaching for the things you want rather than pining for them in the darkness.

the one at the crossroads.

questioning yourself again? well it's a hard choice is it not. you always decide you've made your mind but you seem to nevertheless return to this state of uncertainty. are you good or evil? dark or light alas? alas, I am not fit for such details in morality. In my slightly skewed sight of it, neither truly exist. they are but a mindset, but mindset or not, they still give you quite the anxieties hm? you are one who has lived in fear, your heart is hidden, and you don't know who to trust. you doubt you can even trust yourself. the caustic words of poisonous people have corroded into your skull. "you are evil. you are a monster. you are bad." well that is indeed a bunch of poppycock, mind my language, for the only one who may decide that is you. my dear, you are torn between never allowing others to hurt the ways you hurt, and from running away from all who might harm you again, with gnashing teeth. you are a cornered animal who has been kicked by the ones it trusted. you do not know whether to trust again, for your mind is screaming, don't. but if I may, you can be both. it is not the question of whether you are good or evil, it is the question, what do I deserve and how might I reach that? you do not deserve pain, correct? so never chase that, instead kindly decline and flee from those like your past assailants, but trust the ones who you know are good. sometimes you will find people to be a messy combination of both pain and love, but so are you and I. my advice is to simply be kind, but be willing to question. always question, always wonder. do not give away your heart on a silver platter my dear, it is worth far more than the sun himself, but don't fail to allow healing. you deserve good things in life. so as you stand between two roads, walk between the third you just now have noticed. life seems to be made of entirely preposterous choices, but if you look close enough, you'll reveal the right ones that are normally hidden from sight. breathe my dear, things will be well. trust yourself, and carve your own path.

the antihero

the supporter

oh gentle comrade, you know what it takes to make others shine. you live your life assisting others to reach their goals, but many say you are lackluster and unnecessary. but alas, do we need the stars any less for their dim light helps the moon glow brighter! you are warm inside and out, perhaps made of sunshine one might ask? but I can see you are as weary and worn as the hero you so desperately cling to. your purpose is to serve? Is it not? it's those moments of undying loyalty that make your bones ring true with honor. "I am right beside you," you whisper, for unlike the ones who lie through their teeth you will be with your ally through joy, through heart ache, through death. it is a difficult thing to gain your trust back if one has shattered it though, you are forgiving yes? you give many chances, but alas, one can only look away from a wrong doing so long. you can't exactly turn your other cheek as once wrings a blade through your middle. you are made of a steadfast heartbeat and a tired, knowing smile. you bring solace to the aching, and comfort to the wronged. but what happens when your protagonist loses? what happens when your valiant heroes fail you? will you pick up a sword and vanquish their enemy or will you wait patiently for yet another savior to appear and save the day? one must live long enough to see their heroes die. but are you brave enough to take their place? the only strings that bind you to your oaths of subservience are your own doubts. "am I good enough?" they whisper in your ears. you answer that yourself love. for the only difference between the paladin and the stable boy are mettle. it is not the question of can you be a hero. it is simply, will you be?

tagged by stolen from: @lunarruled tagging: Everyone!

(2/2)

#.dash games [muses]#.headcanon [daryl]#.headcanon [rick]#.headcanon [shane]#.headcanon [sophia]

2 notes · View notes

stubz · 2 years

Text

I started listening to Epic the musical, the one about the trojan horse and 20 year journey and battle. And one of the songs, The Horse and the Infant, gave me an idea. it’s a bit long by the way and there are some changes to canon which are explained at the end.

dialogue in italics are lyrics from song

********

Jushtin was not a fighter, he was a mathematician, a celebrity, and someone who was far out of their comfort zone. Solaria should be here, she should be the one rallying the troops, leading the charge...but alas she was not. And it’s because of them that she was not here. Its because of them that he must act as temporal ruler until Festivia is old enough. Its because of them that his grandniece will have no mother nor father. Its because of those vile and despicable monsters that his sister and niece are dead.

So here he is. Giving out orders to a plan that he very much did not make, simply acting out the role the Magic High Commission gave him.

The attack goes well. Though he is not a fighter he can still hold his own long enough for Hekapoo or Rhombulus to come aid him. So when a monster the size of the house comes to attack him, he looks for them to aid him once again. But they don’t. They don’t even see her! And how could they not?! She was far larger than most monsters, with bright white hair, glowing green eyes, and clover marks on her cheeks. She strikes...but passes right through him.

Gasping for breath he falls to the ground.

“Who was that?” he murmurs, wondering what kind of monster has markings like those of the Butterfly family.

“A vision of what is to come, can not be outrun, can only be dealt with right here and now” he turns and sees Omnitraxus Prime, who confirms that he too saw the female monster.

“Tell me how.” he urges not wanting anymore harm to come to his family.

“I don’t think your ready,” the large being turns to leave for the battle but is blocked by the Butterfly.

“A mission to kill someone's daughter, a foe who won't run, unlike anyone you have faced before.”

“Say no more, I know that I'm ready” he is not but he will not let anyone harm his niece, his last living family.

“I don't think you're ready.” despite saying this he leads him inside the temple. They walk in silence until Jushtin realizes where they are. A nursery with a crib. He creeps towards it and nearly gasps at what he sees.

“It's just an infant, it's just a girl, what sort of imminent threat does she pose that I can not avoid?” its strange seeing a monster infant. She has fangs, claws, a tail, everything that those they fight outside have...and yet she smiles so sweetly at him. Reaching out, wanting to be held. So he does as she reminds him of his niece strangely.

“This is the daughter of none other than Darkness’s very own prince Globgor.”

“...what?” he catches himself loosening his hold on the babe, nearly dropping her.

“Are you really that surprised that a monster, that the Prince of Darkness, wouldn’t be a loyal gentleman to your niece?” without even turning he can see his mocking face

“Well I- not necessarily but...I mean...I had hoped with how she had...described him that he would the very bare minimum.” Eclipsa had spoken so fondly of Globgor. She had admitted his vices and evil deeds but insisted that he had changed, and still was. She voiced her love and devotion for him with the same passion and furiosity as Solaris when on the battlefield. While this didn’t make him trust or approve Globgor it had made him have some expectations of him.

Being faithful was one of them.

“Know that she will grow from a girl to an avenger. One fueled with rage as you're consumed by age. If you don't end her now you'll have no one left to save. You can say goodbye to Festivia, you can say goodbye to her.”

For a moment he does not say anything to the being. He thinks. He thinks because thinking is what he is good at. He’s good at solving problems, and this is a problem that he must solve. On one hand she is the daughter of the Prince of Darkness, Globgor, who would surely attack his family when she’s grown. But on the other hand...she’s just a wee babe, no older than Festivia. She shouldn’t have to pay for her father’s crimes.

“I could raise her as my own.” he could raise her as a lady, kind, gentle, caring-

“She will burn your house and throne” he thinks back to her father wrecking havoc on the Spiderbite lands

“Or send her far away from home” there are countless dimensions, surely he could send her to the farthest one

“She'll find you wherever you go” just like her father who found Shastacan

“Make sure her past is never known” he will find a spell to mask her features, destroy all records of her existence, destroy her home even

“The gods will make it known” He knows what the counsel member is going to tell him. To do something even his sister would not do

“You wouldn’t even need to be present. Simply give her to me and let the Magic High Commission deal with her.”

“I'd rather bleed for ya, down on my knees for ya” he cradles the babe to his chest as he does so. Hoping that if he, prince Jushtin of Mewni, brother of the late Solaris, nephew of Queen Eclipsa, begs for the infant’s life that maybe, just maybe she shall live a life outside of a crystal.

“She's bringing you down on your knees for ya” disgust and contempt cover his would be savior’s face. Of course he would be disgusted. A Butterfly begging for the life of the daughter of Globgor? He should be hanged for treason.

But to crystalize a child, one who hasn’t even taken her first steps...he could never look at his grandniece again if he were to allow this. “I'm begging you...please...” “...whatever happens next is on your head Boy-Queen. Go. And make sure you cover her less you want to be beheaded by your own army.”

“Thank you, I promise on my sister’s name that no one shall ever find her nor shall she ever learn of who she is.”

He watches the fool leave the nursery, devil spawn still cradled in his arms, covered by his cape.

...he shall have Rhombulus crystalize the scouts who swore that she was not here. Why did the Prince of Darkness’s one good trait be his love for his family? And why did the Boy-Queen have to share that trait?

*****

so for this drabble there are some changes to canon and by changes I mean me creating the order of when each event took place with some tweaks to the actual canon. Like the lie that Eclipsa and Shastacan where eaten by monsters was told to everyone. Including Jushtin who is Eclipsa’s uncle.

So Eclipsa was crystalized and soon after the swap happened. Before the MHC could think of a lie to tell Jushtin of what happened, Globgor finds out what's happened, eats Shastacan and takes back Meteora. So MHC tell Jushtin this with the added lie that Eclipsa too died. Jushtin meets his “niece” Festivia and swears to protect and leads the attack when they find the monster temple. what happens next is shown in the drabble. It’s after the drabble that Jushtin arranges for Meteora to be “adopted” by St. Olga who is later informed by the MHC what’s really happening

#you should really listen to the song #I don't own the song or lyrics or nothing #svtfoe #svtfoe globgor #svtfoe meteora #svtfoe jushtin #svtfoe festivia #svtfoe eclipsa #butterfly family #drabble #epic: the troy saga #no beta this is war

14 notes · View notes

martritzvonmercie · 2 years

Note

I HAD A DREAM ABT MASTERMIND KAEDE and she was SO unhinged and crazy and she had this based outfit and it was sooooooooo…i was in awe. I tried drawing it but alas…the idea didn’t convey itself. Tell me abt ur mastermind! kaede thoughs PLS

OOOOOOOOO THAT IS SUCH A COOL DREAM I AM JEALOUS HONESTLY...

mastermind kaede is actually SUCH a good and interesting idea because she could actually be a really good mastermind.

because like. if she wants to, then this girl can manipulate. she very much knows how to take one look at a person and instantly figure out the best way to get through to them; of course, the biggest and most obvious example is shuichi. she had him wrapped around her finger so fast because it didn't take her any time at all to figure out exactly what he needed to hear. she didn't use this ability to harm him, at least not intentionally, because she is a super kind person with the best intentions. another less common example of this is actually her fte with kirumi. kirumi is quite stubborn in her ways and insists on always putting others before herself. but when kaede talks to her, she is able to phrase things in a way kirumi responds to. instead of insisting kirumi should take care of herself for her own sake, kaede insists that it would benefit her classmates despite kirumi being her main concern, and because of this, she actually takes this advice seriously and agrees to change her behavior. once again, she does this with fully kind intentions and has kirumi's best interest at heart.

all that is just to show that kaede just has this amazing ability to understand others almost instantly, and that in combination with her strong optimism and kindness is what makes her such a wonderful friend and a lovable character.

however, if that ability fell into the hands of someone with bad intentions? they could make all hell break loose.

imagine a kaede who still has this ability to gain everyone's trust, who doesn't die and instead makes her rounds to become close to everyone. everything seems like the normal, kind, loving kaede we know until the numbers of remaining living classmates gets lower and lower. and eventually, something just seems off.

imagine the despair in shuichi discovering that this girl that he loved and trusted more than anyone was actually the one causing the pain that his classmates have been experiencing. there is nothing so full of absolute soul-crushing despair than to have the person who has been lifting you up and giving you hope that you and your friends would all escape together be the one who made you go through this in the first place.

imagine her becoming completely unhinged once she is discovered, a sadistic, evil, vile person that is completely unrecognizable compared to the girl that anyone would have insisted is too kind to even hurt a fly just a few days ago. her standing there and recounting just how easy it was to get everyone to behave according to plan, denouncing every last heart-to-heart conversation as just another piece of her plan. fitting for the theme of the game, everything was a lie.

it honestly suits her so well and is such an interesting idea to explore!! without even changing most of the things that make kaede the person that she is besides her optimism and hope, she can become something so despicable, and that is so cool.

#squishy talks too much #this idea has me so so so mentally ill #she is EVIL and CRUEL and AWFUL and WICKED what the HECK #i love her #people talk to squishy!!#about kaedes <3

8 notes · View notes

thelreads · 2 years

Note

can confirm, what that anon said is true. i myself was more of a toxic villain stan who later reconsidered my views and then distanced myself from the "radical" stans (oooh, this is a very good word for them, that's exactly who they are lmao). i like to think that i also got a little bit better in media literacy because now looking back some of the takes radical villain stans had were literally going against information and characterisations presented in canon?? and the moment i dropped that mindset i immediately started to feel much happier with the story instead of being constantly annoyed and disappointed, and more of my predictions began to turn out true, so here's that. toxic fandoms and taking your headcanons for canon make melt brains.

Media literacy is a huge problem nowadays, even more in places like Twitter and Tumblr, and although not every person that has poor Media literacy means harm, the sheer amount of those discussions ends up leading to pointless arguments. It's quite sad, but it's not something that can't be fixed, as you can attest to.

Unfortunately fandom space allows a lot of the harmful ones to reach a wider number of victims. Headcanoning and fandom interpretations were meant to be things for fun, but alas, there some rather ravenous people around that think their interpretations are law and whoever doesn't agree with them deserves to literally die.

Gonna say something that should be common sense but the more time I spend on the internet the more I realize it isn't: liking an specific character does not mean that you agree or condone their actions and behaviors.

That's goes even more for villains or morally dubious characters. Liking an evil or despicable character does not make you a bad person or means you want those things that they did to happen. This is fiction, it's meant to be entertaining, and seeing characters that are evil or morally grey doing evil things is entertaining, that's the whole point of their presence in a story, to be entertaining by adding conflict!

Really, I have no qualms with people that like villains, since I have my far share of favorites as well. Going back to vigilantes as an example, because this series allowed me to talk about a lot of interesting topics, I don't have anything against people that like Soda or enjoy him. My problem with the character stems with the author just brushing under the carpet and downplaying the things he did instead of admitting to them, basically woobifying him, but not against that people that like his looks or his personality or whatever else that entails him. And in the story itself, the only grip that I truly have is that an author going "they did nothing wrong <3" completely ruins what could've been an interesting villain/antagonist to have around, what's the point of making a character that commits horrible and despicable acts if you're just going to pretend they never happen?

Really, people's morals should not be judged for just liking a fictional character. That's it.

#inbetween #BNHAC264

9 notes · View notes

mapsareforbraindeads · 11 months

Note

the cold hard truth

late-night confessions

a game of lying monsters - the final remarks of the great detective L

just two bisexuals writing in their silly little notebooks

look me in the eyes and call me your love

you know what? fuck you *amnesias your light*

im asking abt ALLL of these!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

damn ok /pos

this is going under a cut because i’m providing a description AND excerpt for each fic which is. a lot

the cold hard truth is the only one i need to keep quiet about. it’s a one shot that’s going to be published after true successor is over. it spoils the entire fic so i can’t talk much about it but i WILL say this: it’s L’s pov :)

L shot the pen into the pile of junk as his vision blurred. Is this what his mother had seen all those years ago? That bright, beautiful light? The bells. Those bells that cried out death and despair. The bells he could almost hear now.

“No…”

late-night confessions is the fic i write whenever i want to write but am too drained/sick to think about actually writing. it’s basically a post-yotsuba arc story where light confesses his love to L. original.

“I dreamt that I killed you.”

“This isn’t helping your innocence, Light.”

“I don’t think that you understand,” Light growled, “I dreamt that I walked into this room as you slept and stabbed you thirty-seven times in the heart as your blood soaked through my skin. You didn’t even scream as the color drained from your face. Do you know how terrifying that is to think about?”

a game of lying monsters is… interesting. it’s written kind of like LABB, but instead of mello talking about beyond, it’s L talking about light.

The monster that I am is cunning. He stalks his prey meticulously before making his moves. He poses as a friend in an attempt to lower their guard. I am the world’s greediest, most despicable monster. Worse than Beyond Birthday, murderer of men and children alike. Worse than my dearest father, who left my mother and I for dead without warning. And most definitely worse than Kira, the world’s “just” killer of inmates and criminals. My mind is a house to evils beyond imagination. And yet, I still declare myself to be righteous.

the next fic is my kira!lawmane au. it has a name but i think the current title is funnier. anyways it’s a pretty basic premise

“Ah, my apologies, Amane-san. Your clothing and personal items were confiscated due to your confinement,” A beat, “Please forgive me, it was necessary for our cover.”

Misa smiled, “Don’t worry about it! And please, just call me Misa!” Misa grabbed onto L’s hand, causing his face to be dusted in a faint pink.

“R…Right,” L stuttered, “Of course, Misa-chan.”

“Ooh!~” Ryuk sing-songed, “She’s ‘Misa-chan’, huh?”

look me in the eyes and call me your love is a bit experimental. it’s basically a second person story where the reader is light going through his execution. the issue? L is the one escorting him there. i haven’t written L’s part yet though whooops

You’ve grown used to the cuffs wrapped around your wrists and ankles; grown used to the yellowed walls surrounding you and those metal bars keeping you from the outside world.

You’ve been here before, of your own will. You thought you’d never end up here again. But alas, you have once again fallen under the watchful eye of the camera placed in front of you.

finally, my amnesiac!light au. this one actually doesn’t have a name lol. anyways, you may be thinking “but vari, light already loses his memory!” haha! you fool!

What were they going to do to him?

The voice spoke again. “Light, this is a terrible act and horribly unlike you. Are you alright?”

He looked up at the camera, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s Light?”

#vari answers #mutuals #death note #true successor #late-night confessions #agolm #kira!lawmane au #lmiteacmyl #other fic doesn’t have a tag yet lol

0 notes

elitadream · 2 years

Photo

Nefario’s had enough. 💥🧪

#a.k.a the bully finally gets his ass handed to him #drawing this was very cathartic #I wish I could delve into this bit a lot more nlg #but alas I'm really short on time #a very badass Nefario moment was definitely needed tho x3 #also he said the word!! ♡#Nefario for best dad #dr Nefario #young Nefario #evil me #concept #rise of gru #despicable me #angst #fanart

278 notes · View notes

xhanisai · 3 years

Text

Confront the boundary line of good and evil in my heart

AO3 / FFN

Summary:

It wasn't her fault! No way whatsoever! But still... Still... 'It really does hurt so bad...so much, I can't take it!'

~(x)~ . . . Tick. Tock. "I'm so sorry Chat Noir! I didn't mean to- I just- I just completely broke down and she was right there and I needed someone-" "It's okay, Bug. I understand, don't apologise," Tick. Tock. "It's not okay at all! You've wanted to know for so long, so patiently and I have always said no- and then look at me now! A hypocrite! This is probably a huge sucker-punch for you and I hate that I've always kept on hurting you back then but now, this takes the cake-" "N-No, I'm fine, honest...really. What matters is your happiness and wellbeing-" "But what about you!?" "..." Tick- "...Kid, talk to me, please. The way you're staring out into space is scaring me." The subdued, raspy voice belonging to the ancient being of destruction went unheard. The boy in question continued to observe the empty space in front, sitting on top of his bed with his knees tucked under his chin and his arms folded in front, hiding the lower half of his face. If one were to enter the room, they would instantly freeze from the glower of the boy's fiery emerald greens that were begging to pool with unshed tears and the aura of his stone-cold demeanour. From the waft of his internal turmoil, even a blind person would be able to pick up that he was currently the host of bad luck. "...Adrien...I want to help, I want to understand, so talk to me!" Once again, Plagg was left ignored, leaving him no choice but to float back down to his pillow and direct his pleading kitten eyes at the blonde, his tiny heart shattered from the state of his chosen. Alas, even he was helpless, his feline ears and whiskers drooping with sorrow. 'But you won't understand. You never did and you never will. No one will ever understand.' Adrien didn't even flinch, didn't even bat an eye. He was a statue of apathy and aloofness; though deep down inside, he was a maelstrom of agonising pain. Oh, so much pain. It was excruciating. He wanted to suit up and claw through the rooves of Paris whilst screaming in anguish. He wanted to find every billboard that had his face on it and tear through it all like paper. He wanted to shred and pulverise his useless, traitorous heart along with its despicable feelings and emotions. But most importantly, he wanted to rip the magical ring off his finger and throw it into La Seine with all his might and then cry for the rest of eternity. And he hates that he feels that way. Absolutely, ridiculously, hates that he feels betrayed. Self-loathing and disgust have taken over his body like a puppet and rendered him completely useless, like a toy forgotten at the bottom of the box, never to see the light of day ever again. The feeling of uselessness and pure shame replaced the blood running through his veins and numbed him to the point where he was equivalent to a powerless machine. He felt his throbbing heart fall deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't her fault! No way whatsoever! But still... Still... 'It really does hurt so bad...so much, I can't take it!' The younger, softer, naive part of himself which was usually tucked away within the dark, hidden crevices of his heart, screamed as if the rest of humanity's lives depended on it. It was taking Adrien everything to keep him out. 'Is it too much to ask for only one constant in my life? Is it too much to ask for one thing to remain the same? Is it too much for anyone to stop keeping me at arm's length!?' . It is. . It is. . Deep down inside, below the platinum chains and iron bars of solid, concrete denial, he always knew that Ladybug never considered him as close as he did with her. And why should she? Just because he performed an act of common, proper human decency and helped an old man get his walking stick back? Just because he was gifted with the power to destroy anything he touches in order to save the day? Just because he knew how to fight possessed villains alongside her? Just because he's in love with her? . "I'm literally the worst." Adrien finally spoke out loud ever since he returned from...that patrol many hours ago. Despite his words, his soul couldn't help but weep and pray that it was all one huge, cruel nightmare. A twisted, sick joke that whatever deities out there have concocted up just for him. Anything! Yet, this was his reality. "I disagree." The boy snapped his gaze towards the kwami, his brows furrowing for elaboration on the little God's part. "I may not be human but I do have feelings and I can empathise. I've existed from the beginning of time and I've witnessed many, many things in my lifetime." Plagg then floated towards him, settling on Adrien's arm so that he was face to face. "You're not in the wrong here, kid. It's okay to feel like this-" "No, it's not!" Adrien's sudden outburst had the kwami shoot away in surprise, the boy instantly turning baffled at his own harsh reaction and then visibly paling even further. He caught sight of his own reflection on a nearby mirror, cringing at the monstrous mess that looked back. With a frustrated sigh, he leapt off the bed, solemnly treading towards his windows, fingers digging into his upper arms as if he was hugging himself. . The luminous moon that shone through the night sky, what was once a beacon of freedom in the past, never looked so unappealing to the distraught hero. His usually glittering eyes were vacant, devoid of any joy and hope whilst his lips were etched in a permanent frown. How many fake smiles and empty words of wisdom did he force out in front of his Lady earlier on? He's lost count. And how many more times will he have to keep doing that, knowing that there will always be another person out that there that Ladybug trusts more than she'll ever trust him? . "I stand by with what I said," Plagg quipped once more, his host quietly surprised with how the little God managed to get so close without him realising. "The two of you have been thrust into a messy situation with very little guidance and a whole bunch of rules which only complicated it further." He then directed his eyes from the moon to the boy. "Yes, I agree that Ladybug's decision in confiding with someone about her identity was a good idea, but as a result of that, it's brought you so much pain. You are not the worst and it's okay to cry it out. It's okay to tell her how you really feel." He placed one of his tiny hands on Adrien's cheek, ears and whiskers still weighed with melancholy as the boy allowed his eyes to prick with tears. One drop. Two drops. Three drops. Four. "It shouldn't hurt- I...I shouldn't be so selfish! Even if she never told me, I was able to tell that she wasn't able to handle her civilian life any longer, especially after becoming the Guardian- I'm supposed to protect her and be by her side! Not throw a tantrum like a three-year-old just because I'm not the one she decided to tell about her secret identity! And then adding my own stupid feelings and insecurities to her plate? I'll be a burden!" The dam was broken and the overwhelming feelings within Adrien cascaded like a tsunami. "You have plenty on your plate as well-" "But I'm used to it, she isn't. I was born and raised to deal with these kinds of things anyway so it's a no brainer for me to shut up and accept it all with a smile-" He paused abruptly, a wet gasp escaping his throat as he leaned against the glass for support when even more realisation sunk in. 'I have been dealing with so many responsibilities ever since I was born...and that puts us on the same boat...so why couldn't she have confided with me then?' Adrien dropped to his knees, fingernails scraping against his scalp as he tried to fight back against those negative thoughts and questions. 'Why am I never good enough? Not for Maman, not for Père and now...not for Ladybug...?' 'Why am I even here then?'

"Adrien...you don't need to put a mask on when you're with me. Cry it all out. I'm not gonna sit by and watch you destroy yourself from inside out because of your inability to address your true feelings. I'm right here, I'll even destroy all the wretched butterflies that dare to come by- so please, let it all out," "I can't! If I do, I'll never be able to go back and nothing will be the same again-" "And if you don't, then things will change for the worse and trust me, kid, that is the last thing you need." Finally, Plagg's words unravelled the obstacles that slowed down the flood and Adrien couldn't help but give in. His body shook and a whole new fresh wave of tears pooled down his eyes, teeth biting down on his lip to prevent the sobs from bursting out. . "...It hurts Plagg...it hurts so much! I love her...and I trust her so much but it hurts! I know she trusts me on a level and I know that multiple times she's mentioned that I'm irreplaceable but dammit! Why does it all feel like a lie!? She did the right thing in telling her civilian best friend, she finally has someone to look after herself- but why does it feel so wrong? Why is my heart in so much pain? Why can't I stop crying? If Ladybug won't lean on me, then what am I here for? And if I can't lean on Ladybug...who...who do I have?" . "...I may not be much and I may talk about nothing but cheese...but you'll always have me, kid," "I want to believe you, I want to so badly, Plagg...but I can't. I feel so alone...I've always been alone... ...And I'll always be alone..." . . . A couple of hours ago, just shy under midnight on a lone, hidden rooftop, if a curious civilian looked up, they would have seen Ladybug and Chat Noir locked in an embrace. However, what they would have noticed first was the absolutely broken, heartwrenching expression Noir wore... ...As if his entire world has fallen apart... . . . ~(x)~ A/N: Just wondering if I should make a sequel and give these two poor cats a happy ending~

#my writing #my fanfic #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #ml fanfic #ml spoilers #takes place after gang of secrets #basically a possibility of what could happen when chat finds out that ladybug told her identity to someone else #super angsty #adrien agreste #chat noir #plagg #ladybug

119 notes · View notes

phis-corner · 4 years

Note

I recently read your platonic brucinette post, it was amazing, i couldn't stop laughing. What if she invites herself over to the Manor or something and the boys have no idea who she is (cause I feel like he wouldn't mention her cause she would probably ruin his reputation even more since his kids would probably spread the stories to their own friends) but I feel like maybe Tim already know her since he was in Paris looking for Bruce (when he got "killed" by Darkseid), he would probably see her as a mom or fun aunt that he could vent to

Ask and you shall recieve! again, any grammar mistakes are because I did not bother proofreading. whoops.

Masterlist ◈ Original

Dick Grayson had seen a lot of unexpected things throughout his lifetime, but he really did not expect to come downstairs for a nice bowl of cereal for breakfast and find a woman who looked eerily like the late Martha Wayne sitting at the table and eating his Bat Puffs.

Wait.

“Those are my Bat Puffs!” Dick shrieks, because he has priorities. That’s the last of his cereal, okay? And it’s going to be two days before Alfred goes on his next grocery run and he’s really bad at shopping for food on his own. Sue him.

Not-Or-Maybe-Possibly-If-You-Believe-Conspiracy-Theories-Martha-Wayne simply laughs, and easily dances out of the way of his grab for the bowl, moving out of his reach with an elegance and grace that can only mean she spends part of her day dressed in a different costume. Whether or not she was a good guy still remained to be seen, considering she had somehow broken into the Manor without setting a single alarm off and was currently eating the last of his Bat Puffs.

A truly despicable act, indeed.

“Grayson?” Damian chooses that exact moment to come down the stairs. “I heard you scream. What’s-” He snarls the moment he catches sight of Not-Martha-Wayne, pulling out a knife from somewhere in the folds of his pajamas and hurling it at her head with impressive speed and accuracy.

Not-Martha-Wayne simply ducks, letting the knife thud into the wall behind her, making Dick wince. Alfred was not going to be happy.

“Identify yourself, woman!” Damian screeches, pulling out another knife. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

Not-Martha-Wayne tilts her head, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Really? I’m not even allowed to eat cereal in my own home now?”

Dick is slowly growing more and more convinced that Not-Martha-Wayne is actually Zombie-Martha-Wayne.

Damian freezes, eyeing her suspiciously. “Your home?”

“Wh’s goin’ on?” Tim slurs, stumbling down the stairs. “Why ‘re you all screamin’?”

Maybe-Zombie-Martha-Wayne brightens when she sees Tim. “Timber! How’s it going?”

Tim rubs his eyes, once, twice, and then his face splits into a grin when he finally registers Maybe-Zombie-Martha-Wayne’s presence. “Marinette! It’s so good to see you!”

And okay, what.

Tim hurries down the stairs (meaning only marginally faster than before, he hasn’t had his morning coffee yet,) and ignores the coffee machine in favor of hugging Possibly-Undead-Martha-Wayne, who laughs and puts down the bowl of Bat Puffs in favor of hugging him back. Dick takes the opportunity to snatch the bowl away from her, mourning the fact that there’s only a bit of milk left at the bottom of the bowl.

“Good to see you too, Tim,” Not-Martha-Wayne, whose name is apparently Marinette (why does that sound familiar?) ruffles Tim’s hair. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Tim,” Dick says, at the same time Damian demands “Drake.”

“How do you know this woman?” They say at the same time (Dick stubbornly ignores that Damian replaced ‘woman’ with ‘harlot’).

“You mean you don’t?” Tim asks, frowning. “She’s-”

“Marinette,” Bruce cuts Tim off, having appeared at the foot of the stairs in his usual dramatic fashion.

Not-Martha-Wayne-But-Still-Really-Looks-Like-Her-Whose-Name-Is-Apparently-Marinette beams and waves cheerfully at Bruce, who looks done with life. “Hey, little brother! I see you haven’t gotten tired of dressing up as a giant bat to beat people up yet!”

Well, that was a lot to unpack. Dick decided he’d start with the easiest thing.

“Little brother?” He looks from Marinette to Bruce, Bruce to Marinette, noting the resemblance in both of them to Thomas and Martha Wayne. “You mean- she’s your older sister?” Dick shrieks, turning to Bruce. “Why have we never heard about her?”

“Really, Bruce?” Marinette gasps, mockingly placing a hand over her heart. “I’m devastated. How could you, after everything we’ve been through, not even tell your hundred thousand children that I even exist?”

Bruce doesn’t reply, instead letting out one long sigh through his nose. Huh. Sixteen whole seconds. Impressive.

“Just kidding,” Marinette grins once Bruce has finally stopped sighing. “He’s never told you because I travel the world a lot, my job is super dangerous, and because I’d expose all his deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Like his greatest fears?” Damian asks. Cass, who had silently entered the kitchen at some point or another, stood behind him, ready just in case he pulled out another knife.

Marinette tilts her head. “What? No!” Like how he wiped off one of the eyebrows on Sylvia McCartney’s face when he was four-”

She doesn’t get to finish that sentence because Bruce has made a mad dash across the kitchen, evidently aiming to get her to stay quiet. Marinette dances out of his hold with a giggle and continues speaking even as Bruce chases her all around the kitchen.

“-anyway, he declared that ‘she had something on her face’, wiped off one of her drawn-on eyebrows-” She ducks underneath a plate, which Cass deftly catches before it hits the wall. “-and then went ‘There. I got it for you!’”

A shoe flies at her head. Marinette bats it away with one hand.

Dick tries valiantly to stifle his snickers, but judging by the evil eye Bruce is giving him, it’s not quite working.

“And there was that time we were at that four-star restaurant in Star City and he ate too much and-” Marinette raises an eyebrow as she catches a toaster in her hands. “Really now, Bruce? A toaster? You know it’ll take more than that to stop me. So he ate too much and got a stomach ache, then started holding his torso and very loudly declaring that he was starting his period.”

Dick doesn’t even bother holding in the laughter this time, and neither do any of his siblings. If only Jason was here to see this, but alas, he was at his own apartment and had no clue that this was going on. Neither did Steph, for that matter, and Duke was already out on patrol since he was somehow a morning person. What a travesty.

“And then there was that time when-” Marinette is cut off by another one of Bruce’s long, very drawn-out sighs.

“Look, Mari, I think they get the point,” He groans (well - as close to groaning as the Batman ever got), pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can stop now.”

“Oh, you’re just annoyed that you couldn’t stop me,” Marinette retorts with yet another smile, and Dick is once again struck by how similar she looks to the lady in the portrait that hangs over the fireplace in the largest of the Manor’s three living rooms. “I suppose you’re right, however. Despite the abundance of embarrassing stories, they do run out at some point, and I’d prefer not to use them all up in one go, ya know? I have to be the cool aunt. Kate can keep wine aunt, but I’m the cool one now.”

“I think Miss Katherine might disagree with that,” Alfred says mildly. “However, I do believe you can win the children over if you tell them about the time your father brought Master Bruce to his board meeting.”

The look of utter betrayal Bruce gives Alfred makes them crack up all over again.

--o0o--

“Man, I am so glad you got it all on camera,” Duke grins, placing two bowls of popcorn on the coffee table before flopping back down onto the couch. “This is going to be great.”

Tim waves a hand dismissively. “I just hacked the cameras in the Manor. Bruce’s paranoia backfired this time.”

Steph cheers and immediately makes a grab for the popcorn as Cass hits the play button on the remote, and Dick can’t help but crack a smile at his own face when he sees the last of his cereal being eaten.

“Richard, I find it concerning that your first thought was of your cereal and not the intruder,” Damian observes.

Dick ruffles his hair, drawing out a squawk of protest. “Well, what can I say? I really like Bat Puffs.”

The Wayne siblings settle down for a movie night that is definitely going to be filled with lots of laughter.

permanent tags

@wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fantasyislive @chocolateherringtacofan @junarvion @susiej1118 @aestheticnpoetic @toodaloo-kangaroo @ladybug-182 @itsmeevie01 @g-arya @souleateralicestein @nightstarblue @i-is-mysterious @moonystars14 @vixen-uchiha @flapdoodle-noodle @labschaos @nathleigh @jalaluvsu @kaithehero @iamablinkmarvelarmy @luveverything12 @technicallyburninggarden

unspecified

@momothefemur @indecisive-mess-named-me @laurcad123 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @sassakitty @fusser90

#maribat #my writing #asks #platonic brucinette

249 notes · View notes

zira-blackwell · 3 years

Text

Check and Mate + [Penwell feat. Belle]

In which Zira successfully steals the first cobblestone and grows closer to her goal...[takes place: August 29]

@arthur-of-camelot, @labellerose-acheron

[tw -- graphic threats of violence]

BELLE: One would think that maybe having the King of Britons ‘round for a spot of tea was intimidating, but Belle was used to entertaining such characters of legend. After all, she was married to the King of the Underworld. And she’d dined with the Great Prince of Enchantra Forest. Had worked for the Queen of Swynake’s Fairy Hollow.

Besides, she quite liked Arthur. He was not quite as brash as some legends made him out to be. In reality, he was rather quiet, contemplative and thoughtful. She had her knight-memories, of course, of a young man who had been slightly more boisterous, but she found she liked this settled down second-life version of Arthur. The two of them got on quite well, especially considering the brash nature of a few of their comrades in arms. Yes, she was including Merida in this assessment.

They were meeting today to put the final touches on the trip to Elfhame. Belle’s notebook that she kept specially for this was out on the table and the teapot had cooled, the two of them already on their second cup each. The house was quiet. Hades and Toulouse had the children for the day, to give Belle the proper focus to plot the way she needed to.

And she was rather satisfied with the plan, overall. It was risky. There were a million ways that it could go wrong, but they’d done as much as they could. Overplanning would just get them in their heads about it.

“I don’t trust this fae prince, but I believe he at least intends to get us there and back in one piece. Other than that, the plan is solid. Don’t you think?” she asked, looking over at Arthur.

ARTHUR: The trip to Elfhame was one that Arthur had briefly considered taking part in himself. He wanted to, and thought that he should, seeing as he had lost Excalibur to someone after having tracked it down. But then he thought better of it. Largely because he was the sheriff of this town, and Arthur couldn’t leave the town defenseless if Zira did anything. He didn’t trust her not to do something.

But he did want to help as much as he could with the planning and with making sure that his knights had the best chance possible to retrieve Excalibur. If he couldn’t be there himself, he would do his best to support them here.

Arthur took a small sip of his tea, considering the notebook once more. “I do believe it’s the best plan that we have.” Did he think there were a lot of things that could go wrong? Yes, but there was only so much that they could plan for. The rest was out of their hands.

“I don’t trust him either, and it would be wise to keep a watchful eye on him, but I think he knows not bringing you back would have consequences. Tiana and I will be here and alert. If he were to return without any of you...it would not end well for him.”

BELLE: Belle nodded thoughtfully, smiling a little at the protective edge to Arthur’s voice. She thought it was nice and Bedivere recognized it too. There was an affection there that wasn’t hers, but she couldn’t deny. It was such an odd feeling. She wasn’t the kind of person to be coddled, but Arthur had a way of saying things that just sounded…warm. Not patronizing.

And while Belle was secure in the knowledge that Hades would raze Elfhame to the ground if she didn’t come back in one piece, it was nice to know there were others who felt the same way. Belle wasn’t the biggest team player, but she could admit to its advantages.

“I think he’s aware,” Belle told Arthur with a little nod. “He’s given his word to bring us all back and the fae are bound by their word. I think I covered all the loopholes, but even if I haven’t, from what I understand we only need him to get to Elfhame, not back again.” She smirked, a little light of mischief in her eye.

“Besides, I—“

There was a knock at the door.

Normally, an unexpected knock at the Acheron’s door was always cause for slight concern. Even Shuck, who had been contently lying on the floor near them was on his feet, a growl rumbling in his throat.

Belle was unperturbed. “Oh, I should get that,” she said, even though she had no idea who it was. She smiled at Arthur and then stood, moving to the door. Shuck walked ahead of her, his massive body blocking the doorway.

“Shuck, move,” she huffed and pulled the door open without looking.

“Ah, hello, Dr. Blackwell,” she said breezily.

“Hello, Mrs. Acheron.”

ARTHUR: “As long as we’ve got the basics covered it should be alright. And as I said, there are a few of us staying back so he would be held accountable.” Arthur believed that it would be alright. And he trusted his knights to have a good head on their shoulders. Belle going when he couldn’t helped him feel better as well. He knew that unlike some of the others, she usually had a pretty sound logic and wouldn’t just jump right into something.

He startled a little at the knock on the door, glancing over at Belle. Had she been expecting someone else? They hadn’t discussed that.

And then Arthur heard the familiar voice and he was on his feet in an instant, stepping behind Belle ready to back her up however he could. He didn’t have a sword on him, which felt like the worst mistake of his life, even if it was odd to go around with a sword strapped to your waist in this day and age. “Zira...what are you doing here?”

BELLE: Belle knew that she should be alarmed.

Actually, she was alarmed. She could feel her heart beating, but she also realized that she wasn’t in control. Her hand was on the doorknob and it had turned without her say so. It didn’t make any sense. Only that she knew she was somehow enchanted. Belle knew what that felt like. She had had magic used against her plenty of times.

She opened her mouth to say this to Arthur, to warn him, but nothing came out.

Instead, she could only look at him incredulously for a moment before turning back to Zira, who was smiling pleasantly at them.

“Hullo, Arthur. I would love to stay and chat, but as you are aware, I’m very busy these days.” Her gaze cut back to Belle. “Would you be a doll and fetch me what I’ve come for?”

“Of course,” Belle said, her brain supplying: cobblestone. She gave Arthur another horrified look before she found her feet moving of their own accord toward the stairs a few steps away.

ARTHUR: This shouldn’t have been happening.

How was Zira doing that? She hadn’t stepped inside or gone anywhere. Why was Belle doing exactly what Zira had said? It was like...well it was as if she was being controlled.

Arthur immediately stepped in between Belle and the stairs, an arm coming up to block her way to them. “And you expect that to work, Zira? Just have her walk over and bring it to you? Do you think that I would allow that?” Arthur asked, eyebrows furrowed as he steeled himself up.

He didn’t know what Zira was trying to pull, but he refused to allow her to get away with the cobblestone. The knights had found it and fully intended to keep it safe from her. “I suggest you leave.”

BELLE: Belle let out a little sigh of relief as Arthur stepped in front of her. She wasn’t in control of her actions. She knew that much, hopefully he realized it too and didn’t think Belle was betraying him. Belle was many things: not a very good team player, small and slight and not a very good fighter, but she also wasn’t someone who would betray someone. Not unless they betrayed her first. And Arthur hadn’t ever done that. In this life or the last.

But, she couldn’t speak.

“Hm, Mrs. Acheron, would you be a dear and inform Arthur of what I told you?” Zira said from the door.

“If anyone tries to stop me, I should slit my throat,” Belle repeated automatically. She blinked after she said it and turned to look at Zira, eyes wide with horror.

Zira just smiled. “Good girl, now run along.”

Belle looked again at Arthur and then reluctantly, but without her control, stepped around him and headed up the stairs. Her heart pounding. All she could think was she was glad the children weren’t home.

“I didn’t think I’d have to tell you to stay out of my way, Arthur, but apparently I was wrong,” she heard Zira comment with a sigh as Belle ascended the stairs.

ARTHUR: He couldn’t help but glare at Zira, though he reluctantly stepped out of Belle’s way. He couldn’t allow harm to come to her, though Zira’s methods were low. Despicable really to use someone in this way.

And once again, he wished he had Excalibur with him, that he could use it and swing at Zira and stop her evil right then and there.

Alas, he did not, and he couldn’t allow Belle to come to harm’s way. They would have to accept this loss. As infuriating as it was. “Really? You should know better than to expect me to just roll right over and let you take anything you want.”

Arthur stepped a little closer to Zira. “You might win today, but you will not win with this ridiculous scheme of yours. I will defeat you.”

ZIRA: The problem with being so moral and chivalrous meant you were so incredibly predictable. You could never gain the high ground because you weren’t willing to do the things that needed to be done. It was why Arthur was losing. He could not bring himself to use people the way that Zira did. He wanted to make friends with his minions. He cared about them. If their situations were reversed, Zira would let Belle open her neck and bleed out all over her new rug.

(There might be only the slightest twinge of regret in a mother recognizing a mother, but children lost their mothers every day.)

Zira had known that this would work. Had been so confident that she’d waited until Arthur was here to call on Belle’s compulsion. Nuka had done such a wonderful job with it, she would need to remind herself to thank him when the time came.

The floor creaked above them and Zira glanced up before looking back at Arthur.

“But isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? Rolling over and letting me take exactly what I want?” She stepped closer until she was right on the threshold, though she did not want to let him know she was magically bound to stay outside the house.

“You do not want to lose anyone and that is the difference between us: no one else matters as much as breaking the charter. I will leave a river of blood so deep I will wash this town into nothing more than a memory and stain the earth so nothing else can ever grow here.”

ARTHUR: He had only ever loathed one person as much as he loathed Zira in this moment. And that was Mordred, the person responsible for his death. Zira...she had a thirst for blood that was revolting and horrific, and she didn’t care who she would go through to get what she wanted.

“No. I’m not. Like I said, you win this time now, but you will not win the war. I will figure out how you did this.” And he would safeguard his knights so that something like this couldn’t happen again. He would make sure of it.

He took a step back from her, a cool smile spread across his face. “You will try. But you will fail. I look forward to you seething with frustration when all your little fantasies turn to dust.”

Arthur couldn’t help but glance back, worrying about Belle and how she was doing. He wished that he could do something to stop what was happening. He hated how powerless he felt at this moment. They would have to do better.

ZIRA: Arthur was so cute. He reminded her of a badger trying to defend itself from a lion. Admirable, but ultimately foolish. She supposed she could appreciate his tenacity and the belief in his cause. Even in the face of failure, he tried to keep his pride. At least he would not be boring to kill. In fact, he’d probably make it rather fun, dying like a martyr.

The top of the steps creaked and Belle appeared, descending the stairs. Zira smiled at her, denying Arthur a proper answer to his challenge. The beautiful, tragic woman slipped between them and dropped the stone into Zira’s hands, who curled her fingers over it.

“Thank you, darling.”

“You won’t win,” Belle snapped, her eyes burning with tears.

“Yes,” Zira’s eyes flicked toward Arthur. “Your king said the same thing.” She let out a put on sigh, especially considering vampires didn’t breathe, as she put the cobblestone in her bag.

“I look forward to seeing you try and stop me. Ta ta.”

And with that, she turned and sauntered down the walkway. Going a few steps before speeding up and disappearing into the dusk.

ARTHUR: As Zira turned away and left, Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Okay. So they’d lost this one. He wasn’t going to let that happen again. They could make this right. He was determined to make it right again.

But for the moment, he turned and stepped over to Belle, glancing her over carefully. “Are you alright?” He asked. Zira had threatened the woman’s life, and though no harm had come to her as Arthur hadn’t allowed that to happen, he still felt he needed to check in. Even if no physical harm had occurred, her bodily autonomy had been taken from her.

“I’m sorry. What she did...that was...well I know she has to have some form of magic...but I would never have guessed her capable of controlling someone like this.”

BELLE: The moment the stone fell into Zira’s hand, Belle felt her body return to her. She touched her neck, then her chest—feeling her heart beating frantically against her rib cage. She leaned against the stair bannister, but as soon as Arthur turned his gaze on he, she snapped to, like a proper soldier.

The team of Knights was mostly Mundus, as it had been before, and Belle refused to seem weak just because of that. She had dealt with far worse. If anything, she was just annoyed that it had been so easy for Zira. Her hand clenched into a fist around the banister and she took a breath. There was an intention for her to smile at Arthur, but it turned into a grimace.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse,” Belle reassured him.

“Possessions are worse, let me tell you,” she chuckled dryly, trying to inject a bit of humor. Thinking about it, though, Belle had had her body snatched by her plenty of times. From possession to death to, well, pregnancy to be honest. Though, this didn’t feel like that.

It felt like—

“Oh. Wait—I know what that was. I-I think.” Belle brushed past Arthur as her brain turned back the clock years and years now. To a much more naïve Belle. Her gaze looked toward the door and then the kitchen.

“She didn’t cross the threshold, did she?” Belle asked, turning to her king. “I think she may be a vampire.”

#bdrparthur #bdrpbelle #penwell #zelle #check and mate #heating up y'all!!

9 notes · View notes