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1moreff-creator · 10 days ago

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Theory: Mai Akasaki’s Sixteen Killers

The theory that everyone in DRDT’s killing game is responsible for the death of Mai Akasaki.

If you’ve been around the DRDT theorizing sphere, you might have caught sight of a very particular thought floating around; that one way or another, everyone in the killing game is responsible for Mai’s death. It comes up every now and then, so I figured I'd throw in my own take on the matter. Let’s pull a Poirot, and solve this Murder on not-quite-an Orient Express!

CW: Murder, suicide, poison, mentions of religion

The Prologue: Mai is Dead? Who is Mai?!

Alright but maybe I should explain who the hell I'm talking about for the uninformed :v

Mai Akasaki is a more or less secret character, who’s only had nine seconds of screen time in the main series (Teruko’s dream in 1-6), but is most likely Unnamed Classmate from the Bonus Episodes. A full introduction and several important theories I believe about her can be found in my Mai post. Although some parts of that post are outdated, it gives what I consider to be a good overview of everything we know about her.

But in case you don’t feel like reading 15k words of rambling about this cryptid of a character, here’s quick summary:

-Probably part of Hope’s Peak East Class 27, classmate to most if not all the cast. After all, she’s Unnamed Classmate from the BEs.

-Really nice girl everyone adored like a god.

-Xander and her fucked around (presumably staging some kind of rebellion against Hope’s Peak).

-She found out (per Veronika’s Mai quote, “A for who didn’t foresee the consequences”).

-Presumed dead.

To elaborate on that last point, given it’s part of this post’s thesis, I’ll quickly show the evidence.

Most explicit. Mai’s numeral XI (and if you don’t know what a numeral means in the context of LGI, or what a "Mai quote" is, I urge you to read my secrets masterpost. This isn't an entry level theory lol :v) shows up alongside “God is dead,” alongside with an arrow pointing at Mai’s portrait when the word “God” shows up on screen. Not only that, this is the only grey numeral in the entire MV.

Then, just one line afterwards, the Kubler-Ross model of the five stages of grief shows up, a model often associated with death.

Even more evidence: the flowers in her tattoo are probably Mai flowers, a discovery by the-fox-in-the-socks. These flowers are associated with the legend of a girl named Mai who, among other things, died. Read their post for full clarification.

So… yeah. Mai’s dead. But, can we really claim the cast is to blame?

The Basis: Someone’s Fault

There is currently one person in the cast who is heavily suspected to be in some way responsible for Mai’s death, two more who I brought up in my Mai post as likely candidates as well, and even more which have looser connections to her death.

Teruko - Via Second Anniversary Art.

This gif shows Mai’s gloves disappearing from the top of a frame otherwise containing only Teruko, and in the middle flashes a code that (by rearranging the “rows” of the columns in numerical order) translates to “It’s all your fault.” So, Teruko at least is probably implicated, presumably through her luck if nothing else.

Xander? - Via Sixth Bullet

The LGI MV tells us there are six bullets to find, with the hint that we can’t actually find all of them. Indeed, only five bullets can be found. However, that could lead someone to speculate that the sixth bullet is loaded in the gun. Said weapon is labeled “(not a) prop gun”, connecting it to Xander, and aimed, while not directly at the Mai portrait, still too close for comfort. The idea here is that Xander might be considered responsible for her death because it was his idea to rebel against Hope’s Peak, and that may be what got her killed. If that makes no sense to you, again, please read the Mai post, I've already written too much about this girl to repeat myself too much T_T

Whit? - Via Tetraphobia

When Whit’s numeral XV appears on screen, we also get the instruction “subtract 4, due to tetraphobia.” XV - 4 = XI, which is Mai’s numeral, again “God is dead.” This could connect Whit to her death, with the idea being that he’s Whit so if there’s a way to look suspicious he’ll take it. That is to say, I actually don’t know how Whit could be connected to Mai’s death :p The only way to salvage Whit’s innocence in regards to Mai is to assume the tetraphobia thing is meant to connect him to footnote 11 instead of numeral XI, but footnote 11 is the Diana one, and while there’s ways to make that work, theorizing about Diana is genuinely harder than theorizing on Mai. So, for the purposes of the post, we’re gonna ignore that connection to Diana, and say that this could connect Whit to Mai.

Ace??? - Via Highlighted Text

This is the most recent allegation to come up, and it’s based on an observation regarding Eden’s dialogue in 2-16.

Eden [2-16]: I never said that I forgave him. It's just that... The Ace I met for the first time wasn't a murderer.

The bolded text is peculiar. While it could just be for emphasis, it’s also possible it’s bolded to bring attention to it because it’s an assumption which is wrong. As in, Ace was a killer since the start of the killing game. If that’s not about Taylor (which it very well could be considering Ace’s dialogue, let's not ignore that), it could be about Mai.

Veronika??? - Via Mai Quote

Veronika's Mai quote: A girl who didn't foresee the consequences.

Hers is the one that references consequences, after all!

Yep, that's the full connection.

David???? - Via Mai Quote Order

His Mai quote is the only one after Veronika’s in the Mai order given by the source code of Mai’s page, an order which has not been entirely forgotten. This could maybe make him suspicious if you squint harder than anyone’s ever squinted before. Does this one even make sense to anyone who is not me? Who knows.

Min????? - Via Footnote 6

Footnote 6, “[Prayer]”, flashes on screen at the same time Min’s numeral X is there.

Since Mai is a “God” in the MV, the prayer goes to the God, the scene is referencing Min’s murder kinda through the trial… Yeah this is uber weak. It’s kinda similar to saying Eden’s suspicious because her Mai quote makes no sense; just because it’s weird doesn’t mean it can be cleanly connected to the Agenda.

Yeah that’s kinda it. But, if only a few characters are being even tangentially connected to Mai’s death, how is it possible that everyone is catching an allegation? Well…

The Thread: Rule 14 & “Murder on Orient Express”

“Rule 14: All murderers must be held accountable for their crimes."

The strange wording in this rule has been a topic of speculation for a while. You could take it to mean that blackeneds who lose trials get executed, but then it wouldn’t be “all murderers,” it would just be “the murderers who get found.” Thus, the theory that there could have been multiple murderers in the cast even before the killing game properly started was born.

This is especially notable given a recent reveal: MonoTV's purpose.

MonoTV (DefaultTV) [2-16]: But there is no reason for me to punish Ace a second time. That would fail to serve my purpose. Ace: What? Charles: Your purpose? DefaultTV: Naturally. To run this killing game until the death of every participant.

There is no rule that states anything along the lines of "everyone has to be dead by the end," not directly. That is, of course, unless Rule 14 applies to everyone. If all murderers must be held accountable for their crimes, and everyone in the cast is (by some loose definition of the word) a murderer, then it follows that MonoTV would be designed to "punish" (read: kill) each and every one of them.

And this isn’t the only allusion to the possibility. The next topic to cover would be “A Murder on Orient Express.” Uh, spoilers for the book, but it’s a murder mystery where the big twist is that every suspect, every passenger in the train, had a part in the death of the victim.

How is this connected to DRDT? Well, for starters, it’s one of the books referenced in LGI, with three appearances; one is just a reference to the David reveal, but the other two are more notable, one being attached to Teruko’s numeral XIII and the other directly preceding the “democratic-ly” shot, which directly references the killing game. A connection to the protagonist, the “main antagonist” and the killing game itself could be noteworthy…

If this wasn’t LGI. Teruko’s numeral is also attached to text from “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas,” the David scene has references to “Dogra Magra” and “No Longer Human,” and if it’s just about number of appearances, Hamlet has a whopping eight showings. If showing up in LGI was all these stories needed to be considered plot relevant, we’d need to figure out a connection to, like, a million other books, a scientific paper and several Wikipedia articles.

No, the more relevant references to Murder on Orient Express actually come from the main series itself. For starters, Teruko references Agatha Christie in 1-1.

Teruko [1-1]: Strychnine... I think that many mystery novels mention that sort of poison. A****a C******e uses it as the murder weapon in one of her books.

However, Agatha Christie has written more than one book. In fact, the book Teruko references is "The Mysterious Affair at Styles," which I researched but couldn't find any way to connect it to DRDT (unless the concept of double jeopardy somehow becomes important). No, we need something else to refer us to Murder on Orient Express.

Which gets us to the biggest connection between DRDT and the book itself. And because dev hates me, specifically, it’s of course, in Thrown to the Wolves.

Like, really, why is this execution in particular the most theory relevant execution in the history of fangans? I take psychic damage every time I revisit 1-12 please save this poor Min fan-

The final question Min receives is “Who wrote the murder mystery novel Murder in the Calais Coach?”. And “Murder in the Calais Coach” is the US’ localization of “Murder on Orient Express.” Notably, this is the only time in the main series (as far as I remember) that a proper noun referring to a real thing isn’t censored with asterisks; TEDtalks, Agatha Christie, and Amazon have all been censored this way.

Xander [to David, Prologue-2]: You're just as incredible in real life as you are in your T*****k videos!

MonoTV [2-14]: But ever since I ordered 100 tons of concrete blocks from Am***n, I have been blacklisted from all online order companies.

This gives us an explicit connection, at least. Sure, it’s not guaranteed to be important just because it showed up in Thrown to the Wolves (I doubt the Riemann Hypothesis or that one enzyme system are important to DRDT), but combined with the other Agatha Christie reference and the lack of asterisks, it really seems like this could truly be significant.

So we've drawn the link between the book and DRDT. Combining it with what we talked about earlier about Rule 14 and MonoTV's purpose, it really seems like there's a solid argument to say that the whole cast might be responsible for the death of one particular person. And if that's the case, because of what we talked about even earlier, it's very possible that refers to Mai's death specifically.

Further evidence is MonoTV's Mai quote, "It's all your fault." The fact that the mascot of the killing game is saying that on Mai's page already suggests a connection between Mai's death and the origins of the killing game, so combined with the fact the purpose of this game is killing all its participants, it can potentially be taken as further evidence for the "Mai on the Orient Express" theory.

Now, to be clear, even with all of this, the evidence is... extremely loose. Understandably so; Mai and the killing game's origins are series wide mysteries which likely won't even get close to being solved until much later, so any theory which connects them is going to lack any amount of truly significant evidence. However, I feel there's enough there to at least consider it for the time being, and to keep the possibility in mind going forward. That's kinda the thesis of the post basically, "keep this in mind in case it comes up again" :v

As an add on though:

Alternative Theory: Unique Victims

Also known as: Holy shit is that a motherfucking Milgram reference?!!??!?

The idea here is that instead of everyone being responsible for Mai's death in some abstract manner, they all each killed at least one person before the killing game, but they each have different victims. "Killed" by a very loose metric, mind you, where being partially responsible for someone's suicide counts as murder in the eyes of the killing game organizers for some reason. This would be consistent with the previously mentioned Rule 14 interpretation, though the connection to Murder on Orient Express is notably weaker, as you need to generalize "everyone is responsible for the death of one particular person" to "everyone is responsible for someone's death." The advantage it has over the other theory is that we have a better idea of what each person's murder could be:

-Levi killed four people, that one's easy.

-Arturo blames himself for Felicity's death, at least.

-Min poisoned her competition. Potentially non-lethally, but potentially lethally as well.

-Teruko still probably holds some responsibility in Mai's death, or at least believes she does.

-Ace has been implied to blame himself for Taylor's death.

-Charles and Whit have Elliot and Elizabeth respectively. We don't know the full context of those two's deaths, so Charles and Whit could be responsible technically somehow.

-Veronika's done something worse than her motive secret implied, which could be murder. There's no evidence for it, but you know, it's possible.

-We know less than zero about Diana, to the point it's not impossible to make a theory that David caused her death.

-Xander has survivor's guilt... It's really not the same thing but y'know. You can kinda twist it into self-blame for death.

-Maybe Eden tried to kill Xander when she gouged out his eye? (Again sorry if you don't know what I'm talking about, should've read my secrets masterpost :p). If the cast calls Nico a murderer for attempted murder, then this could work. Technically.

-Hu attempted suicide. This is the biggest stretch in history, but there's some way to call Hu her own murderer with the same idea as before, that attempted murder still makes you a murderer. You know, ignoring that attempting suicide is completely different from murder. I'm trying, okay?

-Maybe Arei ruining her sisters' lives can be considered murder? Absolutely not, but again, I'm trying.

-If J, Rose and/or Nico killed someone before the killing game, it's never been implied. So, yeah. We're cooked on that front.

There's admittedly more set up for it than I'd realized before writing all that, but it's still not particularly perfect. I'll point to Arei as a particularly big problem for this theory, because there's almost no way for us to easily learn that she's killed someone now that she's dead, assuming her secret isn't somehow considered murder. Not to mention that Rose would probably have her murder as her secret if she remembers doing it. That, alongside with the Mai theory's closer connection to Murder on Orient Express, is why this post is mostly focused on said Mai theory; I find that to be the stronger possibility.

But of course, that's just my opinion. These theories are highly speculative and very likely to be wrong, but I wanted to get them out there somewhere. Hope you enjoyed them, and thanks for reading! If you made it this far, then you deserve a copy of Murder on Orient Express to read... or something like that. See ya'!

#look #this post has been in my drafts for literal months at this point #and the only thing it was lacking was images and proofreading for a good bit #i wanted to get it out before the year's end xD #drdt #danganronpa despair time #drdt theory #mai akasaki #drdt ensemble posting tag

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rahulverma999210 · 11 months ago

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SalarySe Secures $5.25 million in seed funding form Peak XV Surge

#SalarySe #$5.25 million #Peak XV #Surge

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bl00dlight · 8 months ago

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A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

Warning; future chapters will include:

Graphic Violence, XXX content, Targcest, Spoilers, Canon depravity, death and war, troubling being afoot, menacing, mischief making, genocide, murder, blood, guts, dragons etc.

Word Count ~ 2k+

Index

i ●ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi● vii ● viii ●ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

Prelude ~

Princess Visenya Velaryon, had always been cited as a fair & bold creature. Born in 111AC, a smile that gleamed with mischief adorned her face, marking her most like her mother Rhaenyra. She was, indeed, the picture of a Valyrian Princess, the picture of her mother – with wide eyes and demure glances which hid the current of cunning beneath. She was a but harmless thing, playful at best, impish at worse; at least so far as her grandsire King Viserys thought. Proclaimed as the Laenor Velaryon’s only daughter – the Princess did not inherit her father’s deeper skin or the ringed seafoam shaded locks of Velaryon women. Visenya in fact, did not possess many of House Velaryon' traits, both of the body and mind she seemed of true Targaryen stock, and it was but her mother Rhaenyra who knew, the young princess indeed was just that. Visenya’s impish glares and taunts were alike to that of The Rouge Prince, and to the common Lord or Lady of the court, one might think she inherited such a trait from her mother’s uncle. However, other more insidious rumours deemed Visenya a bastard of Prince Daemon’s, conceived by her mother unknowingly, right before she had wed Ser Leanor. Such rumours would be deemed, most truthful.

i - 'Old Wounds'

123 AC ~

The Princess Visenya, having but defying her mothers’ orders found her way to the Dragonpits alone, once more. She snuck through the winding caverns the soft glow of firelight shading the stone walls, her crimson dress dragging along the volcanic sand below. It was a soothing place, she thought, the warmth of the air… the smell of dragonfire which would linger upon one’s flesh, the gentle growls, and mummers of stirring Dragons. A place in which only a Targaryen might feel at ease. However, it was not the mummers of waking dragons which echoed through the caves in which Visenya heard. Her head peaked, her brow furrowing in confusion as she heard stifled sobs. Wrathful sobs.

She walked with caution, following the solemn sound until she stumbled upon him. The silver haired boy with his knees to his chest, his fists tightly scrunched. She stopped, taking in the sight, a most startling one for the Princess. Aemond.

It was only but a few hours ago that she had heard of her half-brother’s marvellous prank, allying with their eldest Uncle, Prince Aegon; to give Prince Aemond a pig instead of a dragon, to lure and taunt him just to see his face fall from glee to humiliation. Visenya had coiled with hearty laughter as her brother’s recounted the story, she longed to have been there, to see the propitious Prince Aemond faulter. However, her joy was shortly curtailed as Aemond had stumbled upon the scene, the imprint of his stern furrow upon hearing Visenya’s laughter still within her mind. Indeed, the sight she saw before her now, was unlike his affectedly stern façade – it was weak, crumbling, hurt.

The young Princess approached him softly, her face washed with a slight uncertainty.

“Aemond?” Her voice echoed quietly.

Aemond lifted his chin. A thin veil of tears dampened his lashes, his eyes red, bloodshot, and heavy with sorrow. In response, the prince simply glanced down, his expression sullen.

"I’ve no interested in your gloating." He said.

The silver haired girl raised an eyebrow. Her mouth curved upwards in a bemused smirk. "Why would I gloat? It was a rather clever prank. Regardless, it was not I who did it."

The prince’s fists clenched. His knuckles turning white as he looked up at her, his grey eyes glaring. "Yet you snickered all the same, you all laughed at my expense! I cannot forget what you all did to me, how you all..." His voice trailed off, his gaze falling to his fists. When he looked back at her, there were fresh dampness under his cheeks as his expression turn bitter.

“Leave. I should not like you reporting back to your brothers the details of my misery.” His voice a low warning.

“I had no intention to.” Visenya raised her brow, her arms folded. As she looked upon the prince she couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pity, his gaze so bitter… so wrathful. She sighed, coming down to sit beside him.

“It was a mere jest. Do not tear yourself to bits over it. Your thoughts are far harsher than the truth of it.” Her attempt at sympathy making her cringe.

“You know nothing of my thoughts!” Aemond snapped.

The air settled between them for a moment, the silence brutal as she looked to him, her hand hesitantly placing itself on his shoulder. Aemond snapped his head, his eyes narrowing as he brushed her hand away.

“I do not need your pity.” His tone curt.

The princess rose, scoffing as she extended her hand to him below. “Get up.” She spoke promptly.

His face coiled with both refusal and confusion. “What?” He snapped.

“I said, get up. If you do not need my pity, so be it. But I cannot stand to listen to your whining any longer. Come, I am visiting Silverwing, and you shall be my torch bearer.” She smiled mischievously, her hand lifting him up, then walking to another torch mounted on the stone walls, using it’s flame to set hers alight.

Visenya walked back, forcing the rough trunk of wood into his hand. “No- “His voice grating as she then shoved her hand upon his mouth. His eyes wide with shock as she crooned into his face.

“Enough of your sulking. Come. You wish for a Dragon, no? Then you ought to learn how to tend to one.”

She pulled him with her, further into the dark caverns of the Dragonpit until they came to Silverwing’s lair. “Silverwing, māzigon naejot nyke.” Visenya cooed. Silverwing, come to me.

The sudden shake of the earth bellow accompanied the grumbling of the large beast, her silver scales gleaming by the flickering torch light. Visenya turned, glancing at Aemond, his eyes like moons boring into her dragon.

She watched as he stepped back, his neck tilting upwards, the breeze hitting his silver hair. A smug smile came to Visenya’s lips as she turned to Aemond. His face was still set in stone, his gaze hardening as he watched the great beast. "So," the princess prompted, "Are you going to pet her? Or shall you remain sulking?”

Aemond's lips parted, he was about to make a snide remark before sighing. "Of course not." He walked closer to the dragon, standing a few feet away from her. The beast was enormous, the sheer size of her body dominating the wide cave, her lithe yet robust frame looming over the two young Targaryen’s. Silverwing's grey head looked down at him, her eyes narrowing. The prince had not stopped to wonder how the dragon would react. Aemond grumbled under his breath, then took a hesitant step forward. He looked at the dragon, its shining silver scales glinting in the dim light, his breathing hitched. The Prince could not help his anxiety, he had never been so close to a dragon before… never felt its hot breath warm his skin. He moved closer, swallowing a ball in his throat.

Aemond had taken another step forward when Silverwing's body rattled with warning, her low growls causing his steps to falter, his hand tightening on the base of the torch. He would not allow himself to look away, he would not show fear, nor would he retreat. The torch cast a long shadow upon the cave walls, Silverwing’s breath rapidly increasing as he moved closer, her nostrils flaring with each exhale. The dragon's eyes did not stray from the young prince, studying his every movement as Visenya let out a soft chuckle, revelling in his rattled stance.

"She shall not bite you." An amused smirk curled upon her lips. "Silverwing, māzigon." she cooed. The dragon's head turned, her eyes focusing on the princess before she did so.

"There, you see?" Visenya asked, she looked over to him, a small part of her finding the utmost enjoyment in the nervous expression he wore. The dragon raised her chin, letting out a soft whisp of hot air from her nostrils.

Visenya’s amusement brought no pleasure to Aemond, his expression taut, his neck tilting up to look at the dragon approaching him. The dragon halted, lowering its head almost appearing as though it were sneering at the young prince. Aemond stilled, taking one step back as Silverwing’s jaw neared him. Visenya’s eyes wide with an intrigue as she watched her dragon interact with her uncle. Silverwing was indeed, sizing him out. Aemond’s chest rose, and with that he stepped back once more, folding his arm as though he were unimpressed with the beast’s size. Silverwing giving out a soft huff as she moved, her large head nudging against Visenya.

“She was Queen Alysanne’s dragon.” Aemond spoke matter-of-factly.

“You know of her histories?” The princess raised her brow.

“Unlike you, I have decidedly taken an interest in our House’s legacy. It apart of our duty.” Aemond replied, firmly.

Visenya scoffed, turning as she sauntered towards him, her arms folded as a smug smile appeared upon her lips. “I am far too busy actually flying and tending to my dragon to have time to reading of other Targaryen’s doing the same.” Her voice haughty.

“I have yet to see you do such a thing.” He furrowed his brow in disbelief.

Aemond watched as Visenya placed a gentle hand upon Silverwing, whispering a soft farewell before they exited her lair, the princess spoke smugly, “Yes, well I do not expect you to pay much attention to my doings. Regardless, I am already rather adapt, Daemon said I did not need a saddle so-“

“Daemon?” Aemond raised his brow, and Visenya shrugged, nonchalantly about the fact. “Yes.”

The young prince furrowed his brow in deep disapproval, his stern demeanour returning as he stopped, Visenya turning as he spoke.

“Uncle should know better than to allow such a thing.” He barked. Visenya stepped forward scoffing. “So? Those bloody Maesters- “

Aemond stepped closer, his voice overlapping hers. “Those Maesters are doing their duty in making sure you are equipped to ride properly. You ought not to be going on saddleless joyrides with Uncle Daemon.” The Prince stared sharply, unyielding.

“Are you to tell on me?” The princess gritted her teeth.

A disenfranchised look came to Aemond’s face, he spoke more like a father scolding his daughter than a boy of her own age “Daemon is not fit to minding you. You are a Princess of the Relam, if anything were to happen-“

Princess Visenya’s eyes widened in both panic and fury, she could not have the precious time she spent with her father ruined by Aemond’s incessant need to dob. “But nothing did happen! If you dare speak a word of this I shall tell my brothers that I had caught you sobbing and sulking in the Dragonpits all by yourself… like a helpless, pathetic babe whining for its mother.” She interrupted.

“Do not dare.” He sneered, his gaze lowering.

“Swear you shall not tell.” Her voice raised, stern. Silence fell between the two as their gazes pierced into each other, they stood opposed in the darkened space. “Swear it.” Her tone sharp.

He said nothing, the silence lingered as he felt his strength faulter. “Fine.”

The two Targaryen’s did not speak again as they walked up out from the Pit’s entrance. Visenya’s eyes expanding in a deep trepidation as she was met with the folded arms of her mother, Rhaneyra’s face stern. “It may please you to know that you’ve had every guard and servant forced to abandon their duties so they may search for you.” Rhaneyra’s voice echoed at the carven entrance, her head tilted downwards as she gazed into the calculatedly soft eyes of her daughter.

“I had told you where I wished to go.” Visenya lowered her gaze in sweet self-admittance as her mother shook her head.

Rhaenyra spoke firmly to remind the young Princess her mother was indeed, well aware of her charmed tongue, often used to evade trouble. "And I had told you no more leisure trips to the Dragonpits without an escort.” Rhaneyra’s doubled down as the young Princess protested. “But mother- “

Rhaneyra’s tone softens as she steps forward, placing a hand upon her daughter's shoulder. “Visenya, I worry for you.”

Visenya turned her head, gesturing to the seemly meek Aemond which stood behind her “But I was not alone. Prince Aemond had accompanied me.” Visenya gave the young prince a narrowing gaze, subliminally signalling for him to nod; he did. The future Queen could not help but tilt her head, a small warmth in her chest as finally, it seemed there may be hope for some level of kinship between her own and Alicent’s children.

Rhaenyra regained focused once more, her voice almost lenient, “Aemond is but a year your prior and the King’s young son no less, tis not his duty to protect you. And while I am glad of the peace the two of you have forged...” Rhaenyra sighed softly, and shook her head a little, clearly unimpressed. “I will not have my only daughter risking her life to get to the Dragonpits, without a proper escort. The streets are most unpredictable, my girl.” She shuddered.

“I did not take the streets.” Visenya protested, a small smile upon her face as though the news would be pleasing to her.

Rhaenyra frowned, stepping forward to Aemond as her concern reignited as she gazed at them both, “You took the passages?" She leaned towards her daughter, her voice hushed so that her half-brother would not hear. "I ought to have the mind to bar you in your chambers until the moon turns!” Rhaneyra's tone hardened once more.

Visenya looked down, her gaze ruminating on the floor as her mother’s tone grew stern, there was a pause; she felt embarrassment coil within her, why must mother do this in front of him, she thought. Rhaenyra sighed as she noted her daughter’s meek demeanour she let her frustration dissipate, she did not dare scold her own child in front of her half-brother. Aemond noticed the tension ease between them, he remained still, his arms held behind his back as he watched Visenya. Satisfaction bloomed within him; he’d never seen her so… passive.

Rhaenyra yielded, her tone softening, “You must take an escort, sweet girl. I’ve little desire to strip you of your freedoms, so do not force me to do so.” Visenya looked up, her pale violet eyes meeting those of her mother, Rhaenyra placed a gentle hand upon her daughter’s head, stroking her silver hair.

Visenya gave a small and conceded, “Yes, mother…”

As the moment came to an end, Rhaneyra’s gaze came to the young green prince before her, Alicent’s son… her father’s son… her younger brother.

Aemond shuffled under his sister’s gaze, they had hardly ever spoken all he knew was that she bore bastards, that she was the King’s favoured child. Rhaenyra spoke again, clearing her throat. “Come, the both of you. I fear the Queen, has sent for your whereabouts, Aemond.”

With that, the three Targaryen's took to exit the Dragonpits, not another word was uttered.

○ii○

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rollingsins · 2 years ago

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all hers, part xxii

summary: Ghostface has you. Sam and Tara hurry to find you before it's too late.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, graphic violence.

word count: 5.3k

a/n: hi bbies, pls peep the warning for this one, not for the fainthearted. as always, appreciate all the love and let me know your thoughts on the chapter :))

“Drive, Sam, drive!” Tara all but screams.

Her hands are pressed firm against the dashboard of the car, heartbeat in her throat. Her eyes are wide, red, but no tears spill over. She’s focused. Determined.

Her body is thrumming, wild, as she feels a familiar force take over. Her eyes blacken.

“I am driving, Tara.” Sam says back through gritted teeth. Her hands are sweaty, pressed firm against the wheel, her foot on the gas.

The car blows through a red light, tires screeching against the tar of the road.

“Drive faster.” Tara growls.

Her seatbelt is unbuckled. She looks wild, as if she’s about to launch herself across the car and shove Sam out of the way.

“We go any faster and we’ll spin out.” Sam tells her. She’s hunched over like a formula one driver, racing through the familiar roads of Woodsboro.

She flies past a stop sign, almost crashing into a nearby car. The car honks, but Sam’s gone before he can even make out her license plate.

Tara turns her attention to the backseat. It’s a mess of kids hockey gear and empty fast food wrappers. This isn’t Sam’s car - they’d left it at the house and commandeered it the moment they’d figured out the truth.

Tara clutches a children’s sized hockey stick between her fingertips - the only viable weapon she can find, and turns her attention back to the road.

In the distance, she can make out the house.

Just a few more feet and she’ll be there. With you.

“Let me take the lead,” Sam commands. She grips on tighter to the wheel as she launches it into the drive, “She’s dangerous, Tara, don’t do anything stupid-”

But Tara’s out of the car before it even stops. Charging into the house with her hockey stick drawn like she’s about to go to battle.

“Shit.” Sam says. She hits the brakes, drawing up the parking brake and clambers out of the car, hot on her sister’s heel.

The house is still. Silent.

Broken glass mars the lawn. The front door is wide open, an alarm blaring loudly in its wake. The noise has drawn a small crowd, near the end of the road. Neighbors peer over, their interest peaked. But Sam pays them no mind.

“YN!” Tara calls loudly. She rushes through the front door, “Baby? Are you here?”

They both hear it at once - a moan, weak, coming from the living room.

Tara doesn’t hesitate. She surges forward, and into the living room, Sam hot on her heel.

Your Mom is on the floor, eyes bleary. She can’t move, her blood oozing deep red onto the carpet.

Sam’s breath catches in her throat.

Tara leans down, eyes wild.

“Where is she?” She asks, voice desperate, “YN. Where is she?”

Your Mom gurgles.

“Ghostface…” She gasps, “Ghostface… he took her.”

“Took her where?” Tara asks, hyper-focused, “Where did Ghostface take her?”

Your Mom’s chest rises, her vision spots, eyelids drooping slightly. She's loosing consciousness.

In a panic, Tara takes her by the shoulders and shakes her, somewhat violently.

“Took her where?” She yells.

Sam reaches forward and grabs Tara by the shoulder.

“Tara,” She says, voice a hiss, “Stop it.”

But Tara isn’t listening. She stands, grabs her hockey stick and looks over at Sam, look in her eye determined. Your Mom moans out, but Tara ignores her. Her feet shuffle in a wild pace around the living room, her eyebrows furrowed together in concentration.

“Where would she go?” She asks, “Sam, think. If you were the Sheriff, where would you take her?”

Sam blinks.

“Sam.”

“To her house, maybe,” Sam says, mind whirling as she tries to think, “Think about it, Tara, she doesn’t know we know.”

Tara shakes her head, “No, Sam. She isn’t stupid. She’s thought about this. Planned it. There’s no way she’s dumb enough to kidnap someone and take her home.”

Her chest heaves.

"It's somewhere remote. Somewhere she knows she won't be seen." She deduces.

Sam presses her hands to your Mom's neck. Her pulse is still there, slightly faint.

"The police will be here any minute," Sam tells your Mom, not unkindly, "And the ambulance. And the fire department. We called everyone."

Your Mom murmurs, her eyes closed.

Tara's head jolts up. She looks over at Sam, as if she's just had a brainwave.

“Millwood. There’s a house in Millwood.” She says, voice urgent, “Wes used to live out there. The Sheriff still owns it. Wes used to drive out there sometimes to think.”

“Millwood’s thirty minutes away,” Sam says, sounding doubtful, “Tara, are you sure? If she’s not there, we’ll never get back in time.”

Tara blinks. Sam watches as the cogs spin in her head.

“I’m not sure,” Says Tara. Her voice shakes, “But there's no-where else.”

There’s a gentle hum that buzzes throughout the basement.

It’s an old refrigerator, you think mindlessly. The hum is a welcome noise. Steady, almost peaceful.

The complete contrast to the emotions you’re feeling right now.

The blood on your neck has dried, prickling uncomfortably against the hairs on the back of your neck.

The Sheriff has her back turned to you. Her dagger rests on a small table, only feet from you, police scanner in her hand.

The hum of the refrigerator is suddenly drowned out by the crackle of officers on the radio.

“Ten twenty Park, two victims down and unresponsive.” Says one officer, “Sending units, over.”

The Sheriff clicks the radio off and turns back to you.

You press back against the seat of your chair, tears leaking from your eyes.

She hasn’t said a word since she took off her mask, ignoring your desperate pleas and wild attempts to unseat yourself. She’s calm, too calm, as if she has you right where she wants you.

She blinks over at you, and suddenly something new washes through her features.

Regret.

Your heart pounds.

“I’m sorry about your parents.” She says, voice dropping, “I didn’t intend to have collateral damage.”

Your heart thuds.

“Is my Dad alive?” You ask, desperately. Your voice shakes, “Did you kill him? Did you kill my Mom?”

She stares.

“I don’t know,” She says, and it sounds honest, “They both took a few pellets to the legs. It’s just what I had to do.”

She hums, as if she’s just convinced herself of this.

“But I didn’t intend it,” She says, almost hurriedly, “It wasn’t the plan.”

“And what was the plan?” You ask, voice hoarse, “To drag us all down to the station and have your cop buddies tag team us?”

The Sheriff purses her lips.

“I was going to bring you all here,” She says, eyes sparkling, “I recorded a message. Richie. He’d been sighted, the call said. At an old house in Millwood. I’d bring you all here, get you downstairs and then-“

She closes her eyes, as if the thought of it is ecstasy.

“Boom. Boom. Boom. Sam first, she’s the strongest. I’d shoot her in the leg, handicap her.” She freezes, voice sharp.

“But not kill her. Not yet. Not before she knew all about what her precious baby sister got up to in her spare time.”

She leans in, eyes flickering.

“Not before I gave you what you both deserved.”

You swallow.

“And you were in it with Richie? This whole time?”

The Sheriff shrugs.

“Richie had a score to settle. So did I.”

At this, you blink, a little surprised.

“What did we ever do to him?” You ask.

Tara had been a brat, that you can admit. But a couple of tantrums over a game of Uno was hardly motive enough to don a Ghostface suit and attempt to kill you both.

“Tara murdered his girlfriend.” The Sheriff sneers.

You blink up at her, eyebrows furrowing. The last time you'd seen Richie's girlfriend was less than an hour ago; alive, well and climbing into the Sheriff's car.

“Sam?”

“Amber Freeman.”

“Amber?”

Your mouth is dry. You hadn't thought about Amber in months. You remember the force in her voice as she'd thrown herself at you. You remember the quiet confirmation she'd been punished for it. You feel her now, like the ghost of her is here, taunting you in your fibred shackles. You can see her sneer in the Sheriff's face.

"They met online, he said," Says the Sheriff, "They had plans of their own. Plans for Sam."

You swallow as she twirls the knife in her hands.

"Sam's related to Billy Loomis, did you know that?" The Sheriff says, "Richie and Amber had worked it out. They devised some half-baked plan to bring Ghostface back to Woodsboro. But someone beat them to it."

She blinks. Her grip on the knife tightens.

"I guess the rumors were true, after-all. Carpenters. They're no good. Related to Billy Loomis or not."

"So you decided to what?" You ask, voice thick, "Join in?"

The Sheriff purses her lips.

"Richie was devastated." She says, quietly, "He attacked you at the house, that first time. An eye for an eye, he called it. A girlfriend in exchange for a girlfriend.” She laughs, “God, he was so sloppy. I had him pegged within minutes. I was going to offer him a deal. A lighter sentence in exchange for his testimony against Tara.”

She leans in, eyes glinting dangerously.

“But then I had a better idea.”

She’s so close you can see the pores on her cheeks. Your heart hammers. If you can headbutt her just hard enough…

But then she’s retracting before you have the chance.

“And, well, you know the rest.” She says. She reaches for the dagger, grips it firm within her hands.

You swallow, desperate to keep her talking.

“How did you find out?” You ask, voice shaking, “About Tara?”

She looks over at you.

“It wasn’t difficult,” She sneers, “Tara’s not as smart as she thinks she is. She left a breadcrumb trail of bodies that all led back to you. Aaron, your first kiss? Sadie, your first girlfriend? Chad Meeks told me Amber Freeman openly hit on you just hours before her murder.”

Your head is swimming, but all you can think is: Damn it, Chad.

The Sheriff’s hand tightens around the blade.

“And then there was my son.”

Her entire demeanor changes. Gone is the taunt in her voice. Her shoulders draw tight, like a weapon ready to be fired. Her eyes flash, filling back with violence and hatred and vengeance.

“He figured Tara out, didn’t he?” She asks, stepping closer.

Fruitlessly, you tug against the binds around your hands.

“He worked it out. He was smart, he was always so smart.” Her voice wavers. There are tears behind her eyes she doesn’t let fall. Her face is hard.

“And he came to you. Not me. Not Tara. You. Witnesses had him at the house. They didn’t see Tara, they said you let him in.”

She takes in a sharp breath.

“And I want to hear you say it.” She says, voice barely above a whisper.

You gulp.

“Say what?”

Her lip curls.

“You killed him, didn’t you?” She asks, “It wasn’t Tara, not this time. He came to warn you and you killed him for it.”

She grips the knife so tightly it looks as though it might break.

The refrigerator hums loudly, once more.

This is the end, you think, briefly, no matter what you say this only ends with her knife buried in you.

And all you can do now is hope she doesn’t make it too painful.

It’s what you deserve.

It’s Wes, you see him clear as day. That little version of him that lives in your mind, popping up every so often to taunt you. He’d warned you this day would come and now here it is.

His mother in front of you, the very hands that had killed her son tied taut around your back.

It’s justice, Wes sneers.

You could play dumb, but you have the feeling it might make her angrier than the truth. It hardly matters now. The Sheriff, proof or no proof, has herself convinced you’re guilty.

And you are.

“It was me.” You say, voice strangled, “I did it.”

The Sheriff lets out a sigh. She closes her eyes, like her entire body is filled with relief. She has you now, the person who took her son from her. But it doesn’t last long.

Grief floods back into her face.

She has you but not him.

And she’ll never have him again.

Her hands reach out to grip your throat.

You let out a cry.

“Tell me what happened,” She growls, “Tell me every detail. Every word. I need to know.” Her voice breaks, “Did he suffer? How did you do it? Did he see it coming? Everything.”

“I don’t think-” You choke out. Her fingers on your throat loosen slightly. She replaces them with the blade of her knife, “I don’t think you want to know, Sheriff. I don’t think it’s good for you to know.”

“You’ll tell me every detail or I’ll slit your throat ear to ear, right now.” She snarls.

You swallow. The blade breaks the skin of your throat, only slightly. You flinch at the sting, feel a trickle of blood stream down your chest.

“It was quick,” You say, voice quiet, “He didn’t suffer. He told me he knew about Tara. He didn’t know I knew. He said he was going to tell everyone and I had to protect her.”

It sounds pathetic, when you say it like that.

You know it’s pathetic. Any sane person would have you drawn and quartered for your admission. You deserve to be locked in a cell for the rest of your life.

Your girlfriend had murdered six people and you’d protected her.

Because you love her. Because you’d do anything for her.

You’d watch in silence as she murdered them all again.

Because you’re hers and she’s yours and nothing else matters.

Not Sam, nor Dan. Not Aaron or Amber. Not Sadie, not Chase.

Not even Wes.

And she can see it in your eyes.

“Well you failed.” The Sheriff sneers, “When I’m done with you I’m going back for Tara. I’ll bring her here, let her wail over your mutilated body. And then I’ll do the same to her.”

A gasp catches in your throat.

She would kill you, that you were convinced of. You’ve relinquished yourself to it now. She’s bigger than you, stronger. She has a weapon and no matter how hard you tug on the binds around your hands, they wouldn’t break loose.

You’re at her mercy, to which you can see she has none.

If you’re lucky, she’ll slit your throat. If you’re unlucky, she’ll make it painful. She’s likely to make it painful.

But you don’t care about that. You don’t care about anything but her.

“Please,” You beg, “I’m the one you’re angry with. I’m the one who killed your son. Tara didn’t do anything to him. She loved him. She was his friend.”

The Sheriff moves away from you. She’s poised again, calm. Gone is the anger. You don’t know which is scarier. She reaches for her dagger, grazes the tip along the tabletop.

“She’s the reason he’s dead,” Says the Sheriff, “You said it yourself. He died so you could protect her.”

“But it was me who did it,” You beg, “Do whatever you want to me. I deserve it. But please don’t hurt Tara.”

She looks over at you, and you immediately know you’ve said the wrong thing.

Her eyes flicker, like there’s something she just realized.

Something she can use against you.

She grips the knife between her fingertips and leans in again, blue eyes cold.

“I was going to kill you first,” She says, voice like ice, “It’d be better that way, I figured. Safer. So you couldn’t run. But now I’m not so sure.”

You hold in your breath as she grazes the tip of the dagger along your neck. It’s so cold it burns.

She smiles.

“Maybe it’s better if I kill her first. In front of you, so you can know just what it’s like.” Her jaw tightens, “So you can feel what it’s like to lose someone precious to you.”

It happens in a split second.

She’s close again. So close you can feel her breath against your cheek.

There’s something in the back of your mind, someone, like she’s there with you, holding your shoulders and begging you to fight for your life.

“Fight, baby,” Tara begs, and you close your eyes, willing her close, “Fight for yourself. Fight for me.”

You think of her.

Her smile. The way her hair catches sometimes against the smear of her lip-gloss. Her freckled nose. Her deep, pretty brown eyes. You know what she’ll do if you die. If you die, a part of her will too.

You know she’ll never forgive herself.

And so you do it for her.

You launch your head forwards, as hard as you can. Your forehead crashes against the Sheriff. The sound is sickening; like a hammer against a ton of bricks. Immediately, your head throbs, painfully. Bright light careens behind your eyes, and a wave of nausea rips through your body like a storm.

But you ignore it.

The Sheriff cries out, stumbling backwards and careening into the table with the force.

Your legs wobble, and it takes all the strength you have left in your body to stand, bringing the chair up with you, your hands still bound to it. You stand, almost collapsing as you blink the room back into vision.

The Sheriff is on the ground, clutching her head, the knife discarded on the floor. You swing around, using all your might to thrust the chair behind you forwards onto her body.

She shrieks as the wood of the chair catches around her leg. Shockwaves flood through your body at the force. You press down onto her once, then twice, but the binds don’t budge and the chair doesn’t break.

The adrenaline flooding through you makes you feel like the hulk, but the reality is - you’re too small for this. You panic as she writhes, trying to grab at your leg and spring forward.

Like a lamb running from a lion, you do the only thing you can think of.

You run.

Fast. Towards the stairs and up to the basement door.

You must look ridiculous.

The chair catches the sides of the staircase every second step, and you almost trip trying to reach the top. You don’t look behind you, you don’t want to know how close she is. You reach the top step and use all your might to ram at the basement door.

You grunt.

Your shoulder hits the middle of the door, almost barreling it open.

But nothing happens.

The door is locked, because of course it is.

What kind of person kidnaps someone, ties them up and doesn’t lock the door to their cage?

You cry out, panic flooding through you. Your cheeks are red, stinging with the pain of the attack and the flurry of tears spilling out from your eyes.

You ram at the door once more, but it doesn’t budge.

“HELP ME.” You cry out. You smash your shoulder against the door frame once more, “PLEASE, SOMEONE, HELP ME.”

But no-one answers.

And after several moments of banging, and screaming and fruitless attempts to pry the door open, you feel a heavy hand on the base of your calf, and then you’re being tugged, hard, down the staircase.

You gasp, crying out as you hit the staircase, face first. You feel blood smear your cheeks, and a sharp, stinging pain near the top of your forehead. You scream, writhe, with everything you have left in you.

The Sheriff drags you down the staircase, her forehead red, bruised where you hit her.

And she looks angrier than you’ve ever seen her.

She tugs you back down into the basement and you feel the chair beneath you crack with the sheer force of her pull.

Blindly, with your vision spotted with your own blood, you untangle your hands from its ruins, but she’s too quick. She climbs atop your body, pinning your hands above your head. She looks crazy, possessed, like she might kill you right there on the spot.

Madly, you launch your knee up between her legs.

She growls out in pain, but her weight doesn’t move.

Instead, she frees one of her hands to clutch at the knife, and brings it up to your neck.

Immediately you still.

The room is cool. It smells metallic, of your own blood. You can’t hear the refrigerator, not anymore. Blood pulses through your ears. The Sheriff on top of you feels claustrophobic, like she’s leaning onto your torso so hard she might crush you with the sheer force of her weight.

Her eyes are black. Gone is the blue.

She chokes on her own tears as she says it.

“This is for my son.”

And then she lifts her knife, and with all the force of a mother scorned, launches it down and between your ribcage.

You scream.

Your cheeks flush red and the knife sinks deep into your skin. It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt. Every inch of the knife feels magnified, like she’s sinking a hundred feet of steel between your ribs. The blood in your ears dulls, replaced by the sheer force of endless, mind-numbing pain that bursts from the broken skin of your stomach and out to every part of your body.

The Sheriff heaves, her grip on the knife loosening.

You furrow your brow, blood and sweat glistening from your forehead as you bring yourself to look down. The nausea brimming in your stomach almost blooms as you look down to see her knife, lodged deep into your body.

Your mind fogs, shock permeating through your body.

You feel dizzy, like you might pass out.

The nausea, the pain, the blood spilling out all at once.

Your scream dies in the back of your throat, replaced with a gentle, quiet, murmur. Sobs that can’t quite metamorphize. Quiet, strangled, blubbers as you realize the last moments of your existence.

You’re going to die here, under her.

You’re going to die and then she’s going to kill Tara too. You gag on your own saliva, choking slightly as you writhe under her, desperate for a few final moments of strength.

But it’s too much.

Your body has taken all it can. It’s failing on you.

You’re dying.

The Sheriff watches, her own blood trickling down her forehead. She blinks, satisfaction flooding through her features. Her vengeance, realized.

Her justice served.

You’re going to die and she’s going to sit here and watch.

Your eyelids fall, heavy.

Suddenly, you feel weightless.

The pain lessens and lessens and lessens, until you can barely feel it.

You feel like you’re floating.

You hear Tara’s voice again. Distant, like she’s shouting at you to stand up and fight. You want to do it for her. But it’s too much.

There’s nothing left in you.

You squint, vision hazy.

You’re on the cusp of passing out, you can feel it. Inches away from death.

But then you hear it.

A thud, quiet at first. Then louder. A distant ramming, like droplets of thunder that are getting louder and louder.

And then a crash.

Your eyes jerk open.

The Sheriff scrambles off your body, falling backwards onto the floor with a thud.

Her eyes are wide and round, but she’s not looking at you. She’s looking up the staircase, towards the basement door.

You hear Tara’s voice again.

But this time it’s not distant. It’s not in your head.

You whirl around and see her standing on the staircase, her face contorted in rage. Her dark hair is swept from her face and her eyes are an inky, jet black.

It’s not Tara, you realize all at once.

This is The Rage.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

She’s holding something, something you don’t recognize. It’s a children’s toy, some sort of bat. Sam’s at her side, your Dad’s shotgun in her hands.

“Back up, Sheriff,” Sam says, voice fraught, “Backup or I’ll shoot.”

You’d weep, if you had the strength.

She’s here.

Tara came for you. Against all odds, she’d found you. Bound in the basement, god knows where, moments from the Sheriff taking the knife in your stomach and ripping it up to your chest.

You try to call her name but it gets lost in your throat. Your fingers throb, like there’s needles inside them, all the blood that should be there is pooling around the knife buried deep in your stomach.

The Sheriff is on her back, helpless. Vulnerable.

Tara steps a little closer. Her shoulders are tight like she’s brimming with unbridled fury.

“Sam,” Tara says, voice quiet, “Do it.”

Sam lifts the shotgun, only slightly.

And then lifts the barrel and fires directly at the Sheriff’s chest.

You blink, waiting for the bang of the gun. For the Sheriff’s scream.

But nothing happens.

Only the sound of your heavy breathing and the steady hum of that damn refrigerator.

Sam wrestles with the gun, panic overtaking her features.

“It’s stuck.” Sam says, her voice frantic, “God, Tara, it’s filled with blood.”

The Sheriff takes her chance.

She launches forward, back atop your body.

Tara isn’t quick enough.

She swings the stick out behind her head, ready to launch it forward.

“If I pull it out, she dies,” The Sheriff pants. You gasp at the pressure of the knife as she seizes it, “Stay the fuck back or I'll kill her right here."

“Tara.” You murmur.

There's so much you want to say to her. You want to tell the Sheriff to give you a moment to muster the words. You want to pause the world, like a real life slow motion so you can kiss Tara and hold her and tell her the breadth of what you feel for her in broken, mindless, babbling paragraphs. There isn't an encyclopedia in the world that could do it justice.

But you can't.

The Sheriff's grip on you is too tight. Your mind is dizzy, and you know even if you tried, you couldn't form a coherent sentence.

So you settle for three little words.

"I love you." You hum. It comes out in a slur. Like you're drunk. But she hears it. She looks to you, stricken.

“It’s okay, baby-girl,” She says it soft, her voice fraught, “I love you, too. Don’t move, you’re going to be okay.”

But you’re not, even you know that. There’s a six inch knife in your stomach and you can’t feel your fingertips. Your would-be killer lingers over you, like her only purpose left in life is to take yours. You’re minutes from death, you can feel it from the flare of your broken skin to the settling realization deep in your bones.

You’re dead. If not now, you will be within minutes.

You can’t do anything about that.

But you can still save her.

The Sheriff has a knife. Tara has a children’s toy. Tara’s fiery, and she’s killed before but she's so little.

The Sheriff is bigger. Stronger. Her weapon has a blade.

They'd fight like a Doberman against an angry, yapping Chihuahua. The Sheriff would have a knife to her throat in seconds. And in your final, fleeting moments, you can't bear the thought of her taking Tara too.

It should be hard, what you’re about to do, but it isn’t. You don't think about yourself. You don't think about the pain.

You think about Tara.

It’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made in your life.

You jerk your body upwards, startling the Sheriff slightly.

And then you’re reaching down with both hands to steady your grip around the handle of the knife buried inside you and tugging it up and out of your body.

It had hurt going in, but this feels a thousand times worse.

It hurts like you’re tearing your own flesh from your body. It hurts like you’re swallowing sandpaper, or eating an open flame.

Pain and shock roar through your body. You cry out in anguish, but your hands don't falter.

Tara is the only thing on your mind.

Tara screams out your name.

The Sheriff turns to face you, wide-eyed.

And then you tilt the knife and shove it hard as you can through her throat.

Whatever energy you had left is depleted. The Sheriff gurgles, wide-eyed, hands fumbling to grasp the hilt of the blade buried in her throat.

You collapse backwards onto the ground.

Tara’s running, you think, the dull thud of her boots against the ground as you try to blink the world into sight.

You can hear the Sheriff spluttering on her own blood, but the tips of your ears go numb, muffling your hearing.

Your eyes droop. Your legs feel numb.

You don’t see as Tara launches herself at the Sheriff, thudding her weapon down against her with the force of a two ton semi-truck. You don’t see Sam hurry in after her, tossing the shotgun to the side and skidding down to press her hands against your wound. You don't hear Sam call out your name, desperate to keep you awake.

You don’t hear Tara’s screams. Carnal. Full of fury and grief and desperation.

You don’t see as she pries the knife out of the Sheriff’s neck and rehomes it.

First, into the Sheriff’s gut. Not once, not twice. Three, four, five, six times.

You don't hear the Sheriff scream. You don't hear the wet, bloodied sounds of Tara carving her way through the Sheriff's body, puncturing every span of unbroken piece of skin she can find.

You don't hear her sob as she does it.

Until the Sheriff is limp on the ground, eyes glassy, blood sprayed over the ceiling, over the floor, all over Tara.

Like Tara’s very own Jackson Pollock.

You cough. Gargle slightly on your own blood. Sam’s screaming, you think.

You narrow your eyes, trying to make out her words.

Her eyes are on Tara.

You shift. Your hands are shaking. Your face white. You try, with all your might to listen to what she’s saying.

“Tara!” Sam screams. She abandons you a moment, and you gasp as the weight of her leaves you.

“Tara, she’s dead, stop.”

But it’s not Tara she’s talking to.

You hear it again. Low, vengeful grunts as The Rage takes out all its anger on The Sheriff’s mutilated corpse.

“Tara, YN needs you,” Sam says, her voice urgent, “Tara, she’s dying.”

You try to sit, but the stars behind your eyes take over.

You slump back into the floor.

There’s a flurry of movement.

Someone’s reaching back across your body. You feel the press of someone against your thighs. You wince as a pair of hands reach over to press against your wound.

For a moment, you think it’s Sam. You can barely see, your vision is so dull. This person has dark hair and wide, brown eyes.

A smattering of freckles across her nose, under a thick coating of blood.

And you realize it’s your girlfriend.

“Tara.” You murmur.

She ducks down, presses her lips against yours. Her press is firm, but you barely feel it.

“It’s okay, baby,” She says, smoothing your bloodied hair back across your forehead, but her voice is shaking. She looks scared, “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re going to be okay.”

She looks like an angel, you think, briefly, she’s heaven-sent.

Even like this, a mesh of tears and blood that isn’t hers.

She’s perfect.

She says something, but you don’t hear it.

The lack of blood takes over. Your eyes flit as you try to fight it. But it’s no use.

The last thing you see is the tremble of her lip before a flurry of tears spill thick and fast down her cheeks and onto your own.

“YN,” She murmurs, voice high. Desperate, “Baby. Stay with me.”

And then everything turns white.

#all hers #scream #scream vi #jenna ortega #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x yn #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #jenna ortega x yn #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #fanfic #mine

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cherryslyce · 2 years ago

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Second Son (XV) | Regulus Black

Series Synopsis: Forbidden from contacting Harry over the summer, you opt to explore the eerie halls of Grimmauld Place where you stumble upon a lonely portrait of the House's second son.

— Chapter Synopsis: Y/N remains in Reine. Letters arrive.

Part XIV / Part XVI / Series Masterlist

Pairing: Regulus Black x GN!Reader

Notes: Anders lore! I miss Regulus *cry*. Also...emphasis on the canon divergence warning :)

The sun peeked through the dainty window above the kitchen sink of Anders’ house, illuminating the small waves of dust that swirled through the air and bringing light warmth on your back. In front of you, Anders’ stern expression remained unflinching despite how brutally the sun shone onto his wrinkled face.

Behind you, you could hear Asger mumbling quietly to Luna about putting on the kettle. Clutched firmly in your lap, Regulus’ journal seemed to burn into your thighs, reinforcing your resolve. Overnight, you had practically sprouted a new spine of steel.

“What’s in it for me?” Anders’ gruff voice tore through the silence, and you could see how brightly his inner conflict flickered through his eyes.

Raising your head minutely, your flat voice rang through the air firmly, “What do you want?” Your deadpan masked how anxious you were about the conversation, not knowing where you would turn to if Anders denied you again.

Swinging forward in his seat to the creaking protest of his chair, he narrows his eyes into a glare, “The research. What you found and will inevitably find.” His voice was hard and cold, leaving no room for negotiation.

Drawing your eyebrows together in confusion, your voice leaves as a small whisper, “Yes?”

“I want to publish it.”

Your eyes slowly widen and you have to clench your jaw to stop your nose from flaring in irritation. He wanted to take credit for Regulus’ research.

You become increasingly aware of the way the sunlight claws at your back, prickling with a steaming fierceness that matches the sudden burning along your jaws as you bury your fury.

What would Regulus want?

Is this okay to do?

Is there any other choice?

Gritting your teeth, you hiss out your answer without even trying to hide your venomous tone, “Fine.”

Anders’ eyes flicker around your scowl for a few moments before he leans back and sighs, “Good,” He then grins almost mockingly at you before averting his attention somewhere behind you, “let’s eat, then.”

You gulp loudly and try to steady your breathing, afraid that you would hex the man if you stewed further in your anger. There was no time to run rampant and squander your chances, even if the cost was highly unsavory.

You were doing this for Regulus, and he was worth it.

Breakfast, thankfully, went by quickly and without much trouble, even if the fish tasted like cotton pads in your distracted state. As Luna put down her fork with a muted clink, you were quick to snap back into reality.

Anders wipes his mouth with a cloth before throwing it down and hauling himself up with a small grunt. Asger simply observes his father with veiled interest, eyes following the older man as he shuffles over to place his plate in the sink. You straighten up in your seat and turn to face the older man, “Do you have books then? That I can read through.”

Anders grunts before limping towards the front door, only stopping when silence ensues, “I don’t have all day, kid.”

Shooting a flat look at Asger and Luna, they both give you surprised half-smiles in return. Asger wordlessly reaches to collect the rest of the plates, ushering you to follow his temperamental father. As you tread behind the older man, intentionally taking half steps to remain behind him, you decide to try and lift your spirits by looking at the scenery.

Reine was just as breathtaking in the morning as it was at night. The vast blues of the water fluttered in small peaks ever so slightly, reminiscent of the much larger rocky peaks that lined the village around you. The bright snow blanketing the rocky mounds seemed to shimmer under the sunlight, pure and thick, and nostalgic of the winters at Hogwarts.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the sound of clinking chains, raising your eyebrows when you see Anders tugging away a mound of rusty chains from two wooden doors. The small building in front of you was a bit roomier than a shed and had two narrow windows pressed upwards on opposite walls: perfect for ventilation without compromising privacy.

As Anders steps to the side to let you move into the building, you hum quietly as you see a small wooden makeshift table pushed up against the back wall, nearly buried away under mountains of books that rested together like building blocks of a dilapidated building. It was a humble research study tucked away in the nook of the village.

“These are all mine, so don’t damage anything,” Anders croaks.

Raising an eyebrow, your eyes dart sideways in exasperation, “Sure. Have you read through all of these?” You slowly shuffle deeper into the room, occasionally leaning to peer at the titles of some of the books.

“No,” the short reply has your eye twitching.

As you clasp one of the thick books, cringing inwardly at the coat of dust that clings onto your fingers from the action, Anders trudges past you and drops himself onto one of the small stools in the corner.

“Here. This came at dawn, good thing too. The bloody owl would have confused the others.”

Turning to face the man, your face lights up as you see him extending a small envelope towards you, the corner of the paper crumpled a bit from being stuffed away in his pocket. Nodding in thanks, you quickly grasp the parchment and tear through it.

To Padfoot’s pup,

We understand. Stay safe. We won’t be heading out to school because of nightfall. We will not be at home, we are going hunting for the rest.

We miss you. Padfoot is upset with your sudden trip though.

Tell Luna we said hi.

Prongslet and co

You weren’t even sure if speaking in codes was necessary, but the crucial information that Harry just passed to you made you raise an eyebrow.

Hunting? For more horcruxes?

Sighing quietly at the revelation, you tuck away the letter into your pocket. As you shift to get comfortable, book in lap, you quietly amuse yourself by thinking of just all the trinkets you were keeping in your pockets.

You were practically a walking junk drawer.

As you flipped through the book, acutely aware of Anders’ lingering presence, you can’t help but relieve your mental itch. Without raising your head to look at the man, you casually ask, “So, how did you know Dumbledore?”

The man merely grunts and you release a long breath, both entertained and intrigued. It didn’t seem like Anders held some newfound affection for you, and you couldn’t help but wonder why he gave in to your persistence earlier.

“You’re a friendly lad.” You muse.

The man barely draws in a breath before retorting, “Nosy kid, aren’t you?” His tone lifted in the slightest, giving you the impression that his words were supposed to be a joke, even if it did sound like he was two seconds away from biting your head off.

Anders shifts and you hear a quiet rustling echo around the room, only drawing your attention away from the sea of words in front of you when Anders sighs loudly.

Squinting in confusion, you peer up to meet his expectant gaze, “Yes?”

“What do you know so far about magical essences?”

He leans one elbow on the desk, pencil hovering over a blank paper as you try and formulate a coherent sentence.

Resting your forearms on the book, you hum out a quiet answer, “Just that one is able to imbue it into objects and in certain cases, rooms.”

“Rooms?” Anders’ voice is edging disbelief.

Nodding slowly, you fiddle with the hem of your coat and reiterate your words, “Rooms. He was also able to key it to only be accessible by certain individuals,” you smile lightly as your eyes wander off, “I was able to find the room though, even though it wasn’t meant for me.”

“Sounds like he was an amateur then.”

Anders’ words have you snapping your head towards him with a venomous glare, eyes only growing stonier at his small grin.

“You don’t know anything about him.” You cluck your tongue, “Besides, I was able to access it because my magical signature was extremely similar to the intended individuals’.”

The man considers your words for a moment before replying, “You love him.” Anders’ words come out as more of a declaration than a question, and you find yourself immediately growing defensive despite how you tried to rein in your emotions.

You snap at him, “So what if I do?”

The man raises a hand to placate you, directing his attention to writing down your previous words, “Nothing. Just…” His words trail off and you take it as a sign of him retreating back into his shell, his burst of chattiness receding just as quickly as it appeared.

You both work in relative silence for the next few hours, and by the time you’re fully aware of the aching in your back and the dryness of your eyes, you still haven��t found anything of use or promise in your book.

It is around midday when Anders stretches up from his stool, “Let’s go eat.”

Feeling the faint aching of your stomach, you don’t argue as you slowly mark your place in the book and follow the man’s lead. The walk back to his house is filled with a comfortable silence for a while until you come to an epiphany, “Wait. There’s already a book about magical essences, so why would you need to publish what I know?.”

“The Norwegian one?”

Balking at his words, you raise your eyebrows as you reply, “Uh, yeah.”

Anders quietly snorts and shakes his head, “Did you actually read through it?”

“Only partially. My life doesn’t exactly allow for downtime.” Which was the truth, even though Regulus helped you find the book during Yule, you barely even made a dent in the reading as you became distracted by horcruxes and school work.

“Evidently,” Anders muses, “most of the information is purely theoretical. Your friend is likely the only person to ever succeed in casting such magic.”

You smile slightly at his words, “That doesn’t surprise me at all. He was truly brilliant.”

“Seems so.”

The next few days stretch by in a similar manner: beautiful casts of weather, small conversations with Luna and Asger, hours of skimming through books, riposting with Anders, and occasional daydreams about Regulus.

It was around a week after your arrival in Reine when you felt a shift in your dynamic with Anders, the older man slowly growing more comfortable with your presence.

“London. 1930.” You slowly raise your head up to look at the man, but remain quiet once you see the faraway look in his eyes, “Dumbledore found me and offered me a place at Hogwarts — that’s how I know him.”

Closing your book, you heave yourself up from off the floor, slowly pulling out a stool opposite of him, “What house were you in?”

“Ravenclaw,” Anders pauses and meets your eyes evenly, “I was a model student in his eyes, so he asked for my help. I was an orphan, and there was a boy in my orphanage who was also a magical child. He was a wayward, deceitful boy, even at such a young age. Dumbledore saw something in him when he came to offer him a place at Hogwarts a few years later.”

The story was sounding eerily familiar, and you suppress a shiver as your shoulders tensed, “Voldemort?”

Anders smiles thinly – bitterly, and nods, “I knew him as Tom Riddle,” the man’s wrinkles seem more prominent than before the conversation started, “Dumbledore asked me to guide him onto a more…conventional path. But he was just a kid, so I…”

You nod and twist your ring around as you put the pieces together in your head, “You underestimated him.”

“I let my guard down, and he was able to siphon information from me about Dumbledore’s intentions.” Anders looks completely worn for wear at the admission, and you feel a pang of pity pool in your stomach.

Shaking your head, you steel your gaze in resolution, “You were just a kid as well. It’s not your fault.”

“Dumbledore said the same thing,” the man murmurs. He sighs and runs his eyes around the ceiling, collecting himself, “But I couldn’t forgive myself. So I left, and fled here with Asger before the outbreak of the First War.”

You had an inkling that there was large chunk of the story being omitted, but decided not to press him on your suspicions, instead adding your own piece to the conversation, “He is adept at beguiling people, there were very few who saw through him, and those who did often met an untimely demise.”

Anders finally meets your eyes and nods, “Speaking from personal experience?”

Your eyes drop down to your shoes at his question, unsure of how to proceed with the conversation. Deciding that you didn’t trust your voice to waver, you simply reach into your coat and tug out the picture that Sirius gave you.

As Anders’ eyes scan the photo of Regulus, you see something flash in his eyes.

“Your boy? The portrait?”

You nod and slowly take the photo back, eyes running over Regulus’ face as you fall into old memories. In your stupor, you fail to notice the way Anders assesses you with a contemplative expression.

The conversation seemed to flip a switch in Anders mind, and he slowly began to regard you with more consideration. The sudden shift in your relationship with the older man was a bit bewildering, but not unwelcome. If anything, you felt a slow foundation of understanding and companionship building with him, much to Asger’s delight.

Luna was often kept occupied with exploring and conversations with Asger, the boy becoming enraptured by her sightly abilities and enigmatic words. It was strangely starting to feel like an unusual family.

It was a little over a month after you showed Anders the photo of Regulus when you received another owl, this one all too familiar. The bird arrived at the break of dawn while you were making yourself some tea, the bird perching itself on a nearby post outside of Anders’ window.

As you hurriedly made your way out, you were mindful to not make too much noise, not sure how you would explain the bird’s arrival to your neighbors.

“Hey there, girl. How are you?” Your voice was light as you slowly carded your fingers through the owl’s feathers, smiling brightly when she hooted and nudged her head into your fingers. After a few more pets, the tawny owl flies off into the distance, leaving you with a thick envelope.

Your tea was ready by the time you got comfortable reading the letter, leaning against the kitchen counter as you tore open the envelope.

Dear runaway friend of mine,

Our ward is faring well in light of things, and Theo and I have taken to making sure he eats. The Golden Lions are noticeably absent just like you said. The Carrows have taken up posts as Professor of Muggle Studies and Professor of Dark Arts. Detentions are abysmal as a result, the practice of a certain unforgivable has become the norm.

Our lovely ex-Potions professor is now Headmaster. I must say that I have it quite easy compared to many other students, and I am not too worried about my mail being intercepted, but if you wish to owl back, it would be wise to practice caution.

Mother has passed along a note as well, enclosed to you. Rest assured, I did not peek as I know you would disembowel me for such a violation.

Theodore says hello. He is considering your words from before, and he seems to align himself with your sentiments. Such information should remain discreet given his kin, but I trust your decision-making.

Draco also passed along a note for me to give you.

I hope you are well. It would be best if you stay far away for as long as you can, he is coming soon.

Your friend always,

You are fairly unperturbed by Blaise’s words, having expected Voldemort to move his forces into Hogwarts, but you didn’t quite anticipate the regular use of Unforgivables against students. Voldemort was utterly, and irredeemably insane.

Folding up the parchment and tucking it aside, you reach inside the envelope and pull out another letter, this one coated with a faint sweet scent, likely spritzed with perfume.

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter reaches you well. There is talk that a certain group of teenage vigilantes and a certain disgraced Lord have fled elsewhere and are on the run. I will put it bluntly as I have charmed this letter to only appear for you: if you are able to get in contact with them, and they are in need of assistance, I am willing to give them refuge.

I am not one for politics, but the disillusioned individuals that run amuck in our sphere are a disgrace to magic and make British wizards unsightly to the rest of the globe. As someone who chose to live here, I simply cannot have such a reputation besmirch my name.

I have recently been in talks with Lady Malfoy, who shares such sentiments. We are neutral, and like you, are intent on putting our personal interests first. Offering refuge is not a decision I am making due to a change of heart – there is much to be gained if such a gamble pays off.

I hope you are well, dear.

Faithfully,

Contessa Jezebel Zabini

You slowly sip your tea as you scan over the words again, eyebrows gradually raising higher and higher at the offer. It was an auspicious offer to consider, but you weren’t sure if Harry would put his trust in the Contessa.

It was unlikely that the woman would turn your friends over to Voldemort as she had very little to gain from it, especially given how such a decision would put Blaise on the Dark Lord’s radar. Her insinuation that foreign countries were looking down on Britain seemed entirely plausible, and her ties to Italy would make such a prospect risky for her image.

You would send a message to Harry and extend the invite, but it was reassuring to know that the Contessa was willing to risk such a thing because you were friends with Blaise.

Placing the letter on top of Blaise’s, you slowly reach into the now, much slimmer envelope, and pull out a small parchment.

I’m sorry about your portrait.

- D

You nearly choke on your tea at the short note, sputtering a tad into your cup.

It seemed the little dragon was turning a new leaf.

Draco’s terse letter gave you the confidence boost you needed to go forward with messaging Harry. It was very likely that Draco and his mother were put off by the Dark Lord’s regime due to Draco’s previous mission. Reluctant allies, but allies nonetheless.

Folding up all of your letters, you quickly tuck them away into your pocket with Regulus’ photo. Reaching for your wand, you slowly push off of the counter and bring forth your happiest memories.

Regulus. Regulus. Regulus.

‘I’ll find you again, my love.’

‘...my love.’

Inhaling sharply, you wave your wand.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The burst of blue light that springs from your wand is nostalgic, and you realize that the last time you casted your patronus, you were rudely interrupted by an exploding wall. Your sparrow patronus swoops around the room briskly before stopping in front of you, flapping its wings rhythmically.

Twirling your wand upward again, you cast the messenger spell, “Nuntius Harry Potter.”

Your sparrow is engulfed in pale blue wisps that beats as it awaits your words.

Stepping forward, you clear your throat and try to remain succinct, “Harry, Contessa Zabini is offering you and the others refuge. She is aware of your current predicament and reached out to me. She is trustworthy, and I recently had a chat with her – she is disconcerted by the state of the world and puts her faith in you. If you are willing, send Kreacher to Zabini Manor to inform her. Stay safe.”

Those weren’t her exact words, but your friends were smart enough to deduce that Contessa Zabini had a lot to gain from helping them. As your patronus flies out of the house and off into the sky, you allow yourself to release the tension that was clutching at your spine.

Spinning on your heel, you nearly jump out of your skin when you come face to face with a curious Anders. The man moved away from the doorway and trudged towards the table, making himself comfortable before redirecting his attention to your still figure.

“Later, we are going to go hiking.” His words left no room for argument, but you didn’t mind since you were thrilled to explore the environment.

Turning to pour a cup of tea for the man, you can’t help the sarcastic reply that rises in your throat, “Hiking? Sure you can handle it?”

Anders gives you the stink eye as you place the cup in front of him, grunting a retort into his tea, “I’ll have you know that I happen to be a professional hiker.”

“Who’s a professional hiker?” Asger’s tired voice floats into the room as he yawns loudly, bringing a calloused hand to rub at his bleary eyes.

Shaking your head, you incline your head towards Anders, watching as both men share a look, one of bemusement and the other a deadpan. You were saved from their antics when Luna emerged into the room, immediately making her way to give you a hug in greeting. As you wrap your arms around the slender girl, you couldn’t help but become flushed with a wave of affection as you remembered her comforting words to you during the night of your arrival. You truly were grateful to have her by your side during all of this, and your thoughts spur you to give her a firm squeeze.

She didn’t seem to mind.

The hike up one of the neighboring granite peaks was not as tiring as you anticipated, the coolness of the snow permeating across the entire path and quelling the warmth that bloomed from your straining muscles.

Anders was keeping up quite well, and you took the initiative to walk beside him, letting Asger and Luna drift on ahead. The sun was beginning to slink away, painting the sky in gradients of pinks and purples, the first glittering of stars peaking through the layers of colors.

The bundles of red and white houses of the village were slowly shrinking in the distance, creating accent splotches that complemented the sky.

“I can see why you chose Reine. This place is absolutely breathtaking.” Your words come out as a satisfied hum, and you peek out of the corner of your eye to see Anders nodding in agreement.

The faintest traces of a smile tug at his lips as he replied, “Just kept moving around until my heart settled on a place.”

“A little cliche, but endearing coming from you.” You tuck your hands into your coat pocket, clenching your hands to try and keep the blood circulating.

Anders doesn’t speak for a while, but when Luna and Asger look back to indicate that they were planning on trailing back down, the man turns his attention back to you. As the two slowly trek away, you continue on clambering upward towards the peak, Anders grumbling all the way up behind you.

The man’s gruff voice breaks through the air as you reach your destination, “it’ll be hell getting back down in the dark.”

“I can apparate us back to the house.”

As the sun sweeps away and darkness begins to creep into the etchings of the sky, you pull out Regulus’ photo and hug it to your chest. You can feel Anders looking over at your ministrations, but looks reluctant to speak up, so you take the first step, “It makes me feel like he’s here with me. I used to take him everywhere with me, and I don’t want to stop that habit, even if he’s gone.”

Anders’ eyes seem to soften and he turns to face the distance, eyes focusing on the vast waters that stretched on for miles ahead.

“I do the same.”

You tilt your head at his admission, moving to sit on a flat rock nearby. The man follows suit and sits on the rock beside you, hands rustling around in his thick puffer coat.

In a similar fashion to you, he tugs out a folded photo. The photograph is visibly older and more worn than yours, the crease especially prominent from constant unfolding and refolding. The man slowly offers you the photo, eyes never moving away from the distance.

As you peer down at the small image, you feel your chest ache at the sight.

A young couple and a small baby. The man had his arm wrapped around the woman as she positioned the child so its face was visible to the camera, both of them beaming at you with joyful faces.

Anders. It was clear that the young man was Anders, but with fewer wrinkles and an uncharacteristic grin that stretched widely across his face.

But who was the woman?

“My wife, Anne. This place was her home.” You don’t think you could have masked your shock even if you tried, but he doesn’t seem to notice and continues talking, “She was killed by Voldemort a few weeks after we took that photo.”

Your mouth goes incredibly dry at the utterance, eyes flickering back and forth between the solemn man and the delicate photo in your hands.

Anders’ words remain firm as he speaks, seeming to be emboldened by your previous indulgence about Regulus, “Tom…he sought me out specifically. He felt that he needed to erase his past, and I think he felt that I failed him in a way. Anne was a formidable witch, but even she was no match for that monster,” he sucks in a sharp breath before continuing, “Albus helped me flee afterwards, with the condition that I treat him to a meal once I was settled. So, I chose Reine. For Anne. And then I changed my name and Asger’s name to protect us.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You raise your eyes to look ahead, head spinning from the bombardment of news. Voldemort’s talent for bringing pain and suffering stretched far and wide.

“No need, it’s not your fault,” Anders whispers.

Clearing your throat, you run your finger across the photo and memorize each crease and fold as you respond, “Regulus died trying to stop Voldemort. He was a death eater at first, but defected only a year after. I think…I think he’s an inferi now.”

Anders turns to face you at this admittance, lips parting slightly in shock. “An inferi?” He mutters.

You nod and slowly pass the photo back to Anders, tucking away your own photo as you try and compose yourself.

A few beats of silent pass, and you begin to feel as though you divulged too much information to the man.

“There is a ritual that I think you might find useful,” Anders pauses as you glance at him in interest, “It’s an ancient one that was often used to ensure the passing of loved ones to the land of the dead.”

The news has you craning your head to gawk at him, “Like a soul tracking ritual?”

“Yes, I suppose.” He raises an eyebrow at you, “There is very little known about inferis, but I always theorized that they were not truly dead, so perhaps….”

Your eyes widen at the suggestion and you shoot up onto your feet in realization, “When I was in the cave, there were numerous magical signatures bouncing around! I think you might be right.”

Anders murmurs quietly next to you, “Cave?”

Thank Merlin for your sensitivity to magical signatures.

If Inferis were not truly dead…did that mean that they were all trapped in those mangled bodies? Souls tied down to a gaunt shell of who they used to be?

Regulus has been trapped all this time.

“Fuck. Let’s do this ritual.”

Anders lets out a small chuckle at your conviction, standing up to give you a firm nod, “We start at dawn.”

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fenfyre · 9 months ago

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Forbidden Fruit - Part XV

Part I

The insane thing about this night was not only that Laios spoke nothing but the truth - he did end up taking care of Chilchuck in more ways than either of them had planned for or were even aware of - it was that Chilchuck not only allowed it but felt it. He did feel taken care of by Laios in ways he never would have been able to anticipate.

Yes, there was that faraway hissing at the very back of his mind and the distant prickling sensation along neck. But at that moment Chilchuck had no idea why he ever paid attention to them if they had kept him away from this: Laios braced above him, sweaty and glowing, rocking into him with lazy, unhurried motions. His heat radiating, comforting, all encompassing, around and inside Chilchuck.

"Want to make you come again, Chil. Felt so good the first time. Will you? Will you come for me again?" It was a low rumble, a dangerous blend of greed and devotion, as Laios slowly picked up his pace. "Just want to make you feel good. Gonna make you feel so good again..."

Had Chilchuck been able to process the full extent of what was happening the intense ferocity with which Laios began to chase his goal might have either scared him or left him dizzyingly aroused. Probably both. As it were he still had his eyes closed and his mouth stuffed, having blissfully given himself to Laios' care. Because it felt right. And because he was so very tired of pretending it did not.

Laios fucked him good, speeding up to fill him over and over again. By now his body had gotten used to the invasion and took that impressive length with something akin to ease, leaving Chilchuck moaning with nothing but pleasure each time he was stuffed. His head was spinning, his surroundings dissolving until everything left was Laios above and around and inside him. It felt right, perfectly endless.

Until Laios shifted again, pulling his thick thumb out from between Chilchuck's lips to grab the backs of his knees with both hands and push them up.

Chilchuck yelped an embarrassing noise, his eyes flying open as he was folded in half, knees hitting his shoulders as Laios pressed him down with considerable strength and weight, trapping him entirely. At the same time he used the give of the mattress to bounce Chilchuck back up onto his cock with each deep thrust, giving their movements momentum as he picked up even more speed.

"Laios!", Chilchuck cried out, warning or protesting or begging, he had no idea. He only knew that with the change in angle and position and the way Laios was staring down at him as if he were waiting for Chilchuck to accomplish some amazing feat, the thundering wave of his second orgasm was fast approaching.

He wanted to say something, tell Laios to keep going, maybe, but he was choking on his own cries. Being bounced up into Laios' greedy thrusts, wrenching a hand between their bodies to give himself two or three tight strokes, Chilchuck came a second time, shouting curses in a language his lover would not understand.

Laios fucked him through it, steady and dependable as he made sure Chilchuck enjoyed his peak to the very last second. It was only when Chilchuck stopped shivering and twitching that he began to slow, easing Chilchuck's legs down. When he moved to pull out though, satisfied as he seemed, Chilchuck slapped his clean hand up against a thick bicep. His head was still swimming with perfect bliss but this was just wrong.

"No!", he huffed out, breathless but determined. This was not the end, not yet. "Go on, finish inside. I can take it."

Golden eyes stared down at him, hesitant but barely.

"Are you ... sure? I won't hurt you?"

"I'm sure. Now do it before I change my mind."

Never let it be said Chilchuck Tims was a selfish bastard in bed. Anywhere else, gladly. Not with this, though. Especially not tonight after Laios had done so well for him.

Above him Laios grinned, wide and wild, then moved them around again. He sat back on his knees, pulling Chilchuck with him to lie in his lap and sprawled back along his thighs. His back was bowed like this, body on full display with his legs wrapped around Laios' waist.

"Is this alright?", Laios asked, body tense as he still held back, waiting patiently for approval. Chilchuck gave it with pleasure.

Part XVI

#chilaios #laichil #chilchuck tims #laios touden #dunmeshi #powerbottom chil #servicetop laios

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askprussiasposts · 4 days ago

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Пруссия, привет! Я очень люблю изобразительное искусство, но я понял недавно, что ничего не знаю о том, как для тебя прошла прекрасная эпоха Ренессанса. Расскажи пожалуйста! Был ли у тебя такой же резкий подъем среди художников и скульпторов, как у Италии?

( The Renaissance? In my history page? Ke-se-se, you must have your ear to the ground! )

С чего же мне начать?... Ещё вначале XV в. на территориях Священной Римской Империи обострился кризис духовенства, которое вело к расколу церкви, а к началу XVI достигло своего пика: развал военной и финансовой организации, децентрализация и фактически освобождение княжеств от власти императора. Наряду с общим настроением всего населения, ведущие художники того периода концентрировали свое внимание на библейских сюжетах, в тихом ужасе ожидая конца света, начало великих катастроф. Хотя старый средневековый мир терял силу, многие нередко обращались к пророчествам, чтобы найти в них новый смысл.

После поражения в Триднадцатилетней войне я лишился нескольких владений и стал вассалом у Польши, но лишь до 1525. И до тех пор гуманистические взгляды итальянцев и позже идеи Реформации концентрировались не на моей территории.

ВАЖНО!

В 1525 году последний магистр Тевтонского ордена Альбрехт Бранденбургский основал герцогство Пруссия, а вот КАК он к этому решению пришел - влияние Рефомации, которое распространялось на территории Священной Римской Империи! Как его брат, я решил поделиться немецкими памятниками искусства с вами, чтобы получше узнать творчество деятелей искусства.

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Where should I start?… At the beginning of the XV century, the crisis of the clergy escalated in the territories of the Holy Roman Empire, which led to the split of the church, and by the beginning of the XVI it reached its peak: the collapse of the military and financial organization, decentralization, and in fact the liberation of the principalities from the power of the emperor. Along with the general mood of the entire population, the leading artists of that period concentrated their attention on biblical subjects, waiting in quiet horror for the end of the world, the beginning of great catastrophes. Although the old medieval world was losing its power, many often turned to prophecies to find new meaning in them.

After the defeat in the Thirteen Years' War, I lost several possessions and became a vassal of Poland, but only until 1525. And until then, the humanistic views of the Italians and later the ideas of the Reformation were not concentrated on my territory.

ATTENTION!

In 1525, the last master of the Teutonic Order, Albrecht of Brandenburg, founded the Duchy of Prussia, and this is HOW he came to this decision - the influence of the Reformation, which spread throughout the Holy Roman Empire! As his brother, I decided to share German art monuments with you in order to get to know the work of artists better.

Хочу познакомить с человеком, который признан самым талантливым гравером эпохи Северного Возрождения и имя ему - Альбрехт Дюрер (Albrecht Dürer). К слову, это второй его автопортрет, но выполненный в образе Христа (а ещё его некоторые называют Северным Леонардо).

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I would like to introduce you to a man who is recognized as the most talented engraver of the Northern Renaissance and whose name is Albrecht Dürer. By the way, this is his second self-portrait, but made in the image of Christ ( Some people call him the Northern Leonardo).

( 1494: In this year I went to Italy with Mr. Durand, who wanted to learn art from the famous artists of the Italian Renaissance. )

Мы, как представители своих стран, не должны надолго покидать территории своих владений, но после стольких потерь и неудач я отчаянно нуждался в спасении от таких потрясений. И с благосклонности императора Максимилиана I я отправился искать утешение. И не прогадал.

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As representatives of our countries, we should not leave the territories of our possessions for long, but after so many losses and failures, I desperately needed to be saved from such shocks. And with the favor of Emperor Maximilian I, I went to seek solace. And I didn't lose.

"The Portrait of Maximilian I"

( - It's beautiful! So gorgeous -)

Не хватит одного этого поста, чтобы рассказать о всех известных художниках и реформаторов той эпохи, но те картины, которые я оставил выше, считаю превосходными и потрясающими. Чего только стоит "Триумфальная арка императора Максимилиана I"!

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This post alone will not be enough to tell you about all the famous artists and reformers of that era, but I consider the paintings that I left above to be excellent and amazing. What is the "Arc de Triomphe of Emperor Maximilian I" worth!

#hetalia #askprussiasblog #askprussiasposts #hws prussia #askprussia

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