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1864reruns · 3 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤbelieve in my weight, don't look backㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.5k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

synopsis. in his own stubborn, odd, and easily mis–interpreted way, zoro cares for you— enough to force his way through the gates of hell to have the weight of your being to sober him up.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, starts off with zoro trying to kill you whoops, little bit of violence, oral (f! recieving), ? characterisation of zoro, zoro's swords are referred to with she/her pronouns, half proof–read (i'm going to sleep)

from vyon. don't perceive me, zoro is so fucking hard to write for no absolute reason. nearly gave up many times but managed to claw my way through out of pure spite; it's not my best work but i'm so sick of having to look at it in my drafts so it's being released, seriously as sexy as this guy is, fuck his ass. i refuse to write for him again. i wish i had enough patience to tie in eurydice and orpheus into this more but maybe i'll keep that in for next time.

do not repost / copy / translate.

You've made an odd habit of counting beats whenever Zoro trains with his swords. The rhythm changes depending on how many swords he choses to wield— it's something resembling a leaf gently falling to the earth after a gentle brush of air when both hands are tightened around a singular hilt, attentive with the way the blade runs against the air, unnecessary swings forsaken. It's systematic, a beat of one through eight as you share a delicacy worked from Sanji's hands with Luffy, feigning ignorance at the fact that Luffy's stretching his arm out to swipe at your food. With two, the earth shakes a little. He forces you into a faster tempo, you've no time to idly brush crumbs away from your lap nor care for Luffy taking more than half as Zoro splutters out different strokes against a canvas at a simultaneous rate, the air marked black as his blades tore through atoms.

At three, you're scrambling to keep up with him.

Your skin burns where Chopper's delicate hooves had struggled to work a bandage over, from your stomach, all the way up to the neck, it stretches down the length of your right arm and splits five ways to wrap around hardened fingers but doesn't touch the left side that itches where Zoro's blade skims. Your right arm nearly folds in half, failing to support your weight as the world shifts on its axis, your hair brushes against Sunny's deck and Zoro's frown turned upside down unnaturally.

You're unjustly stuck between appreciating his form when he's engaged and detesting how natural each swing falls upon you; Wado Ichimonji trails after like the shadow of your movement, unrelenting as it chased every ministration you make much like its cruel owner when he's got you held stubborn between his arms. You feel Zoro's unwavering eyes stern on everything that makes you up as all three swords keep up with your staggered agility; Sunny's deck creaked under your unstoppable tempo, marking the steps you both take like an ancient ritual that'll take shape eons away to call upon rain for harvest.

Zoro's blade runs heavy, each fall of his chest is followed by the threat of another sword slipping through your skin with ease; you move an inch, he'll force a mile through tiring bones to chase.

You realised something after Enma staggered after your scent, your sweat dripped down the blade as he straightened her up after a few locks of your hair shed down to the deck. "You're distracted," you managed to speak, dodging pants and heaves that locked up your lungs.

Zoro grunted. Sandai Kitetsu comes for you this time, you angled your foot so you could reach out to kick at his wrist without running the risk of the blade catching into your skin. She wavers in his hand for a mere second before his fingers tightened around the hilt even harder— you wouldn't be surprised if his palms were raw right now. Each stab, swing, slash becomes an invitation extended. Alluring you forward as the sun dawned down on all three blades, liquid as it ran down the sharpened metal and hooked around the crossguard and spilled over to pool at his wrist. The attraction that is Zoro and all three swords against you provokes you blind to crawl towards him, making you grimace; he beckons to you like a magnet, knowing the curve of your spine settles nicely in his ribs as your limbs shuddered against his beating heart.

He sternly creates a promise as he dances around you, your partner alternates between all three cursed blades but never does it becomes Zoro; keeping you at arm's length despite filling every burning nerve wrapped finely with bandages with desiring distaste, you wondered what his goal was here as you realised that you hadn't quite managed to get a good look at Zoro in the few hours you've spent wearing down the wood on the open deck.

Luffy's voice hits the air at the same time Zoro forces your head to swim with an awkward dodge, dots blur into your vision and you stumbled; a hand pressed against your temple to work the knots of a beginning ache away. The cheerful shout's tone follows the curve of the slide that takes you down to the lawn deck and a recognisable shadow casts over your face, seconds later, Luffy is cheering happily as he's flying across the air— resembling the path of Zoro's swords in his own manner— with a hand on his straw hat to keep it from flying. The shadow shortens as Luffy's arm loosened back to its original length.

The air that Zoro had worked to an intrusive stench takes its own form as Luffy graces it with his light presence; he keeps his back towards the sea on the figurehead as he idly crossed his legs and arms, head tilting as he looked at both yours and Zoro's form. "What're you doin'?"

"Training," Zoro answered, settling his swords back into their scabbards. The movement calls to the sudden session's end and you finally fall back, sprawled out on the deck as your chest rose and fell in time with the waves running against Sunny's hull. Your head feels as though you're still moving and clouds blur unnaturally into the reddening sky.

You hear Luffy hum and can imagine him reaching up a hand to grasp his chin, a dramatic frown playing at his lips as he pretended to think hardly about it. "Chopper said you needed to rest though," he aims this at you.

You think up a response in your head to defend yourself, pinning the blame onto Zoro, who'd barged into the infirmary and forced you out onto the open deck without a word but your mouth is dry and your jaw is heavy so you groan, turning your head away from the direction of Luffy's voice. An ache runs through your side like Zoro had managed to work one of his swords through you and the blade shattered still stuck in your skin, taking up a life of its own as it wormed through flesh and settled into the marrow, drinking up your life.

Your left hand crawls to your side, wrapping your fingers around the flesh of your side just below your chest and against your ribs, holding it down like you could ease the feeling by kneading the flesh. Zoro's silence is unnerving, you wondered how you managed to piss him enough for him to force you into training with him when you were still a recovering patient.

Chopper screaming your name reminds you that he'd expected you to stay within the infirmary— if you see him later, you'll tell him that you didn't expect to leave either. Dots gather into your vision, carved from Zoro's swords as they shake together, tightening into globs of blackened galaxies. "Zo." You didn't think the call of his name travelled from your brain to your lips but he recognises it regardless; you feel his weight creaking on Sunny's deck and a shadow dresses over the miniature starlight in your view. "M'gonna sleep."

He hummed, shifting his swords at his hip to accommodate you as an arm slivered underneath your thighs and the other curls around your side. Zoro's hand throbbed over the flesh of your thighs, you feel the pattern of curves from Sandai Kitetsu's hilt pressed into exposed flesh from his palms. His hands burn warmer than any part of your body, you recognised the tears of his lips that you could trace Wado Ichimonji's hilt from. Before you succumb to sleep, you manage to say something else. "Make sure t' let Chopper look at yer hands." His right hand taps against your rib, you nod your head, placated, before it falls onto his shoulder and everything eases into a slow silence. You managed to wave the hand thrown over his shoulder at your captain and get a lilted 'bye' in response.

Dreams have been foreign to you since you joined the Strawhats, though you're not certain that you could accurately recall the dreary shutter of memory that came pre–Strawhats either. Your memories have been washed away from beneath your skin from time spent under the stubborn sun you call a captain and any notable dream that stubbornly stuck to your skin from those unclean days were stained by his first mate. You remembered Zoro in each one. He stays dogged, chained to figures that you've wrongly painted in romantic hues of budding pink before you knew of his existence.

The infirmary stinks of medicine, chemicals and more familiarly, it smells of Chopper. The blanket weighs heavy on your chest and when you rise to allow the material from you, you realised that there were two blankets thrown over your form, as if to shackle you down. The image of your doctor throwing a weighted blanket over you is funnier than it should be, especially when armed with the fictional reason you've managed to claw together.

You turned your head when you managed to lean up against the wall the head of the bed is resting against, Sandai Kitetsu greets you. She's propped up against the side of the bed, her end caught between the bed and the table beside it to keep her up. The blade seems to purr when you reached out, bandaged fingers wrapping around the hilt— you find that it's similar to holding Zoro's hand, rough against your own palm with the sudden threat that hangs heavy of knowing this could hurt you if it wanted but it's warm enough to make you content, to make you trust enough to know otherwise. You pick up the blade and place it over your lap, studying the scabbard with light touches, nails tickling over leather. A problem child, you remembered in Zoro's voice.

The door creaks open. You snap your head up too quickly, hissing as you squeezed your eyes tight, lowering your head back down.

Steps close in on you and Sandai Kitetsu is lifted from your grasp; she's settled down on the chair by your bed and then her two sisters follow. "Move over." Zoro lifts the two blankets, urging you to move with tightened eyebrows and lips tugged into an annoyed frown.

You shuffled over, nearly falling from your own bed as Zoro forces his width into the bed; his hand catches onto your hips before he manages to push you off and he pulls you up to rest on his side.

"Sanji managed to piss you off, didn't he?" You placed an elbow by his head, bending your arm up to hold the side of your face in your hands. Your other hand is light on Zoro's furrowing features, pressing down on artificial wrinkles with your thumb and smoothing them out; the lay of tanned skin is pliant under one of your measly fingers, dulling under a mere stroke. He gives you a sigh that answers your question and shuffles closer, nudging you with his shoulder.

His arm looped through the triangle you've carved into the space with your right arm and your head, his hand falls onto the back of your head and he pushes your face down into the crook of his neck. "He gave me shit for forcin' you out of bed." You hit your fist against the side of his face and pushed yourself back up. Your chest lays on his, legs tangled together— it's more uncomfortable than intimate with how broad Zoro's grown to be.

"Do you regret it?"

Curt, seemingly cold; "no, I'd do it again."

You hummed, placing your head down onto his chest; Zoro's hand falls on your head, brushing your hair away from his chin and tucked his head down to tap his jaw against your head. "You upset?"

Without hesitation, "no." Not with him atleast, not for forcing you up to train with him from morning to the late hours of the afternoon even though your skin was still charred aching and weak from a run–in with a vice–admiral. Contrary to popular belief, Zoro's thinking is simple as can be; as strange as it was, Zoro making you fight him was his own way of caring or coping, you've yet to decide. "Nami got hurt." You muttered, turning your head to hide, your nose lays flat against his skin, oxygen fails to sliver through the gaps and breathing becomes a little hard.

"The witch can take care of herself," Zoro pats your waist, urging you to turn your head. The clear breath of oxygen you take burns as it runs through your body; the cold tingles Zoro's skin where it parts with your mouth, each ministration reminds him that you're strong, you're here, he doesn't have to keep his eyes on you all the time to make sure you'll live another day. You managed to keep up with him for nearly five hours; wounded, slow, staggered, your skin never met a single one of his blades. You'll be fine.

You don't reply, still dejected at your failure to look after your own crewmates whilst the monster trio were elsewhere; there's a semblance of understanding that's long taken root in your mind, shared with Nami and Usopp. The fact is that you're strong enough at any given moment in an odd crowd of civilians but there's still a terrifying gap that'll never be bridged between you and people like Zoro, Luffy, Jinbei.

"You can train with me," he offers, his hand beginning to run up and down your side; his thumb carves the path that his fingers trail after, Zoro moves languidly, quicker than his swords. Fingers hook underneath your shirt and dig through your bandages. Zoro's face scrunches up, "after you recover— that shitty cook." He trailed off, teeth clenched.

"I think your weights will kill me." You humourlessly reply, swatting his fingers from out under your bandages.

"You just need enough strength to protect the people you care about." He doesn't try sliding his fingers past the layer to get to your skin again but the pressure of his palm intensifies, as if to make up for the fact that there's something in the way of what he wants.

You turned your head up after a moment, your chin resting below his collarbone. "And you, what about you?"

His eyes flickered down to you, head tilting and eyebrow raised. "No, never."

"Are you saying I'll never be strong enough to protect you?"

He shifts, pulling you with him. You slide one of your legs over his waist to the other side, straightening up as you leaned back to rest your bottom on his waist; he pushed himself up slightly, leaning his shoulders against the wall. "I'll never be weak enough to force you into that position."

"But what if—"

"No."

You're starting to get personally offended, face scrunching up dramatically to question his ways. His hands fall onto your hips, they're idle for a second, thumb crossing the line of bandages and skin before his middle finger slips into the belt loop of your jeans and he slides you up his lap, stabilising you with his hands on your ass. There's no room to argue with Zoro as he ducks his head down and intrudes into your mouth, his tongue easing away any rebuttal you've been pondering over. You decide to give him another win, tilting your head and smoothing your hands over his shoulders to the back of his neck. Your fingers are barely touching the sides of his neck but he shivers, giving you an apology with a groan for shutting you up so harshly.

Knowing your limits, your hands don't fall down to Zoro's back. You've noticed that he's not a fan of any unnecessary, calculated touches along the broad expanse of his clear back— it's a shame with how often he trains shirtless, sweat falling from short strands of green, messy hair and catches on his spine, dribbling down the hollow river that separates his two muscled sides. Whether he's aware of it or not, he likes holding your hands when he fucks up into you, likes having your nails dig into the back of his hand and carve indents between knuckles. You notice how he grimaces at first after, when his hands curl around the curve of his sword, only for an amused smirk to start playing at his lips when he nods his head down to find the culprit of sudden pain.

Your fingers turn upwards, settling into strands of hair and splitting apart knotted ends as Zoro wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping you against him and his other hand trails up to your face. He didn't listen to you, if Chopper had seen how he'd managed to wreck his hands from his tight grip on Enma or Sandai Kitetsu, he'd have forced a salve onto Zoro and then wrapped it up carefully. Instead, cracked skin tickles against your cheek. There's something childish about the moment, reminiscent of having to keep a door cracked open in the bedroom of your parent's home, keeping quiet as the sound of fabric shuffling takes place, the sounds of life still moving on despite the time stilling for you. His lips are dry and you taste Wado Ichimonji's ito on his mouth, the diamond shaped pattern creates a strange design of cracks that you have to swipe your tongue over to ease the tickling.

It doesn't take much to convince you out of your trousers, to settle yourself on his face— it's a nice change of pace when you're always going out of your way to argue against him for fun. Your knees hollow craters into the pillow as you leaned your head against the wall, scrambling for something to hold onto. There's a ferocity in Zoro's servitude that leaves you whimpering, thighs tightening around his head so harshly that it makes his ears pop— he's unwavering, stubborn, tireless as warm hands clenched around the meat of your thighs.

The weight of your entirety on his face, your thighs keeping his arms' movement minimal, locking his bent arms under your weight as your toes catch the bed covers, pulling and wrinkling the material keeps Zoro sober. He's so eager with tenacious force that he starts tasting his leftover spit before he gets to taste you. It doesn't become much of a problem though because you want him just as much as he wants you so it's easy to get that taste he's taken such a nasty liking to. Zoro just has to crane his neck up, allow the space for an unyielding ache to settle, press his lips against your clit a few times, toying at it with his tongue before you're dripping on his chin.

It's hard to imagine you elsewhere when you're so stern in existence on him like this. A particular curl of his tongue makes you squeal around his name, thighs quivering beside his head and Zoro realises. He doesn't think it matters where you go. If you've been granted to him— if he's learnt how to live at your feet, chasing after every breath you've rewritten in your lungs— how would it be acceptable to not turn the world inside out if you're gone? May it be hell, purgatory, what could stop Zoro from slaughtering what ever force that's keeping you from sitting on his face so prettily, calling his name like he's your personal God? There's no feat of superhuman strength that wouldn't shatter through Zoro's bones if it gets him to you.

A groan from Zoro invades your skin, stuttering up all the way thirty–three bones of your spine and makes a home at your neck. You toss your head back, a shuddering breath snapped against the steady, heated air swimming around the room. His name falls from your lips again, there's nothing else to say when Zoro's mouth falls on you and he grunts, his response is always so minimal— too far engaged with eating you out like he's chasing after his own high.

There's no headboard to the infirmary beds so you're left to claw at the wall, leaning forward to scramble something with uncertain stability on the bed; you tightened your fingers around the edge of the bed as you folded over, your waist hitting against his head slightly. Zoro's hand manages to push past your thighs confining him and drags up your skin under your shirt, his nail draws a soft line across your stomach that has the skin trembling as a whine falls from your lips. There's no ulterior motive behind it other than to connect another part of him to you, he leaves your skin burning in his wake as he retracts his hand and offers it for you to hold onto.

The last orgasm you're eased through, shaking your head and blood dripping down Zoro's arms from where your nails have worked down the skin, stratching and digging— Zoro knows you'll never be far away enough from him for him to not give chase. As long as there's a remnant of you somewhere carried in the wind, he'll follow. It's not like Luffy will stand in his way either.

#౨ৎ zoro single!#౨ৎ op single!#roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #roronoa zoro x y/n #zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro x y/n #zoro oneshot #zoro smut #one piece smut

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cj-sparkss · 3 years

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hii!! i love your stories. can you make a fluffy/angst about eren and reader. where eren is jealous because jean is always with y/n and he hides it but his anger was obvious and the two got into the small fight because eren wont admit why he is angry and it turns into fluff or smut it depends. THANK YOUUY

eren’s masterlist

“ready to go?” eren stands at the doorway to your bedroom, one arm resting on the top of his head, his biceps flexing through the fitted black t-shirt. his multiple chains rest on top of the thin black fabric, chocolate brown hair tied into a messy bun.

you guys are supposed to meet up at sasha’s apartment with a few of your friends in a little while for a game night, one that happens every other friday.

“almost.” you place the final pieces of your outfit together, finishing off styling your hair. eren’s emerald eyes track you from the door, watching you complete your look. once your done, you grab your bag from the hook on the back of your door, switching off the lights in your room and nodding your head in confirmation at eren. he gives you a slow once over, smiling a boyish smile, eyes basically forming hearts. he enterlaces his fingers with yours, pulling you out the door and into the hallway. “you look so good babe.”

an entire swarm of butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks from his simple yet loving compliment. tucking a piece of hair away from your face, you duck your head, smiling bashfully to yourself. “thank you eren.” he pecks your cheek, his soft lips lingering on your skin as you guys slide out the door and into his car.

he drives out, one hand on the steering wheel, his other arm resting on your seat behind your head. his phone automatically connects to the car, playing chill music in the background. sliding his arm down, he places his veiny hand on the flesh of your thigh, squeezing once, twice, then resting, slightly gripping your skin.

you guys drive in silence for a while, just basking in the warmth of each other’s presence, music playing in the background. soft moonlight pours into the car through the windows, illuminating his tan skin, strands of brown hair falling out of his messy bun, cupping the sides of his face.

after a few minutes, eren breaks the silence, grabbing your hand with his. “you know…” he squeezes, as if to comfort himself. “jean might act all lovey dovey with you again tonight.”

you shoot him a confused look, your brows furrowing in confusion. “what do you mean, act all lovey dovey with me?”

“i mean that he’s going to constantly talk to you like he does every game night. hell, i’m pretty sure he even lets you win some games on purpose just to see you smile at him. c’mon, that's my move.” he lets out a defeated sigh, bringing your hand to his mouth, planting a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“i just wanted to, you know, warn you, in case he makes a move on you, which the shit head will probably do.” a light blush tinted his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he spoke. while his focus was still trained on the road ahead, his azure eyes flickered towards you every few seconds, trying to conclude your reaction.

you laugh, placing your other hand on top of your interlocked ones, soothingly rubbing his own. “it’s okay eren. thank you for warning me about jean, but he's not being “lovey dovey” with me, hes just being kind.” you lift your hand, affectionately cupping his cheek. “besides, you know about his crush on mikasa.”

he leans into your touch, rubbing his cheek against your palm like a child. “i know, baby. i just don’t want him stealing what’s mine.”

you giggle, turning up the music. “i promise you, he won’t.” the corners of eren’s mouth turn up into a crooked grin as he gazes at you from his peripheral vision, admiring the moonlight making your skin glow. “thank you.”

shortly after, you guys arrive at sasha’s house, eren knocking on the door with a musical rhythm. the door flies open, jean’s tall and lean figure greeting you guys at the doorway with a sly smile. “hey guys.”

jean swiftly scans your body up and down, eyes trailing over your outfit. the gesture doesn't go unnoticed by eren, who can already feel himself getting mad just by the sight of the boy.

jean softly grabs your hand, pulling you into a bone crushing hug. “you look nice.” you giggle, hugging him back with the limited air in your lungs. “hey jean.”

eren squints his eyes at the gesture from behind, crossing his arms and slightly pouting, still standing behind the doorway. jean let’s go of you, smiling a not so innocent grin at eren, amber eyes twinkling with mischief. “hey man, are you going to stand there all day?” he motions his head inside. “come in.”

grunting, eren stomps inside, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the sitting area, not looking back. jean closes the door, twisting the lock and pulling the extra security chain over.

already in the living room are sasha and connie chatting away on the carpet, sasha with a bag of chips in hand while stuffing some into her mouth with the other, armin sitting on the couch, nose stuffed in his book.

eren leads you to the couch, pulling you down to sit next to armin. the boy feels the couch sink, now alert of your presence. his head looks up from the book, the golden blonde gracing you with a sweet and welcoming smile. “oh, hey.” the smile is contagious, and you give him a fist bump, looking into his sapphire eyes. “hi armin.”

“hey. look who’s here!” sasha notices you and eren on the couch, exclaiming your name and rushing over to you. she pulls you into a bone crushing hug much like jean’s, wrapping her arms around your head and stuffing your face into her stomach. “h- hi sa-sasha.” you tap her side a few times, the air in your lungs disappearing from her tight embrace. “i. can’t. breathe…”

eren chuckles besides you, connie sensing your danger from behind. he rushes to your aid, pulling sasha off of you by her shoulders, giving you a chance to regain your breath. “sasha, no. don’t suffocate the guests.”

“oh no, i’m so sorry!” she scrambles to get her bag of chips, sticking her arm out and holding it in front of your face, nudging it for you to grab. “here, i’ll give you the rest of my chips to compensate.”

you nod your head, grabbing the bag and looking into it, only to see that there’s just a singular chip left, crumbs at the bottom of the pack. “uh- sasha there’s nothing left-“ you look up at her, seeing the same happy and lovable expression on your friends face as always. “never mind.” you beam a smile at her, happy to see her again tonight. “thank you.”

“of course!” she grabs your head, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

jean strides into the middle of everyone, clasping his large hands together with a clap. “all right! let the games begin.”

“what are we playing today?” you ask, tilting your head in wonder.

“we're playing pictionary first. everyone know how to play?” sasha glances around, scanning over everyone’s faces. you all nod, everyone already knowing how to play.

“okay! great.” she walks into the corner, opening a small closet, pulling out a wooden stand, and then a large whiteboard accompanied by red and black dry erase markers, placing them in the front, standing tall. “now we have to pick partners. choose wisely, because some of you really suck ass at drawing.” although voicing this to everyone, her eyes are staring specifically at eren, an accusing look on her face.

he picks up on the insult, scoffing and turning his face, crossing his arms in disbelief. “i don’t know what you’re talking about”, he mumbles under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

you laugh, placing a hand on his bicep. “it’s okay eren, i personally think you are amazing at drawing. you peck his cheek, giving him a loving smile. a very light blush spread on his cheeks as he turned to face you, placing a soft kiss on your lips, not caring about public displays of affection around both of your closest friends. he pulls away, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, starting a sentence. “do you maybe want to partner toget-”

jean calls your name from the side, long legs swiftly approaching you. he stops in front of you, amber eyes looking into yours. “do you want to be partners? we’re both the best after all”, he states, a cocky grin on his face.

although flattered, you give an apologetic smile, turning to face eren again, who is shooting daggers at jean with his eyes. if looks could kill, jean would definitely be gone right now.

“i’m sorry jean, but i wanted to be partners with eren.”

“it’s fine.” eren’s deep voice speaks, words confusing you. “what?”

he turns away, avoiding eye contact and gazing at nowhere in particular. “i said it’s fine. if you wanna be partners with jean, be partners with jean. i’ll just be with armin”, he huffs out, a blank expression on his face.

“no but eren, i want to be partners with you-”

“no, go with him.” he doesn't let you retort, mind already firmly set.

“are you sure?”

“yes.”

no. he’s not sure, but he doesn’t want to seem like the possessive type of boyfriend, the one that won’t let you hang out or do things with other boys. this is him trying to be a good boyfriend for you, even if it angers him to see you with another guy.

“great!” jean grabs your wrist, pulling you away to another chair, eren’s emerald eyes tracking your movement.

sasha places a tiny blue bin filled with little papers in the middle of the table. “okay, this bin is filled with the different topics that you guys have to draw, that your other partner will have to guess. they’re relatively easy, it really just depends on your skills with details and trying different things.” she paces around, checking over everything to make sure the game is set. “basically, there will be three rounds since there’s three teams. in the end, whoever first team guesses the most and wins the most points, wins.” sasha tugs on connie‘s arm, pulling him into a standing position. “connie and i will go first. connie, pick a paper from the bin, and you will draw first, i’ll try to guess.”

connie wines, drooping his shoulders and standing stiff in his spot. “whyy do we have to draw firsttt?” sasha pays no mind, tauntingly smiling at him. “because people with no hair don’t get to choose.” she turns him around, shoving him forwards by his shoulder. “now go. we each get fifteen seconds. i’ll put the timer on my phone.”

connie rolls his eyes but gives in, picking a paper from the bin. he stands for a moment, contemplating over what he got, and then nods his head. he walks in front of the board, lifting up a black erase marker. sasha settles into the chair, sitting up and preparing herself. “ready?” connie nods, a hesitant smile on his face. “kay, go!” on cue, he starts drawing a series of lines on the board, arm flexing as it moves, rushing to beat the time.

“is it fries?” sasha guesses out, excitedly pointing at the board. connie shakes his head no, continuing to draw a circular blob.

“burger!” he shakes his head.

“potatoes!”

“ooh, ooh! potatoes and fries!”

connie grunts, running a hand over his face in frustration.

jean taps your shoulder, grabbing your attention as he leans into your ear. “it’s a giraffe.” you mouth an “o”, the picture on the board suddenly coming together and making sense.

“i got it! meat!”

ding ding ding!

the timer on sasha‘s phone rings out, telling everyone that her time is over. connie aggressively caps the marker, slamming it down to the table and pacing towards sasha. he stretches his hands out in frustration, eyes bulging out of his head. “IT WAS A FREAKIN’ GIRAFFE!” everyone erupts into laughter, giggling at the iconic duo. sasha shrinks in her seat, realization dawning on her face. “ohhhh, that makes sense.” connie glares at her, making her shrink even more. “sorry?” her voice comes out as a squeak, as she subtly reaches her hand over to grab another bag of chips. connie sighs, plopping down next to her. “i need a new partner.” he mutters under his breath, although, a small smile rests on his face.

“okay!” jean springs up, looking down at you and stretching a large hand out for you. “our turn now.” you nod your head, hesitantly placing your hand in his. your eyes flicker over to eren, who’s turquoise eyes are dead set on the physical contact between you and jean, fumes practically blowing out of his ears. you retract your hand, sensing erens jealousy from across the room, resulting in jean giving you a confused look. maybe this wasn’t a great idea.

“i’ll draw first”, you say, walking towards the blue bin. you pick out a paper, determining in your mind what you are going to draw for the term you were given.

as the night went on, more rounds were completed, different teams gaining points. you and jean were a natural, just like he had said. you guys collected the most points, never once failing to guess the other’s picture. you guys enjoyed the night, constantly laughing with each other over something stupid that was happening.

sasha and connie progressively got better, improving on their communication throughout the game. armin and eren were amazing, armin always able to guess eren’s picture, despite his not so great art skills.

it wasn't just that he wasn't great at drawing, but he was distracted. by you. eren’s eyes never once left you and jean, constantly watching the two of you interact, virescent eyes clouded with jealousy and anger. no one paid him mind, thinking that the boy was just being his usual, angry self.

but you knew eren better than anyone. he was upset. it was obvious to you. but if you tried to talk to him or ask him what was wrong, he would reply only in short, one worded answers. “are you okay?” “yes.”

he barely interacted with anyone throughout, not even paying armin any mind when the blonde tried to communicate with him.

the last straw was when you and jean had won the final round.

you guys were yelling in ecstasy, boasting about your success to the others. you had reached out both your hands to give jean a high five in congratulations, and as he connected his large hands with yours, he pulled you into an embrace, wrapping his arms around you, trapping you in a friendly hug close to his body.

of course, eren witnessed the interaction, and if he wasn't angry before, oh he definitely was now.

he stood up, stomping towards the both of you, aggressively pushing jean away from you. jean stumbled back, trying to catch himself from falling, as you stood there, eyes wide.

“ay, what the fuck, man?” jean steps towards eren, squaring up to him, amber eyes challenging him to lay another hand.

“don’t fucking touch her.” eren doesn't stutter, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you away to the door, not even looking back at jean. you hurriedly grab your purse from the couch, scanning around the room to make sure nothing was left. armin and the others just watch the exchange, not even bothering to interfere, sasha happily munching on her snack, watching everything like a movie.

armin leans over, whispering in sasha’s ear. “um, should we say something?”

“nope!” connie reaches a hand into sasha’s bag of chips, stealing a few in his fingers resulting in her slapping the hand away, dragging the chips away.

eren unlocks the door with his hand, your wrist still held tightly by the other. “eren? what are you doing?” successfully unlocking the door after fumbling, he pulls it open, dragging you outside. “were leaving.”

your brows furrowed in confusion as he quickly pulls you down the hall, towards the elevator. you don’t say anything as he takes you to where his car was parked, still racking your brain on why he was acting like this, making you guys leave abruptly.

approaching his car outside, he finally lets go of your hand, pulling out his car keys and unlocking the door. he opens the passenger side door for you, still not saying anything as he walks over to the driver’s side, getting in and slamming the door.

you get in the car, softly shutting the door, and you just look straightforward, still not conversing. and this is how it is the entire car ride, your eyes just trained forward, not even bothering to peak a glance at eren, while he silently drove, emerald eyes flickering to the side to look at you once in a while. and this time, his hand is not on your thigh or intertwined with your own hand, it’s just sitting on his lap.

you both arrive back at your shared apartment. you throw your stuff on the couch, heading straight to the bathroom, not even bothering to acknowledge eren. he went straight to the bedroom, slamming the door with a loud thud.

you sigh, placing your palms on the bathroom counter, looking at your reflection. “what the fuck is up with him?” you mutter silently to yourself, running a hand down your face.

and then it clicks. jean. you were basically with him the entire night. that makes sense. the conversation in the car before arriving at sasha’s, the daggers shooting out of eren’s eyes straight at jean whenever he neared you. the closed off attitude the whole game night.

he’s jealous.

and his dumbass won’t tell you. considering how stubborn he is, you know that you will have to talk to him first before he even admits it. so you wash your hands, and gather up the rest of your energy to go and face your boyfriend.

approaching the bedroom door, you silently turn the doorknob, opening the door with a tiny creek. “eren?” you see him sitting down on the bed, scrolling through his phone. as you walk in and shut the door, he notices your presence and looks up, a blank expression on his face, a look in his eyes that you can’t describe. you stand in front of the wall awkwardly, shuffling your feet. “eren, please talk to me.”

he finally meets your eyes, staring at you for a long moment before he stands up, rising to his full height. he trudges towards you with his long legs, stopping at least a foot away from you.

“talk about what?”

“about what just happened. why are you so upset?”

“i’m not upset.” he feins an innocent look, crossing his arms against his chest. but you don’t believe the facade for a second. you squint your eyes, tilting your head at him. “yeah, right.” you purse your lips, crossing your own arms as well. “you’re jealous.”

that ignites a reaction out of him. hes close enough to you that his scent reaches your nose, vanilla taking over your senses. eren stares at you, studying your face. “i’m not fucking jealous.”

you raise your eyebrows in disbelief. “not jealous my ass. you are jealous. because of jean.”

eren steps closer to you, backing you into the wall, slamming his palm on the place next to your head, a burning look taking place in his eyes. “why are you so damn insistent with that? i said, i’m. not. jealous.”

you flinch, letting your arms drop to your sides, cowering under his gaze. “eren…” your voice cracks, your gaze dropping to your feet.

once he sees the fear and worry in your eyes, the once burning fire look in his emerald orbs fade into a soft and tender one.

“i- i’m sorry. you’re right. i am jealous.” he bows his head, brown hair out of the bun falling to the sides of his face. he sighs, moving the hand that was next to your head, to cup the side of your face. he places his forehead against yours, lovingly looking into your eyes. you bite your lip, waiting in anticipation of what he’s going to say.

“it’s just- i just don’t want to lose you to jean, or for that matter, lose you to anyone. i- your the best thing that has ever happened to me, and i can’t lose you.”

you gaze into his eyes, and the only thing you see now is pure love and worry. you caress his own cheek, making him bring his eyes back to yours. “don’t worry eren. you won't be losing me anytime soon. or ever in fact.”

he smiles a boyish grin, immediately put at ease and reassured by your kind words. he leans in, stopping right in front of your face, noses almost touching, lips only inches away. he looks into your eyes, searching for something in yours. “can i show you how much i don’t want to lose you?” his minty breath fans over your lips. his voice is deeper now, huskier, a heavier tone hiding underneath. your breath hitches in your throat, and you take a big gulp as his eyes flicker to your lips. you nod your head, and without wasting a moment, eren’s warm lips latch onto yours.

one of his hands moved from its former position, sneaking around your waist to pull you closer to him, while his other large hand traces circles into your cheek. you fist the front of his shirt, and eren presses his body against yours, swiping his tongue against your bottom lip asking for access. you comply, letting the wet limb in, it swirling around your own tongue, exploring every inch and crevice of your mouth. strong arms slide underneath your thighs, and he lifts you off the ground, pinning your back against the wall.

you instinctively wrap your legs around his body, placing your hands around his neck. you could feel his toned abs against your stomach, as well as his heartbeat, beating fast against yours. eren pulls away from the kiss, catching his breath before moving down, trailing wet and hot kisses down your face and to your jaw line. you move your hands up and tangle them in his hair, tugging just how he likes you to, conducting a low groan out of him.

eren moves down to your neck, finding your sweet spot when you let out a soft moan, and he bites and sucks, marking his territory and leaving discolored spots on your skin that you would have to take care of tomorrow. he smashes his lips against yours with more lustfulness, large hands groping and squeezing your thighs. he swings around, walking you towards the bed, placing your back against this soft mattress.

eren climbs on top of you, one knee in between your thighs, leaving your legs open, his chains dangling over your face. his hands trail up your body, feeling every inch of your skin. they trail back down, fingers sliding into your waistband of your pants, fingers caressing your clothed slit, gently pinching your sensitive essence through the material. you squirm under his touch, shivers traveling up and down your spine. “eren…”

“does that feel good, baby?” he questioned, slowly pulling your panties down your legs. you nod your head, raising your hips to help him pull off your underwear. “that’s a good girl”, he muttered, as his finger ran up and down your wet slit, gathering up your slick.

he pushed one long finger inside, as you arched your back up and into his chest, your walls clenching around his digit. “i am going to show you how much i love you.”

eren added another finger, hitting your spongy sweet spot, stretching your walls, your juices trailing down his hand. “you’re making such a mess.” he groaned with his husky voice, desire loud and clear.

“eren, m- more” you moaned out in a breathy voice. he complied, sliding another finger knuckles deep in between your drenched walls, curling and trusting them in and out. the same familiar feeling started building up in your lower abdomen area, tightening with each slow thrust. your hand grabbed his hair, pulling and tugging as your walls were clenching.

his other hand went for your clit, rubbing and caressing, as the feeling in your abdomen increased. with a few more thrusts from his long fingers, you came undone, clear liquid leaking down his fingers as he pulled out.

your legs were slightly shaking, mind overwhelmed with pressure. “such a good girl. making a mess everywhere.” he stuck his fingers in his mouth, licking and sucking on his fingers, not leaving any of your juice left to waste. “can i take off your shirt?”

you nod your head, brain still fuzzy as you came down from your high. eren positions his hands at the bottom of your shirt as you sit up a bit, lifting it up and over your head, throwing it on the floor. his fingers travel to behind your back, unclasping your bra easily without fumble.

he situates his hands on your waist, setting his pink lips onto yours. he traced shapes with his fingers along your stomach, trailing up to your breasts, rolling your hard nipples in between his fingers, pinching and twisting as his mouth swallowed your whimpers and cries.

he pulled away with this string of saliva connecting the both of your lips, his virescent eyes locked onto yours, lust cloudy them. “you know, you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen.” he stupidly smiled, taking off his shirt and throwing it onto the floor near yours, revealing his sculpted chest. he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pulling them and his boxers off his own legs in one swift motion. his cock sprung out, slapping against his stomach, pre cum oozing out of the pink tip.

his muscles flexed and contracted with each movement as he moved between your legs, spreading your thighs open and wide. he placed them over his shoulders, grabbing your ass and lifting your hips off the mattress, aligning his length with the entrance to your core. “i love you baby. are you ready?” you nod your head, pushing your hips forward in an attempt to feel more of him.

eren’s grip tightened on you, sure to leave light bruises the next day. he started rolling your hips so that his cock would move along your slit, pressing at your entrance and on your clit. you whined, desperately needy for him inside you.

he chuckled, his wet tip almost inside you. “i got you.” he slowly pushed his length inside your core, inching his way in as your toes curled due to the satisfying pleasure. you close your eyes, the delightful feeling taking over you.

“no, look at me, baby.” eren’s almost growling, his voice firm and commanding. you open your eyes, uncontrollable moans spilling from your mouth. “good girl.” he grunted, pushing himself deep inside your cunt, his tip brushing your cervix, your walls clenching around his cock.

he started thrusting inside you, his veiny cock throbbing inside you, his tip pressing onto your sensitive spot, eliciting moans from you. “shit, you’re taking me so fucking well.” he thrusted in and out of you, your climax quickly approaching. “eren, i- i am going to cum.” you croaked out, barely managing to form any more words.

eren quickens the pace, his hips crashing onto yours even faster than before. your whole body quivers, and your mind went blank, eyes rolling to the back of your head. eren continues to fuck you hard, the lewd expressions on your face only encouraging him on. he pressed you thighs further into your chest, you’re legs still shaking from the intensity. “baby, we’re just getting started.”

he places his wet tongue on your clit, as two large fingers sink into your core, curling inside your now sensitive cunt. your hands buried in his hair, tugging the chocolate strands from the overstimulation. “eren.. shit. t- too much” you cried out, hands burying even deeper.

he kept sucking and licking with his mouth, his fingers increasing speed as they thrusted into you. your hips started grinding, trying meeting the pace of his thrusts. you reached your climax once again, throat dry from all your moans. you sunk into the soft mattress below you, in a state of pure bliss. “that’s right sweetheart.” eren climbed on top of you again, his still hard and throbbing cock entering your drenched cunt in one simple motion.

his mouth connected to your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple while his other hand masssged into the other. “scream my name.” your walls continue to clench around his legs, pressure building once again in your lower abdomen.

eren was panting, his thrusts becoming more sloppy and erratic. “i thought i said,” he looks at you, eyes half lidded, sweat dripping down his body. “i want to hear you scream. my. name.” he thrusts into you hard, making you cry out. “eren!” and with that you climax for another time, your walls clenching and milking his cock, encouraging his own high.

his cock twitched inside you, throbbing as his movement came to a halt. his cum poured inside you, painting your walls white with his liquid. eren collapsed next to you on the bed, irregularly breathing, sweat falling down his body.

he connected his lips with yours once again, caressing the side of your cheek lovingly. he pulls away after a few moments, gazing into your eyes. “i hope that was enough to show you how much i love you.”

you smile like an idiot, nodding your head and humming. “you certainly did. i love you, eren.”

“good”, he planted a kiss on your cheek, stroking your hair. “let’s go take a shower and clean up, okay?” he gently picked you up, carrying you bridal style to the bathroom. “you did so well tonight.” he plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his warm lips lingering for a moment. “again, i’m sorry about everything earlier.”

you give him a reassuring smile, smoothing out his messy hair. “it’s okay eren. i forgive you. i love you.”

“i love you.”

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boneinator · 4 months

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I'll rust with you - Steam Powered Giraffe

(reblogs > likes !!)

#the rest of the song doesn't really fit him but I think that one line resonates with his character #whatever. you should check out spg NOW 💥💥💥 they're really cool :]#also does the rust look yucky enough? I think I did a good job with the colors in this one #dhmis #dont hug me im scared #yellow guy dhmis #yellow guy #smart yellow guy #traditional art #bone's singular crumb

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aquilaofarkham · 3 years

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title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛 Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit.

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.”

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time.

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle.

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips.

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation.

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water.

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade.

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #sypha belnades #trephacard #my writing #*cvfic #jewish trevor

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herstarburststories · 3 years

Text

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination - supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that? Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

#dean winchester #dean's birthday #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester's birthday #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines

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groundnul · 4 years

Text

Let Them Eat Cake: Shinobu x Birthday! S/O

Prompt: Hiii ^^! Could i request a shinobu x fem s/o where it's her s/o's birthday please?

Title: 2,243

Word Count:

Pairing: Shinobu x Reader

note: idk how birthdays work in kny universe but imma treat it like a modern japanese birthday ig?? srry if it’s not accurate lmao

Snuggled up on your love seat by the fire, you let out a heavy sigh.

A day full of people, presents and cake flashed through your mind again as you sipped from the tea cup in your hand.

Today was your birthday. Like any other year, you celebrated with family and close friends, who managed to pull off a wonderful surprise party for you, in Shinobu’s absence. Their gifts were lovely and thoughtful, and the cake was perfect.

The only thing missing was Shinobu.

Duty called a week prior, sending her off on a mission somewhere in the mountains. Mention of your birthday upon her departure was unspoken, but not neglected. Shinobu knew you were thinking about it, and you knew she was, too. But the trials and tribulations of being a pillar far outweighed a yearly celebration of age, and you sent her off with a hug and kiss like you always do.

You, of all people, knew Shinobu would never intentionally forget your birthday. Nonetheless, your feelings were still hurt when the day was almost done, and you’d yet to receive a letter from her.

Usually, she’d send you a letter every few days just to check in and let you know she’s alive and all is well. You’d gotten one two days prior, so naturally, you were expecting another pretty soon. Hopefully today.

But as the clock struck 11, your hope was dwindling. In her line of work, sacrifices were made, and you accepted that a long time ago. Now, you were just hoping she was somewhere safe and warm. You finish off your drink, setting the empty cup onto the coffee table with a clink. In the center of the table was a purple box with indigo ribbon; it was a small token of appreciation you prepared for Shinobu -- a silver butterfly charm with delicate amethyst inlays, and the words “人生最愛の人” (or “love of my life”) engraved on the back. You’ve had it for quite some time, and have waited for the right moment to give it to her. Maybe this was a sign you shouldn’t.

You ignore the creaking in your bones as you stand, throwing your blanket onto the seat behind you. Your usual nighttime routine follows, flicking off lights, brushing your teeth and washing up. With a yawn, you trudge back to the fireplace and put out the embers. You lock the deadbolt on your front door, and solemnly shuffle back to your bedroom.

But the sound of your front door knob turning puts you on high alert. Shinobu normally doesn’t get back this late.

You grab the bat you have propped up by your coat rack. Gripping it tightly with one hand, you close one eye, peering through the peephole cautiously. Three knocks on the door startle you, but you silently creep closer to take a look.

A pair of purple eyes stare back at you innocently through the peephole. It almost scares you at first, but the fisheye-view of your lovely girlfriend has never been more welcome.

You smile, tossing the bat near your coat rack as you rush to unlock the door, swinging it open. Instead of soaking in her gently surprised expression, you leap forward, swooping her up in an excited hug. Her gentle chuckle in response is melodious, sending your heart aflutter.

“Hello to you too,” she says warmly, wrapping one arm around you in return.

“What are you doing here?!” you ask in disbelief.

You pull back, giving her a once-over to spot any injuries. She looks unscathed, per usual, thankfully.

“I came to see you,” she admits, expression unwavering.

Leaning back in, you place a kiss on her soft lips, cupping her cheeks with both hands. After a moment, you part, and wrap your arms around her shoulders in another, much longer hug.

“That was quite the warm welcome,” she says cheerily, holding back another laugh. You let out a giggle yourself.

“Sorry, I just missed you,” you murmur into her neck, squeezing a little tighter.

Finally, after what feels like both forever and not long enough, you let go. You reach to grab her hand and lead her inside, but notice a white tote hanging from the crook of her elbow.

“What’s in the bag?” you ask.

“You’ll see,” she chirps, eyes gesturing inside.

You grin and oblige, stepping to the side of the doorway to let her pass. Closing the door, you turn to her, flicking on the living room light. Shinobu sets her bag down on the table, reaching inside to pull out a small white box. She moves to set it on the table, carefully moving your empty tea cup. Her eyes pause as she moves to pick up the small purple box in the center of the table, looking to you curiously.

“What’s this?” she asks curiously, hand moving to lift up the box. You hurriedly snatch it from the table, holding it helplessly before setting it off to the side, out of sight.

“Th-that’s just, um, something for later!” you assure her nervously, exhaling in relief as she responds with a cheery “okay!”

That was a close one.

Shinobu sets the small white box on the table, grabbing a smaller white box from the bag before placing the empty tote behind her on the couch. Her eyes glance up to you, her smile growing.

“Close your eyes!” she says playfully, standing to her full height in front of you. She wiggles out of her haori, draping it over the arm of the loveseat.

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Alright.”

You close your eyes, placing your hands over them for good measure.

“No peeking!” she warns, moving about the room. You laugh out an “I won’t” as she makes various noises around you. You hear the lights go off, the lamp click on and something scraping.

After a few seconds of silence, she speaks.

“Alright, you can open your eyes,” she says softly.

You slowly remove your hands from your eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness of the room. Shinobu stands in front of you, arms partially outstretched as she presents a small, white, heart-shaped cake to you, with a singular candle burning in the center. The lamp shining softly from behind her silhouettes her figure, making her look almost ethereal.

“Happy birthday, (Y/n),” she says with a fond smile, looking at you expectantly. “Make a wish!”

“This is so sweet of you,” you say honestly, placing your hands gently over hers as she holds the cake. “Thank you. Really.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” she smiles and tilts her head, struggling slightly. The smallest hint of guilt shines through her expression, but it’s gone as soon as it came. “Now, make a wish!”

You laugh before blowing out the candle with a small puff, removing your hands from hers. She nods in approval before setting the cake down on the coffee table. She sits on the floor in front of the couch, and pats the ground near her, beckoning you over. You happily comply, sitting next to her cross-legged. Without a moment to spare, she plucks the candle from the cake, bringing it very close to your lips.

“Would you like to lick the candle?” she asks cheekily, waving it in front of your face. You roll your eyes, leaning forward to wrap your lips around the stick of wax. After a moment, you pull back, giggling at the exchange. Shinobu laughs as well, placing the now-clean candle on a napkin she brought.

“Efficient as usual,” she says casually, grabbing a fork from the table. You gawk, nearly choking on your own saliva.

“Shinobu!” you laugh out, covering your face in embarrassment. She always chooses the worst time for innuendos. This only seems to amuse her further.

“What? I’m only being honest,” she says innocently, spearing a piece of the white cake with the fork. She holds the fork up to your lips.

“Say, ‘ah,’” she teases, only serving to enhance your already flushed complexion. You hope she can’t see it in the dim light, but you know she totally can.

“Ah,” you oblige good-naturedly, opening your mouth. She proceeds to feed you cake like a baby, bite after bite. In between, she’ll even eat a bite of cake herself before switching back to you. It’s embarrassing and endearing, and you can’t help but love it.

Once the cake is gone, she closes up the box it came in and sweeps away the crumbs into a napkin. Moving the box off to the side, she grabs the smaller, white box she pulled out earlier and turns to you. She presents it to you with both hands, waiting for you to grab it. You feel your heart swell.

“Shinobu, you know you really didn’t have to get me anything,” you say bashfully, hesitantly taking the box from her hands. Her empty hands clasp together in her lap.

“I know,” she says earnestly, “but I wanted to.”

The pureness of her affection was enough to make your eyes feel a little misty, but you pushed the feeling down. No need to ruin the moment by crying.

You silently open the small box, gasping at its contents.

Inside was a beautiful, ornate hair pin, decorated with your favorite color flowers cut from jewels. In the light of the lamp, they glitter like stars. You carefully pick up the accessory, tracing the intricate design with muttered words of astonishment. Turning over the pin, you see there’s a message engraved. You move it around in the light to read its full scripture.

“人生最愛の人 ” (“I will always love you.”)

The tears you held back earlier sprang forth, a single stream making its way down one of your cheeks. You didn’t have the words to tell her how much it really meant to you, so you settle for a kiss. Closing the distance between the two of you, you gently put a hand to her cheek. As your lips meet, you linger, pressing deeper into her. The feeling of her lips on yours is something you find yourself missing most when she’s gone.

“Thank you,” you whisper as you part, half-lidded eyes staring into hers.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers back sweetly, planting one more kiss to your lips before gingerly grabbing the hair pin from its box and pinning it in your hair. Her soft hands wipe away the stream of tears on your cheek, lovingly tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You look beautiful,” she says delicately, her eyes holding a fondness you seldom see. You smile, placing your hand over hers and giving it a squeeze. You let out a barely-audible “thank you” again before rising to your feet. You chuckle at her look of surprise before turning to grab the present you hid away earlier.

“This is yours,” you explain briefly, looking a little meek.

“Really?” she asks, eyes looking from the present back to you. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but I wanted to,” you smile, repeating her word from earlier back to her. She smiles warmly, accepting the box from your outstretched hand. She unties the ribbon, setting it to her side. A small gasp escapes her as she opens the box, fingers brushing over the top of the charm with care.

“(Y/n), this is lovely,” she says, picking the charm up out of the box. Attached is a leather string, which dangles over her fingers as she studies its counterpart. Flipping the charm over, her eyes scanning over the engraving.

“Love of my life,” she whispers, an adoring smile crawling onto her features as she glances back to your nervous figure. Her fingers tighten around the charm. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Her words lift a lifetime of weight from your shoulders, and as she leans in for a kiss much like you did before, you’re unsure of why you were so nervous in the first place.

“Can you put it on me?” she asks after you part, earning a nod from you as you take the charm from her hands.

“I think it can be worn as either a necklace or bracelet,” you say, looking to her inquisitively. “Which one do you want?”

“A necklace,” she answers after a moment of thought, facing her back to you. You climb to your knees and carefully place the leather string around her, clasping the hook in the back with ease. As she turns around to look at you, the charm gleams under the light of the lamp.

“How does it look?” she asks, looking at you expectantly. You smile fondly, taking her hand in yours.

“Perfect,” you say earnestly, straightening the string with your other hand. Her grin widens as she stretches out her legs, patting her empty lap.

Knowing the drill, you lay down, putting your head in her lap. Her small fingers run through your hair, pushing it back out of your face. Leaning down, she places a kiss on your forehead. You catch her lips before she moves too far away, giving her one last peck.

“Thank you for everything,” you say quietly, shifting a little on the ground. The unspoken words between you said more than enough: thanks for being here for my birthday, thanks for the gift -- thanks for loving me.

As her fingers continued brushing through your hair, and idle conversation about her time away followed, you knew she understood exactly what you meant.

“Anything for you.”

#shinobu kochou #kochou shinobu #shinobu kocho #shinobu kochō #shinobu x reader #shinobu kocho x reader #reader insert #kny #Kimetsu no Yaiba #demon slayer #imagines #kny imagines #anon request #fanfic #kocho shinobu x reader

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septic-skele · 3 years

Text

UT - Touch and Go

Summary: Today is just like any other day. Papyrus intends to go about his business as usual—never mind his strange fatigue, or his terrible headache, or his voice giving out when he coughs. He'll deny anything is wrong until he can't anymore.

Papyrus awoke feeling strangely…slow-motion. His eye sockets felt gluey as they pried open, bones sluggish as he shifted with a raspy sigh. The first big stretch was a relief, untangling his legs from the blankets and cracking a long row of joints, but the next step was to muster himself and leap up for the day.

Which he did not do, to his own groggy surprise. Within seconds of waking up, his brilliant mind ought to be brimming with notions of chores, puzzles, friendship-making conversation topics. Due to all of this mental activity, he had never gotten much sleep; he was used to catching only fitful snatches of it, but he must have caught a few…fewer last night. Should that bother him?

His bed was so welcoming, so warm—warm enough that his magic was slightly sticky, in fact, radiating under the covers. It held a pleading invitation: snuggle down, stay cozy for just a little while longer.

The fleeting time he spent to consider it would have to suffice. It was sure to be a beautiful day outside and the great Papyrus was not one to waste it! No more wallowing about! Thus decided, he flung the blankets back, sparing just a second to give his bedframe a fond pat as thanks for its offer of comfort and support.

His legs creaked as he rose, still resistant, so he stretched again, popping his ankles and toes for good measure before shoving them into his boots. He would need to put a little more backbone into his morning run. Only because Sans wasn’t there to see, he chuckled at the thought, swallowing a dry tickle that surfaced with it.

Gloves, firmly tugged! Scarf, expertly wrapped! (It was oddly chilly in here. Not something Papyrus was prone to notice, yet he noticed today.) His battle body was heavy on his shoulders and spine, heavy with the weight of responsibility. He had to be ready for anything.

The household chores were simple enough, though Papyrus could feel those minutes he’d spent lollygagging now pressing at his back. Today of all days, when a human finally arrived and he found glory and honor in their capture, he couldn’t afford to be late! If he only started one load of laundry and skimped ever so slightly on brushing crumbs from Sans’ side of the couch, no one would notice.

He had no lungs to be out of breath as he set up the pot for breakfast. The illusion of his gasping was probably just nervous energy from his reserves to keep him alert. While useful for a potential battle later, it did prove distracting. The steam fogging his battle body made him fidget, abruptly aware of the damp heat and the ill-fit places it pinched.

Patrol would offer him plenty of time in the nice, cool weather, he reminded himself patiently. And perhaps if all went well, King Asgore would soon award him a splendorous suit of armor like Undyne’s.

The spaghetti hissed and spat irritably, breaking him out of his thoughts. As he hurriedly stirred, he found himself coming to a sinking realization. These noodles didn’t…sit right, somehow. They didn’t create that pleasant curl of satisfaction in his nonexistent stomach. Was it right to say that he felt not hungry at the sight of them?

Well, it was only because the standards he set for his breakfast were so high! He could make an even better batch later. For now, he could safely assume Sans, compliant as he was, would eat this anyway. It was about time he got up.

“Broth—!” Papyrus began, startled as a few sharp coughs broke him off. With a slight wince he cleared his tight throat and turned down the stovetop. The steam must have grown too thick. “Brother! Rise and shine, you lazybones! I, Papyrus, have concocted a delicious breakfast as a great start to your day! I won’t see you missing out!”

As much as he loved the sound of his own voice, its reverb stirred an unfamiliar song in his head—a plodding set of drums that tromped just behind his eye sockets. He didn’t care much for the beat, but he could rationalize that it was better than Sans’ trombone.

The song continued its pace as he rolled his brother out of bed and spooned up a plateful for him. Because it was more polite to dine in company, he relented and took a bite or two himself.

It was…an experience! he decided, his smile wrenching. One he might have lived his life bereft of, if he hadn’t taken a brave step to try new things! Sans was less adventurous, sucking a single noodle through his teeth.

“Wow, Pap. That’s really something,” he admitted, and for once Papyrus could see that Sans was doing him a kindness by saying so little.

It was something. A pulpy, slimy something that seemed to get tangled up in Papyrus’ mouth the more he chewed. To the rhythm of the drums his jaw twinged for mercy, but nothing bested Papyrus, certainly not something of his own creation.

“Well,” he mustered as he finally got it down, gripping the edge of the table to help himself to his feet. “A sampler is more than enough for me to savor this unique taste. Humans wait for no scheduled meals. I need to get an early start.”

One of the noodles must have tickled the right bone; he muffled another cough against his glove, trying to dislodge the new little ball of pressure sitting behind his breastbone.

Surprisingly Sans perked up at the noise. “You okay?”

“Nyeheh. I’m more than ‘okay’; you of all people know that I am great.” It was a common response; even if he didn't give it his usual gusto, the familiarity would ease his brother’s mind.

Idly twirling his fork around his plate, Sans watched Papyrus shove the pot of leftovers into the fridge with the rest. He didn’t inquire again, which must mean he was properly reassured. There was no reason to fear in the first place. Papyrus would be great regardless of any challenges!

The frigid air seeping from the refrigerator felt lovely, even if it made him shudder. He lingered there, letting it wash over his sore joints until he recalled: Creaky. Exercise to shake it off.

“Finish your plate, Sans,” he urged distractedly, rubbing down his stiff forearms as he left. (How Sans finished the plate—perhaps with the assistance of the sink disposal—he left intentionally vague.)

The jog through town took longer than Papyrus cared to admit. He was pacing himself. It had nothing to do with the battle body slamming against his collarbone or the drumbeat matching his every step, and it certainly had nothing to do with an almighty slipping and crashing as snow shifted to ice underneath him.

A singular wave of pain had rippled through his body, paralyzing him where he lay sprawled on his back. Had he landed somewhere more discreet, he would have been perfectly content to stay there until the throbbing subsided. It was only the snickering of the nearby teenagers that urged him frantically back to his feet.

“It was deliberate!” he blustered, voice cracking. “It was…” He might have come up with some cover story about wanting to see them laugh, using a pratfall as lowbrow humor to cheer them, but without any warning the snowflakes were dotted with dizzying grays and blacks. Swaying, he trailed off and focused instead on regaining his posture.

“You alright, dear? That looked like quite a tumble!” the shopkeeper remarked as she passed.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine!” he stammered, so loud, teeth clacking in some attempt at a grin. “Nothing brings the great Papyrus down for long! A-As for my tumbling, I must give it 110% of my effort, as I give everything else!”

With that he soldiered on, slush making itself at home in his boots. It wasn’t miserable, just uncomfortable enough. He wasn’t used to temperature having such an effect on him; skeletons weren’t meant to notice it. How could his magic be buzzing with the chill when his ribs and spine felt so trapped and clammy in his chest plate? Just as quickly as the thought occurred to take it off, it was smacked away. Ridiculous. He was on the job! He couldn’t be seen as anything less than professional!

That fall had disoriented him. He shot down the muffled voice of Sans in the back of his head giving rise to a pun about being “rattled.” It was far overused but it would have been a good descriptor nonetheless. His footing wobbled now with the unsteady rise and fall of the snowdrifts around him, but he didn’t let it stop him. By the time he reached his puzzle, his equilibrium had settled to a low seesawing.

Gaze sweeping the work ahead of him, he let out a low, hoarse breath. Perhaps with peace and quiet to address his passion project, he could settle his jittery nerves.

“Ohhh, it’s you. Took you long enough to get here and help me!”

Ah. Jerry.

“I have, like, no idea how this puzzle works,” the lumpy monster complained before Papyrus could even think of a greeting. “I don’t have fifty hands! What, are you supposed to bring fifty more people along to activate all those switches at once? As if!”

The wormy gesticulating of his arms was already reminding Papyrus of that bad mouthful at breakfast. Swallowing a sour essence, he decided to take Jerry’s words as backhanded praise and hiked his wan smile up a little. “Yes, it is quite a conundrum, isn’t it? A human will surely be flummoxed by my ingenuity.”

“I don’t care about that! It’s totally in the way.”

“Yes, that…that hasn’t escaped my notice either. That is the intention: to ensure a human may go no further so I, the great Papyrus, can capt—”

“Psh, why even bother, though? A human’s probably never gonna fall down here anyway; basically all your loser puzzles are doing is making life harder for the rest of us! I’m just trying to get from point A to point B. The wi-fi’s better over there! If you were actually good at these things, you’d pass around, like, solution guides for monsters or set up some kind of invisible trap so it wouldn’t be such an eyesore…”

Never one to turn down feedback, Papyrus nodded along, trying to make mental notes of his critique, but as the comments went on and on, Jerry’s grating voice turned the drumbeat in his skull into a full marching band.

“I shall take stock of such things the moment I get the chance!” he spoke out over the din at last, eye sockets twitching in the effort not to grimace. “You said before that you required my aid?”

“Well, duh! You built the thing, didn’t you? Solve it for me so I can get by!”

Papyrus didn’t overlook how the other Snowdin residents reacted to Jerry’s presence—negatively, by all measures. Even Sans did more than a fair share of muttering and eye-rolling at Jerry’s antics, but Papyrus was a gracious and tolerant monster. More than that, he felt a sort of kinship with him. Being an outcast was a lonely affair and Papyrus was certain that he and Jerry both had unseen potential that recognition, kindness and friendship could reveal in time.

That being said, Papyrus was distinctly not at peak friendship ability today.

“You know how to solve your own puzzle, don’t you?” Jerry sneered.

“Obviously! As you said yourself, I am the mastermind behind it!” he shot back with just a flash of indignation. “Come, come, witness the mystifying genius that I’ve laid befo—” He coughed. “Before—” He coughed again, twice, thrice. As that one caught, it wrenched the next out before its time, which triggered the one after that. Before he quite realized what was happening, he was almost doubled over, hacking into his gloves. Jerry, for his part, recoiled in disgust.

“Eww, dude! Wash your hands!” he spat hypocritically, scurrying back the way he had come.

For the first time Papyrus wished that he was a monsterkind equipped with lungs. If he had been, perhaps he could have made better use of the broken wheezes he snatched. Drawing too much air too soon only scratched at his throat and he gagged again. It was a relentless loop of gasping, then gagging, and his eye sockets were on fire. Come to think of it, every bone in his body was burning.

“Bro?”

“S—” he croaked. He wasn’t sure if he stumbled toward or away from Sans’ voice; the gray and black snowflakes had returned, blotting out his vision.

Perhaps he was already falling and hadn’t noticed or Sans was taking preventative measures, but a blue tug on his soul caught fast and helped him down to the ground without another rough impact. For that he was grateful. Next nimble fingers were on the seams of his battle body, collapsing it away from his shoulders, but even that relief didn’t help him settle the fit.

“S’s—!”

“Shh, shh, shh. Don’t try to talk,” Sans ordered, torn between patting or rubbing circles into his back. “Geez, you’re burning up. In through the nasal bone…In, in…And hold it, as long as you can. Cover your mouth if that helps you keep that breath, okay? And…out. Let it out slow.”

Papyrus’ shoulders lurched violently as he struggled to choke back the next cough laced into his exhale. In a blurry panic he shook his head, water stinging his eyes.

“I know, Pap, I know. Slowly. In…and hold. Long as you can. The cough’ll calm down as soon as you do. Freaking out makes it worse. In…Hold it.” His hand went still against Papyrus’ spine, bracing him as he trembled. “I’ve gotcha.”

It would be comforting if it weren’t so humiliating! Wild thoughts scattered through his thundering skull. What if other monsters came along and saw him like this, unable to wrest back control? What if the teenagers laughed? What if he just couldn’t make it stop?

Forget the humiliation. Sans’ palm was comforting. It stayed right there with him as he dragged in a real breath and strangled it into submission. His soul was racing.

“…And out,” his brother coaxed. He obeyed, slowly, slowly, like a balloon deflating from a tiny pinprick. It took three more attempts, almost four, before the raging fire in his ribs surrendered, dying down into bitter crackling.

Blinking stars from his vision, Papyrus sat in an exhausted, shivering haze. Sans was staring at him expectantly, perhaps wondering if he needed to put any more effort into this.

“You’ve done enough. I’m okay now,” Papyrus wanted to say, but only the faintest trickle of noise petered out.

Furthermore, if he had to be honest…he wasn’t okay.

About time he surrendered too.

He slumped, tiredly hoping, and Sans blessedly obliged, shuffling sideways to support Papyrus’ head against his shoulder. His jacket smelled less than terrific, but the fluff and padding were nice against his flushed cheekbone. The cool fingers scratching gently at the back of his neck helped too, soothing its whiplashed sensation.

“I’ve gotcha,” Sans repeated, softer.

He was in capable hands.

#undertale #fanfiction #papyrus #papyrus undertale #sans undertale #snowdin shopkeeper #jerry #sickfic #whump #jerry being a jerk #what else is new?#hurt comfort #brotherly love #caretaking #sans is a good brother #papyrus is now the poster child for cough syrup

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helaintoloki · 5 years

Text

Season of the Witch | Michael Langdon

chapter nine: The Seven Wonders

masterlist

pairing: Michael Langdon x witch!reader

warnings: language, angst, violence, graphic descriptions, adult content, deception, toxic relationships, abuse, death, witchcraft, satanism and all that other good ahs stuff

notes: updated this sooner than I expected oops. This chapter is also much lengthier than usual

“Darling, what ever are you doing?” Myrtle asks as she barges into y/n’s room announced. The startled witch fumbles the tiny glass vile in her hands before quickly shutting it away in her jewelry box.

“Nothing!” She splutters, eyes wide and heart beating rapidly like a culprit caught on the scene. Myrtle simply sighs and ignores y/n’s erratic behavior.

“Cordelia requests that you stop by her quarters immediately to discuss important matters.”

“Yes Miss Myrtle,” y/n nods, then hesitates. “Miss Myrtle... have you ever been in love with someone that you could never have?”

“Oh, darling, of course not. I can have any man I want,” Myrtle smiles humbly, though she is anything but.

“Yes but... well, have you ever had to choose between the Coven and-“

“A man? No,” Myrtle scoffs. “The Coven comes first. Always. Every witch knows this, and I’d hope you know it.”

“I do-“

“Because you’re a very promising witch, one of the most talented girls I’ve ever seen. And I’d hate for you to throw that all away for a pair of green eyes.”

“His eyes are blue-“ y/n corrects, not yet realizing her slip up until it’s much too late.

“So my suspicions were correct,” Myrtle sighs, sitting down on the edge of y/n’s bed and patting the spot beside her. The young witch wordlessly moves beside Myrtle, but chooses to instead curl up into a ball and rest her head against the woman’s lap, much like she would do as a child. “I’ve felt the conflict in you, my dear. Felt your hesitation, felt the way your heart seems to skip a beat when that boy is near. You’re in love.”

“I concocted a potion,” y/n murmurs, eyes closing shut as Myrtle soothingly strokes her hair. “A Constriction spell. His powers will weaken, he’ll feel sick, any magic will be too much for him. He won’t pass the test.”

“My poor child,” she coos, watching y/n’s tears silently slide down her cheeks and onto the smooth fabric of Myrtle’s dress. “I’m sorry your first love has brought you so much heartache.”

“I can find someone else,” y/n says, looking up at Myrtle, “but I can’t find another coven.”

Myrtle smiles, cards her fingers through the young witch’s hair, and hums a gentle tune to soothe her heart.

“Are you going to tell my mother?” Y/N asks.

“Y/N/N, I wouldn’t tell her even if it meant I could never wear another Dolce and Gabbana dress ever again.”

~~~

“You asked to see me?”

“Yes, come in,” Cordelia smiles, watching her daughter enter and gently shut the bedroom door behind her. “Sit down.”

Y/N does as she’s told, sitting in front of her weakened mother. She looks tired, frail, and serves as a reminder of why giving Michael the potion is so important.

“How are you feeling?” Y/N asks gently, grabbing hold of Cordelia’s hand in search of comfort in knowing her mother is still here, still alive. Michael’s voice rings in her head, and she shivers.

Cordelia Goode will be nothing but a pile of ash.

“About the same,” Cordelia smiles gently, moving a piece of hair away from y/n’s face. “But it won’t be that way for much longer. Michael’s test is approaching, and when he rises, I will fall.”

“Mom, don’t say that-“ she begins to protest, but Cordelia simply shakes her head.

“I know it isn’t what you wish to hear but it’s the truth. If not Michael then someone else. I am fading, and I need you to be ready for when I’m gone.”

“How can you be so calm?!” Y/N cries, tears welling up quickly. “You’re dying! And instead of trying to fight back, instead of trying to live you’re giving up!”

“Y/N,” Cordelia says sternly, and she settles. “We can’t defy the laws of the coven. My mother faded so I could rise, and now I must do the same. It’s law. But you won’t be alone, my love. You’ll have your sisters, you’ll have Myrtle. You’ll have Michael.”

“But I want you,” y/n sniffles, and falls into Cordelia’s arms as she begins to sob. “You’re the reason I have this coven in the first place.”

“And you’ll be the reason this coven continues to grow and thrive. I’ll be gone, but you, y/n, will still be here to help guide your sisters.”

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers shakily, clinging tightly to her mother.

“I’ll be with you,” Cordelia whispers into her hair, “always.”

~~~

“Michael?” Her voice calls from outside of his bedroom door, and he smirks.

“Come in,” he calls innocently, perfectly playing the part of the good little warlock she thinks he is. He doesn’t bother turning around as the door opens and she enters, too busy pretending to adjust the collar of his uniform.

“Hi,” y/n calls shyly, shutting the door gently behind her. “I left Binx outside. I know you don’t exactly enjoy his presence, and I wouldn’t want to throw you off in any way on such an important day.”

“You’re too kind,” Michael smiles, finally turning to face the witch. In her trembling hands rests a small slice of cake, wrapped neatly in cellophane. “What’s this?”

“An apology,” y/n smiles sheepishly, “and a good luck gift for your test. I baked it myself.”

The cake is chocolate devil’s food cake coated in purple frosting and dusted with glittered black sprinkles. He can smell the sweetness of it, can taste the chocolate on his tongue, taste the potion mixed into the once white frosting.

He’d found the remnants of her little concoction left behind in her haste and easily uncovered its purpose. The little bitch was trying to poison him, and it excited Michael, knowing there was a darkness to her, a motive, a selfishness buried underneath the innocent persona she showed off to the world. He saw her slip up as an amateur move, but viewed the attempt as something to play with. Once Michael claimed his title as the alpha he’d easily be able to cage her in his grasp. And he’d suffocate her, remold and reshape her, redesign her into his perfect match: a woman both evil and sinister. And when that was done? Well, there’d be no stopping him then. A powerful man with an almost equally powerful woman by his side? They’d reign hellfire together, and that was the plan, wasn’t it?

“Oh, y/n, you shouldn’t have,” Michael coos, taking the offering with one hand and grabbing hold of her own with the other. “You didn’t need to make a cake for me to forgive you, silly.”

“I know,” she smiles nervously, hands clammy in his own as she delivers the undeserved apology. “But I’d like to be in good company with our new supreme.”

The two are playing a game of cat and mouse, tip toeing around one another as they test the waters, test their limits. Miss Mouse thinks she’s in charge, that she’s the cat waiting to pounce on her prey. If only Miss Mouse could see she’s dangerously close to the cat’s snapping jaws.

“I have to pass the test first,” Michael sighs, a hint of false insecurity laced in his voice. Miss Mouse takes the bait.

“You will,” she affirms. “Eat the cake. I added an incantation to it as it baked. For good luck.”

“If you insist,” Michael says, carefully removing the cellophane before picking up the slice with his bare hand and taking a generous bite. Y/N licks her lips in anticipation, watching him devour her craft. Crumbs fall with each bite and frosting stains the corners of his mouth, but Michael slowly runs his tongue along his lips and savors every bite.

“You’re very talented,” he says, and she smiles absently.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she murmurs, wringing her hands together as he finishes the last of it.

~~~

“Guided by ancient tradition witches survive only if united under a strong, singular authority. Every generation needs its leader, The Supreme. No simple test could ever determine the sovereign among us. We rely on seven.”

“The ‘Seven Wonders.’ Seven Acts of magic so advanced each pushes the boundaries of craft into art.”

Telekinesis

Y/N does not feel an ounce of worry in her bones as Michael summons the horse whip. Telekinesis is an easy feat, achieved by any low leveled witch or warlock. She’d mastered the ability at only three months, reaching for dropped toys and bottles. Constriction spell or not, such a power was achievable. So when Michael sent an innocent smile her way y/n had no trouble returning it, although she didn’t miss the way Myrtle glanced disapprovingly at the two.

Concilium

Her stomach churns slightly, but y/n does not yet sink into her worry as she watches Zoe and Madison waltz. He smiles, whip keeping time as he guides their fluid movements. It’s almost beautiful, their dance, but it makes y/n nervous. The potion should be in effect by now, yet he does not show any signs of struggle or difficulty. The smugness on his face shows the exact opposite in fact, and as she watches her sisters waltz her bottom lip begins to bleed, tired from being worried between her teeth.

Transmutation

Y/N spots him hiding behind the stalks of wheat easily, and silently approaches from the rear. The hay doesn’t crunch underneath her feet, nor do her bracelets clink or jingle as she reaches out to tap his shoulder. But with a puff of smoke he’s gone, and she jumps at the light pat on her shoulder. He stands behind her now, beaming like a child would to their mother for a deed well done. Y/N can only muster a weak smile in return, swallowing nervously as the taste of defeat begins to coat her tastebuds. Why isn’t it working?!

Divination

Y/N watches from the sidelines, leaning against one of the wooden beams holding the barn together. Michael approaches her slowly, lifts her off the ground with the flick of his wrist, retrieves the pocket watch from underneath her, then gently sets her back down with a wink. God damn show off.

Pyrokinesis

Michael only grows stronger with each test, and as he slits his open palm y/n turns away in disgust. She is not repulsed by the blood nor at the boy himself, but at her failure. She did everything she was supposed to do, everything the spell book said to. Yet Michael continued to pass each test with flying colors, and y/n only seemed to grow sicker while her mother grew weaker. She was failing.

Vitalum Vitalis

Y/N had found the same rat she’d created during her first in depth encounter with Michael. The poor thing had died out in the cold, pathetically covered by the hay. Her caring hands delicately rest the creature in Michael’s open palms, and she ignores his piercing gaze as he observes her.

She watches as his plush lips mold into an o shape, gently blowing life into the lifeless creature. It only takes seconds before the animal is alive and scrambling out of his grasp. Y/N watches horrified as Binx chases after the rodent, and hits the ground just before her feline sinks his teeth into the rat’s neck.

Descensum

Y/N sits in a wooden chair and watches Michael’s preparation for his descent into hell. She’d been out for five minutes, and it would’ve been longer if not for Michael using his magic to wake her.

She’s scared now. The potion was meant to stop him early on in the game, and if it decides to work now he’ll be gone forever. And it will be her fault.

He approaches her carefully, a warm hand pressing gently against her cool cheek. The single tear that drops from her eye tickles his fingers. Y/N isn’t sure who the tear is for: Cordelia, Michael, herself, or maybe all three.

“Wish me luck,” he smiles smugly, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Oh, get on with it already,” Myrtle scoffs, and Michael only smirks before taking his spot on the ground.

“Good luck,” y/n whispers, watching as his blue eyes shut close and his soul descends into hell, descends back home.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @gx-nji @anacerta @bluebirdbts @heda-mikaelson @redlovett @fuck-yeah-bruno-buccerati @ateliefloresdaprimavera @quechulitaaa @theeonlyroman @hecohansen31 @frenchzodiacgirl @michaelsapostle @spider-stud

#american horror story #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x witch!reader #michael langdon fic #ahs fic #ahs apocalypse #ahs coven #cordelia goode #season of the witch

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grigori77 · 4 years

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2019 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 1)

30. GLASS – back in 2000, I went from liking the work of The Sixth Sense’s writer-director M. Night Shyamalan to becoming a genuine FAN thanks to his sneakily revisionist deconstruction of superhero tropes, Unbreakable. It’s STILL my favourite film of his to date, and one of my Top Ten superhero movies EVER, not just a fascinating examination of the mechanics of the genre but also a very satisfying screen origin story – needless to say I’m one of MANY fans who’ve spent nearly two decades holding out hope for a sequel. Flash forward to 2016 and Shyamalan’s long-overdue return-to-form sleeper hit, Split, which not only finally put his career back on course but also dropped a particularly killer end twist by actually being that very sequel. Needless to say 2019 was the year we FINALLY got our PROPER reward for all our patience – Glass is the TRUE continuation of the Unbreakable universe and the closer of a long-intended trilogy. Turns out, though, that it’s also his most CONTROVERSIAL film for YEARS, dividing audiences and critics alike with its unapologetically polarizing plot and execution – I guess that, after a decade of MCU and a powerhouse trilogy of Batman movies from Chris Nolan, we were expecting an epic, explosive action-fest to close things out, but that means we forgot exactly what it is about Shyamalan we got to love so much, namely his unerring ability to subvert and deconstruct whatever genre he’s playing around in. And he really doesn’t DO spectacle, does he? That said, this film is still a surprisingly BIG, sprawling piece of work, even if it the action is, for the most part, MUCH more internalised than most superhero movies. Not wanting to drop any major spoilers on the few who still haven’t seen it, I won’t give away any major plot points, suffice to say that ALL the major players from both Unbreakable and Split have returned – former security guard David Dunn (Bruce Willis) has spent the past nineteen years exploring his super-strength and near-invulnerability while keeping Philadelphia marginally safer as hooded vigilante the Overseer, and the latest target of his crime-fighting crusade is Kevin Wendell Crumb (James McAvoy), the vessel of 24 split personalities collectively known as the Horde, who’s continuing his cannibalistic serial-murder spree through the streets. Both are being hunted by the police, as well as Dr. Ellie Staple (series newcomer Sarah Paulson), a clinical psychiatrist specialising in treating individuals who suffer the delusional belief that they’re superheroes, her project also encompassing David’s former mentor-turned-nemesis Elijah Price (Samuel L. Jackson), the eponymous Mr. Glass, whose life-long suffering from a crippling bone disease that makes his body dangerously fragile has done nothing to blunt the genius-level intellect that’s made him a ruthlessly accomplished criminal mastermind. How these remarkable individuals are brought together makes for fascinating viewing, and while it may be a good deal slower and talkier than some might have preferred, this is still VERY MUCH the Shyamalan we first came to admire – fiendishly inventive, slow-burn suspenseful and absolutely DRIPPING with cool earworm dialogue, his characteristically mischievous sense of humour still present and correct, and he’s retained that unswerving ability to wrong-foot us at every turn, right up to one of his most surprising twist endings to date. The cast are, as ever, on fire, the returning hands all superb while those new to the universe easily measure up to the quality of talent on display – Willis and Jackson are, as you’d expect, PERFECT throughout, brilliantly building on the incredibly solid groundwork laid in Unbreakable, while it’s a huge pleasure to see Anya Taylor-Joy, Spencer Treat Clark (a fine actor we don’t see NEARLY enough of, in my opinion) and Charlayne Woodard get MUCH bigger, more prominent roles this time out, while Paulson delivers an understated but frequently mesmerising turn as the ultimate unshakable sceptic. As with Split, however, the film is comprehensively stolen by McAvoy, whose truly chameleonic performance actually manages to eclipse its predecessor in its levels of sheer genius. Altogether this is another sure-footed step in the right direction for a director who’s finally regained his singular auteur prowess – say what you will about that ending, but it certainly is a game-changer, as boldly revisionist as anything that’s preceded it and therefore, in my opinion, exactly how it SHOULD have gone. If nothing else, this is a film that should be applauded for its BALLS …

29. THE PEANUT BUTTER FALCON – quite possibly the year’s most adorable indie, this dramatic feature debut from documentarian writer-directors Tyler Nilson and Michael Schwartz largely snuck in under the radar on release, but has gone on to garner some well-deserved critical appreciation and sleeper hit success. The lion’s share of the film’s success must surely go to the inspired casting, particularly in the central trio who drive the action – Nilson and Schwartz devised the film with Zack Gotsagen, an exceptionally talented young actor with Down’s Syndrome, specifically in mind for the role of Zak, a wrestling obsessive languishing in a North Carolina retirement home who dreams of escaping his stifling confines and going to the training camp of his hero, the Saltwater Redneck (Thomas Haden Church), where he can learn to become a pro wrestler; after slipping free, Zak enlists the initially wary help of down-at-heel criminal fisherman Tyler (Shia LaBaouf) in reaching his intended destination, while the pair are pursued by Zak’s primary caregiver, Eleanor (Dakota Johnson). Needless to say the unlikely pair bond on the road, and when Eleanor is reluctantly forced to tag along with them, a surrogate family is formed … yeah, the plot is so predictable you can see every twist signposted from miles back, but that familiarity is never a problem because these characters are so lovingly written and beautifully played that you’ve fallen for them within five minutes of meeting them, so you’re effortlessly swept along for the ride. The three leads are pure gold – this is the most laid back and cuddly Shia’s been for years, but his lackadaisical charm is pleasingly tempered with affecting pathos driven by a tragic loss in Tyler’s recent past, while Johnson is sensible, sweet and likeably grounded, even when Eleanor’s at her most exasperated, but Gotsagen is the real surprise, delivering an endearingly unpredictable, livewire performance that blazes with true, honest purity and total defiance in the face of any potential difficulties society may try to throw at Zak – while there’s excellent support from Church in a charmingly awkward late-film turn that goes a long way to reminding us just what an acting treasure he is, as well as John Hawkes and rapper Yelawolf as a pair of lowlife crab-fishermen hunting for Tyler, intending to wreak (not entirely undeserved) revenge on him for an ill-judged professional slight. Enjoying a gentle sense of humour and absolutely CRAMMED with heartfelt emotional heft, this really was one of the most downright LOVEABLE films of 2019.

28. PET SEMATARY – first off, let me say that I never saw the 1989 feature adaptation of Stephen King’s story, so I have no comparative frame of reference there – I WILL say, however, that the original novel is, in my opinion, one of the strongest offerings from America’s undisputed master of literary horror, so any attempt made to bring it to the big screen had better be a good one. Thankfully, this version more than delivers in that capacity, proving to be one of the more impressive of his cinematic outings in recent years (not quite up to the standard of The Mist or It Chapter 1, perhaps, but certainly on a par with the criminally overlooked 1408), as well as one of the year’s top horror offerings. This may be the feature debut of directing double-act Kevin Kölsch and Dennis Widmyer, but they both display a wealth of natural talent here, wrangling bone-chilling scares and a pervading atmosphere of oppressive dread to deliver a top-notch screen fright-fest that works its way under your skin and stays put for days after. Jason Clarke is a classic King everyman hero as Boston doctor Louis Creed, displaced to the small Maine town of Ludlow as he trades the ER for a quiet clinic practice so he can spent more time with his family – Amy Seimetz (Upstream Color, Stranger Things), excellent throughout as his haunted, emotionally fragile wife Rachel, toddler son Gage (twins Hugo and Lucas Lavole), and daughter Ellie (newcomer Jeté Laurence, BY FAR the film’s biggest revelation, delivering to the highest degree even when her role becomes particularly intense). Their new home seems idyllic, the only blots being the main road at the end of their drive which experiences heavy traffic from speeding trucks, and the children’s pet cemetery in the woods at the back of their garden, which has become something of a local landmark. But there’s something far darker in the deeper places beyond, an ancient place of terrible power Louis is introduced to by their well-meaning but ultimately fallible elderly neighbour Jud (one of the best performances I’ve ever seen from screen legend John Lithgow) when his daughter’s beloved cat Church is run over. The cat genuinely comes back, but he’s irrevocably changed, the once gentle and lovable furball now transformed into a menacingly mangy little psychopath, and his resurrection sets off a chain of horrific events destined to devour the entire family … this is supernatural horror at its most inherently unnerving, mercilessly twisting the screws throughout its slow-burn build to the inevitable third act bloodbath and reaching a bleak, soul-crushing climax that comes close to rivalling the still unparalleled sucker-punch of The Mist – the adaptation skews significantly from King’s original at the mid-point, but even purists will be hard-pressed to deny that this is still VERY MUCH in keeping with the spirit of the book right up to its harrowing closing shot. The King of Horror has been well served once again – fans can rest assured that his dark imagination continues to inspire some truly great cinematic scares …

27. THE REPORT – the CIA’s notorious use of torture to acquire information from detainees in Guantanamo Bay and various other sites around the world in the wake of September 11, 2001, has been a particularly spiky political subject for years now, one which has gained particular traction with cinema-goers over the years thanks to films like Rendition and, of course, controversial Oscar-troubler Zero Dark Thirty. It’s also a particular bugbear of screenwriter Scott Z. Burns (The Bourne Ultimatum, Contagion, Side Effects) – his parents are both psychologists, and he found it particularly offensive that a profession he knows was created to help people could have been turned into such a damaging weapon against the human psyche, inexorably leading him to taking up this passion project, championed by its producer, and Burns’ long-time friend and collaborator, Steven Soderbergh. It tells the true story of Senate staffer Daniel Jones’ five-year battle to bring his damning 6,300-page study of the CIA’s enhanced interrogation program, commissioned by the Senate Intelligence Committee, into the light of day in the face of increasingly intense and frequently underhanded resistance from the Agency and various high-ranking officials within the US Government whose careers could be harmed should their own collusion be revealed. In lesser hands this could have been a clunky, unappetisingly dense excuse for a slow-burn political thriller that drowned in its own exposition, but Burns handles the admittedly heavyweight material with deft skill and makes each increasingly alarming revelation breathlessly compelling while he ratchets up the tension by showing just what a seemingly impossible task Jones and his small but driven team faced. The film would have been nought, however, without a strong cast, and this one has a killer – taking a break from maintaining his muscle-mass for Star Wars, Adam Driver provides a suitably robust narrative focus as Jones, an initially understated workman who slowly transforms into an incensed moral crusader as he grows increasingly filled with righteous indignation by the vile subject matter he’s repeatedly faced with, and he’s provided with sterling support from the likes of Annette Bening, delivering her best performance in years as Senator Dianne Feinstein, Jones’ staunchest supporter, the ever-wonderful Ted Levine as oily CIA director John O. Brennan, Tim Blake Nelson as a physician contracted by the CIA to assist with interrogations who became genuinely disgusted by the horrors he witnessed, and Matthew Rhys as an unnamed New York Times reporter Jones considers leaking the report to when it looks like it might never be released. This is powerful stuff, and while it may only mark Burns’ second directorial feature (after his obscure debut Pu-239), he handles the gig like a seasoned pro, milking the material for every drop of dramatic tension while keeping the narrative as honest, forthright and straightforward as possible, and the end result makes for sobering, distressing and thoroughly engrossing viewing. Definitely one of the most important films not only of 2019, but of the decade itself, and one that NEEDS to be seen.

26. DARK PHOENIX – wow, this really has been a year for mistreated sequels, hasn’t it? There’s a seriously stinky cloud of controversy surrounding what is now, in light of recent developments between Disney and Twentieth Century Fox, the last true Singer-era X-Men movie, a film which saw two mooted release dates (first November 2018 then the following February, before finally limping onto screens with very little fanfare in June 2019, almost as if Fox wanted to bury it. Certainly rumours of its compromise were rife, particularly regarding supposed rushed reshoots because of clashing similarities with Marvel’s major tent-pole release Captain Marvel (and given the all-conquering nature of the MCU there was no way they were having that, was there?), so like many I was expecting a clunky mess, maybe even a true stinker to rival X-Men Origins: Wolverine. In truth, while it’s not perfect, the end result is nothing like the turd we all feared – the final film is, in fact, largely a success, worthy of favourable comparison with its stronger predecessors. It certainly makes much needed amends for the disappointing mismanagement of the source comics’ legendary Dark Phoenix saga in 2006’s decidedly compromised original X-Men trilogy capper The Last Stand, this time treating the story with the due reverence and respect it deserves as well as serving as a suitably powerful send-off for more than one beloved key character. Following the “rebooted” path of the post-Days of Future Past timeline, it’s now 1992, and after the world-changing events of Apocalypse the X-Men have become a respected superhero team with legions of fans and their own personal line to the White House, while mutants at large have mostly become accepted by the regular humans around them. Then a hastily planned mission into space takes a turn for the worst and Jean Grey (Game of Thrones’ Sophie Turner) winds up absorbing an immensely powerful, thoroughly inexplicable cosmic force that makes her powers go haywire while also knocking loose repressed childhood traumas Professor Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) would rather had stayed buried, sending her on a dangerous spiral out of control which leads to a destructive confrontation and the inadvertent death of a teammate. Needless to say, the situation soon becomes desperate as Jean goes on the run and the world starts to turn against them all once again … all in all, then, it’s business as usual for the cast and crew of one of Fox’s flagship franchises, and it SHOULD have gone off without a hitch. When Bryan Singer opted not to return this time around (instead setting his sights on Queen biopic Bohemian Rhapsody), key series writer Simon Kinberg stepped into the breach for his directorial debut, and it turns out he’s got a real talent for it, giving us just the kind of robust, pacy, thrilling action-packed epic his compatriot would have delivered, filled with the same thumping great set-pieces (the final act’s stirring, protracted train battle is the unequivocal highlight here), well-observed character beats and emotional resonance we’ve come to expect from the series as a whole (then again, he does know these movies back to frond having at least co-written his fair share). The cast, similarly, are all on top form – McAvoy and Michael Fassbender (as fan favourite Erik Lehnsherr, aka Magneto) know their roles so well now they can do this stuff in their sleep, but we still get to see them explore interesting new facets of their characters (particularly McAvoy, who gets to reveal an intriguing dark side to the Professor we’ve only ever seen hinted at before now), while Turner finally gets to really breathe in a role which felt a little stiff and underexplored in her series debut in Apocalypse (she EASILY forges the requisite connective tissue to Famke Janssen’s more mature and assured take in the earlier films); conversely Tye Sheridan (Cyclops), Alexandra Shipp (Storm), Kodi Smit-McPhee (Nightcrawler) and Evan Peters (Quicksilver) get somewhat short shrift but nonetheless do A LOT with what little they have, and at least Jennifer Lawrence and Nicholas Hoult still get to do plenty of dramatic heavy lifting as the last of Xavier’s original class, Raven (Mystique) and Hank McCoy (Beast); the only real weak link in the cast is the villain, Vuk, a shape-shifting alien whose quest to seize the power Jean’s appropriated is murkily defined at best, but at least Jessica Chastain manages to invest her with enough icy menace to keep things from getting boring. All in all, then, this is very much a case of business as usual, Kinberg and co keeping the action thundering along at a suitably cracking pace throughout (powered by a typically epic score from Hans Zimmer), and the film only really comes off the rails in its final moments, when that aforementioned train finally comes off its tracks and the reported reshoots must surely kick in – as a result this is, to me, most reminiscent of previous X-flick The Wolverine, which was a rousing success for the majority of its runtime, only coming apart in its finale thanks to that bloody ridiculous robot samurai. The climax is, therefore, a disappointment, too clunky and sudden and overly neat in its denouement (we really could have done with a proper examination of the larger social impact of these events), but it’s little enough that it doesn’t spoil what came before … which just makes the film’s mismanagement and resulting failure, as well as its subsequent treatment from critics and fans alike, all the more frustrating. This film deserved much better, but ultimately looks set to be disowned and glossed over by most of the fanbase as the property as a whole goes through the inevitable overhaul now that Disney/Marvel owns Fox and plans to bring the X-Men and their fellow mutants into the MCU fold. I feel genuinely sorry for the one remaining X-film, The New Mutants, which is surely destined for spectacular failure after its similarly shoddy round of reschedules finally comes to an end this summer …

25. IT CHAPTER 2 – back in 2017, Mama director Andy Muschietti delivered the first half of his ambitious two-film adaptation of one of Stephen King’s most popular and personal novels, which had long been considered un-filmable (the 90s miniseries had a stab, but while it deserves its cult favourite status it certainly fell short in several places) until Muschietti and screenwriters Cary Joji Fukunaga and Gary Dauberman seemingly did the impossible, and the end result was the top horror hit of the year. Ultimately, then, it was gonna be a tough act to follow, and there was MAJOR conjecture whether they could repeat that success with this second half. Would lightning strike twice? Well, the simple answer is … mostly. 2017’s Chapter 1 was a stone-cold masterpiece, and one of the strongest elements in its favour was the extremely game young cast of newcomers and relative unknown child actors who brought the already much beloved Loser��s Club to perfectly-cast life, a seven-strong gang of gawky pre-teen underdogs you couldn’t help loving, which made it oh-so-easy to root for them as they faced off against that nightmarish shape-shifting child-eating monster, Pennywise the Dancing Clown. It was primal, it was terrifying, and it was BURSTING with childhood nostalgia that thoroughly resonated with an audience hungry for more 80s-set coming-of-age genre fare after the runaway success of Stranger Things. Bringing the story into the present day with the Losers now returning to their childhood home of Derry, Maine as forty-something adults, Chapter 2 was NEVER going to achieve the same pulse-quickening electric charge the first film pulled off, was it? Thankfully, with the same director and (mostly) the same writing crew on hand (Fukunaga jumped ship but Dauberman was there to finish up with the help of Jason Fuchs and an uncredited Jeffrey Jurgensen) there’s still plenty of that old magic left over, so while it’s not quite the same second time round, this still feels very much like the same adventure, just older, wiser and a bit more cynical. Here’s a more relevant reality check, mind – those who didn’t approve of the first film’s major changes from the book are going to be even more incensed by this, but the differences here are at least organic and in keeping with the groundwork laid in Chapter 1, and indeed this film in particular is a VERY different beast from the source material, but these differences are actually kind of a strength here, Muschietti and co. delivering something that works MUCH better cinematically than a more faithful take would have. Anyway, the Loser’s Club are back, all grown up and (for the most part) wildly successful living FAR AWAY from Derry with dream careers and seemingly perfect lives. Only Mike Hanlon has remained behind to hold vigil over the town and its monstrous secret, and when a new spree of disappearances and grisly murders begins he calls his old friends back home to fulfil the pact they all swore to uphold years ago – stop Pennywise once and for all. The new cast are just as excellent as their youthful counterparts – Jessica Chastain and James McAvoy are, of course, the big leads here as grown up Beverley Marsh and Bill Denbrough, bringing every watt of star power they can muster, but the others hold more interest, with Bill Hader perfectly cast (both director and child actor’s personal first choice) as smart-mouth Richie Tozier, Isaiah Mustafah (best known as the Old Spice guy from those hilarious commercials) playing VERY MUCH against type as Mike, Jay Ryan (successful on the small screen in Top of the Lake and Beauty & the Beast, but very much getting his cinematic big break here) as a slimmed-down and seriously buffed-out Ben Hanscom, James Ransone (Sinister) as neurotic hypochondriac Eddie Kaspbrak, and Andy Bean (Power, the recent Swamp Thing series) as ever-rational Stan Uris – but we still get to hang out with the original kids too in new flashbacks that (understandably) make for some of the film’s best scenes, while Bill Skarsgard is as terrifying as ever as he brings new ferocity, insidious creepiness and even a touch of curious back-story to Pennywise. I am happy to report this new one IS just as scary as its predecessor, a skin-crawling, spine-tingling, pants-wetting cold sweat of a horror-fest that works its way in throughout its substantial running time and, as before, sticks with you LONG after the credits have rolled, but it’s also got the same amount of heart, emotional heft and pathos, nostalgic charm (albeit more grown-up and sullied) and playful, sometimes decidedly mischievous geeky humour, so that as soon as you’re settled in it really does feel like you’ve come home. It’s also fiendishly inventive, the final act in particular skewing in some VERY surprising new directions that there’s NO WAY you’ll see coming, and the climax also, interestingly, redresses one particularly frustrating imbalance that always bugged me about the book, making for an especially moving, heartbreaking denouement. Interestingly, there’s a running joke in the film that pokes fun at a perceived view from some quarters that Stephen King’s endings often disappoint – there’s no such fault with THIS particular adaptation. For me, this was altogether JUST the concluding half I was hoping for, so while it’s not as good as the first, it should leave you satisfied all the same.

24. MOTHERLESS BROOKLYN – it’s taken Edward Norton twenty years to get his passion project adaptation of Jonathan Lethem’s novel to the big screen, but the final film was certainly worth the wait, a cool-as-ice noir thriller in which its writer-director also, of course, stars as one of the most unusual ‘tecs around. Lionel Essrog suffers from Tourette syndrome, prone to uncontrollable ticks and vocal outbursts as well as obsessive-compulsive spirals that can really ruin his day, but he’s also got a genius-level intellect and a photographic memory, which means he’s the perfect fit for the detective agency of accomplished, highly successful New York gumshoe Frank Minna (Bruce Willis). But when their latest case goes horribly wrong and Frank dies in a back-alley gunfight, the remaining members of the agency are left to pick up the pieces and try to find out what went wrong, Lionel battling his own personal, mental and physical demons as he tries to unravel an increasingly labyrinthine tangle of lies, deceit, corporate corruption and criminal enterprise that reaches to the highest levels of the city’s government. Those familiar with the original novel will know that it’s set in roughly the present day, but Norton felt many aspects of the story lent themselves much better to the early 1950s, and it really was a good choice – Lionel is a man very much out his time, a very odd fit in an age of stuffy morals and repression, while the themes of racial upheaval, rampant urban renewal and massive, unchecked corporate greed feel very much of the period. Besides, there’s few things as seductive than a good noir thriller, and Norton has crafted a real GEM right here. The pace can be a little glacial at times, but this simply gives the unfolding plot and extremely rich collection of characters plenty of room to grow, while the jazzy score (from up-and-comer Daniel Pemberton, composer on Steve Jobs, King Arthur: Legend of the Sword and Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse) provides a surprising complimentary accompaniment to the rather free-form narrative style and Lionel’s own scattershot, bebop style. Norton is exceptional in the lead, landing his best role in years with an exquisitely un-self-conscious ease that makes for thoroughly compelling viewing (surely more than one nod will be due come awards-season), but he doesn’t hog ALL the limelight, letting his uniformly stellar supporting cast shine bright as well – Willis doesn’t get a huge amount of screen time, but delivers a typically strong, nuanced performance that makes his absence throughout the rest of the film keenly felt, Gugu Mbatha-Raw continues to build an impressive run of work as Laura, the seemingly unimportant woman Lionel befriends, who could actually be the key to the whole case, Alec Baldwin is coolly menacing as power-hungry property magnate and heavyweight city official Moses Randolph, the film’s nominal big-bad, Willem Dafoe is absolutely electrifying as his down-at-heel, insignificant genius brother Lou, and Boardwalk Empire’s Michael K. Williams is quietly outstanding as mysterious jazz musician Trumpet Man, while Bobby Canavale, Ethan Suplee and Dallas Roberts are all excellent as the other hands in Minna’s detective agency. It’s a chilled-out affair, happy to hang back and let its slow-burn plot simmer while Lionel tries to navigate his job and life in general while battling his many personal difficulties, but due to the incredible calibre of the talent on offer, the incredibly rich dialogue and obligatory hardboiled gumshoe voiceover, compelling story and frequently achingly beautiful visuals, this is about as compulsively rewarding as cinema gets. Norton’s crafted a film noir worthy of comparison with the likes of L.A. Confidential and Chinatown, proving that he’s a triple-threat cinematic talent to be reckoned with.

23. PROSPECT – I love a good cinematic underdog, there’s always some dynamite indies and sleepers that just about slip through the cracks that I end up championing every year, and one of 2019’s favourites was a minor sensation at 2018’s South By Southwest film festival, a singularly original ultra-low-budget sci-fi adventure that made a genuine virtue of its miniscule budget. Riffing on classic eco-minded space flicks like Silent Running, it introduces a father-and-daughter prospecting team who land a potentially DEEPLY lucrative contract mining for an incredibly rare element on a toxic jungle moon – widower Damon (Transparent’s Jay Duplass), who’s downtrodden and world-weary but still a dreamer, and teenager Cee (relative newcomer Sophie Thatcher), an introverted bookworm with hidden reserves of ingenuity and fortitude. The job starts well, Damon setting his sights on a rumoured “queen’s layer” that could make them rich beyond their wildest dreams, but when they meet smooth-talking scavenger Ezra (Narcos’ Pedro Pascal), things take a turn for the worse – Damon is killed and Cee is forced to team up with Ezra to have any hope for survival on this hostile, unforgiving moon. Thatcher is an understated joy throughout, her seemingly detached manner belying hidden depths of intense feeling, while Pascal, far from playing a straight villain, turns Ezra into something of a tragic, charismatic antihero we eventually start to sympathise with, and the complex relationship that develops between them is a powerful, mercurial thing, the constantly shifting dynamic providing a powerful driving force for the film. Debuting writer-directors Zeek Earl and Chris Caldwell have crafted a wonderfully introspective, multi-layered tone poem of aching beauty, using subtle visual effects and a steamy, glow-heavy colour palette to make the lush forest environs into something nonetheless eerie and inhospitable, while the various weird and colourful denizens of this deadly little world prove that Ezra may be the LEAST of the dangers Cee faces in her quest for escape. Inventive, intriguing and a veritable feast for the eyes and intellect, this is top-notch indie sci-fi and a sign of great things to come from its creators, thoroughly deserving of major cult recognition in the future.

22. DRAGGED ACROSS CONCRETE – S. Craig Zahler is a writer-director who’s become a major fixture on my ones-to-watch list in recent years, instantly winning me over with his dynamite debut feature Bone Tomahawk before cementing that status with awesome follow-up Brawl On Cell Block 99. His latest is another undeniable hit that starts deceptively simply before snowballing into a sprawling urban crime epic as it follows its main protagonists – disgraced Bulwark City cops Brett Ridgeman (Mel Gibson) and Tony Lurasetti (BOCB99’s Vince Vaughn), on unpaid suspension after their latest bust leads to a PR nightmare – on a descent into a hellish criminal underworld as they set out to “seek compensation” for their situation by ripping off the score from a bank robbery spearheaded by ruthlessly efficient professional thief Lorentz Vogelmann (Thomas Kretschmann). In lesser hands, this two-hour-forty-minute feature might have felt like a painfully padded effort that would have passed far better chopped down to a breezy 90-minutes, but Zahler is such a compellingly rich and resourceful writer that every scene is essential viewing, overflowing with exquisitely drawn characters spouting endlessly quotable, gold-plated dialogue, and the constantly shifting narrative focus brings such consistent freshness that the increasingly complex plot remains rewarding right to the end. The two leads are both typically excellent – Vaughn gets to let loose with a far more showy, garrulous turn here than his more reserved character in his first collaboration with Zahler, while this is EASILY the best performance I’ve seen Gibson deliver in YEARS, the grizzled veteran clearly having a fine old time getting his teeth into a particularly meaty role that very much plays to his strengths – and they’re brilliantly bolstered by an excellent supporting cast – Get Rich Or Die Tryin’s Tory Kittles easily matches them in his equally weighty scenes as Henry Johns, a newly-released ex-con also out to improve his family’s situation with a major score, while Kretschmann is at his most chilling as the brutal killer who executes his plans with cold-blooded precision, and there are wonderful scene-stealing offerings from Jennifer Carpenter, Udo Kier, Don Johnson (three more Zahler regulars, each featured with Vaughn on BOCB99), Michael Jai White, Laurie Holden and newcomer Miles Truitt. This is a proper meaty film, dark, intense, gritty and unflinching in its portrayal of honest, unglamorous violence and its messy aftermath, but fans of grown-up filmmaking will find PLENTY to enjoy here, Zahler crafting a crime epic comparable to the heady best of Scorsese and Tarantino. Another sure-fire winner from one of the best new filmmakers around.

21. FAST COLOR – intriguingly, the most INTERESTING superhero movie of the year was NOT a major franchise property, or even a comic book adapted to the screen at all, but a wholly original indie which snuck in very much under the radar on its release but is surely destined for cult greatness in the future, not least due to some much-deserved critical acclaim. Set in an unspecified future where it hasn’t rained for years, a homeless vagabond named Ruth (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) is making her aimless way across a desolate American Midwest, tormented by violent seizures which cause strange localised earthquakes, and hunted by Bill (Argo’s Christopher Denham), a rogue scientist who wants to capture her so he can study her abilities. Ultimately she’s left with no other recourse than to run home, sheltering with her mother Bo (Middle of Nowhere and Orange is the New Black’s Lorraine Toussaint), and her young daughter Lila (The Passage’s Saniyya Sidney), both of whom also have weird and wondrous powers of their own. As the estranged family reconnect, Ruth finally learns to control her powers as she’s forced to confront her own troubled past, but as Bill closes in it looks like their idyll might be short-lived … this might only be the second feature of writer-director Julie Hart (who cut her teeth penning well-regarded indie western The Keeping Room before making her own debut helming South By Southwest Film Festival hit Miss Stevens), but it’s a blinding statement of intent for the future, a deceptively understated thing of beauty that eschews classic superhero cinema conventions of big spectacle and rousing action in favour of a quiet, introspective character-driven story where the unveiling and exploration of Ruth and her kin’s abilities are secondary to the examination of how their familial dynamics work (or often DON’T), while Hart and cinematographer Michael Fimognari (probably best known for his frequent work for Mike Flanagan) bring a ruined but bleakly beautiful future to life through inventively understated production design and sweeping, dramatic vistas largely devoid of visual effects. Subtlety is the watchword, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t fireworks here, it’s just that they’re generally performance-based – awards-darling Mbatha-Raw (Belle) gives a raw, heartfelt performance, painting Ruth in vivid shades of grey, while Toussaint is restrained but powerfully memorable and Sidney builds on her already memorable work to deliver what might be her best turn to date, and there are strong supporting turns from Denham (who makes his nominal villain surprisingly sympathetic) and Hollywood great David Strathairn as gentle small town sheriff Ellis. Leisurely paced and understated it may be, but this is still an incendiary piece of work, sure to become a breakout sleeper hit for a filmmaking talent from whom I expect GREAT THINGS in the future, and since the story’s been picked up for expansion into a TV series with Hart in charge that looks like a no-brainer. And it most assuredly IS a bona fide superhero movie, despite appearances to the contrary …

#glass #glass movie #the peanut butter falcon #pet sematary #the report #dark phoenix #it chapter 2 #motherless brooklyn #prospect #prospect movie #dragged across concrete #fast color #2019 in movies

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scarletgardensrpg · 4 years

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LIVING ♦ TWENTY ♦ NEUTRAL

LUANA-ARIANE VAN ORANJE-NASSAU is the Royal Princess of the Netherlands, who has recently returned to Amsterdam following the discovery of she and her brother, Maurice, in southern France. Although an heir to the Dutch throne was named in the late Queen Catharina’s will, she and Maurice have so far refused to disclose this information, both publicly and privately. Popular and universally beloved among the living, Luana acts as the city’s primary public mascot. She has yet to legitimize the House’s authority.

BIOGRAPHY

The princesses of love cry their hearts out in the graveyards. And perhaps, that was all that remained of this princess: tears and more tears, splintered parts, so much grief that she did not know where to put down the half of it. You'll grow thin if you won't eat, Uwe Hoogheid, Blue cooed from the doorway, but Luana only continued to ignore her, swollen eyes drawn vacantly to the window. Cecile and her dog-beasts had, insolently, put her up by the sea, and she hated them for it: for there, just beyond the high marble walls, lay an azure expanse of freedom—one she would never taste. Every murmur of the distant tide mocked her; every footfall outside her door marked her a prisoner. Eat, Princess. This time, the tone of Blue's voice had changed. Slowly, Luana looked up—and was met with a cruel, wolfish smile. I want something other than bones to bite into.

- ❀ -

Some girls, so adored by the gods, simply gleam with good fortune. She had, maybe presumptuously, once thought herself to be that girl: a baby princess swaddled in love and regality, whose name meant lion, meant happy. For God’s sake, she’d made every major publication seven minutes after being born: Double Trouble! Queen Catharina of the Netherlands Gives Birth to Royal Twins! Her first sound was a piercing cry for attention, and when it was given to her right away, she had drifted into sweet, contented slumber: safe in somebody’s arms, and already entitled to a hundred thousand fawning hearts. She would grow into ringlets of golden hair, sky-bright eyes, a set of small, pouting lips: a classical beauty of patrician purity, if the world had ever seen one—and paired with such a lovely face, an even lovelier disposition to match. Few could have worn royalty as well as the young Princess Luana: she was arrogant as all children of the elite inevitably are; but jaunty, impish, and undeniably charismatic all the same. She could command a room by presence alone, by agile wit and sparkling humor—and depart from every conversation with a new friend or admirer to trail in her wake. In some other world, Luana was certain she’d have made a fine queen. Crowds would part at the sound of her name, as they already did—and she might’ve gotten married, had children, aged with elegance, died in peace. In some other world, one where the dead stayed dead, Gabriël wasn’t a filthy scoundrel, and her mother the Queen lived to see another sunrise past her forty-third birthday—yes, perhaps the Luana of that world lived and died in joy.

But in this world, she watched them put bullets through her family’s heads, one after another. She watched Gabriël, whom she had affectionately called minnaar and lieverd in morning orchards and over cups of afternoon tea, exchange words with a woman dressed in black before disappearing unscathed into the night, leaving none for Luana. No explanation, no goodbye, no reason given whatsoever for this betrayal, so bitterly inexplicable. That woman would, per Gabriël’s instruction, take them away—not to safety, but straight into the jaws of the beasts responsible for her family’s ruin. Cecile, flanked on either side by her Undead creations, had received her and Maurice in France with a cruel smile. Hello, Your Highness. The Undead killers who stood on either side of her—tall, haughty Blue and cold Dimitri—snickered. They treated her well: fresh meals, beautiful dresses, a white mare she was allowed to ride along the sand shores—but it made no difference to the state of hell Luana suffered, year after year. Maurice, to her horror, would grow to tolerate them—perhaps, even like them—but she could not have ever accepted these crumbs for an apology, if it were that at all. By the callous amusement with which they treated her and Maurice, Luana doubted it. They would eat her in the dead of night; they would make her love them, then slash her throat and cut her to pieces, just as Gabriël did—or worse, they would never touch her for the rest of her life, but instead keep her prisoner here in this farce of Paradise forever, until she went mad.

She nearly might have. Five years. It was five long, hellish years spent in the company of her family’s killers, herself left unharmed for the sick pleasure it brought them to watch her quiver and weep, shake with hatred and wrestle the inability to do anything but swallow it, temper it, put up with it. After five years, however, on the anniversary of the massacre, Cecile had abruptly summoned her bloodhounds and made to leave. You’re not taking us with you? Maurice demanded, looking almost forlorn. Dimitri had moved forward to brush her brother’s cheek with a single slender finger, mocking as ever. Mon bijou, he’d cooed. No, we aren’t. Jacques, snarling, yanked him back—and just like that: they were gone. Freedom. Two more years would pass in peace, the last shred of it Luana would know: quiet evenings spent sleeping at her brother’s side, soft mornings when she found herself waking to the smell of milk and lemon pastries on the balcony. They had come to some unspoken agreement that they would stay in the safehouse. Luana ripped up the floorboards, repainted the walls, put flowers in every room—but found, for all her hatred of this place, she was uncertain of where else to go. The Old World had fallen away—and she and Maurice, bereaved, abandoned, and erased from history, could call no other place home. Eventually, of course, they would be found: by Neeve, by the House, by Amsterdam. They would be brought back to what remained of the Netherlands, nicknamed miracle survivors, and be welcomed with open arms. But Luana, sailing away at last on tides carrying her to freedom, to return home, found she could not smile. What’s the matter? Neeve had placed a hand atop her own, gentle as the seaborne wind. Luana, no longer used to being touched or cared for, only shifted away, wordless and weary.

CONNECTIONS

MAURICE – FIERCEST LOVE. She trusts only him, and he trusts only her. Between them, they are privy to the one secret which the House longs to leverage, and which affords them both equal protection: who ascends the throne. Arguments can be made for either sibling being the heir to the near-obsolete Dutch crown: Luana had been born first, preceding her brother by seconds—but Maurice is the first and only son. Their mother, Queen Catharina, had written the answer to this riddle in her will, of which only family members of the van Oranje-Nassau family had read. Luana and Maurice, who wield the near-fanatic adoration of the public as their singular, decisive weapon of defensive, know that as long as this piece of key information is kept hidden, they will both be safe. Though Luana resented Maurice for displaying fondness toward Cecile and her bloodhounds during their five-year period of captivity in France, she has since forgiven him, chalking his behavior up to Stockholm syndrome, or something else of the sort. In truth, she’s too afraid to consider the implications of what it would mean, if Maurice were not completely on her side. He is all she has.

GABRIËL – ET TU, BRUTUS? So this is how you repay me. He was roguishly handsome, infuriatingly good at winning arguments, unbelievably rude—and Luana, at eleven, had been so in love with him she thought she was going to be sick. It was puppy-love, certainly, mixed in with the startling realization that he was the first and only thing which she’d asked for, and been denied. He was a bad apple—the youngest son to the Koninklijke Landmacht General, with a record full of misdemeanors and a reputation for poor conduct. Luana took one look at Gabriël and had immediately decided she liked him. She would spent her youth chasing after him: a brazen little girl demanding he accompany her to this and that, demanding he sit next to her at every party, demanding he spend three hours a week instructing her in archery, in horseback-riding, in golf—anything she could think up, really. He must have found her annoying. And yet—she had thought, in growing up together, they must have become friends somewhere along the way. He must have grown to care for her—to at the very least, not have wanted to hurt her. But that is exactly what he has done: broken her heart in two. She had sought him out the moment she'd returned to Amsterdam, and asked in only two words: You knew? And he had confirmed what she’d dreaded, what she’d prayed was a misunderstanding, a trick of the eyes, a faulty hiccup in her memory—with a single solemn nod. Yes, I knew.

IVONNE – I DREAMT YOU. Luana has not quite pieced it all together, just yet. She knows Ivonne as Head of the Faith and Gravekeeper to the Nieuwe Kerk—a mild-mannered, pious woman whose sermons she listens to half-heartedly every Sunday morning, hands interlocked in loose prayer. And she knows of that woman, the masked lady in the black coat who had taken her and Maurice by the hand and led them out of the carnage—the woman who had not spoken a word the entire duration of that long, awful night; merely left Luana and Maurice to whisper fearfully among each other in the back of the car. She does not realize these two figures are one and the same—but has begun to pick up hints here and there nonethless. The way Ivonne’s gaze will linger on her after Mass, heavy and blue; and the gloves she always seems to wear, made of the same strange, leathery material as that black coat from seven summers ago...it's almost as if Ivonne wants to be found.

OPEN ♦ FC: NASTYA KUSAKINA

#luana #o #l #neutral #all #lsrpg #lsrp #new rp #bio rp #horror rp

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