#but is a lifetime of existing as half a soul not it’s own death

[justafewsmallsteps]

Inuyasha rare pair of your choice:: 29. A kiss ..."as a promise"

There were many things Kikyou was forced to lock away during her life; so many feelings she had to bury deep within herself in order to fulfill her duty as the Keeper of the Shikon no Tama. There was no room for self-doubt or sorrow just as there was no allowance for real happiness or whimsy. 

Purity. It was her prison in life. 

But she was no longer alive. 

Walking the earth as a phantom, her partial soul confined to a clay body, Kikyou was no longer shackled to the expectations that had once weighed her down. In her death had been release. 

Freedom. 

All the freedom in the world to do as she pleased, act as she pleased, feel as she pleased. 

For the first time in her existence, she could experience the fullness of life as it had been denied to her before. But to live a normal life was as unattainable a wish as holding an ocean. All she could do now was throw herself into the waters, allow herself to bask in it without fear of drowning. (She was already dead, after all.) 

She was as much unbound to her duty as she was to the rest of society. 

Free to hate. 

Free to love.

Even her idea of love used to be confined to what was allowed. What was appropriate. A husband and children and domestic subservience. Those were society’s standards for a woman. A part of her stilled mourned the loss, but a greater part felt a great triumph to escape it. Now, Kikyou no longer cared for their rules or ethics, for their acceptance or respect. How fickle and selfish were their desires and affections. 

But she could be fickle and selfish too now. She abandoned propriety. She captured what life she could to sustain herself, threw herself into a revenge-fueled quest for justice, beckoned the half-demon to whom she almost gave her heart and left him without explanation. She didn’t need him as a lover anymore. She didn’t need any man. 

And so when it wasn’t a man who piqued her interest, Kikyou no longer buried the feeling, nor did she feel any shame. It wasn’t even difficult for her to wonder why the Wind Sorceress was so captivating to her. After all, she had an affinity for those who craved freedom as she did. A demon. An incarnation of her murderer. Being a woman was laughably inconsequential in comparison. 

And because Kikyou was free to do as she wished, she let herself lean into her curiosity without trepidation. 

For her part, Kagura had the power to animate the dead, but she had absolutely no control over the resurrected miko. Kikyou was an entirely different existence, and one that Kagura approached with caution. While Kikyou always made quick work of Naraku’s wasps, she allowed the Kagura to survey her without care. Why? 

It wasn’t out of fear. If she truly wanted to, the priestess was more than capable enough to overpower the demoness. All it would take was an arrow or two, at least to send her away. But she was able to get near enough, closer and closer until the sorceress practically sat in her shadow. 

(It was oddly reminiscent of another time and another love; a whole lifetime ago.) 

The conversations came with time. Two even-headed women with winter etched into their veins. It turned out they had more in common than they’d expected. A dislike of crowds, a low tolerance for foolishness, and a vice-like grip on their desire to be free. So it came as no surprise that their mutual attraction was largely fueled by an innate, burning streak of rebellion—a delicious defiance against the half-demon that threatened Kagura’s heart and desired Kikyou’s. 

Kikyou could give her affection and time to anyone she chose, and she chose what he saw as his servant. Not him. Never him. 

Their companionship was a secret. Hidden behind barriers and nightfall, Kikyou let herself give in to her own desires. Light grazes eventually had them wrapped up together, and it was under a moonless night that Kikyou stole the first kiss. 

It felt as scandalous as it did liberating—another part of herself that she’d stamped out awoke; rose from amongst the ashes she was formed by. And Kikyou laughed in the wake of its discovery. Oh, how she’d been so blind. All those days staring at the beautiful girls who got to dress up, and she had desperately believed that she wanted to be them. And certainly that was part of it, but it hadn’t been the full story, had it? So she kissed the Wind Sorceress again, and again, and when she felt Kagura relent and respond, it was a triumph. The fire of rebellion gave way to a different sort of heat—the spark of elation, the warmth of fondness—and they both ended up smiling. 

But their circumstances weren’t lost on either woman. 

“What does this mean for us?” Kagura asked, a hand on Kikyou’s hip. 

“Does it have to mean anything in particular?” 

The demoness smirked. “No.” Did she want it to? It was difficult to say. “But I will have to leave in the morning.” 

“What will you tell him?” 

“That I need to keep an eye on you more,” she replied deviously. “That I have no idea what you’re thinking or planning.” 

Another kiss. They were smart women, knowing how to manipulate and keep their secrets close. 

“So you’ll be back.” Kikyou said. A request more than a statement or question. 

“If he permits it,” she grated. It was the best she could do. Kagura was a caged bird, as Kikyou had once been. Even off to roam, she must return back to her keeper.

Gently, Kikyou traced Kagura’s cheek, studying the firestorm of resentment and defiance in her red eyes, so different from her own and yet like a mirror of their hearts. The priestess found herself drawn in by the color, eventually coming to hover over rouged lips. “I’ll destroy him,” she promised with quiet certainty. 

The romanticism of it pulled the sorceress in. In a hot breath she murmured, “I’ll let you,” before closing the gap between them. 

#bro this got away from me haha #kikyou #kagura #kikyou x kagura #jelly fic #kiss prompt #jelly chats #inuyasha #had to do some soul searching bc i don’t really HAVE rarepairs #they just don’t occur to me usually #kagukik #jelly art #justafewsmallsteps

[moonjxsung]

I totally understand what you said about love. In my case I just accepted the kind of love I want doesn’t exist, so I will only be setting myself up to be disappointed by getting into relationships. All my friends tell me that’s not a good way to view things but honestly since realizing that I learned how to find happiness in so many different things I used to overlook. I also learned how to feel complete and happy by myself, which was something I never thought I could do. I never left the house alone because I thought I would look like a lonely sad girl and I thought it would be boring and pointless without other people but now I love going out alone 🧚‍♀️

I think society puts a lot of emphasis and importance on romantic relationships which is sad. I see my 15 year old cousin jumping from sad relationship to toxic relationship simply because she can’t stand to be alone AND SHE IS FIFTEEN.

I second what you said, let’s embrace being single and being complete with our own self love 🩷

~🌷~

!!!! Like I initially thought it was such a negative way to view the world, but what about it is negative compared to the realistic side of it? There is no implication that any of us will end up in happy, fulfilling relationships. Nothing is guaranteed in this lifetime except for our death. We may very well die alone, and there’s nothing wrong with that. People have done it for centuries, and I can say with a whole lot of confidence that I doubt their souls were weighed and judged in the afterlife based on the presence of a significant other. It’s okay to be alone- in fact you should be alone for most of your life.

Also I candidly despise when people say “you’re so brave” or “I wish I could be like you” regarding my lifestyle. I’m not brave for placing the importance of my relationship to myself above a significant other. That is basic human nature. And if you want to “be more like me”, then practice the same thing. But don’t act like I’m some courageous sob story with a unique lifestyle no other woman partakes in. I’m just single and I’m happy being single.

Also YES to the part about your cousin- I actually think it’s more courageous to allow yourself to be in repetitive unfulfilling relationships than to learn to be by yourself. I’m surrounded by friends in unhappy relationships and I always just think “I could never do that”, and I am fully aware that it’s everything to do with their fear of being single (which in my opinion, is tragic.) Could never be me!!! If it’s not a member of skz or a plane ticket to the next world tour, then I don’t want it.

“How are you okay with being single at 24?” “Are you getting married any time soon?” = “you’re in your child-bearing years and time is ticking! Go satisfy a man and extend your bloodline!”

At 24, I: hold a senior title at my company, I have the most insane collection of things I love, my twin sister is my best friend and other half, I produce work I’m proud of, I moved out earlier than all my friends, I have a bachelor’s degree and I’m pursuing my master’s within the year, I travel a lot for work and for pleasure, I’ve been to so many concerts, I have a group of friends I love very dearly, the list goes on. The only thing that would complete that list would be winning the fucking lottery, not a significant other.

(I love you!!! Single-but-in-love-with-skz agenda is alive and well on here. 🩷🫶)

#🌷 anon #ask

[dailycharacteroption]

Roleplaying Races 12: Samsaran

(art by Jurijus Chitrovas on Artstation)

  The word “Samsara” comes from Sanskrit, and can either be interpreted as “the world” or as “the cycle of reincarnation”, a belief common to Hindu and Buddhist faith, in which a soul has multiple go-arounds in life.

While reincarnation does exist in Pathfinder’s cosmology, is it mostly a choice sought out by souls of certain deity-focused philosophies (most often centered in Vudra), as well as a few deity-less philosophies, as well as a few that haven’t quite had their fill of mortal life yet.

Some, however, are naturally inclined to reincarnate. Through some agreement with Pharasma, a certain clade of humanity became locked in a cycle of reincarnation. Not only that, these-blue-skinned humans retain considerably more access to the memories of past lives than any other known species, though they seem like distant and half-remembered dreams, most of the time.

When a samsaran dies, they eventually reincarnate, being born to ordinary human parents, who might be quite alarmed at their child’s strange blue skin depending if they have ever seen a samsaran before. Using divination magic, samsarans seek out these newborns and try to convince their parents to give up the child to be raised among their own. Conversely, samsarans that have children give birth to ordinary humans, who may or may not become samsarans in later lives, and whom are usually given up to human families.

Samsarans resemble humans, but they have blue skin tones ranging from pale to deep and vibrant, which I feel must be a reference to various Hindu depictions of deities and demigods with blue skin, such as Krishna.

Generally speaking, samsarans try to live simple lives of self-reflection, thinking on what came before, and what they do now. However, some do also have major goals in mind, often long-term in nature, which span several lifetimes. Mostly, samsarans that were enemies in the past are willing to let bygones be bygones since their past lives don’t have to inform their future, but others, especially ones with clear goals, may oppose each other or other long-lived beings across multiple lifetimes.

 Thanks to their introspection, samsarans tend to be insightful and intelligent, but their bodies are somewhat frail.

Despite this, they are surprisingly resistant to attacks on their life force, pushing back against negative energy and necromancy.

They also have inherent magic, letting them draw upon past experiences to understand other languages, as well as sense vitality and stabilize the dying.

From their vague memories, they also draw practical knowledge, demonstrating surprising aptitude with a handful of skills.

 Of course, not every samsaran comes back the same, Some hail from mountain cities and are acclimated to the altitude, while others were spellcasters in a past life, and learn ways to add the spell knowledge of their past to their arsenal in the present, even across disciplines, though they are still limited by the divides between arcane, divine, and psychic magic.

 It’s also worth noting the existence of “reborn” samsarans, which are those who emotional state during their last death unlocks powerful psychic abilities in their next life. They share the same attribute bonuses, but gain a knack of occult applications of normal skills, a handful of psychic spell-like abilities, the ability to be reminded of past skills when reading the auras of others, but also having an easily read aura.

 With their focus on mental attributes and on skills, samsarans naturally gravitate towards skillful classes as well as spellcasters, while shying away from direct combat classes due to their deficiency in constitution. For example, alchemist, investigator, and rogue are good picks, as is cleric, inquisitor, and paladin if you want to bank on their resistance to necromancy and undead-related abilities. Many charisma casters don’t focus on intelligence, so going with one of them can give you some much needed skill points you might not otherwise have. Both wizards and oracles have a favored class bonus with samsaran which grants them extra spells known, which is especially useful for an oracle even with no charisma increase. Combat classes are again a weak point for them, but if you are agile or well-armored foes may never even strike you. Their only big weakness is the kineticist class, but even that can be worked around.

#pathfinder #race #samsaran #Inner Sea Races #Advanced Race Guide

[uralienlucas]

TW: mentioning of the concept of death.

Death is depressed. Death is sad beneath it all. Death is calm and not composed. Death is happy at times, euphoric even. Death has dark circles around her eyes for crying and dying and Death gets excited for Life things. Death is all in one in all again. Death isn't the stop of a life, it's not the beginning either. It's the midpoint, the obstacle. Death is the most comforting thing I've ever heard of.

This is my concept of death. It isn't perfect, but I cherish her like an old friend. My concept of me. I cherish me like my own soul. Because I'm it all and I'm the nothingness. I'm the midpoint but people run half a mile. I'm Death, and death, it and her. And it is me too.

When I see a coffin, it's me who planted in it. When I see a life, it's me who's going to meet it. When I see a death, it's the result of my existence. It's my existence itself. Do I feel guilty? Should I feel guilty? Because I'm a checkpoint, but everyone's grieving at the end-it-all of me.

Maybe that's why I don't like funerals. Why is everyone crying, dressed in black? Why is it all my fault? Is it all my fault? That they died without wanting to die. Without needing to die. I touched them with my lips because the clock ticked, isn't that what everyone said? But I understand, I also don't like to be kissed.

Death isn't the end of the day and of all the days, the clock can't tick because there is no time to a lifetime. It is merely an alarm, the annoying sound before your day continues, because it goes on after your soul leaves. It isn't good nor bad. It just exists. I'm just here.

I chose coffins and cemetery flowers when I was 10. The smell of them kept me relaxed when nothing else could. I wanted to lay on them, feel them against my bones and forever be with them. When I needed to wake up to Life, I started grieving too. Is that what people feel like when they meet me?

My death flashes in front of my eyes when the clock ticks and it's noon. You're not the only one desiring to not be here. Anywhere but here. I wanted to be in your place, and I know you would trade death for mine. Someone, somewhere, is going to miss you, but your clock goes on ticking. And it says it's time for us to share a kiss.

#otherkin #nonhuman #otherkinity #conceptkin #deathkin #death. #writing #spilled writing #spilled heart #spilled words

[retelling-of-ragnarok]

❆ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ❆

content warning: torture, blood, death, manipulation, abuse. both to children and to third parties. gwen’s backstory in dark in general, so if that isn’t your cup of tea, turn back.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

❆ ᴋɪᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ❆

↳ At age six they were approached by a strange man. With long flowing hair, they flowed behind him like a blizzard. White as snow, not a single blemish or dead it. With eyes so golden, they could pierce the heavens. He hurt their eyes to look at, the air around him was so venomous, so dangerous. It excited them to no end, knowing that someone like this existed. Someone like this approach their family. His demands would surely be interesting, a once in a lifetime chance for whoever was chosen.

And that, horrifyingly unlucky soul, was Gwen. A child with only six years of exposure to the world, but somehow became the family prodigy. Their results so far were unmatched by any of their siblings, when they were that age. They had a bright future, and this man was here to extinguish it. A contract bound by blood and soul, a brand placed upon the very eyes that Gwen had been blessed to have. Those same eyes that could pierce anything they laid upon. The eyes of an artist, now about to be blinded. Blinded by the hands that shared a similar mark. A bond stronger than even the red strings of fate themselves.

At age six they had gone to hell. A realm full of Demons, ready to take their life from any angle. They could take care of themselves, they were confident. Yet the moment they stepped into Eden Castle, that all changed. The air was poisonous, the ghosts and aura of hatred that flooded the corridors was almost too much to bare, but they endured. The whippings, the lashings, the psychological drain. They endured.

Every hour was torture. For they were left alone, the ghastly hands of the castle’s owner brushing their neck at every second. The ghosts that haunt the halls, the screams from those who weren’t there. The experiments that roamed the floorboards. It was a challenge of survival, one that they were forced to complete. Even as the piercing eyes of the devil stared down at them, weaving them along by strings as he laughed at his own personal puppet show.

At age six, they made a friend. They were both the same age, except this child had no name, no birthday, no identity to speak of. Gwen named them, and offered to share his birthday with them. They were the best of friends, a light in the endless sea of darkness. A motivation to keep going, through all the blood they may have shed. An angel, among demons.

↳ At age eight, they killed their best friend. With the same hands they used to make masterpieces. The same hands they were so proud of, and took care of. Those same hands, were a curse to others. From the moment their hands made contact with their friend, the child began to dissolve. The painful shrieking, the blood that left their room smelling like lead for weeks. The image of the friend’s humanity and body being ripped from them, all while he watched. The skin they had ripped, from thrashing around in their chains— The faces of the two people who conspired to kill their friend. They’ll never forget that day. The rampage they had went on, their voice hoarse from screaming. The day that Gwen shut themselves off.

At age eight they had to fight for their life. When it was time for bed, Gwen didn’t get to sleep. Attacks from all sides— The experiments Karl had previously given up on finally found a purpose. A poisonous, venomous mist, they drained the vitality from anyone that got too close. The manic, deranged doctor, who might as well have been a clone of Karl himself. Every night was a fight for survival. From locking doors to using flashlights, to getting physically violent. They’ll never forget the face of one of the experiments, as they slice him in half. The way his skin hung, the malicious cackle he gave. The elated expression he had as he was mauled. It was all a game. He was merely an NPC in that game, with a specific set of rules he had to follow. As was Gwen. This was all a fucked game, that Karlheinz had the pleasure of watching. Daring the boy to seek him out for help, daring him to run to the devil for assistance.

At age eight, they stopped sleeping.

❆ ᴛᴇᴇɴ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ❆

↳ At age twelve, they became a royal. They had studied politics, learned the language, received so many lessons, all for this moment. To become Karl’s ultimate wave of controlled chaos. Presented to the political scene like some kind of toy. Nobles from all over came to ogle at them, all while Gwen had to keep up their act perfectly.

At age twelve, they were approached by three figures. One King, and two Queens. All with their own kingdoms, their own ideals. All were interested in them. A human, with no business even entering the Makai, suddenly becoming the right had of the most powerful Demon to exist in the current era— How fascinating.

It was practically a dog fight. One child, chained before three demons. How much could they endure until they break. How many checkpoints could they make it too before their mind was completely shattered. Another game, Gwen was accustomed to these. Being toyed with, tampered with, whatever thoughts came into the sick heads of demonic nobility. Only this time… This game came with rewards. It came with connections, knowledge, resources. All for them to just sit quietly, sit still? Only for them to not make a sound at every lash, every whip, every touch and bruise. Every poke and prod at their psyche.

This is how they have to survive. Strength alone can get you so far, they have to be smart. Three of the most powerful figures in this land, want them? And all they have to do is be silent. That was fine. Besides, no one said how they had to keep themselves quiet. A nail to the tongue would do wonders. Nailing their tongue to the bottom of their mouth, it was a perfect plan. A foolproof one. They were all none the wiser. Not as the blood began to fill their mouth, and not as Gwen had to suck it up and swallow. The disgusting, metallic, vomit inducing taste. The consistency that was too thick to go down their throat. The sobs they would let out as they removed it afterwards. No one was any wiser. The amount of blood lost afterwards, because of failure to swallow it. The mess they would have the clean up. The burns, aches, and stabbing pains. The piercing headaches as they wondered how they would get up the next morning. The homesickness they began to feel, as they wondered when they would be able to go home. The settling they began to do. There’s always someone who had it worse than them, so they shouldn’t complain.

This was fine.

At age 12, they had learned how to get what they desired. No matter the cost.

At age twelve, they met a strange man. Green hair, wrinkles, and friends with their grandfather. How odd. He agreed to teach them swordsmanship, though there was this weird look in his eyes. Like they were beneath him, even lower than humans were. He looked at them the same way others look at an empty vase. It was troubling… But they were silent. Their survival, their success, was more important than any personal feelings or qualms. He became their master after that, their swordsmanship teacher. The man who could take their strength with ease, besting him one time after the other. But he himself was interesting… There was strength he wasn’t using, knew heights he hadn’t yet obtained. He had potential. And Gwen wanted to force him to achieve his peak.

They wanted to fight this man, at full strength.

↳ At age 13, they found a new talent. Or should they say, had their own talents taken advantage of. The moment the curtain closes on politics, a new one opens. With Gwen in shackles. Chained to the very floors of the dungeon, as they paint horrific portraits for nobles. Commoners, servants, middle class citizens, even other nobles. Some were sentenced to execution, others were captured on a whim. Bound, tortured, drained of every ounce of life the have. All the different octaves of screaming, all the ways a man could be turned inside out; all the ways the nobility would snicker and dine before such sights. Grotesque. The smell of blood, the bodily fluids that would occasionally splash onto their canvas. The eye contact with their subject as they begged for mercy. Gwen could see every tiny detail perfectly. The shade of blue that would befall their organs, the way the veins in their eyes would swell before bursting. They became numb to these sights. That’s just how demons are, just how nobles are.

They had learned to be silent. And at age 13, they had learned to despise the upper class.

At age 13, they opened their eyes for the first time. The sight of blood, the sight of death. All of it could be so… Beautiful. Corpses strewn up like sculpture, organs and blood used as the finest paints and mediums. It was a curse; whether due to familial bloodline, or the constant horrors they were to face in this place. They could see it so vividly… The perfect way for someone to die. The perfect amount of blood, the type of wound, it was all so disgusting. Yet the mere thought of it excited them. What kinds of masterpieces could they make, with such a curses talent. The kinds of shows they could put on, the kinds of sick satisfaction they could get. This was what they were good at. This was the only thing they were good it.

The were born to kill, and at age 13, learned to turn murder into art.

At age 13, they killed another innocent person. A poor servant, burst into flames at their hands. Her son dying later that night, at just eight months old. Their hands were cursed, to not only turn death into beauty, but to take the life of anything they touched. First their best friend, and now this poor woman… What was wrong with them? With eyes like these, with hands like these, what could they do? They’ll kill anything the touch, won’t they? They should be covered, hidden. As punishment, they were broken beyond repair. Shattered into the tiniest of shards. Used as pin cushions, burned, scalded. Like some kind of exorcism. The pain still haunts them, every time they dare to touch another object. They’ve closed them off. Not daring to see the light of day. Not daring to touch anything else.

At age 13, they started covering their hands.

↳ At age 15, they realised one final flaw. They’re humanity. The emotions that make up the human psyche. Happiness, sadness, joy, love, all these basic emotions. They were in the way… They were a nuisance. These bind people together in a way that Gwen doesn’t need. They have one purpose, and shouldn’t dare stray from it. Lest they kill more people, take more lives, fail even more.

So, they stopped. The processing of such feelings became null, and translate to nothing but static. It was fine now, they weren’t flawed anymore.

At age 15, they became the perfect tool.

↳ At age 18, they had seen hell. Both Karlheinz, and his brother, charging at them at once. Words they couldn’t comprehend, reasons they couldn’t quite understand. They couldn’t fight back, nor run. They knew they wouldn’t die, those two needed them alive for something. All the times they had openly embraced death, had always been interrupted by those two. It was tedious, and exhausting. They knew they wouldn’t die, but it didn’t stop the panic, the fear, and their own life flashing before their eyes. It was over in an instant, and before they knew it, they were back in their room, shackled to their bed until further notice. So, they ran away. Breaking their chains and jumping out their window. They would rather die, than stay in that castle any longer. Though truly it didn’t matter where they ran off to, since He could see them no matter where they are, should he desire… Except he let them go. Giving them a false sense of freedom. He can drag them back whenever he wished, so why not make them think they got away?

At age 18, Gwen changed their identity. The king’s right hand was no more. And instead, a simple eighteen year old stood in their place. One that was meant to be a normal human, whatever the hell that meant.

At age 18, Gwen became an adult. And adult with no childhood, nor life to live. The became an adult with a singular purpose.

Gwen’s entire life had been stripped from them, all by the time they had turned 18 years old. Adulthood had felt melodramatic, nothing like they hoped it would be. It felt hopeless, like one step closer to meeting their demise. It felt like a waste of time.

At age 18, Gwen had to keep their feet moving. Be silent, and deal with it. The frustration, the confusion, the hopelessness, the loneliness they now faced. As they charged towards certain death, with little to no hope of success.

At age 18, Gwen looked in the mirror. The saw not an individual who had reached adulthood. But an individual who never grew up in the first place. Instead thrust into the open world, to fend for themselves. Given an impossible task, with impossible expectations.

At age 18, Gwen had become an entirely new person.

#❆° character.profile #diabolik lovers oc #dl oc #gwen exicor #((oof this got long #((ANYWAY LMK IF THE BIOGRAPHY MAKES SENSE IN THIS FORMAT #((i hope it does

[farons-kokiri]

Bro, I need to know, what's the rundown on your reforged au? Cause it looks super cool and I wanna know all about it

thank u for asking wehdhehd 🥹 I'm glad you think it looks cool! I'm gonna try to summarize as best as I can !

For the most part it all centers around a character I made, his name is Non. He's a Hylian blacksmith and sorcerer, or properly, was- he died. Slain by a reincarnation of Link during one of the cycles in a BotW-like version of Hyrule. Though he isn't quite a villain or evil at his core.

In his life, he was promoted to castle blacksmith for his skill in the forge, but also his ability to enchant weapons and use magic. He was tasked with repairing the Master Sword but he had a secret project he was working on at the same time. He was reforging his own divine weapon, a sword with a spirit inside, the demon great sword that once belonged to Demise. Unfortunately, the sword spirit he tore reality to obtain never woke up during his lifetime, but in time he certainly did.

As a sword spirit, Ghirahim is naturally inclined to serve the person he's loyal to annnnd since he was completely reforged at the hands of a now long-dead blacksmith, clearly this meant he had some work to do to bring his master back to life. Resurrecting a divine requires another divine essence, but for a mortal? Yeah it didn't take half a century, a tornado, several fights with a resilient teen and travelling back in time to complete the resurrection.

To say dying humbled Non is an understatement, it did lethal damage to his body, mind and soul. Now that he was alive once more, in a semi-immortal form with magic gifted to him by the old gods that could destroy Hyrule, he spent the first few years of his existence in a stormy lagoon of his own self-hatred and regret. Literally. Just floating in an ever stormy, murky lagoon created by his own emotional and magical temperament.

After some much needed, but definitely more than necessary, self reflection and introspection, he started to mull over his nigh-immortality. He had worked his whole life only to die how he lived, alone and unwanted. Non decided he wanted to try to change, to make friends, allies, and to be (somehow, in his own way) happy. He created a master forge of his own in the abandoned depth of Hyrule and began searching for entities he could... Befriend.

Along the way, he plucks a certain defeated wind god from the binds of the dark realm, the spirit of a wandering Yiga blademaster in search of her blade, an usurper Twili king tricked by Ganon and besmirched by his people, an otherworldly volatile mask spirit, and a few others ! Mainly, this is as much Non's journey to reclaim who he was as much as it is the other's.

This was much longer than I thought it would be and I even cut it down 😓 wegdhhshdd it's ok I'd be happy to answer other asks too about this since idk how much content I'll be able to create and post

EDIT:

I forgot abt this but you can see Non's death scar in this comic, it's the little triforce mark !

#reforged au #legend of zelda #yeah 🧍 #plot summary for the people bc i want to make more content but i 🥲

[texture32]

Suddenly the I opened..

At first it realised its own existence.. then it felt lonely.. and the emotion was a.. slower realisation.. it was as if time had disassociated himself from her.

For sometime he was confused by this realisation and knew by the antipole of confusion full realisation of everything….. then came the last piece. Himself.

Pure light.

Pure thought he created a langauge “i am the only dimension. This is truely sad.. why do i like feeling if it hurts in such a way.. ill create myself as a human.. the others will be illusions.. fuck that is sad.. but atleast i can create stuff after death.”

Basic human lives he lived in the common era. Drugs were nice but he found more… in her. Something he couldnt even describe in his all knowingness.

Repeatedly doing this eventually he realised there was another sensation of her. But this life time he lost her. And a part of himself.. Upon taking 5 grams of dried mushrooms he realised his God state and knew he had to come back to the earthly plain to find himself. But the high he found in her was odd. He never contemplated time and seemed to.. find a whisper of something his God state knew how to sense but not how to find.

He contemplated his God state in his human mind… “im basically pure consciousness.. invisible.. i am the silence maybe.. the listener? How else have my desires been fulfilled…”

He created time as an illusion usually.. but this time something real entered him.. realer yet ethereal.

It made him forget a lot of his knowledge.. the sensation sent his knowledge backwards..

It dawned upon him that maybe this other he sensed was possibly what was truely driving his desire but his will was what brought him into existence.

Feeling.. the will to feel.. but he didnt know what.

Remembering his initial spiritual birth and how sadness played a role.. he pondered if he was cast down from heaven. Which was some biblical bulldust he created for his lifetime stories.. he knew enough to make a good story believable and even bought into religion a few of his chosen lives. Usually just to go into a psychosis and experience what even drugs cannot show you..

“Maybe i am not God.. she is.. i sense her love.. mysterious.. yet i feel dry and numb to the soul having been touched by her.. and losing her.. how..”

Through sheer effort of human intellect, he thought.. pondered.. meditated…

“I just cant find her in myself..”

As usual weed wore off its effects… he became utterly depressed, suicidal even.. and felt a truely human emotion. She came to him. But his human sadness was of his own. Slowly she drifted away..

He wondered why if he was God he couldnt hold back.. he didnt know what to with the weight of his sorrow.

He took 7 gram of dried mushrooms a year later. Fear in his heart.. chasing he knew can lead astray. But there was a desire. Hed forgotten his fearlessness because he was feeling.

He reached his “God state” and created something beautiful with his feeling as he had planned. Despite his lack of full self knowledge this time…

He knew true music.. but the depth of the music he chose was too perfect. He got lost in the fractals of pain from losing her and thought he may never find her again… he gave up and drcided to just give in to releasing his sadness which he didnt know how to do.

“Im here with you know me through love..”

This wasnt his langauge, his fear felt comforting. The intensity of sadness over the many lifetimes of human incarnation burrowed a deep sadness and realised it was rage at himself. He could feel immense power beyond his own. He feared he may do something with the power which may hurt others forgetting there were no others and decided in his half delerious state he rather die then harm anyone… then he died… but found the other side.. where love truely exists.

Written by a true solipsist.

Anyway im sleepy, im off to bed.. just wanted to write something..

#story time

[tiianwens]

TIIANWENS — a study of shattered dignity, three heavenly weapons and hell running cold.

mutuals only, low activity Chu Wanning of 'the husky and his white cat shizun' / 2ha, sideblog to @ghcstchild. gently held and irreparably damaged by lana.

18+ for heavy & mature themes. basic info under the cut:

FULL NAME: Chǔ Wǎnníng (楚晚宁)

ALIAS: Beidou Immortal, Yuheng of the Night Sky / Yuheng Elder / Chu-fēi (妃 as emperor's consort)

D.O.B & AGE: August 9th, 32 (main)

MBTI: ISTJ

GENDER: male

SEXUALITY: homosexual

SPECIES:  human created from a branch of divine tree

ELEMENT: metal & wood

APPEARANCE: tall and slender, has a mole behind his left ear and a scar on his chest right over the heart; phoenix eyes; strikingly handsome but cold and intimidating, with low self-esteem when it comes to his looks. has a unique scent of haitang blossoms on his body.

FC:  Luo Yunxi (as portrayed in the yet unreleased drama)

ABOUT: he is righteous and just, cold and stern on the outside but caring and gentle inside; socially awkward and sharp-tongued; has a sweet tooth and cannot handle spicy food. can drink anyone including demons of inebriation under the table. his room is always a mess and most of his attempts at cooking fail miserably, unless he's making wontons. he's extremely protective of his disciples to the point of sacrificing himself for their sake, but despises himself for harboring secret attraction towards one of them while at least two out of his three disciples are in love with him. despite a very high level of cultivation, his spiritual core is damaged, rendering his physical form vulnerable and prone to illness — cold weather is his worst enemy. after exhausting all his spiritual power and willingly destroying his own core for one last burst of energy, he becomes extremely fragile.

Chu Wanning existed in two alternative worlds. in his previous lifetime, after the destruction of Sisheng Peak, his spiritual core was destroyed and he was held captive by emperor Taxian-jun (Mo Ran) and forced to marry him as a consort. after eight years of humiliation and violence, he borrowed spiritual energy from one of his weapons to open the rift between two worlds and broke his soul in half to try and change the future of the other version of himself; which led to his death in the arms of Taxian-jun. in his second lifetime, he dies after exerting all of his spiritual energy to carry gravely wounded Mo Ran to safety while sustaining the same injury himself, but is later resurrected by his former teacher.

AFFILIATION: Sisheng Peak sect / Wushan Palace (forcedly as imperial consort)

CONNECTIONS: Mo Ran / Taxian-jun (disciple; husband), Xue Meng / Xue Ziming & Shi Mei / Shi Mingjing (disciples)

WEAPONS:  Tianwen (golden willow vine able to force the truth out of people and cause extreme pain if they try to lie; the only weapon he uses all the time), Jiuge (pitch-black guqin that comes from the divine tree, establishing a close bond between them), Huaisha (sword, only used in extreme situations as it's incredibly powerful and difficult to control).

[happidragon]

yeah whats up a single person asked me about skeletons so i'm going to say this.

I've seen plenty of posts with art of skeletons and descriptions explaining that skeletons represent death, or longing, or starvation, or – and, sorry, but you know what, I'm going to get the pedantic part out of the way first: skeletons don't "symbolize" anything. They're a physical object. They don't exist solely in art or media. You could say an artist used a skeleton to represent something – that makes more sense. But the skeleton holding your head up right now isn't a metaphor. Sorry, sorry, I have writing-school brain. Just had to throw that out there.

Of course, I understand why skeletons are so often used to represent death. If you happen upon a skeleton in your everyday life, you'll conclude "oh, shit, someone died here." That's been the function of the skeletal symbol for the bulk of human history. If you saw one, something had already gone horribly wrong. A skeleton implies danger, or at least death. The skull is often used as a simple memento mori: "It happened to me; it will happen to you."

I won't deny that skeletons make for a very elegant metaphor. But why only skeletons? Hearts and brains are no less gory, and they get to represent the mind and the soul. They get to represent intelligence, courage, love… I smell a double standard.

Is it just because skeletons are scary? A skeleton looks like a cursed version of a human, bearing some of our features but stripped down. As a person decomposes, the skeleton is the last bit of a person to be recognizable as "person." The skeleton has a longevity that your faster-decaying organs don't – a longevity that calls to mind the eternity of death itself. We believe that long after their owner's death, bones should still be handled with dignity and gravity. Pressures are increasing the world over to return skeletons displaced for "academic" purposes to their places and communities of origin.

All of this is to say: we still identify with skeletons. Yorick's distinguishing features were long gone by the time Hamlet said "I knew him."

I think it's for that reason that skeletons, more often than any other human body system, get to exist on their own, as a kind of creature. You don't tend to see neon gifs of circulatory systems going grocery shopping. This intrigues the hell out of me – does pop art of a dancing skeleton strike the same primal fear as skull half-buried in the dirt?

Maybe, all along, there's been another potential meaning to the human skeleton that is overshadowed by its use as a memento mori. Sure, we only see skeletons when something goes wrong, but that's a poor representation of what skeletons actually do. They're always around us. You're hanging out with one right now. You'll interact with thousands and thousands of skeletons in your lifetime, and most, if not all of them, will be alive. I always think of the fact that blood is made in the bone marrow. Life hidden in death hidden in life again.

Keep your hearts and brains – say they're the seat of the mind, of the soul – whatever. I think there's something quintessentially human about a skeleton. You're certainly not recognizable without one. The skeleton both protects and exists at the core of your being. And unlike your brain or heart, it isn't localized to just one place in your body. It is throughout you. It is your anchor just as surely as it enables your motion. Inexorably connected to your internal survival and your interaction with the outside world.

When I think of skeletons, I think of human nature itself. The paradox of mortality – that life can come from unliving matter – as well as what it means to be human. Grinning like a skull in the face of oblivion, dancing over gravestones, being alive in spite of it all, et cetera, et cetera, till death and forever after.

#bones #uh oh @miki its the skeleton essay #also shoutout to K8 if you're reading this lol. writing this took me back to smith's class. think he'd like it? #anyway if you got this far hi my name is happi and i try to avoid posting usually #don't get used to this bye

[boytouya]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦

words:2.3k

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, blood, angst, open ended/ambiguous ending, descriptions of death.

request: “Can i request sukuna x male reader. Where reader keeps reincarnating with each lifetime for a curse and every time he remembers sukuna, he dies after gaining memories back. You can choose if theres a good ending or angst. Thank you king! I fell in love with him especially after reading that one shot i had to watch jjk and hes hot! Thank you for turning me into a sukuna simp! Much love”

a/n: i went,,,overboard with this request 🗿 BUT IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITESSIJEHSHE i’m honored to have introduced you to such a foine man

When you were five, only then had you understood the curse deemed ‘Ryoumen Sukuna.’ A rather tall man with two heads, one of which had splattered blood onto your sneakers. You understood the concept of death, of course, but could never truly comprehend the feeling of nothingness after watching your life flash before your eyes until nineteen. But there you stood, clutching the loop of your shorts when you witnessed the murder of your entire village. You didn’t know evil could have a moral compass, but the tall curse seemed to exclude half of the women and children. After the widening of youthful eyes and curdling screams you learned the monster took likings to things too. Women, with shaking forms and broken spirits. He’d stop before them, stare at them with eyes that could- in fact- kill, if they truly wanted to. But then he stopped in front of you.

“Close your eyes, Brat.” Death's hands were just as large as your family painted them out to be, if not larger. Calloused and riddled with blood as they are placed over your ears. You do as he- it says, squeezing your eyes shut and enclosing your eyes behind the meat of your palms just to be extra careful. You can see stars behind your eyelids, just as you can feel the sickening twang of death lingering in the air. You were aware it would happen at some point, Death would find its place for you over and over and over again, you’d been told since the day you were born.

There’s another sound, only muted under large palms. You don’t need your sense of sight or hearing to know what it was, the warm chunks splattering onto your skin was enough. Immediately, you flinched. When you opened your eyes, there were piercing eyes staring straight into your own. It looked so human, but something was off. Uncanny, as if it took years to manipulate its flesh and bone to emulate humans to a T. But there was nothing human behind those eyes, instead a void of nothingness. Death itself. If Death could express interest, you’d have thought that was the expression it was imitating. It offers a hand, one of four. Larger than your face, with sharp claws that could almost be described as talons. Darkened by dirt and remains of your loved ones, if it truly wanted to kill you, it could. It could tear you limb from limb with the wave of a finger. And it knew that.

So you took the hand, and he became your second home.

When you were ten, you learned about the red string of fate. It could never be broken, and those connected by it would always reunite, no matter the circumstances. You often had nightmares, those of which filled with blurred faces and sharp pain that reached you in your lucid state. Dreams of talons, piercing eyes, and double headed monsters. You dreamt under the stars, tasted metal on your tongue, and choked on smoke that wasn’t actually there. You dreamt of facial markings, details that you couldn’t exactly place, a name that you couldn’t quite remember. It left your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, racked tremors through your body, and caused premature dark circles to accumulate under your eyes.

When you were nineteen, you experienced your last breath. The air was stolen from your lungs, crushed under years of heartbreak and terror, and snatched from you in the dead of night. Your eyes glazed over, and nothingness overtook you. It left you for someone else to find, cold and lifeless. A void, similar to the eyes you had finally placed. But that didn’t matter much then, you had already drifted away from your body.

And that was that.

Thus, the cycle repeated. Under different names, different ages, different genders. There was always something gnawing away at your conscience, you felt as though you were forgetting something. But when you finally remembered, it was too late. And there was nothing you could do about it.

It was almost like deja vu, stepping outside your home to find blood splattered on the concrete floor. It made your blood run cold, sent a tremor through your body and made you feel like you were five again. Small and defenseless. You take it as your best interest to go back inside before you pass out, but the second you whip your body around you meet something- someone?- large and sturdy.

“Sukuna.” That was it, the sour taste at the tip of your tongue, the lingering sensation at the back of your brain. Him. He didn’t look the same, no, much smaller with tufts of pink hair. There’s something behind his eyes this time, something almost irrevocably human. For some reason that’s much scarier than what you remember. What you think you remember. He’s much more human, but the way he looks at you is everything but humane. He looks frustrated, angry at something, as if he’ll implode any second and go on a rampage. Dread bubbles up in your stomach, nearly erupting through your mouth as bile. It felt as though something should be happening, like something usually happened when the itch went away. He chuckles, low in his throat as he cranes his neck to put his face uncomfortably close to your own. His hands, still large, find their way to your wrist, gripping your right hand uncomfortably tight. For a moment, you consider how long a trip to the hospital would be if he shattered the bone beneath his fingers. But instead there’s a jolt of electricity that would’ve had you yanking your hand back if he weren’t holding it.

“What? You look different.” He all but purrs, inspecting your palm with long nails. Not long enough to be talons, but longer than those of a claw. It was true, you did look different. He wondered if you spent your lifetimes looking exactly the same. That couldn’t have been possible, he would’ve found you much easier, then. Still quite boyish, as if the body you were in didn’t originally belong to you. Clearly grown out of cargo shorts and polos, much taller than you were before. There was no way he could have forgotten you, the way you jumped when the remains of your loved one splattered across your legs. The way you stared back at him with a look of acceptance, the way you grabbed his hand and allowed him to lead you out of the village. It explained the body memories perfectly, the feeling of large palms on your head and remnants of a brain splattering onto your knees.

“Last time I saw you,” He let’s go of your wrist with a bored expression, then replaces its spot with the top of your head. He shoves you down, and you make an effort to ignore the crack your knees make when they smack against the concrete. Then, he crouches down to stare you directly in the eye, just like he had the first time you met. His eyes were no longer dark, instead a deep shade of red that caught light from the moon. They reminded you of vials of blood. “You were this tall. Much cuter in this century.”

“And you were bigger.” Sukuna laughs as if hearing that was the funniest thing in the world. He leans his weight into you and uses you as a support beam, laughing until his ribs burn and beg for a break. But how could he laugh at a time like this? He didn’t think it was weird? He’s existed for centuries, murdered for millennias and only now has he seen you. That wasn’t how it worked, when you died, you died. But Sukuna was a walking oxymoron to that statement. When he died, if he died, he would return. He’d return through you, the last fragments of his soul would stay bound to yours until the end of time. Perhaps that’s how he knew, how he remembered. Perhaps that’s why he still took the time to find you, even after countless years of failure. It was peculiar, but not as much as being bound to Death himself. It was a sick game of turning the phrase ‘Til’ death do you part,’ because in your case it was literal.

“You’re still a brat.” His voice is closest to something fond, as if he’s reminiscing sweet memories. It was much different on your account, and part of you wondered if Sukuna understood that. He makes no effort to help you up (he explains that you’re “a big boy now”) as he invites himself into your apartment. Nothing special, he doesn’t care much for family photos or if you have them, but the stacks of letters and books on your table peak his interest. He tears apart envelopes as if he owns them, reads through the contents and discards them to the floor if he deems them useless. The way he sits nearly breaks your chair, and, honestly, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

So you sit beside him.

“You were so scared,” He says, almost as if he were bragging. But he was known to be arrogant and cocky, that was just his nature. He didn’t truly mean it like that, in fact, he looked quite reverent after letting the thought drift into the air. It was kind of funny, such a powerful thing fawning over past memories. But that wasn’t how this should go, you had your memory back, so why hasn’t anything happened? “When you grabbed my hand you stopped shaking.”

“...”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t keep you long,” He visibly frowns, the skin around his lips worry, but you can't tell if it’s genuine or not. He looks at you with something knowing the second the thought enters your head. “I looked for you, at first. You died young, for a human.”

Ninteen. ‘I should have been there,” he wants to add.

“Why aren’t I dying now?” You interrupt and let the panic sink in, the thought of impending doom sits on your shoulders because, really, it could happen at any moment. But this time, you don’t want it to. You remember accepting death when it came to your door at the young age of five, nineteen, countless times over and over. You had only ever gotten this far, you weren’t ready yet. You couldn’t start over, not now. “Sukuna?”

The question sours his mood in the blink of an eye, and instead of looking through your things, he raises himself from his seat to rest his palms on the table. It seemed he had a thing for staring down at people, making them cower under his stone cold gaze. You note the way his jaw clenches. You open your mouth to speak again, but he seems to have other plans. He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips purse together under the pressure of his large fingers. The movement feels familiar, like he’s done it before. The five years you spent with him were still a bit of a blur, but you remembered holding his hand quite often. He’d tell you to close your eyes if there was something he didn’t want you to see, he’d ruffle your hair a bit too hard, let you sleep on his back if he was out in the town. But that was all you remembered. He remembered it all.

“Respect your elders,” He lets go and sits back down as if he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum over you interrupting him. Sukuna was centuries old, but even then, he’d exhibit immature behavior sometimes. Living for so long had to get boring (and lonely) at some point, perhaps that was why he looked for you. He did consider you something close to family, after all. In truth, there were some lifetimes where you met. Some when you were friends, something more than that, and something inseparable. And that’s why you hadn’t died yet, you didn’t remember it all. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“You’re much more handsome in this life.” His smile is much more intimidating than sweet, the sinister curl to his lips would only ever be associated with bloodshed in your eyes. But it was much more than that. Nights of sleeping together, days of laughter and flirtatious comments, soft moments that only you had seen. And it was bittersweet, because he knew the second he’d jog your memory you’d be gone. It wasn’t just a curse for you, but for him. Maybe it was his punishment for hurting so many people, dragging an innocent soul down with him and hanging them by the red string of fate. The comment makes your skin prickle with heat. Sukuna was quite the charmer when he wanted to be, easily picking at your weak spots with whatever you wanted to hear. But the comment was much more for the sake of his own, instead of yours.

Sukuna stands, hot on his heels as he holds out his hand one last time. If something were to happen to you tonight he’d make the most out of it, just as he did countless times over and over. So many years of starting over, getting to know you in various different bodies, realizing that being trapped away was the only way you’d get to live a full life, it was always on his mind. You were always on his mind.

So you take his hand. And for the millionth time, he’d become your second home.

taglist:

@ryoukuna @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @rinkindaugly

#💕.sukuna #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #anime x you #anime x reader #anime x male reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x male reader #jjk x reader #sukuna imagine #sukuna angst #sukuna au #sukuna oneshot

[mickey-henry]

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐈 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

pairing: bucky barnes (bookstore au) x reader

summary: eager to escape the heat, you find yourself in the presence of a mesmerizing bookstore and an irresistibly beautiful man.

word count: 2.3K

author’s note: hello! welcome to my third fic😊 I’m eager to share this with you all! I now have a taglist (the link is also in my bio) if you’re interested🥰 thank you to @certainaesthetic​ for helping me workshop this idea, @fuckandfluff​ for the grammar help, and @midnightf​ for hyping me up as I wrote it! likes, reblogs, messages, replies, and comments are cherished! the header images are from pinterest and the divider is from here. I hope you like it! 💖

You’re desperate to escape the smoldering heat. It’s too hot to rest in the car; it’s been baking all day beneath the sweltering summer sun, parked just outside your place of work. If you attempt to sit in it now, you’d only be greeted with a wave of torrid air, stung with the touch of your seatbelt, and burnt from the searing leather of your steering wheel.

You’re off from work earlier than usual—the blinding sun is usually long beneath the horizon before you head home for the day. The pathetically small sun visor does nothing to shade your eyes from the blazing sunlight. Rather than driving half-blind, you decide to wait out the setting sun.

As you ponder how to spend the rest of your afternoon, you realize that now is an opportune time to visit the new bookstore, The Book Haven, that opened last month. After changing out of your uniform and throwing your work stuff in the trunk, you walk across the plaza to the shop entrance.

The bookstore greets you with the chime of a bell and a rush of cool air as you step in, a blissful contrast to the scorching outdoors. The welcoming scent of coffee grounds and the tangy aroma of old books accompany the refreshing breeze. You take a deep breath, appreciating the convivial atmosphere. The bookstore is a sublime sight; words almost can’t describe its charm.

Shelves like skyscrapers—stuffed to the brim with books, magazines, and comics—graze the ceiling. An intimate reading nook lies next to the door; an inviting window seat dwells beside a floor-to-ceiling window. Clear mosaic window clings cover the glass, casting beautiful rainbows throughout the store. Stringed vintage light bulbs illuminate the shelves; candle-lit sconces adorn the top corners of each one. Oriental rugs lay between the shelves, covering a dark mocha floor. Tucked in the back of the store is a small coffee cranny, hidden at first glance. Frank Sinatra’s charming, rich vocals travel through the air, tickling your ears. The owner clearly put the utmost time, energy, and love into the creation of their shop. It is unequivocally perfect and already one of your favorite places.

You wander to the classics section, enthralled by the exquisite covers. Sensing someone nearby, your eyes glance at movement caught in the corner of your eye. Your stomach somersaults at the stunning stranger. The instant you lay your eyes on him, you forget to breathe for a moment—your breath engulfs your throat. You’re astounded by the Adonis of a man before you.

Bristles of scruff grace his defined jawline—his low man-bun neatly styles his dark chestnut hair. A grey short-sleeve button-up shirt hugs his toned arms; a white tank top clings to his lean, fit frame; cuffed slim-fit khaki pants, help up by a bronze braided belt, embrace his thick thighs; and weathered, chunky brown leather shoes don his feet.

Through the rose-colored glasses that surround your heart, your soul imagines a life with a perfect stranger. The hopeless romantic in you can’t help but steal glances, hoping to catch a better glimpse of him. The moment he turns to walk away, your heart sinks to your stomach. You hope this isn’t the last time you see this gorgeous man.

A few minutes later, you’re mulling over a collectible edition of The Catcher in the Rye, attempting to justify purchasing yet another copy of your favorite book. A melodic voice interrupts your pondering. “That’s a pretty edition of The Catcher in the Rye you’ve got there.”

You turn towards the charming voice. Lo-and-behold, it’s the love of your life: the handsome stranger you’ve mentally lived a lifetime with. His beauty is even more profound up close: now you can see that his eyes are a lovely shade of blue. His eyes, haunted by a subtle sadness, draw you in, unlike anything you’ve experienced before. You find yourself entranced in his sea-blue current; you could easily drown in his gaze. You attempt to hide your awestruck expression and converse with him like a normal human being. “I agree! I already own a copy though, do I really need a new one?”

“I think we both know the answer is always yes,” he assures.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. I'll get it! Thank you for justifying my unnecessary purchase.”

Your words hang in the air, everything going quiet as you wait for the ravishing stranger to introduce himself. The two of you stare in silence at each other, the tension thickening as the seconds pass by. After a few moments, his face flashes in realization—you were waiting for his name.

“I’m Bucky,” he offers with an enchanting smile, extending his hand out to you. You share your name as the two of you shake hands. Your eyes stare down his veiny arm to his ring-studded fingers grasped around yours. You allow yourself to imagine for a few moments how amazing those fingers would feel tracing your arms, tangling your hair, and teasing your inner thigh. Your lustful reverie comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of the book nestled inside the crook of his elbow: The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, the bane of your existence. You scoff with furrowed brows; of course, Mr. Handsome Stranger would be interested in the one book you despise.

“Got something to say there, sweetheart?” he questions with an amused grin.

“Out of all the classic novels in this entire store, that’s the one you chose? The Metamorphosis?”

“What’s wrong with this one?” he jives.

You pause for a second, debating whether it’s worth it to argue with a stranger. The pondering lasts only a few seconds; the exhaustion from your day disintegrates your filter. Besides, you loathe The Metamorphosis.

“What isn’t wrong with it? The dude wakes up thinking he’s an insect? The reader has to sit there throughout the entire book, wondering whether he’s a man or a bug? What the actual fuck? I didn’t appreciate the existential crisis that book gave me at fifteen; if I can help someone else avoid the suffering caused by that monstrosity, I'm going to do my part,” you huff, unamused by the joy Bucky seems to gain from your zealous analysis.

“Wow, what a passionate review! Perez Hilton would be envious of your slander. Okay then, what classic would you recommend instead?”

You cross your arms, expecting him to challenge your response. “The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s a play,” he counters.

“It’s published as a book; it counts! It’s witty, playful, and has a happy ending, which is the most important point of all. It also doesn’t make you want to pull a Fahrenheit 451 and burn every copy in existence,” you attest.

He steps closer to you, tucking loose strands of his hair behind his ear. “Life doesn’t always have a happy ending, sweetheart.”

Great, there he goes again with that freaking pet name; it’s going to be the death of you. He knows your name, you just gave it to him, yet here he is, infuriatingly insisting on calling you sweetheart instead. Stupid pretty boy with his ocean blue eyes and amorous smile.

“That’s exactly the point,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So, why would I want to read something that doesn’t end well? If I’m going to escape this reality for a while, it better be for a happier one.”

“And if it's not?”

“Then I’ll throw the book across the room and make up my own happy ending!”

“Ooh, aggressive,” he tuts. “The owner of this place might not be too happy with you if you’re throwing books all over the place; it’ll scare away the customers.”

“Then it’s a good thing the owner isn’t here,” you interject confidently, knowing full well you have no idea who the owner is.

“Well, that just isn’t true, sweetheart. You’re looking right at him.”

He’s lying—he has to be. Why would a dreamboat like Bucky own a bookstore?

You scoff, “you’re not the owner of this place.”

“I’m not? What makes you say that?” he banters.

“People like you don’t own bookstores!” you exclaim.

“People like me?” he goads, cocking his head to the side. The action erupts butterflies in your stomach.

“Attractive people!” you groan.

“So you think I’m attractive?” he plays, stepping to close the gap between you.

“Psh, no, you wish,” you muster. The heat spreading across your cheeks betrays your bluff.

There are mere inches between the both of you now; you hope he can’t hear your racing heartbeat. You watch his eyes go down from yours to your mouth and back up again. He eyes you with a smirk, his teeth playfully tugging his bottom lip. It takes everything in your power not to give in to his spell.

“I’ve known you for what, five minutes? I don’t go around kissing strangers, Bucky,” you falter, taking a step back from his closeness.

“Then let’s not be strangers, sweetheart. Grab a coffee with me; I know a nice place, not far from here,” he flirts, gesturing to the counter at the back of the store.

“Let me learn more about what goes on in that pretty little head of yours,” he purrs, his breath tickling your cheek.

“Okay, fine. I’ll have a coffee with you,” you surrender.

A bright, honeyed smile dons his face.  

“It better be good, though. Not the stale crap you usually get in the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’d only give you the best, sweetheart,” he winks, extending his right hand. You take it; he gives you a soft squeeze before weaving you through the towering shelves.

Your discussion continues with another passionate book review as he prepares your drink. He’s a sucker for gritty dystopian novels while you gravitate towards sappy romances. He shares his passion for painting as he guides you to the reading nook. The artwork hung on the edges of the bookcases is crafted by him—a detail you hadn’t noticed at first glance. His stunning work features both landscapes and people. He loves to sit in a picturesque landscape and paint for endless hours. Occasionally, he takes his old polaroid as he explores the town, snapping moments between strangers, translating their intimacy to canvas when he gets home.

He gestures for you to take a seat in the reading nook before handing you our steaming cup of joe. You sit with your legs crossed, your hands hugging the mug in your lap. Bucky sits with his leg draped over the side of the bench, his left foot pressing into his right thigh. The conversation shifts topics; the two of you divulge your desires and unfulfilled ambitions. You aren’t sure if it’s the look in his eyes, the sweet cup of joe in your palms, or the aroma of coffee surrounding you, but in his presence, your senses feel wide awake.

Before you know it, the mesmeric moon replaces the sizzling sun, melting away the blistering heat, and the steaming cup of coffee in your hands has long chilled. Bucky’s employee interrupts the blissful rendezvous, informing him that all the closing duties are complete, and he’s headed home for the night.

You stare at your watch in shock—it's five past nine. Where did the time go? You apologize profusely to the poor kid who had to close up alone; he assures you it’s no problem.

A melancholic pit in your stomach forms as you turn back to Bucky. He’s nestled himself into your soul; you don’t want to say farewell to him so soon. He has a sad glint in his eyes; you hope it’s because he’s also dreading the end of this perfect night.

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks timidly, his earlier suave demeanor gone from his voice. He stands up in front of you, offering his arm to escort you.

“I’d love that,” you reply with a shy grin, grabbing his arm and hugging it tightly.

In the blink of an eye, you’re in front of your car. You let go of his arm and lean against the trunk. You stare into his eyes, hoping that he can see without the use of words how much you don’t want this moment to end. There’s a few moments of painful silence before Bucky clears his throat.

“So, now that we’re not total strangers, how about that kiss?” he flirts with pleading eyes.

“Okay,” you reply with a bashful smile.

He slowly reaches his hand towards your cheek, softly stroking it with his thumb. He presses his forehead against yours. “Are you sure you want to do this? ‘Cause if we do, you might not be able to get rid of me, sweetheart.”

“Yes I do, Bucky,” you giggle.

He grins as he gently presses his pillowy pink lips on yours. The kiss steals all the air from your lungs—his touch sends tingles throughout your body, electrifying your veins. You’re breathless when your lips finally part.

“Let me get your number before I let you go,” Bucky insists. You nod and hand him your phone, unable to form a coherent thought.  The ghost of his lips and fingers trace your figure. You’re barely acquainted with his tender touch, yet you feel naked without it, yearning to once again be within his grasp.

You exchange phones—adding your number and name with a sparkling heart emoji and swiftly passing his phone back before you can change your mind. Bucky snaps a quick selfie for his contact, smirking for the camera. You grin when you see he also put emojis by his name: a beetle and a kissy-face.

He pecks your cheek before opening the car door for you. “Hope to see you around, lovebug.” The new pet name burns your cheeks and erupts butterflies in your stomach.

He doesn’t leave the parking lot until your car disappears completely from his view.

You drive home with thoughts of Bucky swirling in your mind. You send a silent thanks to the universe for bringing this beautiful man into your life. His voice, touch, and smile echo in your thoughts for the remainder of the evening—his presence paving its way through your dreams. You’re falling hard and fast; you only hope he’ll be there to catch you.

tagging a few mutuals who expressed interest in this story🥰please fill out the taglist form if you’d like to be tagged in the next story! 💖

@ritesofreverie @midnightf @certainaesthetic

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #mickey-henry #my fic: you're the best book I ever read #mel's writing

[princeanxious]

Soulmate au fic that I really wanna write where Janus is soulmates with everyone(aka DLAMPR) but soulmates stay the same every lifetime but theres a chance to have multiple soulmates and in rare cases you don’t meet them all in that life before you or your soulmates dies.(especially in janus’s case, for reasons i’ll get into shortly) With each life once you hit a certain age(say somewhere between 19-20) and/or meet your soulmate, you gain the memory of every life you’ve had in the past, specifically the life you lived with your soulmate.(also soulmates arent inherently romantic in this world, and i’ll mention that roman and remus are always inherently platonic soulmates to eachother, and are often born as twins to eachother, and if not, are often always the first meet in their group)

Janus is a very special case, and in their world considered almost an anomaly.

All the information gained in the world is supplied from his soulmates, who at the end of each of their current lives always end up together as a group, though it on average happens pretty early on in their lives, minus janus.

Janus is an anomaly because it seems that he’s dying every lifetime time that he meets one of his soulmates, lost to the world 24 hours after hes come into direct physical contact with the first of his soulmates in that lifetime.

(Check the tags for trigger warnings before reading!)

In the first lifetime, he meets Patton(who, in this life, is not called Patton), a young baker who takes his hand with excitement, the barest brush of skin alone triggering not a memory of a past life, but instead a brilliant feeling of connection, a soul-deep aknowledgement that their souls are brand new, and infact are connected to a whole group of souls. Patton is overtaken by a whole new kind of excitement. Janus matches it, and they plan an outting for the very next morning. Janus does not make it to the outting, succumbing to a stab wound just hours after meeting Patton while on his walk home. Patton meets the rest of their soulmates while waiting for Janus to arrive. They hear about his death a week later.

The in second lifetime, he briefly meets Virgil, theyre 16 and 17 respectively. He doesnt learn much, the brief brush of skin while waiting in a croud for a train, enough to distract him into turning around just enough to meet eyes with Virgil, who had been on a train back to meet the rest of their soulmates, an exclamation of relieved surprise on the tip of Janus’s tongue. And then Jan trips, or someone impatiently shoves at him and he loses his footing, niether of them really know for sure. One moment they feel the euphoria of their souls connecting, the next Virgil feels the bond instantly shatter alongside his heart as he watches Janus disappear under the oncoming train. Virgil spends that lifetime traumatized by his sudden death, guilt ridden in knowing their soulmate’s last lifetime’s death had ended in a similar fashion even in mer secs, and his soul takes on a much more cautious nature from then on.

In the third lifetime, he meets Remus, theyre 18. Remus manages to spend a whole hour with Janus before they touch, and it’s only because Janus talks him out of jumping off a bridge. Remus wasn’t being suicidal, just hyper moridly curious, but Janus didn’t know that. Janus strikes up a conversation with him, its snarky and fun and perfect, and Janus joins him on the railing as they talk. Janus derails Remus from jumping by mentioning that he’s never had sushi, and to Remus this is an afront to living. Remus hops back over to the safe side of the railing, declaring to fix that crisis immediately. Janus laughs and agrees, relaxing visibly. The relaxing is a mistake, as for a single second Janus forgets that hes still in a dangerous position. He slips, his hand missing the railing, Remus only just barely managing to catch his hand in time but he doesnt get a good enough grasp, the spark that triggers their soul connection distracting enough that Janus’s hands slip from Remus’s, and Remus is forced to watch in horror as Janus plummets to his doom. He scrambles to fish Janus out of the river, but they cant revive him, Janus died on impact. Remus doesn’t meet the rest of their soulmates for another three years. He never touches sushi again for the rest of that lifetime

In the forth, Roman is 17, Janus is 18, and Janus actually meets Roman multiple times, knowing full well what his life has in store, neither ever knowing. Roman and Janus are actors for the two main characters for an up and coming movie, and they get along super well. Janus has always worn gloves, scarves, long sleeves and jeans, hoodies, beanies. Its a bit taboo at such a young age, but Janus never seems to mind the controversy and never commets on it, and Roman doesn’t mind either. Janus is infact very withdrawn, and often gives very little input on what his true personality is and so Roman doesn’t push it. Later, he really, really wishes he did. Inevitably, they become closer. But it’s only until after the movie is released that Janus lets his walls down just a little. Somehow, he seems to know that Roman is his soulmate long before theyve actually touched. Somehow, for some reason that they just cant seem to fathom, at the end of a large event for the movie, Janus and Roman are being ushered away from eachother and into seperate cars to avoid an influx of fans for some reason or another, Roman doesn’t remember what. All he remembers is Janus taking a glove off his hand and brushing Roman’s cheek after he wished Roman an odd farewell. Not a see you later, just “Farewell, my Prince.” In perfect sync with a very specific line that Janus’s character had said. Roman is in too much shock by the time he’s in his own car, the past three lifetimes of memory flashing through his head taking just long enough to settle into dread as he realizes. He panics, he tries to get someone to listen, and by god do they try, but no one can get into contact with Janus in time. Janus dies in a freak car crash just minutes after they touched, dead on impact. Roman and his soulmates hold onto this movie for the rest of this lifetime, the last physical record left behind by the soulmate that fate just wont let them meet.

In the fifth, he meets Logan, each at age 21, Logan is a nurse in training, and Janus is a cashier, a college student just starting to work towards getting their law degree. By this point Logan has met all of their soulmates, and they all live in a flat together. Really, these days they all sit in wait, they have a plan amongst themselves, about what to do when they meet Janus, a last resort, a trying attempt to keep him alive just long enough to break that 24 hour threshold, to break the spell, to be able to say they did something to try and save him. So its truely a shame that in this lifetime, Janus is bleeding out from a gunshot wound by the time Logan is able to reach him. Its late at night, the police have been called, but it seems Janus was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and finds himself bleeding out on the tile floor. He doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t panic. When Logan approaches, he instead smiles sadly, and reaches his hand out to Logan. On instinct Logan takes it, just before he processes hearing Janus greet him with “Hello, Soulmate.” In vain, Logan tries to staunch the bleeding, but he’s done all he can do, and they know the real paramedics will be 2 minnutes too late. So they sit there, covered in Janus’s blood at 2 am in the middle of a shoddy convenience store, talking quietly about life and how their soulmates love them. There are tears in Logan’s eyes as Janus smiles sadly, knowingly up at Logan. He reaches his hand up and cradles Logans face, and asks Logan to “never forget to smile, okay?” Logan ends up leaving nursing, his mental health unable to take the soul-deep wound that incapacitates him when surrounded by the call of death.

In their sixth life, his soulmates wait, the group meets at age 23, and feel renewed hope as each month passes that they do not experience another traumatic death in their midst. Around age 30, confusion sets in, the hollow itch of meeting their last soulmate is dulled, almost non existant. They’d believe it gone if they didn’t feel it whisper to them late at night where theyre all gathered together. By the time their 60, the whisper seems to fade, and they slowly mourn the loss of the loved one they never got to have. Janus’s soul infact does not make it to the sixth lifetime, but not for lack of trying. His soulmates don’t want to believe it, waiting for his arrival to the very last of their days in this lifetime and never meeting him, they refuse to voice that they mightve lost Janus for good..

Fate has instead taken hold of his feeble soul, the weakest soul in an already unusually huge soulmate group, his soul only half as strong as it should be to balance fate in each lifetime, and so weak that his soul collapses under the amount of soulpower that reaches out to his own when his soul meets the others, and the fates are agitated by the constant unbalance of what should be their greatest and most intricately created group of soulmates yet. So the fates decided to hold onto his soul for a single lifetime, and spends the years mending and healing and strengthening his soul, practically filling in a full half of his soul, and spending years merging it while still carefully balancing his connection with his soulmates perfectly. The trade off is that the tampering and adjusting of his soul fucks with his soulmate memory trigger. He doesn’t forget, no, but his access to his previous lifetime memories is staggered, and so it takes months before he gets back all of his pevious lifetime memories, leaving the inital soulmate connection actually connecting but not immediately supplying his soul with any information of his own first 5 lives, leaving him blank at the start, though knowing that he and his soulmates soul’s are still older than being a brand new soul without memories, and doesn’t actually have a point in his lifetimes when he his an age and his past lifetime memories come to him, he /has/ to meet his soulmates to trigger those memories. The fates are very particular about him, keen on not providing this group with anymore unnessesary trauma.

So, imagine Janus’s genuine confusion, in his sixth life and his soulmate’s seventh life, at age 23 when he approaches a group at a college party on a whim to chat/flatter/flirt with the infamous Remus Sanders, the local social cryptid who always raises more questions than answers when you talk to him and who, Janus has learned, is a highly entertained arsonist-wannabe, and Janus knows that it’s smart to have contacts, because who knows when he’ll be need of someone who’ll commit arson with him? It just happened to be an hour earlier that Remy had spilled soda on his gloves, so he’s braving this interaction without a safety barrier but he’s heard Remus has all his soulmates already, all four of them to be exact, so he doesnt think he has much of a reason to worry. He manages to slide into the conversation easily, and none of Remus’s soulmates seem bothered by his intrusion, especially when he takes the eccentric way that Remus speaks in stride without even a pause, they just seem exasperated when he sneakily brings up the topic of fire.

Then Remus takes him by the shoulders, grinning at him almost crazily, and states “You. I like you” and, it’s obviously instinctive, the graceful way he laughs and puts a hand on Remus’s to agree, but of course the moment skin touches skin, their souls link and everything sparks. And then Remus shutters, and stares, his jaw going slack but his hands seem to grip Janus tighter. And for a moment, Janus finds it terribly, terribly fitting that he’s soulmates with a filterless pyromaniac, but then he remembers that Remus also has soulmates, and then the panic sets in because, assumably, that makes them his soulmates too.

Imagine Janus’s confusion when instead of being met with joy, he suddenly finds himself tucked carefully yet securely into Remus’s arms, being rocked by a man whose suddenly panicked and almost manically whispering “it’s him, hes here, it’s him.” Any move he makes to pull away even a little is met with a sob, Remus is crying, and Janus is so very confused. He tries to coo and comfort Remus, but each of their other soulmates crowd around them, touching his skin one by one, none of them moving away, his skin is burning from touch starvation, its a lot, its to much, its not enough, it burns.

It takes Janus over an hour, after being shuffled into a corner and placed in another soulmate’s lap, Janus thinks his name is Patton, to come back to himself, and finds his soulmates can’t stop touching him. He, too, feels the zing with each touch, the specific innate and undeniable feeling of ‘soulmate, soulmate, soulmate’ but he feels that hes very specifically out of some kind of loop considering all of his soulmates are crying.

When the fates whisper to them, three hours in, with the words “his soul was weak, we have fixed the issue, he is now yours for life to keep, he will safely continue.”

And while Janus requires quite a bit of catch-up, he feels like nows not the best time to ask. He feels more than sees the collective relief that sweeps through his soulmates, he lets them crowd around him further, touching and holding and assuring themselves and eachother that hes real, hes there, he’s staying alive, hes going to be safe. He tries not to say too much, doesn’t want to step on any sore spots, and finds theres tears in his eyes as well. He just lets himself be passed from lap to lap, and somehow or another they manage to all safely arrive at their joined home, pilling up a pillowfort into the livingroom and putting on a movie. Not once does he leave the hold of at least one soulmate, and finds at least two other hands on his person at a time up until he’s sat in the middle of the pillowfort(after he was allowed to get ready alongside the others for bed. He ends up in an oversized nasa hoodie that belongs to Logan) and the others begin to just, talk about life. Its too early to talk about the extreme protectiveness that theyve all treated him with each second, like hes about to dissapear at any moment. The thought makes him shudder, and he tries not to dwell on it.

Turns out, Virgil has the best idea of the night, suddenly and carefully kissing him, which triggers a bit of a domino effect, where Janus goes gently from soulmate to soulmate and trades kisses and hugs until everyone is breathless and giggling wetly with emotion.

And, when he wakes up the next morning, refusing to leave the warmth that is Roman’s chest and whining when Logan, who’d been acting as his other warm big spoon, start pulling away to start the day. And for the first time in this lifetime, Logan startlingly quickly relents and actually returns to their makeshift bed, pressing closer to Janus in an instant to hear his happy, sleepy hum. None of them get up for hours, and when they finally do, they order takeout, and dont stray far from eachother in the coming days.

Its the start of something new, something beautiful.

Something completely and finally whole.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #dlampr #soulmate au #DLAMP #platonic creativitwins #janus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #tw death #tw major character death #angst with a happy ending #tw multiple lifetimes #tw character death #tw blood mention #ask to tag #luka writes #luka’s wips #luka’s aus #luka write this #even tho at this point i’ve practically written it- however messy it may be

[vennilavee]

Heyaaa can i request 100 + getou since yk it's his bday 😋😋😋 i need flufffff~

a/n: this isn't very fluffy ksdfskdlfj it's mostly hurt/comfort

prompt: "it's always been you'' kisses w/ geto

For someone who’s been your coworker for years now, Geto Suguru feels like a stranger. Maybe it’s even worse because before you were coworkers, you were students in the same class at Jujutsu Technical School.

Maybe you wished you were a little more than students.

You’d seen him grow into his technique while both him and Gojo Satoru left the rest of you in the dust. Being a wallflower in their presence suited you just fine- you had no desire to get involved in their antics. You were here to learn how to exorcize curses after all.

But Geto saw you, and your wish to remain a wallflower was quickly just a whisper. You were his, your heart reflected in his shiny gaze. Until the smoke of his cigarettes and curses becomes all you see. In his descent into madness, you lose yourself and you lose him.

In the end, it’s Gojo who manages to pull him back from his own destruction.

In hindsight, he might have been your first real love. Longing glances of your teenage years somehow still haunt you in the same hallways that carry the memories of your youth. But it doesn’t matter now, not anymore.

It took nearly all of the jujutsu political capital that Gojo had to keep the higher-ups from executing Geto and you refuse to be a reminder of the time when he was so deeply lost. So you keep your distance despite Geto now also being a teacher at Jujutsu Technical School. You allow yourself to watch him, wondering how he has changed in the last few years and not granting yourself the luxury of getting to know him again.

You stick to the shadows, fully unaware of the broken heart written all over the planes of Geto’s face whenever he chances a glance in your direction.

Geto remembers everything, his memories a sticky reminder of when he had plunged so deeply into madness that his best friend had to pull him back. It’s a blessing and a curse to remember everything.

It’s no wonder he can’t sleep. The image of his parents’ pleading eyes is seared into his brain.

Perhaps death would be easier than this.

It’s interesting how the dynamic from their youth has switched, with Gojo now being Geto’s moral compass. He doesn’t know how long he’ll repent for his almost actions for, but he knows that no amount of time would be enough.

Everyday is a reminder that he’s lucky to exist, another reminder that he owes Gojo his life and the freedom that comes with it. Gojo does not breathe a single word to him about it. He’s only glad to have his other half by his side, even if his other half is perhaps broken in a thousand different ways.

Maybe he is, too. The broken edges of each soul somehow still fit each other, albeit clumsily.

But even after all these years, even after he had left Jujutsu Technical School, he still remembers you. You and your attempts to reel him back, to get him to admit that something was wrong. When he didn’t want to and when nobody else really knew how to get through to him.

You tried, but you were all still just kids with an unbearably burdensome weight on your shoulders.

Maybe it explains why your eyes linger curiously on him when you hear him sometimes gagging after teaching classes to the first years. The taste of curses still lingers bitterly on his tongue, seeping down his throat. Geto thinks that the taste will remain for the rest of his lifetime. It’s part of the reason he’s now developed a sweet tooth to rival Gojo’s.

Anything to get rid of that bitter, dead taste of ash in his mouth.

You’d cautiously avoided the Jujutsu world for a few years, successfully exiling yourself to the snowy mountains. To be left alone. It’s a privilege that you are able to leave- a privilege that you are very well aware of.

It was too much sometimes. You just needed a few days, or so you had thought. A few days turned into months, and soon enough, you were on the cusp of your 25th birthday when you had noticed the uptick in curses in the area.

And then, without a doubt in your mind, it was time to get back to work.

In all that time, you never really stopped thinking about Geto. Nobody was around to judge your thoughts but you were glad that Gojo had gotten to him when he did. While he was saved in the physical sense, you knew that his mind, body and soul were at war with each other. He has the same face, the same strand of dark hair over his forehead, but you don’t know him. Not anymore.

You think about the almost kisses you had almost shared. The one where he was leaving the high school and you were pleading with him to stay. All you had gotten in return was a sad smile.

Geto had pressed his forehead to yours. His lips had hovered over yours, the sweetness of his breath on your skin, but he had pulled away to kiss your forehead instead. He promised you that you’d understand someday, and he left you.

You didn’t though, and you still don’t. Most of all, you don’t understand why your heart still beats for him.

“It’s been a long time since he’s been back,” Shoko says, not unkindly. You’re perched up on one of the tables in her lab during a break in between your classes.

“I’m well aware,” you reply stubbornly, picking at your nails. You’re unbothered (or at least that’s the aura you want to give off).

“You’re the same as when we were in school,” Shoko teases, “Stubborn as hell-”

“I don’t have anything to say to Geto Suguru,” you say, squaring your shoulders. It’s a lie, and you both know it. Even the corpse on Shoko’s autopsy table knows it, too.

“He’d appreciate it, you know,” Shoko says softly, turning her head to look at you, “He’s a bit lost. In a different way.”

“I know,” you sigh as your shoulders drop, “I know.”

His name feels like roses blooming on your tongue, thorns digging into your gums and metal pulsing around your teeth. And yet, his name belongs on your tongue. No matter the courage it takes for you to speak it.

Geto looks surprised when you call his name, his eyes wide and lips parted at the source of the sound. You take a few steps closer to him, allowing yourself to be caught in his orbit.

Dark circles line his under eyes and his face is a little gaunt. He’s clearly struggling.

“Hi,” you muse, standing squarely in front of him.

Geto dares to release a breath in your presence.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Let’s go eat breakfast,” you suggest, “You look like you could use something sweet.”

Geto can still see remnants of the shy girl from high school when he sits across from you with a plate full of pancakes in front of him. You’re sharper, smarter, stronger… but still a little shy (and of course, Gojo still teases you when you get easily flustered).

You’re prettier, too.

You stuff your face to avoid meeting his eyes as warmth blooms in your cheeks. You feel out of your element like a fish out of the water, but when you raise your head to meet his eyes… It feels so familiar.

“How…are you?” Geto cringes at his question but you laugh. He smiles at you (and you think maybe, for a moment, that his smile is still the same).

“That’s a loaded question. Too heavy of a question for pancakes, Suguru,” you say lightly, “Look at all that syrup. Satoru would be proud.”

You pause for a moment to choose your words carefully with a piercing gaze. “And… I am, too.”

Geto’s cheeks are rosy and his smile small but blinding.

In the coming months, you take your time in getting to know Geto once again. Sometimes you feel as if he’s someone new and sometimes you feel like he’s the same boy who used to pinch your arm to get your attention (by the encouragement of Gojo).

He’s still the same boy who looks at you with roses in his eyes.

Some of the students have even noticed your developing friendship- Nobara and Yuuji barging into your office demanding to know whether you and Geto were in love, as Gojo had not so subtly let slip to them. You roll your eyes but neither confirm nor deny the accusation.

You try your best to remain stern with them and tell them to get to class and to not listen to everything that comes out of Gojo’s mouth.

Today, you’re at your desk engrossed in paperwork on the last mission you went on to exorcize a grade two curse. You rub your face tiredly, but you’re determined to finish this damned report if it’s the last thing you do.

You push the face of the distorted, bleeding curse from your mind and focus on the details. Your technique and each and every step you took. Meticulous was your middle name (along with Nanami Kento’s middle name, and you’d surely ask him to review your report before submitting it. As you did quite often after a difficult job).

“Hi,” a voice comes from the doorway to your office and you jump at the sudden sound, “Sorry. It’s just me”

Geto shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” you murmur, giving him a smile, “Wanna do our reports together?”

“I can think of nothing better,” Geto replies, pulling out a box from behind his back, “I brought fruit.”

“I’m done,” you groan, pulling your eyes from the stack of paperwork that was now completed.

“Me too, as of thirty minutes ago-”

“Show-off,” you tease, pulling a smile from him.

“At least my reports are done,” Geto replies, packing his things up. He notices a bit of strawberry juice still at the corner of your mouth and wonders if he should do something about it.

“That’s true. Can’t say the same for all of the teachers at this school,” you say, slinging your backpack over your shoulders. Geto hums and opens the door for you, not minding that your fingers brush as you walk shoulder to shoulder. Eventually, you slip your hand into his as if it’s the easiest thing to do, as if his entire heart isn’t held in your nimble fingers.

Geto ignores his phone screen lighting up with dozens of texts from Gojo (he assumes Gojo is blowing up your phone, too). It’s easy for him to ignore when he watches you rant about the show that you’ve chosen to watch with him. He hears you speaking, your voice strong and clear and your glossy lips moving, but he doesn’t hear a word that you say.

“Are you even listening, Suguru-”

“I missed you,” he interrupts you. You turn your head to ask him what he means, but your voice dies in your throat. Anguish is painted on his pretty face, the same anguish that you remember from when he left you alone all those years ago.

Your heart claws its way up your throat.

“I never apologized, not to you,” Geto continues, “I…I’m sorry. For-”

“I know,” you mumble, your throat feeling dry, “I know-”

“Let me apologize,” he says firmly and you nod, tears building in your eyes, “I’m sorry for…everything. For then and even for now. I left you behind, didn’t I?”

Geto cradles your face with his hand and you can’t stop a few tears from slipping out of your eyes. “You did,” you say hoarsely, “I thought I dreamed it up. But you did.”

“It was only ever you,” he promises softly, each word a kiss to your skin.

“No, it wasn’t. It’s not just about me,” you say sternly despite the tears on your cheeks.

“I know,” Geto murmurs, “I know.” He presses his soft lips to your chin, then your salty cheeks and then your forehead. Your soft sniffles have turned into quiet sobs before he brushes his lips over yours. He soothes you with his hands, curling around you and draping over you like a warm blanket.

He slips his tongue into your mouth, and Geto tastes like something sweet, something like coming home.

tags: @kentobean @aeanya

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #jjk x reader #geto suguru

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

This is the Beat of My Heart

happy very early birthday to @jaskierswolf​! have some soulmates.

new soulmate mechanic: you can hear your beloved’s heartbeat whenever you feel frightened

art by the always-talented @mawbwehownets​

tw: mentions of the Trials, canon typical violence but it’s just the cave scene from Posada/Four Marks, minor emotional Geralt whump (self loathing witcher feelings), hurt/comfort with a very fluffy ending

---

Geralt’s fingers curl painfully into the tops of his legs. He’s trying to hold himself down against the rough-hewn seat of the tavern bench with all his mighty strength; there’s an irritating sound filling the small room that has activated his fight or flight response, and he can’t do either without drawing suspicion from the already antsy villagers. The haunting rhythm echoes through him, a soft but insistent thud thud thud that floods his senses and soothes his aching head. The sound is more familiar to the witcher than his own gruff voice. More familiar than his brothers’ voices, or Vesemir’s. This staccato beat has marked out every terrifying moment in the witcher’s long life.

The sound that pounds against Geralt’s ears is his soulmate’s heartbeat.

The poor, ignorant fool he’s meant to match in every way is wandering around this shit-hole tavern in Posada, totally unaware of the sad, unsavory fate that Destiny has bestowed upon them. Geralt never thought this day would come, really. Being bound to a witcher was bad enough but being in the same room with one, feeling the subtle pull of forces far beyond your control meddling with your life… drawing you towards danger and death...

It will be better for both of us if I leave as soon as possible, Geralt thinks to himself. He takes a quick inventory of his purse and swords and finds them all accounted for. At least I can spare them the tragic end they’d no doubt meet at a witcher’s side. They would likely hate me if I ever sought them out.

They must be terrified of him, whichever one of these people Destiny has saddled with the other half of Geralt’s soul. They’ve heard his heartbeat, too, in their moments of fear. As well as Geralt knows his soulmate’s giddy, fluttering pulse pattern, they have lived with his slow mutant heartbeat in return. Were they even more frightened when they heard how slow it was? Did the connection serve its purpose, calming them down and reassuring them of his presence, or had it made things worse, elevated their level of terror? How cruel it was for Destiny to chain this person to a living firebrand, to create them to be the perfect other half for someone who’s no more than a monster.

That heartbeat, vibrant and steadfast, is what had kept Geralt alive and fighting for survival during the worst of his Trials. When the poisons and tinctures and potions had crawled through his veins, turning them from black to red to black again and twisting his body into something other, that glorious beating had been there for him. The sound of his soulmate’s fragile mortal heart had measured out the seconds, giving him something to cling onto. That heartbeat had given Geralt something to love. To hope for in his worst moments. When they had dragged him back into those dark, musty rooms, seventeen and screaming with what little was left of his voice, all Geralt could do was pray for his future soulmate’s heartbeat to return to him. To comfort him.

In the relentless pain and terror of those added experiments, Geralt had kept that sound buried deep within his very being, like a candle in the center of a pitch-black room. Even when they said the Trials would take his emotions from him, that the additional testing would obliterate his humanity entirely, the sound of a stranger’s heartbeat never failed to stir the strongest feelings of love and safety he’d ever known.

Can ever know, perhaps.

Regardless of what might have been in another lifetime, Geralt keeps his fingers clenched and his muscles taut. He focuses all his energy on keeping himself sitting. He would have been content to stay there in the corner, his eyes trained on the grain of the worn wooden table before him, ignoring Destiny’s desires entirely… except…

Except for the damned bard. The novice bard swans his way over to the witcher’s corner table, lashes fluttering and face flushed. Geralt catches a faint whiff of arousal and writes it off as a boyish reaction to the rush of performing. The young brunette opens his mouth and the sweetest voice Geralt has ever heard playfully says: “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

“I’m here to drink alone,” the witcher grunts. He can practically feel his fingernails biting through the leather of his gloves. The heartbeat is louder now, closer, and it’s driving Geralt mad.

“Good,” the bard nods, still leaning against a support beam. “Yeah, good. Nobody else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except-” he takes a slow step forward “-for you.”

The bard is probably barely old enough to order his own vodka, and the bright, sparkling blue of his eyes makes the deeper blue of his doublet look incredibly washed out. Geralt tries to keep his face impassive, rolling his eyes and remaining silent. He’s still thinking about his soulmate… trying to block out the rapid thrumming of their all-too-human heart.

“C’mon,” the brunette urges. “You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me; three words or less!”

Geralt hears his soulmate’s heartbeat growing louder, more irregular and more excited, regardless of his efforts to ignore the hurried drumming. The scent of happiness grows thick and hazy in the air as the bard continues to grin and Geralt realizes, with a tiny jolt of horror, that the origin of the life-altering sound is sitting directly across from him. Geralt matches the rabbit-quick jumps at the junctures of the bard’s wrists to the soft rhythm thumping at the back of his head and finds them to be a perfect match.

It’s you, the witcher thinks, eyes widening slightly against his will. He takes a moment to tamp down his more obvious emotions, trying desperately keeping his expression neutral and under control. The bard is the one whose heartbeat kept me breathing in my very worst moments. Kept me fighting. Kept me…

Geralt suddenly remembers that he needs to answer a question: “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t exist?” the bard asks, eyebrows furrowing. The expression is halfway between a pout and an offended grimace, which infuriatingly verges on being adorable. Geralt’s heart lurches traitorously in his chest. He has never known such horrible yearning in all his many decades on the Path.

“The creatures in your song.”

“Why would you know?” the bard scoffs. Geralt prepares to stand, finally releasing his death-grip on his own legs. His fingers and palms are cramped and tight from holding himself still for so long; the bard is really testing his patience. The witcher is less than two seconds away from revealing the big secret and ruining both of their lives when the young man continues, eyes shining, “Ooooh, fun! White hair, big old loner, two very very scary looking swords…”

Geralt stands from the table and collects his purse.

The bard glances up at him, blue eyes wondrously wide and cheeks flushed pink.

“I know who you are,” he practically breathes. He stands, following Geralt halfway out the door. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt’s fists clench again. The retraction of his muscles keeps him from grabbing the foolish human by the collar and dragging him from the room for a proper chat about manners and soulmates. Thankfully. As the disoriented witcher hurries from the tavern’s main room, he hears the bard shouting after him: “Called it!”

---

Geralt snaps back into consciousness with a grunt. As frustration and fear weave themselves into a web of anxiety at the center of his chest, that soft thud thud thudding fills his ears. It soothes him and helps him focus; he is in a cave, it is midday or a little past, and the bard, Jaskier apparently, has been bound against him, back-to-back. He tugs at the ropes that bind their wrists again but it does no good. Behind him, the bard says quietly: “This is the part where we escape.”

Geralt fears for his soulmate’s wellbeing more than his own. He’s technically responsible for this stupid, fragile person who refused to stay behind despite his warnings. He lowers his voice, “This is the part where they kill us.”

“Unfortunate,” the bard sighs. The witcher listens, confused and a bit shocked, as Jaskier slowly starts to even out his breathing by matching his inhales and exhales to Geralt’s slow, methodical heartbeat.

“How can you hear it?” he asks without thinking.

“Hear what?” Jaskier replies, whispering.

“Your breathing,” Geralt says, as if it’s obvious. “You’re matching it to my… to my heartbeat. You don’t have a witcher’s enhanced hearing so how are you matching the rhythm so perfectly?”

“I was matching it to-”

Their conversation ends abruptly as an angry elven woman storms into the cave. She kicks at them furiously, spitting in the Elder tongue, “Beast!”

“Quick, Geralt!” the bard urges, “Do your witchering!”

“Shut up!”

“No!”

The woman doles out more swift kicks to the chest. One for Geralt and one for Jaskier. More muttering in Elder, insults that even the bard manages to understand and toss around. Geralt grimaces as he’s beaten by Toruviel and hears the thudding even louder than before. The witcher smiles when he notices that he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat against his back, pulsing through the thin material of the bard’s light woolen doublet. It’s so much more intense, close up like this.

“Leave off! He’s just a bard.”

He’s so much more than that, Geralt’s own thoughts remind him. He’s everything to you.

A wave of urgent protectiveness swells within him and Geralt diverts the attention of the Elf King away from the foolish human, whose mouth has run away with him. Eventually Filavandrel tires of their chatter and pulls his short blade. The Silvan rushes forward, arms outstretched to stop his sovereign, “Wait!”

“Torque! Stand aside!”

“The witcher could have killed me,” Torque rushes to explain. “But he didn’t. He’s different, like us!”

Geralt watches with mild trepidation as the battle-hardened King pushes his subject aside, fury blazing in his clear blue eyes. He understands that this may be his final day alive. He wishes that Jaskier would have listened before and stayed at the tavern below. He wishes, with what may be his final moments alive, that Jaskier were safe and not bound to him this way. Literally and figuratively.

“If you must kill me, I am ready,” Geralt intones. “But the Sylvan is right… don’t call me human.”

The witcher tilts his head back, eyes open but unseeing, his entire being focused on the feeling of Jaskier’s racing heartbeat thudding against the back of his leather armor. The killing blow never comes. Instead, Filavandrel cuts the ropes that bind their wrists; Geralt ignores his initial instinct to check Jaskier for injuries and instead ushers the bard onto his feet and towards the mouth of the cave. “Wait!”

The witcher freezes in his tracks and glances back over his shoulder. Filavandrel holds out a gorgeously crafted lute with a beautiful gold design painted across the front. “My apologies for the loss of your instrument.”

“Your Majesty,” Jaskier gasps. “I couldn’t. You’ve already lost so much.”

“Then promise me to do right by him,” the elf nods at Geralt. “And consider it payment.”

“I swear it,” Jaskier nods, tone serious and face grim. Filavandrel lets his eyes flicker between the two unlikely companions and Geralt prays that the Elf won’t say anything out loud, if he indeed understands the bond between them.

“Be on your way, then, before I change my mind.”

Filavandrel winks conspiratorially and disappears back into the shadow of the caves. Jaskier pulls the lute strap over his shoulder and beckons for Geralt to follow him. “Your horse is probably worried.”

---

It takes nearly six months for Geralt to break down and tell Jaskier the truth about their seemingly uncanny partnership. If it weren’t for the rapid approach of harsher winter weather, he probably never would have said anything at all.

But on one particularly frosty evening, two weeks after Samhain, the witcher sits Jaskier down beside their fire and tries to remember how to speak from his heart. The bard is patient, warming his hands over the flames and waiting for Geralt to gather his words. Jaskier has never rushed him, and for that Geralt is eternally grateful. Taking a hint from his companion’s hunched shoulders, Jaskier speaks first. “What’s on your mind, my dearest White Wolf?”

“I… I have to tell you something and I don’t want you to be angry.”

“Did you spill ink on my new doublet?” Jaskier teases. “Because if you have, I promise to be very cross with you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt half-smiles. He’s terrified, and he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat surrounding him from all sides. “No, I’m afraid it’s more complicated than replacing a doublet.”

“Oh, is this about us being soulmates?”

Geralt’s eyes snap up to meet Jaskier’s and his mouth drops open. “Wha-? When did you- When di-”

“You said it in your sleep maybe two weeks after we first met,” Jaskier explains quietly, like he’s the one who’s been holding back a secret all this time. He blushes furiously as he tries to apologize and extrapolate all at once, “I thought you were just muttering to yourself, really, or I would have woken you up! I swear! You were just…”

Now it’s Geralt’s turn to wait as Jaskier fumbles to speak.

“You hadn’t been resting well and I didn’t want to wake you up. You looked so happy and content that night, with your hair all loose and the moon so bright…” he shakes his head and giggles nervously, “Anyway, not important. You rolled over and reached for me. You chuckled a little between snores and said A bard for a soulmate, how lovely. It sounded happy, when you said it like that.”

“Was that… the only time?”

“No,” Jaskier smiles. He pulls his knees against his chest and rests his chin atop them, “You reach for me all the time in your dreams. Sometimes you say my name or call me soulmate or beloved. It’s rather sweet and I-” tears brim in his eyes and Geralt’s heart skips a beat “-I know that witchers don’t feel things the same way humans do. I didn’t want to get my hopes up and then-”

“I love you,” Geralt says. He takes Jaskier by the hands before he can stop himself and pulls the pale knuckles against his lips for a soft kiss. “You… You have saved my life so many times.”

“Geralt!”

“I mean it,” the witcher nods. “I know that the Path is treacherous, and I wouldn’t ask you to join me on it and risk your life, but I do love you and care about you. Ever since I was young I have marked my steps by the beat of your heart. I would be happy continuing to do so, whether or not you accept me in return.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sob-laughs, flinging himself into the witcher’s embrace. Geralt falls backward, shocked, his arms full of emotional bard. His face is peppered with kisses between hurried words: “I love you, too! I thought you didn’t want me that way. I thought it was just… a witcher mutation thing.”

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen for the winter, Julek. You can learn more about my kind; you can meet my brothers and the old swordmaster for the Wolf School, my adopted father of sorts. We’ll protect you and I-” Geralt clears his throat. “I will hold you every night in my arms, if you so desire.”

“I would like it very much if you were to hold me,” Jaskier grins. “And of course I'll come with you to your witchery keep for the cold months, dear heart. I’ll never part from your side again.”

Geralt presses a firm kiss to Jaskier's forehead, their heartbeats echoing faintly in the witcher's trained ears. Something in his chest settles into place, contented at last. He presses another, even gentler kiss to the bard's chapped lips and feels his heart swell when Jaskier smiles into it. He breathes out his promise as they pull apart, "Never."

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #art collab sorta #art collab #geraskier art #geraskier fluff #getting together #soulmate au #geraskier soulmate au #soulmates #you can hear you soulmate's heartbeat #heartbeats #tw violence #tw four marks #tooth rotting fluff #happy birthday wolfie #geraskier fluffiness

[nanshe-of-nina]

Favorite History Books || The Black Prince: England’s Greatest Medieval Warrior by Michael Jones ★★★☆☆

The Prince’s martial exploits were the stuff of legend even in his own lifetime. On 26 Au- gust 1346, at the age of sixteen, he fought heroically with his father in an army that crushed the French at Crécy. Ten years later, on 19 September 1356, by now a commander in his own right, he turned the tables on his numerically superior opponent, capturing King John II of France in battle at Poitiers, one of the great English victories of the Hundred Years War. In 1362, he became prince of Aquitaine, holding a magnificent court at Bordeaux that mesmerized the brave but unruly Gascon nobility and drew them like moths to the flame of his cause. Five years later, he led a great Anglo-Gascon army across the Pyrenees into Spain (crossing by the mountain pass at Roncesvalles, where Count Roland had fought a valiant rearguard action to save Charlemagne’s army seven centuries earlier), winning a stunning victory against the odds at Nájera that restored to the throne King Pedro of Castile, who had been ousted by his bastard half-brother. Edward’s meteoric military rise captured the imagination of Europe. The chronicler Jean Froissart saw him – at the outset of his career at least – as a model of chivalric virtue.

Edward became known to posterity as the ‘Black Prince’, a soubriquet that was not in existence when the Chandos Herald wrote a long poem (circa 1385) on La Vie et Faites d’Armes d’une très noble Prince de Wales et Aquitaine (The Life and Feats of Arms of the most noble Prince of Wales and Aquitaine), a tribute to a man seen as a paragon of chivalry, and in fact was used only from the sixteenth century. It is found in notes of the antiquary John Leland in the early 1540s and first appeared in print in Richard Grafton’s Chronicle in 1569. More than twenty years later, in William Shakespeare’s Henry V (Act 2, Scene 4) the French ruler Charles VI says that his countrymen fear King Henry because of his ancestry, his ‘heroical seed’... That ‘black name’ is now the standard way of describing the man. Some have suggested that the ‘Black’ is an allusion to the black armour that he wore at his first battle (although the evidence for this is scanty); others, that it is derived from the cruel way he waged war in France. When I inspect the tomb itself, I notice that the heraldic backdrop to his tournament badges is black – the colour forms part of a show of jousting prowess. Whatever the explanation for this knightly soubriquet, it was synonymous with a single-minded dedication to the warrior ethos, and the fighting fraternity of Europe’s elite.

In 1688 the antiquary Joshua Barnes wrote a historical biography of Edward III and his son, the Black Prince, praising the prince’s feats-of-arms; some seventy years later David Hume, in his History of England, also extolled his martial virtues. Indeed, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries this ‘Black Prince’ was seen in straightforward, heroic terms. On 16 September 1903 a mounted statue of the Prince was unveiled in City Square, Leeds, proclaiming him as ‘the flower of England’s chivalry’. However, modern scholarship has been more critical of him, criticizing his lack of administrative ability and also his failures of political judgement. He is seen as fixated on his military career, inflexible in his approach to government and limited in his broader abilities. As I gaze on the tomb, I wonder if French manuscript collections, many of them underexploited, can cast fresh light on this fascinating figure.

The chronicler of the abbey of Moissac, Aymeric de Peyrac, for example, showed that the Prince could be engaging, humorous and pleasingly direct. He recalled the Prince asking one of the monks, who was famed for his melodious singing voice, to take Mass. At its end, the Prince greeted the man, thanked him and said: ‘I am sorry so much misfortune has be- fallen you – and that your good friends are no longer with you.’ The monk looked a little surprised and asked him why he had said that. ‘Well,’ the Prince replied, ‘I noticed that in the service you rushed through the Office for the Living but seemed to spend an eternity on the Office for the Dead.’ The monk looked at the Prince for a while, smiled, and then said: ‘I feel that the living can more easily look after themselves; it is those souls trapped in purgatory who really need my assistance.’ This was an age of violence and frequent visitations of the plague, a horror that struck communities rapidly and without warning; an age that demanded the warrior should prepare to face death, at any time or place. For a moment the Black Prince seemed lost in his own thoughts. Then he smiled back, and thanked the monk for his answer. The two men became friends.

The last years of the Prince’s life were blighted by sickness and he was only able to attend his final military engagement, the siege of Limoges, in 1370, carried on a stretcher. According to the chronicler Jean Froissart, the Black Prince – increasingly frustrated by his own debilitating sickness and the deteriorating war situation – sacked the town and put its civilian population to the sword. This striking image of a chivalric hero falling below the standards that had made him admired throughout Europe has lodged itself in the popular imagination, but I find myself wondering whether it really happened in the way that Froissart described it. Whatever the truth of Limoges, there was now a cloud hanging over English fortunes. The Prince relinquished his duchy of Aquitaine due to ill health and spent his last years con- fined to his sickbed. He died on 8 June 1376, aged only forty-five. Nine years later the Black Prince’s magnificent tomb was completed by his son, now ruling the kingdom as Richard II. There was no more appetite for foreign war; the realm was divided by internal dissension and unrest. The Prince’s memorial at Canterbury became a memorial to a bygone era.

#historyedit #litedit #edward the black prince #medieval #house of plantagenet #english history #european history #history #history books #nanshe's graphics

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 7

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Maybe you should have tried harder, or held onto him tighter. Maybe then you wouldn't be feeling this gaping hole in your chest where your heart used to beat.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,297

Warnings: Description of a dead body, major character death (but technically you already know it happened, just not how it did...so...), heartbreak, major angst, a bit of fluff at the end, a couple familiar faces may or may not show up

Author Note: Seriously, you all are the best readers I could ever hope to have. The response to Part 6 was unbelievable and I can’t thank everyone enough for the support, especially when I continue to be evil and end the segments with such horrible cliffhangers. 

Links to Part 1 and Part 6 and Part 8

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Maker, your head hurts. 

It throbs angrily as if a mudhorn has impaled your brain on its horn. In fact, your whole body feels like one giant bruise. Grimacing, you take a deep breath, only to enter a coughing fit when you inhale a lungful of smoke. 

Cracking an eye open, panic seizes you when all you see is smoke. Ash gray and thick, it obscures your immediate surroundings from view. You can’t even tell if it’s night or day. 

What the kriff is going on?

Swallowing against the dryness of your throat, you slowly sit up and feel pieces of grit and rubble dig into the tender flesh of your palms. A quick look shows no blood, soulmate mark unaffected, and you sigh a quiet breath of relief. But then worry starts to sink in when you realize you can’t remember where you are or what knocked you unconscious. Before you can spiral into a panic attack, the ground beneath you starts to tremble, causing the tiny fragments of gravel to wildly bounce around.

A shrill metallic screech pierces your ears followed immediately by a massive burst of vibrant orange flames erupting in the distance. You yelp, hastily pushing yourself onto your feet and start to run in the opposite direction, ignoring the howl of protest from your aching body. 

You can’t even see two steps in front of you, effectively ruining your attempt at a quick escape as you clumsily skirt around piles of debris that appear out of the smoke and threaten to block your way. Every breath is a wheeze, lungs making it painfully clear they cannot draw in enough oxygen from the smoky atmosphere to support your chosen pace. But the mere thought of dying here in this nightmarish inferno is enough to urge you to keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as it simultaneously creates a tight, anxious knot in your stomach.

Another explosion detonates behind you. The ground quakes and groans, cracks appearing at an alarming rate as if the planet itself is being torn apart by the chaos. Your foot catches on one of the rifts, eliciting a cry of shock to tear itself out of your throat when you’re unable to reclaim your balance and plummet forward.

Except it’s not the ground that rises up to meet you. 

No. 

It’s a body. 

A dead body, to be precise. Burnt to a blackened crisp, as if the person had been dropped directly into a sun. Their skeletal features are frozen in an expression of torture, mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. The stench of their seared flesh overwhelms your nostrils and ingrains itself in your brain, ensuring you’ll never forget the horrific smell for the rest of your lifetime.

Whimpering, you scramble backwards, curling your legs tight against your heaving chest. You look around, bile rising in your throat when you glimpse through the sea of smoke more charred corpses surrounding you. It’s as if you’ve stumbled upon a mass grave, and again the thought crosses your mind: what the kriff is going on?

You stand up, not wanting to linger another second in their presence, and continue moving forward, each footstep slow and careful as you maneuver around the bodies. The smoke is marginally thinner the further away you move from the fiery blasts, just enough for you to make out the faint outlines of collapsed buildings on either side of you, homes of families destroyed for reasons you don’t understand. Gut instinct keeps insisting that everything you’re seeing is wrong, that none of this destruction and carnage should have ever happened. 

Again, you attempt to string together your memories, forcing your brain to comply despite the pounding ache it produces in your temples. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had a concussion. 

Details slowly start coming to mind, little and meaningless by themselves, but when put together form a grander picture. You came here to visit your best friend. ‘Here’ being a Mid-Rim planet with a ridiculously long and multisyllabic name you couldn’t pronounce then, and your poor head certainly can’t identify now. The transport flight had been long and you’d arrived later than anticipated, verging on late afternoon when you’d stepped off the craft. 

On your way to your friend’s house, the sun had abruptly gone dark. Everyone had stopped to look to the sky, yourself included. A light cruiser, kite-shaped and unmistakable, hovered directly overhead. Its presence was ominous, evoking the crowd of civilian spectators to murmur amongst themselves. 

Then its weapons unleashed a storm of hellfire.

Oh, Maker. How could you have ever forgotten the screams?

You’re pulled out of your dismal thoughts by the appearance of a dark shape ahead of you, its outline standing out as noticeably different than the surrounding rubble. Gradually, your brain starts to distinguish human features: a head, broad shoulders and limbs. 

It also occurs to you that they’re coming straight at you.

Before you can decide whether to flee or fight or do anything remotely conducive to increasing your odds of survival, the human-shaped blur barrels straight into you, hitting you with such force you instinctively grip onto their coat, just above their wrists, to keep from falling backwards. The feather-light grazing of the edge of your palm against their skin elicits a buzz of shocking warmth, as if you’ve touched a live wire instead of flesh.

It’s you, the thought pops into your head unprompted, like a fact you’ve always known since you were born. The feeling is breathtaking and electric, a lightning bolt striking the center of your heart. Every cell in your body is radiating exuberance and cheering: it’s you, it’s you, it’s you! The one I’ve been waiting for!

You’re pushed sideways, a small cry of surprise escaping your lips.

“Get out of my way.” It’s a masculine voice, sharp with impatience yet it wraps itself around your heart all the same. He doesn’t spare you a second glance as he continues heading in the direction you’ve been coming from.

“Wait,” you protest, because it’s not supposed to be like this. You’ve started shaking, from adrenaline or the shock of his dismissal, you’re not sure. 

The man pauses, keeping his back facing you. His dark clothes are conspicuously clean, and you can’t help comparing them to your own which are sooty and torn in places. For the second time, your gut instinct is telling you something is wrong, but this time you ignore it in favor of listening to the screaming of your heart urging you to never let this man out of your sight.

“We’re soulmates,” you say, desperate for him to stay.

His fingers curl into fists, the only forewarning you have before he snaps your heart in half as he mutters, “You could never be my soulmate.”

And then you’re watching as he disappears into the smoke, not once looking back to gauge the aftermath of his rejection. You had always been a hopeless romantic, dreaming that you and your soulmate would meet and live a long, happy life together until Death came to reap your souls. In less than thirty seconds, your soulmate had just cruelly crushed those dreams without either of you exchanging names or seeing each other’s faces.

Maybe you should have tried harder, or held onto him tighter. Maybe then you wouldn't be feeling this gaping hole in your chest where your heart used to beat.

Acting on impulse, you start running after him. If you can just have a second chance to make a better impression, maybe you can change his mind. Maybe you can convince him to accept you as his soulmate, agree to take your hand and never let go. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll fall in love with you, deeply and profoundly, just like every soulmate pairing you’ve heard about.

 With a head full of maybes, you don’t even hear the bomb drop.

It hits the ground with a resounding thud, and then your world is an explosion of red and orange heat, consuming you whole without leaving behind any evidence you’d ever existed at all. Your vision shifts and blurs, memories of your lifetime flashing by too quickly to recognize each one, but through it all you hear a voice, his voice, echoing those dreadful words over and over again.

You could never be my soulmate. Never. Never. Never.

~~~

You wake up with a jolt, throat raw as if you really had been inhaling smoke. You’re drenched in sweat and you push away the heavy blanket covering you before realizing it is definitely not your blanket nor are you currently in your own bed. Looking around, panic begins to prickle along your nerve endings when you fail to recognize anything familiar about your location.

You’re in someone’s home, that much is obvious from the furnishings. The ceiling overhead is made of overlapping metal and is slightly rounded, reminding you of a cave or burrow. There is a lantern hanging on a nearby hook, but the light it emanates is dim compared to the sunshine pouring in from the four small, square-shaped windows cut into the wall behind you above the bed. The view through the windows is slightly blurry, but you can make out the blue sky and what you think is a corral of some kind. 

Rubbing a hand over your face to wipe away the lingering exhaustion, you’re surprised when your hand encounters something rough covering the side of your forehead. A bandage. Strange, you must have hit your head somewhere—

The past comes back in flashes: Din confessing his feelings, touching his hand, the spark of warmth, falling unconscious on the floor.

Where is Din?

“You are awake.”

The voice is expressionless and mechanical in tone, stating the obvious. Even so, you jump, not having noticed the droid sitting in the far corner of the room during your initial survey. Its red sensors and dark colored plating would make it look menacing if not for the tray it clutches in its hands, balancing cups and a pitcher.

“I am IG-11,” the droid says as it approaches.

“IG?” you echo hoarsely, sitting up with alarm. “As in one of those assassin droids?”

“I have been reprogrammed as a nurse.” It considers you for a moment, internal mechanisms whirring, and then the tray is held out closer for you to reach. “Tea?”

Hesitantly, you pour yourself some and hold the cup with both hands as you take a sip. The tea is warm as it slides down your throat, flavorful and far more exotic than the kind you’ve tasted back home in Umbriel. 

“Where am I?” you ask after you’ve swallowed two more gulps.

“Arvala-7.”

You blink, barely familiar with the name which only intensifies your worry about Din’s absence.

“Okay, but like, where exactly on Arvala-7?” you press, gesturing around the room. “How did I even get here?”

“Your current location is a moisture farm owned and operated by Kuiil,” IG-11 says, moving away to set the tray on a nearby table, though its head remains facing your direction. “Death brought you here unconscious with an injury to your central processing unit.”

“My central…” you trail off, squinting. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes. It was meant to put you at ease.”

“Right.” You nod to yourself, reaching a decision. Downing the last of your drink, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and make a move to stand. “This has been great, but I’ve really got to go find Death so—”

A wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to sit back down. Kriff, you think, closing your eyes until you’re certain you won’t be seeing double anymore. 

“You won’t find Death here.” A new voice, crackling with age, informs you. His words are ominous, but his tone isn’t one of malice or ill-intent. 

Turning, you see an Ugnaught approaching from the entrance of the house. He stops beside IG-11, green eyes peering at you from beneath bushy white eyebrows, but you don’t feel threatened by his nearness. 

“I am Kuiil. Death entrusted me with looking after you until his return from Nevarro,” he says, sitting down upon a stool with his arms braced upon his knees. “You must continue to rest until you are well. I have spoken.”

You press a hand to your chest, feeling a pang of hurt at Din’s decision. “He left?”

“Death is bound by creed to the universe to reap the dead. Nothing, not even his soulmate, can be put before it.”

You choke on your spit. “Soulmate? We’re not—”

“Even if he had not told me,” Kuiil interrupts, unwilling to hear your dissuading opinion when he is certain of his own. “I would have known it from how he stubbornly stayed at your side and by how loathsome he was to leave you behind. In all my years, I have not seen him behave in such a twitterpated manner.” 

“He…” Your voice wavers, torn between hopefulness and disbelief. “He really told you we’re soulmates?”

Kuiil, reaching towards the table for the pitcher of tea, pauses and slowly turns back to look at you. “You were unaware of your matched connection with Death? Did you two not touch hands as most fated pairs often do?”

Any reply you might have said falters when you look down at your hands in your lap. More specifically, your left hand. The one Din had grasped.  The one that in your past life had brushed against your soulmate minutes before you died. 

Right there in the middle of your palm, innocently gleaming like it’s always been there and therefore isn’t at all responsible for the rapid increase of your heartbeat, is a soulmate marking.

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