#hanahaki disease tw

[drkinhome]

Hey, it's the Nagito that wanted a shufflemancy, I just wanted one with my relationship with Izuru! Sorry that I confused you

He Loves Me Not, the Flowers Told Me / Backseat Vagabond

———————————–

Sittin' on a swing set

I know it's awful childish

But there is pollen on my fingertips

And there are tears in my eyes

Sweet roses and honeysuckle

Buttercups and sunflowers

It's always the pretty ones

Who come with thorns

He loves me not

He loves me not

He loves me not

He loves me

He loves me not

He loves me not

How many petals must I pick

Till he'll love me?

———————————–

It’s possible that rather than (or in addition to) lymphoma, you suffered from Hanahaki disease due to your attachment to Izuru. You were deeply in love with him, but he didn’t reciprocate. You idolized him, but he hurt you by rejecting your advances. You were succumbing to your illness, unable to get an “I love you” from him.

[positivelybeastly]

"The snuff he pulls from the box pulsates. There’s, of course, the requisite ground tobacco leaves - a Krakoan species, of course - but something … else, that the Beast has added. For kick. A biological incubator, a growth accelerant. Gene markers for every flavour of petalled oil sequencable.

“It says that the seed was planted. A thought formed. An idea gained purchase. Old beliefs fell by the wayside, replaced by newer, better ones - that is the march of progress, after all.”

“And what happened then, Woolf? Was the seed uprooted? Was it dug out with fervour? Was the infestation purged?”

The Beast smiled as he brought up the snuff to his nose.

“Why, no. It was left alone. It thrived in the dark, in the wet, rich soil. And the seed, well … a planted seed will grow.”

He inhaled.

A pleasant high fell upon him, and he fell back in his chair with a rumble. His eyes lidded, and he regarded Tess with almost a fond smile.

“Aren’t we friends, Woolf? Is there no friendlier thing to do than to die in front of you? It is such a very private affair, after all. I wouldn’t share this with just anyone.”

He laughs again, the rancorous, ugly sound that Tess has come to hear and recoil from, right before the noise stops. He gurgles and seizes, and clawed fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as he went ramrod straight. His mouth opens, and a warm yellow sunflower blooms on his tongue, from his tongue, is his tongue.

Golden petals flourish from his eyes. Stalks and roots spider out of his nose and across his jaw, forming a tight, woven net of vegetation from lip to ear. From his furry chest slowly sprouts a glimmering garden of fungus, tinged a soothing chartreuse, and it’s only as she looked close that she could see the roots were tinged blood red."

Ooooh, nice, nice, okay, we've got some stuff to dig into here! Well picked, Cereal.

"The snuff he pulls from the box pulsates. There’s, of course, the requisite ground tobacco leaves - a Krakoan species, of course - but something … else, that the Beast has added. For kick. A biological incubator, a growth accelerant. Gene markers for every flavour of petalled oil sequencable."

So, when you pulled me into your fucked up parasite verse - which, honestly, I consider myself lucky to have been, it's really forced me to up my game - I had to really stop and think about what Beast would be by this point in the Krakoan timeline. He's still there, so he clearly hasn't kicked off and done the fucked up shit that 616 evil Beast did, so what does he look like? And so I took a lot of inspiration from how the Sublime Beast from New X-Men's Here Comes Tomorrow storyline, down to using the caps. It's just so visually striking, and I love just how much of a truly insane, Grant Morrison super scientist he is.

But, we don't do straight cribbing here in Muffinsland. We remix. And the first thought I had was, well, Beast is obsessed with Krakoan biotech, and the way that Sublime Beast came about was because our good noodle Hank ingested Kick, a mutant drug that was actually a sentient bacteria in disguise, so why not have him be obsessed with perfecting insane narcotics? He has bodies to spare, he's wept because he has no more worlds to conquer, no-one invites him to their parties, so what does he do? Well, he does what 70s Hank did - and I'm convinced he did - he takes up drugs.

This is the way my brain works.

But yeah, I had to restrain myself from actually capitalising kick, since that wouldn't make sense. I did not, however, restrain myself from bolding Krakoan, because this version of Beast is such a born-again devotee to the new mutant nation that he has to take a special pride in the tobacco leaves being Krakoan.

“It says that the seed was planted. A thought formed. An idea gained purchase. Old beliefs fell by the wayside, replaced by newer, better ones - that is the march of progress, after all.” “And what happened then, Woolf? Was the seed uprooted? Was it dug out with fervour? Was the infestation purged?”

I love the idea of mutants becoming these twisted, near mythological figures in their growing indulgences and obscenities, and X-Force Beast is defined by lies, so I figured, hey, let's make him the god of deceit, let's position him as an underworld figure, a being of darkness. But just because you're a god of deceit doesn't mean you lie every time you speak, it means that you simply embody the ideal - and he does, he embodies the lie that Hank McCoy was doomed to be this, that he could never be anything but this given time. He lives that lie.

So now he's moved on from straight up lying all the time, to blending the lines between truth and lie, to making you question what you know or think to be true. That's a god of deceit right there. You immediately react negatively to the idea that this version of Beast is newer or better, than he embodies anything like positive progress - but then he hits you with, well, if I'm not better than I was, then why am I the way that I am?

Could you have stopped this from happening? Am I sick? Am I beyond saving? If I'm saveable, can you save me? If I'm not, would you like to believe the lie that I'm beyond saving? He constantly offers you new versions of the truth or the lie, muddying the pot, inking the ocean. That's true deceit.

“Why, no. It was left alone. It thrived in the dark, in the wet, rich soil. And the seed, well … a planted seed will grow.”

Will freely admit that I stole the line, a planted seed will grow, from the Evil Within video game, but in my defence, it was kinda wasted there, and it fits so perfectly with the garden paradise/plant horror aesthetic that characterises the seedy side of Krakoa and X-Force Beast. If Hank could be saved, he was left along. He thrived only in the dark, in the soil, and the seed grew.

“Aren’t we friends, Woolf? Is there no friendlier thing to do than to die in front of you? It is such a very private affair, after all. I wouldn’t share this with just anyone.” He laughs again, the rancorous, ugly sound that Tess has come to hear and recoil from, right before the noise stops.

Maybe there genuinely is a part of him that still cares for Tess, on some level. Enough that he wishes to terrify and disgust and scare her, but not hurt her. And he treats his body with such disdain that dying is no inconvenience, so mocking her with the idea that her being with him as he dies has any meaning is . . . is he trying to drive her away? Is he just being a cunt? Who knows!

"He gurgles and seizes, and clawed fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as he went ramrod straight. His mouth opens, and a warm yellow sunflower blooms on his tongue, from his tongue, is his tongue. Golden petals flourish from his eyes. Stalks and roots spider out of his nose and across his jaw, forming a tight, woven net of vegetation from lip to ear. From his furry chest slowly sprouts a glimmering garden of fungus, tinged a soothing chartreuse, and it’s only as she looked close that she could see the roots were tinged blood red."

I've already mentioned to you in DMs that a big inspiration for this was Last of Us' cordyceps zombies and the Silent Hill F trailer, which has a heavy plant/biological horror aesthetic, part which has its basis in the Japanese concept of Hananaki Disease. It also has its roots in the few bits of X-Force and Krakoan Beast's characterisation that I find interesting, namely his weaponisation of his own body, and the revelation that the entire society's economy, the miracle drugs, only exist because of his experiments on dead bodies, as revealed in Inferno.

So . . . the body as a flowerbed. This is Krakoa. This is what their thriving is based off of. The sacrifice of good mutants to feed the apparatuses that keep them safe and happy and fed (see also Hellions), and the use of unethical experiments to give them their independence. The nation is built on these foundations. It's a lovely flowerbed with roots fed by blood.

[noctxj]

hanahaki disease “… in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies…”

part i / part ii / part iii / part iv

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

agent who slowly withdraws from poly!tf141 after the first episode of bloodied flowers (realising they’re in love), from declining offers to relax in the rec room, accompany them to the local pub, or even working out in the gym to sparring.

agent knows that they’re not being subtle, see’s the guys try and figure what is going on with them. but agent refuses to let them find out—never.

agent who finally manages (after ensuring they wouldn’t hack up another flower) to file a notice, a formality really, to john— captain price, for their absence in the oncoming month or two. as there are no current operations needing agents’ immediate attention, its an opportunity for agent to get their other affairs in order after months being on base with the taskforce. 

john— captain price, briefly glancing at the document before focusing his ocean blue eyes to search agents (tired) face, a frown creasing between his full brows.

pleasedontlookatme—

whatdoyousee—?

the captain getting up from his seat to circle around his desk to stand before agent, his scrutinising gaze trying to catch agents downcast eyes.

pleasejohndont—

“this wouldn’t be about you pulling away from us recently hm?”

bullseye— 

agent could feel a thorn piercing the walls of her throat, their jaw tightening in response. a reaction john notices, his face softening as he reaches out to tip agents chin back to finally see his now gentle imploring eyes.

soblue—

“just don’t forget to come back to us, okay little love?”

little love. a pet name that simon (proudly) started to refer to agent amongst the taskforce (and no one else, lest they meet ghost in the middle of the night) while the others also followed suit—

“or would you rather shorty? or tiny even?” simon had smugly responded after seeing agents offended (blushing) face.

ugh that big oaf of a man, not everyone needs to be the size of an industrial fridge—!!

johnny and kyle chortling in the background, seemingly forgetting they’re suppose to be supervising the recruits’ training.

the pinch of another thorn dragging up their throat throwing agent back into the present.

“of course, captain.”

lies.lies.lies.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

agent whose kept a mental list of contacts who owe them favours, a debt that is finally being repaid: to find a cure for hanahaki disease. from the highest level of power and prestige in society, to the lowest trenches of the underworld. over the course of a few weeks, one by one, each contact falls short of delivering. but agent keeps digging. keeps searching.

there is never nothing. there has to be something somewhere. someone must have at least thought— until finally a contact (old friend) provides them with a lead. 

a doctor whose dedicated their life in medical research of hanahaki disease, searching for a cure— whispers that there is a cure. they’re located halfway across the world. but that doesn’t matter to agent, they’re leaving within an hour; flight booked and travel bag already packed.

washing the remnants of blood down the sink drain, tears wet on their cheeks. the episodes were happening more frequently.

agent is running out of time.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“… it can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear…”

agent feels drained as the doctors words echo in their mind even hours after agents abrupt appearance in the doctors office. one look into agents (desperate) eyes and the doctor already knew why they had come, offered tea to soothe their throat (wash the metallic taste away, even if temporarily).

agent immediately coughing out both the tea, then one bloodied rose— then two— three— and finally four, as agent reaches to rip the tangled thorns from the back of their throat, ignoring the screaming pain of thorns dragging out of their mouth and past their stinging pale lips. 

the doctors face stricken with worry and sadness, trying to wipe the blood from agents face and hands; disposing of the thorny flowers in a sterile bin. the doctor concluding that agent does not have much time to deliberate if they wish to proceed with the experimental procedure. an incredibly invasive surgery that may not completely cure the victim; follow up surgery’s may be required. 

being split open from larynx to diaphragm, sown back together, only to be split open again if a single flower is coughed back up.

agent acknowledges this. pain is pain after all—

whats more to add to the pile?

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

added some dialogue in this part compared to the first part. unedited, also like the first part. i know nothing about the complexities of surgery (google images my saviour) so don’t try to make sense of it haha.

thanks for reading!! ♡︎♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username!)

[faetima]

𝐝𝐥𝐦𝐥𝐮 (𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝) . .

. . you have hanahaki, a severe case of shyness, and a crush on scaramouche, and scaramouche is an absolute jerk.

// tws ; blood ; gn reader ; hanahaki & modern au ; slight cursing 

a/n: first time posting here yippee (pls be nice)

you sobbed, heaving up stupid yellow carnations while sitting on the cold, hard floor of the school bathroom.

you wretched up the damned flowers. they fell ungracefully into the toilet which sat in front of you.

your knees hurt from sitting on them for so long.

if only you could tell him how you felt. it would finally all be over, one way or another. maybe with your feelings being requited.

or maybe with you choking to death, the only thing with you while you die being the stupid fucking flowers.

you coughed again, pale yellow petals fluttering to the ground elegantly.

it was a stark contrast to how, just moments after that, you were coughing your lungs out, flowers flopping down into the toilet in large clumps; stuck together by mucus and blood.

you wheezed and wheezed and wheezed until it felt like there was nothing left in your lungs and your throat was burning and your knees were bruised.

you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until there were no more tears left.

you coughed and coughed and coughed to the point you thought maybe just dying would be better than this fucking hell.

you curled into a ball, crying. crystalline tears ran down your cheeks, falling onto your clothes, the ground, anything.

if only you could fucking talk. why were you like this? why were you fine with your friends, but so terrified to talk to anyone? to everyone?

to him?

maybe, just maybe, if you were different you wouldn’t be in this situation.

if only you weren’t so pathetic, so stupid, so scared.

you hated yourself. you hated yourself so, so much. who the fuck was this terrified to talk to people, but opened up so easily once others talked to them?

maybe you should just confess and get it all over with.

—

you opted to just give him a letter anonymously. 

who knew if he would even read it? he received dozens of confessions everyday.

even if he did read it, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

—

if you could, you would eat up your words.

it was much, much worse than you thought.

he had ripped open the envelope, immediately reading the letter with a scowl.

he wasn’t even halfway through when he burst out laughing.

”what the fuck is this?” he snickered, holding onto his locker so he wouldn’t fall from how hard he was laughing.

”what pathetic fucking weirdo confesses from an anonymous letter? are they too terrified to say it to my fuckin’ face?”

he continued reading the letter.

when he was done, he crumpled it up and threw it away behind him, still laughing.

”that’s so goddamn stupid.”

unfortunately, the crumpled up letter hit you on your head.

not embarrassing, right?

well, it wasn’t until scaramouche saw it had hit you.

”oh, sorry,” he exclaimed in a voice dripping with mock sweetness.

”didn’t see you there.”

it would’ve been fine until his next comment, which you unfortunately overheard.

”these dumb fucking bitches. they’re so stupid, can’t even move out of the way. what are they, blind?” he muttered under his breath, tone condescending.

you burst into tears right then and there, unable to stop the overflow of emotions.

you walked away as quick as you could, wanting to kill yourself right there.

”so emotional, and over what?”

his laugh rang down the hallway, following and taunting you.

—

you don’t know what had come over you that day. before that you had always tried to keep your emotions in check, always tried to stop the tears from coming out in front of people you didn't know.

maybe hearing your crush degrade and insult you had just struck a chord or something.

—

weak coughs wracked your frail body, using up the little energy you had left.

you were on your death bed (quite literally! you were laying on your bed while dying).

honey yellow flowers surrounded you, their sickly sweet scent making you feel nauseous.

you choked up another batch of the flaxen flowers, watching them flop forward onto your bed sheets, staining them a dull crimson because of the blood on them.

with half lidded eyes, you stared at the carnations. your mind was hazy, and your vision blurred.

if you recalled correctly, they symbolized disdain and rejection.

how fitting.

[dunkalfredo]

siffrin with hanahaki disease bc this post struck me in the chest and made me immediately think of them

[aftersector]

my last piece for the @mdzsrbb! jiang cheng with hanahaki (for wwx :3c)

u can read @slythmultishipper's fic “I Love You (It’s Ruining My Life)” here!

[coffins-flowers]

Hanahaki disease

I like lineart a lot so here you go

Some ramblings under the cut

I love gore but in a cute way like… yes HANAHAKI DISEASE!!!!! And since I was a child I kinda liked something bad happening to favourite characters like Bradley, because it’s like „Nooo, baby. I wanna see how are you getting out of that”. Also I like drawing bodily fluids :^)

I bet Bradly would be scared to death while Max is „Not again”. I wanted to draw them together, but idk Max looks ugly idk if I should continue drawing him.

[mlady-magnolia]

I love dooming my yuri

[arahusk]

Husk turned away from the bar suddenly, hands over his mouth as he gagged.

“Oh come now, Husker. Already nauseous this early in the day?” Alastor rolled his eyes. “I would hope you could hold your own. It’s one of your few talents.”

Shut. Up. Husk thought violently, but couldn’t say it at all. His hands were still over his mouth, holding back the ongoing stream of blood and petals that were already tickling his throat. It had gotten so much worse, no longer able to just subtly cough into his palm and flick away a few stray flecks.

Husk stumbled, his wings bumping against the bar. And then he fell like he’d just been shot in the leg.

Alastor sighing was the worst fucking thing to hear. “If you’re trying to get yourself a sick day, let me make it clear to you that you have none.”

“That’s not—” He sputtered, then coughed. A spout of blood splashed across the floor tiles in front of him. With the way he was now kneeling, the whole thing looked like the grisly aftermath of a murder that he was forced to clean up. Husk tried to brush away the few petals that he was somewhat thankful were as dark red as the blood itself.

And whenever there’s blood, Alastor is interested.

He felt his boss’s eyes on his back, burning through it as deeply as it could. Maybe he could see past his fur, down to his bones and right into his heart where it was encaged in twining branches that prod and poke until it kept drawing more blood, to where those branches were covered in blooming flowers that were already wilting away.

Or maybe Alastor was just hungry.

Husk dared a quick glance, fully aware how his face was half-covered in his own blood, dripping down his chin. Alastor had his mic on the bar, tapping his fingers over the handle, watching Husk with those burning red eyes.

He was smiling—as always—but it was wide and even sharper than before. It held a certain energy to it, one that Husk could feel through the air, like radio waves.

When Alastor spoke, it was oddly soft. “Do you need water, Husker?”

It was incredibly not what he expected, for his boss to offer him some way of relief.

He couldn’t answer right away. The petals were lodged right in his throat, and underneath his tongue. He had to move around spit and fluids to make even a modicum of sense. “Would…be nice.”

Something vibrated between them, the dial left on dead air for too long. But Alastor quickly dissipated into shadows before he reappeared again before Husk, on one knee before, but still looking down.

In his hand, he held out a glass of water. It looked normal.

“Well?” Alastor asked.

Husk felt another attack coming up and quickly snatched the glass from Alastor’s hand. Turning away, he drank it down. It was actual water, surprisingly enough. It wasn’t even lukewarm.

And when he drank, he felt those same sharp-edged branches soften, at least for a little while.

But as Alastor kept staring at him, silently, with that same smile, Husk wondered if he hadn’t just given himself away so easily.

-

Husk never saw Alastor slip a few of those blood-stained petals into his hand, fingers drawing into the blood on the floor. It blended well with his coat, the petals as soft as each of the feathers of Husk’s wings.

But they were frayed, and wilted. Even at the very edges of them, they looked singed.

Alastor kept them close.

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ❗️mention of throwing up❗️

chapter 1

Les fleurs du mal ch.2 rosquez, 1.8k words

Alex is fairly worried now.

His brother has reserved a hotel room instead of staying in their motorhome like usual.

When he had tried to talk to him about why he took that decision his brother had answered badly, with a hint of rage he had never seen reserved towards him.

And it had worried Alex more than hurt him, because he knows his brother is not like that.

It must be Valentino’s influence, it’s either that or Valentino’s words at the press con.

Alex was never particularly keen on his brother’s lover.

He was much too old in reference to Marc, fourteen years of difference was a lot.

Alex had warned him about Valentino.

He had told him to be careful and not fall head first into whatever twisted ting they had.

But Marc is known for being a prideful and stubborn person.

And of course he didn’t listen and threw himself in Valentino’s arms as if they were the solace and refuge Marc was supposed to live in forever.

And right now Marc is thinking how probably he should’ve listened to his brother instead of his stupid heart.

He should’ve never gotten in Vale’s bed two years ago, he should’ve never let his defences down in front of him.

But it was so sweet to do.

To be vulnerable for once, so bare in front of someone he looked up to and that seemed to have a lot of respect for him in return.

It was so beautiful to share nights and morning with Vale, waking up hugged to him, his hands in his hair and his voice telling him buongiorno with that kind of sweetness that would’ve never let Marc think Vale could do what he did the day before.

He didn’t think Vale would’ve lied to him, simply because Marc didn’t lie to him.

He let himself be read like an open book, Vale knew what made him laugh, cry, get angry, get horny, get relaxed.

Vale knew him perfectly. Therefore he perfectly knew how to tear him apart.

Could he ever get the operation done if it meant possibly forgetting Vale?

Probably not.

Because despite how he presents himself as cold and wearing a thick armour to the public Vale is already inside his defences.

He’s already in his heart, digging his way in deeper and deeper, making him bleed.

Vale hadn’t even called him to fuck about it.

He had no texts from him with a simple room number and a time.

He must truly be angry with him. He must truly hate him.

Marc would - he would go if Vale called him.  Even just for sex, just to feel those hands on him, keeping him attached to reality.

Even if those hands would be cruel and bruising in a way that’s not pleasing.

Even if he could feel the hate in the sex, in the way Vale would be rude and uncaring.

But at least he could touch him, feel him, see him.

Marc would be - well not happy - ok with that. Minimal contact, but still something.

Like this? Marc could feel the grip of the roots tightening around his lungs, the fever raising, tremors increasing.

And that suffocating sensation in his throat didn’t wear out despite he already puked twice that morning alone.

He uses all his strength to walk to the bathroom and cough.

He coughs for minutes, until the sensation wears down a bit.

Five petals.

Always of a bright yellow. Valentino’s yellow.

He can taste iron in his mouth, and sees how one of the petals is a bit red.

He wants to cry, yell, rip his fucking lungs out to get rid of this pain.

But can’t.

And maybe.

Maybe it’s his fault.

Hadn’t he pushed that hard, maybe Vale wouldn’t hate him. Already back at the Ranch, he overdid it.

He got himself in this huge fucking mess alone and he alone can take himself out of it.

No Alex, no Santi, no Julia, no Vale.

He pukes again, three other petals.

He wants to beg to whatever God abandoned him to please get rid of this pain.

He’s begging Vale to love him once again.

When Vale hears a knock at 2 am at the door of his motorhome he expects Uccio to be there bad mouthing Marc in loop like he’s been doing for years now.

But instead he’s met with a pair of deep brown eyes he’s come to recognise over those same years.

He knew Marc was pathetically in love with him but holy fuck he didn’t think he was so lonely to crawl back to him like this.

He didn’t even had to call.

“Please can I come in?”

Vale doesn’t answer, just moves to the side and lets space enough for Marc to slip in.

He locks the door behind them, going to sit on the couch, while Marc stands in front of him.

“Speak up, you came here at two in the morning I don’t think it’s to stare at me”

There’s a sharp edge to Vale’s tone, one Marc’s heard when Vale talked about Biaggi or Gibernau.

The blood keeps dripping from his heart each word more, but this could be the only way to get Vale back and stop the roots.

“Let me make it up to you”

Vale watches Marc crumbling before him. Doesn’t say anything.

It’s truly as sick as Uccio’s laugh.

“Please”

Vale finds himself smirking.

He’s still sat on his couch, legs spread, hands over his crotch and angled towards Marc.

“This is not something you fix with sex you know that?”

Marc knows, but thinks that maybe through it he can have Vale’s love back.

“But it can be a good starting point”

Something hopeful sparkles in Marc’s eyes, like a kid seeing presents under the three at christmas still believes in Santa.

“If you beg for me”

Marc gulps, because it’s not like he’s never begged before.

But they were ok, it was a thing of the moment to get Vale riled up.

This is to embarrass Marc. Pure fun of Vale’s side, pure shame on Marc’s.

But Marc is selfless right now, he needs to be what Vale wants him to be.

“Please Vale”

Vale looks him up and down, studies him, undressing him with his eyes.

“Come here”

He’s smiling, Marc can’t decipher if it’s a fake or a genuine smile. He’s too busy keeping the shame in its bars.

His knees touch Vale’s and he waits for his words before doing anything.

“Get on your knees”

Marc obliges, he feels like an offer walking itself to the shrine hoping that the God he’s sacrificing himself to will save him.

A lamb voluntarily going to the butcher expecting compassion from him.

“I’m not gonna do anything, if you want it you work to get it”

Vale is doing this to belittle him, but maybe, if he keeps going to him every night, Vale will be nice again, soft, gentle, kind and loving.

Marc tugs down Vale’s boxers, he doesn’t sleep with anything else on, and starts stroking his dick to get it hard.

It’s not a difficult task at least, Vale is not yet dumb and is aroused by the boy being on his knees for him like every other time it happened.

Vale locks his fingers in Marc’s hair, not because he intends on doing anything besides letting Marc suck him off, but to remind Marc he’s the one ultimately in control.

He’s the one leading this dance.

Marc wraps his lips around the head and sucks, because he knows Vale’s body and how to get him hot and aroused.

Vale moans in response, the grip on Marc’s hair tightening a bit.

The boy takes in more of Vale’s dick, gagging a bit like always, he’s come to understand it gets Vale harder.

Once he’s taken almost all of it in his mouth he starts bobbing his head, sucking every time he gets close to the head, helping himself with his hand with the part he doesn’t reach with his mouth.

“I could snap a picture right now and the whole grid would see how much of a whore you are for me. On your knees like this, begging me for it”

It’s not the kind of degradation Vale usually uses with him, usually it’s much more possessive, but also much more tied with a layer of love.

Right now it’s just to make Marc feel like he’s worth less than him.

And after all Marc was the one to come crawling at him at two in the morning begging to have him.

So he was pathetic.

And maybe being pathetic for long enough will close the breach between them.

That “maybe” feels like a slippery cliff Marc is holding onto right now.

He doesn’t know if he’ll have grip strong enough to stay there or if the waves under him will eventually come drag him down.

He focuses back on Vale, taking him a bit deeper, feeling his tip slide down his throat, trying so hard to not cry from it.

He knows Vale’s body language by heart now, so he knows when he’s close, and how to get him close faster.

He keeps sucking hard as he gets close to the tip and does the same when it hits the back of his throat, and Vale, for how much powerful he can depict himself as, comes down Marc’s throat after not more than a few minutes of this little game.

Marc swallows, because he knows that’s what is expected of him, and stays on his knees, hands folded in his lap and looking up at Vale.

And Vale can’t lie because that’s one hell of a sight.

Marc on his knees, big brown eyes wet and glossy, lips red and a drop of cum still on the corner of his mouth.

But he’s resolute more that horny right now, and as Marc stays still on the ground looking at him he puts back on his briefs, Marc making a questioning look.

“I never promised to fuck you Marc, and you never begged for it. You begged for me and I gave you what you asked. Maybe next time if you’re more clear with your beg I could comply”

He leaves to get to his bathroom, and Marc is left there, knees against the cold tiles of the motorhome floor, the bitter taste of Vale’s release on his tongue and a sense of shame filling up his brain.

He runs out the motorhome and pukes in directly in front of it, other petals, three again, always yellow, always tied to Vale.

He could feel the hate in every word Vale spoke to him, the spite and disgust in every glance.

It seemed to him that the grip on his lungs had tightened again, the roots clawing stronger at his organs and the feeling of burning in his throat not leaving him at all.

He walks back to his hotel, a hoodie over his head to not make him recognisable and head lowered, as if he’s ashamed of the moon knowing how pathetic he is.

[noctxj]

hanahaki disease “… in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies…”

part i / part ii / part iii / part iv

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“have you considered trying to make your feelings known?”

all things considered, the bed agent was sitting upon was more comfortable than what the barracks’ had.

but not as cozy as kyles’ chest—

“i can’t,”

the doctor frowns, pausing his tapping on the tablet, his eyes looking up to search agents face; not staring at him, rather just across from them.

a blank canvas—in pain—but nonetheless a perfect mask of apathy—

“why not?”

“i just can’t, doctor.”

agent sighs, turning their sober gaze to the doctor. simply put, agent would not have been able to take their rejection— their disgust, their hatred, their bellows to leave and never come back, once they realised an outsider who did not even belong within the same scope as the taskforce would develop such frivolous feelings such as love. agent would never be able to witness them renouncing the contract laswell carefully pieced together, watch their backs turn on agent for the last time, visibly see the trust delicately built over the past several months to crumble away into nothing, as if it never existed, as if they never existed, as if they never touched agents life in a way no other had been able to.

the doctors eyes remained steadfast on agents, a silent urge to continue.

“… i know that… that i wouldn’t be able to bear their… rejection… but this, this procedure?”

diverting their gaze to their lap, swallowing back the familiar metallic taste on their tongue.

“this... this i know i can endure” 

i’ve been through worse—

the silent words allowing agent to meet the doctors eyes again.

you’ll see eventually doctor, all my scars: permanent reminders. reminders born from miscalculations, wrong decisions, torture—

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the same scars the taskforce were mistakenly exposed to. an undercover mission with agent used as bait for their target within a gala. a mission that wondrously ended up with the back of agents’ strapless dress ripped all the way down to their tailbone— stupid man with his stupidly gaudy rings— a furious agent using one hand to clasp the front of their dress lest they flash the idiotic target, and a handgun in the other, pointed at said idiot dazedly sprawled on the floor with a bloody (broken) nose.

agents’ back to the door as the taskforce spilled through, following agents’ signal for backup, only for agent to hear them pause by the doorway, their breaths collectively inhaled at the same time— 

“who did this to you?”

simon’s gravelly voice asked— no, demanded. agent turned their head, handgun still pointing at the (idiot) target, confusion written on their face, brows furrowing as instead of responding, stomped over until he was looming over agent.

“ghost, now is not the time—“ the captain tried to reason as the air seemed to get tighter and tighter.

“who. did. this. to. you.” not a demand anymore, but an order. one of simon’s gloved hands sweeping over the raised discoloured scars running along agents back; a pattern of scars resonant of whip marks, some of cigarette burns and others as if skin was gouged over and over and never allowed to heal properly again. 

agent who blinked, once, twice, before slowly turning their head forward again, avoiding simon, john, kyle and johnny’s faces’. handgun slowly lowered till it was facing the ground, a hollowness seemingly eating at agent from the inside out—

“it doesn’t matter. i killed all of them anyway.”

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

agent could only imagine the bleeding cracks that were appearing on their carefully placed mask, the madness that had been chasing them their entire life finally being able to swallow them whole. another soulless killer… assassin… spy… murderer, feeding off of rotting corpses just to survive another day, another assignment. agent was able to taste happiness and love for the first time, an addiction they never could have prepared themselves for; never could have foreseen it leading to a solution providing more pain— more pain to just to remain in all of their lives for just a little longer.

“and what if you’re wrong?”

… what if? my entire life has been nothing but timing and precision; the notion of “what if” is equal to failure and death—

“what if they return your feelings?”

agent could feel a plume of flowers unfurling at the base of their throat.

“… i wouldn’t deserve them.”

could feel them slowly fluttering their way up their throat.

“doctor, i’m by no means a good person; have never pretended to be. i’m not someone worthy let alone deserving of love.”

but i’ll rip myself apart over and over just to be around you all for just a little more time—

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“now, if you could count to ten out loud for me please”

“one…”

everything will be okay— 

“two...”

agent could feel a tangled swath of thorns and petals pushing themselves up their throat—

“it’s okay, just keep breathing. keep counting for me.”

“… three…”

once this is done, i can return to them. they don’t have to know, they’ll never have to know— 

“… four...“

agent could feel their mind slow down, their thoughts feeling nonsensical; the effort almost pointless as everything began to flicker in and out of focus, blurry at the edges.

“… f-five…”

in the distance, agent could hear a loud commotion coming from behind the closed doors. what was that? their eyes fluttering, noticing the nurse holding the mask sending a questioning look to the doctor, his attention turned towards the door.

agent could hear… yelling? they— more than one, had deep, masculine voices. 

why did they sound so familiar?

agent took a hold of the nurses’ wrist, their attention snapping back to them; communicating to ease the mask off their face as thunderous reverberations of heavy footsteps grew louder and louder, until there was a split second of silence— and then the doors to the surgery room swung open with a resounding crack as they slammed back against the walls. 

four large bodies barging through the seemingly small doorway, blurred masses of power—

it was them.

they—what?

how—?

agent could feel their eyes blink in surprise, the panic slowly filtering in through the fuzziness of their brain.

nononono—

theyshouldntbehere—!!

despite agents mind racing, the small amount of anaesthetic had already taken effect; only seeming to slacken their grip of nurses’ wrist, agents’ finer motor skills out of reach—

—including the effort of swallowing back the vicious thorns and bloodied flowers now erupting out of agents mouth in a painful choke; blood spraying against the mask and now the nurses’ hands as they are ripped away—by simon?? 

a skull mask with such dark eyes—so close— reaching out to grasp their shoulder to turn their body to the side, his familiar scent of dark whisky, and just simon invading agent’s senses as they follow the direction of his pull. another pair of warm gloved hands on their back and hip assisting in the turn—kyle? his calming earthy scent that reminded agent of the heat of the sun, wafting to their nose. with another familiar—and safe— scent seemingly punching through the mix of simon and kyles— johnny? an addictive smell of sweet cinnamon akin to one of his addictive bear hugs that he often followed up with a playful ruffle to the head, now instead gently cradling agents head forward.

agent couldn’t stop the onslaught of mixed emotions and painful hacking up of blood, flowers and thorny stems spilling out onto the cold floor. confusion, helplessness, fear— a concoction that only seemed to encourage another heaving of blood and flower petals. 

i-i-icant-thisistoomuch—

the beeping of the bp monitor now frantically blaring out in a staccato rhythm, agents’ panic mixed with their chocked hacking reflecting their suffocating agony.

ithurtstoomuch— 

the hand formerly gripping the nurses’ wrist left flailing in the air, until a heavy set of hands grasp it and hold it against a prickly—john? agent trying to focus their tear filled eyes onto the blurred figure kneeled before them. the captain whose rough and calloused yet gentle hands encompassing theirs against his mouth; puffs of his breath hot agents’ cold trembling fingers, his smoky scent swirling around agent in a dizzying trance. 

“it’s okay little love, were here.” john lowly murmurs against their fingers, the plush feeling of his lips and prickly beard sweeping across agents’ knuckles so lovingly.

as if it was following a command from their captain, agents’ tense body finally relaxed back onto the sheets (and their beloveds’ gentle embraces). feeling safe and secure for the first time in weeks since leaving the taskforce; the distant beeping of the monitor slowing down in its rhythm—

only for agents eyes to finally close in exhaustion, as the last of the crimson petals drop from between their bloodied lips. 

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

i love how i keep saying to myself like yeah this’ll be the last part aND THEN IT ISNT (ಥ‿ಥ) peak clownery. the amount of dialogue keeps increasing (as is the word count) per chapter but uhh oh well. 

had a lil flashback midway there, i may write short? drabbles of little peeks as to how their relationship developed from the day agent met the taskforce = a potluck of more angst and pining!! yaayyyy !!!! but dw there will also be fluff and shenanigans to heh (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

part iv will defs be the last one of this series ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ̀ˋ

thanks for reading this far!! ♡︎♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username!) 

[faetima]

𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐬. .

. . you’re cursed with hanahaki and shyness, while scaramouche is fated to forever hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference.

// tws ; blood ! ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: i love safety scissors by tiffi

there were many things you didn’t know about scaramouche. his family life, his favorite type of flowers, what his favorite kind of dessert was.

what his personal feelings about you were.

but, one thing you did know about him was that he liked cherry cola.

much, much more than the regular kind.

that was too bad though, since you hated cherry cola.

but you couldn’t fault him, your tastes just didn’t match up.

—

there were many things you didn’t know about scaramouche. his favorite sport, if his love language was physical touch like yours, if he didn’t like shy people.

if he was romantically interested in someone.

but, one thing you did know about him was that he wasn’t rightfully yours.

and that he would never be.

—

your life was slipping away like delicate grains of sands falling through your hands.

you gagged, pale pink and pristine white candytufts slipping out of your mouth and flopping onto the floor, the ungraceful motion contradicting to how elegant the flowers actually looked.

the flowers were dotted with dull, red spots of blood, standing out on the otherwise light colored blossoms.

you clenched your hands into tight fists, suddenly feeling how cold and clammy they had gotten.

you hunched down, heaving and coughing up more of the damned flowers. they were clumped together and were glistening from being coated in mucus and blood.

the cabbage-like scent of the candytufts combined with the metallic, iron scent of blood was starting to make you dizzy, your stomach turning. you gagged on nothing, queasy from the miasma.

maybe you had no chance with scaramouche.

—

you sat in class, shoulders slumped forward and lips turning downwards just the slightest bit. you rubbed one of your eyes, tired.

you let out a shaky sigh, not noticing your right leg bouncing up and down unconsciously.

“can you stop that?” a sharp voice cut through the silent haze that had been set over the classroom. you glanced up, finding indigo eyes narrowed in annoyance. scaramouche’s hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was clenched. he scowled at you, pretty face contorting into one filled with exasperation.

”sorry,” you mumbled, immediately dropping your gaze down to the desk, swallowing hard. nervousness crept up your spine, and you took in a shaky breath.

”whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. his ears had the lightest tint of pink to them, of which you didn’t notice, too caught up in your own embarrassment.

—

you had bought new clothes because you thought you were going to see him that day.

you had cut your hair in your bedroom with safety scissors.

it was so embarrassing. especially because that was the only way he would even notice you, taking the fact that you were too scared to talk to him because of being so goddamn shy.

—

there was some distant memory you had of scaramouche and you back in seventh grade.

you had both been working on a project, and somehow you had wound up sharing your earbuds with him.

his nose had scrunched up in what had seemed to be disgust.

”you listen to this fucking stuff?” he asked you, staring at you with a scrutinizing gaze, a hint of curiosity in it which you hadn’t noticed.

you had stayed silent, not exactly sure what to say.

it wasn’t his fault that your music tastes hadn’t quite aligned.

— 

you had texted your friends.

they had said not to do it.

but you, being stupid, didn’t want to listen to them.

so you had cut your hair on impulse, all because you wanted to look nice for scaramouche.

now your hair looked so, so damn stupid.

and the worst part? 

you had cut it with safety scissors.

you should’ve listened to your friends.

—

coughs wracked your feeble body, draining all the energy it had left with the motions.

candytufts fell out of your mouth, piling up on the ground.

sharp pains in your lungs came in intervals, making you wish death would just come and take you already.

but no, it just had to be cruel. it was taunting you, making you feel like you were going to die, make you wish that you were going to die, only to never actually take you.

instead it put you through this suffering.

you felt like you were coughing your lungs out, wanting to rip your throat out from the pain.

you sobbed, wishing to just die, wishing for the world to just end your pain and suffering.

but, alas, death would never come for you.

all because scaramouche hid his feelings for you under a mask of indifference, hidden from anyone’s knowledge.

[superbellsubways]

day 20

burning away the disease

[viaarts404]

Warning: Blood! Hanahaki Stein cause every au needs one. I think the story behind it would go like this: Stein's feelings for Spirit resurface after he joins the academy as a teacher. I will surely make a fanfic of this.

[jossambird]

Rooted in your love - P7: Forlorn Hope

Cardinal Copia x F!Reader - Primo x F!Reader, Secondo x F!Reader, Terzo x F!Reader

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Mature. Hanahaki Disease and all that comes with that (choking, being sick, acceptance of death, etc), Eventual Smut, Eventual 18+ acts, Angst, Unrequited Love.

Fic Summary: You couldn't pinpoint when exactly you had fallen in love with the newly arrived Cardinal, but one was certain: you had Hanahaki disease.

Chapter summary: As Primo and Secondo reflect on the events of the day, Copia decides to seek you out, only to be confronted by the one appointed to guard you. Terzo soaks in your radiance.

A03 link, to read all previous chapters and chapter 7! (Or masterlist on profile!)

Song Inspiration for Rooted In Your Love 💕

.

.

Primo sighed heavily from where he sat, eyes roaming over every single item you had ever given him as his mind continued to run itself in circles. Full glad was he of your awakening, yes, heart already feeling lighter after seeing your beautiful smile aimed at him so easily after waking… yet an uneasy feeling settled within his bones, gnawing at his senses.

Something in your eyes had seemed… off. Never had he seen such a look in your eyes, your normally mesmerizing gaze appearing… well, almost as if you had experienced something whilst deeply asleep, something that, even now, lingered over your conscious shoulder like a specter, ready to strike. He knew not if you had dreamt during the time you slumbered in his bed, or if total darkness of the mind had been the only thing you had experienced, but something more than your current state had caused that look in your eyes. How true the saying was, that the eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

The retired Papa Emeritus I leaned back in his armchair, ungloved hands flexing at the memory of your visage as you’d spoken of going to fetch Secondo; you mustn’t have known how anxious you had outwardly appeared, your expression reminding him of what a child who feared being seen looked like-

“Perhaps you were always destined to fail, son of Emeritus…” A voice whispered against the shell of his ear, the sound almost resembling that of wind passing through a graveyard, bringing with it the lingering feeling of dread and despair.

“Fail as a Papa…”

Primo dared not open his eyes, for he knew what an entity such as this sought.

“Fail as a friend…”

It sought to drive him mad, drive him to insanity.

“Fail as…”

It sought to dig its taloned nails into his clavicle-

“… her caretaker…”

It laughed lowly, a guttural sound that came from deep within the chasm of its body, or whatever was left of it, Primo surmised by the lack of sound as it moved to his other ear.

“Your father always thought the Emeritus Eye was a blessing…” It continued, louder this time, closer to his ear as its decayed fingers carded through his blond hair before tugging harshly, causing Primo to inhale sharply as his head hit the back of his armchair, attempting to trick the Papa into opening his eyes.

“He never once considered that it would become a curs-“

Primo awoke suddenly with a gasp, dissimilar eyes shooting open whilst his head shot forward, surveying the area surrounding him for too long of a moment before finally allowing himself to sigh. A dream, it had only been a dream.

What a crock of shit it was, to become old. Why had his body chosen now, of all times, to fall asleep? Furthermore, how long had he been asleep for?

A quick glance at the clock informed him it had only been 11 minutes since you had departed to fetch Secondo… surely you must have made your way to his side already, unless you had-

The eldest Emeritus son stood hurriedly at the thought, groaning moments after as his back protested such a quick movement while running on so little sleep.

He knew not what had shaken you so during your slumber but back pain and ghosts be damned, he would find out what it was.

_________________

Secondo soundlessly stood in the kitchens, shoulders sagged as he continued to warm up the supper he had quickly made for both he and Primo.

He was loath to admit it, but his elder brother had been right: no matter how much time he spent at your side, nothing would come of it were he to let himself waste away.

How was he to protect and help you if he were not healthy himself? He sighed once again, slight irritation prickling at his skin as he continued to stir the pasta he had made, mismatched eyes focused on the task at hand-

A sudden movement to his right caused the man to hiss in annoyance, sneering as he turned to see what, or who, had disturbed him.

There, standing frozen like a metal pole in the cold, stood the Sister of Sin he had fucked all those days ago, staring at him with wide eyes.

Briefly, for a mere second, Secondo mulled over the idea of speaking to the Sister, albeit having no real desire to. It was his role as a Papa however, to see to his flock’s concerns, no matter how unwilling he may feel about it. Sure he was known to be rough, serious, even, but there was one thing he was not: he, Papa Emeritus II, was not a bad Papa. No, he was not his Father.

However, displeasure still roiled inside the man at the thought of potentially having to listen to her beg him to fuck her again, something that would never happen ever agai-

The Sister turned and ran, the sound of her footsteps loud as she retreated to who-knows-where. Had it been tears he had seen in her eyes? Had the woman truly begun to cry at the mere sight of him? A scoff exited from between his lips at the Sister’s actions.

The retired Papa wondered if jealously coursed through her veins at the rumors of you being his Prime Mover.

Well… Of course she’d be jealous, it had been your name that he had accidentally gasped out while cumming all over her backside.

How could he not have said it, when it had only been you he had thought about during the whole thing, crying out his name as he made love to you, venerated you like a Deity fallen to Earth?

How could he have not have said your name, when it was the only name he wished to speak until his dying breath?

But most of all: how could he not have whispered it out, when your visage, illuminated by the sunsets light, was (and still is) the only thing that he saw when he closed his eyes?

It was only seconds later did a second hiss escape the man, unceremoniously pulled out of his mind, this time due to the acrid smell of burnt pasta flooding his nostrils.

If any living being within the Abbey had heard Papa Emeritus II cursing heavily in Italian about pasta or the sound of a pot being thrown across the kitchen, they knew to forget of the incident immediately.

_________________

Dreams were an ephemeral thing; in the blink of an eye, they would be gone. Mere images and scenarios conjured by the mind, yet at the same time, deep realms of misunderstood knowledge that only few knew how to navigate. Copia was not one of those people. Once sleep found him, nothing could save him from the dreams or nightmares that would haunt and taunt him with things he couldn’t have. Namely, those ‘things’ were you.

Now fully awake for no apparent reason, Copia sighed in frustration, staring at his ceiling, as if it would reveal to him secrets unimaginable to man on how to fall asleep again… or how to win the Sibling of Sin of your dreams, who seems to be followed constantly by two of your ‘bosses’.

Tonight he’d dreamt of something new, something he had never dreamt about- well, partly never dreamt about. You he had dreamt about a thousand if not a million of times, sure. The area in which his dream had taken place? Never had he dreamt of you in such a setting.

There you had sat, hand playing against his clothed thigh, the eerie atmosphere of the mausoleum in which the two of you sat felt.. stifling, as if you both sat in a crowded room. He could no longer remember if he had gazed upon your beautiful visage or if he had simply stared at your hand, inching dangerously close up his thigh. You hadn’t spoken and neither had he, yet the silence between the two of you felt loud, the sound of your thoughts practically deafening. It had only been once he thought of how hard his cock had become that the dream had begun to fade. Oh how he craved to know if you had ever felt even an inkling of what he felt for you for him.

How many times had he awoken during long nights to find his cock painfully hard, fingers already moving to relieve himself of said pressure? How many nights had he laid there in his bed, eyes shut as he imagined it to be you instead touching him, jerking him off into oblivion, hushed words of love spoken against his ear? The thought always made him flush, to imagine you between his legs. Oh how beautiful you would look, eyes watching him as you got him closer and closer towards the edge. He wondered how long it would take for the sound of your moans to fill his room, should it be him between your thighs.

He would always keen your name while half-mindedly wondering if the Ghouls could hear him through his chamber’s walls, whispering your name like a God whispered to its creations, love overflowing. Could they hear how desperate he became with each second that went by, hands working his cock faster and faster, imagining the way you would bounce in his lap, pushing him down into his sheets as you took your pleasure from his body? Would you allow him to flip the both of you over, pounding into your heated core as words of veneration and love spilt from his lips?

Copia forced his legs to swing over the side of his bed, heart pounding as he tried to think of anything other than the image of you under him, calling his name. No, such thoughts would remain in his bed; for now, he was on a mission.

A mission to see you.

—————————

The Ghoul known as Phil already knew of the man’s state before seeing him; he could practically smell the desperation and worry wafting off the Cardinal as he approached the corridor leading to Papa Emeritus I’s chambers, which he stood guard of.

It was almost ridiculous the number of times he had caught the man lingering near the corridor leading to Primo’s chambers, always visibly attempting to psych himself up before abandoning whatever endeavor he’d set himself on entirely, returning to his own chambers like a kicked little puppy. The pungent scents of shame and humiliation would cling to the man for hours after, irritating the Ghoul’s nose and senses.

He of course wasn’t a fool; he knew why the Cardinal roamed the halls leading to Primo’s doors. His nose had already told him as much, not to mention the lovesick expression he perpetually seemed to wear everyday; It was practically imprinted in the Ghoul’s mind.

Phil decided to cut the human some slack, for once, calling out to man down the hallway.

“Trouble sleeping again, Cardinal?”

The sound exiting from down the darkened hallway scared the Cardinal out of his skin; he had thought himself alone to be awake at this godforsaken hour. Of course the Special Ghoul would still be at his post, guarding Papa Emeritus I’s doors like a hawk, ready to lash out and kill if need be.

“Y-Yes, eh, trouble sleeping-“ Copia tried as he approached the demon from Hell itself, words immediately dying within his throat as the Ghoul spoke over him, his tone amused but serious.

“Am I correct in assuming that it is not by happenstance that you find yourself once more outside of Papa Emeritus I’s doors?” Ominous were the green eyes that gleamed within the dark, practically unblinking, waiting for an answer. The thought of lying to the Ghoul once more quickly came to the Cardinal’s mind, however… lying would not get him an audience with Primo, let alone.. an audience with you.

“No.. I…” Copia attempted to try and find the right words to express his burning need to see you, heart beating heavily against his chest. Would the Ghoul even tell him if your situation had gotten worse? Sure he had spoken to the Ghoul in the past and had friendly(-ish) rapports with him, but who was he himself to you, except for a strange stranger?

A silent moment went by, the Ghoul’s stare continuous and as deep as before, equally silent as he awaited for the man before him to speak. The Cardinal squared his shoulders, despite the dreadful feeling of raw desperation ravaging at his insides, and spoke.

“No, it is not. May I know if Sorel- if Papa Emeritus II’s Prime Mover has awoken?”

Phil paused at Copia’s words, tail slowly beginning to swish behind him in mild annoyance.

He found the man’s words strange; when had you no longer become deserving of your very name, instead simply called by your (rumored) newfound role? The Ghoul doubted it to be out of malice; he could smell the man’s fear, his hesitation, the raw nervousness that rolled off of his skin. It smelt sour, nearly strong enough for the Demon to lean away from the Cardinal, unwilling to be subjected to the scents of his emotional rollercoaster. But even if not spoken with malicious intent, the aloof Cardinal’s words still aggravated him.

“Sorella Y/N has left Papa Emeritus I’s chambers.”

Silence.

Copia blinked absentmindedly, wondering if he had heard the Ghoul correctly. You had left? You were no longer asleep? When had you-

“L-left- Where is- Sh-“ Try as he might to speak, Copia found his throat constricting closed, brain unable to process the information that not only had you awoken from whatever it was that had plagued you, but that you had awoken AND had already left the protected sanctuary that was Primo’s roo-

Eyes wide, Copia glanced at the imposing doors behind the Ghoul’s back, wanting to burst in and demand answers from the Papa who had been at your side this whole time… who was still supposed to be at your side, right?

“Where is Papa Emeritus I? Where is Primo?”

It was now Phil’s turn to blink, lips pursing behind his mask, unwilling to answer the man. He knew what the Cardinal would do if he told him that Papa Emeritus I had just left in search of you, and if he were right about the scent he had picked up emanating from your body the day you had fallen unconscious, perhaps allowing the Cardinal to do whatever he liked could lead to your demise.

“Both Papa Emeritus I and Sorella Y/N have gone out into Papa’s gardens on the South side of the Ministry, for some fresh air.” Phil easily lied, watching as the man’s mismatched eyes widened, the sound of his heart beginning to beat erratically against his chest, almost as if practically threatening to burst out. For a moment, a brief, sliver of a moment, Phil the Special Ghoul wondered if he had been right in lying to the Cardinal.

As he watched the human man begin to hastily walk away after speaking a quick ‘grazie’, he wondered if perhaps he had just wrongfully redirected the only things that could save you from the bloody flowers that grew within your lungs.

“Cardinal! One moment, if you please.”

“Sì?” Copia stopped and turned, politely waiting as the Ghoul attempted to find the right words without letting on WHY he was asking.

“Are you familiar with flowers in the Narcissus family? Such as daffodils and jonquils?” Phil found himself asking, mind entirely blank as the very words left from between his unglamored gray lips.

Had he just asked that-

Once more did the Ghoul’s tail begin to move from where it had laid on the floor, however, this time, in agitation of his own actions. He shouldn’t have asked that.

Suddenly, the Special Ghoul found himself wondering who would torture him first between Papa Emeritus I or Papa Emeritus II, for having possibly just hinted at your condition to another being, even after they had both explicitly made him vow to keep it a secret-

“Daffodils and jonquils?” Copia repeated, confused at the Ghoul’s bizarre words.

“I am familiar with them, yes, though I am unsure if I would be able to distinguish them both.” A slight confused smile graced Copia’s lips as he tried to ponder on the meaning of the demon’s words.

Sweat began to bead along the Ghoul’s forehead; here Copia had simply been, worried and seeking to speak with you, while he- Phil breathed in, eyes slightly widening at the thought. Oh, perfect.

“I see. I.. simply thought it wise to warn you that if you were to pluck such flowers out of Papa Emeritus I’s gardens for a quick… bouquet, I believe Sorella Y/N would be most unhappy as they are.. not her favored flowers.” He easily lied with the emotion necessary, bowing his head in feigned embarrassment. The sweat rolling down his temple felt cold, just like his blood would surely feel should either Papas find out of his slip-up.

Copia’s visage lit up like a sky filled with fireworks, eyes sparkling as he shot forward to touch the Ghoul’s shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Grazie mille, Special Ghoul! Truly, grazie!”

The Cardinal departed hurriedly, almost appearing like he wanted to run to your ‘whereabouts’ but was attempting to remain calm. As soon as his figure disappeared once more around the corner he had come from, the Special Ghoul known as Phil turned, silently cracking open the door to Papa Emeritus I’s chambers.

There it was again, the inexplicably heavy fragrance of Daffodils and Jonquils.

But also, the scent of…

Phil sniffed the air again, luminous green eyes unseeing as his mind attempted to place just where he had become familiar with such a sme-

Suddenly, the Special Ghoul understood as his mind placed where he had smelt such a scent, the hand that lay against the doorknob tightening momentarily before falling away. Oh, how cruel.

Phil knew that soon, nothing of you would remain but the memory of your name.

Yes, your name deserved to be remembered.

—————————

“Terzo.” You silently whispered into the space between the both of you, mind forgetting just how intimate of a position you would appear to be in, should anyone possibly pass by and see the two of you. The only response you received from the man was a brief hum, enough of a sound to let you know he had heard you and was listening, forehead still pressed to your own as the both of you swayed to a song none of you could hear.

“Why is it that you kissed me?”

Even with his eyes closed, the raven-haired Papa knew that your smile radiated warmth and kindness as you awaited his answer, with a patience he felt he did not deserve. It almost felt like an omen, that someone like you would be dealt such a curse, that the very love you felt for someome within the Abbey corroded your body from the inside out, a vicious poison that sought to destroy you, it’s kind and beautiful vessel. Oh, how he wished for his kiss to have worked.

As your words sunk into Terzo’s very marrow, he found himself unable to fully look at you yet. Unwilling, perhaps, was the better word for how he felt; if he were to gaze at you now, would this very moment be the last he ever remembered of you? Of your solemnly beautiful eyes staring back at him, so full of life and emotions and warmth, yet fading as snow faded under the sun’s heat? Or would his mind instead remember the way you clutched at him as you both danced, your body visibly beginning to tire itself out? He tightened his hold around your waist, bringing you closer as his other hand remained in your grasp, supporting more of your weight without causing you to shy away from his hold.

He briefly contemplated lying to you. Well, half-of-a-second briefly, but a half of a second nonetheless. You didn’t deserve that, however, no matter how long he contemplated it. You deserved better. You deserved truth.

“I hoped that… that my kiss would work, that it would heal... Eh, sense my…” He tried, forehead withdrawing from your own as the warm hand clasped against yours moved from your hold, gesturing wildly into the air in an attempt to find his words. A smile once more graced your lips, watching as the Papa abandoned his search, sighing.

“Sense your what, Terzo?” You asked, allowing his hand to return to its previous place against your own. Grateful were you of his perceptiveness, leaning into his hold as your body began to ache, tiredness overcoming you. Of course it did; you’d just slept 3 days and had not yet eaten, water being the only thing that had entered your body.

“Fear.” He suddenly whispered, eyebrows furrowing as if surprised by his own words. He cleared his throat, continuing to sway you left and right.

“My fears, and my hope… to heal you. This sickness, it is smart, no?”

You almost didn’t even register the Papa’s attempt at humor as your mind focused instead on WHAT he’d said.

Terzo, Papa Emeritus III, current leader of the Satanic church you had devoted yourself to, had wanted to save you. He had kissed you in hopes that the sickness that inhabited your very body would sense his desperation and fears, and disappear.

Tears began forming once more as you regarded the man practically pressed up against you, holding more and more of your weight as time went on; he wanted to help you continue to dance along with him, help you remain standing, help you to relax.

“Terzo-“ You choked out, watching silently as realization colored his handsome features before immediately being replaced by panic.

“Basta piangere, va bene Bella? No more crying, sì?” Terzo hurriedly spoke, squeezing both your hand and your waist, as if to accentuate the words he’d spoken. He found he could not stand to see you tear up, to see the pain within your eyes where joy should instead be. Moonlight that slithered in from the tall glass panes above bathed you in a beautiful light, your tears dazzling like fallen stars, almost as if you were about to be called to your- Terzo stopped his thought, unwilling to finish it.

“Come, la mia stella, allow me to heat you up, you’re freezing!”

“It’s almost as if Im lacking a heart beat.” You expressed with a chuckle, intending your comment to be taken with sarcasm, but so too did your comment fall flat, just as Terzo’s had before. Faintly, in the back of your mind, you registered the fact that you did not recognize the nickname he had just uttered.

“That is far from the truth.” Silence once more clung to the both of you as you now stood immobile together, hands still linked together in the air. Terzo regarded you with a sad smile before seeming to flip on himself, grinning like a man about to make the crudest joke ever known to mankind. You knew that smile; it had been the very one he had had whilst asking you so confidently if you were Papa Secondo’s Prime Mover. Now, however, even as he perfectly replicated the smile he had worn four days ago, it was his eyes that betrayed him, betrayed the visage he attempted the keep in place for either your sake, or his own.

“You say you are lacking of a heart beat, but all I see is a hot-“

Papa Emeritus III’s mouth shut instantly as he truly took in the sight of you; before, when seated beside you on the pew, he had not realized what exactly you had been wearing, too immersed in apologizing to you and the revelation of your sickness to notice. But now, as he looked you up and down, the joke about your hot body he had intended on regalling you with dying on his tongue, Terzo blurted out the only thing that flashed within his mind like a giant neon sign.

“Are those Primo’s favorite sleep pants?”

Heat irrupted across your entire body at the Papa’s words whilst you also looked down at yourself, remembering that you were infact wearing Primo’s sleep pants, given to you by the man himself to wear since it was chilly within the Abbey’s walls at night. That they were his favorite, however, was new information.

The normally flamboyant man before you recovered far more quickly then you did, grinning widely as the arm around your waist pulled you in once more, your pelvis practically molded onto his own. The Papa seemed not to notice as he continued on what he had intended on saying.

“Mio fratello’s pants look far more appealing on you, stellina! Perhaps is it because of the lack of cock-“

He’d barely finished his phrase before you groaned out, face scrunching up in embarrassment as you attempted to lean forward, wanting to hide your burning face onto his chest.

Satan, you’d been so distracted by the thought of wearing Primo’s bathrobe that you hadn’t fully realized these WERE a pair of his sleep pants.

“Were you the one that chose those pants, stellina, or did Primo give those to you?” Terzo asked, a smile ever present upon his lips as he continued to sway your body left and right. You failed to notice, however, the sadness that had begun to overtake his visage once more. Dissimilar eyes remained glued to your expression as he remembered a long forgotten promise, words Primo had told him ages ago, when both Secondo and he were but children, seeking out their father figure’s attention before bed.

“Primo, why do you not have a Prime Mover?”

The slap Secondo had hit him on the arm with burned, a hiss exiting his angered brother as a young Terzo regarded him with pain, tears beginning to form within his mismatched eyes.

“Idiot! Do not ask such things!”

Primo, sage and patient far beyond his age, frowned lightly, moving to kneel between his little brothers beds. He reached out, taking hold of Terzo’s little arm, thumb rubbing softly against the red skin that began to form there, attempting to sooth his pain.

“Ah, fratellino, do not be so mean to your brother. He does not understand yet what it means.”

The young Secondo looked down, the air of a scolded child emanating from his little form. Terzo, although only a few months younger than Secondo, turned to his brother, hand outstretched for his brother to hold.

“See, Secondo? Your brother loves you, and only wishes to understand. Now, what do we do when we’ve hurt someone we love?” No matter how much Secondo pretended to be a bitter little child, Primo knew him, knew them both. Too many times had he seen the middle Emeritus son defend their little brother when Nihil lost his temper, unable to watch as their father yelled at Terzo like he wasn’t his own son.

“Sorry…” Secondo whispered, a trait he had taken up when he did not trust his voice, hand moving to hold Terzo’s little hand back.

“There we go. As it should be. Now it is time for bed-“

“But Primo! I still don’t understand why!” Terzo piped up again, eyes wide with confusion as his raven colored eyebrows furrowed, unable to grasp why his eldest brother did not have a wife or a husband or a partner. Secondo grunted out in annoyance, instantly letting go of his brother’s hand. Primo chuckled at the boy’s pettiness, knowing he would grow to become a serious man with little to no patience for the whirlwind Terzo would become.

“Sometimes, having a Prime Mover does not mean you are in love with them, Terzo.” Primo softly spoke, watching as both boys regarded him in confusion. “I have not accepted to have a Prime Mover because I have not fallen in love yet, frattelino. I have not found them, my intended that I hope will become my Prime Mover.”

“When you do find them, how will we know?” Terzo countered, one eyebrow raised as he attempted to understand something.

“An announcement will be made to alllll the people of the Mini-“

“Yes we know that, Primo! That’s not what I meant!” The youngest of the three let out, groaning and whining with a frown as his little feet kicked under his blanket. A petulant child, that’s what he had been at the time, but child nonetheless. A child that wished to understand why his brother spent his nights and days alone while Siblings and Ghouls alike spent their nights together having sleepovers.

“Then think on what you meant to say, Terzo, and try again.” The patience and love in Primo’s tone caused the youngest of the three to nod, taking the task at heart.

Silence surrounded the three brothers before Terzo piped up once more, finally decisive on how to phrase what he truly had meant to ask.

“How will Secondo and I know who you have chosen? Who you have fallen in love with?”

The middle Emeritus son remained quiet as Terzo spoke once more, but his eyes revealed to the Eldest just how in agreement he was with his brother’s words. A rare sight.

“Hm, a smart question indeed…” Primo pondered on the child’s words, mind racing to give them both a satisfactory enough answer for them to finally lay down and sleep for the night.

“How about this: When I will have fallen in love with someone, I will gift them these pants that you both have given to me, and I will ask my love to wear them for all to see. Only you two will know of its significance. How’s that?” Primo tried, hand gesturing to the silken sleep pants he currently wore. There, an easy answer. Now they would surely go to slee-

“That’s stupid. What if you give them to someone to sleep with by accident, or they get stolen?” Secondo grumbled from his little bed, arms crossed over his blanket, dark eyebrows furrowed in doubt. Terzo nodded furiously, lips about to part to surely protest which would further lead to their bedtime being pushed.

“Ah! Would I be so careless as to give my favorite sleep pants to someone I did not love, or allow them to be stolen from under my big nose?”

Unbeknownst to Primo, years into the future, Terzo would remember the words he had whispered to them, a secret shared only between the three of them.

“Oh! Papa Primo gave them to me to wear, seeing how chilly it is here during the night.” You answered, your very words further proven right by the shiver that racked your body.

Hanahaki Disease was a disease caused by unrequited love, was it not? Terzo racked his mind as he attempted to understand how you had come to be in possession of the very pants Primo had told him he would give the person he loved, yet you were still sick. If you loved his brother just as much as he imagined Primo loved you, Terzo doubted that Primo would allow you to suffer like this. That would mean that the person you were in love with was not his brother.

“My fratello is quite knowledgeable, is he not? Perhaps he knows-“ For what felt like the umpteenth, Papa Emeritus III stopped speaking, eyes unseeing as his mind blazed to life, synapses firing as he attempted to understand his own thoughts. Knows. Knows. Did Primo know who you loved, who your heart hammered so furiously for? Was it possible that you had developed Hanahaki Disease because of your perception of someone’s feelings, and not factually about how they felt? Did you perhaps love Primo just as much as he loved you, but were unaware of the man’s feelings, perhaps believing him not capable of falling in love with you?

“Stella mia, your disease, it is a disease of unrequited love, sì? It has to be unrequited for you to be sick?” The third Emeritus son asked hurriedly, voice ringing loudly against the chapel’s walls whilst he tried to get his words out as quickly as possible.

“Shhh! Yes-“ You had barely begun to whisper before the Papa pressed against you stepped back, dragging you along with him, seeming resolute in leaving the chapel to instead go-

“We are going to go confess to the person you love right now!” He exclaimed, a desperately shaky grin forming on his lips. Your eyebrows creased at his words before a frown overtook your visage, heart breaking at the tentative hopefulness coloring his features.

“Papa- Terzo, he doesn’t-“ You tried again, words falling short as he spoke over you.

“Oh, it is a he! He would be a fool to turn you down, bella!” Terzo proclaimed with even more enthusiasm, pulling you along with him as he began walking-

“Terzo-“

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[fr-likes-chocolate]

Happy pride month to Doc and Ren specifically

I can't wait to see if they actually do a minecraft wedding like Guapoduo lol

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Just dont imagine Martyn in the next room, pale as a ghost, dont think about how he's been throwing up flower petals and his own blood. Don't think about how he would rather die than confess to Ren, Ren is going to be married to a wonderful man and Martyn knows it. He's happy for Ren and doesn't want to ruin something for his ‘friend’.

Dont think about how Ren went to ask Martyn to be his best man, because Martyn one of the people Ren is closest to and he couldn't imagine a world where Martyn wasn't there at the wedding.

Dont think about how Ren found Martyn passed out with blood in his mouth and flowers surrounding him. Ren rushed him to the hospital and waited with his fiancee in the waiting room, praying that Martyn would be ok.

You dont have to imagine how Ren’s heart sank as the doctor told him that Martyn was beyond saving, that the flowers in his lungs had grown too much for the doctors to consider surgery.

It isn't hard to think of Ren sitting at his friend’s grave, wondering why this had to happen before his wedding, then looking back on their relationship and realizing that Martyn had always loved him…

Happy pride month!