seething shadows

Black Honey: Pt. 4

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3  

Summary: Starfire and Robin are officially an item, but what does that mean when the resident empath is stuck living between their respective bedrooms? Finding a new bunk buddy in Beast Boy was certainly not her first choice, and when she engages in a strange, night time activity, how long before the changeling notices what she’s up to?

Things were starting to get out of hand.

Raven had given up on Beast Boy’s offer altogether, and her lack of sleep as a repercussion had started affecting her in battle.

Not only was she unable to meditate, but Robin and Starfire’s incessant lovemaking was causing her emotions to go out of whack. More often than not, she’d underestimate her strength, and send things flying into her teammates instead of the villains. It had nearly cost them the fight on numerous occasions and, when angrily confronted by their leader, she often looked away, embarrassed from beneath her hood before silently disappearing into a portal that directly led into her bedroom.

She could hardly use her powers to even levitate anymore, she was so terrified that she’d cause more damage if she even tried.

Raven stayed in her room to meditate during the times that Robin and Starfire were elsewhere, but no matter what, it just wasn’t enough. Sleep deprivation coupled with rampaging, unsatisfied hormones, was apparently a highly potent and detrimental combination. Her magic was super charged and on the fritz almost all the time, and if she dared to summon it for even the tiniest of tasks, she would cause the entire building’s lights to flicker and potentially go out, much to Cyborg’s displeasure. Not to mention, the one time she’d accidentally smashed her window; the spider like cracks had grown fast along the clear glass by the time she’d realized what she’d done, and she was far too chastised to tell Victor about it.

Oftentimes, after yet another incident, Robin would come knocking on her door, concern colouring his tone when he’d beckon the question on everyone’s mind; “Raven, is there anything you need to talk about?”

She’d panic, mortified at the mere prospect of opening that can of worms. “I’m fine, I just need to meditate,” she’d lie from inside her dark, lonely room.

“Alright, well, if you decide that you do, you know where to find me,” he’d tell her after a drawn-out, defeated sigh.

Once she’d hear his footsteps receding, she’d let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding and repeat her calming mantra to herself over and over again.

Azerath, Metrion, Zinthos.

Robin had never been the pushy type of leader where it concerned her; he always assumed that she’d go to him whenever she felt comfortable enough to do so, and that forcing anything out of her would only cause Raven to recoil further away. He provided her with the necessary space, and she provided him with the trust of opening up to him when ready. That was the level of unspoken respect the two held for one another.

Both Starfire and Cyborg had no doubt conveyed their concerns for their friend to Robin, who had, quite sternly, told them that he would be the one to investigate. After all, he had known how much she hated it when they all came pestering her about sensitive, personal issues. They must have all resolutely accepted their leader’s instruction, for she’d been pleasantly surprised at the lack of visitations from her other teammates.  Raven assumed that their hesitancy had probably stemmed from her complete shut out of even the boy wonder himself.

All of them, that is, but Beast Boy.


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slithered here from eden (just to sit outside your door)

So @stardust-painter did a lovely Zeus!Kakashi aesthetic and it inspired me, damn it. All I could think about was who Kakashi’s opposite would be, and ended up with Hades!Obito. And then somehow it turned into Erebus!Madara and Bellona!Rin, plus KagaTobi and RinKonan. Idek how this happens. ^^’

Obito is born in darkness, sculpted from ashes wet with blood, given vague form by clumsy hands unused to creation. His first breath rattles in his lungs like it should be his last, the sound hollow and gasping, and above him the darkness laughs.

It takes the form of a man with pale fingers and shadows for hair, eyes as red as fires. The man cups Obito’s face between his hands and smiles as if he’s been given a gift.

“Who better,” he asks, even though there’s no one else to answer him. “Who better to oppose the king of the heavens than the lord of death himself?”

Cold fingers stroke Obito’s short hair back from his face, and he flinches without quite knowing why. Madara simply laughs, and it echoes from the gloom as he lays a hand that seethes with shadows over the space where Obito’s heart should be.

The touch burns, and Obito lurches with a gasp as he realizes that it aches. He’s empty and hollow and there’s nothing here to fill him.

Ice-cold lips brush his forehead, a mockery of a kiss.

“My child, you have great things ahead of you,” Madara tells, him, cruelly glad, and pulls him to his feet.

There is no light here. The gloom is ever-present and eternal, as thick as mist across dull spires of rock and flat plains that stretch as far as the eye can see. The palace where Madara leaves him is black marble traced with gold, and the throne is wrought of iron with gemstones caught in the gaps.

Beautiful but unwelcoming, Obito thinks, and tries not to think of the cold weight of the crown upon his head. Obsidian molded into form, with edges sharp enough to kill, and Madara had smiled that cold smile as he placed it on Obito’s brow. It had drawn blood, crimson running in thin lines across his skin, but Madara had paid it no mind. The wounds are healed, and the heavy black robes Madara dressed him in show no sign of the scattered drops that fell across them.

There is a sword at his side, black like everything else in this lightless place. A blade that burns with darkness in time with the pulse of his empty chest, and Obito closes his hand around the hilt and breathes.

Great things ahead of you, Madara’s voice whispers in his ear, but Obito can’t quite bring himself to care.

Who am I, he thinks, sinking down onto the throne.

Misty and formless, entirely indistinct, a soul reaches for him. Its fingers tangle in the hem of his robe, and there’s a murmur far vaster than one throat could make.

King, the shade tells him.

God, its brethren echo across the open, endless plain.

Madara had looked at him in his crown, with his sword in hand, and laughed as if he’d won a game he’d been playing for a long time. “You will rattle the heavens, little god,” he’d said, and it had sounded, Obito thought, like a taunt.

Perhaps, Obito thinks now, it is something to fill the emptiness inside of him, to stop the ache in his chest where something should be.

He reaches out to touch the shade, catches one of its wisps and wills it into form. There’s a breathless cry, a wail as if something is being dragged up from the core of its being, and the shade convulses. Grey mist falls away, settling as robes, and indistinct features settle, harden. Brown hair tumbles around a pretty face marked with sweeps of purple, and she gasps for breath, one hand coming up to press against her chest.

“Sire,” she whispers, but Obito shakes his head and rises, offering her a hand.

“Obito, to you,” he tells her, and some of the mist lingers in her eyes as she stares up at him, wide and startled, but she slides her fingers into his. “My general.”

A spark kindles, catches. The grey in her gaze slides away, replaced with smoky brown, and her hand grips his as he pulls her to her feet. “Rin,” she tells him, steady and strong. “I’m Rin again. Thank you.”

Obito doesn’t manage a smile, but he wants to. There’s power thrumming through her now, but instead of feeling drained, Obito feels…energized. As if something inside of him just came awake. Maybe it doesn’t stop the aching, but it makes it easier to ignore.

“Madara wants to me awaken all of them,” he says, looking out across the empty world, and there’s a whisper running across it, a sense of watchful anticipation. It’s been a very long time for all of them, Obito realizes, since they were individuals, since they were anything more than a collective.

A touch of his power and the mist surrounding the palace shatters into shards and pieces, and in its wake human figures pull themselves upright.

Rin smiles, lips as red as pomegranates, and her grey robes cover the armor underneath. “An army,” she says. “Loyal to you alone.”

Loyalty is a formless concept. He follows Madara because Madara created him, because he hopes the ache will stop if he does. Loyalty from the souls of the dead, simply because he was created to gain it, is very much the same.

Madara comes for them when the moon is dark, laughter in his face and shadows dancing in his long hair. There is a gateway behind the palace, sealed tightly and locked from the outside, but Madara shatters the lock and throws the doors wide as he stalks in, and a wave of darkness washes like a tide around him.

“The moon god turned his face away to search for his lover,” he says, gleeful enough that Obito can’t help but wonder if that lover is now among the ranks of his dead. He doesn’t ask, simply stays still as Madara leans in, cupping his chin in pale fingers and tipping his face up to meet his eyes.

“Go,” Madara tells him, low like it’s a secret. “Go, cover the world with death and I shall bring the darkness behind you. Challenge the fool upon his throne, and show him that no heavenly seat and silver crown can make him master of creation.”

The fool upon his throne, Obito thinks, and can’t help a curl of dark amusement. Don’t you mean me?

He’s silent, though, as he nods to Madara—no bow, no kneeling, and the indignation that flares in Madara’s expression makes it worthwhile—and steps past him. Rin is waiting by the palace’s front steps, the reins of two lean horses in her hands. One is as black as Madara’s shadows, the other as silver as Rin’s armor, and when she sees him coming she settles her helmet over her head. The face is open, and her eyes burn like amber through smoke as she hands him his mount.

“We ride?” she asks, and she’s small but fiercer than anyone, his warrior goddess of valor.

“We ride,” Obito agrees, swinging onto the mare’s back.  She dances in place beneath him as Rin mounts as well, settling her shield at her side as the grey gelding waits patiently.

Behind them, the host rises, clad in black and gleaming silver, and somewhere a horn sounds.

Madara is laughing, but Obito draws his sword without looking back, and leads the charge through the open gates and into the world of the living.

The emptiness doesn’t go away.

Armies stand before them, and armies fall, and each dead soldier becomes another to swell Obito’s ranks. The land is being consumed by darkness and death, but each day the ache in Obito’s chest gets stronger and the emptiness inside of him greater, until he thinks that it may very well swallow the world.

Rin walks by his side, and only Obito can see the worry in her eyes when she looks at him. People call her a goddess of victory, of valor, of war. They whisper that war is death’s right hand, and their words hold no lie. Because she’s there, Obito doesn’t waver.

And then, one day, he does.

There is one way to reach the gods in their high palace, one path to take the war right to their gates, and Madara has no greater goal. He drives them onward, a host that needs no food or rest, but even the ancient god of darkness can’t predict the other gods will meet them.

At the foot of the mountain that pierces the clouds, a handful of scattered figures are waiting. One stands out in the middle of the field, and it’s only the faint glow of silver and the settled hum of power around him that marks him as any kind of king.

Slowly, uncertainly, Obito pulls his mare to a halt, eyes on the white-haired man. Darkness seethes beneath their feet, Madara driven into the clinging shadows by the sun overhead, and there’s no way for him to interfere.

“Obito?” Rin asks quietly, but her eyes are wide, locked on the slim figure of another goddess across the field, a woman with hair as blue as rainclouds in the distance, wearing a flower tucked behind her ear. No armor or weapons, and after days of battle it seems so strange.

Obito doesn’t answer; he’s too busy watching the king of the heavens approach, languid and unafraid. His eyes are sharp, though, clever, and they slide from Rin to the swirling shadows and then slowly, slowly rise to meet Obito’s gaze.

It feels like the lightning Kakashi controls, like an electric shock coursing through him. Like something pouring into him, sealing up the cracks, filling up the empty places, and Obito sucks in a startled breath. He slides off his mare before he can think better of it, can’t even bring himself to glance back as he starts across the field with one hand on his sword hilt. Behind Kakashi’s shoulder he can see the god of wind step forward, blue eyes narrowing warily, but Minato holds none of his attention right now. Only Kakashi, subtly shining, as vivid in his eyes as lightning in the darkness.

A handful of feet from each other, they halt, and Obito takes a breath. “Madara wants to take your crown,” he says, meeting grey eyes squarely. Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand fall away from his sword.

Something like a smile crinkles Kakashi’s eyes, lends warmth to his smile. “Is it safe to assume that you don’t?” he asks.

Obito hesitates, but he still can’t look away. The ache in his chest is still there, but there’s something like anticipation stirring all around him, bleeding into the very air. “That’s not what I want,” he agrees, because it costs him nothing.

The small smile fades, and Kakashi looks down. His eyes settle on the shadowy glow that surrounds Obito’s heart, the exact shape of Madara’s handprint. One step forward, another, and Kakashi is close enough now that Obito has to tip his head back and look up just slightly to meet his eyes. Careful and deliberate, Kakashi lifts a hand, and lays it right on top of Madara’s mark.

“You’ve been looking for something that’s already yours,” he says gently, and his other hand rises as well, cupping Obito’s cheek where incautious hands left deep scars when they created him.

The words make no sense, and Obito scowls at him, opens his mouth to berate the idiot for speaking in riddles, but—

A tug, a step, and there are fingers in his hair. There’s a mouth on his, warm lips and the smell of ozone and a heat he’s never felt before, and Obito gasps, undone, unmade. That strange heat rushes to fill the emptiness inside him, and with desperate hands he clutches Kakashi’s arms, pulls him closer and tighter. Kakashi makes a low, heady noise of approval, and white-blue sparks crawl across his fingers to sink into Obito’s chest. He cries out, pulling back, but he feels it.

Wide-eyed, he looks up into Kakashi’s smile.

“Even Madara couldn’t create someone entirely without a heart,” he says. “He simply hid it well. You just needed a reminder that it was there.”

With a strangled cry that’s equal parts relief and rage, Obito collapses forward, into Kakashi’s arms, and curls into the other god’s hold, pressing his forehead to the curve of one strong shoulder. Arms curl around him, holding him close, and Obito has to close his eyes.

“It’s over,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper, but it still carries across the field.

There’s a cry of pure rage that shakes the air, but it’s already too late. The dead soldiers are vanishing, swallowed back into the ground, back into Obito’s kingdom, until only Rin remains.

“Two new gods in the space of a year.” Kakashi sounds amused more than anything. “How unusual.”

The whisper of Rin’s armor sounds loud in the new hush as she crosses the field to them. “Goddess of war,” she tells him, unflinching. “And the valor of soldiers. If you hurt Obito, I will destroy you.”

Kakashi chuckles, though Obito can see the respect on his face. “Her name is Konan, the goddess of renewal,” he offers mildly, and when Rin narrows her eyes at him, he raises one hand in surrender. “You were staring. It was hard not to notice.”

Rin huffs, pulls her helmet off, and strides determinedly towards the blue-haired goddess she was watching earlier. Still half-supported by Kakashi, Obito watches her go, and can’t help a faint smile. His heart is…warm. Full.

More so than ever when Kakashi runs a hand through his hair, skimming over the sharp points of the obsidian crown.

“I think,” he says, almost absently, “that Madara forgot that opposite sometimes simply means equal.”

Obito has to laugh at that, because it’s true. Madara made him a king and expected him to bow; he made Obito in opposition to another force and didn’t expect that other to complete him.

“He said he kidnapped the lover of the moon god,” he remembers. “Should I look—?”

“No.” This time the humor in Kakashi’s voice is even clearer. “Kagami managed to find Tobirama within a few days and then warned me what was happening. Neither of them are overly pleased with Madara at the moment.”

Obito very much hopes that Madara crosses paths with them sometimes soon.

One step back, and then Kakashi stops, looking Obito over. His expression is a little mischievous, a touch wicked, as he curls his fingers around Obito’s. “I know you have a kingdom of your own, but can I convince you to come to mine for a while? There are so many things you should see.”

The warmth in his eyes makes Obito’s breath catch a little, makes him want to step forward and take another kiss. But there’s time for that later. For now, Obito just nods, letting Kakashi lace their fingers together. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

Kakashi smiles at him, and Obito’s heart doesn’t ache at all.

Save Yourself

Summary: Jungkook has always been alone, and then you come along. VAMPIRE AU.

WARNING: Blood, gore, vampire shit, whatever the fuck this is. I know like three people gonna read it. 

WHY IS THIS LITERALLY SO BAD. I wrote this to Claire De lune’s “Save Yourself”

Vampire Bangtan: Yoongi

“Is he ready?”

“Where is he?”


The whispers echoed down the hallways, bouncing off the brick walls and marble floors that he’d scrubbed for the last eighteen years of his life. Even from his bedroom he could hear the elders in the prayer hall; everything from their harsh whispers to the rush of their cloaks across the ground trailed through the damp hallways of the orphanage and pierced his ears. .

Ignoring it all, he reached into his closet to pull his own crimson cloak from the mass of black clothing hung up on the aging metal hooks. Aside from the fullness of his closet, his room was sparse, filled with little of his life. The only thing that had any value, sentimental or otherwise, was a pocket watch that had been placed in the basket with him when he was abandoned here as a baby. He used to despise the mother that never wanted him, the father that never took him in–they were the ones that sentenced him to this cursed life to ease their own consciences. They were the ones that forced him to turn eighteen in a home built upon darkness and ritual.

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Masquerade! Seething shadows breathing lies.
Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you. (x)

Seething Shadows Breathing Lies ; July 13th, 1978 ; Alastor & Frank

Moody hated many things, but crowds deserved a special mention in his book. Too many people, all pushed together, all moving and speaking and shifting and blending, making it difficult to watch limbs and hands and connect them to bodies, to see exactly where or what each and every person was looking at, to keep track of specific people or conversations. To make matters worse, they were wearing masks– every goddamned one of them. Faces and hands were often the first indication you would get before someone tried something stupid, and being deprived of one early warning system and completely overwhelmed by the other took his nerves and stretched them tight. Even worse? He wasn’t just watching the crowd; he was forced to interact with them, to move and blend among them. Every jostle, every brush, every bump threatened to grab his taut nerves and snap them in half, and it was thanks largely to the fair amount of nicotine he’d been pulling into his system all night that he managed to maintain his habitual stoicism.

(…handing the drink to the woman in blue with the silver mask fingers touching no rings three feet apart eyes contact foot faced toward red tie focused on him not even paying attention to the rest of the room definitely flirting large man to her left is watching red tie man wearing navy blue suit that’s not white tie idiot you should be worried shes more interested in him than you no threat move on…)

To add insult to injury, he was wearing a goddamned tuxedo and a mask of his own, an unadorned black leather piece that covered most of his face but left his lips free so as not to obstruct his speech. Though, on further reflection, (since he had hours to do just that,) perhaps this ridiculous get up would work more to his advantage than he originally thought. Few would recognize him in this; most people, he knew, were completely unaware he knew how to comb his hair or tie a bow tie. If he changed his gait and posture and kept his mask on, it would suffice as a simple disguise, which could come in handy depending on what, exactly, their enemies planned on doing.

(…short dark skinned man and two taller white men laughing loudly too much physical contact friendly no maybe not always friendly drunk-friendly now no threat move on…)

And there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that their enemies would be doing something tonight; he would have suspected as much without a tip-off from the anonymous source Albus seemed to have collected. (And wouldn’t share with him, much to his annoyance.) A benefit for the victims of the last attack, well-to-do Muggles packed into a large building with less exits than required of more modern structures, all of them wearing masks? This would be his first choice, were he on the other side. It was so ripe a target that he knew their enemies would know the Order would be on station and that most of the Aurors Office would be on standby and still would attack anyway. Of course, this limited their possible tactics: Their attack would either have to be so quick that resistance could not organize itself swiftly enough to respond adequately, or overwhelming enough that organized resistance would be futile.

(…man standing alone drink in hand watching the room does not approach others is not approached himself all black suit gentleman death almost too obvious keeping to himself possible threat haven’t seen him there for long keep an eye on him…)

They’d shown up hours early, several of his Aurors and himself, checked over the sizable building, tried to plan some sort of defense for if and when hell broke lose. Coordinating with Muggle security forces under the guise of agents from MI6, they’d managed to block several entrances so that they’d lock from the outside but still permit exit in case it was needed. Magical protection was limited; most wards were either rendered useless by the sheer amount of Muggles present or by the fact such security measures would only serve to inhibit first response when it was needed later. Beyond that, all he could do was memorize a map of the place and make sure his men knew the grounds well, place the extra paired Order members around and hope they would be of some use, and wait. Forcing Alastor to stand around and anticipate the coming slaughter was perhaps the worst kind of torture he could imagine abiding.

(…four women laughing loudly in a closed circle two wearing rings rest unmarried men missing shrill laughs don’t blame them for staying away they don’t usually employ women in those heels they’re only a risk to themselves no threat move on…)

Steady, steady. After so many hours standing around, even his attention was beginning to wander, the end result of skulking around with nothing to do but watch and wait, hunter forced to hide amongst the prey. A quick glance at one of the refreshment table and he narrowed his eyes as he recognized the familiar clothing and masks of people he knew– Order members deciding to dip into the punch (that at least wasn’t poisoned with anything besides an impressive amount of alcohol– he’d tested it repeatedly through the evening) as the night wore on. Moody noted names but otherwise did not interfere, deciding not to draw attention to himself and them by tearing them a new one in the middle of the ballroom. They weren’t his Aurors– he could only exert so much control over what they did– but when the night ended and the alcohol rendered them useless when they might have been needed, he planned on being ruthless in informing them exactly how they’d failed.

(…little white number she looks good in white silver mask hair done up so much different than the norm slope of her neck her legs in those heels…)(small and tight)(and so satisfying)(that dress would look even better on the floor)

A quiet hissed breath forced through clenched teeth and he turned away, staring blankly at a group of strangers as he fought to bring Them and his own errant thoughts to heel. He had absolutely no business thinking that, not now, not of her, not for the third time in as many hours. Why They chose to focus on her was beyond his comprehension but it was becoming damned annoying. He didn’t have these problems, he never had these problems, and he was not about to start now thank you very much.

(…blue eyes so blue tall man behind her too close get away before no he’s moving away just crossing the room too intoxicated to watch distance keeps bumping into other people no threat move on…)

They slowly relented, quietly resuming feeding him a steady stream of observations of everyone around him as he quickly scanned the room, searching for his own partner he’d teamed himself with. He generally rotated the junior Aurors with their more experienced counterparts and it just so happened that it was his turn to be stuck mentoring one. Moody hated it less than his typical grumbling suggested; their current crop of juniors weren’t so bad, just green. (He tried not to think about how quickly the war was changing that and them.) Besides, what better way to deal with unwanted intrusive thoughts than placing yourself in close proximity of the husband of the woman you were thinking about?

Frank wasn’t too difficult to spot– their masks may offer some help hiding their faces from those that didn’t know them well, but he was well accustomed to identifying people based on something more than facial features alone. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders to blend into the shorter members of the crowd, circling around to his partner’s back, fully expecting the younger man’s attention to be on the doors, as it should be; and thus, wouldn’t be watching the rest of the room as well as he also should be. It was difficult for most, splitting your attention like that, and he took great pains to try to help those around him achieve total awareness of their surroundings.

But mostly he just liked sneaking up on people and scaring them witless. “Longbottom. Enjoying door duty?”

Shadow English Lyrics (VIXX)

This is my translation of VIXX’s Japanese song “Shadow” (written by Leo) 🐹 Enjoy~!

Shadow - VIXX

I want to steal your perfect silhouette
That I gazed at like no one would notice
I want to face you even closer
But it seems like it will break immediately oh
I want to know from morning until night
But I can’t get closer to u
Even though this was not the love I wanted
I just go in circles around this shining place

Just a shadow, only my name remains
Even that will be forgotten
Yes I’m a shadow, “don’t look for me”
Even these sad words, I’m your shadow

No matter how many times the die of love is cast
There are numbers that won’t appear
Yet I gradually lose my senses
I push both my heart and tears away
Actually I’m scared
I live in the darkness
I live knowing that one day I will disappear
I live knowing that one day I will disappear

I want you so much I can’t breathe
I am changing little by little Because of U
I’ll disappear, drift away, be afraid
Now I can’t even hear your voice

Just a shadow, only my name remains
Even that will be forgotten
Yes I’m a shadow, “don’t look for me”
Even these sad words, I’m your shadow

I’m waiting in that place within reach
So one day we may be able to meet face to face
That’s the kind of dream I see

The shadow is disappearing for eternity
If that name collapses and crumbles, you won’t notice
But I’m your shadow, even then I don’t mind
I love you unrequitedly

Just a shadow, only my name remains
Even that will be forgotten
Yes I’m a shadow, “don’t look for me”
Even these sad words, I’m your shadow

(Original Japanese lyrics are below.) 

すぐに壊れそうで oh
だけど I can’t get closer to u

Just a shadow 残った僕の名
Yes I’m a shadow 探さないでと言う
悲しい言葉も I’m your shadow


徐々に変わって行く姿は Because of U

Just a shadow 残った僕の名
Yes I’m a shadow 探さないでと言う
悲しい言葉も I’m your shadow


But I’m your shadowそれさえ構わない

Just a shadow 残った僕の名
Yes I’m a shadow 探さないでと言う
悲しい言葉も I’m your shadow

The captured prince

Shadow seethed as he stood at the castle walls  and oversaw the battle going on below. His poor town, ravaged and razed by that bastard king from a kingdom over. Wasn’t the little kingdom Shadow had too small to catch his gaze?!  Apparently not. Shadow had had enough of this. “Ready my armor.” He ordered a servant. “I’m going out there.” A future ruler was nothing if he wasn’t willing to fight alongside his people. Shadow’s adoptive father would have done the same.  

Soon Shadow was sword to sword with some of Vaati’s best, knocking them down and slashing thier throats when they were vulnerable. He had to buy his healers time to get the wounded off of the field and into the medic tents! Ahead, he could see the Lavender-haired hing on his horse, gazing over the bloody carnage of the battle field. Bastard! 


singing-supper  asked:

"Ghosts in love" Au, please? I realize it doesn't offer many opportunities for smut, but hell, it sounds cute af. Astrid would be this scary ghost who haunts houses and chases people swinging her bloodied axe. Hiccup would open doors for people. xD

So freaking adorable.

“I just don’t feel comfortable in here,” the middle-aged woman in the corner chair whispered to the other coworker that had stopped by with a fruit basket and a cheesy Get Well Soon card. Hiccup slid a finger into the card and focused on prying it open just a centimeter further so he could read the punchline to the talking cat’s joke. “It’s crazy, but it feels like someone’s watching. Like there’s cameras everywhere.”

Start kitten better soon!

He snorted, leaning back on the couch and rolling his eyes. Awful. Grinning across the room, he tilted his head at the girl in the corner, inviting her to come read the terrible joke. But as always, she glared and bared her teeth, the shadows in her corner creeping over her shoulder and around her bare feet. Shrugging, he glanced back at the newest patient of room 326. 

“Hospital rooms always give me the heebie-jeebies,” her friend was saying. “Thinking about all the people who’ve died… Eugh…” She shivered dramatically.

She wasn’t much better off in any other room, he thought with a silent sigh. Good luck finding a single inch of this hospital that wasn’t crawling with spirits. He was still new to this whole afterlife thing, but even he knew that. 

The two women didn’t stay much longer. Nobody ever did. They could feel the girl’s glower, somehow sense the negative energy dampening the space. They left their sleeping coworker to her medically-induced nap. 

Hiccup lifted a hand to his brow and fingered the head-wound that was still damp with blood. Some came off, and he wiped it on his jeans. Of all the days for him to forget his helmet at home, it had to be that day. Looking up at the girl in the corner, he gave her a friendly smile and patted the space next to him on the couch.

She snarled, and for a second, her cheeks looked dark and gaunt. Then her image cut out, like poor reception on an old television. She reappeared next to him on the couch, and for the first time, he noticed her eyes. A pretty shade of blue. They matched the ice-cold temperature drop that suddenly chilled his arm. In the bed, the patient shifted and pulled her blanket higher. Frost crackled along the window behind them, freezing the corner closest to her with an opaque sheet of white swirls. 

Hiccup watched her for a second, staring at the swirl of hate and despair in those blue irises. She seethed, and her shadows gently stroked her bruised and broken neck. 

He had a thought. Shifting, he breathed onto his fingertip, and then pressed it to the window. 

It wasn’t until after he was done drawing that she finally tore her eyes away from him to look at the window. At the sight of the two stick figures holding hands in the frost, her fierce expression dropped just barely. One of her shadows skittered out from the hem of her hospital gown and slithered away into the air conditioning vent. 

The girl lifted a pale hand, extending one finger towards the window. Then slowly, sloppily, she drew a large misshapen heart around the two.

to the shadowlands where I do seek
things of which I cannot speak

where I can hear the silence roar
and know that I cannot ignore

the pain I feel each time I see
the shadows of our destiny

for they as well do seek us out
and in the silence they do shout

in a voice only some can hear
though what they say is never clear

and thus we must embrace this dread
of all things thought but left unsaid

and wish somehow we could forget
all things that haven’t happened yet

for it is then that we will see
that I am you and you are me