#-while he threatens to crucify you

[vandme12]

Could I please request Ronin with a reader who got a stalker after their book got popular? They don’t really see the stalker as a threat, they’ve dealt with the devil after all.

But what if he gets a little too close and it forces Ronin to do something about it, but the reader beat him to it?

Have a great day!

Your first mistake was underestimating the appeal of a killer.

The book—your book—was never supposed to blow up like this. A bloody, intimate little crime novel, loosely inspired by the slasher-flavored chaos you’d somehow made a life out of. It was supposed to be niche, a cult hit at best. But now? Every other day, there’s a new notification about someone thirsting after your fictional killer. Reviews drool over his sadism, his devil-may-care attitude, the way he breaks his victims like it’s a love language.

They have no idea he’s real. That he kisses you with the same mouth he uses to threaten lives.

Ronin thinks it’s hilarious.

“‘The Devil’s Butcher could get it, tbh,’” he reads aloud one night, cackling over a tweet on your phone. “Aw, sweetheart—why didn’t ya tell me I had fans? Coulda started a damn fan club. Goreboy Nation. Merch n’ everythin’.”

You roll your eyes, shoving his face away from your screen. “You’re already insufferable. If you start selling t-shirts, I’m out.”

Ronin just hums, teeth grazing your neck—playful. Sharp. “Nah, ya ain’t goin’ anywhere, darlin’. Face it: ‘m the only devil who’s gonna put up with ya.”

You let him think that. Let him croon against your skin like the world itself belongs to him—like you belong to him. (He isn’t wrong.)

But the thing is, while the fans are fun and the money’s nice, you know better than anyone that obsession isn’t cute.

So when you first notice the messages—subtle at first, just a little too knowing—you don’t think much of it. You’ve been stalked before. Hell, your boyfriend is a stalker if you squint a little. What’s one more weirdo with boundary issues?

But then your inbox gets weird.

The stalker doesn’t ask normal fan questions. They pick apart the details—the parts you shouldn’t know, shouldn’t be able to write about. Things only Ronin would recognize. Things you shouldn’t have access to.

They know too much.

“You think it’s a cop?” you ask one night, lounging on Ronin’s ratty couch while he sharpens one of his knives.

He snorts. “Please. If the cops were that competent, I’d be in cuffs already.” He tilts his head, glancing at you through dark lashes. “You worried, baby?”

Worried? Not exactly. Not when your boyfriend has a body count higher than his IQ.

You shrug. “I can handle it.”

Ronin grins, wolfish and bright. “I know ya can.”

The first time you mention the stalker, Ronin laughs.

You do get it now..

"Aw, c’mon, darling," he drawls over the phone, voice honey-sweet with a razor’s edge. "You’re tellin’ me some pencil-idiot creep thinks they can rattle you? After all we’ve been through? Cute."

He’s not worried—why would he be? You’ve survived him, after all.

To Ronin, there’s no comparison. Some obsessive fan sending you weird, clingy emails and waiting outside your apartment doesn’t rank high on his list of threats. Not when you’ve faced worse and walked away with your heart still beating—his, too, if he’s feeling sentimental.

You’re not worried either. Not really.

You’ve danced with the devil and kissed him in an alley soaked with blood. Some guy with a parasocial complex doesn’t exactly make your skin crawl—not in the way it should. But it’s annoying. Persistent. And starting to piss you off.

At first, it’s small things. A note on your windshield after a signing. Flowers sent to your P.O. box with no return address. Emails signed Your biggest fan that come in the dozens—rambling, incoherent praise. Nothing that feels threatening, not really. Just… there.

You don’t mention it again for weeks. Ronin’s busy, anyway. Uptown’s been keeping him occupied—more bodies in Purgatory, more sinners to crucify. You don’t blame him for being distracted. If anything, you like that he’s got bloodier things on his mind.

Still, when he catches you laughing over a particularly unhinged email, he makes a sound low in his throat. Dangerous. Interested.

"That your little stalker again?"

"Yeah," you say, spinning lazily in your office chair. "Dude thinks we’re soulmates or something. Poor guy has no clue what he’s up against."

"Mm." A pause. His voice dips, velvet-soft. "They better not touch you, baby."

You smile, tilting your head. "What, you gonna rip their heart out for me?"

Ronin chuckles, low and indulgent. "Only if ya let me."

The first time the stalker crosses the line, it’s almost funny. Almost.

You find the package outside your door one night—a plain cardboard box, taped neatly shut. For a second, you think it’s something you ordered. But there’s no address. No label.

Inside is a photograph.

It’s you.

You, sitting at your favorite café last week—head down, lost in thought, writing notes for your next novel. Taken through a window, your face blurred slightly by the glass. Beneath the photo, there’s a single line of text.

"You’re even prettier in person."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, tossing it on the counter.

Ronin doesn’t find it funny.

"You didn’t tell me they were that close," he says when you send him a picture.

"It’s fine," you reply. "They’re harmless. Just desperate."

"Yeah? Let’s see how harmless they are when I wrap my hands ‘round their throat."

His protectiveness is hot—obviously—but you don’t want to wind him up too much. This isn’t his mess to clean. Not yet.

Besides. You can handle yourself.

The next time, they get bolder.

A text pings your phone at 2:47 AM. No number. No name.

I saw you tonight.

You glance toward your window. It’s locked—has been since Ronin waltzed into your life and made paranoia a love language. Still, your skin prickles.

"Still harmless, darling?" Ronin asks the next morning.

You know what he wants—to unleash that wicked temper, to make a statement in blood. It’s sweet, in its own fucked-up way. But you tell him the same thing as always.

"I’ve got it under control."

He hums. Doesn’t argue. But there’s something sharper in his silence.

It escalates three days later.

You’re walking home from a late-night grocery run—plastic bags heavy with cup noodles and the cheap, trashy snacks you practically live on. The city hums around you, neon lights flickering in and out of focus.

And then you feel it.

That creeping sensation of eyes on your back.

You don’t panic. Panic is for people who haven’t kissed a serial killer and walked away grinning. You duck into a side street instead, cutting through a back alley to lose them.

Footsteps follow.

A thrill rolls through your stomach—part fear, part excitement. If this idiot thinks you’re an easy target, they’ve got another thing coming.

"Y’know," you say casually, turning on your heel, "if you wanted an autograph, you could’ve just—"

They lunge.

Wrong move.

Your elbow slams into their ribs before they can touch you. The plastic bags hit the ground, scattering instant ramen everywhere. You twist, slamming your knee into their gut next—hard enough to make them stumble.

The guy isn’t much—skinny, twitchy, desperate. He gasps, scrambling back as you advance, heart hammering with adrenaline.

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you murmur, stepping closer. "Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?"

He doesn’t answer. Just wheezes.

Pity. You were hoping for more of a fight.

Ronin shows up at your apartment less than an hour later, eyes bright with anticipation.

"Where’s my new friend?" he drawls, cracking his knuckles.

You tilt your head toward the bathroom. "Tied up. Not much fun, though."

His grin sharpens. "Fuckin’ knew ya had it in ya, baby."

When he sees the guy—slumped against your shower wall, wrists bound tight—Ronin practically purrs. He crouches low, brushing a blood-specked thumb across the stalker’s cheek, and laughs.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. "Ya really are somethin’ else."

"You’re disappointed I didn’t let you have him first," you tease.

Ronin leans back on his heels, gaze lingering on your face like you’re his favorite kind of crime scene. "Ain’t disappointed. Proud of ya."

It’s the truth—you can feel it in the heat of his stare, the way his smile curves sharper. He’s proud. Because you didn’t need him to save you. Because you’re just as much a monster as he is.

And God, if that doesn’t make him love you more.

By the time Ronin’s finished with the guy, there isn’t much left. Nothing that’ll be missed.

"Y’know," he muses later, lounging on your bed with his bloodied hands behind his head, "if anyone else so much as looks at ya funny, I’m takin’ their eyes as a souvenir."

You roll your eyes, crawling onto the mattress beside him. "Possessive much?"

His smile widens—feral and unrepentant. "Always. Ya like it, don’t lie."

And maybe you do.

Because the devil doesn’t share.

And neither do you.

[xan-izme]

The Eyes: Angel

Summary: He calls you Angel.

TW: Angst, religion, mentions of violence

You hummed to yourself as you scribbled within the lines of a coloring book while on the floor.

"Hey Y/n, what are you coloring?" A teacher kneels down as she stared down at you fondly.

"A cat." You say with a small smile as you showed the teacher your drawing of a blue cat. The teacher couldn't help but smile.

"What a pretty cat. How about you go show your daddy?" The teacher signals to the front door of the daycare. You perk up at the teachers' words, you look up to see a man in a wheelchair. You quickly pushed yourself up from the floor and ran to him with your

"Baba!" You shouted with excitement and a bright joyful smile.

Your father smiled and lifted you up onto his lap.

"Hey Angel." Your father stared down at you with a fond smile despite his tired features. You smiled, all giddy, you always felt happy when he called you ''Angel"

The teacher walked up to the two of you.

"Mr. Sully, about Y/n's papers. . ."

12 years later

"I'm sorry Angel. . . I love you."

You stared at the last recording your father had sent from pandora. Your eyes filled with tears that threatened to fall the more you processed what the RDA was telling along with the recordings your father left.

". . . your father betrayed his own people kid." An RDA officer spoke as he blew an air of smoke into the air.

Your foster mother, Odett Slinger, who is a commander in the RDA, stared at the RDA soldier in disapproval for smoking in front of a child.

The soldier waved the cigarette in his fingers. "Betrayed you."

Those words were your last straw as your burst into tears. Your foster mother was quick to embrace you. "Shhh, it's alright love. It's okay." Her attempts of comfort were not working.

The soldier plopped down a file. Your adaptive mother's brows furrowed as she took the file and opened it. Your adoptive papers.

"Sully never really adopted the kid. The higher ups think it's only reasonable for you to adopt her since. . ." The solder chuckled

"No one will be willing to take in a traitor's kid."

The solders words made you freeze. You looked up at your foster mother with confusion.

"What. . .?" You spoke in a shaky tone.

The solder scoffed almost mockingly. "You didn't know?"

Your foster mother slammed the file on the table.

"Thats enough solder. Your dismissed." Her tone firm and demanding. The solder didn't say anything else and left the room.

Silence settled in the room. Everything was being dumped on you at once you felt like your heart couldn't take it.

"Mama. . ." Your tone was filled with sadness

". . . Sweetie." Your foster mother spoke in a soft gentle tone.

". . . Tell me it's not true." Drops of tears fall onto your skirt as you held your head down. Letting out a small sob

"Tell me this is just a bad dream. . ." You slowly look up at the older woman. And the look in your eyes was heartbreaking.

"Tell me he's coming back. Please." You were begging for a fantasy.

A moment of silence was enough for you to break down sobbing.

This wasn't a bad dream. This was your reality.

3 years later

You were adopted by Odett, the higher ups in the RDA came up with the idea of having you be an RDA trainee. Due to the RDA being in desperate need of soldiers in pandora, you graduated from the academy early and was to be drafted to pandora with Odett in half a year.

You entered a large building, walking between the rows of chairs as you stared ahead where a choir sang hymns, candles lit at the altar. And finally, a large statue of man crucified on a cross. The church was empty. Not many believers during these times

You approached the booth. You entered the booth, took a seat and let out a tired sigh.

You slowly took off the dark thick shades you had on. Revealing the scars over your eyelid and under your eyes. Training accident.

"Father." You spoke firmly as you leaned back a little.

Father Harries smiles as you spoke. But his smile fades slightly. Giving you more of a somber look.

"I assume this will be our last session." Father Harries spoke as he glanced to you, your hands clasped together as you stared at the curtain that separated you from the safety within the booth and the harshness of the outside world.

"They want me out on Pandora. To prove I'm not like Sully." You sighed and shook your head.

"Barely can remember the basterds face yet his name is engraved into my life."

Father Harris hums in acknowledgement. Listening to your rant.

"I've killed people for the RDA, I have done risky missions for them. But all they think of when they see me is, Jake Sully. I hate that man more than anyone." Your reasonably pissed. The unfairness you have been experiencing is a pain.

"Do you really?" Father Harris finally spoke up. Your head turns him.

"What?" Clear confusion.

Father Harris smiles and says, "Forgive each other, Just as Christ in God has forgiven you."

You paused for a moment before sighing in defeat. "Ephesians 4: 32 . . . "

Father Harris gives a satisfied smile. He grabs something and slips it through the hole from the divider that kept you two physically apart.

On Pandora

Jake silently stares at a coloring of a blue cat. It's true he has practically forgotten his life back on earth. But there are two things he has never forgotten from his past life.

War.

And his little Angel. He wonders how you're doing. He hopes you're okay, healthy. He hopes you found someone who will love you as much as he did. But he honestly doubts any man will care for and love you like he does.

But most of all, he prays to Eywa that you still love him. He will understand if you hate him for abandoning you, but he likes to believe that you might still love him.

After having kids with Neytiri, Jake would always see you in his oldest son Neteyam. There would be days he spaces out, thinking about you. Or the nights he would wake up from a nightmare of the RDA getting to you, hurting you in any way. Even crying a few times where Neytiri had to sooth him.

And there are times he pretends. Pretends that you're on Pandora. That he could walk in the lab and see you watching over your siblings as they goof around.

Pretends that when he lands his Ikran, you'll be running up to him wanting to show him anything you drew. You were always a good drawer.

But that was all pretend. And that this was his reality.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---

This series will be similar to my one-shot Bad Guy

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales II

Summary: Princess!Reader makes a deal with the Emperor to try and save her mates.

Content Warnings: Violence, Blood and Gore, Gladiator Tournament, Physical Abuse.

Part One

---------------------------------

I can’t breathe. The world spins in dizzying swirls around me. Mates.

Not one.

Not two.

Three!

All of them enemies of the Empire. Rebels scheduled for execution. Fate has always been a cruel bastard in all matters concerning me, but this feels like a personal attack on my existence. Someone in the Celestial Plain is laughing at this twisted attempt of a joke. How could I be so close to happiness and be forced to sit here and watch it be ripped from me one blood splatter at a time?

The Game Maker starts speaking again, his voice booming across the arena. I can’t make out any of the words; they’re all muddled together in my ears. This cannot be happening to me! It’s not fair! I’ve been the perfect daughter, even when it shattered me; I was a model student; I’ve upheld the law to the very letter; I make weekly sacrifices to the Mother; I built my own lararium to offer nightly prayers to the gods. I have been devought and loyal to both the gods and the Empire and this is the thanks I get?

I can’t tear my eyes away from where the three of them stand in the center of the Pit, waiting for the gates to open again. The violet eyed one, Rhysand-- gods even his name is pretty--won’t stop staring at my Father, challenging him to speak, to fight, to do something other than sit there like a coward while someone else kills for him. 

My Father must understand the challenge in that gaze, because he finally stands and goes to the edge of the booth, weathered hands splayed out against the worn stones bearing a flag with his crest embroidered upon it. “Citizens of the Empire!”

The crowd gives a raucous shout.

I simply scoot a little closer to Brannagh to be able to see around Father.

My movements do not break the silent battle happening with Rhysand, but it does draw the eye of Azriel, who’s bloodied head tilts to the side quizzically as he takes me in. I feel a blush creep its way up my cheeks, the booth suddenly too hot as I try to meet his gaze. That hazel gaze bears an intensity that keeps me in place, but I cannot help but feel like I’ve been stripped bare, as if he can see straight into my chest, where my heart still pounds an uneven beat. 

“Before you stands that which threatens our peace, our security, and most importantly the prosperity that our people hold so dear.”

The tall one, Cassian frowns at that, but Rhysand grins, as if he has won whatever silent battle he’s been having with my Father. He tips his head back and bellows, so that not a single soul here misses it, “There is no prosperity or peace in the Empire! There is only enslavement and death!”

The boos that had started coming from the crowd die, as if someone had collectively cut off their air supply. 

The muscles in my Father’s back tighten as he realizes what is happening.

“Outside these walls we all starve! Supplies to every corner of the Empire have dwindled to single bags of grain, meant only to feed the soldiers that terrorize us in every corner of the world. You do not hear from your families in the far reaches because your mail is censored. Your loved ones have been dragged from their beds and crucified without trial. The only prosperity in this Empire is for Hybern himself.”

I finally tear my gaze away from Azriel’s silent study to look at Amarantha for confirmation that it is true. 

“You should have slit his throat on the battlefield,” Dagdan snarls in her direction. 

The power seeping from my fingers tears a hole through my skirts, singing across my thighs. The errant strand only hidden by the way I keep the fabric bunched in my hands. I do not allow myself to wince against the sting and give myself away.

“Those were not my orders!” Amarantha snarls, her teeth flashing as she stands. Her slaves jump out of her way, cowering against each other for safety. “Your Highness, silence him before he incites a riot!”

No! No! No! This can’t be happening to me! Not again. It is like watching my Mother be taken away all over again. I had just stood there. Unable to cry or scream or fight. I could only watch. That was what she trained me to do. She had even nodded her approval to my stillness as they’d dragged her away, as if it had been right. None of it was right. None of this was right!

“Your Master will tell you pretty stories but we are all his slaves in the end. Illyria has had enough! We will not sit by and let our women and children starve! If that makes us rebels and traitors to the crown, so be it! But what would you do if it was your children in the streets? Your wives being carted off to service foreign elites? Your sons forced to kill and die for an Empire that can’t even feed you?” Rhysand screams.

My Father, silently, motions to one of his Praetorians, a crossbow already swinging from the clip at his back. 

The pounding of my heart in my ears will swallow me. Everything in the world slows and narrows into the motion of an arrow being fit into the crossbow.

Move! Move! Move! A dark ether of my power slithers up my wrists, catching Brannagh’s attention. She must make some snide remark about it, because I, distantly, see her lips move but no sound ever reaches my ears. I have to stop this. I have to do something!

I’m on my feet without conscious thought of what I’m doing. “Father, wait!” My hands reach for him, the sizzle of pain as my power skitters across his skin enough to make him turn and face me. I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I’m saying, the words spew as if they have a mind of their own.

“If you kill him now like this you will incite a riot!”

His face twists, a snarl slipping past his clenched teeth. I have royally pissed him off, disgraced him here in front of his Inner Circle, where they watch from nearby booths. The thought would usually send me cowering like a dog with its tail between its legs, but the fear I feel for him is nothing against the fear I feel for them. The thing that links our souls together burns and rattles beneath my rib cage, needing to defend, to fight.

“Call off your guard!” I hiss, reaching out a hand and letting that dark power that lives inside me show. I’ll strike him dead if he so much as moves a finger towards the trigger. “Let us be diplomatic about this.”

“Who are you,” Father snarls, taking an advancing step towards me. The booth shakes as his own dark power rises to meet mine. “To challenge me, child?!”

I hold my ground, even though my body trembles. It is only the dutiful teachings of my Mother that keep my chin up instead of bowing it to my chest as every muscle screams for me to do. “I am not challenging you, I am trying to think about our people.”

I clench my fists again, dimming my power in feigned submission. “Go about this a different way. Show the people that ruthlessness is not always the answer to our nation’s problems.”

“Are you suggesting I spare an enemy?” Father snarls.

I honestly don’t know what my plan is here. I’m just throwing things against the wall and hoping something, anything, sticks, otherwise my only option is to fling myself down into the Pit and hope the power thrumming in my veins is enough to save my mates.

“No,” if I am to keep all of our heads, I must be crafty. I must play the games my Father plays. My gaze flicks to where Amarantha’s slaves remain huddled together, a desperate thought forming in my head. My stomach turns at the mere idea, but if it can save them…?

“You mean to entertain the people and quell all possible chances of further rebellion, but we have seen time and time again that no execution or crucifixion has done that. We merely make martyr after martyr. We encourage others to take up the cause.”

“Let them fight,” I’m going to be sick! It feels like there’s a knot forming in my chest. “And if they survive, let them live, let them be gladiators.” It’s unthinkable, it puts them in danger time and time again. “The betting will be astronomical. The people will return time and time again in hopes of seeing them fall. That money can provide support to the edges of the Empire. Prove him wrong by sending extra aid to those outside our walls.”

To his credit, my Father does listen to me ramble. The Mother has smiled on me for once, if he had been in one of his fits today he would have had Amarantha kill me where I stood. It is a miracle the Praetorian didn’t take me out for wielding so close to him in the first place.

 “And you would have them what? Live in the slave quarters where they can incite a riot with all the dregs?” Amarantha hisses.

I’ll lose him if I let her forked tongue keep whispering in his ear. I am not blind, I know that she has more favor with him than I ever have. “No. Leaving them free to whisper with the other gladiators would be a mistake. Let someone claim responsibility for them.” 

The plan forms in my mind as I speak. I don’t like it. I’m not sure that it’ll even work, but I have to try and save them. I cannot let them die while I stand here uselessly watching as I did with my Mother. I will never be useless or silent again. “Give them to me.”

Brannagh chokes on her wine behind me.

Amarantha’s jaw actually drops in shock.

“I will take responsibility for them. They will be monitored by my guard. To our people it will look  like you mean to humiliate three great warriors, by shackling them to me. It is no secret what our people think of me.”

Dagdan’s snort is proof enough how weak I look in the eyes of our people. I am nothing but a sheltered, pampered princess to them. Up until today they didn’t even know that I’d inherited my Father’s powers. Good, let them all think me weak and useless and meek, they will never know the claws and fangs that hide beneath my skin until it is too late. Father included.

“She is not strong enough to keep them in check,” Amarantha hisses. “If you are to do it, give them to me.”

I barely reign in my powers, barely keep my teeth behind my lips. They are mine and I will be damned before I let her put her grubby little paws on them! 

“You may monitor them as often or as random as you wish, Father,” I speak over her instead, fighting to keep his attention. “I will move back into the Palace. I will sit in every meeting. I…” There is one sure thing that will guarantee his approval of this awful plan of mine. “I will marry whoever you choose for me.”

His dark brows raise in surprise. “And what would prompt this sudden loyalty to me, child?”

I raise my chin. “I have sat too long in the dark, and I could not see it until…” I have already bartered my soul, what will some more empty words mean in the end? “I could not see it until you removed that traitor and her poisoned tongue from the house. I see it now. I have failed our people and I mean to make it right.”

He flicks his gaze over his shoulder, down into the Pit. “The gorsian stone should keep Rhysand in line. And with enough guards, you might be able to keep them locked up. If they should survive the fight.”

“Sometimes death is a mercy,” I say, the words tasting like bile. 

He takes a step closer, so we’re nearly nose to nose. “And if you fail to keep them in line, it will be you that dies in this arena, do you understand?”

Better me than them. 

“You cannot be serious, Your Highness!” Amarantha squeaks, her voice shrill.

I nod, trying not to gloat in my victory over her. “I understand.”

Father grins, pleased with himself as he snags my hand and brings me back into view of the arena. “Please forgive the delay, the Princess and I were just discussing what our guests had to say about the state of our Empire.”

I feel three sets of eyes settle on me like a brand. The bond, still so new and raw in my chest, feels like chains rattling against my ribcage. I cannot tell if it is their anxiety or my own. 

“Let it be known that this Empire is a democracy, and that I, as your Emperor, care about the state of affairs that all of our people live in.”

 I try to meet the gaze of the senators and highly decorated soldiers sitting in the booths that line the upper ring of the arena. These will be the most upset by the news. The next ring of wealthy merchants and shopkeepers, tradesmen and fleet keeps will be the ones that take what they hear here back to the streets. Word will spread. The people will know what happened here, how the Emperor suddenly decided to care about them. It will be a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

I try to not look down at the Pit; try not to think about the life I’m condemning them to. 

“Our beloved Princess is very concerned about your well-being,” Father continues and there’s a collective cheer from the lower levels. “And so, we have decided not to execute these rebels today.”

The tone immediately shifts to one of confusion.

“They will compete as gladiators. Should they prove resourceful enough to survive, they will be branded as gladiators, and sponsored by our Princess.” Great, not only do they have to survive the damned arena, they have to survive any threats from other gladiators who will seek to take out well-sponsored competition. 

Even from our vantage point I hear Cassian curse in disbelief. 

“She has so graciously decided that all their winnings will be sent to any hurting corners of the Empire, should there be any to be found.”

The crowd takes a moment to process what he says. It even takes me a minute to comprehend the last part. He’d really send all the money that I’d earn as their sponsor to the poor? That’s a hefty bit of charity, even for him. There has to be some sort of catch?

“So, let these males fight! Let’s see how far they are willing to go for their people.”

There it is. They could choose to sit down and die in the arena, making themselves martyrs as Amarantha thinks they intended, and then, instead, they would look like they were not willing to make sacrifices for their people. If they fought, competed for whatever earnings were bet on them, then they would be heroes. A symbol of strength only the great Emperor Hybern could make. Father really is the best at these political games.

The crowd roars as trumpets blow three times.

Father motions me back to our seats.

“You don’t really think they can win, do you, cousin?” Dagdan questions.

The ground shakes as a giant strolls out of the tunnels. The creature is so large he has to bend over nearly double to fit. When he stands to his full height, his bald head is practically even with the edge of our booth. Terrible scars crisscross over his body like spiderwebs. Hybern went to war first with the land of Giants, the war had lasted decades. My Grandfather had taken many giants as slaves and forced them to kill each other in this arena. Some gladiators were able to earn their freedom, but the devastation that the Giants had wrought on our people made my Grandfather declare that no Giant could ever be made free. The poor creature had probably been chained here, fighting in the Pit long before I was even born.

“They survived Amarantha,” I retort.

The General bristles. “I thought you didn’t place bets on the first day?”

I reach for another glass of wine, trying to settle my nerves. “There’s a first time for everything.” Perhaps making an enemy out of her is unwise, but the bond chafes against my ribcage at the thought of her being anywhere near any of them. Better to keep her attention on me than on them. 

Another horn blows, prompting the giant to move and I hold my breath as he reaches a meaty hand down to grab one of the Illyrians. The males scatter, Cassian going into a roll between the Giant’s legs, using the blind spot to his advantage while Rhysand drags Azriel out of the way with an arm around his waist. He’s practically carrying Azriel now, who’s broken wings seem to be getting heavier by the minute. 

Cassian roars as he stretches out a hand, a wave of red tinted energy blasting from his palm. The arch or power slams into the Giant’s calf, blasting away a chunk of skin and muscle, splattering blood across the nearest wall. 

The Giant roars as he falls to one knee.

Cassian sprints behind him, out of reach of the hand that comes sweeping down at him. This time, he’s the distraction as Rhysand uses the hand not holding Azriel upright to unleash a blast of dark, obsidian power. 

My own magic flares in response. It is a darkness so like my own, the sight of it a siren call that has me leaning forward in my seat. If he can unleash a blast powerful enough to leave a gash across the Giant’s bare chest with those gorsian chains around his neck, how much damage can he do without it?

The Giant’s cries of pain echo throughout the amphitheater; using the distraction, Cassian continues to blast away at it’s leg while Rhys throws blow after blow at it’s chest. They fair far better than I anticipated they would, but I know better than to let hope get the better of me. It is far too easily ripped away in this arena. 

As if on cue, the gates open again and a pack of wargs come sprinting into the arena.

The crowd erupts in cheers, and my heart once again thunders in my chest. What have I done? It takes all my training to not start chewing on my thumbnail. How am I supposed to save them from this?

Amarantha claps gleefully as one of the wargs breaks away from the pack to lunge straight for Azriel’s throat. 

No! No! No- Azriel raises a scarred hand to blast the beast backward with a wave of blue tinted magic. There isn’t enough time to sigh in relief, not as the rest of the pack splits in two, one circling Rhysand and Azriel, the other taking a shot at the Giant. Those rows of razor sharp and needle thin teeth sink into the Giant’s already bleeding leg, momentarily distracting it as it swings wildly around the arena, arms pinwheeling as it fights to balance on one leg while the other flails in an attempt to shake the beasts off. 

“They’re not supposed to attack the Giant!” Brannagh whines. 

I gulp down my wine, hoping it will push the wave of nausea that rolls through me down. I’ve signed their death warrants. I’ve gotten my mates killed. 

Cassian, in the chaos, has managed to find half of a spear, the blade rusted from the recent rain, but he hurls it with acute precision nonetheless, piercing through the oddly shaped skull of a warg snapping at Azriel’s wings. 

Rhysand and Azriel have moved to stand back to back, their varying shades of magic weaving between their fingers as they prepare to strike the snapping beasts that circle them. 

The Giant topples over as the three wargs held tight to it’s wounded calf find a nerve. There’s not enough room in the arena to let him fall without incident. The poor creature topples right into the wall opposite us, knocking away a section of stone and nearly dragging a Senator and his mistress into the Pit.

The Praetorians launch from our booth to aid the screaming couple.

It might have been funny under different circumstances, but I cannot peel my eyes away from my mates as the blast beast after beast away with their magic. Even wounded, even stunted by the chains, they are the most powerful wielders I’ve ever seen. Even if Cassian’s and Azriel’s magic sprays with less precision than usual without the siphons Illyrians are known for, every blow is calculated. They do not miss. Warg after warg falls, their leathery skin blistered or blasted away from multiple blows. Even wounded, the males remain in perfect sync, filling in any gaps the other might lack. They manage to kill five of the eight beasts, the other three still mercilessly tearing through the Giant’s leg, even as the guards try to push him off the wall.

Brannagh laughs at the tears that fall from the Giant’s eyes as he swats uselessly at the beasts. No matter how many times his massive fists slams against them, they will not let go. His blood runs like a river through the center of the Pit.

Many of the crowd laugh too.

These are my people? This is what I am to inherit? This misery and suffering and apathy towards the suffering of others? We are monsters!

As soon as I can get my mates out of this godsforsaken Pit, I will find a way to get them far, far away from this place, where it can never hurt them again. And then, when I know they are safe, I will make sure that this place burns.

Rhysand seems to take pity on his opponent, as he steps away from Azriel’s back to blast one of the remaining wargs off the Giant’s calf. From the distance across the arena, the blow is not a killing one, and aggravated, the warg turns its attack to Rhysand.

My breath hitches in my throat as he lowers himself into a crouch, hands splaying in the damp earth. There is a sword a couple feet from him, if he runs, he might make it there first. But he doesn’t run, he waits until the beast gets close before hurling dust in it’s eyes. While it’s distracted, a rope of star studded magic unfurls from his palm and wraps around the beast’s throat. Instead of killing it, he hurls it back at the others, knocking all of them free from the Giant’s leg.

The crowd boos.

My heart clenches in my chest. He could have let them end this fight now, could have let those beasts tear clean through the Giant’s leg and won by default, but he didn’t. He chose to fight fair, to do the dirty work himself.

The three beasts turn on him as he sprints for the sword. There’s just enough time for him to get a firm grip on the hilt before the first lunges, its claws tearing through his forearm as he fights to get the angle he needs to win. Blood splatters, those handsome features twisting in pain as he adjusts his stance. Cassian runs towards him, but he won’t make it in time. 

There’s no more wine to distract me, I’ve fully bitten through my lip now. Please if there are any gods left to hear me, don’t let him die here!

Rhysand moves with the grace of a well-practiced swordsman, each step flowing into the next like a dance as he cleaves through one beast's head, and severs the paw of a second. In mere seconds, he manages to dispatch the rest, leaving the mangled bodies at his feet. His chest heaves as he fights to catch his breath and under different circumstances I might have been too distracted by his beauty to notice the Giant move. 

Rhysand might have been the better male, but that didn’t save him from the Giant’s hand as it swatted him across the battlefield like he was a pesky fly. I bite deeper through my lip to keep back a scream as his body bounces across the muddy floor until he meets a wall. 

Cassian and Azriel roar in outrage and the tether that sits in my chest rattles so hard against my rib cage I think it might rip right out of me. This can’t be happening!

The Giant rises on shaking legs, then falls back onto its knees, using its meaty fists to bash against the arena floor, in what looks like the world’s deadliest game of Whack-A-Mole. Red and blue magic flashes across the arena as the Illyrian’s throw blow after blow, leaving bleeding gashes in the Giant’s fist. Across the arena, Rhysand rolls onto his back, forehead covered in blood as he struggles to get upright. He’s alive at least. Barely. But alive.

I vow to the Mother and any other god that can hear me that if they survive the fight I will find somewhere safe for them. I will do whatever it takes to keep them out of this arena for good. 

“They are persistent, I’ll give them that,” Dagdan muses. 

I feel rather than see my Father’s frown as he takes in all the chaos with the experience of a seasoned strategist. I know that he is calculating their odds, mapping out every possible outcome. I wonder if Cassian launching into the air, wings beating so hard to get him airborne that I feel a gust of hot air on my face, was part of his calculations? If he could have foreseen the blast of energy Cassian’s hurls into the Giant’s eyes, blinding him?

The Giant abandons his attempts at smashing them to grab at his eyes, large hands clawing at his sizzling flesh. The whole arena can smell burnt skin, but Cassian doesn’t let up, he aims blow after blow at the Giant’s head, until he finally falls over backwards, neck slamming hard against the already broken stone.

I look away, stomach in my throat as the resounding crack fills the amphitheater. 

The crowd roars in disbelief as Cassian tucks in his wings and descends back into the Pit. He hits the ground running, footfalls heavy in the mud as he rushes to Rhysand’s side. Azriel is not far behind him. With their combined strength, they manage to get Rhysand back on his feet. 

I pinch myself to make sure I’m awake. They’re alive!

Father stands and makes his way to the edge of the booth again. “For whatever reason, the Goddess has smiled upon you three today! Today, you will live. Let us hope you remain in Her favor.” He doesn’t sound super thrilled by the prospect as he turns his back to the crowd, slate gray eyes pinched as they fall to me.

“Walk with me.”

I stand, trying to keep my singed skirts in my hands so he cannot see the damage I’d done. Or the blood from my palms. If he suspects I was at all nervous for the outcome, I could ruin everything. I must keep my composure.

And not run down the stairs to the gates and throw myself at my mates like every fiber of my being screams at me to do. 

The guards follow as we exit the booth. In moments there will be chaos as beings scatter to find the Games Keepers and collect their winnings, or pay their debts, but for a moment, the crowd lingers in their seats, watching as the Illyrians are led out of the Pit.

“You embarrassed us today,” he hisses once we’re out of Amarantha’s earshot. The anger in his tone is enough to make me try and take a step away from him, but he throws an arm around my shoulders to keep me against his side. To any onlookers, we are just father and daughter having a chat. His voice is low enough that no one will hear the threats he hisses in my ear.

“You hide away in the River House for months, mourning a traitor who was plotting to overthrow me and now you make a spectacle of yourself! I should have you cast out into the streets!”

My only way out is to placate him. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Sorry,” he snarls, fingers digging tight enough into my shoulder to bruise. “Your apologies mean nothing! I swear, if you do not do everything you promised to do today, I will throw you into this arena! And I will use your own advice to keep you alive long enough to ensure you have a couple matches to prolong your suffering.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I meant what I said, Father.” Mostly. Perhaps I can secure passage for all of us out of here and we never have to think about the Empire again. The more I think about it, the more pleased I am with the idea. Yes, I just need to make it look like I am taking them as slaves, and once we’re out from the watchful eye of my Father, we can all run far, far away. Maybe I am more clever than I thought.

He leads us down the steps to a door that will eventually lead us to the gladiator cages and a guard swings open the heavy iron for us. Once we’re out from under the eye of the people, the rough stone walls closing in tight--a means to ensure none of the larger gladiators can make a run for the door and escape--he releases his grip on me. 

Torches line the walls casting his face in near shadow as he pauses at the bottom of a second, smaller, set of stairs. I shiver despite myself as the door slams shut, sealing me in. I suppose at this point I should be prepared, but I’m not, and when his open hand slams across my cheek I lose my balance and slip down the last two steps of the staircase. 

“Don’t ever question me again!” He hisses.

The guards pretend to not notice, as they always have.

I grit my teeth against the ringing in my ears, against the hot tears that threaten to escape me, focusing instead on carefully getting back on my feet. Stay down too long he’ll kick in my ribs like he used to when I was a child. Get up too fast and he’ll assume he hadn’t hit me hard enough. I put over emphasis into finding a handhold in the wall, making sure I keep my stinging cheek against my shoulder. The tremor in my hands is not feigned fear, I’ve been terrified of him my entire life, but I do exaggerate it just as my Mother taught me. 

“Spoiled brat!” He grumbles as he stalks forward into the tunnel. “I coddled you too much.”

I glare at his back once I’m sure he’s no longer looking at me. I hate him! I’ve hated him my entire fucking life. He’s ruined everything. Taken everything from me. Everything I’d ever loved he’d wiped off the face of the earth, all because I had the misfortune of being a female. All because he couldn’t have a precious son.

I grit my teeth so hard they hurt as I brush my skirts off and follow after him. I will be glad when I am finally out of his sight. Far, far away from this stupid Empire. At least I have mates; someone out in this Mother forsaken world who will care about me; who won’t hate me just for existing. At least there is one thing he can’t ruin for me.

I am too distracted with my thoughts to note the paths we take. I distantly hear the sound of injured men groaning, catch a whiff of filth and animal waste, but it’s all a blur. This will all be a bad dream soon. Soon I will have my mates and I will never have to deal with him again. I can be happy. I will be happy.

By the time he finally stops walking, I’ve schooled my features into a perfect mask; have brushed a few loose strands of hair in front of my face to hide the red mark across my cheek. He will suspect nothing until it is too late. Then he can have his precious Empire. It will be the only thing left he can control.

A guard opens what looks like a cage door, the iron old and rusted, and the guards that have been trailing behind us step in first.

“Against the wall!” They bark. 

There’s no light in the cell, just the flickering of the torch on the wall behind us. I don’t know what to expect.

“Fuck you, Imperial Pig!” Cassian.

I bite my tongue to keep back the grin that threatens to escape me, my mask slipping. He’s not so hurt that he can’t put up a fight. The thought warms something in my chest. Headstrong, stubborn, if the sound of scuffling coming from inside the dark cell is anything to go by, and sarcastic--everything I need to counter my reserved nature. I need that energy. I need him. The surety of that makes me square my shoulders. 

“Easy, Cass.” Rhysand. His voice is smooth as silk, even if the words are a little slurred. “We don’t want trouble.”

“The fuck we don’t!” Cassian shouts. “I’m no one’s fucking pet!”

The guard at the door, once sure the others inside are secure, steps away to grab the torch off its perch in the hallway, and sets it into an old rung on the inside of the cell, bathing the room in its soft glow. 

Father steps in first.

For a moment, I hesitate, heart in my throat. I need them. I need that strength I saw in the arena. Need that fire Cassian spews. The surety that Rhysand carries himself with. I need them. And if I show any sign of that, they're dead.

The guard, now back at the door, eyes me quizzically.

I draw a shaky breath and school my features back into a perfectly bored mask. 

I can do this.

I will do this.

I won’t let Hybern take anything else from me, no matter the games I have to play. 

I tell it to myself over and over as I step into the cell.

----------------

Taglist: @hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd,

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! =)

[thethronezone]

High Consort Pt. 3

Like mentioned in previous parts, you have a Custodi bodyguard. But you also have a whole guard of Custodes assigned to guard you, on orders of the Emperor of course. Your Custodi bodyguard just so happens to be the captain of this guard and the one that's always directly by your side. Because of this, you are quite close. So what if they work for your husband? So does every other bitch in the Imperium!

Whenever the Emperor leaves for the Great Crusade, it's up to you and Malcador to hold down the fort and make sure that everyone stay in line, both on Terra and beyond. You especially are seen as an extension of the Emperor and his will. This means a lot of public appearances on your part, with you flanked by your personal guard. Your presence reminds people that while the Emperor may be off planet and busy elsewhere, he is still aware of everything that's going on.

Because of this, you rarely leave Terra, or at least the star system. You might visit Luna or Mars every now and then but it's very rare that you venture to another part of the galaxy. You are needed where you are, providing a sense of stability in the heart of the Imperium.

Some people (mostly nobles) believe that, just cause you're not an incredibly buff, 4 meter tall, armored super-psyker that you are for some reason easier deal with, easier to push around. WRONG. You are both equally as terrible, sorry not sorry. The Emperor is unapproachable and straight up railroads every conversation while you just don't give a shit. You are older than most noble's bloodlines, at some point their rules just stop applying to you. The one big difference between you and Big E is that you at least try to act like a normal person, he doesn't, so people just find it easier to approach you.

There's also a belief that since you are HIGH Consort, that the Emperor is open to getting more consorts/concubines. At first this assumption was funny, the two of you had a good laugh about it. Then people kept trying to marry off their family members to him, accosting him at events, sending letters and some downright begging on their knees for him to accept one of their sons of daughters. Then only you were laughing. And Malcador, of course. He also found it all very funny.

Sometimes, when people want something from the Emperor or want to meet him, they try to get through you first. Butter you up so that you will put in a few good words for them to your husband. You might humor them for a short while, pretending to be as shallow as they appear to think you are, but the moment they no longer amuse you or step out of line you'll give your Custodi bodyguard a look that they know well. It means "I am tired of their chatter, remove them from my presence and if they ever try to approach me again, don't let them." You might be immortal but you won't waste your time on people you don't like.

A family can be a super-human psyker, his consort, their unmarried friend, their 10 000 strong personal army, their 20 18 super-human children and their respective super-soldier legions.

Half the Primarchs look at your and the Emperor's marriage and go "aww, so that's what true love looks like" and the other half goes "why haven't you DIVORCED this man yet?" Mortarion, Angron, and Perturabo full on believe you have Stockholm Syndrome or something.

Meanwhile, Lorgar, Horus and Lion think this is the perfect marriage, like, this is what everyone should strive for. Lorgar has written sermons about it and called it the "most divine and holy union in the galaxy". Would threaten to crucify himself if you and the Emperor ever separated. His legion would join him in solidarity. This is a hostage situation.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Quotes from "Executed Jews" I want to especially highlight:

Two distinct patterns of antisemitism can be identified by the Jewish holidays that celebrate triumphs over them: Purim and Hanukkah. In the Purim version of antisemitism, exemplified by the Persian genocidal decrees in the biblical Book of Esther, the goal is openly stated and unambiguous: Kill all the Jews. In the Hanukkah version of antisemitism, whose appearances range from the Spanish Inquisition to the Soviet regime, the goal is still to eliminate Jewish civilization. But in the Hanukkah version, this goal could theoretically be accomplished simply by destroying Jewish civilization, while leaving the warm, de-Jewed bodies of its former practitioners intact.

For this reason, the Hanukkah version of antisemitism often employs Jews as its agents. It requires not dead Jews but cool Jews: those willing to give up whatever specific aspect of Jewish civilization is currently uncool. Of course, Judaism has always been uncool, going back to its origins as the planet's only monotheism, featuring a bossy and unsexy invisible God. Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism's brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening — and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism's success. These "converted" Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime — which of course isn't antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered. For a few years. Maybe.

I wish I could tell the story of Ala's father concisely, compellingly, the way everyone prefers to hear about dead Jews. I regret to say that Benjamin Zuskin wasn't minding his own business and then randomly stuffed into a gas chamber, that his thirteen-year-old daughter did not sit in a closet writing an uplifting diary about the inherent goodness of humanity, that he did not leave behind sad-but-beautiful aphorisms pondering the absence of God while conveniently letting his fellow humans off the hook. He didn't even get crucified for his beliefs. Instead, he and his fellow Soviet Jewish artists — extraordinarily intelligent, creative, talented, and empathetic adults — were played for fools, falling into a slow-motion psychological horror story brimming with suspense and twisted self-blame. They were lured into a long game of appeasing and accommodating, giving up one inch after another of who they were in order to win that grand prize of being allowed to live.

Spoiler alert: they lost.

[...]

But Soviet support for Jewish culture was part of a larger plan to brainwash and coerce national minorities into submitting to the Soviet regime — and for Jews, it came at a very specific price. From the beginning, the regime eliminated anything that celebrated Jewish "nationality" that didn't suit its needs. Jews were awesome, provided they weren't practicing Jewish religion, studying traditional Jewish texts, using Hebrew, or supporting Zionism. The Soviet Union thus pioneered a versatile gaslighting slogan, which it later spread through its client states in the developing world and which remains popular today: it was not antisemitic, merely anti-Zionist. (In the process of not being antisemitic and merely being anti-Zionist, the regime managed to persecute, imprison, torture, and murder thousands of Jews.) What's left of Jewish culture once you surgically remove religious practice, traditional texts, Hebrew, and Zionism? In the Soviet Empire, one answer was Yiddish, but Yiddish was also suspect for its supposedly backwards elements. Nearly 15 percent of its words came directly from biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, so Soviet Yiddish schools and publishers, under the guise of "simplifying" spelling, implemented a new and quite literally antisemitic spelling system that eliminated those words' Near Eastern roots. Another answer was "folklore" — music, visual art, theater, and other creative work reflecting Jewish life — but of course most of that cultural material was also deeply rooted in biblical and rabbinic sources, or reflected common religious practices like Jewish holidays and customs, so that was treacherous too.

No, what the regime required were Yiddish stories that showed how horrible traditional Jewish practice was, stories in which happy, enlightened Yiddish-speaking heroes rejected both religion and Zionism (which, aside from its modern political form, is also a fundamental feature of ancient Jewish texts and prayers traditionally recited at least three times daily). This de-Jewing process is clear from the repertoire of the government-sponsored Moscow State Yiddish Theater, which could only present or adapt Yiddish plays that denounced traditional Judaism as backward, bourgeois, corrupt, or even more explicitly — as in the many productions involving ghosts or graveyard scenes — as dead. As its actors would be, soon enough.

The Soviet Union's destruction of Jewish culture commenced, in a calculated move, with Jews positioned as the destroyers. It began with the Yevsektsiya, committees of Jewish Bolsheviks whose paid government jobs from 1918 through 1930 were to persecute, imprison, and occasionally murder Jews who participated in religious or Zionist institutions — categories that included everything from synagogues to sports clubs, all of which were shut down and their leaders either exiled or "purged." This went on, of course, until the regime purged the Yevsektsiya members themselves.

The pattern repeated in the 1940s. As sordid as the Yeveksiya chapter was, I found myself more intrigued by the undoing of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, a board of prominent Soviet Jewish artists and intellectuals established by Joseph Stalin in 1942 to drum up financial support from Jews overseas for the Soviet war effort. Two of the more prominent names on the JAC's roster of talent were Solomon Mikhoels, the director of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater, and Ala's father Benjamin Zuskin, the theater's leading actor. After promoting these people during the war, Stalin decided these loyal Soviet Jews were no longer useful, and charged them all with treason. He had decided that this committee he himself created was in fact a secret Zionist cabal, designed to bring down the Soviet state. Mikhoels was murdered first, in a 1948 hit staged to look like a traffic accident. Nearly all the others — Zuskin and twelve more Jewish luminaries, including the novelist Dovid Bergelson, who had proclaimed Moscow as the center of the Yiddish future — were executed by firing squad on August 1952.

Just as the regime accused these Jewish artists and intellectuals of being too "nationalist" (read: Jewish), today's long hindsight makes it strangely tempting to read this history and accuse them of not being "nationalist" enough — that is, of being so foolishly committed to the Soviet regime that they were unable to see the writing on the wall. Many works on this subject have said as much. In Stalin's Secret Pogrom, the indispensable English translation of transcripts from the JAC "trial," Russia scholar Joshua Rubenstein concludes his lengthy introduction with the following:

As for the defendants at the trial, it is not clear what they believed about the system they each served. Their lives darkly embodied the tragedy of Soviet Jewry. A combination of revolutionary commitment and naive idealism had tied them to a system they could not renounce. Whatever doubts or misgivings they had, they kept to themselves, and served the Kremlin with the required enthusiasm. They were not dissidents. They were Jewish martyrs. They were also Soviet patriots. Stalin repaid their loyalty by destroying them.

This is completely true, and also completely unfair. The tragedy — even the term seems unjust, with its implied blaming of the victim — was not that these Soviet Jews sold their souls to the devil, though many clearly did. The tragedy was that integrity was never an option in the first place.

[...]

In Jerusalem that morning, Ala told me, in a sudden private moment of anger and candor, that the Soviet Union's treatment of the Jews was worse than Nazi Germany's. I tried to argue, but she shut me up. Obviously the Nazi atrocities against Jews were incomparable, a fact Ala later acknowledged in a calmer mood. But over four generations, the Soviet regime forced Jews to participate in and internalize their own humiliation - and in that way, Ala suggested, they destroyed far more souls. And they never, ever, paid for it.

"They never had a Nuremberg," Ala told me that day, with a quiet fury. "They never acknowledged the evil of what they did. The Nazis were open about what they were doing, but the Soviets pretended. They lured the Jews in, they baited them with support and recognition, they used them, they tricked them, and then they killed them. It was a trap. And no one knows about it, even now. People know about the Holocaust, but not this. Even here in Israel, people don't know. How did you know?"

— Excerpted from "Executed Jews," Chapter 4 of People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

(All emphasis mine)

Read the full chapter here.

[orion-archives]

For the ask meme- all the questions for Bayverse Sentinel please

AAAAAAA–

Sorry for the late response, this took a while:

1. Canon I outright reject

I don’t think I have any. I really like how his character is.

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

He wanted to bring Cybertron not because it was his home or because he loved it like Optimus or Megatron. He wanted to bring Cybertron back because he was adored and worshiped like a god there. On Earth, while he was still a leader and well-respected by the Autobots, he wasn’t looked by humans like a god or even a king.

He was just another machine.

And he didn’t like that.

3. Obscure headcanon

He’s Megatron and Optimus’ biological dad.

4. Favorite line

“We were gods once, all of us! But here there will only be one!”

5. Best personality trait

His intelligence and how he can appear so kind when he wants (if I didn’t know better, I would trust him with my life and to gently hold me)

6. Worst personality trait

His massive ego.

7. Age/height/weight headcanon

Age: He’s older than Megatron and Optimus but not the same age as, for example, The Fallen (that mf is A N C I E N T)

Height: Taking Megatron’s canon height in consideration, I hc Sentinel is 33 feet or around 10 meters (slightly shorter than Megatron [I hc Megatron unconsciously lowers his body to appear smaller or the same height around Sentinel until he snaps] and taller than Optimus)

Weight: No idea, I suck at guessing/making weights.

8. Unpopular opinion about them

He was never in the right, he was not a hero. Just because humanity later turned against the transformers, that doesn’t mean Sentinel was in the right in trying to enslave and wipe out humanity.

Also, he isn’t a false Prime and the Matrix wouldn’t have rejected him. People say he refused it because he knew the Matrix would turn into dust because he was planning to betray the Autobots, but let’s remember the facts that:

A) It floated on his hand, so he is a true Prime.

B) The Fallen was able to not just have it float on his hand but actually TOUCH the Matrix in the second film even after all the things he did.

9. Scene that first made me love (or hate) the character

Love: His talk with Optimus on the mountains/nature.

Hate: When he betrayed the Autobots, killed Ironhide, Mudflap and Skids, threatened Mearing to take her with him and force her to watch as he murdered every single human –no matter if it was a man, woman, elder or child– if he wasn’t given the pillars and almost stomped to death Sam and Lennox (mix of movie, comic and book)

10. Best moment on screen (or in the book)

His final fight with Optimus (and Megatron in the book)

11. Faceclaim for the role

Leonard Nimoy, his VA for Dark of the Moon.

I mean… look at him! They obviously used him as base for Sentinel’s design (I love when that happens)

12. Crack headcanon

His beard is really soft (as soft as metal can be. Soft for cybertronian standards)

13. Dumbest thing they've ever done

Attacking Megatron when he declared they would rebuild Cybertron together. Like, Sentinel, you stupid bitch, HE IS YOUR ALLY. AND HE NEVER SAID YOU WOULD WORK FOR HIM, HE SAID T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R.

If he hadn’t done that (twice in the book), Megatron probably would have never turned against him.

Dumbass.

14. Most heroic moment

Uhh…

15. Worst thing they've ever done

Trying to enslave humanity and commit massive genocide on the rest of Earth.

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves

Deep down, a small part of him regrets betraying Optimus and during the Chicago battle, Sentinel wished to have had Optimus on his side instead of Megatron.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them

Hohoho, I actually have a few:

• Good to be King

• Babylon

• Thunder Bringer

• Crucified

18. What they'd go to see a therapist about

God complex (Optimus would have to drag him to see the therapist)

19. Vices/bad habits

There aren’t any canon ones, but I headcanon he overtrains to the point of injury. Following that, I also hc he did this with Megatron in his teenage/young adult years to prepare him to be High Protector of Cybertron once they found the Allspark.

20. Scars

None as far as I know/headcanon.

21. Drink of choice (not just alcoholic)

High grade or normal energon but if he could, he would drink gallons of coffee in a single sitting. I just know it.

22. Best physical feature

…MaY I sPEAK (joking)

I really like his ear-things, the shape of his chest and the things he has on his back.

23. If they were a scented candle, what would they smell like?

He probably smells like smoke, hot metal and burned oil, but Sentinel gives me the vibe of almonds, olive or grapes for some reason.

24. Most annoying habit

Not sure. Maybe constantly feeling his position threatened and reminding others of it (like he did with Megatron and Mearing)?

25. 3 things they'd want to take with them if they were dropped off in the middle of nowhere

The pillars, the Primax Blade and his rust cannon.

26. What they would do if stuck in an elevator with [insert character of your choice from the same fandom]

If it’s Optimus, have a chat with him.

If it’s Megatron, try to be as far as possible from him in the elevator.

If it’s a human, step on them “““accidentally”””

27. Their guilty pleasure

I’m gonna take a guess and say walking through Earth’s landscapes.

28. How they feel about [insert character of your choice from the same fandom]

Optimus: “My favorite, brave, almost perfect, a great cybertronian, my heir… but too soft and not willing in taking difficult decisions”

Megatron: “Good war machine, a firm believer of my words yet I don’t like the rest of him and feel ashamed how he ended up”

Or at least that's how I see it.

29. Eating habits (hc)

Fairly normal, but I headcanon he has a sweet tooth and enjoys cybertronians treats.

30. Sleeping habits (hc)

Terrible. He’s the type of person that will sleep a 10 minute nap and call it enough, though he will recharge at one point for a long period of time when his body can no longer keep up. Then, the cycle repeats.

31. If they had a tumblr what would it look like?

Idk :(

32. Something guaranteed to make them smile/laugh

Spending time with his favorite son, Optimus, a compliment from anyone, any show of respect/devotion to him.

33. Something guaranteed to make them cry

…

34. How they react when they are feeling X emotion (sad, angry, excited, scared, etc.— can specify as many as you like)

Oh, yes, headcanon time!

• Happy: Smiling, ears up, chest puffed.

• Angry: Frowning, ears pinned (the more low they are, the more angry he is), teeth clenched, narrowing eyes, standing straight to full height, the cylinders in his chest roll slowly.

• Excited: Ears twitch, eyebrows lifted, cylinders roll quickly.

• Sad: Ears dropped, eyebrows downwards, eyes shine is dimmer, shoulders go down.

• Scared: Ears can be slightly pinned (danger is visible) or fully erect (sensing danger), pupils shrink, body is tense, cylinders roll quickly.

• Flirty/playful: Ears twitch or point in different directions (one can be lower than the other one), one eyebrow lifted, confident smile.

35. Their idea of a perfect day

On Cybertron, a sunny day without problems, walk around, get a few compliments/bows, chat with Optimus, drink some high grade energon and enjoy the sunset.

36. Their favorite season

I think it would be summer. After living for who knows how long in darkness on Cybertron, I think Sentinel would enjoy summer and the longer days it brings along the warmth.

37. What they really think about themselves

They are above everyone and everything else since creation.

38. Favorite holiday

He doesn’t have one.

39. Favorite game

AmOnG uS (I’m kidding, he’s a boomer)

Cybertronian equivalent of chess, maybe?

40. Favorite book

I don’t know.

41. If they could have lunch with anyone in the world (living or dead, from any fictional universe or the real world), who would it be?

Primus.

42. 3 comfort items

Uh…

43. 3 favorite foods and 3 they despise

UHH…

44. Their happiest memory

Restoring Cybertron by finding the Allspark and becoming ruler of the planet.

45. Their favorite celebrity

Primus (does God count as a celebrity–)

46. The person they most admire

Primus.

47. Their dream job

Being a Prime (he already is)

48. Scariest moment of their life

When Starscream shot down the Ark when he was escaping with the pillars to meet with Megatron.

49. Favorite toy as a child

I don’t know…

50. A memory they've blocked out

He remembers raising Optimus and telling him stories about greatness and the legends of the Primes and the Allspark… but he has long forgotten also raising Megatron with the same tales (half headcanon, half canon)

Ask game here!

[unyandere]

Yandere clown x reader who did war crimes

Tw: war crimes, yanderish behaviour, misunderstandings (in the somehow good way), detailed description of a crime.

Do you want to read more *peculiar* unyandere stories? Here comes to the rescue the masterpost

Yandere clown Who was having a bit of a bad day, his performance that morning was worse than usual and his tricks didn’t seem to amuse the public anymore, he was still the star of the circus, but he was already thinking of leaving the circus, but then he saw you with the circus’s director, talking about getting a job in the circus, possibly as an acrobat or as a mage since you knew lots of “Amazing” tricks.

It was love at first sight, your beautiful hair, your perfect angelic face and that voice of yours… it seemed sooo perfect.

The director said that he’s have to think about that for a day or two and asked you to come back on the last day the circus was in town to get your answer.

As soon as you got out the Yandere clown approached the director and asked him to make you join.

The director was a bit hesitant at first, saying something about you being known for your violence and unpredictability, but gave in after the clown threatened to leave the circus if the director didn’t make you join. To be fair he was willing to do something much worse if the director said no…

So … you got the job! You were an acrobat that performed just after the clown’s performance, sometimes even performing with him during his act.

You two worked really well together creating amusing performances for the public.

After most shows you two went out eating some food.

“So what did you use to do before becoming a clown?” You asked one time while eating lunch, spending time with the clown wasn’t bad, he seemed like a pretty cool and trustworthy guy and while you didn’t really care about his private life you liked to engage in conversations with him.

“Accountant, and you?” The clown on the other hand was really curious about your past, he still remembered what the director said before employing you.

“Ah! I did all kinds of things, but I never got a real job!” You were still a bit uncertain if the clown could be trusted with those info.

“Like what?” He asked smirking, expecting something about gangs or maybe drugs.

“I did kill a couple of guys, a former boss of a cartel, a couple of gangs and some things like that,…” you said with non-chalance.

The clown thought you were joking, there was no way someone as cute as you could ever harm someone, you looked so weak and defenceless!

“Oh, really? You strangled him with your little itty-bitty arms?” He asked sarcastically.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the sarcasm.

“Oh no, that would have been inefficient, I used some nightshade berries, did you know that those berries contain lots of atropine? Just a couple of them can kill a grown man in a matter of minutes, and while it can be traced most people mistake nightshade poisoning with other types of poisons and give useless antidotes giving time to the poison to kill the victim. And if you mix the berries in a box full of blue berries an unsuspecting individual could mistakenly eat even more than a couple of them!” You explained.

Now, to say that the clown was a bit shocked was an understatement: he didn’t know you were this good at making jokes! He almost believed you killed a guy with poison, but you were so harmless and innocent, you were obviously joking!

“I see~ I didn’t know you were so good at making jokes!” He said winking at you.

You mistook his winking as a way of telling you he’d keep the secret. So you decided to tell him a bit more about your past.

“You know those weren’t the only thing I did” you said looking at him.

“Oh, really?” He said expecting another joke.

“Yeah, you know the so called Ghost massacre? I was the one behind it!” You said waiting for his reaction.

The clown laughed.

“You mean the one in which all those people were crucified in a square?” He asked, looking at you with a smile.

You both had a twisted humor, he thought, it was fate that made you two meet.

“Yeah, do you know how difficult it is to kill so many people, to build some good crosses, put them in a square without anyone noticing and bringing the people on the damn crosses?! My whole body hurt so bad for two weeks!” You commented remembering the pain you felt at that time, you had to come up with a good excuse, but your doctor pretty much believed everything you said.

“Oh my! Then next time I’ll help you carry your crosses! How does it sound?” Jest the clown, taking your last joke as the proof that you were made for him, who else but his soulmate could have such a similar humor to his!

On the other hand you took his joke as a promise.

You thought he said that he’d help you with your crimes and you were sooo thrilled at the idea.

Your hands missed the feeling of putting poison in a cup to get your victims.

And so your strange relationship started.

A clown convinced of being with someone as funny as him and a (probably) war criminal convinced of having a loyal accomplice.

[dark-and-kawaii]

have lofn and zevlor ever had a fight?

(ᵕ—ᴗ—) They have gotten into disagreements before for sure.

But there’s one time where he was actually upset with her, when he discovered who she actually was. She always kept her title as The Princess Of Thay to herself while at the grove and with her companions, Gale of course knew better since he’s so smart. Zevlor found out while traveling on the road with the other tieflings, two men were looking for Lofn, the missing Princess of Thay. That’s when Zevlor found out, and he was hurt by not only the fact that she kept it from him, but also because if someone found out or knew the tieflings were around her they’d be crucified for breathing the same air as her, that’s just how it went for them since they were “foul bloods.”

Lofn sat by the campfire, her mind a whirl of thoughts and emotions. She had found Zevlor again, the tiefling who had stolen her heart back in the Druid grove. Their reunion had been anything but the joyous occasion she had imagined though... Zevlor had been distant, almost cold, since she had released him from the capsule. His silence gnawed at her, and she could no longer bear it.

Rising from her seat, she approached where he sat alone. Lost in thought, Zevlor clutched his cup, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames.

She stopped just behind him, “Is there a reason you’ve been hiding away from me?” she asked, her voice firm yet mixed with frustration and hurt, “You’ve said little to me since I released you from that mindflayer pod.”

Zevlor didn't look at her, his back still turned toward her as his grip on the cup tightened, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Can you at least look at me!” she demanded, her patience snapping.

With a heavy sigh and something similar to a growl, Zevlor cursed in infernal before turning to face her, “I suppose I have little choice when in the presence of a princess,” he said, his voice laced with a bitterness that cut through the night air. His arms were held out, the contents of his glass splashing onto the ground.

Lofn’s mouth parted, taken aback as her eyes left his and found the ground, she was going to tell him once their travels- once these things were out of their head… “How did you find out?” she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Two men came looking for you,” Zevlor replied, his brows furrowing, “They found us on the road first, demanding to know if we had seen a young woman with purple hair, the missing princess of Thay they say.” His lip twitched, his expression a mix of anger and fear. It’s not that he wished to be upset with her, it was the fact that should anyone- especially Aradin, found out about her they would crucify the tieflings for breathing the same air as her… Especially Zevlor, since he himself put his hands on her and laid with her… Though there was no regret with that, not one bit. “Many would have us killed for tainting the air you breathe, that’s just how it goes for us tieflings…”

Lofn closed the distance between them, her eyes hardened, as she saw the pain etched in Zevlor's face, “Any who dare threaten or touch you would be hanged or burned- same if they were to touch the others.” She reached out, her hand resting against his arm, “Zevlor, listen to me,” her voice steady but filled with emotion, “The men that came looking for me, one was a large white haired elf I assume. He's the only one my mother would trust with such a task. If he found you and talked to you then he already knows how much you mean to me, he knows things without words even needing to be spoken.”

She grabbed his hand and kissed it gently, her lips lingering on his skin, “I would never put you in harm's way, nor your people. I know how much they mean to you.”

Zevlor looked at her, his eyes searching hers for the truth and after a long moment, he sighed and pulled her into a tight embrace, “I believe you,” he whispered, “There are many who will try and-“

Lofn nodded, “I know,” she said.

He held her close, his grip tightening as if he feared she might disappear, “I trust you, Lofn,” he said softly. “But let there be no more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” she promised.

[rreskk]

since you write submissive trevor so well, i want to request a short fic of north yankton trevor being publically used in public by the dominant reader. she has him sucking her fingers and playing with her boobs because hes desperate and needy

MMmmmmmmmmmm, North Yankton SUBMISSIVE Trevor. My favourite

Summary: He invited you to a night-out! And it subconsciously grew thick and heavy.

TW: -Smut

Pairings: Fem!reader/Trevor Philips

Word count: 1902

“Hello, beautiful.” Your ears rang at the sound of his slurred voice. Entering the dimly lit, booze-filled bar, you walked towards your man who was sharing a small booth with his other friends. They weren’t bothered by your presence and talked amongst themselves while Trevor immediately gave you grabby hands, tossing your body onto his lap and licking his lips like a hungry bidon.

It was obvious from the beginning – the way his tongue clumsily slipped out when speaking – that he was drunk with quite a few empty glasses placed on the wooden table. The moment you were (forcibly) thrown onto his lap, his hands offered no respect, fondling your backside, showing off your figure as if you were a piece of meat. The layers of your clothing had made it harder for him to sneak a few fingers around your waist, and he yearned for more.

Nonetheless, you didn’t have time to settle. Being sat down for less than 5 minutes and he had groped your thickness, groaning out some provocative compliments into your ear. You could feel his friends, Michael and Brad, attempt to ignore Trevor’s touchy nature. The table shifted and from the corner of your eye, they exited the booth and made an excuse to sit somewhere around the bar while you were left in proximity to this man-child.

“Take your coat off,” He whined from underneath, “C’mere. I need.”

His fingers tugged on your zip and dragged it down, maintaining this heavy, sickening eye-contact where them brown-coloured irises turned black as the Devil. You held discipline to stop him. When your hand snatched his wrist away from your clothes entirely, Trevor breathed against your naked neck and threatened to bite it, his teeth chattering and scraping up and down your skin. His breath left a damp sensation and you wiped it to express your displease with his current behaviour. Even when he’s drunk, the gesture twitched his eyebrow. He leaned forward, staring down at your lips, forgetting that your eyes existed for a moment.

“Trevor.” He watched your lips moved and smirked to himself – whatever fantasy was surfing his mind – it was nothing innocent, you could tell. And it weren’t a lie to detect how much booze he had considering his stench reeked. Your nostrils felt crucified, jaw quivering as it was hard to pass-by the musk.

“What’s wrong?” Trevor asked with zero interest, just using your distaste as an excuse to read your lips again.

“I thought you were gonna wait for me to drink.” Your fingers finding way to his mullet, dragging off the small beanie and brushing the long, thinning strands, occasionally massaging his scalp.

He was going to respond but the magic touch had made him disabled to do so. His eyes fell onto your neck, approaching your chest area. He mumbled something like “wanna see you” while fighting back the urge to groan at your saint-like stroke. Although it was a public setting, with people passing by, your innocent massages to his head remained unnoticeable, the only thing drawing some-sort of attention was Trevor’s hungry glower of his brows and cheeks. They darkened, covering up the arousal and blush painted on his face.

You’d giggle when seeing his skin flush with pale rose. He refused to look in your face, his head hanging down, forehead leaning against your collarbone.

“Is that the beer or weather?” You teased him more about his physical reaction to you playing with his hair.

“Shut up.” Foolishly, Trevor’s voice was husky and shallow.  

There was a individual light hovering above the table, the switches implanted nearby the wall. You reached over, slowly sliding off his lap, and turned the main beams off, leaving your shared booth to become one with the shadows; the candle-lit glows from other tables illuminating his combat boots and shiny, teary eyes.

He grew confused when you sat away. As you arms outstretched, causing the change of light, he blinked a few times to adjust to the darkness. The alcohol had made it hard to deal with changes and he was visibly struggling. He rubbed his forehead and grumbled something important again before the light kiss of your lips heated up his jaw. Trevor openly sighed when you had reintroduced yourself with his closeness, letting your mouth trail lines of affection down his jaw, kissing the stubble and ignoring his antsy lap. It felt empty – his lap. Even though you were cradled beside him in the darkness; hiding in your secrets, he didn’t like the freeness of no weight on him. There was no warmth.

Your kisses grew more sensual and you reached the corner of his mouth, kissing, sometimes licking the moustache that was the cause of all rashes between your legs from the past few months.

“Take it off.” He voiced, referring to your coat he held a grudge against.

“Why should I?” Your tongue slithered around his lips.

“Jesus, girl, you’re trying to kill your ol’ man?”

That grizzled, huffy expression softened when your coat began unzipped, routing your arms from them thick sleeves. Trevor’s front teeth dug into his bottom lip as you threw the coat aside on the opposite chairs, beginning to delayer your outfit one by one.

One by another painful one. You kept him waiting, strip-teasing so his cock hardened more and more. Alas, the outline of your body was beautifully illumining through the orange, dim lights. He released a longing moan and went to touch your exposed breasts, his cruel thumb circling around your nipple, goose-bumps picking at your spine and skin. They fit perfectly into his hand, like it belonged there. He was intensely murmuring your name, drool seeping from his mouth as well.  Trevor occupied both cups before you fondled his jaw to exact a sense of authority; sexual purpose in his satisfaction. If he was to feel great, you needed control over it. Furthermore, his head followed every tug of your hand. He was so in awe with your soft body. Your nipples were being praised and touched repeatedly, it weakened his core strength, the steamy atmosphere elevating from the booth you hogged.

His friends had already seen the state Trevor was in moments before you entered the bar, so it was no surprise when they heard unusual shuffles and whispers coming from the opposite side of the room. However, Michael’s head perked up from the stand when he heard some real dirty whispers evolving into hushed commands of restricted moans. He made eye-contact with Brad who smirked, having something to blackmail Trevor with for the next few weeks.

“I’m not even touching you, and you already wanna cum?” You degraded, his mouth rushing to suck your finger as he played with your breasts still, the skin reddening after his many minutes of poking fun. “You think this is for free?”

Trevor glared when you talked down his self-worth; something already crippled and non-existent. He licked around the tip of your finger and inserted it into his mouth, not caring that you were fighting back his urge to cum. His crotch was burning with fire. It made everything uncomfortable, everything so sexily torturous. It made him mangle your breasts like his life depended on it. You were firing him up, have been since the moment you had met. It was so easy to slap his face around and call him a pervert, because he is.

“You’re so hot.” His speech was muffled due to your finger sitting on his tongue. Despite that, he still sounded gory and raw, anger fresh and fury. It sounded like he was sexualising you out of spite.

“Oh yeah?” You spoke back, “Why should I let a pervert like you cum?”

 A whimper left his lips unintentionally. That was the only answer you gained.

“C’mon. Why should I? What are you worth?” Your volume grew, the bar being dominated by your sudden combative force.

Trevor’s saliva oozed down your finger and skin, strands disgustingly hanging and falling between the leather space between you both. His hand had weakly fell off your breast and he was now grabbing your thigh, head lowered, eyes closed.

“Are you worth anything? Do you think perverts are real men?”

“No.” He whispered back, shaking.

Excitement bubbled your veins. He was finally submitting. 

“Say it louder, baby.” You guided him with a gentle mumble.

“I don’t deserve to cum because I’m a fuckin’ pervert. I’m a horrible person. I’m worth nothing.” Trevor breathed, clawing your thighs now as he was approaching his orgasm. You grabbed a chunk of his hair and forced him to look up, staring down at him like a peasant, an unfortune soul. He looked good ruined. His eyes threatened to cry out of pure lust. He sniffled and gurgled something high-pitched, unable to keep his voice down low anymore. “I gotta cum so bad, [y/n]. I need you to rape the fuck out of my cock, I really need it!”

Of course, you weren’t going to touch him. He didn’t deserve your love, especially after his behaviour. Watching Trevor squirm and hide himself into the dark shadows of the booth, his body aching for your  touch, hands grabbing your jeans, working their way up to your naked stomach and chest. He kept on whispering your name, chanting curse words. It was too heavy that he didn’t even think about handling himself to cum. Trevor simply wanted you to do it, begging. Like he was praying your holy presence, you stayed silent and worked through his roots, your nails dragging along so he had some sort of foundation to cum to.

“C’mon.” Finally, you spoke.

He daringly groped your breasts again while thinking heavily to peruse the orgasm. Was she helping me? He faced delusions, Is she encouraging me? Trying to follow orders without rebelling was hard. Trevor wanted to touch himself, he wanted you to touch him. But here he was, being ordered to do it by himself, like a child growing independence.

“Fuckin’ help me!” Trevor illy protested with spikes of anger, “It hurts so bad. I just wanna cum!”

“You don’t need me.”

“Oh, do something! – “

“Man up and do something about it.” You yelled in his ear, and with the help of your fierce dominance, Trevor slammed his head against the table and cried out in agonising pleasure.

“FUCK!” His crotch area grew wet and creamy. Your fingers loosened his hair-strand and the poor man was breathing heavily, his orgasm lasting too long. It gave him hot-flushes, sweat tickling down his side-burns and stache.

You grinned before putting your layers back on, knowing he was finished for the night.

Trevor consciously whimpered as he tried to wipe away the wet-stain of his cum in his jeans. Tears were trickling down his cheek and his limbs were shaking with disguise. It was now influenced to the surrounding public the true meaning of the past noises as men who walked by, they all gave Trevor a subtle glare or smuggest smirk.

“It wasn’t so hard.” You kissed his cheek and zipped up your coat, turning the main beams on and ordering yourself more drinks, pretending like he wasn’t a quivering mess beside you for the rest of the night.

[iamafictionfreak]

TIS THE SEASON TO BE MERTHUR!

Just... Look at them!

I miss everything about this show. Even the very bad CGI and the weak-ass plot points/armour/conveniences/contrivances.

One Christmas Eve, almost 11 years ago, the entire Merlin fandom was butchered into tiny little distraught pieces. It didn’t matter if your favourite character was Merlin or Morgana, Gaius or Gwen. The showrunners held no qualms in destroying your dreams for Gwaine or Perce. The writers did not hold back in their aim to crucify the smile on your face, to forever turn it upside down. No ship was spared. All hopes for the show to finally commit to their original intent, to bring peace between peoples, to save Albion, to allow Merlin his freedom and Arthur the truth, was brought to a bitter, fatalistic end.

Not that I need to repeat this to you, you know what happened, but it’s worth reiterating that this travesty occurred… on Christmas Eve.

CHRISTMAS. EVE.

Christmas Eve.

The night before Christmas, the night before the day where all rules are broken and we can frolic like children around a decorated tree filled with twinkling lights, our collective hearts were shredded.

This event (once we recovered a tiny bit from the shock) gave birth to a plethora of astonishingly well written, poignant, devastating, hilarious fanfictions that had helped nurse our wounds, for nothing could TRULY heal (except a follow-up season with the original characters, come ON BBC) us.

After nearly 11 years of watching these brilliant entries grow, I never thought I’d jump on this bandwagon and write my own fic.

But I've had a few very shit years, as have many people around the world, and I started to wonder as we do when we want to prove magic can still happen.

My brain decided that it wanted my hands to write the most indulgent, likely over done fic in existence for the fandom. This thought stuck with me throughout the year – I was being STALKED by myself – and wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. This hasn’t happened in a long while.

Still… you’ll eyeroll at the idea. It's so OBVIOUS, I'm embarrassed by myself.

What if Arthur discovered Merlin’s magic from the get-go, from episode 1?

WAIT. Hear me out…

So, Merlin saves Arthur for the first time and Arthur SEES. He sees his eyes glow.

He knows he should tell his father, but his instincts are screaming at him. Honour is at stake. This stranger saved his life. How could he reward it with an execution? So, a chance needs to be given, doesn’t it? A chance for Merlin to give up magic forever and live a life of goodness, to turn away from evil and serve Arthur…

Except Arthur can’t help but wonder. About Magic, about Merlin and magic, about the law and all the whys attached and his place within this chain.

But he also can’t trust this peasant who cavorts with the devil, practices wickedness but smiles like a child and offers compassion to everyone. Someone so duplicitous must be dangerous… except Merlin’s an actual idiot! And it’s getting really difficult to keep his guard up.

But isn’t that how sorcerers work? They twist the mind with pleasing ideas, they tempt and coerce, they manipulate.

And slowly, Arthur finds himself being manipulated too. For how could he ever want to trust this man- but he does. He does.

And we’ve never been allowed to see Merlin deal with a S1 Arthur who’s in the ‘know’. Who’s forcing him to keep it secret, who’s threatening him with trial by fire, a young Arthur who’s ignorant, arrogant and so desperate to understand what he cannot trust.

Then there's the layers, royalty versus peasantry, friendship versus alliances, goals versus ideals.

I want to write a fic where this trust is built from the ground up. One of the things about the show that made it impossible for me to let it go is that the ‘relationship’ between Arthur and Merlin fits exactly zero categories, yet all of them.

Master and servant.

Friends

Family

Allies

Enemies

Romantic ideals

Platonic soulmates

Absolute Soulmates

I could go on. And it's one of those rare shows where the writing would be given more oomph if the males leads had dared cross a line or two.

Realistically, they weren't even friends. They were master and servant who'd become a little co-dependant. Arthur could never admit to anything more because of his station, but would he have been able to being completely himself around Merlin if he'd known the truth? We never see Arthur truly be himself. He wasn't allowed to be, not even with his wife. There was always a wall - it was how he was raised and any attempt to develop was killed by plot.

We never saw Merlin completely free, not with a single person. He started happy and healthy and innocent. A liar. He ended up bitter and terrified and angry and alone. Still a liar.

What would he have become if there'd been one person he could truly trust- not Gaius. Not a man already broken and brainwashed by his own self. A victim of the system just as much as he perpetuated the hate and completely unaware of the trap he lived in.

Many of the characters in the show have the versatility and potential to be written a trillion different ways, is it any wonder that fics continue to be written?

Well, I wanted to explore a slow burn development of trust, with Arthur learning how wrong he was, how much he’s trampled on, and all about the seemingly normal peasant boy who meant more to the world than Arthur could possibly understand. What would they have become if they’d been given the time, hm?

When they were young - yes, I'm going there - wild and free.

What of Morgana, what if she could have trusted? What if she could have understood? Would it have turned out differently? Would she have still become the other side of Uther's coin?

Would Merlin still have ended up alone?

There’s lots more I wanted to touch upon, it’s a big what if, but that’ll have to wait for another post.

I’m writing a 5 part prologue that occurs between episode 1 and 2. I’m hoping to release it for Christmas and then take the time to write the rest of the season.

Unless… you guys think it’s a waste of time? Let me know.

In the meantime, I’m STILL SUFFERING (fucking show) and it's making me write, write, write!

(gifs not mine)

[asitrita]

Thoughts on the Donquixote's crucifixion.

Since today is Good Friday I felt like sharing this piece of interpretation of Donquixote family's "crucifixion". Throughout the series and Doflamingo's life I think we can see some symbolism, paralelism, or just vague allusions and hints to his nature being similar to that of the Antichrist (opposite of Christ) or the idea of Doflamingo as Lucifer or a fallen angel (we see something akin to The Last Supper with his "family", including his own personal "Judas" sitting at his left; his ideology of being the rightful king to rule the world, yet not being willing to sacrifiece himself for anyone, but actually expecting everybody else to sacrifice themselves for him; his agent-of-chaos personality; the entire idea that he is almost a devine creature that fell from Heaven to Hell, stripped of his rightful power, status, and legitimate possition above humans, betrayed by his own family and blood; the nickname "Heavenly Demon", etc.). However, I believe the moment in his life he comes to incarnate all these topics comes just after his and his family's crucifixion, or just right after the very moment he lashes out against the rabbid mob awakening and loosing his haki. Just seconds before we have this image:

Here we have Homing, whom we know is a good man, in the middle, at the centre of the scene. Rocinante is to his right hand side, and Doflamingo is to his left. As you might know, Jesus Christ was crucified together with two more people, often refered to as the good thief (traditionally named Dimas/Dismas), and the bad thief (traditionally named Gestas). The good thief was crucified at the right hand side of Jesus, while the bad thief was cricified at his left. Maybe I am looking to much into it, and I'm pretty sure someone else must have already realised this, but I can't help to notice the paralelisms and similarities. In this scene, while all Homing is concerened with is the safety of his children and doesn't mind begging and humiliating himself to try to get the mob to free them, to the point he asks the enraged mob to forgive his children, for they were only little kids, Doflamingo's anger gets the best of him and he lashes out at the crowd, not asking nor begging them to put him down, but threatening to kill them all for their actions, all while blaming his father for all his surffering and his family tragic fate. No forgiveness, no acceptance, but defiance and a promise of vicious and bloody revenge for his father and the craze mob's wrong-doings. Homing was willing to take in all the hate, die for the sins his kind had committed over the centuries, if only to appease the mob and get them to spare his children. He was willing to die for them (and he eventually did, though not in the best way possible, tbh), he was a good person and this scene perfectly shows that, despite his naiveté and the tragic and dire consequences of his actions, he acted out of the goodness of his heart. Doflamingo would not even lower himself to the point of asking for mercy, not before humans he believed were below him. We all know how the story goes, how Doflamingo and Rocinante turned out to be complete different people, with the whole good vs evil motive they have going on. Again, I'm probably digging too much into it, but I just like the Rosi/Dismas, Doffy/Gestas and Homing/Christ paralelism. More so considering how Homing will eventually willingly die for his kids' future, which sounds kinda biblical given we are all God's sons and daughters, and he (Jesus, God's son, God himself) died for us (even if in Homing's case he did die for nothing, as Doffy will not be accepted back among his kind); and how, just after Homing's (Jesus) death, it will be Doffy who becomes, in a way, the symbol of the fallen angel, of the gone-wrong-Jesus, of the anti-Christ, almost Satan himself (ruling the underworld, as his father's heresy took the throne above away from him). He replaces his father as the semi-Biblical almost Christ-like figure, but in a reversed, twisted and sick way.

Crucifixion by Giovanni Donato

[team7-headquarter]

Now that I'm reading One Piece, let me say this: even when I think One Piece is better written, the comparison between both mangas in their pre timeskip period is often done poorly.

Naruto decides to be immediately a more explicit and visceral story in terms of cruelty, with a main cast of 12 year old children. While One Piece takes its time building the foundation for its characters and future arcs, Naruto jumps right into the issue at hand. The first chapter is practically spelling it out to you, the reason why Naruto could and even should be a villain, given the circumstances. He's a sad sight, the loneliness and general dark feelings coating Naruto as a story are strong from the very start. I'm not saying that One Piece doesn't have a lot of dark themes and feelings too, but Oda style is to use comedy and good humor to balance it first. One Piece is lighter at the beginning.

For example, compare the East Blue saga and the Land of the Waves arc. Unfair, I know, but I want to prove a certain point here.

Each arc of the East Blue has a bit of cruelty in it, the worst being Arlong Park. In the 3 first arcs, when Luffy meets his three first nakamas, we can say it is more comedy than tragedy. No one dies, there is cruelty and battles, but it's kept on the "safe side". The villains are shown to be more "evil" than anything else. Morgan, Buggy and Kuro are pirates after all. Then they reach the Baratie and things start to get serious. Sanji's backstory is heavy (everything Sanji and Zeff went through is dark, from the starvation to the amputation and the grey scale of their animosity turned bond). You have the first hint at Nami's complexity as a character, you get a taste of the Grand Line in the Mihawk and Zoro encounter where Zoro almost dies, there's explicit sacrifice...

Like I said, Arlong Park is the worst of it all. The story of the town, of Bell-Mere and her children, of what the fish-men did to Nami... It would be incorrect to say that comedy is out aside. First of all, because one of the most common purposes of comedy is to build the ground for drama. You will need a light mood to present the gravity of the situation at hand. The reader must be desperate to see the characters laughing and joking again, to recover the good times, to preserve the bonds and friendships. All the previous arcs needed to be so silly for Arlong Park to be impactful. Nami lived through hell. There's war and discrimination, abuse, manipulation, government corruption and betrayal. I'd never dare to say it's a light arc.

With Naruto, it's like they went straight to their own Arlong Park. It doesn't get clearer than the explanation Tazuna gave about what was going on with Kato and the bridge. They step out of the gates and there's an assassination attempt where Kakashi pretends to get explicitly murdered in front of the kids so he can figure out what they're dealing with. You have the story of how the local town hero was basically crucified to get his arms ripped by Kato's men. Hell, before all of these you have things like the Uchiha massacre and Sasuke saying his goal is to kill someone.

Then the top of the cake: Zabuza and Haku. They end up dead, both of them. Suddenly the enemy is not just "evil" or "ambitious" but also very very human. Kids killing kids or refusing to kill kids, it's a nightmare. Kakashi kills Haku with a chidori to the chest and the manga lingers on the blood of it all. There's a panel when Sasuke takes a hit meant for Naruto— the visual impact is insane. That one panel of Naruto awakening the kyubi's chakra and threatening to kill Haku? This is not a story about pirates and treasures and dreams. This is a story about survival and murder and duty, where a kid happens to want to dream above all the misery of his world.

Compare now the Arabasta saga and the Chuning Exams. Both are about politics, foul play to take a country/hidden village down, how normal people are nothing but pieces of a bigger game, how the world is baster and more dangerous than anyone could ever imagine.

The difference is that the straw hats choose to participate and choose how to do so. Every step is one they take conscious of the risk. They are teenagers still, sure, but they have their agency and they're powerful enough to not let anyone else push them around. They're at the heart of the conflict, they know what's going on behind the curtains. One Piece is about freedom, something that people in Naruto clearly lack. Even when there's death and sacrifices and a lot of cruelty, it's shown differently than in Naruto.

Team 7 gets thrown into the mess of Konoha's crush knowing nothing. The Chunning Exams are a shit show. The horror of Orochimaru and the cursed mark, the Hyuuga's plotline about family branches and slavery, arms exploding, Rock Lee's fight, Hiruzen's death, Gaara's backstory... Team 7 (at least the kids) move on such a different scale. It's terrifying. The Chunning Exams are war in a micro scale, designed to keep the power balance using their lower class soldiers, children included.

I can keep going, but well. I feel like I made my point clear with this post.

While Naruto's story pace is faster, the characters and the themes aren't rushed per se. It fits that in a world in constant conflict, things keep coming faster and the characters can't catch a break. The journey of the straw hats allows them more time to build the foundations of the crew, going from island to island. The way the stories are told are different too, so it'd be futile to compare them if you don't acknowledge that. What are the core values of the story? What is the general feeling? What is it trying to tell and how it corresponds to the way the story is told?

You either ask yourself those questions or you'll get a half-assed analysis, at most.

[crusherthedoctor]

It's really sad how people keep going after your group just because you defend yourselves

Apparently, the statements "I'm generally content with the quality of my personal stories" and "I spot many issues with this comic" justify getting spammed with graphic death threats and ableist insults

Yet it's insisted that you're the ones who are too harsh? It's straight up unfair.

Who would have thought that a group of people might occasionally get upset after being crucified and ridiculed by countless strangers?

Funny how they NEVER have a justification beyond "well shut up no one wants to hear you"

Somehow, it's always YOUR fault that a part of the fandom goes rabid whenever someone doesn't conform to the current "right" opinion, and YOU'RE to blame for THEIR ungodly behavior. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

This fandom is vain and abhorrent to the nth degree and y'all deserve better. That's all I wanted to say.

Par for the course, innit. They'll lash out at us. They'll hand out death threats. They'll make disgusting ableist comments about my autism, and similarly terrible comments towards my friends. They'll threaten to bomb SEGA HQ and stick Iizuka's head on a pike, among other wild declarations of violence. But don't you dare make a goofy meme about Surge not living up to her hype. And whatever you do, don't even think about criticising the unprofessional antics of the IDW crew. What are you, a monster?

They dismiss us as insignificant one minute, then fearmonger so hard that they see fit to give us a boogeyman-esque moniker the next. I'd be surprised if they could walk in a straight line without contradicting themselves.

As for "You talk so much about your fics!" ...No shit. I'm a guy with a blog. This isn't a movie production with a budget, I don't have a team or advertisements backing me up. And unlike fanartists, I don't have my own art to catch people's attention. I kind of have to talk about my writing in order to get it out there and inform people of its existence, and while I try not to sound too much like an unskippable YouTube ad, what else am I supposed to do? Upload them silently and then never refer to them again? How is showing passion for my work any different from official creators showing passion for theirs? Just because fanfic tends to get less attention on here than fanart doesn't mean it's not worth sharing, do they want fandom to flourish or not?

When I compare my work to a certain comic, I do it to highlight the dissonance. If fanfic writers - plural, not just myself - can understand the importance of keeping the characters recognizable, and making the universe faithful despite any necessary differences, then what excuse do official writers who have been involved with the series for over a decade have? If someone who doesn't even love Sonic that much compared to other characters, finds him annoying and unfunny half the time (no, not just in the Pontaff games, in general), and even finds it a pain in the ass to write for him at times and has more fun writing other characters because of this, can still attempt to write what made him appeal to fans... why do writers who supposedly love him so much keep fumbling so hard with him?

I compare for the sake of highlighting why these off-kilter portrayals are so easy to spot. If Sonic Twitter only gets "He's just stroking his own dick" from all of that, then they haven't been paying attention.

The most ironic thing about it all is that they've only gotten more vitriolic as most of us have mostly moved on from the height of IDW discourse (cause the comic goes in circles at this point, and is very likely to be running on fumes due to IDW's financial troubles, so there's no point). Yeah, I'll still criticise it now and then, and make a meme on occasion, but I rarely make lengthy ted talks about it or participate in ongoing Lanolin Is A Bitch/Silver Is Uwu-ified/Whisper Is Trauma Bait/etc back and forths anymore, because it's just tiring now. And since most current Sonic stuff has been putting me off in general, combined with growing fatigue and frustration at not being able to criticise certain games without people waving the finger at me (especially SA2, since the Year of Shadow has made it the center of attention yet again...), I've took a step back from intense Sonic discussion to focus on Stellar, as well as other fandom projects, like my recent brainstorming for Paper Mario or: How I Learned To Insert Eggman and Love The Vivian™.

In no way can you say I've been up in their faces as of recent. Yet they continue to cry otherwise, because they want people like me gone completely.

[lokiwhitewolf]

Red Hot Winter Chapter 2

Chapter 2: "I won’t crucify the things you do."

After spending more time with Davina, in which Elena learned that the witch feels suffocated by being forced by Marcel to stay in the attic, even though she loves him because he saved her from a much worse fate, the brunette vampire leaves, promising to come back soon.

"Katherine! Can I ask a favor?" Davina said this before Elena could leave.

"Of course! Anything!" 

"I know you don’t like to go to these types of events, but would you go with me to the Dauphine Street music festival in a few days?"

"Yes, I would love to! But do you think that Marcel would let you?"

"He will. After everything I do for him, he has to let me go out for a night."

"Oh, he better let you!"

Elena left the attic and walked into the streets. She intended to go back to the Originals' mansion but was stopped in her tracks by two vampires.

"Miss Pierce, Marcel would like to see you."

"By all means, lead the way, boys." She said it smiling. Elena was escorted to Marcel's compound, which, according to Rebekah's stories, was where the Mikaelsons lived before he took over. Even though the Originals didn’t live there anymore, Elena recognized their family crest on the walls, well hidden by plants.

She was escorted to what could only have been Klaus’s office at other times; there were even some of his paintings on the walls. What she didn’t expect to find was the hybrid himself beside Marcel, but she guessed he could help corroborate her story.

"Katherine Pierce, as I live and breathe!" Marcel said, smiling and standing up to be in front of her.

"Marcel Gerard, so we meet again." Said Elena, looking at him for the first time. It was easy to see why Rebekah fell in love with him, but it was also easy to see the threat underneath the warmth of his smile.

"I didn’t expect you back in my city so soon after the fun we had last time," He said, touching her face. Well, of course Katherine slept with him, thought Elena. Klaus scoffed at Marcel’s use of "my city."

"I wish I was here to have more fun with you," Said Elena, smiling and leaning into his touch. "But Klaus had other plans for me."

"Well, you see," Klaus started talking, "Ever since Elena Gilbert died, Katerina had decided to stay in Mystic Falls, and since I decided to come back to New Orleans, I thought why not compel Katherine and have her do whatever I wanted her to do?" She did run from me for half a millennium, and it’s only fair."

"You call this fair?" Marcel said, visibly enraged. Marcel did like Katherine.

"Marcel, this is between me and Katerina. And besides, right now all she has to do is look after Hayley." Said Klaus.

"You’re in my city, Klaus; remember that," Said Marcel in a threatening tone, turning to Klaus.

"Marcel," Said Elena, trying to get Marcel to calm down. Somehow she knew that Klaus could and would kill Marcel if he kept pressuring "It’s okay. He won’t do anything to me. Elijah won’t let him. And I just went to see Davina! She wants to go to the Dauphine Street music festival with me."

"I don’t know Kath; it’s too dangerous…"Marcel said, but Elena silenced him with two fingers.

"She’ll be safe with me, Marcel; you know you can trust me." She then kissed her fingers and hugged him.

Okay," Marcel caved in, "But my guys will be watching at all times, and also my friend will come too."

"Which friend?"

"Camille. She’s a bartender." Marcel said, smiling after they separated.

"I’ve been gone for a while, and you already have another friend?" Elena pretended to be jealous.

Now, c'mon, Kath, she’s nothing like you." He kissed her cheek and said, "One day I’ll get you out of Klaus's grasp, I promise."

"Thank you," Elena said, then she kissed him near his mouth.

"I’m impressed," Said Klaus, when both of them got into his car to go back to the Originals' house.

"What? You didn’t think I would be able to pull it off?"

"No. I think you and Katherine are not so different after all."

"Katherine and I are nothing alike."

"That’s where you’re wrong. You both survived me, and apparently, you both fell for Elijah." He said it, smiling.

"What? No, I…" Elena was at a loss for words.

"You think I didn’t know where Marcel was keeping my brother? Of course I did; I helped build that church, Elena."

"I just wanted to know where he was so I could tell Rebekah," Elena said.

"Katerina would be proud of you, Elena."

As soon as they got to the house, Elena found Rebekah and Hayley in the wolf's room, along with someone else that she didn’t recognize.

"Katherine," Said Hayley, standing up. She grabbed Elena by her neck and lifted her against the wall. "You almost had me killed!"

"Well, that didn’t work, did it? Klaus saved you," Elena said, remembering how Klaus, Hayley, and Rebekah filled her in on everything Katherine had done before this point. Elena balanced herself and got Hayley off her carefully. "And besides, Klaus compelled me to your little maid thanks to the five hundred years I spent running from him."

"Katherine Pierce," Said the unknown woman.

"And you are?" Elena said.

"I’m Sabine," The woman said, raising her hand, which Elena was going to grab until Rebekah interrupted her.

"Katherine, come with me."

The brunette and blonde vampires left the room and went into Rebekah's room.

"She’s a witch," said the blonde after closing the door. "If you touch her hand, she’s going to know you’re not Katherine."

"A little heads up would’ve been nice," Said Elena.

"I’m sorry, I had to take care of Hayley. She was attacked too last night."

"Is everyone in this family going to get attacked? Is this what’s going to happen to me?"

"Not if you play your cards right. Now tell me, did you find him?"

"I did! I found Elijah! He’s in the attic, in the church, with Marcel’s witch. Her name is Davina. She can’t control her powers yet, but Marcel asked her to kill him anyway, but Elijah doesn’t believe she will. He asked me, "

"Wait, he talked to you?"

"Yes, I touched his hand, and he told me what to do. He asked you to bring him your mother's grimoire. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, I do! Did he tell you anything else?"

"He asked me to take care of Hayley because he doesn’t trust Klaus, and..."

"And…?"

"And that the vampires of New Orleans think he and Katherine are having a relationship, so he and I will have to pretend once he is out of his coffin."

"Oh, I guess knowing it's you and not Katherine makes it better for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Elijah certainly has a type. I think he fell for you, Elena; coming back to Katherine was a relapse. And he was the one that brought you back, not the torture session from the Salvatore boys."

"I don’t know how to feel about this."

"I think this time you need a man, Elena, not a boy. And from the looks of it, you’re not going to have much time to think. Elijah is going to get himself out of that coffin, and he is going all in for the kill, even if in public he has to call you Katherine or Katerina."

Rebekah knew which spell her brother was talking about. It was a spell to unlink two people. He wanted to break the spell Sophie’s sister had cast. The vampire removed the page from the grimoire and gave it to Elena, who put it in her pocket. Both of them returned to Hayley’s room, but she was no longer there. They found her with Sabine in the kitchen. Hayley was lying on the counter, and the witch was in some sort of trance.

"I thought witches couldn’t do spells," Said Elena.

"It’s not a spell. She’s just figuring out the sex of the baby," Said Hayley.

"Yeah, I’m pretty sure you could go to a hospital and get the same answer." The brunette vampire said this, thinking something was wrong. And she was right. Right before Sabine said the sex of the baby, she made a horrified expression.

"It's a girl," Sabine said, smiling. "You're having a girl."

Hayley and Rebekah were static, but Elena was suspicious. Sure, Elijah would love to know he was having a niece run around the house soon, but still, something was off.

Sabine took off shortly after, and while Rebekah filled Hayley in on the news about Elijah, Elena followed Sabine.

She ended up in the city's cemetery. Following the witch closely behind, she watched the woman get into an old crypt.

"The wolf is having a girl, but the baby is going to be powerful. More powerful than any other creature that’s ever existed, it's one of its kind," Said Sabine.

"What did you expect? She’s the daughter of an aberration; of course, it's a threat, not only to us but to the balance of nature itself." Said an older witch. "I don’t like what I’m going to do, but it needs to be done."

That older witch grabbed an ancient box with an old syringe inside. Two other warlocks brought Sophie into the crypt.

Please, Agnes, don’t do this!" Begged Sophie

"Your sister shouldn’t have done this in the first place!" Said the witch named Agnes, putting whatever was inside the syringe inside Sophie.

Sophie passed out immediately, and the other witches and warlocks left the crypt. As soon as everyone was out, Elena got in and grabbed Sophie, taking her to the Originals' house.

Elena left Sophie inside her room in the Originals' house. She didn’t know what was inside that syringe, but she knew it couldn’t be good since Sophie was linked to Hayley.

The brunette vampire came back to the attic; this time it was empty. Davina was most likely in the shower since Elena could hear water running.

Elena simply removed the dagger from Elijah’s chest, just like she had done in the past, and left the spell inside his suit jacket. They needed him more than ever now.

Sophie woke up two days later in the living room. Elena had told Rebekah what had happened because Klaus was nowhere to be found.

"You have two seconds to tell me exactly what was in that syringe before I kill you," said Elena, in a very Katherine manner.

"It’s an old potion. It’s meant to abort a baby. I’m not pregnant, but Hayley is," Said Sophie.

"Unlink yourself from her right now!" Demanded Rebekah, with her hand around Sophie’s neck and her fangs starting to show up in her mouth.

"I can’t! Marcel will know, and I’ll die!" Sophie said. 

"Sister, if you kill her, our niece will die too. So if you please, remove your hands from her neck," Said a very polite voice.

Rebekah dropped Sophie on the couch. That voice could only belong to one person.

"Elijah!" She said, happily, she was going to hug him.

Elijah hugged her back and kissed her cheek. Rebekah separated herself from him and smiled at Elena.

"Katerina," Said Elijah, smiling. He walked up to her, and one of his hands went to her waist while the other went to her face. "I missed you," He said sincerely, almost whispering. Then he kissed her so tenderly and so sweetly, like he was worshiping her. Elena kissed him back, her hands going to his hair, as if Katherine would do it, but mostly for herself. She always wanted to know what his hair felt like.

He ended the kiss with a peck on her lips. "Come with me, help me pick another outfit"

"Yes," said Elena, breathless.

They both went up the stairs, Elijah never letting go of her hand, while Rebekah and Sophie went to take care of Hayley, who was starting to develop a fever.

Elena walked into Elijah’s room. It was very spacious, with a king-size bed and two large windows with white curtains. He had modern things, like a smart TV and a stereo, but the room also had space for a desk with some papers on it, along with shelves with books and a walk-in closet packed with suits but, surprisingly for Elena, regular clothes as well.

"I’ll make space for you here."

"What?" Asked Elena.

"I know you’re here of your own free will, but I don’t trust my brother Elena. I’ll feel better if you’re in my room with me. And besides, we have to put on a little show, don’t we?" He said this, smiling at her, picking up his suit and changing in front of her, removing his shirt first.

"Elijah!" She said, turning around somehow mortified. The original vampire chuckled.

"We’re playing a couple, Elena; we might as well behave like one." He said "It’s okay if you want to look at me while I’m changing." He said this, whispering in her ear and kissing her neck, making Elena tremble. He smiled and stepped away from her to put on his suit.

Elena turned around.

"How do I look?" Asked Elijah.

"Dashing as always," Elena replied, smiling.

Hayley’s fever was getting worse as the day went by. The concoction Sophie made had helped a bit, but Hayley depended on Davina's ability to unlinked both of them. Elijah had faith in the young witch, saying that if she completed that spell, she could choose the next spell they would work on. It was already night, and they didn’t know what else to do to get her fever down.

"Take her to the pool!" Elena said. "The water is freezing; it will make her body temperature go down!"

Elijah grabbed Hayley, and both of them got inside the pool. Hayley was having convulsions and holding onto her belly. Elena got into the water, not caring if her impersonation would blow or not. She held Hayley’s body along with Elijah's.

"Davina is going to make it; I know she is," Elijah said, almost sounding scared.

"Elijah, it’s going to be okay." Said Elena, looking deep into his eyes.

All of a sudden, Hayley’s body stopped moving. Sophie grabbed a knife to check if they were unlinked by making a small cut on her palm. Elena grabbed Hayley’s palm. It wasn’t bleeding. They were unlinked.

"It worked," said Elena.

Elijah breathed out in relief and was about to take Hayley inside when Sophie asked him something.

"Please don’t let Klaus kill Agnes. She’s one of our ancestors; she didn’t know what she was doing."

"Agnes won’t die at my brothers' hands; you have my word," Said Elijah.

Elena was following him, only to be stopped by Sophie.

"The Katherine I knew would’ve never gotten into that pool."

"If Hayley dies, I die, remember? I’m Katherine Pierce; I’m a survivor." Elena said, "If you pull another stunt like this against us, I don’t think you’ll survive to tell the tale. Elijah has a rather bad habit of ripping out people’s hearts.

After making sure Hayley was safe inside her room with Rebekah watching over her, both Elena and Elijah got changed. Elijah had gotten a phone call from Klaus to meet him in the church.

"I’ll go with you. I don’t trust Klaus around you," Said Elena. They both got into Elijah’s car and got to the church shortly after.

"Elijah! Katherine! Welcome to the party! You see, while you two were making sure that Hayley was safe, I was hunting down the witches that had threatened my family. And I found them here!" Said Klaus, going around the church killing the witches one by one but leaving Agnes for last. "This one here is the one that poisoned my heir. What am I going to do with you?"

"Niklaus, you asked for my forgiveness, remember? You shall have it if you don’t kill Agnes. I promised Sophie she wouldn’t die at your hands. If you want my forgiveness, this is how you shall have it."

Klaus let go of Agnes’s neck. Elena knew what was following and looked down.

Elijah went to Agnes, who was crying.

"I promised Sophie you wouldn’t die at my brother's hands; I didn’t say anything about mine." Elijah put his hand inside her chest and said, "No one messes with my family and lives," and then he removed her heart.

The first time Elijah had done this in front of her, it had certainly terrified her. It proved to her that he was a very powerful man, not to be messed with.

Elena doesn’t condone violence in the slightest, but she had seen what those witches had done. They would’ve killed Hayley’s baby. That should’ve been a decision that Hayley should've made, and she decided to keep the baby. She knew the Mikaelsons would do anything for each other, but now she has seen it, and she was in the middle of it. Right where she should be.

"You two love birds Go ahead; I need to do something before I get home. I need to tell someone justice was done."

Elijah got a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hand, grabbing Elena by his other hand.

"I’m sorry you had to see that," He said.

"Well, it’s not the first time I’ve seen you rip someone’s heart out," She said.

"Elena," He said, putting both of his hands on the car, trapping her between the car and his body. "Thank you for removing the dagger from my chest."

"Well, I did dagger you once, if I recall correctly."

"You were trying to stay alive and didn’t know if you could trust me. I don’t blame you."

"I still feel bad for it, though."

"You don’t have to. It’s not your fault. You helped me with Hayley tonight. And looked out for her when I wasn’t there. Thank you."

"I was just keeping my word."

"This...relationship that we have to fake. I don’t want to fake it with you, Elena. I want you. All of you"

Elena’s heart was beating so loudly that she knew Elijah could hear it.

"Elijah…"

"I know you might be afraid of history repeating itself because of what happened between me and Katerina, but I assure you my lovely Elena, she is in the past. I want you."

And with that, he kissed her. He kissed her like she'd never been kissed before. It was not like she was with Stefan and Damon. It was so much better, like she was in heaven, as if Elijah was perfectly made for her, or as if she was made for him. The best part about being a vampire is that you don’t need to breathe. So Elijah grabbed one of her legs, wrapping it around his waist, while his other went inside her t-shirt. And to think that one of his hands, which had ripped out a heart just half an hour earlier, was now on her back. Her hands went to his hair, pulling it hard from his roots, which he seemed to like. It was the softest thing she had ever touched.

Hey, love birds, this is a church, not a motel!" Said Father Kieran, he said, interrupting them. Elena hid her face in Elijah's neck, holding back a burst of laughter.

"I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned." Said Elijah.

Elijah and Elena got into the car, and holding each other's hands, they got back to the house.

[pattywind]

Blog Title: “In These Last Days: A Warning to the Hypocrites and the Faithful”

Brothers and Sisters,

Please hear me with spiritual ears—we are living in the very days Paul warned Timothy of.

“But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive… having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power. Avoid such people.”

— 2 Timothy 3:1–5

Do you see it? Do you feel it?

We are surrounded by hypocrisy, pride, and spiritual blindness. Those who walk in the truth, who dare to speak out against corruption or call out sin, are no longer just ridiculed—they’re punished. I’ve come to know this firsthand.

Using social media to share God’s Word—to rebuke sin and expose darkness—has become dangerous. Free speech and freedom of religious expression are meaningless if your voice doesn’t align with the narrative of the powerful. If your truth threatens their illusion, they will silence you. They will try to destroy your family, crush your spirit, and bury your witness all in the name of “justice.”

How is it justice when a free man is told what he can or cannot say?

“Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?”

— Galatians 4:16

As a society, we’ve become so fragile, so conditioned, that the mere sound of another’s opinion is now considered an act of violence. Do they not remember the old childhood saying:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”?

Even Christ—our Lord, our Savior, the Word made flesh—was crucified not for violence, but for truth.

“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

— Matthew 10:34

Yes, His Word is a sword. And those of us who wield it—those who live and speak in Truth—are treated as enemies of the state, enemies of progress, enemies of peace.

But let me be clear: I will not be silent.

Yes, my husband is suffering under this corruption. A Marine Corps veteran, a protector of these very freedoms, now denied the same rights he swore to uphold. He is being punished—not for a crime—but for being inconvenient to a system built on lies.

And when I cried out for help… silence.

Over 200 media organizations have received our story.

Not one has replied.

The media has become the fourth branch of the government—propaganda dressed as truth. They don’t tell the whole story. They can’t. There’s no money in truth, no ratings in righteousness.

So I’ve turned to this blog. This sacred space where I can proclaim both my faith and my fight.

I speak to the liars, the hypocrites, the proud judges, the fake journalists, and the spiritual deceivers:

“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres… outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead men’s bones.”

— Matthew 23:27

You prop up corruption and pretend it’s justice. You bend truth into falsehood and call it virtue. But I tell you: The Lord our God is watching. His judgment is not delayed.

“But the Lord shall laugh at him: for he seeth that his day is coming.”

— Psalm 37:13

Repent while you still have time. Because soon, your position won’t protect you. Your money won’t matter. Your power will perish.

“And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”

— Revelation 20:15

🔥 That day is coming.

But to the remnant, the faithful, the warriors of truth—fear not. Do not fear man or his law. If the Spirit of the Living God leads you to speak, then speak boldly. But be wise. Be harmless as doves and shrewd as serpents. They are watching.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

— Matthew 5:10

Hold the line. Hold the faith. And speak truth—even if your voice shakes.

In faith and fire,

Patty Wind

truthspeaks1.wordpress.com

[doctorwho69]

Sermon Title: The End of the Most Ancient Lie

Text: Matthew 5:43–48; Romans 12:17–21; Luke 23:34

---

Introduction: A Lie So Old We Thought It Was Holy

Brothers and sisters,

Today I want to speak about a lie—an ancient lie.

So ancient, in fact, that it’s woven into the oldest stories we tell.

A lie so old we’ve mistaken it for truth.

A lie so dangerous, it has justified wars, crusades, lynchings, and hatred in the name of God.

Here is that lie:

That God calls us to achieve righteousness by killing the bad guys.

But here is the truth, made flesh in Jesus Christ:

God calls us to achieve righteousness by loving our enemies.

This is the turning point of history.

This is the scandal of grace.

This is the cross.

---

Point 1: The Lie in Our Bones

From the earliest days of human community, we’ve been tempted to divide the world into “us” and “them.”

Cain believed that righteousness required eliminating Abel.

Tribes believed that God favored them when their enemies lay defeated.

Religious zeal led people to think they were doing God’s will by destroying the unrighteous.

We read about holy wars in the Old Testament.

We’ve seen it echoed in holy wars of our own times.

We hear the whisper of it in our culture:

“They are the problem.”

“If we could just get rid of them…”

“God is on our side, not theirs.”

But friends, Jesus did not come to baptize our violence.

He came to crucify it.

---

Point 2: The Truth Made Flesh

Jesus says in Matthew 5:44,

“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

Not tolerate them.

Not secretly hope for their downfall while acting civil.

Love them. Pray for them.

This is not weakness. This is the strongest command ever given.

It is the complete undoing of the ancient lie.

On the cross, as nails pierced his hands, Jesus didn’t curse the ones who put him there.

He said, “Father, forgive them.”

In that moment, he shattered the old idea that righteousness could be won through violence.

He didn’t defeat evil by returning fire—he defeated it by absorbing it.

He let the evil exhaust itself on his body... and then he rose.

This is how God wins:

Not by slaying the wicked, but by transforming hearts.

Not by crushing enemies, but by redeeming them.

---

Point 3: What This Means For Us

Romans 12 tells us,

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

Church, this is our calling.

Not to mirror the hatred of the world.

Not to pick up the sword when we feel threatened.

But to live as if Jesus actually meant what he said.

That’s hard.

It’s countercultural.

It will cost you pride, security, maybe even reputation.

But it is the only path to true righteousness.

Because righteousness is not measured by the number of enemies we defeat,

but by the depth of love we show—especially to those who least deserve it.

---

Conclusion: The Cross Ends the Lie

The cross is the end of the lie.

The resurrection is the beginning of the truth.

We are not called to be soldiers in a holy war against flesh and blood.

We are called to be peacemakers in a world addicted to violence.

Jesus doesn’t kill the bad guys.

He forgives them.

And then he invites them to dinner.

That’s the kind of righteousness the world cannot understand—

but it is the righteousness that will heal it.

So may we be people who stop repeating the ancient lie…

and start living the eternal truth.

---

Amen.