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lamentingmidna · 9 months

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"Penance"

a thought piece about the chimera ant arc, another timeline aside from canon, where the King and Queen live happily, but not peacefully.

***

The small farmhouse across the field of tall yellow grass, plains mowed and raked and seeded. The soil rich in smell, coupled with the fragrance of blood. At his feet, headless bodies, blood pooling from the napes of their necks, drenching the dirt in thick red.

“You’ve been here before.”

Meruem lifted his head. A small girl—as tall as Komugi’s youngest sister, and just as stout. She wore a small orange frock that was spattered with blood. Her neck was bruised, and her hands were in the early stages of decay.

But her face was just as it was before Meruem had killed her. Her cheeks were rosy in her youth, her eyes wide, her hair cut short, just past her ears. He had almost failed to recognize her without that fear in her eyes.

He started to speak. “You’re…”

“I have no name,” she said. “You never knew it. You never will.”

Her voice did not flow with natural human inflection. It lifted on words it should not have, as though she was automated.

Meruem looked hard at her face. “You’re not angry with me?”

“What good would it do? I am already dead.” She said, her voice was breathy, without form or assertion. She sat on the floor with her legs crossed. She did not blink. “Join me.”

The two bodies lay on either side of him as he sat. “This is a dream,” he said, “since I don’t know your name, you can’t tell me. I suppose I can’t ask you about your parents.”

“No.”

The sun shone bright and burned hot onto the dry grass. The air was thick with humidity. The wind picked up and rustled it, the sound like crumpling paper.

“Was it just like this?” Meruem asked her, “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“You spent the morning looking down. I did not think you noticed.”

“I did. Briefly. I imagined it was the perfect weather to hunt, but I did not think I would remember much else.”

The girl’s chin lifted to meet his eyes. “That’s not true. This is a core memory for you.”

Meruem did not say anything in response. If this was, in fact, a dream, then something within him had manifested into the child he did not know. It was something he had read about, once, an analysis of dream study. He did not know he had the ability to dream.

“I am surprised I still remember what you look like.”

The girl’s face was still. He didn’t know why he expected her to smile at that—perhaps it was something a human might find funny.

She spoke quietly. “Do you know, Meruem, why you are seeing me again?”

His name in the mouth of an inferior was not something he had expected, but it lost its power in the voice of the dead—it was as though someone else was being addressed.

“I cannot say for sure. I can guess.”

She did not speak, instead she waited for him to do as he suggested.

He cleared his throat. “You are my first human kill—but you were a young life, and I snuffed you out. There was no room for your potential because of me.”

She stared at him. The sun blazed above them, and the light did not catch in her eyes. “But you do not regret killing me.”

Meruem’s mouth began to dry. “Regret is not something I experience. Every choice I have ever made—including the wrong ones—helped me to become who I am today.”

“And you are?”

Her stare had pierced him in a way he had not anticipated. He could not look away.

“I am…”

He did not know why he hesitated. I am King. I am a spouse to my beloved wife. I am a friend to her, a colleague, a catalyst of change. I am changed. I am different. I am not who I was before.

The scent of blood overwhelmed him. He expected to smell the bodies on either side of him decomposing, and was unsure if they were still there. He could not bring himself to address them in front of the girl, though she was looking right in his direction.

Even Komugi’s focused stare had more emotion than this. He could not read this girl’s face, trying not to stare at her neck, nor the rotting flesh that turned her skin into a deathly, weathered gray.

“I am a murderer.” He said. They were the only words that would fall through his tongue. “You were but one of many lives I had taken.”

The girl’s expression did not change.

“I did this.” He still did not look. “I killed and ate your parents right in front of you, and I spit it back out. Then I killed you. I did not think about it. I did not feel a thing.”

“You will not apologize, then, if you do not feel regret?”

“I can extend my sympathy, at most—I understand what I have taken from you. I know now that it was wrong. But I cannot apologize to you. It will not bring you back. It will not change what I have done.”

“No,” she said, “it would not.”

“And this is a dream.” He said, “You’re not really here. Even if it would assuage anything I felt, it would be meaningless. What point is there in assuaging myself when it is now etched into my memories? I will live with this forever.”

She cocked her head to one side. “And this is not regret?”

“No.”

“No,” she repeated, and muttered the word to herself. “No, no, no.”

The blood from her parents had dripped towards him.

The girl watched him closely. Her gaze had not left his own. “And Komugi?”

Meruem’s tail coiled towards himself. He could not quell the unease that was beginning to rise up within him. Something was going to happen soon, but he did not know what. “What about her?”

“She is a human you did not kill. She changed your mind.”

This was an easy and difficult answer. To state that he grew to know and love her was the truth, but wrong in the face of the girl he killed without hesitation. He knew that much.

“You thought of killing her once, too. Would you have regretted that decision? Or would she also have been a casualty in your growth of character?”

Meruem’s mouth was completely dry. He did not have the strength to deny the girl of that fact.

“Who is a casualty? Who is not? If one life does not matter to you, does any matter at all?”

“Komugi’s life matters,” he said with a voice made of chalk.

The girl’s hands fell neatly into her lap. “And mine does not.”

Meruem could not tell if she was saddened by this, and knew that the comfort he offered was minimal. He gestured to the bodies on either side of him. “It mattered to them, didn’t it?”

The girl said, “They are dead.”

“But they were alive, once. As were you. You mattered to each other.” Meruem finally broke his gaze from her to look at them. Their flesh was still intact, as if the killing had happened only moments ago. “You were more than what my memories can make of you. To me, you were a victim. To them, you were cherished. Only now do I understand how much a life can mean. Only now do I understand the weight of what I had done.”

She did not follow the gesture to look at her parents. Her eyes had not left him. Not once. “You do not…” she said, “...this is not regret?”

“It is guilt.” He said. “I find it unproductive to wish I had not done what I did. I am not the only ant, nor human, who has killed—and I will not be the last. I am leading a nation of ex-murderers—I have to live through what I have done, despite the weight it bears on me.”

The girl looked at him, finally blinking. Her gaze fell to her parents at his sides. “They were my Komugi.” She said.

Meruem sat with her, feeling the blood pooling around his legs. He silently mourned all three of them—a mother, a father, and their lonely daughter.

“You are going to wake soon,” the girl said. “You still have not told me who you are.”

“Perhaps with time,” he said, “I will find out.”

Meruem met her eyes again. She did not smile, but her face had caught the light. “In time you will understand me further, as you will be reminded of me for the rest of your life.”

He did not know why this hopeful look about her had been paired with an ominous parting, but he could not help but feel as though he was not going to speak with her about this again.

“Meruem,” she said, “please take care of me this time.”

#that man is a father #hxh #hunter x hunter #meruem #chimera ant arc #thought piece #alternate universe #merumugi #prophetic dreams

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popopretty · 4 years

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BSD Chapter 88

Chapter name is “Like it is tumbling down”.

This chapter is even more shocking than the last one, in a not very good way for me. I’m kinda speechless right now cuz there was no instance that I ever came up with this scenario before. It is a nice twist though, and I’m not sure what to expect at this point any more so hopefully you enjoy this chapter.

(^ This should have been the sweetest scene ever T^T )

Neither English nor Japanese is my native language so I do make mistake here and there. Just me know if there is any part that is unclear or if you spot any mistakes.

SPOILERS AHEAD

- So it is the continuation of the last chapter, where Akutagawa received a fatal blow from Fukuchi. Atsushi freaks but Aku smiles instead and tells him to run away. Fukuchi realizes that Aku is using himself as a decoy for Atsushi to escape. Atsushi got on the submarine and drove it away. Fukuchi wanted to chase after him but suddenly the security guards arrived at the scene (that was the guy whose life Aku spared in like 2 chapters ago). He immediately calls the land to report the situation in front of Fukuchi, which forces Fukuchi to act like he is trying to stop the terrorist. Fukuchi considers cutting into the past and kill the guards to seal their mouths, but stops because they were calling the land on the way before arriving at the scene and killing them at that time can cause the land to notice.

- Fukuchi finds it strange that Atsushi was saved by the “guards who happened to arrive by chance” but then decide that it is okay because there are only 5 days left until his plan happens, and he doesn’t feel the need to hide it anymore. When Fukuchi leaves, the guard looks at Aku’s body and says sorry because what he could do is nothing compared to the favor Aku has given him by sparing his life.

- Atsushi manages to escape and meets with Ango. He doesn’t understand why Aku lets him escape, but he understand that if Aku didn’t keep his promise and kill that person, then he would not be able to escape at all, and all the hopes will be lost. He wonder if it is just a coincidence or is there any important meaning to it. He asks Ango but never gets an answer.

- Back to Aku and Fukuchi, Fukuchi comes back to Aku’s body with a coffin on his back, saying he still has something for Aku to do. He opens the coffin and inside is the last member of The Decay of Angles, the undead Bram Stoker (TN: in case you don’t know he is the author who created Dracula). Bram says he wants to sleep while cursing the irreverent fools, which seems to refer to Fukuchi. Fukuchi replies that it is impossible and grabs Bram’s neck and take him out of the coffin. It is shown that Bram only has his head left, with a sword pierced into it. Fukuchi then explains that Bram used to be a human, a Count, who used his ability to change his body cells and transformed into Dracula. He is weak to the sun and used to be known as one of the ten “plagues of Egypt”. Bram says that he never hears of that nickname until his head was cut off by Fukuchi.

- Fukuchi tells Bram to behave because they are on the same boat anyway, adn that Fukuchi even prepares food for him (he is referring to Aku). Bram looks at Aku’s body and refuses to suck his blood, because ever since he was called a calamity 8 years ago, he has decided not to have any more kins. He says that if Fukuchi wants to burn the world, he should just do it himself. However Fukuchi threatens that he would use the sword that is currently piercing into Bram’s body to burn his brain. Bram cannot go against that, saying it is impossible to curse Fukuchi because Fukuchi is a curse himself. Then he bites Aku.

- A few days later, Higuchi receives a letter. She runs out and find Aku still being alive. She is so happy because they are just preparing for his funeral. She says that she finally understands how much she will regret it if things just end like that without her being able to tell him anything. Then she tries to confess her feelings to him (I supposed) but all of the sudden, Aku turns around, looking completely non-human.

- The scene changes to the Hunting Dog’s base, where Tachihara is reporting the incident. After Higuchi comes back she attacks Gin and Hirotsu, turning them into vampire-like beings. Hirotsu manages to help Tachihara escape but a large number of Mafia members have been infected. The Hunting Dogs discuss on how to stop it but the infection speed is too fast they cannot do anything. The only way is to find the ability user that causes it and kill him. However they don’t know who the source might be. Tecchou is sure that it is ADA’s doing again, as the next step in their terror plan. He says it with such a serious face that Jouno looks very surprised and says he should mark this date on the calendar (lol).

- Teruko says that if it is really caused by ADA then it will be quite troublesome because ever since the live broadcasting incident, there are at least 30% of the police in Yokohama who side with them. Jouno then states that even inside the Hunting Dogs, there is also that “30%” while looking at Tachihara. Tachihara explains that he just feels the need to reinvestigate because the ADA cannot be terrorists. He heard ADA members talk about being set up many times in the Mafia hiding house, but ignored it that time. He says that he made a miscalculation and that the real culprit is somewhere out there. He wants to be given authority to investigate it. All the Hunting Dogs member then look at Fukuchi sitting at the end of the room and ask what he thinks about it.

The chapter ends here. I typed too much again but there are just that many things to talk about in this chapter. Thank you for reading until the end.

The next chapter will be out December 4, 2020.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #spoilers #bsd spoilers #akutagawa ryunosuke #nakajima atsushi #fukuchi ouchi #bram stoker #tachihara michizou #higuchi ichiyo #summary

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brownandblackpearls · 3 years

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🦇𝒯he 𝒱isitor (Alucard Tepes x BlackReader)

PART 1 SUMMARY:

While trying to escape the clutches of criminals and cutthroats, you stumble across a castle beyond imagination. The corpses staked at the front aren’t enough to keep you out. But after entering, you begin to wonder what you got yourself into, and what the castle is hiding within its walls...

─── Alucard x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── TW// slight gore, general mentions of rapists// Fantasy, vampires, hurt/comfort, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, magic user, cute bats, gardening, cooking, cottagecore MC, castlecore Alucard.

�� next.

┌───────────━┿──┿━──────────┐

└───────────━┿──┿━──────────┘

You fight through the underbrush of the woods, hurrying as quickly as your feet will allow.

They’re on your trail.

You’ve been evading these criminals from the last town you’d passed through, but they just keep stalking after you. They’d been all too eager to see a lone, beautiful woman traveling with no companions, no guides, and no guardians.

They had tried and failed to corner you alone several times in the town and on the roads, but you haven’t made it this far on your own without some learned skills. A finger-bolt of lightning at one’s eye, a fire-heated palm tight on another’s wrist, swings of sharp dagger at all of their torsos, their throats.

Anything and everything to escape. It’s not your first sticky situation, and it probably won’t be your last.

You know how to be quiet. How to hide. And when it comes down to it, you know how to swindle and how to fight, if need be. You try not to resort to that, not out of compassion or concern for the heathens that try to best you...no. You just know that you’re not as skilled as some of the rigorously trained ex-militia and rogue bandits that prey on loners in towns and off the roads.

You don’t know exactly what they want. A woman to toss around between themselves and torture before they descend on you like wolves? A new girl to sell on the black market? A pretty decoy to get carts and wagons to stop on the roads, allowing them to abush, raid, rape and kill as they please?

Whatever it is that they want, you’re not giving it to them.

‘They’ll have to catch me, first.’

You duck and dodge branches, bobbing and weaving through the trees before the forest finally begins to clear. You keep your hand on your dagger’s hilt, just in case.

Who knows what hides in the woods?

Finally, you come to a clearing run through by a small creek. The dense woods have seemed to disperse here, and now all that you can spy are peaceful glens and swaying flowers. Deer jump away through the grass, hares run into their holes, and fish shine from the stream.

It feels…safe.

But you’re not one to be foolish, and so you continue on. Hoisting your basket closer, you can’t help but spy a garden as you pass through the glen.

Fat tomatoes hang on vine, bright orange carrot tops sprout from the soil, green onions, zucchini, berries and fruits….

…Someone has made a garden here. Hopefully if they’re the gardening sort, then they’re the safe sort. You quickly fill your basket with a few items, tuck some coins hidden near the stalks in apology for your ransacking, and carry on.

Finally, the glen ends, the forest stops entirely, and you stumble upon something entirely unexpected.

'A castle...? Out here in the middle of nowhere...?’

A grand, gothic castle of castles, spirals up towards the clouds in the sky. You gaze up at it in awe, sure that there is nothing else in the world quite so large or so spectacular. You’re certain that had the woods not been so oppressive and thick on the way in here, so wide and strenuous, that you would’ve spotted the castle for what it was miles and miles and miles ago.

You whistle low, impressed as you step forward. You take only a few steps before you stop.

A ripple in the wind draws your eye.

Two barely clothed bodies impaled on stakes tower before you, death etched onto their faces. The spikes go through them, hidden by the soiled shifts they wear and rising high up and out through their mouths. It is a grisly sight indeed. Unfortunately, you’re no stranger to ‘grisly’ in these lands.

You move slower, more carefully than before.

Assessing the bodies, the blood is long dried on the stakes and the petrified flesh. Most of the meat is gone, pecked away by crows most likely, and the flesh that remains is hard and dried out.

You have dealt with your fair share of monsters, but you’re not too sure you want to risk running into the one who did this. It was done with malice, strength, and a raw fury. A nonchalance for human life, it seems. Much like the same nonchalance shared by the evil men you run from.

You hear faint voices call from the trees.

They’ve tracked you. And they’re coming closer.

“We can’t come here. It’s cursed ground. Don’t you know who this castle used to belong to?”

“Yeah, and they’re dead. No one’s seen em’ for ages. But I see little footsteps. Have a feeling the lass went this way.”

You freeze, glancing between the bodies, the huge castle door before you, and the mouth of the forest.

It’s the castle and its possible hidden horrors, or the men on your trail.

“Skin like ebony, that one. Pretty mouth, doe eyes. She’d sell for a pretty penny.. We wouldn’t have to raid for months.”

“…Or we could keep her to warm the cold nights.”

Your mind races, trying to choose.

You could fight the men, still. But there are many of them, and just one of you. Your magic is somewhat abysmal without knowledge to guide you, and your dagger won’t measure up to prove the little sword skills you do possess. Your words will probably not get you out of this one, either. Not this time.

“I’d rather make her scream.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you Macon? But you did that to the last one, and now we’re out here hunting a new lass instead of enjoying the old one.”

‘That’s it,’ you decide.

The castle it is.

You sprint away from the woods as fast as your billowing cloak and dress will allow, ignoring the foul smell of decay and passing between the bodies. You feel as though you’ve irrevocably crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed, a decision made that can’t be taken back.

You will live with it, you decide. Better that, than capture.

Racing to the front of the grand doors, larger than the largest buildings you’ve witnessed in life before this day, you bang raptly against the wood and stone.

For a moment, nothing happens and you feel as though you will be caught right at the footsteps of this castle.

Then, you hear a doldrum, a creak and whirring of machinery and mass movement. The door shifts open just slight enough for you to slide through, making a gigantic noise in it’s wake.

Quick as wind, you push through and fall to the floor, turning to see the grand door begin to shut closed behind you.

The men stand before the staked bodies, unwilling to pass them and watching you as the doors close you out of their sight.

“You’d be better off with us murderers and thieves, woman!” One shouts futilely. “For even our hearts aren’t as black as the monster’s in those walls!”

The door shuts him and the rest out. You harrumph and stand, wiping the dust off your dress and looking away.

Fuck him. And fuck his threats, and fuck his horrible little friends. Any black-hearted beasts you come across, you could handle well enough.

At least…that’s what you tell yourself to keep a brave face. Better that than nothing.

You look around.

The inside of the castle is larger than life, grand, and dark. Everything is clean and without dust as you would’ve expected from such a structure…an army couldn’t keep this clean…yet it feels unlived in.

For a moment, there is nothing but heavy, oppressive silence. You listen for a breath, a sound, but can hear nothing outside of your own increasing heartbeat.

You turn, looking to the top of the staircase.

Your eyes tell you there is nothing there, but your instincts tell you something else.

Suddenly, the lights of a thousand candles sweep on throughout the grand hall, illuminating a massive stone staircase and a figure standing at the top of it. You have very good sight, but the room is so large that you can barely make out the figure, even with the candlelight.

Nothing is said, the figure is motionless, and you begin to tremble. This must be the one who lives in this place…not an intruder or a vagrant. You don’t know how you know, but the figure is too large, too looming, and too confident even in its vagueness of detail for you to assume it to be anything other than the owner.

The one who likely staked those unfortunate souls outside the walls.

You feel as if the mysterious figure is waiting for something, and you don’t know what to say. But something must be said.

Your voice is as steady as your fear will allow.

“My name is ———. I come from afar. I am…I am seeking refuge…if you will have me.”

“Refuge from the men outside.”

The voice carries through the empty hall, lilting, low, and deadly. You hear hints of refinement in the speech but they are not enough to hide the white hot lethalness you sense underneath. A rage that you cannot even begin to place or name.

“Y-yes,” you stumble embarrassingly, affected, “from the men outside. They followed me here. I have nowhere to go.”

“And so you feel entitled to my protection.”

“No!’ You exclaim, shaking your head. You stopped expecting assistance from people long ago. The life of a lonely wanderer is just that...lonely. “I inconvenience you, and for that I apologize sincerely. Just…just refuge. I can be on my way after they depart.”

“To where...?” The disembodied voice says as calm as a pond at night, yet you feel the ripples that lie beneath.

“Nowhere,” you breathe.

“…And you come from?” The figure disappears like a mist, yet the voice remains.

“I…nowhere,” you gasp honestly, truly afraid now.

“Lies.” The voice spits viciously, sounding closer then far away, as if it’s bouncing around the space of the great hall.

“It’s t-true!” You insist, your trembling hands reeling in towards your chest in a futile attempt of protection from the unseen danger. “I hail from nowhere! I belong to nowhere! I have little. Just refuge, sir. A night, even!”

“I could grant you refuge,” the voice assumes, “or I could send you back out to those men and be bothered with none of you.”

“You wouldn’t,” you breathe, daring a chance to hope.

The voice chuckles humorlessly, dry as dead leaves.

“Perhaps,” it toys. “But I also wouldn’t allow a mysterious woman of mysterious origins to stay in my castle, learn of my ways, only to run back to the outside world and send a horde of farmhands sprinting over to slay me. Wouldn’t be the first time. No, I think I’ll keep you instead. Are you willing to make that bargain with the Devil?”

You pause, your mind blank. You search for an answer to reason with this...this...your thoughts race.

“Look, I know I’ve come into your abode unannounced and rather…rather rudely, making demands, but I must implore you—“

“—Answer me!” the voice barks, making you nearly jump out of your skin.

'That’s it.’

“You’re a prick, you know that?!” You blurt.

“…” You can hear the confusion in the empty air. “…Pardon?”

You push on, figuring that if you’re going to be staked by the unseen castle-owner or given up to the men outside, or toyed with any longer by any of this nonsense, that you may as well speak your mind one last time.

“You know good and goddamn well that I am not running into a fantastical, creepy castle of myth decorated by corpses on the front porch for the fun of it! As if I care or even believe some farmhands could handle much less defeat you when you can clearly impale full grown adults and work such a place as this—!”

“...”

“—And how dare you tease a woman scared out of her wits, can you even pretend to try to put yourself in my place?! Do you know how long I’ve been running from those idiots? If I had your strength I’d’ve staked them myself and added them to your lovely, little welcome collection as a visiting gift, because believe me, I’m sick of running from morons and monsters! I’m not above spilling blood! But as I said before, I possess little, and come from nothing, and journey towards nothing. From that, you can figure I can’t do much in terms of protecting myself besides running into large, spooky places and begging their arrogant owners for some rest—”

“.....”

“—So, I’d very much appreciate if you stopped toying with me and make your decision on whether you’re going to kill me, kick me out, or keep me, because I’m tired of trying to figure this all out by myself and I’m tired of the anticipation. So what’ll it be Mr. I-Like-to-Leave-Corpses-Outside-My-Castle-and-Harrass-Visitors?”

You huff after your rant, waiting.

The voice is silent for a long, long moment, before an accusing tone reverbs back to you.

“You’re the one who barged in—“

“—You’re the one who opened the door!” You return, throwing your hands out in frustration.

“I didn’t, the castle did.”

“Oh, well fuck me, then. I suppose I ought to thank the ‘castle’ and head back out to let those hoodlums try their worst. So long, strange sir! It was interesting, arguing with you.”

You turn on your heel, over this entire day, and knock at the door raptly. You tap your foot as you wait on the castle, arms crossed and dagger in your hand to strike the nearest hoodlum that likely awaited outside. What a day, you couldn’t believe this shit.

The machinery whirs once more and the door barely opens before a large, leather gloved hand reaches past your head and slams the towering door back, closing it shut. The strength the act takes is incomprehensible, you think.

Inhuman, you realize.

The hairs at the back of your neck raise long after the presence behind you appears. You feel no breath on your neck, yet you know someone stands behind you. You can’t look away from the large, gloved hand on the door. You’re afraid to see exactly who stands behind you.

A man...? Or something else entirely….?

You try to speak but gasp instead, short and shocked.

Silence reigns before you get a hold of yourself and choke something out.

“Y-y-you’ve made your decision then…I presume...?” You stammer into a squeaking volume, your anger long gone and replaced by fear once again.

“Don’t make me regret it…” The voice sneers, close enough for the breath of it to shift your hair and the baritone to reverb over your skin. A chill runs up your back and you can do little to hide it. You feel as though the figure behind you is impossibly tall, imperceptibly assessing, and spying every single thing you do.

You feel the presence lean in over your shoulder, a mouth right next to your ear.

“…or you will regret it, visitor. That, I can promise.”

You gulp loudly, nodding your assent without turning around. You feel frozen to the spot. The hand withdraws and your shoulders unclench only a fraction. You feel as if a predator had been standing behind you, and has decided not to destroy you...for the moment.

You wonder if you are right, and why your cheeks suddenly feel so hot when your heart is beating so fast in terror...?

“I’m going to clean the trash off of my porch,” the voice states eerily. “Don’t touch anything until I return.”

As quick as a blink, the presence disappears entirely.

You finally turn around, alone and confused.

There is nothing but the large castle hall, looking back at you.

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AN: Do not under any circumstances copy, repost, or edit any of my work. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

☾ next.

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

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brooklynmuseum · 3 years

Photo

Closing out National Poetry Month, our Spring Interns paired some of their favorite poems with works from our collection. We hope you enjoy!

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas

Image: Suzuki Harunobu (Japanese, 1724-1770). Page From Haru no Nishiki, 1771. Color woodblock print on paper. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Peter P. Pessutti, 83.190.1

from Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...” [Excerpt] By Claudia Rankine

I they he she we you turn only to discover the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied, zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day, a presence already—

Hey you—

— Halle Smith, Digital Collections Intern Catherine Green (American, born 1952). [Untitled] (West Indian Day Parade), 1991. Chromogenic photograph, sheet. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 1991.58.2. © artist or artist's estate

Ode to Enchanted Light by Pablo Neruda

Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand.

A cicada sends its sawing song high into the empty air.

The world is a glass overflowing with water.

Consuelo Kanaga’s black and white photograph captures a dazzling, yet fleeting moment from everyday life. Three textured glasses cast shadows whose patterns are almost kaleidoscopic in effect. We can imagine Kanaga passing by her kitchen table, as she is brought to a halt to take a closer look at, and ultimately to photograph, the simple beauty generated by the play of light and everyday objects. The close-up scale of this image emulates the singularizing framing techniques deployed by Surrealist photographers, who also took parts of everyday life and blew them up in the photographic frame, thereby encouraging their viewers to look at life around us from a different angle. It is a way of saying: Here, take a closer look. Viewing the world with wonder, along with the joy that this act brings, are encapsulated in Pablo Neruda’s poem Ode to Enchanted Light. The speaker observes the way light passes through trees and creates enchanting patterns. He not only observes, but feels the beauty in the simple details of life, from the way light falls from the sky, to the sheen of leaves, to the buzzing of cicadas. Approaching life through such a hopeful lens evokes a glass-half-full perspective. In fact, the speaker is so hopeful that he believes “The world is/a glass overflowing/with water.” I think Kanaga would have felt the same way.

— Kirk Testa, Curatorial Intern, Photography Consuelo Kanaga (American, 1894-1978). [Untitled] (Glasses and Reflections). Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Wallace B. Putnam from the Estate of Consuelo Kanaga, 82.65.25

Easter Wings By George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became

Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

And still with sicknesses and shame.

Thou didst so punish sinne,

That I became

Most thinne.

With thee

Let me combine,

And feel thy victorie:

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Easter Wings by George Herbet and Martin Bach’s flower vase from the Brooklyn Museum’s Decorative Arts collection reveal the interrelationship between form and function. In Easter Wings, Herbert strategically varies the line length to create an image that enhances the meaning of the poem; when you turn the poem on its side, it resembles the wings of a bird, of which are symbolic of the atonement of Jesus Christ. In doing so, the author is not only telling us his message, but he is showing it visually as well. Similarly, the vase takes the visual form of its function. Its floral design amplifies the meaning of the object, as the vase is meant to hold flowers. In both instances, we see how aesthetic properties of a work echo the meaning and function of the work itself.

— Amy Zavecz Martin Bach (American, 1862-1921). Vase, ca. 1905. Opalescent glass. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. Alfred Zoebisch, 59.143.16. Creative Commons-BY

I am the Earth (Watashi wa chikyu) [Excerpt] by Kiyoko Nagase, Translated by Takako Lento

I am warm, moist soil I am a single supple stalk I draw my life all the way up into corollas of wild berries on the roadside

I am amazed at a breast of water welling to flow into the inlet of a muddy rice paddy I am amazed at myself being hot steam blowing fire and sulfur up from the bottom of the great ocean, deep indigo. I am amazed at the crimson blood flow covering the earth’s surface in human shape; I am amazed that it swells as the tides ebb and flow, and gushes out monthly under distant invisible gravity … I am the earth. I live there, and I am the very same earth.

In the four billionth year I have come to know the eternal cold moon, my other self, my hetero being, then, for the first time, I am amazed that I am warm mud.

The vivid imagery conjured up by Kiyoko Nagase’s poem is beautifully visualized by Emmi Whitehorse’s painting. The emphasis on deep Earth tones and abstract corporeality in both the poem and the painting really creates an intense metaphysical link between the environment and the self.

— Amanda Raquel Dorval, Archives Intern Emmi Whitehorse (Navajo, born 1957). Fire Weed, 1998. Chalk, graphite, pastel and oil on paper mounted on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Hinrich Peiper and Dorothee Peiper-Riegraf in honor of Emmi Whitehorse, 2006.49. © artist or artist's estate

Seventh Circle of Earth by Ocean Vuong

On April 27, 2011, a gay couple, Michael Humphrey and Clayton Capshaw, was murdered by immolation in their home in Dallas, Texas.

Dallas Voice

________________________________________________________

As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last. How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / Another torch

streams through / the kitchen window, / another errant dove. / It’s funny. I always knew / I’d be warmest beside / my man. / But don’t laugh. Understand me / when I say I burn best / when crowned / with your scent: that earth-sweat / & Old Spice I seek out each night / the days

refuse me. / Our faces blackening / in the photographs along the wall. / Don’t laugh. Just tell me the story / again, / of the sparrows who flew from falling Rome, / their blazed wings. / How ruin nested inside each thimbled throat / & made it sing

until the notes threaded to this / smoke rising / from your nostrils. Speak— / until your voice is nothing / but the crackle / of charred

bones. But don’t laugh / when these walls collapse / & only sparks / not sparrows / fly out. / When they come / to sift through these cinders—& pluck my tongue, / this fisted rose, / charcoaled & choked / from your gone

mouth. / Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one / & still

American.

Ocean Vuong’s “Seventh Circle of Earth” has persisted as one of the great, affective moments of poetry in my life since I first heard Pádraig Ó Toama’s gorgeous reading and discussion of it on his podcast, Poetry Unbound. I decided to pair Vuong’s poem with Mary Coble’s Untitled 2 (from Note To Self) because both works are urgently immersive into the violence and experience of LGBTQ people in the U.S., and for how each work uses text and physicality to address presence, pain, and erasure. Vuong’s poem is actually footnoted to a quote from a news article about a gay couple murdered in Texas. The page is thus blank, absent of text. The reader has to sink below the main stage, the accepted space of word and story, to find the voices of this couple and the depth of their story’s tenderness, eroticism, and utter devastation. Coble’s piece foils the structure and effect of Seventh Circle of Earth by taking what was subverted by Vuong—text and the narrative of violence—wholly to the surface. Her photograph captures her own legs tattooed without ink with the names of LGBTQ individuals victimized by hate crimes. I cannot help but think of Franz Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony,” in which prisoners’ “sentences'' are inscribed by the needle of a “punishment apparatus” directly onto their bodies. I was struck by how the curator’s note for this photograph describes Coble’s artistic endeavor here as “harrowing.” The needle in Kafka’s short story is indeed called “The Harrow”. The noun harrow is an agricultural tool that combs plowed soil to break up clumps of earth and uproot weeds and clear imperfections. The verb to harrow means to plague, and in the story’s original German the verb for “harrow”, eggen, is also translated as “to torment”. Kafka and Coble conflate these definitions of “the harrow” in their respective works: they use a needled device, like the true noun definition, as an instrument of torment because of someone else’s idea of punishment and justice. Here, violence is brought to the surface, intimate in as much as we are brought right up to the artist’s skin and into the presence of her and her community’s pain. Together, one can see how each creator physicalizes their respective artistic space to tell the stories of LGBTQ people, of what is tender and harrowing, below the surface and written into the skin.

— Talia Abrahams, Provenance Intern, IHCPP Mary Coble (American, born 1978). Untitled 2 (from Note to Self), 2005. Inkjet print. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 2008.10. © artist or artist's estate

To my daughter Kakuya by Assata Shakur

I have shabby dreams for you of some vague freedom I have never known. Baby I don't want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold. and I don't want the frost to kill your fruit before it ripens. I can see a sunny place Life exploding green. I can see your bright, bronze skin at ease with all the flowers and the centipedes. I can hear laughter, not grown from ridicule And words not prompted by ego or greed or jealousy. I see a world where hatred has been replaced by love. and ME replaced by WE And I can see a world replaced where you, building and exploring, strong and fulfilled, will understand. And go beyond my little shabby dreams.

This poem is featured in Assata Shakur’s memoir, Assata: An Autobiography. It details her hope for a better world that her daughter can grow up in. This poem is positioned in the book when Shakur is facing increasing prosecution as a result of her activism and affiliations with the Black Panther Party and Black Liberation army. Being written more than 30 years after this picture was taken, the poem summons me to think about the trauma that many Black women face and how much of that trauma gets passed down to their children. The black and white photo of a mother and daughter provides a nice visual to the poem. “The image of a Black mother and child sitting on their luggage reflects the little-discussed history of segregated transportation in the northern United States. Through the 1940s, Penn Station officials assigned Black travelers seats in Jim Crow cars on southbound trains” (Brooklyn Museum). The photograph of train passengers waiting outside of Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Station especially echoes the verse “I don’t want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold.” The overall optimistic tone of Shakur’s poem alters our relationship to the image as we imagine the mother pictured above hoping for the exact same things

— Zaria W, Teen Programs intern Ruth Orkin (American, 1921-1985). Mother and Daughter at Penn Station, NYC, 1948. Gelatin silver photograph, sheet: 13 15/16 × 11 in. (35.4 × 27.9 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mary Engel, 2011.22.3. © artist or artist's estate

Crunch. By Kailyn Gibson

I retch as a mass of sinew lies between my lips. The sensation is unbearable. Fortunately, the jar of flies has gone missing again.

Slowly, surely, and yet never sure at all, the quiet of buzzing rings through the in-between.

It is a symphony wrought from blood and bone.

Saliva drips from bleeding, hungry gums, And the crunch of glass echoes the grinding of molars.

If I proffered a sanguine smile, would masticated shards look like teeth? Would they gleam just as prettily?

The flies ring, and the rot calls.

— Kailyn Gibson Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). Portrait of a Man (Portrait d'homme), ca. 1866. Oil on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 21.112

Excerpt from Autobiography of Red A novel in verse by Anne Carson

7. If Helen’s reasons arose out of some remark Stesichoros made either it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) or it was not.

8. If it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) either this remark was a lie or it was not.

9. If it was not a lie either we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way we are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros or we are not.

10. If we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros either we will go along without incident or we will meet Stesichoros on our way back.

11. If we meet Stesichoros on our way back either we will keep quiet or we will look him in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen.

12. If we look Stesichoros in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen either he will tell the truth or he will lie.

13. If Stesichoros lies either we will know at once that he is lying or we will be fooled because now that we are in reverse the whole landscape looks inside out.

This excerpt comes from Appendix C of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red, a novel in verse. A translator and classicist herself, Carson mixes fact with fiction in her unconventional retelling of the myth of Geryon and Hercules, beginning with a roundabout introduction to the poet Stesichoros. Autobiography presents a captivating example of recent Queer projects that take up Classical material as their basis. A fascination with the Classical past has pervaded our modern conception of sexual identity politics, down to the very etymology of the word “lesbian.” In this fascination, I see the same desire to capture Classical imagery as cultural heritage which has also pervaded American museums, albeit with significantly different aims. The fresco pictured above comes to mind, which passed through many collectors and was even purchased by the museum before anyone pegged it as a modern piece—not an original Roman fresco. John D. Cooney, a 20th century curator of our Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art collection, wrote that “the unclad and somewhat winsome charms of the lady [probably] diverted objective glances.” Both in the case of the fresco and Carson’s novel, the “unclad and somewhat winsome charms” of the Classical past shape and reshape our understanding of history.

— Kira Houston, Curatorial Intern, Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art Modern, in the style of the Roman Period. Part of a Fresco, early 19th century C.E. Clay, paint. Brooklyn Museum, Ella C. Woodward Memorial Fund, 11.30.

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

— Shori Diedrick Brackens (American, born 1989). when no softness came, 2019. Cotton and acrylic yarn. Brooklyn Museum, Purchased with funds given by The LIFEWTR Fund at Frieze New York 2019, 2019.12. © artist or artist's estate

Jaguar By Francisco X. Alarcón

some say dicen que ahora I'm now almost estoy casi extinto extinct in this park por este parque but the people pero la gente who say this que dice esto don't know no sabe that by smelling que al oler the orchids las orquídeas in the trees en los árboles they're sensing están percibiendo the fragrance la fragancia of my chops de mis fauces that by hearing que al oír the rumblingc el retumbo of the waterfalls de los saltos

they're listening están escuchando to my ancestors' el gran rugido great roar de mis ancestros

that by observing que al observar the constellations las constelanciones of the night sky del firmamento

they're gazing están mirando at the star spots las motas de estrellas on my fur marcadas en mi piel that I am and que yo soy always will be y siempre seré the wild el indomable

untamed espíritu silvestre living spirit vivo de esta of this jungle jungla

While the author of the poem speaks about animals, their words can also speak on behalf of the erasure of indigenous peoples in South America. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions and culture are very important to life in South America. Despite their marginalization, Indigenous peoples throughout the Andes used coca leaves to help with the altitude. The use and cultivation of coca are criminalized throughout most of South America despite it being essential to indigenous cultures. This vessel was used to contain lime which would activate the coca leaves. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions are also faced with endangerment despite being woven into the fabric that is Latin America. Through the opposite man and woman figures, the vessel shows the duality that is important to the Quimbaya people which is still relevant to Colombians today.

Aunque el autor del poema habla sobre los animales, sus palabras también comunican el sentimiento común de la supresión de los indígenas en Suramérica. Con la mención del jaguar, se puede entender en el poema que la cultura y las tradiciones de las personas que son indígenas son sumamente importantes para la vida en Sudamérica. A pesar de su marginación, los indígenas en Los Andes utilizan la hoja de coca para ayudar en la altura de las montañas. El uso y el cultivo de la hoja de coca fue criminalizado (penalizado) a través de Sudamérica, aunque su uso para los indígenas era vital y esencial para su cultura. Este recipiente que se utiliza contiene limón lo que activa la hoja de la coca. Similarmente al jaguar, las tradiciones de los indígenas siempre estaban en peligro aunque estuvieran entrelazadas en las telas de lo que sería Latinoamérica. A través del hombre opuesto y las figuras de mujeres, el recipiente muestra la dualidad de lo que es importante para las personas que son Quimbaya, algo que todavía hoy es relevante para los Colombianos.

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas Quimbaya. Poporo (Lime Container), 1-600 C.E. Tumbaga. Brooklyn Museum, Alfred W. Jenkins Fund, 35.507. Creative Commons-BY

#national poetry month #poetry #art #poems #art history #brooklyn museum #bkminterns

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asphyxiateher · 3 years

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Only Monsters Come Out at Night *Chapter 8 Update*

Summary: Desdemona has a nightmare that sends her spiraling into the arms of her beloved mistresses but when she's turned away, she realizes that nightmare was a warning of what was to come. An unexpected family reunion finally makes Desdemona beg for death. A/N: Thank you to everyone who stuck it out with this story this far; I know the last chapter wasn't too exciting but as I played the Resident Evil remake on my switch, I was inspired to drum up a little more excitement with this chapter and the next few chapters to come, which will be the last!

There’s a long, dark corridor that is accompanied by the acquainted sound of silence outside of Desdemona’s door and the darkness seeping into the room is becoming too much to bear. It feels like she is dreaming but these days, her nightmares and her reality have blended in so well together that it’s become nearly indistinguishable to tell apart what’s actually happening to what she could be imagining. It’s terrifying. She shouldn’t have become accustomed to what she’s gotten comfortable around lately, especially with everything that’s happened ever since she had been taken to Lady Alcina’s castle. Desdemona feels the familiar hunger for company creep up on her as she sits against the wall on her bed with her legs crossed, a journal and pen in hand. Loneliness was something she was used to, something she begged for when socializing drained her of her energy but now it was like a stranger to her. She no longer liked the idea of being alone in this gigantic castle that was made for its vampiric inhabitants and the monstrosities that lingered every which way. The connection she unintentionally formed with Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela and was ultimately made stronger through their unusual ways of showing affection is suddenly severed and she can no longer sense them nearby. This was very troubling. Although she wasn’t feeling very well, a wave of nausea causing her to lose consciousness earlier, Desdemona summoned the strength to get out of bed. This desire to be around the wretched creatures that ruined her life both shocked and comforted her, the inner conflicting thoughts in her mind constantly pulling her in one direction over the other was exhausting but rationality had no place in House Dimitrescu. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the doorknob, her knees nearly going out when she dared to take a few cautious steps outside of her room. The grand designs of the castle were dulled by the strangeness of the dim lighting of every room. This was very unusual, what was going on? Beneath her, she could hear one of the sisters scream in agony while Lady Dimitrescu rages about the deaths of her daughters. No. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t be dead, she felt them nearby just a few minutes ago! How could this be possible? Panicking at the idea of losing her mistresses, Desdemona rushes down the polished stairwells of the castle. She can’t sense them, hear them, or feel them through their bond and her heart aches at the idea of having to go on without them. When she finally reaches the ground level, she finds Alcina looming over the corpse of an unknown intruder. Desdemona has always been afraid of Lady Dimitrescu, but for some unknown reason, she felt compelled to comfort her despite not knowing what was going on. She carefully approaches the statuesque woman and gently tugs at her sleeve, and when Alcina turns around and looks down at Desdemona, she gives out a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you darling! This night has been dreadful, and I’m not certain at how you’ll take the news but let me assure you that I am so glad to see that at least you weren’t harmed in all of this. Let me show you who was responsible for the deaths of my daughters; together, you and I shall take vengeance against the human organization that was responsible for this.” Alcina declares as she wraps an arm around Desdemona, pulling her closer before turning her around to examine the corpse at their feet. Desdemona’s jaw drops at the sight of her own body laying on the floor nearly intact. Her skin was nearly flawless, save for the deep wounds inflicted upon her by Alcina. She lay there dead before her very eyes, her lifeless gray eyes reflecting a dark creature she could not recognize. Startled, Desdemona turns on her heel to find a mirror, and when she finds the nearest restroom, her hands grip the sink in front of her. She cannot recognize what she’s staring at but she knows it’s her reflection, just not what she expected at all. Instead of beautifully long flowing dark brown hair, she sees a matted mess of dark hair tangled in some sort of wild updo, cold, glowing yellow eyes and when she opens her mouth to scream at the sight, she coughs up blood. She goes into a brief coughing fit, and eventually she begins to throw up, but what comes out of her isn’t bile. Oh no, she threw up a sticky ball of insects and maggots glued to each other, the creatures clinging to each other in their frenzied movements. The sight alone is enough to wake Desdemona from her slumber. Desdemona wakes in a cold sweat, her heart hammering at the implications of what she’s become so she quickly examines herself. She runs to the nearest full body length mirror and she’s relieved that she sees herself in her nearly natural state. Bedraggled dark brown hair, terrified gray eyes and the occasional love bite and bruise left behind by the mistresses she’s bonded to. Her skin, while still tawny-brown, was starting to gray out but for the most part, she still seemed normal. What caught her attention in that moment, however, was the sound of Daniela’s laughter coming from downstairs in the dining room. Any logic and rational thought once again flees her mind as she’s comforted by the fact that her mistresses were still alive and well. That’s all that mattered to her and so she rushes out of her room to interrupt the important meeting that Bela had warned her not to interrupt. She didn’t care, she just needed to know that they were safe and sound. Without dressing up like she’s supposed to when she wanders around the castle unsupervised, she glides down the railing of the grand staircase as she follows the sound of a private conversation being had. Desdemona bursts into the living area, her heart rate picking up at the sight of Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela all casually enjoying their special blend of blood wine with a guest she wasn’t familiar with. Bela is caught off guard at the sight of Desdemona waltzing into the meeting in a revealing nightgown but is even more thrown when the smaller girl practically lunges at her and wraps her arms around her. Cassandra looks a little miffed that Desdemona decided to greet her sister first but then she sees how quickly Bela is becoming agitated with the intrusion so she steps in and tries to peel Desdemona off of her. “Oh thank god you’re alright! I had the worst nightmare that you all were killed and there was nothing I could do about it -,” Desdemona begins but is quickly shushed when a hard slap to the face reminds her that they were not alone. “Desdemona, what the hell are you talking about? Of course we’re alright but what on earth are you doing here? I instructed you to stay in your room and mind your business, did I not?” Bela asks angrily as she shoves Desdemona away from her. Cassandra steadies her and throws her sister a knowing look, nodding off to the side as if to remind her that they were in the company of Donna Beneviento. Daniela merely looks amused and continues talking to Donna and Angie as if nothing unusual was happening. It was then that Desdemona realizes that they were indeed in the middle of an important conversation with the lord Bela wished to make a partner out of in either ousting Mother Miranda or finally bringing her a suitable host to revive her daughter. Desdemona looks ashamed and stares at her clenched fists, biting her tongue as Bela continues to give her a tongue lashing. “Look at you wandering around House Dimitrescu looking like a common whore without any dignity. I could have sworn my mother and I taught you better than this but nevertheless, you owe the lovely Donna Beneviento an apology. Once this meeting is over, we will go over what is distressing you. None of your concerns are more important than what is currently being discussed, I’m sorry to say.” Bela admonishes Desdemona before she turns to offer Donna a sincere apology. Donna, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in what Bela had to say as she observed the human standing quietly before her. It was a fascinating scene unfolding before her very eyes. “Oh ho ho, look at the poor girl, she’s ready to cry. What happened, Bela? Is she no longer your favorite?” Angie, the doll, said out loud as she giggled. “Lovers tend to have spats, but you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?” Bela growls, looking as though she were ready to strangle both the doll and the ventriloquist. Donna scoffs, shaking her head before settling on an equally irritating comment. “You mistreat your toys, they’re more than welcome to stay home with me and keep me company. I can promise you I’m more pleasant than your mistresses.” Donna replies quietly, her face hidden behind her veil but even Desdemona could hear the smugness in her tone. This time, Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela pitch a fuss over the unnecessary comment and find themselves squabbling over a silly matter. Angie, the doll, is delighted and laughs maniacally when the sisters begin to fight with one another. Donna was clearly amused but said nothing as she continued to watch Desdemona fret over her actions in the background. Desdemona begins to shut out the banter as the remnants of her decaying mind makes its final stand in her mind. ‘Get out…while you still can…the opportunity won’t come again. They’re distracted, their mother is away…you can go home. Get help…please leave…please do it. For your sake, for Desmond’s sake, and for Veronica’s. Run away…while you still can.’ Desdemona blinks, her rational state of mind completely taking over for a moment before it slips into nothingness again. She turns to find the doll named, Angie, staring up at her while the ventriloquist responsible for the trickery, observes her from afar. Desdemona used to be frightened of dolls, especially of the porcelain collection her mother obtained from her grandmother but when she gives Angie a once-over, she finds that she isn’t crept out at all by the appearance of the doll but is comforted by both her and Donna’s presence. It was strange but with her life constantly taking a turn for the worse every other second of her life, she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised she’s taking a liking to the friends of her mistresses as well. “I apologize for the intrusion. I had a nightmare that I’ll eventually recover from, but I hope my childish antics didn’t embarrass you further, Bela. I’ll take my leave and I won’t bother you again.” Desdemona finally says almost robotically as she makes her way back to castle entrance. She’s ready to go back to her room when something terrifying happens. Her eardrums suddenly pop, an incessant buzzing sound following the sound of brief ringing. Desdemona cannot hear anyone or anything so when she looks up to see the mouths of Cassandra and Daniela moving as if they were speaking to her, she confirms the temporary loss of hearing. Panic grips her, her anxiety on the rise when the others notice the drastic change in behavior. She starts to scream when she feels her brain begin to throb in pain, as if a knife were slowly dividing her brain in half and it sends Desdemona running. She’s gripping her head as she runs into walls, end tables, statues, and portraits; nothing seems to stop her even though she has no idea where she’s going or how she’s even leading herself anywhere with the immense amount of pain she’s in. She still hears that incessant buzzing noise in her head and it’s driving her crazy. She can’t hear the girls call out to her in worry. The only thing that she can hear is the sound of something buzzing around inside of her. She remembers that Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra are not immune to the cold air during the winter and if this is the same bug that they seem to be made out of, maybe some fresh air will do her some good and kill whatever it is that’s inside of her. She thinks it’s a great idea; her mistresses, once they see her heading outside towards the gardens and vineyard, think otherwise. “Desdemona, no, don’t do this! Don’t go where we cannot follow, please!” Cassandra cries out to her, unable to go past the point of no return. The fresh, wintry cold air brings immediate relief to Desdemona as she pushes past the doors that led to Lady Dimitrescu’s enormous vineyard. Her ears pop again, the sound of the girls screaming for her to return to the castle can finally be heard and Desdemona feels good again. She chuckles to herself, thinking she overdramatized her pain but what she had just gone through was something she had never experienced prior. It was incredibly painful and there was no other way to describe it other than it felt like her brain was melting out of nowhere, the left and right side of her brain being divided by a painful knife. She thought she was going to die. When she glances up from where she had been doubled over in pain, she finds herself wishing that she did die from whatever kind of attack that was. Yes, she’s staring a Alcina’s glorious, infamous vineyard sprawled out beautifully before her and covered in snow but what she sees staring back at her from not so far away is an eerily familiar scarecrow. Desdemona hears that incessant buzzing noise in her head again as she slowly approaches the scarecrow, her breath growing heavy. Her eyes widen in complete shock when she recognizes the clothes that the scarecrow is wearing, but it isn’t just what it’s wearing that appalls Desdemona, it’s who it is. It was Desmond. They never told Desdemona what they did with his remains. Sure, they might have mentioned drinking his blood and devouring some of his flesh but that wasn’t the case at all. Here he was, skin stitched together and his beautiful curly hair clumped on top of what has to be his skull living in the afterlife as a scarecrow. They hollowed him out, dumping out his insides completely and disposing that mess in a way Desdemona no longer wanted to think about and turned him into this! Tears prickling in her eyes, a whole new fresh wave of pain consumes her entire being. She drops down to her knees again, feeling completely defeated as she takes in the immaculate detailing of how they put his flesh back together to make this monstrosity. The only thing that was missing was his eyes; otherwise, she was looking directly at her twin reincarnated. Her fingernails are beginning to frost over, the stinging cold making her feel as if she were dipped in a frozen pond and pulled back out again. None of that mattered to her. Her heart rate was beginning to slow down, the buzzing in her head growing more and more frantic but she can’t tear her eyes away from her dead twin. Her body can no longer tolerate the cold that it used to and the longer she stayed outside, she knew her body would begin to shut down. Maybe this was finally it for Desdemona, maybe this is the way she wanted to go out and reunite with her loved ones again. She just wanted it all to end because her life no longer mattered. She sees a rather large shadow approach her from behind and she knew that it was too good to be true. She was so close yet death would continue to evade her. She struggles to turn her head, the ice buildup on her skin making it difficult to do so and finds a very displeased Alcina Dimitrescu staring down at her. “Looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands and speed up your transformation, little one. Miranda is eager to find out if you’ll do or not.” With that said, Alcina raises her hand and long, sharp claws begin to form. Desdemona closes her eyes as she braces herself for death and when she feels something sharp puncture her chest, she blacks out completely.

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #RE Village #RE8 #mine #only monsters come out at night #chapter update #chapter 8 #Lady Dimitrescu's daughters x ofc #bela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu x ofc #cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x ofc #daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x ofc #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #donna beneviento #angie the doll

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years

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PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 7

Rating: Explicit.

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it's own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV. There is violence in this chapter.

Summary: You're Peter's classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don't know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you're lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: *chants* BRUCE FLUFF BRUCE FLUFF BRUCE FLUFF. *sings* they're ain't no big thing just show them a little swing. Beneficial Cucumber. Author's notes are spoilers without context at this point... Y'all-

My beta, @miscmarvelwritings . We make the best duo. I am her dumb of ass and she is my gay. I love her.

Tony was elbow-deep in a robot when I came out of the elevator, Peter holding up the spare part needed, hovering next to the engineer. Without preamble, I was directed to help and dutifully fulfilled Tony's requests. Nothing indicated that my evening stunt ever happened besides Pete's faint blush; I might as well have written it off to the tank top hugging the upper part of my body in all the right places.

I was disappointed, I won't lie to myself - I expected Tony to tease me at least a little bit, snark something vaguely lewd and move on. But the engineer was quiet today, eerily so, almost to the point where it seemed he was ignoring me on purpose. My pride didn't let me begin any of our usual banter so I frowned in silence, making the appearance of a very focused person. Bolts and screws - most interesting things in the world!

As usual, I clocked out first around eleven thirty, leaving Pete and Tony some time to discuss their secret science stuff. Usually I would be exhausted by this point which left little to no room for jealousy but that night, emotions hit me like a freight train and it took me every ounce of my willpower to head out to Bruce's for the inevitable "I'm disappointed in you/Fuck safely" round of brainwashing.

My brain kept returning to the downwards tilt of Tony's mouth and the somber mood around him. I hated seeing him so...unhappy and tense.

The moment I set step in Bruce's lab, I saw the man's back hunched over a tube, I felt the same energy coming from him. What a fucking day! The sigh that left my mouth was resigned. "Bruce?"

A couple of seconds passed before he turned. He attempted a smile but it didn't reach his eyes at all. "Hi, Princess."

I cocked my head in defeat. "If this is the part where you lecture me, let's get over it. Or even better, you say nothing and we carry on," I pursed my lips, inspecting my nails in favour of actually facing the scientist.

I heard the click-clack of his instruments being placed on the table and the soft taps of his shoes against the tiled floor. His arms reached around my shoulders before I could even attempt to pull away, one of his broad palms tucking my face into the crook of his neck.

"I'm not mad, baby girl," He told me quietly.

I felt some of the tension dissipate, wrapped my arms around him, coming to a realization the man was all but melting into me.

"Just stay safe, alright? I don't want you to get hurt," With the same quiet tone, Bruce gently shushed my worries away. "If something is wrong, you can come to me. You know that, right?" He sounded painfully hopeful as he withdrew just enough to capture my face in his hands, forcing me to look him in the eye.

Something about the look in his eyes made my heart ache. I didn't have the heart to refuse, nor did I want to, so I nodded. Promptly, I was embraced yet again, his lips resting on the crown of my head, both of us swaying gently.

I've never wanted to cry so badly in my entire life.

"I'm a fuckin' mess, Bwucie, you haven't got a clue what you've gotten yourself into," I settled for a round of self-deprication instead. Bitter as it was, it was the barenaked truth.

"Then you're a beautiful mess," I could feel the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. So I smiled, too, obscured by his lab coat.

As much as I didn't want to leave the embrace, like, ever, I had to get home before one o'clock - before mother went to bed, zonked out on Valium and Ambien from the endless supply closet courtesy of my dad. "M'hafta go home," I mumbled.

Bruce sighed deeply. "I'll grab one of Tony's cars and drive you," He went over to remove his lab coat as I gaped. "I'm a forty-five year old man, I can drive." He chuckled humorlessly.

"Tony won't mind?" I asked the first question that popped into my mind to attempt dispelling the awkward moment.

"Trust me, he won't mind at all," Bruce mumbled darkly. I wondered what's up with that but the immediate future for me was already planned out: I was really looking forward to going home, crawling into bed with my clothes on and having a good old fashioned cry.

We made quick work of locating a set of keys and peeling out of the garage in Tony's shiny Audi R8, tires squealing on the wet pavement. It had stopped raining sometime during my robot building but the city was still filled with puddles. I could smell the moist, decaying leaves through the tiny gap of the window, the city was drowning in autumn like I was drowning in my own cluelessness.

The adrenaline rush, the weight of Tony's foul mood, the grief and pleading that radiated off Bruce mixed into a horrendous cocktail of misery and pain. Too much pain for my little, weak, dumb heart to handle. And all these people out in the streets, dressed to the nines despite the disgusting weather - laughing, hugging and drunkenly giggling, it was like salt on my wounds, rubbing it in how much of a good time they were having.

"This your house?" Bruce pointed at the black, high gate of the entrance to my garage.

"Yeah, it's a bit much," I nodded absentmindedly, seeing Bruce's eyes bulge at the sheer size of my estate. My mother wouldn't settle for any less than the best so having a monstrously huge (for NYC) home was what she got. Dad just signed the checks.

Bruce hummed.

I made a face, reaching for his warm hand and giving it a squeeze. "Thanks, Bwucie," Smiling at him, I used up the last of my good mood to show the gratitude he deserved.

He pulled me into a tight hug right over the middle console. It wasn't comfortable by any means with the numerous buttons and switches poking at the soft of my stomach but there was nowhere else I'd rather be than in his arms during that moment. The breaths that left me felt like they were punched out of my chest cavity by steel-toed boots.

"Good night, Princess. Sweet dreams." He kissed my cheek, lingering just a tiny bit.

I did the same, rubbing softly against his stubble and giggling at the ticklish sensation. "Night night, Bwucie."

I waved at him again as I unlocked my front gates and watched him speed off from behind it, obscured by the shadows of the decorative trees growing right behind the fence.

Bruce's face had morphed into something akin to torment or suffering the moment I disappeared from his immediate eyesight and it baffled me to no extent. I ransacked my brain left and right, searching for a reason I might have inadvertently caused him to feel that way but found none. The only logical reason was that he was just lonely. He didn't have many friends from what I gathered and if judging by the proud tone in which he spoke of Will-Mr Davies today, he desperately needed some other company than his teammates. I wish I could have helped.

Mother was nowhere to be seen when I entered the house so a beeline for my bed was successful. The ugly, loud, dry-heaving sobs weren't in any shape or form attractive or acceptable to show to anybody but me so when they forced their way out of me, the pillow keeping me company. I cried as for everything that was happening to me as much as I sobbed because of the self-pity I was indulging in.

It was pathetic, really. My mother would scoff and my father... Well, he'd offer me to 'cheer up, throw a party, do normal teenager stuff'. The bottle of wine I kept in my closet was empty in no time: I justified that as a single lady in a big city, I was entitled to relax once in a while.

Who was I lying to? I downed a bottle in twenty minutes just so I could fall asleep and begone from all this bullshit for a while.

On Monday, I anonymously submitted the documents pertaining to Thompson's behaviour to the school board and to a local newspaper that was known to dabble in socialite gossip. Next day, an investigation was promptly launched and important-looking people started to appear in the hallways, going in and out of the principal's office. Flash was pulled out of class by two police officers: at this point, half the student population was unashamedly filming it on their smartphones, me included. With grim satisfaction, I sent the video directly to the group chat with an added message of "so long, fucker".

Steve didn't even remark on my profanity, just sent a thumbs up.

It really fuckin' blew up the next morning. The news was plastered across every paper, every social media site - "Midtown Principal's son arrested for grand theft auto and assault", "Midtown Principal Being Investigated for obstruction of education" and other ridiculous headlines that had me, Bucky and Natasha in shit-fits.

Flash returned to school on Wednesday accessorized with a pretty ankle monitor and a sullen frown. During lunch, he sat only with two of his closest minions instead of the chatty group he was usually seen with. Everybody avoided him like the bubonic plague, even teachers ignored him.

With the final bell, me and Pete went on to look for Happy outside the school territory.

I was spending nearly every evening at the tower either in Tony's or Bruce's lab or sandwiched between Wanda and Bucky on the couch, gossiping while TV shows mutely played in the background. I had found a second friend in the face of Winter Soldier who, much like me, spent a lot of his days occupied by the internet or in a general state of confusion. Bucky was charming, funny and very flamboyant. I enjoyed the no-nonsense attitude and zero fucks that he gave the world in general.

The moment I stepped on the other side of the gate, I immediately knew something was wrong. Peter squirmed uncomfortably beside me, looking frantically in every direction, trying to spot Happy's car in vain.

"Ay, Parker," The familiar obnoxious voice of Peter's bully reached our ears. "You wanna tell me how you got your grubby little hands on that file?"

Thompson had brought back up with him, the idiot that he was. He was standing off to the side, leaning against the fence while five older boys surrounded us in a tight circle.

"Leave us alone, Flash, you're already in trouble," Peter tried reasoning with the bully meanwhile I... I was searching for a cleaner, dryer spot to dump my $1500 bag onto in preparation for the inevitable. I was no stranger to swinging my arm - as a frequent house party guest, I've had to fend off enough unwelcome advances. I've been told I have a mean, mean right hook.

"Bold of you to assume Peter would actually steal something," I stated in a bored tone once my bag was out of the way and Pete was standing securely behind me. I wasn't afraid of Flash, mostly because I knew he'd step back for the fear of retaliation from my family was usually too much.

"Oh, look at that, the weirdo is talking," Thompson mocked, getting up and standing right in front of my face. "You know, I don't get why the likes of you have to go to school with us, normal people. See, Peter here might be a little wimp but at least he won't shoot up the whole school one day because his daddy didn't love him enough," Thompson decided to test his luck. To finish his epic tirade with a flourish, he spat on the ground next to me.

I snorted. "Wow, that's an awful lot of smart words for someone as dumb as a doorknob," I shook my head in disdain. "Look, either you go now or I'll sue you so far up your ass, you'll be sucking dick in prison just to get something to fill your stomach with." And wow, that comeback was really, really good. I was proud of myself.

I saw pure rage mar Thompson's already ugly face into something demonic and ducked at the last moment, feeling the blunt sting of his knuckles connect with my left cheekbone. Reflectively I swung, too, decking him straight in the nose with all the rage and despair that was burning deeply inside of me at that time.

I heard gasps all around me as the students whispered, shouted and cheered at Thompson's confused form hitting the ground. He held his face and his palms were stained a deep crimson; I felt something warm on my face, copper in my mouth.

"Does anybody want some of that, too?" My tone was icy. I shrugged off the hand that landed on my shoulder, glaring down one of the boys who came with Thompson.

"Shit, cops, RUN!" One of the students suddenly shouted and just like that, both me and Flash were surrounded only by a handful of students who had filmed the entire incident on camera. God bless technology!

"Uh, I think you're bleeding," Pete timidly remarked from behind me, hand still awkwardly outstretched towards me. He cast a guilty look to the side where Happy was running towards us, phone held to his ear, no doubt already on the line with Tony and the rest of the Avengers. Shit, fuck, SHIT. I didn't plan for this!

The police officers called an ambulance for Flash and took my statement while I was holding my bleeding nose up to the sky, much to the officer's dismay. Happy had passed the officer his mobile phone and I briefly heard Tony's voice saying that I will be taken care of in the tower's medical suite - and let's face it, no cop will go against Iron Man's charm and wit.

As an eighteen year old, I could refuse the on-site medical assistance that the city provided and my parents weren't required so I was let go after my statement was taken and my injuries photographed.

Not that the photoshoot really was required. Multiple people had the incident on video, from multiple angles. It was an open and close case. I called my mother in the elevator (she didn't answer) and left her a voice message with the bare facts of the situation and my current whereabouts.

Seeing the whole team assembled in the living room, some nervously twitching, some anxiously pacing, I couldn't help but let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "Oh my god, guys, I'm not in a coma, stop acting like I'm in a coma!"

Bucky was the first to approach me, carefully hugging me and steering me towards Bruce. He looked a bit rough, green-ish? I guess. But the first aid kit was already on the table and Stephen Strange was hovering nearby.

"You decked the sucker real good, doll," Bucky's Brooklyn accent made his speech less intelligible but he definitely got all the cookie points for the heat and the passion.

"Ditto. Should've kicked him in the balls, too," Natasha smirked and Steve mirrored her smirk with a darker twist.

"I'm going to sue him so darn far up his ass," Tony seethed, looking absolutely livid.

"Don't worry, mother's got it handled," I obediently laid down on the couch, staring up at Bruce's wide eyes and Stephen's focused face.

"You are fearless and fierce, dear lady," Thor boomed from somewhere.

All of this was making me... Emotional. I just punched a piece of human garbage, it was not a big deal, okay? He had it coming. I chuckled uncomfortably, wincing when Bruce began dabbing at the dried blood on my face with a piece of gauze soaked in alcohol. "Petey, you alright?" I asked, worried about the sudden onset of silence from the usually chatty boy. He mumbled something. "Speak up, I can't hear shit with all the ringing in my ears."

That earned me a worried look from doctor Strange and a frown from Bruce.

"I should've protected you-I mean-it's not that you can't do it yourself, or because you're a girl, it's just-I," he suddenly stopped.

"Go ahead, kid," Tony urged him with unmistakable kindness in his voice.

"You see, I'm-I'm actually Spider-Man and I'm afraid to accidentally kill someone, 'cause I'm really strong." Pete blurted out.

I had to replay his words several times in my head to get to the gist of what he was actually saying. Shy little Peter? Spider-Man? So that's why he was such a fucking pacifist? I mean, it made perfect sense if he really was strong enough to lift cars and hold together collapsing bridges like I'd seen on YouTube.

"Huh," I stated after a brief pause. "I guess I did double the work today, dumped out some trash and prevented a potential murder. I'm on a roll and I deserve chocolate cake," I rambled to distract myself from the incoming dull headache and the sting of the alcohol against the split skin of my cheek.

Strange chuckled, looking, possibly, the happiest I've ever seen him. Bruce giggled too. A tiny bit.

"Friday, order the biggest, most expensive chocolate cake that can be delivered in... Two hours," Tony immediately spoke up.

"Cake," I mumbled happily, a strange drowsiness overcoming me, making my eyelids droop. "Hey-mmm, doc?" I slurred, seeing Stephen's face fall. "M'think m'concussed, f'king 'ell!" The snort that left his mouth was absolutely hilarious; I started giggling, too, startling Banner into action.

He picked up his phone, saying something I didn't understand at all.

"Y'kno," I had this totally bright idea I absolutely NEEDED to share with everyone. "Y'kinda look like the guy... Wha's'is name... Bendy-snap Crum-ble-sticks? No, wait," Snorts and giggles began to resonate through the room as the amount of Doctor Stranges suddenly multiplied by two. He was a WIZARD, that was so cool! "I think... Mmm, yes... Benadryl-Claritin? No-no-no, 'das meds," Woah, a lot of people were there and they were suddenly all laughing. I wondered what was so funny. It was hard to think with so many people laughing; my temples were pulsating uncomfortably. "Wait, I know, I know!" There were wheezing noises now, noises that distinctively reminded me of Tony and Wanda and Bucky. "Bubble-butt Coitus-snack!" I triumphantly exclaimed, finally happy to have gotten it right.

The laughter turned into truly demonic cackling, surrounding me, they were so loud I almost managed to get fully afraid. And then, I passed the fuck out.

TAGLIST IS OPEN Y'ALL.

@another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark x you #bruce banner x y/n #bruce banner x reader #Bruce Banner fluff #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #Stephen Strange x y/n #doctor strange x you #doctor strange x reader #bun writes #party favours #IN THIS HOUSE WE PROTECT PETER PARKER WITH OUR LIVES AND FACES

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nicorobin-chan · 3 years

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Welcome to my first installment of drunk writing. Nothing makes sense but hey, I’m getting closer to actually writing consistently.

hit that read more if you want to read something full of grammatical errors. I’m sorry.

I’m tagging @harmandmac because she is probably the only person who would be interested in my addled writing lol.

She isn’t in the best of moods butt it was to be expected after the day she had. Mac is trying not to think about it too much, but her performance in the court room today left much to be desired and Harm didn’t make it any easier. So after being done for the day, Mac had mapped out her escape route without wasting a single second and thirty minutes later she was at home. She sat on the couch, heels discarded at the corner and a heavy sigh wafting through parted lips. Usually she doesn’t allow her cases get to her. Keeping a clear and open mind had been one of her primary MO but sometimes it is hard when they hit too close to home. There’s an itch, a need to do something utterly stupid that she might regret the next day and on her drive home, more than once, Sarah had felt the need of going down a very dark path. The hatred towards those thoughts had been enough to stop herself from doing something she might regret but the need to drown her mind in a sea of haziness had been pounding over her head like a hammer.

It was moments like this that Sarah Mackenzie absolutely hated her loneliness.

Taking off her blazer, the brunette then threw her head back, looking at the blank ceiling in an attempt to clear her mind. She cannot, for the life of her, manage to clear her brain completely, the sensation that she needs something to keep the edge off becoming stronger. She is glad there’s not a drop of alcohol in her apartment and she mentally chastise herself for even thinking about it. The fact that her mind is going down that path could only mean that her demons are becoming that much stronger. Self control is waning and her mind is decaying.

One…

Two…

Three deep breath, face in her hands and a knock is instantly capturing her attention. Perplexed by the sound of the door knock, it takes Sarah a moment or two to actually stand up and open the door only to see Harm on the other side.

“I am not in the mood.” Those were the first words to leave her mouth as she saw Harmon Rabb Jr. standing at her doorway. In any other situation she would’ve receive him with more warm and welcoming words but he must know that being alone wasn’t a good idea. His resolve to being there didn’t deter, if anything his resolve seemed to become stronger.

“I can tell.” He replied back, his face in full worried expression. Being pitted against Mac in court was always a challenge that he enjoyed. Her passion serving to fire up his own but this time around something had shifted in the narrative. At first he couldn’t quite place it but as everything move forward Harm had started to see the signs and he inwardly kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. Although he knows damn well Mac was strong, stronger than any other women he had ever met, sometimes she can show weakness, it was what made her human after all. He can see why the admiral put her up to this case. “But I come baring gifts.” He raised the white bag with the familiar letters pressed to them. Her favorite burger from her favorite place. Harm thought that her favorite food might serve like an olive branch.

Mac is eyeing the bag and then him. It was scrutinizing gaze, one that had enough force to make anyone regret their appearance and turn away. But she had learned a long time ago that Harm is not easily dissuaded and his charming like smile had her breathing out softly. “I’m only allowing you in because you brought me food.” She hadn’t realized how hungry she was till that very moment. It was amazing how anger had a tendency of blocking everything, even basic human needs.

“I just came to feed the best.” Came his reply, tight lip smile following afterwards.

She is rolling her eyes but stepping to the side so he could walked into the apartment. Once he did, Mac close the door behind him, leaning against the door once he stepped deeper into the apartment. For a long moment she just watched him. It was easy to do so when his back was to her. There was something about his wide frame that had a sense of calmness washing over her. Though she doesn’t think she’d had that same line of thinking if she didn’t have years of knowing him. It was the little things, the moment shared together that had allowed Mac to see facets of Harm that not everyone got to see. She felt lucky to see it, and to attached that protectiveness to the wideness of his frame. “You didn’t have to come.” Finally she speaks, pushing herself off the door and heading towards the kitchen. It was a way to distract herself from looking at him, and the fact that she was grateful that there was a level headed person in the room with her at the moment. Mac is moving around kitchen, bottles of water being retrieve from the fridge. More than anything, it was a way to distract herself of the fact that Harm was setting everything up in the living room. For a while now she had been prone to getting distracted by him. The way his eyes glisten when challenging her. His smile that just nothing short of a piece of art and the fact that when he is looking at her, it was as if he was looking into her very soul. He had a way of making Sarah feel exposed. “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” His question filled up the empty space between them as she moved towards the area he had claimed.

Sarah is taking a deep breath, not really looking at him while she placed the bottles on the coffee table. She opts by sitting on the floor beside him. It was her way of keeping him close without really having to looking into his eyes directly, because every time she did, Sarah Mackenzie was completely disarmed by his intense gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.” Really a horrible deflection and they both knew it.

“Alright.” He said, pushing a burger and fries her way. “But I’m here if you need someone to listen.” There’s a shoulder nudge and Mac is looking at him, a grateful grin upon her features.

It takes her a few moments, but she is turning to him. Her eyes are scanning his profile, his intense concentration on the task at hand, eating. He takes a bite of his burger and she is genuinely surprised by the sight of it. How many times has he commented on her bad eating habits? They can be counted on both hands but seeing him joining her in a bad habit of hers had completely erase the earlier thoughts she had before his arrival.

For that she is grateful.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mac pressed a kiss against his cheek and smiled. “Thanks.” She said quietly enough for him to hear and then she is eating. Harm nudges her shoulder once more as acknowledgment, grin upon his features for a brief second before he is is saying: “Anything for you.” And she is quickly finding herself believing that his words were true.

#sarah mackenzie #harmon rabb jr #JAG #Catherine Bell #david james elliott #I am so sorry for this because it is so bad but I felt like writing something tonight.#And sure I have many RP threads I could have written but Sarah anf Harmon have a lot of taken space in my brain.

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worryinglyinnocent · 3 years

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Fic: Not Quite Right

Summary: Edward and Alphonse Elric succeed in achieving the impossible, committing the ultimate taboo to bring their mother back via human transmutation. Trisha Elric is returned to life, and everything seems to be well in their world.

It’s subtle at first. The faint smell of decay that hangs around the house. Trisha looking a little bit pale and blue-tinged. The fact she sometimes blacks out and can’t remember what happened or why she’s woken up with the taste of blood in her mouth.

As much as they try to hide it, they can’t deny that Trisha has come back just a little bit… wrong.

Written for the WriYe Zombie July challenge.

Rated: M

Content Warning: Mild gore and body horror. Zombies.

Not Quite Right

Trisha isn’t quite sure what’s going on. All she knows is that something isn’t quite right. She had been in a nice place: a nice, calm, peaceful place where she could wait for Van to eventually join her. She was warm and comfortable, and she wasn’t in any pain. She had been quite happy where she was.

Then there had been a searing flash of light, and now Trisha doesn’t know where she is, but everything hurts and everything’s cold and everything’s hard, and something really isn’t quite right.

“Mom!”

That’s Ed’s voice. Why is Ed here? Ed shouldn’t be here, it’s far too soon for Ed to be here. What’s happened?

“Mom! Wake up!”

That’s Al’s voice. Al shouldn’t be here either.

I can’t wake up, darlings. I’m dead. I’ve been dead for years now. I’ve moved on. What are you doing here?

“Mom!”

Trisha opens her eyes to darkness and cold and a dull ache spreading through every limb. It almost feels like she’s never used her body before.

“Mom!”

Ed and Al’s voices are no longer so far away. They’re right beside her, and their arms around her are almost scalding in their heat.

“Ed? Al? What’s going on?”

“It worked! We brought you back!”

Trisha’s eyes get used to the darkness and she realises where she is. She’s in the basement, where Van used to store all of the junk he’d accumulated over his long, long life. The suit of armour is still standing stoic in the corner, watching over them as the boys cling to her for dear life. It’s freezing down here, and Trisha’s not wearing anything, but the boys have wrapped her in a blanket.

She was dead. She was very definitely dead.

She looks around at the chalk on the floor, the remains of the intricate transmutation circle that they are all in the middle of.

“Oh boys… What did you do?”

Trisha is no expert when it comes to alchemy, but she knows that human transmutation is the one thing that they should never attempt, the one taboo that they should never break. Even Van, with his vast, unknowable skill in it, would never try this. The cost, the equivalent exchange… Trisha dreads to think what would have happened if something had gone wrong and there had been a rebound.

She pushes it to the back of her mind as Ed and Al help her off the floor. She’s back. It’s been a long time; she can see how much the boys have grown and she wonders just how much time has passed, but it doesn’t matter. She has a second chance now. She can keep her promise to Van, and more importantly, more immediately, she has more time with her precious babies.

Something still doesn’t feel quite right, but she chooses not to dwell on it too much as the feeling of ravenous hunger starts to overwhelm everything else.

It quickly becomes clear that when they decided to bring Mom back, they really didn’t think through all of the implications that doing so would bring if they were successful.

Human transmutation is forbidden, and they said that they would keep it their secret. The trouble is, they can’t exactly keep Mom a secret now that she’s back. If it had only been a couple of weeks, perhaps, but it’s been six years since she died. She was buried, people came to her funeral, her death is registered at the registry in Resembool and copied down on record in Eastern City.

Her suddenly appearing in the world again is going to raise a few questions. Still, it’s nothing that Ed can’t handle. They live far enough away from the village that they’re not likely to get people finding her in passing, and all they have to do is make sure she doesn’t leave the house. Mom understands implicitly without questioning them. She knows as well as they do that what they have done is forbidden, but she doesn’t chastise them for it. She’s grateful to be back with them.

Pinako sums it up best when she comes over to check on them like she always does, regular as clockwork, and although Ed does his best to head her off at the pass with hasty excuses of ‘we’re fine, we’re fine, there’s no need to worry’, he knows that’s the worst way of making someone not worry ever, and Pinako simply sidesteps past him on the lane and continues to march up the path and into the house. Ed rushes after her, and she stops in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at Trisha.

“Hello, Pinako.”

“Oh boys,” Pinako says softly. “Oh, what have you done, you idiots?”

Still, she doesn’t shout at them. Pinako’s never been shy of telling them exactly what she thinks of all their madcap schemes whenever they have them, but she doesn’t tell them off for this. This is something so big, and something that’s done and over and can’t and won’t be repeated. There’s no point in it. They just have to live with it now, and so Pinako and Winry are let in on their massive secret, and work to help keep it as secret as possible.

The other problem that Ed cannot deny is that despite their best efforts, it’s clear that something must have gone wrong during the transmutation. He knows that Al can see it too. There’s something about Mom that’s just not quite right. Her skin is always so very cold, as cold as it was when she was dying, and she always exclaims that they are very hot to the touch. It’s a cruel irony in a way. They brought her back because they wanted to hug her again and feel her arms around them, but it’s not the same as it was before, not when she’s so horribly, deathly cold.

Then there’s the strange smell. It’s almost like decay, the faint odour of rot that permeates the house now. Ed knows that they built Mom a brand new body, transmuting it from base chemicals. This isn’t her original body rotting under the ground in the cemetery, so why is that smell hanging around?

The final clue that something went wrong is the moments where Mom isn’t really… Mom. She’ll just vanish, her eyes going blank as if there’s no soul behind them. It’s frightening.

It’s only a couple of weeks after they first get Mom back that it happens, the irrefutable proof that there’s a part of her that isn’t really Mom anymore. Farmer Anderson, whose fields back onto the Elric land, comes over first thing in the morning asking if they heard anything last night because two of his sheep were attacked and killed in the night, by something with too much strength to be a stray dog.

Perplexed, Ed disclaims all knowledge, but then Al is shouting for him from the basement and he has to rush away.

Mom is in the basement with Al. She’s covered in blood and tufts of wool, and the horror in her eyes is heartbreaking.

“Boys, what’s happening to me?”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Ed hugs her. “I’m sorry. We brought you back wrong.”

“It’s ok. It’s ok, my darlings. I’m just scared that I’ll hurt you two.”

Ed thinks of those moments where she’s blank and not there, and suddenly, he’s scared too. He pulls his mind away from those thoughts.

“You won’t,” he says decisively. “We’ll make sure you won’t.”

It’s a very strange routine that they settle into after that, but it’s a routine nonetheless.

Mom’s ‘episodes’, as Ed euphemistically refers to them, eventually start to become more frequent, and Al dreads to think how many of Farmer Anderson’s sheep have been sacrificed to Mom’s inhuman hunger. She never hurts them, perhaps she retains enough of herself in her primal state to recognise them even when she’s not all there, but it’s been touch and go with her trying to attack Pinako sometimes, to the point where she apologetically forbids Winry from coming over to the Elric house anymore, just in case.

The smell of decay is a constant presence in the house now, so much so that Al no longer notices it, and it’s only when he finds Mom in the kitchen staring down at the two rotten fingers that have just fallen off her hand that he realises what it really means.

Still, they’re able to fix her up with medical alchemy whenever bits of her do start to die off, and life continues as it did before. For the most part, they’re content. Mom is herself for most of the time, even if she is cold and decaying slightly, and they can handle her when she’s not herself. She generally knows when she’s ‘fading out’ as she calls it, with about thirty seconds’ warning, and as much as it breaks his heart to do it, Al locks her in the closet under the stairs until she’s back to normal.

One evening, when Mom is sleeping off one of her raging, inhuman hunger fits, Al voices a thought to Ed. It’s four years since that fateful day when they brought her back, and the question has been eating at him for all that time.

“Ed… Do you think we did the right thing?”

For a long time, Ed just stares into the middle distance.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually. “I really don’t know.”

It’s a perfectly ordinary day when Trisha sees an extraordinary sight out of the kitchen window where she’s washing the dishes.

“Van.”

“What?” Ed startles up out of his seat and rushes over to the window, but Trisha ignores Al and Pinako telling her to stay where she is, and she rushes out of the kitchen, throwing the front door open and hurrying down the path towards Van. He asked her to wait, and wait she did. Not even death could stop her.

Ok, it stopped her for a while, and she’s still not quite right, but she’s here, and he’s here, and everything’s going to be ok now.

Van was never much of a smiler, but he’s positively grinning as he puts his suitcase down and opens his arms for her.

“Trisha.”

He’s so warm, hotter than everyone else is to the point where holding him is almost uncomfortable, but Trisha doesn’t want to let go of him. He’s back, despite everyone’s cynicism. He’s back at last.

“Trisha, you’re freezing. Are you all right?”

She nods against his neck. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine now you’re here.”

“Are you sure?” He pulls back a fraction, his brow furrowed, golden eyes worried behind his glasses. “Trisha, something’s wrong, sweetheart, what is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Trisha says firmly, but she can tell from the little wrinkle of his nose that he’s caught the smell of decay that follows her around almost constantly now.

Speaking of smells though… Did Van always smell this good? On the face of it, Trisha knows that he shouldn’t smell good. She can smell the travel on him, smell that he hasn’t bathed for a few days. But there’s something else. Something wholly delicious. She cuddles in close again, breathing him in, and he strokes her hair.

“Oh Trisha,” he whispers. “What happened to you?”

He smells so, so good…

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Al never thought that he would ever be in this situation, but then again, it’s a very specific situation so he thinks he can be forgiven for not being prepared. It’s not every day you have to pull your resurrected mother off your ten-years-vanished-and-only-just-returned father when she tries to tear his throat out with her teeth because she’s peckish and only living flesh will do, and now you’re watching your extremely angry father and even angrier brother have an argument whilst standing guard outside the cupboard that your mother is locked in.

And that’s not even taking into account the fact that the weird stories your mother’s been telling you about your father being a living Philosopher’s Stone and functionally immortal are all true, because despite the blood soaking the front of his shirt, Dad is completely fine for having a large chunk of his neck taken out.

“We did what we had to do!” Ed yells. “Mom died! She was dead, and you were who knows where, so we did what any half-orphaned, half-abandoned kids would do and we brought her back!”

“There’s a reason it’s forbidden, Edward.”

“Well, maybe if you’d been here, you could have told us that at the time! You left us alone! You have no right to lecture us about breaking the taboo! You do not have the moral high ground here!”

Dad doesn’t reply for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, and Ed actually takes a step back in surprise, having been ready to launch into another tirade and clearly not expecting the apology. “I’m sorry that you were alone for so long and that this was the only solace you had, and I’m sorry that Trisha never got the chance to tell you what was going on and why I left before she died. I can’t change what’s done, but perhaps I can try to begin making things better now.”

Ed is breathing heavily, about to explode from the emotion, and since Mom is quiet in the cupboard now, Al chances to take a couple of steps forward to get between the two of them in case Ed decides to just resort to punching Dad in the face, which Al is pretty sure he would have done already if it wasn’t for the ravenous Mom and profuse bleeding and alchemical healing going on before he had the chance.

“We don’t need your help,” Ed growls eventually, hands balled up into fists but showing no signs of actually swinging. “We got on perfectly fine without you for ten years, so just go back wherever you’ve been hiding and don’t bother us again.”

“No, you probably don’t need me,” Dad agrees quietly. “I know I don’t have much right to try and insert myself back into your lives as if I’d never left. I don’t expect to. But it’s not just you two. I came back for Trisha as well.”

They’ve been talking about her as if she’s not there, but she’s only a few steps away behind the cupboard door, and Al can see the guilt in Ed’s eyes as he glances over. They can’t leave Mom out of this. They’ve had to make a lot of decisions on her behalf over the last few years, but this isn’t one of them. Mom has always believed in Dad. She’s always waited for him and she’s always known that he was coming back, and in the end, he kept that promise to her. It took a long time, but he did come back, just as he told her he would.

And as much as they have always tried to deny it and pretend that everything’s good, because a not-quite-right Mom was better than no Mom at all, the fact remains that when they brought Mom back, they brought her back wrong, and maybe Dad, with his centuries of knowledge and Philosopher’s Stone’s worth of power, can make her right again.

“Her soul hasn’t bound to her body properly. That’s what’s making her black out and resort to a primal state, and it’s why her body is rotting. The body will decay without a soul in it. Her soul is still partially trapped beyond the gate, and it’s trying to get back there.”

Mom is tucked up in bed, still asleep from her last episode. Hohenheim has just fixed up the latest patch of decay on her chest.

Ed notes the lack of blame in Hohenheim’s words. It would have been easy for him to say you didn’t bind her soul properly, but he doesn’t.

“Can we fix it?” Al asks.

“No.” The single word is sharp and blunt. “No. There’s nothing you and Ed can do. There’s a huge price to pay. The equivalent exchange for a human life is too much for either of you to bear and I won’t lose you. I can try and fix it.”

“What do you mean, try?” Ed hates how small and young his voice sounds. “Can you fix it or not?”

Hohenheim dodges the question. “When you first brought her back, what did you use for the exchange?”

Ed reels off the chemical components of the human body; he’s had them down rote for years now.

“And a drop of blood from both of us to anchor the soul,” Al adds once he’s done.

Hohenheim nods, his eyes still on Mom.

“It wasn’t enough,” he says. “Human transmutation requires a much greater sacrifice. A life for a life, a soul for a soul. Sometimes more than that. Often, not even that is enough and the transmutation will fail no matter what is sacrificed.”

Having heard the story of his immortality now, Ed has to give him that, and not even grudgingly. All things considered, he and Al got off extremely lightly, and the guilt that Mom is suffering now as a result eats away at him a little bit more.

“Can you fix it?” he asks again.

“I can try. I should be able to provide the exchange with the souls, and they’re willing to make that sacrifice for Trisha.” He smiles. “They always loved her. She won them all over in the end.”

“But…” Ed prompts. That makes it sound way too easy.

“But ultimately, it’s up to Trisha whether her soul returns or stays beyond the gate. You can’t force someone to come back to life if they don’t want to.”

Ed hadn’t thought about it like that. He had always assumed that Mom would want to come back. She died before her time and now they’ve given her more time with her family, they’ve allowed her to be there for when Hohenheim got back, just as she promised she would be. But then again, he’s never thought about what happens after death, beyond the gate as Hohenheim called it. Her soul had been somewhere, and if all the accounts of heaven and the afterlife are to be believed, then it was a nice, peaceful place that perhaps she might not have wanted to leave after all.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Trisha can taste blood in her mouth again when she wakes up. The boys are always so good about cleaning her up when she has one of her episodes, but they can’t really brush her teeth easily when she’s out of it.

“Hey, Trisha.”

A gentle hand strokes her hair and she looks to the side to see Van lying on the bed beside her.

“Did I hurt you?”

Van shakes his head. “No damage done.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and Trisha is reminded once again of the blood in her mouth, getting up to brush her teeth. She looks at herself in the mirror above the sink, taking in her blue-ish tinted skin and lips, and her eyes several shades darker than they always used to be back when she’d been alive the first time. She’s amazed that Van can even recognise her now, but he’s still looking at her as if she’s the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He doesn’t care that she’s a little bit wrong, but at the same time, it breaks her heart just a bit.

She returns to the bedroom, hovering in the doorway.

“Van?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I’m not… fully me. I wanted to be here when you got back, but I don’t think that all of me is here.”

“I know.” Van comes over and takes her in his arms, and Trisha wishes she could stay there forever and not have to worry about anything else. “I know. I think I can make you whole again. I think I know how to give you the chance to fix yourself.”

Trisha nods. “Thank you.” There’s a long pause. “You’re going to use the souls, aren’t you?”

“Yes. They’ve talked it through. They’re happy to help make you whole.”

“Thank you.” She whispers against his chest, hoping that the souls can hear her. “Thank you, all of you.”

“They say you’re welcome.”

Trisha closes her eyes, trying to lose herself in his embrace.

“Will it hurt?”

“No, my love. I promise.” He holds her a little tighter before letting go. “Come on. Let’s get you fixed.”

Van takes her down into the basement. The boys are there too, drawing out a complex circle on the floor in chalk. Trisha shivers. She doesn’t like it down here, it brings back too many bad memories of waking up after a black out episode with no memory of what she did or who she might have hurt, the taste of blood in her mouth making her feel sick. Nonetheless, she accepts that what Van is about to do is not something that should be done anywhere that people might witness it by accident.

Van gives the circle a onceover and proclaims it perfect with soft pride in his voice. Trisha knows that human transmutation is the one thing he would never do, and whilst he might be mad at the boys for doing what they did, he can’t help but admire their craftsmanship when they did it.

She steps into the centre of the circle with him.

“Van, I’m scared.”

“It’s ok, love. I’m right here. It’ll all be ok.”

He takes her in his arms and she closes her eyes, burying her face in against his shoulder. Even then, she can still see the flash of red alchemic lightning race around the edge of the circle.

Everything is bright white and jumbled, her mind feeling like it’s tearing itself apart and putting itself back together again over and over at the speed of light. It doesn’t hurt, just as Van promised, but it’s disorientating and frightening and it makes her feel dizzy. She can still feel Van’s arms around her but she feels totally alone and adrift at the same time.

Finally the sensation stops. Everything is still bright white, but Van is definitely real and solid and her mind has reordered itself again.

Trisha chances to open her eyes. Everything is very white, apart from the ominous looming gate floating in front of them.

Although she doesn’t remember ever seeing it before, Trisha knows that she’s been here before. She’s been beyond that gate. She remembers that nebulous time before the boys brought her back. It was calm, and warm, and peaceful, and she was enjoying it. She didn’t have to worry about anything. She could just wait for Van and the boys to join her, however long that took, and she knew that everything would be all right in the end.

Trisha is incredibly grateful for the extra time she’s had with her sons but now that she’s back here, within touching distance of that wonderfully peaceful afterlife with nothing to worry about, she realises just how much she missed it.

“Trisha. You’re back again already? And you too, Hohenheim. We didn’t really get a chance to speak the last time you were here. You were screaming a bit too much.”

Trisha turns to the source of the voice. It’s just an outline, a silhouette, strange and amorphous and shifting, sometimes appearing female, sometimes male, mirroring first her and then Van as if it can’t make its mind up.

“I’ve come to pay the toll for Trisha’s soul,” Van says levelly.

“Of course, the living Philosopher’s Stone.” The outline smiles, unnerving teeth in the middle of a featureless face. “Well, if you’re willing to sacrifice those souls, I’ll take them. It’s not your choice to make though. It’s Trisha’s soul you want to anchor, after all.”

The thing turns to Trisha.

“It’s up to you. Where would you like to stay?”

The lightning is still blazing around the circle, the powerful red lightning of a Philosopher’s Stone, something unlike Ed and Al have ever seen, and Al is starting to get just a little bit worried. It didn’t take this long when they brought Mom back the first time. It feels like Mom and Dad have been gone forever. He looks over at Ed.

“Something’s wrong. It’s taking too long.”

Ed shakes his head, but his expression looks just as worried as Al feels.

“It’ll be ok. Mom has to make the decision after all. It’s a pretty big one.”

Al supposes he has to accept that, but at the same time, he can’t help wondering what will happen if Mom decides not to come back.

She’s always been happy to be back with them, to have more time with them and the potential for more time with Dad. But Al can’t deny that her second life hasn’t been easy for any of them, and even if she comes back complete with her soul fully bonded and she won’t be affected by her primal hunger anymore, it’s still not going to be easy. It’s still not going to be much of a life, stuck in the house all day because no one else can know what they did. And what if Dad’s internal Stone doesn’t have enough power to bring her back after all? What if they lose both of them?

Suddenly, the alchemic light is gone, the electric lightbulb is blown out from the power, and Al can’t see a thing. He hears a rather ominous thud though.

“Mom? Dad?”

“Hey Mom.”

Ed pats her headstone and sets the flowers down in front of it. It took him a long time to come to terms with what happened and to accept her decision. He still remembers the flood of bitter recriminations that had come out of his mouth when they’d realised that Dad had come back from the gate without Mom, and he remembers Dad not taking any of it in because he’d only had Mom back for a few hours before he lost her again.

“She said that she was sorry not to come back and have more time with you, but that this is the best way for everyone. She wants you to be able to move on from it all. She’ll see us all when we get there. She loves you both so much. So, so much.”

“We’re ok.” He settles on the ground in front of the stone. “Dad and his motley crew of tame alchemists managed to save the world. I like to think they couldn’t have done it without us though.” In the back of his mind, he hears Mom’s laughter. “And we think he’s mortal again; he’s started going grey. We don’t know if he’s actually noticed that or not.”

There’s a long pause.

“I understand why you did it,” Ed says eventually. “I didn’t, for a long time. I was so angry. I thought that you’d abandoned us like Dad did. Except that was more complicated than we always thought, and I know that your choice was more complicated too. You would always have been a reminder that we broke the taboo, and even though I know you never complained about it, I know it must have been hard for you to have to be kept secret all the time. None of us had any idea if it would have worked properly. It wasn’t worth that risk. It wasn’t worth that pain. I’m sure that you’re happy wherever you are.”

He gives the stone a final pat. “I love you, Mom.”

In the quiet peace beyond the gate, Trisha Elric smiles.

“I love you too, Ed.”

#FMA Brotherhood #FMA Fanfiction #Trisha Elric #Edward Elric #Alphonse Elric #Trishenheim #Fic: Not Quite Right #cw: mild gore #cw: mild body horror #cw: zombies

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syilcawrites · 4 years

Text

yearning

Series: Fire Emblem Three Houses Type: One shot Main pairing: Dimileth (Dimitri & F!Byleth) Rated: T Genre: hurt/comfort, pre-ts Summary: An AU based on what happens after Jeralt's death (F!Byleth/Dimitri). Hope you enjoy!

“But the moment she walks out into the brisk cold air, the uncomfortable sensation seeps back into her veins, crawling up her chest. She’s surrounded by so many, yet…

She tilts her head up ever so slightly to see that no one is in front of her.”

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! This is my first FE3H fic, so I apologize if anyone is OOC. Just a self-indulgent variation of what happens after Jeralt's death! I'm weak for Dimileth ;-;

(PS. i like to hc that the hug is parallel to when byleth hugs dimitri post ts after he holds her hand bc they would hug!!!)

You can also read this on ao3!

Yearning is a foreign concept, a concept that Byleth cannot grasp. It escapes through the crevices between her fingers like sand, dripping down into the darkness, disappearing.

She knew what it was when she saw it, years ago when it was just the two of them—just Byleth and Jeralt, Jeralt and Byleth. Trudging through mud and sludge during monsoon rains, through the dry, scorching hot desert heat, through the blissful warm dawn that peaked behind the vast mountains, they met all sorts of people.

When they stopped by a small village in the middle of winter, there was a woman who stood outside the door to her house, wrapped in a woolen shawl, staring out into the white abyss.

Her blue eyes were glassy, far away. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she hugged the shawl around her frail arms. She was so still, Byleth wasn’t sure if she was human or a statue. She couldn’t tear her eyes from her.

“What are you looking at, Byleth?” Jeralt asked, looking up briefly from his bowl of hot soup.

“That woman…” Byleth trailed off, pointing out the window. “What is she doing with her face?”

“What is she doing with her face?” Jeralt echoed back with confusion, leaning out toward the window now too. She heard him mutter a disapproval under his breath as he returned back to his seat. “She yearns for something to return.”

“Yearn?”

He paused for a moment, as he grasped to find an explanation that was as simple as it could be. “A desire, a want. Sometimes, it feels like a need.” Jeralt sighed, patting the seat next to him. “Come on and eat, Byleth. You’ll get winters’ chills from staying too close to the window.”

Byleth didn’t tear her gaze from the woman until Jeralt placed a hand on top of her head and turned it forward so that she was facing her warm bowl of soup. She had the urge to run out into the snow to give it to that woman.

And now years later, Byleth understands, as she holds Jeralt’s increasingly cold body in her arms.

At first, all she can do is let her tears drip onto his ashen face, as it mixes with the light drizzle of the rain.

Then came the emptiness that crept its way into her chest as his blood continued to spill onto the fabric of her clothes, soaking in his death.

“Professor?”

Byleth blinks, and instead of seeing Jeralt’s cold, decaying body in her arms, her student’s homework assignments are tucked snuggly in them.

“Yes, Dimitri?” Byleth hears herself say as she levels her eyes at his neck, finding herself unable to raise them.

“I… Are you… Have you eaten?” Dimitri fumbles with his words, his arms reach out toward her but retreat back just as fast.

“Maybe later.” Byleth steps to the side to walk past him, hugging the papers to her chest.

Rhea had told her to take the rest of the week off yesterday, but—

Byleth winces at the pressure building up in her head as she hurries back to her room. Several hushed whispers follow her trail, as if they’re chasing her, and the moment she shuts the door behind her the tears don’t hesitate to dribble down her cheeks. She clamps a hand over her mouth as sounds escape through her trembling lips, a sensation unfamiliar to the point where fear is etched into her heart.

“Rest if you must, child. Do not fight against what you are feeling.” Sothis’ soft voice soothes her increasingly jumbled thoughts.

Byleth wipes the back of her hand against her damp cheeks as she sets the papers down on her desk. Promptly after, she draws herself under her covers, staring out the window, as she watches the sky turn from blue to orange, then finally to darkness. The time lapse soothes her. She finds that focusing on the drifting clouds distracts her thoughts. Every once in a while though, steps shuffled to a stop at her door, but no one ever knocks.

Not until late into that night did a knock interrupt the silence in her room.

“Professor! It’s me, Annette…” Her voice trailed off at the end, quietly.

Byleth, stiff from staying in one position for hours, creakily raises herself from the bed, her joints pop from the stillness of her body. She can feel the flesh of her own self, but it feels like nothing in that moment.

Minutes must have passed, Byleth assumes, before she opens the door. It’s long enough to the point where Byleth wouldn’t have been surprised if Annette left, but she stands there, putting on her brightest smile.

“Mercedes and I have a gift for you!” Annette wrestles with the gigantic woolen blanket tangled up in her arms. “We were supposed to give this to you at the start of winter, but it became a lot bigger than we anticipated!” She smiles cheekily as she shuffles it into Byleth’s arms. “We noticed that your blankets are pretty thin…”

“Oh, thank you…” Byleth’s voice comes out raspy. She hugs it closer to her body, eating up the warmth. “…Do you have more?”

Annette’s hesitant eyes lit up.

The next morning, she wakes up extra early to prepare herself, to let the tears dribble down her cheek effortlessly as her face remains slack. The same unfamiliar emotion from the day before, when she came back from the classroom. One that was too hard to control, and so she decides it would be best to try to get rid of it before teaching class. Only two days have passed since his death, yet it feels like a lifetime without him.

It’s a simple plan to get her emotions in check, a plan that takes her three hours to overcome, and not even successfully at that. Redness rims the outlines of her eyes, apparent on her pale skin.

As she walks into the classroom, with her cheeks slightly flushed red from her constant rubbing, she feels the gaze of each and every student’s eyes on her. A heavy silence settles in the room as she sets down her paperwork.

The chattering and murmuring ceases as Byleth looks up toward her students. Her eyes are trained ahead of her as she feels their stares boring into her skin. She’s careful not to look directly at anyone. She has an inkling that nothing good would come out of it.

After what feels like grueling hours, a break from lessons is gifted upon her, and most of them shuffle out as quietly as they can. As they did so, the tenseness in her chest begins to rise once more at the realization of everyone leaving.

But one student lingers by the door with his fingers tapping the frame. The longer he stands there, the tighter her shoulders stiffen. The grip on her pencil becomes deathly as he takes a step back into the classroom, but the aching feeling in her chest pauses in growth.

“Professor?” His voice sounds careful, delicate.

It does nothing but anger her—the messy, tangled knots that had hung themselves inside her begin to tighten.

“Yes, Dimitri?” She says in a voice so strained that she notices he shudders slightly at the sharpness in her voice, but it doesn’t stop him from taking another step forward.

Whatever he’s about to say never comes forward, as his hesitance informs Byleth that he’s rethinking his initial thoughts.

“Will you look at me?”

She stops scribbling. She had stopped paying attention to what she was even writing the minute class ended. She sneaks a glance down at the paper. Sprawled on one of the student’s assignments is his name.

Jeralt.

Scribbled aimlessly, ripping through the thin material easily. She decimated someone’s assignment. And she could tell Dimitri had noticed it the moment she began writing once class ended.

Useless. All of this power stored within me and I was, am, still unable to do a simple thing.

She takes a moment to compose her thoughts, carefully placing them in areas where no one can seek them out, and averts her gaze from the paper to Dimitri.

Unlike Byleth, Dimitri is willing to display his emotions on his face—the way his lips form a thin line of concern, eyebrows scrunched up in worry, eyes…

His blue eyes, bright and brilliant, looking at her as if she is lost.

Byleth’s face grows warm from shame and she immediately glances back down at the torn paper. How can she, a mentor, a teacher, make a student feel the need to look at her with such worry? Was it pity?

Pity only reminds her of the newfound weakness that’s bloomed inside of her.

Just like the blood that bloomed on Jeralt’s waist, vibrant and displayed for all to see.

Could everyone see right through her? Fear pierces through her at the mere thought of being so naked.

“Perhaps another time, Dimitri.” Byleth closes her eyes as she stands up, forcing herself to let go of the pencil that’s choking from her deathly tight grip. “I have somewhere to attend, and I don’t want to be late—“ She swiftly gathers the assignments into her arms, keeping her eyes leveled just at his neck, like yesterday, to avoid his gaze.

As she passes by him, eager to get out, she’s stilled by the grip on her arm, his grip. Soft enough to break out of, if she wants to.

“Oh—! I apologize.” He immediately lets go, flustered. “I just—Professor, if you need to talk, I... we are here for you.”

“I’m fine, but thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She doesn’t hesitate to leave, and never once turns back to look at him.

But the moment she walks out into the brisk cold air, the uncomfortable sensation seeps back into her veins, crawling up her chest. She’s surrounded by so many, yet…

She tilts her head up ever so slightly to see that no one is in front of her.

Later in the evening, Rhea deeply reprimands Byleth after learning that she had taught class during the past two days, demanding that she rest. But Byleth doesn’t need rest—she doesn’t want—

She doesn’t want to be alone.

But she can’t tell Rhea that. The words get stuck in her throat, so she simply nods and walks away.

The memory of the pale lady standing in the snow resurfaces to the forefront of her mind, reminding her of the little warmth she harbored within herself.

Byleth scoops up the two woolen blankets that Annette had given her and buries herself within them, relaxing herself into the warmth. Even when she begins to sweat, even when the air becomes uncomfortably suffocating, Byleth does not move.

Loneliness creeps up behind her during the darkest hours of night, when the Monestary is silent and sleepy. She watches the last light flicker off, leaving the buildings, the grandness of it, hollow.

She wants to hold on to that last flickering light, she doesn’t want it to go out. But every night it did, and it sunk her deeper into the fog.

She doesn’t come out during the daytime, ever since Rhea advised her to rest. She doesn’t answer the door when someone knocks, unless it’s Annette bringing her more woolen blankets. On most days it’s Dimitri at her door. He begins by knocking courtesly, announcing his arrival, and asks politely if they can speak. But as time progresses, he stops such polite gestures, and at this point, almost begs her to speak to him, to them, to anyone.

But Byleth stays under the comfort of her woolen blankets, only coming out to eat when the peak hours of the day have been long gone, or to walk to Jeralt’s grave so she can lean against it, to stare at the stars above them.

At some point, she can tell who is who by the way their footsteps echo outside her door. Dimitri’s is distinct, although the softest. Her door creaks whenever he approaches, as if he’s leaning against it. The thought of someone on the other side helps her head bob above the wave of darkness.

“Do you truly wish to stay in your room any longer than this, child? I’m sure your students are awaiting your return.”

Sothis’ voice rings in her head, the only other reminder that Byleth is still here, present in time.

“I am no good to my students right now.” Byleth merely whispers into her pillow. Useless.

The unknown yearning grows deeper and uglier inside of her, conflicting with the rational thoughts that usually keep her mind neat and tidy. She desperately wants to be with others, to drink in their affection as if she is a starved beast, but another part of her doesn’t want a brush of someones skin on her own.

Her wants and needs become muddled in the yearning, and the nights grow ever colder.

By the middle of the third week, she crawls out of her cave of a room later than usual. It’s deathly quiet as Byleth treks her way to Jeralt’s grave.

She settles on the damp grass, placing another flower on it.

She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Nothing but emptiness escapes it. She grits her teeth as she clenches her fists. “I have nothing to say,” she manages to whisper out, staring hard at his name, engraved carefully on the stone. “All I wish for is your return. Nothing but emptiness and anger remains in me, and I’m afraid.” She’s afraid of becoming the ashen demon that follows her footsteps, it echoes throughout the Monestary, reminding her of who she is. It reminds her that no matter how much she tries tacking herself into this place, acting as if she can wriggle her way into an environment filled with such love and affection, she will never be able to understand such abstract emotions.

She makes her way to the other side of the gravestone, behind it, to lean against it.

The crunch of leaves behind her jolts her up from the depths of her mind. She flits her head around, her hand unconsciously hovers over the dagger attached to her hips.

An alarmed Dimitri stands not too far off from her with something in his arms--

One of Annette’s woolen blankets.

It almost drops as he awkwardly tries to adjust it so that it’s not threatening to hit the damp grass.

“I—“ He mutters something to himself as he fumbles with the blanket. “I was just about to give this to you, as I’ve heard you’ve been quite cold in your room recently. I also noticed that your room was slightly ajar… so I assumed… a-anyway! This is a gift from Annette, I heard you accept these whole heartedly.” He holds out the blanket toward her stiffly, covering his face.

“Did you think I’d open the door since you had one?” Byleth responds back, staring at the bundle in his arms. Her fists relax slightly as her attention focuses on Dimitri.

As he draws the blankets back to his chest, his face grows ten shades of red hotter than the last.

He flusters and stumbles over his words as he tries to come up with some believable excuse, but as he settles his gaze on Byleth’s blank, stoic expression, he lets out a sigh, his shoulders sagging.

“Actually, yes. Since she told me that you open the door whenever she’s there. Although she did say that you do close it immediately after accepting the blanket.” He tilts his head, offering a reluctant laugh. The simplicity of the act, for some reason, warms her. His laugh is something she hasn’t heard in a while.

Byleth casts her gaze to the ground. A silence ensues between them. “I do apologize for my actions the past couple of days.” She says slowly, unable to reach his eyes again. “Thank you for always stopping by. I’ve noticed you tend to sit by the door a couple hours every day.”

His face grows another shade deeper.

“You noticed?”

“The door creaks whenever you lean against it.”

He mutters another string of words that she can’t make out.

Byleth raises her view from his lips to his eyes, and they lock on immediately. “Would you like to sit with me?” He went out of his way to find her, this is the least she could offer.

For once, a small smile rests on her rather chapped lips.

His eyes brighten.

“Of course!” He smiles ever so slightly, draping the blanket in front of Byleth, who stiffens in surprise at his gesture.

“It’s a bit cold tonight, I wouldn’t want our dear professor catching a cold.” He plops down next to her, arms loosely around his knees.

She had forgotten that she’s still in her night wear when she went out. How unsightly…

But Dimitri is no better, since he’s also in his nightly attire as well. Byleth frowns at the thought of him getting sick due to her negligent attitude toward her students, and raises up an arm, holding the blanket open. “We wouldn’t want you catching a cold either.”

He blinks blankly, as if he’s unable to process what she’s offering. Byleth scoots closer to him and drapes the woolen blanket over the both of them.

“This seems a bit… snug?” Dimitri laughs, almost robotically as he stares at the ground. He does not meet her gaze as she stares at the side of his face.

“Even better. Now the heat will be more concentrated.” Byleth nods in approval as she leans against the back of the gravestone. They sit there in silence.

After a while, Dimitri relaxes his shoulders. “I’m sorry there was nothing I could do.” He says, his voice soft.

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” Byleth takes no hesitation in taking the blame.

“Professor, of course not—“

“I had the ability to save him.” Byleth’s voice quivers as she recounts the memory, staring at the starry sky above them. “I feel…” She pauses, closing her eyes. “Unlike myself recently. I find it hard to process… a variety of unfamiliar emotions that I am experiencing.” Even saying that makes Byleth feel strange and alien, talking about… her emotions. More so the lack of understanding them. She always had Jeralt to turn to for these types of issues, but now… she is alone.

“Of course I’ll help you—all of us will always try our best to help you out, Professor. You must believe that.” Any sense of nervousness that is in him is replaced with concern. “You have helped and saved us countless times, and no matter what the issue is, if possible, I hope I can offer the some consultation, even if it is small.”

Byleth, for the first time in weeks, truly gazes into Dimitri’s eyes—pure and blue like clearwater. “Thank you for your sincerity, Dimitri. As always, you’re empathy is boundless.” She can’t help but smile at him, but his expression confuses her. Yet another gaze unfamiliar to her, another emotion that she cannot pinpoint.

He simply stares at her with an expression that makes her feel relaxed and sleepy, as if time itself has paused, and she returns his wholly attention.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Byleth whispers, her eyes searching his face for answers. Pure curiosity is written into her own. Dimitri blinks, as if he’s snapped out of his trance, finally aware of the way he was staring at her.

“It must be late, that’s why I was so careless…” he mutters to himself quickly, rubbing an eye with the back of his fingers. He sneaks a glance over at Byleth, who is still staring at him with innocent curiosity. Redness creeps up his neck as he averts his gaze. “Despite how I may seem, I’m not very good at expressing my emotions either.” He clears his throat, straightening his back.

“Then maybe we can both learn from one another.” Byleth concludes, exhaling. She returns her gaze up at the endless starbound view above them, watching her breath flutter into the cold, night air. “I’m in your debt, since you are keeping me company so late at night.” Again, she closes her eyes, letting herself feel the coldness wash over her exposed skin.

“Think nothing of it, I’m simply happy that you are getting fresh air.” He says, leaning over her. She notices the shift in heat as he comes closer, and the shifting of the blanket on her end. His fingers graze against her bare thigh, a touch so slight, but it is enough to make her realize what she needs.

She immediately opens her eyes to see him pulling away, his face flushed and his own eyes wide as he realizes that she’s staring at him. Before he can pull away completely, she wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him against her. The blanket slips from her shoulders as she presses her head into the crook of his neck, soaking in the warmth that he provides.

He immediately stiffens upon contact, with one arm up in the air, and the other placed against the gravestone to avoid falling completely on top of her out of surprise. His left leg is fit snuggly between her own, the other bent up. Along with the blanket, they were a tangled mess of limbs and cloth.

But Byleth doesn’t care, for she appeased the yearning that ached in her chest since Jeralt’s death—to feel the warmth of another human being in her arms, to not have the last thing she had held in them that of someone who is long gone from this world.

Dimitri does not move a muscle—he is sure that if he did, he would ruin whatever it is that she discovered. But something warm and wet touches his neck. With the sniffles accompanied by it, he wraps his arms around her, melting into her embrace as her body trembles. The sound of her sobs are quiet against his skin.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimileth #dimitri x byleth #fe3h fanfic #my fanfics #something I wrote a couple months ago!

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voidstilesplease · 3 years

Text

leverage

Notes: It's that scene from At World's End's fault.

---

A slight rustling noise snaps his eyes open. He lifts his head from where it's dipped between his folded arms, then promptly smiles at the silhouette of a man in the shadows. He stands to grip the thick iron bars of his jail that are separating him from his beloved. But as soon as his hands close around the bar, they begin smoldering, and he retreats with a hiss. Looking down, his palms have imprints the shape of the bars, so he sends a regretful look at the man in the shadows, for he can't come any closer without hurting.

"My love," he smiles again and calls to the darkness, softly - the longing from so many years. "You came for me."

"You were expecting me?" The man answers, voice gruffer than he remembers and much colder than the floor of his dingy cell.

His heart clenches. It has been so long that they are apart - far too long. "It has been torture," he admits, clutching his hands together and rubbing the charred skin absently. His expression sours when he gazes down at his fragility and spats with bitterness: "Trapped in this frail body." Then his eyes search his in the darkness, "Cut off from my world, from all that I love - from you."

Finally, the silhouette steps out of the shadows, the small light in the cell revealing a cruel face glaring down on him. When the visitor speaks again, it radiates anger amplified by low growls and grinding of elongated canines. "Ten years I devoted to the duty you charged to me," he begins without preamble, taking measured steps forward. The man's unchanging beta form is sneering viciously and twisting his hideous features some more. The olive of his skin darkening another shade until all the man is for ignorant eyes is inhuman. "Ten years I looked after all the bitten wolves that negotiated servitude to you in exchange for power." Another step closer: clashing fury and yearning. "And finally, when we could be together again-" the man halts, inches away from what divides them. Their gazes lock and the man's irises bleed into the most spiteful of blood reds. "you weren't there."

He looks down in shame, noticing the man's unmoving chest. Then, he closes his eyes in remorse.

"Why," The man growls accusingly, "weren't you there?"

He gazes up, pleading with his human eyes. "It's my nature," he whispers mournfully, for it is the truth. Humans promise him their lives, not the other way around. "Would you love me if I was anything but what I am?"

The man - or rather, the werewolf who cannot find the man in himself anymore - snarls, "I do not," he punctuates each word with spitting rage. "love you."

He shakes his head, reaching for the iron bars again to be a little closer. The skin immediately burns, but he endures it, pressing in desperately to eliminate the years of distance and betrayal between them. "Many things you were, Theodore," he whispers, reveling in the emotions flickering on the hardened facade at the sound of the man's name from his mouth. He reckons the man has not been anything but the "demon wolf", as many like to call him, in so long that he forgot he wasn't always it. "-but never evil. You have corrupted your duty, and instead of lending power, you stole it. And so you corrupted yourself. And you hid away what should-" Unmindful of the scalding pain, he inserts his arm in between the bars to finally touch his love, his Theo, right on the space in his chest where his beating heart should have been, "always have been mine."

Right as his fingertips touch the raised scar of the man's hollow chest - from where he cut himself open and took his heart out to bury it where nobody is supposed to find it in the name of invulnerability - Theo's skin shed its decaying color to show the rich bronze underneath. The werewolf's fangs and claws retract, and he is once again glimpsing the beautiful face of the man that Theo was.

Theo peered up to him, where his eyes are the man's mirror. He feels the man shudder at seeing his face and not the monster after all these agonizing years.

He smiles, his forearm blistering and smoking in their midst, as he brushes his fingers on Theo's unmarred face. Theo's eyelids drop close at the gentleness of the contact. After all these years. And his heart clenches once more when Theo whispers his name like a prayer - his name that no other human knows and no other human will ever pray to as much as they curse it.

"I'm Stiles in this body," he says. "But I will be free and I would've promised you my heart. We would have been together." He withdraws his burnt hand slowly, wistfully. "If only you had a heart to give."

Just as quickly, Theo's face shifts back to its beta form, and the irony would have been laughable if it's not brutal. The demon is bound to a human form, and the human is now a monster akin to a demon.

Theo snarls, banging the cage with woeful crying, chasing his lost humanity. When he faces Stiles, his eyes are back to red from bright blue. He easily extends a clawed finger to Stiles's face, leaving a scrape that bleeds. "Destroy the Hales who befouled you. Bargain your freedom for my defeat; it's the only way they can achieve it. Then destroy them."

Theo pulls away, backing into the darkness again.

"Is that the fate you wish for, Theodore?"

Before he disappears, his vow hangs in the air. "You can have my heart and do with it what you desire. It will always belong to you."

~•~

steo a-z: part 12

#steo #steo flash fiction #steo A-Z #contains: >1k words #contains: demon Stiles #contains: demon wolf Theo #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #stiles x theo #fics tag #flashficsau

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imaginesbymk · 4 years

Text

“Disciples.”

Dracula One Shot

Summary: Following the mysterious death of their brother Jonathan Harker, y/n travels to Transylvania to drive the stake into Dracula’s heart once and for all, ignoring how it’s easier said than done, and the monster himself has been expecting them for years.

Pairing: Count Dracula x Harker!sister!Reader

Tags: mentions of death, blood, violence, weapons + hallucinations

Author’s Note: imma be honest and say the first two eps of dracula (bcc/2020 netflix original) was good, however we do not speak of the the third episode because it was........ something else. in my opinion, at least. one shots are not open as this is a 700 follower milestone special! this was rushed because i do not know how to write gothic fantasy battles lol [milestone masterlist]

“JONATHAN Harker was my brother, and I will forever regret letting him ride off in the carriage that took him to the castle. His last words were, ‘Believe it or not, y/n, I’ll go. But prepare some bread when I return.’ If he were to. I was disoriented. Weeks after his fiancee Mina refused to come visit me because she mourned too much and she couldn’t bare to see how I was holding up. Mina is so frightened that I would share the same fate. I spent the long day of picking out locks for my doors and windows. I read more books and drank more tea to calm my nerves, but as I said, I was disoriented.

The date was marked as St. Valentine’s Day, the day I arranged a carriage to Transylvania... to come here, and drive a stake into your rotten heart.” I was wise enough to not eat the food prepared in front of me at the long dining table, not even a sip of the red wine he possibly tarnished with something to make me black out.

Instead, I watch him grin at me from across the table that served as a border. “Beautiful introduction, y/n.”

I smile. “Thank you, Count.”

His smile was still there, but fading like sunsets to dark night. “You have not touched your food,” he points out.

It’s not like he was touching his, either. I simply tell him, “Not hungry.”

He looked down at his plate, then began using his giant cutting knife and fork to slice a piece of meat in his mouth. The flames engulfed in the small fireplace drew out as a guiding light that overpowered the dim torches and candles lit around every twenty or so meters of a room’s perimeter in his castle, and I could describe his look very easily.

The way I was told about him from countless stories, true or made up, Dracula was old, frail and unkempt, despite dressing in an old fashion vest and suit. When my brother went to him for a business land purchase from England, he must of seen and could of described him the same way. He looked young, maybe not too young, possibly middle aged. His jet black hair was fixed, only a couple of wrinkles from the corner of his eyes when he smiled. Count Dracula knew how to keep himself attractive, and he didn’t even require a mirror.

“There are rules when you enter my abode, Miss Harker.” He plopped his pointing finger down on his lap, the leg he hooked over the other as his dark eyes never in the slightest turned a lighter iris from the lights used by fire. “One of them being you are to be well fed. It’s a compliment when my guests eat the meals I prepare for them.”

“You don’t prepare them. In fact, I doubt your personal staff prepared them, either.” My scowl must of made him grin at me even more. “Do they even exist?”

“Oh, I cannot lie to you about that.” And like that, that was his answer, even though it wasn’t the right one for my question. “That’s quite all right if you’re not feeling hungry, Miss Harker. I believe it’s getting late,” Dracula says as soon as lightning struck outside the gigantic windows. “I don’t think I can let you head back to England in this kind of weather.”

“You’re telling me that I should stay the night?”

He nodded. “You can stay here as long as you need to, Miss Harker.”

“I don’t plan on slumbering in your decaying castle, Count. You and I both know why I’m here, I was bold enough to announce it.”

Dracula got up from the table and began to walk over to my side, running his hands along the surface. “I have been waiting for this moment for years.”

“For someone to burn you to ash?”

“For you.” He stops at my chair, not too close to reach me, but I felt more evil than I did as soon as I stepped foot inside. “I knew who you were when your brother made the decision of coming here. I knew who you were even though your brother mentioned you after I did, and he never once said your name.”

I shot out of my seat and stood in front of him, placing my hand on my holster. “So you’ve been expecting me?”

Dracula nods. “For... years. If you look in the mirror, you’ll see how red you’re turning. Either I’ve made you blush, or me just being one step ahead is making you even more enraged than the day you found out your brother mysteriously vanished.”

“You hate mirrors, Dracula.”

“Indeed.”

“And my brother didn’t mysteriously vanish. You killed him.” I began to walk away from him, approaching the rack of the stick that moves the firewood around. “And what else is there about you? You are so difficult, it’s hard to picture you as mysterious. Just.. difficult.”

I turn back around, and felt my heart sink to my gut. He was gone. The dining table stood as if it was never used, the lid that covered our courses swayed back and forth as if something zoomed past it to make it move. I was off my guard for a second and he took off on purpose. If he wasn’t the beast of the night I would of heard his shoes stomping against the ground when he was running from me. I would of been able to hear a gust of wind if he wore more loose garments. Oddly enough, he didn’t turn into a bat.

Now it was up to me to find him, alone.

I run out of the room and found myself lifting a torch off the wall, walking up the giant staircase made of stone. My question hung in the air, and he’ll never catch it. “Why are you expecting me?” I ask out loud, hoping he was somewhere, listening to me, or even watching me.

The only thing that came out as a response to my call was the storm outside, and the castle’s noises. It was indeed an old castle. No one lives in castles anymore as living homes evolved so much. Dracula slept in a coffin, and if I’m lucky, I can run out into the rain all the way home, and find myself sleeping on the streets.

I crept up slowly, feeling like I was being watched. I said louder, “Why are you expecting me, Count? You’re excited to finally meet your fate?”

His voice echoed from above. He stood on the ledge, almost as if he was preparing to jump twenty feet down to rough ground. “Because I knew you would come for me. Mr. Harker was your brother. Either the victim’s family mourns and fears and hates, you engaged in all three, and brought yourself here.”

Dracula smiled and hopped off the ledge, descending right on the tip of my head. I scream and dash to the upper levels.

“I call them disciples, Miss Harker!” he suddenly appeared in front of me like witchcraft. “The people who come here, and I talk for humans who existed many centuries back come here. I learn about their childhoods, I learn about their loved ones, who they wish to cherish for the rest of their lives, how they taste...”

My hand reaches my holster...

“If you drive the stake into my heart here and now, you won’t be able to find the room I kept your brother’s corpse in.”

“You’re lying,” I sneer. “You used my brother’s face as a mask, Mina told me.”

“How is Mina doing?” he asks sweetly.

“Go back to hell-” and I jerk my hand forward, gripping the stake as I aimed bullseye.

“Y/N!” I shook my head. His voice. His hair. His smile. It felt like home. I was wrapped in warmth from the house we both grew up in, not the archaic castle.

My brother Jonathan, untouched and healthy, stood in the place I once thought Dracula was in, the tip of the wooden stake just poking the layer of his dress shirt.

“Jonathan...” I breathed out.

The world stopped... or was it me? Was it my senses? I didn’t eat or drink anything he could of manipulated, at least, he could manipulate me without using any kind of medication or potion.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t blink. It was a sense of sleep paralysis, but I wasn’t asleep. I blinked again, remembering the horror Mina described when the beast tore my brother’s face off of his like paper right in front of her.

I stared at the Devil himself dead in the eye, frozen stiff, helpless. Dracula lifted a hand and began tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “It took you years to prepare yourself for me. It must of been exhausting, for me I take it as a decade of waiting and waiting for your arrival, and here you are, and I am having so much fun with you.”

Everything went dark. Then light.

Light?

My frail body was in the mocking care of his arms now. Who knew how gentle he was being when he was carrying me. When he searched for a bride, he would not be carrying the poor species who would be unlucky enough to ever be his bride. But I put the pieces together as he lays me down on the spot where the sun can hit on the balcony, where he could watch me as he shielded through the shade. of the stone wall that formed the entryway.

I felt the stiffness of my neck, specifically a stinging sensation on my skin, maybe even deeper. I was played out like a fool. A fool who lost Dracula’s game. I was too easy.

"The sun will love you so much, they burn you with love.” Dracula said in a stern voice.

“Please...” The sun gleamed from a cloud and a ray hit the layers of what was left of me, and I felt the change.

I closed my eyes.

“To rise and to shine, Miss Harker.”

#dracula one shot #dracula imagine #dracula x reader #dracula #dracula 2020 #dracula bbc #claes bang #reader insert #one shot #count dracula #count dracula x reader #count dracula imagine #count dracula one shot

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yoificfinder · 4 years

Note

Hey love, hope you are doing well ✨ I was wondering if you have any recommendations regarding side characters (personality analysis, friendship etc.) I absolutely adore all the side characters in the YOIverse however there are not many fics revolving around them so if you know any good ones, it'd be great!! Thank you so much in advance 💟

Hey dear nonnie! This took a long time, I hope you're still here. I combed through ao3 to find fics I remember that fit your request and discovered new gems along the way! Many of these are not popular/underrated but I guarantee that they're good reads so I hope you (and anyone else who finds this) enjoy! If only for that reason alone, I really hope this rec list becomes one of the most popular posts in this blog (I would really appreciate a reblog!) so these fics/authors can receive more love! Plus this is the most exhaustive and time-consuming rec list I've made so far (but I still feel that I missed a lot so other recs are welcome!).

Without further ado, here are some great YOI side-characters' stories in canonverse:

(Don't) Give A Damn by @forochel [T, 9K]

Mari, through the years.

an open door by tripcyclone [G, 8K]

Lilia never wanted children of her own, but caring for Victor gives her a glimpse into the life she chose to pass by.

Beautiful In Knowing by @val-creative [T, 1K]

Sara knew she was a girl, even if nobody else did or believed her.

She ordered Michele to call her "Lady Sara" from now on. He would roll his eyes and grumble, but never attempt to misgender her. She liked "Sara" — it meant "lady, princess, noblewoman". And she would never go back to her deadname.

by any other name by iguanastevens [T, 2K]

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Yuri's life as told by the names he's given; or, how Yuri's names direct his life.

Feathers on the Ice by Kiranokira / @kyashin [E, 79K]

After dinner and a bath and quality hamster time, snuggled in bed cocooned within his eight entirely necessary pillows, Phichit indulges himself and investigates Seung-gil's hashtag. There isn’t much from Seung-gil himself, but Seung-gil's fans are many and dedicated. Amid the photos of Seung-gil at competitions or practicing and the few candid shots of Seung-gil in airports or out on the streets of Seoul, there’s a very recent professional video uploaded by user andjoy_studio.

Phichit clicks on it, and his life changes.

fermata by perbe [T, 3K]

When one is patchwork of growth plates and bruises, it is inevitable that one must admire boys with words a size too big, as if they know down to their bones that they are meant for something greater.

I used to burn for you, Otabek thinks.

(A character study on Otabek's reaction to his placement at the Grand Prix Finals.)

Go On Ahead by @kiaronna [G, 2K]

Sour, grouchy Yakov didn’t understand sparkly purple skate outfits or wanting to eat your weight in sweets or having crushes on boys.

But Viktor did.

Gossips, Chinese whispers and misunderstandings by womanroaring [M, 8K]

Series of short stories relating to how certain (often perfectly innocent) scenes in Yuri On Ice would have looked from the outside. And just the gossip and stuff that would have surrounded them.

I am Yuri Plisetsky by rinsled05 / @dreaming-fireflies [M, 1K]

Who is Yuri Plisetsky?

He's not Agape.

Not a “prima donna” ballerina.

And definitely no Russian fairy.

No, Yuri Plisetsky is an angry, loud, in-your-face, Russian tiger who will take to the ice and give you a brilliant gold-worthy performance you will never forget.

... a piece on Yuri's rationale for skating to "Welcome to the Madness". Rated for the actual foul-mouthed language in the story itself, courtesy of one Yuri Plisetsky.

if friends were flowers i'd pick you by windupbirdgirl / @tanpopori [G, 4K]

Yuuko thinks of Yuuri’s skating, beautiful and flawed. She thinks of Yuuri sitting with the girls instead of the other boys at practice. She thinks of Yuuri and Viktor, the posters of him he asks her to buy him for birthdays. The posters he wouldn't ask anyone else to buy.

“Oh, Yuuri.” She bites her nails, ruining the carefully applied polish. She doesn’t care at all.

Sitting in that tiny bedroom, she makes a big decision.

if love is king, who wears the crown by @crollalanzaa [G, 1K]

“Second is seen as nothing,” Christophe had derided.

“But that moment you glide onto the ice, that hush of the audience, and that expectation, isn’t that worth something?”

“You speak as if you know. You used to skate?"

Past tense. It still stung, even if it was expected.

Minako knows exactly what it's like to be at the top of your game, and she remembers the descent just as clearly.

if she wants me by renaissance [G, 6K]

Hiroko and Minako, then and now.

kagura by night by seventhstar / @pencilwalla [T, 1K]

The world around her is like the mountains.

A mortal lifespan is narrow; mortals watch the mountain’s unchanging faces, unravaged by the same measure of time that takes a human from dust to dust, and think them immortal in comparison. But stone erodes, just as flesh decays. It just takes longer.

If she watches long enough, everything changes. Languages drift until all the words she learned before are meaningless. Technology changes until she ceases to believe in magic because human ingenuity is more infinite than the stars. What is beautiful, what is polite, what is wrong, what is right—time, given its way, reshapes all.

But Minako’s body remains as it has always been. That’s why she loves to dance, she supposes; it’s the one thing time cannot take from her.

Katsudon by @azriona [G, 8K]

Hiroko doesn’t need to see to coat pork cutlets in egg and panko. She has made this dish for her family for over thirty years; she’ll make it another thirty, if she’s lucky.

Now she makes it for Yuuri and Victor as they fly home from Barcelona, with silver around their necks and gold around their fingers.

keep me steady as we go by strikinglight [G, 3K]

When Isabella stood and crossed the room to where he sat she saw her notebook open in his lap, turned to the last page of their to-do list, all but three items crossed off with less than a month to the wedding date. License. Ceremony. Everything after. She saw the angle of his gaze, too, not on the words but straight ahead, staring blank and glassy and brittle into some invisible place she still wasn’t sure she could follow him to, yet. And yet she had been the one who’d promised to try—and to keep promising, forever and forever.

Kooks by BoxWineConfessions [G, 3K]

Mari clasps her right hand across her left hand and rests them both atop her growing stomach. “I guess you’re just lucky that your father, I mean your other father, my brother-“ Mari giggles. “God, it all sounds so weird, doesn’t it? Do you care? Do you care that we’re all so fucked up and we don’t care at all?” Mari laughs again. It’s all she can do when she hurts this much, and wants a cigarette this much, but can’t stop smiling despite the fact that her body seems to hate her so much. “Well he means the world to me. That’s why I have you.”

Living in the Maybe by @adrianners [T, 6K]

It wasn’t hard to spot a 180cm platinum blond in Fukuoka International Airport. Especially when he was the only person wearing sunglasses. Indoors. At night.

Mari picks Viktor up at the airport when he returns from Moscow. Without Yuuri there to play his usual role of interpreter, they learn to communicate around their linguistic, cultural, and personal barriers.

post tenebras lux by @alykapediaaa [T, 1K]

“Which skater would you say has inspired your skating the most?”

The question catches him unaware, so much so that he’s rendered speechless. It’s only when he sees Yakov lean towards the microphone to answer in his stead that Yuri blurts out the first name that comes to mind.

“Yuuri Katsuki.”

The Best Men by @kiaronna [Not Rated, 5K]

Just as Viktor lives to surprise, Christophe Giacometti lives to scandalize, to sensationalize. But innocent little Phichit Chulanont is proving to be an impossible victim.

OR: where Christophe tries very hard to get under one Thai skater’s skin, and instead finds himself all over the younger skater’s Instagram feed and wrapped around his finger.

the city of bridges by @stammiviktor [T, 5K]

After three flights, a train ride, and dinner at the Katsukis' table, Yakov finally sees Hasetsu through Viktor's eyes.

The First Cut by BoxWineConfessions [E, 27K]

People made divorce seem like this long drawn out and ugly process, but it really wasn’t. He bought the town home for Isabella as a gift, and so it was hers. The flat down town would go to him, as it was closer to the rink. They paid off her medical school loans last fall, so that was done too. He had a few cars, which she unanimously agreed were his to keep, so long as she could keep her Corvette. She changed her vanity plate from Dr. Leroy to Dr. Yang. He saw it parked out front of the courthouse.

trials of Coach Yakov series by @naraht [T and M, 40K]

Summaries of fics in the series:

1. Forced to share a bed with Victor at the Sochi Grand Prix Final, Yakov learns more than he wants to know.

2. Yakov attempts to prepare Yuri for his transition to Seniors. Yuri doesn't care to listen.

3. No sex while you're competing – this is Yakov's rule. His athletes often have other ideas.

4. In 1980, Yakov Feltsman is the USSR's skating hero. At a dull official reception, he defends his loyalty to the motherland – and makes the acquaintance of a beautiful young dancer from the Bolshoi.

5. In which both Victor and Yakov have to remake themselves – Victor after his first Olympic gold and Yakov after his divorce.

Tz'ror by athoroughlybakedpotato [T, 3K]

Yakov changes much slower than the times do, but steadiness is not always a bad thing.

---

ETA - Other people's rec:

curtain of lies by @mandolinearts

JJ's Bizarre Adventure by Falahime

Landscapes of Spring and Summer by @myyoitrashblog

The Melancholy of Georgi Popovich by Falahime

+ a lot more recs on this reblog!!

Thanks for the rec, @vilchen, @genuine-firefly, @adrianners, and @kaleidodreams! ❤

#yuri on ice #yoi #yoi fic rec #yoi fanfic #side characters

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wesleyhill · 3 years

Text

The Throne, the Coal, and the Voice

A homily on Isaiah 6:1-8, Psalm 29, Romans 8:12-17, and John 3:1-17, preached at Trinity Cathedral, Pittsburgh, on Trinity Sunday 2021

“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

May I speak to you in the Name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In the eighth century BC, in ancient Israel, in the kingdom of Judah, there was a king whose actions became a warning to subsequent generations to tremble with fear and awe in the presence of God.

The king’s name was Uzziah, and at first — like so many new rulers who take the reins of power aware of their deep need for wise counsel and due caution for their awesome task — Uzziah was humble. But, as Israel’s Chronicler records, “when he had become strong he grew proud, to his destruction” (2 Chronicles 26:16).

Contrary to the law of Moses, King Uzziah bypassed the priests and approached the incense altar in the temple to bear the censer himself. The priests objected and tried to intervene, but Uzziah forged ahead anyway. He scoffed at the priests who stood in his way, and just at that moment a skin disease broke out on his forehead, right there in front of the altar. Then the Chronicler tells us: “When the chief priest Azariah, and all the priests, looked at [Uzziah], he was leprous in his forehead. They hurried him out, and he himself hurried to get out, because the LORD had struck him” (26:20). And he remained so struck until the day he died.

Like every other story, no matter how seemingly bizarre, in the Old Testament, this is ultimately a story about God — about the sheer mysterious otherness of God. The God we meet in this story of King Uzziah’s folly is a God of power and glory who will not be approached flippantly or arrogantly: “he [scatters] the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He [brings] down the powerful from their thrones” (Luke 1:51-2). This God is holy — He is “set apart,” lofty and exalted, morally pure (whose “eyes are too pure to behold evil,” as one of Israel’s prophets says [Habakkuk 1:13]), resplendent and radiant with eternal life and light: in a word, transcendent. As the book of Hebrews in the New Testament tells us, “indeed our God is a consuming fire” (12:29).

In the year that the proud and reckless King Uzziah died, with the skin disease he received in the temple still spread across his forehead, one of Israel’s greatest prophets received a vision of this fiery, holy, transcendent God. Isaiah the prophet says: “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

In the year that yet one more brash and arrogant human ruler passed away, his pride being no help at all against the inevitable forces of decay and death, Isaiah sees the God who remains unrivaled, sovereign, majestic, unchanging, impervious to the fleeting schemes of would-be usurpers.

No one can see this God and live, the Bible says, and yet somehow Isaiah is granted a vision of the LORD. He sees into the inner court of the heavenly temple: “I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.” And he sees fiery angelic creatures attending God’s throne: “Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew.” And Isaiah hears their voices calling out to each other like the pulsing of an earthquake:

“Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

This chorus is so thunderous that Isaiah adds, “The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke.”

And just like so many other characters in the pages of the Bible who encounter God’s searing holiness, Isaiah’s first response to this heavenly vision is to be instantly aware of how unworthy he is — more than that, how doomed he is because of his impurity, his complicity in the evil of his nation. “Woe is me!” he cries. “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” It is not only King Uzziah who is guilty before God: it is Isaiah, and it is all the people of Judah — it is, in fact, all the world, including you and me. As we think of God’s radiant, fiery holiness, aren’t we instantly confronted with the wreckage of our lives? Aren’t we like Peter when he came face to face with Jesus’ divine power and said, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:9)?

“Woe is me!” If we were dealing with any other god, that would be the end of the story. Isaiah sees into the inner sanctum of God’s holy, fiery throne room, and he is undone by it. We are undone by it. But — contrary to all just deserts and all expected outcomes — that is not the end of this story.

Isaiah says that after he protested his unworthiness, “one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: ‘Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.’”

Rather than being obliterated by the blazing holiness of God’s life, Isaiah is touched and made pure by it himself, made to share in God’s radiant purity, with fire from the divine altar. The white heat of God’s holiness does not destroy Isaiah but delivers him instead. The coal taken from God’s presence does not consume Isaiah but cleanses him. The sacred fire that touches Isaiah’s lips does not abandon him in his guilt and sin but absolves him — sets him free to live and speak in trust and hope.

Alexander Pushkin, the celebrated nineteenth-century Russian poet, once wrote a poem about this scene from Isaiah, and he pictures the coal not only touching Isaiah’s lips but reaching into his innermost self:

[God] split my chest with a blade, Wrenched my heart from its hiding, And into the open wound Pressed a flaming coal. (Ted Hughes trans.)

This heart surgery, where the poet sees the winged seraph invading Isaiah’s life with the burning coal of God’s presence, is what the prophet Ezekiel foresaw when he prophesied: “A new heart I will give you [the LORD says to Israel], and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you” (Ezekiel 36:26-27). The flaming coal that Pushkin sees pressed into Isaiah’s heart is nothing other than what John the Baptist foresaw when he said about Jesus, “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matthew 3:11). The LORD who is lofty and exalted, who inhabits eternity, draws near to us who are lost, ruined, guilty, mortal. He touches us, cleanses us, forgives us, burns away our sin, and makes our hearts aflame with life and love by the fiery presence of His Spirit, the One Whom we name in the Creed as “the Lord, the giver of life.”

After the coal has touched his lips, Isaiah says, “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I; send me!’” Isaiah is not only touched to the depth of his being by God’s cleansing fire; he also hears God speak. He hears God’s voice. And as the rest of his prophecy makes clear, that divine voice conveyed to him God’s Word for the people of God. God speaks and sends Isaiah as His prophet to deliver His Word to us who cannot live without it. “The voice of the LORD is a powerful voice; the voice of the LORD is a voice of splendor” (Psalm 29:4).

This Word that God gives to Isaiah to speak to the people of Judah is the same powerful Word by which God brought the universe into being. It is the same Word that was with God in the beginning, the Word Who was God. It is the same Word Who became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. It is the same Word Who said, “The Father has sent me… God sent his Son into the world… that through him the world might be saved” (John 20:21; 3:17, NEB). That Word is the human being Jesus, God in human flesh, God’s voice for us, God’s self-communication, God’s ultimate self-revealing. And what He says to us is, “I absolve you. Your sins are forgiven. Peace be with you. Behold, I make all things new. Believe in Me.”

According to the writer of the Fourth Gospel, what Isaiah saw when he saw the LORD of Israel high on His throne, reaching out to sinful humanity with His cleansing fire, speaking to sinful humanity with His judging and saving Word — what Isaiah saw was none other than the glory of the God we know and worship and call out to as the Father, “the maker of heaven of earth,” who sent His eternal Word, Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord, to reconcile us to Himself, and the Holy Spirit, who pours God’s love into our hearts and by Whom we cry out, “Abba! Father!”: “Isaiah said [what he said] because he saw [Jesus’] glory and spoke about him” (8:41).

To Him, therefore, with the Father and the Spirit, one God in three Persons, be ascribed, as is most justly due, all might, dominion, majesty, and power, now and forever. Amen.

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miminorenai · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 8

Charles ”As you told me, I delivered the gift to Will, Lord Vlad.”

Vlad “Thank you, Charles is a good boy.”

The man with crimson eyes — Vlad, sat on the sofa and smiled — an extremely beautiful smile, at the same time, makes someone feels the bottomless cold.

Charles “But Ōsama, was it really fine?”

Charles “The people who resurrected as vampires were wasted.”

Vlad “Hmm? Well, it can’t be helped.”

Vlad “Wellington as Napoleon’s enemy, Gilles de Rais to Jeanne d’Arc......”

Vlad “I revived them all to suit Will’s casting, but he couldn’t even put an essential play.”

Faust “Did you intend to make use of said “*trick”?

(*細工 - work, device, craftsmanship, tactic

Vlad “Yeah, I’ve done a little brainwashing. It’s wasteful to have something *that’s too much, and I wanted to see their strength.”

(*持て余す - to find unmanageable; to be beyond one's control; to not know what to do with

Vlad “And then, surprisingly, both of them seemed to be weak-willed. They went crazy just like that.”

Faust “So you said it’s just like a hobby, huh.”

Vlad talks about the two great men who gave themselves a second life and lost their reasons — without changing his calm expression at all.

Vlad “Will wanted to see the tragedy between great men, didn’t he?”

Vlad “I think it was just the perfect gift for him.”

Charles “Hmm,...but he wasn’t very pleased.”

Faust “According to him, he doesn’t want them to「just kill each other」.”

Vlad “Heh — it didn’t become an inspiration for Will’s play. Too bad.”

Vlad slips out a smile, while saying it in a tone that’s not feeling sorry at all.

Vlad “「Sacrifice is an essential part to create wild enthusiasm」— as what he said.”

Vlad “If he cannot go through his own principle, that’s it for Will.”

Vlad “I’m disappointed at those soldiers too. Even if they leave behind their names in history, to think they’ll go crazy with that level of brainwashing.”

Calmly, he looked up at the sky, and he was far different — as if thinking about a world that no one had ever seen before.

Vlad “It would be great to have people with stronger heart — just like them who were resurrected by Comte.”

Charles “Hmm...it’s hard you know, choosing the right person.”

Charles “Will you use the door to revive someone again?”

Vlad “I can’t do that for awhile. The passageway across space and time is distorted.”

A door that allows you to go back and forth between countries and times.

Vlad created it in the castle, and there had been an abnormality of space a little while earlier.

Vlad “I hope that the future of the world has not vanished beyond the distorted space.

Beside Vlad who’s quietly thinking...Faust who’s watching the situation opens his mouth.

Faust “......I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. His Excellency Vlad wants to change the world’s future, right?”

Vlad “Yes — I passed through and saw the far future of the world.”

Vlad “But...only ruins and desolation were there.”

Vlad “A world where humanity, vampires and animals are all gone.”

Vlad “We must prevent a future like that — ugly and decaying.”

Quietly — but his unwavering voice that speaks of the world makes Vlad feels different and extraordinary.

Faust “His Excellency can move freely to anywhere and anytime by using the door.”

Faust “Then — isn’t it better to get rid of the people who will have a negative effect on the future?”

Charles “Ah, right. You can do that too...”

Vlad “Ahahaha......Faust’s really a *brute, eh?

(*外道 - non-Buddhist teachings, non-Buddhist, heterodoxy, unorthodox, heresy, heretic, demon. fiend, devil, brute, bad person

Faust “I don’t want to be told that by a brute *Jiji who has no self-awareness.”

(*ジジイ - geezer

Vlad “I’m not going to do that, since nobody will lead the future into destruction.”

Vlad “The foolishness that cause conflicts which lies in the human mind/heart — leads the ruin of this world.”

Vlad drops his eyelids and spins the words as if he’s reading a history book.

Vlad “......Among human beings, a person born with appalling and extraordinary talent is rare.”

Vlad “The world has greatly developed by someone’s talent.”

Vlad “And yet, why? That talent sometimes is used as a tool of conflicts.”

Vlad “It’s no one’s fault. The foolish mind of human beings spread around the world that makes the future ugly and full of destruction.”

Vlad raises his dropped eyelids and draws an arc on his lips. (smiling/smirking I guess? writers are awesome to spin it around haha)

Vlad “......I love this world and humans.”

Vlad “I wished for this beautiful world to be lead by the beautiful heart of my beloved humans.”

Vlad “ — so that we won’t arrive at a mistaken future.”

Faust “......An extreme philanthropism.”

Charles “I think it’s nice.”

Charles “I’m sure the ideal world of Lord Vlad is very peaceful.”

Charles “No one would kill each other......”

As Charles imagines Vlad’s world, Faust just shrugs his shoulders.

Vlad “I have no intention to force all the crimes to anyone and kill them.”

Vlad “Of course, humans who are only capable of doing evil are unnecessary in this world.”

Vlad “ .— ...”

Vlad “Ah, but —”

Vlad “If all the great men who influence the world disappear, what will happen to the future?”

Vlad “......Hmm, how interesting.”

Charles “If all great men disappear, huh......”

The men’s (oh-so-scary-but-so-otherworldly) conversation are melted into the dark and quiet night — ....

One morning at Comte’s mansion.

With only Vincent and Theo at the dining room for breakfast, it feels quiet, especially without Dazai.

It’s just MC’s so used with Dazai who’s always by her side, so she feels a little lonely.

Watching Theo with newspaper, MC asks him to lend her the paper.

Turning the pages one by one, it doesn’t seem to be an article in particular —

— at Shakepeare’s stage lesson, few nights ago.

Bewildered voices. Metal sounds that collide violently.

And —...

A vivid scene of shadows piercing each other chest with swords, before MC eyes are covered by Dazai......

#ikemen vampire #ikevam #ikevam dazai #osamu dazai #ikevam spoilers #dang the convo hahaha

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captainillogical · 4 years

Text

Distant Lands Ch.11

Stranded on a planet with toxic conditions and nothing but the clothes on your back, your only means of survival lies within the gem that got you here in the first place.

Spinel/Reader

collab with my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants

You wake up in the middle of the night, and for some reason, you cannot fall back asleep no matter how much you toss and turn. You lay there for probably more than an hour, restless, before you give up and decide it’s probably best if you get up and walk around to try to wear your brain out manually.

You carefully peel Spinel’s limbs off of you - your body starts to miss the warmth immediately. She stirs a bit, and you nearly wake her up, but you’re able to successfully slip away without waking her. You don’t want to leave the Spire, as you’re not feeling up to being outside, so you figure you’ll wander around on the floors above you.

Grabbing one of the loose drop cloths on the pile and wrapping it around your shoulders, you make your way up the set of stairs in front of you. You tend to zone out while walking as you let your mind wander, and before you know it you’re at the top floor where you can go no further. You had no intention of walking all the way up here, honestly, but now that you’re here you’d figure you’d chill here for a while. Until you feel sleepy enough, you guess.

Pulling the cloth around your shoulders a little tighter, you walk over to the edge of the decayed floor, looking out at the expanse of the jungle far beyond you. It’s pretty foggy out tonight, you can barely see the tips of the trees through the thick mist. It’s cold, but not as unbearable as some of the other nights have been lately, though. You sit down, pulling your feet up and under you to try to keep your legs warm, pulling the cloth over your lap as well. You almost feel snug.

You’re really only sitting up there for about ten minutes or so when you hear Spinel walk up the stairs behind you, and you turn to look to look at her.

“I woke up and I was cold and alone.” She says, disgruntled. “I figured you wouldn’t go outside so I came up here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” You reply, and face the opening in the wall again. You hear Spinel shuffling to walk towards you, and you scoot over to give her enough room.

“No kidding, your tossing and turning woke me up several times.” She leans down to sit next to you, wrapping her arms around her sides.

“I’m sorry. I ended up getting up because I didn’t want to also wake you, but I guess it didn’t matter.” You rub the back of your head sheepishly.

“Eh, It’s okay. I woulda woke up regardless.” She replies with a shrug, lifting a knee up to rest her chin upon it.

“Why, can’t sleep without me by your side?” You tease her a little.

“Maybe.” She says, sounding honest. “I think I might just be a light sleeper, though.”

“Mm, not really.” You pull the cloth tighter around your shoulders, a shiver creeping up your spine. “I’ve made quite a bit of noise before and you’ll still be passed out next to me, with like a little bit of drool on your face.”

“What! Do I have drool on me now?” She asks, feeling the side of her face self-consciously.

“No.” You giggle a little, rolling your eyes at her. “It’s only been once or twice. Chill.”

“Whatever.” She scoffs at you, shivering a little. “You talk in your sleep.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” She side eyes you, the moonlight illuminating her face. “It’s mostly gibberish, but sometimes.. like the other night, you said “potato”? Who’s potato?”

“Food.” You halfheartedly smack the side of your face dramatically. “Of course I’d subconsciously talk about food.”

“What..” She snorts, enough of a grin on her face to see her teeth. “That’s kind of..”

“Shut up. I miss fries. I miss mashed potatoes, I miss chips.. I really miss potatoes. What I wouldn’t give to eat that right now.” You groan.

“Humans are weird.” She looks at you amusedly.

“Listen, you wouldn’t understand. They’re delicious.” You whine, and kick your feet out from under you. Your legs were getting numb anyway.

“Hm.” She grunts, and you watch her shiver violently next to you. You.. feel a little bad that you’re hogging your makeshift blanket.

You lift up the arm closest to her, and gesture for her to take the other side of the cloth. She scoots a little closer to you, close enough for her leg to be pressed against yours, right up to your hip. She wraps the cloth around the other side of her, bringing it around to the front so now the entire thing is covering you two. You feel warmer already.

The two of you sit in silence for a little bit, watching the fog move with the wind in the distance. You don’t know why you’re almost uncomfortably aware of her presence now, when you’re so used to sleeping next to her literally every night.

"Y/N." She speaks up from beside you, and you nearly jump where you're sitting.

"Yeah?" You reply. Why are you feeling nervous?

"I've been.. thinking for a while." She clears her throat awkwardly, and takes a breath before continuing. "What are you going to do if we get off this planet?" She turns to face you, eyes wavering between yours.

You open your mouth to answer the obvious, and then shut it. Of course you're going back to Earth. But.. you find yourself wondering about what's going to happen to Spinel. You don’t know why, but the thought of never seeing Spinel again makes your chest hurt.

"..I'm going back to living my life on Earth." You reply, eventually. "Hopefully put all this past me. Maybe.. pick up a new hobby. Why? What are you gonna do?"

"I.." She breaks off, looking back out at the jungle and avoiding your eyes. "I don't know, actually. I don't have anywhere to go."

"You don't have anyone you want to see? Not even on Homeworld?" You ask.

She continues to stare out into the distance for a long moment before answering. You watch her for a while, gaze lingering on the sharp lines on her cheeks, her twintails swaying slightly in the wind. The moons make the white of her eyes more vibrant, and you find yourself drawn to them. She still will not meet your eyes.

"I don't.. have anyone." She says quietly, and something inside you breaks a little at the sadness in her tone.

"You have me." You hear yourself saying, before realizing it even came out of your mouth. You feel her freeze up on the spot.

Slowly, she turns her head to come face to face with you, expression completely vulnerable. When her eyes finally find it's way to yours, you realize that there's tears in them.

You.. you don't know what to do.

She pulls you into a hug before your brain can process anything, wrapping both of her arms around you under the drop cloth. Her chin rests on your shoulder near the crook of your neck.

"You're not just saying that, right?" She mumbles quietly, feeling her warm breath against your neck and trying not to shudder. You feel your own heartbeats thumping inside your chest as you wrap your arms around her torso, bringing them around her back to hug her tightly. You can feel her gem pressed against your breast, the hard angles digging into you.

It's warm, like her.

"Of course I mean it. We're friends, yeah?" You reply, earnestly.

She doesn't move for a solid several seconds, and you're worried that you said something to have upset her. Just as you're about to backtrack, she turns to face you again, and this time there's some kind of tenderness in her eyes as her shoulders visibly sag in relief.

"You called us friends, I can't believe it." She says, the corner of her mouth upturned in a slight smile that reaches her eyes, and for the first time since meeting her, she looks genuinely happy.

And this somehow does things to your heart that it has no business doing. You look away quickly, tearing your gaze from hers, and pack those feelings so far down inside you that hopefully you'll forget they are there.

"I.. yeah. I did." You finish, lamely. You don't know how to be genuine without being awkward.

"I'm keeping this moment in my memory forever." She says, face breaking out into a slow grin.

"Ugh, shut uppp." You say, and she chokes out a snort. "Anyway, I told you about this. We made a Little Homeworld on Earth. You could come visit it whenever you want, maybe to meet some new gems, and learn some new skills?"

"I don't know." She replies a bit hesitant. "I don't feel like I'd fit in."

"I think you'd be fine. Something tells me you'd fit right in with some of the Lapis's we have."

"Why do I feel like you're insulting me somehow?" She says, squinting at you.

"Don't worry about it." You shrug, grinning at her.

"Whenever you say something in that tone, I'm immediately suspicious."

"Then you know me better than most people." You chuckle.

Her face is too close to yours. You're overly warm now, and you think your heartbeats are so loud that she can probably hear them. You hope she can't. You realize that the both of you are still hugging, and pull away before your stupid touch-starved brain does something incredibly stupid tonight. She reluctantly pulls her arms away from you, clasping her hands in her lap after pulling the tarp close.

You try to ignore the disappointed look on her face when you pull away, and mentally scream at yourself to get your shit together. You're a disaster waiting to happen.

"I'm not too sure about your friends, though. I have a feeling they won't be happy about that." She says, tone slightly worried.

"Once they hear about what Pink did to you, and I tell them that you regret attacking Steven, I don't think they'll care too much." You reply, turning to face her slightly, pulling the cloth closer to yourself. She's still got her side pressed to yours, but you're cold.

"I'm a little more concerned with the fact that I took you. And for this long. They'll think it's deliberate.."

"Spinel." Her eyes are drawn to yours. "Trust me on this. I know them. Don't worry about it."

"If you say so." She shrugs, not seeming to be convinced. "Um.. so what kinda stuff would Little Homeworld teach? Gem stuff?"

"Yeah. They also have a lot of human classes too, if you're curious." You notice that she seems to perk up at that.

"Human classes? What for?" She raises her eyebrows in confusion, and scoots a little closer to you, drawing the cloth tighter around you two. You feel her shiver a little.

"They have classes ranging from understanding regular human norms to things like art and cooking. Depends on if you can't grasp the concept of crossing the street safely or not, honestly." You feel a little warmer, and draw your legs back underneath the cover of warmth.

"Cooking, huh." She puts a finger to her mouth in complentation.

"I feel like I should suggest art."

"Why?"

"Because I have a feeling that cooking with you will be a disaster." You retort.

"Hey!" She scoffs, mock betrayal in her voice, yet she's got a smile on her face. "How would you know! You've never seen me cook!"

"And I've never seen you eat. If you don't know what tastes good, how do you think that'll go?"

"Psh, I can try sometime.." She trails off, pouting.

"Yeah, well, don't start with the fruit here." You giggle. "Pretty sure you can't really do anything with it anyway. Regardless, I'm sure anything you end up trying you'll be good at."

"You think so?" She looks to you, like she actually cares about what you have to say.

"Of course. You're pretty adaptable as is, I mean, if the stuff we've been through has anything to say.." You feel kind of self conscious all of a sudden, as her gaze lingers on you thoughtfully.

"You know, you can be kind of nice sometimes, Y/N." She says softly, giving you a knowing smile.

"Ugh shut up, and don't tell anyone." Is all you can reply with, and she chokes out a laugh at that.

"There's no one here but us, you idiot! Who would I tell!?" She chuckles gleefully, and the two of you continue to talk for a while about Earth and Little Homeworld, until you get cold and sleepy enough to want to head back down to the base level.

"Wanna try going back to sleep?" You ask her eventually, when the conversation lulls enough for you to feel your eyes droop.

"Might as well. Ya' kinda look like you need it, anyway." She reluctantly pulls the cloth away from around her shoulders.

"Wow, you saying I look tired?" You stand up and glare at her half-heartedly, holding out a hand in a silent offer. She looks at your face, and then her eyes drop down to your hand, staring at it for a moment.

"It shows on your face." She takes your hand, grasping it with hers as she lifts herself off the ground. She holds it for a second or two longer than necessary, before dropping it from her grasp entirely.

"Ugh." You scoff, heading for the stairs. "Of course it does."

You both walk back down together, but this time you remember to ask her about something this time when you're passing it. When you get down another few floors and into the room with the crates full of cloth, you show her.

She peers into one of the open crates, digging through it with her gloved hand. She grabs one of the bundles of ivory cloth, lifting it up to squint at.

"What was all this used for?" You ask. "Because with these other supplies, it makes it seem like materials for a first aid kit, and that makes absolutely no sense coming from gems."

"Um." She runs the fabric in-between her fingers, and then looks at the blades and needles that are also in here. "I hate to break it to ya', but I'm pretty sure these are all just.. decorative supplies." She drops the cloth back into the crate.

"Was kinda hoping for a better answer." You reply, feeling put-out.

"We could use the cloth to make some kind of torch for you, and then we could go into the tunnels." She suggests, locking eyes with you.

"Oh, that's.." You trail off, looking back at her in pleasant surprise. "That's actually smart, Spinel. That's a great idea."

"Thanks." She replies, and turns her head slightly so she thinks you can't see the half smile she's got on her face.

She's cute.

You find the thought jarring. She doesn't see it when you feel your own face change a bit in surprise at yourself, and you're thankful for that as you quickly mask it. What the fuck is wrong with you tonight.

"I think the cloth would burn out too quickly by itself though." You say, picking up some of it and feeling the weight. "We should see if there's some kind of oil we can use that would work for this. Or find tree sap. I can make something with that, now that I think about it."

"I think I know of a few areas nearby with some."

"Cool, we can gather some tomorrow then." You place the fabric back into the crate, knowing you'll be back for some of it later. You grab one of the smaller blades though, and stick that into your pocket. It'll come in handy, you think. "Can I show you something else though? Just in case it's something we can actually use."

"Sure, what is it?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Down a few more floors, actually. More crates of stuff." You gesture for her to follow you, and she does.

A few minutes later and you're down on one of the lower floors, and you show her the numerous crates with cylinder metal pieces. She takes one out, spinning it around in her hands, examining it closely.

"I'm pretty sure these are replacement pieces for some of the injectors."

"So they're useless to us." You state, shoulders sagging.

"I'm afraid so. I mean.. honestly, it'd be rare for them to have brought anything else other than what they needed."

"Yeah, it just sucks."

"What exactly were ya' hopin' for, Y/N?"

"I don't know.." You mumble. "Parts to a ship?"

"Pfft." She snickers. "That's funny. You think they cared about slow ships when they had warp pads? Other than bringing large amounts of supplies here."

"Ugh, yeah I know, I was just hopeful." You groan. "Whatever, let's just get back downstairs already. I'm tired."

"Yes, ya' majesty."

You smack her, and she chuckles.

When you get back down to the bottom, you practically flop down on the pile of tarps. You're tired as fuck at this point. You smooth out and rearrange the pile you're on while Spinel gets in beside you, about a foot or two away. When you finally settle, you notice that she doesn't get any closer to you - keeping herself at that distance.

"How come you're still like, way over there? You're usually right up in my personal space." You turn to face her.

"I maybe just realized that I've been doing all that without asking if you were okay with it, so.." She trails off, a little nervously.

You stare at her.

She's.. she's thinking about this now? You almost laugh at the absurdity of it, since she's been doing this for weeks now without a second thought. And then.. you realize, this is an incredible amount of personal growth for her. She's thinking about your feelings, and you feel stupid for almost laughing.

"Come here." You sigh, and she looks at you without moving. You roll your eyes, and open your arms. "I'm cold, Spinel."

"I knew ya' couldn't resist this." She breaks out into a cheeky grin, and scoots closer to you so she can flop on your outstretched arm.

"It would be so easy to strangle you right now." You mumble, moving the arm underneath her a little in mock movement, and she laughs.

"But ya' wouldn't." She replies in between giggles, and turns over to her side.

"Pfft, you don't know me." You flop your other arm over her so you're facing her back as you roll over, and you try and sap as much warmth as you can from her.

"I think I know you more than ya' think by now." She says, and you feel very warm. Absolutely cozy, in fact. You push some of her hair away as it's basically in your face, giving the back of her head one final glance as you close your eyes sleepily.

"Mm." Is all you manage to say to that before passing out, Spinel warm in your arms.

#spinel x reader #spinel #su #Steven Universe #distant lands #my fic #what are feelings if not to deny them?

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