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dreamii-yume · 3 years

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OH SHIT YUME ITS THE TWEELS BIRTHDAY! We know that everyone is horny as fuck for the birthday boys so why dont we have some sweet crumbs to balance the spice? I give you all creative freedom and access to the sugar stock!

Yume is still crying in disbelief that she got the tweels birthday wrong omg

“Aah~”

Chewing on the piece of cake you innocently plopped inside your mouth, you blinked as Floyd suddenly leaned towards you, opening his mouth in anticipation. You were clueless at what to do at first, Floyd definitely looked like he was expecting you to know so it got you sweating a little bit. However, as his body childish swung from side to side and multiple glances over to the cake you’re eating, you got a rough idea. Scooping out another piece, you gestured this one to him and allowed him to take the bite. “Here you go.” You said, lighting up as Floyd happily took it.

“So yummy~!” Floyd said with his mouth full, cream left on his cheek as he excitedly bounced in his seat. Seeing how much of a child your senior is, it made you smile in a way as he actually looks rather innocent to you right now. “I don’t know what you’re doing but for some reason, everything that Little Shrimpy feeds me tastes so much more delicious~!”

“How do you do that, Little Shrimpy~? Tell me, tell me~! Is it magic?” Floyd cooed, leaning closer to you and opening up his mouth again. “More, more~! Feed me more~!”

“I don’t think it’s magic though? I can’t even use that...” You sweatdropped but proceeded to feed the excited twin more pieces of cake, enjoying the way his cheeks would move as he chew. You have no clue what he was trying to imply but you decided to go along with him for now. You grabbed a tissue nearby and wiped away excess cream near his lips which earned you a boyish giggle from the guy.

Floyd seemed a bit more energetic than usual, probably because it’s his and his brother’s birthday. You find it really cute actually, he was usually the clingiest one out of the two but today, he just seem like he wanted to be spoiled rotten. Of course, you don’t really have the reason to deny that kind of request so you didn’t mind at all.

“Floyd, you shouldn’t casually cling onto (Y/N)-san like that...” A voice far calmer than Floyd’s rung in the room and looking up met you face to face with his brother, Jade. He was wearing the same outfit as him, signifying that this day is not only special for just one person. Despite having the same face, Jade was much more refined than his twin, his signature smile still painted a smile on his face as he stepped inside. “You’re going to bother her in this case.”

“Eeh~ Don’t be a killjoy, Jade! It’s fine, it’s fine~!” Floyd said as he suddenly wrapped his arms around you, startling you slightly to the point that you almost dropped the plate of cake you were holding. “Little Shrimpy looks like she’s having fun too though~”

“How about you try to acting a little carefree too, Jade~? It’s our birthday, after all~!” Floyd suggested, laughing as he nuzzled against you. “Little Shrimpy thinks so too, right~?”

“Of course! Jade-senpai should just relax on his special day too!” Jade could only blink at those words, seeing as you smiled at him. He looked to the side, placing his hand on his mouth as if he was thinking deeply. He watched as you plopped another piece of cake inside Floyd’s mouth, his brother looking so ecstatic during all of it that it startled Jade for a bit. His brother had never been this close to someone other than him and Azul before, let alone a mere human like you. So, suffice to say that he’s caught off-guard, he always thought Floyd was just playing with you.

“...Well then, if you don’t mind...” Jade said, a smile gracing his features as he gracefully sat beside you and Floyd, his posture fine and well-trained. Your mouth couldn’t help but to open, dumbfounded as the usually serious and cunning Jade Leech turned to you and closed his eyes before opening his mouth. The slight blush appearing on his cheeks was proof that he wasn’t used to such actions.

You blinked as your mind went blank for a second, but a sweat dropped down your forehead. This was kind of...You can’t find the right words to say but seeing Jade with his eyes close and mouth open, looking all vulnerable like this without instructing you on what to do, it made your heart race. He looked quite erotic too, not that you’ll ever say it out loud. Meanwhile, Floyd shifted beside you, pouting. “Eh, what are you doing, Jade? If you want Little Shrimpy to feed you, you gotta wait for your turn!” Floyd whined. “Get your own cake too!”

However, despite the constant whines of his brother, Jade remained his position, patiently waiting for your move which only irked his other half. Because of this, you couldn’t help but to giggle, lifting up another piece of cake towards him. “Here you go.” You said, the fork reaching inside his mouth, the sweet taste of the cake engulfed his taste buds.

The taste actually captured Jade off-guard, it still has the same flavor as the cake he had before but somehow, it felt special. Opening up his eyes and seeing your gentle smile directed at him was magically adding more spice to the food. Floyd was right, simple food does taste better when you’re the one who’s feeding it to him. What a mystery, you even had Jade this stumped about it.

“Eh!? Little Shrimpy, you traitor! That was supposed to be for me~!” Floyd whined louder as he began to shake your shoulders. “You’re already cheating on me, that’s so unfair! Little Shrimpy~!”

You nervously giggled at Floyd’s outburst, slowly becoming dizzy on the way he was racking your body. “S-Sorry, I’ll give the next bite to you, okay...?” You said, just to calm him down but was met with nothing but puffed cheeks as response from the guy. You resorted into patting his head as the final line of defense, luckily, Floyd accepted such gesture and nuzzled closer to you, muttering about stuff.

Covering his mouth as he chewed the sweet cake, Jade had turned his eyes on your every move. “...It’s delicious.” He said, making you turn your head towards him. “Can I please have more?”

“No-“

“Gladly!” You said, scooping another piece and before the whining eel on your shoulders could complain about it, Jade already went forward and bit the cake off the fork. You felt bad for betraying Floyd once again but Jade genuinely looked happy being fed like this. He was less messier than his brother but somehow, just at this moment, he carries the same childish energy around him. It was endearing and you couldn’t help it.

...But then again, you felt the hands around you tighten which sent shivers down your spine. “...Little Shrimpy, you’re such a liar.” You heard Floyd right at your ear, his voice sounding a little less enthusiastic and you knew from past experience that it’s never a good thing. He puffed his cheeks, scrunching his eyebrows down. “I can’t trust you anymore! Hmph!”

“E-Eh...Floyd-senpai...?” Though he said that and looked away from you, he never let go of your body. It’s funny actually, it seems like he wanted to sulk but his body is just refusing to leave from yours. Anyway, it’s not good to keep Floyd in this mood, so you tried to shift your attention back to him again. You gestured another piece of cake in his direction but the guy just refuses to look back at you, pouting all the way. You sweatdropped, this was definitely going to be a challenge. “H-Here you go, this one is for you, Floyd-senpai~! Aah~!”

Jade smiled at the sight of the stubborn pouting Floyd as he swallowed the cake he received. “(Y/N)-san, if Floyd doesn’t want it then, would it be fine if I could have it?” He said, his smile suddenly contorting into a mischievous smirk which immediately got on Floyd’s nerves. “He doesn’t seem to be in the mood so-“

“Who said I don’t want it!?” Floyd yelled as he aggressively mauled the piece of cake before you could even react. “Arr eath whafever Wittwe Sswiphy fhed mmhe! Ifh ghod!”

You sweatdropped. “I didn’t have a single clue on what you said but you might choke, so eat slowly, okay?” You nervously giggled, patting Floyd’s head, feeling his mood getting lighter with the way he nuzzled back onto you again.

Jade gave a chuckle as well before scooting closer to you. You glanced at what he was going to do, only for you and Floyd to flinch when he dropped his head onto your other shoulder. “...I can see why Floyd is always wrapping his arms around you.” He said, closing his eyes in relaxation as if he was just at a warm fireplace. He turned to look at you, in which induced a small blush on your cheeks, especially when he gave a gentle smile. “You’re very warm.”

Ah, what a different side to Jade that you have come to see this special day. He was someone you were unable to read from the very first day, the only times his true emotions let out is when it’s so blatantly obvious that he was going to commit yet under shady business. But this time, you saw another side to him, an unexpected gentleness residing in him. It was your first time seeing how vulnerable he is, chuckling by your shoulders like this.

Dare you say that it was actually cute.

“What are you doing, Jade!? This is my spot, you know~!” Floyd puffed his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around your neck, almost to the point of strangling you. “Let go of my Little Shrimpy~”

Jade merely smiled as calmly as ever. “No, I don’t think I want to.” He said and wrapped his arms around your waist as tight as the arms around your neck. “You were the one who said that I should act all carefree just for this day, correct?”

Jade gave him the smuggiest smirk he could give, making his brother growl in response. “So, there’s no harm in having (Y/N)-san to spoil me a little too, right?” He said, tilting his head to the side with a close-eyed smile.

“U-Um...I-I’m kinda getting...” Ah, that’s no use. These twins are definitely in their own little world now, you know them well enough to know that it’s always been like that. The hands on your neck and waist are pulling you on two different directions, you actually feel like you gonna dislocate a bone or two. But ignoring these two’s silly little feud, they genuinely feel a lot more livelier than before and that’s the good thing. Knowing that knowledge alone, you were glad despite how suffocating it felt on your physical body.

Putting the plate of cake down on your lap, you pat the twins’ head, letting them off their steam. Honestly, it was the only gesture you could do without the risk of breaking apart in two. You kinda feel like a mother of two rebellious but lovable children, it’s troublesome but the outcome is just worth the risk. You just hope Azul wouldn’t be too surprise when he opens the door and finds these two eels exceeding over a hundred and ninety centimeter in height crushing on your poor little body. Three bodies are a bit of handful right now.

This fic includes a high risk of Tweels Diabetes! (΄◉◞౪◟◉｀)

#twisted wonderland #jade leech #floyd leech #Birthday Crumbs (Jade)#Birthday Crumbs (Floyd)#yume forgot to tag haha

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aitarose · 3 years

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SKINNY LOVE | ZUKO

PAIRING: Zuko x Reader [fem]

PLOT: Years and years of build up, only to lead to absolutely nothing. Y/N’s constant emotion was confusion, and there was no changing that when it came to Zuko’s feelings.

WARNINGS: angst

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

A/N: my best friend says he might have feelings for me, and i’m so stressed right now i’m going crazy. so here’s a little fic that literally explains our entire relationship and these are all my raw emotions ew. also this is almost word for word our conversation tonight

MY MASTERLIST

Their cycle seemed to be infinite, running in circles on the same track over and over again throughout the course of their lifelong friendship. The friendship that had been more confusing than the most trivial question in the entire world.

Y/N had always considered feelings to be straightforward. Something that could be determined with a simple yes or no answer, rather than continuous strife and struggles, arguments and silence.

She knew what she felt, and she wanted other’s to know that. Communication was no fare for her when it came to anger, sadness, and love—especially when it came to love.

Zuko on the other hand had what some would call troubles in the aspect of emotions. He’d bottle up all of his stress and worries, bursting like a volcano when they’d release.

After years, decades of friendship and unspoken feelings, Y/N still didn’t know where she stood with the newly crowned Fire Lord. They’d danced around their relationship for what seemed like forever, him never truly speaking the words she’d always wanted to hear.

And after so many rounds of psychoanalyzing his words and phrases, the responses he’d give her after she’d try her best to pour her heart out to him, Y/N was beginning to grow sick of their routine.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love him anymore, she was just so unbelievably tired of it all. Peace was the thing she needed most. Inner peace with herself, her appearance, her confidence.

All the things that she’d never fully realized due to her constant focus on Zuko and only Zuko. The things that made someone unique, what made them them. She was lacking them, and the only way to grow was to distance herself.

So, distance was what she gave him. Y/N moved around the world, never settling in one nation, finding new cultures and traditions to enjoy and bringing them back with her to the Fire Nation every now and then.

During her little conquest, Zuko had found his place beside Mai. Comfortable in his own little bubble, never taking any risks outside of the familiarity of his daily life. He hadn’t grown up—that was the first thing Y/N had come to notice as her feelings were reborn.

It’d taken her two years to move on from him, two years to find love for herself and take interest in people other than her best friend—but the minute she heard that he ended his relationship with Mai, they’d come flying back.

All of her former insecurities pounded in her mind, screaming in her inner monologue, refusing to give her a single second of silence. Y/N was out of breath, completely lost in the sea of her own thoughts.

She and Zuko had stayed in contact over the years of her adventure. Constantly writing letters back and forth, telling each other about their day, their new friends, and whatever was remotely interesting in their lives.

Although she hadn’t physically seen him in so long, Y/N still felt a connection to him. A connection that pulled her like a magnet the minute he stood before her, smiling his dopey, crooked grin.

When he’d wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the tightest hug she’d ever been a part of—Y/N’s heart quite literally dropped, falling out of her body, and rolling out into the ocean.

Her chest was tight, it was almost as if she felt like she was choking on a food that was stuck in her throat. Something that was refusing to come out, no matter how hard she tried to say those three little words—I love you.

And Zuko, himself, hadn’t settled her storm by any means. If anything, he’d encouraged it to rage on, encouraged it to continue to torment and demolish all the self respect she’d grown.

Whilst Y/N had jokingly spoken out the idea of them being together, he’d practically driven her to insanity. “What if I wasn’t joking, Zuko?” She wondered, freezing in disbelief at what she was saying. “What if I did feel that way?”

In response, Zuko simply laughed. His eyes pinched shut, a wide smile overtaking his mouth in amusement at her curiosity. “I don’t believe you, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes, playing with their intertwined hands. “You don’t actually feel that way.”

At that, a light scoff escaped Y/N’s lips, her face becoming contorted and annoyed. “Okay.” She started, shaking her head at the conversation she was about to trigger. “Well, what would your response be if I did?”

Zuko’s looked in her direction, his amber eyes meeting her steely ones. “You’re really baiting me, aren’t you?” His face went a little pale at her slight nod, a large gulp running down his neck.

“It wouldn’t be a no.”

Y/N’s smile dropped, her expression growing blank as her heartbeat began to jump out of her chest. What he’d just hinted at was her getting what she’d always wanted, the thing that she’d dreamed of since she was only five years old.

Both of them seemed to be frozen in the moment, neither knowing exactly what was going on as they weren’t aware of what their feelings for each other were. Their lives had become so different, they’d become so different.

Zuko was a leader now, a person that needed to have stability and assurance in his life. He was a traditionalist, he needed rules and regulations to live in harmony with himself and his people.

Y/N, however, was a free spirit. She knew what she wanted in life and she’d be sure to make it happen. Commitment and social standards weren’t on her agenda, as she didn’t have one.

But when it came to Zuko, Y/N would do anything. She’d drop her goals and dreams if it’d amount to one minute of true happiness in his arms. Her love for him had grown toxic, it was poison in her brain.

Poison that could also be considered pure. A feeling of actual and real love for the prince that she’d known for her entire life. Everything about him contradicted itself, the stress he made her feel was practically indescribable.

“Are you being serious?” Y/N was on the verge of hysterically laughing, she was so appalled by Zuko’s response. Her face was bright red, dancing on the line of embarrassment and anger.

Zuko let go of her hands, his palm running over the back of his neck. He shrugged, sheepishly smiling as he looked everywhere but at her. “Yeah.” He sighed, pursing his lips. “That seemed like the wrong answer.”

“No.” Y/N’s neck snapped to turn to him, her eyes searching for his own. Her voice became breathless, her lungs nearly gasping for air. “Go back. Are you being serious, right now, that your answer wouldn’t be a no?”

As Zuko shook his head to signify that he wouldn’t reject her question, Y/N almost toppled over in shock. “So, figuratively speaking, if I had feelings for you—you wouldn’t reject me straight on?”

Thirty seconds was what it took for Zuko to answer her. Half a minute of earth shattering patience that Y/N had to endure before she heard his simple words. “No, of course not.”

“But what does that mean?” Y/N was now itching for closure. She had to find out what this all meant. What it meant for their past, their present, and the future of their relationship.

“I would have no reason to reject you, that’s what it means.” He simply shrugged, expecting the conversation to be over by now. The talk of feelings was wearing Zuko out, causing a large yawn to form on his features.

He was tired, exhausted at the discussion of romance and secret pining. Communication simply wasn’t his strong suit, and while Y/N fully knew that, she continued to press further.

“You don’t get it, Zuko. You’re confusing me.” She explained, waving her hands out in front of her face. “So, you wouldn’t reject me, but you also wouldn’t say yes to a confession?”

Y/N was pushing him to his emotional limit. The mental blockade that always formed in his brain, beginning to cancel out his words. Zuko’s headspace was starting to empty, sleep being the only goal in mind.

“Those do really contradict, don’t they?” His eyes had begun to drop, opening and closing. Zuko’s body was now resting on Y/N’s, most of his weight being supported by her stature.

Y/N led her best friend towards his living quarters, still having a million questions at the tip of her tongue—whilst only one made its way out. “What does it all mean? You never said what it means.”

As she opened the door to his bedroom, Zuko let go of his hold on her. He gave her a toothless smile, weary from his low energy, and closed the door, giving her a final glance through the crack of light.

“It means that I’m tired, Y/N.” His eyes held her gaze, sending her waves of confessions in a single glance. “I’m tired and I can’t give you all that you need right now. Perhaps we can continue this in the morning.”

But with morning, came no confessions. No discussion of what had gone down the night before. It was as if they’d never been together at all, as if it was just another night between two platonic friends.

In reality, Y/N didn’t believe that she’d ever be worthy enough for someone like Zuko. Someone who seemed to be so unbelievably perfect for her in every way, shape, and form.

Maybe the best way to end this constant cycle would be to disappear. To leave him be, in his own happy little life, away from herself. She’d learned to live without him once, there was no way she wouldn’t be able to do it again.

The only problem was did she really want to live a life without him?

TAGS: @practicallylivesonline @cherryskyies @shell-bells-ringding @xapham @mochminnie @bombardia @xxspqcebunsxx @missmorosis @mysticpeacecrusade @akiris @simpinforsukka @protect-remus @kaylove12@lammello @user12345321 @duh-dobrik

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symphonyofthewrite · 4 years

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If These Walls Could Talk (Ch1)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary: “My mother’s name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor.”

Notes:

This is a fic I’ve had up for a while, that people seem to really like!! Not sure why I took this long to post it over here XD I’ll post the next chapters I have over the next few days or so, but if you can’t wait they’re over on my fanfiction blog @antihero-writings, as well as in my fic masterlist over there!! (And technically in my masterlist here, but it's messed up right now XD)

I was writing a different Castlevania fic--(”Such Fragile Things”, if you’re curious)--when I started describing things as if from the castle’s perspective...and I thought that was a very interesting idea, so this happened. The idea was also inspired by Sypha’s “it’s fighting me!" I thought that was really interesting because she was speaking almost as if the castle were a living thing. I was originally planning on posting this as one long thing (and I may still do so after I finish), because the sections are very much connected and meant to flow into each other, and I think it’ll be easy to miss things if they’re separate. But I realized it would be easier, both for me to post, and for people to read, in bite size-pieces. Plus it has very clear-cut sections that are easy to split into chapters. So... here you go!!

If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate if you could leave me a comment and/or reblog!!

If you are a fan artist who is interested in making cover art for this fic PLEASE don’t hesitate to message me!! I have a very specific idea for cover art for the chapters but it would cost too much to commission so many pieces...So yeah, if you’re interested, I’d love it if you could reach out!!

Chapter 1: "Lisa"

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—they provided no snug space to curl up on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard: stories. But not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses, the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time. The gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They often walk outside the castle walls, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations. They want their child to be able to do the same, to watch the stars, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

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starfaring-princelotor · 4 years

Text

First Scent

Summary: Emperor Lotor makes a full recovery.

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing.

★ Warnings: N/A

Touch Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Taste Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Sight Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Scent Series: Part One

“We are all on the same side. It doesn’t have to change our future together.”

Kylan would never dare consider doubting Lotor, but he was also no fool to leave loose ends hanging, so to speak. He worked along with their leader and his intentions - his goal - was always about keeping Alteans and the invaluable culture of said race alive. Against all odds, all naysayers and doubters, he kept to it. And he succeeded.

“You enslaved countless Alteans! How many innocent lives did you destroy?!”

Slaves? No. They were not slaves. They were not treated as such. If anything, they were flourishing and well on their way to becoming a better society than the one led by King Alfor. The progress was well on the way and the future looked bright. So, what happened? He needed to hear it, needed to have the physical evidence right in front of him.

“Surely, you can see the greatness we’ve already accomplished -”

The audio distorted then, signifying Sincline was most likely damaged from an unsuspecting attack.

“-llura, stop! You and I - zzt - Altean culture. We were meant - kkzzt -”

The black box was heavily damaged. Being exposed to the elements, especially quintessence, no doubt rendered it beyond repair. Except, Kylan knew how to save the proof and secure the device for future use. Plan B. Have a backup. Always have a back up.

“You’re more like Zarkon than I could have imagined.”

He closed his eyes slowly, releasing a solemn and heavy sigh of disappointment. He wasn’t going to say he knew everything, even if the hidden picture was revealed right in front of him. No, what he has here ultimately didn’t matter in terms of putting Lotor back on the throne.

“Who are you to question my tactics - “

But it was enough to clear his name. It was enough to show that Voltron started a whole new, deadly, and severely costly war by attacking the Emperor.

They had suggested putting him in a pod to stabilize his quintessence levels. Lotor’s soul may have returned, but that doesn’t mean his body was in a relatively safe state. Logically, it made sense to use the technology at hand to quicken the process, but you convinced them to keep him on a bed instead. Convinced was putting it lightly. You wouldn’t move on your decision, even if it meant using logic as a tool to get what was best for Lotor.

“I will siphon it from him, as I do with the other patients,” you explained, “It’s safer this way.”

It was your reasoning and also what you used to convince yourself, too. Your hand was loosely holding his as the steady flow of quintessence ebbed through the contact. When he had collapsed from exhaustion in your arms, you already knew that a confined space wouldn’t do well for his recovery. He needs to wake up naturally in a comforting environment, somewhere open, somewhere...safe. You promised him that at the very least.

But the longer you stayed with him, the more you came to the haunting realization at exactly how bad it was for the Galra Emperor. His skin was shriveled, no doubt either from over exposure or the action of his soul literally being sucked out of his body. Maybe even both. But the inside is what worried you the most. Starvation. His organs were scarily dehydrated. Lotor’s system was off for so long, you weren’t sure he could even eat anything nourishing.

And, oddly enough, there were times you couldn’t...see him as a patient. You saw him as something more, something beyond just Emperor. Allowing those buried thoughts to unfurl left your stomach stirring in uneasiness.

Lotor wasn’t talkative. Recovery was slow and, sometimes, he barely woke up long enough to sip water or open his mouth for ice chips. You weren’t even sure if he was coherent enough to answer the typical questions for patients who experienced such acute delirium. Do you know who you are? Where you are? What happened?

No. No, overflowing with too much would stunt his progress. Plus, you often found yourself hesitating to even speak with him. Maybe it was wrong of you to take advantage of his illness to push your own discomfort away. If he didn't ask, you don’t need to answer. But there were urgent questions lingering between you two and you know they will come around to rear its ugly head eventually. You’ll have to face them, whether you like it or not. You’ll have to hear what he has to say. What you’ll say. What you’ll feel.

But...

Lotor first. Your thumb ran over his knuckles softly, gaze longingly focused on your conjoined hands. Lotor first. That’s how it felt like when trapped in Sincline’s…

The Black Paladin has seen many haunting horrors in his life, but nothing will be more traumatic than seeing his own body as a corpse. No...his alternate self was alive, he just looked shriveled and sick and rotten. Sunken eye sockets, skin blemishes from what he knows as quintessence burn. The bite marks, oh, there were so many torn in his suit. Different sizes, different states of decay.

But he was safe and, more importantly, alive. Now, the matter of what state his mind will be in is something not even he can help with.

“I will pass the message on to the doctor once Emperor Lotor is in stable condition,” Kylan accepted the letter handed to him by the Black Paladin then carefully slid it into his coat pocket, “Thank you, again. You have done us a great honor. Saved us all, actually.”

Yet, as much as he would like to accept such gratefulness, he couldn't help but keep his lips set in a firm line. Saved them? Or condemned them? This war in his reality wasn’t theirs to deal with, but wouldn’t it be just as neglectful and dispassionate to allow the hoktril to be exposed to other realities? A double edged sword. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

“I only hope that his return was not too late. Unfortunately, time does not appear to be on our side as of late.”

Kylan nodded in agreement, “You have your duties, we have ours. And yours must be urgent if you need to leave so soon.”

Nebulous orbs slowly closed, easily remembering the scribble he quickly jotted down for your eyes only. A message, a dire one, explaining why his leave of absence was absolutely necessary, but not for the reason anyone would assume. The Black Paladin had received a distress call, one he had not heard from in a very, very long time, and he had every intention to answer it. Sven’s voice rang in his ears clearly, as if he was standing right behind him. His hushed whispers panicked from hiding. He knows the tone well.

“I implore you to use the communication stone with utmost discretion. However, as soon as matters have settled here,” Paladin Lotor gave a wave, a vague gesture at all of this, “Let me know when your forces are ready to fight.”

He gave a noble, respectful bow. He shouldn’t have regrets, but perhaps he had one nagging the back of his head. Chewing on his tongue, he wonders if it was his cowardice that told him it was better to leave without telling you face to face.

If there was one thing Emperor Lotor despised about hospitals, it was the smell. The acute, sanitized scent of alcohol and sterilization never brought him comfort when awake. Even now, during every odd moment he would rouse from a deep comatose-like state, he found it absolutely much worse. The air was cold, chilling his nostrils, yet there was a warm blanket covering most of his body, all the way up to his shoulders. Warmth...something he cherishes now that he had the cold touch of death’s finger beckon his soul from his body.

It took days for him to realize he was alive, longer to know that the doctor had dutifully tended to his recovery. It wasn’t easy, regaining his senses and awareness. His thoughts were slow, as if relearning everything that which went dormant in his mind. Words, thoughts, actions, feelings. Feelings...like your hand gently clutched in his. Not at all unlike that memory of falling in a pit of darkness, tethered by the mere simple contact of entwined fingers.

And damn, to remember that utopia-esque simulation. Was it a simulation? It all felt too real. Too perfect, too...happy, one he thinks he will never really get to experience ever again. That love, that peaceful life, that completion. At the time, he didn't question it. Who would? But now, now as you read the holographic screen and scanned the details about his vitals in silence, he has so many to ask you.

Was it a hedonistic crime to still feel that inkling of love as he stared fondly at you?

Or maybe...that was just a lingering side-effect. A sort of after-high from being forced into an addictive drug-induced state of mind from a mere memory.

You knew he was awake. Lotor made it clear with his silent shifting, a gentle squeeze of his hand in yours, and a slight, almost quiet, groan of discontent when he felt his body ache in the worst possible ways. Part of him would've chuckled at the thought that maybe you were avoiding him, or rather, avoiding looking at him. Then another part would caution that it was wise of you to do so, for both yours and his sake.

Maybe, just like him, neither of you were ready to ask questions about the intimate life you shared. Maybe if he kept his mouth shut, both of you can pretend it didn’t happen. It was a trick. A ruse, a test. One conjured deep from within the heart’s desires and brought to the surface without warning or care.

The light above was dimmed in a cool blue hue, offering him a sense of peace and tranquility, but what really helped calm his nerves was the smell of a warm cup of hot chocolate wafting through the air. A promised treat, giving him the freedom to choose if he wanted to drink or simply hold it in his hands. And yet, he didn't reach for it.

Lotor reached for your hand. You gave it willingly, almost instinctively, and he was quite aware of how his heart beat just a little louder at the gesture. Lotor wasn’t sure he liked that or not. Well, he did, but he shouldn't. He really shouldn't because it was wrong to harbor such feelings for you considering the circumstances. But the heart wants. The heart yearns.

Lotor can control it. He swears he can.

So many unspoken words between you two, yet silence was clearly winning here. Then again, he can’t complain too much. Or at all, really. Your thumb slowly roving over his knuckles was nearly entrancing. The simple touch made his body compliant, whether because it was you or because the action itself was an unconscious act on its own, he would never find out.

You stopped suddenly then gave him a light squeeze, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be…” he paused, recalling how he felt when falling out of that cockpit, the panic, the pain, the cold, so, so cold, “fine.”

And while normally, those few words would be firm confirmation that you’ve done your job flawlessly well, you can’t help but let your heart seed doubt in your mind.

“And you, good doctor?”

Was he asking about your health or how you felt coming out of that life-like experience?

You twisted your wrist, closing the holographic screen before giving him your full attention, “Coming back to life is not what I expected, but neither was dying. It was different than-”

A twinge in your shoulder pulsed, reminding you of the last time you danced with death so romantically.

“I recovered faster than you. Kylan informed me i was gone for a mere few minutes. Clearly not long enough for all the heat to leave my body, but long enough to give him a fright.”

Lotor had a certain look behind his eyes, a certain longing for the truth. You turned away.

It’s been a week. The metaphorical wall was back up. But it wasn't just you that decided avoidance was the best course of action for now. He, too, opted to shove those unanswered questions in the back of his mind as far as he could. Lotor only wondered exactly how long he can let it fester. How long you could let it fester. Maybe the two of you were more alike than you want to admit.

When the deepest, most intimate, most raw secrets and desires surface, that exposed vulnerability suddenly becomes a dangerously choking weak point. Becomes something to fear. Becomes tangible and no longer yours to hide. But to acknowledge such a thing now? What? Were you two going to sit and talk about it? Have a coffee date and reminisce of those fake nights of feeling safe in each other’s arms?

No. It was much easier, much smarter, to stay focused on the goal. It was more important.

Was it awkward? Not at all. You dressed him in silence with careful fingers, wary that the lightest of touch could bruise his still-healing body, and he watched the concentration consume your task. Such a simple thing spoke volumes to the careful observer. Lotor was the patient. You were the doctor. Play the roles well and everything will be fine.

But just to be sure…

“We are not going to talk about this, are we?” he asked his one question, voice just a tad lower than normal, meant only for you to hear.

Slipping the new bracelet around his wrist, you waited a few moments until the indicator glowed green, “No. Not now.”

Lotor’s hands went slack at his side, a sign of obedient understanding. He offered his hand to you, not as a gesture of intimacy. It was for his health, of course. His quintessence levels were still a little high. He was sick, still out of sorts, and a full recovery only worked if kept to schedule.

For his health, you told yourself as the two of you walked out of the room hand in hand.

“Dear Esteemed Doctor,

By the time you receive this letter, I will no longer be in your reality. I have been called back with urgent news and must return post haste. Please accept my humblest apologies for the sudden leave. If I had the time, I would have stayed to offer you my aid at any cost. With your Emperor under your care, I have no doubt that the next step with our alliance will be needing as much resources and command as possible. Rallying the forces as soon as possible will be difficult, though if there is any advice I may impart with, it is this:

Galra are survivors, through and through.

When civil wars raged upon our brothers and sisters, history has repeatedly shown that it is not the toughest fighter who wins. Rather, it is the one who fights to protect the one at their side.

I look forward to seeing you once more in the near future. Please, stay safe.

Sincerely,

Lotor”

His handwriting was eloquent, not a curve or line extending awkwardly in the entire paragraph. At first glance, anyone would take in the script as romantic at face value, but the prose itself was completely opposite. He wasn’t here anymore and, as the Black Lion Paladin, of course the he had to tend to his duties. With Voltron, no doubt a shining beacon of hope for those suffering in his reality, he couldn't risk squandering his time.

You folded the letter then pocketed it in your coat, waiting for orders from Emperor Lotor, who was sitting at the helm of the ship and staring deeply off into space. Kylan had updated him about the current situation. Colonies displaced, warlords razing worlds for their own, Haggar’s search for him. That last one put him on edge. Yes, he’s well aware you worked for her, but he is also aware of your need for self-perseverance.

Or perhaps, it was for a completely different reason? If Sincline utilizes memories from souls, then he should’ve seen his mother’s memories mixed in yours, as well. Assuming, of course, you were brainwashed like his previous...

Lotor isn't such a naive fool to believe you would never lie in the face of certain death. He caught on faster than expected, knowing full well that sometimes telling people what they want to hear is for your own benefit, not theirs. Manipulation was often a tactic swept under the rug and reserved for those who were labeled as cowardice rats. Weak. Not strong enough. Not smart enough.

No. Not you, though. In the short time he’s known you, words were your choice of weapon in a fight. And apparently, his mother was desperate enough to fall for your schemes. One day, he’d compliment you on such a ruse. One day, he’ll tell you that she was actually the one who gave birth to him. How would you take it, he wonders? Anger at leaving the minor details out? Distrust? Betrayal?

“-of Marmora have gone underground. There has been news of Voltron recently en route to Earth months ago in response to Sendak’s battalion overthrowing the planet. Olkarion has been devastated by unknown forces and survivors have been scattered. Currently, no one has claimed the throne at the main headquarters and the next crowning ceremony will begin in but a few short weeks. Many separated factions are - “

Lotor had options. Many paths he could take to begin repairing the split and broken empire. He could free planets that were overtaken by warlords, spreading hope and securing rogue armies. No, that was what Voltron did and they failed to protect those they promised. Perhaps return to headquarters then declare his status as alive? He will certainly have more resources at his hand then. But no, Haggar and her spies would discreetly sabotage his throne.

Recruit the scattered Alteans? No, he doesn’t have the forces necessary to defend them all right now. They were safer with their captains, fortified with the necessary firepower and supplies. What of the Blades of Marmora? Should he spend valuable time searching for them? Their espionage skills will be most beneficial, especially with their network of spies spread out all over the universe. Then again, what about Voltron?

What about Voltron, indeed.

In truth, Voltron had more use as a gun than anything else. Perhaps there were still people faithful that it was their savior, their answer to all this despair and death in the galaxy. Yes, he could save them. That fight when he was piloting Sincline showed him where Voltron’s strength truly lies: as a false ray of hope. It was weak, in more ways than one.

However, the problem with saving Voltron would confuse many people. If he were to align with them again, that would leave many to doubt his role as a leader and the Emperor of the Galra Empire. He would lose support in the time of need and Voltron itself wasn't good enough to go around. He needed numbers and he would take a loyal military over a disillusioned vigilante any day.

A conundrum, indeed.

“Doctor, Kylan. A moment of your time, please.”

The Emperor ordered the rest of the crew around to give you three some much needed privacy. You stood at his left, Kylan at his right, both in silence. It was no surprise that just like Lotor, you were already calculating what the best course of action would be. Or at least, the best without risking potential deaths and destruction.

“Sir, rallying the Blades would greatly help connect our network with those still loyal to the throne. Although it may take some valuable time to search for their leader and the rest of their members,” Kylan took a deep breath before continuing, “We simply do not have the power alone to protect the Colony and the entirety of the universe, let alone the upcoming war with the other reality.”

Lotor glanced at you from the corner of his eye, awaiting your input. While Kylan’s plan was sound, he couldn't afford to make a hasty decision so soon.

“Sendak has taken over Earth, where Voltron currently resides. I don’t know the lore following the mech, whether the pilots need to be dead before the lions accept a new paladin, but leaving a nuclear cannon that can rip holes into other realities is not something we should leave to a power-hungry warlord. Find out if the paladins are alive. If they are, fight Sendak with both Voltron and Sincline on your side.”

“And if they are not?” the Emperor asked, partly curious about how you would react to your friends dying and partly curious as to why Earth, the one place you didn't want to return to, was even an option you’d consider.

“If not, then…” you trailed off, “If not, steal one of the lions. Voltron cannot be formed without all 5 pieces together. At the very least, it will prevent Sendak from using it to its full potential, regardless if he has located new paladins.”

“Stealing requires stealth. Something the Blades can provide,” Kylan interjected.

“A distraction works just as well. Drawing Sendak’s eyes off of Earth, even for a short time, will give us a small chance to enact our plan,” you countered, then placed a finger on your lips in thought, “If Sincline can attack his battalion, that’s more than enough attention to keep Sendak on a trail.”

Lotor found both plans sound, but there was a small problem, “Sendak will not take the bait. He fights with the ferocity of a thousand suns, but he views a proper battle for the throne as an honor. To taunt him to fight me, use my status as alive in order to claim rights over the empire is not how he views righteous combat.”

“You are the Emperor. If strength is not what determines loyalty, then perhaps it is better to show him with fealty and duty.”

You knew little to nothing about Galra culture, but that letter folded in our pocket did tell you one thing: Galra are not savages. Their history goes beyond blood and guts and gore. It’s a mystery you hope to read about one day, discover how wise veterans compare to the current warriors of the Empire. If what Lotor says is true, then maybe one of the strongest warlords in the galaxy will yield to the rightful emperor.

“Very well. Here is my thought: Kylan and I will send for a search party to locate the Blades of Marmora. They will need this ship and I will not risk the Alteans on board near Sendak’s sights. While we are carrying out our side of the plan, doctor, you will go to Earth and infiltrate the military base as a slave. Give us the details of where the lions are and generally pass on the intel about what is going on. Because you are human, I would imagine it would be quite a simple task for you to blend in,” Lotor bit the inside of his cheek, “Blend in carefully. You are going into the mouth of the beast, after all. From there, we go either two ways: take a lion or confront Sendak. I will leave that judgement up to you, doctor.”

“It’s risky. I don’t suppose you know how long it would take for you two to find the Blades?” you questioned, though already knowing the answer.

Kylan pinched the bridge of his nose, “No. We are not even sure if the Blades still exist. If that be the case, then we should have a back up plan.”

“Regardless of how this turns out, doctor, we will need updates about Voltron and Sendak. Can you handle this on your own?” came Lotor’s final question, but there was a hint of...concern visible in his tone.

Earth, the place you were born in. Earth, the place you left behind for good. Earth, the place soon to be used as a slavery planet for Sendak’s militaristic needs. You’re not heartless. You don’t like the idea of death and destruction on any planet. And that’s what Earth was to you, after spending so many years away, it was just another planet. The attachments you had all died with your father.

For what reason did you have to keep any ties with the land? This was for the safety of the universe and much more.

“Yes. yes, I can. Just don’t leave me behind if things take a turn for the worst.”

Again.

There was a knock at your door, drawing you to pause from packing what little belongings you had into a rucksack.

“Come in.”

And so he did, all of his tall glory stepping into your meager room. Bland, plain, empty and void of sentimentality. Lotor wonders faintly if you lived your entire life like this, with little color and even littler personality. It looked remarkably like the room back on the Castle of Lions. The door behind him closed slowly, but he had no intention of leaving soon anyways.

“Was there something important I missed?”

Lotor stayed silent, watching you and trying to think of how to exactly say his thoughts. He was a man of action when the time was right and right now? Part of him was choking at the very thought of you being alone on a planet ruled by Sendak. His heart screamed at him when he suggested the plan, calling him a fool, an idiot, a bastard that keeps risking those he loves -

No. No, it wasn't love. He had to remind himself that. It was NOT love.

If it wasn't, then why did you come here?

Wordlessly, he bent over to unclasp his boots and pile them neatly by your door. Next came his gloves, followed by his waist cape, and then the rest of his armor until he was standing before you in nothing but his skin-tight body suit. The entire time, you watched in silence with only the beating of your heart getting louder and faster in your chest.

The heart wants. The heart yearns.

“May I stay here tonight?” he asked, but surely he already knew you would say yes. Surely he did. Surely you would.

With a soundless nod, you slipped off your coat then hung it up, just for tonight. Not a doctor, not a soldier, not fighting, not running. Just...being. Existing. Like when trapped inside Sincline’s simulation, except this will be real. Was it okay to do that one more time?

Lotor slipped under the sheets with you, trapping you between the wall and his solid frame. He was never one to call himself a man who hesitates, but he did exactly that when he cautiously slid an arm over your waist to pull you closer. Closer still, until his chest was flushed with your back and his nose nuzzled the top of your head. This let him take in your scent, as if trying to burn it in his memories.

That’s when it clicked. As much as part of you wanted this, you needed it. You both did, after cheating death together. The way he held you tight. The way you leaned into him. He was … scared, just like you. There was no certainty you would not be killed, nor him surviving the trek to find the Blades. You two just found each other again and, while your partnership before wasn't deemed as together, as someone to fight alongside the other, the idea of being separated so soon started to leave an uneasy tension in the air.

There were other ways. More safer, less isolating. He could come with you. Or you can stay with him. Strength in numbers, right?

Oh, where did the confidence go?

Gentle fingertips touched over his knuckles, asking permission to hold, to thread together and seal an unspoken vow between you two. A promise that you can do this, that he will find the Blades, that everything so far is only the beginning and it will work out in the end. It was two simple words. Just two.

Trust me.

#lotor x reader #spacestories #ok the real chapter this time lol #not a rick roll i swear

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mirrorsandpacts · 4 years

Text

Angel of Death - Simeon x F! Reader

You stood there admiring the field of flowers in heaven, in awe with the picturesque view. Simeon stood there behind you, his mask of calmness cracked a little more the longer he stood watching you. Tightly gripped behind him was the holy scythe, yet to him it was cursed. Once the directives were given, he is unable to stop the scythe from filling his head with instructions. He used to think of nothing about it, that it was merely God's will. However, now those words fill his heart with nothing but dread. ~ "Simeon, Heaven's Gardener. Please proceed to enter Father's chambers" He stepped into the chamber. It was a very spacious room with white marble walls supported by gold pillars; its high ceiling reflected the stars, constellations as well as the universe itself. The guards announced his presence to Him. Walking to the grand throne, he bowed to Father, his right hand upon his heart. "What do you need of me today?" His eyes were downcast as a sign of respect. Since here was no one else in the room, he knows what He had been called for. "Simeon, here is the list for today." A scroll containing the names of humans floated in front of Simeon. Yes, this list contained the names of those who will die before their proper time. Whether it due to sickness, accidents or even a victim of crime. He was assigned to deal with them all. Simeon doesn't know how they will die, but it does not matter anyway. Those who were in this list were chosen by Him to sit on His altar, a great honour. They are worthy due to their purity and/or kindness that they have shown throughout their short life. Not many angels actually know of his position, as the angel of death, not even Luke. But those who do know wouldn't dare cross with the dark-skinned angel. They keep themselves silent for death is something unknown to them and they fear it. However, because of Simeon's angelic behaviour even those who know of his special position brushed it away and thought nothing of it after a few years. Simeon unfurled the scroll and right before his eyes, letters burned themselves on the holy paper. Names, age, occupation; every detail he ever needed would be printed there. The holy markings beneath his black gloves shined bright, signifying the job has been accepted. A golden line forms in front of Simeon, showing him the way to the chosen human that He called to His side. Simeon gave Him a final bow before he setting off to collect those souls. Using his pure white wings, he flew down to the human realm, following the line. He disguised himself in the human world, going by many names in order to do his job. It wasn't the easiest job in the world. He had to observe their sufferings; be with them during their final moments yet doing nothing that might hinder his work. ~ Of all places, Simeon could have chose, he chose here, his beautiful flower garden. He truly had a green thumb for all the flowers he grew in the vast field were exuberant as if they have a life of their own. It was fitting for the title, Heaven's Gardener and much like cutting the stems of plants, he too cut the lives of people. It should be normal but why does his heart falters. Why is his throat dry? It's simple, he always does this. So why was it so hard to even unsheath the scythe? ~ This was his 100th soul for today, a newborn baby. The handsome angel stretched out his arms as the golden threads from his markings formed a gleaming golden scythe. He plunged the weapon into the heart of the baby and it began extracting it's soul. The physical body is unharmed of course for the scythe could only be used for souls. The tip of the scythe was to break the barrier of the body which encases the soul to allow it to be extracted by the gleaming weapon. The baby was already dying due to an infection there was nothing anyone could do. A bowed head and a silent prayer, that is all he could offer to the grieving parents. He felt his heart becoming weary. He was tired of seeing such heart breaking scenes. But a job is a job, and this particular one doesn't have a candidate to replace him. Who would want this job after all? He would give anything for someone to take this burden. But then again, he would feel sorry for the poor angel which took over. So, might as well, he carry this burden alone. He was resting on top of a high rise building when his D. D. D. rang. He thought it might be a call from Luke or even, Satan but he was pleasantly surprised to hear your voice. He placed the phone at his ear to hear you better. You chuckled. "Simeon.... this is a video call..." Your amused voice brightened up his day immediately. He really didn't now how to use these gadgets but he's learning. "So, what do I do?" He asked innocently. "You just look at the screen like you usually do. So you can see me." "Like this?" He looked at the screen to see the face of the light of his life staring back at him. His smile widened at the instant he saw you. You looked as elegant as ever. Both of you exchanged words and smiles and soon it was time for Simeon to continue with his work. "Don't forget our date tomorrow." "I wouldn't miss it for the world." The words in his head which were silent throughout the exchange, suddenly spoke up. "It's her." Simeon was taken aback. What ever could those voices mean? He checked his scroll again. Written in black letters, he saw your name there in the last column. He couldn't believe it. How could this happened? He tried to rub it with his thumb, thinking that it will smudge or be erased but it was still there. How could this be? He tried using his feathered pen to strike your name off but the paper seemed to absorb any liquid. In a last bid attempt, he tore the paper but it was futile. The paper regenerated and place itself upon his palms once more, as if nothing happened. The holy markings on his arms burned brightly as if he was branded by red hot iron, a warning. The words in his head blared loudly. He can't disobey the order. He had to kill you. ~ He had always wanted to bring you to his favourite place, but not like this. Why must it be this way? "Simeon?" She looked worriedly at him, her eyes reflected his. "Is everything alright?" His tears were on the edge of his eyelids. Why must she die? He knew that she would go someday but ... "Simeon... I know things can be hard but whatever it is, I will always be with you. Even if you wouldn't confide in me on the matter." She embraced him as if she wanted to drive away the sadness. She wanted to be there for him. However, that sweet gesture only caused his heart to sink further into the soil. How could he drive the scythe into her? ~ Simeon will never tell you how happy he was when you confessed to him. With bright red cheeks and tightly shut eyelids, you said those words, the words where he had heard humans speak a million times yet it was somehow endearing to know that those words were meant solely for him. The moonlight of Devildom had cast a soft glow upon your features. Oh how happy she had looked when he said yes. Her eyes gleamed, telling him of her happiness which could not be formed by words. He chuckled at her infectious enthusiasm. As their lips met for a short yet sweet kiss, he wished nothing more for her happiness and longevity. How could his past self forgive him for what he was about to do? ~ Despite being with the 7 brothers, she was not tainted. Her smile was infectious. Her laugh was genuine. Her flaws made her more endearing than she already is. He thought to himself "Of course, they had to take the most beautiful flower in the garden." The difference is only that this time the flower was you. The returned your warm hug. It would be only a few minutes more till his markings completely take over the function of his arms but until then he wanted to savour this last moment with you. "I'm sorry. I truly love you. Forgive... me," He kissed her forehead as his hands plunged the weapon deep into her soul. The extraction had begun. She had only but a few seconds left. Her face contorted to one of surprise and pain. Due to the extraction process, he could see into her heart in his mind as they were temporarily connected. He could see her pain, her shock. He expected her to hate him; resent him but what he saw next shook his core. As her eyes met him, her heart reflected forgiveness and appreciation along with the thousand memories they made together. He is killing her but yet those clear eyes showed no ill feeling towards her betrayer. How he wished that she would curse him; be mad at him. It was the right thing to feel. She shouldn't forgive him at all. Then, he understood that she had truly loved the gardener. She was so happy that her feelings were reciprocated by him. She cupped his dark skinned cheeks gently, making sure that he would hear her last words. "I knew my life was too good to last. Thank you for everything Simeon." Her lips met his for one final goodbye. "Thank you for being with me. I'm glad that fate brought us together." How can she say that when fate was separating them? How could she be so optimistic? He wanted to ask her but her body had turned cold. Her eyes closed ever so gently. The process was complete. The sounds in his head ceased. The holy weapon disintegrated, signalling the end of his job. There, in Heaven's Garden, the flower fell gently to the ground. There was a slight pain at the placed she was plucked but she knew that it would be temporary. She knew who had pluck her yet she still bloomed wholeheartedly for that person, the light of her life, for the last time. With a dying breath, her soft petals grazed the lips of the immortal gardener. Her beautiful earthly form was unscarred yet it was missing that shine which made her truly special. Her ethereal form or also known as her soul, would only glow. She can no longer talk to him nor touch him, much like a plastic flower. Everlasting but devoid of life, merely being there like an accessory. No longer the love of his life that he had given his heart to. Screaming apologies to the wind, the angel clutched the flower tightly to his heart. His most prized flower whom he had watched over so tenderly needed to be presented to Him. He wanted her so. The poor gardener of the Celestial Realm had to comply; no matter how much he loved his precious beloved flower. The flower which bloomed so breathtakingly, solely for him. He traced his thumb over the delicate petals one last time. His angelic tears wetting it. He wanted the flower to do something, say something, give any indication that might give him any hope. If she'd move, he'd throw everything away for her. However, the flower had been plucked and no matter how much water he supplied to the flower, she was already dead from the moment her life force was separated from its stem. The only thing Simeon could do was cradle the flower in his arms before he needed to present the flower. He was to place her on the altar of God where there she shall forever remain by His side, where she will bloom eternally. Every day the gardener would bring the most beautiful flowers to put at God's altar. Sometimes a daisy, sometimes a rose to accompany the flower. At times, he would even arranged them into beautiful bouquets, knowing that if she were still alive, she would love them. She loved anything that he did after all. He would even occasionally strike a conversation with the flower even if he knew in his heart she will never reply. He imagined her voice, her laughter, her warmth through memories but they were merely that. It can never be compared with her living and breathing by his side. He could only dream of her on the other side of the ethereal glass. If by chance, you managed to go up to God's altar, please do keep a lookout for the dark-skinned gardener and his flower. You'll notice his gaze softly follow the flower, endlessly yearning for her as she glows upon the celestial altar forever. ~ Extra:- "Father, why must she die?" The archangel Michael, questioned Him. "It is the law of nature. Every human will perish one day." Michael knew that He had deliberately done this. The archangel had caught a glimpse of her before. She was to live a long life. He only questioned because he wanted to hear the truth. He pitied Simeon who is now almost like an empty shell of the cheerful person he once was. Maybe He didn't want any more angel to follow the path of the 7 brothers but the way He carried it out was ruthless. Micheal could only look on at the two star-crossed lovers who were mercilessly parted by the hands of cruel fate. ~In a field full of flowers, which do you pick first? The most beautiful ones are the ones which will be picked first. ~

~ Yun ~

Hope you guys enjoy it.

Extra information. What I thought for God's Altar was like a glass wall, where only the most purest souls are inside. These souls won't be reborn anymore because they have said to reach the final stage of purity. The souls usually look like a glowing golden orb but sometimes they flicker and you can see the final form that they took before they managed to get in there. They are silent and unmoving. No one managed to go in nor has any soul managed to escape. Only He can place the soul in there. Once he puts them in, there is no way of taking them out. In any case, if the wall gets destroyed, all those souls will be destroyed as well. That is why not even the brothers took action.

#obey me #simeon x reader #simeon i'm so sorry #angst #angel #obeyme #obey+me #obey me x reader #obey me x you #swd obey me #shall we date obey me #shall we date simeon #fanfic #simeon x mc #simeon x fem reader

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humanoidmindbox · 4 years

Text

Us Vs. Them

Abstract

In this essay, I will be assessing my personal feelings and attitudes toward different and defined groups. During this analysis, I will be breaking up the population into four groups: Us, Them, Allies, and Enemies. These groups have been formulated by and based on the workings and fields of psychology, psychiatry, individuals with mental illnesses (including me) and how societal norms fit into issues raised in this paper. I hope you find this to be worthwhile and I hope this sparks the fire of your intellectual flame.

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The American population, in the terms of mental illness, psychology, and sociology, fall into one of four categories which are detailed below:

This group of people are those who suffer from profound mental illness. The affliction must be (Your illness doesn't have to be all of these things, but it must be most of them):

Chronic; recurring; cause suffering; affect your relationships with others; make it so you cannot keep a job; make it so you cannot function in society; possibly get government compensation for your illness; *been hospitalized in the psych ward; been arrested when your symptoms were active; reckless and/or impulsive behaviors; suicide attempt(s); and became violent when your symptoms were active.

Them

These people are the majority of the population. They blindly follow pop culture and buy into what the masses are doing, believing, and saying. They do not have severe mental illness although they may be diagnosed with the garden-variety depression and anxiety. They have never been to inpatient for mental disorders, except maybe once, a long time ago. They will try to relate to you when it comes to mental health but they are just regurgitating what the trendy treatments and hardships are (the commonplace “social anxiety” is on the rage right now). In the inpatient hospital, the Them are the hospital staff. Especially the ones who give you the shot and put you in isolation. They are the ones who pink slip you and call the police. They think drugs are bad. You can’t truly trust Them. They don’t understand you and they probably never will. Most of Them are not hateful or mean. They are just ignorant, inexperienced, and constantly lecturing you or preaching to you. Most of Them view you as less-than, whether it is intended or not.

Allies

Imagine a straight line down the middle of a square. This divides the “Us” and “Them” that we already went over. But directly on that line, not leaning to one side or the other, sits the “Allies.” The Us’s allies have most likely not gone to the mental hospital except maybe once, long ago. But they have a mental illness that brings them suffering. They may be in mental health treatment. They struggle almost every day and their behaviors reflect that. They are a part of society and will never and have never been deemed unfit to be a working part of society. They get along with others although they feel like no one completely understands them. They do not blindly follow all of pop culture’s rules and trends. They support the Us. We can trust them somewhat. They are our allies.

Enemies

The Enemies only exist within the “Them” group. They are the ones we must watch the most carefully and never trust. Most of “Us'' do not have many Enemies on the outside but we have plenty of Enemies on the inside (inpatient). The Enemies at the hospital are those who give you the shot after they have to hold you down when you’re screaming and thrashing around because you’re so fucking freaked out. They are the ones who put you in four point restraints and let you “tire yourself out.” On the outside, the police are the Enemy for apprehending you while they get a pink slip. They are anyone who pink slips you. The Enemy tells you that you’re crazy when you know you are doing well. They threaten the hospital and hang it over your head. The Enemy treats you unfairly because something that you cannot control or help is wrong with you. The reason why Them can never be fully trusted is because any one of Them could become the Enemy at any time.

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I first felt the “Us Vs. Them” divide when I started frequenting mental hospitals. And when I started showing signs of severe symptoms of mental illness. In the hospital, you are a “rat in a cage” (Smashing Pumpkins song) with the staff holding the only key to get out. A drastic power imbalance exists between the staff and the patient: we are the prisoners and they are the guards. All we want to do is get out. All we want to do is go home. And if not home, then at least to a different, free place.

When I had my major mental breakdown/manic episode of winter 2019, I had been taking my medications- they were just the wrong ones. In the cage, you must take your medications, whether you want to or not. Whether you trust Them or not. If you refuse medication, They take you to court and get a court order forcing you to take your medication while you are inpatient.

There are some key ways that the “Us” and the “Them” are different in the mental hospital dynamic. They own your body: you are forced to take medications, you are locked in a box (hopefully not isolation). You can’t hurt yourself and if you do, you will stay longer (same goes for violence against others). They control your behaviors: They deem what is “appropriate” and “inappropriate” behaviors. If you break the rules surrounding these behaviors, you will get the shot, isolation, moved to a worse ward (for the more violent and disruptive patients), restraint holds, staying longer, or any combination of these events. The worst one I can think of is moving wards up a number. They try to brain-wash you: They say: “There is only one way to live life and we know the correct way to live it.” “The correct way to live is only what we arbitrarily and subjectively call “healthy coping mechanisms” and you must abandon all “unhealthy” ones in order to live life correctly and avoid being society’s pariah.” “Your only hope to be a functioning person is to abide by the teachings of CBT and DBT. All other methods will not work.” They have the opinion that their methods of recovery always work and if you are not having positive effects from their treatments, you must be doing it wrong- they deny that their treatments do not work for everybody and fail to recognize that the “bad” coping mechanisms are the only way that certain people can get by.

When you are mandated as an inpatient in the hospital, you have no rights. They take away your rights as a person. They tell you where to go, what to eat, and they control how long you are in there, what medication you take, and worst of all- when you get put down like a dog with a shot or when you switch to a more severe level. You are treated like an animal in a cage, and there is nothing that you can do about it. Losing control of your own body to this degree leads to something inside of you breaking and you turning into a feral animal (hospital song). After that happens (especially if it happens multiple times), you are never the same.

There are laws to keep other people from harming you or your property. I believe that it is a good thing that these laws are in place and that they should be upheld. But there are also laws that are made to prevent you from harming yourself and I don’t think such laws should exist. Once again, I question what the authorities, our working society (Them) and the masses (Them) deem “harmful” and ultimately illegal.

Most people in society simply follow popular culture. They just look to what the majority of others do and follow suit. But they have blinders on: they don’t see that they come up with justifications and sorry attempts at reasons to back-up their choice to blindly follow the majority.

The authorities and society says:

Drugs = Bad→ Laws against it.

Self-harm = Bad→ No laws against it but there is intense societal disapproval and shaming connected to it.

*It is the least harmful on this list because it does not alter your mood or drastically change your brain chemistry for prolonged periods of time. But, apparently, it is the most shocking and the most taboo.

Medication = Good→ Sometimes there are laws enforcing it.

I believe all of these things can be good or bad depending on the specific person that it affects. Everyone is different and if you simply follow what pop culture’s opinion is on these issues without looking into them further, it shows ignorance, a lack of curiosity and exploration, rigidity, and a propensity towards the judgement of others. It often signifies that the “Them” in question is too weak to think for themselves and to withstand society’s brainwashing.

I will never think of cutting or drugs as “bad coping skills.” “Good coping skills” consist of talking about your issues and crying according to the “Them.” And according to the hospitals, CBT, and DBT, good coping skills include activities like aroma therapy and drawing. But what do these things do? Nothing. You need a release or a change in the state of mind. Talking about what upsets you is just reliving it all over again. Plus, what if you do not trust anyone enough to tell them what's on your mind? Crying is bullshit. I feel that it is pathetic for me to cry. That’s just how I feel. I have trained myself not to. So why should I do something detrimental to myself when I am already in distress? “Good” coping skills don’t really work and only the simple-minded buy into them. “Bad” coping skills shouldn’t be judged as bad or taboo just because others have all-or-none thinking about them when it's the only thing that helps some people.

Medication: Taking medication should be the mentally ill’s choice. Medication is not right for everybody; it is not always the best thing to do. Not everyone likes themselves on medication. Who are we to judge if a person is the “correct” version of themselves or not? Forcing someone to take psychiatric medications is rooted in a power and control structure that overshadows others. I believe that we should leave others alone when it comes to this and let them live how they want to live. Just because we’re mentally ill, doesn't mean we have to do what you want with our bodies anymore.

In conclusion, I believe individuals and society as a whole should look beyond the systems of the law, procedures in mental health facilities, standard practices of therapies, pop culture trends/rules , and societal norms to find each of our unique spots in this society. We need to rethink what is considered “unhealthy” and what is “healthy” and why we put actions into those categories. We need to be more open and steer clear of letting others dictate what we believe. I’m tired of being lectured and shamed. Let's move on together.

#mental hospital #mental illness #mental health #mental disorder #essay #prose #prose essay #sociology #abnormal psychology #psych #psychology #psychology student

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woopboopboop · 4 years

Text

Of promises

Note: Trigger warning!!! There is mention of suicide in this story. If you are uncomfortable, I suggest that it would be better to not proceed or you can proceed at you own discretion.

Look who’s back at it again! This is one is kinda fluffy and angsty at the same time? I don’t quite know. I’ll let you be the judge. Happy reading, babes.

I am not going to lie. I think about you almost all the time. I think about you when I am at work too. It’s amusing how the thought of you keep on appearing in my mind no matter how focus I am on something else. As I listen intently to the added vocals blending in with the strumming of guitar and mellow bass sound of the latest track, I can’t help but think of the time when you peeked over the book you were reading and concentrating on the random strumming patterns that I was experimenting one evening. You seemed fixated to the melody even commented how good it sounds and that was when I knew it needs to be in one of my songs. I unconsciously shake my head, smiling at the thought.

“What are you smiling at?” Kid asks, approaching the mixing console where I am standing next to.

“Just – thinking of something,” I say, scratching an invisible itch behind my ear, smiling sheepishly.

“Your wife?” Kid raises his eyebrows at me before returning to tweak some knobs on the board.

I try to hide my growing smile but it doesn’t really work. “Yeah. My wife.”

I am used to the band, Jeff and everyone else teasing me but when it comes to you, boy oh boy, do they have newfound love for it. “Lovebirds”, “Head over heels”, “Totally smitten” are just some of the words they use to describe us. You know this, of course, because I share about the things that we talk about during studio breaks or even random things that we did inside or outside of studio. Sometimes, you join in on their teasing game. But I don’t mind at all. They make the butterflies in me come alive and I live for the feeling after all. They make me think of you and I love having you on my mind.

The clock is way past midnight when I reach home. After fumbling with the house key for a while, I finally gain entrance, kicking my boots to the side and setting both the house and car keys on the wall key hooks. With the guidance from the living room dim lighting, I walk towards the kitchen to get a glass of cold water. Opening up the fridge door, the light bathes a portion of the kitchen wall and floor in a soft, yellow hue. It is then that I remember you asked me to grab milk from the nearby shop. “If you don’t mind,” you added.

I curse under my breath not because I despise the domestic act but because I actually forgot about doing the exact thing and I only have the ability to remember it now. I have to admit that you are the one who is better in remembering things be it dates or appointments. As for the milk, I will get it tomorrow.

Carrying my heavy footsteps upstairs, I notice the beam of light from beneath the door signifying that you left the light on. I tiptoe to flick off the light switch after switching on the table lamp on your side. The room is in total darkness except for the light from your half illuminating the room dimly. We agreed that only the light from your side will be on when we are sleeping after I vividly recall you telling me that you are not a fan of sleeping in the dark. You tell me about things that scare you and things that make you happy afterwards a lot and I also share mine.

I sit down carefully on the bed and watch you sleep facing my side of the mattress. Haruki Murakami’s Men Without Women is lying face down on the bed just a few inches from your chest. Closing it, I put the book along with other collections of Murakami in the bedside drawer behind me. I can’t help but notice an unfamiliar book residing in the drawer, I guess you bought it recently to add on our reading list. Yes, our reading list. In fact, there a lot of our things in this house and for each passing day, there will always be some new addition. Just like when there is a new record added to the existing little tower of vinyl records in the study room, new set of rings on the vanity or even new mugs with minimalist design in the kitchen.

Every object in each room of this house is an embodiment of us, together or individually. Though, I have to say that your presence was stronger because when I step into a space, I feel you. I feel your presence now too but at times it feels like it is fading away before it comes again in a crashing wave. I remember the time we talked about this over a cup of coffee. On that day, we shared our most complex struggles through simple words and comforting gestures.

Like my eyes always do, they return to you. The soft light in the room highlights certain features on your face and it begins to darkened towards the part where you have your face buried in the pillow. A sudden rush of warmth creeps behind my neck, making its way to my ear. The electrifying and alluring feeling is still the same as the one that I felt when we shared our first kiss. In fact, every touch and small gestures exchanged between us, especially now, brings more intensified feelings. You look so peaceful, frozen in time, except for your eyes darting back and forth behind your shut eyelids and the rising and falling of your breathing.

Your hair is everywhere with some strands falling on your upper arm, hiding two scars located at the same place which can hardly be seen. You always try to hide the scar, not liking the reasons behind it but I always tell you that things happened for a reason and that I will always love you and promise that I will be by your side if you need me. There is a scoff of disbelief on your face at first before your eyes soften and thank me for willing to be by your side. I love kissing the scar just as a reminder that I love you. I love kissing it without any reasons too. It has a slightly different colour from the rest of the skin on your body where I love to leave kisses as well. Hell, I just love to kiss you. No question asked. But I love to see you like this too, so I refrain myself from waking you up.

You shift for a bit in your sleep and a strand of hair falls down across your face. As if it is a reflex action, I move the strand away and tuck it behind your ear. My finger caresses the shell of your ear and you jaw with the slightest pressure. I notice your eyes fluttering, as if they want to open or maybe you are just dreaming.

“Hey,” you mumble when you gaze is focusing on me.

“Hey.”

We bask in silence for quite a while and I thought that you go right back to sleep but then I hear you asking me, “What?”

“Nothing. Just watching you.”

You squint your eyes and pull the duvet to cover half of your face, “Creep.”

“But you love it.” I stick my tongue out and you pull the duvet until it’s not covering you face anymore, sticking your tongue back at me. My lips find their way to your forehead, leaving a soft kiss before I disappear to the bathroom to change.

Coming back, I see you starting to fall asleep again. I smile and breathe in your presence for a moment before joining you on the mattress. Your eyes are fluttering open again as I caress your chin with my thumb and forefinger. My thumb stops at your cheekbone and I whispered a quite sorry. You shake you head and lean closer to me. We exchange long and gentle kisses, fingers wandering to every place that they can reach. And we don’t stop until both of us run out of breath. I don’t want to stop. Ever. Not when your fingers are tugging my hair slightly and mine resting on the nape of your neck to deepen our kiss.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, worried lines shadowing on your face.

I prop myself up on one elbow and carefully lay out the words. “It’s about the trip.”

You look more aware than anything at this moment, bottom lip pouting a bit, “I’m not going to like this, huh?”

“I’m so sorry, love. I’ve checked the date, I swear, but unfortunately it clashes with some promotions stuff that’s going to happen. The team and I confirmed the date and we can’t move it to another time.” I look into your eyes, hoping that I am not letting you down too much. You have been very excited for the trip, talking endlessly about it.

“Babe?” I call out and see your eyes regain their focus and concentrate on mine. Head falling deeper into your pillow, you hum, asking me to repeat whatever was said.

“The date for the trip clashes with my work. I’m so sorry. Really.”

“It’s okay. I understand,” you whisper, drawing circles on the back of my hand. “When can we go then?” It sounds more like curiosity than anything else.

Leaning down, I kiss your nose and you scrunch up your face, giggling softly. “In three weeks time. I promise.”

“H, you are promising a lot of things. Don’t think I’ll forget all of them.” I know you are serious beneath the joking tone of your voice. I lay back on the mattress, reaching over to snuggle into the dip of your neck. The faint scent of chamomile lingers in the air where I am hiding. After sponging few kisses on your neck and holding you close, I loosen my grip and move away from the crook of your neck. My eyes move from looking at you lips, to your nose and finally setting on your eyes.

“I intend to fulfil each and every one of them. You are stuck with me for a long time. Don’t think you’ll forget about that too?” You nod your head and both of us giggle. When the giggling stop, we are left with gazing into each other's eyes, as if we are looking for something. I found something behind yours, despite the dim light trying to hide away whatever it is in the shadow.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah.” I feel the little space between us closing in and our lips brush each other. You are no longer sleepy and I am no longer tired.

A single sun ray wakes me up in the morning. I jump up, panic at first but then it dawns on me that I have today off. Your side of mattress is empty. I roll over and bury my face on your pillow, smelling in the chamomile scent.

I lift my head when I hear the sound of water running from the bathroom. Bare naked, I cross the room in a number of strides and is reminded about last night when I encounter our clothes mingling together in a messy heap on the floor. I blush thinking about it as if it is our first. I knock on the bathroom door, calling out your name. Silence. I turn the knob slowly and push the door open expecting that you will be standing under the shower, asking me to join you there.

I am about to greet you good morning but see that there’s no one in the shower but the marble tiles staring back. As I lower down my vision, I find you slumping against the glass door. An angry stream making its way from your wrist down the drain, a huge contrast from your skin colour. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do. I am panicking. I rush over your limb body, wrapping the wound with whatever that I could find at the time. I pick you up and get you in a purple robe before I grab the clothes from last night and put it on. You feel so light and so heavy at the same time in my arms as I carry you to my car.

I fumble with the key in my hand. I don’t even know if I have locked the front door or not. I keep on calling your name as if it is a chant that can get you to magically wake up. All of this while trying to stay sane when in actual reality the world feels like it is slipping from my grasp. I wish that you reply my calling with any incoherent sentence or even garbled sounds. But you don’t answer. You don’t wake up.

When reaching hospital, I can only vision what a sight we are to those waiting there. “Please, help me!” I call out to no specific person. Everything just goes by so quickly and in a blur as the nurses push your bed towards the emergency room. Why aren’t you finishing my words when I try my best to explain what happened to the doctor? Why aren’t you opening your eyes when the doctor barks command to the nurses? Why aren’t you struggling when they put on the bed? Why aren’t you here to comment how ridiculous I must have look with my damp, wrinkled, half unbuttoned shirt? I don’t even notice the bloody patches on my shirt if I don’t button it up.

I stay out of everyone’s way and lean against the pillar near the entrance. A woman approaches me and pass me a document that I need to fill. I make a beeline for the counter so that I have a flat surface to write the paper on. As I fill in the paper, the nurse presses me for any information and I answer as best as I could but then I keep on thinking of you. I think about the milk that I forgot to buy. I think about the trip that I postponed last night. I think about the upcoming tour and that I promised you will stay longer with me this time. I think about all of the promises made, waiting to be fulfilled over our happily ever after.

“Have you call her family?” asks the same nurse. I must have look so distraught trying to fill the blank spaces and answer her questions. I stare at her for a moment to process her question. I want to say to her that I am your family. She is about to repeat the question when I shake my head.

“Call them. Let them know what’s happening.” She waits a couple of minutes until I finish filling up the paperwork. The waiting room is filled with a lot of noises given the works that are going on here but I feel so alone. The worst of thoughts come creeping in and start becoming louder each passing minute. I snap back and remember that I need to inform mum and your mother about the situation. Mum is very much heartbroken over the phone when I tell her about what is going on. It’s a bit funny that I am the one who consoles her instead of the other way around. I can’t blame her though. She loves you so much that she regards you as her second daughter.

I don’t know whether I prefer to be with family and friends at the moment or to be alone. The clock ticks slowly while things around me are moving at a normal speed. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, Mitch stands behind me and Sarah besides him. She hugs me without saying any words and Mitch offers me a weak smile.

“She’s going to be all right,” they assure me. I don’t know what else to say so I thank them.

Almost all of our close friends are here, waiting for any news from the doctor or nurses. I don’t dare to pay attention to their presence and kindness because I may break down and cry. That is the last thing that I need in this situation. “What is taking them so long,” I mutter, pacing back and forth, occasionally running my fingers through my hair. Sometimes they interlace with the curls for a while as I try to remain calm, taking deep breaths here and there. I need to be strong for both of us.

More people arrive and then I hear a familiar voice. Mum’s. Standing up, I greet her, Gemma as well as your mother with a hug. Your family is here too. I recount what happened to them and I can’t help but choke on few words as I feel the tears threatening to spill. They look so worried, afraid even, especially your mother since she knows you well enough to know that there are times when it can be so hard for you. And I am worried and afraid too.

In the midst of things happening, Mum finds her way to mother me, “Have you eaten?” Her question reminds me that you would do the same too. Regardless what the situation is. Trust me.

I get up from my seat and walk as fast as I can to the toilet. Finding the nearest toilet bowl, I vomit. I would think that there is nothing left inside of me after seeing you slumped in the shower this morning but I keep on vomiting until the only thing left is the bitter taste in my mouth. My knees buckle against the cold tiles. I feel a hand running up and down my back and see mum kneeling besides me. She holds me so tight, afraid that if she let go, I will break into tiny pieces.

“Everything’s fine. She’s going to be fine.” Her voice soft and soothing.

“No. She’s not.” I let out a sob, both hands fling to my face, covering my eyes, pressing hard against them. I don’t know if admitting it to myself or saying it out loud is harder.

I try not to cave into the heavy feelings but it is a total failure when the thought of being able to stop you is more overpowering. “She’s barely breathing when I found her. I call out for her but she didn’t respond at all. God knows, how long she had been there before I found her. I should’ve been there. I should’ve noticed it earlier when she looked a bit different last night. I should have known. This is my – ”

“Harry, do you love her?” She holds my face between her hands.

I nod, wiping stray tears falling down my cheeks. I am crying again.

“Sometimes, no matter what you do, you can’t protect the people who you love all the time. Things that happened to them is out of your hands. At times like this, the only thing that you can do is pray for them. Pray for her. Continue to love her. That’s all that you can ask of yourself. Things happen for a reason.”

She let go of her hands that cradles my face and hold my hands instead. The words sound weird when you are on the receiving end. Things happen for a reason. I always say that to you and it makes me think if you ever feel the same way as I did when I heard the words. Sadly, it doesn’t really bring comfort. It only leaves you in wonder of what is the reason behind all of this and what did I do to deserve such thing.

Friends and family sit patiently in the waiting room. It feels like an eternity waiting to be allowed in the same room as yours. The doctor approaches me to further inform the state that you are in and to be honest, after he says that you are in a stable condition, I am in and out of the conversation. I just need to see you on my own to believe that you are totally okay.

I sit beside you quietly and hold your hand gently. I don’t want to risk waking you up since the doctor told me that you need the rest. Your hand is cold as I hold it with my own. The fingers of my other hand touch your securely bandaged wrist. If you were to be awake, I guess you will make fun of my matching red nose, cheeks and eyes. I smile thinking about it. Carefully, I bring your bandaged hand to my cheek, then littering feathery kisses on your knuckles. I then nestle your hand onto the sheet but not letting go of our intertwined hands. I love holding your hands too. I love how we pass secret message by squeezing each other hands when we are in public. I love it more now that I can see both of our wedding bands adorning our fingers when we hold hands.

Watching you in this state, the only thing that I want more than anything is for you to wake up. I want to see the colour in your eyes again. I want to hold your hands firmly and not letting go. I want to feel your presence in this space. I am willing to do anything and everything just to get you to say my name. My mind drifts to the conversations that we had last night and I remember you teasing me about the promises that I made. I know I have a bad track record of keeping my promises but just know that I meant it when I say I want to fulfil them. The only thing that I need right now is for you to wake up and you will see that I am here as promised.

#writings #Harry Styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shots #harry styles one shot #one direction #one direction imagines #one direction imagine #one direction preference #one direction preferences

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fist-and-fury-xiv · 4 years

Text

VII | Gods

The following prompt is a collaboration between @otolin-xiv and @severine-savage for our double WoL AU.

Killing gods is hard.

The burn doesn’t fade. It’s much like a phantom, a quiet unsettling thing that sticks to the skin and slowly rides. Even if Otolin can’t see it, he swears it’s there, the little pin-pricks on the backs of his hands, on his callused and scarred palms.

It’ll be a reminder. He’s sure he’ll carry more over the next few weeks- no, this will take months? Maybe years. Nothing new. He holds up a hand quietly, head tilting and brows furrowing in thought.

He struck a Primal with his bare hands. He wasn’t sure it would actually work, but it had. That, and the dozens of arrows by way of the Elezen with the bow. Down goes the hand, thoughts drifting to her.

How was she doing?

It had been like staring into the sun. The heat was so intense she thought she wouldn’t survive it. She couldn’t get the story she used to hear growing up out of her head. Something about how to cook a frog. She’d watched that man walk into the dirt-packed arena and start to throw fists with that thing. And as tempting as it had been to keep her head down, to act like she was dead, to wish that she was dead, instead she’d struggled free of her bonds, propelled forward with a warmth and a brightness different than the fire around her.

She couldn’t hear herself think over that thing but she didn’t need to think. She knocked an arrow, drew it back, and fired. Again, and again, and again. And though she couldn’t hear her own voice over the roar of the creature and of the fire, she still sang. She sang as loud as she could, fingers rapping out a rhythm on the string of her bow and the shaft of her arrows. No one was more surprised to survive than she was. Surprised enough to laugh a little.

He realizes they hadn’t said much to each other before that battle.

Or even during.

It’s what makes Otolin stop on his slow, steady walk and reconsider. Thinking. No words had been exchanged, just simple and quick looks to signify the other’s presence. That they weren’t alone. That he wasn’t. It’s an odd thing. For most of his life, he’s been on his own (or that’s what he thinks).

Now there were others, people who had come into his life who... some were aggravating. Others a little grandiose. But they were well-meaning and kind enough, better than most of the types he had dealt with before. Severine though? She was…

He had no clue really what she was like, but there’s an inkling… something that tells his gut, his mind, his instinct, that he knows things about Severine he shouldn’t. That’s what makes him stop in the hallway and then turn around.

For most of his life, he had been on his own… if only because Otolin just preferred it that way.

She didn’t trust people. Not easily, not at all.

So why did she trust this guy after one intense fight and nothing more than an exchange of names?

Lifting her chin she stares at the back of his head, willing that thing in her brain to do what it does. Give her insight. Give her some idea. Give her an edge like she’s always had. When he stops and turns around she draws up short just to keep from walking into his back. He looks down at her and she looks up.

“‘Ey ah… thanks. For the rescue back there.” That’s what that was, right? A rescue. She couldn’t have done it by herself. Wouldn’t have managed it, right

She lifts a hand and briefly, lightly, pats the outside of his arm. Just a hint of contact is what she needs to get that glimpse into his mind to figure out how she should play this out.

A hand on his arm, brief but slightly… alarming.

Otolin had preferred things that way, but now that wasn’t possible. Isn’t. He’s in the thick of things now, moreso than he had been before. Such things happen when you kill a god, a primal. Contracts are often sealed in the fires of conflict, invisible or not.

Back to the present. He looks to the hand on his arm, and then up to Severine. “You… it just… just felt like the right thing to do,” he murmurs quietly. “You were as… you helped too with that… bow. Your bow.”

It’s a little awkward, the conversation, the way he conducts himself but it’s more out of unfamiliarity than anything. In the wake of Ifrit’s defeat, Severine had seen him giving orders (in a way) to the white-haired man, the rather roguish looking one. Or perhaps it was the other way around?

Nonetheless, they were familiar with each other.

Just like Otolin feels with Severine, but he can’t place it. Can’t seem to… frame it. His head ducks and he smiles, looking back up to her; it’s a tired look. “You’re… what about your friend? I’m… I’m sorry.”

She waits for the piercing headache. The vision. The glimpse of whatever that thing that makes her different and gives her an advantage when she’s hustling.

There’s nothing at all.

Her hand draws back and dangles at her side, fingers curling and relaxing a few times.

“Puk? Yeah. Thanks. He… I didn’t know him long. Ain’t no one should go out that way though.” They’d told her what had to happen to those that were… what was the word. Tempered. She purses her lips and nods once, pushing a hand into her short-cropped blue hair. The ends of the strands were fried and frizzled. Burnt from the heat of Ifrit.

She bites at her lip and glances around, gesturing with a hook of her chin to point towards a little alcove, walking over towards it. Her gaze slips past him, following another figure and then move to his face. “Can you tell me the truth about something though? Whatever it is y’all do here… is it worth getting involved? I mean… should I?” She was sharp enough to see where this was going. Knew that someone would ask her to stick around since she was lucky or unlucky enough not to end up like poor Puk and those other prisoners.

He stares, listening. Waiting. Not having to talk much is easy. Better.

Also, he seems to be waiting for something. His features scrunch in thought for a moment, but it doesn’t come. The headache that gets better each and every time. The sight. No, it was the Echo. That’s what Minfilia had told him.

Otolin lets his arms cross his chest, nodding once. “I… I agree,” he says. “Regarding your friend. Regardless of the length of time, I… friends or acquaintances don’t come easy and often, so… I don’t have anything better to say there. I’m sorry. Words aren’t my strong suit.”

He pauses, listening to that question, trying to understand it. His head tilts, a frown having formed already, and he sighs.

“It’s an odd thing, isn’t it? Weird, almost,” he begins to explain, looking over his shoulder for a moment and then back. “These people from all different paths, these places, coming together to… to fight these things, the primals. To defend others. To be… to be a ‘hero’. One of them said that, called me that, and I just… that’s not me.”

It had been… Yda.

The one with the mask, and the blonde hair, who told him that.

The tall Highlander pauses for a beat, and then continues. “But even then, there’s something… something that makes me feel like I should be involved. I should help. These primals, the… the Ascians? They’re a threat to people living their lives, no matter where they’re from, no matter… no matter what they’re doing.”

Another pause.

“That’s why I’m doing it. Why would… why would you want to do it?”

Her nose wrinkles a little when he says the word ‘hero’. She leans back against the wall, arms still loosely crossed, staring past his shoulder occasionally. Like she’s looking for an escape. Some way out of all of this.

“Y’know, I know a lot of stories. Kind of my thing. Hero stories are always popular. Folks like to hear them. Y’know what the problem with a lot of them is though?” Severine leans forward, looking up at him with her eyebrows lifted. “The hero dies. Usually badly. The songs make it all pretty later on but…” She clucks her tongue quietly and flicks her gaze up to him.

He’s talking about things she has no concept of. Primals. Ascians? Means nothing to her. And she gets the feeling she doesn’t really want to know.

“Honestly? I don’t. I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t mind people thinking that I am, but I ain’ a front lines kind of gal. You though… you wanna help people. Yeah? You think your friends are just going to be okay with it if I don’t join up your little party?” She smiles some then, sighing and leaning back, stretching her neck uncomfortably.

“You say words aren’t your strong suit? They’re mine. Maybe we can work something out.”

Otolin just looks, notes the little change in Severine’s demeanor at the particular word. ‘Hero’. He rolls a shoulder, watching carefully; another look is given over his shoulder, as though expecting something to… something to…

The phantom pain, the pin-pricks of fiery pain return to his hand, but he’s so focused on the conversation that it doesn’t matter. He tunes it out, and just watches, listening. That frown forms, but he nods. “I think my friends are… going to try and get you to join, to ask you until you can’t say ‘no’. No threats though. Not their style, well… maybe… no. Not even her.”

His head tilts at the last little bit though, eyes widening, as though she’s… she’s found him out, but it’s also on him. He spoke. He said too much. Why is he talking to her? Why is telling this Severine this? Why is he-

Where is this trust coming from?

“They aren’t, no.” He stops for a beat, and then goes on for a few moments more. “If they’re yours, I… then let’s work something out, yes?”

Her eyes narrow and she examines him for a long moment. Willing herself to be able to read more. Is he trying to cheat her? Is he going to turn on her? Every bone in her body is screaming to just run. Get the hell out of Thanalan, put it behind her, change her identity again.

But she doesn’t need a voice in her head telling her how to read people. She’s always been a good judge of character. She’s always known just what people are thinking, what they’re trying to hide.

The question is, does she think she’ll be able to get what she wants out of these people before they take everything from her?

Lifting her hand she offers it to him, smiling wryly. “Looking forward to working with you. Otolin, wasn’t it?”

Becoming a god is easy.

#seaswolchallenge #writing #severine sauvageot #otolin stone

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dokuhebi · 4 years

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Jiraiya / cont. @peepingtoad

No. There was no difference.

That was exactly why he threw it out to tempt them, referring not only to the possibility of tethering his power as they already had done in the past, but also his will itself… because if he can’t be accepted with all his flaws by the one he loves, then he may as well, at the very least, not have to suffer any longer for it. Either by being allowed to die again, or the next best thing—by becoming a mindless servant who can fulfil whatever role they desire from him. And why not assert just how sick and tired he is? Why not let them know, in no uncertain terms, just how crazy they make him, and see exactly what guts they have to do something real about it?

But replaying those words back to himself as a tense quiet descends thickly in the space between them, where the only sound is his ragged, wet breathing, it now seems less like the assertions of his aggressively free spirit, and instead reeks more of fear. Fear of that highest tier of rejection—and not for juvenile things like dating or kissing or any of that stuff, but the idea that he might face rejection for being fully himself… including his less relaxed, less humorous and cheerful, less indestructible sides. The very sides of him that right now seem to be earning him nothing but further ire, neither his tears nor anger seeming to awaken any kind of vulnerability or understanding in return.

Keep reading

|| “...you think you know what might make me happy?” Words that cut directly to the bone, that take what the serpent had said and pierced its heart until all sentiment had been killed from it. They stare on silently, even if they feel he was turning the knife within them. That they can not argue they know him at all, if he has told them just how blind they have not only been, but are currently being. And it does leave them feeling raw and ripped open, it does make them feel that the only bond they ever truly formed in their lifetime had been a rather poor effort all the same. And it is not his intention, or at the very least, his comment is not to aim blame outwardly. Instead, after wounding them, he acts to wound himself. They would say they spot the pattern, of how quickly he puts himself in jail for things he has not truly done. But they feel themself a fool to make that analysis after being chided for knowing so little as is. And then comes his confession - a child saviour. So simple, so innocent, yet he delivers it as if it may have been the very weight holding him under water for so long. Perhaps if he had told them years ago, they would have had a better understanding, perhaps if he had, they would simply have scoffed at all his talk of destiny and fate. Maybe they still do. But one thing is certain, they can not fault him... when during his death they had run off to do the same thing. And that might just be making them feel a little eerily inclined to believe destiny for the briefest second.

Mitsuki is quick to enter their thoughts, they had created that boy to be everything they were not. They had given him the power their body was too weak to control, the lessons they had never been taught... but more importantly, they had tried their utmost to present the little moon they birthed with a sun. With some guiding light out the darkness. Because they had truly thought that no child of theirs could ever be capable of escaping the shadows, because high and mighty as they are, and whether they call it destiny or genetic predisposition, they could not shake the feeling that the apple would not fall far from the tree. Because one lesson they could not shake, was that the moment they pushed Jiraiya away, was the moment the darkness finally had the opportunity to clamp its jaws around them. And although madness had been soothing, although a blinding veil of darkness had allowed them peace, it was a form of admitted delusion to ignore the signs of being killed in that way. To lose oneself entirely to whatever force would give them relief from the world. And it was knowing this, it was knowing how the game ended the moment they tried playing alone, that had them guiding their child toward another boy. That had them encouraging one sacred rule: to stay close to the one who offered light. The gods knew the serpent wished they had. But they can not tell him this. No, they can not show him how much they regret making him think all that optimism was for naught, that it was foolish and naive and had no impact. For they can not tell him of the child just yet. Too poor an opportunity to announce the insanity of their own ploys. That they would once more tamper with nature in new ways to produce the two a son. That they would, with a heart that is just as much of a dreamer as Jiraiya’s, look to the child and whisper for him to do what the two Sannin couldn’t. They would like to show Jiraiya, that he had. For now, however, they would need to convey it a different way. They would need to find the words to express that he was wrong to think that all those years were wasted. Those were the only years the serpent could ever count themself alive. Them being too stubborn, scared and lost to see that would change nothing. “No right?” the words catch in their throat when he speaks them, no right to feel pain? Their eyes meet his without intent to be patronizing, yet a mark of a parent informing a child appears regardless, “we can not measure suffering... but if we dared to, I would wager that yours was within all rights my dear. For any tragedy upon or around you will stifle the human heart... pain is so easily transferable, is it not?” That was a lesson taught to them in parenthood, from the day they saw their child in agony, and felt a violent need to bear that pain themself than witness it. But they had not yet addressed what they felt needed addressing. That he thought all his efforts a complete waste, that he now abhors even that optimism that had in fact, carried the Sannin a great distance. A loss of words ensnares them momentarily, until he has walked the short distance back to them. Even after they had almost killed him moments ago, even after wind rattled the cottage and threatened more pain. He would get bitten a hundred times more before realizing some beasts were too feral to be a part of his domestic fantasy. Gold meets the inverted optics he now dons, and their voice is but a breath louder than a whisper. Even now, their stillness could be read as them being pacified, or as a serpent getting ready to strike, “I remember strangers dressed in red coming to my door, the eyes of pity ridden onlookers in utilitarian and windowless hallways... I remember the matrons office, the houseparents, the scattered documents I didn’t have the guts to read when my parents names littered every page. I remember thinking that everyone would be disappointed, inconvenienced, if I behaved like a child rather than a shinobi. If I admitted my feelings on the subject rather than handled it like one of our assignments. I didn’t tell you I was scared... I found I did not have to.” “Maybe it was your optimism, maybe it was that whenever the ground shook beneath me on my broken foundation, there was at least one familiar face, one constant... and I could measure myself to you. If you could fall and get back up, so could I. If you could live in a home where your mother was more absent than present, I could too. And if you could hold up not only yourself, but others... well, the least I could do was move forward on my own. And perhaps even then our goals were of similar heart. That you took to raising a saviour, where I took to trying to paint myself as one...” A light and single huff of laughter, lacking amusement but perhaps admitting to the irony of their days battling for the seat of Hokage. Then the days forging their own village with equal tenacity after denouncing the way the world was shaped. Who knew the child who dreamed of being the worlds redemption, would become a villain without any hope of being redeemed themself. And it is then that they feel the brush of his hands on their face, that the softest of touches seems to rattle them. They did not notice the feeling of dampness that had risen subtly to their own sharp eyes, and they look almost surprised when they feel the light sensation of a tear fall down their cheek. They blink it away, as if caught off guard by their feelings. As if they had done too good a job of stifling real emotions and of letting anger take precedence instead. That their heart must have been far removed from their mind, and caught them completely off guard by the sudden and single exposure of nostalgic grief. And part of them wants to blame him, that just like a yawn or smile or laugh, crying could be contagious. But they know better than to demonstrate further weakness with a cop-out lie. || “… Well. Maybe.” The words bring another huff of laughter from them, bitter amusement, but amusement more genuine than the previous time. The wind in the room has died down, the light swinging of the curtain rope and the disheveled state of paper and books is all that is left in its warning wake. And they are left, with the heartfelt promise he had just made, that maybe their little secret is not wise to withhold. That it was true madness to continue the same action in hopes of a different outcome. If they are to hide from him... if he is to hide from them... they are back where they started. “Fate... that is a very fickle thing to hold to, is it not?” they reply, a hand coming up to clasp around the back of his head. Nails have a bit of bite to them, a bit of tug. But it is not to harm him, it is to keep him locked a while longer as he is. It is the shake of his hands and the quiver in his breath, it is the unleashed vow of being theirs, only theirs. It is the unspoken promise of years ago that has finally been put in to words. They tug him down when they draw themself forward, a kiss that they hope will signify a seal on his promise. Less gentle than they had intended, more possessive than romantic. They toy with the idea in their mind, they toy with whether they should tell him, and then finally, they have their answer. “Pack your things. I have something to show you.”

#毒蛇 IMMORTAL; the curse is broken (post war)#peepingtoad #/long post #are they going to make him walk an entire journey without telling him what they're showing him?#why yes #yes they are

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antihero-writings · 5 years

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If These Walls Could Talk Chapter 1: “Lisa”—Castlevania (Netflix) Fic (Full chapter!!)

Fic Title: If These Walls Could Talk

Synopsis: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: I was writing a different Castlevania fic when I started describing things as if from the castle’s perspective...and I thought that was a very interesting idea, so this happened. The idea was also inspired by Sypha’s “it’s fighting me!" I thought that was really interesting because she was speaking almost as if the castle were a living thing. And, well, I love personifying things.

Also, ever since reading @izabellwit's a loyal heart fic I’ve wanted to try writing something from a non-human perspective. And boy was it worth it. This has got to be one of my favorite fics I’ve written, honestly!

Plus I really wanted to write about Alucard's childhood, and I thought this was a great way to do so somewhat comprehensively, but also concisely. I thought it was just an interesting idea, and that Sypha’s was kind of an offhand comment, but when I rewatched a few scenes for research, I realized…I think this idea is actually supposed to exist within the canon. There are subtler references to the castle having an alive-ness, Sypha’s is just the easiest to catch. I’m curious if anyone agrees, especially after reading.

I have a very limited knowledge of the games, but I'm trying to learn more about them, and really like working in little references to them here and there!

I was originally planning on posting this as one long thing (and I may still do so after I finish), because the sections are very much connected and meant to flow into each other, and I think it’ll be easy to miss things if they’re separate. But I realized it would be easier, both for me to post, and for people to read, in bite size-pieces. Plus it has very clear-cut sections that are easy to split into chapters. So here you go!!

Chapter 1 (of 8), She Came at Sunset:

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—no snug space to curl up in, on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard; stories, but not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses; the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death. Not all the stories make humans want to run at the doors with garlic and arrows, or else stay far away.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others; stories that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes. But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

Except one. Except this woman, with her mouth full of healing salve and her hands full of curiosity. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time; the gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations, walked outside, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them, and they want their child to be able to do the same, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

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filmfanatic82 · 5 years

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AO3 link (HERE)

Chapter 16: I Am Hers And She Is Mine…

Surreal.

No. Scratch that. Surreal is too tame of a word to describe the emotions that are currently coursing through Trini’s veins.

It’s unbelievable.

Even for someone who’s come face to face with a 50 ft monster comprised solely of gold.

Less than 72 hours ago, Kimberly Hart was just a bittersweet memory buried within the darkest recesses of her mind and now…

Now Kimberly Hart is laying within her arms, drawing lazily circled upon the surface of her tan skin.

“What are you thinking?” Kim asks. She gently brushes a stray lock of hair out of Trini’s eyes and then proceeds to trace her fingers down the side of her face.

“How insane this whole thing is,” Trini replies, leaning into Kim’s touch.

“The Jinn?”

“Yeah. But not just that… Everything that’s happened in the last 72 hours. You… Max… The storm… The disappearances… And…” Trini trails off as her words escape her.

“And?” Kim instinctually wraps her limbs even further around Trini’s body, blanketing the smaller Latina with nothing but warmth and comfort.

“And this… You and me.”

Kim hums in response. “Oh, it’s beyond insane. That’s for sure. Not at all what I was planning on.”

“You had a plan?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t know what to expect. Figured I’d just be lucky if you’d even consider talking to me,” Kim replies. She continues to gently draw circles on Trini’s arm, semi-lost within the hypnotic motion of it.

And Trini lets herself get lost as well. Not wanting the simplicity of this moment to ever end.

“What made you come back?” Trini asks after a few moments of silence pass by.

“Tommi.”

“Tommi?”

Kim nods. “Showed up on my front porch randomly one afternoon about a month ago. It was only me that was home at the time, so she didn’t meet Max or Richard. In fact, I don’t think she even spotted my ring… Cause knowing Tommi, it would’ve been a way different conversation if she had.”

Trini shifts her body a bit to look Kim in the eyes. “What did you guys talk about.”

“You,” Kim replies with a hint of a smile.

“Me?”

“Amongst other things. But mainly you… And how it was time to pull my head out of my ass and come back home,” Kim says with a laugh.

“Sounds like Tommi.”

“Oh yeah. She didn’t hold back with her thoughts.”

“Tommi’s not a sugar coater. That’s for sure… She’s kinda the reason I was able to my shit together after you…” Trini trails off once again, as a wave of long-forgotten emotions attempts to bubble up to the surface. She lets out a shaky breath of air and runs her hands through her hair.

“It’s okay,” Kim replies and plants a tender kiss on Trini’s forehead. “She told me.”

“She did?”

“She didn’t go into too many details, but yeah, she did.” Kim kisses Trini again, letting her lips linger a little longer than necessary. “T, I--”

“Don’t do it, Princess,” Trini cuts Kim off, with a sudden authority to her voice. “No more apologizing. Remember?”

“That rule applies to you, not me.”

“Oh, really?” Trini cocks an eyebrow only to be matched by a devilish smirk from Kim.

“Yes, really.” Kim slides her arm over Trini and plants both hands on either side of her head. She pushes herself up until she is hovering over Trini’s body, only inches away from contact.

Fuuuccck.

This is NOT what they should be doing.

No. Not at all.

They should be with the others, trying to figure out a way to defeat the Jinn and--

Kim playfully rolls her hips, and instantly, Trini’s skin combusts from the momentary friction.

Fuck.

This is wrong.

But God… It’s so right.

Just a few more minutes…

Just a few more… Before they need to come back down to reality and deal with what is transpiring.

“Kim…” Trini moans. She feels her body automatically react with her hips bucking upwards, desperate to continue the contact in any means necessary.

“Yes?” Kim hums with yet another roll of her hips. This time at even a slower and more excruciating pace than before. It’s torture. Plain and simple. And Trini can’t help but secretly love it.

“We don’t have time…” Trini voice gives out as Kim continues her relentless assault with a series of scorching kisses outlining the natural curves of her breasts.

“Says… who…” Kim mutters between nips.

“Says me.” An all too familiar voice cuts through the room, causing both Trini and Kim to come to a crashing halt. Their eyes dart towards the source of the sound and find Tommi leaning against the doorway, arms folded, and an all-knowing smirk plastered across her face. “Seriously?”

“What?” Trini fires back as she reaches for a nearby blanket crumpled up on the foot of the bed and pulls it up over herself and Kim.

“We left you guys alone for fifteen minutes… Twenty tops.” Tommi moves into the room, shutting the door behind her as she does.

“We were just talking,” Trini grumbles.

“I bet Kim’s tongue was getting quite the workout with all that ‘talking’, Pillow Princess” Tommi laughs. She gives a slight disapproving shake of her head but can’t hide her smile.

“Hey! I’m not a pillow princess.” Trini looks towards Kim to back her up but is only met with another, all-knowing smirk. She lets out a sigh in defeat and flops her head against the bed. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t. But nice try, Small Fry,” Tommi responds as she takes a seat on the edge nearby bunk bed. “We need you back at the grid. The boys think they found something.”

“Like a way to defeat the Jinn?” Kim asks. She reaches down with her free arm and scoops up her shirt up off of the floor.

“Not sure. Didn’t ask too many questions before coming to get you guys. But assume that’s the case.” Tommi grabs the rest of the scattered clothes from the floor and tosses them at Trini.

“Well there’s only one way to find out,” Trini replies catching the clothes and then slipping her t-shirt on over her head.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

By the time Trini, Kim, and Tommi make their way back into the morphing grid, the boys are already huddled around one of the consoles, deep in discussion.

“How much?” Jason asks, spinning his red power coin against the surface of the console.

“Need to run a few more tests, but it looks like there’s only enough for one of us at full strength. Maybe two but there’s a larger risk of our power draining faster,” Billy responds as he pours over the data on the console screen.

“Tests on what?” Jason, Billy, and Zack all visibly tense up at the sound of Trini’s voice and whip around, greeting them with a mixture of apprehensive looks of concern.

“Our coins,” Zack says. He snatches his black coin up from on top of the console and tosses it at Trini. “B-man’s been trying to figure out just how much juice is left in these bad boys.”

Trini studies Zack’s coin for a moment or two, taking note of how dim the black metallic light is and then reaches into her pocket and pulls out her own coin. Just like Zack, the yellow light that usually radiates an array of vibrant sparkles is faded, with barely any signs of life to it at all. “What does it mean?”

“There’s only enough collective power for one of us to safely morph.” Jason rubs the back of his neck and lets out a long sigh.

“Is that even doable?” Kim questions.

“Based off of what Billy found in the archives, yes. We would just have to ensure that whoever does it has all of our power coins with them before attempting to morph.”

“Okay. But what about the Jinn? Did you guys find out anything else about it? Like how we can defeat it?” Kim ping-pongs between Billy, Jason, and Zack, searching for an answer but is only met with tense silence. Jason lets out yet another sigh. This one is more weighted than the last. His eyes fall upon Trini.

Fuck.

Of course.

It’s her.

She started this mess, so naturally, she’s the only one who can fix it.

“We need to destroy the Epithymía stone and only the person--”

“Who can destroy it is the one that made the wish,” Trini finished Jason’s words with a steady resolution to her voice. As if she has already come to terms with what she needs to do. Jason gives a small nod in confirmation, unable to bring himself to look Trini in the eyes.

“No,” Kim says with a firm head shake. “That’s not an option.”

“Kim…”

“I’m with Kim on this one, Small Fry. You going out there all alone… without any sort of backup? Yeah, over my dead body,” Tommi chimes in.

“What other choice do we got? Jason said it. There’s only enough power for one of us to morph. How are we supposed to fight the Jinn without our powers,” Trini fires back, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. “Not like I’m thrilled about it either, but it’s gotta be me.”

“Zack?” Tommi shoots an exasperated look over towards Zack but is only met with a helpless shoulder shrug in return.

“She’s got a point, babe,” Zack responds. Tommi lets out an emotion-driven sigh of frustration and runs her hands through her wild name of hair.

“I’ll go,” Kim pipes up. “In place of Trini. I’ll do it.”

“But you’re not the one who made the wish,” Trini replies without missing a beat. “It can be you, Kim.”

“Says who?”

Trini whips around and throws an exaggerated gesture at Jason. “Are you fucking kidding me? He did. Literally, five seconds ago. Unless someone else made another wish that we don’t know about, I’m the only one who can destroy the stone.”

“I heard him, Trinity. I’m not deaf,” Kim responds, putting extra emphasis on Trini’s name.

Fuck.

Kimberly used her full name.

That’s the emotional last resort move. The one that usually signifies that she’s only seconds away from…

Instinctually, Trini reaches out to touch Kim’s arm, but Kim pulls away, too wrapped up with the tsunami of emotions swirling within her to allow herself to succumb to any sort of comfort. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Bullshit,” Kim replies, shaking away the hint of tears forming within the corners of her eyes.

“Kim, I--”

But the rest of Trini’s words go unheard as Kim up and storms straight out of the morphing grid, not even once hesitating to look back.

God, she’s so freakin’ predictable.

“Fuck,” Trini exclaims. She starts to follow after Kim but suddenly is stopped by Jason.

“You stay. There’s more than Billy needs to go over with you. I’ve got her,” Jason responds with an understanding nod and a brotherly squeeze on Trini’s shoulder.

Trini matches Jason’s nod with one of her own, unable to find her words. She watches Jason jog after Kim, down the metallic corridor as the unsettling reality of what’s potentially in the cards for her starts to bubble up in the back of her throat.

What if Kim’s right?

What if her going alone isn’t the right move?

What if…

No.

She’s not going there.

Not now.

Pull it together, Gomez.

Trini swallows down the dry lump of doubts and then turns her attention back towards Billy. “Okay. What else do I need to know?”

Billy produces a sympathetic smile. The one he reserves for those moments when he has to deliver not the best of news. And Trini can feel her heart start to crack. She’s seen that smile one too many times for her liking, and it’s the last thing she needs to see right now.

Fuck.

What else?

What more can there be?

Haven’t they been tortured enough?

“We were able to locate the Jinn. It appears that he’s residing on the top of Angel’s Outlook. Or at least that’s where the main energy spike is coming from,” Billy says matter of factly.

“The highest point in all of Angel Grove.” Trini exhales and runs her hands through her hair. “Awesome.”

“You can teleport in and teleport out. There’s enough of a good clearing up there that you can kick that Jinn’s ass without ever once having to even give a second thought to how high up it is,” Tommi replies as she moves closer to Trini, somehow sensing Trini’s rising levels of anxiety. “Right, Billy?”

But Billy doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. His face says it. Teleportation isn’t an option.

“I’m gonna have to go on foot, aren’t I?” Trini asks.

“Well, that’s the thing. Given the current strength of the storm, it would take you roughly two and a half days to reach the base of Angel’s Outlook.” Billy shifts from foot to foot as his hands mindlessly fidget with his blue power coin. All tell-tale signs that the shear stress of their situation is starting to get him.

“What about taking the Zords? They’re like the ultimate all-terrain vehicles,” Zack offers up.

“The ground-based ones would still take too long to reach the mountain but...” Billy trails off as he hesitates with his next words.

“But what?” Tommi says impatiently.

“But maybe the Pterodactyl might be able to bypass some of the more aggressive elements.”

A deafening silence settles amongst the four of them as they let Billy’s words fully sink in.

Fuuuuuuuck.

No.

Not again.

Not the Pterodactyl.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Trini has spent a good part of the last thirty minutes hiding out within the Zord cavern, eyes locked in on one thing and one thing only… The cockpit of the pink metallic pterodactyl.

It’s not like Trini meant to end up here. No. That hadn’t been her intent when she had slipped out of the morphing grid unnoticed during Tommi and Zack’s third round of fruitless debates on whether or not Pterodactyl should even be taken into consideration given what transpired the last go around. Trini had originally meant to go find Jason-- and possibly Kim-- in hopes that he had worked his magic and managed to talk some sense into Kim. But something had drawn her to go another direction. One that for the last few years that Trini had all but avoided from wandering down.

The one where the heart of her newly-formed fear resides.

“There you are.” Jason’s voice echoes throughout the cavern, making his presence known well before he comes into view.

Trini lets out a sigh and runs her hands through her hair. “How’d you find me?”

Jason climbs up onto the lip of the ledge where Trini is camped out, taking a seat directly beside her and then offers up a hint of a smile. “Simple. I just looked in the most unlikely of places first.”

“I’m that predictable?”

“After a decade of all of this, I think we all are predictable.” Jason shrugs with the ever so slightly nudge to Trini’s arm.

They sit side by side, just staring out at the Zords in the near distance as a comfortable silence all but blankets the two of them. Words are not needed… Nor would be helpful in a moment such as this. At least not to Trini. And Jason has come to learn this too as well.

Yet another predictable element.

A moment or two passes, and then--

“How is she?”

“Kim?” Jason asks, already semi-knowing the answer before the words leave his mouth.

“Yeah,’ Trini responds. She picks at the hem of her t-shirt, trying not to appear too concerned, but it doesn’t matter. Just like with everything else, Jason knows the truth. He always has.

“Eh… She’s Kim. Angry and annoyed that she can’t control the situation. Had to talk her out of doing something stupid like up and stealing our coins--”

“Jase…”

“Don’t worry. She’s not. I made sure of it,” Jason responds with a smirk. He reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and pulls out the pink, blue, red, and black power coins. “Besides, I figured you might attempt to slip out without taking these with you.”

“I wasn’t…” Trini trails off as she catches sight of Jason’s face. There’s no use offering off a half-ass excuse. So instead, Trini simply takes the coins from Jason and gives him a nod. “Thanks.”

Jason matches her nod. “No problem… So, the Pterodactyl again, huh?”

“Yup,” Trini responds with a large exhale of breath.

“And I’m sure this has already been discussed, but there’s no other option, right?”

Trini shakes her head as her eyes wander back towards the cockpit of the pink Zord.

Deja fuckin’ Vu

That’s the only way to describe it.

And Jason has to be thinking the same exact thing.

He has to be.

It was literally only a few years ago they sat here… In these same positions… side by side… Staring down the Zords and talking about the potential threats to come.

“What can I do?” Jason asks, breaking the silence once again between them.

“You got a spare beer or two?” Trini replies with a bit of a smirk. She knows it isn’t what Jason meant by the question, but it feels fitting nonetheless.

“God, I wish,” Jason chuckles. “I could use one right about now.”

“You and me both… There is something though you can do for me.”

“Anything.”

Trini shoves the extra power coins into her pockets and pushes herself up onto her feet. “Let her know I’ll be okay.”

Jason gives a nod. “Of course.”

“Thanks Scott,” Trini says. Then, with one final shaky exhale of breath, she proceeds to head straight towards the all too familiar pterodactyl.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

In and out.

Just keep breathing, Gomez.

Keep breathing and concentrating on the mission at hand.

Trini takes a deep, sobering breath of air as she continues to ignore the ever-present tremors running rampant up and down her limbs. She re-adjusts her grip on the steering handles and scans the horizon for any sign of an identifiable landmark.

But there’s nothing.

Nothing but dense yellow fog.

Trini glances down for the fifth time in the last few minutes at the souped-up GPS screen nestled within the array of endless buttons and lights on the console. Thanks to Billy and his love for tinkering, it had been a post-Ivan addition made to all of their zords, and in this very moment, she is nothing but eternally grateful for it. If it not for it, Trini would have all but given up well over twenty minutes ago.

She’s sure as hell she’s not flying in circles.

At least there’s that.

And the coins.

She can’t forget about the power coins.

Trini lets go of one of the steering handles and gingerly touches the pink power coin residing on top of the dashboard. It glistens in the overcast light of the yellow fog. A small but still valid reminder of what’s on the line if she doesn’t succeed.

If…

No.

Don’t go there, Gomez.

“Trini?... Trini? Are you there?” Kim’s voice rips Trini right out of her thoughts and back into reality. A smile spreads across Trini’s face as she pushes the comms button on the console.

“Hi Princess,” Trini nonchalantly replies, trying to mask her ever-growing nerves.

“Thank god.” There’s a pause for a moment as Trini recognizes the familiar sound of Kim letting out a lengthy sigh of relief. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“You know already know the answer to that one. I was thinking that I’ve got a Jinn to track down and a gem to smash, so--”

“No. You up and leaving… Without even saying goodbye to any of us.”

Trini dryly swallows down a lump of emotions. “Thought it was easier. Besides, you would’ve never let me go if I had.”

“You’re damn right. It’s a suici…” Kim trails off before finishing the word. But Trini doesn’t need to hear the rest to know what she was about to say. The lingering thought is in the back of her mind as well. Ever present and terrifying.

“I’ll be okay, Princess. I swear.” Trini says and then exhales, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds.

THUD.

Trini’s eyes jolt back open as the zord suddenly shakes violently with gut-churning turbulence. “Shit… Shit… Shit…”

“Trini?!” Kim’s voice calls out once again, this time laced with overwhelming terror.

“I’m… I’m okay,” Trini replies with a shaky breath of air. “Just a little turbulence. That’s all,”

Fuck.

In and out.

Just keep breathing.

It will be okay.

It has to be.

“Bullshit… I can hear it in your voice. That isn’t just a little turbulence. You shouldn’t be up there. It should be--”

“Kim?” Trini says, cutting Kim off. “Can… Can you just talk to me?”

“Talk to you?”

“Yeah.” Trini nods. She continues to focus her concentration on both her breathing and the task of flying as the ever-looming panic attack creeps closer and closer. “About anything… Anything you like. Hell, you can even talk about Richard. I just… I just need to hear your voice.”

Silence washes over the cockpit for a moment or two as the constant roar of the storm seeps back into Trini’s consciousness and then--

“You haven’t asked yet why I named him Max.”

“No,” Trini replies through slightly gritted teeth. The turbulence kicks it up a notch, causing her arms to shake as she tries to keep the zord steady within the air.

“I was in denial for the longest time about being pregnant. I mean, I knew. Who could I not? My body was transforming right before my very eyes, but still I… I dunno. I couldn’t bring myself to accept the fact that I was going to be someone’s mother. I mean I could barely manage to take care of myself… How the hell was I supposed to take care of another life? Anyway, I went on pretty much living in denial for the most part until one day roughly two months before I was due, I up and passed out. Right in the middle of an aisle in some random grocery store. Didn’t come to until two days later in a hospital room. The doctors were a bunch of assholes and scolded me left and right about not taking better care of myself. But there was this one nurse… Mindy. She was the only one who seemed to somehow piece things together. No clue how. But it was like she just knew… And late one night she showed up to my room with a bunch of Indian take-out food, and we just talked for well over five hours straight.”

“What did you talk about?” Trini asks, momentarily distracted by the story.

“A little bit about family. And Angel Grove,” Kim responds and Trini all but swears that she can hear a smile spread across Kim’s face. “But mainly you… And how you were someone that I hoped my child would turn out to be just like. Strong-willed and fiercely determined. And loyal… and brave… and loving… God, so loving… And the more we talked, the more I found myself at ease because I knew that there was only one name in the world that would be fitting enough for a child who was going to grow up to be just like you…”

“Max,” Trini whispers unsure if Kim can hear her or not.

“Max… My little piece of you. Maybe not in DNA, but in every other way possible.”

Trini can’t help but smile as she takes a moment to fully embrace Kim’s words. “I’m going to get him back.”

“I know, Mi Vida. I know.”

“Kim, I love--”

But Trini doesn’t get the opportunity to finish her sentence. A monstrous gust of wind, slams into the hull of the zord, instantly sending it into an uncontrollable tailspin. Trini yanks back on the handles, in a hail mary attempt to straighten it out, but it’s no use. It’s going down, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Just before the world goes fully dark, Trini reaches out and snatches up the four power coins as well as her own in a fleeting hope that she can hold onto them no matter what’s to come next.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“TRINI!!!!!!”

The scream from a familiar voice rips through Trini’s subconscious, jolting her back into the land of the living with a harsh breath of air.

She knows that scream.

It’s Max.

Max is screaming.

But from where?

Trini pushes herself up into a sitting position as the world once again comes into view. She’s somehow in one piece and on the ground, surrounded by nothing but a sea of dense yellow fog.

“What the…?” Trini says to herself. She takes another look around and instantly spots a shimmer of metallic pink in the near distance. She somehow not only managed to survive the crash landing of the zord but also with only seemingly minimal damage.

Thank fucking god.

Small miracles.

But what about--

Trini blindly gropes around the forest floor as a wave of sheer panic crashes down upon her. “C’mon… C’mon… C’mon…”

And then she feels it. The cold glass-like surface of their power coins. Trini grabs hold of the coins just as another scream bursts through the roar of the storm.

“I’m coming, Max. Hold on!” Trini yells back. She jumps up to her feet and with one final sobering breath of air, morphs into her yellow armor.

#trimberly #trini x kimberly #kimberly hart #trini #power rangers #power rangers 2017 #wlw #ao3 #fanfic

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thereddeath2093-blog · 4 years

Text

2020A_CW-210 personal blog post

DOOM

By Steven Bunch

I spend a lot of time thinking about doom. It’s a rather abstract concept to preoccupy oneself with, but still I find myself living a “doomed” life. I listen to doom metal, I watch movies and TV shows full of doomed people on doomed worlds, I fantasize about the doom of the planet and my own personal doom. It even gets so much more specific to the point of absurdity; my favorite rapper is MF DOOM, my favorite super villain is Dr. Doom, I even play DOOM the video game.

Half of my time spent thinking about doom, is trying to understand what the word itself really means. What is doom? What does it mean to be doomed? This as you can imagine inspires all sorts of philosophical questions about life and death, fate and inevitability, as well as many others. For all my pondering, I can’t really come up with a solid answer or something definitive. Sure, I could go with a typical dictionary definition of the idea, but it is more than that to me. It encompasses too much to be summarized and completed in a single or simple string of sentences. It’s an aesthetic, an ideology, and a state of being to me, something transcendental unto itself.

The aesthetics of Doom are easily recognized but much like the idea itself, abstract and difficult to definitively explain. There are rather obvious tropes and visual elements that appear in art and media that are representative of what I’m talking about; ruined buildings, smoke filled skies, destroyed cities, dead bodies, anything apocalyptic really. However, the idea is much deeper than that. A piece of art, or anything visual, that can inspire feelings of dread, despair, or hopelessness exemplify this aesthetic in its purest forms. This has a place in the greater sense of the word and the idea of Doom itself.

The ideology of Doom, unlike a lot of ideologies, is not one that is readily “chosen” in the same way one might choose to be a democrat or one would take up the cause of conservation. This is a kind of mentality that people usually fall into, and more so often than they might realize. Unlike the aforementioned aesthetics, the ideology is easily explained and familiar to most people. While chiefly the mentality is signified by feelings of doom or feeling doomed, it is a little more complicated than that. A true ideology of doom comes when this mentality is reflected out into the world as a whole rather than the individual. More than a simple feeling of personal helplessness, an ideology of doom encompasses the whole of humanity, to see the entire human race as doomed. As you can imagine, this is not a particularly hot-take, especially these days. That being said, embracing this fact would be the key difference between someone who is merely cynical and someone who is waiting with baited breathe for the apocalypse. Which is essentially what I’m talking about.

People would scarcely admit to themselves, and even more so to each other, that they want the world to end. But the fact of the matter is that most people on some level do. Being a “doomer” has even become a popular internet meme. You get a sense of this feeling anytime someone has a particularly fashionable doomsday prophecy or something like this virus breaks out. People talk about “what if this gets worse?” and “what if this is the ‘big one’?” and they do so in very practical sensible ways, but it’s not hard to see something under the practical nervous façade everyone displays. There’s a part of it that is exciting to everyone. There’s a little voice in every one’s head that says “well fuck, if the world ends, I don’t have to go to work on Monday”.

Now that might seem rather funny like a Sunday newspaper comic, but there’s something deep in the psychology of that mindset. People don’t want to have to go to work, but more than that, they don’t want to be expected to participate in the societal machine that makes people go to work and earn money. Part of being an adult is accepting and fulfilling obligations that are somewhat thrust upon you from outside regardless of how one feels about those particular obligations. People are to a degree forced to participate in a society that they don’t agree with, or at the very least, do not like their position in. An apocalypse frees the shit scrubber and the burger flipper to eat his boss and give a finger to the man free of any guilt of any financial or typical consequence. All of us have someone higher on us on the ladder we wouldn’t mind making a meal out of.

Naturally this all extends outside of working relationships and obligations, but to the far reaches of civilization as a whole. Every person from pauper to prince is well aware, that the “system” in place is not only incredibly flawed and corrupt, but also antithetical to the very human soul itself. Obvious injustices such as bigotry, war, poverty; as well as little things like traffic, wasted time, rudeness, all support the notion that something is wrong .“The system” as your local pothead would call it, isn’t designed to crush people into machines and thoughtless consuming automatons, but one can’t be faulted for believing it so, considering how often said system produces such hollow beings. One of the mindset of “Doom” recognizes that the easiest way for these things to change, if they can be changed, is to wipe the slate clean entirely.

This is the point where most people will close this page because I’m starting to sound like a cultist of some kind. But, those people aren’t remiss to do so. This is the kind of mentality that leads people into cults. Nearly every cult is a “doomsday” cult of some kind. Even Christianity for all its pomp and circumstance, is hardly ever different. Some of the most colorful and interesting passages of the Bible come from the book of Revelations and the prophecy for the end of the world. That’s how natural this all is, how prevalent it is in the human psyche. We have always been waiting for the end of the world, because unlike most animals, we are very poignantly aware of our own mortality, and this awareness manifest itself in strange ways. The strangest of all being embracement.

This leads to my final point about Doom itself as a state of being, the embracement of death. Now again, I’m not trying to get all death-cult on you, but there is something to be said for not only accepting one’s own mortality, but embracing it. The fact of the matter is, life sucks, and not just these days or in a particular circumstance. Life, on the whole, is a tragedy. We are born into fragile bodies against our will, bodies that will very slowly decay with us trapped inside them. We are born into families we do not choose, with people who do not know but are entrusted with our entire existence, and then as an adult expected to serve someone else entirely. We are expected to work and struggle and to get sick and to suffer until we are physically incapable anymore. And if you whine about it, there will always be someone to chime in and remind you that your particular suffering isn’t even close to the breadth of suffering humans can experience because “someone always has it worse”. This is a world where a good death is considered “getting old”, which is essentially just fermenting and rotting longer than anybody else.

To be “Doomed” in this sense is a recognition and rejection of fighting these things. If we are all going to die, then there can be no “good death”. All death is natural, all the world is transient, a passing image. Nothing, least of all people, last forever. You spend a lot more time dead than alive in the grand scheme of things, and in that, being dead is more of the default state. That’s not to say that this is a suicidal feeling at all. This isn’t some philosophy of suicide in so much as it is a philosophy of embracing the inevitable end of all things. Someone in the “doomed” state of being isn’t going to go out and seek the end of their own life, but they aren’t the kind of person to shy away from it either. They allow themselves to fall away and let go of life’s worries much more readily. There is a reason that coming to terms with one’s own mortality is a huge part of Zen and eastern spiritual learning.

Why would you shy away from death and doom if the world is a bag of ass and you’re going to die anyway?

After many hours wasted thinking, I have come to the conclusion that this is where I draw my artistic inspiration from. All of my world view is painted with a funeral veil. I find myself obsessed with the aesthetics of doom because I constantly live in that state of being. I can’t help but feel a compulsion to drive this aesthetic as far as I can. I feel the innate urge to draw visions of monsters, destroyed cities, and the sky shredded by cosmic terror so naturally. I can’t help but express this feeling through my artwork. Something within me wants to say to people, or remind them; “hey, not only are things like suffering and death very real, but sometimes they are the only thing that is. They are inevitable and they shouldn’t not be cowered from, but embraced and mastered.”

Now, maybe I’m projecting too much. (I tried not to be too first person, oh well). Perhaps I’m just trying to explain my own morbid fascinations I can’t otherwise do so with. Maybe I’m just too edgy for my own good or it’s because I have a very strong belief in the afterlife. Though it’s not out of the realm of possibility that there’s just some people out there (myself chiefly included) who are just sort of depressing, death obsessed freaks. However, I gamble a stamp, that considering how many depressing death obsessed freaks are really out there in the world, that I’m not entirely off-base when I talk about these things being prevalent in the subconscious of the human race as a whole. I believe something deep in the human psyche craves a change, craves destruction to make way for something new. Something in each of us wants these things no matter the cost, something in each of us, craves Doom.

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rosedaewaters · 5 years

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Marry You - Gwilym Lee x Reader

Synopsis: Love of his life - just ask him one question!

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Just an insecure gwil aghh ---- can be read as gender-neutral!reader i think!

A/N: heY THERE it’s cel! sorry for being absent! we’ve been busy tbh and just hadn’t been in the mood to write - val is writing something currently and im figuring out what else to do? so if you have suggestions, plEASE send them through our ask! i hope you enjoy! i also enjoy constructive criticism - please tell me ways i can improve!

I was nervous, to say the least. Gwil and I had discussed it before, the thought of him proposing. He said he wouldn’t mind if I proposed either - it just shows that I’d want to stay with him for the rest of my life, visa versa. I’d planned to propose soon - I’d even got him a simple silver band to wear wherever he liked.

But, Gwil had been acting strange lately, sort of distancing himself from me, not wanting to cuddle me while we’re trying to sleep - even though he knows I need to cuddle something while I try to sleep, otherwise it’s a shocking sleep for me. It’s strange, he’s always been a cuddly person - latching into me whenever possible.

I’m quite concerned, he hasn’t done this since we began dating. He’d hide himself from me, to try to not get attached to me, so I didn’t know his darkest secrets. He didn’t do very well at doing that, since one night when I stayed at his, he told me almost everything about him because, and I quote ‘You looked way too cute in your pyjamas and I couldn’t stop myself from talking, it was like you slipped me a truth serum.’

He’s bad at keeping things to himself.

But he’d gotten better at hiding things from me since he wasn’t expressing himself with me lately.

Nonetheless, he’s going to spill what’s wrong inside his pretty little head of his, one way or another.

I’d found him sitting on the couch in the lounge-room, head in his hands, leaning on the arm of the couch.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I ask, sliding next to him, placing a loving hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me, pain in his eyes, dread and the love once deep in them seemed to be lost. “Love, you can talk to me, you remember that, right?”

“You love me, right?”

“Of course. Why would you think otherwise?” I look at him with a frown, listening intently to his answer.

“I don’t know, I just think you could do way better than me. I’m insecure about my abilities to be a good boyfriend, for some reason, I see so many different depictions of boyfriends on the telly or in real life, and I don’t compare. I’m barely home, I don’t do much around the house because I’m sleeping, I don’t-” I cut him off by placing my lips on his, grabbing his face in my hands, putting as much love and soul I can put into a kiss. I pull away, him chasing my lips in the progress, he opens his eyes with a small pout and a whine.

“I love you so much. I would never be able to do better than you, because no one can deal with my fucked-up-ness. You’re kind, sweet, lovely to me. You love me in many ways, in ways that I can’t love myself. You love all of me. I love all of you. You’re barely home because you’re working, doing something you love - acting, need I remind you?” I begin to play with the hair atop his head, the brown wavy hair that I also love so much.

“You played Brian May in one of the biggest movies of last year, you did an amazing Australian romantic comedy, one that premiered at Sundance and all around Australia, which I loved, by the way, sweetheart, I loved seeing your fluffy hair and scruffy beard. You’ve been doing so much more projects lately, I can’t count them all!” I pause to see the sad smile on his face. I place my hand on his cheek, bringing him to look at me. “You should never doubt your abilities to be a good boyfriend. You try your hardest, and that’s all I could ask for, from you, my Love.”

I see the glint of happiness in his eyes - one that I’ve needed lately. This might be the only candid time I will be able to do this. I won’t need to set up anything extravagant or plan anything - just me, him, and one question.

“Hold on, babe.” I press a chaste kiss to his lips and run to our room. He lets out a small whine as I hear him thump back into the couch.

I run into our shared bedroom, rummaging around my underwear drawer, trying to find the small black box. I find it with an almost silent ‘ah-hah’, opening to check the ring was still in there.

A simple gold band, nothing fancy, just something to signify my love for this man in my home. Our home.

I didn’t hear Gwilym come to our room, I didn’t hear the footsteps I normally would hear, but with my heart almost pounding out of my chest, I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts.

I smile at the ring, closing the box and then my drawer. I spin around on the tips of my toes and see Gwil standing there with a goofy smile. I gasp and hide the box behind my back, but knowing him, he’d understand what it is in a heartbeat.

“What you got there, Love?” He begins to walk towards me, I begin to walk backward until I hit the drawers.

“Uh-” I push out a nervous laugh. I didn’t bother getting down on one knee, didn’t want to seem shorter than I already am. Gwil was always towering over me, no matter what shoes I wear, this was just another one of those situations.

I stand on my tippy toes, wrapping one arm around his neck, pulling him down to press another kiss to his lips. I slide my hand down his neck and onto his jaw, pulling away slightly, to utter those few words. The few words that might change my life forever.

“Gwilym Lee, will you marry me?” I pull away and open the box once again, but this time it’s facing him. He lets out a chuckle, grabbing the box from my hands.

“Isn’t this my job?” he gestures to the box, lifting the ring out. “To ask this life-changing question? To ask you to spend the rest of your life with me?”

“You told me once that you were okay with either asking. It’s someone asking you to marry them because they love you. I love you enough to ask you to marry me, because I’m confident you love me enough to want to marry me, too.” I give him a confident smile, but that smile turned into a nervous one as soon as I heard how cocky it sounded.

“Well, at least I hope you love me enough to want to marry me, because I love you enough to want to marry you, so I just want this to be a mutual agreem-” I’m cut off by Gwil’s lips on mine again, I let out a giggle as I pushed myself more into him.

He pulls away, throwing the box onto the drawers, his ring still between his thumb and index. He hands it to me as he mutters one word.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Yes - meaning you love me? Or yes - meaning you’ll marry me?” I ask, hope extremely evident in my voice. He nods, laughing.

“Yes to both, you idiot.” I push the golden band onto his ring finger, letting out a small squeal as I jump into his grasp. He holds me to his body, his hands on my thighs and my arms around his neck.

“Oh my god, we’re engaged, we’re getting married,” I speak in disbelief. We lock eyes with each other.

“You’re my fianceé,” Gwil muttered onto my lips. “And I’m yours.” He presses multiple kisses to my lips, walking us over to the bed. He lets me go and I land - almost - gracefully, I forgot to let my arms go, so he got pulled down too, on the messy bed from the night before. “Wait here.”

He runs out of the bedroom, leaving me flustered and in the mood for anything tonight. I lean on the backs of my arms, pushing myself up so I can still see him walk through the door. He walks back in, a little black box, in his hand. I let out a loud cackle, falling back onto the bed.

“There is no way you were planning on proposing too.” I push my hands onto my face, shaking my head vigorously. He crawls over the top of me, with the ring in his hand and a smile on his face.

“I’ll marry you, only if you’ll marry me too.” Love shines through his eyes like the sun on a 35℃ degree day, who was I to say no to this man? I nod with tears in my eyes, he pushes the ring onto my finger.

“Oh my god, I love you so much.” I push my lips onto his for the umpteenth time tonight. His kiss moves to my cheek, down my jaw to the spot behind my ear. I grab at his neck, again and again, pulling him down more.

“I love you so much as well. Always have.”

#gwilym lee #gwil #gwilym #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #gwilym lee x you #gwilym lee x genderneutral!reader #gwilym x reader #cel writes

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tinsley-goldsworth · 5 years

Text

you live like that, you live with ghosts (chapter 1)

this is part of the ricky goldsworth case files series! read the first two books here!

read on ao3!

Summary: c.c. passed the test but does he have what it takes to keep his act up?

Wc: 1798

Tw: description of a severed head?? Kinda graphic

a/n: just a friendly reminder that i have no idea how gangs work and i’m not sticking to the canon at all oops just imagine this as a separate universe from ours!

C.C. expected more from Maizey. As an infamous gang leader, she should have arranged some sort of elaborate plan to meet with a new recruit. Instead, C.C. was told to simply wait outside the back door of an abandoned building. He shouldn’t have expected more or less to be honest as having a giant hideout was probably out of Maizey’s budget but a man can hope.

Ricky should have chosen C.C.’s outfit because C.C. was unsure how well he blended in. The absence of a coat bothered C.C. and his head felt bare without his fedora. He stood outside the back entrance of the building, waiting for Maizey as he was instructed. As he waited, C.C. tried to count how many words were graffitied onto the wall to distract himself from thoughts about meeting the person who killed Lucy. Finally, Maizey walked up to C.C. with her fluorescent green hair in a tangled mess and a gun still in her hand. She took out a key from inside her pocket and opened the door with it, walking inside and gesturing for C.C. to follow.

As C.C. walked into the building, what felt like a thousand eyes turned towards his direction as a bunch of people began to scrutinize him and without him saying anything. The air was dusty and it took all of C.C.’s willpower to not cough with every breath. Maizey shut the door and faced C.C., momentarily ignoring all the other people in the room.

“Now that you’re going to work with us, I have to set a couple of ground rules. One, we’re only going to help you take down Ricky and Night Night and we don’t see each other again. Two, no stepping out of line or not following the plan. Three, don’t go around telling people. I think that third one is a given. These are some pretty simple ground rules and there are more rules I can lay down later,” Maizey twirled the gun in her hand casually, as if it wasn’t a weapon and rather a toy. Her emotionless eyes stabbed into C.C. as she maintained eye contact so intense, one would assume she was trying to win a staring contest. C.C. nodded to show he understood and Maizey’s eyes turned towards the rest of the people in the room. “I suppose I should introduce you to the rest of the crew. Or let them speak for themselves.”

Maizey gave a pointed look at the guy with sunglasses and he stood up straighter, his hands brushing against the knife tucked under his belt. He cast a hasty glance towards the rest of the people before facing C.C., obvious suspicion flashing in his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“I’m Brandon. Don’t get too comfortable around here,” Brandon’s brushed a lock of his mahogany red hair out his face and his lips were set in a tight line. C.C. glances at the plates of metal embedded in Brandon’s arm and Brandon’s glare only grew more venomous. The detective sealed his lips and didn’t ask about it.

“Mike. I agree with Brandon,” The guy with a worn swamp green fedora spoke, giving C.C. an equally unwelcoming glare. Even though his eyes were empty but young, the bags under his eyes signified that he was a lot older than he sounded. The backs of Mike’s hands had scars on them and his knuckles were bruised. C.C. definitely did not belong with this crowd of people but he just pushed his nerves aside and nodded calmly. He wasn’t too bothered by their threats as he faced criminals who claimed they would murder C.C. and everybody he loves once they got out of prison but the part C.C. was most worried about was keeping his cool at all times around these people.

One by one, each person went around and offered an unfriendly introduction and clearly, nobody wanted to work with C.C. They probably were all suspicious of his motives and were waiting to see if he was going to turn on them. C.C. was determined to not give them the satisfaction of being correct (obviously they were but C.C. couldn’t let them know) and didn’t react to any of their warnings as they expected him to. The last person to introduce themselves was Gene.

Gene was the most welcoming out of everybody and it was clear that he was new to the world of crime as C.C. noted the absence of any scars or marks on Gene’s skin. He was a rather bulky guy and had french-fry yellow hair that contrasted with his ketchup red shirt. Gene had on a pair of wacky glasses that took the edge off his appearance. He had greeted C.C. enthusiastically, earning him withering looks from the rest of the people.

After everybody introduced themselves, Maizey handed C.C. over to Gene to show him around the facility. Gene was more hyper when his colleagues weren’t around and he ecstatically ushered C.C. up the stairs into the upper level where the weapons were stored. Gene rambled on about his favorite weapons and which ones were the deadliest while C.C. glances at them wearily, hoping that he wouldn’t be forced to use them but knowing Maizey, he eventually would.

Then, Gene took C.C. to another room that had a case with somebody’s head in it. When C.C. first saw it, he was so horrified he almost stopped in his tracks. The head was of a woman and her eyes were open and empty. Her mouth was slightly open as if she had been caught off guard. Gene almost squealed with delight and walked up to the case, gesturing to it as he vividly explained, “This is the head of Pam! She was the second biggest rival gang, placing after Night Night’s, and she killed Brandon’s parents, Dan and Rebecca. She also killed Gebra, Maizey’s wife, and we took down their gang within a week! It was the coolest day of my life.”

“Sounds fun,” C.C. tried his best to sound energetic rather than horrified and Gene beamed, obviously buying the act. He continued to walk through the room, encouraged by C.C.’s approval, and rambled on.

“It was actually the first big thing I was part of! I just joined this gang a couple of months ago and I was only doing small things. It really was the best day of my life,” Gene smiled dreamily and C.C. decided that he really needed to finish this mission as soon as possible so the only psychopath he could be around was Ricky. Even then, Ricky was a reasonable psychopath, unlike the people in Maizey’s gang who apparently had a thing for cutting off people’s heads and putting them on display.

Once Gene finished his tour, C.C. returned to Maizey to receive more information. Maizey gave him a brief rundown of when to meet in the next couple of days and promised that they would take down the gang in the next three days. She didn’t give him a very specific plan and only vaguely explained that her plan consisted of attacking Night Night in their home base with their best weapons. C.C. had a feeling that if he pressed for more details, Maizey would start to get suspicious so he just accepted her hazy outline.

Gene was more enthusiastic about C.C. than the detective expected because after he talked to Maizey, Gene brought him over to the closet of clothing and explained that C.C. should change his look to look more intimidating for when they killed Night Night. C.C. barely got a word in before Gene tossed C.C. some clothes and ordered him to change into them. Reluctantly, C.C. changed into the clothes that Gene picked out for him. When he stepped out with his new clothes, Gene proudly complimented his outfit and when C.C. turned towards the mirror, he looked like a totally different person.

The jacket Gene picked out had a few specks in blood on it but made C.C.’s shoulder appear broader. The pants were a little tight but made C.C. seem taller, even though he was already ridiculously tall. Overall, the outfit made C.C. look tougher and more intimidating. C.C. thanked Gene and Gene beamed, joy practically radiating off his body.

Finally, it was time for C.C. to head back to his hotel and he set up the decoy body before heading out to meet Ricky in the dark night. Ricky hadn’t noticed C.C.’s outfit at first and asked, “How was it? Did you figure out the plan?”

“It was fine. They’re just a bunch of psychopaths that’s all. Nothing too bad. Maizey didn’t give me the specifics but she said the attack should be in about three days,” C.C. informed and Ricky’s mouth fell open slightly. There was a beat of silence before Ricky spoke up.

“Your outfit,” Ricky managed, looking C.C. up and down with emotion stirring in his eyes. C.C. blushed, feeling a little embarrassed when he realized he was so worn out he forgot to change out of the clothes Gene forced him to wear.

“Oh yeah, one of the guys there chose it for me. He said I’d look more intimidating-“ C.C. was cut off by Ricky kissing him passionately. He was caught off guard but reciprocated, feeling Ricky’s hands clutch the fabric of his jacket as their lips locked together.

“You’re so pretty,” Ricky mumbled between kisses, basically inhaling in C.C. as they kissed. It had been a while before the couple had gotten a chance to get intimate after Lucy’s death but C.C. didn’t mind Ricky’s passion. Unfortunately, C.C. couldn’t spend much time with Ricky so he had to pull away.

“I’m not too sure about the exact plans but I’ll update you when I find out more information,” C.C. promised and Ricky glanced at his watch, a frown appearing on his face when he saw that their time was up already. All C.C. wanted to do was kiss that frown off his face and hold Ricky in his arms forever, promising that everything would work out. But they were out of time and could only sneak in a quick kiss before C.C. had to leave to lay in his bed, lonely as usual. He just had to remind himself that after all this was over, he would be able to spend the rest of his life, undisturbed, with Ricky. At least he hoped so.

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chapter 2 is out now!

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