#setrawrites

i just had to switch emails / make a back up one !! i may not post as often since it will now be harder for me to sign in (my email is hidden and is only known to a select group of people and myself, therefore it is not on any device) . i might not post as often, i'm not sure.

if you're wondering why i had to make a back-up, my current (old?) email is in danger of being found out. as you know, i am an agender aroaceflux person. my parents areee.. conservative. and christian. so if they were to find my account and find it linked to this tumblr they will likely kick me out (which would really suck. i don't have much money, not even enough to survive a month on my own).

notes: if you've read my past oneshots, which i have. failed to edit. woops. lucien is surnaturel! setra is still setra, dw

tw: suicide, poison, mentions of death, implication of assault if you squint, hallucinations, murder

* • + • *

lucien cannot wait to return to his wife. or rather, maybe her voice never left, and it only beckoned him closer to death.

ever since she's died, he's always heard a whisper in his ear. often, its advice led to his next kill and another body mutilated and buried under a house meant for two.

(he says, thinks -- no, pretends it's meant for two. but when she hasn't been home in two years and her dresses have grown dusty perhaps he was always meant to live alone.)

but he thinks he's finally been pushed to snap, as he stares at his wife's grave.

setra caelia hartifelt.

1908-1931.

she was twenty-three when he'd found her in that god-awful place, once blue eyes turned into some irritating imitation of the color, more gray than blue, dead than alive.

he carries the last batch of sunflowers he will bring to her. he grew them himself.

he lays them down gently, a contrast to how he handles nearly anything else, even the corpses he's buried. it's midnight, though, and no person will see him with his guard down.

somewhere in his subconcious, he remembers when she had first mentioned sunflowers.

"they mean loyalty and adoration," she had murmured. "it would be nice to have those buried with me. it would mean someone had loved me that much."

he loved her that much. he wishes he had loved her more.

he had pleaded for so long that night. begged for her to speak to him, to get up and to ask where she was because she couldn't see without the glasses he couldn't find in the alley. wishes he could've bought her another ring, married her again, because that night he'd found her without anything but herself and blood.

why couldn't he have nice things?

he contemplates this for a reason he doesn't know. after all, he is to die tonight. that in itself is perhaps the only mercy god has granted him in the past two years, that he will reunite with his love in death.

(but he knows. he is going to hell. not to heaven, where she surely resides.)

there is another, stranger, deadlier plant in his other hand.

trumpet-shaped purple flowers and dark berries that will be the last thing he will taste.

belladonna. beautiful lady, he thinks.

he is in no way blaming his death on his wife -- but her own demise is now the reason for his. he cannot survive knowing both the death of his mother and his sweet darling were because he was too late to save them to the cruelty of the world around them.

so it is fitting that he will die to a flower named as what his wife is to him.

he doesn't try and eat it yet, though -- he decides to stay for now. stay at his wife's grave. maybe if he stays long enough, he will feel her embrace one last time, even if her body is six foot below where he stands.

maybe if he stays for long enough he'll feel even a bit of remorse. though, he thinks it can't happen.

lucien had killed twenty-three people as of august 5th, 1933. one disgusting, foul, vile man for every year his wife lived.

he would've killed more, for the years she had lost, but something had settled in him.

some odd feeling that told him it was enough. that it was time to rest alongside the woman he had promised his life to.

so just as he had done nearly every night for the past two years, he visited her grave. stayed for a while, pondered things he thought he would never think of.

he runs a hand through his hair, before taking off his glasses. he can give himself comfort in the fact they will not hurt him when he inevitably falls to the ground as he dies.

again gently, he plucks the berries from the belladonna. one by one, he sets them down on the thin grass besides him. one by one, he swallows each.

soon, his head starts to feel heavy with pain. he's glad he did this at midnight -- his eyes can't seem to handle the moonlight cast across the grave in front of him.

speaking of that, he staggers, losing balance and holding onto said grave -- he feels a little guilty, that he may damage it.

he feels he needs water, his throat feels incredibly dry.

as he predicts, he does eventually fall over, a weak, strangled noise slipping out when he does. he reaches out to where his wife is buried.

he can't even reach the stone marking her name.

he's starting to see things. is that his mother in the trees? has she come to take him to hell? can angels even bring demons to their afterlife?

his head continues pounding, the ache settling in his bones, staying as he finally, finally starts to die.

he hears a faint whisper again. her voice.

with the last of his strength, he murmurs, a strained, tortured smile on his face,

"it seems death will reunite us rather than do us part."

* • + • *

check the setrawrites tag

maybe

for my original oneshots

please

because like the original reason why i made this blog is to post them and art for the show they're from, which is the show i write for

so like please

we gauge what people like from whether or not people like the stories i shit out too

and also the summary for the whole show is at the end of my intro/masterlist

please please please PLEASEEEE !!! <3 i will update my masterlist soon so it's easier to get to these works. please please please please please check though!! i also used to spend a lot of time writing these, to the point it worked me to writing burnout for a little bit :p

this is a stupid song/poem,,,,, i made in my car in 5 mins /srs

the man called death lies awake in his domain

awaiting a soul to join him amidst the rain

but his world is sad, and that way it will stay

so death will be lonely for all his days.

the man called death remembers why this is where he belongs,

why he has been here for ever so long

"if you make no purpose for yourself, purpose you have none,"

and so when the man called death died, he became the single one.

the man called death roams his place, forever to await a soul such as him

purposelessness, it seems, is the true worst sin

or is pride the root of purposelessness? is it possible to be?

pride swallows your purpose, spits out a single decree;

"i have done too much to have a purpose, i wish to do no more! i wish to be free!"

the man called death has no real answer to that question, i'm afraid

too busy contemplating the price he has paid

and yet again, like so many men before the man called death,

he will grieve over his own mistakes until his final breath.

two college students who are gonna graduate soon, they've been friends for AGES and only now realizing that "oh shit i like him/her" dhgsvbbe

pining!!! angst!!!!

slow burn because you know. homework and tests and allat makes it kinda hard to get the confidence to tell your best friend of ten years that no, you don't wanna be friends you wanna be like those lovers you guys read about in books

this is so self indulgent tbh

AND THEN AND THWN ALSO WHAT IF ONE OF THEM HAS AN AWARD THEY REALLY WANNA GET OR SMTH BUT THEY DONT GET IT ,, 😭😭 BONUS IF THEYVE BEEN STRUGGLING W SELF ESTEEM OR A SITUATION THAT MAKES THEM NOT HAVE A LOTTA SELF ESTEEM!!!

and then the other one is just comfortint them and um im just gonna turn this into dialogue now

"b-but i didn't get- *sniffle* get the a-award, how am i n-not worthless?"

"by god, tundra -- you're not worthless, or useless, or anything your fuck-up of a mother told you, you're wonderful! that award doesn't mean anything, you don't need it! i can tell you, award or not, you're still the smartest history nerd i know."

"s-still, though, i-i-"

*deep breath* "no, no buts, you are the smartest person i know. and.. and if you need proof, that you're not worthless or anything.. you're so, so wonderful, amazing, kind, whatever, that.. that i can't help but love you."