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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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𝕊𝕖𝕝𝕗-𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 🐚Yandere! leviathan X Reader🐚

I’m trying out a new writing style, so please let me know what you think! This story is rather abstract and switches a bit between reader POV and Leviathan’s POV.

WARNINGS: VERY DARK, suicidal themes, self harm, mild gore, verbal abuse, self-hatred, objectification and cursing.

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ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴀɴ ᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ, ᴀɴ ᴏʟᴅ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ: "ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀ ʀᴇᴘᴇʟꜱ". ʙᴜᴛ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀɴʏ ʟᴏɢɪᴄ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʀᴇꜱᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟᴅᴏᴍ?

The two of you were the same, cut from the exact same depressing, aversion cloth.

The two of you were mangled disjointed creatures with lanky brittle bones made up of self-loathing and mismatched hatred. Broken from displaced frustration and indecent, vulgar tendencies, that no one could snuff out of either of you.

Instead of guts and intestines both you, the lowly human, and him, the feared sea serpent, had long strings of pity that coiled inside your stomachs.

Eyes as green as the ripest emerald blinded by endless, unchecked envy towards all things that so much as breathed.

Rotting pink brains filled with nothing but depressive thoughts and screeching banshee-like voices that never seem to cease.

Yes, you and Leviathan were the exact same thing...

There's a certain aroma that floats and flocks around a person with such low regard for themselves. Where ever you walked a thick suffocating cloud of despair followed like a lost limping mutt. Pure unaltered self-disgust rolls off you like waves in the middle of a storm.

This is one of the things Leviathan loves about you, the intoxicating saddening aura that you wear like the finest perfumes. Although if caught like a deer in headlights, the sea serpent would just lie through his shark-like teeth and make some remarks about your pretty smile or shiny eyes.

Truth is, he HATES when you smile. Hated when hope and joy and all things bright and good twinkle in your eyes like the flicker of a newborn star.

Oh no, you're all so much prettier when you frown, when you look like your lust for life is all died out. When your eyes twinkle with that sort of sweet despair like all your hope has gotten engulfed by a black hole.

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There's something wrong with you. You don't know what, but it's there, you can feel it everywhere you go.

Maybe it's the repulsive way your skin is stretched so suffocatingly thin across your bones. Or maybe it's the way you pick at your open scars, digging deeper and deeper past blazing red tissue until it starts to bleed again.

Whatever it is you aren't sure, but something is most definitely wrong with you.

maybe that's why, on a particularly bad, paranoid day, you finally decide to just end it.

Although it's never that simple is it?

There's something no one ever tells you about the cessation of life. A mysterious negative hour that happens just as the last atom of oxygen is departing from your lungs. A negative one, a negative two, and if you get expressly unlucky than also a negative three. This is usually when you start to wonder if you did it right, if the rope is too loose or hung too low. The dam of reality breaks and all uncertainty pours through with no real regard for what it's destroying. Are you're really still alive? Or is this some post-mortem induced dream? Everything makes about as much sense as when you were alive, only now it's foggy and ambiguous and all so distant like a far off dream...

It's also the time when every good memory comes rushing back, spilling carelessly akin to the blood gushing from the vain you slashed a month ago. You're dying far too slowly and all too semi-lucidly.

This is far from how you thought your escape plan would go.

The plan shatters even more when you actually open your eyes again and realize that you're no longer dangling from the ceiling. Instead, you're wrapped in some sort of lukewarm blanket, trapped between glacial white walls that bite at your fingers why you try to push them away.

And staring down at you with a sort of raw envy that your human mind couldn't fabricate, was non other than the third born himself.

Up to this day you still don't know who saved you, the seven brothers treat the whole ordeal like Pandora's box, tucking it under volts of diamond and throwing the key into the abyss. As long as it stays out of sight, out of tongue's reach and ears range then it'll surely be out of mind. Everything will be just fine so long as lord Diavolo doesn't hear what happened to the precious little human. Everything is just fine if everyone ignores it.

Personally, you don't mind the outcome. You're restrained to Levi's room, being under his watch and alleged "care" for all hours of the day. It's to keep you safe Lucifer assures, although your own guilt likes to twist the words into something more like, "It's to get rid of a nuisance".

Either which way life starts to escalate just a tiny bit.

Funny how even self-loathing and inner hatred seem to fade away when there's someone to share the pain with.

Soon it's no longer "I wish I could die" or "why can't I just be God damn good enough!"

but rather "We seriously should split a suicide built" and "Wouldn't it be fun if we both dive off a cliff head first into lava?"

With someone just as aggravated and self-destructive as yourself, things start to look up...that is until you do the unforgivable, at least so it's written in Levi's demented book.

You step too far, you start to ask things, start to pry into things that shouldn't matter to you.

And then you do it, the worst of the worst, you smile...

Straight after asking him such a revolting sincere question

"What do you think about life?"

It's meant to be rhetorical, you TRY to make it sound rhetorical. But any social norms or form of sarcasm goes over Levi's head like the basketballs he's never able to catch. His attention snaps to you, like a snake being alerted that a predator is a near...or prey, again it's really impossible to tell.

His neck cranes at an odd angle as his tail curls inwards. For a split millisecond, you can swear on your almost grave that you see his tongue dart out before zipping back into his toothy mouth. Predator, he definitely sees you as a predator.

"Baby, not much...I-i want to die"

Time doesn't stop, not even when all understanding and logic have tipped their hats at the door and disappeared into the great beyond. Leviathan's slit eyes stare at you, behind all the pain and broken anger, for just an instant you think you see the fragments of understanding shine, brighter than the never setting moon.

He's just like you,

You're just like him,

That's when the trouble creeps over. The corners of your mouth take a turn upwards and push your cheeks back, making way for a grin. It's faint and ghostly at best...up it's there.

It just has to be there....

That godforsaken satisfied smile.

When you're attention flicker's to Levi again you notice his arm pulling back, throwing the controller across the room with anger worst than anything Satan could summon upon his worst day.

"Don't fucking do that!"

You're stoned in place, eyes too scared to move from the sea snake, what went wrong? Why does something always go wrong?

"D-do what..?"

It's not your fault that you're voice shakes and breaks, not your fault that the room starts to spiral out of control. It's his fault, all his fault...but is anything ever really his fault?

"Don't look happy! Or hopeful! You look so freaking ugly when you smile!"

His voice is shockingly low, like a mother trying to get her child to settle down after a tantrum. He's borderline cooing at you to "act" properly again. Never the less the venom and disgust are steel audible, glittering like a silver lining.

For once though it's not worth it to stop smiling, all the screams and yells and depravities of the world can't erase this smile from your face.

"Six thousand-year-old demon and you actually dream of death rather than eternal hell on earth or torturing the damned? You really are a broken one Leviathan."

The blue-haired sea monster just shrugs in reply before slithering closer, wrapping his slender bony arms around your waist, they feel like Thamnophis coiling around your midsection, sinking into your flesh. His heavy head falls onto your lap, you can practically hear all the outcries of jealousy and cries of purified agony.

"What can I say...we're both two disgusting broken things that have no right to live or any claim to happiness...but well, fuck happiness who needs it...right?

Yeah, who needs a thing that only creeps into the heart under perfect circumstances and that floats away at the drop of a feather, who needs happiness and joy, when the two of you can forevermore rot in your own envy and depression....together.

Always together

Rotting forever.

"Right...screw happiness and all it's stupid worth."

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

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Light the Pyres |Light| - SUNGYOON

Don’t know how I'm still alive after posting that last chapter but I appreciate the whole not killing me thing guys

Pairing: Sungyoon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, bits of fluff, apocalypse!au

Triggers: cursing, death, implied suicide of a side character (no suicidal thoughts), semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 5.7k

As the world burns its last goodbyes, you find a jewel amidst the ashes.

Previous: Strike >> Light >> Next: Rise

Golden Child Masterlist

You wake up to silence.

Blearily, you blink once, trying to clear the inky darkness from your vision. It doesn’t leave – it’s still night.

You blink again, confused. Why are you awake…?

Silence. No second set of breathing, no shuffling in sleep.

Daeyeol?

Your head whips to the side so fast that your neck almost cracks. No one’s in the passenger seat. Where –

Oh.

Right.

You sink back into your seat, pressure beginning to pound behind your eyes again. Right. He’s dead. Even though he was here just hours ago, he’s dead. He’ll never be here again.

Blinking away the tears distracts you from the uneasy silence, but when they’re gone, the quiet settles again. Daeyeol’s absence makes sense. It should explain the lack of sound other than your breath, but…

Oh, fuck.

Fuck.

You whip around. The previous lump of mystery boy that used to be in the backseat is gone.

Oh my God.

Is he stupid?

Digging around your bag produces a flashlight and your gun. There’s only one bullet left – you curse yourself for not reloading earlier – but you grab the bag, shove open the door, and step into the night.

Warm night air curdles against your cheeks. You can already feel sweat beginning to bead on your forehead, sticking your dirty hair to your skin, but you quickly lock the car door and set off down the empty highway.

He can’t have gotten far. Mystery boy’s leg was fractured or something, and even though he was able to walk, you know that the injury means he can’t have gone more than a few miles. It’ll be a pain in the ass, especially since there are at least a few hours before sunrise – more opportunity for zombies to jump out of nowhere when you can’t fucking see, which makes you wonder again just what this mystery boy was thinking when he left – but. Well. You can’t just leave him, can you?

You could, an unhelpful voice in the back of your mind says. You could just ignore him and go on alone.

You stop walking. You could do that, couldn’t you? Wasn’t that what you wanted earlier, anyway? For mystery boy to just be gone?

But Daeyeol would never approve. He’d be upset, angry, disappointed, even, if you didn’t go after him. It’s what he would’ve done.

Even if it came at the cost of his own life.

Fucking Daeyeol. You sigh, stepping forward even as a tiny, tired smile curves your lips and tears burn in your eyes. Still your friend, still someone you look up to, even in the grave.

Besides, this is Daeyeol’s life that mystery boy is living on. The thought twists your stomach, but you keep walking forward. Hell if you’re going to let him waste it with some stupidity like this, even if you hate that the exchange was made in the first place.

Ten minutes pass. You take out a box of (dwindling) ammunition and begin to reload your gun. Twenty. Thirty. The slightest sound makes you flinch, though you don’t dare turn on your flashlight for fear of giving yourself away to predators, zombie or human. Forty. Fifty.

At the hour mark, light glimmers on the horizon, and you’re about to give up. Either mystery boy started out too early or he has some superhuman reservoir of strength that let him outstrip you even on an injured leg.

Or he’s dead.

With that depressing thought, you stop, contemplating turning back. You still have half a country to cross. You’ve walked back at least three miles, which means three miles to make up when you finally get on your way. And if that boy is dead by now –

A darker shadow in the distance catches your eye. It’s upright. Looks like it’s moving forward, away from you.

Maybe not dead, then.

It doesn’t take too long to catch up. Mystery boy hears your footsteps and turns around in evident surprise, eyes widening visibly even against the still-dark sky.

“Idiot,” is the first thing you snap when you finally catch up. He’s stopped walking – thank God – and you motion impatiently for him to sit down. He doesn’t at first, but when you gesture more insistently, he complies with what looks like an expression of almost relief. “What were you thinking, leaving at night?”

He doesn’t answer.

You sigh. “Look, I’m not the smartest person in the world, but even I wouldn’t be caught dead in the middle of an empty highway, walking on a possibly injured leg, essentially acting as a slowly-moving target for any straggling zombie or desperate survivor.”

“You didn’t exactly seem to want me around.”

Not his fault.

Not. His. Fault.

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t,” you say truthfully, praying that a bite doesn’t find its way into your words. “But I’m not heartless.”

A small scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Not.

His.

Fault.

“If I was so heartless, you think I would’ve come after you in the fucking dark?” you snap. “You’re going in the complete opposite direction I was headed in and I still came over here to fucking find you.”

“You didn’t have to,” mystery boy replies, now staring you right in the eyes with a disturbed gaze. You see a lot of emotions swirling around in the dark – confusion, anger, resentment, sadness.

Emotion rises in your own throat and you turn away, teeth gritted. If you look at him any longer, you’re pretty sure you’ll cry, and you really don’t need that. “You’re right.” You shrug, still not meeting his eyes. “But Daeyeol would have hated me if I didn’t.”

It takes a moment to realize you’ve just given him the name of the boy who sacrificed himself for your escape. You curse yourself. How could you have given up his name, Lee Daeyeol, the only thing you have remaining of your best friend besides your memories?

From the slight intake of breath, you gather that mystery boy has made the connection, too. “Was that… was that your friend’s name?”

You swallow hard, pointedly still looking away. No sense in lying. “Yes,” you get out, tears beginning to press behind your eyes. “And you’re living on his life right now, so I’m also not going to let you throw it away so easily.”

“So my life wouldn’t be worth as much if he hadn’t given up his for me?”

“Daeyeol was my friend for over twenty years,” you snarl, turning back to stare him in the eye. “The only person who knows me better than he does – did –” your voice cracks – “was my mom. So you ask me.”

He holds your gaze for half a second before dropping it, the fight draining out of his expression. “Fair enough,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear. And when his words do finally register, you think you’ve heard him wrong. ‘Fair enough?’ What kind of response is that?

“What?”

Mystery boy doesn’t reply.

After several moments of silence, you break it again. “Okay.” You fix your gaze on mystery boy again, even if he doesn’t look back. “What were you trying to do when you left? Where were you going? As far as I know, the city I found you in had a horde of zombies, and even if Daeyeol cleaned most of them out before – well, you’d have to be pretty much suicidal to go back.”

Silence. Then –

“My sister.” Mystery boy swallows hard. You can’t tell in the darkness even though it’s getting a little lighter, but his eyes look a little shiny. “And her boyfriend.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You turn away, trying to disguise your emotions. This is why you can’t deal with people, for fuck’s sake. This is why Daeyeol handled most of the human interaction over the past couple of months. The second you hear a sob story, the second you hear about the people others have lost…

Too late. Your heart aches, even more so because now you understand. Firsthand.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Are they alive?”

“I don’t know.” He raises his head. “I left to find them.”

Jesus Christ.

Fine. You get it. Half of you wants to go back too, to find Daeyeol and give him a proper burial instead of being left to rot with flies buzzing over his body. But it’s dangerous. Possibly suicide. There were at least several zombies that Daeyeol didn’t manage to pick off before he had to use his last bullet on himself. You have no way of knowing whether or not there are more.

Daeyeol would tell you to keep going, to forget about his body and just focus on staying alive. If you hadn’t walked back several miles already, you might’ve taken that advice. But you did, and he isn’t here to talk sense into you anymore, isn’t here to be selfless.

And you need to do something, anything, for the friend who gave up so much for you.

You stand brusquely, hold out a hand. “Get up.”

Mystery boy’s eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t take it.

You sigh. “You’re trying to find your sister, right? And her boyfriend? Last time you saw them was in the city?”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I’m coming with you.” Impatient, you reach down and pull him up. “If you collapse on that leg, at least you’ll have someone to carry you elsewhere.”

Mystery boy looks at you with dubious eyes that make your hackles want to rise. “That can’t be the only reason you’re coming.”

“Caught,” you snap, letting go of his hand. “You’re right, I’m not selfless enough for that. I want to bury my friend, even if it means going on a possible suicide mission. Sue me.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, an expression that almost looks like a smile widens his lips. “Doubt there’s a lawyer left in this country to sue you, even if I wanted to.”

He made a joke. He made a joke, and though it wasn’t even that funny, the corners of your lips twitch. “Come on,” you say, starting off so he won’t see it. “Let’s see how much that leg of yours can take before you collapse.”

. . . . .

According to the highway signs, mystery boy makes it another five miles before he needs a break. Though the sun’s gone up and you’re impatient, you give it to him. It’s slightly alarming, really, how far he got with an injured leg, and besides, there are only a couple miles left. In ten minutes, he’s up and you start off again.

Too late and too soon, you arrive at the highway exit that leads to the town where you found mystery boy. The silence between you two grows thicker, heavier with bloody memories as you keep slogging forward, the hot sun beginning to creep up the sky.

“Here,” you finally say, breaking the quiet. You recognize the junction in the streets, the mess of cars and broken glass at the end of this small alleyway between two buildings. “Where did you last see them?”

Mystery boy swallows hard, eyes flicking left and right. “They went into one of the buildings,” he says quietly. “We got attacked and I drew the zombies away so they could…” He trails off.

You really don’t have it in you to imagine what happened. “Which building?”

He points a glass-walled building. Most of the windows seem intact, at least on the first floor. Lettering on the glass spells out CAFETERIA. “I think it was that one.”

Well. At least you might be able to find some food or water. Assuming you don’t get killed.

“Watch my back” is all you say before entering the empty square.

Bodies litter the ground, mostly pale-skinned with tiny pupils and black veins. Dried blood powders the bottom of your shoes as you walk forward, gun at the ready.

You almost step on another gun. A very familiar one. Which means…

Bile rises in your throat as a mop of brown hair enters your periphery. You have to force yourself not to look that way, not to stare at the pool of blood that you know is his, not to follow the red stains until you see the body, the shell of Lee Daeyeol, your best friend basically since birth –

Your head snaps away and you take a deep, shuddering breath. Mystery boy has stopped walking too, staring at the empty bus where he was stranded less than a day ago.

“Come on.” Your whisper is a little harsh, but he jerks his gaze away and nods, following you over blood and glass towards the building.

And immediately you back away as the faint but sickening sound of groans fills your ears.

Behind you, mystery boy looks stricken. You understand. If there are zombies in the building, they could very well have caught his sister and her boyfriend already.

“Your call,” you whisper, back to hiding behind a wall. You can’t see any zombies in the cafeteria area, but the faint sounds indicate they’re deeper in the building. “You still want to find them?”

Dark eyes take in the scene. Mystery boy’s jaw sets. “You don’t have to come.”

He’s right. You don’t have to. You could just drag Daeyeol’s body away and find somewhere to bury it and ignore this boy whose name you still don’t know.

But it’s Daeyeol’s life he’s living on. And what the fuck was the point of Daeyeol dying if mystery boy only lived one more day than he would have?

“I walked ten miles to get here, and you’re living on Daeyeol’s time,” you reply, flicking the safety off your gun. Eighteen bullets. Each one needs to count. “What would be the point if you only managed to live one day extra?”

Something curdles in mystery boy’s gaze, but he nods. “We should see if we can figure out where the zombies are,” he says. “Better if we avoid them. Or are at least ready to face them.”

You can’t argue with that. So you carefully follow him around the building, slowly, quietly. No one pops out, but the groaning grows louder as you approach the left side. “Right,” you mutter, jerking your head in that direction. Wordlessly, mystery boy follows your steps.

A locked door, easily picked, seems to lead underground. The emergency lights are miraculously still on – if there’s a generator and it runs on gas, you might be able to siphon some off and hotwire a car, which you note – but they make an eerie glow against peeling paint as you walk deeper into the building.

Every sound echoes on the walls. You try to muffle your footsteps but the echoes don’t die, only soften slightly and not nearly enough to stop you from wanting to bolt with every sound. Behind you, mystery boy’s breath has grown slightly harsher, more labored. His leg can’t be doing well. If you keep walking down these stairs, it’s only going to get worse.

But this was what he wanted. And from the look in his eyes outside, you’re pretty sure he’d rather die than try to run.

The staircase finally ends, leaving a smooth pathway to walk on. You pause for a moment to see if mystery boy wants a break, but he keeps moving forward, even though he’s almost hugging the walls at this point. You fall behind – you’re in more shape to keep watch than he is, anyway – and then you hear the groans.

Mystery boy stops. You swallow. “Let me in front,” you say, edging forward. “I have the weapon and I’m uninjured. Watch my back.”

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t say you two should just leave like you kind of want him to. So you keep walking through the eerie glow, groans filling your ears as the pathway opens into a large, empty room. Several machines line the walls with various warning signs, cables running over the floor. But that isn’t what catches your attention, what elicits the gasp from mystery boy’s throat.

At the far end of the room, two zombies are tied to a machine, rubber cables around their ankles keeping them from lunging across the floor. One has short white hair, a boy. The other, with long, dark hair, is a girl. They look like they tied themselves standing up, but since then, they’ve fallen to the floor. Snarling mouths and shrunken pupils fixate in your direction.

Mystery boy collapses against the wall. Wide eyes fill with shock, with fear, with loathing and self-hatred and despair as he stares at the groaning girl and boy, gaze unable to leave them.

Sister and boyfriend. You don’t know who turned first, but at least one had enough sense to tie their legs up before they fully transformed. Your chest tightens, bile rising in your throat as they struggle to crawl across the floor, trying to get to flesh, human flesh –

A loud, scraping noise sounds as the machine keeping the boy in place groans, the boy himself trying to scrabble forward on clawing hands. You whip your gun around, training it on his head.

“Don’t shoot.”

It’s barely a whisper, but mystery boy’s voice keeps you from pulling the trigger. You look at him, one eye still focused on the scrabbling zombie. “You want to just leave them?” you ask, unable to keep the incredulity out of your words.

Anger flashes in his eyes as he stands. “You try killing someone close to you,” he snaps. A tear slides down his cheek.

He’s upset. He’s scared. He’s desperate and horrified and probably still can’t process everything right now. That knowledge alone keeps you from screaming about Daeyeol and how he’s dead and how this boy right here killed him with his inability to keep the zombies at bay.

A groaning screech. Both of you jump. The girl’s machine squeals against the wall as she tugs, whitened arms outstretched toward your bodies.

You raise your gun again. “You have one minute to make the call,” you say, words shaking with grief and anger even as you try to steady your voice. “I can leave them here and go. Or I can put them both out of this misery and we can carry their bodies out and we’ll bury them with Daeyeol.” Your finger twitches on the trigger, but you don’t pull. “Unless you have good aim and want to do it yourself, but it’s easier for someone unattached. One minute and I make the decision. You know which one I’ll pick.”

Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven…

Mystery boy doesn’t say a word.

Forty-four, forty-three, forty-two…

You grit your teeth. “Thirty seconds.”

Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, nineteen…

“Ten seconds.”

Nine, eight, seven, six…

Cracked, broken words spill from equally broken lips. “Do it.”

You take a breath. Pull the trigger.

Bang. Bang.

The groaning stops, two silent bodies slumped on the floor. You lower the gun, two fewer bullets in the chamber. Blood oozes onto the ground.

You don’t look at mystery boy as you step forward, flicking the safety back on the gun. “Help me carry them out before other zombies find us.”

. . . . .

Blind luck leads you safely out of the building and back into harsh sunshine. Blinking against the bright light, you heave the boyfriend’s deathly white body into the open air. Mystery boy follows behind with his sister.

His sister. You swallow down the bile stinging your throat. If it hurts as much as Daeyeol’s death did…

There’s no tell-tale sound of groaning as you heave the two bodies into the square, careful to keep the mouths turned away from your skin. You look around instinctively, blinking sunspots out of your eyes as you look around for silent zombies, lurkers that might have escaped your ears.

Instead, your gaze lands on Daeyeol, his brown hair, the dried blood pooled around his head. His gun lies next to an outstretched hand. A few bugs buzz around, but he hasn’t been dead quite long enough for them to have fully taken over.

And his eyes are still open.

Oh, hell…

You swallow hard, blinking back tears as your nonexistent breakfast threatens to leave your lips. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose your mind.

As if on autopilot, you lay down the boyfriend’s body, enough sense left to use some care. Your feet take you to the dried blood, to the gun on the ground, to Daeyeol’s empty husk of a body, face a bit paler than you remembered, veins darker than you would have liked. Or maybe it’s just in your head – not enough time passed before he shot himself to make even a quarter of the full transition. None of that should be visible.

It’s better. It’s better. It’s better this way, you repeat over and over as you kneel down. At least you died before you turned.

Batting away bugs with one hand, you reach out trembling fingers to rest on his blood-stained hair, carefully avoiding the bullet hole in the side of his head. It’s longer than you remembered. Either he didn’t cut it as short as you originally thought or he’s shrunken in death and it just looks longer.

Death.

Dead.

He’s dead.

He’ll never wake up again.

Your fingers tighten in his hair even as the reminder of death flips your stomach. You card through the brown mop once, twice, trying to mimic the way you used to when he sometimes got sick as a kid and you would keep him company. Your hands move in practiced motions, slowly, smoothly, but it feels unnatural even though your muscles remember how to move. Maybe because Daeyeol’s scalp isn’t warm beneath your fingers, maybe because he doesn’t shift and sigh in relaxation and tell you he feels better already.

Tears burn in your eyes. Too bad you couldn’t have done it in his last moments. Couldn’t have given him the slightest bit of comfort after he had to turn the gun on himself for your stupid safety.

I’m sorry.

One tear escapes and rolls down your face. A lump rises in your throat and you swallow painfully hard, blinking fast to release the tears and calm yourself. Your fingers shake uncontrollably as you drop them from his hair, tracing down Daeyeol’s cold skin to slide his eyelids shut, one after another. You shiver when you let go. The sun lends a bit of warmth to his face, but it can’t fully chase away the chill of death.

You close your eyes. Take a breath. Hair flecked with blood and bits of brain stains the backs of your eyelids.

It’s okay.

You’re okay.

But Daeyeol isn’t.

Shoving away that traitorous thought, you stand unsteadily and turn back to mystery boy, who looks about as good as you feel. He doesn’t stare back, only keeps his eyes fixed on the two bodies laid out in front of him, face ashen and tears running down his skin. At some point during your little grieving session, he also knelt down beside the bodies, brushed their hair out of their faces and closed their staring eyes. You almost say something about getting up and moving on, but his expression and the tears racing down his face silence your voice.

You just shot his sister and her boyfriend, two people he clearly held dear. Even if they were essentially dead anyway, it wouldn’t – still won’t – be easy for him.

And you were kind of callous about it, too. One minute to make a decision, one minute before you made it yourself, one minute to decide whether or not to kill his zombified sister and her boyfriend…

Your eyes lower as shame burns in your chest. You go to turn away but Daeyeol’s body is right there and you have to turn back but then mystery boy is on the other side –

With a shuddering sigh, you sink into a crouch, hands over your eyes. You don’t speak, even though you can now feel mystery boy’s gaze on you, sharp, probing, probably hateful and angry and for good reason. You don’t look back. He’ll turn away soon enough, to go back and grieve for the people you forced him to let you kill.

The least you can do is give him some time for that.

. . . . .

A small, abandoned house in the town provides welcome shelter after burying the bodies in sweltering heat. Not even a few bloodstains on the floor and door deter you. Your hands are still caked with dirt and runny blisters from digging in the only soft ground you could find, an overgrown green park, but you don’t have enough water to justify washing them off. Instead, you find a towel hanging in the bathroom and pat most of the dirt clean. The white cloth comes away streaked brown and red.

In the empty living room, mystery boy lies on the couch, injured leg outstretched over the cushions. His gaze is blank, unseeing until you extend your half-empty bottle of water in his direction. Wordlessly, he grasps it. Takes a few swallows. Hands it back.

Two gulps of water soothe the sandpaper feeling in your throat while half a granola bar stops the grumbling in your stomach. You put the other half on the coffee table next to him and leave the room to look for anything useful. When you return, a box of band-aids in one hand and several towels hung over your arm, it’s gone.

You go back to work on your hands. Silence stretches. When you finish, you turn to him. He doesn’t look back for a good few minutes, but when he realizes you’re looking at him, he meets your gaze with blank eyes.

You motion to his palms, hold up the box of band-aids. Words would explain your purpose more comprehensively, but they stick in your throat. It doesn’t feel right, speaking.

His eyebrows relax and slowly, he reaches out his hands. You clean them probably with more care than you gave your own, even pouring out a tiny capful of water to soothe some of the larger blisters. The Hello Kitty band-aids you found in the bathroom cabinet look comical against his skin and yours, but nothing really makes you feel like laughing. Not now.

Silence stretches into the afternoon and then into evening. Taking advantage of what natural light you have, you walk around the house some more. Several clean sheets makes their way into your bag along with the box of band-aids. A few bottles of water are still in the kitchen, as is a box of stale crackers. You debate whether or not to open those – you need food, but crackers are dehydrating, and you can’t tell if they’ve gone bad – before stuffing them in your bag anyway.

At some point, you hear muffled crying behind the walls. You crouch down, hold your hands over your ears – you can’t leave the kitchen until it stops but it doesn’t stop, just keeps going on and on and on and you want to scream, it hurts, it hurts –

The sobs finally stop. It takes at least five minutes for you to stand up on shaking legs and another five for you to work up the courage to walk back into the living room.

Mystery boy hasn’t moved an inch since you fixed up his hands. He shifts when you come back in, though, bag on your arm. His eyebrow raises over reddened eyes. “You’re not going to be an idiot, are you?”

It takes several seconds to register the insult, you’re so surprised he even spoke. “Sorry?”

“You called me an idiot for walking out in the dark.” He shifts again, pulling himself into more of a sitting position against the armrest. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to do the same.”

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Uh.” You look at the bag, the weight hanging heavy off your arm. “No. I was… I was just seeing if I could find anything.”

Something relaxes in his expression. It makes you frown. “Are you planning to leave?” you ask. The weight of your bag feels even heavier as you shift from leg to leg, waiting for a reply. “In the morning, I mean.”

Silence. Then –

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

His words are soft. Airy. Sad, desolate, but more like a sudden thought than the dark realization they really are.

You flinch anyway. Even if he doesn’t purposely hide knives or needles in his words, you can feel the unconscious ones nonetheless.

You’re the person who killed his last family. You’re the one who left him alone.

You’re the one who caused this.

“Oh,” you say lamely. Your bag slides down your arm, almost dropping to the floor before you catch it tight in one hand. The strap digs into your skin, stinging the cuts beneath pink Hello Kitty band-aids.

He looks at you. “Where are you planning to go?”

You swallow. It feels like a slap in his face to even say it, to show the thread of hope that you have but that he doesn’t. “Home,” you get out. “My mother.”

Another eyebrow raises to meet the first, though he turns away before you can see the resulting expression on his face. “She’s still alive?”

That makes you flinch again, though this time it’s at the possibility that she isn’t alive, that you’ve gone all this way and lost Daeyeol for nothing. “I don’t know,” you reply, voice barely a whisper. “But… before everything…” You swallow. “I told her to wait. And that I’d come and find her.”

“Must be nice, having a purpose in life.”

You brace yourself, waiting for the words to hit and cut through flesh and stab your chest. But to your surprise, they don’t.

There’s no resentment in his tone. Muted anger, yes, and grief. But his hunched figure speaks of no blame, no bitterness – at least none for you, not yet. You remain silent for a moment, trying to understand.

The words slip out before you realize you were even thinking them in the first place.

“You can come with me.”

Mystery boy freezes in his position. You can see his muscles tighten, feel the tension radiating from his prone figure on the couch.

You panic.

“I – I mean –” you swallow, trying to explain – “if you want to. And you probably don’t, because of what I did. It won’t mean much, but I’m really sorry. I was rude and callous and I should have realized how hard something like… something like that would be…” You trail off. “But, just… if you want to, you can.”

He stays still. Then the cushions shift as he turns to face you, eyes piercing into yours. Even though you’re the one standing and he’s the one sitting with an injured leg, you feel like you’re the one trapped here. Less power. Less control.

“Why?” he asks, voice suddenly sharp. You flinch. “Isn’t it hard enough just being here, knowing your friend died trying to save me?”

Why, indeed. You have no idea. The words just spilled from your tongue without thought – you didn’t even realize you were thinking them before you spoke. They don’t make sense, like he said. You were at his throat just a day ago. Less than that.

But still, you meant it. You didn’t just say your words as an empty invitation. You meant it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat but they’re the truth. They’re the truth. “It’s not your fault Daeyeol… not your fault Daeyeol died for you.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

The monster of anger and grief tries to rear its head in your chest, but you’re too tired to give it reign. “It’s true,” you say, staring at the floor. “Even if I still need to convince myself, it’s true.”

Mystery boy opens his mouth again. This time, his words sting less, but they still seem to deepen the cuts on your palms. “Wouldn’t I just be a burden on you with my leg? Especially if you’re trying to get across the country as fast as you can?”

You shift, right leg to left. “It’s what Daeyeol would have offered,” you murmur, voice barely audible. “He would have thought it was the right thing to do.”

It’s true. And as much as you’d like to say otherwise, you think it’s the right thing too. But that isn’t the only reason.

The other reason?

You’re afraid. Afraid of traveling alone. Terrified, even. The mere thought makes you want to hurl on the floor. Setting out with no one to keep quiet company, no one to watch your back, no one to just be there, even silent, no one to keep you from going insane with the thoughts that spin relentlessly in your mind…

Mystery boy’s voice breaks into your spiral. “Is that what you think is the right thing to do?”

Your gaze returns to his, sharp, unyielding. And you nod. “Yes,” you say, because that much is true. You don’t even need to convince yourself of it. “I do.”

Something breaks in his eyes, but not in a shattered glass type of way. It’s more like the snapping of tension, a fear or worry finally dashed away, replaced with relief. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but the room feels a little more comfortable. “Okay.”

You blink. “So… yes?”

He nods.

A little burst of warmth fills your chest, subtle relief pulsing through your body. Like mystery boy, you don’t put on a smile, but if you wanted to, you probably could. “I’m Y/N,” you say quickly, ducking your head. He’ll probably want some peace, but your name is the least you could give him before you start off together to the other side of the country. And if he needs something in the middle of the night, he’ll know what name to call.

You don’t expect him to reply. But as you begin to leave the living room to find another place to sleep, you hear him speak.

“I’m Sungyoon.”

A pause. Then, softer –

“And thank you.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for this budding relationship bc god they’re going to need it)

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petra-realsnk · 3 years

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Rivetra fanfic (divergence au)

Hello guys! I’ve finally finished the first chapter of my first fanfic ever. I must warn you this is just an introduction that sets the premise for what’s coming next, so the pacing will be quite fast in this one. I preferred to do it this way so you won’t have to wait too long for their interactions to happen. I also apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes since English isn’t my first language. This was quite hard to do! I changed some details of the list I posted a couple days ago because I felt it would work better this way.

This story will rely a lot on the blanks left by Isayama when dealing with Petra and Levi’s relationship, giving these characters a chance to reflect about the nature of their connection, responsability, and the pain of those things which just cannot be (the drama will be served lol). I will also be uploading it on AO3 later on.

Warnings: depictions of violence, angst, sadness or anguish.

All the characters belong to Hajime Isayama.

Tagging: @mikamoony thanks for the support!

Digging up a grave (Chapter 1)

After the resounding failure of the 57th expedition, the troops of the survey corps retreat hastily towards the shelter of the walls. Humanity has only recently learned about the existence of intelligent titans, of unexpected human nature, although even more surprises remain hidden on the abandoned battlefield... ( 2617 words)

She never reached:

After so many years fighting, he had grown used to the feeling of having every part of his body active, the tingling blood through his limbs and the acceleration of his perception. In such a tense moment, the sound of the chariot wheels became unconsciously annoying, increasing his anxiety. It was a monotonous and stable noise, almost as much as the danger to which they were constantly subjected. Unfortunately, however, not frantic enough to keep them away from the rumbling of gigantic footsteps dangerously approaching them. It didn't take much reasoning to figure out that getting rid of their fallen comrades was the most effective way to increase their speed and save themselves. However, it took him a moment to vocalize the decision. There was something about it that felt wrong, as if he was repeating his mistake by leaving them behind. Somehow, it comforted him to know that with that decision he was valuing their sacrifice, for he couldn't let their deaths lead to more casualties. After exchanging several shouts, the tail boards opened, dropping those bodies whose rescue had already posed a considerable risk.

If the sound of the carts already sapped their weary minds, now it was added the dreadful crash of their friends against the ground, some of them to be eaten by the titans, others to be crushed and forgotten in the same place they went to find their freedom but instead found their deaths.

Levi tried uselessly to take his gaze away from that sight, he knew it was his job to supervise his soldiers, but his eyes couldn't help searching for her silhouette in each covered figure. He remembered in detail where he had placed her, how he had tied her shroud and tried to keep her badge for himself... So when her body fell, accidentally revealing flocks of strawberry blonde hair, he was there this time, looking at her once more. Levi felt his stomach drop as if a ball of air had suddenly fallen from his constipated chest. Soon the chariots were able to increase their speeds, distancing them forever, and leaving him with the certainty that now he’ll never know.

---

Hidden in the forest were some still unknown figures. Among them Zeke, whose power had allowed him to approach the battlefield safely. The traitors of humanity had been undercover in the army for several years, but he still felt the need to test the waters for himself, in order to decide how they were going to carry out their next plan. He knew that Annie was in danger, and that Reiner and Bertolt’s identities were soon to be discovered. To his surprise, he found himself in the ideal situation to test out Marley's new weapon. He had brought the silver box with the hope that something similar would happen, but not so incredibly suitable. According to the army leaders, this new product would be able to resurrect and turn corpses into pure titans. This could be a great advantage, since they would be able to profit their soldiers for a little longer. Besides, Paradis was the right place to carry out the experiment on a larger scale without major expense; they wouldn't need ammunition to kill the transformed nor almost any type of security measure (if carried out by someone like Zeke). He just had to wait for the troops to move away and hopefully find some almost complete remains of Eldian soldiers.

He used the scream of his beast titan to stop the nearest pure ones, this way he made sure no more corpses were being eaten nearby, plus making it safe for him to approach them in his human form.

Soon after, Zeke found himself in the middle of a large clearing in the forest, covered in blood and stained white fabrics, revealing what until not long ago would have been humans, although the passage of the titans had left another impression.

Walking among the horrid sight and by seeing the placement of the bodies, he quickly deduced what could have happened. The titans who until recently feasted were now immobile due to his control. Near one of their huge feet, Zeke finds a body whose bones were totally shattered, especially his back, although it remained in one piece. One bare arm revealed a small, pale-skinned hand with the marks of a bite. He quickly noticed it was a young woman, though his face remained unaffected by the sorrowful sight. After a few moments, he raised his gaze from the ground and continued his way in search of complete victims. The sun began to set as Zeke paced, unaffected by the intimidating presence of the titans, luckily finding six more bodies that could be useful. After having deliberated on the state of all of them, he decided which ones were the most likely to become functional beasts. He placed them at a relative distance from each other, facing down, and opened the cold gray box with four syringes. He prepared them all at once, and took a defeated sigh.

With a relative dose of nervousness, he injected all four bodies as fast as he could, hoping to take the necessary time before they transformed. Unfortunately, when injecting the third body, it hatched immediately, having to flee quickly after only being able to transform three.

In the next few moments he watched as the first titan manifested in a very unstable form. Despite his transformation, he had not managed to regenerate his left arm and one of his legs, which left him lying on the ground. The next one was better, at about 3 or 4 meters high, he could walk despite having slight asymmetries. Finally, the first body injected gave rise to a titan with reddish hair and whose stability was quite doubtful as well. It was clear that her broken back had not managed to regenerate fully, remaining twisted. Despite this, what at one point was Petra Ral herself managed to get up off the ground and move. Seeing such failures Zeke could not help but sigh again, doubting the effectiveness of this discovery.

The experiment had only half worked. It wasn’t really useful to create a functional army, although it could restore the life of some would-be titan shifter. In any case, these creatures, whose peace had just been disrupted, were now problem of the survey corps, or at least that’s what he thought…

---

It would be difficult to say if any aspect of her consciousness ever awakened. Her skin burned, and even though her eyes were open her mind remained black. The creature struggled toward the forest, occasionally stumbling through the trees, causing it no pain or frustration. Some aspect of her, however, was still present. As when one is about to fall asleep and has the sensation of suddenly plunging, Petra would not stop falling. Perhaps it was a loop of her lasts seconds: the lack of gravity and the air leaving her body. What happened in a single instant had turned into a thick mass that occupied her mind all the time. She remained in that limbo until a depression in the ground made her fall into a ditch, being covered by some bushes, product of the humidity of the area.

The sunlight barely penetrated the foliage, leaving her misshapen body useless. Surprisingly, something about her state came to affect her ... The coldness of the shadow and the shelter of the earth briefly embraced her as she relived her nightmares.

There she laid, indifferent to the passage of time, until suddenly something appeared before her. Among the undergrowth, the titan saw the figure of a woman dragging a smoking limbless body and gently laying it on the ground, near the ditch's entrance. Unaware of the titan's presence, Pieck tried to catch her breath before rejoining the Marleyan fleet. They had managed to exterminate much of the Eldian army, but Reiner, Zeke and Porco were on the brink of death, and they had lost the colossal titan too. She had spent a long time transformed, and her injuries had also forced her to take a break in her human form. Right now, they were especially vulnerable, and Pieck could only pray that she could regain her strength and transform again. She then took several steps away to see how the regeneration of her other two companions was going, and in a matter of seconds, the previously invisible titan catapulted from her hiding place, devouring Porco completely.

Pieck had not yet regained all of her strength, and she could only stare in horror at the result of her mistake. When the shock left her body, she grabbed her companions by their collars and tried to drag them as far as she could, even though they were twice her size. Luckily for them, the titan's physical problems and her unevenness prevented her from rising. Pieck's observant nature made her immediately aware of it, and she thought that perhaps she could wait there for it to regain its human form to devour the lost titan again. However, there would still be more titans around them, and it was a priority now to protect her remaining friends. Perhaps thanks to the adrenaline of the moment she managed to transform, took her companions between her jaws and escaped from that place. Pieck knew that retreating was the safest option for the moment, and it eased her mind to think that the survey corps weren’t likely to find the titan before them. And if they did, it would fall back into their hands soon enough.

---

She took a sudden gasp that woke her up. Her breathing was uneven, and her senses betrayed her. As the heat of the late afternoon sun touched her smoky skin, Petra had the sensation of having awakened from a long nightmare that she could not quite remember. When she finally half-opened her eyes she felt relieved, but within seconds she fell asleep again. She remained there for hours, torn between lethargy and consciousness. Little by little, the consciousness of "self" returned to her, but she couldn’t help feeling that now there was someone else…

Her dreams sharpened, and the moments of her awakening became clearer. At some point Petra thought that maybe she was resting injured on some makeshift base. The night fell on her and she began to feel the cold on her naked body, making her revisit her dreams once again. The dew of dawn was not long in coming, waking her from her visions. For a moment, in the orange light, she wondered to whom that cup belonged, to whom she was speaking, what was that emotion that felt warm in her chest but cold in her arms...

Suddenly, the hum of metal pulleys brought her back to life.

Flying over the trees there was a small crew of the survey corps, following an 8-meter titan that was coming towards her. In the blink of an eye, the creature collapsed on the ground without giving Petra time to identify the situation she was in.

The recovery of Maria Wall had resulted in the almost total extinction of the brigade, but such a victory for humanity and the secrets discovered had pushed some members of the military police to join them, making it possible to carry out modest expeditions near the walls, exterminating the titans that didn't get close enough to be eliminated from the other side. Leading this team was commander Hange Zoë, who had taken over after Erwim's death. She along with Levi were in charge of leading a small group made up of some members of the 104th and a few newbies.

Among the survivors of the last battle was Jean Kristein, who was the first to notice her presence. When he saw the young naked woman lying on the ground, he stopped in his tracks, watching her for a few seconds without being able to believe his eyes. He then threw a black flare, which immediately caught the attention of his companions, who came to help him. Unable to hide the stupor in his expression Jean yelled at Hange "Commander, there’s a human lying on the ground with shifter marks!"

Hearing this, Levi who had not yet changed the course of his trajectory made a violent turn fearing the worst. Seconds later the new recruits followed, visibly terrified of the finding, yet ready for battle.

When Hange landed on the tree Jean was anchored, she was completely paralyzed. "This can't be true ..." After a few moments, she quickly threw herself to ground level, while Jean followed her fearing a surprise attack. The reaction continued in a chain after seeing the reckless action of the commander. They were still trying to digest Erwin's death, and Levi was quick to yell Hange to get away from the suspicious figure.

Hange by then was completely bent over Petra's body, "Hey, Petra, is it really you? Can you hear me? What happened?" Jean was slightly further back, a little calmer after deducing that it was an acquaintance, although he didn’t understand how. The way they were arranged covered her up, so when Levi reached the ground he couldn’t see her face at first, but felt slightly disappointed that the legs he saw couldn't be Zeke’s... Hange kept muttering an impossible amount of questions to the woman. Levi proceeded to approach her more calmly after realizing that she couldn’t move.

"Hey Hange, could you tell me what-". He froze in a way he probably never did before.

For a few instances his mind seemed to disassociate from what he was seeing. He recognized her face, but was unable to connect the information that reached him. A horrible sense of relief and guilt engulfed him, leaving him expressionless before Petra's immobile anatomy.

The girl was lying on her side, visibly weakened from having spent God knows how long in the open. Her face looked tired and sad, and her eyes were framed by the marks of her transformation. It was obvious that Petra had been turned into a titan, although this should have happened after her death, something they discovered was possible in that exact moment. Not that Levi wasn't happy to see her, but the guilt of seeing her fall victim to this conflict once again was greater. Her body had been left outside the walls and now she had been forced to return to this hell, through a power that would force her to die once again soon. Once Levi came back to reality, he unbuttoned his cloak and put it over her uncovered torso. Hange had never paid much attention to decorum, much less when something fascinated her, and the other cadets did not dare to approach. Petra’s honey eyes fell on him, and he could feel that it was her, even though she was not quite there ... It was almost impossible to believe that he was seeing her, covered with the cloak that he hadn’t been able to get rid of even after changing their uniforms, decorated with the same wings that he had plucked from her badge that day.

"Petra” He said in disbelief “Can you hear us? ..."

"Hmn ..." She managed to pronounce.

Hange screamed with excitement once she saw Petra was finally responding. They immediately brought the horses so they could finally return her inside the walls. The sound of her voice had brought Levi back to his senses, who was already taking care of ordering their retreat. Perhaps he could give her father different news from that time… But what would he tell him exactly? He knew perfectly well that his daughter was now in a limbo, carrying a curse.

#digging up a grave #rivetra #rivapeto #levi x petra #levi ackerman #petra ral #snk fanfiction #rivetra fanfic #writing #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #aot au #aotedit

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into-the-daniverse · 3 years

Text

What Love Can Heartbreak Allow? | Jamil

Another companion piece to January, part of Alec’s post-death series, but this time from Jamil’s POV.

I was going to put the list of characters this fic features in the title but it was ridiculously long so here it is: Camia, Leon, Asra, Nadia, Miriam, & Valerius.

There will be one more piece in this series before Alec’s prologue rewrite starts!

CW: As with the others, death mention and depression Title: What Love Can Heartbreak Allow? by Ben Caplan 4.5k words

The darkness that Jamil had sunk into after finally, finally accepting Alec had died was as deafeningly loud as it was silent, his own thoughts and memories echoed back to him, carved in starlight behind his eyelids. It spoke to him, in his own voice, in Alec’s voice, in his mother’s voice, and hers was the loudest.

Useless.

You are useless.

You ruin everything, you always do.

How many years, no decades, had it been since he had heard her speak, since he had even seen her in person, yet everything she had ever said to him was etched into his skin as if she had cut it into him. But was she wrong? Jamil didn’t think so.

Useless, she had called him growing up—more than his own name, he thought—and wasn’t he?

He hadn’t been able to do anything for Alec, anything to keep her safe, though it wasn’t like he didn’t try.

He had been the last one to try to convince her to leave, and when she insisted on staying, Jamil almost lost his temper for the second time in his life. But then she had looked at him with the same stubbornness he had seen in her eyes from when she was just a kid, planting her feet and digging her heels into the ground, saying you will not move me, and he gave in.

Should he have forced her to leave? She would have hated him, but at least she would be alive, at least he could have kept an eye on her. He could have handled her hating him, maybe in a few years she would have forgiven him and gotten over it. But he would never know, because he didn’t force her, and she was gone.

It was his fault. No, it wasn’t. It was, how could it not be? She chose to stay, to help, to be the exact kind of person she had always been, looking out for others. She should have looked after herself. He was supposed to look after her, he swore he would, and look what had happened.

When he opened his eyes, he only saw darkness, felt neither hot nor cold, hungry nor thirsty, he only felt empty. Horribly, awfully empty. When he closed his eyes, especially in sleep, he had nightmares, but by morning they were always gone. He figured it was better he could never remember them, he had guesses as to what they would be about.

He still flinched thinking about holding Alec’s bones in his hands, the only physical remainder of her, not even enough to bury, to send off to sleep, not enough to pray over—if he still did that sort of thing. She hadn’t received anything that he would have given her, and the only thing his, her, their city had given her was a mass grave on a desolate island that still ferried people to it by the day.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t what she deserved, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything anymore.

What she deserved was to be alive, to be happy, to be somewhere far away from Vesuvia, and the plague, and all of the horrors it had brought.

And when his mind drifted to what horrors she had gone through, how she had died—he was sure he would drown himself in tears, or cry himself dry, a husk of a person left behind, undeserving of the life he still had.

Instead, he cried, and he floated.

He floated between sleep and the waking world for what felt like forever, watching the shadows on the wall shrink and grow, the sun rise and set, the days passing by in a muddled haze. Leon visited him, begged and pleaded for him to eat something, anything, to stand, to wash himself, but he tuned them out, eyes glazing over until they would give up and leave.

He remembered, vaguely, when Camia came to see him, when she cut his hair and trimmed his beard. She had looked tired, so tired, and when she held him, and they cried together, Jamil had felt her pain much like his own.

Not yet had he been able to speak to her, not yet were they able to share their pain in that way, but they almost didn’t need to, and Jamil had the first night of sleep without a nightmare in a long time when she slept by his side in Alec’s bed.

She had always done that for him, he knew, even before he ran away from Prakra, she had watched over him. What had he done for her? He wasn’t sure if he had done anything worthwhile, anything that made him deserving of the comfort she gave. However, he knew she would disagree, so he tucked those feelings deep into himself with everything else.

After that night, he started to try and pull himself from the darkness that enveloped his mind, his body, tugging at it all like he was stuck in tar.

He managed to loosen himself for a moment when Nadia visited.

When her footsteps came up the stairs, he sat up, facing the window, it had been a few weeks since Camia helped clean him up, so his beard was longer again, but that didn’t seem to surprise Nadia as she sat next to him.

“Camia told me you don’t want to talk, and that’s okay. I just want you to listen.”

He turned to face her, and she took his hand gently in her own. She looked tired as well, overwhelmed, which he supposed wasn’t surprising. She just… looked older than he had ever thought she could. They were almost the same age, sure, though she had always been more mature than him, but the way her face fell as she spoke wasn’t like her. Though, he was sure he didn’t look much like himself either.

“Jamil, I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner. I found out you were back just a week ago but kept myself from coming here immediately because I was afraid. Of what, I’m not sure anymore, as any reason I may have had now seems trivial when I think about what you lost, about who you lost.

“I just—I suppose I was afraid of losing you as well, and in my mind for the briefest of moments that meant I had to keep you at arm’s length, not stifle you, as our families did to us. That’s how we’ve always been, just at arm’s length to each other. Seeing, but not seeing, everything that the other experienced, knowing and not knowing each other.”

Nadia’s voice broke, just slightly, and Jamil’s eyes flickered to her face, watching her expression contort as she held back tears. “I don’t want that anymore. And I know I may have chosen the worst possible time in your life to come to this conclusion but that is what I decided to risk in coming here, today. But beyond that, Jamil, I wanted you to know that even if you do not want us to be closer, I will still be here for you. I can’t imagine the pain you feel right now, not for a moment, but you do not have to suffer through it alone.

“That is…” She sighed. “Something I need to learn as well, I have been told, by Miriam, numerous times. But it is not so easy to do, which is why I know it will not be easy for you. Though, you have always been stronger than I have, more willing to forge your own way, and I—I have always envied that. Even when you ran from Prakra, you asked me to come with you and I didn’t. And I have regretted it ever since.”

She was crying now, quiet tears falling onto the back of their hands. Jamil cleared his throat, squeezing her hand. “Dia.”

She wiped her eyes. “Yes?”

“I do… want that.” His voice crackled in his chest as he spoke, whispered under his breath. “For us to be closer again… like when we were kids.” He sighed, fighting against every part of his brain that wanted nothing more than to curl back under the blankets on Alec’s bed. “I think… I need a little more time, but I love you, Dia.”

Nadia reached up to cup his cheek, pressing her forehead to his for a moment. “I love you too, Jamil.”

He pulled her into a tight hug, her arms wrapped over his shoulders and remembered a time when they were the same size, before his mother sent him off to school, before his sister had spoken her first word, before he truly felt the pressure of life on his shoulders. When he and “baby Didi” would play hide-and-seek with the rest of the Satrinavas while their fathers talked about their business.

How little he had known then, how both of their lives would change.

When she let go, he felt himself slipping away, and gave her a soft goodbye before letting the darkness envelop him again, though it didn’t feel quite as deep as before.

In the days after, he found it easier to shake that darkness away, even if he still barely left Alec’s room, he felt more present, and slowly, oh so slowly, knew he was ready to move forward.

One morning, as his eyes blinked open, even before the sun had peeked over the horizon, he felt as if he was waking up for the first time in a long time. His limbs were heavier than he remembered as he swung himself slowly out of Alec’s bed, but he still took the steps out of her room, down the hallway, and down the stairs to start his day.

When he saw Camia sitting on the couch, he sat with her, and the two held each other, again without saying anything, but it was different. She looked better, and she was happy to see him up. When he said he wanted to make food, she had all but run out to the market immediately to get what he wanted and helped him prepare it.

As he cooked, and Camia was upstairs cleaning, Jamil heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and turned just as Leon entered the kitchen, looking lost. They hesitated on the final step, facing towards him but not moving. Setting down the pan and spatula, he wiped his hands on a towel as he spoke. “Good morning, Lee.”

In a moment, Leon had rushed forward to wrap their arms around him, burying their face in his neck. “Jamil—”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, running his hands up and down their bare back slowly.

Leon’s voice broke. “I thought you were gone.”

“I was, for a while, but I’m back. And I’m sorry you had to handle it all by yourself.”

He pulled back to press his lips to their forehead, but they kissed him instead. It was quick, but soft, and Leon followed it up with a few more kisses to his cheeks before lying their head on his shoulders again. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Jamil.”

“Okay,” he said, and they stayed standing, holding each other for a few minutes, until Jamil had to turn back to their breakfast. Leon didn’t leave the kitchen, keeping himself wrapped around Jamil as much as he could while he cooked. When he finished, and they ate with Camia, Jamil felt a tiny part of his soul start to heal.

Another part of his soul came back once he was able to see his cousins, and actually be present for the entirety of their visit.

This time he was the one to open the door for Nadia, and Miriam, and both women looked immensely relieved to see him. After greeting Nadia, he held his arms out to Miriam, a soft smile on his face.

“Giano,” he said, and she was over to him before he finished her name, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight hug.

“Jamil, I’m so sorry. About Alec, about everything,” she said, brown eyes filling with tears. Another time Jamil might have teased her—no one in the D’Oria ever referred to anyone by their first name unless they were calling to a child misbehaving—but he didn’t have the heart to. “I wanted to see you sooner, but I couldn’t get away from the palace.”

“I know, it’s alright,” he looked between her and Nadia. “It’s good to see you both again.”

They hadn’t stayed long, they both had duties back at the palace to attend to, but it was immeasurably nice to be with them again, and even Camia and Leon had joined them all in the back room. Jamil even pulled out his guitar and played something, at Nadia’s request, the two of them reminiscing over songs from Prakra that Namar used to sing to them, and it helped distract him, a little.

Eventually, he worked up the courage and the energy to go to the palace again. He was not going to see Lucio, he wasn’t ready for that—and wasn’t sure he ever would—but it was more to visit with everyone else he used to know, who used to know him.

Nadia had a carriage sent to the shop for him. Normally, he would resist the carriage at all costs. It reminded him too much of being trapped with his mother as she had him shipped around, and besides, he like to walk. But he was still tired, and the threat of the plague was still high, so it would be better for everyone if he just took the carriage, though he kept his eyes closed the entire time.

Once he arrived, he was immediately approached by those still working at the palace who had missed him and the rest of the band, some disappointed that he had come alone, but all of them happy to see him regardless. He heard enough condolences that he started to feel angry, but he shoved that anger as far down as he could, telling himself he would deal with it later.

Thankfully, Miriam, who had met him at the door, guided him into a salon to sit while she fetched Nadia, as the three had planned to spend some time together.

When she left, Jamil walked around the salon, feeling too restless to just sit in silence by himself. His eyes caught on the salon’s piano, and figuring that to be a good enough compromise, sat down, gently stroking the black and white keys, in a much more pristine condition than the piano back at the shop was. The sound it produced was crisp, clean, if not a little detached. It echoed through the room mournfully, and he sighed, adjusting in his seat to fully play.

It had been a long time since he had been able to play, well, anything, yet somehow his fingers still didn’t stutter as they drifted across the keys, and he let his eyes flutter shut. He played an old melody he had learned a lifetime ago in Venterre, one he used to play for his grandfather.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been playing, but when he finally let the last note ring out, and opened his eyes, someone was standing next to him. His emerald-green eyes met grey-golden ones, and he felt his lips curve up just slightly into a relieved smile.

“Val,” he said.

“Hello, Jamil,” Valerius replied, holding a half-empty glass of wine loosely in one hand. He looked like he wanted to say more, but that he couldn’t, or didn’t know how to.

That was fine with Jamil, as he was a little bit tired of all the pleasantries he had been getting all day at the palace. Sitting in silence with someone he loved was all he wanted. He nodded towards a chair next to the piano, wordlessly asking Valerius to join him, to stay, even if just for a moment.

Valerius obliged, keeping his gaze on Jamil as he sat down, crossing his legs.

Again, Jamil’s fingers went to the piano keys, and he replayed the song that he had just finished, a bit more polished than it had been, now that he remembered it fully.

“Do you remember this song?” Jamil asked, voice quiet.

“I do. However, the name escapes me.”

“Hm.” Jamil played a little more, light touches sending the melody out into the room, memories settling over their shoulders like dust. “Valse Sentimentale.”

“Your grandfather’s favorite, wasn’t it?”

Jamil smiled, mostly to himself. “Yes.” That was the only reason he had ever learned it, after all. The only time Eugenio Matteo II had taken any part of Jamil’s schooling upon himself was to teach him piano. His mother may have regarded music with a certain distaste, but his Jiji did not.

“You would think I beat her with a guitar everyday as she grew up, caro, with the way she hates music,” Eugenio joked once, exactly once, before instructing Jamil to play the piece again, for the tenth time that hot Venterrean afternoon.

Though, much to his own surprise, Jamil never hated the piece. He was obsessed with it for a time, and luckily, or unluckily, for young Valerius, that meant he heard it whenever the two crossed paths. The only person who heard it more was Camia, and she had come to wrinkle her nose at the mere mention of the song.

But, Jamil remembered, for all Valerius had done his own griping about the piece, he still stayed and listened whenever Jamil practiced, as he was doing in the palace’s salon.

They even danced to it, once, one of the last times they saw each other before Jamil ran away from his mother. Jamil’s hair was long then, and it moved behind his back as they danced, Valerius’s fingers threading through the dark strands, eventually tugging as their dance turned more intimate, as their lips chased each other’s, and clothes were pulled away by clumsy hands.

Then Jamil had left him behind when he ran from his mother, from his life and responsibilities towards something better. And he thought—he thought he had found that something better, at least he had for a while. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

Glancing up from the keys, he met Valerius’s gaze, still fixed on him. He wondered what he looked like through those grey-golden eyes. If he truly looked as tired as he felt, there was no wonder why Valerius held his tongue, why there was concern hidden in his stare. Jamil only knew that was concern, not pity, because he knew Valerius. Maybe not as well as he felt he should, there were somethings that time had taken from him, but he still knew enough.

This time, when the song was over, Jamil didn’t start again, instead feeling a part of his careful mask start to crumble, and with a shuddering sigh, he put his face in his hands. What was he even doing back in the palace? Playing piano as if everything was fine, as if he was fine? He didn’t deserve this.

As he felt himself start to spiral, a hand touched his arm. “Jamil.”

Pulling his hands from his face, he looked at Valerius, who seemed almost surprised at his own action, but he didn’t retract his touch. Instead, he seemed worried, eyebrows pinched together slightly.

Jamil forced a light laugh, even as it felt hollow in his chest, shifting on the bench. “Sorry. I just got… lost in thought for a moment.”

Valerius frowned. “No, Jamil—"

At that moment, Miriam entered the salon. “There you are! Sorry about the wait, but Nadia should be here in a second.” She seemed to just notice Valerius and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Were you looking to have tea with the three of us, Val?”

“I—” Valerius glanced back at Jamil, and the musician watched something change in his eyes before he stood, meeting Miriam’s gaze again. “No. I have other things to take care of. I will see you and the Countess later on.”

Before he walked away, Valerius nodded to Jamil, bringing his glass to his lips. “It was good to see you, Jamil. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Val,” Jamil said, and he watched as his friend, no, the Consul, left the salon. Miriam looked like she wanted to say something, but before she could, Nadia joined them, and the three of them sat down to talk, Jamil’s mask firmly back over his soul.

Jamil didn’t go back to the palace after that. The plague was still rampant, and he wanted to spend more time with Camia and Leon, figuring out what exactly they were going to do next.

There was also the matter of Asra. He was concerning Jamil. He had always been secretive—Jamil used to see him at the palace all the time before the plague, though he never said what he was doing there—but it was worse now.

From Miriam, Jamil knew that Asra was working with that doctor, Julian Devorak (who Jamil wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to see as anyone other than the lanky, goofy man that shared the Goldgrave stage with Alec) on finding a cure for Lucio. He was almost never at the shop, even though it was by all rights his home—when Camia had signed the shop over to Alec before the plague, it had been signed to both of them—instead spending more time with Julian or Nadia. And when he did come home, he was on edge, snappish, and Jamil caught him and Leon in more than one hushed argument, but about what, he had no idea.

Jamil was worried, but whenever he tried to reach out to Asra, they just brushed him off, so he stopped trying. That was, until the night of Lucio’s Masquerade.

Out of the band, Jamil felt the worst about missing it. Lucio was on his death bed, all of Vesuvia knew that by now, and they had gone to every single Masquerade before then. But the thought of them performing, just the three of them, without Alec—Jamil hadn’t even been able to finish the thought in his mind before he started to cry.

Nadia had assured him that he didn’t have to come, but that didn’t mean he slept easy that night. That was why, when he heard Leon and Asra talking downstairs, their voices pinched in something like worry, he was up before Camia had even touched his arm, and they both crept downstairs, nerves alight.

Jamil’s legs gave out from under him when they reached the bottom of the stairs and he saw Alec In Leon’s arms, eyes closed as if she was just sleeping, as if she hadn’t been dead for the past year. Camia rushed over to them, but he couldn’t do anything but stare, too in shock to even cry. He heard Camia ask Asra what happened, but Jamil didn’t hear their response, forcing himself to his feet to go to Alec.

He took her from Leon’s arms and held her against his chest, feeling her warmth against his skin, her breathing tickling his neck as he carried her up the stairs of the shop to her room.

As he took each step gingerly, careful not to jostle her in his arms, he thought back to a simpler time in Venterre, when he carried her, not quite 12 yet, in a similar way. The way she had clung to his shirt then—wrapped in a blanket, eyes still red-rimmed from the tears she had shed when she revealed she didn’t remember her own birthday—was an image that had imprinted itself on his heart for over a decade.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” she said, her voice so small, so nervous, as if she was afraid of saying or doing something wrong.

“It’s okay. I know you weren’t upset with me. And it’s okay to be upset, but you know—” he shifted her in his grip, so she was level with his face. “You can come to me, or Cami, or Lee, if you’re upset. You don’t have to hide away in your room. We, well, Cami and I don’t really understand everything you went through by yourself, but there’s other things we can help you with. And if you just want someone to listen, I can do that for you too.”

Alec bit her lip, ducking her head so her short hair fell in front of her eyes. “You’re not gonna leave me? What if… What if I wake up one day and you’re gone, just like my parents?”

Jamil shook his head, holding her a little tighter against his chest. “You’re a part of our family now, kid, I promise we’re always gonna be here.”

I promise, echoed in his mind as he reached Alec’s room and laid her down on her bed, watching her chest rise and fall.

He knelt next to the bed, holding one of her hands in his, and Camia, Leon, and Asra all joined him, sitting on the bed and standing next to it, all of them watching her in silence. Jamil had no idea what Asra had done, and he wasn’t sure they knew what had happened either, judging by the look on the young magician’s face.

It was okay. They didn’t need to know, for now. All that mattered was that she was back, and she was alive, and they would do whatever they needed to do to keep her alive. Jamil was prepared to do anything, say anything, give anything, take anything for her. He would not make the mistake of leaving her alone again.

However, none of them were prepared for her to open to her eyes, take one look at all of them, and start to cry, shifting as far away from them as she could, hands trembling in front of her.

When Jamil moved to comfort her, she grabbed her head, whining in pain, and he stopped. “Alec?”

She didn’t respond, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Alec, look at me, please.” Jamil’s voice was barely over a whisper, and he reached out to gently pull her hands from her face. She didn’t resist, but she still wouldn’t look at him. “Cub, what’s wrong?”

Tears fell from behind her eyes, trailing down her cheeks, and she whimpered, her whole body quivering.

“Let me try,” Asra murmured, and Jamil watched as he took Alec’s hands from him. “Alec, are you okay?”

At the sound of Asra’s voice, Alec’s eyes opened, and though she still didn’t speak, she lunged forward for him, burying her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking. Asra started, looking around at the rest of them, his eyes wide. They all realized at once that whatever he did, however he brought her back, something had gone wrong.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

#the arcana #the arcana game #daniverse fic #daniverse oc #the arcana nadia #nadia satrinava #jamil #camia #leon #miriam #consul valerius #the arcana asra

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lcdrarry · 4 years

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LCDrarry 2020 Master List

Dear lovely Participants, Creators, Alpha and Beta Readers, Commentors, Cheerleaders, Readers and Fans of our fest,

Our 2nd installment of LCDrarry is coming to an end, and we'd like to thank you all for taking part in our little fest, for creating so many amazing new Drarry works for us all to enjoy, for commenting on your favourite creations, for sharing and recommending the LCDrarry gems with your friends and blog followers, and for making this fest another amazing experience for us mods.

We hope we could bring you some joy and diversion in these trying times and send you lots of love, strength and perseverance wherever you are :*

Under the cut, you can find out who created what ;D The works are listed in the order they posted during the fest.

Happy reading & squeeing & don’t forget to follow your favourite creators!

~Your LCDrarry Mods Tami @celilasart and Suzi @erin-riwen

PS: Reblogs are very much appreciated <3

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Love, Actually, is All Around

Prompt: #180 | "Love, Actually" - 2003 - Richard Curtis Author: punk_rock_yuppie Word Count: 9,975 words Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: Wizarding Politics, Discriminiation, Slight power imbalance

Summary: It's Christmastime, and Harry has just started as the new Minister of Magic. It just so happens that Draco happens to work in his office as well, a holdover from Kingsley's tenure. Naturally, love is in the air.

Read "Love, Actually, is All Around" now on AO3.

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Drarry on Ice

Prompt: #150 | '"Yuuri!!! On Ice" - 2016 - Series Artist: RunningOutsideTheLines Art Medium: Traditional Art Rating: General Warnings: none

Summary: Harry and Draco find love on the ice. I love Yuuri on Ice and Harry and Draco seem like such a perfect fit for Victor and Yuuri. I'll leave it up to your imagination as far as which is which. This image is from the final scene when the two of them do a exhibition skate together.

View "Drarry on Ice" now on AO3.

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Boats, but Not the Ocean

Prompt: #203 | "Groundhog Day" - 1993 - Harold Ramis Author: p1013 Word Count: 15,551 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Very minor mention of suicide, some mild horror

Summary: If Draco ever gets his hands on this Bill Murray character, he's going to kill him.

Read "Boats, but Not the Ocean" now on AO3.

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When I Put My Eyes On You

Prompt: #193 | "The Way He Looks" - 2014 - Daniel Ribeiro Author: Zzzara Word Count: 31,155 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary: When a hero defeats a villain, there's supposed to be a happily-ever-after... but when did anything ever happen to Harry Potter the way it was supposed to? Having sacrificed himself to the greater good, Harry is left alone in the darkness, blindly groping for the shreds of the life he knew. When the enemies meet, how is the story supposed to go, once they learn there's more to it than the eye can see? A story of pain, hope and things we discover, once we stop looking for them with our eyes.

Read "When I Put My Eyes On You" now on AO3.

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Spellbound

Prompt: #113 | "Overboard" - 1987 - Garry Marshall Author: mortenavida Word Count: 15,878 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Amnesiac Draco Malfoy, Widowed Harry Potter, past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Dub-Con due to Amnesia (Only Kissing)

Summary: It’s been years since Harry left with Ginny to get away from the bad memories of war. The small town of Elk Cove, Oregon, had been a perfect place to raise their children. Now widowed, Harry works hard to make sure his children never want for anything. When an old rival steps into his life, everything changes and Harry finds the perfect opportunity to get back at Malfoy for everything the Slytherin did to him -- if he doesn’t regret falling for him first.

Read "Spellbound" now on AO3.

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Of Labcoats and Animagi

Prompt: #97 | "Queer Eye" - 2017 - Series Author: meandminniemcg Word Count: 10,868 words Rating: Mature Warnings: mention of past abuse, panic attack (tw at beginning of chapter, can be skipped)

Summary: Fashion icon Draco? That's long past. After the war, he never bought any new clothes and lives in his labcoats. When he doesn't feel confident enough to meet his pen friend Prongs in real life, Luna decides to stage an intervention with a little help from the Fab Five.

Read "Of Labcoats and Animagi" now on AO3.

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Title of Their Sex Tape

Prompt: #112 | "Brooklyn Nine Nine" - 2013 - Series Author: Cibee Word Count: 12,428 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: None

Summary: What are the Wizarding world's most elite law enforcers doing when they aren't catching criminals? It seems Auror Malfoy is often caught throwing food into Auror Potter's mouth when he's mid-yawn. This story isn't about Draco throwing food at Harry. What it does have is: Undercover! Heists! Draco pining for Harry! Harry being oblivious, but also can't help noticing how good Draco smells! Banters and jokes! That's about it.

Read "Title of Their Sex Tape" now on AO3.

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Harry Potter and the Beast

Prompt: #204 | "Beauty and the Beast" - 1991 - Gary Trousdale Author/Artist: Miakagrewup Word Count/Art Medium: 5,655 words/31 illustrated pages Rating: General Warnings: None

Summary: Arrogant prince Draco is cursed to live as a terrifying beast until he finds true love. This fairy tale consists of 31 fully illustrated pages.

Read "Harry Potter and the Beast" now on AO3.

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So Open Up My Eyes, Tell Me I'm Alive

Prompt: #191 | "Secret Garden" - 1993 - Agnieszka Holland Author: mycucumbereyes Word Count: 12,865 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: trauma, canon typical violence, homophobia, use of f-g/f----t, mention of suicidal thoughts, character with a disability

Summary: When Draco Malfoy comes to live at Godric’s Hollow, he finds it full of secrets. One night he hears the sound of crying…

Read "So Open Up My Eyes, Tell Me I'm Alive" now on AO3.

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i demand to dig my own grave

Prompt: #10 | "Psych" - 2006 - Series Author: M0stlyVoid Word Count: 20,836 words Rating: Mature Warnings: None

Summary: Draco finds himself in hot water with the Aurors, and in a burst of panicked inspiration manages to wiggle out of it by claiming to be a Seer. There's just one little problem– Senior Auror Harry Potter, the Prat Who Lived, who's known him for a decade, knows full well Draco doesn't have a single psychic bone in his body and seems determined to pull him up for it. Now, the Department is demanding he help them solve cases, Potter's looming over his shoulder at every turn, and worst of all, he hasn't had a shag in weeks because of all this bother. What's a pseudo-Seer to do?

Read "i demand to dig my own grave" now on AO3.

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As You Wish

Prompt: #37 | "The Princess Bride" - 1987 - Rob Reiner Author: Pineau_noir Word Count: 21,917 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Canon-typical (Harry Potter and The Princess Bride) violence, mention of suicide, canon-typical character death

Summary: Draco was raised on a farm in the small country of Witshire; his favourite pastimes were flying on his broom and tormenting the hired farm boy. Though his name was Harry, Draco never called him that. On Harry's forehead there was a scar shaped like a lightning bolt, so Draco called him Scarhead. Nothing gave Draco as much pleasure as ordering Harry around.

Or a story about fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, True Love, and miracles.

Read "As You Wish" now on AO3.

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Queer Eye for the Drarry Guys

Prompt: #97 | "Queer Eye"- 2017 - Series Author: blowfish_diaries Word Count: 18,201 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: none

Summary: Teddy's dads are great! Really! They just need a little push from five *fabulous* gays to get them to see what's right in front of them.

Read "Queer Eye for the Drarry Guys" now on AO3.

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Casecation

Prompt: #112 | "Brooklyn Nine Nine" - 2013 - Series Author: Mfingenius Word Count: 4,293 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: AU, canon-typical discussion of heavy topics, discussion of mpreg

Summary: "Draco Malfoy, I swear to God-” Hermione snaps under her breath, causing Draco to laugh lowly as he ducks under a hanging plant pot. “Draco Potter, ‘Mione,” Harry murmurs with a helpless grin; they’re not really supposed to be speaking – they're walking through the halls of Antonin Dolohov’s beach house, on their way to arrest him – but Harry can’t help marking the difference, even a year after they got married. “Be quiet,” Ginny says, rolling her eyes. “If he hears us and escapes-” Draco signals at them, and they all steel themselves for when he throws the door of the bedroom open. “Shit!”

Read "Casecation" now on AO3.

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Don't Blink!

Prompt: #179 | "Dr Who" - 2007 - Series Author/Artist: Gnarf Art Medium: Digital art Rating: General Warnings: None

Summary: Harry had always had exceptionally bad timing. It's not different this time.

Read "Don't Blink!" now on AO3.

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A Demon and an Angel Visit the Ritz

Prompt: #167 | “Good Omens” - 2019 - Series Artist: ravenclawkward Art Medium: Digital Oil Painting Rating: General Warnings: None

Summary: Harry the demon and Draco the angel just finished saving the world. They've earned their celebration, wouldn't you say?

Read "A Demon and an Angel Visit the Ritz" now on AO3.

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Change on the Horizon

Prompt: #57 | "Shameless (US)" - 2011 - Series Author: static_abyss Word Count: 118,645 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Character with depression, mentions of not wanting to exist and lethargy, though no actual suicide or mentions of suicide. Unhealthy coping mechanisms, specifically not taking prescribed medication for depression. Internalized homophobia, and general homophobia from parental figures, though there is a happy ending. Casual relationships.

Summary: A canon AU drarry fic based on the relationship between Mickey and Ian from Shameless. A story about the aftereffects of the Second Wizarding War and how Draco and Harry come together and break apart over and over. How maybe, somewhere along the way, they find a way to live with themselves.

Read "Change on the Horizon" now on AO3.

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The Thrill of the Chase Moves in Mysterious Ways

Prompt: #192 | "Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries" - 2012 - Series Author: VeelaWings Word Count: 32,569 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Heavy Drinking, Smoking Cigars, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Kidnapping, Non-Graphic Violence, Gun Violence, Poisoning

Summary:

“Do you have a personal interest in this case, Malfoy?” Harry asked, arms crossed and blocking the view of the body behind him.

“Not at all.” Draco smiled sweetly, cuddled into the side of tonight’s date. “Although I did briefly own that painting until it proved to be stolen.” He helpfully pointed to the Renaissance portrait a few metres to their left.

“Why is it always so complicated with you?”

+++++

Some people might argue that Draco didn’t have very good ideas. That was a lie. Draco had fantastic ideas, however, due to mankind having free will, the planning and execution of those ideas didn’t always pan out in his favor.

(Or — Draco solves crimes that don’t technically belong to him and Harry tries not to fall in love. Co-Starring: Hermione, High Heels, and Hiccups along the way. #dat 1920s lyfe)

Read "The Thrill of the Chase Moves in Mysterious Ways” now on AO3.

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Burn Your Life Down (but look back to me)

Prompt: #202 | Casablanca - 1942 - Michael Curtiz Author: Triggerlil Word Count: 35,910 words Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: Alternate Universe - World War II, Film Noir, Self-Medication, Alcohol, Infidelity (not between Harry and Draco), Smoking, Mention of Slavery and Human Trafficking

Summary:

It's been years since destiny walked into an apartment on Rue Azais, and Harry is over it. Really, he is. He has Blaise, he has his work, and if necessary, he still has his memories. But with the onset of WWII, the foundations of his life are crumbling, and suddenly a certain blond man is walking back into his life, asking Harry to make important, and dangerous, choices.

Read “Burn Your Life Down (but look back to me)” now on AO3.

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Super Rich Kids

Prompt: #24 | "The Bling Ring" - 2013 - Sofia Coppola Author: Thusspoketrish Word Count: 81,000 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Thriller, Murder, Dark Humour, Angst, Depression, Nihilism, Existenialism, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Gaslighting, Very Brief Instance of Suicidal Ideation, Immorality, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence (not between Harry and Draco), Abusive Drug Use, Manipulative Behaviour, Heterosexual Sex, Threesomes, Candaulism, Possible Infidelity Due to Unclear Relationship Status (please read the tags on AO3 carefully, this list is not exhaustive)

Summary:

Draco Malfoy has become disillusioned by the glitz and glamour of the scandalous lives of the Post-Second Wizarding War Pureblood Elite. Enter: one existential crisis, one group of cynical friends, and several terrible, terrible decisions.

Read “Super Rich Kids” now on AO3.

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We Built This Right

Prompt: #48 | "Yuri on ice" - 2016 - Series Author: remy_writes5 Word Count: 15,344 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Homophobic Language, Anxiety, Strained Relationship with Parents

Summary:

At last year's Grand Prix Final, Harry had an accident that left him with a lightning scar on his forehead, a concussion and a twisted ankle. Now everyone is waiting to see if his career is over - including former rival, Draco Malfoy.

Read "We Built This Right” now on AO3.

***

Please help promote the fest by sharing your favourite submissions, so more people can enjoy all the amazing new Drarry works of LCDrarry. Thank you!

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haematicmagic · 4 years

Text

Raw, powerful and cursed quotes

So as someone who recently migrated from a Pinterest lurker of 3 years, reading every tumblr screenshot i could find, i have gathered quite a selection of cursed or raw quotes from the most classic tumblr posts and whatever the hell Gaud is doing. Some of these aren’t tumblr, but classic literature or musical quotes or poems. As i didn’t write them down, i cant give sources for every single one, but i can give them on request if you’re interested. Feel free to add more.

• „I‘ll do what I want“

„Then perish“

„then become the dirt I walk on“

• „violence for violence is the rule of beasts“

• „to become god is the loneliest achievement of them all“

• „There are places we have never seen before: Soem have never seen the Ocean, have never laid eyes on marrakesh. The other world is just a place we haven’t visisted before and we’re gonna explore it together“

• “Auge um Auge und die Welt wird blind”

(German, translated to mean: An eye for an eye and the world goes blind)

• „You kneel before my throne, unaware that it was made of lies“

• “You’re rearranging deck chairs on the titanic my friend”

• “Bold of you to assume I (will meet a mortal end, have ambitions)”

• „I beg to differ“

„Then beg"

• „One day, you will be face to face with your gods and you will have to justify the space you’ve filled

• „the skin of the earth is littered with the ruins of empires that thought themselves immortal“

• „my Ancestors are smiling down on me. Can you say the same?“

• „Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.“

• „god should have made girls lethal when he made monsters of men“

• „Decay exsists as a distant form of life“

• „Can you feel your heart burning? Can you feel the struggle within? The fear within me is beyond anything that your soul can comprehend. You cannot cure me in any way that matters.“

• „Draw a monster. Why is it a Monster?“

• „A year ago you didn’t know today“

• „She is a mystic in the sense that she is still mystified by things“

• „these hands have built bridges, they will not build walls“

• „the anger in your heart warms you now but will leave you cold in your grave“

• „The Man who sleeps with a machete is a fool every night but one“

• „Thats a funny trick to play on a god“

• „We can do any sins we want. There are no gods here to observe them“

• „we deserve a soft epilogue“

• „Starved dogs eat their masters.“

• „I am a monument to all your sins.“

• „Face your mortality, choose your requiem.“

• „I do not love the sword for its sharpness or the arrow for its swiftness nor the warrior for his glory. I can only love that which they defend“

• „Kill me and live with the memory. Then tell the stars you have won“

• „Do you think God, too, stays in heaven in fear of what he has created?“

• „Good men need no rules. Today is not the day to find out why I have so many“

• „Nothing is set in stone, but everything is set in a dirt road. If you roll your waggon along that path too much, it‘ll soon be the only path you can take without struggling“

•„You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.“

„You seem a decent fellow. I hate to be killed by you.“

•„We are men of actions. Lies do not become us.“

•„The watch is ticking and I‘m no clockmaker“

•„Only when Lions have Historians will Hunters cease to be heroes“

•„If you consider a woman less pure after you touched her, you should take a look at your hands“

•„the fire can’t touch me, for I have have burned one too many times. And the sea can’t harm me, for I have been drowning all my life. But you, you could rip my heart open, darling, for I have never known love before.“

• „take no shit, do no harm“

• “Be a nuisance where it counts, Do your part to inform and stimulate the public to join your action. Be depressed, discouraged, and disappointed at failure and the disheartening effects of ignorance, greed, corruption, and bad politics—but never give up.”

• „Before you tell a tale of revenge, dig two graves

• „First we shape our tools, then our tools shape us.“

• „The future is what you make of it. Just know that your supplies are limited.“

• „bury me shallow, I‘ll be back"

• „This is Hell territory and I am impudent to no gods“

• „Sticks and Stones may build a throne but you‘ll be up there all alone“

• „I am deliberately taking this personally“

• „You’re still dodging my questions“

„you’re just missing“

• „Rome wasnt build in one day.

But it was burned one“

„But they layed bricks every hour“

• „You’re not as simple as they wanted you to be.“

• „Get off the ground, kid, spit your blood. Go down a savage, go down fighting.“

• „Educated Criminals work within the law“

• „Everyone is guilty of the good they did not to“

• „Even the ground wouldnt want you to rot in it“

• „War is old men talking and young men dying.“

• „I‘ll take care of you.

It‘s rotten work.

Not to me. Not if its you.“

• „What are you, before a human ready to fight“

• „Walls have ears

Doors have eyes

Trees have voices

beasts tell lies

Beware the rain

Beware the snow

Beware the man

you think you know“

• „This is who we are: A product of war.“

• „once a man, now deemed a fool“

• „What was that?

Probably God, looking down on his children and regretting that there even was a sixth day.“

• „We all just kill time until the killing time“

• „people will never bleed enough to meet your vision of justice“

• „There are three things all wise men fear: The sea in storm, a moonless night and the anger of a gentle man.“

• „Let me die first or I will die twice“

• „Looks like you dropped something.

What?

Your standards. Hi, I‘m XY“

• „In whatever matter it comes to be, love is never wrong, especially not between one that has so much of it to give and one so desperately in need of it.“

• „Heavy is the Crown and light as a feather the banner of rebellion"

• „I am not a vessel for your good intentions“

• „Every breath i take without your permission raises my self esteem“

• „Your boos mean nothing, I‘ve seen what makes you cheer“

• „In a rich man’s house there is no place to spit but his face.“

• „You could sooner divert a river from its course than deny my nature.“

• “I would rather die standing than live kneeling”

• “Life is all about pain and by god I will be it’s conduit.”

• “Ring the bells you still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That is how the light gets in”

• “Here’s a penny for your thoughts and a quarter to not tell me them.”

• “Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame”

• “To greed, all nature is insufficient”

• “We are rarely proud when we are alone”

• “I will love you like misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch as everything goes wrong”

• “You say I killed you - haunt me, then.”

• “But who are you, to consider yourself an enemy of humanity? Who are you, to define yourself as something else but them?”

#raw quotes #tumblr quotations #tumblr quotes #classic tumblr #iconic post #shitpost #quotes #writing prompt #dialogue prompts #tumblr

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jeffverse · 3 years

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Chocolate Cake

Hello jeffverse fandom, since yesterday you guys said you wanted us to post some of our stories, I've decided to go ahead and drop one for y'all! Something short and cute featuring a much younger Abbot and Pirate :) enjoy!

-Mod CC

March thirteenth, 2011.

Liu walked faster as he approached his home. It was a small, rundown house, barely big enough for his three-person family, but still. It was home. Normally Liu would take his time walking home. It was the only time he could be alone, without his mother looming over him or his little brother clinging to his side. But today? Today he needed to be home quick.

Today was his little brother’s eight birthday.

‘’Mom, I’m home.’’ he took off his oversized coat, hanging it up by the door, and shrugged off his backpack. Inside the house was cold- maybe he should have kept his jacket on. He stepped over toward the living room and poked his head into the doorway. ‘’Mom…?’’ His mother was sat across the room in her old recliner in front of the TV. He couldn’t see her face. Just thick black curls. ‘’Mom! I’m home!’’

‘’Hmmm…?’’ Finally, she seemed to hear him. She turned, looking at her son. Despite how young her children were, Liu’s mother looked very old. Her face was pale and sunken, her eyes always wide and worried looking. She had wrinkles, a lot of them, and the black frilled dress she was wearing didn’t help to make her look any younger. She had the health of someone much older than her too. Early arthritis, memory problems, depression and of course, the hearing problems. Ran in the family blood. All of it. ‘’Hello, Liu dear…’’ she called softly, sitting up in her chair slowly. Every movement seemed like a strain on her body. Like a machine that was breaking down. ‘’How are you…?’’

‘’Alright.’’ the boy replied.

‘’How was school…?’’

‘’Alright.’’

‘’Good…’’ she hummed and nodded, staring at him for a few long moments before turning back in her chair and sighing. ‘’Don’t forget...we’re going to see your father later.’’

‘’Alright, mom.’’ Liu replied softly. He walked back into the hall and crouched by his school bag. He unzipped it as quietly as possible and pulled out the thing he’d hidden inside, cradling it in his hands like it was fragile china.

A single slice of chocolate cake, inside a plastic container. Store bought. He stood up and slowly walked across the house, keeping the cake close to him. Though he doubted his mom would get up and leave the living room, he still didn’t want to risk her finding what he had. He stopped outside his brother’s room and knocked on the door five times. His own rhythm, to make sure he knew who was outside. He opened the door and poked his head inside.

The room was small, the smallest in the house besides the bathroom. The walls were a faded, depressing blue, with a single window on one of the walls. It was hard to tell it was a child’s room. Crosses hung on the walls, and the bookshelf had a mix of regular kid’s books and large tomes that were far above an eight year old’s reading level. The toys scattered around the room and sitting on shelves were old. Second-hand pass-me-downs that showed their age far too clearly. Everything seemed drab and depressing, except for the small boy sitting hunched over a coloring book in the center of the room.

He was dressed in a clean white t-shirt and baby-blue jeans tucked up around his waist. He was pale as porcelain, with wavy white hair that hung around his shoulders. He turned, blinking in surprise. Even from across the room, Liu could see his two big doe eyes. They looked brown from the distance, rather than the red they were up close. The boy broke into a grin, sitting up. ‘’Liu!!’’

‘’Hey buddy!’’ Liu called back softly as he walked over to Jeff. He smiled wide, hiding the cake behind his back as he crouched down. He pet the boy’s head lovingly. ‘’How’re you, huh?’’

‘’I’m good!’’ Jeff smiled up at his big brother. ‘’How was school?’’

‘’Fine, fine.’’ he shifted where he sat. ‘’Do you know what today is?’’ he asked. Jeff blinked, then frowned. Thinking.

‘’Um…’’ he looked up at him. ‘’We’re going to see daddy’s grave?’’

Liu sighed gently. ‘’No, no,’’ Jeff frowned. ‘’It’s your birthday, bud!’’

Jeff’s eyes lit up and he blinked, mouth agape. ‘’It is?’’

Liu laughed and pet the boy’s head again. ‘’Mhm.’’ he tilted his head. ‘’Do you know how old you are?’’

‘’Ummmm….’’ Jeff opened his mouth, then frowned again in thought. He held up his hand, quietly counting out under his breath. ‘’Um- I’m- I’m eight! Right?’’

‘’Yeah!’’ Liu clapped quietly, like he was congratulating the boy. ‘’You’re eight now!’’ Jeff grinned wide at him, patting his hands against his lap excitedly. Liu reached behind him, finally showing his little brother the slice of cake. ‘’I got you something.’’ Jeff gasped, eyes lighting up. He reached for the cake, only for Liu to pull back. ‘’Ah! Hey, not yet!’’

‘’Sorry…’’

Liu smiled at him gently and opened the plastic casing. ‘’Let me sing you happy birthday first, okay? Then you can dig in.’’ he said softly as he handed his brother a plastic fork. Jeff’s smile returned and he nodded eagerly. Liu took a deep breath, then held up the cake.

‘’Happy birthday to you….happy birthday to you...happy birthday dear Jeffrey...happy birthday….to you.’’

Liu held up the cake to his brother’s face and smiled. ‘’You can eat now.’’

Jeff squealed excitedly and speared a piece of cake with the fork. Liu watched him excitedly devour half the cake before Jeff looked up at him again. He swallowed the piece in his mouth. ‘’Liu, do you want some?’’

Liu looked at him in surprise before softening and shaking his head. ‘’Hey, no. It’s your birthday cake. I’d feel bad taking any-’’ he replied quickly. Jeff shook his head and grabbed another piece of cake, holding the fork up to his brother’s face. ‘’Jeff-’’ he tried to pull away, but the younger boy only whined unhappily and jabbed the fork closer. Liu glared at him for a moment before sighing. ‘’...fine.’’

Jeff smiled happily as his brother ate the piece and he looked down at the cake again. ‘’Do you want more or-’’

‘’No, Jeff.’’ Liu cut in. ‘’Just eat your cake, bud. Please.’’

‘’Alright…’’ Jeff took the rest of the cake from him and calmly ate it. Liu watched him scrape up every last crumb and wipe off every stray splotch of chocolate icing, savoring every last bit of the cake. He put his fork back in the plastic case and set it down on the floor. ‘’Done.’’ he said politely, looking up at his big brother with a smile.

Liu smiled gently. ‘’You liked that?’’ he asked. Jeff nodded happily. ‘’Good. Now,’’ Liu cupped the boy’s face in his palm, then licked his thumb. Jeff whined as his big brother rubbed chocolate icing off his face. ‘’You’re such a messy eater...’’ he chided softly as he used his sleeve to clean the other side of his face, and then the tip of his nose which had somehow gotten chocolate on it too. ‘’There. Done.’’ he pulled away and smiled at him. Jeff shook his head, blinked, then smiled innocently up at his big brother.

‘’Thank you Liu…’’ he murmured softly. Liu sighed out fondly and pet the boy’s head.

‘’It’s nothing. Happy birthday, Jeff.’’ he murmured with a smile.

#mod cc #by cc #writing #pirate tag #abbot tag #jeff the killer #liu woods #jeffverse #creepypasta #creepypasta writing

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johannestevans · 4 years

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Landing Page

This landing page contains before the cut info on how to support me, the different social media links I have, my Patreon and Ko-Fi jar, and then below the cut, I’ll link books I have for sale, serials I’m currently working on, and short stories I have published.

I’m really trying to do as best I can to earn money from my writing, because I do put a huge amount of work into it and I love it to pieces, but the more I can earn with it, ultimately, the more I’ll be able to produce and work on in future.

I know not everyone necessarily has money to spare, so if you can’t but you enjoy my work and want to support me, that’s just fine! You can support me by:

liking and responding to my work when I post it wherever

sharing my work on other media, especially with reviews

RTing my promos on Twitter or Tumblr

rating and reviewing my books on Goodreads

Also in general just following me on any media. There’s this Tumblr, of course, but then there’s:

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Also, if you do feel like making aesthetic posts, fanart, or other pieces of fan media for Heart of Stone or Powder and Feathers or any of the rest, tag me in it and I’ll reblog it! That kind of fan media really helps too. (My plan once I get my first royalties is to reinvest some of the money in commissioning more artwork.)

If you’re a Medium member, I would find it incredibly helpful if you would read my work on Medium. I understand that for people interested in my short stories, it’s frustrating that a lot of my work is behind the paywall on Medium, but like... It’s pay. My Medium is here.

If you’re interested in subscribing to my Patreon, you can do so here - I often post serials on there, too. If you’d like to leave a one-off tip, you can do so in my Ko-Fi.

And if you’d like to buy any of my books, there are links below the cut, as well as masterlists of short stories and serials.

Heart of Stone is an 18th-century slowburn slice-of-life/romance between Henry Coffey, a vampire who is occupied with publishing, and Theophilus Essex, his new secretary.

It’s set in the 1700s, but Henry is written with the intention of portraying ADHD, and Theophilus is autistic. There’s light humour throughout, and the emphasis is on the slow build of their relationship with one another.

$4.99 | £3.99 | €4.99

Smashwords

Amazon

Goodreads

Theodore Halloran is coming into himself; Godfrey Digbett III seems to be coming into nothing but trouble.

Perhaps one might amend the troubles of the other.

Divine Service is a novella (~22k) set in a fantasy universe following the coming of age and ascension of a young demigod to the divine position afforded him by his father, and simultaneously following the struggles of a young nobleman desperate to avoid being affianced or, worse, married.

£2.99 | $2.99 | €3.99

Amazon (sorry Divine Service is only on Amazon, it’ll be on Smashwords from November. I enrolled it in KDP by accident and then couldn’t back out :( )

Goodreads

The Mermaid and the Fisherman | $2.99 | 7000 words

M/M trans man/merman oviposition erotica.

A young man fleeing home has taken up residence in an old fishing cabin on the west coast of Scotland. He is observed, very closely, by a mermaid from beyond the maerl beds nearby.

On Smashwords | Goodreads

It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short — thank God — but at least there’s enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime.

That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Powder and Feathers is a fantasy fiction serial following the lives of three fallen angels newly arrived back to Dublin. If you are already holy, must you try to be good?

On Ao3 - On Wattpad - On Medium - On Patreon

The Boatswain’s Hook

These stories are all set in the aftermath of the events of Barrie’s Peter Pan, but they’re focused on the lives of Captain Hook and Mr Smee after an illness forces them to leave Neverland.

It’s funny, it’s silly, it does dig a lot into Hook’s canonic depression, and it’s pretty gay.

On Medium

Little Devils

Velma Kuroda, a student in Art History, finds her side interest in antiques becomes abruptly more central when her aunt decides to hand over her business. That business involves demonic infestations, run-of-the-mill hauntings, and other supernatural occurrences that might require a specialist — Velma has to learn to adapt as quickly as she can.

On Ao3 - On Medium

Short Stories

Youth Inquisitive - Fantasy. Vizma Riorda, a priest devoted to Oghma, a god of knowledge and truth, meets a young thief who does not lie.

The Dragon’s Treasure - An ex-knight, getting on in years, makes a dangerous annual pilgrimage.

In Perpetuity on Medium - on Smashwords - Genesius/Marcellus. To them, the modern word is all at once too loud, too fragrant, and too full, and yet two men — even two vampires — cannot exist in isolation forever.

#as defined by dictionary

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erudite-rebel · 4 years

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Title: Forced Offerings Summary: The recounts of Bartholomew Oobleck regarding an incident which took the lives of his parents when he was a child. Characters: Bartholomew Oobleck, Qrow Branwen, OC’s Notes: I’m posting a bit of writing I did. A few people who follow will be familiar with my Magnus Archives AU, or at the very least have seen me spam about it and draw art for the (3) other people who I know that listen to the podcast. I’m actually very proud of this little bit of writing, though I understand not everyone would want to read it. I’m trying to get myself back into properly writing, and though this is fanfic I think getting it out there and maybe receiving feedback could help?

It’s a horror story. One I kind of want to adapt, honestly, to a Creepypasta to submit to NoSleep, but for now it can remain like this.

Warnings for body horror, gore, and guts.

“There has to be some sort of rational explanation for-”

“For someone wearing someone else’s skin like a meat suit?” Qrow’s words were calm. Somehow he was always calm. Even after all of this.

Barty leaned against the chair, hands gripping the back of it until it was twisted and pressed against the table. He had dark bags under his eyes and was unsure of the last time he’d had a proper sleep. Every piece of him felt tired, from toes to fingertips, and he knew if he laid down there would be nothing to gain for it. Just wakefulness, watching, waiting.

“I always thought I wanted it to be real, Qrow,” he said. “All my life. Ever since the wanting to know dug its claws into my head for the first time. Even when we both should have run away after the incident. I- but now I’m here. And I really do know now, even if there’s so much more that I don’t. Hidden. Layers waiting for me to scrape away and dig down into them.”

When he looked back up Qrow’s face was near unreadable, as it always was. As though his old friend had at some point become a spy. “You can still get out, Bart. Quit. Forget.”

Barty laughed weakly. “You don’t… you don’t think I tried? I attempted to write up a letter of resignation, and it was as though the keys had transformed, like staring at some unknown machine as the cursor blinked. So I took up a pen, determined to write it, and I forgot how to write. And when I saw Ozpin I… the words. They wouldn’t be spoken. I don’t think I can quit.”

He sagged then and pulled out his chair, sitting heavily down. His head was laid in his arms, trying to think it through, but what was there to think of? To understand? He was trapped. A group of beings wearing skin suits had attempted to break into the archives. He’d looked at one of them wearing the face of a person he’d taken a statement from. Veronica Chase of Leeds.

“Everything I remembered pointed to… to the world being a very dark place, but I think I. I was too young to understand just how horrific.”

Cool fingers curled around his. Barty squeezed them on reflex, trying to convince himself not to do anything so childish as cry. There was so much going on. Too much going on. And he knew Ozpin, Qrow, perhaps some of the other assistants, he knew they knew more. And those secrets, that untold knowledge, burned like a hunger in him as much as recording statements had become. A part of him, one he didn’t yet know how loud it truly was, wanted to devour that knowledge.

Qrow’s voice broke into his thoughts. “...Have you ever spoken about it?”

Barty considered the question a moment before he lifted his head. Qrow was no longer unreadable. He was sad. Maybe angry as well.

“I haven’t.” He’d alluded to things to Qrow, when they were young and just a few stupid, desperate children, but he’d never told the full story. Perhaps not even to the police.

Qrow nodded to the tape recorder. “Maybe now’s the time.”

“You mean give a statement?” He sounded incredulous, as though that was the last thing he ought to be doing.

The other man shrugged, but thin fingers curled a little tighter. The gesture was soothing. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Barty sat up straighter, looking at the recorder waiting for him to merely press record. It called to him. With a sigh he picked up his glasses and placed them on his face, straightening his back. Qrow’s hands retreated over the table to his lap, and the other man was silent as he slouched and stared at Barty.

The record button depressed with a satisfying click, and the gears within ground softly with their age. The sound tingled along his spine like light, tickling fingers.

“Statement of Bartholomew Oobleck, regarding a series of deaths at Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities in 1996. Statement taken on November 22nd, 2020. Audio recording by Bartholomew Oobleck, Head Archivist of the Beacon Institute, London.” He paused a moment, as memories returned, like he’d merely opened a door. He remembered being a young and curious boy, and the scent of dust and paper and age in the museum’s storage. It was almost as if he were there, and he knew he’d be able to tell the story down to the deepest detail, and when he began to talk he wasn’t entirely sure who he was talking to - Qrow, the tape, or himself.

“Statement begins.”

I don’t suppose there are many people who would remember the Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities anymore. Or if they do, they might pretend not to. The galleries had originated from the private collection of Duke Francis Egerton, who had been the Duke of Eastwyke for perhaps a decade in the eighteen hundreds and primarily concerned himself with gathering rare and unusual antiquities. In the 1950’s several of his descendants saw fit to open it to the public, perhaps to use it to make a little money or invest. Despite that it didn’t see tourism. The patrons were mainly students from Oxford, or travelling academics. Anthropologists, archaeologists, Egyptologists… even had an entomologist come in weekly to just sit in the insect room and take it all in. No, not many people would remember it, but it was my childhood.

My parents, Pearl and Mathis Oobleck, were archaeologists. They were often abroad with work and digs. Sometimes I went with them, sometimes I stayed at home with my grandfather Tennyson, who had a little cottage on the grounds when he worked as curator. When he retired the mantle passed to my father and they were home a little more, unless going off to expand the collection. It was… a happy enough childhood. Maybe lonely sometimes, but I had an entire world of secret knowledge to explore, a library to devour and help curb my hyperactivity. I was content prowling those halls, which felt more like home to me than our cottage.

When I was nine the proprietors purchased a considerable number of artifacts from a private auction, something to do with a portion of Duke Egerton’s original collection that had made it into the hands of a branch of the royal family they’d had a rivalry with. The purchase caused quite a stir. All sorts of wild stories were told… not the least of which was that many of the artifacts there were once bought from grave robbers. I never heard the truth of it, though I suspect it was. Most private collections are just that. Stolen.

I was forbidden to go near the newest items. While it was next to impossible to keep me out of the storage rooms, I had learned early not to touch anything, and was not allowed in the room where they were held without an accompaniment to make sure I kept my hands well off. I remember standing in the middle of the room, hands stuck firm under my arms to resist the temptation to touch the pottery or old weapons. I must have looked like I had seen Father Christmas as I turned every which way trying to get a peek at it. I was a horrible annoyance, I suspect.

One part of the lot, though, I remember very well. It had been a beautifully preserved set of canopic jars. I recall being told they were from the eighteenth dynasty. They were made of black stone, each head carved with exquisite detail, the polish hanging on despite the millenia since. All over the surface of the jar were carved hieroglyphs, uncharacteristic of the usual designs. Several people believed the jars to be fake, as the material was wrong for the time, and the glyphs were unusual, but carbon dating seemed to suggest it was an immutable fact. I think there was a lot of discussion whether to open the jar and study the remains inside.

The largest advocate for their authenticity was Dr. Herbert Renshaw, a loud and corpulent man. I never knew him well. He was the sort of man who didn’t have patience for even a docile child, let alone a hyperactive boy with a million questions. He usually didn’t want me about so I didn’t hear much of them until he’d found me one day loitering near the entrance of the archive where they were being kept and he asked if I would like to come inside.

I remember finding that odd, chiefly because I knew he didn’t care for me, but also because of the look in his eyes. I was never much good at deciphering human emotions when I was younger, but even then I thought there was something of a gleam to them. I readily agreed, though, and darted inside the moment I was allowed to.

We didn’t have much in the way of conversation. He talked at length about the glyphs carved into the rock, and how they’d seemed to be in several different languages. His speech had been rapid, I remember, and I’d had difficulty following along. All the while I’d been edging closer to them, feeling captivated by the staring eyes of the figureheads atop the jars. I felt as though they were looking back at me, urging me in.

I hadn’t even been aware of reaching for them when Dr. Renshaw’s hand slapped down hard over my own, knocking it away. Knuckles stinging, I’d turned and fled as he glared. But even now I’m not sure if I ran from the slap, the look in his eyes, or the fact that there had seemed to be radiant, physical heat from those jars.

For the next few days I was kept busy with my homeschooling and hardly got a chance to go into the museum beyond writing a maths test in my mother's office. Whenever I was in, though, I happened to see Dr. Renshaw. Normally he was a neat and tidy sort of man, with expensive suits and his moustache waxed within an inch of its life, yet… it seemed as though he was keeping less care of himself. Hair unbrushed, buttons undone, bowtie lank or missing. And as he walked he’d mutter to himself and turn a wild sort of gaze on a person, something that made you feel less like a person and more like an object.

When I asked my mother about it she dismissed it as him being overworked and told me to concentrate harder on my studies. I tried, but the memory of the way he walked and stared wouldn’t be banished from my mind.

It was on a Monday that it truly started. I had left one of my science textbooks in my mother’s office and needed it for that day’s lesson, but it was on Monday’s the museum was closed, so I took my father’s key and let myself in the back entrance. I was hardly afraid. I knew these halls like the back of my hand.

As I was passing through one of the archives - it had been stuffy and hot with summer, without climate control - I heard an odd sound. A sort of whimpering coming from further in the dark. At first I rooted in place, wondering if I should run and get my father, too afraid to call out. When the sound came again I crept through the shelves, terrified of what I might find, when I came upon one of the librarians, Maggie Law. I’d always liked her. She let me read what I like and sometimes would sneak me toffee’s or other sweets. I’m certain she had a kind, round face, but now all I can remember is how she’d looked there in the shadows. Yellowing skin and eyes, soaked with sweat, hands clutched over her side. I remember her crying, her voice so broken and small as she said ‘he pulled it from me, he pulled it from me.’

I ran then, straight for my parents. It had taken them a good five minutes to get me to talk enough sense to call an ambulance. I remember watching from my window as she was taken away, staring through old warped glass at the blue lights.

I also remember something else, though. Dr. Renshaw. His face looking out from a window at the same scene. Even though I couldn’t see him clearly, my vision what it was, I felt sick just to look at him. I felt dread.

More attacks followed. The following day the groundskeeper, Kevin Rutherford, was found dead, torch in hand. I overheard the police telling my parents he seemed like he must have had a heart attack while patrolling the grounds that night. The day after that an archaeologist named Judith Churchill was found in a state of shock in the parking lot, having finished up late that night.

The museum closed. Everyone by that point was terrified, and the police were doing regular patrols. I was thirsty to know what was happening but my parents refused to tell me, so I’d taken to listening in on the telephone whenever someone rang. I eavesdropped on one such call and learned that Maggie Law had died. Hepatic encephalopathy, they’d said. I remember struggling an ancient medical textbook down from a shelf just to look it up. It’s a condition caused by acute liver failure.

I was in a right state after that. My parents were making sure to keep the doors locked. I remember my mother tucked me in and told me not to worry. I try to always remember that.

It was around ten pm that a knock came at the door. Unable to sleep I’d made a little tent of a blanket and was reading by torchlight when I heard it. Curious who it could be at that hour with so much going on, I crept from my bed to go to the stairs to watch the front hall. I thought perhaps it might be a policeman, that there’d be some news.

It was my father who answered the door. On the threshold stood Dr. Renshaw, and he looked haggard. Deep bags below his fever-bright eyes, cheeks almost sunken, hair a mess. I remember he had a hand tucked into his jacket.

My father invited him in, of course. There’d been concern in his voice as he shut the door and warned him he shouldn’t be out so late with such strangeness going on.

I remember the door swinging shut. I remember Dr. Renshaw pulling one of the jars from his jacket and noticing the eyes of Qebehsenuf, the falcon, somehow staring out from its black and smooth surface. And then Renshaw reached for my father.

Words do not feel as though they can describe. I watched as his hand seemed to sink through clothes and skin and flesh without a drop of blood. I remember my father’s face going stark white as my mother asked what was going on. And then Renshaw pulled his hand back.

It was like nothing I had yet seen. Pink, almost purplish, tubes were gripped in Renshaw’s hand. My father screamed then, falling to his knees, watching as this mass was pulled from him. There was too much even for Renshaw to hold and it slipped to the ground with a wet splat, and seemed to move like a languid snake.

My father fell over then, as my mother screamed hysterically. All I remember clearly was Renshaw looking up at me as he held my father's intestines like fleshy ropes, letting them drag on the ground and slap his clothing. Our eyes met. They were like I had never seen before. There was something mad there, but also elation or euphoria I couldn’t understand.

I ran then, bolting for my parent's room. I remember crawling under their bed and curling up beneath the headboard, hands over my ears as I listened to my mother scream before it just… ended. I waited to hear boots upon the stairs, for Renshaw to come and stick his hand into me, but he never came. All I heard was the door swing shut.

I didn’t leave until morning when the police arrived. The maid found my parents, and the police found me. Had had to drag me from under the bed, in fact. They didn’t let me see their bodies, and the funeral was closed casket. I told the police who I’d seen but Renshaw had disappeared along with those canopic jars. Jars I worry that had gotten full on what was stolen from his coworkers.

I went to go live with my grandfather after that. There was a lot of therapy. I was pushed harder than ever into my schoolwork, and I treated it like a drug to quiet my mind. Eventually I think I half convinced myself it was a hallucination by the time I went to high school. Now I know better.

Statement ends.

#rwby fanfic #bartholomew oobleck #qrow branwen #rwby oobleck #rwby qrow #horror fanfic #tma au #freeform; my writing #is anything really real anymore?; tma au

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