#its still up in the air but perhaps.... maybe... we shall see........

[pinkberrytea]

He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable.

Little death—a gift he bestowed upon her, and which she bestows upon him in turn. As her lifeblood touches his lips, Astarion reminisces about the fateful eve when he first sank his fangs into her pretty neck.

Come, gentle night; and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.

Astarion x Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 3.1k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: I can't be the only one who is convinced my man is down bad since the very first bite, right? he is so interesting to me! I wanted to explore this idea further, hopefully I did it justice. thank you for reading!

tags: blood drinking; fluff & smut; possessive behavior; masturbation; body worship; mildly dubious consent; dry humping; somnophilia

“Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Footsteps. You hear them approaching, although in your half-unconscious torpor, you can’t tell if they’re near or far. You’re likewise unsure of what has disturbed your sleep, even if as of late, nights have been restless and plagued by nightmares, the worm etched in the recesses of your brain a constant, unforgiving reminder of your plight. Your mind is still hazy, fragments of your dreams clouding your thoughts, so you rely on your primal instincts instead—you smell nothing but the crisp evening air, feel nothing but the cool breeze caressing your warm body, see nothing but endless darkness from behind your closed eyelids, but your ears don’t fail you. You instinctively hold your breath, muscles tensed, staying as still as possible as if playing dead; the footsteps are now almost upon you, the crunching of leaves growing louder and muffling the noise of the crickets singing, and your skin becomes covered in goosebumps in anticipation, the pit of your stomach twisting and turning. Whoever it is, you seem to be their intended target.

Suppressing the mounting panic rising within your chest, you try to gather your bearings and make sense of the situation. You know where you are—Elturgard, or more specifically, a camp in the wilderness, somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. Finding a cure for the parasite wriggling in your head is the reason you’re here, and the companions with whom you’re sharing your camp are afflicted by the same condition. Ah, your companions—the footsteps must belong to one of them, surely. The soothing heat of the campfire has significantly dwindled compared to how it was when you turned in, its crackling so low you can barely hear it, and the night is sufficiently chilly that your bedroll fails to offer enough shelter, so you wonder if they are about to tend to the dying flames, or maybe ask you to help them do so. You wait expectantly, pricking up your ears, but suddenly, the crunching sounds come to a halt, and you sense a presence looming over you. A shiver runs down your spine, and your heart starts beating faster, thumping so loudly you’re afraid it may give away your awakened state. The presence silently kneels down beside you, crawling even closer, too close for comfort; and then, you feel it—cold digits ghosting over your cheek, their featherlight touch almost tentatively soft.

Astarion.

Now you remember. You offered to let him feed on you earlier, a habit which you’ve unexpectedly picked up in recent days, although the reason for such eludes you. Perhaps it was his pained expression when he asked you the first time, or maybe something else—you’re not entirely certain, but the fact of the matter is, he is here, except unlike other nights, you are fully aware of your surroundings. Not only that, it has been no more than a fortnight since your little tryst in that pretty clearing, which it seems both of you are intent on pretending never happened. You more so than him—it would be insincere of you to claim you haven’t noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes, how he leans closer when you talk, the cunning smirks and wistful glances. Truth be told, you’re still unsure what to make of it all; none of it is how you expected it would be, not your time together, and certainly not the aftermath. Him, too—though it may be bold of you to assume so, you can’t help but think that his show of vulnerability, however brief, had not been intentional. Ever so often you idly muse over the raw perplexity etched across his face when you invited him to drink from you then, how he looked at you in utter disbelief, letting the mask of a debonair lover slip for a split second; how his kisses became more fervent, his touches less calculated, the confusion never truly seeming to leave him until you were done. And then, the morning after—the hurt in his voice, the complex feelings he appeared to be trying to suppress seeping from every word, as if he had been prepared for anything and everything but genuine yearning, and you ruined it all for him.

“This isn’t about hunger. It’s about pleasure.”

The digits on your cheek slide downwards, gliding across the curve of your jaw and towards your slender neck, where they stop for a brief moment, only to then press down on it, feeling around as if searching for something—an artery, pulsing so very tantalizingly with your precious crimson, a feast set out entirely for him. With his other hand, he gently runs his fingers through your hair and brushes it behind your shoulder, exposing his prize, and repositioning himself to straddle you, he lowers his head until his mouth is hovering right above it. He stays like this for a while, and your blood runs cold as it dawns on you that he may have noticed you are not asleep, but before long, his skin finally comes into contact with yours—however, rather than the sharp pain you’d been expecting, you feel only the pillowy softness of his lips; a tender kiss, which is then followed by another, and then another. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, cradling your head, and he splays the other on the ground beside you to support himself. His fangs lightly graze the throbbing vein with each peck, almost teasingly, until finally, he sinks them into the sensitive flesh, carefully and steadily so as not to wake you. The uncomfortable sensation is not foreign to you, although it is clear he has become more accustomed to this, even if you have not; his technique has significantly improved, and after the initial stab, it hardly hurts anymore, other than a dull ache every time he swallows, which he does quite enthusiastically.

“Just you and me and—well, maybe a little death?”

Letting out low grunts and guttural moans as he drinks, Astarion sucks ever so vigorously, seemingly more at ease due to your apparent lack of consciousness. Your face gradually grows warmer as you notice tension building up low in your stomach, the noises he makes and the feeling of his plush lips and wet tongue against your skin causing your body to react with pathetic wantonness. You try to stifle the impending arousal, doing your best to remind yourself that he is only feeding, nothing more, nothing less; until you notice the hand on which he had been leaning make its way from its place on the ground to rest on your waist, gingerly moving upwards until his long fingers brush against the plump of one of your breasts, almost as if by accident—it is, however, no accident when two of them then pinch a pebbling nipple through the thin fabric of your nightshirt, delicately massaging the pert nub while the others knead the squishy surrounding flesh. The ache between your legs swells with desire, and you flusteredly bite back the whimper threatening to escape the confines of your closed mouth; believing you to be deep in slumber, he has no reason for such restraint, and his vocalizations increase in frequency and volume alike. 

Having to now use his upper body strength to keep himself propped up, he decides to instead gently fall on top of you, momentarily unlatching from your neck to then slightly push you to the side and press his strong chest flush against your back, one hand woven in your hair and the other cupping your breast still. With almost desperate keenness, he hooks one of his legs over yours, shoving his crotch against your rear, and immediately you notice the rock hard bulge nudging the space between your buttocks. The tips of your ears burn bright red at this realization, making you wonder how common of an occurrence this must be; as your mind wanders to the night when he first bit you, he sinks his fangs back into the bruised vein, and your eyes water a little due to the sudden pain, which you quickly forget about once you feel his hips start almost imperceptibly grinding against your own. Wedging the bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, he moves it to and fro, almost in rhythm with his sucking of your blood, the digits on your bosom earnestly playing with your nipple and those in your hair tenderly caressing the tousled tresses. 

“Hm—hnng…” Astarion groans lewdly, lasciviously, making suggestive wet sounds while sensually lapping at your crimson. No longer satisfied to feel you up through your clothes, he sticks his hand under your shirt, and his cold fingers quickly resume fondling the soft skin of your breast, in response to which shock waves shoot up your legs and arms. Freeing the digits tangled in your hair, he brings them to your ribs, sliding their pads along your navel and down towards your groin, where he then firmly grabs one of your supple thighs. That’s when it occurs to you how unlike your night together he seems to be acting—eagerly exploring your body with almost adolescent clumsiness, his movements sloppy and impulsive, he appears to be entirely focused on taking rather than giving; having no reason to try to impress you, he acts greedily instead, intent on achieving his own personal ecstasy above all else, a fact that doesn’t bother so much as instill in you a puzzling sense of relief.

Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he tightens the grip of his leg around yours, and for a short while you all but forget that your crimson is running down his throat still, unable to focus on anything but the heat irradiating from his skin as it becomes ever warmer the more he feeds. When you notice you can no longer feel the tips of your toes, it is far too late—a tingling sensation spreads across your heavy limbs due to the loss of blood, and holding onto a single thought proves far too difficult, your mind now a messy whirlwind of memories and abstractions. Your arousal persists even as your conscience starts to wane; slick soaks through your underpants, the sweet scent of which causes Astarion to immediately stop moving, freezing as if caught with his fingers inside the cookie jar. After what seems like an eternity, both his hands and fangs leave your helpless form, and he shuffles behind you, presumably looking for something—before you can even begin to wonder what, you feel him press a soft piece of fabric against the fresh set of bite marks on your neck, which he uses to gently wipe the thick red blooming from the small wounds. 

Worried that any further stimulation might disturb your sleep, he decides to attempt a less bold approach instead, pulling away slightly, although your legs remain twisted together. Barely awake now, the echoes of the forest reach your ears in hushed, distant hums, but you can still hear him as he brings the bloodstained cloth to his nose, taking in your scent deeply, eyes closed and a libidinous moan falling from his pretty lips. One of his now freed hands hastily makes its way to the waistband of his pants, only to then slip under it, and as soon as his elegant digits brush against the velvety crown of his cock, he wraps them around its engorged girth, squeezing lightly and drawing pearly droplets of precome from the weeping slit. 

“Mngh…” he croaks, his voice raspy and hoarse, and you can’t tell for sure, but a whisper that vaguely sounds like your own name wafts through the air and vanishes into the evening sky as he starts sliding his hand up and down his length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the leaking tip all over himself. Prior to your night of passion, this is how he would choose to relieve the painful erection inevitably provoked by his daily feedings, only he would retreat to his tent then; once you became more intimate, things changed, and raw eroticism would percolate into every session, images of your moments together sweeping through his mind and springing his aching sex to life with each gulpful of your lifeblood. The instant you offered him your neck, all he had ever known suddenly came into question—drinking from you while balls-deep into your tight cunt was an experience unlike any other, to the point of almost completely resignifying the concept of pleasure for him. By owning your body, he had made you his, even if only temporarily; your blind trust was something he had never before experienced, and not once had he felt so powerful as with you squirming under him, completely submitting to his whims. 

“Astarion, please…” he recalls you whimpering, the sound of his name on your pink tongue so enticingly sultry, stirring up in him all sorts of conflicting feelings; lust, infatuation, guilt, anger, all blended together and indistinguishable from one another. How beautiful a vision you had made then—such a pretty, luscious thing, flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes glinting with coquettish longing. The more he finds himself caring, the more he hates you for it; the more his hatred for you grows, the more he wants you by his side. Choosing to manipulate you into a tactical alliance was the culmination of careful and meticulous deliberation—at once deadly and most pleasing to the eye, yet seemingly unaware of either fact; a naive, kind fool, lost and alone, his perfect target from every angle, you were the obvious candidate. He had no way of knowing at the time—how you would unwittingly beat him at his own game and steal your way into his undead heart, without even really trying. 

While pumping his now glistening cock, your precious face is all Astarion can think of, every detail of it perpetually burned onto his retinas—long, thick lashes, curtaining doe-like eyes; sweet little freckles speckling the bridge of your nose; smooth waxen skin and plump rosy lips, so soft and kissable. And your scent, oh, your scent—delicious and intoxicating, such a lovely, delectable bouquet. Although now warm, his hand could never compare to the feeling of your slickened walls clenching and fluttering around him, and no amount of pressure would ever be able to replicate the sensation of stretching them open, coaxing yelps and cute whiny pants out of you with each nudge of your cervix. He wonders for a moment what other expressions he has yet to witness you make; in what other manners he has yet to take you, in what other positions he has yet to watch you come undone. Maybe on all fours, that round ass of yours sticking out so very invitingly, begging to be devoured; maybe on your knees, darkened lips wrapped tightly around his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down onto the swollen peaks of your perky breasts as you accommodate all of him like the good girl you are. Each idea is more enticing than the one before, and the very thought of acquainting himself with all the ins and outs of your body makes him feel alive, bulging veins and tumid cockhead pulsating madly against his sweaty palm as he goes over the endless possibilities. He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable. 

“Mine…” he growls possessively, picturing your tits bouncing and the rouged knot atop your dripping core throbbing for him as he feels his climax draw nearer, rubbing the cloth sullied with your crimson against his nose, your taste still fresh in his mouth and a trail of red running down his chin. You are not his, not yet, but although he curses himself for it, he would bring his simple plan to fruition, for all the wrong reasons; he wants you, he needs you—his own little bundle of joy, his light in the darkness, his glimmer of solace, his, his, his, and his alone. He won’t share your kindness, not with your companions, not with anyone, and he cares not if his greediness makes him unworthy, for he never deserved any of it in the first place; regardless, you’d still extend a hand to the wretch who put a knife to your throat, toyed with your emotions and sucked you dry, in more ways than one. You may not realize it, but in sharing your life essence with him, you breathed color into his world, roused within his soul a vital spark he’d long forgotten had once ever been there. He may not be entitled to it, but he’d still have it all—he’d still have you, to the bone and beyond.

“Oh, gods…” With one last stroke, Astarion empties himself on his hand and stomach, legs convulsing and hips stuttering, letting go of the cloth to then nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, lips pressed against the bloodied gashes maculating your otherwise flawless skin. The inside of his pants is now covered in come, yet even as the thick fluid runs uncomfortably down his thighs, he feels strangely at peace—happy, even. His softening cock twitches and jerks still, but fearing that his luck may soon run out, he lets go of it and wipes his fingers on the hem of his shirt, which he learns is also stained with his seed; once they’re sufficiently clean, he wraps both of his arms around your waist in a tight embrace, focusing on the gentle raising of your chest as you inhale ever so softly, finally at rest. 

“This is a gift, you know.”

He won’t forget it. Regardless of what may lie ahead, he won’t. Warm flesh, beating heart; as your crimson courses through his veins, the thread of life now connects you both, your fates forever intertwined. When morning comes, all will be back to normal, but for now, he shall hold you, cradle you, as he would a lover. A true lover—though what would that be, if not prey that wakes by his side once the dawn breaks? Disturbing as that thought may be, it is of little import for now; basking in the clarity of death, he allows himself a moment of reprieve, for your time together is far from over. What treasures will the future bestow? Why—finding out is but a matter of waiting.

[ourserendipity]

samsara of shattered dreams: past

(aventurine x gn!reader x dr. ratio) just some heads up, this happened before the whole penacony arc in the story. No Beta read 😎😎 (That's all I think lol. Anyways I'll be leaving for a while cuz I'll be busy and shiz 🥲🥲. hope y'all enjoyy✿) Part 1/3

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Memories. Like glass, they glisten the beauty reflected by the light giving its vivid colors, and yet they are oh so frail; like the fleeting flow of life, sudden yet steady at the same time.

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Looking back, you wouldn't have thought that you would see yourself in this situation; not that you already foresaw your fate in the first place. Still, there's the feeling of regret lingering at the back of your mind; one that is not directed towards you but rather to the things that you've done. If only, if only you had the power to change the course of fate maybe this wouldn't have been necessary, if only one could stop the other's heart breaking perhaps goodbyes weren't needed to be said. But alas, destiny has its own ways and so now you are trapped, here in a samsara of endless possibilities, all from the past up to the future; all that is only but a dream yet to spur along with the branches of life.

You dance, you circle around the twinkling stars swimming along azure waters that reflect the night sky, following the roots of time ever so slowly growing, a future waiting to be born, its memories captured in the garden of recollection. Spin after spin, countless lightcones spawn in the vicinity of your eyes; an attempt to draw you unto them, delving into the memories of both the future and past once more. They all glimmer in your eyes, symbolizing its high importance to those who gaze at it, but truth be told, you didn't want to look at them anymore, not when you know you'll only hurt yourself in the process. Even then, you caress them over your palms ever so gently, cherishing the moments silently; actions do speak louder than words after all.

And now you wonder, will everything be alright? Now that the stars have finally collided, and so shall your encounter with death had arrived.

"Y/n... Y/N..."

"Aventurine-"

"They're... they're gone. They really are not here anymore, huh?" He whispers, tightly holding your cold, desolate body.

Despair was imminent in the thick air that engulfs the room as he desperately tries to hold back himself from tearing on the spot. He'd hate for the two of you to see him cry and be vulnerable; after all, didn't he tell you that he doesn't bet on the losing end?

And yet here he is: lo and behold, the winner of it all, stripping him of his own tears, his own freedom to be frail and weak, all just to keep himself at bay, and yet failing so miserably.

"......."

Only silence was heard across the room, rather, it was the only answer the genius could give him. Though not fitting his character, he believes that even he could not give the response the man wanted; needed even.

"There's no time left to mourn what's already gone, we should make haste." It was the only thing he could reply. He knew he had to give him an answer somehow, else the man's insanity would escalate even further.

".....leave.."

"what?"

"leave me alone, I... I'll follow you after a while, just please let me be," he pleads achingly, as if he is almost breaking into the point of oblivion.

Utter brokenness was the only thing he heard upon Aventurine's response. And that alone already tells him that

You wished it wouldn't have been sooner, that you could stay just a little bit longer. And so you fought, no, you ran, you ran along with them in the dark in hopes of outrunning time but to no avail. In the end, you still had to go, regret trailing alongside your eyes brimming with tears.

"Hey no fair! that's my share Aventurine!"

"Not when you say please~"

"Such prudence... Will you two stop the act already?"

"Ooh so scary, Mr. Alabaster head~" you tease, obviously trying to mock him and his antics.

"Indeed. I wonder, where is that handsome bust of yours? You don't seem to wear it as much anymore~" Aventurine coos, whilst holding the bag of candies on his right hand, with you struggling on the other hand, trying to reach the said bag from him.

He scoffs upon hearing the blonde's remarks, though what he was saying is true. If he were to be honest, he doesn't see the two of you as an idiot, but he wouldn't openly admit it to both of you, not with his pride and ego of course. Sighing, he knocks the blonde's head lightly, making the guy dramatically wince in pain.

"ow, that hurts y'know?" he cries all the while you were there, stifling a laughter trying not to laugh at his obvious acting.

It was just a simple day for the three of you in the IPC and yet at that moment, everything felt light; it felt as if the three of you were simply living in your own world, rightfully so. It felt so comforting, like a dream you wish that will never end. But then...

All those years of endless banter, the fondness of even the simplest of times; both good and bad, and them, the two of which you truly had loved with all of your heart, the stars you thought you would never reach; but you did, ever so effortlessly. To think that fate had allowed for the three of you to meet is a miracle from the aeons themselves. And despite their clashing personalities, the pointless arguments they dare not speak of, the past one does not wish to return to, you made it work somehow, like fixing the broken pieces of a broken glass only to be shattered again, all because of that stupid, cruel thing called fate. But somehow, you found yourself here in the samsara, reborn from the memories that you hold, now with a new purpose; to collect and to preserve new memories once more, in hopes of retaining what's for the future to hold on to when the time comes. And now that you have regained life in a different form, perhaps you could go back to the real world, to raise a bud anew, in that beautifully miserable place. And perhaps you could meet them again, not letting go of any opportunity given to you, to build a new bridge, to finally reconnect the three of you once more, all for a better future.

"May the cosmos guide you to the path of the unknown, my beloved stars. "

to be continued......

xx/xx/xxxx

xx:xx

From: ■■■■■■■

To: ■■■■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■■■■

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To Aventurine

"To my dearest gambler, blessed upon the gaze of Gaiathra. I simply bestow to you my full adoration and longing. The unknown may hold us captive in our own, but we shall be the winners who'll decide the results; and it seems like it in your side, to which I could only pray for its continuous flow. I am truly humbled by your guts and wits, my dear. But despite it all, I could feel the lingering despair each time you gamble your life away. So to you I offer this humble gift; a gift of life and new comings. Never forget, you are Kakavasha, born from the bright yellow star, blessed by abundant luck and fortune. May you walk upon this newly lit path of destiny, along with him and what's left of us. "

To Ratio

"To my favorite scholar, truly a genius amongst geniuses. I could only stare in awe upon all of the achievements you have gotten. I may not be as potent as your vast amounts of knowledge nor do I reach the same standards as you do, but please be reminded that there are things that even the smartest revolutionists simply could not have a grasp of. And even if it seems that one's passing is but a swift gust of wind in your eyes, I could tell: the moment my drifting eyes meet yours, those eyes of yours are telling otherwise. So please, be a little bit nicer to them next time. You may never know; that in the future, he will be in your saving grace, hoping that you'll spare him the sympathy that he truly needs. "

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[crow-aeris]

A little drabble or whatever that i just thought up :3

-----

To most people, Death would be the end- but to others, it might as well be the beginning.

You wish... to trade yourself?

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, a strange and unusual blend of distorted and twisted voices tying and twisting around themselves- almost as if willing themselves into actuality, or perhaps even back into the realm of those who continue to breath. If he focuses, he could even see the warped and distorted faces and forms that formed the feathers of the god-goddess-deity.

He inhales, the sound ringing all too loud- too soft- too little- too much- in the realm that was both nothing, yet everything at once.

"I- yes," he replies after a moment- no, an eternity?- of silence, though he supposed death meant nothing when one was planted in a realm such as this, "I... I want to trade myself for... him. Let Jason live in my place, and my- my sole is yours."

The deity's eyes narrow and she slow- s l o w l y creeps forward, the sound of bones crackling and popping filled each agonizing second, and it was all he could do to not turn tail and bolt- though to where, he was unsure.

You are clever. Your words were crafted carefully, child, and would mislead those who know not your intent... Though it would be quite a difficult feat to mislead a creature such as I.

He steels himself, pushing past the nausea rising in his throat and the pressure growing in his temples, "D- Do we have a deal?"

He pretends his voice doesn't shake. He pretends his hands don't tremble. He pretends that everything is f i n e.

...No, a deal built on your terms shall not be struck.

"W-what?!" he exclaims, tensing as he feels sharp claws formed of static slowly curl around his torso- the pressure barely on the edge of being too much.

Instead, I would like to strike a deal with you.

He remains quiet, eyes wide as breathing slowly becomes more and more difficult.

In exchange for the revival of the Bearer of Tragedies, you, Kin of Dragons, will become my Scion.

He falls quiet, the atmosphere considerate as an eternity- a second- passes.

"I..." he croaks, feeling lightheaded as his lungs refused to expand- leaving him to choke-

"I- I accept this d-deal-"

Very well, Kin of Dragons, your soul belongs to me.

He screams.

His very existence was ripped apart, shredded and unwoven- gathering and dispersing- into something that both was, yet wasn't-

Tim wakes up. His chest aching and his heat pounding. His back also felt like somebody attacked him with a slab of concrete. His skin was slick with sweat, and his heart raced with adrenaline.

Was that all... a dream? Did it not work? He was still in bed, so... maybe it didn't work after all...

He buries his face in his hand with a laugh that bordered on a full-on sob.

If the stupid ritual didn't work, then that means Jason was still dead... Oh god, what was he supposed to do now?

Miles away, deep beneath the ground and trapped within a casket built of poplar, the Bearer of Tragedies reawakens and bursts into the air.

Miles away, Death upholds her-his-its end of the bargain as a woman with emerald eyes sweeps in and plucks a newly-awoken Robin from the remnants his earthen tomb.

Miles away, the first Robin twitches as he feels something... change. Something within the world shifts ever so slight to the left, and he couldn't help but think that the world- the universe, perhaps- was worse off because of it.

[hyenahunt]

Obbligato: Epilogue - 4 (END)

Writer: Akira

Season: Winter

Characters: Hiyori, Jun, Tatsumi, Nagisa, HiMERU

Proofreading: Remi + 310mc (JP) & Skyress (ENG)

Translation: Peace & hyenahunt

Tatsumi: Amen.

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Hiyori: Haha. Yes, do continue to lavish your praise upon our Jun-kun!

...Honestly, when I was first shown around Reimei Academy, I found myself feeling as though we'd gotten the short end of the stick.

At that time, we had nowhere else that we could go, so we'd no choice but to resign ourselves to it. That before we could escape from Hell, we'd continue to be trapped in its depths for a while longer still.

Hiyori: But you see, as I walked along preoccupied with such melancholy thoughts, I happened to look out the window, and there I saw Jun-kun, dutifully practicing in silence all on his own.

The atmosphere of Reimei Academy at the time was truly dreadful — everyone seemed either dead inside, or they glared at each other with pure resentment.

Jun-kun was the only one with none of that air about him — instead he aspired only to improve himself.

Hiyori: And what a beautiful sight he was... Of course, telling him that to his face would be too embarrassing — it'd go to his head and he'd never let me hear the end of it.

It was while watching this boy that I found it in myself to believe my decision hadn't been made in vain. That if there was even one person like him here, then perhaps it wasn't all so bad.

And so that's why I made the decision to enroll at Reimei Academy, with Jun-kun as my goal. Honestly, I was there initially to scope out Shuuetsu Academy, a school made up of nothing but Special Student elites.

But I found myself believing that I should start all over again at rock bottom and covered with mud, just like Jun-kun.

After all, when you're up somewhere so lofty and high, you'll fail to see what's truly important.

Jun: And just what have you been so cheerfully badmouthing me 'bout, huh~?

Hiyori: Goodness, I wasn't badmouthing you. You're simply being paranoid.

Jun: You swear?

Tatsumi: That's right. I believe that you're rather important to Tomoe-san, Jun-san.

Hiyori: It's true! You rank right after my family, namely Nagisa-kun and Mary!

Jun: I rank below a dog, huh?

Hiyori: If that bothers you so much, then climb your way up! Come now, put your all into it and work ever harder for my love!

Jun: Shut it... It's not like I'm working hard for the sake of your love, y'know~?

I'm working hard so that I can be a better version of myself. Maybe my life looks all kinds of unfortunate and pitiful besides yours, but...

That's precisely why I wanna become the best and strongest idol, so that someday I can declare that's who I am, loud and proud.

It's then that the hard work of my past self will finally all be worth it.

So I'm gonna work hard, right now. I'm gonna give it everything I've got — 'cause giving it all that I've got is all I can do.

Tatsumi: That's right. Fufu, you truly do have no need for God's divine protection.

Jun: You got that right. I don't need no God to save me — 'cause I'm gonna be the one who'll save myself.

Tatsumi: .......♪

Nagisa: ... Shall we stop this idle chatter and begin recording, everyone?

... Though we could simply just rehearse today, and leave the actual filming for another day…

... We don’t have another day to spare, do we?

HiMERU: HiMERU agrees. There is no time to be looking back on days gone by.

We must look towards the future instead, and live earnestly.

So long as we are allowed to do so.

HiMERU: (Kaname. My poor, pitiable little brother. I shall take your place, at least for now.)

(I hope that one day, when you are able to walk once more, you will be able to live a little happier than before.)

(I'll arrange an environment in which you can, and secure a place for you in it as well.)

HiMERU: (I am your older brother, after all.)

HiMERU: (When you awake, when you're able to walk once more…)

(I won't fail this time. I'll make your wish come true.)

(Long have I lived alone, void of any dream at all — and now what was yours has since become my own.)

Tatsumi: (... Ah, even though this is the same place as then, the same Reimei Academy…)

(It feels different. Right now, I feel so refreshed and full of energy.)

(Are you the one I should thank for that, God?)

Tatsumi: (Our Father who art in heaven, you have always guided my life with your hand.)

(Dear fate, dear faith, I thank you for leading me to where I stand today.)

(We have faced much sorrow, despair, and tragedy.)

(Nonetheless, I stand enveloped in the warmth I had always craved. If this is reward for my piety, O God, then I truly could never detest you.)

Tatsumi: (Even if it happens that God does not exist, and this is nothing but a series of coincidences…)

(Then I shall call those coincidences miracles, rewards, and love you all the more.)

(Amen.)

(Fufu. I shall do as Tomoe-san did and use Jun-san, whom he loves so much, as an example; I'll begin at the very bottom, crawling my way through the mud.)

Tatsumi: (No matter how often he gets knocked down, how often he collapses, he still stands right back up.)

(I am forever grateful for that. Not only do I have God on my side, but friends as well.)

(Such invaluable friends who support one another…)

(Who share their warmth, and move forward with happiness in their hearts.)

(We shall walk together on this road, step by step.)

Tatsumi: ♪～♪～♪

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[mothmothm0th]

an invention that is safe to create

Buttonbush had fun at the farmer's market! Fresh produce! Foreign streetfood! Fellow dolls darting about! Plenty to awawa about! But now it was on its way home. Buttonbush couldn't wait to see Miss again! Miss had been working on something sure to be amazing and clever for days now. She hadn't been eating too much. That was typical of her when she got into something exciting. But surely she would love the panini Buttonbush chose for her! Buttonbush knew what Miss enjoys!

No one was there to welcome Buttonbush home. Not even her fellow dolls were there! Usually, Snowdrop would be doing preliminary research for Miss, or perhaps Jessamine would be doing the dishes. Baneberry had a habit of sitting on the bottom stair like a silly kitty cat. The fact that the cottage was empty meant Miss' project must be at a critical juncture. And that meant Miss needed food, badly!

Quickly, though not hastily, Buttonbush put away its groceries. Gosh, the pantry and the fridge felt so barren before Buttonbush's intervention. Even emptier than when it left for the market! Though, the fridge had only had a half-empty jar of mayo so perhaps it was exaggerating. Still! Even the mayo was gone!

With just the panini in its basket, Buttonbush climbed down to the cellar. Dank airs and low light was how Miss liked it. Her cottage had two floors and an attic aboveground but below it was a sprawling mess of tunnels and chambers. A rhizome, Miss called it! Many of the tunnels led to a dead end. Sometimes, Miss joked about luring one of her amicable enemies down a tunnel and laying down a brick wall behind them. Or maybe she had already done that. Several of the tunnels were blocked off by brick walls! Not all of them. Some just had an unfinished feel to them.

But the winding tunnel Buttonbush walked down was neither blocked off or unfinished. No, it led to a set of doors. And behind them, another set! Buttonbush made sure to close the first doors before it opened the second. A light gust of oxygen, hydrogen, and assorted gasses from foreign realities welcomed it to Miss' newest workshop. Buttonbush needed to take gentle steps now. The path sloped downwards and Miss had decided not to waste her dolls' time tiling it. Smart of her! Once, a patch of ground had challenged Baneberry to debate the ethics of floors. Poor doll. It still wore Miss' floaty spell charm sometimes to avoid having to touch the ground. If the Walpurgis Council learned of Miss' use of strange spaces, they would frown! One time, a nice maker had come 'round to talk to Buttonbush and Jessamine about it but neither doll told him. Miss was just that good! She had used alternate methods to remake herself, after all.

Soon, the tunnel opened up to a large chamber. Buttonbush hadn't actually been here before. It was neither a familiar or an assistant engineer, and Miss generally visited upstairs for meals, so Buttonbush had no need to come visit. Thus, you can imagine its shock when it saw the room was dominated by a massive wooden construction. Thick branches or perhaps roots had seemingly grown in a wicker-like pattern into a cage around a floating orb made of... was that teak? Branches jutted out like giant spikes. Buttonbush wasn't quite sure what the thin ribbons that seemed caught in the teak orb's rotational currents were but they reminded it of fungal hyphae. Oh, but there was Miss, covered in dirt and half-dried mud, sniffing the air. She could explain! Hello Miss!

"Buttonbush my saviour, I shall savour the savoury treat you have brought me. Your savoir-faire is most..." Miss scratched the base of her antennae. "Salient. That shall have to work." Buttonbush couldn't help but giggle. "Say, my sacred darling, you look ever so fascinated by my sable contraption. Shall I satiate your curiosity? A light seance before we activate it."

"Buttonbush would love to listen to Miss explain her work! Buttonbush loves listening to Miss," Buttonbush said. It paused for a moment and continued: "Even when Miss has been reading her rhyming dictionary."

Miss' laugh straddled the line between a cackle and a giggle. "Worry not, worrywort. My work is nearly done. I shan't need use warding speech any further."

Warding speech. Buttonbush had heard Baneberry talk about it. Sometime about avoiding predictability, to keep strange spaces strange. Mundanity led to stagnation, and stagnation made Miss' magicks worse. But Miss always spoke a little strangely. Buttonbush couldn't tell the difference between her regular and warding speech.

Miss whistled, beckoned her dolls to her. Buttonbush snapped back to reality as Baneberry, Jessamine, Foxglove, and Snowdrop wandered to them from whichever dark nooks Buttonbush had overlooked. All ball-joints on deck! Jessamine's pretty porcelain dripped oil-like sap, and Snowdrop with her fully articulated face seemed exhausted. Foxglove seemed to practically vibrate with excitement. Baneberry, floating like a carnival balloon, struggled to hold Foxglove's hand.

Miss clapped her hands. "Now then! It is time for framing and naming! Buttonbush!" Miss pointed at Buttonbush, who clutched its basket tighter. "I believe this is your first time! Thus, I shall explain." One finger in the air. "The framing and naming is the final step in strange magicks. Look to the machine. It is a structure in motion, yet the motion is undefined, lacking in Purpose." Buttonbush felt sorry for the wicker and the orb. "This is vital! For only at the end, when the physical shape is prepared, ought one grant it Purpose.

"Hark, machine! For thine thorns shall puncture the veil between This and That! Through you shall flow in the airs of thought and feeling. Thus I define thee." The air felt electric around Buttonbush. "Woven wood, hear me! Arrange your paths so that you may judge thoughtful airs. This shall be your purpose." Buttonbush heard little sounds reminiscent of those sorting algorithm videos Snowdrop had been listening. "Dearest ribbons. You shall flutter, and through your flutter you shall weave for each airy judgement its appropriate doom. Thus you shall be." In an instant, each gossamer ribbon began moving in strange and complex patterns. Yet, Buttonbush could tell, these patterns were empty for now. "And hey, eyes up, you orb. You shall be a portal. A seed that grows inward and strangeward. Guide these doomful thoughts through your rhizome to their rightful minds. Infect the thoughts of wrongdoers!" Buttonbush's head spun. It was glad its Purpose lacked the ability to do wrong.

"And thus, you are framed." Miss was out of breath! She fell to one knee! Buttonbush rushed to her side. Miss shook her head. "No no, dearest. I shall be fine."

"But Miss!"

"I shall be fine," Miss repeated. She rose to her feet again. Her lips were stretched to their limits by a slightly concerning grin. "I'm so close. So close. Finally, I shall have constructed a solution to bullying."

Buttonbush tilted its head. This was about bullying? It knew Miss had been a victim of bullying in her school years. As had Snowdrop, come to think of it. And Baneberry! Jessamine never spoke of such matters but Buttonbush could tell it was hiding things.

"You'll see, Button dearest." Miss cackled, turned her attentions back to her invention. "Hear me now, o contraption mine. For while each part of thee knows its means, now I shall imbue thee with the gestalt of ends. Permit I weave a tale." Miss cleared her throat. "Each and every day, people bully those they deem weaker than them. Each day, their victims' psyches are damaged. The airs I shall have thee pluck from the realm of thought are these painful feelings and the motivations which caused them. These you shall organise and categorise. For each pain, you shall weave a salveful dream. For each perpetrator, you shall conjure a vivid nightmare. These dreams none shall forget, and in rememberance shall one and all realise means to a kinder and happier future. This is your Purpose. A center of pain and healing, the heart of revelation. Thus your name shall be..."

Miss paused, as if waiting for a realisation. It seemed to evade her. She turned to her dolls and motioned towards herself frantically. She needed their ideas! Snowdrop spoke first, bringing up a book she had read; a cautionary tale about the construction of a machine one might indeed call a 'center of pain'. Baneberry laughed to the point of hiccups. Jessamine emoted like a character from its favourite MMO. Miss seemed tired. She turned to Buttonbush, seemingly holding her breath so as to not name the machine the sound of an exhale.

Buttonbush hemmed and hawed. It was bad at names! But it liked the word 'contraption'. So this was a contraption for... thoughts? Dreams? Nightmares... Something something Contraption. It was supposed to make lives better. Hm... perhaps...

"So it's like, a thing that makes dreams into therapy? Like a Dream Therapy Contraption?" Buttonbush said. It wasn't sure. Not one bit. It was silly of Miss to not have a name in mind but perhaps she needed to keep her options open while working on her project. Stagnation and such. But Miss seemed to like it. Maybe that was just relief.

"Thus I name thee, the Dream Therapy Contraption," Miss proclaimed. In an instant, the machine, the Contraption, whirred into life. And as it did, the chamber seemed to stabilise. Buttonbush had already gotten used to how the air here smelled but as it inhaled normal air again, it realised how it had missed it.

Oh, but Miss was not doing so good. Foxglove was already helping prop her up. So resourceful of it. It nodded at Jessamine to get Miss' other side. It wasn't the first time they had served as Miss' crutches. Baneberry floated off ahead of them; to prepare Miss' bed, surely. Snowdrop in turn began collecting tools and grimoires. It just left Buttonbush and its basket, and...

Oh, the panini!

[lazywriter-artist]

Unconventional Company

Warhammer/Helldivers/Halo crossover + writing warmup

Slowly Night clutched its wispy black tendrils around the planet and travel became difficult, forcing the Trio of trained soldiers to set up camp for the night. Seated around the fire the Space Marine would reach back into his satchel, digging out a large book as he leaned back some.

His voice, cutting through the settling air, rumbled the question “So pray tell guardsman, have you all finished your prayers? I hadn’t seen even a single one before battle…” He questioned, strangely nonchalant for how confused the other two were left. The other armored figures glanced to each other with small shrugs.

“prayers?” The spartan echoed, he had heard of a variety of religions back home and on various planets but with the mystery shrouding this giant already he really hadn’t taken the ‘marine’ to be much of a religious man. The Helldiver didn’t seem to be a fan of this topic however as he crossed his arms, leaning back with an aura of disapproval. He didn’t really trust this brick wall much already. Was too big of a guy. Never took off his armor…maybe he was an automaton. These prayers sounded very UN-democratic. Hmph.

Though their confusion deepened as the marine looked appalled, gently digging out an almost rosary like item with a large double headed eagle attached “ahah…yes?— your prayers to the God Emperor?” He pressed, the duo again glancing to one another.

“Doesn’t sound very democratic-“ growled the Helldiver as the marine gave off a sudden menacing aura. The spartan swiftly clapped the back of the helldiver’s helmet with his armored hand, clearing his throat to try and recover the situation, “Right! Right!! our prayers! How could we forget!?” He’d swiftly nod with growing anxiety as the Helldiver grumbled in complaint over being hit. The spartan wasn’t about to be ripped in two by this muscle man freak in super armor because the quack Helldivers like this one couldn’t see the writing on the wall.

“How indeed.” Snorted the armor clad wall of a man before allowing his original aggression, hesitantly, to fall away. “But it is only natural when fighting for the God Emperor.” He nodded matter of factly.

“For Liberty ya mean.” grumbled the Helldiver, receiving another smack to the helmet as the spartan cleared his throat once more “RIGHT! Yes! Perhaps you should lead us through one? We are a bit rusty—“

He gulped, worried of the marines reaction, hoping this would smooth it over. Even still he braced for the worst until— the marine seemed to light up? “Of course! I always am ready to show guardsmen new prayers for our God Emperor!” His deep voice bellowed as he would readjust to be closer to the two.

Despite the Helldiver disliking the idea the spartan forced ‘convinced’ him to go along with it, if only to just please this ‘Space Marine’ into not crushing them under his boot— and he had to admit, it was kind of endearing the joy the marine displayed as he traced over the strange words within his book, explaining these ‘prayers’ he picked out for them and how to say them.

…Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad?

Lovely dividers by @squishyowl (Imperial) and myself :) (Helldiver)

Yapping below the cut

Oh BROTHER this one took a lot. Idk y but hey it happens (mostly due to my inability to stay on a project for too long—) but anyhow

This bad boy had say in my inbox for a WHILE and in my notes even longer….i think I ported it over to tumblr around the time I made the original au post, meanwhile it’s been written since about I first made the au, so woof a while ago

This bad boy took a few months on and off again to complete just due to my spelling and grammatical errors and the whole not working 100% of the time on it X.X

But here it is!!! Idk if it was obvious but the crossover is a really fun idea to me and I definitely wanna do more with if- so we shall see 🥰

I’m just a big huge sucker for sci-fi stuff especially sci-fi battle stuff and these three being big poster children for that idk how I couldn’t

Anywho- thank you all for reading and u all are so cool and thanks to my moots who proof read it for me 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶✨✨✨💪💪💪💪

Everyone have a good day 🫶

[desultory-novice]

So, I recently played Kirby's Star Stacker on NSO, and...

Well, I now understand why this version never released in North America (I want to send the screenshot soooooooo badly!) 😂

Ah, yes! Sorry about having media asks turned off! After some of the horror stories I've heard, I just didn't consider it worth the risk.

But yes!

I love this image so much! Actually, I love so much about the adorable little cutscenes in Star Stacker! Meta Knight without his mask (...and gloves! You can see his little orb hands!) doing his darndest to still look like a cool tough warrior as he stands on the tallest possible hill (not that tall) and says "We shall meet again!!"

...Meta Knight... Oh Meta Knight... /positive

Now, then I assume there were probably many factors involved in Star Stacker not coming over to the west. It was released quite late into the SNES's lifespan for one, a year before the console was discontinued in NA. And it was a "remake" of a game that may not even have sold all that well the first time...

I hate to say it (especially as someone who values story and characters in video games) but an added "story mode" was almost certainly not considered a "selling point" to make it worth anyone's investment. Unfortunately, video games were still sold on their edginess to the teenage boy market in those days and a pastel-themed block matching game isn't getting any backing...

Grr...

Sorry. Just remembering how many good games my generation missed out on for stupid reasons. Games that I consider the best the system had to offer: Live a Live... Secret Treasure of the Rudras... Trials of Mana... Tales of Phantasia...

Ahem...

BUT the fact that Kirby and friends canonically go drinking at a bar if you lose probably didn't win it any points on its localizability and would have almost certainly caught the eyes of the VERY fierce, VERY determined censors of those days!

Of course, the funny thing about this is the bottle Kine is drinking from actually reads "Ocean Water" and is NOT alcohol! NoA wouldn't even have had to censor it, just translate it and you're clear!

...Although I'm sure if they had, rumors would have persisted for years that in "the original" Kine was actually drinking booze!

Maybe it wouldn't have mattered though, because Coo certainly looks ready to hit the hard liquor lined up on that shelf. ^_-

Actually, looking closely at the image, all the triangle motifs, I wonder if this is some kind of Dedede-themed Bar & Karaoke establishment? Seems they didn't bother rebuilding it after Kirby's infamously destructive singing voice wrecked the place!

...Man, there is something so utterly charming about the SNES era of Kirby! Star Stacker plays right into DL3's watercolor pencil artstyle and I love it and miss it, on occasion.

Unpopular opinion, perhaps, but I hope that our next Kirby game is not a big expansive mainline title but another "full-bodied" spinoff. Not a contentless fluff spinoff, like Dream Buffet or the 15 minute mini-games of the 3DS entries but something a little more comfy and fun, like Epic Yarn or Rainbow Curse! Something where you can have a bunch of characters reunite to do something silly and ridiculous like play competitive puzzle-matching or bubble-wrap popping (...or Air-Riding...) and pretend like it is serious business(tm)!

[kierarutherford]

It's quiet. Too quiet as you slip into his quarters. There is candle light illuminating his shape, bent over his desk clearly invested in some information. He hasn't heard you enter or at least he appears absorbed by his study. You quickly tiptoe across the span between you. Before you get too close he bristles and abruptly stands upright. "I said never enter my quarters without knocking. Make yourself known. Immediately."

Silence is to be heard in response. Your tongue is dry as your throat quivers. "Commander." It's barely a whisper as you fiddle with your hands unsure how to react. That's when you see it. The lyrium kit. "Maker." This time is louder and he snaps and spins at your words. "Inquisitor!"

"I didn't mean to startle you," you try to play it off like you didn't see what you saw. Like he wasn't just contemplating death. Or at least your envisioned eventual death.

"What did you come for then?" He's taut and clearly in a foul mood. There is a thin line of sweat above his brow. Uncommon for how cool the room is. "I have troop maneuvers through the Emprise to plan. Is there something I can be of use?"

He's curt and it levels the air out of you. "I was just passing through and thought you could use some company. That's all." His face breaks and for a moment you swear he's relieved. "I can go if I'm a bother."

"No!" He says it too quickly and reacts even quicker. " I have somethings we could go over. If you have the time."

"Alright," you smile at the thought of spending time with him. Its not much but since you joined the Inquisition it's clear you have wanted more time with this man. And any little excuse was good enough. You ignore the lyrium kit. Hopefully when he's ready he'll talk about it. For now you feign interest as he begins a long drawn out explanation about his soldiers. You smile politely and continue to watch his every move. In time, just more time. His voice is animated as he goes on. You reply in turn and bless the Maker for making such an exquisite man. Every feature is its own splendor as you continue to focus on him. He's thorough and with each approach his eyes seem to light up. There is a wounded man behind those eyes. He's been melancholy since Haven. Almost inconsolable. But as he speaks now he seems alive. You allow yourself to believe it's your presence, your time bringing him back to life. Maybe it is. You smile wide as he makes a cheap joke. He's funny in his own way.

Time seems to stand still for some time but the cold night air is a bitter reminder time is progressing towards the dawn. You need sleep. He needs sleep. "Commander perhaps we can continue tomorrow? I fear I am falling asleep on my feet."

His eyes fall, "of course Inquisitor. At your leisure."

"I'll come find you or send word. Please get some rest. We should fix your ceiling at some point."

"No! I mean there is no need." He wriggles under your gaze. "I... I like the openess."

"Alright. Then I shall see you in the morrow. Good... Good night Cullen." It's soft and quick. Rip the bandage off fast to cut the pain. But he seems to melt upon the use of his given name. Like there is some soothing power behind your voice. "Good night Inquisitor." But he remains stoic. And slowly you turn towards the door. It wasn't long enough and it never is. But there is a promise of tomorrow and you look forward to it until your dreams melt with it. Tomorrow.

[peaches2217]

🍽

🍽️ - Dinner date

I am so sorry this took so long, but I hope it's worth the wait!!

Regalia

~~~

Mario was in full regalia.

Further: Mario was in full regalia, casually, by his own choice.

The whole getup was so very un-Mario — the deep navy tunic, the gold buttons and tasseled shoulder pads, the white trousers and tall black boots. He looked more suited for engaging in political discourse than plumbing or carpentry or any of the other hundreds of things he enjoyed far more. Yet not a single thread felt out of place. It was him, somehow, and it suited him perfectly.

Peach felt suddenly woozy. “Devastatingly attractive” didn’t even begin to describe how she perceived him in that moment. 

When she took too long with her ogling, he grinned a knowing little grin and stepped forward. She couldn’t help but blush as he took her hand. Or maybe she had already been blushing, and now she was just blushing even harder. Oh, stars.

“Your Majesty.” He dropped to one knee with a smoothness that suggested practice (but the way he wobbled briefly when he landed suggested he still needed more), kissing her knuckles. His crown sat in place of his usual cap, a smaller replica of Peach’s; the garnets and pastel sapphires set into its band caught the light of the setting sun just so, sparkling in a way that seemed almost ethereal.

Are you trying to kill me? she wanted to ask. Glancing up, she saw Toad in the gazebo a few steps away, his own attire traded for a black vest and bowtie. He offered her an eager thumbs-up.

“Look at you,” she said instead. She meant to follow up with “You look handsome,” but Mario’s eyes met hers, shining with satisfaction and reverence, and her voice stuck in her throat.

He could fill in the blanks. He knew exactly what this was doing to her.

Pushing back up to his feet, Mario led her forward, her hand still in his grasp. “I don’t know about you,” he said, a joyful lilt in his tone, “but I’m starving! Shall we?”

She only nodded, because she couldn’t trust herself with an honest response.

Thankfully, Mario was merciful enough to carry their conversation in full until she overcame her stupefaction. He wasn’t trying for full formality. In spite of his attire, the mood was relaxed, and it loosened further when Toad produced a bottle of Yoshi Berry wine from the kitchens inside. In short order they laughed and joked together as they always did, and for that Peach was grateful.

Toad stationed himself in one corner of the gazebo and filled the air with the warm tones of a viola (she hadn’t even known he could play the viola, an instrument almost as large as he was, but that was beside the point). In the lulls between topics, Mario would swirl the liquid in his glass and smile at her, the sort of smile one might expect to find on the face of a lovesick schoolboy. The sapphires in his crown couldn’t compare to the deep, denim blue of his eyes.

None of this felt real. Peach was certain she was dreaming, or that perhaps she was living in a children’s picture book, the obligatory kindly queen and her beloved, benevolent king.

But this was in fact reality, and as the haze of romanticism ran its course, she could see the signs more and more clearly.

Mario shifted frequently, tugged at the high collar of his tunic, fiddled with the buttons. Reached up to make sure his crown wasn’t sliding off, reached down to ensure his pant legs were still securely tucked into his boots. As they chatted and nursed their wine, he absently flicked at the tassels on his shoulders; he’d catch himself doing it, stop, and then start back up again as soon as he wasn’t thinking about it.

When their food finally arrived, he dug right in with something that sounded like a sigh of relief. It wasn’t just hunger, Peach recognized. He was grateful for another distraction.

He was uncomfortable. The clothes that made him look so regal in turn made him feel horribly out of place. The realization didn’t really surprise her; she had come to his first fitting for moral support, and while he had done his best not to complain as the seamstress made her measurements, his face betrayed his agony. More than once, his eyes met hers, and he mouthed an over-the-top “Help me.”

“I didn’t think becoming a royal consort meant I’d actually have to dress like one,” he had joked that night, pulling on the softest and most worn, ragged night clothes he owned. Peach had just giggled.

Guilt gnawed at the pit of her stomach. She had reacted so strongly to this new addition to his wardrobe, and judging from the look in his eyes, he had known she would. The regalia he would have to wear at least once a week as part of his new duties, maybe more, and there was no helping that. But tonight, he was putting himself through needless misery just for her sake.

She tried not to think too hard about it as she ate. Leaving her food untouched would be terribly rude.

At the completion of their meal, Peach rose from her seat and stretched her back, and Mario came around the table to offer his arm to her. “Walk with me?” he asked. She could hear no hint of an ulterior motive in his offer, nothing but a sincere wish to extend their evening. He would happily endure his discomfort just to spend more time with her. The thought brought her as much joy as it did sadness.

She took his hand instead, eyeing his gloves. She hadn’t noticed they were different. Instead of leather, dented and scuffed from constant use, these were silk.

“Wouldn’t you rather get out of that stuffy outfit?” she offered in return. She could see him in his regalia every single day and never find it any less attractive, and even now she fought the urge to accept his offer and enjoy the sight that much longer. But she couldn’t bear to indulge her own desires at the expense of his comfort.

Mario’s face twisted with surprise at her words. She didn’t even hear Toad as he left them to talk, his voice straining with suppressed laughter — “C’mon, at least let a Toad get outta earshot first!”

“You don’t like it?” Mario asked. His eyes flicked down and over himself, as though inspecting for some sort of flaw in the fabric, a missing button, a stain, but Peach put her free hand to his cheek, commanding his attention once more.

“I think it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” she confessed. “But you looked like you were seconds from tearing it off and clawing into your skin all night.”

“Oh.” Mario’s cheek warmed beneath her palm, and he gave her a sheepish smile. “Well… you know. Not exactly the kind of outfit I’d wear lounging around, yeah? But!” He plucked her hand from his face and brought it to join her opposite hand, cradling them both in his own much larger grasp. “I’ve gotta get used to it anyway, right? The sooner I start, the better!”

“You don’t have to torture yourself for my sake, darling.”

“Torture? No no no, tesoro mio, you misunderstand,” he said, and that smile became all at once confident and tender. “Seeing your face light up like a big Fire Flower? The way you couldn’t keep your eyes off of me? I’m a little selfish, you know. Learning to put up with this dumb thing is a lot easier when you’re making me feel like a hunk.”

Peach laughed at that, overcome with relief and affection all at once. “You are a hunk,” she said, bending to press a kiss to his cheek. He tilted his face to return the favor, and she giggled again at the way his mustache tickled her skin.

“And you’re the most beautiful princess in the whole world,” he murmured against her. “Sorry— queen.”

“Your queen.”

“My queen,” he agreed. He chuckled and pressed another kiss to the corner of her lips before pulling back, and Peach followed suit. She noted with another gentle wave of relief that he didn’t look nearly so uncomfortable right now.

“In that case,” she said, “why don’t we take that walk?” Mario squeezed her hands one final time before dropping them to offer his arm once more. If this was his preferred method of breaking in a necessary evil, she would gladly assist.

“For what it’s worth,” she continued as he led her out of the gazebo, “I think you’re a hunk no matter what you wear.”

“So if this one sits in the closet for our next date?” 

“Actually, I was thinking we could have pizza and ice cream in our pajamas instead.”

“Oh, yes, please. Same time next week?”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“Mamma mia,” Mario laughed as they walked into the calm night, “and I keep thinking I can’t fall for you any harder!”

[ahintofblue]

To New Beginnings

Ship: Antares/Sung Jin-Woo Rating: T Chapter: 1/? Summary: Jin-Woo is thrown into a timeline where he is bound to the Monarch of Destruction as his husband and an army of dragons are now his to care for. Antares has no memories of their previous fights, the desire to destroy and ruin is entirely gone, so a new challenge awaits for Jin-Woo instead.

It is not what Jin-Woo expects his new life to be. Perhaps a change of heart is required? Tags: Alternate Timeline, Fluff, Romance, Family, Bond, Interspecies Relationship, No Beta We Die Like Antares Notes:

After finishing the comic, I wanted to write something about these two. There's not enough of them so I had to try despite my shortcomings. I wish I can do some kind of slow burn, multichapter with justice but due to irl, I can only write my ideas in bullet points because I don't have energy/time. You can think of each part is its own drabble because I wrote whatever came to mind.

Now on AO3!

Maybe it’s a joke. Certainly not what he expects when Jin-Woo requests to use the Cup of Reincarnation and ends up in an unfamiliar vast land and blue skies stretching over the horizon. A grand stone-walled castle a short distance away, the roar of dragons echoes in the air, and Jin-Woo spots the dark figures flying about, large wings flapping with grace as they soar proudly.

Was this a mistake? It can’t be. Did the Rulers decided to fuck with him? He remembers the cup having enough for one last rewind but he’s thrown into what seems to be a different timeline altogether. Is he even on Earth or is this a new world? How many years did he venture back? Too many questions come at him, so he continues on for answers.

Jin-Woo walks through the field of flowers, his army awaits his command in his shadow if necessary. He doesn’t sense any looming threats but he’s careful, wondering what is the meaning in all of this. Of course he receives no answer. He sees nothing but an endless green, no villages around but a castle home to the dragons and admits this kind of peace is breathtaking.

He then notices a man at a well. A startling revelation comes to him. The familiar crimson hair tied in a ponytail and beard, a handsome face reflects a gentle look, the sun paints his skin in a faint ethereal glow, and Jin-Woo finds himself stunned at the sight. The King of Dragons stands without his armor, wearing a comfortable attire of a loose shirt and pants instead. How entirely human that it has Jin-Woo questioning the possibility of Antares’ memories already. If he remembers him or not.

Who is the Antares he’s looking at now?

Jin-Woo stops in his tracks as Antares looks up from his work. He makes no attempt to run and heads to Antares with calm strides. As he stops in front of the taller man, he traces the faint red mana around Antares and discovers it mingling with his own as it is meant to be, a warm welcome serves as a protective shield over him. It’s surprising. How it easily curls around him. Safe.

Above, Kamish flies over them and lands on a patch of flowers nearby, white petals disperse as he lands with a careful thump, watching them, while the other smaller-sized dragons settle around, their heads raise with anticipation. Freedom. Knowing Kamish isn’t behind metal walls as a preserved corpse gives Jin-Woo an air of relief.  

“You are home.” Antares’ smile is sweet, endearing. No longer plagued by the instincts to kill him. “I pray your trip was eventful?” He pulls the bucket of water up by the rope and sets it down. “Come and regale me with your tales. It has been long since the day you left.” Left for what exactly?

Jin-Woo doesn’t know what Antares means. He still recalls the immense battle as they clashed, then Antares’ body pierced from multiple spears by Rulers above, signaling his defeat and an end to everything. Jin-Woo was tired and on the ground, panting to regain his breath. His muscles ached but victory belonged to him. His world was saved. And there we shall meet again. Antares disappeared.

“What do you—” Jin-Woo pauses. Antares isn’t one without affection as he presses a kiss on Jin-Woo’s forehead in greeting. Eyes wide open. A hand cups Jin-Woo’s cheek next, and the memories of war wash away from his mind and in return, a box of unexplained emotions Jin-Woo experiences opens up.  Jin-Woo’s face heats up. “Wait…” He tries pulling back to give himself space but Antares has an arm around his waist. He feels the stubble rubbing against his skin, sensing a smile across his cheek, and when he looks Antares in the eyes, a brilliant red shines like a jewel, and no words come out. Jin-Woo feels he has stumbled upon something dangerous, Antares’ claws gently brush along his face, memorizing every single detail worth his attention. Even a few more dragons land around them, excited to see Jin-Woo’s return but remain ever watchful. “What is it?” Antares asks, curious and amused with a teasing smirk. “You are… Ah, is my husband suddenly shy now? Do you want me to send them away?” In the background, one hears Kamish snorting.

Jin-Woo’s heart stops as if his soul retreats from his body and never returns. How does one respond to this? It’s not as if he’s not into men but rather the idea of romance catches him off guard when it is your ex-enemy he has to deal with. There are still questions looming over his head but if he wants the answers, then maybe the first step is to play the game without getting caught. But Antares isn’t an ordinary man, he will figure it out. Antares wears a patient face and a deep laugh comes out of his mouth. “I understand. You do prefer your privacy, after all.” “It has been a while,” Jin-Woo manages to lie, his heart still beating fast. He’s not even sure anymore. How did he even end up as Antares’ husband? This has to be some kind of trick for someone’s entertainment but it seems Antares isn’t aware of their past history. That this current Antares is very much in love with him and nothing more. Antares hums. “I sense your hesitance.” He bumps their foreheads together in a light manner. “But our bond is still strong. Did something happen during your travels?” He shows a slight bit of teeth as if ready to hunt down the person who dares hurt Jin-Woo in any way. At least, that’s what Jin-Woo is able to tell through their connection, the flame burns bright and wraps around him in an almost possessive state. “All is well. You have nothing to worry about. There were… minor issues but nothing I can’t handle.”

[mariana-oconnor]

The Devil's Foot pt 2

I have been contemplating this one a bit. And so far the only person who has given us any information about this is Mortimer. We only have his word what happened that night. We only have his word that he and his siblings had resolved their financial differences. He was still living in lodgings when they had the family property, it seems.

And it seems like it was all his friend's idea to get Holmes involved.

So maybe I should be more suspicious of him.

But he did agree to come to Holmes, although it would be really difficult to say no at that point.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path.

Was this deliberate, or is it just flavour text? I'm not sure what he could get from spilling the watering can. Unless he thinks the water is poisoned and he wants to see what effect the spilled water has on the plants around it. Like, if they die, definitely poison.

Good thing the guy from the last story isn't around to start kissing floors and licking boots again.

Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous.

This absolutely sounds like them being lulled into a false sense of security. Or a reason for jealousy.

She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in.

So if the poison was airborne, she would have dissipated it, then.

(It's in the candles)

Fish candles, the Discworld fan in me wants to say.

“I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned,” said he.

The repeated and consistent acknowledgement in these stories that smoking is bad for you kind of blows my mind every time. Even though I know.

“Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we do know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men."

What, no devils or demons? And I was getting my hopes up.

"That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room."

This does rather contradict my idea of a slow-acting aerosolised poison released by the burning of the candles, certainly. Because Mortimer was in there for at least some of the evening, so you'd expect him to have had some kind of a dose, or he would have had to swap out the candles before he left and then the new poison candles would have to act very quickly.

It's more likely to not be in the candles, then. I guess.

Something only the other three imbibed or ate or touched. But even then how does it work so quickly. Maybe he pours them something to drink as a toast before he goes and laces it with something (or someone else comes and does that).

"Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible."

Ah, okay. That makes sense. No poison water.

"It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt."

Glass notoriously reflects things. How sure are you that the thing he was seeing was outside?

Perhaps the face is coming from inside the house. Or perhaps there was no face and his brother just thought of something unpleasant and then tried to cover it up.

Or perhaps this is all a mere fabrication of Mortimer's to throw people off the scent.

"Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard—golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar—all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer."

Whomst?

"My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well—indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins—and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me."

A suspect? A new suspect?

So Holmes naturally interrogates him to find out if he was in the area at the time and how he knows about any of this.

The vicar really likes to talk, it seems. Although I suppose passing on news of the death of a relative and the sudden illness? of two others might be considered reasonable.

“He is deeply interested.”

Who inherits the property now? Lion man or Mortimer?

Follow the money. If in doubt always follow the money.

"Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us.” Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation.

So someone else is dead then. But who? Mortimer? Lion man? The Babbling Vicar? The housekeeper?

Not the vicar, clearly as he is doing his narrative duty of gossip by bringing the news.

“Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family.”

Alas, poor Mortimer, I'm sorry I suspected you.

My guess is that Lion man left poison candles/cards/brandy around when he visited them so he could be far away when they died and have an alibi, but he wasn't expecting to have to get Mortmer separately. (Maybe Mortimer wasn't drinking? Or maybe he just left before the effects could set in).

This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table.

Look, Watson keeps drawing attention to the light sources in these places. I'm not going crazy. It's in the candles and the oil lamp.

In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window...

And people keep opening windows. Airborne poison.

Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn...

Every detective needs their allotted floor time. It is imperative.

He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy.

I leave this here without further comment.

"In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room—in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp."

I'll be over here thanking Sir Terry Pratchett for (I assume) using this as his inspiration. GNU.

"The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug."

✨Sensitive organism✨

...

If by that you mean she probably had a lower body mass, as women do tend to on average, and therefore the threshold for a lethal dosage was also lower? Then sure, I guess.

Sensitive organism.

Sensitive organism

Oh, I can't do my work today, I'm a sensitive organism.

And fine, it was the fire, not the candles. I was a little off on the method.

"Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair."

Glad to have absolute acknowledgment here that Watson is Not a sensible man. We already knew this. But it's nice to have it canonised.

This can only go well. I foresee no bad effects.

Isn't Holmes out there for his health?

It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength.

Pulled back from the edge of death by the fact that Holmes is also dying.

"Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."

Got to be bad if even Holmes is admitting it was a dumb idea and apologising for it.

But yeah, be sorry. Although I've got to say, guy fully consented to this circus.

"You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."

Such drama. Such emotion.

I mean... it's undercut a little by the fact that they only needed the drama and the emotion because they were absolute idiots.

You acknowledged yourself that it must be fast-acting Holmes, both because the first people were still sitting exactly where Mortimer left them and yet he was fine and had noticed nothing wrong, and also because of how little oil had been used in the lamp at the second crime scene.

And you didn't even just use a bit of the scrapings, you used them all... Sure you left the door and window open, but... my guy. My guy. If you had died today it would not have been undeserved. For a smart person, you can be unbearably foolish

But still, very moving. I understand why people were really excited about this one. Much shipping.

[consumeroflemoans]

Hello, ask and you shall receive even if belated by about about three days

I sat down with the post about the scuba diver and the mer and thought about it a bit, Vilidia because what else would it be

Full disclosure, I've never really been diving, scuba or otherwise, so forgive any potential inaccuracies

Also, when you said "like a curious seal" I immediatly went "Selkie", so because of that and for the sake of variety, but mostly because I want to, we're doing selkies this time around

I can imagine either of them taking any given position, Vil just seems like he might enjoy it, the full immersion of water as the space around you is taken up by something other than air, creating a feeling between perhaps the closest thing to weightlessness we have on the planet and the surrounding pressure putting its effect on the body, changing with the depths you reach, combined with the sights you see below the surface, the often mesmerizing ways in which space and that within it arranges itself underwater, the way the perception of everything around you would become other from the usual, diving alone would presumably have an element of silence and the inherent seperation from the regular that comes with entering a an atmosphere different to your own

I can see him both finding a fascination for everything he sees down there and appreciating being able to get a full break from everything, a fan of being part of a different world for a bit

It's a hobby he likes to indulge in every once in a while, when he can make room in his scheduel

So Vil goes diving, nothing out of the ordinary, looking around he spots a seal that he for a moment thinks is looking at him strangely, but it swims further away the moment he as much as turns his head towards it, so that's that

Everything continues on as normal, though he may feel lightly watched

He gets out of the water and shortly after a seal follows, though it keeps about six feet of distance and seems to be trying to to hide itself behind a big rock, pretty unsuccesfully at that, not only is it not fully hidden from view in the first place, but it keeps repeatedly poking out its head from behind the rock to look at him

It's a bit perplexing and what would you even realistically do in this situation, Vil decides to try waving at it and while at first it just gets him the most wide eyed deer in headlights stare he ever received from a seal, eventually it seems to try waving back, there's a moment where he tilts his head and it mirrors the movement, then to the other side as well, it's fun, it feels like he's having a little moment with a seal, eventually he moves to remove some of his diving gear and in turn hands come out of the seal and take its skin off, peeling it back like a blanket

And then there's a person there, he's kinda cute, but Vil isn't incredibly hung up on that in the moment because he just watched a guy peel himself out of an animal like the worlds most fucked up orange, or considering the blog maybe lemon, Idia is just sitting there with the empty seal pelt over his shoulders looking at Vil like "Hey, what's your name?"

Now for diver Idia, while I don't think it's likely that he would willingly go diving, a scenario where he built Ortho an underwater gear would be plausible, all his gears are at least to some extent water proof, but immersing yourself completly in water is still not a good idea when you're body is made out of machinery, after several tests in the shower and the bathtub to make sure everything is completly safe it's finally time for the real deal

Ortho is so excited, his gear has convertable legs that can transform into a tail with separate sections similar to these movable shark toys, along with arm fins and a back with a glowing streak leading along the edge of them, it's all around awesome and he can't wait to go swimming

Idia already had to come along to make sure everything is up and running during the big gear debut, might as well get him into the water too, though it turns out that impromptu diving isn't the most succesful idea when you barely know how to swim in the first place

Yeah, someone gets a little lost after Ortho decides to go test a little further out where the water's deeper

Anything but ideal, though honestly? It's definetly not his scene at all, but it is kinda fun, just going around looking at everything in silence

Oh, it looks so cool and it's pretty intresting to get to see it all up close, he's lived underwater most of his life, the whole thing was right next door so there's nothing he's particulary unfamiliar with on an objective level, but it's not like he could have opened a door and stepped out of the dome to actually get a closer look so there was always that degree of seperation to what he saw outside in the form of a thick sheet of glass

Admittedly the Isle of Woe was a little deeper down and up here there are a considerably smaller amount of natural atrocities, it still counts though

The fish up there are almost a little cute with how small they are, the biggest thing here is a seal, he's not sure if there are a lot of seals in the area or if he's just seeing this one again and again, but he's starting to feel slightly nervous about the seal following him, it's suspicious, mildly threatening even, there is malice behind those big black eyes, he can feel it

Alternatively he could probably also be so enthusiastic about being The Chosen of the seal, what an honour, what a privilege to be deemed worthy by this beautiful creature

Eventually he does have to actually find his way to land though so he swims up, if he has one of those inflatible vests that give you some buoyancy he probably pulls that and now he's on the surface again, but what direction is the right one?

At this point the seal or more accurately Vil starts to notice that it's really looking like this guy does not have a clue in what direction he's supposed to go here, so deciding to be nice he swims up to Idia and pulls him to where he saw him come from onto some kind of solid surface, taking off his pelt and taking his hand into his own to fully walk there with him

Idia is monentarily stunned, for both seal-turned-into-person and pretty-boy reasons

And also after some consideration, along with consultation of a friend, it is finally decided that you can call me :]

-Leuchtturm

Hi omg thank you for turning the ravings of a madman into something I am kicking my legs giggling.

The part with Idia being the mer is literally exactly what I was amazing and it is so cute. I do think Vil would love diving. I like to think he got certified once for a movie and fell in love with the idea of having a little world to himself.

Even though rule #1 of diving is never go by yourself. Ahagauav Rook would join him as a dive buddy I’m sure. Dude’s the kind of guy to get certified and occasionally go on multiple day trips and just. Never tell anyone.

He would just keep an eye on Vil and the seal not so subtly stalking him.

But I digress.

And then there's a person there, he's kinda cute, but Vil isn't incredibly hung up on that in the moment because he just watched a guy peel himself out of an animal like the worlds most fucked up orange, or considering the blog maybe lemon, Idia is just sitting there with the empty seal pelt over his shoulders looking at Vil like "Hey, what's your name?"

Thank you for this I cackle every single time I read it this is literally perfect. My brain is dying but just know I sounded like a dying chicken the first time I read this

OK NOW FOR IDIA BECAUSE I HAVE IDEAS

First of all, I feel like Idia would love the tech aspect of diving a lot. The actual practice? Not so much.

The whole fire aspect of his hair is a major factor for one, but I do think that could be solved by designing a fireproof wetsuit hood. Or hell, even using a dry suit would work.

(For those not in the know. Wetsuits are more common and keep you warm by trapping in your body heat using water. Dry suits require special certifications to use. They insulate you with air, allowing you to stay dry and even go deeper underwater because you’re not as effected by the water temperature)

Using a drysuit would allow Idia to go into the depths with Ortho and also would protect his fire hair essentially.

Also it would depend on how deep they go, but Idia’s situation is one of a diver’s worst nightmares.

With the certifications I have (advanced open water mainly) I can go down to 30 meters/100 ft. It’s definitely not as dark in the ocean at that depth as it is in lakes/quarries, but it still gets dark pretty quick.

Getting lost in that situation is one of the most terrifying things that can happen. Because, another fun note, you also have less air the deeper you go. That means less time to figure out where you are and ascend.

(This is on an o2 tank and assuming Idia doesn’t have a rebreather)

Thank goodness Vil is there because I know I would have been so damn traumatized. Idia has a cute seal to focus on as he ascends to the surface.

Also me being a scuba nerd once more, standard scuba gear comes with a BCD or Buoyancy Control Device. So once Idia’s on the surface he should be able to inflate that just fine (:

Aaaaaa oh my gosh the thought of Vil just grabbing Idia and dragging him towards land is so cute. Man’s so helpful he deserves a kiss on his cute seal head.

And then Idia’s savior turns into a hot guy and just brings him onto shore. Bro is flabbergasted and just holds onto Vil’s hand, staring at him

Iacsuaav omg my crazed rambles ended up being less cute gay people and more me rambling about my way too many scuba certs 😭😭😭

I need to write something properly for them I swear

Someone lock me to my computer and make me type

[dreamy-roban]

Echoes

our dreams through metaphors that entice and seduce. I long for us to write poems in the air, like the creator’s shadow visible amongst the stars at night. This shall be our escape from reality, a place without grief or worries, an enchanted land where nothing is out of reach. The last notes will melt away into time, turning into dust on earth; however, they will bear witness eternally to their beauty. Maybe if we were at ease as birds, we would understand what love really means – perhaps it’s this: it is more than an idea populating a brain, considerably greater than feelings soldiering up at heart. Love doesn’t revolve around space–neither defining personal space nor oscillating in-between societal spaces. Her physical presence has never left my mind but now I barely exist in thoughts about her; still there exists one thing that persists till today – our lives were intertwined even when she chose somebody else. It was so obvious that no one could miss it. Thus it happened when fragments moved apart from each other through numerous forks of fate and felt forever separated. Not only mind but also body bore witness: each tangible piece was floating through air merely looking back through watery eyes for lost ones forever gone... And that perhaps especially during this period I was entitled to rail full against all humanity! Thus my life became shattered into shreds because neither tears washed nor heart beat make them thicker against time passing yet fading in eternal passing sadness. No matter what out unto darkness falls me before its demands demolishing everything along their path until… To what extent? How far still are you missing out on coming back into play? Then every so often I wondered just about everything: did those people who have left behind us undergo change? Do they see us? Would they want? Do they see unbroken chains that have stayed since then connecting them directly with us here?

[randomwriteronline]

He had heard some say, months ago, that Mount Coronet sang laments at night.

Some said it was just the Misdreavus on Stonetooth Rows, as they always were; their howls were well known, their intonations gingerly macabre. It was obvious: it had to be the Misdreavus.

Some said it was just the ghost that had once bewitched the Mad Lone Warden. Many claimed to have heard it, once or twice, and survived only by pure luck; but none could agree on how it sounded like, making it all just tall tales and campfire stories.

Some said it was just the Mad Lone Warden himself, howling away into the night what last shreds of his mind he had left.

Nobody had seen him for a while, now.

Iscan prayed for two hours that morning. He prayed during every second of those two hours, immoble for the first one, then as he prepared himself: he prayed along the way to Jubilife Village, where he preceded the Survey Corps’ departure by a few minutes; he prayed, perfectly silent, as he accompanied them to the feet of the mountain.

If Lord Basculegion knew something, or felt something, he did not show it; he accompanied his warden upstream, in search of Lady Sneasler and her warden.

He found her, alone, purring at the empty air. He explained where and when she would be needed, if she could lend her services to the humans who wanted to ask for them, and if she needed something in return: she waited a moment, as if listening to something, and meowled a reassurance that nothing else would have been necessary. Her basket smelled of rocky salt - she must have been just as eager to quell her fellow Lord, even if she lacked the resources.

Iscan searched the rest of the Highlands despite the red sky of evening creeping ever closer. He scowered the pitch black caves, torn between hoping to see the thing that had whisked his cousin away and demanding answers from it, praying he would be met with his haggard figure as soon as he rounded each corner, or wishing nothing at all would happen. He always emerged unscathed in the end, spared from any surprise.

Perhaps for the first time, that did not ease him.

He searched everywhere he could, retreating even to Fairy Spring when the darkness already coated most of the night sky. Of course, nobody: he had confided in Iscan once that he feared the moon-children would have felt as though he was tresspassing and gotten their vengeance on him.

A little one, shaped like a pink star, waddled up to him once she noticed even the bashful Basculins approached him unafraid to get their scaly heads patted. She peeped at him tentatively: Iscan peeped back at her softly, delighting her, and managed to fetch her from the shore. She almost fit right in the palm of his hand, so small and secure within it that she barely got spooked by the sight of Basculegion just beneath her.

He settled her in one of his pouches, had his Lord turn back around, and headed for the fateful spring where maybe, over two years ago, he shouldn’t have witnessed that haunting concert for one.

Empty.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. An encore? A repeat of it all, from a different perspective? What a silly idea.

A faint sound reached him.

Some sort of chant.

His Lord seemed to retreat within the water, so Iscan let him. Ensuring that Cleffa was safe and snug, with no chances of falling, he carefully climbed his way up, toward the clearing that preceded Moonview Arena, where he could hear Lord Electrode shake and groan in furious agony.

The chant turned clearer and clearer the more he rose; he could have almost sworn it was mitigating Electrode’s suffering ever so slightly.

“So we go, we go, so we shall go...”

It would have been such a clear voice, if the vibrato did not shake it as though its body had been wracked by shivers so strong Iscan could almost see it barely able to stand - but still it sounded wonderful, it sounded gorgeous, it sounded nowhere near as mournful as that old lament should have been.

Its verses would have appeared awkward, in Hisuian: they would have been too long and rough, too obvious in their meaning, maybe they would have seemed even callous with how direct they were. Yet the old Diamond dialect that had been their first tongue as children made it the funeral dirge sound so graceful, so full of life.

“So we go, we go, so we shall go... Under this sky of Sinnoh our hours are done: Death and solitude take us away. So we go, we go, so we shall go.”

Iscan’s veins seemed laced with granite. His steps were slow, heavy; he could not feel his heart beat.

A voice ethereal and otherwordly, like nacre wind chimes, imitated words it clearly had learned only quite recently. It was laced with a melancholic sweetness so true, so affectionate, so very earnestly grieving, that it crushed his heart completely within its loving grip.

“So we go, we go, so we shall go,” they sang together: “Let the rot have us and our flesh fester in the cold sun. The wind shall take our face: so we go, we go, so we shall go.”

Iscan’s neck twisted into a knot.

He prayed.

He prayed. with all his heart.

Cleffa felt warm against his chest, like a small star.

The body was headless, clad in the long dark coat striped with rust like he had first seen it. Its iridescent head swayed it gently just a few steps above ground into a sort of dance; its dead pale wrists were wrapped in spectral tendrils resembling flowing robes, delicate and billowing in the freezing air, almost seeping into its cold flesh. They were manacles never to be broken by any force, human or undead: its partner belonged to it, now, forever, consumed by the purplish flame that had cooled its own violet hue into a bluer one.

The Mismagius smiled at the kind frown with a terrifyingly deep fondness, unaware of its fate of servitude, totally absorbed by the empty citrine eyes.

Under the moon, the silhouette beneath its hat was so very familiar

“And so we go, we go, so we shall go,” the ghost sang, free from the body that he no longer had the strength to move, chained still so tightly to the kind psychopomp who had lead him on the path of self-destruction despite its best efforts to steer him away from it: “Our hearts will be nothing but dust, and Death will be our new spouse: the joy of the deceased’s new wedding is as eternal as Its love.”

Iscan watched him.

He watched him until the tears blinded him.

Of course.

Of course.

In the end, he had just been too late.

“And so we go, we go, so we shall go,” Melli sang to his heart’s content, dancing with his gentle killer, and looked as happy as he never had before.

[publicabsent]

the house incident.

had she known such a predator waited for her, perhaps she never would have left the house that day.

midmarch air pushes against her hair, the smell of early spring flowers carried with it. the sky shines blue, happily unaware of the day it brings. the girl, too, expects nothing from her cursory glance at the overgrown lot.

the rusty chain fence seems to be the line for the brambles & the yellowed grass. the few trees among the brush seem almost burnt up & dead, gnarled bare to the branches. her feet freeze in place, hazel eyes finding the well-disguised maw of the beast -- an old house, somewhat victorian in style. she squints, seeing both a version condemned by neglect & a version painted an elegant mossy green. the green house focuses its image, the slate roof & white detailing seeming fresh. she remembers halfway, while still studying the house, that the gate into the fence was not open before. maybe it was, she reasons. perhaps i wasn't paying attention.

her feet carry her close enough to spot the deep blue curtains, drawn back to display an ornate hearth of dark wood. a house of luxury, to be sure. though the house seems unassuming, she can feel the iciness creep around her ribs like a warning. she shouldn't be here; she needs to go to the library -- in an act of betrayal, somehow, her hand uses the brass knocker. the face in the ornament leers at her. (had she even approached the front door?)

the oaken door swings in to reveal a rich foyer, creamy wallpaper offset by nearly black wooden accents. it feels as though the house itself wants her company, though the chill is creeping into her spine. yellow sneakers feel cemented to the earth, unable to enter or exit.

"oh," a warm, syrupy voice coos, "hello, dear, do please come in."

the medium's feet oblige, entering softly into the carpeted hall. the door closes behind her, jaw gently closing in. she hardly notices, more aware of the graceful blonde woman gliding toward her. the woman is dressed in a lavender housecoat, effortlessly fashionable for seemingly no audience. her hair is gathered into a braid that cascades over one shoulder. she must be a mother, the brunette thinks. one who reads bedtime stories & holds you close. a warm one.

"you must forgive my appearance, it's been quite a while since company ... well, never mind that, come into the parlor, will you? i shall put the kettle on."

practically ushering her guest into the room, the blonde woman nearly vanishes once the younger girl is shoved into a seat. though the room is beautiful, clearly the one she'd seen from the window, something feels wrong. it smells too old. almost rotted.

"here we are! it's just earl grey." the blonde woman sets a tray holding a delicate tea set onto the table. "oh, where are my manners," she chuckles, seemingly unbothered by her guest's silence. "lady isadora whitney. pleased to meet you, miss ... ?"

finally, the brunette speaks. "an -- annette. um. c-carli."

isadora fixes two cups of tea, allowing annette a better look at the intricate floral painting. white carnations & red poppies decorate the side of the porcelain cup, & the icy sensation intensifies.

"m -- m-miss, i ... i really sh - should --"

"go? oh, do stay, darling. you'll notice time is ... peculiar in this house. & company is so rare these days."

annette had figured she was a ghost. such a statement confirmed it. the spectacled medium looks into her teacup, eyes widening at the sick dark green that tinged the liquid. the internal chill was closing its fingers around her throat; she needed to run, but nothing moved. not until isadora, with surprising strength, hoists the living girl up by her upper arms, holding just slightly too tight.

"perhaps a tour of the house? i hope, annette, you shall find it most diverting. off we go, then."

the ghost drags her haphazardly through the labyrinthine corridors. old family portraits glower down at annette as she passes, feet failing to find reliable purchase. isadora's voice has not changed from the warmth it held, but something underneath it has shifted.

"you see, darling, the women of my family have had dreadful luck when it comes to families. husbands sent to war, sickly children, conniving in-laws. i was no exception. i'd had, oh, perhaps three husbands ... ? only sweet horace never betrayed me, if only because i didn't let him. i had the most wretched, ungrateful children, despite my love & care."

isadora releases her cargo, sending annette falling to her knees. despite the exquisite appearance of the floor, splinters enter & tear at the skin of her knees. the medium looks up at the lady of the house, finally seeing the change.

her limbs were longer, bonier. her kind face had shifted into something gaunt & burned away in places, her teeth like jagged crumbs of marble. once-lovely hair was brittle & singed. there was no time to notice the talons on isadora's fingertips before they sheathed themselves into annette's jawline, pulling her to her feet & into the spirit's face. she smells of burnt flesh & rot.

"i elected to make my own luck. a dinner, for all my family."

realization strikes the living girl as she is practically thrown into the burnt bones of a once-lovely dining room. the feeling of death permeates the charred room. (now that isadora's nails no longer hold her, she feels the blooding trickling down her neck. the stale, dusty air stings.)

isadora killed all of them.

"the children were easy enough. poison for the bigger ones, but the littlest two i simply smothered. since my care was so suffocating."

annette stands stock still, eyes unfocused on the room before her. if so many died here, why did only she linger? are they hiding? lying in wait? or maybe they're watching, waiting like vultures -- annette's shoulders & head slam against the flimsy wall, only feeling a slight give. one of isadora's arms is braced just under the medium's collarbone, but her other hand snatches a delicate wrist. her grip is tight, almost too tight. the brunette wails despite herself, the sound tearing at her frozen throat.

"listen when i speak, you pathetic little shit!"

a sharp wrench of her wrist, salty tears now mingling with both dust & the slowing trail of blood. hazel eyes are wide, & she distantly wonders whether her wrist is broken. isadora seems not to care, gripping fragile upper arms & pulling her guest along yet again.

as they wander the house, what first appeared warm & welcoming is now cold, tattered, & watching the stranger. isadora, in between brief flashes of violence, explains placidly what she had done.

her first husband, along with his new wife, met their ends with a garrote. the wife, "wee thing she was," all but lost her head. annette's queasy expression prompted a vicious yank at her curls, baring her throat. the command to feel no pity for "that whore & her employer" rattles in annette's skull, shaken about by the sharp strike to her face that follows. all the living girl manages through pain & tears are mouthed apologies & an attempt at stoicism.

isadora's second husband never remarried. a polite, soft-spoken sort of man, she claimed she pitied him. this pity precedes a non-fatal blow to the head & a hanging. as the ghost's grip slackened, in one single moment of daring, annette tries to run. but the claws return, raking gashes from shoulder to forearm.

another angry pull at her hair, nearly eliciting a scream. "running, you coward? poor creature. what do you have to run to? i cannot imagine --" another yank, the ghost's grip twisting in now-filthy hair -- "anyone wishing for your return, darling. do they even know you're gone?"

lady whitney's gnarled hand remains twisted in annette's hair, nails occasionally gouging at her scalp as she tells of horace. his fate, by far, was the most dreadful. tortured by his wife, fingernails plucked out & body prodded with the red-hot poker till he confessed his intended double-crossing, mewling out a plea for mercy. he finally died when she thrust the poker through his ribcage. were it not for the still-vicious grip, annette may have vomited.

"my only mistake was letting the fire roar too long. it swallowed the house. but death isn't the end, is it, wretch?"

the small girl is tossed forward, only barely catching herself from flying face-first into the once-grand staircase. one step connects just below her ribcage, determined to leave a bruise & knocking the wind out of her.

before she can move to her feet, sharp nails clench her ankles. isadora begins to climb the stairs.

"many years later, some foolish little girl, some stupid child let her curiosity lead her here. the stairs held her weight going up, but upon her descent, the floors simply ... gave way."

as the ghost spoke, annette was being dragged up the stairway. the first stair caused her teeth to clamp on the inside of her cheek, the taste of blood filling her mouth. shaking hands scrabble desperately to find something to resist with, only managing to bloody her fingertips till it hurt to use them. her pleading is hardly audible, voice long gone. that was when the hands began to appear. they held onto her where they could, pulling against the lady whitney. hands with no fingernails grasp her wrists, but she feels them all over her. pinning her to the spot.

"let her go, you snakes! i've already killed you once, could i not do it again?"

annette squeezes her eyes shut as isadora continues to rage at unseen victims, her grip on the girl's legs vanishing. all she can think of is home. or anywhere else. the hands seem to hold her tighter, but in defense. still, she squirms against them. isadora's shrill screams grow louder & louder, till annette's ears are simply ringing. suddenly it's pouring rain.

she's flat on the ground, dried grass surrounding her. as if it all vanished. other than the ringing in her ears, the rain, & the odd passing car, all is quiet.

annette remains on the earth, bleeding & breathing heavily, until she shivers at the cold rain. the pain at her movement spreads over her, waking up her still-reeling mind. lifting herself to her feet takes a few attempts before she's steady.

trudging home in the rain is worse. her hair feels heavy & matted with knots, blood, & dirt. her scalp is screaming. she's sure at least some, if not all, of her wounds are still bleeding. it's agony to fumble for her house key, traces of blood left on every surface she touches. climbing to her attic is simply out of the question.

at least, she thinks as she collapses onto the sofa, at least i wasn't gone too long.

(she awakens the next morning to her mother's yell: gone a month & bleeding on the sofa? why bother returning?)

[chapitre7]

we shall be united as monsters

รักโคตรร้ายสุดท้ายโคตรรัก | KinnPorsche: The Series fanfiction

Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun

5.2k words

Alternate Universe

Demon summoning and Demonic Possession

Rated M for: Graphic Depiction of Violence and Blood

Read on AO3

Red paint on the ground, dust rising in a cloud as his fingers move in the shape of the summoning circle. Old flashlight on the ground, its projection flickering, maybe due to an old battery, maybe due to the air that grows heavy upon the crossroad.  Pete is dirty from more than just kneeling on the pavement or sweating into his clothes. Dirt clings to his fingernails, into wounds in his hands and up his nostrils, into his organs and bloodstream, settling on his bones. Dirt that are also words, spat with venom, boots that fall upon his stomach and chest and head until he lays broken but not dead. Not dead. Alive for this moment in the dead of night, nothing visible but the thread of light from the flashlight he stole from his father’s garage. Flickering, in, out. In, out.

He closes the circle perfectly, despite everything. Blood drips from his mouth. His fingers rise and fall into high arcs, looped characters. He calls for the morning star. He calls for anything that can hear, because no one else had dared to. His teachers pretend not to know, his neighbors look away when he looks at them. Eyes and ears closed. Kneeling on the ground, covering himself in red, Pete screams without a voice.

One would think he’s giving up now. Reaching into a darkness that no one is supposed to see, for his soul’s eternal damnation. It is not so. He draws and draws the patterns that he memorized, no need for a reference anymore. In the stories, darkness always hears. The ever-beating heart under the floorboards, inside the wall. Darkness is loud. Darkness listens. Pete paints and he pants, every breath burning on the way in and out. Darkness waits.

Pete just wants to live.

He finishes. Seventeen years and nothing to his name but this. Blood dripping from his mouth, from his broken nose. That was supposed to be the last part of the ritual, but Pete hasn’t stopped bleeding for years. Blood is everywhere he touches. He places his hands flat on the ground and seems to sink into it. He doesn’t, of course. That is not how summoning circles work. He stays there, on his hands and knees, and closes his eyes. Breathes. Hope taking over the pain.

The flashlight flickers out, leaving him in pitch-black darkness. It is night of new moon, and his future is supposed to begin now. Perhaps he’ll stop bleeding now.

He waits. He thinks he was supposed to say something, so he tries to remember it. Pete was always bad at remembering images rather than words. Faces rather than names. Something, something. Doesn’t it always start with I wish?

Nothing special happens. There is no sudden light or glow. For a moment, the world stands still, Pete’s life hanging on those seconds.

Then, Pete hears a sound coming from the distance. It sounds like thunder, but when he opens his eyes, there’s no accompanying flash. The night stays dark, streetlights broken by age or by the hands of men. He waits, breathing through his mouth, until light appears at the end of the black hole road.

The roar grows closer, light shining ahead of it. Feeling heavy and tired, Pete sits on the ground, on the paint, himself a part of the summoning circle. He waits. The headlight approaches, and he thinks it’s going to crash into him. Run him over. Darkness listens, and it answers in unexpected ways. What power did Pete have on darkness, even if he called for it? It would be fitting. It would be a mercy. At least it was never a hand that was supposed to cradle him when he cried.

The motorcycle stops, headlight on Pete’s everything. Pete looks down to avoid the glare. The light is so much brighter than his father’s old flashlight had been, brighter than his phone, brighter than anything at this time of the night. Pete feels small and exposed.

Footsteps on the dirty road. Pete looks up eagerly, fear and hope strangling him at once. There are spots in his vision, and he doesn’t know if it’s from hunger or the way he’s breathing too heavily. Through his blurry, tired eyes, he sees the figure step into the light, shadows cast on its face. It is the figure of a man, wearing the clothes of man, combat boots and jeans and a white shirt that seems to carry light in itself. Pete hasn’t worn clothes that clean in a long time.

The figure stops inside the circle, close enough for Pete to reach out, for his red-stained fingers to grab onto that white shirt. His knees hurt when he places his weight on them, but he does it anyway, clutching onto that figure in the darkness, smearing it with red, saying, “Please,” saying, “you have to end it.” Saying, at last, shattered, “I’ll do anything.”

The figure takes hold of his wrists. Beautiful, pale fingers adorned with ice-cold rings. It takes him and it shoves Pete away, letting Pete fall to the ground. And in that fall that feels slow, prolonged like minutes in the night, Pete breath stutters and he flickers out, like the flashlight. In the seconds before the darkness takes over him, he feels the figure step closer and loom over him.

He thinks he’s already dead when he next wakes up. Lying on a bed he doesn’t know, an unknown man sitting by a desk just a few feet away. The drawn curtains bathe the room in sepia, and in that tone, Pete thinks he knows that man. When the man turns, in his eyes, he seems to know Pete, too.

“Vegas?”

Pete sits up and the man stands up, moving to sit on the edge of the bed Pete’s lying on. Pete cannot tell the time, cannot tell anything but the moment he looks at the man before him.

How old is he? Older than Pete remembers. Pete lifts his hand, places it on that cheek. It’s Vegas. Vegas, who lived next door to him a decade ago. Vegas, who was quiet, who nobody wanted to befriend because he glared too much, because he was unkind. Vegas, who liked to read books none of the other kids understood. Pete had liked them, once he picked them from the shelves where Vegas’s hand had left them. He didn’t understand all of the words, but he had liked the shape of them. The ghosts and flowers and love they painted. When he had approached Vegas with questions about the books, the boy had seemed surprised. When Vegas read for him, all the words took the shape of his voice, as they would forever exist inside of Pete. They existed in him through the years, and Pete remembered them for a while, as he lay bleeding in his bed in the dark.

And then Vegas had died. His house consumed in flames. Not a trace of him ever found, as if blown away by the breath of the wind.

Dead. Vegas had been dead for years. But here is his shape, touching Pete’s bruises, covering his wounds in bandages. Here he is, the tips of his hands cold, stealing the warmth from Pete’s skin. He lifts Pete’s shirt unabashedly, already knowing where Pete is hurt, mending him there.

“Vegas,” Pete says, and his name sounds different in his mouth, now that Pete is seventeen and full of darkness. Vegas looks up, eyes sharp as a knife. He hadn’t been like that in Pete’s memory. He had been a little withdrawn. Lips pursed, as if holding his words back. His lips look different now that he’s grown, now that he has taken the shape of Pete’s devil, now that he looks at Pete head on. There’s a determination on his face now, as if anger had solidified in him like a resolution, like something that grew angles, that cast shadows. Upon hearing his name, Vegas blinks slowly, like a cat. Pete is sure he’s made him up. That Vegas couldn’t have grown to look like that, beautiful in a way that burns Pete, with mannerisms easy to love.

Something must show on Pete’s face because Vegas stops, hands settling on either side of Pete’s hips. The straight lines of his focused expression melt into something smoother, something that blurs when he leans too close. He says, “Pete,” and his voice is unfamiliar, not too deep, but clear like a chime, softly moving with the breeze. He says, “How do you want it to end?”

Pete breath stutters. He feels alive when this version of Vegas touches his hip, when his other hand cups his cheek. Vegas used to flinch at physical contact, but Pete had ruined him back then, placing his head on his shoulder when Vegas read, colliding into Vegas every time they met. But this — his breath on Pete’s skin, the caress of his thumbs — is something different. Something new. Real like the red stains on his white shirt, that grounds Pete to the present, and all of his pain comes back at once.

“I want him to suffer,” Pete breathes against Vegas’s lips.

Vegas smiles. It’s nothing like when he was a young child. Pete couldn’t make it up in his mind, because it’s cruel. It’s full of teeth. Pete’s face hurts and he leans forward and kisses the demon that had taken the shape of his first love.  When he pushes his tongue inside Vegas’s mouth, Vegas starts to lean back, but Pete wraps his arms around his neck, keeps him in place. His body screams in agony, and in his mind, there’s only Vegas’s hot body against him and pain. But if pain is everything he’s always feeling, what is it next to a distant wish finally fulfilled?

He blacks out soon after. Wakes up to the dark beyond the curtains, and a single lamp casting the room in orange light. Vegas is near — walks to him in mesmerizing steps, hands him a bundle of clothes. He gives him a lopsided smirk, and the angle of it, paired with the look in his eyes and the black of his clothes, tell a tale. He doesn’t have horns or a tail, his eyes aren’t red or glowing, but hell seems to follow in his footsteps, in the shine of the knife that he takes from his jacket and shows Pete.

Vegas had been a good companion. Pete had liked him because he was the first one Vegas hadn’t pushed away, letting Pete stay in his orbit like the moon. He shared his sweets with Vegas, and Vegas let him. Vegas talked about the games he wanted to play, and Pete brought his own portable videogame so they could play together on Vegas’s porch. It made Pete feel full, the way his grandma’s cakes used to. Pete hasn’t seen his grandma in many years now. He tried to take a bus once, to run away from everything, but his father caught him first. This Vegas that he had conjured, was it really Vegas in the end? Would Vegas want to see him again, broken and unclean as he was? Would he reach out to Pete, instead of moving on to his next life, where he would never meet Pete again?

Did it matter?

Vegas takes him home. His motorcycle is red, the color of the paint Pete used to draw the summoning circle. Pete keeps his eyes closed, letting the world pass him by like a rush of wind. He imagines keeping his soul, traveling with his love, somewhere bright and blue. When the bike stops, he sees his house, and knows that it’s how it would always be. That door, the man inside. He would never be able to leave them. They would live in him like a poisoned root, and its fruits would kill him slowly, day by day by day.

Vegas dismounts the bike, takes off his helmet, and holds his hand out to Pete. Like an invitation to a dance, but it’s the seal of their contract. A wish for a soul, is what the texts had said. Pete had been okay with it. What use did he have for a soul? What if the next life was just like this one?

He takes Vegas’s hand. As they walk together to his front door, Vegas takes his switch knife from inside his jacket. Distantly, Pete remembers that, as a kid, Vegas had been ambidextrous. Could this version of Vegas kill his father with either of his hands?

Vegas kicks the front door open. Pete’s father, who had been sitting in front of the TV, bolts upright. He looks between Pete and Vegas, confused, but when Vegas grins at him, when Vegas draws the knife up in a battle stance, his eyes grow wide and crazed, and he yells.

Pete’s father had been a fighter. He knows how to block an attack, and he knows how to counterattack. He has the upper hand, being bigger and more experienced, and the advantage of having beaten Pete up for so many years, that the mere swing of his fist causes Pete to instantly freeze.

Vegas pushes Pete away before the first blow can hit him, and leaps to the other side of the man. Now, Pete’s father has a son who hates him on one side and the devil who vowed to kill him on the other.

He must have been in many fights in his life, but few must have carried so much resentment.

Maybe the man could have won the fight if Pete had been alone, or if Vegas and Pete had fought fairly. Not with teeth and nails and a sharp knife. When he leans to punch one, the other kicks and bites into his disgusting flesh. When he cries out and smashes that one against the hard back of the couch, the other slashes against his gut, the knife switching hands as if they’re but children playing together.

Pete had learned from him to punch in the stomach and then hit the face. Pete hits him and hits him, like he never managed before. His father falls to the ground, loud and heavy, and Pete hits his face. He hits until the skin is peeling from his knuckles, until his father’s blood mixes with his own, until Vegas appears behind him and takes hold of his hands, only to wrap his fingers around the knife and together, hand on hand on handle, they pierce through that neck and blood squirts up, showering over them.

Pete does not stop. The knife falls, and falls, and falls. His arms start to hurt too much to complete the movement, so he lets them fall to his sides. He pants as the blood pools on the floor where he had bled so many times before. His blood must still be there, in the corners where his father couldn’t clean, in stains on the rug that would never come off.

He lets Vegas pull him up, away from his father’s corpse. Pete sees the body move, twitch, and then it stops again. Vegas’s arms are around him, holding him as he regains his breath, as he stops trembling. Soon, the parts where his father hit him one last time will start to hurt. Soon, the world will wake and see what he has done. Soon, he will lose his soul. For now, Pete leans against a warm embrace, and lets the sobs turn into giggles in his mouth, his tears fall from his eyes into his smile.

He only notices the knife is still in his hands when Vegas tries to pull it from his grip. Pete doesn’t let him. Instead, Pete turns in his arms, places his bloodstained hands on Vegas’s face. He leaves a trail of blood from Vegas’s cheek to his hair, and then pulls Vegas into a kiss. It shouldn’t taste any good, not with the hunger and the night and the blood in his mouth, but it does. Perhaps the devil should taste of something rotten, but maybe he is the devil because he tastes sweet. A sweet remembrance of a love once pure, of a child who still had someone to love him. Vegas kisses him like he loves him, but it’s not real. It’s not real. It’s a pact. It’s a seal. It’s a wish.

“Come on,” Vegas says, and pulls on his hand. They climb the stairs to Pete’s room. Wash their hands in the bathroom, the overhead light too bright for their eyes. They pull Pete’s clothes from his wardrobe and throw them into a bag, and it’s easy because Pete doesn’t own much to begin with. And if he could choose, really, he’d rather wear clothes designed for Vegas, just like he does then, on the day he murdered his father, so he could pretend to live like he fit in someone else’s life.

How long does he have anyway?

On the threshold of the front door, Vegas stops and takes something from his pocket. It’s not his knife, because Pete still has it. It’s a lighter. He flicks it open and into life, and he touches the flame to the curtains. He pulls them from their hinges and throws them over the body. The fire spreads quickly, across the floor and onto the rug, over the faded wallpaper and the windows. Pete watches it all, fascinated, back stepping until he trips and falls on his backside.

Vegas sits beside him as he admires the fire take over the house, and then he lets himself fall completely down on the overgrown yard in front of the house. He tips his head to the side, the weeds tickling his face. He looks at the pink flowers that spread out, untamed, and to those flowers, to those pink petals, he speaks. To the blood in those stems, he speaks to his mother, lying several feet below, buried by the hands that she used to love, and he says, “It’s done now.”

Pete laughs. He faces the sky and he laughs, one hand still clutching the knife and the other Vegas’s hand. He looks up at the dark sky, the orange and yellow and red light of the fire painting the edge of his vision, and to the stars above, he laughs. Underneath his eyelids, for a moment, he’s free. He’s seven years old and he’s in a library, his head lying against a boy’s shoulder. His conscience flickers, sways, hypnotized by the foreign words Vegas reads. He reads about love, about the sun and the stars, things they’re too young to understand, but not too young to long for. A beautiful summer day.

Pete sleeps.

When he wakes, he’s no longer seven. He’s no longer seventeen. He’s older, and the sky has gone indigo. He stretches and his body moves without hurting, without pulling on scabbed wounds, on red scars. He reaches across the bed, over the edge, for someone who isn’t there. Vegas. Vegas. He once loved him. He was once everything that was good. Not a murderous father. Not a gone mother. Not relatives that never visited, that called and believed him when he said everything was going well. Vegas let him stay on his porch, and he played video games with him, and he liked books with pretty covers. Vegas, who loved the galaxy and could name the constellations and the planets and their moons. Vegas. Wherever have you gone?

Pete rises. The room is the same one Vegas took him to, after the summoning circle brought him back to Pete. Vegas’s shirt is thrown over the lamp, dampening the light, casting shadows of blood on the walls. Pete takes it, smells it, deep, deep into his lungs. Vegas is real. And he’s Pete’s. He had died in a fire once but he had come back for Pete, hadn’t he? When Pete bled for salvation, he was the one who showed up, wasn’t he? His knife. His knife. Pete still has it in the pocket of his pants. He flicks it open, catches his own reflection on the blade. If he brought it to his own neck, would Vegas show up, to claim his soul? And once Vegas took him, between this life and the next, would Pete be able to see him again, at the library, on the steps to the second floor, reading to Pete about princes and ghosts?

Pete puts on the bloodstained shirt. He saves the knife in his pocket again, and he walks away from the hotel room, from the city, from the life that he used to live. His house no longer burns against the horizon. There are no people on the streets. Perhaps time had moved on without him, he who had the soul touched by the devil. Maybe he lived the world in a different layer now, where people could no longer perceive him. What difference would it make? They didn’t care when his eyes asked them for help. Why would they care now that he was damned?

Oh, promising son. Oh, promising child.

Fuck that.

Where is the one who claims his soul?

Pete walks.

The scenario moves along, blurred at the edges. Ahead of him, there is the road. He wishes he had Vegas’s motorbike, blood-red. There are no cars, no vehicles. The sun rises and falls, and Pete walks. He walks farther than he managed when his father stopped him the last time. Vegas was already dead by then. His new neighbor had looked at him with pity when his father brought him back and hit him with a chair until it broke. When Vegas lived next door, when they were both younger, his father didn’t use to be so bad. The bruises were always in places others could never see. And Pete could still smile.

Perhaps there are cars and people and life that he walks by, but Pete doesn’t notice them as much as they never noticed him. His feet don’t seem to tire, and he doesn’t seem to sleep. Or perhaps he does. He can’t remember. All he knows is the road and the night sky. The stars that Vegas used to like. He thinks his mother would have liked the sky. But there are a lot of things she would have liked, an infinity of them, and it’s pointless to think of her. Pete didn’t even know the sound of her voice. Whenever Pete asked his dad about her, the beatings were worse, so he stopped asking. Stopped wondering. He didn’t long for her.

What did he long for?

He stops before a lake. The water ripples, shattering his reflection. There is a house in the middle of the lake, and Pete knows it’s where he’ll find Vegas. This might be the end of his journey. Seventeen years, one love, and a lot of broken bones. Pete laughs. If he could choose, he’d want to be something else in his next life. Something that lived less than seventeen years. His mother’s favorite flower. What was it? He didn’t know. Vegas used to like roses. Pete saw him look at a bunch of them when they walked past a flower shop. He always seemed sad when he looked at them, but he always looked. Pete wanted to buy one for him, but he never did. The house burned first.

Water could not keep him from Vegas. So, Pete walks.

It mustn’t have been a lake, in the end. Maybe just mirror of the clear blue sky. Pete likes blue. It seems fitting, brings something pleasant to his stomach.

He stands before the door beyond the lake, and he kicks it open.

Two pairs of eyes turn to look at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks Vegas’s father.

What was his name? And what the fuck is he doing here?

On the ground, looking at him, barely breathing, is Vegas. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, and bruises all over his face. He’s on his knees, trying to cover someone else, and Pete can’t see it, but he remembers. Before the fire, just days before, Vegas’s mother gave birth. What was the name?

Pete brings a hand to his head, step faltering, stumbling back to lean against the doorframe. There is something there, hidden in his head, and it’s pulsating now, beneath his eyelids, like a beating heart.

“Pete?”

Pete opens his eyes, sees Kan Theerapanyakun approach, and that’s when he remembers.

He’s seven, and he’s lying beneath his sheets, crying in his bedroom. He’s seven and he hears screaming, but he doesn’t get up because his father had the TV on downstairs, as if he didn’t just bleed his son. He’s seven and he thinks he hears his name, so he pushes the blankets off him and sits up. The floor is cold when he stands, and colder next to the window. When Pete looks at the house next door, it’s already alight. He sees the shadow of a man walking away, but he can’t do anything, because he’s seven and he’s watching the house of the only person he cares about burn. Everything is a blur after that. The people coming out of their houses. The firemen arriving, siren loud. They find Vegas’s mother. Everyone assumes they died. Vegas. The baby. They died. They died.

Kan rises his fist but it never hits Pete, because Pete takes hold of his wrist.

He’s real. Pete grins as he pulls Kan’s wrist, as he pushes him back. The man doesn’t fall, and Pete can’t have that, so he kicks Kan in the chest so he goes down, down, and then Pete is kicking him, stomping on his chest, just like Pete’s father used to do to him. Kan tries to take hold of Pete’s ankle but Pete pulls back from his grasp and kicks Kan in the face before he sits down on Kan and starts to punch him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Pete says, voice full of wonder, eyes full of tears. “You killed her. You burned the house down.”

“Pete!”

Pete punches the man, a motion already familiar, already repeated. He punches him until the tears start to fall, then he stops to brush them away, to wipe his nose on the cuff of his jacket. He looks to the side and at Vegas. He’s seventeen now. He’s not wearing a leather jacket, doesn’t look like he’s ready to climb on a red motorbike and ride away, across the lake. He’s seventeen and he’s beaten, sitting down on the floor now, hands on his baby brother. Pete looks at him, at the distance between them that has become just a few feet now, and not a lifetime. Pete looks at his hands, at the blood in them, and wonders — where did I go?

Kan starts moving underneath Pete, hands rising, ready to grab Pete’s neck. Pete knows how the story ends.

So he takes the knife from his jacket, and he plunges it into Kan’s heart.

Not once. It’s not enough to do it once. Not for all the people he hurt, the lives he took. A man like him — a man like Pete’s father, they don’t hurt just a single person. When they hurt their children, they hurt their future. All the people that love them and that could have loved them. All the ones that they lose along the way, while they try to piece themselves back together. It’s not revenge. The knife dips down, again and again. It’s not revenge. Pete is trembling now. He just wanted to live. He just wanted to live.

Vegas takes hold of his arms and pulls Pete off his father. He holds Pete against his chest, arms circling Pete’s frame, keeping him in place, while Pete trashes, then trembles. When Pete looks down at his hands, he doesn’t see the knife. All he sees are his nails, long and sharp, flesh clinging underneath, and blood, dripping, dripping down, all the way to his wrists.

“Pete,” Vegas says, next to Pete’s ear. Pete turns his head, though he can’t see Vegas clearly with how close they are. “You really came.”

Pete’s heart beats fast against his rib cage. He can only feel it now.

“You called for me?” Pete asks.

“We were going to die tonight,” Vegas says, squeezing Pete a little tighter in his embrace, “and the only thing I could think of was you.

The last happy memory I had.”

For a moment, Vegas’s hold could crush him. Then Vegas loosens it, just enough for Pete to turn better and look at him. He had been a cute kid, a bit too pale, perhaps. He’s beautiful now, even bruised, even too thin. Better now than when Pete thought he saw him, beyond the circle at the crossroad. But that Vegas had been warm, too. If he kissed Vegas now, would he kiss Pete the same, or was that all just the devil, playing with Pete’s head, savoring the love Pete had in his heart?

Pete raises a hand to touch Vegas’s face, but it’s still covered in blood. He stops mid-action. His eyes follow the drop of blood that falls from his fingers to the floor, and that’s when he sees it. The circle, and the words etched in it. Pete knew them by heart. Had memorized them so well he didn’t need to look them up when he painted them on the ground.

He gazes back at Vegas when Vegas takes hold of his hand, placing it on his own cheek. The blood is still warm. Vegas makes a face, as if he does mind the blood, as if he minds that it’s his father’s blood, but he leans his head forward, touching his forehead against Pete’s, and exhales. In their closeness, Pete feels seventeen and in love. Normal. Immortal.

He circles his arms around Vegas’s neck and pulls him as close as he can. With his chin on Vegas’s shoulder, he looks down, and sees Vegas’s baby brother. His name is Macau – Pete remembers it now. Vegas’s mother had told him herself, had let Pete hold him once. He had managed to survive all these years. How? What had Vegas been through?

Did it matter now?

Pete holds Vegas even tighter, his hands staining Vegas’s shirt, his hair, his neck. Vegas’s hands move on Pete’s back, his nails imprinting lightly on the skin. They move underneath Pete’s shirt, feeling the warm skin there, touching the circle that now adorns the skin, a mark like a burn, but it’s smooth like a tattoo. A mark from within.

Pete closes his eyes when he touches his cheek against Vegas’s, when he nuzzles his skin. His nails are no longer knife-sharp, so when they scrape against Vegas’s nape, when he runs them through Vegas’s hair, he doesn’t hurt Vegas. When he kisses Vegas, it’s the first time. A promise. Here, we will begin again. Here, we will live. I’ll call your name, and you’ll call for me, and no one will hurt you again. They’re seventeen and they’re endless, as every seventeen year old ought to be. Before them is a long road, beyond the lake, under the blanket of stars. Pete kisses Vegas and Vegas bites his tongue, tastes his blood, and it’s not their first kiss.

Atop the summoning circle, they’re more than themselves.

All the pieces of you belong to me.

No one will ever hurt you but me.