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mamayan · 6 months

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How about Genya x muzans daughter reader....

+nsfw 😳

Don’t regret that creative freedom lol… Oooooo okay here we go~ I’m ngl I really love sub Genya rn~

Genya Shinazugawa x Demon! Fem! Reader

cw: NSFW • Dubcon • Dom! Fem!Reader • Sub! Genya • Humiliation/Degradation • Condescending Praise • Bondage • Enemies to Pet/Owner (Lovers) • Fingering (M) • Milking (handjob) •Dacryphilia

P.2 Here

“Mmphh—!” Muffled shouts and banging filled the clean small room, empty of all furniture or any decoration.

“We should kill this insolent human—! How dare he injure the Lady—,” the strangled voice of a ghastly demon spoke, trembling but sneering up at the young man tied and hung from the ceiling.

Stripped naked aside from his fundoshi, Genya had awoke to realize he hadn’t died in the battle with that female demon, instead it seemed you spared him for some other nefarious plan. Likely it was to consume him, to which he wouldn’t go down without a fight. He hoped to severe your head from your neck before you got the chance, kill your worthless little henchmen too.

Because you were in a league of your own, more important and savage than even the upper six.

You were none other than Muzan Kibutsuji’s daughter, a demon so powerful it was a wonder he’d even held his own so long in battle with you. It was purely grit that kept him going, and surprise on his end when he took a shot and struck you. He’d gotten a little of your blood in the fight, consumed it and kept up with your deadly abilities.

It seemed that was all he could do though. Keep up, just barely. Unable to turn the tide nor truly defeat you.

The shoji sliding open caught his attention, but in the position he’d been tied in, he could only turn his head to look. As the pretty painted paper door opened, his dark purple gaze widened as you strolled in casually. You carried the same arrogant air as your father, haughty eyes narrowing in appreciation as they locked on him. It made his skin crawl, the look you settled on him. He had no where to run though, neither his katana nor gun, and he’s still tied and hung from the ceiling like a display.

It didn’t stop him from cursing you behind his gag, veins popping along his face as you waved away your reluctant henchmen.

“L-Lady…”

“Leave.”

They didn’t disobey a second time, exiting upon your words and shutting the shoji on their way out.

There you stood, neat and lovely in a beautiful kimono while he was still bloodied and mildly injured from battle, wrists restrained behind his back and hog tied to be strung up.

“Your name, human?” He hated how composed you were, vile creature of the night that you were. He’d rather you just act out your wicked plan without putting on airs.

He made another muffled noise, but hoped his sarcasm and fury were properly conveyed despite the cloth blocking any words.

“I’ll remove this so you may answer.” You moved slowly, zori silent as you neared him. He was hung perfectly to your height, face directly before your own as you stood expressionlessly. You removed the gag, not flinching even as he spit on you with his wild rage.

“FUCKING DUMB DEMON BITCH—! ILL KILL YOU—!”

“Hn. Test subject is volatile. Noted.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! FIGHT ME YOU DAMNED MONSTER—!”

“Test subject needs further examination. Prospects promising.”

“I WILL TEAR YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR NECK—Mmmphh—?!” He’s silenced by the gag again, this time the cloth being shoved completely into his mouth, your speed faster than any normal human left Genya unable to react or prevent the intrusion.

“That’s alright, you can stay quiet, I’ll just take a few samples for now. I’ll ask for your name again later, human.” He despises how careless you act, as if he’s some sort of cattle and not a living creature with free will. His wild gaze is blood shot, but he tracks your movements as you remove a small beaker from inside the sleeve of your kimono.

“I’ll need this filled. I figured you’d appreciate me taking the sample rather than those lower demons. I need it fairly quickly after all.” He doesn’t understand, even as you set the beaker down on the ground and rolled your sleeves up. “Of course, if necessary I can have them collect it for me. The choice is yours, human.” Your smile is beautiful, like a poisonous flower blooming, and something ominous floods his senses.

“Let’s see, I’ll need this out of the way.” You murmur softly, and Genya stills as he feels your cool skin graze his lower abdomen, smooth and soft as it trails lower and he panics.

“M-mmphh!”

“Oh, are you a virgin perhaps?” Genya feel his face flush at your bold words, unable to keep up with what was occurring. It hardly mattered how little he could understand, your hand didn’t stop again as it easily untied his fundoshi and exposed his flaccid cock to the cool air. His struggle increased, frantic and violent as he thrashed for escape, but he still in shock when you wrapped your hand around him. His stiffening doesn’t go unnoticed, your lips curving higher as you coo at him, as if he’s a child. “How cute, does this feel good, human? Do you like how my hand feels around your cock?” He wants to fight, he wants to kill you, but he’s been left powerless and despite his mind screaming with indignation… his cock swells. In your grip, his cock begins to harden against his will, a jolt of pleasure sparking through him as you squeeze.

“My, such a good boy, my judgement wasn’t wrong at all it seems.” He chokes on a cough as you begin to jerk him, the feeling so different than his own rough palm he’s fucked countless times, sharp spikes of euphoria shooting down his spine as he soaks his gag. “Wow, just like a dog. You’re drooling through your gag.” He feels his chest and face grow further inflamed at your observations, eyes pricking at the corners because it feels too good, it’s beginning to numb his mind embarrassingly quickly.

“Amazing. It’s twitching so much and I’ve hardly touched you. You really must be a virgin, about to cum with only this much.” He feels hatred and humiliation swirl in his stomach, but the pleasure keeps clouding his mind. He really is going to cum.

“Go on, human, fill it up.” His eyes look down to see the beaker held just under his tip.

“It’s just like milking a cow~” tears finally fall as his moan gets muffled and he cums, hot spurts of semen shooting into the beaker. It barely fills the bottom line though, and your tsk of annoyance makes him raise his head where it had fallen limp.

“This is all? I need much more.” Your eyes look villainous, cruel, hard, and a bit gleeful too, staring into his weakened watery gaze. “Be a good pet human, I’m not stopping till I have my complete sample.” Drool leaks out from the corner of the gag, sliding down his sharp chin and falling to the tatami mats below. He flinches and whines when you grip his slowly deflating cock, back arching as you tug it. You watch as his eyes roll back, fight leaving him considerably quickly. “Is this too much? Poor thing. I can make you cum another way though, don’t worry.” Your words do the opposite of soothe him though, as you dip a finger into the beaker and coat it in his own cum.

Then you’re disappearing from his vision, going behind him, where his body tenses again as your finger presses against the tight ring of muscle to his anus.

“Maybe you’ll cum more if I fuck you here.” He wants to shout at you, tell you that isn’t where a man is supposed to be fucked, but he can’t and you’re already pressing inside him.

It burns just a bit, but his release makes the entrance just slick enough for him to take it without hinderance. The strange foreign fullness catching his attention more than the mild pain. Then you curl your fingers and he nearly howls.

His soft tuff of hair falls back as his head does, eyes staring up at the ceiling when you pull back and hit that spot again, making his toes curl and his cock jump to life. You’re merciless as you play around inside his ass, smile languid as you make him shiver and twitch, his mind shutting off again completely while he uselessly humps the air with his engorged cock, the tip occasionally thumping against his groin and making him further soak through his gag with drool.

Then he’s cumming again, the damn beaker opening presses against his tip as he fills it with twice as much cum as his previous release. He wants to die of humiliation, wants to deny the pleasure bleeding through his defenses, but he can’t. Even as you kindly remove his gag.

“Look at you, such a good boy. You really must be an anal slut to cum so much just from me playing with your ass alone.” He can’t help the tears falling, wobbly lip opening and closing around nothing. There’s no gag stopping him from spewing profanities now, but none come to mind. “Now…” he looks at the beaker, only a quarter full now.

“Shall we try both your ass and cock this time?”

You seem to have intentions to devour him in an entirely different way than he thought.

Dividers by @benkeibear

#Yan answers #Sub! Genya #Genya Shinazugawa #Genya Shinazugawa x reader #dom! reader #dom reader #Sub Genya x dom reader #kny genya #Genya smut #kny Genya smut #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny smut #dom reader smut #sub Genya smut

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odesofmeddea · 2 months

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i find it tragic and fascinating how sam's narrative is so rife with representations of confinement. of failed or rejected attempts to actually get away. as much as there is a need for individuation there is concurrently an utter terror at being let loose, the terror that comes at once that the individuation is permit. in season i, the scarecrow, we glimpse a pageant of both dean and sam's agony because it's the first time that dean tells him to go if he wants so, and the focus here is on how sam concaves in situations of such release. he crawls back happily. then he invariably tells dean, again, that he has to let him go once this is over... but then sam stays. when dean, through all his miseries, manages to let him be at the beginning of season v, sam is instantly awestruck, near nonmotile, ‘i was expecting a fight’, because he is so used to being forced back in, to being loved like this - through forms of compulsion, coercion and captivity. he is also used to these conditions being the only plausible safety that preserves him via its isolating modi operandi. so whenever he walks away, he is still not exempt. leaving with ruby, he aches to reconcile with dean, after. he brings up his brother on a date with the coworker-girl telling about his regrets, he calls dean at night, asking to be taken back. and it is copacetic in a way that the narrative warps sam to the point where he is defensive and greedy for love that, having forced him to renege his sovereignty, monopolized itself in his life.

first sam can't go back to stanford - his life is a locus of ecumenical violence, his body a site of appropriation, and yet, in all his impurity (since he deems himself impure and abject), dean is still there, loving, preserving, persevering. then he can't go back to the normal world because the family business (secret) takes away sam's tongue to the point where he no longer can communicate himself nor his trauma into the ambiance he now is completely alienated from. he is confined. he gives up, he lets himself to get eaten. the only thing he has is his brother who can't talk, toward whom all ends of his life invariably resile; dean representing the only support constancy to sam is simultaneously a representation of willed stasis - he no longer evolves outside of his brother, he convolutes into and about him. when you center your life around someone that much, they become the crux of your sense of self, they become the fulcrum of your good or bad self-perception… when lilith kills dean, the world ends. he is changed, ghastly, he is a man arage, a heathcliff bereft of his cathy - the personal transmutation is still a lot about brother, is still spurred by deanlessness. even the confirmation of sam's reality, later, gets centered around him - through the palm-wound dean sewed and reopened, unmade into the site of verity: if dean was here, in this wound, this is real. if dean trusts me, if i hadn't let him down again, then i'm whole, redeemable.

sam, now, is unwilling to leave. he long entered this limen of altered consciousness that is the result of the psychological duress he grew up in, along with the exacerbation of trauma that ensued once dean pulled him back into the vortex of the family loop. he gets domesticated - not that he wasn't by the fact of birth into this house - in the intergenerational mentality and trauma, many a time he goes through the identification with his father (prior: aggressor) whose obsessiveness he espouses. which is ourobóros because john could only execute and interpret love as an incarceration - dean tells lisa how he would cloister them when they were kids which is another form of perpetuated captivity resulting in complete dependency and disconnection from society. it is something you can't walk out and away from. when sam tells so to the hallucination of his child-self, while locked by dean in the cage: ‘we were never gonna get away’, he assumes his heritage and, too, cannot let go. gabriel tries to teach him the lesson on letting dean go but it is quite late for sam to either learn or want it. he just keeps pleading, like a homeless dog: please, please, bring him back, because homelessness is freedom and freedom means a world without dean. it happens to be a harrowing one.

in some episode when dean leaves with crowley but without him, sam gets drunk and cries about it to bobby. literally. when dean comes back, he locks him in the bathroom. it is also the same episode which crowley calls him dean's dog, the first time probably that he directly gets this canine title instead of dean, and it fits, it depicts. he is so insecure, so dependent. he loves dean to the point of self-annihilation. he always comes back. he, like any tamed dog, wants to prove himself, and to protect, and attack for. that might be why he is so scared when dean deliberately lets him out. if he let me out... does he no longer love me? and if he doesn't love me anymore, what else do i have in this world that i abjured for my cage completely?

#spn #sam winchester #wincest #samdean #my texts

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rotzaprachim · 7 months

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essential reading.

Opinion - There is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive. - by Peter Beinart

And perhaps one day, when it finally becomes hideously clear that Hamas cannot free Palestinians by murdering children and Israel cannot subdue Gaza, even by razing it to the ground, those communities may become the germ of a mass movement for freedom that astonishes the world, as Black and white South Africans did decades ago. I’m confident I won’t live to see it. No gambler would stake a bet on it happening at all. But what’s the alternative, for those of us whose lives and histories are bound up with that small, ghastly, sacred place?

"In 1988, bombs exploded at restaurants, sporting events and arcades in South Africa. In response, the African National Congress, then in its 77th year of a struggle to overthrow white domination, did something remarkable: It accepted responsibility and pledged to prevent its fighters from conducting such operations in the future. Its logic was straightforward: Targeting civilians is wrong. “Our morality as revolutionaries,” the A.N.C. declared, “dictates that we respect the values underpinning the humane conduct of war.”

Historically, geographically and morally, the A.N.C. of 1988 is a universe away from the Hamas of 2023, so remote that its behavior may seem irrelevant to the horror that Hamas unleashed last weekend in southern Israel. But South Africa offers a counter-history, a glimpse into how ethical resistance works and how it can succeed. It offers not an instruction manual, but a place — in this season of agony and rage — to look for hope.

There was nothing inevitable about the A.N.C.’s policy, which, as Jeff Goodwin, a New York University sociologist, has documented, helped ensure that there was “so little terrorism in the anti-apartheid struggle.” So why didn’t the A.N.C. carry out the kind of gruesome massacres for which Hamas has become notorious? There’s no simple answer. But two factors are clear. First, the A.N.C.’s strategy for fighting apartheid was intimately linked to its vision of what should follow apartheid. It refused to terrify and traumatize white South Africans because it wasn’t trying to force them out. It was trying to win them over to a vision of a multiracial democracy.

Second, the A.N.C. found it easier to maintain moral discipline — which required it to focus on popular, nonviolent resistance and use force only against military installations and industrial sites — because its strategy was showing signs of success. By 1988, when the A.N.C. expressed regret for killing civilians, more than 150 American universities had at least partially divested from companies doing business in South Africa, and the United States Congress had imposed sanctions on the apartheid regime. The result was a virtuous cycle: Ethical resistance elicited international support, and international support made ethical resistance easier to sustain.

In Israel today, the dynamic is almost exactly the opposite. Hamas, whose authoritarian, theocratic ideology could not be farther from the A.N.C.’s, has committed an unspeakable horror that may damage the Palestinian cause for decades to come. Yet when Palestinians resist their oppression in ethical ways — by calling for boycotts, sanctions and the application of international law — the United States and its allies work to ensure that those efforts fail, which convinces many Palestinians that ethical resistance doesn’t work, which empowers Hamas.

The savagery Hamas committed on Oct. 7 has made reversing this monstrous cycle much harder. It could take a generation. It will require a shared commitment to ending Palestinian oppression in ways that respect the infinite value of every human life. It will require Palestinians to forcefully oppose attacks on Jewish civilians, and Jews to support Palestinians when they resist oppression in humane ways — even though Palestinians and Jews who take such steps will risk making themselves pariahs among their own people. It will require new forms of political community, in Israel-Palestine and around the world, built around a democratic vision powerful enough to transcend tribal divides. The effort may fail. It has failed before. The alternative is to descend, flags waving, into hell.

As Jewish Israelis bury their dead and recite psalms for their captured, few want to hear at this moment that millions of Palestinians lack basic human rights. Neither do many Jews abroad. I understand; this attack has awakened the deepest traumas of our badly scarred people. But the truth remains: The denial of Palestinian freedom sits at the heart of this conflict, which began long before Hamas’s creation in the late 1980s.

Most of Gaza’s residents aren’t from Gaza. They’re the descendants of refugees who were expelled, or fled in fear, during Israel’s war of independence in 1948. They live in what Human Rights Watch has called an “open-air prison,” penned in by an Israeli state that — with help from Egypt — rations everything that goes in and out, from tomatoes to the travel documents children need to get lifesaving medical care. From this overcrowded cage, which the United Nations in 2017 declared “unlivable” for many residents in part because it lacks electricity and clean water, many Palestinians in Gaza can see the land that their parents and grandparents called home, though most may never step foot in it.

Palestinians in the West Bank are only slightly better off. For more than half a century, they have lived without due process, free movement, citizenship or the ability to vote for the government that controls their lives. Defenseless against an Israeli government that includes ministers openly committed to ethnic cleansing, many are being driven from their homes in what Palestinians compare to the mass expulsions of 1948. Americans and Israeli Jews have the luxury of ignoring these harsh realities. Palestinians do not. Indeed, the commander of Hamas’s military wing cited attacks on Palestinians in the West Bank in justifying its barbarism last weekend.

Just as Black South Africans resisted apartheid, Palestinians resist a system that has earned the same designation from the world’s leading human rights organizations and Israel’s own. After last weekend, some critics may claim Palestinians are incapable of resisting in ethical ways. But that’s not true. In 1936, during the British mandate, Palestinians began what some consider the longest anticolonial general strike in history. In 1976, on what became known as Land Day, thousands of Palestinian citizens demonstrated against the Israeli government’s seizure of Palestinian property in Israel’s north. The first intifada against Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, which lasted from roughly 1987 to 1993, consisted primarily of nonviolent boycotts of Israeli goods and a refusal to pay Israeli taxes. While some Palestinians threw stones and Molotov cocktails, armed attacks were rare, even in the face of an Israeli crackdown that took more than 1,000 Palestinian lives. In 2005, 173 Palestinian civil society organizations asked “people of conscience all over the world to impose broad boycotts and implement divestment initiatives against Israel similar to those applied to South Africa in the apartheid era.”

But in the United States, Palestinians received little credit for trying to follow Black South Africans’ largely nonviolent path. Instead, the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement’s call for full equality, including the right of Palestinian refugees to return home, was widely deemed antisemitic because it conflicts with the idea of a state that favors Jews.

It is true that these nonviolent efforts sit uncomfortably alongside an ugly history of civilian massacres: the murder of 67 Jews in Hebron in 1929 by local Palestinians after Haj Amin al-Husseini, the grand mufti of Jerusalem, claimed Jews were about to seize Al Aqsa Mosque; the airplane hijackings of the late 1960s and 1970s carried out primarily by the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and Yasir Arafat’s nationalist Fatah faction; the 1972 assassination of Israeli athletes in Munich carried out by the Palestinian organization Black September; and the suicide bombings of the 1990s and 2000s conducted by Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad and Fatah’s Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, whose victims included a friend of mine in rabbinical school who I dreamed might one day officiate my wedding.

And yet it is essential to remember that some Palestinians courageously condemned this inhuman violence. In 1979, Edward Said, the famed literary critic, declared himself “horrified at the hijacking of planes, the suicidal missions, the assassinations, the bombing of schools and hotels.” Rashid Khalidi, a Palestinian American historian, called the suicide bombings of the second intifada “a war crime.” After Hamas’s attack last weekend, a member of the Israeli parliament, Ayman Odeh, among the most prominent leaders of Israel’s Palestinian citizens, declared, “It is absolutely forbidden to accept any attacks on the innocent.”Tragically, this vision of ethical resistance is being repudiated by some pro-Palestinian activists in the United States. In a statement last week, National Students for Justice in Palestine, which represents more than 250 Palestinian solidarity groups in North America, called Hamas’s attack “a historic win for the Palestinian resistance” that proves that “total return and liberation to Palestine is near” and added, “from Rhodesia to South Africa to Algeria, no settler colony can hold out forever.” One of its posters featured a paraglider that some Hamas fighters used to enter Israel.

The reference to Algeria reveals the delusion underlying this celebration of abduction and murder. After eight years of hideous war, Algeria’s settlers returned to France. But there will be no Algerian solution in Israel-Palestine. Israel is too militarily powerful to be conquered. More fundamentally, Israeli Jews have no home country to which to return. They are already home.

Mr. Said understood this. “The Israeli Jew is there in the Middle East,” he advised Palestinians in 1974, “and we cannot, I might even say that we must not, pretend that he will not be there tomorrow, after the struggle is over.” The Jewish “attachment to the land,” he added, “is something we must face.” Because Mr. Said saw Israeli Jews as something other than mere colonizers, he understood the futility — as well as the immorality — of trying to terrorize them into flight.

The failure of Hamas and its American defenders to recognize that will make it much harder for Jews and Palestinians to resist together in ethical ways. Before last Saturday, it was possible, with some imagination, to envision a joint Palestinian-Jewish struggle for the mutual liberation of both peoples. There were glimmers in the protest movement against Benjamin Netanyahu’s judicial overhaul, through which more and more Israeli Jews grasped a connection between the denial of rights to Palestinians and the assault on their own. And there were signs in the United States, where almost 40 percent of American Jews under the age of 40 told the Jewish Electoral Institute in 2021 that they considered Israel an apartheid state. More Jews in the United States, and even Israel, were beginning to see Palestinian liberation as a form of Jewish liberation as well.

That potential alliance has now been gravely damaged. There are many Jews willing to join Palestinians in a movement to end apartheid, even if doing so alienates us from our communities, and in some cases, our families. But we will not lock arms with people who cheer the kidnapping or murder of a Jewish child.

The struggle to persuade Palestinian activists to repudiate Hamas’s crimes, affirm a vision of mutual coexistence and continue the spirit of Mr. Said and the A.N.C. will be waged inside the Palestinian camp. The role of non-Palestinians is different: to help create the conditions that allow ethical resistance to succeed.

Palestinians are not fundamentally different from other people facing oppression: When moral resistance doesn’t work, they try something else. In 1972, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, which was modeled on the civil rights movement in the United States, organized a march to oppose imprisonment without trial. Although some organizations, most notably the Provisional Irish Republican Army, had already embraced armed resistance, they grew stronger after British soldiers shot 26 unarmed civilians in what became known as Bloody Sunday. By the early 1980s, the Irish Republican Army had even detonated a bomb outside Harrods, the department store in London. As Kirssa Cline Ryckman, a political scientist, observed in a 2019 paper on why certain movements turn violent, a lack of progress in peaceful protest “can encourage the use of violence by convincing demonstrators that nonviolence will fail to achieve meaningful concessions.”

Israel, with America’s help, has done exactly that. It has repeatedly undermined Palestinians who sought to end Israel’s occupation through negotiations or nonviolent pressure. As part of the 1993 Oslo Accords, the Palestine Liberation Organization renounced violence and began working with Israel — albeit imperfectly — to prevent attacks on Israelis, something that revolutionary groups like the A.N.C. and the Irish Republican Army never did while their people remained under oppression. At first, as Khalil Shikaki, a Palestinian political scientist, has detailed, Palestinians supported cooperation with Israel because they thought it would deliver them a state. In early 1996, Palestinian support for the Oslo process reached 80 percent while support for violence against Israelis dropped to 20 percent.

The 1996 election of Benjamin Netanyahu, and the failure of Israel and its American patron to stop settlement growth, however, curdled Palestinian sentiment. Many Jewish Israelis believe that Ehud Barak, who succeeded Mr. Netanyahu, offered Palestinians a generous deal in 2000. Most Palestinians, however, saw Mr. Barak’s offer as falling far short of a fully sovereign state along the 1967 lines. And their disillusionment with a peace process that allowed Israel to entrench its hold over the territory on which they hoped to build their new country ushered in the violence of the second intifada. In Mr. Shikaki’s words, “The loss of confidence in the ability of the peace process to deliver a permanent agreement on acceptable terms had a dramatic impact on the level of Palestinian support for violence against Israelis.” As Palestinians abandoned hope, Hamas gained power.

After the brutal years of the second intifada, in which Hamas and other Palestinian armed groups repeatedly targeted Israeli civilians, President Mahmoud Abbas of the Palestinian Authority and Salam Fayyad, his prime minister from 2007 to 2013, worked to restore security cooperation and prevent anti-Israeli violence once again. Yet again, the strategy failed. The same Israeli leaders who applauded Mr. Fayyad undermined him in back rooms by funding the settlement growth that convinced Palestinians that security cooperation was bringing them only deepening occupation. Mr. Fayyad, in an interview with The Times’s Roger Cohen before he left office in 2013, admitted that because the “occupation regime is more entrenched,” Palestinians “question whether the P.A. can deliver. Meanwhile, Hamas gains recognition and is strengthened.”

As Palestinians lost faith that cooperation with Israel could end the occupation, many appealed to the world to hold Israel accountable for its violation of their rights. In response, both Democratic and Republican presidents have worked diligently to ensure that these nonviolent efforts fail. Since 1997, the United States has vetoed more than a dozen United Nations Security Council resolutions criticizing Israel for its actions in the West Bank and Gaza. This February, even as Israel’s far-right government was beginning a huge settlement expansion, the Biden administration reportedly wielded a veto threat to drastically dilute a Security Council resolution that would have condemned settlement growth.

Washington’s response to the International Criminal Court’s efforts to investigate potential Israeli war crimes is equally hostile. Despite lifting sanctions that the Trump administration imposed on I.C.C. officials investigating the United States’s conduct in Afghanistan, the Biden team remains adamantly opposed to any I.C.C. investigation into Israel’s actions.

The Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement, or B.D.S., which was founded in 2005 as a nonviolent alternative to the murderous second intifada and which speaks in the language of human rights and international law, has been similarly stymied, including by many of the same American politicians who celebrated the movement to boycott, divest from and sanction South Africa. Joe Biden, who is proud of his role in passing sanctions against South Africa, has condemned the B.D.S. movement, saying it “too often veers into antisemitism.” About 35 states — some of which once divested state funds from companies doing business in apartheid South Africa — have passed laws or issued executive orders punishing companies that boycott Israel. In many cases, those punishments apply even to businesses that boycott only Israeli settlements in the West Bank.

Palestinians have noticed. In the words of Dana El Kurd, a Palestinian American political scientist, “Palestinians have lost faith in the efficacy of nonviolent protest as well as the possible role of the international community.” Mohammed Deif, the commander of Hamas’s military wing, cited this disillusionment during last Saturday’s attack. “In light of the orgy of occupation and its denial of international laws and resolutions, and in light of American and Western support and international silence,” he declared, “we’ve decided to put an end to all this.”

Hamas — and no one else — bears the blame for its sadistic violence. But it can carry out such violence more easily, and with less backlash from ordinary Palestinians, because even many Palestinians who loathe the organization have lost hope that moral strategies can succeed. By treating Israel radically differently from how the United States treated South Africa in the 1980s, American politicians have made it harder for Palestinians to follow the A.N.C.’s ethical path. The Americans who claim to hate Hamas the most have empowered it again and again.

Israelis have just witnessed the greatest one-day loss of Jewish life since the Holocaust. For Palestinians, especially in Gaza, where Israel has now ordered more than one million people in the north to leave their homes, the days to come are likely to bring dislocation and death on a scale that should haunt the conscience of the world. Never in my lifetime have the prospects for justice and peace looked more remote. Yet the work of moral rebuilding must begin. In Israel-Palestine and around the world, pockets of Palestinians and Jews, aided by people of conscience of all backgrounds, must slowly construct networks of trust based on the simple principle that the lives of both Palestinians and Jews are precious and inextricably intertwined.

Israel desperately needs a genuinely Jewish and Palestinian political party, not because it can win power but because it can model a politics based on common liberal democratic values, not tribe. American Jews who rightly hate Hamas but know, in their bones, that Israel’s treatment of Palestinians is profoundly wrong must ask themselves a painful question: What nonviolent forms of Palestinian resistance to oppression will I support? More Palestinians and their supporters must express revulsion at the murder of innocent Israeli Jews and affirm that Palestinian liberation means living equally alongside them in safety and freedom.

From those reckonings, small, beloved communities can be born, and grow. And perhaps one day, when it finally becomes hideously clear that Hamas cannot free Palestinians by murdering children and Israel cannot subdue Gaza, even by razing it to the ground, those communities may become the germ of a mass movement for freedom that astonishes the world, as Black and white South Africans did decades ago. I’m confident I won’t live to see it. No gambler would stake a bet on it happening at all. But what’s the alternative, for those of us whose lives and histories are bound up with that small, ghastly, sacred place?

Like many others who care about the lives of both Palestinians and Jews, I have felt in recent days the greatest despair I have ever known. On Wednesday, a Palestinian friend sent me a note of consolation. She ended it with the words “only together.” Maybe that can be our motto.

#articles #definitely one of the best most extensive most personal most meaningful articles i've read this week #also addresses a LOT of uh. talking points recently

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belladonnadawn · 23 days

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My Tears Ricochet

“And I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want; just not home. And you can aim for my heart, go for blood, but you would still miss me in your bones.”

After the war, Lawrence (Xanthus) went back to his home, only to be a witness of his own wake.

Dark clouds enveloped the skies as the rain continued to pour. Lawrence’s clothes soaked and wet, he shivered at the cold breeze that came along with the weather. But that was the least of his concerns.

Standing by the tree, he watched it all– a witness to his own wake. Lawrence observed intently, still unable to wrap his head on the absurdity of it all. Everytime he asks himself what has happened and what occurred, he was answered by the spear that pierced his chest. The memory was fresh, the torment won’t seem to end sooner.

To rub the wound with salt, his heightened senses made him hear everything: the sobs, the quiet utterances filled with condolences, and the heartbeats. It was overwhelmingly painful, as if he was being punished for a sin he could never atone for. He wanted to tell himself that it was a dream, but it's hard to lie to himself when the truth was right in front of him, rubbing it in his face.

Audric was one of the guests, muttering condolences and wearing a sympathetic look on his face. Lawrence could laugh at the situation, as if it was a sick and twisted joke hurled to him. Nevertheless, he was amused at how Audric got along with the crowd, blending in perfectly and concealing their lies. Any questions about his corpse or casket, Audric would answer it swiftly: “I found the poor young man’s body in a ghastly manner…. in a way that’s beyond me. Even so, we all know that he died with honor, let us leave it at that.”

His eyes scanned the crowd, some faces were familiar, some faces weren't. Baron, count, viscountess, duchess; his ear picked up their titles. Lawrence wasn't surprised, his father was a noble before he was a father. That didn't stop the disappointment and hurt knowing where his priorities truly lies. He went with his orders, he obliged to his commands no matter how much he opposed it just to be in his favors. But even in death, he was just a mean to the end.

“Oh, Lawrence! My son! My poor son!”

His eyes widened recognizing the voice. “Mother…” Lawrence spoke gently, his voice cracked hearing his mother’s wail. He watched through the open windows how his young brother came to her aid. Nathaniel tried to console their grief-stricken mother while he cried with her– but to no avail. He understood her grief, to know that someone that you deeply love was taken away in a gruesome manner– in a fight that he never chose to be in. There was a deep regret in her heart, she wished she stood up against her husband’s order, she wished she had stopped her son from leaving, she wished she hugged him a little longer. Now, their Lawrence was nothing but a memory.

Nathaniel tried his best to act tough, but his facade was not strong enough. Lawrence’s heart ached further at his brother’s situation, knowing the pressure and challenges he might experience– but his brother’s concern was far from that. Nathaniel reminisces at the times where he’d talk about his dreams and adventures, how his brother listened to his stories and rambles no matter how nonsensical it is. He’d remember the times where he’d go along with his newfound hobbies, encouraging him to explore and be whoever he desired to be.

And now that his brother was gone, who was going to listen to his stories? Who will join him in his make believes? Who is he going to run to when the horrors of reality come after him? Nathaniel wiped his tears, a bitter feeling on his mouth as his brother’s absence left an empty hole in his heart.

So long to the adventures that Nathaniel and Lawrence tried to make, it was merely a dream never bound to come true.

The weight of his death slowly engulfs him, he finds himself in a state of turmoil. Was it grief? Was it anger? Was it regret? Lawrence felt his emotions crash into him, it resonated to his heart, his body, everywhere. He was just a young man, a son, a plebe. Forced to face the atrocities of war to fight for his honor– his father's honor. Only to be met with fate worse than death. He choked on his sobs, begging to God to bring his life back, to wake him from this nightmare. But would God listen to a mere vampire like him– does God even consider him as their child?

He could only pray– pray that the path he was led to was worth the suffering, that at the end he won’t look back filled with regrets. Lawrence felt a small tap on his shoulder, interrupting him from his thoughts. He composed himself, wiping the tears as he faced him.

“If you’re going to stay here, you’d blow your cover.” Audric spoke. It was time to go.

He only nodded as he began to walk towards his new residence. Lawrence left the wake, with a heavy feeling in his heart. In the casket was the body that was never his– along with the life that he has left behind. The tomb will be etched in a name that he’d soon abandon.

Farewell Lawrence Claiborne, you were a doting brother and a loving son.

#zsakuva #sakuverse #xanthus claiborne #xanthus #my tears ricochet

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onedaughterofman · 1 year

Text

Sacrifice me (Papa Emeritus x g/n reader)

Summary: For tonight's ritual, Papa is tied down and on his knees. He's completely at your mercy and, to please the Old One, you must tease and deny him as hard as your heart desires.

Warning/tags: Any Papa you want. +18, sex, BDSM, sex toys, bondage, orgasm control/denial, aphrodisiacs, gags, flogging, dom/sub dynamics, ritualistic sex, satanism. 1.9 K words

A/N: I've been working on this for a while but tonight I drank a bit and decided... why not post it. Hope you like it. I proof read it after the wine, so there might be mistakes. Sorry.

The chapel of rituals smells of incense and burnt candles. Dancing flames illuminate most of the room, casting shadows around the place. There’s a gentle, grave melody echoing on the walls, reaching your ears as you walk down the aisle.

The consecrated chants send shivers down your spine. Tonight the moon is full in the black sky, ghastly light sweeping in through the stained glass, bathing everything in a multi-colored gleam.

Everything, including him.

The air freezes in your lungs, expanding your chest as your feet halt. There he is, among the lights and shadows, white eye emitting a faint glow in the inky darkness. Papa remains in the middle of the altar, on his knees, arms bound behind his back to an inverted cross.

He’s naked, and his skin conserves a bit of a flush obvious even in the gloom. The paint on his face is already messy, thick drops of sweat falling down his forehead. The air is balmy around him, clouds of condensation forming every time he pants with an open mouth.

What a sight. Tonight, he’s not Papa.

No, tonight he’s an offering, a sacrifice.

There’s nothing in your tongue when you swallow. The leather clothes are snug on your body, slightly creaking with every move. This is an unhallowed ceremony, a necessary ritual meant to honor the Dark One and to bring prosperity and power to this Ministry. It has been imparted by chosen siblings since the beginning of the times, and tonight it’s your turn to do it again.

As always, Papa smiles upon noticing you approach the altar. His shoulders roll, muscles stiffening under the tight, flushed skin. A low grunt escapes his lips, reverberating into the ancient chapel before disappearing on the walls.

Tonight is the night. This ritual is long, intense, mind-blowing even. It’s one of the very few occasions someone like Papa will be at your mercy, when he won’t be getting it his way no matter how hard he tries to sweet talk and charm you.

No. Tonight you’ll tease, edge and deny him to your heart’s delight, until he’s nothing but a whimpering, teary eyed mess on this altar. From his suffering, the Lord will be satisfied. Both of you will supply him as much sexual energy as you can create.

Fucking for Satan, offering him a rough, intense sex ritual… You’re lucky to have been chosen by Papa years ago, as his partner, as his caretaker. He never regretted it. You can percieve it in his pupils as you get closer, riding crop burning on your hand. It has a contudent weight and flows nicely in the air when you use the tip to lift his chin.

Now, with him staring right into your soul, you can’t breathe. There’s a violent blush on his face, bold even under all the black and white paint. “Amore,” he states, sultry gaze assaulting your senses. “Every second I spent waiting for you it’s been tortuous.”

The warm, wet breath creates even more condensation around him. Fuck, he’s burning. It’s not a surprise, since the cocktail of aphrodisiacs and sacred herbs he drank earlier is doing full effect. His pupils are blown, nothing but never-ending dark holes inside his irises.

In them, you look at your own reflection. In them you are powerful, sacred, a divine sight.

“I hope you didn’t torture yourself that much, Papa,” you reply, in a hushed tone. The tip of the crop is replaced by your finger when you lean down. “That’s my job tonight.”

The weight of his sheer adoration and pure lust is heavy on your shoulders. So dense, you could drown into it. The excitement coming from his bare body strickes your skin in waves, one after the other.

“Do your worst,” Papa breathes out, voice a rumble in his chest. He’s aching to caress you, or to be touched, unconsciously pulling on his restraints to be closer to you, wishing to melt into your body. “I’m yours. Forever yours. Take me.”

The first strike of the riding crop makes him flinch. An angry, red mark appears on his chest, and he smiles. Through his clenched teeth, nothing escapes but a grunt. “Harder,” he purrs.

As much as you wish to indulge him, that’s absolutely not the way this ritual should go. The following strike is softer, a tickle on his skin. The tenderness of that gesture might be even worse than the pain, because this time all the air leaves his lungs in a prolonged blow.

Oh, he’s way too sensitive for his own good. High on lust and aphrodisiacs, his blood runs hot and wild inside his veins and arteries. You take it slow, teasing and caressing softly, tip of the crop followed by your nails hardly scratching at his skin. Papa’s gaze falls to the floor, jaw locked. The shadows make him look older, face gaunt and eyes nothing but deep pits of wantonness.

And yet, you take it slow. Your fingers ghost over the places he wants them the most, merely brushing the underside of his cock before slithering back up to his shivering stomach and heaving chest. Fuck, he’s feverish already, a thin coat of sweat covering him.

“You know the deal, Papa,” you murmur in his ear. Your fingers curl around his black crucifix, pulling on it until he’s forced to look back up. “I have to watch you burn first.”

Unhurriedly, his head nods. There’s fire in his gaze, excitement and thirst in his body language. Your heels click on the old floor when you move away, scanning the table searching for whatever tool you want to use tonight.

Papa gasp through his clenched jaw when you place it on him, fist closing around his aching erection. There’s precum already coating your hand, and you wipe it off on his chest before moving away. The low buzzing of the toy fills the silence, interrupted only by the distant, faint ritualistic music.

This time, the flogger weights in your hand. Your wrist moves swiftly, causing a loud noise to stab through the air. Papa grunts, pulling on the leather restrain, but he can’t escape from the mix of pain and pleasure you’re offering him.

Gradually, minute by minute, the sexual tension and energy build up. You know your Papa well, all these years together have taught you the telling signs of his orgasms approaching. You stop right before one, then do it again, and again, and again…

You lost count of how many times you have denied him of sweet release before a raspy moan escapes his mouth, muffled by his teeth. His messy face paint stains your fingers when you cup his cheeks, gently massaging in order to encourage him to relax his jaw.

“Do you need something to bite on?”

“It might be for the best, amore,” he replies, voice nothing but a whisper. “There’s still a long way to go.”

He’s right. The moon is still high in the sky, pale light illuminating the big stained glass behind his back. Bathed in unique colors, Papa looks ethereal, sacred. And oh, there’s nothing you wish to do more than to completely ruin him.

The bit gag is secured on his mouth. Those blown, dark pupils follow your movements with adoration, dark lashes fluttering evert time your fingers graze his skin. A part of you feels pity for him, on how he’s tied up to an inverted cross in the middle of the altar, covered in drool and sweat, painfully hard. But then, there’s that dense sexual longing in his eyes, that raw ardour that reminds you he wants this.

Fuck, he’s enjoying every second of it, worshipping your ministrations with blind faith. Papa’s head leans on your leg, cheek pressed on your inner thigh. He looks up at you, silently begging to continue. A black stain is left on you when you finally move away, causing him to whine from the loss of contact.

Oh, how much he aches, how much he wants to caress you and breathe into your skin. He’ll get his chance; you’re sure of it, but now you continue with the ritual, step by step carefully planned and calculated.

By the time the moon has moved and most of the candles have consumed, Papa is nothing but a whimpering, moaning mess in the altar. The hard floor digs on his bare knees, body uselessly pulling on the leather straps. He’s biting down on the gag, droll falling to the ground when he lets out another mewl.

Your hands are on him, caressing, scratching, working him up and down with slow ease. Once more, you bear the weight of his desire, the sheer devotion in his pupils. Papa is high on your love, on the sex and the denial, high out of his mind and reservations. He only craves for any release you might offer, for any touch of your fingers and kiss from your lips.

Through labored breaths and a heaving chest, you overhear him trying to talk around the gag. There are marks on his face when you remove it, and he takes his time to pant before he’s capable to form coherent words.

“The big candle is almost all consumed, tesoro,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours as if you were the apple of temptation placed in front of him, sweet and juicy for him to bite. “Our time is ending here. Sacrifice me for our Lord. My soul is forever yours.”

This time, you’re the one breathless. You gasp, muscles tensing and relaxing as you swallow. This man is an unholy sight, the devil on earth, the son of one below and you crave every inch of him.

The soothing murmur of his prayers fills your ears. Papa’s thick lashes are coated in pleasure tears when he narrows his eyes to focus on the unsacred words, reciting from memory the ancient incantations. You do it too, in your mind, as an effort to keep you grounded.

Papa is right, this part of the ritual is important. All this slow build up has to end in a powerful orgasm, in raw energy for the Old One to consume. Your palm comes to contact with his cock again, gripping it tight as your wrist moves with practiced ease. Gently, then faster and harder. Papa’s hips move as much as he can, in an effort to ride his own pleasure until the end.

With his head propped on your shoulder, you allow him to thrust into your first, other arm slithering around his back. On your chest, you sense the muffled rumble of his grunts and moans, the heat coming from his body. The silence is pierced by his scream when he ultimately comes, hips still moving as his cum stains the floor, your fingers and his own stomach.

The candle is completely consumed by the time he pauses, body almost hanging limp. He's resting all his weight on you, blissfully out of his mind. Your fingers deftly loosen up the leather straps, allowing him to fall more and more on you. Papa’s eyes are closed, but his pupils are still blown and clouded when he finally opens them up to tenderly stare at you.

“You were ruthless, like an infernal creature who crawled up from Hell to torture my soul for eternity,” he speaks, through pants.“You scared me, amore. So badly.”

Then, lowering his lips on your palm, he smiles. His face glistens with his own release, cum mixing with the remaining black and white pigment.

“Do it again,” he purrs, before letting out a few airy chuckles. “But, later, si? Get your Papa some snacks and water, will you?”

“Anything for you,” you reply, placing a kiss on his temple. The salt from his sweat rises to your lips, combined with the bitter taste of the face paint. “My soul is yours too.”

PS: yeah none of us is free of sin, friends.

#ghost band fanfiction #papa emeritus x reader #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus iv #ghost band #my writing #my fics #not safe for rats

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howlinchickhowl · 9 months

Text

Couple of days late because I keep falling asleep while writing, but here is my little contribution for day 9 of @gallavichthings a.u.gust fiesta.

Got me stuck on your face and your body nine - college

There’s an alarm clock blaring, it’s been blaring for what feels like hours, and it’s not his. He doesn’t even have an alarm clock. This day and age who even owns a real fucking clock anymore? Doesn’t everyone just use their phone?

The noise stops, and Mickey cracks an eye open. Through his minimal aperture he can see a a light green colored towel, a pair of legs dusted with light ginger hair. Ian.

“Sorry about the alarm, I woke up early and jumped in the shower, forgot it was even set.”

He sounds so awake already, alive with energy at whatever ghastly hour of the morning someone like Ian chooses to rise in the morning. It’s as much as Mickey can do to roll over onto his back, and even that feels like too much of an effort. He slings one arm over his face to block out the obnoxious sunlight streaming through Ian’s cheap dorm-room curtains, and sucks in a deep yawn of a breath.

“It’s all good man,” He says, on the tail end of the yawn, “didn’t mean to fall asleep. Shoulda woken me.”

“I didn’t mind you staying.” The weight on the bed shifts like Ian has just sat down, and when Mickey drags his arm from his eyes to look he’s right there, chest bare, soft hairs on his pecs glistening with large droplets of water because the guy apparently doesn’t know how towels work and clambers every day from the shower dripping like an umbrella after a rainstorm.

He watches a single rivulet wind its way down towards a nipple, take a detour around a particularly thick hair and drop into the valley that marks the centre of Ian’s well defined chest.

He drags his gaze away and meets Ian’s eyes, warm and open, and it sinks in to Mickey what Ian had said. That he didn’t mind Mickey staying over. It’s crazy to Mickey how easily shit like that just rolls off Ian’s tongue, like he just says exactly what he’s thinking or feeling, in the moment when he’s thinking or feeling it. Mickey wonders what that must be like. To be just completely at ease all the damn time. It couldn’t be him.

“Well, didn’t mean to, so.”

Case in point. The words that roll off Mickey’s tongue are always awkward and stilted, and only ever half of what he really wants to be saying, and almost always succeeds in making whomever he is talking to smaller and less happy and less bright than they were before he spoke.

Something in Ian shuts down, his openness, that light inside him that Mickey is so obsessed with, can’t get enough of, dims, just a little, and just like every time he opens his mouth, Mickey regrets his words.

“What you got your alarm set for anyway?” He asks, dropping his hand onto Ian’s bent knee where he’s sat sideways on the bed. “You don’t got class today.”

One thing that’s great about Ian is that Mickey kind of thinks he gets it. Mickey’s words can hurt him but if he can get a hand on him, quickly, he recovers. Like he understands what it means when Mickey uses his touch to try and soothe the lashes his tongue doles out.

Like now, green eyes glance down at where Mickey’s hand is resting on a towel clad knee, and a little smile forms on his lips

“You know my schedule Mickey?”

Smug bastard. And he does, is the problem. They’ve been fucking basically since class began in September, since Mickey had wandered into a frat house kitchen at a party Mandy had dragged him to and shared a shot with the giant red-head hiding from the party by ‘manning the bar’. He was the least likely frat dude you could imagine, sweet and kind of shy, not interested in keg stands or embarrassing pledges. They’d ended up back in Ian’s room that night and Mickey’s been freefalling ever since. He’s into him so deep it’s embarrassing.

Yeah, he knows his fucking schedule. Knows when his classes are and his preferred times to go to the gym, knows he treats himself to lunch outside the cafeteria once a week, on Wednesdays, on a rotating schedule of alternative campus eateries. Knows he calls his big sister on Fridays, facetimes his big brother most mornings on his way to class. Knows what day and time he goes to his book club that’s not a book club, but that he won’t actually tell Mickey what it is. He knows, and he feels like a fucking pussy for knowing, and he knows that if he replies right now he’ll say something even more hurtful than he already has because his stupid fucking brain thinks it will make it less embarrassing to be obsessed with Ian if there’s no way Ian could ever possibly know.

“Got a frat thing early, philanthropy requirement, that’s why the alarm.”

There’s a blush spreading across Ian’s cheeks, the same that always does whenever he talks about fraternity stuff, he’s the only frat guy Mickey ever met who doesn’t like to let on he’s in a frat. Mickey’d asked him once, why he’d joined if he found it so embarrassing to be a Greek. He’d said that when he’d come to college he’d been lonely, had missed the noise and the company of being at home with all his siblings, the frat had seemed like a way to have that again, on campus.

“Gotta go be a good boy, huh?” Ian quirks a suggestive eyebrow at that and the shadow of a shiver rushes up Mickey’s spine. It is way too easy to get him going where Ian’s concerned. “Guess I’ll let you get to it then, I’m gonna head out.”

He rolls himself to the other side of the bed and pushes himself up to standing, starting to find where his clothes had ended up. He finds them in a neat pile on the chair by the window, shirt and pants and boxers folded, fucking boy scout.

“You don’t have to go.” Ian tells him while he’s pulling up his pants, rooting in his underwear drawer for some clean boxers and dropping his towel to pull them on.

“I got a paper due.”

“Well, are you busy later? I’m supposed to go to this open mic thing at Java John’s…”

Mickey winces at the thought of an ‘open mic thing’ and Ian trails off, finishes buttoning his shirt, smart clothes for philanthropy hours. Mickey tries not to let his gaze linger too long, but the fact is, Ian looks good all dressed up.

“But I could skip it? If you wanted to…” He trails off again, shrugging at Mickey like he doesn’t really know what he’s suggesting.

He’s suggesting spending time together, really, that’s what he’s always suggesting. All the time he’s inviting Mickey along to some event or telling him about some party, just trying to spend time with him, and every time he does Mickey blows him off, turns it into some innuendo, or manufactures the scenario so that instead of hanging out like normal people, like Ian so clearly wants to do, they end up just fucking.

It’s not like Mickey doesn’t want to hang out with Ian, properly. Without fucking. He does. He would. But the thing is, they’re good at fucking. They’ve got great chemistry and he knows he can make Ian feel good, that he can hold his interest for that, that he won’t disappoint the guy.

But without that, if they’re just spending time together and talking and not distracted by the overwhelming pleasure of an impending orgasm, Ian might figure out that in the long run, Mickey’s not smart or interesting or worth spending time with at all. And he can’t have that.

He finishes shoving his feet inside his boots and looks up, finding Ian still looking over at him, hopefully. And he wants to say yes. He wants to say sure, and sounds fun. Wants to meet Ian at the stupid fucking Java John’s and listen to some emo loser singing acoustic covers of eighties pop hits and drink an overpriced cup of coffee and just, sit next to the guy, smile at him, make him laugh. Feel the warmth of his body radiate against Mickey’s own. He wants it so badly he can hardly breathe from the wanting.

And what if he did it? What if he said yes? What if, actually, Ian didn’t find him boring or stupid or only good for fucking? What if, actually, they had a great fucking time and great sex? Looking into Ian’s imploring eyes, for the first time he believes it might be possible.

He takes a deep breath, takes a massive fucking leap, and says.

“They got beer at the Java John’s?”

The smile on Ian’s face makes his heart almost beat out of his chest, and he hopes, hopes he’s made the right choice.

#fic #my fic #my writing #howl does a.u.gust #gallavich fic

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savage-rhi · 3 months

Text

Mending Shadows // Chapter 32

Summary:

Y/N was a simple Scavenger of Lucis, until meeting a deadly blow at the hands of an infected creature. At the crossroads of death, they are found by Niflheim’s cryptic Chancellor with his own agenda. Now bonded to Ardyn Izunia, and tossed into the world of Niflheim, Y/N struggles to cope with their new life as an Imperial Icon all the while battling their feelings toward their fate and that of Ardyn’s.

Click here to read on AO3

Tuti had never been so frightened in her life. With her back to the wall, she attempted to gather her bearings. The task was proving to be a futile effort, for her lungs clamored for oxygen. Her throat felt shattered with every inhale of breath. She was quite surprised to have a voice given her consistent screaming. A part of her subconscious that wasn’t falling apart at the seams joked she could’ve passed as an operatic singer in another life, for her air capacity seemed unyielding.

Unyielding…Gods, she wished to have such strength. Her fingertips quivered against the cobblestone upon her back, wondering if she should look around the corner. A terrible crunch had Tuti reconsider tactics as her body flinched. Low growls intertwined with a quelching noise that fanned the flames of dread inside of her. She could feel it slither down her back, causing her legs to tremble.

Tuti knew what awaited her around the edge, and the ghastly sight that would surely burn into her conscious for all time. Yet her curiosity was tempted to take a gander at what Y/N was doing to the bodies.

Only for a second…She told herself. Just one second…

Tuti sealed her lips tight--took in a deep breath--and inched little by little.

As her head turned she resisted the urge to gasp. Six to seven corpses were scattered around. She and Y/N were a long way from the building that MedZin originally trapped them at. Tuti reminded herself there were plenty of lost souls to be found, and her eyes followed a trail of fresh blood. She settled her gaze on Y/N's back.

Tuti squinted her eyes to get a better look. Y/N was crouched above the body of a woman. Although she couldn’t make heads or tails of what was happening, she knew Y/N was eating her. The squishy noise of flesh being ripped had Tuti’s stomach fighting the urge to throw up as goosebumps trailed the fine hairs along her arms.

Gods be damned upon me…Regret took the form of tears in the corner of her eyes.

Tuti knew she should’ve bolted when the men unhanded her to deal with Y/N’s daemonic state. She should’ve ran like hell until her legs could no longer carry the weight of her guilt, but devotion was a fickle thing. She couldn’t in good conscience leave Y/N behind. Not even if they had become a monster and massacred all who tried to stand in their way. Y/N was important, and so was witnessing every horrible act they committed.

Tuti’s thoughts were interrupted as Y/N's growls began to stagnate. Their breathing quaked, and they suddenly flung the corpse away from them.

Tuti jumped as the body tumbled off to the side. The strength behind the shove had her grimace. She could only imagine what her poor body would've felt had she been on the receiving end. Her pondering ceased as her eyes once again followed Y/N.

Y/N started to crawl on all fours as if bipedalism was an uncommon state of being. Their head violently shook from side to side while anguished shrills crept past their lips. Eyes tightly closed as bits of light from the sun trickled into the room. Suddenly, Y/N began to choke on warm blood that flooded their entire throat. Their body heaved as contents from their stomach began to spill. Black bile and bits of meat collapsed onto the floor, creating a noise that sounded like expired milk meeting concrete. The sensation was beyond words and disgust. Painful wheezes were the only noise Y/N made for a time.

The purge of flesh had momentarily snapped Y/N’s conscious out of its catatonic state. They collapsed on their side, only to scramble to their knees once they caught a whiff of the vomit that lay not far. Weakly, Y/N forced the upper half of their body to rise. With heavy breaths, Y/N opened their black and yellow eyes as their head leaned back. They stared at the ceiling as the world twisted in disarray. They had no idea who they were, or what was going on, but everything felt terribly wrong.

Y/N slowly brought their hands up to their eyes. A blotched purple hue plagued their skin as did black spider webbing. Then there was the blood. A murky red that nearly camouflaged well against their clawed fingertips. The copper smell inflamed their nostrils, and their heart skipped a beat. For a split second, Y/N became aware of what was going on. Tears instantly streamed from their eyes, mingling with the same black bile that touched their chin and mouth. The scourge--catching wind that it's hold was failing--attempted to steer it's vessel in another direction. Y/N felt their skull split in half as their brain was doused in sickness.

Throwing back their head, Y/N let out an inhuman screech. The sounds devolved into melancholic growls. More sun came through and they covered their eyes. In a frenzy, Y/N dug their nails into their scalp to relieve themself of pain. Their cries weakened further, and their normal voice started to peak through the cracks of daemonification.

All Tuti could do was cover her mouth as she watched. Her own tears had become heavy as she witnessed Y/N attempting to shine through the monstrous mask. She could scarce believe it. That there was someone that still remained underneath all that.

A loose lightbulb overhead suddenly dropped near Tuti’s location. She gasped into her hand, observing the shattered glass then looked up. Y/N was staring right at her, unblinking.

“By the six, Y/N…” Tuti stuttered. “Don’t come here. Please. Please. Don’t come here.”

Y/N’s head canted to the side in a swift motion. The movement reminded Tuti of a bird cocking its head out of curiosity. Y/N sniffled and leaned forward. Once again on their hands and knees, they slowly crawled toward Tuti. Y/N's features went neutral while never taking their eyes off of her.

Tuti wanted to scream.

Most would’ve followed animal instinct and run, but Tuti froze. She tried to rationalize her choice to remain, given what she witnessed when the MedZin soldiers attempted to flee. They were cut limb from limb in a matter of seconds. Perhaps if she stood her ground, this creature at the helm of Y/N’s body wouldn’t see her as a threat. By all accounts this was stupid, but she had no other choice but to lock in as Y/N was no more than ten feet away now.

Y/N’s head twitched as they sniffed the air. Blinking a few times, the neutrality they wore began to shift. Fright plagued the dark eyes that stared right at Tuti. Uncertain what to make of her, all the while remaining attentive to what she’d do next.

Tuti felt like she was going to have a heart attack.

“It’s alright,” Tuti whispered, more to herself than to Y/N. “It’s alright.”

Y/N seemed to be hypnotized by her words, and Tuti let out a breath she had been holding back. The purr like snort Y/N let out would’ve been almost endearing had they not been consuming a person moments ago.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Tuti nodded as her lips quivered into a smile. “Everything’s going to be fine!”

Everything’s going to be fine, but not for the dead...Tuti recalled the body count and bit her lip. Now wasn't the time for survivors guilt. Not when she had Y/N more or less settled down.

“Y/N,” Tuti murmured. “I’m going to get help. Do you know what that means? I’m going to fetch the Chancellor. He’ll be here, and you’ll be okay. You hear that? You’re going to be just fine. He’ll fix this!”

She took one step backward and all hell broke loose.

Y/N lunged forward, snapping their mouth in rapid succession at Tuti while they attempted to grab her. Tuti let out a high pitch scream and bolted. Panting heavily, she sprinted down a hall and made a right. Her body slammed into a door, and she let out a pained yelp. She ignored whatever bruises were gained and continued to run as the sound of Y/N's brisk claws rapidly trailed. Suddenly, Tuti felt a huge weight upon her back as Y/N launched themself at her.

Tuti shrieked and she tumbled to the floor with Y/N. Save for the stinging lacerations Y/N inflicted, Tuti couldn't make heads or tails of what was going on. She yelled and used her weight against Y/N, and forced them both to roll over several times before coming to a stop. Tuti felt the wind knock out of her as Y/N slammed her to the ground. Frantically, Tuti's right arm reached out for whatever was near, and pulled a rifle off a MedZin corpse and used it to block Y/N's mashing teeth from reaching her face at the last second.

“Y/N! Stop it!” Tuti bellowed. Her plead fell on deaf ears as Y/N kept snapping. The material of the gun was being peeled away quick, and Tuti knew she didn’t have long. Her eyes rapidly glanced between both their bodies, and using all her strength, Tuti pushed up and kicked Y/N not once but several times in the abdomen.

One pained cry after another escaped Y/N, and while stunned, Tuti adjusted the rifle and used it to hit them across the face. The power behind Tuti’s hit forced Y/N off as they plummeted to the side and away from her.

Tuti scrambled to her feet and ran before Y/N had the chance to recover and finish the job. She ran so fast that the muscles in her calves began to spasm.

“You there, miss!” An Accordo trooper beckoned Tuti to come forth. “Miss, do you need help? We’re looking for survivors of an explosion! Miss! Miss!”

Tuti didn’t register the soldiers who had come to search for survivors. She didn’t hear Y/N let out a haunting scream, nor did she hear the conversation the men had amongst themselves as to what caused it. She didn’t hear them make haste toward Y/N’s location. She didn’t hear the yells, the gunfire, or the sound of an unknown weapon going off, causing Y/N pain beyond measure that the daemonic voice all but disappeared as the human within called out her name.

“TUTI!”

Her ears fell numb to the world, and she didn’t stop running.

After what felt like an eternity, exhaustion had Tuti come to a halt. Out of breath and wheezing, Tuti forced her dry eyes to look around and figure out where she ended up. Buildings that hadn't been touched by the earlier attack greeted her as did a clear sky. The smoke was long gone, and there were seldom few down this road, save for Accordo troopers securing the area. It didn't take long for Tuti to realize she was in one of the districts closest to the port.

“Thank heavens,” she said in between harsh breaths. She grimaced at feeling her clothes stick to her skin from all her perspiration, and felt guilty. This was nothing compared to what Y/N was enduring--that is if they were still alive. Tuti didn't have time to entertain the thought any further as a strong hand gripped her shoulder. She felt the world spin and she screamed.

Ardyn flinched from the screech, making a face as he shook his head. “Tuti?”

“Chancellor Izunia?” Tuti’s bottom lip quivered, happy to see a familiar face. She threw her arms out and embraced him. "Oh thank the six!"

Ardyn was dumbfounded as his arms flew up to avoid being fully ensnared. He acknowledged Tuti had a forcible strength despite her small frame, and wasn't sure if that shocked him or the fact someone genuinely sounded relieved to be basking in his presence. He looked down and his gaze met hers. Tuti's heartsore eyes reminded Ardyn of a devout praying before the heavens to be freed of strife.

“Y/N is back there! I couldn’t do anything but watch. There was so much blood! Y/N’s not themself, and I don’t know what to do! What are we going to do? I didn’t want to run, but what choice did I have?! Y/N tried to kill me and I…Chancellor, what are we going to do?!”

“My dear, you’re going to let me go for starters.” Ardyn grimaced as he calmly coaxed Tuti’s arms and hands away from him. He composed himself the best he could, and softened his hardened gaze. “Second, I need you to breathe. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can do that!”

“You can and you will if you care for what happens to Y/N!” Ardyn stated firmly. He somewhat prided himself in the fact he scared her, for Tuti's disposition immediately changed like a switch going off. She shook like a cat who had nearly drowned as Ardyn gestured for her to follow his motions, taking in a big inhale followed by an exhale. Little by little, she started to regain her old self from what he gathered.

“Good, good,” Ardyn replied eagerly. He only had so much patience to aid someone with a basic mindfulness technique.

“Chancellor--”

“Tuti,” Ardyn rested both hands upon her shoulders, minding not to put his weight on her. He made a great effort to not sound hostile, nor give away the desperation that was tugging his pulse. “It’s imperative I know where Y/N is at. I need you to tell me everything.”

“I…alright,” Tuti swallowed. She studied Ardyn's features, noting how tired he was, and she felt a pinch of intimidation run down her body. She also couldn't help but notice how golden his eyes were. Not like the earthy brown tones she had seen in many common people, but an almost ethereal hue that felt dangerous. For a second, Tuti thought she was looking at Y/N's daemonic eyes. Her breath hitched and she averted her gaze. No longer having the strength to be reminded of what almost killed her.

“Y/N and I were heading for the port to evacuate. The Imperial caravan at the hotel was long gone by the time Loqui and I found them. We took to the smaller roads to avoid the crowds. Then out of nowhere, there was this…explosion. It was like a star fell from the heavens and blinded us. The impact sent Y/N and I flying in opposite directions. When I came to, I frantically looked for Y/N before I was manhandled by these people in black uniforms with a red patch--MedZin I think. They talked so fast, but they planned to take Y/N with them and kill me.” She had to pause for a moment, shuddering from the implications of her fate had Y/N not taken to rage.

“And then?” Ardyn besought.

Tuti let out a breath. “Y/N suddenly turned into…something else. A daemon. One by one, our adversaries were slain, but MedZin tossed another one of those bombs at us. Y/N retreated deeper into the building to avoid it. I stupidly chased, and Y/N just kept getting more and more violent. MedZin retreated at that point because Y/N overwhelmed them--"

“Do you know where the men ran off to?” Ardyn interrupted.

“No,” Tuti shook her head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was too scared Y/N was going to find me. There was a moment I thought Y/N came to their senses, but they tried to attack me. I ended up hurting them, and I think Accordo troopers went seeking them out.” she pointed past him. “The building, it was several blocks down that way…you can’t miss the impact site of the bomb.”

Ardyn let go of Tuti’s shoulders and made a fist. His fingers were loosing blood from the pressure he applied.

“Chancellor, I beseech you I didn’t mean to leave Y/N behind,” Tuti sniffled. She could sense the brief hostility that traveled through him, despite his hands no longer being upon her body. “I’m so sorry--I thought…”

“Don’t speak any further,” Ardyn breathed. He resisted the urge to strike, knowing most would’ve done what she did in order to survive. Using his right index finger, Ardyn poked underneath Tuti’s chin and coaxed her to look up before letting go. “You have my sincere appreciation for what you’ve confessed. What come may, I’ll handle everything.”

“T-thank you, Chancellor.” Tuti weakly gave a bow with her head. As she rose, she followed Ardyn’s hand while he gestured toward a group of Higher Imperials from afar, being escorted by two magitek soldiers. Her heart skipped a beat, knowing there were familiar faces.

“Go to them,” Ardyn encouraged. “Now.”

Tuti glanced over him one last time before she found the courage to pick up her feet again.

After taking in the destruction nearby, Ardyn shadow stepped and headed for the spot Tuti had pointed out. While he transcended through space like nothing, he suddenly felt his body wanting to give out, and it did just that. His breathing raced as the scourge traveled through him, and Ardyn suddenly came to a grinding halt.

“Oh Gods…” He hoarsely whispered, feeling his heart cease like it had been grasped by someone with a tight grip. The last time Ardyn felt his heart stop beating was when Somnus struck him down during their duel for the throne. He remembered it well. Pain and confusion danced in harmony as air left his lungs, and the muscle of his heart desperately pumped without realizing the action would be its undoing. Ardyn felt that same suffering both physically and metaphorically in the present.

Multiple points on his body started to become inflamed, as if the very fibers of Ardyn's muscles wanted to break through his skin. He then heard horrid screams pulse in his ears, and behind his eyes he saw a familiar daemonic entity wearing Y/N's face. The scourge felt beyond excited. The rush of despair Ardyn felt at the last second on Y/N's behalf at Outpost 98 came back to haunt him with a vengeance. Y/N--his Y/N--was close to the finish line just as before.

“Pull yourself together!” Ardyn snarled. He once again shadow stepped as if the gods themselves were trailing him in a hunt.

Minutes passed, and Ardyn neared the site of the explosion. He didn’t want to waste time, but couldn’t resist taking a gander at the impact point. A hint of a sulfur like odor hung in the air which caused him to grimace. He then picked up on a bouquet of scents that had the scourge in his body attempting to shirk away. The hivemind didn’t like this. Not one bit.

“A suffoco was deployed,” Ardyn said quietly to himself, and looked ahead to the large hole that led inside the building. A shroud of screams came tumbling out, and Ardyn braced himself for the worst as he ventured forth into the fray.

The interior of the building was an abysmal mess. What was once a lavish series of offices and intricate halls was now a pigsty of debris, brick, and blood. Ardyn didn’t envy whoever worked here. He imagined how tedious the task would be picking up after the carnage he had observed left and right. The foul sweet smell of the scourge within Y/N’s blood waft in the air, and like an addict, Ardyn eagerly followed the trail.

A noise with a rhythmic tap rang in his ears before the explosion went off. Ardyn lost his balance, and slouched against the wall nearest to his right. It felt as if the rays of the sun kissed through all layers of his flesh. A pained moan fell past his lips. His right hand reached for his chest, and trembled up his neck as a strain took hold.

Confusion rampaged across Ardyn’s eyes while he rapidly glanced around. With each pass of air through his lungs, Ardyn felt his organs clamoring for relief. The commotion was far away. He hadn’t been hit by a suffoco, but by the gods, did it feel like it.

As his ears rang, the rapid tempo of a pulse soon took over as the dominant noise. It wasn’t his heartbeat, but that of another. It hit him all at once as his mind seemingly began to download information at a speed unfathomable to a mortal.

Y/N couldn't breathe. They were alone, terrified, and suffering. The scourge had given up its lust for dominance over the host, and was attacking the body from the inside out in a crude attempt to relieve itself of affliction. Ardyn felt his body flux in temperature. One moment boiling, the next cold as ice. The daemonic entities that resided within screeched so loud, that Ardyn shouted while covering his ears. Falling forward, the shrieking evolved into desperate murmurs of incoherent thought.

“Y/N,” Ardyn gasped. His brain felt like it was melting, but he tried to keep himself afloat. The sclera of his eyes became a pitch black void, and Ardyn instinctively began to follow the voices and Y/N's pulse.

With every step, Ardyn felt agony like no other wash over his soul. He nearly tripped over himself a few times, not used to taking on the burdens of a mortal. Despite discomfort, he persisted on his path. Gods be damned anyone or anything that got in the way of the impulse he felt enslaved to. The very atoms of his being desperately yearned to be with who his scourge had imprinted upon.

Soon enough, Ardyn arrived in the room where he assumed Y/N would be. He stopped to catch his breath and looked downward. Bodies of Accordo troopers littered the area. He couldn’t sense any other life present, until heavy breaths captured his attention.

Ardyn watched in dismay as Y/N suddenly emerged. Like a fish out of water, Y/N crashed and tumbled into everything. In between hysterics, Ardyn noticed Y/N's skin sizzling with an artificial smell that was likened to a rich spice. Y/N had been directly hit by a suffoco, and the light magic within the orb had triggered asphyxiation. He could feel the light that had penetrated attempting to purge the scourge by any means necessary.

Ardyn briefly recalled witnessing demonstrations of the weapons use from Accordo officials. It was one thing to watch in trials, but another to helplessly observe a daemonified creature go through such suffering. He was pulled out of his head as Y/N choked while trying in vain to scream, and made direct eye contact with them.

Despite a pair of abyssal eyes staring him down, Ardyn could see the human showing through. A desperate plead haunted Y/N’s features, and he felt his blood run cold knowing subconsciously what Y/N was telling him despite not having full control of their actions:

They were making their peace with the end.

“No, no, no!” Ardyn shook his head. His voice teetered on the edge between human and monster, enough to startle Y/N. “You don’t have the right to do that! You don’t have the damned right! We don't take the easy way out, Y/N!"

For a moment, Ardyn thought he had them under his control until he witnessed Y/N’s scourge veins rapidly pulsate. It was like witnessing a caterpillar attempting to burst out of its cocoon in a bloody mess. During his turmoil, Ardyn didn't pay attention to the fact Y/N suddenly attacked him. The punches made him snarl, and he felt Y/N cut open his left arm with a swipe of their clawed fingertips. Ardyn let out a pained hiss as Y/N flung themself off and retreated.

“Y/N, come back!” Ardyn beseeched with a yell. “Y/N!”

He chased after them and Y/N collapsed against the legs of a table nearby. Their airway now almost completely blocked, they began to let out a sickening wheeze. Ardyn came to their side and fell upon his knees. He gathered Y/N's body into his arms. His tear brimmed eyes desperately searched them over while he tried to shake them back into consciousness.

“Oh no, no, no! Y/N!” Ardyn's voice strained while his mind flickered between the past and present. Y/N's painful rasps intermingled with the somber breaths Aera had taken before she had perished. History was repeating itself in a way that crushed him more than the blade of Somnus piercing his back, and Ardyn desperately cried out as Y/N violently escaped from his grasp.

Amidst the sudden jolt, Ardyn froze as an idea leeched into his head. If the panic could be settled, if the scourge could be reassured--like he had done for Y/N's flares in the past--perhaps there was a chance of survival. Instinct beckoned him to give more of his scourge to Y/N, and to lure Y/N's pain to a singular point.

Ardyn's mouth fell open as he saw the irony of their roles being reversed. It was now Y/N's turn to feed off him in order to heal. While the thought seemed counterintuitive, he had to try. He couldn't--no, he wouldn't go through a painful loss again. He rapidly began to think of ways to get the scourge into Y/N. There was nothing sterile like a syringe near, and he scarce doubted such an item existed in an office setting. Ardyn nearly settled for hovering his injured arm above their mouth and letting the scourge drip, but he realized Y/N could choke further.

"There's gotta be some damned way to-!"

Ardyn looked down at his sliced arm, watching blood and dark bile seep from the wound. His heart skipped a beat as revelation cleared his mind, then carefully brought the injured limb to his mouth and started to suckle. Ardyn could feel the underside of his tongue fill with scourge, and he tried to contain it without it falling to the back of his throat. After consuming much, he lifted his head. Blood and scourge oozed from the corners of his mouth as a determined fixation lingered in his gaze.

While Y/N began to rise from the ground, Ardyn’s right hand grabbed a hold of their head from the chin in a tight vice. He forcibly turned them around. Y/N gagged out a hoarse yell in protest. The whites of their eyes were pushing and pulling against the darkness. Ardyn could sense through their agony that they didn’t want to fight him, but had no control over themselves. Not in this sorry state.

Before Y/N had the chance to attack, Ardyn brashly pinned Y/N to the ground with his body. Either side of his arms caged their head. He leaned forward and Y/N cried out as his left hand cupped the side of their face. Ardyn let go of his hesitance, tilted his head, and softly pressed his lips to Y/N's. Closing his eyes, he forced his tongue inside their mouth and remained still, letting the scourge he had gathered slowly descend into Y/N's body.

Little by little, Ardyn felt Y/N's trembling cease. He calmly breathed through his nose, and flinched when his throat captured one of Y/N's gasps. The scourge was definitely distracted. He could feel it begin to sync up with his own, losing its fear to the light that he was snuffing out. Gods be damned to all hells known if this wasn't going to work. This had to work. He would make it so.

As the seconds ticked on, Ardyn moved his mouth ever so slightly. His tongue lifted and tugged against Y/N's, controlling the flow of the scourge. The sound of Y/N's heartbeat in his ears began to dissipate as his own increased. He felt a moan from Y/N reverberate through his mouth, and impulsively returned a groan of pleasure. Euphoria began to flood him, which confused Ardyn greatly. He shouldn't have been deriving any sort of satisfaction from this act yet his nerves melted. His knees grew weak as he felt Y/N's bottom lip feebly tug. If he didn't know better, they were trying to kiss him back.

Ardyn tried to not allow such sentiment to interfere with his aid. This was nothing but a transaction to ensure both parties would survive, yet he could feel himself succumbing to the similar affections he craved at the springs. There was a part of Ardyn, a part he denied, that hoped the kiss would linger. He prayed even harder that Y/N wouldn't pick up on these feelings through their bond.

Ardyn's face flushed with warmth while he slightly opened his eyes. He admired the little imperfections in Y/N's skin before the hand that was cradling their face gripped further. His thumb brushed upon their flesh delicately and he closed his eyes yet again and deepened the dark kiss. His movements were deliberately slow, giving Y/N plenty of time for their body to settle and even push him away should they be fairing well. Ardyn could feel Y/N's scourge merge with the hivemind that flickered in the back of his subconscious. It wouldn't be long before it would become dormant at his behest.

A muffled groan from Y/N’s end had Ardyn freeze. The noise wasn’t feeble and broken but strong, indicating to him that Y/N could breathe freely. He relinquished whatever desires that held him, and lifted his lips from Y/N’s. His eyes carded over their face, relief grasping him at seeing natural color return to Y/N’s flesh. Save for the small patches of scourge markings, they were by all accounts normal. He hoped in mind, that similar results would show. That Y/N was still there, in their head and in control.

Ardyn removed himself from Y/N. He adjusted his legs, now sitting upon his knees as he bundled up Y/N close to his chest. While supporting Y/N with his left arm, Ardyn used his right hand to softly nudge their face. Fear tip toed around him as he pondered the what ifs. Y/N wasn’t dying no longer. The scourge all but confirmed that, but such assurance from spirits of darkness did little to calm the erratic ache of not knowing in full.

“Y/N,” Ardyn whispered in plea. “Y/N, talk to me. Talk to me."

He stilled when Y/N opened their eyes. There was no trace of a familiar set of amber orbs looking upon him as if he had held up a mirror to himself.

“Hi,” Y/N croaked. The word was faint and scratchy, but it was enough. Shortly after, Y/N closed their eyes and passed out. Their body and mind too worn to comprehend the world.

Despite them passing out, words couldn't convey nor touch how relieved Ardyn felt in this moment. To be free of loss's burden was a blessing sweeter than all the sins he had committed upon others. Ardyn closed his eyes while settling down his nerves, and embraced Y/N tightly to him. Had he been a pious man, perhaps the gods would've deserve some praise for the occasion, but alas not. He saved Y/N himself. An immortal--Adagium--saved someone with his own curse.

“What are you doing?”

Like a mirror being crashed into, Ardyn’s body stiffened at the intrusion of Loqui's voice. He was rattled out of his peace, and the deep yellows behind his black eyes constricted while he growled under breath.

“Chancellor, what are you doing with Y/N?” Loqui’s voice grew louder. He stepped forward, and his mouth fell open. Shock fell upon his face as he caught glimpse of the scourge markings that covered Y/N's legs. "Y/N's...no, Y/N's a daemon?"

Ardyn kept his back to Loqui, shielding the majority of Y/N from him. His shoulders quaked as the relief he had felt seconds ago, began to burn off into a resentful anger.

“This can’t be!” Loqui stepped back. He shook his head. “Did the attackers infect Y/N?!”

“No,” Ardyn lowly replied.

“So then…” Loqui’s voice trailed off as he started to put it together. He could feel his face turning a pale. “Has Y/N been sick this whole time?”

“You were supposed to be watching them!” Ardyn bellowed. He turned his face to the side; daemonic features long gone yet his animosity remained. "You stupid, reckless, boy!"

The sudden scream had Loqui jump and lose his train of thought. He watched Ardyn rise to his feet with Y/N in tow. Despite being scared, Loqui felt weeks of pent up frustration toward the Chancellor come tumbling out. He stood his ground, and glared while firmly talking back to Ardyn.

“Chancellor or not, you will not address me as such!”

“I can damn well call you by the name of every filth on Eos if it would give me pleasure!” Ardyn spat. “Y/N and I argued for a day and night over you being their guardian while I attended the empires affairs in Altissa, and your negligence almost cost them everything!”

“You can’t pin this all on me!” Loqui retaliated. “My commands from the battalion take precedence in the event of--!”

“Precedence? Don’t make me laugh!” Ardyn interrupted with a bitter scoff. “I know you all too well, boy. You walk in the shadow of your father and wished to be seen in the same light as he. That’s why aiding the House of the Courts benefited you versus keeping Y/N--and Tuti for that matter--safe from our enemies! It wouldn’t bode well on your resume, no, but saving Madam Secretary and all those Higher Imperials would’ve done numbers for your reputation! Admit it you little leech!”

“You don't know a damn thing about me, and you should talk! Like you've done any better regarding Y/N's welfare!" Loqui countered. “All this time Y/N has been sick with the starscourge, and you didn’t do or say anything about it? Does the emperor know?! Is Chief Besithia aware of that?!”

“I am not privy to disclose or break Y/N’s confidence to the likes of you, regardless of how highly they’ve spoken of your character!” Ardyn yelled. “Y/N’s burdens are mine and Chief Besithia’s responsibility, not yours nor anyone else!”

“So Y/N is a pet project then? Something for you and the Research Ministry to poke and prod at?!” Loqui felt his blood boil at the mere thought. “The laws are clear, Chancellor that we ease the suffering of those afflicted! The starscouge is a fate worse than death, the whole world knows that even our enemies! You're an inhuman monster for this! If you cared anything for Y/N, you'd-!"

“Don’t you DARE tell me I don’t care about them!”

The air stilled as both men froze, staring one another down.

There was a time that Loqui believed while he could never beat the Chancellor in a game of wits, he could physically usurp him. The feelings of betrayal and anger tempted Loqui to prove his point. His mind was already made up, yet his body didn’t move to the commands of his conscious. Loqui was surprised. The fury behind Ardyn’s words were long gone, but the presence of an unfathomable rage lingered like a sickness that refused to part ways.

Ardyn never once flinched. His firm posture--the way he held Y/N protectively to him--indicated to Loqui he had struck a nerve so deep, that the false bravado Ardyn displayed among the public could devolve into something dangerous. He had just earned himself a little taste of it. The very nerves under his flesh tinged at the realization.

Loqui let out a snort, and lowered his head. Literally bowing out of a potential brawl. He made as fist as Ardyn began to walk with Y/N in tow and stopped. Loqui could feel the Chancellor’s eyes raining daggers upon him, and refused to look him in the eye.

“There’s a thousand ways we can go about this, but I’ll keep it simple.” Ardyn coldly spoke. “Speak of Y/N’s condition to anyone, and I’ll ensure unfathomable suffering befalls you and your kin.”

Loqui flinched. “You’d really resort to that?”

“To protect Y/N, and the interests of empire itself, yes.” Ardyn firmly replied. He leaned in closer so he was nearly whispering in Loqui’s ear menacingly. “If I had half a mind, I'd encourage the Imperial army to demote you to such a low rank that worms would take precedence over your value. Alas, I will not be moving forward with such commands. I do this kindness for Y/N by sparing you, but make note: this will be the first and last time you ever question my sensibilities. Is that quite understood?"

“Yes…”

“Yes what?”

Loqui grit his teeth. “Yes Chancellor.”

“That’s what I love to hear.”

Loqui’s emotions were teetering on the edge at the way Ardyn mockingly said love. He didn’t know if Ardyn was mocking his feelings to Y/N, or if the Chancellor himself was admitting his own emotions in a subtle ploy. Mind games were not Loqui’s forte, nor did he ever want to become a person who enjoyed said things. It was best to let it go, despite having the urge to chuck his sword right through the man's chest while his guard was down.

Enraged and at a loss, Loqui didn't hear Ardyn make his departure. Nor did he hear him state he would be seeking medical attention for Y/N. Loqui peered up and watched as Ardyn disappeared down the hall, leaving him with eviscerated corpses. The likes of which Loqui couldn't fathom. He grimaced as nausea curled its finger around his chin and tempted him onward.

As he left the massacre behind him, Loqui couldn’t help but wonder if it was Y/N or the Chancellor who had committed these violent acts. Knowing Y/N was tainted by the scourge, it had to be them. But there was something about the Chancellor’s manner that him questioning everything down to his loyalties. He couldn't help but wonder how far the rabbit hole went, and wished more than anything, that he could lean on the wisdom of his father.

#mending shadows #ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #ffxv ardyn #ardyn x reader #canon x reader #gender neutral y/n #final fantasy xv fanfic #ffxv #final fantasy xv #fanfic #fanfiction #a03 fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao3 writer #chapter 32 #plot heavy

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squishycheekanon · 2 years

Text

Technoblade x reader - set some time after Dream’s visit.

I haven’t written for the OG in a while so I thought it’d be nice.

Dreamsmp reality

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, Techno simping.

Techno was a possessive man yes, but you were also pretty possessive yourself. How couldn’t you be? This man was everything and more. Truly you didn’t know how you got this lucky or what you could have possibly done to deserve him. You’re just grateful you have him.

“You’re staring.” His gruff monotone voice makes your heart skip a beat. It’s deeper than usual, his voice, sleep trying to pull him back in. You’d climbed out of the black hole of unconsciousness about an hour ago, an hour spent looking at your man.

His muscular stature at complete and utter ease, peacefulness making his features so relaxed. You loved seeing him this way, it put a smile on your face. Whenever Techno is awake you can bet he’s on edge. With all the enemies in the mainlands who can blame him. Not to mention the green man who knows about you. A big regret for Tec.

“I’m gazing.” You huff, and it’s so fucking adorable, the corners of Techno’s lips turn upwards knowing full well you’ve got a pout on your pretty lips.

“Sweetheart.” He slides his arm around your waist only just noticing he wasn’t touching you and well he couldn’t have that. He pulls your body into his trying to make up for the last few minutes his skin wasn’t against yours, with closeness.

Your sweet little hum in acknowledgment to the nickname your husband had given not long after you met, had his eyes opening to see the most beautiful sight. His perfect wife laying next to him in bed.

The curtains blow gently with the soft breeze, it’s oh so lovely on a hot day like this. You’d think with all the snow around it would be cold all the time but as your hot blooded beast likes to remind you with every complaint, it gets hot sometimes. Days like this you’re grateful Techno had gone all DIY crazy recently and built a balcony for you to sunbathe on.

The warm streaks of sunlight glare through the cracks of the curtains leaving behind shards of sun in its wake. Ones that seem to find the end of the bed, they catch Techno’s eye and all the voices go into mayhem. Each one having a fit about what a horrible day it’s going to be because of the ghastly heat in the air.

Though Techno isn’t listening, how can he when your staring up at him so prettily.

“Let’s stay in bed today.” He suggest and the voices quieten at the idea, it’s not half bad. Your giggle makes the words worthwhile even if the day doesn’t go that way.

“We can’t stay in bed all day Tec, what about food?” You question with an accusing tone, eyes narrowing in offense.

“Oh how silly of me!” He smirks watching you smile in response, “how could I forget about food!” Your Piglin hybrid laughs, and it’s so nice seeing him happy. God knows he deserves it.

“More like stupid of you.” You blink lazily heart full of love when he looks at you like he is.

“Shut up you child!” The voice of Phil makes you jump slightly, a deep unwilling growl comes from Techno when you do. He didn’t mean to, you both know that but something made you jump. He can’t help that instinctively his primal reflex to anything that could be a threat to you was violence. He had his Piglin brethren to thank for that.

“I’m not a child!” Tommy’s voice has you sitting up in bed with a small laugh, eyes on the balcony doors parallel to your bed, they’re slightly open letting you earwig the conversation happening below. You don’t regret Phil living next to you one bit. It’s made your lives better and more interesting to say the least. That plus the knowledge that your friend is just next door and safe puts you both at ease.

“You kinda are.” Ranboo’s voice is added to the mix as the trio’s footsteps are heard on the wooden bridge joining yours and Phil’s houses together.

“Shut the fuck up. Aren’t we gonna ask if they wanna join?” Tommy asks pointing to his uncle’s house. Phil gives him a pointed look knowing his Aunt and Uncle would be very preoccupied at this time in the morning.

“No.” Phil shakes his head setting off to hunt for food, the boys following him.

“They’re gone.” Techno can’t help but sigh his warm large hands wrapping around your form easing you back into the covers with him. “It’s just us.” You recognise it, it’s buried deep within your mind, that tone underlining the perfect monotonous voice.

You let him do as he pleases, he knows what you like. His hands sliding over your bare body taking in every edge, curve, and inch. It’s slow and teasing, his rough fingertips dragging across your body. It’s times like these when the voices are absolutely silent.

“Tec.” It’s more of a whine than a whimper, it slips from your lips that you want to be swollen from his kisses, he understands leaning down to kiss you softly. His lips slotting over yours, body moulding against you always so warm and soft.

“Gonna take care of you darlin’.” The words vibrate through you making your cunt flutter, his thick fingers slide though your dripping folds. The moan echos in the air, but it’s not from you it’s from him. His eyes close and his face contorts with pleasure at the feel of you, it’s so perfect. “Can’t get enough of this cunt. My cunt.”

He doesn’t think you hear it but fuck you do, you hear him say those words just as he pushes a finger inside of you and you sob. It’s glorious, so thick and so warm. You have to use the same words because you can’t think of any others; your mind so gone from the feeling of him inside you.

His phrases of pure praise bring you higher and higher to your peak, he knows what he’s doing when he speaks about you like you’re not there. When he talks about your pussy as if it’s a whole ass person. Another finger and your arching off the bed chasing the orgasm that’s building so spectacularly.

“Fuck sweetheart, look at the way she’s sucking me back in so desperate to keep my fingers inside.” He moves, he has to get a better view of this. No matter how many damn times he sees it, he can’t stop staring, can’t stop his hot blood boiling with desire.

Techno groaned at the sight of his third finger sliding into your sopping cunt, “oh yes that’s it.”

“Techno!” You clench with a ear piercing whine, you know it’s loud and you thank whoever’s listening that the trio decided to go food hunting. You can still hear Steve’s oovvvvv outside and some of the dogs barking but it’s nothing compared to the high pitched whines ringing in your husband’s ears.

“Oh yes.” He grins so cheekily when you start clenching more and more he knows you’re there, “oh yes come on sweetheart, give it to me.” He starts pistoling so fucking quick, it leaves your body frozen. Your eyes disappearing into your skull with each wave of pleasure rolling over you again and again. He doesn’t stop, letting your second orgasm merge with your first one.

It flows through your veins so spectacularly, it has you sobbing in the air trying to pull away from his overstimulating hand, “Don’t run from me sweetheart.” He tuts with a dangerous glare warning you to move an inch. Now, you could stay still take the overstimulation and orgasms given with such love and gentleness. Or you could move, pull away, maybe even run and get a punishment. You didn’t know which one sounded better.

He sees it, sees the contemplation in your eyes and shakes his head slowly. “Sweetheart-“

You grin, “What?” You pull away gently and he lets you, you don’t even question it as he watches you stand on shaky legs, “as if you’re gonna do anything.” You scoff with such fake confidence, watching him narrow his eyes a menacing grin growing on his face.

“Run.”

And I-

Tags:

@victory-is-here

@simply-vulpecula

@lillianastuff

@fionamk1001

@megnotfound

@vanivivs

@itsberrydreemurstuff

@cherryblossomdelusion

@angelicadiabolus

@cookiezxx

@dreamwvrld

@sir-reese

#squishycheekanon #beefy!techno #squishtalks #technoblade x reader #squishycheekanonanswer #asks are appreciated #dreamsmp x reader #dreamsmp members #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt x reader #techno x reader #techno smut #mcyt imagine #technoblade smut #techno fluff #technoblade fluff #technoblade x reader smut

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milkywaybottles · 2 years

Note

Could you possibly write a jealous tommy shelby fic? thank you love💗

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A/N: Hi love! Thank you for the request and I'm sorry it took so long to come out! I wasn't sure if you wanted it to be spicy but it ended up being a medium spice, so hopefully, that's alright :)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Provoke - Jealous Tommy Shelby x Reader Oneshot

Word Count: 1k

Content Warning: Suggestive behaviour in detail, alludes to sex. The content you consume is your decision

Your relationship with Tommy Shelby was a sweet one, but nevertheless, it was filled with games. And on a night like this, with no particular entertainment, it was the best time to watch the usually stern man squirm in his seat, fiery gaze cast upon you with intensity.

He wasn’t sure what had done it. Maybe the way you chuckled at his brother's words, or perhaps the way your hand curled along Arthur's arm just the way you did with him. Regardless, he couldn't take it to watch a drunk Arthur becoming increasingly close to his woman. There had been many occasions throughout the night where the idea filled his mind that he would stand abruptly from his chair and drag you into the back room of the Garrison.

The Garrison itself was set in moody amber lighting, the low chuckle of customers filling your ears. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke clung to the air, the moon hanging in the sky. Many customers had come and gone throughout the night, leaving a considerably small amount of family and close friends to drink. You sat contently on the bar stool, the amber liquid burning your throat as it was washed down. Your ears were red hot, steaming with the sensation that you were being watched from afar.

You knew Tommy amazingly well, like the back of your hand, all the ways in which to make him tick. So, with a beautifully enticing smirk, you leant forward on the counter ever so slightly, fingers twirling across the wooden surface. Arthur's light blue eyes scathed yours and you fluttered your eyelashes ever so prettily at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction as you saw Tommy shift again. His hand tightened around his whiskey glass.

"Anotha' drink, love?" the man questioned. You had to admit that while you loved Arthur, it was only ever as a brother. Everyone in Birmingham knew you were, practically, Tommy's wife. But that thought didn't seem to register in Arthur's intoxicated mind, smiling foolishly through his moustache. This had been going on all night.

"Yes, please" You chirped coyly, eyes tracing Arthur as he refilled your glass in a sloppy manner. Taking the glass, you brought it to your painted lips but before you could take a sip, a hand curled around your waist in an instant. A body was pressed against your back, towering over you from behind. A chill ran up your spine as his hand dug further into your hip, causing you to wince. Your head quickly snapped up to see your lover, pale but seemingly unbothered by your actions. He always had the best poker face.

"Thank you, Arthur, but we will be heading home now. Big day at the races tomorrow" he stated gruffly, beginning to lift you off from your seat. You frowned in response as he pulled you off much too quickly for your liking, barely giving you time to grab your purse while he dragged you away.

"Tommy-". You bit your tongue, withholding any more words from flowing out. His icy gaze gave you whiplash, shutting you up as you stepped into the car. You sat in silence for the whole ride back home, a downcast look on your face as you regretted your plan.

"What were you fucking thinking?" He spat, barely giving you time to react as he tossed his coat on a stray piece of furniture.

You spun back around to him, briefly flinching at the intensity of his words. Slowly, he inched towards you, edging you back towards the grand staircase. You shuddered, blurting out the first thing that came to mind, "I wasn't". Expression dropping, your face turned ghastly white that your own mouth had betrayed you.

Sure, Tommy liked to let you think you had some commanding aspects about you, but that didn't mean you were the boss.

His nose was a pinch away from yours, steamy breath falling down your face. "Just trying to tease me, eh? Trying to provoke me with me own brother?". His growl sent shivers down your spine, a familiar ache finding itself between your legs. "Well, look what you've done" he mused, taking a firm hold of your hand. "You're mine. Not Arthur's, not anybody's. All mine"

You felt your body arch towards him, lips pursed as your hooded eyelids fluttered shut. As soon as his lips made contact with the tender skin of your neck, your fingers gripped around his hand. "All yours" you repeated, groaning while his tongue located the sweet spot of your flesh, lapping at it. As his hands drifted, you sighed contently, knowing that had been the outcome you were looking for.

When he broke away, you whined, to be met with an arched brow. Tommy stared at you with lustful eyes, and you both found yourselves wandering up the stairs towards your bedroom in a hurry, leaving a messy trail of clothes on the carpet in your wake.

Hours later, your mind drifted between the plane of sleep and reality. With heavy and half-closed eyelids, you used your aching limbs to turn yourself over to face Tommy. While his eyes were shut, you knew that he wasn't sleeping from the pattern of his breathing, the pace of the rise and fall of his muscular chest.

You were peacefully still, enjoying the comfort that the warmth of the bed brought. In the midst of the covers, a hand snaked towards yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. A small smile played on your lips.

There was no denying that you were Tommy Shelby's, and you were okay with that.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#the peaky blinders #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x you #female reader #she/her #cillian murphy #Thomas shelby x reader oneshot #requested #jealous tommy shelby x reader #light smut #not sfw #suggestive

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askfacultystaff · 7 months

Text

For @neko-sufis-world.

Yandere! Usagi-Ijah AU

Ghastly Regret Ending

Felix: *Laughs insanely* I'M SO SORRY!!! USAGI-IJAH!!! BUT NOW!!! YOU MADE ME FEEL WONDERFUL!!!! NATASHA IS WITH ME NOW!!!! *Keeps laugh insanely* 🤪

After Felix apologized to Yandere! Usagi-Ijah instead of accepting her confession, he took her knife from her. And after he stabbed her to death, he lost all of his sanity and became completely insane. Even he's now completely insane, he'll begin to stalk Natasha, his highschool friend.

Don't worry, he's not going to kill Natasha, he's just going to protect her from same situation, he's making sure Neko and Principal didn't know the truth who killed Yandere! Usagi-Ijah.

(Hope you like it, bestie friendzy -v-')

#education and learning #basically basics #alternate universe #felix #insane! felix #yandere! usagi ijah au #ghastly regret ending

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justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms · 5 months

Note

Please may I have a Blue exorcist scenario of when Yukio and you (his girlfriend..she is a higher class exorcist and a member of the medical corps and she is Yukio's childhood friend and Rin's) attended to a car accident after the victims had a very nasty collision with a car possession demon. To say that you didn't regret breakfast was certainly a lie when you saw the injury that the guy that and you certainly wished that you were seeing things and you winced at the sight a bit.

https://youtu.be/Y_QpVgGsW6A?si=CT8Lq4nnNH5l7Iy9 (to help you with the scenario)

Hi! Thank you for your request! Sorry it took so long. I've twisted this a bit so there are no descriptions of injuries so there's no need to worry about blood or gore warnings. I hope you like the scenario.

Fandom: Blue Exorcist

Character: Yukio Okumura x gn! Reader

Word Count: 0.4k (447 words)

“Yes. Yes, I can come in. Casualties? Okay, I’ll be in soon.”

Yukio lowered the phone from his ear, letting out a long breath, his eyes drifting to meet yours across the breakfast table.

“Call out?”

He nodded. “Car possession demon. No casualties but a lot of injuries.”

You opened your mouth to reply when your phone buzzed from where it sat. You pressed the answer button and lifted it to your ear.

“We’re sorry to bother you this early in the morning but there’s been an incident involving a car poss-”

“Car possession demon, I know. I’ll be there soon.” You ended the call.

“You too?” Yukio’s look of concern was growing by the second. This incident must have been worse than either of you initially thought. You glanced down at your half finished breakfast. It looked like it was going to be one of those days.

Yukio stood up from his chair. “Are you fully stocked?”

You patted the pockets of your belt. They all felt full and you didn’t remember using any of your supplies since you last stocked up. You nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

You sat down on the curb, letting your eyes unfocus and exhaling deeply. You knew Yukio was sitting next to you but couldn’t bring yourself to look across at him. A short distance away, the car fire was finally dying out, the last embers flaring gently as they lost energy. The ambulances were pulling away, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. The crowd was still gathered but were beginning to lose interest.

“You-” Yukio’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, “You doing okay?”

Silence and stillness for a moment amidst the chaos and noise. Then you shook your head.

You felt Yukio’s hand rest over your own and felt gratitude well up inside you for your boyfriend’s presence.

You were an exorcist. You’d seen unnamed horrors. But the injuries from today's incident had been some of the worse you had seen. Maybe it was because those injuries had occurred to humans rather than demons. Maybe they were just ghastly injuries.

Yukio’s silent, comforting presence was a welcome one. He had seen the same things you had and knew what you were going through. Hell, if you looked over to him, you were sure his eyes would have the same unfocused glaze you were certain yours did.

Later, you would be able to debrief together, talking through what you had seen and reassuring each other that you had both done the best you could.

But for now, no movement or words were needed. You sat next to each other, hands entwined as the world moved around you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, did you enjoy this? If you like my writing, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi page! This will allow me to make some money off my writing, something I enjoy doing.

ko-fi.com/justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms

Important Note: Please only donate if you are financially able to. If you are currently in a position where you can't donate, a like, comment, or reblog will mean just as much.

#writing #fanfic #scenario #scenario request #request #blue exorcist #blue exorcist x reader #yukio okumura #yukio okumura x reader

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lucivinyl · 2 years

Text

in a week

pairing: lucifer x gn!reader

summary: where lucifer wrestles with grief after your death, and you try your best to help as a ghost. ~7k

note: obviously beware of the angst even though there is a bit of comfort in the end. this was probably one of the most interesting fic i’ve written and it’s essentially just my own interpretation of grief and moving on etc etc. hope yall enjoy :)

[Monday]

Lucifer felt like he was going to faint.

He had been standing outside the morgue with one hand on the doorknob for what felt like hours, yet he still couldn't bring himself to enter. His fingers were shaking slightly, and his legs were numb. Any moment now, they might just give up on him.

There were sniffles and whispers coming from the other side of the door. It was a reality that he had to face sooner or later. But maybe if he never opened the door, he wouldn't have to face it. He could hide away in a world where Asmodeus had never texted him those few ghastly words.

It was a stupid thought. A deep inhale later, he twisted the doorknob and dragged himself inside, despite the fact that his brain was still screaming no . The door closed behind him with a soft click, as if making sure that he would be locked in this space forever.

A few pairs of eyes darted toward him. The twins were holding each other up against the white wall. Mammon had his head buried between his knees, and his shoulders were so still that he didn't even seem to be breathing. The rest were standing on the far side of the room. None of them said a word, only returned to their own grieving.

And then there you were, under a white cover. He only allowed himself a brief moment of pleading before he removed the cloth. There was serenity written on your face. You looked like you were just taking a nap. A morgue is a weird place to be taking a nap in , he thought. Perhaps a shake on the shoulder would wake you up. And then you would open your eyes, and smile at the sight of him, as always.

But he knew you weren't asleep. He knew because something inside him was trembling, and there were chills running down his back even though he had his coat on.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to touch you, but couldn't decide on where to start. At last, he chose your hand, for the sake of familiarity. The shape of it was so ingrained in his mind that it could never be forgotten.

Your fingers were cold to the touch. Instinctively, he gave them a little squeeze to give warmth, and checked your face for signs. Any sign.

"Hey," The word slipped past his lips with a quiver. "Love?"

Of course you didn't answer, but he bargained nonetheless. He let go of your hand and moved to feel your heart. The only thing he could make out was his own racing heartbeat, stuck painfully in his tightened throat.

Mammon shifted. He was watching Lucifer's hand, hoping with him. When the latter lifted it up, his face twisted in pain, and he abruptly stood up. No one was able to catch him as he rushed out of the room.

"Mammon!" Levi called before following him out. Then it was Satan. Picking up the hint, the others promptly exited, leaving Lucifer to himself.

The room was silent, but his mind was not. A war was raging on in his head, thoughts and emotions battling each other. The only thing he could make out from the incoherent chaos was this– they're dead, they're dead. And it's my fault.

"I'm sorry," he let himself drop onto his knees, still clenching your hand, and eased into a constrained sob. "I'm sorry."

Among the voices, he also heard these : It's too soon. I could've changed this. I'm not ready to go through this again. Please. Enough. He tightened his grip around you, as if the force of his regrets and sorrow alone could bring you back. Don't leave me alone here .

It did nothing to change the fact that you were gone.

If you'd ever imagined death to be peaceful, you were completely wrong. It was, in fact, torture.

It had been Asmodeus who'd found you. He bent over your limp body and wept. The sound coming out of him stabbed at your heart like daggers. Then you watched in fear as he typed on his phone with his shaky thumbs, because you knew what was coming, and you didn't want to face it.

The guilt rising from deep within you was so real that it almost felt as though you still had a body. You would've believed so had you not been staring directly at it– unmoving, empty, a vessel. One by one, the brothers rushed in with disbelief in their eyes. You saw the exact moment the knowledge rushed up to them, and how their faces fell.

It was all because of you.

No amount of bracing could've stopped the world from crashing down when the door was opened one last time. Unlike the others, Lucifer didn't fight. He surrendered to your death like it was an old friend, like it was all that he'd ever known.

"Lucifer," you called, reaching out to touch his shoulder. There was a fogginess to your voice, and your hands hovered upon contact before it went right through him. You seemed to be underwater. "Lucifer, I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," there was a crack in his voice that you'd never heard before. The tears that escaped you were involuntary– no one could stand watching their lover cry alone. He was being torn apart before your eyes, and there was nothing you could do. Even when you're right behind him, there was a distance you didn't know how to recover from.

The space between the living and the dead, you realized, was an impossible canyon.

[Tuesday]

There was a saying that the deceased only became ghosts if they had unsettled business with the living. Mostly it was revenge, a desperate need for justice, other times it was just some undone wishes.

For you, it was a worry. You couldn't just go and leave everything behind. That's why you were roaming the halls now, hardly existing. The house was eerily quiet, the hallways choking with sadness. Every corner you turned, there was sorrow. Either that, or an emptiness that made you shiver.

Asmodeus came into the dining room for breakfast, but only Lucifer was in here. The others were still holed up in their rooms.

"What do we do now?" He asked in a small voice, face puffy and eyes swollen from the crying. It'd filled the corridors for the entire night, and wouldn't stop even as you sat next to him, leaning in just enough that you could imagine pressing your shoulders against him.

"They said before that they'd prefer home burial, so we'll do that." Lucifer said.

"Okay," Asmodeus took a broken breath. He was on the brink of tears again. "They really are gone, aren't they?"

Lucifer put down the glass he'd been holding and stood up, the chair shrieking against the floor. He wouldn't meet his brother's eyes. "Enjoy your breakfast."

You watched as he retreated to his room. On the table was a half-eaten meal.

The room was mute when Lucifer returned. The bed was unmade, retaining the state you'd left it in the previous day. When he ran his hand over the bedsheet, he could almost feel your warmth radiating off your body that took up the space next to him every night.

But your body was somewhere else now, and you would never be close to him again.

How cruel of you to have left traces of yourself everywhere. You couldn't have just gone, you had to turn this house into a history museum, a frozen time zone. Your earphones were on the nightstand next to the box of tissues. He'd put it there because you would get a runny nose in the morning. Your shoes were clustered among others by the main door, your miscellaneous items laid out in rooms. On the sofa was your jacket, in the kitchen your favorite packet of snacks, here and there, you, you, you.

He sat down at his desk and found a tiny memo in the corner. You'd surprised him with it last month as a small gesture of motivation, and he hadn't removed it since. It was your handwriting on the paper. Your handwriting, which he would never get to see again.

What did it even mean for someone to be gone? How could someone just– not exist, as if everything had simply been a pleasant dream? He thought he'd already got it figured out, but he was wrong. He didn't know anything at all.

There were tears pushing at the back of his throat. He had yet to experience the full force of the devastation, and he wasn't going to. The hurt that he was supposed to feel when one lost someone precious had been clawing at him for hours now, demanding his attention, thrashing around like a little kid. It wanted to break out, but he couldn't let it happen, because it would bring down everything with it. He didn't want to feel the fall, didn't want to hit the ground.

So he pressed down the flood and sank into work.

It was weird watching someone plan your funeral.

Lucifer had been sitting in front of the computer for hours, scrolling and jotting notes. Every now and then, his eyes would get blurry, but he blinked the water away. Nothing could beat his determination, not even grief.

The silence was so great that you couldn't wrap your head around how he could stand it. You hopped down from the desk on which you'd been occupying, desperate for something to change.

You felt your arm brush against a paper on the desk, and watched with parted lips as it floated in the air before settling. Lucifer sighed through his nose and moved to pick it up, his arm passing your invisible form.

It can't be .

Your hands were trembling slightly when you looked at the same stack of documents, contemplating. You swiped at it. The corner of the top sheet fluttered. You did another sweep, and it rolled over.

Cursing under his breath, Lucifer bent down and snatched it with obvious annoyance.

You looked down on your hands for a solid moment before the realization hit. If it had really been you who'd moved the paper, maybe you could touch other things, like–

Turning to the demon frowning at the screen, you reached for his hand, only to freeze when you caught the sole teardrop landing on the keyboard. Lucifer continued to read the words despite the fact that his eyes were clouded. When the second one came, his jaw was quivering with the sheer effort he needed to keep the sound in. Before more could be shed, he slouched forward and propped his elbows on the desk, letting only his hands hold his head up.

Within minutes, he'd managed to regulate his breathing again, and resumed the task on hand. He had always been good with facades, something that you'd always condemned. It'd taken him some time to feel comfortable enough to be completely vulnerable around you, yet here he was, once again putting on masks after masks to shield himself from the world, and himself.

Because of you. You could feel blood rushing away from your head at the familiar words. It was all because of you .

What good would it be that he knew of your existence? So that he could suffer more, knowing that you would forever be worlds apart? It wouldn't unwrite the fact that you were dead. His heart would still be wounded, stabbed, bled out.

Perhaps being a ghost was a punishment as well. The person wielding the knife had no right to comfort the casualty.

[Wednesday]

Lucifer had fallen asleep on the desk, eyes closed, lips drawing in air in a way that you almost envied. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, as if it was just another day with no burdens or cruel realities waiting for him. You would've believed so if not for the slight shudder in his limbs. The coat had slipped off his shoulders, and the cold was penetrating him.

" Luci, " you tried for the nth time to wake your demon, but he was too far gone in the land of nod. Sighing, you removed your cheek from the cold desk and moved behind him. If you could move the paper, maybe you could try and drape the coat over him.

The first attempt was unsuccessful. Your fingers slipped right through. The second was an improvement: you could faintly feel the density, but were too frail to grasp it.

" Okay, I've got this ," you stretched your arms and narrowed your eyes at the coat as if that would enchant it somehow. This time, you could feel the weight as it was, though not the fabric itself. You gasped in surprise, and proceeded to drag it over Lucifer's shoulder. It was roughly done and accumulated on one side, but it was better than nothing.

You stood up to inspect your work, but your knees almost gave out beneath you, and for a moment it was like floating in air. Within a moment, you regained your balance, and let out a relieved huff. What you didn't miss was the way your hand shimmered and blended into the colors in front of you.

Maybe this ghost business wasn't free of charge after all.

Gathering everyone proved to be more taxing than Lucifer had expected, but most of them listened. The keyword was most. He walked into the dining room with the delivered food to find Belphie's seat vacant.

The demon in question was in the adjacent room, curled up on the massive couch. Lucifer thought for a second that he was a kid again, small and innocent.

"Belphie," He shook his shoulder. "Come on, you have to eat."

Belphie inched away from his hand. "I can't," he whispered. "I'm sick."

"I know, but you have to at least take a bite," when he didn't respond, Lucifer touched his shoulder again. "Everyone's waiting. We have to talk about the funeral."

A strangled sob came out of Belphie's throat, followed by a slight trembling in his shoulders, but he nodded nonetheless. Lucifer let him be then, knowing that he would show up once he'd collected himself.

You didn't know which was more saddening, the quietness echoing in the room, or the size of Beel's meal. Everyone was so full with grief that they could barely eat, as if their stomachs' sole purpose was to carry around a colossal anguish.

"Are we going to plan the funeral?" Satan looked in Lucifer's direction, though not directly meeting his eyes.

"Right," Lucifer said, and dug his hand into his pocket. "I've listed out what we have to prepare. I would like to hold it as soon as possible, preferably within this week."

When his hand came up empty, he searched the other, but to no avail. It wasn't tucked under the plates, or beneath his chair, or in the plastic bag that'd come with the food. Mammon put down his fork, and it rang a clear and deafening sound. The list wasn't behind Lucifer's glass. The air was suddenly burning. He fussed around, brows knitted and impatient, as the others watched, holding their breaths.

"Did you leave it in your room?" Levi's voice quavered.

Lucifer snapped. There was frustration on the verge of his tone. "No, I'm sure I brought it with me."

"Okay." The discomfort on Levi's face was apparent.

"Look, maybe we don't need–"

"Just," Lucifer interrupted Satan's sentence, shooting up from his seat. "Give me a minute."

The latter sighed and began tapping his finger on the tablecloth.

As Lucifer excused himself to look around the room, your eyes darted to the far end of the table, where the piece of paper was hiding near Beel's seat, out of sight. You doubted that he was ever going to find it, not when he was too busy trying to stay calm and level-headed. It was the first time after viewing your body for the family to come together and talk, and he just wanted to get it over with. It was in his instinct; to hide himself away even when his emotions were written on his face like an open book.

Right now, it would only take a tiny nudge for them to topple over.

You couldn't have that.

A piece of paper was certainly easier to move than a chunky coat. You just had to pay attention to the object of desire. This time, you could feel the energy swimming from your head to your fingers. You slid it out from under the table and waited for Lucifer to come close enough to see it.

The same lightheadedness returned briefly, almost like a tease, a reminder that there's a price tag on everything you did to help.

When Lucifer walked past you, the breeze made your teeth chatter. He returned to his seat and dived into the planning, then concealed himself in his room for the rest of the day.

[Thursday]

The ear-splitting ringtone was what woke him up. He scanned the room through a haze, as if he hadn't the memory of falling asleep by the fireplace. Whatever tranquility that had adorned his rest was now gone. It was as though something gloomy and dispiriting had been lurking in the corners all night long, crouching and shuffling, and at the first sign of consciousness, they latched onto him and wouldn't let go.

How long would this go on for? You knew that grief wasn't something that would expire. It would simply grow numb with time, until it was just a residue at the bottom of the heart, only to be awakened if one stirred it with carelessness. It was a job that no one could break free of.

You didn't want to become a burden to him.

"This is Lucifer." He picked up the call, eyelids still drooping in protest. As the caller spoke, the gears in his head started to move one by one. "That's right. I made a registration."

He walked over to his desk and traced his finger on the calendar. "When's your earliest time slot?" A brief pause. "I'll take that. No, it's fine. I'll send you the details by tomorrow."

After ending the call, he picked up a pen and underlined the upcoming Sunday. You knew instantly what it meant.

Your funeral. In three days. It seemed hasty, but given that death wasn't that much of a common occurrence in the Devildom, perhaps it wasn't so strange after all.

Lucifer was still on his phone, scrolling through missed calls and texts. His thumbs tapped out some shallow responses– I'm fine , it's alright , the funeral is on Sunday . He was definitely not fooling anyone, but he had to clear the notifications.

His hands froze as he reached the bottom of the mailbox.

You have one voicemail from : MC✩

The silly symbol stared back at him. It was one of the inside jokes he had with you, and it inspired him to decorate your contact name. Something about stars and moons and brightening up the sky. You fought not to dwell on it.

He was only stationary for a few seconds, but there was a millennium packed in each one. Finally, he pressed down on the button, and sank into his seat.

" Hey Luci ," your voice came out of the speaker, a little breathless from excitement. " I know you're having a meeting right now, but I had to call and tell you this. You're not going to believe it: I just found the cursed record you've been looking for! It was a little bit expensive, but I bought it anyway, so you better treat me to something nice, okay?"

There was a semblance of a smile on Lucifer's lips when he heard your playful chuckle. The message was then interrupted by someone speaking in the background. A second later, you returned. " Alright, that's actually all I wanted to say. Don't forget to take breaks. Love you. "

He grabbed at his phone the moment the voicemail ended. Once again, a thick silence stretched around the living room, etching itself to the corners of your mind.

There it was again– that slight pout and the gradually ragged breathing, the telltale signs of incoming tears. You watched him swallow it down. It had become a reflex.

Once composed, he typed on a few things on the screen before pressing it to his ear.

Across the room, your phone rang from inside your now abandoned bag. It went on and on and on before finally dying down. Next to you, Lucifer heaved a deep sigh before speaking into the microphone.

"Hey," he cleared his throat to dismiss the rasp in his voice. "I'm… sorry for missing your call,"

His other hand fiddled with a pen. "I'm also sorry for not having been there for you. And for a lot of other things, so many that I don't even know where to start. I don't even know why I'm leaving this voicemail. You're not going to hear it. But just… indulge me for a while, will you?"

You lowered yourself onto the ground next to him, resting your head against the desk.

"It's dead silent everywhere. Everyone is coping in their own ways, but it'll get easier with time. I just thought I'd let you know. It still feels unreal. I don't think it has fully sank in yet, the fact that you're just gone. And I'm trying to dodge it, or delay it, anything that can get it out of my face. It feels like a really big slap from the universe. I–" he pushed his hair back, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't even know what I'm saying right now. Everything's so muddled in my head. It's all chaos up here, and my chest is throbbing so much I can barely take it. I don't know what it is that's inside me, but it's not just sadness, I don't think. Maybe it's all the things that I suddenly want to tell you now, or all that love that I forgot to show you. I guess at the end of the day, I just–"

His voice cracked, and he almost looked ashamed of it. "I just wanted to let you know that I'd do anything to have you back."

" I know," you answered, reaching out for his hand. Of course it didn't affect him in the tiniest bit.

"If I could just have one more day with you, I would make it right," his throat had failed to hold the wobble in his voice. "Or a minute, anything. I just really miss you."

" I miss you too, " Your own was thick with tears you could not shed.

"But that doesn't change a single thing, does it? It's unfair like that. I don't even know who to get angry at. Father, maybe?"

The bitter laugh he forced out sounded more like a hiccup. "But it'll get better. I'll make sure of it. Because I don't know what'll happen if it doesn't."

Before he could finish his sentence, he slammed his phone on the desk and threw his arm over his eyes, willing himself to calm down. It took you double the time to chase the pain away.

That night, you used all the strength you could muster to move the strands of hair out of his sleeping face. You didn't know what else you could do.

[Friday]

There was quite a number of things Lucifer had to pick up for the funeral, which were mostly flowers. He knew that white was the color most commonly seen in funerals up in the human world, but he had a feeling that you'd prefer something more colorful.

He was shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat when Mammon came in without knocking, unsurprisingly.

"Hey," his face was tear-stricken, his hair tousled and sticking out in all directions from the amount of turning in his sleep. "I just wanted to see how you're doin', since you weren't at breakfast just now."

"I'm fine. What about you?"

"As fine as I can be, I guess," he scratched the back of his head, causing more destruction to his white locks. "Look, the others are kind of worried about you. I kind of do too, cause… Nah, screw that, we are all worried, especially about the funeral."

"What about it?"

"Don't you think it's a bit too early? I mean, we barely got enough time to order things,"

"I don't see the problem. Wouldn't you rather have everything done as soon as possible than to drag it out?"

Mammon grumbled, "That's fair. Well, if you're okay with it, then we're fine too. Also, the eulogy–"

"I'll prepare it."

"Sure." He nodded with obvious hesitation. "Do you want me to come with you? I promise not to get lost."

The hope glistening in Mammon's eyes was not hard to miss. His question hung in the air, like a silent pleading, a wish for some kind of connection with his brother.

"No, I can carry the flowers by myself." Lucifer said instead, which could be translated to: I don't know how to talk to you about your grief when I can hardly face mine .

It was bizarre living in a world that wouldn't share your grief. Despite the fact that Lucifer's life had turned into a total trainwreck, everyone else was still going by without a worry, without a frown, without so much as a dent in their mood. It was almost brutal.

Not a lot of people took notice of his presence, but for those who did, the glances they casted on him were those of pity. It made him shiver all over.

When he arrived at the shop, the florist gave him his regards, but he knew that they were only out of courtesy. Your death didn't matter to these people on the streets. The demons were still giggling at each other, the dogs still barking at each other, the sky was still intact. His house was unbearably quiet, yet the outdoors was clamorous. Was there nowhere he could go?

"Hey, can I get a bouquet of roses please?" A younger demon came inside, the slight hop in his steps indicating that he was in a hurry. Lucifer was left to count the orders on his own, but he still couldn't help eavesdropping on the panting demon.

"What's the rush?" The florist asked.

"Just grabbing something for my girlfriend. It's her birthday today," Lucifer froze as the cheerful voice went on, stinging his ears. "Man, does she love roses. She talks about them all the time."

"It's good that you remember her favorite, but you better not be late in the future, yea? Or else–"

"The numbers are correct, thank you." Lucifer cut in, placing the Grimms in front of the florist. As if realizing himself, the latter stuttered an apology only for it to go unanswered.

Carrying everything in his arms, Lucifer stepped out onto the road. He had never felt as lonely as he did in this moment.

"Where do you want the headstone to be?" The worker from the funeral home came by in the afternoon to make some prior arrangements.

"What about there?" Satan walked over to a flat piece of land in the backyard. It was an open area, so it wouldn't be overcasted by tree branches.

"Looks good to me. And the flowers?"

"Over here," Lucifer led the two away. You stayed behind, circling the plot of land. After some contemplation, you lay down there, legs straightened, one hand clasping another on your sternum, and closed your eyes.

The soil touched your back vaguely, just dense enough to hold you. There was shuffling and talking in the distance, but mostly it was harmonious– the scarce grass, the wind, the bald trees. The world felt as though it was revolving around you.

If this was what awaited you at the end of the line, you could make peace with that– given that you've finished everything you had to do here, that was. In truth, you were nowhere near done. You couldn't go without being absolutely sure that everyone would be fine.

Yet with every contact you made with the living, you could feel your existence wavering like a struggling flame. It wouldn't be long until your final farewell, so you did whatever you could do– from tidying Asmodeus' tissues by the rubbish bin to turning off the tap in Levi's bathroom. They were small gestures that meant nothing at all, but were still better than standing around.

"You good?" The worker asked, his voice suddenly closer now. You opened your eyes and saw him and Satan looking at Lucifer with a frown. The latter waved them off, his left hand leaning against the wall for support.

"You should go get some rest. I'll take care of the loose ends," Satan said.

"I don't–"

"Just go." The sternness in Satan's voice had Lucifer retrieving his retort.

His shoulders slumped the moment he was out of sight, and he proceeded to drag himself back to his room. You followed closely behind, keeping a considerable distance between your steps.

Instead of taking a break, he began tidying and categorizing the documents on his desk. The bed had been neglected for days now, and he hadn't been getting nearly enough rest. He wouldn't even allow himself to sit on the bed, as if it was some kind of disease.

He put the piles of paper on the side, not noticing that the photo frame was being pushed further and further out.

You'd seen the look on his face before, as well as the uncertainty in his movements, and the rapid blinking of his eyes. He was pushing himself to the edge. It wouldn't be long before he–

He slammed the paper down, and the force sent the frame tumbling. You all but threw yourself towards it, and caught it with your arms before it could shatter on the floor.

Your color dimmed, a sudden sleepiness washing over you. I can't go yet , you persisted.

Lucifer picked up the frame and caught a glimpse of the photo inside. The eight of you were smiling brightly at the camera. Even he was looking particularly carefree that day. On the table was a birthday cake, on your head a slanted glittery hat.

Almost with urgency, he disassembled the frame and took the photo out. His grip was strong enough that it wrinkled it, yet his eyes held no hostility towards this token of remembrance, only tender regret.

In the evening, he passed out on the couch with the photo close to his heart. When it slipped through his fingers and went under the seat, you leaned down and moved it somewhere he would see when he woke up.

[Saturday]

The paper on the desk was as blank as snow. Lucifer had been drafting his eulogy for the entire morning, surrounded by crumpled failures on the floor. Nothing he wrote was right. They were too soulless and empty, inadequate in conveying what you truly meant to him. Either that, or they sounded awkward and evasive.

"Just write from your heart" was what Belphie had told him that morning, which was something Lucifer had already known, obviously. He simply had to shove his hand inside his raw heart and grab whatever he could amidst that vicious current.

He just didn't want to take down the fences and barricades he'd built around it.

For the next hour, he drafted some more and balled up more paper, until he accepted that it wasn't going anywhere.

Perhaps taking a short trip down memory lane would jumpstart his inspiration.

He soon found himself outside your occupied room, staring down at the doorknob in his hand. It was eerily similar to when he'd stood on the other side of the morgue, bracing himself… he didn't allow himself to finish that thought. He pushed open the door, and repeated in his head: just a short, brief look .

Someone had been here before him. One of Belphie's many pillows was on your bed, Levi's hoodie forgotten on the desk. The entire room was haunted with your absence.

He took a slow tour, looking through random trinkets and items that sparked memories. A few books took up the space next to the desk, most of which you'd bought while hanging out with Satan. There were some irrelevant stickers on the bookshelf. When you'd said that you had no idea where to keep them, he'd given you a tiny wooden box. But you'd reinvented it and used it to store pieces of paper, like the receipt you got from a late night shopping, or the torn ticket from the concert you'd watched with him.

In the wardrobe was a long, crimson scarf. It had been an especially cold day, and you were shivering all over. He'd taken off the scarf and thrown it over your neck, spinning the remaining length around you while nagging about the importance of wearing enough layers. When he was done, you had a cheeky grin on your face.

"What?" He'd asked, slightly peeved that you hadn't been listening.

"Nothing," You tip-toed and stole a kiss from him before rushing away as if nothing'd happened. It took him a few seconds to untangle his head and chase after you.

In the drawer was a bundle of polaroid photos, most of which were sceneries of the Devildom. Something about capturing the moment and savoring it forever. You'd been aware of your comparatively flitting lifespan all along. Maybe that's why you were so adamant that you kept memorabilia.

He found your favorite ink pen next, then your pot of plant that hadn't been watered for days. The corner of the poster on the wall drooped and dangled, no longer held up by adhesive. There were hidden cans of dog food under the bed. You had taken it upon yourself to feed Cerberus whenever he was too busy to. There were activities planned for the upcoming week in your schedule book, complemented by doodles. The fact that you wouldn't be around to enjoy any of them tightened his throat.

He only realized the wetness streaming down his face when he saw the darkened spots on the paper. Sinking onto the side of your bed, he dug his fingers into his hair and trapped the sadness in a little white room at the back of his mind.

He was still clueless about grief, but in this moment, he knew that it was a tatoo on his heart that weighed tons. He also knew that death was a thief that stole your future.

It was the only thing that could bring an end to his love. He wasn't so sure what to do with it now that it'd succeeded.

Lucifer's breaths were shallow as he leaned forward, mumbling stop crying, stop crying on his lips like a mantra. Even when you kneeled in front of him and begged for him to let it out, he still wouldn't unclench his fists.

" How am I supposed to leave you in this state ?" You held his face with your hands– they were almost crystal clear now– and bowed your head.

[Sunday]

There were more people at your funeral than you'd expected, which shouldn't have come off as a surprise given that you were a social magnet. Some of the demons you had only talked to in passing, but they must've thought you important enough to bother coming. You were at least thankful for that.

Lucifer sure didn't go light on the flowers. As long as it was an area opened to the guests, there was guaranteed to be bouquets.

Everyone was dressed in black and talking in low whispers, sharing words of condolences. You stood by the open slot in the yard, eyes glued to your name on the headstone.

In a few, your casket would be lowered.

In a few, your body would be buried forever.

In a few, even your specter would fade.

Then you would be truly, undeniably, gone.

The crowd started shifting towards you, and you saw the casket being carried out from the funeral home's van. Levi was nearby to give them directions. Not far away, Mammon and Asmo were at the reception, murmuring to each other with seriousness. Beel and Belphie were just coming out from the house, fixing each other's outfits as they walked, and Satan was standing next to Solomon in silence.

There was only one missing.

"Where's Lucifer?" Levi asked Satan once he's done with his duty, eyes darting from demon to demon.

"I haven't seen him in a while. I think he went–"

"Ah, there he is," Mammon jutted his jaw. The rest followed the direction to find him making his way through the guests, tweaking the details in his outfit. "Man, he looks worn."

"Did he sleep at all in the past week?" Beel asked.

"No idea. It's not like he would tell us about it," Asmo sighed. "I get it though. It's already so hard for us, I can't even imagine how he must be feeling."

Beel gave his back a firm pat. "You have us."

"I do," Asmo gave him a brief smile before they headed to the very front of the crowd.

The officiant started the ceremony with the same speech he'd used in the past hundreds of funerals. Everything went on smoothly. There were rituals, readings, steady music that sounded hopeful enough to lift the mood, but not too upbeat that it would be disrespectful. The sharings were mostly uplifting memories of you, a lot of which you could recall clearly. Simeon did his best putting a few light-hearted comments in between and chased some of the gloom away.

"And now, for the eulogy," the officiant nodded at Lucifer encouragingly. He walked up to the front and nodded at everyone he could see in one brief glance.

The tremble in his hands was not hard to miss, nor was the immense effort in regulating his breath. He looked at the words he'd written, and began.

It was straight-forward. He concluded your life with perfection– your passion, your dreams, your achievements, no matter big or small. The traces you left on everyone's heart, your legacy that would live on. You rested your hands on the headstone and leaned your head against it, taking in every word that came out of him.

It went smoothly at first, but a few sentences in, you noticed the prolonged pauses between the sentences, the struggle on his face as he swallowed, the desperate attempts at concealing his tears. Mammon shot concerned glances at the others, who shook their heads at him.

Of course, Lucifer managed to hold back the flood and finished the eulogy without a problem. The guests clapped with looks of appreciation on their countenance, and the officiant moved on with the funeral.

You would never admit it, for you'd seen Lucifer working all night for the speech, but there was something amiss in his words. They were all about you, but none of them were about him.

" Lucifer, what are you feeling ?" You said under your breath. Understanding him had never been so hard.

The soil finally covered your casket, along with the many white orchids and a few keepsakes. Some of the guests stayed behind to talk. One of the demons came up to Lucifer and offered him a pat on the shoulder. "That was a flawless funeral, Lucifer. You've outdone yourself."

He smiled, and did not say a word.

Hours after the ceremony had ended, after everyone had left, Lucifer was still sitting by your grave. Night had fallen, and Mammon was peeking through the window and talking to someone else in the room. He shook his head and walked away.

"I guess this is where I can find you from now on," he mumbled groggily, head lolling slightly to the side. "It's still too far away for me."

" I'll always be– "

"Still… too far away." He repeated before finally letting his eyes close.

The backyard was no place to sleep in. You moved from your spot on the other side of the stone and touched his shoulder. " You can't sleep here, Luci. Come on ."

He didn't respond. You sighed, and closed your eyes, focusing solely on your hand until it felt heavy enough. You shook him lightly.

" Wake up, Luci ."

His eyes snapped open. You slumped forward on the ground, feeling death take hold of you again. No, not yet. Please.

Lucifer slowly got up and returned into the house, his slouched back growing smaller and smaller until it was out of sight.

He finally gave up to the protest of his body. The first thing he did after returning to his room was to toss himself onto the bed. Then he proceeded to stare at the muted wall for some more time, too weary to block the thoughts in his head.

His hand stretched out in the space next to him. It was cold to the touch. Everything was screaming at him about how you weren't here with him. The funeral was over. He couldn't prolong it any more than he could prolong his indifference. The grief was banging on the door now. It had reached a crescendo and would not stand to be concealed.

There was a burning in his nose. He could hear when the first tear struck the mattress, could feel the fortress around his heart being torn down piece by piece. There was nowhere to hide. You're gone, you're gone, you're gone .

The three words stabbed at his chest, so much that he had to clutch his shirt to distract himself of the pain. The tears fell uncontrollably. There was nothing he could do to stop his pounding head and aching face. Something inside him was fossilizing into stone. It lodged in his throat, and sounded ugly when it came out.

"I love you," he said between sobs, which meant I loathe you for leaving me.

"I love you," which meant I only want to be where you are.

"I love you," which meant I know it doesn't mean anything now, but I do love you. I just wish I could've said it more often.

"I love you." which meant I just want this grieving to be over.

He could barely make out the words coming out of him with how his body was trembling, as if in pain. He mumbled the familiar words on his lips again, and let the animal claw at his insides until he could only weep and weep and weep.

It hit him now, that try as he might, there was nothing graceful or dignified about grief.

There was something monstrous inside you. The tears were welling up and making you sick, but nothing would come out of you. You wrapped an arm around Lucifer's side and buried your face into his shoulder, desperate.

"It's okay ," you choked out. "It's okay. Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Luci– "

You let your hand hover atop his trembling one, and shook your head. There was nothing you could do, nothing you could say that could reach him. His heart-wrenching sobs drowned your voice out. You could barely look at his face, contorted with sorrow.

And then you prayed, as a ghost tethered to this gruesome world. Dear God, if it matters to you at all, spare him of this pain. Bring me back to life, or wipe his memories of me, anything. Just don't make him cry anymore .

God only watched on in silence.

Lucifer was alone.

But that wasn't the truth.

You inched away from him, your arm passing through his torso effortlessly. Ignoring the dizziness rushing to your head as you got on your feet, you rushed out of the room.

Maybe there is something you can do.

By the time the brothers peeked in through the door and found Lucifer, you were already out of breath, barely able to lift yourself up from the floor by the bed. Your hands were completely invisible at this point, and you couldn't feel them anymore.

It had taken you more effort than necessary to wake them from their slumbers, and to find ways to alert them of the sobs coming from down the hallway, but you managed.

While you could never hope to comfort Lucifer, his brothers could. His brothers, who were suffering as he did, who saw him hide himself away and didn't know how to approach him.

They had known Lucifer since time immemorial, yet this was the first time they had seen him like this– trembling in the bed, face buried into the mattress, fist around his shirt like it could lessen the pain. They had always seen him as an invincible figure, a pillar that would not fall even in the darkest storm. But of course, it was impossible for him not to feel broken by your death.

"Oh, Lucifer," Asmodeus was the first to rush in, tears already spilling from his eyes. Lucifer flinched when he heard him, but didn't pull away when Asmodeus latched onto him. He couldn't. His shoulders were still shaking, and he could still taste the salty tears on his tongue.

"It's alright," Asmodeus said, his watery eyes following Belphie and Beel as they approached.

"Come on, you're soaking the bed," Belphie slipped his hand under Lucifer's arm and held him up, then wrapped his arms around his neck, tickling his neck with his bedhair.

Something akin to objections came out of Lucifer as choked sobs, but when Mammon patted him on the shoulder, he leaned against his arm and let his tears say what he couldn't.

"Just let it out, okay?" Levi took the tissue box from Satan's hand and put it on the bed, his face upturned, lips quivering. They weren't quite sure how to fit into this situation. Beel pulled the two of them into his arm, and used the other to embrace the rest.

For the first time since your death, the brothers came and grieved together. Because grief wasn't something that was meant to be carried alone. It wasn't a feeling they could just turn off. But when they were together, perhaps the bed would feel less empty.

Lucifer's breaths were thready and short. When he fell into a coughing fit, Belphie ran his hand up and down on his back. "We'll work through it. Just breathe in, and breathe out,"

The room was full of sniffles and sobs and Belphie's wavering whispers. And though all of it was because of you, it comforted you knowing that none of them was going to be alone.

With the remaining bit of your strength, you squeezed yourself into their tangled arms, and planted a kiss on Lucifer's forehead. He wouldn't feel it, but it was okay. He was going to be okay. And so were you.

"I love you ," you leaned into him, feeling the faint rhythm from his heart. It's the last thing you heard as you closed your eyes and drifted off into the gentle current.

[Monday]

Lucifer wakes up with his brothers' arms around him.

#obey me x reader #lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me #obey me shall we date #elfwrites

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