#Reality is a prison. ⸻ Musings

[queers-gambit]

Bait and Switch

prompt: ( requested ) Adar knows you by surname and reputation, but makes a fatal mistake: underestimating the mutual desire to reunite with your husband.

pairing: Elrond x female!wife!reader -> hair color specified reader that does not specify race

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 7.7k+

note: did i steal the Targaryen hair color? "obviously," - Severus Snape. but don't let HOTD's wigs fool you - this hair color is NOT indicative of race.

warnings: reader insert for the haters, spoilers, cursing, angst, hurt and comfort, fuck tone of ellipsis 'cause Adar talks slow. POW!Reader (prisoner of war), violence, blood, injury, depiction of medical phenomenon (cauterization), slight gore (Reader bites off an Orc finger). healthy family dynamics, embedded Aragorn quote, Middle-earth fire is hotter than reality so JUST. roll. with. it. okay? okay. also, this requires a lot of imagination 'cause author invents really random lore but have fun with it. not edited, author can't see straight so what the fuck is this?

incarnate: embody or represent (a diety or spirit) in human form

"We found an Elf still alive, Lord Father!"

Adar watched lazily as one of his children stood over a body covered by toxic volcanic ash; twitching as it regained consciousness. "Kill it," he answered simply. The Orc snarled in pleasure and bent to grab the Elf's head; gripping their hair aggressively, yanking their head up - possibly snapping the Elf's spine - and lifted his blade in the air. However, the clump of hair was familiar and suddenly, Adar was barking, "Wait!"

Not many Elves had this particular hair color. It was dyed from soot and ash, but he could recognize the bright, platinum white-blonde hair. While some Elves were extremely fair yellow-blonde, this was white - like the purest of snows. And Adar only knew this trait belonged to one single bloodline.

The Incarnated, a single brood blessed by the Valar to give them unnatural strength and skill in battle. They were impressive, formidable foes; and typically, never lost a fight, battle, or war. They were absolutely brutish, almost impossible to kill, yet humble, generous, and kind.

Their aim always found the bullseye. Broadswords able to sever bone. Morality skewed more positive than simple neutrality. Silver tongues sharpened to prick the ears that listen.

However, it should be noted that even the Incarnated cannot withstand against the eruption of a volcano.

The Orc snarled with confusion now, hissing through his bloody teeth but not lowering the Elf. Adar strolled over, glaring at their captive, but slowly lowering himself to a squat as the Orc presented his finding. Adar's eyes squinted, reaching out and musing the trademark locks out of the Elf's face; smirking as he caressed her cheek free of ash.

He growled your name, sight still hazy from the eruption of what will later be known as Mount Doom - yet could still recognize sounds. Slowly, you blinked and tried to focus, groaning as pain in your scalp burned and prickled; spine bowed from the horribly painful position.

"Adar?" You whispered in confusion.

"You remember me."

You scoffed, slurring slightly, "You left quite a lasting impression."

His hand dropped to push hair from your neck and shoulder, revealing a long blemish from his dagger years ago. "And here we meet yet again," Adar chuckled. "Release her," he told his child, who instantly dropped you with a grunt; ash puffing up on impact. "Come," Adar offered his hand as you tried to sit up with trembling limbs, "we've still farther to go."

"Fuck you," you seethed, spitting at him; ready for the pain to end after the displacement and turmoil of your people. You had been with the Númenoreans, along with Commander Galadriel, and this... "King" Halbrand; celebrating victory against Adar's first volley of Orcs when the explosion happened; spewing toxicity into the earth, through the air, and evidently, over the area to distinguish what will be known as Mordor.

"Hm," Adar considered your weak form, chuckling. "Get her up," he commanded, standing, and watching as chains were slapped to your wrists and ankles before being tossed into a bloody, maggot-infested, wood-rotting wagon.

Seemingly eons away, Elrond was being informed of your assumed demise. Your husband refused to believe it, but by the solemn look of the messenger, his greatest companion, Galadriel, he knew there was weighted truth to her words.

"Did you see her?" Elrond asked.

"See her fall? No - "

"Did you even look for her?"

"Of course we did, but it was too dangerous to linger longer than what we'd been there for."

Elrond's head shook, "No. No... I won't believe it - "

"I know it's difficult to accept, but... She's gone, Elrond."

"I would know if my wife is dead," Elrond snarled uncharacteristically. "Believe what you wish, but I know she still lives."

Galadriel knew better than to argue; she, herself, spent years of denial after Sauron murdered her brother, Finrod. So she gave Elrond space to process what he'd learned.

Yet while a circumstantially redeeming quality, Elrond was stubborn and confident in his morals and opinions. So, he refused to believe your life was lost; something in his gut twisted knowingly, assuring you were just misplaced and surely, soon to be home. Elrond knew you had a flair for the dramatic, so, he just prayed this was one of those times - where you wouldn't reappear until the very last second to make an entrance.

Yet Adar took every precaution to ensure you did not escape or could be rescued. He didn't parade you around, he kept you hidden away to prevent gossip from revealing your location. You were constantly left chained to posts by rusting irons, no comfort offered, no reprieve; nothing to pass your annoying suffering a little easier. You were fed just enough to be kept alive, you were allowed to wash yourself with a single cloth every few weeks - but typically with an Orcish audience watching, claiming they're "on duty". You lost use of your tongue after so many months had passed without a single indication aid had been deployed - hope shattered and futile.

You wondered if Elrond knew. You worried he thought you lost to the war. In vain, you prayed he didn't give up on you. However, you were logical and logic screamed at you that nobody would come - there was no point! You would've believed being told someone perished, too, if you heard of such circumstances.

Despite being an Incarnated, you were emotionally drained. Though, it's worth noting that under normal circumstances, you would've NEVER ended up in this position; but because of your vulnerable state and the opportunity was too good to pass up, Adar prided himself on "defeating you". He didn't know that you were beyond patient; waiting, observing, listening, leaning routines and schedules. Any opportunity you identified, you searched for anything that could help you escape; something sharp, small enough to pick the lock of your irons. You were Incarnated - your will to survive (even out of pure spite) rivaled that of any enemy.

Camp to camp, you were moved. Day by day, you lost a little more sanity. Nights grew cold, days short.

You were surprised when a pair of Orcs lumbered into "your" room, unlocking you from the post but keeping the chains on your wrists in place. They yanked you behind them, shoved you into Adar's tented shelter then forced you to your knees before the food-filled banquet table.

"And of course, there's her," Adar waved at you lazily, smirking when his newest prisoner of war sat forward with a gobsmacked expression.

She whispered your name, head snapping up to find your companion, Commander Galadriel, sat at the opposite head of the table to Adar. You smiled slightly and whispered her name softly, aware of your appearance and how straggly, despondent, and wary you must look.

"What is the meaning of this?" Galadriel demanded, the emotion in her thick voice making it crack.

"We found her," Adar smirked, "after you and your people abandoned her."

"We did not - "

"She's been... An honored guest of ours," Adar cut Galadriel off. "Her hair - it's a rare trait, I knew who she was when she was found. Figured she could truly help... Turn the tides in this war."

"You do not know what you've done," Galadriel breathed. "If her kin knew you held her, they would raze your camp into the dirt and return your children to darkness."

"You think... I do not understand the risks of holding an Incarnated? I have faced them before, known their wrath... But against Sauron, it was a necessary risk to take."

"Why?"

"You must see," Adar explained, "that it is not His lies which must be extinguished. It. Is. Him." He paused, revealing, "And I can help you do it." Adar leaned forward in his chair, "I can help you destroy Sauron, and should you value your friend's life, you will let me help you."

"What help could you possibly provide, Orc?" Galadriel spat, now leaned back casually in the chair Adar sat her in.

"Uruk," Adar corrected in Black Speech, standing from his seat to venture towards the side of the room. He stood before a plain wooden box, lifting the lid, and revealing in his hands:

"Morgoth's crown," Galadriel sat up. "I was told - "

"There are many stories of what happened after the Silmarils were pried from its setting," Adar validated. "But I was there when Sauron re-fired it to fit Himself. I was there when He kneeled to be crowned. And I was the one who used its power to slay Him."

Adar set the crown to the table, your stomach growling at the sight and smell of full platters.

"If what you say is true... Why did He return?" Galadriel asked.

"Because I had not yet found you, as I have her," he gestured at you.

"What part are we to play in this?"

"It is said the Three Elven Rings saved your people from fading. Is it true?" When Galadriel didn't answer, Adar nodded at one of his children standing over you; making the Orc bash you in the temple. "Is it true?" Adar repeated over your whimper of pain.

"Yes," Galadriel grit, glaring at the small dribble of fresh blood dripping down the side of your face. She decided red wasn't your color - no matter how much your husband liked seeing you in it.

"Then perhaps... Together, this crown and your Rings would be powerful enough to truly destroy Sauron forever. The Deceiver believes he is still beyond my grasp... But I know he hides in Eregion. And I suspect you know for certain... Halbrand is Sauron... Isn't he?"

You laughed a little, "Halbrand? Sauron? Come off it, you're mistaken. Go on, Commander, tell him - tell him." Galadriel was silent as she was overwhelmed by her memories. "Commander, tell him he's wrong! Halbrand isn't Sauron, tell him he's mistaken!"

Adar mistook the silence as her being defiant, nodding to his son again in permission. So, the Orc swiftly backhanded you with enough force, it literally toppled you backwards with a groan.

"I kept her alive... For you," Adar growled, bearing his teeth at the Elleth. "But I'll execute her at nightfall if you continue down this path of resistance. The fate of that city and your friend now rests on your ability to put aside your pride." Galadriel's teary eyes casted over you, sprawled out on the floor - not finding the use in sitting up to your knees again. "I suggest you find the will to do so... If you can, for everyone's sake." Adar removed the crown from the table and placed it back in its box, Galadriel hissing your name, only receiving a nonverbal thumbs up to indicate you were okay. When the Father of Uruks returned, he clipped matching irons to Galadriel's wrist before snatching up his sword, tossing over his shoulder, "We will speak again. I'll give you until nightfall to decide."

The Orcs filed out of the room after Adar, leaving you on the ground and chained to a spare post. Slowly, you tried to sit up and use the beam as support; grimacing in pain that made your friend question, "Are you hurt?"

"They're not the most merciful lot," you tried to joke with a smirk, but it turned into a wince, "but I've been through worse, I'll be fine. Listen to me, Galadriel," you sniffled, "you can't tell Adar anything. I don't care if he's gutting me, you don't tell him - "

"I would not have your life ended on my account, it would be as if swinging the sword myself!" Galadriel argued with heat.

"Adar is not your ally," you scoffed, "nor are the Orcs - look at what they've done! Continue to do! Do not be so foolish! So blinded, please, I beg you, my friend. If you tell him about Sauron, yes, your enemy might be vanquished, but you could be creating an entirely new and future enemy that all of Middle-earth must endure. My life is not worth that."

"It's worth more."

You smirked, "Don't forget who I am, friend; I am Incarnated, and I will not die easily nor without a fight. Adar will not succeed in my death so easily."

Galadriel shook her head, "If I do not indulge Adar with information I have and you lose your life because of that, Elrond would never forgive me."

You gave a watery smile, sniffling, "How is he?"

The Elf shook her head, "He's... He refuses to accept your fate, operates on a shorter fuse, he's mourning - even if he doesn't acknowledge or believe he is."

"It's not that I don't love you, my friend, but... I'll miss him the most," you let a single tear fall, a wistful smile toying on your lips. "You'll look out for him, won't you? Just... Just don't let him be alone, please. He'll try to push you away, but be patient; he'll need you and I'll rest easier knowing you'll be there."

"I won't do as you ask," Galadriel grit. "Look at you!"

"How can you be so confident that the moment you tell Adar what he wants to know, he won't kill me anyway?"

"Because Adar appears a man of rationality - unlike Sauron - "

You scoffed, "None of them are rational, Galadriel! They have their own agendas - and none of them benefit the likes of us! Don't tell him anything else, I don't care if he's gutting me like a pig, you don't say anything!"

"I can't agree to that," Galadriel shook her head, "I won't, not when there's a chance we can both get out of this alive."

"And if we survive just to witness the eradication of our people!?" Galadriel was silent, bowing her head. With a sigh, you asked, "Where's Nenya?"

"Safe with Elrond."

"Oh?" You chuckled. "How'd that happen? You have to break his finger off to put it on?"

Galadriel gave a breathy chuckle, "He needed a bit of convincing, but with the greater good at stake - he was left no choice."

With a smirk of amusement, you nodded slowly, then requested, "Could you promise me something decently reasonable?"

"I can try."

"If you make it outta here and I don't - "

"Do not say that!"

"Galadriel, just - stop for a moment and listen to me, please. If you get out of here and I do not, tell Elrond what happened. Tell him Adar found me after the volcano erupted, kept me prisoner, and that I tried." Tears brimmed your waterline, "Tell him I tried to escape, to get back to him... But if I don't make it and you do, please, tell him I love him - more than anything. Tell him I'll wait for him on white shores."

"Tell him yourself."

As promised, when night fell, Adar returned. His second in command, Glüg, approached you with a brandished sword and laid it at your neck with a cruel and twisted expression.

"Have you made your decision?" Adar questioned, Galadriel looking between him and the threat to your life. "Choose wisely, or I'll let my children bleed her; right here, right now. Tell me what I've asked."

"Don't tell him shit, Galadriel!" You barked in a last ditch effort, earning a balled-up-armored fist to rock your jaw. You spit a glob of blood to the side, snarling at Glüg, "You hit like like a bitch." He spit on you.

With a huff, Galadriel exposed, "Yes, Halbrand is Sauron. He's in Eregion to craft Rings that will allow Him to dominate my kind... And yours."

"Every kind in Middle-earth," Adar corrected.

Quickly, Galadriel rushed, "But He will not attempt escape until His task is complete. And that gives us a momentary advantage."

"'Us'?" The Father repeated.

"Unlock me."

"Galadriel! Think for a second!" You snapped, but Glüg pressed his blade deeper into your throat. You seethed, frustrated and angry tears turning suffocating. Adar approached your friend, eyes trained on her, causing the Elleth to look away in discomfort as Adar undid the iron cuff on Galadriel's wrist.

"As we speak, Y/N's husband, Elrond, hastens from Lindon with an army of Elves..." She boldly looked at Adar, you struggling against the blade at the sound of Elrond's name, "And Nenya, my Ring."

"Galadriel! Stop, don't say another word! Silence yourself!" You begged, whimpering shrilly when blood flowed from Glüg's disgustingly dirty blade.

"I see," Adar turned from the Elf.

You were ignored and Galadriel rose from her seat, following Adar while continuing, "Once he arrives, he will seal off the city, loose Celebrimbor from Sauron's grasp, and then together... Uruk, you and I will eradicate all trace of Sauron from this world. Never to return."

"And what then?" Adar questioned.

"Any Ring that have known his touch must be destroyed."

"I meant, what then for the Uruk? Will your High King permit us to return home in peace? Or will he proceed with his plans to invade Mordor? The shadow has not only overcome you, it has overcome all of Elvendom. In the end, your drive to prove your virtue will work right into Sauron's designs."

"You speak lies," Galadriel whispered as if in disbelief. "Hoping I will reveal something."

"You have already revealed everything I hoped you would and more."

You groaned and tossed your head back into the beam; a harsh thump echoing as Adar charged out of the tent with Galadriel and Glüg on his heels.

"Where are you taking her!?" Galadriel struggled in her restraints, unable to stray far from her seat as two Orcs entered the tent and began unclipping your irons. You didn't fight them, rolling your tired eyes as they began dragging you out on your backside. "NO! NO! Where are you taking her!?" Galadriel sobbed, on her feet, trying to follow.

"Remember your promise," you told her, forcing yourself to find contentment that your friend could be the last friendly image your brain would register.

"No, please! Please! You will not profit from her death! I have told you what your Father wanted, now release her! Her death will not profit you, but instead, will bring about your utter ruin! Please! Y/N!"

The Orcs ignored Galadriel's pleas, dragging you from the tent and amongst the snarling, snapping Orcs. Adar stood before a cart big enough for a single prisoner, smirking, giving his children command in Black Speech to load you inside. He watched, telling you, "Galadriel says your husband is on his way with an army. Surely, the sight of his wife might give Commander Elrond pause. The knowledge that you're alive will bring him to my table."

You were strung up by your arms, spread in exposure, tarps thrown over the cage to effectively cut you off from the rest of the world. You felt the cage rattle as you were lugged through mud. You couldn't identify hardly anything... Until a familiar horn bellowed in the short distance, making your chest tighten. While excited by the prospect of a rescue, you loathed the idea of Elrond running head first into a trap.

Your Elven ears picked up on the sound of thundering horse hooves, knowing your people (kin, too) were charging towards Adar's army; who were swiftly gathering in organized ranks. Your cage came to a halt, and a moment later, you flinched when the front-facing tarp was ripped down and the light above Eregion glared down on you. You were greeted with the sight of your husband surging closer on horseback, time seemingly slowing when your eyes locked and he registered who Adar's prisoner was.

You flinched when an Orc pressed the tip of their blade into your already injured neck, reopening a wound to send a single stream of blood steadily flowing.

"Halt!" Elrond called in Sindarin, the entire procession coming to an almost synchronized halt. He sized up the enemy, but kept letting his eyes glaze over you - disbelief coloring his expression. Elrond's horse stamped in place, Adar stepping forward to speak.

"Welcome, Commander Elrond."

"Y/N!" A voice shouted from the army, Elrond's head snapping over in time to see your siblings - three brothers, two sisters - dismounting their horses.

"Wait, wait!" Elrond barked at them, holding a hand up; your siblings halting themselves.

"Wise," Adar taunted, your irons noisily rattling when you tried to adjust your stance.

In Sindarin, you called to your eldest brother, "Do what needs done, do not spare my life for this foolishness! Take them down! Be done with it! Rid us of their filth!"

"I should think... Commander Elrond would like to hear my proposal first," Adar told you casually.

"I think they should put you and children in the dirt!" You spat, earning several snarls, growls, and hisses from the surrounding Orcs.

Elrond encouraged his horse forward, standing in the sunlight highlighting 'no man's land'. He glared at Adar, but asked you, "Are you hurt?"

"Only my ego," you assured.

His eyes flickered over to Adar, then nodded, "I will hear you first."

"You're wasting your time," you told him in Sindarin.

"On you, it's not a waste," he answered stiffly, almost angrily. "I would have her set free for the duration of our parlay."

"But of course," Adar agreed, being carted away at his Blackened command. Due to the tarps hanging over the other 3 sides of your prison, you lost sight of Elrond; forced to blindly follow instruction and behave.

The Elves were not permitted weapons in the Uruk camp.

Elrond dismounted his horse with Vorohil and your eldest brother, Iallion, who insisted on going to gauge your state, in time to watch the Orcs yank you from the cart and drag you into a tent as if your legs were of no use. It was all he needed to know to understand your treatment the past few months you've been 'missing'. His hand clapped Adar's shoulder before the Father of Orcs could pass him by, snarling, "If I come to learn you've been mistreating my wife, I assure you, there will be consequences."

Adar just chuckled and lead the way into his tent. Several Orcs shoved Elrond's shoulder and forced him, his second-in-command, and your brother to follow.

Inside, Elrond noted the walls lined with Orcs, all surrounding their prisoners of war - you and Commander Galadriel. The blonde Elleths were shackled to the same post, both standing, though, you were leaning into the beam for support as it appeared you could not stand on your own. When you noted their arrival, you perked up slightly, but not enough to wash away the worry he felt.

Elrond was offered a seat, just staring down Adar, who began, "The Ring you carry... Show it to me."

Elrond snarled, "Show me the care you've taken of my wife."

"She is perfectly healthy... As you can see. The Ring, Commander..."

Elrond glared for several long minutes, then answered, "A foolish act if I had brought it here."

"You are a courtier," Adar pointed out. "More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword."

"You've never seen me wield either."

"And yet," Adar's head cocked slightly, "I have faced the Incarnated and won. Beside Sauron, there's none alive... Entitled to those rights."

Iallion demanded in a snarl, "How came you by my sister? You say you won against her - where?"

"Didn't win a fucking thing! The bastards found me; facedown in volcanic soot after the battle with the Númenoreans. I told you to keep charging - you should've kept charging," you answered, earning a swift kick to the back of your knee; making it buckle and ram the post.

"Touch her again and I'll slaughter everyone in here," Elrond threatened.

"You so much as twitch - "

"And one of your children shall kill me? My wife? My men? You think I am not aware of that fact, do you honestly think I wouldn't risk life and limb for my wife? Do not. Touch. Her."

Adar just stared at Elrond, then nodded, "Fair enough. Though, if she speaks again... Cut out her tongue."

Elrond, Iallion, and Vorohil all sat forward when Glüg's blade chimed as it was deployed from the sheath; another couple Orcs shuffling and snarling forward to box you in. Your eyes rolled when the same dagger pressed unforgivingly to the pulse point beneath the hinge of your jaw.

Adar continued, "Sauron is my enemy as much as yours... Give me what I need to defeat Him and let us be rid of Him."

"Is it not you that has done his bidding by laying siege to Eregion?" Elrond countered.

"Eregion has fallen into shadow... It belongs to the Deceiver now, as does every Elf within its walls."

"Not Lord Celebrimbor," your husband tried to refuted, desperate to believe there was still some good left to fight for.

"It was Celebrimbor himself who welcomed Sauron in. You cannot save him... You can...save...them," Adar explained, naturally making Elrond look to you still held at knife point. Galadriel was uncharacteristically silent, chained to the same post, facing one another. "It is an earnest offer... I suggest you take it," punctuated Adar before he rose from his chair. "And leave Sauron to me..."

"Right, 'cause that worked sooo well last time," you scoffed, making every Elven eye widen in surprised shock. "You're the reason He still lives, you're forcing us all to do your bidding and fight against Him!" When an Orc's hand rose in a sudden movement to grip your chin - intending to hold open so Glüg could amputate your tongue - you simply reacted out of panic by erratically whipping your head to the side in time to catch the Orc's hand. His pointer finger landed between your teeth, too slow on the draw; losing the finger to the single, incredible chomp as if a root vegetable.

The Orc screamed in pain, spitting the finger and causing black blood to coat your lips like sadistic make-up.

"Lord Father - "

Adar silenced Glüg with a hand in the air, the injured Orc being escorted from the tent; hissing at you in a way that made you smirk. The Father of Orcs glanced at you, demanding, "Quiet," before slowly moved around the banquet table. He complimented Elrond, "You have the beauty of your foremother, Melian of the Valar. If even a fragment of her wisdom is in your veins... You must know you cannot defeat me in battle. I will outmaneuver you... My forces outfight yours... And you will fall."

"Not before you have painted the sands of the Glanduin black," Elrond stood to meet Adar, "with the blood of your kin."

You smirked slightly, always having faith Elrond would choose responsibility over emotion - something Galadriel was increasingly struggling with and unable to master. Glüg lowered his blade when he heard Elrond's threat - thinking this war was meant to played with strategy, not overwhelming numbers that would discard Orcish life without thought or consideration.

Adar assured, "My children have endured cruelties your bravest couldn't bear to hear spoken aloud."

"Are you prepared to spend their lives so freely... Adar?" Elrond questioned, using the Uruk's name as if an insult. "Are they?" He asked the room, letting his eyes bore into those of few Orcs to truly drive his words and plant seeds of doubt.

Adar didn't respond, pausing, then demanding, "You may haggle over Galadriel... But it's the Ring for your wife's life. What is it to be?"

Elrond's eyes locked with yours, noting the way your head shook. He slowly stalked around Adar, his hand unsuspectingly unclipping the decorative detail of his cloak's shoulder broach. His teary gaze lifted to lock with yours, portraying his apology and grief, then turning to Adar, "Ask me on the field, when the neck with a blade against it is yours."

Orcs hissed.

"Very well," Adar accepted, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I suppose not all vows are kept sacred... I will meet you there... With your wife's head on a pike."

Elrond held Adar's attention, relenting, "If that is to be the way of things, I should like to bid her farewell."

Adar's eyes shifted to Glüg's over Elrond's shoulder, the Orc assuring, "He's unarmed."

Interesting, you mused to yourself, he saw Elrond's broach but doesn't report it? Perhaps this war caused tension among their legion - beginning to question the man they followed.

After Adar's nod, Elrond turned to approach the beam in record break time. "My love," he greeted softly, tears evident and ready to spill. You both just stared at each other, unable to accept or process being within proximity to one another after being apart for so long - and only now, reunited to say goodbye. "Forgive me," Elrond whispered in Sindarin.

"Win," you answered in a matching hushed volume. "And if you don't, meet me on white shores."

He nodded, hand lifted to caress your cheek in disbelief; shuddering at the feel of your flesh. "I've missed you past the point of words, my star," he frowned.

"No more than I you."

You snuggled into his hand, stomach lurching when he leaned forward to press his final kiss to your lips. It wasn't passionate, but something chaste for show only; your chained hands reaching to hold his free one as it was all you could reach. The broach's center was pressed to your palm, your tear streaking through grimy cheeks when he pulled back to rest his forehead on yours. "I love you," he swore.

"I love you, too," you whimpered, bottom lip trembling with emotion as Adar looked to the ground. You wished to say your acting skills were that good to be truly deceptive, but in reality, something in your intuition refused to let you believe you'd survive this.

Hating the look of devastation on your otherwise devastatingly beautiful features, Elrond leaned in again before hushing against your lips, "Be ready."

"Be smart."

Elrond nodded, kissed you one last time before pulling back. Almost as if in pain, he turned, unable to handle being so close so improperly; causing him to snap, "Iallion, Vorohil," who flanked his tail upon their exit of the Uruk tent.

You sniffled, leaning on the beam in exhaustion, still playing into the facade you thought Elrond was trying to silently communicate. You weren't defeated yet; the pin kept in your clenched fist to cause indentations from the star-point design.

Outside, Iallion and Vorohil questioned Elrond's confidence, being told a legion of Dwarves had been summoned to march to Eregion's aid; telling his second to guide the army to the battle while he held the city. Before trotting away, Elrond pulled on his helmet and told the two in Sindarin, "And it starts with the rescue of my wife and decimation of this camp."

You used Elrond's pin to pick Galadriel's lock first, insisting she had to flee before anyone caught you. She tried to refuse, something about loyalty or other, but you all but shoved her away from you and snarled for her to leave you.

"Elrond's near," you reminded her, "I'm not going anywhere."

"He's coming for you," she realized.

"Did you have any doubt?"

She chuckled, "I suppose not."

"Get out of here," you cocked your head, indicating she flee out the tent flap. You focused on your own lock as the sounds of invasion echoed around the camp. Praying Galadriel found a way to disguise herself, you struggled to unlock your irons; hearing someone rush into the tent behind you.

"You!"

An Orc was surging up to you in record time, bloody dagger in hand, twisted snarl curling his lip. You dropped the pin on accident, unable to retrieve it; but having enough mind to wait until the Orc was a foot from you, stepping back, extending your chains. The Orc slashed directly into the weakened metal, severing your bond, but the loss of tension made you flop backwards; rolling over your shoulder and onto your feet.

The Orc, ever graceful, hacked wildly at you; forcing you to go on the defense and dodge his attacks around the tent. Three more Orcs filed in; but however you might argue, luck was on your side for your brother, Iallion, came charging in with your sister, Eliriel.

"Y/N!"

You caught the sword your brother tossed, slashing the offending Orc's head from his shoulders as your siblings disposed of the other three enemies with ease.

Realizing the Orcs were vanquished (for now), you turned to your brother and raced into his embrace. He grunted and caught you, petting the back of your head before releasing and letting you hug your sister.

"Do you need medial aid?" Eliriel asked in worry, pushing hair from your shoulders to expose flesh - checking for any injury or bloody blemish.

"No - "

"Can you fight?"

"The day I answer no, you've permission to put me in the ground yourself," you scoffed, nodding at your brother. "You came back?"

"Elrond's leading the charge, they're razing the camp," Iallion explained, "otherwise he would've come himself."

"Where is he?"

"Come, we can find him," he insisted, eyes raking over you. "Sure you're all right?"

"Never better," you chuckled without humor, intent on holding the horrors you've experienced at the hands of your captors close to your chest. "Now, we gonna stand here and talk or go hunt some Orc?"

"YES!"

The Incarnated swarmed together in a protection fashion around you; a sibling shield, if you would, due to your lack of armor. Individually, the Incarnated were almost impossible to defeat, but together, they rivaled armies; exactly as the Valar intended. However, while fearsome in battle, you were still but a few and the Orcs were a grand-many; almost easily overwhelming any Elf they encountered.

Exactly why you were separated from them.

You faced against four different foes, turning as if dancing steps to something intimate; blade flashing in the sunlight, ringing as it clanged against blackened blades and rusted armor. It was easy to cut off your retreat or direction back to your siblings, forcing you back several yards as the Orcs swiftly closed in.

"Y/N! DUCK!" You heard from behind you; not thinking, just dropping like a sack of potatoes.

Horse hooves passed you, looking up in time to defend against another blade as Elrond engaged the others. You were both fairing decently until a moment of distraction - where an Orc swung his axe into Elrond's chest and knocked him from his horse - leaving an opportunity for your attacker.

With a scream, the Orc's blade sliced your chest in a deep slashing, managing to cut into your neck; blood starting to stream into your torn and tattered prison clothes. You were blinded by stinging pain, whimpering as your non-dominant arm curled across your chest as if gauze to lay over the injury; dominant hand occupied by your sword, defending yourself with weak whimpers.

One final hack made your sword arm collapse into the ground and for the Orc to stomp on your wrist to hold you there. You were pinned. The Orc laughed and sadistically reached down to swipe a grimy finger into your wound, causing you to hiss through teeth, only to lift his finger to his mouth and taste your life force. The sight alone made your stomach lurch, a panicked cry escaping your lips.

Elrond heard the enemy's laugh and lifted his head in time to see it lick your blood; noting your cry and position beneath the Orc. His face steeled into something beyond infuriation. The three Orcs that filled the space between you and he were quickly dispatched, Elrond engaging your attacker - letting you scramble backwards into a tree trunk for a front row viewing.

With a wild swing, Elrond swiped at the Orc; who reached up to grab hold of his helmet, which was freed when Elrond rolled from under him. The Orc swung, blade whistling; catching Elrond's cheek and sending him to the dirt, much to your worry. He glared at the enemy, wiping at his injury as the Orc growled, "I'm gonna spill her guts at your feet, Elf!"

Elrond's eyes flickered to you, taking the threat as credible; swiping the sword away, using a second blade to inflict injury before driving his longsword into the Orc's belly - driving him backwards into the basket of a trebuchet (or catapult). When pinned, Elrond drove his dagger into the Orc's sternum; leering over him in Sindarin, "Die."

Elrond yanked both weapons free and turned for the machine's mechanisms; yanking a rope and setting the trebuchet into motion. "No, no, no, no," the Orc begged when he realized what was happening; lifted off his feet only to be flung with the basket of rocks through the air, over the width of the Glanduin, and into the walls of Eregion.

Your husband wasted no time to drop the rope and turn for you; rushing forward and sliding to his knees beside your bleeding form. "Elrond, oh, my stars," you rushed with a bloody grin, reaching for him with your dominate hand as the other still tried to staunch your injury.

"I knew you weren't gone, I knew it," he breathed, taking your face in hand, "I'm so sorry, my love, I'm so sorry. I should've come sooner - "

"You got here right when you were supposed to," you assured, sniffling. "Have you - Have you seen Galadriel? I set her free, have you seen her?"

"Why was she not with you?"

"I sent her away, I wasn't sure how long I'd take to escape," you trembled, "then Iallion and Eliriel got me out."

"Why didn't you run?"

"I did..."

"No, away from the battle - "

"I ran to find you," you whispered, offering a sad smile. "Oh," you breathed, fingertip ghosting over his cut cheek, "that'll scar."

"It's nothing," he shook his head, "but yours isn't - I have to get you away from here - "

"There's no time," you rushed, "so, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

You swallowed thickly, "Clean your blade, put it in the fire."

Elrond's brows furrowed, glancing over his shoulder to see the trebuchet set ablaze by his men; the Orcs fleeing from the danger, leaving a rare opening. "I don't... Oh," his eyes widened, nodding and rushing to do as you bid. He cleaned his blade on his cloak as he sprinted to the burning machine; sticking his blade in, then returning to your side. "Can you stand?" He asked.

"If you can get me up," you nodded.

"C'mon, love," Elrond whispered, hands under your arms and hoisting you up the bark with a small grunt. "I've got you - "

"Elrond!"

He didn't think, just gripped the blade of his dagger and flung it in a fluid motion over his shoulder where you were staring. The weapon struck an approaching Orc in the throat; gurgling black blood as he went down, but Elrond didn't even bother to watch. He just returned his attention to you, "C'mere, starlight, I've got you."

"Commander!" A different voice shouted, your siblings rushing to the scene. Iallion, as the eldest, gave command to the others, "Circle - circle up! Get around them!" As the Incarnated surrounded you, Elrond was assisting you towards the flames. "Commander, orders, sir?"

"Stand guard," Elrond replied, easing you to your knees. "All right, my love," he paused, checking the blade, "think it's good?"

You nodded, "It's good. Just, uh... Aim, please."

He huffed, "As if I'd miss." He pulled his sword fully from the flames, the thin metal burning bright red; even sizzling subtly. "Ready?"

"Wait, wait," Eliriel bartered, finding a chunk of wood and placing it in your mouth. She lowered to her knees and hooked her arms around yours; restraining them behind your back in a vice. "Okay... Okay, good - do it, do it now, Elrond!" She begged, seeing blood flow a little more freely now that you weren't trying to plug the wound.

When your husband lowered the blade to your injury, you lost consciousness after screaming blood murder until air depleted from your lungs. The flesh was cauterized as cleanly as Elrond could manage, satisfied when he noted no weeping openings.

"Commander! What orders, Commander!?"

Elrond was torn between his wife and his company - but Iallion encouraged, "Go, brother. We'll get her somewhere safe."

With a scoff, Elrond shook his head and carefully pulled the wood from your mouth; gathering you off your sister and into his chest. "Where's safe anymore?" Elrond asked rhetorically in Sindarin, standing with you in his arms.

The camp was in complete disarray, Adar realizing the Elven Calvary had destroyed nearly everything in their path, almost to a barbaric extent. He would've questioned the displayed Elven bravery, but his mind knew better and reminded him he threatened Commander Elrond's wife... No wonder the camp was stamped into the ground.

The sun sank, darkness spread, and Adar listened to report after report, all confirming the Elves were fairing better than expected. Many Uruk lost their lives, more were injured, and the Orcs were encountering outmaneuvers no matter where they attacked.

Adar returned to the tent he left you and Galadriel in... Finding empty irons, no prisoners, and several of his children - dead. There was no confirmation as to who the wounds were from, but considering the swift yet strategically fatal injuries, he assumed the Incarnated had come to your rescue. Death was only graceful when dealt by their hands.

"Perhaps, Lord Father," Glüg reported, "we should sound the retreat. The Commander Elrond is formidable, angry over his wife's injuries..."

"No," Adar refused.

"He slaughtered half the camp to find her!"

"We do not retreat," Adar growled, making his son shy back a step. "Send him in..."

"He will kill our own kind!"

"Send. Him. In. Commander Elrond is on the battlefield, his wife smuggled away - "

"His wife is on the field, Lord Father! Khor saw her," Glüg gestured at his brother, who nodded vigorously at Adar.

"All the more reason... Send him in."

After your wound was cauterized, Elrond managed to find a horse and rush you a safe distance into the woods with Eliriel to guard you. Upon awakening, you were stiff with pain, but infuriated by the obvious delay in consciousness; rolling to your feet and testing the bounds of the near-fatal, scabbing wound.

"You can't go," Eliriel insisted, watching you stretch, "you'll tear open - "

"Adar kept me alive just enough for this moment, I have business to settle with him. I've been on the sidelines too long, sister," you snapped, "and injured or not, I will not leave Eregion to the darkness. There's still a chance - our people still fight. Will you join us? Or shall you turn tail, as our uncle did? Demote yourself?"

Your uncle, another Incarnated, had been a member of the original alliance of Elves against Sauron; one of the first to leave Valinor on a noble quest to Middle-earth. He was one of the reasons your kin had been blessed, but he's also the reason you know what happens if Incarnated refuse their Holy Calling... Facing Morgoth's apprentice was traumatizing beyond belief, your uncle leading alongside Galadriel's brother, Finrod, in many abattle. Yet Sauron's craft was vast, weaseling into your uncle's heart and brain to the point of insanity; so much so, that upon your uncle going AWOL, Finrod was slain in response.

Galadriel never blamed you nor other Incarnated; she blamed only Sauron, rationalizing he was who fucked up your uncle's head so much that the Valar took back their gift. A forfeited Incarnated was gazed upon with utter contempt until driven into exile, and even then, they aren't immediately granted immunity nor entrance into Aman, - or the Undying Lands - but instead, must plead for redemption. Needless to say, your uncle gave your kin quiet a public mess to rectify and it was a grave insult to throw such an accusation at an Incarnated.

"Sister?" You prompted.

From the dirt, Eliriel nodded and reached for your hand; allowing you to heave her onto her feet. "You'll need armor - do not argue!" She snapped with a pointed finger when your mouth opened. "Come."

Eliriel lead you through the woods at a mild pace as to not irritate your injury. Using the darkness to your advantage, you snuck around until happening upon a fallen Elleth who was about your size and body type. Swiftly, you took her armor with a prayer in Sindarin, securing it, then latching on her weapons belt.

"Ready?" You asked, seeing Eliriel nod. "Stay close."

"I'm older than you!"

"Then act like it!" You laughed over your shoulder, sprinting from the treeline and directly towards the fray taking place before Eregion's walls. You snatched a full quiver from a dead Elf, not stopping; plucking up an abandoned bow, still surging; then snatching whatever spent torch-arrows you could, doubly determined.

Blood transformed impacted dirt into a marsh; bodies littering the land, a city on fire, and Death permeating the air. Your sword sang with glee at each blow; injury holding strong, giving you fuller permission to move as you needed. When you raced into battle, you were an entirely different breed; purely animalistic, relying on your senses to cause the most damage. All you could process was you needing to kill.

You happened to be in the right place at the right time because just yards ahead of you, several jagged arrows thumped into your comrade, Rían's, body at varying angles. She swayed and dropped to her knees, revealing ahead of her, a small gaggle of Elves - Elrond included. Rían reached for a torch arrow as you noted the barrel of oil by the Grond and quickly connected the dots.

It was as if the Valar arranged it themself: where one Elf fell, an Incarnated steps up to assume responsibility without hesitation nor prompt. Three additional arrows struck Rían, who fell dead, and there you stood; causing your name to fall from your husband's mouth and for you to spring into action. Without hesitation, you ignite your own arrow, notch it, aim, then release before rushing towards Elrond; seven arrows impalied the place you vacated. "What're you doing here!? It's not safe!" Elrond demanded when you lowered to his level behind a barrier of dirt.

Your arrow found it's mark, catching the entire Grond and surrounding Orcs in a violently gnarly explosion. You smirked at your husband, anchoring him by his neck to place a desperate, messy, slippery kiss to his lips. On retraction, there came a loud, wet smooch sound; you nodding and answering, "Winning a war."

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

[jayhyunglover]

Cinnamon girl

Pairing: Rafayel x female! reader

Wk: 0.7k

A/N : I was listening to Lana del Rey and the angst worm came to say Hello. Happy reading!!!

Now playing: cinnamon girl by Lana del Rey .

Imagine this quiet life with Rafayel. 

Waking up entangled in the bed every morning. Going to sleep every night with him tucked nicely against you. 

Everytime he came back weary from an exhibition you couldn't attend he sought comfort into your arms -his favorite place to be . His face pressed against your soft curves as he let your presence wash the remnants of exhaustion away. 

He looks forward to this everyday , coming back to you , his safe place , his bride , his most devoted follower, his cinnamon girl. 

But even a god has to pay for his sins .

what happens when this safe place is wrenched away from him or maybe she walked away herself. Who knows? Not everyone can bear the weight of this sacrificial love. 

“Cutie” Rafayel called out for you , searching frantically through his studio. It was already late at night , this exhibition took longer than necessary. That's why he decided to grab some take out from your favorite place intending to spend the night cuddled against you. 

But you were nowhere to be found . The moonlight spilling from the glass windows made the room glow with an ethereal light but it seemed so dull without you , his light. 

“Darling you're scaring me” he chuckled nervously -his coping mechanism- “it's not funny” he sighed running a hand through his already mused up hair , not giving up on his search.

But as reality started to sink in , he felt his heart drop . 

No you couldn't have left. Not again,  not after he finally found you again. 

The soft sea breeze washed over his soft features but he never felt colder. 

Water , he needed water as you always said “drink water to swallow a bitter pill , to calm your frayed your nerves” 

As he headed to the kitchen to drink a glass of water , his eyes fell on the turquoise blue bracelet you bought back on one of your trips. He also had a red one and when they were close to each other they both turned purple. 

He picked the bracelet that was resting on top of a nicely folded up letter. 

He took it with trembling hands , breathing shallow,  heart beating so fast he could hear the frantic thump thump in his ear. 

“The trick your mind can do” 

That was the first sentence of your letter. He recognized your handwriting immediately,  the soft cursive he admired so many times staring back at him.

 

“I am sorry for forgetting about you so many times” 

The first tear fell on the sandy paper, heart twisting painfully in his chest at your words.

You didn't have to be sorry , he wasn't mad , he would never be.

“I hurt you so much , yet you still keep loving me. I wonder why ? Why would you keep living through this loop of suffering and heartache?” 

Because without you everything is dull and devoid of anything,  because without you he felt like a void. 

“Rafayel I am sorry but I can't,  I can't keep doing this to you. You deserve to be free”  

No , he didn't , he'd be your prisoner forever if that means he'll have you by his side every day of his pitiful existence. 

“To be happy” a scoff . How could he be happy now that his happiness has walked away. 

“now I know how this story will end , how it always ends and I refuse to make you suffer longer. I'd rather lose somebody than use somebody , so please accept my sincere apologies and let me go , for both our sakes.” 

The tears were blurring his vision now making it hard to breathe,  soft shiny Pearls rolling against his cheek to fall on the cold ground. 

“Take care of yourself, me  and my love will always be there for you but never within reach. 

                   Your love from the surface” 

Rafayel drop to his knees,  the pain unbearable , his chest feeling too tight.

Why does this keep happening? Why do you keep leaving him? Why ? Why ? Why ? 

All he wanted was to keep you by his side , forever. But now you were gone. 

Soft sobs escaped his parted lips, his eyes reddening from the tears , pearls surrounding his frame on the cold ground. 

His love left him again, after waiting for 800 years , she left again leaving him a tumbling mess of pain and heartache. 

Taglist: @jinwoosbabyboo @yourlocalcatscammer @mangooes @sunsethw4 @syluslittlekitten @poisonf0rest

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

Danny Phantom and the Riordanverse

I have some thoughts about a Shared World kind of crossover between Danny Phantom and Percy Jackson & the Olympians. I haven’t done a full rewatch of DP in ages, nor have a read outside the core 5 PJO books, the HOO books, the Kane Chronicles, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, and about 2 and a half of the Trials of Apollo books, also been a while. Apologies for any inaccuracies but hey, fanon.

A Glitch In Time canonizes that the Infinite Realms and Material World were once one and the same, but a global war - waged by people who were naturally half ghost the way Danny and Vlad are - split the world in 2. All things regarding Pariah Dark, I’d say he was one of the major powers in this war.

Realms can range from a 10x10x10 room to entire islands with their own celestial bodies like Dora’s kingdom and its sun. Technically we don’t know if the Far Frozen even has an End Point. Doors can lead to alternate timelines; Desiree, Ghost Writer and Clockwork are all able to warp reality, time included, and the Observant Council perceive time in at least 2 dimensions.

In the Riordanverse it is revealed in the few books of the Trials of Apollo that I read and remember that mortal belief from even a relatively small cult can elevate a mortal man to immortal status a la monsters and Gods. Apollo even muses about the way the Gods don’t want to acknowledge how dependent on mortals remembering them they are.

All of this considered, if you want DP to exist in the Riodanverse and even keep the lore of both, then the Realms/Planes/Worlds of the Gods - of Hellas, Kemet, the Æsir and Vanir, the Heavenly Beauracracy, etcetera - are Realms connected to the Spirit World but managed to remain intersected with the Material World through the efforts of the Gods and the memories of Mortals.

The Duat could even be a layer of the Infinite Realms, frankly.

Danny states that his accident was a month ago as of Episode 1, Mystery Meat, which is set April 3rd, 2004. Based on the few concrete date indicators we get in Danny Phantom, the series takes place over 3 years. 4 if you count Claw of the Wild, but that means the trio stays Tiny all the way into Senior Year lol.

Prisoners of Love begins on May 18th, Fright Knight is a Halloween episode, and in Lucky in Love, they’re at a waterpark, which only open in May at the earliest. The Fright Before Christmas is obviously set before and during Christmas and then Reality Trip is set at the beginning of Summer 2006.

In Urban Jungle, Tucker remarks that it’s 90 degrees outside, which means it’s either late May or early June since I do believe they Are in school at that point and iirc global warming hadn’t made it 90 in the midwest early in 2006. Claw of the Wild is an odd camping episode featuring Danny’s class, and I forget in episode details so if this was during school time it had to be during the spring since, again, they live relatively close to the Great Lakes, so it’s gotta be during a naturally warm time. A Glitch In Time, therefore, is set in late spring or early summer of 2008.

Percy Jackson is 12 at the beginning of The Lightning Thief & 13 at the end Iirc since his birthday is August 12th. Either way, this is in 2005. Sea of Monsters and Titan’s Curse are both set during 2006; Battle of the Labyrinth is in 2007, and iirc The Last Olympian is set next year during 2008 and Percy is 16.

Thereby when the Heroes of Olympus books begin in 2008-2009, Danny is 18 and either a senior or highschool graduate. This is a hilarious point in time for Percy to meet Danny, actually, or any of our protagonist crew, if you want to maintain canon for both.

I know most people don’t, in fact, care to keep up DP canon nearly this rigidly, so some other fun thoughts.

In Reality Trip, Freakshow acquires the Reality Gauntlet, and begins the summer (as this begins on a last day of school event I’d say probably even on the Solstice) of 2006 with a reality warping bang. Once he gets the gems, Freakshow transforms the whole world into his circus, until Danny tricks him and gets the glove back, fixing reality to exactly how it was before the change, wiping his identity from the memories of everyone save Tuck, Sam, & Jazz, and then destroyed the Reality Gauntlet in a single shot.

This, I imagine, would grab the attention of The Gods. That’s if the Pariah Dark situation didn’t register to them, even. Considering Percy is 13 at the time and due to deal with the Sea of Monsters situation, the Kane siblings haven’t been recruited yet (I think) and Magnus is still just a homeless kid in Boston, I dunno if anyone from New Rome would be sent but the Gods of various pantheons may investigate directly or through minor gods/spirits.

The House of Life certainly wouldn’t approve of the Ghost Portals, Vlad, or possibly even Danny. Hell, Luke might actually be sent to recruit Danny or Vlad to the Titan’s cause now that I think about it.

With the fact that Danny, Vlad, and Dan were destroying other timelines while smashing into them from sheer speed through the Spirit World during A Glitch In Time, I’d say Danny is at least a 6D being (existing in at least 4 dimensions of space and 2 of time.) If that doesn’t count him as a God, idk what would. Also during Infinite Realms, Vlad and Danny time travel to both ancient Rome during an event in the colosseum and ancient China at a monetary. If these are the same universe as Danny’s, then he and Vlad should have a myth or two regarding one another, which would also put them on the watch list for Olympus and the Bureaucracy of Heaven.

But hey, what do you think? I’m open to talk about this and wanna hear other people’s thoughts and opinions.

[calliesmemes]

DARKNESS STILL HAUNTS YOUR NARRATIVE

ASSORTED ASKBOX PROMPTS from various sources with dark and / or unsettling themes. The ominous feeling from before is still there, and its prominence has only grown …

* TRIGGERING THEMES MAY BE PRESENT, such as death, wealth inequality, and war. Please exercise caution and curate your space accordingly.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed

SPECIFY muse for multimuses

❛ When I look at a person, I see a person — not a rank, not a class, not a title. ❜

❛ What a strange girl you are. ❜

❛ History is written by the rich, and so the poor get blamed for everything. ❜

❛ I could corrupt you. It would be easy. ❜

❛ How many centuries deep is your wound? ❜

❛ You’ll be remembered more for what you destroy than what you create. ❜

❛ Bitter are the wars between brothers. ❜

❛ Power comes with a price. ❜

❛ Your power might destroy you if you don’t learn to control it. ❜

❛ I’m not going to let you anywhere near a battlefield! ❜

❛ War is sweet to those who have never fought. ❜

❛ Cowardice is everywhere in this country. ❜

❛ Which appeals to you more? Power, or love? ❜

❛ Inside my head, the war is everywhere. ❜

❛ You look like your grief and guilt and rage are eating you alive, bit by bit. ❜

❛ Good and evil are a question of perspective. ❜

❛ The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is the press coverage. ❜

❛ Your place is at home; you will fight another day. ❜

❛ How many more children do we have to sacrifice in this war? ❜

❛ When you talk to the dead, the dead will talk back. They’re always there, even if you can’t hear them. ❜

❛ I am half child, half ancient. ❜

❛ You’re like me. You’ve seen too much, too young. ❜

❛ Every word from your mouth, every turn of phrase, will be judged — and possibly used against you. ❜

❛ I prefer the most unfair peace over the most righteous war. ❜

❛ A love like ours could burn down a city. ❜

❛ In my experience, men only call women ‘mad’ when they are doing something inconvenient. ❜

❛ I will do anything to keep you safe from harm. ❜

❛ You wield an incredible amount of power with just your voice. ❜

❛ You know, everything old can be made new again. Like democracy. ❜

❛ You laugh like a little girl, and think like a martyr. ❜

❛ What is a home if not the first place you learn to run from? ❜

❛ Do you understand what it means when you have nowhere else to turn? ❜

❛ The war is never over. ❜

❛ We are products of our past, but we don’t have to be prisoners of it. ❜

❛ I dream of the past as if it were yet to come. ❜

❛ You have endured terrible suffering, haven’t you? ❜

❛ Your beauty terrifies me. ❜

❛ This is war — you never know who’s listening. ❜

❛ This is a land of dreams and madness, where childrens’ stories come to life. ❜

❛ The Earth is littered with the ruins of empires that believed they were eternal. ❜

❛ I’ll never get used to being alive. ❜

❛ We’ve been fighting this battle for too long. ❜

❛ We swore we’d never bow to tyranny. ❜

❛ Young men fall, I see their agony. ❜

❛ We all carry things inside us that no one else can see. ❜

❛ Your suffering can’t end until you stop identifying with it. ❜

❛ You have to be a bit of a liar to tell the story the right way. ❜

❛ I’m so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything. ❜

❛ You collect scars because you want proof that you’re paying for whatever sins you’ve committed. ❜

❛ You can escape reality, but you can’t escape the consequences of escaping reality. ❜

❛ Is that all you want to be? Liked? Wouldn’t you rather be passionately and voraciously desired? ❜

❛ Sorrow found me when I was young. ❜

❛ The very heavens conspire against me! ❜

❛ Do you like the person that you’ve become under the weight of living? ❜

❛ The evil that men do lives on long after they themselves have gone. ❜

❛ You are not safe here. ❜

❛ I don’t know any places I can hide from the voices that are tearing me apart from the inside. ❜

❛ I am not a legend; I’m a fraud. ❜

❛ Destiny is a worrying concept. I don’t want to be fated; I want to choose. ❜

❛ I am not merciful, and I am not kind. ❜

❛ Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter. ❜

❛ Vulnerability is courage in you and inadequacy in me. ❜

❛ You cannot save people. You can only love them. ❜

❛ This isn’t going to be like last time. ❜

[cyberclouddream]

12th House Musing

The 12H represents the trap of infinity. The fact that something is boundless makes it restrictive. Everything must have opportunity to settle and persevere. The true nature of our soul and existence is actually not possible to actualize in this material state of being.

Try to conceptualize something unbound by physics…exactly. Just like it’s impossible to perceive not existing outside of considering erasure of memories related to you (this conscious existence is literally just a set of memories. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, we just don’t have the instruments to see beyond patterns.

You know how they say the brain thrives off repetition? It’s because organic life is based on sequences. Nothing in this life can fall outside of rules. And the 12th house represents beyond rules that we can imagine. That’s why it feels like a prison. It’s like you being in a dark world and you’re looking at q white hole of pure potential, but it’s hard to conceptualize it’s purpose.

This hole/whole is our soul, and this beautiful endless cycle of being we’re in. We’re trying to understand that essence of what’s going on in this house not by comparing it to other things but…acceptance. Like Aries 12H, they suppress their desire to act impulsively/instinctual to stabilize and secure what we started (Taurus 1H). This is because the value and goal is to connect with something different, to comprehend duality (Gemini 3H). Something can only be different than you if it has something similar to you, and vice versa. What we all have in common is being able to be perceived based on a factor.

Higher dimensional beings can always perceive us because they live in less congruent forms of infinity/existence, but we can’t perceive them unless we loosen our grip on reality and accept not accepting, accepting nothingness and everything at the same time. Which gets you to the state of the meaning of everything is not having meaning. It’s like if you knocked over of box of cereal, do you typically think that where the fallen pieces landed have a specific and inherent meaning? Unless you’re a psychic or oracle, no. We typically don’t think bout things like why a certain rock we accidentally displaced had to fall here and not a centimeter left, or why this particular drop of milk landed here when you were pouring your milk.

That’s our existence: everything just is and doesn’t have to be complex. The material world is complex and the nonmaterial is nonlinear, it’s not complex because everything is possible in infinity, meaning you always have a simple and easy answer. Intuition is based off tapping into this awareness of the deep, innate correlation and interconnectedness of all and everything.

You have to accept the placement of the 12H as in realizing it’s purpose is it’s existence itself, not labels or rules or structures or weights on your shoulder. Like Scorpio 12H tends to have a hard time understanding the purpose of transformation. They’re so stuck on meaning that they don’t get they actually have to be willing to change. Sagittarius comes after Scorpio, meaning it seeks new meaning after profound transformations. It’s like Scorpio is an explosion, disrupting any weaknesses, and Sagittarius is whatever shoots from that explosion into a new area, comprehending the significance of difference and opposition, which is all unified anyway.

The 12th house is what you need to master the potential of because it affects how you maneuver in every way in your life. Like, make life feel like you’re actually creating your life, not reacting to it. No, not in the “you’re god” sense but that you are in control of how you let things have control over your responses. Like Virgo 12H, they tend to escape what they need to refine, preferring to stay in what makes them socially comfortable, resisting a lesson they were supposed to master in their early or past life.

Like for Virgo 12H, they found it hard to feel useful, component, or in control, which leads to chronic overthinking and guilt. They may have had a hard time accepting imperfection in themselves or others, but avoid confronting those things directly. They may not like telling others how they truly feel when they’re bothered, or have trouble acknowledging flaws in themselves effectively. They may have a hard time with accountability or addressing things that aren’t really working but are convenient. They may ignore their health or habits.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 24 - The Story of That Past

Summary: Tension runs high as Arthur grapples with the weight of impossible choices, his loyalty to the gang tested against his growing desperation to protect Kate. Meanwhile, Kate endures her own silent battle, caught between the chilling reality of her imprisonment and the lingering hope that Arthur will not abandon her.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: This is a shorter chapter (8k words), a bit of a break from what happened in the last one while also setting up what's coming....

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

In the center of the clock, inside the now–choices gather, waiting to be made. The swamp is alive with anticipation. Dangers and saviors. Lovers and predators. The lie is in the separation. The truth is always growing. ~ Lily Brooks-Dalton

The darkness begins to dissolve with the dawn. The morning birds take up their chorus and claim the day as the encroaching sun warms the land and chases the fog. Arthur trudged toward Shady Belle; their home, their refuge. A kingdom of lesser glory, nestled within the embrace of the bayou. His clothes clung to him, damp and heavy, a physical reminder of the regret and fury that weighed on his soul. The events of the night replayed endlessly in his mind, each iteration amplifying the bitter truth: he had lost her.

Kate was gone—taken prisoner. 

The woman he loved was in the clutches of the law. Being held in a cell he knew was meant for someone like him. The money they'd risked so much for was swallowed by the Lanahachee.Whatever riches they had, slipped from their pockets in their escape. The river's hungry waves lay claim to the treasure. 

Time was of the essence now, the ticking clock posed the next greatest threat. Like a predator nipping at his heels. Arthur needed to act fast, before a fate that should have been his own was inflicted upon her. He couldn’t bear the thought of the noose tightening around Kate’s neck, of the life they’d barely begun slipping away forever.

At camp, the day unfolded with routine indifference. Figures moved sluggishly through the morning haze: Pearson cracking eggs and humming an off-key tune, the girls gathering laundry into baskets, and others nursing steaming cups of coffee as they shook off the remnants of sleep. A few greeted Arthur, their voices warm and casual, but he ignored them. His gaze locked on the weathered table where Dutch, Hosea, John, and Micah sat in conversation, and he made a beeline for it.

“Arthur!” Dutch called cheerfully, a smile curling beneath his mustache. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Where’s your companions?” His eyes flicked to the muddy, damp clothing and Arthur’s lone arrival.

“Riverboat was a bust,” Arthur snapped. “We lost the money—and they took Kate.”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. Hosea and John turned toward him, their faces mirroring his urgency—first shock, then confusion. Dutch sighed, leaning back in his chair and swirling his coffee lazily. “That’s a shame,” he mused. “There was a lot of money on that boat.”

Arthur’s anger boiled over, his fist slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the plates and cups. “Did I stutter?” he growled in a low roar. “The law has Kate, we need to hit the prison before they hang her!”

His outburst drew the attention of the entire camp, heads swiveling to watch the confrontation. Hosea raised a calming hand, his tone measured but firm. “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, son. They’ve no reason to hang her—not yet. Most likely, she’ll get a trial.” His gaze softened as he gestured for Arthur to sit. “But we need to know exactly what happened on that boat.”

Arthur leaned forward, his fists pressed against the splintered surface of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain. His breath hissed out, slow and measured, as he fought to temper the storm building inside him. “Same thing that always happens, ‘Sea,” he began, low and ragged. “Ran into some fella that recognized me. Didn’t have time to think—I killed ‘em before he even drew. You know how the rest goes.”

John tilted his head, his curiosity cutting through the tension. “How’d he recognize you? From Blackwater?”

Arthur shook his head sharply, his lips pressing into a grim line as guilt weighed on him like a millstone around his neck. There was no time to dwell on the how or the why, not now. But the truth corroded the edges of his mind—this was his fault. It always was. 

Having lived his life with a heavy hand, Arthur carved his way through the world with the kind of cruelty that had been beaten into him from the start. It was all he knew, but that didn’t make it right. 

If only he’d done things differently—if he’d been kinder, softer, more patient. Or maybe if he’d refused to help Mary altogether. His chest tightened at the thought, a bitter cocktail of regret and remorse. If he’d turned her away, none of this would’ve happened. Kate wouldn’t be rotting in a cell because of his choices. But there was no going back, no undoing the path he had carved.

“Does it matter?” He didn’t wait for an answer, the words tumbling out in a growl. “Javier and I damn near killed every lawman on that boat. Civilians got caught in it too.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Kate’s pianist...he—” Arthur stopped himself, swallowing hard. “None of it matters. What matters is Kate’s not well, hasn’t been for some time. She’s alone in that cell, and she’s countin’ on me to get her out.”

The table fell silent, John and Hosea exchanging somber glances. Hosea leaned back in his chair, his face creased with thought, while Dutch smoothed the edge of his mustache, staring off into the distance as if searching for answers in the murky swamp beyond.

Dutch exhaled slowly, setting down his coffee with deliberate calm. “Arthur,” he said finally, measured yet edged with caution. “I understand how you feel, but breaking her out right now? That’s suicide. The law’s probably on high alert after last night, and Saint Denis is crawling with Pinkertons. You’d get yourself killed—or worse, all of us.”

Arthur straightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “She ain’t just anyone, Dutch. She’s one of us.” His voice cracked, betraying his anger and desperation. “We can’t just leave her there to rot.”

“We’re not leaving her,” Hosea gently reminded. 

Dutch countered, his eyes narrowing. “We need to be smart about this. Rushing in without a plan isn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.”

Micah, who had been lounging in his seat with a smug grin, leaned forward, tapping the table with his finger. “Now hold on a second,” his oily voice drawled. “Ain’t the Saint Denis Bank on the same block as the jail?”

The air went still, everyone turning to look at him. Micah’s grin widened as he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Two birds, one stone, gentlemen. We plan it right, we hit the bank and spring the lady. Walk out with Kate plus a whole lotta money.”

Arthur shot Micah a look of pure disdain. “What the fuck are you gettin’ on about? This ain’t about the goddamn money, Micah—”

“Now, wait a moment, Arthur,” Dutch interrupted cautiously, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that Arthur had seen too many times before. The gears in Dutch’s mind were already spinning, and his voice took on that same smooth edge, the one he used when trying to sell his schemes to the gang. “That… is certainly an idea,” he said, a finger rising to punctuate the thought. “This might be a new opportunity for us.”

John scoffed audibly, shaking his head with exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dutch,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It never ends with you, does it?” 

Arthur could feel the heat rising under his skin, his anger simmering close to the surface. He stared at the man he had devoted his life to, the man who was supposed to lead them—not gamble their lives for profit. “You want to rob the bank and break Kate out at the same time?” His voice dripped with disbelief, tinged with bitter disappointment. “That,” he emphasized, shaking his head, “is how you’ll get her killed.”

“You’d be risking her life, Dutch,” Hosea added firmly in agreement, carrying the weight of reason. Arthur felt a flicker of gratitude for the older man’s support, but it did little to cool the fire inside him.

Dutch waved them both off with a dismissive flick of his hand, taking a deliberate sip of coffee as though the conversation didn’t warrant urgency. Before anyone could speak again, Micah leaned forward with that snake-like grin, slick and taunting. “She knew the risks when she started sleepin’ with ya, cowpoke. Hell, I’m surprised—the women you touch don’t seem to live long—”

The words barely left Micah’s mouth before Arthur lunged across the table, his hand gripping Micah’s collar and yanking him forward with a crash that sent cups and plates flying. The sound of clattering metal rang out as Arthur hauled him over the table, his voice was venomous. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” Arthur snarled, eyes burning with fury. “Go on, say it again—I’d sure love to shut you up right now.”

Dutch shot to his feet, his chair tumbling back against the dirt floor as he shouted, “That’s enough!” 

His voice carried a commanding weight, but Arthur didn’t let go, his grip on Micah tight as iron. Dutch stepped closer, grabbing Arthur’s arm in an attempt to pull him away. Arthur wrenched free with a sharp jerk, his glare snapping to Dutch.

“We need money, Arthur!” Dutch bellowed, his gravelly voice echoing through the hollow, rotting camp of Shady Belle. “We need more money! Or do you think this world is just gonna hand us a goddamn miracle?”

Arthur released Micah with a rough shove, sending him sprawling backward, but his fury didn’t fade—it only burned inside him, bitter and heavy. The tension around camp was substantial, every gaze locked on the fractured core of their so-called family. Their fearless leader and his right-hand man. 

With a growl Arthur shot back, “you’re gamblin’ with her life, Dutch. Or is she just another pawn in your grand plan?” His eyes darkened with anger. 

“You lost the money and the girl. What do you expect me to do? March in there, guns blazing, and demand her release? Oh, and while I’m at it, maybe ask for ten thousand dollars too?” Dutch snapped, sharp with irritation as his patience wore thin.

Dutch’s words hung in the air, unyielding, echoing with the desperation of a man who had tied his soul to his schemes. Arthur didn’t need to hear any more to know the truth: Dutch wasn’t thinking about Kate, or the gang, or even their survival. It was the allure of money, of power, of proving to the world that he was still the man with all the answers. 

It burned in his eyes, that unrelenting need to reclaim what he thought he deserved. Arthur could see it clear as day, a fire that consumed everything—loyalty, love, even common sense. No matter how much Arthur wanted to fight it, to question his authority, he knew it was already too late.

The weight of it settled in Arthur’s chest like a stone, pressing down with every breath he took. He’d been through this too many times before—watching Dutch chase an ideal that was as hollow as the promises he made. Arthur’s heart twisted with something deeper than anger, even deeper than frustration: it was betrayal. 

Using Kate’s imprisonment to achieve his greed goes far beyond Arthur’s moral code. It was unforgivable. 

A bitter realization that no matter how hard he fought, how much of himself he gave, he was losing the man he had once believed in. Kate’s life, the gang’s safety, his own hopes—they were all just collateral in Dutch’s endless pursuit of an impossible dream. 

Arthur turned away, his gaze falling to the dirt beneath his boots, as if he could find some clarity there. But all he saw was the shadow of what they had been and the ruin they were becoming.

Hosea cleared his throat and stood up cautiously, his movements slow like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Dutch, please,” he said, soft but firm. “I insist we discuss this in more detail before making any rash decisions.” He gestured toward the decrepit manor, trying to guide Dutch away from the growing tension and toward a calmer space where reason might prevail.

“Indeed,” Dutch nodded, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimming. “Let’s work out the kinks, old girl. We could pull this off as soon as a week from now,” he mused, already envisioning the glory of his next big scheme.

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. A week? The thought of leaving Kate alone, vulnerable, for even another hour gnawed at him like a caged wild animal. As Dutch passed by, Arthur reached out, his hand clamping down on the older man’s shoulder with restrained force. 

Leaning close, he growled in his throat, “all these years Dutch, you’ve had my devotion. But you know, I can really hate you sometimes.”

Dutch stopped, his expression unshaken, the picture of calculated calm. “You can hate me all you want, son,” he said, his tone almost paternal, as though scolding a rebellious child. 

“But you will respect me. I know this woman means a lot to you, but these people,” he gestured broadly to the camp, “they follow me. And when I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. Do you know why, Arthur?” 

He leaned in close, dropping to a near whisper, heavy with the weight of his convictions. “Because they have to. They have to justify their wages. You’ll see.”

Arthur’s glare lingered, his fists tightening as Dutch walked away with that same confident stride, the one Arthur had once found reassuring. But now, it filled him with bitter resentment. The man he’d followed so faithfully, the man he’d believed in, felt more like a stranger with each passing day. Every decision Dutch made seemed to pull them further into chaos, and Arthur could feel the threads of his loyalty fraying, unraveling one by one.

His mind drifted to Kate, the only constant in a life of shifting sands. She was the one who truly held his loyalty, the one who knew his heart. And now, she was alone, locked away in a cold, unforgiving cell, likely wondering if he was coming for her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her out of this mess, to take her far away from Dutch, the gang, and the endless trail of blood and lies. For once, he longed to devote himself to something pure—someone who had become his entire world. His reason for breathing.

The weight of his past chained him to this life, and the thought of breaking free left him torn between duty and desire.

Micah stood next, brushing off his shirt as he sneered at Arthur. “You should be thanking me, you know,” he drawled, grin cutting like a dagger. “I just saved your girl’s ass back there— I’d say she owes me more than you do.” With a snide chuckle, he sauntered off, leaving Arthur’s fists clenched and his jaw tight with rage.

Only John remained at the table, leaning back in his chair as he watched the others disperse. After a moment of silence, he spoke, steady and reassuring. “You know I’ll help you, Arthur. I owe you that much.” His words carried a quiet resolve, a loyalty that Arthur felt down to his core, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Arthur let out a weary sigh, dragging a calloused hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the weight of the day. His body felt heavy, drained of energy, but his thoughts churned endlessly, circling back to Kate. She was strong—he knew that. Capable. But the thought of her sitting alone in that cell plagued him like a sickness. He clung to the small mercy that they wouldn’t hang her without a trial, and the trial was still days away. 

There’s still time, he told himself, as much to convince his heart as his mind. It was a fragile hope, but it was all he had.

“Thanks, Marston,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough and quiet. 

He didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading toward the manor, towards the room he shared with Kate. As he climbed the stairs he thought about how the space that once felt warm and alive, illuminated by her presence, now felt empty and hollow. He ached to change out of his damp, grimy clothes, to collapse onto that bed and let the weight of regret crush him fully. The anger that had burned so fiercely earlier had faded, leaving only a raw, consuming grief that settled deep in his chest like a parasite.

Arthur couldn’t help but toy with the thought of turning himself in to secure her freedom. He’d been a wanted man for so long—maybe it was time to finally hang up his old hat and face the reckoning he’d been dodging. But what good would he be to her if he was dead? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his insides. Maybe she’d be better off without him anyway, safer without his shadow looming over her. 

A bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered that, after all this, she might not even want him anymore. Perhaps seeing the darker, unforgivable side of him had poisoned whatever bond they shared, leaving her with nothing but regret.

But it mattered little what she thought of him now, he would never leave her behind. Arthur loved her too much for that.

As Arthur finished buttoning his shirt and adjusting his suspenders, the momentary calm was shattered by a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the morning air. The weight of his exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by the familiar sting of adrenaline. Grabbing his revolver and rifle, he pushed through the bedroom porch door, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. His eyes scanned the camp, every muscle tensed for action.

A lone figure approached on horseback, and Arthur’s heart skipped as he saw the women scattering in distress. His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his rifle, ready to take aim. But as the figure drew closer, he saw Mary-Beth running toward the rider.

Her voice breaking as she screamed, “Oh God! It’s Kieran!” 

Arthur squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but the grotesque sight made his blood run cold. Kieran, once a quiet member of their gang, was now an unrecognizable horror. His head, gruesomely severed and held in his hands, revealed empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Mary-Beth’s horrified wail pierced the air as she reached for him, but Tilly pulled her back, sensing a deeper threat.

The horse reared, and Kieran’s lifeless body slumped to the ground with a sickening thud, the wet crunch of his fall echoing through the camp. The silence stretched on for a moment, as everyone anticipated what’s next. Arthur’s stomach churned, but there was no time to grieve. The trees at the edge of the camp shifted, and figures began to emerge—more men. 

The O'Driscolls.

Arthur’s blood turned to ice. “Everybody take cover!” he shouted, voice carrying over the chaos. 

Their quiet morning was changed in an instant. He moved swiftly, taking shelter behind the railing and firing off shots, his mind racing as he aimed with precision. Colm O'Driscoll had finally found them, and was taking his revenge. The time for sorrow and regret was gone. He couldn’t afford to hesitate now. 

The sight of Kieran’s brutal end ignited a new rage in Arthur, but it was quickly buried under the cold resolve that had become his second skin. The gang was fractured, and their world was falling apart—the bitter truth was that there was no saving it. Dutch was blinded by his obsession with power, and the others were powerless without him, each consumed by their own sins and survival. 

There was no hope in this place, and there hadn’t been for a very long time. 

But for Kate, Arthur knew he had to make it out alive. He reminded himself he had to keep fighting for her. He wasn’t going to let her die in a cell, forgotten and abandoned. No, he would tear through every O'Driscoll in his path, and when this war was over, he would go to her. Even if he had to crawl on his knees.

He would make damn sure of it.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate stirred in the darkness, the cold seeping into her bones as her consciousness clawed its way back to the surface. Flashes of the previous night's event assaulting her mind in fragments. Her body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs unresponsive as she lay curled on the rough, cold bench of the jail cell. A sharp chill ran through her, and the air reeked of unfamiliar smells, making her stomach churn. As her senses slowly returned, her head began to spin, a pounding ache radiating behind her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. Her vision blurred when she finally forced them open, the dim light of the jail swimming before her like a mirage.

Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, and bile rose to the back of her throat. She tried to make a sound, but all that came out was air. Panic gripped her chest as she realized she was going to be sick. She tried to push herself up, her weak arms trembling beneath her. A distant murmur of voices caught her attention, faint and distorted, as though underwater.

“She’s waking up,” one of the guards said, sharp and impatient.

Another voice, gruffer and closer, barked out an order. “Get her a bucket before she makes a mess of herself.”

Heavy boots echoed down the corridor, each step reverberating in her pounding head as Kate struggled to focus on the sound—anything to ground her swirling thoughts. Her stomach churned violently, her trembling body coated in a cold sweat as she desperately fought back another wave of nausea. Darkness threatened to close in around her again, and she feared she might lose consciousness. The sharp clang of the cell door unlocking jolted through her like a gunshot, intensifying the ache in her skull. The heavy door groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting, and a metal bucket clattered to the floor in front of her, the noise cutting through the suffocating silence. 

On cue, her stomach lurched violently, a wave of nausea sweeping over her with crushing force. She barely managed to grab the edge of the bucket they had shoved toward her, retching up what little remained in her stomach. The sound was harsh and guttural, echoing through the small cell. Her chest heaved uncontrollably as she gagged, the sharp spasms making it nearly impossible to catch her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the drool that clung to her trembling chin.

Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, burning hotter than the fever she could feel building in her body. She imagined how pathetic she must look to the guards watching, and the thought made her throat tighten with fresh humiliation. The effort drained what little strength she had left, her limbs trembling as the world tilted dangerously. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and as the cold stone pressed against her cheek, she gave in to the pull of unconsciousness once more.

In her senseless state, Kate dreamed she was riding with Arthur through endless fields of tall golden grass, the warm sun bathing them in a soft glow. Lorena’s steady breaths beneath her thighs were a comforting rhythm, and Arthur’s smile—a real, genuine smile—made her heart flutter with a fleeting sense of peace. She wanted to linger in the moment, to hold on to the rare sight of his happiness, but a creeping dread began to seep in. 

The sky darkened, and a massive black wave rose on the horizon, surging forward with roaring ferocity. Its foaming white edges swept over the field like a predator’s teeth, and before she could react, it tore Arthur away from her. The distance between them grew vast, and she reached out, calling his name in desperation as the wave swallowed the light and left her alone in the void.

Kate woke with a startled cry, her body convulsing as her stomach churned violently. She lunged for the rusted bucket, pulling it into her lap with trembling hands, her knuckles bone-white against the cold metal. She heaved, dry and fruitless, each spasm tightening the iron vise around her throbbing head. The pounding pain drowned out her senses, and it wasn’t until a calm, authoritative voice broke through that she realized she wasn’t alone.

“You don’t look too well, Miss McCanon,” the man said, carrying a weight of control that sent a shiver through her fevered body. 

Something about it scratched at the edges of her memory, but before she could piece it together, another wave of nausea hit. She doubled over, dry-heaving again, the sound pitiful in the quiet cell.

The man turned sharply, addressing a guard with a harshness that cut through Kate’s misery. “I want a doctor in here, now.”

“Sir, we have strict orders from the chief. No outside contact,” the guard replied hesitantly, his words laced with unease.

The man’s growl was filled with impatience. “Your chief takes orders from me. Go get the doctor.” 

His voice cracked like a whip, and the command froze Kate mid-breath. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the lingering taste of bile stinging her tongue, and watched as the man unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

He carried a stool in one hand, a small tray with food and water in the other. Each movement deliberate, he bent to set the items on the stone bench, and Kate’s breath hitched as recognition struck her like a blow to the chest. 

Agent Andrew Milton, lead detective from the Pinkerton Agency.

Her heart sank, ice spreading through her veins as she stared at the man who had haunted their every step, the very agent of destruction threatening to unravel Arthur’s world—and hers—with a noose. She had crossed paths with him twice before, each encounter a warning she and the gang had barely escaped. Now, there was no running. No one to shield her.

Milton settled onto the stool, his gaze boring into her as if cataloging every weakness. Kate’s mouth went dry, her eyes flickering to the cup of water on the tray. It tempted her, offering the promise of relief to her parched throat and knotted stomach. Milton followed her glance and gestured toward the tray with an open palm. The gesture caught her off guard—calm, almost courteous, yet it felt like a mirage to something more sinister.

Leaning back on the stool, Milton’s fingers drummed a steady rhythm on his thigh as a cold smile tugged at his lips. “What an unfortunate circumstance we find ourselves in,” he said smoothly, as though they were sharing afternoon tea rather than a cell.

Kate ignored him, her trembling hands reaching for the cup. She drank deeply, the water cool and soothing against her raw throat. It felt like heaven, a small mercy in the nightmare she was living. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she reached for the plate. The apple slices and crackers were humble offerings, but to her, they were a feast. She bit into an apple slice, the tangy sweetness stinging her cracked lips, and chewed slowly, savoring every bite.

“Why bother calling for a doctor if you’re just going to hang me?” she rasped, her voice hoarse and brittle, a faint shadow of the woman she once was.

Milton chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not a monster, Miss McCanon. I’m simply a man doing his job,” he replied casually, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Kate scoffed, the sound rough in her throat. She bit into another slice of apple, her jaw working mechanically as her mind raced and throbbed with every pulse of her heart.

Clearing his throat, Milton shifted his tone to one of authority. “We’ve been digging into your past,” he started in a light voice, but his words carried weight. Kate’s stomach tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. She kept her focus on the plate, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The second-born child of Italian immigrant Madeleine Biviano and Englishman Thomas Walker,” Milton recited like a storyteller weaving a tale. “Raised on a modest dairy farm outside Boston. Your first tragedy was the Wollaston train derailment in ’78. Lost your mother and little sister in the wreck.”

Kate’s chest tightened as the memories clawed their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting. She was only twelve years old at the time, but that day had shattered her childhood. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to chew, as if by continuing to eat she could stifle the rising tide of pain. The story of her past was one she had spent years burying beneath layers of resolve, yet here it was, laid bare by the stranger across from her. Her mind whirled, trying to untangle the threads of why this man was weaving her history into his game.

“The farm was lost a few years after their deaths. So you and your father moved in with family friends. Where you met your deceased husband Noah McCanon. Then your brother took up work in the mines, only to meet his end in a collapse in ’86.” He shook his head, his mock sympathy dripping with condescension. “And poor old daddy couldn’t handle the grief. Tough break.”

Leaning forward slightly, he continued, “Kate McCanon,” emphasizing her name like he was peeling away a mask, “orphaned. Widowed. Childless after the red death claimed what was left of your family. You’ve had a hard life—a long way from Boston now, aren’t we?”

Kate’s fear tightened its grip around her throat, but she swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything about my life,” she bit out, sharper now, though it wavered at the edges.

“Oh, I know plenty,” Milton said evenly. “I know you fell in with savages after leaving home. Played Injun for a while before striking out on your own.” His gaze was steady, pinning her in place.

Kate turned her face away, her mind racing. How could he know all of this? How had they pieced together her past—a life she had buried so long ago? None of it mattered now. The truth wasn’t her ally here; it was his weapon. He would twist it, use it, until there was nothing left of her to defend.

“We only brought justice to those who deserved it,” she said quietly though the words rang hollow. 

Milton clicked his tongue, “doing my job for me, I can imagine.” He quipped sarcastically. 

“I was a different person back then,” Kate countered, though the effort was futile. 

Her heart raced as Milton leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling the corners of his lips. “We talked to a few people in town after Van Der Linde fled. Picked up a kid in Rhodes, heir to the Gray family fortune. Beau, as I’m sure you remember.” He paused, watching for her reaction. “He was a chatty kid. Only had pleasant things to say about you.”

Kate’s eyes darted up, her breath catching in her throat. Confusion settling over her pallid features. “What does he have to do with this?” she asked.

Milton raised a brow, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his thigh as he shrugged. “Well, it’s not every day we come across someone with such fond memories of a criminal,” he said casually. “Beau told us all about Miss McCanon. How you stood by his side when nobody else would, helped him stand up to his family. Even mentioned how you wanted to leave that gang behind for good.”

Kate’s stomach churned, the apple slices she had forced down threatening to come back up. “If you’re trying to guilt me, it won’t work,” she bit out, though her voice trembled with the effort.

“Oh, I’m not here to guilt you,” Milton replied smoothly. “Just pointing out that you’ve got a history of helping people in need. As you can imagine this came to me as a surprise. It’s admirable, really.”

The subtle compliment aroused something in her, giving her a morsel of confidence. Straightening herself she answered, “like I said, I’ve changed.” 

“But it does make me wonder…” He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What is a woman like you still doing with Arthur Morgan?”

Kate was quiet, and the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. “Arthur he’s—,” Kate said quietly. “He’s just trying to protect his own.”

Milton’s expression hardened. “He’s a degenerate murderer, same as that maniac they all follow so blindly. Don’t tell me you’re naive enough to think otherwise. The rose-colored glasses have to come off, Miss McCanon. He is a killer. Last night should’ve been enough to prove that to you.”

Kate swallowed hard as fractured memories from the night before clawed their way to the surface. “Th-there must have been a reason,” she stammered. “We weren’t there to hurt anyone—”

“Yet innocent people always seem to end up dead wherever he goes,” Milton interrupted, his voice biting.

Images she had tried to suppress flooded back: lifeless bodies crumpled on blood-soaked floors, the screams of panicked bystanders, and the chaos that seemed to follow in Arthur’s wake. Her stomach churned as the memory of Vin, her pianist, lying among the carnage, forced the air from her lungs, tightening her throat. She clenched her fists, willing the nausea to subside, the weight of Milton’s words pressing down on her like a stone.

What had happened? Kate's mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the chaos of the previous night. Something had gone horribly wrong—she’d known it the moment she saw the hollow, detached look in Arthur’s eyes. The memory of his body pressed against hers brought a painful mix of longing and grief. Even in the throes of his rage, he had shielded her from the damage, clinging to the last shreds of his humanity. 

She was the thread holding him together, the link between the man he was and the man he was trying to be. The weight of that realization made her stomach twist violently. Reaching for the bucket, she retched, the taste of bile and apple burning the back of her throat.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hallway. The guards approached, a doctor trailing in their wake. Milton greeted the physician and stood, gathering the stool and empty tray with ease.

Before leaving the cell, the agent paused, cold eyes settling on her. “I know you and Mr. Morgan are quite fond of each other,” he said smoothly. 

“I’m counting on that connection to bring him right to me.”

Kate’s chest tightening as the weight of Milton’s words settled over her. Her hands trembled, curling into the fabric of her skirt as she watched him leave. The cell felt colder, smaller, as if his threat had sucked the air from it. Her mind raced, the implications twisting into her gut like a knife. Milton wasn’t just toying with her—he was using the situation to his advantage. Kate was the bait, and Arthur was the prey. Her heart ached with equal parts dread and guilt, knowing that her capture might lead him straight to his death.

The doctor set his worn leather bag on the bench and knelt down, his weathered face creased with both age and a quiet concern that seemed out of place in this grim setting. His hands trembled slightly as he rummaged through his tools, the faint metallic clink of instruments filling the tense silence. When his gaze met Kate’s pale, sweat-dampened face, his eyes lingered on the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the unsteady tremor in her frame.

“You’re in a bad way, miss,” he said softly, his voice carrying a kindness she hadn’t anticipated. He adjusted the glasses resting on his nose and leaned in closer. “Let’s get a proper look at you.”

Kate sat still, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She winced as his fingers pressed gently against her throat and around her temple. Every touch sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her skull. Her throat burned with each shallow breath, and her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.

“Dizzy spells? Vomiting?” he asked, his tone calm but probing. Kate nodded weakly, unable to find the strength to respond aloud.

He worked methodically, his hands steady as he pressed along her scalp, searching for signs of injury. She flinched when his fingers found a tender spot at the base of her head, drawing a quiet hiss of pain from her lips. The doctor pulled back, his brow furrowing. With a heavy sigh, he sat back on his heels, folding his hands on his knee.

“You’ve got a nasty concussion, likely from a blow to the head,” he said gravely.

Kate didn’t respond, her grip tightening on the bench as her vision swam slightly.

The doctor moved on, lifting her wrist to check her pulse, his lips moving silently as he counted. He pinched the skin on the back of her hand, watching how slowly it settled back into place. 

His frown deepened. “You’re anemic,” he announced, his voice edged with clinical detachment.

Kate blinked at him, her mind slow to process the words.

“Your blood’s weak,” he explained. “Could be from malnourishment or blood loss. Either way, you’re in no condition to withstand much. You need iron-rich foods—beef liver, beans, leafy greens—and plenty of rest and fluids. When was the last time you ate properly?”

Her memory felt fragmented, the previous night already blurred by exhaustion and trauma. “I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor straightened with a groan, his joints popping as he stood. He turned to one of the guards stationed outside the cell. “She needs proper meals, quiet, and a few days to recover,” he said firmly. “Don’t expect her to run—she doesn’t have the strength for it.”

The guard gave a curt nod, his expression impassive.

The doctor gathered his tools, casting one last glance at Kate as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try to rest,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “It won’t be quick, but you’ll mend.”

Kate nodded faintly, watching as he exited the cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in her aching skull.

Leaning back against the cold wall, Kate closed her eyes and let her fingers trail over the frayed hem of her dress, the coarse fabric grounding her in the present. Her thoughts churned, a dark cocktail of worry for Arthur combined with Milton’s threatening words. 

She longed for him—the warmth of his presence, the way he always knew how to calm her fears, how he had shielded her from the cruelty. How he spoke to her softly despite the intensity of their situation. But now, in the cold silence of her cell, his absence was a weight that crushed her chest. The doctor had said she would mend, but she felt as though she were unraveling piece by piece—and somewhere in the shadows, the storm was only beginning. 

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, her breath hitching in quiet sobs as she struggled to hold onto the hope that by some miracle Arthur would come for her, even as Milton’s words echoed in her mind.

Threatening to tear everything apart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The smoke of gunfire still hung heavy in the air around the shattered remnants of their camp. Arthur leaned against the crumbling fountain in the courtyard, his body burdened with exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline that had carried him through the attack now ebbing, leaving a dull ache in its place. The old wound on his shoulder throbbed deeply, the pain radiating in waves with his drumming heartbeat. He was so terribly tired.

Arthur’s hands trembled as he reloaded his revolver, though the threat had passed for the moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over—not truly.

“Arthur,” Charles’ steady voice broke through the haze. He approached carefully, his bow slung over his shoulder, the faint lines of concern etched into his face. “You alright?”

Arthur nodded stiffly, though he knew he didn’t look it. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his legs felt like they might give out any second. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, waving Charles off even as the other man’s steady gaze lingered.

“You should try to find some rest,” Charles said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You’ve been carrying too much lately.”

Arthur managed a bitter chuckle, his gaze averting to assess the damage of the rest of camp. “Ain’t nobody else gonna do it,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew Charles heard. The truth of it was a weight he couldn’t put down. No matter how hard he tried.

Charles sighed and sat on the edge of the fountain beside him. “Colm can really hate,” he said after a moment, his eyes trailing to the lifeless O’Driscolls littering the ground. His gaze lingered on Kieran’s body, a stark reminder of what loyalty cost.

Arthur rubbed a hand over his jaw, saying nothing. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the gang regrouping. Charles tried again, his voice softer this time. “I heard what happened to Kate,” he said. “Part of me is glad she wasn’t here to see this.”

Arthur turned to him, and in his eyes, Charles saw the weight of unspoken words. Sorrow. Remorse. Anger. A storm of emotions that spoke of a burden far heavier than exhaustion. It wasn’t just the weight of the world that was crushing him, but Kate as well. He had let her down.

“Oh, Arthur,” Charles said quietly. “She’ll be okay. She’s alive—that’s what matters right now.”

It was the only solace he could offer, though he knew it would never be enough. The truth hung heavy between them: they were all at the mercy of uncertainty now, clinging to hope in a world that offered none.

The others were emerging cautiously from their hiding spots, murmuring amongst themselves as they took stock of the damage. A few broken crates, some scattered supplies—but no one was hurt. For that, Arthur was silently grateful, though it didn’t ease the gnawing pit in his stomach.

His gaze drifted toward the central campfire, where Dutch’s figure loomed. Assessing the damage and the situation they’ve found themselves in. Arthur hated to admit it, but they needed him now. More than ever. The gang was shaken, uncertain of their next steps, and as much as Dutch had steered them wrong in recent days, his voice was the only one they’d follow.

“Arthur,” Dutch’s sharp voice cut through the heavy stillness of the aftermath, carrying an edge that demanded attention. His measured strides crunched against the dirt, his eyes flitting over the wreckage of the camp and the wary faces of the gang. “We need to get moving.”

Arthur straightened with an effort, his body screaming against the weight of his fatigue. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him earlier, but he pushed the pain aside. He was the gang’s anchor, the one who couldn’t afford to falter. His jaw clenched as Dutch stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable. Whatever Dutch had to say, it would come with consequences.

“You thinkin’ we should start lookin’ for another camp?” Arthur asked quietly, careful not to stir the simmering tension among the others.

Dutch’s lips curved into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Before he could answer, John and Hosea approached, their steps slow and cautious. Charles rose to stand beside them, his stance rigid and ready, like he was bracing for a fight.

“You’re not thinking big enough, Arthur,” Dutch said finally, carrying a note of patronage. He gestured broadly to the ruined camp, the lifeless O’Driscolls scattered across the ground. “You’re focused on the small picture—survival. I’m looking at the bigger game. Vast problems require vast solutions. And opportunities.”

Arthur shook his head, standing to meet Dutch at eye level. “I’m not sure I get what you’re sayin’, Dutch,” he said, though the weariness in his voice gave it a sharper edge than he intended.

Dutch’s grin widened, his expression almost feverish, like a man on the brink of revelation. “Oh, you will, son,” he said with unnerving confidence. He turned, addressing the small group that had gathered. “We can’t stay here. Colm’s made sure of that. He’ll bring heat down on us, and we can’t afford the attention.”

Arthur folded his arms, his frown deepening as Dutch’s words sank in.

“Tomorrow,” Dutch continued, “we move deeper into Lagras. We’ll find a temporary camp, and after we regroup, we start preparing.”

“Prepare for what?” Arthur snapped, his exhaustion sharpening his tone. “We’ve been scramblin’ for more money for six months, Dutch. You really think another move’s gonna fix all this?”

Dutch’s gaze darkened, but he kept his composure, tilting his head like a patient teacher lecturing a stubborn student. “The bank,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the growing murmurs of unease.

Charles let out a low sigh, and John shook his head, muttering something under his breath. The tension was thick, every man weighing Dutch’s words against the grim reality they faced.

“We hit the bank tomorrow,” Dutch declared, his voice rising with conviction. “We send a group ahead to set up camp, and the rest of us get what we need to leave this hell behind for good.”

Arthur felt his blood start to boil, the fatigue giving way to something hotter and more dangerous. “And what about Kate?” he insisted, voice rising despite himself. “You just plannin’ on leavin’ her behind in all this mess?”

Dutch raised a hand, silencing Arthur with a single commanding gesture. “Kate,” he said, drawing out her name like a curse. “She’s coming with us. You, Hosea, and a few others will go get her from the prison. While myself and the others rob the bank.”

As he spoke, Dutch stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on Arthur’s injured shoulder. Arthur’s teeth clenched against the dull pain, but he didn’t pull away. The weight of Dutch’s hand was no comfort—it was a warning.

Dutch’s voice dropped, low and menacing, just for Arthur to hear. “I’ve got a plan, son. It’s all coming together. But if you keep doubting me, you’ll be the one who doesn’t make it out alive. And poor Katie…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “She’ll be waiting on her loyal cowboy for the rest of her goddamn life.”

Arthur felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he refused to flinch. Dutch leaned in even closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “I need that loyalty, Arthur. But I have a feeling you’ll betray me in the end.”

Dutch pulled back, his expression smoothing into something almost fatherly as he addressed the rest of the group. But the words he’d left in Arthur’s ear burned hotter than the ache in his shoulder. Arthur swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, the weight of Dutch’s manipulation pressing down like an iron shackle. The mask was finally starting to crack, and Arthur was seeing the ugly man beneath it. 

Tomorrow. 

The word echoed in Arthur’s mind, heavy with both hope and dread. It was a promise he clung to—Kate would be with him again soon. But Dutch’s plan, reckless as it was, turned that hope into something fragile, like a thread pulled too taut. His gut churned at the thought of what lay ahead. To use her escape as a distraction for robbing the bank—it wasn’t just risking her life. It was risking everything. The dwindling trust, and what little sense of unity the gang had left.

Arthur’s mind raced, playing out the million ways it could go wrong. Colm O’Driscolls might already be planning another attack, the law could close in too fast, or Dutch’s obsession could spiral into chaos. And yet, what choice did he have? She was in this mess because of him. Every path forward felt like it sent them two steps back. And it always ended in blood. 

But no matter how it all played out, Arthur would shoulder the responsibility. He always did.

There was no room for hesitation. No time to dwell on the "what ifs." Arthur rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers coming away grimy from the sweat, dirt and blood that clung to his skin. He needed to pack, needed to meet with Dutch and Hosea to finalize the plan, needed to keep moving. 

Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not now. Not until she was safe in his arms again. Even if he tried, he knew the voice in the back of his mind would rob him of any rest, whispering doubts, fears, and guilt like an unrelenting ache.

The weight of what was coming pressed on Arthur’s chest, squeezing his resolve tighter with every shallow breath. He didn’t deserve absolution, not from Kate or anyone else. But still, a quiet, desperate plea slipped through the cracks of his battered soul.

Please, forgive me Kate.

AN: Alright guys, another heavy chapter coming up next. I'm really excited to get into the next several chapters, I've had them planned out since I first began brainstorming this fic and I can't believe it's finally time to work on them!

I'm going to try and work on Ch 25 throughout the week and have it up before Christmas but I can't make any promises because I'm going to be so so busy with the holidays. So at the latest, hopefully two weeks. Thankfully, I work for a public school so I have the entire holiday break off :)

[frostsinth]

Your Heart's Got Teeth - Pt. 4

Part 1|2|3 - Masterlist

Here, have another part! More juicy. Language warning. Likes, reblogs, and comments are my writing fuel!

I've pretty much written this piece out to its end, just have to fill in the gaps between the scenes. Already plotting my next project... DM me suggestions if you want.

-----

“Jamie!”

“Curt!”

“Bal!”

The cries and shouts of glee filled the air, more and more names, more and more exclamations of relief, or joy, or love. I watched as each young man embraced his family. Watched tears well in eyes, watched souls shatter as the reality of what had happened settled on their faces. More than two dozen men in all, perhaps more. It had never been a large village, but now, it felt almost hollow. The men once prisoners now staggering about on legs they hadn’t properly used in weeks. Half the number the village had been prior to the attacks, not including the soldiers who had also entrenched themselves within the walls prior to.

None of them walked among the men now returning.

I stayed on the roof where I had been attempting to patch one of half a dozen holes. Watching the heartfelt reunions. Uncertain how to feel. The orc guards who had brought the men down the hill lingered at the edge of the village square, also watching. Though I had to admit, they looked a bit bored. Not begrudging or upset that they had to release the men, as I would have thought they might have been. I placed the hammer down, slipping back to the window and into the house. Suddenly feeling terribly, terribly useless and alone.

I snuck out the back, away from the crowds and reunions. There was no one there looking for me, I knew. And I wasn’t in the mood for being shuffled about to say some awkward welcomes or blessings to men I had only met maybe once or twice before in my life if at all.

I went to the edge of the square, noting a patrol of orcs lounging in their usual place. They looked up as I neared them, but made no move to stop me. I considered that, so different from previous days, and decided to test it further. Walking quietly towards them. Their eyes followed me, yet I passed them by unmolested. Out into the streets of the now decimated village. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was just out of eye shot, feeling a moment of glee fill my chest.

So the bastard had made good on his word. I felt my lips twitch. Without prompting… And with additions. My feet hurried as I realized my newfound freedom, limited though it was. I made my way to the village edge, past a few other patrols who only made note of my passage. Not slowing until I passed under the half ruined gate and the stone wall was behind me.

Now I stopped, turning my face up towards the sun. Closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath. It wasn’t much, I admitted. But it was something.

“Calliope!” Came the excited call, and I turned. Resisting the urge to sigh.

“Izu’lemi.” I replied as the lanky tween walked up with a crooked grin on his face. “You’re starting to make a habit of this.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Of what?”

“Appearing out of thin air whenever things around here suddenly improve.” I glanced over our shoulders, back towards the village’s main road. I noticed a few guards lingering along the remains of the wall, watching us, and resisted the urge to sigh again. At least there were no villagers around. “Are you following me?”

“No,” He said with a shake of his head, “My father had me clearing rubble from one of the stairwells, so that we can access the top of the wall again.” He pointed out the spot a few yards down. “I saw you walk by. Why, what happened?”

I crossed my arms, tapping the fingers of one hand on the opposite. “The men were released.”

“That’s good, right?” He mused. “Is that one of the things you asked father for?”

I paused a moment, the realization fully dawning on me. “… No. It’s not.”

“Oh.” The youth seemed to think about that for a moment, then shrugged a little. “Maybe he got tired of managing the guard shifts.”

I looked towards the hill, just visible above the rooftops, as if I could see the orc chief’s tent from here.

“I doubt it.”

More than likely he had other reasoning. One far more sinister. I wondered if perhaps he intended some other punishment, or thought to keep all the cattle together rather than separate. I tapped my fingers again, then looked over at the younger orc. Realizing belatedly he had spoken.

“What?”

“I said, what are you going to do first?” He repeated. “Now that you can leave the square?”

I turned towards the woods. “I need to go hunting.”

“I think you need permission.” Izu’lemi said. “Cuz it’s further than where we can see on top of the wall.”

“Right, how long will that take?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. You’d be the first to ask.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “I can ask for you. The kil’wan is friendly with me.”

“The what?” I asked.

Izu’lemi stratched the side of his head. “Ah… it means… umm.” His brow scrunched up. “Leader? But not like my father. Below him. The warriors listen to him, but he listens to my father.”

“Captain.” I reasoned, and he shrugged.

“Yeah maybe. But I can ask him for you.” Then his grin returned. “Maybe I can ask to be your guard!”

“Izu’lemi,” I sighed at his eagerness, looking down at the ground, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But-”

“You don’t owe me anything. Life debts aside,” I added quickly, raising one hand even as the protest formed on his lips, “I’m too old for you. You should marry someone you actually like.”

“But I do like you!” He argued.

I raised a brow at him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He winced a bit at my sharp tone. “Well, maybe you should tell me.”

“I’m not the sharing type.”

Izu’lemi’s bottom lip jutted out stubbornly. “Then I’ll just follow you around. Until I figure it out.”

I almost groaned. “Don’t do that.”

His grin returned. “Then just tell me something. And I won’t have to.”

“Fine. I’m not marrying some kid.”

His face fell, which made a little pang of regret stab my heart, and his pouting lip returned. “I’m not a kid… and I’m not marrying you yet. I’ll be an adult when we do-”

“Izu’lemi-”

“You can call me ‘Izu’ if you want.”

“Izu’lemi.” I repeated firmly. “You are a kid. You not going to want to marry me when you’re not a kid. Just let it go.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“Congratulations. You’re still a kid.”

“I’m not-”

“I’m thirty-three.” I interrupted. “When you’re twenty-three, I’ll be forty-three. When you’re forty, I’ll be sixty.”

He chewed at his lip. “… That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Because you don’t understand.” I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. “You will, I hope. Someday sooner rather than later.”

“You can wait for me.” He told me eagerly, and now I did groan. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“You’re as thick headed as your father.” I muttered. Then turned and headed back into the village. Resisting the overwhelming heaviness that settled on my shoulders as I passed beneath the stone gate.

“Where are you going?” Izu’lemi called.

I heard him jogging after me, and sighed again. “… I’ve got to see someone.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

He scoffed lightly. “Well, you need a guard.”

“Not within the walls.”

I saw him chew at his lip out the corner of my eye. “But I could come. Just to make sure no one bothers you.”

“Izu’lemi.” I spun on him, my face scrunched in frustration. “You want to learn something about me? I like to be alone. Alone alone.” I clarified as I saw him opening his mouth. “It’s better if I’m alone. I am not a nice person.”

“You’re nice to me.” He argued.

“Sometimes. Don’t make me regret that.”

He sighed, then reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Ok… I’ll see you later, I guess.” He turned slightly, looking back at the wall. “Inu’u gave me a bunch of things to do. To help the camp. So I guess I’ll do that.”

“Good.” Came another familiar voice, and I groaned again. “You can do as you’re told.”

We turned together to face Jou’kiel as he approached, another orc at his shoulder that I didn’t recognize. I saw his eyes flicker over me, felt my heart flutter a bit. Suddenly remembering the softer way his face had looked the last time I had seen him. Wondering what he remembered from that night. He glanced at the other orc, grunting something in orcish which had them chuckling. I felt my ears burn hot and a scowl returned to my face.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Don’t you have anything nice to say?” He replied in Common, then gestured towards the square. “I thought you’d be more grateful.”

“Grateful you’re not a complete bastard?” I asked. “Grateful you realized you were being inhumane?”

He jerked his thumb at himself, returning my scowl. “Not human. Orc. Definition of ‘inhuman’.”

“Definition of idiot.” I retaliated. “I said ‘inhumane’. Barbarous. Brutal. Cruel.”

He shoved his finger at me, snarling a bit. “You should watch your mouth. And I thought I told you to stay away from my son.”

“Inu’u, you can’t order her away!” Izu’lemi cried, shoving himself between us. “She’s going to be my mate, whether you like it or not.”

“Oh save me the dramatics,” I half mumbled in a bitter tone, “I was just leaving anyway.”

“Good. Fall in a pit somewhere and stay there.”

“Go to hell and take your horde with you.” I shot back.

Then I turned and marched away, ignoring Izu’lemi’s farewell and the smattering of angry orcish that rose in the wake of my exit. I couldn’t resist a glance over my shoulder though. And found a pair of copper-yellow eyes staring after me. I straightened, pretending I hadn’t noticed, ducking around the next corner.

My feet knew the path well, even if the streets were not what they once were. It was the only place I would have visted regularly when coming to the village. Even with buildings crumbled in my path, even with orcs wandering the alleys between. Even without really thinking about it. I followed the same trail towards the back side of the village that I had a thousand times before. Feeling myself sink a bit into my thoughts, finding my feet slowing as I approached the old rickety fence off the beaten path.

The winter frost had kept the weeds from overgrowing during our containment in the square. And the site was far enough away from the nearest building that it almost felt as if the invasion hadn’t reached here. There was some errant rubble. A few burn marks where a stray fire might have made it before the cold, damp grass had prevented it from finding its way further. As I passed through the opening, I felt an eerie stillness settle over me. As if I had entered another world.

I walked past the other stones in the graveyard, to one in the back. Half hidden behind a scraggily tree. I reached out as I approached, lightly tracing my fingers over the top as I rounded the corner.

“Hey bud.” I said softly. “Sorry it’s been so long… I didn’t want anyone to know you were here. Hope you’ve been good.”

I rubbed my brother’s tombstone, absentmindedly clearing some dirt. My fingers lingering over the etching of his name. Remembering carving it myself as carefully as I could through thick tears more than five years prior. I slowly settled in front of the stone. Brushing aside the leaves. Trimming back some of the weeds.

“You’d have been excited.” I told him. “Having orcs here.” I smoothed my skirts down, staring at my hands. “And you would’ve thought it’s funny, that some kid wants to marry me.” I glanced at the stone forlornly. “I hope you’re having a good laugh, wherever you are.” I choked a bit, swallowing hard. “… I miss your laugh. I could use your laugh about now.”

I sniffled, then rubbed the back of one hand at my eye stubbornly. Swallowing again, and looking around. Wondering if any of the other villagers would bother coming here now that they could… Wondering how many fresh graves would be added once the ground thawed. Or if only tombstones would. Being that they had no bodies left to bury…

“I’m such an idiot.” I told the cold stone, my voice frightfully weak. “I should never have let that stupid kid go. I should never have… Ugh.” I rubbed at my face with both hands, feeling them shake as I did. “If the villagers ever find out that I’m…” I stopped, my voice breaking. “… I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me it’s not my fault. Even though it is. Gods above… I can’t believe how much I miss you sometimes.” I rubbed at my eye with the back of my hand again. “I miss your hugs. I miss your smile. I even miss the goofy jokes you made.” I choked again, my throat feeling tight. “… The villagers still hate me. They pretend they don’t, but maybe now that the men are back they’ll remember. That I’m angry and bitter and awkward.” I sighed, shaking my head a little. “They should hate me now more than ever, even if they don’t know why.”

I stared off towards the square, my face blank. My heart feeling numb and achy. Letting the cold seep into my legs through the frozen ground. Feeling the tips of my fingers fall asleep with the chill. The balls of my cheeks tingled with the cold too, and I felt the stinging of it at the tips of my ears. Still I sat for a long time. Wishing I could sleep, but unable to remember the last time I had been able to without the screams filling my ears. Without the guilt racking my chest.

I sniffled again, then rubbed at my nose.

“… You’d have liked Izu’lemi.” I said softly, still staring off at the village. “He’s a lot like you, in some ways… Maybe how you could’ve been, if things had been different.” I scoffed lightly, dropping my gaze to my hands. “Not at all like his father. The picture of big and stupid.” My heart skipped suddenly as I remembered Jou’kiel’s hand around mine. Remembered the smell of him as he had leaned across me. “… He’s annoying too.” I continued stubbornly. “And cocky. And arrogant… The man is like a barn; big, but full of straw and shit.” My lips almost twitched into a smile. “Gods only know how he does anything. So full of hot air, I’m surprised a stray needle hasn’t popped him yet.” I glanced back at my brother’s tombstone, falling quiet. Thinking for a moment. “… You probably would’ve liked him too.” I admitted. “You liked everyone. And Jou’kiel is…” I stopped again, then shook my head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter does it?” I sighed, reaching out and laying my palm flat against the rock. “You’re just a stone now… though you’re still a good listener…” I dropped my hand and sniffled a final time. “I should get back. Before someone does something stupid… I owe them that. More than they know.”

I stood slowly, brushing my hands down my skirt, then running my hand over the stone a final time. Silently promising to come back soon. I didn’t say anything else though. I could never actually say ‘goodbye’ outloud. I stubbornly pretended I had never realized that, as I did every time I visited, and wiped at my face. Clearing my throat and straightening myself out.

Stomping back to the village with a scowl fixed back in place.

------

Some men had never come back, and some had found they had nothing to come back to. There was some prayers said, now that we could fully assess who was missing. But the pressing issue of being able to survive the winter took the majority of people’s focus.

With those men that had returned, it was faster to gather wood. Soon the forest line had receeded an extra few yards for all the trees cleared from it. The women gathered what they could from the bushes there as well, and were able to sow a few of the small fields within eyeline of the wall. A few old stores were pulled out of cellars from those houses and the ones further from the square. Some clay and thatch was gathered from rubble and source alike. A few chickens were re-captured and brought into the village, as well as other livestock that had escaped their pens and managed to survive the few weeks untended.

I set snares and traps at the treeline. Away from the lumbermen. I persuaded an orc at the wall to lend me his huge bow and arrows while he watched, and shot a few geese that had dared fly too close to the village. I missed my own bow. Their bow had been hard to wrangle, but with some jest and some broken pointers, the orcs had taught me the best way to manage it. They seemed amused, and perhaps a bit impressed with my skill as a hunter. I made a point not to linger.

Overall, I avoided orcs and villagers alike as best I could. Preferring to keep to myself as I always had. Waiting for formal permission to leave to hunt. Escort or otherwise, I itched to get as far from the village as I could. Wondering if I would be permitted to go to my cabin, or if I would have to make due with the hunting supplies I could garnish from the orcs.

I was getting more and more restless. It didn’t help that I still wasn’t sleeping very much. That I still stayed in the drafty attic of one of the most decrepit buildings in the square. So when the quickly raising voices reached me, I was more than willing to track down the source only a few buildings down from my own make-shift shelter.

I found two orcs shoving each other back and forth in one of the less sturdy buildings still mostly standing. A fact very evident considering one half of the building was completely gone. Leaving the brawl visible to the square. I heard the villagers shouting their protests, but the brutes didn’t seem to hear them. And the villagers weren’t interested in getting any closer to make sure they did.

I had no such qualms, and ducked through the remains of the doorway.

“Hey, dumbasses!” I shouted at them.

They paid me no mind, the largest grabbing the other by the shoulders, then slamming him against the wall. The whole building shook, and I looked up at the ceiling warily. I had to jump to the side a minute later as the two orcs toppled and rolled across the ground. Slamming into the opposite wall and sending a shudder through the remaining stone again.

I reached down, picking up one of the newly loosed stones, and chucked it at the biggest orc. He froze, shoving his opponent back. Looking over his shoulder at me.

“Knock it off!” I said.

I had their attention now, and they turned almost as one to address me. Slugging each other a final time before climbing to their feet. The biggest taking a lumbering step forward. Baring his teeth.

I pointed to the half crumbled ceiling, then gestured around to the building at large.

“You idiots are going to knock it down on yourselves.”

If they understood me at all, they made no sign of it. Another lumbering step, another angry snarl. The other orc gathered closer, shoving at the first as they rallied for space. Which had them shoved back heavily into the wall, and the building shook and groaned again. I glanced about warily, then back at the biggest orc.

“Are you stupid??” I demanded, then pointed to the door. “Go fight somewhere else!”

I barely dodged his swinging fist and staggered back a few steps. The pair shoved at each other, then advanced towards me. In my haste to avoid being struck, I had moved away from the door, and now found myself effectively cornered. Realizing that with each angry stomping foot, the building became more and more likely to collapse.

But the pair were obviously not of joint determination. They shoved at each other again as they approached, then fully spun at each other to roar. Slamming each other into the wall. Shaking the foundations again. Perhaps fighting over who got to kill me. I grabbed another rock, chucking it at them. Then another. They snarled, spinning back on me. One even went so far as to pick up a stone as well. I ducked and it crashed into the remains of the wall behind me, and I felt mortar fall into my hair.

“Idiots!” I snapped, making sure to manuver back towards the door. I moved to pick up another rock. Even craned my arm back to launch it at them in retaliation. Hoping to draw them out that way.

Something firm grabbed my wrist, halting the throw before I could fully swing it forward. Twisting and forcing the rock to drop from my grip. I kicked instinctively, and heard an irritated grunt. Then the offender swung me fully around towards them.

“By the gods,” Jou’kiel groaned, “Why is it always you?”

I wriggled in his grasp, my scowl growing. “They are obviously punishing me.”

He tossed my hands back to me, turning and speaking to the other orcs angrily in their native tongue for a moment. The orcs grunted almost as one, shooting me a disapproving look. Then turned and made their way out of the building.

“I don’t know who is worse,” Jou’kiel sighed, switching back to Common as he returned his attention to me, “You or Izu.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You act like one.”

“I act like a child??” I snapped. “You are the one stomping around in a tantrum all the time.”

He growled, stalking a few paces around me. “Why are you even here? This building-”

“Could come down at any minute.” I interrupted, which had him glancing around warily. “And your stupid warriors were playing with its frame. Asking for it to collapse onto innocents in the next building over.”

“You have no authority to force them out.”

“I have the right to keep us safe!” I argued. “None of you have brains enough to do it!”

His growl filled his chest, his face, and his brow dark. “Quiet yourself,” He warned, “Or I’ll do it for you.”

“What, don’t want your warriors to hear you being scolded like a child?” I quipped, not bothering to lower my voice. “Or don’t want your prisoners to see that you are an idiot?”

Jou’kiel leered over me, his scowl deepening. “Don’t push me, huntress. I have been civil-”

“Civil?” I interrupted angrily. “You call this civil?? Of all the arrogant, bull-headed-”

He grabbed my arm roughly as he bared his teeth, then stopped, shaking his head. Glancing around angrily.

“Come with me.” He hissed instead, already dragging me behind him without waiting for a response.

“Let me go!” I half shouted, trying to tear my arm free.

He dragged me out of the building, then down the street. I saw a few of the orcs raise their heads as we passed, saw a few eyes peek out from behind shuttered windows. I punched at his arm with my free hand, but found it hurt my knuckles more than it seemed to faze him. Deciding instead to try and dig in my heels. Both made little difference, and I staggered after him as he steadfastly plowed forward. Finally ducking into a building a few yards away and slamming the door behind us so hard the foundation rattled.

He tossed me free, and I glared up at him angrily.

“What is your problem??”

“YOU.” He snapped. “YOU are my problem, you foul, irritable, bane of my existence.”

I scowled at him. “What, for saving your stupid orcs from being crushed alive?”

“Not-”

“Or for saving your stupid son?”

His eyes darkened and he bared his teeth at me again. “Don’t.”

I tossed up my hands. “Maybe for making you realize you aren’t just ‘passing through’. That the people here aren’t just ‘unfortunate ramifications’.”

Jou’kiel stalked closer, glowering at me. “Do you really think yourself high and mighty?” He snarled. “So beyond repercussion?”

“Well, I’m certainly no prince.” I jeered.

He nearly shook, gesturing angrily with his hands. “You have no idea what I have done. What I have sacrificed. Don’t you dare judge me.”

“Should I let you judge me??” I shot back. “Should I just roll over and accept your boot on my back?” I waved my own hands about dramatically. “The poor little prince. He does suffer so.”

I almost jumped as Jou’kiel let out a roar, his jaw dropping wide and baring his huge teeth. Spittle shooting out as he shook his head and threw his arms wide. One massive stride and he closed the distance between us. Shoving me against the wall before punching it with his fist so hard mortar trickled down on us. I refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching, fixing him with an angry glare.

“Gods above!” He snarled at me, his Common more harsh with the effort of using it in his rage, his hands reaching as if to strangle me, “I don’t ever know if I want to KILL you or… Or…”

He stopped short, breathing so heavily his broad shoulders heaved. His copper eyes hot and blazing as they stared me down. I glared back at him, feeling my heart in my throat. My own chest fluttering with nerves. Feeling a sound heat rising in me, feeling goosebumps race across my skin. He was so close, his hot breath splashed across my face. His nose practically brushed mine, and his thick braids were like a curtain around us. Shielding us in our own private bubble. Away from time and place.

“Or what?” I dared press breathlessly.

He let out a hefty huff which had the ends of my hair shifting in its wake. I noticed him shift closer, noticed his big muscles seeming to quiver with restraint. His fingers twitching as he pressed his palms against the wall. I felt my own tense at the sight.

“Or what??” I snapped again impatiently, unable to stand the coil of my nerves, and he growled, “Or WHAT, you big, stupid-”

I jumped as he suddenly crashed his mouth against mine.

The kiss was quick, and harsh. Almost painful. Even when he tore away a breath later, I felt the shape of his mouth on mine. I fell back following it and let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. My lips feeling like they were on fire. He stood there, panting a little, his hooded eyes flicking back down to my mouth. His big tongue tracing the inside of his.

My hand had come up instinctively with his movement, as if to push him away. But now, I felt it rest against the bare skin of his collar. Felt my breath sputter and skip. Felt my heart race and my face flush. He shifted slightly, and I shifted with him. More attuned to his body than I was my own. I tilted my head back, my hand inching up to trace along his thick neck. As if it had always been there. Feeling the anticipation building between us as the realization of our shared interest spread.

Then it snapped. And he plowed back in, breaking the tension with his mouth against mine once more. I responded eagerly this time. Grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into me. Feeling his hand go from the wall to my waist to curl my body against his. He bowed over me, encompassing me with his girth. Pinning me back to the wall a moment later as his lips greedily sought mine. His tusks pressed against my cheeks as his mouth worked against my own, and as I felt his thick tongue roll out I brought mine to meet it. Straining deeper, wider, to accommodate him. To suck in his heat as desperately as he sought mine. Feeling his hands grope and tug and pull. Bruising soft skin, pinning me first to his body, then to the wall, then back against his body as we writhed against each other.

I fed him a gasp as his hands caught under my thighs and he hoisted me up. Carrying me two steps to the left to plant my buttocks on a table there. It groaned as he leaned over me. Tearing our mouths apart only to bury his against the skin on my neck. There was a deep rumble of desire in his chest that rippled through me as he tugged my legs to either side of him. Submerging himself in my flesh. Kissing, licking, biting. Pushing the top of my blouse down to find the sensitive parts there. Feeling the hairs of his beard trail over my collarbone then between my breasts.

I wrapped my arms around his head. Running my hands over his braids. Squeezing my thighs around him. Letting my head roll back to allow him better access. He gave another rumble of pleasure, his groping hands eliciting another small gasp from me as his mouth worked across my skin. He pushed my skirt up further, pulled me closer to the edge of the table. Pressing himself against me through his furs.

I tried to shake my head. Tried to pull myself out of the heat that had engulfed me. Blinking rapidly and trying to draw in one deep breath amid the panting fever.

“Jou’kiel,” I breathed finally, my voice weak with want.

He growled against me. Leaning away at last only to plunge back to my mouth. I couldn’t help losing myself for a moment again there. Pulling him down with my hands cupped against the back of his head and neck. Relishing in the taste of his hot breath.

But a sudden rush of guilt filled me like a cold bucket of water. I turned away, pushing him back a little. He growled again, kissing my cheek, my jaw. Biting lightly at my ear.

“Jou’kiel,” I said again, more firmly.

He nibbled at my skin. “I like when you say my name.” He rumbled, his Common harsh with his arousal. His words hot against my flesh. “Especially with your cunt pressed against me.”

I let out a breathy huff. Struggling not to let myself be drawn in to his tidal wave again. Feeling the guilt slowly wrapping choking fingers around my lungs. I shook my head.

“We can’t.” I managed finally.

He pulled back sharply. Staring at me in surprise. His hands stilling, his heat ebbing.

“… What?”

I shook my head again. “We can’t do this.”

He ignored my hands attempting to push him further back for a moment. A small scowl forming in the corners of his mouth. Looking as though his brain was not fulling connecting my words with any meaning yet.

“Why the hell not?” He said finally.

“Just…” I struggled, fumbling with words. Then shoved him angrily. “Just get off me!”

He did step back. Dropping his hands. Staring at me a bit dumbfounded. He looked around, as if the answer he was looking for might be in the room with us. I rubbed my own hands across my face, trying to cool the heat still lingering.

“… Did you not… was this…” He looked back at me, confusion lining his face.

I dropped my hands, sighing. Trying unsuccessfully to fix my skirts still half bunched around my hips.

“We can’t let this happen again.” I told him. Finally sliding forward and dropping to my feet. Finding my legs a bit shaky.

“… So you did like it.” He reasoned. “You did want it.”

I refused to look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

A low growl formed in his chest, and he shook his head. “Can’t stand the thought of sleeping with the enemy, is that it??” He shoved the nearest unfortunate item, which happened to be the table, and it slammed against the wall loudly, “Can’t bear the idea of your cunt being wet for me?”

I slowly fixed my blouse, my hands shaking. My heart aching in my chest. I blinked back tears, still staring at the ground. Then I set my jaw angrily.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I grumbled.

He glaried at me with a fiery look in his eyes. “Don’t lie to yourself.” He shot back.

“I don’t need some stupid idiot groping me.” I snapped. “Go fuck one of your whores and leave me out of your horny rutting.”

That made him scoff, and he tossed up his hands angrily. “You think I need to pay to fuck??”

I scowled. “Obviously you ran out of coin to come sniffing after me.”

“You’re the irritating little bitch with the wet cunt.” He sneered. “Or maybe you realized you couldn’t take an orc even if you didn’t hate us?”

“Get your head out of your ass.” I said bitterly. “Or go drown in the river. Either way, just get the fuck away from me.”

His hands balled into fists. “You vile, wretched twat.” He growled. “If you think-”

“Just shut up and leave me alone.” I interrupted, spinning my back to him to stalk towards the door. My exit belittled by the strange softness of my voice.

He gave a grunt, but it sounded dismissive. I was happy to find my legs obeying me as I made my way to the door. Pulling it open and ducking out before I lost my battle to keep it all together.

UPDATE: Part Five HERE

[radioactive-earthshine]

Relationships: Bart Allen & Kon El | Conner Kent, Bart Allen & Iris West

Summary

Bart goes on his solo trip to find Kon and save his friends from a cruel destiny at great cost to the time stream and contends with the Linear Men who desperately want to keep him locked up - at least he thinks he is alone until Time Trapper reveals themselves as an unlikely ally, with an even more unlikely identity.

Excerpt

“You’ve broken the rules Bartholomew Henry Allen II,” said a different officer, he was dressed in clothing more bright than the fluorescent lights and Bart had a hard time looking at him even through his blue translucent prison cell walls. Unlike the woman from before, his older lined face was drawn in sympathy for his prisoner. 

Bart snorted in contempt from his cell, a cube of jelly-like material that cut him off from his speed. “What rules? Dontcha have t’ make the rules known before enforcing them? Y’know. Stop! Speed Limit only 45 times the speed of light! That sort of stuff.”

“You always were a funny one at this age. But history never recorded anything about you doing this though,” mused the old officer, worry hovering in his hazel eyes. 

“Oops? I guess if history has been changed then there’s no point in keeping me here because what are you trying to preserve?” Bart quipped as he poked the jelly and it zapped him, hard, and he yelped rubbing his hand. 

“That’s the point! You changed history and altered reality! Do you have any idea of how delicate the threads of reality are? Changing just one tiny detail can have drastically cataclysmic consequences! No one should have that right or power! You know this!” 

Bart’s eyes smoldered, pupils set and direct like the line of an event horizon as he glared at his sympathetic jailer. “I mean this most disrespectfully to your made-up rules of Reality - go fuck yourself.” 

[gh0st-author]

lover of mine

pairing: William James Moriarty x reader

tags: angst, hurt/comfort but very bittersweet

summary: when i take a look at my life and all of my crimes, you're the only thing that i think i got right

warnings: mentions of death, lots of sad thoughts

A/N: ha ha .. guess who's back ... jk jk i've been away for a little while and i dipped in true fanfic author fashion BUT HEY im back now. and i was craving a bit of pain so here is a lil something angsty. its more of a character study than anything... also could you tell that ive been listening to lover of mine lmao

The serene silence of the night was interrupted by a strangled gasp, a broken intake of air momentarily cutting through the calm as a figure arose suddenly from their sleeping position, clutching their chest. Scarlet eyes flashed open, disoriented, hauntingly glancing around the room, the man trying to gather his bearings. He felt as if the walls were caving in around him, although the logical part of his brain was aware that those notions were only in his head. But lately, there was little difference between nightmares and consciousness to William.

And that was all that this was— a nightmare. A horrible fragment of his imagination seeping into his dreams and haunting his waking hours. Usually, the myriad of thoughts and emotions was kept tightly at bay in the furthest reaches of his mind, but at night when his defenses were lowered and his being slumbered, they seeped through and poisoned his dreams, his consciousness becoming a prison, caging him in. Faces flashed before his eyes, his own bloody hands, the weight of his own deeds and sins— oftentimes he felt less like a man and more like a whirling swarm of guilt, despair, and nihilty.

He directed his gaze at the ceiling, eyes tracing the veiny cracks weaving over it like spider webs, as his mind churned with thoughts. His soul was screaming out, but no sound seeped out. Power comes in response to a need, not desire. He felt no desire for bloodshed he dished out, found no enjoyment in it, yet he continued to drag himself further into hell, each step heavy as stone but unwavering, preserving what little hope was left at the cost of damning his soul. That was something he needed to do. He even abhorred violence, deeming it an absolute evil. Violence for violence was the rule of beasts, yet most days he felt as if it was the only language he knew how to speak. Maybe before long, he will become just like them, a violent animal of claws and teeth that did not know why it bit, crossing the blurry line of this dark gray area he roamed in and passing the point of no return. 

A minuscule movement and soft rustling of the sheets at his side drew his attention away from his musings. He gazed down at the figure sleeping next to him peacefully, face serene and bathed in moonlight. Shadows splayed over her skin making her look even more ethereal, hair draped over the silky pillowcase forming a halo around her head. An angel— or perhaps divine punishment for his sins. 

She was a being pure and unsullied by the darkness of the world; the darkness in him. Sometimes, he was almost afraid to touch her, in fear of tainting her pristine radiance with his stained hands. The mere fact that a person so far fallen like him was able to bask in the warmth she provided was as cruel as it was bitter-sweet. 

She was an existence that he shouldn't have been able to approach, and the reality of that seemed too harsh and unkind in actuality, yet he often found himself wondering if that was really true, though.

Reaching out to brush away a stray lock of hair from her forehead, he once again contemplated that thought. Maybe fate wasn't evil or cruel for sending him this brilliant shard of light. Perhaps it was actually merciful, providing him with a single taste of heaven— something he thought he had no hope of ever reaching. Maybe it was kind enough to gift him with this momentary reprieve. 

Her brows furrowed in her sleep as his ministrations disturbed her slumber. He slowly drew his hand back as her eyes opened, blissfully unaware of the turmoil in his. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

She shook her head and inched ever so closer to him. "Why are you not asleep? You have to teach early tomorrow." Her worried gaze ran over his face. "Did something happen?"

"No, nothing." His throat was tight, each word rasping out almost painfully. "I am just... pondering."

She hummed lowly, considering him, then rose to sit next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Hmm, a bad nightmare?" 

He sighed deeply, bone-weary, resting his cheek against her temple. "Don't concern yourself with it. I promise I am fine."

She let out another hum, and he knew what she was attempting, yet he was too weak to refuse her. She gently cradled his hands in her lap from where they'd been clutching the sheets and started tracing little patterns with her thumbs over them. "Tell me about it"

A small wry tilting of his lips, too fleeting to be called a smile, accompanied her actions. Exactly as he predicted. She knew precisely what to do to get him to talk. And that was no fault of hers, for he always acquiesced and yielded to her wants. "When I put my life into perspective, and all of my sins and crimes I committed, you are the one singular decision in it that I think I made right."

Her hands paused their movements and her gaze flew to his face, confused and slightly vexed. "What do you mean?"

Her face was so sincere, so unwaveringly loving, that he was barely able to endure the depth of her gaze. Yet he was unable to tear his eyes away from hers as the words spilled from his trembling lips. "My only right choice was meeting you, despite all of my wrongdoings. But your place is not with me, in the shadows. You should be out under the sun, never touched by our darkness."

Her brows furrowed once again, this time more severely, and he observed her face becoming even more confused and irked. "William you are talking nonsense." She clutched his hands tighter. "I chose you, William. Promised to be by your side through the good and the bad. No one else. You"

Another piece of his soul bloomed and withered away with her words, leaving its rot embedded deep in his chest. He slowly rose one hand from her grip to rest it gently on her cheek. "How I wish I could've loved you under different circumstances."

"Stop that!" she protested, shock subsiding, replaced with indignation. "You fight for equality. You are noble. You are not evi—"

"There is nothing noble about what I do." The look he gave her was cold and mournful, closed off. Any semblance of warmth leeched out of it. "Taking someone's life— even for a greater cause— is never justice." Dropping his hand from her face, he inched away from her, pulling away as the thick walls he usually built to keep these thoughts away crumbled in her presence. As he confessed to her the depths of his despair. "I never told you this before, but I plan to die." He didn't know if saying these words was a weight off his chest, or the last nail in his proverbial coffin. "I plan to atone with my death, to disappear as the last blight on society. To end the great evil that the masses depict me to be."

"Don't you dare!" Her words were a shocked gasp. And suddenly she understood— he saw it in her eyes that she did. She saw his guilt. Guilt, and grief, and resentment, and loathing. An inescapable torment weighing him down, trapping him, crushing him under the immense pressure of his deeds. A bottomless pit pulling him into its depths of despair. She understood why he condemned wrongdoings so harshly, why he mourned the loss of life. There was probably no one who valued human life more than him, yet was forced to extinguish it to save the majority. And he saw her terror. He saw her grief, her anguish, her heartbreak. 

With a sob, she threw herself in his embrace. She was shaking, trembling in his arms, and his chest caved in knowing he was the cause of her pain. Her plea was a broken whisper. "Don't you dare, William. Not like... that. Never like that. Remember our deal: Where you go, I go. If you die, I'll follow, since there is no me without you."

His mouth opened to protest, to refute her argument, to undoubtedly say something akin to her life holding more value than his, but she halted him with a firm grip on his shoulders. "Promise me!"

Her eyes were boring into his, and once again he found himself rendered speechless and unable to resist her. "I promise I won't." The falsehood tasted like ash on his tongue, and not for the first time he wanted to cut the lying appendage off. What good did it serve him if it only knew treachery and deceit? If it would only bring her more pain.

Her trembling hands wound around his figure as she hugged him tightly once again. "You are everything to me, William. I don't know what I would do without you. Please... Please never say something like that again."

A shuddering breath left his lips and he leaned completely into her, resting his head in the crook of her neck, feeling incredibly worn out and frail. "How do you not condemn me?"

Her hands slowly made their way up to brush through his hair, so achingly gentle. He couldn't remember when the last time that he'd been touched so lovingly was. Couldn't remember if he'd ever been before meeting her. "I love you, William, the broken parts and everything. Stained hands or not. I have always vowed to stay by your side. No matter how much our souls are tainted, we will spend the rest of our lives atoning for it— together. After all, is it better to just be born good or to achieve goodness through your own effort?"

She leaned back to smile at him, then brushed a soft kiss against his lips, still trembling from the onslaught of his raging inferno inside him. "Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone. Use the pain as a motive to continue forward. You will heal and you'll rise above it all."

Oh, she was so cruel, unintentionally so. Her sincerity was like bitter wine down his throat or a poison slowly making its way through his bloodstream. The simple fact that she truly believed there was any chance of redemption for him hurt more than death by a thousand papercuts. "I was correct." His hand lightly traced her cheek once again. Every word was a wound slowly bleeding out, draining his strength with it. "I really do not deserve you."

She shook her head, somber once again. "Stop saying that. I can't think of a man more worthy of my love and redemption." 

Darkness without light was an abyss. Light without darkness was blinding. You could not have a coin with only one side. Maybe they were like that. She was his perfect antithesis, his other side. The one that would grab and pull him out of the bottomless abyss of living hell, and he was the one that would ground her and shield her from flying too close to the sun. She would provide warmth to thaw away his frost, and he would keep her fire from burning out too fast. He only hoped he would be around long enough for her to not need him anymore. He hoped she wouldn't be too furious with him after he'd perished. What was another broken promise added to his ever-growing list of sins?

Because he couldn't stay with her in the light. She was still so incredibly radiant, not as far gone as he was. He knew that only the dead have seen the end of war. And that has always been his plan from the beginning. For how could he, a sinner as vile as the ones he was ridding the world of so diligently, be allowed to live in this new pristine world he was trying to create? How could she still see something good in him when he was the biggest evil that had to be eradicated? His fate has been set in stone since the first day he took Albert's hand, maybe even before that, yet with every new day he found his resolve on that matter wavering more and more. With each kiss from her; with every touch; with every love-filled glance— she made his icy determination crumble under her warm light. He was nothing but a coward wearing the face of a revolutionary, desperately clinging to life— to her— when he knew he couldn't. But for her, he almost thought it was worth it to live.

Sometimes he felt as if he could feel time moving, slipping through his fingers, and that dreaded moment of judgment creeping up closer and closer behind him, breathing down his neck. A walking dead man— that's what he was. The person currently cradling her, whispering sweet lies and false promises, was just his shell, a ticking time bomb or a lit candle only waiting for its fuse to burn out. That is precisely why he said nothing more as she urged him to go back to sleep once again. Said nothing as she draped the covers over them. Said nothing as the stifling silence threatened to pull him under once again. 

He would not be sleeping tonight, although she did not need to know that.

[inkpetrichor]

Muse | Azumane Asahi x f!reader

2.- Touches. masterlist here<3

cw. a little angsty, but veeery fuffly<3, use of y/n, mentions of gossip, mentions of scars, anxiety, asahi and his fear of failure, shy asahi and y/n wc. 4.4k an. thank you so much for all the support on the prologue and first chapter! i love you all, please let me know if you'd like me to start a taglist. i poured my heart and soul on this one, hope you enjoy it<3

"So, Azumane. Have you thought about which university you would like to apply to?"

Asahi's already tense shoulders tensed even more as the counselor's words echoed in the small office. It smelled as if the window hadn't been opened in a while. The air was thick with dust, and he could feel it clinging to his throat as he struggled to find the right response. Sweat slicked his palms, and he wiped them against his pants, though it did little to stop the dampness.

He knew this conversation was inevitable—it had been looming ever since he left the volleyball club in March and avoided filling out the university preference forms handed out since his second year. His nervous smile wavered as he averted his gaze, focusing instead on the hand resting on his knee, clenched a little tighter than he realized.

What could he say? The truth? That he had no idea what he wanted to do, that the sheer number of possibilities felt more like a prison than a privilege? His indecision was a vicious cycle. The fear of making the wrong choice paralyzed him, feeding into the terror of disappointing his parents. And that fear only made every option feel more impossible than the last.

He was stuck. Paralyzed. A prisoner of his own indecision.

Ever since he left the volleyball club, the weight of his insecurities had only grown. That iron wall he’d failed to overcome now loomed over every aspect of his life. It wasn’t just about spiking anymore; it symbolized every failure, every fear, every time he wasn’t good enough. It was a constant, suffocating reminder of his limits.

In his mind, he told himself it was okay. That he just needed time. That he’d figure it out eventually. But the deadlines and expectations didn’t wait. The pressure mounted with each passing day, the iron wall growing taller the closer he got to it.

The counselor’s voice brought him back to the suffocating reality of the moment.

“Azumane?”

“O-oh. Right... I... haven’t really made a decision yet,” he finally managed to stammer out, his voice barely audible.

The counselor’s sigh was heavy with disappointment, and it only made Asahi’s muscles tighten further. He knew he had to decide, but knowing didn’t make it any easier. Everything felt overwhelming—the deadlines, the expectations, the weight of it all. And ever since Sugawara and the first years had begged him to come back to the club, things had only grown more complicated. Now there was another choice to make, another possible failure to avoid. Another thing he wanted to do but was too afraid to attempt.

Which is why he had accepted his fate when Ukai had “forced” him to participate in the practice match against the Neighborhood Association. Though “forced” wasn’t quite the right word—he hadn’t resisted much because, deep down, he wanted it. He wanted to play again, to feel the adrenaline of spiking the ball, to be with his friends on the court. A small, tentative hope began to grow inside him after that day. Even if it was just a small step forward, he felt like could face his fears. Stepping back onto that court had reminded him of how much he truly loved volleyball. No amount of fear or failure could erase that. No iron wall could make that feeling go away.

But there was another thing that terrified him just as much as the iron wall: you.

Not because you were intimidating. On the contrary, being with you brought him a rare sense of calm. Your presence was comforting, your voice soothing. But his heart—his big, dumb heart—had to complicate things. It had to beat faster whenever you smiled at him, had to yearn for something more than friendship. The fear of rejection intertwined with his fear of failure, creating an overwhelming cocktail of anxiety.

In his mind, there was no way you saw him as anything more than just a classmate—or maybe, if he was lucky, a friend.

Yet, despite his fears, there were moments that gave him hope. The way your eyes seemed to sparkle when you looked at him. The soft blush that sometimes dusted your cheeks when he spoke. The little giggles he managed to draw from you. Those fleeting moments made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, you felt the same.

It wasn’t like taking that first step wasn’t hard—it was. It wasn’t as simple as saying, “I’m no longer afraid,” and then magically fixing his life and making all the choices life expected of him. He knew this. But there were choices to make, and they wouldn’t just go away. Maybe risking wasn’t so scary. Maybe not everything had to be a possible disappointment. 

Maybe, if he kept pushing like this, eventually he’d have the guts to ask you on a date. Or at least ask for your number. Eventually, he’d have the courage to tell you how beautiful your smile was or how cute you looked when you were completely absorbed in a book, too focused to notice a strand of hair falling onto your face, too focused to realize how flustered it made him when you absentmindedly brushed it behind your ear again. That small, insignificant gesture set his heart racing at a dangerous pace every time.

Eventually, he’d have the guts to do it himself—to gently brush your cheek with his finger, feel the soft skin under his touch, and tuck that strand of hair behind your ear. How would you react? Would you look up at him and smile? Would you be embarrassed?

He’d tell you how calm and warm your voice made him feel when you spoke to him. Maybe he’d have the guts to ask you to call him by his first name—or even muster the courage to call you by yours. Just imagining it made the butterflies in his stomach take flight, their wings fluttering at an almost unbearable speed.

“Good morning, Azumane-san.”

Your cheerful voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. He practically jumped in his seat, causing you to stifle a giggle behind your hand. The sound sent his heart racing, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“S-sorry. Did I interrupt your thoughts?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“N-no...” he stammered, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I mean, yeah... but it’s no problem. Good morning to you too.”

I was thinking about you, he thought, but this is way better.

You smiled, sitting on the desk in front of him and turning your chair to face him. It was a warm, knowing smile that made his heart stutter.

“You play very well,” you said.

His mind immediately went to the practice match you had watched. He gave you an embarrassed smile, rubbing his neck again.

“Ah, that... Yeah... I guess...”

“No, I mean it,” you insisted, your eyes lighting up with sincerity. “It was amazing to see you play. To see everyone play, really.” Your expression shifted as you suddenly remembered something. “Oh! Is the little ginger one alright? His name... Shoyo-kun! Is he okay? He took one of your spikes face-first yesterday.”

“R-right, you saw that.” His cheeks warmed further, but he smiled. “He’s okay. He got right up after that. I think he was just... distracted.”

The image of Hinata flashed in Asahi’s mind—a ball of determination and energy that reminded him of the person he once aspired to be. Seeing Hinata when he first joined the team had been a whirlwind of emotions: awe, guilt, and a strange sense of responsibility. Awe at Hinata’s explossive energy. Guilt because Asahi recognized the hesitation in Hinata’s eyes when they first met—the way his own height and title as ace must have loomed over the younger player like a shadow.

That same guilt resurfaced during the match, confirmed by Hinata and Kageyama's conversation. It brought back memories of Asahi’s own struggles as a first-year. But Hinata was different—fierce in a way Asahi had never been.

Hinata’s admiration left him feeling like a fraud. How could he call himself the ace when he didn’t even believe he deserved the title?

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on him, but a gentle poke to his cheek broke through the fog. Startled, Asahi’s wide eyes darted from his extended right hand to you, who now sat perched on the edge of his desk, your elbow resting near his arm, chin cradled in your hand. Your gaze was steady, curious, and just a little too close for his already racing heart.

Heat flared across both of your faces, and you withdrew your hand immediately, looking flustered.

“S-sorry! I don’t know why I did that…” You glanced away, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

Asahi’s first instinct was to reassure you, though his own face was a deep shade of red. “N-no. It’s okay… I got distracted.”

“You looked… sad,” you murmured, still avoiding his gaze.

“Did I?” He blinked, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s okay. Sorry for… poking you.” You finally met his eyes, though your cheeks were still tinged pink.

I don’t mind it. Actually, please touch me more. The words hovered at the edge of his thoughts, bold and yearning. But of course, he couldn’t say that. Instead, he offered a soft reassurance. “No, no, I don’t mind it.”

Your eyes widened, surprise and something else—hope?—dancing within them. “You really don’t?”

He nodded, watching as relief softened your features, followed by a hesitant, almost bashful smile.

“I’m glad,” you said, your voice quieter now, as though the moment had become too fragile to risk breaking.

As the quiet murmur of your conversation faded, the previously empty classroom began to fill with the soft shuffle of students entering. The scrape of chairs against the floor and the low hum of chatter reminded you both that the sanctuary of this moment was fleeting. But for those fleeting seconds, the world outside the bubble of your shared space didn’t matter. Asahi’s heart thudded in his chest, not with the usual anxiety but with something gentler this time.

You noticed the lingering glances from a few classmates as they passed you by, their curious gazes flitting between you and Asahi. The faint sting of their unspoken thoughts burned in the back of your mind. Gossip would spread; you knew it. You weren’t naïve. People talked about him—his imposing stature and reserved demeanor made him a magnet for rumors. People talked about you, too, for entirely different reasons. Now they’d talk about the two of you together.

The thought wiped the faint smile from your lips. The light in your eyes dimmed, replaced by the weight of worry. You couldn’t shake the feeling that being near you might tarnish Asahi’s already misunderstood reputation. The idea hurt more than the rumors ever could.

The change in you demeanor didn’t escape Asahi’s notice.

“Well, Azumane-san, it was nice talking to you,” you said, your tone lighter than you felt. “I should really get to my seat now.” You stood quickly, adjusting the chair with a soft scrape against the floor, but before you could retreat, a warm, calloused hand gently wrapped around your wrist.

“Wait,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

Your eyes widened, flicking down to his hand and then back up to his face, concern, surprise, and urgency all colliding in your expression. His grip was incredibly soft, barely there, yet it held you firmly, as if the command in his voice alone was enough to root you in place. For a moment, your body didn’t feel like your own; it simply obeyed, the magic of his touch and tone enough to make you think, Oh, I’m waiting—I’ll wait here forever.

Your gaze darted around the classroom, landing briefly on the curious eyes of your classmates. He must have noticed too because he let go just as quickly, his cheeks flushing a soft rose as he scratched at his cheek with an embarassed gesture.

“Ah. Sorry,” he mumbled.

You shook your head slightly, trying to reassure him, though no words left your lips, still stunned by the unexpected moment. Instead, your heart raced, its rhythm almost drowning out his next words.

“Ukai-san… do you have a phone?”

“Huh? Oh. I do.”

“Can I… have your number?” 

You nodded, hoping you didn’t look too eager, though internally, your heart raced in a way that felt almost deafening. Asahi stumbled over his next words, his voice shy yet earnest. “W-well, I enjoy talking to you. I’d like to talk to you more.”

The sincerity in his voice sent warmth flooding through your chest. You nodded, fumbling to exchange contact information while silently willing your hands not to shake. The classroom filled further, the background hum of voices growing louder, but all you could focus on was Asahi’s soft smile as he looked at his phone, storing your number like it was a treasure.

As you returned to your desk, clutching your phone tightly, you whispered to yourself, “It’s just a number. Calm down.” Yet the quickened beat of your heart betrayed you.

But the whispers from around the room were harder to ignore. Witnesses to your exchange chattered quietly, their eyes darting between you and Asahi. You had grown used to the murmurs, used to the way people always seemed to find something to say. But this—this was different. Now their focus wasn’t just on you. It was on him, too.

The thought of him getting dragged into it, of his reputation being affected by simply associating with you… it was enough to dull the smile that had lingered on your lips since your conversation.

Asahi noticed. He always noticed.

And he could hear them, too—his name and yours weaving through the chatter like threads in a web. But while he dismissed the gossip about himself without a second thought, the cruel murmurs about you struck a deeper chord.

He didn’t believe them at first. Couldn’t. But the little details—the long sleeves you never rolled up, even under the scortching summer sun, even in gym class, the understanding glances from the gym teacher that painted a picture that aligned too closely with the rumors.

And it angered him. How could people take something so personal, so painful, and twist it into entertainment? The idea disgusted him, but more than that, it hurt to think you carried such a burden silently.

If he were to ask, would you share it with him? 

When class ended, he expected you to leave for the library, your usual escape. Instead, you surprised him, standing at his desk with your usual smile carefully back in place.

“Library?” you asked, a small but meaningful invitation.

His face lit up in quiet relief, and he nodded, following you out of the classroom. As you walked, he found himself watching you more than he should—the way your hair moved with each step, the way the sunlight streaming through the hallway windows seemed to cast a golden veil over your features. It was mesmerizing.

The library was quieter than usual, the morning sun filtering through tall windows, casting soft, golden streaks over the wooden tables. You settled into your usual spot, pulling out a sketchbook and pencil. Asahi watched you for a moment before sitting next to you, his large frame seeming out of place in the delicate tranquility of the space.

“I didn’t know you did art,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice soft and curious.

You smiled, glancing up briefly. “Well, I didn’t know you did volleyball.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s fair. I… quit for a while.”

The way your brow furrowed, even as your pencil moved across the page, told him you were listening.

“Why did you quit?”

“I think… I lost my confidence,” he admitted, his voice low.

Your pencil paused. You looked up at him, your gaze steady but gentle. “Why?"

He hesitated. "I messed up during a very important match. I got blocked. Over and over. My team trusted me, and I let them down.”

Asahi’s eyes dropped to his right hand, his thumb brushing over his palm absentmindedly. You noticed the way his expression clouded, his shoulders hunching slightly under the weight of his memory.

"Is that why you do that?" you said softly, pulling him back. When he looked at you, you were also staring at his hand. "You look at your hand like it committed a crime. Is it because of that?" 

He blinked, surprised by your observation. “I… I guess so,” he admitted.

Your heart ached at the sadness in his voice. You reached out hesitantly for his hand, your fingers brushing against his before gently folding them into a fist.

“Your hand isn’t guilty of any crimes, nor is it your enemy,” you said softly. “It’s your tool when you spike. It’s a part of you that you should love, not a reminder of everything you think makes you less.”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he just stared at your hand holding his. His heart pounded, caught somewhere between the comfort of your words and the intoxicating closeness of your touch.

“You’re right,” he whispered, a small, hesitant smile forming on his lips. “But it’s not always a bad thing. It also reminds me how it feels on my hand when I spike. The pride I feel when I land a point.”

“I like that better,” you said, your smile soft and warm. “That’s more rooted in reality and less in what your brain tells you about yourself.”

Asahi felt his cheeks heat up again. You were killing him. It was unfair.  Your kindness, your touch, your smile. It had to mean something, right? He wasn’t just imagining this connection, wasn’t just lost in his own wishful thinking… right?

You noticed his eyes flicker from your face to where your hands were still connected. For a moment, you mistook his bashfulness for discomfort. But you missed the subtle, almost imperceptible hint of disappointment in his gaze when you let go and returned to your sketch.

"Sorry," you mumbled, embarrassed. "That was rude of me. I shouldn't judge. I don't treat myself that well either..."

You shook your head, the weight of your words settling in, but Asahi’s soft chuckle eased the tension in the air, offering a small reassurance.

"It's okay," he said, his voice gentle. "You were right. It’s not very nice." He lifted his hand, examining it with a quiet smile. "I should be nicer to this hand."

"Especially if you want your revenge one day," you suggested, half-joking.

Especially if I want you to hold it one day. The thought lingered in his mind, though he kept it to himself.

Asahi watched you sketch, his eyes wandering to the way you pulled down your sleeves and held them in place with your fingers every now and then. The graphite clung to the fabric as it inevitably brushed against the paper, but you didn’t seem to mind the mess. You never let your sleeves roll up far enough for your skin to show. A faint sadness crept into him. He tried to push it down, to keep his thoughts at bay, but the question gnawed at him.

"Ukai-san... Can I ask you something? It’s okay if you don’t want to answer, but... is it true? What people say about your arms?"

Your pencil stilled. The look in your eyes, the way you tugged your sleeves tighter, instantly made him regret his words. You looked hurt, scared, for just a moment. But after a long breath, you closed your eyes, steadying yourself before continuing your work, only a little slower now.

"Of course. People talk, after all..." you whispered, almost as if to convince yourself.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t expected this conversation to come up. It was only a matter of time. You knew, deep down, that if someone got close enough, it would eventually surface. But how to begin? How to explain it without making him uncomfortable, without pushing him away? What if he—

"I never believed them... at first."

There was a short silence.

"And what if they’re true?" you asked, looking up at him, your voice a little more defensive than you intended. The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and as soon as you saw his surprised expression, you immediately averted your gaze, feeling the sting of vulnerability. But his stare remained, warm, unwavering, and you could almost feel it on the side of your face. There was an uncomfortable urgency to run away in your chest, the urge to escape, but you knew you couldn’t.

"What if I do have scars... What if I did that to myself? Would you still want to be my friend?" You set down your pencil and finally met his eyes again, bracing yourself for the pity or disgust that might be there. But instead, all you found was sadness—not pity, but a sadness that seemed distant.

"What if?" he replied, his voice soft, shrugging slightly. "You’re not a bad person just because... just because you hurt yourself."

You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to say something, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you went back to your sketch.

"Are you sure you don’t care about what people say about you if you hang out with me?"

"I know about rumors. I couldn’t care less about them. I want to be your friend."

The warmth spread across your cheeks, and as silence settled between you, he shifted topics to break the awkwardness.

"That sketch is pretty. Is that a cat?" His tone was lighter now.

You chuckled softly, understanding his strategy. You pushed the sketchbook toward him, offering a better view.

"And a raven," you added, smiling. "My cousin ah—your coach," you corrected yourself "He told me you guys are having a match with Nekoma soon. I heard from my grandpa that there's a long rivalry between the teams." You shook your head with a smile as you shaded the wings of the raven, which stood defiantly against a much larger calico cat. "It's all I can think about lately. The idea of a raven fighting cats is kind of romantic, don’t you think? Like a battle out of a Ghibli movie..."

Asahi’s mind wandered back to something Kageyama had once said to him as he studied the solitary raven in your drawing.

"You don’t win alone... That’s why there are six other players on the court."

Without thinking, he reached for your pencil, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he took it from your hand. You watched as he drew five more birds, their shapes quickly forming behind the almost-complete raven.

"Ravens," he corrected softly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Plural."

"Plural. Right," you agreed, taking the pencil back and adding definition to his lines.

"Exactly. No one is alone..." he said, and there was a weight in his words, a depth that made you pause. His eyes held something more than mere words—a kind of determination, as if they held a message you weren’t yet ready to hear.

"Right... Thank you," you said quietly, feeling the weight of those simple words. There was silence in your shared gaze. Then, softly, you added, "They’re old, by the way... I don’t... Do that anymore. I’ve been clean for a long time."

"I believe you..."

You took a moment to admire his contribution to your sketch. Despite being rough, his birds were proportional and well-formed. You couldn’t help but smile.

"Have you done art before, Azumane-san?"

"Uh? N-no... Why?"

"Your ravens are pretty. You might have a talent for design."

"W-well, yours is prettier..."

"W-well, I—"

You couldn't finish the sentence. Your cheeks warmed as you both turned away, the tension between you thickening, though neither of you knew exactly why.

As the minutes ticked by, the quiet between you settled into something comfortable, almost sacred. The soft scratch of your pencil against paper was occasionally punctuated by the sound of a turning page from Asahi’s book. The golden light of the sun spilled through the window, catching the edges of his hair and making him look impossibly warm, like he belonged in a painting himself.

You glanced up at him, watching as his lips moved slightly while reading, an unintentional habit of his you found endearing. You quickly looked back down at your sketch when he shifted in his seat, heart leaping at the thought of being caught staring.

But then, his voice broke the silence.

“You know,” he said softly, closing his book and resting his hands on the table, “I don’t think people give enough credit to how strong ravens really are.”

You paused your sketching, tilting your head in curiosity. “How so?”

“They're resilient. They survive in places most birds wouldn’t. They’re clever, they adapt, and they look out for their own.” His voice grew quieter, shy, as if embarrassed by the weight of his own words. “I guess… I just think that’s... admirable.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you felt your chest tighten, warmth spreading through your limbs like sunlight. He wasn’t just talking about ravens, and you knew it.

You took a moment to finish shading the last of the wings on the lead raven in your drawing, pressing the pencil down just enough to make the lines bold and sure. Then, without looking up, you slid the sketchbook across the table toward him again, your heart racing.

“Here,” you said softly. “It’s yours.”

His eyes widened in surprise, his hand hesitating above the drawing. “W-What? No, I-I can’t—”

“You can,” you insisted, cutting him off with a small, nervous smile. “Call it a thank-you.”

His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. He glanced down at the sketch again, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above the paper. “F-For what?” he finally managed, voice barely audible.

“For reminding me I’m not alone.”

His head shot up at that, his expression startled and his face an even deeper shade of red. You glanced away, your own cheeks burning. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he quickly shut it again, looking utterly overwhelmed.

After a moment, though, he seemed to gather enough courage to move. Slowly—almost hesitantly—his hand reached across the table. When his fingers brushed yours, it was so tentative you almost didn’t feel it.

“Th-Thank you,” he stammered, his voice soft and shaky. “For… um… trusting me. You didn't have to tell me about... yeah. I appreciate it.”

His eyes met yours briefly before darting back to the sketch. He ducked his head slightly, a shy, almost bashful smile tugging at his lips. The sight made your heart ache in the best way.

In that quiet moment, you both knew something had shifted—fragile, unspoken, but undeniably real.

The space between you seemed to shrink, and you found yourself drawn to him in a way that was impossible to ignore. This growing intimacy—the quiet exchanges, the unspoken understanding—wrapped around the two of you like the sunlight streaming through the library’s windows. You could feel your heart swelling, the invisible walls you had built around yourself slowly crumbling under his touch. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the urge to run away.

Unbeknownst to you, Asahi felt the same pull. Neither of you realized just how deep the connection was growing, how quietly, almost imperceptibly, you were falling for each other.

tags. @strxnged♡

Next chapter↪ (coming soon!)

[vvh0adie]

watching my friends leave tumblr is really sad

you literally can't win

at this point the writer's strike should just be a cultural movement

like ppl are writing for FREE and you're complaining about turn out rate and shit

we have lives and some of us (HELL ALL OF US) have some form of mental illness, so we can't be fucking cogs all day and churn out fics.

writing is suppose to be therapeutic and writers want to share that with you to ease the tension of this hellscape we live in

but some of these readers and even fellow writers are taking it too far with the bullying

like its mean and nasty. you don't know what someone is going thru.

instead of asking for updates how about check and see if your writer is mentally stable to do so. that right there is a booster, to have someone say "are you okay?"

and then the whole accusations of favoring a certain member/character. if that person is my muse or safe space then of course imma write for them. most solo writers i see don't even talk bad about other people. its a SOLO account. think of it as a shrine blog of writing if that helps. they're not there to trash, just share their writing for other's who might also share the same muse.

then you have readers who can't separate fiction from reality. just because someone writes a character with irl people faceclaimed onto them doesnt mean they actually think that person would be or do those things irl. i'll be the first to say that i only gave my characters bts faces cuz thats who im attracted to and they're who i imagine would be casted to play my characters.

then IN THE YEAR OF 2023 we still have ppl making fun of their peers writing and also THE FACT THAT ENGLISH MIGHT NOT BE THEIR FIRST LANGUAGE? that's nasty asf. majority of us dont even speak 'proper' english as our first language no way. you only shooting yourself in the foot. don't act like you dont have beta readers... like what are yall on?

and anybody who gets on THAT BLOG behind anon is an opp. not just to the writing community but in how you interact with the world all together. yall don't know how to talk to people anymore? it may have started as a place for critique and accountability but no one is bringing receipts or critical thinking anymore. its mainly for drama and not rehabilitation. yall serious scare me in how we'd see the reality of social change applied to the real world. like i'd be more scared to let yall around the prisoners with minor offenses cuz yall act like its the end of the world and that change cant happen. yall give nobody room to change ignorant stances but ignore the real egregious shit because you honestly dont have the bandwidth to take on actual fascist views.

also the plagiarism has got to stop too. if you need writing resources just ask. but practice makes perfect. so you're gonna have to write yourself. you may not like your writers voice but you will feel shitty in the long run when you don't feel like its you putting those words on the paper. it literally just prolongs your inferiority. make something you're proud of and don't hurt your fellow writers. we went thru the process just like you. we earned it. and most of us aren't gatekeepers, we will help you.

like its really tuff being on here sometimes. cuz if you not being hounded by readers its your own community praying on your down fall.

we have to do better.

[ptn-imagines]

I bloody hope you aren't overwhelmed with numerous requests yet (please take care of yourself and rest well!) but may I please request a one shot telling how Adela wants to help her beloved (female sinner as well) get rid of her unpleasant remembrances via a haircut but the sinner refuses to cut her hair as it now holds the most precious and charming memories as well – the ones about Adela? Thank you very much in advance.

Here you go, anon! This is my very first imagine for this blog, so I hope it was worth the wait! I feel like I fell off towards the end, but eh... You know what they say about being your own worst critic.

THE PRICE OF FORSAKEN MEMORIES [ sinner reader x adela ]

rating. teen and up audiences cws. depictions of ptsd and disassociation, implicit hallucinations (visual and audible) word count. 1,683 words.

Mania, among those afflicted, was primarily characterized by the suffering it wrought. Blood, sweat and tears; these were the things that the illness seemed to feed on, the things it was most skilled at drawing out. Mania would bleed a person's heart dry, and then, and only then, would it allow the withered husk left behind to depart from the world. It was a brutal and sadistic inevitability, and even Sinners knew they simply had more time than the rest. Still, amid all the misery and pain, there were good days; days where the Mania was quiet, and the afflicted could play at being “normal.” Healthy. Uninfected. Something other than the refuse of society.

Today, for you, was not one of those days.

You'd buried yourself underneath every duvet you owned to stave off the frigid chill that seeped into your bones. Now, your skin sweltered, drops of sweat pouring down your forehead; and yet, your teeth continued to chatter as shivers wracked your body, fragile in a way known only to the Mania-ridden.

You could feel your blood sprinting through your veins like it had places to be, your treacherous heart spurred into an overtime frenzy. Reason and past experience told you you weren't going to die here – but oh, it certainly felt as though the last grain of sand in the hourglass had fallen for you.

At least I'm not coughing blood this time. A macabre musing that claws its way to the surface of the muck. It carves a smile onto your lips, half-delirious with pain as you are.

You keep your eyes shut. Nothing can muffle the whispers, then the shouts and the screams – but you can blind yourself to the hazy shadows that lurk in the corners, turn your back to the memories that vie for you to bring them to life. No. Not today.

Your body shudders. A cough spills from your throat. If you spoke, would you know your own voice? Nightmares thread with reality as you lay there, a prisoner with no chains, shackled to that day, both your origin and your ending.

A bell rings through the apartment, sharp enough to cut through the empty haze. A bell, a bell, what did it mean again? Your mind struggles under the weight of your half-buried past as Mania tries to claw you back into its wretched grasp. A bell…

Adela. The thought is a lantern shining through the oppressive gloom. Your eyes snap open, the specters fleeing from the light she has brought to the tiny apartment. Your heart still beats to an uneven tempo, but it's no longer the sickness making you dizzy.

“Dearest, are you in here?” Her voice, sweet and silvery like birdsong, is muffled, but you can hear her footsteps approach. You're still too weak to get up, so you wait, a little smile on your lips. It's been a long day. You can't wait to see her.

The door creaks open – you were supposed to call someone about that, weren't you? – and Adela's beautiful face peers into the bedroom. You offer her a little wave, and she breaks out into a radiant smile.

At least, until she notices your ashen-faced features; her smile melts into a worried frown, and she's at your side in a moment. She feels your forehead for a temperature, fretting like a mother hen. She always does this. It never gets any less adorable.

“Are you alright, dear?” she worries, scanning you for obvious signs of malady. “You have a fever… Are you sick?”

You giggle a bit despite how it scrapes at your raw throat, leaning into her tender touch. You are sick, but not in the way she means. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, reaching to intertwine your fingers, and you see the moment realization dawns on her. Of course, she knows; she's a Sinner too, after all. She cannot remember what trauma triggered her change like you can, but Mania finds its ways to torment her even so.

“Oh, my beloved…” Adela's free hand goes to your cheek, gently caressing your face. “I'm sorry. I should have been here.” She's always like this; always blaming herself for things she couldn't possibly control. You don't think you'll ever change this about her, not for lack of trying.

Still, you don't want to let her dwell on it, so you shake your head, rasping a reply: “You're here now, ‘dela. That's… what matters most to me.” You give her the best smile you can, comforting her in the only way you currently know how.

Adela blinks a few times, as though she's surprised you're not blaming her. She probably is; the silly woman takes so much of others’ burdens onto her own shoulders that she's forgotten what it's like not to be responsible for somebody else's woes. “...Thank you, dearest,” she finally manages to say, giving your hand a little squeeze. “Still, forgive my saying this, but you look truly awful. How can I help?”

Your eyes flutter close as you let out a considering hum. “Tea. Then cuddles.”

A few minutes later, you're sipping at a cup of Adela's special tea blend while sitting in your girlfriend's lap. Her hands stroke through your hair, so gentle and kind, and her warmth combined with the sweet and delicate aroma of the drink banishes the darkness that yet lingers. A contented silence settles over the pair of you, basking in the safety and adoration of one another.

…No, not quite contented. Something's on Adela's mind; you can tell by the way her hands occasionally pause before resuming their stroking. You think about asking her about it, but she beats you to it; a gentle sigh passes her lips, and she speaks.

“It was a very bad day for you, wasn't it?” she asks quietly. You glance at the mirror on the wall and see that Adela is fixated on a particular spot on your back. You can imagine what she's seeing, even if it's only in her mind; tresses of twisted, mangy hair spilling over your shoulders, the embodiment of your stress and your anxiety. You wonder how long it is after today.

You can't deny it, so you give an affirmative hum. Adela leans forward to slowly rest against your back, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as she rubs gentle circles into your shoulders. It's a blissful sensation, and only the prospect of the upcoming conversation keeps you present in the moment.

“I don't know why you don't let me cut it away, my love,” she whispers, her breath tickling your ear. You don't remember quite exactly how you found out about Mad Shears; you suspect Adela tampered with those memories. Nevertheless, you'd remembered enough to find your way back to the hairdresser, even after she fled to another neighborhood. She'd been shocked, but… that was years ago now, and you didn't like to think of it much. It had led to a beautiful love blossoming between the two of you, and that's all you cared to dwell on. 

“You're in so much pain,” Adela continues, and you remain silent, trying to gather together the words to say. Adela takes that as a cue to keep talking. “I could fix it all for you. Dearest, why won't you let me help you?”

You sit up properly, and do your best to ignore the twinge of your heart at Adela's little disappointed sigh. “My pain… It's not just tied to the day I became a Sinner, is it?” you answer, your eyes never leaving those of your most beloved in the mirror. “It's entrenched in my Mania. You'd have to wipe my memory completely to erase it, and even then, there's a chance traces of it could linger, right?”

Adela was silent for a moment, hesitant in the face of the flaws in her ability. Her eyes lowered, gaze once again falling your hallucinatory locks of hair; by the way her fingers twisted around nothing, she was fruitlessly attempting to comb out the mess of worries. “But you'd still feel much better than you do now,” she murmured. “Isn't it worth a try?”

“It's a short-term solution to a long-term problem, Adela.” You finally turned around to face your girlfriend properly; her shocked gaze lifted up to your face, and you reached out to stroke her cheeks, smiling. “Besides, even if I was happier for a little bit… I'd eventually just end up even more miserable. Do you know why?”

Adela is silent for a long while, her gaze on you feeling like flames licking your skin. Eventually, ever so slowly, she shakes her head, looking lost. “I don't know. Please tell me.”

“Because… I'd be losing you, the person I love more than anyone or anything.” Adela's eyes widen with shock; even though you feel this should be plain to see, it's clear that such an answer hadn't ever crossed her mind. “Adela, my love, you're the reason I ultimately get up each morning; you're why I haven't curled up and died yet. Without you… I'd be swallowed by my Mania sooner or later, memories or no.”

The other Sinner stared at you as though she was seeing you in a whole new light. Wonder was the one word to describe her expression. Eventually, she shook herself out of it, features curling into the heartfelt smile you adored so much. “I can't say I understand, but… I do trust you. When you say these things… I can't help but feel they must be true.”

“That's good enough for me.” You hold out your arms, and Adela melts into them. She's deceptively strong, but right now, with her body curled against yours, she reminds you of a weak and fragile baby animal. You hold her closer. “You don't have to understand, love. As long as you don't go all Mad Shears on me in my sleep.”

It's a joke, and Adela must know it, judging by the light giggle she lets out. Still, her reply, almost inaudible, is in earnest.

“I promise, my dearest.”

[shiyorin]

Hello👋 I hope you're doing well) if the requests are still open, can you write something for the Emperor of Mankind? 🤭 A soft Yandere with the reader psyker eternal. He does not like when anyone other than Malcador and the Custodians communicate with her, even the primarchs saw her only fleetingly at celebrations. But the reader is completely satisfied with everything. She can do her favorite things and not worry about anything. Dream🥰

The description of the Emperor here is quite vague because I like the way he is portrayed through others's POV. But here we are.

You gazed into the dying embers of the fire, listening to the familiar sounds of your chamber settling into nightly slumber around you. Another day had drawn to a close within the confines of the Imperial Palace, but not for you.

Not yet.

You rose and drifted to the window, looking out upon the sprawling expanse of the Terra below. Lights in thousands of windows flickered like distant stars, whole hive districts darkened as the citizens within their live. All throughout the realm, lives wound down in preparation for the coming dawn.

All except you, it seemed. Not until he came.

As always, your thoughts turned inevitably to him. The gilded cage he had granted you so long ago, this place that served now as your one and onlyhome, however grand. A sanctuary from the cruel outside world, and yet, a prison nonetheless.

His sanctuary. His prison. His… everything.

Always he came to you here at night's deepest hour, even his Custodes can't come here. When the shadows within shadows held dominion and privacy was assured. That was when he would emerge like a wraith to steal what moments he could find in your company, before withdrawing back into the places from whence he came.

The routine had repeated for centuries unchanging. Long ago you had ceased to question its purpose or meaning. It simply was as immutable. Their tryst formed one more link in the chain binding your existence to his in servitude.

Tomorrow, as always, you would see him withdraw once more into isolation, leaving you to continue existing at the periphery, useful, beloved, and ultimately powerless. Another day would pass, and another, each one leading you gradually further from the life you had known outside these walls. From the dreams, ambitions, and connections of your former self.

Until at last even memory itself began to fade like mist beneath the dawn. Only he remained, constant as the Star to guide you remaining years. Your Emperor. Your Master of Mankind. Your God.

His coming disrupted your musings, as inevitable as the tides. You sensed the stirring in the aether that preceded his physical arrival, the subtle bending of probabilities and skein of fate. A shiver traced its way down your spine in premonition.

Turning, you beheld him emerging from a fold in reality itself. Golden light spilled through the rent as he stepped free, severing the passageway behind with a negligent wave. Clad as ever in gold, eyes gleaming like twin suns beneath his ornate armor, he commanded the room utterly.

A god made from a human. Destined to rule all, whether worshipped or reviled. Yours, eternally.

"My dearest." His voice enfolded you, smooth as fine wine yet bearing weight of aeons. "You await me still."

A statement, not a question. He knew as well as you the path each night would take, the steps they must dance through countless repetitions. And the ritual brought them comfort, as all such familiar routines do in a chaotic universe.

You inclined your head. "Always, my lord."

Crossing to your side, he lifted a hand to cradle your cheek, a lover's caress from one who spurned all other connection or weakness. For him there was only duty. Only for you.

You leaned into his touch with a soft sigh, closing your eyes the better to engrave this fleeting instant of intimacy upon your memories. Savoring each sensation as though it were their last, though repetition had dulled the keen edge of uncertainty long ago.

Your Emperor. Your constant. Your prison. Your everything.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

😱The creepiest adventure the Doctor's ever had

Think the Weeping Angels are creepy? The Vashta Nerada? Psh, child's play. This is the story of the Face-Painter.

Imagine being led through the streets of West Hollywood every Thursday afternoon, wrists tied together with bright handkerchiefs to your companions, and not a single face among you. That's the Doctor's life now, along with two others—Jamie and Victoria. They don't have faces, just smooth, pink, egg-like heads. As their handler Rachel describes them: 'They're OK from the neck down... But what can you do with the heads?'

Despite having no eyes, no noses, or mouths, they can see, breathe, and speak—though the words come out muffled, like 'they're chewing' or gagged. It's surreal and disturbing, but no one looks too closely. In this part of West Hollywood, Rachel notes, 'No one looks too hard at no one for long, unless they want trouble.'

Each week, they visit the Face-Painter on Santa Monica Boulevard. 'So what's it gonna be?' he asks, but he doesn't ask them—he asks Rachel, as if they're not even there. Victoria always requests the same face, sketching it out with care. But this time, the Face-Painter plays a cruel trick, painting deep folds into her face like the crumpled paper she drew on. 'She looks like she's been in some real bad accident,' Rachel reflects as Victoria cries without tears.

Jamie, meanwhile, shrugs off the whole thing. When asked who he wants to be, he says he doesn't care. Rachel jokes, 'Make him Brad Pitt,' and the Face-Painter obliges.

And the Doctor? Silent, distant. He doesn't ask for anything, so the Face-Painter goes rogue and paints a giant sunflower on his blank head. The Doctor just sits there, helpless.

The real horror is that they're trapped. Rachel is paid to keep them locked in her basement, like prisoners. 'None of them say much,' she muses, 'but they know I look after them.' They live in silence, with Rachel mocking them as boring when they don't respond, but in reality, they're completely at the mercy of whoever is keeping them. Victoria can barely contain her despair, whispering, 'I can't bear it... these dreadful, shapeless clothes, greasy, sickly food...'

There's something even darker beneath the surface. Jamie wonders if their faces might be stored somewhere, like in the jars Rachel keeps in her apartment. The Doctor, always the optimist, tries to reassure the others, 'We're suffering from some kind of illusion, a spell that's been placed on us somehow.' But even he is unsure. As Jamie rages, 'How can it be? Why are we being kept here, week after week?' There are no answers—just a grim routine, the threat of something worse if they try to escape, and the chilling possibility that their faces—and their lives—are slipping away forever.

(Face Painter from Short Trips: A Universe of Terrors)

Whoniverse Facts for Friday by GIL

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴

[theyanderespecialist]

Touch Starved 3 (Scenarios) Yandere Upper Moons X Gender Neutral Prisoner Reader (Demon Slayer)

[Hello, My Sexy Muffins! I am back! This one is going to be the last part of the Touch Starved Hugs! I hope you all enjoy this chapter here!] 

(Disclaimer: None of the Upper Moons are Yandere, well except for Maybe Doma, that man is a kinda sussy! This is just for fun and Not to be Taken seriously at all! Simping for fictional characters and yanderes is fine, just do not be illegal or gross about it! You know who you are! You Dirty, Flaky, Biscuits! Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life! Also, remember to separate fiction from reality and headcanon from canon! Thank you!) 

(Gyokko, Upper Moon 5) (The Fishy Fishman Hugs) 

(Gyokko's POV) 

To say my sweet little (Name) did not like me... They did not. They are the love of my life and I wish that they would love me. They needed to love me, I was so amazing and perfect and needed to prove to my muse that I loved them. I taught them how to make pots and they seemed to be thankful for that. They would even make designs for me for new pots. They are so perfect and I love them so much. I wish they would just love me in return. I want them to be mine. 

Today I throwing some pots and working hard to make them beautiful. When suddenly I felt their arms wrapped around me. I tense, I was in full merman form and not my pot and I look at them.  "What is it little muse?" I ask them blushing. They are touching me~ My Sweet Muse (Name) is hugging me! I love this, this is so perfect~  "I just wanted a hug." They mumble into my side and I turn around wrapping my arms around them. 

"It is alright my muse, you may hug me anytime you want~ My sweet, Stunning muse~," I tell them and I mean it~  This is a big step forward~ I will cherish this moment with, MY muse~ 

(Gyutaro, Upper Moon 6) (Hugging The Beast) 

(Gyutaro's POV) 

I hate how ugly I am, especially with my darling, (Name). How I know they do not want to touch and they want nothing to do with me! It pisses me off, they must think that they are better than me! That they are so superior to me. It makes me feel bitter, of course, I was not going to force them, at least not right now. I just wish that they wanted me. That they did not see me as an ugly beast. That they did not see me as disgusting. It pisses me off that they see me like THAT! 

"Gyutaro." They say and I twitch slightly as their voice reaches my ears. 

"What do you want, (Name)," I say to them looking at them. 

I hope that I did not look like I was sneering at them. I tend to look like I was sneering or scowling a lot. 

"I-" The starts but then suddenly hugged me and I froze. 

They... They are hugging me!?!  I was shocked as they held me in their arms and their next words shook me. "You are not a beast..." They said and continued to hug me before pulling away. 

They had a blush on their face and then they ran off. I was grinning like a fool for the rest of the day. 

(Daki, Upper Moon 6) (Beauty Bitch Hugs) 

Who the hell did they think they were? Not wanting to be with me! I am stunning I am so beautiful and they should be lucky to have me in their life! That is what I told myself. But I was not going to force them to touch me. I want them to love me because they love me. But for fuck sake! I do not know why they have not made a move yet. 

"Daki." I hear their voice and I look at them. "Can I sit with you?"  "Yes, you can, my sweet~," She says and they sit down next to me and I continue to do my makeup. 

I can feel them watching me even more and I speak again. 

"Is there something else you need?" I ask with a smile loving the attention that they are giving me~ 

"I-I was wondering if I could hug you..." They say trailing off and I turn to them. "If that is okay, you don't have to let me if you don't want me to!"  "Shut up, and hug me, (Name)." I tell them and they slowly hug me and burry their face into my chest~  I blush but I really do love it~ I love this and they better start hugging me more often! 

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS another chapter is done! I hope that you all enjoyed this, and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins!] 

[whorediaries-09]

Hi I'm the last anon that you replied to, and it's absolutely no worries that you prefer not to write Sirius like that! Could I please instead request a fic where the reader is reunited with Sirius after he escapes from Azkaban, he starts cleaning up his appearance but is a bit insecure because he thinks he's not as handsome as he once was, and the reader assures him that he's gorgeous. XO

indentation in the shape of you

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- fluff, (bad humor 💀). (let me know if i should add more) a/n- thank you lovely anon for requesting, and for understanding that i could not write your previous request. luv you and have a great day <3

ps- i made the reader wear specs just cuz i can 😼

masterlist

you tuck your stray tendrils behind your ear tucking your lip under your teeth as you mend to a hippogriff's wounds. the sound of the rain patters against your windows synchronized with the flow of the shower water splashing against your bathroom floor.

it's difficult to cure the poor animal when your afraid he's going to brandish his wings at any given time. you squint hard, engrossed with your work when you hear a knock of wood. it startles you, since you're used to living alone.

'i really like this tea,' a voice drawls followed by a clank of metal against the wood of your table. you turn your head around, and your heart skips a beat.

sirius leans his bony hips against your table, in front of you, his hair sopping wet as pellets of water flow down across his tattooed bare chest. there's a towel around his hips which covers most of his intimate area. your stomach prowls with collywobbles as he gazes at you.

'and how do you know?' you question, raising an eyebrow, as you stand up.

'lets see...well maybe because it was i who suggested this tea to you,' sirius says, his bony long fingers tucking his overgrown locks behind his ear. you cheeks feel a rush of warmth as he adjusts his towel around his narrow (and slutty 👹) hips.

'also could you give me some pants?' you breath slowly, your shoulders tensing.

'sure,'

****

your hand cups his face as you slowly tend to his wounds and gashes. the physical ones. you cannot fix his mental wounds in one night, but there's a fire inside you which bubbles at fever pitch which urges you to be with him. you want to be with him to remind him he's not a deranged killer on loose. you want to provide him comfort and the love that he needs. you want to be there for him.

'easy wasn't it?' you say as you fix down the last of his wounds.

'yes,' he says. you notice his fingers gripped so tightly around around the scalding cup of tea he holds that his knuckles turn white. you realize your hand his resting on his thigh. you quickly move your hand away and mutter a sorry softly under your breath.

'um, sirius were you uncomfortable that i touched you?' you question as void of guilt bubbles within you. sirius shakes slightly beside you, his shoulders tensing,

'no not really. i think it felt unfamiliar to me,' he says. your heart aches for him, the poor man painted as the villain for the death of his brother and innocent people when in reality he wasn't. he was the boy who had lost the color on his skin and the sparkle in his eyes when he learnt about james' death. he was the boy who went out to find and kill pettigrew when it all dawned upon him. he was the boy who went to prison in the name of his brother. he was the boy who lived 12 years in prison thinking everyone mistrusted him, thinking he was deranged, blaming himself for james' death.

he was the man in front of you who lost his boyhood.

'sirius i'm sorry,' you say.

'what for?' he asks, 'beside when should i leave your house? it'd be of help if you could suggest some place to hide,'

the question catches you off-guard.

'why'd you want to leave?' you ask. your finger slowly trails towards his hand and you adjoin your pinky with his.

'well i'm sure you wouldn't want a crackpot old dog in your house,' he muses, raising his eyebrow.

'and who told you that you're an crackpot, you tosspot?' you question.

'oh so i'm a tosspot?'

'shut up, you're not going anywhere,' you demand, the finger of your free finger wagging in front of him. he smirks,

'oh but dovie, i'm not as much of a ladies man as i was,' he says, breathing slowly leaning close towards your face. you feel his hot breath fogging up your glasses and you back away,

'sure, you hag,' you reply but you don't mean it. there's a slow moment where you stare into his gray eyes, and you realize the thunder of his stormy irises hasn't drowned. the moonlight beaming upon his high cheekbones, wrinkles of age and razor sharp jawline makes him look like a man who aged like fine wine.

you hear buckbeak screech and scratch his talons. you breath softly, your shoulders tensing.

'i think we should really find somewhere else where beaky can live peacefully,' you say, getting up. your palms feel sweaty, and you wipe your hands on your skirt.

sirius hums in agreement, quietly sipping on his tea. you turn on your heels, turning to tend to the hippogriff.

your hand attaches itself to your doorknob and you whisper,

'and for the record, i think you're gorgeous. and always be.' and you're sure you hear sirius choking on his tea at your words as you walk out the room.